Mike Befeler's Blog, page 49

Cats I've Known

We had three cats when I was growing up.  Pocohantis or Poki was a black and white outdoor cat.  He was scared of people and lived under the house.  Malahini or Mali was a female Siamese.  I have a picture of her with a baby bonnet on her head and intense glaring eyes.  She raised three litters of kittens.  If a dog wandered into our yard, she would chase it off.
We kept one of the male kittens out of Mali’s first litter.  Nebbechadnezer or Nebbie had a kink in his tail.  We sold the other kittens, but no one wanted a kinky cat.
Cats have distinct personalities.  One of the cats we had in Boulder, Opus, would all of a sudden charge around the house like his synapses were misfiring.  Tammy, was very motherly.  When we yelled at one of our kids, Tammy would get worried and come sit with the disgraced child.  When one of us was sick, Tammy would be on the bed, consoling the invalid.  She purred so loudly you could hear it from the next room.  She liked people and wasn’t phased by any party or gathering.  She’d saunter through the house undaunted by any commotion.
Our current cat, Athena, is just the opposite.  For fifteen years, she only accepted three people in the world:  My wife, my daughter and me.  If anyone else approached or entered the house, she streaked off whatever perch she was on and hid under one of the beds.  When the plumber replaced the furnace, Athena stayed under the bed all day for two days, only venturing out after he had left.
Athena purrs, but has it set on vibrate.  You can’t hear a sound, but can feel it if you place your hand on her throat.
Athena is very self-centered.  She’s out for herself.  She used to try to eat all of Tammy’s food as well as her own.
But she likes to sleep on legs.  The moment I lie on my back in bed, she jumps up on the bed and snuggles down on my legs.  I can’t image that that would be comfortable, but that’s her place.
Athena likes to chase string, bat around play mice, toss them in the air and do flips.  Then she’ll get wild-eyed and streak across the rug.
When we lived in Colorado, she only ventured outside when it was dark for a brief foray before charging back to hide in the garage as if a pack of wolves were after her.  As soon as the door was opened she shot inside with her afterburners blazing.  She is the original wussy pussy.

Threats on Both Ends of the Political Spectrum

You have to hand it to both political parties this election year. The followers of both extremes exhibit a tendency to issue threats. Rather than listening to opposing views, the reaction is to drown out or threaten someone who expresses a different opinion. What happened to the perspective of listening to a different viewpoint, discussing the issues and then making a decision? True believers on the left and the right have all the answers and aren’t open to civilized exchange of differences. It must be reassuring to have all the answers, but it’s not reality. Too many issues have shades of gray. I have no problem with people changing their position if it is based on thoughtful consideration. We can all learn as we gather more information. But let’s hope we can openly debate issues and not resort to personal attacks and threats.

Decisions Made at the Federal, State or Local Level

In this political season, I’ve been intrigued by various issues that have been debated at the federal, state or local level. I’ve always held by the saying of think globally and act locally. In the United States, powers are defined for the federal government and remaining powers go to the states. This in itself leads to many different interpretations. Added to this we have cities now passing statutes that go against state mandates. Whether the topic is fracking or the use of bathrooms we currently have much discussion and dissent on where these issues should be decided. What do you think?

Kids and Other Intriguing Challenges

Being an only child, I was often lonely as a kid.  Consequently, when I grew up and when my wife and I had children of our own, I enjoyed the background hum and chaos of having three kids in our home.
The birth of each was a momentous occasion.  I was at work when I got the call to head to the hospital the first time.  In those days, fathers weren’t allowed in the delivery room so I had to wait until the nurse announced to me that our first son had arrived.
I was present for our second son’s birth which happened to be on our first son’s first day of kindergarten.  He drew a picture of his family that day with three stick figures and a blob.
The early morning our daughter was born, we dropped the boys off at a friend’s house, dashed off to the hospital, barely making it in time.  Our daughter was anxious to get out into the world.
I have fond memories of the kids growing up.
In a restaurant in Santa Barbara, our four-year-old son was acting up, and we were contemplating mayhem when an older couple came over, and the woman said, “Isn’t he cute.  He reminds us of our grandson.”
When we were considering moving to San Jose with IBM and were discussing where to raise our kids, our second son piped up to announce, “I don’t want to be raised.”  And the expression on his face at the reception after my mom and stepfather were married when he put a pad of butter in his mouth thinking it was cheese.
One time the kids and I went camping and drove on the four-wheel drive road above Peaceful Valley in Colorado.  After a rough Jeep trip, I made a comment that our daughter had cried a little.  She said, “Cried a little.  I was crying my guts out.”
Along the way all the concerts, plays, swim meets, soccer games, Bolder Boulder 10K runs, vacations, ice cream socials, scout trips, Indian Guide/Princess events, hikes, homework assignments, school projects, birthday parties, minor emergencies, lost sun glasses and swim goggles.  My wife and I wonder how we did it.  We must have been younger and had more energy then.
So now we’re into the grandparent era.  This is the world of rent-a-kid.  We can spend time with our grandkids, spoil them and then return them to their parents for the hard part.

The Great Roast Beef Heist and Other Crimes

Readers often ask where I get ideas for my mystery novels. They can come from anywhere: the newspaper, an overheard conversation, a past experience. In 1969 long before I became a mystery writer, I served on a Federal Grand Jury in Los Angeles.  We met one day a week for six months and our role was to hear evidence from the District Attorney and render indictments for federal crimes.  At the time most of the cases presented related to draft evasion, being during the Vietnam War era.  But other crimes included bank robberies, counterfeiting and smuggling.  Here were three of the best cases:
The Great Roast Beef Heist - Two men had been tracking an armored car that moved bags of money between bank locations.  They figured out the route and picked a good time to jump the guard.  As the guard exited the armored car, they attacked him and grabbed the bag he carried.
Two blocks later the police caught up to the robbers.  They opened the stolen bag and found, not money, but roast beef sandwiches.
The guard was delivering lunch to some friends at the bank.  The robbers faced one to ten for stealing roast beef.
Dress for the Occasion - A man in long greasy hair and torn clothes came to claim an expensive Italian marble-inlayed table from customs.  The customs agent got suspicious and told the man that the table had been damaged in transit, but would be ready the next day.
He had the table x-rayed and discovered a hidden compartment stuffed with bags of hashish.  All but one bag was removed, the table was sealed back up and agents followed the man the next day when he claimed it.  When he got it back to his house and opened it, the agents arrested him.
Lesson:  if he had been neat and well-dressed, the customs agent would never have been suspicious.
Never Trust a (Wo)Man - After a bank robbery, the police questioned a female teller, but had no good leads to follow.  A week later the teller came to the police and confessed.  She and her boyfriend had arranged the robbery.  She had handed her boyfriend the money and then had given a phony description to the police.  “But officer,” she said.  “I want you to catch the son-of-a-bitch.  We were supposed to share the money, but he took it and ran off to Vegas with another woman.”
Fictionalized adaptations of these crime appear in my theater mystery, Dinner of the Mystery Playhouse, and my upcoming novel, Court Trouble: A Platform Tennis Mystery being released in July, 2016.  
 

Playing Sports

Sports have always been an important part of my life.  As a kid, I played pickup football games in the alley where I lived.  Since it was narrow, running plays seldom worked.  So the typical play was “everyone go long.” 
I played in the outfield in Little League baseball, like my hero Duke Snyder.  I was a fair but not outstanding hitter.  The only time I really connected was when we were fooling around before a practice and I hit another kid in the head with a bat by accident.  My stomach went though my feet I felt so bad.
Over the years I have also participated in basketball, volleyball, ping pong, racquetball, running, intramural wrestling and skiing, but tennis was my sport.
In tennis there are certain plateaus reached.  I had one friend who never took a set off me. Against the top junior player in Hawaii, I took a set once, but never beat him.
All those years hitting tennis balls against a backboard, practicing serves with a bucket of balls, rallying and playing matches.  Tennis provided the vehicle for me to travel, meet people, get into a top college and stay fit.  When I no longer could run because of an arthritic hip, my sport changed to platform tennis.  On the smaller court I was competitive and put less stress on my hip. In fact, I have a mystery novel coming out in July inspired by this sport called Court Trouble: A Platform Tennis Mystery.   Now that we’ve moved to Southern California where there is no platform tennis, I’ve taken up pickleball.
How many balls have I hit over the years?  I calculate that I hit 1.5 million tennis balls during the ten years I played competitively.  Add in the next fifty or so years of playing racquet sports several times a week, it probably totals another four million strokes.  You’d think with all that practice, I’d be more consistent.  The problem is that the aging process more than offsets the improvement.  Still getting out on a court is something I look forward to.  My biggest challenge still is expectations.  I expect myself to play better than I do.  I get mad when I don’t play well and hate to lose.  When I’m in a zone, I play well and enjoy the game.  It’s a constant internal argument on whether I get upset because I’m playing badly, or play badly because I get upset.  Some days my strokes flow, the ball goes where it should, I anticipate well and I make the points.  Then there are times when the shots go wild and out of control.  Five and a half million strokes, and I still miss-hit the darn ball.

Vacations When I Was a Kid

Being a photographer’s son, vacations often involved going to scenic places in Hawaii.  For years I could open any travel book about Hawaii and find the back of my head.  My dad liked to take pictures of my mom and me silhouetted as we walked down a beautiful beach.
We often stayed at beach houses on the windward side of Oahu.  Kawela Bay was one location we frequented.  One cottage had an enclosed porch that faced the bay.  I built model airplanes and explored the beach.
Another time we stayed at the beach house near a Hawaiian burial ground so I was afraid to go out after dark.
Kona was a favorite outer island destination for us and we stayed at the Kona Inn.  I swam in the salt water pool that was fed by waves crashing over a retaining wall into the deep end of the pool.  When I was very young we watched Hawaiian cowboys driving cattle into the water in downtown Kailua, Kona. The cowboys rode horses into the water to herd the cattle to a ship anchored offshore.
The summer after I graduated from college, my dad and I went to Kauai and stayed at the Hanalei Plantation.  We drove up to the end of the road along the Napili cliffs and upon our return discovered that one of the bridges had collapsed.  Since that was the only road along that part of the island, we accepted a ride in a rowboat from a boy who was ferrying people back across the stream, hitchhiked back to the hotel and got another rental car.  I heard later that it took several months to get the road rebuilt. 
My dad rented a helicopter and we flew along the Napili cliffs and landed on a white sand beach that is only accessible by an eighteen mile hiking trail, by helicopter or by swimming in from a boat.  I still have a picture in my home office of me walking down that beach toward a cave in the overhanging cliff.  We stayed about an hour before the helicopter came back to pick us up.  Although my dad and I had conflicts during the summers of my college years, that was a trip of togetherness.

The Ocean

The ocean has always been a siren’s song for me.  It beckons, but also leaves me with a sense of fear and foreboding.
I learned to swim at the Elks Club in Honolulu.  There was hardly any beach there, but an old wooden pier served as the platform for entering the water.  Inside the building was a locker room where I went with my dad to change.  It was in the basement facing the ocean so I could hear the sound of waves outside.
Never being a good swimmer, I always struggled in the water.  When I stopped stroking, I sank.  Even today when I swim laps in a pool, it’s hard work to keep my body moving, and when I try to float, my feet sink.
I love to watch the ocean, but I don’t venture out very far.  In the mountains I’ll go off by myself, but I don’t like swimming out deeper than anyone else.
Another beach we frequented when I was a child, Gray’s beach, is a small spit of sand surrounded on one side by a cement wall breakwater and on the other by reef.  Its shallow water and gentle waves were an ideal place for me to splash around.  Out in the distance was a marker imbedded in the reef that seemed as far away as China.  I could never swim that far.  When my wife and I went to Hawaii on our first trip together, we swam out to it.  She’s a good swimmer and set the pace.  I was amazed that it wasn’t very far out anymore.
I enjoy snorkeling in shallow water, where I can watch the fish below me, but put my feet down when I get tired.  I’ve never gotten into scuba diving, having tried the equipment only twice in swimming pools.
I did a lot of bodysurfing, but little board surfing.  I now enjoy small waves that will push me in but not knock me over.  Whenever I go to Kailua beach, I limp into the water to catch a few waves.  Then I feel like I’m truly back in Hawaii.
Now that we’ve moved to Southern California, I go for walks along the sand.  The crash of waves, the squawk of birds, the aroma of salt water and the sand crunching under my feet bring me alive and back to my roots.

Memorable Places from My Past

As I think back about growing up in Hawaii, certain places pop up as vivid images.
Chasing trains in the cane fields with my dad -- I accompanied my dad as he drove our Studebaker along dirt roads through the sugar cane fields on Oahu, following the trains that hauled the cut cane.  One time we hitched a ride on one of the narrow gauge engines, smoke spewing, the wind in our hair, feeling on top of the world.
The hot springs on the island of Hawaii -- On a vacation with my folks and my friend, Mike Gillespie, we stopped at a hot spring.  Mike and I floated in the crystal clear warm water and my dad took a picture of us from a cliff above.  I still have the picture, but the hot spring no longer exists.  A lava flow inundated it about ten years later.
Inventing things in my backyard -- Before school I’d go out in our backyard where I had a collection of airplane, radio and other miscellaneous parts and build contraptions, my inventions.
Being at school at night -- In the fourth grade I was a candy cane in the school Christmas pageant.  We performed at night and after getting in our costumes, we walked around campus, hiding from each other in the shadows.  School during the day was mundane, but at night it was magical.
The underwater cave on Mokulua -- Our junior year picnic took place at Lanikai beach.  One of our teachers, Mr. Paulsen, took us out to one of the Mokulua Islands by boat and led us into an underwater cave where he told Hawaiian ghost stories.  The cave can only be entered at low tide.  Sitting on the sand at the end of cave, I felt scared by the thought of the tide coming in and excited about being there. This led to a key scene in my first published novel, Retirement Homes Are Murder.
Rocky Hill -- My senior year in high school, a group of us would congregate on Saturday nights at the top of Rocky Hill on the edge of the Punahou campus to sing folk songs.  Looking out over Honolulu, being with friends and singing (I fortunately was always drowned out) gave me a sense of completeness.

Brooklyn Comes to Honolulu

As a boy growing up in Honolulu, I loved the Brooklyn Dodgers.  I cheered when they won and suffered when they lost.  Here’s what an observer would have seen on one special occasion for me:

An eleven-year-old in his Hawaiian shirt waits, the excitement and fear mixed in equal doses.  He has followed the Brooklyn Dodgers since he could remember, listening on the radio for the announcer to describe the next homer from Duke Snider, the pitch from Preacher Roe or the base stolen by Jackie Robinson.  Now these same Dodgers are arriving at his Honolulu airport as part of a 1956 tour to Japan.  As they get off the plane and receive leis, he waits in the terminal, fidgeting.  He holds a small notepad.  As the crowd approaches, he wants desperately to get autographs, but his natural shyness holds him back.  The excitement and fear battle.  Finally, he approaches a man and holds out his pad and pen.
“I ain’t no player, kid,” the man says.
The boy gulps, almost turns away, but now is committed.  He’s engulfed by the crowd of men, and ball players willingly sign his pad.
Jackie Robinson, Roy Campenella and Don Newcombe.  The boy has no recognition of their struggle.  Campenella looks like a Hawaiian to the boy, who has grown up among Hawaiians, Chinese, Japanese.  It won’t be until five years later that he first travels to the South, riding on a bus in Atlanta, curious as to why the black people gravitate to the back of the bus.
Don Drysdale.  Not a known name in 1956, but in the process of becoming.
Pee Wee Reese.  Pee Wee gets his picture taken with a group of hula girls.  The boy watches his agile movements, the sound images from the radio replaying–a dash to cut off a hard grounder, the rifle shot to first.
Bob Aspromonte.  One game and one at bat for Brooklyn in 1956.
The manager Walt Alston.
Bert Hamric.  Two games and one at bat for Brooklyn in 1955.
The boy has no clue who is famous and who is not.  They are all Brooklyn Dodgers.  Sounds and images from the radio, not real people.  The faces are a blur.  He gets as many signatures as he can from anyone he can find.  The shyness is gone.  He has a mission.
Clem Labine, Randy Jackson.  Fred Kipp, a name that is not remembered.
After it is all over and they have left, the boy looks at his notepad and sighs.  He has captured some of them, but has not got his favorite, Duke Snider.  He has no idea what Duke even looks like.
A gentle breeze fills the warm night air.  He clutches the pad to his chest.  He has seen his Dodgers.