Growing Up in Napa
From Boston to Napa:
I was born in 1943. There’s a picture of my father, Edwin Jordan, in a Coast Guard officer’s uniform holding a bundle of me before he was sent to the Pacific to stamp out Japanese imperialism. A marine engineer, he was held over after the Japanese surrendered to assist replacing damaged maritime infrastructure. The first time I remember seeing him was in Boston’s South Station when I was approaching four. A man in a dark overcoat and a white hat was running toward me with his arms out and calling my name. He grabbed me and spun around. It was my father; I shrieked.
Like many men serving in the Pacific, he passed through California.
As he was being discharged from active duty in San Francisco, he listened to locals complaining about the terrible weather. He asked the Navy officer behind him, “Have you been listening to those guys talking about the weather?”
The Navy officer nodded yes.
“Where are you from?” my father asked.
“Philadelphia.”
“What do you call days like this in Philadelphia?”
“We call them rainy days.”
“That’s what we call them in Boston. Do you think this is as bad as it gets?”
“If it is, I’m not going back to Philadelphia,” the Navy officer said.
In grade school, a teacher asked our class of fifty how many of us were born in California? Just a few hands went up. Many of our fathers had transited through California. The sunny paradise with friendly people made for a lasting impression, especially during northern winters.
My Arrival in Napa:
My father’s brother, John, lived in Napa — I believe this is one of the reasons we moved there in 1947. However, their relationship had problems: my father’s family was Boston-Irish Catholic; my mother was raised as a Methodist in Kansas. Religion was a sensitive issue in the early 1940s, and their marriage was referred to as mixed. Although the issue was never discussed with me, I believe my mother refused to spend her life in Boston putting up with her in-laws’ unrelenting nastiness. I thought my mother’s family was pleasant around my father at family gatherings. After my father died, his family broke off all connections with my mother, my brother and me.
Many economists predicted a depression after the war ended, but they hadn’t considered the sixteen years of pent up demand due to the Depression and World War II. Housing was scarce. The auto companies were changing over from war production, and new cars were rare. When we moved to California, we had a used 1938 Chrysler that was cranky and undependable. The exhaust fumes flowed into the car — forcing us to drive with the windows down even when it was raining. Our first home was the bottom floor of a two-story home on A Street; it was still there the last time I was in Napa.
Just before I started kindergarten, we moved to 1466 Ash Street, a new two-bedroom, one-bathroom home. My parents thought it was heaven. I was enrolled at the Shearer School. Although I cried the first day of kindergarten, I fit in well enough and worked my way through the first grade until my mother (Marguerite Evans Jordan) contracted polio when I started the second grade.
While she was not crippled or put into an iron lung, she was hospitalized for a long time. I don’t think I was quarantined but I was kept inside. My maternal grandmother, Gran from Wichita, watched over me while may father was at work. Later in life, Gran had become a devout Seventh Day Adventist; she gave me Sabbath school lessons most every day of the week. I knew a lot about the Bible, but I had missed a good deal of the second grade and could not read.
To catch up, I was sent to a tutor, Mrs. Sims–I would never know her first name. Mrs. Sims lived on Franklin Street; on nice days we sat on her porch drinking lemonade while she taught me to read phonetically by breaking down words and sounding them out. Best of all, she guided me into the joy of reading; after my lessons she would often walk me downtown the Goodman Library on First Street and help me pick out books from the Children’s section. She had launched me into the world of books. Thank you, Mrs. Sims, and thank God we didn’t have a television back then.
The five years I spent at Shearer were enjoyable; I was doing well except for arithmetic. Arithmetic became math and math became algebra. In the ninth grade; I made it through first year algebra with C minuses. The problem was that I was passing the tests by cramming without learning. At the start of the second semester of plain geometry, the teacher told us we would apply what we had learned in first year algebra. Yikes, I had nothing to apply. I barely passed second semester geometry with a D. I’m getting ahead of myself and will revisit my math issues later.
The summer after the fourth grade, we moved to a new housing development in Browns Valley to the west of Napa’s city limits. Browns Valley then was largely farmland with a creek running through it — perfect for a young boy and his dog to explore. By that time I had a new brother, Edwin Fearon Jordan Jr., who was born just before we moved. The Browns Valley School was two rooms and less structured, as the teachers were teaching three classes per room.
During junior high, puberty had begun. I had been good at baseball, but my coordination was failing. By the ninth grade, I was flat-out clumsy. In a matter of months, I was sent to a dermatologist for my erupting skin, an orthodontist for bands, and an ophthalmologist for glasses –Buddy Holly’s with black frames. The final indignity was the podiatrist in San Francisco who suggested ugly corrective shoes to build my arches that would never exist. About that time I had become interested in girls.
All of that combined with algebra made for a light but pervasive depression and acute self-awareness loathing? My parents took an interest in my difficulties; we had thoughtful and soothing conversations that cleared the clouds for a few days. My mother thought I needed a break from Napa: new people, tutors to help me pass the second year algebra that I failed, coupled with learning to how to ride horses. She had contacted a summer camp in Mayer, Arizona.
The Orme School outside was a boarding school and a summer camp. The algebra tutor did the best he could and so did I; I received two Cs that made up for failing both semesters of second-year algebra and were transferable to Napa High. I was good with horses and learned to ride well. The worst of puberty was abating: my skin was improving in the dry desert sun; I’m farsighted and ditched the glasses; the bands had been replaced with a removable retainer. And cowboy boots were far cooler than orthopedic shoes. I could look at myself in the mirror without cringing.
The next hurdle would be college. That would be tricky: my SAT scores were lopsided; my math grades and test results were terrible. On top of that, I had become smart-ass, an attribute that annoys teachers and school administrators.
