First, I paid a condolence call to Mr. William Davis Parker, my old little league coach and father of my schoolmates Nancy Taylor and Bill Parker; Mrs. Joan Parker, who I recalled as having the world’s finest spinach salad recipe, had past away last fall. During our visit, among the recollections I had was that at the first week or so of school in the fifth grade, when I was new to Fremont Hills Elementary, in Los Altos Hills, Calif., (but of course part of PAUSD), there were some intramural touch football games the first of which ended with me catching a pass from Billy Parker in stride and for a long touchdown. At the start of the second game, the captain of that team, the 6th grader Frank Kull, walked up to me, poked me in the chest, and said “I know you. You are Mr. Bomb. Well, I’m gonna cover you myself.” The name did not last more than that one afternoon, but it was nice to be recognized.(March, 2012 — I found out yesterday, calling on another old friend from that neighborhood, around the corner from the fields, Purissima to La Barranca, that Mr. Parker had joined his wife in heaven. He also said, as a type of encouragement to his son, one of the stars, warming up with me, a year younger, a newby: “come on, you hot dog!” Thanks.
I believe the Parkers actually have four kids, not two, including Suzie — older and a younger daughter. I would guess five to ten grandkids. I think Nancy is Nancy Taylor now. (The first of my peers I had ever seen in a bikini: wow. And we were 10).