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I suppose it is kind of preposterous that one imagines himself important enough to write down his opinions for others to read. Chattering superciliousness is one of the most infuriating things about academics and so-called intellectuals, generally, who feel compelled to share their thoughts. But here it goes, anyway.

Tidbits from a Life: An Autobiography


For my daughter, Anastasia, for what it's worth.
By Michael E. Berumen, October 2010 (updated 2017)

Only a handful of people know some of the things disclosed here. As I suspect most will understand, there are some matters I've not disclosed to avoid hurting others. For reasons that will become obvious, I didn't freely divulge aspects of my uproarious youth to many while I was in "career mode" for the better part of my adult life, and I feel free to divulge them now. I did not do this out of shame, but from practicality. I am now unfettered by pecuniary or career concerns because of what someone might know. Also, importantly, while my daughter was in her most formative and her most imitative years, it seemed inadvisable to share parts of my past with her, perhaps especially not to excite any inert and not so estimable genetic material bestowed by her father. Fortunately, she was more like her mother as a youngster. She is now grown and mature, and I am no longer concerned about these things, and best she know her father for better and worse. The opinions others might have about me outside of my immediate family and closest friends no longer matter to me in any practical sense or from any kind of need for others' approval. There's also something cathartic about just getting it out and assembled in writing in one place, particularly for my daughter. I am also increasingly mindful of my age, and while my memory is still relatively good it seems advisable to write down some things about my heritage and my own life. . 

This hardly constitutes a complete autobiography, one that recounts every detail of my existence, for my life and contributions are not so consequential as to merit an exegetical or meticulous treatment; however, I do attempt to set forth some information about my heritage and important events that had an impact on my development, which, in turn, might explain more about who I am to my daughter, primarily, or, for that matter, anyone else who cares to know.  With that said, I shall continue to withhold some things, for I also need to protect others who might find my disclosures discomfiting because of their own role in things. I doubt most people are willing to divest themselves of all secrets, and I am no exception; but relatively few remain for me at this point. Maybe I will disclose all of them one day; in the meantime, this represents many layers of my onion. I claim that all I have said here is true to the best of my recollection; of course, fallible human beings can never be altogether certain of their memories, and I am mindful of our capacity to even unintentionally distort facts to suit ourselves, and it is certainly the case, as Immanuel Kant said, that we necessarily apprehend things through the hardwired prisms or categories of our own minds, which renders even the most vivid experiences suspect.  The past is always seen through the lens of our current selves, not our former selves, and we are never the same as we were. 

Like most Americans, I am a mongrel, both genetically and culturally. My biological father's kin are Irish as far as the eye can see. I have pretty good records about his family. Some came to America on the heels of the great potato famine in the mid-19th century, and they eventually ended up in Washington. There are a couple of knights in our background, and we are distantly related to the famous Kennedy family, or so I'm told. My great great-grandfather, Michael Ward, was born in Donegal, Ireland in 1845. When he was still a young boy, his family moved to New York and they started a farm. He would eventually marry my great-great grandmother, Mary Moran, also of Irish stock.  Mary was from Potter, Pennsylvania, and she was born in 1842.  Michael was not drafted for the Civil War, presumably because he already had children, and he did not volunteer. Around that time, Michael and Mary took to a ship and rounded Cape Horn and then briefly settled in California. The alternative and faster route in those days would have been to cross the jungle at the Isthmus of Panama. That was apparently a more expensive way to travel. From what I gather, it took anywhere from 3-6 months by ship, the cost ranged from $100-$300, and there was plenty of hardship along the way in terms of rough weather, sea-sickness, and Spartan accommodations.  I rather doubt they were wealthy enough to travel first class, and I would imagine they were in steerage or something like it. Many in those days travelled as passengers on whaling ships, which could not have been particularly commodious. 

Young Michael and Mary were only in California a short time, and they soon moved to Oregon where they started a farm, and then their growing family finally moved to Washington in 1884, settling a few miles outside of Prosser in eastern Washington on an 80-acre parcel where they raised crops and livestock. They later came to own acreage on San Juan Island near Friday Harbor off the Washington coast. The old house and the surrounding grounds were converted into a summer resort many years later. My wife, Carol, and I stayed in one of the cottages near the big house where my great-great grandparents lived when we were on vacation one year in the early 1980s.  Michael and Mary once raised apples and had some sheep there. Michael returned to live in Prosser in his last couple of years, Mary having preceded him in death. He was said to have been a heavy drinker, not an unusual preoccupation in my family.  There's the old saying that "God invented whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world."

Michael and Mary Ward had twelve children: eight girls and four boys, all hearty and hale. It was rather unusual for that many to be born of one mother and survive infancy from a in those days. Among them was Edward Ward, my great-grandfather, who was born in Oregon in 1872. He briefly attended St. James College in Vancouver, Washington, and as a young man he went on to ride the range in Washington for several years. He ended-up in the New Castle coal mines in King County for a time when he was 21.  By 1897 he found himself in the retail business and managing a general store in Prosser, working for the owner, a Mr. D.S. Sprinkle, the husband of Nellie Sprinkle, and the sister of the woman Edward would marry later that year, namely, my great-grandmother, Charlotte Anastacia Lyon. My daughter bears her middle name as her given name, though spelled with an s in place of the c, and it has long been one of my favorite names.

Everyone called Charlotte by her nickname, Dolly. She was originally from Kansas, and she was born in 1872, the same year as Edward.  Her parents, Henry and Margaret Lyon, moved to Washington in 1882. Edward would eventually become a prominent businessman in the local area, and, along with his business partner, Mr. McFarland (their business was named Ward &  McFarland), he owned a meat market and a liquor store, along with several other real estate interests in the city. He also owned a small farm near Mabton. Edward and Dolly had two girls, my grandmother, Margaret, born in 1901, and her sister and my great aunt, Edna, who was born in 1904.  Edward died in 1935 at only 63; he also was reputed to have been something of a drinker–––which would not be surprising, that being the family curse. I met Dolly as an infant, but I have no memories of her, as she died in 1953. I heard many stories about her gentle, kind nature from both my mother and my great aunt, Edna Ward. It was from her sister's marriage to the aforementioned Sprinkle that Dolly one day would come to own several sections of wheat land, which many years later I would inherit.

My paternal great-grandfather, William Sproull, was born in 1873 in Mt. Carmel, Illinois, and is the son of my great-great grandparents, John O. and Alice Wilson. The family moved to Kansas in 1879 when William was six. His father, John, who died in 1884, was a railroad contractor. William began his career in the newspaper business as a paperboy in Kansas. He would eventually manage and edit several Kansas newspapers. He married my great-grandmother, Mamie Mullen, in 1898, and they had two sons, my great uncle, Virgil, born in 1900, and my grandfather, Noble, born in 1902. Mamie (or Mayme) was the daughter of Christ Mullen and Marguerite Kennedy; I don't know much about them, but he was apparently a carpenter. Mamie was born in 1876 in Newton, Kansas. William, Mamie and the boys moved to Prosser in 1909, and William eventually became publisher and editor of both the Independent Record and the Republican-Bulletin. He also was active in local Republican politics and a member of the city council. In those days, the Republican Party, the Party of Lincoln, was more progressive on many social issues. The Republican Party's turn to conservatism was a slow process. The more populist party, the Democratic Party, was the party of slavery not so long before, and in the South, it continued policies of discrimination and social conservativism long thereafter. I have addressed this history and the attendant ironies at some length elsewhere in my writings. 

Noble Sproull and Margaret Ward, my paternal grandparents, met in Prosser. Prosser was a small farming community, and I suspect everyone knew everyone, or leastwise, knew about everyone, and that the children all went to the same grammar and high schools. My grandfather was nicknamed "Nobby," and he and his older brother, Virgil, helped their father with the newspaper business that they would one day inherit. Many years later, when I visited Prosser in the early 1980s, I met several who knew my grandfather when he was a young man. My grandmother, Margaret, was a shy and pretty girl, who, along with her more extraverted sister, Edna, learned piano at an early age. While Edna would go on to college in Seattle, Margaret married Noble, and in 1929, my father, William Edward Sproull, was born in nearby Yakima.  Virgil and Noble would eventually sell the newspaper. My grandfather took a position with Kaiser Industries and he and his family would eventually be relocated to Vancouver, Washington, the location of some of Kaiser’s shipping concerns, and where my father and mother would one day meet. 

My mother, Jacqueline Marie (Haines) Shauman was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, in 1929, and she ended up in Vancouver, Washington as a teenager. She seemed to have fond memories, by and large, of her early years in Indiana, but my mother was a fabulist of sorts, and I don’t know how much of that was true. She would meet my father at Vancouver High School, where they both attended. My mother's biological heritage is murky, but as far as I know, Mary Hemmert, her mother, was mostly German and Scottish, and her father, Maurice Haines, was of English extraction. Mary was born in 1910 and Maurice was born in 1905. She was the daughter of William Hemmert and Helen "Ella" Buchanan, and the latter is said to have been related to President Buchanan. I have not done the research to confirm this, but it would not be anything to brag about, anyway, Buchanan having been among the very worst presidents in the long line of mediocrities holding that office to date. Historians typically rank him near or at the bottom along with Peirce. My guess is that he will be elevated in due course because of the current malfeasant living in the White House, Donald Trump. Maurice's history is very unclear to me, and I regret not finding out more from him directly while he was alive. Alas, family history was not uppermost on my mind when I was young. There is some evidence to suggest he was on his own very early as a teenager. Periodically, my mother would say we had a Jewish background, on her mother's side; at other times she would say we have Sicilian blood. Both of these things are probably false, for I had a genetic test of my biological heritage, and I can say with reasonable confidence that most of my makeup is Irish, English, and northern European, with an inconsequential smattering of other European and African localities, including Spain and Senegal. While it is possible that I have a Jewish ancestor, I do not see any evidence of it from the records I’ve examined.  Of one thing I am relatively certain: I am not Sicilian or Italian.

The only two of my mother's people who I came to know very well were her adopted brother, Charles Shauman, and her biological mother's sister, Bee DeFreitas. Uncle Charles lived with us for a while after mom's divorce when we lived in Lakewood, California, and he later married a wonderful woman, perhaps possessing the finest temperament of anyone I've ever known, my Aunt Ruth. She never had cross word; she was always cheerful and upbeat; she must have belonged to half-dozen or more lodges and clubs; and she was immersed in several charitable activities in the Pismo Beach area, where they both eventually lived. Many years before they married, she had a diner that served breakfast and lunch. Both Charles and Ruth had been married once before. Indeed, Ruth's ex-husband lived in a house behind them, and they all were all friends. 

I loved my Uncle Charles, and he was a good man, but he was rather gruff and curmudgeonly. He worked as a mechanic for a racing team that participated in the Indianapolis 500 when he was young, and I recall he continued to watch the car races on the television whenever he had a chance. I remember causing quite a ruckus when he was staying with us in Lakewood (I might have been about 5) when my pet hamster got loose in the bedroom; Uncle Charles could hear it in the night scampering about over a period of several days ––– and while we looked high and low, we never found it. It gave us many laughs years later. 

I met Aunt Bee as a teenager at the same time I met my mother's sister, Jeannine, and their mother, my grandmother, Mary. Carol and I got to know Aunt Bee well when we were young adults living in Los Angeles. She was very kind to us and cooked us many tasty meals. She lost both of her legs in an airplane accident in the 1950s.  The other passengers in the small plane were killed, including her first husband, and she was stranded in the Tehachapi Mountains in the dead of winter for days before she was discovered by a search and rescue crew. The family lore is that they made a movie based on the incident. She got along just fine on two prosthetic legs, even to the point of being able to dance quite well. She was a devout Christian and spent a lot of time, unsuccessfully, in an attempt to convert me, providing me with various books that were largely silly in my view, mostly about individual discoveries of faith, miracles, and redemption. We had friendly debates about our beliefs, and I was equally unable to convince her of mine. The only book she gave me that was somewhat worthwhile was C.S. Lewis' Mere Christianity, which, while mostly preposterous in its conclusions, was nonetheless well written and at times quite moving. 

Bee was a kind woman, and generous, too, though she was never well-off. She always worked hard and managed, though. For a long time she worked for Dow Jones selling the Wall Street Journal. Later she worked for a Christian bookstore.  She married Rick Fulfer, who it turns out, long before he met Aunt Bee, was a friend of my biological father–––quite a coincidence that he should become part of the family. It comes as no surprise then that Rick, too, was an alcoholic, though with a family intervention (in which Carol and I participated), he was able to overcome it and quit drinking for the last few years of his life.  Bee remarried twice after that. She outlived all of her husbands, and she never divorced. Mom called her the black widow, though I can give reasonable assurance, there was nothing untoward or homicidal about her. 

My mother's biological mother, Mary, was a chorus girl who, like so many young people in show business, hoped to become a movie star. She gave my mother (and her sister and brother) away as an infant when she ran off to Hollywood. My mother was raised by her adopted mother, Maude Shauman, who was in her late forties at the time she adopted her, a grandmother's age by the standards of the day.  My mom did not meet her biological sister, Jeanine, until years later when she met her mother, though they had exchanged letters as young adults, one of which I still have. She never met her brother, who, I was told, was mentally disabled, and whose twin died shortly after childbirth. Many years later he would write my mother from Florida. I recall reading the letter. It did seem as though he might have been a little slow judging by the spelling and grammar, but certainly not completely incapacitated, having had the ability to write a letter. My mother talked to him on the phone once or twice, but showed little interest in meeting him. I well remember Mary, my grandmother, driving up to our ranch-style, tract house in Westminster, California in her new convertible Mustang accompanied by her two poodles for our very first meeting. This was in 1965 when I was 13 and my mother was in her mid-thirties.  She had not seen her biological mother since she was an infant.  

My grandmother Mary was quite flamboyant and, in retrospect, I can see many similarities in both personality and physical mannerisms to my mother.  Mary would later commit suicide by shooting herself, an unusual way for women to commit suicide, a woman’s preferred method generally being less violent (e.g., overdosing with pills) and, it is said, intentionally more available to resuscitation. She was in her early 60s at the time of her suicide. I don't know what precipitated it: a depression, knowledge of a serious illness, or just dissatisfaction with the way her life had gone. While I have felt despair, though not since I was a teenager, I have never had the feeling of wanting to end it all, for I suppose I love myself and life too much. And the ramifications can go well beyond one’s own life with untoward and potentially irreversible effects on others, too. There certainly are reasons when suicide is justified, in my view, primarily because of pain and suffering due to health issues. I have no reason to believe that was the case with Mary. Her husband at the time was a man they called Dutch. He worked in the film industry designing sets. They lived in an apartment in the relatively affluent bedroom of community of Toluca Lake, and it was right down the street from Warner Brothers, and not far from Bob Hope's main residence (he also had a place in the Palm Springs area).

My grandmother was not a very warm person, I do recall, and I had the impression she did not care for me. I may have been too rambunctious and too much of a know-it-all for her. She did dote on one of my cousins, Joe, who was my mother's sister's boy. We were about the same age.  He got into a lot of trouble as a youth and he died quite young in a tragic accident.  He and I got along fine, and I in fact rather liked him. Had we not lived quite a ways from one another, we probably would have gotten into trouble together. Jeannine had several more boys younger than me. I did not keep in touch with them, but I heard that they all did very well both family and career-wise. When my mother died, we contacted one of their children on Facebook to let them know if they wanted to inform their grandmother, my mother’s younger sister, Jeanine, who was herself quite elderly by then. We did not feel it appropriate to contact her directly given her age. We heard nothing more. 

My maternal grandfather, Maurice, was involved with organized crime back in the 1930s, and he served time in prison in Indiana for several years. Mother used to tell me he was responsible for inventing the so-called “smoke screen” device used on automobiles to evade the police. It seems unlikely to me that he really invented it. He was a mechanic for a time, though; I know that, for he is listed as a mechanic on several official records that I have found from the 1920s. In any case, my mother corresponded with him while he was in prison when she was a teenager, and she eventually met him in her late teens. I have read a letter that he wrote to her while in prison, and I have several letters he wrote to her when she was a young woman. It was clear he adored her and that he wanted to have a relationship with her. He would eventually marry a nice woman named Helen, whom I met several times.  He was apparently intellectually gifted, at least, according to what my mother told me that the prison warden told her. He told her that he had a very high IQ. I gather they tested their inmates. I first met him as an infant, but my first memory of him was when we were visiting Chicago when I was about 10, and I saw him several other times when he came to visit in California.  He was very handsome and charming, and he gave me a silver and gold, western belt buckle, which I have to this day.  

There is a bit of a mystery about my mother that I only discovered recently. She was married in 1947 in Vancouver, Washington for a short time to a man named Norman before she married my biological father. I don't know if the marriage was legally annulled or if there was a divorce proceeding, and I could not find any public records other than the marriage certificate in Washington. I do know according to the certificate, a public record, that Norman was 19 and she was 18 at the time. I also know that, along with my father and mother, Norman attended the same high school. I discovered all of this while searching for some information about my mother while she was living in Vancouver, hoping to find a high-school yearbook picture that I might display at her memorial service in 2016. It would appear that she did not graduate from high school, or at least there is no evidence that she did in the local high school records. I have no idea if it was a furtive romance with Norman, followed by an impulsive marriage; if there was a child involved (pregnant girls in those days would not have gone to public school), or a false pregnancy, or perhaps one that resulted in a miscarriage; or whatever. It is all a mystery to me.

An excursus seems appropriate. It is unimaginable to me that my mother would give a child up for adoption. I think I grasped her temperament and personality well enough, though I surely understand we cannot claim to know someone thoroughly. Having been given away, herself, something she often mentioned, it just seems implausible to me that she’d do the same thing. So I am inclined to doubt a baby was involved. I would note that she was certainly attentive and doting over both me and the next born, my sister Tami, when we were small. Her care of my other sisters was never neglectful, exactly, but it certainly was not as consuming, either, as it was with Tami and me, partly from having had more experience, I suspect, and partly because both alcohol and age were affecting some of her behaviors (she bore her last child in her early forties).  At an unconventionally young age, when I was about nine years old, I took on babysitting, diaper-changing, and such, and I do remember when I was about ten years old being left to care for Tami all night until dawn while my folks celebrated down the street at a New Year's Eve party.  By the time Vicky was born in Arkansas, I was doing quite a bit of co-parenting. This lasted until I was in my early-to-mid teens, by which time I was seldom at home or available.

To return to Norman, my research showed that he died a few years ago in Los Angeles, and I chose not contact the man's family, as I did not want to cause a ruckus, just in case his children or widow (alive when I discovered this) did not know of his brief relationship with my mother. My mother never spoke of it to my sisters or me, and as far as I know, not to anyone else I know.  I can only surmise that my mother was ashamed for some reason, or that she preferred to block the memory or both.

In any case, my mother moved to Long Beach California, where my grandfather was transferred, and where my natural father, William Sproull, or “Bill”, as he was known completed high school. They married and lived together with my grandparents for a time, and my father went into the Army during the Korean War and was stationed at Fort Ord for a time. They would later purchase a house in Lakewood, a bedroom community near Long Beach. She left and divorced him when I was four, and she remarried when I was seven.  

My mother married Oscar Rudolph Berumen, a Mexican-American and World War 2 veteran. Consequently, my cultural heritage is suffused with Hispanic sensibilities. I was raised by a Mexican, and I feel as much a part of that culture as I do the more Anglo-Saxon, Irish part of my heritage. How could I not? My (step) grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, were all Mexican, and Oscar "acquired" me when I was very young. Originally from El Paso, Texas, his father, Frank Sr., died when he was in his early teens, and his mother, Simplicia, moved with Oscar and his younger sister, Margaret, to Los Angeles. His older brother, Frank, Jr., had already joined the Marines and been shipped off to the Pacific. I have fond memories of his mother and his aunts, who were all very kind to me. His mother's eldest sister, Adela, was a spry, little spitfire who always wore black and used a cane that she didn't really need, and she used to tell me she was part Aztec, but I always suspected this wasn't true and played along. The family at least appeared not to have any Native American blood, though I cannot say for sure; indeed, most of them took special pains to say they were of "pure," Spanish heritage, and who, unlike those in the Mestizo majority, were considered the "better" class among Mexicans. They are no better at all, of course, but they remain to this day the more privileged class in Mexico. Oscar used to say that he had German blood, too. Again, I cannot attest to its truth, but it seems plausible.  The Germans did get around, after all. 

I don't know who started it, but the name "Berumen" has been Anglicized in pronunciation.  I am unsure about the reason for this, if it was to appear less Hispanic in an Anglo-centric society, or if it just evolved that way out of laziness. In any event, the proper Mexican pronunciation is Be-ruu-men, with emphasis on the second syllable, and the Anglicized version has a more Germanic sound: Bar-o-men, with emphasis on the first syllable. The latter, combined with my blond hair and blue eyes, has caused many mistakenly to believe I'm of German extraction. While not a particularly common Hispanic name, you’ll usually find them in any phonebook of a larger metropolitan area in the United States.   

Years ago I overheard a subordinate of mine making some derogatory remarks about Mexicans. I quickly pointed out that I was a Mexican, with both a desire to call him out and, I confess, to cause him some public embarrassment.  He was taken aback, and he said he assumed I was German and that he was very sorry. I grabbed a Los Angeles phone book off my secretary's desk with dramatic flair, and went to listings for Berumen ––– and there were all manner of Hispanic given names ––– Carlos, Miguel, Juan, etc. ––– to show him and prove my point, had he any doubts. He went to great lengths to assure me he was not a racist and meant no harm.  I then had occasion to point out that Mexican was in fact a nationality and not a race, and that while race is a fairly bogus concept from a biological point-of-view from the get-go, that Hispanics were technically Caucasian, just as he was (it is an archaic and virtually meaningless classification, one common until recently, but it helped make my point because he understood it. Even “white” is a pretty silly classification, since one seldom sees anyone who is white other than albinos, and they are pinkish-white, at that. Best to speak of ethnicity, which is vague enough, or nationality, to avoid inaccuracies, e.g., European, African, Asian, etc.).  So I told him rather than having made a racist remark, to be more accurate, he had simply made a bigoted one. I made my point and he was sufficiently sheepish and penitent about the matter. 

So, that sketchy background is about the best I can offer with a reasonable degree of certainty about my ancestry, both biological and cultural. Now, to begin with my own life more specifically, I was born in 1952 in Long Beach, California at the Seaside Memorial Hospital, which no longer exists. Mother told me there was an earthquake that day, which she often joked, was portending my birth. My earliest memory is from about 3 years old, lying on the chaise lounge on my father's chest in the early evening in the backyard of our small, suburban, Lakewood home ––– one of those GI Bill cracker-box houses in one of the earlier planned communities of Southern California ––– while watching the low-flying, noisy, and lumbering DC-3 airplanes on their approach to the Long Beach airport, located nearby. I remember the circumstance and the lights on the plane overhead with amazing clarity, and feeling very content and secure.  I can sometimes can summon that very moment and feeling, even now. It is odd, but it is one of my most vivid memories of my childhood that I have. My father was a young, dashing, insurance executive, and quite successful in business from a relatively early age. But his success went hand-in-hand with some bad habits, namely, womanizing, gambling, and drinking.  

My father had a little sing-song jingle that I couldn't get enough of:

I know a boy named Mike,
He likes to ride his trike.
 A little dog belongs to Mike,
His name is Spike,
My little tyke is Mike,
A boy I really like!

I remember asking him to repeat it to me frequently. Not exactly Lord Byron, to be sure; but it meant something to me then, and it does now, for I have few positive recollections of him. The dog, Spike, was my little Boston terrier.  

One of the things I remember about my father was that he was an impeccable dresser, a clothes horse of sorts. His closet was meticulously arranged with neatly-pressed, dark suits; stiffly-starched, French-cuffed, white shirts; carefully-hung and colorful ties; and spit-shined, wing-tipped shoes of several colors, and neatly arrayed with shoe horns on the floor.  I used to love to watch him shave and dress early in the mornings, which seemed to be a very elaborate process. He would press his slacks every morning before putting them on to ensure that the creases were just so. He would tie and then retie his tie to make sure it was just right in relation to his belt. He kept a big wad of cash in a money clip, and he would organize it each morning. He also wore Old Spice cologne, nowadays considered to be cheap brand, but more popular then, and with a fragrance that I continue to like very much, though my wife, Carol, rather deplores it.  My other memories of William Sproull are less comforting.

By all accounts, I was a happy, extroverted child, indeed, a bit of a show-off who enjoyed being the center of attention. I was apparently very talkative, physically active, and I loved to explore on my own, so my mother would put me on a halter leash when I was a toddler to keep me at hand when we were on shopping excursions and such. I have a vague recollection of this when we flew to Indiana in the early 1950s. Apparently, one of my favorite pastimes was to memorize the years, makes, and models of cars and point them out as we travelled about town.  I do remember frequent visits with my Sproull grandparents in Long Beach. I could find the street they lived on, Fashion Avenue, today ––– it was not far from the then new Long Beach freeway. There was an A & P market within walking distance that my grandmother and I would sometimes visit, which was always a big treat for me.  My grandmother never learned to drive, and so she was a frequent user of the city bus system. The bus stop was only a couple of blocks away from her house, and she sometimes took me on a ride downtown to one of the big department stores or the library and park where we'd feed the pigeons. It was a very special treat when my grandfather would drive us to the big chicken pie restaurant in downtown Long Beach. The restaurant had a giant chicken on it. Years later, Carol and I would go there, too. 

When I was 4-years old, we had a summer rental on Balboa Island in Newport Beach, California, right across from the water. Today, Balboa is a very exclusive enclave for the well-to-do. It’s an island cluttered with multi-million dollar, narrow, multi-story McMansions, and with hardly any space between them. We certainly were not wealthy then, but in those days, one didn't have to be to live in Balboa or the Newport coastal area. Our rental was a duplex, and we were in the upstairs unit. I suppose we were at least middle class by the day's standards, and my father was definitely an aspirant to affluence and, by all outward signs, he was on his way to being very successful in the insurance business. I don't remember much about our stay there, other than falling off the outside banister, which resulted in some stitches in my head. I also first learned to swim nearby in the Newport Beach Back Bay, where there were classes held for kids.  

My great-grandmother, Dolly Ward, gave my father a half a section of farm acreage, the land that she inherited from her sister, Nellie, which he in turn promptly sold, using the proceeds to buy a small tavern on the island. His sale of the property shocked family members, especially my great-grandmother, who wanted him to keep it for the farm income and for his progeny.  I recall that the bar had a parachute draped across the ceiling, and that the place reeked of a boozy stench. The business was not a success, apparently, and he didn't keep it for very long, returning in due course to the insurance business. Years later my mother and I returned to the location on Balboa and it had been converted into a restaurant. 

My father worked for several property and casualty insurance companies, including Argonaut Insurance Company, for which he was a Special Agent. I remember visiting his office in Los Angeles with my mother when I was quite young. Years later, when I was in the insurance business myself, I met a fellow who worked with him by the name of Don Zuk, a broker with Johnson and Higgins in Century City. My mother had mentioned his name once before as being a friend of his, and I came across him quite by accident one day in the course of doing other business with the firm. I asked him out to lunch and he recounted stories about my father that I very much enjoyed hearing. Bill Sproull was apparently quite skilled in casualty insurance as a young man, and he was seen as someone who'd go far in the business world. Alcohol would get in the way of that, and Don knew that, as well. 

Dolly Ward, my great-grandmother, bequeathed the balance of her farms to my father's lineal descendants, and that turned out to be me, for I was his only descendant. After his disastrous turn in the bar business, Dolly wisely kept the bulk of the property out of my father's hands. While he may have been skilled in insurance, he was not gifted in handling his personal or financial affairs. Her daughters, my grandmother and great-aunt, had the rights to the farm income while they lived, so I did not control the property until my great-aunt turned it all over to me when I was in my mid-30s in the 1980s and she was in her 80s. I do not remember my great-grandmother, Dolly Ward, as she died when I was an infant; but her unselfish act made many things possible for my family and me. The farm income never amounted to a lot of money, but it was just enough to provide an additional margin of comfort when I was still coming up the ranks at Pacific Mutual. Had the land been given to my father, I am certain it would have been sold and the proceeds would have dissipated, and my life might have been quite different.  

By all outside appearances, my normal and even somewhat idyllic early childhood ended when I was 4 because of my father's infidelity and raucous behavior. My father thought my mother and I were away with one of her friends for an entire weekend, but she returned to our Balboa rental early, and, with me in tow, she found him asleep in their bed with another woman. As we both stood there, she waggled the big toe on his exposed foot to awaken him. The woman he was with woke up and was startled, and she quickly grabbed her clothes and scurried away. I never knew who she was or heard anything more about her after that. After some verbal pyrotechnics, my mother packed-up a few things for us both. I remember the event well, and I recall crying at the time, and protesting that I wanted to stay with my father. Mom was 5'1" and she literally hoisted me in one arm and with a suitcase in the other we made our way to her baby blue, '55 Ford Thunderbird convertible, and headed back to our home on Ocana Street in Lakewood.  I saw my father only a handful of times after that, before he succumbed to liver failure from alcoholism at age 38. 

Many times I stood by our smallish bay window at our house in Lakewood, anxiously waiting for my father to show up on a pre-arranged visit; and nearly as many times he never came, calling my mother to say that something or other had come-up. I took a "maybe he'd come" as a certainty, of course, and I was prepared on a moment's notice. Sometimes she'd call him to remind him because he simply forgot about our visit. The last time I saw him I was 11-years old when we returned to California from Arkansas for a visit. He picked me up and we went to his upscale apartment on Wilshire Boulevard on the west side of Los Angeles. There was a doorman out front, and it all seemed very posh and upscale to me. That afternoon, my father was apparently wistful, for he called my mother on the telephone and they had a very long conversation that I overheard, or at least, I could hear him talk. He was crying and professing his love to her, repeatedly, and he told her how much he missed her. He was drinking.  I will confess to hoping that reconciliation was in the making, for I yearned to have him back in my life, and I was not entirely bonded with my step-father by that time.  It never happened. By that time my mother had made a new life, and it was no doubt evident to her that William Sproull was on a course of self-destruction. Afterward, he got drunk and passed-out for rest of the day and night, which I spent by myself, thumbing through the books he had on hand. 

The plan was that the next day we would go to my favorite place, the Pike, an amusement park on the oceanfront in Long Beach, and a place where I spent many delightful Saturdays with my grandfather, Noble Sproull. For many years it had been a popular hangout for young men in the Navy whose ships were docked in Long Beach or nearby in San Pedro. My father worked there at a hot dog and soda concession stand for a summer when he was a teenager. We stopped at a bar in Los Angeles along the way, and I sat in the car waiting for him for several hours.  I remember the bar, vividly: the Blarney Castle on Western Avenue, a place insurance men frequented in those days, and also many years later when my office was nearby on Wilshire Blvd. Doing business over drinks at lunch and dinner was a way of life in the insurance and financial businesses, and the Wilshire corridor in Los Angeles was full of restaurants and cocktail lounges that catered to men on expense accounts. Anyway, my father finally emerged from the bar, soused to the gills and with a woman at his side. He kissed the woman, returned to the car, and then we drove to my grandmother Margaret's apartment in Long Beach. My grandmother and grandfather had a nice home on Fashion Avenue in Long Beach for many years; after my grandfather died, she was unable to keep up with the expenses (my father used much of her money, I surmise), and she moved into an apartment. He told me to wait outside her apartment, and I sat on the stairway steps nearby where I could overhear him raising his voice and asking, no, demanding that my grandmother give him money.  We never made it to the Pike. He said we'd have to do it another time, he had run out of time, and he had other things he had to do. He left me sitting on the steps, and I remember holding back my tears.  I am guessing he probably returned to the Blarney Castle and met up with the woman he saw at the bar. My mother picked me from my grandmother’s that evening. That was the last time I saw him. I visited my grandmother one other time before she died.

A few years later, I attended my father's funeral. I was fourteen. There were only a handful of people there, including my mother.  My step-father, Ozzie, was also in attendance, out of respect. I remember feeling he didn't belong there, but that was silly of me, and it was actually quite gracious of him to be there. After the service he hugged me and told me he was sorry. In the end, this once successful and popular man had very few friends. My mother was able to round up two of his old friends, Kyle Custer and Norman Peirce, much to the chagrin of his aunt and my great aunt, Edna Ward, who had arranged the funeral and wanted only family there, that is, what family he had left. To compound the tragedy, my father's mother, my sweet and kind grandmother, Margaret Sproull, died only a few days after he did. It might well have been more than she could take to lose her only son, upon whom she doted all of his life, probably to excess. My mother always said he was a "mama's boy" -- and that she had a sick and almost obsessive love for him. A military honor guard was there in recognition of his service during the Korean War, and they presented me with the neatly-folded flag that draped his coffin. I never really knew him, of course, just the things that a child perceives, mixed with both the good and bad things that my mother told me.  And some of the bad things didn't really seem so bad to me, at the time ––– the gambling, womanizing, and carrying-on. That all seemed pretty dangerously cool in my teenager's eyes. In retrospect, it would have been better for me had I known less about that until later.  My mother always loved my father, that was clear to me even then, and she said as much to me more than once in old age. I have little doubt, had he been a more mature and less self-centered man, he could have repaired their marriage. He was ruled by impulse, carnal desire, and in particular, by his addiction to alcohol. 

It is only natural for me I suppose to have sometimes wondered how things might have turned out had my parents managed to stay together. The fact is that matters might have been much worse for my mother and me had they done so. Still, I cannot help but feel the effects of their divorce were mostly negative for both of us, and perhaps most of all, for him.  I thought when my father died that I wanted to be more like him, or more accurately, what I imagined him to be like ––– a certain insouciance being a large part of my romanticized view of him. My mother told me many stories about how he was quite the man about town, even in high school, where she first met him in Vancouver, Washington.  Handsome, an impeccable dresser, and big man on campus ––– a lady killer, she would always tell me. I wanted to be like him. It took several shocks to my system to alter my misconceptions about him.  And though it was some years later, I was very fortunate to have found other men in my life who more worthy as role models.  

My mother, Jacqueline –– Jackie –– was a beautiful woman, about 5'1" (she usually wore heels to get a couple inches more), thin, and with beautiful, dark, red hair.  She was a runway model for several department stores before I was born, but she was not tall enough to go very far in that field. I remember always being with her as a child, and that she was very attentive to my every need. After her divorce, she had to work, as my father was a "deadbeat dad" on child support, and he was always in arrears. For a while, she was a hostess at the Long Beach Country Club. Mostly she worked days and she was home with me at night. I remember occasionally she would have a date with a man who would pick her up, in which case I would be with a baby sitter.  We read together often. We didn't have a television until the late fifties. She liked I Love Lucy, which we'd watch together. I well recall sitting on the couch with her and watching The Yearling, which starred Gary Cooper––– the movie is based on Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' novel. The scene of the shooting of the boy's pet deer was a very traumatic event for me, and my despair lasted for days. The only other movie that evoked a similar reaction for me was Bambi, another deer story, which I also saw with my mother at the cinema (I think it was my first visit to the theater, leastwise, the first time I remember).  In the movie, Bambi's mother was killed by a hunter's bullet. It might explain my lifelong aversion to hunting animals for sport. 

Mrs. Bauer, our next door neighbor in Lakewood, was often my babysitter when I wasn't in school.  She was a kindly woman and had a large, green parrot named Sam.  One day when I was about 5, I was playing with my best friend, Sandy, who lived down the street, and we saw a nearby house with an open window. There were no cars outside, and we inferred that no one was home, so we climbed through the window and proceeded to gather some things that looked useful to us, mostly from the kitchen, and we filled my wagon.  We proudly showed Mrs. Bauer our ill-gotten gains. Being rightly appalled at our criminal enterprise, she promptly escorted us back to the house and made us put back the stuff where we got it while she watched sternly from the sidewalk. Fortunately, there was no one home yet, so our malefaction was never discovered.  Sandy, a blonde, freckled girl, and very adventurous,  was my very first close pal, and we spent a lot of time together riding bikes, going to the a nearby park, and catching polliwogs. We both attended Saint Cyprian's school, and we almost always walked or rode our bikes to school together in our standard-issue Catholic school uniforms ––– she in a blue plaid skirt with a white blouse, and me in my gray chords, white shirt, and clip-on tie.  I remember Sandra's family had a built-in pool, which was very unusual in those days in our kind of neighborhood.  She had a fancier bike than I had, a 3-speed, and I remember being very envious of her. We moved away shortly before we were to enter the fourth grade and I never saw her again. I have often wondered what happened to her.  

My mother married Oscar Berumen ––– everyone called him Ozzie or Oz –––  when I was 7. She told me later that, as much as anything. she married him in order to give me a father. I don’t really think that was entirely true. She would say that when she was depressed or angry with him. I have no doubt she loved him as he loved her. She said I would sometimes ask her various dates who came by the house if they were going to be my new dad.  I'd guess that was pretty off-putting and limiting for my mother.  But it did not deter Ozzie. They proceeded to give me four sisters (Tamara, Victoria, Heidi, and Cherise) over the ensuing years, and he already had two daughters (Carole and Diana) from a prior marriage, which, I would hear years later, ended due to his allegedly having impregnated a neighbor. Many years later, his first wife, Toni, told me that she tried to reconcile and persuade him to get joint counseling from a priest, but by that point he wanted nothing more to do with her. Toni did not like me as a child, and understandably so, as I was her successor wife's child. We became friends decades later. Her daughter, my stepsister Carole, is only a few months older than me. She is my oldest friend, and we shared some similar, uproarious experiences in our teen years. Carole's mother, Toni is a gregarious, talkative woman, full of opinions and critical by nature, and I could easily see that that was never a match meant to be, for although Ozzie could be very social and outgoing, he also was someone who required a good deal of personal space, and he did not suffer criticism or nagging easily. He would never have been able to tolerate her constant chattering. 

I should add, here, that Carole's sister and my other stepsister, Diana, was a beautiful child a few years younger than us, and she used to follow us around like a duckling when we were kids on dad's visitation days. Diana took a turn for the worse when she was in her late teens, and for the rest of her life she had various problems with drugs and mental illness. People in her family tried to reach out to help her over the years, but she rejected assistance. We found out recently that she was impecunious and homeless, and while crossing the street in Palmdale, California, she was hit by a car and killed. She was a delightful little girl, with long, thick brown tresses, sweet and shy, and I have fond memories of her. Life dealt her a bad hand. I cannot help but feel that the lack of a father at home was a factor. Carole was a stronger and more resilient person. 

With four sisters and two stepsisters, I grew up in an estrogen-filled environment, and, perhaps as a direct consequence, I have always felt comfortable in the company of women. I am 8 years older than the eldest of my sisters, Tami, and 17 years older than my youngest sister, Cherise. Tami and I were especially close, and we remain so, today. I can well remember the day she was brought home from the hospital. She was my little doll, and she traveled across much of the United States on my lap in our peripatetic days, as our dad moved from job to job in the aerospace industry.  I changed many a diaper and administered lots of milk bottles and pats on the back for burping with my sisters. From a very young age, I did a lot of babysitting whilst my parents were out on their frequent revelries, some lasting until the following day. When I was 10, I had charge of a toddler and an infant (my sister, Vicki) for hours on end.  

In my early years, I spent a considerable amount of time with my paternal grandparents on the weekends. As I said earlier, Noble worked as a newspaper editor and publisher (along with his brother, Virgil) and later as an executive for Kaiser Industries. He also dabbled in real estate and co-owned a parking lot in Long Beach for a time. Some of my fondest memories are of the time we spent reading together in his home library, a converted bedroom, as he puffed away on his pipe, often with a western by Zane Grey or one of Earl Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason mysteries in hand. Unfortunately, he died of a heart attack when I was only 10, so I never knew him as would have liked. My mother always thought highly of him, and she spoke of him often.  She'd tell me how wise and literate he was. I don't remember anything he ever said about politics, but I do remember he had a Nixon bumper sticker on his car and a Nixon sign in his front yard. This contrasted with my step-father's Kennedy sticker on his Mercury's bumper. I remember that my grandfather drove an old Studebaker, the kind with the cone-like grill in front, and that he was an especially slow and cautious driver. He loved music, and he played Bing Crosby and George Gershwin records often. One time, in fact, I attended a concert with my grandparents featuring the famed pianist Oscar Levant at the Hollywood Bowl. The concert featured Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. Levant was one of Gershwin's closest friends, and I believe that he was the first to perform it publicly some years before. That night is indelibly seared in my memory, because my grandfather had a heart attack mid-way into the concert, and the medics came to cart him away accompanied by my grandmother, while their neighbors who were with us took care of me, since they wouldn't allow me in the ambulance. He would survive that heart attack, but not the next. My grandfather also loved westerns on television, and I looked forward to several of them, especially Rawhide, featuring a young and chiseled Clint Eastwood, and also Gunsmoke, with my favorite characters, Festus, the town drunk, and Chester, the awkward, limping deputy sheriff.

On my visits to my grandparents, my grandmother lavished me with attention. She was very kind and aimed to please me at every turn, making me fudge, taking me on a city bus ride for the fun of it, and she loved to play children's tunes for me on her spinet piano, where I'd sit alongside her and sing along.  I remember teasing her by hiding from her and causing her some stress as she looked all over the house for me.  She seemed to be a nervous and high-strung person. To this day I have an old, miniature grandfather clock that my grandfather bought her as an anniversary present, probably close to a hundred years ago when they were first married. It is the very same clock with a swinging pendulum that made a soft kind of grinding noise that comforted me as I would fall asleep on the couch in their living room, which is where I'd sometimes sleep as a boy. In recent years we had to have the original works replaced and it is now battery driven, but the original casing is in respectable shape. It is the only thing I have of theirs. 

My grandparents slept in separate bedrooms. Hers was pink and frilly, and his was a small twin bed with shelves on two walls filled with books, with a desk and typewriter, and his pipe paraphernalia strewn about. I wondered later if they were estranged or if he simply snored too much or stayed up to late. I do recall seeing a light under the door late at night in his room. I suspected he was reading. 

Edna Ward, my grandmother's spinster sister and my great-aunt, was a graduate of the Cornish School of Music in Seattle, Washington not long after the turn of the century. It might be considered the Julliard of the West, today, though in those days it was very small and still run by its founder, Mrs. Cornish. It was unusual back then for a woman to have a college degree. Aunt Edna was both a singer and pianist, and she often performed professionally and was on the radio in the 1930s and 1940s. She was a soprano and she had a kind of shrill, operatic style about her when she sang.  She entertained the troops in World War 2 working for the USO. For at time she lived in a cottage at the Halekulani Hotel in Waikiki, and she was there on the morning Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1941. She said she could see the Japanese fighters making their circuit around Oahu. She even played organ in the old silent movie theatres back in the 1920s, including one in what was then still part of the Old West in the coastal town of Ketchikan, Alaska. She travelled all over the world and she was a wonderful storyteller.

Aunt Edna had no children, and she was very good to me. I spent several summers with her at her home in Santa Barbara, and she sent me to a posh camp in Hope Ranch for several weeks, where I learned how to water ski and use a bow and arrow.  Carol and I spent a considerable amount of time caring for her when she was very old. She became quite cantankerous in old age. We didn't know much about it then, indeed, few did; but she had Alzheimer's disease.  One time we had to change her assisted-living arrangement when the manager of her facility called me at work and told me she assaulted another residence minding his own business in the dining room, giving him a bloody nose for having (Edna said) stared at her. He was apparently clear across the room with his back turned to her. They were not equipped to handle Alzheimer's patients, we were told.  She eventually was placed in a home specializing in Alzheimer's. 

We moved around the country a great deal due to Ozzie's ––– my dad's ( I started calling him “dad” when I was around 12 years old) ––– jobs in the aerospace industry in Colorado, Arkansas, Florida, and all around Southern, Central, and Northern California.  We lived in 12 different homes (apartments and houses), and I attended 14 different schools before I was 16 (including a brief stint at a military school and two different parochial schools). I was always an autodidact, read a great deal, and seemed to retain information easily, so by accident rather than by much effort I managed to get through school by doing well on tests, despite the many disruptions. I was from time-to-time a disciplinary problem, even in grammar school, but nothing serious until later. I liked to talk during class, was something of a showoff for the girls, and I did get into more than a few scuffles. I visited the principal's office more than once, and in Arkansas, where corporal punishment was de rigueur, I encountered the principal's paddle several times. I began to get a little more sideways in behavior while living in Orange County, California, having by that time discovered drugs, sex, and rock and roll. We had spent a brief time in Redondo Beach, California when I was in 7th grade, but we then moved to Westminster, where I finished 7th and 8th grades and started high school. I spent much of the time in the library in the 7th and 8th grades, as it was determined that I was too advanced for several of the classes, but too young to be admitted to high school.  They did not have programs then in the public schools for what today we call “gifted” children. I should add, here, that it was when we lived in Orange County that I first tried alcohol and marijuana when I was 13.  It was the sixties, after all. 

When we moved to Alta Loma for a brief period, which is when my natural father died, I began to go downhill rapidly.  Within a year I would find myself in three different high schools in California due to my dad's transfers –– La Quinta High School in Westminster; Alta Loma High School in Rancho Cucamonga; and Campbell High School in Campbell. By the time I was in Campbell up in the Bay Area, I spent as little time as possible in school and was truant much of the time ––– either on the road running away or goofing off with like-minded friends.  When I did show up, I managed to wow more than one faculty member and administrator with my glibness and test-taking abilities. When we moved to Fremont, California ––– largely to change my environment for reasons I will explain in due course ––– I attended some evening adult-classes before they authorities decided I should give college courses a try. 

With all the moving about the country, one had to make friends easily or perish. I suppose it might have had an opposite effect on some, making them less social, but I think it is what gave me more social confidence, something that had benefits later in life. I never felt uncomfortable with strangers or found it difficult to make new friends, and I had no difficulty moving amongst the various social cliques that kids form with impunity. I made friends with the smart kids, what we call nerds, today; kids that were in gangs or cruisers; the tough guys; the hippies and stoners; and the jocks and popular kids. It seemed as though I had satisfactory diplomatic skills, sufficient anyway to interact with all without getting sideways with any particular group. I do envy those who've had lifelong friends from their early childhood, though, something I have not had due to the near constant moving.  The closest to it was a re-connection with several friends from high school and college over the years, and a couple of buddies from my Army days, but those contacts were fleeting, and there has been very little further contact. I even found one of my old high-school girlfriends from my Campbell, California days, Terry, and also another mutual friend of ours, Keith, one of my more responsible and relatively mature friends from high school.  Terry was such a beautiful girl, and she was at once smart and kind. She certainly deserved better than I was at the time. She eventually wound up in Texas, and that is where she lived when we last communicated. We had not talked in nearly fifty years. I told her I could not remember any of the details about why we broke up when we were kids, but she remembered everything. We corresponded a few times, and I was indeed very glad to know she was alive and well.  Most of my long-term adult friends come from my work or from my peripheral academic activities rather than my childhood, unlike my wife, Carol, who has friends originating in both phases of her life, even as far back as kindergarten. 

I do not recall my mother drinking very much alcohol before she remarried. That changed, though, and shortly after she married dad (Ozzie), she was seldom without a drink in the evenings. She had an enormous capacity for a woman of her diminutive stature, much greater than dad's, who would inevitably pass out after a few drinks.  Dad was not a friendly drunk; in fact, that is when he was at his most argumentative and baleful.  In contrast, my mother became maudlin and self-pitying when she drank, often reminiscing (to me) about her first marriage, the good times she had with my natural father, and the events of her childhood that she loved to recount.  After I married and moved away, I used to get many sentimental phone calls late at night from my mother, who had been drinking. In old age she drank less, but still liked a drink or two each evening. When I became responsible for their affairs, I would see several cases of cheap wine purchased from the local Trader Joe's store on their American Express bill each month. In time, because of his medications, I would fool my dad when we went to restaurants by ordering a non-alcoholic beer. I always kept some on hand at home. My mother would not have been fooled so easily. She never knew of my skullduggery with him, though, for she wasn't a beer drinker. 

My folks attended a lot of backyard parties in the 60s, and they threw quite a few of their own.  I well remember some of those revelries, what with the tropical torches and various native affectations in the backyard, South Pacific "tiki” themes being all the rage in those days. The tropical motif might have been an evocative idealization for those who served in the South Pacific in the 40s, and several of their friends did serve there, I well recall. One in particular, Jake, was an enormous and gregarious man, and he was very nice to me; I would later go to see the Beatles with his daughter when I was 12. He was a Marine and was in the midst of the invasion of Guadalcanal. Mom and dad always had their favorite local bar no matter where we lived. Years later I even went to one down the street from our old home in Lakewood, I just wanted to see what it looked like. It was called the Rafters, a dark, dingy hole in the wall in a strip mall.  Wherever we moved, they wasted little time finding the party-crowd, usually people from my dad's work, and occasionally our neighbors. I don't know if they were alcoholics in a clinical sense, but drinking was certainly a big part of their life until they were much older.  I suspect my mother might have been an alcoholic, for she found any social situation difficult without having had a shot or two of whiskey beforehand. 

When I was little, my mom was up early and breakfast was already on the table when I got up.  She spent a lot of time with me, then, and reading was a big part of our life together. I owe my love of books to her and to my grandfather Noble Sproull. After she remarried, it became increasingly rare for her to get out of bed much before late morning, having stayed up drinking the night before, and if my sisters or I wanted breakfast, we made it ourselves. I even took my sister Tami to her first day of school in Westminster, CA. My mother did cook dinners, though, usually frozen or canned foods, or on special days, hamburgers or hot dogs. She wasn't a very good cook, really, but I didn't really know this until much later, especially after having had my mother-in-law's cooking, which was a quantum improvement. At the time, we kids thought our mom was the best cook, as do most kids.  My mother stayed up very late at night, and this was when we had our best conversations, with dad sound asleep in bed or passed-out on the couch.  In her mid-forties things changed, and she reentered the workforce, so her hours became more normalized. She worked at the General Motors plant in Fremont on the assembly line for a short period, but she found that work to arduous and monotonous. Then, for a few years she worked at the census bureau, and then she worked in the security-loss control department of Mervyn's Department Store. When they moved to the central coast, she worked in an administrative position at a medical office in San Luis Obispo.  I think her years there were often her happiest, though I cannot say that she was a naturally happy or content person. 

My mother confided in me a great deal, especially when drinking, and then she would often express dissatisfaction with the way her life turned out. I think, somehow, she expected that one day I might be able to change things for her, and to no small degree I think she vicariously lived through me. She was very proud of my later successes, of that I am certain, and her bragging to my siblings sometimes made me uncomfortable. I did end up providing a great deal of financial support for them, especially after dad became disabled due to heart problems beginning in his fifties, and I took them on a number of nice trips, including one to Europe, another to Washington D.C., and to other places they had not been.  I sent them to Hawaii for a first-class vacation, a place mom always wanted to go. I did my best to give her things she had not had. Some of it was consciously payback for being such a handful in my teen years, and for her having stood by me when others might have thrown in the towel. Given away at an early age by a would-be actress; a father in prison; a philandering husband; and a single mother with a hyperactive, precocious boy ––– things were not always easy for my mother. But Ozzie was good to her. He loved my mom, and he would do just about anything he could to please her. He was in many ways a much better husband than he was a father, and he was vastly superior in both capacities compared to my own biological father, at least, that was true with my mother's children. He was neglectful of his children by his first wife, though, both in financial and emotional support, and though he provided for his family, he was never what I would call an "involved" parent in the lives of his children as they were growing up. My sister Tami probably had the best of him, he was of course younger and had more energy, then; but he grew increasingly detached from child rearing with the other three girls. He and I had a rocky relationship, though, especially in my early-to-mid teens. Hitting me and yelling were not uncommon, especially when he had been drinking. This changed for me once I entered the Army and became a young adult, and we became much closer than ever before. Perhaps by that time, after six daughters, he had given up on having produced a son himself, so I was it.  

I was religious for a period of time, or at least I put on the appearance of being religious in an affected way, and as much as anything because I enjoyed the rituals, the pomp and circumstance that attends Roman Catholicism.  I was even an altar boy back in the days when the Mass was still recited Latin--pre-Vatican II--and when the priest did much of his priestly work at the alter with his back turned to the parishioners. I enjoyed the several years of Catholic school that I had (1st-3rd grade and 6th grade), and I was both fascinated by and admired the priests and nuns.  For a time, I even thought I might like to be a priest. Alas, I found that I liked girls more than the Church, and then there's the not inconsequential problem of not believing in a deity, which I had forsaken by my late teens. One wonders how many priests, who are often relatively well-educated and well-read, really do believe all the hocus pocus of the Church. I suppose most do, for people can and seem to want to believe in the strangest things, even relatively smart people, and they even seem flabbergasted to learn that others find walking on water, transubstantiation, and rising from the dead to be rather silly, every bit as much as the practices of other cultures whose beliefs the cognoscenti in our society hold to be mere superstitions. Christian superstition is no more sensible and realistic than the beliefs of various tribes in New Guinea, natives the deepest Amazon, or the gods of Olympus or of the pharaohs, as far as I'm concerned. 

Once while at Saint Cyprian's school I trespassed on the lawn that only the older kids were permitted to set foot on, and for my transgression, I was ceremoniously and slowly dragged diagonally across it by the ear by a watchful Irish cleric ––– so much for Christ-like gentility and forgiveness. No one else in my family was particularly religious, and they were not frequent church goers, although my Great-aunt Edna was an active parishioner of the San Roque church in Santa Barbara, and she would sometimes sing in the church choir or play the organ. Ozzie would often attend Mass on Christmas Eve, and sometimes I'd go with him.  I don't recall my mother ever attending church other than for weddings, funerals, baptisms, and my First Communion and Confirmation. She would say she believed in a higher power, but she eschewed organized religion and was always suspicious of religious people. I inherited that prejudice from her.

In my mid-teens, I came across a small book with stories about the Saints, and it inspired me to learn more about them, including the good Bishop of Hippo, St. Augustine.  I poured over a small book of abridgments of Augustine's City of God and Confessions, much of which I did not understand, and I would re-read them later. I also read an abridged version of Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologica, which I still have, and which I found very entertaining, especially the parts about how souls are transmitted during conception. I read books about the Essenes and the early Christians; the Old and New Testaments; and various, other religious tracts. I abandoned organized religion by the time I was 17, and my belief in god by the time I was 19, by then having read Voltaire and, in particular, Bertrand Russell's Why I am not a Christian. I continued to be fascinated by religion, though, including Eastern religions, and especially Buddhism, which I studied well into my twenties. Among other Buddhist sources, I read the Tripitaka (the Pali Canon) several times, and I would read through it again several decades later when I was thinking and writing about ethics. One of my favorite classes in college was a seminar on Martin Luther, who threw reason out the window in favor of faith, which I think is the only way one could possibly accept Christian dogma, for there is little about it or its Judaic predecessor that is logical or empirically verifiable.  I think for many years that I wanted a reason to believe in a deity, a cosmic purpose, and in an afterlife, but I never found satisfactory evidence for any of it, and I have little patience with mere faith as the basis for such fantastical beliefs and wishful thinking. Like Bertrand Russell, I think religion has done a great deal of harm both to society and to scientific progress.

In addition to my Catholic school experience, I should mention that my mother sent me to the Southern California Military Academy in Signal Hill for kindergarten. It was an all-boys school, and, as a single mother, she told me later that she thought it important to have more of a male influence than I was getting after her divorce from my father, whom I seldom saw. The principal males in my life were my grandfather, Noble, and my Uncle Charles while he lived with us for a few months. I remember marching around a bit and wearing a uniform, and that I didn't like being there, but not much else. My mother kept a picture of me in my uniform which I now have; I look like a little martinet in my crew cut and dress greens. I think that the school went up through junior high, and I learned a few years ago that it closed down in the mid-1980s. I was glad to have been there for only a short while, and I soon started Catholic school, which I found more to my liking. I had quite a crush on one of the young nuns, I recall, a Sister Mary who taught 1st grade. It also brought me closer to my neighborhood friend, Sandy. My favorite classes were on arithmetic and religion at the time. 

I mentioned Bertrand Russell's book on Christianity, earlier. Here I should state that his more technical work is of particular importance to my intellectual development. Perusing the post library when I was in the Army during a brief assignment to Fort Riley, Kansas, I came across a little book called The Problems of Philosophy, by Russell.  This book had more influence on me than any other before or since, I think, for it sparked my interest in philosophy and contemplation more generally, and it opened a whole new world to my imagination.  What is more, I discovered that Russell was also a renowned mathematician and logician, which made me like him even more. I have always had a bias favoring mathematical minds, and I admire the great mathematicians and physicists very much. In short order, I read his History of Western Philosophy and his Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy, which I more or less understood.  Eventually, I picked up his Principles of Mathematics, but it was highly technical and much too complicated for me to understand.  I read that a couple of years later, as I did the 3-volumes of Principia Mathematica, though not all at once, and only once I had mastered the elements of logic and had a more advanced grounding in number theory. In any case, while in the Army, and inspired by Russell, I read philosophy voraciously, including as many of Russell's multifarious works (he was a prolific writer on varied topics) as I could get my hands on, along with the works of Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Hume, and Kant, and many others, primarily because of his references to them. I would refer to Russell’s work many times again over the course of my life.  I suspect my collection of Russell books is equaled only by the ones I have by and about Churchill and Lincoln.

I'm an introvert by nature –– that is, using the technical definition of introversion, though I don't have a shy bone in my body and I am generally gregarious. I'm an INTJ on the Jungian/Myers-Briggs personality inventory, which I've taken many times, so it just might be nearly right. But I'm not high on the introversion scale, and I suspect there are many moments when I might properly be considered to be an extrovert. Jung himself said most of us change with circumstances.  I suspect most people are combinations of the two under various periods in their lives. I like to be with people and I enjoy social intercourse very much, though not always for extended periods; I require solitude and time for regeneration –– a classic trait among introverts, who can be drained by excessive social interaction. Books, science, and mathematics were my principal refuge from the ordinary press of life as a child, and that remains the case, today. I must have time to be in my own head, and with my own thoughts, or I become disagreeable. I am capable of extreme focus to the exclusion of nearly everything else, and I deal with interruption very poorly.  Some find this characteristic annoying.  Nothing is as restorative to my psyche as spending a few days alone ––– and in a remote spot in the woods or at the seashore with something good to read and a pad and pencil. 

With that said, I like conversation and conviviality very much, and I cannot live without people and friends. I need both men and women in my life, and it has always been so. Men because I like to do the things boys and men often like to do, and women because they are best part of us. I have always been fascinated by and comfortable with women.  But I need an adequate amount of time to be by myself and in my own head.  [Backpacking is something I can no longer do.  I am increasingly aware of my physical limitations should something untoward occur when alone. I was about 60 when I last backpacked alone, and after being caught in a rainstorm over two days, with my increasingly problematic legs and balance, it became apparent that it was no longer sensible to be in the wilderness. Carol, alas, does not like to camp.]

It is difficult, no, even impossible to give an objective account of one's own personality.  I can at least say I am comfortable in my own skin, and I am self-confident about my abilities, perhaps even more than I should be, but perhaps less sure of myself, less cocky, than when I was younger.  Sometimes this can be interpreted as arrogance by others.  I am egotistical, I think, but not especially self-centered or egocentric, in that I do try to see the world through the eyes of others, and I am concerned about them quite apart and independent from my own interests. I do not see the world as revolving around me, indeed, I prefer to not talk about myself at all on a personal level, as my friends will be quick to point out,  and I am able to uncouple my interests from my thoughts and my actions with others. I am one of those who appear to be open, but I am essentially private, and not apt to talk about my personal life or my feelings.  I much prefer to talk about things external to myself ––– things about the world or about what others are doing. This abstract of my life, therefore, will serve a dual purpose for me, quite aside from providing my daughter and my immediate family with a record. It also will enable me to avoid a discussion about it with most I know, having said here most all that there really is for me to say. Over the years, many have voiced curiosity about me or brought up events that I might have something to say about in context of my earlier life, that I've largely avoided. 

As a youth, my self-confidence, coupled with my impulsive tendencies, led to occasional trouble. There is substantial evidence to show that the part of our brains that controls rash behavior develops more slowly in males, whose brains reach physiological (and hence, psychological) maturity only by the early to mid-twenties, specifically, in relation to the control the prefrontal cortex has over the more instinctual part of the brain in the brain stem. I think I might have been more impulsive and less risk-averse than most youngsters, and despite my analytic abilities in other areas, I did not always prejudge the consequences of my actions, or worse, I tended not even to care, part perhaps driven by adventure, but also another part that was something of an exhibitionist with danger. The unfortunate result was that this caused others to suffer more than was necessary when I was younger, not least of my mother. This tendency diminished greatly as I grew older. I think most of my impulsiveness was under control by the time I was discharged from the military, though they would sometimes percolate not so deep below the surface for many years.   

From a social perspective, my most problematic traits and, at the same time, my greatest virtues, are that I am energetic, organized, and very inclined to control my environment, that is, insofar as that is possible, rather than let my surroundings control me. I resist being controlled and have a certain amount of contempt for a Zen outlook or fatalistic attitude in others. I make plans and I execute them.  I am very happy to let others lead when I think that has greater utility, and I can be, and indeed I have been a good, loyal follower. However, I also like to be in charge when I think that will produce a better result, and, I will readily confess, that this has often been the case.  I'm not especially competitive, though, for I don't spend much time thinking about my status in relation to others ––– "winning" a contest or besting another does not drive me in any important way.  I do not measure myself by comparison to others, which, in fact, is part and parcel to my own egotistical nature, really.

Achieving my goal does matter to me, however, and I do not rest easily until I have finished what I set out to do, and without regard to what others desire or achieve in relation to any particular standard they deem to be important that either they or I achieve. And, as I do not readily compare myself to others in the first instance ––– and I suppose this is a fault of mine ––– simultaneously, I am not especially concerned about what others' opinions of me might be, and I have mostly assumed that it didn't matter. This eventually would be a source of difficulty for me in the politics of corporate life, at which I did not excel as well as some. I had a tendency to say what was on my mind and I was never a good supplicant or sycophant.  This did not always sit well with others. 

I'm a compulsive planner, an organizer, and a doer.  I manipulate my environment to the best of my ability in order to make myself comfortable and realize my ends, which may or may not comport with what others want. These are also consistent with the attributes of a typical INTJ personality-type.  These traits have served me well, on the whole, but they also can result in unintended conflicts. Some are more casual about life, more accepting of things as they find them, and less apt to upset the apple-cart. Alas, I am not this way.  I don't want to go with the flow or be "at one with the universe" as it presents itself or merely accept it as a given; rather, I want the universe to be the way that I think that it ought to be. I know this characteristic can be off-putting to others, so I do try to manage it for the sake of more harmonious relations. I am much more easy-going, today, than I was as a youth, but I doubt that anyone would describe me as passive or a "go along to get along" sort of fellow.  

One of my virtues is that as I've grown older, I am driven less by feeling and more by principle than many people are, and I have an abiding sense of duty.  My principles were not of a high order when I was young, and other than having sentimentality towards those I loved. I did not have much of a sense of duty. That I acquired after some difficult experiences in my mid-teens, including a reflective period in juvenile hall, and then in the military ––– and perhaps also as a result of my study of philosophy, probably in about that order of importance. I came to believe that fulfilling one's duty is important ––– carrying out one's obligations sometimes trumps what is in one's own personal interest or what would seem to be in one's own interest, or to take a more Socratic view, that duty is ultimately in one's interest. As I've aged, in my personal conduct I have not been driven nearly as much by utilitarian concerns as I have by rules that I have adopted, rules that ultimately might be rooted in a kind of abstract utilitarianism (e.g., survival of the species), but that are more deontological in nature.  I have a pretty simple formula, actually, which is a variation on Kant's categorical imperative, one that takes into account consequences, unlike Kant, but, like Kant, one that is tested by its universal applicability. It is a form of prescriptivism, to use the modern term. All of this is outlined in my writings on ethics. 

My mind constantly races, I am often preoccupied, and I have difficulty changing my thoughts away from whatever is concerning me until I have fully analyzed, digested, and resolved the problem facing me. Then ––– and only then ––– am I able to devote myself fully to other matters. This is a useful trait in the intellectual pursuits I enjoy the most, but it can cause other problems, for it is difficult for me to set these things aside as other things arise in the natural course of daily life. My wife is one of the few people with a complete understanding of this part of my nature, and it has been particularly good that she tolerates it. It can on occasion cause others to think I am detached, indifferent, or even aloof, when, in fact, I am simply unable to switch gears mentally very easily.  Until I got older, I never slept as much as most other people; I really didn’t need as much as many, 5 or 6 hours was generally sufficient. That was true as a child, and well past middle age. There is too much living to do that requires being engaged.  If I could dispense with sleep I would, for it has always seemed to me to be a terrible waste of time. 

My propensity for preoccupation, my obsessive focus, can be disabling when it comes to listening to others. I became a much better listener during my business career, out of both practice and necessity, but as a youth it was easier for me to read things than to listen, especially when I was not particularly interested in what is being said, which was often the case. For whatever reason, my mind is more fully engaged with reading, even now, and I'm able to concentrate more fully on the object at hand. Many people, I find, are more aural than I am, and if given a choice, they would rather hear about something than read it.  In business, I was well known for asking subordinates to put their thoughts in writing. In part, this is because I preferred it to the spoken word; and in part, it was because I believed writing forces greater clarity of thought or sheds greater light on an underlying lack of rigor. People who cannot express themselves clearly, I find, are likely to have muddled ideas, as well.  I have little natural ability at small talk, casual discourse, whether hearing it or making my own, and it's a skill that I have had to acquire over the years, simply as a practical matter. I would rather talk about physics or music than the weather or gossip.

My capacity for extreme focus, for concentrating on the matters at hand, has had some practical applications outside of intellectual pursuits. Nothing has ever occupied my attention and directed and occupied all of my senses quite like flying airplanes did; it was at once exhilarating and relaxing, a release from all other concerns. I learned to fly airplanes from my dad, who was active in the Civil Air Patrol when I was 11 and when we were living in Searcy, Arkansas. I was technically too young to be a cadet, but since my dad was the only pilot they had at the time, I was given special privileges, so I had a uniform and marched around with the others on weekend drills. Our most exciting event was looking for a missing woman, a college girl as I recall, in our unit's Piper Cub, overflying the woods in the surrounding area. We did not find her. She was murdered, it turns out, and her mutilated body was discovered later by hikers. 

There was always an airplane in our lives, either one that my dad bought, built, or borrowed. I was interested in all things aviation for many years, and I became a pretty decent pilot, myself.  That's faux modesty.  I was a very good pilot! Pilots don't usually compliment one another, for like surgeons we all think we’re the best, and it ought to simply be accepted and obvious. So I was especially pleased when my dad, a good pilot himself, told me I was the finest pilot he'd flown with ––– and he didn't hand out compliments to me often. Eventually I learned to fly on instruments and to do aerobatics.  Carol and I owned an airplane for a number of years, and we derived great enjoyment from it. I miss both that and my motorcycle (she made me get rid of my last bike when our daughter started eyeing it! She always worried about me, though less so before we were married when we tooled around town on one with her legs akimbo, as I didn't have pegs for a passenger). I loved motorcycles, and rode them from the time I was about 12 ––– and I nearly killed myself on two different occasions.  Only in my forties did I start wearing a helmet, after they passed a law in California requiring it. I liked the wind in my hair and the sense of freedom one had.  But they are dangerous, even for the best riders, for not everyone else on the road is skilled. 

I had a couple of close calls in my flying days, but perhaps the worst was when Carol and I were flying up to the Monterey Bay area to spend Thanksgiving with our close friends, Clay and Nicki Yokota, who lived in the San Francisco Bay Area at the time. We were over the coastal mountains just north of Santa Barbara in a violent thunderstorm with severe up and down drafts and zero visibility. My alternator went out, which meant that the battery would no longer recharge, making certain vital instruments useless, a very bad thing to occur under the best of circumstances, but especially in poor weather conditions with zero visibility. The radio depended on electric power, which could go out in short order with it and other instruments draining a dead battery.  I could manage the plane's attitude and general direction without the electronic instruments, but without a radio, I'd be on my own, and receive no guidance out of the mountains and to an airport. This is in the days before some of the more sophisticated global positioning instruments were available to general aviation, so I relied on an old fashioned VHF Omni-range, heading indicator, and compass, along with the altimeter and horizontal attitude indicator. The tower at nearby Vandenberg Air Force Base helped us get to the closest airport in Santa Maria, where we safely landed in less than minimum visibility. My other alternative was to land at Vandenberg, in which case I was told my plane would have to be hauled off by truck, for emergency landings of private aircraft were permitted at a government installation, but, curiously, not allowed for take-offs. We chose to take our chances, and I still had power, I had additional helpful guidance from Vandenberg as a backup to get to Santa Maria. We landed safely, the runway becoming visible only in the last seconds of flight. Carol was an indispensable co-pilot, helping me with the charts and radio on the bumpy ride; and throughout she was a cool as a cucumber. We had the alternator replaced in Santa Maria at an airport facility in a matter of hours. We had lunch in the coffee shop and the weather soon cleared and we got on our way to Monterey without further mishap.

Dad was mechanically gifted, and if there is such a thing as a mechanical genius, where hands, eyes, and mind combine forces to shape materials in a way that is at once useful and aesthetically pleasing, surely he was an example of it. His ability to figure out how things work and to precisely manipulate physical objects is unmatched in my experience. It is no coincidence that he was a flight engineer in the Army Air Corps on a B-17 in the 40s.  He was on active duty towards the end of the war. He never saw battle as far as I know. He said he flew milk-runs in-and-out of France and Germany, and he was there during the initial phase of the occupation immediately following the war.  He should have been a surgeon, for he could do anything with his hands ––– fix anything, build anything.  He built a homemade airplane, a speedboat, rebuilt auto engines, added rooms to a house, made furniture, carved things, sewed, and he could do any kind of electrical or plumbing work. He had a vast collection of tools for any occasion.  I did not have nearly his skill, but I helped him with cars and learned enough to do much of my own work on my first cars. Our cars never went to outside mechanics in those days. Today's cars are well beyond my know-how, but there was a time when I was relatively self-sufficient with the models of a prior era.  

I loved to spend time with my dad when he wasn't angry, yelling, or hitting me, which before my mid-teens was often enough.  I had lots of welts and bruises in my younger years, from belts, knuckles, and other objects, and I endured a few bloody noses at his hands.  In the beginning, he didn't like me very much. In fairness, though, I was a handful.  I was another man's child; a mouthy know-it-all; very active, perhaps even hyperactive; and a show-off.  In time, especially after I entered the Army, he treated me as his own, and I think, no, I know that he did come to love me. I think my relative lack of fear of pain or confrontation later in life resulted from his abuse.  It could have worked out differently, and does for many, but fortunately for me, it didn't. I am not the worse for it, and in my case, it even seems to have strengthened me. With that said, I do not recommend his parenting approach and I steadfastly ensured I was the opposite with my daughter. I am opposed to the corporal punishment of children for any reason. 

My dad liked guns and hunting, especially deer hunting, and hunting with him was particularly special, for we got along best then. For some reason, he was more patient towards me when we were away from home, and especially in the wilderness. Then it seemed I was the boy he wanted. I loved the outdoors, still do, and I miss those days we had together. I did not like hunting at all, though, and I found fishing boring; but I liked tromping around in the woods and the mountains with him, the crisp, early mornings, and the campfire at night.  He taught me to shoot and I got pretty good at it, though the few times I had an opportunity to kill something I would purposefully miss the target. In the Army I had the highest marksmanship rating, "expert," with both the M-14 and M-16 rifles. Killing a beautiful animal never appealed to me. Fortunately, we seldom came home with anything. On the rare occasions we did, I could not eat his quarry.  I have never owned a gun or rifle (other than a BB-gun) until recently, when my daughter designed an engraved stock for an M14 replica memorializing the Vietnam War era, which I have hanging on my wall. I have no ammunition and I have no intention of ever using it. But I am very proud of her handiwork. 

As an aside, I should mention here that many of my countrymen's gun fetish seems to me to be the height of folly. I doubt the Second Amendment is being interpreted correctly by the courts and it is certainly not by the gun industry, Indeed, I have come to believe that the amendment should be abolished, and that gun issues should be handled by statute. The Framers of the Constitution did not have military-grade assault weapons in mind any more than one today might think individuals have a "right" to own a tank, cruise missile, or nuclear weapon. There is no reason at all for a private citizen to own a military-grade weapon of any kind, and I would go even further, I see no reason to own a handgun. Most people are more likely to injure themselves than protect themselves with one. The incidence of accidental or intentional homicide and suicide in this country is appalling when compared to other industrialized, liberal democracies, and the reason is quite obvious to any thinking person. There are too many guns. There is an obvious correlation to unnecessary violence with the number of guns available in every rigorous empirical analysis and by comparison to other countries. The gun industry and zealots have turned logic on its head by saying it is because there are not enough guns. Of course gun advocates fantasize that they need guns to protect against tyranny. The voting booth is the best way to do that, not a Glock. The fact is, such weapons will not protect one against a helicopter gunship or stealth missile, and it is simply foolishness to think otherwise. It's ridiculous to imagine some rube coming out of his trailer and defending against the might of the government or its various agencies with his pistol. Then, of course, there's the personal protection against criminals defense ––– but this is another ridiculous assertion, for far more die in accidents, suicides, and unjustifiable homicides than are ever protected by having a handgun in the nightstand. The average person would more likely just piss off a criminal in the dead of night and get shot himself.

One of my dad's occasional amusements when I was still in grammar school was to tie me up tightly like a mummy with a roll of masking tape, from head to toe, thereby immobilizing me.  This was terrifying to me, and I felt as though I would suffocate (I was probably in no real danger of that), and I would beg him not to do it.  He got a good laugh out of it, and there is more than just a hint of sadism on his part. There were other instances of this, for example, when he would hide a realistic but artificial human skull in my room at night to frighten me when I was only 8 or 9 years old , or lock me out of the house in my underwear in the Colorado snow (it would only last a couple of minutes).  With that said, I do not want to give the wrong impression, and on the surface, it may sound much worse than it really was. In time, I became used to his pranks and slightly sadistic tendencies. It did not break me, and, I don't even think it affected me greatly over the long run –– and certainly not in my own conduct with my child, whose physical safety was nearly an obsession with me. 

Things are seldom black-and-white in human relationships.  My dad could be very strict, even mean, and physically brutal when I was young; however, he also had many admirable qualities and he could be very giving. I learned a great many things from him.  He always put food on our table and provided a roof over our heads.  He was a hard worker, and for a period of time, he held down two full-time jobs to support his burgeoning family; he would always do what he had to do to make sure we lived decently.  We never had much money, for my parents spent it just as quickly as they got it, but he always managed to earn enough to ensure that we did not suffer. We were decidedly working class from an economic perspective, and ignoring the Mexican aspect, we were what some might even call white trash in terms of our cultural sensibilities.  There were a great many things about my dad that I admire, and I have learned to put into perspective some of his behaviors that undoubtedly resulted from his own experiences.  

The violence inflicted on me by my dad ended a few months before I went into the Army, by which time I was physically much larger. He was arguing with my mom, and I stood in-between them, protectively, and he raised his hand towards me and I intercepted it, lifted him up, and tossed him several yards onto our large white sofa.  He was at most 160 lbs. and 5'8'', and by that time I towered over him, over 200 lbs. and 6’3”, and I was considerably stronger. He was unhurt, but shocked, and I said a few things, and then we never had another argument after that. I left the house shortly thereafter with a packed bag and went over to a friend's place, thinking I was no longer welcome, and he went looking for me later that night and asked me to come home.  As I grew older, as I said before, he showed greater respect for me and we became much closer.  But as a kid, while I no doubt yearned for his approval and love, I also feared him. I did not look forward to his coming home from work on many nights. Perhaps, as a teen some of my risky behaviors resulted from some of these early, in effect, immunizing experiences.  I suppose it could have made me a more reticent and cautious person; but whatever the underlying causal factors, and they may have been entirely different, even genetic, risk aversion was definitely not the result.  

My mother was a frustrated thespian, and she had always longed for a life in show business, much as her mother did before her. Somewhere along the line she decided she wanted the same for me. When I was 12, she signed me up with a talent agent ––– Mary Grady ––– who was the real-life mother of one of the leading characters on the TV series, My Three Sons.  My mother tried to teach me to sing (she had an excellent voice), but with very little success. Against my will, I tried out for a couple of parts, including the role of Eddie Munster on the television series The Munsters.  Later I tried out for a part in a stage production of Peter Pan. I hated this kind of thing and, eventually, my mother gave up the quest. If I have any talent on stage it is in public speaking, or so I'm told, but certainly not as an actor.  I took drama in junior high school, with my mother's insistence, and I enjoyed that.  I was a hit in several plays, one in particular where I played a beatnik (with a fake beard) in a comedic ghost story, and it made me a bit of a campus star and served me very well with girls.

Prior to my teens, I read a great deal of fiction, especially the works of Defoe, Dickens, Twain, and Verne. My favorite books of fiction, then and now, are Dickens' Great Expectations and Hugo's Les Miserables.  I also liked Bible stories written for children.    I also enjoyed dictionaries and my children's encyclopedia. One of my prized possessions is my Grandfather Sproull's large Unabridged Webster's Dictionary, which my grandmother gave to me after he died.  I don't recall when I learned to read, exactly, but my mother says when I was very young. I loved Superman comics and in my early teens, I liked Mad Magazine. Around 11 years of age, I began to enjoy reading about science and technology. Popular Mechanics was one of my favorite things to read, and I was overjoyed to get a subscription as a birthday present.  

When I was in 6th grade, living in Arkansas, I got a chemistry set and a microscope, and I spent a lot of time following the experiments in the instruction book, making various messes around the house, and finding bugs and things to examine up closely. I remember dissecting a frog while it was still alive.  Dr. Rogers, about whom I'll have more to say, had given me some old surgical instruments, including some very sharp scalpels. I told him I was thinking of becoming a medical doctor. When in a sudden moment of revulsion I realized the full extent of my cruelty to the frog, I put the poor creature out of its misery. The thought of it haunted me for many years. I hoped if frogs were in heaven that he would forgive me.  I started learning algebra and geometry around that time, too. By the time I was 13, I was exploring the periphery of the calculus with analytic geometry, though my knowledge of it was quite superficial and scattered until a few years later. I would eventually become reasonably proficient with partial differential equations several years before I had a formal class in the subject.     

I have never been confused about my sexuality, and I am decidedly heterosexual. Quite aside from sex itself, I have always preferred the company of women, especially when I was young, though I also needed to be around the boys.  I had many sexual experiences as a youth, and other than playing "doctor" and masturbatory explorations with neighborhood girls and boys, the first I remember was with my babysitter, all of 13 or 14 while I was about 7.  She simply wanted to explore the male anatomy, which I found to be very pleasurable. I suppose she technically molested me, but I was more than game for it. Beyond petting, my first “full" sexual experience occurred when I was 11 with my friend’s older sister in Arkansas in the barn behind his house. I’ve had two sexual experiences with males, one after a glue-sniffing session with another boy when I was 13, an unsatisfactory and disturbing experience for us both, which we agreed to never speak about again. 

The other instance was only partly voluntary (I could have refused), and it occurred with an older man who picked me up hitchhiking in East Los Angeles when I was 14. He took me to his house and gave me some liquor, and while I knew full well he was attempting to manipulate me, I was curious and went along with his desire to "massage" me. He had a little machine that he attached to the back of his hand. After he was done, he wanted me to hang around and for me reciprocate, but I told him I needed to go and wanted him to take back to where he found me. Instead he pointed me to the bus stop on nearby Whittier Blvd. and gave me the money to get back to Grandma Jeff's house on my own. I was very ashamed at the time, and I spoke to no one about it.  

As a teenager in the ‘60s, I took every opportunity to have sex with girls, and I had a lot of it.   I was never aggressive about it, but I was persuasive, and I did my best to charm my way to my objectives, and I was successful more often than not. I have come to believe that sex is a more serious matter than I thought at the time, and perhaps especially for women, where emotion at that age might play a greater role than with lizard-brained boys, and where the potential consequences can be more life-changing. As the father of a daughter, I very much regret my casual attitude towards it, then, and I think my sometimes cavalier outlook was insensitive and potentially even hurtful to others.

I mentioned Grandma Jeff ––– short for Jeffe, or "boss" in Spanish.  Her real name was Simplicia.  She was dad's mom, a widow of many years.  I did not know his father, who I'm told was very stern and had brutal tendencies, which probably explains some of dad's temper and abusiveness towards me. She, on the other hand, was a very kind woman, and incredibly industrious, always cooking, cleaning, gardening ––– doing something ––– just a bundle of energy. I well recall the marvelous Mexican feasts she would whip up on a moment's notice for family dropping by ––– enchiladas, chiles rellenos, chile verde, and sopaipillas. She lived in the barrio of East Los Angeles with her two old-maid sisters, Adela, the aforementioned Aztec, and Tana. Their small three bedroom house was nicely appointed and the yard was meticulously maintained. 

Grandma Jeff spoke barely a word of English, and our communication consisted of my poor Spanish and lots of gesticulations, with occasional translation help from dad or Aunt Adela, who spoke perfect English.  Jeff moved from El Paso, Texas to California after her husband died and when my dad was still a teenager.  I spent a lot of time in East LA visiting Jeff on the weekends ––– and in the area I stuck out like a sore thumb, a blond, blue-eyed kid ––– but I got on well with the other neighborhood kids, including some of the older, low-rider gang members and cholos and vatos, who were amused by my toe-headed presence. I even had an East L.A. uniform for our occasional visits: chinos, a t-shirt, and slicked-back, grease-laden hair.  A couple of the kids had a nick name for me: "surf."  In those days surfers and low-riders were general descriptions of kids that shared a certain kind of ethos ––– and there was some truth to my appellation, since I actually did surf and dressed as a surfer when I wasn’t in East L.A. 

I have always liked animals, especially dogs and cats, and we usually had one or more of each when I was growing up, in addition to hamsters, turtles, and birds.  I even had a horse while we lived in Arkansas. Well, I sort of had a horse ––– I will get to that. My favorite pet as a boy was my Irish setter, Titan, which we got when we lived-in Colorado. He was named after the type of nuclear missile my dad worked on when he was with Martin Marietta.  He was a handsome and lively dog, and we were inseparable. He came with us to Chico in Northern California, where we lived for a time. When dad was transferred to Arkansas, we left the dog with my uncle in Pismo Beach, and I was assured I would get him back upon our return to California in a year or two. It was a wrenching separation for me. Unbeknownst to me or my parents, Uncle Charles gave Titan away to another family when he caused problems with fence jumping and barking. I never forgave him for this, and it saddens me to this day. Losing my dog, literally my best and most constant friend, was a searing experience for me.

When we lived in Arkansas ––– I was 10 at the time ––– I went door to door looking for a job washing cars, mowing lawns, and such. I was always industrious and I liked to earn money. I went up to the biggest house in Searcy, near town, a large white mansion behind wrought iron gates, right out of the movie "Gone with the Wind," and replete with multiple chimneys and dormer windows, a large portico, and stately columns, surrounded by sprawling willow trees.  A black maid answered the door and she was taken enough by me to cause her to summon the two other maids.  Eventually, the mistress of the house, Mrs. Rogers, came out and she seemed to like me. She said I could wash her car, a large Cadillac Fleetwood (one of several) in the back.  Afterwards she invited me in for some dessert and showed me around the stately house.  Mrs. Rogers invited me back for various chores and we soon became good friends.

I spent a lot of time at Mrs. Rogers' house.  In retrospect, I think she was lonely. Her kids were away in college. Her daughter, Ann, was quite beautiful and a former Miss Arkansas. There was a stunning portrait of her on the wall above the spiral staircase. I developed a serious crush on Ann before I even met her.  We eventually learned that the Rogers were among the most prominent families in Arkansas. Mrs. Roger’s husband, Dr. Porter Rogers, was a physician, and he owned the only hospital in town, Rogers’ Hospital.  He personally ministered to my family and he delivered my sister, Vicki.  Dr. Rogers was caught-up in a counterfeiting scandal many years before, and it was apparently well known around town; even so, he was a well-respected figure in Arkansas. One time, Mrs. Rogers showed up at our house on Christmas in her chauffeur-driven car to deliver gifts to my sisters and me.  My mother remembered our neighbors (everyone knew who she was) being very impressed and quite curious about their visit.  The Rogers were local celebrities, you see. 

The pet horse I mentioned above wasn't really mine; it was on loan.  The Rogers also owned a large ranch outside of town where they housed their championship Tennessee Walkers, including the retired world champion, Perfection, who had his own air-conditioned house well before even most people did.  He was a magnificent animal, and I remember watching him gamble about his private yard with awe. By that time his show days were over and he was used as a stud.  The ranch was on the main road leading to Searcy, and there was a giant billboard near the entrance with a picture of Perfection and the caption, "Home of the World Champion, Perfection."  Mrs. Rogers gave me the run of the ranch and she let me have one of the horses to call my own, a sprightly walker named Bean that wasn't show quality. I had a lot of fun at the ranch and made many friends among the hands and stable boys, most of whom were African-American, and in a very segregated place and time. Most of them lived on the ranch in housing owned by the Rogers. I attended several of their joyous Sunday barbecues, usually the only white person there.   I had close to exclusive access to Bean for nearly two years, until we moved to Orlando, Florida. 

Some years later in 1974, after I was discharged from the Army and was living in California, I read in the newspaper that my friend and onetime benefactor, Mrs. Rogers, was murdered by her husband, our former family doctor. She was 67 and he was 70 at the time. He had taken up with his 21 year-old office secretary in order to marry her. While Rogers and his secretary orchestrated it, it was her shady former boyfriend who did the actual deed by shooting poor Mrs. Rogers in the head. It was revealed in court that millionaire Rogers paid him $3,000 to do it.  It was quite the sensation in Arkansas, and it even made the national news. I was heartbroken by this tragedy, for she was a very kind woman and good to me. Several years ago I was contacted by a lady who had read something online that I had written about Mrs. Rogers. She and another person were writing a book about the murder case, and she asked me about my experiences. I did the best I could to give my impressions of both and of the old house and ranch.  I haven't heard anything since about the book ever being published, but it would certainly be quite a story. 

Around this time, starting in Arkansas, I also became increasingly enamored of electronic gadgets of various types.  Among other things, I put together several crystal radios, various circuit boards, graduating eventually to a transistor radio and simple oscilloscope from mail-order kits.  Also, with an interest in the visible spectrum and the refractive and diffractive properties of light, I amassed quite a collection of prisms.  I wanted to know more about what light really was, and also how it could travel so incredibly fast, and in particular (not knowing anything about electromagnetic fields), what propelled it. I picked up a book on the physics of optics from the public library.  I found the entire subject fascinating.  Being unaware of the limitations imposed by special relativity, I saw no reason we couldn't travel just as fast one day, and I fantasized a lot about space travel.  But knowing some of the distances of the stars and galaxies, it seemed problematical to get most places in a lifetime, even at the speed of light.  I was sure there must be a way of surmounting what was held to be the maximum speed.  This is before I heard of the fiction of "warp speed" from the Star Trek TV series, and long before I had read anything about wormholes, curved space, and such.   

I've lived in three states in the south, namely, Arkansas, Florida, and while I was training in the Army, Georgia.  In business, I traveled quite a bit to southern cities.  I never particularly cared for the south, even now. Indeed, now that slavery and the most egregious forms of discrimination have ended, there are times that I would be happy if the erstwhile Confederacy would finally secede.  The other states could take on and resettle those who want to leave. I am being facetious, of course. The relative "on-the-shirtsleeves" religiosity of the people and reactionary politics in the south are most disagreeable to me. And while other states have some things in their past about which to be ashamed, nothing approaches the utter perfidy of the Old South in our nation's history, and some of its more insidious practices continued recently enough, well into the 60s, when I lived there.  I well recall racial discrimination and segregation in Arkansas: separate schools (even a decade after Brown vs. Board of Education); colored-only drinking fountains and public facilities; and separate seating in the movie theater, among many other unjust customs and slights. 

It is another story altogether, and for another time, but as I write this, the Republican Party has basically been gradually co-opted by the erstwhile Southern Democrats who left the Democratic Party after the civil rights legislation of the mid-1960s. Gerrymandering has given the Republicans of the South a disproportionate amount of control over the party and, indeed, the country. The GOP today is barely recognizable as the party of Lincoln, indeed, other than in the party mythology, it is not even the party of Ronald Reagan, It is increasingly the party of Jefferson Davis, the odious fool, Newt Gingrich, and the unlettered fascist, Donald Trump.  

Something happened to me in Arkansas that stuck with me on the matter of race and race relations.  I was about 10 and I wanted to get a pumpkin for Halloween, so I went to a pumpkin stand about a mile from where we lived with a pocket full of change.  My mom told me to be back by dark, so once I got my pumpkin, I started running home, as dusk was upon me. In my haste to get home, I did not notice the barbed-wire fence jutting out from a fencepost to a telephone pole, and I ran straight into it, smashing my pumpkin to pieces and cutting my arms and face all over.  I was a sight ––– a bloody mess.  Crying and dejected as I walked home, an elderly African-American man and his granddaughter, who saw what happened to me, pulled alongside of me in his old, hump-back car from the 40s, and he asked me if I was alright.  I was pretty banged up, and he told me to get into his car, which I did.  He then took me nearby to his house, in the "colored district," got a washcloth and cleaned me up, and then he applied some ointment to my cuts.  They gave me a cool drink and then they drove me home; it was dark by then, and I ran up to the door while they waited in the car, out front.  I explained what happened to my mother, and she went out to thank them and invited them in ––– but the man politely declined and went on his way. I have never forgotten that act of kindness, and it made me realize, then, that color was altogether irrelevant to one's humanity. 

When I was 12 years old, I began using the surname, Berumen, instead of Sproull.  In part, I wanted to curry favor with my stepfather, whom I called Ozzie up to that point. Also, there was a certain social convenience by using the same last name as his, as I didn't have to offer explanations about my divorced parents. Around the same time, I started calling him "dad."  My name was formally changed when I entered the Army some years later. I was never adopted by Ozzie.  My mother said he wanted to, but she was concerned I would be disinherited, specifically, that I wouldn't get the farms bequeathed by Great-grandmother Charlotte Ward.  I have sometimes felt guilty about not using my birth name, as though it was a kind of betrayal of my natural father and my biological ancestors, and I sometimes regret not including the name Sproull in my daughter's legal name. On the other hand, he was only my father in a biological sense, and certainly not in any other.    

Beginning at a young age, I was tested and retested with various standardized tests, and, because I had exceptionally high scores, each new school I attended seemed to be fascinated with me. I even spent time with some researchers from Stanford specializing in IQ. I scored very high on both the Binet (Terman) and Weschler tests. While considerably higher than what is generally described by folks who deal in such matters as "genius" level, rest assured, I'm no genius in the sense that matters most: creativity.  Richard Feynman, whose reported IQ is significantly lower than mine, was in fact a genius. Louis Armstrong was also a genius. It's a much misused term, I believe, as is the case with the overused term, "brilliant."  Creative intelligence that leaps beyond the ordinary cannot be measured or predicted by these kinds of tests. At best they might predict how one will do on other tests or in school.  I simply had a certain kind of cleverness and a very good memory for the facts that were important to me. I was once told I have an eidetic memory. Perhaps I do, though with age I note my memory for certain kinds of things has diminished. One of the more unfortunate things to occur in my life was to be deemed--and repeatedly told--I was a genius and exceptional starting at an early age ––– for in my youth I believed it to be true, and, as a consequence, I had a distorted sense of my own capabilities, sometimes to my detriment. 

This seems like a good juncture to say that I think that emotional stability is far more important and useful to an individual than having great intelligence as it is typically and narrowly defined, and certainly insofar as one's own happiness is concerned.  Of course, high intelligence of the creative variety can be more useful to society, as a whole, than any one person's contentment.  But for the self-centered purpose of one's having a successful life ––– personal happiness, getting along with one's peers, satisfactory family relations, doing well professionally ––– I think a healthy emotional state is far more valuable.  Intelligence, when taken alone, can be overrated, and it is not sufficient to lead a productive and satisfying life. It is of course helpful to have a certain amount of intelligence from a practical point of view, but it does not seem to me to be the sine qua non of contentment or success. 

I spent most of my junior high time (what they often call middle school, today) in the school library, exempt from classes (doing college-level math) except for physical education, wood shop, and drama. There were no formal advanced- placement programs in those days, and they didn't know quite what to do with me.  I relished being an autodidact and not having to take many classes, and I learned how to impress teachers and administrators to continue my special treatment and curry their interest ––– periodically I would wow them with a bit of highfalutin physics, or a quotation from Goethe or Voltaire, and that would usually suffice.  However, this became more of a problem in high school.  My "abnormality," and others' somewhat distorted perception of me, also encouraged a growing sense of autonomy and self-confidence, and, at the same time, with the unsettling death of my natural father when I was 14, and my increasing alienation from my parents (perhaps exacerbated by some pretty severe beatings and their constant drinking), I began to rebel and get into trouble.. 

I consciously cultivated a surfer cum "bad-boy" image beginning when I was in junior high school in Orange County. My friend Jimmy and his older brother taught me to surf, and we would hitch rides down Highway 39 to the Huntington Beach pier every weekend.  Someone with a station wagon or truck would invariably stop for us. Hitching rides was much more common in those days among California teens. We never gave any thought to getting rides from strangers.  I did not have a board of my own at first, and Jimmy and I would take turns with his. This was the era when shorter boards were just beginning to come into style, whereas, previously they had been heavier and longer, much as they were with the original surfers of Hawaii.   My first board was a used one made by "The Greek," Bob Bolen, a Huntington Beach legend. Unlike today, in those days most surfers wouldn't be caught dead in a wetsuit; not even in the colder waters of Santa Cruz, which is where I would occasionally go when we moved up north. In the winter some might wear a scuba jacket made into a vest with the sleeves cut off, but that was it. Santa Cruz was not as accessible without one's own car, so I was not able to surf as often then.  I was never championship quality, but I got pretty good on a board later after I got out of the service. 

In the summer of 1964, when I was 12, friends of my parents got tickets for their daughter and me to see the Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl.  It was quite the event, thrilling to me, and as much as anything (the music was sometimes barely audible), amazing for the sheer youthful pandemonium they caused. They were at the time, as they are now, my favorite rock group. Only the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan are in the same class for me in that genre. Pound for pound, however, I think the Stones were then and remain today the best public performance band. I had occasion to see many of the great groups of that era.  Some I saw at two clubs open to kids in Huntington Beach… the Salty Cellar and The Golden Bear. Others I saw a couple of years later in the Bay Area, often for free in Golden Gate Park, or for a nominal charge at the Fillmore. It was not uncommon in those days to see two or three or even four great groups play at a venue on the same day. I love music, all kinds of music, pop, rock, jazz, classical, and country in more limited doses.  

At age 14 in the summer of '66 I became a chronic runaway, leaving home for days and even weeks at a time, including living in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco as a hippie in the summer of 1967, and also off of Sunset Blvd in Hollywood, amongst other wanderings, hither and thither. One of the highlights of this period was to attend the Monterey Pop Festival, where I saw many rock 'n roll luminaries of the period, including the great Janis Joplin, The Who, and the Mamas and the Pappas. I took LSD, mescaline, hashish, weed, uppers and downers in the 60s, in addition to other revelries and debaucheries. After hitching car rides in several states, I hopped a train in Flagstaff, Arizona with my old Orange County friend, Jimmy.  We were caught and arrested (the cops called us long-haired hippies, queers, and such, in what appear, in retrospect to be an attempt to scare us straight) and we were taken to the local jail, whereupon, we escaped through open window in the station's men's room after an officer sent us to wash off fingerprint ink I doubt ordinary prisoners not have been given such freedom and would have been put in a cell post haste. Growing increasingly frightened as fugitives from the law, we returned a few minutes later (after hiding briefly in a washroom at the gas station down the street), meekly entering through the front door, and the embarrassed and angry officers promptly assigned us to a cold and dank drunk tank with no seat or toilet, just a drain hole in the center of the cell.  They sent us home separately the next day by Greyhound bus (our parents wired the money for tickets), but I got off in Santa Barbara at the bus station and I ran away again!  I visited my Aunt Edna for a bit, and she immediately called my mother after I left. Once I returned home a few weeks later, my mother and Lorna Miller, a neighbor friend of hers put me in the car under some ruse, and they took me to Agnew State Hospital, a large state mental institution serving the region. They examined and interviewed me over the course of a couple of hours, but they found I was quite sane and didn't admit me.   I enjoyed the attention, though, and it was all very dramatic.

It was the heyday of Haight-Ashbury and the hippie phenomenon when I lived in the Bay Area ––– the Age of Aquarius, flower power, love-ins, and the psychedelic era.  The streets in San Francisco were full of kids, many of them runaways like me, with the scent of incense and  patchouli oil wafting through the air; girls in colorful granny dresses with flowers in their hair; and long-haired boys with beads and Beatlesque, wire-rimmed sunglasses. We "crashed" in Fillmore tenements, behind bushes in the parks, or at the pads of generous strangers.  It was a very libertine environment, a big adventure, and no one gave much thought to the morrow or to practical concerns beyond having a good time, getting high, and finding some food.  When we weren't panhandling for money or stealing food from the grocery store at the end of Haight facing Golden Gate Park, we could earn money doing odd jobs. So much for faux love and peace, for living in the Haight was often at the expense of another's property. I learned later that my parents heard from others in our neighborhood that I went there, and they apparently spent a day with my sisters riding around the area looking for me. The entire thing was frivolous, meaningless, irresponsible, unproductive, superficial, juvenile, conforming, occasionally risky, and, to be sure, a whole lot of fun.

I held many different jobs as a kid. I always found a way to earn money. I've been a paperboy; mowed lawns; worked in a car wash, a toy store, a nursery, and in three different restaurants; I’ve bathed and groomed dogs at a grooming salon; and cleaned out horse stalls at a ranch, and dog kennels for a breeder of Bassett Hounds and Blood Hounds.  I was not averse to hard labor, but I seldom stayed with anything for very long. I never had a lot of money, because I spent it on records and clothes and such, but I usually had some, and often enough more than my friends, because I wasn't afraid to work for it. 

As I mentioned before, moving around as much as I did helped me feel more comfortable with many kinds of people. I never had a problem insinuating myself with a particular group, and I moved amongst the various coteries with relative ease. I seemed to have all kinds of friends. I was the smart kid who could function on the street, and I was big enough so that no one picked on me. I didn't look for fights, but I had my share of them, too, and I will confess, I rather enjoyed them, for there was something viscerally gratifying about the surge of adrenalin and the sheer physicality of the thing. I didn't have a fear of pain, and perhaps beatings from my dad, which any kid was unlikely to match, helped in that regard. My last physical altercation occurred while I was serving in the Army in Germany.  I had been drinking at our local hangout, the Rosarium, and a staff sergeant disparaged my friend, Bill, and that set me off. By that time, I had begun with my study of Kung Fu.  I had the better of him right away before my friends broke it up, and, since he outranked me, I was very lucky that he didn't get me into any trouble. He accepted my apology the next day, and thereafter we became friendly with one another. I would later take my Kung Fu and the philosophy of self-discipline and restraint more seriously, and adopt the principle that the truest victory of all is when one can avoid fighting altogether. It is a principle that I did my best to inculcate in my students when I became a Sifu. 

I opted for more thoroughgoing juvenile delinquency when we moved up north to Campbell, California, a small suburb outside of San Jose in the San Francisco Bay Area in 1966.  I went downhill very quickly at that point, and it came to a head towards the end of 1967 when I was 15 1/2. There's not much in the petty crime arena that I didn't try. But things turned serious when my friend Skip and I robbed a donut shop (I was the lookout, he was the robber ––– no gun, mind you, he faked it with his hand in his jacket pocket ––– complete with a woman's hose as a face mask).  He was apprehended while running away, and he later told the police about me, and they showed up and arrested me at my parent's house later that night. He was 18 and ended up in an adult jail.  I spent several months in juvenile hall and, thankfully, after a year of probation, my record was expunged or I never would have received my security clearances in the Army.  Oh, and I also stole a car for joyriding, abandoning it at the end of our tour; lifted, hubcaps, stereos, gas, and shoplifted, among my other delinquent activities before the robbery.  My time under incarceration for the robbery was a transformative event for me.  I was lonely and scared, and I vowed then to never return to such a place and to fly straight and narrow.  And to the best of my ability, that’s exactly what I did.

Shortly after my time in the San Jose juvenile hall, my parents moved the family to Fremont in the East Bay. One of their principal motivations was to get me into a new environment. Dad was working at Lockheed at the time. For a time he worked two jobs, one at World Airways in Oakland. Eventually he would end up with Applied Materials, a start-up operation in the Silicon Valley that would become very successful in making high-tech equipment. 
With the approval of the school district, and having done well on some examinations, I started at Ohlone College in Fremont shortly before turning 16. After little more than a year of high school, I had perfect SAT scores 800/800 (1600 max in those days), and I had instant celebrity in town, having made the local newspaper.  I hated school, and I soon dropped out.  It is unpleasant being that young and having no one else wanting to hang out with you. I barely shaved, and a couple of years make a huge difference in terms of one's associates at that age.  This left my mother to deal with the authorities, who came to our house on at least one occasion, as I was still under the age that California law required one to be in school.  I would re-enroll in the fall and then not show up again.  I found part-time jobs, and I spent much of my time at the library and in my homemade laboratory doing experiments, when I wasn't out visiting the few decent friends I had left at that point. My regrettable life of crime was over by the time we moved to Fremont, and other than my truancy, I was a model teen, and thenceforth I led a life of relative, though imperfect, rectitude. I promised my mother I would not revisit any of my old friends in Campbell. I would only return to the area several years later when I was on leave in the military to look up my old friend Keith. I had hoped to see my old girlfriend, Terry, but she was not home when I came to visit.

Some years later I found out from my mother that another girlfriend of mine, Barbara, had written me letters while I was overseas. She was a wild child, much like me, and she lived next door to us in Campbell. It was her mother, Lorna, in fact, that accompanied us when I was taken to the mental hospital.  Barbara was a year older than me, and she had a nickname that was a day of the week, which she coupled with her surname whenever she introduced herself. It sounded quite exotic. My mother did not like her. She found my home address in Fremont through her sister who, along with her mother, had maintained friendly contact with my mother. My mother opened the letters and read them and never forwarded them to me. She ripped them up. I was furious when I heard about this some years later, though I know my mother's intentions were good, and she thought she was protecting me from a vixen, she had no right to do this. Barbara was not a bad girl at all ­­­––– just a free spirit ––– but my mother was convinced she was a corrupting influence. The truth is, if anything, I was the one the more corrupting influence.  

With my mother's permission, indeed, with her encouragement ––– I enlisted in the Army a few weeks after turning 17 in August of 1969.  A friend and I stopped to visit a recruiting office located in the mall near the toy store where I worked out of curiosity, and I returned later to take a test and talk in earnest to the sergeant on hand who convinced me it was a good way to grow up, see the world, and pay for my education when I was ready. It was the height of the Vietnam War, but I was lucky and I was not sent there. Because I did well on some tests, I was trained to encode and decode encrypted messages. After cryptography training in Fort Gordon, Georgia (outside of Augusta), I was assigned to Fort Riley, Kansas working in a clerical capacity for a brigade commander, doing very little that had to do with my specialty in cryptology. After I turned 18 in 1970, I was scheduled to go to Vietnam and even reported to the Oakland depot for my transfer.  They called a bunch of us out one morning and told us we were being reassigned to Germany, instead. This was right at the time when troop reductions were beginning and when the nation as a whole was beginning to turn against the war. My mother was quite frantic about my going to Vietnam, something she must not have considered when I enlisted ––– but perhaps she was by then paying more attention to the casualties. She confessed later that she said she called the post commander to persuade him that I shouldn't go. I doubt she even got hold if the commander if she did call; he probably received many such calls. Many years later she even took credit for my not having gone –– but I was just one of the many called out for Germany that day, and I am sure she had nothing to do with my reassignment. 

The balance of my military service was as a "cold warrior" in Germany, where I was assigned as a cryptographer to a small American unit on a German military base in Bavaria that was located outside a village called Hemau, which was not far from the beautiful, walled, medieval city of Regensburg, where I’d ride my bicycle to visit. This was one of the most beneficial periods in my life.  Indeed, the Army was a critical part of my maturation, and because of my specialty, I had the good fortune of being surrounded by slightly older, well-educated men who were role models. Our unit had maybe 25 or 30 men at any given time, and our barracks on the German installation were vastly superior to what would have been my lot on an American facility as an enlisted man. I even had a private room for most of my time there. We were a NATO unit in charge of Honest John and Nike nuclear missiles. The Germans maintained the missiles themselves, but the Americans managed the nuclear warheads. Only the Americans had access to them, then. I worked in the S-2 area and was responsible for all the classified materials and encoding and decoding messages. An officer and the S-2 senior enlisted man were required to authorize the release of the missiles once the order was given, and I was responsible for decoding the messages that would come from the Commander and Chief via the Emergency Action Message System. Imagine an uneducated 18 year-old and former juvenile delinquent with such a responsibility. It defies reason, but it is true. 

My best friend at the time, only 4 or 5 years my senior, was a young second lieutenant named Bill Baldwin, and his influence was instrumental to my development. He was single, and though he was an officer and I was an enlisted man, our unit was small enough that fraternization was not an issue and a natural circumstance given that we worked so closely together. The other officers were married and that left Bill alone. We had four officers, and all of them went to prestigious military schools. Bill was a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute. I called him "sir" throughout, except when we were intoxicated after hours and away from others in our unit, and I followed all the appropriate protocols between enlisted and officers at work. We managed to have a lot of fun traveling together in Europe. Over the course of my tour of duty, Bill and I went to Switzerland, Austria, Holland, England, and France, and throughout West Germany (the nation was still split into East and West then, and because of the nature of our work, we could not even visit Berlin, let alone another Eastern European country then allied with the Soviet Union. 

While I was in Germany, I met a young beauty named Lucia, whom I nearly married. She was a student in Regensburg, and her family owned an appliance store in Hemau. I recall my mother being terrified at the prospect of my bringing a German girl home as my wife at such a young age. As it turns out, Lucia did not want to come to the U.S. and I didn't want to stay in Europe, so we parted ways. It is as well, for we were much too young to marry, and it would have not have served either of our interests. She was very bright and spoke English flawlessly. Lucia's instruction in the German language made my later study of it in college all the easier for me. 

Lucia's older sister's boyfriend was from Africa, a Marxist, and a professor of political philosophy, and I remember having some interesting discussions with him.  I picked up a few writings by Karl Marx as a result of those discussions, including The Communist Manifesto, and it all made a certain amount of sense to me, so I decided then that I was a communist. It wasn't until several years later, after reading Marx's masterwork, Kapital, and then various critical works by the likes of Ludwig von Mises and Friedrich Hayek, Milton Friedman, and others, that I came to realize that nearly everything Marx had to say about economics was utter nonsense. And what he said about philosophy was even worse. He completely misunderstood pricing, among other things. Moreover, the labor theory of value, on which much of his theory rests, and his concept of surplus value, are both completely mistaken.  He remains, however, an astute observer of history, a brilliant polemicist, and his insights about the darker aspects of social institutions and industrialism remain instructive and relevant. I would therefore caution against throwing the baby out with the bathwater when it comes to Marxist thought.

My knowledge of physics at this time was rudimentary, at best. I had a basic understanding of Newton's laws and the fundamentals of non-relativistic gravity, aided primarily from my study of the calculus, as well as a smattering of knowledge about electromagnetism and optics. I read a compendium of Einstein's fundamental papers on Brownian motion, the photoelectric effect, and special and general relativity. My Army associate in Hemau, Jackie, had an advanced degree in physics, and he helped me to understand much of it; special relativity was a brilliantly simple insight, and the mathematics is not especially taxing.  It is a different story with general relativity, however, for neither Jackie nor I had sufficient grounding in non-Euclidean geometry, and as a consequence, I was unable to grasp it fully (insofar as that's possible) for several years to come.  

With continuing troop reductions, I was eligible for early release with college admission, and so I was honorably discharged in early 1972 after 31 months of military service, and at the grand old age of 19. I was a year older than most incoming freshmen–––with nearly three years in the military already under my belt.  I did not realize it then, but the time that I spent in the military was probably one of the best things to have ever happened to me in terms of my personal development. Given what was going on in Vietnam at the time, it might well have turned out otherwise. But it didn't. 

So I returned to Ohlone College in Fremont in the spring of 1972, at which time I also began to immerse myself in radical politics, including a stint as political education officer of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War (I did not go to Vietnam, but I was a "Vietnam era" vet, and that seemed to be sufficient) and I hung out with some hardcore radicals.  I had dinner with Caesar Chavez, the farm labor leader, with my older women friend, Jinny, a card-carrying communist and organized labor supporter. I was Campus Youth Caucus chairman in the '72 campaign when George McGovern ran against Richard Nixon. I was also involved in student politics and president of the philosophy club. With the recommendation of several professors, the Ohlone College administration appointed me as the student representative on a committee charged with overseeing the campus police and more specifically, the use of criminal justice majors as trainee adjuncts to the police force on campus, which was controversial at the time. 

During this period, I applied myself to schoolwork at Ohlone and later at California State University, East Bay (formerly Cal State Hayward) with great seriousness, taking a very heavy load of classes and immersing myself in learning all that I could.  I loved college at this time, and I took full advantage of all it had to offer, and I completed my undergraduate degree summa cum laude in 3 years. The GI Bill freed me up from having to work full-time, and I had some part-time positions, including working the graveyard shifts as a security guard at the local FAA facility in Hayward, a perfect job for doing my studies.  By student standards, I was well-heeled, and with the help of a roommate, I was able to afford a nice apartment. I decided, then, that I was best suited to live a life of the mind, consciously cultivated an intellectual image, and I set out to become a writer and college professor. My wild days were largely behind me, that is, with the exception of an active interest in pursuing relations with the opposite sex. 

My principal interests in college were mathematical logic, physical sciences, and philosophy, and in the latter case, I was especially interested in analytic philosophy and the philosophy of science. Several of my professors took an interest in me, but particularly Dr. Eugene Mayers, who headed up the Department of Philosophy.  He thought I had some talent for philosophy and was very encouraging.  He introduced me to the works of John Rawls and Robert Nozick, which have been very influential in my thinking, though my appreciation for Rawls increased only later and, in large part, once I had acquired a better understanding of Immanuel Kant's Critique of Practical Reason and the importance of impartial rationality. For a period of time, I thought I was a libertarian (a la Nozick), but I soon concluded that was a pipe-dream world, much like Marx's communism, or for that matter, all Utopian schemes, be they anarchic or statist in nature. 

Three very important things occurred in my intellectual development in this period. My courses in deductive and inductive logic opened up a new world for me, and they gave me the essential tools for pursuing my interest in philosophy, and especially the philosophy of science and the foundations of mathematics. I added depth to my understanding of science, especially physics and astronomy, and this was of inestimable value in forming both my scientific and philosophical outlook. And it was in college that I developed what was to become a lifelong interest in both history and economics. 

I had already done a good deal of eclectic reading of history in the preceding years in the military, but very little on economics and politics specifically, except some polemics by Marx, such as his Manifesto, and Galbraith's The Affluent Society. Several outstanding professors in these subjects made them come alive for me, and particularly Dr. Alan Kirschner's courses on Western Civilization.  Not only a gifted lecturer, but also a champion bodybuilder who competed with the likes of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, Alan also got me interested in becoming politically active in those heady, leftist days, particularly in actively opposing the Vietnam War, which I began to oppose in my last months in the military. However, quite apart from my views on the war, I soon became increasingly suspicious of the New Left's agenda and of socialism, generally.  I studied a great deal of economics, not the poetics of the left and right (Galbraith and Rand, for example), but hard-boiled, empirically-based economics requiring mathematical knowledge.  I have never met a hard-leftist who understood economics very well, and I find them as obtuse as people on the far-right and religious types. Over the years, I have come to eschew all ideology and dogma, hewing to fairly simple pragmatic outlook, what specifically works to get the most value to the most people with the least sacrifice of liberty and with a guiding principle of impartial rationality, which is to say, what would a rational person will without regard to how he or she personally benefits or loses.

There are opponents of liberty on the right and left, and I find very little comfort in so-called "moderation," when often enough that is merely an encryption for "going along to get along" and in the end, standing for nothing. I think ideologues of all stripes, on both the right and left, have much more in common than they ever would care to admit, which is that they have an underlying emotional requirement for others to believe as they do, indeed, insisting on conformity and converting the non-believer is often more important than the principles they espouse. Facts and reason actually have little to do with their view of the world, for evidence and logic contradicting the received orthodoxy seldom dissuades the ideologue. They also share a need for an overarching system to explain everything, and evidence does little to shake their belief when it does not conform to the system they've adopted on faith, be it Christianity, Capitalism, or Communism. As much as anything, it's a matter of temperament and a kind of Utopianism.  In this sense, political dogma is very similar to religious belief.  

To encapsulate my only dogmatic political principles, I believe that each political issue must be analyzed specifically and pragmatically, on its merits, and with an eye to optimizing individual liberty, while simultaneously minimizing the worst risks for the least among us, insofar as that is possible with the broad consensus of the governed, and without undue sacrifice of one segment of society to benefit another. Liberty must always have precedence, in my view, and society ought to be very restricted in limiting an individual's liberty in order to suit or benefit another. John Rawls' principle of impartiality (in his "original position), essentially a Kantian idea, seems to me to be the only morally satisfactory way of restricting liberty, in the relatively limited number of instances that this is permissible. I have a somewhat different way of approaching it than Rawls, what I (borrowing from Bernard Gert and R.M. Hare) call impartial rationality that is universalized into prescriptions that apply to every instance and every participant when the same universal properties of the essentials apply. The fundamental grounding in what impartial observers would want is very similar to Rawls' theory.  I have set forth my views on this in detail in my writings. 

Towards the end of my undergraduate work in the spring of 1975, I met my future wife, Carol Kearney. We met at a nightclub in the San Jose suburb, Campbell, at place with live music and dancing that was very popular with young people. She was attending the state university in nearby San Jose, where she lived at the time. I was unable to get her to go home with me that night, so I asked her out on a date for the following week. I had the good sense to get her address and phone number, and I sent her yellow roses with the German expression on the card, "vergessen Sie mich nicht" (don’t forget me).  I only later learned she didn't care for yellow flowers; but I thought red roses a little to forward at the time. I picked her up in my old '52 Lincoln and she proceeded immediately to tell me how to drive, and she hasn't stopped doing so to this day.  "Quick, get out of the "only lane," she said. It took me a bit to figure out exactly what that was, meaning in her parlance move to the left out of the turn lane. Our first date was to see Santana in concert at the San Jose Civic Auditorium, with a then little known band Journey as the opening act. That was the only "expensive" date we had before we were married, and thereafter we'd cavort a lot in Golden Gate Park, ride around on my motorcycle, or hover over coffee and tea at Sambo's coffee shop for hours on end. We did go to see one movie with Diana Ross starring as Billie Holiday, Lady Sings the Blues.
Carol soon moved to Pacifica to attend school in nearby San Francisco. She worked for a florist there. That was across the San Francisco Bay from where I lived, and my old car would barely make it up the hills in the area. I often spent time working on it there to get it started to go back home. Though we didn’t have a lot of money, we managed to have fun. She made some nice meals for me and we went on several picnics, including one down Hwy 1 at a park near Big Sur where she barbecued a nice steak for me. It didn't take long for me to fall in love with her, and we married in early 1976 shortly after I moved to Los Angeles for my new position with Pacific Mutual Life Insurance Company (now Pacific Life).

A beautiful woman with a million-watt smile, intelligence, and an outgoing personality, Carol came from Irish stock on both sides of her family. The family lore has it that they have smattering of Cherokee. Carol grew up in a decidedly normal way with both of her parents, Joe and Sarah Kearney, and a younger sister and brother, Cathy and Steven.  She was born and reared in what was then the small farming community, Lodi, California, located in the uppermost part of the San Joaquin Valley.  Her mother was a nurse and her father worked at the General Mills plant just a few blocks from where they lived.  Both of her parents were hardscrabble people, accustomed to privation and backbreaking work from an early age, and who migrated with their parents and siblings rom the Dust Bowl in Texas during the Great Depression when they were very young. They managed to provide their children with a great many advantages that they themselves did not have. 

Carol is also the most straightforward and unpretentious person I have ever known. She is devoid of guile and duplicity. What you see is what you get, and one never has to wonder what she thinks, because she will surely tell you if you ask, and sometimes even if you don't. She is incapable of dissembling. What is more, she is fiercely loyal and will go to the ends of the earth for a friend or loved one.  She is the strongest and most reliable person I have ever known. Like any relationship, Carol and I have had our ups and downs and things to work through over the years. Most were problems that I caused, and while I am not a person who dwells on his sins, I am ashamed of the hurt that it caused Carol. I am fortunate that she loved me enough to forgive me and I loved her enough to strive to deserve her. Marriage takes work, but it has many rewards, and in time, given the effort, the partnership becomes an essential part of one's existence.

Today, Carol and I are hand-in-glove, and we can finish one another's sentences. I am most comfortable when I know she is nearby, knowing that when I call out and she will answer. When she is gone for long periods, I am anxious.  I am completely dependent on her now, and she and I are inextricably tied to one another. She is indispensable to me, as I think I am I to her, and I live a life of utter contentment with her. I have not always been the best husband, but I have not been the worst, either, and now after many years, I think I can say I have learned how to be the kind of companion and partner that she deserves. We have been together now for over 40 years, and from my perspective, life without her is unimaginable.  She is my best friend, and she is the person upon whom I know I can rely, and through thick and thin. And I love her with all my heart. Even knowing me as well as she does now, she continues to care for me, and for that, I shall be forever grateful.

I started with Pacific Mutual in November 1975 in its Los Angeles offices on Wilshire Blvd. Carol and her sister helped me move there. My car was nearly inoperable and I put it in storage, as I’d soon have a company car, one of the things I found most enticing about joining the company. I had several other job offers, but that was the main attraction for me, for a car was an expensive proposition for a young man. Carol and her sister, Cathy, moved me down to Los Angeles. I rented a studio apartment near the Ambassador Hotel a few miles from the office.  I’d take the bus into work for a couple months while I was in training and before I got my car. The apartment was very small with a Murphy bed that was tucked into a closet standing up when not in use. I was there a couple of months ahead of Carol. This was before we were married, and I was to be there alone for a while. I was very lonely. We were to be married in June, but after much discussion, I persuaded her to marry me earlier, and so the date was set for February.  

Carol and her mother did most of the preparations for the wedding. We were married at the campus chapel at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, which is not far from Lodi. The reception was held at a nearby lodge.  There were about 200 people at the event. My Best Man was my dad, Ozzie, and my groomsmen were my two roommates, Mike Bammel and Curt Schneider, along with another friend, David Harris. Carol was a spectacularly beautiful bride. I was decidedly anti-religious and, while I don’t mind being married in a church, I’m made it clear I wasn’t partaking in any religious statements or rituals. My concession was being in a church and having a minister officiate. Carol said the only time she has ever seen me nervous in the entire time we have been married was on the alter that day when we exchanged the vows that we had written. I only had a short time off from work and I didn’t have a lot of money, but we had a nice honeymoon down the coast at the Highlands Inn in Carmel. followed by the San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito near Santa Barbara.

Given some earlier experiences living in cars, men's rooms, tenement housing, parks, tents, and stoops, my small dwelling wasn't so bad for me!  But for Carol, it was not so good, and so we didn’t stay in that place for long. We moved down the street to a one bedroom apartment with a balcony, a material upgrade from the preceding one. Our entertainment in our first years of marriage was bicycling around MacArthur Park, walking around the seediest parts of Hollywood to watch the people of the night, and going to inexpensive movie theaters. With very little money, we still were able to have a lot of fun.

My Aunt Edna gave us a wonderful gift later that year, a trip to Hawaii, where we stayed at the Moana Hotel in Waikiki for a week. The Moana was one of the oldest and most famous hotels in Waikiki. My aunt had stayed there several times, and she lived down the street at the Halekulani Hotel during the bombing of Pearl Harbor. We made friends with one of my office mates, who would become among our closest friends, Clay and Nicki Yokota. Clay was from Hawaii, and he arranged for his father and mother to greet us, and they feted us with a nice tour in around Oahu and took us out to a marvelous lunch. We had occasion to be with Clay’s parents many times over the years when they visited the mainland for extended stays, and we became very close.

Over the years, Carol and I, and eventually our daughter, travelled to many places in the U.S. and abroad. In the beginning, we were more adventurous and would travel without many reservations and take each day as it came. We were inveterate tourists and tried to see as much as possible of the countries we visited and crammed in many tours and sites into our visits.  Of all the places we visited, outside of Hawaii, our favorite places were probably England and Italy.  I would in due course have to travel a great deal on business in many states in the U.S.  Carol would occasionally accompany me, or we would add a vacation onto the end of a business trip.

Carol was an important adjunct to my business life, or more than that, really, a major factor in both my success and in the way I managed people as I rose through the ranks. Involving the spouses of subordinates was a helpful way of getting to know those who worked for me and in binding them further to the organization, and Carol was invaluable asset in this regard. We ate out often with employees, and we also did a great deal of entertaining at our home, with peers, my superiors, and my subordinates. It was a way of life in my business and in my company. As it worked out over the years, most of our friends were either with the company or clients of the company. Carol was also very involved with me when I entertained major clients, some of whom were principals on multi-million dollar accounts. 

My intention all along was to pursue an academic career, but as I was about to marry, I needed to earn some money, first.  Several times in those initial years at Pacific Mutual, I was nominated for an academic scholarship and approached for opportunities for advanced study. I had established a small academic reputation, it seemed, and no doubt owing to Professor Mayer's tireless promotion of me behind the scenes. Becoming increasingly accustomed to an income that I could never earn in academia, however, I remained with the company and worked there for nearly 30 years.  Having remained on the periphery of the academic world with many friends and acquaintances in academia, and with my avocational interests, and having been an occasional lecturer at universities around the world, I have had sufficient exposure to working in the academic world that I am convinced I made the right decision not to pursue an academic career. However, I wasn't so sure for the first few years in business, and I second-guessed myself well into my early thirties. The fact is, though, I am not a natural academic. I grow restless too easily, eschew repetitiveness, and I need change, which is not likely teaching the same thing to people several times a week for years on end. And while I am clever enough, I do not think I have the spark of genius to offer highly original and impactful work in philosophy or mathematics. I felt I could make a difference in business, so vanity was undoubtedly a factor.

When Carol first moved down to Southern California, her goal was to find a position with a florist and work towards opening her own shop. She realized in short order there was little to be earned in that trade and that the hours were rough. She then got a job as a casualty insurance underwriter that specialized in aviation risks. After a couple of years, she found a job working as a marketing representative for American Home Foods, which manufactured products such as canned chili and popcorn. She grew tired of the work in time, and sought another career. She decided that the world of computer programming offered some opportunities and that it matched her skill set, so she went to a trade school specializing in programming. She did well, and soon after being graduated she landed work as a programmer with an insurance company. She was one of very few women programmers. I learned later that it was not without its difficulties for a young, attractive woman, and that she suffered her fair share of boorish sexist remarks and come-ons.  She didn’t tell me at the time. She stayed with that work, though, for the money was good and for the most part, she got along with everyone there and enjoyed the work itself.  Once I was established at Pacific Mutual and money was no longer an issue, we decided that we’d concentrate on having a family, she’d spend more time making and selling her stained glassware, which she enjoyed doing, and that she’d leave the career-track.

Our first house purchase was in 1978 when I was barely 26. A loan from the VA helped make it possible, along with a small second funded by our real estate agent who took a liking to us. We paid the latter loan off within 2 years. It was a small, but beautiful custom home about 35 years old located in Duarte, located in a suburb of Los Angeles in the San Gabriel Valley. We were delighted with it. In a few years we would upgrade to a larger home in the hills of Monrovia overlooking Los Angeles, with spectacular evening views. My job would eventually take me to Orange County, and the commute became increasingly onerous, so we moved there in the mid-1980s, buying a home overlooking a lake in what was then a relatively undeveloped area in Laguna Niguel.  That would be our daughter’s first home. In the mid-1990s, we purchased a very large home with an ocean view in an exclusive community behind guarded gates. We would remain there until mid-2011 when we moved to Colorado.

In all of our moves, we were lucky to have some good neighbors, and some remain good friends of ours today.  Among our closest friends are Eddie and Martha Bolton, perhaps the only honest-to-goodness American aristocrats we’ve known. Both are related to significant people in our history, and are distant cousins to one another. Martha is a direct descendant of Martha Custis, whose second husband was George Washington. She is also related to Henry “Light-Horse” Lee (and hence the more disreputable Robert E.), among other luminaries of Colonial and Revolutionary America, and beyond. We met them at a neighbor’s party when they were new to our neighborhood; both were from Birmingham, Alabama and Martha, in particular, had an accent and drawl as thick as molasses, adding syllables to even one syllable words.  Eddie was transferred to California as an executive of Burlington, a subsidiary of the large mining company, Pittston, Inc.  They would eventually move back to Virginia, and then to Florida, before retiring to their “farm” (a veritable manicured forest where there house overlooks a beautiful lake that they own) outside of Birmingham. We see them whenever we can, and Carol and Martha chatter away on the phone frequently, picking up where they left off as if they saw one another yesterday.

I would eventually head up one of Pacific Mutual's major national business units after stints in sales, research and development, marketing, and time spent founding the special risk unit and Pacific Risk Management Services, which specialized in selling excess loss insurance to larger employers. My specialty was group employee benefits, which is to say, life, disability, and health benefits distributed to employees and their dependents through employers. For a period of time I was involved in both retirement investment plans (pension and profit-sharing) and group insurance products. After a few years, our retirement products were spun off into a separate division and I then continued to specialize in group life, health, and disability insurance products for the balance of my career.

Though I benefited from the employer-based health insurance system, by the mid-90s and towards the end of my career, I came to believe that it was an inherently flawed approach to financing health care for most Americans for several reasons, not the least of which was that health care economics works differently than other sectors with a so-called backwards-bending supply curve, and with the belief that the availability of health services ought to be a basic, prescribed right by any civilized and economically advanced society. Our system, a hodgepodge of employer-based and government insurance, is more expensive than any other industrialized country is as a function of GDP, and yet, our health care outcomes and mortality rates are among the very worst, barely putting us above many so-called third-world nation’s outcomes. A great many people are uninsured by either private or public programs, which leaves them vulnerable to financial catastrophe and, in many instances, unable to get necessary health services at all.  For some time I have believed that the only sensible solution is a single-payer insurance system (which, contrary to the intellectual buffoonery of its critics, is not socialized medicine, but rather, socialize insurance, much as is the case with Social Security and Medicare), one along the lines of Medicare, and one that provides coverage for all citizens, perhaps with some additional cost sharing for more affluent individuals. 

There was a time when I thought I had a chance of becoming top dog at Pacific Mutual; indeed, with that carrot held out as more than a small possibility, I was talked out of leaving for several more remunerative opportunities by several superiors, including an offer of the presidency of a smaller but very successful and well-known HMO company. That same company was purchased by a larger entity in due course, and I undoubtedly would have made out like a bandit from the acquisition. When the CEO announced his retirement, we both thought I was the likely choice to replace him. But the chairman of the board of the parent company thought otherwise, and he chose another man who, I believe, was more compatible with his personality and his requirement for acquiescence. I was never the most politic of people, sometimes to my detriment, and I could never be a mere yes man. For my entire career I was lucky to work for strong people who did not require that and, indeed, eschewed sycophancy. I was diplomatically told to think about what I wanted to do within the company, and of course, that was a hint that I should take my leave, which I did with a nice settlement. In retrospect, I also think the chairman had selling the group insurance operation in mind, and he wanted a smoother path towards that end than he thought I would have provided. He was probably right.  

I was treated well from the day I arrived at Pacific Life to the day I left, and many opportunities came my way that hardly seemed possible when I first joined the company. I have no regrets. I left Pacific Life in 2001. Carol says my retirement added years to my life. I don't know that she is right, but it did at the very least save me the trouble of doing something unpleasant, namely, presiding over the demise of its group insurance operations, which were sold to PacifiCare shortly after I left. PacifiCare was then, in pretty rapid succession, acquired by another, even larger company. Nearly all of the Pacific Life group employees lost their jobs in less than a year's time. The principals of Pacific Life completely mis-managed its end of the acquisition, and many of those employees were left in a lurch, especially those who were too young to retire, but who because of their age would encounter greater difficulties finding work. There were a good many employees in that age range, to no small degree because it was such a good company to work for and there was a relatively low turnover when compared to like companies. I was the principal involved on Pacific Life's end when we acquired Mutual of New York's group operation in the late 1980s. One of the main requirements by MONY was that we retain a high percentage of its employees for a certain period of time. That was specified in our contract. It was the right thing to do, and I admired them for having taken care of their former employees, people who had served them loyally, some for a great many years.  Pacific Life should have done the same thing for its employees. That is really my only complaint about the company.  I have not kept up with it since then, though I do hear from some of my former colleagues from time-to-time, and when I was still in California, some of us would get together and reminisce about the old days. Sadly, some of my friends from those days have passed on, including several who were very dear to me.

Pacific Life was a good company to work for, and I have many fond memories of my time there. I was paid well, indeed, exceptionally well during my last few years there, and as a consequence Carol and I were able to live well. It afforded two working class kids a great many improbable experiences and luxuries, and for that I am grateful. Several people were important mentors and influences in my early business career, and perhaps none more than the late Gene Lyons, who hired me and was a kind of father figure to me when I was younger, and who would become one of my dearest friends. Indeed, some of my closest friends over the years are people with whom I worked at Pacific Mutual starting back in the 70s. In addition to Gene, of special note would be my friends Warren Clark and the late Clay Yokota. Here I should say a few more things about these three important people before continuing on about my business career. 

As I mentioned earlier, Clay Yokota and his wife, Nicki, were the first people Carol and I befriended in Southern California after moving from the Bay Area. Before Carol even arrived in Los Angeles, Clay and Nicki took pity on me as an undernourished bachelor and had me over for dinner at their apartment several times.  Since then, our families have spent many holidays together and we've taken vacations together, including a memorable trip to Mexico City in 1984 following a company event in Guadalajara. We even knew one another's parents and siblings, and there were plenty of times we had large gatherings with members of our extended families. I worked for Clay for nearly a year early in my career, and later he would work for me for nearly twenty years. Clay and Nicki were a constant in my life. It was a devastating loss when Clay died of a rare form of cancer in 2012. While Nicki still lives in California, we continue to see her and their son Christopher (who is like an older brother to our daughter) on our periodic visits to California and on their visits to Colorado.  

We have known Warren and Jinny Clark nearly as long, and he was my boss for 10 years. As he was promoted, I followed suit in several positions he held before me. Only a few years older than I am, Warren and I quickly established a close working relationship, and we formed a friendship that never interfered with our ability to work together while he was at Pacific Mutual. After a period as vice president of the sales operation, he left Pacific Mutual for other opportunities, and I eventually took over his position as head of sales, in addition the marketing and product development functions that I already managed. This became my stepping stone for heading up the entire large group operation in fairly short order.  Warren and I have several interests in common, not least of all music, and we continue to see one another whenever we can, though he and Jinny now live on the East Coast in Connecticut. As with Clay, we knew both Warren and Jinny's parents. They had three boys, one of whom died tragically as a toddler from a drowning accident.  I well remember driving them to Children's Hospital in Los Angeles at illegal speeds while the helicopter whisked the boy from a hospital near their home in La Canada. We kept vigil with them at the hospital and were there when the little fellow passed. We have known his other two boys since they were babies. 

Gene Lyons and I have had several adventures in business together, but also in backpacking, boating, and river rafting.  As I mentioned, he hired me at Pacific Mutual, and he was several levels above me until he retired in the early 80s as head of our business unit. I eventually would hold the same position that he did as head of the group employee benefits operation. Some years ago, Gene and I took an 8-day river rafting trip down the Colorado River. The Little Colorado, an azure, warm-water river running perpendicular to the icy-cold Colorado, seemed especially inviting for some body-surfing in the rapids. The rapids were strong and there were many rocks. I mentioned my occasional impulsiveness, already; well, Gene had the good sense to get out early, whereas I continued down the river and ended up banging into a large rock, feet-first ––– thereby, permanently damaging my leg by destroying the lymphatic valves below the knee due to the impact. It's mostly tolerable, but occasionally it results in a great deal of pain, and I am now much more susceptible to infections,  and the consequence can be a very painful and potentially deadly bout of cellulitis in my entire leg, so I've become a bit of a germaphobe.  

Quite apart from being my good friend, for a good many years Gene was also my business mentor. Pound for pound, he was the most skilled manager of people I have ever known. While he had a formidable business mind, he also had exceptional abilities when it came to sizing up people and motivating them in a work environment. He was the consummate interviewer of job candidates, and I picked-up many of my own practices in recruiting and interviewing from him.  I learned more about business, the principles of managing others towards a common goal, and basic leadership skills from Gene Lyons than from any other person in my career. No one could replace Oscar Berumen, my dad, in terms of the importance he had in my upbringing, both for better and for worse, or my love for him. But Gene was in many ways a continuation of the father role, or perhaps more accurately, he became a role model for me, an example to follow, and well into my twenties and early thirties.  Dad influenced me a great deal too, and certainly not all for the worse, indeed, in terms of my most fundamental personality traits, his was the greater influence; but as an adult operating in both business and society, Gene's role was the more significant one.  Outside of my academic life, and apart from my wife, Carol, Gene was the most influential person in my adult life. We were close friends for nearly 5 decades. 

Carol and I were also both very close to Gene's wife, Jane, who passed away little more than a year before Gene. She had been ill for many years, and there is little doubt in my mind that her welfare and sustenance had given Gene a purpose that contributed to his own longevity, despite having several of his own health issues (about which he never complained) in later years. Jane was one of the most sophisticated ladies we've known, and we two working-class kids learned much from her early on in our careers about social customs and conventions to which we were not exposed when we were growing up, manners and mores that would prove useful to us in our corporate lives.    I was very glad that Gene was able to attend my daughter's wedding not long before he died in April of 2017; Jane was too ill to travel at that point.  Both of Anastasia's grandfathers had died, and her grandmothers were not well enough to travel ––– and it seemed fitting for Gene to sit with us at the family table, for he and Jane were like surrogate grandparents to her, and very much a family member to Carol and me.

Gene, Warren, and Clay and I remained a very tight-knit group throughout the years, notwithstanding several changes in our careers and geographic location. Gene was the acknowledged pater familias of our foursome. As I write this, only Warren and I are left.  Of course, I have many other friends from Pacific Life, and people who were employees there or clients and vendors with whom I worked over the years, as well as friends from my other interests, whether from Kung Fu, aviation, or some of my more academic pursuits, such as my involvement in the Bertrand Russell Society, where I was a board member and an editor of its scholarly periodical, the Bulletin for some years. I have friends strewn across the US, indeed, the globe, including the UK, Canada, and Thailand, and I have friends strewn across the United States. 

Aside from having surrounded myself with very capable people in the course of my management career, I think my major business accomplishment was taking Pacific Mutual into the self-funded and stop loss "reinsurance" market in 1987. I conducted in-depth product-design, pricing, and market research in this highly-specialized field, and after receiving approval from the highest levels of the company, I launched what would become Pacific Risk Management Services, one of the nation's largest and, arguably, its finest purveyor of excess insurance (stop-loss) products for self-insured group plans.  Our method of distribution was the key to its success, and it relied upon a formidable, highly-qualified network of third-party plan administrators. The simple theory behind our approach was if we underwrote the quality of the plan claims payer, what we called a third-party administrator, we would come out ahead. Pacific Mutual enjoyed considerable profits on this line of business for many consecutive years. 

Pacific Mutual (now Pacific Life) sent me to Stanford University's Graduate School of Business for their Marketing Strategies program in 1989 and then to the Stanford Executive Program in 1991, essentially a crash MBA course for senior managers.  Both programs required us to work intensively all day and much of the night, even on weekends, over the course of a summer.  About half of the participants were from abroad, and my experience there was both interesting and intellectually challenging. In particular, I enjoyed the graduate coursework on economics, which focused a great deal on global economic issues, and which was taught by an eminent economist, James Howell. I was so impressed with him that I later hired him to speak at one of our employee conferences. 

One of the fellows I met and befriended at Stanford was from Germany.  He was head of research and development for Bayer, one of the world's largest chemical counties. We spent a good deal of time together at a local drinking establishment in Palo Alto called The Bankers Club.   I also made friends with one of the students, Eddie Mugabe, a handsome playboy from a South African homeland. Turns out that he was the son of the homeland's tribal chief and President, and though black, his father supported the apartheid regime in Pretoria, no doubt in order to hold onto his own sinecure. His father apparently controlled some of the diamond mines and was very wealthy.  Eddie was the Minister of Economic Development. He had living quarters in many major cities throughout the world, including nearby San Francisco, where he housed himself instead of the dorms where most of us stayed.  He'd show up at each of our Friday evening parties with a different beautiful woman on his arm. Eddie invited us to come to Africa several years later, all-expenses paid, but we declined because our daughter was too young to go, we didn't want to leave her behind, and we also had some reservations about being hosted by a beneficiary of that awful regime. His father was eventually overthrown, and some years later I read in the Stanford alumni magazine that Eddie died, but I never knew the cause. 

In 1993, I was selected by the Self-Insurance Association of America, a trade organization, to represent the insurance industry before a U.S. House of Representatives committee considering health care reform. President Bill Clinton appointed his wife, Hillary, to head up an effort to reform health care, and she proposed a series of sweeping reforms which our industry mostly opposed. I have since come to believe that the industry was mistaken, and that, while the proposal was imperfect, the administration was more correct. Having re-read my testimony many years later, I found that I disagreed with much of my former self. Obviously, I was not representing myself at the time, but my company, but I did believe the things I was saying to the congressmen.  I had on several occasions already worked with state-level politicians and with various regulatory agencies, but this was the first and only time I participated in a congressional hearing. It was an interesting experience, and one of the things I remember is that the politicians were talking to one another, moving about, and with a few exceptions, generally not paying much attention to the testimony offered by various representatives of the interest groups. It was not televised, and I suspect it is far more typical of what occurs, and a far cry from what one sees when the television cameras are rolling. I was disgusted by their arrogant, impolite behavior, and it was of a piece with my general distrust of the political class. 

During this period, I was interviewed by various major newspapers, including the Wall Street Journal and the Los Angeles Times, along with many trade periodicals, and I also appeared on several television broadcasts dealing with health insurance reform.  Once I was interviewed on a business show called "American Spotlight" out of Chicago for a half-hour segment on group employee benefits.  I remember the host, before the show, seemed kind of shy and retiring, very soft spoken, and hardly what one would expect of a television broadcaster. He almost appeared to be something of a milquetoast.  When seated at the table, however, after the director counted down and the cameras started rolling towards us, he was transformed.  He seemed to grow taller in his chair and his voice was suddenly deeper and more resonant. I learned that it takes a certain talent and skill to be a so-called talking head that I had not fully appreciated until then, and it really isn't as easy as it might appear, and good looks and telegeneity are insufficient.  With all the cameras, bright and hot lights, and activity bustling all about, it takes a certain kind of person to be able to pull it off with apparent ease.  It gave me a new respect for news readers who in the past I had shown a kind of contempt for as not being “true” journalists.  They have their purpose and it’s a skill set not everyone has or could even acquire.

As an aside, to some extent, I think Donald Trump’s true skill set is similar to my milquetoast fellow. Trump dodged the draft (not out of a pacific conscience), and is thus something of a physical coward, and he is notorious for avoiding one-on-one confrontation, even evincing a kind of quiet meekness in person. But put him in front of a microphone and cameras or an audience of many, he can come off as some sort of tough guy and is full of theatrics.  Indeed, I have concluded that Trump’s only genius, if you will, is an ability to intuit the wants and fears of the lowest common denominator among a consequential number of voters, and a rather amazing ability to act a part that is not really reflective of his innermost personality other than his shallow narcissism (I say shallow, because like some narcissists, he also has an obvious self-esteem problem and a need for approval and flattery that some more self-confident egoists do not require).  His principal skill very simply and quite remarkably, I am convinced, is acting.

I spoke before a number of civic and industry groups on the issue of health insurance reform, and related topics.  One of the most memorable talks I gave was at the Richard Nixon Library, in Yorba Linda, where I also had occasion to meet several men on the board of the library who knew Nixon quite well. One fellow went to school with him at Whittier College, and he told me a couple of interesting stories, including how Nixon dutifully helped a handicapped student up the stairs each day at Whittier College, as the building did not have elevators.   Though he committed some great crimes while in office, and while was reviled by many including me, then, Nixon did have some good qualities. Time has had a way of bring greater clarity to those.  His life is like a Shakespearean tragedy in many ways. Like most of us, he was neither completely good nor completely bad. Like the current occupant of the White House, Donald Trump, he was a criminal; however, unlike Trump, he was our criminal ––– not the patsy of a foreign power or a traitor to our most fundamental ideals ––– and, unlike Trump, he was never a fascist.  With all of this said, I still believe Nixon ought to have been convicted and jailed for very serious crimes against his country. Ford oughtn't to have pardoned him, to his everlasting discredit, thereby putting a politician above the law.  Trump should be locked up for a long time in my opinion. But that's another story. 

I think I was at least a satisfactory businessman and manager.  I have been told this by others enough times, but I'm fairly immune to flattery and even rather suspicious of it. Much, perhaps even most flattery has a utilitarian motive behind it; not necessarily of an untoward or even completely insincere kind, but nonetheless with an end in mind.  All the same, I think I did okay, and for the most part, I also enjoyed management. My experience in business informed my outlook on both authority and organizations, and their inherent dangers, and I have become increasingly skeptical about both public and private authority, and particularly those people and organizations in both sectors who seek to arrange the lives of others.  And while I remain a supporter of free markets with limitations, primarily because of my views on the ethics of private property and liberty, I am under no illusions about corporate beneficence or efficiency. People confuse the efficiency of markets with that of individual players in it, when in reality they are quite different. The vast majority of businesses fail.  In any case, whatever business success I had, I am mindful that luck played an important role in it–––simply being in the right place at the right time with the right people, though I think I did a couple of worthwhile things, especially in the product development area.  

It seems appropriate to mention the milieu of the business world when I entered it, for it is very different now.  In the mid-1970s, the WWII and Korean War generation occupied most of the key middle and senior management positions, and not surprisingly, there was a decidedly military-like sensibility about hierarchy, loyalty, and working and playing together. The abstract notion of "company" took on a special significance and had an almost nationalistic or tribal aspect, then. Company man had a very definite and well-understood meaning in those days. There was much more drinking than today, both during and after work; play and work, whether in the office, restaurant or bar, and on the golf course or even on vacation, were more seamless and without clear-cut boundaries. One's associates were a kind of extended-family, one that played a greater role than one would ordinarily find in business today.  As I suggested earlier, the corporate wife, especially, was an integral adjunct to one's climb up the corporate ladder. And perhaps most significantly, there were relatively few women outside of clerical and administrative positions when I started, and the handful with positions of responsibility were a determined, thick-skinned lot, having had to tough it out in a very male-dominated world.

I came into the business world on the cusp of many changes. The business environment I had entered had completely changed by the end of the 80s. By the end of the 1980s–––following the trauma of stagflation, high interest rates, Watergate, Vietnam, the failure of giant corporate household names, and not least of all, the economic juggernaut of Japan, Inc., then the envy of the business world–––we saw the rise of the new shaman, the management consultant, a highly-compensated medicine man, evangelist, and, often enough, out-and-out huckster, peddling all manner of faddish nonsense about corporate vision, mission, and organization.  Along with this came the rise of "human resource" departments, aided and abetted by more and more government regulation, co-opting management responsibility from the much maligned middle managers, the erstwhile platoon leaders of a company. The middle manager was increasingly seen as an unnecessary layer of expense, and so-called “flatness” and process and procedure became more important than leadership on the front line. 

The advent of women in positions of authority certainly forced a different kind of ethos in the workplace, in many ways, a more responsible one, and certainly a fairer one. Drinking and carousing became less common, and younger wives were less apt to tolerate frat-boy behaviors of their husbands joining the company. By the mid-1980s, loyalty to and from the company seemed to diminish with increasing competition for employees, and it was the end of the stereotypical company man, the "up-the-organization" man in a gray flannel suit, one that came into prominence in the late 40s and early 50s, and carried-on by executives who grew up in that era. It was the ascendancy of the individual superstar, the technocrat, and many of the traditional corporate mores and ties that bound employees and company together began to unravel. To no small degree, suspendered, double-breasted masters of the universe on Wall Street, warriors of board rooms, often the nerdiest ones in the schoolyards, and with electronic calculators and glibness as their tools, influenced the whole of industry.  

I don't lament all of these changes, for some of those loyalties to disembodied, abstract, profit-driven corporations were misplaced, and there were many destructive and unfair practices (especially to women and minorities) in the corporate world. But some things, notably the growing egoism and unbridled compensatory benefits, including greater inequality among the worker bees and senior management, and the increased power of human resource departments and concomitant demise of hands-on management, were for the worse in my view. It was a mixed bag, then, as it is now; but my main point is that the corporate world is now very different than when I began my business career.

When I left Pacific Life, I was tired of insurance and business, and I did not pursue the several opportunities in insurance that came my way at the time. I simply had no more fire in the belly for the corporate ladder. I had given my all to Pacific Life, and that was enough. I decided to focus on scholarly pursuits, and even considered going into academia. I rejected the latter upon careful consideration. I would have to get a PhD, and while that was not such a stretch for me, university politics and teaching the same thing day-in-and-day-out did not appeal to me. So instead, I decided to live a life of independent research and writing. I had been thinking about ethics a great deal, and so I wrote a book on the subject, Do No Evil: Ethics with Applications to Economic Theory and Business. My views some years later haven’t changed much, and while I do not claim complete originality, I think I did come up with some unique approaches to perhaps the most important topic to humankind, which is, how we ought to treat one another. My book begins with a general discussion of metaethics and normative ethics, including some remarks on major theories before launching into my own; then how ethics informs economics; and finally on how ethics relates more directly to business practices. I was most influenced in my views by David Hume, Immanuel Kant, Bertrand Russell, R.M. Hare, John Rawls, and Bernard Gert. But I think my twist on things is slightly different from all of them, and in many ways simpler to understand and easier to follow.

After writing Do No Evil, I established a consultancy and lectured on ethics before various business and academic groups. While I enjoyed this for a time, I grew restless, though, having been in business and a management positon for so long, I came to miss the action and the decision making, and I decided to get into something completely different. My farming interests, royalties from my book (Harry Potter it was not!), and speaking gigs were not really sufficient income-wise, and I needed more to do; lecturing could be fun, but for me, not the same thing repeatedly. I looked for something basic, a simple business without huge capital and fixed cost requirements. So I ended up buying a security company, Four Star Private Patrol, Inc., with several hundred employees. It’s a labor intensive business, and it largely consisted of variable costs based on relatively short-term contracts. It seemed respectable enough as a business, its principal purpose being to protect people and their property, and I thought I understood the finances well in my due diligence. With a seemingly competent senior staff in place, I even thought I might have a more gentleman-farmer's type of existence with high-level strategic work and management of a small number of direct reports.

I was deluded. Not only did I end up working more than I wanted, I discovered I had been deceived in several ways on the financials. There were also improprieties on payroll withholding and workers compensation in relation to the law, outstanding "factoring" loans that were not fully evident to me at the time of purchase, and that the business required a great deal more remediation and attention than I anticipated. 

I finally got the company in good standing with the law and made it financially tractable, and I did have several top-notch senior managers that made the management aspect of the job more pleasant. We had a number of very large construction companies as clients. The new home building industry was collapsing with the financial crisis in 2008, and we lost some of our big payers, so I began to look for a buyer ––– I didn't have the fire in the belly to continue, and I was ready to retire in earnest. I sold the company to another firm, and while I came out ahead on balance, I made the mistake of financing part of the purchase for the buyer–––and he eventually went bankrupt and reneged on the loan. I know how repeat bankruptcy artist Trump's many debtors must have felt.

Being out of the security business was like taking off tight shoes, as my friend Tom Metzger used to say.  I did not like the security business, and I discovered much that I did not know about the ballyhooed small-to-medium sized business world as it is often depicted in chamber of commerce propaganda and by politicians. There are more unseemly shenanigans than meets the eye, much more than in the big business world from whence I came, and where there are whole departments devoted to legal compliance, training, and human resource practices. Large business gets noticed more by virtue of the number of employees or consumers harmed. But small and medium sized business is a much larger problem, I believe, just less noticeable in the particular. Among other things I am referring to cheating on workers compensation, overtime compensation, work hours, benefit programs, and not withholding for Social Security. I saw much of this among my competitors who did these things to undercut competitors and optimize profits–––indeed, I even had to correct some malefactions in my own company. 

My business experience convinced me that relatively unfettered markets, with some exceptions, are the most efficient means of distributing finite goods to the greatest number, but that individual businesses are by no means inherently efficient. Indeed, it is simply a statistical fact that the vast majority of businesses fail within a few years, which hardly attests to the inherent efficiencies of business, one of the great myths pushed by proponents of privatizing many government functions. Some businesses are efficient, to be sure, the relatively few remaining of those that try and that are able to succeed on a sustained basis; but there is a large confusion among the general population and many who should know better about the economic utility of markets versus the efficiencies of individual businesses. It is laughable to me when politicians say we ought to run government more like a business, which might mean government, would fail most of the time. Moreover, a large enough number of businesses are corrupt enough to turn heads if it were more generally known. I don't want to overstate the case, for plenty adhere to the rules, too. Despite these problems, it is good to minimize monopoly and cartels and to optimize plurality, both to lessen the power of any given business or allied businesses over our lives, and also to give consumers choices. 

There is a dark side to markets or so-called capitalism or free or even nearly free markets, though, health care being a notable example. While efficiency is important, sometimes effectiveness must be given equal or even greater status when moral concerns and protecting individual rights are at stake. Protections of employees and consumers, and laws and social programs are necessary to smooth the rough edges of markets in order to treat citizens fairly, and compensate for deficiencies and gaps, and also to protect people from predatory and untoward practices. 

While I have grown very suspicious of business enterprise, and I do not see individual business as operating for the public good or inherently efficient, I hasten to add, here, that the leftist fantasy now in vogue, which promotes a resurrected, Fabian-style syndicalism, with decentralized units of production owned by the workers or the state, and with democratic control of the workplace, ignores how organizations or people in groups actually work and interact with one another. Much of this emanates from quarters that possess little or no real experience in organizational behavior or management.  

Of course, centralized ownership of the means of production and central planning of pricing and distribution is all but dead, and rightly so, since it has not and will not work. The left's opprobrium for profit-making and competition are views strongly rooted in biases that developed over the centuries, informed by both the anti-commercial influence of utopian Platonism and the disdain for profit-taking by the early Christians. Marxism and some of its variants are based on three myths: first, the idea that labor instantiates ownership in some kind of mystical relationship between the object and labor put into it, the so-called labor theory of value; second, that profits are “unearned” by owners and unjust surpluses in excess of a goods true value (so-called “surplus value”) that can be avoided through centralized pricing while achieving the same result in production and distribution; and third, that the value of goods can be based on an objective standard of reference.   In the final analysis, I believe in a mixed economy, and one that incorporates elements of both socialist and market-based acts. Keynes has shown that some macro-control is necessary to soften and smooth the business cycle and deficiencies of markets. Even Friedman's monetarism is in the final analysis a concession to Keynesian economics, insofar as controlling the money supply is a macroeconomic tool. 

In addition to my book on ethics, some of my other writings have been published in various magazines and journals, and until very recently I have continued to speak to business, civic, and academic groups on a number of topics–––ranging from Winston Churchill, science, politics, and economics to technical philosophy and mathematics. I have turned down some opportunities in the last several years, primarily because of a certain disdain for commercial travel and some health issues that have limited my mobility. I have also served on several boards as a director, and I have maintained a part of my family farm. Reading and writing have occupied much of my time, and aside from my work in philosophy, mainly in the area of ethics and epistemology, I have worked assiduously on certain problems related to the underlying mathematical structure of space-time, though without great success.  I was until recently the editor of a semi-academic journal, The Bulletin, put out by an international scholarly society devoted to the study of the great logician, philosopher, and activist, Bertrand Russell.  I have recently begun to write periodically for an online magazine, Liberal Resistance, which has as its current focus resistance to Trumpism qua fascism and the Republican Party. 

Since I can remember, I have been rather obsessive about putting my thoughts in writing; that, music, and mathematics are my principal therapies.  However, as I grow older, higher mathematics has become increasingly taxing. I wish I had done some of the work I am now doing when I was younger and brighter.  Some of my earliest writings consist of bad poetry.  I have no talent for fiction, though on occasion I have attempted it.  What I like to do is explain and analyze things, especially of a philosophical or scientific nature.  Other than some original syntheses of other people's ideas, I have done nothing particularly remarkable in my work, though I have landed on a few ways to simplify our understanding and practice of ethics, I think, and perhaps I have come up with a unique way of expressing Kantianism with (there’s an irony, here) a utilitarian bent.  If I have a talent in scholarship, it is in analyzing, understanding, and then expressing the ideas of others, with an occasional insight of my own.  I am also fascinated by the aesthetics of the English language:  its rhythms, its cadence, its sounds, and its power to inspire and illuminate. Few things are as elegant as a well-crafted sentence; I struggle to do what Shakespeare could do repeatedly and with apparent ease: write a perfect one.  Every once in a while I am pleased with something I write, but not very often.

At any given time I have a rather large "to do" list for reading, and I add something new only after fairly careful research of other sources.  Really, I have two lists: one for pleasure, another for my work.  I try not to deviate from my carefully devised plan, though occasionally, I'm able to overcome my minor obsessive-compulsive disorder and interrupt the plan when something new and very interesting comes along.  I read philosophy, mathematics, and science (physics) for my research and writing (and for my enjoyment, too, of course).  For more pure and less useful pleasure, I read biography, history, and economics.  I do need to read more fiction, which I've mostly abandoned since childhood.  In particular, I would like to re-read some classics and read some that I have not read. High on the list is the desire to re-read Dickens (I have first editions of all his major works!), my favorite author of fiction.  

I have been a registered Democrat since I first voted for George McGovern in 1972, though I've also voted for a few Libertarians, Republicans, and Independents over the years, but never for another party for national office, except one time, when I could not vote for Walter Mondale for president against George H.W. Bush.  I made a mistake, I believe, and I deeply regret not voting for him.  I have found much to dislike about the Dems, but I have become increasingly partisan in reaction to the modern Republican Party, which I now detest. It has been co-opted by zany religious people, corporate welfarists, and assorted unlettered people, and, as I write this, its current leader, Donald Trump, is an unadulterated fascist. No, he is not a proponent of any coherent ideology, as such (fascism is not particularly coherent or systematic in its outlook, anyway); but he incorporates all of the key requirements of fascism ––– among other things, the identification of his own person with the state; nativism and a victimology based on singling out enemies and threats based on group characteristics; and demagoguery coupled with a kind of magical thinking about both the past and future. The Republican Party has become an unholy alliance between the darkest kind of capitalism and a crypto-Confederacy that relies heavily on racial division and the grievances, some real, some imagined, of the white working class. 

One could put the economic knowledge of most politicians in a thimble, but the Republicans, in particular, have for too long benefited from the falsehood that they are good on economics because they represent commercial interests. Firstly, being a good businessperson is not the same as being a good economist, any more than a mechanic is an engineer or an engineer is a physicist. Secondly, nothing could be further from the truth that Republicans have excelled at economics, and it is empirically demonstrable by examining both markets and deficits over an extended period, historically. Republicans have in recent decades engaged in much fantasy on their foolish supply-side theories, and they confuse doing what is in the interest of the wealthy or particular businesses with doing what is good for the economy or for markets at large, not to mention the nation as a whole, where in fact they leave large swaths of people in relative privation. Indeed, their real claim for success is in marketing their point of view and definitely not finance writ large.  As I said earlier, most businesses fail, and doing business, even doing it very well, is not the same as understanding economics. As was proved by erstwhile businessmen and failed presidents Hoover, Carter, W. Bush, and Trump, that running the government is not remotely similar to running a business, that is, other than in superficial ways.  The incentives are entirely different, as they well should be. I do not want the forests or prison systems run for maximum profit, for example, for the former would require us to cut down more trees and the latter to house more "customers", that is, if we were to run them like businesses that for their success depend on sustainable growth and profit. 

With all that said, I have come to distrust government a great deal, indeed, institutions more generally, though they are at once socially necessary and unavoidable. And politicians of all stripes, people whose vocation is to tell others how to live, are highly suspect to me, notwithstanding their political views, even when they accord with my own. First and foremost, I am a proponent of liberty, freedom from restraint, and I accept democracy only reluctantly, for as Churchill said, it's the worst system possible except for the rest, and there is no good alternative.  I am suspicious of majoritarian rule. I am, I suppose, an elitist, despite what some might call a “white trash” upbringing. And the older I get, the more elitist I have become.  It is simply a fact that, on average, most people are not particularly bright, and I would prefer that they not be involved at all in arranging my life. With that said, I am also suspicious of smart people, particularly intellectuals who believe they know how others ought to live. Smart people are sometimes even more dangerous than more middling minds when they hold power, and we seldom know this beforehand, so there is little reason to trust them any more than we do their intellectual inferiors.  

Would-be philosopher kings and populist politicians have caused much more grief and destruction in history, especially in the last century, than any hereditary monarch. That is not an argument for monarchy, but an argument to not to take any system for granted as being perfect or foolproof. And while I am a non-believer and find regions of every kind altogether problematic, I am mindful of the fact that self-styled intellectuals who brought us the Soviet Union and the Peoples Republic of China, and some smaller like-minded states, were themselves atheists, dogmatically anti-religious, and enforced a policy of the same, yet brought more harm to more people in the last century than all the religions combined in the last 2000 years. One hopes, mostly, to get lucky with our leaders, and every once in a while, we do.  But it is probably a good thing that most politicians and presidents, on the whole, are of middling talents. Great men often entail great costs to the rest of us, as Will and Ariel Durant suggested in concluding their volume on Napoleon. 

Other than boxing, I've seldom followed sports. I would occasionally enjoy attending or watching on television games with my friends for social conviviality. I have had season tickets to various teams over the years, which I used for business purposes. However, I did enjoy participating in sports as a kid. Aside from being a decent swimmer and surfer, I played in Pop Warner football for several years, high school for one year, and in the Army I participated in intramural programs. I played at Ohlone College for part of a season, but I lost interest.  I was neither gifted nor inept in athletics; I was always able to hold my own. I never stayed anywhere or with anything long enough to excel at anything, other than Kung Fu, which I took up as a teenager in the Army, having been impressed by a Chinese soldier in my Basic Training platoon at Fort Lewis. Later in life I took up the Wing Chun method, a species of the many forms of Kung Fu originating in Southern China. Wing Chun’s most famous practitioner well known among martial arts cognoscenti was grandmaster Ip Man, but his renowned student, the actor Bruce Li, is better known to the general public.

I willed myself through teaching Wing Chun to my last private students such that it was not obvious to them, but it became increasingly clear to me that I was no longer up to the task of sparring with young men.  I started to bruise and bleed easily all over, especially on my arms, in part due to age, but also because of blood thinners. My balance was always very good until recently, so perhaps it is a result of the several pharmaceuticals I take, or maybe I have taken too many blows to the head. I was a firm believer in realistic and frequent sparring without head gear or protections other than a mouthpiece and a cup as a pedagogical method. It is important for a number of reasons, not least among them to accustom students to both to accept and to give pain. We do not inflict death blows or excruciating pain, mind you, but use just enough force to learn not to fear giving it or receiving it. It is vital for students to have the confidence that comes from it.  It will surprise many to know that giving pain is nearly as difficult for most as receiving it. It is not natural for normal humans to want to inflict pain on others, perhaps out of an underlying sense of empathy, a good quality overall, but not necessarily one for defending oneself against disability or death. Overcoming both fears is important.

Wing Chun is not a sport or intended for showing off. One of my former students was a boxer, and a good one. But he had to unlearn everything he had been taught, for boxing is a point-driven sport meant for competition and for audiences, not for real fighting. The structure and stance are all wrong, as are the punching techniques designed to earn points and geared around wearing large protective gloves, making the more efficient linear approach to Wing Chun impossible, and preventing the correct feel for detecting the moves of an opponent or training to receive or give pain. Wing Chun is not about points; it is about self-containment, confidence, balance and contentment in life, and discipline first and foremost–––and utterly disabling an opponent in exigent circumstances.  It is not for demonstrating one's prowess to the crowd. It is to be kept among Kung Fu practitioners, and its use outside of that is strictly for the purpose of protection in the most dire of circumstances. The true winner of a conflict is the one who can avoid it altogether.

I never gave much thought about physical fitness for its own sake or for its obvious health benefits.  I was always active as a youth, and things just seemed to take care of themselves. I was lucky to have a strong constitution and I didn't incur any obvious health problems. But relative torpor in my 30s took its toll on my physique, including the constant entertaining, drinking, and eating out that were part and parcel to my business, and especially after my river-rafting accident in 1989. I decided to correct this state of affairs after a difficult and prolonged bout with the flu. I figured that I wouldn't be able to survive such an illness in old-age, which had not arrived, but was definitely on the horizon. As a consequence, I embarked on a program of more rigorous exercise and calorie counting years ago, and I was able to regain control of my fundamentals.  

If I could have any one gift, I think it would be the gift of musicality. Artistic genius is probably what I admire the most among the varieties of human achievement, perhaps even more than mathematics and science. While science has prolonged our lives and gives us the means of understanding our world, other than family and friends, I think art is our finest achievement and what makes life most worth living.  While I love music, all the major genres, the fact of the matter is that I have no real musical talent.  As I mentioned earlier, I learned to play trumpet passably as a kid. I got to the point of being able to punch out a few Herb Alpert tunes. Having the ability to read music, I taught myself to play piano, and I could manage to get through some light classical pieces at the height of my powers.  I have a wonderful grand piano made by the longest surviving piano manufacturer in the world, Ibach, which made pianos for Beethoven.

I come now to the most important event in my life, which was the birth of my daughter, Anastasia Camille, in late 1989. Carol and I had waited until we were in our late thirties to have a child–––the good news being that we were well positioned economically and had many things out of the way, and the bad news being that it took longer than expected once we started trying to have a child. In the end, we had her the old-fashioned way, and without technological or pharmaceutical intervention–––and that occurred after we had basically stopped trying so hard. It was a difficult birth, as Carol had the worst of both worlds, a long labor followed by a C-Section. Anastasia had an infection and was stuck in the critical care unit at the hospital for two weeks before she could come home, which was especially hard on us. Carol spent every day at the hospital. But the infection went away, and we had a healthy, beautiful little girl. She was then, and remains, the most important thing in our lives. 

Anastasia was always a good girl ––– she did well in school, never got into trouble or caused us problems, was well mannered, and had several notable talents, not least of which is the ability to paint and draw and to write  fiction. My work schedule was hectic and involved a good deal of travel away from home, so I made it a point to have a date night each week with her.  For many years we had concert tickets to the local symphony orchestra. During the summer they'd perform at an outdoor bowl where the two of us would take a picnic dinner. Finally, at about 15, she allowed as how she needed to start going to rock concerts and ought not to be seen with her dad at one. Alas, my baby girl was growing up. She grew up in one place, Laguna Niguel, California, where Carol and I lived from 1986 until we moved to Colorado in mid-2011. She attended the University of Montana on an academic scholarship, and received her BA in history, with an emphasis in African American history. We were delighted when she returned home to us in Colorado and met a fine young man from Fort Collins, Craig Knoll, which kept her nearby. She eventually married him and they bought a house 20 minutes away from us.  I could not be more proud of what I helped to create, which is without question the greatest thing I have ever accomplished. 

It is statistically unavoidable that I am in the last period of my life. Like nearly everyone I know reaching a certain age, one becomes more nostalgic about the past and yearns to be closer to the family and friends that remain. I am no exception.  I remain very close to my sister Tami, who lives in San Diego, and who I hope might one day move to Colorado and be near me. I am good friends, too, with her husband of many years, Joe Desanti, a gregarious bon vivant, and a natural comedian, besides, and who has long been an executive in the food and beverage industry. Tami and I have had many shared experiences as kids and adults, and I am now the person who has known her the longest, our mother having passed away. Tami took charge of helping my parents in their final years after I had handled their affairs and supplemented their income for over 20 years. I ran out of steam towards the end, and aside from dad's growing complications from Alzheimer's, there were exacerbating factors, among them the time and difficulties involved in running my business. Shortly after we sold Four Star, we moved away to Colorado for our own retirement. Tami and Joe did a remarkable job of ensuring that both mom and dad lived comfortably and in a safe environment until their deaths, for which I am most grateful.  Outside of Carol and Anastasia, and along with Warren and Nicki, Tami and Joe are among the most important threads to my past, and they are central and very dear to my present. 
With the exception of Carole Cohen, my step sister with whom I remain close and in frequent contact, I am regrettably not as close to my other sisters, and I see them infrequently.  The last time we were all together was at my dad’s funeral.  The two youngest, Cherise and Heidi were small kids when I left home for the Army, so we were not raised together. Vicki and I were close when we were younger, but time, distance, and different outlooks have separated us.  We are all cordial and get along fine when we are together, but, sadly, I suspect I will not see them again.

Sometimes I think there are events in my life that have been stranger than fiction, and I marvel that some of them even occurred. One of the more unusual things in recent years is that I was actually the inspiration for a bit of fiction, "The Pope of Pontification," a short story written by my late mystery-writer friend and former colleague, Leon Barnes. The main character, based on me, is a consulting detective (in the tradition of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's smarter brother!) helping a more traditional gumshoe.  He plays the pivotal role in helping the latter to solve a murder case (without moving from his chair!) by rejecting the either/or logic of the law of the excluded middle, and by using the more indeterminate principles of so-called "fuzzy logic" in analyzing the evidence presented to him.  The piece was published in a collection of short stories, and Leon gave me a copy inscribed with a nice dedication, which I cherish.  

It is difficult to sum up one's life, but I think it might be accurate to say that I have had some dark moments, but many more bright ones, and throughout, my life has seldom been dull. Perhaps the banality of a humdrum, lackluster existence is what I have sought most to avoid.  I took a great many unnecessary risks earlier in my life, and I was lucky to have come through them all, mostly unscathed.  It is interesting how only in retrospect are we able to see the importance of events that seemed ordinary or unimportant when they first occurred. In my case, encountering the right people at the right time has made all the difference in the desirable outcomes in my life. I have been most fortunate when I think about the way things might have turned out. I have worked hard, but I have also had many lucky breaks. Successful people need to acknowledge that luck plays a very important part in outcomes ––– often enough, beginning with the simple matter of where and when one is born, something no one "deserves' by dint of effort or merit or because of some congenital moral deficiency or excellence. Being born a privileged white male in the US in 1952 was a pretty good start, that is, when it is compared to the lot of many millions born with nearly insurmountably bad odds before them.

I am much more content today, with relative stasis and more tractable levels of excitement than I was in my youth; yet, I continue to feel that I should have done more worthwhile things than I have done, which, I suppose, amounts to a kind of vanity. When I was younger, I had the idea that I ought to do something great for posterity, whether in business, politics, or an intellectual contribution of some kind. Alas, I have done nothing particularly memorable, that is, beyond helping some people achieve some of their life goals along the way in a business setting, and maybe setting forth one or two good ideas in my written work that might one day have an impact on greater minds than mine. Perhaps my most important life's accomplishment is being present and available during my daughter's formative years and seeing her grow into a wonderful, responsible adult, and which, in turn, will have its own salutary effects as she goes about her life. That's not a bad legacy. As for my competency as a parent, only she can really judge. Parenting is not something for which one can ever adequately prepare. But at the very least, I began with a pretty good idea about what not to do.  

I hope to write more one day. There is more to say. In the meantime, I'll close with this: we are more than the sum of our genes and experiences, for in the course of our lives we also make choices about the future as rational beings with a common-sense understanding of right and wrong, notwithstanding our baser inclinations or our antecedent experiences, and were these experiences for the better or for the worse. At some point, given a modicum of rationality, we own our lives, and we are solely responsible for our actions. The past need not be prologue, and we need not be slaves to our dispositions or desires. I cannot justify or excuse some of the things I've done, and I have no one to blame for them but myself.  If I could live my life over again I'd like to do some things very differently, that's for certain.  My biggest regret is that along the way I've hurt some people with bad behavior. I have endeavored to make up for that where I could. I've also had a full life and much of it has been rewarding.  I have been very lucky, to be sure, and, from time to time, and maybe more often than not, I should like to think I've also managed to do the right thing.