ABOUT THE BLOG
Now that I’m into the stretch turn and heading for home, I’ve decided to use the remainder of my time attempting to influence America’s political and cultural make-up. Essential to all such endeavors is communication, and the Internet is the best publication medium ever invented. Thank you, Al Gore. The Internet’s worldwide reach, instant transmission of information, extremely low cost, and enormous popularity make it an essential component of political activism, and just about everything else. Now if I can just learn to use the darn thing.
Writing posts is not the problem. I’ve always been opinionated, and as the years pass I’ve become prone to more readily saying what’s on my mind. Obtaining ideas for posts is as simple as reading a daily newspaper or scanning drudgereport.com. Without fail, a brief perusal of today’s news and presto, my political and compositional juices start flowing. The immediate problem is building readership, for a blog without readers is like great music without an audience; what’s the point? So my days are currently filled with improving search engine rankings, commenting on other political blogs and leaving my URL, and reading everything I can about attracting traffic. It almost makes selling life insurance sound fun.
In case you are wondering, I am eager to interact with people of all political persuasions, even LBJ liberals. No offense. I don’t mind encountering differing opinions or points of view, as long as the dialogue remains civil, factually based, and possible to respond to. Polemic interaction is fine, but sophomoric tripe like ”Bush lied and kids died” or “All Democrats are communists” do not advance any one’s understanding, casting as they do more heat than light. I’m attempting to write thought provoking, well researched, exquisitely written, intelligently argued posts, hoping to illicit responding comments of similar quality. The goal is to have everyone’s ideas expressed and challenged, and thereby affirmed, refined or discarded as necessary. That way, sooner or later the whole country will be Republican…
Disregard that last remark, humorously included to disclose my political leanings. I’m a right-wing conservative with strong libertarian sympathies, something the posts confirm. Don’t let that scare you, wherever your allegiance lies. I’m actually a nice guy, and will not attempt to rip your comments apart. In fact, I will only respond to commentersthrough their personal e-mail, and then only if requested to. The way I figure it, I’ve had my say in the post. You have your say in the comments, and future readers should evaluate bothand reach their own conclusions about the truthofamatter. I do havetheability to edit and/or delete comments, a device I will employ only in the case of profanity, vulgarity, or some such rudeness beneath civil discourse.
So that’s the lowdown on Just Average American. For a more complete discussion of why I chose such a middling title, visit the Topics section and click on Purpose of the Blog, then select Just Average American. It’s my first post, one I’m very proud of…
ABOUT MY LIFE, THE SHORT STORY
I was born and raised in Southern California, Sunland-Tujunga to be exact. I attended PlainviewAvenueandMt. Gleason Jr. High. I loved sports and hated school, resulting in serious underachievement on the academic level. To my knowledge, I’m the only Jr. High student ever to “earn” an A-U-U, “A” in subject matter, “Unsatisfactory” in work habits and cooperation. All I wanted to do was play and mouthoff, alternating between class clown and heralded jock. By the end of a semester’s first week, most of my teachers hated me. The nerve. I somehow graduated from VerdugoHills High in1965 and triumphantly exited UCLA in 1977. I’m a true Bruin. The 8 years between high school graduation and college enrollment was a blur of hard work, baseball, beer, fast cars and pretty women. I played briefly and poorly in the low minor leagues with the Dodger organization. Teammates included Ron Cey, Joe Fergusen, Doyle Alexander, and Bill Russell. In truth, few things are as wonderful as being young and playing baseball every day. In between baseball seasons I worked at Lockheed Aircraft in Burbank CA as a tool and cutter grinder, operated a shovel, dump trucks and Caterpillar tractors for a good friend’s demolition and grading business, and tended bar. If you need reasons to maintain sobriety, become a bartender.
I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior at the ripe old age of 24, and six months later found myself registered with 15 units at Glendale College (in California), leaving 2 years later with a 3.99 GPA. The basketball coach gave me a “B” in a half unit off-season basketball class. I still hold a grudge. I transferred to UCLA and graduated Magna Cum Laude with a BA in Political Science, amazing myself most of all as I had barely graduated from high school. For those of you living in Rio Linda, Magna Cum Laude means “with great distinction.” I considered vocational ministry and completed 50 units of a Master of Divinity program at Talbot Theological Seminary. Alas, it wasn’t to be, and I dropped out in 1981 to start a paper recycling business, J and S Salvage.
I married up and well in 1974. For several years we struggled to bring a pregnancy to full-term, but all the hard work finally paid off when our lovely daughter was born in 1987. That paper recycling company –despite the lousy name choice — grew like a weed and I was able to sell out to Weyerhaeuserin 1991. After managing other company’s recycling plants, I sold life insurance for about eight years. For a good time, don’t do that. Our daughter is married to a fine young man, and we all live in Riverside County CA, home to brown dirt and grey rocks. All the green things left a long time ago. It’s hot in the summer, cold in the winter, and people are moving here by the tens of thousands. Go figure.
I have dedicated the rest of my life to promoting individual liberty and limited government, two sides of the same coin.
People and things that really ring my bell: Jesus, my wife, daughter, and son-in-law, our country, sports especially God’s game…baseball, UCLA, magnificent Maui, the rebirth of individualism in America. Favorites: Ronald Reagan, Ernie Banks, the Beatles, 1950s sitcoms, GTOs, Mahi Mahi, Miss Potter-type-based-on-real-life movies like Invincible and We Are Marshall. Other prized movies: Rocky Balboa, The Kid, A League of Their Own, Enemy at the Gates, Saving Private Ryan, Parenthood. Last but not least, I am actually in love with the greatest political documents ever written — nowadays that’s legal – the Declaration of Independence and The Constitution of the United States of America.
I believe America is the greatest nation on earth, Americans the best people on earth, and Chrysler 300 SRT-8s the best cars on earth, priced within reason that is. My carbon footprint is huge.
ABOUT MY LIFE, THE UNBEIEVABLY LONG VERSION EVEN MY MOTHER WOULDN’T READ
When I was born, I was very young and quite small…
I really need to back up and begin by telling you about my parents. My brother and I are among humanity’s blessed sons, having parents who were honest, dependable, hardworking, and who loved us and each other deeply. A psychologist once told me the two most important things parents can give children are love and security. Brother Howard and I got plenty of both, laying a solid foundation for our lives. We never doubted our parents love, and there wasn’t a moment when I worried Dad and Mom might leave each other or us. I didn’t begin to appreciate the value of a loving and secure home until I started noticing the love-starved and insecure homes of some high school friends. The yelling, drunkenness, and tension too often evident in friend’s families simply wasn’t part of my home experience. Thank God.
Although I haven’t always lived up to Dad and Mom’s standards, they nevertheless demonstrated, day in and day out, the right way to live. My failings are my fault. Mom and Dad showed us the right way to live.
Dad was born in 1915 in Everett, Washington. His dad and four uncles were all lumberjacks, hard-working and plenty rough around the edges. One of my dad’s uncles — I think his name was Hannibal — couldn’t read a note of music, never took a single music lesson, yet could play any instrument you can name. I know musical ability is largely a gift, but to hear dad tell it, Hannibal was exhibit A, playing the piano, banjo, guitar, and any of the horns at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately, my father didn’t share in Hannibal’s endowment; dad couldn’t, and I mean couldn’t sing and never played an instrument. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. The only thing I can play is the radio…
Dad was a born storyteller, repeating accounts from his life so often I feel like I lived them myself. He never lost the talent, and throughout his life whoever was within earshot could be subjected to a lengthy narrative without warning. “Did I ever tell you about” heralded many a droning monologue, now a treasured memory since Dad has been gone since 1982.
Dad was somewhat of a child star in vaudeville, working houses up and down the west coast as a tap dancer. His idol was the incomparable Bill Robinson, still regarded as the greatest tap dancer of all time. Robinson, according to Dad, could produce seemingly impossible taps no one has been able to duplicate. On one occasion — it had to be in the mid 1920s; I’ll check with my brother – they appeared in the same show, albeit not as a team. Dad was thrilled, and we still have the program showing Robinson’s name along with my Dad’s.
Dad was so taken with dancing, and his home life so transient, that schooling was more of an interruption than anything. My father attended classes on and off into high school, but never graduated from one grade to the next after the 3rd grade. Once, a principal berated Dad for his sporadic attendance, saying, “What’s more important to you son, dancing or school?” Whereupon Dad replied, “Well, dancing of course!” Leaving the room on the dead run, Dad never went back to that school and never got over what a stupid question that was. Unfortunately, dancing was at the center of what I believe was Dad’s most painful experience.
My Grandfather drove Dad to all the shows and various dancing events beyond walking distance, a routine that began, I think, when Dad was 6 or 7, and lasting until he was 13. Somewhere in between, my paternal grandparents split up, and my Grandfather remarried. To say the least, Dad and his new “mom” never hit it off. I’m pretty sure Dad was smacked around by this women, as he alluded to being hit as a child but never, to me, specifically fingered his stepmother. Dad did tell me he was certain the woman wanted to kill him. To guard against that fate, Dad kept an axe imbedded in a chopping block in a corner of his room. Remember, his was a family of lumberjacks. He practiced leaping out of bed and moving to the axe in total darkness, memorizing the steps and just where to reach to secure the tool should his stepmother attack. Yikes, you can feel the love. That battle never happened, but something much worse did.
The step-mom’s animosity toward my dad was rooted in jealousy, seeing Dad as a rival for her husband’s affection. Forcing the issue, the stepmother demanded my Grandfather choose between herself and his son, and he chose her, the most damnable corollary being the cessation of Dad’s dancing. Dad never got over his father’s decision, considering it a betrayal of fatherly love and support. Brokenhearted, Dad ran away from home in Everett, Washington and never went back, and never danced again. He was 13.
My Grandmother was living in San Francisco, where Dad spent the next 25 years of his life. He loved that city. It was compact enough he could “run a block, walk a block” all the way across town. He attended Galileo High School, participating in football and track and field. You couldn’t tell it by me or my brother, but Dad was a sprinter, running, I believe, a 10-flat 100 yard dash. For 1930-31, that was pretty ding-dang-darn fast. (Howard and I must have inherited Mom’s running skills, and she must had the speed of a plow horse. How I wish I could have had speed). Unfortunately for Pop, the only two guys in all of San Francisco who could out-run him were left halfbacks for Galileo, Dad’s position also. Therefore, most of the time Dad was third-string, but he did get to play behind the varsity line once or twice. He said you could drive a truck through the holes those guys opened.
You’d have to check the records, but Dad said the San Francisco school system didn’t practice “social promotion.” If a student flunked, he was held back for another go at the same grade. Dad swore that much of Galileo’s football team was in their early 20s; he said guys were shaving and driving cars. The football players were so big and so good, Galileo challenged nearby Stanford University. Dad was sure his school would have prevailed. Remember, this was an era when college football players were merely student-athletes, gifted to be sure, but not the semi-pros of today’s ranks. Anyway, the administration wouldn’t permit the contest. Galileo-Stanford never happened.
Dad never graduated from high school, a mistake he regretted his entire life. I hated school so much, I almost dropped out a month before high school graduation. I knew the Dodgers were going to sign me and it would only be a matter of time before I was in the big league. What did I need school for? Dad talked me into finishing by saying something like, “If you don’t graduate, it’ll follow you everywhere you go. Every time you apply for a job, they’ll ask you why you didn’t graduate. Son, stick it out.” Surprisingly, I did.
I don’t know a great deal about Dad’s adult life in San Francisco, perhaps for good reason. He went to work for a man named Cohen, who owned a string of cigar stores. Well, in front were cigars, in back was the book. I heard a few stories about Dad being “pinched,” but he was pretty tight-lipped about those years. The best thing Dad did in the 1930s was marry Mom. They tied the knot on January 24, 1936, my Dad’s 21st birthday. Mom was 20. As the years rolled by, Dad said they loved each other more and more. They enjoyed 46 years of a truly good and loving marraige, ending with Dad’s death in 1982.
1936, of course, was in the middle of the Great Depression, and times were tough. Dad liked to tell a story on himself, about how puffed up people can be, in this case, at the worst possible time. Just after Dad and Mom were married, Dad was working in a bed spring factory. The work-week was 5 1/2 or 6 days, I can’t remember which, and Dad was making a few dollars per day, I think. It was his job to load the springs into a heat-treating oven, then remove the tempered springs and movethemto the next assembly location. Well, Dad got sick and missed three days of work. When he returned, the three-days worthofspringswere waiting for him. The boss made it clear that it was Dad’s responsibility to process those springs and keep up with the continuing daily output. Dad’s rejoinder was he should be paid for the days he missed if he was going to do the work of those days. The boss, Dad said, found that amusing and refused to grant any back pay. In a huff, Dad quit. The boss went to the company secretary/payroll person and said, “Please pay Mr. Pomeroy for his time,” and that was that. Dad said he was so righteously mad that what he had done — quit gainful employment in the middle of the Great Depression — didn’t dawn on him until he got to the sidewalk. ”Holy cow, what will I tell Erna?” he thought as he shuffled away, his pride not allowing him to ask for his job back. Dad always told that story in the context of “don’t leave one job before you have another.” Folks living and working during the Depression never forgot those lessons.
I think it was after quitting the spring factory that Dad secured a summer job working on a rock gang at a nearby quarry. Well, not so nearby; Mom and Dad lived in a tent all summer on the quarry property. The job, Dad said, was to take a sledge-hammer and shovel into a railroad gondola loaded with big rocks. Two men worked in each car, starting at one end and making all the big rocks into gravel. Yikes! It was back-breaking work in the hot summer sun, and Dad said the men he was working with were a tough bunch. Fights were common, and at least one hard-driving boss was killed by the workers in a rigged “industrial accident” — someone arranged for a huge drill to drop on the foreman’s head. I believe dad worked at the quarry for 2 or 3 summers. Jobs opened up after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.
Dad was a few weeks short of 26 when World War II broke out, and, for reasons unknown to me, he was never drafted. Throughout 1942 he worked in shipyards around San Francisco Bay. Although shipbuilding in those years was essentially defense work, he and a fellow-worker felt bad about not being in the Army when so many other men were, and they decided to enlist. At the induction center, he was asked whether he wanted to fight in the Pacific or in Europe. Dad said he choose the Pacific because he knew a German — besides Mom! – and thought he could never shoot the man if they met on the battlefield. Dad! What are the odds?! So, Dad would fight the Japanese.
First, of course, came basic training, which I think Dad endured at Santa Anita, the home of Seabiscuit. Actually, he loved being at the race track because Dad was an avid horse racing fan his entire adult life, and had been at Santa Anita on the facility’s first opening day in 1934. Dad went to Texas for additional training. Unfortunately, the only story of that experience involved racist attitudes he encountered, something Dad never fully understood, to his credit. He always taught brother Howard and me that “colored people are just like us” underneath the skin. One of my own enduring memories involved a visiting baseball team comprised of all black players. Our local recreation area, Sunland Park, was the scene of year ’round Sunday afternoon baseball games. I believe our local team was named the Sunland Play-Timers. They hosted a different visiting team every week.
Dad and I were watching the black team warm up, and somehow I started talking with one of the visiting players. Looking back, I really appreciate the man’s gentle nature and sense of humor. The player let me try on his glove, a large floppy thing that I immediately expressed dissatisfaction with, whereupon the man, over-acting as if he was offended, took back his glove in a huff. I could tell by the knowing glaces he and Dad exchanged that he was joking, but still I was intimidated. We stayed for the whole game and I have vivid memories — this was no later than the late 1950s – of how the visitors played with enthusiasm and fun. If there was any racial tension, I didn’t know about it. They were all black, and everyone on “our” team and in the entire park, with the exception of a few Hispanics, was white. Everybody just enjoyed the afternoon.
Anyway, back in Texas Dad took advantage of an “off” day by walking to a local bowling alley –another of Dad’s youthful pursuits – where he encountered racism of a type he had never seen before. The event made such an impression on Dad that he retold this story countless times. As he was walking the few miles from the Army base to the bowling alley, he noticed a black women walking toward him on the same sidewalk. Dad planned to step off the sidewalk onto a narrow grass lane that ran between the sidewalk and the curb. Some 50 feet before Dad thought it gracious to make his move, the black women moved off the sidewalk, over the grassy parkway, and wound up walking in the street. Perplexed by this, Dad simply kept walking. As they passed, the woman never glanced at Dad and didn’t say a word. Dad was thinking of saying something like “Good afternoon, Ma’am,” but the words just didn’t come out when he couldn’t make eye contact. The woman did not return to the sidewalk until they had walked passed each other by another good 50 feet.
Dad arrived at the bowling alley and recounted to the desk man what had transpired regarding the woman leaving the sidewalk. “Why would she so that,” or words to that effect, Dad asked. The man, who was white, pushed his thumb down on the counter top and rotated it back and forth, as if squishing a bug, and said, “We’ve got those niggers right where we want ‘em, and we’re gonna keep ‘em there!” The man was angry, something which puzzled Dad almost as much as the expression of hatred for a total stranger. Dad never got over that exchange, pondering for the rest of his life how screwed up some people were.
Dad was glad to leave Texas, returning only once in his life.
So, after basic training and advanced infantry instruction, he was off to a series of Pacific islands. Dad was in the 5th Army Air Force (the Air Force was still part of the U.S. Army until after WWII), in a company devoted to supporting airfield operations. Among Dad’s Army buddies were welders, mechanics, and other highly specialized and talented men. Dad was short on those types of skills, but perhaps because of his advanced age — he turned 29 in 1944 — he was promoted to Sargent (three stripes I think) and his job consisted mainly of record keeping, letter writing and such. I know Dad was in Leyte Gulf, in the Philippines and on Okinawa, his location when the war ended. He was probably on other islands I can’t remember. Had America invaded Japan, his unit would have gone in D-Day +9. Because of the atom bomb, American warships sailed into Tokyo harbor without firing a shot.
The war changed Dad’s life forever, supplying him with unlimited stories about once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Of the tales he told again and again, his favorite were about his wartime buddies. Curiously, once the war ended I don’t think he ever saw those guys again. Some of Dad’s anecdote’s were funny, but many involved heart-wrenching events he was probably trying to purge out of his mind. Though not in a combat unit, while stationed on various islands Dad, like most soldiers I suppose, saw men blown to bits. An enduring memory was made as he approached one nameless island, previously the site of bitter fighting. Still a good distance at sea, Dad could see what appeared to be a small white square on a hillside. It turned out to be a graveyard containing the G.I.s who died taking the place, the huge cemetery emblazoned with white crosses.
Two of Dad’s oft repeated tales involved accidental explosions. One night, a group of soldiers were working in a tent assembling hand grenades. I’m not a munitions expert and neither was Dad, but I think the soldiers were installing the firing pins. In any event, one of the grenades became “live,” and an 18-year-old kid picked up the device and ran outside, intending to throw the thing out of harms way. In his haste, the young man tripped over a tent rope, falling in such a way that the grenade was pressed between the ground and his stomach. It exploded, blasting the poor guy nearly in half. Dad, like everyone in his company, rushed over to try and help. The young man was grievously wounded, but not dead, adding in a strange way to everyone’sdistress. With most of his lower stomach – ”lower parts” as Dad called them — missing, the soldier died a day or two later.
Another horror story involved the accidental detonation of nearly a plane-load of bombs in close proximity to the bomber intended to carry them to Japan. Dad said the standard procedure for getting the bombs to their planes, until this event, was to transport the devices on trucks, which would back up to a small sand pile. The bombs, not armed of course, would be rolled off onto the sand. This took place within yards of the airplane. The unloaded bombs would then be carried to the plane and secured in the bomb racks. The rolling of the bombs was routine, had gone on for months, and everyone was assured they “couldn’t” go off. Well, one day a bomb did explode, setting off most if not all the remaining bombs. As near as anyone could guess, there were about 15 men present, including the flight and ground crews, and the truck driver. None of them were ever found. The truck and airplane itself nearly disappeared. Dad said dog tags, pieces of clothing, fingers and other body parts were located in the tops of palm trees and in brush dozens of yards from the explosion. A big investigation ensued, and it was determined that the humidity was “just right,” causing the explosion. Dad was about 400 yards from the explosion, but still said when the shock wave reached him it felt like a large man had punched him in the chest. Again, he and many others were on the scene as quickly as possible, and again the memory of what Dad saw never left him.
Another oft-told tale involved a Japanese attempt to retake an island that had been secure for months. The Japanese launched an air-borne assault, placing thousands Japanese paratroops in too close proximity to Dad’s company. Worse, there were no American combat units on the island, only service outfits like Dad’s. Well, American commanders decided to encircle the invaders and hold them in place until combat infantry could be returned to the island. Dad told lots of stories of being on night guard duty and hearing an enemy soldier whisper, “Hey Joe,” trying to draw a response. Dad believed the Japanese were no more than a few yards from his foxhole. It was nerve-racking stuff and probably contributed to Dad’s bouts with nerves after the war. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, Dad developed tiny blisters on the bottom of his feet. Thousands of the blisters appeared, turning Dad’s feet bottoms a chalky white. I have vague memories of Dad going to the doctor and Mom saying something like, “It’s because of the war,” but I had no idea what was going on at the time. Neither did the Army or our government. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder wasn’t officially acknowledged until later. In Dad’s day it was called “battle fatigue” but I think many GIs regarded that as a sign of weakness and suffered in silence.
Anyway, Dad told stories of his friends, not trained in combat, blasting away with heavy machine guns into fields suspected of hiding the Japanese. Commanders had to shout, “Hey, knock it off!” to stop the firing before the barrels melted. Finally, after about 30 days, American combat troops arrived and swept through the encircled Japanese. No prisoners were taken. Dad, and most of not all of the Americans on that island during the Japanese siege, didn’t shave or shower for more than a month. Sleeping in tents, enduring torrential rains, eating cold rations, fearful of being overrun or at least sniped by the Japanese — it must have been a special time.
Dad developed an virulent antipathy toward the Japanese, one he finally got over, I think, in the mid-1950s. However, he also gavethemdrudging respect, acknowledging the bravery of Japanese airmen who tried to damage airfields on American-held islands. In great detail, Dad recounted how the anti-aircraft guns were deployed around the area, with smaller caliber 20-mm weapons closer to the airfield, larger 40-mm or 60-mm, I forget which, forming a larger ring, and finally the big 90-mm guns placed strategically on the surrounding hillsides. Many of the Japanese air-raids were at night, and Dad’s account of the action was detailed and thrilling, at least to a kid like me. The smaller caliber guns fired a combination of bullets, first the tracer, then an armor-piercing round, then bullets designed to start fires, and so forth. If memory serves, the tracers you could see represented just one-sixthof the metal flying toward the incoming Japanese planes, a fact the pilots must have known. Dad said there were so many guns firing that the tracers seemed to form a huge red net over the airfield. Nevertheless, the Japanese pilots would come right down through that stuff, firing their machine guns and trying to drop bombs on the landing strip itself or the bomb dump or the fuel dump. Dad marveled that so many Japanese planes made it through those webs of death. Of course, by the war’s conclusion most of those pilots were probably dead. Dad never forgot their bravery.
Well, the war finally ended. Dad was on Okinawa on V-J Day and slated to invade Japan D+9. I suppose the argument over the propriety of dropping our A-bombs will never end, but the Japanese had 2,000,000 soldiers on their main island and one can only assume they would have fought zealously to defend their homeland. Had that been the case, hundreds of thousands would have died on both sides. Dad always believed that dropping the atom bombs saved lives, a view I share.
In any case, it wasn’t long before Dad was on his way home, his conveyance being a good-sized Navy cruiser. Dad and his comrades had bunks with mattresses, warm running water, and plenty of good hot food for the first time in a long time. Some of the soldiers were overwhelmed when they sat for their first shipboard meal. The ample servings of meat, potatoes, and vegetables – followed by dessert! — was simply too much of a change from the harsh conditions the men had endured for so long. Though hungry, some of Dad’s buddies just couldn’t eat, leaving the table without saying a word, some of them in tears. Dad said the Navy guys didn’t quite understand, but remained respectfully quiet. Returning to “the world,” as Vietnam vets called it, could be its own trauma.
During the war Mom had moved from San Fransisco to Southern California. My brother Howard was born in June of 1943, some months after Dad had shipped out for the South Pacific. My Grandma Andy, the only grandparent I would ever meet, lived in a little community named Sunland-Tujunga, twin cities tucked away in the foothills east of the San Fernando Valley. Being close to Grandma Andy was good for Mom and brother Howard. They lived in a little cottage on Hillrose Street a few blocks west, or down the hill, from Mt. Gleason. Naturally, Dad rejoined his family in Sunland-Tujunga and they set about starting up their lives again.
It wasn’t easy. Most of my parent’s relatives and all of Dad’s business contacts were in the Bay area. Nevertheless, the decision was made to stay in Southern California. I was never told the details about that choice, but I believe it was one part of a larger determination by my father to be a good family man. His family had been racked by dissension and divorce, and Mom’s parents divorced as well. Now that Dad had a son — my brother Howard — he determined to break the cycle of marital dysfunction that dated back on his side of the family as far as anyone could remember. My Great-Grandfather Jesse Pomeroy, a heroic man in many ways, suffered a divorce. Both sets of my grandparents divorced. My mother’s older sister divorced, twice I believe. Mom’s twin sister divorced. Dad’s sister divorced, as did her son. Some of my Dad’s uncles divorced — you get the picture. Having witnessed firsthand the damage divorce causes, especially to the children, Dad decided to walk a different path. He broke the cycle of divorce and child abuse, loving Mom until the day he died and being as good a father has he knew how. Of all the good things Dad did and was, breaking the cycle of marital dysfunction was, for my money, his crowning achievement.
His accomplishment puts the lie to the numberless parents who blame their failures on their own faithless parents. I’ve never understood why so many spouses and parents cite their own upbringings as reason for their divorces and poor parenting efforts. ”He beats his wife (or kids) because he was beaten” never added up for me. Experiencing a terrible childhood would, in my estimation, make someone determine to never pass such unpleasantness along to another generation. I heard dad say as much once, or maybe Mom said it of him, I can’t remember. But words close to these were said by someone, “He (my Dad) decided he’d give his kids a better life than he had.” And how.
Starting over in 1946 was a challenge. Not wanting to return to the cigar/bookie joints of San Fransisco, Dad tried working in grocery store produce sections, but in post-war Southern California that occupation was dominated by Japanese-Americans. These were not the Japanese Dad fought a few years earlier, but they looked like them, and that was too much for Dad. When his boss told him “that’s just the way it is, Howard,” Dad walked out and never worked in that industry again. Apparently, prospects for a viable income looked so bleak that, despite Dad’s desire to shield his family from the rather seedy side of Bay area life, the Pomeroysmovedback to San Fran in May of 1947. I was one month old.
We lived in Dad and Mom’s favorite city until 1951. Dad did work in cigar/liquor stores, but I was far too young to know the details of his employment. What I remember of San Fransisco are: fog horns, trying to fly box kites at Golden Gate Park, incredibly steep streets, and Mom trying to drive a stick shift on those hills. What a thrill! I also remember almost wetting my pants because I wanted to get outside and play on a particularly sunny day. Mom was tying my shoes and when she finished I busted out the back door and just ran around. I still have that memory. I was probably three years old; funny how some things just stick in our minds. I remember a Christmas morning with wrappings covering the entire living room floor. And, I remember Mom giving me a cardboard box, a wooden spoon, and putting me in the living room while she washed dishes or did other housework. Mom played John Philip Sousa marches and I pounded that cardboard box to keep time. It seemed like I would stay at it for hours. I cannot play any instrument, but I do keep good “time,” and Mom and those marches are the reason. Years later I was still listening to music – if rock ‘n roll qualifies — and keeping time by slapping my knees. I should have been a drummer.
I was two years old when Dad took me out for my first batting practice session at Golden Gate Park. I have no personal memory of this momentous event, but Dad retold this story as often as any other. He placed the bat in my hands and arranged my stance as a right-handed batter. Dad turned around and walked a few steps away, but by the time he again turned to face me I had pivoted 180 degrees and was standing as a left-handed hitter. However, my hands were still gripping the bat as a right-handerwould, withtheright hand on top. Dad wasn’t much of a ballplayer himself (his own evaluation) and he always relied on very basic bromides to guide me as a ballplayer. One such truism was “never mess with a kid’s natural stance.” Dad took my change in stance from righty to lefty as a sign that I should bat from the left side, so he proceeded to adjust my hands accordingly and I’ve been hitting lefty ever since. Other oft repeated words of wisdom included “swing level,” “let your bat and arm do the talking,” and the classic “keep your eye on the ball.”
Dad was my first coach and probably the main reason I played any professional baseball. Once we were again living in Sunland-Tujunga Dad and I spent hours playing catch when I was 6-7- and 8 years old. Dad put me through a drill he called “around the clock.” 12 o’clock was over my head, 6 o’clock was between my feet, 3 and 9 o’clock were straight out to either side. He would throw to each hour of the clock, and by the time I was 8 I could catch any throw. Of course, I was practicing my throwing as I returned the ball to him. This gave me a huge advantage over most of the other kids when I started playing competitively at age 9. I could throw and catch with adults, for goodness sake.
I still remember my first team practice, playing in the local Kiwanis league on a team sponsored by Sherman Grove Trailer Park. I was the first baseman, probably because I was tall for my age and could catch, a first baseman’s main obligation. Our pitcher was trying to throw batting practice, but couldn’t throw strikes. He was all over the place. I can’t remember who suggested it, but I was called on to give it a try, and lo and behold, not only could I throw strikes, no one could hit them. My pitching career was born then and there.
I was dominate as a pitcher through age 12. I had a pretty good fastball and great control, meaning I threw the ball down the middle most of the time. Through age 12 and pitching from 46 feet, most kids couldn’t hit me. Plus, a coach on my 12-year-old team (I think his name was Jim) was an old professional pitcher. He taught me how to throw a curve ball, not the best idea for a 12-year-old, but it’s history. Anyway, I threw that curve ball from three different angles, and coupled with my fastball, I was a strikeout machine. My best game was a no-hitter in which I struck out 17 of 21 batters.
Another family member helped my nascent pitching career; my brother. Howard did not play competitive baseball, but he was nearly four years my senior and he could catch my best stuff. Howard and I spent hours on the driveway, me pitching and him catching (never the other way around) and that really helped develop my pitches. A few times my curve balls got away from me and struck the awnings on that side of the house. Those were the days!
The glory began to fade when I turned 13 because the pitching plate was suddenly farther from home plate, moved back to 54 feet if memory serves. As the years went by, it became painfully obvious that my curve ball was really a roundhouse hanger most 14, 15 and older players could crush, and my fastball was as straight as a string, too often delivered into the batter’s wheelhouse. My third basemen began playing deeper and deeper, self-preservation at work I’m sure. I continued to pitch occasionally into my 20s (never in pro ball, but when playing for the Sunland Park team, Sunday ball) but my best positions were as a first or third baseman.
All of my success in baseball stems back to those very early days of playing catch with Dad. His early coaching allowed me to succeed early on, and that made the game fun. That being the case, I played every chance I got; on organized teams during the summer, but also “over-the-line” games with a few friends, or just hitting rocks with an old bat in the empty lot next door. Billy Steele and I used to bring our gloves and a ball to Junior High a half hour or so before school and just play catch. It was a blast. (Billy, by the way, is still playing highly competitive slow-pitch, his teams have won national championships, and at age 61 Billy still plays a great shortstop.) By the time I was 10 or 11, those motor skills were firmly in place, carrying me all the way to the California League in 1968, the apex of my career. It all began with Dad in Golden Gate Park at age 2.
My athletic abilities were really quite limited. I was a slow runner, my first steps being particularly sluggish. This is an enormous handicap in any sport, and baseball is no exception. Even outfielders rarely take more than a dozen strides as they attempt to chase down batted balls, infielders far fewer. My slow starts meant I just couldn’t get to balls other players could. Getting out of the batters box seemed to take eons, and I seldom beat out an infield hit. My minor league teammates gave me two nicknames — Calendar and Sun Dial (as in “you can clock Pomeoyto first base withacalendar or sun dial”) – both painful reminders of my poor running ability. Besides being slow of foot, I wasn’t particularly strong, especially for my size. As I moved into professional baseball, I was always playing against opponents who had much more raw athletic ability than I. If Dad hadn’t gotten me off to a fast start, I doubt I ever would have played beyond high school.
Well, back to Dad. After knocking around for several months trying to sell life insurance, Dad hired in at Lockheed Aircraft in Burbank in 1951. Less than a year later Mom bagan working at Lockheed as well, and there they stayed for the next 22 years, retiring at the ages of 59 and 58 respectively. I’ll pick up the story of Lockheed and the 1950s after reviewing what I know of Mom’s life up to 1951. So, here’s all about Mom.
Mother was born Erna Wilhelmina Feyerer close to the Black Forest in Germany on June 3, 1916. Regrettably, I don’t know the name of the town. For that matter, I know very little about Mom’s family compared to what I know about Dad’s because Dad was the story teller. I never met my Mom’s parents, and I don’t even know what Grandfather Feyerer’s occupation was. I believe he played the zither, and I think I’ve seen pictures of him decked out in traditional Germany garb. Pictures of Grandmother Feyerer made her look extremely stern, but I think that was par for the course for picture taking in the 1930s (or earlier), when those photos were probably made.
Here’s what I do know about Mom and her family. Like most other Germans following World War I, the Feyerers were financially devastated by the hyper-inflation of the early 1920s. My grandparents decided to bring the family to America, a process begun in 1923 when Grandpa entered the good ole’ US of A through Ellis Island. In those days, entering the US was no easy process. Grandpa had to have an American sponsor and a job waiting for him. Mom’s family must have had some relatives or connections of some sort in San Fransisco, because that’s where Grandpa settled. He worked for 2 years, established a household and sent some money back to Germany to help his wife and three daughters. (Mom has an identical twin, my Aunt Margie, and an older sister Marianne, now deceased.) Economic conditions were horrific, and Mom remembers her Mom spending any money she happened to have, including that sent from America, the same day she got it. By the next day, the same money would purchase significantly less, that’s how bad things were. After two years, my Grandmother and her three daughters followed Grandfather to America. Mom’s entire family entered through Ellis Island. (I’ve got to get back there to see if I can find their names recorded somewhere.) The Feyerer family was reunited in San Fransisco.
Unfortunately, establishing a household wasn’t the only thing Grandpa was doing from 1923 to 1925. He was, apparently, quite a flirt, and was not faithful to Grandma before or after the family reunion in 1925. I’m not sure how long the Feyererfamilywas intact, but sooner or later Grandpa bugged out, and to my knowledge never saw his wife or daughters again. Mom and her sisters blamed their father for the family’s disintegration, and Mom never forgave him. Though tight-lipped about these things most of the time, Mom did let on once or twice that she never saw her father after he left, didn’t want to, and wasn’t terribly upset when he died. I don’t think any of the immediate family even attended the funeral, or so much as knew when and where it was. Yikes.
Well, the three Feyerer sisters were thrown into the San Fran school system before they spoke a word of English. No one else spoke German, and the girls faced a sink or swin situation. They swam. Mom did repeat tales of her mother’s insistence that she and Margie and Marianne visit the library often, reading book after book. Mom bragged that they never lost a book or returned one late. To Mom’s way of thinking, such irresponsibility was incomprehensible. Before the end of the first semester the girls spoke fluent English. Because they learned their second language before entering puberty, none had the slightest accent. They all graduated from High School, all married (Marianne three times, I think) and all became productive American citizens. So much for bilingual education.
Mom’s life was shaped by deprivation and hard times. She was born in Germany during WWI and endured some of the worst economic times in any developed country in the history of capitalism. Then, Mom immigrated to America 4 years before the Great Depression set in, an economic downturn remedied only by World War II. So get this: of Mom’s first 29 years (1916 to 1945), 25 were lived in a country at war or in the midst of economic chaos: 1916 to 1925 in Germany, 1929 to 1945 in America. She lived through the worst economic times imaginable, in two countries on opposite sides of the Atlantic! No wonder she clipped coupons. No wonder she and Dad saved every week despite their meager paychecks. Although the Pomeroy family in the late 1940s through the mid 1960s was classic blue-collar working class, Howard and I lacked for nothing. Korea and Vietnam did not impact non-military Americans, except to provide more jobs in the defense industry. We had it made. Mom and Dad had a much tougher pull, which explains their frugality and my spendthrift ways. Oh well…
Mom did not attend Dad’s high school, and the cirsumstances of their meeting I simply don’t know. Dad told me he dated Margie before Mom, something Margie never got over, holding some deep-seated grudge against Dad until the day he died. Dad did tell me that after dating a few girls, he decided that Erna was by far the best person on the inside. They married on Dad’s 21st birthday. Mom was 20. The year was 1936.
Mom was somewhat athletic in her younger days. Dad told stories of the two of them playing tennis in San Francisco. The couples waiting to play far out-numbered the available courts, so everyone had to queue up for a chance to play. The winners held the court, the losers went to the back of a long line. Apparently, Dad and Mom held their own, Dad said, by playing smart tennis. Years later I saw Mom in action when the four of us would go to Sunland Park for a picnic in the 1950s. Looking back, these forays seem pretty bland. The park was only a mile or so from home. One baseball diamond and two adjoining softball fields dominate the park’s center. West of the playing fields were two tennis courts and a concrete basketball court, two handball courts, and a volleyball net. The opposite end of the park was devoted to picnic tables under dozens of huge eucalyptus and pine trees. The Pomeroys would spread a blanket under one of the large trees hundreds of feet from the baseball field’s home plate. Mom always prepared sandwiches and her world class potato salad. To this day I haven’t had better. After eating, we often took turns batting and fielding on one of the softball diamonds. Mom was a surprisingly good hitter.
Mom’s early-life experiences molded her into a strong, hard-working, self-reliant adult. She was simply used to hard times, so when a tough situation popped up, Mom (and Dad) would just do what was necessary to survive and move on. This approach to life characterized Mom until the day she died, being exemplified best by her herculean work from 1951 to 1972. I didn’t appreaciate Mom’s effort until years later, but I’d bet big money she worked harder and longer than 99% of people anywhere on earth during those 21 years. Here’s the story.
Dad always believed the man of the house should be solely responsible for bringing home the bacon, and that a woman’s place was in the home. That philosophy collided with the economic realities Dad faced in the late 1940s and early 1950s. He no longer would work in grocery store produce sections, didn’t want to pursue his employment pattern in San Francisco — liquor and cigar stores and all that went with them — and didn’t have a high school diploma. Worse, Dad wasn’t a plumber or carpenter or auto mechanic. Without an education and job skills, Dad’s options were limited. Fortunately, Lockheed Aircraft was still employing more than 20,000 people (down from over 100,000 during World War II) and Dad hired on in 1950 or ‘51. His starting wage: $1.25 an hour. Of course, everything cost less in those days, a lot less. Gasoline sold for under 20 cents per gallon. The mortgage payment — if memory serves — was $86.00 per month. But that laughably low amount still ate up most of Dad’s take-home pay for two weeks, and with two growing boys to feed and clothe, plus utilities and the expense of one car, $50.00 per week gross just didn’t cut it. I’m sure after a lot of agony I never knew about, it was decided that Mom would apply at Lockheed as well, and thus began Mom’s 21-year work odyssey.
It pains me to think about it now, but Mom continued to do most of the housework after gaining fulltime employment. She and Dad would leave for work around 6:00 am, eventhough the whistle didn’t blow until 7:00 am. For Dad, on-time was 30 minutes early, minimum. Before leaving for work, Mom would make lunches for all four of us, and set out a fairly spartan breakfast. I grew up on Cherrios, Frosted Flakes (”they’re GREAT”), Rice Crispies, and Corn Flakes. I used to put so much sugar on my cereral you couldn’t tell what kind it was, no foolin’. Why I’m not diabetic I’ll never know. Anyway, for years Mom and Dad left for work before I left for school. Brother Howard spent his entire K-12 experience going to school half days. Building schools to accommodate the Baby Boomers lagged just enough so that Howard always attended over-crowded schools, and two half-day sessions was the solution back then. Howard always seemed to attend the early half-day session, which meant I was the last one to leave the house, even when I was in first grade! Dad made a check list to guide me as I closed up the house each weekday morning. I was to check the lights, the floor furnace, the water faucets, make sure the doors and windows were closed, and most of all secure the gas knobs on the stove. Dad must have put the fear of God in me about the possibility of the house burning to the ground if one of those gas jets was left on, because I can still see that old stove and the little metal tabs that should be all the way to the left to prevent any accidental gas leakage. For years I checked all that stuff and doing so became part and parcel of my inner man. To this day, I not only keep my eye on our doors, windows, etc. and most of all the stove knobs, but if I go into your kitchen I’ll do the same thing. I’ve looked at the stove knobs at Sears, for goodness sakes! Nowadays, it’s Sheila’s job to turn things on and open things up, and my job to shut things off and close things. It’s a symbiotic relationship I’ve grown to love.
Not only did Mom and Dad leave before Howard and I, we beat them home as well. Howard was home by just after noon and school usually ended for me at 3:00 pm. I was home 15 or 20 minutes later. Mom and Dad’s day ended at 3:30 pm, and they were home by 4:00, when Mom’s second job began.
Although both parents worked most of my formative years, I never felt like a latchkey kid, and I’m sure brother Howard feels the same way. Mom and Dad never, and I mean never, varied from the set routine. They were home at 4:00 pm every working day, you could set your watch by it. Even on Fridays — grocery shopping day — they would come home first to pick Howard and me up. My parents never stopped on the way home to do errands, see friends, shop, you name it. I knew I could count on them being home.
The Friday routine is particularly memorable. The four of us would leave the house at 4:00 pm – maybe 4:05 — to head for the Shopping Bag grocery store in La Crescenta. I know there were grovery stores in Sunland and Tujunga, but for reasons still unknown to me we bypassed them all in favor a store perhaps 4 or 5 miles from home. On the way Dad would stop at a “Flying A” (I still love that name!) gas station, not to fill ‘er up, but to purchase $2.50 of “ethel,” the highest octane fuel available, probably rated at 100+ octane. That $2.50 purchased about 10 to 12 gallons of gas, enough to get Mom and Dad back and forth to work five times and around town on weekends. Saturday and Sunday driving was rare. There might be a Saturday shopping excursion to Glendale, and perhaps a Sunday driveto Sunland Park for a picknick, but that was it. Most of the time, weekends found the car in the garage and Mom and Dad at home. I never asked either parent if they were bored with thesameness of it all, and they never gave any indication of dissatisfaction. Of course, Mom especially kept up a fantasic pace. If she wasn’t working at Lockheed, she was working at home.
Not only did we shop out of town for groceries, but clothes, furniture, and nearly everything else was acquired away from Sunland/Tujunga. Glendale was the place to shop for the Pomeroys, and one of Mom’s favorite pasttimes was to window shop on Brand Blvd. This was decades before the Galleria was built, and “Buy on Brand” wasn’t a slogan but an inescapable fact; there were no alternatives. I hated window shopping. Mom must have endured a thousand “Can we go now” requests. Of course, looking back I wish I had given her all the time she wanted. Finally, after trudging up and down Brand for hours (probably 45 minutes) we would walk back to wear Dad always parked the car, on Maple Ave. about 3 or 4 blocks off Brand. I think this ploy allowed Dad to avoid feeding a parking meter. Every penny counted in those days, not that I was aware of it.
From 1951 to 1959 Dad owned a 1949 Ford. It was a 2-door, 2-tone hardtop, 3-speed on the column with a straight 6-cylinder for power if memory serves. Dad bought it at Hauter Ford in Montrose, the scene of several more purchases and many tune-ups. The best thing about Hauter Ford was a mechanic named Stan, an honest and trustworthy guy if there ever was one. Back in the 1950s cars had to be tuned frequently, as often as every 10,000 miles. The service writers at Hauter offered two packages: a major or minor tune-up. Both came with a flat fee, which Dad paid a few times until Stan took him aside one day. “Don’t tell them you want a tuneup,” Stan told Dad. “Just say, ’Have Stan put it on the scope.’” To this day I don’t know what Stan was referring to, but he always made sure Dad got away with paying the absolute minimum. Stan would remove the spark plugs, for instance, and if they looked OK to him, he’d just clean and re-gap them and put them back in the motor for no charge. Dad always tipped Stan, embarrassing the heck out of him. This was another routine that endlessly repeated itself, or so it seemed. Suddenly, Stan was diagnosed with brain cancer and was dead within one year. Amazingly, shortly thereafter Stan’s son, Jerry, took his place in the repair bay. Like father like son, Jerry was a carbon copy of his Dad in every way. The same honesty, even temper, pleasant disposition, and determination to save customers money. Jerry was still working when I began driving and I copied Dad’s approach, only then I told the service writers, “Let Jerry put it on the scope.” Those were the days.
1952 marked my introduction to school, kindergarten that is. My Dad walked me to school that first terrifying day. The local school facilites were so over-crowded everyone was on half-day attendance, and my half started around noon. Dad must have been working the swing shift at Lockheed, so he was available to take me to the gallows, I mean school. I was scared to death because I had heard brother Howard, four years ahead of me in school years, talk about “school work.” I had no idea what he meant, but it sure didn’t sound good. I didn’t like any kind of work, and I was sure school work also wouldn’t be pleasant. So, I cried all the way from our driveway, across the neighboring empty lot, through the swimming pool parking lot, and down a long dirt path leading to the extreme west end of the school property. I vaguely remember a teacher greeting Dad and him kissing me goodbye — the pain was intense — and then being escorted into a bungalow housing the kindergarten class. What happened next made my day.
Back in those days kindergarten was little more than babysitting. We didn’t work at all! I remember playing with big wooden blocks and, outside, playing with a basketball-size air-filled rubber ball. That’s it. All we did all day long was play! My nightmares had dissolved into every boy’s dream! Imaging a year of 4-square, finger-painting, naps, snacks, and dodge-ball. That’s right, they used to let kids hurl objects at each other at close range, and none of us seemed to mind. Sure, no one wanted to get hit and be put out, but that was part of the game. We all got it. Nobody’s psyche was damaged when we lost at something. In games, there are winners and losers, but just playing was fun too. Not much has changed for me in that regard. Today at age 61, I play a lot of racquetball. I’d still rather win than lose, but it’s all fun and good exercise too. The contemporary push to eliminate winners and losers in youth sports is way off the mark. The goal of winning makes everyone improve and try hard, and prepares little tikes for the real world. In the 1950s, losing a game didn’t make you are loser. The only losers were the ones who wouldn’t play at all.
Play away from school could be rough in those days. I was playing cowboys and Indians with a neighbor kid when he got the notion to throw his six-gun at my head. He must have seen it on T.V. and thought it was a cool thing to do. Unfortunately for me, his aim was good. The gun hit me square in the head, sending me home sqealing like big baby. I remember thinking it hurt a lot more than when Marshall Matt Dillon smacked a bad guy with his revolver. They didn’t cry, and they usually appeared later in the episode none the worse for wear. Real life was different. I had learned a valuable lesson.
Another head-knocking event took place during war games at a favorite play spot, adjacent empty lots, on Tinker Avenue. (Empty lots still dotted the neighborhood in those days.) I suppose that 90% of my play time took place on Irma and Tinker, the two side streets that bracketed our house on Hillrose Street. So one day about 6 or 8 of us were playing war. We had dug really neat foxholes and the terrain was sufficiently rough to provide good cover in many places around the lots. Best of all, we not only had rifles and handguns, but hand grenades as well. Remember those lemon-sized plastic containers full of juice? We’d empty the contents and refill the capsule with dirt, really packing it in. Suddenly, we had something as lethal as a baseball. Of course, we lofted these things back and forth, making the appropriate explosion sounds when they landed. One kid, I forget his name, was hugging the bottom of his foxhole when another kid launched a hand grenade at him. The kid on the receiving end looked up just in time to get hitsquare on the forehead. He fell back in his foxhole like a dead man. Several of us scattered like the wind; I personally ran all the way home, never bothering to find out if my friend was dead or alive. I’m pretty sure he lived…
Bike riding, touch football in the street, water fights during the summer, playing tag, and hide-and-go-seek dominate my memories of those streets. I regarded Tracy Willis as my best friend, but Dennis Peabody, Larry Shaw, and Artie Legreko (sp.?) also were constant companions. Stan Mercer’s family also lived on Tinker, but I think he came aong later. Tracy Willis had amazing athletic ability.
(The empty lot next door)
(Lots more coming)