Sometimes it pays to be adventurous

I was on my way home. Home, in this instance, being the Holiday Inn Express, Rosemead, when I asked my helpful and practical navigation device to help me find something for dinner. Since the Holiday Inn Express, Rosemead, has no fitness center, I figured I might as well eat dinner before I got home.

You handful of consistent visitors to my blog know that my preference for dinner is a dive taco shop. So when I saw the San Isidro Mexican Restaurant pop up, I knew where I was headed for dinner.

As it turned out, San Isidro (which, by the way, is spelled differently than the city of San Ysidro, south of San Diego, hard on the border of Baja California), was not a dive taco shop, but an honest to goodness sit down Mexican restaurant. All that it needed to lure me inside, was the neon beer sign glowing within its windows.

I had to make a bunch of phone calls before I went in, confirming all of my training sessions for next week. That being done, I prepared myself mentally for a leisurely dinner.

As I walked in, there was a Mariachi group preparing itself for entry into San Isidro.

I was greeted by no one when I walked in. So I looked around a little. I saw someone wiping a table clean, but no other wait staff, or a hostess, so I wandered back over near the door and just waited, taking in the Mexican-style wicker and leather furniture common to places like this. The young woman who had been clearing the table approached and started speaking rapid-fire Spanish to me. I was not thinking quickly enough to reply "No entiendo Espanol" and blurted out something like, "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish". She said "For here, or to go". And when I replied "Here", she said "Anywhere". So I found a table, and as she politely asked if I'd like something to drink, I ordered a Negra Modelo, as they didn't have Dos Equis Amber, my beer of choice, but especially so in this environment.

A small amount of time passed, then the ever-present chips and salsa arrived - a wonderful accompaniment to my beverage. Browsing the menu, it soon became evident that San Isidro specialized in Pescado - Fish. So I decided on a bowl of shrimp soup with vegetables, and awaited the return of my green-bloused server. (The other waitress had a white blouse on). As I waited, the table in the other end of the "L", in the "L" shaped dining room, requested musical accompaniment from the mariachis, which band consisted of a couple of guitarists and a large acoustic bass. The band played several tunes and got me in the mood for a festive evening of music and food, but then left as no one else (myself included) was willing to fund them further.

Green blouse girl came back and asked for my order. I ordered the shrimp soup, and pointed to it on the menu, to be sure that she understood. She nodded, wrote it down and was off to place the order. As my first beer had already been consumed, she kindly brought me another.

While I was waiting for my meal, another mariachi band replaced the first. I couldn't help but think of the animated short about street musicians in one of Mattea's DVD's when I saw them. The band consisted of a bass drum, a snare drum and a tuba. I literally laughed out loud when I saw them. By this time, the table in the corner had been vacated, but the family that had been there was replaced by three young men with closely cropped hair - not the type of audience one would typically associate with a mariachi band. But they ordered up a round of music as well. So the tuba player rushed back toward the door, motioning to someone. It turned out that there were two trumpeters and two saxaphone players still warming up outside!

Let's just say that they were enthusiastic. Each, I believe, tried to play louder than his mate, in a room that was no bigger than a typical downstairs level in a two-level home. What made it particularly interesting was that each one of them seemed to have his favorite key, regardless of what anyone else was playing. They all seemed to be playing the same tune, but nevertheless, it came out as a cacophony of amazingly bad sounding noises. And then they continued for three more of the same. As they played, all I could do was laugh, and look at the faces of the other patrons in the restaurant, who, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion I had.

I took the opportunity to better take in my surroundings, as observation is a weak point of mine. The obligatory neon beer signs were everywhere - Tecate, Sol Cerveza, Negra Medelo, with the occasional Bud Light thrown in for good measure. But mixed in amongst the glowing artwork, were art prints to savor as well. The two faces, facing each other, that when looked at more closely, form a chalice or vase in between. The head of the old woman, who upon closer inspection, was not an old woman at all, but a naked young woman, posed near a waterfall. This was getting better all the time! Then my dinner arrived.

My shrimp soup had large chunks of halibut floating in it. Not what I had in mind at all. Right next to the shrimp soup on the menu, had been a mixed seafood/fish soup, which is what my waitress apparently thought that I had pointed to. When I tried to explain that I wanted shrimp soup, my waitress started speaking Spanish to me again, even though she knew that I did not understand her. I waited until she was done, and then told her that I wanted "Camaron". Shrimp. She told me that it would take 15 minutes, so I ordered another beer, my second seeming to have gone down as quickly as the first.

No sooner had the second mariachi band finished, than a third came in to San Isidro! And again, the three young men at the other end of the "L" ordered up! This third band though was a guitar, acoustic bass and accordian, and they actually played quite a lovely set, with wonderful vocals accompanying their instruments. I must admit that I find mariachi music, when properly presented, to be lively, fun, and very entertaining. This third group was exactly that. (And,no, the beer had not started to impact my appreciation).

My shrimp soup arrived, heavy on the broth, light on the vegetables, but adequately laden in large shrimp, so I enjoyed the rest of my meal thinking back to the three totally distinct musical performances just presented, and relishing the opportunity to have been a participant, rather than eating at some fast food restaurant that would be as cookie-cutter as any in America.

Sometimes it pays to be adventurous.

You never know...

Seattle, Washington. November, 1974.

Actually, to be more precise, it was Bremerton, an hour's ferry ride across the sound. My first real job.

I had enlisted in the Navy in January, 1974 to escape a small town life of pumping gas (which I had never done), or driving tractor (which I had, and didn't much want to do the rest of my life, as many had before). I graduated high school the previous June. I couldn't afford to go to college, and had no real desire to, even if I could. "Join the Navy and see the world!" In my first eleven months I'd been to three corners of the United States. Not bad, for a start.

My first year was taken up with training and schooling and preparing and screening. After all, it isn't everybody who could go to sea in a submarine for months on end.

The USS Nathan Hale (SSBN623). Blue Crew. The first time I saw my boat, it was suspended in the air and had very large holes in the side, through which machinery was being removed and replaced. I was so naive, I don't believe the thought ever occurred to me that those very large holes would need to be repaired for this 425 foot long, 33 foot wide beast to submerge to depths in excess of 400 feet.

It's funny, that. The only thing that we could say regarding our depth capability was that it exceeded 400 feet. But anyone that had access to "Jane's Fighting Ships" could see that we could safely submerge to 1300 feet.

That's where I met Troy.

We shared many things. Coming from small towns: mine in California, Troy's - Pennsylvania. A love of music. Troy got hold of a guitar somewhere, and was (like so many others) torturing all those around him with his never ending quest to learn "Stairway to Heaven". The desire to drink too much and sometimes live life a little more on the edge than we should. Hell, we were 18... we were invincible.

The years passed. We served together for three years. Shared time underwater together for about half that. "Join the Navy and see the World!" We saw the inside of a submarine. Boomers never go anywhere. That's what they call 'em - Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarines - "Boomers" for short. I'll let you conjure your own idea of the conversations that created the nickname. Boomers just take off, disappear, and come back three months later. Our longest patrol was 105 days. Continuously underwater. That gives you a long time to cultivate a friendship.

I remember one summer Troy and some of our buddies lived in a little place outside of Charleston (South Carolina, the new homeport of the Nathan Hale). Troy introduced me to some of the native flora and fauna. Let's just say the little pond by their house was designated "Lake Shroom".

We got out. Went our ways. But Troy always called. Sometimes quite some time would go by between our conversations. But Troy always called.

When he got married, Kim and I went back for the wedding. Anyone that knows me knows that my memory is roughly the equivalent of a burlap sack trying to hold water. Yeah... not much in there. But I do remember Troy being ecstatically happy with his young new bride, Sherry, who was just the sweetest thing.

More time passed. One Saturday morning Troy parked in our driveway, got out of his rented Cadillac (Troy couldn't rent just any old car!) and knocked on our door. Kim came to get me before opening it, because she couldn't really believe Troy would just show up on our doorstep. But he did.

Then Carley came, and he sent me a picture, and she looked just like him. Then a few years later, Corey came. Carley just turned 13, and Corey's 9. Where did all that time go, from when she was just a baby with a scrunched up face that looked just like her dad's?

Only once in all my travels did I manage to work anywhere near him, and stopped by to visit a few years ago. We didn't stay in touch as often as before, but every once in awhile, I'd still get a call when he got a new guitar. Or a new race car. Or another new toy. And we'd talk.

I'm going to miss Troy's calls.

Troy was going to call me. He wanted to tell me about his new motorcycle. But I'd moved since our last conversation, and our new number was listed under Theresa's name and I never gave it to Troy.

Sherry called me on Friday to tell me. Troy was killed when someone pulled out in front of him. He was three months older than me. Fifty two.

You never know.

How many people do you know...

who figure out the day of the week by how many pairs of socks are left in the suitcase? Three pair? Must be Wednesday.

Wouldn't you know it...

As soon as I write about how much I love sleeping with my kids, they run me out of bed.

The night after my last post, actually. There I am sleeping quietly next to Theresa (at least I think I was sleeping quietly next to Theresa) when all of a sudden an acrobatic act broke out on top of me. Well, maybe not, but it sure felt like it. Noah and Grayson had both made their way into the bed (Mattea was still in the blue bed, downstairs) and began doing flying leaps and somersaults and back flips on me. Not really, but it sure conjured up an image, didn't it? They were pushing up against me, and pushing with their feet. Their arms were flailing all about, and Grayson wanted to lay down on me again, but he was moving all over the place this time. Finally, I decided that if I wanted to get any sleep I'd need to move. So I went downstairs and slept with Mattea.

Such is life in Casa Hernandez.

Stuck in the middle with you

Long time readers of my blog must suffer through this yet again.

Newer readers will have had to dig into the archives to uncover this.

For those inclined not to delve into history, this may be new.

I'm going to write about sleeping with the kids again.

I love sleeping with my kids. I love the fact that my kids want to sleep with us. I love the idea that they wake up, scattered around the house, and one by one, wend their way into our bedroom and into our bed. And we end up in a pile in our bed in the morning.

I'm not sure exactly when this particular night was. I've been coming and going a lot lately, as I've been working in Southern California, so I'm home some nights during the week, as well as on the weekends. And sometimes I know when smaller beings have joined us, and other times I don't know until I wake up in the morning.

This particular morning, I remember recognizing that Theresa and I were not alone. Sometimes, at the conclusion of the migration, the children desire to be in a specific place on the bed. "I want to be next to you!" That works if only two such children express such a desire. On this particular morning, all of my kids must have been missing me, because they all wanted to be next to me. The last child to make his way into our sleeping chamber was Grayson. As he was climbing into bed, he said "I want to sleep next to you" and proceeded to squirm his way between Noah and me. This woke Noah up, and he didn't truly appreciate this turn of events. So, to satisfy all of my children, Grayson ended up laying down on top of me, placing his head on my chest, and falling peacefully back to sleep.

I'll probably remember that morning the rest of my life.