This Is Glamorous???

I have said for years that the only people who think business travel is glamorous are people who have never traveled on business. Fortunately, I don't travel much any more. I traveled quite a bit at various times in my career, though. I quickly grew tired of hearing people talk about how lucky I was to see so many places, stay in hotels and eat out all the time.

What were they thinking????

Being stuck in a metal tube with tens or hundreds of other people to go to some hotel with hundreds of other people in a strange city with thousands of even more people might be your idea of glamour. It's certainly not mine.

I could be perfectly content living as a hermit. I'd keep Diane with me, of course; and the boys could visit periodically, but other than that I would prefer to live in a cabin in the middle of a vast hunting woods bisected by a trout stream.

Instead, I live in a subdivision and drive to an office where I spend my days working around a group of guys that, while a great group, are just not as fun as if I was spending the day in the woods with Diane. And I occasionally still have to travel. As air travel has become a bigger and bigger hassle through the years; I have increased the distance I am willing to drive instead of flying. A one day trip to Atlanta goes just a bit outside that driving radius, though.

I needed to exhibit at an exposition put on by one of our distributors an hour, or so, south of Atlanta Thursday morning. Driving eighteen hours each way for a six hour expo is a bit too radical - even for me!

So I flew. By the time I got home, I almost wished I had just decided to drive.

The trip down was uneventful. That's pretty much the perfect flight. Uneventful. The trip started out very well. In fact, the trip went well until I left the expo to drive back to the airport.

The Thursday evening before Good Friday is not a good day to travel. The roads are mobbed, the airport is  mobbed and the worst part is that the mob is not experienced business travelers.

I was booked on a 6:45 PM flight back to Milwaukee. I had gotten out of the expo much earlier than originally anticipated, so I hoped I could make it to the airport in time to catch an earlier flight. I spent almost an extra hour on the road back to the airport due to traffic and ended up missing a chance to switch flights by less than one half hour. Not a big deal, right? I'd just stick to the original plan.

I got to my gate early; sat down to read and plugged in my phone. Within minutes; along came Mom and Leland - a totally undisciplined three or four year old who she called, "Baby" for the duration of the trip. She was joined a few minutes later by Dad, Sister and Grandpa. As they all settled in to eat their sundaes from the McDonalds across the aisle, Leland began doing what totally undisciplined three or four year olds do - terrorize the entire gate area. He was loud, obnoxious and allowed to get into other people's spaces and things.

I moved.

After only one gate change (a great result in Atlanta, if you ask me), we boarded our plane. Imagine my joy to discover that Leland and Mom are seated in the row directly in front of me; Mom on the aisle and "Baby" in front of me in the window seat. "Baby" refused to sit down; instead standing on the seat and screaming over the seat back toward me. Mom finally turned him around after Dad and Grandpa convinced her that she couldn't allow him to do that. Instead, he decided to spin around and beat on his sister's head in the seat in front of him.

This was going to be a brutal two hours, right?

If only!

We pushed away from the gate right on time. I'd be home in time to watch the third period of the Blues game! We sat there on the tarmac for much longer than we should have before the pilot came on the intercom to let us know they were having a problem with an indicator on one of the generators. Maintenance was on the way to take a look at it. They tried resetting it before deciding that we needed to pull back into the gate. We stayed on board while they fiddled around with it; reset all of the electrical systems on the aircraft and restarted the engines. Everything came on line just fine.

We pushed away from the gate again; only about a half hour late, now. We dutifully got in line to head to the runway. "Baby" still refused to sit down and be buckled in. I do believe there is no worse punishment that can be inflicted on people than to tap them in a metal tube with a totally undisciplined three or four year old whose Mom thinks he is cute. I think this would be a better torture technique than pulling out my fingernails. Yes, I'm quite certain it would be more effective.

We taxied forever until we were finally about the fourth in line for takeoff. A collective groan went up throughout the aircraft as the pilot came on the intercom again to tell us they were having a problem with the nose gear and were going to have to go back to the gate to have maintenance check it. "Baby" continued his ongoing fight with Mom about the need to sit in his seat.

Back at the gate, the maintenance people hoped they could merely recharge the nitrogen shock absorber and get us back on our way - again. Fortunately, they didn't delay too long before figuring out that a simple nitrogen recharge was not going to fix the problem and they had another MD-90 aircraft just coming in for a landing that was ending its day in Atlanta and could be serviced and turned around as our new plane.

We all got off the plane and sat at another gate for about an hour while waiting for the new plane to be serviced and refueled. By this time; we were well past our original landing time in Milwaukee and "Baby" was WAAAAAAY past his bedtime.

They finally got the aircraft ready and we re-boarded. I was still stuck right behind Mom and "Baby," of course, but he seemed to have finally settled down a bit. We pushed away for the third time and made our way in line to, hopefully, actually begin our journey home. We taxied all the way to the end another time. Another collective groan went up in the cabin again as the pilot came onto the intercom yet again with the words, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain from the flight deck." There was a long pause as we waited for the other shoe to drop. What was a groan turned into applause and cheering as he continued, "I just wanted to let you know we're number two for takeoff."

While that certainly was good news; the cheer it caused woke up "Baby."

Oh, joy... At least we only had another two hours of it...

I mean, really; how much more glamorous can business travel get?

I wouldn't have believed it myself!

Once in a great while, we have one of those moments that no one would ever believe if they weren't there to view it themselves. Such was the case when Matthew harvested his first deer.

Matthew has always been an outdoorsman. The woods and fields behind our house became his playground and you could always count on Matthew to be out there catching various critters or trying to build upon his insect collection (which he still has). I think Matthew's dream as a three or four year old was to be able to pee on every tree in the woods behind the house. Unlike most people; Matthew would actually run outside when he had to use the bathroom rather than just go upstairs to the bathroom in the house.

Matthew also couldn't wait until he turned twelve so he could go hunting; particularly deer hunting. From the time he was six or seven, Matthew would spend at least one day during deer season in the woods with me. It was pretty much guaranteed that we wouldn't see any deer that day. Despite Matthew's best efforts, it just really isn't possible for a boy that young to sit quietly long enough for us to have a chance at seeing deer. I'm sure every deer in Waukesha County was aware of exactly where we were sitting. Of course, my goal on that day wasn't to harvest a deer; merely to enjoy the day in the woods with Matthew. We had many great talks on those hunting trips and Matthew was ever-vigilant as he waited for a deer.

We didn't have the mentored hunting program in Wisconsin in those days, so Matthew had to wait until he turned twelve before he could really hunt. The year before he turned twelve was the hardest. Matthew's birthday is about a month after the Wisconsin Deer Season; so he had to sit in the woods without hunting just a few weeks before he would have been legal. He was so disappointed but also very excited about the coming year.

Unfortunately, the private land we hunted was sold before Matthew's first deer season so we were forced to hunt in the Kettle Moraine State Forest near our house. The problem with the state forest was that there were plenty of hunters and not very many deer. We hunted without success for several years in the state forest.

The season just before Matthew's sixteenth birthday was probably the most frustrating for him. The state had instituted an Earn-A-Buck rule in the area we hunted. This rule required every hunter to harvest a doe before being allowed to harvest a buck. The system, while extremely unpopular with hunters, was supposed to help bring an out-of-control herd population back into control. The only real purpose it served that year was to break Matthew's heart as he had to let not one, but two nice bucks pass without a shot since we had not harvested a doe.

Matthew was undeterred, though; ready to buy (okay for Dad to buy) his hunting license again the following year and try it again. However, it wasn't until Matthew's last hunting season before he would leave for college that he actually harvested his first deer - and what a story it was. A friend who owns a small farm in Southwestern Wisconsin invited Matthew and me to hunt with him on his private land.

Now most deer hunters will probably claim there is no way this ever happened; and most non-deer hunters will wonder what the big deal was. Matthew's first deer violated every principle of "normal" deer behavior.

We were sitting on the ground together; leaning against a big oak tree. It was about 10:00 in the morning and we were seeing some deer activity about 150 yards off to our left. The woods were too thick to give us a safe shot, but we kept watching them browse and move about. Unbeknownst to Matthew, one large doe was making her way toward us on the hillside. Another massive oak blocked Matthew's view of her approach, but I could see her clearly.

I warned him of her approach so he could be ready when she came into view. She finally popped out from around the tree only twenty yards away. She stood broadside, allowing Matthew to take the easiest shot he will ever take in his hunting career. He brought his rifle to his shoulder, centered his crosshairs on the deer,  pulled the trigger and... nothing. A click let us know that the firing pin had hit the primer, but, for whatever reason, the primer didn't go off. It was a dud!!!!

By this time, the doe was staring directly at us. There was a small sapling situated between Matthew and me. I passed my rifle around the sapling to Matthew so he could shoot again. The doe just stared at us the entire time as he set his rifle down and took mine. Any "normal" deer would have bolted long before this. Instead, she just stood there staring at us as Matthew shouldered my rifle, centered the crosshairs and pulled the trigger again. This time, the boom of a rifle shot filled the woods.


Now Matthew and I had talked a lot in those early years about the importance of respecting the deer and our responsibility to ensure that we never take a shot that we are not completely confident will result in a quick, humane kill. While we love the hunt and we certainly love the resulting venison in the freezer; neither of us ever want to cause an animal to suffer.


I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that those early lessons were well learned. Matthew's shot pierced both lungs and the heart; quickly and humanely ending the deer's life. His years of watching and waiting were finally over. He had harvested his first deer.

I was happier that morning than I have ever been after harvesting a deer myself. I will never forget the look on his face as he looked at the doe.

Matthew got another deer the next morning; and then the hunt was over. He left for college the next fall and I have sat in the woods alone for the last four years. I've shot more deer, but it's not the same without Matthew beside me. That will end this year, though. Matthew will graduate and, once again, sit in the woods; patiently waiting and watching and, most importantly, just talking with "the old man."

Drats, Fired Again!

A professor once told me that you're a nobody in the radio/television production world until you've been fired at least once. Based on that; I became the most important somebody to ever work in the field, all before I turned 25!

I have always been a geek; even in college. My senior project was to completely re-wire the television studio and master control at the university. I was in my element; pulling wires, soldering and crimping various audio and video connectors and timing the myriad of cameras, tape machines, CGs and other production equipment to ensure that the image would look just right. I know it sounds strange to the uninitiated that a severely color-blind production engineer would be put in charge of making sure the colors were correct and matched between all of the cameras; but it really is the perfect job for a color-blind geek! Who needs color vision when you have vectorscopes and waveform monitors. There was no need to see colors at all! In fact, I was consistently told that my camera setups were the best because I relied on my instruments and  didn't use my eyes to tweak the settings.

Anyway, I moved to Wisconsin right after graduation (the next day, actually) and began freelancing as a grip/gaffer on video production shoots. I managed to hook up with a small company called VideoCraft in the Milwaukee area.

VideoCraft's full time workforce consisted primarily of just two people; Ralph - the Director/Cinematographer and Colleen - the Producer. I started out doing grunt work for their shoots and gradually moved up the ladder to doing more grunt work. That's pretty much the daily routine in the "glamorous" world of video production. The beautiful end result is quite detached from the reality of production.

Ralph and Colleen made a phenomenal production team. Ralph is a very talented director/cinematographer and Colleen could charm an Eskimo into believing they needed to buy ice. I soon became a regular on their productions.

One thing you must understand about talented directors/cinematographers is that they are extremely creative people. And one thing you must understand about extremely creative people is that they also tend to be extremely emotional.

Ralph was no exception.

A strange love/hate relationship is virtually guaranteed when a geeky engineer and a creative director work together a lot and also become friends. We both had a steadfast commitment to the quality of the end product. It had to be perfect in every way; the image, the sound, the visual impact and the technical specifications. An almost imperceptible background sound would disqualify a take just as certainly as a tiny imperfection in the image. The difference - to Ralph, it was high art; but to me, it was pure technology.

Fortunately; or perhaps unfortunately for those who worked with us, we were (are) both hard-headed, stubborn perfectionists. We may have "hated" each other by the end of a day, but the video was perfect; both artistically and technically.

The fire and water nature of our working relationship appeared rather early. Although I have long ago forgotten what caused Ralph to fire me the first time, I still remember the eruption of being fired. I didn't realize, yet, that getting fired was a temporary thing.

In my mind, getting fired meant you were finished. You don't work there anymore. That's not too hard to understand; even in a freelancing situation. So I did what any person who got fired does - I stayed home the next day.

Now Ralph very well may have intended my firing to be permanent, but I think Colleen recognized the value of our partnership and decided that she was going to un-fire me. She also knew Ralph and knew that he would calm down and forget why he fired me in the first place.

No, Colleen wouldn't let me stay fired! She called the next day wondering where I was. Well, duh! I was at home, of course because I had been fired from the shoot. I was immediately informed that I'd better get back on set ASAP because they were waiting on me. Apparently, Ralph had somehow forgotten that he had fired me, but was ready to fire me in the morning when I was late for his crew call.

Ah, the joys of working with an extremely creative person!

Ralph and Colleen and I worked together for years. I quickly lost count of how many times Ralph fired me. The routine was always the same after that first time; he would fire me and I would just keep on working.  It became a pattern; fired, ignored, fired, ignored and on and on.

Our career paths diverged and reconnected several times through the years until we both ended up moving in a bit different directions. We still keep in touch periodically; but much less than I know we should. In the long run, though, I suppose Ralph and I both got what we deserved. He and Colleen later fell in love, got married and have a daughter who will graduate next year with an engineering degree from Purdue. I'm sure she lives out all of those analytical tendencies that must drive Ralph nuts sometimes. And I married Diane and have a son with a music degree; who is perhaps the ultimate in the spontaneous, creative personality and all that goes with it. And, yes, he drives me nuts sometimes.

I haven't been fired in quite a while now. Maybe I should just hang around with Ralph again to remember what it's like.

By the way; my wife loves you...

Some people believe we all have a twin somewhere in the world. I've never bought into that idea, but sometimes something happens that makes you wonder.

My work took me to Austin, Texas earlier this year. My return flight was cancelled; forcing me to re-book flights. It really wasn't a big deal, but it ultimately led to a very strange encounter.

My altered travel plans forced me to fly from Austin to Dallas before heading home to Milwaukee. I had a two and one-half hour layover in Dallas. It wasn't really a big deal because I would ultimately get home only a couple of hours after my originally scheduled time. 

The Dallas/Fort Worth airport is a large, busy place. It was the normal lunch hour, so the  food court in the concourse was mobbed. I ordered my lunch from one of the fast food restaurants and began my search for an open seat.

I managed to find a seat near one end of a long row of tables. A young man (it's amazing how your definition of a young man changes as you age) was seated at the end of the table. He seemed rather nervous but was anxious to strike up a conversation. I despise making small talk with strangers, but he seemed like a nice kid so I chatted with him as we ate our lunches. 

He finished before me and gathered his trash and his bags. Before walking away; he looked around rather nervously then leaned over and quietly said, "By the way; my wife loves you!" With that; he took off.

It took a moment for his comment to register. I turned to try to see where he was headed; anxious to catch up to him and ask who he thought I was. Unfortunately, he had disappeared into the throng of people.

I wondered who he had mistaken me for as I finished my lunch. I can just imagine him calling his wife as soon as he was out of earshot; eager to tell her the story of having lunch with some actor or retired athlete or whomever he thought I was.

People have guessed actors Michael Chiklis or Bruce Willis; but I just don't see it. Maybe it's better that I couldn't find him to ask. All the mystery would have been gone and he would have lost the opportunity to make points with his wife about having lunch with someone she loves.

A Question Needs An Answer

It takes a special person to work with kindergartners. I can't imagine spending my life with a room full of other people's kids. I am terribly uncomfortable around kids; until they reach Junior High ages. I suppose we should all be glad that there are people out there with that rather warped desire to work with little kids.

Diane is one of those people. Even to this day, a source of joy for her is helping run the church nursery. How she can enjoy changing diapers, wiping up spit-up and trying to figure out what a person who can't communicate is trying to say is beyond me. She loves it, though.

Diane was a teacher when we met. She taught an all-day Kindergarten class at Sherman School in Milwaukee during the first couple of years of our marriage. She adored her class; and they adored her. Many of Diane's kids came from very difficult home situations; from not knowing their fathers to having one or more parent incarcerated. Many lived surrounded by drugs and alcohol in their home.

Diane loved those kids and sought to, not only educate them, but to give them a few hours of structure and love and security each day. For some of her kids; those few hours might be the only structure, love and security they felt.

I never had teachers like Diane. No, I had Mrs. Nachwhite. Let that name float around in your mind for a moment and you will know exactly what I had to endure in school.

One year, Diane decided her classroom needed a pet. Not just any pet would do; mind you. It had to be a pet that didn't make noise - so no critter that runs on one of those wheels, didn't smell - further eliminating all varieties of rodents, was easy to take care of and could be left in the classroom over the weekend without concern.

I suggested the perfect classroom pet; a snake! Diane's immediate response was exactly what a "normal" person would expect, "Are you crazy??? NO!!!!" Once she got her wits about her, though, her first question was, "Who in their right mind would want a snake?" The answer, of course, was no one. Which is exactly why I love snakes! I have been told that I have two left brains so I am never in my right mind.

I love snakes. To those of you who may have ridiculed me in thought or word for my deathly fear of horses I have only one thing to say. "Neener Neener Neener!" I would be delighted to acquaint you with snakes at any time. Snakes are amazingly beautiful animals. They are perfectly designed to be the most phenomenal predator; able to hunt, capture, kill and consume prey many times their size; all without the benefit of having arms or legs.

What a perfect animal - and a perfect classroom pet!!

Captive snakes are typically fed once per week. They normally only "go to the bathroom" once a week, also. They are nearly maintenance free as long as they have fresh water, a hiding spot and appropriate heat and humidity. They are quiet and, as long as you clean the cage when they go to the bathroom, they are largely odor free.

Yes - a snake would make the perfect pet for Diane's kindergarten classroom!

After much convincing; Diane agreed to go to the pet store to look at snakes. I told the reptile specialist at the store that I wanted a very docile young snake. One that could handle the environment of a classroom full of five and six year old little darlings. He showed us a beautiful Corn Snake. It was spectacular in every way; beautifully patterned and colorful. Corn Snakes make great pets. They are very docile and probably the easiest snake to care for; which makes them the most common "first" snake for people. The only problem with this one was its size. It was already an adult; approximately four feet long, and I didn't think it would necessarily adapt to the classroom well.

He had another herpetarium with a beautiful, and very young, Great Plains Rat Snake. I did everything I could to get the snake to bite me. I know that sounds strange, but I would rather find out if the snake was prone to bite by having it bite me instead of one of Diane's little darlings. She would never forgive me if that happened. Despite my most intense efforts; the snake refused to bite me.

This was the one!

We bought the snake and a myriad of supplies to get a nice herpetarium set up in Diane's classroom. Diane didn't really want to just have it show up in the classroom without the little darlings having any clue about snakes so she asked me to bring the snake toward the end of a particular school day to teach the little darlings about him; how to hold him, how to touch him, how to feed him and get his herpetarium set up in the classroom.

It seemed like such a good idea... Unfortunately, things aren't always what they seem.

I took time off work and arrived at the school at the appointed time. I had Lefty in a pillowcase for transportation. (Diane hated the name and came up with some other name for him in her classroom. I thought Lefty was a great name for an efficient predator with no arms or legs. It really doesn't matter what you call a snake since they are totally deaf and they're certainly not coming when they are called anyway.)

So I set up the herpetarium and got Lefty so the little darlings could meet him. I taught them all about snakes. I let them watch how he moved across the floor. I showed them how to hold him and explained how he could disjoint his jaw to eat mice much larger than him. Over the next half hour, or so, I gave these little darlings a complete and thorough education about snakes in general; and Lefty in particular.

They sat nicely and looked at me with a rather glazed look in their collective eyes. I could tell they were mesmerized by my presentation.

After completing my presentation I naively asked if they had any questions. I quickly realized that was probably the dumbest question a person could possibly ask when completely encircled by five and six year olds! Hands shot up all around the circle. I picked one...

"My uncle saw a snake in..."

Diane gently interrupted the little darling with the reminder, "Remember, boys and girls, a question needs an answer."

They all nodded dutifully. Okay, on to the next one. I picked another one...

"We were at the zoo and..."

Again, Diane gently interrupted with the same reminder. I was beginning to think that this we a huge mistake.

This pattern continued for quite a while; I would point to a little darling and they would begin to regale me with some story or another that may or may not actually involve a snake. Each time, Diane would patiently and gently remind them that stories are when you are telling someone something but questions were for when you wanted someone to tell you something. Each reminder included those words, "Remember, boys and girls, a question needs an answer."

This went on for at least an hour; or maybe ten minutes. I can't really remember because my mind was mush by this time. The only thought in my mind was, "GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!"

After what seemed an eternity; the bell rang to end the school day. Diane helped all of her little darlings get everything together and on their way home. Then, she had the nerve to turn to me and say, "Wasn't that wonderful! I think the kids enjoyed it very much and learned a lot." The real kicker, though was a comment she made along the lines of, "They even came up with some good questions."

WHAT????

She was kidding, right???

The only question any of the little darlings asked was one boy wanting to know how a snake goes to the bathroom!!!

How could anyone think spending what seemed like a week in a classroom full of five and six year old little darlings had been a wonderful experience?

Maybe that was one question to which I didn't really want to know the answer...

The Gift of a Promise Not Kept

I have been afraid of horses for as long as I can remember. I've always believed that horses are the real reason why cowboys carried guns. There can simply be no other reasonable explanation. The outlaws were just an excuse to allow everyone in the Old West to be armed anytime they were around horses.

I'm not exactly sure why I'm afraid. I think it can be traced back to the time we vacationed in Colorado (When Your Sister's A Dog) and Mom and Dad decided we should all go on a trail ride. Mom insisted that these old horses only knew to follow the horse in front of them. She believed they were loving, gentle beasts.

Maybe the one she rode - but not mine.

My horse was named Diablo - a beast from the very pit of hell. He constantly turned his head in such a way as to make sure I would see him looking at me. His eyes were deep, dark pools of evil. His lips curled back over the bit as if to remind me that He was in charge; not me.

Mom should have been arrested for child abuse right then and there. I was only about five years old and she was putting me on a vicious beast with evil intentions.

"Just lay the reins against the side of his neck to turn him," she said. Maybe the one she rode - but not Diablo! She was obviously quite confused about horses. There was no way I could "lay the reins against the side of his neck" while holding on to the saddle horn for dear life! What's worse; I didn't even have a toy gun to trick the beast into believing I could just shoot him and walk away!!!

I pulled on the reins with all my might; but he just turned his head to look at me with those dark pools of evil again.

He was Diablo..

Part of our ride took us on a path with a steep drop-off to one side. Diablo kept taunting me; tipping just a bit toward the drop-off; teasing that he would send me plunging into the ravine below.

Mom just laughed. I'm pretty sure she was enjoying my distress but I couldn't turn to look at her because that would force me to take my eyes off of the dark pools of evil that kept peering back at me from his evil brown face.

Eyes that were taunting.

No, I had to keep my eyes on him to provide even a moment of warning that he was about to act on his diabolical plan.

As the ride neared its merciful end; Dad decided to prod his horse to run ahead so he could get the movie camera ready to capture - in full color, no less - his loving (and terrified) family returning from the torturous ride. His horse; which must have been the Son of Diablo, reared up; its front legs pawing at the empty air as it tried to throw him to the ground.

That was it!!! I had seen enough. It was time to get off of that beast and get as far away from it as I could.

Diablo just watched me as I backed away; snorting and shaking his head in one final taunt.

Yes that was pretty much exactly the way it happened, as I recall. My sisters would probably love to chime in with all sorts of lies and falsehoods surrounding this incident; but it's my blog so it is built on my memories! In any case, that was probably the start of my fears. Through the years, various people have claimed that they could teach me to ride and overcome my fear. Perhaps no threat was more to be feared than the one from Colleen.

Colleen is a wonderful woman whose job was being the producer for our video production crew. While the producer has many roles; perhaps none is more important than charming the client to keep them from becoming a pain in the neck for the production people. When it came to charming clients - Colleen was, and I'm sure still is, the champ.

But Colleen had an evil side.

Colleen was a dressage rider.

Dressage is merely a fancy word for, "wears funny pants and a tiny hat while riding a horse around a ring." Dressage riders also carry a whip - they call it a crop to make it sound less threatening - in order to beat the horse into submission if it attempts to act on its diabolical plans.

Colleen laughed at my fear of horses. She thought I was being silly. She claimed that I just didn't understand horses. She even went so far as to claim that the horse knows when the rider is afraid and then acts out. She never believed the historical record of cowboys carrying guns to keep horses from acting out on their threat of violence.

Colleen promised to teach me to ride. She brought it up several times through the years. I was always much too busy, of course. There was no way I was going to allow her to put me on a horse; especially if it required me to wear funny pants and a tiny hat. No; I simply would always be too busy to go riding.

Our careers eventually took us in different directions. Although we still keep in touch a bit; Colleen never did get me on a horse.

Sometimes, a promise not kept is the best gift of all.

The Bare Spot

I never fertilized the lawn or killed the weeds through all of the years the boys were growing up. No, the lawn was never meant to be a show piece; it was a baseball diamond or a football field or a race track or a wrestling ring or...

Our lot is quite heavily wooded and is fairly pitched from the back of the lot to the street. There is only one section in the side yard that is almost flat and treeless. That became the most used section of our yard; the base path for a game of pickle or the field for various activities.

I just let the grass take a beating and let the weeds live. After all, we weren't cultivating a golf course; we were raising two boys. There would be years to come when I could worry about the lawn. Those simply weren't the years.

We ended up with gray patches in the grass where the pickle bases used to be; the ground hard-packed and bare. It was a well-used baseball field.

Our oldest son, Joseph, did his part to destroy the lawn in our side yard. You see, Joseph has always attacked everything he has done with full gusto! Perhaps nothing depicts that better than the years that Joseph created and starred in what could only be known as the One Man Baseball League.

Joseph spent innumerable hours in the side yard playing his own version of baseball. Even as a child, he was a statistics freak and memorized the stats for all of his favorite MLB players. He also memorized their unique pre- and post-pitch routines, their batting stances and their swings.

With that, the games began...

Joseph could hardly wait for the snow to disappear so he could begin playing ball. As soon as the ground was visible; Joseph would grab his Wiffle^® Ball bat and a bag of Wiffle^® Balls and head out to the yard. Joseph always had a huge collection of Wiffle^® Balls; asking for - and receiving - a bag of Wiffle^® Balls for Christmas and/or his birthday each year. Once "the season" started; Joseph was the player, the PA Announcer and the radio play-by-play man all wrapped up into one small boy.

He would make his voice as deep as a small boy could and announce the name of the first batter to the imaginary crowd as he approached the plate. He stepped into the box; following the "real" player's routine to the most minute detail.

Then came the first pitch...

Joseph took one of the Wiffle^® Balls from his bag and tossed it into the air. The entire time, the play-by-play announcer would make the audience feel as if they were a part of the game. The batter would swing or let it go past; depending on the game plan as it played out in Joseph's head. The broadcaster called each pitch just like Bob Uecker did on the Brewers broadcasts.

Joseph announced every pitch for every batter; providing complete play-by-play. He even provided the background of the crowd wildly cheering a hit by the home team or an out by their opponents to complete the atmosphere of being at a real game.

Virtually all of Joseph's long fly balls to right would end up on the roof; bouncing and rolling their way to the bottom. Some of them would bounce just right to end up on back on the ground. Others, though, ended up in the gutter. The games would continue until he had recorded all twenty-seven outs for the losing team or until his entire collection of Wiffle^® Balls was trapped in the gutter.

Then he would find me; or wait until I got home from work, to report that all of his Wiffle^® Balls were stuck on the roof. I would pull out the ladder, climb to the roof and make the trek across the house to the gutter that was the Wiffle^® Ball repository. Once there, I would pull them out of the gutter and toss them down to an anxiously awaiting little boy.

Then Joseph would start the routine again

Joseph retired from the OMBL many years ago. Although I have had to pull the ladder out to get on the roof for other things through the years; I haven't pulled any Wiffle^® Balls from the gutter since he retired.

I putz around the lawn now; fertilizing and killing weeds, but there's still a bare patch where one of the pickle bases used to be. I don't think grass will ever grow there again.

That's okay with me, because each time I pass by that spot - I remember...

I remember when Joseph was the One Man Baseball League Champion.

I remember playing pickle with the boys; starting with a rubber ball then working up to a real baseball as the boys got older.

I remember those days gone by and I think; someday I'll stop fertilizing and killing weeds again when this spot is, once more, a base for pickle. Only then, the players won't call me Dad; I'll be Grandpa and I'll be telling them how their dad helped make that spot bare.

Camp Daniel Boone

Few summer memories are as exciting and vivid as my time spent at hemophilia week at Camp Daniel Boone! As a person with Von Willebrand's Disease, I was allowed to participate in hemophilia week. Since hemophilia is a male-only disease, there were no girls at Camp Daniel Boone my first several years there. It was pure bliss! A whole bunch of guys staying in cabins and doing "camp things!"

Camp was a place where we fished, swam, played hide and seek in the woods at night and competed in the Camp Olympics. Unfortunately it was also a place where we had to ride horses and stitch stupid wallets and coin purses to take home for our parents who were dreading getting another stupid craft from camp, but I have tried to forget about those times.

I was made for camp. Each year, Mom dutifully packed my bag for camp; ensuring there were adequate numbers of clean socks and underwear, along with all of the other camp necessities. Mom even included pre-addressed, stamped envelopes so I could write home. Somehow I forgot to write those letters so in later years she later included pre-written, multiple choice letters, as well, where I could just circle the appropriate information like:

My favorite activity so far has been:

1. Fishing
2. Canoeing
3. Camp Olympics
4. Other ___________________

That didn't really work so well, either. I somehow kind of forgot to send those letters, too. Certainly she didn't really expect me to stop doing "camp things" to do something as silly as write a letter to my mother! 

Mom once accused me of failing to change clothes at any point during my week at camp. Her story was that my suitcase returned home still very neatly packed. I know this story to be false. Although I very well may have failed to change my clothes; my suitcase would most certainly be a wreck. I would have had to get my swim trunks and towel out for pool time and every suitcase in the cabin was routinely searched by all of the cabin mates for hidden candy or other treats from home. Therefore, it was impossible for my suitcase to have returned home neatly packed.

As for changing clothes - well a camp full of boys really didn't care if you were filthy and smelly because they were all planning on returning home the same way! The counselors were diligent in making sure we showered before and after getting out of the pool, so that helped keep the overall filth and smell to a more moderate level.

Camp Daniel Boone changed the rules to allow girls at hemophilia week during my last two years. I was horrified that there would be girls at camp; including my sisters!!! Having girls around would ruin everything!

Debbie was too old to be a camper, so she went as a cabin assistant counselor, or some such thing. Now, Wayne was one of the male counselors who took a fancy to Debbie her first year there. They continued to write after that first year - until Debbie met Harold! Wayne at a distance just wasn't as cool as Harold nearby, I guess. 

The camp director sent letters to the parents after each week of camp to talk about what we did and, of course, how we did. My letter always reflected how well I fit into the camp culture; how I did everything with great enthusiasm; how I seemed to be born to be at camp.

Now Kim's letter was a bit different. The camp told Mom and Dad what I could have told them long before they ever made the decision to send Kim to Camp Daniel Boone; mainly that Kim was miserable, made everyone around her miserable, used all of the camp's water supply for her multiple showers every day and her total lack of ability to fit in with normal people. Their letter couched their real meaning behind secret code words, though. Words like, "We believe Kim would be better suited to a different environment in the future." In other words; all of those things I could have told them but they were too chicken to say. They practically begged our parents never to send Kim to Camp Daniel Boone again!

Dad died shortly before our last year at Camp Daniel Boone. It was closer for Mom to drop us off at camp instead of driving all the way back into St. Louis to catch the camp bus. We got there a bit before the bus and I discovered that I would be in Wayne's cabin. Wayne was still rather smitten with Debbie. I couldn't figure out why. She was, after all, just Debbie. It's not like she was anything special. She was my sister!

I was instructed not to share information about Harold with Wayne. I was totally obedient to that instruction; that is until Wayne offered me a whole bag of lemon drops in exchange for information. We're not talking the little bag you get off the rack at the checkout line. No! We were talking the huge, family-size bag of lemon drops. That much candy would make me the candy trading king of our cabin. 

Everyone would be jealous.

Everyone would want to trade bits and pieces of whatever they had.

So I did what every self-respecting twelve year old kid would do under those circumstances; I sang like a canary! Wayne was my buddy. Wayne provided huge quantities of candy. Wayne was cool. Debbie was just my sister. The scales fell heavily to Wayne.

Debbie wasn't too happy, of course. I on the other hand was the candy ruler of my cabin. I figured it was a good trade off!

Mom didn't see it the same way. Debbie, of course, didn't end up with either Wayne or Harold so I don't know what the big deal was...

Seeing Stan

I am one of the very few people my age who can honestly claim that I saw Stan "The Man" Musial play baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals. Despite the fact that I was barely two years old when he retired, my Dad made sure I went to the ballpark to see Stan Musial play. I actually do have a couple of foggy recollections of the old Sportsman's Park field; although I have no idea whether they were from that visit or a subsequent one. For the sake of making a better story - which I'm wont to do - I'll continue to believe that my memories are of that day.

With Spring officially starting tomorrow, one cannot help but think of the coming rite of Spring - St. Louis Cardinals Opening Day (capitalized because it is nearly a religious holiday in St. Louis)! Opening Day in St. Louis will be different this year. Even though Stan Musial's age and health has kept him from being an active participant in the festivities in recent years; it was always a given that "The Man" would be a part of the day.

Yes, there will be a certain pall that hangs over the day this year as Cardinal fans everywhere are reminded that "The Man" is gone.

St. Louis adored Stan Musial. Perhaps no athlete has ever been as closely associated with a city and its fans as Stan "The Man" Musial has been linked to the City of St. Louis, the Cardinals Baseball Team and its fans. He was a hero to fans who weren't even born when he wore the Cardinals uniform, and those of us who really can't remember him playing. It seems like everyone in St. Louis has some sort of Stan Musial story.

Perhaps no one has as many stories, or as much admiration for "The Man" as my cousin Charlene. She has a Stan Musial shrine; adorned with autographed items and memorabilia. She entertains with story after story of encounters with Stan "The Man" - both chance encounters and planned encounters.

Yes, Cardinals Baseball will be different this year.

Stan Musial recognized that the game, and the team, were bigger than any individual player. He never forgot that it was the fans who made it possible for him to play baseball.

Even decades after retiring; Stan Musial remembered the fans.

And the fans remembered him.

Stan Musial personified what a sports hero and legend should be. While he was certainly very well paid for his time, he believed that he owed it to the Cardinals and their fans to perform each and every day as if his next paycheck depended upon his efforts in that game. He recognized that someone in the stadium had paid hard earned money to watch him play; perhaps for the very first time. And Stan Musial believed that every fan in the stands deserved to witness his best effort.

He was a player so respected that the opposing fans that dubbed him, "The Man."

Today's athletes have somehow forgotten the total class that made Stan "The Man."

Although they will never be the legend that he became, they would do well to emulate "The Man."

Have some feathers, Aunt Dot!

Aunt Dot was our beloved, sometimes eccentric, aunt. Virtually everyone seem to have - or at least should have - an Aunt Dot. She was in her late teens when Dad was born. In fact; her oldest daughter Jolene is not much younger than Mom was. Age wise, her daughters Jolene, Charlene and Eilene (Dad always joked that if she and Uncle Mel had another they would have named her Gasolene) were closer to aunt age to me and their kids were more like first cousins would be.

That's all rather beside the point, though. Aunt Dot was COOL! I always remember Aunt Dot pulling up in front of our house in her awesome Mustang! We had a station wagon. Whoopee!! Aunt Dot had a Mustang! She also seemed to have a story for everything. Some of them may have even been true!

It was always entertaining when Aunt Dot was visiting. All except for the kiss she insisted on planting on me every time she arrived or left. She was a girl, of course, and she only had daughters so I am quite sure it never even occurred to her that no young boy should ever be forced to kiss any female of any species other than his dog! No; she seemed to have missed that memo.  So...every visit with Aunt Dot started and ended with a kiss - right on the lips, no less!

One thing all of us understood from the time we were very young was that there were to be no feathers of any sort around Aunt Dot. You see Aunt Dot had a rather unusual fear of feathers; whether on or off the birds. We never learned why. I'm not really sure if anyone knew; but she would absolutely freak out if there was a feather floating through the air near her. I'm sure her girls were deprived of the opportunity of ever visiting the bird house at the zoo. I always secretly wondered what would happen if someone brought Aunt Dot some feathers. I not so secretly knew that Dad would kill me if I did it.

Little did I know that one day I would get to see her reaction; brought about by the innocence of my own son. Although you may never believe me; I swear I did nothing to promote it.

Now you must understand that Matthew had a special spot in Aunt Dot's heart. I called her the day he was born to share the news that we had another son and had named him Matthew Elmer. Elmer, being Dad's and Grandpa's name, was very special to Aunt Dot. I'm sure I could have told her we named him Susie Elmer and her reaction would have been the same. She seemingly never heard his first name. Instead; she shouted jubilantly, "You named him Elmer!!!!" She later referred to him as Matthew; but I'm sure she secretly always silently said Elmer in her heart every time she referred to him.

Our family spent a week on Mom and Ted's farm the summer when Matthew was three and one-half years old. Mom arranged a big family get-together. Of course Aunt Dot was there. Imagine for a moment a woman with a deathly fear of feathers sitting outside on a farm. A farm with free-roaming chickens, no less. There were fine tufts of feathers everywhere.

Aunt Dot had a plan, though! She offered to pay the children to collect up all of the feathers. Her idea, of course, was for the kids to collect the feathers and dispose of them well away from her; preferably well downwind! Matthew misunderstood her request. I swear I didn't confuse him!

Even as a small boy Matthew loved the chickens. He believed it was his "job" when at the farm to feed the chickens - every time he was outside. Those chickens were fed at least fifteen times a day when Matthew was there! He thought Aunt Dot wanted to enjoy the chickens, too.

He worked diligently to collect as many feathers as he could find. He was a feather collecting champion! The misunderstanding came about because Matthew thought Aunt Dot wanted to see and count the feathers he was collecting so she could appreciate his hard work. So Matthew did what any three and one-half year old would do - he brought his massive collection of feathers directly to Aunt Dot's lawn chair.

He was so proud!

Several people realized - too late - that Matthew was approaching Aunt Dot with a massive bag full of chicken feathers. There was nothing they could do. Matthew walked right up to Aunt Dot's chair and proudly presented his bag of feathers. Feathers; being feathers, don't stay nicely in the bag, of course, so small feathers floated gently out of the bag; caught in the gentle breeze to blow freely around Aunt Dot's airspace.

He was so proud!

We all thought for a moment that we were going to have to call the paramedics for Aunt Dot. She flew out of her chair faster than a woman her age should have been able to move. I'm sure her screech was heard for miles.

Poor Matthew didn't understand what the problem was. She had, after all, asked him to collect feathers and even offered to pay him for his efforts. He was just offering her the opportunity to verify his work.

Aunt Dot didn't see it that way. I'm sure she thought someone had tricked him into nearly ending her life prematurely.

Somehow, I think Dad would have found it ever so slightly entertaining.

Disney World or ????

One year, Mom decided we should go to Daytona Beach, Florida for a family vacation. Debbie was already married so she missed out. Mom, Kim, Beth and I loaded up our 1974 Chevrolet Nova and headed to Daytona Beach.

None of us had ever seen the ocean, so it was a pretty big deal. It stormed one day so Mom took us to the theater to see Jaws. Kim refused to walk into the ocean beyond her knees after seeing the movie. I was hoping to see a real shark!

Mom wanted us to have lots of fun and participate in many activities. She had come up with a list of activities and randomly picked two each day. We took turns picking which option would be our activity for the day.

One day the options came up Disney World or The Kennedy Space Center. Imagine Kim and Beth's horror when they realized that it was MY turn to pick!!!! Certainly everyone in their right mind would pick Disney World. It's not like the daily loser got put back into the rotation for a future outing. No; if I didn't pick Disney World we simply were not going to Disney World.

They begged.

They cajoled.

They bargained.

They resorted to threatening.

I HAD to pick Disney World.

Well... As you may recall from an earlier blog; my fallback career position was to be an astronaut. The Kennedy Space Center was where astronauts launched into space. Space Mountain had nothing on the genuine article. We had an opportunity to see space history. We had an opportunity to go on the bus tour and see the Launch Control Center and launch pad 39B; where all of the Apollo moon missions had started. We had an opportunity to walk on the same ground as Neil Armstrong!!!!!

They kept begging.

They continued cajoling.

They made new offers.

Their threatening became more intense.

There were two very important considerations that had to be taken into account when making a decision of this magnitude.

Consideration number one; the Kennedy Space Center was geek heaven! It was everything I dreamed of.

Consideration number two; selecting the Kennedy Space Center would forever torment Kim and Beth.

I thought about it. I thought long and hard. Okay, I thought about it for maybe an attosecond. (That's one quintillionth of a second; or 10 to the negative 18th power for the none of you that care.) We were going to The Kennedy Space Center.

Despite what Kim and Beth's "recollections" may reflect; we had a wonderful time. Admittedly I had a much better time, but it was a wonderful day. I could barely contain myself as we approached the Space Center. You could see the Vertical Assembly Building (later changed to Vehicle Assembly Building) in the distance.

We spent some of the most wonderful hours of my young life on the Cape Canaveral grounds. The woman at the ticket booth increased my joy even more, if it was possible, when she told us there was a satellite launch scheduled for that afternoon.

Life simply could not get any better!!!

We walked through the entire museum (some parts twice); seeing historical artifacts and science displays.

We took the bus tour; where we got to go inside the Vertical Assembly Building.

We got  to ride on the same road that the Apollo Saturn V rockets crept along on their way to the launch pad.

We were allowed inside the actual Launch Control Center bunker. Imagine my joy when I was able to stand were mere feet away from the computer consoles where real rocket scientists sat to launch real space exploration missions.

Nothing, though, could compare to the awe of going inside the perimeter security gate at the launch pad to see the exact spot where America's brave space explorers lifted off to break free of Earth's gravity and enter the vastness of Space.

Perhaps the only mark on that wonderful day was the postponement of the satellite launch. Even that couldn't minimize the joy I felt that day.

I have still never been to Disney World.

Given the choice today; I would pick The Kennedy Space Center again.

I'm sure you're not surprised.

When your sister's a dog...

I suppose every boy thinks his sisters are dogs; in the physical appearance department, anyway. I know I would have gladly traded my sisters for real dogs at various points in my youth.  I'm pretty sure a boy would lose his boy-card if he was ever caught referring to his sister as anything but a dog; even if they were stunning young ladies. My appreciation for my sisters changed as I got older. They weren't dogs, but they weren't supermodels, either. Too bad on the supermodels part - I would have been a hero in high school!

There was a time, though, that Beth seemingly was a dog; in a very odd sort of way.

Our family vacations almost always involved camping. We camped at Meramec State Park almost every year. One year, we even camped in a beautiful setting on a mountain in Colorado. That's where Beth became a dog.

There are inherent dangers when families camp; not the least of which is the risk of small children falling into the river or campfire. My folks had the perfect solution to keep Beth from those dangers - a harness. A rope connected the harness to one of those stakes you screw into the ground for a dog run. Merely by ensuring the rope length was limited; they were able to keep Beth from getting too close to the fire or beyond her toddler-knee depth in the water. What a great solution!

We found that he harness had other valuable uses, too.

The campsite had playground with swings and a slide. Mom wouldn't let us go to the playground without Beth. She was "The Baby." We had to take her along.

Debbie was the oldest; probably a whopping nine or ten when we went camping in Colorado; probably a whopping nine or ten, so she was "in charge." She was also deviously brilliant!

Mom was concerned about our diligence watching Beth in our excitement of playing on the swings and slide! Mom feared that Beth would wander into the path of a swing and be hit.

No fear of that happening, though!!

Not with Debbie in charge!!!

She came up with an ingenious plan that would allow us to safely take Beth along without limiting the rest of us from having a good time. Yes, Debbie figured out that we could tie the rope from Beth's harness to a tree just far enough away from the swings that she wouldn't be hit by anyone.

What a brilliant idea! There was no fear at all of Beth being injured or lost!

Beth was remarkably compliant. She sat calmly by the tree; watching us play in the playground.

I guess this says a lot about all of us.

Just In Case

It's good to teach our kids to develop a backup plan in case their dream job doesn't work out. It might not be a bad idea to even give them a little push toward multiple backup plans. Just In Case.

I recognized this even as a young boy and came up with a laundry list of backup plans - Just In Case. I figured there was an outside chance that I was not going to be able to play for the St. Louis Blues. After all, I would have to leave hockey forever if the Chicago Blackhawks decided to draft me. So I had a backup plan - Just In Case.

Assuming my primary option didn't work out; I was going to roam the outfield for the St. Louis Cardinals. I would be the World Series hero; hitting a walkoff home run in extra innings of game seven against the hated Yankees; but only if I couldn't be the goal scoring hero when the Blues beat the Canadiens in overtime of game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals, of course.

There was a very slight outside chance, though, that I would be drafted by both the Blackhawks and the Cubs. Although I would certainly become an instant hero to Nancy Sauerman, the prettiest eight year old girl on the planet, it just wouldn't work to be a Blackhawk or a Cub. I decided I had better come up with a non-sports related option - Just In Case.

Now there were lots of doctors, policemen, firemen and pilots; and lots of kids wanting to grow up to be those things. One of many just wasn't going to cut it for me. No, if I couldn't win the World Series or hoist the Stanley Cup - I would walk on the moon! My third level backup plan was to be an astronaut!

I'm sure I drove everyone in the family nuts with my love for anything to do with NASA and the space program. Maybe I just drove them nuts; period. I knew the names and crew pairings of all of our astronauts. I watched rocket launches, in-mission updates and splash downs. I was preparing to be an astronaut - Just In Case the Blues and Cardinals didn't work out.

Our family had one of those monstrous Chevrolet station wagons; the kind with a rear-facing back seat. That was an aspiring astronaut's dream! I could lie on my back on the seat with my legs sticking up the seat back using the back window as my capsule's window to the heavens. Driving at night was the best because I could actually watch the stars as we drove. I was officially in training to be an astronaut and I didn't care if my feet stuck out over the top of the seat back and bumped Kim in the head! She would just have to sacrifice for the betterment of all mankind.

Mom didn't see it the same way, I'm afraid, and threatened me with all sorts of cruel and unusual punishment if I "accidentally" bumped Kim's head any more.

I'm pretty sure she always liked Kim best, anyway.

Although the odds of me becoming an astronaut were somewhere between slim and none; I actually took the first steps toward pursuing that dream. All of our early astronauts came from the military so I met with the Commandant of the US Air Force Academy during my junior year of high school. I had a US Senator willing to consider my appointment. That dream came crashing down when the Air Force informed me that my color vision would prevent me from ever being considered for their flight program or the astronaut program.

Now what!?!?!?!? I had pretty much ruled out the Blues and the Cardinals by then. Now the astronaut dream was disappearing, too. My options were rapidly being limited by circumstances. All of my Just In Case options were gone.

So I did what every other hockey player/baseball player/astronaut does when they realize their dreams have been crushed.

I came up with a new Just In Case...

I became a geek.

I still watch the NASA channel once in a while to see ISS Mission Coverage now that we are no longer launching shuttles. Many of our greatest scientific and materials engineering discoveries came about because of our space program. I hope, someday, we resume the manned exploration of our solar system. In the meantime; I'll keep up on all that's going on.

I guess that's what geeks do - Just In Case.

The Last Time

Note to readers -- My blog is primarily meant to be a creative outlet for me. I love to write. I have always had words and stories and feelings pent up inside of me; ready to burst out. So I started a blog just for a chance to write about things on my heart. Writing is therapeutic. It helps me express things I could never say. It helps me to see myself. Today's entry has been a painful one to write. I have written words that I have never expressed to anyone before. Words I have held in my heart for nearly four decades. For family and close friends, it may also prove to be painful to read. My feelings certainly won't be hurt if you decide to click a link and move away now. 

We never think that any particular day may be The Last Time we see someone; especially someone we love. There will always be tomorrow. Always a final chance to see them. Always a final chance to say, "I love you." A chance to say goodbye.

No, we never think that today is The Last Time.

The Last Time sticks with us, though. How we wish we had done something differently; perhaps held that hug a moment longer, or said, "I love you," one more time. How we wish we could have that moment over again; or better yet, that it simply wouldn't have been The Last Time.

No one in my family ever dreamed that the evening of June 21, 1974 would be The Last Time we would have with Dad. He was young. He had a great job with a great company. He had just moved us into a new (to us, anyway) home in Manchester. He had planned a big barbecue for relatives to come see our new home.  Dad was there; and he was going to be there forever, it seemed. We never imagined it would be The Last Time.

The Last Time has haunted me for many years. I didn't tell him I loved him before heading to bed that night. In fact, I didn't really say anything to him at all.

It was no big deal, right? He would be there in the morning and we would get ready for the party. Mom would make her signature potato salad and Dad would grill pork steaks. It would be perfect! It would be...

I didn't tell him that I loved him. I didn't say anything to him at all.

I was awakened early the next morning by the sounds of agonal breathing as Mom and Debbie tried to rouse Dad in his recliner in the living room. I came in as they began CPR and Mom told me to call an ambulance. We didn't have 911 back then. I called the fire department number from the front of the phone book.

The list was so long and I called the wrong one.

I was twelve. I was scared.

I kept hearing the sounds of Mom and Debbie working on Dad. I kept hearing Mom crying out to him, "Elmer! Elmer!"

The dispatcher at whatever department I had called helped me find the right number; so I called again. The dispatcher wanted to know his condition. Mom shouted, "We think he's dead!"

It couldn't have been The Last Time. It just couldn't.

Mom sent me back to my room.

I watched out the window as the police arrived, followed by the ambulance and a fire engine.

I snuck out to peek as the paramedics worked on Dad's lifeless body. I watched through the window as they wheeled the stretcher out to the ambulance; Dad's body rhythmically bouncing under the thrusts of the CPR.

There had to be One More Time! There just had to be!

Gert brought Nana out to be with us. Time seemed to drag on forever; waiting for Dad to come home...

Mr. Early came over from next door to cut the grass. It didn't really need to be cut, but it was something he could do.

So I sat on the sofa with Nana; watching as a taxi pulled into the driveway. Mom walked slowly into the house clutching a brown paper bag filled with Dad's belongings. Nana fearfully asked, "Peggy; where's Elmer?"

I can still hear Mom's words ringing in my ears to this day. "He's dead, Nana. He's not coming back."

He didn't come home.

It had truly been The Last Time.

I can still see the book he had been reading; sitting beside his recliner. It was Trooper. It had a charcoal sketch of a close up of a state trooper in his trademark sunglasses and Smokey the Bear hat on the cover. It would go back to the library with his marker still stuck somewhere in its pages.

And I can still see his glasses still sitting on that old, marble-topped octagonal table beside his chair.

The empty chair. The one he had sat in for The Last Time.

The next few days are still largely a blur; punctuated by memories of brief, painful moments.

Like Debbie calling Chuck and Helen to tell them Dad was gone.

Like Aunt Mamie sitting beside me in the funeral home saying, "It should have been me."

Like Mom pulling me away from the casket during that last family time with Dad's body as I tried to burn the image of his face into my mind forever.

Like the view out the back window of the limo as we pulled away from the gravesite - wanting to prolong being with him - even if it was just his body - for The Last Time.

But, perhaps no memory remains more poignant nor more painful than standing with Aunt Dot beside the casket; gazing at the shell that used to be her brother; my Dad. She put her arm around me and said, "Scott, you are now the patriarch of the Brader family. You are the one who must carry on the name. Be proud of your name; and protect it for the rest of us."

No matter what her intent that day, Aunt Dot laid upon me a burden too great to bear. The mantle was not passed down from father to son, but thrust upon me by circumstance. Dad was a patriarch. A wise counselor; the Brader anchor. I was just a little kid.

As soon as I had opportunity, I did what every reluctant patriarch does. I ran.

I have kept those words hidden words away for nearly forty years; the very thought of them a reminder of how desperately I wished things had been different The Last Time. 

I suppose I have never gotten over The Last Time.

I'm pretty sure I never will.

I will not let The Last Time haunt my sons the way it did me. I make sure they hear the words, "I love you," every night.

Not because it's a rote saying.

Because you just never know when it might be The Last Time.

The C Word

Not the C Word Jane Fonda blurted out on national television. No, I'm talking about The C Word that makes you feel like you can't draw a breath; that puts you into an immediate state of disbelief and shock.

It is, of course, Cancer.

You never forget the moment you hear that word. For us, it was December 4, 2006. It all started with a simple self-exam that led to a visit to the doctor. She was "almost certain" that it wasn't The C Word, but wanted to send Diane for a mammogram - just to be sure. The mammogram showed something. The radiologist was "reasonably certain" that it wasn't The C Word, but wanted to do an ultrasound  - just to be sure. The ultrasound showed something. The radiologist was more guarded this time and wanted to do a biopsy - just to be sure.

So, almost one week to the hour after feeling a lump; Diane was in the Breast Care Center at Waukesha Memorial Hospital for a biopsy.

It was a Friday.

Friday is the worst day to have a biopsy because the results wouldn't be available until Monday. We had a whole weekend to wait. So we waited. And we clung to the doctor's original statement that she was "almost certain..."

On Monday, the doctor's office called and asked Diane to come in - and to make sure I was with her. Doctors NEVER call you in to give you good news - and they NEVER EVER want you to make sure you have someone with you when they give you good news.

Diane sat on the examining table and I stood beside her. The doctor sat in front of Diane and said the words we dreaded, "You have Stage II Carcinoma."

Diane stared blankly into space; quietly and rather forlornly repeating, "I have Cancer."

I cried.

And the roller coaster started.

Much like a real roller coaster, though, the first drop is the worst. Once your stomach eventually catches back up to your body after that first free-fall you kind of settle in for the rest of the ride. You may not enjoy it, but you have survived the first big whammy.

For us, it took a few days for our stomachs to catch up; but they did. It certainly helped when we met with the surgeon (whom Diane thought was quite cute) the next day and the first words out of his mouth were, "I've looked through everything and, six months from now you will look back on this as a bump in the road. You'll be fine, but you'll go through hell to get there."

He was right.

Cancer treatments took a toll on Diane. There were surgeries and more tests and chemotherapy and more tests and radiation and more tests. True to the surgeon's word; Diane finished up the last of her daily radiation treatments a little over six months after the whole ordeal started.

She still suffers today from some of the effects the medicines had on her body. Through it all I was reminded each and every day of how strong and resilient she was as she refused to allow the disease or its treatment stop her from homeschooling the boys and taking care of our home.

Each day I was reminded of just how much she means to me and how inadequate I was in all of this. It was my job to protect her, but I couldn't protect her from The C Word.

Cancer can affect a marriage in many ways; it can draw you closer together or it can be a wedge to drive you apart. For us, Cancer became the fire that refines the gold. The bond between us; already a strong one, became unbreakable, our love even richer and more precious.

Cancer can also affect your faith. We could have sat back and questioned, "Why Diane, Lord?" Instead, we recognized that God allowed Diane to get Cancer to strengthen her, me and our love for Him. Although Diane may have pondered it in her heart; she never questioned. Through it all, she was a rock. She never complained; other than the near constant mourning that the chemotherapy weakened her immune system to the point where she was not allowed to care for "her" precious babies as the caretaker of the church nursery.

Diane is an example for all of us; never allowing the disease to claim even a small victory in her life. Her faith became stronger; her love for God deeper and her commitment to serve even stronger. Her example served as a conviction for me, too.

We praise God for His healing hand upon Diane. Sometimes He heals miraculously and sometimes He heals through the doctors; their drugs and their machines. Sometimes He chooses not to heal. Through it all, we came to trust Him even more; whether he healed Diane or not. We are so thankful that He healed.

We praise Him for her total discharge from treatment last year. The doctors tell us that her odds of getting Cancer again are not different than someone who never had it at all.

Of course, The C Word is always there; always in the back of your mind. No longer the monster hiding under the bed; it is a constant reminder that Diane is a SURVIVOR.

She faced it head-on - and she won.

Happy Birthday, Bob!!!

Some things seem bigger than life when you're only six years old. Other things, you realize as you get older, just continue to get bigger with each passing year. 1967 still stands out as one of the best years of my life. That was the year the St. Louis Blues entered the National Hockey League. The expansion system back then was not anything like current league expansions. The Original Six, as they were called, could protect virtually all of their players and expose just a few that they weren't that excited about to the expansion draft. The Second Six started off as a group of rather ragtag teams with a strange mix of older players who many considered past their primes and younger guys who either had not reached their potential or were expendable.

1967 was also the start of a love affair that continues to this day; my sister Debbie and the man introduced before games as, "Number five in your program but number one in your hearts, Bob Plager." Debbie fell head over heels in love with Bob Plager the first time she saw him. One of three Plager brothers to play together on the Blues, Bob's antics made him a fan favorite and something about him made him the focus of Debbie's affection. Debbie would yell at pugilistic opponents, whether on television or live at the  Arena, warning them that they had better not hurt his face! Her evening would be complete if they showed a close up of Bob during the game; even if he was merely sitting in the penalty box.

Bob Plager visited the St. Louis Blues Hockey School that I attended each summer. He and his brother Barclay demonstrated (with much theatrical embellishment)  how to properly drop your stick and gloves before a fight to make sure you wouldn't trip on them. Bob then went on to warn us that we'd better never get into a fight in youth hockey or he would, "find you and kick your butts!" I couldn't wait to get home and rub it in to Debbie that I had actually talked to Bob Plager!!!!

I'm quite sure that Bob Plager has no recollection of that day at the hockey school at Winterland; nor would he recall the thrill he gave a young boy dreaming of playing for the Blues someday merely by taking a moment to talk with him. No, I'm sure Bob Plager wouldn't remember me no matter how hard he tried. Now, Debbie, on the other hand...

Debbie's love affair with Bob continues to this day. He may actually remember Debbie as the one who, as an adult, had him sign her Bob Plager Blues sweater right across the chest - while she was wearing it, of course! He may also remember her as the one who wears that sweater to every Blues Alumni event, waving at him every time he skates by. Yes, Debbie is still in love with Bob.

Debbie still has a partial season ticket package and we text constantly during Blues games. I can count on a text within moments of either John Kelly or Darren Pang mentioning Bob's name on the television broadcast. My phone will light up instantly with, "Did you hear Panger mention BOB PLAGER?" Somehow his name is always in all caps. Debbie insists her phone does that on its own.

Today we celebrate Bob's 70th birthday. Bob Plager continues to be involved with the Blues organization after all these years. He is so closely identified with the organization that you really can't separate the two. Although other men have worn, and continue to wear, the number five sweater; it will always remain tied to Bob Plager. 

It's hard to believe that the man we still think of as a young defenseman - who entertained the crowd both with his punishing hip checks and his stunts  like coming out for the start of a game with a giant, colorful Afro wig or pom-poms on his skates - is 70 years old. Today he is the elder statesman of St. Louis Hockey history; and still the object of Debbie's affections.

Happy Birthday, Bob!

On dance recitals and hockey games...

Life isn't fair. We all know that yet we somehow never seem to really embrace how true it is. Take being forced to watch siblings participate in activities, for instance. It simply wasn't fair that I was forced to endure endless hours of dance recitals while two of my three sisters rarely, if ever, actually came to watch me play hockey!

Debbie was the only one who actually wanted to go to my hockey games. I still believe that her real motivation was at least partly the hope that Mike Rancilio from our Bantam team would be one of the linesmen assigned to the game; but she went and she cheered us on, whether Mike was there or not. Kim complained on the rare occasion that she actually had to go to a game and then, I was told, spent the entire time making everyone else around her so miserable that Mom and Dad finally decided it was easier on everyone to just leave her home. Then there was Beth. Beth was "The Baby." Although only two years younger than me, Mom somehow thought her too small and frail to endure the "frigid" weather of outdoor hockey in St. Louis.

So I pushed on toward my future career as a star defenseman for the St. Louis Blues without Kim or Beth's support. It really didn't matter, though, because I was going to be the final piece that would score the Stanley Cup winning goal for the St. Louis Blues; in overtime of the seventh game, no less. I played that scenario out a million times in my head. Each time, I got to hoist the Cup in front of thousands of adoring fans.

It simply wasn't fair, then, that Dad and I were forced to sit through the girls' dance recitals each year. To be honest, Debbie was only in a few before she managed to convince everyone, especially the dance teacher, that her "gifts" were in other areas. Mom was always a backstage helper, so Debbie joined Dad and me in as a prisoner in the audience.

Dad had an interesting approach to dance recitals. We were handed a program upon our arrival in the Epiphany Gymnatorium. We would find our seats and Dad would promptly pull out his ever-present pen and number the dances in reverse order from the intermission to the beginning and then again from the end to the intermission. Before each dance, he would announce the number so I knew how many more dances I had to endure before the intermission or end. Most of the fathers around us appreciated the countdown; although it was sometimes discouraging to be reminded that we still had eight more dances before the break! 

The moms in the audience were not nearly as appreciative of Dad's numbering scheme as the fathers and the other prisoner progeny seemed to be. One of the moms apparently squealed to Mom and she must have given Dad an earful. That didn't stop his numbering plan; merely his announcements to those around us. He still showed me the numbers as we counted toward the merciful end and his program mysteriously disappeared after the recital.

Intermission was the real treat. We, along with all of the other prisoners, went to the concession stand in the back where Dad always bought me a chocolate soda and a Gus's soft pretzel. Bribery for keeping quiet, I suppose.

Somehow I was expected to pretend that I actually believed Kim was going to grow up to be some world famous ballerina. Really??? Even as a pre-teen dance critic I could have told you that wasn't going to happen. Ballerinas were supposed to be beautiful and graceful. Kim was my sister. There was certainly a law somewhere that said sisters could never be seen as beautiful or graceful under any circumstances.

One year Beth was selected to play Clara in a production of "The Nutcracker." Mom and Dad were so proud of her. I was maybe a whopping seven years old at the time and to my "trained eye" it looked like Beth walked out on stage in her pajamas and then went and sat up in a big throne holding a doll while watching the dancers do their thing for what seemed like an eternity. I went and I watched and, of course I clapped at the appropriate times but my mind was most certainly focused on the move I would put on some Montreal Canadien forward as I pulled a toe drag move to sneak the puck into the clear to take the shot that would win the Stanley Cup in front of thousands of adoring Blues fans.

Neither Beth nor Kim went on to become famous ballerinas and I never did get to lace up my skates as a member of the St. Louis Blues. Not that those things were likely to happen anyway, but all of those dreams and aspirations were torn from us one June morning in 1974 when Dad died of a massive heart attack while sitting in the living room of our new home.

In that instant; everything changed. No more dance lessons and no more hockey. No more Blues games at The Old Barn or Cardinals games at Busch Stadium. None of those seemed very important anymore. It's amazing how even a twelve year old can suddenly come to grips with the hard truths of life and the finality of death.

Somewhere along the way all three of my sisters realized that their most important calling was not on the stage or, wherever they aspired to be, but to become a wife and mother. While they are never going to be famous from the world's perspective, they became quite important to the ones who counted on them each and every day.

And I ultimately went on to become a geeky husband and father. Sometimes as I watch the Blues on television, though, I catch myself thinking; just maybe if Dad had lived and I had kept playing hockey...

The Old Barn

Have you ever gone back? Back to a home you lived in as a child; only to be shocked at how different it is from what you remember? That GIANT backyard you played in suddenly seems so small. The nearby park is not nearly the wilderness it seemed to be when you raced through the woods. Some things are just better left to our memories - like The Old Barn.

Maybe it's a good thing that the old Arena in St. Louis was demolished. Going back today, I'm sure it could never live up to the grand memories I have of it in the late 60's and early 70's. That was where the Blues played, and it was a palace! 

Our family shared season tickets with another family so we had plenty of opportunities to see our beloved Blues play. We sat in the upper deck - cheering wildly for our boys in the blue and gold. The Old Barn, stuffed to the gills every night, was a taste of hockey heaven. The fans were so faithful that the owners added more seating in a  mezzanine section hanging precipitously from the roof at each end of the ice. You practically had to climb a ladder to get to those seats. Then there were these strange boxes ringing the back aisle of the upper deck where kids could lie down and watch the game from an elevated platform. I'm sure none of that would meet today's building codes, but it was OUR Barn; and it was grand!

Those were the days! Dad, along with most of the other men in The Old Barn, often wore a dress shirt and tie to the games. You could barely see the roof by the end of the second period due to the blue haze of cigarette smoke that rose to the rafters throughout the game. The floor vibrated under your feet as the fans jumped, shouted, cheered and sang, "When the Blues Go Marching In!" Every moment in the Old Barn was a treasure.

There were no contests or on-ice entertainment between periods. No rock music pumped in to fire up the crowd during stoppages in play. No; we had Ernie Hayes playing the organ. The crowd clapped and sang along as he played on. And we watched the Zamboni clear the ice; anxious for the teams to step back onto that glistening sheet for the next period.

No one ever left early, either. We had to wait for Jacque Plante to throw up his arms in a "V for Victory" sign as he was the last to leave the ice after backstopping a Blues win. Of course we had to wait for the announcement of the three stars because it gave us one last chance to cheer for our Blues before we had to walk out of that palace and return to the routine of home.

Yes, I suppose I'm glad they knocked The Old Barn down. I would probably see all of its flaws today. I prefer to remember it as the palace it seemed to be; inhabited by the royal family that proudly wore the Blue Note crest on their chests.

Where did that guy come from???

You go through life figuring you're pretty much the same as you always were. Then you look in the mirror one morning and it hits you, "Somewhere along the way I became a middle aged bald guy!"

I'm okay with that.

Really, really okay.

Some people claim that I seem to have a near-photographic memory. That can be both a blessing and a curse, at times. It's a blessing because I can still call up vivid pictures of the moment I realized how much I love Diane, watching my boys being born or sitting in Dad's lap while he taught me how to calculate square roots in the margin of the newspaper (in INK, no less). It's also a curse because I am reminded of the areas in life where I have fallen short.

Do I wish I had done some things differently? Certainly! Would I want to go back and do it over again? Not a chance!

Somewhere between way back when and now I have changed. I don't really feel different; other than the constant reminders arthritis gives me that I'm not a kid anymore. But all of those things in the past - both the good and the bad - have played a part in shaping me. I may not always like the shape, but it is me. Old memories fade further into the distant past. New ones are created each day.

I'm okay with that.

The Great Outdoors

I guess it's no surprise that I rarely see kids outside playing anymore. Many of today's children seem to have lost the drive and/or ability to make their own fun. For example; we have had a lot of snow over the last month, or so, and you would expect to see giant snow forts and snowmen adorning the yards of every house with elementary school children. I see a grand total of two as I walk the dog around our neighborhood. The same holds true all summer when the park is virtually empty unless there is an organized league baseball practice or game. Where are all the kids? Oh, yeah...they're inside playing video games or participating in some other time-wasting, often mindless activity. 

That wasn't allowed when I was growing up. 

Moms in the sixties had a very different view of The Great Outdoors than many parents seem to have today. In fact, my mom had the "Twenty Minute Rule." When you went through the door between the house and The Great Outdoors you were not allowed to come through it again for twenty minutes.  If you came inside, you were stuck inside for twenty minutes (cruel and inhumane punishment!). If you went out, you couldn't come back in for twenty minutes. Not that we cared, mind you. In fact, more often than not we crossed the threshold to The Great Outdoors as quickly as we could and refused to come back in until we were called for dinner. (All except my sister Kim, that is. Kim seemed to think of The Great Outdoors as merely someplace that caused you to get dirty.)

The Great Outdoors was our playground. It wasn't viewed as someplace dangerous; rather as the source of adventure. We skated on frozen ponds and waded in the flooded creek behind the house. We jumped off Ron's roof into giant snow piles. We climbed on the rocks along the river and jumped off the "cliffs" at Johnson's Shut-Ins State Park into the river below. We shot things with our BB guns and slingshots; and were even known to have BB gun wars on occasion. All things that involved The Great Outdoors. 

We got a spanking when we needed one and the worst words you could possibly hear were, "Just wait until your Father gets home!" 

Amazingly, we all survived. How can that be? Sometimes I look back on those days and think how much more I would have stretched them out if I had realized that the day would come when The Great Outdoors would no longer be my everyday playground; when I would dream all year of the one weekend each November when I could sit in the woods all day long waiting for a deer to pass by my stand; when I would sit in my office wishing I was in my boat pretending to care if I actually caught a fish or not. 

Wouldn't it be great if we could, just for a short time, return to those carefree days in The Great Outdoors.

Ramblings...

I guess we all have things that we look back on and say, "I couldashouldawoulda" if we could do it all over again. Some of those things are hugely important, like I couldashouldawoulda spent more time with Dad had I known he would be gone before my 13th birthday. Others are just kind of silly, like I couldashouldawoulda gone skydiving and bungee jumping before I got married because my beautiful bride is terrified of me doing those things now.

In any case, I suppose we all have those things. Fortunately, my life is not about looking back at the things I couldashouldawoulda done. Instead, I celebrate the life God has given me; a beautiful wife and two awesome sons. Sometimes, though, I look at a plane flying overhead and think, "I couldashouldawoulda" jumped out of one of those things when I had the chance...