Rowdy’s Memorial

The Sinking of the Relentless (New Janet Ann II)

            50 years ago I first met Joe Pennisi as he came upstairs to the General Fish Corporation’s offices to pick up his check for the week’s catch that he had unloaded to my father.  I remember him well as he always addressed my father as “Mr. Flanagan”.  After he would leave, my father would always comment that there goes a real gentleman.  I was about 8 in those days, and never forgot.

            50 years later, his son, Rowdy, was sending me a check each month to buy the fishing vessel “Relentless", and still always called me “Mr. Flanagan”.  A small courtesy, but what a big  legacy!  Just one small word, Mr., yet it commands us all to have deep respect and admiration for two gentlemen in what is normally a very cruel, brash and brutal occupation of commercial fishing.  In an occupation where I have been called every horrible epithet in the book, it was refreshing and uplifting once in a while to be called “Mr.”  That one word made much of the anguish in this industry to be acceptable and worthwhile.  Joe has always been a gentleman and his son followed in his model as another gentleman.

            Years ago, I came very close to losing my oldest daughter to a life threatening disease.  At times, I thought that losing her was one of the cruelest and hardest event for any parent to bear.  In the end, the only action I could take was prayer and through miracles she is still alive today helping others to stay alive as a nurse.  The Pennisi families have not been so blessed but they have always prayed for help and stongly believed in the will of God through no matter what adversity they faced.  Rowdy and I talked often of dealing with the everyday problems in fishing, and, in the end, we always talked about the need for prayer as part of that solution.

            So, it is not surprising that I feel anger today as if I had lost my own son.  Over the years, I have lost many friends, but never have I felt so much anger as today.  An anger mixed with deep sorrow, tears and a questioning as to what kind of God we were all praying to.  This man was a good father, a good husband and one of the best fisherman I have ever known.  Over the years, I have lost a lot of friends; it is part of commercial fishing.  I still remember Jack Jr., Jim Koskela, many others, about 1 or 2 a year, and now Rowdy.  All good men, safety conscious, professionals in their field.  But now why Mr. Rowdy?  Mr. Pennissi?  Oh, there is so much anger in my heart.  Mixed with the deep love I had for this man and his family.

            I told a friend last week of my anger, and she retorted, “How would this man have chosen his passing if he could?  How would he have liked to have died?  Would he have chosen to die in an automobile accident, or, perhaps, die of some kind of cancer?”  I thought hard and then had to reply, “He would have died first of all to protect his family, and then, his second choice would have been to die in trying to save his ship and men.”  Rowdy loved his family first, and then his ship.  That is the way that he would choose, to give his life for the people that he loved.  In his way, he died as one of the Last Samarai, with dignity, with values and with respect.  When I think of that, some of the anger softens.  God works in strange ways and now we must all pray to ask God to explain to us all why this has happened.  Ask God to help remove this anger in our hearts and to replace it with more love.  To ask God to help us turn this tragic event into the strength to go on, continuing to pray for love to enter our hearts and replace the anger and deeply felt hurt.  Rowdy would have wished that.

            We will always carry memories of Mr. Pennisi in our minds and pray that we will always carry love in our hearts for a man who died as he would have wished, and a man who was always a gentleman that we all loved very deeply and one who has taught us so much.  Mr. Pennisi, now you go with Jesus, another fisherman, to catch the souls of all of us left behind.  Rowdy will always be a fisherman both in this life and the next.

There’s Trouble in Virginia City!

By Patrick Flanagan

(Note: This was written a number of years ago.  Today we have a new Sheriff, a new police force and life is much better today than it was in the past.  I just don't want to forget Bob McKinney and his symbol.) 

 

The Symbol of Bob McKinney

            The recent death of Bob McKenny, shot twice in the chest by a local policeman, has caused rise to a great many emotions.  From Bob’s friends, sorrow, grief and anger are all welling up together as we recover from the shock.  From Bob’s enemies, gratitude that he is now gone and undying blinded support to somehow justify the police murder of a man right in the center of our town.

            Obviously, I was one of Bob’s friends.  Once in a while, he would come to my house, shower, shampoo his long hair, as I washed his clothes, and gave him a warm place to sleep the night.  Not once was I afraid of Bob.  In the morning, he would always be up before me, sitting on the couch, gently petting my cat.  It would take me a week to clean up the dirt that Bob dropped all over the place before he took his bath.  I never feared for my life, and Bob had a kind and peaceful air about him during those nights and the next mornings as I drove him back to his mountaintop.

            On the other hand, I also saw a Bob, drinking alcohol, who could go berserk, crazy and almost “possessed” by a demonic spirit that lies all around us in Virginia City.  He could be violent and intractable.  There was no reasoning with him, and, at those times, I had the wisdom to just leave him alone in his own inner torture.  Yes, Bob would defecate in front of merchant’s stores, and that was inexcusable.  However, Bob was banned by a lot of local stores, forbidden to come in, and often refused toilet facilities by these very same people.  Was Bob wrong?  Certainly.  Were those merchants wrong?   Just as certainly.  Was Bob a blight on our community?  Yes.  Was Bob also a man who deserved our love and concern?  Emphatically, yes.  I often wonder why during all these years of being in trouble with the police, why, why did they not once help get him psychiatric help and make him an asset to us all, rather than allow him to head onto a road of self destruction.  A road that all of us could foresee and did nothing about.  We all carry some responsibility for Bob’s death.

            But the current outrage of Virginia City is not really about Bob.  Like us all, Bob had his moments of kindness, his generosity to his friends given in his own style, and then there were the “dark” moments and parts of Bob’s personality.  For his good, he did not deserve to be shot on our streets dead.  For the dark side of him, perhaps he got what was necessary at the time.  But, this sorrow and anger is not really about Bob; it is about the state of our community police force.  Bob is a symbol and a culmination of a worsening trend in our police force heading toward dictatorial power and creating a police state in our own town, instead of being the public servants that is their governmental mandate of our republic.

 The Vocation of a Policeman

            During the early years of my life, I looked up to the police and fireman of my community.  I was convinced that they were my friends.  They protected me from burglaries, and violent crimes.  I could work with them.  Most of all, they were my friends.  I remember one day in San Francisco, seeing one of the police trying to single handedly subdue a man hyped up on PCP.  The man in question had systematically smashed the car windows in one whole block of San Francisco before being stopped by the policeman.  Obviously, the poor cop was in trouble.  I immediately called for the police on my cell phone, and then got out of the car to help restrain the drugged vandal.  Eventually, we got backup, and the man had to be literally wrapped in heavy rope, like a mummy, so that he could finally be loaded into the police van.  I will never forget how, even then, he fought, as the van door was slammed against his leg by mistake.  I can still hear the crack of his leg breaking.  He deserved it, but he wasn’t in his right mind.  He needed help from someone to get him to stop taking drugs and regain his humanity.

            That day, I felt respect for the police, but I also felt sorrow for the pain of the man who had lost his mind from drugs.  In the midst of all his “bad”, I always thought that there must be some good in him also.  After that, many times that same policeman would stop by, have a drink with me in his off-duty hours, and we would talk about the problems of our community and what could be done to make it better.  It was years later, that my friend accidentally shot his revolver and killed an innocent bystander.  He was devastated, quit the force and lived with his guilt for years until he finally died.  My sorrow went out to him, but he went on to create the “Little People’s Fishing Program” in San Francisco to help develop good citizens out of our children.  Until he died, he lived with the sorrow and guilt of taking another’s life whether it was justified or not.  He always believed in the value of life.

            It was in those same days, that the descriptive term “Pig” became synonymous with the police.  I couldn’t understand it in those days and thought how unkind and vicious that people would label our friends in such a derogatory manner.  I couldn’t understand it, but sadly to say, I am now beginning to.

            In those days, a man took on the vocation of being a policeman because he wanted to help people, help keep the community safe, and knew from the start that he was placing his life in jeopardy.  His mission was to protect and save lives, to keep the peace, even if it meant his own life.  It was an admirable mission, and a respected profession.  The value of life was held sacred.  We looked up to the man who wore a blue uniform.  He was willing to sacrifice his own life for our community.  He trusted in God to protect him.  In return, we entrusted him with the privilege to carry a firearm within our community as a symbol of respect and responsibility for the safety of all.

            Then something went wrong.  After years of being called a “pig” the motivation and high ideals of men who chose to become policemen changed.  I can’t blame them in a way.  I myself was slow to give up my idealized image of the “man in blue” and still didn’t understand why people demeaned the people who might one day save our lives.

            Today, the job of a policeman has changed.  If your house is burglarized, they dismiss it, don’t really make an effort to find the criminal, and let the insurance companies replace the damage.  Just in our own county, they couldn’t even stop people from killing innocent horses because they were too lazy to develop the appropriate and incriminating evidence necessary.  I have heard other stories where women, calling the police to stop their boyfriend from beating them, instead ended up in jail because the police found marijuana on the table as they responded.  Great, the victim ends up in jail.  What Bob’s death has caused is a multitude of such stories being told within our community.  “Where there is smoke, there must be a fire!”  No longer do the police protect, but now find it easier to arrest the victim than for prosecuting the criminal.  It is hard to convict today; and a lot of money can be made by just arresting locals.  Today, the police are more rewarded by the fines that they can place upon us all, for speeding, for driving while drinking, instead of warning us and advising us of the dangers to ourselves and others for such acts.  The list can go on and on in Virginia City.  No longer is the vocation of a policeman to protect our lives, but rather to threaten and incarcerate to collect more money for the county.  Something has gone wrong, and, I think, we all bear some of the responsibility, both citizens and police.

            Instead of a model in our community, the policeman has become the tyrant, the bully, and now uses the revolver that we entrusted to him as a tool to justify an elite group of citizens who are now “above the law”.  It is now all right and accepted for a policeman to lie to gain a conviction.  It is now all right for a policeman to “break the law” in order to protect his own life at the expense of the people he was sworn to protect.  Something has gone wrong and there is trouble in Virginia City.

Actions of Virginia City Police

            Let us remember that days before Bob was shot, the same policeman who killed him took Bob’s bicycle away from him under the pretense that Bob couldn’t ever have bought one, and that it must be stolen.  Literally, the man who is supposed to stop theft, committed theft himself under the power of the badge that protects him.  Let us also remember that, just prior to the shooting, the same policeman used pepper spray on Bob.  I don’t know about you, but pepper spray makes me mad. 

Just months before, another couple of residents were pepper sprayed because they refused to get out of their car.  They were not threatening the officer.  The police maced them and what ensued was both a 70-year-old man and his wife being beaten to the ground and then jailed.  Interesting that all charges were eventually dropped against these citizens in exchange for a promise not to sue the police, the county and not to talk about this incident with any of their friends.  Sounds like now extortion is also part of the sheriff’s tools for keeping the peace. 

I can also personally relate my own incident with the police of Virginia City.  I was stopped one night for drinking and driving.  I don’t argue that I was wrong.  However, once in the jail, I agreed to take the urine or breath test, not once trying to hit or attack the officer.  In fact, during the incident, I prayed for them.  I did, however, refuse to take the blood test because of collapsed veins and also the fear of AIDS.  Nevertheless, the police were intent upon taking blood.  I continued to refuse, and then was strapped into a restraining chair, all the time complying with the instructions of the officers.   Once constrained, one officer then beat me as the other officer conveniently stood in front of the closed circuit TV. in the jail.  After a time, I finally succumbed to the pain of torture, and begged the other officer to stop the beating and that I would comply with the blood taking.  Even at the instructions to stop beating me, the other officer seemed to enjoy getting in a few last licks.  By this time, there was blood all over the cell floor.  Throughout, I prayed for their souls and their own inhumanity toward a fellow citizen who they are sworn to protect.

The end result is even more disturbing.  Because I have the resources to hire good legal counsel, we retested all the samples taken from me that night, both blood and urine.  Somehow all the results were different from the results originally turned in by the police.  Both blood and urine tested by a third party ended up being lower than what the results were that the police were trying to use to convict me.  One officer was caught committing perjury in the case.  In the end, charges were substantially reduced along with the fines, and I never lost my license.

To make matters worse, I have since been stopped at night under the pretense of again drinking and driving.  I don’t do that anymore.  Once they realized that, then I was threatened with speeding.  It was the same officer who beat me.  Only after commenting on their harassment, did they finally leave me alone.  I am still afraid of them and their vendetta, so I stay in my home now and avoid being in town.  I have a lot of anger toward this man who seemed to enjoy beating up people, and pray that God gives me the grace to forgive him and end my anger.  I pray for his soul and to destroy the “dark force” within him.

Sadly to say, these stories abound in Virginia City, and are increasing in frequency.  And now, it has culminated in a murder that our government is trying to justify as a policeman just trying to save his own life at the expense of a person whose life he has taken an oath to protect.  Ironic, but true. 

The Consequences to Us All

            Bob is dead, but our memories of him will continue on symbolically as a sign of the sickness that is destroying our community.  There is no doubt that the current trend of excessive force by the local police against its own citizens will have an adverse impact on tourism, and on the local residents whose property values will decrease under the current police state that we live in.  Word is quickly getting out into the rest of the United States that Virginia City, once ruled by the Mafia, is now being ruled by dictators of a different sort with a badge.  Anyone here can be harassed, intimidated and now killed by the police at will if they do not comply with the demands of the police, reasonable or not.

            With me, it was just being beaten up.  Now it has ended in murder.  I wonder who will be next, and how much more will this cost us all.  If the police are allowed to continue unabated in threatening the locals, intimidating them and even killing them, how can tourist even begin to feel safe in just driving through town, as the graves of locals begin to line our main street.  The threat of this activity continuing has now led to a pattern of behavior that justifies murder of the very people who have elected a sheriff sworn to protect us all.  Bob was a local and he deserved protection, whether homeless or not.  For years, under Mafia rule, Bob was protected.  Now under the guise of elected authority, we are all in danger.  We have replaced one group of hoodlums with another, only this time they have a license to torture, beat, and now kill, all while under the guise of justice.  Justice for whom?

            Sadly to say, the “good guys” have now forsaken their vocation and ideals, and now are dragging our community into the mud, just like “Pigs”.   I now understand how such an epithet could have evolved, and my heroes of past are now gone because they have lowered themselves down to the most lowest of common denominators in our society.  Instead of our models in the community, they have become the mediocrity of all that is possibly worst in all of us.

What Can We Do

              All of this can be stopped.  We can return to those old days of “peace and justice for all” as we were promised.  Bob’s death is a call to action and symbol of all that can be good within our society.  We must realize that within us all are the “dark forces” of inhumanity along with the “good”.  We are all faced with the inner conflicts within our souls as the good battles with the bad.  I make just as many mistakes and hurt my fellowman just as much as the police.  I also do a lot of good in my life for others in the community.  No one is above the law, not you, not me, and certainly not our police, our district attorney or our judges.

            Under the current environment of Virginia City, why would anyone choose to live here, let alone visit as a tourist?  Excesses under the guise of a badge or justice cannot be allowed to continue and encourage harassment or intimidation, even murder of locals, let alone tourists.  (Note: one youngster who witnessed Bob being gunned down by the police went back to his home traumatized by the violence.)  The thought going across this nation now is who will be next in Virginia City, and we should ask ourselves how much more will we be asked to pay for the cost of acts of inhumanity against our fellow man. 

There are steps to be taken:

1.      Eliminate Mace and Pepper Spray as a weapon of the police.  It only angers the victim or criminal into an escalation of violence.  Other means of containing a person can be used in its place.

2.      All police revolvers should stay firmly in their holsters unless there is a threat of being fired upon by another.  Force can only be met with equal force, not excessive force, and human life must be respected as the utmost ideal and priority in our community.  Being civil to our fellow man should be our goal and a person is innocent until proven guilty.  How many times have I been profiled by Virginia City police, just by driving through town late at night, profiled as a drunk driver, and stopped with the attitude that I am guilty even before they talk to me.    If this means that a policeman loses his life, then his sacrifice will be revered in our community in upholding the high ground and he will regain our respect and trust.  He is our model and should be held to a higher accountability.

3.      All officers should be made to undergo “Community Training” and psychological testing before being put onto our streets.  We now are trying to prevent bullies from terrorizing our schools; isn’t it time that we should send a message to those “bullies” who happen to wear a badge?  They must reassess and re-prioritize their mission to protect rather than to kill members of our community.

4.      The Sheriff must be called to accountability.  He bears full responsibility for the deterioration of peace in our community and must bear the accountability of the actions within and by his department.

5.      Finally, a Citizens Oversight Board must be created to review and take actions in response to citizen’s complaints about police actions.  Our country is based upon “checks and balances”.  It is time to make our police force also subject to reasonable “checks and balances”.  This Board would have the ability to suspend, fire and to prosecute police depending upon the seriousness of their actions in not responding correctly to the oath that they swore to uphold.

The consequences of us all in not taking action now, in either adopting the above suggestions or developing some new answers to this threat are impelling.  Inaction will only allow the past pattern to continue and worsen like a festering sore upon all of our souls.  There is trouble in Virginia City, but Bob’s death is now a call for action to regain control of our lives again and bring peace to our community once more.  If we do not act now, YOU COULD BE NEXT!

Don’t Take Your Suspenders to Town, Boy

 

Or

 A Homeland Security Incident in Carson City, Nevada

By Patrick Flanagan

 

Good Friday is supposed to be a day of remembrance and meditation.  Yet the Collect for this day, Acts 4:1-12, reads, “So they arrested them…”  Peter and John were arrested for their teachings.  Many believed and felt the same way.  Frequently, in the Gospels, we hear about arrests; people willing to go to jail because of their beliefs.  But what about people today who willingly go to jail because of their beliefs?  We don’t read much about them but they are there, keeping their baptismal promises to “strive for justice and peace,” just as John and Peter did.

I should have read that passage at the beginning of my day of Good Friday.  Instead, I had promised a friend to visit the Carson City District Attorney to check on the progress of a particular case.  Being Irish, that is another story.  What follows is a real story of this day and our own ongoing personal persecution by the authorities in a continuing violation of our rights and freedoms.  Of course, they are protecting us from ourselves.  Or so they say.

To get to visit the Carson District Attorney, an elected public official, one has to go to the County Court House and go through the ever-present security check of today’s paranoid world and war against terrorism.  I was prepared for the search, or, at least, thought I was.

 I’m used to setting off alarms.  My car alarm goes off all the time.  So I wasn’t surprised when the scanner alarm went off as I walked through the ever-present electronic scanning door.  I had already removed all my coins, my watch, my cigarette lighter, my keys, my Swiss Army knife (which caused a suspicious look by the security officer), and even my miniature crucifix, so appropriate for this day.

Next, my shoes.  Off, so that they could see the holes in my socks.  I’m a bachelor.  Again, the alarm goes off.  I now know what is causing the problem: my fancy metal laden fire-engine red suspenders holding up my pants.  I asked the officer, could I go through now, and got a stern negative.  “Off with the suspenders,” the officer commanded.

 

          Now, this presented a real problem for me.  My suspenders latch on in the front in two places, but only in one place in the rear.  I told the officer, if I took off my suspenders, I wouldn’t be able to get them back on without some help from him in connecting the rear latches.  If I had no help, I would have to take off my pants as I can’t properly get the rear suspender connected properly.  Being a public servant, I kind of expected a friendly bit of help in this predicament.  To my surprise, I got a resounding “No!”  It must be a man thing.  I tried covering the metal latches with my hands and again set the alarm off.

I had no choice.  I told the officer to search me, as I didn’t want to take my pants off in public.  He again refused.  By now, I was somewhat naked having taken off my shirt, exposing the bright brass on my suspenders.  I protested, “Officer, if I’m to get passed your security, I will have to take off my pants,” and he responded, “Well………..”

So I did.  I took off my pants and, guess what, walked through the scanner and no alarm went off.  Now, one would have a sense of relief, but, frankly, I was a bit embarrassed and upset by this time.  I quickly put my pants back on, made a small comment about the need for common sense in our security system and went on my way to the District Attorney.  Going up the elevator, I wondered if I really do look like a terrorist and maybe I should shave my beard.  After all, a lot of Irish have been terrorists against the British back in the days of the Revolution.

Well, I was treated very civilly by the D.A’s office.  I commented to her that their building security was very thorough and she should feel very safe at work.

On my way back down, I kind of got thinking this is America.  I don’t have to go through a search to such a ridiculous extent.  After all, wasn’t this one of the reasons we revolted against the British?  So I decided to ask for the officer’s badge number.  That was a mistake.

He replied boastingly, “I don’t have a badge number.  They call me Big Foot!”  Now that I could believe as he was so big and did look kind of like his name would apply.  Now, I’m a small man, and he kind of reminded me of the bullies I had to contend with in school, bigger than me and people who love to badger and torment.

He then asked me for identification or a driver’s license.  I then politely reminded him of a recent Supreme Court decision that I don’t have to give him my I.D. unless he informed me that I was going to be charged with some crime.  That wasn’t a good response either as now he was starting to become wild and more belligerent.

“I’m going to get an arrest warrant for you for indecent exposure,” he threatened, upon which I gave him my driver’s license.  I protested, saying that the other officer wouldn’t let me pass through security until I had gotten rid of my suspenders, which happened to be logically connected to my pants.  I was just following their orders, and it certainly wasn’t any fun for me.  After all, I’m not really that well endowed.  He then furthered his threats, stating that there was three officers present who would all testify that I purposely exposed myself to them and that they never asked me to remove my suspenders.  I was shocked.  To intimate that three peace officers, sworn to uphold the law, would lie in order to intimidate me.  Just because I asked for his badge number.  Tension was high, but not in my suspenders.  Getting my license back, I left, blood pressure on high, and wondering how all of this could have happened on Good Friday.

Well, a charge of “indecent exposure” is a very serious charge, a gross felony.  I’ll probably have to go to jail when they catch me.  But I think I will win.

You see, I was wearing my new bathing suit and I don’t think that is indecent exposure.  After all, I’m a bachelor who hadn’t done his wash yet that day.

The moral of the day: Good Friday is a day when innocent people are persecuted and should never wear their suspenders to town or to the airport.  Get a belt, and get a life! 

The Flexy Racer

                                                                                              

By Patrick Flanagan

 

He was only five years old, about 3 feet tall, so that to him, small hills looked like large mountains to climb.  Or race down.  Burbank School in East Oakland had just finished with the customary bell ringing and Pat was free from kindergarden for the rest of the day.  Now all he had to do was wait until mom showed up in the car to pick him up and go home.  Slowly the rest of the kids made their way through the open gates from the school ground also on their way home.  Within a few minutes, the playground was pretty much empty except for Pat and a kid he didn’t know carrying what looked like a wooden sled.  Except that it had wheels instead of runners.

Pat went up to the kid and asked him, “What is that thing?”, and the kid responded, “It’s a flexy, a sled for when there isn’t any snow.  I’ll  show you.”  Then the kid placed the flexy on the ground, started to take off on a short run,  laid down on the slats of wood and started riding across the school ground.  It truly was a sled for the summertime.  Then the kid rode back to where Pat was, obviously proud of his flexy.

“We call that ‘belly flopping.’” the kid said.  Pat looked more closely at the flexy.  It rode on plastic tires, had a steel spring for a bumper and rubber handle bars which could be used for steering and also for braking.  On the slats of wood was imprinted a very patriotic logo clearly indicating that the flexy was made in the U.S.A.  “It’s a model 300,” the kid proudly stated, “the newest one out.”

Clearly Pat was envious.  Belly flopping looked like a lot of fun.  Then he asked the kid if he could try it.  With a bit of hesitancy, the kid agreed.  Pat looked around and said, “Watch this!”  He then picked up the flexy and started to walk toward the only one hill on the playground.  It wasn’t a huge hill, just really a kind of slope upward to the classrooms but Pat knew this was going to be quite a ride.

He got to the top of the hill and looked down at his new friend.  Placing the flexy down, Pat laid down on the wooden slats, holding the flexy still with his little feet dug into the asphalt, his hands on the steering bars.  And then he let go.  Almost immediately the flexy started down the hill.  It all happened in seconds.  The flexy was picking up speed quickly and Pat got a bit worried about what he had taken on.  He tried to slow the flexy with the brakes but the inertia was just too great.  So much for the brakes as the flexy continued to pick up speed.  The brakes didn’t work.  The asphalt was covered with a lot of small rocks and the flexy started to ride over them and Pat quickly found out now where the “flopping” came from,  only this was more like belly bumping.  In an instant, Pat started to realize that maybe he had taken on too big of a hill and fear started to creep into his prone body as the ground whizzed by quicker and quicker.  Again, trying the brakes but it was to no avail as the sled continued to pick up speed.

By now, Pat was thinking to himself, this wasn’t a good idea as panic started to set in.  He could see his new found friend on the flat asphalt ahead, watching in amazement at just how fast the flexy could really go.  Pat knew he was in trouble.  And then it got worse.

 

There was nothing else to do but try to turn the flexy, hoping that maybe this would slow it down.  Wrong, as Pat turned the steering handles to the right.  The flexy lost total control and flipped up and over, throwing Pat off the wooden slats.  And now Pat was rolling down the hill on his own.  He could feel the small asphalt rocks digging into his face and arms like little needles pricking him all over as the flexy continued to roll also down the hill.  And then everything came to a dead stop as Pat’s new friend ran over to him.  Clearly Pat was shaken as he tried to stand up.

Being only five, he had never seen blood before and both his face and arms started to bleed from all the small pebbles stuck in his face and arms.  There was nothing left to do but cry as he kind of started to wander on the asphalt paving in a mild state of shock.  He wasn’t crying loud as he knew that could be embarrassing, but he didn’t know what else to do.  His face and arms were burning and bleeding now and where was his mom?  He knew he needed help and was in trouble.  Crying usually brought help.

In a daze, he started walking toward the school gate where his mother  picked him up after school; by now tears were flowing down his face.  Mom’s car still wasn’t there and a new kind of panic started to set in.  He felt so alone and helpless.

On the other side of the chain link fence there was still no car where his mom always parked.  He started crying a bit louder as the burning sensation from the asphalt pebbles started to now hurt.  And then an angel appeared.  In the house that was right next to the chain link gate, a small little girl came down the porch to see who was crying.  She came up to Pat and took his hand to lead him over to her porch, and then told him to “Sit here for a second and I’ll be right back.”  Pat was feeling a bit more at ease as his sobs slowly diminished.    She wasn’t mom but she did seem to know what to do.

Soon she came back with a damp wash cloth and started to slowly wipe away the blood on Pat’s face and remove the small black pebbles.  It still hurt but not as much.  She was very gentle and asked, “Does this hurt?” as she carefully cleaned Pat up.  After she was through, she said, “This wil make it feel better and be all right,” as she then gave Pat a small kiss on his cheek.  It did make things a lot better, that kiss.  All of a sudden, Pat was a man again and stopped his crying with a broad smile.

It was right about then that Pat’s mom drove up and life was looking a lot better.  She immediately knew that something was wrong as she rushed to the porch from the car.  Deep in Pat’s heart, he knew now that his experience with the Flexy Racer Model 300 was coming to an end.  In his defence, he boldly told his mom, “Mom, you won’t believe what happened to me today.  I got my first kiss from a girl!”  As if all those small cuts and scratches no longer even existed.

Addendum:  About sixty years later, Pat went back to see his old kindergarden school.  It was still there with its hill which now looked very small to a grown man.  The school now was a neighborhood center for the blacks which now lived there and the little girl’s house still was there just as he remembered it.  Today it is a tough area of Oakland and a black man was sitting on the very same porch where the little girl had been so kind to Pat.  It was clear that white people no longer were welcome in this neighborhood as the man got up in kind of a threatening stance. 

In defense, Pat said to the man, “Did you know that your porch is the place where I got my first kiss from a girl and I just came back to make sure it was still here.”  The man’s disposition immediately changed with a smile as Pat then went on to tell him the story about the Flexy Racer.  At the end, the man then replied, “You can come back anytime and sit on my porch anytime you want.”  The man had never heard of a Flexy Racer but he did know how important that first kiss was to a young boy.

 

Yolanda Flanagan - A Brief History

January 12th, 1946 – May 8^th, 2008 

            Yolanda Christina Flanagan passed away on May 8^th, 2008 at 1:48 a.m.  With her during the last few hours of her life were her ex-husband, Patrick J. Flanagan, her son-in-law, Joel Dario Sr., her daughters, Christina M. Dario and Denise A. Flanagan, and her three grandchildren, Olivia, Joel Jr., and Giselle Dario.  For the last three months of her life, she had moved back to the home of Pat Flanagan at 2170 Cartwright Road, Virginia City Highland Ranches, Reno, Nevada.  This is an attempt to try to record the most significant events in her life and to try to preserve a record for posterity.  We have tried as much as possible to make sure that all recorded is as accurate as possible.  One memorable event: the next morning after Yolanda had been taken for cremation and the hospital bed had been removed, Olivia said when she got up, “Grandma went to heaven.”  Yolanda died after about a three year battle with liver cancer which also progressed into bone cancer.  There was no history of these cancers in her family.  She donated her body to the University of Nevada, Reno for medical research and was eventually cremated.  UNR does a memorial every year for all donors.

Early Beginnings

            Yolanda was born on January 12^th, 1946 at Ancona, Italy to Chester (Czeslaw) Seyfert (Sejfert) and Roma Seyfert (Funk).  Her birth was at the 8^th British Army’s Polish attached military hospital where her grandfather, Colonel Funk was the director and professional doctor.  As a result, she did not have a birth certificate from Italy, Britain, or Poland.  She was stateless.  During the delivery, Colonel Funk ordered his men to stand in formation during labor until Yolanda was born.  As it was a long labor, some men did not make it and fainted in place.

            Roma, her mom, spent all the war years in Poland and toward the end of the war married Chester.  At the beginning of WWII, Yolanda’s grandfather  had been deported to Russia, survived a number of communist massacres, and escaped back to join the Polish 2^nd Corp. of the 8^th Army under General Anders.  Sometime during this period, Chester’s family was caught hiding Jews in Warsaw from the Germans.  One of the Jews got caught by the German soldiers, led them to Chester’s house and all the Jews in hiding along with Chester’s family, except for his mother and Chester, were shot by the Germans in the street.  A lot of what happened here explains Yolanda’s later feelings toward the Jewish race and the fact that many Polish tried to help save Jews during the German occupation and lost their lives as a result.

            As the war was coming to an end, both Chester and Roma escaped to Austria and from there walked to Italy to join Roma’s father while she was pregnant with Yolanda.  The first entry point was Ancona where Roma’s father was in charge of the field hospital.

            At this time, Chester was in training in Rome to become an officer, around October of 1945, and it was here that Chester met John (Janusz) and Barbara (Basia) Meyerhoff who remained friends for many many years later.

          When the war finally ended, Chester and Roma, along with Roma’s father and Yolanda went to England to avoid being displaced back to Poland, and, from there, they emigrated in April of 1948 to Buenos Aires, Argentina.  Chester had applied to the U.S. for emigration but had been refused.  They could not go back to Poland as Roma’s father had title as a baron and all nobility were imprisoned by the Communists in their takeover of Poland.  It would have been a death sentence to go back.  Yolanda never lost her sense of nobility and title, and she loved reading about Princess Diana, the Royal Family in England and how it reminded her of her heritage.

          Around 1952/1953, Roma and Chester divorced, with Chester taking custody of Yolanda.  Roma subsequently remarried to Henri (Henryk) Sikorski and stayed deeply in love with Henri until he died.  After the divorce, Chester took Yolanda to Port of Spain, Trinadad where he worked and lived on a fishing boat for about 9 months with Yolanda, and then they returned to Buenos Aires where he worked for a while as an accountant.  This was Yolanda’s first experience with the “dark race” as she called them.  On the trip back to Argentina, Yolanda stopped at Montevideo, Uruguay, Rio de Janeiro, Copacabana in Brazil and Barbados.  She was truly international by this time.  Back in Argentina, she finished her years in grammar school and started her first year in high school.  Finally they were given immigration status to the U.S. and moved to Grass Valley, California in 1960.  They came to the U.S. on a Japanese ship, visited Victoria and Santos in Brazil, Christobol in Panama, went through the Panama Canal and arrived at San Pedro, California.

          Chester got a job at the Feather River Inn as the head accountant.  Yolanda by this time was starting high school, and she boarded at Mt. St. Mary‘s Academy in Grass Valley.  This was where she was taught by Sister Mary Ernest who she maintained contact with up until Yolanda passed away.  St. Mary’s stopped being a boarding school and convent soon after Yolanda graduated.  Half of it today is a museum and hasn’t really changed much.  Right before Yolanda got real ill, she went and visited Sister Mary Ernest in Omaha.

One interesting point: Roma came from quite a family.  Her father was an unbelievable soldier and received many medals during the WWII.  Yolanda was able to get all of the medals from England right before she passed away.  It is very probable that Roma might have been related to Jan Jozef Ignacy Lukasiewicz, a Polish pharmacist who first distilled kerosene and was the founder of the Polish oil industry.  Roma mentioned this often over the years.  He invented the kerosene lamp, and founded the first oil well and oil refinery in Poland.

 College Years

            Yolanda went to Lone Mountain (San Francisco College for Women) and majored in Russian.  For the four years, she lived in the dormitories even though her father was then living near the beach in San Francisco.  Generally she had good grades and particularly did well in Russian.  The University was just a few blocks away from the University of San Francisco where Pat went  and the two schools often jointly sponsored “mixers” and dances as Lone Mountain was only a woman’s college and USF was still pretty much a men’s

            It was here at a mixer in her sophomore year that she met Pat.  Pat was at one of the mixers one night and was looking for a rich woman to date and maybe finally get married.  Lone Mountain had a lot of rich families sending their daughters there, like Bob Hope and other famous people.  He was immediately taken off-guard by her European accent, her poise and how beautiful she was.  They continually dated for the rest of their college years, and Pat proposed to her in their senior year.  He asked her to “go steady” in their Junior year which was kind of like an “engagement”.  Pat still thought her family had a lot of money.

            During those years, Yolanda worked at a donut shop about 2 blocks away from the University.  She was actually working her way through college by working, some scholarships, some money from her father and a large U.S. government student loan.  Pat was in for a surprise. 

Marriage

            Pat proposed to Yolanda at Land’s End one night out near the San Francisco Beach which they both loved.  In that senior year, they both took a number of courses in Existential Literature at the University of Calif. Extension in San Francisco.  They both had a great time talking about the course afterwards and having to read the same books at the same time.  Yolanda and Pat really didn’t have a lot of money in those days, so Yolanda began sewing her own wedding dress and veil.  The veil was unbelievable and took many hours to make; some of Yolanda’s friends also helped.  They got married after graduation on August 5^th, 1967 and went on their honeymoon to the Feather River Inn.  Yolanda’s father had paid for most of the cost of the honeymoon, and the reception was at Pat’s parents’ house in San Leandro.  Lots of Korbel champagne and good food.  True to the traditions of those days, they were both virgins up until the time they married.  That, in itself, was somewhat unusual even in those days. 

            Prior to the wedding, Pat and Yolanda got into a big argument with the Catholic Church in San Francisco.  First, they wanted Father Monihan from USF to say the mass, and the mass was to be in Latin.  The parish priest fought against having a Jesuit priest in his church and also was against the Latin mass which had recently been discouraged by the 2^nd Vatican Council.  Both fought for Father Monihan and for the Mass.  A generous donation to the church seemed to solve the problem.  Father Monihan remained a good friend of both up until he died.  He was in charge of the Gleason Library at USF and was an extremely brilliant man.  He often came to dinner and always mesmerized Yolanda as to the extent of his experiences and knowledge in books.  He always complimented Yolanda on her culinary skills.

            They moved into their first apartment on 14^th Street in San Leandro, right next door to a bar called the “Sneaky Tiki”.  About this time, Pat started getting his draft notice for the armed services.  They were married for 25 years before they got a divorce.

The War Years

            After graduation, Pat knew he had to go into the armed services.  The draft was still in effect in those days.  He applied and got accepted into the Air Force to become a jet pilot.  However, now that they were married, he decided that five years in the Air Force wasn’t worth it, he wanted to get back to work with his father in the fish business to make some money for the family, and he decided to let the government draft him even though he was able to defer due to the Air Force acceptance.  They thought with his experience in accounting and his degree in accounting, the Army would put him into clerical and it was only for two years instead of five.  At that time, he had been working for a CPA in San Leandro, had a good job offer with Caterpillar in accounting, but he really loved working in the fish plants.  On February 14^th, 1968, Valentine’s Day, he was drafted into the U.S. Army and inducted.  That was a very sad and miserable day for Yolanda as she was going to be on her own now for the next two years.  Soon after, she moved back to San Francisco to be close to her friends.  One of them was Carolyn Nelson whose husband, Jim Nelson was Pat’s roommate at USF, and they had gotten married right after college also.  Jim was also drafted into the Army and was stationed for the two years in South Korea.

            Those years were tough; just the separation alone was brutal.  Yolanda got work at Kaiser, and Pat’s almost entire paycheck from the Army went home to help her pay the bills.  Pat as a private was only making about $150.00 per month; when he finally got shipped to Viet Nam, he also got battle pay which raised that to about $250.00 a month.  During that time, Yolanda came to visit Fort Lewis in Washington for Pat’s graduation from basic training, and then also visited him at Fort Polk, Louisiana for advanced infantry training; they both knew by that time where he was going and it certainly wasn’t going to be in a clerical office.

            Much is often made about the men who go to war.  Not enough is said about the wives who are left behind.  The loneliness, need to pay bills, work, and fear of the unknown; nobody gives enough credit to the women.  Letters went back and forth between the two during those years and two R&R’s at Hawaii which were great until the day that they ended and Pat again had to leave for Viet Nam. 

Work at Kaiser Aluminum & Chemicals

            Once Yolanda had graduated from Lone Mountain, she had a hard time getting a job.  For a while, she had small jobs just to make money.  Finally, through the kindness and help of Teresa Pucci, who was a corporate executive at Kaiser and a friend of the Flanagans (her husband was part owner in Joe Pucci & Sons Fish Company), Yolanda got a job at Kaiser Aluminum & Chemicals, Engineering Division as a secretary.  Eventually, she began using her knowledge of Russian and Polish and translated scientific documents for Kaiser.  She made a decent wage but nothing realistic in relation to the quality of translation that she had been doing for Kaiser which was very technical.  It was at Kaiser that Yolanda met Nella Dornbos around 1968. 

            Yolanda liked to joke around.  One such instance Nella recounts:

“She was quite a prankster.  I remember one April fool’s day she hid a secretary’s (Nella’s ???) typewriter before starting time, and when the poor girl arrived she was at a loss as to what happened.  After a while a lot of people were looking for the typewriter, including some of the bosses.  After becoming quite nervous and realizing things had gotten out of hand, Yolanda had to “fess up.”  I believe she was mildly reprimanded, but her friends enjoyed the experience immensely.”

One of the other instances worth remembering was when Pat got discharged from the Army.  He had extended in Viet Nam in order to get out of the service five months early.  Pat felt somewhat safe in those days as the U.S. was starting to pull back and he was then stationed in a large Army base called Anh Khe working in the PX system.  As it worked out, he was discharged earlier than expected so he thought he would surprise Yolanda and not tell her when he was going to come home.

The discharge procedures took about two days at Fort Lewis, Washington.  Pat didn’t sleep at all during that time; he was too excited at getting home safely and being back again with his wife.  He finally arrived at San Francisco Airport, took a cab to where Yolanda was living.  It was about 10 p.m. at night; when he got there, she wasn’t home.  Some neighbors told Pat she had decided to spend the night with one of her friends, Nella, from work but they didn’t know where that was.  By this time, Pat was exhausted, tried to get a motel room twice to get some rest, and was refused because of his uniform.  Many were against the war in those days, and particularly so in San Francisco.

As a result, he then decided to take the bus to Oakland where he knew there was a restaurant, Biff’s, which was open all night.  He would stay there all night, drinking coffee, and then walk a few blocks to Kaiser Center to finally surprise Yolanda when she came to work.

The next morning he did just that, and Nella Dornbos remembers that day very well:

“Also, I will never forget your return from Vietnam.  Somehow word had gotten to me that you were in the Kaiser Center lobby, and that I was supposed to send her down without letting on what joy would await her when she stepped off the elevator.  I very mistakenly (and stupidly) told her someone downstairs in uniform was here to see her, and of course she rushed down thinking the worst—that you had been injured or killed and that someone was here to inform her.  Thankfully, she forgave me and very happily brought you upstairs to introduce you to her co-workers.”  

Yolanda as Mom

          Once they were back together again, they started to save money; Pat was working at the fish company and Yolanda was doing well at Kaiser.  They moved into a new apartment in the Irving District of San Francisco; Jim and Carolyn Nelson also were reunited again and moved also a few blocks away.  It was time for both to begin starting their families and pay off all the student loans that Yolanda had accumulated.  By this time, Pat knew she wasn’t one of those wealthy girls from Lone Mountain, but he didn’t care.  She was still very unusual and beautiful.  He always loved her accent and she was very smart.  She began playing Chess by mail and became very good at it; she was rated nationally.  John Meyerhoff said she was very good at Chess even as a young girl.  Both loved to read and life was enjoyable and simple.  Often they went to the beach at Pescadero and would spend the whole day, drinking, swimming and finally a barbecue before going home.

          Yolanda got pregnant and Christina was born at Kaiser Hospital on Geary Blvd. in San Francisco.  They had to buy a home and finally found a house on 32^nd and Noriega.  They paid about $32,000.00 for a two bedroom, one bath home that had a nice view of the ocean on a clear day in the Sunset District.  Pat and Yolanda created a brick terrace in the backyard with a beautiful garden that Yolanda planted.

          During those years, Pat worked at the fish plant and Yolanda worked typing for a business from out of the house and raising Christina.  They pretty much spent their weekends playing Bridge with Jim and Carolyn who were also raising their two sons, Gregory and Zachary.  Weather was cold and damp in the Avenues, and Christina often got sick, even pneumonia.  Yolanda, being an only child, she studied avidly about raising kids in those days and worried every time Christina got sick.  She wanted to be the perfect mom.  We debated and questioned endlessly on Dr. Spock’s advice on raising kids.

          Then it was time for Denise.  They needed a new home that was bigger and started looking in San Francisco.  Finally, Yolanda, on her own, found their dream house in Alameda, Spanish in design, which they both fell in love with, and the price was right.  They sold the house in San Francisco for about $50,000.00 and bought the house on 1246 Hawthorne St. in Alameda for $70,000.00.  Denise was born at Kaiser Hospital in Oakland.  It was a kind of long labor, but not as long as Christina’s which lasted over 12 hours.

          Yolanda continued to work, sometimes at the fish plant, until the birth of Clientell where she worked the rest of her life for Peta and other non-profits out of her home.  This way she was always around and available to the kids as they grew up.  The children were always her first priority.  Yolanda was really talented in crafts and made flowers out of paper tissue; then the kids would take them to Fisherman’s Wharf and sell them.  She often sewed her own clothes from patterns and made clothes for the kids, including Halloween costumes and new outfits for Barbie.

          She did all of the normal things that moms do, girl scouts, selling girl scout cookies, dance lessons, and, most of all, making sure that they were getting a good education.  For a few years, she would host a “Round the Town” luncheon each year to raise money for the school.  She would worry so much that everything had to be just right, and it usually was, the décor and the food, mostly seafood.  It was always a big hit in the community.  Education was the most important and the need to read a lot.

          Perhaps the high point was her realization that the kids were not being well educated at St. Joseph’s Grammar school in Alameda.  Denise was having problems, and the kids just weren’t being challenged.  She then studied how to measure attainment levels in education, organized a meeting at her house for all of the school’s parents, and brought to their attention that the kids in school were not being educated at the proper levels.  This caused a major uproar at the school and it soon became apparent that both Christina and Denise had to change schools.  We were not welcome at St. Joseph’s anymore.  As a result, Denise went to Bentley in Berkeley, then onto CPS, and Christina went to Drew High School in San Francisco.  The best decision that could have been made for both of them.  Cost was no object; in fact, their secondary schooling cost almost as much or more than sending them both to college.

          Catherine Cavanaugh remembers those days very well:

            “I first knew of the inner qualities, determination and dedication that Yolanda had while working with her at St. Joseph’s Elementary School.  Yolanda led a drive, albeit not at all popular and well received, to improve the standard of education for our children.”

          The movement failed, and Christina and Denise then went on to better academic schools for their remaining education.  For Yolanda, education was very important, and she was constantly encouraging the kids to learn and read.  As the kids were growing up, she made them memorize all the countries and capitals of the world at that time.  Then she would quiz them as they drove up to the cabin in Woodfords.

          She was always trying to teach the kids etiquette and manners which wasn’t easy with Pat around.  She thought that appearances had to be kept and real, not faked as a part of civility.  Pat always had to wear a suit for various occasions and the girls had to wear dresses.  Of course, Pat didn’t help much in this area.

          I can’t resist this story: Christina had been spending an overnight with some of her friends from school.  During that night, as teen-age girls will do, they proceeded to get into trouble.  Christina had taken a recorder, pretending to be a reporter and quizzed all the girls about their sexual experiences.  Well, somehow the tape got into the hands of the school.  The head sister of the school called in all the parents and individually made them all listen to the tape before determining a punishment for all the girls.  Pat and Yolanda sat there and listened to the tape.  Afterward, the nun asked Pat and Yolanda what they thought about the incident.  Pat quickly answered, since Christina never recounted her experiences, and only interviewed the girls, “Sister, do you think I have a possible Barbara Walters in our family?”  That did not go off well at all.  Frankly, the tape was pretty tame, but Yolanda was furious with Pat for embarrassing her.  Inside, Pat thought the whole incident was hilarious, but Christina still had to be on restriction.  She was right and Pat, as usual, was wrong.  God bless her.  Yolanda always had trouble with Pat’s weird sense of humor.

          Part of Yolanda’s belief in raising families was tradition in trying to build strong family ties and friendships.  She was very orientated to the community, whether it be Alameda or internationally Poland.  One of those traditions came on Christmas.  One tradition was elaborate Christmas dinners with red beet soup (Borsht; in Polish: Barszcz), the exchanging of the wafer-like hosts sent from Poland, and usually a crazy Polish guest, Mr. Suchecki, who ate everything that was left when we were all finished eating.  Christmas Eve was always seafood and no meat by Catholic tradition.  Often for Christmas, the family would go to the Mannix’s for Christmas Eve or to the Cavanaugh’s.  Then, near midnight, the “Flanagan’s would leave ‘early’ in time to attend a Latin Midnight Mass. (Catherine Cavanaugh)  Often, Yolanda would take photos of Christina and Denise that were so good, they looked professional.

          Another special day was Halloween.  Yolanda would work all day decorating the front entrance of the Alameda House, putting dry ice in the fish pond to make an eerie smoke to scare the kids trick or treating.  She had a tape with screams and howls, creaking doors.  Spiders and cob webs all over that the kids would have to walk under.  Most of those years, she also would make the kids home-made costumes for the night like dressing them up as playing cards.  Then Pat would have to put on her black graduation gown, a scary mask, and terrify the kids all through the night.  For years, kids came just to be scared, and, for Yolanda, everything had to be just right to do that.  Often the kids would run off for a block before they could calm down.  It was one of her most favorite holidays. 

The Cabin

            Yolanda always was a big believer in the healing of “solitude”.  So when they built the cabin at 401 Crystal Springs Road in Woodfords, it was the perfect place for solitude and to try to reassess and take inventory of oneself.  Many summers she would go there with the kids, sometimes by herself, and listen to the constant sound of the West Fork of the Carson River just a few steps away.  No television, just board games like Parchessi, Canasta to play with the kids and lots of reading, sitting by the fireplace.  Lots of good friendships there also.  Judge Moore and his wife, a judge who never got his law degree, but used common sense in his rulings.  Al and Jean Watt, and their two sons, Brian and Don.  Judge Hillary Cook and his wife, they all lived within the Crystal Springs Campground community.

            It was a great place for the kids to play down by the river, and to take dark walks at night down to the bridge, wondering if there were any monsters lurking.  Or to watch for satellites and shooting stars.  And it was close to gambling in Carson which she loved.  Dollar Machines.  One night she won thousands at Sharkey’s Casino in Gardnerville; she was afraid that Sharkey’s henchmen were going to rob her as she went out to the car as Sharkey didn’t like paying out a lot of money.  Most of the time though she ended up putting most of the money back when she won.

            Al and Jean were a lot of fun since Al had been on a submarine in WWII, then became a spy for the U.S. in India, and finally ended up being a Vice-President for Boeing.  His twin brother also was a VP at Boeing.  Al had also been associated with the Skunkworks so he had a lot of secrets in his head.  She was fascinated with Al’s tales of spying in India.  Before Al retired, he was Boeing’s lobbyist in Washington trying to fund projects like the Space Shuttle.

            Then also down the street was Mr. Powers.  He was the head engineer for Harrah’s in Tahoe.  His son Reagan got married in the canyon and the neighborhood had a great wedding down at their house.  Reagan was the same age as Brian and Don Watts; so they all kind of hung around together.  Reagan was a good kid and very intelligent so Yolanda liked them all.  Reagan is a very successful attorney today in Seattle.

            Brian also got married up there to Susan; the wedding was at the Lake and Susan was great with the kids, always doing fun things.  Both Brian and Susan were working in the casinos dealing Black Jack and Yolanda would often go to gamble at the Lake to see them both.  Tragically, Susan unexpectedly committed suicide which was a very traumatic event for everyone.  Brian later remarried to a wonderful woman and they have an autistic son whom they love very much and enjoy.  Brian was always happy and “go-lucky” despite the difficulties in his life.  He had loved Susan very much but finally got back to rebuilding his life.

            Lots of barbecues at the cabin with the neighbors and yet there was always the silence for solitude and reading good books.  Once in a while there would be excitement too like the day a 5.0 earthquake hit in the area and one could see landslides coming down from the mountain, or the Acorn fire which lasted weeks and many cabins were lost, but 401 Crystal Springs managed to survive.  For a while, there was no oxygen in the canyon due to the fire and paint on the fire engines blistered from the heat, but the volunteers fought hard to save the homes.  And then there were the bears; one came right up to the house and Yolanda had to scare him off.  She was all by herself when that happened, but was very brave and took the bear on.

            One year a very intense snow storm hit.  Terenia Meyerhoff was staying up here during the Faukland War, and Yolanda was with Roma and the two kids.  We all decided to take a chance and drive out through Hwy. 80 to get back to the Bay Area.  It turned out to be the wrong time, and we had to stop at Boomtown in Reno to spend the night.  Naturally we had the cats with us also.  Yolanda and Roma hid the cats in suitcases and snuck them into the hotel room to spend the night.  No way would she leave them in the car.  Everything went fine except for the mewing in the elevators.  As always, Yolanda loved her cats.

            Yolanda used to spend a lot of time with her mother at the cabin also.  After Henri had died, Roma had moved to Alameda to live close to Pat and Yolanda.  She was quite a lady.  When Roma died, Pat buried her ashes under a tree near the cabin as it was so peaceful there and a place that Roma loved as much as Yolanda.

            Years later, the Cavanaugh’s moved to Gardnerville for retirement.  This was after Yolanda’s divorce and she had sold the house in Alameda to live at the cabin.  They used to visit back and forth, like in the old days, and one night Yolanda and Catherine went to the Serbian Dinner at Sharkey’s, a yearly event.  Sharkey Berkovich always did this on Little Christmas in honor of his parents.  They both had a great time eating the strange things that Sharkey would prepare from his culture, and it was kind of a typical experiment for Yolanda.  She always respected people’s cultures and roots and loyal to her friendships.  And gambling at Sharkey’s. 

Espionage and World History

            She was always very passionate about her causes...collected tons of articles about the issues that she was interested in and was amazing in how she discovered things to help her causes.  I guess a lot of this goes back to her early life and history.  She always really wanted to be a spy; another reason why she took Russian as her major.  She hated communism and was driven to see Poland again free.  It was her heritage and she was inspired by her grandfather’s nobility.

            During those years, Congressman McDonald, a staunch anti-Communist, was shot down by the Russians over the Arctic Circle.  She had been working with him on the movement to “Renounce the Yalta Agreement”.  She was so upset over this incident that she actively protested in front of the Russian consulate in San Francisco, even bringing the kids so that they would learn how to protest and fight for justice.  One day the protest got out of hand and the police came in to break it up.  It got a bit violent, but she got out early with the kids before it got to be too dangerous.  The Russians always said the plane crash was an accident but Yolanda never once believed them.

            Another event was the Falkland War against the Argentines by the British.  At that time, Terenia Meyerhoff had been visiting and, because of her British and Argentine passports, her parents were worried about her re-entering Argentina after her visit.  As a result, Terenia stayed illegally with Pat and Yolanda during the war until it was again deemed safe for her to return.  At the same time, Pat was dealing with an international consultant for maritime, Eric Norgaard.  Eric came to Pat with drawings of a port in Argentina’s south for his opinion on the designs for a fishing port.  Immediately Pat noticed that the harbor had a dredged depth that was very deep and it was obviously being designed as a submarine base.  At that time, Argentina was on the outs with the U.S. because of the war.  Yolanda immediately figured out it had to be the Russians wanting a base in Argentina close to the Antarctic.  She also knew that top secret facilities were in the Antarctic to help in fighting a nuclear war.  They wrote to John Meyerhoff in Buenos Aires to ask if he could check this out.  John sent back pictures of ships in the Argentine ports where the Russian emblems had been painted over, but painted over so bad that one could still see the emblems.  Obviously the Russians were using the war and its opportunity to try to get a strategic naval base there, close to the Antarctic.  Yolanda called in the CIA and presented all the evidence.  They confirmed that financing for the fishing port had been pulled by the U.S. to Argentina until they ended the war with England.  In the meantime, Pat was very close to the chair of Bank of America.  He had a meeting with the CEO and explained the problem with the Russians providing funding for a Russian port in Argentina and the seriousness of this to U.S. security.  Thanks to the help of the CIA and Bank of America, funding for the fishing port was again reinstated with favorable terms, the Russians were kicked out and the problem was solved.  Eventually the war ended, but Yolanda lost friends on both sides, English and Argentine.  She understood very well the real reasons for the war thanks to her education in Argentina.

            Another event was Yolanda’s work with the FBI regarding spies coming into the U.S as exchange students and going to the University of California in Berkeley to get access to naval architecture and other secret research being done at the University.  She had another friend who worked at the Lawrence Livermore laboratories, and her friend Jadwiga who owned a Polish restaurant near the University where a lot of students went to eat dinner.  Working with the FBI, Yolanda hosted a lot of cocktail parties for Polish exchange students at the house and at Jadwiga’s restaurant.  Often FBI agents attended these parties also.  Though the FBI wouldn’t confirm it, many students were stopped from getting access to critical information and even sent back to Poland for various reasons.

            But perhaps the most important thing she did was to become the Northern California representative for Solidarity in Poland and her ongoing fight to “Renounce Yalta”.   She raised money to help Polish refugees who had sought asylum in the U.S. and to resettle in the Bay Area.  The kids often had dinner with many of these people and thought they were all crazy.  Often coded phone calls were made from the house to Poland to transfer information back to Poland.  Often one heard clicks on the phone and Yolanda figured out that somehow the Russians were tapping in to these calls; sometimes the calls would be disconnected.  She continued to keep the CIA informed because they all felt that spies had also come in under the guise of asylum and Solidarity was very concerned about this.

            As part of this support, the American branch of Solidarity undertook the move to “Renounce Yalta” which gave Poland to Russia.  The movement was really orchestrated by Adam Kiernik in Los Angeles and whose father worked at the U.N.  Yolanda sent tons of letters and raised money for politicians favorable to the movement.  They constantly had to fight the State Dept. who wanted to appease the Russians and found the movement as destabilizing.  The resolution got to a vote in Congress I think twice but failed both times.  Still it was a symbol of support for Polish independence.  Yolanda never gave up on this effort.

            As part of this effort was a very bold move by Lech Welesa and Poland’s Solidarity.  It was top secret and a stroke of genius.  Somehow Adam Kiernik got a long list of all Polish and Russian press, government officials and other important Communist people and their home addresses.  The list was smuggled into the U.S. by Solidarity cells until it reached Adam Kiernek who hand delivered the list to Yolanda.  He knew that Yolanda had Clientell at that time and could send out a mass mailing to all of the people on the list.  They drafted a letter to them all, asking them to defect to the U.S. when they came for the Olympics in Los Angeles.  The letter gave them directions on how they could safely defect and went to hundreds of key people in Russia and Poland.  The Russian government found out and then boycotted the Olympics to prevent a massive defection.  They came out real strong against the U.S. government for interfering with Russia.  Naturally the U.S. government had no idea of what they were talking about.  After the letters went out, the list was burned as Adam Kiernek ordered as he was afraid it would be a help to the Russians in figuring out how this list got into Solidarity’s hands.   I remember how many hours Yolanda worked on this and I was shocked at the boldness of Solidarity.  As it all unfolded, it became a major victory for Solidarity and really undermined Russia’s confidence in being able to control Poland.  What I couldn’t figure out is how they got the list which was so comprehensive.

            It wasn’t until a few years later, after Poland had again achieved independence, that it all became clear.  A top Polish bureaucrat, Ambassador Rurash, had gained unbelievable access to the Russian complex.  He was one of very few allowed into the Russian simulations for an attack against Germany and Europe.  He was the one who got access to the list and smuggled it out; it then went through many Polish cells of Solidarity until it eventually reached Adam.  Rurash was a spy for Solidarity against the Russians.  As the Russians got close to discovering him, when he was the Polish ambassador to Japan, he then attempted to defect to the U.S. with his family.  That shows how highly trusted he was by the Russians.  It was very unusual that an ambassador be allowed to take his family to foreign countries as a way of controlling them.  Despite all the screw-up’s by the U.S. State Dept., the ambassador was successful in his defection.  For many years in the U.S., he and his family were sought by the KGB to be killed.  It was one of the most important defections in U.S. history.  Ambassador Rurash was brought into the Pentagon to explain Russian plans to attack Europe.  Against U.S. computer simulations, the Ambassador was able to beat the U.S. plans for defense and showed how ill prepared the U.S. was in any response.

            Now, how do I know all of this?  Well, during those years after his defection, the Ambassador was asked to give a speech at the World Affairs Council in San Francisco.  He was still under U.S protection and he asked to be able to stay at the Flanagan’s house in Alameda during the trip.  Upon arrival at San Francisco airport, the Russians tried to kidnap him and his wife but were thwarted by the FBI agents protecting him.  He safely made his speech and stayed with the Flanagan’s for a number of days for dinner and safety.  Our phone lines were tapped and agents stayed nearby to protect him.  It was one night that we were having drinks and we talked about the letters regarding the Olympic defections.  It was then that the Ambassador revealed that he was the one who had gotten the list and smuggled it out.  Then we told him it was Yolanda who had sent the letters out.  He immediately wanted to see all the computer systems that made up Clientell and now all the pieces of the puzzle were in place.  It became apparent that totalitarianism could not withstand the power of the computer, which governments who banned computers to protect the government could not survive in a modern world.  They no longer could control freedom of information.  What a night that was and all by pure chance.  It changed the course of history and was the beginning of the fall of Communist Russia’s domination of the countries it had invaded after WWII.  Poland and many others were free to become democratic again.  Adam is writing a book on all of these efforts and many others by Solidarity; I doubt very much if it will ever be published and that is so sad.  And now the kids should know why so many crazy Polish people came to Yolanda for dinner.  Through it all, Yolanda had an impossible dream that did come true.

            Even up to her death, she continued on with her causes.  In the end, she became very concerned over the Israeli treatment of Palestinians and the turmoil in Israel.  She became a very staunch supporter of the Arabs.  She used the internet in many novel ways to preach the cause of Palestine.  Many might call her very anti-Semitic because of her beliefs.  I would not.  She had very good arguments for her positions which even I might say were radical.  She donated money to help the cause of Palestinian refugees; often I would worry about this because of the U.S. attitudes after the Sept. 11^th attack.  She often pointed out the Israeli attack against American naval ships in the Mediterranean even though they were our ally.  Yes, she was very radical in these areas, perhaps even wrong in some cases, but that was her position and she stuck to it no matter what might be the consequences.  What I must say is that she was probably more right than she might have been wrong.  She did get responses back from Yasir Arafat’s secretary who urged her to keep up the fight.  Only history will tell if she was right in her beliefs.  I still have to admire her for her strength and convictions. 

Yolanda’s Life and Work with PETA

            Yolanda always loved animals.  As the kids were growing up, she often let them bring in a wounded bird and try to help save them.  Often, they took in strays like Farfy which was a female cross Irish Setter/Labrador that they found at the Woodfords cabin.  Farfy was big, and when they got her home, also pregnant.  She had a litter of dogs which Yolanda finally found homes for.  Farfy finally had to go to a home with lots of space to run, and later saved a young child at Lake Tahoe from drowning.

            Yolanda began working with PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) around 1985 or 1986.  PETA was founded in 1980 and started out as a very small non-profit organization committed to animals and their care.  Yolanda used her company, Clientell, to handle direct mail solicitation for donations to PETA as well as other non-profits, but PETA was her major client.  She worked for PETA up until her cancer had progressed to the point that she couldn’t work anymore, almost 23 years.  During that time, it was estimated by Scott, her supervisor, that she raised over $100,000,000 for the cause of PETA.

            Scott said, “She was an incredibly hard and devoted worker with amazing attention to detail.  In all of my time working with her, there were not even 10 mistakes and they were always minor ones.  That is an astonishing track record.  She was as close to perfection as a human being can get.  I also will never forget being at her house in Alameda in 1989, one October afternoon when a World Series game was going on.  I had just finished hand signing 1000+ letters and headed home to San Francisco across the Cypress (freeway) structure and the Bay Bridge.  I made it home and the (Loma Prieta) earthquake immediately hit.  It took a day or so for me to contact Yolanda----she was terrified that I had been killed getting home!  Dozens of people on that highway, as you know, didn’t make it.  I was very lucky---and thanks to Yolanda’s attention to detail and thoroughness, I left there earlier than I planned.  So, in a real way, I have always thought she saved my life.  True story.”

            Yolanda handled the mailing of thousands of personalized letters, some mailings in the 20,000 range, which were totally personalized, hand-stamped, and sealed, often with various inserts, and all psychologically profiled to encourage donations.  Some of the people who donated due to these letters were Pamela Anderson, movie star, the Golden Girls from the TV series, Jamie Lee Curtis, movie star and daughter of Tony Curtis and many more.

            During those years, PETA grew from a very small organization to a world-wide and well known animal rights group; much of that growth being financed through Yolanda’s efforts in fund raising. 

Last Thoughts of Yolanda

            In the last few weeks of Yolanda’s life, she continued to write in her notebooks, made up my grocery lists and my “to do” lists, among other things that she wanted to remember.  I found one page as I was doing this biography and thought I would include them here as her parting thoughts to us all:

“The closer one is to God, the happier one is, and the faster one hurries to meet Him.”

“It is a pity that the world has lost all sense of God; they have no reason to live anymore.”

“When you abolish the thought of God, why should you go on living on this earth?”

“All God’s actions are in our best interest because everything that happens in God’s will only happen for the well being of our soul.”

Ending Comments

            I am sure there are many other memories which I have not included here and a number of friends that I have not mentioned.  As it is, this was quite a substantial task and I’ve tried my best to be accurate and truthful to the best of my ability.  It was an honor to me to have lived with a very unique person like Yolanda which I probably did not deserve.  Through many tough times of my own doing, she still stuck by me and gave me support.  Most women would never have given it that much effort, but that was Yolanda.  She seldom gave up and fought to the end.  Even in her last hours, she fought but around her was a sense of peace as well.  Not many die in this world in such a manner and a model to us all.

            In that vein, I thought I would end this with some comments from her friend, Catherine Cavanaugh as I think it kind of summarizes all that I’ve written to this point:

“An important impact that Yolanda made on (me) was her friendship and association with Jack (her husband).  Each thought alike, a high percentage of the time about politics and world events.  They both avidly appreciated history.  Lots and lots of email, internet sites, and books were exchanged between the two of them.  I will always treasure a letter from Yolanda written shortly before Yolanda’s death.  I had just visited her; she had wanted to read what our children had written about Jack for a scrapbook type book that Karen (their daughter) put together----thinking of her own children, of course.  Her letter closed by saying, “Thanks for the tributes---it shows how your dear children continue to love their father and have admired his values.   A wonderful man!”       

                She finishes with what I think says it all: “And that is what we think about            Yolanda------‘A wonderful woman!’”