The Sun Is Always Warmer When You Can Feel It - Pt. 1

It woke me up.


Sunlight.

Sunlight. In my eyes.

There was sunlight in my eyes.



Sunlight shouldn't alarm you, casual reader, but it made me a little uneasy.

Because the way my bed is situated, it is physically impossible for sunlight to stream into my eyes unless the house behind mine had gotten blown off the map.


Dreading the news of the Russian invasion of my hometown, I reluctantly opened both of my eyes, and as they landed on the strange shapes around the room, fear filled my gut, and my eyes grew wide.


The reason sunlight was able to enter my eye stream was because I wasn't in my bed. I wasn't even in my room.

I was warm, and I could hear airplanes taking off.

My eyes swept about the place, noting the baby crib in the corner, the plump, flower designed pillows and the door leading into yet another room I did not recognize.


I wondered if I had entered into one of those black holes my older brother had late night discussions with me about, and I had somehow been shifted to another time and place, of which I had not been previously acquainted with and had no idea how to get out.

My attention was drawn to my nightstand where a Southwest napkin lay just next to my water bottle.

Ahha. A clue. I'm ready for this.





There were many things I gleaned from this scene, but to stay humble, I will reveal just one clue.

Gathering and processing the presented geographical information, I knew that I had to be in one of the listed galaxies.

My fate lay in either Mxcioe, Cbua, Lavlarta, or Ocxime.

That is Transfarency.

The last location I was pretty sure I had read about in college research. It was in the province of Melgard, under the control of the trolls from the Kingdom of Exedor.


I pushed myself up and out of bed and started taking inventory of the house I was in.


Off to my left sat another bed, identical to mine.

My room had two sets of doors, the double ones spilling out into the medium, yet adequately furnished living room.

Looking down, I noticed an odd contraption inside of the heater vent.

True detectives notice these kinds of things. It's ok, you'll catch on.


Then, off of the living room was the dining room and the adjoining hallway.

It was an older, but well taken care of facility.

Looking out the kitchen window, I spied the author of the earlier heard airplane sounds.

It was kind of warm and sunny, and they had palm trees.

I had to be in California.


Heading to the kitchen to find something to eat, I set my phone down on the counter and a blip on my screen caught my attention.

My expired boarding pass from Southwest Airlines.

This was it.

I swiped right, and there it was.


Flight 5854, nonstop from Portland.


It started to come back.

The treachery, the journey, and one family's quest for vitamin D.

And the friends to make it all a dream worth attaining.


This was San Diego 2.0.

_________________________________________________________________________________



Our AirBnB, as you can see, had a beautiful view. Nestled in the hills around Old Town San Diego, it was the perfect location for a home base, halfway between here and not far from there.

Caleb and I had flown in the night before, and not surprisingly had our flight delayed coming out of Portland.

This meant that when I landed, I had 20 minutes to grab my car rental before Enterprise closed.

Thankfully, due to the quick thinking of my two sidekicks for the weekend, Tiera and Angela were able to wait for Caleb to grab our luggage, and take him to our house, so that I could quickly catch the car rental bus, and make it with minutes to spare.


Not a bad ride. EXCEPT.

The button to move into parking was right atop the shifter. And I like to rest my hand there.

So consequentially, randomly throughout the weekend, I would be at a stoplight, the light would turn green, and I would hit the gas.

But not go anywhere.

Hit the brake, push the side button, pull back into drive.

I finally got the hang of it.

(Not the hang of not shifting into park, but the hang of quickly moving out of park while cars honked at me.)


Friday morning met us with its own set of challenges, but my crew was ready for them.


We began our Friday morning by heading out to Temecula to visit a Grandma in need of some confusion that only young people can stir up.

I did knock a pullout drawer out of alignment, BUT WE MADE COOKIES OK. 

Angela has a dastardly optimum talent for getting photos at precisely the wrong time. 

Or the right time. It depends on the situation. 

If you're going to jump through the back window of a moving car....you're going to have to do it quick, or she'll have proof.   

We had a great time discussing things with Grandma, dropping chocolate chips and learning more about the mystification we label "women."

Grandma: "Don't ever underestimate a woman." 

Jacob: "Never again."

*****Historical Marker Ahead*****

I don't remember how she brought it up, but somehow during the conversation that day, Tiera casually brought up the fact that her Great-Great-Uncle was Frank Livingston, and until his recent death, was the oldest living WW2 Veteran. 

I casually said, "WAT."

Let me introduce you to Mr Livingston. 

Frank was born on November 13, 1905. 

The same year that the first Hemi engine was outfitted on an automobile. 

One of 7 children, he lived in Cotton Valley, Louisiana.

Of African-American Heritage, Livingston enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1942, serving as a private during the Allied invasion of Italy (Sept. '43 to Jan. '44).

After the war ended, he became a union cement finishing worker, and never married.

On August 16th, 2015 he became the oldest recognized military veteran in the US, following the death of Emma Didlake. 

Not content with being the oldest veteran, Livingston became the oldest living American man in 2016, following the death of Felix Simoneaux. 

Livingston, who could stand on his head until he was 92, died in Shreveport, Louisiana in May 2016, at the age of 110.

Wish I could've met you, brother. 

But don't worry. 

We treated your niece and great-great-niece to a tostada salad at El Pollo Loco. 

Cause you can't go to Coronado Beach on an empty stomach. 

In fact, I personally wouldn't go anywhere on an empty stomach. Too much of a risk.