Mac McGowan's Blog: Musings, Memories, and Excerpts from Mac McGowan

Another story from my memoir in progress of my youth. This is from 1962 when I was ten.

EXPECTATIONS DASHED

With great anticipation . . . the highlight (or lowlight) of our winter of 1963 . . . was a quick family trip we made from the San Francisco Bay Area to frozen Lake Tahoe.

What was envisioned as a spectacular entrance into a whole new world . . . instead became a humbling dose of reality . . . altering lifestyles forever. . . .

On our drive up the mountain, the first sighting of snowfall came at us sideways, peppering the windshield with loud splats.

As this was our first visit to the snow, we were excited to see the roadside drifts forming a tunnel six to eight feet high.

During a pitstop, we exploded out of the car and into our first taste of real winter . . . and our impression was not stellar.

This initial foray left us shivering and soaked from the mushy snow, and with teeth chattering, we quickly retreated into the comfort of the back end of our Chevy Station Wagon for the final leg up the hill.

Upon arrival, all four families explored our ski chalet and found a huge loft for us kids to roll out our sleeping bags.
With nine kids, from seven to fourteen, the loft was crowded, noisy, and . . . decidedly smelly.

We arrived in the dark, and soon after settling in, all were content and happy in front of a roaring fire. We were served unlimited hot chocolate, a dessert treat, and funny stories.

Then came the announcement. The septic tank was overflowing . . . and you couldn't flush a toilet without disastrous results!

Immediately, the parents decided that going number one inside was an option for the females, but the guys should use the tree . . . closest to the front porch . . . at least while it was dark.

Thinking ahead, I wondered . . . what 10-year-old boy wants to leave his warm sleeping bag in the middle of the night, trek downstairs, and out into the freezing weather . . . to take a leak!

But it forced you to make a decision.

Do you go outside in just your pajamas, taking the risk of having something freeze off?

Or, do you put on six layers of snow gear to keep warm, knowing it will take you 30 minutes to complete the process? Neither was very appealing, especially since you'd have to do it more than once!

Damn hot chocolate!

Number two was a different story. For that, you had to enlist the aid of a parent, who would have to drive you down to the gas station on the corner.

You know the one, the impossibly grimy one of your nightmares!

Predictably, disaster struck for me in the form of the worst scenario possible . . . diarrhea!

Now, not only do I have the runs, but I have to announce the need to go number two to virtually everyone in attendance, including the little, blond-haired cutie I’d just met.

By the end of the next morning, not only was I exhausted from the illness, but also from straining not to let go with a runny torrent before I reached the point I could assume the squat!

Needless to say, going to the snow did not yet impress me!

Nevertheless, I recovered quickly, gaining a slight smile of amusement from the little blonde, which sent my heart racing.

By the afternoon, I was feeling well enough to venture outside. Gingerly stepping onto the front porch, my snow boots crunched in the snow as I inhaled the scent of the damp pine boughs.

Winter sports, here I come . . . was dancing in my head, when I spotted an icicle dangling from the low roof. An ideal time for the newest Olympic event . . . “Icicle Vaulting!”

So, I leaned back, hurtled forward, snapped that ice spear free and stuck the landing in the soft snow, throwing my hands in the air in triumph!

The celebration was short-lived as my villainous, almost 13-year-old brother, Roger, plastered the side of my face with a giant snowball . . . sending me sprawling into the fragrant . . . yellow slush . . . at the base of the tree nearest the porch.

The slush oozed down my neck, under my layers of clothes, and into my boots . . . instantly chilling me to the bone.

Frantically mounting a counterattack, a misstep sucked off one of my boots and the wailing could be heard at the Lake.

Frustration boiling over I retreated inside for a bath, changed into dry clothes, and settled by the fire for the rest of the day.

One consolation was this sterling banter with my budding romantic partner.

“Hi, are you feeling better today?” Blondie asked with a sweet smile.

“Yeah,” I answered in a small, quavering voice.

That was it . . . the end of the conversation. But I knew immediately that she would be . . . my future bride!

How could she not be dazzled by that snappy repartee?

The next day was our last in the snow . . . thank goodness . . . and we were heading to the ski slopes. No worries that I had never been skiing before, because I knew that with my athletic ability, I was destined to become a champion skier.

Forced to begin on the Bunny Slope, we hurried to the tow rope for a ride to the top. The first time I tried, I made it two feet before I was thrown unceremoniously on my tush. I popped up and tried again . . . another two feet.

In my despair, I heard a beacon of hope and my heart soared.

“Come on, try again, you can do it,” Blondie encouraged softly.

Buoyed by her concern, I was determined that nothing would stop me. I rose, grabbed the rope, and prayed.

Same result. Except this time, some kid plowed into me from behind, sending me face down into the snow.

By the time I got up, I was soaked from head to toe, and miserable.

In that moment, I knew I was not going to master skiing, which prompted my classic response of, "It doesn't matter . . . it's not a REAL sport."

That was my go-to when I couldn't master a skill. It pertained to things like gymnastics, soccer, or rope climbing . . . really anything . . . that wasn't baseball, football, or basketball.

What made it worse was that as I pulled off my skis for the last time, I saw Blondie at the top of the hill chatting with Roger. He spotted me, smirked, and then they triumphantly schussed down the Bunny Slope together.

My future bride . . . forsaking me in my time of need . . . for Roger!!

I glumly convinced one of the parents to walk me back to the chalet.

My Mom, watching my approach, was there to comfort me.

After another hot bath and once more in dry clothes, the aroma of chocolate, vanilla, and sugar wafted from the kitchen.

Minutes later, we were snuggled together on the couch, sharing a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a brimming mug of hot chocolate.

As we sat, I thought about Roger, knowing someday we would be equals . . . just not today.

I thought about Blondie, knowing I was too young to be worried about her, and realizing, I still had my best girl . . . right beside me.

After a while, Mom got busy, and I daydreamed of getting out of that hell-hole and back to the boring weather of the good old Central Coast!

My dreams of a ski career were dashed, but it led me to less embarrassing alternatives . . . that were much better suited to my skill set.

I've rarely seen snow since . . . and the thought of vacationing in it has never crossed my mind.

The reason . . . it's not a REAL vacation!

A short story about our gang of four as youngsters in 1957:

THE GREAT POND DISASTER OF 1957

As a five-year-old in 1957 . . . I should have learned two things: never follow my impish four-year-old friend Jack anywhere, and never underestimate my seven-year-old brother, Roger, about anything.

Jack’s older brother, Steve, agreed. He was months older than I, and we were the duo that began our foursome. But as we aged, we moved as a group and wreaked havoc wherever we went.

To give you an idea of the dynamics of our group, I'd like to share just one story.

It turned out fine, but it could have had serious results . . . but at that age, we knew we were immortal.

A couple of blocks away from our little tract houses sat what I guess you would call a “catch basin”, a concrete-lined storm drain to catch runoff. To us, it was a pond . . . and we thought it looked like a good swimming hole.

The day was cold and blustery, and we had just been explicitly told not to go down to the basin and not to get wet.

Edging away from our Moms . . . Jack, the daredevil and instigator of the bunch, immediately suggested we go down to the pond. Not to go swimming . . . just to look around and skip rocks.

He had a look on his face that we all came to recognize as we grew older, but at this point, we didn’t realize the danger of following that face.

Walking gingerly down the steep sides of the basin, we could see the gray skies and the placid, but murky water, untouched by the wind above.

Plucking rocks from the shore, we tried valiantly to outdo each other at skimming rocks . . . but ended up with more plunks than ripples.

We slipped in the crunchy leaves near the water and naturally got to fooling around.

Suddenly, someone, I’m betting Roger, “accidentally” pushed Jack, who ended up sliding into the water . . . and his screech echoed up to the street.

Since Jack was fully dressed, and this was a pond, not a pool, he was immediately coated with mud below the knees.

We were all laughing hysterically.

His face turned ashen, deep with regret and concern.

But already in trouble, he flashed us that trademark grin and took a full-fledged dive into the muddy depths.

After swimming for a few moments, he lazily floated on his back toward shore.

“C’mon, what’s the matter with you guys? Ya’ chicken?” Jack cackled. “I dare you to come in!”

With no takers, he stood and started walking, only to feel his soggy shoes sink into the sludge.

He stopped dead . . . unable to move.

“You idiot,” Steve roared at his little brother. “Dad’s going to kill you!”

With childhood visions of deadly quicksand . . . dancing in all our heads, my first thought was to jump in and pull him out.

So, not being brilliant, that’s what I did.

Soon, I was up to my waist and unable to pull Jack from the muck.

Unfortunately . . . I had forgotten my Superman cape that day!

Here is where Roger asserted his diabolical intelligence.

He told Steve to go in partway and grab my hand, while I grabbed Jack’s. Roger, on the beach, would gallantly pull all three of us to safety.

Steve was skeptical and was still chuckling about the thought of Jack facing their Dad that night.

But, loyal to me and begrudgingly loyal to Jack, he trudged into the water, grimacing in the ice-cold pond.

All in position, Steve grabbed Roger's hand, and Roger started to yank on him to pull us all back to shore.

We slowly inched our way out . . . with the slop sucking at our P.F. Flyers.

Up this close, the smell of the water was slightly putrid, and we gagged back the bile threatening to erupt.

Then, with teamwork personified and victory in sight . . . it happened!

Jack’s cold, slimy hand began slipping from my grasp. Before I could spit out the words of our impending disaster, his hand was gone, and Steve and I both lost our balance.

Roger let go of Steve's hand, and we all went crashing into the water with a splash.

“Oh, great!” Steve wailed. “Now we’re all going to get it!”

“Well . . . maybe not all of us,” Roger smirked.

We looked up, and there he stood on shore, grinning . . . as clean as could be . . . looking like he was headed to Sunday School.

Eventually, we made our way to dry land, each of us carrying an extra 20 pounds worth of mud.

We quickly shed our clothes in hopes of getting them dry, but no dice. Pulling them back on . . . we confidently declared that our Moms would never know.

We weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.

Imagine . . . we were three little kids in wet, mud-caked, rumpled clothes, thinking we could fool our Moms!

We may have had a chance with our dads . . . if it was cocktail hour . . . but not our moms in the afternoon.

As we neared home, our shoes sloshed and squished out water with every step.

We could see our moms standing on the sidewalk in front of Steve and Jack’s house, talking away. It took a while for them to notice us.

When they did, their mouths dropped open . . . and while they didn’t say anything right away, the looks on their faces said it all.

We were in big trouble.

Roger, spotting their "looks", quickly left the three of us and ran to our moms.

He turned to face us, mimicking their posture, hands on his hips, and his mouth screwed up crookedly in disbelief.

It was in that moment that I realized Roger was brilliant.

"I told them not to go swimming, Mom, but they did anyway," Roger said hastily, before we could open our mouths.

"They wouldn’t listen to me," he added, sending a mischievous glance our way.

We were incredulous!

But there we stood, shivering and scared, in clothes that were destined for the garbage pail . . . while Roger was perfectly dry, in his nicely pressed blue jeans and a sweatshirt.

The kid was a genius!

"Just wait until your Dad gets home," both Moms growled in disbelief.

I hated Roger for many years . . . but somehow . . . even as I wanted to strangle him . . . I realized he had fostered loyalty, teamwork, and demonstrated real intelligence.

And, that’s when I knew . . . that . . . like Roger . . . instead of being a follower . . . I wanted to be a leader . . . but in my own way!

Here is a story from my childhood. Was probably about 4-5 years old, so 1957 or so.

SUNDAY NEWSPAPERS AND THE BAKERY

One of my clearest early memories . . . flickers like an old home movie, recalling early mornings, and family togetherness in the late 1950s.

It features my oldest brother, Mike, eight years older than I, his paper route, teamwork . . . culminating in a visit to our local bakery.

On Sunday, the paper had to be delivered at the crack of dawn, as opposed to the typical afternoon delivery, and Mike needed the family's assistance.

I don’t know how long he had the route, or how often we rode along, but I do specifically remember one cold, rainy morning.

Our work party consisted of my Dad, Mike, and my other brother, Roger, who is two years my senior.

We were up by 3:00 am, groggily folding papers. My version of helping consisted of nodding off every so often, knocking over the stack of newspapers in front of me, and slowing down the assembly line.

Roger’s job included gently helping me stay awake by kicking me a few times . . . a part of the task he enjoyed immensely.

After “we” finished our prep work, we bundled up, throwing coats and blue jeans over our pajamas, and jumped into the old Studebaker.

The four men of the clan, off to work . . . while Mom stayed at home in her snug bed. She was still . . . the smartest one in the family.

In the front passenger seat, Mike would crank his window down by hand and sling the papers in the general vicinity of the driveway or front porch.

Only occasionally would Dad have to stop the car . . . and fish a paper out of a puddle.

Several times I pointed out faulty landings . . . and was rewarded with a nod of approval from Dad.

My other job was to make sure my side of the back seat remained warm, toasty, and dry. Not as easy as it sounds, since Roger had maneuvered me into the seat . . . directly behind Mike's open window.

While Roger sat smugly, dry as bone, I was buffeted by wind and an occasional gallon or so of rainwater, howling into the back seat.

Still, with the help of a large blanket, I completed my chore in good order, and upon returning home I told my proud Mom . . . “I was so good at my job . . . I could do it in my sleep!”

Which, of course . . . I did.

With the last paper delivered came the payoff. The Bakery!

It was still dark, and the lights from inside the Bakery shone warmly, casting into the black morning like a beacon calling us home.

We fell out of the car, our too-big bedroom slippers flopping precariously. We ran through the rain, jumped over puddles, and raced down the sidewalk.

Now fully awake, Roger and I flung the door open, and were instantly enveloped by the hazy lights, the warmth from the ovens . . . and the overwhelming aromas of sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, and fresh coffee . . . which were intoxicating.

The main attractions, though, were the huge glass cases, warm to the touch, and stuffed with donuts, pastries, breads, pies, cakes, and cookies.

Now came the agonizing part. “The Wait.”

As a little guy, I squirmed between, under, and around people to reach the front. My Dad would take his time putting together the family order.

He'd chat it up with the owner a little, smile, and start with a cup of coffee to go, before finally making his decision.

I never understood what took him so long, as I always knew exactly what I wanted . . . a chocolate donut and a maple long john!

The selections were stowed under my Dad’s arm and placed on the front seat between Dad and Mike.

Roger and I, when it was just the four of us, were relegated to the back. In those days, there were no seatbelts or car seats, so we would stand on the back seat, looking down at our reward, inhaling the scent, and drooling in anticipation.

The wait was all part of the family plan, though, as once we got home, we plopped down at the table together, including our wise, sweet . . . and well-rested mother.

We shared an excellent breakfast of freshly baked, still-warm pastries, as a family, while reading Dick Tracy, Dennis the Menace, Peanuts, and Beetle Bailey in the Sunday funny papers . . . before fighting over the Sports section.

Even though I can't eat a donut now without getting heartburn, those memories are cherished.

Today, when I catch a whiff of maple, it takes me back to that cold, rainy Sunday morning.

At the time, I didn’t make the connection. But this was the moment I realized that showing up for the family was well worth the effort . . . with or without donuts!

Here is an essay about growing up and spending a life with baseball and softball. Enjoy!

VACANT LOTS TO CATHEDRALS TO SCHOOLYARDS


This is about dirt. That’s right, dirt! I’m not talking landscaped dirt, with flowers and walkways.

No, I’m talking plain, empty, scoured dirt. Not a pebble, a flower, a blade of grass, a weed. Nothing growing. Period.

This is also about simplicity and complexity, joy and despair, perseverance, and not judging a book by its cover.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and amazingly, having spent an inordinate amount of time in my life watering plain ol’ dirt . . . I can tell you without a doubt that freshly watered dirt is one of the prettiest visions I have ever seen . . . provided it has been properly prepared.

The first step is to get the right mixture of dirt. Then, you surround that empty palette with a brilliant green border of grass that stretches as far as the eye can see.

Next, add five sturdy pure white islands of various sizes and shapes, bordered by two transient white boxes, with lines springing from those rectangles and reaching out to eternity.

After all is in place, you add the finishing touch, water. It is, of course, a baseball or softball infield.

For a fleeting moment, before the players take the field, it is sheer perfection.

My picture of this serenity and beauty has morphed over time. I have seen the extremes of backyards, major league cathedrals, community ballparks, and high school fields.

All different, but at the heart of things . . . all the same.

As a 6-year-old, playing ball in my neighbor’s vacant back lot in Walnut Creek, nothing was perfect.

The empty space was roughly scraped out by hand and sculpted into an infield that only youngsters could love. Gone were the bigger rocks, the weeds . . . and the dirt clods . . . which we happily threw at each other.

The diamond, as a finished product, was dusty and soft in some areas, while hard in others. When the wind blew, dust would swirl and invade our young lungs, causing us to cough . . . and forcing us to learn how to spit like a real ballplayer.

The bases were gray and dirty, unless you were using brown paper grocery bags folded into the perfect base, or a stray piece of wood, an old shirt, a jacket, or a hat.

The neighbor’s yard backed up to endless walnut groves, and standing at home plate, which was a piece of wood driven into the ground with a couple of spikes, you thought the field went on forever.

Even though we didn’t have the white bases and chalk lines defining the infield, there was a simple and beautiful symmetry. It was then and there that I realized I had found my “happy place.”

The beauty of that infield, then, was in the game itself . . . and in your friends.

We strove hard every single day to learn from the older kids, in hopes of improving and reducing our “squirm” time . . . waiting to be picked for a team . . . and praying we wouldn’t be the last kid chosen.

We spent most of our summer days playing ball on that field, and the following spring, we had our own version of spring training as soon as the rain stopped.

Sadly, our lives were uprooted the next summer, and we moved an hour away to El Cerrito, where my big brother joined the local Little League team.

The move was tougher for me as I was too young for Little League, but with new friends and tagging along with my brother, I stayed connected to the game.

It was here that we first experienced the frills of real baseball, including genuine bases, home plate, the pitching rubber, foul lines, rules, and umpires.

This was our first inkling of the underappreciated and sublime complexity of the game.

That was the first time I ever saw a field without a footprint. I never knew, nor thought about, how they got that infield so unmarked and perfect.

We were also introduced to a field with grass . . if you could call it that. It was usually mowed weeds and bare dead spots, but we still called it . . . reverently . . . the “outfield grass.”

Another first was watching our dads grooming the fields, taking pains to get it right.

We also watched our moms, dressed in their house dresses, baking all day, and then wrapping scarves around their heads to preserve their precious hairdos, and hauling those goodies to the park to sell and support the league.

My biggest thrill of the year was being asked to be the bat boy in my brother’s last game.

The coach tossed me a well-worn team hat, and I bent to tighten the shoelaces on my trusty P.F. Flyers and raced to retrieve the bat after every at-bat. I was in heaven for a day, and then it was over for the year.

However, we had a big surprise in store, as the following year, our baseball world was rocked when the New York Giants relocated to San Francisco.

Suddenly, we were going to be exposed to Major League Baseball and stars like Willie Mays!

This was the first time that the major leagues had ever had a team west of the Mississippi River, and now we would have the Giants and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

San Francisco and the surrounding suburbs were overjoyed and welcomed the Giants with a parade through the city's streets. By the time the season started, everywhere you looked, you saw Giants hats on heads and transistor radios plastered to everyone’s ears.

In 1958, Seals Stadium in San Francisco was my first of many major league cathedrals to visit.

Having never seen a big league field, other than in grainy black-and-white photos, I was not prepared for my first stadium experience.

The grass was so green it almost hurt my eyes, as it stretched an impossibly long way to the distant outfield walls.

The infield dirt, a beautiful reddish-brown, had been watered and was drying unevenly, leaving a patchwork of earth tones that I couldn't take my eyes off.

The green grass, rusty dirt, crisp white borders, and the bright blue sky were my kaleidoscope.

But it wasn’t just the visuals. It was also the aromatic fragrance of popcorn, cotton candy, peanuts . . . as well as Gulden’s Brown Mustard, slathered on a steaming hot dog, nestled in a slightly soggy Langendorf bun, wafting through the air, and making me feel like I was home.

The sheer majesty of the scene took my breath away.

For years, that grand setting was my ideal of a place to spend a day until the realization hit that I had lost the thread that tied me to the game in the first place . . . dirt.

It was about that time, in my mid-40s, that I helped develop the most breathtaking fields I have ever seen for our local high school and community girls' softball programs.

It was during that time that I discovered the effort that went into preparing those fields for a practice or game, and it was then that I first realized I loved dirt!

The time I cherish now is the summer tournament we hosted to raise funds for both programs.

After the Friday and Saturday evening games ended, we dressed those diamonds in the near darkness.

Later, standing and hand-watering an infield, watching it go from dusty tan to that rich reddish-brown in the dark, always made me smile.

As I walked down the hill at 6:00 the next morning, without another soul in sight, I could see two of the fields side by side. They were flawless.

The dirt had dried overnight and was the perfect shade of that distinctive brick-colored infield mix, while the grass shimmered with misty morning dew.

The white chalk lines were sharp, not yet blurred by running feet, and the bases and home plate had nary a mark. There wasn’t a stray pebble or footprint to be seen, and I would pause and breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of the dirt and the freshly cut grass.

However, what was truly beautiful was the collective effort of everyone working hard to create a little bit of perfection for the kids and their families.

Like Baseball or Softball . . . Dirt's “book cover” . . . can look drab and boring. But if you look closely, you can see the beauty, the symmetry, the complexity, and the sheer joy of appreciating life’s simple pleasures.

There is a saying that Baseball (or Softball) is Life. It has all the thrills and anguish of competition . . . winning, losing, doing well . . . and doing not so well.

But no matter what happened yesterday, the next day, the next game . . . there it was again. The perfection of a pristine infield, waiting for you . . . to start fresh once again.