George worked with my Uncle Dude for probably 30 years or more. The legend is that his mom, a dirt floor-poor mexican lady who grew up in the poorest parts of Chihuahua, married a greek merchant sailor who set her up in a modest house in San Diego (it must have seemed a mansion to her) and went back to sea. He would pop in from time to time to drop off trinkets and money and impregnate her and sail off again. George speculated that there were probably several such arrangements with his father in different ports around the Pacific. She taught all the Doren girls how to cook Mexican food. George, and everyone else, called her "Mama" and her burritos and tacos and enchiladas, and tamales set the standard against which all the other Mexican chow in San Diego County was measured...at least for Uncle Dude's crew and the Doren family. George was Dude's lead man on one of the largest house moving companies in Southern California. George was a part of the family.

From the time I was old enough to remember, Uncle Dude would call at random times and tell me to meet him at the curb in 15 minutes and he would take me off to whatever the latest project was. I would spend the day with him, sometimes riding in the prime mover with George, sometimes in the pickup with Dude, or in the work truck with some of the crew. When I got old enough, I was expected to pitch in and "earn my lunch" as Dude put it. I learned how to do all the jobs that were required to break a house off its foundation, jack it up, place the timbers, jack it up some more and place the dollies, set the link boards to align the dollies, secure the tongue, rig the lights, and my least favorite, ride the roof with a 6 foot piece of 2x4 to lift the wires and cables over the vents and chimneys. (Although I learned all this, I was never allowed under the house after it was broken from the foundations...I'll tell you more about that another time) I can remember how some of those wires vibrated and hummed while I lifted them. Betty Lou would have shot Dude if she knew I was doing it. Of course, he swore me to silence about that.

One time we were moving a house out to the east county along some pretty deserted roads. I was riding with George and the whole way he was regaling me with stories about drunken Piaute indians that would come down out of the hills we were driving through and kidnap kids and sell them in Mexico...or they would sneak up on unsuspecting drivers and steal their cars (or trucks by implication). Not only was I terrified, I stayed wide awake checking every tree and boulder for lurking Piautes.

I was riding the roof through National City one morning, the prime mover was an old Army 5ton truck, they had changed the gears so it would go slow enough (you gotta pull houses REAL slow so they don't end up in pieces all over the road). George was driving, as usual. I was concentrating on lifting a telephone cable over the vents when I heard George call up to me, asking if I wanted a coke. I looked down and saw him on the sidewalk outside a little market. I was confused...I looked at the prime mover and saw it was empty. George had set the throttle and stepped out to get a soda, as we ground up a slight hill in the middle of town. That was George.

One Easter my parents bought my sister and me each a little Easter chick. I don't know what they were thinking, probably that the chicks wouldn't last long. They did. They were very healthy chicks who grew into very healthy and noisy roosters. At some point, the Chief got a hold of George, who lived in the country, and arranged for him to take the chickens to his place. It was explained to us that they would be happier and live better. We bought it and said goodbye to our pets. For a long time after that, if I saw George and asked about the chickens, he would give a glowing report about how good they were doing and what good chickens they were. Some while later, probably early teens, I realized that those chickens couldn't still be around. I challenged George...accused him of eating my chicken. It is my absolute most favorite memory of George, the huge smile and wink he gave me then, as he told me, "I tol' you Jimmy, them was GOOOOD chickens".