Iron Door Cave - Joshua Tree National Park

Not only is it a great place on its own, the legend (or legends) of the Iron Door cave are just as amazing. It's not on any map, it's not in any brochure and no one who does know, will tell you where it is. As a kid, I spent a lot of time in the immediate area and I never even heard about it.  We will get to the legend in just a bit.

I had spent many hours looking for it, to no avail. On my last attempt, I invited my granddaughter to go with me. I admit that it was a bit self-serving, because that girl flies around the rocks like a spider monkey flies through the trees. 

you might want to embiggen this one to see how jumbled this area is

I had it narrowed down to a fairly manageable area that looked pretty much like this, only larger.

 Once we got there, I turned her loose.

She climbs up

She climbs down

She disappears into the cracks like a reptile. Then she yells out my name.

This is where she was standing. Do you see the door? No wonder nobody can find this place. It's not only hidden, it is also hidden in the shadows. 

A very narrow entrance to get to a hidden iron door that opens into exactly what?

 Tay is already in there with her flashlight. 

Okay, now to the legend.  As you can see the iron door locks from the outside by sliding a length of wood through it when the door is closed. There is no way of opening it from the inside. The room is about 8 by 10 feet in size and has no windows. There is one small opening built into it though. Just big enough to pass small things in and out. 

The LEGEND is that this cave was used by the local rancher/miner big-shot (William Keys) to keep his schizophrenic son imprisoned. Others say that it was used to store dynamite. Others still, claim that it was used for both purposes at the same time. Either way, it is darn creepy. Not quite to an "oh shite" level, but, but still plenty creepy. The thought of his already impaired son, being isolated in this creepy little cave, getting more and more insane as time passes, is enough to freak anybody out. Truth or fiction? I have no idea, but I do know the cave exists and I also know that it looks more like a holding cell, than a place to store TNT. 

 Lots of graffiti in here and maybe even some petroglyphs. I haven't examined the place (or my photos) enough to find any yet.

 Tay

This thing looks like it is about to eat whoever walks by.

These guys were bouldering (as in free-climbing boulders) and had no clue that they were close to cave. We didn't tell them either.

Pretty creepy, yeah?


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Some Odd Sights

Just a few odd things I've seen in the past couple of weeks. I've had a lot going on recently and I promise, I'll get back to "real" posts very soon...

I was trying to take a photo of the two deer in the photo. They were heading up that hill and I had to shoot from the hip (not very well).  I thought the yellow thing was just some kind of farm machinery, or plumbing thing.  It's a small submarine!  Submarines aren't all that rare, but submarines sitting on top of a mountain at over 5000 feet above sea level, is very rare...

Everybody knows what rabbits are because they are pretty much everywhere. BUT, this is not a cute little cottontail. It's also not very good to eat.  It's a jack rabbit. They are more wild animal than bunny. I bet this guy was twenty pounds.

It's strange enough that these woodpeckers are making holes in this cabin. It's even more strange that they seem to be doing it in the shape of a square.

Of course there are always abandoned and/or junk cars in the desert. This one just happens to be a Plymouth Barracuda and pretty valuable.

Sorry, I just couldn't help snapping this one. Just one more reason not to smoke! The stub of a finger, was a real bonus.

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This post was just for fun, real stuff coming up next...

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Two Types of Reflections

Sunrise, January 1, 2012

For me, 2011 was a year for the ages...

1. My wife and I bought an RV in April. Since the start of May, we've spent about 60 nights in it while away from home. We're getting reacquainted with nature.
2. After three years of dealing with/ignoring it, my thyroid cancer is gone.
3. Last, but certainly not least; a lady came out of the woodwork thinking we might be related. Three weeks and one DNA test later, I have a sister! I never knew about her and I'm happy as can be about it.  We've spoken and exchanged a lot of messages and soon we'll be spending some time together.

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For reflections by other photographers go to Weekend Reflections by James.

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You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up!

About 18 months ago I received a Facebook message from a lady who thought I might be an illegitimate member of their family. In fact, her family referred to me as "Uncle Pat." Here is my blog post relating to the incident.

A month or so ago (okay, it was October 27th to be exact),  I received a comment on that post, from a person who though she was my sister.  Okay, but I don't have any sisters! I didn't "approve" the comment to be published because there is too much personal information in it.  I did contact her though...

Quite a few of you have been following my blog for long enough to know that I am from the most dysfunctional of families. For those of you who don't know, this post is yet another entry into my crazy family history.  I have three brothers.  That's all...

Okay, so Christine and I exchanged several emails on the subject.

• She was adopted directly from the hospital she was born in (in my home town). 
• My mom had a friend with the same name as Christine's adoptive mother.
• She saw what she thought was the name of her birth mother when she was a teenager.
• She googled the name she saw (my mom's name) many times over the years with no hits.
• My mom's first name (and our last name) is very unusual.
• Two months ago she finally got a google hit on my mom's name.
• It led her to this post about her.

We emailed and we spoke. This was all adding up to her maybe being right.  I was fourteen the year Christine was born. You would think I would remember if my mom was pregnant at that time. I didn't. This wasn't a very good year in my life and I spent a lot of it "under the influence" of anything I could get my hands on. I even flunked 8th grade that year.

We met about three weeks ago and took a DNA test. We sent it to the lab and waited. Before they sent us the results of the test, they said they would call and let us know. After meeting her and talking to her several times, I was really hoping we were siblings. I have no negative history with her (as I do with my brothers) and she is VERY nice. I like her  a lot.

Today the lab called. Christine and I have the same mother!
See?  You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up!


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I Swear It Wasn't Me!

Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while already know that I’ve had a few scrapes with the authorities in my life. I PROMISE all of you that the six Orange County Sheriffs that were in my house this weekend with guns drawn, were not there because of anything I’ve done…

At 2:30 AM there were three of them, by 3:00, there were at least 10, by sunrise there were at least twenty! Most in uniform, some with assault rifles, detectives, crime scene types, suits, and blood hound handlers (with blood hounds). I just know our neighbors were wondering what the heck was going on!

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My wife had been babysitting for one of our daughters and got home at 2:15 am. There was a strange car sitting in our driveway.  We called the Sheriff’s Department to have it towed.  About the same time I noticed that there was a helicopter circling the area.  I told my wife to ask the dispatcher if there was something going on. Apparently there was and the Sheriffs were looking for a car (and the people in it).  Yep! It was the same car.

Plain clothes officers were looking for a bad guy who had several outstanding warrants for his arrest.  They had a tip relating to where he might be.  He and another person (wife maybe) did in fact show up. Apparently he didn’t want to go to jail; he resisted getting out of his car and the Sheriff Tased him. The idiot then floored his car and ran over the sheriff’s foot. 

You know how law enforcement is when one of their guys is attacked, wounded, or hurt.  So anyway, they came to our house to check out the car parked in our driveway.  BINGO!  The dispatcher called us back and told us to stay in the house while they looked around.  They didn’t find anything.  A couple more cars arrived and they started looking around the neighborhood. They were also knocking on doors and asking people if they were being held against their will.  One of them told us they were waiting for a bloodhound to try and pick up a trail. About 20 minutes later there was a knock on the door.  When I opened it, I was met by six cops with guns drawn. One of them asked me if we had searched our house.  After I told him we hadn’t, he said that when the bloodhound picked up a scent at the car he pulled his handler directly to our front door.  At a minimum, the bad guys tried the door.

Once the detectives had cleared the car, the bloodhound was allowed to go into it. When he got out, he started running down the street with his handler and about 10 cops in tow.  The guys must have run down a stairway that leads to the street below us and called someone to pick them up.  The cops were sure that is what happened, because the trail ended in the middle of the street.

All is well, that ends well!  The guys were caught about 3 hours later…

http://www.ocregister.com/news/deputies-297665-deputy-people.html

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Zero Defects

My recent posts have been bouncing between photos and poems. I figured it was time to work in some stories about my crazy and dysfunctional childhood.
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My mother was a pioneer in the field of "Zero Defects Quality Control."

I don’t remember ever seeing her cleaning house after my dad left (I was 5), we were given those assignments. She checked our completed work with the zeal of a newly promoted drill instructor.

Didn’t do a perfect job? Do it over. Still not perfect? Do it over again.  If she had the energy, she would keep it up all night. If she didn't have the energy, we'd have to redo the work and then wake her up, so she could hold yet another inspection. On a school night?  It just didn't matter to her, it could have been Christmas eve.

She didn’t just check out our work like a normal person. She of course, would check it out like a crazy person. She would even check the bottoms of the chair, table, and couch legs. There had better not be any lint or hairs on them at all. If there was, you know...Do it all again!

The exact same process was applied to doing dishes. The crazy lady would go through the drawers and cupboards to inspect every freaking piece of silverware and every dish.  They didn't just have to be perfectly clean, they had to be perfectly dry as well.  If she found a single speck of food, or dust, or a drop of water, we had to them ALL over again.

Somewhere along the line, we figured out that this wasn't really about doing the dishes, or cleaning the house. It was about control.  It became very apparent, when we couldn't find anything on the dish, or fork, or spoon, that made them still dirty.  When I spoke to other kids about chores, I realized that I lived on a different planet than most.

I lived on Planet Crazy...

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Another early post. This one had 4 comments (3 by family and friends).

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Hair Cream versus Tooth Paste

My dad kept his tube of hair cream and comb in a drawer next to the bathroom sink. His tooth brush and tooth paste were in the medicine cabinet over the sink. He was out late most nights and was usually pretty bleary eyed when he got up in the morning. 

One Saturday morning, my brother and I swapped the two tubes, hoping that he wouldn’t notice until it was too late. We sat in the living room waiting for him to get up and go to the bathroom for a long time.  

After what seemed like hours, we heard him come out of his room and go into the bathroom. The first noise we heard was the toilet flushing, the second was the bathroom faucet running, the third noise sounded like some kind of wild animal.

Apparently fate selected the “brush your teeth with hair cream” scenario over “comb your hair with toothpaste,” because the "wild animal" noises turned into some very loud retching. Then the sound of my dad throwing up!

After a few minutes he came out of the bathroom with one tube in each hand. We sat quietly on the couch watching TV, like we didn’t know (or hear) a thing while he stomped into the kitchen and asked my mom about it. She claimed to know nothing and told him that he must have put them away in the wrong places the day before. When he walked by us on his way back to the bathroom, he paused for just a second and stared at us.

We must have looked innocent, because he didn’t say a word.  I think he knew on some level that we did it, but he never asked.

I don't have many happy childhood stories, this is one of them...

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I first posted this when I had only a handful of readers and it received exactly zero comments

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Summer Time Memories

One hot summer day (many years ago), John Avoletta (RIP), Scott Jamison, and myself were out in Scott's ski boat all day drinking and cruising around. We started at the Long Beach Marine Stadium and drank our way about 20 miles south to Huntington Harbor and back. There are a few bars along the way that have their own docks for those who feel the need to drink and navigate the high sea.  That is what we did.

On the return trip, we were already "three sheets to the wind" when we arrived at Marina Pacifica in Long Beach, to stop at yet another watering hole. Houlihans was a very large and crowded bar that had it's own dock. Scott and John went directly into the bar. Because I had very recently "checked the prop" and was still wet, I told them to go ahead, because I wanted to dry off and change out of my trunks and into my shorts.

A few minutes later, I entered the very crowded bar. When I came through the door, everybody stood up and gave me an loud ovation. I didn't understand, until I looked to my rear and noticed that the wall facing the water was all glass. the entire place saw me in my birthday suit while I changed.  I never even noticed the windows...

1949 Buick Roadmaster as WMD

I've used this photo for something else, but I needed it again

It's been a while since I've posted a family story. I still have a bunch of them, so I better get to steppin'...

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The car in this photo is a 1949 Buick Roadmaster. It was given to us by the county of Los Angeles in an effort to "help" my mom get a "legal" job and to get us off of welfare. Up until that time we hadn't had a car since I was in Kindergarten. That's a period of eight years.  The car was in pretty good shape considering that it was free.  It was as solid as a Sherman tank but she very seldom drove it.

It was rare that we saw our mom at all on weekends.  Usually she took off on Friday and we didn't see her again until late Sunday night, or Monday when we got home from school.  

One Saturday morning, my mom was already home when I woke up. That was rare enough in itself and I was very surprised.  When my mom told me to get in the car, because we were going for a ride, I was flabbergasted.  As we were walking out the door the phone rang. My mom answered it and had a pretty intense conversation with whomever was on the other end.  Just before she slammed the phone down she yelled into the mouth piece, "I told you, I'll take care of it!"  She then nodded me towards the front door.

I had no idea where we were going. Maybe a Saturday morning breakfast? Not a chance, I honestly cannot remember a single time that I ate with my mom in a restaurant before the age of 16. Maybe a little shopping?  Nope! Remember, I was on my own financially as of 7th grade. I was baffled, so I asked her where we were going. She responded with all the motherly nurturing I was accustomed to, "don't fucking worry about it, just get your ass in the car!" I know this is nothing new to many of you, but I've picked up quite a few readers lately.  So to you new folks, say hello to my mother...

We drove down Atlantic Avenue and turned left into a shopping center. Near the rear was a bar called "the back door."  My mom drove around the lot as if she was looking for something. She finally pulled into a parking spot between two other cars. I started to get out, but she told me to sit tight.

She unlatched her door, but didn't open it. Instead, she slowly swiveled her head around, as if she was looking for somebody. Then, much to my surprise, she slammed her door into the car next to us. I wasn't expecting it and jumped in my seat.  She looked around again. Then she REALLY slammed it into the car. She did it again and again. I could see that the door of the car next to us was getting badly dented.  She must have done it 10 times as hard as she could!  I'm sure a lot of you (who've been around for a while) aren't surprised by this. I wasn't either; the lady was violent and crazy.

My mom surveyed the damage as if it was a work of art, put the car into reverse, and with a smile on her face, backed out of the parking spot. We were just about to pull away when she put the car back into neutral.  She took another look around the lot and when she was apparently satisfied nobody was watching, pulled an ice pick out of her purse and got out of the car. She calmly walked around the other vehicle and stuck the ice pick into all four tires.

I'm sure my eyes were as big as saucers when she got back in and closed the door. She put our car in gear and drove away, but not before admiring herself in the rear view mirror...

Update - Human Directionals

Only in SoCal

Do you think he might be high?

A little while back, I posted a story about how my wife and I used to "twirl" signs as second jobs. I'm pretty sure that the company we worked for would not have taken this account.

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Paul, thanks for the pic...

Shut That Kid Up

Let me start by saying, don't hate me...

Several years ago, I found myself in the pre-op room at Long Beach Memorial Hospital, awaiting knee surgery. I’ve already had my "I don't care no more shot," I’m sporting my comfy heated blanket, and I’m feeling so very good. I'm sure a lot of you know exactly what I mean. It's okay, it doesn't mean you're an addict...

Somewhere in the room, a little kid starts crying and he won’t stop. I know the kid is probably scared, in pain, or both, and I feel sorry for him. But he is stepping on my pre-op buzz. Just about then, I was startled when a loud voice rang out. It said “somebody shut that fucking kid up!” Oh my god, who would do that?

It took me about two seconds to realize, that the voice belonged to somebody I knew. It belonged to me! I was mortified with embarrassment. I could see the parents of the little kid shooting daggers at me with their eyes.

A nurse walked by and I told her I was sorry. She said, "don't worry about it, patients who have been given drugs aren't responsible for what they say in either pre-op, or post-op". That made me feel much better, and I was actually able to enjoy the last few minutes in my “cocoon” of warmth and fuzziness.

I know what you’re thinking. I still can’t believe I said that...

How a Magnet Can Save a Cow's Life

This is a post glommed from my friend Nancy's blog. The Wife of a Dairyman

I'm pretty darn sure that 99% of you have never heard of what you are about to read.  There is also some info about a contest, but don't enter it. It's over! That's right people, it's over and I won!  But don't let that stop you from visiting Nancy's great blog. One day I hope to own and live on a small "hobby" farm myself. Nancy's isn't so little and it certainly isn't a hobby. But it is totally interesting.  Take a look see, you might agree.

Now I just have to decide which of my four stomachs to put these things in... I wonder if I'll have to use a "bolus" gun on myself?
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How a Magnet Can Save a Cow's Life

Cow magnets. Not only are they used in a cow's stomach, I also find them scattered throughout my entire house because the Rugrats love playing with these magnets.

All of our dairy cows have a magnet in one of their four stomachs. Cows are ruminants. Most ruminants have four-chambered stomachs for digestion. When a cow eats her food and swallows, the food first goes into the large rumen where the food is softened. The rumen can hold up to 25-75 gallons.

Dominic places a magnet down the cow's throat with a bolus gun (used for pills) and the magnet eventually ends up in the stomach called the reticulum (the hardware stomach). If a cow happens to swallow a piece of metal such as a nail, a small piece of wire, a staple, etc. while eating, it ends up in the reticulum stomach. Over time the piece of metal can lodge into the honeycombed lining of the reticulum and will threaten the surrounding vital organs causing irritation and inflammation, known as Hardware Disease. It can also work it's way to the heart, killing the cow. By having a magnet in place in the reticulum, any metal the cow happens to swallow stays in the reticulum attracted to the magnet.

Magnets await insertion........

Dominic inserting a magnet into a heifer using a bolus gun.......

 

If you would like to WIN a set (2) of the magnets (kids LOVE them!), you must:

Become a Follower of this blog (if you haven't already) - on the column on the right, sign up under 'followers'
Leave a comment under this post telling me how you like to experiment with magnets.

I will randomly select a winner using random.com on Monday morning. I will post the results on Monday as well!

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And the Winner of the Cow Magnets is........
Congratulations to Patrick Tillet! Who has won the set of cow magnets!
Patrick, I need your mailing address, you can email me with it Please!

Wisdom Teeth But No Wisdom

I was having a couple of problems. Rather, one problem compounded by another.  I had two sore wisdom teeth and not enough money to get them taken care of.

A “friend” told me about a guy he knew of, who didn’t charge much for dental work. He was a retired Navy dentist. He wasn’t sure if he still had a license, or if he ever really had one, but he was supposed to do good work. I had to see somebody soon, so I took the guy’s phone number.

I called him to make an appointment and was surprised when he answered the phone himself. He said he could see me later that same day. The address was on Linden Avenue, in downtown Long Beach. “Just walk right in when you get here,” he said. I don’t remember the street address today, but the office number was 37.

I found the address; it was a third floor walk up. The number 37 was stenciled on an otherwise unmarked door, in a lonely hallway lit by a couple of bare light bulbs.

There was no receptionist or dental assistant to greet me. The small dusty waiting room contained only a single wooden chair and another door that apparently led to a back room. I didn’t sit down.

The inside door was opened by a smiling older man. With a single elegant wave of his hand, I was invited in and directed to a dental chair. After we talked for a few moments about my pain, he said he would pull my wisdom teeth for 50 dollars cash, in advance.

The whiskey and cigarettes on his breath and faded bloodstains on his clean white lab coat didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. But my throbbing teeth told me to go through with it and quickly.

He gave me some nasty tasting liquid to drink and several injections that numbed my entire head. Then he pulled all four of my wisdom teeth, one by one. When it was over, he said he couldn’t write me a prescription and gave me a handful of pills to take for pain. “If they don’t help, alcohol will give them a boost,” he said. I took two of them and walked out the door.

Because of heavy traffic, it took me quite a while to drive the 10 miles across town to my house. I drove right past my front door and went to the local bar. With my jaws throbbing and my lips and tongue still totally numb, I ordered something that sounded fairly close to Budweiser.

I tossed a couple more pills in my mouth, picked up my bottle of beer, and split my upper lip wide open trying to take a drink…

"Uncle Pat"

I’m posting this as another reminder that the stories of my life, as told in my blog entries are true. I recently received the following message on Facebook, from a lady I don’t know and have never met. I've cut and pasted our back and forth into this post...
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March 25 at 11:17am Report
Hi Patrick,
I am the granddaughter of Ernie XXXXXXXXX (Lowell's daughter). Ernie passed away 6 years ago and may or may not have taken some secrets to the grave with him. My mom tells stories that you might be my grandpa’s son. I hope this isn't too sensitive for you to talk about. My question is what is your version of the story? I was doing a time line and my grandpa was not on your mail route until after he returned from Korea which was after you were born. The only way this could have happened is if your mother and my grandfather met somewhere else. Out of respect for my Grandparents, I never asked about this while they were living. I would like to put this rumor to rest. What are your thoughts? Do you believe this is true? Did my grandpa ever come see you or admit to any of this? Oh the wonders of facebook, so easy to connect with people now days!
Lynell
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Patrick Tillett March 25 at 12:35pm

Hi Lynell,
I won’t keep you in suspense. Your GF was not my dad. When my mom and dad got divorced in 1956, she told him that I wasn’t his son. But I think she was just mad at him. I’ll attach a photo of my dad and me to this message. You will clearly see that we look very much alike. I’ve heard that rumor many times also. It was usually from the “old timers” around the North LB bars. Strangely enough, we ended up being friends. I remember he used to sing a few songs with a local bar band at that time. He was a great guy. I can still remember some of his “tall tales” and jokes. I also knew your grandmother, but for the life of me, I can’t remember her name. Sorry about that.

You are right; your GF wasn’t our mailman when I was born. My mom lived a few blocks away at that time, on 52nd street, between Elm and Atlantic. You are also right that they didn’t know each other because he was a mailman.

They knew each other because my mom was a cash bar maid at the “Drift Inn.” It was a beer bar on the corner of Atlantic and 61st street. She also worked at other NLB bars that he frequented. Whether or not they ever “got together,” would be pure speculation on my part. But knowing, my mother, they certainly might have. If they did, I’m sure they didn’t have an ongoing relationship, because my mom wasn’t that type. I won’t come right out and call her a prostitute, but when she was with men, she always got something out of it. She used them to supplement her welfare payments. I even mentioned this “rumor” in my blog last year. Here is the link to it.

http://patricktillett.blogspot.com/2009/06/my-mom-generally-speaking.html

There are also several other posts relating to NLB and my childhood there if you’re interested.

Patricktillett.blogspot.com

Look for the label “family stories” on the right side. If there is anything else, please feel free to contact me at anytime. Also, please say hello to your dad for me. We were also friends, back in the old days.
Pat
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March 25 at 6:20pm Report

Hi Patrick,
Thank you for that. My grandma's name was Barbara or Barb. After they retired they moved from Long Beach back home to Missouri. Grandpa enjoyed his garden, shooting, fishing, hunting, his golden Lab, VFW, Bingo helper, Shuffle Board, and telling jokes. He was as funny as hell and we sure do miss him. My dad is now retired from the Grocery business and plays golf, bowls and watches my kids for me. He is a pretty great grandpa and we enjoy our family time. He remembers you, and he believed my grandpa when he said that he wasn't your father. But like you said about your mom, you never know. My mom is Debbie XXXXXXXX, they divorced 30 years ago. Thank you again for putting that rumor to rest for us XXXXXXXXX. There will be no more "Uncle Pat" stories for us. Ha Ha!
Lynell
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Patrick Tillett March 25 at 6:33pm

Lynell, It was my pleasure.
Barbara, yes I remember her also! Now I wonder what she must have been thinking whenever she saw me. Or did she not know about the "rumor?" You are right; your grandfather was a classic....

If you need anything else, you know where I am! Oh yeah, did you look at the blog entry about my mom?
Pat
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March 26 at 9:09am Report

Pat
I just read the whole thing about your mom. Wow, did you paint a picture of her. The crazy thing is, I noticed that there was only one positive thing that you wrote in that blog and of course it was my favorite!
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I wonder how many other "families" that I don't know about, call me "Uncle Pat?"

Spa Menu - What The?

This sign was prominently displayed in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel we recently stayed at. It was a “menu” of items and/or services offered at the hotel spa.

Note the 16th item from the top (or just look below).

Gentlemen Only Services?

Seriously, this was in the middle of the lobby of the Palm Springs Hilton Hotel. I asked the guy at the front desk to explain (I already knew the answer).  I pressed him for specifiics, but he would only say that it was "special services" for men.  We all had a good laugh after that.  Isn't that just a wee bit "out there?" Or is it? Palm Springs is one of, if not the most "gay" city in the country. It also happens to be an awesome city and one of our most favorite places. So, no gay bashing welcomed or allowed.

Back Yard Cave

My grandmother owned a small apartment building on Curtis Street in Bellflower. I think there were 6 units. My mom and my older brother and I lived in one of them (for free probably). Although we didn’t live there for very long, I have some fond and not so fond memories associated with it. Even as a first grader, I pretty much had free rein over where I went and what I did. Things seemed to be semi-sane here, I think that’s because my grandmother was pretty close by, and she probably wouldn’t stand for a lot of what my mom did. I don’t really know though…

The fond memories mostly involved caps and firecrackers. The resulting experiments and explosions were fun. I also enjoyed being around my grandmother.

The not so memorable item, had to do with our across the street neighbors. I think there were 3 or 4 boys living there. They had a long term project… Their goal was to dig a gigantic cave under their back yard. They had apparently started a long time before we moved in. We got to know them and they invited my older brother and me to “come and see something neat” in their backyard. There was a swing set there but nothing else of note. They took us to the other side of the yard and moved some boxes and a tarp out of the way, what we saw was amazing! It was a big hole. It was dug at an angle and you couldn't see all the way in. I didn’t really want to follow them into it, but I was glad I did. For maybe a minute...

There was a big cave under there. It was bigger than the metal swing set sitting on top of it. There were big wooden poles going from floor to ceiling. On top of the poles was plywood. Even then I’m thinking I should get out of here. There had to be at least 10 feet of dirt on top of the plywood. I didn’t like it.  When we got back home, my brother told me to never go in that cave again. (Okay, he did give me some good advice on that one).

You had to hand it to them; they spent a tremendous amount of time digging that hole. They were always in there; it must have been safe because their dad was helping. So I ignored my brother's advice and went into it often.

One day my mom told us that we were moving. I didn’t like that a bit, but off we went. We moved into a shack in another part of Bellflower. Looking back at it, the time spent living in that apartment seemed like heaven, compared to what was coming. After we moved into the new place all hell broke loose. My mom was absolutely out of control. An earlier entry “First Grade” outlines some of the stuff that happened there (more to come).

Several years later I heard that the “cave” had collapsed with a couple of the kids in it. They were killed…

All of that area was bulldozed a long time ago to make room for a freeway. I wish it hadn't, because it bulldozed away a "nice" part of my life also...

Disassociation

I've given a lot of thought to that “place”I went to when I thought my friend and I were going to be shot. I guess in a sick way I have my mom to thank/blame for that. During some later psycho-therapy, I realized that I had also “disassociated” several other times in my life. I just realized that in one of my previous posts ("the rifle, the rabbits, the 55 Chevy, and me), that I had to "go away" to do what was expected of me. In therapy speak I think it's called "not being present..." It was a great thing when I was in danger, or when what was happening around me, was too hard to cope with. But it also was a curse when I didn't get to enjoy a lot of good things in my life, that I should have, even as an adult. If you can't feel, you can't feel anything. Good or bad...

When I was a kid and my mom decided I needed a beating, or she needed to beat somebody, I was usually the target. After a while she ended up beating an empty shell. I wasn’t there. She couldn’t hurt me. She was already mad, but would go into a black rage when I wouldn’t react to getting hit or beaten with something. The last time she beat me, she did it with a wooden coat hanger. This was her favorite weapon. I hadn't even done anything wrong for her to be mad about, but that didn't matter. She had her rage and she had an available target. She hit me over and over. I refused to react. I didn't cry, I didn't dodge her blows; I didn't even flinch when the hanger hit me. I knew it was going to leave bruises and cuts on me, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing she was hurting me. So she just kept hitting me more and more, harder and harder. At some point we both knew this was now a battle of control. I didn't care if it killed me; I wasn't going to let her get the better of me. The less I reacted, the angrier and crazier she became. During this particular incident she beat me until she couldn’t do it anymore. She started crying and then laughing. All the while still hitting... My body was just standing there, taking it, not feeling a thing physically... The rest of me was a million miles away...

During my first year of high school my mom got married again. He was a pretty nice guy and he was OK to me. He moved us out of the shack we were living in, and into a normal house in a nearby city. My mom didn't act as crazy during this time, and after her failed attempt with the coat hanger, she never tried to beat me again. I think she might have been afraid of me after that. I'd written her off years before, but that didn't stop me from hating her... Not the kind of hate where I felt anger whenever I saw her. It was the kind of hate where I had no feelings towards her at all. When I did think about her, it was not in a normal way. It was in a scary way. It was in a way that could have easily led to her death if she said or did the wrong thing at the wrong time. Before you call the authorities, I did not kill her, nor did I try to. More on that in another story.

Even though my mom never had to spend a penny on me, or really deal with me at all, she never failed to remind me that she hated me, and that the day I turned 18, was the day I had to get out of the house. On my 18th birthday, I did exactly that. I joined the Marine Corps, and stayed at a friend’s house for a couple of weeks until I was to report to the induction center in Los Angeles. Just like everybody else, I’d heard about the horrors of Marine Corps boot camp. I’m not talking about today’s Marine Corps. I’m talking about the old Marine Corps where they could hit, kick, or beat the shit out of you with impunity. It was not only allowed, it was encouraged. Many guys had a lot of problems, and the DI's would pounce on them. They would try to break each and every one of us. If they could break you, then you didn’t belong. If you couldn’t cut it, then you didn’t have enough self discipline to be a Marine (in their eyes anyway).

Thanks to the fine lifelong preparation I got from my mom, I survived boot camp. I was a robot for much of the time. They couldn’t hurt me. They couldn’t piss me off. I’d already survived much worse than they could dish out. Drill instructors like to scream. Drill instructors LOVE to scream. And they like to do it directly in your face. Torrents of words coming at you like a storm. Their words would hit my face and do nothing...They would run down my body and collect at my feet in a puddle. A puddle of profanity, spit, sweat, and bad breath. When they saw that the screaming did nothing to me, they made me run. I'd run all day if I had to. They would make me do pushups or situps. I'd do it until they got tired of watching me. You can't feel pain if you're not really there...

Eventually, they realized that although they couldn't really control me, I was squared away. I did everything they asked me to, and did it better than anyone else in my platoon. I actually got promoted out of boot camp. That happens to a very small percentage of people. In this case my disassociation was confused with self discipline.

It was the sixties, I was a Marine, and I of course went to Vietnam. The ability to disassociate was very handy on more than one occasion while I was there. More about that at a later date.

Some of the above stuff is making me think I need to do a spill guts, vomit on my shoes extravaganza, related to my mom. At one time I thought that if I just ignored the past, and didn't think about it at all, that it would go away. It didn't and it doesn't. Unless the venom is "sucked" to the surface and spit out, it stays. It stays, and you live your life according to what your subconscious tells you to do. In volatile adult situations, you act inappropriately. You act as a child would. In many cases, as an abused child would. The intent is most certainly not to have a pity party. It just makes me feel pretty good that I've come so far, and been fortunate enough to be able to work on it a lot. However, I also know that if I'm thinking about it this much right now, then there is more to be exercised.

Death's Headache

Take a second and think about where your head was at while in 5th and 6th grade. Your kids also, if you have any. Playing in little league or soccer maybe? Cub scouts or Brownies? Practicing their clarinet or violin? Going to church? Maybe just going to school, playing, having sleepovers, and enjoying life?

I'm sorry to say it, and I'm certainly not proud of it, but I was getting high... At first glance it may seem that I was probably just another bad kid. You know, fell in with the wrong crowd or something like along those lines. I wish that was the case…

I wasn’t doing it to “be cool” or because of “peer pressure,” I was doing it to escape. Obviously, I couldn’t label it at the time, but I was clearly “self medicating,” at an early age. Back then you didn’t need to be 18 to buy glue, spray paint, lacquer, or pretty much anything kids “huff” today.

Do you know that at one time, cough syrup contained codeine? And that you could buy it right off the shelf? To be honest I didn’t buy much of it, I usually stole it. And it wasn’t just me! I had friends (if you want to call them that) who did it also. Isn’t it strange how humans have instinctual onboard radar, that seeks out others like themselves?

I didn't sniff glue because it made me feel high. It did it because it made me feel dead… It was how I coped with the insanity that was my life. I didn’t have to feel what was really going on around me. I paid a price for it though. I used to get the most terrible headaches. Death’s headaches... But that didn’t stop me because it still felt better than my reality.

They say that “sniffing” or “huffing” clearly damages and kills brain cells, I’m sure it’s true. Add to that the alcohol, weed, hash, Thai stick, speed, whites, reds, rainbows, stumblers, horse, opium, angel dust, coke, mescaline, peyote, PCP, LSD, and only God knows what else I used over the next 15 years, and I’m surprised I’m able to sit here and type this, many years after the fact.  Please don't take what I just said out of context. Consider what you've read about me in the past and I'm sure you'll understand that it wasn't really about having "fun,"  it was about escaping and not having "real" feelings.

If you don't recognize a lot of the words in the last paragraph, pat yourself on the back. That's a good thing.

People say you have to really keep your eyes on your kids at all times, because it is so unsafe "out there" today, and because there are so many perverts and weirdos out there now. When I hear those things, I always think that the people saying it are very fortunate that they had a “safe” and “protected” childhood. I’m here to tell you that it’s no different now than it was then.

The only thing that's changed, is that there are more people now and everything is made public on the news, or in newspapers. Back then people kept things quiet. Many things happened, but they stayed within the family. Secrets…

The seedy underbelly of life has always existed. Some of us saw it  and some of us didn’t. If you weren’t exposed to it, thank your lucky stars, gather your kids around you, and make sure they aren’t exposed either.

My A**Hole, I Can't find It

This may be the only humorous story involving my mother...
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As you may already know, my mother died quite a while ago of an inoperable malignant brain tumor. It seemed very much like Alzheimer’s, because it affected the way she said and did things. Cortisone would shrink the tumor and allow her to be semi-normal for short periods of time.

I went to see her in the hospital almost every day, but I never knew if I would be recognized or not. Apparently, my mom had worked her manipulative magic on the staff, because they let her smoke as long as there wasn’t another patient sharing the room with her. I found that very odd, but not my call.

One day…
I brought the kids with me to see her. We went into her room and everybody said their hellos and exchanged pleasantries. After a few minutes my mother looked at me and said “are you Letty or am I?”
“What?”
“Are you me, or am I me?” She said with a confused look on her face.
“You are Letty, I am your son Pat” I explained.
“Okay thanks, I just wanted to make sure.”

A minute or two later she was looking around her bed, looking under the covers, on the table next to her bed, and pretty much eyeballing the entire room. She finally looked at me and said “have you seen my asshole?” The kids let out a giggle.

“No mom, I haven’t seen it!”
“My asshole was right here a few minutes ago! I think somebody took it!”
“Why would they do that mom?”
“I don’t know. Will you look around for it?”
I looked around a little bit and said “I don’t see it mom”
“Why don’t you ask the nurse if she’s seen it?” I said. More giggles from the kids.

My mom pushed the call button next to her bed and the nurse came into the room after a minute or two.
“Can I help you with something dear?” the nurse said.
“Yes hon, do you know where my asshole is?”
The giggles were replaced by full-on laughter.
“Don’t you know where it is?” the nurse asked.
“I did, but it’s not there anymore, can you help me find it?
“Where was it the last time you saw it dear?”
“It was right here on the table beside me!”
“Hmm, I think I know where it is then” the nurse said after a pause. “I’ll bet the aide put it in the drawer when she cleaned up your room this morning!”  She opened the drawer, and there it was…..her ashtray!

“Thanks so much” my mom said, “I don’t know what I’d do without it…”

Blotter Acid

Blotter Acid: “LSD that comes on a small square piece of paper. The LSD is put in the middle of the paper (blotter) with an eyedropper. It comes in four different strengths; single hit, two-way (two hits), or four-way (four hits). If it’s two way, you tear it in half. Four-way, you tear into quarters.”

I was sitting at home reading “A Separate Reality,” by Carlos Castaneda. It was released in 1970. The title of the book, when combined with the release date, should give you a hint relating to the subject matter.

A few days earlier, a friend had given me a hit of “blotter acid.” I didn’t have to start work for a couple of hours, so I decided to take a quarter of it. Not enough to make me totally stoned, but just enough to get a bit high. After more than a half hour with no results, I took another fourth. After another thirty minutes, still nothing! What the hell, I took one more fourth and saved the last one for later than evening.

Finally, I was feeling a little something. I was also thinking how crappy the acid was, and no wonder my friend gave it to me. Eventually I had to go to work.  The drive was uneventfual, still just feeling  a bit odd, but nothing to shout about. I was very happy that I hadn't paid for it.  I was at work for less than an hour when they let some of us go home, because there wasn't enough work to do.

On our way out the door, a co-worker friend named Scott asked me if I wanted to smoke a joint before I hit the road. Of course, I said yes (you know, just to be polite).  The pot must have been a catalyst for the LSD, because I started getting ripped in a hurry.  I knew I had to get home and wasted no time going to my car.  I was driving an old VW bus (of course) and I started hallucinating just a couple of minutes into the drive.

It was like one of those hallways in a fun house. You walk through a tube and everything but the floor you’re walking on, is rotating. It was just like that, except in this case, I’m driving through the tube and I'm stoned on LSD!  Holy shit! I was really "tripping!"  (I always hated that word. Not sure why.)

If you've driven a VW bus, you know that the steering wheel is huge and you hold it from the bottom. Just like a "real" bus. You would have to lean very far forward to get into the suggested "10 to 2" driving position, it just doesn't work. My point is... what the hell was my point. Oh yeah, my point is that its hard enough to steer a VW bus during the best of times. Steering one through the "fun house from hell," while stoned on acid, is somthing only a professional should attempt. Experience is everything!

After what seemed like hours (10 minutes at the most), I made it home. My girlfriend was playing the mandolin and her friend Lori, was playing the banjo. Maybe it was the other way around, but I do remember that they were playing Bluegrass music. The news was on TV with the volume off.  I was sitting on the couch, listening to them play, and watching the TV.  I was very high and feeling somewhat content.  That was all spoiled when the face of the guy on the TV started melting.  It ran down his shirt, onto his desk, and dripped down the front of the TV, onto the floor.

It was getting much too intense in there, so I went to my bedroom. I took off my clothes and got into bed. Something told me to cover up with the sheet only. I remember thinking that if I changed positions even the slightest bit, I would die. So I’m lying there, motionless, watching my bedroom ooze and melt in the semi darkness.

My dresser said something to me. I couldn’t quite make out the words though.  I was positive that it said something profound, so I asked it to repeat what it had said. I didn’t say it out loud, but in my head. It must not have liked what I was saying, because the drawers started opening and slamming shut. Not all at the same time but randomly. 

I had taken LSD on many occasions, but never had I been this far gone.  Can’t my friends here all this noise? Why aren’t they coming to help me? This went on for what seemed like hours. I remember thinking that I was “too high” and I might need some help. I tried calling out to my friends, but no words escaped my mouth. So, I lay there. Everything in my room started flying around in a whirl wind.

From somewhere in my self induced insanity, rule #1 hit me. It didn't exactly "hit me," it was barely a glimpse of a whisper, on the edge of a thought  If I’m still sane enough to know that I’m too high, then my brain isn’t totally fried. I’m going to be okay. At that point, I knew I could ride it out.

The next day I was pretty low key. Physically, I felt fantastic. Mentally, I was a bit vacuous. About two weeks later I spoke to the friend that gave me the acid. I told him what happened. He started laughing and said, “Oh my God, those weren’t quarter hits. That was a four-way blotter. You took three full hits!”

And that ladies and gentlemen, probably explains why I am, the way I am, today...