Stories

By David Silva

Stories of events that I have experienced, people I have known, and other random thoughts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moorpark Songs
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201283667

David Silva

David Silva was born in Hollywood, raised in Sacramento, moved to Saint Margaret’s At Cliffe on the south east coast of England, then back to Sacramento, to the San Fernando Valley, to New York, then back to the Sacramento suburb of Elk Grove, California where he currently lives with his self professed “long suffering" wife Kath.  Together they serve at the pleasure of cats. Along the way they have had two sons, acquired a wonderful daughter in law and now have three perfect grandchildren.  Over the years he has written songs, stories, letters, speeches, and two strongly worded letters to the editor. A collection of some of his stories have been compiled in “Stories”, his first book. A few years back he released a CD of original music titled “Moorpark Oasis”. The critically acclaimed disc can be downloaded from iTunes.  His antics and adventures can be followed on his Facebook page, Daveworld. He can be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

Acknowledgements

This book came about because I frequently write letters, post stories on Facebook, and do talks which I start with illustrative stories. Several people have encouraged me to assemble these stories into a book. I have always dismissed these suggestions while nonetheless greatly appreciating them. 

This effort is for all of those people.

I have two severe shortcomings that try as I might I have never managed to overcome. Well, when it comes to writing at least; in my sixty-something years on earth, I have never been able to throw a baseball, but that is another story.

#1. No matter how many websites I have visited or how many people have explained it to me I cannot remember the difference between affect and effect. Don’t try to explain. I will not remember.

#2. I have no idea how to properly use a comma. Using commas while writing to me is as garlic is for cooking. When in doubt, throw in more.

In 1975 I graduated from high school and was about to enter college. I suspected that somewhere over the next four years I may be expected to write a paper. I could find synonyms for affect and effect with no problem but did not want comma dysfunctional syndrome to expose me as someone who did not belong in the hallowed halls of the California University at Sacramento.

So, I signed up for an English writing intro class over summer school at City College.

I had a teacher named Nancy. Her last name was McGrath or Ryan. After teaching for years and establishing herself as Ms. McGrath, she had recently gotten married and she now answered to both Ms. McGrath and Ms. Ryan (she also answered to Nancy). She was the age of my parents, but with the spirit and energy of one of my contemporaries. She was also old enough to have predated the contributions of Dr. Salk and having contracted polio when she was much younger, she was sentenced to life in a wheelchair.

There are two ways to remember my experience. On one hand, when she asked me what authors I had enjoyed reading, I told her that Catch 22 by Joseph Heller was a favorite and also that I had recently discovered Fitzgerald. She suggested I check out Vonnegut, starting with Slaughterhouse 5. I did and have never regretted it. 

She also taught me how to tell a story with the written word. I remember her one time showing me how someone could say the same thing in many different ways.

When describing an overweight man for example one could say:

1. He weighed 400 pounds.

2. He was morbidly obese.

3. He was enormous to the point that he had difficulty cramming himself into a phone booth.

Then she encouraged me to find my voice.

I became a better writer that summer, falling more deeply in love with the process with every word—both the ones I had put on paper and the encouraging ones she showered upon me.

On the other hand, she never taught me where commas are and are not supposed to go. 

If it were not for the help of Rachel Emerick and Noel Hesser who know the rules of grammar, spelling, commas, and apostrophes there is no way I could have pulled this off. I will be forever in their debt.

Also, a special thanks to Liz Goodley who took the cover photo of Kath and me on the beach in Carmel, California.

For Kath who proofread every variation along the way and told me how to make it work better. Also, for putting up with my moods which, while may in one respect have been a day at the beach, more realistically it was a day at the beach at the height of sharknado season wearing nothing but a chum swimsuit.

But mostly this is for Nancy (1936-2016). The English teacher who introduced me to writing. Thank you for lighting the spark. 

I wish I could have shared this with her.

Forward

The working title of this was 2:30 AM Observations of a Narcissist With Insomnia, but I was afraid that with a title like that it would be put in the self-help section and create a lot of remorse and anger among buyers... However, a solid argument could be made for that title.

I write a lot of stories. Sometimes when I cannot sleep, sometimes when I am taking walks or long drives, sometimes when I am bored at work.

Either way, they all have a couple of things in common. They are about me and the things I have seen, people I have known, experiences I have had and they are all pretty much true.

I have not solved crimes, I have not flown in outer space, I have not played in the majors, and I am not responsible for significant contributions to the betterment of humanity. In fact, I really have not done anything extraordinary. I have just lived, paid attention to what was going on around me, and tried to find joy along the way.

The stories presented here are in no particular order, but they cover pretty much these topics:

Christmas memories. I started posting stories in December a few years back, each with a particular memory of something that happened to or around me in the month of December.

Music. There was a Facebook page where for a couple of months at the start of the Covid lockdown, I posted albums that were on my desert island list. Sometimes I wrote as to why they mattered, and some of those stories are here.

People I have met who have in one way or another made my life better or caused me to change directions along the way.

My sons Stephen and James.

Kath.

Mary

When I was ten years old my family moved to England. It was at the height of Beatlemania, Sean Connery was releasing a new James Bond movie every year, and Tom Jones was tearing up the charts. The UK was the center of the universe. We settled in a village called St. Margaret’s At Cliffe, so named because it sat atop the White Cliffs of Dover.

It was one of those very small towns in which if a kid did something bad in one part of town, his parents would know about it by the time he got home, as well as the people in just about every house along the way. I imagine that if a kid were to do something especially good, the same would hold true but I was never one to put that theory to the test.

Our school had about eighty students with four teachers in four classrooms.

There was a pasture across the street from our school where cows grazed. In the fall and early days of winter, we children of the village played soccer there. When the ground was covered with snow it was snowball fights, and in the spring our game was rounders. Rounders is a game similar to baseball with a few variations. The bat is smaller and there are no balls and strikes, but otherwise, it was baseball. Hit the ball, run the bases, and as happens universally when playing any version of baseball in a pasture, the bases had been contributed by the cows.

It was the first day of rounders season in 1968. Even though I was ten years old and grew up in Sacramento, it was the first time I would ever actually play any form of baseball.

And I was up. Swinging a bat for the first time in my life. I took a swing at the first pitch and in what was surely the most miraculous moment in the history of friction, I connected solidly and the ball took off. I am not sure how far it went, though it seems to have gone further every time I remember the story.

The ball was still rising towards the heavens when I passed first base. It was clearing the clouds as I passed second, and I was running towards third base where Mary Hay, the Scottish girl with curly brown hair, was coaching, screaming as she jumped up and down.

Now at this point, let me mention that first and second base were pretty fossilized bovine contributions. They may well have been sitting there since the Dunkirk evacuation of 1940. Third base on the other hand was downright fresh.

And as I got to third base, two things happened simultaneously. The first is that I hit third base solidly as the baked-on sheen of the mound gave way like an eggshell and I became aware of my foot sinking ankle-deep into a fresh, moist pile of... third base. At the same exact moment, Mary grabbed me, hugged me, and did something no one had ever done. She kissed me.

On the lips.

Running towards home plate I remember that I sort of hopped as I tried to shake off the remains of third base. And I also remember how the sparrow, the swallow, the blue tit, and the robin combined voices to sing a song that no one in history had ever heard. I remember how red and white clover, poppies, and saxifrage combined to form a tapestry more colorful than a jumbo box of Crayolas. I remember how the sun felt on the side of my face. I remember almost every