Mop Up and Clean Up

We had now been about five days on the fire. It had been considered fully contained. But here was still work to do before we could leave the fire line. We had gone all this time without bathing or changing our clothes. We were all dirty, smokey and bone tired. But we still had to do "Mop Up." This was when you go into burned areas and look for anything that is still burning and could reignite the fire.

The burning stumps were the hardest to deal with. If it was from a pine tree, the stump and roots had plenty of pitch and tar to keep burning for weeks. You would have to chop at it with your Pulaski tool. This tool was half axe and half pick. Other tools we used was the brush hook and the McCloud (half rake, half hoe) and, of course, the shovel.

Chain saws were beginning to be used. But they were still too big and bulky to be used for the work we were doing. The brush hook was our elite tool. It lead the way. Cutting at a 60 degree angle, it could fell a four inch diameter tree in one swing. The Pulaski came second finishing off what the brush hook started and attacking the root system. Next came the shovels clearing brush and vegetation. Last but not least came the McCloud. With the raking and hoeing motion you got the area down to dirt.

Let's see, we were mopping up the area. If we couldn't completely stop the stump from burning, we would cover it with dirt to smother the fire and prevent sparks from escaping. We did our mop up operation as we advanced down the mountain toward the fire camp. We arrived off the mountain in the early afternoon.  As soon as we approached the camp, we picked up the smell of smoke in the air. But this was a good smell of steaks cooking. The mess tent was set up and operated by the convicts. We just called them "cons". They were brought them in to do the cooking and also to fight fires. They were excellent at both jobs. We had been eating C-rations for five days and the smell of real food almost caused a panic in the ranks.

Like I said before, we had not bathed for the past five days and there were no shower facilities at fire camp. But some of the other crews had discovered what this area did have, hot springs, Willet Hot Springs, to be exact. Nature's own hot tub. For tired aching muscles, this was a Godsend.  All you saw was a trail of dirty jeans, shirts, socks, boots and yes, underwear. It was definitely skinny dipping time. In God's Country were all "al natural" and loving it. Soaking in that hot water after five days of dirt and smoke was almost spiritual in nature.

After the "Johnny Cash Fire," we adopted his "Ring of Fire," as our crew's official song. Paul, our crew leader, declared if we heard his song on the radio, we'd be going out on a fire. Remarkably, it turn out to be fairly accurate. 

In closing, I want to mention and pay tribute to the twelve members of the El Cariso HotShot crew who died on Novemeber 1, 1966. We worked with this crew on several occasions and on a fire in the Cleveland National Forest. That was their home base. We all felt a kinship with the crew. May they rest in peace.

Fire Triangle

After our leap from the helicopter, we assembled our gear and began an assault on the fire. We were going to try to get ahead of the fire and cut fire breaks in order to starve the fire of fuel. A fire has three components: Air, Heat and Fuel.  Take away any of the three elements and the fire dies. Since we  couldn't remove the air or the heat, fuel was the only solution.

An air tanker was used to drop fire suppressant liquid onto the fire. Back then it was called DAP. It was a mixture of water, seeds and fertilizer. It would cool the fire and coat the surrounding area with this thick pink compound. Plus, the fertilizer and seeds would help in the growth of new vegetation.  The crew boss, or foreman, would call in for a drop.

An airplane, called the "bird dog," would come in first. He would locate the drop zone and radio the position to the pilot in the tanker.Then the "bird dog" would fly low over us and wag his wings. This was the warning to get clear of the area where the air tanker was going to make its drop.                                                                                                    

The tanker could hold about 3,000 gallons of this liquid. The total weight would probably be around 40 tons. Something you definitely didn't want to be under it when it hit. The tanker would come in low and then open its bomb bay doors and pull up sharply, releasing a massive cloud of pink looking liquid. Being an air tanker pilot is probably the most dangerous job in firefighting.  Many tanker crews have died while fighting wildfires.

We would clear the area, although some of the guys would try to get downwind of the drop so they could get in the spray of the cloud. It would coat your hard hat and clothes with pink droplets. It was sort of a badge of courage to the other crew members, showing that we had been on the front lines and in the thick of it.

As we moved along the ridge of the mountain, we were aware there was a raging fire below us. We moved cautiously, but with confidence in our ability to get the job done. Everyone was told to stay in sight of each other. We had learned to know about fire and to know the directions of the winds. Fire travels uphill by day and downhill by night. The winds were the tricky part. In mountains, winds tended to swirl, change directions and go shooting up into the air. Wind tunnel effects were common, because of the changing terrain.

The winds that day were fairly calm, due to it still being early morning. But we knew, when the sun heated the air and the cool sea breezes flowed in, the updrafts would start and  it would be a whole different story. Remember, that's why the Condor chose this area, because it has tremendous updraft.

It was about midday when we started down into a small valley. We were going to start making our cut across the face of the mountain. As we proceeded we began to hear this roaring sound below us. There was no visible smoke, but you knew this sound was not good. What was happening, the fire was burning clean. The fuel air mixture was just right to produce an almost smokeless fire. What was also happening, the fire was super-heating all the vegetation in front of it. The volatile oils from the plants and trees were being released into the air.

When the mixture of air and fuel reaches the ignition point, you have what is referred to as a "blowup" situation. We had reached that point. The order to evacuate the area was given. We all ran back in the direction we had come from. As we were running, the brush and trees we had been working in, suddenly burst into flames, sending fire shooting twenty feet into the air.

We had survived. Some guys had suffered a few minor burns, but nothing serious. For the next five days we fought skirmishes with this fire, doing what we could to knock down hot spots. We set backfires and did all we knew to stop the advancing flames. But Mother Nature had other ideas. The fire continued to burn despite the best efforts of all those involved.  It didn't stop until a cooling ocean fog blanketed the area. This caused the fire to give up its heat and die. All told, the fire destroyed 508 acres of the California Condor habitat and killed 49 of the endangered birds.

During the trial that followed, Johnny Cash was unrepentant.  It's reported he told the judge that it was his truck that caused the fire and that "I don't care about your damn yellow buzzards." Mr. Cash was sued by the federal government and charged with  $125,172 in fines. Cash eventually settled the case and paid $82,001. Mr. Cash never served any time in prison for this, and in fact was never in prison, although he continued to cultivate his outlaw image of the "Man in Black."

Burning Ring of Fire

As we proceeded up the canyon, it was becoming quite evident that we were not going to reach our object doing what we were doing.  The weather was hot and we were starting to get some strong breezes. You learned in basic firefighting that fire travels uphill by day and downhill by night. With these winds, we could see that the fire was building in intensity.

The mushroom cloud was being stoked by the updraft of air and there was nothing we could do but watch it. Fire is an interesting phenomenon. It acts like it's alive and has broken free from its restraints. The genie in the bottle effect. It hops, skips, dances and spins wildly. It was fascinating to watch, but always deadly. We had all learned from our fire bible what fire could do. How it would kill you if you ever forgot or let your guard down.

We proceeded up the ridge, Everyone was starting to realize that we would not be able to reach the fire before nightfall. The foreman was beginning to become concerned. Remember, communications back then was primitive at best. There were no cell phones. They used these bulky WWII radio phones to try to contact the base camp. In mountainous terrain they seldom worked. If you didn't receive a new directive, you just continued on. We ended up spending the night in the middle of a burned out area. We were carrying C-rations and water so were survived the night there.

The next morning we were recalled to base camp. A new plan had been made. We would be helicoptered up to the fire. Helicoptered?  Most of us had never been in any aircraft, let alone a helicopter. This helicopter was one of those two man versions with a big glass bubble on the front and this erector set for a tail.

You were told to duck your head, so the whirling blade would not decapitate you.  When I got into the seat and strapped in, the pilot looked at me and said, "When I tell you to jump, you jump or we'll crash! Do you understand me?" I said, "Yes, sir!" 

As we took off, I watched the ground move away from me and saw the crew members waving. As we flew towards our destination, I looked out on the terrain below. It looked so different. Where we had been just a day ago quickly went by. The view from the cockpit was of billowing clouds of smoke. The pilot circled a small patch of ground that was the  drop zone.   I could now see some of the guys who had flown in a bit earlier. The pilot said, "Okay, unbuckle your seat belt. Step out and stand on the skid." I did as I was instructed. The helicopter came within about five feet of the ground. He shouted, "Jump!" I jumped  and hit the ground and rolled. I looked back to see the helicopter exiting at about a 45 degree angle.  I thought to myself, "That was cool, lets do it again."

Ring of Fire

Rumors were running rampant that the truck had been identified as belonging to the country singer, Johnny Cash! Yes, it was the one and only "Man in Black" who had started the fire. More correctly, his truck which he was driving, had started this fire. It was really hard to believe. The man,  whose  music that most of us listened  to, had actually been the cause of this fire. But what the hell was the famous Johnny Cash doing in a pickup truck in a remote area of the Los Padres National Forest?  Camping? Maybe.  But again the rumors were already spreading about why he was here.

The next morning we gathered at the command center with the other crews to get our marching orders. The fire had spread up a canyon and was burning furiously on three mountain peaks. All were the habitat and breeding area of the California Condor. Each supervisor and crew foreman was told what the plan would be for attacking the fire. The weather conditions: air temperature, humidity, and wind speed were given for the day. But in mountain conditions you knew all that could change without warning. And it did. 

We were to walk in, up through the burned area of the canyon, and make our way up to one of the three fires. As we proceeded out of the fire camp, we passed by the now infamous "Johnny Cash" truck. We all gave it a whack with our tools. It had now become a symbol of the fire we had to beat. (More then about the man who had caused it.)

Fire Camp

After traveling for four to five hours we finally reached the road that would lead us to the battle. You could smell the smoke in the air and could now look up and see under the cloud. It looked like a straight column of smoke jetting into the sky. The only reference I had in seeing such a view was the pictures of the A-bomb we dropped on Japan during WWII. I wondered if they looked at that cloud the way I was looking at this one that day?  Theirs was a view of utter destruction, while mine was letting me get there so I could help stop this thing.

This was not a developed area. We were on dirt roads all the way in. It was a wilderness area. If you wanted to be here you had to make some effort to get here. There were no conveniences. You had to bring in everything you needed to survive. We arrived at a wide open area. This was my first view of what a fire camp looked like. There were firefighters, trucks, equipments, tents everywhere. It looked like pictures of the invasion of Normandy. You saw Hotshots crews from all over California, Arizona, Montana, Idaho and New Mexico. We knew we had arrived. This was the big time.

Once we got settled in, we began talking to the other crews.  We learned the fire had gotten into a remote area and that it was threatening the Condor habitat. The next question was, what started it? Usually, in this type of remote area, it was a lightning strike. That was not the case in this fire. They knew where it started, knew the point of origination. In fact, they could show us where the fire started. 

In high parched dry grass sat a pickup truck with a camper unit on the back. At the rear of the truck, down by the exhaust system, you could see blackened burnt grass starting from a small area under the truck.  It had quickly fanned out into a broad burned area leading to where the active fire now raged. 

The truck was not burned, but every inch of the body of the truck and camper had cuts, scrapes and dents left by the crews that were going out to fight this fire.

The Johnny Cash Fire

After our first fire, things seemed to quiet down a bit. We would have our occasional campfire getting out of control or someone running their vehicle off the road and ending up halfway down a canyon. But nothing big. Sitting around or just doing maintenance on your equipment tends to put you a bit on edge. Someone would say something and it would be taken the wrong way and an argument or fight might break out. We were like race horses waiting for that gate to open. We had been trained to fight wildfires. We had gotten a taste of the adrenalin rush and we wanted more.

                                                                                   
Then the call came in. Fire in the Los Padres National Forest. The Los Padres is located in Ventura County. It lies along the coast just south of Santa Barbara, California. Assistance needed immediately. The Los Padres National Forest contained the San Rafael Wilderness Area for the endangered California Condor. The Condor is a prehistoric bird that exists in only two places in the world, here and in the mountains of Peru. It's a vulture with a ten foot wingspan, and which lives high in the coastal mountains. The Condor uses the updraft provided by the sea breeze to help it take flight.

Every firefighting resource the U.S. Forest Service had was being thrown at this fire to protect these endangered birds. The Los Padres Forest is located about a 120 miles north of where we were located. The quickest way to get there was by the freeway system. Our Ford truck, fully loaded with equipment and men, was not the fastest vehicle on the road that day. You've heard about the race between the turtle and the hare?  We  were definitely the turtle. We would wave at the folks that passed us by. Some would give the thumbs up, while others would give us the middle finger. We just smiled, because we knew we were headed for what we wanted to do most, fight the fire!

About 20 miles from our destination we saw it, a mushroom cloud of smoke rising 20,000 feet into the air. You knew this was a big one. You've got to have a really hot fire to get that kind of cloud. Your heart starts racing. The adrenalin starts pumping. This is what you've been trained to do. Just get me there!

Rattlesnake!

One thing I found out about real fast was that Tanbark Flats had plenty of Poison Oak, Kangaroo Mice and Western Diamondback Rattlers. We nicknamed it "Rattlesnake Gulch," because of the abundance of theses guys. Their favorite food, of course, was the Kangaroo Mice.

The rattlers were most active in the late afternoon when temperatures began to cool down. Being exothermic (cold blooded) creatures, it's hard for them to control their body temperature. It must avoid getting too cold or too hot. That's why it prefers to hunt in the late afternoon and early night during the summer months. Its eye sight is poor so it relies on infrared (heat) detectors to find its prey. The two pits on its head are its detection devices. It basically has night vision and once it locks in on a target it's dead meat. Its venom  is quite powerful and is even more concentrated in the younger snakes. Since venom is what it relies on to survive, it doesn't want to use it unless hunting or threatened. That's what its rattlers do for it. It warns friend and foe not to mess with me. So you gain respect for this unique creature.

We always had to use caution when cutting brush or just walking in the woods. During fires this was especially true. All animals are frightened by the flames and try to escape, including rattlesnakes. Getting bitten while on a  fire line could become a life threatening situation real quick.

In the barracks there was a tote board with rattles on it. There must have been at least a hundred. They had been placed there by past and present crew members. None of us, that I knew, went out of our way to kill a snake. Most came from surprise meetings with the serpents.

One evening I was heading down from the barracks to the mess hall. The path leading down there was made of asphalt and about four feet wide.  Since the barracks were on a slight hill, with the mess hall below it, you had a tendency to do a jogging motion down the incline. I had gotten about half way down when something caught my eye. It was a rattler warming its body on the pathway. I saw no head or tail. Both were still in the bush. All I saw was four feet of rattlesnake body.

That evening I learned how to fly. I made a leap over the snake that would have made Michael Jordan proud. I cleared that snake by at least five feet and ran all the way into the mess hall before stopping. Knowing that the other dudes were coming down and unaware of the danger on the path, I knew I had to return and try get rid of this critter.  I feared snakes. They represented the devil on earth. Of course, this came from my religious indoctrination.

I grabbed a shovel and went back to the path hoping the snake was gone. But there it was, still warming itself.  I made the decision. I must kill the snake by cutting its head off. Without much thinking I turned the shovel sideways, exposing the blade, and struck at its head. The body of the snake recoiled and the rattle started. But it was to late for the poor creature, because I'd delivered a deadly blow. I took no pleasure in what I'd done.  The rattler was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

About that time the guys started coming down the path and began to realize what had just happened. You heard cries of "holy shit" and "what the F?"  "Did you kill it?"  "Damn, it must be six feet long!"  I was getting pats on the back and guys saying, "Way to go man!" Someone said, "Hey find the head. Need to bury it. It can still cause damage." That afternoon at dinner I was the talk around the table. It was bittersweet. Of course, I loved the admiration of my peers, but I felt bad that I had to kill a creature that was just trying to survive, like me.

The First Fire

Let's see, were did I leave off? I had survived the brush cutting exercise. We returned to the station and I dragged my beaten body into the barracks. All I could think about was to get into a shower and wash off all the dirt and grime. I peeled off my grimy clothes and just stood under the shower nozzles for what seemed like an hour. When I was finally revived, I dressed and collapsed on my bunk. I could hear the rest of the guys laughing and joking and getting ready to head for the mess. There was no way I could even think of getting up, let alone walking my tired butt down to the mess hall. I just laid there on my bunk and fell asleep.


I woke up early the next morning. When I started to move, I realized that every muscle in my body hurt. Muscles I didn't even know I had ached like hell. While I was lying there it hit me, this had been my initiation. I guess I had passed. A bit later I heard Paul's voice saying, "Fire, fire, let's get going." "It's a new day and life is beautiful!"


For the next several weeks I listened and learned how to become a firefighter. But I had not really been tested. I didn't know how I would hold up in a real life situation. Then one day the alarm sounded. It was three long blasts. This was it! "Fire!" Demanding immediate response. We all came running from different directions and loaded onto the truck. All our equipment was kept stowed on the truck. Gordon jumped into the driver's seat. The red light was flipped on and the siren started wailing. That's when I knew this was for real . We were going to fight a fire. For a moment my mind  jumped back to when I was five years old, looking up at the burning hills in San Bernardino. I realized then, I'm a firefighter!


It all went good that day. We were able to get below the fire, which had been caused by a lightning strike. We'd cut a fire line and stopped the fire from progressing. We mopped up the area and returned to the station. On the way back, we began to realize we were all looking at each other. We were just sitting there, bouncing up and down in the back of the truck, all of us dirty with soot on our clothes and faces. Then somebody said, "I think we did a damn good job." That's when a cheer went up and everyone started recounting what we'd just done. I knew then that I was a part of the Dalton Hotshot Crew and we were badass firefighters!

Hotshots

What is a "Hotshot?"  They're specialized teams of individuals whose job it is to be the first responder firefighters on a wildfire. They are expected to knock down the fire before it gets too big.  They usually work for the U.S. Forest Service and are located in or near a National Forest.

I was a member of the Dalton Hotshots. When I worked for them in 1965, we were located at Tanbark Flats in the Angeles National Forest in the foothills just above San Dimas, California. Most of us were college kids doing it as a summer job. The work was hard, dirty and dangerous. Back then the job paid a little bit above minimum wage. But the adrenalin rush you got from fighting a raging fire made up for the low pay.

I remember arriving at the station. It was on a Sunday morning. I didn't have a car of my own yet, so my dad drove me there. It was not quite what I'd expected. My father recognized the construction as being an old C.C.C. Camp. The C.C.C. was the Civilian Conservation Corp of the late '30s and early '40s. President Roosevelt had created it to help the unemployed find work. They worked mostly in the National Forests and Parks. Most of the construction you see today in the National Forests and  National Parks were built by these men. My father had been a member of the C.C.C. and worked in a fire tower as a spotter.

It was early in the morning. I'd been told to be there at 8:00 am, but I arrived about an hour early. You always wanted to arrive early on the first day of a new job. I walked up to the bunkhouse and cautiously looked in. Everybody was still sleeping. I could smell something cooking and decided to head in that direction.  As I entered the mess hall, I said, "Hello, anybody here?" From the kitchen area this little man stuck his head out from the corner of the room and said, "The food's not ready yet, you're going to have to wait! " I said, "I'm the new guy."  "Oh," he responded, "sit down somewhere and I'll get you something to drink."

About that time some of the guys started wandering in. Most looked still half asleep. I nodded and gave a slight wave. Most gave me a "who the hell are you?" look.  Some mumbled  and made a feeble attempt at acknowledging me. Finally, one of them came up to me and said, "My name is Paul, I'm the crew leader," and he shook my hand. He said, "As soon as I get some coffee and something to eat, I'll take you to the bunk house and show you where to stow your stuff."  He explained that GT,  the foreman, would be there pretty soon to do my paperwork and to so sit tight. So I sat tight. Gordon T. (GT) came in and  introduced himself.  He went through the standard things needed for your first day on the job. He then handed me this little green book and said, "This is your bible, son. Read it and memorize the ten commandments of firefighting. It just may save your ass."

                                                                           

We were in the bunk house, it was about midday, when GT came in and said, "Come on, men, let's go cut some brush."  The moans and groans immediately started.  I wasn't sure what that entailed, but it didn't sound good. Gordon came up to me and said, "This being your first day, you don't need to go." Being a newbie, I knew I'd have to prove myself before I got accepted, so I said, "Oh, no, I want to go." He shot back, "Please yourself."

I thought I was going to die. When the truck we were riding in pulled to the side of the road, Gordon became a drill sergeant, shouting orders. We exited the rear of the truck with tool in hand. Gordon was yelling, "If I see any of you pussies drinking water, your ass is mine."  "Go, go, go," Paul was leading the way. This was definitely what they called "on the job training." You worked like a single machine. At the head of the machine you saw limbs flying, small trees falling. Next roots and stumps came ripping out of the ground, followed by mad shoving and tearing until the ground was bare earth, a path four feet wide and void of all vegetation. This continued until we had made a semicircle, down one side of the ridge and then back up.

When I exited the brush I was covered from head to foot in dirt and sweat. My throat was dry and I could feel the grit in my mouth and teeth.  Just when I was sure I was going to collapse, Gordon shouted, "You did good ladies, get some water." I was carrying two canteens. The first one I used to wash my mouth out and pour on my head. The second I drank down to the last ounce.  Until that day, I never knew how good water tasted.

Growing Up in the '50s

I'm not considered a baby boomer, because I was born in 1945. Even though the fighting ended in '45, to be a boomer you had to be born in '46 or later. I guess soldiers and civilians had to wait until '46 to start having babies again? Apparently my parents didn't get the message, as they were having babies before the war, during the war and after the war.

Growing up in the '50s was an interesting time. Things seemed to be changing fast. It felt like a happy time in America for most. People had jobs and the future seemed bright. Although we still had to worry about the Russians dropping the A-bomb on us. I remember every Friday the air sirens would scream their wailing sound. The teacher would tell us to get up from our desks and form a single line and we would march out to the parking lot. There waiting for us would be parents, not necessarily our own, with cars. We'd all pile into the vehicles and off we'd go, not knowing our destination.

They took us about forty miles out of town, to the farmlands of south Alabama. I always wondered what would happen to all of us if they really did drop a bomb. Where would we go then? What about our parents? Would they be killed? Would they try to find us? As we stood in the fields some kids would cry and want to go home. It caused tremendous anxiety for us,  But back then no one cared what affect it might have the children involved. We didn't have child psychologists to warn that this might cause mental harm. We had nun's, and you did whatever they told you to do. But we somehow survived this mental torture, and for the most part we were pretty normal happy kids.

Remember, television was only just starting to make its entrance into the American homes at that time. So kids played with other kids and most of the play time was done outdoors. We made up games, but most boys would play Cowboys and Indians or Soldiers. Sometimes our games would lead to real fighting.  And everything was fair: rocks, slingshots and even BB guns. For some reason, I have always been a good shot. If I aimed, 99 times out of a 100, I would hit my target. My older brother,  Tony, and I would build forts and stock them with homemade spears, arrows, rocks, firecrackers and, of course, our trusty Daisy Red Rider BB guns.

We seem to have had constant battles with our neighbor, John M., and his cousin. We would attack them and they would attack us. We would stage ambushes on them. One time, I climbed up on a garage next to our enemies' house. Then my brother went out and began taunting them until they started chasing him. He led them past the garage, where I opened fire on them with my BB gun. It worked like a charm. 

Another time, John made himself a suit of armour to protect himself from the BB hits. He used a metal garbage can lid as a shield. It worked pretty good, and he shot at us with his BB gun. Then I realized he had not protected his knees. As John attempted to move toward us, I took dead aim on his knee cap and pulled the trigger. The garbage can lid went flying into the air as John grabbed his wounded knee. As he turned to retreat, I realized he had not protected his backside, and I fired at his butt and back as fast as I could cock my gun. Victory was ours that day, we had defeated the body armour.

We all survived our battles, except for some blood blisters from the BB hits. We all still had our eyes and were no worse for the wear. Later, John became best friends with my brother and I, and we joined forces against the other neighborhood kids. Our parents were totally oblivious to what was going on. We never complained and apparently neither did John or his cousin.

The most serious injury I sustained was running a screw diver into the side of my head,  which got me a ride in an ambulance. Luckily, I have a hard head and the screw driver glanced off my skull and stuck under my scalp. My older brother, Tony, never got any injuries, just the standard scrapes and bruises. But our younger brother, Ricky, took a fall while swinging on our Tarzan rope, which was attached to a tree limb.

When Ricky landed on the ground, he apparently extended this arm out in font of him to break his fall. Instead, it fractured his arm in two places, causing the bone to protrude through the skin. For days it was a toss up by the doctors as to whether they might have to amputate his forearm and hand. But, fortunately, he pulled through. I'm not sure how our parents survived all this. But they were both from pretty tough people who had survived deaths and tragedies. I guess they'd learned to expect these things and to live with whatever happened.

Post Script: Mr. Jimmy

In 1976,  I was working in the Silicon Valley of California. One day I was having lunch with a girl from work. During our small talk she asked if I had ever heard of a singer named Jimmy Buffett. I said as a matter of fact I had and proceeded to relate my story about Mr. Buffett. I then asked her why she liked Jimmy? She said that everyone around here listened to and loved Jim Croce's music. She said that when Jim Croce died, there was a void that Jimmy Buffett filled.

At the time I was not familiar with who Jim Croce was, but I began listening to his music and really enjoyed it. There was one particular song that caught my attention. It was called,"You don't mess around with Jim." It talks about a country boy "outta South Alabama" looking for a man named Jim. After listening to it, I  thought how prophetic the lyrics were and how Jimmy would be the one to take his place. Life is strange and filled with all sorts of twists and turns.

Jimmy Buffett, Superstar!

I have thought about this for many years. Trying to figure out how Mr. Buffett became a superstar and the rest of us became ordinary people. My conclusion, I've haven't a clue. But I know one thing, it has to come from sheer determination. A do or die attitude. Either I make it or die trying.  Most of us don't possess that quality.  This is what brought our ancestors to a new world. It's a genetic thing. Either you have it or you don't. It's what causes people to jump out of airplanes for no good reason or to climb the the highest mountain. I don't think they give much conscious thought to why they are doing it, you just have to do it. And  it feels so good when you make it.  Call it human spirit or a need  to exceed.

Jimmy came from a humble background. But he had two working parents, which was unusual in the '50s.  My mother was a stay-at-home mom. My father was the bread winner and his wife was the mother of his children. Her job was to care for the offspring, no matter how many you had and how limited the resources were for maintaining the family. Jimmy's parents had only three kids, although the Catholic doctrine was to go forth and multiply no matter what. My parents bought into that completely and multiplied greatly.

So we get our determination from our ancestors. But money helps. The more money our  parents have, the more money for us, their offspring. But what about motivation? What's the drive to make you want to get out there and expose yourself and your ego to ridicule? What causes this, "I must do it, I must prove I am good enough, so you will love me?" This is my take on Jimmy. I may be totally wrong, but this is my observation during the time I knew Jimmy.

Jimmy was a good kid, a very obedient kid. Obedient to the level of fearful. To me, Jimmy's mother seemed to be a very nice lady. Jimmy's father was another story. His father was a naval architect. That's a person who designs water craft: boats, ships barges, etc.  Jimmy would always tell us that he was going to the U.S. Naval Academy. That he was going to become a naval officer. I guess that's what his father wanted him to be.

I remember when we would be playing baseball and you would hear this high pitched whistle. Jimmy would stop dead in his tracks, drop his glove and make a full speed run to his house. We would all just look at each other and ask, "What happened?" We soon learned that when Jimmy's daddy called or whistled the game was over.

One afternoon we were riding home on the school bus. From the back of the bus, I could hear Jimmy crying and his two sister trying to comfort him. I went to the back of the bus to see what was going on. I asked Jimmy what was wrong? He said that he had failed a math test and he was afraid his father would be angry and beat him. His sisters tried to reassure him that their father would do no such thing. But Jimmy keep saying, "He will, he will." I thought to myself, would his father really beat him for failing a math test?  Certainly not? My father would never do that. He loved me, no matter what I did or didn't do. I felt sorry for Jimmy if this was true.

Motivation has to be the key. The motivation from wanting to please someone. Wanting to show that you're not a failure. Wanting no matter what you wanted me to be, that I succeeded in spite of you. That's my theory. Take for what it's worth.

The day I met the Cisco Kid

The Cisco Kid

Remember when there was no television?  I do.  I guess that makes me a dinosaur. I don't feel like one though. I have always felt that I was on the cutting edge of the  technology of the time. Certainly, my father was. He would buy and read the magazines, "Popular Mechanics" and "Popular Science." He had to always have the latest gadgets of the day. This was the early '50s and a commercial type TV set was just coming on the market. They were expensive to buy and the channels you could get were local and usually the reception wasn't that good.

Every Friday night my father would take my older brother, Tony, and I down to the local radio store. In the front window was a television set which they left on for advertising purposes. We would stand along with other folks watching Friday night wrestling. This was all local stuff, being broadcast from the local National Guard Armory. These guys were far from being professional,  just some local yokels beating the heck out of each other. But it was free and seeing it on a TV made it that much more amazing.  After watching it,  My dad would say, "I got to get me one of them."  And he did. I think we were the third family on the block to get a TV set. The Goodlows and Moore's got theirs before we got one. Speaking of the Moore's, that reminds of our BB wars with the Moore's and my Daisy Red Rider BB gun. But that's another story.

We got our TV. It came in this big cabinet, but the screen was small. You had to put an antenna on the roof of your house and make sure you could turn it to get the best reception. They later came out with motorized antennas so you turned it from your living room.  Where we lived we could get three channels: From Mobile, Ala, NBC and CBS. If the atmosphere was cooperating we could get the ABC channel from Pensacola, Fl. There was very limited national programming, mostly Soap Operas. My sisters and mother loved those shows.

The local shows were always more interesting to me and my brothers. I remember one from the Pensacola station. This TV show came on in the late afternoons. It featured this character name "Tony L" or something like that. He would dress in this leopard jumpsuit. It was supposed to be a kids' show. This was all live television. This guy would have all these kids jumping up and down on this beat up old couch from one of his sponsors. This was to show off how tuff the couch was.  

Another one of his sponsors was a local car company and he would sing this song about their cars being so clean that you would never get greasy.  I remember one time he had a bunch of cub scouts on the show. He told them to jump on the couch and see if they could damage it. The scouts started jumping up and down on the couch and all of a sudden the insides of the couch started flying in the air. Handsfull of cotton stuffing came flying out all over the floor. It turns out one of the cub scouts had a knife with him and cut a wide gash into the sofa and the other scouts started pulling out the stuffing. That's what early TV was like.

So what about the Cisco Kid? Well the "Cisco Kid" was one the first  nationally syndicated TV shows. My brother, Tony, and I loved the show and watched it faithfully. We would play the parts of the Cisco Kid and his sidekick, Pancho. "Hey, Cisco!" "Hey, Pancho!"   "Away!"

So being a TV celebrity it was expected of him to make personal appearances for their local sponsors.  Our local sponsor was the maker of "white bread."  You know, that  gummy white stuff they called bread. To me it was like eating white pasty-glue. As it happened, one of my older sisters, Loretta, was working for the local TV station that carried the "Cisco Kid." 

So Tony and I got to have a personal audience with the "Cisco Kid," Duncan Renaldo. To us, it was like meeting the President of the United States or the Pope. We were in awe of this man. My brother, Tony, and I were about ten and eight, respectively.  I remember entering the studio and walking with my parents to a room. When the door opened, there stood the "Cisco Kid" in all of his glory. He was a giant of a man, dressed in a black outfit with silver trimmings. He was much bigger in life than he ever was on that little TV screen.

I think Tony and I, looking up at this giant of a man and then at each other, tried to say something, but nothing came out. He just looked at us with his big wide smile. Then he knelt down to be eye to eye with us and said something like, "Well amigos, I understand from your sister, Loretta, you wanted to meet me." Both of us just stood there saying nothing,  just shaking our heads up and down in agreement. We had met our TV hero and he had spoken to us. From that day forward, when we played the "Cisco Kid," we fought who was going to be Cisco and who would have to play Pancho. Cisco Kid was a friend of mine for real.

Sister Aden Part Deux

 Let's see, we left off with my brother and I getting kicked out of school. Oh, this is my class photo. I'm in the third row, fourth from the evil one.

My parents put my younger brother into the public school, E.R. Dickerson Elementary School. It was located about a quarter mile from our house. But for me there was no intermediate school located near where we lived. So I was at home waiting for my parents to find me a place to go to school.

Well, someone had informed the Bishop's office that my brother and I were no longer attending Catholic school. My parents got a call from the Bishop's office telling them that, if their children were not returned to a Catholic school immediately, they could no longer receive the Sacrament of Communion. Well, being Southern Fried Catholic, this threw them into a quandary. I don't know exactly what happened next, but I do know they had to meet with Bishop Toolen to discuss my thievery. Some deal must have been made, because my brother and I were allowed to return to school.

My classmates were glad to see me back and I got the standard ribbing you would expect from eighth graders. Then the revenge plot began. My best friend, George,  felt I had been done wrong and proposed the counter attack. George and I had been making rockets. Remember, this was the beginning of the Space Age. Every kid was making rockets. George was skilled with explosives. His father was a hunter who reloaded his own ammo, so George had an endless supply of gun powder. George also had a large amount of fireworks. We're talking M-80's, cherry bombs, Roman candles, etc.

Our first attack was on the boy's bathroom toilet. George lit and flushed a cherry bomb down the toilet. Seconds later you heard this low boom. Moments later water started flowing from the toilet and out the door of the boy's bathroom. After that we waited a few days to see the reaction to our attack. Nothing. No reaction to the backed-up toilet.

So we went for the direct attack. Attack the head and kill the serpent. We decided to line the floor surrounding Sister Aden's desk with cracker balls. Cracker balls are a form of  fireworks that are exploded by throwing them on a hard surface or stepping on them. We did this after lunch one day.

All the class was seated and waiting for the bell to ring when Sister Aden entered the room. Sister Aden always made this dramatic entrance, sort of like Loretta Young, for those who know what I'm talking about. Anyway, she comes swishing through the door and her little witch's shoes hit the first cracker balls. "Bam!" Then "Bam, bam, bam, bam!" Sister Aden was doing the Mexican hat dance, hopping and a skipping all over the place trying to get out of the barrage of explosives.

When the smoke cleared, there stood Sister Aden, the veins in her neck pulsing, her face a blood evil red, glaring at us like "tell me who did this and I will rip their heart out." When she regained her composer, she said, "Let me tell you, none of you will leave this room until you tell me who did this! " We all sat there like perfect angels. No one said anything, though most knew who did it. 

It was one 1 pm. Then 2 pm came and we still all sat there in silence.  Three, three-thirty and the the bell rang. This was the end of the school day. We all sat there in silence with Sister Aden glaring at us. Four O'clock. the school bus had come and gone. We still sat in the classroom with no one saying anything. A knock came on the door, a parent wanted to know were her daughter was.  Aden told her to go away. Then another knock and another. Aden in disgust, finally stood up and said, "You're dismissed!"

I can't tell you how proud I was of my classmates that day. Anyone could have ratted George and I out, but done did. George and I had to walk home that day, because we had missed our bus. But it didn't matter. We were laughing our asses off over how Sister Aden had been hopping and jumping all over that classroom floor. We walked all the way home reenacting how Sister Aden jumped and hopped. First I would do it. Then George would say, "Oh no this is how she did it." We continued like this until we parted ways and went home for the night.

I understand from a friend of my wife, that Sister Aden is in a rest home and until this day she has no clue who put the cracker balls on the floor that day.

Sister without Mercy

Talking about Jimmy Buffett got me thinking of my school days. Like I said before, if you were Catholic you had to attend a Catholic School. I guess they wanted the indoctrination to be complete. Anyway, nuns taught the classes back then. The Order of Nuns that taught us were the Sisters of Mercy. They wore the full burka garments. So all you saw of them was their faces. We always wondered if they wore anything under those. No one would dare ask.

The first seven years went pretty well. I had to endure some mental abuse, but avoided the physical punishment. My older brother wasn't so lucky. Then came eighth grade and the teacher for the class was to be, Sister Aden. Aden's reputation proceeded her. Everyone knew to look out for her and don't piss her off.   For some reason Sister Aden took an instant dislike of me. My theory is, I wasn't from one of the elite families of Mobile. Most of the kids in my class were sons and daughters of the prominent doctors, lawyers and businessmen of Mobile. My parents were unable to give donations to the school, as was expected . That's one theory. I have another but I can't share it on a public blog.  

Anyway, I tried my best to please Sister Aden, but nothing seemed to work. I felt like every chance she got she tried to insult me or embarrass me in front of my classmates. Now you might say,  why didn't you tell your parents what was happening? Good question. But then I will refer you back to my blog post, "Southern Fried Catholics". See, in the eyes of my parents, the Catholic Church could do no wrong. Priests and nuns were considered to be holy and godly. So if something happened to you in school it was always your fault and, God forbid, if you ever accused a nun of treating you badly. So I knew I would have to endure the abuse the best I could.

As the year progressed, things seemed to let up a bit. The insults and nasty little remarks lessened. Then came the "Lawn Party." I think lawn parties are strictly a Southern thing. It's an event where the school sets up booths and the parents sell a variety of things like cookies, cakes and cooked foods. Some booths had games of chance but you've got to understand it was all for the school fund. The lawn party are held on a weekend.

So that Monday, I arrived at school as usual and went into the classroom to put my books on my desk. Then something caught my eye. It was a box of balloons. The outside of the balloons had a multi-colored pattern. So I took one and blew it up. It looked pretty cool. So I grabbed a handful and went out to the playground. Some of my classmates saw the balloon and asked where I got it. I said "Here, have one." Soon there were about ten kids blowing up the balloons. Then from behind us came this blood curdling scream. "Where did you get those balloons? Those are Lawn Party balloons."  I froze in my tracks. I realized all my classmate were looking at me.

As I slowly turned around I saw a this image of a black robed creature running towards us.. Her face was red and distorted with anger. Her shoulder veil was flying in the wind. It was one scary sight. She came to a screeching halt in front of us. Still snorting like an angry bull, she said, "Who gave you those balloons?"  All my loving classmates pointed their fingers at me. I thought I was going to pee in my pants. But I had learned to endure. All the past abuse had toughened me. So I stood my ground. "So young man, you must be the ring leader?"  Not understanding what a ring leader was, I said in a confident voice, "Yes sister." I think her face turned a brighter shade of red.

With her teeth grinding she said, "My pretty boy, I'm going to get you and your little friend, Jimmy!"
She really never said that, but she did remind me of the "Wicked Witch of the West."  What she told me was to go to the office and that she was calling my parents. As it turned out, my mother had gone shopping with the next door neighbor, so she had to call my father at work. He showed up several hours later.

Sister Aden went on the attack. "Do you know what your son did? He is a thief! He stole the balloons! He stole the lawn party balloons!"  Honest to God, I'm thinking this sounds like the strawberries scene in "Mr. Roberts." My father was a gentle and kind man, slow to anger. He tried to reason with Sister A, telling her he would pay for the balloons. This infuriated Sister Aden further. "You don't understand, your son is a thief."  My father then said, "Wait a darn minute Sister. My boy is no thief."  Aden went into a tirade.  She raised her arm to heaven and said, " You have cursed in front of the Holy Eucharist! " Well, that statement was like throwing holy water on Satan. My father totally collapsed. He began apologizing and agreed to whatever she wanted. That's when she said, "I want him and his younger brother out of this school!  My father said, "Yes sister."  And my brother and I were taken out of school that day. I'll tell you the rest of the story later.

Outback without the Steak

I think I was in the fifth grade when we got a student weekly reader magazine. In it was an article on Ayers Rock.  For some reason this Monolith grabbed my imagination. It was sort of like "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."  I just had to go see it. It took me almost fifty years, but I did it! It was everything I thought it would be . Went we rounded the corner and it came into view, I heard the music  from of the "Close Encounters" playing in my brain. It was as close to having a spiritual awaking as I've ever had. Much better than my visit to St. Peters in Rome. This was the essence of life. It was so primordial. 

I knew before we left for Australia that the Aborigines were struggling to be given equal rights. The Australian government had finally returned the land that contained Ayers Rock back to Aboriginal control, sort of.  These lands and the Rock are considered sacred  to the Aborigines. The Rock was changed back to its  Aboriginal name, "Uluru."  The lands surrounding it are now Uluru National Park. 

I'll tell you more about Uluru and  our trek across the Outback of Australia in a later blog.

Louie, Louie

I think it's time to shift gears.  I understand I have some new Followers, so I thought we'd talk about Uncle Louie. Uncle Louie was actually my great-uncle. He was my grandmother's brother. Louie lived just across the Alabama border in Mississippi. All I knew about Louie was hear-say. What I'd been told was that Louie was a "Moonshiner." That is , he made "White Lightning."

This was in the summer of '63. My brothers and I were all sitting around the Sunday table enjoying fresh fried chicken. We'll discuss  later why I called it fresh fried chicken. We had home-grown mashed potatoes and green beans,  with gravy made from the drippings of the fried chicken.  Heart attack, here I come!  Back then, it was delicious. Especially the bacon in the green beans.

Anyway, after Sunday dinner you did one of two things: go fishing or go visiting. That Sunday we went visiting. With my Aunt Mary at the wheel and grandmaw riding shotgun, we proceeded into Mississippi. Once we crossed the state line, grandmaw turned to us and said, "Don't make eye contact with these folks."  Being naive to the reason for this statement, I asked why?  The answer came quick out of grandmaw's mouth. "They'll shoot you, that's why!"  For the rest of the trip, it was eyes forward. Although, I've got to admit, I took a few quick glances out the side windows.

When we arrived at Uncle Louie's house, it was a sight to behold. On the front porch was a refrigerator and a washing machine. You might ask why these appliances were placed here? Okay, back then, and in some places today, displaying your appliances on your front porch is a status symbol. I kid you not! This is the God's honest truth. So the appliances on the porch wasn't all that unusual. But what really caught my attention was all the chicken heads in the front yard.  All those dead chickens' eyes staring up at you. Talk about creepy!

As we exited the car, Uncle Louie came from the back of the house to greet us. Louie was this skinny rail of a man, wearing bib overalls and a pointed hat. Louie seemed very pleased to see his sister and niece. My grandmother greeted her bother and then turned and introduced us, her grandsons, to him. We all smiled and shook his hand. My grandmother then exchanged pleasantries with him.  As she was talking to her brother, I glanced up at the house. There I saw a woman in a bed at the entry of the front door.  This was Louie's wife, Ida Mae. She was bedridden. So that she could see outside, the bed was positioned in the front entryway.  After the shock or realization wore off, I began to talk to uncle Louie.

I think you know the first question I asked him. I said, "Uncle Louie, do you have any moonshine?" Louie let out a high squeal laugh, slapped his knee and did a little jig. He said, "No, boy, I gave that up a long time ago." I saw the twinkle in his eyes that said "that ain't so." Louie had two children. One was a girl, the other a boy. He named them, Girl and Boy. There's a very interesting story about Girl, but that's for a another time.

"Louie, Louie, Louie, Lou Eye!"

Thoughts on Jimmy Buffett

Altar Boys

Yeah,  Jimmy Buffett was a childhood friend of my brother, Tony, and me. In the alter boy picture, I'm in the second row at the end right. I'm the one with his vestment top hanging off to one side. My brother is the first one in the third row left. Okay, you my say, where is Mr. Buffett? Jimmy is in the fourth row about dead center peeking around the guy in front of him.  He's sporting a flattop, which was the "Do" of the day.

Jimmy and his family lived just up the road from us. We all attended St. Ignatius Catholic School. Back then, if you were Catholic, it was mandatory that you attend a Catholic school. We all rode the bus to and from school together.  Jimmy, you know, has two younger sisters, Laura and Lucy. So my brother and I got to know Jimmy pretty well. We played baseball or went to the movies on weekends. During the summer, Jimmy's house was the place to hang out. Both his parents worked and they had a housekeeper to care for the two girls and Jimmy. So there was never a problem for us to show up at his house.

Jimmy had a prize possession of a 45 rpm record player. Plus, he had all the current records of the day: Elvis, the Everly Bros., Buddy Holly and, of course, "the one eyed, one horned,  flying purple people eater."  We spent many hours listening to those records.

The last time my brother and I saw Jimmy was in the summer of 1963. Our family was on vacation from California. So my brother and I were allowed to use the car to visit our  friends. When we arrived at Jimmy's house, his mom invited us in and told us Jimmy was getting dressed. Sitting across from us were Jimmy's two sisters. They both had become attractive young ladies.  They smiled and we smiled back and exchanged small talk while waiting for Jimmy.

When Jimmy came out of his room, he signalled us to come outside with him. He told us that he was headed to a motel to meet up with some buddies, that they had started a band. He showed us he had a bottle of rum that he was taking to the gig. He said that he had just gotten back from Key West, where he had been doing some scuba diving and how he had speared a giant sea bass that dragged him through the water. Jimmy said his air was running out and he had to cut it loose.

He invited us to come along, but we had to decline. We were driving our parent's car and had to be getting back. With that, we all said our goodbye's and Jimmy jumped into to his Ford Pinto. That was the last time we talked to Mr. Buffett.

The next time I heard about Jimmy, I was living in Southern California and driving down I-10.  A song came on the radio. Some guy was singing about come Monday and about the L.A. smog. I related to this right away. So I listened to the rest of the song. It sounded good. Then came the surprise of my life. The DJ said that it was sung by Jimmy Buffett. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Jimmy Buffett! Our Jimmy Buffett?

I took the first exit I could find and looked for a record store. When I found one, I went right to the counter and told the dude I had just heard a song on the radio and did he know who the singer was.  He confirmed his name was Jimmy Buffett and he thought he lived in Key West. That's when I knew it had to be Jimmy.

We'll talk more about Mr. Buffett later and I'll share my thoughts on how Jimmy became a superstar.

Southern Fried Catholics

Coming from the deep South you might assume we would be Baptists.  Wrong!  We were "Southern Catholics." Well, you might think a Catholic is a Catholic, no matter what region of the country they come from. Wrong!  My family practiced a form of Catholicism that hearkened back to the Dark Ages of Europe.

Remember, I'm a grandson of German immigrants on my father's side.  Now on my mother's side of the family, her father was also a son of an immigrant. But his father just so happened to be a French priest. Not sure what made him quit the priesthood and journey to the new land, but I'm sure he was escaping from something or someone that was very unpleasant. Like burning at the stake or having your head chopped off. The family never talked much about my grandfather, John Henry's, side of the family.

Now my grandmother, on my mother's side, was a convert. See, grandma was raised a deep-woods Southern Baptist.  How my grandfather, this French Catholic Yankee, ever convinced my grandmother and her family to let him marry her and make her a Catholic had to be a true miracle of the first degree. But he did, and the two religious beliefs sort of merged with my father's Black Forest type of Catholicism and that's how we ended up being what I call "Southern Fried Catholics." A least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Early California Days

Yeah, we made the move West, again. It was in the summer of  '59. I was in my early teens by then. I was more aware of why we had decided to move. My father was getting itchy feet. I remember every Saturday he would go down to the local tobacco & newspaper store and buy a copy of the Los Angeles Times. It was huge newspaper. It would take forever to read it.  I remember how my dad would go through it and recite, like a litany, the wonders of living in California.

My mother was strictly a Southern girl. Although her father had immigrated to the South from Indiana, on her mother's side of the family they went "back to dirt." A Southern term meaning they were here since the beginning of America. Family was very important to my mother, especially her father. But my father was persistent and it just so happened, my mother had gotten into a big argument with her family and decided it was time to go. So we packed up and away we went.  

After a fairly uneventful trip we ended up in Southern California. Pomona, to be exact. Why? My mother said it rhymed with Ramona. Ramona was my oldest sister's first name. That's when I had an epiphany. These people I called my parents were not playing with a full deck.