Escondido, California. 04/05/09 A time of storytelling. I arrived at Maryann and Lew Culkins’ about 6 pm. They live on a hill overlooking Escondido and the many more hills of the North San Diego area. They fed me a wonderful meal and the storytelling began. Maryann and I sat in her hot tub, which soothed my weary body, and talked late into the night. We told tales of wisdom gained and lives lost, the ebb and flow of family and school. We came to the conclusion that our shared experience of advancing through Catholic education is the account of “same story, new nun”. I think I will write a play called “Nun on the Run with a Gun having Fun”, it will be a tale well spun. I went to bed utterly exhausted.
The next day we went to the Mission San Luis Rey and the Oceanside Pier. We shot the breeze while we watched the surfers shoot the pier. It was a beautiful day, the ocean breezes competing with our spoken wind. We watched two tiny children holding hands, peering and scooting excitedly at the wonderment before them. It is a moment of taking in the pure beauty of Southern California and the human condition on a Sunday afternoon. It seemed as if nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment in time. But of course to get back we have to partake of the jarring reality of “the freeway” and aggressive, angry drivers ready to run us over at a moments notice.
Before and during dinner, Lew rounded into form as a master storyteller. His tales of Ireland, his heritage “by Dod grandma there is somebody on my acre” and military experiences are replete with details that amaze me. He calls them forward at a moments notice and they flow in a manner only an Irishman can achieve (I have to BS a lot to have the same effect). My stories of driving a jeep in Germany and starting the group SIDIPO (The Society for the Institution of Democratic Ideals through Peaceful Overthrow) in Fort Campbell pale before his stories of secret intrigue on the Turkish border with Russia, listening for any nugget of information that might give us the slightest advantage over the Russkies and dodging MIG jets as he hangs from an intelligence antenna. His assumed identity as Gaza Pasha Mahlahassi and living in Turkish quarters with bad cooks seems right out of John Le Carre. My night ended early as this old guy got tired fast, assisted by a nice dose of good German wine.

04/06/09 I got up way too early again, @4:45. I took a photograph of their beautiful living room and then created a painting of it. Maryann had made an appointment for me with the owner of an Indian shop in Escondido. He is a really good guy and helped me with a couple of important things but his business is down and he's not buying. We had lunch at an Irish pub and solved a few more of the worlds problems, an important Irish tradition. We got back and it was time to leave the Culk-Inn. Maryann you are a kind, gentle, humble and strong soul who has a lot to say and I thank you for helping me sharpen my focus. Sweet Lew from South Sioux, the prince of Cannaghanally, you are a very fun storyteller. The two of you make a great couple, thanks for the hospitality. It is off for Laguna Beach and the high life.
Actually, it is just the beach life. As I arrive at Crescent Cove, a young man is leaving, an accoustic guitar in hand. Nothing has changed in the 43 years since Tim and I cruised SoCal beaches (guitar in hand). Young men still think they can attract young women with guitars on the sand. When will they ever learn, when will they eevveerr learn. I guess it still works.
I stopped at the Bushard Drug Store and visited the owner, the daughter of Joseph Bushard, the founder. She thinks her ancestors have French Canadian Indian blood and someone has done a lot of reasearch so she promises to send me a copy. If I leave my windows open tonight, I will be able to listen to the sound of surf as I fall asleep, which is going to happen very soon. Jon