I'll be BACK... (I AM BACK!)

Three hundred fifty-eight days
eighteen thousand two hundred thirty-one miles later…

I have returned…

Tonight, I sleep in my own room. My very own room.

(Check back in a week or two for a final blog entry -- OK, maybe not till the end of the month...)

And the hunter, home from the hill

The wild and windy night
that the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
crying for the day
Why leave me standing here?
Let me know the way

Many times I've been alone
and many times I've cried
Anyway you'll never know
the many ways I've tried

And still they lead me back
to the long and winding road
You left me standing here
a long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here,
lead me to you door
        -- Paul McCartney, 1969

A journey of 18,000 miles ends with a short drive north on Highway 99.

Tomorrow, I will take my time packing for the last time. I’ll take my two suitcases and backpack to the Saturn in a single trip – as I have dozens of times over the past 51 weeks; and I’ll pile them in the back seat. I’ve opened the trunk only occasionally as nearly all that I need resides in the three portable containers.

I suspect that the miles will flash by as I continue experiencing the mixed feelings that began when I arrived in California a few weeks ago: in some ways, I really don’t want this trip to end.

It has been a wonderful experience, it has been transformational. I will never regret this time spent on the road – alone, but communing with more individuals than during any other period of my life.

As I return to Merced, I know that I am now a person with whom others enjoy spending time. I am an entertaining and engaging companion at the dinner table. I am able to speak to groups of people and capture their attention and interest.

Though most of my character flaws remain intact, I believe I’ve become more adept in avoiding pitfalls and – while not sacrificing my principles – I am able to engage in friendly interaction that is not competitive or confrontational.

When I land in Merced, I will immediately begin my next adventure – a physical transformation into a more healthy and fit state. Having just completed an extended journey will, I believe, improve my chances of success. I intend to make steady progress over an extended period – probably about two years.

And, at the end of this new trip, I hope to “arrive” at a different kind of destination: I hope to become comfortable inside my own skin and to rediscover a high level of endurance, mobility and strength. It’s an exciting prospect and I am motivated.

Tomorrow, then will mark the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

I may not be making many more entries in this Wandering Dave blog. I hope to write one or more articles for publication elsewhere and will likely focus my creative energies in that direction.

Ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
        -- Paul Simon, 1965

And I was there

“It was amazing,” the college student cum journalist was emoting about a road trip he and a few buddies had taken out into the desert. “I never knew there were that many stars.”

Young journalists who write columns or “thought pieces” often fall into a syndrome I call “…and I was there.” They report incidents that occur for the first time in their lives but which tend not to be particularly amazing to older folks.

The novelty of such events is quickly lost as years go by and I suspect most readers experience ho-hum reactions to wide-eyed descriptions of firsts that aren’t news to them.

“There was no traffic. Like, I mean absolutely NO TRAFFIC. We parked the car and I lay on my back, right … in the MIDDLE … of the road! It was awesome to discover that there are roads where practically no cars go by late at night.”

Listening to a travel report on public radio this morning, it occurred to me that such accounts lend themselves to the same kind of naïveté – an innocent, inexperienced sort of response that’s at least 80 percent amazement.

By gilding the lilies, travel writers sometimes tend to eliminate mosquitoes or other negatives. The beauty of desert landscapes described without mention of heat, blowing sand and a level of discomfort that is literally life threatening without artificial shelter (have you considered that it’s called Death Valley for a reason?)

The idea of writing some sort of traditional travelogue about my trip never felt like a good one. I tend to be more interested in ideas and events than in places or vistas. Maybe the requirement that one overlook some negatives in order to present positives more –well, more positively – keeps me from embracing this genre.

In any event, I probably haven’t shared enough of the sense of awe that I’ve actually experienced along the way when encountering natural beauty. I can’t imagine anyone driving 18,000 miles of American highways without gaining an appreciation for the vastness and majesty of the land.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about the 3.5 million square miles is that, even in the 21st century, one can still lie on their back in the middle of most of the 4 million miles of streets, roads and highways late at night without being disturbed by traffic.

Rolling on the river

I've been to town,
I've walked the highways
and in the suburbs too.

I've done some things
I never thought I'd ever do.


Now as I stand here
looking down at you,
you ask me why it is I frown.

I guess it's 'cause I've been to town.


I've been to town
beyond the boulevard
and down the beach,

I've learned some things
that only time can teach,

For instance,
love is more than just a speech,

It's got to find a common ground,

I know 'cause I've been to town.


Don't tell me any more,
I can't waste any more years,

I've seen my image in your eyes,

Dissolve in disappointed tears.


I've been to town,
you ask me do I know the Milky Way,

I do, and furthermore I'd like to say

It isn't milky white, it's dingy gray,

Especially when your world breaks down,


I know because I've been to town.

        -- Rod McKuen, 1969
At the end of just about any endeavor, there’s a tendency toward waxing philosophical. One doesn’t want an enterprise that has consumed time and other resources to have been insignificant.

And yet, after all of the sound, fury and scurrying from place to place, so many episodes in my life – including the current road trip which is ending in about a week – seem to signify little, perhaps nothing.

Sitting within reach of the finish line (I could abort the final week’s itinerary and be home in five or six hours), I’m wondering when the trip will really end. Will it be over when I shut off the engine in Merced? Will it take longer – days, weeks, perhaps months – to reach “closure? ”

Perhaps, since my thoughts have turned more and more toward what comes next, the trip has already ended.

One of my favorite stories is from the time I worked at a small-town radio station. The station manager and sports guy decided to broadcast a downtown parade from inside the radio car. My duty was to manage the broadcast from the studio.

It was only after the entries began moving that our broadcast team realized that – from their vantage point in the middle of the line of march – they couldn’t actually see the parade. They ended up reporting on the parade route, describing the crowd and the buildings along the way.

Needless to say, it was an entertaining narrative – I was rolling on the studio floor.

Speaking of parades, some 2600 years earlier (before Socrates), a Greek philosopher named Heraclitus is reported to have noted that it is impossible to step into the same river twice. Asserting the opposite – that no river can pass through the same place twice – seems axiomatic.

Does being the river (or the parade) – and moving through time and space in a somewhat deliberate fashion – offer an improvement over staying in place alongside the river and dealing with the flotsam and jetsam that drift past?

Being on the road certainly provides the illusion of having control over things. Wanderers are in charge of their speed and direction; but much remains out of their control. Those who remain in place can insulate themselves from much of what courses past – but there is no protection from some impacts.

Good grief!

How did I ever get to the point where my quotes and catchy phrases are coming from Heraclitus? 500 B.C., For crying out loud.

It’s a good thing that I’m almost home.

Lights out!

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -

We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;

And it’s likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
        -- Ernest Lawrence Thayer, 1888

Destiny seemed to have kicked in. By pure happenstance, I drew closer and closer to my home town of San Diego as the home-town Chargers fought their way through tough competitors in a series of “must win” games toward the Division Championship.

Lo, and behold, at the end of my westward trek I found the Golden State basking in the sunshine and preparing for a post-season that held out the possibility of returning to the Super Bowl for the second time in history – and winning.

In their path were the undefeated and untied New England Patriots. But the Chargers had faced this team earlier and done well. In a fan frenzy, it seemed that local residents were united in not merely a hope, but the expectation that their gridders .

The San Diego skies were blue, blue, blue – emulating shades used on Charger uniforms over the years and it definitely appeared as if everything might be coming up roses (or what ever flower goes with the Super Bowl…) The Patriots had forgotten it was possible to lose a game and were definitely looking past the Chargers – and the Chargers seemed primed line few teams have ever been primed.

Victory was within reach.


And the game was close – one single good break could well have made the difference. But the stars failed to shine and the Patriots were just a little too much for the stalwarts (who deserve more credit, as is true for almost all of those who toil in the line and on special teams) to manage without a few breakaway touchdowns (they scored NO touchdowns) and interceptions run back for 6 points (they scored NO touchdowns) and punts or kickoffs returned to the opposite end zone (did I mention that the Chargers scored NO touchdowns yesterday?).

This morning, the skies are overcast and a gloom has settled on the city. Tens of thousands of Charger jerseys have been tossed into the laundry bin, later to be folded and put away until…in case…the team gets back in contention next year.

The fate of the franchise – which has been in town since I was a boy – is uncertain as a power struggle is underway regarding construction of a new, new stadium. There’s a chance the Chargers could relocate before long – it’s even possible that they might even end up in the hated and dread Los Angeles area.

I’ll probably be living up there, but I’d take no joy (and be a far less enthusiastic fan) in having to root for the Los Angeles Chargers. It’s a moniker that sounded wrong even when I learned that the team actually began in L.A. and was originally called the LAC. There’s definitely something LACing in that handle…

The gloom as only increased as the morning has proceeded. Now, it looks as if it’s going to rain, today. Lonely, lonely.

Lonely 
without you,
Baby

Oh, I need you; I can't go on



The sun ain't gonna shine anymore

The moon ain't gonna rise in the sky

Tears are always clouding your eyes

The sun ain't gonna shine anymore

Lonely without you
        -- Walker Brothers, 1965

No place like home

Lord, I'm one, Lord, I'm two,
Lord, I'm three, Lord, I'm four,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles a way from home.

Away from home, away from home,
away from home, away from home,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles away from home.

Not a shirt on my back,
not a penny to my name.
Lord, I can't go back home this-a way

        -- Hedy West, 1963

In his book of the same title, Thomas Wolfe famously wrote, “You can’t go home again.”

It’s a sad conclusion; particularly considering the fact that most of his writing was autobiographical and celebrated his boyhood home in North Carolina.

Of course, Wolfe died before reaching age 38, even before his book was printed; so he had limited opportunities for attempting to go home and no opportunity to engage in discussions and reflections on a theory he might have changed had he lived longer.

For me, “home” can mean only one place: the house on Middlesex Drive in San Diego where I lived between 1957 and 1967 – plus, on a temporary basis, for a few intervals thereafter. Forty years later I believe I can clearly remember all kinds of details and, in my mind’s eye, can bring the building and grounds into crystal clarity. This is not true for any other home I’ve occupied – though it is true, interestingly, for a few workplaces.

I’d have to say that everywhere I’ve lived since leaving Middlesex has felt like – and has proved to be – a temporary arrangement. In a sense, it’s fair to say that I’ve really had only one “home” in all my life.

Well, up until last week, I would have agreed with Wolfe. Simple economics make it unlikely that I could afford to move back to San Diego. Since my mother sold the Middlesex property ten or so years ago, I’ve pretty much given up any thoughts of becoming a homeowner back in San Diego.

Until a few days ago, my plan was to return to central California and then make a leisurely move back to the Los Angeles area where I would either rent or purchase a condo. I have a couple of fallback plans, including extending my stay in the Valley; but the housing market down south seems amenable to buyers and I planned to strike while the iron was hot (and then hope for an upturn to justify my speculative purchase).

Suddenly, the situation changed. After leaving our family home behind, my mother joined another family and moved into THEIR home. This house has a strong “home” aura – having been the happy abode of nice folks. Better yet, it’s in a neighborhood I’ve lusted after since I was a teen – the beach!

The house is actually a bit more than a mile from the shore, but what a shore! Pacific Beach is probably second only to my old haunt, Mission Beach as an inviting venue. Living minutes away from that broad swath of sand – and back in the general environs where I came of age – is an inviting prospect.

And the house will be sold … to someone … soon.

The current buyer’s market means the price will be depressed a bit – hopefully temporarily. And my folks desire to get moved with the least possible amount of hassle relating to getting the place ready to show and moving everything out before closing makes me an inviting potential buyer from whom they might take a somewhat lower offer in return for making their transition fairly painless and for allowing them to store possessions at the house indefinitely.

And so, when I drive into San Diego County tomorrow, it may be the first stage of going home again. There are plenty of potential slips between the Pacific and my bare feet in the sand; but the prospect is rather exciting – and that’s adding a new dimension to my trip and my outlook.

To be honest, the odds are against this working out. San Diego real estate prices tend to be unreal. But, it’s been fun to consider – if just for a few days – that Thomas Wolfe might just be wrong and I can go home again…

A chair is still a chair
Even when there’s no one sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When there's no one there to hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss good night.

A room is still a room
Even when there's nothing there but gloom;
But a room is not a house,
And a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart.

        -- Burt Bacharach, 1964

I'm no Shakespeare

Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong
Whether I find a place in this world or never belong
I gotta be me, I've gotta be me
What else can I be but what I am

I want to live, not merely survive
And I won't give up this dream
Of life that keeps me alive
I gotta be me, I gotta be me
The dream that I see makes me what I am

That far-away prize, a world of success
Is waiting for me if I heed the call
I won't settle down, won't settle for less
As long as there's a chance that I can have it all

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be
I can't be right for somebody else
If I'm not right for me
I gotta be free, I've gotta be free
Daring to try, to do it or die
I've gotta be me

I'll go it alone, that's how it must be
I can't be right for somebody else
If I'm not right for me
I gotta be free, I just gotta be free
Daring to try, to do it or die
I gotta be me
        -- Sammy Davis, Jr., 1968

January 15, clear, sunny skies and 69 degrees at 4:30. I’m back in shorts and T-shirt, enjoying the comfort and freedom that provides, and thankful that weather has been no problem during the past eleven months on the road.

And the elements aren’t all that has cooperated. My little Saturn has performed magnificently. I’m a terrible owner – failing miserably to perform routine maintenance and allowing all forms of detritus to accumulate on the interior and exterior of the vehicle – but the car has not let me down; not once.

My body – also having been subjected to both neglect and abuse – has been equally dependable. It’s survived two bouts of the flu and a few upset stomachs; but no injuries or other failures that could easily have sidelined me or shortened the trip. I’ve been lucky and am grateful to whatever powers that may have contributed to that good fortune.

Modern technology has not let me down on this trip. I’ve characteristically ventured forth without consulting a map – confident that my GPS navigator would direct me to the chosen destination. And it did. My first unit served me well, but failed at about the halfway point. I sought repairs to no avail and decided to just invest in a new unit. That proved to be a wise decision as I’ve not been confused about my whereabouts at all during this adventure – and that’s a wonderful change from previous experience.

The facilities I’ve occupied – operated by the Holiday Retirement Corporation – have been simply wonderful. I’ve been a bit cramped in a few of the guest rooms, but (as I am doing right now) have always been able to utilize spacious common areas. I’m currently seated in the third-floor game room beside an open window where I enjoy a nice afternoon breeze.

The people who run these facilities have been willing to bend over backwards to make my stay pleasant. And the residents… Well, if I do write a book I’ll still be unable to communicate what it has been like to spend time in conversation with hundreds and hundreds of members of my parents’ generation.

When I cut south, a few hours ago, leaving Interstate 10 enroute to I-8 and Yuma, I passed a sign that told me I was close enough to home that I could almost certainly have made it there before midnight. A week ago, I was eager for the trip to end; but I’m beginning to wish I were still heading into unfamiliar territory.

The road has been just about everything to me for nearly a year. Soon, I’ll have to turn my attention to other matters. Income taxes, dental appointments, updating of all kinds of things I’ve neglected for so long, re-establishing customs, traditions, standard procedures and all of the humdrum, everyday, routine, predictable, largely meaningless, time-consuming, life-draining, uninspiring behaviors that always seem to end with a question:

“Where did the time go?”

Thirty-five states and six Canadian provinces. About 18,000 miles and nearly a year. More than 1,500 breakfast, lunch and dinner partners. Seventy-five temporary homes. Hundreds of new friends whose names I never really learned and whom I’ll never see again.

I’m glad to be ending this trip as Spring approaches. Though I used to favor Summer, I’m now a fan of lengthening days, new birth and growth, warming temperatures and a sense that it’s always possible to start again – even, perhaps, to be born again and start over.

Oh, man!

It takes a lot of nerve to NOT delete a lot of this and never let it see the light of day. Maybe there is something of significance in there, though, so I’ll cover my eyes and post this sappy blog (and pity those who may take time to read it).

As the sun slowly sets west of Yuma…

Choose your words

INT. FUNERAL HOME - BACK CORRIDOR - DAY

A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are all waiting, as Crawford and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered corridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing machine, a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is closer. Crawford shakes hands with the sheriff.

CRAWFORD
Sheriff Perkins? Jack Crawford, FBI...
This is Officer Starling. We appre-
ciate your phoning us.

SHERIFF
(grim, unsociable)
I didn't call you. That was somebody
from the state attorney's office...
'For you do anything else, I'm gon' find
out if this girl's local. It could
just be somethin' that outside elements
has dumped on us.

He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.

CRAWFORD
Well, sir, that's where we can help. If -

SHERIFF
I don't even know you, Mister... Now
we'll extend you ever courtesy, just
soon as we can, but for right now -

CRAWFORD
Sheriff, this, ah - this type of sex crime
has some aspects I'd rather discuss just
between the two of us. Know what I mean?

He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates, nods, then lets Crawford guide him into a small office, closing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.

CLARICE - burning at this slight, is left alone with the troopers, who peek at her with shy curiosity. She pulls her blazer a bit tighter, self-conscious about her bulging shoulder holster.

…[LATER]…

EXT. BACK STEPS OF THE FUNERAL HOME - DAY

CRAWFORD
When I told that sheriff we shouldn't
talk in front of a woman, that really
burned you, didn't it?
(She is silent)
That was just smoke, Starling, I had to
get rid of him. You did well in there.

CLARICE
It matters, Mr. Crawford... Other cops
know who you are. They look at you to
see how to act... It matters.

CRAWFORD
(beat)
Point taken.

        -- Silence of the Lambs, 1991

Writers have a way with words. Sometimes they flow like cool, clear water, creating a crystal path from the brain of the scribe to that of the reader – near perfect communication.

Well… Not really. The fact is that words – even the most powerful or impressive sounding ones – are merely symbols and can’t possibly reveal the actual objects, acts or ideas they purport to describe. It’s all approximate.

And written communication makes the coding even chancier. Without feedback from the message receiver, writers have to take extra care to avoid ambiguity, misdirection, fuzzy thinking and all kinds of semantic noise and pitfalls that impede communication.

That said, I think all wordsmiths (and most readers) love the well-turned phrase. Journeyman writers (and I hope I qualify for that intermediate rank) envy the master craftsmen who put their prose (and poetry) together with profound precision and generate art in the guise of text.

Once in a while a writer of my caliber wields words with just enough aplomb to make him painfully aware of the fact that he more often fails to rise above mediocrity. I’m sure others allow themselves to use my excuse: I tell myself that I’m willingly sacrificing a degree of quality in order to create a larger body of work.

I allow myself to believe that I don’t take time to polish my prose because I favor quantity over quality and can always go back and revise later. Somehow, “later” seldom arrives; in truth, I guess I realize that the distance between my rather ordinary level of discourse and that to which I’d like to ascend is probably greater than my reach.

Oh, I’m not feeling sorry for myself – not too much, anyway. My writing, such as it is, does come easily; and, through writing, I’ve learned a great deal about myself. Others can paint or sing or dance expressively; my artistic outlet is through words, such as they are.

Almost every day for the past year, as I’ve met new people along the way, I’ve been asked if I plan to write a book. I usually respond that books are hard to write and harder to market and that I think I could reach a larger audience with newspaper or magazine articles.

But my fear that any book of mine – once written – would be average, at best, is probably a more powerful deterrent than I’ve been willing to admit.

I believe I may have a book in me – and I think a road-trip book along the lines of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road or John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie: In search of America might be rather timely about now – particularly one written by a Baby Boomer who is reacting to a year spent among members of the Greatest Generation.

I even have a subtitle: In Search of the American Dream.

I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read On the Road. It’s one of many holes in my literary background. I think I’ll get a copy and see if it inspires me…

… one way or the other.

Gimme an “A”

LBJ took the IRT

Down to 4th Street USA

When he got there

What did he see?

The youth of America on LSD

        -- Hair, 1967

The lecture was “Alphabet Soup.” We met on the mezzanine of the Oxford Hotel, a block from Union Station in downtown Denver. As Vista Volunteers, we were to serve as liaisons between people needing help and government agencies. The agencies and programs were usually identified by acronyms. By lecture’s end, I was up to my ears in letters.

VISTA itself is an acronym for Volunteers in Service to America. We were under the OEO (Office of Economic Opportunity) and I was eventually assigned to a CAA (Community Action Agency) in southern Colorado. My most valuable resource was the “Catalog of Domestic Assistance Programs” – a thick book listing all kinds of funding sources controlled by many different agencies.

Ten years later, I was still immersed in acronyms. I encountered more of them each year as I completed my training and began work in community recreation. I became familiar with the NRPA (National Recreation and Park Association), CPRS (California Parks and Recreation Association AND Colorado Parks and Recreation Association). And I learned about the BOR (Bureau of Outdoor Recreation) and the LWCF (Land and Water Conservation Fund).

The latter was a federal program that provided money for a host of recreation projects, including parks, playgrounds and amenities such as lighting, restrooms and parking. I inherited a LCWF project when I began my first job as a recreation director in Colorado.

It’s about 270 miles from Page, Arizona to Phoenix. I drove the first 135 and hitched a ride with a couple of other fellows from Flagstaff. When we arrived in Phoenix at mid-day, it was well over 100 degrees and the car we took from the airport to our meeting was like an oven. Seated in the back, I wondered whether the A/C (acronym for Air Conditioning) would kick in before I expired from the heat.

Two new acronyms came to my attention in Arizona. Like VISTA and some others, these were pronounced – even though they weren’t real words. One was NACOG, pronounced NAY-cog, which was the Northern Arizona Council of Governments; the other was AORCC, or AY-ork, the Arizona Outdoor Recreation Coordinating Commission.

AORCC controlled the allocation of LWCF money in Arizona. My experience in Colorado, coupled with some research and advice from contacts at NACOG, convinced me that my community was likely to be approved for just about any reasonable project.

Since Page was a new city, it had never received LWCF funds before. My read of AORCC history and tradition convinced me to go for broke with an aggressive and ambitious proposal for funding.

I had everything with me on that trip to Phoenix and, despite the heat, felt unusually calm and confident. I was about to request $250,000 for construction of a tennis and basketball complex, including a large, fully equipped playground, with lighting, fencing restrooms and parking. And I was about 95 percent sure I would gain approval.

That kind of money was pretty darned impressive in those days. It was more than I would earn in a decade at my then-current rate of pay. And it represented more than $25 in “free money” for every resident of Page.

Obviously, it’s a good thing I learned my alphabet.

We are who we were when…

Through the door, there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh, my friend, we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts, the dreams are still the same

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we'd choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days
        -- Gene Raskin

Friendship, in fact culture itself, is mostly an outcome of shared experience. Some experiences – war, major disasters and high school, for example – are so powerful or occur during particularly critical stages in our lives that they tend to create correspondingly strong (or at least memorable) friendships.

To some extent, the bonds created while sharing space during such times can supercede a lot of other factors that otherwise might make friendship very unlikely.

Two former high school classmates drifted back into my life this week. Both were in band and orchestra with me – in fact, we all played percussion together in the marching band.

There is – at least was at the time I was involved – a special bond between drummers. We had a sense of being the critical element; we set the beat, we triggered the start of every song, we provided the steady, rhythmic heartbeat to which all of the others marched and played.

Bill walked through the door and into the lobby here in Tucson. He was heavier than the kid I had been struggling to remember, and the ramrod-straight posture was modified a bit by an uneven gait that results from hip surgery.

Then he flashed a smile and I recognized my former fellow bandsman. That seemed a bit strange because I remember him mostly as a more-serious-than-most kid. But that smile was familiar. Hmmmm.

There’s a tendency to focus on recollections. Having one’s memory jogged by input by another who was there and did that, from a different perspective, is stimulating and often revealing. Bill’s memory and sense of time and space is far superior to mine and he was able to not only recall events, but to locate them geographically and chronologically – a very helpful process.

Though I didn’t try to establish our differences in terms of values and beliefs, I’m certain we wouldn’t have agreed on many of the issues of the day not would our standards have dovetailed. The overlap in life experience – which includes all of what I consider my most critical childhood years – provided plenty of fodder for our conversation.

I did learn that Bill and Cindy – who is another Hoover grad and fellow percussionist from my class of ’66 – have five children and obviously spent many more years as parents of teens than they did as fellow teens in my world. Their life seems to have been much more “typical” compared with mine.

I enjoyed the time I had with Bill and then with both him and Cindy at dinner. I’m certain that I’d arrange to see them again if they were in range – mostly to continue tapping their reserves of memory regarding the old days. They seem like good and happy people who no doubt have a wonderful family and qualify as a Hoover High School success story.

A few days earlier I had a much different encounter with yet another drummer from Hoover. I have no memory of Pat’s participation in the marching band – I had her confused with a string bass player. But we had a great time talking about experiences we shared even if we were largely oblivious of each other.

Pat’s smile, though not familiar to me, was her most engaging feature. It was quick and open and friendly. She is one of those who frequently reach out and touch those with whom she’s conversing. It’s a violation of my “body bubble;” but I found it to be a very friendly behavior – it alerted me to statements she wishes to emphasize and ensured that I was paying attention.

The time we had available passed quickly; she reminded me, at last, that I had a schedule to keep – I could have continued the conversation much longer.

As with Bill and Cindy, our conversation focused mostly on the past. Pat has participated in some reunion activities and has maintained a few personal attitudes toward folks I only remember in vague generalities. It was fun to listen as she compared a few classmates from then and now – and noted that some things just don’t change.

Pat pursued a career in music, spending several years on the road. Though unable to make a living that way, she continues to perform and write music. Like Bill, she suffers from a leg injury – hers the result of a serious accident. The resulting disability cut off a career she had entered as a construction worker. She’s written a book about women in that line of work and maintains a very positive outlook despite some bad luck.

We met in the middle of the Arizona desert – within sight of the mountains used as a final point of defense by Cochise. The wind was fierce with waves of tumbleweed breaking loose and darting across the highway, many times snapping into fragments against the front of my Saturn.

The blowing dust and cold wind made the stark landscape seem even more desolate and I wondered how a San Diego girl could end up in this God forsaken land 40 years after high school.

Pat’s explanation was logical and reasonable and it was impossible to argue that she must be insane. But she did admit that some of the time she isn’t happy there.

Though I’ve steered clear of all class reunions in the past, the time I spent this week with Pat and Bill and Cindy made me realize that there is much to be gained from reconnecting.

With the exception of a few couples, like Bill and Cindy, the class of ’66 and others in that cadre have been tossed by many winds into many directions and through all kinds of storms and troubled waters. But there was that time when most of us were constrained by the walls and governed by the bells and rules and academic regimen of Herbert Hoover Senior High School.

We passed our classes and, at the same time, went through a number of rites of passage, culminating in graduation – also known as commencement.

Hail! Herbert Hoover High
This is our song to thee
Long may our banners be
Crowned with victory.

We pledge our loyalty
And our sincerity
We will be true to thee
Hail! Hoover High!

Been there; done that

Goin' down that long lonesome highway
bound for the mountains and the plains
Sure ain't nothin' here gonna tie me
and I got some friends I like to see again
One of these day I'm gonna settle down
but till I do I won't be hangin' round
Goin' down that long lonesome highway
gonna live life my way
        -- David Houston

Many travelers focus much of their attention on landmarks and artifacts. Many times, while stopped at scenic overlooks, I’ve watched with amusement as others arrive, screech to a stop, pile out of their vehicle and turn their backs to the view so one of their party or a volunteer can snap a photo proving that they were wherever they were.

I’ve wondered, facetiously, whether they get a chance to appreciate the natural wonders once their pictures were processed after the end of the trip. Now, of course, such travelers can see what they missed right away – reviewing digital images saved on their cameras while they drive to the next outlook.

Whether they are postcards, key chains, t-shirts or actual historical objects of art or daily enterprise, souvenirs are also in demand by many tourists. It often strikes me as odd when people willingly pay a premium for items in gift shops or along the roadside, buying items they wouldn’t look at twice in an urban retail outlet.

I wonder if these knick-knacks are important because, like the line-‘em-up-and-shoot-‘em photos, the provide tangible evidence that “I was there.” Or maybe the experience doesn’t quite seem real unless such travelers have something they can hold or wear. In any event, the souvenir industry is clearly a multi-billion dollar deal and the purchase of things can become a significant part of a traveler’s budget.

It’s certainly not for me to conclude that these practices are somehow wrong, foolish, inconsequential or wasteful. Each of us values things – both tangible and otherwise – in our own way; if a photo or physical object helps recapture magical moments from trips or other experiences, I say, “more power to you.”

Between 1967 and 1976, I alternated between San Diego and southwestern Colorado. If I had lived in Denver or along the Interstate 25 corridor, I probably would have done most of my traveling between states on freeways. But, living on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, I took the “blue” highways – two-lane ribbons of asphalt that passed right through the middle of towns and that featured wildlife and cross-traffic.

My favorite may have been highway 160, a not-quite-transcontinental route that begins in Missouri and ends in Arizona. This highway is Main Street for the San Luis Valley, which was important to me during much of that period; and it’s a primary trail through the Navajo Nation, where I relocated, briefly, in 1976.


have entered Arizona many times by way of 160. The road dips very briefly (less than 10 miles) into New Mexico before passing into Arizona, a mile or so south of Four Corners, the intersection of those two states plus Colorado and Utah.

The first six or eight times I passed near that landmark, I turned off and drove less than a mile to the actual spot where four states collide. Somehow, those artificial lines – agreed to by politicians and fixed in space shortly after the Civil War, it’s a rather stark and lonely site.

I understand that there is a visitor’s center on site now. When I make my pilgrimages, it was little more than a large concrete slab with some plaques attached, surrounded by unmarked parking spaces and informal shelters apparently constructed by Native American artisans who were selling artifacts – largely turquoise and other jewelry.

I don’t recall restrooms, drinking fountains, snack bars or any other attractions or amenities; but, for some reason, I felt compelled to take the detour and stand in that spot.

If my route took me there on this trip, I certainly would stop again. I’d stop because my previous visits have created a nostalgic value. I’d stop to see what memories and insights retracing somewhat compulsive footsteps from my past would prompt.

But, for the most part, I’ve eschewed such opportunities during my 17,000-mile-long current trek. I have a much more muted need to create a tally of touchstones and don’t mind missing some of the “not-to-be-missed” attractions along the way.

I’ll gladly make a detour and give up as many hours as I can to touch base with a person. Conversation has been the most rewarding part of this particular adventure. I don’t regret any of the times I decided to forego an excursion because someone in the building was willing to sit and talk about his or her life and times.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m traveling with my eyes open. I’m thoroughly enjoying the changes in landscape and often stop for a closer look at something along the way. This experience has been greatly enriched by the ever-changing context. New places, things and faces have provided continuous stimuli.

Rock rap

The park ranger strode silently onto the small stage in the front of a room about half full of tourists. He carried a jagged piece of reddish rock – about the size of a football – in his hands.

A stool stood in center stage, behind a microphone. The ranger gently placed the hunk of rock on the seat and lowered the microphone to within a few inches. Then he walked off stage.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” A voice boomed over the public address system. “I come to you today from the wall of the Grand Canyon – about two thousand feet below the south rim.

“ But I wasn’t always on the side of the cliff. For millions of years, I was buried – at first a quarter of a mile from the Colorado River and thousands of feet below the surface of the earth.

“But, over the millennia, my brother and sister rocks slowly washed away and the canyon became deeper and wider until, a few hundred years ago, the surface finally came to me.

“My destiny is to erode – just as my ancestors have – and to flow down the river to the sea. The ranger brought me here today to tell my story to you…”

It was a clever and captivating lecture – ostensibly offered by an inanimate object, but filled with interesting information offered from a unique perspective.

Delighted, I sat beside my young fiancé, thoroughly enjoying the moment. The fantasy, laced with science and history, our proximity to the edge of the two-mile wide canyon, the excitement of our retreat to one of the world’s most romantic attractions, and the novelty of being at the Grand Canyon in winter all combined to make the moment unforgettable.

I’ve been to the Park many times. It never fails to captivate; but knowing how much it has changed over millions of years and how insignificant the span of my lifetime is in that context, leaves me wondering: How does my little life fit into the scheme of things.

Then, I remember that rock and all of its colleagues. After waiting, patiently, for millions of years, they finally enjoyed a brief time in the sunlight before the water and wind and weather tore them loose from the canyon wall and pounded them into tiny particles that were washed down the Colorado to the sea.

When I think about it, it sometimes seems more remarkable that I got to meet that rock during my brief span than that the rock had a chance to speak to me. I wonder whether that rock saw and learned more while clinging to the side of the cliff than I’ve ever known.

Look out for talking rocks.

A tour of duty on the planet of the apes

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.
        -- Robert FrostThey made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

It had been less than a year and a half since I was hired as executive director for the Montrose Recreation District. And that was quite a coup for a 25-year-old who had never held a fulltime, permanent job.

But I had worked hard, met all objectives and, to be frank, felt that I had earned more respect than I was being given. My board of directors had just turned down my request for a pay raise that would have brought me more in line with colleagues holding similar positions in neighboring communities, though they had given me a smaller raise.

I was earning $11,000 a year – more than I had ever expected back in the mid 1970s, but less than I came to believe was fair and appropriate. The job in Arizona was advertised at $18,000 and included some very intriguing attributes.

Page, Arizona, was one of the newest cities in the state. It had been built by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation to house workers and others involved in construction of the Glen Canyon dam.

By 1975, the bureau was eager to pull up stakes and stop administering the town as well as the dam. The citizens of Page were offered ownership of all of the public works (water and sewer lines, streets, parks, administrative buildings and more) as well as start up money.

It was a sweet deal and put the new city in a position to offer services other communities couldn’t afford – including a year-around community recreation program.

And that’s where I came in; if hired, I would be the town’s first recreation director and would be in position to create a new program out of whole cloth.

One of my Montrose board members was an employee of the BOR; he told me about the opening in Page, and put in a good word for me. When I called to express interest, I was told to charter a small plane and fly over for a visit and initial interview.

If I had been only slightly interested before, this first-class treatment quickly moved me into a very enthusiastic mode. I met several local officials and got both a bird’s eye view and a ground-level tour of the city. I suppose I felt I was being given the kind of respect I deserved, and that was somewhat lacking back in Colorado.

In any event, the offer came and I asked for an emergency meeting of the Montrose board. I told the members that I wanted to stay, but that my career and family might benefit more by leaving. If, I suggested, the board would agree to give me the raise I had asked for a few months earlier and further agree to consider, in good faith, a second increase a year later, I’d stay and attempt to prove I was worth the kind of money being offered by the other agency.

By a narrow margin, the board denied my request – though they did make a fairly generous counter offer. In the end, I decided – for better or worse – to move to Arizona.

About 20 years later, I passed through Montrose and dropped by a softball field we had built while I was the director there. I spotted a familiar figure working on the site and approached him.

It was Cosme Cisneros. I had hired him out of the University of Colorado; he had stayed with the district for all of those years.

Leaving that first fulltime job established a pattern that continued through all of my work life. I never worked in the same position for more than six years and held many temporary and part-time jobs.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention…

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.

Good old New Mexico

After nearly a year on the eligible list – during which I moved very slowly from three-digit territory toward the top – I finally got a call and was invited, along with two others, to interview for a job as Student Worker I in the City of San Diego.

Soon thereafter, I was offered a job in Reservoir Recreation at Lake Murray, not far from San Diego State University where I was then a freshman majoring in social sciences.

Thousands of high school and college students applied for student worker status and just a few hundred landed jobs. Some, like me, waited months for positions to fill and for the list to grow shorter – hoping we’d reach the top of the list before it expired at the end of 12 months.

That job changed things for me. First, it gave me a cash flow that made it possible to buy my jeep – fulfilling a longtime dream. Second, it introduced me to the work world, including responsibility for some very “down and dirty” tasks such as cleaning outhouses, restrooms, fishing boats and the shoreline as well as performing some public relations duties with those who fished at the lake.

A third benefit was an increase in my self-confidence: driving city vehicles, using power tools (including a jackhammer), maintaining records, following orders and enduring periodic evaluations all made me feel part of the work world – part of the adult world. Finally, this “city job” beefed up my otherwise blank resume and made it possible to get other jobs – notably my position less than a year later as a VISTA volunteer.

The selection process for VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) was even more rigorous and I was very impressed by the other young people in my training group – and pretty impressed by myself for being chosen at the end of such scrutiny.

When I returned to San Diego, I again applied for work with the city and was rewarded much more quickly with a position in the recreation department. My previous city experience and work I’d done in community recreation as a VISTA served me well and I was placed near the top of the list.

I’ve applied for hundreds of positions in my life and came to believe that when the process was fair, I usually made the first cut and often found myself in the final three or five candidates. I learned to appreciate what’s known as the “merit system” which dates back to the end of the 19th century when employers (governments in particular) began hiring based on applicants’ ability to perform duties rather than on their political connections.

By the time I arrived in New Mexico, I was overqualified for part-time employment in a recreation department. But I needed a job while attending graduate school at the University of New Mexico and, at 29, still had plenty of energy and a desire to work directly with participants on playgrounds or at other city facilities.

So, I went downtown and completed an application for a recreation leadership position. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

Weeks passed and I never heard a word. I finally gave up on the idea of working for the city. I took a six-week job leading pre-schoolers in gymnastics at a Head Start Center and did a lot of basketball officiating, but I didn’t find any regular employment.

Then, one day I was meeting with my advisor at the University. He glanced at a note on his desk and asked, offhandedly, “You’re not interested in working for the city, are you?”

When I explained that I had applied for a job some months earlier, he smiled. Then he scribbled a name and phone number on a sheet of notepaper and said, “Call this fellow.”

I immediately went home and placed the call. I was invited to an office in the city recreation department for what I expected to be a job interview. I put on a suit and arrived early for my appointment.

The supervisor greeted me warmly and described the opening – a playground leader job that would provide the income my family needed to get through the summer. He asked me if I had any questions and – as an experienced interviewer – I offered a couple of queries that demonstrated my understanding of the challenge being presented.

At that point, the man thanked me and we shook hands.

“When will I find out about the job?” I asked.

“Find out what?” His reply caught me off balance.

“You know,” I stammered. “Whether I’m being offered the job or not.”

“You had the job before you came down here,” he said. “You had the job as soon as you told me Professor -------- had recommended you.”

He revealed to me that, at that time, politicians often sent him lists of names with the understanding that he would find positions for sons and daughters of those who supported the politician. It was patronage, plain and simple – and a violation of the Pendleton Act, also plain and simple.

During the 30 years that have elapsed since this eye-opening experience in the Land of Enchantment, I’ve seen plenty of wrongdoing in the workplace. I’ve experienced some cuts and bruises along the way because I found it hard to set aside what may be naive and unrealistic principles and I confronted issues I should probably have left alone.

Now that I think about it, my experiences in the work world became less joyful after that time in New Mexico. Perhaps that was just bad luck; but maybe it was also affected by a loss of innocence and a sense of sadness.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Arizona – another state that was briefly “home” for me. I’m curious to see what, if any, chords begin to resonate during my dozen days in the Grand Canyon State.

Retracing footsteps

I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me

        -- Rod McKuen

Sometimes, things work out so well in the aftermath of a mistake that I wonder whether planning is such a good idea. Maybe leaving things up to good old serendipity would lead to better outcomes.

Leaving El Paso two days early – I failed to check my actual itinerary and simply left town after the usual 5-day stay (failing to recognize that, for some reason or other, I was slated to stay two more days).

I pulled into to Las Cruces at about noon. This was to have been one of my shortest drives since day one when I traveled a mere 70 miles north to Lodi. I reported to the office and was greeted by confused looks – “I think you’re early.”

Well, a quick check in my notebook revealed my gaffe and I apologized for creating the confusion. I really didn’t want to backtrack to Las Cruces and mentioned the possibility of heading north to spend a couple of nights in Albuquerque.

In typical fashion, my not-yet-but-soon-to-be hosts looked out for my welfare and offered to call the corporate facility in the Duke City to see if I could hang out there for a couple of nights.

Sure enough, they said “come on up!” and I was on my way back in time.

I lived in Albuquerque three times. The first, I ended up with a son; the second, I got my first computer; and the third provided me with a new lease on life that most certainly shaped my future for the succeeding 20 years or so.

My little family of three first moved to Albuquerque in 1978. We had been living in Page, Arizona, where the overt prejudice against Native Americans was so unpleasant that it made staying there pretty impossible.

There were a number of other dynamics at play, of course. My marriage was failing – in part, because we had moved so often, in pursuit of my career. And, despite having made significant gains in earnings and having had some good success in building the programs I led, I was not very happy in my work.

After being rejected by a west coast university (I had too few years of work experience for their liking), I was accepted into the Ph.D. program at the University of New Mexico and we made our fourth major move in four years.

Albuquerque was closer to my wife’s roots. She actually lived there for a while as a child and most of her family was just 250 miles north, on the other side of the Raton Pass. Daughter Lisa was becoming involved in gymnastics and son Jesse was enroute.

When Jesse was born, early in 1978, I found myself in a rare state of contentment. It was fairly short-lived; we soon hit the road again – this time for Northern Michigan. But, a year later, we returned to Albuquerque so I could complete two last courses before beginning my dissertation.

Well, that schedule fell apart due to illness. I had to drop out of school and that led to a move back to California and a return to work. I lost my chance for a life in academia and soon lost my family – though we’ve managed to work together and hopefully have provided Lisa and Jesse with most of the benefits of having parents.

When my second-chance at marital happiness went into jeopardy about ten years later, I retreated alone to Albuquerque to clear my head and make decisions about the future.

My second wife, Carol, fought to save our marriage and literally came to Albuquerque to get me back on track. She brought Jesse along and the two of them convinced me that I was in danger of losing a very good thing; and that led to a decade of happiness that I almost missed.

Driving along Central Avenue yesterday reminded me of my three stints as a citizen. The city is filled with familiar sites and brought hundreds of memories to mind. Much has changed, of course, since I first arrived there in 1977; but most landmarks remain in place.

New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment. It’s known by many people for the annual balloon festival. Like a hot air balloon, I have followed a path determined by the prevailing winds. I’ve been blown off course a number of times, usually leading to positive adventures that left me without regrets.

Albuquerque, like other landing spots, provided me with new experiences – some of which generated a bit of wisdom. My return visit this week – perhaps the most unlikely and spontaneous of all – allowed me to touch the past, inspect some roots, reconsider choices and, of course, get in touch with what I’ve had, lost, gained and may yet have.

This unplanned detour seems to have been a good thing.

The big game

They always call him Mr. Touchdown.

They always call him Mr. Team.

He can run, and kick and throw.

Give him the ball and just look at him go!

Hip, hip, hooray for Mr. Touchdown!

He's gonna beat ‘em today!

So give a great big cheer
for the hero of the year!

It's Mr. Touchdown, U.S.A.!

        -- traditional

The Rose Bowl was built in 1922. It cost $272,198. Two years earlier, officials decided the original stadium in Tournament Park wasn’t safe for the growing crowds. Some 210 fans put up $100 each to help cover the cost of construction.

Those contributions got the building project off the ground; it also guaranteed the donors prime box seats in the new stadium for ten years.

Of course, much more has been spent on upgrading from wooden bleachers and expanding to house over 100,000 fans; but it’s worth noting that even rich fans paid less than $10 for 50-yard-line seats in the good old days.

Tickets offered last week on E-Bay ranged in cost from $135 for a single seat high in the end-zone student section to $25,000 for a luxury skybox seating up to 16 people high above the 15-yardline.

Most Rose Bowl and many other college and pro athletic contest tickets are sold by brokers – at prices above those printed on the tickets.

Students are often an afterthought, placed in less desirable sections and offered a limited number of tickets. The emphasis is on high rollers who don’t see high ticket prices as a barrier and generally spend hundreds, if not thousands more on travel and other items that round out their bowl experience.

I drove by the Sun Bowl in El Paso on Sunday and saw some of the preparations underway for these wealthy fans.

Two huge tents had been erected and seating for several hundred people was set up for a pre- and/or post-game party or dinner. No doubt these folks were shuttled between hotels and the stadium and, no doubt, other venues by limo or bus so they weren’t delayed or otherwise affected by commoners from the cheap seats.

When I began attending San Diego State, the football program was in ascension. Still a level-two team, the Aztecs began winning just about every game.

Home contests were housed on campus in the Aztec Bowl – a facility that had been adequate to the demand for many years (I believe it was a WPA construction project back in the ‘30s).

But during my freshman year (1966), the Aztecs had a dream schedule that had them playing two or three other top-ranked Division II teams (Utah’s Weber State and North Dakota State).

After the red and black came from behind to win in Utah, officials moved the North Dakota contest from campus to the 35,000-seat stadium in Balboa Park – where the Chargers were then playing.

The joint filled to capacity and the Aztecs, by then ranked #3, defeated the top-ranked Bison, 35-0.

That win put wind in the Aztecs’ sails and when the new stadium opened in Mission Valley, all home games were held there. Aztec Bowl was relegated to high school football, soccer, rugby, band and cheerleading contests and other events until it was torn down to make room for a new basketball arena.

I was a member of the marching band. We had a reserved section in the Aztec Bowl – right on the 50 yard-line and in the middle of a huge student section that occupied the center of the home side of the stands.

When we moved to the Valley, our spot was in the end zone, under the scoreboard. A good place from the fans’ perspective, but we no longer a factor in cheering our team to victory and were isolated from our fellow students.

Those other students, by the way had a small section near field level and straddling the 50-yard-line, but were mostly relegated to upper levels and the end zone opposite their band.

Broken into separate seating areas, the students sort of melted into the crowd and became little more than part of the general crowd.

Were things better in the “good old days?”

I’m not sure. I do wish I could more easily afford to attend college sports (a women’s basketball game at UTEP cost $7 for a single ticket).

And I did feel that the band was a central part of the program when we were closer to the action and surrounded by other students.

On the other hand, I now sometimes get to see my alma mater on national television and most people are aware that my school exists.

Oops! I’ve got to go. Another bowl game is about to get underway on television…