This and the next Thread read more like a traditional autobiography since they follow somewhat of a chronological sequence. In these two units, I use the geographical movements in my life as markers for discoveries about self and the world around me. Even though there are more historical artifacts, the focus remains on experiences that were influential in my spiritual unfolding.

This section follows my moving around while growing up and living with my Mom and Dad. The next Thread picks up with my marriage and leaving my family of origin to begin my own family. That section also focuses on the discoveries woven through our movements about the country that contributed to my rediscovery of The Intuitive Self.

Searching for Roots

It was fashionable for a time to seek out and fathom one's roots. This usually meant going back to where one was born to discover the shaping influences from those early years. I was born in Vienna a small community in the Georgia heartland. My family had returned to my mother's quarter share of the old family farm to make it through the great depression. My Dad and a hired man cut trees from the land to build a two story log cabin. It was in this house that I was born at the end September during the middle of the depression. I've always felt privileged to have been born in a log cabin like Abe Lincoln.

As my parents fortunes went from bad to worse, they sold off the land with the cabin and moved into the old family house that once reigned over the estate. This classic Southern home had a wide two story porch around three sides that helped keep the rooms cool in the hot summer months. As the picture shows, two fragments on the first floor are all that remain of those once grand porches. My Dad told the story that while repainting the rooms, I went to work on the grand staircase and covered quite a bit of the natural wood with white paint before my handiwork was discovered.

My maternal grandfather died relatively young of tuberculosis and my grandmother died shortly after I was born. Visiting their grave site in the community cemetery doesn't bring back memories since I did not know my grandparents. The more decorative slab was my grandfather's since the family fortunes were more favorable when he died. Dying as she did during the depression, choosing a full slab for my grandmother must have been a financial sacrifice for the family.

Returning to the old home place on several occasions, I did not find who or what I was looking for. Although many have made much of the search for "roots," my sense was that a search for the "source" was more relevant for my journey. My most significant discoveries during those visits were about race and retirement. While my aunt and friends of the Howell family were alive, I was smothered with Southern hospitality when I visited their homes.

Southern Hospitality

Side by side with the gracious Southern manner was a relationship with the "colored" help that seemed little changed from the days of slavery. Having had the fortune to live and work in multi ethic and multi cultural communities, I would greet the black person answering the door with the same manner as the lady of the house. This seemed to disturb or confuse the hired help who apparently were not accustomed to having a white person greet them as another human being.

My elderly aunt moved first into one and then another retirement community. In the first, she had an independent living apartment. With it's church sponsorship, this home was pleasant enough but narrow and stultifying. I could not see myself in one of those places when I retired. This was reinforced by TV advertisements for South Florida retirement developments. In her declining years, my aunt moved to a home where she was served meals in her room. This for profit operation seemed pleasant enough, but just beneath the surface of the administrator's smile, an uncaring mentality lurked.

As her years advanced, my aunt mentioned more frequently that she was outliving all of her friends. In her early nineties although still in good health for her years, she decided it was time to die. She stopped eating except for a modest fluid intake. As she wasted away in her room, the administrator wanted to ship her off to the hospital. Having spent years as a nurse, my aunt knew they would put her on intravenous feeding to keep her alive.

When the ambulance came to take her to the hospital, she refused to sign the transfer release form. She died peacefully in her sleep several days later. The administrator was upset that she had not been able "to get rid" of my dying aunt. This reinforced my hope to never live in a retirement community with some euphemistic name like Twilight Manor. I have coverage to pay for long term care if my children have to commit me, but I hope they don't need to use the insurance!

Welcome to Florida

My family wasn't making it financially in the small mid Georgia community. For instance, my Dad started a local hardware store that went bankrupt. A writer he was, but a businessman he was not. He seemed happiest working for newspapers and wanted to get back to that line. But that was to come later. The next stop on our wanderings was Jacksonville where my Dad got a job as a welder in the shipyards. During our brief stay, my coming of age began to blossom.

The bigger kids in the neighborhood used the old garages behind our apartments to play "doctor." I had my first "sexual" experiments when a girl my age and I mimicked the older kids by taking off our clothes to look at each other's bodies. In addition to second chakra energy, I tentatively explored third chakra power with the neighborhood bullies. As a skinny kid, I was a good target for anyone who wanted to beat someone up. Once while being chased, I tricked them into running into a cloths line. This gave them quite a jolt, and they seemed to leave me alone for awhile. But my guilt feelings about the trick confused my use of power for years to come.

Somewhere in this time frame, we visited an aunt in West Virginia. Perhaps Dad was searching for work in the area where he grew up. As a five year old, my most striking memory was the strawberry rhubarb pie my aunt made from her backyard garden. To this day, a strawberry rhubarb pie will only last a few days in the refrigerator. The mainline sugar hit brings back sweet childhood images. I also had fond memories of my paternal grandfather who lived with her. Although my aunt was his step daughter, she still cared for him until he died. I have warm sense of her generous spirit. She always had a kind word and deed for each and everyone.

As my Dad's search for work continued, he applied for a job at the Orlando Sentinel where he had worked as a young man during the 1920s. After getting a job there, we moved to Orlando living close enough to downtown to walk to the Saturday matinee at the Rialto. As I'll relate in another thread, Dad stayed with the Sentinel until he felt pushed out by better educated writers who he believed were taking over the news business. His passion for writing came through in A Foxy Ghost which he wrote when he was fifteen.

Going to School

My mother got a job teaching at the neighborhood grammar school. One of her best friend's was my second grade teacher. She was a loving soul, but was destined to blight my shadow with a deep embarrassment. While standing in a circle repeating our ABCs, she discovered that I was the only one who didn't know them. We stood there while I repeated them over and over until I got them right. To this day, I'm haunted by making sure that I don't get caught short not knowing what I'm supposed to know. As a consequence, I made good grades in school more out of fear of embarrassment than a love for learning.

Graduating to junior high meant I had to go downtown to attend school. My fondness for the stage blossomed there. In eighth grade, we first read for parts in the classroom where I didn't impress the drama teacher sufficiently to be selected. When we went to the auditorium for the final readings, my voice carried so well to the back rows that I got a leading part. This was a pleasure that I followed in high school where I starred in two of the annual productions. But my thespian inclinations were not nurtured and died on the vine for lack of development.

By the time I was ready for high school, we had moved to Winter Park. Until then, I had been know by my middle name Merritt. I'd had enough of that and chose to be called Bill (Billy by most) when I entered Winter Park High. At one time, this community had the highest per capita income in the United States. In addition to kids from the wealthy families, there were many of us from the "other side of the tracks." Whichever side of the tracks, we all seemed to get along together with friends for all of us on both sides of the track.

When I was a junior, the sponsor for the Student Council took a liking to me. She encouraged me to run for student body president which I won. As it turned out, I was her patsy. She not only coached my campaign, but dictated what would take place in each council meeting. I was learning what it felt like to be a pawn on someone else's chess board. One of my best friends ran for the second semester on a platform of the students having a voice in governance. As a council member, he had observed that I was a puppet president.

As mid year drew near, time came to select the year book categories. My accolade was "most likely to succeed." This was accompanied by a senior picture quote that read "He will leave footprints in the sands of time." The specter of these labels prodded me over the years to examine their deeper meaning. What was most likely to succeed, what was leaving footprints in the sands of time? Paradoxically I found their truer meaning on the flip side of conventional wisdom. Socially these labels were externally focused. I sought to penetrate their inner meaning rather than their outer social intension.

A Rambling Wreck?

As my senior year drew to a close, it was time to think of college. My affluent classmates where deciding whether to attend a Northeastern school or settle for one of the state universities. Some chose the local liberal arts college that had an excellent reputation on the East coast. Since my Dad had felt driven out of the news business by the better educated, he was keen that I get a college degree even though our circumstances really couldn't support this financially. He also believed I should pursue engineering since the increasing fervor of the cold war pointed toward technological imperatives.

I was accepted to Georgia Tech as a co-op student who went to school for one quarter and then worked for a term. I remember many occasions going to the post office waiting for the next small check to arrive so that I'd have money for food and an occasional outing. I'll have more to say about the romantic side of my year as a Rambling Wreck in another thread. Since my funds were limited, I needed a part time job to supplement my co-op income. There were opportunities within walking distance of the fraternity house where I was living by that time.

I applied for a waiter's job at a restaurant a friend knew was hiring. Years later during the civil rights movement, the PickRick Restaurant became famous for the infamous axe handle incidents. But that's getting ahead of my story. The owner Lester Maddox personally interviewed each applicant. I got the job and worked there each evening. This became a total immersion learning about differences in people's attitudes toward life and experience.

Waiting on Tables

I quickly learned which customers were easy to get on with and which would be a pain in the butt every time they came in. Among my faux pas were spilling a plate of fried chicken in a customer's lap and dumping a cup of gravy down the back of another. I was amazed how some took my goofs in stride and others would spend the next 10 to 15 minutes making a fuss over the incident - speak to the manager - take care of their cleaning bill, etc.!

Lester Maddox went on to become governor of Georgia on a segregation platform. Trying to stem the civil rights momentum, he swore never to serve blacks at his restaurant. To this end, he placed a barrel of axe handles at the entrance for his patrons to chase off would be diners should any dare to integrate his business. Having served his family at dinner on many occasions, I was surprised by this behavior from a man who had been courteous to both his black and white employees. Of course we were out front, and they were in the back where they couldn't be seen except to bus the tables.

I discovered that racial bigotry was culturally learned. Maddox was courteous to anyone he considered in his "group." But anyone outside who dared to presume equality was kept at a social distance. Neither of his daughters would have been allowed to date someone of "color" no matter what ethnic group the boys might have been; American Indian, Hindu or god forbid, an American Black. Even though my parents grew up in conservative settings, I was blessed with their open mindedness toward other racial and ethnic groups.

Uncle Sam Wants You

When I figured out engineering wasn't for me, I dropped out and returned home. Somewhat at loose ends with the family business, which I explore in a later thread, the possibility of military service come to the fore. The draft was not in effect since the Korean conflict had wound down and Vietnam lay ahead. I enlisted in the regular Navy as my Dad had done in the first world war. Although I didn't have to, he was so keen to get in that he lied about his age.

At the Great Lakes boot camp, I encountered my first experience with payoffs. Our squad leader promised to go easy although he'd make it appear harsh to outsiders if we chipped in enough of our meager allowance to buy him a set of golf clubs. Since this was before whistle blowing became popular, we all bought in. I can just imagine how miserable it might have been had someone squealed. Any new squad leader would have taken our transgression out on us unmercifully. I was learning that "friends of a feather stick together."

After Great Lakes, I attended technical school in San Diego since I had scored well on the skill and preference examinations. In fact my scores were good enough that I was offered the opportunity to became a Naval Aviation Cadet (Navcad). In San Diego and later when I transferred to Pensacola to begin flight training, I was getting to see more of the country meeting new kinds of people and gradually shedding my provincial blinders. My eye opening trips to Tijuana were my first excursions outside the country and my first encounter with tequila.

Sea the World

After my unsuccessful stint as a Navcad (more about that in a later thread), I was sent to the Mediterranean to board the USS Marias as a third class petty officer. Since our home port was Barcelona, I spent more time on shore leave there. I came to have a deep affection for the city and recall the Ramblas or main through fare with pleasant memories. Occasionally I think of revisiting Barcelona for a reprise of my youthful sense of adventure. I've been intrigued by the advant garde reputation associated with that part of the Spain.

As an oil tanker, we refueled ships at sea. During a rendezvous with a destroyer, our bows crashed into each other. The accident split the seam in several of our compartments, and we had to go into dry dock for two months in Naples. This provided an opportunity to see Rome and the Vatican. On a visit to the basilica, I was treated to an "audience" with the Pope along with several thousand other people. I was struck by the lengths to which the faithful would go to get near enough that they might be touched. I wondered how people could so totally abdicate their responsibility for self?

Viewing Michelangelo's finger of God touching the finger of man on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was my Vatican highlight. The image is as vivid today as it was 40 years ago. Along with the chapel, I toured the museum. What an extraordinary horde of wealth while millions of faithful Catholics were starving around the world! This did not and does not make "sense" to me. The compelling image of God reaching down to man touched my soul. In contrast, the wealth seemed obscene although I was drawn to the iconography of the precious objects.

The Golden Age?

Greece was another regular stop as our Navy tanker cruised the Mediterranean. A trip to Athens and a visit to the Acropolis were highlights on one of my shore leaves. My experience affirmed that I did not have the same affinity for the Golden Age of Greece as most Westerners. At some deeper level, I knew there was a fatal flaw in the overly rational Aristotelian world passed down to us.

Later I would learn that I was more attuned to the intuitive revels of Dionysus and the imagery of Plato's Allegory of the Cave. But the only thing I knew then of these diversions was the drunkenness that came from too much ouzu. Getting sicker than I had ever been in my life was not my idea of reveling with the Gods. Along with my fraternity beer drinking and my tequila experiences in Tijuana, I was learning that alcohol and I did not mix.

This Thread has traced my geographic wanderings through the time I completed military service and returned home to rejoin the family business. But shortly after I'd resettled with Mom and Dad in Winter Park, I met my wife to be on a blind date for New Year's Eve. The next Thread follows the geographical comings and goings that characterized our time together through my time alone in Santa Cruz.