Sputterpub's Blog

When I was 15 we moved from Chula Vista to Larkspur, and I met Ellen.

It was a huge relocation, from as south as California gets to the San Francisco Bay Area, from a three-year high school with a closed campus and a strict dress code to a four-year school where girls could wear pants, boys could grow beards, and seniors could leave any time. But Ellen and I would have appreciated each other no matter where we met.

We were soul friends. We were each bright and weird (great word – it means wayward – it used to have an umlaut over the i – there: now you’ll never misspell it). We each wanted to figure out the why of existence. Contrary to what some of our schoolmates whispered, we were neither and never gay. Contrary to what our parents asserted, we were neither of us under the influence of the other.

One of the many subjects about which Ellen and I agreed was adolescence. There were several occasions when we concluded that “no childhood would be complete without” an experience we then proceeded to obtain.

So we decided “no childhood would be complete without” shoplifting, and we managed to talk our way out of trouble when we got caught returning the items we’d taken from the sundry store in Tiburon. Then we agreed that, really, “no childhood would be complete without” an attempt to run away. We were not unhappy at home, but we made a dash on a bus for Berkeley one rainy night, got busted a few hours later and driven back to Marin County by Ellen’s boyfriend, and I think it was that adventure along with the Stinson beach overnight that motivated our parents to remove us from each other’s pernicious influence by sending us to separate dorms at Cal.

And yes, it was the understanding that “no childhood would be complete without” experiments with controlled substances that motivated Ellen and me to leave her room when I spent the night, swipe some of her father’s booze and her mother’s smokes, and range around Belvedere without anyone knowing our location. We didn’t enjoy the scotch and cigarettes, but we were responsible individuals; we agreed to do what was necessary.

It cracks me up when I watch grownups treating teenagers as if the kids had no idea what was happening to them. As if they were not self-conscious. Surreal…

     When I was about 12 my father gave me Arundel, by Kenneth Roberts. He’d already established the tradition of presenting me with a book every birthday, and that paperback, my first historical novel, was his choice around then.

I already knew my dad was not like others. He taught me to love Gene Kelly instead of Fred Astaire, he showed me how to tune up the Austin Healey when I was 7 (and never to say motor when I mean engine), he narrated Magellan’s circumnavigation of the globe to me and my brother (at the dining table, with props) like the epic adventure it must have been, permanently overshadowing Columbus for us.

And with Arundel, he introduced me to one of his American heroes: Benedict Arnold.

Dad also liked Jefferson, Franklin of course, and that renegade Thomas Paine, but it was his admiration for Benedict Arnold that showed me the significance of perspective.

I learned that Arnold had been a good man and a great soldier. That he was successful, badly wounded, in command again, defamed, cheated of promotion and then, frustrated and embittered beyond what it takes for a book character to become a misanthropic hermit, he changed sides in the Revolutionary War. But most of all I learned that, if the British had vanquished the upstart American settlers, Benedict Arnold would have been a hero of that conflict instead of becoming an archetype for traitor.

It was all a matter of point of view. Called POV nowadays. You choose your side, and you fight to win. If your side prevails you’re a hero. If your side loses, especially if it was a side you switched to, you might be reviled.

So, yes, it’s best to choose correctly for yourself and not switch. But then again, Ben Franklin was attacked about his French connections, and he never wavered. Plenty of good people have gotten bad press. Your best protection is to choose honestly and try to ignore the gossip.

Dad’s book choices were never what I would have selected and usually something I enjoyed. Sometimes they were as inspirational as he. The following year it was Carson’s The Sea Around Us.

     When I was 60, I got the idea to google “he grabbed me by my slender neck.” And there they were: the words of the verse I’d heard in fifth grade with such delight that I’d pushed them into memory.

Often in the intervening half century I have recited that poem, and it was new to my audience every time. I wondered where it came from.

Through Google I saw it printed as lyrics in a collection of bawdy songs. I found no indication of who authored it. But I found mistakes. Not just variations – clear errors (why would he be “hot and warm?” the original was “nice and warm.” – so much better! intimations of Copenhagen Syndrome, as victim begins to appreciate abuser…).

I tried another, lower Google link. Now it came up as authored by “Anon” and as a poem, but presented with 7-beat lines and a few words that clashed with what I recall.

I’m sure I wrote it down. I must have, to remember it so well. Here are the words as they appear in my head:

He grabbed me by my slender neck
I could not yell or scream
He dragged me to his dingy room
Where he could not be seen

He tore away my flimsy wrap
And looked upon my form
I was so cold and damp and scared
And he was nice and warm

His feverish lips pressed close on mine
I could not make him stop
He drained me of my very self
I gave him every drop

He made me what I am today
That’s why you find me here
A broken bottle thrown away
That once was filled with beer.

When I was around 9 years old, I learned to whistle pretty well. And when I was 59, I learned I lost it.

Really. My father was an excellent whistler. By the time my younger brother was 5 he was managing to emit little melodies. I wasn’t going to let Steve outdo me; the pressure was on to learn.

I think I got it along with blowing gum bubbles. It’s all in the mouth-mind coordination. I wasn’t worth recording, but I could exhale a tune.

In fact, it got to where I could whistle on the inhale too. I never mastered the two-finger taxi call or the air-across-grassblade tune, but back then I could breathe a song like I was my own harmonica.

A year ago I tried to whistle for the first time in I don’t know how long. Nothing came out! I couldn’t believe it. I took my problem inside and experimented.

Initially I couldn’t make a note. Then I found I could generate a weak whistle while inhaling. What the heck? Is it easier to inhale-whistle? Or was the last-acquired skill the best retained?

Over the next several months I occasionally retested my ability. Like wiggling a loose tooth or checking to see if I still have a libido, I tried to whistle now and then. I’m pleased to report that I’m regaining the knack. I’m not as good as I used to be. I suspect my best whistling days are behind me. But if this skill disappears again, it won’t be my fault.

     When I was around 56, I encountered an alien.

She looked human. She drove a big old American car like a human. But she revealed an out-of-world perspective that was as different from mine as silicon is from carbon.

I was in North Berkeley that morning, as usual, walking from my house to the BART station. When she pulled over to the curb I was heading south on Sacramento Street, near Cedar, and she was driving north.

“Excuse me?” she query-yelled through the open passenger side window. “Can you tell me how to get to College?”

I paused. I had that walk timed so I never waited more than a few minutes for the train, so I wanted to keep walking, but what could I do? It’s common courtesy. “The university, or the street?” I asked.

“The street.”

“Oooh,” I said. “You’re completely turned around.” She watched me with her head cocked to one side.

“Look, ” I advised. “You need to turn your car around and head south about two miles.” I nodded in the direction I’d been walking. “Then take a left toward the hills. Let’s see…you’ll cross (hmmm – Shattuck, Telegraph…) two major intersections before you reach College. You can’t miss it.”

She looked a little puzzled. “Soooo….” she started, aiming an index finger at her own windshield, “where should I turn?”

I was stymied. I was struck with the realization that this driver had no idea she was piloting a vehicle on the surface of a planet. She had no awareness that there was a large natural bay to her left and a range of hills on her right. And I had no words that could bridge our communication gap.

“I’m sorry,” I concluded. “I have to go. Good luck!” and I crossed the street toward the BART station, in front of her idling car.