I was born in a small farm town in Kansas of Native American and Irish American parents. It was all very ‘Ward and June’ until we moved to Saudi Arabia in 1971. I lived for two years in sweltering heat of Al Khobar and then another three on the high and dry plains of At Taif, where King Faisal had his summer residence; the same King Faisal that was assassinated on his birthday by one of his many nephews over a family feud.
When I was 12 years old my father bought me a Suzuki 125 Enduro. It was the best gift of my life prior to the birth of my son. From then on I spent as much time as I could cruising around the Saudi Arabian desert, running into the occasional band of Beduins and having adventures that would be the envy of any high-spirited boy.
In 1975 we came back to find the United States mired in recession. OPEC had tripled the gas prices and jobs were scarce. Dad managed to find one, but it was half-way around the globe working for Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran. At that time Tehran was the jewel of the Middle East. The Shah was pouring mountains of petro-dollars into modernization and military hardware. This created great wealth for some, good-paying jobs for the expatriate community, and seething resentment among those who felt left behind in his modern Persian Empire.
I attended Tehran American School up until the fall of 1978 when the revolution reared its ugly head. After the fire at the Cinema Rex in Abadan, followed by Black Friday in Tehran, my mother, sister and I boarded a plane and headed back to the States. My father didn’t depart until February, 1979, about two weeks after the return of Ayatollah Khomeini. Dad caught one of the last American evacuation flights out of Iran. I recall a telephone conversation with him just before he left; I could hear gunfire in the background. Dad laughed it off and told me that ‘things were a little crazy’. That was the understatement of a lifetime.
Back in the States I felt like the boy from another planet. I went from a senior class of 600 students to a graduating class of twenty-three. Twenty-two of my classmates had spent their whole lives together in small-town Kansas. I was number twenty-three. To say that I was a little different from my peers was another great understatement.
I left Kansas as soon as I could and crossed the Red River into Texas where I attended Texas A&M at Commerce. East Texas is a world unto itself with a culture as mystifying as any I’ve encountered before or since. After graduation I high-tailed it to Austin as quickly as my old wreck of an El Camino could take me. My short story, ‘Honky Tonk Gal’, from ‘Four Trails: A Quartet of Country Tales’ is an homage to East Texas, the land where ‘when there’s sinnin’ goin’ on, it’s everybody’s business’.
Austin, Texas is a fun town. If you’re young, you should live there for a few years. Each time I return to that lovely city on the Colorado river, I enjoy myself. If you can’t have a good time in Austin, then it’s your own damn fault. Seek help or make your way to the Broken Spoke on a Thursday night for a little honky tonk redemption.
Between clubbing my nights away in Austin, I took part in a little thing called the Technology Boom. The Tech Boom of the 90s was the geek’s gold rush. Fortunes were made, then squandered, and then made again. I worked for several tech companies during that time. I wasn’t a programmer or an engineer, but I did have one thing the computer wizards needed desperately. I could write. I wrote memos for my bosses, authored their white papers, created user manuals, produced product slicks and penned targeted mail campaigns. It was an incredibly exciting time to be doing exceedingly dull work. Some got rich from the boom, others broke off and started their own companies; me - I got Hawaii.
I came to Pearl Harbor on a two-year contract that stretched out to five years as government contracts are wont to d