The adventure

Plus $1,000 check.

This spilled out of a very old folder in the mouse infested file cabinet I was cleaning out this weekend. I’d forgotten completely about borrowing a thousand dollars to get a truck to haul wood and country-boy stuff from Sonoma County to San Francisco after the 1940 Chevy Special Delux died on me. The truck was a powder blue, 1964 Chevy C/K long bed with a 293 cu. in. inline six and three-speed transmission. Absolutely nothing fancy about it; it had been a working truck for a carpenter; not abused but not pristine by any means.

The money was paid back, and the truck was thoroughly enjoyed for the ten years I used it, and was floored to find a fully restored version could sell for over $20,000 in 2019.

The note evoked a strong feeling for my mother for the Grand Adventure she — and my father — set our family on. I only recently have grasped how much of an extraordinary adventure my life has been and continues to be, and a fairly wonderful one at that. No life is without darkness and miasma; but on the whole, mine has been full of light, laughter, beautiful days of sun and rain and fog and snow and twilights and dawns …

My Dad, Adventurer

Col. Jay F. Gamel — not yet a Senior — left to take serve with the 10th Army Air Corps in the China-India-Burma theater, sometime in late 1943 or early 1944. Kentucky windage suggests that I was conceived somewhere around Thanksgiving in 1943. — he was in Burma when I was born in August of 1944, so that dates his departure in a vague way. I remember him recounting that he’d served under Mountbatten and Stilwell, and I’ve forever harbored romantic notions of the the war — WWII — in China and Burma. Dad earned medals for feats and service flying The Hump over the Himalayas in cranky new C-46s, as Chief Surgeon of the 10th Air Force — a Command Flight Surgeon — staffing advanced medical facilities for Vinegar Joe’s ill-fated and often glorified sortie into Burma. I’m reading Barbara Tuchman’s Stilwell and the American Experience in China: 1911-1945, a work that earned her second Pulitzer Prize. The book puts some real-time perspective on the enormous egos and insights at loggerheads in this thoroughly misunderstood and murky theater of war. With nearly 75 years of perspective, some of the fog has been lifted, though the monumental national polities at loggerheads remain and continue to cloud insight and reason throughout the region.

I grew up listening to tales of planes full of medical supplies headed for both Chang Kai Chek’s Kuomintang and, eventually, Chou En Lai and Mao’s Communists, being shot at by Japanese, crews freezing to death at altitudes over 15,000 feet, balky and badly designed new air frames disintegrating mid-flight. Dad had the ribbons to back up those stories. He once told of being berated for not carrying a side arm in forward areas. Having finally secured a 1911 Colt .45, he managed to bag a tiger that was marauding the local chickens while sitting in a latrine. These stories electrified my 11 year old brain, let me tell you. A frequent visitor to our dining room was Johnny *** a survivor of Bataan whose emaciated body stayed with him all his life, a living, breathing example of what the flashy Hollywood movies could never really portray, lest audiences be repulsed by the real consequences of war. His impact on me lasts to this day.

Mom was one of two girls left fatherless at a fairly early age, raised by a none-too-hardheaded, opera trained, southern belle, with ‘notions.’ Let me be clear here; Jayne Doris Estes was a beauty and given to no little drama to fill her days and hours. That I know from personal experience. I have come to doubt much of what I heard from her and learned from her sister and mother, but what I know for certain is that she loved life, her children, her husband for all his martial ways, and being on the grand adventure she chose, an adventure that led her to England and France, a life in mansions with many servants, married to a diplomat/officer serving in the murky regions of American policy making (at times) in the capitals of England and France. And, boy, did we have a time of it.

My Mother, Adventurer

What she said: She graduated a fine girls school at 16, went on to read law but never obtained a degree. There were some other essays I do not know about (talk to sisters), but she headed to Hollywood in 1932 or so, with a stop in Carmel where she made silver jewelry in a swimming pool and played tennis with a young Pancho Gonzales (though that is patently impossible, since he was born in 1928 – though she may have met him later. What do I know; I was a kid when I heard this stuff.) She married an Army General, Fred Gardner(in fact), a doctor who lived with a wealthy mother who convinced him never to have children (short version). Jayne Doris divorced him, met my father (though the order of these events was never clear), and they were married in 1939, honeymooning at the Awhanee in Yosemite.

There’s a whole lot more, but that can wait. What’s clear is that I have come by my adventurous nature legitimately and that I have carried on a family tradition with abandon and joy. I no longer have to be frustrated, confused or sad about not having decided to “settle down” or any of that other nonsense people spout to justify becoming fossilized by forty. I yam what I yam, and that’s a fact.


An awesome day to contemplate, though to tell the truth, I didn’t think about it much until tonight. My little sister, Janet, woke me up with a phone call and said, “Turn on your TV, now.” I tuned in just in time to watch the second tower hit and remained glued to the tube the rest of the day. It was Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and a few other national disasters all over again, with the same, mind killing lack of information, perspective and grasp heaped in vast quantities over my captured attention riveted to the tube — which I no longer watch.

The attack was overwhelming in it’s completeness and savagery, sophistication and sheer genius. My country, the biggest and bestest, was totally unprepared, reacted poorly, and lurched into the unknown future without leadership or accountability. Eighteen years later, I don’t feel one bit safer or better prepared to cope with the world’s dangers than I did on 9/12/01. It’s worse, if anything.

The leadership was bad then and it’s worse now. The conditions on the planet are far worse than they were then: climate, population, wealth mis-distribution, health, failing education, and a never ending list of ‘things’ that can’t be done because of our mismanaged money and human capital.

I’m older and more cynical, to be sure, but I don’t think I’m wrong in my assessment of where we are today. The very wealthy still own and run everything — from China to Luxembourg — for their own selfish and greedy desires — and have even more of it than 2001. There are nearly a billion more people to feed. The oceans and atmosphere are dying from man-made pollution. There is no cohesive movement on the planet that can physically address any of it. Violence — individual more than collective — is increasing daily with no hope of diminishing. Stability of any sort is ever less probable in any part of our daily lives.

As Pogo said to Porkypine,