Get in touch
555-555-5555
mymail@mailservice.com
An UnLikely Beginning
DR Rawson • October 14, 2021
We all start out much different than what we become.
They are from left to right, David, DR, Dale Jean, and Diane Rawson.
The four Ds
Setting the stage at 6 years of age.
Everyone starts somewhere, and for me, my earliest memories begin about the time I was age 6.
We lived in a big old one-story home. It was gray and white with a large gabled roof. In front of it, there’s a half-circle driveway. Between the street and the apex of the half-circle, right in the middle, was a two-story static birdbath. My Mom would go out and put fresh water in it every morning.
Off to the right in that same area was a tall flagpole. My Mom would raise the flag every morning as well.
Between the entrance and exit of the driveway, and at the edge of the roadway, were a row of evergreen trees. There were six of them. My Dad planted all six of them except the two in the center; he let me help with one and the other, he let my best friend and next-door neighbor, Kenny, help with that one. The trees were all the same height when Dad planted them. However, like the difference between Kenny and me, after two years of growth had passed, his was much smaller than mine. When I was nearly eighteen years old, I found the house, and his tree was still much shorter than mine. To this day, Kenny is still smaller than me; he is 5’ 7,” and I’m 6’ 3”.
There was a lot of grass between the street and the apex of the half-circle. On the left side of the home was an open field where my Dad would plant a variety of food for our family to eat. Every year my Dad and I turned the soil and added something in bags that we had hand thrown onto the ground and worked into the soil with shovels my Dad and I used.
My life, as I remember it, all began on the ranch. And this is where it all began for me. It is where my first memories take place. We had more than 2,000 rabbits that we raised and sold to butcher shops in El Cajon, CA, where we lived. We also raised more than 200 turkeys, 100 or more chickens, and four pesky ducks. Two of them were Mallards, and two were Drakes.
El Cajon Boulevard and 19th street was the exact location. Friends and family used to refer to the place as the end of the world. The next stop on a very long dusty dirt road was Mexico.
My Mom and Dad were still in their late twenties, my Sister Diane, Brother David, and little Sister Dale Jean. So the family called us the four Ds.
Diane and I both worked our little ranch (that’s what Dad always called it). Mom took care of the family’s needs. Diane fed the Turkeys, Chickens, and Ducks. My job was to feed and care for the Rabbits.
As a family, we depended on these animals for food and money. We also sold all the fresh eggs we didn’t use. I still remember “candling” the eggs to make sure there was only a yolk inside the egg. Yuck. Not a fun job. Diane would put the eggs onto a crate flat to be delivered to our friends and neighbors when Dad came home from work.
Our large backyard had a pepper tree over the outside patio and bar-b-que that Dad made. There was a set of four swings, horseshoes, and three outbuildings—one for fun, one for Chickens, and one for Turkeys (the Ducks roamed free).
Dad made benches out of two by fours, and there were two of them. The fun building was a skating rink for our friends and us when they came over. We also had two dartboards. In addition, there were six rows of Rabbit cages and a slaughter area where we removed the Rabbit hides. We sold the furs and the dressed-out rabbits to local butchers who would pick them up every Saturday afternoon.
Life was ideal and fun. But, as I learned much later in life, it wasn’t the fun I had imagined or thought I remembered. As Dad and Mom (separately) recounted our lives and times, it was hard on my parents and us as children as well.
As it turned out, my parents had done what their parents had done for hundreds of years. They always make the best of the situation they were in at the time.
Across America, in rural towns and cities, this story is repeated over and over again. Yet, the advantages gained far outweighed the challenges and hardships we didn’t even realize we were enduring.
One of the many things that happened during that time was:
My hands and chin are attached to a T-shaped piece of pipe with several strands of the worst cotton-wrapped wire one can imagine.
When electricity was introduced, manufacturers put cotton fiber over the copper wire to protect and insulate the wire. Over time, that cotton disintegrates, leaving the wire bare. This wire had been in its place for many years. Now the wire was bare, and as a kid, I had no idea what or why it was happening. The bare wire was a disaster waiting to happen. It was waiting for someone like me, without knowledge, to touch it.
Several days before this event, my Dad spent a few hours teaching me how to work with electricity. His goal was to replace all the wire we were using to improve the light in the Turkey, Ducks, Chickens, and Rabbits cages. Instead, we raised them for the market.
My Dad worked two jobs to support the six of us. The rest fell to me except for preparing the animals for the market (killing and dressing). I wanted to surprise my Dad and use what he had taught me to bring the Rabbit hutches up to snuff with new wire. Well, I ended up nearly electrocuting myself at the same time.
When I climbed the rabbit hutches to arrive on top, there were many more wires than I expected. A network of cotton fiber-wrapped electrical wire ran along the top lip of the cages in every direction. Although I quickly realized that replacing a few wires would not accomplish much, I decided to climb down. My mistake was relying on the T-shaped fixture to support my weight; that was the wrong move. Instead, it had a live 110 volts of current running through it courtesy of a lot of bare wires.
Too late, my hand was now glued to the T and shaking. So I used my six-year-old power of deductive reason to use the other hand to free the first hand. That was a Mistake. If that wasn’t bad enough, my chin suddenly was drawn to the top of my hands, and now my whole head was abuzz with electricity.
What happened next was a true miracle. My five-year-old Sister was watching in horror. She ran to the house in what might have been the fastest 100-yard dash on record (for a five-year-old) to get to the place where Mom was doing laundry. Mom could see what was going on from the house and rushed another 50 yards to the electrical cut-off. She shut everything off, then she raced over to get me.
I fell like a rock to the ground. I was breathing but not well. Mom helped me walk back to the house. There, for some unexplainable reason, Mom felt the need to draw me a bath, and in I went. The Doctor said it was a mistake to have placed me in water so quickly (I still don’t know why). Too late, the damage, if any, would have already been done. It took a few days for the event and the trauma to wear off. All I had left were some scars on my hands. Only one is still evident. Some would say that it was UnLikely he would ever be successful at anything with a mistake like that. Well.
Accidents happen on ranches and farms. It’s almost considered the nature of the beast. You’re always finding yourself in a situation where you don’t have what you need, but being clever and creative, you devise a workaround that sometimes just doesn’t go as planned.
You can address your comment to one or millions since 1964.
Admiration, that’s how it began for me. My parents died at age 42 and 44 respectively. At 19 years of age, I would begin my family with a wife of two years, a 15-year-old brother, and a 13-year-old sister. The only person older than me was my Grandfather. He called me to say that I was not alone. He told me to rely on prayer. He also said, anytime I didn’t know what to do (next), give him a call. I did. Over the ensuing years, there were many calls. There were more in the beginning and less as my family, including my siblings, grew to eight (for a time). My Grandfather said, “When you call, I will give you the principle upon which to make a decision. Make no mistake, the decision will be yours and yours alone.” When he was 87 he called me from Lake Isabella where he was living. I was living in Bakersfield, CA, and was reasonably close to him. I was forty minutes away. He said, “DR, I need you to pick me up today and take me to the hospital.” I asked why, knowing he would tell me in his own time. When I arrived, he was packed and quickened his pace to get in my car. He was not a man of many words. However, on the way to the hospital, he became “chatty Kathy.” He had so much that he wanted to say to me. He could hardly speak fast enough. Included were instructions, words of wisdom and so much more. Just before we pulled into the hospital's parking lot, he stopped talking and waited for me to park. Once parked, he said, “Will you become a Mason?” I said, “You know I’m running a business that covers three states. I hardly see my wife and kids now. Why would I take on more?” Here’s what changed my life. He said, “You know all of those principles and values we’ve discussed over the years? I said, “Of course. They have made me a better man.” He said, “How would you feel about becoming a Mason if you understood that the principles and values I’ve shared, have all come from Masonry and or the Bible?” I said, “There’s no doubt, I will be a Mason.” Then he went on to tell me that he had been a Mason since he was 21 years old. How And Why I Became A Mason My wife and I met and spent the next two weeks asking deep questions. You know the ones. The hard questions you think to ask just before you get divorced. Neither of us wanted to fail, again. Our marriage has lasted almost twenty-eight years. It’s because when we committed to each other, we knew what we were getting and what we each wanted. One of those deep questions from me to her was, “My Grandfather asked and then committed me to become a Mason. I don’t know how, but, is that a problem for you?” She said, “No problem here.” I thought great, now I just have to find out how. We’d been married about a year when I told my bride, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my Grandfather and becoming a Mason. Are you still O.K. with that? The next thing she said caught me off guard. Her words were, “Why don’t you call my Dad? He’s been a Mason since 1954. He joined the original Hollywood Lodge. To my surprise, my Father-in-law, Preston M. Jones, PP, 33, PM was well known in California Masonry. He had been an Inspector for the Grand Lodge for over twenty years. He was the El Bekal Potentate in 1981, Master of the International City Lodge in 1982, President of the Scottish Rite Charity in Long Beach, CA, and Master of the Robing Room for more than twenty-five years. It didn’t take long. I asked him to be one (a Mason). Then the process began. I learned so much more than my Grandfather had led me to understand. It wasn’t long before my Father-in-law (Dad) and I were always present at Masonic activities and with our wives. July, in California, is dedicated to letting others know you’re a Mason and why. I hope this story was helpful. See you on the square.
What Makes You Happy? Quick, list five things (that are not food).
At Times, All I Did Was Travel One of many life lessons learned while traveling.
DR Rawson Family Crest and Coat of Arms
I've just completed my third back surgery.
My Best Friend's Best Decision
Why I Write Why Do You Write
One Should NEVER Write about RRP It's also said that we shouldn't talk about it in public. Race, Religion, and Politics Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s in America, there were some rules that everyone was expected to follow. Unfortunately, if everyone followed those rules, we would never see real change in America. When I was growing up in the 1950s, I was so busy living life and breaking rules that it never occurred to me there was a rule. Race, Religion, and Politics were three topics you were never supposed to talk about or write about without people getting very upset. As a homeless kid at nine and ten years old (in the fifties), my sister and I went to the only school we could. Except for a few teachers, everyone was Hispanic but us. Our blonde hair and blue eyes made us look decidedly different than everyone else. As life changed, so did schools. We weren't homeless, however, we were still living in the poorest part of San Diego. Our middle school was all African American except for my sister and me. In each case, we thought it was normal, different but normal. Today, I couldn't be more grateful for my early childhood experiences. I had learned about poverty firsthand, but, it was in high school I also learned what it meant to be a different race. In high school, fifty-five percent of us were Jewish. Twenty-five percent were Hispanic. The rest of us were almost anything. We had East Indian, Indian, Muslim, and first-generation kids from Italy, England, Australia, Scotland, France, and then there were the rest of us mutts. I found out that I'm of English and that my lineage is as far back as the fourteenth century. That's a story for another time. At age forty-six, my first wife and I divorced. It was months before I decided to date. It was 1991 and I was so confused. The last time I dated anyone was in 1965 just before I entered the military. In October of that year, I married my first wife. We all know that there are so many choices. Personally, I've never had a belief in racial differences. My accidental and UnLikely upbringing almost ensured that I wouldn't. Here are the choices that I saw before me, white like me, and so many shades from where I was to a very dark rich chocolate. All of that was available to me. Then there are the additional considerations of age, height, and weight. So many choices. My first date came as I was explaining my sense of confusion to a beautiful young woman. She was five feet ten inches. She was also (from my perspective, much younger than me). She asked the question, "So, how do you like being single?" I expressed my sense of confusion with all the choices before me. I shared the information I've just shared with you. Then, I said, ". . . for instance, would a young woman like you consider going out with a man my age?" She said, "absolutely." I said, "How about I pick you up at 7 pm this Friday night?" She said, "Great, it's a date. Here's my address." That evening I found out that her father arrived in America at age twenty-two from Italy. Her mother arrived from Mexico at age 20. They met and married two years later. I was slightly older than her father. Opps, I don't think either of us thought that through. Still, we dated for several months. She loved putting on four-inch high heels. That way, she was only one inch shorter than me. It would be a few years before I met the love of my life.
Did you invite others?