Reaching for the Stars
High school days, Northern California, 1971. I’d parked my bicycle at a friend’s house before leaving with him to party for several hours. Returning stoned, I was in no condition to talk to anyone’s parents, but I needed to retrieve my bike. Quiet as a mouse, now. I’ll just slip in and out…nobody will notice a thing. I was putting the kickstand up, preparing to coast down the driveway, when a voice called to me from the shadows. “Nice night. Just look at the Big Dipper, would you…Simply amazing.” Busted. “Yes, Mr. Swindle, it is a nice night.” Mr. Swindle—Ralph Sr.—was in the mood to talk, so we did. He casually mentioned that his morning had dawned hot and muggy in Singapore. The terms “blow-hard” and “name-dropper” came to mind before I realized that, as an airline pilot for Pan Am, mornings in exotic ports-of-call simply came with the territory.
“Let’s move away from the garage, where we can get a better look at the stars,” suggested Mr. Swindle. A skilled celestial navigator, he began an impromptu lesson on the glittering constellations high above us in the night sky. “You see the Big Dipper, right?” “Yes, I do.” “Good. Now follow the curve of the Big Dipper’s handle away from the bowl to a bright star, Arcturus. You still with me?” “Yeah.” “Arcturus lies in the ancient constellation Boötes, which is pronounced ‘boo-oh-tees’. This guy Boötes was a herdsman or shepherd. He’s found in cave paintings depicting successful hunts of gazelles and zebras in the Sahara. The constellation was named long ago, before the Sahara became a desert.”
This was really the first time I’d had an extended opportunity to talk to my pal Terry’s dad. Truth be told, I found him an interesting “grup”—Terry’s slang at the time for a parent. If Mr. Swindle knew I was high, he never mentioned it. Later, intrigued by our conversation, I pedaled my way home, glancing upward every now and again at the incredible array of stars overhead.
Over the next several years, as Terry and I hung out, I got to know Mr. Swindle better. He and his wife Jewell seemed to be living the good life: a nice home in the leafy green Bay Area suburb of Los Altos, a cabin at Lake Tahoe. They traveled frequently, returning to regale those of us stuck in suburbia with tales of unique cultures, strange customs, and cacophonous marketplaces. Their son and I made an interesting pair, coming from such different socio-economic strata. My parents were divorced and I was the only one of four siblings to live with my father, an emotionally distant, occasionally volcanic-tempered alcoholic. We’d moved to a different high school district so I could attend a school that lacked a dress code. Terry’s parents were candid about their reaction to seeing their son bring home “the new boy”—wild hair, part dreadlocks, part white-boy Afro. Over time, however, they saw something in me.
Ralph was a broad-shouldered bear of a man, standing at least 6’4”. He never forgot his roots, which he related to me often—much to Jewell’s chagrin. “Ralph, stop. The boys don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to hear about it. Let someone else talk.” But there was something about the narrative of his life that grabbed me—one so iconic it could have been a newspaper headline: “Boy from Large Family in Small Town Makes Good.” He was born in Priddy, Texas, a small farming community in the central portion of the state, which today has a population of 265. Ralph’s size was his ticket out of town, courtesy of a college football scholarship. Later, during World War II, he became a bomber pilot. And when the war was over, he began to fly jets for Pan Am Airlines.
Although I didn’t realize it back then, I was constantly on the lookout for surrogate parents—folks who believed in me and weren’t afraid to say so. Jewell was a nutritionist and kept working long after Ralph had retired. They were interesting people, as evidenced by the fact that I was but one of Terry’s many friends who looked up to them, knowing that we could always come to them for their counsel.
When I was 18, I left the Bay Area for college. I stayed in touch with Ralph and Jewell, and as time passed, I discovered that I had more in common with them than I did their son. When I was 20 years old, an opportunity arose to buy a house and 10 acres. I’d saved money from summer jobs and, together with a savings bond from my grandparents, I found myself only $1,000 shy of what the seller wanted for a down payment.
During my high school years, my dad and I had lived in several apartments and duplexes, never staying in one place for long. My pleas for him to buy a place had fallen on deaf ears. Now, two years out of high school, I felt the need to put down some roots. Unlike most of my friends, I had no Plan B: there was no family “homestead” to return to. I had but one chance to borrow the money I needed: Ralph and Jewell. So, I phoned them and said I’d be by that weekend for a visit.
On the way to their house, I rehearsed how to explain my plan to them. “This is my chance to put myself through grad school. I can rent rooms out to students. I’m responsible now. I’ve calculated I can repay you before two years.” I recall the strange mix of doubt, euphoria, and anxiety churning in my stomach as if it were yesterday. This is my big chance to have my own place. What if they say no?
Ralph and Jewell loaned me the money, making clear that this was a business proposition: they expected to be repaid within the time frame I’d outlined. The thrill of getting my own place was soon replaced by the reality of being a 20 year old juggling college, a (nearly) full-time job, and landlord duties. The house needed more work than I’d foreseen, like as a new roof. Long story made short: I did repay them, but missed the deadline I’d outlined. Tough love advocates that they were, the Swindles let me know that I’d disappointed them, but, in time, things returned to normal. I now lived 7 hours from them, so I rarely saw them, except during the holidays. When visiting them, it was a rare day when I didn’t encounter at least one of their several “adopted sons.”
Where do I start with the life lessons learned from them? Although Ralph never spoke ill of the small town where he grew up, he knew he’d have to leave in order to fulfill his potential. So, “Honor one’s roots, yet don’t be afraid to reach for the stars” would have to be Lesson #1. Work hard and take advantage of the opportunities that come your way. Over the years, Ralph and Jewell’s marriage hit their share of rough patches. I gained insight from watching them on how a successful husband-and-wife team functions. There was always support, of course, but when Ralph needed a “talkin’ to,” I never saw Jewell shrink from the task. Their travels taught me that the world is a vast, fascinating place where experiencing the unfamiliar lures us outside our comfort zone. The rote is extinguished in favor of fresh perspectives—with personal growth often the result.
From them I learned that Godparents are not only those chosen by your parents at birth, but also include those encountered along the way that mentor, look after you, and lead by example.
Because the Swindles were willing to believe in me, I feel compelled to nurture the continuance of the cycle. I’ve tried to heed the example they set that a life of fulfillment is best accomplished by reaching outward and helping others. Writing being a passion of mine, I organize, and together with my wife Sue, judge a student nature writing contest. This year, one of the winners came to the awards ceremony accompanied by her grandmother, teacher, and principal. Following the ceremony, I received an e-mail from her teacher, “You can’t even imagine how fantastic you made ‘Jessica’ feel. It was a whole new world for her. Thank you.Thank you.” Regardless of the reason for Jessica’s parents’ absence at the ceremony, it was clear that she was a girl who needed—and was receiving—support from an extended family. And I know from experience just how crucial that can be for someone in need.