Peculiar, he was.
Unkempt as a street beggar, pesty as an 'itch', rich as a Rockefeller.
The gaggle of hairs in Stan's nose were enough to make you want to sneeze.
But Stan The Man as everyone called him, owned a big chunk of the city and a sizable heap of Blue Chip Stocks that insured his visibility among social circles. (that kind of profile is hard to hide.)
Few excaped his serendipitous telephone calls. "I wonder what that was all about," was a common comment when HE decided the conversation was over. "What conversation?" That's hard to say, because they were
never about anything. Stan would start out by saying, "Hey, what's up" That was easy enough to understand, but what was certain to follow was a random, disconnected string of statements or questions, after which he did not wait for a reply. "Great talkin' to ya'," and he was gone.
Stan was a member of our church,but seldom attended, rarely put anything in the offering plate, if he did.
One night he showed up at an outdoor concert. A sudden chill sent those not prepared scurrying off early. I guess Stan must have been one of them, because what happened next was as typical as it was unexpected.
A couple of weeks later, up the hill came a U.P.S. truck. The delivery man presented the office manager with an invoice for 500
sweat shirts.
"As far as I know, we didn't order any sweat shirts. There must be some mistake."
But the order clearly stated. Five hundred gray sweat shirts and they were being delivered to the address clearly shown thereon. No explanation accompanied them. Where they came from, and what was supposed to be done with them, was a mystery. But not for long.
Stan called one of the parishioners, and said, "Well, I finally found
somone at home. Say, about those sweat shirts. Figured you could sell them for $20.00 apiece. Make a little money for the church. Well, gotts go now. Nice talkin' to ya.Great day in paradise." (the shirts had a picture and name of the sanctuary as well as the words, San Clemente, a share and care community. Across the bottom was the word Paraiso. (paradise)
Mysery solved. Now almost everyone who attends a concert on our hill brings along a gray sweat shirt.
It wasn't until his wife's memorial service, held under a tree in their front yard, did it become apparent to all who attended, that the families living in Stan's apartments paid a fraction of what he
could have charged. He catered to those with low incomes and treated them like family.
He had a large loving group of people sharing his loss that afternoon.

Yep, Stan the Man was peculiar, but he was a real share and care kind of guy.

POOR GIOVANNI

If she didn’t have such an angry expression on her face perhaps we could be sort of friendly. But all of the neighbors agree that the best way to behave when she’s nearby is to run in the opposite direction. But it’s not always possible because Giovanni her dog mimics her behavior and would rather bite you before finding out if you’re friendly. All of the dog owners in the area agree that she should be reported for the cruel way she treats poor Giovanni but we also know that to do so would mean putting him down for he's not adoptable. Too often he runs loose in the cul de sac while she’s emptying other people’s laundry from the machines in the middle of their cycles because she’s too busy or impatient to wait until a washer or dryer becomes available while he snarls and threatens anyone walking by, even if he knows them.
She’s about five feet seven inches tall, and if she learned how to smile, could be very attractive, but even with her sour disposition and nasty personality she is a pretty woman though her blue eyes can’t be attractive because they are filled with rage.
Two weeks ago we crossed paths while walking our dogs. She smiled and said the weather was delightful. Instead of agreeing and walking on I told her ten degrees cooler would be perfect.
We’ve been neighbors for thirteen years and we’ve never had more than ten words spoken at a time so I was shocked when she yelled at me saying “If I say day, you say night. Why do you always have to contradict me?” Fortunately she turned her back and walked away and saved me the trouble of responding. Two days later, pacifist that I am, or maybe stupid, I saw her dressed up in a pretty red dress and red stiletto heels. Foolishly thinking I could clear the air I told her how very nice and thin she looked.
“Would you believe that I weigh one hundred and seventy six pounds? That’s more than a lot of men.” she said her Polish accent getting thicker every minute.
“I find that hard to believe especially since I way less than you.”I replied.“Why are you surprised” she said. “After all I’m tall and thin and you’re short and fat.”

Mabel and an Angel
by Gene Koltvet

“I found her on the cliff where I left her.” He said as he came into my office.

Jack Clark was an artist, a comedian, a scoutmaster, an ex-Coast Guard officer, a salesman and that is what made him such an interesting friend. He visited my office one day in an effort to sell my company computer paper. He was short; his hair slightly gray, his right foot had been injured, was slightly deformed and turned in very much pigeon toed and caused him to walk funny. His glasses sat low on his nose so he was always peeking over them at us; he had a quick wit and a million one-liners that he used on everyone he met. Every day he wore a red rose in his lapel button hole and he carried three cigars in his breast pocket.

When Jack encountered a new secretary, he would introduce himself, make a little conversation, drop a one-liner to break the ice, find a way to give her a compliment and then give her the rose. This routine gained him easy entrance into innumerable buyer’s offices. After his sales pitch he would offer the buyer a cigar and would probably be refused, but it was a gesture and a personality they never forgot.

Jack’s wife, Mabel, was an accomplished artist. Her expertise was painting ocean scenes. She had that special ability to paint a greenish translucent wave as it broke against the rocks and along the beach. There were many places along the coast where they would go together to sit and paint and enjoy each other’s company. Then he told me this story. “Gene, I almost lost Mabel one day. I dropped her off at one of the many beautiful spots along the south coast to paint while I attended a monthly sales meeting in Santee. When I returned to pick her up, I had forgotten where I left her.” Jokingly, I said, “Jack, you are a salesman; you know you should keep notes.” “I know, but that day I was worried about the rumors about the plant closing and what they were going to tell us. I was distracted.”

“How did you find her?” “An angel” he said. “It was winter and getting dark early. I was beginning to panic. Then I remembered that I had seen a large sign in front of a motel along the street that had the number 29 on it just after I let her off. So I dialed the operator and told her my problem. I had no idea where the telephone office was located, but hoped she might know what sign I was referring to. She was an angel, she said that she lived in the north San Diego area and had seen that sign. She wasn’t real sure, but gave me the approximate location. I drove there and when I saw it, a rush of relief washed over me and then I remembered where I had left Mabel, on a cliff, along the beach.”

Dottie
By Pat Garrison

Dottie, I haven’t thought of Dottie in years. What can I tell you about Dottie? Not much, really, except she was a good friend.

I knew her for about four months in 1963. She was tough but not hard, a Jersey girl living in Flordia with her husband, Whitey. She seemed much larger than her five-foot, one hundred pound frame when you saw her tearing down the highway with the throttle open full bore on her beloved Hog. * The only concessions she made to highway safety were the boots, leathers, and goggles that she wore to keep the bugs out of her eyes. And Whitey had bought her those. Her hair came to the middle of her back; a natural blond with fair skin and deep blue-green eyes that flashed with anger when she believed Whitey had treated her badly. She was quick to anger, but quicker to forgive, or to admit that she might have been in the wrong.

I can’t speak about Dottie without telling you a little bit about Whitey. She loved children and animals, even that vile land locked alligator that lived behind the trailor court where we both lived. Whitey made all of us believe he didn’t want children or pets. They had neither and Dottie wanted both.

They lived in a twenty-foot Airstream trailor, two trailers down from our new Fleetwood. I had seen her carrying groceries on her motorcycle and marveled at her dexterity, but I hadn’t met her yet. I had my hands too full with a new baby and a thirteen-month old to bother with meeting our neighbors.

She knocked on my trailer door one miserably hot, humid afternoon baring a gift for the new baby and a homemade pizza for our dinner. I answered the door with a crying child on each hip. After introductions, she took charge, the gift went on a table, and then she relieved me of a baby and put the pizza in the refrigerator to bake later. It was the first of many afternoons we spent together.

Money was tight, so we drank iced tea and shared lunches, and our hopes and dreams for a brighter future. She wanted to work, but Whitey wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted a new dog to replace the old one Whitey had rescued from the trash on the construction site where he worked. They had nursed it back to health only to watch it die after a car hit it. Even with five miscarriages, she wanted to try again, or to adopt. Whitey wouldn’t discuss it.

Dottie was a happy person by nature. She told me once, “ What good does it do to complain? Life’s too short to waste it complaining, so I’ll just be happy.”

Dottie didn’t say good-by. She left to visit her mother in New Jersey for a week and never came back. Whitey went after her, but came home alone. He wouldn’t talk about it; Dottie left too big a hole in his heart. I understood; she was a good friend.

*Harley-Davidson motorcycle

Whitey

Whitey came by his nickname honestly, his blond hair and bushy full beard were bleached almost white by the sun and his skin was burnt so dark, that that the contrast hurt your eyes. He was a carpenter by trade. Stood about five foot seven or eight, and if you threw him in the Atlantic fully clothed, he might have weighted one hundred forty pounds, not an ounce of fat anywhere. He wasn’t a mean man, but I didn’t know that then, just hard.

As I got to know him better, I learned why he was so hard. He had to be to survive his childhood; parents killed in a car crash so long ago he couldn’t even remember them. Lived with his Granny until she passed, and then it was from one relative to another until he was old enough to swing a hammer. He never said how he and Dottie had gotten together and out of respect for his feelings, I didn’t ask.

We heard his motorcycle pull into the park about midnight, the night he came back from New Jersey alone. Then there was the sound of breaking glass and banging of doors. We weren’t being noisy, but sound carried in the trailer park. If you sneezed, your neighbor was just as likely as not to say “God Bless You”; so my husband went over to see what was going on with Whitey and found him crying as he destroyed and threw away every last vestige of his marriage. He broke all the dishes, bent the pots and pans, punched a hole in the bedroom door, shredded the sheets, and tore up all their pictures.

His emotion spent, he allowed himself to be led to our coach and put to bed just as the babies woke up for their two o’clock feeding. From that day on, he was a member of our family. He slept in his own trailer, but he ate with us. He insisted on paying me to cook his breakfast and supper, and pack his lunch. I wasn’t as good a cook as Dottie, but he didn’t seem to mind.

He never said much to me, but he would talk to Duane and they became good friends, like Dottie and I had been. Whitey would take Duane to work with him on Saturday and that extra money helped stretch the meager Air Force enlisted man’s paycheck.

I would catch him scratching the dog’s ears or picking up a stray baby and then tease him unmercifully, reminding him that he didn’t like animals or children. He would give me a shy grin and shake his head and go on petting the dog or tickeling the baby.

Our orders to VanDenburg AFB came through the end of May 1964 and Whitey promised to stay in touch. He didn’t, but I really didn’t expect him to; it wasn’t that he was a mean man, just a hard man trying to survive another loss.