Just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your book. I jotted down a few things that resonated for me.
My dad was a Beta at University of Cincinnati.
Reef Points! How can we ever forget them!
Rifle range. Who can forget those Marines!
Heinz Lenz was still there for me, too. (I think he died only in the last couple of years?)
Joe Duff. He still coached baseball, but he and I never crossed paths. I made the plebe and varsity sailing teams while I was there (1967-1971), but was not the athlete you were. But those T-tables plebe year were a Godsend! And for the sailing team, it was for BOTH fall and spring sets.
Joe Bellino. I loved watching those games. And Roger Staubach, how lucky you were to be there during his era, too. Roger came and talked at our pep rally in 1967 before the Army/Navy game. (He was trying to make it with the Cowboys at that time.) We won that year and received "carry on" like you did.
Like you, I thoroughly enjoyed being on the "plebe detail" second class year. As luck would have it, the very next summer the Academy decided to put first class in charge of the detail, so I got to do it again!
Pensacola. Great times! I certainly wasn't the "ace of the base," but finished high enough (4 of 30 that week) to choose any pipeline I wanted (helos, jets, or props)---and they were all open that week.
My A-7 primary instructor in T-34's nearly shot me for picking helos, but guys from '68 and '69 were telling us how much fun they were having flying them (while we were still back at the Academy). Plus, I found that whenever I climbed above 5000 feet, I lost the real sensation of flying. I also found that to be true as a second class midshipman flying in the back of an F-4 at Oceana (the "Diamondbacks"). In helos I knew I would spend most of my flying career at 500 feet and below. (In Desert Storm we frequently flew at 10 feet and as fast as that Blackhawk would go!) I never regretted my decision.
Army helo pilot Hugh Thompson. What courage! (I used his example in my first book, Inspiring Leadership: Character and Ethics Matter, now used in the Leadership/Ethics curricula at Villanova and Regent Universities.)
Olongapo! Amazing place. If you closed your eyes, you actually thought the Rolling Stones were playing---or any other big name group for that matter. And those kids diving for pesos! The helo hangout was the Roofadora Club, as I recall.
Our helo squadron aboard the USS Constellation in 1974 made three daily trips ("liberty runs") to Bagio, Manila, and Clark AFB while we were in port at Cubi Point/Subic. We charged a dollar per person (which went to the rec fund). Needless to say, we were the most popular squadron on the ship, especially among the Filipino stewards! LOL.
And last but certainly far from least, your amazing work as a lawyer for the UFW. What a legacy for you! You can be justifiably proud of those years!
Anyway, Dan, thought you should know how much I enjoyed your book. One of these days we'll have to meet for lunch.
After the first UFW labor convention was held in Fresno from September 21-23, 1973, Joan and I decided to visit Yosemite for a natural uplift. We rented a tent in Curry Village at the floor of Yosemite Valley not far from swift flowing, Yosemite River. My body and mind felt so relaxed in this pristine environment, I laid back and allowed the sun to warm me and the wind to blow in my face. Attracted by the magnetic force of nature’s beauty everywhere, we walked out through the waving meadows, towering pines, and resting deer to steepled rock formations and fallen red woods.
We were mesmerized by the reflections of nature in the Yosemite River! Most of the water flowing in Yosemite comes from snow-melt in the high country, so runoff decreases during the dry summer. Peak runoff typically occurs in May or June, with some waterfalls often only a trickle or completely dry by August. Other waterfalls, including Vernal, Nevada, and Bridalveil run all year; however, their flow can be very low by late summer.
Near Yosemite Lodge, I watched the smoothed rocks glistening through the surface of the river from eons of time, billions of molecules of water striking surfaces, ever shaping the meandering river so that it appears different each visit.
Our trek took us to a bridge and the ever-energetic Vernal Falls tumbling from a precipice a few miles away yet in walking distance up a steep pathway of seemingly carved rock. As we ascended the pathway known as the Mist Trail, we traveled under overhangs and around huge granite formations balancing carefully close to the mountain’s edge. Our eyes drifted to the chasm below ever spiraling down to a pool of greenish blue clear water.
There the sparkling waterfall dropped its winding column of water twisting in the wind over a four hundred foot fall, then shattered the silence with its skittering splashing sounds. Nature had created a rainbow that quivered with the falling water separating into one, two, or three waterfalls in a constantly changing pattern.
Slowly as we trudged carefully on an incline flexing our hamstrings and calf muscles with a full stretch each lunge, we eventually reached an escarpment where we rested. I looked down above the wavy stream of descending translucent chilled liquid from the melting snow-pack above. As we looked upstream, we observed a natural channel through which the blue green fluid passed over a bronze smooth volcanic surface. There it had cut patterns over the many years of erosive activity as if nature had taken a knife to sculpt it for the pleasure of those who admire it. We had reached a hard fought location where the view of Vernal Falls appeared completely different from the vantage point of the pedestrian bridge. Most travelers only saw it from that quick stop and did not tackle the steep and challenging rugged trail we enjoyed.
In another half mile we reached the vista all Yosemite visitors covet, which one can see even from Yosemite’s Valley at the right perspective. We had an unobstructed view of Half Dome and a 360-degree panoramic spectacle of the surrounding peaks, crags, mountains, and huge granite boulders of every size and dimension under white puffy clouds dotted with patches of blue sky.
Red Tailed Hawks, Falcons, Buzzards flew in circles riding thermals and gliding great distances when they rhythmically moved their outstretched wings. We saw Steller’s Jay, American Robin, Acorn Woodpecker, Ravens, and Mountain Chickadees in the pine forests and near rivers and streams American Dipper Dart, White and Gray Herons, and a curious squirrel.
Yosemite Valley’s astounding and marvelous rock formations soaked our spirit. Hungry for sights foreign to the flat San Joaquin Valley, magnificent splendor contrasted with our Bakersfield shanty. We gradually worked our way down a mule path, which dropped rapidly. Soon the trail’s angle encouraged us to trot, then lope like deer. We tried to find a cadence and rhythm to ease our way down. Ever nearer the edge, we followed the trail until we reached the Valley floor.
We returned to our tents in tranquility to dream of the astounding images we had seen. At sunrise, we left this wonderland on the curving road back to work, industry, and commitment. We felt refreshed from our energetic experience of nature’s most wonderful gifts that feed the soul, always available to the observant when in need of inspiration.
Daniel C. Lavery,
(Ruthie’s Nature Lesson, by Daniel C. Lavery, an excerpt from All the Difference, Dan read at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena Sunday February 8, 2015 at "IWOSC Reads Its Own" presentation of various authors from 2-4 PM)
Grampa found a large property he bought in North Miami he called “the ranch.” Mom took me there when I pleaded to take my new BB gun to use on a visit. I took target practice on mangrove and palm trees, rocks, and fences as I wandered around a few acres of undeveloped land with many trees, shrubs, and swampy areas. I imagined my adventure took me through a jungle.
Something blue covering the ground moved under some white mangrove trees near a saltwater swamp as I approached. Blue land crabs congregated there in the thousands appearing at first like a blue carpet. They frightened me because many had a large claw that looked dangerous, scurried around more quickly than I imagined, and resembled large spiders.
Bigger than tarantulas, they had an outer covering that appeared a kind of armor. They scattered when I ran at them and shot my BB gun at the moving targets. War movies taught me about soldiers fighting with their rifles in World War II. Mom and grandmother Ruthie cheered me on when I marched around the dinner table singing military songs with my toy gun on my shoulder pretending I was a soldier.
In the wild foliage, I carried my BB gun as if in battle and ran after the enemy crabs. They retreated lifting their claws in hopeless defense and scuttled under trees in a moist boggy area that reeked with an odd smell like dank garbage. Pursuing my fleeing enemy determined to win the battle, I aimed at these moving targets and learned to shoot ahead of the direction they scooted. Accurately killing many creatures, I stalked them around trees and shrubs in torrid heat. My face became sweaty and the putrid odor emanating from the wet marsh was annoying.
Backtracking in an easterly direction, I heard a lively chirping sound. The source came from a partially hidden small dark bird sitting on a branch in the shade. Silently creeping past a thick stand of hardwood trees about twenty feet away, I feared it would fly away soon so stopped my heavy breathing trying not to frighten it. With my rifle butt in my right shoulder and the barrel pointing at my singing target, I took careful aim and squeezed the trigger slowly when I saw part of the bird in my sights. POW went the gun. The bird fell to the ground without a sound from my direct hit. Silence followed. I raced for a view of the target of my spectacular shot.
As I approached the fallen bird, I saw his colors slowly display themselves, lifted his limp body in my hand, and held him in the light of the sun.
He had a deep blue head, a blotch of bright yellow on his back, and green on the wings followed by a patch of black. His chest was red. An orange circle wound around his black eyes and his beak was white-gray. None of these colors was visible from a distance. My shot had killed the most beautiful bird I had ever seen. Sobbing because my shot killed one of nature’s most splendid creatures, and miserable for my cruelty, I stumbled home.
Ruthie saw the tears rolling down my cheeks and hugged me. “What’s wrong dear?”
“I just killed this beautiful bird with my BB gun.”
“Why that’s a painted bunting. I can see you are sad for ending its life. We must never kill anything nature created unless it is truly harming someone. That bird contributed his beauty and singing to our backyard. All living creatures have a place in nature we should respect.”
“I feel bad I killed it.”
“I know you do. Come, let’s bury the beauty.”
We dug a hole in the moist ground close by, placed his body in, and covered it with dirt. Ruthie put a tiny wooden cross on the spot from twigs to remember him.
“At first I used my BB gun just to take target practice, but then shot some blue crabs in the back pretending they were my enemy.”
The expression on Ruthie’s face changed. "Oh Danny!" She pulled out a book from her library, thumbed to an article: “You killed quite an interesting specimen that delivers its babies in salt water as larva who become baby crabs in forty-two days. The blue land crab determines direction using vibrations, landmarks, prevailing winds, and light during the day, and by identifying the brightest part of the horizon at night. Females carry their eggs on their skin for two weeks before depositing them in salt water. Aren’t they amazing? Promise never to mistreat our land crabs again.”
“I’m sorry I killed any.”
“Now look out the front window and tell me what you see between the rose bushes.”
“A giant spider in a huge web! It looks scary.”
“Use this paper, sit at the table, and sketch the Golden Garden Spider’s web.”
After drawing for a few minutes, I realized my fear of spiders might have made me kill it if Ruthie hadn’t caught my attention. Spending three hours depicting the web that wound in different directions and shimmered when the sunlight reflected off some of it, caused me to admire the fascinating insect. Ruthie saw the care I took in drawing the complex strands and patterns the large spider had woven.
“You have captured that Golden Garden Spider’s magnificent web. Let’s frame your drawing so we can appreciate what you drew. Now you won’t ever kill something man could not create.”
Knowing Dan had a life story with an important message of how one could change from a pawn in the military to a champion for the poor and powerless, motivation was never a problem. He retired as a civil rights attorney for farm workers and the poor from 1972 to 1976 and opened a private practice concentrating on civil rights, consumer protection, employment discrimination, and criminal appeals. Beginning with an autobiography for his outline he discovered from informal critique groups that he had much to learn about the craft of creative writing. This enhanced his understanding of authoring a book that would reach a wide audience. Creative writing classes at local community colleges enhanced his memoir as the writer developed his art from authors of many genres including memoir, poetry, and fiction. After five such courses he winnowed his sprawling story to a focused forty chapters and an "Afterward" that received strong support from writers, professors, friends, his editor, and many readers who wrote five star reviews. All the Difference will resonate with many readers, especially the baby boomers who lived through the same period, and is pertinent to all readers showing how a naval officer cheated death and defied the odds learning determination, integrity, tenacity, resilience, and litigation expertise regardless of what obstacles confronted him on his path to a productive life assisting others less fortunate.