Chapter 1 - Arriving
To Begin With...
Many of the spiritual traditions have teachings about how we arrive in the bodies that we will inhabit in this lifetime. One of the questions that comes up when you do spiritual work with your interior states is… "if everything is spirit as they claim, why don’t we remember that when we enter into this form." Why must we spend a lifetime chasing the truth that we are more than just this body/mind. What is the purpose of that design?"
One potential answer is.... it would drive us crazy attempting to hold the totality of our connection with everything in the Kosmos in the physical, emotional and psychological limitations of a human body. It literally would drive us mad. I had enough monkey mind going on in my life. I certainly didn’t need to add other lifetimes or the whole Kosmos to it.
What I have discovered in traveling in the realms of subtle or causal states (dream states) is that everything I enjoy about my life, connection with everything, the fire of a creative moment, the quiet place at the end of the breath etc. are so much more powerful in the dream state than when I am awake in my walk around life. I am capable of so much more.
For example, a recurring dream I like evolves me singing. I am standing on stage somewhere and I can sing anything I can imagine. In this life, I had a good voice but nothing like the dream state. When I would wake from those dreams I would feel an immense sense of joy and happiness.
As I have grown older and have developed the practice of entering those realms more often, it has gotten harder and harder for me to come back to this life. It’s like it takes me longer to pull the pieces of David together each morning when I awake. I am much more aware of the limitations of what this human mind/body can process than when I was younger. And that is why I believe we don’t remember who we really are when we arrive. The form we take here cannot process the totality of everything… so we go through this process of forgetting. One of the mysteries of arriving.
So how ever we get here (some say we choose, some say we are assigned, some say it’s random) we arrive in human form, for the most part helpless and only aware of our basic needs. We haven’t even recognized our parents yet or that we are one of many in this world. All of that will come soon enough as we evolve as individuals.
All that being said, there have been times when I seemed to have a memory that was not part of this life. Many claim they can remember their past lives. I am not sure what to make of that. I guess if all that humans create goes into some kind of Kosmic record that plays a part in intelligence advancing in the universe, then it’s possible we can access some of those energetic imprints. I am just not sure it’s coming from a past life in the way some think about it. Why is it in past life regressions, so many are famous people. Rarely are they a gardener or a stable hand. As I said I don’t know, and certainly when I arrived this time I simply emerged into the lives of my parents Barbara and Barney, their first born son. From the pictures seemingly happy to be here.
I have very few memories of those early years. Here are a few that have stuck with me that were revealed to me in regressive-guided meditations.
I have no idea if this actually happened or not, but I have a strong memory of me at some young age looking at myself in the mirror for the first time. My thought was that I looked very different than I expected. I had always written this off as a young child’s self-discovery process, but as I have had more spiritual experiences, this event can be seen differently as looking out through my souls eyes to the physical body I am inhabiting in this life time.
When I was born we lived in Park Merced in San Francisco. A big housing community that sprung up after the war to house new families like ours.
My mother told me a story that I liked to get on my tricycle and ride down to the corner to watch the tall towers being built.
She said I would stare at the buildings going up for hours. If this is true, it may have something to do with a pattern that developed, (or I was born with) that liked to make things. This interest would grow in my grandfathers magical workshop where he could make anything. I would spend hours as a kid with him as he made me toys or a soap box derby racer.
So, the creative pattern shows up early. It is certainly nurtured in childhood and then I am lucky enough to make multiple careers and a life out my creative energy. Fitting existing pieces together into a new novel story fascinated me.
Clearly the stories that were the core of my creative life came from that place. I eventually learned when I finished a project to take a quiet moment and appreciate what I had brought into being (with friends and collaborators) from nothing. Whether it achieved worldly success or not, I saw these projects as one of my contributions to our intelligence evolving.
(Image of Prince Street house and sidewalk)
I have a strong memory of a recurring dream. It takes place on Prince Street in Berkeley where our family lived when I was 3-8 years of age. In the dream I am walking up the sidewalk towards our house. I walk up the stairs and open the front door. Down the hallway that ran from the back of the house, comes a skeleton moving quickly towards me. I feel extremely frightened. In the dream I fall down and wake myself up, but in the recurring times I have this dream, I know I am going to open the door again. I wake myself up before I open the door. Lots of people I have interviewed tell of dreams or strange experiences they had as young children. I never thought much about this one, but there it is.
My parents were headed out for a 2nd honeymoon to Hawaii. My guess is that this was the first time both of them were leaving me. They were driving a 1949 blue Ford coupe.
I don’t remember being upset about them leaving, but I ran down the front stairs and as I approached the car I tripped and smashed my face into the side of the car. It opened a nasty cut next to my right eye. I still have the scar. Blood goes everywhere. I heard my Dad sigh and as I remember they had to delay their trip while I got stitched up. When I was younger I always felt I was a bit uncoordinated and awkward. These clumsy moments happened a lot. Big body no grace. Getting into sports changed some of that. Eventually, my martial arts training would ground me in my body for good.
This first five years of my life on Prince Street were pleasant as much as I can recall. Certainly the pictures show us happy, engaged.
I don’t remember my brother Bruce arriving a year and half after me, but there are certainly a lot of pictures of the two of us together doing stuff. I certainly remember my sister Jane arriving five years later. There is a classic family photo of Bruce and I staring into Jane’s bassinet. The look of wonder and confusion on our faces is worth the price of admission. It was sort of like…”what are we going to do with this.”
We had other kids on our block we would play with, so we got some sense of how others lived. And we would walk over to the Star Grocery or Elmwood Avenue for shopping trips that were filled with exotic sights and smells. I remember looking in all those houses and the big church on the corner and wondering what went on in there.
When it came time for me to go to school I can’t remember feeling inadequate, just uneasy about the change. Later in my life I would learn that I was what some call a “sensitive child.” I picked up lots of energy around me that wasn’t mine and had no way to filter it. It could be very disconcerting at times. However, I don’t remember anytime that my parents would have made me feel stupid or slow. But there was a feeling as I ventured out that I was less than.
The family photos from the first six years of my life shows us all looking happy, me looking contented etc. My mother said I was an easy baby that did not fuss much. In those photos I just looked like I was happy to be here. Unknown to me until many years later that was about to change, but that’s a story for later.
Brother Bruce and Sister Jane
In addition to my mother and father I was lucky enough to have two siblings. Our lives intermingled like siblings do on a journey together, but relating to it from different perspectives. I have found that talking with my brother Bruce and my sister Jane as adults has helped me fill in the blanks about what was going on in our family unit that I have little recollection.
I was the oldest and that had its advantages and disadvantages, but I never felt much like the older brother. Part of that I think was my own uncertainty. Bruce and I were close enough in age to really go through things together and Jane was five years younger and the only female, so things were different for her and me.
As I have said before, I have a period of my early life, ages 8-12, where they both remember more about me than I do. I look at it now and see the classic signs of depression. Bruce at that age was much more outgoing. He made friends easily and was good in school. Jane always seemed generally happy and she and my mother had a good relationship. Jane tells stories that when I asked her to do something, she was shocked. I do apologize Jane. I was doing the best I could. Bruce and I naturally competed as brothers do as well as spending lots of time together having fun, playing basketball, roaming the neighborhood, but as school got tougher for me I sense that I withdrew. I will never forget them having to sit through the grillings my father would give me about another failed report card.
Not to say we did not have fun as a family as well. Camping trips, Hawaii, going to the Zoo in San Francisco, Or to the mysterious fun house at the beach called Playland, and the train in Tilden Park.
As I started to find myself later in High School I did come out more and show more interest in both of them. As adults they have created lives that I greatly admire. Both in their chosen careers and in the ways they have raised their kids. Both are much better parents than I was in my two attempts.
But there is one thing I want to say here. In spite of the stress we had in our family dynamics I never felt I got the message from either Mother or Dad NOT to pursue what interested me. Music obviously was first for me, radio DJ, transportation/climate change for Bruce, Jane going to Europe in high school, starting her own clothing store and then the amazing winery. For me there was never that kind of shaming or heavy handed meddling that I heard about in others families. Even my friend Marks family that I so wanted to be a part of growing up had a version of this. Later Mark, in spite of his huge talent, could never get out of his father’s shadow. It is one of the greatest gifts that parents can give a child. Let them find their own way. And if our three lives are not proof of that, then I don’t know what is.
Off to John Muir.
First day of school is a big deal for most folks. So many of the interviews I did with people later in my career reinforced how their first day of school evoked strong memories. I remember feeling really uneasy yet curious. What do they do there? I could only imagine. What would they think of me? Couldn’t I just stay home where I felt safe and secure? The adjustment came quickly as it turned out there were lots of activities and toys to play with. Its funny how out of all the things I can remember about kindergarten, one memory is that my rug number was “36”. These were sleeping rugs and were stored in their cubicles. I remember being concerned I would forget my number. This was a precursor to my experience of school in general, but more on that later.
Kindergarten – Queen Elizabeth Coronation Story (1953)
There is a story that my mother told me about something that happened in kindergarten. Looking back, it foreshadowed what would interest me later in my creative life. Queen Elizabeth’s coronation as the monarch of England was in 1953. I must have seen the story about it or maybe my kindergarten teacher Ms. Saum told us about it.
In the big kindergarten playroom we had a huge set of wooden blocks. Some of them were quite big or so it seemed to us little people. For some reason unexplained I decided to organize our own coronation. I directed everyone to build the ornate coach the queen rode in out of the wooden blocks. I picked one of the girls to play the queen with her court. Apparently it was good enough that they brought the older grades into to see it. I look back on it as my first movie set. Telling stories would become what most of my creative life would entail, so this may have just been an early indicator. I do remember feeling great (seen) that everyone liked it.
My Experience with School
As I progressed through the primary grades something began to show up. I seemed not to know what was expected of me. I remember liking to read, but could remember very little of it afterwards. I was much better putting things together and doing projects where I understood the goal. Abstract outcomes were not my strong suit at that point. I came from a smart, academic family and I am sure even at this early stage there were expectations that I would grasp the basic subjects, even though it was never explained why we were learning these things. Looking back on it I may have had a learning disability. As far as I know I was never tested for it.
Also on the social front boys and girls started to get a sense of the pecking order. Who was popular and who wasn’t. For us boys sports was where this was mostly worked out. If you were good at sports, you would be picked first etc. I was always the tallest of our elementary group, big and kind of goofy. Bullies had already emerged and even though I didn’t suffer from them too much, I felt on the edge of the crowd. Sort of in and sort of out. I had a few friends, but started keeping to myself a lot.
One thing I did was join the John Muir traffic patrol. For some reason they advanced me to captain and I commanded the troops at field gatherings. My career army Grandfather was very proud. Officer material. This would come up later when the Viet Nam war came into my life.
That’s me front row middle with burr haircut. The day before this 6th grade graduation picture was taken my mother sent me to our cut rate barber. I wore my hair in crew cut in those days, but on this day he decided to take it down to the scalp. I walked home looking in store windows trying to convince myself that it was OK, but when I walked in the door, my mother said “OMG”. And we have the picture to prove it for all time.
So it was not all terrible. I have many wonderful memories of John Muir elementary school even after we moved on. We lived and played on the upper yard basketball courts until it was too dark to see. We roamed ever larger upscale neighborhoods around the school. Got into some trouble etc. But I had this nagging feeling that I was different in a way I could not explain at the time and that bought on the beginnings of feeling inadequate.
When I was around 8 years of age we moved to the Alvarado area of Berkeley behind the Claremont hotel.
My mother told me that we would not have been able to afford this neighborhood without help from her father and mother. They lived about ten minutes away so it worked out for everyone. I do remember that I realized that some of the families in this neighborhood had much more money than us. Significantly so in some cases. But in one of the magical hat tricks that my parents pulled off during our childhood I never felt wanting. Sure there were things we couldn’t buy, but there was no feeling of lack. Quite an accomplishment for my parents based on how much money they were making at the time.
The houses in Alvarado area had been built in the early 20’s/30’s/40’s and were a mix of well-kept homes and huge white elephants that had seen better days. The aging ones seemed dark and mysterious, particularly when I was collecting money from the people who lived in them for my newspaper route.
The neighborhood was filled with kids of all ages and we roamed through the joined backyards and along Sunset trail until it got dark.
I always felt safe there as there were lots of eyes on us. Couldn’t get away with much, but I liked being outdoors, weather permitting. The irony about the safeness of the neighborhood is that one of my friend’s older sisters was kidnaped and later killed along the route that we all took through the Claremont hotel grounds to get home from school. I remember the police and the grownups looking very tense, but I don’t remember being told not to walk home that way, Strange really.
The actual house itself had four bedrooms. My parents always said it was important to them that each child have their own room. This was an early blessing for me who wanted to be left alone at that point. My brother Bruce’s room was in the front and very sunny and bright. My sister was across the hall in the back next to my parents’ bedroom. My room was in the back in the darkened corner of the house. Suited me.
When I was growing up I always wanted my door to the hall open. I felt sacred if it was closed. It was just the opposite when I was older. I learned to like the confines of smaller spaces. But back then my mother and I would play a game about closing it for their privacy and then me opening it. The old house creaked and I could convince myself that something was walking down the hall towards me. Keeping the door open helped me when I would wake up at night feeling alone.
I do remember having fever dreams in the upstairs of that house. Usually accompanied by high temperature, I would sleep walk to my parent’s room and tell them some crazy tale of rocks chasing me or an airplane crashing in the front yard. My father would roll over and my mother would wake me up and put me back in bed, but it still felt very real.
The house was in need of repair, but it had this wonderfully big basement, which I was frightened to enter when I was younger, but eventually became a place of great adventures. My dad had his shop there. There was an old pin ball machine my Dad got from somewhere, storage and a separate room and bathroom that had been the maid’s quarters when the house was originally built. That room became the location of our complex model train layout we built with our Father. That is another story. The backyard was unfinished. My dad labored with my grandfather to finish it. They put in a brick patio which also doubled as our basketball court.
My room many years later. Mine was darker
Our kitchen not much changed many years later.
As a result of its narrow, horizontal shape, my brother and I got real good at shooting from the corners of the court. There was no room for a traditional free throw line or key. They constructed two other grass levels above the patio that required a massive engineering project just to hold the dirt in place.
At the top of the lot hanging over my sister’s club house that was to built by our Papa was a big pine tree where I built my tree fort. I think about carrying the material up that big tree now and realize how worried my parents were about me doing it. I didn’t think anything of it. Never fell etc. Kid’s naiveté. In the big Berkeley fire of 1994 the flames burned down to the top of our yard and took the pine tree. Everything else is still there.
The top of our backyard boarded on Sunset Trail. When they had built the Alvarado neighborhood they put trails between the houses on the first three levels. These trails became our adventure domain. We built forts in the vacant lot at one end and had the run of the back of the neighborhood without going out on the street. The view of the Bay Area and San Francisco from Sunset Trail was spectacular. Particularly at night when “the city” was all lit up.
One night in particular we all went up on the trail to watch this point of light move across the sky. That light was the Russian Sputnik, the first satellite to orbit the planet. In some ways I always felt it was better to live across the bay from San Francisco rather than in it. (I would later) You could always go into the city and experience its magic, but then you could come home where it was quiet.
What I learned from living in that house is that it matters where you grow up. I was lucky. Mother and Dad made it a priority that we were raised in a great neighborhood with nice people, relatively safe. My brother Bruce and sister Jane made this a priority with their kids as well. I know it was a struggle for our parents at times, but I have total appreciation for their effort to have us live there.
We remained in the Alvarado house until I graduated from High School. Many wonderful Christmases, family barbeques, basketball games and family road trips etc. Why we moved was a story that is still up ahead.
The Magic Kingdom.
One of those memorable road trips was going to Disneyland for the first time. Walt Disney had been making award winning movies forever. We grew up on them plus all the cartoons featuring Mickey, Goofy and Donald. His next genius move was to completely re-invent the amusement park. Before Disneyland, amusement parks were sort of carny affairs left over from circus days. Kind spooky and dark. Playland at the Beach that we went to as kids in San Francisco was one of the last. I always liked the weirdness of it, but Disney had other ideas for a “family” park of fun. A Magical Kingdom.
Everyone told him it was a big risk and he put a lot of his fortune on the line to build the first one in Anaheim CA. He promoted the building of the park and the opening on his Disney TV show. That’s where we saw it and begged our parents to take us. One of the good things about my Dad being a travel agent was that he could get passes early. Disneyland opened in 1955 and we were there in 1956. I was eight.
I remember driving down the LA freeway thinking we were going to see the Disneyland Matterhorn rising majestically over the land. It looked so big on TV. When we finally saw the tip of it in the smog filled sky, it didn’t seem like much. Whatever disappointment I had however quickly disappeared as we entered the park.
There were so many things to do it was hard to know where to start. And it was safe and allowed kids to roam freely. We bought books of tickets to go on the rides. (This is where the E ticket meme came from) There were restaurants all over the place and different lands patterned after Disney television shows we loved like Davy Crockett.
That first time we stayed at the Disneyland hotel because of our Dad. It was connected to the park by a monorail. It was part of Disney’s imagining about what the future might bring. We would go until we dropped. The park was kid sized built at ¾ scale. My second wife Joyce was a tour guide there in her younger days and knew all the secrets like the apartment that Walt Disney kept in the train station.
When it was built it was located in the middle of orange groves. As the popularity of the park took off, the area around Disneyland, which Disney didn’t own, turned into a motel nightmare. When Walt built the next one in Florida, he did not make that mistake again. He bought large tracts of land so that when you went to the park you would be driving for a ½ hour on Disney property before you ever got to the center. The Disney characters and vibe sunk in and later on I was lucky enough to shoot a TV show at Disney studios in Florida and run a division for Disney Interactive where I got to play with all the stuff of my childhood. It still takes me back to the first time. No matter how many times we went afterwards and took our kids as well, it was truly a magical place.
Playing in My Room
The old adage “go to your room” was not a punishment to me. My room, particularly through those dark days was my refuge. I created imaginary worlds that I inhabited and could spend hours just playing by myself. My sister Jane remarked later that during that period my room was off limits. It was dark and smelled like athletic socks, and an imaginary “not welcome” sign hung on the door. Our Dad made one little addition to our rooms. He put an audio speaker in every bedroom including mine. Little did we know that his plan was to use it as a PA system. He had a microphone down stairs and would make “announcements.” The one I dreaded was on the weekends when I wanted to sleep in. I would hear the click of the speaker turning on and cringe. Usually some summons to do yard work.
In our big basement there was a bedroom that had been the servant quarters in old days. This was where our model train layout was built. I would like to take credit for it, but it was really my Father that made it his hobby. From an early age on Prince Street we have a couple of pictures of a small circular track with an American Flyer train on it. In those days there were three different gauges/companies that made trains. The big one, Lionel ran on a triple track, the in-between American Flyer ran on two tracks like a real train and HO that was the little hobby choice of realism enthusiasts. American Flyer and Lionel were really toys, but later we converted the American Flyer toys to authentic looking train cars and buildings. Berkeley Hardware in the downtown district was the big train store and you could buy these books that showed you how to build a big layout.
I never got to ask my Dad why he picked this hobby up, but he was all in. In no time he built a giant table in the basement bedroom. It was so big that it filled the room. We had to use crawl spaces to get to the back areas. We bought more engines, and cars and things like switches and tunnels and buildings over time. My Dad wired the buttons on the control console so that you could run everything from there.
As a younger boy I remember him going down to the basement after dinner. I would find him lying under the table wiring something. Occasionally, he would come get us to show up something new. As younger kids we goofed around a lot when he wasn’t there. We would run the engines off the tracks in spectacular crashes. Boys just want to blow things up I guess. As I grew older I got interested in the hobby of it. I spent lots of time at Berkeley Hardware picking up parts and getting advice on how to build my own railroad cars and buildings. It was a truly a family hobby and the weird thing is we have NO pictures of that room and all the trains. It wasn’t that unusual in those days. You took pictures with bulky cameras. No I-phones. Still my Dad was a photographer, but for whatever reason he never took a picture of us with the train sets. It remains in my memory as another exercise in building something novel with him.
School Daze Continues
I was a classic underachiever in school. It started in the last half of elementary school and then exploded in Junior High. My mother said I had the usual trepidation about the first day of school, but where the fuzziness came from and the lack of interest or performance in school, I am not sure. When I read back through my report cards from the time before high school, it simply stated that I looked out the window a lot.
Another thought that I was not able to express at the time was that I was bored. I came from a college educated family, I seemed reasonably smart, although I didn’t test well, and I was expected to follow the college prep track. In Junior High that became a real problem. I had a few good teachers’ particularly in history and cultural stuff (to this day my love) but for the most part I didn’t get what was expected of me. It didn’t make any sense to me to do all this theoretical stuff without knowing why. The classic story was that I would do my homework and not turn it in.
As the case built for my non-performance, depression set in. This is a longer missive than I will go into here, but when I hear stories from others in my family of certain times in my childhood, darkened room, kept to myself, messy habits, I get the depression/anxiety that I would later discover ran in our family. I was also a good con artist. My parents would send me to a variety of councilors and they would report that I had seen the light, but I hadn’t. I just knew what to say so as to not upset anyone.
Dinner table conversations on report card day during this time were not pleasant. I do apologize to my brother Bruce and sister Jane for having to sit through my father’s interrogations. He was frustrated, and he didn’t know what to do. His parenting skills sometimes were not the best. It was heavy, shaming, and emotional for me. I remember him saying that I better learn how to play the guitar because it was the only thing I could do well. Of course, this challenge was in some ways ironic in that my first successful career was in music/making records. That resulted in a healing with my Dad because of it, but that was all still to come.
In spite of all of this trouble there were moments in Junior High that I enjoyed. One was working on the AV team. This newspaper clipping is the first image of me recording something.
Growing Up Berkeley.
In spite of my challenges in school, the rest of my life had many bright spots in this period. I developed two very close friends in the neighborhood... Mark Fulmer and Maury Barr. We got into all kinds of minor trouble, but had lots of fun. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house and go do something with them. Mark introduced me to playing music. My mother had tried to get me interested in piano lessons earlier, but it didn’t take. But Mark and his family were natural musicians and he taught me to play the guitar. We began singing folk songs at family gatherings or some church function. It was the first time I felt I was good at something. And the attention it brought from others brought me out of my social shell and helped me gain confidence that I was ok.
Most kids think that the town in which they grow up in is like everywhere else until they start traveling. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized Berkeley was hardly a normal place to grow up. Founded around the University of California, the town always had a different/edgy feel to it. When I would tell people later that I grew up in Berkeley, they would say, “people grew up in Berkeley?” Its reputation as a town of rebels would eventually be known worldwide. What I learned from growing up there was how to appreciate and engage with a diversity of different people and cultures. Berkeley was wildly eclectic, always trying new things, (many times silly) but it gave me a strong initial experience of what it meant to take chances, and push the envelope of normal.
The Alvarado district behind the Claremont Hotel on the south side of town was pretty much a white neighborhood with an occasional person of color that worked at the University. John Muir elementary school was 15 minutes down the hill from our house and was also mostly white. Desegregation of the Berkeley Schools would come later. By the time my brother Bruce’s kids went to school in Berkeley it was very different.
My frame of reference as a kid was pretty much middle class white culture. I think that is why I would be drawn later to all kinds of people from different backgrounds. In my younger years the only time I saw anyone different was when we would ride in the car on the north end of town or down into the flats going to the Bay Shore freeway. Telegraph Avenue, which would later become well known for its hippy orientation, was the home of the beat generation in the 50’s. I would see them on the sidewalk with their bongo drums, guitars and berets. As I pressed my face to the car window looking at them, I remember thinking there is something much more interesting out there than my world. I was right of course. The late sixties would bring alternative lifestyles into the mainstream. Something I would dive into fully as I came of age.
A Boys Best Friend
We had a lot of animals growing up. Everything from cats to guinea pigs. However, my best friend was Sam. He was a many breed creature we got at the Berkeley animal pound. Dogs are insanely loyal and although the entire family enjoyed his presence, in special moments, particularly on dark days, he was my loyal friend. My dad tried to train him, but he flunked out of doggy school. (I could relate) He freely roamed the neighborhood and would sometimes go in other people homes, if they had left the door open. Many people would tell stories of the adventures of Sam. He stayed with the Alvarado house when it was sold. I was already off at college and my mother, although pleased the new owners wanted him, told the story of closing the door to the basement where he slept one last time. It broke her heart. These “pets” become part of the family, forever linked to Berkeley.
Growing up our family ate in the dining room every night. It was a very fifties thing to do. We all had our prescribed places. Father at the head, me opposite him at the other end of the table, mother to my left, Jane closet to Dad on the right and Bruce next to me. In all the years we did this, we never switched places. This ritual had its high and low moments. It certainly made for conversation between the family unit unless my Dad would go into interrogator mode, picking one of us to prosecute. I certainly had my moments on report card days, Jane sitting closet to him could also be the subject of his inquiry, sometimes bringing her to tars. We learned when we were teenagers if he asked how our day was, to simply say “fine”. There was a political bent sometimes to his questioning. Berkeley was a very progressive place and teachers from junior high on, would stimulate our imaginations. My Dad was a conservative in those days and I think he felt he had to counter the stuff we were learning from left leaning instructors.
Later on when the family moved to Orange County, at the time a bastion of conservative thought, my Dad came across as much more liberal. Particularly when he partially joined the Cultural Revolution we were all going through in his own way. It is all relative I guess.
Now eating was another matter. When I was younger I was a very picky eater. I hated casseroles because all kinds of bad things could be hidden in them. I also didn’t want my food to touch. Meat, vegetables, potatoes etc. all in their own place. In the fifties in particular, vegetables usually meant the first generation of frozen food. I remember my mother pealing the card board off this frozen block of pees, string beans etc. and dropping the chunk into boiling water. I don’t think I really knew what real fresh vegetables tasted like until much later. I asked my mother about this when I was older and she wondered why she had done it. Fresh produce was around, but these frozen blocks were considered modern, convenience foods and moms everywhere went along.
So, we had the clean your plate rule. That meant some nights it was a waiting game. You would not be excused until you had eaten everything. This was particularly tough on nights when there were problem foods on the plate. My brother and sister and I loved bake potato nights. You could hide the offending vegetable under the potato skin and if you could make it to the kitchen door before being caught, you could quickly dispose of the offending item in the garbage.
Papa and Grandma
My grandmother and grandfather were major influences in our lives. We called them Papa and Grandma. Or if formal, Papa was the “Colonel” He had been a career army officer and he all the swords, uniforms and field tents to prove it. Grandma was a classic good soul.
Arriving in her kitchen was always met with the smell of something wonderful cooking. She had jars of homemade cookies that we dived into. Everything made from scratch. And cabinets of strange candy that I didn’t particular care for.
Papa was a dynamo that rarely stopped moving. He had a shop out back and could make anything including his own power tools. As a boy who liked to make things, this was heaven for me. Later as things became more difficult at home, their love was most comforting to me. I always felt encouraged by them even when I did stupid things. Papa, as I would learn later, was a very tough father. When he wrote the family books with his own recollections, they were passages that were entirely racist or talking down certain classes of people. Part of it was the ignorance of their times, but it played out in our family in that he always felt my mother had married "beneath" her class with Dad. This was a source of frustration over the years for him, as the Pinger men had this way of making him feel like an outsider. As much as I loved all the big Pinger family gatherings with all the crazy uncles and aunts, there was for him always a sense he didn’t belong. My mother fought for him against her father. And later it would be one reason why they moved away from Berkeley to Southern California.
I also had grandparents on my Father’s side. They lived in Virginia so we only saw them once in a while. My grandmother would relay a story to me about my father later on that would help me understand him more. The were both Irish and ran away together to get married. Ah, the rebel gene.
In my life I have learned our families are the best and the toughest relationships of our lives. We know too much about each other. We have too much history together. We had a saying in spiritual communities “if you feeling enlightened, go home for the holidays”. In spite of the troubles we had in our family system over the years, we are still talking and supporting each other all these years later. When I hear stories from others about their family experiences, ours in comparison was tame.
Aunts a Lot
We were also blessed with two great aunts. Dodo (Dorothy) and Honi (Helen) Blacker. They were our grandmothers sisters. Both were school teachers who never married and lived together until their deaths. They both were wonderfully kind and interesting women.
The other big influence was the University of California. The town was built around it and our family had a direct relationship to it while I was growing up.
Our grandfather was a professor in the engineering department and our Mother had graduated valedictorian. She was the only female speaker at her graduation at the Greek Theatre on campus. Something she always said was nothing. Hardly nothing we would respond. My Papa would take us for visits to the engineering department at Cal. I remember being fascinated by the big polished wood and brass models they had of bridges and industrial machines. I felt energy in that building that was all about building things. This would greatly influence me.
Another part of my Berkeley experience was going to Cal Bear football games. This started very early in my life. Memorial stadium was a classic gridiron palace. It had been built in the twenties as a memorial to war dead. Just above the stadium was “tightwad hill” where people could look down into the stadium and watch games for free. As a kid I sold programs at the games. We didn’t make much money, but we got into the games for free.
We spent hours as kids playing touch football on the practice fields around the stadium. And if someone left the gate open, we would go in and play on the stadium field until we were thrown out. I remember as a young boy I attempted to run from one end of the field to the other. About the 50 yard line (half way) I dropped exhausted. Real football was harder than it looked.
The BIG game against Stanford was always the best. The fraternities would deck their houses in Cal colors, there were lots of raids on the Stanford campus to steal enemy artifacts and the stadium was full no matter how good the team was. We watched a lot of Cal football games and suffered through the bad years and the occasional good one. As kids we would walk home down fraternity row where the drunken parties were just starting. I remember wanting to hang out on campus during high school. I remember my Dad saying, there would be plenty of that later when I went to college. Of course everything changed and frat life was not something to be into by the time I went to college.
The one game that is the most memorable was the 1982 big game against Stanford. That year Cal was just ok, coached by an old Cal quarterback named Joe Kapp.
We were sitting in the south end, which were not our usual seats. The game went back and forth and Cal was ahead by two points near the end, but Stanford got the ball back with a couple of minutes to go. Stanford’s quarterback was John Elway who would later go on to star in the NFL. Stanford began their drive toward us in the South end converting play after play including a huge fourth down. Like so many times before we had this sickening feeling that they were going to kick a field goal with just seconds left and Cal would lose again. Sure enough they did. 4 seconds was left on the clock. We were all packing up as Stanford kicked off.
It should have been a routine stop, but the Cal players started lateraling the ball to each other just as they were about to be tackled. We were still packing as we watched this happen. All of a sudden the fifth Cal player to get the ball broke free and headed directly into the Stanford band that was coming on the field thinking the game was over. We saw the Cal player with the ball disappear into band and then into the end zone. I remember feeling, that didn’t just happen. That can’t count.
The officials conferenced and then signaled touchdown and the stadium went nuts. We had been witness to one of the most famous plays in football history. It would be called simply “the play.”
After all those Cal seasons they never went to the Rose Bowl championship game after 1954. They came close a couple of times. My brother Bruce and I always said that on the day Cal clinched the Rose Bowl there would be a big earthquake on the fault that runs under the stadium and that would that. It never happened and although Cal was the one Bay Area team that did not have championship runs in our lifetimes, the memories of all those games was still worth the price of admission.
The E Train – Adventure on Tracks.
The Bay Area was home to a transit system that involved electrified trolley trains that ran all over the Bay Area. This was way before the current Bart system. The “E” train came right up to the Claremont Hotel. We could jump on the train and go all the way across the Bay Bridge to the downtown terminal in San Francisco. From there you could take an electrified bus anywhere in the city or walk to downtown.
As a kid these were always great adventures. I can still remember the smell of coffee from the Folgers coffee plant in SF (Now Google SF Headquarters) and the Hamm’s brewery sign that filled up with beer.
What could have been?
As you get a bit older in life you realize that every moment of every day something unexpected can happen. It’s just life. Shit happens. As a kid this never occurs to you. One time as we were headed out for a family camping trip at 4am in the morning we were stopped waiting for a light to change. There was one car in front of us. The light turned green and the car ahead of us started to cross the intersection. Out of nowhere came another car that broadsided the vehicle in front of us. It exploded into pieces with the crumbled mess ending up down the street. People came running and for whatever reason my Dad decided to continue. As we drove away I saw that could have been us. Sometimes you just have to be lucky.
Here’s another one. When I was twelve my Dad got an offer to open a travel agency in Florida. It was apparently a good opportunity and we all flew down there to check out houses. It was the first time I saw “colored” bathrooms and drinking fountains. Racism was in the open in those days among other things. The deal fell through and we stayed in Berkeley, but that was one of those fork in the road moments that could have made my teens so different. I was already used to the variety of races living/working/playing together. It would have been hard of me to go southern. Fortunately we stayed in Berkeley and I completed my progressive upbringing. Our Dads travel agency below.