The Way I Walk

I love to walk. I'm a Walking Man.

My 89-year-old Father walks several miles every morning, unless the Idaho winter or a gimpy leg keeps him indoors. He's a Walking Man.

My Grandfather was a long-time Walking Man at 93-years-old until an errant driver tagged him while crossing the street.  He survived but knew being confined to a wheelchair wasn't for him, so he stopped eating and rolled into eternity. He was a Walking and Rolling Man.

My Great-Grandmother was (we're told) walking from Mexico City to the Texas border when my Grandfather was born. She was a Walking Mom.

My people... we walk.

Picture this: a typical school day morning in La Puente, California in the late 1960’s.

Our house was located just outside the zone where the school buses transported kids. This meant I walked (or rode my bike) to school almost every weekday until I got my license at 16. My schools were all about a mile from home, so walking was no big deal, even as a third-grader.

I attended Willow Junior High School from September 1968 to June 1970. The daily morning walk was down Sunset Avenue, then onto Nelson Avenue for a mile to the corner of Nelson and Willow Avenue, where the school was located. I don’t recall ever riding my bike to Willow.

I wonder why?

I normally left the house around 7am. Walk the block, then right on the street with neighborhood border walls on my side and commercial buildings on the other. In fact, that side of Nelson was in the City of Industry, with the middle of Nelson serving as the borderline with La Puente. There were no sidewalks on that side of the street.

When I reached Tonopah Ave., I turned right and continued to Roger’s house, where I’d ring the doorbell and his mom would let me in. She was really nice. Their living room was open and bright, with jazz or classical music playing throughout the house. We’d leave and pick up Donnie next door, and sometimes Don would join us if he saw us rounding the cul-de-sac in front of his house. As we made our way back to Nelson, sometimes Rick would join us.

Kenny also lived on Tonopah, and occasionally we all loaded into his older sister’s Volkswagen Beetle for a ride to Willow before she went on to school. Her car had semaphore turn signals built into the b-pillars, which always cracked me up when they popped out.

Most mornings we walked together down Nelson, talking about cars and girls and telling jokes and just being Youngs. At Orange Avenue, across Nelson and just behind the liquor store, was a pickle factory with high fences that protected giant wooden vats of brining pickles. The aroma of vinegar and dill was VERY strong at that corner, all the time.

After another quarter-mile, we’d reach an open gate to the school at the corner of Nelson and Willow. During the daily 10am nutrition break, a catering truck would park on Nelson at the open gate and we could buy donuts, fruit, snacks, juice and candy. What the school didn’t know was the driver also sold small matchboxes filled with weed shake for a dollar. I knew a few guys that bought the weed-filled boxes, although I never did. 

I wonder why?

I walked this walk almost every morning and afternoon. Occasionally I’d walk a girl home from school, which could take me in a completely different direction. 

One afternoon, there was a big ruckus in the liquor store parking lot at Nelson and Orange, with police cars and fire engines in the street. When I reached the corner where a bunch of people were standing, I saw a burned-out Mercury Cougar sitting in the middle of the lot, still smoking heavily and being doused by a fireman. The driver’s door was wide open, where a totally burned-up body sat behind the wheel, looking like a giant pile of used charcoal. We learned later that the guy had come out of a bar in the adjacent strip mall, got into his car and torched himself. It was shocking and tragic, but also very weird and cool.

School buses... or rather, the seeming lack thereof... prompted this story.

I rarely see school buses anymore, with the notable exception of the short buses that are mostly reserved for special-needs students, just like they always were. Many parents now drive their kids to school, which results in long lines of cars queuing up at schools in the mornings and afternoons.

A local Christian school near my home, situated deep in a residential area, is causing real problems for the homeowners because of all the cars clogging the streets to line up for the daily offspring transport. This gridlock has led to blocked driveways, harsh words, flipped fingers and the occasional bumper nudge to make a point. Cops have been called on occasion, with brawls usually avoided. Usually.

I know it’s prolly different in other areas, but that’s not this.

Most newer residential neighborhoods have fewer local schools within walking distance. The e-bikes zipping around everywhere are a good way to get there, and it’s rare to see kids riding old-school pedal-power bikes anymore. I reckon the daily private limo ride to school is a natural solution for lots of them, with long lines of cars as a result. 

What happened to daily school buses for kids who don’t live close enough to walk?

Most of the blame lies with the venerable Proposition 13, which has limited property tax increases in California since 1978. Even though the state's population has skyrocketed, funding for school transportation hasn't and schools are no longer mandated by law to provide buses except when equity access issues are involved.

Short buses.

According to the Federal Highway Administration, only about 2% of California students use a bus to get to school, while 68% ride in a private vehicle.

The costs associated with maintaining, staffing, operating and insuring a fleet of buses is astronomical. Since we fund public schools via local tax dollars, there’s a huge disparity of funding based on income, and schools struggle to make ends meet. It stands to reason they'd leave the task of getting kids to school up to the parents.

The only solution to this issue is money, which most parents aren’t willing or able to cough up. Legislative efforts to change the laws and increase school funding have failed repeatedly. For the time being, there’s no incentive for local, state or federal powers to help public schools beyond what is required by law.

I wonder why?

When I think about the kids in those long lines of cars, I feel bad for them. Buses would help bigly, but that ain't gonna happen anytime soon. Walking to school is one of the few ways left for kids to socialize in an uncontrolled environment without parental or authority figures around. Sadly, with small neighborhood schools a thing of the past, walking to school also seems to have fallen out of favor.

The memories of walks to and from Lassalette Elementary, Willow Junior High and La Puente High are bright 8mm films in my head, daily journeys that represented freedom… autonomy… self-reliance… self-confidence. 

These days, my early-morning Old Man Walks resonate with those school days, and I relish a brisk walk in the breaking dawn. Most important now is to stay on my side of the walkway, lest I get clipped by one of those kids on an e-bike... zipping along at 15 mph, handlebar in one hand and mobile phone in the other, living their best life before they've even realized how crazy lucky they are.

If I was their age, for sure I'd be on one too... slicing through traffic, popping block-long wheelies, rolling in co-ed wolf packs... the stuff of modern youthful exuberance. When I wanna roll, I'll stick to my $10 yard sale pedal-power beach cruiser, with a bucket on my noggin and a big grin on my mug. 

I'm just glad I still love to walk and have the desire and ability to do so. That's why I walk the way I walk... one foot after the other.

I'm a Walking Man.

All images, Gracias de Google Images; Robert Gordon & Link Wray 'The Way I Walk' video, Gracias de YouTube; motivation to walk every day, Muchisimas Gracias de Manuel A. Macias Sr. and Manuel A. Macias Jr... Veteranos.

Police On My Back

 

What I don't know is a lot, but I'm convinced of at least three things: 

We have gun, racism and policing problems in this country, and they ain't necessarily exclusive of each other.

These are far more complex issues than most people are willing or able to deal with, so the fallback position is to let political persuasion, ideology, social standing, ethnicity or personal situation set the tone for our own mostly-unexamined opinions.

That's the wrong thing to do, but you know... HOOMANS.

I'd wager that other than the occasional traffic stop for a moving violation, most 'Murricans have little to no interaction with law enforcement, and la-de-da good for them. I wish I could count myself among those 'Murricans, but that ain't the case.

*********************************************************

Real World Cop Stop #1: It was sometime in late 1974 or early 1975 when my Cousin and I were chowing down some fast-food while sitting in my '57 Chevy in my hometown of La Puente, California. All of a sudden, several police cars raced up and and surrounded the car, the cops jumping out and pointing their guns at us.

We were both frozen in mid-bite, eyes wide open, when a voice over the loudspeaker said "REMAIN CALM AND DON'T MOVE!" We complied. 

A few moments later we were outside my car, food dropped on the ground, bent over the trunk lid with hands cuffed behind our backs. A few minutes later, they were uncuffing us and apologizing for their mistake. It seems a grocery store had been robbed less than 30 minutes earlier and the APB went out for two dark-haired young men driving a brown '57 Chevy... we fit the description. However, while we were cuffed and our records were being run, a radio call came in saying the real culprits had been snagged.

No harm no foul, and the cops were really nice to us afterwards. They left and we stood there, stunned and still hungry.

*********************************************************

We depend on the police to deal with law-breaking criminals and to leave the rest of us alone so we don't have to think about those criminals. We expect cops to be judicious and objective with their authority, to know in advance how to correctly handle every situation they respond to and to never break any laws while doing so.

This is very hard because of HOOMANS.

Here's the conundrum: Policing is an extremely difficult career choice that only a certain kind of person is willing to take on. Once badged, cops are asked to deal with the very worst examples of humanity on everyone else's behalf, yet are expected to maintain a high level of empathy and professionalism even though they're exposed daily to the worst examples of humanity.

Cops are HOOMANS, too.

Try this on: you have a job that requires constantly dealing with awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist, which means it can be difficult to remain objectively judicious with your authority, to not overreact, to not resort to base instincts. It's the same for anyone who served in the military on an active field of battle.

After a while of dealing with awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist, pessimism and antipathy and anger begins to seep in. What was once a noble calling becomes a debilitating exercise in survival, leaving you filled with trepidation and angst and anxiety and a daily fear for your own life.

A soldier in battle knows it boils down to 'kill or be killed'. For law enforcement, that mindset becomes dangerous when dealing with the public, especially if you know the likelihood that those awful people doing awful things who would prefer that you don't exist are armed, oftentimes more heavily armed than you.

So... there you are, a duly-sworn law enforcement professional filled with all the bad juju that dealing with The Awfulness brings, regularly confronting situations that YOU JUST KNOW is gonna get out of hand.

That right there is what we refer to as a MINDFUCK, and it often turns all bad real fast. Why? Because HOOMANS.

*********************************************************

Real World Cop Stop #2: In 2002 while working at a tire testing autocross event in a Phoenix suburb, my co-worker and I were driving back to our hotel after having dropped off our clients and their rental car at Sky Harbor Airport. There we were, two bald-headed Mexicans cruising the nighttime Arizona freeway in a Yellow Corvette convertible that I'd rented for the autocross shootout. Top down, tunes up, rolling at the speed limit because Yellow Corvette, the offramp to our hotel literally within sight.

I hadn't noticed the police car pulling up fast behind me until he lit up the night with his gumballs, strobes and spotlights, so I quickly pulled over to the shoulder. Within about a minute, four more cruisers joined us by the freeway, two of them sliding in front of the Corvette, blocking our path. A minor freeway jam-up ensued alongside.

Loudspeaker: "DRIVER AND PASSENGER... STAY INSIDE THE CAR." After a long couple of minutes, two cops approached both sides of the car with their right hands resting on their guns.

Him (to me in the driver seat): "Sir, is this your car?"

Me: "Good evening, Officer... no Sir, this car is a rental that I picked up in Tempe several days ago."

Him: "Sir, do you have proof of that?"

Me: "Yes Sir... right there in the console."

Him: "Sir, please give me your license, proof of insurance and the rental agreement... and do it slowly."

Once he had my papers, I was asked to exit the car and follow him back to his cruiser.  My co-worker also got out but was asked to follow another cop to his cruiser in front of the car.

We spent the next 30 minutes individually fielding myriad questions about the car, our work, why a Yellow Corvette, where we lived, yatta yatta yatta all to allow them lots of time to run our licenses and the car's registration to see if they could trip us up by giving conflicting answers.

Eventually they seemed satisfied that we weren't gang-banging car thieves, gave us back our docs and without a word, jumped back into their cruisers and blasted off, leaving us there in the dark by the side of the freeway.

*********************************************************

These days, people are afraid of the police. Of course, NO ONE wants to get pulled over, but the general feeling among many civilians is that the protocols, protections and guidelines we always assumed were endemic to law enforcement when dealing with the public... well, they seem to have gone MIA.

Yes, we hear inflamed and overhyped accounts via the 24-hour 'no sparrow shall fall' news media about every single thing that happens across our vast nation involving law enforcement, but it seems we've lost a valuable sense of trust in the men and women who choose to wear the badge.

That is a BAD THING.

The more we mistrust law enforcement to do right by us, the less likely we are to understand and accept the vital role they play in our lives. Once lost, that trust is woefully difficult to rebuild, and anyone who lives in an area with a crime rate above 'almost zero' will attest to how strong that mistrust, apprehension and suspicion can be.

I have relatives who worked in policing during the 70's and 80's, and they were amazing examples of all that is good about law enforcement.  One of them worked as a Detective at the infamous Rampart Division of the L.A.P.D. and witnessed some of the most egregious acts of policing misconduct ever documented.

Even though he'd just recently retired from the force, that same relative was shaken and scared at the results of Rodney King's 1991 beating, the ridiculous trial and the public outcry and violence. He feared for his comrades... and for the rest of us, too. He knew where it all came from.

*********************************************************

Real World Cop Stop #3: About 12 years ago, my wife and I were leaving her parent's home in Lakewood, California in her 2000 Blue VW Beetle. I was driving towards the freeway on a surface street and exceeding the 35mph speed limit by a mind-numbing 10mph, when out of nowhere a police cruiser jumped in behind us and lit up his 'pull over now' lights.

Once stopped, I waited for the officer to come up to the car, my license and registration at the ready. When he did arrive, his right hand on his holster, he asked me to get out of the car and follow him to the back of it.  Once there, he asked me if I'd mind putting my hands over my head so he could handcuff me 'for my own safety'. Natch, I did.

At this point, I still had no clue why he stopped me, let alone cuffed me. He inspected the car's interior and informed us he stopped me for exceeding the speed limit and that another guy with my name had an outstanding warrant. He never did explain the cuffing or car inspection, admonished my speeding and let us off with a warning before letting us go.

WEIRD.

*********************************************************

I'm technically a 'person of color' who doesn't appear at first glance to be anything other than a vanilla white dude. However, I have no doubt... NO DOUBT... that if I'd been of a darker skin tone, those Cop Stops could and probably would have gone much MUCH worse. That's not conjecture, but many vanilla white hoomans who deny that reality simply haven't experienced the stomach gut-knot when The Man decides to pull you over and you ain't a white dude or chick.

And now... a bit of comic relief:

Real World Cop Stop #4: In 1975 while attending junior college, I was dating a really lovely and wholesome girl that I'd met I can't remember where, and for our second date were headed to The Ice House comedy club in Pasadena.

We were rolling in my bitchin' BRG 1968 Triumph TR-4A, a really cool but absolutely awful car that would eventually cost me a great job because it kept breaking expensive British parts. My date loved the car, and we enjoyed the drive that evening from West Covina to Pasadena, the night filled with promise until I got lost and did an illegal U-turn within blocks of our destination.

I got pulled over in a nanosecond by one of Pasadena's Finest, so I figgered to get an embarrassing ticket and then drive away, but NO. After The Man took my license and registration to run, he came back to the car:

The Man: "Sir, do you know you have an outstanding warrant out for your arrest?"

Me: "Wait... WHAT?!?"

The Man: "Yes sir... a warrant's been posted for 'non-compliance of vehicle equipment violation' for this very car."

Me: "BUT BUT BUT... that violation's been cleared! It was for missing windshield wipers and I got it signed off and everything!" 

At this point, I gestured towards the new windshield wiper arms that had been on order from the U.K. for months and had just arrived a few weeks earlier. Didn't matter.

The Man: "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you on this outstanding warrant. You should have made sure it was cleared up before you drove this car."

Within a minute or so, I was handcuffed and pleading with him to please reconsider but no dice. He then told me that my car would be towed to a yard unless the young lady would be willing to drive the car away.  She didn't know how to drive a manual transmission but would call her Dad and Brother to come out and retrieve my car.

So on our second date, her and I (me cuffed) were in the back of a police cruiser headed for the Pasadena Police Station. AWESOME. She called her Dad, explained the situation, and I heard a huge peal of laughter over the station pay phone... he though it was hilarious. To his credit, her Dad and Brother drove all the way out to Pasadena on a Saturday night, picked her up at the station, retrieved my car and drove them both home. 

The following 12 hours of incarceration in the Pasadena jail are a story for another time. Suffice it to say I didn't go to L.A. County jail the next morning with the other Saturday night lawbreakers, and I bailed out soon afterward with the help of my Uncle Rick. The feeling of walking out of the police station on a Sunday morning was exhilarating.

*********************************************************

I don't pretend to know first-hand what it feels like to be a considered suspicious person simply because of the color of my skin or where I live or the people I associate with. I can only imagine what it feels like to be a law enforcement officer, considered by many with contempt or derision or fear, any time they find themselves involved in a traffic stop with the public, the most dangerous thing cops have to do.

Nevertheless, I do know we have a long way to go, as a society, before we can honestly say we treat each other with compassion or understanding or empathy.  

It doesn't have to be that way. I think we can all do better. I know I can.

"I think we all have empathy. We may not have enough courage to display it." - Maya Angelou

Todos las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; video de The Clash 'Police On My Back', muchas gracias a YouTube; Apoye a su policia local.

The Yardwork Gene

I was talking with Awesome Dad on the phone recently about his upcoming relocation to the wilds of Southwestern Idaho. We got on the subject of yardwork, so I recounted a conversation I'd had with my younger brother Chuck back in 2005, mere months before his passing.

Chuck had taken seriously ill with a failed liver, was fighting a devastating blood infection and in the final throes of his battle with alcohol. He'd recently moved into a small cottage in the city of Paradise, California (same city as Mom and Dad) where he'd lived since 1979, and we were talking about his new pad.

Me: "So, dude... you gonna hire someone to do the yards?"

Him: "Well, I made a deal with the landlord and he agreed to take $100 a month off my rent if I keep the lawns mowed and raked."

Me: "Ummmm... are you sure you're strong enough right now to take on that kind of physical labor?"

Him: "Of course I'm strong enough... I'm not a pussy, you know."

Me:  "But Chuck... you've never done any meaningful yardwork in your entire life."

Him: "Phhhht... it's easy, anyone could do these yards."

Me:  "BUT CHUCK... you don't have The Yardwork Gene like Dad and me, and you know it."

Him:  "Yeah... well... it's no big deal, I'll take care of it."

Upon hearing my story, Dad says "Well, you KNOW who wound up doing his yards, don't you?"

We both laughed at that and the idea of Chuck EVER doing yardwork of any kind, mostly because we miss him so much. And yes, it was Dad that did his yards, because Dad has The Yardwork Gene and Chuck never did.

The reason I mention all this is because the image at the top of this essay, of that lovely home surrounded by trees and greenery and verdant lawn... that image was taken by Dad after he'd done his yards for the final time before the new owners would take possession of the house and Mom and Dad would move out and be gone after living there for 35 years.

What's important to note is this house, surrounded by trees and greenery and verdant lawn, is located in Paradise, California. Yes, THAT Paradise, the same city that only last November was devastated by the horrific Camp Fire that destroyed 90% of the homes and 70% of the businesses and resulted in over 80 people losing their lives. The population dropped from 29,000 inhabitants to less than 3,000... you can't buy gasoline anywhere because the stations all burned down... the sound of dump trucks and bulldozers and chainsaws echo up there on the ridge six days a week now... you never even hear a barking dog at night because everyone is gone.

Even though their home was spared and insurance covered the moderate repairs that were needed, Mom and Dad decided to sell because their friends... their community... their way of life... all the things they knew and loved about Paradise are now gone. The city may eventually recover, but they ain't waiting around for it.

For 35 years, Dad was the sole groundskeeper for his acre of nature, dubbed 'Descano (means 'relaxation') Gardens' because they lived on Descanso Lane. Over the decades, he mowed and raked and trimmed and planted and weeded and fertilized and landscaped and trenched and filled and leveled and seeded and raked and raked and raked and... well, you get he idea. The lot was dotted with huge pines and California Redwoods. He dismantled a horse stable, built a stone-lined babbling brook across the rear part of his property, built a greenhouse and workshop, and created an outdoor haven for parties and gatherings that became legendary in that bucolic mountain burg.

He even built a small memorial area off to the side of the property where Chuck's ashes were stashed, a lovely little spot with a small bench under the trees where'd I'd play my guitar for Chuck.

Even now, almost a year after burning to the ground, there are still some properties in Paradise that look like this:

In fact, the image of Dad's (now) former home is misleading, because although the fire leaped over and spared the house and the front yards, it scorched the property out back, taking out his workshop and greenhouse, completely burning down some of the huge trees so badly that the roots burned right out of the ground, leaving giant holes in the dirt.

Dad and I talked about his final day of yardwork on Descanso Lane, and I asked him how he felt about it.  His answer surprised me.

He said "Honestly, Son... I'm actually very relieved. This property has been a lot of work, especially over the last few years, and it's taken a lot to keep up with it. I'm glad to have enjoyed such a beautiful place to live, but I'll be happy never to have to clean up that huge yard again."

Did I mention that Dad will be 84 years old this year?

Dad has The Yardwork Gene... typical Mexican.

Not everyone has The Yardwork Gene, but I'm thankful and grateful that Dad passed it on to me, because I LOVE doing yardwork.

I have The Yardwork Gene. Don't judge.

As a kid growing up in La Puente, my weekly allowance was predicated on the completion of tasks that included washing dishes every night, keeping the house clean, washing Dad's truck every week and (you guessed it) doing the yardwork. I enjoyed it, to be honest... I even rolled the lawnmower up and down our street, offering to mow the neighbors' lawns for a few bucks. It was a natural part of growing up.

I feel like doing the yards is a foundation of my adult-ness.

These days, I usually trim and mow every other weekend, and I find myself getting antsy mid-week and looking forward to opening the garage door on Saturday mornings and spending a couple of hours weeding and trimming and raking and mowing my little patch of greenery. I used to wear my ipod Nano while working but now enjoy the ambient sounds of my labor, feeling more connected to the world around me, smelling the raked gardens and cut grass and wet pavement when I wash everything down.

Once the yards are done, I always have a lookie from across the street because Pride of Ownership, amirite? It's not the largest or fanciest or best landscaped yard on the block, but it's ours and we've loved it for over 27 years. 

Less than a quarter (prolly fewer) of the homeowners in my 'hood do their own yards, opting instead to pay a fleet of Mexican gardeners who descend en masse with their implements of destruction and leave nothing but trimmed edges and hedges and smooth lawns in their wake.

I truly appreciate those Mexican gardeners who work so hard, seven days a week, making our neighborhood beautiful, Making America Great like only hardworking people can (Eat The Rich). I see whole families working those yards, sometimes even with tiny kids dragging a mini-rake or broom around, not really working but pretending to help Mom and Dad earn their keep. Those little kids are the ones who learn early to appreciate their parent's efforts to keep them housed and clothed and fed in a country that needs them to grow up happy, healthy and strong.

Now that Mom and Dad are officially gone from Descanso Lane, I'll miss making the 9-hour drive into Northern California, a drive I've made countless times since 1975.

I'll miss sitting in Chuck's Place, strumming my guitar and thinking about him and how he influenced me in so many ways.

I'll miss hanging outside with Mom and Dad and The Artist, sitting under the shady arbor, talking and laughing and just being together.

I'll miss simply walking around Dad's property, seeing his latest efforts to upgrade or change or just clean up, marveling at his ability to do so much work and keep it all looking so great in a natural, unaffected way.

I hope that I can keep doing my yards with the same joy that I do today. I hope I never get tired or bored with raking and trimming and mowing and sweeping, because when I do all of those things, I feel closer to Awesome Dad.

The guy that gifted me with The Yardwork Gene.


Paradise house image, Gracias de Manuel A. Macias, Jr.; Paradise burned image, Gracias de sacramentobee.com; Mission Viejo house image por El Autor; Suburban Lawns 'Janitor' video, Gracis de youtube.com.