The Spirit of Sacramento

Well, another Halloween is in the books.

In my teens, my brother and I created funny and scary things to entertain ourselves and to drive away would-be trick-or-treaters so that we would get the leftover candy. My parents left us alone with that. At least they didn’t have to answer the door 100 times a night.

I’ve changed my philosophy about attracting trick-or-treaters. These days, I want the younger children to be intrigued by our setup, not frightened. I let the neighbors do the scaring. And we want to run out of candy by 8 p.m.

After moving to Sacramento in 2021, things got simpler because we weren’t ready for Halloween. Our house was a mess amid many repairs and upgrades. What to do?

As it turned out, my exercise ball became the centerpiece of my displays. I call him Swoosh. He’s a knockoff of Wilson but with a smiley face. He’s a happy “ghost.” My raincoat, an ancient Kangol cap, and two yellow stickers doctored to look like eyes were his costume. I get a kick out of the kids staring at him as they approach our door. Sometimes I hear them exclaim, “Wilson!” And sometimes, an older kid will answer, “That’s not Wilson. I don’t know who that is.” I suspect Santa has a tough time at their house.

As for my tombstones … they’re meant to be read out loud.

“Here I lie broken hearted, tried to poop but only farted.” — Stinky McStinky. A preteen girl read it aloud one year to the posse she was escorting. She laughed anyway.

“Here lie the authors of ‘100 Yards to Outhouse’ — Willy Make-It and Betty Won’t.”

“RIP Nine-Fingered Slim — The second-fastest draw in the West”

The parents like my costume. Many ask, “Who are you?” I have no idea, but I always wear Hawaiian shirts and black pants.

I guess I’m me.

Is July too hot to handle?

I don’t love waking up at 6 a.m. to enjoy the cool 78° temps in California’s San Joaquin Valley. When I first moved to the Valley (Hanford) in the late 1970s, the locals were proud about being able to go out at midnight to enjoy their backyard.

“You can't do that in LA,” they said. “You’ll love it!”

Maybe. In LA, you often needed a sweater after 7 p.m., but we didn’t need refrigerated air in Altadena, and I could enjoy our backyard at 5 in the afternoon. That could explain why we didn’t go to the movies much when I was a kid.

My son, Alexander, was born in an air-conditioned hospital in Hanford, California, on July 3, 1981. The outside temperature was only 98°. It was only 100° when he and his mother came home from the hospital to our swamp-cooled home on Elm Street. The temperature stayed above 95° most of the month, hitting 100 or more thrice. The overnight temperatures always dropped into the 60s.

The hurricane-force winds of the swamp cooler blew moist and marginally cooler air around our tiny house. You had to keep one window open to let the air out. Our swamp cooler was just above our desk, blowing our bills and other paperwork around the house. The good ol’ days. But we survived 95°, which is a mere inconvenience if it’s dry heat.

The water was a bit chilly, but the beach was warm in Cayucus, CA. Morro Rock and Bay are in the background.

I have a photo of baby Alex with his hand over his eyes as if to say, “What did I do to deserve this?” Little did he know that even he was experiencing the good old days and the July heat would worsen over the next 40 years.

In July 2021, Alex’s 40th birthday, the temperatures topped 100° 28 times in Hanford, with a high temperature of 112° two days in a row, July 10 and 11.

Last year, 2023, the temperatures in Hanford hit 100° or more 26 times, topping out at 109° three times.

In 2024, The Fresno Bee reported that July was the hottest on record for Fresno. Oddly enough, Hanford recorded only its second-hottest July just 40 miles away with a mean average temperature of 87.6° and 26 days at 100° or warmer, with two records set at 113°. The hottest July for Hanford was recorded in 1931, with a mean average temperature of 87.8°, in case you’re wondering.

Neither Alex, me, nor his mother live in Hanford these days. Still, the July temperatures set the stage for birthday celebrations inside movie theaters, bowling alleys, waterparks, and spots along the central coast of California, such as Cayucos, Avila Beach, and Morro Bay. Oddly, Pismo rarely figured into our retreats. Too hot?

May 7, 1945: World War II ends

Note: My father wrote a memoir about his tour of duty in the U.S. Army during World War II. He was on leave in Nice, France, when Germany announced its surrender.

The War Ends in Europe

By Richard S. Funk

The news from the German front in Stars & Stripes indicated that the end of the war was at hand. As luck would have it, the Cease Fire Agreement ending hostilities was signed at General Eisenhower’s headquarters in Reims, France, on May 7 — the day before I was supposed to fly back to rejoin Battery B and the 14th Armored.

Fortunately, the flight on the 8th was canceled since everyone was celebrating and the pilots probably had too much to drink.

The next day, the plane was to depart at 1 p.m., which it did. The problem was that it did not get very far. After take-off, we noticed that the pilot was doing a lot of circling to the left, and finally, we were skimming alongside the ominous hills at the airport and came in for a landing back where we had started. The co-pilot jumped out and removed an aileron chock that restrained the right wing flap from moving. Someone had forgotten to pull it off before our take-off, and without the flap, the pilot was only able to fly in circles to the left.

The second time was a charm.

However, most of the plane was loaded with Army nurses, and I guess the pilots wanted to impress them. Anyway, instead of flying at a more normal altitude, he flew low — just a few hundred feet above the treetops. This gives the impression of greater speed. It also scared the hell out of farmers and livestock on the French and German farms we flew over on the way back to Nuremberg.

All the passengers on board had their fingers crossed, thinking what a shame it would be if we had survived the war but were killed in a plane crash the day after the armistice. But we arrived safely.

I finally located Captain Kelly and the Battery B half-tracks near the airport at Landshut, Germany, where they were helping to process liberated American, English, and French prisoners of war for flights back to their homelands.

Naturally, my buddies wanted to know what kind of close relationship I had with General Patton that enabled me to be vacationing on the Riviera when the war ended. I had no answer to that question.

But I did have some answers to other questions.

How long had we been on combat alert since landing in France? Answer: 281 days.

How many miles did we cover?
Answer: 3,350 miles-at least that was the mileage on the odometer of Captain Kelly’s jeep.

Comrades in arms, getting ready for war. .This is what my father wrote for a caption, “Communications Section — 398th AAA AW Bn (SP): Bottom Row, L to R: Todesco, Euart, Funk, Tighe; Top Row, L to R: Gaudette, Ross, beck, Fingerhut.”