Puppy's Last Walk in the Park, October 16, 2019 by Bob Kaufman

Puppy and I went for a walk today, October 16, 2019. This was unlike the hundreds of other walks we took around Arrowhead Park in the past. Puppy went home two days ago.

Puppy's Doggy Tags

Today, I felt drawn to the idea to carry his dog tags around the long route we once walked at a brisk pace, but which we had to abandon several years ago because of his advancing age, declining energy, and quivering legs. Gradually we had cut back - first eliminating the circuit around the baseball fields, then the loop around the retention basin until all that he could bear was to walk around the pool and playground, and just barely so. Still, four days ago, our last Saturday morning walk, took longer than those early walks around the entire park.

Watch Out For That Drain!

Missing today were the plastic grocery bags I would carry to pick up puppy surprises he usually left in the dirt under a large cottonwood tree just past the northwest corner of the fenced-off Arrowhead Pool. Gone was my concern as we passed the gutter with openings that drain runoff water into the retention basin. Those drains were quite large enough to swallow even an overweight Long-haired Chihuahua. Also missing was the tinkling of his tags as they would do when he jumped the curb, or when he trotted along, constantly pulling at the leash, but more recently, just waddled along our trail…and, of course, missing was the incessant barking as we passed Randall’s house, which we did twice on every walk. I don’t think Randall knows yet it is safe to visit us again.

It has been twenty-three days since the big rain – the full measure of the summer monsoon on West Tyson Street that was confined to thirty minutes on September 23 between 5:00 and 5:30 a.m. I heard this was the fifth worst monsoon on record. Prior to 2008, the beginning of the Arizona Monsoon was determined to be when the average dew point temperature was 55 degrees or higher for three consecutive days. But then some important people determined that it would begin on June 15 and end on September 30. Too bad they cannot predict the weather as well as they seem to think they can control it simply with an edict. Actually...that isn't fair. They have become much better at forecasting than the stereotype given them in times past.

Arrowhead Meadows Water Retention Basin
And the Lower Trail

The pathways around the park were dry today. The trees and grass looked healthy, but somehow the color was not as vivid as I remember from past walks. The park looked tidier than a month or two ago. Branches from several decaying cottonwood trees had fallen to the ground in the summer winds, but recently, workers have been busy cleaning up and it looked good.

The pile of mulberry leaves in our front yard is just a memory. We lost that tree five years ago. Grandpa doesn’t have leaves anymore. Little Tommi, our newest granddaughter, born just a couple months ago, will never know the fun the older kids knew playing in Grandpa's leaves – and sadly, she will never know Grandpa's Puppy.

Arrowhead Pool Digital Timer

Today is Wednesday. Fall break is over and schools are back in session. Nobody was playing football in the basin, no umpire yelled "Batter Up!" on any of the four diamonds, the pickleball and tennis courts were silent, and there was no splashing, nobody taking laps in the pool, no divers. The pool was full of water but empty of swimmers, although the digital lap timer on the wall was ticking away as it has been 24/7 for as long as I can remember. One day maybe someone will repair the display so that the numbers will be readable again. Seems like missing lines that define the numbers is a common problem on scoreboards and clocks such as the one at the pool. Makes me wonder: “Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?"

A Party at the Ramada

Homeless Man Napping on the Grass

The park wasn’t completely silent. A homeless man was asleep on the grass in the shade of a large mulberry tree, with his bicycle and a bundle close beside him. If he was snoring, though, I was too far away to hear him. In the early years, Puppy would have heard him. A small group of party-goers was celebrating under one of the ramadas. From a distance I could see that food was involved and there were decorations on the tables, but no balloons. I was curious what food had been prepared – not sure if it was a late breakfast or early lunch. Must have been a brunch. Since my smeller is no longer functioning, I could not get a whiff of what they were having. It isn’t a total loss. I can still taste sweet and salty.

A city parks worker was washing down the tennis courts with a hose and a middle-aged man and woman appeared to have discovered the courts for the first time. They walked inside the gate to check it out but they were not dressed to play. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I had the impression they thought of coming back when they were dressed differently. Thinking they looked middle-aged brought to my mind the episode of “Happy Days” when Howard Cunningham turned fifty and was finally "middle-aged", according to The Fonz…but that’s another story.

Another man in his fifties, I’d guess, passed by me from behind at a brisk pace. He was wearing shorts and ear buds and appeared to be serious about fitness. A young woman wearing wrap-around dark glasses, a black hoodie, and headphones walked within two feet of me from the opposite direction. With her head slightly bowed and her cell phone in the familiar vertical position peculiar to this day and age, she did not respond when I said “good morning” … and she never looked up. Lucky for her Killer wasn’t there to bark her leg off.

The Playground

At the playground, three young mothers were pushing some little ones in the swings and a few other children were playing under the canopy. A man was watching another child on the slide. Usually one of those little ones at the swings would scamper across the wood chips covering the play area and want to pet Puppy. Or else, they would appear interested but reticent, holding on to mommy's leg - but today I doubt they even noticed when we passed by. Only the usual sounds were floating in the gentle breeze – the delightful melodies of children at play. Missing were their curious questions or exclamations:

“Does your dog bite?”
“Oh, mommy, look at the cute puppy!”

The Walk Between the Pool and Tennis and Pickleball Courts

“Can I pet your dog?”
“I like your dog.”
“What’s his name?”

To the last one, I always answered: “His name is Spock, like the pointy-eared guy on Star Trek, but I call him Puppy, or Killer when I want to scare someone.” That was usually followed by: “Oh, how cute”, but only if I left off the Killer part. The name thing is another story, and I have already written part of it.

Artist's Canvas

All around the park, there were signs of life but little other activity. The old cottonwood tree by the playground still displays the image of a dancer, quite skillfully drawn by an unknown artist who, in my humble opinion, definitely has a gift. It hasn’t been there long – maybe since the beginning of summer, but not much longer. A couple other irreverent artists have recently tagged the sidewalk nearby, and possibly a budding Degas or Da Vinci have recently used the sidewalk near the east baseball field as a canvas for their chalk drawings. But then again, it just might have been a couple of youngsters who came to watch a T-Ball game last weekend.

Remnants of the concrete mile-markers from Andrew Van Allen’s Eagle Project of 1993 are still standing along the course around the scarcely-used water retention basin. I’m relying on a fading memory for that date. The markers have weathered significantly in twenty-six years and probably won’t survive to the age of Stonehenge, or even Manhattanhenge, but they will remain awhile longer as a monument to a young man’s diligent efforts to earn scouting’s highest award.  The city has since upgraded the Lower Path and installed new ramadas and light poles around the basin.

Andrew Van Allen's Eagle Project
Mileage Marker

Strategically posted signs clearly outline the rules for using the park. By the entrance to the third base side of the east field, the signs clearly warned: “NO dogs allowed on ball fields” and “No metal cleats on mound”. I was wearing my Sketchers, and there was nothing posted anywhere prohibiting dog tags on the field. I think there should have been a sign saying: “Put your blasted sunflower seed shells in the trash, SLOB!” But there wasn’t one of those signs either.

No Dogs Allowed

Close to the pool on Erie Street, the trimmed Mexican Petunia bush has grown a bit since Puppy spent nearly two minutes sniffing around it Saturday morning. I think it was his way of catching a breather. Alone, I crossed the completely unshaded parking lot where I often would pick him up and carry him if he was too tired or if it was too hot.

Doggy Tags Permitted

Looking both ways out of a long-established habit I crossed the street and headed home. Saturday, a considerate motorist had slowed even more than the Speed Humps signs suggest allowing us safe crossing. Today the street was vacant. Across the street, I noticed again some trash in the oleander bushes by the corner house. Park visitors seem to dump there a lot. I have often thought to get one of those long grabby thingy’s and some plastic gloves and use Puppy’s unused plastic grocery bag (I always carried two), to pick up the trash, but never seem to think about it except when I pass by.

On the home stretch, I saw four pigeons perched atop the street light. As I drew closer I made my normal loud whishing sound and waved my arms to scare them off. Still, the sidewalk is always a mess for me to clean. I would prefer scooping doggy doo in the back yard. But that’s gone too.

At the threshold to the front door, Saturday he paused as he always did for the last few years, getting ready to make the jump into the living room. As he did, I always said “Good Boy!”, and gave him a treat after removing his leash. I sure do miss that!

The Puppy Song

The Pickleball Court

Arrowhead Pool

The Dancer

Once upon a time, we would continue straight ahead at this intersection.
Lately, we would turn left, greatly shortening our walk.

Dogs Are Welcome

The Hot Parking Lot

Erie Street East

Erie Street West

Mexican Petunias by the Pool

Puppy's Dumping Ground on the Right

Slow Down for Speed Humps (and Puppy)

The Home Stretch

Pigeons

Puppy's Dog Tags and Walking Collar

The Daring Rescue at Squaw Queen Creek by Bob Kaufman

I remember vividly the moment I saved Glenn Hull’s life. Everything else that day is just a blur.

1965 Basketball

Glenn was unquestionably the best all-around athlete in the class of 1966. A few guys might argue that point, but they’d lose. Being the best in Portola isn’t necessarily saying a lot, but if I recall correctly, Glenn did have some success after high school. While he wore the PHS Tigers uniform, he played football, basketball, baseball, and track all four years. He was a four-year letterman and a Feather River League Allstar in football both our Junior and Senior years.

According to the program for the Westwood basketball game, January 22, 1966, Glenn stood 6’2” tall – nothing remarkable, but he had long arms and a vertical leap better than anyone around. He could hold his own on the basketball court with opponents from Quincy and Greenville who boasted a towering 6’8” on the event programs. Sometimes they fudged the numbers a bit, I think, trying to get into our heads, but these guys looked every bit that tall, or taller. That was especially true of a couple of games where Glenn was suspended and I, John Hein, and a few other sub-six-footers were called on to play center for the Tigers. I saw a clip once showing a tall giant of a guy, standing flat-footed, holding a basketball in one hand with his arm straight up, and five little guys running around, trying in vain to jump and take it away. We were those little guys. To say it was hopeless is an understatement!

Fall 1965 Football

Glenn was a pretty nice guy…most of the time, but he chose to be ornery on occasion. For mouthing off to Coach Wise near the end of football, he was suspended at the beginning of our final Varsity Basketball season. After losing the first four games by a combined score of 246 to 152, including back to back games against the Quincy Trojans who outscored us by 57 points (remember the 6’8” giant?), Bob Hurd and I cornered Glenn and persuaded (begged) him to apologize to Coach so he could come back and try to salvage our season. Glenn capitulated and apologized. In the remaining 14 games he averaged 22 points and 16 rebounds per game to lead the team. Even with Glenn on the roster, though, we were small. Coach Donnenwirth’s parting words in the Pineneedle were: “The team was lacking in height but not in spirit as it turned in many outstanding efforts during the season.” That’s how coaches sugarcoat a 4 and 14 season. What he really meant was we got our rear ends kicked, but we tried hard.

And that's not all he said. He closed his message by saying "Six seniors will be departing from the present team, but the juniors showed great improvement during the season and should form the nucleus of a contending ball club for next year." Dang, I hate it when they say "Wait till next year." Thanks a lot, coach. For us there wasn't a next year!

1966 Basketball

Glenn’s orneriness didn’t stop at badmouthing Coach. He knew I always wanted to wear jersey number 14, no matter what sport. I was born on the 14th, and somewhere along the way, 14 became MY number. I managed to get it for football and basketball that year, but before the start of baseball season, when Coach Cimaglia was handing out uniforms in the boys’ locker room, Glenn muscled his way ahead of me in the line and deliberately grabbed number 14 before I could get it. Now, mind you, I had no sense of entitlement in the matter. He did it just for spite and wouldn’t give in when I tried to persuade (begged) him to trade with me. So, for baseball, I wore number 15. I’m still mad at him about that – maybe…. Come to think of it, most likely, I was able to wear number 14 for basketball because of his suspension – maybe….

I saved Glenn’s life, and for that, I had to wear number 15! Is there no justice in the world?

Well…perhaps there is. It’s time to rewind the video tape.

The Daring Rescue at Squaw Queen Creek happened four years earlier, near the end of the eighth grade, before any of us superstars in the class of 1966 took the fields, stormed the court, or ran the track in a Tigers uniform. Notwithstanding his athletic prowess in high school, in the eighth grade, Glenn could not swim. Completely in character with his machismo, he would never admit that to any of us guys. But then one day, in the heat of battle, we discovered Glenn’s Achilles Heel was aquatics.

Our eighth-grade band class was a wonder to behold. We boys made for an interesting ensemble:  Bob Hurd (aka "Turo"), Pete Thill, and Glenn Hull – Trombone; Rory Luce – Tuba; Stan Ghidossi (aka “Bugs”) – Baritone Horn; Bob Kaufman – Clarinet. I think I was the black sheep in that group of brass players.

Our music teacher, Mr. Ivan Thompson, who also taught seventh and eighth grade English, had a tradition of taking the boys from eighth-grade band class on a camping trip out in the wilderness – without our instruments. Notwithstanding our instrument-less-ness, we took our vocal cords wherever we went and made good use of them riding through Clover Valley in the back of Mr. T’s pickup singing:

“I got a gal named Bony Maroney.
She’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni.
Oughta see her rock and roll with her blue jeans on.
She’s not very fat, just skin and bones.
But I love her, and she loves me,
And oh, how happy now we can be
Makin’ love underneath the apple tree.”

I Got a Gal Named Boney Maroney, by Sha-na-na

Glenn Hull, Class of 1966

Yeah. Glenn taught us that song. Can you imagine six eighth-grade boys riding through the woods in the bed of a pickup truck singing that one? Better that than dancing to it with a girl at a sock hop. That gig didn’t launch any stellar music careers, but a half-century later, I did make it to the grand stage in Carnegie Hall…but that’s another story.

On Squaw Queen Creek, somewhere before the confluence with Little Last Chance Creek, was a swimming hole, guarded on every side by the tall willow bushes that grow along all the creeks and rivers up home. We once played a basketball game in Westwood where the court was so short the top of the Free Throw Circle was only a couple feet from the mid-court line. This swimming hole was no more than half the size of that half court.

On the west end of the swimming hole was a huge round boulder, protruding high enough above the water to make a small diving platform, but low enough that you could almost sit and dangle your feet in the water. There might have been a small patch of wild grass on the side of the creek, but at best, it was a soggy bog. The only sure way to exit the swimming hole was to climb up the rock. It wasn’t much of a climb, but it was slippery when wet and only had a few handholds we could use to pull ourselves up and out of the water. Three or four boys could sit on that rock and just barely bump elbows. I don’t know how high Glenn could reach in a vertical leap in the eighth grade. None of us had yet finished growing, but that swimming hole was deeper than that – deeper still by the height of one more thirteen-year-old. I know because many years later, Turo told me so. The water was dark and murky. I was only able to see a couple of feet below the surface.

To get to Squaw Queen Creek, we had to drive to Beckwourth, then take the Beckwourth to Genesee Road up to Clover Valley, cross over into Dixie Valley for a few miles and then hang a left to follow Squaw Queen Creek into Squaw Valley (not ‘the’ Squaw Valley loved by skiers). It might have been 25 to 30 miles away from town, but it was all dirt roads from just a few miles north of Beckwourth. I’m sure driving time was an hour or so, especially with boys in the bed of the pickup. It was a remote area. Still is today. It was the perfect place to get away, if nothing went wrong.

There we were on that rock – Glenn, Turo, me, and a couple others. Given that Rory, Pete, and Bugs were the only other candidates, it should be easy, but I simply do not remember who else was there.  Somebody asked if we all could swim. Everyone answered yes. A couple guys jumped in followed by Glenn. Suddenly the water was splashing and churning like it was full of piranha on a feeding frenzy! Glenn’s arms were flailing around as he tried to get his head back above water. The only other time I remember his arms waiving around so vigorously was during the 1965 Quincy football game when he was open in the pass pattern, but our QB, Mike Nally, was desperately trying to run away from a couple of Quincy’s defensive lineman and ended up with a mouthful of grass and a ten yard loss right in front of our bench – and a screaming Coach Wise.

The noise around the swimming hole was almost as loud as Coach’s screaming. During the commotion, Turo jumped in. I stayed on the rock, trying, but failing to grab hold of Glenn’s arm. Turo disappeared into the turbulent water for what was probably only fifteen seconds or so but seemed longer than one of Mr. T’s English classes.  His arms still flailing, Glenn drifted closer to the rock, and his head popped above the water. My reflexes were too slow for me to catch his arm, and his hair was just too short. In desperation, still having not seen Turo come up, with my right hand, I clinched Glenn’s ear! Holding on for dear life (not sure whose), it must have been enough to keep him safe until the others could get out of the water and help pull him up.

Pete Thill, Glenn Hull, Glenn Schwartz

Hearing Hurd tell the story decades later, one would think he thought he was the hero. I mean, he said he jumped in, but Glenn grabbed him and was pulling him under. With considerable effort he managed to break free from Glenn’s grasp. He sunk down, and standing on the bottom, he  grabbed Glenn’s legs and started pushing him up and toward the rock. All I remember is my hand clutching Glenn’s ear…and then singing Boney Maroney in the back of Mr. T's pickup the next afternoon. Everything in the middle is gone. But, I can still see Glenn’s face while we were singing. When he was being goofy, we all had a lot of fun!

Forty-five years later, at our 40th class reunion in the Log Cabin, Hurd and I were joking with Glenn about the rescue. He said he did remember the event, and in his goofy way said, "Yeah, and I haven't been swimming since!"

A few years ago, during a reunion as several of us gathered around a fire to reminisce, in the clear night air at River’s Edge RV Park in Clio, under the canopy of his trailer, Hurd said there was one casualty that fateful weekend. As he told it, a few hours after his daring rescue, we were all laying around the campfire in our sleeping bags when a lizard scampered toward the fire, jumped in, and was burned to a crisp. Sadly, that image did not stick in my memory. If my brain had been able to retain three images instead of two, definitely I would have wanted the third to be the fire-roasted lizard.

Great Hands, Bob! by Bob Kaufman

Google "great hands" and you'll quickly find a list of web links and an array of images depicting a variety of seemingly unrelated topics: physical massage, tattoos, potter's wheels, football, baseball and basketball players doing their thing, and even a hockey player picking his nose.  If "ball" is anywhere in the name of a sport, the successful players must have good hands. The superstars have great hands.

T-38 Flight Line, Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

T-38 In the Overhead Traffic Pattern,
Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

During my days in the cockpit, the best pilots were sometimes called "good sticks" referring to the stick we held in our right hand to control every movement of the aircraft. With throttles in our left hand and the stick in our right hand, it was also said of those who were the best pilots, usually with some envy, "he has great hands".  I was first in my class of 70 or so student pilots for most of our year in training. When our follow-on assignments came near the end of training, I had earned first choice. I graduated 4th in my class...but that's another story.

I had pretty good hands.

Capt. Bob Kaufman, Boomer Flight IP,
Williams AFB, Arizona 1974

On the other hand, there was "ham hands".  Walking through the hallway of the T-38 squadron building one day I observed a small crowd of student pilots listening to one of their comrades telling a "war" story about his heroics during the mission he had just completed. While performing a routine entry to the overhead traffic pattern - a maneuver that required a simple, level 60-degree bank turn to line up with the runway at an altitude of 1500 feet AGL (above ground level) at a comfortable 280 knots airspeed - this magnificent young airman somehow rolled his flying machine inverted (upside down), crossed through the final approach corridors of two active, parallel runways and almost "bought the farm" in a cotton field a few miles southeast of the runway.  Miraculously, ham hands recovered from his very unusual attitude, crossed back through the other traffic on his return to the prescribed pattern, and eventually landed safely and lived to recount his heroics to his fellow students in the snack bar. During his heroic narrative he used the phrase "great hands" in reference to his safe recovery.  Its a wonder how he didn't break his arm patting himself on the back. I was not his IP (instructor pilot) so I bit my tongue and walked away.  Discounting possible mechanical failure, only the worst of pilots could ever get such an unusual attitude in a perfectly good airplane. Nah, that’s too nice. I can’t imagine how even the worst stick could do it. This guy was awfully @#^$%* lucky! (Colorful military metaphor censored!)

So, there I was, in right field, Spring 1965, my junior year in high school playing for the PHS Tigers baseball team.  That was a few years after they had completed the new football field which is now called Coach Bob Wise Memorial Stadium.  The old football field would later become the baseball field, but at that time we did not have a suitable baseball field anywhere in town.  Instead, for home games we rode the bus to Graeagle and played on the gravel field surrounded by Tomahawk Trail, just up the hill from highway 89 in the middle of town. (Later I mention the "dugouts" at that field, but they were no more than telephone poles, laid horizontally on some footings, which we seldom used because, frankly, they hurt our butts!)

Portola Tigers High School Baseball Team, Spring 1965
Graeagle Baseball Field
1965 Pineneedle

Bunky Brown played center field.  He had the strongest arm of anyone in the county and his skill at the plate was everything you would want in a strong center fielder.  On the other hand, my ninety-eight pound weakling arm had improved just a little…very little, from Little League…but I had quick feet, good judgement, and quick responses so I was able to cover a lot of ground and run down some tough fly balls. I wanted to play center field but nobody was going to replace Bunky until he graduated. (I did make to center field in 1966!)

Mr. Cimaglia's Coach's Message in the 1965 Pineneedle said:  "The outfield was manned by Brown, Grant and Fisher".  They were all seniors.  But I must have done something right because coach also said: "The 1965 baseball season can be summarized in the score:  Portola 2, Lassen 0.  The Tigers beat Lassen in the last game of the year to knock the Grizzlies out of first place.  Stalwart pitcher Ed Cavaille performed masterfully on the mound.  Portola scored on consecutive hits by Nally, Kaufman, Hull, and Ed Cavaille."
(Mr. Cimaglia always called me "Coffee" or maybe it was "Kaufee". However you spell it, I really liked that.)

Coach Armando "Mando" Cimaglia's Message
1965 Pineneedle

Make a note of that.  It is in print for all to see.  I actually contributed to the most important game of
that year...but this story is about the Greenville game.  We were scalped by the Indians 14 - 7.

In one of the late innings, Greenville had two out and I think a couple of men on base.  Their batter hit a routine fly ball to shallow right field...and it would have been a routine catch not worthy of being mentioned ever again except that, belying my previous statement about good judgement, at first, I started moving to my left and back.  Then I realized the ball was going to drop well in front of me. Quickly I dug in with my left foot, changed course, and scrambled forward.  At the last instant, with both arms outstretched, I dove head-first onto the gravel, landing on my forearms, kicking up a cloud of dust like an Arizona monsoon.  I closed my glove a split second early and the ball landed on the crease between my thumb and fingers.  Because I was engulfed in that cloud of dust, absolutely no one at the field but me knows for sure what happened. However, the umpire, showing somewhat uncharacteristic good judgement, (something umpires seldom do when you're losing), ruled it was an out.

I trotted toward our "dugout" on the third base side, passing the first base dugout where the Indians were on the warpath, whooping and hollering and complaining they had been cheated out of a few more runs...as if 14 to 7 wasn’t enough of a massacre. You would have thought the game was on the line by their reaction.  All the Tigers had to say was "Great hands, Bob!" (A few might have said “great catch”, but that wouldn’t fit the story, so I’ll pretend I’m right.)

Truthfully, it was a catch.  The ball never hit the ground.  Instant replay would not have overturned that call. Just like that ball stuck in the crease of my glove, that mental image of the ball resting there has stuck in my memory for more than fifty years!

The next day in Mr. Rowden's math class, I sat with my elbows on the desk and both hands in the air, like a doctor waiting for his assistant to put on his surgical gloves, to keep my scarred and scabbed forearms off the desk.  Oblivious to my heroic play the previous day he said something totally in character like: "What happened?  Did you trip going down the stairs?"  Didn't he know he was in the presence of a superstar with great hands?

I don’t know if I had a girlfriend at the time.  I hardly did, ever, so probably not.  But if I did, she would have been impressed even if Mr. Rowden wasn’t.  And she would not have known that I was a hero, basking in my fifteen seconds of fame, only because I misjudged a routine fly ball...and I certainly wasn’t about to admit it!

I'm From Portola. Period! by Bob Kaufman

On June 2, 2010 at Comerica Park in Detroit, Michigan, Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga became the 21st pitcher in Major League history to throw a perfect game...almost.   Galarraga retired the first 26 Cleveland Indians batters he faced and needed only one more out to achieve perfection. The Indians’ 27th batter was Jason Donald. With the count at 1-1, Donald hit a routine ground ball to second base. It looked like an easy out. Galarraga circled toward first base to take the throw, but his bid for baseball immortality failed when first base umpire Jim Joyce, arms flying out to each side as if he had just attacked two invisible assailants with sideways karate chops, signaled that Donald was safe at first base.  I was watching the game live on TV and could see clearly that Donald was out by half a stride.  Everybody in the world knew it.  I wasn't a Tigers fan but who wouldn't cheer for someone who had just thrown a perfect game?  I started to cheer and stopped midway when Joyce signaled "safe", almost straining some critical muscles in the aborted effort.  Galarraga did everything necessary to earn the glory but instead finished with a one-hit shutout in a 3–0 victory.  He faced 28 batters and threw just 88 pitches, 67 strikes and 21 balls, striking out three batters.  That game is sometimes referred to as the "Imperfect Game."

Amando Galarraga's Imperfect Game
The Imperfect Game - Longer Version

Rather than achieving every pitcher's dream, Gallaraga's otherwise perfect achievement is just a footnote in baseball history.  If ever he tells his grandchildren about it, he can't just say "I pitched a perfect game." He is forever consigned to adding a footnote to explain what really happened.  Invariably that will open a lengthy conversation that will interest absolutely nobody.

I HATE FOONOTES!

The intersection of Gulling Street and Highway 40A, 1952.
Photo by Alice Olinghouse (Walker), PHS Class of 1967

When I left home in September 1966 to begin my first year of college, I quickly learned that "Portola, California" as an answer to "where are you from" is an incomplete statement without a footnote.  Sometimes I wished I had grown up in San Francisco, or better yet, Los Angeles.  I envied those who could simply answer: "L.A." It is so compact, efficient and complete! You don't have to say another word after that.  On the other hand, "I'm from Portola" must always be followed by "It's about 50 miles northwest of Reno.” … "No.  You're thinking of Portola Valley.  That's in the Bay Area on the peninsula near San Francisco where there's fog, smog, congestion and lots of weird people.  My hometown is in the mountains on the east side of the state where the air and water are clean and pure, everybody knows everybody else and we don't even have a stop light in town.  In fact we could leave home, forget to lock the doors and return to find everything just as we left it...except if we left the water running on the lawn, a neighbor surely would have turned it off before it started running down the street."

But who would be interested in that?

Portola's Traffic Light
Portola Reporter Photo, 2004

Somebody did “borrow” my sister’s car one night when she left it running in front of the Portola Theater for a minute or two, and went in to help Jolene, who was taken ill.  When Carol went back out of the theater, her car was nowhere in sight. An hour or so later, it mysteriously showed up half a block down the street from our house, with a little less gas than when it disappeared.  Even car thieves in my hometown could be trusted not to do any real harm!

Beyond that one-car-theft incident, any attempt to compare Portola with a big city is complete balderdash at best, and at worst, an insult to the proud country folk who lived and grew up there.

In 2004, thirty-eight years after I left home for the city, they ruined everything and finally put a stop light at the intersection of Gulling Street and the highway, right smack dab in the middle of the north side of town…but that’s another story.

A few years ago, I learned that my grandfather - dad's natural father who I never met, who last contacted the family in the mid 40's some twenty or so years after he first disappeared - died near Los Angeles in 1953 when I was barely five years old.  If life had turned out differently, I might have lived near him and could have realized my dream of being able to say, "I'm from L.A." Period!

With my luck, the next question would have been "Which part?"

Face by Bob Kaufman

Face was a southpaw, but he wasn't an athlete, so we'll just say he was left handed.

He was a pretty good-looking guy with strong facial features and thick, dark, wavy hair.  I can't imagine he liked that nickname and I have no idea why Willie Ghidossi pinned it on him, except maybe because of those strong features.  But getting a less-than-flattering nickname comes with the territory when you're a new kid in town and you're not a sports superstar. Willie was always doing things like that, when he wasn't throwing me into the sticker bush by the front steps to the high school.

The only credit listed with Face's senior picture in the 1965 Pineneedle, our school yearbook was "PHS-2,3,4, transfer from McGregor, Texas", meaning that he attended PHS for his sophomore, junior and senior years and didn't do much else to stand out from the crowd.  Contrast that list of accomplishments with any of his classmates – Dan Fisher for example: “PHS-1,2,3,4; Block P-1,2,3,4; Football-1,3,4; Basketball-1,2,4; Baseball-1,3,4; Track-1,2,3,4; Student Council-1,4; Chico Student Leaders Conference-4; Class President-2; School Play-4;” and you can see why he was an easy target for some high school antics.  But as I remember, Face was a good-natured, gentle, and kind sort of a guy. It was difficult not to like him. I cannot recall ever hearing him say an unkind word about anyone.

For three years we walked the same hallways and even had a class or two together. Surely, we must have bumped shoulders in a crowded hallway once or twice between classes, although I remember none of it.  But then one day, in 5th period PE class, we spent a few minutes separated by little more than the length of his lanky left arm, which might have been an inch or so longer than mine. That day when we shared almost the same space and time was most likely his fifteen minutes of athletic fame in those three years, maybe even in all of his life.

The Old Gym at Portola High School
I believe this is a Bertha Miller photo
Courtesy of Carrie Neely

Boxing was one sport we experienced in PE, like it or not.  I didn’t care much for it.  During those long winter months when we played indoors, the most fun I ever had was playing pin baseball or dodge ball in the old gym...but that's another story.  Coach made certain we had a wide range of activities in our physical education and that meant we spent a week or two pounding on each other's bodies and faces if we wanted a passing grade.  And, of course, to NOT pass PE would be a disgrace worse than … well I can't think of anything that ranks in the same universe as failing PE, so we boxed a little. Strange how I feared taking a punch in the face more than using any part of my body to stop a 90 mile an hour volleyball thrown at close range by Willie, Dan, or Bunky Brown in a dodge ball game...but I did.

Taken at a home a block east of ours on
Plumas Street. I don't know the kid on the right.

Face and I were paired up for a boxing match in our 5th period PE class in the old gym. I was sort of an athlete, so I guess Coach figured it was fair for me to face an upperclassman that wasn't. He was older, taller, gentle, and nice.  I was macho and mean (right!).  I competed in football, basketball, baseball and track so I guess it was an even match.  At least I had had some experience with physical contact in a less-than-friendly environment.  I finally had outgrown my ninety-eight-pound weakling stereotype.  I must have been a whopping 120 pounds by then.  In short, I think Face was the underdog in this bout, or at least he was the emotional favorite.

We both had to wear the leather boxer’s headgear to prevent any serious injury.  In hindsight, that probably presented a greater danger to our health.  If you could sequence the DNA that had been sweated into those head protectors and boxing gloves over the years, you’d get an interesting list of who’s who from PHS in the 50’s and 60’s.  The smell of the gloves was unforgettable, and remarkably pleasant.

My first time being knocked down.
I think the chicken tripped me.

Face and I went a round or two without doing much harm to one another. But then, in the third round, Face poked at me with a right jab  and I leaned back to avoid contact.

Now, remember he was left handed and I was right handed. He danced like a butterfly with his right foot forward and jabbed with his right hand, saving his powerful left hand for the knockout punch.

I, on the other hand, stung like a bee leading with my left hand and my left foot forward. That's easy to understand. Right?

Face threw a right jab, I ducked back. I don't remember feeling any contact with my face.  If his glove touched me at all, it was completely in character with his gentle nature. Without the benefit of instant replay, I’m sure all the guys watching the match would swear he landed a punch squarely on my only-slightly-experienced-if-not-completely-unexercised-kisser.

As I tried to step back, he stepped on my left foot with his right foot.  Instantly I stumbled backward out of control.  I think it had something to do with the concept of center of gravity that Mr. Popish had taught us in 4th period Physics class just before our lunch break earlier that day.

Philip Cook
1965 Pineneedle

I stumbled backward several steps trying to regain my balance. Unable to get my feet back under me I finally went down flat on my back on the hardwood floor and just missed hitting my head on the padded wall under the basketball backboard. My feet flew over my head and I almost could have done a backward handstand against the wall. But, regaining control, I did a kip up to get back on my feet, just as Coach had taught us in gymnastics. Everybody cheered for Face and I was the unfortunate goat!  That “knock down” was a real crowd pleaser!

I have been “knocked down” only twice in my life that I can remember.  This was the second time.  Immediately I jumped to my feet and tried to explain what really happened, but nobody would have any part of it. The most unlikely athlete had just scored a knock down and that was a better story.  I don't think it made the next edition of “el Tigre”, the school newspaper, but I'm pretty sure the news echoed around the halls for a few days.  “Philip, ‘The Face’ Cook scores TKO against Bobby ‘Bad Boy’ Kaufman in 5th period PE!”  (Nobody ever called me ‘Bad Boy’.  I just made that up. After all, this is a boxing story.)

Philip Cook and his twin sister, Lai Launi were two pretty fine people from the class of 1965. I don't know when or if Willie ever stopped calling him Face, but if he did, I’m pretty sure it was right after he scored that knockdown in 5th period PE class.

Bugs by Bob Kaufman

My good friend, Bugs.

Stan Ghidossi (pronounced “Gid – oh – see with emphasis on the “oh”) is one of a handful of my classmates that attended Portola schools all 13 years from Kindergarten to High School Graduation.  He isn’t in my Kindergarten class picture, but I know he was there that year.  I will never forget the day he raised his hand to get permission to go to the little boy’s room.  I don’t remember if he raised one finger or two, but I know we all laughed when he went through the wrong door and entered the girl’s restroom.  We laughed even harder when he came out. What kindergartner wouldn’t get a laugh out of that?  The restroom doors were in plain view next to the classroom, so we could see everyone coming…and going…so to speak.

I don’t remember how he got the nickname “Bugs”, but I envied him a little for it.  It was a perfect nickname, especially for a kid growing up in a small mountain town.  I mean, if guy yells “Hey, Bugs”, everybody knows immediately who he’s talking to.  Say “Hey, Bob”, and fifteen guys turn around and say “huh?”  Maybe he got the name because he was a little smaller than the rest of us or it might have been a reference to Bugs Bunny.  Whatever the reason, he was Stan to most people, but he will always be Bugs to me.

Bugs’ older brother, Willie, was a year ahead of us in school.  Whatever Bugs gave up in size, Willie made up, and then some.  He made 7th grade a nightmare for me.  From the very first day I tried to enter the front doors of the old high school at the end of California street, I became intimately acquainted with the sticker bush at the bottom of the stairs at the main entrance, courtesy of Bugs’ big brother.  I suppose it would be called bullying today, but back then, it was just part of Junior High School initiation.  I wouldn't call Willie a bully. He was just a big guy who liked to have fun...but he scared me for a long time.

The Old Dam Caddy Corner from Bugs' and Willie's House.
Photo Credit: Unknown

Bugs and Willie lived in the yellow house at the corner of Riverside and North Beckwith streets, caddy-corner to the old bridge and the dam that blocked the Feather River, creating the best ice skating rink in the world…but that’s another story.  How lucky was that?  He could go ice skating anytime he wanted – in the winter anyway – just by crossing the street!

Bugs' Jump Shot
1966 Pineneedle

Bugs was one of the best guards Portola basketball teams ever had, at least during the few years that I played.  I know we had fun on the bus traveling to and from the away games at Greenville, Chester, Herlong, and other such exotic destinations, all schools in the Feather River League. But my best memories of our times together were those we spent in the band room.

Bugs played a baritone horn in the Concert Band and I played clarinet.  Together with Bob Hurd, Pete Thill, and Glenn Hull on trombone, and Rory Luce on the Tuba we had a pretty good ensemble, especially in 7th and 8th grade band. OK.  I’m stretching the truth again.  On the days we spent time in the practice rooms adjacent to the main band room, I’m sure we were girl watching more than we were practicing our music.  You see, some of the practice rooms had windows facing the outdoor entrance to the girls’ locker room, and when the boys had band and shop class, the girls had P.E.   Get the picture?

Bugs was good on the baritone, but he was best known for his skills on the piano.  He was the pianist for the Dance Band for four years from 1963-1966. That first year I was not a performing member of the Dance Band. Mr. Thompson asked me to play the Baritone Sax in evening rehearsals, but I did not play at any gigs.  I didn't mind though. I would jump at any chance I had to play the bari sax. Sometimes the vibration in the mouthpiece from the lower notes would tickle my lips and nose, but it created a cool sound. The next three years I was a performing member playing the tenor and alto sax.

Bugs playing the Baritone.
1966 Pineneedle

We rehearsed either on Tuesday or Thursday nights from 7 to 9 PM.  That made for some long days when we had football or basketball practice after school.  Before we turned 16 and got our drivers licenses, Bugs and I had the best time walking home after rehearsals.  We both loved those good old Neil Sedaka songs from the sixties. You haven’t lived if you’ve never walked down Nevada street at 9 o’clock at night singing at a fortississimo "Do-do-do down doobie-do-down-down, com-a com-a down doobie-do-down-down.  Breaking up is hard to-oo-oo do."?  We had the lungs to do it, and the fog from our warm breath hitting the crisp night air turned into snow that blanketed the town the next morning! OK. I suppose we weren't filled with that much hot air, but once or twice during those years, we must have annoyed the Olsen’s, Rees’s, Ayoob’s, and a few others in the neighborhood with our late night crooning!

Dance Band.
1966 Pineneedle

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do by Neil Sedaka

As good as Bugs was as a singer, his forte was the piano.  He could tickle the ivories better than anyone I knew. No, wait. I forgot about Norma Peterson, but she was a grown up, so that doesn't count – and oh, what a story that is! I remember many occasions when Bugs would play the piano before and after concert band and dance band rehearsals, and he had quite a repertoire of pieces he could play from memory.  When Bugs played these impromptu recitals, many of us would stand around the piano firing requests at him before he could release the foot pedal to muffle the string vibrations from the previous piece.  One of the favorites was Ludwig Von Beethoven's “Bagatelle No. 25 in A Minor for Solo Piano”.  It was many years after the echo of Bugs' renditions had faded from the music room of the old high school before I came to know its more familiar title: "Für Elise". (Heck, I had never heard of a Bagatelle until I Googled it the other day.)

Greg VonTour was in Willie’s class. He was a bit of a character, one who was more likely to help Willie throw me into the sticker bush than to play an instrument in the band. I think it’s safe to say he probably was not given to studying classical music. In fact, I don't recall why he ever would have darkened the door of the band room, except maybe to peak out the practice room windows. But one day in particular, he was with a group of us around the piano. I doubt German was Greg's second language.  They only offered Spanish in those days. So “Für Elise” most likely was not in his vocabulary. This much I do know, it wasn’t in MY vocabulary. And forget about the Bagatelle…. I wonder if even Bugs knew that one. But it was Greg who is immortalized in my mind as the guy who shouted out the one request that I will never forget. I wonder if Beethoven rolled over in his grave when Greg shouted:

The Complete Dance Band

"Play Tinga Linga Linga Too"!


Call it what you will, it matters not. But oh, how I wish I could go back to that music room and hear Bugs play it again, just one more time!

Fur Elise

Update: Had this conversation with Bugs on Facebook today, Aug 2, 2019 (So know you know the rest of the story):