Banning, California - 1970

My plan to leave Crawfordsville, Indiana in May 1970 was based on timing. It was the end of the school year at Wabash College so I checked the ride board for trips to Los Angles. Why LA? I’d served as an Apprentice Engineer in 1969 on a four month cruise courtesy of the Calhoon MEBA Engineering School after attending school for six months and thought I could get a job as an ordinary seaman on a ship, as I wasn’t keen to reenter the engine room. Finding a student who lived in Los Angles who was leaving in a few days, we agreed on a fare and I’d still have fifty dollars left when I arrived. Writing my parents a note resigning from my park ranger position at the woods, I figured would avoid a scene and a messy good-by.

The only thing worth mentioning about the trip from Crawfordsville to Los Angles is the incredible marketing plan of a restaurant in Amarillo, Texas, which had posted over 1000 signs of all ilk for 300 miles in both directions along the road boasting, “If you can eat our 72 oz. steak, we’ll give it to you FREE.” Like millions of other suckers I ate part of it, but couldn’t finish the whole thing, thereby incurring the disastrous bill of $25, or half my funds. It was the last decent meal I had for quite awhile.

Once in Los Angles, it became clear I was in the wrong place and headed for San Pedro, the shipping mecca of the West Coast, a further 100 miles to the south. Getting a job on a U.S. flagship at this time was a catch-22. You had to have sailed to get your seaman’s papers and you couldn’t sail unless you had seaman’s papers. However I believed myself in an envious position because I still had seamen’s papers.

Once I reached the Union hall, my naiveté swung into full bloom. Substantially more funds were required than I had in my possession in order to secure a position through the Union because it was necessary for me to first join the Seaman’s Union for $500. This unforeseen expenditure altered my plans and caused me to rethink the situation. While in hindsight there may appear to be a grand plan at work, rest assured I was making this up as I went along. Hanging out at the beach, sleeping under bridges, eating Snickers to survive, I should have joined the Troll Union. It took me awhile to figure out what my next move should be.

Remembering I had a Great Aunt who lived somewhere nearby I called home, to get the details. Armed with new information I set off hitchhiking to Banning, California, a sleepy little village out in the desert about 100 miles east of Los Angles. My Aunt Edith was in her 70’s, a robust woman with a twinkle in her eye and a great sense of humor. She was delighted to see me and took me in with open arms. It was a propitious time for her as she was in the midst of a transition. Her husband Charles was in the hospital in poor health.

Her home was on a five acre track which backed up to the railroad track. It was a small three bedroom, ranch style abode. Suffice it to say housekeeping was not Aunt Edith’s forte. This applied to her five acres also which was strewn with what she referred to as “Gold” I mentally referred to it as junk, but each to their own and she was nothing but kind and generous toward me. She had ducks and chickens roaming around from which she gathered eggs and she bought goat milk from her neighbor two doors down. It was her attitude that impressed me most as she always saw the positive in everything.

I hadn’t been there very long when Aunt Edith came up with the notion to buy me a car. She said she thought I needed “wheels” and she needed a chauffer, a match made in heaven. It was a 1958 two tone green, six cylinders Chevy Bell Air. She bought it for $85; it had 58,000 miles and had been sitting for some time. She gave me the title and said to put it in my name. It took some work, a new battery, tires to make it run and a several cans of rally car wax to bring out the old girl’s color. In short order I landed another job pumping gas at a local station which provided funds for repairs.

I would drive her to the hospital for regular visits to see her husband, Charles, whose health appeared to be deteriorating. This routine went on for a few weeks until one day we received a call informing us that Uncle Charles had died in his sleep. I took Aunt Edith to the funeral home while she made the arrangements. It was a small funeral, not more than twenty people; the flowers made it look like Easter morning. Aunt Edith seemed relieved, like now she could get on with her life.

Contemplating my life I applied for a job with the Southern Pacific Railroad. Uncle Charles had been a railroad man; it sounded interesting, lots of travel I assumed. The man who interviewed me was polite and honest, he told me straight out not to hold my breath. One day I met a couple of deputy sheriffs and stuck up a conversation. They encouraged me to think about joining the force. I considered it briefly before concluding it didn’t feel right for me.

By a twist of fate on a summer morning in Buffalo, New York in 1968 as I was hitchhiking to class at SUNY I got a ride from someone who was to change my life. We hit it off and became fast friends. He was a record promoter for a singer by the name of Glenn Yarbrough. His name was Steve Washburn. He was 5’11 about 160 pounds had long blond hair and was prematurely bald on top at 24, but he made the comb-over look cool. He was deep into the philosophy of fun and his beach-boy Zen was irresistible. He made me laugh and think at the same time. Steve met Yarbrough when he was a Hawaiian beach boy and became so indispensable in assisting Yarbrough with a concert there that he put him on the payroll. Steve moved in with me temporarily as he worked the area for the next week. We had a blast together and kept in touch through correspondence.

It was late June in Banning when in response to my request, I get a letter from Steve inviting me to pay him a visit at his home in Portland, Oregon. The next day I quit my job, packed my bags, expressed my gratitude to Aunt Edith jumped in my car and sped off to Oregon to see what the future held.

Hoosier Logger

My Dad inherited ten acres of heavily wooded ground on the southwest outskirts of Crawfordsville, Indiana from his Dad in 1949. Granddad had bought the rustic acreage as his own private hunting ground and built a two-bedroom cabin. It was a three hour drive from our home in Indianapolis before the freeway was built. We went hunting, fishing and played there over the years as I grew up.

The east side was bordered by a creek that was twenty feet wide and two to five feet deep in places depending on the time of year and rainfall. There were nettles mixed in with the big walnut and cottonwood trees along the creek’s sandy beaches. The old cabin had a 1920’s ambiance; it had a wood-burning stove, great springy beds, an old wooden table and four chairs. It had a kitchen great-room where we played cards and told ghost stories. From the cabin you had to walk a 100 yards along a ridge overlooking the creek, which was about another 75 yards down below, to get to the outhouse.

My Dad and I used to sit along this ridge at dawn when I was a boy to hunt squirrels. My Dad had an automatic shotgun and I had a .22 single shot rifle. I never killed anything but empty beer cans. My Dad however could easily bag a squirrel with ten rounds from his automatic. He usually got two or three squirrels. We’d take them home where my Dad would clean them and my Mother would fry them for dinner. They didn’t taste bad; but you had to be careful you didn’t break a tooth on the buckshot.

When I was a teenager the cabin burned down mysteriously. They said it must have been some depraved kids from Crawfordsville. This was a sad loss for me as I loved the old cabin; strangely the outhouse had not been touched. Thirty years later one of my Dad’s best friends, Walter, a fishing buddy and fellow fireman traveled 2,500 miles to tell me that my Dad had set the place on fire himself. Walter had kept this secret long enough and was able to sooth his conscience. What’s ironic is that my Dad was a professional fireman and could have lost his job over this.

After the cabin burned down my Dad entered his tree cutting phase. I don’t know where he came up with this but he bought a chain saw and decided he’d become a weekend Hoosier logger. This was a dangerous occupation because my Dad considered it absolutely essential to drink beer while cutting down trees. I was in charge of stacking and holding while he cut; I always got the boring jobs and I didn’t even like beer. What I couldn’t figure out was when half of the big tree in our backyard at home fell down after a horrendous windstorm, my Dad could care less. He gave me an axe and told me to chop it up. It took me three weeks, what happened to the chainsaw?

Roustabout – Bay Marchand, Gulf of Mexico - 1970

Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, a time of fasting and prayer and the day after Shrove Tuesday (Mardi Gras) 1970, I had fifty cents to my name. It was time to seek employment. My hosts, yes I was still freeloading at the same place, suggested Harvey, Louisiana, on the other side of the Mississippi River. “Dude” lent me his VW beetle to drive over. Finding a row of industrial-type business I parked the beetle. Walking down the seedy road, I would stop at prospective businesses and inquire if they had any job openings. One company, “Oil Field Maintenance,” had an employment office. I entered and asked the old fat redneck, at the desk if I could fill out an application. His answer surprised me. “Don’t need no application, name and phone number, I’ll give ya a call.” “Sure you will” I remember thinking, he looked as stingy as his speech and continued my search. I quit about five and went back home, somewhat discouraged but thinking tomorrow is another day.

That night about 8:00PM I received a call from, would you believe it, old fat redneck, “Be at the yard at 6:00AM tomorrow morning.” “Dude” let me drive his car again that day. The yard was right next to the office and I worked until 6PM that day as a welder’s helper. When my shift was over I inquired as to whether I should come again tomorrow. “Ain’t got nothing” said old fat redneck. “But I really could use the work” I pleaded. “Then be back here at 2:30AM,” he conceded. “OK” was my only reply. Now how stupid is that? Not “What’s the job?” or “Why 2:30AM?” just “OK”. “Dude” turned out to be much smarted than I. He said he wasn’t loaning me his car to drive over to Harvey at 2:30AM but since he was a really nice guy, he agreed to drive me over.

There are multitudes of possible scenarios for what might have happened that night; luckily it was an adventure not a disaster. I got out of the car, thanked “Dude” and said I’d give him a call. There were about thirty guys milling around, nobody knew what was going on; we waited about half an hour when three pick up trucks appeared and we climbed in. The trucks took off and we rode for the next two hours through swamps and alligator country until about dawn, when we arrived at a marina. We boarded two cabin cruisers and headed out into the Gulf of Mexico, it was another three hours before we arrived at our final destination, now referred to as the Bay Marchand Fire. Chevron had eleven fires burning on one platform out in the Gulf.

Our base of operations was a barge. On arrival we received our instructions. We were told we needed to be up at 5AM, breakfast at 5:30AM and work started at 6AM. We boarded three tug boats, which is where we were work detailed. For the first few days the tugs would take us to the barge for meals, but this was hazardous as the weather wasn’t always cooperative. The waves could be ten feet high. This meant that as the tug came alongside the barge you had to be very careful you timed your jump from the tug to the barge and vice versa very carefully or you could be one dead roustabout.

On day four we were permanently detailed to the tugs, which meant no more trips to the barge, we would dine onboard our tug. This was our first sign that they were making this up as they went along. Going to the barge had been exciting, Red Adair was there. John Wayne had starred in a movie entitled “Hell Fighters” about the life of Red Adair, so I was impressed. But the tugs were safer and provided less supervision. Life on the tug was fairly laid back. For three for four days it so rough we couldn’t work. I woke up and smelled the bacon from the galley and realized I was seasick, a new experience. It was either work or be seasick. I was out there over two weeks, after believing I was showing up for just another twelve hour work day. I battled seasickness, not having a toothbrush or a change of underwear etc. and chastised myself for stepping into something without having a clue as to what I’d be doing or for how long. On the bright side I had a job, wasn’t working that hard and was getting a lot of overtime.

When we finally got around to the work we were supposed to do, we figured it out as we went along. On board the tug we had 5’x 5’ x 3” heavy foam-filled squares which were chained together and supported by buoyant cylinders on either side, so that about a foot of the foam would stick out of the water. This must have been some experimental Rube Goldberg marketing plan to try out these things. After we located an oil slick we would toss them off the stern of the tug into the water until we had about two hundred yards trailing after us then the tug would try to encircle the slick. This is the theory anyway. Once the oil slick was encircled another device was brought up which would supposedly suck up the oil. We could have picked up more oil with a turkey baster. When we pulled the contraptions out of the water they were covered in oil, which soaked into our clothes, and shoes.

Once it became obviously to everyone that this particular product was a waste of time we were released and taken back to the Oil Field Maintenance office. Our job was done. In a little over two weeks I’d earned $600 plus, a small fortune for me at that time. Upon returning to “Dude’s” and reassessing my situation, it became clear that they didn’t need a third roommate. On a Tulane bulletin board I found a posting for “Roommate Wanted”. It was a four bedroom house in a nice neighborhood shared by three Tulane students. My rent was $50/month, they were nice guys and I moved in. I bought a Chevy Corvair for $100 which promptly broke down and spent another month or so in New Orleans before getting a call from my mother pleading with me to return home. Being a dutiful son I complied and bought a one way stand-by air-fare back to Indianapolis. I could have had a life in New Orleans; things were beginning to jell, another crossroad.

Eye Abrasion - Mardi Gras - New Orleans February – March 1970

Waking up the next morning I wished I hadn’t. My head felt like overnight I’d had surgery and someone implanted a five pound lead sinker behind my right eye. Nothing in my previous experience prepared me for the excruciating anguish; it felt like I had a splinter in my eye. Realizing something was seriously wrong; I acknowledged that I required a physician’s services. Somehow managing to find a walk-in clinic, I spent the requisite $20 to find out that, “You have an abrasion of the eye”. Not sure what this meant, the doctor explained that it was a small cut on my eye. Evidently getting incredibly drunk, blacking out and not removing your contact lenses over a forty-eight plus hour plus period can create this condition. After receiving medication and being told to stay still, evidently walking around is not only throbbing torture but detrimental to the healing process, I managed to return to my lodgings.

The next four days I spent nursing my injured eye back to health. My hosts were gracious for the most part, but I could sense the restrained annoyance on the part of the reluctant roommate. However he nursed me back to health with a steady diet of red beans and rice. In good time I was able to continue my Mardi Gras shenanigans, however my partying was greatly restrained and I carefully monitored my alcohol intake.

One evening during the festivities I met a young lady who invited me back to her home. When we arrived I was duly impressed. It was in an old-money, expansive lawn, 100 year-old oak trees, two-story vintage historic home. Somewhere in the course of the evening it dawned on me that I was the entertainment; that this was a family tradition. Dinner was elegant, authentic New Orleans Creole cuisine and her parents were intensely gracious.

After dinner her father and I sat in the family room and had brandy and cigars. He began asking me questions and I began to spin out my story. He inquired about what I intended to do with my life. I mumbled something about wanting to help people. What he conveyed next stuck a nerve and resonated. He said, “First, you have to be in a position to help people.” In other words vagabonds were in no position to help anyone. A bit condescending but then I was only twenty-one and had my life in front of me. I decided it was good advice, but how I was going to get from A to B was poignantly unclear. The young lady made it clear as she dropped me off that this was a one night only event and that was fine with me. I later discerned that the evening was part of a ritual that was required as part of her family’s krewe. A Krewe (pronounced in the same way as "crew") is an organization that puts on a parade and or a ball for the Carnival season. The term is best known for its association with New Orleans Mardi Gras. (Wikipedia)

The rest of my Mardi Gras celebration was mostly uneventful. As I began running low on funds, somehow I got hold of a bugle and ripped off bugle calls and my own rendition of bugle jazz. This was the one and only time in my life when I made a living as a musician. It was short-lived, I wasn’t that good and it’s just that when you’re drunk you’re more likely to part with your spare change. It wasn’t much of a living anyway as I made perhaps fifteen bucks.

My mother bought me a trumpet when I was eleven because she and my grandmother thought all those musicians on Lawrence Welk always appeared to be having such a great time. Like I never had a good time and needed to have more fun. How my mother could ever speculate that I needed more fun defies comprehension, I was the biggest practical joker my family ever produced.

At eleven I was enrolled in the nation’s only Boy Scout Band and religiously attended weekly practice on the third floor of Fire Station Eleven in downtown Indianapolis. This is vivid because my trumpet and I often took the half hour bus ride there alone. Playing the trumpet continuously until I graduated high school had finally paid off. Fun had nothing to do with playing the trumpet; the guys on Lawrence Welk were smiling like crazy because Mr. Welk was paying them generously to do so. In the end I was no different.

Mardi Gras Day was a letdown. It was more a wrap up than a climax. The only notable thing I recall was running across a number of grossly attired, obnoxious gay guys whose repeated attempts to proposition me left me wondering how the hell I ever got to this part of town.