Why Turlock? And a little Mexican adventure:
Randy Huth reveals his story . . .

“Why Turlock?” principal Don Goldstein began to ask Randy Huth, who had driven from his home in Pasadena to Turlock High School to apply for his first teaching job in 1978.
“When I drove up here from L.A., I forgot to put my dress trousers in the trunk of my little Mustang. I arrived at noon, for my interview at the high school at 1:00, but I didn’t think wearing blue jeans to the interview would be wise. Frantically, I asked people where I could buy dress slacks, and not be late for the job interview in one hour. After getting zero good suggestions, I spotted a store with no windows or walls at the shopping center where Beno’s (which became Orchard Supply Hardware, now defunct) was. I rushed in, and met the new owners, who were sorting clothing on folding tables. They were just starting the store, so the displays were not complete, but they allowed me to try on a pair of double-knit slacks. I had to change behind some boxes, because there was no dressing room yet. I made it to the interview on time. This little fiasco was probably good, because when I told Mr. Goldstein about it, it broke the ice, as interviews can be pretty nerve-wracking.

“The interview had a little twist in it, too. Don kindly warned me before the actual interview about the question he was going to ask me, so I was prepared when the moment arrived. It was a dramatically long question: ‘Why Turlock?’ Don began. ‘I mean, most people from L.A. drive through Turlock at 75 miles an hour with the air conditioning on full blast and the windows rolled up, at night, if they have to! We’re a conservative farming town. We made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most number of churches per capita in the world. I’m not sure we’d make the record now, because some of our small churches combined into large churches. We’re a traditional community, and there is not a lot of entertainment like you’d find in the big city. So, why do you want to work in Turlock?’

“I paused a minute, then answered his difficult question with my own difficult question: ‘Well, at this point, I’m asking myself the same question. What will it be like to live here?’”
Miss Dillman (“also single, as I was. Miss Dillman became my wonderful department chairperson the year I was hired”) then told of things that were available in Turlock, including the chance to drive to San Francisco and Yosemite, which were two of Randy’s favorite places.
   Randy took the job, teaching remedial reading to the most academically challenged students in the high school. He went on to teach English at various levels for 38 years. “And, now,” he said, “Turlock is one of MY favorite places!”
    Randy married Carol, daughter of Bob and Anne Harris, who were members of the Turlock FUMC. Their daughter, Mia, who grew up attending our church, now lives in Boulder, Colorado. “Carol and Mia would probably rather that I don’t say anything about them, but they are both wonders of my life,” said Randy.
   Randy writes poetry, reads lots of books simultaneously but seldom finishes any of them, plays piano (classical and his own sorts of jazz improvisation), sings in our choir, gardens occasionally (“Carol and I are currently into camellias”), and bicycles mostly around town, unless Mia is in town when they ride in the foothills. Randy likes to hike in the Sierra Nevada range, and he takes golf lessons with Gary Olson.
   When asked about adventures, Randy wrote the following:
   “Hmmn. Well, after I was laid off from my job as a printer, at age twenty-five, I spent my severance pay ($500) to fly to Mazatlán a beach resort city in Mexico. One day, I walked to the bus station. Of the many destinations, none of which I knew anything about, I picked Concordia. The name sounded peaceful, the fare was only 12 pesos (about $1.50 round trip), and I planned to return by the afternoon. While I was riding the bus, in silence and alone, the only air conditioning was the air blowing into my open window. A man in front of me asked politely in Spanish if I would put up my window. I thought this was odd, but I complied, wondering why I should give up my air conditioning! As soon as the window was up, he stuck his head out the window and hocked an enormous loogie (I don’t know how to spell this awful word!) out into the wind that enveloped the bus. I watched as the sputum rushed by, thankful that I had complied with his request. The rest of the ride was uneventful, but my arrival to Concordia was somewhat traumatic.
    “The bus stopped at the town square, which was lovely and peaceful in the morning, with no one in the square but a single man watering the hedges. The square was faced by a small cantina and an appliance store. There was nothing for me to do in this town. I was not going to buy a drink at 10 A.M, especially not being fluent in Spanish! I didn’t need to buy a refrigerator or a stove. In any case, there was no one in the store. It was just a pile of appliances visible through glass windows.
    “I sat myself down on a bench in the shade, tried to read my book, and imagined how hot it was going to get when the sun got higher in the sky. How everyone in town will be staring at me, this lonely gringo! Why in the heck is this American sitting here in the desert reading a book?
    “I calculated that after five excruciating hours I could take the next bus back to Mazatlán. I decided to walk around the town, and try not to get lost. Walking one block away from the square, then turning right, to walk parallel to the square before returning to the square might permit me to escape being the sole entertainment for the town’s inhabitants, without getting lost. As I started up the street, twenty goats rushed towards me. Immediately, an old man with a stick followed the goats. After the first block, I turned right. There were children in uniforms on the dirt playground of the town school. They were playing jumping and chanting games. No playground equipment, or shade! I continued past a long building with open windows where three young women were facing me. They seemed to be cafeteria workers, perhaps making tortillas by hand. The three women started clucking, making loud sounds like chickens. They were moving their heads, looking right at me, and smiling!
   “I didn’t know what to do. So I kept walking. When I couldn’t hear them any longer, I rushed back to the square. I hid by plunging my face down into my book. It was going to be a long five hours until the next bus arrived . . . .
   Then, lo and behold, here comes the same bus that had dropped me off. The bus had made a circuit of the town. It was now returning for a final stop at the plaza, to pick up any passengers for the ride back . . . to Mazatlán!
   With great relief, I boarded the bus and returned to my hotel, with only one other little incident, which I could tell anyone interested enough to ask me sometime.”