The hilarious, picture-driven, true memoir of the youngest boy of the 60's "most dysfunctional family." Markie d's quest for survival and identity helps us discover and deal with the dysfunction in all of us. Funny, politically incorrect and thought provoking.
In the words of an ancient sage, "Laughter is good medicine."
A tribute that life is special and an encouragement to any of us who has ever felt left behind... abandoned.... betrayed!
There is evil in the world... Bad People and Bad Parents do exist! Most parents, however, do try hard. Most mothers will do just about anything to protect and care for their children, because they are wired and designed as nurturers. Therefore, when we come across something as egregious as this, it upsets something in us. We universally recognize that something is wrong which upsets our built-in justice sensors and the moral code that is written in our heart.
When something like this happens, we must never blame the child or make them feel any less human or any less worthy of our acceptance and love. It is not your fault.. you are not a piece of refuge to be thrown away. God does see it that way and neither should we.
YOU ARE STILL VERY PRECIOUS TO GOD. You are special, unique, and worthy of all the attention of God's perfect love. You are accepted by Him, regardless of background, color or religion. Irregardless of your past failings, shortcomings and your sin... He relentlessly peruses you with His Divine Love.
His Mercy...His Grace...His Acceptance...and His Forgiveness is available to all...because all of us ARE SPECIAL TO HIM!
Whoever you are, where ever you've been, whatever you've done - He loves you, accepts you and freely opens His arms to you... KNOW THAT YOU ARE LOVED above all things in the Universe!
I guess it's time to try to end this story... the story that Marylin and family had read in the newspaper... a story I didn't want anyone to hear on that first day of fifth grade. It is a story that still brings with it - an emotional response of the little boy left behind at Salton Sea. Healed? Yes... absolutely, but whenever we suffer like this (as with physical wounds) scar tissue remains.
It is possible that those scars not only serve to remind us of the things that are important... family, forgiveness, love, care, protection...but those scars can also remind us how God can use ugly things to beautifully shape us. I am reminded of that by a response I received to The TRAGIC STORY part 5...
This is from a person very near and dear to me... one of those to whom my amazing mother had opened our hearts and our home. If there is a picture that can be sadder than that dirty little boy left behind by his family at Salton Sea... it is the picture of baby twins abandoned on the beach in Marina Del Rey.
THIS IS WHAT SHE WRITES: "I wish I was there to love that little boy. There is something amazing
here Mark. Much of what you have so eloquently put into words mimic some
of my own experiences. We have something in common as a result - God
used the hurts and built in us a compassion that could only come from
Him. We both have chosen to tap into this professionally and personally
- you as a pastor, me as a nurse. My kids will always know how much I
love them - as I know yours do too. We both are drawn to those who are
hurting - to love them. I believe your hurts fueled the unconditional
love you showed to me and David when we became part of your family. We
now have an unbreakable, God given bond forever. His plan at work..."
Perhaps it was this searing sense of loneliness that burned in me a driving desire for connection to God. Who knows, as Lisa above has just reminded me, maybe it is this funny, tragic and ugly story that has beautifully shaped me for ministry that desires nothing more than to let people knew they are loved by a passionate God who relentlessly pursues them.
The Conclusion:
The officer stepped towards the station wagon with only the faint, red-glow of the neon signs from the aging Pink Pump dive that was several hundred yards away. With jaw set and a telling red glow, the officer approached as the apprehensive crew silently held their collective breath. Mrs. D hid in the tiny toilet stall and the other kids in the trailer had been cleverly buried in camping gear. Mr. D's hand was perched and ready to strike.The tribe had taken the oath and nobody was about to give away the fact that bodies were stashed illegally in the trailer.
In an effort to control his temper, the Highway Patrol officer began the conversation in low tones. "Evening, Mr. Dahlin" he said.
"What's seems to be the problem, officer?" Asked Mr. D apprehensively. This had already upset the officer of the law - Abandoning young children is the problem he thought... What kind of parents would do such a thing...dropping them off one by one at the most desolate locations on the planet?
Not giving his cards away, he calmly replied. "Uh, Mr. Dahlin, is this your family traveling with you?"
"Why, yes it is your honor...officer!"
The officer looked into the window and tried to count the number quickly... He counted 11. But was informed that the number was between 15 and 17... Mr. Dahlin was obviously lying.
"Mr. Dahlin, um...it would be safe to say that all of your children are all here, correct?" The trap was set!
Mr. D gripped the back of the seat, showing the tense white knuckles, to let the boys know what was at stake... (the threat of "THE HAND")."Um...boys is everyone here?" he turned and hollered rhetorically over his shoulder.
"Yes, dad... we're all here" came a tentative reply from the back seat.
"Why, yes officer, we're all here!" Dad said nervously.
The officer's blood boiled and his heart was still racing from the pumping adrenaline of his high-speed pursuit. "Mr. Dahlin" He said, raising his voice, exposing the anger he has been suppressing. Syllable by sharp syllable, the officer continued louder, "Mr. Dahlin, are all of your kids in the car with you?"
"Is everybody back there?" Dad asked, squeezing the seat so hard, with his threatening fingers, that he almost poked holes in the upholstery .
The boys did a fake head count - making sure to count some of the sticky bodies twice... "Yes Dad, we're all here..."
Even before dad could repeat the answer, the officer yelled, "MR. DAHLIN, DO. YOU. HAVE. A. SON. NAMED. MARK?"
Flustered, Dad turned and ask the mob in the backseat, "Do I have a son named Mark?" This was not the right thing to do at that moment.
Now, sure that this was a conspiracy being covered up by the entire clan, the officer grabbed his billy-club and asked Mr D. to step out of the car. As dad slowly grabbed the door handle...Karl in back yelled up front "Uh, dad...I think we might have left Mark back at Salton Sea."
"YOU! THINK!" Screamed the officer, spraying spit on everyone one in the front of the car... not once, but twice, "YOU THINK!" He yelled, showering everyone and everything within a ten foot radius.
I have to break before continuing with a bit of commentary. Obviously, those in front thought I was in the back and those in back thought that I was up front - strategically placed by Wolf Pack for THE HAND!
Okay, this makes sense (I mean, after all, the mother and step-father of Jesus did the same thing leaving Him behind so I guess this is a natural mistake that can happen to the best of us. Just ask my daughter about the hockey rink incident of 2001).
Anyway, this wasn't rocket science! Think about it...
1) An officer pulls you over and he knows you by name.
2) He asks if your entire family is in the car with you.
3) He asks you to take a head count to see if anyone is missing.
4) He asks if you have a son named Mark.
5) He asks if your son Mark is in the car.
Okay, so you thought he was secretly hiding away in the trailer with Mrs D and the overflow, but come on, by number 2, any normal person probably should have had a clue! (The operative word in that last sentence was "normal" but then again any normal person doesn't take 62 people to Salton sea - illegally hiding half in that abominable thing we called a trailer.)
Normal or Not...the next thing my dad said was not the thing you say to an irate officer of the law. Mind you, my dad was both frugal and practical. In his mind he figured:
1) Why would a intelligent highway patrol officer go through all this trouble of chasing him down and not bring the kid!
2) Had he brought the kid - this whole mess would have been over and done with.
3) What was easier, more practical and economical?
4) Now Mr. D would have to spend all of this time unhooking the trailer, leaving it in Indio, making a recon run all the back to Salton Sea and then back again.
5) Think of the time...think of the money...(in his mind he was thinking "What's wrong with this police officer?")
Computing and thinking and weighing in on all the consequences is the reason my dad blurted out the way he did... Dad said, "You mean, he's back at Salton Sea?"
Nostrils flared.. sucking in a gallon of air before responding... "Yes he is Mr. Dahlin!" said the officer with pursed lips and tight neck... doing all he could to hold himself back from choking the ring leader of this child abandonment campaign.
MR. D, "DO YOU MEAN I HAVE TO GO BACK AND GET HIM?" This made perfect sense to everyone in the car, but only served to infuriated the officer to the degree that it took great restraint not to pull out his billy club and clobber my father...
Hitting the dirt with his billy-club, the officer called for backup so they might restrain him from wielding his wooden baton instrument on the top of a certain man's head.
Back at the diner, I had no idea what became of the the highway patrol's efforts to catch my family. I had to wait and see if I was to be an indentured servant, end up in an orphanage, or if my dad and the Wolf Pack would return for me.
In my pathetic Zombie-like state I stared at my little cheeseburger...my blessing - manna from heaven and gulped...and tried, but still could not swallow even a sesame seed. (insert cheeseburger song here).
It was late - nearly the middle of the night and I had been holding on to my Popsicle stick as though it represented holding onto my family... hoping against hope!
Then the door at the far end of diner burst open with dad and a small reconnaissance crew. People in the restaurant cheered. My dad and the four older brothers took one look at me and ran in my direction.
This is the point in the story where everything goes into slow motion... (If I had a background track for this part of the story, it would be the Chariots of Fire music where all of those guys are running on the beach in slow motion)...
Hum if you know what I'm talking about... "du, du, du, du, du, du....du, du, du, du, du"
Pushing dad aside, the brothers ran towards me with outstretched arms... I was loved and I was missed. (more of the sound track)... they wanted me! I had not been erased. Slow motion they ran...it was all about me! I was loved!
I smiled and set my Popsicle stick on the table... my chest stopped heaving and my throat cleared enough for me to take a bite of that beautiful cheeseburger. I had earned it, and now it was time.
With their arms outreached and happy faces, they ran to me as I stood up on the seat of that blue vinyl seat and opened my arms to receive their smothering hugs.
In slow motion, the boys raced each other and dived on the table fighting for my cheeseburger.
They wolfed it down along with the fries and watery malt... (I found a fry that had fallen onto the seat and ate it)... and my angel had disappeared.
One of the men in the restaurant said, "If it was me, and I was their father, I would have left all of them here to die a slow death"
There is no place like home! I made it back to Venice and we lived happily ever after?!?
Until a week later, when I joined the cunning Wolf Pack in a game of hide-N-seek!
I stood on the lonely highway and stared at nothing, but a white line that faded into the darkness as the dusk hues of hot, burnt orange turned as dark and gloomy as my soul. I was lost, discarded, left behind.
My entire chest cavity groaned, pressed in, as if in a vise. The red dye of my unlicked, untasted, untried nickel Popsicle ran down my arm as if blood from an open wound. Chocked up with pain and tears, I sauntered slowly back to the marina and sat on the curb holding the stick as if my life depended on it. I knew I would be stolen and have to live with the slow Salton Sea People in a million degree weather for the rest of my life. I had been erased.
I was sentenced to Purgatory: The place where fish, unarmed atom bombs, trailers and dreams come to die.
I wanted my family and had nothing but a red Popsicle stick. "Our Father who art in heaven... I need your help... I'm alone, lost and forgotten!" It was a dumb prayer but it was all I could think of... We weren't allowed to talk to God, only to say rote prayers... lots and lots of prayers...
Anyway, I figured that my guardian angel didn't need to come into the diner with me just to buy a Popsicle and had probably waited in the trailer. Right now the poor angel was being tossed around in that hot trailer without me and I was without him. I cried and prayed for a replacement angel. Where would I sleep? Where would I go? What would I do?
I was a sight.. a mud covered refugee with blonde hair, burnt nose and a red stain on my arm that looked like an open wound. Because I looked like a piece of garbage I thought maybe I would be safe and that no one would steal me. I wasn't worth anything, after all - my family had thrown me away! TRASH! That's what I felt like. I decided to curl up for the night on the hot cement under the sole lamp post and tried to stop the flow of tears. This small hot patch of earth where flying insects gather at night was my new home. I began to brush off some of the flying pest that landed on me, but realizing the futility of that gave up trying.
Just then a Ford truck pulled up with an older, gray-haired couple inside...they must have been a hundred and twenty years old.
"You lost?" The man asked gently from inside the truck as it slowed to a stop in front of me.
"No, I'm not lost...I know exactly where I am. I just don't don't where my family is..." Stuttering, I said in words that had a difficult time coming out. The older couple approached me carefully, like you would a cornered dog whose trust you wanted to win, hoping to not get bitten. He sat down on the curb next to me and tried to get information. Holding onto my red-stained Popsicle stick, I couldn't say another word. I felt empty - hollow - like a Zombie, dead on the inside. I wasn't even aware that he had stood me up and began to walk me away from my little puddle of melted red goo. I didn't know if he was an angel sent from God or if this was the man who was going to steal me and make me a slave in a foreign country (like the Ishmaelites and Joseph).
Zombie-esque... I followed the man and his wife into the dinner. "Hey, Gene!" He shouted to the owner. "This boy's parents up and left him here."
"Yeah, we know that family. They came in here just a little bit ago like a swarm of locust: Hippies, some of them."
"Poor parents."
"No wonder they left one behind!" Now the conspiracy theories began.
"That's probably what they do. They're probably driving around and leaving one kid at each stop...Did you see 'em - that's what I would have done."
"I saw them..." they both stated and questioned hoping to gather information. In that gold Dodge station wagon... the one with the big dent on the driver door that had red paint that read "OUCH!"
"Yep, that was the one. I saw it too. The one with a hundred kids in it...must have been about 15 of them."
I had taken the "Oath" and pledged on my sacred honor not to reveal that bodies rode in the trailer. That was good, I thought! I had to protect dad and wanted them to believe that all of those stinky, hot sweaty bodies were all crammed in the station wagon... I wouldn't give away the secret. "Yep, there was like 15 of us in that CAR!" I saw a man to my right who sitting alone at booth suddenly jump to his feet in excitement and began to ask questions as he wrote things on his small pad of paper.
"Call the Highway Patrol, Gene!" one guy yelled across the diner. I didn't want them to call the police, I thought it was the Police's job to take me to an orphanage. Orphanages in movies were never a good thing.
I didn't have a lot of information to give: who I was, where I was from, phone numbers, no answers- just the
living-dead. Everyone else filled in the blanks as wild theories and exaggerated explanations flew around the diner like a murder of angry crows. I covered my head not to be attacked as my angel led me to the very back booth - at the far end of the diner.
An officer came in and asked me for a description of the car and trailer as the excited Salton Sea-ites supplied the answers along with the criminal intent of the abandonment theories. I sat motionless on the faded-blue sticky-vinyl holding my Popsicle stick. The guy with the pad of paper furiously wrote like a Washington reporter discovering a government coverup... this was his Pulitzer (well ,as close as it gets at Salton Sea - anyway). Boats sank, trailers rusted and dreams died at regular intervals at Salton Sea - that's exciting at it gets at this place. THIS WAS BIG! A newspaper reporter, the Highway Patrol, A Swedish tribe of hippy locust, Parents systematically abandoning children...
In the middle of all the commotion...Gene set the most incredible thing I had ever laid eyes on: a great big, hot, delicious, ginormous, incredible, cheeseburger of steaming goodness - right down in front of me! FOR ME!
Up to this point in my life, I don't think I had ever had a restaurant-bought cheeseburger all to myself. They had just opened this new place at the corner near the church called McDonalds. The Blasers went to this new place called McDonalds; they got to eat hamburgers and cheeseburgers all the time. Not us, we went to Wessles at the corner of Lincoln and Venice and bought greasy brown bags of french fries that we all had to share. When that bag eventually made it to our house, it was a feeding frenzy - like sharks on a whale carcass... I'll spare you the gory details - but you get the idea. THIS WAS MINE. My little cheeseburger and mountain of french fries - enough to feed my entire family...ALL MINE! "My little cheeseburger" It would go down the pipe and share room in my belly with my half piece of gritty bacon.
My family, meanwhile, was probably eating rock-hard, tainted cheese and singing "Oh you can't get to heaven" like they always do. Jovial fun that was also a way to pick on someone about shoe size, nose size, about zits, about retainers, or about being too fat...
"Oh you can't get to heaven in Tony's nose... 'cus the Lord don't allow no garden hose." The leader would sing and the tribe would then raucously echo along, loudly, and not in key (we were not the Lennon Sisters - mind you). "Oh you can't get to heaven in Tony's nose 'cus the Lord don't allow no garden hose... Ain't it going to grieve my Lord no more..."
Next, they would make fun of Kurt, then Kris and Karl and Erick and Philip and Charlie and Bob....all taking stabs at one another...then, when it got too loud, dad would put his right arm up on the back of the driver's bench-seat that was crammed with 4 bodies. It meant that if it didn't quiet down, the arm would strike the next person or persons- it could reach! "THE ARM" was no respecter of persons. Everything had to come down a notch - or else! He would say, "Silence is Golden." This is where I come in! The Wolf Pack would strategically place me so that the "THE HAND attached to the THE ARM would find its way to me! They loved me for this! This was my omega utility in the wolf pack. They would get loud after the warning... The Hand would strike... I would get hit.. they would laugh... everyone would have a good time.
ONLY. Only, I wasn't there... bummer for them that I was in the trailer (so they thought). The Hand would probably be hitting Erick about this time... haha...It would not be me. I would not be in that horrible trailer frying or baking or being tossed with every bump along the way...instead, I would be eating my wonder delicious cheeseburger - manna from heaven.
They had made it about as far as Indio when Mr. D saw the speeding Highway Patrol car approaching with lights flashing and siren blaring.
THE ARM. THE HAND was up and in position to strike anyone who made a noise...it was like a reminder of the covenant not to tell about illegal bodies being transported in the trailer. Mr D was sure he was being pulled over for illegal contraband. Everyone was to keep their mouths shut.
Mrs. D pushed the intercom on the speaker that Tony had wired between the car and the trailer... buzzz... buzzz... buzzz..."Roy (that's what she called my dad) Roy...(mixed with static) what's going on?" Tony pulled the wire out of the intercom just as she was invoking The Clause... "Under-Pain-Of- Mortal......" silence...they didn't want the policeman to know bodies were in the trailer, so the wire was pulled and Joan was cut off midsentence.
"NOT ONE WORD!" Mr. D threatened - knuckles turning white as he gripped the back of the seat, pulling the traveling menagerie slowly over onto the dirt next to the freeway. Mrs D. began covering bodies in the trailer with blankets, sleeping bags and greasy pots and pans...
There was an uneasy stillness in the air as the officer opened his door and his black jackboot hit the ground sending a puff of angry dirt into the air. As the officer walked ominously towards the Dahlin clan you could hear a pin drop - no one burped or cut the cheese! This would not be pretty!
I sat and stared at my cheeseburger, picked it up, put it to my lips, but could not open my mouth to take a single bite. I did not have the strength to suck the milk shake Gene had given me - through the straw.
I was powerless and unable to enjoy what was set before me...I clutched my Popsicle stick... as conspiracy theories whizzed frantically over my head in the diner.
I guess there might be a lot of things we can pick in this story to contemplate and reflect on.. simply one moral might be that a lot of us are unable to enjoy the blessings and things set before us as we focus on the pains of the things that hurt us so badly. If only we could lift our heads in the times of trouble and count our blessings - rehearse the all the things we can be thankful for - we might experience a little power to open our mouths, take a bite and enjoy what is set before us - (even in the the middle of crippling crisis).
Why is that so hard to do? And how come it can scar so deeply?
Did you ever have a life defining moment when things just didn't seem to go your way. When searing pain and bitter disappointment seemed to build a nest in your heart. Those times when you feel let down or stabbed in the back by someone close whether a parent, a spouse, a brother, a sister, or a best friend. Why do those wounds seem to be the worst, as if a dagger had been plunged into your heart and irreparably ripped open. Why do these particular wounds feel like it may take forever to heal? I think the reason things like betrayal, abandonment and wounds (especially from those close to us) hurt so bad is because we were created for close connections. We were designed and wired for close intimate relationships and have this expectation that love will protect and that love is forever. What a crushing blow to discover that as humans we are fickle and committed more to the protection of self at any cost, than the tremendous cost that true love demands...
Since we live in this tension of constantly being let down, I guess as humans, we have to figure out how to cope with disappointments and where to turn for healing for these lingering wounds... Perhaps this is why some of the deepest scares are those bore by children, because their emotional capacity is not yet developed to handle abuse, cruelty and exploitation at the hands of those they placed so much trust.
Yep, kids are especially fragile.
It was hot and dry at Salton Sea, but an invisible tornado of emotional destruction was headed towards the Marina as the Dahlins prepared to depart their 4 inglorious days of camping. The boys were fighting for places in the car, Mrs. D was yelling, "Under pain of mortal sin" beckoning all those that couldn't squeeze into the Dodge to join her and the girls to experience another three hours of "Shake 'N Bake" in the dreaded trailer. Meanwhile, Dooh-Dooh Pants was intentionally passing gas as a means of terrorism that instigated a fight among the Wolf Pack as hot sweaty bodies pressed up against windows in the over-packed station wagon.
Meanwhile, Markie D happily bounded out the Diner with his red Popsicle. The four ounces of liquid and sugar would probably help him survive the terrible ride home bouncing around in the the hot trailer among the junk and gas fumes.
With both eyes focused on his ice-cold Popsicle, Markie D reached up and grabbed the handle of the trailer (that he was forced to ride in by his older brothers).
NOTHING! He grabbed nothing, but a fist full of air. The trailer had vanished! Bam, just as if it had been sucked into the tractor beam of an alien spaceship. In panic he looked up into the troposphere, but could not see a UFO!
(Now back to first person)
It was happening...I was begin erased. I looked up and saw the caravan of bodies stuffed in the old Dodge and trailer pulling out of the parking lot. THEY HAD LEFT ME BEHIND! Was this a cruel trick? Did they plan this? Was it a conspiracy to get rid of me? Why did mom let them leave without me?
DIDN'T ANYONE CARE? Was I just refuge like the dirt washed off all those dirty bodies to run waste in the gutter. Not a single lick of my red Popsicle, I ran up the slight incline of the marina onto the two lane highway after my family. They were moving slow, I thought I could catch 'em. I ran as fast as the legs of a 9-year-old could run, but the lights on the back of that trailer got smaller and smaller and smaller. I stood and watched.
This was before the era of 911 and cell phones. I was left to die in the desert. I stood on that hot asphalt and stared at the fading tail lights of my departing family until they had completely disappeared. My world was small and I knew I lived in Venice, but nothing more than that. I was lost, alone and abandoned.
I couldn't take one lick of my red Popsicle as I sadly shuffled back to the staging area - at the curb outside the Diner. I sat on the curb and sorely missed my family - sure that I would never see them again. I wondered if this is what Joseph (in the Bible) felt like when his older brothers and sold him into slavery and left him stranded in the desert. I was sure someone would steal me and I would be held prisoner to a wondering band of Salton-Sea-ites.
I sat on the curb as the melting red dye dripped down my arm and pooled into a puddle of red and dirt next to my feet. I sat. I sat holding my red stick as though it was the last remaining remnant of my family. I would not let go of my little red Popsicle stick.
I knew one prayer, "The Our Father" but was too choked up to squeese one syllable out of my parched dry lips. I cried and sat as TWILIGHT turned to horrid dusk! Me and my Popsicle stick and my puddle of red mud that had dripped from my elbow. This was probably the most pathetic sight recorded in the history of the universe. An blonde haired aborigine with one clean red streak that ran from my tight fist of my right hand to tip of my elbow. My heart felt like it was begin squeezed in a vice as I felt my existence fade.
LEFT!
ALONE!
ABANDONED!
FORGOTTEN!
I wanted to go back to the crazy, dysfunctional, wonderful family that had let all the monkeys out of the zoo.
I sat and cried until I had no more moisture left in my body to produce any more tears... "drenched to the bone." The hardest part, I guess, was that nobody noticed!
"The times they are, a changing"
At least for me they were.
I reckon that the universal question that we all have to wrap our minds around at some point in our lives is: Why do bad things happen to good people?
We left off last time in a Dahlin wild adventure that includes a billion wild children, a nickle, a Popsicle, a reporter, a small diner, the sulfer-smelling Salton Sea Marina, a dented Dodge, a cover up, a cheeseburger... an old couple and a high speed, Highway Patrol chase.
I apologize that my window for writing is is short today... so let's see how far we can get - it will probably not get as far as the infamous chase scene...hence: The Fast and the Furious
Did you know that at Salton Sea in the 40's they dropped prototypes of the atomic bomb that they were secretly developing for the "Manhattan Project"? Neither did I? It was probably those unarmed bomb casings that were stuck in the mud that tore off the lower half of several of our outboard motors. Enough for trivia, but things seemed to come to Salton Sea to die: trailers, cars, boats, ambitions and dreams (even bombs, I guess).
Even at my ripe tender age, I noticed that the people at Salton Sea seemed to move at a much slower pace... they shuffled as they walked... the sparkle in their eye was lost! This had become a home for nomads with no real destination in mind, as though they had been sentenced to wander in the hot desolation of this desert place - this was Purgatory. This is where you would go to pay for your sins...
BUT IT WAS FREE...and there we were!
Me flexing in the background
Are we having fun yet?
The car was full and I had ridden in the trailer with mom, my two sisters and a guy my dad called Kleghorn (who lived in one of our third story bedrooms), a couple of leaky motorcycles and all the camping gear.
"Shake Rattle and Roll" Riding in that trailer is where that expression came from.
Anyway my dad liked to sing and that old trailer inspired him to knock out a rendition of "Trailers for sale or rent."
There we were, cooking in our our deep-fry batter of (pumice-mud) 50 sunscreen and my dad is singing - as if our lives were the fodder for a desperate country-western.
Next thing on the menu: steak and lobster. I'm not sure if that's what the Blasers were eating at the restaurant at Kings River Resort... but you can bet your bippy that steak and lobster or some kind of tropical fruit salad was out of the question on this rugged excursion.
For dinner we snacked on crackers and a block of cheddar cheese that had begun to yellow and harden at the edges... If anyone ever dared to mention anything about the condition of the cheese, dad would say "Well, @#$%&#@ in the finest restaurants you eat aged beef and aged cheese.. this is a delicacy!" Then he would slice pieces of that old cheese and hand it out as we came through the assembly line with our Saltines crackers or stale Triscuts. My dad was also a genius he knew how to feed 15 people for an entire weekend for about $6.42. Pshaw, Blasers and Lennons were probably paying that for every meal. Not us! My frugal, Staff-sergeant of a dad, had trained us up to be low maintenance. Look at how skinny we were in that picture up above - it worked.
Gas for the car - twenty-eight cents a gallon, (10 miles a gallon x 400 miles = 40 gals) $11.20
Food for fifteen 6.42
Camping fees -0-
Gas for motorcycles 1.16
Popsicles for 15 .75
Total cost for fabulous weekend retreat $19.53
Another Dahlin adventure PRICELESS!
Yes Sir, my dad was the "King of the Road," the consummate "man of means- by no means"
I've found that life is more often like a roller-coaster ride than it is a straight drive down a two lane highway. There always seems to bumps and unexpected curves. We always seem to think that the grass is greener at the Blasers (well it was, but I'm speaking in terms of human nature). "My life would be better at Kings River eating cheeseburgers with my best friend Tommy Blaser." "If only this and if only that." "The grass always seem to be greener on the other side of the fence." I say, if it's not green where you are, then as soon as you move to the new place, who says your not going to kill the lush green grass that you moved to.
It took me a long time to figure this out, but "Wherever you go, there you are!" If you take your bad attitude along with you for a ride on this wonderful journey called life, then odds are that you'll ruin the grass when you get there. Bitterness, anger, resentment, jealousy are cancers that don't just harm us...but also does harm and damage to those near and dear to us. Bitterness and unforgiveness is like drinking poison thinking it will harm the other person.
I guess the first thing to do would be to take a look inside...stop blaming and take some responsibly for the things we can control - our responses.
Gotta go, but we're getting there! In the meantime: Live as one who is Loved and season your responses with grace...because odds are... we'll need grace sooner or later - when we least deserve it!
This story involves dirt and bodies - too many bodies to count and an ice cold Popsicle (in particular, a red Popsicle).
It includes a hi-speed Highway Patrol chase and an old couple in a Ford truck (who might have been angels or maybe aliens).
(Part 3 will be titled: "The Fast and The Furious")
It includes a nickel...and the worst kind of tragedy a kid of, say, 9 or 10 could face at my impressionable age. It involves a bunch of wild brothers and sisters and several passengers illegally riding in a trailer. The story includes a cover up, a reporter, the owner of a small diner, a cheese burger, a dented Dodge station wagon, the first day of fifth grade and Marilyn.
Before we go back to where we left off last time... it's important to remember that this painful story has to be told as a flashback that was set in motion on the very first day of Fifth Grade.
When the normal kids were raising their hands as instructed by Sister Godzilla, to share whatever-it-is normal kids do over summer vacation, I slid down in my seat and tried the bestest I could (bestest is a 5th grader's word) to remain as anonymous as possible. I sat like one of those possums pretending to be dead.
Think about this with me for a minute. What were my options? Was I supposed to wave my hand frantically, half-shouting, in excitement like the other obnoxious normal 10-year-olds.
"Sister...
Sister...
Sister...
Sister...
Sister...
Sister...oh..oh..oh...oh...pick me! Pick me!"
There was nothing I could have said that either, wouldn't have gotten me into a heap of trouble, or stirred up this experience from a couple weeks ago that I was hiding from the world, that was bound to embarrass me... or to stir up feelings I was working hard to bury deep inside.
What was I supposed to say? "What I did over summer vacation by markie d. Me, my little sister and our our two neighbors were electrocuted in our swimming pool by my ingenious older brothers. Oh yeah, that experiment went so well that they also managed to shocked the purgatory out of Sister Lucilla. By the way, did you know that nuns have hair under those habit-thingies they wear on their heads." Hahahehe
Ah, NO!
I didn't think that would go over so well.(See Blog post April/26/2013 "Electrocuting a NUN")
Should I have talked about the bamboo bow and arrows my brothers made that had sewing needles taped to the tips... and how, when they ganged up on me, I looked like a porcupine with quills standing up on end. NO! I needed to protect these innocent regular kids from that - it would be like bringing in the movie PSYCHO for a "show and tell" presentation.
...and, I certainly wasn't about to tell them about... SALTON SEA! NO "Keep your mouth shut markie d" ...and I did!
I didn't wiggle, I didn't squirm... I kept my pulse down so low, a mortician would have thought I was dead.
Shame is the great motivator to keep one's mouth shout. I didn't want a single person in the
world to know what happened two weeks ago on our family vacation. I hoped to keep this whole nightmare a secret... a secret between me and, like, the17 people who were crammed into our station wagon and also those passengers who were illegally riding in the trailer on our little excursion from "H E double toothpicks."
I did it! I survived, the horrible "first-day-of-school-ritual." I made it out alive... yeah me! UNTIL...
Until Marilyn caught me in the hallway on the way to lunch. She cornered me (well, maybe she didn't really corner me, but it felt that way because she was like 4 feet taller than I was. Me, Ghering the Great and Ronnie Hart were the three shortest kids in our class). I was small and she was tall and there I was eyeball to belly button... metaphorically speaking, and Marilyn said, "I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU this summer..." Gulp! My stomached churned. She said, "When we were sitting down for dinner and my father read all about what happened to you at Salton Sea in the newspaper."
At that very second, several things crossed my mind:
1) In the newspaper.. My story? Yikes! Is that who that guy was in the diner?
2) Do normal families sit down and eat meals together?
3) And... Do regular people have conversations at the dinner table?
Marilyn brought up the tragic tale of woe, so now I am obliged to jump back a few weeks and tell you the whole "hot mess."
I left off last time with us spilling on to the hot, rough, pulverized volcanic-pumice (which was now nothing more that abrasive grit - that those imaginative developers claimed to be sand).
Though scientist had become proficient at developing Nuclear Bombs by this time in history they had only managed to come up with three ways of protecting ones skin from the harmful radiation of the sun's rays.
1) Stay indoors.
2) Coppertone - (nothing that had numbers like we have today. There was no such thing as number 8 or number 15, or 30, or 50 Those new-fangled options of pampering ourselves just didn't exist back then).
or 3) Zinc Oxide
1) I'm not sure if the Lennons were ever allowed to go out into the sun. I had never really seen them outside playing. Maybe that's why their skin was so perfect...and to testify to that the Lennon Sisters are still performing to this day in Branson (because they weren't allowed outside and still look so good).
2) Coppertone cost money (who knows, maybe a buck-a-tube back then. We weren't going to spend that kind of money - No way. But our next door neighbor, the Blasers (who were part of the Lennon clan), actually went on regular vacations like normal people do and to tap it off, they ACTUALLY bought sunscreen.
3) As for the third option, we wouldn't be caught dead with that goofy Zinc Oxide! Instead, we shook our fist at the sun and grew up looking like a tribe of blonde haired-leathery beef jerky.
We just weren't going to do it...besides IT WAS my mom who invented 50 sunscreen. Yep! When we rolled out of that old Dodge wagon and came wobbling out of that trailer with sea legs - the second we hit that stinky, sulfer,dead-fish smelling shoreline, momma had us dip in that salty water and roll in the dirt.
We looked like a homeless tribe of Australian blonde-haired Aborigines. When the intensity of that desert sun hit us, we looked like corn dogs that had been dropped in a gutter and forgotten about for a long time.
While we were baking like stir fry in our three inches of batter, I pictured the Blasers lounging along the shore of the crystal clear Kings River in front of The Kings River Resort Hotel coated in Coppertone and noses carefully painted with Zinc Oxide...
I pictured them having to rough it with room-service and air-conditioning if things got too unbearably hot.
On these long hot days we had to figure out what to do next. Would we hunt each other like we do at home or band together and capture some rattlesnakes that we could terrorized out neighborhood with. Fishing was always an option. We could walk out to the end of a small rock jetty and throw in our lines or just scoop up the dead fish off the shore line (I had to keep my vomit superpowers in check).
It was going to be a long hot (did I say hot)... a long hot weekend. But I was covered in my stir fry batter of volcanic mud and I was happy. I couldn't wait to see how this latest adventure would unfold and I was a little sad, really - for the Blasers who would have to miss out on all the fun we were going to have.
Some dude, like 3000 years ago wrote in an ancient manuscript that "we are fearfully and wonderfully made" I like to call it - "crazy amazing." It's pretty crazy, how we're wired as emotional beings with intellect and creativity with all our chemistry, hormones and physiology wrapped up together in a bundle package. And all of that - all of who we are...responds to life in so many different ways. Life (or family vacations) don't always go the way we plan. Things just seemed to have a way of getting messed up, but we don't have to roll around in it like volcanic paste we smear all over our bodies. We have some degree of choice in our responses... "If life give us lemons, we can choose to make lemonade or choose to let it get under our skin and make us bitter."
Until next time... make lemonade! Don't sulk in self-pity. Think of things that you can be thankful for right now! Wherever you are, while reading this (whether at Starbucks or at home), just mention three things and share a smile with the next person you come in contact with. Besides lifting someone else's day- odds are it just may lift your day as well.
For those of you who have tuned in from around the world... those of you in Russia, Germany, South Korea, France, U.K., Japan, Thailand, Canada and Mexico... these Markie D stories are true... This is the story of a youngest boy in a large Catholic family during the mid-Sixties.
On the first day of school we have a custom we have here in the United States where the teacher would often ask the students to tell what we did over the summer.
Every year it is same same boring stuff from the regular kids like, "I went camping with my family," "I got a bloody nose," "I went to the local pool and swam with friends..." I always resisted raising my hand and sharing anything about my family... because we were JUST SO DIFFERENT from the rest of the world. We were so bizarre, that if some of our adventures didn't end up on the front-page of the newspaper, no one would ever believe that these stories were true (read about the time we let the monkeys out of the LA zoo - post 4/29/2013).
WELL... as usual, on the first day of fifth grade... Sr. Godzilla asked if we would like to share what we did over the summer.
As the other NORMAL kids got up to share I slid down in my seat to take cover.
To be honest I cannot remember one thing another student said... because I was scared to death that someone might find out about what happened to me on our family vacation to Salton Sea over the summer.
The way my dad tells the story, Salton Sea is a mistake - an accident that happened in about 1905 that filled the Imperial Valley (that is east of San Diego and North of the Mexican boarder) with a bunch of water that spilled over from the Colorado river.
At some time in the late 50's some brilliant developers decided that this area was bound to become a resort destination that would rival Palm Springs. It was in the hot, hot, hot...(I did say hot, right?), desert with a great big body of water. "How could it not succeed" they thought. A beautiful body of inland water in the desert. "A virtual paradise" they said as they decided to grade the west side with roads for the purpose of building homes... Thousands and thousands of beautiful desert homes.. only 200 miles away from Los Angeles. Could it get any better than this?
My dad was a real estate broker and was recruited to make the 200 mile drive to Salton Sea to sell these vacant lots with the promises of being the new Palm Springs "Only Better"
(Good looking guy, right?)
Well, anyway he was gone a lot that left us mainly to ourselves, mom locked herself in her room which left the inmates to run the asylum (the inmates were my older brothers (they were called the Wolf Pack by neighbors).
I think this chaos was an attraction for some of the Blasers and Lennons from the normal families that we were surrounded by.
Context is everything. I already mentioned that across the street from us were the best Catholics in the whole of the universe. The famous Lennon Sisters... Look at how awesome they are...
In their front window was a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary
It was not unusual to find... well...
animal control officers because of our ever escaping rattlesnakes and reptiles and the Venice Police Department looking for one of my brothers.
and this...the scene to the right is a common, yet tame version of what you might expect to find in front of our Venice home.
You might also find, the good 'O "Borrrego" one of our trash barges parked in the drive way.
If you look over the top of the truck (at about 2 O'clock in the background) behind the trees you can see the famous Lennon Sister's house - white with green trim.
Indulge me and allow me to paint a picture of contrast.
I don't mean to overuse this picture - but what a great picture of of their family!
THEIR FAMILY
MY FAMILY!
But, what I didn't tell you before is that besides the Lennons on the corner, we had another Lennon family across the street and in addition to that, we had another Lennon family right next door to us..
Yes, we were surround by amazing, regular, and normal families all related - 31 kids in all in the three houses... not counting the other Lennon family around the corner with 13 kids.
My family was surrounded by perfection - by clean yards - with flowers. There we were in the middle of all the 60's Americana - like a great big throbbing thumb that had been crushed by a hammer.
We invented the phrase - "Stood out like a sore thumb."
Okay, back to our story of the first day of class... I think it is important to know that when regular people (like the Blasers) took their vacations - they went to the Holiday Inn "Where kids stay free" not us... are you kidding?
We went to the glorious shores of the 'O Salton Sea... We herded all the kids and stragglers into our station wagon, shoving bodies in every crevice and into the trailer...
That's the actual trailer - but years later!
After shoving everybody into our gold, hand-painted Dodge station wagon and cramming bodies into thing we called a trailer, we headed off for the Salton Sea and flopped out on the ground onto the hot volcanic dirt - Where everyone stays for free...!
"HA! Got you beat Lennons!"
I guess I have to continue this tale of tragic woe next time.
Stay tuned... same bat channel... same bat time...
...until then - be NORMAL, get out and mow your lawn.
Mrs D. we called her as kids...sometimes Joan! She was funny, crazy, sincere, smart, religious, (my Sixth Grade Teacher - that's for another day) but for now, mom (as I learned to call her as God changed my heart to love her) HAPPY MOTHER"S DAY.
This Mother's Day tribute might go out to all moms, and to all those women who wanted to be moms, and last but not least to all those women - that had moms (I think that covers all of you ladies).
My mom – gave me a rich heritage of faith – modeled by
the fact that she was always in church… (could you blame her – the poor thing. With all of us kids - she had to be).
My mom was a generous person… always giving her
money away without any questions asked.
My mother taught me the meaning of contradiction. She would say to us… “If
you fall down off that roof and kill yourself – I break your neck..or IRONY, "Keep on laughing, and I’ll
give you something to cry about."
She taught me how tohang in there
My mom unconditionally reached out to strangers – 1) She told every bank teller and every grocery store clerk all her stories. 2) She took every stray kid in off the streets.
My mom demonstrated what it meant to be a servant. She was always rushing to rescue us
whenever we had a bad battery, out of gas, a leg broken or one that was nearly severed off (that was me) or whenever we dropped our keys in the bottom of the
lake a hundred miles away or needed help typing term papers (or for the older boy - needed help writing a term paper).
My
mother taught me about science and healthand English!
For Genetics she said, “If you keep making that face it’ll
stick like that."
For Health she would say, “If you don’t eat your vegetables you won’t grow up." Or "If you eat them, it'll put hair
on your chest." (I guess I never ate my vegetables).
For English she'd say, "A turkey in the oven in done, you on the other hand are finished."
She was brilliant. She could watch I Love Lucky on
TV… be on the phone and carry on a conversation with Ida Nargie across the
street, have the newspaper open reading an article and at same time should could be typing one
of the boys term-papers on a typewriter without making a single mistake.
She taught me how to be independent.
She taught me how to achieve my Black Belt. When she locked herself in her room and wouldn't come out... I had to learn to defend myself against my 42 older brothers... exaggeration.
I guess there is a lot I could be mad about but instead I made a conscious mental decision to let go of the childhood junk – that we as adults hold on to as baggage.
Good, bad, or ugly… at some point my attitude towards
her has to do with the inner working of my heart.
THANKFULNESS AND FORGIVENESS are great healers.
No matter how bad it may have been for you - look at this this way - you’re alive – a mother brought you into this world – even if you were given up
for adoption...she loved you enough to have you… even if
that is the only one thing you have to be thankful for – rehearse it and thank the Good Lord for it!
You woke up this morning” (in other words – I’m alive I have
something to be thankful for).
For all those women who dreamed of being mothers, but couldn't have children... who never got married... know that you are not second class women - YOU ARE LOVED.
To the women who have had an abortion - Know that your child is in heaven and that you are forgiven.
Women today, I celebrate you. KERRY I LOVE YOU. Kiera, (my daughter and future mother of my grandkids), I'm proud of you.
For now I'm done... Oops ...I mean "I'm finished!"
