Just to make sure California remained as I remembered her years ago, I flew to the Golden State before I retreated from Wright-Patterson.  It was even better than I recalled. With the amazing redwoods, beautiful beaches, deserts, mountains, and mild climate. There was an abundance of cultural and outdoor activities, and, uh, California girls. The Golden State really had it all.* 

Although savvy people usually retire to less expensive regions, not me. I moved from one of the most affordable cities — Dayton, which is close to several major metro areas — to one of the most expensive states: California.

Nothing Compares 2 U–Sinead O’Connor, Blaze Of Glory–Jon Bon Jovi, Indiana.  Justify My Love–Madonna, Unbelievable–EMF, through Illinois and Missouri. I Touched Myself, Cradle Of Love, Nebraska.

Not much to see until Wyoming, from there on, the scenery is pretty spectacular.

The First Time, More Than Words Can Say, through Cheyenne,  Love Takes Time, I’ve Been Thinking About You, Utah.

~~

I stopped to see my friend Tom Kirkham in Provo, where I drove his million-dollar-plus 1965 Cobra 427 S/C (pic in Chapter 41).

~~

Ice Baby Ice rang out in Nevada, Power Of Love as I entered Calif. I inserted a cassette with my favorite recorded 45s as I carefully snaked over Donner Pass, covered in late-spring snow.  I had several energy bars in my sizable glove box, just in case.

I wasn’t aware of a significant but illegal industry in Humboldt County before I bought here. The realtor didn’t mention that about 30,000 residents of the county, more than a fifth, were engaged in growing pot.

Hundreds of pot plants to be chopped down and later burned by the multi-agency law enforcement Campaign Against Marijuana Planting (CAMP, circa 1991).  Task force established in 1983 and remained active until 2016, when pot was legalized in Calif. (Emily Brady photo)

For those reasons and the long distance, I taught just one semester.  What I really wanted was to drive a race car.

That’s why I gave my students an extra-long Thanksgiving weekend while I attended a Porsche® Club driving school at Laguna Seca. Running on slicks, I was faster than many of the Porsches. Slicks allow for much better handling and, thus, a quicker way around the track. It was my first event at the famed raceway near Monterey, Calif., and about an eight-hour drive, one way, from Shelter Cove.

Now for the downside of slicks: when you’re about to lose traction, there is a millisecond to make a correction. If you don’t make a quick and precise move — sometimes an immediate counter steer works — you’re likely out of control, spinning,  and soon off the track or into another driver.

It was Thanksgiving Day and windy. Sand had blown onto the track. I was driving at 9/10ths and clipped the apex in turn 4, slid in the sand, spun, and went backward into the Armco® at about 40 mph, crushing the trunk like it was aluminum. My sweet BMW was drivable, but it was the end of my track day at Laguna Seca.

Shortly after I was removed from the track — the Porsche guys shedding no tears — a beautiful white, almost new 911 Carrera crashed in the same spot, but he took the wall head-on. Even though he had saved his engine, he threw his helmet hard onto the ground.  A corner worker took it, removed the Snell® rating, and disqualified it for future track events. My racing begins in the next Chapter, 41.

King Range (above & below) with a rare mountain snowfall, (King Peak, 4,091 feet, slightly right of center in the distance), looking North from Shelter Cove. (Swan photos)

 ~~

I met him at the candy store (I met her at the Body Shop). Is she really going out with him? You get the picture, now we see.  (Partially from Leader of the Pack by the Shangri-las, 1964).

She was working at her dad’s collision shop, where I took my BMW for repair. She was overweight and had a three-and-a-half-month-old infant without a father in the picture. And was seventeen years my junior.

A joyous day when I met Robert. (Swan archives)

When I met her son a short time later, I wanted Robert to have a Dad, the only Dad he would ever know. He was a great child, loving and considerate, and is a fantastic Son — now a mature and altruistic adult.  A year after meeting Cheri, we were married in South Lake Tahoe, Calif.  Talk about a twofer. What could possibly go wrong?

On the evening of April 25, 1992, as we were preparing for bed, we heard something that sounded like a runaway freight train. Immediately, the earth began shaking our house with a crunching noise, rattling dishes, moving chairs, swinging chandeliers, and everything around us. It was a 6.5 magnitude earthquake, quickly followed by an aftershock of 6.6. OK, we got it, a medium-high quake. Cheri, a native Californian, said not to worry.

But half an hour later, just after midnight, came another freight train sound louder than before. It was followed by nature’s illimitable ferocity, shaking the earth incessantly for nine long seconds. Plenty of time to think of your mortality and your house falling down around you.   Finally, as the shaking began to subside, a scary cracking sound like huge rocks breaking came.  The 7.2  took down our stovepipe, moved tables, broke glasses and picture frames, and moved Robert’s crib by two feet.

We had experienced a trifecta of quakes that would become known as the Cape Mendocino earthquake. We had sustained a 7.2 with minimal damage and no injuries. Thirty nautical miles north of us was a different story; 376 people were injured, and damages were upwards of 75 million dollars.  Uh oh, this is Calif, and I worried that quakes would be frequent and severe.

Then came another type of quake.

Why am I reliving this unfortunate event in my book?  My wife was not a diamond in the rough; she was just rough, a broken, scared, scarred felon. I took a huge risk taking her back, and now I’m enjoying the fruits of believing in her — giving her a second chance.

Someone else believed in my wife’s job shortly after her release.  She has been gainfully employed as a graphic artist and has become a lead artist for a book publisher in just a few years, a profession she has always wanted.

Cheri and Don in 2012 on a Princess cruise. (Swan collection)

*The Golden State also has a few not-so-pleasant features: Earthquakes, wildfires, Droughts, some of the Highest Taxes, and Cost of living in the United States. 

Picture worth how many words? 

I didn’t have a radio in my racecar to play music, but “Ain’t 2 Proud 2 Beg”–TLC, “I Will Always Love You”-Whitney Houston, and “Achy Breaky Heart”-Billy Ray Cyrus were getting plenty of airplay in Northern Calif. Achy Breaky Heart–Billy Ray Cyrus, not one of my favorites.

Driving a race car to its absolute limits, bumping and grinding at speed with dozens of rivals. Then, actually finishing a race without a penalty, crashing or being disqualified is no small feat. Winning by out-muscling other aggressors for an hour with skill, luck,, and pit strategy is remarkable. When it all comes together, few things bring more satisfaction. It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on. 

My most exciting race was run in the rain. Every time I crossed the Start/Finish line, my car did a 360. This was at Sonoma, where just a few feet away, the drag strip ran over the road course.  Other racers had it even worse.  Many like racing on a wet track or in the rain, and despite winning this race, I do not.

Most of my races were won with true grit. I didn’t have a risk meter on my dashboard, and never let up or conceded an inch.  Qualifying was not my strong suit; I needed an opponent nearby in a real race to motivate me.

We take the matter of crashing and burning in stride. You can’t buy aversion to risk or train for it. Racing is the most dangerous of all sports, incidentally. People who do it love it. I love it. Typically, racers have the Thrill-Seeking gene, are hard-wired for adventure, and have the (overused) Need for Speed. I always drive best when I’m having fun, and I had fun. And, yes, there are racing groupies.

With twenty-one or more fitly prepped race cars running flat-out on a road course of fewer than three miles. The race cars are driven by tightly wound adversaries putting a fender on you in the straights and around corners — bound to occupy the same real estate — something has to give. That’s what National Autosport Association (NASA)  pro-am racing is all about.  And with competitors in (the more prominent series of road racing) from many countries, road racing is truly an international sport. And we race in the rain.

Once that green flag drops, I turn into an entirely different person; friends become foes, and cars in front of me are obstacles I must overcome. I’m super aggressive; I don’t know where that comes from. I just know it’s there. I’ve passed cars that were blocking me by going off the track to get around them.  I’ll let my Hard Charger award speak for itself. 

There is something about road racing that brings out my predator instinct and my determination to win. I was lousy at sports in high school, but I matured to become competitive once the U.S. Army taught me discipline, toughness, and how to survive in combat.

The goal in racing, of course, is to get out front and stay there. So when trying to pass a car, or get the lead, pretend you’re going after one of those cowardly mass murderers. Then, get past them for national security reasons. (Once, when I was racing, I actually pretended to be chasing the Unabomber, who had yet to be caught). I don’t remember if I won that race, though.

In most sporting matches, there is a 50/50 chance of winning (think: football, baseball, basketball), but there are no such odds in racing. It’s more like one chance in 10 or 30, depending on the number of contenders in your class. Finishing second or third matters for points, but nothing’s like first. 

In another sport, say football, one could play with a spurt of adrenaline or aggression and succeed. In racing, those traits are essential, but don’t let machismo outweigh common sense.  Driving while pissed usually doesn’t end well, and racing above 10/10s is very risky.

And controlling emotions is critical, like when you get taken out on the first lap by another driver or when a tire goes down while leading.  You may be doing a TV interview when you’re pissed, but you must make your sponsors proud and keep your composure, even though it’s hard. 

I was in the best physical condition for racing since my intramural basketball days at the University of Denver in the late-70s. I did weight training with a chest press machine, aggressive hiking, and yoga-type breathing exercises.

The evening before an event, I would fall asleep, visualizing each corner of the track where I’d be racing. A racing strategy? Not really. Because once the Green Flag drops, the BS stops. Your plan will probably be worthless before the first lap is run. Mike Tyson’s “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth” is also a good metaphor for racing.  Trust your race car and your instincts, control your emotions, don’t over-analyze, drive at 10/10s & Have Fun.

I got national press, international even as European Car magazine (below) is distributed in several countries.

Kunzman was also a California gubernatorial candidate in 1993.
                              ...
Intangible benefits of racing and winning, plus I needed help with all those trophies. She's squinting because she's tired of seeing the male racers gawking at her. Except me, of course.  (Swan archives)

I’ve had the privilege of running on the following tracks: Nelson Ledges, Ohio; Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course; Watkins Glen, New York; Road America, Wisconsin; Charlotte Motor Speedway, North Carolina (Track events only).

I’ve raced at the following Calif. tracks: Laguna Seca (recognized as one of the best in the world), Sonoma Raceway (NASCAR races here), Thunderhill Raceway Park, Willow Spring International, and the now closed Crow’s Landing.

Even with the intense competition, all drivers are going flat out (no oncoming traffic), and corner workers are present. It was relatively safe with an ambulance and a helicopter on site. (All of our race cars had roll cages, five-point harnesses, window nets, fuel bladders, automatic fire extinguishers, and other safety features.)

You’re unlikely to do well if you’re afraid of wrecking or don’t trust your car or equipment. I never had a serious crash on a racecourse, although shortly after I retired, a fellow racer that I knew was killed at Sears Point (Sonoma) in 1997 (intrusion).  

If you’re happy with any result, except 1st, you’re not a real competitor. I placed (1st, 2nd, or 3rd) in about thirty of the forty-five races I ran in two different series.

I didn’t exactly retire on top, as many in sports say you should, but I was still winning, with my proudest moment being named the first NASA Hard Charger.

I retired from racing in late 1995 after Dave Allen (my partner) barreled-rolled #67 in practice at Thunderhill’s turn 3, essentially destroying the car. Dave’s only injury was minor when our well-mounted camera came loose and flew into his right hand.

Another painful moment was when he wrote me a $20,000 check, our previously agreed-upon amount. (Car might have sold for $25,000) I didn’t exactly make out; I had about $30,000 in #67 and the latest in suspension upgrades courtesy of Bielstien®, a new sponsor, just before the wreck.

Once I received my national competition license, I never had a DNF (did not finish) because of mechanical issues, and I had a blast for three-plus years in my baby — my BMW.

Driving Tom Kirkham's authentic Shelby Cobra 427 S/C, Utah 1991. I was the only one he let drive the $2 million, give or take, monster. (Kirkham archives)

I was one of just a few drivers over forty; some were seventeen. Other racers thought that because of my age, I’d been racing for thirty-five years, not just a few. I was getting way too old for the sport. Nearing age fifty, despite my maturity, seventeen-year-olds, who probably started in go-carts at age thirteen or earlier, could and would make you look foolish.

Over my three-plus years of racing, I won money from sponsors such as SCCA, NASA, and automotive parts companies. All told, I broke even.

I was running at full bore, door handle to door handle, fender to fender, at 125 miles-per-hour or more, on a road courses, bumping and grinding — trying to win — fighting to maintain speed and control in Andretti hairpin, Rainey corner, the corkscrew, Canada corner, keyhole, carousel, Big Bend, the chicane, and other fun and technical corners. Every second, I was having fun – even more than I could have imagined.

Yes, I began missing it immediately.

When I’m in lengthy medical procedures like an MRI, where I have to lie dead still for forty-five minutes, I replay the tracks I’ve raced, corner by corner.

 My 2019 Steve McQueen Bullitt ought to satisfy my need for speed with over 500hp. (Swan archives)

Back home in the redwoods full-time, without a race car and trying to forget racing, I was looking to fill a void and replenish my bank account from the erstwhile expensive endeavor. So, I responded to an ad for a part-time reporter position at a local weekly. That sounded good; I should have no problem with that.

                                      Redwood Record, published from 1935-1995

The editor of the  Redwood Record was anxious to move on to something new but didn’t want the publisher to be left in a bind. With that in mind, she hired me for the reporter position and soon began training me to be her replacement.

One member of our staff, a good writer who had been with the Record for a while, unsurprisingly thought the job should go to him. She recommended me. I went for an out-of-town interview with the publisher who owned a couple of other newspapers.

He offered me the job for $10 an hour, about $24 in 2025 money. Four or five hundred a week sounded OK for the small community of 5,000 in Garberville-Redway, and it came with a company car. Besides, the newspaper business was in decline. 

The Record was distributed to about 8,000 people in Southern Humboldt and Northern Mendocino Counties. How hard could it be for an overqualified person like me? I accepted.

So far, I’ve led you to believe Humboldt County is best known for its pot production, but there were other events unique to our area, like Tree Sitters (to prevent them from being cut down) making significant news. Their tactic was an offshoot of  Earth First!, which had a reputation for violence. (The exclamation point is part of their name.)

I had just one full-time reporter who thought he should be the editor, not me. I had three part-time correspondents to assign specific stories. One incidentally had a Ph.D. from Berkley, yes, UC Berkley. Nothing related to journalism, but one with a doctorate should be able to write news stories, and she could and was good. I also had a stringer who did local HS sports reporting. She was always asking for an advance on the small amount of money she was paid for the stories.

It may have been a good time for a young reporter trying to make a name for herself to become an editor, but not for me. For our small coverage area, there was a surfeit of hard news; plane crashes, missing persons, (the aforementioned) Tree Sitting civil disobedience, and a Coast Guard helicopter crashing in Shelter Cove, killing all aboard. Stories about budget shortages, no money to fix roads or provide police protection in outlying areas, and so forth were plentiful. The annual Redwood Run (mostly Harleys), the popular Reggae on the River, drew people from several states and countries.

Complaints of low-flying aircraft by law enforcement searching for pot were common. However, all stories about marijuana weren’t about the peace-loving, laid-back stoned ones, but about greed, paranoia, and crimes involved in the growing of cannabis, up to and including homicide, as featured in the engaging Murder Mountain cable TV series.

With so much to report, I was writing many articles.

I submitted my resignation after less than a year of editing. I stayed on long enough for the new editor to get acclimated to the job. Ten months after I left the Redwood Record, it folded (pun intended).

With no job and no racing, I had no immediate commitments. So, when a former sponsor of my racecar, who had not fulfilled his contract, invited me on an all-expense-paid expedition to Mexico, the timing was perfect. During the ten-day getaway, I parasailed, caught tuna and sailfish from the Gulf of Mexico, and toured Mayan pyramids. 

A few years later, in an effort to support my good taste (read: spending too much), I was an enumerator for Census 2000 for three months, which qualified as the second-worst job ever. 

The Interloper

We live on Otter Lane, a three-quarter-mile, meandering, curved, scenic road, with a cul-de-sac at each end. Douglas fir, pinyon, and Bishop pine, bay leaf, tan oak, fern, irises, beach strawberry, and other wildflowers cover both sides of the sloping terrain. Our house sits on the western edge of Otter, 100 yards from the southern cul-de-sac. Two majestic redwoods grow on either side of our home, and we are the only residentss on Otter Lane, and we want to keep it that way.

People purchase mediocre lots, look at our house (built in the early 1970s) situated on a 15-degree slope, and assume they could do the same. No building would be approved today on such an incline without a substantial foundation over tons of fill dirt.

An interloper descended upon us around 2008, who bought a cheap and steep lot near our house. It appeared unbuildable because of its slope, might not perk, inadequate off-street parking, and other requirements needed to obtain a permit from Humboldt County.

But this fellow was a wanna land speculator, telling me he had made a profit of a few thousand dollars flipping a lot elsewhere in Shelter Cove recently. On the lot he had just purchased near me, he was going to score some more easy money on this one as well.

He declared that if he could not make the expected profit, he’d just build on it himself. Whoa, whoa, whoa, no! The “man” was a grocery clerk in a nearby town who had bad-mouthed the U.S.A. to me and thought veterans were stupid for having served.

Did I mention Mr. Speculator visited his lot on our Otter Lane five or six times a week, where (outside of deliveries, meter readers, etc.) one car passing every two weeks was the average? We liked it that way.

I told him about my experience with people who had attempted to build on lots like his over the years.  He seemed more obnoxious after that. Maybe angry, even.

Angry because a few months later, a large sheriff’s deputy visited me, sporting a Glock 19 with an expanded magazine.

He said someone had filed a complaint against me for shooting at him. Guess who? My recent acquaintance, the land speculator.  That’s right; he said he couldn’t sell his lot because he was afraid to visit it, fearing that I’d shoot him. (I’m not making this up, I wish I were.) Fortunately, the officer was suspicious of the report and had not made a memorable trip to the Cove just to see me.  (For the record, the accusations were false.)

The deputy left my residence, doubting any such event had happened. Nevertheless, Mr. Land Speculator contacted the deputy again, this time telling the officer I had shot at him with an automatic assault rifle, and he filed charges. He wanted the deputy to arrest me.

Typically, when someone is shot at, thinking someone is trying to kill them, with an automatic rifle, they will:

A) Soil itself, drop to the ground flat and find a way to call 9-1-1.

B) Flee to the authorities by the fastest conveyance available, and ask for protective custody.

C) Possibly move to a distant state.

You won’t mind if I cut to the chase, will you?

The next time I saw Mr. Land, the speculator, at his lot, his source was with him (did I misspell spouse? Sorry.) I told him it was illegal to file a false police report, especially one of such a serious nature, and informed him there would be consequences.

I swiftly began exacting the penalty — as the missus yelped, screeched, and screamed — on the (younger than me) bald 55-year-old medium-build miscreant:

>With lightning speed, I grabbed and clenched his throat with my left hand, clutched both carotid arteries and the trachea with my thumb and middle finger (wedge thrust) . . .  (2.5 sec.)  

>Delivered a swift and vigorous knee kick to his groin and simultaneously, with the heel of my right palm, executed a splattering blow just under his nose . . . (.4 sec.) 

>Instantaneously, with the heel of my left palm, I executed a quick and violent strike under his chin, slamming the back of his head hard onto the roof of his car. . . (.3 sec.)  

>On the pavement in a fetal position groaning . . . (.3 sec)

Total elapsed time: 3.5 seconds

A quick spin around to execute a hard and fast kick with the heel of my foot just under his sternum was unnecessary.

It was over in less than 4 seconds. He never had a chance. I rolled him back into his car. 

The screaming missus peeled away in their white Dodge® Stratus, spinning and pelting pebbles and dialing 9-1-1.

Readers: Do not try this unless you know what you’re doing; a properly administered wedge thrust can do irreparable harm, including death. 

Good thing I was 62 with diminished strength but in good condition (think: cutting firewood) and that the roof of his car absorbed most of the shock to his neck — possibly keeping it from snapping. I couldn’t drop a man like that now, at age 78. But I have a backup plan, which requires just an index finger.

Before you think I’m boasting or glorifying “violence” to solve a problem, It didn’t exactly end up going smoothly for me post-incident.  Cheri was visiting family in Palm Springs at the time of my vindictive deed, 709.3  miles away. So she was in no position to be too pissed, but she was none too happy either.

The miscreant’s missus told the deputy and the judge I beat her up too. Should not have done this in her presence, two witnesses. It seems I played right into their hands; they wanted me to do something like that, so they could (and did press charges for assault & battery and sued me for pain and suffering.)

A small consolation. This was a guy who deserved an ass-whupping,’ and it felt good for me, a social security recipient, to impose some street justice.

I got off easy — if you don’t take into account two lawyers and $10,000 in legal fees to make it go away — without any jail time. Is there a silver lining? I haven’t seen them since court, at the lot, or anywhere else. The parcel he would sell for a huge profit or live on is in foreclosure, with delinquent taxes. Update: it has been foreclosed. Ha, Ha. 

Pictures I wanted to include, but didn’t know where to put them:

Pacific Ocean Northwest of Shelter Cove, with King Range in background. (D. Swan)

 

Prolific American writer Rita Mae Brown said Happiness is Pretty Simple, “Someone to Love, Something to Do, Something to Look Forward to.” I believe she was on to something.

I had a family to love, plenty to do, maintaining the house and grounds, a book to write, and looking forward to its completion. 

Before Robert was old enough to read, I entertained him with books while in the bath and at bedtime. I fondly remember teaching him to turn over, not like walking, but impressive still. As soon as he was standing on his own, we spent lots of time outdoors, on the beach; eventually, we began exploring and hiking mountain trails.

He played T-ball at a young age, and together we practiced some baseball and basketball, especially when Robert was active in those sports in school. Like me, he was not a naturally talented athlete, but we had fun and never took sports too seriously.

Cheri and I did our best to keep video games and the computer from totally shutting down his outdoor and physical activity.

Early on, I taught him weapons safety and how to shoot with firearms.* It served him well in paintball, and Cheri took him and his friends to endless competitions. He was heavily involved in the Boy Scouts and earned lots of badges. Cheri is fond of saying she was “this close” to becoming an Eagle Scout.

It did not go unnoticed by Robert’s teachers that he had been exposed to a variety of cultural and aesthetic experiences.

As for me, I spent time improving my partially finished basement. My 4 x 8-foot wine cellar is a proud accomplishment because I’m not very talented at handiwork around the house.

After picking up perfectly shaped pine cones on our acre spread — there were so many — I sold a few to a nearby gift shop for holiday decorations.

Clearing lots of brush, tall grass, and small trees, I created a 100-foot safe zone for fire protection around our house and pruned trees. It was a gigantic undertaking that took years to complete and a full-time job to maintain.  I also gathered, cut, and split wood for the stove that heats our cottage.

Then I rested, immersing myself in my thousand-volume library.

---

~~

In 2005, I began writing about local veterans and their military experiences, which ran in several Northern California publications and on the World Wide Web. My writing included editorials on veteran issues for Veterans Day, Memorial Day, 4th of July, Armed Forces Day, and Vietnam Vets Recognition Week. I received positive feedback, but nothing as satisfying as the one below.

One of my articles that listed people from our area who were killed in Vietnam featured a  U. S. Marine who lost his life there while serving as a journalist.  Several months after the article ran locally, I received an email from his brother back east. He was surprised to find the story online and appreciative that I had recognized his loved one. I never took any money for the veteran stories I wrote; the fact that he was so grateful to me for honoring his brother, Victor Payne, was priceless.

~~

Trying to maintain my health, I was going to many medical appointments, usually at the VA Hospital in San Francisco-Ft. Miley, with doctors from the University. Calif. San Francisco (UCSF) and Stanford.

Crohn’s disease was still nagging me. You’ve undoubtedly read enough about my sickness and surgeries, so I will not dwell.

Some highlights: How are 11 days in the hospital for stricture of the colon, a potentially life-threatening emergency? (Luckily, I was in San Francisco when it struck me.)  Then there was surgery for a retracted stoma and another for a revision. I also had four surgeries that fused the center joints of my fingers on each hand (proximal interphalangeal) from a burning-bone-to-bone arthritic hell, blamed on Crohn’s disease. So safe to say, there were several surgeries in the 2002-2012 time frame; honestly, I’ve lost count.  

I recuperated from them all, slowly taking a break from cutting wood and refining my workouts to just walking. Strolling on the black sand at the shores of the Pacific with my canines, drinking California Pinot noir with Oregon cheddar, and reading from my library filled many a day.

Meanwhile, time was running out on my own book. So I would compose a paragraph here and there.

Then I did light work, organizing records, reorganizing the basement and garage, and keeping an eye out for skunks and bears. I became involved in too many interests that require money, like collecting diecast cars (not to mention a few actual cars). There were also tools, knives, weapons, watches, and several lithographs from area artists. Then, I cataloged them all.

After donating my record collection (5,000+) to Laura’s alma mater, Bowling Green State University in Ohio, I had one less thing to organize. They were excited to have my historical collection to expand their first-rate, cataloged repository. I was happy to donate, as I needed a tax deduction that year. I was surprised that the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame wasn’t interested, even when I told them some of the 45s were played on AFVN.

~~

Working on my appeal to get my correct annuity from Civil Service (now OPM) was very difficult, stressful, time-consuming, and expensive. Fortunately for you, I will not go into any detail. There were many ups and downs, mostly downs. Yet, after a two-year battle, I was successful and received back pay.

Spent: A bonus to my lawyer, money to family members, paid off a few bills, and replaced the deck around my house at $28,000. (It’s a huge 3/4 round deck.) I didn’t spend on any big-ticket items. I already had lots of nice things.  Some money was spent on travel, and a whole lot went to the IRS. Then, I made a few investments just before the crash of 2008.

UPDATE: Another abdominal surgery after stricture of the colon** to untangle the small bowel from a giant hernia (9/1/2025). Twenty-two sutures just above my pelvis. 

*I didn’t touch a firearm, didn’t want to be anywhere near one, until about 25 years after I left Vietnam, and was living in an isolated area.

**(About as much pain as can be tolerated, before shooting oneself)

Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things. Winston Churchill

Warning: Some Conservative Ideology below.

There’s a line in My Generation by The Who, “I hope I die before I get old.” For me, it’s too late; I’m already there, and I’m glad I am. Why?

I’ve lived too long to see things I never thought possible in my lifetime. Like so many of our citizens (and residents) who see the United States not as “Exceptional” but as a racist-warmongering out-of-touch country created by some old white men, most of whom owned slaves.

This is not my imagination. A 2019 Gallup survey asked young people how proud they are to be Americans; just 45% say they are “Extremely Proud,” an all-time low.   It’s the second year in a row that the number has been below 50%. Fifteen years ago, the figure was 70%.  It’s a wonder people still wish to live here.

As for me, I am “Extremely Proud” to be a citizen of the United States, although I find some trends that disturb me, like the unsettling throng who attempt and sometimes succeed as “Speech Police.” And I’m sure if they could find a way, they’d be “Thought Police,” too. It is PC unhinged.

This abhorrent bunch is probably fermenting more words of flummery into their syllabus of pugnacity as I write.

It matters not if your opinion or comment has anything to do with how you’ve been vengefully and malevolently characterized. Should you have an opinion, say, on immigration — anything short of open borders — you would, of course, be xenophobic; you might as well be called homophobic, and transphobic, too.  You can expect their entire arsenal to be deployed to excoriate you.

These mean-spirited clusters hide behind the cover of curtailing hate speech. In fact, these would-be censors, I am convinced, wish to suppress all speech they disagree with. Think that’s a little much on my part? Keep reading.

“The authoritarian Left is aggressively insistent that everyone must conform to its values, demanding submission and conformity. The dogmatic Left is obsessed with putting people in categories and changing human nature. Everyone who opposes it must be destroyed.” (Ben Shapiro) An opposing view is no longer disagreeable. It’s a cause for war, and in some scenarios, death. Think: Marxism. Think: Charlie Kirk.

Those who self-identified as progressives, in my experience, are, in fact, the most closed-minded people I’ve met. (It was not always this way.) When these impertinent people are about to lose an argument, they resort to especially incendiary name-calling. First, You’re a Racist. Second: Sexist. Third: Misogynist, then Transphobic. Next: Fascist. Finally, You’re Hitler. Perhaps they can draw a crowd to see what a bigot (you) looks like. Their sheep are probably on call to abet and fulminate.

Whether you are the beer helmet type or one who prefers Wadsworth or Proust. You have the right and freedom to contemplate, think, and express your views.

Each of us who values the freedom to believe and judge on our own terms should be concerned.  One person is too many, that is, chilled from their thoughts and speech, for sure.

Now, there are Caucasians who are assuming a role in deciding what is racist. They attempt to smear someone who disagrees with them, suck up to minorities, cover for their past, or try to prove they have rectitude? Maybe all of the above. These cowardly actions sometimes result in one of the most deplorable and recreant outcomes: Race-Baiting.

Then, there is the matter of most conservatives not being allowed to speak on college campuses because they are conservative. Of course, institutions of higher learning are supposed to be places where competing opinions are welcome. I’m for free speech as long as I agree with it. That is what the Uber left is thinking, I’m convinced.

~~

Here’s a short list of catchphrases; some on the Right call the Snowflake Glossary. These buzzwords might come in handy for common folk when trying to communicate with the more enlightened.

Snowflake: People who require constant protection from anything they might find upsetting, especially experiences that might cause them outrage and/or anger.

Trigger warning: Snowflakes who demand they be given a heads-up before any subject is broached that might be unpleasant for them.

Microaggression: Any seemingly innocent remark or action that offends snowflakes. Greeting a group with “Hey, guys” if there are women in attendance is a no-no.

Safe space: Protecting snowflakes from hearing any viewpoint or opinion other than what they want to hear.

Cultural appropriation: You might be guilty if your Irish mother prepares Mexican food, and certainly if she wears traditional Mexican garb.

Social Justice Warrior: A politically active snowflake who is committed to finding and fighting any form of oppression, all the better if it means oppressing the views and actions of people with whom they disagree.

~~

Heads up, as I write, a young journalist covering an Antifa demonstration in Portland was viciously attacked by mask-wearing (pre-COVID) left-wing thugs. The young man was hospitalized for three days with a brain hemorrhage. Police were on the scene, and the entire episode was recorded. There were no arrests for the assault on the Asian-American US citizen. The mayor of Portland is said to be very liberal.

~~

The venom and vitriol spewed today between our political parties, the so-called left-liberals (typically the most vicious, in my experience), especially with Trump as president. Some of the far-left ideologies and accusations are downright desecrating and deranged.

And I believe conservatives on the right make unnecessarily incendiary remarks, like the President himself, and the far right tends to stir the flames even more. So much of the back-and-forth pandering literally makes me sick and gives me knots in my stomach.

Then why do I pay attention to any of it? We should be informed, no matter how vile the rhetoric. But whom do you trust for the news? I use sources I believe are fair, but you should make your own decisions.

However, it would be unwise to depend on Bill Maher for all your news. You may remember him from “I’m hoping for a crash [in the economy so we can eliminate Trump]. Bring on the recession.” Wonder if the hundreds of thousands of deaths and the devastating crash of the economy caused by COVID-19 fulfill his dream. (Yet, even Maher has recently begun questioning some Left-Wing tactics.)

~~

As for COVID-19, nobody knew what to do or when. Listen to what the scientists were saying at any given time during this pandemic. None that I recall were spot-on or had a viable solution. And remember what the U.S. Surgeon General noted (early on) about wearing masks, something to the effect: If it makes you feel better, fine, but “I don’t recommend wearing masks.” He didn’t get much airtime after that statement.

HEADS UP: If you uttered the following (even while social distancing) in a particular suburb of Seattle: “I hate this ‘Chinese‘ Coronavirus.” You would be fomenting a Hate Crime and subject to prosecution. A senior law enforcement official made on-camera announcements stating that if you’re not sure whether there has been a violation, call us anyway, and we’ll see what we can do. I did not make this up.

That said, I am totally unnerved by reports of people harassing Asian-American citizens of our country. I can’t believe and am ashamed that even a small fraction of our citizens are that cruel and ignorant. It’s the Communist Chinese government that we should hold accountable, not the individual citizens, and indeed not people in the U.S. of Asian heritage. 

~~

Last-minute update: I thought that if you have an encounter or were arrested by police in the United States, especially if you were African-American, “Comply and Don’t Die” would be sufficient to keep you alive. With the incontestable brutality by a police officer in Minneapolis in May 2020, I’m not so sure anymore,

 I was so sickened by the video that I almost threw up. No doubt Black people and others, now more than ever, will fear any interaction with police. “It was just one bad cop” doesn’t cut it for the scores, who will now suspect all police. It may be possible to reduce this behavior through community policing, but I don’t believe it will eliminate it completely. 

Just because I wasn’t complicit in burning down a police precinct or ripping off a Target doesn’t mean I’m not outraged by the conduct of the officer with his knee on the neck of a restrained U. S. citizen. I’m now more inclined to understand the survey results highlighted in the second paragraph of this chapter. 

Not enough? There’s the assassination attempt on President Trump and the murder of Charlie Kirk.

As for the (so-called white supremacist) sub-human murderer of the people worshiping in their own church in Charleston, South Carolina. I wish I could be his jailer for just one day. (Hint: It has something to do with his food delivery and dispensing of any medication.)

~~

In case you missed it earlier, I’m glad I’m old, and hopefully, I won’t be around to see this country slip into the abyss. People from every generation, I believe, have predicted, in one way or another, that our country, maybe the world, is about to splinter into extinction. This time, however, I believe it to be true.  Are we at a breaking point? Aren’t you glad to be reading this uplifting chapter?

Another angry, even apoplectic, old white man who can’t accept change?  No, I don’t wish for the bad old days when we were less respectful of women, other races, the disabled, people’s sexual orientation, and the like. I wish for a citizenry that respects the constitution, differing opinions, and love of country.

I believe I’ve earned that right without becoming fodder for the feckless crowd who wish to decimate our way of life — the republican form of government, imperfect as she is —  that has served so many for so long and, dare I say, so well. 

Incidentally, I’m a registered Independent and have been for years. I’m also a decorated Vietnam Veteran. Not sure, being a baby killer* and all, (apocryphal) would endure me to our leftist friends. I also pay my taxes and recycle.

I read Woke cover-to-cover shortly after its release. Even though I consider the movement ludicrous and dangerous, I’m open-minded and decided to try to understand their point of view and educate myself about the crusade. 

Is there anyone to blame for this divisiveness? Are we all to blame, our citizens, you, and me?

I’m not naive. I know there are many people who have no time for civic involvement. They are just trying to balance family and career, and many are struggling. Some just aren’t interested in civic engagement or just don’t care. Perhaps saying to themselves, “How could just one person like me make a difference?”  

Try it. Turn off the TV and lose your iPhone® for a while. Get off your butt — get involved. Maybe something similar to the Tea Party (though reviled by many on the Left) that began as a grassroots movement and grew into a large and effective organization.

Recently, there was a piece on 60 Minutes about On Small Steps at a Time, A Story Corps, by Dave Isay, who brings people together across the political divide. People sit face-to-face and actually listen to one another without name-calling. From what little research I did, this sounds like a great initiative. 

~~

“Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We didn’t pass it to our children in their bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same, or one day, we will spend our sunset years telling our children and our children’s children what it was once like in the United States when men were free.” Ronald Reagan. 

~~

Suppose we are not awakened from and stand up to the forces that are leading the U.S.A. astray. In that case, a tsunami of Radical Left-Wing iconoclast ideology will soon flood our country and wash away like-minded citizens struggling to stay afloat and reminiscing about better times and nostalgic — no desperate — for our country that used to be.

I sincerely believe the U.S. is Losing Its Way, and once this festering strain spreads unchallenged, it will never again be Exceptional — never the same.  And sadly, we will no longer be that “Shining City Upon a Hill whose Beacon of Light Guides Freedom-Loving People All Over the World.”

(President Ronald Reagan, 1989; John Winthrop and adapted from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.  • Authors capitalization in Shining City).

I will end this discussion on a more upbeat tone:

Gerda Weissmann Klein, 95, of Phoenix, is fond of saying, “Every day is beautiful if you’re living in freedom.” The Holocaust survivor isn’t taking these words lightly. After she endured six years of Nazi brutality, she was liberated by  U. S. troops. The gift of survival inspired Klein to spend her life teaching, including imparting to her students:  “The blessings of U.S. citizenship.” (AARP Magazine)

Too many Americans are unaware of the actual history of our country. Unbelievably, just one in six Americans can pass a basic quiz on U.S. history, and one in seven believes the United States started WWII by bombing Japan! If you've read this far, I assume you are receptive to some of my ideas, and I ask that you share, no spread, America's story and remind young Americans — and each other — that what unites us is more significant than what separates us.

* I was a combat correspondent in an aggressive Cavalry Combat Infantry Division in Vietnam (1967 for an entire year), traveled extensively, and don’t recall one instance of US troops killing a baby. A screwed up mess, Yes. Baby Killing, No.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some of it was Magic, most of it was Tragic . . . .

There was the smell of death. Seventeen of their friends and fellow soldiers lay in the dirt, on the hard ground, searing in the afternoon sun. The bloated corpses swarmed with blowflies. Some were in body bags, but most were covered with poncho liners. When a breeze blew about, uncovering the dead, the men looked away, tried not to stare. Someone grumbled, “Where’s the body bags?” Yesterday, they were desperate for water and ammo.

Some of the soldiers instinctively found and laid rocks on their covers, hoping to remember their friends as they were the day before, not the faces under those ponchos now. And just maybe the rocks would keep them partially covered from the 100-knot rotor wash when the Slicks approached to deliver them to Graves Registration in An Khe (enemy permitting).

Here lay the lifeless men — boys, some of them had sailed here with. Many had shared a cigarette, a beer, perhaps.  They had cursed and complained during grueling training at Ft. Benning not long ago. Together, they had joked, harassed, boasted, and talked about a special girl or wife back home and what they were going to do once they got out of here.

This was their first taste of a decisive battle, where they were overwhelmed by trying to kill the enemy and save each other. When the guns finally silenced, and the fight appeared to be over, for now, they hadn’t talked. They just stared at one another, then at the ground. All had smelled the burning flesh, heard the same screams, been sprayed with the blood of their dying comrades.

But this morning, after the horrific battle last night, The Sun Still Rose, mosquitoes still sucked blood, Mother Nature still called, distant guns still sounded, and all the misery that is Vietnam began a new day.

They were in need of someone to reach out to them; at least, the man who had commanded them in battle thought so.

Hal Moore was the last man to come out of the battle. It was the biggest battle they had ever fought. Their commander had a message for them, it was something that was love and manliness and pride. It was the moment of the brave. Moore turned and went to each man and he shook every man’s hand. Here he was adddressing the soldiers who had met and defeated the enemy, It was not in a victory that won the war but in a victory over their uncertainty. When they were teasted, they had done their job, and he assured them with this thought, too, Hal Moore said that if they had won no one else’s gratitude, they had his.

Compilation from, We Were Soldiers Once … And Young. Published by Random House (Reprinted with permission, from American Legion Magazine) Story of the battle in the Ia Drang Valley of Vietnam,  November 1965, 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile). By Lt. Gen. (Ret.) Hal Moore and journalist Joe Galloway. The movie of the same name is good as well.

---

As this book comes to a close, I have a decision to make. How Do I Say Goodbye? How does it end?

All those meds I ingested for almost five decades for Crohn’s disease that helped keep me continent and gave me the energy to lead a mostly normal life are finally catching up with me and manifesting the perils of long-term usage. My immune system has virtually failed me — crippled my body, rendered it a wreck, and taken much of my vision, too.

A few years after I returned from Vietnam, unsurprisingly, the VA diagnosed me with PTSD, and the drugs I took for its treatment have been sapping my brain ever since. As a result, I’ve been robbed of much of my cognitive ability and memory.  Not so much, unfortunately, as to erase that little boy always in my dreams — nightmares actually — running behind our army jeep, begging for chocolate, his head about to explode on that hot-dusty road in Vietnam, so far away and so long ago.

Now that seemingly half the population has PTSD, I’m seriously considering rescinding my hard-earned diagnosis.

Chasing our jeep, begging for chocolate. (Swan collection)

I’ve lost my way, my faith, my spirit, and lots of my psyche, too. And long ago, I gave up on karma on Christ.

---

Just before the start of this final chapter, I was an inpatient at the VA Medical Center, San Francisco, for tests. I knew something was up; my health had been quickly deteriorating (falling, confused, forgetting). So, I wasn’t surprised when the doctors diagnosed me with vascular Parkinsonism and leukoaraiosis (White brain damage and disease). Both diseases are related, the latter being progressive, with the likelihood of stroke and no known cure.

(Seems I finished my book just in time.)

---

I’m not on the farm in hard-time Mississippi, and no sun radiates from our old tin roof. It’s not hot at all, actually.  But I am sweating just the same from another nightmare of exploding abdomens, burning flesh, severed limbs, and men — boys—some—screaming and calling out for their Moms.

I have choices for my endgame. Neither is pleasant. I don’t want my book to end on a downer, and I hope you don’t feel cheated. But when you get old, having lived life to its fullest — To The Limit — something’s got to give.

Option 1: I could live on a few more years in pain and depression that overrode my good memories. End up a miserable old man, perhaps feeling sorry for myself, or hang on for a few more years while burdening my family, maybe without the faculty to know what was going on. Then, for the last few months of my life, I could take up space and air, rotting away in a VA hospital, telling the nurses and doctors stories of bygone years. Just another old veteran in a hospital awaiting his final breath.

Option 2: I could “retire” with my faculties intact while I still know my name. Should I choose to leave on my own terms, am I taking the Easy Way Out? No. It will hurt like hell my body, soul, and family. And if you believe Exodus 20:13 from the Holy Bible, my final act on earth will surely be my ticket straight to Hell. Lord, you gave me a Mountain this time. How could someone who has come so far leave like this? I’ve never been a quitter until now.

(Or I could succumb to COVID-19, leaving me no option.)

Seriously, how did you think this was going to play out? In a few months, my hands shaking from Parkinson’s, with my beautiful wife changing my bloated-flatulent-filled colostomy bag and reinserting my catheter while I reminisced about the great time we had on the beach at Veracruz so long ago.   So everything’s going to be okay?

I’ve gotten this far because of my loving family and readers like you, who have made the last few years of my journey worthwhile, encouraging me to complete my book, making my life exciting — one more time.

My Life At The Limit has been filled with joy and sadness and blessed beyond imagination, far beyond the years.  I would not trade mine with anyone.

For my Family & Friends:

I’ll Remember You

You could have stayed outside my heart

But in you came

and here you’ll stay

until it’s time for me to go.

(Adapted from a song written by Kui Lee)

---

I’ve met kind and wonderful souls from all walks of life, all around the world. I have been blessed, and all kinds of people have burdened me. I’m not naive. I know what’s out there, and I can say with certainty that some are evil, incorrigible, and malevolent; they are unfit for habitation in a free society. (You need not be kind to those people.) Fortunately, these wicked cretins are in the minority.

Overwhelmingly, people are decent, law-abiding, altruistic members of a race we commonly refer to as human. So I leave you with the one thing I have assuredly learned in my 79 years, simply it is this:

“Be Kind, Everyone has a Cross to Bear.”

So simple, so easy, anyone can do it.

---

Today, I held Cheri for an extra-long time and tightly while telling her how much I loved and appreciated her. For my special pets — canines, actually — I held them tightly too, gave each their favorite treat, and they fell asleep. Earlier, I left a message reminding Robert of the love and joy he’d given me.

Usually, I leave much earlier to get the mail, but today I timed my departure closer to high tide. Driving isn’t something I’m supposed to do, but it’s just a quarter-mile with no real traffic to the mailbox.  So I teetered outside on my red walker to my F-150. After throwing my assist in the bed of the pickup and with one foot on the running board, I clinched the grab bar, pulled myself up (painfully), and into the seat. But today, I’m not stopping at the mailbox.

Instead, I drive an extra quarter-mile to the shores of the Pacific and park in the two-vehicle lot for the disabled that places me just fifty feet from Big Black Sands Beach.

Here, as the mighty waves slap and pound, then foam around the rocks, I recline the back of my seat slightly, sit perfectly still, eyes closed for just a few moments, thinking. I can’t believe the life I’ve had, the love Cheri has given me, and the joy from Robert, my brother, my friends present and departed.

Suddenly, my soul is flooded with precious memories, the ones we hope — here and beyond — never go away.

Throughout this book about my life, I’ve said for a variety of reasons, mostly good . . . “It could have ended right there.”   Today, it will be Don Swan’s Swan’s Song.

Now, I willfully lumber to and climb upon a nearby plateau — till I’m directly over the Pacific churning below. I grasped my walker and hurled it toward the ocean as far as I could throw. I rip off my colostomy bag, drop it over the edge, and watch it sail down below. 

I’ve been falling quite a bit lately; who is to say I couldn’t lose my balance right here? — right now!         (My last thought: I’ve written this book about a HERO and here I am leaving (some would say) like a COWARD.)                                        

 Splash.   

(Begin song: Paint It Black)

No colors anymore. I want them to turn Black

I turn my head until my darkness goes

I see a row of cars, and they’re all painted Black

I see people turn their heads and quickly look away

I look inside myself, and I see my heart is Black

I see a red door and must have it painted Black

Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts

It’s not easy facin’ up when your whole world is Black

(Paint it Black, music fades)           Song: Mick Jagger and Keith Richards © Abko Music.

(Begin: That’s Alright)

“My Mama, She done told me, my Papa done told me too . . .(Decrease: That’s Alright)

(In Don’s voice)

“Here about twice a year, the Pacific claims another Soul — Drowning by Accident* or otherwise in the Cold Sea. Just another statistic, Me.”

(Music Up: That’s Alright)

. . . that life you’ve been living, Son gonna catch up with you.    But That’s Alright Mama That’s Alright Mama . . . Anyway you do.    Dee Dee Deelee . . . .”

THE END

*Life Insurance pays double for accidental death.

In composing this bare-faced biography more than five-years faded from the Georgian calendar and my life. When not writing several hours a day, I was researching, recalling events, or at least thinking about the book. (I can’t spell or type very well.)

Everything I should have been doing didn’t get done, or Cheri did it alone. In fact, I let lots of things go. Writing a biography, especially like mine, stirs up a lot of emotion, both pleasant and painful. Painful, as in nightmares returning with their tormenting curse. Cheri blamed them on me reliving the war as I wrote about it, and insisted that I take a break. 

Was reliving all those memories and the pressure of writing a book an excuse for me being an even greater pain in the ass to live with? Yes, just not a good enough one. Overall, my writing proved to be more conducive than consumptive.

Thanks to Tom Kirkham, my friend of many years, for his encouragement with the highest compliment, “I hope I live long enough to read your book.” He did. My wonderful brother Dale, who provided health care for our parents for many years and for his invalid wife for some twenty encouraged me while writing.

Along the way, when I was discouraged, a reader comment raised my morale, kept me churning out words, especially from Marine Mike P.  Friends from high school that I had not seen or spoken to in years self-identified as some of my greatest fans.

As I have never advertised my book, the only publicity was Cheri mentioning it on her diminutive Facebook page and by word of mouth. Still, I have amassed over 5,000 hits in three years (2022-2025).

Thanks to my pets for their unconditional love. Nevertheless, when one landed in my lap, then laptop, and another started chewing on my walker, it was a none too subtle demand for me to take a break and them for a walk.

When my beautiful, wonderful, and understanding wife, Cheri, signed on for this project, she couldn’t have imagined I’d work on this memoir for five years. She was, at times, frustrated and let me know. Nevertheless, she encouraged me, kept me on some semblance of a schedule, and, most importantly, made sure I completed  My Life At The Limit— inspiring me to finally fulfill a promise I made to myself and others more than 50 years ago. 

Finally, my dedicated readers, I leave you with what Elvis was fond of saying:

“Thank You, Thank You Very Much”

Scroll to Book II, Chapter 1 for more great war stories, some more from Vietnam and a couple about WW II.

If you enjoyed my book, appreciated my efforts, would like to see more of my work, and wish to donate or have a comment, contact me at donaldswan@msn.com

Part II of this BOOK follows