February 28, 1968 6:30 AM
I woke up to my mother going through my dresser and packing a suitcase. Fearing that I was about to be abandoned, I asked if I could go with her.
Ninety minutes later, my mom, two of my sisters, my brother and I were in front of the house with suitcases. Two cabs pulled up, one to take my sisters to the airport, the other to take me, my mom and brother to the bus station.
Thirty six hours we were eleven hundred miles away. My grandfather picked us up at the bus station. Due to the late hour my brother and I were given a quick meal and hustled off to bed.
The small town we were in had a nightly routine. Every night at ten the large air raid siren in the water tower would go off, one quaver, to warn teens that it was now curfew. Coming from the midwest, an air raid siren meant something completely different.
"It's a tornado!!" I told my brother. My grandfather heard us scurrying around looking for shelter. My hot headed grandfather ran in the room. "What the hell are you doing?" he yelled. "Grandpa, it's a tornado!!
"No it's not" he bellowed, "it's the curfew siren!!"
In a case of the worst timing ever, a house two hundred feet away blew up (natural gas leak). My brother and I shrieked and dove under a bed while my grandfather ran to the hotel lobby (he owned a hotel, built around 1900). One of the railroad men (a tenant) was in the front entrance. "It's the Aragon house" he told my grandfather. The air raid siren went off again (ten quavers) summoning volunteer firefighters.
The hotel was adjacent to a very large rail yard and railroad men made up the majority of the tenants in the hotel. Rail workers work a "leg", meaning that their home was in one of two cities, the town we were in, or another one two hundred miles away. If they stayed in my grandfather's hotel, their house was in the other city.
It was only a few days later that I was exploring the hotel, walking down the hallway of the second floor when I heard a railroad man say, "Hey kid, come here."
I went into a room and the man had his feet kicked up on the window sill while he looked out at the rail yard. He told me he had "an order" in at a local store (two blocks away) and told me to tell the store owner that I was there to pick up "Mr. Lumonion's order." He gave me a couple of dollars. I went to the store and picked up the order (a pack of cigarettes and a men's magazine). When I came back, Mr. Lumonion gave me a quarter. A business was created. Soon I was running errands for the railroad men, banking the coins.
At first, my mom worked as a maid in my grandfather's hotel, but then my grandfather helped her get a job in a state hospital ten miles away and bought her a car. When my mom got her first paycheck, I went with her to the bank to cash it, then we went to see Mr. Castillo.
Mr. Castillo owned the three houses closest to the hotel, the gas station across the street and also about twenty five percent of the town. A house, about one hundred feet from the hotel, had been abandoned for some time. The windows were broken out, it was lacking doors, sinks, a toilet, a stove, a water heater, a bath tub and a furnace. Mr. Castillo told my mom she could have the house for twenty five dollars a month if she could get someone to fix it up. My grandfather spread the word to his tenants that they would get a break on rent if they fixed up the house. Several days later, the house was ready and we dragged our suitcases over.
We had been in the town about three months when my grandfather took me to an event. The local volunteer fire departments had gathered around an outdoor basketball court for "games." A steel wire had been suspended between two goals. A tether ball hung from the steel wire. The intention of the game was to use a water stream from a hose to put the ball into a goal. As a matter of fact, because my grandfather was always late, we arrived as the last two hose crews battled.
The local fire chief announced that they were looking for civilians for the next match and then the fire chief spotted my grandfather.
NOTE: My grandfather was a retired railroad man and a local legend. He had pulled off incredible feats of strength while working for the railroad, and while serving in the volunteer fire department, he had saved four firefighters suddenly enveloped by burning oil (a storage tower suddenly just burst open).
The fire chief asked my grandfather if he wanted to head up one of the two hose crews. My grandfather agreed on the proviso that I went with him. The fire chief agreed.
My grandfather placed me in front of him, at the head about ten civilians holding the hose. When the fire chief blew the whistle I opened the hose and directed the stream at the ball. The person leading the other team seemed to have trouble working the nozzle. By the time he figured it out, I already had the ball in the goal. Two young firefighters (Terry and Anthony) noticed, and this would change my life forever.
Since we had arrived in town I had been exploring new and unique ways to get home. Two days after the games, on my way home from school, I stopped by the fire department. The bay doors were open. Terry and Anthony were finalizing a wash of one of the fire trucks. The two men noticed me and a conversation started.
Anthony was the teenage son of the senior assistant fire chief, while Terry was a college educated Army veteran. It was Terry's aspiration to be a big city firefighter (no, they didn't tell this to me that day, just giving background). Anyway, firefighters being the type of people that they are decided to give me a ride home in a fire truck. Imagine my mom's surprise when her yard work was interrupted by a fire truck pulling up and then seeing me being helped out.
My first grade teacher was 65 and very much looking forward to retirement. For some reason, she was frequently asked by the principal to go to the office to the office to sign paperwork. Right after she would leave, the room would descend into chaos. I remember her clearly stating, and she ended up being right, that half of the class would be in prison, or dead, by the time we were eighteen. Anyway, returning to chaos, we would be lined up and given paddlings. With so little time to assess me, and not giving a shit (since she was retiring anyway), she decided to flunk me. She didn't know it then, but this was one of the best things to ever happen to me.
I had to go to summer school. My summer school teacher would turn out to to be one of those, decades ahead of her time, people. Very quickly she figured out that I was different. Two weeks after summer school started she gave me a series of tests and she was amazed by the results. She had me stay after school to explain the results. She told me that I was reading on a 12.9 scale (ninth month of senior year of high school) and she told me that I had "Edison syndrome," meaning that I was performing at a level much higher than my classmates.
My mother was confused by my telling her what happened at school. She was even more confused when my teacher made a housecall. My teacher was trying to find out if there was something at home that was inspiring me. All my mother could do was direct her to a small bookcase (my mother had sent a few boxes to my grandfather prior to leaving my father). My summer school teacher passed on my abilities to my second grade teacher. Because of the recommendation, I spent all of second grade sitting in the corner reading books while my teacher taught the rest of the class. My second grade teacher was into true crime novels in a big way, so I spent second grade reading books, like In Cold Blood and The Onion Field Murders.
It was also during second grade that firefighting became more of a presence in my life. First, as it turned out, Terry only lived two blocks from our house. One day, when the siren went off, my brother and I ran to the street corner. Terry drove up in his early 1960's red and white Ford Bronco (which he had outfitted with lights and a siren). When Terry came to a stop at the stop sign, I waved at him. He pondered for two seconds, then invited us into his vehicle. We drove out to a brush fire, where he gave us a rake and a shovel. Next, I was on my way home from school when I saw the fire trucks, lights and siren ripping down the street (the siren in the tower had not gone off). I waved at the fire truck, which came to a screeching stop. I was literally, yanked by the shirt collar, into the truck and we raced off to a house fire (Anthony and Terry were in the truck).
At the scene of the fire, Terry dressed me out in a helmet and turnout coat stored on the truck. He gave me a hose and told me to aim at the front of the house, which I did. It was a two story wood frame house. The fire was mostly on the left side of the house. Terry and Anthony went over to fight the fire on that side of the house. None of us knew that the homeowner had stored a propane tank under the front stairwell. When the propane tank blew, somehow I had the presence of mind to close the hose nozzle as I was blown to the ground. I was briefly buried under debris, but bystanders rescued me. I was in a state of shock. All I could do was just stand there. Anthony's father arrived on the scene. He chewed me out for being there and ordered me to go home, so that's what I did.
My brother enlightened me to a business opportunity. He had spoken to the man next door, who told him that he would pay for aluminum can and certain wine bottles (made by a local distillery). Saturday morning, my brother and I began a routine that stayed with us for years (we also went on Sunday mornings). We took our wagon and hit the garbage cans of local bars. My mom gave us an allowance of a quarter each month, but we would make six times that much each weekend.
It was also during this year that things at home took a dark turn. My brother and I were laying on the floor watching TV when we heard a key in the front door lock. A tall man walked into the house and went directly to my mom's room, where he shut the door. The next day, when I asked my mom about him, she told me to mind my own business. The first time that the man, George Eugene Williams, was alone with us, he molested me, which in addition to emotional and physical abuse, went on for years.
My father turned up for a brief visit. My mom must have had a heads up because George was nowhere to be seen for the three days of the visit (railroad men work every third day). My dad, enroute to Los Angeles, decided to drop off things left in the house in Chicago. Maybe he was trying to curry favor, but he bought bikes for me and my brother. It was the only time he would buy us anything.
My third grade teacher was a challenge. He was not native to the US and had been a migrant worker as a child. His accent wasn't that thick, but he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Soon after third grade started, I got to see the end of an American tradition-the circus coming to town. For decades, when the circus came to town, businesses would close and there would be a parade. As soon as I heard "parade," that meant riding in a fire truck. The second that the class exited the building, I took off like a bolt and hustled to the fire station. When the fire truck passed the school, with my teacher and class out front, I waved at them. The next day, in school, the teacher put me on blast in front of the class and he grilled me pretty hard on firefighting subjects.
That smugness could only last so long. The third graders had to take a standardized test. My teacher didn't know how to prepare the class, so he asked me and Paula to tutor the class (Paula was the other overperforming student. Paula was the granddaughter of Richard Castillo and her mom was a former schoolteacher). My teacher said if the entire class all passed the test and acheived a certain level, he would take us to Tastee Freeze and buy us all an ice cream cone. We acheived that goal and he kept his promise.
Just before Christmas I was badly injured in a rodeo accident. I was sitting on the corral fence when a bull rammed the fence. The fence, which had a top rail made of iron, collapsed. Compound fracture of the left leg, cracked ribs and a concussion. I spent a week in a hospital and three months in a wheelchair before "graduating" to crutches. Because it was an effort to get me in and out of the school (this was long before ADA requirements) while I was in the wheelchair, I was left alone during lunch and recess. That was brutal on me.
Because my mom worked for the state, and the state believed in education, my mom took advantage of the benefits, signing up for twelve credit hours at the local junior college. In the afternoons after work, my mom was in class or nose deep in homework. She made time for George, but less time for us. Starting then, and for years, dinner was whatever meat and veggies she placed in a pressure cooker and turned into mush.
Soon after fourth grade started, there was a riot near the university in the city thirty miles north of us. Coincidentally, the city police and fire departments were both on strike. The governor had to call in to call in the national guard to quell the riot. The man that had been buying our cans and bottles took this moment to say something incredibly stupid. He told me and my brother that demonstrators showed up with a fifty caliber machine gun in the pickup bed and that the demonstrators intended to return in a few days to kill a bunch of people. The next day, on PBS, there was a program about the recycling plant in the city. It turned out that the neighbor had been underpaying us by fifty percent for our recyclables. I knew that my mom went into the city once a month and going to the recycling plant would behoove us.
My grandfather sold the hotel and moved to a small house on the far west side of the town. The man that bought the hotel caught me walking in the front door once the sale was complete and he banned me from the property. That killed my side hustle.
My mom and George planned a big night and my mom wanted me and my brother out of the house for the night. My brother quickly found a friend willing to take him for the night. Me, being autistic, I only had one friend and that friend was unwilling to help out. While I pondered what my next step would be, the siren went off in the water tower. It was just a minor brush fire, but it gave me a chance to tell my plight to one of the assistant chiefs (Adam). Adam told me that he was more than willing to take me in for the night.
Adam and his wife were great hosts. After a nice dinner, I was shown to a small but cozy room. For some reason I was more secure in Adam's house than I was at home as I fell into a deep sleep. In the middle of the night, Adam woke me from a deep sleep. Befuddled, I asked "What?" There was a fire. We got into his pickup truck. I was half asleep until we arrived on the scene as the flames woke me with adrenaline.
Mid November, I was at the fire station after a fire. Adam gave me a flyer that there was going to be a free Thanksgiving dinner at the fire station. I took it home. My mom, as usual, was doing homework on the kitchen table. I gave her the flyer. At first, she was hesitant. I reminded her that she always spoke of the fact that we were poor. She told me she would consider it.
Thanksgiving day, along with my grandfather, we went to the fire station for dinner. It was an okay spread. The fire chief saw my grandfather and asked him to play Santa for the Christmas parade. My grandfather accepted and this would end up being a terrible thing.
On the day of the parade, a metal folding chair was tied to the top of the fire truck (This truck is nearly identical to the truck used that day).
https://www.militarytrader.com/.image/ar_16:9%2Cc_fill%2Ccs_srgb%2Cfl_progressive%2Cq_auto:good%2Cw_1200/MTY3Mzc5MTgzNjQ4OTA4OTEy/image-placeholder-title.jpgThere was problems from the get go. The street in front of the fire station had a "high crown" and my grandfather was nearly thrown from the chair as the truck drove into the trough in front of the station.
About one third of the way through the parade a man ran up to the fire truck and said that a car on tenth street was on fire. Anthony peeled off from the parade. About 200 yards from the car, Anthony took a hard left. As the truck came to a stop, first, I noticed that the car fire had been put out, second, I noticed that the chair was empty. I looked up the street and saw a crowd forming around my grandfather, who was laying in the intersection.
I sprinted up to where my grandfather was. My grandfather was moaning and trying to get up. A man grabbed me and held me from going to him. I kept screaming "HE'S MY GRANDPA!!" but I might as well be spitting in the wind as people kept asking "Who is he?" and no one was helping. I finally fought free and ran home. I called my mom and told her, through tears, what was going on.
That night, we got the call from the hospital that no one wants to get. The next few days were a blur, but two memories remain. First, when I touched my grandfather's face I noticed that his skin was cold. I had a major meltdown and the fire chief took me outside to calm me down. Second, I remember that the caravan from the funeral home to the graveyard was a mile long.
I grew moody and went over to Terry's house quite often. He had a stack of firefighting magazines that I loved to go through. Terry was my mentor and the older brother that I very much needed, so it came as a huge shock when he told me he had finally found a big city (San Diego) to hire him. It broke my heart as he drove off the last time.
Halfway through fifth grade, my mom finally took the advice of a co-worker "out of sight-out of mind" and decided to leave George. We pulled up stakes and moved to Los Angeles. I arrived in time for the entire school to be taking aptitude tests. I finished second in the school. A teacher was pushing the idea that there should be a gifted student program. First, the four of us in the program sat in a room and listened to a recording of someone reading a book about Indy 500 racing. Finally, a curriculum was developed and we began taking advanced placement classes.
We lived in the harbor district. Every chance I got, I went down to the channel to watch ships enter and leave the harbor.
Because my mom was paranoid about big city crime, my brother and I were enrolled in a summer program at the YMCA. First thing, we were all taught to swim. Once that was done, we made a tour of ALL (except 2) beaches in the Los Angeles area. When we weren't at beaches we watched Ma and Pa Kettle movies (I hated those movies).
Not long after 6th grade started a classmate showed me naked pictures of his mother. it was soon after this that a classmate showed and offered to sell me drugs, and I mean the full gamut of drugs, from pot to LSD. My younger brother was highly susceptible to peer pressure. I could easily imagine something horrible happening, so I sat my mother down for a talk. "You realize," she said, "that means going back
to him."
So, in the middle of 6th grade, we pulled up roots and moved back to New Mexico. Richard Castillo had passed a year before we left for L.A. and the house we lived in had been sold to George.
The summer after 6th grade I befriended a girl named Cheryl. Cheryl and I were sympatico on many levels, but she clearly had me in the friend zone. On at least six occasions, I saw her BIG tits as she changed clothes. Twice, I asked if I could feel her anatomical wonders and both times she said "I can't, my dad would find out." I wasn't brave enough to ask "But he's okay with you showing them to me?"
Junior high was a nightmare. The summer before 7th grade, Cheryl's brother taught me to fight, so when an idiot named Steve started bullying me, I turned on him. The fight only lasted ten seconds and that was because a teacher appeared in the doorway near us, but clearly, Steve was getting the worst of it. Steve decided he needed retribution. Steve brought a pen knife to school, gave it to another student, then he told the student to go after my balls when he fought me. As soon as the teacher left the room, Steve came after me. The other student came up behind me, but in the turmoil, the other student stabbed me in the thigh and the blade broke off. My mom took me to a doctor to get the blade removed and I also got three stitches. Steve and his accomplice got a three day suspension.
Steve wasn't done. A week after the stabbing, he brought a .25 pistol to school. Again, he used the same accomplice. This time, the bullet ricocheted off of a desktop and entered my thigh right next to where I had been stabbed. This time, Steve was expelled from school.
It was as if a target had been painted on my back. Gang members pelted me with rocks as I entered school grounds and they were also waiting for me after school. Cheryl came up with a solution, first come to school forty five minutes early, hang out in the lobby near the office, and second, after school, she hung out in a classroom with a really cool teacher. Frank, the school janitor and a volunteer firefighter, had a crush on that teacher. It only took a few days for Frank to ask if I wanted to help out with janitor duties. He talked to the principal and I was paid "under the table". I needed a new revenue stream. The EPA had won a lawsuit against a mining company and the price of aluminum tripled overnight. When that happened, the bars started locking up their trash. So, I was escaping bullies, making money and hanging out with friends. However, all good things come to an end. Cheryl made a play for Frank's younger brother and that ended our friendship.
In the meantime, I met Kevin. Kevin, like me, considered the military a future occupation. Kevin lived on a ranch outside of town and he often had access to his dad's pickup truck. We would hang out in the evenings and on weekends. We camped, we hunted and we mused about the future. That friendship lasted until senior year of high school when Kevin's family moved to Texas, but that's another story.