The Flutter of a Butterfly's Wing--Bryan F.

Today, October 14th is the fifty-seventh anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Fortunately, we had an able leader in John Kennedy at that time to bring us through safely. It was a little luck and some quick on his feet learning on Kennedy’s part that would save the day and perhaps the world as we know it. Khrushchev thought Kennedy weak and sought to exploit Kennedy's youthful inexperience.  Khrushchev’s plan was to demand the removal of missiles from Turkey, which was a potential threat to Russia in exchange for the removal of missiles he was trying to secretly install in Cuba. Russia had no missile that could reach the continental United States at the time, sans Alaska. A blockade of Cuba stopped the completion of the Russian missile installation in Cuba. It was a close call. Even at eight years old I felt the fear that gripped my parents and the nation at large.  

Around the same time, my family and I would be gripped with a different fear over an incident that was about to occur where my father worked at Mira Loma Air Base in California

Present-day picture of 635 Pomona St. The house to the right was the Moore's.

Back in 1961 and '62, I lived with my family in Bloomington,_California. Bloomington was a very small, sleepy, rural town. It bordered Colton, California where my Dad was born in 1932. Our house was on Pomona Street, a decent lower cost 1500 share foot, three-bedroom, one and a half bath mid-century modern ranch style, built in 1959. The living room was in the back of the house, sliding glass door facing the backyard. The bedrooms were along a hallway leading from the living room, one bath right at the beginning of the hall and next to the entry hall. The kitchen was the other direction in the front part of the house off the entry hall and in front of the living room with another door at the other end leading to the living room. Another door from the kitchen led to the attached two-car garage that set out in front of the kitchen.

A very large and dark orange grove ran along the back of the houses on our block. It was many acres; orange groves a common sight during that time in Southern California. The fragrance of orange blossoms and smudge pots are permanently etched in my childhood memories. Smudge pots were used to raise the temperature in the groves during the occasional frost to save the fruit from freezing and being lost. They often left a haze in the valley sky that would last till late morning. My maternal Grandpa actually did a side gig, getting up late at night, or was it very early morning, to go set up and light these pots. He was a very hard worker. Not a big deal for a former farmer from Missouri. The extra money was a big help, I'm sure.

My Dad worked as a civilian guard at the gate of Mira Loma Air Base, it's not there anymore. You could buy a house with a VA loan and have four kids in 1961 and work as a guard. Dad had served in the military from 1951 to 1955 and did not re-enlist because it would have meant a move to Washington, DC. My Mom was not prepared to move that far from her family in Highland, California. Dad loved the military and applied to work as a civilian and this brought him to Mira Loma and the tiny town of Bloomington.

I was not always proud of my dad's decisions but there were some he got right. When he was approached by a fellow civilian guard with an invitation to join a local chapter of the American Nazi Party, he did the right thing, he became a whistleblower. It had not been that long in 1962 since World War II and most folks saw Nazis as the enemy and anti-American. Now, I can't get specific about what military regulations were broken by this Nazi person but apparently, this was something you were not supposed to do on military property, recruiting for the Nazi party that is.  Remember, I was only eight years old and this particular subject was not brought up by my Dad in later years, unlike his ramblings about his military service or his childhood adventures in San Bernardino that he often regaled us with. This one was scary and I think he and my Mom were actually afraid to talk about it much after what we went through with the ordeal of him turning that guy into the military authorities. So, I'm going on my age eight memories.  I may not have every detail exactly right, but other than archived FBI records, I don't think there is anyone left alive today that could do a better job. I am known to have pretty good recall, a kind of photographic record of much of my life. Not a perfect record and not a photographic memory, but a good one that my siblings can't compete with. My maternal grandmother had a similar memory.

Anyway, back to the story. As I said, Dad turned this guy in and the guy got an FBI interrogation and the loss of his job for his trouble. So here’s where it gets a little hairy, the guy lives across the street and a  few doors down. Did I mention this was a very small town. So that had to be uncomfortable for everyone involved. 

Some time goes by and my Dad is as usual working the graveyard shift at the base and even gets a commendation for saving an officer's life, who was involved in an auto accident right outside the gate of the Air Base. Did I say he got some things right? He did. Anyway, this one night while my Dad was at work my Mom came into the bedroom I shared with my brothers, she already was tugging at my sleepy sister's arm and she whispers, "get up and be quiet". I had no idea what was up, this had never happened before. She herded us into that bathroom that I mentioned earlier, next to the front entry hall. As I began to gain some of my senses I realize she was holding a huge butcher knife through the crack in the door just enough so she can see out. We kids had no idea what was going on and none of us cried. We never really did a lot of crying anyway and I’m sure my Mom was relieved because she was just really focused on listening. After what seemed like a long time a loud banging came from the front door and a voice I recognized yelled, "Mary it’s me, Roy," of course, we all jumped. I think my brothers had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor by then. My Mom had called him before she had gathered us up.

My Mom rushed out to the welcome sound of my uncle Roy’s voice and quickly opened the door and ushered him in. She told us to go back to bed, but I stayed up because I was the oldest and the man of the house when my Dad was gone, uncle or no uncle. I sat quietly as she told my uncle what had happened. I don’t think the police were called that time, I’m a little foggy and I’m not sure my Mom understood who was responsible for her alarm at that point. Or, whether she thought it her imagination. A vulnerable twenty-seven-year-old woman, home alone at night with babies can sometimes have an active imagination and she knew that. That it was likely the Nazi, would be figured out later. She explained that she heard a noise, like a gate opening and then maybe some footsteps. She yelled out something like, my husband has a gun before calling uncle Roy and ushering us into that bathroom. That probably scared the prowler off. 

So then it happened again and by then my Dad and uncle had determined it might be the Nazi but did not rule out a vagrant from the orange grove or a burglar.  My Mom dialed the sheriff this second time. They were a small force and only a couple for the whole town, so it would take a while for them to arrive.  They beat my uncle Roy, who was coming from San Bernardino. The bang on the door this time was “Ma’am, Sheriff's department.” My Mom answered the door with a butcher knife in her hand and the sheriff deputy thought nothing of it and took the report. We exited the bathroom and I joined my Mom and the Deputy, while my siblings staggered back to their beds. My uncle Roy arrived shortly after. This time it seemed purposeful, the person shaking the sliding glass door handle in a way that seemed designed more to scare than to gain quiet entry. This time she knew it was not her imagination. By then we were pretty sure that the Nazi was carrying out revenge by terrifying his accuser's family. Doing so when he, the Nazi, knew my Dad was at work. I can imagine that my Mom had the thought that this guy might rape her had he gained entry. I can’t remember exactly how many more times this happened, but when my Dad shared this with his military bosses, an FBI investigation was begun and finally, the harassment stopped. I believe we were under protective FBI surveillance for awhile. My memory is sketchy on the FBI details. I was not as privy to that information at my age.

This all caused my Dad to ask for a transfer and he was moved to Norton Airbase in San Bernardino. Not that far away from Bloomington but my Dad didn’t like to drive too far and my parents' nerves were shot and the Nazi still lived across the street. So we left our home and our dear friends, our next-door neighbors the Moores. My Mom remained friends and even sold water softeners with Elva Moore in Barstow long after we’d left. The nazi cost us our beautiful home, but not my Mom’s friendship with Elva. I would connect with two of the Moore kids Robin and Rick when Facebook became a thing. Randy became an attorney and Rene a professional dancer. Rene may still be living in the house next door on Pomona.  Mom, Dad, Kenny, and Elva are all gone now. I like to think that if not for that Nazi bastard we would have had more trips to Salton Sea with the Moores and rides in their ski boat and maybe some life long friendships. They were good people, the Nazi was not.

I did not understand what the connection was at the time, but I would for years after and even into young adulthood experience intense night terrors. Often an angry figure chasing me over hill and ravine. I would run and run the whole dream. It was, I see now, that bastard Nazi.

The last weird occurrence was in about 1966 when a slow driving car passed our house in the Del Rosa area of San Bernardino and took some pictures of us kids playing in the front yard. People didn't just have a camera in their cars in those days like they do now. My parents thought it might have been the FBI, but did that really make sense? So, erring on the side of caution, we moved again leaving behind new friends and a nice house and school. 

My Mom thought that the Nazi might have found us by following her home one time when she was visiting Elva Moore, in Bloomington and learned of our new location. So, we moved to our new home on 24th street on the westside of San Bernardino, where I enjoyed lockdowns at lunch hour because of chain fights at my junior high school. We had a nice built-in pool in our new backyard but thank goodness my Dad got itchy again, not the Nazi this time, and we were off to a new place for my 8th-grade year, a much safer school. 

The chaos of hatred is so toxic and like the flutter of a butterfly's wing can cause devastation on the other side of the world, or right across the street.

Let us take care with each step, with every word.

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