A fellow Vietnam veteran gave me a life-changing perspective

We both served in Vietnam, but we didn't meet until a few years ago -- the small Vietnam vet group in which Paul participates invited me and Fritz the Sassy Service Dog to join them every Wednesday evening in Burbank.

What happens in the group stays in the group, but I can tell you that Paul is a wonderful photographer who sees beyond the camera.

Following last week's meeting, he took me aside and gave me a perspective so powerful that it has changed how I see my own life and legacy.

In the group meeting, I had expressed my envy of others there who smile and laugh when they speak of their grandchildren. They spend much of their time, it seems, doing things with or doing things for the family members they created.

A teacher's lessons --- lessons that last a lifetime

Les Bruckner, Former Burbank High Teacher

 

Jerry Bloom, Former Burbank High Student

Here's absolute, living proof that teachers can make a difference.
The wonderful folks at the Santa Clarita Sunshine Rotary Club invited me to give a short presentation today. Great people.
I had the pleasure of meeting Salvation Army Ministry Leader Jerry Bloom. He had recently moved to the area after doing the organization's work for many years in Ventura.
During my talk, I mentioned that I always hated history when I was in school, but learned to love it later.
When I was done speaking, he told me that he also hated history, but he had a teacher who made it come alive for him.
"I went to John Muir Junior High School in Burbank," he said, "and then to Burbank High."
What a wonderful coincidence, I told him. "So did I!"
"My history teacher at Burbank High changed my life," he said. "His name was Mr. Bruckner."

I smiled, nodded and told him that Mr. Bruckner had also been my government teacher.
I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say next.

An unnecessary (and humbling) adventure

I was feeling guilty for keeping my treasured RX7 in the office parking lot I share with my office neighbor. So I took the unregistered Mazda home and parked in on the street.

That was dumb!

I came home one night and there was more room to park in front of the house than there had been when I left. Oh! They towed my car. When the nightmare was over, I felt compelled to confess and reflect. Someone I shared it with suggested I send it to the Car Talk program on National Public Radio. It ended up on Car Talk's blog.

Hey, being infamous is almost as good as being famous.

Enjoy.

 To see it, click on this link:  

 The Car Talk Blog

His life cut short at 101

He was 101 years old -- but not too old to inspire people of all ages.

It's a story that could have spread the word and maybe saved a life or two.

His friends say that Otto W. Jensen had the energy of a 20-year-old, the disposition Santa Claus and the kindness of a saint. When he was 99, his friends videotaped him sprinting across Olive Avenue to get from the senior center to his home and photography studio across the street.

It was in that exact spot that a 91-year-old woman's car hit him in the dimming dusk.

It's just a half block from where we live, so when the police helicopter was orbiting about us and the emergency vehicles were converging, I grabbed my video camera and, in true journalist spirit, scurried over and recorded the scene.

I didn't know anything about the victim until I called the Burbank Police watch commander later that night. He could only confirm that the pedestrian had died and that he was a 101-year-old man.

The man who probably saved my life a dozen times

It was 50 years ago today that I learned of his untimely death.

I first saw him parked there on his motorcycle at the corner on Seventh Street and Verdugo Avenue. He was facing north. I was going south. I guess I didn't think the stop sign at Verdugo applied to me, so I ran it. The police officer pointed his gloved finger at me and gestured to where he wanted me to stop.

Then he wrote the ticket.

My first ticket.

Driver: Donald Ray

Age: 10

Vehicle make: Murray Bicycle.

Place of employment: Joaquin Miller School.

Occupation: Grammer School (That's right, he misspelled grammar, but I must confess that I wasn't the one who caught the gaffe).

Anyway, the punishment was mandatory attendance in the basement of the Burbank Police Building on a Saturday morning. It was traffic school for kids. And that same motorcycle cop was in charge.

Officer Joe Wilson.

Truth be told, all of us kids there were frightened when he first stood up in his motorcycle boots and stared us down.

I'll say this: we paid attention to what he had to say. And what he taught was the traffic code -- the rules of the road. It was Officer Joe Wilson who made it clear to us that we had to obey all of the same laws that drivers of automobiles on city streets had to obey. I mean, he made it perfectly clear, or else.

OK, so I was a slow learner. I think I learned them one violation at a time.

It seems that whenever I would find it more convenient to ride on the sidewalk or to give my buddy a ride on the back of my bike, Officer Wilson was watching me.

And he'd ticket me again. Another Saturday. Another lecture. It happened several times over the next couple of years. It got to where I could sing along with Jiminy Cricket in the bicycle safety cartoon Officer Wilson would show us at the end. Jiminy sang it again and again.

"I'm no fool. Nosiree. I'm gonna live to be 23. I play safe for you and me cause I'm no fool."

Of course, the next time he sang it it was 33, then 43 and so on until at least 93.

I believe that Officer Wilson singlehandedly taught an entire generation of young boys (and a few girls) how to drive safely -- for life. It was a time when the Burbank Police Department was willing to invest in a full-time traffic officer to teach young people the rules of the road -- and cite them when they broke those rules.
I wish they would do that today. I believe it would save lives.

There's no way to measure how many lives Officer Wilson saved over the last 50 years. I still think of him as a hero. And I have to believe that his lessons have kept me alive for five decades.

You see, when I watch impatient people drive through stop signs in their cars, or ride their bikes on the sidewalk or speed through intersections, I think about Officer Joseph R. Wilson.

And I think about the drunk driver who, on June 17, 1961, ran a red light and plowed into the police motorcycle that Officer Wilson was driving.

I cried the next morning when I saw it in the Burbank Review.

For many years, his lone photograph was on display in the lobby of the Burbank Police Department. The last time I looked, it was still on display, but there were photos of at least two other Burbank Police Officers who died in the line of duty.

A few years ago, I asked for the cooperation of the media relations officer at BPD -- I wanted to track down the wife and children of Officer Joe Wilson so that I could thank them for what their husband and father did for me. But the Public Information Officer turned me down. Privacy restrictions.

Then I went through the old news clippings at the Burbank Leader (formerly the Burbank Review) and was able to get the details I needed. I pulled Officer Wilson's death certificate at the County Recorder's office to learn more details -- details that might help me find his children. I cited the California Public Records Act in a records request I filed with the Burbank City Attorney's office. They ignored my request to be put in touch with the Officer Wilson's wife or children. I'm usually pretty good at finding people, but I wasn't that lucky this time around.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

Officer Joseph R.Wilson died a day or two before Father's Day.

This Father's Day, I honor Officer Joseph R. Wilson, 50 years later.

I believe that he cared about me the way a father would. And he cared about scores of other young Burbank kids the same way.

If somehow this message reaches the children of Officer Wilson -- they'd be in their 50s now -- please know that your father has surely saved countless lives, including mine.

I'm certain.

Read between the lines of signs