With work done, and after taking a shower and surveying the task that I always seemed to endlessly critique, I’d become like The Sarge within my small tight-knit condominium community. The core group would either converge by my carport or at “Ray and Rey’s” to discuss current events, the state of the Union, unyielding taxes, or some kid down the block who plays his latest hard-core, ballistically angry music, in decibels way too loud, the neighbor who drives down the narrow street at Mach-like speeds, or the guy who turns a blind eye while his thin unkempt dog does his business in other people’s yards. To my own shock and horror, I discover that my rants, raves, and rising blood pressure over it all has made me part of The Establishment. So, with a bottle of chilled dark Spaten German beer clutched in my hand, I’d hold court to relay my epic travels or offer my take on various topics with a patented mishmash of dramatic verbs and colorful adjectives—what the group has become accustomed to as “Pelz-Lang,” the phrase for which my lovely wife, Marsha, takes credit for coining. Later in the stillness of the night, after lighting a candled lantern that my mentor Mr. Marsh would have proudly dubbed The Beacon of Hope, on my front porch I’d sit on my faded director’s chair and enjoy a Carbonell cigar, conversing with an occasional neighbor out for an evening stroll. Living in the beautiful yet peculiar town of Guerneville—a town often teased by some as “The Home of Third Generation Retired Hippies”—with my condo nestled within the Dubrava complex, an overwhelming sense of pride and camaraderie radiated from nearly everyone within our gated community. For me it was my mini Duinsmoore.
But after years of surviving numerous Noah-like floods and enduring Arctic-like winters, my family and I now proudly reside in Southern California, in a spacious two-bedroom home with a garage, within yet another community, where my precious bride, Marsha, and I are the youngest residents by at least twenty-five years. We are also one of the only couples not to flee to cooler climates and a secondary home when the summer barometer simmers over 120 degrees. Because we rarely see each other, Marsha, Stephen, and I keep to ourselves. The only time I see my fellow “Cove members” is when they observe our two Bichon dogs—Titan (aka Big Boy) and Ernie (The Psycho Pup)—who both take me for a walk as they desperately try to capture birds in midflight or lizards on the ground. The Palm Springs area heat, coupled with my midage metabolism, prohibits me from indulging too much in my German libation, so my pallet has changed from my beloved Spaten Optimator to an occasional Merlot.
I no longer wander under God’s majestic redwood trees, strolling over to a friend’s front porch to be part of Dubrava’s give-and-take, but have now found refuge within the confines of a local cigar establishment. Days after moving to the Palm Springs area, I staked out the stogie shop located on Coachella Valley’s high-end shopping boulevard, which would shame the famed Rodeo Drive in Hollywood. During my first few visits I’d plop down on a wooden bench and tap away on my laptop computer, keeping to myself while working on my latest tome, but occasionally listening to the different cliques that came in to converse. The famed proprietors, Jack and Bert, would kindly allow me to take up space as long as I needed, and over time, like Duinsmoore and Dubrava, I became acquainted with the cadre group. There’s Dick, a retired NASA rocket engineer, and “King George,” both of whom work at the shop. Others include “Handsome Harry,” who visits the area several times a month and whose wife counsels the celebrity types like Jennifer, Brad, Farrah, and Fergie. There’s a young entrepreneur dubbed Scotty “Too Hotty” who publishes a sports magazine, and Marshall who bares the striking resemblance and mischievous smile of a towering Mel Gibson. Though the most colorful character has to be that of Wayne—and because of respect and his extensive military background, I address him as “Colonel,” for Colonel Wayne has the distinction of being a survivor of the famed Black Hawk helicopter crashes from the special operational mission in Mogadishu, Somalia.
Back at my home office I proudly maintain my aeronautical, historical, and general informational library that would impress even my scholarly mentor, Professor Marsh. Displayed across from the photos of my radiant wife, I proudly keep a collage of those famed photographs of Dan, Stephen, and me together. Hanging on the side of my wall is a gift from Mike Marsh, the curator of the Marsh Institute of Aeronautical studies—that reads in part:
If where you are going doesn’t excite you,
getting there will.
Get into it!
And now years later I am still into it. For my adventures are never ending. With all the action, excitement, and chaos my life at times encompasses, I feel fortunate that I am “out there” “doing something” with the time I have left on this planet. The day I moved from Northern to Southern California, the expedition began after being on the road for several weeks, only to take four flights from New Hampshire so to stumble into San Francisco airport just after four in the morning, to make the three-hour drive to Guerneville, secure a U-Haul, load it up, then turn around and make the nonstop ten-hour drive to my family’s new home. In all, I planned to arrive in the Palm Springs area by eleven that evening. Yet before I could begin my final journey north, within the confines of the beloved Bay Area, I had planned to drive by the house from my childhood in Daly City and offer a prayer. For years, ever since moving to Guerneville, after making hundreds of trips from the redwood-laden town to San Francisco International Airport, I always crept down the quiet street in Daly City, stopping my truck for a moment to reflect while offering a quick prayer that both deceased parents are finally resting in peace and that my brothers are safe and well with their lives and their families.
But before seeing my childhood home, which held bittersweet memories for me, I deviated south from the airport via Highway 101 to a more joyful setting. After taking the Marsh road exit onto Bay Road, I slowed down my vehicle and lowered my windows to breathe in the crisp, chilly air. Easing my truck to a crawl within the middle of Duinsmoore, it quickly becomes enveloped in a blanket of swirling gray fog. The rustling of the trees never ceases, and the homes within the dark stillness of the night still shine with opulence. I can smell the jasmine as I did a lifetime ago, and for a moment I don’t have to rush, worry about how many socks or ties I’ve packed for my lengthy journey, eventually trying to find my way through my mazelike directions in the middle of the night, struggling to find a small town that doesn’t even exist on the map, and deal with the pressure I put on myself so I can do well in whatever my task. For a brief moment of time I am back at Duinsmoore, I am free to play as long and as hard as I desire, free of all anxiety that only adults place upon themselves. For now I have all the time of day that the sun’s brilliance can offer. I can almost picture the street teeming with children, the sounds of their giggling innocence echoing in every direction, while a herd of men converge at Dan’s garage.
A sense of calm fills me. In a blink of an eye, I envision with perfect clarity the time I paid my final respects to Mr. Brazell. With only a small window of time and cursing myself that I was unable to cancel a program that had been booked for well over a year in advance, I flew into the Bay Area from back east only to step back on another wide-body jet in a matter of hours, thus making me unable to attend Dan’s services. Instead, Marsha, my fiancée at the time, and I attended the evening Rosary in the same pew Dan and I used to find solace. On my knees I kept my strained emotions under control, while casting an occasional eye on Dan’s family in the front right pew. Afterward, Marsha and I greeted the Brazell family outside to offer our deepest condolences. Then, in an adjoining room, Marsha and I milled like lost sheep among the throng in awkward silence, glancing down at our shoes until someone burst out with the idea of a group photo, like those from the ol’ neighborhood. By reflex, I immediately bowed my head down as I led Marsha and myself away, yet some soft unknown hand took mine, guiding me back within the group. I stood tall by the Neyland and Howard families, as well as folks I have not seen or thought about in years. After adjusting ourselves for the paparazzi of photographers, I nud
ged up to a sweaty Mr. Jolly and a tall, radiant, grown-up Amy Neyland. For one of life’s precious, unforgettable moments before anyone captures the scene on film, all of us turn our heads, staring in one another’s faces, nodding and smiling, communicating a message without the need of mere words, knowing full well the unique bond between us all. Before a set of cameras flash, someone commands, “Leave a space for Dan!” On the count of three, everyone shouts, “To Dan!” And, like everyone else, I can feel Mr. Brazell’s presence standing tall beside me.
It is then I realize it took me twenty years, but I had finally made it to Duinsmoore.
Acknowledgments
As always, this project could have not been accomplished, let alone have maintained the standards set by the preceding books without Marsha Pelzer’s invaluable editing services. After years of marriage, working together, and our heated “disagreements,” you always decoded my Pelzisms, knowing what I am trying to convey, even when I don’t exactly write what I think I mean.
My agent and good friend Laurie Liss for all your trust, care, and allowing me to bombard you anytime and place when your assistance, your voice, or wicked sense of humor was needed. Laurie, you truly are the best of the best.
Rey Thayne, Office Manager Extraordinaire for your valuable time, patience, and courtesy; keeping me on track when my life runs awry; but most of all your trust. Thanks, Rey, for all the work you’ve accomplished to help others in need.
Amanda Lukowski, for planning my travel with militarylike precision and flawlessness for nearly ten years. Your work frees me to focus on doing the best job possible when I’m “out there.” This acknowledgment is long overdue and for that, Amanda, I apologize.
To my publishing family at Dutton: This project was the least painful of them all, for all of us. So, kudos to Vice President and Editorial Director (pretty fancy title, eh?) Extraordinaire and good friend, Brian Tart. Amy Hughes, for her time and laughs. Brant Janeway at the PR department for all your time, and, most important, your confidence.
A special acknowledgment to the institutions: to Palm Desert Tobacco, where billows of fine cigar smoke float freely throughout its confines, allowing all who partake in one of the last great freedoms of a democratic society. And to Sullivan’s Steak House where great food, live jazz, and the adult libation known as the Dave-tini are always the order of the day. Thank you both for allowing me to plug-in, type away, and take up space in the midst of your businesses. I am truly, truly appreciative.
And, a special thank-you to you the reader. By nature, writing is a lonely profession. Most of my writing is “attempted” at airport terminals at four in the morning; in bathroom stalls; darkened, dingy, smoke-filled lounges; moldy motel lobbies. Or the writing is frantic notes scribbled against the steering wheel while driving at high speeds searching for the one word, that single phrase that might, just might, lead to a good sentence, or a good scene that will make all the difference in capturing that spirit, grabbing someone’s heart, or taking them back to a place they have not been to in such a long time. You, the reader, make the story great. Without your time and compassion to the craft, I am but a person scribing on a black chalkboard with a black piece of chalk.
Duinsmoore Way Perspective
DAVID HOWARD
Menlo Park has always been a slightly upscale, old, small bedroom community with an even smaller housing track that boasts the longest standing homeowner’s association in northern California. Within this microcommunity is Suburban Park. I lived on one of the most popular blocks in the association called Duinsmoore Way. Duinsmoore was at the center of Suburban Park and its activities. Here lived some of the most inspirational and talented people in my life, one of whom was David Pelzer. Before I tell you about David, you need to know more about how I had met David.
While I lived at the third house south of the corner, my good friend Paul Brazell lived across the street and two doors down, and the Marsh family lived across the street from Paul. Next door to the Marshes was a house that was the talk of the neighboorhood. It was a rental house, which was uncommon here, and where foster kids lived! Some of my early recollections of the kids in this house were that they always looked and acted older than they were. I was warned not to talk to them, as they were unscrupulous thugs with long criminal records and were outcasts from society. I believed what I was told, due in part to the fact that none of the kids stayed long and they all kept to themselves… That is, until David.
I met David in the fall of 1975 while I was practicing for a not-too-promising basketball career. David walked by several times before I asked him if he wanted to play. He said he was not very good at basketball, and to my surprise I discovered someone even worse than me.
Later that day I was riding down the block on my bike when a voice called out to me. I turned and, to my astonishment, it was David, and he was working on his minibike in the driveway of the foster kids’ house. I didn’t know what to do. Do I go over and talk to him, or ignore him in the hopes he will go away? I took a chance and went over to talk to him. I could feel the heavy stares of the neighborhood on my back. Shortly after talking to David, Paul came over and we all became friends.
David was a few years older than me. He was skinny, wore glasses, and was unsure of his physical actions, which made people look at him as clumsy and uncoordinated. David was not what the community of neighbors thought he was. He was an individual with a strong desire to fit in and a need to have close friends. Even then, and more so to this very day, David was a loyal and trustworthy friend, always with enough time to spend listening to your problems and doing whatever he could to help make anyone happy.
As a kid, David didn’t have a lot of personal items, but the ones he did have were so very precious to him. When I was little, at Christmastime, all the kids on the block would be showered with presents to the point of gluttony. That is, everyone but David. I remember one Christmas when Paul and I met up with David and talked about all the presents we had received. Thinking back now, I can’t remember even one of the presents that either Paul or I had received that year, yet I remember all of David’s. He received a worn, cheap, oversized vinyl jacket; a Cox model airplane; and a boom box. Later I witnessed a gang of about nine older kids from the other side of town trying to take his radio away from him. After seeing David being beaten, kicked, and pummeled by the entire gang and never giving up, I realized the magnitude of the torture he must have endured. He fought back as if his life depended on keeping his Christmas presents, while the gang kept hitting him and hitting him. He showed no fear, but I could not say the same.
Once when I reluctantly went to David’s foster home, I was shocked to find David’s room consisted of a bed and a dresser, with no items in view. His sparse closet had a dozen or so hangers with shirts and pants neatly arranged on the hangers. His bedroom was a room without feeling or substance, reminding me of a motel room where you know you are going to stay the night, yet you still do not unpack fully. Excluding his minibike, David could pack all his worldly possessions in a small suitcase, located under his bed, and still have room to spare.
It took time and a little maturity on my part to grasp why David loved Duinsmoore as much as he did. The three of us had a lot of fun growing up in this small community. In time, most of the people on the block warmed to David’s presence and allowed him access into their lives. There are some exceptions who, even today and after all of David’s fame and accomplishments, will still bolt their doors when he comes to visit. The crazy and sometimes almost illegal stunts that most adolescents perform in their campaign toward adulthood seemed to have been on steroids when we preformed them. The endless hours of discussions, not only of the day’s harrowing experiences but also of the life we intended to pursue, only led to the career choices we tried to make. I thought of being a fireman or policeman, Paul a race-car mechanic or Airborne Ranger just like our high-spirited neighbor Mike Marsh. David’s longing was a combination of everything, just as long as he never became homeless. W
hile Paul became an auto mechanic, I had started toward my career as a public servant when an opportunity to become a plumber diverted my career path. In time, David received his Jump Wings through Army Airborne training, flew around the world in James Bond-like top-secret missions for the United States Air Force, counseled troubled youth in juvenile hall, and has literally accomplished so much of which I am extremely proud.
The time the three of us shared seemed to last forever. For David in particular, every minute of every hour was precious to him. I realized the full impact of David’s appreciation when one day I was walking over to David’s foster home and saw a strange car sitting in his front yard. There stood David next to the car, his well-traveled suitcase in hand. I asked him where he was going and he simply, coldly said, “Away.” When prompted, he stated that he was being transferred to another home, but that he was probably going to juvenile hall until a new home was found. In an instant, he was gone. I will never forget that empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, watching my friend disappear to Lord-knows-where and wondering if I would ever see David again.
Like all young men who aspire, Paul, David, and I grew, worked, and ventured in separate ways. Marriage, children, careers, and everyday life left little time for us to get together. The phone calls became fewer and farther between, as did the visits. It seems that the older a person becomes, the days get shorter and time seems to speed by, leaving less time to keep in contact with good friends to revisit those days of wonder.