No Truckee, No Santa Cruz

Two towns we had the opportunity to see and didn’t were Truckee and Santa Cruz, both in California.  Truckee, as you perhaps know, lies on the northern end of Lake Tahoe and is a progressive, active mountain town with beautiful vistas, great architecture, and a colorful history.  As Day 11 says, "neither of us had ever heard of  it,” including Lake Tahoe itself, which is true. Nevertheless we had a good chance to stumble upon it . . . except that was during spat #2 with Otto, and we were too busy arguing and being pissy with each other.  I regret bypassing a region which I've since come to love.  We also missed Santa Cruz, a shame and our loss. I’ve since visited there several times, too, and cherish its ideal location high along the Pacific Ocean, and the funky beach stores, and open-minded people and amazing houses that wind through the hills.  But this time (Day 14) the overriding feeling was fatigue.  We spent the night there with muscles and minds aching.  We didn’t appreciate our surroundings and were anxious to get out of town as soon as we could.  Them’s the breaks!

The 65% Factor

All in all, inside and out, I’d say the book is 65% true.  That is a fair number.  That accounts for everything:  names that were changed, incidents altered or somehow smoothed over, tinkering with the timeline, adding some things, taking things out.  That’s why I’m careful to say this is a novel and not a memoir.  It’s more important to get across the message of the book rather than to have it serve as a log or chronicle.  The aspect of some tangibles may have been changed, but not the essence.  If anything, the essence is stronger because there is magic involved. I don’t want to give away too much, because that’s my artistic license as an author. But as an example, I’ll tell you the trip started on a Monday rather than a Sunday.  Why?  I needed an extra day on the timeline. Because I inserted that day at Hearst Castle (Day 18).  But totally made up?  Not really. It’s a compilation of visiting Hearst Castle in 2001 with my wife on our own cross-country trip (by car), and an overnight stay on a boat that my sister and I made to friends in South Jersey years ago.  Why move up everything a day on the calendar?  Because I wanted the struck-by-lightning story of July 17, 1971, to stay intact. So everything coming before got bumped up by a day. Make sense?

Getting Struck By Lightning

It’s totally true I got struck by lightning at Yosemite National Park on July 17, 1971 when I was 17 years old.  So it’s also true about the numerology of “7’s” lining up.  That story, from Day 21, unfolded just as you read about it.  The time of day really was 1700 hours military time (5 p.m.).  To be honest, I’m not sure about the number of stairway steps, but it was “about” 17.  My Uncle Ralph has long since passed away; Aunt Betty, too.  But if you can track down Otto, he’ll confirm it for you.  The bolt must have been pretty thin for me not to have suffered any effects, but I sure remember it clearly . . . a long, jagged bolt extending upward from my forehead into the heavens.  It felt like putting my whole head into an electric outlet. There is no way I should have been out there in the first place.  It was a poor choice on everyone’s part, including my own for acting so cavalier.  Ralph, who had been pushing us to see everything, got a reality check . He was scared that his over-zealousness might’ve gotten me killed.  Otto indeed said, "I thought it was curtains, Roger." Ever since then, I have been wary of lightning storms (can you blame me?)  I don’t want to defy the saying, “Lightning never strikes twice.”

Roger Delivers a Baby

The overnight ride through Wyoming with lonesome Bill and the third hitchhiker, Starla (from Day 8), is all true except when we get to the delivery-of-the-baby part in Utah. That is made up. Sorry troops, this author has never delivered a baby. But Roger Winans has! After four or five edits I got the medical procedure down; the rhythm of the words and the emotion of the moment felt right. It seemed to work, so I left it in. This actually came about on a suggestion from my wife. She read the story of Bill’s fascination with Starla, and commented, “Roger can deliver Starla’s baby, don’t you think? That chapter needs a good sendoff.” Yes! I thought. In real life, just as the book states, Starla appeared from out of nowhere. She was six months pregnant (instead of nine), and after she rejected Bill, disappeared on us after the ride was over without a word. From a reading perspective that was too sapping. Delivering the baby gives the story a proper lift. More explosion. It gives the female police officer a chance to say, “You guys are are inspiration to us mortals, both of you.” And it gives Otto a chance to shake his head at Roger and say, “Sons, you got tricks up your sleeve that would baffle Houdini.”

Do I Rag On My Parents Too Much?

People who’ve read the book make the comment, “I can tell you had a distant relationship with your parents growing up.” The comment is legitimate. My real-life dealings with my dad and mom, into my 30’s, were far from warm and fuzzy, or supportive. The family stayed intact over the years, but it was dysfunctional. I was always sore about the lack of “real conversation” by my parents toward us eager kids, as it says on page 75. They were into routine and small-thinking. They never encouraged me about my plans or dreams, nor guided me nor shaped my seeking. They were as conventional as Eisenhower. They weren’t adventurers, nor achievers. They had no idea what I was about. They were plain and harmless as white bread (here I go again with the negative comments). However, Roger’s eyes are opened in Colorado on page 68 when the outdoors natural girl tempers his complaint by saying, “Even so, you responded by becoming a leader. So it all worked out anyway, didn’t it?” From there he eases off. And then there’s the reconciliation at the end of the book when Roger meets his parents along the beach road at the New Jersey Shore (a true story). So there’s hope for this generational situation yet.

The Name Roger Winans

The name Roger Winans, the character based on my experience, was a little more conventional to come by. That is the name of a favorite boyhood friend from Fanwood, New Jersey, going way back. This is my way of remembering him, especially since our family moved when I was ten and I haven’t heard from him since. When we played together at LeGrande Park, or rode our bicycles to the borough limits, I WANTED to be Roger. He was outgoing, bubbling with energy, friendly to all, casually athletic, charming, smart, savvy—an all-around happy soul. That was better than my demeanor:  I tended to be more of an introvert, scared to reveal myself, more moody, more emotional. He’s the one who liked to eat green peppers as a snack (see page 48) which I picked up on and copied all my life. Of course many people today are familiar with the last name because of the Winans Family gospel singers, led by Bebe and CeCe Winans. So we know it’s pronounced Wi’-nans. But I also liked his name for my book because it is kind of nondescript . . . an American Everyman. I’m not sure of the heritage, but Aunt Betty on page 190 says, “You’re equal parts English, Welsh, Irish, and Flemish.”  So we’ll leave it at that.

The Name Otto George

Readers might wonder, “How did you come up with that strange name for your friend, Otto George?”  There was a method to my madness, indeed.  Neither do I think it’s strange at all . . . I like the name and am honoring my friend who took the trip with me.  I started out knowing I needed a palindrome, a backwards-forwards word, because that describes his wide personality.  He’s present/absent; mighty/meek; logical/bizarre; reasonable/ outlandish; intelligent/lacking; funny/scary; hot/cold.  The interchangeable twist could be extended to both first and last names as well, I realized.  His heritage is German-Irish.  Plus you don’t see the name ‘Otto’ in American literature much.  I had a roommate in college named Charlie Otto. I could honor two people at the same time.  All that appealed to me. Even so, I agonized about this name choice for years . . . that is, until I was in New York City one night with a bunch of friends in the 1980's.  As we walked down a street in Greenwich Village, I explained my dilemma to them, ending by blurting out an anguished prayer,  “Lord, am I supposed to keep this name or not?  Show me a sign.  Please.”  Not five minutes later, our group walked past the Bottom Line Cabaret.  The marquee said, “Appearing Tonight:  The Comedy of Otto and George.” Talk about divine intervention!  I learned later about the advertised act—Otto Petersen was a ventriloquist, and George was his puppet. That name was now written in stone. I wouldn't dare change it.