My dad, James Whitmore, Part Nineteen

They called him “The Shepherd.” I didn’t know why but soon discovered he was, in fact, a shepherd of men.

I was running down alleys, naked, screaming in the early hours of the morning. Scared. Really scared. My best friend had abandoned me. My best friend, my only friend, was alcohol and it didn’t work anymore. I had lost all sense of reality.

One day, a friend came to visit me in the small room I was renting. I was drunk. Really drunk. I asked him a question. It was this: “If you see me some day and if you see that my spirit has left me. My eyes have gone dead. Would you please kill me?”

This friend looked at me and said nothing. There was silence for a long time. Then he just turned and left.

All the places I’d been, all the people I’d had the privilege of meeting, all the worlds I had lived in, meant nothing. The advantaged I had been given by being the son of James Whitmore, a hard-working movie star, meant nothing.

I was lost. Drunk. Yes, but it wasn’t working anymore. I would drink and drink and drink and nothing would happen. I was inebriated, of course, but the magic was long gone. The alcohol did not shut off my head. The voices in my head just got louder and louder until the screaming was unbearable. I had to stop drinking. But how? I couldn’t go a minute without a drink.

I walked a lot, up and down streets. All the streets. Just walked. I was near a college. They had a center of some kind where you could go and get therapy. I didn’t really know what they were about. But a few years back in Stockton, California, I had gone into a place that offered free counseling for alcoholics. I had been put on Antabuse; a drug that was supposed to make you sick if you drank. I took it. I drank, got drunk, in fact. And other than my heart racing and my face turning bright red, it didn’t prevent me from drinking.

I went into this center in East San diego near this college and hoped they would give me some pills or something. I didn’t want Antabuse but something I could get high on. I had to be stoned on something. Life was way to ordinary if I wasn’t loaded. In fact, it was downright unbearable.

I was shown into a small room where this older man wearing a Yarmulke, or to be more exact a Kippah – a black hat – was sitting behind a small wooden desk. He was nervous because I was shaking and moving in his direction.

“What can I do for you?” He finally asked. “I think I’m an alcoholic.” I blurted out. “I can’t help you.” He replied. He proceeded to tell me about a group of men and women that could possible help me. He pushed a phone towards me and gave me the number. “Call them.” He said.

That night, a man with a twisted leg, came to my room and took me to a church where men and women were gathered together against the first drink. I knew this was not going to work for me.

These people were old. Boring. Stupid. I was young, 27, exciting, I thought, and my whole life was in front of me. These folks were waiting to die. Of course, I may have been 27 but as one person politely put it, my face had a lot of years on it. I was in shambles. Ratted clothes, matted hair. Smelled.

I was glib. Quick with a joke about my circumstances. Arrogant. Huge chip on my shoulders. One young guy yelled at me. He was serious about his sobriety. I was full of shit. Excuse the language but I was.

I went to the meetings for a while, but got drunk again. By this time, drinking didn’t work for me. I had drunk myself into sobriety or death. Death didn’t seem such a bad thing to me. I wasn’t sad really. Just bored and scared. How do you get through the day without being drunk? I decided, maybe suicide was OK. Not such a big deal. I wasn’t maudlin about it. Just seemed like the next logical step. Then, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said. It was a girl. She asked how I was doing and I told her the truth. “ I think I’m going to kill myself.” I said this matter-of-factly. Not emotional or hysterical. Just a fact.

“Don’t do anything until I come over,” she said. “OK,” I replied. Hung up the phone and waited. And waited. And waited and waited. She never came over. And the thought of suicide left. It was night by now and I walked to one of those meetings.

Not many people at this gathering. They were reading out of a book. I sat, bored, restless and ready to bolt again. But this night was different. A man was there who took me aside and talked with me. He was kind. Gentle. Loving even. I liked his warmth. He asked if I would like to go to a meeting the next night. I said I would.

I lived in East San Diego. This older man lived in La Jolla. He was the manager of the shoe department of I. Magnin’s – no longer in existence.

This older man, Will Campbell was his name – now deceased, drove a beat-up station wagon with a pissed off Cocker Spaniel in the back seat. Always this small yellow dog was in the back seat of this rickety station wagon. The year was 1977. I was 27.

Will Campbell was known as “The Shepherd.” I had no idea what that meant, but here’s what I do know. He would drive to where I was roaming the streets of East San Diego and pick me up and take me to a meeting in La Jolla. That drive took him two hours. Half-hour to get me. Half-hour to the meeting in La Jolla. Half-hour back to my room and then half-hour back to La Jolla.

He was to make this trip every night for the next 365 days. I haven’t had a drink since. October 16, 1977 was the first sober day.

His name was Will Campbell and he was, indeed, “The Shepherd.” I owe him my life.

Next up: A new day. College on the G.I bill. King of the One-Acts. Life was now in session.

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My dad, James Whitmore, Part Eighteen

I could hear her crying on the end of the phone. I had asked for my birth certificate. I had not told my mother why I wanted it. But she knew. Word was getting around. I was just one short step from homelessness again. My life was in shambles.

It was near the end of 1973. I was 23 and had drunk myself into a deep abyss.

The Vietnam war seemed to be finally winding down and I kept walking by this Army recruitment office. I was not going to survive much longer. I had just been fired from a security officer job working the midnight to morning shift at the then-downtown Los Angeles headquarters of a large gas company. One day, I went into the recruitment office and decided to enlist.

Mom knew why I wanted my birth certificate. The Army needed it. I didn’t tell her. Dad had thought it was a great idea because “I had decided something on my own.” Is how he put it. Mom was frightened. She knew me. How frightened I was; cowardly in fact. Not tough. Vulnerable. Drunk all the time. She stilled loved me.

Dad had served in the Marines during World War II as a second lieutenant. Enlisting seemed like a good idea because it would get me off the streets. The draft had been eliminated. The Army was desperate for recruits. I was an ideal candidate, or so they thought until they ran a security check. Much to their dismay, my arrest record by this time was pretty extensive. Dozens of arrests for DUI, reckless driving, drunk in public, so-on and so-forth.

They rejected me with a caveat: If I could get people to write letters of recommendation to the Army testifying to my good character, they would reconsider.

Immediately, as word went out, I had dignitaries of all sorts willing to put in a good word so I could enlist in the Army as a private.

The Army did reconsider and in December of 1973 I was inducted into the United States Army as an E1, private of the lowest class, and was sent off to basic training at Ford Ord in Monterey, California.

There was a visit from the public relations arm of the Army asking if I would be willing to be featured in a story about the new Army because of my dad. James Whitmore’s son was a big deal, they thought. This was a time when morale was low and the Army was looking for any way to boost it.

I mentioned it to my mother and she quickly shot down the idea with “what if you don’t make it out of basic training? That’s not going to look too good.” Or words to that affect. I didn’t do the story.

Basic training began to right this broken ship. First off, the Army doesn’t coddle. They break down egos, build them back up with a commitment to the unit, the team, the country. Things alien to me.

I was still drinking. Still getting into incredible scrapes, escaping by just inches from sure imprisonment or injury. I would get drunk and sound off. Obnoxious, embarrassing statements to commanding officers questioning their manhood and methods. Their response were threats of court martial, punishment, extra duty; Shut up or get out! Keep it up and you’re going to jail. Scared the bee-Jesus out of me.

I was sent to Germany as a crew member on an anti-aircraft weapon. I was assigned to Headquarters of the 8th Infantry Division. The Army was trying to keep me out of the field. Give me a desk job. I requested back with a line unit because I had some friends from basic training. Nobody turns down headquarters in those days for a job that may result in combat duty. I wasn’t thinking this through. I just wanted to be with my friends.

To say the least, I didn’t do real well. Almost instantly my drinking got me in trouble with the Captain, who mentioned I may be brought up on charges of insubordination. I had told one of my superiors to “go f#*k himself.” Not a bright move.

Then, something bizarre happened. I was transferred to the main headquarters of the 8th Infantry assigned to an attorney as his legal assistant. Just before, I may have been court-martialed, I was now working for the Judge Advocate Generals Corp. or Office, known as the JAG office. All discussion of court martial ended because I now was working for those that did the court-martialing.

I was promptly sent off to be trained as an Army paralegal and investigator before being assigned to my permanent attorney. Intensive training on all aspects of the Military Code of Justice followed.

I went from living in a room of 20 or more men constantly at each other’s throats to a room of two with a living room. What a gift. I then went to work for an attorney rooted in the Mormon religion that took great care of me. He encouraged me, supported me and directed me to re-enter college after the Army. I was not as dedicated as his support but it did get me to apply to San Diego State University, which accepted me.

Callison College was willing to release what transcripts did exist but there was an outstanding bill. My dad was unaware of such a bill because I had availed myself of his account without his knowledge. Still, he paid the bill. Congratulated me on my return home safe and going back to college. Problem was, I was still bringing myself along. I was to drink for a couple more years before a man decided enough was enough and pulled me from the streets of East San Diego and thrust me into a new world sans alcohol. But before that, I was to endure a few more moments of pure insanity with a group of misfits living in a place called, Mission Beach, California. Or as we used to call it: The Ghetto Riviera.

The people in Mission Beach rivaled any group of misfits out of such novels as Cannery Row by John Steinbeck with names like Grub, his common-law wife Jeffrey – yes, a woman, Charlie Tuna and others like the small group of young kids, surfers and skateboarders. Here I was now 26 and started living the life of a drunken beach bum.

It was the last grinding down of the alcoholic. I lived in that beach town for just 16 months and had to borrow $300 from my dad to leave it. He gave it to me and for the first time expressed his disappointment. He’d hoped I was doing better. I did too.

Take Nineteen: Plucked off the streets of East San Diego at the age of 27 and thrown into a new world of sobriety. Much was about to happen.

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My dad, James Whitmore, Part Seventeen

Temperatures Rising, according to Wikipedia, was an American television sitcom that aired on the ABC network from September 12, 1972 to August 29, 1974. During its 46-episode run, it was presented in three different formats and cast line-ups. The series was developed for the network by William Asher and Harry Ackerman for Ashmont Productions and Screen Gems. Set in a fictional Washington, D.C. hospital, the series featured James Whitmore as the no-nonsense chief-of-staff who is forced to deal with the outlandish antics of a young intern played by Cleavon Little, and three nurses (Joan Van Ark, Reva Rose, and Nancy Fox).

I was dad’s stand-in. Now, if you don’t know what a stand-in does, it’s exactly the way the job-title sounds: I stand in a spot while the scene is technically set through lights, scenery, et al, while the main actors rehearse the scene elsewhere. Not a terribly difficult job.

My dad’s idea was a good one: To work on his television series as an extra and do a college-sponsored independent study of how a TV show is produced, directed, acted; basically the entire production. I would show this through a written paper, a thesis of sorts, with accompanying documents and photos. Good idea. Callison College in Stockton, California said ‘yes.” I was set to go. Problem was, I took myself along, dragging my drinking into the limelight. Talk about messy.

As mentioned, I was a stand-in. A job where nearly nothing is required other than the ability to stand. Yes, you do have to show up on time. Be dressed. Sure, that’s also true. Really, that’s about all that was required.

Oh yes, I nearly got fired when early one morning after a night of drinking, I set my hair ablaze when I misfired the oven. Or after partying too late one workday evening, showed up late on the set disheveled, unwashed and hysterically crying. Doing my job. Making my pop proud. Day-in, day-out.

I had rented a small studio apartment in walking distance to Warner Brothers studio where “Temperatures Rising” was shooting. It was small but comfortable and furnished. It had a Murphy bed; the kind that came out of the wall. The small room also had a couch, a chair, a dresser and a tiny kitchen. It was the kitchen, or to be more exact, the oven that caused a hair-raising event. Literally.

I was 22 now, and my drinking had progressed to a daily occurrence. I did not have a drink. I was never interested in having a drink. I was only interested in having a drunk. I awoke one morning after a hard-night of such drinking alone. I loved drinking by myself.

For some peculiar reason this morning, I wanted to cook something in the oven. I was pretty rung out and heavily hung over. This was an old oven that had to have its pilot light lit before each use. It was vital to light the pilot because if you didn’t, and you turned on the oven, there would be a gas build-up inside. I knew this. No worries.

Of course, I turned on the gas and forgot to light the pilot. I went about my business and realized my error and opened the oven with a lit match. An explosion of mighty proportions followed.

My hair caught on fire. My eyebrows burned. My face burned. I quickly shut everything off and ran out the door, screaming all the way to the sound stage on the studio lot where my dad’s show was preparing for its daily shoot.

I don’t remember much else. Probably a blessing in that. I do vaguely remember talk of my termination, but that did not happen. My dad was the only reason I wasn’t summarily dismissed on the spot. Obviously.

I kept the job. I had pretty much abandoned the idea of any independent study. I started drinking with other extras on the show, with nicknames like Running Deer and Aces for Braces. Among some others. Actually, they were very kind to me. Always. By way of example, I was drunk one night while playing my guitar and fell through my apartment window. The small studio really only had one window and I had fallen straight through. Broken glass everywhere. Cuts and bruises. Next day, one of the extras came over and replaced the window and his wife patched me up.

You would think that would be enough. Not for me. I had more drama to embrace. One drunken night I almost got another person fired from the show after a strange encounter dissolved into primal debauchery. I was a real joy to have around.

The show wrapped for Christmas holiday and I was not invited back. I was replaced by my younger brother, Danny, who did a great job. I whimpered back to Stockton, California and Callison College only to sink deeper into my alcoholism.

I finally left Callison a few weeks later after spending five years of accomplishing nearly nothing but wreckage, embarrassment and broken hearts.

Next Up: Enlisting in the United States Army takes me off the Hollywood streets and starts to right the ship. Finally.

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My dad, James Whitmore, Part Sixteen

Time gets tangled here. I don’t know what came first, if it was the TV series or the strange trip down artistic deployment. I believe it was the involvement in a strange show that I helped write and performed called Square Root Blit Two.

Strange was the word of the day when I came back to America in 1970-71. The Vietnam war was still raging. I was lost. I stayed at a friend’s house in Santa Monica where a beautiful girl held me tight all night. I wanted to be with her for a long time before but it never happened. Now, I’m back from India. As mentioned in earlier columns, I was looking pretty strange. Wearing my pharon, hair out to Jupiter and absent cleanliness. Probably why she held me so tight. Pity is a strong motivator sometimes.

Early in the morning, I was back out on the street. I had to be outside. My dad told me to go back to college. If I was in college he would pay the freight. My dad believed in education. He also believed in me. I went back to Callison College in Stockton, California, and met some folk who wanted to put on an experience acted out inside an inflatable bubble. These folk had done something before. Thus the Two at the end of the Square Root Blit.

I didn’t particularly like any of these new artists’ types. Too arrogant for my taste. There was one nice fella living with a woman in a stable relationship who seemed nice. The rest were pretty much about themselves.

I had acted before and written before. We put together a play of sorts that was acted inside a huge inflatable plastic bubble kept up by a wind machine attached at the back of the plastic bubble. A front door had been attached, I think it was wood, and we put stages around the audience, which was seated in the middle of the bubble.

Theater-in-the-round is an old concept but this was audience-in-the-round. Stage hands pushed the audience inside with non-electric cattle prods where they sat on the grass. The play took place around them.

We all wore jump suits of different colors and see-through plastic vests. There was music. Sculptures. Paintings. All inside this huge plastic bubble. I started the presentation about how I couldn’t handle the human race any more that prompted a chanting of “human race” with fellow actors running around the audience. I don’t remember much else, but if memory serves it was quite successful.

Of course, it was free. Everything in those days – 1967-72 – was free, especially performance art, which is what this was. I remember the last night had to be canceled because the wind kicked up, forcing the bubble to move, collapse and making the theatrical environment unsafe. I remember one of the cast members cut their hand or something. But for a few days, this was a big deal.

The rest of the time was drunkenness, women and bullshit. I would enroll in classes and never show up. My dad paid the bills because he thought I was going to college. I was enrolling and then messing about. I was sleeping in the hallway of an old house converted to apartments.

One day, the phone rang. I was called to a hallway phone. “Hello,” I said. “Hi,” my dad replied. “How would you like to be my stand-in for a television series I’m going to do?” I think that’s how the conversation went. By this time, I was sleeping in the bedroom of one of the dormitory manager’s apartments. She’d taking pity on me, I’m sure, and decided an affair was in order. That was not going to last. Bullshit and bluster takes you only so far.

Dad suggested I could do an independent study program in Los Angeles about the making of a TV series. It was a good idea and the college supported it. Probably wanted to get rid of me. Off to Los Angeles I went to work on a television series called “Temperatures Rising.”

Part Seventeen: Stand-in on TV series. Nearly getting fired. Setting my face on fire. Fun In L.A.

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I’m getting a divorce

That’s right, I’m getting a divorce. 28 years of marriage. I fell in love with another woman.

My divorce has turned messy. Tough go.

I share this with you this morning, taking a break from my series about my dad, actor James Whitmore, twice-nominated for an Academy Award, because personal, deep, troubling life challenges put forth in the public arena minimize the power one’s flaws have over everybody. Especially my sons, who I love more than life.

There are those who scoff at the notion of personal columns such as these where you share intimate details of your life. They say they’re “self-indulgent.” Nothing more. Maybe so. I think they’re wrong.

By the way, my sons are grown – one is 28 the other is 23 – I have hurt them both. I have hurt my soon-to-be-ex-wife. They’re coming after me. Putting forth all my flaws. I do have them. You can’t change love. I love my sons. They are driven by betrayal. I do understand. Life does go on after a broken heart.

This is happening because I fell deeply in love with a girl I met for the first time when I was eighteen. Her daughter posted a birthday salutation on Facebook last October and I wished her well. Hadn’t seen her in 45 years. We started texting back and forth. We didn’t speak on the phone. We just texted. Not sensual at all. Deeply personal. Life’s journey though text. It was unexpected. Being hit by a two-by-four in the face and my world turned upside down. It’s a new dawn.

I was working a dead-end job at the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. Getting paid a salary. For that, I am so grateful. The benefits of the job were beyond comparison. Los Angeles County was good to me and I thank you, the people of the county of Los Angeles, for it is your tax dollars that pay for our salary. We do work for you. It was an honor.

After an abyss of nothingness, I retired. One day I was having lunch with a friend-in-need who said he would kill for my job; getting a salary for doing nothing. Of course, he was right. For him. Perhaps, I was wrong to retire. I fell in love and wanted to be next to this beautiful woman. I retired. Don’t miss the job at all.

And there was a time when my job was more important, serving former sheriff Lee Baca, who is facing his own legal challenges. I was his senior media advisor. I had a lot to do. I swear to you, lawyers rule the roost and we need to rein them in. The legal system is designed to met out billing, not justice. Justice is common sense, which nobody seems to have when it comes to disputes. Lawyers make money. Justices make money. We, the people, pay the bill. Justice goes wanting.

I just wanted to visit with you this fine morning. I wanted the small cabal of readers that do, in fact, read these words to know. You are friends. Be well.

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My dad, James Whitmore, Part Fourteen


Then, there’s Sean. A conundrum for sure.

He used to pound his empty formula bottle on the side of the bed in the middle of the night, screaming “Ba Ba.” My wife at the time and the mother of my children would have none of it. “Let him scream,” she would rightly say. But I got up and refreshed his bottle. I loved ‘em to death and wanted him content. It also stopped the screaming.

I was the managing editor of both the local paper and the radio station when Sean was to enter this world. We were living in the outback of South-Eastern Oregon in the high desert. I think our town, the capital of the county, had a population of 2,800. Many of the residents were on government assistance.

A mishap occurred during his birth when they administered too much of something and my poor wife at the time could not breath. She leaned over and whispered to me, “I can’t breath. Can you tell someone.” I did and immediately they began to administer to her. Problem was: baby on the way. The main doctor, who was later to be brought up on charges of illegal hunting, handed me a tool and said something like, “put this device on the top of his head and pull him out. We have to take care of your wife.” I did as instructed and brought Sean into the world, screaming from the beginning,

He also did not take to public school. In fact, his first grade teacher was holding him through lunch as some form of punishment. I telephoned the teacher one night to discuss the situation and she appeared to be drunk. Poor thing.

I knew right away this was not going to work. I looked around for a private school and found one that suited him perfectly. Again, could not afford the enrollment fees. Again, step in pop. He footed the bill for Sean to attend school until he graduated from the eighth grade, went to public middle school, didn’t like it but found a public school on a college campus designed for advanced students. He went and graduated with high marks and went to University of California at Santa Cruz. My dad footed the bill for his private school, his college and while attending UC Santa Cruz, he paid for all his expenses.

Just as a side note, my pop did that for all his grandchildren. He was the real deal. And I didn’t even know it at the time – sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t.

Thank you, pop. I love you and miss you.

Part Fifteen: Back to the streets of Teheran or Tehran, whichever you choose, and the ambassador’s daughter.

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My dad, James Whitmore, Part Fifteen

Now that we’ve dealt with my kids and what my dad provided for them. Let’s get to the streets of Tehran, the capitol of Iran. At the time, 1970, under the rule of the Shah.

Flying in I remember the darkness. And I mean black as coal. Then, the lights out of nowhere. There was an oasis of light surrounded by the deepest black I’d ever seen. Strange.

Tehran – or spelled Teheran in some circles – back in 1970 was a very strange city. It loved westerners, especially white people. Isn’t that bizarre? Caucasians were beloved back then. I had no money. Hadn’t bathed in weeks. My hair was a huge ball of matted grease. I had only the airplane ticket my father had paid for and given me. He wanted to ensure I could get home. Still treated like a king.

I took my last piece of opium and hoped for the best. My travel mate was a nice enough fellow. Wasn’t crazy about his dryness but he said he knew people in Tehran – that’s the spelling I’m going with – and I was tagging along for the ride. Always going for the ride, I guess.

I don’t remember too much except everybody was nice. Too nice, like we were royalty because the color of our skin. I can only imagine how our brothers in arms of dark skin were treated? Why is it that white is such a sought after color? I’m not even white – yes, I’m pure caucasian – but the color of my skin is more grey, I think, than white. Who knows? Weird though. We were treated like kings, except we had no money. Kings of the bum world in Tehran.

We went to the Iranian center for Americans. My travel mate knew somebody there, he said. He said he lived there when he was younger. His dad was some kind of diplomat. Of course, the friend wasn’t there but we were kings. Right? Treated like special people.

I went out in the street. I don’t know being on the move has always relaxed me. Found a vender selling some form of hot dog I could afford. It was good. Streets are streets.

My travel mate’s friend ultimately did show up and we had a floor to sleep on. Somehow, we were invited to an uptown party that was being held by the Canadian ambassador. My dad was a movie star and I guess that got us passes to all kinds of things.

What I remember about this party is that there was an intense Iranian who ended up out in the street who didn’t particularly like Americans. He was pissed off. The cops came. Iranian cops then didn’t mess around. Off he went.

The gathering inside was dull enough but the Ambassador’s daughter took a shine to me and I was drinking a lot of their wine. I am a drunk after all.

I was opening a bottle of wine when I realized the corkscrew was going into my hand instead of the cork in the wine bottle. It went deep into my hand. Blood started spurting out every where and the ravine in my hand was prominent. The folks at the party attended to the deep cut, bandaged it and I was fine.

We ended up back at this room we were allowed to stay in. On the floor. No money just a plane ticket that would get me back to Los Angeles. But the Ambassador’s daughter was with me on the floor. Why? I don’t know.

She made the rest of the night palatable. I was bored. Restless. Discontented. Time to move on. My travel mate wanted to stay. Fine with me. I was off. Had to stop in London where a teacher on vacation took a liking to me but I wasn’t interested. She wanted to go out. See the sights. Maybe have a tryst. I wanted to be back home. I was tired. Time to go home. I hadn’t bathed in weeks. My hair didn’t grow long, like my mother always used to say, it grew out – Bob Dylan-style, and it was huge. I hadn’t washed my hair in weeks so it was matted, strangley, and street corn rolls. It was long. My head looked huge and my hair was a sight to behold. The only thing I would wear day-in, day-out was an Indian pharon, it was called. It was like a Mexican serape. It had a hole for the head, two holes for each arm and that was it. It was like wearing a huge blanket.

My dad, a movie star, was given the royal treatment upon my arrival. Customs let him into a special area where he could greet me in a royal fashion. Things were different in 1970. He was escorted through all the madness of people shoving about and had a custom agent with him at all times.

He stood watching my plane disembark and people go through America customs. The agent was standing next to my pop. There was a good looking young man in front of me with an athletic build and blondish hair.

Agent: “So, is that your son? The good-looking young man with the blond hair?

My dad: “No. My son is the one behind him without the spear.”

Part Sixteen: Back home and Square Root Blit Two

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