It is difficult to read. After all, it is a carbon copy of California Highway Patrol ticket from 1974.

i found it when i opened a book from my bookshelf, and it fell out. i wasn’t sure what it was until i saw the date. i remembered instantly.

January 6, 1974. It was four days after President Nixon signed the bill to limit the speed on the nation’s highway to 55 miles per hour. It was a Sunday. We were relaxing in Navy Officer Housing in San Pedro, a suburb of Los Angeles. I was Chief Engineer on the USS Hollister (DD 788), a FRAM destroyer homeported there. And believe me, a Chief Engineer of a reserve FRAM destroyer needs a break every once in a while.

Earlier, my lifelong friend, Earl Major, had come by to say goodbye. Earl and i had reconnected at the department head course at the “Destroyer School” in Newport, Rhode Island the previous year after a dozen years of losing touch. We grew up together. Happily, we were both assigned to ships out of Long Beach. He had relieved as Weapons Officer of the USS Fox (CG 33), which at the time was in overhaul at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard — All of that Navy facility is gone. Terminal Island, the Port of Long Beach and the adjoining Port of Los Angeles, one of the largest container ship ports combined in the world — but the overhaul was over, the ship had returned to its homeport of San Diego, and Earl had checked out of his apartment that morning to drive to San Diego in his ’67  Porsche 911s.

My wife, my daughter, and i would miss him. He had stayed with Blythe on numerous occasions and stayed at our with pets when we went on long trips. i was not yet aware we would be joining him in San Diego in about a year when i was transferred from the Hollister to become the first lieutenant on the USS Anchorage (LSD 36).

So we relaxed for about an hour when the phone rang. It was Earl calling from a phone booth in Irvine. The Porsche had stopped running as he approached the I-5 and I-405 merge, and the car was on the median in between the merge. He asked me to come and help. i explained to Kathie, kissed my daughter, and grabbed some line (“rope” to you landlubbers), threw it in the back of our Toyota Corona station wagon, and headed South on 405. There was no traffic: amazing for someone who now must drive on the 120-mile traffic jam that exists 24/7 nowadays. i reached the merge in a little over a half-hour.

And there in the middle of the median was Ear’s burnt orange Porsche with Earl standing outside.

i pulled next to him, got out, and we discussed his options. i don’t know why we didn’t use AAA or call a tow truck, but perhaps it was difficult to get a tow truck; we didn’t have AAA back then; or Earl only had enough change to make one call. Remember this was 1974 and calling while on the road was a whole different ball game. Regardless, we stood there and strategized with me informing Earl about the line (rope) in the back.

The next exit was not quite a mile away. We decided to push the Porsche with my station wagon. We stationed the cars, and when no traffic was coming from either interstate, i carefully and slowly pushed Earl and the Porsche across to the I-5 South shoulder and began to creep toward the exit.

That is when the CHP black and white cruiser pulled up behind me and turned on his blinking lights. i thought it was nice of him to protect us from cars coming up from behind.

But he pulled beside me and motioned for us to stop. i did. About a quarter mile or less from the exit ramp. He read us the riot act about how unsafe it was to push a car on an interstate as the three of us stood outside the cars. Then he pulled out that pad from his back pocket or one of the two thousand other pockets and holsters those guys have hanging on their person. He took down all of my information, including my address from Watertown, New York (i had not had to re-register in California because of the rules for the military and duty station changes).

Then he got to the  part for recording the violation. He seem puzzled. He went back to the patrol car and pulled out a book and began flipping through the pages. He quit flipping and made a call on his radio. There was a long discussion. In about five minutes, another patrol car pulls up, and the two CHP officers began a discussion while Earl and i are wondering what is up. Several minutes later, another patrol car arrives. This one apparently was the other two officers supervisor. They talk some more. Then another patrol car pulls up. Finally, there are six patrol cars on the shoulder along with the Porsche, the Corona, and Earl and i. The officers are in deep discussion until the original guy, the one i thought was protecting us, walks over and hands me the carbon copy of the ticket while the five other cars disburse at more than the new speed limit. He explains how to settle the ticket, and he too speeds off.

Now being bright Navy officers (that doesn’t apply to the pushing episode), we decide since we can’t push the car the remaining distance to the ramp, we could pull it. So we do any boatswainmate proud and latch up the Porsche front bumper to  my Corona rear tow hitch with the line (rope) i had put in the car.

We safely (?) pull the car to the ramp exit. Miraculously, we check the phone book and find a foreign sports car maintenance shop, OPEN on Sunday morning, within a couple of blocks. Earl explains the problem, the mechanic projects Wednesday as the repaired date.

i take Earl back to our house and he gets a shipmate from the Fox who is also moving that day to give him a ride to San Diego. Before he leaves, Earl offers to pay the fine, but i insist we split it. Reading the ticket thoroughly, we realize the phalanx of CHP officers had given me a ticket for speeding at two miles an hour in a 55 mph zone. There is also no option to simply pay. i am required to appear in court. Earl insists he come up and go with me to testify. Kathie agrees to go with us and serve as a character witness if necessary.

The next week, i get the court date Long Beach municipal court house. The original date in January was changed and written in felt tip pen at the bottom is the new time and room number:  “14 February, RM 203/5:45 to 6:45.”

Earl drives up that afternoon. We decide to wear suit and ties rather than our uniforms. Kathie dresses nicely and conservatively to match us. We arrive and report to the clerk in 203. There are about a dozen clerk windows but we still have to wait for about ten minutes. When i get to the window and relinquish my ticket, the clerk looks at it and begins to laugh hysterically, sharing it with the clerks in the two adjoining windows. She then turns to me and tells me not to worry, that the ticket will never stand up in court.

We report to the courtroom and sit down with about 100 other offenders. We are the only three dressed as if you would think someone would dress to appear in court. Shaggy and dirty was the predominant style. There were a few “casual” dressers as well.

The judge arrives and the the session begins. About a half dozen culprits stand before the judge before i am called. i march to the front after i tell Earl and Kathie i will call them when they are needed. i think i will call Earl early and hope we don’t have to resort to calling Kathie as a witness as that would likely mean i was in deep trouble.

i look up at the judge as he reads the ticket.

“What’s the hell is this?” he snorts. Then he reads the two miles per hour in a fifty-five zone to the bailiff and asking him if had any idea what happened. It dawned on me the bailiff was one of the six officers at the scene in the discussion about what i should be charged.

“Speeding! At two miles an hour,” he snorts again. The bailiff is now trying to muffle his laugh and not doing very well. The judge asks and receives my explanation. He mumbles. He pulls out this huge legal-looking book and pores through it for a while.

He complains if it wasn’t a violation, it should be.

He goes through the big book one more time and obviously exasperated, turns to me and says, “Charges dismissed.”

That was it.

Earl, Kathie, and i leave the courthouse and go have a nice dinner before Earl leaves for San Diego and we head back to San Pedro.

And the sad part is Earl and Kathie never had the chance to be eloquent in front of the judge, and i didn’t get to tell him (i planned a smirk while doing so) how safely we pulled the Porsche off the interstate with a line…you know, a rope.

It’s that time again, and i need to get this posted so i can get all of the other things completed before we head east for our Signal Mountain Christmas. Once again, i thank Coach JB Leftwich for giving me the idea of posting this annually. 

The saga continues. The “NOEL” sign in the original story was made of 1×2 pine, was much larger, had holes drilled into the wood for the lights, and weighed considerably more than the current version. But a couple of years ago, some of the lights on the original went out and it was just too complicated to replace the lights in the series. So i constructed a more manageable sign. i was very meticulous and before drilling the one hundred or more holes, i decided to check it out and just stapled the light strings on the front. i showed it to Maureen. She decided she liked it much better than the more regimented one with holes drilled in it. Since she is the one who has an eye for design (and it was one heck of a lot less work), i agreed.

i was going to do some revisions this year, but as usual, i forgot until it was up and too lazy to take it down, revise, and put up again. The lights are still two different “whites.” Next year, next year, i just might reinvent it again. It keeps me out of trouble.

Noel.

Notes from the Southwest Corner: An Embarrassing Christmas Moment

As I have noted previously, I am (will be) in Tennessee for Christmas, not in the Southwest corner. The below events, however, did occur near San Diego.

Have you ever had one of those days when everything turned into an embarrassment? I had a champion day like that several years ago.

It started innocently while I hung our outdoor decoration, a home-made “NOEL” sign from the eave of our garage, hoping to get it up before my wife’s friends arrived for their Christmas dinner.

Maureen and her six friends have been meeting monthly for dinners for 15-plus years. They had this December dinner catered, did it up right. It was Maureen’s turn to be hostess.

It was dark when I began. I was at the top of my step ladder attaching the second of two wires from the sign to a hook secured to the eave when the ladder lurched and toppled. I grabbed a metal ornamental grating above the garage door.

There I hung, my arm intertwined with the “O” of the sign. If I tried to drop, the sign could catch my arm and do some pretty bad stuff.

I yelled, but Maureen had Christmas carols at top volume and didn’t hear. I tried to think of what to do while simultaneously wondering how long I could hold on. The dog wandered underneath, occasionally looking up as if I was a very strange person hanging there.

After several minutes, a neighbor’s son and friend pulled into the driveway several houses away. As they emerged, I swallowed my pride and yelled “Help.”

At first, they could not discern who was calling. Then they spotted me and came to help. The dog decided to protect me and began barking threateningly. The boys hesitated. I assured them the only danger was being licked to death. They finally righted the ladder and helped me down.

I thanked them profusely and then studied whether I should tell Maureen or not. Now that I was back on solid ground, I decided it was too funny not to tell her. She was incredulous and not particularly amused.

I did not realize my embarrassment for the night was just beginning.

While Maureen made final arrangements for her dinner, our daughter, Sarah, and I went to a local spot for supper. The little place was an oasis of sorts in Bonita, where there were only Mexican, Italian, and fast food restaurants. The attraction was being different and having a wide-range of ales and beers for golfers finishing a round across the street.

When we arrived, two couples were at tables and three guys sat at the bar. As we neared the end of our meal, the largest of the guys at the bar walked to the door and then turned back. I noticed his eyes seemed glazed. Then he walked back to the bar.

Suddenly, this guy and the one on the other side grabbed the guy in the middle off his stool, slammed him into the wall and started pummeling him with their fists. The three male diners, me (instinctively) included, approached from one side and two cooks approached from the back. Sarah had retreated to the door with the two lady diners. I grabbed the big guy. He spun and fell backward, slamming us into our table, knocking it over with shattering glass. It gave me some leverage, and we spun to the floor with me on top and knocking the wind out of the big guy. The other two diners helped me hold him until he calmed down. The cooks had quelled the other assailant. The two left quietly.

Even though the waitress wanted us to not pay our bill, we paid and left for home. On the way, I talked to my daughter about what I should have done (directed her outside before joining the fray) and what she should do the next time if she were ever in a place where a fight broke out (get out and away and not come back until she was sure it was over).

I was feeling pretty good as we arrived home. Then Sarah dashed out of the car, ran into the house and yelled to her mother in front of the caterer and her six friends dressed to the nines amidst fine china, Christmas decorations, and haut cuisine, “Mom, Dad got in a fight in a bar.”

Some days, I just can’t get a break.

May your holiday season be embarrassment free.

And may all of you have a most wonderful and amazing Christmas Season, and please, please, please (as James Brown would implore) remember the reason this all occurs every year.

i keep finding these things in my old age reorganization.

These were in a 5×4 old, faded envelope. They are small, just over two inches wide and about two and half inches long. They are in remarkably good condition. I am pretty sure they are photos my father sent my mother or my aunt, his sister Naomi Martin. i am guessing they were taken in 1945 in the Philippines, but it could have been on Bougainville or Santa Isabel in the Solomon Islands, or New Guinea, or New Caledonia. But for some reason, it looks like Luzon to me where they landed on D+4 and where i stopped many times in Subic Bay. Perhaps it’s the native helper in camp or even more likely the monkey that gives me that idea.

To visit the past from far away and long ago: