November 1970: "Mumfer bafumbbbfe humferummmba""No! Keep practicing" my dad said tersely as he came back inside after standing on the back porch and watching the electric meter spin.
It seemed like he had been out there forever. He cursed the thing for spinning too fast. He rang the ancient fire bell (the one with the bullet holes) to wake up the rest of the viking tribe.
"Mumfer bafumbbbfe humferummmba" I said again this time pleading―knowing that the Wolf pack would descend from the third floor to interrupt a warm Saturday morning spent with dad.
Don't ask me how, but dad knew exactly what I was complaining about.
"Buuuu myyy mouthhhmfa iss hurmmmperuing?"
"I don't care how much your mouth hurts." He said in response to my last garbled and gagging words. "You're going to keep the marbles in there and you'll keep reading that sonnet until you can pronunciation improves."
I had lost the election at Saint Monica's to Terry Balantine for Freshman Class President. He had a really well crafted speech (probably written by his mother). It was cleaver. It was funny. He began his speech by talking about mini-skits. He had gotten everyone's attention when he said that he wanted his speech to "be short enough to be interesting and long enough to cover the subject." At this all the hormonally-charged freshmen-boys cheered and the attention starved girls were flattered as the pubescent boys looked around lustfully.
UGHhhhhhhh... How was I supposed to follow that? I was doomed. My mom had written me speech which sounded just like her―not me! I shoved it into my pocket and walked up to the podium and tried to ad-lib. That was probably about the stupidest thing I ever did.I stared at the audience inside Cantwell Auditorium like a deer in the head lights of a oncoming car. Words were slow coming out and it never got any better from there. There was no Hollywood ending... no happy hands... no dance ...just utter and complete failure.
Andrea must have thought I was a complete looser.
I was! My hopes of her falling in love with me were dwindling.
Mom asked about her speech - I lied and told her I read it. Dad found out and asked me to read it to him. I tried and mispronounced half of the words... I had a whole long list of things I couldn't say correctly and half of those words were in that speech.
He might have been the only person in the world who knew how terrible my diction was... He might have been the only one in the world who knew I stuttered (most people thought I was just joking around - and when I did stutter I played it off). But he cared and he tried to help me.
Hence the marbles in my mouth.
The only thing was that dad was summing the Wolf Pack and they would make fun of me, so I had to get rid of the marbles and spat them back into the bag Kurt had used to collect them in.
It was a Saturday. Dad was home and it would be a Dahlin work day. Dahlin work days were pretty chaotic. It usually meant cutting back the forest of bamboo and ivy that had begun to grow over stuff. It meant shifting junk from one area of the yard to another area―and most certainly meant that we be juggling the million boxes of the billion decrepit National Graphics my mom had been collecting since 1952. They had been moved from room to room in the attic to the second floor - to the sun porch to the carport to the patio and back several times.
My poor dad. Now he had not only to get them moving―he had to keep them focused. This was the hardest task of all. The older boys seemed to have a pain threshold for work that did not last much more than about an hour and this drove him crazy. I knew that after a lot of screaming and consternation it would be dad and me.
I didn't mind the work and besides I wanted to please dad.
I finished gagging on the marbles and returning the moist glass-gems to the baggie and dad was on the stairs beating the walls and ceiling with a broom handle.
"Up and at 'em. Time of the harvest moon. Let's go, go, go, go go, go go" he would say as rapidly as machine gun fire. Beating the broom handle on the ceiling in cadence (this was probably from his days spent as a Master Sergeant in the Marines - during WW II in the South Pacific). This was his regular routine for Street Cleaning Day.
The Blasers, next door, had already been up and doing their Saturday morning chores. Mr. Blaser has them all pretty well trained and disciplined in chores and yard work. This is what made me also feel sorry for my dad - because at our house it was such a circus and so difficult to keep the boys motivated.
(pictured Tommy and Mrs. Blaser)
"Come on girly-men" he said about all the guys upstairs with long hair. "Let's go, go, go, go, go! Party all night - sleep all day. Oh, the big man on campus. We're burning daylight...Up and at 'em"
He sped by - returning to the back porch stairs to clank the fire alarm some more.
CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK rattled the firehouse bell. I'm picturing my dad as if he was wearing his uniform getting his men ready for drills.
By this time, the entire neighborhood knew what was about to take place: the Arnolds behind us - the Tripps, the Nargies, the Steadmens, the Vasquezes, and the three Lennon families that surrounded us.
(* Pictured: Cheryl Arnold as Miss Santa Monica - who lived in the house directly behind us)
(Frank Nargie across the street)
(picture of Vasquez family moved from Harding to Naples 4 houses over)
(Bruce came by - Dad tried to get him working)
(*Tripps across the street - next to the Nargies and the Fraternity house that burned down) )
This meant that Billy Lennon (pictured to the right) might come by to pick up stuff for the Halloween haunted house or for the 4th of July extravaganza held in their backyard.
After lots of grumbling and oatmeal the work party would begin and neighbors began gathering to watch the show. I'm telling you this was better than cartoons on Saturday mornings.
It ended up the older boys dropped off one by one while dad and I worked together until 5 o'clock when the sun was setting and I loved every minute of it. HAPPY VETERAN'S DAY
Harding Avenue another beautiful day in Paradise.
A picture of the grand old house. 
Miss you dad.
(* Picture of Cheryl Arnold by Cheryl Arnold Mosely)
(* Picture of Tripp family by Darleen Tripp Beringhele)
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