Tom Pearson, Del Mar's only 5-time mayor, has compiled interesting and exciting stories he has written through the years that were published in newspapers. Included in the book are stories contributed by friends of Tom that add to the interesting eye witness accounts of the history of Del Mar as it unfolds during its 50 years of being a city. Tom Pearson takes you on an up close and personal journey through his childhood days in Maine, sharing both his high and low points. These include Tom contracting polio in young adulthood, going on to graduate from Harvard and MIT, marrying his love Christine, moving to Del Mar, raising a family, 50 years of Del Mar City politics, people of Del Mar, and much more!

Exceptional Fortitude

The Life Of Tom B. PearsonBy Tom B. Pearson

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Tom B. Pearson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-2533-9

Contents

Dedication..................................................vPreface.....................................................xiWho Am I In Del Mar???......................................xixChapter 1 Life Before Del Mar..............................1Chapter 2 Del Mar 60s......................................17Chapter 3 Del Mar 70s......................................48Chapter 4 Del Mar 80s......................................117Chapter 5 Del Mar 90s......................................241Chapter 6 Del Mar 2000.....................................311Chapter 7 Remembering Maine and Family.....................421

Chapter One

Life Before Del Mar

When I Was a Little Boy

My parents bought a summer house in Kittery Point, Maine many years ago. I was a summer baby, born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where the hospital was across the Piscataqua River from Kittery Point. My brother, Drew still lives in that house, looking out towards the Isles of Shoals where the submarine, Squalus, sank on a trial dive in 1939.

Our summers in Maine were spent right by the water with our own cove, beach and picnic point at the mouth of the cove. As a result, we were boat oriented. My father bought a 12' skiff from the lighthouse keeper, a man named Maynard Farnsworth who was part Indian. He built the boat in his spare time. No plans, just by eye.

Paul and I learned to row in that boat. Rowing built up our bodies and taught us the mysteries of the ocean currents and waves. One of the grand summer events was to row out the Whalesback Light to visit all of who tended the lighthouse in shifts, Skipper White, Ally and Maynard Farnsworth. Sometimes we'd go when there was a light fog, not enough to keep us ashore, but enough to cause the fog horn to be turned on.

The horn was driven by a diesel engine that ran a big air compressor, which blew the horn. It was deafening when the horn went off right over your head. But the keepers were so used to it that they would just stop talking for the five seconds of the blast and then pick up the conversation, as if nothing had happened.

They loved our visits for the company-it gets lonesome out there in a cylindrical home on the top of a rock pile. Our visits always ended with a trip inside the tower, up through the kitchen and living quarters to the very top where the light was housed. The prisms of the light were always sparkling clean. The weights and gears were well oiled. You see, the light was fuelled by kerosene, but the power to turn the prism was derived from weights which were cranked up by hand, just like an old grandfather's clock.

A few years later, Paul and I wanted to learn to sail. Mr. Farnsworth, when he didn't have to tend the light came over in his power boat on weekends to add a centreboard, a mast step, and a rudder to our skiff. We went out into the woods to look for suitable spruce trees for the mast and boom. Mr. Farnsworth was very particular, but when he found the right tree, there was no uncertainty. We cut it down, trimmed the branches, and hauled it back to the house where we planed off the bark.

Mother and Aunt Ellen made the sail, carefully stitching the mast hoops to the eyes. And Aunt Ellen taught us to sail. By golly, it was a lot better than rowing, even though the boat was slow and poor going to windward.

One Sunday, we sailed into the harbour to watch the sailboat races. These were big boats, all of 18 to 20 feet long, compared to our little 12 footer. Their masts towered 28 feet in the air, and they had a mainsail and a jib. We made the mistake of crossing their course, and one skipper shouted rudely at us, "Get out of the way, we're racing!" I can still hear him today!

We dreamed about getting a bigger boat, and perused boat building books and Mechanics Illustrated magazine. The summer before my freshman year in high school, Dad sent me a clipping from the Washington Post announcing the need for carriers. By that time Paul was approaching his second year at Exeter, but I was returning to Washington, D.C. to continue at Sidwell Friends. I called the phone number in the ad when I got back to Washington, D.C. and landed a job as carrier for a route in my neighbourhood.

You would not have recognised me in those days. I was a very shy boy, having grown up in the shadow of a smarter, more athletic and all-around more capable older brother. So, it took a lot of courage to start this job. But once the phone call was made, it was more difficult to back down than it was to go ahead; and I wanted to make some money so that we could buy the materials to build a boat the next summer.

The route manager called for me the first morning, took me down to the corner where my papers had been delivered, and introduced me to the boy who I was replacing. I was to get two days of training before being turned loose on my own.

They gave me a canvas bag with Washinton Post emblazoned on the side and a shoulder strap. I was just barely able to stuff the 70 papers that constituted the first half of my route into the bag.

Papers were thrown in that neighbourhood, because the houses were set well back from the sidewalk. I had to learn to roll them, and lock the roll, so the paper would hold together in flight. I had a route book which fit into my hip pocket. It gave me the addresses of all the customers. But in the darkness of 5:30 A.M. it was often hard to find the numbers. The first few days, there were a lot of complaints about missed papers. The special delivery for each missed paper cost me 25 cents. I made only one dollar covering the whole route. The first week I lost a lot of money!!

The first Sunday, I arrived at the corner to find a stack of papers higher than my waist. I couldn't possibly carry them all. No one had warned me! So, I loaded up, delivered as many as I had, and then came back to the starting corner to load up again. That was a slow Sunday, but by the next Sunday, I had a new wagon, only it put me deeper in the hole financially. No one had told me about the capital investment that would be required for this business!

Every day, rain or shine or ice storms when I could hardly stay on my feet or snow storms where I could have used snow shoes, I got up at 5:30 every morning, except Sundays when I could sleep until 6:00. I often did my homework after returning to the house or went back to sleep on the couch in the living room. I was always in bed by eight, so there wasn't much partying.

Saturday evening, I would walk the route and collect. Some people paid promptly, others were slow. Nobody took care of me if a subscriber moved without paying his bill. It was my loss.

But by the end of the year, I had saved up $200 and that was enough to buy a kit to build a Lightning Class sailboat. That job also built up the strength in my chest and shoulders. I hadn't thought of it until just now, but it was delivering those thousands of papers that prepared my body for using crutches only six years later.

Paul and I worked hard that summer of 1941 building the boat. Pop had bet us that we couldn't finish it before the summer was over. He had presented us a wartime motivational banner, TIME IS SHORT, which we nailed to the garage wall. But, we did finish it before Labor Day, launched it, and sailed it.

Teenage...