Vandenberg

My mom and step-dad recently returned to some of our old family haunts on Vandenberg Air Force Base, near Santa Barbara, CA, where as I recall I attended second through fourth grades. These are images of the house we lived in on base and the school I attended, Crestview Elementary.

I still remember Mrs. King who to my chagrin insisted on kissing me on the cheek when I brought her a gift (Mom gave it to me to give to her) at the end of the school year. I was such a teacher's pet.



But I do recall it was around this time in my life when I took to saying "Bull!" whenever I wanted to protest against an accusation or whatever, and I came very close to getting in "deep trouble" over this because, apparently, "bull" was a little too close to its cousin "bullshit." My mom cleverly copped onto a solution and implored me to add the two syllables "oh-nee" whenever I slipped, so it came out "baloney," though more often than not there was a conspicuous pause between the first and second syllables so it came out "Bull! . . . oh-nee!" Mom likely prevented me from getting suspended with this little trick. Ah, she's a clever one.


I also remember getting a nasty bee sting back then. Sucker hurt.

On a Saturday my friend and I rode our bikes to the school, and I pulled the fire alarm. As the bells rang out we tore out of there like bats out of hell, and I was so scared I'd get caught. Never did, thank goodness.

One more. I remember Mom driving me to the house of a blonde girl I had the hots for on Valentine's Day, so I could deliver a box of chocolates to her. I gave them to her mom when she answered the door. I was to embarrassed to give them to the girl herself. I think her name was Amy Webster or something like that. Ah, the good ole days...

Street Musician

A couple weeks back Alyss and I went out to see my family in Omaha. Here's a highlight from the trip. After a lovely breakfast at The French Cafe, I picked up my adorable six-year-old nephew, Hunter, and took him across the red-brick street to listen to a violinist who was playing a slow classical tune. Street musicians always get to me. Their loneliness. The beauty of the music. Their often tattered clothes. The silent appeal for cash. They are a tribe unto themselves, poets and prophets all.

Anyway, I picked him up and walked over to have a listen. This may well have been the first street musician Hunter has ever encountered. I squatted behind him, put my hand on his chest, and we listened together. Hunter stared and stared. I gave him a dollar and motioned for him to put it with the others in her case. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, continuing to play. Hunter didn't know what to make of it all, and I wonder what wonderings ran through his mind.

I lifted him up and swayed a little, dancing to the tune. Our violinist, as if on cue, picked up the tempo into a lilting Celtic diddy. The sun was shining, spring flowers were out for sale, and while the world bustled around a boy and his uncle moved to the melody.

We sauntered away for a few steps before I turned and felt a divine presence smile through me to the musician.