Footsteps of a son of God

A Spiritual Pilgrimage

Chapter 1

The Early Years

   I was adopted when I was three days old. I found out, very much later, that my mother was in a position where she couldn’t provide for me, so she decided that it would be best to give me up for adoption. My mother’s side of the family usually produced females, three to one, so the people she had chosen to adopt me expected a girl. Apparently, they already had a son and really wanted a girl. Well, along comes Baby Boy Hall (from my adoption papers) - the couple took one look at me and headed for the horizon. The first thing that happens to me is I get delivered,  I get slapped around a little and then my prospective parents head for tall timber. Who could blame me if I felt a little rejected? From what I was told later, the people who were going to adopt me were pretty well off. Remember the song;   If I were a rich man, ya da dee da dee da dee da da dee da dee da dum? Apparently, that was not to be. I would like to have grown up a spoiled, rich brat, but instead I just grew up a spoiled brat (I was an only child).

    The doctor that delivered me, Dr. Vern Mantle, knew of this couple in San Diego that was looking to adopt a child. Apparently, they weren’t so picky, so three days later I’m heading off to sunny San Diego. Walt and Jackie Low had themselves a new son and I was going to grow up on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. Swimmin’, surfin’, sunnin’ myself on the beach. Hey! This might not be so bad after all. One of my earliest recollections was being pushed down the street in my stroller (I was lazy even then) to a small group of duplexes where my nanny lived. I remember she was black and her name was Regina. I wonder what ever happened to her?

    When I was about 2 or 3 years old Walt and Jackie divorced. From everything I can discover or deduce, I believe that Jackie devoted all of her attention to me to the detriment of Walt. He went looking elsewhere for attention. Within a year or so Jackie remarried to a wonderful man named Robert Hohnstein. He became my Dad.

    Bob was everything that a kid could want for a dad. He was the guy that saved the dessert out of his lunch for me; he was the guy that skipped some of his lunches when he went out of town so he could bring me home little presents; he was the guy that paddled my rear end when I did something wrong, . . . well, he was my Dad. One of the things I admired most about him was his integrity. If he said something you could count on it. He also had the remarkable ability to talk with someone for a short period of time and then be able to tell you everything about that person’s personality. I have so many wonderful memories about my Dad and I miss him terribly, especially his counsel.

    I remember moving into our home in Anaheim, California and starting school there. I remember an episode in kindergarten, when I was about 4 or 5 years old. My dad’s brother John was living with us and one morning he fed me and let me out the door to catch the bus, and promptly went back to sleep. For some reason the bus didn’t pick me up. I tried going back into the house, but Uncle John was asleep so I couldn’t get back in the house. Being the independent character that I am, I got this idea into my head and decided to walk to school. This was about 5-6 miles across some pretty busy streets.  It took me all morning long to walk it and when I got there, the bus was picking everyone up to take them back home. When I got home and my mom found out, she went ballistic. She got in my face for walking to school, she got into Uncle John’s face for being a lazy bum and not making sure I got on the bus, she even got in the bus driver’s face for not picking me up. This was my first indelible impression of how much my mother loved me. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, this was an indication of how protective she was of me and to what lengths she would go to keep me safe, and close, to her. This becomes important later on when I discovered girls.

   Another incident of my preschool childhood remains vivid in my mind. My dad was a drilling engineer. He would go out to a building site and dig holes in the ground with a large truck-mounted drilling machine. The holes were anywhere from 16-60" in diameter and from 10-200’ deep. They would then fill the holes with steel bars (rebar) followed by concrete. After the concrete hardened they would tie the rebar coming out of the hole to the rebar in a building slab to make a more stable foundation (California shook quite a bit, even in those days). I remember my mother taking me out to one of Dad’s job sites. Picture this very large field with many, many sheets of plywood laying scattered all over the ground. I remember my dad telling me not to go messing around with those pieces of plywood because they were covering holes in the ground. So being the obedient child I was, the moment their backs were turned,  I went exploring those pieces of plywood. Somehow, I got one of the pieces of plywood up and then . . . fell into the hole. I somehow grabbed the side of the hole as I fell in and the plywood fell on top of me. Of course I started screaming but they couldn’t find me right away, because there were so many pieces of plywood and they didn’t know which one I was under. I remember the side of the hole I was holding onto crumbling but somehow I hung on until my dad found me. It seemed like forever.  It seems that the rebar had been put into the hole and the long ends were about 10’ below the surface. If I had fallen completely into the hole, I would have been impaled on the rebar. Someone was watching out for me.

                                                          
Psalms 91:11
For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.

  When I started first grade everyone sat at tables with other children . . . except me. I had my very own desk/chair combination and I felt pretty special.  It was, however, indicative of how I was treated - differently. For some reason I was always just a little bit different. I would rather read a book than play football. I usually conversed better with grown-ups than children of my own age. I was usually one of the last ones chosen when we would play a game.    
(you don't forget those things do you?)

   I imagine I was pretty funny looking because I sucked my thumb. I can remember my mom and dad trying everything to keep me from sucking my thumb (and from driving them nuts doing it); hot sauce, taping up my thumb, anything and everything, but the mighty thumb overcame all.  I had a suction that would make a drain pump envious. At one point they did get me to give it up (I don’t recall how) but I started stuttering so badly, that they let me go back to the thumb. As a consequence, I had a major case of buck teeth. Leave It To Beaver had nothing on me - I even looked like a beaver. I remember vividly being laughed at because of my teeth. It didn’t help much when I started wearing braces at about 7 years old. From Bucky I went to Chain-Mouth and spent the next 8 years with braces. Along the way, about the sixth grade, I also acquired a pair of glasses and I have worn them ever since. Bucky, the Four-Eyed, Chain-Mouthed Nerd (I also wore pocket protectors in my shirts). Pretty much all through my life I have had few friends and fewer still, close friends. I compensated by being the class clown.

    As soon as I could I joined Cub Scouts. Being part of a cub pack helped me deal with my isolation. When I got older and joined the Boy Scouts my dad became involved in the organization as an assistant scout master. Being the character he was, all of the kids liked being around him and consequently, me also. I worked my way up (with his encouragement) to Life Scout and I had only three merit badges to complete before becoming an Eagle Scout. I believe I broke my dad’s heart when my attention diverted from scouting to music. I so wish I would have finished getting my Eagle award if only just for him.

    I was molested when I was about 12 or 13. This item which I will briefly touch on is extremely embarrassing for me, but maybe it will help one of you. As you will see, further on in this narrative, I have had a problem with sexual immorality. I’m not gay or anything like that, but the pursuit of sexual gratification has gotten me into more trouble than just about anything else in my life.

    When I joined the boy scouts I had found another place where I could excel. I enjoyed every facet of the experience, helped I’m sure, by my dad’s participation as an assistant scoutmaster. We went on camping trips, usually once a month, and every year we went on a week-long trip to Camp Ahwanee in the San Bernardino mountains. Camp Ahwanee had many features; pools, hiking, shooting, astronomy and they even had a little camp store. It was at this little store where I was molested.

    I’m sure when you get just about any group of adolescent boys together the topic of sex comes up. It did in our tent with boasts and stories that, for the most part, were probably untrue but we surely talked about the Girl Scout camp a couple of miles down the road. Fortunately,  I can’t remember much of what happened, but one of the camp counselors and I became involved sexually. This involvement was very short-lived and nothing of this type has ever been repeated. I can’t remember most of what happened but I still wonder whether or not that somehow shaped me, at a very vulnerable time in my young life. Does this type of encounter lead to sexual promiscuity? I don’t know? Does it lead to someone being gay? It didn’t in my case, but who knows?

    From an early age music has been a part of my life. I always liked to listen to music, although not always the rock and roll that was part of my generation. I much preferred my dad’s kind of music, the more mellow sound of Tommy Dorsey, Doc Severinson, The Carpenters, etc. My first year in junior high school I joined the band. I wanted to play the drums, my parents wanted me to play anything but. As usual, I got my way, but I sure regret it now. When music is part of a person, it’s pretty hard to express yourself with a drum. In Southern California, in the 60’s, band was an accepted activity. There was not the negative peer pressure that seems to be prevalent now. At last, I finally had an activity where I was an accepted part and I really flourished in band. While I was still in my last year of junior high school I was playing in the high school band and going to competitions. All of my social activities revolved around the band environment. Our group went to parades together, parties together, we did everything together. It was while I was in the band, in 1966, at the age of 16 years old, that I met for the first time the woman I would later spend my life with. Linda only spent one year at Magnolia High School but it was just long enough for us to get acquainted. We would see each other periodically at parades and half-time show competitions all through high school.

    Because of my involvement with various bands I had the opportunity to work at Disneyland. I was in a youth band, the Long Beach Junior Concert Band, and the director, Marvin Marker, was also in charge of talent for Disneyland. For a number of years they had parades two or three times a day winding through the park. In the front of the parades they had a medieval fanfare unit with the long trumpets, banners and drummers. I became one of the drummers, wearing a feathered hat and tights. (Oh, what a sight that was! Fortunately, I don't have a picture of that).

    As a consequence of having many hours between parades a number of us finagled our way into becoming some of the characters that wander around Disneyland park. So, yours truly, at various times, played Goofy, the Big Bad Wolf and Foulfellow (the fox that stole Pinocchio). Many have said that these characters were perfect for me, sort of type-casting, if you will. Especially Goofy. Anyway, it was a good place to meet girls. I mean, what girl could resist going out with Goofy or the Big Bad Wolf?