Читать книгу In the Arena - Mike Curry - Страница 7

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The Beginning

We were just wrapping up the conference when she reached for her pistol. Whoa! My teacher emitted an audible gasp and clearly looked faint. I, for a change, was rendered speechless. To say this turn of events was unexpected would be a classic understatement. I thought the conference had gone well, it had been low keyed and non confrontational.

As a member of the California National Guard patrolling Central Avenue during the 1965 Watts Riots, I watched fires light up the Los Angeles skyline. While a Peace Corps volunteer, I coped with many unpredictable and unexpected situations. I even had been shot at in Vietnam while a Marine Corps infantry officer leading long-range reconnaissance teams. But I never actually had a gun pulled on me. A knife, yes. A gun, no.

Fortunately for everybody involved, the parent, waving her gun, said she brought the gun to insure we took her seriously. I can absolutely and unequivocally assure you we were taking her very seriously! Saying that, she put the gun back into her purse, got up, and left.

My teacher made a beeline for the exit in the opposite direction. He no doubt thought we were about to be shot. He was taking no chances she might come back with her gun. Subsequently, he requested a transfer saying he thought it too dangerous in this school.

Well, admittedly, a parent with a gun did qualify under the too-dangerous label. However, with that big exception, the school was not too dangerous. It was an inner-city school filled with all kinds of challenging situations during a difficult period of our history: desegregation. Birmingham City Schools were operating under court-ordered desegregation that resulted in some pretty intense situations. Middle schools were created to facilitate the court order.

How was it that I participated in some major historical events of my time? More immediately, how did I end up as a middle school principal with a woman waving her gun in my face?

Well, that is my story. It is the story I am sharing with you. It starts as far back as first grade.

“I don’t want to go to school!”

“Me neither!”

“Let’s ditch.”

“Okay.”

“Wanna ride horses?”

So the conversation went, walking to school in first grade. Well, Gary was in kindergarten, but at that age, easily influenced.

Off we went to Mission Valley. At that time, Mission Valley was an undeveloped area filled with ponds, quicksand, and horse pastures several miles from where we lived. Our parents never would have allowed us in the area. It was no secret kids sometimes drowned there.

We had to navigate thick brush, snake-filled canyons, cross a small two-lane road, and climb over various fences to get to the horse pastures. Too small to mount the horses, we climbed the fence and jumped on the back of any horse standing next to it. We were having a great time!

That all came to a screeching halt when the police showed up! We were bundled into the police car and hauled off to the school principal’s office. The dreaded principal’s office. Little did I know then what the future had in store for me.

That pretty much set the tone for my early academic endeavors. My mother met with a teacher or the principal virtually every year I was in school.

My father, the oldest of seven children, met my mother at a fraternity mixer his freshman year at San Diego State University, a teachers college at that time. He was a big guy who played football and belonged to Sigma Chi fraternity. She was a small woman who was a member of Alpha Gamma Delta sorority. At least as far as he was concerned, it was love at first sight. He and my mother dropped out of college and got married. My father started work as a tinsmith at the Naval Air Station at North Island and worked his way up the hierarchy.

I was born January 27, 1942. World War II was well underway. The government discouraged workers at North Island from joining the Armed Forces because their work was judged to be too valuable to the war effort. Both my father’s brothers served: Bob as a decorated Navy fighter pilot off a carrier and in many battles in the Pacific, and Keith in the United States Marine Corps. Keith was among the first Marines to land in Japan after the atomic bomb. Entering the harbor, he saw firsthand the devastation created by American air raids. Had not Japan surrendered, he would have been among the first invading forces with little chance for his survival.

I was incredibly lucky to have good parents. My father was a great role model who set an enviably high standard for us, but because of their service in WWII, Bob and Keith were my heroes. Keith being a Marine had a lot to do with me choosing the Marine Corps. They participated in a seminal event in American history, and sadly, their stories are lost. I never had a really good conversation with either of them about their experiences. They wrote nothing down. I have only a few letters they wrote home and their military records. I don’t want that to happen to me.

My mother gave birth to my brother Gary a year after I was born and Paul four years later. She worked part time at various jobs in order to make ends meet. Around Christmas, I remember her working at Sears, Roebuck and Company where she got a discount on our school clothes.

We lived in the house next to my mother’s parents until I was in sixth grade then moved to Spring Valley. Living next to my grandparents was both good and bad. My grandfather was a very able craftsman. At Christmas, my parents would buy secondhand toys, and my grandfather would redo them so that they looked brand new.

He also made several boats. One of them was a cabin cruiser he took out to the kelp beds fishing. He liked company, and we were the most likely suspects. Gary and I got rousted out of bed at some ungodly hour on weekends. It was pitch black when we left port, and one or both of us would invariably get seasick.

We had one of the first little black-and-white televisions in our neighborhood. My grandfather would regularly come over to watch professional wrestling and roller derby.

The downside of having them next door was that my grandfather was an alcoholic and a mean one at that. My mother carried some resentment, growing up in a house where she was afraid to bring a friend over, not knowing whether or not her father would be sober. My grandmother, whom Dad called Foxy because he said she was always one step ahead of everyone, would frequently check all of his stashes. He went on the wagon for seven years because his doctor told him if he continued to drink, it would kill him. Then one day while my grandmother was away visiting relatives, he fell off the wagon, and he started drinking again. It killed him within a year. His death was hard on our family, but it did bring my grandmother closer to us. I think, at times, my mother struggled with their relationship, but my father and the three of us enjoyed her sense of humor. Even into college, I would bring dates over to her house for her delicious homemade pancakes.

In third grade, I definitely struggled with math. I don’t think I was doing red hot with my teacher either. My parents took us out of public school and enrolled us in Saint Didacus, a Catholic school. One year, I was a nun’s favorite and the next year, not so much. Sister Mary gave me her personal prayer book and a load of encouragement. Sister Rose gave me the sharp edge of her tongue and hair-raising stories of what the devil did with misbehaving children.

My mother didn’t care for the parish priest in Spring Valley, so we went back to public school. My mother’s visits to my teachers and/or principal resumed. I was somewhat rebellious and a general pain in the ass to everyone involved. I took exception to whatever anyone in authority might suggest, particularly my parents. I also was the resident expert on most topics.

My wife claims nothing has changed.

Gary and I were a definite trial to my parents. Paul seemed to slip by without ever getting caught. Gary and I constantly got into some kind of mischief, fought each other, or did something really stupid that left one of us hurt. I showed Gary a judo move that knocked him out cold. I thought that I had killed him! On another occasion, we were playing in the canyon as we frequently did, and Gary threw a bamboo spear just as I told him not to. I ended up with a hole next to my eye resulting in the first of many stiches I acquired over the years. If my parents scolded Gary, he likely would go out and start a fire or break a window. If punished, I would run away.

I easily was in more trouble more frequently than either brother, probably because Paul was too young, and Gary figured out that whenever he did something wrong, he got caught. I was much slower to work that out.

Running away as a strategy, didn’t work out well for me. My mother would help me pack my suitcase and send me off. I would sit down in the canyon for the day, get hungry, and trudge back home, thoroughly chastened.

We were a family of ice cream-a-holics. My father even owned an ice cream shop at one point. The three of us fought a nightly running battle over who would dish out the ice cream; each of us claiming that whoever did ended up with the biggest bowl. My father, demonstrating the wisdom of Solomon, decreed that whomever dished out the ice cream got the last bowl chosen. The result was bowls so evenly divided it would have made a weights and measurement expert proud.

In San Diego, we lived in a small, two-bedroom house. The three of us slept in the same room. Gary and I had bunk beds. Nightly, we would giggle and carry on despite numerous threats and warnings from our parents. Finally, my dad would have enough and off would come his belt. Gary got the worst of it because he was on the bottom bunk well within the belt’s reach. On the top bunk, I would roll next to the wall where the belt barely reached and yell bloody murder. Paul had enough sense to lay low, thereby escaping the belt.

We moved to Spring Valley when I was twelve. Spring Valley at that time still had avocado and orange orchards. There were not a whole lot of houses around us. Behind our house was a hillside full of brush, small wild animals, and snakes. We wandered everywhere with little parental supervision. I met my best childhood friend and my parent’s all-time favorite, David Wagner. David instigated virtually all the adventures and good times I had growing up. My parents even included him on our family vacations. One of my mom’s fondest stories was waking up on a weekend morning and finding David sitting in our living room patiently waiting for us to get up and fix breakfast. He liked my mom’s waffles. In those days, no one locked their house or closed the garage door.

One of my best memories involved his junior high girlfriend. She would ride her horse over to visit David. They would sit on the rim of a canyon. While they canoodled, I would ride the horse. It worked out well for all involved.

Once we got our driver’s license, we would go surfing, or occasionally, with Gary, take our .22 rifles and head out to a shack on the Yuma River. We would hunt rabbits, skinny dip in the river, and tell ghost stories. Ghost stories, vivid imaginations, the rustling of bushes as the nighttime wind blew would have us prowling around our abandoned shack rifles in hand. It was a small miracle we didn’t shoot each other.

One night in the summer, Gary, David, and I decided to camp out on the beach. We fortified ourselves with a couple of bottles of Thunderbird and Ripple (cheap wine that we conned someone into buying for us). We built a fire. After dark, we went surfing in the buff. Sitting on our surfboards, we began talking about sharks and what part of our anatomy they might nibble on. We headed back to the beach while we had all parts intact.

After more Ripple and Thunderbird, I got the sickest I can ever remember being. I could not even lift my head, much less crawl into my sleeping bag. It marked the end of any more Ripple or Thunderbird adventures.

High school was good. Although a very indifferent student, I somehow got included in a group of excellent students. Several had swimming pools that made for some really good parties. I played football and wrestled in high school with limited success. My senior year, the year that should have been my year, I got hurt playing both sports. It prematurely ended my high school athletic career. The real athletic success in the family was my younger brother Paul. He was a terrific wrestler on a nationally recognized high school wrestling team. He could have been a scholarship athlete in college but chose to concentrate on academics. Okay, well, there may have been some partying in there, too, but I think Paul’s United States Marine Corps boot camp experience clarified his priorities as far as college went. Both Gary, who also wrestled in high school, and I played a little rugby in college. Gary played at the University of Oregon.

My mother continued her visits with one teacher or another due to my conduct or lack of academic endeavor. I managed to intercept a mailed report card and change the grades, only a very short-term solution. Another time, she came home to find the truant officer waiting on our front steps. Probably the highlight came when she received a call from my chemistry teacher right before graduation, informing her that I was failing chemistry and would not graduate. It took some negotiation with the chemistry teacher to slide out of that fix. In my defense, all the really good-looking girls were in my chemistry class. I thought my time much better spent chatting them up than doing any of my work.

Needless to say, when it came time to go to college, I couldn’t find any four-year school that would accept me. Consequently, I enrolled in San Diego City College, a two-year school. I spent a year there, then transferred to Grossmont College followed by San Diego State University.

I enrolled at San Diego State midterm, went through rush, and joined Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity. I thoroughly enjoyed college, which is probably why I spent four years at what should have been done in two. I carried a full academic load while working nearly full time at various jobs. My academic record remained less than stellar. My senior year I got a job that left my afternoons free, so I was able to join the rugby team at San Diego State. That began a lifelong love of rugby.

Kenny Jones, a fraternity brother, and I both were on academic probation. We got a wild hair to join the Coast Guard. There were no openings in San Diego, so we hitchhiked to Phoenix, Arizona, to join up. We got there on the weekend, so if they had an opening, we wouldn’t have known because they were closed. Of course, Phoenix seems an unlikely place for the Coast Guard, and we certainly didn’t check it out beforehand. With that sort of planning, it was no mystery as to why we were on academic probation.

As it turned out, we joined the California National Guard along with fifty other students from San Diego State. The only time I saw my dad tear up was when I told him I was dropping out of school to go to basic training at Fort Ord. He had put his hopes in me being the first in the family to graduate from college despite my dismal academic record. Of course, in my perpetual hubris, I knew I would return to school, and his emotions were unfounded. The irony of my relationship with my dad is that I wanted to please him, and yet, I continually did things that upset him.

What I remember most about basic training was I always seemed to get KP (kitchen police) or guard duty while Kenny always managed to find a way to get out of it. He never missed the opportunity to rub it in either. I would be outside, scrubbing pots and pans, and he would be at a window of the squad bay, whistling and waving. Well, actually, I also remember the Army giving us a class on brushing our teeth. Of course, after visiting the dentist as part of our induction physical, many recruits had fewer teeth.

Jones and I survived basic training, returned to school, got off probation, and actually graduated from college, no doubt shocking everyone involved.

In 1968, I was helping my roommate and surfing buddy, Claude Lubin, as he painted some of the apartments in our complex. From the second floor, he dropped an open roller pan of paint for me to catch. I knew that was not going to work out well, and I took off running. The pan hit the ground, and the paint reached out and covered me head to foot.

On the ground floor, standing with her suitcases next to all this paint splatter and slapstick comedy, was a young lady just moving in to the apartments. Fortunately, none of the paint got on her or her luggage. I wasted no time in striking up a conversation with this attractive young lady who had beautiful long auburn hair. The paint splatter provided the icebreaker. Her name was Carol Cords. She grew up in Ocean Beach, attended the University of Arizona for a year, and currently was working at Sea World, saving money to enroll at San Diego State.

Had the paint gotten on her or her luggage, history might have been changed. As it turned out, Carol Cords became my wife and the mother of my children.

I signed up with a group of high school boys during the summer to pick pineapples for the Maui Pineapple Company in Maui, Hawaii. I was to supervise a group of pickers in the field as well as the boys in our sleeping quarters. The sleeping quarters consisted of a large room, part of a local elementary school in Lahaina, a small town on the coast. I was thoroughly entertained, lying in bed, listening to teenage boys interact with each other. The teasing and pranks were constant and at times quite clever. One boy, a favorite target of the others, drew a very detailed figure of a naked woman on his bottom bed sheet. He found his sheet missing one day. The boys told him they had mailed it to his father, a minister.

We all showed up with our surfboards, intending to spend our time waxing our boards, working on our tans, and surfing. Actual work was an afterthought, so it came as shock to find out we were expected to work six days a week and eight-plus hours a day in the heat, picking pineapples. We were divided into shifts and teams and assigned jobs. The best job as far as the boys were concerned was driving one of the monstrous trucks carrying pineapples from the fields to the sheds. The most arduous job was moving down the rows, picking pineapples. A day in the fields exhausted us and definitely impinged on our surfing time.

Much to my parents’ relief, I graduated from San Diego State University. Seen here with my mother, my father and “Foxy,” my grandmother.

The Curry brothers: Paul, Mike and Gary, no doubt contemplating many weighty matters… “Do you think Dad has any more beer in the refridge?”

Many Maui residents, far more accustomed to the heat and hard work, also picked pineapples. They lived in areas referred to as camps that seemed to be identified by their ethnic origin (e.g., Philippine Camp, Japanese Camp, and Hawaiian Camp). They came to the fields with their lunches in small two-part cylindrical cans. The bottom portion held rice, and the top portion had their fish or vegetables. I found it all interesting and exotic. Their lunches looked far more appetizing than ours.

After work, we gathered up our surfboards and headed out for Lahaina. We surfed off a jetty next to the small town. This very picturesque setting had few tourists and maybe one hotel. Maui had not yet been discovered by the tourist industry. It paid to be a proficient surfer because the surf broke over coral, and you could get pretty cut up with a few mishaps off the board. I swapped out my board for a much better one and got to be a fairly decent surfer.

I was a big fan of James Michener’s book, Hawaii. I envisioned getting married in one of the scenic little churches described by Michener. Well, that turned out to be a pipe dream. In August 1968, Red met me upon my return, and we decided on a very small wedding. With about three days’ notice, we called our parents. My parents were excited. Her mother was decidedly less so. However, we persevered.