More Beautiful People: Wheels of Change Road Trip Comes to Benicia

Some of the world’s most beautiful, intelligent, and well-read people came to Bookshop Benicia in Benicia yesterday to celebrate the publication of my new book, Wheels of Change. What, you think I’m exaggerating? No way. Just scroll down these pictures to see some of the attendees, and I know you will agree.

Claudia Albano, Leyna Bernstein, Jennifer Kaiser, Alison Barnsley

Marti and Joe Fuccy

Max Lateiner, Dan Crouch

Eric and Colleen Leong with their sons Evan and Riley

Annette Kaiser, Leyna Bernstein

Kasey Kath

Elizabeth Jack

Darrell Haber, his son Devin Jack-Haber, Hank Nelson

Gabe Nelson

Katie Lynn

Lance and Vicky Barnett

Brian Parker and Claudia Albano

Claudia and Dale Hagen

Sue Hutchinson

Tom Dalrymple

Mike and Becky Maggart

Three of the Trybull family: Jeff, Leslie and daughter Jennifer

Bob Berman

Alison Barnsley, Vernon Lee and their children Aero and Cielo

Christine Mayall, the host of this fabulous soiree and the owner of Bookshop Benicia, and the most beautiful person of all, Jennifer Kaiser

Where the Beautiful People Meet: Wheels of Change Launch Party

Wednesday night in San Francisco the California Historical Society hosted a launch party for Wheels of Change, attended by forty to fifty connoisseurs of cars, history, and fine literature. I gave a talk, and nobody in the audience threw anything at me so I guess I did okay. Afterward I signed books and chatted with people, which is always the best part of these book gatherings.

Below are photographs from the evening, picturing some of the people at the California Historical Society and Heyday Books who have worked behind the scenes to make this book happen. Please, allow me to introduce them to you:

That’s Bob McNeely and me. Bob, the executive vice president of Union Bank in San Diego, is a trustee and former president of the board of the California Historical Society. It was Bob’s idea to do a book about cars because he wanted the historical society to tackle a subject that everyone could relate to. Bob changed my life, and yet I had never met him until Wednesday night. As one might expect, he is a connoisseur of fine automobiles, particularly ones that are low, red, and fast.

What, you think only guys in suits came to the party? Chet hails from a Hayward car club, and the ink on his arms depicts two of his deepest passions: cars and women. He’s not affiliated with CHS or Heyday, but he was out there representin’, and I appreciate it.

This is Malcolm Margolin, making a point. Malcolm is the publisher and founder of Heyday Books, which has now published two of my books, Wheels of Change and The Golden Game. He is a friend and supporter of mine, as he is for countless other writers, editors, publishers, and booksellers. Every writer should be so lucky as to have Malcolm Margolin as his publisher.

Two executive directors of the California Historical Society, past and present: Stephen Becker, left, and David Crosson. Stephen was the head of CHS when Bob McNeely approached him with his idea to bring people together through cars. Stephen said, “Let’s do it.” After Stephen left the organization, David took over his spot, a position he currently holds, meanwhile taking over stewardship of Wheels of Change, which was then still a work in progress. Showing patience and faith, David helped steer the book to its completion. I owe them both a great deal.

Here are George Young and Jeannine Gendar, both of Heyday Books. George is a consultant and marketing and publishing guru with decades of experience in the business, and a former hot shoe guy to boot. (Vintage car slang: “Hot shoe” equals hot car.) Jeannine Gendar represents a rapidly disappearing species in the book industry: an editor who actually edits. She worked with me on Wheels of Change, helping turn it into a sleek and sassy Corvette of a book. At the risk of repeating myself, the same sentiment applies equally here: Every writer should be so lucky as to have Jeannine Gendar as his editor.

Here, Malcolm hugs Lillian Fleer, the talented and hard-working events and outreach coordinator for Heyday. If you’d like to hear a lively and entertaining speaker who knows cars the way Grey Goose knows vodka, call her at 510-549-3564. I talk at bookstores, libraries, garden and house parties, book clubs, and Rotary and other civic groups. I’m also available for bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, christenings, baptisms, and bachelor parties. I’ll be there for you, and I’ll be representin’.

After rocking the house Thursday at the Oakland Rotary Club, I’m off to my next stops on the Wheels of Change Road Trip: Sunday, Nov. 8, 2 to 4 p.m. Signing. Bookshop Benicia, 856 Southampton Road, Benicia. 707-747-5155. And Tuesday, Nov. 10, 7 p.m. Talk and signing. Clayton Books, 5433 D Clayton Road, Clayton. 925-673-3325. Be there or be square!

Wheels of Change Road Trip Begins: Fighting Off the Fans in Grass Valley

Hordes of book lovers flocked to Grass Valley yesterday for my appearance at the Book Seller. Okay, so I exaggerate. Only two people came out to hear me talk about my newest book, Wheels of Change.

Now, to some it might seem a tad discouraging to drive two hours to appear at a signing and have only two people show up, but it wasn’t discouraging or disappointing, at least not for me. I had a great time, and this was due to the two people who showed up: Georgeanne and Don Fultz, pictured with me above.

Formerly of Santa Cruz, now of Grass Valley, Don is a one-time hot rodder who has already read Wheels of Change and loved it. This was the email he sent me on Tuesday:

Dear Mr. Nelson: I just purchased “Wheels of Change” yesterday. I can’t put it down. As a 50’s Hot Rod builder, it brings back memories of my youth and reminds me of the stories my father (a mechanic from the early ’20s) told of the souped up Model T’s.

I look forward to meeting you tomorrow. I am buying a second book for my 18 year old grandson, Alexander Rossi, who is racing GP2 in Abu Dabai this weekend. Alexander won The BMW World Championship in 2008 and was Rookie of the year in the GP3 series this year. His goal of becoming a Formula One driver (the first American in many years) comes closer with each race.

Your book will give him a much better grasp of the early history of motor sports than anything I have seen. I never knew about Phil Hill’s early life until I read your book. Many thanks for such a well researched and well written book.—Don Fultz

After spending three years of my life to write this book, it was quite gratifying to hear from Don, as you can imagine. I was equally happy to meet him and his wife and spend time with them in the cozy downstairs book nook at the Book Seller on historic Mill Street in Grass Valley. We talked cars, books, politics, movies, history and whatever else came to mind for more than an hour. And Don isn’t just showing grandfatherly pride in his grandson. Alexander Rossi is one of the best young race drivers in the world, and he and Georgeanne support his career financially and every other way, often flying to see him race in Mexico or wherever he happens to be competing.

Next stop for me on the Wheels of Change Road Trip is the California Historical Society on Nov. 4 in San Francisco, followed the next day by the Oakland Rotary and then Bookshop Benicia on Sunday, Nov. 8. Even if no one else shows up at these events, I’ll be there!

James Dean’s Last Drive: Correcting the Record

“God,” said Mies van der Rohe, “is in the details.” If that’s true, then car people are very godly people because they love, and appreciate, and relish in, the details of automobiles. I experienced this yet again the other day when I received a letter from Steve Conlin, an ex-bartender at the Bar at the Hotel Bel-Air, one of Southern California’s most famous see-and-be-seen cocktail lounges.

As Steve says, he has “shaken cocktails for everyone from President Ronald Reagan to O.J. Simpson, from Clint Eastwood to Britney Spears.” Among his interests are automobiles and James Dean, seen above in a photo from Wheels of Change, probably at a race in Palm Springs in 1955, the year he died. Although the book is not out yet (but soon, very soon!), while perusing the Net Steve came across the excerpt from the book about Dean on my website. Enlivened by brisk detail, here is a piece of what he said:

Hi Kevin, Here’s wishing you great reviews and huge sales for your soon-to-be-released California auto book. I was browsing random Internet files when I came across an excerpt, your story on James Dean’s fatal drive in his 1955 Porsche Spyder 550.

As a California native and UCLA alumni you might be surprised to learn that the gas station fill-up photo you referred to as being taken at Blackwell’s Corner was actually snapped at the corner of Beverly Glen and Ventura Blvd., in Sherman Oaks. This was perhaps two blocks from Dean’s home at the time, and where he probably had a credit account.

You are correct that it was the last picture of Dean alive [the picture you see here], but it was snapped as his caravan headed from Hollywood through the San Fernando Valley for the drive north on Highway 99.  Photographer Sanford Roth had taken a few action shots of Dean driving along the Hollywood Freeway and along Ventura Blvd. just prior to arriving at the station.

The old station office still stands, although it has been converted to a funky flower shop. The extended roof over what was once the pump bay is newer, heavier, and the two slender support columns that can be seen in the James Dean picture have been strengthened to hold it aloft. Interestingly, the footprints of the three red 1950s gasoline pumps are still preserved on their original concrete island. The fill-up photo you mention was actually taken by Rolf Wutherich, Dean’s mechanic and passenger, with Dean’s own Leica camera. The sturdy Leica survived the accident and Dean’s family had the film developed shortly afterward.

Kevin, most of this information is based on the research of my friend Warren Beath, author of The Death of James Dean.  I can send along a few of my own photos of the station, if you’re interested. Best regards, Steve Conlin, Los Angeles

I thanked Steve for his letter and his desire to correct the record on some of the details about Dean’s fatal last drive. On his way to a race in Salinas, Dean smashed into another car near San Luis Obispo while speeding in that silver Porsche Spyder and was killed. The star of “East of Eden” and “Rebel Without a Cause” remains a top Hollywood earner despite being dead for more half a century. The Wall Street Journal said in a piece last week that Dean’s estate netted $5 million in licensing fees for his image.

Steve and I have exchanged e-mails, and perhaps we’ll meet at one of my speaking gigs for Wheels in southern California in November and December. Tomorrow I’m off to The Book Seller to talk about the history of cars in historic Grass Valley. My radio interview with Eric Tomb of “Booktown” of KVMR Radio aired on Monday; if you’d like to listen to it you can find it here on his blog. Just click on the link at the bottom that says “to hear this program.”

Move over, Sarah Palin: Wheels of Change is Coming After You

Sarah Palin’s new book, Going Rogue, is coming out Nov. 17, nine days after the official publication date of Wheels of Change: From Zero to 600 M.P.H., The Amazing Story of California and the Automobile. Is the timing of the release of Palin’s instant bestseller a vast conspiracy to draw attention away from my book? How else can you explain the fact that I’ve been sitting patiently, and fruitlessly, by the phone all day waiting for Oprah to call but then I hear that she has booked Palin to be a guest on her show rather than me?

Oh well, Wheels of Change is not yet in bookstores but we’re starting to get a good buzz going, starting with a nice interview with me in the electronic newsletter of Heyday Books. Here is an excerpt from the interview:

Favorite place to eat?
Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank on Friday night hot rod nights. Cool customs and bikes pour in from all over, and the sounds of the engines make your ears hurt. It’s a slice of 1959 in 2009.

Proudest achievement?
Not killing myself when I was a stupid teen driver wheeling around the streets of Hayward and spinning donuts on the lawns of schools.

Scariest moment?
On a trip to Lake Tahoe two winters ago, we drove over Donner Summit on I-80 in the teeth of a howling snowstorm. It was a near-total white-out. We couldn’t see two feet in front of us. Thank God my wife was driving. I was a pathetic, sniveling wretch in the passenger seat.

First car you ever owned?
A British-made Austin America. It was possibly the worst car ever made. If I had to get somewhere fast or on time, it had a built-in electronic sensor that told the engine not to start.

An article about me and the book, entitled “Author Hopes Book Signings Are Standing Vrroom Only,” appeared in today’s Vallejo Times-Herald, promoting my upcoming appearances at Bookshop Benicia (Nov. and the Vallejo Naval and Historical Museum (Nov. 14). The photo above accompanied the article, with me sitting in the front seat of a ‘57 convertible Cadillac, which is owned by a local car collector who stores it in a warehouse.

Close observers of my interview in Heyday and Rich Freedman’s article in the Times-Herald will notice that I made a similar joke in both forums about that truly awful Austin America. This is what happens to all authors (including Sarah Palin, when she starts hitting the circuit). You find a line, it works for you, and you keep using it. Author talks are sort of performance art, albeit a very, very minor form of it.

I also did an interview Thursday with Eric Tomb, the host of “Booktown” on KVBR-FM in Nevada City, promoting an Oct. 28 appearance at The Book Seller in Grass Valley. The interview was taped at 7:30 a.m., and I believe I did not make the Austin America joke although I’m not really sure because I was half-asleep and unclear about what I was saying most of the time. Eric, who has been the radio host of “Booktown” for ten years, covered for me though, and I was fascinated to hear about the technology he uses.

He called me (he was at his home in Nevada City) on Skype, and recorded the interview into his Mac with Audiohijack software. Using an audio-editing software program called Amadeus, he takes my ramblings and through the miracle of modern technology, turns them into brilliant and insightful analysis of the history of automobiles in California. As of this writing, the program had not yet aired, but when it does, you will be the first to know. Count on it!

Your Chance to Hug an Author: Wheels of Change Speaking Dates for November

President Barack Obama has just announced that November has been officially designated “Hug An Author Month.” Actually, I just made that up. But there will be opportunities aplenty for you to hug this author (or simply shake hands with him) in the weeks to come. My new book, Wheels of Change, will arrive in bookstores in November, and it has already been described as “important to the preservation and interpretation of California history.” And it’s entertaining too! Here is my appearance schedule through November:

Weds., Oct. 28, 4 p.m.. Talk and signing. The Book Seller, 107 Mill Street, Grass Valley. Phone: 530-272-2131.

Weds., Nov. 4, 6 p.m. Talk and signing. California Historical Society, 678 Mission Street, San Francisco. 415-357-1848.

Thurs., Nov. 5, noon. Talk and signing. Oakland Rotary Club, California Ballroom, 1736 Franklin St. Oakland. Open to Rotary members and their guests.

Sun., Nov. 8, 2 to 4 p.m. Signing. Bookshop Benicia, 856 Southampton Road, Benicia. 707-747-5155.

Tues., Nov. 10, 7 p.m. Talk and signing. Clayton Books, 5433 D Clayton Road, Clayton. 925-673-3325.

Thurs., Nov. 12, 6 p.m. Talk and signing. Hayward Historical Society, 22701 Main Street, Hayward. 510-581-0223.

Sat., Nov. 14, 1 p.m. Talk and signing. Vallejo Naval and Historical Museum, 643 Marin Street, Vallejo. 707-643-0077.

Sun., Nov. 15, 1 p.m. Talk and signing. California Automobile Museum, 2200 Front Street, Sacramento. 916-442-6802.

Tues., Nov. 17, 7:30 p.m. Talk and signing. Pasadena Museum of History, 470 W. Walnut Street, Pasadena. 626-577-1660.

Weds., Nov. 18., 6:30 p.m. Talk. Mustang Owners of California. Du-par’s Restaurant & Bakery, 17921 Chatsworth St., Granada Hills.

Thurs., Nov. 19, 7 p.m. Talk and signing. San Diego Automotive Museum, 2080 Pan American Plaza, Balboa Park, San Diego. 619-231-2886.

And more to come in December!

Bob Berndt: Counselor, Teacher, Friend

Bob Berndt, who had a generous nature, would not have approved of this piece. A private man, he did not like a fuss to be made about him, even in death. As far as I know, there was no memorial service after his death this past July. There may not have been even an obituary in the paper. These were likely according to his wishes.

Mr. Berndt was my high school counselor, teacher and friend, as he was for the many hundreds of other students he taught over the years. He was a social studies teacher at Hayward High. Throughout his life he loved and believed in education and after he retired, he volunteered as a docent at the Oakland Museum, among other activities. I believe he was in his early eighties when he died. A friend and former colleague of his at Hayward, Jeanne Lycett, sent me this note after I asked her about a service:

Yes, it really is too bad about Bob [she writes]. I had him over on the 4th of July for the past few years and it was great to reconnect with him.  Every Tuesday, Bob would meet for lunch with some of the other “Old Guys” (Dick Schultz, Georger Enderlin – 90 and still driving!, and Bob Giester.)  About twice a year, I was invited to join them and it was great fun. When Bob (Berndt) didn’t show up at last Tuesday’s lunch, Giester called and found that he had passed away that very day. As for an obit or a service of any kind, I haven’t heard anything. Bob was from Southern Illinois, and, I think, may have had a niece still in that area.  He also had absolutely NO religious beliefs, so I’m not sure if there will be anything.

As I recall Mr. Berndt and I never talked religion, but we certainly did talk about lots of other things. In my senior year at Hayward he arranged a special independent study class for me in which I was the sole student and he was the teacher, at least in name. He didn’t do much teaching in that class, and that was the point of it. The purpose of the class was for me to write, on my own, with only occasional guidance from him. The class was third period. When the bell rang and the rest of the students at Hayward gloomily trudged off to their teacher-led classes, I skipped off happily wherever I wished.

Sometimes I went to the library. More often I headed off to the parking lot to find Dave Costa or someone else who didn’t have class that period and who wanted to grab a bite at Quarter Pounder or create some other mischief off campus. Needless to say, I screwed around a lot in my independent study class. This would come as no shock to Mr. Berndt, who surely would have expected it. But I also read a lot during that time. And I wrote. I wrote about a writing hero of mine, George Orwell, and his book, Homage to Catalonia, about the Spanish Civil War. I wrote about my adventures as a pearl diver at Banchero’s Restaurant (memories of which can be found in this post and that one), and I wrote another longer piece about a forty-mile, late winter snowshoe trip I took to Ten Lakes in the Yosemite wilderness with Gordy Kulis, Tom Coopman and Allan Plougher. A few days after I turned in the Yosemite piece Mr. Berndt approached me and said, “I enjoyed my trip to Ten Lakes.”

The class in an inadvertent way-inadvertent to me, though not to Mr. Berndt, I’m sure-taught me a little about managing my time and a little about responsibility, and I’ve never forgotten the trust he placed in me.

Steve Bragonier, a successful Silicon Valley financial executive who has worked at Hewlett-Packard, Silicon Graphics, and other firms, was also a student of Mr. Berndt’s. “He was my teacher and my counselor,” Steve wrote me after hearing about his death. “I felt lucky to be in his class. He guided me to junior college and then on to Stanford rather than going straight to a state college. I’m not sure why he did that (probably my maturity level) but it was good advice in retrospect. I remember he had us keep a journal when we were freshmen. We also kept a journal when we were seniors. Sometime during our senior year he gave us both journals so we could see how much we had changed and matured in four years. I wish I had that journal to read today.”

No doubt many other students of Mr. Berndt’s could tell similar stories of how he had influenced them. That’s the way it is with teachers; they change lives. I am sure that if a service had been held to mark his passing, and all the students he had helped in his years of teaching had shown up, every seat in the place would have been filled and there would have been lines of people stretching for blocks outside. This is probably true of every teacher, the good ones anyhow.

Donations may be made in his memory to the Hayward Public Library, Stanford School of Education, Oakland Museum of California, and the Nature Conservancy, all causes and institutions Mr. Berndt believed in.

Believe Me, I’m Getting to Mr. Berndt, But First One More Digression (Part 2)

When last you heard from me, I was in the passenger seat of Donnie Schroer’s VW bug with the magnesium alloy wheels, screaming wildly around the back streets of Hayward chasing after the hard-driving would-be paramour of Dorothy, Donnie’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. (I have since learned that her real name was Debbie, but for consistency’s sake I’ll keep calling her Dorothy.) It was one or two in the morning, and the reason for this spirited chase-well, there was no reason, not a logical one anyhow, except that Donnie was crazy in love with Dorothy and crazy-jealous too. On a late-night stakeout we had caught Dorothy on a date with another guy, who had dropped her off at her house and screeched off down the street with us hard on his tailpipe.

I’m not sure what would have happened if we had caught him but fortunately, we never got the chance to find out. He rapidly ditched us, leaving us nowhere else to turn but to the place we always turned after a long night of cruising the empty streets of Hayward: Quarter Pounder on Mission.

Quarter Pounder, as it was known, may have been the original inspiration for the term “greasy spoon.” Located next to the Hayward Plunge, it was popular with bikers, car salesmen, winos, and teenage roamers such as Donnie and me. You could get takeout at Quarter Pounder, or you could go inside and sit at a small counter with stools where you could watch the cook, adorned in an apron stained black from the grease, fry up slabs of ground meat on the grill. Another person made the fries and milkshakes. While you waited for your food you flipped through the selections on a countertop jukebox. The songs were listed on flip cards inside the jukebox. On the bottom were buttons and numbers that corresponded to the songs. It was three songs for a quarter, and you punched in the appropriate number and button for what you wanted to hear.

Considering Donnie’s state of mind that night, he might have chosen “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” by Hank Williams. He looked like he had missed both ends of a Daily Double and just ripped his tickets up. Besides staking out Dorothy’s house, playing the ponies at Bay Meadows was another of Donnie’s favorite pastimes. Somehow he and a couple of his gambling pals had figured out the world’s ballsiest way to sneak into the track, and he took me with him a few times. First we hopped a fence in the parking lot, and this put us into the paddock, the area where the horses were stabled between races. We walked past the horses being fed and groomed in their stalls until we came to a gate that led onto the track itself.

The day’s race card was already in progress. Waiting until after one race had finished and before the next one had begun, we stepped onto the dirt track and started walking. We were in full view of the thousands of people in the grandstands, two or three or four of us strolling as casually as possible along the rail on the first turn. We were engaged in a variation of Edgar Allan Poe’s maxim that the best place to hide something is in the most obvious spot. Clearly, the best way to sneak in somewhere is to do it when everyone is looking. I always expected a cop or someone to collar us but no one ever did. We swung open another gate and slipped into the grandstands where we sometimes saw a Hayward High teacher or two enjoying the sporting action as well.

Donnie and I hung out a lot during this time because we both worked at Banchero’s, he as a waiter and me as a dishwasher. Donnie had himself started as a dishwasher but he was now on more of an upward career trajectory, whereas I was stuck in the lowliest job in the place, constantly up to my ears in slop. I was astonished because people would order these colossal steak dinners on these jumbo plates with these giant baked potatoes overflowing with butter and sour cream and barely touch them. No exaggeration. They might take a bite or two of the steak before sending it away.

Then I’d have to deal with it, all that gorgeous family dining excess, soup and salad and steaks and potatoes and green beans and fettucini and lasagna and pies and coffee and milk being practically tossed at me by waiters who were as polite as Miss Manners to their customers but treated me like the stuff on the soles of their shoes. It was at least a thousand degrees in the kitchen. Sweat pouring off me, clad in rubber gloves and rubber boots, I tried in vain to keep up with the wave upon wave of food scraps being hurled at me, spraying the jumbo plates and bowls with a water nozzle that had more power than a fireman’s hose. I was never ahead, always behind. As soon as I cleared off my station and got the dishes in the dishwasher, another barrage came at me.

I ended up writing about pearl diving at Banchero’s-and other teen adventures–in a paper I did for Mr. Berndt, my counselor at Hayward High who died recently. That’s how all of these remembrances got started. I started thinking about that time in my life, and then I got sidetracked on these various subplots mostly involving Donnie Schroer (seen below, looking slick in his high school graduation picture). But I honestly don’t think Mr. Berndt would have minded. Ever have a teacher who was more than just a teacher but who touched your life in meaningful ways that you’ve never forgotten? Well, for me, Mr. Berndt was one of those teachers. Next time I promise to deliver that overdue tribute to him.

Pearl Diving at Banchero’s, and a Love Story (Part 1)

I learned several weeks ago that my high school counselor and history teacher, Robert Berndt, had died, and in the way that memory can sometimes take you to strange places, it made me think of Banchero’s Restaurant on Mission Boulevard in Hayward.

Banchero’s is a family-style Italian restaurant that has been owned by the Banchero family since its founding in the years after World War II. I worked there as a dishwasher in my senior year in high school, when Mr. Berndt (I can only call him Mr. Berndt, never Bob or Robert) had me as a student.

I first heard that a dishwashing job had opened up at Banchero’s on a Saturday afternoon at the old Ritz Theater in Hayward where I was watching Jack Nicholson in “Hells Angels on Wheels.” You may not know this, but before his breakout role in “Easy Rider” Big Jack appeared in a score of lousy, dirt-cheap “B” westerns and motorcycle flicks. I must’ve seen all of them, at Saturday matinees at the Ritz, with nary a person in the theater but me.

“Hey Nelson,” said a voice in the darkness. “Nelson.”

I turned to see Donnie Schroer, my friend and basketball teammate whispering to me. Donnie was a genuinely great high school basketball player who had his quirks, as we all do. He drove a Volkswagen Beetle with mags, styled his hair with gel, and loved a girl named Dorothy. Actually, I’m not sure if Dorothy was her real name or not. What I am sure of, though, is how crazy jealous he was of her. Many a night we spent in front of her house, Donnie and me and maybe one or two other guys crammed into his bug, waiting for her to come home from wherever she happened to be. Donnie always suspected Dorothy of going out with other guys and wanted to catch her in the act of being dropped off after a date.

“Schroer?” I said. “Is that you?” “Yeah,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I called your Mom. She told me you were here,” he said, still whispering, although we could have shouted at each other and no one would have cared because we were the only two people in the theater. “You want a job?”

We left Jack Nicholson causing drunken mayhem in his biker gang and went out to the lobby to talk about it.

Schroer, who worked at Banchero’s himself, explained that the former occupant of the dishwashing position had resigned to pursue other career options, leaving a vacancy. “But you gotta come now,” he said. “You start tonight.”

Although this was short notice, and I had to leave the theater before finding out how Jack Nicholson ended up his stint with the Hells Angels, I said yes. That night I started dishwashing (or “pearl diving,” as my mother called it) at Banchero’s, proudly joining the ranks of the many other East Bay boys who got their first job there.

I picked up another pearl-diving shift the next day and worked again the following Friday and Saturday nights, occasionally venturing out to bus tables in the main dining room but mainly staying out of sight in the overheated kitchen. It may have been after one of these nights at Banchero’s that Donnie took me on another late night stakeout of Dorothy’s house.

Most nights nothing ever happened. We sat there for maybe a half hour in the darkness of her street with the lights and radio of his car turned off, Donnie talking to me in that same conspiratorial whisper he had used that day at the Ritz. Donnie and Dorothy had what can be fairly described as a combustible relationship. They’d fight, break up, reunite, fight, break up, reunite, fight, break up, etc. But in one of those strange maladjustments that the male psyche is prone to, even when the two were not technically boyfriend and girlfriend Donnie expected her to be faithful to him, that is, not go out with other guys.

There was no logic to this. Donnie had many sterling qualities; logic, however, was not one of them, at least not when it came to Dorothy. So it came to pass that on this particular night we saw a pair of headlights coming down her street and stopping in front of her house. The lights and engine of the car clicked off. A moment passed. And then who should step out of the car but Dorothy!

I don’t recall the make of the car that dropped her off, but I am sure it was large, powerful and muscular, just like its driver. Donnie ignored Dorothy disappearing inside her front door and took off after her offending suitor. All of a sudden it’s like Steve McQueen in “Bullitt” only without the hills; we’re flying crazily around the flats of Hayward after this guy who’s got far more horsepower than us and probably a nine millimeter pistol in his glove compartment.

“What are you going to do if you catch him?” I’m saying in a panicky voice, but Donnie’s not listening, he’s just hell-bent on getting even with this guy who had the audacity to take out a girl he’s not even dating anymore, treat her to a nice evening and politely return her home, and at this point you may be wondering-

What the heck does this have to do with Mr. Berndt, a fine man who died and who was an early mentor of mine and a wonderful teacher to so many? Well, I’m getting to that, but because I don’t want to tax your patience with an over-long post, you’re going to have to tune in next time to hear about it.

Randy Breckenridge, and a True Story of the Colorado River

I have a new book coming out next month, Wheels of Change, and it’s dedicated to Randy Breckenridge, who died under sad circumstances, at too young of an age. He lost a baby to SIDs, went through a tough divorce (is there ever an easy one?), grew estranged from many of his friends, and had his spirit roughed up by drugs and alcohol.

I met Randy at UCLA when we were both freshmen in the Rieber Hall dorm. We became fast friends because of a shared interest in mountains and rivers. He was a real river rat and an expert whitewater boatman who guided commercial rafting trips for the American River Touring Association (ARTA). Together we rafted the Stanislaus, South Fork of the American, Tuolumne, and the Big Daddy of all western rivers, the Colorado in the Grand Canyon.

If you ever get a chance to go down the Colorado on a raft, jump on it. It’s the Sistine Chapel of whitewater river experiences. My chance to raft the Colorado came when I was twenty and kicking around the country with no money, no job, and happy as a fellow could be. Randy was working for ARTA, and there was an opening for an assistant boatman for a two-week, oar-powered trip down the Grand. He invited me. Free of charge. Needless to say, I found time in my busy schedule to go.

The Colorado is a big, wide, fast desert river. Our trip covered more than 200 river miles, passing all the while through the amazing Technicolor walls of the Grand Canyon. Most surprising to me was how tropical it was. Down at the river, at the base of these ancient, incredibly beautiful canyon walls, there is an abundance of something you don’t ordinarily find much of in the desert: water. You can hike up these side canyons with overflowing creeks and waterfalls with lush ferns and greenery, and it’s like you’ve been transported to Tahiti.

Once a gila monster walked through our camp, and late in the day at another site several of us stood around and watched the petals of a white datura flower open up before our very eyes, as if we were viewing it through time-lapse photography.

On the mighty Colorado, once you are inside a major rapid, it is impossible to turn or maneuver your raft because the water is too strong and fast. So you must set your boat up straight at the top of the rapid before you enter, and then hang on for dear life once you’re in it. Boats full of people flip quite often on the river, and that was what happened to us on our trip.

But we did not flip on Lava Falls or Sockdolager or some other big rapid on the river. It wasn’t even a rapid, and it didn’t have a name at the time. Because there are long stretches of open, flat water on the Colorado, it is common for the professional boatmen (or boatwomen) to turn the oars over to passengers to give them the experience of rowing. This was what Randy did. A passenger was rowing, and no one noticed the big rock jutting from the water ahead of us. We reacted too late. The power and speed of the river even in this mild stretch caught us off guard, dumping us all into the drink.

Two of the passengers were not strong swimmers and not wearing their life jackets. I towed one to shore, and Randy pulled out the other. Everyone made it to shore safely. But our inflatable six-person rubber raft was wrecked. It filled with water and both ends of it wrapped around the rock. The only way we eventually set it free was by cutting it with a Buck knife.

There were two other boats on the trip, following after us. They picked us up, and the five of us on Randy’s boat squeezed into their boats and rode the rest of the way. We recovered our clothes and gear, stored in waterproof bags, as they floated down the river until getting snagged on rocks or running aground.

Our mishap became a permanent part of rafting lore on the Grand Canyon. It is virtually impossible to lose a raft on the Colorado, because the force and power of the water will almost always push it off a rock or wherever it is stuck. But we had done it. We had achieved the impossible, and if you look in the official guidebook for rafting on the Colorado, at Mile 126, you will see the notation for “Randy’s Rock Rapid.” That is the true story of how it got its name.

So now my old buddy has a rapid named after him, and a book dedicated to his memory. I’m sure he’d happily give them both up to once again breathe air.

Randy’s Rock Rapid, from The Colorado River in Grand Canyon, A Guide, p. 83.

The Bully of Bret Harte Junior High

On Thursday night I went to “Back to School Night” at my son’s middle school here in Benicia, and I was extremely disappointed because the hallways and classes were clean and neat, the teachers were bright, young and motivated, and all in all it seemed a wonderful place of learning. What the heck has happened to the American educational system anyhow?

I went to Bret Harte Junior High in Hayward. It wasn’t called “middle school;” it was junior high, and it consisted not of the sixth, seventh and eighth grades as Hank’s is, but of seventh and eighth only. A few of my fellow students at Bret Harte were old enough to have mustaches and serious whiskers, and some of the cars they drove were stolen.

Many students at Bret Harte went on to high school, college, and flourishing careers. Others now have their pictures displayed in the “Most Wanted” books at the post office. Bret Harte was so tough that even the rats in the hallways carried guns. In shop class they taught students how to make toy guns out of soap, a potential job skill for those who went to prison and needed to break out.

By far the baddest dude at Bret Harte in my day was Robert Jones, the school bully. He intimidated even the teachers and principal to such a degree that they gave him his own office. The sign outside of it said, “Head Bully.” If you acted up in class, the teachers didn’t threaten to tell your parents, they threatened to send you to Robert Jones and let him deal with you. That straightened you up fast.

Jones was as big as Danny DeVito but he could lick any man twice his size, including cops. He was an equal opportunity bully, picking on both seventh and eighth graders. But seventh graders like myself were his main victims. We used to post lookouts around campus to warn us when he was walking down the hall. One lookout would pass the word to the next, “Jones is coming! Jones is coming!” like Paul Revere warning the colonists about the redcoats.

Jones traveled with a posse of fellow bullies, but he really didn’t need to. He was an army of one. If for some reason our early warning system failed and he happened to appear, unannounced, in the hallway in which you were standing, God help you! Every kid in the hallway froze on the spot, praying to himself, “Please don’t pick on me, please don’t pick on me.”

When he passed by students pancaked themselves against the wall, trying to become one with the lockers in the hopes that he would not see them and harm them. Being a little guy, Jones had an instinctive grudge against big guys. He seemed to always target the biggest guys, lifting them up bodily and depositing them in the nearest trashcan.

When we were talking with Hank about what he had heard about Benicia Middle School (this was before he started, about two weeks ago), one of the things he mentioned was “canning.” This was what he called the practice of dumping kids in trashcans, which he had heard can happen in middle school and high school. We reassured him that that was unacceptable behavior, and that if he ever saw or heard of anything like that to let us know or his teachers.

I did not share with Hank (or his younger brother) my memories of Robert Jones who, now that years have passed and I am safely away from his clutches, I view with some fondness. After all, he showed great restraint for a bully. After throwing a seventh grader in the trash, he did not then set the can on fire. For this he deserves praise.

Author, Back in the Saddle, Returns to Health Care Debate

Dear Readers,

Thank you all, truly, for your notes and expressions of support after my confession last week that I was having surgery to remove a cyst from a most embarrassing locale, my scrotum. I am fine. Everything is fine, although don’t tell that to my scrotum which looks, in my wife’s words, “like a badly-stitched purple baseball.” And, I might add, it feels about the way it looks.

The cyst was three inches long and nearly one inch thick. It is now on display at the Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. My doctor said it resembled the alien being that jumped out of John Hurt’s chest in “Alien.”

All jokes aside (or attempts at same), I received a flurry of responses to my editorial against the public or government option in the president’s health care proposal. Opinions varied: yes, no and on the fence about the whole thing. Travis Roste, a reader in Minnesota, was laid off in January as a company shipping specialist and is still looking for work. He, too, is against the president’s plan and this is what he wrote:

Hi Kevin, Good luck with your surgery. I have a feeling you will be just fine. I agree with you that a public option will soon turn into a public mandate and everything will get screwed up. And this is from a guy who is unemployed and doesn’t even have health insurance right now. I don’t want government health insurance anymore than I want government-run fast food, or government-run clothing stores.

Competition is good, and if they were smart, they would let insurance companies sell their products across state lines, without mandated coverage, and let people choose what they want in their coverage.  If my wife and I are monogamous, maybe I can get a better rate if I don’t choose std coverage, and my risk of aids is about zero, because I don’t use street drugs and so forth, so maybe that along with many other risks that don’t apply to me would make my premium cheaper.

Car insurance is cheap these days because Geico, Progressive and many other insurance companies will sell you just the type of insurance you want and will compete with other companies. Long distance telephone used to be expensive when Ma Bell ruled every phone in the country.  We used to run outside and call our dad and tell him that his brother was on the phone, and to hurry, because it was long distance.

Now it’s cheap after the phone monopoly was busted. Prices went down, and we can choose Sprint, AT&T, MCI, or dozens of smaller companies that compete against them. Having no competition is trouble for any sector, including health care. Now the administration will call it a public option, with the government competing with current health insurers, only it’s a stacked deck. Current insurers have lots of mandates and other hamstrings put on them, while the government can subsidize their coverage if they want because they don’t have to make a profit. The government can do it long enough to squeeze the private insurers out, then take over and ration the care, and do whatever else they want. I couldn’t agree with you more.

I’d love to quote another email I received, this from one of the most interesting and insightful people I know, who ardently supports the president’s plan with the public option included. But she didn’t want to enter a debate about it in a blog because she gets very passionate about all of this and the blogosphere is already boiling over with enough overheated opinions as it is. This, I understand. What about the controversy now engulfing John Mackey, the co-founder and CEO of Whole Foods, who wrote in a Wall Street Journal op-ed piece that he opposed the president’s plan, including the government option, and suggested some health care reforms that have worked for his company and might work for the nation as a whole. Mackey is apparently a model corporate citizen. He runs an employee-friendly company whose stores sell wholesome food at good prices and make financial contributions to their communities. But because of this op-ed piece his critics have launched a boycott against Whole Foods and personally and viciously attacked him on blogs and elsewhere. In response, a group of Whole Foods employees and others have rallied to his support on Facebook.

Both sides of the political spectrum engage in such tactics, so I’m not picking on one or the other, but I don’t get it. Because someone expresses an opinion, that makes him target for an attack against his character and business? No wonder so many good people of all persuasions stay clear of politics. Personally I try to avoid political discussions in polite company (because the company usually becomes less polite), although sometimes it slips out in unguarded moments. Before achieving my current wedded bliss I was dating a San Francisco woman and happened to mention that I voted for Ronald Reagan for president. Twice. She reacted with moral outrage as if I’d committed a sin against nature with my dog Patch.

How could you? she sputtered. I said that if it made her feel any better I voted for two Democrats in the next two presidential elections, the losing Michael Dukakis and the victorious Bill Clinton. However, in doing so I did not feel I could make claims of moral superiority over those who disagreed with me and voted for their opponents. This may have spelled doom for us as a couple because we broke up soon after this. So whenever you hear Ronald Reagan’s name in the news, know there is at least one unreported aspect to his legacy: that he helped liberate me from a bad relationship.

Thoughts of Mortality, Embarrasing Medical Disclosures, and Politics all in one Blog Post!

Today, I’m having surgery and you’re not. Lucky you, unlucky me! Doctors are removing what they describe as a “benign” cyst, although I quibble with this term. If the cyst is so darn benign, what the heck is it doing there in the first place? By this they mean “non-cancerous” of course, and for this I am a grateful man.

Not long ago a medical clerk from Kaiser called me to ask me some questions as part of the pre-op procedure. Apparently check-in at the hospital goes quicker if you answer the questions ahead of time. One of the questions was, “What is your church?” I confess this caught me off guard. “Christian,” I said, “but wait a second. I’m planning to have the surgery and then leave the hospital. Is there something I need to know you’re not telling me?” She laughed and said that they just want her to ask that question because some people like to be visited by a pastor, priest or rabbi if they’re in the hospital for long. My procedure was an “in and out,” meaning that I will check in, have the surgery and check out the same day, and so this may not apply to me.

A day or two after I spoke to the clerk I got another call from Kaiser, this one from the anesthesiologist. In discussing the procedure-I’ll have a general anesthetic and be under for about an hour, the length of my surgery-she didn’t ask about my religious affiliation but she did mention that “there was always a chance of bad things happening,” one of those bad things being death. She went on to say that she thought this possibility was very slim, a worst-case scenario (I’ll say!). But that it was important for patients to understand all the risks in general anesthesia, even if those risks are very small and never materialize in the overwhelming percentage of cases.

I was reminded of the old saying about surgery: Minor surgery is surgery performed on someone else. There is no minor sugery when it’s being done to you. But I cannot accuse the anesthesiologist or the medical clerk of saying things that my doctor was not. He had already broached the subject of death when we were discussing whether or not to have the surgery in the first place.

We decided to move ahead because the cyst, which is inside my scrotum and attached to the epididymis, is growing. I know it’s growing because I can feel and see that it’s getting larger, and this isn’t good. Although this may fall under the category of “too much information” for some, I don’t mind talking about it because for me, it’s a medical condition. It’s not me. I’m not defined by my ailments. But you have to take care of your ailments, or they may take care of you, so Dr. Anthony Acquaviva and the surgical team are going to go in there and cut that thing out, then biopsy it and make sure it is in fact benign.

One point I feel obligated to mention in light of current events is that my doctor and I agreed on the surgery together, and that we were able to plan (and finally, perform) this procedure in a smooth, timely and efficient way. Just my doctor and me, no one else. Honestly, if the president’s current health care proposal passes Congress, including the so-called “public option,” put me down as intensely skeptical that we will have such freedom in the future. Matter of fact I feel strongly that this plan will kill jobs, stifle medical innovation, increase taxes, cost trillions we don’t have, not help many of the uninsured it is purportedly seeking to help, and finally, insert the government between doctors and their patients. It will inevitably lead to rationing, and that’s bad news especially for the elderly upon whom the axe would fall first, in my view. I invite all of you to look closely at the bills now being considered by Congress because health care is too important an issue to be left to the politicians.

Ah, but that’s politics, a topic for a brighter tomorrow. Wish me well. I’ll check back in a week or so when I’m back in the saddle again. Well, sort of.

A Reader Writes: “I’m Interested in Writing a Children’s Book. What Do I Do?”

Hi Kevin, my name is Dori Maggart. I am married to Phil Maggart, Mike Maggart’s twin. We have met on a couple of occasions. A few months back I read an article about you and your profession as an author. Right now I’m interested in writing a children’s book. I have a few questions that I’m hoping that you can help me with…

1) When you send a book to a publisher, is it in final format or still being modified?

2) What is the normal format to provide?

3) How do you select a publisher?

4) Since I am writing a children’s book, should I include my own illustrations to help sell the book?- Dori Maggart, Benicia, California

Kevin Nelson replies: Great questions, Dori. Let me answer them in the order you asked.

1) NEVER send a completed book to a publisher unless you have been in touch with the publisher and he/she has requested it. This is true of children’s books as well as adult. To send a manuscript in cold to a publisher is to ask for rejection. Publishers receive hundreds if not thousands of proposals and even finished manuscripts every week from writers and agents. To achieve success you must find a way to make your proposal (or book) stand out from the rest.

2) For a children’s book, indeed for any first work of fiction by any unpublished author, you will need to write the entire book with illustrations before an agent or publisher will take a look. Lots of people have good ideas but, as an agent once said to me, “execution is everything.” Write a one-page query summarizing what the story is about and who you are (focusing on your special knowledge or qualifications to write this story). Include a sample illustration or two. If they express interest at seeing more, then send the completed manuscript with the illustrations.

3) In selecting a publisher, go to a bookstore or library and look at recent children’s titles that you enjoy. Find titles that are similar to yours and see who is publishing them. Visit the websites of these publishers and see what else they are publishing. These sites may also have guidelines for submitting proposals, which you should follow. While  researching publishers, do the same for agents. You might start by first seeing if you can land an agent before approaching a publisher. Most professional writers are represented by agents who act as the liaison between them and the publisher.

4) For young children’s books especially, art is central to selling the work. It is not as crucial if you have written a chapter book for elementary school and older children, but for the infant and preschool set illustrations are vital. But don’t neglect your story, which should teach some sort of lesson and have a snoozer ending. By that I mean, parents read stories to their children before bed, and they want these stories to be a natural segue into sleep. I have a friend who is a Hollywood screenwriter. He has just written a children’s book and the last time I talked to him (I gave him some advice too), he was talking to an agent about representing him. He wrote the story, commissioned an illustrator, and created a prototype of the book to show the agent. Good luck to you, and keep me posted on your progress.

A Reader Writes: “We’re Having a Baby, and We Can’t Agree on His Last Name…”

I received a letter the other day from Anthony Collier, a fellow I’ve never met but who needed advice. His eloquent and honest letter speaks for itself.

Mr. Nelson,
Foremost, I’d like to thank you for the advice and guidance you provided in The Everything Father-To-Be Book.  It has certainly been a great go-to source for me as I embark on fatherhood for the first time.
My partner is currently in the beginning stages of her second trimester as we both anxiously await the birth of our first child; and just yesterday we were overjoyed to hear that we are expecting a son. As you outlined in your book, one of the biggest decisions that couples face during pregnancy is the naming of their child. Typically, one might think that tension could rise on this hot topic when figuring the first (and middle) name of the imminent child; however, it’s the last name that we cannot come to terms on. Here’s our scenario….
Valerie and I went to a small private high school together in northern Virginia, the kind where everyone knew everyone. We weren’t necessarily great friends, but were both certainly in the same crowd and even had a few classes together. There had been roughly an eight-year lapse in communication before we both (separately, yet mutually aware) decided to reacquaint at an informal high school reunion weekend (March ‘09). We ended up hitting it off really well, went our separate ways that Sunday, and over the next couple weeks talked on the phone tirelessly as we felt the makings of a potentially great relationship. We decided to come together again and planned that I go visit her for a weekend at her home in Connecticut (April ‘09). That weekend quickly turned into three weeks and it was quite apparent that a relationship had begun.
Soon after returning home to North Carolina, I got “the call.” Valerie had seen a doctor and learned that she was indeed pregnant with our child. After natural deliberation of what to do, clearly we opted to go forth with the pregnancy. In order to have any shot at making this work, we decided to relocate to the DC area where we both had family ties. That brings you relatively current.
Obviously sparing details, I’d be lying if I said that our relationship has been perfect thus far. In fact, it’s been pretty rocky. One thing that we do have going for us is that we are above all else committed to doing anything and everything for the betterment of our child.
My point in disclosing so much information is to familiarize you as best as I can with our situation. Among other things, the last name of our child is an issue that, thus far, we can’t agree on. There’s no dispute that if we were married the child would bear my last name. Since we are not, Valerie is relatively adamant on the baby keeping hers and she has very valid reasoning to wish this. Her late brother was the last male in her family and thus, should our child not continue on with her name, it would “die” with her father. I, on the other hand, am very firm on our child taking my last name. For me, there is no deep sentimental reasoning behind my stance, I just feel as though “that” is how “it” is supposed to work.
One other point of validity is that it is agreed that our son’s first and middle names will be Jason Lee. We agreed on Jason as it is the name of her aforementioned late brother. Lee has been a long standing family name on Valerie’s side and I was more than happy to oblige and honor both. So for me, should our son also take on Valerie’s last name, there is an issue of emasculation in that there would be nothing on the surface that screams, this is my son.
I have very briefly seen some of your additional credentials in searching for your contact information. I know that this may be a little off color in asking, but one thing that Valerie and I did agree on was that you would be a credible source to ask: “Which way do we go here?”  I know that there is no right or wrong and certainly I am not asking you take sides here. I suppose the real question is: Traditionally speaking, whose last name should our son take?
Should this letter even reach you, and from there if you were kind enough to read it, give it some thought and then even respond, I can’t thank you enough for your input.  Again, your book has proven to be quite enlightening to an otherwise naive father-to-be. Thank you, Anthony M. Collier

Dear Anthony: First of all, congratulations to you and Valerie. Babies are a blessing and a gift from God. I believe this with all my heart. But obviously, as you’ve found already, these blessings come with plenty of challenges too.
Traditionally speaking, it is not even a close call that the child should take your last name. For a couple thousand years or so children have taken their father’s last name as their own. Simple fairness would also dictate this, since your child’s first two names will honor Valerie’s family. As the child’s father, your wishes in this regard take precedent over her wish to carry on her father’s name. Without expressing my opinion or trying to influence them in any way, I let my wife and my twenty-one-year old daughter read your letter to get their opinions. They both said that the child should take your last name because you need and deserve to feel equal partnership in this grand voyage you’re embarking on (in fact, have already embarked on).
My daughter added that she knows boys and girls her age with hyphenated last names-the mother’s with the father’s. This is a compromise that works for many people, although honestly, I would have had trouble with it. Based on tradition and my strong feelings about fatherhood (which you clearly share), I wanted my children to have my last name. Not because I wanted to carry the Nelson name forward onto the next generation, but because I wanted to feel, and have an expression of, my undiluted connection with them.
I was talking once with my mother in-law about some family issue and I said, “Well, it has to work for Jennifer [my wife].” And my mother in law replied, “It has to work for both of you.” We repeat that refrain quite often around our house: It has to work for all of us, not just one person. But I do truly hope that Valerie comes to see the value of you having that shared, lasting, every day connection with your son. Her son, your son, will be better off, by far, with you actively involved in his life. Study after study after study has shown this to be true. Children need fathers, they are better off with fathers, they do better in school, in life, emotionally, financially and every other way. If we want men to be a force for good in the lives of their children, we need to strengthen these bonds, not lessen them.
That’s my opinion. But I’d certainly love to hear what other people have to say. And, I know, so do Anthony and Valerie. So if you have something to say to them, I encourage you to post your comments below.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Friends

Leyna Bernstein. Dr. Jeff Brown. Kimberly Cole. David Davis. Dave Hicks & Daryl Simms. Melanie Robbins. Carl Steward. Arv Voss. These are all friends of mine who write compelling things, do interesting things, and run intriguing websites. Scan down the list and there may be someone or something here you wish to explore further.

Leyna Bernstein, a human resources consultant, just wrote a blog about how, if you’re an employer, you should hire happy people because they make the best workers. (Hey, I’m happy. Hire me!) See it here.
Dr. Jeff Brown is a Harvard professor, but don’t hold that against him (joke). A psychiatrist, Harvard Med School instructor, hospital clinical associate, and psychologist for the Boston Marathon, he has written a winning book, The Competitive Edge, How To Win Every Time You Compete, that provides real insights on how to succeed in business, sports and life.
Kimberly Cole is an editor at Autograph Magazine, for which I’m doing some writing on forgery. Her daughter Rufi Cole is studying at the University of Virginia writing program and writing a serial novel, The Violin Face, on a website for new writers. Check out Rufi’s novel and the work of other young adventurous writers at seizureonline.
David Davis is a fine writer whose work has appeared in Sports Illustrated, Wall Street Journal and many other prestigious publications. The last time I saw him we had beers at the funky retro Red Lion Tavern in Silver Lake in LA. Click here for  a recent LA Times piece of his in which he weaves reminiscences of his childhood with a review of a classic baseball card collecting book.
Dave Hicks and Daryl Simms are the prime movers behind Scene on the Strait, an art festival whose proceeds go to restoring butterfly habitat on the Carquinez Strait. This year’s Scene on the Strait will be held at the Martinez Waterfront on Aug. 8 and 9, and if you’re in the neighborhood, drop by and say hello. (Full disclosure: I write and do consulting work for the event.)
Melanie Robbins runs a parenting website, Passionate Purposeful Parenting, centered on Christian principles. A revolving set of contributors writes articles for the site and the latest, by Wendy Clark, an English teacher at Napa Valley College, draws an interesting parallel between training horses and raising those much wilder creatures known as children.
Carl Steward, a must-read columnist for the Hayward Daily Review and other papers in the Bay Area Media Group, just wrote a wonderful piece for the San Jose Mercury-News that garnered national attention. It’s about how much hard work and study Rickey Henderson put in to prepare for his speech last week at the induction ceremonies at the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Read it here.
Arv Voss may have the coolest job in the world; he writes reviews of new automobiles and motorcycles. One of the perks of his job is that he gets to drive around town in these flashy new rides. The other day when we went to lunch he pulled up in a convertible Bentley Continental GT speed coupe with a base price of just under $200,000. Read about it here and drool.

Simple Vacation Pleasures: A Pictorial Essay

Climbing volcanoes and hiking across obsidian landscapes and seeing grand vistas and rafting rivers and riding horses are all fine activities, of course. But everyone knows that the best vacation pleasures are the simplest ones, such as those depicted in the pictorial essay below:

Counting License Plates. So far this trip we’ve seen Alaska, Arizona, California, Colorado, Oregon, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Montana, Nevada, New York, Oklahoma, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, Wyoming, and British Columbia.

Making a puzzle…

…and finishing it!

Curling up with a good book.

Cold drinks on a hot afternoon, and then—

After drinks.

And finally, perhaps the greatest pleasure of all, sending the children off to a tennis clinic for a couple of hours to give their parents a little time to themselves.

Please note: We’re off to the Columbia River Gorge and Portland tomorrow, and I’m not sure if I’ll have time to do any more vacation postings. If so, thank you so much, dear readers, for your patience and understanding in this perhaps self-indulgent enterprise, and I look forward to resuming my normal blogging activities shortly.

Living with Chippy, and Other Natural Pleasures

Where we are staying is a place called Sunriver Resort, which can best be described as “a family resort.” But really, it’s a resort for chipmunks. There are more chipmunks in this place than people, I think. The day we arrived we were unloading the Highlander and bringing our stuff inside, leaving the door to the cabin open as we went in and out. The boys were in the kitchen. They said, “There’s a chipmunk in here,” and so there was. It had come in through the open front door. We opened the rear patio door and out it went, our official chipmunk welcoming committee.
We have since named him “Chippy.” If Chippy had his (or her) way—I’m no expert on the gender markings of chipmunks—he would probably pull up a chair and eat dinner with us. And breakfast too. Certainly Chippy has been fed a lot by previous occupants, and that’s why he’s always hanging around.
Of course, Chippy has lots of brothers and sisters, and they’re all around too, conspiring on ways to get food from the humans. They live under the house or around it. Yesterday I was reading on a deck chair on the grass, and Chippy kept poking his head out from under the deck. Chipmunks are fidgeting little nervous things, but the more I sat there, the bolder he became and I was able to get a pretty good shot of him.

Jennifer, who rode and own horses when she was a girl, went on a trail ride yesterday with the boys, the first time she and her sons had ever ridden horses together. Here, they are scouting out their rides. Gabe’s horse was called Bonecrusher, Hank’s was Nightmare, and Jennifer’s was Princess Polly.

That was the morning. In the evening the four of us rented a canoe and took a guided float trip down the Deschutes River. We started at a bridge and floated about three river miles finally ending at the Sunriver marina. Jennifer was “the pilot” in back, I acted as “the motor” in front, and Gabe and Hank sat between us. Everyone took turns paddling, and it was wonderful to be out on a river so late in the day, with the water calm and the weather cool and the sun dropping below the trees.

Be Still Your Hearts: Beautiful Vistas and Buff Guys!

Ray Atkeson was the Ansel Adams of Oregon, photographing its places of beauty to inspire people to preserve and protect them. Named the “photographer laureate” of the state, the only person to be so honored, he confessed late in life that he thought the most beautiful vista in all of Oregon was at Sparks Lake at the base of Mt. Batchelor on the Cascade Lakes Scenic Byway. When Atkeson died in 1990, at age 83, the people of Oregon erected a roadside marker in his memory at the spot he so loved. Yesterday we drove the Cascade Lakes Byway, a highway of lakes and mountains and endless trees, and stopped at Sparks Lake. It is truly a magnificent place, one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, and this photo doesn’t do it justice. Nevertheless here it is:

In our short time here we’ve noticed some differences between Oregon and California. Oregon has fewer fancy places to eat and seemingly fewer highway signs and good maps than its neighbor to the south, but it also has more of certain things. Here is a short list of what Oregon has more of:
• More trees and greenery.
• “More extremely large insects.” (This, from Jennifer.)
• More chipmunks.
• “More eco-terrorists.” (This, from me. When I said this Jennifer replied, “Oh, I haven’t seen any of those this trip.”)
• More dirt roads.
• More Oregon and Washington license plates. (This, from Gabe.)
• And, for the moment, as the picture below shows, more muscular guys:

Postcard from Oregon: Ouch, Those Darn Mosquitoes!

Today I’m thinking, “Oh this is ridiculous, Nelson. You’re going to be blogging while on vacation? It’s like showing home movies of your vacation; nobody is going to want to see that. But then I got three comments on yesterday’s post (okay, so one was from my son), and I’ve suddenly got a new vocation: Travel writer! Read on, my armchair travel companions…
Yesterday’s lowlight: We went hiking at Benham Falls on the Deschutes River (shown above), and the mosquitoes attacked Jennifer. Jennifer is a wonderful person to go hiking with because the mosquitoes always attack her. I’m not sure why this is, but if I were a mosquito I’d dig into her soft succulent skin rather than mine any day. Anyhow, yesterday’s episode brought back memories of other mosquito misadventures in Jennifer’s past: staying at a house on the coast of Maine and being swarmed by bugs every time she stepped outside, and that lovely warm night on the Gulf Coast of Texas when she went out in shorty shorts and a tank top and got eaten alive.

Yesterday’s highlight: Lava Butte, a volcanic cinder that was formed seven thousand years ago and today is part of Newberry National Volcanic Monument. Apparently back in the days when woolly mammoths roamed the earth, this part of Oregon was the home of the Newberry Volcano, which when it erupted spit out cinders and ash that formed into this 500-foot high cinder cone. It’s a pretty cool formerly hot spot. You can drive to the top of the Lava Butte, walk a few steps up to a lookout station, and see the peaks of the Cascade Range: Mt. Batchelor, Broken Top, the Sisters group, and in the far distance, the intensely beautiful conical shape of Mt. Hood. From the station, you can walk around the rim of the 150-feet deep cinder cone, peering down into it as shown above. Then, after driving back down to the visitors center, we took another short walk through a desolate section of black molten lava.

More highlights: Goody’s Ice Cream Shop in downtown Bend. Goody’s make its own ice cream, chocolate and many of its candies. After being chewed up by mosquitoes on our nature walk to Benham Falls, Jennifer and the boys (they also got bit) were looking for more civilized pleasures. So we stumbled onto this wonderful old-fashioned soda fountain on the trendy main shopping street of Bend. Gabe had a blue raspberry icie, Jennifer a cool “green river” drink (club soda, lime syrup, squeeze of lemon, phosphate), Hank an orange float (orange juice with vanilla ice cream, seen to the left), and I had a chocolate-dipped vanilla bar. More tomorrow, like it or not!

Real-Time Reports from On the Road: Day One

Yesterday we traveled from our home in the Bay Area to Sun River in central Oregon, and here is my real-time (okay, so I’m a day late) report on our doings:

Highlights: In Dorris, California (pop. 886, on Highway 97), near the border of Oregon, we saw the world’s tallest flagpole, 200 feet high. Dorris also has two bars, one gas station and one public toilet, behind the City Hall building.

More highlights: A semi truck hit a sheriff’s car, stranding the car in the middle of the highway. Then, a second semi carrying a load of lumber crashed on the highway and caught fire, burning its trailer up. We saw its charred remains as we drove past. Just after this, we saw yet another semi-truck tipped over completely on its side by the side of the highway.
On the radio in Oregon: Country, country, Christian and more country.
In eight-plus hours of travel time, this is what four human beings—two adults, two children—consumed: two Squirt lemon drinks, two Snapple ice teas, three Odwalla mango smoothies, one Starbucks hot tea, one bran muffin, six English muffins (two with cream cheese and jelly, four with peanut butter and jelly), two cinammon rolls, four pickles, ten apricots, four cookies, one banana, ½ bag taco chips, four sandwiches (two turkey and cheese, one roast beef and cheese, one peanut butter and jelly), and several sticks of gum.

We turned off  Highway 97 around noon and found a dirt road on a ridge overlooking Upper Klamath Lake in Oregon. The road is called Hanks Marsh Vista, and we threw a sleeping bag on the ground and had picnic lunch.

My Michael Jackson Memory: Dave Falkowski and the Hayward High Trapping Defense

When the Jackson Five first released “I’ll Be There,” a tender pop ballad with the teenaged Michael Jackson singing lead in that distinctive falsetto of his, I was playing basketball for Hayward High School. Our team mascot was the Farmers but we weren’t farm boys; we could play. We had big guys who could muscle and jump and quick little guys who could harass the man with the ball and one of the best schoolboy drivers I’ve ever seen and outside shooters who could sink shots when the other team started collapsing on our big guys. League champions and ranked tenth in the state at the end of the 1971 season, we finished with 23 wins against only three losses. Our final loss came in the finals of the Tournament of Champions, then the biggest prep basketball tournament in Northern California, and we were beaten by a Berkeley High team that featured two future professional athletes (6-11 center John Lambert of the Cleveland Cavaliers) and guard Rupert Jones, who played outfield for the Oakland Athletics and other major league baseball teams.

We didn’t have any future pros in our lineup (although current Giants broadcaster Jon Miller graduated from Hayward two years before me), but when you played us, you knew you’d been in a game. We got after people, using a trapping defense similar to a full court press in which we picked up the other team’s guards as soon as they got the ball inbounds after one of our frequent scores. I played guard for the Farmers along with Dave Falkowski, who grew up on Minnie Street in Hayward up the block from me. The Falkowskis were a popular neighborhood hang-out because they had a ping-pong table in their garage. It was a one-car garage but instead of a car they had the table set up for us kids. Mr. Falkowski was an electrician, and crowded along both walls were his tools, sports gear of all kinds, and lots of other stuff. As I recall there may have even been things hanging from the ceiling.

If the ball went off the table to one side or the other, it’d likely hit the wall or something attached to the wall. And if the ball bounced too high, it might hit one of the things on the ceiling. We played with the garage door open, and sometimes during our games the ball would fly outside, down the driveway and roll into the street as if it were trying to make a getaway from the crowded confines of the garage.

Anyhow Dave was a small, quick guy and a terrific athlete (I think he’s a psychiatric nurse now, though I could be wrong) who teamed with me in our trapping half court defense. We played man to man, and it was my job to pick up the other team’s playmaker, the man who handled the ball, and drive him toward the sideline either just before or just after the half court line. You do this by overplaying his dribbling hand, forcing him to go left when he’d really rather go right, or subtly shading his body so that when he goes right, the way he wants to, he thinks he’s in control of his destiny but really he’s running into a trap.

The trap comes when he hits “the corner,” the point where the half court line meets the sideline, and this is when my ping-pong buddy Dave joins me in our mutual harassment society. Dave leaves the man he is guarding so we can double-team the ball. And we’re all over this poor guy, waving our arms, slapping at the ball, trying to get him to do something panicky like throw the ball out of bounds or pull his pivot foot and be whistled for a travel. Many a time we would strip the ball from his hands and take it back to our basket for an easy lay-up (well, supposedly easy. I blew plenty of breakaway lay-ups in my day.)

This was the way it had to happen: me driving the guy into the corner and Dave coming up fast behind us to work the trap. So in the locker room at halftime during a game we’re sitting next to each other talking over this strategy and I’m saying, “Look, I’ll do it. I’ll get him into the corner where he’s supposed to go but you’ve got to be there.”

And Dave looks at me and in the words of Michael, sings: “I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Just call my name, and I’ll be there.”

We walked onto the floor for the second half humming and singing Michael. It was our theme song for the game and as far as I’m concerned it was the theme song for the vaunted Hayward High trapping defense that struck terror in the hearts of every team we faced during that mostly glorious season. And, for the record, Dave Falkowski always was there.

Here is Dave Falkowski in the middle of some defenders, passing to me on the right. Pictured at top,  the 1971 Hayward High Farmers Varsity Basketball Team: From left standing, Jay Hughes, Kevin Nelson, Joe Rucker, Jim Langenstein, Frank Volasqis, Mark Cooley, Mark Jackson. Kneeling from left: Calvin Goward, Dave Falkowski, team star Donnie Schroer, Craig Frye, John Forbes. Missing from this picture is the captain of our ship and the architect of the trap, Coach Joe Fuccy.

Hollywood on Wheels: Cars and the Movies Trivia Quiz

You drive a car, and you love the movies. That makes you the perfect candidate to take the Hollywood on Wheels: Cars and the Movies Trivia Quiz, an original quiz found only on Kevin Nelson, Writer. Gentlemen and gentle ladies, start your engines! (Answers are here.)

1. Clint Eastwood’s latest (and very good) movie, Gran Torino, now out on DVD, revolves around a ‘72 Gran Torino. What car manufacturer made the Gran Torino?
2. Name the blonde beauty who drove the white T-bird in American Graffiti and who later starred in “Three’s Company” and became a spokesperson for Thighmaster.
3. In “Bullitt” in the greatest car chase ever, Steve McQueen drives a green Mustang Cobra GT, seen above. What car driven by the bad guys challenges him?
4. Name the blue-eyed handsome car lover who raced cars, starred in the racing movie “Winning, and voiced Doc Hudson in Cars. (Hint: His picture also appears on spaghetti sauce jars.)
5. The classic James Bond car is the Aston Martin. Did Sean Connery as Bond first drive one in Dr. No, From Russia With Love, or Goldfinger?
6. Ian Fleming, the author of the Bond novels, wrote a children’s story about a car that flies. What was the name of the movie based upon this story?
7. The Love Bug’s name was what?
8. The name of the imported Japanese youth car trend popularized in The Fast and the Furious. (Hint: If you had a Steinway that sounded awful, you would need to call a piano….)
9. James Dean was killed in 1955 driving what car?
10. Clark Gable hunted, fished, dated the most beautiful women on the planet, and drove and raced fast Duesenbergs. Name the High Noon hero and Gable’s great screen rival of the 1930s who did all those things too.
11. What hot-bodied Chevy marque is the automobile star of this summer’s new Transformers movie, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen?
12. The ring in “Gone in Sixty Seconds” stole cars. What actor played the leader of the ring, Memphis Raines?
13. George Thorogood and the Destroyers punch out the opening song for Christine, a movie based on a story by Stephen King about an evil car. Name that bad-ass song.
14. In Witness, Harrison Ford was fixing what car in the barn when he romanced Kelly McGillis to the tune of Wonderful World (Don’t Know Much) by Sam Cooke?
15. Name the silent era comedian and producer credited with originating the car chase in the movies with his slapstick band of Keystone Kops.

Questions too hard? Too easy? Coming in our next installment: Hollywood on Wheels Part 2: Cars and Television Trivia Quiz. Preview question: Fill in the blank of this classic cop comedy: Car …., Where Are You?

Kevin Nelson is the author of the upcoming Wheels of Change: From Zero to 600 M.P.H.: The Amazing Story of California and the Automobile, to be published in November 2009 by Heyday Books and California Historical Society Press.

The Daring Quest: Growing Sunflowers, A Photo Essay

Sunflowers are such calm, quiet, peaceful things, unlike boys. But my two boys, Hank and Gabe, are raising sunflowers in our backyard as part of The Daring Quest, and we want you to see the results so far, beginning at the, well, beginning.

Saturday, May 9, the day before Mother’s Day. Here are Jennifer and Gabe preparing the soil and planting the seeds. Each of us has our various jobs: Jennifer and I shovel dirt and mix in chicken manure to improve the soil in the bed, Hank stays inside the house working on his Alaska state project for school, and Gabe occasionally wields the shovel but mainly collects bugs that he finds in the dirt.

Lured by the prospect of seeing something gross, Hank comes outside to see Gabe’s bag of bugs. “Dude,” he says, “that’s awesome.” “Do you want to feel them?” Gabe asks. “No,” says Hank. I confess during the shoveling that in all my life I have never planted anything before-not one fruit, not one vegetable, and certainly not any sunflowers. “That’s amazing,” says Jennifer. “I’m so happy to be part of your first experience.” Hank adds, “I’ve never planted seeds in chicken dung before.”

Thursday, May 14. Gabe and I water the sunflowers. Like the American economy, no green shoots are visible yet. Watering the sunflowers quickly turns into watering Gabe. He starts running around the lawn giggling and exulting as the spray from the hose soaks him like a spring shower.

Sunday, May 17. Success! Here, Hank explores the eight to twelve tiny shoots that are suddenly bursting from the chicken manure soil. This is a testament to the wisdom of The Dangerous Book for Boys, our guide for The Daring Quest, which recommended sunflowers because they grow very fast and children (and their parents) can see immediate results. Afterward Gabe and I go up to my office to download the pictures he has taken, and I teach him how to use the Kodak photo editing  software. He quickly catches on and crops the photos and saves them to the desktop without my help. “I can do it,” Gabe says. “I know you can,” says his father.

In a moment Hank follows us into my office and learns to use the photo editing tools too. The two of them take turns editing photos, and it occurs to me that while the boys are ostensibly growing sunflowers, they are also learning some of the skills I hold dear: writing, editing, photography, design, publishing.

Tuesday, May 19. Before the finals of “American Idol,” I water the sunflowers and the other plants in the beds, something I’m doing much more than I ever have in the past. I feel more connected to the sunflowers because I helped plant them and they’re part of The Daring Quest. This seems a good lesson for teaching children as well: A thing that is done for them will never matter as much to them as when they do it themselves.

Saturday, May 30. I am brushing my teeth when Gabe runs into the bathroom to tell me something. This is not unusual. It is almost impossible to take a shower without Gabe coming in to tell Jennifer or me-whoever is in the shower at the time-his latest breaking news about how he can’t find one of his Warhammer toys or how he had a dream last night about a peanut butter sandwich. But this is truly a dramatic development. “I have good news and bad news about the sunflowers,” he says. “The good news is they’re growing. The bad news is they’re being eaten. By snails, I think.”

Springing into action,  I go down to the garage, find a bag of snail-killing pellets, toss some handfuls in the dirt, and create a snail Maginot Line along the edges of the bed. Take that, you pesky varmints!

Wednesday, June 10. The sunflowers are growing, and growing. According to Gabe’s measurements, the tallest is more than twenty inches high, and there are a bunch of other plants that are nearly as tall.

Thursday, June 18. Gabe measures again and the tallest is now two feet high. Two feet! It’s a miracle!

Answers: Hollywood on Wheels Movie Trivia Test

1. Ford 2. Suzanne Somers 3. Dodge Challenger 4. Paul Newman 5. Goldfinger 6. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang 7. Herbie 8. Tuners 9. Porsche Spyder 10. Gary Cooper 11.Camaro 12. Nicolas Cage 13. Bad to the Bone 14. Powder blue Volkswagen Squareback 15. Mack Sennett. Bonus TV question: 54.

Eat a Peach: A Day in the Life of a Work-at-Home Dad

For a work-at-home dad, the two most frightening words in the English language are: Summer vacation. The boys are out of school now, which means that the “work” part of “work-at-home” pretty much disappears. Here is one day in my life this week:

7:41 a.m. Kiss the wife goodbye as she leaves for her blessedly steady job with salary and benefits.
7:42-8:00 a.m. Race upstairs and take shower. Do morning stretches. Run back down to fix double-bag English tea. Transport tea back up to my office, turn on laptop.
8:01 a.m. Sit down to check my e-mail and possibly do some writing before the boys wake.
8:02 a.m. Boys wake. Both visit me in my office. Start turning things on, pulling things out of drawers, telling me their dreams. To get them to leave, I agree to fix their breakfast.
8:20 a.m. Take Hank to swim practice. Also mail a book order at the post office, which makes me feel good because at least it has something to do with making a living.
9:50 a.m. Return to pool to get Hank. On return trip home, announce to the boys that we are seeing “Up” this afternoon.
10-11:15 a.m. Boys actually play contentedly without fighting or yelling, I suspect because of the movie carrot I have dangled in front of them. This gives me a chance to check the e-mails I didn’t get to earlier.
11:30 a.m. From upstairs I hear the boys ‘ voices getting louder, a clear signal that the peaceful calm of the morning is about to turn ugly. Rush downstairs to put food in their mouths.
11:45 a.m. During lunch I do not notice that Gabe is eating peaches out of a can. But I do notice when he starts drinking the peach juice out of the can. I tell him how disgusting this is, and he stops.
11:59 a.m. I drink the rest of the juice from the can when the boys aren’t looking.
12:07 p.m. Gabe accidentally pulls the toilet roll dispenser off the wall and hands it to me asking me to do something with it.
12:24 p.m. Pack snacks for the movie. Find leftover Gummy Worms to throw into the snack bag with the Pirate’s Booty white cheddar puffs and Capri Sun juice drinks. Offer the boys a box of raisins for a “healthy treat.” Both emphatically turn it down.
12:44 p.m. Grab snacks and 3D glasses and we’re off. Nope, not quite. I ask Hank to make sure the front door is locked. He says it is. I walk back and check the door. It isn’t. I lock it.
1:12 p.m. Stop at Costco before the movie to look at bicycles. While there, we walk past the Books section and I think wistfully of all the authors who are home at this very instant working hard on their writing.
1:45-3:35 p.m. See “Up” in 3D with our 3D glasses (totally recommended, by the way, a terrific movie for kids and adults). Note with pleasure the references in the movie to snipe hunting, showing that Kevin Nelson, Writer is on top of the latest Hollywood trends. (See our recent post on snipe hunting.)
4 p.m. Return home. Gabe leaves to go ride his bike on the court, complaining that the other kids are making fun of him because his bike is too small. Hank asks if he can have some peaches. I say yes.
4:05 p.m. I notice that Hank has poured entire can of peaches into a glass, not a bowl. Gabe walks in the door and copies his brother. Oh well, at least they’re not eating from the can.
4:36 p.m. Count the seconds until 4:45 p.m. when my wife returns from work and I get to take a walk.
4:46 p.m. Oh no, she’s a minute late! Where is she? This isn’t fair. Doesn’t she know I’m home with the kids all day and…Ah, there she is. “Tag you’re it, honey.”

More Work-at-Home Dad: Why Children Learn to Read. So They Can Work the TV Remote

In my never-ending quest to prepare my sons for the real world, now re-branded The Daring Quest, I have spent countless hours teaching them how to operate a television remote. Holding the flipper in the palm of your hand and manipulating the controls with your thumb while stretched out on the couch watching “Man vs. Wild” or “The Brady Bunch Movie”-this is a lifelong learning skill I feel confident my sons will use all their days. And my daughter too. Now in college, Annie can handle a remote with the skill of an expert.

This morning, while playing on an old laptop of mine, Hank discovered a 2005 journal entry in which I talked about teaching Gabe, then four years old, how to use a remote. Here is what I said:

The flipper is our name for the TV remote. Gabe wanted to turn on the TV and video and I was trying to teach him how to do it. The top of the remote says “Mute” and “Power” and some other words. I said to him, “Find the P. Where’s the P word?”
“The P word?” he asked.
“There it is: Power,” I said. “That’s why you learn to read. So you can work the flipper.”

I actually said that: “That’s why you learn to read. So you can work the flipper.” Around this same time, apparently during a sterling period in my career, I also noted this in my journal:

I mopped the floor this morning to feel useful and productive. That’s how bad it’s gotten for me: I’m mopping the floors to feel useful. I have been developing my floor mopping techniques, however. I’ve used powdered cleansers in the past. Put a heap in a bucket, add water, and mop. But I find that they, or at least the one I used, did not leave the floor with much of a shine. Now I use a liquid cleanser. It seems to give the floors a bit more luster. [AND HERE IS THE RELEVANT PART OF ALL THIS…] I mopped the kitchen and three bathroom floors this morning, while Gabe practiced his reading while using the TV remote.

You’re not sticking your children in front of the TV. You’re giving them a chance to practice their reading while they operate the remote, allowing you to do something else in the house. And I sincerely hope that something else is not mopping.

Speaking Gigs for Wheels of Change

I have a new book coming out in the fall, Wheels of Change, and Lillian Fleer, the wonderful events person at Heyday Books, is starting to line up speaking gigs for me. (Please note: all these dates occur after the boys go back to school, and that is NOT a coincidence.) We will have more events forthcoming but if one of these happens to be in your local area, you may wish to put it on your calendar now.

I will be speaking around California at bookstores, libraries, historical societies, service and community clubs such as Rotary and Lions, as well as at book parties in people’s homes. If you’d like your local bookstore or group to host a talk, or if you’d like to invite some friends and hold one in your living room, contact me at kln@KevinNelsonWriter.com. I’ll work with Lillian and we’ll set something up. I guarantee an entertaining and absorbing talk about cars and car people. Here are my scheduled book talks to date:

• Weds., Sept. 30, 8 a.m., West San Jose Kiwanis Club, Fresh Choice Restaurant, San Jose.

• Thurs., Nov. 5, noon. Oakland Rotary Club, Oakland.

• Tues., Nov. 10, 7 p.m. Clayton Books, 5433 Clayton Road, Clayton. 925-673-3325.

• Thurs., Nov. 12, 6 p.m. Hayward Area Historical Society, 22701 Main St., Hayward. 510-581-0223.

• Sat., Nov. 14, 1 p.m. Vallejo Naval and Historical Museum, 734 Marin St., Vallejo. 707-643-0077.

A Lesson in Automobile History for Michael Moore

By Kevin Nelson
It would be a full-time endeavor to correct all the errors and exaggerations of Michael Moore, so I must content myself with one. In talking about the bankruptcy of General Motors, Moore writes, “One hundred years ago this year, the founders of General Motors convinced the world to give up their horses and saddles and buggy whips to try a new form of transportation. Now it is time for us to say goodbye to the internal combustion engine. It seemed to serve us well for so long.” (See entire text.)

To say that GM convinced Americans to give up horses makes as much sense as saying that McDonald’s made people hungry for hamburgers or Jim Beam for bourbon. If any company put America on wheels, it was Ford, not GM. Henry Ford’s Model T, introduced in 1908, revolutionized transportation in this country, providing a sturdy, reliable, efficient, and amazingly economical car that made automobile ownership an affordable part of the American dream for all Americans.

In its earliest years GM primarily made luxury cars, helping to develop and popularize the electric starter which gave women in particular the ability to drive and be independent in automobiles. Before, with the hand crank, it was physically hard for women to start a gasoline engine. Those such as Moore who romanticize the days of the horse and buggy clearly have never tried to handle a horse. The automobile is one of the greatest labor-saving inventions of all time and it was fundamental to the idea of women’s suffrage. Women campaigned across the nation in automobiles for the right to vote because it showed that just as they could handle a car the same as men, they could handle their business in a polling booth too. And the Nineteenth Amendment was ratified in 1920.

It was in the 1920s that GM, under the executive leadership of Alfred Sloan, emerged as an automobile manufacturing powerhouse. Part of its success was due to Sloan’s hiring of Harley Earl, a supremely talented California car designer who helped show that American production cars could not only be useful but beautiful as well. By the end of the decade GM had surpassed Ford in sales and innovation and had become the world’s leading carmaker, a title it held only until recent years when Toyota nicked it for first place.

But even Ford and General Motors combined did not make people around the world fall prey to the sweet enticements of the harlot internal combustion engine. Credit for the invention of the internal combustion engine generally goes to two Germans, Gottlieb Daimler and Karl Benz, whose companies later merged into a pretty good car company known as Mercedes-Benz. The French led the early development of electric cars, which competed against gas cars in races and for the public’s affection. Also involved in the early development of electric cars was no less an authority on electricity than Thomas Edison. But the Daimler-Benz creation, improved and advanced by the countless inventors who came after them, performed far better than the electrics, and this was why the public-and Henry Ford and GM too-embraced it.

Michael Moore may be ready to write the obit for the internal combustion engine, but I’d say it’s a little premature. The idea of a non-polluting electric vehicle-we’ll forget, for the moment, how the battery is made-sounds good on paper, but that is not the place where cars are judged. Who will win the 21st century race of electric vs. gas? Time will tell but if history is any guide, I would not bet against the latter.

Kevin Nelson is the author of the upcoming Wheels of Change: From Zero to 600 M.P.H.: The Amazing Story of California and the Automobile, to be published in November 2009 by Heyday Books.

The Dangerous Quest: Two Posts This Week

1. Bribing Boys To Learn Shakespeare [ read article here ] 2. Speaking of Matters Literary [ read article here ]