Introducing The Introduction (The Intro) (c)2005-Ron Wortham

PUBLISHING in this day and age has become instantaneous. _-Plant Your Seeds-_ is a perfect example of it. No printing (unless YOU just want to), no heavy production costs. Enhancements planned for the future include an audio narration (one of the things I do) chapter-by-chapter and possibly a continuous audio version for blind or vision-impaired persons.

Publishing costs before the evolution of the Internet and The Blog have been monstrous. Printing, marketing, shipping, shelf space and other overhead costs can devour 80% or more of the value of an author's work. A $20.00 shelf price for a book MIGHT net the author $2.00 for years of work. Usually less.

Yet somehow the author should be - congratulated if you would. At least that is what everyone is telling me and I assume that is true. Actually, I am quite honored to having been read in this way and thank you for allowing me to share this much of my life with you.

At some chapters you will note a donation button at the end of the chapter.

Practically speaking, very few of us get to read an entire book without interruptions. The buttons are there for your convenience. I will most humbly accept your donation.

Thank You

This is casual reading - something to do while you are waiting on life (or God) to bring you Something To Do. This is about what I did while I was waiting.

I started this for my kids. After my daughter died, it became something for me.... and my son and my wife, then it grew in scope to my friends and more recently due to urgings of other writers, schoolmates and to the listeners of Radio Free Phoenix http://radiofreephoenix.com/ it has become what you read here. I have made it as entertaining as I can.

I hope you enjoy it.



Ron Wortham

Dedication: "I thought I knew me yesterday - whoever sings this song"

Plant Your Seeds

(c) 2005

"I asked the ice, it would not say - but only cracked or moved away

I thought I knew me yesterday - whoever sings this song"

From "Ducks on a Pond"
Mike Heron & Robin Williamson - The Incredible String Band

England - 1968

Dedication

This journal touches briefly on my radio career and is something of a primer for those who wish to learn to be a disc-jockey/radio announcer. This journal is not for you if that is your only interest, even though it is a reflection in parts, of that and of several other careers I have enjoyed. Those careers have added to my life and at times, my life has added to them. The lesson more simply put;

Do not let what you do become who you are.

I wrote this journal initially for my children, as a chronicle of my life in most of its several facets. In its development into an autobiography I have come to feel it should be shared with others also. I have included in its chronology the phases, sections, beginnings, endings, pauses and wonders along with some observations that may be enlightening to some and disturbing to others.

Fear not. Rest assured that if this is not intended for you, you will fall asleep soon or become otherwise distracted. These very personal pages will be abandoned or be misplaced. You will have come to no harm from having begun to read it and stopped. Like leaving a theatre at intermission. Those of us in the spiritual world who will be reading over your shoulder, know when you should sleep. The sets must be changed for the next act, after all.........

It would seem to any who would know me well that I have lived several times in this lifespan, and been blessed with each experience. There are extremely few living or dead who can say they knew me well, including myself. None of us really have that much time.

So, I dedicate this work to my children; Summer Rose (deceased) who died with a life marvelously fulfilled at the age of 12. And to my surviving son Dustin, who like myself will make of himself a generational chameleon in a fantastic and constantly changing world. And to my son Ronald Micah Wortham (deceased) who waits and wonders at his brief 23-day visit. To my wife Debby also who has probably wondered from time to time, who I was before I became who I am now. To myself also - and to whom I shall become.

I am forever changing. As are we all.

We navigate by faith alone - who do not die.

-=Ron Wortham=-

"The answers are the questions, sir

The lady soothes the lion's fur -

Meek as a lamb he follows her -

Wherever angels are."

From "Ducks on a Pond"
Mike Heron & Robin Williamson - The Incredible String Band

England - 1968 (C) Elektra Records

CHAPTER 1 The View From The Pond

"Like a Bird on a Wire,

Like a Drunk in a Midnight Choir,

I have tried in my way to be free."

- Leonard Cohen -

In that very first experience of Deja' Vu, we have had our first taste of eternity. It is not just the feeling of having been somewhere before, it is the marvelous awareness of knowing. It is the realization of existence; that one exists -is alive - and is objective enough to know it. Being aware of BEING is our first touchstone of eternity. It is rather like having dreamed of reading this passage over someone's shoulder and coming to know that the shoulder is your own.

For me it began at about the age of 18 months. I was dressed in a little sailor suit strolling through the streets of some California town near San Diego, with my mother and father. We were playing hide and seek in a crowd of very tall people. I would try to get them to go into a toy store or some other interesting place and they would refuse to obey. To teach them obedience, I would run and hide from them. To show their rebellion against my authority, they would keep me just barely in sight. It was a wonderful game except for several minutes of panic when they could see me and I could not see them. It was 1944 and World War II was the national occupation. Our beginnings were in Berkeley, California at an apartment overlooking the campus. The view to the south from above the football field was a major part of my semi-awareness as an infant. My mother and I often sat on the lawns above the field, I am told. Several coincidental visits to that spot in my adult life have brought on huge waves of remembrance, despite that spot having been moved several times by earthquakes.

When I was just a toddler my mother and I moved inland and took up residence in a stately old mansion owned by the Putnam family. Mr. and Mrs. Putnam had been involved in their own war and had declared a domestic cease-fire some years back. They treated each other with the kind of respect that sea captains at war must give each other when both their ships are sinking. There was entirely too much dignity. My father was a cook in the Navy, serving food on troop trains. My mother and I were in charge of the kitchen at the Putnam Mansion and I assumed the additional responsibility of being involved in everything that happened in the yard. It was a few days after we arrived that I located the pond. It wasn't large at all but it was lovely. There were lily pads, goldfish, snails and cool grass all around. It was a miniature world of its own and it was just my size. It became my haven. It was there that I saw my first frog and it was there too, that I found the toy boat. It hadn't been there the first time I saw the pond, I was certain of that. It wasn't a new toy by any means but it was in fine shape even though it was much older than I. Everything and everyone in fact, was much older than I. There was a little paint left on it and it was slightly waterlogged, as though it had been in the water a day or so. It was made of wood and had a tiny red smoke stack.

My main interests in life at the Putnam Mansion were my pond and my mother. We ate in the kitchen where she worked and, sitting in the cabinet beneath the sink where she washed dishes, I pestered her endlessly for chewing gum. Since Juicy Fruit was at a premium, she would often tear off a piece she was chewing and share it with me. Ipana tooth paste was at a premium as well. I remember we had to brush our teeth with bar soap and baking powder at times. Mr. Putnam was a gruff old grouch. He had a rule forbidding happiness in the house and his wife duty bound, saw to it that he enforced that rule. Dinner conversations were continuations of previous arguments that usually ended in a huff as soon as both had eaten just enough to survive until the next meal. They casually despised each other and took it out on the household staff, my mother especially. As for myself, I kept discovering more and more wonderful things about the yard.

The marvelous toy boat had disappeared. One day I was playing with it, the next it was gone. Being just about two years, I knew nothing of mysteries. I began to stumble around the yard in search of the boat, or new diversions. With Mr. Putnam eyeing me carefully, I made my first contact with a ceramic frog. It was a yard decoration, used as a drain stopper in a bird bath. Such things are not for little boys and Mr. Putnam had not yet learned that I had no grasp of certain words such as "no-no". I was taught by several warnings and a swift pop on the bottom. There was no doubt about it. I had a new friend and like it or not, so did he. In the weeks that ensued I learned many things from my new friend, much of it having to do with yard work. Other things had to do with obedience to him and my own personal safety. How and why to stay out of the way of the lawn mower, for instance. In those days a lawn mower had no motor. You had to push it. Within was a whirling, shiny reel that made a scissors sound as it sliced against the blade bar like a paper cutter. It was dutiful hard work, since it was powered by the person who was pushing it. It was a kind of neighborhood status symbol to be SEEN while doing this kind of work, so most of it was always done in the hot sunshine. There were few motorized versions and the person pushing the mower was in complete control. It was my personal duty to run in front of the mower, snatch up a handful of turf and throw it at the reel. I sometimes jammed the mower with small twigs. My gruff, grouchy old friend would pretend he was going to cut my fingers off with the mower and after repeated warnings from him we began an unspoken test of wills. It became our last. It was extremely important to me to win because the winner of this personality clash would it seemed, claim ultimate domain over the yard. It was more of a duel actually, almost the kind of exchange that you see between a matador and a bull. Closer and closer I would come with my tiny tufts of grass, faster and faster would charge the mower. After too long a time of this, came The Moment of Truth. The mower stopped. I moved very close with my handful of grass and placed it fearlessly within an inch of the cutting edge of the reel. As the last bit of grass touched the ground, the mower charged. The pain was enormous. I had never felt anything like it and the feeling was amplified many times over by the fear and surprise. Mr.Putnam had gotten me just as he had threatened. I screamed with the passion of a two-year-old who had been betrayed for the first time in his life.

I extracted my hand from the inner workings of the machinery, I covered it with my other hand. I then did a tuck and roll on the ground howling, kicking, crying and screaming with the remains of my mangled digits held tight against my stomach. In those days there were no air conditioners. Windows were left open for the breezes and you could hear conversations several houses away. It was almost a minute later after my mother and members of the surrounding neighborhood had arrived, that I managed to pull my hand away and look at it. There was green stuff showing on one of the fingers and a tiny pinched spot. All the fingers were there. They all moved. There was not one drop of blood. Some of the neighborhood folk grumbled. Some chided Mr. Putnam. Some chuckled. A few laughed. They all left.

The days at the pond were spent in peace after that. There were some arguments in the house and sometimes I would hear my mother's voice in those arguments. I had finally made up my mind that I didn't want the toy boat after all. I felt a tremendous loss about it but I felt a personal strength in having made that decision as well. I was a very little boy who had had his first revelation about growing up.

The water at the pond was golden and shimmering in the afternoon sun and it had been a warm, glorious day. My mood was one of entrancement. I was in a state of mind which has no explanation, a state of mind that I have experienced many times since. Not quite Deja' Vu, not quite full awareness, a kind of daydream you might have while reading. It was in this reverie that I looked up. Outside the back fence and moving along the railroad track was a flock of sheep. They were the first that I had ever seen and I was filled with wonder. They were kicking up a cloud of dust that seemed to glitter. It shined golden in the afternoon sun. I ran to the back fence to get a better look. There was something very special about all this, it was as though it were a circus show being presented especially for me. I felt very honored.

The shepherd was a tall and friendly looking man with reddish-golden hair and a beard. There was a feeling all around him of happiness. The thought flashed in my mind that it might be Jesus but I had seen the pictures my mother had shared with me. It was definitely not him. This man didn't have dark hair. I had no idea what sheep were, so I asked him "What are those?" 'Sheep.' he replied. "Where are you going with them?" said I. 'Down the road' he said - and he smiled. Soon after that, we left the Putnam Mansion in a Model-A Ford. My father did all the driving as he and my mother sang "Sentimental Journey", "A Bushel and A Peck" and many other songs of the day. The Ford had no radio of course, and was a coupe equipped with what was called a rumble seat. It was a seat which opened up where a trunk would normally be on most cars. I was desperate to ride in that rumble seat. Unfortunately there was some kind of law that my father knew of against little boys riding in the rumble seat. I was forced to straddle the gearshift knob, perched uncomfortably on the drive shaft hump or in my mother's lap. Occasionally I sat in my father's lap and had a hand in steering the car on the long and empty desert roads. After two days of this, an amicable agreement to seating was worked out among the three of us. I happened to fit nicely in the package tray in front of the rear window. In spite of the oppressive desert heat, I slept most of the way across the western United States on our way to Texas. It was there where we were to start our new life.

We returned to the Putnam Mansion for a visit years later when I was a teenager. Other than the Putnam's both having passed on, little had changed. I wondered who died first and who was happiest about it. The old bird bath with its frog was still in its place. The spot where Mr. Putnam and I had had our lawn mower duel was overgrown with weeds. The remains of my pond were still visible but had long ago run dry. I saw a piece of aging, rotted wood that might have been a toy boat at one time. What I was most anxious to see though, were the railroad tracks behind the fence where the Shepherd and his sheep had gone by. Of all my memories of the Putnam place, it had impressed me the most.

Some states of mind have no explanation. There is no railroad track outside that back fence, nor has there ever been one. There is only a stone wall where I had seen the Shepherd guiding his flock. That wall has been there for many years. It is just a foot or so taller than a two-year-old child.

CHAPTER 2 All Cats Are Girls, All Dogs Are Boys

The Polytechnic area of Fort Worth, Texas was something of a cross between a university neighborhood and an army camp. It was laid out with streets marked simply by an alphabetical designation. There were Avenues G, H, I, J, K, L, M and N just south of Texas Wesleyan College. No one seems to know what happened to avenues A through F or avenues O through Z. I lived on Avenue J from the end of World War II to Korea. If you want to be more precise about the time frame, it was between"The Hucklebuck" by Tommy Dorsey and "Rock Around The Clock" by Bill Haley and The Comets. Or for another point ov view, it was about the time of "Hound Dog" by Elvis. Somewhere prior to that time period I discovered that "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby could make me cry uncontrollably. I played it over and over on our old Philco 78 rpm record player trying to figure out why. It didn't take me long to figure out the rest of the world, simply by its behavior. I came to the conclusion early on for instance, that all cats were girls and all dogs were boys. For myself, I was an alley rat - a trash picker. From the ages of five through twelve, I could not resist a tempting trash can. I knew the alley ways and could spot a "treasure can" just by walking by it. It astounded the other kids. I would often find very expensive toys or most anything of value to trade to the other kids for other trash or sometimes money. I would always bring the "good stuff" home to my mother. They ranged from silk ties, ornate dishes, costume jewelry and clothes hangers to an inventory of other necessities. I was a good provider in my way, but I almost never checked our own trash. The other kids did that. Cokes came in bottles for a nickle. It was two cents for the bottle deposit but you always drank it in the store. They would stash the cokes in a freezer so that when you opened the bottle it would have little slivers of ice in it. A loaf of bread was nineteen cents, as was a pack of any brand of cigarettes.

There was a little belt-making shop on Rosedale street about four blocks away where they threw away scraps of leather. It was called the Tandy Leather Company which merged years later, with some kind of electronics store called The Radio Shack. I could never figure out how a belt and leather company would want to partner up with an electronics store. I used to pick up leather scraps there for free, to make lanyards for my Boy Scout projects. The Army Surplus store a few blocks in the other direction had a fantastic world of gadgets and goodies for a few cents. I would often buy tank periscopes for a quarter and body tents for a dime. They were smelly, vertical shrouds that had a clear plastic top. They were supposed to protect you from mustard gas. They were also great in a summer shower and you could play Spaceman in them We knew about space men already and these things were round and domed - like flying saucers.

There were some glorious days there as in any child's life. My friend Raymon and I used to create wild fantasies and play them out. One of those fantasies had us digging for treasure. On that particular day I was in "that" state of mind - the reverie that has no explanation. We grabbed some digging tools and I headed straight for a corner of the back yard. It seemed I knew exactly where to dig and indeed, I may have. About two feet below the ground we found a coffee can that had been buried for years. It was so rusty that it barely held together. Inside was someone's hoard of costume jewelry. With the exception of possibly one ring, it was junk. Absolutely priceless to any child.

My years on Avenue J were an introduction to life. There was always music on the neighborhood radios. Somewhere in those early years I discovered the thrill of hearing two radios in different houses playing the same station at the same time. It was astounding. It was a sort of binaural sound long before stereo became commonly known, since stereo was in the early stages of invention. The disc-jockeys of the time were referred to as "announcers" and they always had something to sell. I had become used to radio programs and of course, all presentations were live as far as I was concerned, including the musical performances. These ethereal radio personalities served as Masters Of Ceremonies for some of the most astounding assortments of bands and solo artists imaginable. At most any time you could hear Bob Wills, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw and The Light Crust Doughboys performing one after another on what I imagined must have been the most grandiose sound stages in the world. It was during one of these non-stop performances that I was changing stations on the dial and heard the "This Old House" by Rosemary Clooney playing on two different stations at the same time. The song was the same on both stations but the lyrics and orchestration weren't even close to matching. It was impossible! She couldn't be in two places at once! With some considerable explanation from my mother, I realized I had been duped. These announcers were playing records and pretending!

There was another kind of song in the air as well. It was made up of neighborhood voices, birds and rustling leaves. There were barking dogs and the bell-like sound of emergency brake cables bouncing against the exhaust pipes of 1948 Buick sedans. The 1949 Mercury had the same problem occasionally, but the bell sound was deeper and usually accompanied by the clatter of universal joints that had been without grease too long. The sidewalk from my house to Vaughn Boulevard two blocks away was a straight line. The overhanging trees made it almost a pipeline for sound. From the service station on that far corner would come the punctuating clang of tire tools and wrenches being dropped to the concrete. The city bus line was a half-block in the other direction on Bishop Street and the diesel engines laid down a central background chord for this non-stop jam session of sounds. It was with this musical accompaniment that I learned about Reading Writing and Arithmetic.

Education in those days was based on what you knew, rather than how well you could learn. For instance you had to KNOW the multiplication tables, not just be able to know how to use a calculator. You had to KNOW your history, rather than know how to find the information in a database or encyclopedia. Education in those days was a form of concrete that it was hoped, would solidify in your head. Elementary school was at first, a looming prison building into which I would dissapear and be eaten by some monster. With the help of little Jan Jackson I got past my horror and fear. Right up into the third grade I did fine. There, I became fascinated with airplanes and spent most of my time in the back corner of the room drawing pictures of what I thought would be the planes of the future. That unexplainable reverie visited and completely enfolded me for several weeks. I would do whatever was necessary to deal with my class work and go right back to my drawings. Whatever was happening to me with those pictures in 1949 was irresistible. Images of fantastic aircraft would appear in my mind almost as if it were a movie. I was compeled to draw them quickly, before the images were replaced by the next ones. There were long, sleek aircraft with delta wings and drooped noses like the Concord. There were stubby, engineless craft that resembled the space shuttles of today. I drew constantly, like a fiend possessed with a secret. Then came the Big Bust.

Mrs. Bratton had a very big bust. Other than that, she was built like a football player that had developed a face like a bulldog. She grabbed my collection of drawings and moved me to the front of the class so I could see her big bust and hear her growling lecture better. Lovely. I still drew pictures of the fantastic airplanes in my mind. It took her a while to realize that I was paying no attention to her at all. A note to my parents caused me to be sent to an optometrist for glasses and another doctor for a hearing examination. I got to keep my ears but the vision that had given rise to my drawings was taken away by a pair of glasses. Now I could see Mrs. Bratton much better. I wondered what her dog was like.

I learned to play the trumpet by ear and developed a great set of chops by the fifth grade. I could play the trumpet solo from Perez Prado's "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" verbatim, complete with pitch changes exactly as it was played on the radio. I could also play any bugle call I could hear on record or piano. I was like an idot-savant and my band teacher was a tortured soul because of it. She desperately wanted me to solo
"Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" in a concert for the parents, but knew I would find a way to screw it up. She was quite correct.

I was introduced to Bible Belt Christianity and was "saved" on my way to Sycamore Park one day. There was a Dangerous Looking Stranger in a Dangerous Looking Car parked under the Rosedale street overpass. It was known as a Very Dangerous Place in Poly. I was taking my time on my bicycle, enjoying the day. The man commanded me to come over and get in his car. I was scared out of my mind. I had heard the stories of boys being forced to do unspeakable things by strangers. Most of those stories were playing back in my mind. Being a good obedient kid, I complied. I was sure I would be chased, caught and really hurt if I didn't. Then too, the guy might know my parents and make up some kind of story about me. Some grown-ups did that. I feared and respected adults, but I had become street wise also. With my hand covering my open pocket knife, I approached his open door. He must have seen it. He asked a number of personal questions that no one has the right to ask a kid. He could tell I was ready to give him a lot of trouble. I was treated to a brief and very personal sermon. The dirty sonofabitch saw to it that I was in tears before he permitted me to go. I swore to myself never to be commanded like that again. More, I hated the fear that had brought the tears to my eyes. When I got to the pool, I swam sixteen laps non-stop. Only in exhaustion did I feel nearly innocent again, I never felt quite clean.

Our "parting shot" from elementary school at D. McRae required us graduating sixth-graders to make predictions about the future for our newsletter of 1954. The idea was to place the newsletter into a time capsule and come back later to find out how many of the student's predictions had come true. My two most memorable of those brought chuckles from the adults and ridicule from my peers. I predicted that the world would someday see electric pencil sharpeners. Further, I made the outrageous prediction that airplane-style seat belts would someday be in all cars. They were ridiculous ideas of course but I got a good grade on the project.

Directly across the street from the school was a little multi-purpose neighborhood store. It was the kind of place where beginning scholars could purchase Big Chief writing tablets or Fudgesicles for six cents depending on priorities. I was a frequenter of the ice cream freezer and penny-candy counter on many occasions. On one of my sorties into the school supply section a gentleman came up to ask if he could helpme find something. I must have seemed moonstruck because I recognized Dave Naugle immediately by his voice. He was one of the main announcers on KFJZ radio and a friend of the store owners. There was an illness in the family and he had come down to the store to help out. When I managed to speak, I explained to him that I needed a Big Chief tablet and a pencil but that if I bought the pencil I would only have four cents left over for a six-cent Fudgesicle. I also told him that I had recognized his voice from KFJZ. He smiled and told me that if I bought them both, he would give me a two-cent discount on the Fudgesicle. What a deal! I determined to never forget him for his favor. It was my first contact with the "other side" of radio. Many years later in 1983 I was blessed with the opportunity to remind him of the event.

My education in the methodology of every day living moved along considerably quicker than my courses in school. I became fascinated with mechanical things and often brought home discarded car parts for disassembly and inspection. The back yard was filled with fuel pumps, universal joints, radiator hoses and other junk. It was only allowed to stay long enough for me to figure out what it was and how it worked. I would do this using the same method of learning that a monkey uses. I was often covered with gasoline and grease.

I was introduced to Sunday School, Church, The Boy Scouts of America, street fighting, multiplication tables, cigarettes, dirty jokes and sex all at about the same time. I became acquainted if not proficient in them all, by the age of twelve.

King Harwell had a car. He was about five years older than I and was spoken of in awe on the streets of Poly. It was said he would fight at the drop a dime. His old tan Chevrolet sported Smitty mufflers and he wore his hair in greased-down duck-tails. In this day and age he would be regarded as "Bad". In that day and age he was even worse. It was during one of my own childhood street fights that we met. It was a passing amusement for him, it was a major event for me. One of the kids from my junior high school had insulted me as his bicycle passed mine on the way home. I decided to make a fight of it and we were drawing a crowd when "The King" drove up. He and his buddy watched the pokes and jabs for a while, then King stepped up to the circle. "Why don't you lay him out?" he asked me. I replied that I was doing what I could. He stepped over to the car and drew out a Bowie Knife about the size of a small baseball bat. "Here" he said. "Do it right". I replied that I didn't want to KILL the guy, just blacken his eye. King just kind of smiled, then he and his buddy left. End of fight.

William James Junior High School and I were having a bad influence on each other. I wore horseshoe taps on my shoes, a part of the orchid, pink and black uniforms of the day. I thrived on the stories from the bigger kids, about a local nightspot called The Cellar and stories about the Tenth Street Gang and the Seventh Street Gang. It was the era of the Beatnick which had arrived about the same time as the music of The Clovers, The Diamonds and Elvis. The Dirty Bop was known as the Poly Drag in that area. I figured I was about four years behind what was going on. Gasoline was 19.9 cents per gallon and the service stations would wash your windshield, check your tires and battery, fill your radiator and check the oil before they asked you how much gas you wanted. A cheeseburger, fries and malt were eighty nine cents. I spent most of my waking hours trying to figure out how to get a car, how to get a girl in that car, and how to get that girl to hold still for what I had in mind to do in that car.

In one of my lanky strolls down the halls of William James Junior High I encountered a young lady my own age that I regarded as particularly cute. It was the end of the school day and she was on her way out with a friend. I figured I was cool and experienced enough to at least make a pass, even though we had never been introduced. As we met in the hall I moved closer to her and extended my left hand to snap my fingers before her in the accepted Beatnick fashion. The idea was that she would respond immediately to her new master and follow me everywhere, like a puppy. I suppose all my physical grace must have been oriented to street fighting. I miscalculated ever so slightly and slipped on my horseshoe taps just far enough to touch her in a very private area when I snapped my fingers. No Master was I - the bounds of personal dignity had definitely been breached. There followed several long interrogations with the Vice Principal. They were not counseling sessions by any means.

I began to get into more fights on the streets and even at my Boy Scout meetings. A few neighborhood teen-agers on motorbikes would get their kicks by harassing our troop. It became a problem, and I became a hero at the encouragement of my father who was forced to watch an encounter between myself and Bill Burgess. Bill Burgess was a couple of years older than I and had a reputation. He knew King Harwell, for instance. My father was forced to watch us discuss the options of having a fight while Bill flipped pebbles off his arm in my general direction. It was the same as saying "Go ahead. Knock this chip off my shoulder". There was no fight, and the drive home was very quiet. After a time, my father made his disgust with me very clear. My understanding was that I would either fight or loose face. Plus, I was to experience considerable personal pain in an area of my body that was becoming used to it. The Big Fight came at the next week's Boy Scout meeting and it wasn't between myself and Bill Burgess. One of his bigger friends came by on his Simplex motorbike for some solo rock-throwing at the building. It was Wesley Hargrove, the guy who had just enlisted in the Navy. He was due to leave in just a few days. He was not a bad guy really, just in the wrong place at the wrong time for the wrong reasons. I won the fight but I couldn't help but wonder if I would dare to get into a fight like that with fifty hostile Boy Scouts standing around. He had guts.

Our scout troop was broken up a few weeks later due to a scandal. One of the new kids had gone with the troop for one of the weekend campouts that for some reason, I had decided not to attend. Eve you see, was introduced to another kind of Original Sin many times over on that trip. The kid was gay - "queer" was the word used in those days - and became the central point of entertainment for the rest of the boys for two consecutive nights. Circumstantial and real evidence about smoking and school problems began to pile up and create worry with my parents. When you are an only child, those problems seem much more important to parents than they really are. The entire series of incidents eventually concluded with an announcement from my father that we were moving and that I would be attending a new school soon. Very soon.

Forest Oaks Junior High was just what some doctor somewhere must have ordered. It was new, unsullied and boring. I was almost immediately the object of intimidation in the school. This time it was from a teacher, the coach. I was to go out for Football or be given a failing grade in Physical Education. It was persecution of the most direct kind and would have drawn a lawsuit in these days. I decided to try to make the best of it. I even tried to excel, and I succeeded. I was first off the line in practice. I hit harder, bounced further and became oblivious to pain. My efforts gained me a starting lineup position as Right Guard in a "T" formation even though without my glasses, I could see no further than my wrist. I could block well but any kind of movement beyond my range of vision was mostly a blur. I had won out over a very good team mate for the right guard position, but it cost me a few minutes of consciousness. He attempted to kill me by strangling me me with a towel in the shower room. He jumped me from behind while I was coming out of the shower, looped a towel around my neck and jerked down tight. I passed out almost immediately. There was no fight this time, I went out like a light. He apologized for his bad sportsmanship when I came back to life. I thought it was damn nice of him to apologize. I lettered for three consecutive years of Junior High football and during that time I made exactly one tackle. One.

CHAPTER 3 A Studebaker Is A Fine Lover

Bonnie Hooper walked into Eighth Grade Study Hall one day, a transfer student from another part of the city. She had just enrolled and this was her first class. She had not had an opportunity to meet anyone else. For me, the situation could not have been more perfect. Her hair was ridiculous but her eyes were brown and huge, offsetting a long and lovely face. Her body was incredible.

There was no question about it. There was an unmistakable "zing" when our eyes met - at least in mine. I went directly to her when study hall was over. Inside of two minutes we were going steady. We were lovers in less than two weeks, and it continued through several readings of "Peyton Place" for the greater part of High School. Whatever had prompted my father to buy me a car at my premature age of fifteen, it was the other lover in my life. The car was right off a used car lot and had originally been laquered in a deep maroon, then painted with a neutral shade of gray enamel. The previous owner of this bedraggled 1950 Studebaker Champion two-door coupe had been a woman. She must have been insane. The car had been painted a third time in a gross shade of sunshine yellow, and with a paintbrush yet. Worse, she had used indoor house paint. It stunk. It was seven years old.It also ran well and could be had for $125.00 cash. For $125.00 my father changed my destiny. He did that several other times also, at varying prices and rates of interest. I was becoming plainly spoiled.

Comedian George Carlin was a disc-jockey in those days at KXOL radio in Fort Worth. At nights and on weekends he spent his apprenticeship as a comedian at The Cellar. In most all of my spare time I could be found in the garage listening to his show and working on the Studebaker. He was hip in the extreme, there was no doubt about it. Short takes from his nightclub routines leaked out over the air and I was often in stitches over his quips. I began to wonder what it would be like to be a DJ and pretend that I was in the world of normal people. The Studebaker began to show the aspects of a diamond in the rough. George Carlin was undoubtedly made of similar, if not finer stuff. The Studebaker began to take on a personality of its own and I began to accept what had first appeared to be a very awkward design. She had a style about her that had been trashed up by Detroit. When I was finished with it a year later all the body seams had been filled and smoothed off. All the remaining chrome was gleaming and the dozen or so emblems, unnecessary trim and decorative garbage had been removed. She was porcelain white with a nice flame job around the bullet grille and headlights. She finally had the look that her designers had intended, that of a jet. I had removed the engine, overhauled it and hand-cleaned the entire block. It too, had been painted white with five gallons of lacquer. The engine was left absolutely stock and I dreamed of one day transplanting a Chevy engine into the car. There was just barely enough room in the back seat for one very determined couple to do anything they wanted.

There are times in any relationship or love affair where things do not go smoothly. In the first few weeks of eighth-grade passion between Bonnie and I, there was the emergence of a rival in the form of Danny Yancy. He was more of an obnoxious nuisance than a real danger, a master of pushing himself right to the line. He was after Bonnie or me, whichever he could provoke first. His style was part punk, part clown and part real challenger. There were a few schoolyard threats and it appeared as though the problem would continue to the point of confrontation, or indefinitely. Whenever it appeared as if I had had enough and was about to lay him out, he would back off. It continued tediously for two weeks. Enter an unexpected friend and hero by the name of Billy Telford. Billy was the team quarterback, All-American Good Fellow and knew when to butt in. I was prepared for my usual early morning pre-class meeting with Bonnie and the inevitable nasty presence of my quasi-rival, when a most amazing thing happened. Danny arrived on campus in his usual bop-slither-shuffle gait, walking in our general direction. I prepared for the usual half-boring, half-challenging annoyment, or something close to a fight.

Billy Telford with his usual entourage of buddies, suddenly assumed a "High Noon" stance directly in front of Danny about thirty yards away. He began to stalk purposely toward Danny with fire in his eyes. When they were approximately ten feet apart, Danny stopped uncertainly. What happened next was so unexpected that no one could have stopped it if they had believed it. Billy pulled out a pistol, cursed Danny and fired several shots at point-blank range. Reeling away to his right, Danny grasped wildly over his chest in several places with head thrown back, eyes wide - grimacing in horror. School yard assassinations are commonplace now but in 1956 it was unthinkable for something like this to happen. To die in a school ground shooting at the age of fifteen is not easy for anyone who has planned to someday turn twenty-one, regardless of the generation. In spite of the fact that he was such an asshole, I felt for Danny. My God, for him to die so young just wasn't fair!

Danny in spite of his wounds, continued to stand in place for what seemed like forever. The look on his face was a glazed bewilderment. It was the kind of expression that reflects what everyone must experience when they get the call from God to come Home. He stood. He continued to stand, even as stone-cold dead as he obviously was. People moved out of the way in the direction it appeared he was about to fall. His mindless grasping at his chest became an honest exploration. There was no blood, there were no holes. Danny had been shot five times with a track officials gun, the kind that has a plugged barrel and fires blank cartridges to start the runners at sprint races. The guffaws were long, loud and merciless. The prank served two purposes. It got Danny off my back, and it also signified to Danny that he had been accepted. He smiled proudly. It was on that day that Danny Yancy's behavior changed. He became downright likeable. A few weeks later, his family moved again and Danny was forced to transfer to another school. In the meantime his visits to the Vice Principal's office became far less frequent. His grades improved. I heard that just before he left Forest Oaks, he had found a girl. A year later though, I heard that he had been severely beaten at the Berry Street Bowling Alley. Someone had repeatedly smashed his head against a car bumper and a friend of his had been bludgeoned to death with a tire iron.

Forest Oaks Junior High became a school with a reputation quickly, and it was not all the fault of the student body. The Fort Worth Independent School District's Building Planning, Architectural and Construction Department in the 1950's must have been inhabited by people who were either without brains, common sense, or without sex. The Girl's locker room and Boy's locker room were placed handily within a few feet of each other, adjacent to the Gymnasium. If you happened to be standing in any of several certain positions in the hallway or Gym, you could see right into the dressing rooms and showers of either locker room. Like I said, whoever designed that must have been without brains, common sense, or without sex. It bears repeating. One of these ideal points of view was the water fountain in the hallway. There were several fountains INSIDE the dressing areas of course but once in the hall, innocents of both sexes suffered from the Thirst of The Damned. Among these was a small clique of young missies in the seventh grade whose behavior was like that of a flock of gossipy, thirsty birds. There were always sexual innuendos to be heard in their conversations and those innuendos were just a bit louder than the other girls. It was supposed to give the impression of worldliness. These virginal hypocrites were part of the fountain scenery at almost every bell.

There are boring times at any school. Unholy Boring Times when nothing is going on, times when something must be made to happen or none of us would remember having been alive. Those of us who are True Leaders come somehow to sense those times as they arrive and instinctively, we know what to do at those times. My shining moment of glory came one day at that fountain. Having learned to play pool, I had also discovered a dispenser in the bathroom at the pool hall. For twenty-five cents you could buy all the sophistication you could want in the form of a condom. Using my best Slight of Hand, I dropped a naked "rubber" into the water fountain. Behind me was the small cliquish flock of gossipy, virginal birds. I was most of the way down the hall when the screams began. They continued as I made my way to class. The Vice Principal was very understanding. I got two understanding licks with a paddle, and a third that wasn't even friendly.

CHAPTER 4 Why Do Fools Fall In Love?

The ninth grade gave way to summer and I gave way to algebra. Actually, it was an algebra teacher whom I suspected had very personal reasons for failing me in his course. I suspected jealousy of the relationship between Bonnie and I. We were both in his algebra class. His manne though foppish, was noticeably affectionate toward her. A sociologist with a viewpoint prejudiced in my favor would have observed a personality placed somewhere between Liberace and Joseph Stalin.

In any case, this particular authority figure determined that even though I was coming up with the correct answers to his algebraic equations, the methodology of my thought process was incorrect. I was condemned to summer school with additional tutoring (at a reasonable fee) by this same pompous ass whom I considered a fag. How fun. At home, things got bad. As punishment for being condemned to Summer School and sending my folks therefore to Social Hell, I was forced to learn to play the piano. This sort of discipline creates a noticeable tension in any atmosphere, and I began to have serious and violent differences of opinion with my father. To ease the stress, pay for gasoline and appear to be more of a responsible owner of an automobile, I took on a part time job at Houlihan's grocery and market. Bonnie and I saw less and less of each other but I thought of her at least twice a day when the muzak system played "Zing Went The Strings" by the Kirby Stone Four. What the hell, it would only be three months and summer school was only six weeks long.

The job at the grocery store paid minimum wage which at that time was about $1.15 per hour. Max, the owner and boss ordered me to personally clean the toilets to hospital standards. I did. I also insisted when we were alone, that he inspect them - especially up under the rim where I had used a chemical preparation of my own. You have to stick your head in the toilet to make that kind of inspection. The crappers were spotless, we both agreed. Max had made a deal of some kind for cabbage that sent all the store help buzzing. It didn't seem to me like it could be anything drastic until I heard that we were talking about cabbages by the multiple ton. Upon the arrival of the first ton of cabbage, the produce manager quit. I was given a nickel raise and made Produce Manager in full charge of the produce department. I learned to order stock, peel cabbage, mop the floors, peel cabbage, operate the cash registers, peel cabbage, work weekends and peel cabbage. I became aware that here at the store, I was being used and thoroughly put through the mill. God, how some older people must really hate the young.

In the space of a month I peeled and shelved three full tons of rotting cabbage that had probably been intended for hog fodder. It was delivered in several shipments from a garbage truck. The outside of the cabbage heads were either black and wilting or rotting and slimy. It was my job to peel off the outer layers and place the remaining "good" cabbage on the produce shelves. Max ran full-page ads selling the stuff at a penny a pound. His total investment for both truck loads was sixty bucks. We sold it all.

During my "training period" I learned how to clean mold from produce racks. I learned how to salvage and sell fruit and vegetables that were unfit to eat. I also learned that Max had a daughter that most men would kill for. I began to ask very complimentary questions about her and it became clear to Max that I was putting up a fight on his own turf. My gentlemanly "down and dirty" style brought on a new respect. Max and I saw eye to eye finally, and things began to lighten up. Through all this grinding character building and initiation into the Real World, Bonnie stayed with me. On the way she picked up a girl friend whom I recall only as "Mousie". Mousie was fun and cute and a nearby neighbor of Bonnie, living less than a block away. She had the kind of personality that was both complimentary and totally dependent. Mousie was not particularly well built or attractive, so finding her a ready boyfriend wasn't an option. She didn't seem to want that either. Her attachment to Bonnie became a visible thing. Our love life became jeopardized. It got to the point that we had little time alone and though Mousie could take a hint, it was always too late.

It was somewhere near the third ton of cabbage that I lapsed into that dream-like state of mind that has no explanation. My produce knife was long, thin and razor sharp. I could peel cabbage with my eyes closed and faster than the customers could carry it out. I resolved in this reverie that Bonnie and I would have a down-to-earth talk with Mousie and work something out. I discovered to my surprise, that Bonnie did not necessarily agree. The attachment had become too strong. The whole problem was resolved a short time later. Mousie and her family were forced by very unusual circumstances to move to a different part of town. A freak tornado came out of the sky during a Texas-style summer thunderstorm and totally devastated only one house and slightly damaged another, in a row of four on her block. It was Mousie's house that was nearly leveled. No one was at home when it happened. I had picked up a couple of friends of my own during my Junior High School days but they never interfered with Bonnie and I. They didn't need to. They were the Bobsie Twins, Katzenjammer Kids and two thirds of the Three Stooges all rolled into one. Doug was thin, wiry and lanky. He had a large Roman nose that appeared to have been placed on his face by someone who wondered what he would do with it. Larry Day was blonde, ruddy and pigeon-toed. Somehow he could throw his weight back and run with his legs splayed out as though he were bowlegged. He was fast enough to make the track team. We were all football players. Our friendship extended into high school and by rights, we should have all been jailed or killed. "I dare you" was never spoken amongst us three. It wasn't necessary. What one did, we all did. There was no question in any of our minds that we were all fools, it was a gentleman's agreement. The contest was to determine which of us was the biggest fool of the three. He who gained that honor would be The Loser. Until that was decided, we would be together.

Larry had access to his family car which was a 1949 Chevrolet two-door with a slant back trunk. Doug occasionally drove his sister's car but was more often seen in his mother's 1950 Chevy four-door with a "hump trunk". I had my Studebaker. All three cars were abused mercilessly. "Peeling Rubber" - the wanton squealing of tires on pavement, was a statement of personal freedom in those days as it is, still. That was the least of our hell-raising. There were hare-and-hound chases throughout Cobb Park, southeast Fort Worth and Poly that were simply insane. Weekends at the drag strip were a joy for us all. Any muddy road was a challenge and there were dozens of them. At times we would have two cars stuck at the same time. Somehow, we always made it home. Doug loved the roar and speed of racing but had no understanding of mechanics. You had to have an "ear" for your engine in a drag race. The idea was to shift gears just before reaching the RPM power curve peak. He was challenged by a Ford and asked me to ride with him. We won by about ten feet, with me telling him when to shift.

Cobb Park was a no-man's land of sorts, with winding dirt roads and many places for lovers to hide. All too often there were perverts as well. The cops rarely patrolled it. Larry's house was on a dead-end street that stopped on a steep hill, with Cobb Park below. It was a great spot to watch a sunset if you cared for that sort of thing. Past the curb was a slow, rolling hilltop covered in weeds. If you continued your descent, the trail became very steep. It was rough and stony all the way down to one of the winding park roads that had become our race track. A few motorcycles used it as a hill-climb. It was a full mile in either direction from there to any other exit from the park. Going down that hill in a car was a severe test of brakes, skill and nerves. Any mistake at all could flip a car over. Going UP that hill in a car was our version of Russian Roulette. It was Doug that wiped out after we had all three made the hill many times. He survived just fine. The car was banged up a little, but his folly brought our relationship as friends to a point of precipitation. He was courageous enough of course, but he had blown it by going alone. The fact that he was trying the hill often enough to wipe out meant that his contest had become a private and personal one. The wipe-out should have been while we were all three there to share in it.

We hung together for one full year of High School at Tech before Doug and Larry decided to transfer back to Poly. Our final parting of ways came when Larry confessed that he had experienced a homosexual relationship with a stranger in the park.

No one said goodbye. No one had to.

CHAPTER 5 In The Still Of The Night

The Technical High School Class of 1960 has never had a reunion that I was aware of, invited to, or was able to attend. I believed that most of us never cared to see each other again. Tech was a vocational school where you could start out life with a trade and maybe a job if you wanted one. There was little school spirit, just a lot of determined, self-oriented people bent on survival with a high school diploma and a few college credits.

Bonnie went to Tech because I did. I had decided that I would become an aircraft mechanic. Her family had moved near the school and lived just a block away. Her mom died in that house near the school. She and her dad moved around a couple of times and wound up in a house that was less than two blocks from my own in southeast Poly. Somewhere in our junior year there was something in our relationship that just gave way to changes. It was me. Perhaps I had grown tired of her. I was definitely attracted to other girls. Then too, I was becoming a possessive, jealous jerk. Whatever was between us was turning rancid. In any case there was something in me that just snapped and I stopped communicating with her completely. It was anticipated. It was cold. It was necessary.

I was a self-taught guitar player with a dream of having a band. During my senior year at Tech, I assembled a three-piece combo with another guitarist and a drummer. I dubbed us "The Solomons". I am not sure now nor was I then, if it was a name selected for the Solomon Islands or the Biblical king. We built a song list of about thirty tunes that we could play passingly well, all copied directly off the radio. Our show-stopper was "In The Still Of The Night" by the Five Satins. I sang lead as best I could by imitating Little Anthony. It worked. We played one successful gig at the Sycamore Recreation Hall between records spun by the recreation director. Shortly after that, I somehow made a connection for us to play a paying job at a Teen Canteen dance on the Northside. We bombed for thirty bucks and never played again.

I had put in almost three years of aircraft training and my interest in airplanes became contagious. My father worked for Bell Helicopter and decided that he wanted to learn to fly. So did I. It became a common ground for our adult father-son relationship. It was not as big a deal as it seemed, he got a heck of a good buy on a 1948 Taylorcraft BC12D. It was a lovely two seater fabric plane with a 65 horsepower Continental engine and a cruising speed of about 90 miles per hour. It was no more expensive than a good car. The Studebaker had gone through a front end job, brakes, several driveshafts and several odd-matched sets of tires. The engine was just fine, but one day she just gave up. I was pulling in the driveway at home when the right A-frame gave way and she crashed hard to the concrete on the right side. I was dumfounded. I turned off the engine and sat there in a dazed stupor for a full minute. I had just begun to wonder how the car must look tipped at a crazy angle like that, when the A-frame on the other side did exactly the same thing. The car had not moved an inch since it had stopped, other than crashing ignominiously to the ground. I was double dumfounded. I managed to drive the car grinding and scraping all the way, into my dad's parking spot. I wonder yet if the car had not been tampered with. Two blocks down my street and a block and a half toward the neighborhood store lived a friend about my age who also had a 1950 Studebaker. His was a black convertible with a blown engine. He was headed for the Navy. It took a couple of weeks of serious negotiations, but we worked out a deal on it. I traded my white-laquered engine over to the convertible which was otherwise in much better mechanical shape than my white jet. A little flame work around the headlights made the job complete, and I was back on the road again with fresh air all around.

I drove that car for the remainder of High School. I got my diploma in the spring of 1960 and was forced to miss the graduation party. I had to be at work for my new job the next morning at 7am. I had signed on as a mechanics helper at the small airport where our plane was hangered. Thatt was a mistake. I had begun to learn that some people don't like you when; (1) You areyoung, or (2) if they are supposed to be your boss. This was lesson number two. Something about me just didn't set right with my new boss and he took his time developing his hatred for me. I got along fine with everyone else. In spite of the obvious personality conflict, I made the best of the job. There were some fine adventures at Russell Field in my two month career there. Most mornings before work, I would arrive early and fly in the still morning air. It was wonderful. Then too, there was non-stop entertainment from the customers who would fly in to gas up their aircraft.

One of these was a crop duster pilot who was flying to Oklahoma City. He arrived in a brand-new Snow aircraft, one of the best crop dusting planes in the air. We were fogged in with visibility down to about fifty yards. How he found the airport, I'll never know. We gassed up his plane and filled a five gallon Jerry Can full of aviation fuel. He almost made it away from the pump when I spotted his Jerry Can spout on the rear stabilizer. He was about to fly off with an open can of gas in the spray hopper. He and the Snow would probably become a flying torch. Several of us called, hooted and raise hell. He thanked us for saving him from certain incineration and waved gallantly as he taxied down the strip, for take-off through the misty soup that was our air supply that morning. It was only fitting that he "buzz" the hanger on his way out and he did it in grand style, waving again. I motioned in frantic animation at the fifty-foot light pole in front of him just before he spotted it himself. The Snow almost broke in half when he heaved back on the stick. He missed the pole by less than five feet and almost stalled out about 100 feet up. We never saw him again.

The air gets very thin when it is hot. Overloaded aircraft have a rough time of it. We were paid a visit from an Air Force Colonel who with his wife, was traveling cross-country. He was flying a salvaged Grumman Beaver which had been used for reconnaissance during World War II. It must have flown for a million hours and appeared to be extremely tired. With a full load of fuel and four additional Jerry Cans of gasoline plus wife and baggage, it just refused to become airborne in the 103-degree heat. The Colonel made two takeoff attempts. The second was directly toward a set of powerlines. He had just barely enough airspeed to turn away from them and lost all that in the turn. Under full power, the Beaver settled to earth like a tired old dog. A new set of spark plugs and five gallons less fuel gave it just enough lift to get above the 20 foot "dead zone" of heated air just above the ground. He didn't even try to fly the takeoff pattern. He just set the compass on north and gained what altitude he could, flying just above downtown Fort Worth and just below the Carswell Air Force Base traffic. How he kept from being shot down must have been a matter for the radio.

My own antics were limited to kid stuff. I had a new girlfriend named Eileen who was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I guess I had a thing for brown eyes. She didn't care for me however and despite several dates and proclamations of passion, she broke it off between us. As a farewell salute, I called her to let her know I would be flying over her house. Being thus sure I would be observed, I dropped two harmless rolls of toilet paper out of the airplane at about 3,000 feet. Sure enough, I was spotted by a Civil Air Patrol plane. I got a warning, but no citation. On one beautifully smooth misty morning I crashed. I had been shooting landings that were extraordinary. Absolutely no bounce at all. I was enjoying myself immensely in what was the finest flying weather of my life. Over at the hanger was the boss, frantically waving me in. He had arrived early and was determined to spoil my fun. It was a full half-hour before I was supposed to be on the job. I made one last touch-and-go before coming around for the final landing and it was a sweet greaser. It was as though I had landed on water. The T-Craft simply kissed the ground. The boss was waving wildly in an unmistakable demand that I get to work NOW. I pulled off onto the taxi way faster than I should have. The landing gear simply gave way. What had made my landings so smooth was that the bungee cords - a kind of huge rubber band supporting the landing gear, had snapped. The plane dropped to the restraining safety cable and I immediately shut down the gas and ignition. The plane was still rolling dragging the left wingtip, when the restraining cable itself snapped. There was a shower of dirt and pieces of propeller in the air. Everything stopped. There was no fire, but every piece of fire and safety equipment on the field was on the scene in less than a minute. That consisted of a few old cars, a pickup with a fire extinguisher and a three-wheel Harley Davidson with a rumble seat. The real damage was limited to the prop. The plane was repaired inexpensively and re-certified for flight in less than a week. An inspection of the bungee cords revealed that they had either worn out or been cut. I flew several times after that but my confidence was gone. A few days later on the way home, the Studebaker engine locked up. It seemed to be as good a reason as any to quit my job.

Something at Russell Field and I did not belong together.

CHAPTER 6 Exodus-sudoxE

North Texas State College was my college of choice. It was big, beautiful and incomprehensible. The listing of available classes made no sense to me whatever. I had no academic plan and no counseling. The registration line convinced me that I was not ready for college. It was almost a quarter mile long and completely motionless. It would be weeks before I reached the head of that line. I could easily starve to death in that line. Worse, I was sure that I would have give up my place and go to the bathroom when I got to the head of the line. I wasn't ready for this. I could feel a rush of panic beginning to well up inside me. I turned away from my first opportunity for an advanced education, an opportunity to become a factory employee, to become a meaningful part of society, a financially protected worker ant with hospitalization insurance - I gave up all this glorious opportunity for the totally predictable, and went home. I was surprised that my family understood. There were no arguments, just questions. I made a few inquiries by phone and discovered that I could without tuition, return to Technical High for post-graduate work. Some of the courses were good for college credit at North Texas State College and other schools. I needed a semester of make up work to qualify for an examination as an A&P aircraft mechanic. I decided to go for it. I also enrolled for courses in Speech, English, Typing and Journalism. This voluntary fourth year of High School was the most enjoyable of them all. I had already graduated. I had nothing to loose.

Early morning English classes became an experiment in sociology. A.L. McElroy was a superb instructor with an appreciation for people. He pretended to be a tyrant in order to keep discipline, and we saw right through him. We became fans of "Mr. Mac" and would parade militarily up and down the hall to and from his class. These parades became the talk of the school and were eventually called to a halt when one of the kids brought in some Nazi arm band souvenirs from World War II. Mac loved my writing style and gave me an "A" for one six weeks period because of my choice of words in a single essay. The next six weeks I got an "F" for insubordination.

Marian Mobley was the Journalism instructor and in charge of the school newspaper, published once each six weeks. I was assigned in March as the editor of the April, 1961 issue of the Technical High School Bulldog. It was the height of Fidel Castro's revolution in Cuba. April Fool's day was calculated, instigated mayhem. This issue of the school newspaper featured Vice Principal A.B. O'Conner pictured holding a Havana Cigar, head wrapped in a turban and gesturing wildly under a headline that read; "Revolution at Tech - Veep Takes Over". There were bizarre stories of executions and a picture of an ROTC student stuffing a girl's decapitated head down a sink with a rifle butt. There was more horror. Much more. Stories of revolutionary takeovers permeated the school from the print shop to the gymnasium. Teachers had been asked to "sound off" in their interview for the stories and some of them did - with claws bared.

G.B. Trimble, the original Tech Bulldog and Principal of the school, burst through the door of the Journalism class on fire. He had a death grip on a copy of the April Fool's issue, attempting to strangle it with one hand. Marian Mobley stood her ground, saved her job - and my ass at the same time. She pointed out the disclaimer box on page two and finally got it across to G.B. that the whole thing was a joke. I was awed. I had never seen such a heated exchange between adults before. There were threats that I would never receive a diploma from that school and that there might be other ramifications. I smugly refrained from mentioning that my diploma - dated 1960, was resting comfortably on my closet shelf.

In the spring of 1961, I began to plan realistically for college at North Texas State College. The only thing I knew for sure was that it would take money. My parents would pay the tuition, room and board. I would somehow supply essentially all of my own spending money. I took a summertime job as a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman. It resulted in some of the most bizarre experiences of my youth. We went door-to-door conducting a "Nationwide Advertising Survey" and promise a full set of Collier's Encyclopedias for a mere $369.95 in printing costs, if we were allowed to come back later and do publicity on the happy family enriching their minds with the books. It worked well. I made a sale the first day out. My cut was $100.00, the boss got $100.00 and the company got the rest. It was four long weeks and much travel to many Texas towns before I made another sale.

Despair is a funny thing. It makes you take chances. I resolved to try something different in Marshall, Texas and it worked. I approached a young couple at their home and gave them the entire pitch pretending as if I were a handicapped, partially paralyzed paraplegic. I talked only with one side of my face. I used only one side of my body as though I were half-paralyzed. I faked the entire presentation that way. Lo and behold, they signed. I found myself gasping and even drooling a bit to keep from cracking up. That closed it. I hobbled away with the check and did not break into a normal walk until I was at least a full block away. I should have felt ashamed. Somehow I couldn't. I was crazy with success, forgetting that those whom the Gods would destroy, they first make insane.

I was totally alone on a dark semi-rural street in Marshall, Texas. I was beginning to chuckle hysterically, congratulating myself on having pulled such a magnificent con. I was strolling easily, enjoying my sin when I heard a rustling sound in the alley just about a half block ahead. To my horror, it was a pack of about eight large dogs who were running silently. There was no mistaking their dog-pack instinct or intent. It was night. There was no moon and very little light from the nearest street light. They were not focused yet, but they were running wild for a kill and they were headed straight for me. I tried to imagine what I would look like ripped to shreds on a dark curbless semi-rural side street in Marshall, Texas. I imagined what my mother's reaction would be when she got the news. I really don't understand what clicked inside me then but I hoisted my briefcase before me as a weapon, crouched down to dog height and snarled the most vicious sound I have ever heard myself make. It was terror, anger and sheer primal malice all rolled into one. The dogs moved away as if they were a school of fish. In one fluid motion, they ran by me as though I were a fence post. I stood shaking for a time and resolved never again to pretend to be a crippled person.

At age nineteen, I was beginning to learn things about myself that I had not even considered possible. Limitations began to disappear along with certain measures of common sense. My summer as an encyclopedia salesman became packed with these experiences.

My first beer was a warm Lone Star and cost me $16.50. It was about 2:00 A.M. and our encyclopedia sales crew was just pulling into Colorado City, Texas as I bravely downed the last few sour gulps. Beer cans in those days were made of fairly heavy steel. They had to be opened with a "Church Key", which left a triangular hole in the top... two holes if you are thirsty. Such a can makes a wondrous clanking sound when it is thrown. In cavalier fashion, I lofted the empty can over the roof of the car toward the other side of the street. The clanking of that beer can was the only thing to be heard in that sleepy little Texas town, besides the engine of the police car starting up. The can had landed directly in front of the only on-duty cop in town. I did not do well in Colorado City and had to borrow the $16.50 to pay the fine.

CHAPTER 7 Reflections On Having Met Another Me

Texas in the summer can be crazy. The humidity is a major factor and you find yourself (as well as others you come in contact with), going about routine business in an almost apologetic way. Facades, put-ons, egos and exaggerated personalities are almost impossible to maintain and young salesmen who use these ploys suffer dreadfully at the hands of honest people. Put more succinctly; in the summertime in Texas, it's too damn hot for bullshit.

Temple, Texas is no different from any town its size, except for the people. It was here that I came within a few minutes of base insanity, dealing with reality on its own terms. I am convinced you see, that there are times in life when God just "messes" with you purely for the fun of it. He must have liked the name of Temple, Texas and decided it would be a nice place to show me something new about life as a door-to-door salesman. I had developed an "eye" for potential business. Rather than canvassing an entire block of houses, I would place myself in "that" state of mind which has no explanation - and watch for clues that would lead me to a home that showed a potential for encyclopedias. Often there would be toys in the yard, a new car, lots of magazines in the mailbox or sometimes just a certain "feeling" about the place. Salesmen were my best customers. They wanted to hear the pitch to see if they could apply it to their own products and more often than not, they bought. I approached a large white frame house on a hill which had none of those outstanding features at all. Perhaps that was what made it stand out in my mind. It had "that feeling" all over it. The door was answered by a perfectly average woman in her perfectly average early forties. She had hazel eyes, chestnut hair laced with grey and a nice gardener's tan.

I was about to go into my introductory "Nationwide Advertising Survey" pitch when she brushed aside my comments and shooed me in the door. There was nothing rude in her manner, it was just "Come on in". I did. As we walked toward the living room she mumbled "... will be ready in just a minute" and gestured toward the couch. Bewildered, I sat. When she came back into the room, she asked if I would like a drink of water or tea and made another comment about my being "early". It was here that I decided to take command of the situation. "Ma'am, could I speak with you and your husband together?" I asked. "He's busy right now" she eyed me fishily. I knew something was wrong here. Something of possibly epic proportions. I started into my pitch and explained to her that I needed to show her a picture of a TV product, but that her husband had to be present also. She smiled slightly as if I were making a joke. "Sure" she replied and left the room. She returned in less than a minute with a pleasant-looking gentleman who extended a handshake as I stood up. "Hi" he said. "Amy will be ready in just a little bit, I think you're a little early." I ignored the statement but I was suddenly aware that I was not controlling the situation in the least. "Sir" I said as we shook hands, "I am making a nationwide advertising survey here in Temple and I would like to show you a picture of something and have you tell me if you have ever seen it on TV."

The look on his face was that of an adult who was being forced to play in a child's game. "Er, sure Robert. What do you have?" he said. I choked. My head began to swim. Robert. Who the hell was Robert? I hadn't introduced myself yet but he had called me Robert as clearly as though he had called me Robert a dozen times. I was on the defensive. So were they. We eyed each other warily as I began my sales pitch. I heard him say something to his wife about my having a new job, that Amy should be a part of this and was she ready yet? I decided to level. Quick. I introduced myself and explained to these kind folks that I was an encyclopedia salesman working out of Ft. Worth. "Sure Robert" they replied. "Amy should be out in just a minute." The mother left the room hurriedly and the conversation became clumsily, man-to-man. We went eye-to-eye in short order. I kept an eye on the exit door. I displayed my drivers license and other identification, expecting to be thrown out immediately. He was incredulous. I was incredulous. I had a date it seems, with his daughter Amy in less than a half hour and we were definitely on a first-name basis throughout the family. He was astounded. I was not to leave the room or the house. Just sit. I sat as though I were in a pot of water about to boil.

When Amy came into the room I could hardly stand. She was bubbly, bouncy and cute as hell. I figured this would solve the confusion and teach the parents a valuable lesson about being better acquainted with the company their daughter kept. Wrong. Amy was plainly crazy about me. My mind raced. Maybe she was blind. Maybe I had walked in on a blind date. Maybe we had been pen pals and had never met. Maybe she had only seen me in the dark. She was less than ten feet away and moving closer. I felt surely she would see that I was an impostor within an instant.

Wrong again. This lovely lass was about to embrace me, obviously believing me to be her steady boyfriend. I dizzily wished for a moment that I were. I fought the thought away to preserve my sanity. This could not be happening. She was not acting. This was not a joke. She bounced to within hugging range and moved in close for a kiss. I shrank away like a snail who had encountered a grain of salt. She was horrified. My coldness had come to her as a slap in the face. I too, was horrified too. I felt sick. For the space of a few seconds all motion and sound in the room stopped. She was hurt. Her dad was hurt for her. Her mom was hurt for both of them and suspicious of me. I was scared. With the possible exception of myself, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Robert was acting damn weirdly today and was probably about to break up with Amy. What a sonofabitch this Robert was, somebody ought to beat the crap out of him for taking advantage of her. Amy gazed desperately into my eyes, searching for some explanation. I could see the betrayed look of a young girl who suspected her lover had been discovered drunk, in a house of prostitution.

Good God.

I spent the next few minutes in a cold sweat, explaining my identity to everyone in the room. Amy did not take it well at all. Her eyes grew huge and her mouth hung open. She sat down hard, head shaking. Her father must have been a religious man. His expression was one of enlightened wisdom - that of a person who had been witness to a miracle. God was showing them guys like Robert were a dime a dozen - or at least three for a dollar. Amy's mother became excited as they talked about my meeting Robert. She brought me iced tea and began to fuss over me. Amy kept staring at me and was very quiet. I wanted out of there. Now. As best I could tell, I was less than ten minutes away from meeting myself head-on in the form of Robert. I regret to this day not having done so, but at the age of nineteen I was not in the least prepared for such an experience. Amy's mother excitedly cajoled for me to remain. Her father was passively enthusiastic. Amy was passively not so sure. I was absolutely certain. Despite pleas from her mother for me to remain, I left the house as gracefully and quickly as I could. It felt like leaving home. I walked in a daze until I stopped trembling. The encyclopedia business was definitely taking something out of me.

When the Texas heat finally baked some warmth into me, I sat down on a street corner. I have no idea how long I sat there. I must have been praying, holding my head in my hands. "Are you OK son?" I looked up. It was a cop. He was concerned that I might be having a heat stroke. On any other day I could have handled the situation with no problem. On this particular day and at that particular moment, I couldn't have handled buying a Coke from a vending machine. Since I had no local door-to-door sales permit and was unable to carry on a normal conversation, I wasted most of the night as a guest of the City of Temple in one of their newly painted jail cells. I spent the time thinking about Amy and her family until our crew foreman came and bailed me out. I didn't even try to explain. He knew enough not to ask. I suspected that Temple, Texas had had a noticeable effect on the rest of the crew as well.

Sidewalk artist (right), self-portrait.

CHAPTER 8 Everything Money Can Buy

West Texas in 1961 was a wonderful place to live but you wouldn't want to visit there if you are a salesman. Big Springs, Midland, Oddessa and the outlying towns were openly hostile to anyone dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase. They had a simple ordinance regarding purchase of door-to-door sales licenses. They bust you on sight. If you are slick, you carry a few copies of The Watchtower and claim to be a Jehova's Witness on a mission from God. If the cops search your briefcase and find insurance contracts, encyclopedias, a vacuum cleaner or aluminum siding, you are a monkey in a cage. You remain in that cage until you come up with enough cash to lecture on Famous American Presidents.

I spent a number of hours in a number of such cages in west Texas during my summer as a salesman. One of those jails was quite literally a cage. It was a ten foot cube of welded iron pipe held closed by a chain and padlock. I was in a slump and hadn't sold a single set of encyclopedias in three weeks. I was on "the draw" and the draw funds were running shallow. The color of my confidence was a very pale shade of gray and I began to seriously doubt my ability to make enough spending money to survive more than a week of college.

Encyclopedias are (or were in those days), an essential decorative accent to the Average American Home. They are an essential accessory to any address that subscribes to Better Homes And Gardens. There just aren't any better ways to insure that 2.3 children will assimilate enough knowledge to pass sixth-grade history. Any parent knows you can simply take a few pages of the encyclopedia and mix it into the potato salad with the new food processor. One way or another you get it into your kids. If not, at least the whole set just sits there making you look intelligent. The paradox of such a possession is in the choice between use and display. Encyclopedias showing signs of wear are simply unacceptable. They cost too damn much to have some kid with grubby hands smear peanut butter on the cover and wear out the bindings on a parquet floor. To properly care for encyclopedias, you must buy them when the children are less than six years old and forbid them to touch the books for ten years or, until they are old enough to begin serious studies of The Anatomy. It is at this point that you can discard Grandpa's National Geographic series on The Boobs of Bora-Bora. People who buy encyclopedias look upon encyclopedia salesmen as wondrous Miracles of Life and Human Culture. People who don't buy encyclopedias look upon encyclopedia salesmen as sub-human social failures. Encyclopedia salesmen look upon themselves as enterprising goal-oriented survivalists and horny, sub-human social failures. All these evaluations are correct. Our raids on these west Texas towns had been very successful for all but three of our crew. I and two other salesmen had batted zero, with myself and one other having occupied a jail cell in separate towns. He had elected to give up and borrow bus fare home. The rest of our twenty-odd swashbucklers had rented several large rooms at a motel.

It was late in the evening when my crew chief bailed me out of the local tank. As we drove to the motel, he tipped me off that something was up. I figured I was about to be given bus fare home. I hadn't made a sale in almost a month.
When we arrived at the motel I was ushered up to one of the larger suites. Inside was four beds placed side by side with about six naked men and one girl. She was young, naked, lovely, extraordinarily well built and of course, a prostitute. It was obvious that some of the guys had made a lot of money and were showing off. I felt sick. I had been without a lover for over a year but this had nothing to do with love. It was like wearing someone else's dirty underwear. The loudest, most obnoxious and successful of our crew chiefs was pimping. He offered me the girl for $125.00. Her fee was $100.00. I refused, citing the fact that I was totally broke. I made no mention of feeling like I was in a dog pack, gang-banging a bitch in heat. Mr. Obnoxious loudly offered to loan me the money as the girl rubbed her body against my side, stroking me through my pants. I felt sicker. I snapped a "No thanks" and left the room.

The next day I made a sale. I'm not sure it was because of my disgust with the motel scene, or my resolve to remain temporarily celibate and to not make a career of encyclopedia sales. I honestly didn't give a damn if I made a sale or not. It had an unexpected effect on my memorized sales pitch. I made two more sales the next day and averaged three sales a week from that point on. I began to be noticed at the bank, back in Ft. Worth. One of the tellers was Elaine Jackson whom I had known since grade school. My deposits had caught her attention. She had the biggest, most beautiful eyes imaginable and had grown into a delicious looking woman. For the first time ever, I found the courage to ask her for a date. For the first time ever, she was engaged.

What the hell I thought, I was about to start college. There would be dozens and dozens of available girls. Sure. Dozens.

CHAPTER 9 What I Did On My College Vacation

September 1961 marked the beginning of my college education. We newcomers were briefed at an assembly by the Dean of North Texas State College. He looked exactly like my high school principal. He proudly announced that he was now the Dean of North Texas State UNIVERSITY and that we were to become the first graduating class in 1965. The school had attained University Accreditation. He was proudly, a major part of that. Reading between the lines was the meaning; "You people had better not screw this up".

He ignored the fact that many of us who were not present were overseas getting our bodies disemboweled and dismembered in Vietnam. He didn't mention that most of us were extremely lucky pricks whose parents had enough bucks to keep us herded together and safely involved in draft exempt activities. Vietnam was like the clouds above us; out of sight, but always threatening rain. None of us spoke of the war. Vietnam was an obscene act taking place with a diseased whore in the next room. We were all too innocent to watch, or even understand it. I left after the speech and blew five bucks on the pinball machines at the drugstore across the street. I liked pinball. You couldn't win, just rack up a big number. Like Vietnam.

War - the Vietnam war at least, was something I despised. I felt terribly alone in that position. I had no idea others felt the same way. I began to realize that I was unable to escape it nonetheless, and that it was somehow harbored in that place of refuge in my mind usually reserved for prayer and nightmares. Being a Freshman at the new University was akin to being a prisoner. My residence was forcibly on campus at the men's dorm. The arrangements were inclusive of room and board with curfew. There were women's dorms and social activities on campus that us "fish" mostly never heard about. I went through several room mates quickly as we all adjusted to each other's personalities. I wound up with one other roomie in a three-bed room. We both delighted in the extra space.

Scott was several years older than I, a travelled ex-paratrooper and considerably worldly. I soon discovered that his considerable worldliness though, came through books perhaps, more than experience. He read voraciously and was an authority on any subject by virtue of his inexhaustible supply of information. There were huge stacks of science fiction and gun magazines in his personal library. I too, had been a sci-fi fan for many years. We became friends quickly and I made a mental note to remember his hometown - Temple, Texas. Weekend entertainment for freshmen living on campus was a simple challenge; get laid if you can, get drunk if you can't. Scott and I spent most of our weekends bombed on cheap Gallo wine. Above our door was the quote from Dante's Inferno; "Abandon hope all ye who enter in". Few did. Our dorm director simply didn't believe we existed, which gave us a kind of diplomatic immunity. The room became a haven for the most bizarre events on the floor, and most of our wing.

Wine for our weekend frivolities was provided by selling the empty coke bottles left around the Student Union Building. In those days, Cokes came in glass bottles that were worth five cents each at any off-campus store. Scott was a student employee of the school and looked at home picking up the place. The nearest liquor store was thirty miles away in Dallas. We made the trip back and forth on my little Lambretta motor scooter often. Gas and wine were cheap. The trips became routine. Scott's mind was a jam-packed reference library on bohemianism and he became my tutor. I rarely read. Through endless conversation I learned of Aldous Huxley, Martial Arts, Weaponry, Jazz, Meershaum pipes, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Edith Piaf, Aliester Crowley, Billie Holiday and Agnosticism. There were expansive philosophical overviews of world figures ranging from Lincoln to Marx to Jesus. Scott loved to share his knowledge, I loved to absorb it. I was happy with only passing grades in my academics. My real education was happening outside of class.

I became hooked on Miles Davis and Andre Previn. Stereo sound was something I had never experienced before. I spent many hours in the NTSU music room with the head phones on listening to Miles' "Kind of Blue" album. So many hours in fact were spent with the headphones on, that I began to experience serious ear infections. Interruptions in this personal regimen of culture were usually of a strange and domestic nature. Barry was our Jewish neighbor across the hall. He had the personality of a New York cockroach and was universally despised for his cursed obnoxiousness. He was not a person you could relate to, he was someone you dealt with. The description of this person declined over a period of weeks from "pest" to "asshole". Sadly, he never seemed to realize that he too - was another Jew born for persecution.

Exaggeration and outright lying was Barry's stock in trade. There were few boundaries to his outrageousness. He lived his life like a schizophrenic idiot with a treasure map. Sex for instance, was simple for him. He was his own voyeur. Barry returned from a date one night raving of the beauty he had been with, a girl from Texas Women's University across town. Stomping naked up and down the hall, he cradled his crotch in his hands and howled loudly about suffering from the legendary "stones". The "stones" we all knew, was a rare condition provoked by terminal horniness. The unfortunate victim could attain release only by having sex. Barry presumed that those around him should assist in some way, preferably by providing a girl. The act began to take on the proportions of a burlesque production, with people yelling "shut up!" all up and down the hall. It was after all, after midnight. The production was attended by an increasingly powerful distant thunderstorm. Flashes of thunder and lightning began punctuating the show.

Inevitably Barry worked his way into our room, ignoring the quote from Dante above the door. I listened attentively to his plight, nodding occasionally to the crowd who had gathered in the hall. When he reached the inevitable question of "What should I do?", I decided to help him in the only way I knew how. I went to my closet where I had a small collection of personal medicines. I drew out a bottle of Heet Liniment which was usually reserved for my obsessive trampoline workouts. Heet liniment was powerful stuff in those days. It contained a high dosage of Oil of Wintergreen, Clove Oil and other ingredients which was intended to do one thing - make your skin burn like fire.

The thunderstorm moved closer and a knowing look passed around the crowd in the hall. The Ritual Of Pain had begun and I serving as High Priest, could not reverse the inevitable course of events. I carefully instructed Barry to place "A VERY TINY AMOUNT" of the Heet liniment remedy on either side of his privates, and go to his bed. Lightning flashed. Thunder rattled. Barry soaked himself grossly, emphasizing the seriousness of his condition to anyone willing to listen. The crowd began to mysteriously disperse in a rush of whispers and giggles. My duty finished, I put the nearly empty bottle of liniment away and took note of an unusually long lull in the thunderstorm. It resumed shortly as a perfect concert of thunder and lightning and loud, long yells. Barry had become uncomfortable.

As I toweled up the excess spillage from the floor, I heard the shower being turned on. Oh My God. "Barry, No!" I yelled, "Don't go in there!". 'Fuck You!' he screamed. It was too late. He was damned.

Mixing water with Oil of Wintergreen is similar to pouring gasoline on a lit candle. The agony of Barry's experience was shared by us all as the lightning diminished. The dorm seemed to shake for some reason. It was days before he spoke to anyone. Helping Barry get in touch with his surroundings became one of our local Christian ministries, shared by all his neighbors. So much attention seemed to help him. He became quieter and much more involved with life around him. Pranks and practical jokes involving Barry were rampant for a while. The dorm took on the aspect of a summer camp. One night for instance, someone on our second floor "TP'd" the tree outside our restroom. "TP" meant Toilet Paper. Our entire supply had been wrapped around the tree turning it into a gigantic cotton ball. Barry found it hilarious. His guffaws could be heard a block away which is as close as any of the bootleggers dared to bring any liquor. Our dorm was too "hot" for them to deliver to anymore. Again, there was a thunderstorm approaching. Again, the inevitable happened. One of the neighbors dashed into the bathroom and threw one of Barry's fancy new shirts right past his face, out the window and into the tree. Cussing, Barry wasted no time in climbing out the window to retrieve his shirt. Modesty was not one of his strong suits; in fact he rarely wore anything at all. This time he was in his shorts and he looked like a monkey in a diaper, bouncing from limb to limb. Watching from our windows, we could see a figure lurking in the shadows below the tree. There was a brief flash of a cigarette lighter and the tree, covered entirely in toilet paper, burst into flame. There would be no real danger, just a brief, spectacular blaze similar to a fireworks show. Barry had no way of knowing that of course. Our laughter was loud but it was no contest for Barry's primal screams of terror. There was fire all around him but he remained unscathed. In the minute that it took for the tree to burn out, the lurking figure disappeared. Howling, Barry had made his way down the tree.

When he jumped to the ground he landed almost in the arms of the Dormitory Director.

CHAPTER 10 Graduate School

Perhaps I was overly ambitious, perhaps selling encyclopedias had done something to make me a little overly aggressive, perhaps I was just a little bit young and a whole lot stupid. I began to sense something different about myself. I had a hard time with girls. There were dates and cordial meetings, I even met one girl's parents. None were lovers though, and I began to become concerned about my unpacified sexuality. The phrase "Seriously Horny" is a much easier way to express it.

Scott had moved to an apartment and our friendship waned for a while, though I visited often. There were other diversions. I had become intrigued with Scott's dissertations on drugs. The education he had donated to me had been totally academic, objective and thorough. It had covered marijuana, heroin, hashish, peyote, psylocybin, LSD and synthetics of the amphetamine family. I was a pretty well educated fellow in the field of non-pharmaceutical organic psychedellics for the year of 1962. Peyote was one of the most interesting drugs to me, particularly the religious aspects relative to Mescalito, the demon/god/spirit that was supposedly linked to the plant. I had obtained enough peyote to persuade some sort of psychedellic experience. I decided to try it. One of the other residents decided to try it with me. Unfortunately for him, he was a little immature. Paranoia set in and the experience wasn't at all pleasant for him. Most likely, the taste of the Peyote intitiated that paranoia. Make no mistake about it - there is a REASON Peyote cactus needs no thorns.

I ground up six to eight green and dry buttons of the cactus and carefully removed the fuzzy part where it is said, a bit of natural (and sometimes man-made) strychnine resides. I choked the concoction down and my friend did the same, but with a smaller amount. Absolutely nothing happened for almost two hours. We had both decided that nothing WOULD occur, we just hadn't taken enough of it. My little friend began to get loose in the mouth and told off on us both to several of the others in the dorm. Naturally, their academic curiosity was piqued and they joined us for idle chit-chat, covering their careful scrutiny of our behavior. We were dope fiends now of course. They wanted to see how dope fiends behave - having read the propaganda.

I felt a change in the mood of the room where we were gathered. We were all being so COOL and NORMAL that attempts at real conversation was a farce. Suddenly, it was as though someone invisible had slipped into the room with us. I could sense something different and couldn't begin to define it. What happened next was subtle and dynamic at the same time. One of the guys threw a piece of crumpled paper toward the wastebasket with an overhand basketball toss. Directly in the wake of that wadded paper came a bright flash of orchid colored light and a loud "whoooosh" as the missile found the wastebasket. Bullseye. The effect could be compared to tossing a lit skyrocket, or watching a comet.

The guy who threw the paper ball shrank back in surprise, as did most of the fellows who had seen it. I had seen it too. Hell, we had ALL seen it! We had experienced a COLLECTIVE hallucination; a visit from Mescalito, or perhaps a close relative of his. Those with eyes to see had seen. Those with ears to hear had heard. That was everybody, and we all tried to pretend it hadn't happened. I remained perfectly still, trying to appear normal. The conversation jerked awkwardly to a halt and they all left. My stoned friend swore the peyote was having no effect and that he had seen and heard nothing. He apparently, was the only one who hadn't. We went directly to his room where he lay in his bed with an apparent death grip on what he considered to be reality. He determined that he was sick. I wished him well and suggested he go to sleep.

For the rest of the night I wandered alone through a kind of Wonderland. I was queasy at my stomach. It goes with the territory where Peyote is concerned. The rest of my world was punctuated with varying colors of pastels and gentle lights in places where there should be shadows. There were wonderful conversations with many of my neighbors as I toured Wonderland throughout the dorm. The simple opening of a door was accompanied with ethereal hallucinatory fanfares as I engaged new personalities in several rooms. I was suspiciously friendly.

This was definitely not heaven, though I had long believed in Angels. It was definitely not hell. It was that state of mind that has no explanation - the one I have shared with you before on these pages, but it lacked brevity. It had no ending. The invisible presence that had accompanied the whooshing ball of paper/fireworks in the trash can experience was all around me. Lying in the bed opposite to my friend in his room, I could see he was feigning sleep. His hands were knotted up and he was pale. Poor guy, he was scared as hell. He was having a "bad trip" though at the time there was no such name made up for it. We talked very gently for a time and I related what was happening to me. He listened with interest but claimed only illness. As I rested I realized I could clearly hear the hushed conversations of others not only many doors away, but on other floors. They were distinct. Some of the conversations were about us drug fiends, one of whom - me - was evesdropping, in a drug induced revelation. ALL my perceptions were awakened and I realized for the first time, my own psychic abilities. Thoughts from others wafted in and out of my mind like smoke. I could even identify who they were coming from. Texts from the great poets. Strings of thought and images of geometry from an engineering student. Musical cleffs and song structures from a music student. Lots and lots of personal concerns, most of them petty and meaningless.

We spend most of our lives learning NOT to see and hear the things we cannot immediately use. Babies have a tremendous amount of information thrust on them that takes years for them to sort and distinguish. In the years moving toward maturity, we learn to screen out the sights and sounds we cannot immediately use. If you need proof of this, go around blindfolded for a few minutes. Record in stereo, everything you hear for an hour and then listen to the tape. The sounds of birds, cars, air conditioning and other incidental noises will suddenly become audible to you; the pattering background noises of our lives. Our vision is similar. Shapes, levels of brightness and other aspects of vision suddenly seem enhanced when we take off our blinders. The information was always THERE, we have just programmed it out of our awareness. Psychedellics have a re-birthing effect on our senses. They simply crank up the volume to the max - like it was when we were babies. Peyote does that very thing with a "hallucenogenic" spin.

My senses had become so acute that I could hear almost anything within a hundred yards, indoors or out. I no longer needed my glasses. During the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning, I put them away. During a two hour period of quiet meditation (there was nothing else to do), I couldn't help but sense that in some way I was evesdropping on the dreams of those sleeping around me. There were no sounds or pictures but instead, a constant mumble of mental energy. Adventure, love, sometimes mathematical logic emerged from these other minds and I perceived them in some very personal, psychic way. I felt as if I had been entrusted with something very sacred and as I traveled through these various dreamscapes, I avoided the areas that seemed very romantic or personal. I felt a little like a burglar, or a ghost.

At about 3 AM I felt as if the effects of the peyote had ended. I found myself becoming thirsty, hungry and bored. I decided to make another trip to the bathroom where I could be completely alone. It was there that I met The Cyclops. The effects of the mescaline were more prolonged and profound than I had imagined they would be. My reflection in the mirror had become subject to my own interpretation. I stood before it for a very long time, letting my mind run away with what it perceived. During that examination I realized I was searching for myself. The vision of a cyclops was what my mind was seeing and that vision and I stared at each other for a considerable time, sizing each other up. I finally decided that the creature I was seeing was not particularly attractive, but posed no threat. I could tolerate him. My own reflected image semingly having reached a similar conclusion, became more coherent and friendly. I was home, and at peace.

Just before dawn I stretched out on the bed again. My friend was definitely asleep. I had anticipated the peyote effects to wear off by morning and I was prepared for a glorious dawn. It came in a most glorious way. Having made friends with the night, I was ready to renew my friendship with the day. At first grey light I began to really relax. Sleep was out of the question but as the morning light became stronger, I looked forward to a clear blue sky. Most of an hour past and I felt I could perhaps doze if I wanted to. It was morning though, I was terribly hungry and the dorm kitchen would be open soon. The sky before me through the window was a light baby blue and deepening as the sun came up. I decided to just lay there and enjoy it. Minutes passed and the sky took on a deep, full blue color just like the clearest afternoon. I began to wonder where the moon might be. Or the sun. As I continued to stare out the window I was forced to blink again and again. The sky was bluer now than I had ever seen it. I gasped at it. It turned bluer still and suddenly seemed to call out to me; "Hey, you.... like the BLUE? Dig Me! I am BLUE just like you said - come on over and take a look at the BLUUUUE!". Blue? The sky had turned a deep indigo that was breath taking and indescribable. I got up to go look toward the eastern horizon and perhaps catch a glimpse of the sun. I staggered to the window ledge and stood there with my jaw dropped. I couldn't see five feet. We were completely socked in with fog.

The moment I realized we were fogged in, it was as though someone had turned off a slide show. All the blue disappeared and was replaced with a deep violet, then a lovely orchid, then grey. Grey. God, what a disappointing color for fog. With that, Mescalito kissed me goodby and I resumed my ordinary mundane existance. I showered, shaved, dressed in my best suit and tie (so as not to be conspicuous), and made my way toward breakfast. I realized just before I left the dormitory that while practicing the proper knot for my tie, I had forgotten to put on my shirt. I had to go back to my room and dress again.

I ate less than I thought I would.