Movement as Routine

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — April 16, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

The Toolbox

When a project ended, the family packed. The largest and most important object was my father’s steel toolbox — nearly the size of a steamer trunk. He could lift it as if it weighed far less than it did. It contained the tools that kept the machines running.

When the toolbox moved, we moved.

Early Geography

I do not remember San Rafael. My early life is reconstructed from sequence rather than memory. Bakersfield, California. Tucson, Arizona. Then back to Bakersfield by the time I reached kindergarten.

Bakersfield became the first stable reference point — oil fields, truck yards, construction crews, heat, and dust. It was not glamorous, but it was functional.

Sound and Environment

My infancy unfolded in the background noise of construction: engines idling, hydraulics hissing, steel against earth. Entire sections of the state were being cut, graded, and reshaped. My father’s work placed us inside that process.

The landscape was not sentimental. It was under development.

Record Over Memory

If memory fails, documentation remains. According to Catholic records, I was baptized on the Feast of St. Blaise. Two crossed candles were held at my throat during the blessing. Tradition remained steady even when location did not.

Family called me Clifford. Others called me Cliff. The name carried no decoration.