The Red Fox

 This is the third of three parts, chronicling the three-week odyssey that five of us graduates took, leaving the night we strutted across the stage at Bishop Amat.

I never referred to Debbie as The Red Fox but I raised no objection when the others did. We were only ten days shy of walking across the stage at Bishop Amat, when I met her at one of the parties that took place in those waning days of high school. There was one every night it seemed, and though it was a tough job we did the best we could to maintain the high standards of those who had graduated before us. 

I just made sure I had a ride with John or Glen, and that I checked in with headquarters, to make sure Mama was not bummed out about me going out after work. The operative word was work. Even Mama found it challenging to criticize me after I had just put in six hours at Sunrize Market, so my checking in was mostly a formality.

Mama did not like surprises.

A benevolent cosmos had steered me to Debbie, or was it the other way around? Within the narrow confines of my insulated world, nothing like this had ever happened to me. Debbie was beautiful, she was vivacious, she was outgoing and best of all, she liked me.

What was the catch? When did the lever get pulled, with the trapdoor beneath me suddenly opening up? I knew it would be a long drop, but I was willing to take the fall. I was in love with Debbie.

That she had a boyfriend was a given. Debbie was too hot not to, but there was a glimmer of hope for me. There was something up with the boyfriend, so Debbie was taking a break from him for the moment.

I was no snake-in-the-grass,

I was pinch-hitting for the boyfriend, but I was not trying to get a hit. Mama may have been a thorn in my foot, but she didn’t raise no dummies. I recognized that this was my only chance, and the last thing I would-or could-have done, was to try and get on base with Debbie, if you catch my drift.

The seven girls had concocted the plan to meet the five-well, four-of us, up north at Plaskett Creek, without our knowledge (Bill had hitch-hiked south to San Luis Obispo, and on home). Yes, a weekend with girls violated the agreement we made with our parents, but I justified matters inside my noggin three ways:

First, we had no control over what young women did as post-graduate adults, especially when their parents had given permission for their weekend visit. Second, if I were planning to slither off in the sticks with a pup tent and only Debbie, then that would have been a violation of my agreement. I did not perceive seven female adults sleeping in a six-person tent, along with four male adults, as any violation of trust.

For it to have been a violation of trust, there would have to have been two of us willing to fool around in the midst of all the others. Speaking for myself I was in uncharted waters and got little sleep, so I can say definitively that nothing happened.

Furthermore, I matured far more that weekend as a person than I ever would have, had Debbie and I actually done what our parents evidently feared we had. Already knowing what Debbie was facing with her own boyfriend, could I ever have been that clueless, myself? Debbie and I spent the nights in close proximity but only for warmth. 

Nothing has more swagger than a self-righteous man, and that led me to the fateful showdown at home, on Fellowship Street, when Debbie dropped me off on Monday. I was never going to try and fool my mom because it was not possible.

On social media the other day, my sister JT described Mama as livid when I got home. I guess she was-who could tell? Standing alongside our upright piano, which had been moved into the center of the living room, Mama fixed her gaze on me for just the briefest of instants, before shifting it to Debbie and her friend, and then back to me. She did not utter one word. In our house we did not move the piano away from the wall to clean, so something major was going on.

Did I mention that Mama did not like surprises?

It was looking like sunset for me.

“Hi, Mama! I’m home! I’d like to introduce you to Debbie and her friend, Whosie. They gave me a ride home from Plaskett Creek.”

Mama did not say a word. This was not going well and Debbie knew it.

“Well, Markie, it’s been fun but we have to go,” Debbie said. Since I had left all my stuff in Glen’s van, there was nothing for Debbie to unload, and she was no dummy. She could see the storm brewing in Mama’s face, even if there were no clouds. 

Storm? Try hurricane season. The most staggering thing of all is that Mama believed me when I said nothing happened. I know she believed me because I was still alive. What she was freaked out about was not even my reputation, but hers.

“You don’t care about my reputation, but I am the laughing stock of my circle,” she lamented, primly.

“Why? Because I came home and didn’t try to hide anything?” I was still miffed that I got no credit for being upfront about the weekend. Is nothing sacred?

“Exactly. You broke your word and then threw it back in my face,” she went on. 

“No, Mama. Throwing it in your face would be accurate if there was anything to throw in your face in the first place. We didn’t do anything wrong, and if you can’t accept that then that’s your bag, not mine. If you don’t get off my case, I am going to split this scene.”

"See my beard-ain't it weird?"

And who'd have guessed? Mama forgot about Big Sur right away. OK, it's possible that she didn’t forget; I just gave her something else to have a cow about. I had returned from camping with three weeks of brilliant red whiskers flaming on, all over my face. When I clocked in at work with sideburns down to Baja, my boss had a twonky attack and promoted Jimmy Richardson to head box-boy on the spot. 

I spazzed out and quit, figuring I could find a job anywhere, but I was wrong. When I confessed what I had done to Mama, she went ape-shit, wrapping up her sermon with, “Just wait until your father finds out about this. He’s going to flip his wig.”

In the end I went crawling back to Sunrize on my belly, and begged my boss for my job back. 

"Don't be skeered-it's just a beard."
George Carlin

“No more camping trips? No more sideburns? No more bull-stuff?” he inquired, sarcastically. He knew Mama had clipped my wings already; he was just rubbing it in. “Go on and grab your apron and the mop. Yo can start by giving the entire store a thorough mopping.”

I was good with that-happy even. I had my job back, and though I once again had white walls, at least Mama was no longer mad at me about Bg Sur.

As for Debbie, well, you know how that all panned out. I did not see a lot of her that summer, and when that lever finally got pulled and the floor opened up beneath my feet, I was ready. I had a parachute strapped on my back for that inevitability.

If I remember correctly, her name was Wendy.

"Goin' Mobile"

This is the second of three parts, chronicling the three-week odyssey five of us took, leaving late the same night we swaggered across the stage at Bishop Amat.

“I’m going home

And when I want to go home, I’m going mobile

Well I’m gonna find a home on wheels, see how it feels,

Goin’ mobile

Keep me moving” The Who

At my request Glen Wass popped Who’s Next? into the eight-track, as we set off for Sequoia National Forest in his ’64 Econoline van. With John Hartnett, Bill McCluney and Steve Haskell, we were celebrating freedom from Bishop Amat High School, earlier that day, together with freedom from parental control. 

Who am I kidding? We could remove ourselves from our parents but we could not remove our parents from us. So attending Mass on Sundays was a given. This and other edicts were passed down to the five of us at a meeting at the Hartnett residence, each of us present with at least one parent.

“One final thing we want to discuss is alcohol and girls,” intoned Mrs. Hartnett. 

I thought to myself, that’s two things but math is not the subject here, Mass is.

Bill chimed in. “We’re always happy to talk about alcohol and girls,” and then his eyes opened wide as someone kicked him under the dining room table. “But that’s all we do is talk,” he finished lamely.

And yet I was the one with the gag order…

We were nodding in five-part harmony with Mrs. Hartnett, as John assured her that we were not going to be trying to pick up any girls.

“Humph. I should certainly hope not. You boys-no, you young men-are going to have to live up to the ideals we have instilled in you.”

John squirmed uncomfortably in his hard-backed chair. “Mom,” he began, but she turned to him.

“Now John. You know very well that I believe you are good boys, but I also know that good boys have the same temptations as bad boys, and I want to have your word that there will be no shenanigans on this trip.”

“Of course not, Mom. What do you think? That we’re planning a big party up north somewhere, and that we are inviting every girl we know to be part of it?” 

Let’s not exaggerate John-we know more than seven girls…

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you to try and pull the wool over our eyes.”

 

“Mom.......”

“We haven’t discussed Church. How do we know that you will go to Mass each Sunday?”

Ripping the duct tape from my mouth-metaphorically speaking-I blurted out, “We’ll have all day Saturday to find a church to attend on Sunday.” The words sounded lame, even to me. As though we were going to spend all day Saturday looking for a church. Right.  

Can I help it that the duct tape came off so easily? 

Our chariot home...

Surprisingly, Mrs H. was pacified. “Fine. If you can follow the rules that we have set down, then I feel you have earned our trust.” And here she leaned forward. “But if you break your word, my, my, my,” and she let it go at that. 

Mama didn't say anything because she didn't have to. She knew me well enough to know that all she had to do when I got home was give me the look and I would spill my guts. As it turned out I would need no words to explain what had occurred. After all, Debbie was standing right beside me, mute testimony that I was smart enough not to try and get away with anything. 

“Come to me now (Come to me now)

And rest your head for just five minutes

Everything is done

Such a cozy room

The windows are illuminated

By the evening sunshine through them

Fiery gems for you, only for you”  Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Just as Goin’ Mobile was my go-to, music-wise, CSN&Y’s second album Deja Vu was everyone's favorite. It was ironic that the letter the girls sent announcing their plan to join us at Plaskett Creek was addressed to Bill, and yet by the time the girls actually arrived, Bill had already set off for SoCal on his own. He hitchhiked down to San Luis Obispo and then took a bus back to SoCal, because he was missing home and more specifically his girl, Nancy McIlvenna.

But I have leaped ahead of the story. Upon leaving Sequoia we headed 250 miles up to Yuba City, the home of my mom’s brother Walter, his wife Ellen and more kids than even the nine in my family. John, of course, wanted to go fishing with them, having read that catfish were plentiful in the Feather River.

As to the fact that the first eight kids born to Walt and Ellen were girls, I am shocked that any of you reading this would think of that as a possible motivator for our trip to Yuba City. 

That the five of us were welcomed and invited to stay, speaks volumes for the hospitality extended. I will confess to having vague and unsettling memories of one of the girls being unceremoniously dumped into the swimming pool, horror of horrors. Nevertheless, we ate dinner with the entire family, spread our sleeping bags out on the living room floor when that time came, and enjoyed breakfast in the morning before once again setting off on our journey. 

I can pull up by the curb,

I can make it on the road,

Goin’ mobile

I can stop in any street

And talk with people that we meet

Goin’ mobile

Keep me moving

We made our way north and up into Oregon. Heading counter-clockwise we traveled east and then north, and eventually back to the coast. We ended up at the home of another set of first cousins, these on my father's side of the family. It being toasty outside, we visited a local swimming hole, a large reservoir that had life guards and a horde of swimmers.

One of those lifeguards had a megaphone to go along with with his bark, and he spent the afternoon bellowing, “Off Those Ropes!” to swimmers who instinctively reached out to grab ropes that extended across the swimming area towards the middle of pool. We never fully grasped the reasoning behind the edict, figuring the rope to be a safe haven, but Steve adopted this phrase as his mantra. At any point in time, either in response to a question or right out of the blue, he would bellow out, “Off Those Ropes,” and everyone would nod in agreement.

Our house is a very, very fine house

With two cats in the yard

Life used to be so hard

Now everything is easy ‘cause of you

We had such a blast in Yuba City on the way north, that we cut across from Highway 101 and returned for an encore. We kept this visit to a late morning/afternoon stint and then headed back over to the coast and down to Big Sur. 

Two things stand out during this time period, prior to the girls arriving: First, we went up to the Trappist Monks Monastery, being treated with respect and being welcomed to attend Sunday Mass with the monks in their chapel. This was one mass that required no parental proclamation to induce attendance. The facility was exquisite in it simplicity and beauty, and a calm presided over everything.  

Out in the woods 

Or in the city

It’s all the same to me

When I’m driving free

The world’s my home

When I’m mobile

Secondly, John was chopping kindling with the hatchet, when he brought the blade down on the index finger of his left hand, splitting the nail and a good portion of his finger wide open. We drove back to Carmel to have it seen and attended to. 

In forty years of living off the grid up here on this twenty-acre parcel of land, I have had to split wood with a hatchet countless times. I learned from John’s mishap to keep my fingers on the side of the piece of wood being split, so that I could never bring the blade down on any of my fingers. I benefited from the lesson John paid for so dearly.

Taken upon my return from our epic
journey, complete with three-week
growth of beard.

When the time finally came and the girls arrived, there was much whooping and hollering, before we headed across the highway and down to the water. There were seven girls and the four of us guys who remained. Having consulted John, Glen, Bill, Peggy, Debbie and my own fuzzy recollection, I have compiled the following names as the posse of girls who journeyed up to Big Sur to meet us: Peggy Callan, Debbie Bienville, Alice Frausto, Charlotte Neal, Theresa Briones, Janet Brown and one other, whose name remains in the mist. 

It was mid-June, the weather was ideal and there were no clouds in sight to foreshadow the storm that was about to be unleashed.

Make-A-Wish

This is the first of three parts, chronicling the three-week odyssey five of us took, leaving late the same night we swaggered across the stage. 

As life events go, striding across Bishop Amat’s stage at graduation was enormous, providing memories these fifty-one years. As liberating as the moment was, another life event also commenced for me on May 31st, 1970, one that was to provide far more memories-and freedom-than leaving Amat. I embarked on a three-week journey of discovery with four fellow graduates, bound for the Northland. 

John Hartnett, Glen Wass and I planned the voyage from as early as mid-winter, essentially treating it as a fantasy. Since when were the parents likely to buy this pipe dream? Chatting it up and pondering the logistics of a post-graduation odyssey, we framed our ideas into a plan of action. In doing so we found ourselves joined by Steve Haskell and Bill McCluney, who were intrigued by our idea of a graduation-day getaway. Our mode of transportation was Glen’s white, ’64 Ford Econoline van, with no side windows and a solid rack up-top to transport our gear. 

Camping is what we had planned on, but our overnight sleeping accommodations included a variety of unorthodox venues. We spent one night in the vestry of a church, one in the heated bathroom of a brand new, as-of-yet-unopened resort in the mountains of Eastern Oregon, and one night in the parking lot of a K-Mart, just because it was there.

The top o' the morning to you!

Three of us had awakened inside the van that morning, in the deserted parking lot, and were contemplating the universe in general, while Bill and Steve remained dead to the world in their sleeping bags on the ground right outside the van.  With speakers in each door, when fully opened, those speakers were aimed right at the two sleeping beauties. What better song to greet the new morning with (at full volume) than the Beatles’ “Good Morning, Good Morning?” Up and at ‘em, lads!

Now Steve’s dad owned a grocery store, so hey, that was his ticket to ride; we could buy supplies at cost. And high on Bill’s list of qualifications were his mad skills as a driver. We would end up traveling more than 3,000 miles, so Bill was welcomed aboard.

I did not have a license and because I was so small, I sat most of those 3,000 miles on the engine cover between the driver’s and passenger seats. In those pre-seat belt years, it seemed so natural. Now? Not so much. 

We made lists, gathered supplies, organized our camping gear, met with the parents and had the Marquess of Queensbury rules dictated to us. These included but were not restricted to a) absolutely no consorting with females; b) attending mass on Sunday mornings and c) no alcoholic beverages whatsoever. Make no mistake: The greatest of these was A. There were to be no chicks, no foxes, no babes, no chicas, no tatas, no chickadees, no hoochies, no floozies, no arm candy and no home girls. 

For the record we did attend mass on Sundays.

Tall Oly's:
Who knew why?

The general consensus was that 16-ounce Olympia Beers were not really alcohol, right? Not like Ezra Brooks Real Sippin’ Whiskey, but that’s a tale for another time. As for consorting with the female species, all we could do was wish. We had no control over that.

Honestly.

How were we to know that our seven home-girls would take it upon themselves to read our minds, and then journey up from SoCal to Plaskett Creek Campground, in the neighborhood of Big Sur? To meet up with us? For a whole weekend? We hadn’t even included this component in our wildest fantasies while planning our adventure. 

OK, that last bit is obviously a lie.

We did get a postcard somewhere along the line informing us of the plan, but what were we supposed to do? How could we have prevented this rendezvous at Plaskett Creek with these seven girls, even if we actually wanted to? It never occurred to us to try and stop them. This was beyond a dream come true-sorry parents-but there was nothing we could really do. 

Where was email when we really needed it? Oh, yeah. And no texting or messaging, either. And yes we could have phoned-everyone knew that after eight the rates dropped-and talked to one of the girls. We could have tried to convince the girls it was a bad idea to come up for three days of sun, fun and celebration of freedom from Amat. 

Yes, we most certainly could have and probably should have, I guess. I mean, maybe. Wouldn’t that have been the right thing to do? According to our parents? We just didn’t know. Not for sure. And besides, we justified matters by simply decreeing that it was out of our hands. I mean it really was. Wasn’t it?

Next: "Goin' Mobile"

 

Check Point

 

Not all lessons were learned in the classroom at Bishop Amat, and not all knowledge was imparted by the good nuns and priests. Sometimes, lessons were learned within the hallowed halls themselves, with knowledge being passed along by none other than the ASB President, himself.

Back in the day, you could identify a Bishop Amat student by the sunlight glinting off the shaven sides of his head or by the length of her skirt. Facial hair was strictly verboten, as were short skirts, because school officials were determined to create the prototypical clean-cut student image. This meant no sideburns, and skirts were to be worn at knee length or lower. School officials wanted community members to be able to identify a group of high schoolers as Amat students from a block away, simply by looking at them.

Just as desperately, students wanted the opposite: We wanted to be normal. The angst-it was great, as we looked around and saw schools everywhere relaxing their grip on dress standards. There were even high schools with administration-sanctioned smoking walls.

Amat’s dress code had no impact on me because I was required to be clean-cut to work at Sunrize Market anyway, but clothes were an entirely different matter. No Levis or cords meant we had to wear dress pants to school, which is why my cut of a phat paycheck from Sunrize Market, found me down at the local strip mall, spinning clothes racks inside Greene’s [Fine] Menswear.

Ah, Greene’s, where I bought those flashy yellow, corduroy bell bottoms I found so styin’. Greene’s, where a dude had a fighting chance to cruise out with some serious threads, if he could afford the price of poker. Well, I wasn’t working at least thirty hours a week to help support the household, contrary to Mama’s beliefs. I was working for menswear.

My hand paused in mid-spin on the clothes rack, working in cahoots with my eyes, as a pair of checkered brown sports slacks derailed my train of thought. I know now it was derailed because like a magnet, my eyes were then drawn towards a smartly styled dress shirt, yellow, but not bright like my bells. And oh, yeah. It was also checkered. 

They matched splendidly, I thought. Look at me go!

And so it was that I appeared at school the following Monday, decked out in my new duds, desperately trying to embody an air of nonchalance. As one whose perpetual goal at school was flying below the radar, this was heady stuff, and I was ready for some acknowledgement of my fashion statement.

Always at my beck and call, the cosmos responded accordingly, and what I wished for came true. Unfortunately, once the spotlight was upon me, I saw the light.

When morning break finally arrived, I headed out to The Cage to rustle up an ice cream sandwich On this particular Monday I varied my route to include passage through the wing of the school that housed the library. When I emerged on the other side, I was dead center on the girls’ side of the school, just as the doctor ordered.

I was a rainbow trout swimming amongst a school of minnows, but I tried not to strut, figuring I didn’t need to. I was right about that because I stood out like a halogen light, rendering the aforementioned spotlight moot. Danged if I didn’t spot Rudi Brutocao, someone who was no stranger to style, and the perfect person to validate my good taste. 

Rudi was a classmate of mine.

He was leaning back against the metal bar that ran the length of the sidewalk heading toward The Cage, flanked on either side by attractive coeds. I had never once dallied along this sidewalk, while leaning back against this bar. If only Rudi would see and acknowledge my fashion savvy, right in front of these sweet young things, I could feast on my ice cream sandwich with relish.

Ask and ye shall receive, smirked the cosmos. Rudi did notice me-I could see it in his eyes, which widened noticeably (appreciatively, I was certain) as I approached. Without actually moving his head, he surveyed me and my outfit-from head to toe-and back again. His look was speculative, pensive even. If I were worried that I wouldn't be noticed, I needn’t have.

Rudi made eye contact with me, and I thought to myself, “Voila! Here it comes, serious respect from The Man, Himself.”

“Check on check,” was what Rudi actually said, and he nodded, curtly, as though in approval. What else could it have meant? And then he added a single word, which I found, well, puzzling. “Interesting…”

And that was it. No big ups for a job well done and no hoot of derision or snide barb, just that single word. What the heck did that mean, I wondered? Interesting… What was interesting about-

Oh. It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, made heavier by the presence of the girls: Check on check was a fashion faux pas, an unqualified disaster, and I had just been schooled by Rudi, in front of all those girls.

Could the sidewalk just open up right now and swallow me whole?

But here’s the deal. As mortified as I felt, I could not help recognizing that the Big Guy had taken pity on me. Let’s face it, Rudi had no need to harpoon me; he was above that. I’d been skewered routinely all my high school career, probably for similar transgressions, and yet, this morning I had been spared.

Rudi had sounded the alarm, but so gently as to have allowed me to glean a critical piece of fashion sense, without having to pick myself up off the ground, metaphorically speaking, after being knocked down once again. 

Take that, Louis Vuitton: There is a God.