He married my mother. She’s a God-fearing woman who has kept the gutsy farm girl in her for her entire life. She’s not one to shy away from anything… and apparently neither was Ernest John Cubbon.
Ernie and my mother met at church. She was the hottie with 2 young kids in tow in a failing marriage and he was the pastor/minister/reverend – I’ll stick with pastor purely for the alliteration. Being a Presbyterian pastor was his vocation for most of his working life after he finished his stint in the Air Force. He was the pastor at five different churches in his lifetime. Helping people became commonplace. Never mattered why or what they needed assistance for, or if they were monied or poor, Ernie was there.
It took more than a decade, but he and my mother got married soon after I had moved to LA, and right after they moved to the Sacramento area. Even though they were 8 hours away, I accused them of stalking me from Colorado to California.
Ernie had taken on a challenge from the Presbyterian church to start a church in the Northeast Sacramento suburb of Loomis. The Shepherd of the Sierra was begun in 1986 and he busted his ass to make it a success. He helped put up fence, dealt with Satan’s minions – rattlesnakes – and held off various comers. FYI – churches have less of a chance to succeed than restaurants. About one out of a 100 make it. 37 years later (27 after he retired), Shepherd of the Sierra is still going. As he said when he began the church, “if these people around here can accept a recovering alcoholic about to embark on his second marriage, bless them.”
When they lived in California, I’d go to church when I visited. My mother thought it was just to appease her and it partially was, but Ernie knew why I was going because I told him. He was a great writer and orator. He rarely fell flat. He felt the pulse, and he felt it in others. Throughout my life, he encouraged my writing. He’d read my stories, my articles, the books I wrote and more. Ernie never had anything to say but kind words of encouragement and would press me to keep writing.
I’m not in the know on how his first marriage went, but it couldn’t have been bad. He and his first wife Lois had 4 children and a 30-year marriage. As an aside, my mother’s name is Margaret Lois so he effectively married two Lois’s which is humorously bizarre.
My mother’s marriage to Ernie lasted 38 years. You can do the math, but I’ll do it for you. Ernest John Cubbon was married for a total of 68 years. My first marriage lasted over 68 months – 102 so ‘yea me’, and the second didn’t make it 68 months (BOO me).
He presided over my first marriage – wasn’t foolish enough to do it twice. Marriage Une, the big one with all the fanfare as I like to put it, he agreed to do. Months before the wedding, Ernie took my first fiancée and I out to dinner.
He asked, “What secrets do you have? Everything needs to be out in the open. Everything.” Nothing. Nothing at all. All good… except she had tried to swallow a drug addiction that wouldn’t go down. Took just over 8 years but it came back up right when she had found a compatriot to take drugs with and we got divorced.
Let’s try to bring this article back to smiles, shall we?
Ernie taught me and many others to ski. We’d go up to the Rockies, mostly Winter Park, in our church youth group and get indoctrinated into the ways of skiing. I was 12 at the time. His patience was legendary as much as my temper. I struggled and it was not easy as having a temper and my ‘get things done’ attitude often clashed when I was a child… and young adult… and sometimes as an older adult. At 12, I would get on the bunny slope at Winter Park, fall at the end of the lift, get up, fall again. Rinse and repeat. Ernie would see me, get me back on my feet and tell me, “You’re doing great! Keep it up!” Ten feet later I’d be down again. His older son Doug, about 20 or so at the time, would stop, help me up, tell me to keep working on that pie – or those of you who do not ski, that’s the shape you make your skis so when you are a newb you learn control and not go Sonny Bono into a tree, it does not mean you are on two waxed boards on a slick surface and carrying a pie with you. Ten feet later I’d be down again. Ernie’s daughter Candice would come down the slopes, teach me get up on my own, offer words of encouragement then ski away., Ten feet later I’d be down again. Ernie’s youngest son Mark, 14 or so at the time, would come over, cover me with snow in a skidding stop and tell me, “Dude, give it up. You’re never going to learn.”
Doers hate naysayers. Mark’s lack of encouragement became my biggest motivation, and I got pretty damn good. I’d Franz Klammer the slopes, blazing a trail through moguls, bash through trees and still fall.
Ernie used the whole slope. He’d glide from treeline to treeline, leaving a narrow clean trail behind him. He was like a gliding squirrel, although his landings were far better. For the record, gliding squirrels are awful at landing in trees, they truly are nature’s Sonny Bonos.
As the Franz Klammer, I was a mad bomber, seeing how fast I could get down the slope doing my best to avoid beginner skiers, old skiers, blind skiers, ski schools and moose. Not as crazy enough of a skier to merit a Ski Patrol warning like my sister, but bomber enough. One time, after I yet again crashed and burned and was up dusting myself off, Ernie came stealthily slipping by as he was wont to do and yelled as he passed – “Fat’s where it’s at!”
At this point in his life, he was a husky man, so it fit. However, due to his huskiness or his wanderlust, he often overshot the lift. Again, he was a great wanderer and that did tend to drive my mother a tad bananas. I digress a bit, but really “Tad Bananas” would be a great name for a prop comic.
So, he overshot the lift due to negligence; I overshot the lift due to lack of skill. I passed him as I overshot. He was huffing and puffing working his way back up to the lift. Soon, I passed him on the way up the hill to the lift. He looked at me and laughed as I said, ‘Thin is in!’
I could always elicit a laugh from Ernie. Wasn’t that difficult, he loved life as much as any person I have ever known. As a young man on my own in Los Angeles, I once sent my mother a postcard with punk rocker on it with red hair cut into a massive Mohawk with a note “doing fine!”. Ernie completely convinced himself it was a photo of me. He was very concerned and totally relieved when I did visit, I was still ‘normal.’
“But if you want me to Ernie…”
“Just… no, Rick, no.”
He also excelled at keeping secrets. When I was in my mid 20’s he taught me how to ride a motorcycle. After a few rides, I got to be competent at it. But I laid down his BMW 750 (not a great bike to learn on but it was either that or his Honda Goldwing) and dropped the differential right onto my right knee. I was in a lot of pain, not enough for an emergency room visit but enough it made standing, walking, sitting, moving in any way shape or form, uncomfortable. I still had a couple days left in my visit so after he – once again – picked me up and dusted me off, he said, “For the rest of the weekend, you are fine. When your mother looks at you, you will not limp, you will not grimace. You’re fine.” We held that secret until his passing.
When I got T-boned in downtown Chicago and totaled my car – with a little luck the brunt of the crash was in the driver’s side back passenger door and I was flying solo so all I got out of it was a few broken ribs – he let me borrow his car. He gave me a little grief about the accident, but very little. He chided me about the time I whipped a U-turn in downtown Chicago on Michigan Avenue (I knew how long it would take use to get back and have little patience) without telling my visiting mother or him to hold on to the Jesus strap, but since we lived, it was story he never forgot. He forgave this transgression and insisted I borrow his car. I was not too comfortable about it as he had a very clean Lexus GS350, so I delayed saying yes.
My mother called me – “are you going to fly out here and get the car?”
“Not sure, mom.”
“If you don’t, Ernie is going to drive out and bring it to you.”
“I’ll find a flight.”
“No” not in his vocabulary, I couldn’t refuse the help. Having an 85-year-old man drive from Denver (they moved back to Denver after 11 years in California) to Chicago to deliver his car was not going to happen. I used his car for 4 months until I was able to get another one.
Back to skiing. Why? Because skiing is fun… and with Ernie it was more than merely being an enjoyable way to lift your spirits, it was a life lesson. Staying upright on the boards was one thing. Using them to their full advantage was another. There was a lesson he imparted I didn’t exactly grasp until well into my adulthood – and that’s a broad assumption on my part that I got there.
The lesson? As we travel through our respective journeys, be like Ernie – use the whole slope… and leave a clean trail.
Fancy Boys Club 