The Scene

I found this short paper in a box of things Judy had saved that I had no idea still existed. She had told me she had taken a creative writing course in college. Here is an example of that writing. I used this short paper as a prompt for my ninth novel.

The Scene
by Judy

The girl looked out the window as she had done many times before. The scene that met her eyes was well known. Having only one window in her room allowed that one scene to be firmly imprinted on her brain. She knew every change of the scene through every season. Right now, it is winter. The cold, hard snow and the expressionless buildings matched the weary face that searched their never-changing shapes.

She jumped as a book crashed into the wall. Now she became conscious of what she had mentally tried to block out. Her parents’ angry voices came drifting into her room. The sounds grew louder and filled her tiny room until she thought she would scream.

Fear raced through her body, leaving her nervous and trembling. Would this be the time? Would this end as one of her terrible nightmares, in which she walks into the room to find her mother cut to bloody pieces? Her head started to swim. Her room danced in front of her eyes. Fear overcame her again. She sat at the edge of her bed, trying to control her raging head. On and on went the screams of hatred in the other room. Suddenly, thousands of pictures raced, stumbling through the young girl’s brain. Picture after picture, flashes of hate, of fear, of the ever-haunting scene out her window.

When I tried to rent this apartment, people tried to talk me out of it. They said you can still see the blood splattered on the walls where an insane man killed his wife. He’s locked up now, of course. A crazy man can’t be allowed to roam the streets. They also said the tiny room with one window is haunted, but I didn’t believe them. It is spring, and the scene is so striking.

Thanksgiving

I woke up at 6 am this morning, by my current standards, sleeping in. My first thought was, “I’m gonna be late.” Late to what?

It is, after all, Thanksgiving morning. Every place I might think to go and write for a few hours is closed today. I am a creature of habit. Even to this relatively new habit that drives me now.

I can write here at home, and I will try to later. But it isn’t the same as getting out.

Even now my personal work ethic won’t let me rest. Hmm. I have noticed that this same work ethic doesn’t guarantee I clean the house as often as I should. I am “good” in my aloneness. But I still want to be included in something. Even if it is just being a part-time writer and greeter for the morning regulars at a cafe downtown.

My Christmas mood- now and then

December 20, 2020

The soundtrack of my Christmas memories as a child was largely provided by one Christmas record. This record was by a group you might have heard of, 101 Strings, and was called “Christmas Moods.”  At that time, this record became part of my family Christmas memories. It was given as a promotional “gift” with a gas station fill-up. (Now I am happy to get gas a few cents a gallon cheaper once in a while.)

The other trappings of my childhood Christmas memories are long gone. They either wore out while in active use. Or they were lost when my parents parted ways, just after I graduated from college. Even this original recording was lost with the rest of the family records. But the memories are still there; how hearing it played heralded the start of each Christmas season. My sister made sure of it. The second the last of the Thanksgiving feast was put away, Christmas began. It started when she played this record for the first time of the season.

Over the years, my siblings managed to replace it. My sister found a copy of the record at a garage sale. My brother found a re-release compact disc version. The producers had added a few other songs to fill out the CD’s length. I took that CD version and made copies for us that included only the memories of the original recording. It sounds just like the original release. It does not have the skip that developed from our LP. The LP was played numerous times. The record player we used was a bit sketchy in terms of quality.

I never had kids myself. However, I am sure this recording would have been part of their memories as well. I had no children. Still, hearing this recording triggers memories of being a kid at Christmas for me. I might explore other childhood memories related to different subjects in these writings. However, my memories of Christmas are pretty good. And they can be summoned by playing this record that provided the backdrop of our holiday family gatherings.

I had the idea of writing a piece for this blog about my Christmas memories during the night. I was awake and couldn’t sleep. The piece I wrote in my head then was perfect, as things usually are in memories. When I later tried to write it down, I just could not get it right. It was all too much to keep straight. Listening to this music now, I realize that the most important part of my Christmas memories came from it. The music is still there. The memories are still there.

To the friends I know are out there, and those readers I do not know;

Have a Merry Christmas!

And may you all find the link to those memories you cherish the most, at any time of the year.

Camp Fire- Paradise Ca, The Second Anniversary

November 01, 2020

November 8 will mark two years since the Camp Fire occurred. It burned most of the town of Paradise off the map.

Judy and I were there that morning. We shouldn’t have been. We didn’t know what was happening. I relied on my phone’s warnings to alert me that we were driving into danger. Residents in Paradise had been told that the fire was far away and moving away from them. The warnings I waited for were never sent. The fire was moving way too fast. Even if we had checked before leaving home, we would likely have been told it was fine up there.

We attempted to go to Paradise that morning because Judy had an appointment. Her appointment was at the Feather River Cancer Center.

When we went out to my car, I could tell that something about the sun did not look right. Before I realized the strange light was caused by smoke, I told Judy I hoped we could even make it to her appointment. We had tried weeks earlier to get a quicker appointment based on the speed at which her lymph nodes were growing. We had been turned down. That made it more important to get up there, or at least to try.

Once we were on the freeway starting the trip, we had a better view of the smoke. Of course, I could not tell its relation to where we were going. I know, we should have pulled over and called ahead. From what we later found out, they were either already gone. Alternatively, they might not have had any information about the fire’s location. The residents had been told early on that Paradise was in no danger. Nothing looked out of the ordinary except for the smoke. As we got closer to Paradise, everyone seemed to be doing their usual activities. We always observe these activities when we head up there.  The smoke was ominous appearing; I could hear ash falling onto my car. But people were out in their yards seemingly unaware of anything out of the ordinary. 

On Pearson near Pentz Road, it even got sunny for a stretch on the way up. I remember telling Judy that maybe the fire wouldn’t be a problem after all. We turned left from Pearson to Pentz, and it was like entering a nightmare. We had not seen any first responders the entire trip up. That is because they were already up along Pentz.

We turned in at the Cancer Center; a guy was there with his Smartphone. He motioned for us to stop. “Whatever you are here for, it is canceled. They are evacuating the hospital. Follow the road down and to the left, and back up to Pentz.” I looked in the direction he pointed. The fire was just then coming up over the edge of the canyon. It seemed to me it would have been easier and quicker to turn around right where we were. And safer.  I decided he must have a good reason to keep that entry clear. So, I drove down to the edge of the canyon. I had never stopped there to take in the view before this, and I did not stop now. I knew exactly what I would see if I got out to look. The fire was that close.

Our trip back down Pentz was more harrowing than it had just been a couple of minutes earlier. There were the beginnings of burning embers blowing across the road as we made our way to Pearson. I had a choice: turn right onto Pearson or try to get back down along Pentz. Pentz followed along the edge of the canyon for a while. I didn’t know the fire’s exact location. Therefore, I decided to turn right back down Pearson. I knew that traffic would probably be gridlocked this way. However, I also knew that no matter how slow we might be going, it would take us away from the fire. A quarter-mile or so down Pearson, where it had been sunny just a few minutes earlier, it was as dark as midnight. And the traffic was stopped. A sign that had not been noticeable there a bit earlier mocked us: “Evacuation Route.” The arrow pointed downhill. That much was a plus.

This section of Pearson has a couple of ridges it crosses. The traffic had stopped at the bottom of a switchback on the downhill portion of the first ridge. The hilly terrain here may have saved us. But from what I heard later, the fire was much closer now than I realized. It was just being blocked from view by the ridge. It was a two-lane road here, and the uphill lane was periodically taken over by a first responder headed in the direction of the fire. Checking the rear view mirrors, the smoke had a reddish glow.

Then, suddenly, a caravan of emergency vehicles would head downhill. I later realized that among these vehicles, was the remaining group of workers evacuating from the hospital, having been rescued after a Cal Fire Bulldozer operator had taken matters into his own hands and pushed broken down cars off of Pearson Road.  As I said, it was happening much closer to us than I had known at the time.

Overall, I remained calm. It would not help at that point to lose control. And since Judy had pretty bad anxiety around that time, I knew I had to make things seem OK, even if on the inside everything was telling me it was otherwise.

At one point when traffic had barely budged on a flatter section of Pearson for what seemed like an eternity, suddenly I saw this young guy was skateboarding along the side of the road just like all of this was an everyday experience for him. I turned to Judy to point him out to her, saying, “Now, there is something you don’t see every day.” If we hadn’t been in this situation, I might have started laughing. Nothing we had seen so far fit the category of being an everyday sight in any way. Judy was beyond noticing him. Wherever she had escaped to, I let her stay there. I had to stay alert throughout it all. Everything seemed out of sync with reality.

There wasn’t much of anything we saw that would fit into a normal “everyday” experience. Just down from the skateboarding guy, we saw a group of four men standing out along the road drinking coffee. Just another leisurely morning drinking coffee with the guys. They didn’t seem to have a care in the world. It could be that they did not yet know why we were all out there. Or they were waiting for the traffic to clear so they could join it. Someone ahead of us must have asked them if they knew a shortcut to get back to Skyway ahead of the traffic. The men pointed out the directions and talked to the people in the car. The car turned off at the next intersection. Judy and I knew, though, that there would be no shortcuts out of Paradise now. We stuck to the designated evacuation route. Well, I knew anyway. Judy wasn’t talking at this point.


It was nerve-wracking barely inching along in traffic when I knew the fire was advancing on us and it would not care if the traffic wasn’t moving. We were lucky. We managed to stay ahead of the main fire. I kept watching the rear view mirrors, both for fire and for people passing in the uphill lane. There were just enough first responders still coming uphill that made me worry- what if that guy forces his way back into this lane and causes an accident in front of us. Or, what if the fire “spots” to a place ahead of us and cuts off our escape route?


By the time we got back to the Skyway, I could see that the fire had “spotted” into the Butte Creek Canyon side of Paradise. We knew people who lived there, just as we knew many people in Paradise. The guys directing traffic at the intersection were noticeably frantic. I could see on their faces that they were completely aware of the location of the fire and that we needed to get moving. Very glad to oblige if you can get these guys in front of us to cooperate.


Just as we were getting to the intersection, they must have received the OK to open all four lanes for downhill use. Judy requested to stay on the usual downhill side. That was fine with me. I know that if she had to face one more out of the ordinary thing on this trip, she could go over to a full-blown panic attack. As it was, I wondered how she was managing.

We had a brief period of faster traffic before the Chico congestion backed up on us, but I was pretty sure by then that the fire was not going to catch up with us. Judy later told me we had stopped 12 times on the Skyway due to heavy traffic. Thinking back, I know I was more concerned about the stops back in Paradise. I think she must have blocked the memory of that part of the trip.

I could tell by looking at the smoke in the rear view mirror that the fire was bad behind us, but I never saw the flames then. . . Overall, we did OK on the trip down. We never should have been up there, but I am happy that we got out without any long-term impacts.

The next day, when we woke at seven, it was still dark. The sun should have risen around 6:45. Judy didn’t want to go out, but I knew we had to. I needed to get her out of the house or she might go into a depression it would be difficult to overcome. As we drove downtown to our usual spot for coffee at around 10 am, it still looked like midnight. I drove with my headlights on. All of the streetlights were still on. We didn’t see the sun at all that day and most of the next. It was the first of many days to follow when nothing would be normal.

As sick as Judy was by then, she still opened up our home to take in a couple we knew who had lost everything in the fire. They moved on again as soon as they could. They could tell Judy wasn’t well enough to have house guests for any reason, even though they needed the place to stay.

Judy and I returned to our daily trip to our favorite café. The fire was still burning, but firefighters were making progress, especially on the main fire break between Paradise and us. The conversations we heard or took part in were about the fire.

On one such day, Judy and I sat at a table near the front entrance. My view allowed me to be the first to see a group of five Cal Fire personnel walking towards the entrance. I stood up and opened the door for them. As they filed past me, I started clapping. People already at tables turned and saw them. Soon, everyone in the room had stood and started clapping and cheering. I was close to tears. There are still issues I have to work through.

The ranking firefighter came towards us after getting his coffee and told me and Judy that it was their honor to serve our community and thanked us for being there.  “There is nothing that special about us,” he told us. “We are human, and it gets to us too. Last night, when I was taking a shower, I broke down.”

“We were up there the morning it started, I said. “And even though we didn’t lose property, I have lots of issues about just being caught in the evacuation. I was close to breaking down ever since I saw you come in.” 

Healing is a long-term thing for first responders and victims of trauma. 

Around that time, it had become apparent that Judy’s doctor would not be seeing patients here in town for a long time. I had suggested she should switch to a doctor in Chico. She said no. And her Paradise doctor eventually relocated to Chico. But things like this don’t happen overnight. There was quite a delay in her treatment. And maybe this delay had no overall impact on her. But it couldn’t have helped matters.

I still haven’t been back to Paradise. I have no real need to be up there at this point.

It is a funny thing about being in that evacuation. I had seen many television news videos of people trying to outrun a wildfire. And I usually yelled at the TV, “What the hell were you even doing up there!?!” Now, I knew. It was just bad luck. You don’t have to seek opportunities to be in the way of things that can kill you. Life is enough to provide them; it doesn’t need your help. 

Good writing can make you cry- now

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

It can make me cry, anyway.

Of the relatively small list of people I have as good friends, five that I know of, write. One of those has published five novels. Another one is close to publishing her first book. Another could and should write a book about her life, but she doesn’t think anyone other than friends would buy it. No doubt, she is wrong about that. Another friend wrote a blog for a while, a very good blog, too. Then there are a couple who just write in journals. It all counts. Any of those writing outlets qualify. All of these people I know who write, however they do it, and for how many or few people are aware of them, are writers.

I always had an interest in writing, but I was afraid to even try. Like my one friend who thinks no one would be interested in reading about her life outside her group of friends, I feared that even if I was successful in writing anything, what would be the point if no one read it? I have recently decided that writing is the most important part of this process. So what if no one reads it?

In 2013, I met an amazing friend, the one mentioned above, who is making the finishing touches of her first book. When she told me she was a writer, I assumed she must have already written something I could find and buy to read for myself. No, it was not ready yet. Her work was, for the most part, still in handwritten journals. She had made a few entries on a blog at that time, so we traded blog addresses.

For those of you who wonder what made me think I could be a writer, instead of just another blogger, it is her fault that you are reading this now. Ah, it is still on a blog, that is true. But, as I said, it doesn’t matter how, what, or why you write. It is all about the process. That is what counts.

This friend told me, after reading a few of my blog posts, that I was not only a writer but a good one. I still have my doubts about how good a writer I am. But I know I am a better writer now than I was when we met. What changed was that before I met her, I had doubts about my abilities. When a good writer believes in your writing, it can do wonders for your confidence.

I started this by saying that good writing can make you cry. And if you guessed that it was something this friend had written that caused this reaction in me, you would be correct. I had known she was good. I could tell after reading the first short blog entries.

I should have been ready for the blog entry that made me cry. It sneaked up on me. I guess I thought I had gotten used to her style to the point that this reaction wasn’t possible. Why was this post so good? She simply described a series of short scenes that make up a typical day for her now. I found myself seeing every detail in what she had written. She had succeeded in pulling me three thousand miles cross-country to view the scenes as she had experienced them. Of course, it could help that I haven’t seen her since 2014. Maybe just a little.

Early on in our friendship, I described myself as a writer in a new blog post I shared with her. When she read that post, this was the most important part for her. She liked that post, but she was happiest that I had referred to myself as a writer.

Before she moved across the country, I had shared an idea for a story with her. We talked about the idea a few times. She helped me focus on the early stages of the plot, telling me that my first plot ideas seemed a bit too unbelievable and that it was important to build my readers’ trust and to show where the story was taking them. We talked about the overall motivations of the main characters.

By the time she knew she would be moving out of state, I had developed a full story that I shared with her. She was surprised that I had thought it through to the end as quickly as I had. She liked the ending. She told me I should write it. Easy for her to say. When we said goodbye, she told me to keep writing. All I had to do was figure out the start and how to get to the end. That process would take me another six years, always focused on getting to the last scene.

Quite a bit happened in those six years that proved to be a major distraction to my writing. But the things that distracted me were also possible fodder for the story I eventually knew I would have to write about. And if I could work my life trauma into the plot, I would only have to write about the trauma one time. Why not use them for the book?

And now, six years later, the book is more or less finished. I say more or less because I know somewhere along the line, I will make a few changes I have already been thinking about. I have given the book to three “first readers”, friends who had said they would be interested in reading it when I had finished. That was two months ago at this point. I guess they have lives that are in the way.

And I am fine with that.

It isn’t like I am thinking about publishing it at this point. The writer I know who has published five books asked me, “What are you working on now?” I told her, “Nothing”. And, I am fine with pausing at this point. Will I write more? It depends on ideas. What about this one that is all but finished? Will I publish it? I am not sure of that. The important thing for me is that I had the idea. I started it, and even though some extreme life trauma interrupted my progress, I stuck to it, even if progress for a time was made simply by thinking about what might happen next. Is it anything anyone else would be interested in reading? Hmm. If I take into account how long it has taken for my three volunteer readers to read it, it is probably only of interest to me and maybe my friend, the writer, the one who made me cry.

The writer who made me cry so unexpectedly. By making me see and feel what she had seen and felt, by my reading a blog post from three thousand miles away.

Update- As of January 2026, I am now working on my tenth novel, and no, I still haven’t published anything, for now.

My Gridcoin experiment is done

Tuesday, August 4, 2020

Frankly, the intermediary website GRCPool.com and Gridcoin.us left a lot to be desired. The site is not monitored as well as it could be. Projects that are listed as acceptable for research may not be. Updated information is not consistent from one listing to the next. I found one project I had been interested in listed under both accepted and discontinued projects.

The current version of the wallet on Gridcoin.us is not the same one they provide in the YouTube video. I found it buggy and near impossible to run on my Windows 10 computer, but it installed on my Windows 8 computer without issue. It took forever to load and verify the database. The YouTube version shown included a way to download the database manually, which was way quicker. That was different from the version out there to use, and the current version took forever. Once it loaded and synced, I tried the next step, but it crashed.

One other thing, I had taken some time to find another Gridcoin-compatible wallet, Coinome. That had been successfully installed on my Windows 10 computer, and I planned to use it. When I finally tried to open it, you guessed it. It would not open either.

Then I thought to myself, this is sure a lot of trouble for 2.6 Gridcoins, which are currently valued at a bit more than one cent. So, I gave it one more attempt to load. It failed. And now I have deleted it all and gone back to just letting the research run as it wants.

BOINC and Gridcoin futures

Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Well, you get to see the update anyway.

First, disease research has found a possible new treatment for COVID-19, so that part of it, at least, is a success so far.

Mining for cryptocurrency, though, could be doing better.  

In my first two weeks as a Gridcoin miner, I generated 1.5 Gridcoins. Yes, that and $2.50 will buy you a cup of coffee.

What is the value of Gridcoin, you might ask? That is a good question. As far as I can tell, it is worth a bit more than nothing, but still pretty close to nothing. And in fact, it is probably closer to nothing than something, if you get my drift.

I hear the Gridcoin futures are looking pretty good for three years out. And seven years out? Don’t even ask, it would be ridiculous to speculate that far in the future. But I will tell you anyway.

The current value of just one Gridcoin is a bit more than half of a US penny. So, that makes my 1.5 Gridcoin- well, just about worthless. In just three years, though, the value of a single Gridcoin will be . . . (insert your favorite drum roll sound effect) One whole penny. Still pretty much worthless, you say? Oh, that was me talking. Yep, it is still pretty worthless even three years out.

Here is where it might get interesting if I am still here to see it. In only seven years, that same Gridcoin could be worth $1.00. Now we are talking. Or, I am. In fact, for some reason, there is a jump from 3 cents to $1.00 from year six to year seven.

And if I generated 1.5 Gridcoins in my first two weeks…  I don’t want to stop doing the math. I might get too giddy. Kidding.

There is a small catch to the 1.5 Gridcoins I generate.

This is a three-stage process. Stage one- I run a BOINC research project to generate “credit”. Stage two: the credit is loaded to the mining client and rewards it with BOINC credit in Gridcoin.  Stage three- That amount of Gridcoin has to be moved to a cryptocurrency wallet, a stand-alone program that holds your Gridcoin for later.

I am now in stage three of that process, and  I have a problem. Of course, I do.

Now that I have committed to that Gridcoin wallet, the program no longer runs. Hah- Hah!!! That is how they get you. No, it is probably only my issue. And right now, it is a minor thing. At current values, I am only out by a few cents. But I do need to figure this issue out or get a new wallet in the next few years.

BOINC and Gridcoin mining update

Saturday, July 18, 2020

First, recently I heard about the following related to one of my BOINC research projects rosetta@home:

“We have some BIG NEWS: Researchers

@UWproteindesign has succeeded in creating antiviral proteins that neutralize the new coronavirus in the lab. (These experimental drugs are being optimized for animal trials now.)”

The heck with Gridcoin as long as the research counts and gets positive results.

And now, an update after my first week of Gridcoin mining…

Gridcoin value and my share so far-

I have to laugh. I thought that doing this Gridcoin mining thing would be worth more than just the points that I usually get. Ha! As of July 18, the price of ONE Gridcoin is $0.004677460.

This means the guy who leads in Gridcoin production has earned around- wait. I had to make a spreadsheet. This is too complicated, and I want to get it right for you. And not complicated because it is a large amount, but it is so small that it will show more easily with Excel formatting. Drum roll, please. The leader in Gridcoin production today, at just under 178,000 Gridcoins produced, has earned $827.

And in the first week of my participation, considering I have produced 0.26 Gridcoin (pausing to have Excel do the math and formatting), I have earned $0.001220264. Yep. This is worthwhile. Not. Better than points? Maybe. But I feel the best knowing that I may have contributed to a COVID-19 treatment. 

BOINC and Gridcoin

Sunday, July 12, 2020

I have been participating in data-crunching projects for BOINC for the better part of 20 years. This started as crunching data for SETI@home and was followed by many other projects. Currently, I have been working on COVID-19 treatments. Being awarded points has always been somewhat interesting, at least as far as comparing myself to other data crunchers. And it is satisfying, to some extent, to help out by doing science that might not be done otherwise, cheaply, anyway. But there is a new way to go that merges researching with something a bit more interesting than earning points.


I tried my hand (very ineptly) at investing in Bitcoin a while back. My initial small investment doubled within a few days. I was stoked. I was ready to invest more. And then the bottom fell out of the market, and I got out while I was still above water (barely). I concluded that investing was not the way to go, but maybe if you could cheaply (like any of it is cheap) get a bitcoin mining computer, at least the coin you generated would be yours. But, having looked into it a bit, it is expensive to get into, and the price of bitcoin is still – whatever it is. You are buying something that doesn’t exist. What value could it have?


Taking a bit of the uncertainty out of the equation, there is a new (to me anyway) BOINC project manager site that allows you to merge your computer research CPU time with “mining” Gridcoin. How does it work? Who knows. I only just found it and set it up (hopefully).


Certain BOINC projects have been approved for use with this mining tool. You do the research you are doing anyway, and as your computer hums away, you build up credit, which hopefully means “cash” at some point.


I will let you know.


I am skeptical. But it doesn’t cost anything to find out. And, I haven’t quit my day job.

https://grcpool.com

https://boinc.berkeley.edu

My first year at Cal, Berkeley

Tuesday, June 16, 2020

In my early days at UC Berkeley in 1972, between dodging demonstrations over various things I saw as interruptions to my education, I began to see certain characters who formed the backdrop of my college experience; the extras in my college story.

The first impression of Berkeley was provided by the numerous people lining the sidewalks along Telegraph Avenue from early in the morning on. There were street vendors where you could buy tie-dyed shirts, jewelry, and many other ways to part ways with your money. Lucky for me, not so much for them, I had no money to spare for them or any of the panhandlers camped out at their territories along the street leading to the Sproul Plaza.

I recently found out that a woman I currently know was in Berkeley at the same time I was. She had asked me about the Cal cap I usually wear. She asked if I had gone to college at Cal. I told her, yes, and the years I was there. She then told me that she had been there too, but not as a student. She had been a teen runaway and very likely had been one of the panhandlers I navigated my way past every morning and afternoon as I headed to classes and back. Her life sounded very hard. She told me that many of the people she had known then had not made it. She had made it herself with the help of many people she met along the street, among them, the Berkeley Bubble Lady.

The Berkeley Bubble Lady was Julia Vinograd. She had written a book of poetry that I had seen displayed in the local bookstores. She was usually dressed in outfits with black capes and a quirky hat, and she constantly filled the air along Telegraph Avenue and on campus at Sproul Plaza with bubbles from her ever-present bottle of bubble stuff.  

Then there was Holy Hubert Lindsey, who also had a book out at the time. He was a campus preacher at Cal and other campuses. He was somewhat typical in his message but extremely creative in his delivery. He seemed to thrive on being heckled by his large audience. He would end his answer to a typical heckler with, “Bless your dirty heart.” And that line is the title of his book. Somewhere, I have an autographed copy.

There was also a guy I called the Orange Man because he gave away oranges. He carried them in a clear plastic bag, slung over his shoulder. Pausing to get one out, he would hold it in his hand with the bag again over his shoulder and use his other hand, holding the orange as a sort of orange-radar detector, pointing out people in the passing crowd of students, and if he detected someone who needed an orange, he would walk to them and offer them one. It seemed to be his calling. He never chose me.

And there was the Polka-Dot Guy. He wore white pants and a shirt, with, as you might guess, tiny polka-dots stuck on every square inch, so that you could hardly tell it started as a white outfit. He would put down a square cloth, blocking foot traffic, generally near Sather Gate, and sit in the middle of it. That was it. That was his contribution to society. It at least made an impression on me, however valuable it was or wasn’t.

Holy Hubert wasn’t the only person looking to save souls.

There were followers of Reverend Moon, also known as Moonies, in Berkeley at the time. I had heard about this beforehand. I knew they were possibly a “cult” when a representative first spoke to me on Sproul Plaza. The person who contacted me, of course, was a pretty woman about my age, with a foreign-sounding accent. Of course, I was targeted. She wanted me to join them. And, I thought I could convince her to leave them.

Over a couple of days, she repeatedly asked me to come to a free dinner. I talked to her about why I did not want a free dinner, but thank you anyway. I tried to tell her that I was quite fine spiritually. I had an answer that worked for me. And I asked if she wanted to hear it? She listened politely and then upped the game with her reason to be a “Moonie”, although she did not refer to herself in that way.

I finally agreed to a free dinner. I had heard that at the free dinner, you would be pressured to go on a weekend retreat. I had also heard that some who agreed to go on this weekend retreat were never heard from again. I knew I should be safe if I just went to dinner and had no further communication with them, or her.

Of course, my sponsor was at the free dinner. We sat together as we ate, as she continued to pressure me to join them. She told me she had given all of her possessions, including money, to the church, and they now provided everything she needed. I returned my pressure, asking her again why she had to give up everything for this “church”. This was not something that should be required for any spiritual belief. I did not convince her. She was not making a dent in my own beliefs either.

At the end of the dinner, I got up to leave. She told me to wait just a minute. I guess there was more indoctrination planned before they would let me leave. Yep, the free dinner came with a catch. I had seen her watching a particular man in the group, and she went to speak to him, and then returned to me. I insisted that it was time for me to go. People were expecting me back home. She excused herself again to speak to this same man. He then came over to talk to me directly. I guess he was the Unification Church “closer”. He went through much of the same propaganda I had already heard from her. I insisted that I did not need to be saved since my own beliefs were strong and I did not feel a need to change them. He mentioned the retreat that same weekend. I just walked away. They did not stop me.

One thing about all of this is that I really did have someone waiting for me. By that point, I had met Jeanne, my future ex-wife. She had tried to talk me out of going to this free dinner. But I was on a dorm plan that did not include weekend meals, unlike hers. I am trying to be funny here. But I know that if I had not contacted Jeanne by a set time, she would have notified the campus police of my whereabouts.

While writing this, I found some information about the Moon’s “Unification Church” from 1972 on the internet. If I had this information then, I would have just gone hungry that night. It describes the houses the church had been opening across the United States, including the Berkeley house, as “reeducation centers”. It describes a church member recounting Moon’s “hurricane-like fury at Satan and the division of the American family”. His fury at the division of the American family interests me. Part of what they were doing was just that. They were targeting college students who were away from home for the first time, and turning them against their families in these same reeducation centers I had visited.

I knew there was no such thing as a free lunch. Now I learned the same thing applies to dinners.