"Music can change the world because it can change the heart."
Bono

All of us sat quietly and expectantly around my father's Hi Fi stereo encased in attractive wood with a turntable with radio inside. Besides gathering to watch musicals on our television set this was one of our favorite types of evening entertainment. Inevitably Harry Belafonte live from Carnegie Hall would slip out of the record sleeve and be placed on the platter while we waited for our favorite tunes to be played. As a family of eleven sat huddled together we sang along, laughed and for the moment time seemed to stand still.

Heavily influenced by these musical adventures I decided that I wanted a radio of my own for a birthday present. The plastic black and white AM radio was brought to fruition on my 7th birthday. I placed it carefully on the window sill by my bed where I could reach up and turn it on then lay on my back and sit still listening to waves of beautiful music tickling my ears. This was the genesis of the music vocabulary that would continue with me for the rest of my life.

When I was able to ride a bicycle with my friends we would take trips up to the local stores only a couple miles away. There was a toy store there, a candy store and a music radio station where the DJ was visible from outside before us in a big picture window. We would sit there on our bikes chomping on hard apple candies and stare inside the big glass window at the DJ completely mesmerized by the head-phoned man.

When we went inside the building we were able to purchase a 45 single and bring it home to play on our stereo. The first 45 I purchased for twenty five cents was Bobby Russel's 'Saturday Morning Confusion.' It was a song I heard often on my plastic radio by my bed. I was attracted by the comical lyrics and cadence that reminded me of my crazy family on the weekends.

My older brother's and my good friend Kevin's older brother next door also left musical impressions on me. They listened to a lot of classic rock bands like Led Zeppelin and The Stones. Then in High School I would sit around the quad in the middle of the buildings to watch my fiends play guitar and share their favorite music. It seemed like everywhere I went music was being played.

Downtown my friends and I went to Tower Records and bought LP's with our hard earned allowances. Scott, Jim and Jeff who lived on the walk to my middle school would welcome me in before school and I would sit and listen to them play their favorite bands.

I like The Beach Boys the most then, but Jim insisted that The Beatles were better. He even wrote that in my yearbook. Later in Life I bought Jim a ticket to see Brian Wilson's band play 'Smile' and afterwards Jim told me it was one of the best performances he had ever seen. He apologized for putting down The Beach Boys and said, "Brian is a genius!"

When I stopped at Scott's house before school he sat on a chair by his turntable and would play a short riff by UFO and then pick up the needle and try to play it exactly like it sounded. Scott and Jim later formed a band called 'Cement Trampoline' where I would become a staple of the audience for their band practices and gigs in Berkeley and San Francisco. I also helped lift the heavy equipment in and out of the vans and hook up the sound system duct taping the wires to the carpet.

With Cement Trampoline came many influences. Dave loved punk rock and brought in the musical influences of the Ramones and The Clash. We became good friends and spent a ton of time together in the Quad as he romanced his teen aged audience winning over Lisa his wife eventually.

I also became friends with Mike who played Bass for 'Us' and spent many hours at their band practices. It was more of a big hair metal band and one time they opened up for Motley Crue's CD release party of their first album at the Keystone in Berkeley. Motley Crue kept their door shut backstage, but it was still fun being there in the adjacent room. Mike would drive me in his yellow corvette to the Rock Gardens in San Jose where many bands had studio rooms to practice. His progressive rock band was very good and the drummer was nick named "The Machine". He played drums like Neil Peart and had a mean double bass.

Taking trips to Berkeley and San Francisco became a regular experience for me in the 1980's. I watched Legends like Max Roach and Roy Bucannon and my musical tastes continued to evolve. My older brother Mark introduced me to progressive bands like Jean Lucky Ponté and ultimately brought me closer to the Jazz genre through Steely Dan.

On one trip to the Berkeley Stone Jim and Scott's band Cement Trampoline opened up. It was going to be a big show I could tell because they were broadcasting it on a local radio station. I brought my portable cassette player (boombox) inside and plugged it into one of the rooms backstage. Between watching the band from the side making sure everything was moving smoothly I often went back to the cassette player to make sure it was still working.

On one of my trips backstage to the rehearsal spot a musician unplugged the cassette player and plugged his small amp in to tune his guitar. I reprimanded him fiercely stating that I was doing a live recording. Jim noticed the commotion and darted off stage to see what was happening. The musician apologized to me while I plugged the deck back in. Jim pulled me aside and said, "Paul, do you know who that is?!! Does Paul McCartney or Elton John ring a bell?!" Apparently I told the guitar player Chris Spedding to shove off. A mistake I would be careful not to duplicate in the future.

Jim worked at a thrift store and showed me how to purchase vinyl records at a much cheaper price and how one could find some real gems there. And like everything I do I jumped in head first. Soon I complied a collection of over 400 Lp's. On Fridays I would frequent the five different thrift stores in town skimming through Herb Albert, Wilson Pickett, and tons of rare gems like Jimi Hendrix and Frank Zappa. Soon my collection grew to over 2, 500 Lps. I sure wish I still had all that music!

In Jr. High Kevin and I went to see our first concert. It was Pure Prairie League, Pa Pa Do Run and War. This became a favorite activity of ours and Kevin and my friends went to many shows with huge audiences packed in like the popular Day on the Greens where we could catch a variety of bands. Kevin loved metal bands and so I became very familiar with Iron Maiden and similar groups.

I tell kids today I got to see all the cool bands. Musicians like Jeff Beck, and Stevie Ray Vaughan and The Kinks.

Later in life I have grown found of collecting vinyl again although modestly. Music I found so engrained in my life. It has forever shaped me as a person.

Not so long ago I met an x-punk rock drummer that became a pastor. He wears a black leather jacket, Doc Martens and blue jeans. His hair is a nicely groomed pompadour. During my time living in the Santa Cruz mountains Dan and I became good friends and went to many shows around the area. We would go the the Kuumbwa Jazz club to watch drummer's like Mark Guiliana and rock shows that had drummers like Carl Palmer. Almost every time Dan and I would make it to the front row and afterwards Dan would have the drummer sign one of his drum sticks. Dan has a lovely collection of drum sticks signed that hang in his office at church.

And so today I am still growing in my musical appreciation. Robert Glasper, Animals As Leaders, Dream Theater and Cedric Burnside continue to inspire me. I've also found that listening to musicians being interviewed has been an ever evolving aspect of my musical experience. Are you experienced? I am....
​

"You never know what may cross your path and fuel the wildness of your soul."
Robbie George

On a recent fly fishing excursion my German Shepherd Roxy was playing with a rattlesnake by the riverbank while I was casting knee deep in the river. She was struck on her nose and survived, albeit a bit more cautious around slithering reptiles. Afterwards I began to recall my fascination with snakes and the many encounters with them both involuntary and intentionally.

Rick and I were great at catching reptiles in our youth. By the fifth grade we were harvesting lizards, horny toads and snakes for a man who would pay us for them. He had a garage full of aquariums and we made good money selling him our catches until we noticed his negligence allowing some to die. After that we caught them just for fun.

In Rick's backyard he had a big metal barrel that held about a whole bunch of Western fence lizards. Rick had taught me how to catch house flies with our hands. He would gently break one wing and toss it into the barrel while we watched the lizards scramble to eat them.

In my backyard My Pop was gardening constantly and we had about thirty large trees he planted. He had grafted stone fruit trees that had different types of fruits on them from apricots to plums and peaches. He had a tiered planter with trailing strawberries in our backyard jungle. He also grew beautiful roses and each year brought his prized Red Velvets to a show for Mother's Day. 

The secret to my Pop's vast array of plants and trees was a not so secret to our neighbors. Chicken shit. He would get a large quantity of chicken manure delivered and then spread the stinky stuff throughout our yard which in the summertime would inevitably attract scores of flies for our lizards. It was the perfect breeding ground and we took full advantage of it. 

One bright summer day while we were snagging our flies from mid air and placing them into a glass mayonnaise jar we came up with a terrible idea. Why not catch some and impale them on my dad's rose thorns. It didn't take long before Rick and I had a mini mortuary of dead flies up and down on my Pop's precious rose garden. I guess he noticed because one afternoon while he was having a glass of cheap red wine relaxing on the deck I heard a shriek of sheer terror followed by a booming scream, Paaaul!!!" 
The leather belt would soon be my recourse.

This habit of catching wild animals continued for the rest my young life. Me and Noah would travel to a road that led up to a reservoir and we found that the rattlesnakes would love the warm pavement in the late afternoon. We had fashioned long sticks with a fork at the end to pin their necks down so we could grab them by the head and place them into our pillow cases. It was great fun and the dangerous aspect of our hunting would provide us with enough anxiety to thrill us and be aware of the consequences at the same time. 

 Back in the 70's we had many great subjects to choose from in High School and field biology offered several backpacking classes that won me over. I also loved to dissect critters and identify animals by their skulls. What boy wouldn't love torturing helpless animals contained in jars of smelly formaldehyde? We lived in close enough proximity to Yosemite National Park to go packing in the wild back country of the park without trails. We would travel up the granite canyons cut out by glaciers, hobble over logs, cross cold water creeks and stoop down to slurp the icy clear water on the journey.

I used my knowledge of capturing reptiles and had a blast catching different species of snakes. First I caught a striped racer with a colorful yellow belly and red stripe on its sides. These docile creatures would trap gently around your forearm and were fun to catch. Next I caught a gopher snake. I would explain to the rest of the class that these looked liked rattlesnakes so you had to be careful. Sometimes they would shake the tip of their tail against dry leaves to warn off predators like me. I then caught a kingsnake. The enemy of the rattlesnake, Kingsnakes I told them could constrict a rattler and consume the whole thing. I then caught another gentle snake the desert rosy boa. The Indians named it the double headed snake. It's thick body and blunt tail was the defense mechanism for preying animals because it was difficult to determine what was the head or the tail. 

After we set up camp about twenty four miles up the river Brian had the genius idea of lighting his toilet paper on fire to hide it. We were all told to just bury our poop. Quickly we found the whole class rushing to a nearby creek to fill up our water containers and douse the small ten by ten foot fire that Brian had created. Man, the teachers were upset and wiped out after that charade, but nothing like what would follow with my absurd stunt afterwards. 

Hiking with my fishing pole alongside the creek around dusk I spotted a rattlesnake. It was underneath a granite rock slab. I was by myself, but wanted to impress the rest of the class so I coaxed them down to see my discovery. I soon fashioned a loop to the end of fishing line to the end on my ultralight rod with four pound test. This I explained would slip over the snakes head and I could cinch down on it removing the snake from its coiled position. This was one species of snake that would complete my  capturing escapades on our trip. 

As my classmates gathered around closely to inspect my snake catching skills as I placed the noose over the head of the rattlesnake and pulled it out from underneath the boulder.

I had underestimated the size of it and it's sheer girth. While struggling to keep this angry rattlesnake from getting loose It shaked violently against my will. Measuring a good four feet it was almost the length of my tiny back packing fishing rod!
Soon I couldn't hold onto it anymore and dropped it. My classmates didn't realize the striking capacity of the snake and scurried back wards on their heels as it lunged in every direction snapping into the air and only inches from some of my audience. 

This episode would be recounted time and time again by my friends, and I suffered the wrath from our teaching staff by not allowing me to go on any more trips that year. "Things like this should not happen, Paul!! Do you know how far we are from a hospital?!!" I wish I could say this was the end of my encounters with the deadly rattlesnakes, and it isn't. I still encounter them frequently in the high desert. I am more respectful though. I guess I learned something from that trip into the wilderness in my naive youth.  

" You've never lived until you almost died."
Guy De Maupassant

I'm not really a big cat guy. I'm more of a dog man myself. Living on the ranch is a different way of life and owning a cat is more of a necessity. I needed a good mouser and I found that in this crazy tabby. I named 'Eric Von Zipper' after one of my favorite characters in an old beach party movie of the sixties, Zipper for short.

Zipper was fierce, very fierce. My friend Jim found out the hard way by messing with him when we were parked on the couch in front of my Franklin wood stove. After teasing him continuously  with his hands and several warnings from me that Jim simply ignored, Zippers ears pulled back close to his head.

With squinted eyes my cat jumped onto Jim's hairy forearm latching his front claws around tightly and his back legs thrust into Jim's flesh several times creating a bloody mess. Hysterically Jim yelped and was finally able to shake Zipper off leaving an arm dripping with blood. "Told you so!!", I quipped. That was the last time Jim messed with Zipper. 

The Franklin wood stove was my only source of heat in the small pump house I lived in out in the country. After a hard days work as a landscaper I would start a fire first thing when I got home. I left a gallon of white fuel and a shot glass on the porch and always had oak branches from the surrounding trees piled up just outside the front door. Zipper caught the mice there and I loved him for that.

I would stuff some branches into the stove and throw a shot glass full of fuel onto it and stand back. Tossing a wooden match from four feet away the fuel would give a small explosion with  a whiff of gas while the fire started instantly. No messing around here, it was cold and I wanted fire right away. It didn't take long and the whole pump house would be nice and cozy.

One day on New Year's Eve I thought I must get a fire going and put a big eucalyptus log on it before I left for the night. I've down this tons of times turning the old cast iron stove flue to low so it would simmer all night keeping my little bungalow heated nicely.

Being twenty years old I could party with the best of them and so that night me and my friends drank cases of beer and stayed up way past midnight to ring in the New Year. After a long night I found my way back down the gravel road to my quaint place out in the country. I lived just a mile away from my good friend's the Long family. It was a hub for us to gather and I was always enamored with the girls there. My good friend Ricky who I played soccer with dated one of the sisters so I always had a great time.

When I entered the pump house there was a soft glow in the stove and it was nice and warm inside, but smelled unusually smokey. I saw a hand written note and pencil on my redwood burl table that sat on a sturdy oak crate that served as my coffee table. On it the note read, "Hey Paul, A log rolled out of your stove and it was smokey inside so I opened the doors to air out the house. Mike M."  I left the doors unlocked all the time so friends could come over and hang out whenever I was away.

Soon after reading the note I went into my small bedroom and closed the door behind me. I liked to sleep with the temperature cooler and this small house stays pretty darn warm. In the middle of my bedroom were two large beams that split it in half. I could only fit a twin sized mattress between the beams and the outer wall. The beams went straight up through the ceiling and were part of the support system that carried a big wooden water tank and windmill above the roof. The windmill would creak and turn making some natural white noise and easy to drift off into slumber.

After sleeping for a few hours I woke up to the smell of smoke. I raised my head from the mattress coughed a couple times and quickly passed out from the thick smoke. Again about another couple hours I woke up choking. This time I remembered something a firefighter said when I was a little boy,"If you smell smoke go down to the floor on your hands and knees." Recalling that advice I rolled off of the mattress between the wooden beams onto the floor.

Lying on my belly it appeared that my room was only two feet tall. The smoke was so dense that I coughed violently now. Slithering on the floor to the bedroom door I remembered more advice, "Put your hand on the door to feel if it's hot." It wasn't so I then opened the door still coughing like mad and made my way to the front door. There I was barely able to get my head out the door for fresh air. I lay there with my upper torso just outside trying to catch my breath for several minutes.

Once I could muster enough energy I scrambled outside to the back door of the house and swung it open. Billows of dark thick smoke began to rise outside throughout the door openings and as soon as the fresh air hit the bricks flames began to dart out of the walls.
​Fire!!!   

I went immediately to the rotary phone and called my landlord. Ralph's house was only a hundred yards away. I told him the house was on fire. He called the fire department and all the lights in his house came on. One of the fire department locations was only a short distance from our ranch.

The firemen arrived and went right to work. They cut a hole where the fire was leaping out of the walls with axes and a couple guys carried a firehose inside dousing the wall. Within minutes they were able to extinguish the fire before it hit the rafters which would have consumed the whole place. 

I sat there staring at the hole in disbelief with a pool of water on the floor when I fireman came up to me. He explained how the fire started. He said, " You know that a potato cooks faster if you put a nail in it? Same goes for this house. The nails inside the two by fours inside the wall became so hot that it started a fire inside behind the wood stove."
Then as he was departing he congratulated me on being the first fire of the year.

Soon after everyone left I sat there wrapped in a blanket on the couch and watched the sun rising through the gapping hole. Just then my ranch cat Zipper jumped through the hole inside and came up to me purring loudly. I wondered what he was thinking and pondered all that had transpired. The words of wisdom I received as a small child, The proximity of death I almost encountered, and my curious tabby Zipper who was always there for me.

"All things truly wicked start from innocence."
Ernest Hemingway

In the late 1960's I went on the trip of my lifetime. It was not only a cool destination along California's coast, but what made it particularly exciting was that I would be with three of my older brothers alone. Unsupervised.

My brother Mario was ten years older than I. He was out of the house at eighteen and I was only eight years old then. I didn't get to know him as well as Mark and Joe who were five years closer to me. At this time Mark and Joe were teenagers and I tagged along behind them. It was really extraordinary that I would be allowed to go on this trip. I believe Mario negotiated with my Pop by trading his corvette for the station wagon this weekend.

On arrival of Big Sur Campground we pulled out our big green canvas tent and set it up. Long sturdy poles and thick canvas would keep us safe from the predators Joe said. Older brothers like to fill your head with danger. After the sleeping bags were stuffed inside the tent and the food secured in a cooler with ice we ate hot dogs over the fire followed by roasting marsh mellows on long sticks. A simple crude meal was delicious and effective enough for teenagers and I.

Joe was the most rebellious person I know and had a penchant for disturbing people. Mark his older was often the voice of reason and Mario was the enforcer when things started to get out of hand.

Joe brought a wrist rocket sling shot with surgical tubing rubber bands and was deadly with it. Right away he found that he could hit the side of the bathroom from our campsite making it crack loudly. I'm sure the people inside were not laughing hilariously like Joe and Mark.

When it became dark I could look up at the stars blinking at me between giant redwood trees. Bushed from the day I went to the tent and crawled inside my sleeping bag away from the predators. Joe, Mark, and Mario were enjoying the night. I don't know who thought of it but a fun game for them was to watch the raccoons. My brothers would toss marshmallows to them and watch the sticky white stuff cling to their whiskers and little black shiny hands fiercely trying to remove it. I then nodded off and began to dream of wild beasts while the wind caressed my ears as nature's lullaby.

The next morning I woke up to the smell of coffee and wrapped myself in a jacket and pulled the hood over my head. With Joe and Mark still sleeping I unzipped the tent feeling the coastal fog on my face and stepped outside. Mario had made a fire and was drinking coffee while I warmed myself by the flickering flames. He would tell me stories. I learned later in life that Mario loved to tell of his adventurous moments. He spoke of drag racing his vettes, flying in airplanes and cutting big slabs of cows in a freezer room.

Once Mark and Joe got up we ate bacon and eggs from a cast iron skillet over the green Coleman gas stove. The scent of bacon was delightful and nothing tastes better than camp food! Joe was quick to grab his slingshot and fire upon the bathroom walls. I could tell Mario was fed up and shouted for him to stop. After our breakfast was consumed and dishes placed into a Tupperware bin filled with water and Dawn soap we came up with a plan for the day. We would hike up the river to a pool and waterfalls.

Walking out of the camp on a trail Mark spotted a big yellow slimy thing on the ground. "Pick it up, Paul. It won't bite." Banana slugs are a curious oddity I thought. Slippery and bright yellow they slithered over moss and wet places. When I touched their antennas they retracted quickly. I put it back down and we kept walking while Mark narrated. Mark knew so many facts! He was a walking dictionary and I found this to be true even to this day.

I could spot the river now and we walked alongside it until the trail disappeared. Hopping up on boulders we would jump from one to another. The closer to the pool the boulders became larger and soon I wasn't able to cross. Even Joe and Mark had to really make an effort go from one to the other. Mario said, "Joe, hand me your slingshot so you don't lose it." and then handed it to me.

The river was white with power and I was unable to cross the boulders so Mario made a human bridge for me. Mario was strong, very strong. A wrestler and football player in High School and a meat cutter who was used to lifting sides of heavy beef up onto hooks. He placed his feet on one rock and stretched his muscular arms across to another. I climbed on his legs and carefully began to skirt across him like a bug on a log. About halfway across his back he told me to drop the slingshot into the river. Killing two birds with one stone the human bridge worked and Joe would cease to be a nuisance to the other campers.

When we arrived at the pool my eyes began to focus on the people bathing in the ice cold water and sunbathing on the boulders. Hippies my brothers called them. They sure looked like they could use a bath I thought. As we got closer to the hippies I could see something that wasn't obvious from afar. The girls were naked too! Boobs. Many pairs of boobs. Never had I seen a grown woman's breasts before. My eyes must have looked like big silver dollars popping out of my head. This was going to be the topic of conversation for the remainder of our trip in the wild.

When we were finished camping and the station wagon loaded up the drive took us alongside the beautiful California coast where I would gaze out into the ocean that never quit. A few miles into the drive I spotted some hippies to the right side of the road ahead of us. They had their hands out stretched with thumbs pointing up. Mark explained that they were hitchhiking hippies and were looking for free rides down the road. Probably to another river to take a bath and wash their many boobs I thought.

Mario pulled over for one group and as they came running to our station wagon he stepped on the gas and flung rocks from our tires back at them. I looked back and saw now instead of thumbs they had their middle fingers up waving high in the air.

I then spotted another hippie by herself ahead and Mario pulled over for her. Joe jumped out and let her sit between me and Mark. She was quiet and had hair underneath her arm pits. This was another first sight for me and I made the assumption that was probably why they had to take so many baths in the river. After A few miles we pulled back over to the side of the road and let her out. What a strange life I thought. They seemed free of cares and were basically camping all the time. I want to be a hippie too when I grow up!

This camping trip alone with three of my older brothers has left an impression upon me that I will always remember. To be included in this excursion made me feel loved by my brothers. I was too young to understand the complexity of life, but was surely on my way!

" Remaining childish is a tremendous state of innocence"
John Lydon (Johnny Rotten)

Our country squire station wagon was stuffed with nine of us filling every space possible. My two oldest brothers had moved out of our home. In the middle seat I was wedged between my brother's Mark and Joe as a buffer to reduce the amount of fighting that would surely occur on our long trip to visit the cousins in Los Angeles. California is one of those states where one could drive an entire day and never leave the state. This trip was something we did almost every summer like our camping trips.

On one of our trips my brother's devised a game that would be to see how many eye lashes we could pull off. I pulled fourteen! However, I don't remember seeing any they had removed. Picking on each other was a game and my brothers were good at not getting caught with their shenanigans. 

On the way to Los Angeles we would stop to eat at a sit down restaurant for lunch and then visit my Grampa at my Aunt Tilly's house in Bakersfield for dinner.

My Pop's favorite place to eat for lunch was Anderson's famous for split pea soup. We piled out of the wagon and patiently waited for a place to eat sometimes using several tables if we couldn't push a group together. At the end of the meal we would gather everyone up and smash ourselves back into the wagon followed by a head count. One, two, three we would count off and then my Pop would name us. Many times he forgot our names or called us by the same wrong name. I think he did this to see if we were listening. We didn't dare dispute him but let him do his thing. I can't imagine the stress of trying to navigate this whole clan for such an adventure.

When we stopped the next time to get gas about a hundred miles down the road I had pockets full of money an bought all my siblings treats and even some cigarettes for my brother Joe from a vending machine.

Once on the road and traveling down boring Highway Five it was earily quiet with all of us stuffing our mouthes with sticky candies and chips. My Pop aware of the silence and food candy wrapper noise discovered I was the one who bought all the goodies and exclaimed loudly, "Paul, where did you get all that money?!!" I replied in my eight year old innocence, "People had forgotten all their change on the tables!" I had unknowingly scooped off all the tip money from Anderson's restaurant. I hadn't a clue it was for the kind smiling ladies who brought us our food. 

Arriving at Aunt Tilly's we again piled out of our station wagon while Pop and my older brother's pulled sleeping bags from the roof. At this stage of the journey we were exhausted. We knew three things arriving at my Aunt's house. There was a big wooden box stuffed with toys, we would have a delicious home cooked meal, and my Grampa would be fixed in his recliner with pipe in hand. This was my first introduction to pipe smoking that has left an indelible impression upon me.

My gramps lived to be ninety five and at this time was in his eighties. He had a a devilish smile and a dry sense of humor. He kept up to date on all things and would engage in conversation as if he were forty-five years old. He knew how to speak to us kids too and half the time I couldn't tell if he loved us or we annoyed him. Probably both. On his hand one of his ring fingers was bent at a forty five degree angle. I would ask him how that happened every visit, and every visit he would tell me a different dramatic story. We had to be careful not to get too close to him because with that finger he would reach out quickly and smack us on the head. It felt like a ball peen hammer coming down which always followed with a chuckle. 

My memory is vague about my gramps and the things that I recall most about him was the smell of cherry tobacco, that smile, and his pipe tamper finger coming at me like a rattlesnake strike. 

"I can't see myself singing the same song twice in a row. That's terrible."
Bob Dylan

Sometimes your parents do things that are for your own good, but at the time they seem terrible. Perhaps they've warned you about a certain behavior or a road you were going down, yet you failed to recognize how destructive it was to yourself and others. When you get a little older and wiser it may become apparent, or you may continue that path and find it only leads to death. I found this to be true in my life and I learned the lesson the hard way.

In the middle of winter my father was getting closer to retirement from his teaching position. My older brother's Mario, Mike and Joe and my older sister Anne had moved out of our six bedroom home so my parents decided to downsize renting a smaller house while looking for a permanent residence. I was put in the garage on a cot while the rest of my family lived comfortably inside. 

I had developed a cold and being in a freezing garage didn't help matters. I would turn on the clothes dryer to take the bite out of the icy air where I could see my breath. My Pop came out several times telling me to turn the dryer off as we couldn't afford to waste electricity. I was reluctant to do so and argued my case each time he came out. Sensing his frustration and seeing his anger grow reminded me of what he was capable of. Being a father of nine children you need a degree in advanced psychology and a good leather belt. 

After going back and forth with my Pop he finally laid down the law. "Paul, when we moved into this house there was a claus of how many could live here. You need to move out. I'm giving you two weeks!" While this may seem harsh I can now see how a young defiant man would receive such an ultimatum. I had gone against his wishes time and time again doing the very things he told me not to do. This had not happened overnight, it was going on for years and my rebelliousness is what put me in this position. 

The following day I started asking around to my friends if they knew anyone that had a place I could rent. My budget was a whopping $200 a month. Scott a close friend of mine said he would ask his mom and the next day I discovered there was a small pump house built in the 1800's on the outskirts of town that might become available. Scott's mom arranged for me to meet the landlord (Ralph) who lived in a house about 100 yards away situated on fifteen acres of property.

And so my journey began. I hopped into my small pick up blue Mitsubishi pick up truck and began to head over to see the Ralph. On the way over I was completely nervous and could hardly stay focused on the road. It was evening time and I was only about one mile away when I struck a small dog. Quickly I pulled over and saw the dog scamper away and thought he was fine and I only grazed him so I jumped back in my truck to meet my deadline. I didn't want to be late for this important meeting.

When I arrived at the landlord's house the lights were on and he was very friendly. He checked me out and we talked about the property there. He was interested in a strong young man carrying out some chores on the ranch. Adjacent the pump house were a few buildings. A barn filled with hay, a chicken coup and some other rustic dilapidated buildings where folks lived during the Great Depression.  Ralph the landlord described what he wanted done. Feeding the five cows, feeding the chickens, keeping the buildings clear of weeds, repairing fences and some other miscellaneous duties. He told me the rent would be $250 and I could work off the remaining $50 in my budget by doing these things. We agreed and that became my first place of my own for the next six years. 

Being a landscaper at that time and wiped out each day from the hard labor it was always a joy returning to that quaint pump house where I could relax on a hammock in the shade of a pepper tree. While driving down the road about a mile away a small dog ran out I front of my truck and I hit him. I burst out of my truck and looked down at the lifeless animal. Just then the front door of the house I was parked at swung open and out came the owner and his wife and a few small children. I could see the devastation on their faces and with tears in my eyes I told their father how sorry I was. The man replied to me, "It's okay son, this dog hasn't been the same since he was struck by a car one year ago."

Oh my! What had I done?!! How is it possible? I hit the same dog twice and the second time I put him out of his misery. I didn't have the heart to tell the man that I hit his family pet the year prior and so I departed.

​ In my mind I began to recall my past year's journey. How I was told over and over by my Pop to obey or face the consequences. My mind began to piece together the events of leaving my family to begin another life. It didn't escape me the strange coincidence of striking a dog twice and the second time ending in death. This became a narrative in my head that had been giving to me on a silver platter. When playing with fire, you will get burned eventually, so turn the other direction or end up laying facedown in a gutter. 

​Life is full of lessons, one only has to open their hearts to receive them.

"Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous."
Albert Einstein

On a bright sunny day at the local reservoir I heard there was a trout derby taking place. I was a little late for the party with only two days remaining but I thought what the heck I'll give it a shot. After work I arrived in the late afternoon with only a couple hours left to fish and brought Jason my stepson with me. 

After signing up for the tournament we settled in a location that I knew held big fish. The largest trout liked to swim near the banks scooping up bait where the wind pushed it. Most people cast their bait and lures out a distance and caught many fish, just not the trophy size. It was too windy for fly fishing as our float tubes would be difficult to manage so we brought our spinning gear.

Both Jason and I tied on silver/blue cast master lures. These shiny pieces of metal represented bait fish and would be great for casting along the banks where we believed the bigger fish prowled. 

Towards the end of the day when we were about to give up I sighted a large trout around 24" cruising along the shore about 3 feet away from the bank. I yelled to Jason and we did several casts in front of him. I was lucky and he started after my lure. Patiently I slowed down my reeling and the trout took my lure! Oh man I thought! Could this be a winner?!! The big fish fought ferociously bending his thick body back and forth trying to get loose. My heart was pounding and I didn't want it to break off of my 6 lb. test line. A 6 lb. test should be able to reel in a 12 lb fish so I knew it was possible to get him in, but he could easily get away if I tried to muscle him in. 

After struggling to bring it close enough to  the shore I yelled to Jason for assistance. We were situated on a pile of big rocks that went down to the water and I forgot to bring a net because of my haste to enter the tournament. This put us in a precarious situation.

Jason was trying to get down the big slippery rocks with unsure footing. I didn't want him to get hurt but I also didn't want to lose the fish. As Jason got closer to the water one foot slipped off a rock and his palm hit the line and the fish broke the line flipping backwards. Jason wasn't hurt (my first concern) but his feelings were as I'm sure many curse words followed. As I saw the fish swim away I could see the lure dangling from his lip. Was that a fish that would place in the derby? We talked about it all the way back home. But the story does't end here.

The following day I went back to the lake after work. It was the last day of the tournament and I went to the store were they weighed all the fish and recorded the catches. The top fish weights were 12 lbs, 10.5 lbs and 10 lbs. There were only three places for prizes so I knew I had to catch at least a 10 lb trout. 

I went back to the spot we fished the day before and put on another silver/blue cast master and chucked it out along the bank. One cast, two, three in one direction then slightly further out and repeat. No luck. The sun was dropping and I only had about 30 minutes left before the close the tournament. I was the only one in sight fishing still so thought I would try another tactic.  I cut the lure off and rigged up a leader with sliding sinker and an 1/2 of a night crawler.

I was hungry so I thought I would eat some snacks while my bait sat there only a few feet from shore. I could actually seem worm dangling in the blue green lake water from where I sat. In my mind I kept thinking about the one that got away the day before.

With my mouth full of potato chips and my rod placed carefully beside me I glanced down to see the tip of my fishing pole jiggle slightly. I reached down for it quickly and carefully waiting for a second bite. One more jiggle and then a strong pull. My drag was too loose and when the fish bit the hook and turned away the line came flying out! I used my palm with one hand to slow the line and cause some tension as my other hand fumbled around trying to tighten the drag. This was another big fish!

I scrambled down the jagged rocks to a flat spot where I could land the fish. Very cautiously I brought it in and reached down with my left hand the grabbed it's large jaw. My hand had its small sharp teeth cut into my flesh making me bleed, but no way was I going to miss another one. Once I gathered him in and placed my pole down I noticed something shining out of the corner of his mouth. Could it be? Yes!! It was the same lure I used the day before! I caught the same fish twice!!

I ran over to the store to get him weighed approximately three minutes before the tournament ended an my fish was 10.25 lbs. I bumped out the last fish and won third place! What a great story I thought. I couldn't wait to tell Jason. This was surely a day I would never forget!

"Remember kid, there's heroes and there's legends. Heroes get remembered but legends never die, follow your heart kid, and you'll never go wrong"
The Babe- from the movie, The Sandlot

In the neighborhood we lived where our two story six bedroom home was located was perfect for us kids to congregate. Directly in front of our home was a cul-de-sac and one house away was a second court. This provided two open asphalt playgrounds where we could spread out and play. These were the training grounds for bicycle riding, roller skating, lighting fireworks, and most importantly playing baseball.

I had a motley crew of friends in this neighborhood of different backgrounds and it also became a central hub of surrounding neighborhoods. We could easily put together teams of six and form a football or baseball game in no time at all. Nextdoor I had my friend Tod who was a year older than I and on the other side I had my friend Kevin a year younger. Across in the court I had a two more friends and the house behind ours lived a large mormon family. My fishing buddy Tim lived a few doors down and my friend Dean and his brother Steven lived in the second court. Jeff, Rick, Jim, Dennis, Joey D, Fred and a few others came from adjacent streets.

One of our favorite team sports was baseball and to reduce the number of damage to the houses around us we used a tennis ball instead of a hardball. The hardball came out at times when we didn't have a tennis ball, but we all knew that a broken window would stop us from playing there, at least temporarily.

On one hot summer day we gathered up our leather gloves and bats and picked teams. Summers in the small hick town of Livermore often brought triple digit temperatures and so we played our games earlier in the day to be followed by swimming in Kevin's pool. Afterward and the we would go to Dean's house and consume large bowls of ice cream. He always had ice cream in his house. Life was grand!

After we picked teams we would flip a coin to see who batted first. Everyone wanted to bat and I particularly liked a small wooden bat that I could rip with. If one really got a hold of a ball it would go the entire distance of the court and hit the roof on a house across the street. Home run!

On this day I was in the outfield which placed me I the middle of the street. If a car came down one of us would yell, "Car!" and the game would quickly come to a halt. Kevin came to bat so I knew I had to be ready. He always got a piece of the ball so I knew I had to be alert.

After a few pitches Kevin swung and hit a high fly ball in my general direction so I bolted towards it as fast as my feet would carry me. It was a foul ball and curved towards Tod's house. As I approached the sidewalk at full speed I tripped over a dangling piece of leather on my worn out shoe and fell headfirst. As I braced for impact with my right hand outstretched it snapped loudly and the next part of my body that hit was my face onto the curb. Breaking my glasses and knocking out my front teeth I wailed loudly on Tod's lawn. My friends didn't see me land and were all laughing not knowing what happened until Dean showed up.

Immediately Dean seeing the disaster sprinted to my house and banged on the front door furiously summoning my father. As my Pop approached and saw me lying there in a pool of blood he said, "Your teeth!" My mouth didn't hurt as much as my broken wrist, but I'm sure my Pop knew that teeth were a bigger more costly concern for a family our size. When I opened my mouth the air hit the exposed nerves in my crushed incisors and I let out a shriek. Oh man! I was in deep trouble!

This moment of our personal history that we shared as a group of childhood friends is forever imbedded in our minds. Today we can still recall the events in detail. From the shout, "Swing away!" to the my lifeless body drenched in blood on Tod's lawn. It was the first time one of us would be injured badly. It served as a reminder of our frailty, but more importantly it was a glue that cemented our friendships. Moments of pain can change how you see the world and our vision in these innocent times. Our teacher was the hot pavement and this school of hard knocks was precursor of many of life's curveballs we would have to endure in the future.

 "Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
​Howard Thurman

The first time I remember building a fort was when we moved to Livermore, California. It was a small town in 1965 with a population of around 25,000 people. When our family of 11 moved there we instantly increased the census.

The house we purchased had 6 bedrooms and was a two story only a block away from an elementary school and a high school. There were empty lots all around us where we would catch horny toad lizards and rummage through construction sites. At five years of age I would follow my older brothers around to watch them and try not to get hurt. 

At the street behind ours where construction was the most underdeveloped my brothers would dig in the soft dirt and throw a large sheet of plywood over it and then scramble underneath to hide. It was a crude fort at best, yet it provided a hiding place. 

When I was older in 5th grade my closest friends and I began to make our own forts. We made one tree fort with a trap door and a rope to get up to it. Dragging carpet up inside we made it comfortable and made shelves for candles to give light. We brought a box filled treasures of firecrackers, baseball cards, bubble gum, lighters and knives. All things useful for a young pre teenager. 

Inside these forts we used our imaginations to devise strategies and negotiation techniques to keep out unwanted guests. It was our fort and we didn't need intruders!

Another fort we made in Tim's backyard. It was a small rectangle box that we built out of construction site plywood and two by fours. The floor was plywood as well and we made a hidden space underneath for things that we wanted to hide like our firecrackers and playboy magazines. Back in the late sixties there were no computers, video games or other distractions so we used our imaginations to entertain ourselves. 

​As a young adult I continued to build forts but they were what I like to call, "creative spaces". Either a basement or spare bedroom or an outdoor greenhouse would be useful to allow my imagination to flourish. These places I made were extensions of my personality and gave me a safe place to bring to fruition what my mind had captured. 

Years later when my wife and I moved to the redwood forest above the town of Santa Cruz, California. I felt I needed a creative space of my own so I converted our garage into a wood shop. It was here that I began my journey of crafting tobacco pipes.
Inside the shop I hung photographs I had taken of ghost towns and posters of musicians and body builders. It was a strange conglomeration but it fit my personality and allowed me to let my imagination run wild. 

Today after building my third wood shop I glance around and am reminded of creating spaces where I could come alive! My wood shop today is small and is adorned with rattlesnake skins, deer and elk antlers, and universal monster figures. It's unique and it's me. I can sit there inside and search my memory for things not yet built. I can stare at a block of briar wood and discover a new pipe shape. It's one of the ways that I feel at home besides being outdoors in the mountains. It is a creative space where I ask myself , "What will I build next?" "What will make me come alive?

I've never been a serious rock climber but in my youth I used to boulder in and around Yosemite National Park. Bouldering is a term that simply means climbing on big rocks without the aid of ropes. Freehand. It can be fun and yet at the same time it can be dangerous. On this particular day it became dangerous and my life was hanging by a thread.

A group of my closest friends and I set out for Cherry Lake on the outskirts of Yosemite. We packed up all our essentials and heaved them into the back of Tim's 1960 Ford pickup truck. Tim and his brother were mechanics and Tim's truck was a beast! He had put a big V8 into it and beefed up the suspension. During the summer we would collect heavy scrap metal from farms around our town and take the loads to Spitzer's recycling plant for cash. Cash that would provide gas and our provisions for camping and our various excursions. 

Cherry Lake took us about 5 hours to drive to from our hometown and on arrival we parked and enthusiastically poured out of the truck and began to inflate our rubber raft. Once the raft was packed up we set our course directly across the lake to a spot Tim and I deemed as the best location of fishing. It was where Cherry creek flowed into the lake. Tim and I discovered that the fish loved these areas because their food came rushing down from the mountains above and the tumbling water created oxygen and turbulence that fish loved. It was also the same type of water where I had so much success at my family's favorite campground called Yellowjacket on Union Valley reservoir.

After we arrived at our designation we unloaded the raft, set up our tents and made a suitable camping spot. Tim grabbed his fishing gear and headed to the creek and the rest of us spread out looking for adventure. On this particular day I wished I had gone with Tim to fish. It would have been so much safer for me. Instead I spotted some huge boulders that I thought would be fun to climb and headed there instead. 

At the base of this huge group of granite rock structure I stared up and made a mental picture of the route I would choose. It looked simple enough to conquer and a promising chimney once I got to it would take me to the top. Or so I thought. 

There were a few things in hindsight that would have made for a safer climb. First I had neglected to bring water or even hydrate before I left. I was also on an empty stomach and I hadn't told my friends where I was going. Three big mistakes that I would regret later. I also underestimated the route I had chosen up the cliff. 

The granite rock that was cut out of glaciers was fun to grip onto. It made climbing much easier than other types of rock surfaces. It is abrasive and so your hands stick to its surfaces. Granite in these areas also has some crumbling debris on ledges. Portions of what is called, "glacier polish" an extremely slippery surface that was made that way thousand of years ago when the icy glaciers cut through. If the glacier polish is wet it is impossible to move across. Luckily there wasn't any polish where I would be today, but there was the crumbles of deteriorating rock on any flat surfaces. 

I grabbed onto that boulder and began my trip up the rock safely arriving at a chimney. Chimney's were fun for me to climb because of the channel they make on the rock's face. I could wedge myself in there and give my hands and feet a rest. I could shimmy up with my back against the rock and feet against the other side. Inside the chimney I could also be in sections that provided me shade from the glaring sun of the Sierra.

As I approached the top of the chimney I thought I would be at the top of the boulder. Instead there was a small ledge about 10" wide with some bits and pieces of granite that made it an unstable surface. From there I spotted the next avenue to reach the top. It was a hole with a hand sized rock where I could secure myself and look for the next hand to be laid. Now instead of moving into the rock I was hanging from it as it moved outward. 

I had finished going up the chimney and now was a good 50 feet above the floor. 50 feet may not seem that much, but for a  relatively unexperienced teen it could mean death if I fell. 

My body was now starting to feel the lack of water and food I neglected. I was shaking and losing my strength and now just need to be on top and find an alternate path back to camp. On my tip toes I reached for my next grip above the chimney with my feet slipping on that ten inch wide surface of granite. I pulled myself up to look for a second spot to grab and made it another five feet. Now about ten feet above the chimney and that crumbling ledge I was stuck! No more places to pull me up. I was shaking more fiercely now and I was too far from camp to call for help. Glued to the side of the mountain barely able to keep my grip I uttered the first desperate prayer of my young life. "Lord, help!" 

My mind raced to for and answer. It now became obvious and my path down would involve a step away from the side of the mountain to land on that 10" flat spot with crumbling granite. Oh, what a predicament I had made for myself! This was as dangerous a scenario I could be in. Sixty five feet up or so with a 15' jump to a tiny portion of rock that was covered in sandy debris. I had to do it and this was my only viable option.

As I gathered all the remaining focus I could manage I made the leap. I stuck the landing, but my feet slipped underneath the sandy surface. For a second I saw my life flash before my very eyes. As I regained my balance I froze against the hard surface back against it.

I then had to lower myself into the chimney blindly and managed that too. Once inside the chimney I wedged myself in there like a mouse stuck in a hole. Resting for a good ten minutes  I felt the shade and breeze cooling my sweaty tee shirt the slowly I continued down that and made myself finally to the ground beneath the boulders. 

Never again would I attempt such a foolish climb! Many years after recalling this event I would see it more cemented in my mind. The anticipation of reaching the top, The inviting chimney, the unsafe ledge. But, most importantly my crying prayer for help to my Creator.