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I was in the seventh grade, ready for the end of school and the beginning of summer. I had struggled through a tough year of algebra and I had finally busted my tail enough to get a C in the class.
The year was 1968, and my father was the traveling freight and passenger agent for Southern Pacific Railroad in Merced. A fancy title for a guy who spent a lot of time driving around the tiny towns of Mendota, Firebaugh, Planada and Dos Palos, making sure farmers got their crops of sugar beets, sweet potatoes and cantaloupes loaded into box cars and gondola cars.