My niece Sarah recently posted a photo on Facebook of her son Thomas at work with her on a take your child to work day. While take your child to work days are a relatively recent phenomenon, it reminded me of times when Dad took me to work with him.
We never actually went to the office with Dad on a normal workday. That would not have been appropriate, nor likely very welcome. He sometimes had to work on Saturdays, though, and on those occasions he would often take one of us to work with him. It was always a very big deal to go to work with Dad.
Dad worked in the corporate offices of Banquet Foods on Olive in Downtown St. Louis. We would ride the elevator up to his floor and head to his office. He would plop me down at a desk and let me "help" him. My help somehow always involved an adding machine. Dad would make sure there was a full roll of the paper loaded in the machine and turn me loose! I pushed buttons and hit keys to keep up a steady cadence of entering numbers and performing various addition and subtraction tasks. I can still hear the sound of the adding machine printing out each row of numbers I entered.
Throughout the day I would stretch the tape out from "my" desk to see how far across the room it would reach. By the end of our workday, I had invariably used an entire roll of adding machine tape; which I carefully wound back onto the empty spool so I could take it home to show Mom!.
The office had some other amazing technology, too. Well, amazing for its time! A teletype machine sat against the far wall. People who are not much younger than me have no idea what I'm talking about when I mention a teletype. It really was a fascinating machine.
The teletype looked like a typewriter on steroids! It was the original text messaging device; used to send and receive textual information with another teletype machine anywhere in the country! It was high tech.
The teletype usually sat there silently on a Saturday morning, but every once in a while the bell would ring and the machine would come to life. The machine used a typewheel, so it actually struck the paper once for each character just like a typewriter. It made quite the racket. It would rattle for a while and then go silent once again. Dad would walk over to read the message and, occasionally, even send a message back. It was always a bonus if the bell rang while I was at the office.
Sometimes Dad knew someone was in at one of the plant offices around the state and would fire off a message on the teletype. There would be a short conversation back and forth about nothing really. I suppose it was more for my entertainment so I could watch the conversation unfold before my eyes as the machine rattled off Dad's typed messages and the faraway strangers typed replies.
Banquet Foods had another high tech tool called WATS Lines. WATS stood for Wide Area Telephone Service. Banquet had both INWATS and OUTWATS. INWATS was the original 800 Toll Free service; allowing companies to pay a fee that allowed people to call their "special" number without incurring long distance charges. OUTWATS allowed the customer to make outgoing long distance calls for a flat monthly fee without incurring long distance charges for each minute they were on the phone.
Virtually everyone has free long distance calling today; whether on their cell phone or landline, so the entire idea of WATS lines is probably quite foreign to anyone younger than thirty or forty. It was revolutionary for its day, though. Banquet Foods had both INWATS and OUTWATS. Their contract with AT&T had them paying a flat monthly fee with no per minute charges or limitations. This allowed Dad to put the OUTWATS line to use on several of those Saturday visits to call the Sauermans. I would race in to tell Mom of our important conversations once we got home.
Yes, going to work with Dad was always a memorable experience. There was no computer on which I could sit and play games or watch movies or listen to music. No; for those few hours, I occupied myself with "important business things" with Dad.
I have often wondered through the years if Dad actually took us to work so he could get something done on a Saturday or if it was just his way of spending time with each one of us kids alone. I can't imagine that he ever actually accomplished much; with getting hot chocolate from the machine and calling the Sauermans and sending worthless messages back and forth with the teletype.
No, Dad probably used those Saturday mornings for what future generations would call bonding time; time that Debbie, Kim, Beth or I had with just Dad.
Times that I would still recall with great joy nearly four decades later.
Times that I still miss.
Times with just Dad.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Snakes On The Loose!
I have loved snakes for as long as I can remember. The reptile exhibits are still my favorite stop when visiting any zoo. Snakes are beautiful and fascinating animals. I would still love to have a nice collection, but time, money, space and - most of all, Diane - limit that possibility.
I kept many wild caught garter snakes when I was young. We had a wood frame covered with plywood next to the garage to hold the garbage cans at our house in St. Louis. I could pretty much guarantee finding garter snakes under there throughout the spring and summer. I would catch them and play with them and ultimately release them. Sometimes I would keep them for a while in an herpetarium I made from an old, unused fishbowl in my bedroom.
One thing that is a certainty when keeping snakes is that they will find even the tiniest flaw in your herpetarium and escape. Even a weighted lid is often not adequate for keeping captive snakes captive. A fishbowl with a screen over the top held on primarily by gravity is not really very secure; even for garter snakes.
I remember having quite a collection of garter snakes in my makeshift herpetarium one summer. I probably had five or six snakes in there. I fed them earthworms, small frogs or bugs. There was a minor problem one morning when I noticed several of my snakes had somehow disappeared since I had checked on them the night before. I futilely searched for a while before resigning myself to the fact that I would have to tell Mom we had several snakes loose in the house.
That conversation did not go the way most people would expect. Mom had no problem with me having snakes in the house. In fact, I think she rather liked them. They were just another animal to be part of the Brader Zoo - already loaded with dogs, cats, turtles, lizards, hamsters, etc. etc. etc.
Mom's immediate response to learning some of the snakes were loose was, "Don't tell Dad!"
Dad was not fond of snakes. In fact, he was terrified of them. One time we were walking along a path at The Farm in Leasburg when Dad shouted for Mom to tell him if a snake he saw coiled on a tree branch beside the path was venomous. I laughed as I watched him with the shotgun held inches away from a twelve inch Northern Rough Greensnake; a docile and completely harmless arboreal snake. Of course, to Dad, there was no such thing as a harmless snake. He was ready to pull the trigger and put nearly 200 number six pellets into the tiny snake. I thought he would have a stroke as I touched the snake and tried to coax it from the branch.
No, Dad was not fond of snakes. He didn't like that I had them in the house and he certainly was not going to be happy to hear that some of them were missing.
Mom and I searched for a while.
We were not successful.
I can still remember Mom's very specific direction that there was no reason to let Dad know anything about this little situation. I didn't say anything and I have no reason to believe she did, either. In fact, I'm certain he didn't know there were snakes loose in the house because he came into my room that night to tuck me into bed. That simply would not have happened had he known there was a chance that he would encounter a vicious garter snake. He probably would have forced the whole family to vacate the house until a professional search team could locate and eradicate these dangerous reptiles! He would never have let me bring a snake into the house again.
Mom and I ultimately recovered all of the loose snakes over the course of several days. We merely put them back into the makeshift herpetarium in my room as we re-captured them.
As far as I know, Dad died without ever knowing my snakes had escaped.
It was probably better that way.
I kept many wild caught garter snakes when I was young. We had a wood frame covered with plywood next to the garage to hold the garbage cans at our house in St. Louis. I could pretty much guarantee finding garter snakes under there throughout the spring and summer. I would catch them and play with them and ultimately release them. Sometimes I would keep them for a while in an herpetarium I made from an old, unused fishbowl in my bedroom.
One thing that is a certainty when keeping snakes is that they will find even the tiniest flaw in your herpetarium and escape. Even a weighted lid is often not adequate for keeping captive snakes captive. A fishbowl with a screen over the top held on primarily by gravity is not really very secure; even for garter snakes.
I remember having quite a collection of garter snakes in my makeshift herpetarium one summer. I probably had five or six snakes in there. I fed them earthworms, small frogs or bugs. There was a minor problem one morning when I noticed several of my snakes had somehow disappeared since I had checked on them the night before. I futilely searched for a while before resigning myself to the fact that I would have to tell Mom we had several snakes loose in the house.
That conversation did not go the way most people would expect. Mom had no problem with me having snakes in the house. In fact, I think she rather liked them. They were just another animal to be part of the Brader Zoo - already loaded with dogs, cats, turtles, lizards, hamsters, etc. etc. etc.
Mom's immediate response to learning some of the snakes were loose was, "Don't tell Dad!"
Dad was not fond of snakes. In fact, he was terrified of them. One time we were walking along a path at The Farm in Leasburg when Dad shouted for Mom to tell him if a snake he saw coiled on a tree branch beside the path was venomous. I laughed as I watched him with the shotgun held inches away from a twelve inch Northern Rough Greensnake; a docile and completely harmless arboreal snake. Of course, to Dad, there was no such thing as a harmless snake. He was ready to pull the trigger and put nearly 200 number six pellets into the tiny snake. I thought he would have a stroke as I touched the snake and tried to coax it from the branch.
No, Dad was not fond of snakes. He didn't like that I had them in the house and he certainly was not going to be happy to hear that some of them were missing.
Mom and I searched for a while.
We were not successful.
I can still remember Mom's very specific direction that there was no reason to let Dad know anything about this little situation. I didn't say anything and I have no reason to believe she did, either. In fact, I'm certain he didn't know there were snakes loose in the house because he came into my room that night to tuck me into bed. That simply would not have happened had he known there was a chance that he would encounter a vicious garter snake. He probably would have forced the whole family to vacate the house until a professional search team could locate and eradicate these dangerous reptiles! He would never have let me bring a snake into the house again.
Mom and I ultimately recovered all of the loose snakes over the course of several days. We merely put them back into the makeshift herpetarium in my room as we re-captured them.
As far as I know, Dad died without ever knowing my snakes had escaped.
It was probably better that way.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Diane's Big Fish
I would rather be fishing or hunting than pretty much any other thing on the planet. Being around water is relaxing and natural for me. Wisconsin is a great state for someone like me. Minnesota likes to advertise itself as the "Land of 10,000 Lakes." Unbeknownst to most people, though, is the fact that Wisconsin actually has more lakes than Minnesota.
The southwest corner of the state has some of the best trout fishing streams in the country, and don't evenget me started on the great hunting opportunities up here. Yep, I landed in the right state!
There are a number of tributary streams to Lake Michigan that turn into a great steelhead fishery each spring. Steelhead are nothing more than rainbow trout that migrate from the stream where they were born into the lake or ocean for most of their life; only to return to the stream of their birth to spawn as adults. Unlike true salmon which spawn once and die, steelhead return to the same stream year after year.
Spring's increasing stream flows trigger the fish to move upstream to their spawning locations. There are a couple of streams that I have fished many times since moving to Wisconsin in 1984. One of my favorites, Oak Creek, becomes loaded with steelhead; and steelhead fishermen, each spring.
I decided to introduce Diane to stream fishing the spring after we got married. Diane had never fished for steelhead, or any other fish for that matter, so I thought it would be a good idea to set her up on the shoreline next to a deep hole where she could catch lots of fish.
In no time at all, Diane was joyfully reeling in fish after fish. Now when steelhead fishing, as in most other fishing, you can fish for quantity or you can fish for quality. As a beginner, I figured I would get her started on quantity. I didn't want her to get bored by not catching anything.
That philosophy worked fine for a while; until Diane noticed that some of the other fishermen were catching large steelhead while she was relegated to catching fish in the ten to twelve inch range. It didn't take long for Diane to become impatient and ask, "How come they're catching big ones and I'm only catching little ones?"
Catching big fish requires different techniques than I had her using and I didn't think she was quite ready for fishing a drift in a snag infested stream without a bobber. I told her that I would take care of it and work to hook up a bigger fish that she could fight and land. She kept on fishing as I stepped a few feet downstream to work a chute the fish had to pass through when making their way upstream.
By the third drift through the chute I had hooked up a big steelhead. I worked the fish out of the snags and up into the hole and handed Diane the rod. She was delighted as the steelhead fought like all steelhead do, with a mixture of deep runs upstream and dances on the surface. I talked her through allowing the rod and reel to do the work of tiring the fish so we could safely land it. She followed my instructions and was bringing the fish toward the wall we were fishing from in just a few minutes.
Two young boys were fishing just downstream from us. They came rushing up with their landing net to help land the fish. They were young, but far more experienced at catching and landing steelhead than Diane was. That didn't stop her from trying to instruct them in what she wanted them to do to make sure she didn't lose that fish! The problem was, they knew exactly what they were doing and Diane's instructions would certainly increase the risk of losing the fish.
I just reminded her that they knew exactly what they needed to do to land this fish and she should just continue to follow our instructions and she would have the fish safely netted in a few seconds. She did and the boys had the fish in the net in nothing flat. They were so excited to be able to help her land her first big fish. She was so excited to have "finally" caught a big one!
We took a picture of her with her beautiful fish. (Keep in mind that this was 1988 and her hair and glasses were actually stylish then. Also notice her "June Cleaver-ish" approach to fishing while wearing earrings!)
Whenever I look at this picture I am struck by how excited Diane was with her fish. Maybe it should concern me that her dazzling smile is much bigger in this picture than in any of our wedding pictures.
That should tell me something; although I certainly can't dispute that the fish was a better catch.
The southwest corner of the state has some of the best trout fishing streams in the country, and don't evenget me started on the great hunting opportunities up here. Yep, I landed in the right state!
There are a number of tributary streams to Lake Michigan that turn into a great steelhead fishery each spring. Steelhead are nothing more than rainbow trout that migrate from the stream where they were born into the lake or ocean for most of their life; only to return to the stream of their birth to spawn as adults. Unlike true salmon which spawn once and die, steelhead return to the same stream year after year.
Spring's increasing stream flows trigger the fish to move upstream to their spawning locations. There are a couple of streams that I have fished many times since moving to Wisconsin in 1984. One of my favorites, Oak Creek, becomes loaded with steelhead; and steelhead fishermen, each spring.
I decided to introduce Diane to stream fishing the spring after we got married. Diane had never fished for steelhead, or any other fish for that matter, so I thought it would be a good idea to set her up on the shoreline next to a deep hole where she could catch lots of fish.
In no time at all, Diane was joyfully reeling in fish after fish. Now when steelhead fishing, as in most other fishing, you can fish for quantity or you can fish for quality. As a beginner, I figured I would get her started on quantity. I didn't want her to get bored by not catching anything.
That philosophy worked fine for a while; until Diane noticed that some of the other fishermen were catching large steelhead while she was relegated to catching fish in the ten to twelve inch range. It didn't take long for Diane to become impatient and ask, "How come they're catching big ones and I'm only catching little ones?"
Catching big fish requires different techniques than I had her using and I didn't think she was quite ready for fishing a drift in a snag infested stream without a bobber. I told her that I would take care of it and work to hook up a bigger fish that she could fight and land. She kept on fishing as I stepped a few feet downstream to work a chute the fish had to pass through when making their way upstream.
By the third drift through the chute I had hooked up a big steelhead. I worked the fish out of the snags and up into the hole and handed Diane the rod. She was delighted as the steelhead fought like all steelhead do, with a mixture of deep runs upstream and dances on the surface. I talked her through allowing the rod and reel to do the work of tiring the fish so we could safely land it. She followed my instructions and was bringing the fish toward the wall we were fishing from in just a few minutes.
Two young boys were fishing just downstream from us. They came rushing up with their landing net to help land the fish. They were young, but far more experienced at catching and landing steelhead than Diane was. That didn't stop her from trying to instruct them in what she wanted them to do to make sure she didn't lose that fish! The problem was, they knew exactly what they were doing and Diane's instructions would certainly increase the risk of losing the fish.
I just reminded her that they knew exactly what they needed to do to land this fish and she should just continue to follow our instructions and she would have the fish safely netted in a few seconds. She did and the boys had the fish in the net in nothing flat. They were so excited to be able to help her land her first big fish. She was so excited to have "finally" caught a big one!
We took a picture of her with her beautiful fish. (Keep in mind that this was 1988 and her hair and glasses were actually stylish then. Also notice her "June Cleaver-ish" approach to fishing while wearing earrings!)
Whenever I look at this picture I am struck by how excited Diane was with her fish. Maybe it should concern me that her dazzling smile is much bigger in this picture than in any of our wedding pictures.
That should tell me something; although I certainly can't dispute that the fish was a better catch.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Grandmother???
I suppose everyone has the right to pick what they want their grandchildren to call them. Growing up, we had Nana. Pretty much everyone called her either Nana or Shorty. She answered readily to both.
Many people have Grandma or Granny or Gramma or some other, relatively "normal" moniker.
Kim's grandsons call her Nanna. Debbie's grandson calls her Gr'mama, or something like that. Well, actually I think Thomas is the only verbal one, so the rest are currently just being indoctrinated on what to call them.
I plan to be called "Old Man." Joseph is appalled and insists that he won't let his children call me Old Man. Matthew thinks it's great. He has called me Old Man for years. I rather think of it as a term of endearment. An accurate one, too. After all, I certainly don't see a young man when I look in the mirror these days!
For some reason, Mom elected to be called Grandmother.
Why?
I have no clue whatsoever.
Maybe Mom somehow fancied herself as a less reluctant version of farm wife Lisa Douglas from Green Acres. Maybe her secret ambition was to be glamorous.
Personally, I always figured her for more of a Granny from Beverly Hillbillies.
Mom reminded me a lot of Daisy May "Granny" Moses; matriarch of the Clampett gang. Mom thought nothing of slogging through the muck and manure to help one of her "pet" cows. Also, like Granny, she was always "doctoring" someone or something. No one dared to sniff or sneeze in her presence for fear of "Dr. Peggy" jumping into action.
Some of my funniest memories of Mom involve her racing around the farmyard banging a cast iron pan with a metal spoon in an attempt to chase critters; whether real or imaginary, away from her chickens. Not exactly a Lisa Douglas kind of moment.
Mom also somehow thought of herself as a modern day Annie Oakley. I'm not exactly sure how she justified this title since she couldn't hit the side of a barn. Now the roof is a different story entirely! Mom once found a raccoon stealing eggs from the chickens that nested in the haymow. Now Mom seemed quite certain that every wild critter had rabies and anyone encountering a wild animal nearly had to don a hazmat suit.
A rabid raccoon could not be left in the barn. Mom's solution was to race back to the house to get her .22 caliber revolver. Now, in Mom's defense, the raccoon was in the rafters - probably 12 feet away from her. All in all, Mom shot at that poor raccoon 13 times. I say shot at because I don't believe she ever actually hit the poor critter.
She even had to stop and reload at one point!
I'm convinced that the raccoon ultimately died from laughing so hard it couldn't breathe.
The raccoon ultimately died and Mom was left with a rather nice collection of small bullet holes through the steel barn roof.
A real Annie Oakley.
We happened to be visiting her one summer when she found another raccoon in the haymow. I volunteered to take care of it for her. I took her trusty revolver up into the barn and shot the most-certainly-rabid, egg pilfering raccoon. I shot one time and the raccoon fell dead from the rafters and landed in a pile of loose hay.
Mom was shocked and asked how I managed to kill it from "so far away" with only one shot. I answered, "Um... I aimed and shot it and it died."
It was pretty simple, really.
Mom's response still brings a smile to my face as I recall her words. She actually said, "Oh. I close my eyes when I pull the trigger because I don't want to watch them die." I reminded her that the likelihood of them dying drops off pretty dramatically when she closes her eyes before the bullet leaves the muzzle.
Like I said; a real Annie Oakley.
Mom insisted that I should just put the dead raccoon into a garbage bag for Ted to take care of when he got home. I had to use a pitchfork, of course since it was certainly rabid. Plus I had to wear gloves to handle the pitchfork - just in case that rabies virus started crawling up the handle, I guess.
I still had to sanitize my hands as soon as we went back inside, of course, even though I wore gloves and was never actually closer than two feet to the most-certainly-rabid raccoon.
Maybe she was closer to Lisa Douglas than I thought...
Anyway, Mom told me to throw it on the old poultry barn for Ted to deal with when he got home. We were gone from the farm that evening so I couldn't tell him myself. Somehow, though, Mom forgot to mention the raccoon tied up in the black plastic garbage bag sitting on top of the old poultry barn. She forgot about it for three days.
It was Summer.
In Missouri.
You get the point.
After three days, Ted noticed a vile smell behind the poultry barn; which reminded Mom about the little treat that he needed to handle from the roof.
Lucky Ted!
Anyway, to get back to the point, all of this really makes the question even more relevant; how did Mom ever come up with Grandmother? This is not what you think of as Grandmother. I'd buy Grandma, Granny, Tex, whatever - but Grandmother?
Maybe Ted or one of the girls knows why she chose Grandmother.
Maybe I don't want to know.
Some things are just more fun when left to our imaginations. This may be one of those things.
Many people have Grandma or Granny or Gramma or some other, relatively "normal" moniker.
Kim's grandsons call her Nanna. Debbie's grandson calls her Gr'mama, or something like that. Well, actually I think Thomas is the only verbal one, so the rest are currently just being indoctrinated on what to call them.
I plan to be called "Old Man." Joseph is appalled and insists that he won't let his children call me Old Man. Matthew thinks it's great. He has called me Old Man for years. I rather think of it as a term of endearment. An accurate one, too. After all, I certainly don't see a young man when I look in the mirror these days!
For some reason, Mom elected to be called Grandmother.
Why?
I have no clue whatsoever.
Maybe Mom somehow fancied herself as a less reluctant version of farm wife Lisa Douglas from Green Acres. Maybe her secret ambition was to be glamorous.
Personally, I always figured her for more of a Granny from Beverly Hillbillies.
Mom reminded me a lot of Daisy May "Granny" Moses; matriarch of the Clampett gang. Mom thought nothing of slogging through the muck and manure to help one of her "pet" cows. Also, like Granny, she was always "doctoring" someone or something. No one dared to sniff or sneeze in her presence for fear of "Dr. Peggy" jumping into action.
Some of my funniest memories of Mom involve her racing around the farmyard banging a cast iron pan with a metal spoon in an attempt to chase critters; whether real or imaginary, away from her chickens. Not exactly a Lisa Douglas kind of moment.
Mom also somehow thought of herself as a modern day Annie Oakley. I'm not exactly sure how she justified this title since she couldn't hit the side of a barn. Now the roof is a different story entirely! Mom once found a raccoon stealing eggs from the chickens that nested in the haymow. Now Mom seemed quite certain that every wild critter had rabies and anyone encountering a wild animal nearly had to don a hazmat suit.
A rabid raccoon could not be left in the barn. Mom's solution was to race back to the house to get her .22 caliber revolver. Now, in Mom's defense, the raccoon was in the rafters - probably 12 feet away from her. All in all, Mom shot at that poor raccoon 13 times. I say shot at because I don't believe she ever actually hit the poor critter.
She even had to stop and reload at one point!
I'm convinced that the raccoon ultimately died from laughing so hard it couldn't breathe.
The raccoon ultimately died and Mom was left with a rather nice collection of small bullet holes through the steel barn roof.
A real Annie Oakley.
We happened to be visiting her one summer when she found another raccoon in the haymow. I volunteered to take care of it for her. I took her trusty revolver up into the barn and shot the most-certainly-rabid, egg pilfering raccoon. I shot one time and the raccoon fell dead from the rafters and landed in a pile of loose hay.
Mom was shocked and asked how I managed to kill it from "so far away" with only one shot. I answered, "Um... I aimed and shot it and it died."
It was pretty simple, really.
Mom's response still brings a smile to my face as I recall her words. She actually said, "Oh. I close my eyes when I pull the trigger because I don't want to watch them die." I reminded her that the likelihood of them dying drops off pretty dramatically when she closes her eyes before the bullet leaves the muzzle.
Like I said; a real Annie Oakley.
Mom insisted that I should just put the dead raccoon into a garbage bag for Ted to take care of when he got home. I had to use a pitchfork, of course since it was certainly rabid. Plus I had to wear gloves to handle the pitchfork - just in case that rabies virus started crawling up the handle, I guess.
I still had to sanitize my hands as soon as we went back inside, of course, even though I wore gloves and was never actually closer than two feet to the most-certainly-rabid raccoon.
Maybe she was closer to Lisa Douglas than I thought...
Anyway, Mom told me to throw it on the old poultry barn for Ted to deal with when he got home. We were gone from the farm that evening so I couldn't tell him myself. Somehow, though, Mom forgot to mention the raccoon tied up in the black plastic garbage bag sitting on top of the old poultry barn. She forgot about it for three days.
It was Summer.
In Missouri.
You get the point.
After three days, Ted noticed a vile smell behind the poultry barn; which reminded Mom about the little treat that he needed to handle from the roof.
Lucky Ted!
Anyway, to get back to the point, all of this really makes the question even more relevant; how did Mom ever come up with Grandmother? This is not what you think of as Grandmother. I'd buy Grandma, Granny, Tex, whatever - but Grandmother?
Maybe Ted or one of the girls knows why she chose Grandmother.
Maybe I don't want to know.
Some things are just more fun when left to our imaginations. This may be one of those things.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Pinballs and Damaged Walls...
My adviser in college told me that only about twenty percent of the graduates in my field actually find jobs working in the field; and that only about five percent would still be working in the field after five years. I was part of the twenty percent, and ultimately became part of the 95%. I was thrilled to get a job in the production field and even more thrilled to have gotten on with the top production facility in the area.
We knew we had a great opportunity and we worked hard. Pre-production and shooting made for very long days with lots of stress and often few breaks. We normally started early in the morning and worked well past the world's "normal" quitting time. Sometimes we needed a little time to unwind after a long day.
Ralph and I made a great team for a few years; both at the working part and the unwinding part!
We were known to hang around Video Wisconsin for hours after the work was done. We were the guys who turned off the lights and locked the doors when we finally decided to head to our homes to get at least a little sleep before going at it again the next day.
Oh, the energy of youth...
Ralph and I became the kings of "unwind time." We had several fun activities that kept us hanging around Video Wisconsin. John Barto, our boss, had several pinball machines in the back storage room. I'm not sure where he picked them up, but he had bought them for one reason or another. There was one minor problem with them, though.
They didn't work.
That was not going to stop us! I quickly tore into them, repaired them and rigged them so we could just push a button to play without actually inserting any money.
And play we did! We spent hours playing pinball. We had a blast.
I proved to be much better at repairing pinball machines than actually playing them. Ralph soundly beat me pretty much every every time, but I didn't care. We were just unwinding.
Ralph and I came up with another unwinding routine that was not quite as innocuous. We invented the game of Tape Ball!
A typical film or video shoot uses lots of gaffer's tape. Gaffer's tape looks similar to duct tape, but that is where the similarity ends. Gaffer's tape is cloth-based and normally about two inches wide. It has a special adhesive that will stick to pretty much anything but remove easily without leaving a sticky residue. It is used to tape down cables, secure props and thousands of other tasks on film and video shoots. It is available in a wide range of colors to blend in as much as possible on shots.
Gaffer's tape is also quite expensive, but tape is cheaper than lawsuits so we used a lot of tape. The tape had to be pulled up and thrown away at the end of each setup. We came up with the brilliant idea of wrapping the tape into balls as we pulled it up. The balls would end up being about six inches, or so, in diameter.
Now the simple game would be to launch them into one of the trash cans like we were shooting hoops. We really weren't into simple and we weren't into basketball. We had to come up with a better game.
We invented Tape Ball!
Tape Ball involved one of us pitching the balled up tape while the other one would attempt to hit it with a hunk of two by four like a baseball bat. The goal was to hit it as high up on the cyc wall as we could. The ball was quite heavy and not very aerodynamic, so it didn't fly well. Hitting high up on the cyc wall was a real feat.
The cyclorama, or cyc for short for those who have not worked around a soundstage, is a very expensive wall that is built to gently curve from the walls to the floor and from one wall to the next so there are no corners anywhere. They are used to give the illusion of something sitting in infinity or when other effects will be added to the shot during post-production. We regularly painted the walls and floors to keep the infinity effect or change the color for a particular shot. Most of the time, though, the walls and floor were painted white. They can be painted very quickly because there are no corners to cut and no hard edges.
Did I mention that they are very expensive.
Now, I'm not sure what the statute of limitations is for damaging a very expensive cyclorama, so for the purposes of this story, which may or may not have actually happened, the names have been changed to protect the totally guilty. I can't recall who was supposedly involved, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Ralph and Scott. I'll just refer to them that way to keep you from getting confused with a suspect number one and suspect number two type of report. I will leave it up to the actual guilty parties to fess up on their own.
One person, who certainly wasn't Scott, threw a particularly nasty pitch right down the middle of the plate to the batter, who certainly wasn't Ralph. The batter, who usually won anyway because he was more of a jock, reared back and hit the ball like he thought he was Hank Aaron. It was a thing of beauty. The ball leaped from his bat like a rocket headed for the cyc wall. This was a certain winner!
The sound of the ball hitting the cyc echoed through the soundstage. As you can imagine, an empty 60' x 40' room with high ceilings can hold a sound for a long time. The sound was slightly different this time than hits in the past. I can't remember what was louder; the sound of the tape ball hitting the cyc or Ralph's exclamation of, "Oh, bleep!!!"
This time, the tape ball punched a six inch hole right through the drywall that made up the cyc wall.
This was bad.
Very, very bad!!
Have I mentioned that a cyc is very, very expensive?
While our initial reaction was not one of joy; we quickly realized that this was a mere bump in the road. After all, the guilty parties had once lit a ceiling tile on fire while using it as a bounce card for lighting a commercial shoot at Kuettner Oldsmobile and had gotten that taken care of and repaired with no one the wiser. Certainly there would be no problem handling this little detail, either.
Suffice it to say that it turned into a rather long workday. Everyone reported to work the next day as if nothing had happened. The Tape Ball league was dissolved and the guilty parties just shared a sly smile between themselves and kept on working.
No one was the wiser.
We knew we had a great opportunity and we worked hard. Pre-production and shooting made for very long days with lots of stress and often few breaks. We normally started early in the morning and worked well past the world's "normal" quitting time. Sometimes we needed a little time to unwind after a long day.
Ralph and I made a great team for a few years; both at the working part and the unwinding part!
We were known to hang around Video Wisconsin for hours after the work was done. We were the guys who turned off the lights and locked the doors when we finally decided to head to our homes to get at least a little sleep before going at it again the next day.
Oh, the energy of youth...
Ralph and I became the kings of "unwind time." We had several fun activities that kept us hanging around Video Wisconsin. John Barto, our boss, had several pinball machines in the back storage room. I'm not sure where he picked them up, but he had bought them for one reason or another. There was one minor problem with them, though.
They didn't work.
That was not going to stop us! I quickly tore into them, repaired them and rigged them so we could just push a button to play without actually inserting any money.
And play we did! We spent hours playing pinball. We had a blast.
I proved to be much better at repairing pinball machines than actually playing them. Ralph soundly beat me pretty much every every time, but I didn't care. We were just unwinding.
Ralph and I came up with another unwinding routine that was not quite as innocuous. We invented the game of Tape Ball!
A typical film or video shoot uses lots of gaffer's tape. Gaffer's tape looks similar to duct tape, but that is where the similarity ends. Gaffer's tape is cloth-based and normally about two inches wide. It has a special adhesive that will stick to pretty much anything but remove easily without leaving a sticky residue. It is used to tape down cables, secure props and thousands of other tasks on film and video shoots. It is available in a wide range of colors to blend in as much as possible on shots.
Gaffer's tape is also quite expensive, but tape is cheaper than lawsuits so we used a lot of tape. The tape had to be pulled up and thrown away at the end of each setup. We came up with the brilliant idea of wrapping the tape into balls as we pulled it up. The balls would end up being about six inches, or so, in diameter.
Now the simple game would be to launch them into one of the trash cans like we were shooting hoops. We really weren't into simple and we weren't into basketball. We had to come up with a better game.
We invented Tape Ball!
Tape Ball involved one of us pitching the balled up tape while the other one would attempt to hit it with a hunk of two by four like a baseball bat. The goal was to hit it as high up on the cyc wall as we could. The ball was quite heavy and not very aerodynamic, so it didn't fly well. Hitting high up on the cyc wall was a real feat.
The cyclorama, or cyc for short for those who have not worked around a soundstage, is a very expensive wall that is built to gently curve from the walls to the floor and from one wall to the next so there are no corners anywhere. They are used to give the illusion of something sitting in infinity or when other effects will be added to the shot during post-production. We regularly painted the walls and floors to keep the infinity effect or change the color for a particular shot. Most of the time, though, the walls and floor were painted white. They can be painted very quickly because there are no corners to cut and no hard edges.
Did I mention that they are very expensive.
Now, I'm not sure what the statute of limitations is for damaging a very expensive cyclorama, so for the purposes of this story, which may or may not have actually happened, the names have been changed to protect the totally guilty. I can't recall who was supposedly involved, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Ralph and Scott. I'll just refer to them that way to keep you from getting confused with a suspect number one and suspect number two type of report. I will leave it up to the actual guilty parties to fess up on their own.
One person, who certainly wasn't Scott, threw a particularly nasty pitch right down the middle of the plate to the batter, who certainly wasn't Ralph. The batter, who usually won anyway because he was more of a jock, reared back and hit the ball like he thought he was Hank Aaron. It was a thing of beauty. The ball leaped from his bat like a rocket headed for the cyc wall. This was a certain winner!
The sound of the ball hitting the cyc echoed through the soundstage. As you can imagine, an empty 60' x 40' room with high ceilings can hold a sound for a long time. The sound was slightly different this time than hits in the past. I can't remember what was louder; the sound of the tape ball hitting the cyc or Ralph's exclamation of, "Oh, bleep!!!"
This time, the tape ball punched a six inch hole right through the drywall that made up the cyc wall.
This was bad.
Very, very bad!!
Have I mentioned that a cyc is very, very expensive?
While our initial reaction was not one of joy; we quickly realized that this was a mere bump in the road. After all, the guilty parties had once lit a ceiling tile on fire while using it as a bounce card for lighting a commercial shoot at Kuettner Oldsmobile and had gotten that taken care of and repaired with no one the wiser. Certainly there would be no problem handling this little detail, either.
Suffice it to say that it turned into a rather long workday. Everyone reported to work the next day as if nothing had happened. The Tape Ball league was dissolved and the guilty parties just shared a sly smile between themselves and kept on working.
No one was the wiser.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Ignorance Is No Excuse
We've all heard it before; "Ignorance is no excuse." Perhaps we have even heard that argument made against us. I was ticketed in 1985 for an illegal U-Turn in Glendale, WI. (Still the only ticket of my driving career. Had a couple of warnings, but no other tickets.) There was apparently a sign indicating that no U-Turns were permitted in an area. I came out of a gas station and had to make a swing to the right in order to hit a cut through to turn around to go back to the left. The sign was behind where I came out of the gas station but it still applied to that cut through. I still have no idea why there was even a cut through in the boulevard there because there was no street to make a left turn onto and the only option available at that spot was to use the cut through to make a U-Turn.
In any case, I swung to the right to make the U-Turn back to the left and soon noticed the distinct flashing of red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. The fact that I could not have possibly seen the sign based on its position relative to the gas station driveway was not an adequate explanation to keep me from getting a ticket. The officer told me I was free to make my argument before the Judge if I had an issue with it. His point - my ignorance of the prohibition against U-Turns at that cut through was not an excuse for violating the law. It was a whopping $40 ticket at the time and it certainly wasn't worth taking a day off work to go to court, so I paid the fine and moved on, but I have never forgotten his insistence that ignorance was no excuse.
Somehow, the government does not hold itself to the same standard.
I speak, of course, of the government's regular and consistent violation of the US Flag Code as it relates to displaying the United States Flag at half staff. I realize that I may be part of an infinitesimal percentage of the US population who actually knows we even have a US Flag Code.
We do.
It is codified into law in the US Code. The laws dictating when and how our Flag is to be lowered to half staff used to be covered in Title 36 Chapter 10 dealing with Patriotic Customs. The Code has been "simplified" and it is now covered in Title 4 Section 7.
Aren't you glad you know that?
I have a flagpole in front of my house and proudly fly my United States Flag virtually every day. The Flag comes down when we are expecting high winds; both to extend the life of the Flag and to protect my aluminum flagpole. I am proud to fly the United States Flag in front of the house. I've been accused about being rather retentive about the Flag and the US Flag Code, among other things.
I can recite many of the most minute details of the Flag Code. I can even tell you how the Union (the blue field with the white stars in it, for the vast majority of the US population that doesn't know that's what it's called) is supposed to be positioned no matter how the Flag is displayed; whether flown, suspended or appearing on a uniform.
The US Flag Code spells out - in great detail - how and when the Flag is to be displayed. Although the US Flag Code is considered law; it is rather unique in that there are no penalties proscribed for violating the law.
Of course, to a retentive geek, violations are violations; whether the law dictates a penalty for the violation or not.
The government continually violates the law when ordering that US Flags be flown at half staff for various tragedies; most recently following the bombings at the Boston Marathon. I have held off on posting this blog because I do not want my comments to be construed as disrespectful to those who were injured or killed in the attacks.
I also am not making a political statement. President Obama's decree that the US Flag be flown at half staff for a period of mourning is merely a continuation of what presidents of both parties have done before him..
At some point in the past, people got the idea that it is appropriate to lower our Flag to half staff for a myriad of reasons. I simply continue to fly my Flag at full staff; not as a show of disrespect for whatever disaster spawned the decree, but as a show of respect for my country and my Flag.
At the risk of boring you to death, I have inserted the pertinent section of the US Code below. You can feel free to skip right over it, but I don't want to be accused of not offering the facts behind my position. I could, after all, do like much of the political world and merely make up "facts" to support whatever I chose to pontificate on on any given day.
4 USC Sec. 7
"... (m) ...
By order of the President, the flag shall be flown at half-staff
upon the death of principal figures of the United States Government
and the Governor of a State, territory, or possession, as a mark of
respect to their memory. In the event of the death of other
officials or foreign dignitaries, the flag is to be displayed at
half-staff according to Presidential instructions or orders, or in
accordance with recognized customs or practices not inconsistent
with law..."
Back to my daily rant...
The law makes no allowance for national mourning for tragedies or the death of anyone other than government officials or dignitaries. The law gives governors greater powers to make proclamations lowering the Flag and orders Federal installations and facilities in that state to fly the Flag at half staff in those situations. The US Flag Federation, an unofficial keeper of the Flag Code, affirms that nothing in the law prohibits private individuals from choosing to fly their Flag at half staff on their own. That section of the US Flag Code merely dictates the standards by which the President or Governor may order Flags to half staff.
Somewhere along the way, though, someone determined that the President should make proclamations ordering the Flag to half staff for virtually any tragedy they determine to be worthy. While that may be admirable; it is not a correct application of the law.
We have a mechanism in place to change laws. The US Flag Code itself has been changed and amended many times through the years; yet Congress has never chosen to change the Code to allow presidential proclamation to order the Flag to half staff for times of national mourning.
So last week, as in many other instances, I continued to fly my US Flag at full staff. Not out of any disrespect for the victims of the terrorist attack in Boston, but out of respect for the Flag
Ignorance is no excuse
In any case, I swung to the right to make the U-Turn back to the left and soon noticed the distinct flashing of red and blue lights in my rear view mirror. The fact that I could not have possibly seen the sign based on its position relative to the gas station driveway was not an adequate explanation to keep me from getting a ticket. The officer told me I was free to make my argument before the Judge if I had an issue with it. His point - my ignorance of the prohibition against U-Turns at that cut through was not an excuse for violating the law. It was a whopping $40 ticket at the time and it certainly wasn't worth taking a day off work to go to court, so I paid the fine and moved on, but I have never forgotten his insistence that ignorance was no excuse.
Somehow, the government does not hold itself to the same standard.
I speak, of course, of the government's regular and consistent violation of the US Flag Code as it relates to displaying the United States Flag at half staff. I realize that I may be part of an infinitesimal percentage of the US population who actually knows we even have a US Flag Code.
We do.
It is codified into law in the US Code. The laws dictating when and how our Flag is to be lowered to half staff used to be covered in Title 36 Chapter 10 dealing with Patriotic Customs. The Code has been "simplified" and it is now covered in Title 4 Section 7.
Aren't you glad you know that?
I have a flagpole in front of my house and proudly fly my United States Flag virtually every day. The Flag comes down when we are expecting high winds; both to extend the life of the Flag and to protect my aluminum flagpole. I am proud to fly the United States Flag in front of the house. I've been accused about being rather retentive about the Flag and the US Flag Code, among other things.
I can recite many of the most minute details of the Flag Code. I can even tell you how the Union (the blue field with the white stars in it, for the vast majority of the US population that doesn't know that's what it's called) is supposed to be positioned no matter how the Flag is displayed; whether flown, suspended or appearing on a uniform.
The US Flag Code spells out - in great detail - how and when the Flag is to be displayed. Although the US Flag Code is considered law; it is rather unique in that there are no penalties proscribed for violating the law.
Of course, to a retentive geek, violations are violations; whether the law dictates a penalty for the violation or not.
The government continually violates the law when ordering that US Flags be flown at half staff for various tragedies; most recently following the bombings at the Boston Marathon. I have held off on posting this blog because I do not want my comments to be construed as disrespectful to those who were injured or killed in the attacks.
I also am not making a political statement. President Obama's decree that the US Flag be flown at half staff for a period of mourning is merely a continuation of what presidents of both parties have done before him..
At some point in the past, people got the idea that it is appropriate to lower our Flag to half staff for a myriad of reasons. I simply continue to fly my Flag at full staff; not as a show of disrespect for whatever disaster spawned the decree, but as a show of respect for my country and my Flag.
At the risk of boring you to death, I have inserted the pertinent section of the US Code below. You can feel free to skip right over it, but I don't want to be accused of not offering the facts behind my position. I could, after all, do like much of the political world and merely make up "facts" to support whatever I chose to pontificate on on any given day.
4 USC Sec. 7
"... (m) ...
By order of the President, the flag shall be flown at half-staff
upon the death of principal figures of the United States Government
and the Governor of a State, territory, or possession, as a mark of
respect to their memory. In the event of the death of other
officials or foreign dignitaries, the flag is to be displayed at
half-staff according to Presidential instructions or orders, or in
accordance with recognized customs or practices not inconsistent
with law..."
Back to my daily rant...
The law makes no allowance for national mourning for tragedies or the death of anyone other than government officials or dignitaries. The law gives governors greater powers to make proclamations lowering the Flag and orders Federal installations and facilities in that state to fly the Flag at half staff in those situations. The US Flag Federation, an unofficial keeper of the Flag Code, affirms that nothing in the law prohibits private individuals from choosing to fly their Flag at half staff on their own. That section of the US Flag Code merely dictates the standards by which the President or Governor may order Flags to half staff.
Somewhere along the way, though, someone determined that the President should make proclamations ordering the Flag to half staff for virtually any tragedy they determine to be worthy. While that may be admirable; it is not a correct application of the law.
We have a mechanism in place to change laws. The US Flag Code itself has been changed and amended many times through the years; yet Congress has never chosen to change the Code to allow presidential proclamation to order the Flag to half staff for times of national mourning.
So last week, as in many other instances, I continued to fly my US Flag at full staff. Not out of any disrespect for the victims of the terrorist attack in Boston, but out of respect for the Flag
Ignorance is no excuse
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!
Few things were more exciting to me as a child than garbage day. The garbage collectors in the City of St. Louis came through twice each week when I was growing up. Okay, maybe I was merely growing older; I still have no intention of ever actually growing up. I'm a guy so I don't have to!
Garbage days were a huge deal. The garbage collectors came up our street quite early in the morning. This didn't present any problems because I was completely tuned in to the sound of the garbage truck and knew their route so I would never have to miss them.
Everyone had the old galvanized garbage cans back then, and the garbage men did nothing to dampen the sounds of their work. The truck noisily worked its way up the street with two garbage collectors following behind. One would grab the cans from each side of the street and drag them to the back of the truck where they would kind of toss them onto the back of the truck, tip them over to empty them and drop the now empty cans back onto the street. Once emptied, they would gather the cans - we had four kids so we almost always had two cans out front - carry them back to the grassy strip between the curb and the sidewalk, plop them down and toss the lids on top. You could hear them coming for blocks. I can still hear the glorious sounds of their work in my mind.
There was one minor detail that seemed to cause a small disruption in our otherwise relatively peaceful home.
My bedroom faced the back yard.
The garbage truck came by on the street in front of the house.
This meant, of course, that I could not watch them from my windows. The only way I could watch them complete their task was to cross - ever so quietly - into Kim and Beth's bedroom at the front of the house to peek out their window.
I would lie in my bed listening for the sounds of the approaching garbage truck; the excitement building as they came ever closer to our house. I could hardly contain myself by the time they reached the Boyd's house two doors down. I would jump from bed, race across the hall to Kim and Beth's room so I could get to the front window by the time they reached Don's garbage cans next door; all the while shouting, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
I threw open the shade and I watched with delight as they reached our house and began their ritual of emptying our garbage! My joy was complete if they actually ran the compactor in front of our house!
Twice a week.
Every week.
Somehow Kim and Beth did not share my enthusiasm for the garbage truck. I never understood how they could be so disinterested and, in fact, hostile to the invitation to watch the garbage men as they passed our house.
Those days are only memories now, of course. Somewhere along the way we all switched to plastic garbage cans and then on to the large totes that are automatically dumped into the truck without human intervention. It has become such an un-glamorous job; merely driving the truck from house to house as the boom reaches out from the truck to grasp the can to be lifted and dumped. Even the compactor is hidden from view.
My sons never experienced the joy of watching the garbage men dragging cans into the street and tossing them onto the back of the truck. They never got to stare out the front window, hoping that they would run the compactor at our house!
There simply isn't anything about garbage collection any more to get a boy all fired up; ready to race through the house exclaiming, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
Garbage days were a huge deal. The garbage collectors came up our street quite early in the morning. This didn't present any problems because I was completely tuned in to the sound of the garbage truck and knew their route so I would never have to miss them.
Everyone had the old galvanized garbage cans back then, and the garbage men did nothing to dampen the sounds of their work. The truck noisily worked its way up the street with two garbage collectors following behind. One would grab the cans from each side of the street and drag them to the back of the truck where they would kind of toss them onto the back of the truck, tip them over to empty them and drop the now empty cans back onto the street. Once emptied, they would gather the cans - we had four kids so we almost always had two cans out front - carry them back to the grassy strip between the curb and the sidewalk, plop them down and toss the lids on top. You could hear them coming for blocks. I can still hear the glorious sounds of their work in my mind.
There was one minor detail that seemed to cause a small disruption in our otherwise relatively peaceful home.
My bedroom faced the back yard.
The garbage truck came by on the street in front of the house.
This meant, of course, that I could not watch them from my windows. The only way I could watch them complete their task was to cross - ever so quietly - into Kim and Beth's bedroom at the front of the house to peek out their window.
I would lie in my bed listening for the sounds of the approaching garbage truck; the excitement building as they came ever closer to our house. I could hardly contain myself by the time they reached the Boyd's house two doors down. I would jump from bed, race across the hall to Kim and Beth's room so I could get to the front window by the time they reached Don's garbage cans next door; all the while shouting, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
I threw open the shade and I watched with delight as they reached our house and began their ritual of emptying our garbage! My joy was complete if they actually ran the compactor in front of our house!
Twice a week.
Every week.
Somehow Kim and Beth did not share my enthusiasm for the garbage truck. I never understood how they could be so disinterested and, in fact, hostile to the invitation to watch the garbage men as they passed our house.
Those days are only memories now, of course. Somewhere along the way we all switched to plastic garbage cans and then on to the large totes that are automatically dumped into the truck without human intervention. It has become such an un-glamorous job; merely driving the truck from house to house as the boom reaches out from the truck to grasp the can to be lifted and dumped. Even the compactor is hidden from view.
My sons never experienced the joy of watching the garbage men dragging cans into the street and tossing them onto the back of the truck. They never got to stare out the front window, hoping that they would run the compactor at our house!
There simply isn't anything about garbage collection any more to get a boy all fired up; ready to race through the house exclaiming, "The Garbage Men Are Here!!!! The Garbage Men Are Here!!!!"
Monday, April 22, 2013
I'm Getting A Raise!!!!
I'm normally not one to talk about my personal finances much. It's partly because it's really no one else's business how much money I make. I just tell anyone who asks that my boss pays me generously for my work. I work very hard in return. It's a nice trade off.
Another reason I don't talk about my salary much is that I honestly can not tell you the amount of my bi-weekly paycheck. Diane handles all of our family finances. She makes sure the direct deposit hits the bank and all the bills get paid.
About the only financial thing I typically know before Diane is when I get a raise. I sit down with Bill and Rick each January to talk about the past year and the year ahead. Bill uses that meeting as an opportunity to inform me of any raise that I may be receiving that year. I promptly forget the bi-weekly amount he tells me; figuring that Diane will take care of it.
Next month, though, I will be getting a raise that Diane and I found out about together. This raise has nothing to do with how much money Speed Systems will deposit into my bank account. In fact, I fully expect that my paychecks will not change at all for the remainder of the year. This raise is far more important.
This month, Diane sent the final payment to Bob Jones University for Matthew's tuition and room and board.
For ten of the twelve months in each of the last six years, we have sent a check to Bob Jones to cover Joseph's, and then Matthew's education. I don't resent that payment at all. Both of my boys have received a phenomenal education at a university that puts as much emphasis on their personal and spiritual growth as it does their academic achievements.
Bob Jones University works hard to keep costs down for their students. It's still a lot of money, but my boys were able to attend a small, private university for pretty much the same cost as friends who have gone to the nearby state university and significantly less than if they had gone to the "big" UW in Madison.
Those payments have come to an end. Matthew will graduate in less than two weeks and our financial contributions to their education will be over. I always told the boys that I would help them get a Bachelor's Degree, but any graduate degrees are on their dime.
I have no idea how large my raise will be. Just like I don't know how much my paycheck is; I have no idea what the school payments were, either.
It doesn't matter.
Matthew is graduating and I'm getting a raise.
Another reason I don't talk about my salary much is that I honestly can not tell you the amount of my bi-weekly paycheck. Diane handles all of our family finances. She makes sure the direct deposit hits the bank and all the bills get paid.
About the only financial thing I typically know before Diane is when I get a raise. I sit down with Bill and Rick each January to talk about the past year and the year ahead. Bill uses that meeting as an opportunity to inform me of any raise that I may be receiving that year. I promptly forget the bi-weekly amount he tells me; figuring that Diane will take care of it.
Next month, though, I will be getting a raise that Diane and I found out about together. This raise has nothing to do with how much money Speed Systems will deposit into my bank account. In fact, I fully expect that my paychecks will not change at all for the remainder of the year. This raise is far more important.
This month, Diane sent the final payment to Bob Jones University for Matthew's tuition and room and board.
For ten of the twelve months in each of the last six years, we have sent a check to Bob Jones to cover Joseph's, and then Matthew's education. I don't resent that payment at all. Both of my boys have received a phenomenal education at a university that puts as much emphasis on their personal and spiritual growth as it does their academic achievements.
Bob Jones University works hard to keep costs down for their students. It's still a lot of money, but my boys were able to attend a small, private university for pretty much the same cost as friends who have gone to the nearby state university and significantly less than if they had gone to the "big" UW in Madison.
Those payments have come to an end. Matthew will graduate in less than two weeks and our financial contributions to their education will be over. I always told the boys that I would help them get a Bachelor's Degree, but any graduate degrees are on their dime.
I have no idea how large my raise will be. Just like I don't know how much my paycheck is; I have no idea what the school payments were, either.
It doesn't matter.
Matthew is graduating and I'm getting a raise.
Friday, April 19, 2013
My Second Career
I have had a second, secret career for the past five and one-half years. A few people have known about it and even fewer have actually benefited from it. I suppose saying anyone benefited from it is a bit presumptuous. It may be that the coming end to that career will be welcomed by all who have endured it.
I wanted to come up with a fun, creative way to say goodnight to Joseph each night when he started college. It was, after all, the first time that we would be separated from the boys for any length of time since they were young. There was a week at summer camp each year, of course, and a couple of extended business trips, but for the most part I had been able to "put the boys to bed" each night. That, too, is a bit of a misnomer because the boys "put us to bed" most of the time once they got older.
The idea struck me out of the blue. Many of my best ideas seem to strike that way. One night I decided to send a funny Haiku text to Joseph before heading to bed.
Thus started my second, secret career as a Haiku writer. Not traditional Japanese Haiku - merely random musings made up of phrases of five syllables, seven syllables and another five syllables.
I have long ago forgotten the contents of that first Haiku. In fact, I have forgotten virtually all of them. I do remember, though, that Joseph thought it was funny. It became a habit. I sent a Haiku to Joseph each night he was away at school. I added Matthew to the text distribution when he went away.
Matthew still gets one pretty much every night. Nothing profound; just a simple Haiku. Five syllables followed by seven syllables with five more to wrap it up. I always add a line at the end reminding them that I love them.
I probably should have actually saved some of them.
Some were poignant.
Some were funny.
Some were silly.
Most were just stupid.
But they were our tradition.
I'm coming to the end of my career. I only have two more weeks of Haikus to go. I suppose this is a microcosm of what it feels like as someone approaches retirement.
I know it's ending but I'm not quite sure what comes next.
I wanted to come up with a fun, creative way to say goodnight to Joseph each night when he started college. It was, after all, the first time that we would be separated from the boys for any length of time since they were young. There was a week at summer camp each year, of course, and a couple of extended business trips, but for the most part I had been able to "put the boys to bed" each night. That, too, is a bit of a misnomer because the boys "put us to bed" most of the time once they got older.
The idea struck me out of the blue. Many of my best ideas seem to strike that way. One night I decided to send a funny Haiku text to Joseph before heading to bed.
Thus started my second, secret career as a Haiku writer. Not traditional Japanese Haiku - merely random musings made up of phrases of five syllables, seven syllables and another five syllables.
I have long ago forgotten the contents of that first Haiku. In fact, I have forgotten virtually all of them. I do remember, though, that Joseph thought it was funny. It became a habit. I sent a Haiku to Joseph each night he was away at school. I added Matthew to the text distribution when he went away.
Matthew still gets one pretty much every night. Nothing profound; just a simple Haiku. Five syllables followed by seven syllables with five more to wrap it up. I always add a line at the end reminding them that I love them.
I probably should have actually saved some of them.
Some were poignant.
Some were funny.
Some were silly.
Most were just stupid.
But they were our tradition.
I'm coming to the end of my career. I only have two more weeks of Haikus to go. I suppose this is a microcosm of what it feels like as someone approaches retirement.
I know it's ending but I'm not quite sure what comes next.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Severe Weather Week
It's Severe Weather Awareness Week in Wisconsin this week. We were supposed to have a mock Tornado Watch followed by a mock Tornado Warning this afternoon. They had to postpone the event because, of course, there is a risk of severe weather and the experts were afraid that people would just assume it was the test when it was supposed to be the real thing. How ironic.
I love storms. I didn't always, though. As a child, I was terrified of the threat of a tornado. I think part of it can be traced to the fact that Mom's immediate response to the sirens going off was to make a big deal out of it and get us all down into the basement. We even had an area in the basement where we would roll out our sleeping bags to spend the night down there if the sirens went off overnight. There could be no sleeping, though, not when we had to be on the alert for our house to be sucked off the ground from above us at any second.
Getting into the basement was always an ordeal. We grew up with a veritable zoo in our house so all of the critters had to be found, captured and transported to the basement with us. Dad had an old, black radio that he took downstairs so we could monitor the reports; waiting for the all-clear to be given.
I'm convinced Mom had a deeply rooted fear of tornadoes. I'm sure it was somehow tied to the time she was forced to huddle in the basement alone with Debbie because she hadn't been able to wake Dad. She found Dad after the threat had passed, still soundly sleeping even though the storm had torn much of the roof off the house.
Mom passed that fear on to me and, as a child, I seemed to be tuned to the sound of the sirens; ready to burst out of my bedroom and to the basement before it had reached its crescendo. It was, "Every man for himself," and I intended to make sure I was safely in the basement even if the girls had to be pushed out of the way for me to get there quickly.
I don't really remember when that fear disappeared; replaced by a fascination storms. At some point, though, I went from racing to the basement to racing outside - hoping to see a funnel cloud. I became part of an informal group of amateur storm chasers in college. None of us had any training in Meteorology nor any clue of what we were doing, but we would pile into a couple of cars and drive around Southeast Missouri during severe weather outbreaks in hopes of seeing massive thunderstorms or tornadoes. We were actually pretty successful and saw a number of funnel clouds and tornadoes through the years.
I lived on the far West end of the twelfth floor of the Towers West dorm. My window gave a great view of approaching storm fronts. The sight of a massively building front was an immediate cause for joy and a race to the cars to get away from Cape Girardeau to where we could see greater distances in all directions. I was no longer afraid.
I still love storms. I married a weather geek. Diane had actually started taking coursework toward a Meteorology degree before submitting to the call to become a teacher. She still loves weather events and remembers much of what she learned. She's one of those "Trained Weather Spotters" you hear about when the tornado sirens go off, and has actually reported a funnel cloud right in North Prairie.
So the boys grew up with two people who love to watch storms and they, too, love to go outside to watch when severe weather hits. Our rain gear is in the garage all Summer; ready to be pulled on in a moment's notice so we can stand outside watching the lightning flash all around and the wind blow the rain horizontally.
As I scan the surrounding countryside; still secretly hoping to see another funnel cloud or tornado, I lament all of the great storms I missed as a boy because I was cowering in the basement.
Of course, there's no way Mom would have let me go outside to watch anyway...
I love storms. I didn't always, though. As a child, I was terrified of the threat of a tornado. I think part of it can be traced to the fact that Mom's immediate response to the sirens going off was to make a big deal out of it and get us all down into the basement. We even had an area in the basement where we would roll out our sleeping bags to spend the night down there if the sirens went off overnight. There could be no sleeping, though, not when we had to be on the alert for our house to be sucked off the ground from above us at any second.
Getting into the basement was always an ordeal. We grew up with a veritable zoo in our house so all of the critters had to be found, captured and transported to the basement with us. Dad had an old, black radio that he took downstairs so we could monitor the reports; waiting for the all-clear to be given.
I'm convinced Mom had a deeply rooted fear of tornadoes. I'm sure it was somehow tied to the time she was forced to huddle in the basement alone with Debbie because she hadn't been able to wake Dad. She found Dad after the threat had passed, still soundly sleeping even though the storm had torn much of the roof off the house.
Mom passed that fear on to me and, as a child, I seemed to be tuned to the sound of the sirens; ready to burst out of my bedroom and to the basement before it had reached its crescendo. It was, "Every man for himself," and I intended to make sure I was safely in the basement even if the girls had to be pushed out of the way for me to get there quickly.
I don't really remember when that fear disappeared; replaced by a fascination storms. At some point, though, I went from racing to the basement to racing outside - hoping to see a funnel cloud. I became part of an informal group of amateur storm chasers in college. None of us had any training in Meteorology nor any clue of what we were doing, but we would pile into a couple of cars and drive around Southeast Missouri during severe weather outbreaks in hopes of seeing massive thunderstorms or tornadoes. We were actually pretty successful and saw a number of funnel clouds and tornadoes through the years.
I lived on the far West end of the twelfth floor of the Towers West dorm. My window gave a great view of approaching storm fronts. The sight of a massively building front was an immediate cause for joy and a race to the cars to get away from Cape Girardeau to where we could see greater distances in all directions. I was no longer afraid.
I still love storms. I married a weather geek. Diane had actually started taking coursework toward a Meteorology degree before submitting to the call to become a teacher. She still loves weather events and remembers much of what she learned. She's one of those "Trained Weather Spotters" you hear about when the tornado sirens go off, and has actually reported a funnel cloud right in North Prairie.
So the boys grew up with two people who love to watch storms and they, too, love to go outside to watch when severe weather hits. Our rain gear is in the garage all Summer; ready to be pulled on in a moment's notice so we can stand outside watching the lightning flash all around and the wind blow the rain horizontally.
As I scan the surrounding countryside; still secretly hoping to see another funnel cloud or tornado, I lament all of the great storms I missed as a boy because I was cowering in the basement.
Of course, there's no way Mom would have let me go outside to watch anyway...
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Where has the time gone?
Everyone talks about how much faster time goes by as we get older. It doesn't, of course; it just seems like it. There are still 86,400 seconds in each day; and each one takes exactly one second to pass.
No longer and no shorter.
So why does it seem like time flies by now when it seemed to take forever as a child? Well time, of course, is relative. I'm not talking about Relative Time as defined by Albert Einstein's Theory of Relativity; I'm referring to the apparent passage of time relative to our whole life.
Six years doesn't seem like a very long time. That is, of course, unless you are six years old; in which case it is a lifetime. Six years just doesn't seem like a big deal to me anymore now that I'm in my fifties.
It seems like only yesterday that Diane and I wept as we waved goodbye to Joseph outside his dorm for his Freshman year at Bob Jones University. He looked so young to be left there alone. Now, nearly six years later, we are preparing to head back to Greenville, South Carolina for one final time in a couple of weeks to watch Matthew walk in his Commencement Exercises at Bob Jones.
Six years.
Where has the time gone?
I occasionally look back at the photographs of those early trips. The boys looked so young. They were just little boys, after all. It didn't seem possible that first Joseph, and then Matthew, would be ready to head off to college.
They were each eager to begin a new phase of their lives when that day arrived for them.
Diane and I were fearful that we hadn't done enough to prepare them.
For twenty years we had poured our hearts and lives into the two little boys God had blessed us with and suddenly we reached a point where we had to let them go; first Joseph, then Matthew.
Where had the time gone? Wasn't it only yesterday that we held them as newborn babes? Perhaps just hours ago that we comforted them when they skinned a knee while learning to ride a bike? Certainly it couldn't have been long ago at all that we were filled with pride as they graduated from high school.
But somewhere along the way, those little boys became young men - young men who have made us very proud. As I reflect on where that time has gone, I am overwhelmed with my thoughts of those days.
Thoughts of them helping to care for Grandpop as he lived his final days with us.
Thoughts of them helping to care for Grandpop as he lived his final days with us.
Thoughts of them being rock solid in their support for Diane as she battled through surgery and chemotherapy for her cancer.
Thoughts of them serving in a final act of love for Grandmother as they carried her casket from the church to the grave.
Thoughts of them continuing to lovingly spend time with their ninety year old Granny; even if it's just watching a ballgame on television.
Thoughts of them becoming Godly young men.
Just a year ago, I cried as I watched Joseph walk across the platform to shake Dr. Jones' hand and receive his degree. In a couple of short weeks, I fully expect that I will cry again as I watch Matthew do the same.
I'm not sure where the time has gone. But I thank God for the privilege of being a witness to the amazing transformation He has made in their lives in that short time that I could call them mine.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Our First Response
As I watch the continuing coverage of yesterday's tragedy in Boston my heart breaks for those who are mourning the loss of a loved one today. For those who lie injured through no fault of their own; merely because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. For those who sit beside the beds of the injured; in disbelief that any of this really happened.
While we must never forget those whose lives were physically torn apart by the explosions, we can't help but be reminded of the brave actions of those who served - the First Responders. First Responders are the ones who; whether in an official capacity or merely because of their makeup, run toward danger to help those in need rather than shy away. Those who are willing to run into a burning structure that even the rats run out of. Those who; no matter how horrific the sights and sounds they encounter, compartmentalize their emotions for those moments in order to care for those who are hurting or mourn.
There will be tears later.
There almost always are.
They may come in the privacy of the shower after a shift. They may not come for days. They may only be shared with those who served alongside.
There will be doubts.
There almost always are.
Maybe the person's outcome could have been different if I only had...
Maybe I CouldaWouldaShoulda...
While most of our nation's First Responders have, thankfully, never had to deal with a tragedy of the magnitude of the explosions in Boston; each tragedy they are called to has the potential of being equally devastating in the lives of those they are serving. Pain, injury, loss and death are never easy; not on the loved ones who suffer alongside. Not on the innocent bystanders. And certainly not for those who answer the call to serve and protect.
Along the way; police officers, firefighters and EMT's may seem to develop a callousness. A tough outer shell that seemingly makes them impervious to the sights and sounds that sicken the rest of the world. They develop a camaraderie and a certain shared humor that helps them deal with the pain.
It's still there, though. It's why they do what they do. They have a need to help those who may be suffering their most helpless moment.
The police officers, firefighters, EMT's and medical officials who served at the race will gather in small groups in the coming days for post incident stress debriefings. It is there, in the company of the only other people who can truly understand that they will cry. And when they have finished; they will put back on their uniforms and go out to serve again.
It is to those people that I offer my heartfelt thanks. I used to be one of those people. I have laughed alongside them; and I have cried alongside them. It is perhaps my biggest regret that I no longer serve alongside them.
Let us never forget all they give for us.
While we must never forget those whose lives were physically torn apart by the explosions, we can't help but be reminded of the brave actions of those who served - the First Responders. First Responders are the ones who; whether in an official capacity or merely because of their makeup, run toward danger to help those in need rather than shy away. Those who are willing to run into a burning structure that even the rats run out of. Those who; no matter how horrific the sights and sounds they encounter, compartmentalize their emotions for those moments in order to care for those who are hurting or mourn.
There will be tears later.
There almost always are.
They may come in the privacy of the shower after a shift. They may not come for days. They may only be shared with those who served alongside.
There will be doubts.
There almost always are.
Maybe the person's outcome could have been different if I only had...
Maybe I CouldaWouldaShoulda...
While most of our nation's First Responders have, thankfully, never had to deal with a tragedy of the magnitude of the explosions in Boston; each tragedy they are called to has the potential of being equally devastating in the lives of those they are serving. Pain, injury, loss and death are never easy; not on the loved ones who suffer alongside. Not on the innocent bystanders. And certainly not for those who answer the call to serve and protect.
Along the way; police officers, firefighters and EMT's may seem to develop a callousness. A tough outer shell that seemingly makes them impervious to the sights and sounds that sicken the rest of the world. They develop a camaraderie and a certain shared humor that helps them deal with the pain.
It's still there, though. It's why they do what they do. They have a need to help those who may be suffering their most helpless moment.
The police officers, firefighters, EMT's and medical officials who served at the race will gather in small groups in the coming days for post incident stress debriefings. It is there, in the company of the only other people who can truly understand that they will cry. And when they have finished; they will put back on their uniforms and go out to serve again.
It is to those people that I offer my heartfelt thanks. I used to be one of those people. I have laughed alongside them; and I have cried alongside them. It is perhaps my biggest regret that I no longer serve alongside them.
Let us never forget all they give for us.
Monday, April 15, 2013
The Grinch Pants
I love "How The Grinch Stole Christmas." Not the feature film. In fact, I've never seen it and have no desire to see it. I love the Dr. Seuss animated show from the 1960's with Boris Karloff narrating. I have it on DVD so can watch it whenever I want instead of being limited to when it actually airs each Christmas.
But I digress...
I was feeling a little out of it at work one day a few years ago. I left work to head to the urgent care center where they diagnosed the start of strep throat and also gave me an albuterol nebulizer to open up my lungs. They told me to go home rather than go back to work. I stopped at a Walgreen's along the way to get my prescriptions filled, but was feeling really out of it by the time I got there. Diane and Matthew met me there and one of them drove me home and the other drove the other car home. I really don't know which was which.
Once at home, Diane and Matthew helped me change into my Grinch sleep pants and my Bob Jones University long sleeved t-shirt and got me settled in on the sofa to rest. Somewhere along the way, my fever shot up and I was becoming delirious. How that could tell that I was delirious and not just my normal self is still up for debate, but they insisted I was delirious.
Diane decided that I had to be taken to the emergency room. Now I do not recall much of that afternoon, but I do recall protesting that Diane must allow me to get dressed before going out in public.
I lost that argument. It didn't help that Matthew was on her side and he is big enough and strong enough to carry me out to the car even if I'm not sick and as limp as a rag doll.
So, Diane and Matthew - mostly Matthew, I suppose - loaded me up and took me to Waukesha Memorial Hospital's Emergency Room.
In Grinch pants and a BJU t-shirt.
It doesn't matter how delirious I was; I still had the sense to be embarrassed about being taken out in Grinch pants!
Once there, they loaded me onto a wheelchair and I was taken into a room to wait for the Dr. Sore to see me.
Seriously, his name is Dr. Sore.
Of course there was the obligatory IV and blood draws, throat culture and chest X-Ray and all of the other things they automatically do. Dr. Sore evaluated the results and came to the conclusion that my throat was unimpressive. He was surprised that the strep throat was far enough along for the strep test to even register. He said my chest X-Ray showed a bit of pneumonia.
The concerning thing was that nothing he had found could be causing the symptoms I was experiencing. The culprit was revealed when the blood cultures came back. I was Septic. It was a blood infection that was wreaking havoc on my system. This was a big issue. Survival rates for patients suffering from severe sepsis drop seven percent for each untreated hour.
Obviously, I survived, which I take as proof that there still would have been time to change into respectable clothes...
Several years ago, Diane bought me some awesome sleep pants that have The Grinch and Max on them. They are awesome; within the right context.
To understand the context; you need to understand a little something of my fashion sense. It is simply this. I will not be caught dead in public in anything other than a starched, button down shirt and khakis or dress slacks. Spray starch won't do. The shirts end up too limp. I want my shirts so crisp that they would stand up on their own if I wasn't in them. The only way to get that is with a good, old-fashioned soaking in starch, wringing out and pressing.
Everyone I know scoffs at how stiff my shirts are. No one understands how comfortable a heavily starched, pressed shirt is, though. I find limp shirts to be terribly uncomfortable.
But that's just me.
Diane manually starches and presses seven shirts for me each week.
She really loves me!!!
To understand the context; you need to understand a little something of my fashion sense. It is simply this. I will not be caught dead in public in anything other than a starched, button down shirt and khakis or dress slacks. Spray starch won't do. The shirts end up too limp. I want my shirts so crisp that they would stand up on their own if I wasn't in them. The only way to get that is with a good, old-fashioned soaking in starch, wringing out and pressing.
Everyone I know scoffs at how stiff my shirts are. No one understands how comfortable a heavily starched, pressed shirt is, though. I find limp shirts to be terribly uncomfortable.
But that's just me.
Diane manually starches and presses seven shirts for me each week.
She really loves me!!!
But I digress...
I was feeling a little out of it at work one day a few years ago. I left work to head to the urgent care center where they diagnosed the start of strep throat and also gave me an albuterol nebulizer to open up my lungs. They told me to go home rather than go back to work. I stopped at a Walgreen's along the way to get my prescriptions filled, but was feeling really out of it by the time I got there. Diane and Matthew met me there and one of them drove me home and the other drove the other car home. I really don't know which was which.
Once at home, Diane and Matthew helped me change into my Grinch sleep pants and my Bob Jones University long sleeved t-shirt and got me settled in on the sofa to rest. Somewhere along the way, my fever shot up and I was becoming delirious. How that could tell that I was delirious and not just my normal self is still up for debate, but they insisted I was delirious.
Diane decided that I had to be taken to the emergency room. Now I do not recall much of that afternoon, but I do recall protesting that Diane must allow me to get dressed before going out in public.
I lost that argument. It didn't help that Matthew was on her side and he is big enough and strong enough to carry me out to the car even if I'm not sick and as limp as a rag doll.
So, Diane and Matthew - mostly Matthew, I suppose - loaded me up and took me to Waukesha Memorial Hospital's Emergency Room.
In Grinch pants and a BJU t-shirt.
It doesn't matter how delirious I was; I still had the sense to be embarrassed about being taken out in Grinch pants!
Once there, they loaded me onto a wheelchair and I was taken into a room to wait for the Dr. Sore to see me.
Seriously, his name is Dr. Sore.
Of course there was the obligatory IV and blood draws, throat culture and chest X-Ray and all of the other things they automatically do. Dr. Sore evaluated the results and came to the conclusion that my throat was unimpressive. He was surprised that the strep throat was far enough along for the strep test to even register. He said my chest X-Ray showed a bit of pneumonia.
The concerning thing was that nothing he had found could be causing the symptoms I was experiencing. The culprit was revealed when the blood cultures came back. I was Septic. It was a blood infection that was wreaking havoc on my system. This was a big issue. Survival rates for patients suffering from severe sepsis drop seven percent for each untreated hour.
Obviously, I survived, which I take as proof that there still would have been time to change into respectable clothes...
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Every Family Needs A Gert!
Every family needs a Gertrude Herwig. Technically, Gert was my great aunt; although I'm sure she would never have been caught dead being called Aunt Gertrude, or something equally "normal." No, Gert was always known to us simply as Gert.
Gert was Nana's sister and the two could not have possibly been more different. Nana was petite and always ladylike. Gert, on the other hand, fancied herself as the female version of John Wayne.
That side of our family owned some property near Leasburg, Missouri. It was always known simply as, The Farm. There was, of course, no farming done there, but it was a wonderful place with a dilapidated old house and some outbuildings. A creek ran through the property where we spent countless hours splashing, piling rocks to make small dams and catching crawdads. Going to The Farm was always a treat. The farm was dirty and had bugs and snakes and various wild critters.
Part of the fun of going to The Farm was watching Gert in all of her glory.
Upon arriving; no one was allowed to enter the dilapidated old house until Gert "cleared" it. She would get out of her car and strap on her six gun; slung low on her hip just like John Wayne wore his. Most of my memories of Gert also include a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth like James Dean.
Gert would walk up the steps to the porch, push open the front door and yell, "I'm coming in and I've got a gun!" Her vocabulary included a number of words that would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap, and she always threw one or two of those into her warning, as well. Gert would then proceed to walk through the entire house; upstairs and down, to make sure no nefarious suspects were using it as a hideout.
There never was anyone in the house, of course, but the ritual continued for years. No one entered the house until Gert gave the all clear. I always secretly hoped that I would hear her gun go off as she shot some wanted criminal who was hiding out in one of the upstairs rooms. It was more likely that she would have screamed and wet her pants if she ever actually encountered anyone, but the routine was fun.
We were free to have the run of the house and surrounding acreage once she gave the okay. Gert would pull out her lawn chair, pop open a beer and begin the process of enjoying the day at the farm.
Gert also enjoyed going camping with her kids and grandkids along the banks of the Huzzah River and Courtois Creek. We would often join them for a Saturday of playing in the water.
Gert's favorite camping activity seemed to center around her lawn chair in the river. She would wade far enough into the stream that she would be sitting in waist deep water once she planted her chair in that spot. She told me on more than one occasion that she picked that depth because she could just pee without having to move. That was probably necessary because the other part of her routine involved taking a six pack of Falstaff, pulling one beer out and putting the lawn chair leg through the now unoccupied ring in the six pack holder. That kept the beer chilled and she didn't have to go running or, more likely, call one of the kids to go running back up to the cooler for her for a while.
Gert was a widow and always kept an eye out for any "mature" gentlemen in the canoes passing by on float trips. That would get her out of her chair as she waded out to greet the canoe and offer the gentleman a Falstaff. It became part of the game for us to watch for men who met the criteria as they floated downstream toward Gert's position.
A day spent with Gert was always entertaining.
Gert died in a one car accident. The irony was that Mom and I were sitting in a diner out in either Steeleville or Cuba, I don't remember which, as an ambulance drove slowly by. Mom made the comment that the patient must already be dead since they were in no hurry. The pieces came together when we heard a few hours later that Gert had been killed in an accident. The timing was such that the ambulance we saw was quite likely the one that had been dispatched to care for Gert.
Just like that; Gert was gone. Her dog, unhurt in the accident, went to live with Debbie.
We all went to the funeral home and mourned and laughed as we recounted stories of Gert. It somehow didn't seem quite real that Gert's body lay in the casket. There was, after all, no cigarette hanging from her lips and no six pack of Falstaff to the side.
Memories were all we had left of Gert.
But what memories they are! Everyone should be able to look back on their childhood and have memories of their own Gert!
Gert was Nana's sister and the two could not have possibly been more different. Nana was petite and always ladylike. Gert, on the other hand, fancied herself as the female version of John Wayne.
That side of our family owned some property near Leasburg, Missouri. It was always known simply as, The Farm. There was, of course, no farming done there, but it was a wonderful place with a dilapidated old house and some outbuildings. A creek ran through the property where we spent countless hours splashing, piling rocks to make small dams and catching crawdads. Going to The Farm was always a treat. The farm was dirty and had bugs and snakes and various wild critters.
Part of the fun of going to The Farm was watching Gert in all of her glory.
Upon arriving; no one was allowed to enter the dilapidated old house until Gert "cleared" it. She would get out of her car and strap on her six gun; slung low on her hip just like John Wayne wore his. Most of my memories of Gert also include a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth like James Dean.
Gert would walk up the steps to the porch, push open the front door and yell, "I'm coming in and I've got a gun!" Her vocabulary included a number of words that would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap, and she always threw one or two of those into her warning, as well. Gert would then proceed to walk through the entire house; upstairs and down, to make sure no nefarious suspects were using it as a hideout.
There never was anyone in the house, of course, but the ritual continued for years. No one entered the house until Gert gave the all clear. I always secretly hoped that I would hear her gun go off as she shot some wanted criminal who was hiding out in one of the upstairs rooms. It was more likely that she would have screamed and wet her pants if she ever actually encountered anyone, but the routine was fun.
We were free to have the run of the house and surrounding acreage once she gave the okay. Gert would pull out her lawn chair, pop open a beer and begin the process of enjoying the day at the farm.
Gert also enjoyed going camping with her kids and grandkids along the banks of the Huzzah River and Courtois Creek. We would often join them for a Saturday of playing in the water.
Gert's favorite camping activity seemed to center around her lawn chair in the river. She would wade far enough into the stream that she would be sitting in waist deep water once she planted her chair in that spot. She told me on more than one occasion that she picked that depth because she could just pee without having to move. That was probably necessary because the other part of her routine involved taking a six pack of Falstaff, pulling one beer out and putting the lawn chair leg through the now unoccupied ring in the six pack holder. That kept the beer chilled and she didn't have to go running or, more likely, call one of the kids to go running back up to the cooler for her for a while.
Gert was a widow and always kept an eye out for any "mature" gentlemen in the canoes passing by on float trips. That would get her out of her chair as she waded out to greet the canoe and offer the gentleman a Falstaff. It became part of the game for us to watch for men who met the criteria as they floated downstream toward Gert's position.
A day spent with Gert was always entertaining.
Gert died in a one car accident. The irony was that Mom and I were sitting in a diner out in either Steeleville or Cuba, I don't remember which, as an ambulance drove slowly by. Mom made the comment that the patient must already be dead since they were in no hurry. The pieces came together when we heard a few hours later that Gert had been killed in an accident. The timing was such that the ambulance we saw was quite likely the one that had been dispatched to care for Gert.
Just like that; Gert was gone. Her dog, unhurt in the accident, went to live with Debbie.
We all went to the funeral home and mourned and laughed as we recounted stories of Gert. It somehow didn't seem quite real that Gert's body lay in the casket. There was, after all, no cigarette hanging from her lips and no six pack of Falstaff to the side.
Memories were all we had left of Gert.
But what memories they are! Everyone should be able to look back on their childhood and have memories of their own Gert!
Friday, April 12, 2013
Only One Man
Joseph is getting involved with Junior Achievement as a representative of the bank where he works. Junior Achievement, at least the way he is involved, is very different than when I was in school. He is working with a third grade classroom.
I was involved in Junior Achievement during high school. At that time, it was a group of teens from various schools who met one night per week at the Junior Achievement Center to run micro businesses that we created ourselves. Executives from area companies volunteered one evening each week to be our advisers. It was a very unique environment for that time because everyone was treated like business professionals and operated on a first-name basis. I called these important executives by their first names and they called me Scott; which was convenient since that is my first name, of course.
My company designed, built and sold desk thermometers one year. While I barely recall the product; I have one memory from my time in Junior Achievement that I have never been able to shake. Our executive advisers were from Monsanto that year. I had been named Treasurer of our company, so each work night I would gather in a conference room with the treasurers of each of the other Junior Achievement businesses meeting that night. We had several key men from the accounting department at Monsanto helping us understand how to budget, monitor expenses and do all of the necessary data entry to manage and analyze the finances for our businesses.
We didn't have computers, or even calculators. We manually entered everything on columnar paper and did all of the analysis the old fashioned way; with paper and pencil. There were several adding machines available for the treasurers to share as we did our work. This particular memory revolves around one night when I had to deal with several columns of figures and all of the adding machines were in use.
I ran my pencil down the side of the column as I mentally added the numbers; writing the total at the bottom. The Monsanto accountant was shocked that I did it that way and insisted that I verify the numbers with the adding machine. He was even more shocked when the adding machine tape matched the total I had calculated in my head. He questioned me about how I was able to add five digit columns so quickly and accurately.
I explained to him that I had a system where I actually worked in blocks of tens, hundreds and thousands while separately keeping track of the drift up and down caused by the numbers that did not add up to even tens, hundreds or thousands. The system works equally well for addition, subtraction and multiplication. Division requires a few adjustments.
He was shocked and he and another of the Monsanto accountants proceeded to question me about my system and its accuracy. As we wrapped up the discussion, the lead accountant turned to the other accountant and said, "I have only ever known one other person who could do that. He was Park Lockwood's right hand man over at Banquet Foods. He died a few years ago."
Although he never mentioned a name I knew he was talking about my Dad!!!
I can still remember the look on his face when I said, "Elmer Brader was my father."
He went on to share several memories of Dad. We laughed together and we mourned together that night. When it was all said and done that evening; he put his arm around me and said, "Scott, your Dad would be so proud of you."
Now I don't remember whether Dad taught me that addition technique or if I somehow just inherited that ability from him (math abilities certainly did not come from Mom - who couldn't add single digit numbers without a calculator), but I still remember how proud I was of being compared to Dad.
Joseph has that same gift today. I'm quite certain I never taught him to do addition that way; he just does it. Each time I see him do that, I am reminded of that day nearly forty years ago.
Even when thinking back to that night today; the real thrill of his comments was not that he praised me for being able to do something; but that he remembered Dad and said I would have made him proud.
I was involved in Junior Achievement during high school. At that time, it was a group of teens from various schools who met one night per week at the Junior Achievement Center to run micro businesses that we created ourselves. Executives from area companies volunteered one evening each week to be our advisers. It was a very unique environment for that time because everyone was treated like business professionals and operated on a first-name basis. I called these important executives by their first names and they called me Scott; which was convenient since that is my first name, of course.
My company designed, built and sold desk thermometers one year. While I barely recall the product; I have one memory from my time in Junior Achievement that I have never been able to shake. Our executive advisers were from Monsanto that year. I had been named Treasurer of our company, so each work night I would gather in a conference room with the treasurers of each of the other Junior Achievement businesses meeting that night. We had several key men from the accounting department at Monsanto helping us understand how to budget, monitor expenses and do all of the necessary data entry to manage and analyze the finances for our businesses.
We didn't have computers, or even calculators. We manually entered everything on columnar paper and did all of the analysis the old fashioned way; with paper and pencil. There were several adding machines available for the treasurers to share as we did our work. This particular memory revolves around one night when I had to deal with several columns of figures and all of the adding machines were in use.
I ran my pencil down the side of the column as I mentally added the numbers; writing the total at the bottom. The Monsanto accountant was shocked that I did it that way and insisted that I verify the numbers with the adding machine. He was even more shocked when the adding machine tape matched the total I had calculated in my head. He questioned me about how I was able to add five digit columns so quickly and accurately.
I explained to him that I had a system where I actually worked in blocks of tens, hundreds and thousands while separately keeping track of the drift up and down caused by the numbers that did not add up to even tens, hundreds or thousands. The system works equally well for addition, subtraction and multiplication. Division requires a few adjustments.
He was shocked and he and another of the Monsanto accountants proceeded to question me about my system and its accuracy. As we wrapped up the discussion, the lead accountant turned to the other accountant and said, "I have only ever known one other person who could do that. He was Park Lockwood's right hand man over at Banquet Foods. He died a few years ago."
Although he never mentioned a name I knew he was talking about my Dad!!!
I can still remember the look on his face when I said, "Elmer Brader was my father."
He went on to share several memories of Dad. We laughed together and we mourned together that night. When it was all said and done that evening; he put his arm around me and said, "Scott, your Dad would be so proud of you."
Now I don't remember whether Dad taught me that addition technique or if I somehow just inherited that ability from him (math abilities certainly did not come from Mom - who couldn't add single digit numbers without a calculator), but I still remember how proud I was of being compared to Dad.
Joseph has that same gift today. I'm quite certain I never taught him to do addition that way; he just does it. Each time I see him do that, I am reminded of that day nearly forty years ago.
Even when thinking back to that night today; the real thrill of his comments was not that he praised me for being able to do something; but that he remembered Dad and said I would have made him proud.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
The hardest job...
Today I want to reflect on the hardest working people in the world. The ones who work even when they're sick. The ones who work seven days a week. The ones who selflessly pour their lives into the lives of other people.
That is, of course, a Mom.
Now I know there are plenty of Dads out there who provide the daily care for their child, but that's still somehow different than being a Mom. While Dads labor in child rearing, Moms labored in childbirth and somehow always maintain a special connection to the one who grew inside her.
It breaks our hearts to hear a Mom talk of her child that died before she ever got to hold it or hear its cry or of a child that has gone astray. That bond that forms in the womb can never be broken.
I don't care if you're ridiculously wealthy or dirt poor; being a Mom is hard work. It's a 24/7 job; wrought with emotion even long after the child has grown and gone.
A Mom nurtures young minds; answering the same questions over and over. A Mom's special bond allows her to empathize with her child in any circumstance.
Yes, being a Mom is hard work.
I remember the days of Diane pushing Joseph's stroller around the block; talking to him about all of the things they saw and heard. Joseph would call out, "Dis," as he pointed at whatever caught his fancy at the moment; anxious for Mom to tell him the name of what he pointed at or explain what he was seeing.
"Dis...Dis...Dis," became the constant mantra as they walked. Diane patiently named and explained everything he pointed to; seeing every "Dis" as an opportunity to expand his world and remind him how special he was to her.
So now; as we prepare for Matthew's college graduation, I have been reflecting on just what a hard job Diane had for all those years. She homeschooled the boys throughout their elementary, junior high and high school years. She cared for their every need; all the while caring for mine, as well.
Yes, Moms certainly have the hardest job in the world. It can be the most rewarding and the most painful; sometimes both at the same time.
The job becomes even more difficult when a Mom is called upon to mother her own Mom. Diane's Mom celebrates her 90th birthday today. That's a milestone very few reach. The hard realities of turning 90 include the fact that she can no longer do everything she used to do for herself.
Lola has lived with us for over thirteen years. That's an awfully long time for a man to have to live with his mother-in-law. It's a long time for an adult daughter to live with her mother, too. Even though Lola (not her real name, but the one I have called her for over a quarter century) is still fairly independent considering her age; she still relies on Diane to get her to the store, the doctor, the dentist, etc.; and Diane patiently waits as she takes longer and longer to get ready with each passing week . Diane also makes sure she takes the correct meds at the correct time each day and generally performs many of the monitoring tasks that one expects of the Mom.
So, today - even though it isn't Mother's Day - I am moved to reflect on just what a special calling it is to be a Mom. Particularly the very special Mom I have the joy of living with each day; the one who takes care of me, our sons and her own mother.
There can certainly be no job harder than being Mom and I am blessed to have spent the past 25 years with the best.
That is, of course, a Mom.
Now I know there are plenty of Dads out there who provide the daily care for their child, but that's still somehow different than being a Mom. While Dads labor in child rearing, Moms labored in childbirth and somehow always maintain a special connection to the one who grew inside her.
It breaks our hearts to hear a Mom talk of her child that died before she ever got to hold it or hear its cry or of a child that has gone astray. That bond that forms in the womb can never be broken.
I don't care if you're ridiculously wealthy or dirt poor; being a Mom is hard work. It's a 24/7 job; wrought with emotion even long after the child has grown and gone.
A Mom nurtures young minds; answering the same questions over and over. A Mom's special bond allows her to empathize with her child in any circumstance.
Yes, being a Mom is hard work.
I remember the days of Diane pushing Joseph's stroller around the block; talking to him about all of the things they saw and heard. Joseph would call out, "Dis," as he pointed at whatever caught his fancy at the moment; anxious for Mom to tell him the name of what he pointed at or explain what he was seeing.
"Dis...Dis...Dis," became the constant mantra as they walked. Diane patiently named and explained everything he pointed to; seeing every "Dis" as an opportunity to expand his world and remind him how special he was to her.
So now; as we prepare for Matthew's college graduation, I have been reflecting on just what a hard job Diane had for all those years. She homeschooled the boys throughout their elementary, junior high and high school years. She cared for their every need; all the while caring for mine, as well.
Yes, Moms certainly have the hardest job in the world. It can be the most rewarding and the most painful; sometimes both at the same time.
The job becomes even more difficult when a Mom is called upon to mother her own Mom. Diane's Mom celebrates her 90th birthday today. That's a milestone very few reach. The hard realities of turning 90 include the fact that she can no longer do everything she used to do for herself.
Lola has lived with us for over thirteen years. That's an awfully long time for a man to have to live with his mother-in-law. It's a long time for an adult daughter to live with her mother, too. Even though Lola (not her real name, but the one I have called her for over a quarter century) is still fairly independent considering her age; she still relies on Diane to get her to the store, the doctor, the dentist, etc.; and Diane patiently waits as she takes longer and longer to get ready with each passing week . Diane also makes sure she takes the correct meds at the correct time each day and generally performs many of the monitoring tasks that one expects of the Mom.
So, today - even though it isn't Mother's Day - I am moved to reflect on just what a special calling it is to be a Mom. Particularly the very special Mom I have the joy of living with each day; the one who takes care of me, our sons and her own mother.
There can certainly be no job harder than being Mom and I am blessed to have spent the past 25 years with the best.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Simplicity wants to take you for a spin...
At some point in my college years I overcame what most normal people would call a healthy fear of heights. I actually even worked for a tower maintenance company one year in Cape Girardeau. We went up TV towers at any time of the day or night in any weather to handle testing, maintenance and installation issues. My first "climb" was up the 1,776 foot KFVS tower just North of town. We were to install a dummy load on the antenna for testing purposes. That could only be done between the hours of Midnight and 6:00 AM at that time. We rode an elevator up the first 1,500 feet and climbed the rest. Actually, we rode on top of the elevator with all of our equipment loaded inside the elevator. It really wasn't a big deal.
Lower elevations became a cakewalk. About a year, or so, after graduation I was working at Video Wisconsin. I was the one who always ended up in the light grid doing whatever work was required. It wasn't a big deal. For Ralph, on the other hand, the thought of being more than two steps up on a stepladder was daunting. Imagine my delight when we had a shoot that would require Ralph to be above the light grid shooting straight down at the ground below.
Let me give you just a bit of background on this incident. It was the middle to latter part of the 1980's. Zero turn radius mowers were just becoming available to the consumer market and Simplicity was releasing their first consumer zero turn model. The ad agency came up with a brilliant commercial that would be shot from directly overhead with the mower driving into the shot, doing a 360 degree turn directly under the camera lens and continuing straight off the shot in perfect alignment with how it came in as the announcer said, "Simplicity wants to take you for a spin." It would take a lot of work (and a lot of takes) to get the perfect shot.
The real task, though, was figuring out a way to get the camera, Ralph and the client above the grid to get the shot. Two people along with a full 35 millimeter film rig weigh a lot. We had to come up with a safe and secure platform. We also had to come up with a way to get Ralph up to it.
I was tasked with designing and building the platform for the shoot. That, in and of itself, was not a difficult task. Making it so Ralph would actually go up on it was a gargantuan task. Trying to shoot a commercial without your director/cinematographer near the camera is impossible. We had to come up with a way to get Ralph up there.
So I designed and built the platform. Let me rephrase that; I seriously over-designed and overbuilt the platform above the light grid. We didn't have a man lift so I set ladders up around the final platform position in the grid and carried up all of the lumber, hardware and tools to assemble the deck. We could have put two elephants up there along with the camera equipment.
It was a thing of beauty - a solid platform that would likely withstand a direct hit from an aircraft. A hole was positioned in the middle for the lens to shoot downward so Ralph would not have to be near an edge. A safe and secure spot for even the worst altitude wimp.
On the day of the shoot, we carefully brought the camera and all of the other gear needed to the platform. Everything would have to be in place before bringing Ralph up. The basic idea was to get him up there and down from there as quickly as possible.
We encouraged Ralph like a toddler taking his first steps as he ascended the ladder. Somehow, although his brain understood the safety of the situation and he recognized that a quick ascent would get him to the safety of the platform faster, it seemed like an hour as Ralph forced himself higher with every step.
He eventually made it up to the platform and looked through the lens. He was better then. Apparently, looking through the lens to the floor below is somehow totally different than just looking through the hole when you're a cinematographer.
We tweaked the lighting and got ready to shoot.
When it came time to shoot, I had to change clothes because the client had decided that my thick head of dark hair was what they wanted to see on camera so I would have to drive the mower for the shot. We taped a big X on the wall to mark my target line. I was not to move my head at all, so I had to watch the X as I drove into the shot, hit the turn at another tape mark off camera, pick up the X on the wall in my peripheral vision as the mower spun on itself and come out of the turn on the same line.
As you can imagine; this was not going to be a one take shot. I struggled with the knowledge that ultimately it was my ability to drive the mower that was going to determined how long Ralph was up there. We needed a print and a safety; so everything had to be perfect - twice.
We eventually got two versions that made both Ralph and the client happy. Throughout the "ordeal" Ralph never came down.
Not to eat lunch.
Not to use the restroom.
Not to take a break.
One would think that the joy of heading back toward Terra Firma would have elated Ralph when we finally wrapped up the shoot. Ralph had an even bigger issue with coming down from the platform than he had going up.
Jokes about letting gravity help him reach the floor were not well received.
That only encouraged us to tease him even more.
I'm pretty sure he would have fired me for the two hundredth time that day had he not needed me to make sure all of the camera gear made it safely back to the ground once we got him to the floor.
I enjoyed watching the commercial when it finally aired; even knowing that no one other than those of us on the shoot would ever know that I was the driver. Most of the shoots I worked on have long been forgotten. A few stay with me even today. Every time I see a zero turn mower I still think back to that day when I took a Simplicity for a spin.
Lower elevations became a cakewalk. About a year, or so, after graduation I was working at Video Wisconsin. I was the one who always ended up in the light grid doing whatever work was required. It wasn't a big deal. For Ralph, on the other hand, the thought of being more than two steps up on a stepladder was daunting. Imagine my delight when we had a shoot that would require Ralph to be above the light grid shooting straight down at the ground below.
Let me give you just a bit of background on this incident. It was the middle to latter part of the 1980's. Zero turn radius mowers were just becoming available to the consumer market and Simplicity was releasing their first consumer zero turn model. The ad agency came up with a brilliant commercial that would be shot from directly overhead with the mower driving into the shot, doing a 360 degree turn directly under the camera lens and continuing straight off the shot in perfect alignment with how it came in as the announcer said, "Simplicity wants to take you for a spin." It would take a lot of work (and a lot of takes) to get the perfect shot.
The real task, though, was figuring out a way to get the camera, Ralph and the client above the grid to get the shot. Two people along with a full 35 millimeter film rig weigh a lot. We had to come up with a safe and secure platform. We also had to come up with a way to get Ralph up to it.
I was tasked with designing and building the platform for the shoot. That, in and of itself, was not a difficult task. Making it so Ralph would actually go up on it was a gargantuan task. Trying to shoot a commercial without your director/cinematographer near the camera is impossible. We had to come up with a way to get Ralph up there.
So I designed and built the platform. Let me rephrase that; I seriously over-designed and overbuilt the platform above the light grid. We didn't have a man lift so I set ladders up around the final platform position in the grid and carried up all of the lumber, hardware and tools to assemble the deck. We could have put two elephants up there along with the camera equipment.
It was a thing of beauty - a solid platform that would likely withstand a direct hit from an aircraft. A hole was positioned in the middle for the lens to shoot downward so Ralph would not have to be near an edge. A safe and secure spot for even the worst altitude wimp.
On the day of the shoot, we carefully brought the camera and all of the other gear needed to the platform. Everything would have to be in place before bringing Ralph up. The basic idea was to get him up there and down from there as quickly as possible.
We encouraged Ralph like a toddler taking his first steps as he ascended the ladder. Somehow, although his brain understood the safety of the situation and he recognized that a quick ascent would get him to the safety of the platform faster, it seemed like an hour as Ralph forced himself higher with every step.
He eventually made it up to the platform and looked through the lens. He was better then. Apparently, looking through the lens to the floor below is somehow totally different than just looking through the hole when you're a cinematographer.
We tweaked the lighting and got ready to shoot.
When it came time to shoot, I had to change clothes because the client had decided that my thick head of dark hair was what they wanted to see on camera so I would have to drive the mower for the shot. We taped a big X on the wall to mark my target line. I was not to move my head at all, so I had to watch the X as I drove into the shot, hit the turn at another tape mark off camera, pick up the X on the wall in my peripheral vision as the mower spun on itself and come out of the turn on the same line.
As you can imagine; this was not going to be a one take shot. I struggled with the knowledge that ultimately it was my ability to drive the mower that was going to determined how long Ralph was up there. We needed a print and a safety; so everything had to be perfect - twice.
We eventually got two versions that made both Ralph and the client happy. Throughout the "ordeal" Ralph never came down.
Not to eat lunch.
Not to use the restroom.
Not to take a break.
One would think that the joy of heading back toward Terra Firma would have elated Ralph when we finally wrapped up the shoot. Ralph had an even bigger issue with coming down from the platform than he had going up.
Jokes about letting gravity help him reach the floor were not well received.
That only encouraged us to tease him even more.
I'm pretty sure he would have fired me for the two hundredth time that day had he not needed me to make sure all of the camera gear made it safely back to the ground once we got him to the floor.
I enjoyed watching the commercial when it finally aired; even knowing that no one other than those of us on the shoot would ever know that I was the driver. Most of the shoots I worked on have long been forgotten. A few stay with me even today. Every time I see a zero turn mower I still think back to that day when I took a Simplicity for a spin.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
How NOT to start off a marriage...
Diane and I were married less than a week before Christmas and planned a wonderfully romantic honeymoon at a bed and breakfast in Vermont. We were set to fly out of Milwaukee the next morning; a Sunday.
This was, of course, long before the days of the TSA, so family and friends met us at the airport to send us off and wish us well. We were filled with excitement as we boarded the plane; first for a short hop to Chicago then off to Burlington.
It was the perfect start to a perfect honeymoon!
Almost...
Diane and I had never flown together before. We had both flown before; just not ever as a couple. I had gone through a period in my life when I flew a lot. Way too much, in fact. The excitement of flying had long ago worn off and was, by that time, merely a drudgery to be endured to get to a destination. Diane, on the other hand, had not flown nearly as much and was a bit more timid about the prospect of being locked into a metal tube hurling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour.
The first leg of our flight was made even worse by the fact that we were in a small turboprop. A puddle jumper. It was certainly a sufficient aircraft for a flight lasting, from wheels up to wheels down, about ten minutes. We strapped into our seats; ready to begin our journey.
I, being the oh-so-observant husband, glanced over at my beautiful bride as we taxied toward the runway; only to see her with a white knuckle death grip on the seat arms.
Now keep in mind that we had been married for a grand total of maybe twenty hours by this time. So I did what every new husband would do; I questioned her.
"What's the matter, honey?"
Diane's response of, "I just don't know how these things stay in the air," while contextually accurate, was probably not the way to phrase it to her geeky new husband. So I did what every geeky new husband would do. (Notice, I didn't say I did what every new husband would do; only the geeky ones.)
Did I throw my arm around her and reassure her that everything was fine?
No!
Did I offer gentle words to allay her fears?
Of course not!
I reached into my pocket to retrieve my ever-present pen (one should never be without a mechanical pen and pencil in their pocket, you know) so I could explain to her - in scientific detail - the physics behind how an aircraft stays in the air. I carefully drew an airfoil and began the explanation of how Bernoulli's Principle applies to flight; drawing individual air molecules passing above and below the wing. I explained how the shape of the airfoil generates lift and, when enough air is moving fast enough over the airfoil, the lift overcomes gravity and the plane is, basically, sucked into the air; supported by a cushion of air under the wing.
I assumed that this scientific explanation of the physics of flight would completely reassure her.
I assumed that this scientific explanation would give her great comfort.
I was well into my reassuring explanation when I happened to glance over at my lovely bride and came to the realization that she really didn't care how the plane stayed in the air - despite the fact that that is exactly what she had indicated to me - she just wanted some comfort from her man.
It was probably at that moment that I realized that I would never in a million years understand women. I'm sure it was also at that exact moment that Diane realized exactly what kind of geek she had married.
After twenty-five years of wedded bliss; I'm no closer to understanding women and Diane's still married to no less of a geek.
This was, of course, long before the days of the TSA, so family and friends met us at the airport to send us off and wish us well. We were filled with excitement as we boarded the plane; first for a short hop to Chicago then off to Burlington.
It was the perfect start to a perfect honeymoon!
Almost...
Diane and I had never flown together before. We had both flown before; just not ever as a couple. I had gone through a period in my life when I flew a lot. Way too much, in fact. The excitement of flying had long ago worn off and was, by that time, merely a drudgery to be endured to get to a destination. Diane, on the other hand, had not flown nearly as much and was a bit more timid about the prospect of being locked into a metal tube hurling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour.
The first leg of our flight was made even worse by the fact that we were in a small turboprop. A puddle jumper. It was certainly a sufficient aircraft for a flight lasting, from wheels up to wheels down, about ten minutes. We strapped into our seats; ready to begin our journey.
I, being the oh-so-observant husband, glanced over at my beautiful bride as we taxied toward the runway; only to see her with a white knuckle death grip on the seat arms.
Now keep in mind that we had been married for a grand total of maybe twenty hours by this time. So I did what every new husband would do; I questioned her.
"What's the matter, honey?"
Diane's response of, "I just don't know how these things stay in the air," while contextually accurate, was probably not the way to phrase it to her geeky new husband. So I did what every geeky new husband would do. (Notice, I didn't say I did what every new husband would do; only the geeky ones.)
Did I throw my arm around her and reassure her that everything was fine?
No!
Did I offer gentle words to allay her fears?
Of course not!
I reached into my pocket to retrieve my ever-present pen (one should never be without a mechanical pen and pencil in their pocket, you know) so I could explain to her - in scientific detail - the physics behind how an aircraft stays in the air. I carefully drew an airfoil and began the explanation of how Bernoulli's Principle applies to flight; drawing individual air molecules passing above and below the wing. I explained how the shape of the airfoil generates lift and, when enough air is moving fast enough over the airfoil, the lift overcomes gravity and the plane is, basically, sucked into the air; supported by a cushion of air under the wing.
I assumed that this scientific explanation of the physics of flight would completely reassure her.
I assumed that this scientific explanation would give her great comfort.
I was well into my reassuring explanation when I happened to glance over at my lovely bride and came to the realization that she really didn't care how the plane stayed in the air - despite the fact that that is exactly what she had indicated to me - she just wanted some comfort from her man.
It was probably at that moment that I realized that I would never in a million years understand women. I'm sure it was also at that exact moment that Diane realized exactly what kind of geek she had married.
After twenty-five years of wedded bliss; I'm no closer to understanding women and Diane's still married to no less of a geek.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Happy Birthday To Me!!!
Not everyone becomes a parent and gets to celebrate Mother's Day or Father's Day, but everyone has a birthday roll around once each year. Kids can't wait for their birthday. It means parties and presents and a lot of attention focused on them. Birthdays grow less important over the years, but most people still secretly look forward to that day at least a little bit.
Birthdays are that one day each year when people pretend like we're important. We get phone calls and still normally get a present, or two. In many families, ours included, the birthday boy or girl gets to pick the meal for the day and maybe even choose the day's activities. Sometimes the celebrations become predictable; we pretty much always go to Marty's Pizza to celebrate Joseph's birthday and Emperor's Kitchen to celebrate Matthew's.
In 2006, Diane shocked me by saying she wanted the family to head to Minneapolis and go to Mall of America to celebrate her birthday. I was shocked because Diane is normally about the only person on Earth who hates shopping malls as much as I do. The boys were also very excited about seeing this massive temple of excess, so we planned the trip.
Diane's birthday fell on a Friday so I took the day off work and we planned a long weekend visit to Minneapolis. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal, but it became one since Diane's birthday falls just one day before mine. Well, technically, Diane's birth day was four years and one day before mine so for one day each year I can tease her that she robbed the cradle by marrying someone five years younger than her.
(Actually, Diane's Dad told me he was convinced that she had set standards for a guy that no human could ever meet. I'm not claiming that I finally met her standard of perfection, mind you; merely that she suddenly realized that her biological clock was ticking and she'd better hook onto the next guy who showed any interest and I was the lucky guy!)
But I digress...
There was really no way we could celebrate Diane's birthday with a trip to the Mall of America without it somehow also involving my birthday. So we planned our trip so that we would head up to Minneapolis on Diane's birthday, spend the day Saturday (my birthday) at the mall and return home Sunday.
What joy!!!! I would get to spend my birthday wandering around what was either the largest, or second largest shopping mall in the United States - depending upon whether you were judging based on number of stores or square footage. The day that was supposed to be all about Dad; doing the things Dad wanted to do and eating the food Dad wanted to eat had suddenly become an excursion into a mobbed shopping mall with the boys heading off on their own and Diane and I navigating over four million square feet of shopping opportunities. Our family became four of the forty million visitors the Mall of America claims to attract each year. I'm pretty sure at least five or six million of those forty million visitors happened to choose the same day to visit the mall as we had.
Please allow me to give you a bit if advice if you are thinking of a visit to the Mall of America...
DON'T DO IT - ESPECIALLY ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!!!
The entire complex has over five hundred stores and not a single one of those stores had the words Cabela's, Bass Pro Shops or Gander Mountain on the front. There was not a single Farm and Fleet or Menard's, either. The mall had virtually nothing that would make it worth spending your birthday in the place.
Diane and the boys found a couple of gifts for me, though. Diane found a nice St. Louis Blues tie at the Ralph Marlin store and the boys borrowed some money (never repaid, if I recall) to buy a St. Louis Blues mug for my birthday.
Diane and the boys enjoyed our visit to the mall immensely. They celebrated my birthday by selecting what we did, where we went, what we ate. Yep, it was pretty much a standard Dad's birthday celebration.
Now before you get the wrong idea; I did not enjoy the Mall of America. I hate shopping and I hate crowds. I'm not sure which I hate more, but with Mall of America, I didn't have to choose. I got both at the same time!
Our day at the Mall of America did provide one bright spot, though; it allowed me to completely ignore my birthday. I'm not one of those people who looks forward to my birthday and it has nothing to do with some false sense of pride in "staying young." I dread my birthday coming around each year. The last birthday I actually remember enjoying was my twelfth.
I was born on my Dad's twenty-seventh birthday. It was so cool to share Dad's birthday - especially since I was the only son of an only son. It was unique. It was one more thing that made our relationship special. My birthday celebrations died with Dad a couple of months before "our" birthday when I turned thirteen. Birthdays merely became a reminder each year of a life cut short; a relationship ended. I no longer mourn on my birthday, but I really prefer to ignore it and let it be like any other day.
Unfortunately, Diane and the boys still want to make a big deal out of my birthday, too. I tried for years to get them to just ignore it, but they can't bring themselves to do it. At least that year, I got to forget about it for the day. At least that year, no one was focused on "making my birthday memorable."
Unfortunately, it's probably the most memorable birthday I've had in decades - but for all the right reasons.
Birthdays are that one day each year when people pretend like we're important. We get phone calls and still normally get a present, or two. In many families, ours included, the birthday boy or girl gets to pick the meal for the day and maybe even choose the day's activities. Sometimes the celebrations become predictable; we pretty much always go to Marty's Pizza to celebrate Joseph's birthday and Emperor's Kitchen to celebrate Matthew's.
In 2006, Diane shocked me by saying she wanted the family to head to Minneapolis and go to Mall of America to celebrate her birthday. I was shocked because Diane is normally about the only person on Earth who hates shopping malls as much as I do. The boys were also very excited about seeing this massive temple of excess, so we planned the trip.
Diane's birthday fell on a Friday so I took the day off work and we planned a long weekend visit to Minneapolis. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal, but it became one since Diane's birthday falls just one day before mine. Well, technically, Diane's birth day was four years and one day before mine so for one day each year I can tease her that she robbed the cradle by marrying someone five years younger than her.
(Actually, Diane's Dad told me he was convinced that she had set standards for a guy that no human could ever meet. I'm not claiming that I finally met her standard of perfection, mind you; merely that she suddenly realized that her biological clock was ticking and she'd better hook onto the next guy who showed any interest and I was the lucky guy!)
But I digress...
There was really no way we could celebrate Diane's birthday with a trip to the Mall of America without it somehow also involving my birthday. So we planned our trip so that we would head up to Minneapolis on Diane's birthday, spend the day Saturday (my birthday) at the mall and return home Sunday.
What joy!!!! I would get to spend my birthday wandering around what was either the largest, or second largest shopping mall in the United States - depending upon whether you were judging based on number of stores or square footage. The day that was supposed to be all about Dad; doing the things Dad wanted to do and eating the food Dad wanted to eat had suddenly become an excursion into a mobbed shopping mall with the boys heading off on their own and Diane and I navigating over four million square feet of shopping opportunities. Our family became four of the forty million visitors the Mall of America claims to attract each year. I'm pretty sure at least five or six million of those forty million visitors happened to choose the same day to visit the mall as we had.
Please allow me to give you a bit if advice if you are thinking of a visit to the Mall of America...
DON'T DO IT - ESPECIALLY ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!!!
The entire complex has over five hundred stores and not a single one of those stores had the words Cabela's, Bass Pro Shops or Gander Mountain on the front. There was not a single Farm and Fleet or Menard's, either. The mall had virtually nothing that would make it worth spending your birthday in the place.
Diane and the boys found a couple of gifts for me, though. Diane found a nice St. Louis Blues tie at the Ralph Marlin store and the boys borrowed some money (never repaid, if I recall) to buy a St. Louis Blues mug for my birthday.
Diane and the boys enjoyed our visit to the mall immensely. They celebrated my birthday by selecting what we did, where we went, what we ate. Yep, it was pretty much a standard Dad's birthday celebration.
Now before you get the wrong idea; I did not enjoy the Mall of America. I hate shopping and I hate crowds. I'm not sure which I hate more, but with Mall of America, I didn't have to choose. I got both at the same time!
Our day at the Mall of America did provide one bright spot, though; it allowed me to completely ignore my birthday. I'm not one of those people who looks forward to my birthday and it has nothing to do with some false sense of pride in "staying young." I dread my birthday coming around each year. The last birthday I actually remember enjoying was my twelfth.
I was born on my Dad's twenty-seventh birthday. It was so cool to share Dad's birthday - especially since I was the only son of an only son. It was unique. It was one more thing that made our relationship special. My birthday celebrations died with Dad a couple of months before "our" birthday when I turned thirteen. Birthdays merely became a reminder each year of a life cut short; a relationship ended. I no longer mourn on my birthday, but I really prefer to ignore it and let it be like any other day.
Unfortunately, Diane and the boys still want to make a big deal out of my birthday, too. I tried for years to get them to just ignore it, but they can't bring themselves to do it. At least that year, I got to forget about it for the day. At least that year, no one was focused on "making my birthday memorable."
Unfortunately, it's probably the most memorable birthday I've had in decades - but for all the right reasons.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
The Letter Of The Law
Over the years, Mom repeatedly told me that I had missed my calling. I'm pretty sure she was convinced that I should have become a lawyer. No offense to my lawyer friends, but I just don't see it. You know what they say you need when you find a lawyer buried to his neck in sand; don't you?
More sand!
Anyway, I'm pretty sure Mom's comments were based on my ability to carefully examine The Letter Of The Law and discover any possible loophole that was favorable to me while conveniently ignoring any loopholes that would have been favorable to her. Perhaps nothing illustrates that better than the go kart incident.
It happened during the summer of 1975. I was thirteen and, since Dad had died, I was stuck living in a house full of women. One of those women was, of course my Mom. The others were her spies. Mom really didn't understand teenage boys since she had been an only child. I'm pretty sure she spent her days at work thinking up imaginative new ways to curtail my fun; knowing full well that Kim and Beth would happily tattle on any violations.
I spent my days finding loopholes in her oppressive policies and discovering new ways to hide my deeds from the spies. Overall, it normally worked out just fine.
To get back to the point; Ron and I had go karts. Not the fancy, powered go karts you see advertised in magazines. No, ours were crudely made out of wood and wheels and powered only by gravity. They also lacked any form of braking mechanism. Who needed brakes? The idea was to lie on your belly on the go kart and navigate from the start at the top of the hill to the finish line at the bottom of the hill; and be the first one to get there. Brakes would merely slow you down and that simply was not acceptable.
All of the locals knew that the neighborhood boys would be zooming down the streets on go karts. We watched out for them and only started down the street when there were no cars coming; and they watched out for us and waited patiently for us to finish our run before pulling onto the street. Even the local police knew we were there and, while they would periodically stop to remind us to watch for traffic, they typically would watch us zoom by with a smile and a wave.
Safety gear was, of course, nonexistent. We were the generation that survived go karting down residential streets and jumping off of roofs into snow or leaf piles and riding bikes without helmets and riding in cars that didn't even have seat belts. Who needed safety gear?
As the Fourth of July weekend approached, Mom - who was a perpetual worrier about all activities typically undertaken by teenage boys - was adamant that I could not ride my go kart over the holiday weekend because there would be far too many drivers around who didn't know to watch out for us.
Now the actual verbiage of her dictatorial edict was, "Scott, you are not to ride your go kart over the holiday weekend." The key word in that sentence was the word, "your." She specifically told me that I could not ride my go kart. At no time did she ever say that I could not ride any go kart; nor did she specify that I could not ride Ron's go kart. When analyzed according to the Letter Of The Law, one could make the argument that her ruling only carried weight as far as me riding my go kart.
So I did what every red-blooded thirteen year old boy trapped in a house full of women would do; I traded go karts with Ron for the weekend. It was a beautiful, sunny weekend and we certainly couldn't waste such a great racing weekend merely because of one little dictatorial edict; especially one that came with a loophole big enough to drive a go kart through!!!
Ron's street had a rather steep section leading into a sweeping ninety-degree left-hand turn before leveling out just before reaching his house. It was go karting heaven! Unlike the long, straight hills; this one took skill and guts. Whoever was willing to hold out the longest before diving into the turn would certainly win the race. You could feel the G-Forces on your body when running down Ron's street.
We ran race after race on the holiday weekend. Each one starting with great anticipation and ending with smiles, laughs and accusations of cheating leveled against the winner. Yes, it was a great weekend - until we hit the final race.
We didn't intend it to be the final race; it just ended up that way. I was in the lead as we approached the turn. I was in total control of the race! Unfortunately, the left front wheel broke away from the axle just as I started my turn. The go kart, now totally out of control, skidded wildly toward the curb; jumping the sloped curbing and flipping in the process. I managed to ride out the crash with only one, relatively minor injury. My left leg had smashed into the curb and then been dragged across it; leaving a large, gaping wound across my shin.
Mom was going to kill me!!!! She would use this to argue that our go karts were dangerous - and worse - that I had been riding on the holiday weekend. What now????
Well, someone "smart" enough to figure out the loophole in Mom's edict was also "smart" enough to hide all evidence of what she would likely view as a violation of her order.
I covered it up. I wore blue jeans for several days. The injury completely hidden from Mom's view. I would have gotten away with it completely if it hadn't been for a couple of minor issues like 100 degree heat, a little bit of infection and a visit from Kay.
Mom's friend Kay came over and I was obligated to come out to the living room to say hello and pretend like I was thrilled to see her. Kay had been a nun and, like most nuns, was out to get every teenage boy in trouble. She made a comment about my wearing blue jeans on such a hot day. Mom agreed and ordered me, over great protest, to go change into shorts. I did, but I also put on a pair of tube socks that came up to my knees to hide the evidence. Mom was not happy about the tube socks, but the real problem came when the wound began oozing through the sock.
Mom noticed the growing spot and questioned me about it. Explaining that I had fallen into the curb was not a satisfactory answer, but she was distracted by the obviously growing spot on my sock. Unfortunately, the sock was stuck to the wound by that time, so there was no way she could check my leg without either tearing the wound open again or coming up with a way to get the sock off.
Into the tub I went to soak the sock until it eventually came free of the wound.
The whole story eventually came out. I'm not sure which of the spies ratted on me. It may have even been Ron's sister who was a partner in their espionage, but it didn't really matter. Mom and I didn't exactly agree on whether I had disobeyed or not. I had, in fact obeyed The Letter Of The Law and stayed off my go kart. Whether I should have been expected to understand The Spirit Of The Law was a point of debate. In the long run, though, there was one guarantee when debating the nuances of the law with someone who didn't understand the fine points of legal interpretation.
I ended up grounded.
The spies celebrated another victory.
More sand!
Anyway, I'm pretty sure Mom's comments were based on my ability to carefully examine The Letter Of The Law and discover any possible loophole that was favorable to me while conveniently ignoring any loopholes that would have been favorable to her. Perhaps nothing illustrates that better than the go kart incident.
It happened during the summer of 1975. I was thirteen and, since Dad had died, I was stuck living in a house full of women. One of those women was, of course my Mom. The others were her spies. Mom really didn't understand teenage boys since she had been an only child. I'm pretty sure she spent her days at work thinking up imaginative new ways to curtail my fun; knowing full well that Kim and Beth would happily tattle on any violations.
I spent my days finding loopholes in her oppressive policies and discovering new ways to hide my deeds from the spies. Overall, it normally worked out just fine.
To get back to the point; Ron and I had go karts. Not the fancy, powered go karts you see advertised in magazines. No, ours were crudely made out of wood and wheels and powered only by gravity. They also lacked any form of braking mechanism. Who needed brakes? The idea was to lie on your belly on the go kart and navigate from the start at the top of the hill to the finish line at the bottom of the hill; and be the first one to get there. Brakes would merely slow you down and that simply was not acceptable.
All of the locals knew that the neighborhood boys would be zooming down the streets on go karts. We watched out for them and only started down the street when there were no cars coming; and they watched out for us and waited patiently for us to finish our run before pulling onto the street. Even the local police knew we were there and, while they would periodically stop to remind us to watch for traffic, they typically would watch us zoom by with a smile and a wave.
Safety gear was, of course, nonexistent. We were the generation that survived go karting down residential streets and jumping off of roofs into snow or leaf piles and riding bikes without helmets and riding in cars that didn't even have seat belts. Who needed safety gear?
As the Fourth of July weekend approached, Mom - who was a perpetual worrier about all activities typically undertaken by teenage boys - was adamant that I could not ride my go kart over the holiday weekend because there would be far too many drivers around who didn't know to watch out for us.
Now the actual verbiage of her dictatorial edict was, "Scott, you are not to ride your go kart over the holiday weekend." The key word in that sentence was the word, "your." She specifically told me that I could not ride my go kart. At no time did she ever say that I could not ride any go kart; nor did she specify that I could not ride Ron's go kart. When analyzed according to the Letter Of The Law, one could make the argument that her ruling only carried weight as far as me riding my go kart.
So I did what every red-blooded thirteen year old boy trapped in a house full of women would do; I traded go karts with Ron for the weekend. It was a beautiful, sunny weekend and we certainly couldn't waste such a great racing weekend merely because of one little dictatorial edict; especially one that came with a loophole big enough to drive a go kart through!!!
Ron's street had a rather steep section leading into a sweeping ninety-degree left-hand turn before leveling out just before reaching his house. It was go karting heaven! Unlike the long, straight hills; this one took skill and guts. Whoever was willing to hold out the longest before diving into the turn would certainly win the race. You could feel the G-Forces on your body when running down Ron's street.
We ran race after race on the holiday weekend. Each one starting with great anticipation and ending with smiles, laughs and accusations of cheating leveled against the winner. Yes, it was a great weekend - until we hit the final race.
We didn't intend it to be the final race; it just ended up that way. I was in the lead as we approached the turn. I was in total control of the race! Unfortunately, the left front wheel broke away from the axle just as I started my turn. The go kart, now totally out of control, skidded wildly toward the curb; jumping the sloped curbing and flipping in the process. I managed to ride out the crash with only one, relatively minor injury. My left leg had smashed into the curb and then been dragged across it; leaving a large, gaping wound across my shin.
Mom was going to kill me!!!! She would use this to argue that our go karts were dangerous - and worse - that I had been riding on the holiday weekend. What now????
Well, someone "smart" enough to figure out the loophole in Mom's edict was also "smart" enough to hide all evidence of what she would likely view as a violation of her order.
I covered it up. I wore blue jeans for several days. The injury completely hidden from Mom's view. I would have gotten away with it completely if it hadn't been for a couple of minor issues like 100 degree heat, a little bit of infection and a visit from Kay.
Mom's friend Kay came over and I was obligated to come out to the living room to say hello and pretend like I was thrilled to see her. Kay had been a nun and, like most nuns, was out to get every teenage boy in trouble. She made a comment about my wearing blue jeans on such a hot day. Mom agreed and ordered me, over great protest, to go change into shorts. I did, but I also put on a pair of tube socks that came up to my knees to hide the evidence. Mom was not happy about the tube socks, but the real problem came when the wound began oozing through the sock.
Mom noticed the growing spot and questioned me about it. Explaining that I had fallen into the curb was not a satisfactory answer, but she was distracted by the obviously growing spot on my sock. Unfortunately, the sock was stuck to the wound by that time, so there was no way she could check my leg without either tearing the wound open again or coming up with a way to get the sock off.
Into the tub I went to soak the sock until it eventually came free of the wound.
The whole story eventually came out. I'm not sure which of the spies ratted on me. It may have even been Ron's sister who was a partner in their espionage, but it didn't really matter. Mom and I didn't exactly agree on whether I had disobeyed or not. I had, in fact obeyed The Letter Of The Law and stayed off my go kart. Whether I should have been expected to understand The Spirit Of The Law was a point of debate. In the long run, though, there was one guarantee when debating the nuances of the law with someone who didn't understand the fine points of legal interpretation.
I ended up grounded.
The spies celebrated another victory.
Friday, April 5, 2013
First Love...
I don't think we ever truly forget our first love. No matter how young we were at the time, I think every guy remembers the first time he noticed a girl. Maybe we weren't convinced that this is "The One" we will marry and live with forever, but they were someone special, and we remember it.
First loves are funny that way.
My first love was Nancy Sauerman; a farm girl from Crown Point, Indiana. We typically saw each other only once or twice a year when our family went to visit them or they came to St. Louis to visit us. Visiting Crown Point was the best because Sauermans lived on a farm. We did cool things like play in the barn and look at Chuck's arrowhead collection and go to the County Fair to watch Dick show his steer.
Yes, time at the Sauerman's farm was the best. They had corn fields and cattle and a crazy goose named Stupid that was in love with its own reflection in the hubcaps of a broken down Ford in the yard. And, of course, Nancy was there.
Chuck and Dad had served together in the Army. They became friends and through the years our families became friends, too. I met the Sauermans for the first time when they came for a visit in what must have been the summer I turned seven or eight. We hung out on the front porch; anxious for them to arrive.
They pulled up in front of the house and lined the kids up against the car for the introductions. There was Dick - the oldest, and David - the youngest, and trapped there in the middle leaning back against the car; Nancy.
Although our visits with the Sauermans were short; I had found my first love. My sisters teased me mercilessly, but I didn't care. What did they know about love? They were sisters and sisters were not real girls. They couldn't understand the fine nuances of a first love.
Nancy and I began a pen pal relationship; writing letters whose contents are long forgotten but I'm sure were filled with the mundane reports of what was going on in school and life. I can still remember buying six cent stamps from Dad to send Nancy a letter; carefully addressed to her house on State Road 8 in Crown Point.
I treasured those visits and looked forward to them from the moment Mom or Dad told us we'd be seeing her family.
Of course that, like everything else, changed when Dad died. There were no more visits with the Sauermans. We never got back up to visit them on the farm again; and they never made it back to St. Louis. Just like that, my first love was gone.
While one might think I was devastated; I quickly did what every twelve year old does - I forgot about her. Years went by with only fleeting thoughts of my first love.
I, of course, moved on - I moved to Wisconsin, got married and raised a family. I assume Nancy did the same - other than the moving to Wisconsin part.
I have no idea whatever happened to Nancy; although I do think of her from time to time. Whenever Diane and I drive past the Interstate 65 exits for Crown Point, Indiana; I am reminded of those carefree days visiting the farm - and my first love.
First loves are funny that way.
My first love was Nancy Sauerman; a farm girl from Crown Point, Indiana. We typically saw each other only once or twice a year when our family went to visit them or they came to St. Louis to visit us. Visiting Crown Point was the best because Sauermans lived on a farm. We did cool things like play in the barn and look at Chuck's arrowhead collection and go to the County Fair to watch Dick show his steer.
Yes, time at the Sauerman's farm was the best. They had corn fields and cattle and a crazy goose named Stupid that was in love with its own reflection in the hubcaps of a broken down Ford in the yard. And, of course, Nancy was there.
Chuck and Dad had served together in the Army. They became friends and through the years our families became friends, too. I met the Sauermans for the first time when they came for a visit in what must have been the summer I turned seven or eight. We hung out on the front porch; anxious for them to arrive.
They pulled up in front of the house and lined the kids up against the car for the introductions. There was Dick - the oldest, and David - the youngest, and trapped there in the middle leaning back against the car; Nancy.
Although our visits with the Sauermans were short; I had found my first love. My sisters teased me mercilessly, but I didn't care. What did they know about love? They were sisters and sisters were not real girls. They couldn't understand the fine nuances of a first love.
Nancy and I began a pen pal relationship; writing letters whose contents are long forgotten but I'm sure were filled with the mundane reports of what was going on in school and life. I can still remember buying six cent stamps from Dad to send Nancy a letter; carefully addressed to her house on State Road 8 in Crown Point.
I treasured those visits and looked forward to them from the moment Mom or Dad told us we'd be seeing her family.
Of course that, like everything else, changed when Dad died. There were no more visits with the Sauermans. We never got back up to visit them on the farm again; and they never made it back to St. Louis. Just like that, my first love was gone.
While one might think I was devastated; I quickly did what every twelve year old does - I forgot about her. Years went by with only fleeting thoughts of my first love.
I, of course, moved on - I moved to Wisconsin, got married and raised a family. I assume Nancy did the same - other than the moving to Wisconsin part.
I have no idea whatever happened to Nancy; although I do think of her from time to time. Whenever Diane and I drive past the Interstate 65 exits for Crown Point, Indiana; I am reminded of those carefree days visiting the farm - and my first love.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Hunting With Rambo
I'm pretty convinced that the idea for the Rambo movie franchise originated when someone observed one of my hunting trips in college.The screenwriter must have been hidden away; taking notes on exactly what it's like to hunt with Rambo. He modified the story every so slightly to take place in the Asian jungles and, voilà, he had a successful movie franchise.
Now, I've never actually hunted with Rambo, but I'm pretty sure I can tell you exactly what it would be like.
I believe the Rambo movies were actually modeled after my brother-in-law Chris. You see, I hunted with Chris a few times while we were in high school and college. I assure you; rabbit hunting with Rambo is an experience you will never forget.
Rambo, I mean Chris, went to college on an Army ROTC scholarship. The ROTC is filled with guys just like Chris; patriotic, energetic, driven, ready to save the USA from all enemies foreign and domestic, and perhaps a bit over the top. They are, as a group, quite Rambo-ish.
I've never actually seen any of the Rambo movies, but one could not have survived the 1980's without seeing clips and trailers. The video always showed Rambo in an all out firefight with the enemy. It never ceases to amaze me to see how many rounds they can fire in the movies without reloading or carrying additional ammo; but that's a different story entirely.
Preparing to go rabbit hunting with Chris looked frighteningly similar to what ended up on the big screen. One hunting trip in particular always sticks in my mind when I think about Hunting With Rambo.
Mom and Ted had bought a small farm about an hour outside of St. Louis. They were planning on remodeling the home and moving there but they had not started the process, yet. Rambo, I mean Chris, and I planned on going rabbit hunting there one morning. Mom alerted the tenants in the farmhouse so they wouldn't be alarmed by the sights and sounds of a couple of hunters in the back field.
I'm sure they never expected to witness an all out firefight that would rival the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan.
I should have realized what I was getting myself into when we met behind the car to get ready for the hunt. I put on my hunting vest, uncased my 20 gauge shotgun and threw some shells into my pocket. Chris asked if that was all the ammo I was taking. My response, with a bit of sarcasm thrown in, was, "The limit is six, Chris. I'll only need six shells."
Chris took a bit longer to get ready.
Chris could never be accused of being a minimalist. With Chris; it's in for a penny in for a pound. For example, when he bought a new camera, I'm pretty sure he also bought every lens and accessory known to man that would mount on that camera body. That attitude carried over to pretty much every hobby he undertook; including hunting. Chris would be ready for anything in the field.
I could not believe my eyes as Chris began unloading the back of his station wagon. He could not rabbit hunt with merely a shotgun or rifle; no, he had to carry multiple firearms of virtually every type available. That was only the beginning, though. I was convinced that Chris had stolen the entire contents of an Army ammo dump as he started loading up with ammunition for the hunt. Chris didn't just have a hunting vest. No, he had a tactical vest before tactical vests were cool; and a fully loaded bandoleer.
Over the next ten minutes, or so, Chris methodically loaded up enough ammo for an entire platoon - make that a platoon that was not going to see a resupply truck for at least a week! He apparently loaded up in anticipation of running into an entire enemy army that we might need protection from in the thirty acre farm field.
Those rabbits can be sneaky, you know.
I was convinced that Chris would be hanging grenades off his vest before we could leave the relative safety of the back of his station wagon to venture into the enemy's territory. Yes, those rabbits had somehow transformed from a quarry suitable for the crock pot into an enemy of the state. There was a certain, rather frightening transformation in Chris, too.
Right before my eyes; he became Rambo.
I patiently listened to his briefing before leaving the station wagon. Rambo laid out our plan of attack and reviewed the hand signals we would use to communicate our sightings and intentions once we reached enemy territory. He called upon every bit of his ROTC training to determine the best way to rid the field of the enemy.
Patience is very important when hunting.
Patience is apparently not one of Rambo's stronger traits.
We probably hadn't made it ten steps from the car before Rambo saw something - whether real or imaginary is still open to speculation - that needed to be destroyed. After all, every round of ammunition Rambo carried was extra weight and he certainly couldn't be expected to carry all of that extra weight around all day! It seemed that Rambo was bound and determined to return to the car with no un-fired ammunition.
Rambo pretty much opened fire on anything that moved that day; and also on a few things that didn't move. At one point we were down near an old dump; which, of course, is really nothing more than a massive collection of things needing to be shot. Bullets and shot rained down on every available target. Rambo was unfazed as rounds ricocheted around us; our ears filling with the sounds of bullets whizzing by.
Rambo was not going to wimp out over something as simple as ricocheting bullets. No; Rambo bravely stood through the danger - ready to destroy any target that caught his fancy.
I'm sure every rabbit in Franklin County, Missouri was well aware of where we were throughout the day. We somehow still managed to shoot a few rabbits. They were obviously the deaf and blind ones since they otherwise had ample warning to vacate the area before our arrival.
Our mission eventually brought us back to the station wagon; our hunt seemingly complete. It couldn't end that easily, though.
Rambo still had ammo...
He eventually was ready to call it a day. I can't recall if it was because he actually ran out of ammunition or only because his shoulder was too sore to continue shooting. In either case, Rambo was ready to leave the battlefield.
Rambo slowly and methodically turned back into Chris as the gear was stowed. We cleaned our deaf and blind rabbits, got into the car and made our way back to civilization - America once again a safe place to live and work now that Rambo had eradicated all enemies, foreign and domestic, in that little corner of Franklin County.
Now, I've never actually hunted with Rambo, but I'm pretty sure I can tell you exactly what it would be like.
I believe the Rambo movies were actually modeled after my brother-in-law Chris. You see, I hunted with Chris a few times while we were in high school and college. I assure you; rabbit hunting with Rambo is an experience you will never forget.
Rambo, I mean Chris, went to college on an Army ROTC scholarship. The ROTC is filled with guys just like Chris; patriotic, energetic, driven, ready to save the USA from all enemies foreign and domestic, and perhaps a bit over the top. They are, as a group, quite Rambo-ish.
I've never actually seen any of the Rambo movies, but one could not have survived the 1980's without seeing clips and trailers. The video always showed Rambo in an all out firefight with the enemy. It never ceases to amaze me to see how many rounds they can fire in the movies without reloading or carrying additional ammo; but that's a different story entirely.
Preparing to go rabbit hunting with Chris looked frighteningly similar to what ended up on the big screen. One hunting trip in particular always sticks in my mind when I think about Hunting With Rambo.
Mom and Ted had bought a small farm about an hour outside of St. Louis. They were planning on remodeling the home and moving there but they had not started the process, yet. Rambo, I mean Chris, and I planned on going rabbit hunting there one morning. Mom alerted the tenants in the farmhouse so they wouldn't be alarmed by the sights and sounds of a couple of hunters in the back field.
I'm sure they never expected to witness an all out firefight that would rival the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan.
I should have realized what I was getting myself into when we met behind the car to get ready for the hunt. I put on my hunting vest, uncased my 20 gauge shotgun and threw some shells into my pocket. Chris asked if that was all the ammo I was taking. My response, with a bit of sarcasm thrown in, was, "The limit is six, Chris. I'll only need six shells."
Chris took a bit longer to get ready.
Chris could never be accused of being a minimalist. With Chris; it's in for a penny in for a pound. For example, when he bought a new camera, I'm pretty sure he also bought every lens and accessory known to man that would mount on that camera body. That attitude carried over to pretty much every hobby he undertook; including hunting. Chris would be ready for anything in the field.
I could not believe my eyes as Chris began unloading the back of his station wagon. He could not rabbit hunt with merely a shotgun or rifle; no, he had to carry multiple firearms of virtually every type available. That was only the beginning, though. I was convinced that Chris had stolen the entire contents of an Army ammo dump as he started loading up with ammunition for the hunt. Chris didn't just have a hunting vest. No, he had a tactical vest before tactical vests were cool; and a fully loaded bandoleer.
Over the next ten minutes, or so, Chris methodically loaded up enough ammo for an entire platoon - make that a platoon that was not going to see a resupply truck for at least a week! He apparently loaded up in anticipation of running into an entire enemy army that we might need protection from in the thirty acre farm field.
Those rabbits can be sneaky, you know.
I was convinced that Chris would be hanging grenades off his vest before we could leave the relative safety of the back of his station wagon to venture into the enemy's territory. Yes, those rabbits had somehow transformed from a quarry suitable for the crock pot into an enemy of the state. There was a certain, rather frightening transformation in Chris, too.
Right before my eyes; he became Rambo.
I patiently listened to his briefing before leaving the station wagon. Rambo laid out our plan of attack and reviewed the hand signals we would use to communicate our sightings and intentions once we reached enemy territory. He called upon every bit of his ROTC training to determine the best way to rid the field of the enemy.
Patience is very important when hunting.
Patience is apparently not one of Rambo's stronger traits.
We probably hadn't made it ten steps from the car before Rambo saw something - whether real or imaginary is still open to speculation - that needed to be destroyed. After all, every round of ammunition Rambo carried was extra weight and he certainly couldn't be expected to carry all of that extra weight around all day! It seemed that Rambo was bound and determined to return to the car with no un-fired ammunition.
Rambo pretty much opened fire on anything that moved that day; and also on a few things that didn't move. At one point we were down near an old dump; which, of course, is really nothing more than a massive collection of things needing to be shot. Bullets and shot rained down on every available target. Rambo was unfazed as rounds ricocheted around us; our ears filling with the sounds of bullets whizzing by.
Rambo was not going to wimp out over something as simple as ricocheting bullets. No; Rambo bravely stood through the danger - ready to destroy any target that caught his fancy.
I'm sure every rabbit in Franklin County, Missouri was well aware of where we were throughout the day. We somehow still managed to shoot a few rabbits. They were obviously the deaf and blind ones since they otherwise had ample warning to vacate the area before our arrival.
Our mission eventually brought us back to the station wagon; our hunt seemingly complete. It couldn't end that easily, though.
Rambo still had ammo...
He eventually was ready to call it a day. I can't recall if it was because he actually ran out of ammunition or only because his shoulder was too sore to continue shooting. In either case, Rambo was ready to leave the battlefield.
Rambo slowly and methodically turned back into Chris as the gear was stowed. We cleaned our deaf and blind rabbits, got into the car and made our way back to civilization - America once again a safe place to live and work now that Rambo had eradicated all enemies, foreign and domestic, in that little corner of Franklin County.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)