Spitball Army

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I. Father was born beneath the sway of California palms; in death, he is surrounded by their less majestic South Carolina cousins.

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If my mother had asked us this question as kids, or something similar (like “Want me to make a positive difference and fight for ALL of South Oceanside children’s future from OUTSIDE of our kitchen?”), we would have just looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head on her shoulders.

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I either (1) snatched the handbill off of a counter somewhere on or near the campus, (2) took it down off a wall, (3) she (my sister, not Linda) scored it for me, or (4) I just “appropriated” it. I had the “hots” for Linda beginning around this time and on through into college, and it was no secret, so I am putting my money on Number 3.

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It was rooted in the corner of a corner lot, dwarfing the Spanish-style bungalow next to it. Its branches extended high and far out over the street in all directions, safely out of danger from the automobile traffic below, and sheltering the pedestrians and others, like me, on bicycles. I would slow my pedaling to marvel at this tree whenever I rode up the hill to Laurel Road, and would slow my coasting when I returned on the downhill route to Laguna Street. The tree’s age and size seemed to engender respect automatically. I called it “Old Man Tree.”

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– My favorite writing instrument is an L.C. Smith manual typewriter with glass keys that is in perfect working order, sits atop a desk in my office, and rarely gets used.

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