I read the linked story in the Daily Mail, and realized that my daughter and I must have passed within a mile or so of the abandoned water-park many times, during the time that I was stationed at Hill AFB and made the journey up and down I-15 between the home that we had in South Ogden and my parents retirement place in Valley Center. The desert around Yermo, Barstow, Ludlow, Baker and Needles was familiar stomping ground for Dad, who confessed sometimes that in another life, he would have been a desert rat – for he loved the Mojave Desert. Loved the wide blue sky, at home in the dun-colored sweep of desert which actually hid so much life; Dad would have been happy in a small shack somewhere out beyond Needles, with a burro and a dog for company, watching over the desert life that he adored – the kangaroo rats, the little desert kit foxes, the tiny birds which nested in hollows in the cactus, the desert which bloomed into amazing sweeps of color once a year after sudden flurries of rain.
We never would have stopped at the waterpark – deserted now – in it’s prime, as we weren’t really the sort of people who did tourist attractions. Mom and Dad preferred camping trips, day excursions to places that were free or nearly so, long hikes in the wilderness – that kind of thing. But it looks as if it would have been a fantastic place for families, back when it was open, even though a long, long drive out into the desert.
One of Dad’s regular stops in his desert excursions had first been established when his parents, Grandpa Al and Granny Dodie used to drive up to Las Vegas for a spot of gambling. This must have been post-World War II, when gasoline rationing ended. Dad would have been a teenager then; Grandpa Al and Granny Dodie were rather fond of such excursions, which they carried on to a lesser degree when we were kids. Dad fondly remembered stops for a meal at a tiny, two-outlet hamburger chain called “The Bun Boy”, at the approximate halfway point between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, either the outlet on the outskirts of Barstow, or the one in a tiny hiccup in the road called Baker. For a number of years, Baker boasted of the tallest thermometer in the world, constructed by a local entrepreneur. The local radio station, which was all that we could get on the car radio carried commercials for the Bun Boy, or the rival establishment across the road, The Mad Greek, which featured gyros and fries. When my daughter and I drove from Utah for the holidays, or back again after New Years’ we would time the start of our drive to catch a meal – mid-morning breakfast at the Bun Boy, no matter if we had started the drive before dawn at Mom and Dad’s place, or after spending the night at Mesquite on the Utah-Nevada border.
It was a comfortable diner-type restaurant, not terribly distinguished in architecture or décor – but the food was always good, and the burgers were fabulous. Sometimes we ate at the counter, which was always fun, especially if there were truck drivers also getting a quick meal and refills of coffee. We got the low-down from them on where the highway patrols and the local police keep a strict weather-eye on speeders on the highway.
It looks like both locations for the Bun Boy are closed – and Baker itself is a ghost town — all but deserted save for a gas station; the Mad Greek is apparently closed as well. Are the lights still on for the giant thermometer? California used to be such a lively, interesting, fun place, but now I think with sorrow and regret of crumbling ruins and deserted towns, the hot dry wind whipping through places like Baker and the desert water park.
Sometimes, long after first reading a book or watching a movie and enjoying it very much, I have come back to re-reading or watching, and then wondering what I had ever seen in that in the first place. So it was with the original M*A*S*H book and especially with the movie. I originally read the book in college and thought, “Eww, funny but gross and obscene, with their awful practical jokes and nonexistent sexual morals.” Then I re-read after having been in the military myself for a couple of years, and thought, “Yep, my people!”
The movie went through pretty much the same evolution with me, all but one element – and that was when I began honestly wondering why the ostensible heroes had such a hate on for Major Burns and the nurse Major Houlihan. Why did those two deserve such awful, disrespectful treatment? In the movie they seemed competent and agreeable enough initially. In the book it was clear that Major Burns was an incompetent surgeon with delusions of adequacy, and that Major Houlihan was Regular Army; that being the sole reason for the animus. But upon second viewing of the movie, it seemed like Duke Forrest, Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper John McIntyre were just bullying assholes selecting a random target for abuse for the amusement of the audience.
Well, you can, sort of – but in the larger sense Thomas Wolfe was right: you can’t physically go home again, not after a good few years have passed. I’ve amused myself, since discovering google earth and street view by looking for and locating the houses that I have lived in, and seeing how they appear now. That is if I have a clear memory of the address, and if the house itself still exists. Which is not always the case: the GI student housing in Santa Barbara was gone shortly after Dad finished the graduate level program at UC-Santa Barbara in the mid-1950ies. I have no notion of where to even begin looking for the house in the backwoods of Beverly Hills (yes, Beverly Hills does, or did have a backwoods, per se.) With unpaved roads, even, although it probably isn’t the case now. The White Cottage at the corner of La Tuna Canyon and Wheatland in the Sun Valley end of the San Fernando Valley is still there, although it looks as if the massive sycamore tree that shaded half of the back yard is gone, and La Tuna Canyon road has been widened and had sidewalks installed, so the fence line has been moved back. I can “walk” up the half-mile of La Tuna Canyon to Vinedale Elementary. The shapes of the hills looming over the canyon, as it funnels back into the Verdugo Hills are still familiar. Many of the roads which ran back from La Tuna Canyon were unpaved then – they’re paved now, it seems.
Mom and I, on the front porch of the GI Bill Student Housing
The next house, which I always thought of as Redwood
house, was at the corner of Hillrose and Rosetta, at that corner of Shadow
Hills which touched the edge of Sunland. Again, a dirt road, and lines of olive
trees which had once been part of an olive orchard. That house is long gone –
it was where the 210 Freeway drops down into Big Tujunga Wash, halfway between
the Ralphs’ on Foothill Boulevard, and the fire station on Wentworth. I can
“walk” from Sunland Elementary to Olive Grove and up a block to Hillrose … and
that’s where the road ends, at a chain-link fence overlooking the highway.
Redwood House, from the hillside below
The house after that, the second house on the left up Cedarvale from Estepa, was curiously only a stone’s throw from the White Cottage, geographically. Not by road, though – it was a drive of at least half an hour between the two, going around through two different canyons. It’s been remodeled, extensively from when we lived there, and the new owners cut down most of the trees around the house. We liked the trees for the shade, but now the view is spectacular, or so I can judge from street view. The pool is still there, but I can’t see if the well still exists. There was a small spring/seep in the hillside, and a small well which never dried out entirely. I lived there from the age of sixteen, until I enlisted in the Air Force. My parents sold that house when my youngest brother finished high school and decamped to Northern San Diego County.
In the driveway of Hilltop House: Little Brother, Dad, the family station wagon and Mom.
I think the barracks where I lived at Misawa AB is
gone; that whole base was revamped when the F-16 wing moved in. I can’t even begin
to find building in the R housing area, out the POL gate where I rented the
little sliver of apartment. That whole area has been revamped. The Wherry
duplex in the enlisted housing area at Mather AFB where we lived for a year –
that’s all gone. It looks like all very upscale condos, now. That was a very
bare-bones kind of place; conblock walls, industrial linoleum on the floor, and
metal cabinets in the kitchen. I had no furniture other than a rattan rocking
chair, a couple of book cases, and my daughter’s crib when we moved in, but by
the time we moved on, I had managed to purchase a single arm chair, an
upholstered small sofa, a round wooden table and two chairs. There was a
trailing rose bush by the front door. The housing office inspector gave me
grief for trying to train it up the porch supports. This experience and the chore
of cleaning that place before checking out of that base cured me of any desire
to live in base housing. Uncle Sam is a sucky landlord.
The barracks at Sondrestrom AB in Greenland is still there; they’ve jazzed up the grey concrete slabs with red and white stripes, and green paint, and put a modernistic entryway to what was the dining facility; not much has changed with all that, at least on the surface. Looks like there are some restaurants, and a B&B, but the general aspect is still gritty grey dust, and bare rock mountains looming above. As we used to say grimly to each other: it’s not the end of the world, but you can see it from there. In the winter – when it was midnight-dark for most of the day with perhaps a pale twilight at mid-day, it was an amazing and unearthly sight; to come down the hill from the AFRTS station, and see the whole base lit by glowing yellow lights. In the dry arctic air, the vents from the buildings filled the head of the fjord with billowing golden clouds of water vapor.
For three years after that, we lived in a second-floor
apartment on a corner in suburban Athens; a narrow balcony ran around two sides
of the apartment, which took up the whole of a single floor, at the
intersection of Knossou and Delphon.
From the windows on the street side, we could look out at the Saronic
Gulf and the perfect triangular island of Aegina; it looks like they have built
another three or four story apartment block across the street, so likely there
is no chance of that same view from the apartment today. The little tile-roofed
villa across the road in the other direction is still there, but the empty lot
which was next door, in which an elderly man kept chickens and rabbits and a
bit of a garden with lemon trees, has been replaced by another three or four
story apartment block. But the building itself looks well-kept; whoever is
living in the second-floor apartment has a series of nice plants in pots along
the balcony.
Spain: the place where we lived the longest until we
settled in Texas. I had no taste for a high-rise city apartment, which was all
that was on offer, until the friend who was helping me house hunt said, “Let’s
go see if there’s anything in San Lamberto…” This was a complex of duplexes and
low-rise apartment buildings outside the city, which once had been American
base housing, but now was in private ownership. There was an empty unit
available for a reasonable rent, at the corner of what is now Calle Placido
Domingo and Calle C. A ground-floor unit with a garden, and a shaded terrace.
It is barely recognizable, now, although the two palm trees are still there and
thriving. The new owners added a swimming pool, a small addition where I used
to stack wood for the fireplace outside the dining area window, and a covered
shelter for a car. The low wall and pillars are still there, but they have put
in dark green fencing panels above, and the lawn looks a little better than
when I lived there. My daughter went from kindergarten to the sixth grade in
the time we lived there. I tried tracing the route that I usually drove from
San Lam, past the Spanish regional airport to the Garripinellos gate, but again
– too much has been changed. It used to be a narrow wandering country road; now
there’s some fairly substantial interchanges.
The little white and grey house in the middle of the
block of Jefferson between 36th and 37th was the perfect
small house. I wish I could have owned it, so that I could have fixed it up properly.
A perfect dolls’ house, with a big window on either side of the front door, and
a long garden in back, with hedges so thick on either side that the lights of
other houses could barely be seen in summer. Lilacs along one side, a row of
apricot trees on the other, a bearing cherry tree, a shed where we might have kept
chickens, a green lawn and a garden plot which I managed to rototill for two
summers. In the spring, lilies of the valley came up at the edge of the front
walk … we were there for two and a half years. The sun came up in the morning
over the iron-grey wall of the Wasatch front, and in the afternoon, light poured
in through the back of the house through an enormous picture window which gave
on the yard. Paradise. I am still angry at the assignment detailer for my
career field, who did not send me back there; this after hearing for years how
they would reward you for years overseas by making certain that your last
assignment before retiring was to the base where you most wanted to be. The
house looks good, though: the present owner has taken down that cheap metal
awning over the porch, and put in a planter and a new set of steps where the
front porch used to be, and taken out the ragged hedge which formerly bisected
the lawn.
The Jefferson St. House when I lived in it – in winter
Korea: a year in a barracks building, across the road
from the Navy Club at Yongsan Army Infantry Garrison. It looks as if that
building isn’t there, as far as I can see. The whole garrison has relocated to
Camp Humpreys, but the Dragon Hill Lodge still exists, as a recreation center
and hotel run by MWR. No luck in tracing anything of my route to work at AFKN,
on the hill above the main PX.
The one home that I most deeply regret loosing was not
a home which I lived, although my daughter did, during the year that I spent in
Korea; that was Mom and Dad’s retirement place, the house that Dad first
designed and oversaw building on a rocky knoll with a view down into the Guajito,
in the hills above Valley Center, Northern San Diego County. They spent five
years doing this, having initially expected to get it done in three, but had a
marvelous time anyway. When we came home between tours in Spain (having saved
the government a bomb of money through signing on to a second tour in place, so
we had a free round-trip home as a reward) the house was coming down the home
stretch, and we shared the RV with Mom, Dad, and their dogs. It was far enough
along that we celebrated Christmas in the house, among the sheets of drywall
stacked up in the dining are – drywall which Dad would teach me to hang and mud.
Mom designed and laid out the garden – and when the house burned in the Paradise
Mountain Fire in 2003, Mom and Dad moved into another RV on the site and built
it all again, with improvements. (They hired out all the tough jobs that Dad
had done, first time around.) We made a road trip from Texas to California most
years. And then Dad died, suddenly in 2010. Mom didn’t want to leave the place
they had shared, although … we all worried about her being there alone with the
dogs. My youngest brother even brought up how risky it was, only to be slapped
down. A few years later, his fears were realized when Mom fell and injured her
back so severely that she was paralyzed from the shoulders down. Their house
had to be sold, of course. My sister, who took over care of Mom, needed to have
her own house renovated to accommodate a semi-paralyzed invalid. Originally, we
were all four supposed to inherit a quarter share of it, and I entertained thoughts
of buying out my brothers’ and keeping the property as a kind of family compound.
Not to happen. I used the proceeds from the sale of my own California real
estate to fix up the current Chez Hayes. Likely, I will never return to California.
But I look at the view from the dead-end road past Mom and Dad’s house, and
follow the dirt road back, looking at all the places that we went past, and
think of the view over the Guajito, of how I would run on the dirt roads in the
early morning, and the quail pattering through the thicket by the gate because
Dad was in the habit of throwing out seed for them, the bends in the Woods
Valley Road, the stench from the chicken farm at the foot of the last leg of
road up to Mom and Dad’s…
It doesn’t look like the new owners have done very
much, at least, not that we can see from the road view. But the owners of the
next property over seemed to have established a nursery; greenhouses, and sheds
and all. The previous owner of that place had let it go to wrack and ruin;
basically returning to nature after the fire, save for messing around incompetently
with an earth-mover on weekends – to the detriment of the watershed down into
Mom and Dad’s driveway.
My daughter looked at the satellite view, and said, “Don’t
say anything of this to Mom.”
07. December 2017 · Comments Off on Reprise Post – Another Sunday, Another War · Categories: Memoir
Note: This is not of my own writing, but something I clipped from the L.A. Times around 1971 or 1972, and tucked into my paperback copy of Walter Lord’s “Day Of Infamy”. It was written by Jack Smith, who was then and for many years, one of the columnists at the L.A. Times. I thought at the time, and still do, that it was one of the most evocative short pieces ever written about that day—Celia
It was 30 years ago, as I write this at last; a Sunday morning. It doesn’t matter any more, but I’ve always wanted to write it down anyway, while it was still vivid, and before to many anniversaries had passed.
At approximately 8 o’clock on that morning we were standing in the front yard of Bill Tyree’s rented house, out in a valley back of Diamond Head. It had been an all-night party and Tyree was standing in the front door in his pongee Chinese housecoat with the dragon on it, waving us goodbye.
In those days there was nothing necessarily dissolute about an all-night party, especially on Saturday nights. We were night people, and there was always an excuse for a party, always some correspondent on his way out to Manila or Jakarta to cover the war we knew was going to break out in the Far East. The honoree this weekend was a United Press man from New York who was leaving on Monday for the Dutch East Indies.
It had been a good party. We were all keyed up and full of war talk and we envied the correspondent, who would be there when it started. That very morning the banner on the Honolulu Advertiser had said WAR EXPECTED OVER WEEKEND. Japan was expected to attack the Dutch Indies, or if they were insane enough, the Philippines.
We stood in the yard, all quite sober; but drunk perhaps, with a subconscious excitement and a benign fatigue. It was a bright morning. The pink was fading from the sky. There is no exaggerating the beauty of Hawaiian mornings. Sometimes, after these parties, we would drive out to the lagoon at dawn and watch the Pan American clipper come splashing in from San Francisco or Samoa; a flamingo landing in a pink pool.
I don’t know how long we had been standing there in the yard when we heard a thump; one of those deep, distant, inexplicable sounds that make human beings feel suddenly very small and cold.
“It must be the gas works” somebody said, and we laughed. Days later, when we were all together again, we agreed it must have been the Arizona blowing up.
We piled into the major’s car. The major was a press relations officer for the U.S. Army in Hawaii and he knew everything. He and the correspondent got into the front seat, my wife and I in the back. As we drove along Kapiolani toward Waikiki I looked up idly into the sky and saw a silver plane flying high along the shoreline with puffs of dark smoke bursting just beneath it, I was wondering what this phenomenon might signify, when a second plane flew over, provoking more puffs, and then another.
“Something funny’s going on up there,” I said. The major stopped the car and we all got out and stood in the street, looking up into that lovely sky. Another plane came in over Diamond Head and the puffs appeared, futile and somehow comical, like bad stage effects.
The major put his hands on his hips and swore;
“Damn it, I’ve told them not to pull this kind of stuff without telling me.”
We got back in the car and drove into downtown Honolulu, past the quaint old Iolani Palace, the only royal palace in America. The palace air raid siren was going full out. We were no longer frivolous. Things were out of joint but how, we could not guess. The major dropped us off at our apartment.
“I’m going to the fort,” he said, “and see what this is all about.”
In the apartment I started to undress and went out on the balcony in my underwear. A plane flew over. I had no idea what it was; but what the hell, we were making new planes every day. I heard gunfire, but gunfire was not unusual on Oahu in 1941.
I went inside and lay down. “Something funny is going on, “I said, “but I’m too tired to think about it. I’m going to bed.”
There was the sound of someone running up the stairs to the balcony, pounding at the door and shouting; “The Japs are bombing us!”
“I know,” I said, knowing it as if I had never not known it, “You’d better put some coffee on, “ I told my wife. “It might be a long day.”
(And that’s the entire column – one man’s reaction, recollected in tranquility thirty years later, transcribed by me, another thirty years after that – how the world you know ends and another begins, all on a Sunday morning. I don’t know if this column was ever reprinted, or put into a book or anything – but I thought it was one of the best recollections of that day that I knew of.)
My slightly younger brother, JP and I have always counted ourselves fortunate that we got through primary school in the happy baby-boom years of the very early 1960ies, before a hitherto solid and well-established education system suddenly lost all confidence in itself and began whoring after strange gods, fads and theories. We both were taught the old phonics way, carefully sounding out the letters and the sounds, until… oh! There was that flash of understanding, at unraveling a new word, and another and another. We read confidently and omnivorously from the second grade on, and were only a little scarred from the infliction of the “New Math” on our otherwise happy little souls. It seemed like one semester I was memorizing the times tables and the “gozintas” (two gozinta four two times) and wrestling with very, very long division, and suddenly it was all about prime numbers and sectors and points on a line, and what was all that in aid of?
I really would have rather gone on with word problems, thank you very much, rather than calculus for the elementary school set. It was at least useful, working out how much paint or carpet to cover an area, or how what time a train going so fast would get to the next city. Thanks to the “New Math” I wound up working out how to figure what was 70% off of $15,000 when I was forty-three. Got to love those educational fads. You spend the rest of your life making up for having them inflicted on you. Pippy’s elementary education was far more adversely affected; she caught the “whole word” reading thing in the neck. While she did successfully negotiate the second grade and learned to read on schedule, she never enjoyed it as much, or read as much as JP and I did routinely.
Our baby brother, Sander had the worst time of all. Mom racked up conference after conference with his second grade-teacher over his failure to advance, and generally unsatisfactory class behavior. Mom was a pretty experienced and hard-bitten Mom by the time she rotated four children through the same set of public schools. She had cured many of our teachers of their initial habit of carving off great dripping slabs of condescension to parents in a nominally blue-collar working class suburb by tactfully making it clear that both she and Dad were college graduates also. Sander’s second-grade teacher remained pretty much a burr under Mom’s parental saddle, especially since he was struggling desperately and unhappily in her classroom. It never got so bad that he was wetting the bed, or developing convenient illnesses, but he was adamant about not enjoying school… or at least the second-grade class.
We began to wonder if the difference was in the teacher; she seemed to be very cold, and judgmental. He had done very well the year before, an active, charming seven-year old, the youngest child in a family of mostly adults, who were devoted to books and education. Later on, JP would suggest that Sander was thought to be so bright by his teachers because he would constantly uncork four-syllable words that he picked up from us. It really wasn’t the way, then, to blame a teacher entirely for a problem, but this was our baby brother, our real doll-baby and pet, but everything his teacher tagged on him was always his fault. First his teacher adamantly insisted he was a discipline problem, then that he was hyper-active and out to be in a special class… and then took the cake by suggesting that he was mentally retarded. Mom had gone to a great deal of trouble to get him after-school tutoring, and she blew her stack at that. Whatever was his problem, he was not retarded, and she was shocked that an experienced teacher would even make that unsupported diagnosis.
About halfway through the semester, Mom noticed that Sander rubbed his eyes a lot, and they always looked a bit reddened and crusty at the end of the school day. Eye problems? I was nearsighted, as blind as a bat without glasses, which was about the first thing that all my teachers knew about me, and I had never had that sort of trouble. Mom took him to the ophthalmologist; it turned out he was quite the opposite from me— he was far-sighted, to the point where it was acutely uncomfortable to concentrate for long on the written word. Once he was fitted with glasses, all the problems— except for the basic personality clash with the unsympathetic teacher— melted away.
Mom added her scalp, metaphorically speaking, to her collection, right next to the scalp of my 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Range, who was only called Mrs. De-Range out of her hearing. Her students all knew very well that she was a nutcase almost immediately, beating the school administration to that knowledge by several years. Late middle age had not been kind to Mrs. De-Range; in fact it had been quite brutally unkind. She was a tall, gawky Olive Oyle figure of a woman, with faded reddish hair scraped back in a meager old-fashioned bun, long, yellowish teeth like a horses’ and a figure like a lumpy and half-empty sack suspended from narrow, coat-hanger shoulders. As a teacher she was fairly competent in the old-fashioned way; a strict grammarian and exacting with punctuation, wielding a slashing red pen with little regard for our delicate self-esteem. She expected us to keep a special folder of all our classroom and homework assignments, to methodically log them in by their assignment number, make a note of the grade received, and keep them when she returned them to us, all splattered over with red ink corrections. This was eccentric, but bearable; as teacher requirements went, not much variance from the normal.
What wasn’t normal were the sudden rages. In the middle of a pleasant fall day, doors and windows open for air, and the distant pleasant sound of a ball game going on, and maybe the drill team counting cadence drifting in from the athletic fields, when we were engaged in a classroom assignment, nothing but the occasional rustle of a turning page, the scritch of pencil on paper, someone sniffing or shifting in their chair… Mrs. Range would suddenly slam a book on her desk and go into a screeching tirade about how noisy we were, and how she wouldn’t put up with this for a minute, and what badly-behaved, unteachable little horrors we all were. We would sit, cowering under the unprovoked blast of irrational anger, our eyes sliding a little to the right or left, wondering just what had set her off this time. What noise was it she was hearing? Her classroom was always quiet. Even the bad kids were afraid, spooked by her sudden spirals of irrational fury.
I have no idea how much of this was communicated to our parents, or if any of them would have believed it. But I am pretty sure that Mom had Mrs. Range’s number, especially after the legendary teacher’s conference— called at the request of Mrs. Range. I had too many missing or incomplete assignments, and it seemed that she took a vicious pleasure in showing Mom and I all the empty boxes in the grade-book against my name, at the after-school conference in the empty classroom. This was almost as baffling as the sudden rages, because I was fairly conscientious—a little absentminded, sometimes, a little too prone to daydream— but to miss nearly a third of the assignments so far? “Show your mother your class-work folder,” commanded Mrs. Range, and I brought it out, and opened it on the desk; my own list of the assignments, logged in as they were returned to me, the corrected and graded assignments all filed neatly in order.
All of them were there, every one of the ones that were blanks in Mrs. Range’s book, corrected and graded in her own hand, all checked off on my list. Mom looked at my folder, at Mrs. Range’s own assignment record, and said in a voice of velvet gentleness “I believe we have solved the problem of the missing assignments. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Range— will there be anything more?” Mrs. Range’s face was unreadable. There was the faintest gleam from the steel gauntlet, the tiniest clink audible, when Mom threw it down, adding “Of course, we will pay… special attention… to the completing of all Celia’s class and homework assignments after today. Good grades are very important to us.” Mom took up her car keys, “Coming, Celia?” Out in the parking lot, she fumed. “Horrible woman… and such a snob. She went to a perfectly good teacher’s school in Texas, but she groveled so when I told her that your father and I went to Occidental… it was embarrassing. And so strange to have missed so many of your assignments… good thing she had you keep them.” “Yes,” I said, “A very good thing.” I was still trying to puzzle the look of Mrs. Range’s face; bafflement, fury frustrated of an intended target.
What on earth had she been thinking, what sort of mental lapse was this? I would never know, but two years later, after I had moved on to High School, JP came home with the intelligence that Mrs. Range had truly and ultimately lost it, melting down in the middle of a tirade to a class of terrified students, from which— according to JP—she had been removed by men in nice white coats armed with a strait-jacket, drugs and a large net. The school administration may have been shocked, but I am confident that none of her former students were surprised in the least.
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