what was going on. He said, “This is what’s going on” and pulled a half gallon of wine out from under his jacket. He took the top off and chugged some of the wine down. Looking at me with a wild look in his eyes, he said that he had stolen it from the winery down the street! That’s when I began to drink. We drank some wine, then rode our bikes; this was kind of fun…or was it? Actually, I got sick a lot and wondered why people like the stuff.
Eric and I were like brothers. I actually spent more time with him than I did my real brother, Calvin. Calvin was into sports and really excelled in track and football as the running back. Calvin had his picture and story in the sports section of the local newspaper a few times. Calvin went to compete in the state finals in the 100-yard dash, and placed in the top ten; it was an honor for him to be there. My brother and I went to the beach in the summer a lot, and spent many hours conversing back and forth about every subject imaginable. In that way, he was a good big brother to me, but mostly he did his thing and I did mine.
I loved riding motorcycles with my friend Eric everyday. That was one of the things I always enjoyed during that time in my life. Eric and I would listen to albums like the Doors, the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and started to smoke some weed. We had fun together, and let our wild side go, well…wild.
One day, we started kidding around with each other about just taking off on our bikes and never coming back. We said things like, “We’ll show our parents; they will be sorry they didn’t listen; they will wish they loved us more.” Then the kidding around turned into the real thing. We gathered enough supplies to fit on the back of a motorcycle, sleeping bags, canned food and a couple hundred dollars. Eric and I devised a plan; we would leave as if going to school one day having already hid our supplies so we could pick them up later. We met one morning, loaded up the motorcycle, and just took off. We rode through the California desert and into Arizona.
We were running away and did not really know where we were going. We found ourselves up in the mountains of Arizona, near Prescott, when it started to snow. I have never been so cold in all my life; riding that motorcycle made the cold actually hurt. We stopped because our hands were going numb. I could not tell if I was holding on tight or not; we stopped to warm up but only got wet under the trees, ice and snow falling on us. I was seriously wondering, “Why am I doing this?” We ultimately turned around and camped out at Lake Mead for a few nights. I discovered that hanging out like this had a greater price tag than I thought. I was so hungry I would have eaten a rabbit raw if I could have gotten my hands on one. Bored and running low on money, we headed closer to home—the desert in Ocotillo Wells. We were familiar with that area, having ridden out there many times on weekends.
We went to a bridge where a dry wash underneath made a good place to camp out. Eric was riding around on his 500cc Triumph like it was a dirt bike. He would take off across the desert and be gone for an hour or two; sometimes I wondered if he was coming back. I just lay under that bridge and thought about home. I wondered if anyone cared I was gone.
I was sitting there on the sand under the San Felipe Creek Bridge when I heard a voice that sounded like my dad’s. At first I thought I was dreaming, but I looked up and there was my dad climbing down the steep embankment. I could not believe it! How did he find me? I thought to myself, are you dreaming? My dad walked up to me, just smiled and said, “Carl, are you ready to come home yet?” The way he said it, I wanted to cry. I felt bad for leaving the way I had. Was I ready? I was so ready; I was dirty, hungry, tired, and needed some real sleep. I needed to be around people who loved me.
Later when we got home, I asked my dad how he found us under that one bridge 120 miles out in the desert. He said that he and my mother were so worried about me that for several days they could not sleep. They decided to go look for us themselves. They knew we liked Ocotillo Wells so they drove out there.
As they were driving down the highway and approaching a bridge, my mother looked at my dad and said, “Glen, stop the car on the bridge. Carl is here.” My dad said, “What do you mean? Do you think he’s here?” “No, I know he’s here. Carl is here.” She pointed and said, “Go look under there.” Those were her exact words, and she was exactly right. My mother and father were praying people, and I am sure that God had an angel direct them to me in the middle of the desert that day.
MY HIGH SCHOOL DAYS
While I was still in high school, I remember feeling the peace of God come over me in a powerful way. I met a young man in his twenties at a youth meeting at one of the high school students’ homes. His house was open to students one night a week. I was invited by one of the other kids to come, so I thought why not, if it is boring I can leave. It was not boring, it was fun, and I felt good when it was over—as if I had done something very healthy for my spirit.
The only thing about this meeting was that it was somewhat crowded and to this day, I avoid crowds whenever possible. We were packed into a family room, probably 30 kids or so and I did not like being crowded.
I skipped going the next week, but someone told me about a friend who went to another Bible meeting, and that I could go with him if I wanted to. This young man was very nice; he had a VW van which was way cool then. He picked me up and we drove to a church where the people were having a service. It was somewhat different. There were people in the front waving their arms around and talking loudly; one woman was in the front and a few of the others gathered around and prayed to cast out the demons. She fell to the floor, and I thought, what happened? Did she die? I asked my friend about it on the way home as he drove us back through the thick fog.
He explained to me some things about Ephesians 6 in the Bible, spiritual warfare and putting on the full armor of God. I thought it was only for certain people. I did not go with him to anymore of those meetings. I think it was just too deep for me at the time. I was also young and did not understand the importance of living right spiritually.
ART CLUB
The one thing I connected with in high school was art. I loved to paint with different medias. I had fun with some abstract and impressionistic sort of still life. I liked to draw with pencil and tried my hand at some sculptures. I painted with acrylics and watercolors too. I had one art teacher who was very impressed with my work; she actually bought a painting from me, and I counted that a huge compliment. I kept trying different techniques because of her encouragement. It was a fun way to express myself and I even landed a couple of my works in a local gallery.
The school had an Art Club which had the leaders elected each year. I was in one of my art classes one day when the teacher began asking for nominations for Art President. A couple of people raised their hands and nominated themselves and then someone nominated me. I spoke up and said “No, I would not know what to do as president of the Art Club,” but a bunch of people insisted. They voted and before I knew it, I was elected president. It turned out I had to speak at the meetings which was really good for me.
My father did not like the idea of me as an artist. In fact, he yelled at me several times concerning this. He said loudly, “No son of mine is going to be a useless artist! Forget that sissy stuff and do something manly!” The disconnection between us was more than I could handle; it was another reason to go and get high.
My father could not understand why I was not interested in the football team. I just wasn’t. Sure I could play the game. I was as big as any of the other guys, stronger than most, was 6 foot tall at 16 years old and worked out everyday. It just was not my thing.
I also had played the trumpet since I was very young. My father’s brother, who was killed on his Harley Davidson shortly after returning from the Navy in WWII, had played the trumpet in church. My father had held onto that trumpet for several years. When I was eight years old, my father asked me if I wanted to play it. I said yes, and he hired a teacher to come once a week to give me lessons. By the time I signed up for band in junior high, playing the trumpet was second nature to me. I knew that I was the best the high school had. I heard the lead trumpeter play and felt I could take the first chair away from him.
The first day of my first year in high school, I reported for band. The teacher made a comment in front of the