A Soldier's Stories

Raising the Right Hand Again.

2012-06-02T11:25:00.000-07:00

I opened the door to the recruiting office and immediately felt I was back in my office at Camp Bussac, France. Drab government desks and chairs, unimaginative pictures on the walls - other than the back wall with the US and Army flags, the pictures of the president, army chief of staff, the general commanding the recruiting command, and a picture of the station commander.

Soldiers in khaki uniforms talked to prospective recruits, their command insignia on the left shoulder.

This is the insignia they wear on the shoulder straps.

I had a basic idea of what I wanted. No more office jobs! Driving around, I’d seen the big rigs barreling down the highways and thought that might be a neat way to make a living. And, what a great way to see this wonderful nation of ours.

Recruiting pamphlets lay all over the place. They weren’t what I sought. No big surprise, but there was a bookcase against the wall across from one of the recruiter’s desks and it had what I wanted, the Army regulation on Military Occupational Specialties. As a unit clerk I was very, very familiar with it. The recruiter’s eyebrows lifted when I asked if I could read it, but he nodded.

I went through it until I found the information for a Motor Transport Operator - the fancy military word for a truck driver. As soon as a recruiter ended what he was doing, he invited me to his desk.

He was a Staff Sergeant, what I knew to be the lowers rank permitted for a recruiter. He had all the salad to show he was a “leg”, an infantryman. But, the impressive one sat at a big desk at the back of the office. His six stripes showed him to be an master sergeant and a lot of rows of ribbons, a combat patch [Seventh Cavalry] indicated being in the Korean War - to include an impressive Purple Heart - and the equally impressive jumps-out-of-perfectly-good-airplanes-badge, along with another bragging about shooting at the enemy.

Remember, 1961 was a time when we weren’t at war with anyone - if you don’t count our “Advisers” serving in Vietnam.

The recruiter’s job was easy. All he had to do was pick up the phone and call his headquarters to get a slot for me to attend the US Army Transportation School. [No computers back then!]

“You don’t need to go to the school, Dale. We can send you to a transportation company where they’ll OJT you.” [That meant On The Job Training - or learn it while you do it.]

That was fine with me, so he confirmed I would sign up for a company at Fort Bliss, Texas - just outside of El Paso. He also told me that I’d first have to go to Fort Ord for in-processing, including being issued uniforms. Everything was confirmed and all it needed was to deciding the date and filling out the form.

As he sat there hunting and pecking with two fingers, I couldn’t take it any more. I asked him to let me at the machine and I went at it, typing as fast as when I was in the army before - I didn’t use one much at NCR but kept at it enough not to lose my touch-typing speed of almost 95wpm. I’d also filled out so many army forms that the ones he had were a cinch. I was even prouder as I only had to use WhiteOut once on a form that wasn’t all that important.

The crusty old sergeant came over to watch for a bit and smiled when I handed him the folder containing all the stuff I’d finished.

It was a Wednesday and I told them I had to give NCR two-week’s notice. It was decided that I’d enlist on Jun 21st, a Monday.

Ed wasn’t at all thrilled but had no choice. He took my written resignation, initialed it and sent it to payroll so I’d get my last check on my last day of work for him.

When the time came, I loaded what little personal stuff I had in the trunk of my car, put on a decent pair of slacks and button-up shirt - even a pair of somewhat shined loafers - and headed for the recruiting station. My last paycheck was in my pocket and I knew it would hold me over until I got my first military pay.

There were four of us - I was the only one with prior service. The district commander, a captain, was there to administer the oath. After signing our paperwork, he had us stand between the US and Army flag, had us raise our right hands, and said these words for us to repeat”

I, (NAME), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

So, once again I was a soldier, a mere private in the United States Army.

What lay ahead of me this time?

A Pattern Emerges

2012-05-28T13:22:00.003-07:00

If you read the first post about my enlisting in the army, you might remember how I never seemed to get what I wanted. The recruiter signed me up to be a veterinary assistant. But, after all the tests at the processing center, they sent me to school to be a construction equipment repairman. Then, at the engineer maintenance platoon, they learned I could type, so they had me replace the parts clerk. But, that wasn't the end of it by any means. When the company clerk departed, I ended up behind his desk.

Back home and after working in the service station for 4 or 5 months, I met some guy who wanted to share an apartment in North Hollywood. I jumped at the chance to truly get out on my own. The complex was a bachelor's dream with most of the apartments occupied by Stews from TWA, Pan Am, American, and others.
I realized that being a grease monkey was not what I wanted to spend my life doing. I was told that National Cash Register Company was hiring technicians to repair their equipment – and they would train you.

Those were the days when I owned a suit and tie so I dressed up and headed downtown to the NCR office. I filled out an application and they gave me a test right away. Being very good at taking tests, I was not surprised when the interviewer told me I'd aced it – no misses. He then gave me another test very much like the aptitude test the army gave me when I first enlisted. Again, the results came back very positive and I was offered a position where they would send me to Akron, Ohio to learn to repair their cash registers – and banking machines.
Oops! There was one little hitch. It would be several months before the classes would start. However … If I was interested, there was an opening in their parts department. I could work there, gain seniority, and learn a lot before going back to Ohio.
Why not? It was better than pumping gas and cleaning windshields.
I signed the contract and reported by my new job the following Monday. Earning a lot more than in the service station.
Even after all these years I can see the guy who ran the parts room. His name was Ed and he'd worked for NCR since the turn of the century. He told me he'd worked on the first cash register with an electric motor. The guy knew where every nut, screw, bolt, and pin in the large parts room was located. A tech would come in, show him the part, and he instantly knew where to find it. He could even tell the year and model of the machine it belonged to!
I don't know why, but it turned out to be an easy job for me. I, of course, had to follow the various manuals and lists Ed had on hand but I quickly learned where most of the stuff was and how to check stuff in and out.
And then Ed dropped the bombshell on me – he was planning on retiring and had selected ME to be his replacement. Oh goody. At 21 years of age I could look forward to spending the next 44 years or so stuck in a room full of parts and a service counter.
Security. Good retirement package. A company that would be around for years to come. What more could I possibly ask for?

Life Changes

2012-05-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

I returned home to Southern California after 34 months in the Army. I encountered changes. Lots of changes.

At least, unlike a lot of the guys and gals coming home today from Afghanistan, I had jobs waiting for me. Not exactly what I wanted, however. I went around to a lot of construction companies to try to get a job repairing construction equipment - what I'd learned at the Army's Engineer School in Virginia. But, because I didn't have a lot of hands-on time, they weren't interested. In the end, I got a job working in a service station.

Back in the 60's, Service Stations were just that. You drove in and asked for gasoline. While that was going into your vehicle, the attendant lifted the hood and checked your oil, water, belts, and hoses. Some of us even checked your tire pressure. Sometimes - not very often - we even got a tip.

I don't remember much about the owner but he put me on the late shift where I think I closed up about 9 p.m. The day shift mechanic went home about 5 p.m. so that left it up to me in the event someone drove in with a problem. I wasn't the greatest mechanic in the world but always managed to get the vehicle back on the road - while attending to the pumps at the same time.

I had moved in with Nana Duple as there was nowhere else for me to go. I had the same room I'd grown up in. I either rode the infrequent city bus - Olympic Boulevard to Western and north to Sunset Boulevard - or a bicycle I bought - I was in very good shape back then.

After six months, I'd saved up and Nana Duple co-signed for me as I bought my very first car - a beauty.

[Mine had gold trim and a big 500 cubic inch V8]

That gave me the mobility to visit some of my old haunts - and old friends. That's when the changes really hit me. My guy friends were either all married or about to be so. The "other" friends were the same - except for one who ended up finding me. Things between us were never meant to be.

So, when I read of our veterans returning home in these days, I can sympathize with what they face. Not only be removed from a "family" closer than one's blood kin, but facing those who've gone their own ways. And, I don't know how they deal with being unemployed and facing the despair of not knowing how to live or support one's family.

So, may God bless all of them and I pray things will turn around before too long so they have a chance to enjoy the dreams and plenty this wonderful country once had - dreams they laid their lives on the line for.

Sorry for the Inactivity

2012-05-12T17:18:00.000-07:00

Been very busy doing a variety of things.

First of all, just finished, The Mission Bloom, Book Four of Father Serra's Legacy. Even did the first automated spell/grammar check, so all I have to do is line edit it before sending it to my publisher.

Finishing it showed me I've still got some more to tell about the founding of the California missions. But, I'll leave that for you who have found and are following my other blog; Father Serra's Legacy @ http//:msgdaleday.blogspot.com I hope you'll stop by and check it out.

As for my posts here, please bear with me as I plan on posting some more in the near future.

Thanks for your patience.

MSgt Day

The California Presidios

2012-04-02T11:28:00.000-07:00

As indicated in previous posts, growing up in Southern California made me aware of its Spanish influence. I knew of the missions but had never heard of “presidios.” The first time I became aware of them was during my Basic Combat Training at Fort Ord, California. [See my earlier posts about military life.] The Special Services Office gave guided tours for we poor recruits – the only way we were permitted to leaved the base before graduation. On a tour to the famous Cannery Row, the guide briefly said something about “The Presidio,” a large, nearby, park-like area.

Then, I was assigned to the Presidio of San Francisco. I then learned that presidio meant a fort of some kind. If there was a museum there, I don't remember it so I don't think I ever delved into the history of the place. I just assumed it came from the Spanish era.

My research into the era for Father Serra's Legacy has taught me what they were and the important role they played in California history.

The above map shows the first presidio established in California located alongside the bay in San Diego. There is very little left of this place that never really reached a stage of building to truly defending against an attack from the sea. It started as a place where sick and dying Spanish soldiers were housed and from where the dead were taken to the nearby cemetary. Over the years, even though it had a reasonable number of soldados de cuera, the name for the soldiers who served in the area literally meaning soldiers of leather jackets, it was never fully manned.

Now that you're curious, these soldiers were lancers and the jackets they wore were of very thick layers of leather that could keep an arrow from inflicting wounds.

As of 1790, a census of the San Diego shows on lieutenant, commanding, one cadet, one sergeant, 5 corporals, and 88 common soldiers with their wives and children. Not exactly a whole lot after being in existence for 21 years!

The next presidio to be founded was at Monte Rey [the correct Spanish name of the place] supposed to be the capitol of Upper California. The capitol of both upper and lower California was in Loreto, Baja California that didn't have a presidio!

The above picture doesn't seem to be that accurate. It is supposedly from Captain Vancouver's diaries or journal and the location is wrong. First of all, the Monte Rey peninsula is forested with massive, tall pines. Second, the presidio was close to the bay as its purpose was to defend against a naval attack. The items in the picture DO seem to reflect what he would have seen.

Again, in spite of its supposed importance, the garrison never reached the size necessary to defend it. In fact, French pirates came and simply ignored the helpless soldiers, setting off to raid the nearby pueblo or village.

The next to be established was probably the most important in military terms, the Presidio of San Francisco defending the entrance to the huge bay.

Again, having lived there, this so-called “historical depiction” seems to be somewhat lacking in accuracy. The fort itself was much closer to the water with long cannon aimed out to sea. The soldiers are not wearing the proper uniforms and it insinuates the Miwok Indians were being herded around like slaves. Again, another example of “politically correct” propaganda about how badly the poor aborigines were treated.

And finally, the fourth presidio, the one at Santa Bárbara. A little bit of reading lets one discover that the fort was actually built well before the mission – very much to Father Serra's disappointment.

Of all the presidios, this was probably the best built and manned. It was not meant to protect a big harbor as there really wasn't one. But, because of winds and currents, it was a regular land fall for Manila Galleons after their arduous voyages across the Pacific. Any ship landing there was well-received and crews were delighted with what the missions friars had to offer. Because of soil and climate, a wide variety of fruits and vegetables were cultivated. Bananas. Figs. Dates. And all of the regular fruits; apples, apricots, peaches, oranges, lemons, limes, etcetera. And fresh vegetables. When Vancouver landed there during one of his voyages, the friar from Mission San Buenaventura brought up a small flock of sheep for provisioning the two ships under his command.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fa/Presidio1880.jpg/800px-Presidio1880.jpg

Like all of the presidios – and missions – this fell into disrepair when Mexico gained its independence from Spain and took over California. The above picture was taken in 1880, well after the arrival of Americans and California's inclusion in the United States.

I'm posting it so you can see an example of a building made of adobe with the tile roof.

I hope you enjoy this and my other posts as much as I've enjoyed gathering the information. Until next time – and I have no idea what it will be about!

Mission Santa Barbára

2012-03-28T17:51:00.000-07:00

Mission Santa Barbára, also known as The Queen of the Missions, is the only one of the 21 in California to remain under Franciscan stewardship since its inception to present day.

The first mission buildings were made of logs, with thatch roofs. Later an adobe wing completed the quadrangle with a dormitory, kitchen and storeroom. There were also rows of over 200 houses for the mission natives built next to the mission.

Eventually, construction of a second quadrangle was begun adjacent to the first. Throughout all this construction, a succession of larger adobe churches were built. The largest one, completed in 1794, had six side chapels and was destroyed in the 1812 earthquakes. Work began on a new stone church 161 feet long, 42 feet high, and 27 feet wide. Initially only one tower was included, but in 1833 a second tower was added, making it the only mission with two towers.

The water system at this mission was so extraordinary that parts of it are still used today by the city of Santa Barbára. It was the most elaborate water system of all the missions. Water from a dammed creek in the hills two miles above the mission was carried by a stone aqueduct to a storage basin near the church. There was even a separate branch with a filtration system used for drinking water.

Very early in writing The Sailor and The Carpenter, Book One of Father Serra's Legacy, I encountered some gaps and questions I could not find answers for online. I contacted the Franciscan Friars there. I cannot express enough thanks for their help and information. They even went so far as to send me a hardback book, Hispanic California Revisited, which provided a goldmine of things I couldn't find anywhere else.

From its founding, there have been very many different buildings on the site. An earthquake in 1814 did serious damage to the fourth and the friars set out to erect a stone building finished in 1820. Finally, in 1827, Father Antonio Ripoli, with two hundred Indian volunteers working in a woolen mill, started on the last. But, with Mexico taking the lands and buildings away from the church, Father Ripoli sailed for Spain in an American brig. The Indians fell to their knees and sobbed loudly at the departure of the beloved “Father.”

An effort was undertaken by the Franciscan to turn the mission into a hospice and then a school for those who wished to take to the cloth. Rome didn't have the money and the church continued to languish. I know some of the friars remained in the area during the period of Mexican rule, harbored and cared for by the Indians they were so often accused of enslaving and torturing.

Finally, in 1885 with the Americans coming into power, the mission became part of the St. Louis, Missouri, Province of the Friars Minor.

I love this picture as it's a perfect replica of what the friars in the 1700s were able to construct. Just look at the difference between the crude structure and the magnificent church in the background. How did they do it?

Efforts have also been undertaken to restore the Presidio. Many of the soldiers serving there received land grants from the Mexican governor as a bribe to keep them from rising up against the far away government in Mexico City.

I hope that if you ever visit California, you will take the time to stop by and sit on a bench in the beautiful gardens or enter the chapel to see replicas of what those friars did more than two centuries ago.

More About the History of California

2012-03-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

Growing up in Southern California I took for granted the names of a lot of places. I knew, for example, that Los Angeles somehow stood for the City of the Queen of the Angels. I knew that Pico Boulevard was named for a Mexican governor. I also thought that Palos Verdes stood for Green Poles.

It wasn't until I got into deep research for my Father Serra's Legacy series that I began to learn much, more about the area of my birth and childhood. Following are some examples:

Olvera Street: Having started as a short lane, Wine Street, it was extended and renamed in honor of Agustín Olvera, a prominent local judge, in 1877. That man was a descendant of Francisco Olvera, a servant in the late 1700s. And, Wine Street was so named because of the profusion of wild grapes in the area – they were cross-bred with grapes brought from Spain.

Sepulveda Boulevard, a major travel artery in the area that ends at San Pedro, the vast ranch granted to the Sepulveda family via Juan Jose Dominguez by Governor Fages. Juan came to LA as a cowboy from Villa Sinaloa, Mexico. He was single and 53 years old. The Sepulveda family were descendants of three lancers – soldados de cuera – who came to California with the early expeditions. It is possible that one or more of their children married Dominguez or his forefathers.

[A word about this photo – it was taken about 1870, more than 60 years after the founding of the rancho. But, it shows the lush grasses that allowed for herds as big as 200 or 300 hundred that roamed all throughout Southern California – the vaqueros being California Indians who had never even dreamed of the existence of horses or cattle less than a hundred years earlier.]

And then there is the town of La Habra. In the ranchos days when vast herds of Mexican cattle and horses grazed over the hills and valleys of Southern California, Mariano Reyes Roldan was granted 6,698 acres (27 km²) and named his land Rancho Cañada de La Habra. The year was 1839, and the name referred to the “Pass Through the Hills,” the natural pass to the north first discovered by Spanish explorers in 1769. In the 1860s Abel Stearns purchased Rancho La Habra. Soon thereafter, heavy flooding followed by a severe drought brought bankruptcy to many cattle ranchers.

I certainly knew that any of the places named San or Santa had something to do with Catholic saints. I just didn't know how that came to be. I learned that, when a location of than a mission was named, it was for the saint whose feast day it was on the Catholic calendar.

I certainly didn't know the history of the famous Beverly Hills. It seems that a Luis Manuel Quintero, who came to California from Guadalajara, Mexico, was a Pobladore who signed up with Captain/Governor Rivera. He was also a tailor who was there for the founding of Royal Presidio of Santa Barbára and Mission San Buenaventura. Three of his daughters married soldiers. A granddaughter married Vincent Villa who became the owner of Rancho Rodeo de las Augas on what it now known as Beverly Hills. I only wonder if that was the source of the famous – and very exclusive – Rodeo Drive. Perhaps the rancho's driveway?

I also grew up with earthquakes being far more common than thunderstorms. So, it was interesting to learn that, when Don Gaspar's initial expedition came across a river they named after Santa Ana, they encountered an earthquake and name the river as el Rio de los Temblores or River of Tremors.

Redondo Beach = after an original settler, Candelaria Redondo, widow of Francisco Xavier Sepulveda. Probably one of her five children had a rancho there.

El Segundo? The second what? Aha! Here it is courtesy of Wikipedia: The city earned its name ("the second" in Spanish) as it was the site of the second Standard Oil refinery on the West Coast (the first was at Richmond in northern California), when Standard Oil of California purchased the 840 acres (3.4 km²) of farm land in 1911

How about Azusa? I always got a kick out of this from the song, Route 66. Azusa originally referred to the San Gabriel Valley and river, and likely derives from the Tongva place name Asuksagna. And then, there's Cucamonga. The Mission Gabriel established the Rancho Cucamonga as a site for grazing their cattle. In 1839, the rancho was granted by the Mexican governor of California to Tiburcio Tapia, a wealthy Los Angeles merchant. Tapia transferred his cattle to Cucamonga and built a fort-like adobe house on Red Hill. The Rancho was inherited by Tapia's daughter, Maria Merced Tapia de Prudhomme, and her husband Leon Victor Prudhomme. The name “Cucamonga” is probably derived from a Tongva word for “sandy place.”

Want more?

Check back when I get the time from writing book three to share more with you.

More of the California Missions

2012-03-13T16:59:00.000-07:00

Part of learning so much about California history is having the bubbles burst on some of the cherished stories I learned and loved about my home state.

One of them, of course, is Zorro, The Masked Avenger. A landed Spanish Don, he rode forth to wrong the rights against the poor and unprotected populace of Mexican California.

Oh yeah?

It turns out that Zorro, The Fox, is a fictional character from the mind of a New York-based dime-book writer of the early 1900's, Johnston McCulley.

What a bummer. But, my research teaches me there were no Spanish Dons [those holding Spanish royal titles] who owned the massive Rancheros in early California. The huge landgrants were handed out to private soldiers who had completed their enlistments in lieu of a lot of pay they had not received from the Royal Treasury. There were a couple of officers who received grants but they were Criollos, Spanish/Indians born in the New World. These soldiers often “hired” local Indians to work for them, their pay being in the form of food, clothing, housing, and animals.

Another myth was of the famous/infamous bandit Juan Murietta. I went to high school in Redlands, not far from a place called Murietta Hot Springs. I always thought that was perhaps one of his hideouts from the terrible American posses sent out to hunt this brave defender of Mexican rights. I learned not a lot true is known about this historical figure. Some say he was part Cherokee and part Spanish peon run away from sugar cane plantations in the American southeast. I also discovered there was little heroic or patriotic about him. He was an out and out cutthroat thief and murderer of the lowest order.

Another is how land grants were measured. Somewhere, I heard the story of how a rider would start out when the sun's rim rose in the east and ride until it fully set in the west. Anything inside this circle was considered part of the grant.

Alas, another fairytale. During Spain's rule, the governor's simply marked out an area the perspective soldier grantee felt he could work and drew it up on a hand-sketched map. The grants increased radically during Mexican rule as the Mexican government and governors used them to pay back political favors. They were supposed to be landed estates of the Mexican gentry but often lacked substance and certainly did not have the massive, adobe structures we modern people think of.

The entire system of large ranchos fell apart with the rise in power of Americans who created first, the Republic of California or The Bear Flag Revolt, but quickly lost out when General John Fremont showed up and claimed it for the United States

And yes, American Destiny carried forth in the claiming of California, resulting in massive deaths of Indians who, up until the secularization of the missions, had been protected by the friars. It is something I find saddening in the history of my native land.

One final myth was how American pirates had raided the coasts of California, Oregon, and Washington. It was actually _French_- pirates!

Ah well, more later.

The California Missions – Continued

2012-03-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

When one considers what the Franciscan friars accomplished in the 18^th Century, one has to wonder how on earth they did it.

These men came from modest families in the outer areas of Imperial Spain. Even if their families were blooded and members of the aristocracy, they certainly had little or no background in the crafts needed to create self-supporting communities. What education they did received was ecclesiastical. They studied the bible and the teachings of the Catholic church. They spent more time kneeling in prayer than in actual physical activities.

Like Father Serra, most felt called upon to set forth to the New World, a place of danger in which they saw the opportunity to bring heathens to the Word of God. They endured dangerous journeys in leaky ships on which they had little in the way of decent food. They landed on the east coast of New Spain to be faced with a trek of several hundreds of miles to a place where they continued their education in things felt necessary to their calling.

I must admit that this is a place where my research into this era falls short. I have been unable to gather little information on the Franciscan mission to the College of San Fernando. I am certain it is contained in the archives somewhere but have yet found a source to provide me with more than the bare essentials of a school for priests.

Fathers Serra, Palóu and Crespí were but three of many who passed through the college to go on to places in Mexico [Majica as known to the inhabitants of that land]. These three first went into the rugged Sierra Gorda mountains. Eventually Fr. Serra was made President of five Sierra Gorda missions. He built the Church of Santiago de Jalpan, which is still in use, and supervised the founding of the four other churches. After being appointed as a professor at the college, he once again was given the chance to conduct a mission in Mexico. Fr. Serra's missionary activity during these years was mostly in south and central Mexico, in what is modem Oaxaca, Morelia, Puebla, and Guadalajara; the region east of Sierra Gorda; and in the province of Mesquital, part of Mazatlan [eastern Mexico]. The work was very exhausting, and the only rest he had was during the time required to go from one town to another or the return to the college after a mission. One time he was poisoned, someone putting rattlesnake venom in the chalice. He refused an antidote but recovered just the same.

But, to continue about what the friars had to do besides teaching new disciples and conducting holy rites. They were called upon to construct European style buildings in a land where permanent structures were unknown. The Indians lived in crude shelters made of twigs, limbs and brush, open to the breezes. The friars had to find the materials and shape them to be used for building not only places of worship but places to live and conduct the various trades.

Then, as if that were not enough, in order to put it all together, they had to be carpenters, masons, potters, farmers, herders, veterinarians, doctors, linguists, and teachers. Where on earth did they learn all of this.

Reviewing genealogy records for the period shows that most of the soldiers who served with the friars at the missions were poorly-educated men who had few skills beyond their military duties. Some were farmers and all knew horsemanship and how to care for their animals. I guess this is where the Indians learned to becomes such outstanding vaqueros in such a short time.

More about these amazing men in my next post.

Thanks for the Award

2012-03-06T10:25:00.002-08:00

And the Award Goes to...

In accordance with the Versatile Blogger Award, I previously revealed seven random, never before mentioned facts about myself.

Again in accordance with the rules, it's now time for me to detail those bloggers whom I think also deserve the title...

So here goes:

Margaret James

Now we can all look forward to reading the seven random things these guys all come up with about themselves, as well as seeing who they'd like to give the award to, too x

What Should I Write About?

2012-03-04T17:23:00.001-08:00

First off, an apology to those who follow this blog and expect me to post interesting stuff.

It ain't as easy as it looks. There just don't seem to be enough hours in the day to do all the things I need to get done.

So, what's it gonna be?

I think one of the things I can do is post some excerpts from my Father Serra's Legacy. It seems for every five or six thousand words I write, I end up spending at least an hour doing research. Or scanning through all the reference material I have saved on my hard drive to ensure I've got the right information. As much as I enjoy the writing, I enjoy even more learning about the brave and pious friars who gave their all to carry out what they saw as their sacred duty. And, dispelling some of the lies and accusations I heard while growing up in Southern California.

Here's a small tidbit from the second novel in the series, "The King's Highway."

Mission San Luis Obispo was quite successful from the start. Part of it was due to the excellent and mild weather. But, most of all it came from the intelligent and diligent Chumash Indians who lived in the area. When the Spanish first arrived in the area, they encountered a multitude a huge and ferocious creatures - Grizzly Bears. They feared nothing. The poor Indians only had crude spears and weak bows. The bears were at the top of the food chain and had no enemies. The second most dangerous animal was the Mountain Lion or Puma. But, it would only attack an unattended bear cub or an adult male that was disabled or very ill.

And the bears decided to attack the Spanish, strange creatures riding on the back of even stranger deer or antelopes. Much to their surprise, the strange creatures had very sharp fangs. Long, steel-tipped lances, razor sharp swords and, even more powerful, muskets.

The bears didn't go down easy and several soldados de cuera fell before slashing claws and ferocious fangs. But, in the end, the Spaniards carried the day and the bears learned to find other prey.

This was an astonishing blessing to the Chumash who showed their appreciation by coming to the mission, listening to the friars, and lending a hand in making the strange structures so unlike their own wattle and dried mud huts.

In fact, when foodstuffs ran low among the first three mission, the governor led a detachments of these soldiers back to the Valley of Bears to slaughter dozens. They shared some of the meat with the Chumash and took lots of bear hides and carcasses back to Mission San Antonio and Monte Rey.

A side note: Not all the Chumash were that pleased with the arrival of the Spanish in their area. Most unhappy were the tribal elders and "shamans" or medicine men. [In my research, I learned Shaman is not really the correct word for those leading tribal religious rites. The proper one seems to be Healer.]

They roused their people and groups from the south and east of The Valley of the Bears came and attacked the mission, using fire arrows to set the thatch and tule reed roofs afire. Padre José Cavalier, who founded the mission with Father Serra, remembered the tile roofs in his home of Majorca. He remembered out how to make clay and an oven/kiln to harden it. He then formed strong beams and covered the chapel roof with the tiles we have become so used to calling Spanish Tiles. Bit by bit, he made enough to roof, not only the chapel but the warehouses and living quarters for the soldiers and acolytes. Seeing how well they worked, it soon became a matter of common practice to use similar roofs in all the missions.

Oh yeah, to begin with, most mission structures were not very substantial, made of willow rods with smaller twigs and brush interlaces, all covered in dried mud. It was only a few years later when the hard work of making adobe bricks, that more substantial structures were erected.

And yes, the Chumash worked at the side of the friar's to do all this - without enslavement! They did so in return for better food, not having to face starvation or suffering from drought, and freedom from the predation of the bears.

[Hope you enjoyed this.]

Google Reader

2012-02-26T16:55:00.000-08:00

It's hard to find time to work on Missions Bloom when I spend so much time going through the more than 100 blogs I check out daily on Google Reader.

I like to follow the news of the world. But, sometimes the stuff that shows up on blogs puts a whole new perspective on things.

I don't plan on turning this blog into political statements. I guess it should be plain to many that I tend to have some conservative outlooks on things. Others could be termed liberal - although I shudder at having that word applied to me.

At the moment, I'm still getting about 5,000 words a day on the manuscript, but am kinda on hold because I'm waiting for some information on the Franciscan College of San Fernando in Mexico.

Gasoline headed to $5 per gallon.
Riots and killings in the Middle East over what appears to me to be nothing.
Constant news about who's running for office and who's trying to be re-elected.

When does it end?

Anyhow, off to read the blogs so I can cut and paste the stuff I know will drive the liberals on my local newspaper's e-forums up the wall. I love watching them wriggle and squirm when I cite facts!!!

See ya later.

My Apologies

2012-02-17T16:32:00.000-08:00

for letting my followers down by not posting for awhile.

I'm deep in writing and researching the third of my Father Serra's Legacy trilogy. Bluewood Publishing gave me six months to finish it and there's so much to go into it that it's turning out to be the hardest of the three to write.

If I write about a visit to a particular mission in a certain time frame, I've got to ensure that I include the proper historical figures in their appropriate role. Between a bevy of research sources, I've come across several sites that include the rather complete genealogy of California from 1769 to about 1840. So, as you can guess, it's not just a matter of getting the words down on paper.

But - it's fun!

And I want the final product to be something everyone can enjoy - and learn from. [How many boring hours did I spend in classroom going through stuff written for a mummy?]

Anyhow, got lots of other stories to write about my military career and will get back to telling A Soldier's Tales in the near future.

See ya!!!!!

Back to Work

2012-02-07T17:39:00.000-08:00

There's a Catholic church here in Las Vegas with a chapel open to the public 24 hours.
I can spend days and days trying to remember the last time I actually had a conversation with The Man. But, with all that's happened, I closed my eyes and poured out my heart.
I prayed that my little friend is safe and has someone to feed and care for him.
I prayed my wife would suffer less in the days ahead - his leaving has caused her a great deal of pain.
And I told Him how I was not trying to use or abuse the story of what brave, pious men did in the 1700s to spread His word in the Californias. My goal was and is to let many know what life was like and set things straight. They did not enslave the Indians, treating them like their own children. I also made a promise to Him that we won't discuss in a place like this.
And, much to my surprise, it broke my writer's block and the story is unfolding in front of me. I know how to deal with the main character's grief for the loss of his beloved wife and carry the story of founding the final of the 21 missions at the same time.
I've read endless threads on writer's block and that short period in a chapel sure got rid of mine.
Back to work!

He's Gone

2012-02-05T17:25:00.000-08:00

“Poppi! Buddy's gone! Wake up.”

The words don't quite register but I struggle from sleep and swing my feet to the floor.

“Hurry. He's not here.”

Has that blasted dog jumped the wall again? How can he get over a 7 foot wall with an additional foot of fencing atop that? And why?

I manage to get my sweats on and slip my feet into a worn pair of slippers. As my wife gets ready, I have time to slip a coffee container into the micro to heat it up. I don't care that it was last night's brew. While it's being nuked, I grab my cane and slide open the door to the patio and call his name. “Buddy! Come here baby.”

No response. No wriggly body with wildly wagging tail and slurpy tongue to greet me.

I walk around to the back, still calling.

No response.

It's still an hour before dawn and too dark to see how he got out. As soon as my wife's dressed, we prepare to leave. I step out onto the driveway and call.

Still no response.

We spend the next hour driving up and down streets search for a brown Pit Bull mix with a white blaze, white paws and a white tip at the tail. Up and down streets on both side of the main avenue.

Nothing.

We finally give up and return home. My wife calls one of our boys and, when he has a chance, he also checks the neighborhood.

No luck. No sign.

It's 24 hours since he left and another search this morning came up empty.

It hurts.

You really don't appreciate the spot in your heart that four-legged creature holds. He can't speak but he's just like a human child. He understands you and looks to you for nourishment. He gives unbridled love. He lets you know when someone approaches the house and warns when he thinks it's necessary. Especially such dangerous creatures like the blackbird that spent all last summer tormenting him. Or those darned cats that come to tease him. [That's probably why he went over the wall – chasing a cat.]

What are we gonna do without him?

We're off to check the shelter, praying he's there.

If he isn't?

And, he wasn't.

So, now what?

Coming down off the high

2012-02-03T17:17:00.000-08:00

Now I know why it's so damned hard for addicts to give up their high.
It wasn't that much by most measures but, for me, it was a first. Due to the high pain level, the doc put me on a narcotic called Percoset. It didn't really help that much and an ER doc gave me an oral steroid. That didn't help all that much so the first doc upped it a notch to Oxycodone!
Wow! Somewhere at 30,000 feet.
But, you ain't gonna believe this - that didn't help all that much either. It also brought on a lack of appetite - a good thing as I sure need to lose weight. Dry mouth. Unable to sleep.
So then, he puts me on a table and jams a very large needle into my spine with a steriod.
Aaaaaa, what a relief.
So, no more pain meds. Uh, at least no more than a couple of Tylenols now and then.
Have had the shakes ever since. Can't sleep all that well - except on my lounge chair. Even have a heck of a time typing this.
And - guess what? - the pain's still there.
Well, at least now it's only a 2 or 3 on the 10 point scale and I can live with that.
You hear about people who suffer from rheumatoid arthritis and never understood just how much suffering it entails. AND, THEY AIN'T A WHOLE LOT WE CAN DO ABOUT IT! It's part of growing old and all or most of us are gonna get it!
So, time for some changes.
     Lose some weight - ease the pressure on the lower spine.
     Good ole fish oil and diet change.
     Exercise - which I already do a bit - but not enough.
     And be smart - don't strain things to make 'em worse.

Sure like to hear from any of you out there who've been through it and how you deal with it.

Ain't nothing worse than ...

2012-01-28T21:26:00.000-08:00

...someone complaining about how bad they feel.

Why do I want to hear about everybody else's problems when I got enough of my own?

How many of us have been there and done that?

Well, I'm certainly one of them.

And, I guess I've just been caught in the "what goes around comes around" syndrome of Sin City.

Back in July, I let myself get scammed on the internet. I called two local tv channels and put out the word so others wouldn't run into the same. It certainly seemed legit. An email from the Internal Revenue Service telling me a had a rebate coming. I even checked the "click here" icon and it certainly looked official. So, I filled out the form and happily sat back, waiting for the refund to come to my back account.

I checked my back account early the next morning ... to find $1,900+ taken out of my account for some place called Novocio Tech Division in Bucharest, Romania. I got suckered! An out and out email scam. It wasn't until later that I learned the IRS NEVER does stuff like that over the internet. They're still old-fashioned and do everything by snail-mail!!!

Yeah! Ya better believe it!

Well, I went to the bank and told them it was a scam, asking for them to hold up and investigate.

Months went by and I got some documents from the outfit in Romania showing what was purchased and how it was delivered by courier someone local in that country. Did anybody wonder what an American's account was doing purchasing computer security stuff for someone in Bucharest?

In the end, the bank had no choice - day before yesterday, they took the money out of my bank account - or at least what little was left there. Oh yeah - I wrote to the NOVICIO TECH DIVISION outfit to find they've got a website contact@funnybox.ro and explained what happened, asking for a refund. The response was an off-hand slap in the face, a sem-polite comment that they did everything according to the law, their bank checked to determine the transaction was legal - and to stop accusing them of anything illegal.

And, as much as I hate to admit it, it was nobody else's fault but my own! Mister Dulgheru Silvio, of Constanta Str. UNIRII NR. 77 BL. V6A, SC. C. ET. 3. AP. 42 Judet CONSTANTA suckered me good.

I wonder how many other dumbies he got? And, with Novicio Tech Division's knowledge?

It seems to come in multipliers. I've been suffering what I thought was a pinched nerve causing severe inflammation of the sciatic nerve. Couldn't sleep and had shooting pains from my hip to down below my knee every time I stood up and/or tried to walk. Went to a pain specialist and he gave me some pain medication that made me sleepy and didn't help all that much. The only relief I got was sitting in my lounger or here at my desk - although I keep falling asleep while typing. Went back, got stronger medicine and an MRI. That showed old age is getting to me that I've got rheumatism. Ain't bad enough that I'm a fat old geezer, now I've got the pain to tell me that on a daily basis.

Guess things could be worth. As I wrote in "Backing up my words", this has been a pretty good month on the slot playing - we're just about far enough ahead for the month to cover the money I let us get scammed. So, two local casinos are actually paying for my stupidity - and the bank couldn't 've picked a better time to taker out the money I wouldn't otherwise have.

And, the doctor put my on oxycodone. It puts me to sleep and kills my appetite. So maybe I'll begin to lose some of the fat. On the other hand, it's making me harder to keep up with all the discussion forums and, most important of all, working on the first draft of The Missions Boom, Book Three of Father Serra's Legacy.

So, it's good - and it's bad - and it's all part of living. There are a whole lot of people with far worse than me. So, I've really got no complaints.

I guess someone out there is watching over me.

Backing up my words

2012-01-22T05:59:00.000-08:00

I'm certain many of you have seen the book I wrote titled “Lost Wages in Las Vegas.”

It purports to be about gambling in Las Vegas and how to get the best bang for your buck.

I don't consider myself an “expert” in terms of knowing all the high-tech and mathematical stuff when it comes to gambling. But, after living here in Vegas for more than 30 years – of which I spent 10 as a professional slot machine player – I've learned a few things to help the tourist and other recreational gambler. I stated in the book that I do okay by following the rules I lay out in the book.

Well, here's a report for my gambling for the year 2011:

My wife and I went to various casinos to gamble 135 different times.

We hit 8 Royal Flushes, 73 deuces wild, and 13 four aces. In addition, we received “gifts of wine, gasoline and meals.

The bottom line – not including all the discounted meals and gifts, we ended up with a GRAND TOTAL of $1,421 for the year.

I figure with all the various gifts and promotion, we broke even and slightly ahead.

So, if you wonder wither I come from presenting Lost Wages in Las Vegas, there it is.

Check it out for yourself. You can either download it as an ebook or order a paperback version of it. All comments are welcome.

[Oh yeah! Luck comes and goes. So, while the way my year is starting out seems exceptionally good, it's all a matter of looking at the long run – the year ahead. So far, my wife has hit 3 Royal Flushes while I've hit 1. She's hit deuces 6 times while I've hit them 7. And, I've hit four Aces twice. In addition, we've received gift cards to a grocery store, blankets and tee shirts – not including her $25 for her birthday in one of Sam's Town restaurants

And, today, Sunday, we will get $30 in gift cards to a local supermarket in one casino and four gifts in another.]

The Dream Comes True

2012-01-20T19:22:00.000-08:00

Mariposa Amarillo’s prognostication proved right. The dark clouds appeared far out to sea and winds drove loose limbs and other objects through the air. Everyone put things in order to weather the storm. The friars and Don Antonio, as he liked to be called although he had no real title other than alcalde, examined everything, not wishing another disaster like the last time.

Jaime huddled in his workshop, the thick adobe walls fending off the worst of the storm. It was impossible to know when or if the bells rang for sunrise Mass and the overseer went from cell to cell to motion the neophytes to go to the chapel. Even with the front doors closed, he could barely hear Padre Juan conducting Mass. Breakfast was served without the usual instruction period and most took their food to their rooms to get out of the torrential rains. All work was canceled except for those like Jaime who had shops or rooms.

The storm lasted all that day and most of the night. The sun came up over the Laguna Mountains to the east and mist rose from the damp ground. People stirred and went forth to check the damage. Those living at the mission heeded the call of the bells and attended morning Mass. Because of the storm, Padre Juan passed up the morning classes and all sat down to eat. As soon as he finished, Jaime headed to the central plaza, then down to the beach.

All but one fishing boat had weathered the storm. Their captains and crews inspected them. One had been blown from its place on the beach and washed ashore on some rocks about half a league north of the village. With nothing else to do at the moment and overcome by an urge he could not explain, Jaime joined the fishermen in their trek to the wreck.

“I will see you later at the mission,” Padre Juan called out to him.

“I have seen this place before,” Jaime muttered as they drew near the boat. The rocks, the sand and the surf hovered in his mind. Then, he saw an object on the shore ahead of him. Without stopping to think, he broke into a run. It was the object of his dream. He dropped to his knees and turned the thing over, discovering it to be a boy his age. The boy’s skin was the color of a Puma’s fangs.

“Come quickly. It is a boy. He has come ashore from the storm.” Jaime checked for a pulse, finding a faint one. The boy wore oilskins of a strange form. Jaime sought his water flask, unstopping it to trickle water through the boy’s cracked lips.

The boy coughed and spat up most of the water. He opened his eyes, unable to open them wide as they were salt-caked, and looked at Jaime. They were blue. The color of the sky. He then croaked out some words Jaime did not understand.

“We must take him to the curandera,” one of the sailors said.

Jaime agreed and the burly man picked up the boy and slung him over his shoulder.

The White Ocelot coughed and brought up more water, gasping for breath.

The healer’s house was to one side of the waterfront, apart from the other buildings. A woman with hair of white stood in the doorway waiting for them. “Remove his clothing.” Her voice held a tone of authority.

As the outerwear was stripped off, Jaime saw the boy’s skin where it had not been exposed to the sun was even whiter than the rest. It was also covered with small, light tan spots. Taking away the hat revealed hair the color of straw.

“He has been in the water for some time,” Doña Ynez said.

Jaime tried not to gape as the last piece of clothing was removed but could not help but noticed the boy was built no different than he or other males in his village. He also saw the boy’s musculature was more bulky than his, although well-formed.

Doña Ynez then did a strange thing. “Help me carry the lad outside to the water trough.”

Even though he had been toughed by months of hard work, Jaime found it difficult to lift the boy, even with Doña Ynez’ surprising strength.

“Be gentle,” she urged, lowering him into the fresh water. “Hold his head above water,” she added, turning to go back inside the house.

What else would I do? Jaime thought. Let him drown?

Doña Ynez returned with a clay jar. It proved to be soap made from the roots of a Yucca plant, the soap everybody used. Doña Ynez laved the boy from head to foot, grinning at Jaime when she washed his private parts. “I have seen more unclothed men than have the wives of this village.”

Jaime instantly liked the old woman for the laughter in her eyes and the gentleness of her age-wrinkled hands. He could not begin to guess her age but knew her to be well beyond any Cahita elder he knew of.

Jaime obeyed her order to lift the boy from the trough and she rinsed the soap away before wrapping him in a cotton towel. They then carried him inside and laid him on a cot.

A young woman and two boys arrived just then. “Empty the trough,” Doña Ynez ordered the boys, “and refill it with water from the river.” She turned to her apprentice and explained, “We must restore his strength and repair the damage the saltwater has done to his flesh.” She reached for a clay bowl and took it to the table, gathering several plants and herbs from the shelves and beams they hung from.

Maria, the apprentice, pounded the contents of the bowl as women pounded maize to make tortillas and then stirred water into the concoction. That went into a small metal pot and set atop the stove.

Meanwhile, Doña Ynez retrieved another jar and poured the contents into her hands. “This is made from a special plant and the oil from the sheep before their wool is taken. It will heal the boy’s skin.”

During this, the boy’s eyes opened and he tried to speak, unsuccessfully as his throat and Adam’s apple seemed to be injured. What words he did speak were strange to all. The only thing they could discern was the boy’s fright over what was being done to him, a reddening of his cheeks as women embarrassed him by seeing him unclad.

Doña Ynez brought over a wooden goblet filled with the liquid she had heated on the stove. She explained to Jaime, “It is an infusion made from bolas de maíz, corn tassels, bark from a willow and some other herbs.” She had Jaime hold the boy’s head while she poured drops of the infusion through the cracked lips that now shone from the balm she had applied.

The white ocelot, as Jaime thought of the boy from his dream, struggled and coughed as the liquid touched his palette. Then, sensing it was not going to harm him, he relaxed and allowed the healer to pour more into his mouth. In the end, he drank the entire contents of the goblet, closing his eyes to fall asleep.

Jaime and the curandera then applied more lotion to the boy’s skin. When it was clear there was little more to do than to cover him and let him sleep, Doña Ynez led Jaime to the table, had him sit down and offered him a goblet of the tea, taking one for herself.

“There is something between you and the boy.”

The mysterious words of elders no longer surprised Jaime. They somehow saw and knew things without being told. “I saw him in a dream. Exactly where and how we found him.” When asked, Jaime told the dream, doing his best to omit nothing.

“Oceloto Blanco. That seems to be quite appropriate to the boy.” Again, Doña Ynez’ smile made Jaime follow suit. “You are the boy they call the Wood Wizard?” Seeing Jaime flinch at being called yee sisibowame o’ou, Yaqui for magic man, Doña Ynez grew serious. “You believe all living things have spirits within them?” Jaime nodded. “And one must appease them when taking their life?” Jaime again nodded. “Then the word magic is not something to feel ashamed of. You are accepting the creator spirits and the way we feel the world was made.”

That surprised Jaime as Doña Ynez had a small statue of The Virgin on a shelf. She also wore a rosary of shiny stones.

“The boy will sleep now. Maria and I will watch over him and give him more nourishment when he awakens. We will call you then.”

Jaime backed out of the house, crossing himself before turning to go to the central plaza. He then found Padre José and told him of the discovery.

“Bring him to me when he can walk on his own,” the friar said.

Jaime nodded and returned to the curandera’s house.

A Strange Dream

2012-01-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

A bell tinkled and Padre José entered behind two young men wearing white cotton shirts. One carried a shiny bowl and the other a large, leather-bound book, Jaime knew to be called the Holy Bible, or holy book of the Iglacia Católico. The Robed Ones often read stories from it that sometimes did not seem so strange to him. As the ritual began, the intonation in the strange language called Latin lulled Jaime. A sharp nudge in the ribs from Josito told Jaime it was time to kneel and make the sign of the cross by touching his forehead, chest and both shoulders.

Jaime found it difficult to look upon Padre Pedro off to one side of the altar. He had removed the top portion of his gray robe to bare his back. What caused Jaime to wince was how the priest used a metal whip of some kind to beat himself about the back and shoulders. He did this during the entire time Padre José conducted the ritual. All could see the streaks of blood upon his back. How can he do that to himself? Jaime wondered.

When the ritual ended, Jaime and his friends left the church to go to the dining area. Tasty aromas arose from the huge iron kettles and Jaime watched the women expertly forming flat cakes of ground maize, cooking them over open flames. As always, the stew was hot and spicy from small pieces of dark green chilis, onions and other spices. The vegetable called a papa was Jaime’s favorite. He also enjoyed the familiar bean paste known as frijoles.

The time after the evening meal was something he looked forward to. The men took their ease as the sun lowered below the far horizon. Three of the men took out their instruments and began to play a lively tune. Dexterous fingers plucked the strings of a guitar while a flute and small drum accompanied it. Several others took up the tune, making up words as they sang

Josito nudged Jaime and Ernesto and they turned to watch the robed figure of Padre Pedro off to one side, enjoying the evening performance.

Jaime dreamed that night. Visions held great meaning to his people. Jaime had not dreamed since death had taken away his world. As he slept, he walked along the shore of a great body of water. Curling waves came ashore, sudsy foam swirling around his bare feet. Many peculiar things lay upon the fine grains of stone, some of them made of brittle substances in whites and blacks.

Many birds swirled in the air, raucous screams filling his ears. The big black and white ones the Spaniards called gaviotas were familiar as he had seen them in his home mountains. In the distance, the rolling water washed a pile of boulders swarming with creatures. They had strange flat things where their legs should have been. Whiskers spiked from their muzzles and they barked. But not like any dogs he had ever seen.

Voices told him how strange it was that a great storm had come at that time of the year. They normally came in the time before things got cooler. Los ciclónes often dropped great amounts of rain, causing floods in the arid mountains.

He saw something strange and hurried towards it. An ocelot lay on the ground, but one unlike any he had ever seen - it was white with light brown spots. He could see it lived, but was hurt. Then, the creature turned its head and stared at him - with pale blue eyes!

Jaime awakened.

The next evening, after the evening meal, Jaime walked away from the compound. He found a rock and sat down, staring at the hills to the east.

“Do you miss it?”

Jaime twitched, and then controlled himself. Nobody had ever snuck up on him before. Old man Wind Talker would have shamed me in front of the village for letting that happen. He turned to look at Ernesto to see his broad grin. He knew what Jaime felt and had moved softly just to unnerve him. “They are gone and will never return.” Nodding, Jaime replied, “No. It is gone and there is nothing I can do to change that.”

It did not take long for Josito to join them. “You will never guess what I have just overheard.”

Seeing the sparkle of interest in his companion’s eyes, Josito spoke. “The rider from the city of Mexico carried orders to the fathers about the Viceroy’s demand to extend the lands claimed for His Highness King Carlos. That is one of the reasons the Black Robes left and the Gray Robes have come.”

Jaime listened, not understanding much. Who are these great jefes so far away? How can they have so much power here?

“It is said el Presidente Padre Serra is to lead a great expedition north to extend Spain’s control over land further to the north than the Black Robes did.”

“That is far away from us here. Why is this of interest to us?” Ernesto asked.

“Well, another rumor is another group of missionaries called Dominicans may come to take over this mission while los Padres José and Pedro go to join El Presidente Padre Serra.”

Jaime rarely spoke, when he did not understand all that was being said. Who is this Father President Serra? he wondered.

Ernesto chuckled. “It will probably mean nothing to us. But, one never knows what the thoughts of the High Ones will have on the lowly like us.”

Author's notes

Excerpts are often difficult as the reader does not have to information leading up to the scene. So, to bring you up to date, here are a few tidbits about The Sailor and The Carpenter, Book One - Father Serra's Legacy:

Jaime [pronounced Hi-may] is an Indian from the western mountains of Mexico. He and two others were the only survivors of an onslaught of Smallpox found by two Franciscan friars on their way to the town of Culiacán. He had become a little accustomed to the strange ways of the holy men.

The white ocelot has also been introduced to the reader. He is Timothy, a youth from England where he grew up on a dairy farm producing cheddar cheese. Due to financial difficulties, Timothy's father has contracted/indentures him to a ship's captain to serve as a cabin boy. The ship is on its way home from exploring the area currently known as Vancouver Island. Jaime has never before seen a European with white skin, freckles, blue eyes and blond hair.

The Research is Over - Back to Writing

2012-01-06T17:05:00.000-08:00

The hardest thing about writing historical fiction is a strong desire to be faithful to one's readers.

The fictional characters are there. I hope I've brought them alive for my readers.

But, so are the real people who lived and breathed in those times so many years ago. They and their descendants deserve to be treated honestly and factually. That means lots and lots of research.

The problem is that different reference materials have different approaches. I spent endless hours going through a reference work, The Genealogy of California. I then had to reconcile that to other materials I've amassed in the effort to get the story right. Not everything agrees!!!

So, what does one do?

As for me, it's trying to make the best of things and put the factual information in approximation with the fictional to make the story informative as well as entertaining.

Who knew that an early California governor got into real trouble when he brought his wife and child to Monte Rey - only to have her discover he had an Indian mistress? And, how she ran to the friars for their help - only to have them tell her it was something she had to work out with her husband.

(Some of this stuff is more fun than anything I could possibly dream up.)

Anyhow, The Sailor and The Carpenter, Book One of Father Serra's Legacy is about to go to the editor. The King's Highway, Book Two of Father Serra's Legacy, has a tentative cover and sits somewhere in the publisher's pending pile. Now, it's back to working on The Missions Bloom, Book Three of Father Serra's Legacy. Some interesting stuff came out of researching all three that I hope to include in III.

The friar who entertained visitors with a parade of chickens, ducks and geese.

A French Count's visits to California and his response to what he saw.

And George Vancouver [we've all heard of him - right?] and Nootka, a fortress against the Russians looming to the north.

Writing the story is great fun!!! I hope you will find reading it half as fun.

[But, the time for editing/revising/re-editing will come sooner or later.]

Keep you all posted.

Welcome 2012!

2012-01-03T16:48:00.000-08:00

I hope all survived the New Year parties with minor hangovers and headaches.
Me and Mine? We slept through it - except for our puppy dog who spent the entire evening telling the world how upset he was with the blasted fireworks!
It started with some good signs - my publisher came up with three covers for the Father Serra's Legacy trilogy that I think will draw readers to it. [Not bad when we've only signed contracts for 2 of the 3]
On the other hand, I got leads to more research material on California in the late 1800's and I have to back off The Missions Bloom until I finish going through it. I'm already discovering a major problem - the various sources don't agree!!! I had the names of 1800 men who lived in California at the time, and the new sources either don't include them or have the names and other information different. Ah well. All one can do when writing historical fiction is provide the reader with the feel of the time with interesting characters.
So thanks for stopping by here and I hope to see you drop by more often to enjoy. You are always welcome to comment.

The End of My First Army Tour of Duty

2011-12-27T12:01:00.000-08:00

[I don't know for certain, but I vaguely remember something like this in Bordeaux.]

Buses ran daily from the camp into Bordeaux. The service increased on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. The weekday bus went to the train station but the extra ones dropped soldiers off at small square with Roman arches. We walked up cobble-stoned streets to the local Red Light District. The old, glaring district had been replaced with lots of bars catering to us American soldiers, not just from Camp Bussac but a couple of others in the area.

I always found it hypocritical that a female French politician had raised such a fuss that such establishments, once controlled and overseen, had been done away with – to be replaced by places with no control at all. The only censorship came from the U.S. Forces Military Police by making them “Off Limits.”

If one walked a couple of blocks further up the street, one entered a large square with a big pond in the middle filled with huge goldfish. That was to play a hilarious part in my memories.

A small Air Force station was located downriver. The boulevard ran directly from the square and we used to walk there to get cheap booze when we were close to broke. We couldn’t get the same stuff at the camp as they only sold cheap, weak American beer. The AF club had everything in the world, including Absinthe; the French called it a liqueur but I’m told it’s a spirit. At the time, it was outlawed in France and many thought it was a hallucinogenic drink. I remember drinking it once - but never again. It came out of the bottle clear and, when water was added, turned either light green or white.

One dare at the AF station was to pay $5 for a large beer stein in which they poured a half shot of every alcoholic beverage behind the bar. One had a 30 minute time limit in which to down the whole thing, then get up from the stool and walk across the bar to the dart board and back to the stool. If one managed to do it, they got to eat and drink for free the remainder of the month. I never tried it and never saw anyone who did that managed to get halfway back to their stool.

The last bus back to camp left at about two in the morning. If one missed it and didn’t make it back to camp in time for bed check, he’d be counted AWOL and would usually be restricted to camp for at least a month. Do it repeatedly and the GI would end up with Article 15 punishment. [I will never tell here how I managed to avoid this several times!]

In all the other units in the camp, getting an overnight or three-day pass was very difficult. In our small unit, it wasn’t that hard at all. And, as the unit clerk, the one who typed them up, I had no problem getting them whenever I wished.

One Saturday night, we’d been drinking pretty heavy at the AF station club and it got awfully close to time for the last bus. We left the station, I seem to remember six or seven of us, and double-timed along the boulevard to the square. We’d made such good time that we knew we’d have no problem getting down to the riverside square. Someone decided the night was too warm and wanted to wash the sweat of his face. So, he stepped into the goldfish pond, followed by the rest of us. Another then decided it’d be fun to try and catch one of the big fish. Apparently, someone took umbrage to our desecration of the park and called the Gendarmes. We made it just in time to pile onto the bus as it pulled out, leaving several Flics angrily waving their batons at us.

One of he things we did to pass the time in the bars was play a dice game using a cup and match sticks. I don’t remember exactly how it worked but the idea was to win the most match sticks. The one who lost first had to pay for the round, the second named the drink and the winner drank it. I seem to remember that it had the words four and twenty-one in it.

I was there when the French had a presence in Indochina and Algeria. Many of the ladies in the bars came from Algeria. There was also numerous Indochinese restaurants in the area and I found the food quite good. As Duple had been a missionary in China, she often took me to Chinatown in Los Angeles and I was rather adept at using chopsticks. So, every once in a while, I’d take my latest companion to one of the restaurants and found the cuisine quite tasty, although some of the dishes were beyond my delicate sensibilities.

Coming from Southern California where rain was rare, the time I spent in France gave me a completely different experience as it rained on a regular basis, almost daily. The day would start out with clear skies and by early afternoon., clouds began to appear. Then, about four or five, the rain would start. Sometimes it would pour down and others would be a simple drizzle. I loved the rain and would sit out on the barracks balcony to watch the lightning displays.

Rain storms and lightning displays are still my favorites – something I dearly miss living in Las Vegas.

In all honesty, after my nearly three years there, I could not (and still cannot) understand why some Americans seem so enamored with France. The food was okay and I found the best to be what was served in restaurants in small towns and villages or the garden variety café where our platoon had its monthly get-togethers.

As I’d never had wine before, the Bordeaux reds seems okay but I actually liked a couple of whites I found in St Émilion. I liked Cognac from that region.

I didn’t find French women all that glamorous and often backed away at the body odor their perfume couldn’t cover up, along with hairy armpits and legs. French men were generally sullen and rude. If I tried a restaurant with waiters, I’d leave to try and find one with waitresses - the men were insufferable and haughty.

I tried to learn French and could get by. But, I never became fluent and quickly forgot most of it within a short time of getting home.

The time came to leave and I looked forward to getting back to the land of hamburgers and cute girls. Harold sent his wife and car home ahead of time and we ended up getting travel arrangements together - again, it didn’t hurt that I was the unit clerk. The company had sent down a replacement so I didn’t have to do a lot to break in the new guy.

I shipped one box of things home, carrying only military stuff in my duffel bag. We rode the US Army train north, once again changing from the Gare Montparnasse to the Gare du Nord, going on an army bus. We were highly relieved when we got to the German border and they transferred our car to a German train.

I wasn’t about to go home in another troop ship and finagled a deal where Harold and I would fly, courtesy of the US Air Force. We got off the train in Frankfurt and were bussed to Rhine Main Air Base. I thought we were going to fly in an Air Force transport plane but were shocked when they loaded us onto a big Lockheed Constellation aircraft. It was huge to me and I couldn’t believe how many people it held - all military. As an air force charter, the stews weren’t exactly beauty queens but, after French women, those American women were movie stars to me.

We landed in Shannon, Ireland to refuel. The weather was cold and damp and we happily walked into the terminal, being free to roam until time came to get back on the plane. I loved the lilt of Irish voices and was able to drink one of their beers - don’t remember the brand. I also wandered through the gift shop to find something for Duple. Don’t remember what it was, but it didn’t cost that much.

Our next stop was Goose Bay, Newfoundland. There were also piles of snow on the ground and it was colder than I’d ever experienced before in my life. There was an air force mess hall and we had a wide choice of dishes as it remained open twenty-four hours.

I remember we landed at McGuire AFB in New Jersey and were never so happy to be back in the good old USofA. It didn’t take long to process us out of the service, giving us our discharge papers and final pay. Harold and I traveled with two other guys from Bussac and we’d arranged to buy a car not far away in Pennsylvania. We were picked up in a van and driven to a town filled with car dealerships. We’d arranged to buy a 1959 Chevy with the huge rear fins. It was a sporty two-door sedan.

We’d pooled our funds and the deal was to drive it across country. One guy was from St Louis, Harold from Redding (we’d drop him in Sacramento where his wife and family met him), I was from LA and the last guy from near San Diego got to keep the car. I don’t know about any cross-country records but we only stopped to gas up, grab a bite to eat and use restrooms. I seem to remember getting to LA thirty-some hours from leaving the car lot.

It was good to be home and a civilian again.

[Maybe, in the not-too-distant future, I'll start posting various adventures/SNAFUs from the next 20 years]

Military Life in The South of France

2011-12-25T19:20:00.000-08:00

First of all, I continue my narrative with a bit of trepidation. It appears Lonnie Robinson has a far better memory of what took place so many decades ago than I have. I have totally forgotten our platoon leader's name – Lieutenant Rumbaugh – and CWO Bosze who was the man behind our shop. Hopefully, he will occasionally chip in to clear up a thing or two I have forgotten.

After all, it's only been 52 years!

Now, to explain the bottle of Four Roses in my last post. One night, it was my turn to sneak out of camp to get us some booze for an all-night poker game. Getting out was no problem as there were holes in the fence the Polish guards turned a blind eye to. Just across the field next to camp was a small huddle of buildings that included a bar where some of the well-worn “girls” hung out. In that particular instance, I had enough script to buy a couple of bottles of Four Roses. We had plenty of coca cola in machines in the barracks, in glass bottles. We spent that Friday night, all the next day and the night after that playing poker in the barracks drinking coke and whiskey. We took breaks to go to the mess hall to eat and a few short naps. We called it quits some time Sunday afternoon and I remember waking up well before reveille Monday morning in my cot, sick as hell with a hangover that didn‘t go away for three days. To this days, fifty years later, I can’t stand the smell of Four Roses.

Every month or so, we would have a unit party in a small village not far from the camp.
All military units have some discretionary funds – usually coming from shares of the earnings of the various entertainment facilities on the bases – to purchase items for the Day Room or other unit activities. Lieutenant Rumbaugh and our platoon sergeant – hopefully Lonnie remembers his name – would arrange for us to convene at a small restaurant. I remember it had lattice work all over the place loaded with grape vines. They even produced their own red wine. The food was actually quite good and I must admit that the French fries were delicious. Who would believe that a tuber from far away Peru would become a trademark of French cuisine?

Harold met a “nice” French girl and, after going through all the paperwork (which I, of course, filled out) married her. He then bought a Renault and I took a train to Paris to pick it up. After being cold-shouldered by every Frenchman I encountered – including many Gendarmes – I made it to the factory where they gave me maps and instruction on how to drive back to Bordeaux. Unfortunately, the factory was on the north side of Paris, meaning that I had to drive through the heart of the city to get there. I encountered incredible traffic in Paris, especially traffic circles. It was a case of the one with the biggest balls winning. Close your eyes and dive in. By the time I got out of the city, I was shaking like a leaf and had to find a place to stop and calm my nerves.

As I stated, it was my first encounter with Parisians. Leaving the train station, I stopped at a small sidewalk restaurant and tried to get a bite to eat. The waiter was one of the most insufferable people I’ve ever met and, I was ready to punch him in his arrogant mouth. But, he was not the only one. No matter where I turned, I encountered the same thing. I spoke little French and was treated like I was some third-class creature barely worthy of notice. Even the people in the Renault factory were snotty!

I was never so happy to get back to camp. Harold's wife found a small apartment near the camp and his wife would drop off and pick him up every working day.

I've spent a lot of time trying to remember where I me and became friends with another soldier and it just came to me – we worked together at the battalion personnel office. Teodore [Ted] Kleemann was a fellow personnel clerk who came from Holland. I remember who impressed we were that he spoke Dutch, German, Flemish, French – and English. He was drafted where he lived in New York City and his main goal was to become an interpretor at the United Nations.

I don’t remember why, but Ted invited me to join him on a trip home to The Hague. We caught the train and it was a lot easier to get through Paris changing trains with Ted’s help. We actually took the Metro subway system, the first I’d ever ridden. Wearing European clothes and with a Dutch accent to his French, he was treated far less disdainfully than I, even though he received some dirty looks for being with an American GI.

(Didn’t we free those people from the awful Germans not long before?)

We stopped at the World’s Fair in Brussels. If I had a hard time understanding French and Dutch, Flemish was even harder. However, the vast majority of people at the fair spoke more than reasonable English. There were good crowds and the only reason we were able to afford the prices was a center for American military personnel where we got special tickets and offers.

From there, we went to The Hague where I met Ted’s family -- truly friendly, generous people. We spent a couple of days, then went to Amsterdam. The canals were kinda neat but I must admit the most interesting part was visiting the area where storefronts held something other than scantily-clad mannequins.

There had once been similar locales in all major and some smaller French cities. However, a female member of the French parliament made such a fuss about the world’s oldest profession, that it had been outlawed. That didn’t mean the areas didn’t exist but were much harder to find.

Once again, the world grew gray and dreary when we crossed the border back into France. At least traveling with Ted was a most educational and interesting way to travel. As soon as we returned to camp, I headed back to the library to read up on the area we'd just visited.

Some more views of France in my next post.

An aside – some time during my tour of duty in France, two events occurred that our platoon became involved in. One was an earthquake in Morocco where the battalion was sent to clear the rubble. Some members of our platoon went along to repair the equipment. Another was a similar earthquake in Lebanon. For the life of me, I have memories of going along. I seem to remember the long, boring hours with the drone of airplane engines deafening us. I also can see a beautiful beach and hear the words calling it the playground of the eastern Med. A stop in Athens and somehow I picture the Parthenon. C'mon, Lonnie! Tell me I'm not imagining things.

Day Four of the Motor Scooter Trip

2011-12-23T19:40:00.000-08:00

I set off to the east after breakfast, my destination the town of Narbonne. I wanted to see it as I'd read it had been founded by the Roman sometime in the BCs. Sure enough, I found a set of stones that were an old roman road.

It was still early, so I turned around and headed for Toulouse. I was situated towards the headwaters of the Garonne River that would lead me back to Bordeaux. Like every other town or city back in the late 1950's, the city was surrounded by farms and fields. I decided to follow the signs to the town square where I found a small cafe and, after parking my motor scooter, sat at a table to enjoy a snack.

The trip had become a bit tiring so I decided to get on my way and head back to Bordeaux, then Bussac. Instead of going to the city, I turned north at Agen on the highway to Bergerac. Who did not know of that town! The home of Cyrano de Bergerac. And they certainly let one know of their famous hero/lover. Heck! I had no idea that he was a real person.

However, there is was – a statue to the real person. Was I ever shocked to learn that his first lover was Charles Coypeau d'Assoucy, a writer and musician!!!

Back on the road through rambling hills with farms, little streams, and lots of woods. I still couldn't get used to how manicured and tended everything was. I never once saw a bit of wild landscape like we have here in the USA.

I know this sounds weird, but it was a bit of a relief to return to the communal barracks. It was “home” to me. I even enjoyed the ribbing from the other guys in the platoon.

As some who read this blog might now know, I just received a shock in a comment posted by a guy who was stationed in the same unit at the same time I was. How in the heck is that for coincidence. At the same time, I really hate to admit this, but I just cannot picture Lonny, no matter how hard I try. He remember Ralph and even the names of our lieutenant and warrant officer. Maybe he can even tell me the last name of Harold who came from Redding, California. We joked about it as I came from Redlands and the two always got mixed up.

Well, enough of this for now. There's only one little hint I'd like make for some of the upcoming posts. It is -----

See ya next time!