Working with Ralph made for some fun and crazy days. We came to know each other quite well; like any people who work very closely over a period of time. That created opportunities for tension at times and opportunities for harassing each other at other times. Over time you just develop an ability to tweak one another.
Ralph was particularly easy to tweak when it came to his sisters. Ralph has two sisters - Pam and Paula - and he was rather protective when it came to them. I had never met either of them, but that didn't stop me from tweaking Ralph a bit by telling him I was going to ask one of them out but I couldn't decide which one.
Telling Ralph that I was going to ask out one of his sisters was the equivalent of waving a red cloth in front of an angry bull. Ralph responded immediately and vehemently, "Stay away from my sisters!!! I won't allow my sisters to ever date a video guy because I know what video guys are like." Ralph insisted that I needed to find a woman who was a geeky, broadcast engineer so the two of us could sit around in the evening and discuss "important" things like whether NTSC or PAL was a better color system.
Now I had no real interest in dating either one of them, but I had a great deal of interest in pulling Ralph's chain, so I asked about them regularly. I commented on them whenever the opportunity presented itself. All in all, I looked for opportunities to bring them up in conversation as often as possible.
Anytime there was a discussion about family - I mentioned Pam and Paula.
Whenever there was a discussion about my (nonexistent) dating life - I mentioned Pam and Paula.
Sometimes I brought them up with no prior prompting at all just to keep the fear in the back of his mind that I might actually call one of them.
Just the faintest suggestion that Ralph and I could be brothers-in-law caused the hair on the back of his neck to stick out and his ears to turn red. "Stay away from my sisters!!!!," he would demand.
Like any good friend; the more he got worked up about it, the more I mentioned it.
I suppose Ralph finally figured out that I had no interest in asking out either of his sisters. I don't think he really believed it, though, until I announced that Diane and I were engaged; perhaps not even until he witnessed the wedding!
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Losing...
I wrote a while ago about how we never really forget our first love. I think the same holds true for our first loss, too. We deal with others through the years but, somehow, we can't forget hearing about the first one. There's something about it that just sticks in our minds; a constant, albeit distant, reminder of our first encounter with death.
For me; it was Tanda. I was too young to really understand when Grandpa Brader or Great-Grandma O'Fallon died. I remember when Tanda died very clearly, though.
I'm not sure how to even spell what we called her. In fact, I'm not really sure how her name even came about. Tante means Aunt in German, so it was probably some derivative of that. Somehow, Aunt Theresa just didn't seem right for her.
Tanda was Dad's aunt. She was single and came to live with Grandpa and Dad after Dad's Mom died when he was thirteen years old. She took care of the house, and the men in it.
I loved Tanda. I'm still not exactly sure what it was about her that fascinated me so much, but I adored her. Mom always said that she adored me, too. She said it was because I was the only son of an only son that would carry on the Brader name.
Mom was convinced that Tanda didn't like her much. According to Mom, anyway, there was not a woman on Earth good enough for Dad in Tanda's eyes. Tanda was a devout Catholic and, by Mom's account, thought only Mary herself would have been suitable for Dad.
We used to go see Tanda at the nursing home where she lived out her last days. It was a rather round tower that I thought was really cool. Tanda was in a wheelchair by that time after losing a leg. I remember thinking it was hilarious when she told me that she and another woman at the nursing home would buy shoes together. They each had one only leg and they could, conveniently, buy one pair of shoes and each take the one they needed.
Time took its toll on Tanda like it does us all. I still remember the night Dad came into my bedroom to tell me she may not make it through the night. I was heartbroken. People around me couldn't die! I was too young to deal with losing someone I loved.
The next morning, he came into my room to tell me she was gone. The doctors said she may not make it through the night and she hadn't.
Tanda was gone.
I sat on my bed with my face buried in Dad's chest and I cried. Dad cried with me. That's the only time I ever recall Dad crying, but we sat there and we cried together as we mourned losing Tanda.
For me; it was Tanda. I was too young to really understand when Grandpa Brader or Great-Grandma O'Fallon died. I remember when Tanda died very clearly, though.
I'm not sure how to even spell what we called her. In fact, I'm not really sure how her name even came about. Tante means Aunt in German, so it was probably some derivative of that. Somehow, Aunt Theresa just didn't seem right for her.
Tanda was Dad's aunt. She was single and came to live with Grandpa and Dad after Dad's Mom died when he was thirteen years old. She took care of the house, and the men in it.
I loved Tanda. I'm still not exactly sure what it was about her that fascinated me so much, but I adored her. Mom always said that she adored me, too. She said it was because I was the only son of an only son that would carry on the Brader name.
Mom was convinced that Tanda didn't like her much. According to Mom, anyway, there was not a woman on Earth good enough for Dad in Tanda's eyes. Tanda was a devout Catholic and, by Mom's account, thought only Mary herself would have been suitable for Dad.
We used to go see Tanda at the nursing home where she lived out her last days. It was a rather round tower that I thought was really cool. Tanda was in a wheelchair by that time after losing a leg. I remember thinking it was hilarious when she told me that she and another woman at the nursing home would buy shoes together. They each had one only leg and they could, conveniently, buy one pair of shoes and each take the one they needed.
Time took its toll on Tanda like it does us all. I still remember the night Dad came into my bedroom to tell me she may not make it through the night. I was heartbroken. People around me couldn't die! I was too young to deal with losing someone I loved.
The next morning, he came into my room to tell me she was gone. The doctors said she may not make it through the night and she hadn't.
Tanda was gone.
I sat on my bed with my face buried in Dad's chest and I cried. Dad cried with me. That's the only time I ever recall Dad crying, but we sat there and we cried together as we mourned losing Tanda.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Gotta Go - Survivor Is On
I moved to the great State of Wisconsin the day after graduating from college. For years, Mom called me every Saturday morning. She eventually switched her call to Thursday evening when she realized that she ended up talking to my answering machine far more often than she talked with me on Saturday mornings.
Mom was funny about her calls. She never did catch on to the whole unlimited long distance thing and insisted on arguing that she would call me back anytime I called her so I wouldn't have to pay for the call. I would explain - for what seemed like the thousandth time - that I had unlimited calling and wouldn't be charged for the call. She would invariably ask several times during the conversation whether I was lying and was going to be charged for the call. She often insisted on hanging up and calling me back because she didn't believe me. At some point, I decided it just wasn't worth arguing about and I just waited for her Thursday evening call each week unless I had something really urgent to talk with her about.
The Thursday evening calls worked well for quite a few years.
That is; until Survivor came on television.
I never watched a single episode of Survivor, so I can't say anything about it one way or the other. Mom, on the other hand, never missed an episode.
She talked about the various participants and the associated story lines despite my total indifference to the program. It was important to her so I just let her talk.
I could set my watch by Mom's call each Thursday; well the end of the call, anyway. Mom had to be off the phone by 7:00 so she didn't miss a moment of Survivor. We could be talking about a major issue in one of our lives and she would break off the conversation so she could catch the show.
I suggested she call a different night many times, but she insisted that Thursday night was perfect. Maybe she just wanted to make sure she had an "out" to get off the phone. Initially, Diane seemed shocked that I was off the phone so quickly until she noticed the time and remembered that Mom had to be off the phone before the show.
We used to laugh about it all the time.
Thursdays were kind of strange for a while after Mom died. I would catch myself waiting for the phone to ring - but it never did.
Maybe Mom was so captivated by Survivor because she was one. In fact, Mom was the ultimate survivor. I remember her telling me about her carcinoid diagnosis. She was unfazed by the prognosis of five to eight years. She was determined to live life without keeping one eye on the end. She continued to go about life as normally as possible; although the disease, and its treatment, took a major toll on her body.
Mom lived many years beyond the doctors' wildest dreams. Although it was the carcinoid that ultimately ended her life too soon; no one could ever say that carcinoid killed her.
Mom was a survivor in the truest sense of the word.
What I wouldn't give to have her cut our conversation short again just one more time so she could catch the beginning of Survivor.
Mom was funny about her calls. She never did catch on to the whole unlimited long distance thing and insisted on arguing that she would call me back anytime I called her so I wouldn't have to pay for the call. I would explain - for what seemed like the thousandth time - that I had unlimited calling and wouldn't be charged for the call. She would invariably ask several times during the conversation whether I was lying and was going to be charged for the call. She often insisted on hanging up and calling me back because she didn't believe me. At some point, I decided it just wasn't worth arguing about and I just waited for her Thursday evening call each week unless I had something really urgent to talk with her about.
The Thursday evening calls worked well for quite a few years.
That is; until Survivor came on television.
I never watched a single episode of Survivor, so I can't say anything about it one way or the other. Mom, on the other hand, never missed an episode.
She talked about the various participants and the associated story lines despite my total indifference to the program. It was important to her so I just let her talk.
I could set my watch by Mom's call each Thursday; well the end of the call, anyway. Mom had to be off the phone by 7:00 so she didn't miss a moment of Survivor. We could be talking about a major issue in one of our lives and she would break off the conversation so she could catch the show.
I suggested she call a different night many times, but she insisted that Thursday night was perfect. Maybe she just wanted to make sure she had an "out" to get off the phone. Initially, Diane seemed shocked that I was off the phone so quickly until she noticed the time and remembered that Mom had to be off the phone before the show.
We used to laugh about it all the time.
Thursdays were kind of strange for a while after Mom died. I would catch myself waiting for the phone to ring - but it never did.
Maybe Mom was so captivated by Survivor because she was one. In fact, Mom was the ultimate survivor. I remember her telling me about her carcinoid diagnosis. She was unfazed by the prognosis of five to eight years. She was determined to live life without keeping one eye on the end. She continued to go about life as normally as possible; although the disease, and its treatment, took a major toll on her body.
Mom lived many years beyond the doctors' wildest dreams. Although it was the carcinoid that ultimately ended her life too soon; no one could ever say that carcinoid killed her.
Mom was a survivor in the truest sense of the word.
What I wouldn't give to have her cut our conversation short again just one more time so she could catch the beginning of Survivor.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Remembering Papa
Memorial Day is one of the most popular holidays of the year. There are many reasons for its popularity. For many people, Memorial Day marks the beginning of Summer. For open wheel race fans, Memorial Day weekend marks the Formula 1 Grand Prix of Monte Carlo and the Indianapolis 500. For others, it's just a three day weekend.
I have to admit that, as a huge open wheel racing fan, the two most prestigious races in the world happening on the same day is very exciting. But those two races and the three day weekend aren't what I think of most when Memorial Day rolls around each year.
No, I think of Papa.
Papa was one of the thousands of teenagers who went to Europe to serve in World War II. Like many WWII veterans; Papa didn't talk about his experiences much. In fact, I can only recall two instances when he was willing to discuss the war with me, but even then he wouldn't talk about anything specific. He told me about several missions and battles he fought in, but only in very general terms.
Papa told me he was at Normandy, but he wouldn't say anything about it.
He told me he participated in the liberation of a death camp, but he wouldn't say anything about that, either.
Papa went and did what was asked of him. He wouldn't speak of things he did and saw because some of those things were, I'm sure, unspeakable things.
Papa was part of the greatest generation. The generation that answered their country's call and served without complaint. The generation that asked for nothing in return for their sacrifice other than the chance to rebuild their lives when they came home. The generation we are on the verge of losing completely.
Statisticians tell us that we lose over 600 WWII veterans every day. The United States had some sixteen million WWII vets at the end of the war. It is estimated that we have less than one million left. Experts predict that they will all be gone within twenty years.
Each death results in the loss of more than just one life. It is the loss of all of the memories of what was both one of the world's darkest periods and one of its most glorious moments at the same time. It is the loss of another life that changed history. It is the loss of history itself.
We have all witnessed how history is re-written once the last of the witnesses are gone. Many have already tried to re-write that era of history by denying the Holocaust ever happened. Each day, we lose hundreds of witnesses. Witnesses who can testify that, yes, it happened and we responded; bringing justice to the perpetrators and peace to the victims.
They are what Memorial Day is about; not the cookouts or the races or the parties. Our nation's Flag flies at half staff from sunrise until Noon on Memorial Day in memory of those who made the ultimate sacrifice; and at full staff from Noon on in celebration of the fruits of their sacrifice.
So go ahead and enjoy your cookouts, parades, picnics and parties today, but go about it with a grateful heart as you remember...
For Memorial Day is about remembering.
Remembering those who have fought for their country.
Remembering those who were among the casualties of war.
Remembering those who came home but aren't with us any more.
Remembering Papa.
I have to admit that, as a huge open wheel racing fan, the two most prestigious races in the world happening on the same day is very exciting. But those two races and the three day weekend aren't what I think of most when Memorial Day rolls around each year.
No, I think of Papa.
Papa was one of the thousands of teenagers who went to Europe to serve in World War II. Like many WWII veterans; Papa didn't talk about his experiences much. In fact, I can only recall two instances when he was willing to discuss the war with me, but even then he wouldn't talk about anything specific. He told me about several missions and battles he fought in, but only in very general terms.
Papa told me he was at Normandy, but he wouldn't say anything about it.
He told me he participated in the liberation of a death camp, but he wouldn't say anything about that, either.
Papa went and did what was asked of him. He wouldn't speak of things he did and saw because some of those things were, I'm sure, unspeakable things.
Papa was part of the greatest generation. The generation that answered their country's call and served without complaint. The generation that asked for nothing in return for their sacrifice other than the chance to rebuild their lives when they came home. The generation we are on the verge of losing completely.
Statisticians tell us that we lose over 600 WWII veterans every day. The United States had some sixteen million WWII vets at the end of the war. It is estimated that we have less than one million left. Experts predict that they will all be gone within twenty years.
Each death results in the loss of more than just one life. It is the loss of all of the memories of what was both one of the world's darkest periods and one of its most glorious moments at the same time. It is the loss of another life that changed history. It is the loss of history itself.
We have all witnessed how history is re-written once the last of the witnesses are gone. Many have already tried to re-write that era of history by denying the Holocaust ever happened. Each day, we lose hundreds of witnesses. Witnesses who can testify that, yes, it happened and we responded; bringing justice to the perpetrators and peace to the victims.
They are what Memorial Day is about; not the cookouts or the races or the parties. Our nation's Flag flies at half staff from sunrise until Noon on Memorial Day in memory of those who made the ultimate sacrifice; and at full staff from Noon on in celebration of the fruits of their sacrifice.
So go ahead and enjoy your cookouts, parades, picnics and parties today, but go about it with a grateful heart as you remember...
For Memorial Day is about remembering.
Remembering those who have fought for their country.
Remembering those who were among the casualties of war.
Remembering those who came home but aren't with us any more.
Remembering Papa.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Sort Of Grounded
Mom's favored method of punishment after I got too big to spank was to ground me. Grounding me was supposed to be pure torture, but it didn't always actually work out that way.
Being grounded was torture; until I learned how to use it to my advantage.
Mom grounded me for a month one time a few months after Dad died. Mom had invited Stan Smith, Dad's former co-worker at Banquet Foods, over for dinner. Stan was a bi-vocational Baptist Preacher; meaning that he worked a full time job in addition to his work at the church. While preparing for his arrival, Mom issued us (probably just me) a very stern warning that we were not to laugh when she asked Stan to pray before dinner.
Although my family prays before every meal now; it was unheard of in our household when I was growing up. In fact, the only thing resembling a prayer that was ever said at our table was if Dad threw out a, "Good food, good meat, good God, let's eat," line before we all devoured whatever Mom had put on the table.
Nevertheless, Mom asked Stan to say the blessing before we ate as if it was commonplace at our table. I was sitting on one side of the table - trapped between Kim and Beth, as I recall - as we all dutifully bowed our heads for the blessing.
Now I'm not exactly sure what Mom was thinking when she threatened me with death if I laughed during the prayer, but that was probably not the best thing to say to a thirteen year old boy. The only thought that kept going through my head as Stan prayed was, "Don't laugh...don't laugh...don't laugh," which, of course, is guaranteed to make a thirteen year old boy start laughing.
I did a masterful job of hiding my laughter for a while. I didn't make a sound. Kim and Beth, however, noticed my body quivering as I fought to keep my laughter hidden and took that as an opportunity to start kicking me under the table. How kicking me was supposed to do anything to suppress my laughter remains a mystery to me. All it did was cause me to start snorting as I fought to control my laughter which, of course, led Kim and Beth to kick me even more. This began a vicious cycle of me laughing and Kim and Beth kicking me.
Mom was mortified! She apologized profusely and forced me to do the same. In retrospect, I don't think Stan was offended. Despite the act Mom made us all put on for the blessing, I'm sure he was well aware of our family's normal prayer life. He did, after all, spend five days a week with Dad.
In any case, Mom informed me that I was grounded for one month before Stan's car was even out of our driveway.
One Month?!?!?!
For one month; I would have to go straight to my room when I got home from school and stay there until Mom called me out for dinner. I was not allowed to hang out with Ron, go fishing, ride my bike or do any of the other things kids my age did.
That's cruel and unusual punishment!!!!
Debbie was living with Nana and Papa during the week so she could finish her senior year of high school at St. Elizabeth's Academy. It took me a whopping two days to figure out that Kim and Beth were totally oblivious to me once I closed the door to my room. Oblivious to the point that it was if I didn't exist. I'm sure they were thrilled not to be bothered with my presence. As a result, no one came by my room or checked on me at all. It was like my room was a toxic waste site. Well I suppose it was rather toxic, but that's beside the point.
So I did what any industrious thirteen year old boy would do under the circumstances; I came home from school, went to my room, closed my door, opened my window, climbed out the window and went about my afternoon normally. The only issue the whole grounding presented was that I was delayed in meeting up with my friends for about ten minutes while I went through this routine each afternoon.
I carefully watched the time in order to be safely back in my room before Mom's car reached the subdivision so she couldn't catch me out and about. At the appointed time, I headed back to our house and, careful to approach from the west so I didn't have to walk past Beth's window, I climbed back through the window into my room, grabbed a book and sat down on my bed to read until Mom got home and "released" me from my punishment for the evening.
This went on for the entire month. I don't know if Kim or Beth ever figured out what was going on and just ignored it because I was out of their hair for an entire month or if they remained blissfully ignorant of my departure each day. I suspect it was the former because I'm sure they would have been delighted to have reported my violation of both the letter and spirit of the law. Of course, they may have just chosen to ignore it; figuring that Mom might ask them to actually pay attention to me if they reported my activities to her.
I eventually confessed my deeds to Mom; although not until I was married and out of the house, if I recall correctly. Her anger at my laughter had long since disappeared and my confession was met with much laughter of her own.
It was, after all, just one more incident in a very long string of her learning to deal with a teenage son and her teenage son learning to deal with a house full of women.
I think I'm still tainted from growing up in a house full of women...
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Only A Sister...
There are some things in life so cruel that they can only be inflicted upon someone by a sister.
Growing up with three sisters was tough. I'm convinced they had a secret agreement that everything would be my fault; no matter what. Now, granted, some relatively minuscule percentage of what happened around the house was my fault, but certainly not everything.
It didn't matter, though.
Mom would raise the question of who did whatever she was investigating at the time and, invariably, all three of them would immediately blame me. It didn't matter if none of them were even home when the deed occurred; they all pointed at me as the culprit. It was guaranteed to be three against one every time.
They also tortured me.
For example, I was forced to hear Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy and The Beatles over and over and over and over until I thought I was going to die! I swear that I would scream if I had to hear about the bluest eyes in Seattle, or how much he cherished his girl or wanted to hold her hand even one more time!
The worst torture experience of all, though, came from Debbie. Being the oldest, she was also the most diabolical. To completely understand the experience requires a bit of background.
I had a rather mild fear of the dentist as a kid. Rather mild could be accurately described as "find somewhere to hide and lock myself to an immovable object in an attempt to delay or avoid the experience entirely."
Dr. George was the epitome of evil; inflicting as much pain and misery upon me as he could. I'm convinced that when he noticed my name in the upcoming appointment book he would lie awake the night before to plot how he could cause me even more pain and anguish.
He was, in short, an oral butcher!
I can still vividly remember sitting in the chair as he hovered over me with his instruments of torture; his commemorative watch for bowling a 300 game just inches from my face; the smell of his breath as he maneuvered around to jam his instruments of evil into my mouth.
Yes; going to Dr. George was a terrifying experience. Real dentists that I saw later in life commented that they had never seen such horrible dentistry!
Lucky me!
Anyway, with that bit of background you might better understand Debbie's torture plan.
I went to a different school than any of the girls. (I would point out that I went to a special school for the gifted and talented if I were one who was inclined to boast, but that wouldn't be very nice of me. Beth was eventually accepted to the special school, too, but I think it was only because she was my sister.) One beautiful Spring day - I actually remember the day as if it were only yesterday; it was that bad of an ordeal - I was walking home from the bus stop when Mom pulled up in our old Ford station wagon and told me to hop in.
Debbie was already in the car.
I did what any inquisitive kid would do - I asked where we were going.
Debbie turned around from her spot in the front seat and said, "You have to go to the dentist."
The words had not even escaped her lips when I was covered in a cold sweat. My heart began palpitating and my ears started ringing.
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"NOT DR. GEORGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"PLEASE NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU WARN ME SO I COULD PREPARE MYSELF?!?!?!?!?!?!"
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"NOT TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Debbie allowed the torture to continue until we reached the end of the block before she turned and said, "Shut up you baby! We're going to Nana's."
I was immediately overcome with both relief and anger. How could she torture me that way? Why would she even want to cause me such pain and anxiety.
Because she was a SISTER.
There could be no other explanation.
Only a sister could inflict such torture on a sweet kid like me.
I have grown up a lot since then. I no longer hide or attempt to lock myself to immovable objects when I have a dentist appointment.
Instead, I handle it like any brave guy would...
I take triazolam and let Diane drive while I drift off into la-la land!
Growing up with three sisters was tough. I'm convinced they had a secret agreement that everything would be my fault; no matter what. Now, granted, some relatively minuscule percentage of what happened around the house was my fault, but certainly not everything.
It didn't matter, though.
Mom would raise the question of who did whatever she was investigating at the time and, invariably, all three of them would immediately blame me. It didn't matter if none of them were even home when the deed occurred; they all pointed at me as the culprit. It was guaranteed to be three against one every time.
They also tortured me.
For example, I was forced to hear Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy and The Beatles over and over and over and over until I thought I was going to die! I swear that I would scream if I had to hear about the bluest eyes in Seattle, or how much he cherished his girl or wanted to hold her hand even one more time!
The worst torture experience of all, though, came from Debbie. Being the oldest, she was also the most diabolical. To completely understand the experience requires a bit of background.
I had a rather mild fear of the dentist as a kid. Rather mild could be accurately described as "find somewhere to hide and lock myself to an immovable object in an attempt to delay or avoid the experience entirely."
Dr. George was the epitome of evil; inflicting as much pain and misery upon me as he could. I'm convinced that when he noticed my name in the upcoming appointment book he would lie awake the night before to plot how he could cause me even more pain and anguish.
He was, in short, an oral butcher!
I can still vividly remember sitting in the chair as he hovered over me with his instruments of torture; his commemorative watch for bowling a 300 game just inches from my face; the smell of his breath as he maneuvered around to jam his instruments of evil into my mouth.
Yes; going to Dr. George was a terrifying experience. Real dentists that I saw later in life commented that they had never seen such horrible dentistry!
Lucky me!
Anyway, with that bit of background you might better understand Debbie's torture plan.
I went to a different school than any of the girls. (I would point out that I went to a special school for the gifted and talented if I were one who was inclined to boast, but that wouldn't be very nice of me. Beth was eventually accepted to the special school, too, but I think it was only because she was my sister.) One beautiful Spring day - I actually remember the day as if it were only yesterday; it was that bad of an ordeal - I was walking home from the bus stop when Mom pulled up in our old Ford station wagon and told me to hop in.
Debbie was already in the car.
I did what any inquisitive kid would do - I asked where we were going.
Debbie turned around from her spot in the front seat and said, "You have to go to the dentist."
The words had not even escaped her lips when I was covered in a cold sweat. My heart began palpitating and my ears started ringing.
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"NOT DR. GEORGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"PLEASE NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU WARN ME SO I COULD PREPARE MYSELF?!?!?!?!?!?!"
"NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"NOT TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Debbie allowed the torture to continue until we reached the end of the block before she turned and said, "Shut up you baby! We're going to Nana's."
I was immediately overcome with both relief and anger. How could she torture me that way? Why would she even want to cause me such pain and anxiety.
Because she was a SISTER.
There could be no other explanation.
Only a sister could inflict such torture on a sweet kid like me.
I have grown up a lot since then. I no longer hide or attempt to lock myself to immovable objects when I have a dentist appointment.
Instead, I handle it like any brave guy would...
I take triazolam and let Diane drive while I drift off into la-la land!
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
A Birthday Wish
I have occasionally mentioned my sisters in my blog. They were, after all, witnesses to - and in many cases the cause of - many of my memories; both good and bad. Today is my sister Kim's birthday, so I decided to use this forum to share a few of my memories about growing up with Kim.
I always figured Kim was switched in the hospital with someone else's baby. She didn't fit.
She was blond. Everyone else had dark hair.
Kim hated camping. Everyone else loved camping.
Kim hated going to camp. Everyone else looked forward to the week at camp each summer.
Kim hated playing in "dirty" lakes and rivers. Everyone else loved swimming in the lakes and rivers.
Yes, I was convinced that Kim didn't really belong to us.
But biggest clue of them all, though, was that Kim was prissy.
Prissy doesn't seem to fit our family. Kim loved to sew and probably could have made a nice living designing and sewing high-end, custom clothes for people if she hadn't decided to get married and have kids. Of course, it couldn't have helped a budding custom clothing business to have to move every couple of years when the U.S. Army decided whatever base or country they were in at the time had seen enough of Chris and decided to send him off somewhere else.
I'm also pretty convinced that Kim was Mom's favorite; maybe because Kim personified those things Mom wished she was. Basically, Mom wasn't prissy. She was comfortable in life, but she certainly would never have been mistaken for being prissy.
Mom was constantly yelling at me for not being nice to Kim. Since Mom did not have any brothers, she failed to understand that I was being nice to Kim; I just had a slightly different definition of nice than she did.
Anyway, one year Mom decided that it would help my coordination if Kim gave me "private" dance lessons. What a monstrously bad idea that was!!! I still remember her trying to teach me to skip backwards in the room that served as our family room/TV room. I'm not constructed in a way that allows me to skip in either direction! Fortunately, the only windows into the room faced the back yard and "The Witch's" house, so there was no chance of any of my friends catching me in the middle of a stupid dance lesson.
Dancing was not in my wheelhouse, so to speak. I played hockey and, in hockey, my favorite thing of all to do was to separate the man from the puck. In other words; I liked hitting people. You are not allowed to hit people in dance class. What fun is that?
Needless to say, the private dance lessons lasted all of one week before Kim quit in total frustration. I was delighted to hear her report to Mom that I was - get this - incorrigible! For those of you who aren't familiar with the word; it is an adjective that, when used in reference to a person means, "Not able to be corrected, improved or reformed."
Yep, that was me! I couldn't be improved because I was already so awesome... So maybe that wasn't the context of the definition Kim was thinking of at the time, but it was pretty cool to hear your ten year old sister refuse to be around you!
Kim outgrew some of her prissiness at some point, but for the most part that's still just part of her. Maybe a bit of Nana skipped a generation and ended up in Kim.
Sometimes it is hard to believe that her kids are grown, married and have kids of their own. Sarah and Bryan claim that she was a nicer Mom than she was a sister; although I suspect they only make that claim when it's likely to get back to Kim.
So Kim celebrates another birthday today. Somehow she has managed to survive living in Europe during Chernobyl, raising two kids, kidney cancer, becoming a certified doula, becoming a certified lacation counselor and being related to me for another year. While I'm not one to share a woman's age; suffice it to say she falls into that vast category known as middle aged.
Despite the fact that Kim is all grown up, I don't think of her as Nanna to two little boys. No, my memories of Kim more often center on that day in the family room when I was crowned as the incorrigible little brother.
Happy Birthday, Kim!
I always figured Kim was switched in the hospital with someone else's baby. She didn't fit.
She was blond. Everyone else had dark hair.
Kim hated camping. Everyone else loved camping.
Kim hated going to camp. Everyone else looked forward to the week at camp each summer.
Kim hated playing in "dirty" lakes and rivers. Everyone else loved swimming in the lakes and rivers.
Yes, I was convinced that Kim didn't really belong to us.
But biggest clue of them all, though, was that Kim was prissy.
Prissy doesn't seem to fit our family. Kim loved to sew and probably could have made a nice living designing and sewing high-end, custom clothes for people if she hadn't decided to get married and have kids. Of course, it couldn't have helped a budding custom clothing business to have to move every couple of years when the U.S. Army decided whatever base or country they were in at the time had seen enough of Chris and decided to send him off somewhere else.
I'm also pretty convinced that Kim was Mom's favorite; maybe because Kim personified those things Mom wished she was. Basically, Mom wasn't prissy. She was comfortable in life, but she certainly would never have been mistaken for being prissy.
Mom was constantly yelling at me for not being nice to Kim. Since Mom did not have any brothers, she failed to understand that I was being nice to Kim; I just had a slightly different definition of nice than she did.
Anyway, one year Mom decided that it would help my coordination if Kim gave me "private" dance lessons. What a monstrously bad idea that was!!! I still remember her trying to teach me to skip backwards in the room that served as our family room/TV room. I'm not constructed in a way that allows me to skip in either direction! Fortunately, the only windows into the room faced the back yard and "The Witch's" house, so there was no chance of any of my friends catching me in the middle of a stupid dance lesson.
Dancing was not in my wheelhouse, so to speak. I played hockey and, in hockey, my favorite thing of all to do was to separate the man from the puck. In other words; I liked hitting people. You are not allowed to hit people in dance class. What fun is that?
Needless to say, the private dance lessons lasted all of one week before Kim quit in total frustration. I was delighted to hear her report to Mom that I was - get this - incorrigible! For those of you who aren't familiar with the word; it is an adjective that, when used in reference to a person means, "Not able to be corrected, improved or reformed."
Yep, that was me! I couldn't be improved because I was already so awesome... So maybe that wasn't the context of the definition Kim was thinking of at the time, but it was pretty cool to hear your ten year old sister refuse to be around you!
Kim outgrew some of her prissiness at some point, but for the most part that's still just part of her. Maybe a bit of Nana skipped a generation and ended up in Kim.
Sometimes it is hard to believe that her kids are grown, married and have kids of their own. Sarah and Bryan claim that she was a nicer Mom than she was a sister; although I suspect they only make that claim when it's likely to get back to Kim.
So Kim celebrates another birthday today. Somehow she has managed to survive living in Europe during Chernobyl, raising two kids, kidney cancer, becoming a certified doula, becoming a certified lacation counselor and being related to me for another year. While I'm not one to share a woman's age; suffice it to say she falls into that vast category known as middle aged.
Despite the fact that Kim is all grown up, I don't think of her as Nanna to two little boys. No, my memories of Kim more often center on that day in the family room when I was crowned as the incorrigible little brother.
Happy Birthday, Kim!
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Broken Bodies, Broken Lives
Waiting is terrifying.
That time of not knowing.
That time of building anxieties.
I remember being in the surgical waiting room while Diane was in surgery for her breast cancer. The OR nurse had told me it would take about an hour. The anxiety built as the one and one-half hour mark passed, and then the two hour mark.
And I waited...
Despite our best efforts to remain upbeat and keep a positive attitude; an ominous cloud seems to hang over us as we wait.
I couldn't help but think of that ominous cloud as I watched the coverage of the devastation in Moore, Oklahoma yesterday.
I couldn't help but think of those parents arriving at one of the designated re-unification centers in search of a loved one only to be taken to a side room to be told their child was among those unaccounted for or among those who had lost their lives.
Many sit and wait.
They hope that what they heard was wrong but feeling the increasing weight of despair as each minute passes.
But they wait.
Others wait at the trauma center in Oklahoma City; hoping and praying that their loved one will not succumb to their injuries.
Waiting.
Each passing hour with no word increases the fear. Each minute brings increasing pain.
Meanwhile, out among the devastation the rescuers press on in the hope of finding another survivor, yet struggling under the overwhelming weight of finding the dead.
Scattered among the debris are bodies - broken by the forces of nature. Each broken body is more than just a body. It is a life that someone is waiting to hear about; a life that touches many other lives - lives that will be broken just like the body of their loved one.
The puzzle that makes up their lives forever missing a piece.
While it is right for us to focus on the physical and monetary demands of the search operations as they are ongoing, the day will soon be upon us when the searching has ended and the rebuilding begins. The hustle and bustle will end and the media trucks will drive away to cover the next major news story.
For many, though, the days when life in Moore, Oklahoma begins its attempt to return to normal will be the days their sorrow overwhelms them.
The families will be left behind in their grief to try to piece together their broken lives; haunted by the thoughts and memories of their loved ones. They will try to learn to live their lives with a gaping hole that a loved one used to fill. They will mourn. They will wonder.
What could have been that now will never be?
Let us not forget that today begins a series of firsts for many families.
Their first day without a loved one.
The coming weeks and months will bring more painful firsts; the first birthday they missed, the first Christmas without their loved one, the first...
That time of not knowing.
That time of building anxieties.
I remember being in the surgical waiting room while Diane was in surgery for her breast cancer. The OR nurse had told me it would take about an hour. The anxiety built as the one and one-half hour mark passed, and then the two hour mark.
And I waited...
Despite our best efforts to remain upbeat and keep a positive attitude; an ominous cloud seems to hang over us as we wait.
I couldn't help but think of that ominous cloud as I watched the coverage of the devastation in Moore, Oklahoma yesterday.
I couldn't help but think of those parents arriving at one of the designated re-unification centers in search of a loved one only to be taken to a side room to be told their child was among those unaccounted for or among those who had lost their lives.
Many sit and wait.
They hope that what they heard was wrong but feeling the increasing weight of despair as each minute passes.
But they wait.
Others wait at the trauma center in Oklahoma City; hoping and praying that their loved one will not succumb to their injuries.
Waiting.
Each passing hour with no word increases the fear. Each minute brings increasing pain.
Meanwhile, out among the devastation the rescuers press on in the hope of finding another survivor, yet struggling under the overwhelming weight of finding the dead.
Scattered among the debris are bodies - broken by the forces of nature. Each broken body is more than just a body. It is a life that someone is waiting to hear about; a life that touches many other lives - lives that will be broken just like the body of their loved one.
The puzzle that makes up their lives forever missing a piece.
While it is right for us to focus on the physical and monetary demands of the search operations as they are ongoing, the day will soon be upon us when the searching has ended and the rebuilding begins. The hustle and bustle will end and the media trucks will drive away to cover the next major news story.
For many, though, the days when life in Moore, Oklahoma begins its attempt to return to normal will be the days their sorrow overwhelms them.
The families will be left behind in their grief to try to piece together their broken lives; haunted by the thoughts and memories of their loved ones. They will try to learn to live their lives with a gaping hole that a loved one used to fill. They will mourn. They will wonder.
What could have been that now will never be?
Let us not forget that today begins a series of firsts for many families.
Their first day without a loved one.
The coming weeks and months will bring more painful firsts; the first birthday they missed, the first Christmas without their loved one, the first...
Monday, May 20, 2013
Style and All That Jazz
Working on a high-end film and video crew can be both the most fun and the most miserable job you'll ever have; sometimes both at the same time. It's a joy to work on exciting and rewarding projects alongside the most talented production people in the region. It's miserable when faced with ridiculously long hours, demanding clients and sometimes touchy talent.
Perhaps no project embodied this oxymoron more than Kohler's "Style And All That Jazz." This was a super high-end marketing shoot. Not some simple thirty second spot; this was three and one half minutes of pure art! The client insisted that this be the best; best sets, best lighting, best cinematography and best talent - including the nude models for the shower and bath scenes.
All in all, it became the hardest shoot ever! We spent weeks in pre-production; planning every set and the shot lists that would allow us to be the most efficient with the multitude of sets we had to build and tear down in the sound stage. There was custom music to be composed and careful technical design to ensure that every scene and every shot would fit perfectly into this artistic look at Kohler's premium products.
The preparation work would be followed by weeks of production and even more weeks of post-production. The time frame was very tight. This would be rolled out at a major trade show. Everything had to come perfectly into place. The final product was stunning; one I'm still proud of today.
This project was both a technical dream and a technical nightmare for me. In addition to the "normal" task of getting all of the recording equipment properly set up, it was my responsibility to deliver hundreds of amps of electricity to light up massive scenes involving water; lots and lots of water.
Kohler provided a carpenter to build the sets. We built luxury bathrooms and artistic displays to properly emphasize the beauty and function of Kohler's products. We built a building facade with the sidewalk in front. We built a hillside. Each set would be built for the necessary scenes, shot and torn down so we could move on to the next set. Throughout it all, every shot had to match the artistic theme and look perfect.
All of the shots involved intricate lighting set ups. Many of them involved water. We had to carefully run power to the lights, hanging extension cords from above in many cases to minimize the risk of water mixing with electricity. We didn't properly plumb the luxury bathrooms, of course, so we had to deal with leaks and creative ways to drain the hundreds of gallons of water we were introducing to the sets. In addition to my "normal" responsibilities on the production cart once we started rolling tape, I had to also monitor the cables snaking through the set; ready to react immediately if water appeared anywhere near the power cables. We had more than one "emergency" shutdown as water tried to mix with electricity.
To make it even more complex; Kohler's products are beautiful and shiny. Shiny things are very hard to light and even harder to shoot. You can get away with a lot if the shots are still; but that wouldn't have been very artistic. We wanted every product to shine, but we couldn't have any spurious reflections. Most of the sets ended up looking like a C-Stand farm. We took massive amounts of time - time we didn't really have - mounting gobos, fingers, flags and dots and moving lights to get each shot of the shiny products without flares or specular highlights; except for the ones we were creating intentionally.
We had faucet displays that revolved. We had camera shots that moved. We had moving shots with moving water.
Many of our sets involved swapping out products to give the editors the ability to make one faucet morph into another; seemingly without any shifts in the camera, product or set pieces. We spent hours in a repeating cycle.
Mount a faucet.
Take the shot.
Remove the faucet.
Repeat.
Over time, I believe we shot every faucet in Kohler's line in every finish they offered.
We shot every tub, sink, whirlpool, shower, toilet and bidet.
Everything was shiny.
Most of the shots included water.
The schedule didn't allow us time to relax after getting a print and a safety on every scene. Ralph and the client would give their blessing to the shots and we would rapidly tear everything down so we could start the entire cycle again. Any delay was expensive. Sometimes very expensive.
Stress levels took a quantum leap each time we had a shot involving a nude model. While people outside of the business tend to think we were the luckiest guys on the planet when we got to work with beautiful women who also happened to be naked; that thought could not be further from the truth. Any scene involving nude models required much greater attention to detail during the setup. Unessential personnel would have to be out of the room before the model's robe came off, so it became a skeleton crew - making the rest of our jobs that much harder. To make it even worse; the model is on triple time from the moment she removes her robe until the moment it goes back on. Every minute is very expensive. Every take is eating away at the budget. Every mistake is magnified.
The "easiest" shots came on the relaxed days shooting "the band" playing the theme song. Life on the set was much easier when we were merely dealing with musicians and talent instead of water and electricity.
Perhaps no project embodied this oxymoron more than Kohler's "Style And All That Jazz." This was a super high-end marketing shoot. Not some simple thirty second spot; this was three and one half minutes of pure art! The client insisted that this be the best; best sets, best lighting, best cinematography and best talent - including the nude models for the shower and bath scenes.
All in all, it became the hardest shoot ever! We spent weeks in pre-production; planning every set and the shot lists that would allow us to be the most efficient with the multitude of sets we had to build and tear down in the sound stage. There was custom music to be composed and careful technical design to ensure that every scene and every shot would fit perfectly into this artistic look at Kohler's premium products.
The preparation work would be followed by weeks of production and even more weeks of post-production. The time frame was very tight. This would be rolled out at a major trade show. Everything had to come perfectly into place. The final product was stunning; one I'm still proud of today.
This project was both a technical dream and a technical nightmare for me. In addition to the "normal" task of getting all of the recording equipment properly set up, it was my responsibility to deliver hundreds of amps of electricity to light up massive scenes involving water; lots and lots of water.
Kohler provided a carpenter to build the sets. We built luxury bathrooms and artistic displays to properly emphasize the beauty and function of Kohler's products. We built a building facade with the sidewalk in front. We built a hillside. Each set would be built for the necessary scenes, shot and torn down so we could move on to the next set. Throughout it all, every shot had to match the artistic theme and look perfect.
All of the shots involved intricate lighting set ups. Many of them involved water. We had to carefully run power to the lights, hanging extension cords from above in many cases to minimize the risk of water mixing with electricity. We didn't properly plumb the luxury bathrooms, of course, so we had to deal with leaks and creative ways to drain the hundreds of gallons of water we were introducing to the sets. In addition to my "normal" responsibilities on the production cart once we started rolling tape, I had to also monitor the cables snaking through the set; ready to react immediately if water appeared anywhere near the power cables. We had more than one "emergency" shutdown as water tried to mix with electricity.
To make it even more complex; Kohler's products are beautiful and shiny. Shiny things are very hard to light and even harder to shoot. You can get away with a lot if the shots are still; but that wouldn't have been very artistic. We wanted every product to shine, but we couldn't have any spurious reflections. Most of the sets ended up looking like a C-Stand farm. We took massive amounts of time - time we didn't really have - mounting gobos, fingers, flags and dots and moving lights to get each shot of the shiny products without flares or specular highlights; except for the ones we were creating intentionally.
We had faucet displays that revolved. We had camera shots that moved. We had moving shots with moving water.
Many of our sets involved swapping out products to give the editors the ability to make one faucet morph into another; seemingly without any shifts in the camera, product or set pieces. We spent hours in a repeating cycle.
Mount a faucet.
Take the shot.
Remove the faucet.
Repeat.
Over time, I believe we shot every faucet in Kohler's line in every finish they offered.
We shot every tub, sink, whirlpool, shower, toilet and bidet.
Everything was shiny.
Most of the shots included water.
The schedule didn't allow us time to relax after getting a print and a safety on every scene. Ralph and the client would give their blessing to the shots and we would rapidly tear everything down so we could start the entire cycle again. Any delay was expensive. Sometimes very expensive.
Stress levels took a quantum leap each time we had a shot involving a nude model. While people outside of the business tend to think we were the luckiest guys on the planet when we got to work with beautiful women who also happened to be naked; that thought could not be further from the truth. Any scene involving nude models required much greater attention to detail during the setup. Unessential personnel would have to be out of the room before the model's robe came off, so it became a skeleton crew - making the rest of our jobs that much harder. To make it even worse; the model is on triple time from the moment she removes her robe until the moment it goes back on. Every minute is very expensive. Every take is eating away at the budget. Every mistake is magnified.
The "easiest" shots came on the relaxed days shooting "the band" playing the theme song. Life on the set was much easier when we were merely dealing with musicians and talent instead of water and electricity.
We spent innumerable hours over the course of several
weeks getting everything wrapped. Clients pay for a full day of work. Of course
a full, ten hour day of shooting actually equals much longer days for the crew.
We would show up a couple of hours before we planned to roll tape for the day
and be tying up loose ends sometimes for hours after the final wrap. It's a
good thing that we shot "Style And All That Jazz" when I was in my
twenties. I certainly couldn't survive that schedule today; but I still look
back at it as the best shoot ever.
I have told many people about that shoot through the years. They'll never truly understand, of course. It was some of the most wonderful and the most miserable weeks of my life.
I have told many people about that shoot through the years. They'll never truly understand, of course. It was some of the most wonderful and the most miserable weeks of my life.
I wish I could do it all again.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
The Anniversary
Diane and I celebrated our 25th Wedding Anniversary on December 19th of last year. I awaken each day with a new realization of the blessing of Diane's love and her willingness to put up with me for twenty-five years.
Twenty-five years is a long time.
Twenty-five years is worthy of a celebration.
So we were thrilled when we noticed that The Tenors (http://www.tenorsmusic.com) were scheduled to perform in Minneapolis on our actual anniversary date. Driving to Minneapolis for The Tenors concert is acceptable in ways that driving to Minneapolis to go back to The Mall Of America could never be.
The Tenors, for those of you who are not familiar with them, are an extremely gifted quartet of young men who are - big surprise - all tenors! They sing a mix of classical, opera and crossover classipop songs. They were originally called The Canadian Tenors, but changed their name to more accurately reflect their international popularity. They perform everything from classic tenor arias like "Nessun Dorma" to a cover of Bob Dylan's "Forever Young."
Our excitement proved to be short-lived, though, when the concert was postponed, and ultimately canceled, due to an ongoing labor dispute between the Minnesota Orchestra and their musicians.
Our trip was cancelled. We should have expected it, I suppose, since our anniversary plans have often changed due to circumstances out of our control. One year the boys Olympians Club at church was going Christmas Caroling so Diane and I were going out for a nice dinner. Unfortunately some of the volunteer drivers failed to show up so Diane and I spent our anniversary driving groups of elementary school kids around the community.
Another year we actually did get to go out for dinner, but the boys ended up with us. To make it even more strange, our waitress apparently quit and walked out of the restaurant after taking our order but before submitting it to the kitchen. I finally went to the owner at the front desk to check on our dinner when we noticed people who arrived well after us getting their food while we sat with nothing. That is when we learned the waitress had quit and no one knew she had taken off with our order. We ended up with a free dinner, but it was another odd anniversary.
I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise, then, that The Tenors cancelled their concert on our anniversary. Fortunately, though, The Tenors announced a new date in Milwaukee on May 17th. I bought tickets as soon as I heard about the new show and Diane and I prepared to belatedly celebrate our anniversary at the concert. We couldn't wait for the day to arrive and, last night it finally did.
Staged in the historic and beautiful Pabst Theater in downtown, Milwaukee, The Tenors came on stage shortly after the scheduled 7:30 starting time. They performed until 10:00 with only a twenty minute intermission.
The Tenors wowed us with songs from two of their three albums; they didn't do anything solely from their Christmas album. They also did a number of songs that are not on any of their albums; including another Dylan cover of "To Make You Feel My Love" and "Bring Him Home" from Les Miserables.
It took us five months to celebrate our 25th Anniversary; but what a celebration it was!
Twenty-five years is a long time.
Twenty-five years is worthy of a celebration.
So we were thrilled when we noticed that The Tenors (http://www.tenorsmusic.com) were scheduled to perform in Minneapolis on our actual anniversary date. Driving to Minneapolis for The Tenors concert is acceptable in ways that driving to Minneapolis to go back to The Mall Of America could never be.
The Tenors, for those of you who are not familiar with them, are an extremely gifted quartet of young men who are - big surprise - all tenors! They sing a mix of classical, opera and crossover classipop songs. They were originally called The Canadian Tenors, but changed their name to more accurately reflect their international popularity. They perform everything from classic tenor arias like "Nessun Dorma" to a cover of Bob Dylan's "Forever Young."
Our excitement proved to be short-lived, though, when the concert was postponed, and ultimately canceled, due to an ongoing labor dispute between the Minnesota Orchestra and their musicians.
Our trip was cancelled. We should have expected it, I suppose, since our anniversary plans have often changed due to circumstances out of our control. One year the boys Olympians Club at church was going Christmas Caroling so Diane and I were going out for a nice dinner. Unfortunately some of the volunteer drivers failed to show up so Diane and I spent our anniversary driving groups of elementary school kids around the community.
Another year we actually did get to go out for dinner, but the boys ended up with us. To make it even more strange, our waitress apparently quit and walked out of the restaurant after taking our order but before submitting it to the kitchen. I finally went to the owner at the front desk to check on our dinner when we noticed people who arrived well after us getting their food while we sat with nothing. That is when we learned the waitress had quit and no one knew she had taken off with our order. We ended up with a free dinner, but it was another odd anniversary.
I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise, then, that The Tenors cancelled their concert on our anniversary. Fortunately, though, The Tenors announced a new date in Milwaukee on May 17th. I bought tickets as soon as I heard about the new show and Diane and I prepared to belatedly celebrate our anniversary at the concert. We couldn't wait for the day to arrive and, last night it finally did.
Staged in the historic and beautiful Pabst Theater in downtown, Milwaukee, The Tenors came on stage shortly after the scheduled 7:30 starting time. They performed until 10:00 with only a twenty minute intermission.
The Tenors wowed us with songs from two of their three albums; they didn't do anything solely from their Christmas album. They also did a number of songs that are not on any of their albums; including another Dylan cover of "To Make You Feel My Love" and "Bring Him Home" from Les Miserables.
It took us five months to celebrate our 25th Anniversary; but what a celebration it was!
Friday, May 17, 2013
What Naked Girl?
Any semblance of modesty disappears in a medical provider/patient relationship - for one of the parties, anyway. As a result, a lot of people get uncomfortable when they have to deal with a medical caregiver of the opposite sex. It just seems odd to reveal potentially intimate details of our lives and bodies with one of "them."
Although I personally never had that hangup; I understand that some people do.
I have always figured that the medical folks really don't care about what I look like. Nana used to say, "Don't worry about it. If they've seen it before then it's no big deal and if they've never seen it before they don't know what it is."
My belief, and Nana's saying, were proven during my time working in EMS. A patient was a patient. It didn't matter if they were male or female, fat or thin, black or white, rich or poor...
You get the idea.
Each patient encounter was merely an instance of someone who needed medical attention meeting up with someone who could provide it. I never really paid attention to how they looked or anything else that didn't impact my care for them. The "other stuff" simply didn't factor in to my reason for being with them. In fact, such thoughts could prove to be a major distraction if I actually paid attention. I think most medical providers; whether pre-hospital, in hospital, clinic or any other situation would say the same thing.
Perhaps nothing exemplified this more than a patient I encountered after a serious automobile accident. As the ranking EMS officer on scene for our department, the Incident Commander assigned my crew to a young lady who had suffered very serious blunt force trauma injuries. My crew and I rapidly began the task of caring for her.
While a lot of big city EMS crews are moments away from definitive trauma care, we often had long transport times which required us to complete detailed assessments that might otherwise be delayed until the patient reached the hospital. We used the phrase, "Make 'em naked," to refer to the practice of cutting all of the patient's clothes off when they had sustained significant trauma, particularly when it involved head injuries that affected their ability to communicate with us effectively.
This patient certainly met all of the criteria so we set about cutting off her clothes and completing a detailed assessment as soon as we got her into the privacy of the ambulance. The assessment revealed a number of serious injuries, including head injuries.
I was stationed at the patient's head overseeing her care. Like most head injury patients; she was extremely combative, which made managing her airway and cervical spine quite difficult. It became my primary focus to manage her airway and deal with her violent attempts to break free from the immobilization devices we had employed
She was also quite verbal. She screamed at me and called me every name in the book throughout our assessment, transport and continued involvement in her treatment at the hospital. She even called me some names I'd never heard before; and I thought I had heard them all. I'm not sure if she was swearing at me in a foreign language or just making up words, but I was thrilled to have a screaming patient instead of a comatose, or worse, one.
I ended up staying with the patient for quite a while since the hospital's ER was swamped with multiple patients from this incident. I stayed at her head throughout her ordeal; speaking to her in an attempt to help calm her. I imagine I had spent at least two hours with this patient from my initial contact until the ER doc had determined that she was stable enough to release my crew from her care.
I went on my way as I did after every call; cleaning up, finishing paperwork and readying the rig for the next call. That call became just one more in a long list of calls I had responded to. There was nothing particularly unique about it to make me think about it again.
Several months later, though, our department was hosting our annual Open House as part of Fire Prevention Week. I was standing around doing the typical public relations stuff we were required to do at these events when I was approached by a stunningly beautiful young lady.
And I mean stunningly beautiful.
She came up to me and asked, "Are you Scott?"
"Yes," I replied.
She said, "I understand I owe you an apology."
I had absolutely no idea who she was. My mind was racing as I tried, without success, to place her. She was a woman I certainly wouldn't have forgotten; especially if I was expecting her to come apologize to me for something. I'm sure there was a rather awkward pause as my mind came up blank.
"Pardon me, but I'm not sure what you're talking about."
It was then that she told me who she was. She said the hospital had told her who brought her in and she came to visit when she heard we were having an open house. She proceeded to apologize, to which I truthfully replied that none was necessary. She certainly hadn't offended me and I was glad we were there to help her when she needed it.
After a short conversation she said, "They told me I may not have fared so well if you all hadn't taken such great care of me. Thank you." With that, she gave me a hug and left. I was immediately swarmed by a number of the other guys in the department wanting to know who she was and why I hadn't introduced her to them.
As she walked away, it really hit me - I was so focused on her care that I never even noticed anything else about her.
For the couple of hours we spent together she wasn't a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was merely a young woman who needed medical attention and I was a person trained to give it.
Having her come back to thank us was a big deal. Not because she was beautiful, but because she was proof that for at least one person; I was able to make a difference.
None of the other stuff mattered...
Although I personally never had that hangup; I understand that some people do.
I have always figured that the medical folks really don't care about what I look like. Nana used to say, "Don't worry about it. If they've seen it before then it's no big deal and if they've never seen it before they don't know what it is."
My belief, and Nana's saying, were proven during my time working in EMS. A patient was a patient. It didn't matter if they were male or female, fat or thin, black or white, rich or poor...
You get the idea.
Each patient encounter was merely an instance of someone who needed medical attention meeting up with someone who could provide it. I never really paid attention to how they looked or anything else that didn't impact my care for them. The "other stuff" simply didn't factor in to my reason for being with them. In fact, such thoughts could prove to be a major distraction if I actually paid attention. I think most medical providers; whether pre-hospital, in hospital, clinic or any other situation would say the same thing.
Perhaps nothing exemplified this more than a patient I encountered after a serious automobile accident. As the ranking EMS officer on scene for our department, the Incident Commander assigned my crew to a young lady who had suffered very serious blunt force trauma injuries. My crew and I rapidly began the task of caring for her.
While a lot of big city EMS crews are moments away from definitive trauma care, we often had long transport times which required us to complete detailed assessments that might otherwise be delayed until the patient reached the hospital. We used the phrase, "Make 'em naked," to refer to the practice of cutting all of the patient's clothes off when they had sustained significant trauma, particularly when it involved head injuries that affected their ability to communicate with us effectively.
This patient certainly met all of the criteria so we set about cutting off her clothes and completing a detailed assessment as soon as we got her into the privacy of the ambulance. The assessment revealed a number of serious injuries, including head injuries.
I was stationed at the patient's head overseeing her care. Like most head injury patients; she was extremely combative, which made managing her airway and cervical spine quite difficult. It became my primary focus to manage her airway and deal with her violent attempts to break free from the immobilization devices we had employed
She was also quite verbal. She screamed at me and called me every name in the book throughout our assessment, transport and continued involvement in her treatment at the hospital. She even called me some names I'd never heard before; and I thought I had heard them all. I'm not sure if she was swearing at me in a foreign language or just making up words, but I was thrilled to have a screaming patient instead of a comatose, or worse, one.
I ended up staying with the patient for quite a while since the hospital's ER was swamped with multiple patients from this incident. I stayed at her head throughout her ordeal; speaking to her in an attempt to help calm her. I imagine I had spent at least two hours with this patient from my initial contact until the ER doc had determined that she was stable enough to release my crew from her care.
I went on my way as I did after every call; cleaning up, finishing paperwork and readying the rig for the next call. That call became just one more in a long list of calls I had responded to. There was nothing particularly unique about it to make me think about it again.
Several months later, though, our department was hosting our annual Open House as part of Fire Prevention Week. I was standing around doing the typical public relations stuff we were required to do at these events when I was approached by a stunningly beautiful young lady.
And I mean stunningly beautiful.
She came up to me and asked, "Are you Scott?"
"Yes," I replied.
She said, "I understand I owe you an apology."
I had absolutely no idea who she was. My mind was racing as I tried, without success, to place her. She was a woman I certainly wouldn't have forgotten; especially if I was expecting her to come apologize to me for something. I'm sure there was a rather awkward pause as my mind came up blank.
"Pardon me, but I'm not sure what you're talking about."
It was then that she told me who she was. She said the hospital had told her who brought her in and she came to visit when she heard we were having an open house. She proceeded to apologize, to which I truthfully replied that none was necessary. She certainly hadn't offended me and I was glad we were there to help her when she needed it.
After a short conversation she said, "They told me I may not have fared so well if you all hadn't taken such great care of me. Thank you." With that, she gave me a hug and left. I was immediately swarmed by a number of the other guys in the department wanting to know who she was and why I hadn't introduced her to them.
As she walked away, it really hit me - I was so focused on her care that I never even noticed anything else about her.
For the couple of hours we spent together she wasn't a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was merely a young woman who needed medical attention and I was a person trained to give it.
Having her come back to thank us was a big deal. Not because she was beautiful, but because she was proof that for at least one person; I was able to make a difference.
None of the other stuff mattered...
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
A Picture Is Worth...
It's amazing what a single picture can do.
Even a picture we haven't even thought about in many, many years.
I have been traveling in Michigan this week. I wish I could say that it was a pleasure trip with Diane or a fishing trip with pretty much anyone who wants to go fishing with me.
No; this has been a business trip. I spent Monday and Tuesday meeting with customers before heading to Lansing for a trade show Wednesday and Thursday.
Clara's Restaurant, located in an old train depot, caught my eye as I was looking for a place to go for dinner after setting up the trade show booth Tuesday afternoon. I love trains and old train stations and, as an extra bonus, this was just a short walk from my downtown hotel. While the food was good; it certainly wasn't something to write a blog entry about.
The atmosphere; particularly one picture, was a different story entirely.
Clara's was decorated with many photographs and paintings depicting life in the railroads' glory days. Many of the images were captivating; photographs of a family, long dead, dressed in their best clothes to have their picture taken. Others were thought provoking, or even sad.
One painting, hung high up on the wall, though, took my breath away.
As a kid we all loved going to Nana and Papa's house. Their house was so different from the hustle and bustle and constant change that was our home. Their house was decorated like an old person's house; with pictures that would seem out of place somewhere else, but seemed perfectly placed in theirs.
One of those pictures hung over the sofa in their living room for as long as I can remember. It was a picture of a woman with long hair in a flowing gown playing a grand piano. The woman was angled away from the viewer so you really couldn't see what she looked like.
We always joked that it was Mom in the picture.
And there it was; high on the wall of Clara's Restaurant in Lansing, Michigan.
It took my breath away.
I looked at the picture of "Mom."
Mom, who has been gone for nearly three years.
Mom; who never looked like that, dressed like that nor certainly ever played the piano like that.
But there she was.
The image, and all of the memories that came with it, washed over me like the crashing of the sea. Things I hadn't seen and thoughts I hadn't thought in decades came rushing back to the forefront of my mind. For a few brief moments I was there again; sitting in Nana and Papa's living room. On one side was the console television in a cabinet of deep mahogany with doors that closed over the screen. Across the room was the sofa with a spot on the back where Papa's hair, combed with Vitalis, left its greasy mark.
Above the sofa was - The Picture.
The one of Mom at the piano.
The one that caused a lump to form in my throat and tears to well up in my eyes as I sat, unable to look away, at a table in a restaurant in Lansing, Michigan decades later.
I could talk about that picture without emotion any time through the years. I could even laugh at how the four kids imagined it was Mom without batting an eye.
But somehow seeing it again was different.
It was Mom, and for that brief moment, it was like she hadn't left us at all...
Even a picture we haven't even thought about in many, many years.
I have been traveling in Michigan this week. I wish I could say that it was a pleasure trip with Diane or a fishing trip with pretty much anyone who wants to go fishing with me.
No; this has been a business trip. I spent Monday and Tuesday meeting with customers before heading to Lansing for a trade show Wednesday and Thursday.
Clara's Restaurant, located in an old train depot, caught my eye as I was looking for a place to go for dinner after setting up the trade show booth Tuesday afternoon. I love trains and old train stations and, as an extra bonus, this was just a short walk from my downtown hotel. While the food was good; it certainly wasn't something to write a blog entry about.
The atmosphere; particularly one picture, was a different story entirely.
Clara's was decorated with many photographs and paintings depicting life in the railroads' glory days. Many of the images were captivating; photographs of a family, long dead, dressed in their best clothes to have their picture taken. Others were thought provoking, or even sad.
One painting, hung high up on the wall, though, took my breath away.
As a kid we all loved going to Nana and Papa's house. Their house was so different from the hustle and bustle and constant change that was our home. Their house was decorated like an old person's house; with pictures that would seem out of place somewhere else, but seemed perfectly placed in theirs.
One of those pictures hung over the sofa in their living room for as long as I can remember. It was a picture of a woman with long hair in a flowing gown playing a grand piano. The woman was angled away from the viewer so you really couldn't see what she looked like.
We always joked that it was Mom in the picture.
And there it was; high on the wall of Clara's Restaurant in Lansing, Michigan.
It took my breath away.
I looked at the picture of "Mom."
Mom, who has been gone for nearly three years.
Mom; who never looked like that, dressed like that nor certainly ever played the piano like that.
But there she was.
The image, and all of the memories that came with it, washed over me like the crashing of the sea. Things I hadn't seen and thoughts I hadn't thought in decades came rushing back to the forefront of my mind. For a few brief moments I was there again; sitting in Nana and Papa's living room. On one side was the console television in a cabinet of deep mahogany with doors that closed over the screen. Across the room was the sofa with a spot on the back where Papa's hair, combed with Vitalis, left its greasy mark.
Above the sofa was - The Picture.
The one of Mom at the piano.
The one that caused a lump to form in my throat and tears to well up in my eyes as I sat, unable to look away, at a table in a restaurant in Lansing, Michigan decades later.
I could talk about that picture without emotion any time through the years. I could even laugh at how the four kids imagined it was Mom without batting an eye.
But somehow seeing it again was different.
It was Mom, and for that brief moment, it was like she hadn't left us at all...
Friday, May 10, 2013
Prison Basketball
Let me start off by saying that I hate basketball.
I hate watching it.
I hate playing it.
But I jumped on board when I was invited to be part of our church's prison basketball ministry a number of years ago. The church had a basketball team that went into prisons throughout Eastern and Southern Wisconsin. They would play against the champion of the prison's league. I signed on and went to the games with our church team. I was an official spectator. I sat in the bleachers with all of the other spectators; mostly the inmates, and cheered on my team.
The inmates were always glad when an outside team came in to play against them. It was a privilege they had to earn to be allowed to play, or even attend, the games. The prison teams normally beat the outside team badly. They practiced together a lot and were usually very good. Now our church team wasn't like your "typical" church team. We had several guys who had played college basketball and even a couple who had been drafted; although they hadn't ultimately made it to the NBA.
Our team's standard game plan to start the game was to win the tip (always won the tip), run down the court to slam dunk, put on a full court press to steal the inbound pass and slam it again. That normally got the opponents' attention and they would settle in for a hard fought game.
I'll never forget my first time going along; it was the the state's maximum security prison at Waupun. Now, to be fair, the state has a "super max" prison that is even higher security, but this was quite the experience for a first timer. The rest of the guys were familiar with the process of gaining entrance to a maximum security prison, but it was there that I learned the routine. I was not allowed to wear a belt. I also couldn't have shoelaces in my shoes since I was not a player. I had to empty my pockets and take off all jewelry. Everything got locked in a locker and then I had to be wanded.
I had been warned about all of that so it wasn't a big deal. The disconcerting part was when they opened a door so I could enter a vestibule.
It was small.
Like a small closet.
The door slammed closed behind me and I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the door in front of me to open. Of course, unlike the guys our team would be playing; I knew it would reopen for me in just a few hours to walk back out.
Now I had a ton of fun on those outings. I typically sat in the bleachers and talked with the inmates; who were always thrilled to have "outsiders" come to visit. The other inmates invariably cheered for our team since the team on the court had beaten their team already to win the right to play against us. There was no love lost between them.
I spent the game cheering on our team and talking with the guys around me. I gave spiritual counsel if it was asked, but mostly I just spent time with them.
Due to scheduling conflicts we were faced with a situation where we only had five players available for one game. The coach asked me to get in uniform and sit on the bench to at least give the impression that we had a sub. He promised that I would not have to enter the game unless someone fouled out.
I'm sure our opponents that night were hoping and praying that I would be in the game as they watched our warm ups. I'm quite sure I could still stickhandle a puck while skating circles around them on the ice, but this was basketball on a court.
I can't shoot.
I can't pass.
I can't even run and dribble without looking down at the ball the whole time.
I gave the guys a pep talk before the game; strongly admonishing them that no one was allowed to foul out.
Well, like I said before, the prison teams were quite good. Our guys were gassed as the game progressed. My "teammates," and I use that word VERY loosely, were waving at me to check in at the scoring table to give them a break.
NO WAY!!! Coach promised I would only have to sit on the bench unless someone fouled out and you didn't foul out!!!
They begged and pleaded during time outs, but I was TERRIFIED - not because our opponents were prisoners because that didn't bother me at all. I was terrified because these guys seemed to have eight foot vertical leaping ability and would make me look like a member of the Washington Generals (the team the Harlem Globetrotters beat up every night). There was no way I was going to step foot on that court while there was a chance the clock might actually be running and I might be expected to do something other than take a stupid foul because I don't even know the rules.
Nope. Wasn't going to happen!
The prison team figured out pretty fast that we really didn't have any subs. They had a great laugh about how my "teammates" were just going to have to get it done without me.
Some of them even thanked me for staying on the bench!
I'm sure it was because they were afraid of what this short, stocky white guy who couldn't shoot, pass or dribble would do to them. Despite my "teammates" pleading and cajoling, I managed to stay in my spot on a wonderfully comfortable folding metal chair!
We still won, so the only damage that came from my fear of stepping on the court was that our five guys were completely wiped out by the end of the game. They laughed about it in the van on the way back home and even joked that I may have been the only basketball "player" in history to be high-fived and thanked by the opponents for my stellar contribution to their game plan.
Fortunately, the coach never had to ask me to sit on the bench again. I continued my "career" with the church basketball team in the safety of the bleachers; talking with the inmates and cheering on my team.
I hate watching it.
I hate playing it.
But I jumped on board when I was invited to be part of our church's prison basketball ministry a number of years ago. The church had a basketball team that went into prisons throughout Eastern and Southern Wisconsin. They would play against the champion of the prison's league. I signed on and went to the games with our church team. I was an official spectator. I sat in the bleachers with all of the other spectators; mostly the inmates, and cheered on my team.
The inmates were always glad when an outside team came in to play against them. It was a privilege they had to earn to be allowed to play, or even attend, the games. The prison teams normally beat the outside team badly. They practiced together a lot and were usually very good. Now our church team wasn't like your "typical" church team. We had several guys who had played college basketball and even a couple who had been drafted; although they hadn't ultimately made it to the NBA.
Our team's standard game plan to start the game was to win the tip (always won the tip), run down the court to slam dunk, put on a full court press to steal the inbound pass and slam it again. That normally got the opponents' attention and they would settle in for a hard fought game.
I'll never forget my first time going along; it was the the state's maximum security prison at Waupun. Now, to be fair, the state has a "super max" prison that is even higher security, but this was quite the experience for a first timer. The rest of the guys were familiar with the process of gaining entrance to a maximum security prison, but it was there that I learned the routine. I was not allowed to wear a belt. I also couldn't have shoelaces in my shoes since I was not a player. I had to empty my pockets and take off all jewelry. Everything got locked in a locker and then I had to be wanded.
I had been warned about all of that so it wasn't a big deal. The disconcerting part was when they opened a door so I could enter a vestibule.
It was small.
Like a small closet.
The door slammed closed behind me and I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the door in front of me to open. Of course, unlike the guys our team would be playing; I knew it would reopen for me in just a few hours to walk back out.
Now I had a ton of fun on those outings. I typically sat in the bleachers and talked with the inmates; who were always thrilled to have "outsiders" come to visit. The other inmates invariably cheered for our team since the team on the court had beaten their team already to win the right to play against us. There was no love lost between them.
I spent the game cheering on our team and talking with the guys around me. I gave spiritual counsel if it was asked, but mostly I just spent time with them.
Due to scheduling conflicts we were faced with a situation where we only had five players available for one game. The coach asked me to get in uniform and sit on the bench to at least give the impression that we had a sub. He promised that I would not have to enter the game unless someone fouled out.
I'm sure our opponents that night were hoping and praying that I would be in the game as they watched our warm ups. I'm quite sure I could still stickhandle a puck while skating circles around them on the ice, but this was basketball on a court.
I can't shoot.
I can't pass.
I can't even run and dribble without looking down at the ball the whole time.
I gave the guys a pep talk before the game; strongly admonishing them that no one was allowed to foul out.
Well, like I said before, the prison teams were quite good. Our guys were gassed as the game progressed. My "teammates," and I use that word VERY loosely, were waving at me to check in at the scoring table to give them a break.
NO WAY!!! Coach promised I would only have to sit on the bench unless someone fouled out and you didn't foul out!!!
They begged and pleaded during time outs, but I was TERRIFIED - not because our opponents were prisoners because that didn't bother me at all. I was terrified because these guys seemed to have eight foot vertical leaping ability and would make me look like a member of the Washington Generals (the team the Harlem Globetrotters beat up every night). There was no way I was going to step foot on that court while there was a chance the clock might actually be running and I might be expected to do something other than take a stupid foul because I don't even know the rules.
Nope. Wasn't going to happen!
The prison team figured out pretty fast that we really didn't have any subs. They had a great laugh about how my "teammates" were just going to have to get it done without me.
Some of them even thanked me for staying on the bench!
I'm sure it was because they were afraid of what this short, stocky white guy who couldn't shoot, pass or dribble would do to them. Despite my "teammates" pleading and cajoling, I managed to stay in my spot on a wonderfully comfortable folding metal chair!
We still won, so the only damage that came from my fear of stepping on the court was that our five guys were completely wiped out by the end of the game. They laughed about it in the van on the way back home and even joked that I may have been the only basketball "player" in history to be high-fived and thanked by the opponents for my stellar contribution to their game plan.
Fortunately, the coach never had to ask me to sit on the bench again. I continued my "career" with the church basketball team in the safety of the bleachers; talking with the inmates and cheering on my team.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Moms Versus Dads
WARNING! This is a tongue-in-cheek look at Moms and Dads. I really don't want to hear the "facts" - particularly from the women in my life.
Trust me, I already know them...
These are the "facts" as I choose to present them.
Since this is my blog, that is exactly what I am going to do! ;-)
With Mother's Day coming up on us this weekend; I can't help but think of how differently we, as a society, think about Moms and Dads.
Mother's Day is a huge deal; as it should be. Moms are very special people. I don't think most people understand how the whole Mother's Day and Father's Day thing looks through a Dad's eyes, though.
We Dads sit in church on Mother's Day listening (and hopefully agreeing) as the pastor extols the great worth of the Moms in the congregation. Much attention and praise is heaped upon them. After listening to most Mother's Day messages, one would be hard pressed to imagine that the Earth could even continue its orbit around the sun if it were not for the unending efforts of Moms.
After church, Dad and the kids take Mom out for a wonderful dinner where she is, again, treated like royalty. The restaurant staff fawns over the Moms; often even giving them a flower as they leave as a reminder of how much they are appreciated. Upon getting home she receives cards and gifts; often of dark chocolate, and is encouraged to relax and enjoy her special day.
Then comes Father's Day.
Merely the fact that Mother's Day was first celebrated in the United States in 1908 and recognized as a National Holiday in 1914, while Father's Day was not recognized until 1972 should give you a pretty good idea of how this all works.
We sit in church on Father's Day and hear the pastor preach a message that reminds us (over and over again) about our responsibility to care for our family and provide for our family and be the leader in our household. We are admonished for our failures; while all of the women in church sit smirking and shaking their heads as they watch their brow-beaten husband from the corner of their eye. They nod in agreement as the pastor exhorts us to love our wives and raise our children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.
After church, the appropriately deflated dads head home where we stand outside in the heat and rain grilling the family's Father's Day meal while the rest of the family sits in the air conditioned comfort of home watching a baseball game on television. The family eats the meal together and the kids give Dad a card and a landscaping tool as a thinly veiled reminder that he really should be out in the yard doing something "productive" instead of sitting in the house.
Yep, that's pretty much how Mother's Day and Father's Day work.
Now before you ladies get all bent out of shape and start the, "I carried that baby for nine months, blah, blah, blah," argument; keep in mind that we men endured your mood swings, strange cravings and constant complaining about how fat you had gotten for nine months, too!
As I think about it; we endure that for pretty much twelve months a year; each and every year - whether you are carrying a baby or not!
Moms agonize over every bump and bruise the kids get, or every risk they take.
Diane freaked out each time a batter hit a ball back toward Joseph when he pitched for the North Prairie recreational baseball team, or when Matthew stood his ground with a baserunner charging toward home plate.
Dads tell them to rub a little dirt in it and get back on the bike, or into the game, or...
I thought it was awesome and yelled encouragement for Joseph to charge the ball or for Matthew to lower his shoulder and take the hit.
Now, I'm not arguing that being a Mom is a very hard and thankless job. In fact, I will be the first to agree.
Most Moms work like a scullery maid for the other 364 days each year; 365 in leap years, so I suppose it's appropriate that we let them have one special day set aside to honor them. It would just be nice if it worked both ways and I could just sit on my sofa watching a baseball game or race on Father's Day like I do every other Sunday instead of having to work on "my" special day!
Trust me, I already know them...
These are the "facts" as I choose to present them.
Since this is my blog, that is exactly what I am going to do! ;-)
With Mother's Day coming up on us this weekend; I can't help but think of how differently we, as a society, think about Moms and Dads.
Mother's Day is a huge deal; as it should be. Moms are very special people. I don't think most people understand how the whole Mother's Day and Father's Day thing looks through a Dad's eyes, though.
We Dads sit in church on Mother's Day listening (and hopefully agreeing) as the pastor extols the great worth of the Moms in the congregation. Much attention and praise is heaped upon them. After listening to most Mother's Day messages, one would be hard pressed to imagine that the Earth could even continue its orbit around the sun if it were not for the unending efforts of Moms.
After church, Dad and the kids take Mom out for a wonderful dinner where she is, again, treated like royalty. The restaurant staff fawns over the Moms; often even giving them a flower as they leave as a reminder of how much they are appreciated. Upon getting home she receives cards and gifts; often of dark chocolate, and is encouraged to relax and enjoy her special day.
Then comes Father's Day.
Merely the fact that Mother's Day was first celebrated in the United States in 1908 and recognized as a National Holiday in 1914, while Father's Day was not recognized until 1972 should give you a pretty good idea of how this all works.
We sit in church on Father's Day and hear the pastor preach a message that reminds us (over and over again) about our responsibility to care for our family and provide for our family and be the leader in our household. We are admonished for our failures; while all of the women in church sit smirking and shaking their heads as they watch their brow-beaten husband from the corner of their eye. They nod in agreement as the pastor exhorts us to love our wives and raise our children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.
After church, the appropriately deflated dads head home where we stand outside in the heat and rain grilling the family's Father's Day meal while the rest of the family sits in the air conditioned comfort of home watching a baseball game on television. The family eats the meal together and the kids give Dad a card and a landscaping tool as a thinly veiled reminder that he really should be out in the yard doing something "productive" instead of sitting in the house.
Yep, that's pretty much how Mother's Day and Father's Day work.
Now before you ladies get all bent out of shape and start the, "I carried that baby for nine months, blah, blah, blah," argument; keep in mind that we men endured your mood swings, strange cravings and constant complaining about how fat you had gotten for nine months, too!
As I think about it; we endure that for pretty much twelve months a year; each and every year - whether you are carrying a baby or not!
Moms agonize over every bump and bruise the kids get, or every risk they take.
Diane freaked out each time a batter hit a ball back toward Joseph when he pitched for the North Prairie recreational baseball team, or when Matthew stood his ground with a baserunner charging toward home plate.
Dads tell them to rub a little dirt in it and get back on the bike, or into the game, or...
I thought it was awesome and yelled encouragement for Joseph to charge the ball or for Matthew to lower his shoulder and take the hit.
Now, I'm not arguing that being a Mom is a very hard and thankless job. In fact, I will be the first to agree.
Most Moms work like a scullery maid for the other 364 days each year; 365 in leap years, so I suppose it's appropriate that we let them have one special day set aside to honor them. It would just be nice if it worked both ways and I could just sit on my sofa watching a baseball game or race on Father's Day like I do every other Sunday instead of having to work on "my" special day!
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Lee's Has Fleas And Color TVs!
Dad occasionally had to travel to various Banquet Foods plants scattered around Missouri. Once in a while Mom and Dad would pack up the entire family to go along on one of these trips.
We did some wonderful things on those trips; including a trip to one of Banquet's chicken processing plants.
I can still picture the chicken slaughtering operation and the various stations where the carcasses were gutted, plucked and cut into pieces. Almost all of the operations were done by hand in 1969, but I certainly don't have any recollection of the tour being gross or disturbing. In fact, it was one of the coolest things we ever did as a family! Somehow I doubt too many kids get to go on tours like that any more, but we did and it was awesome!
I was nearing my eighth birthday as we took the tour of the processing plant. I can remember that because we were in the hotel on July 16, 1969 - Mom's birthday - and we got to watch the Apollo 11 launch on the hotel's color television while we were on the trip. We stayed at Lee's Hotel several times through the years and it was always remembered by the lyrical line someone in the family - probably Debbie - came up with, "Lee's Has Fleas And Color TVs!"
Having color television was huge in 1969. We didn't have one at home, so it was a huge treat to get to watch a color television when we traveled. In fact, I didn't have a color television at all until I went away to college and started making a little money on the side by finding broken televisions, fixing them and selling them to other students in the Towers dorm complex at SEMO. Mom was convinced that watching a color television was certain to cause cancer where watching a black and white television was perfectly safe - as long as you sat far enough away from it. Far enough away in Mom's opinion would have required us all to have binoculars to watch the television, so it was an ongoing battle of just where we could sit when watching television.
In any case; Lee's had color TVs so it was awesome!
Now Lee's didn't really have fleas, as I recall, but on one of our trips they did have cockroaches! Getting up to use the bathroom overnight was an adventure. You might hear the crunch of a cockroach under your bare feet as you walked from the bed to the bathroom. You were virtually guaranteed to see them scurrying into the relative security of a dark corner when you turned on the bathroom light. Yes, Lee's was an adventure on that trip!
I distinctly remember Kim refusing to get out of bed in the dark. I'm quite sure she would have rather suffered through a bladder explosion than risk stepping on, or even merely seeing, a cockroach. Kim always was the prissy one in the family! I'm still not convinced that she wasn't somehow switched at birth in the hospital nursery because she is the only one who hated all of the fun things we did - camping, digging holes in the back yard, playing in lakes and rivers, going to camp, fishing, etc. etc. etc.
I'm sure Mom and Dad spoke to the hotel management and dealt with the cockroach issue, but I don't recall what ever happened. Having a cockroach problem is far more exciting to a nearly eight year old boy than having a cockroach problem cleared up! I suppose the lyrical description was born because it is rather hard to rhyme with cockroaches, so fleas were somehow substituted. To this day, "Lee's Has Fleas And Color TVs," still rings out whenever the topic of a business trip with Dad comes up.
Those were the days...
We did some wonderful things on those trips; including a trip to one of Banquet's chicken processing plants.
I can still picture the chicken slaughtering operation and the various stations where the carcasses were gutted, plucked and cut into pieces. Almost all of the operations were done by hand in 1969, but I certainly don't have any recollection of the tour being gross or disturbing. In fact, it was one of the coolest things we ever did as a family! Somehow I doubt too many kids get to go on tours like that any more, but we did and it was awesome!
I was nearing my eighth birthday as we took the tour of the processing plant. I can remember that because we were in the hotel on July 16, 1969 - Mom's birthday - and we got to watch the Apollo 11 launch on the hotel's color television while we were on the trip. We stayed at Lee's Hotel several times through the years and it was always remembered by the lyrical line someone in the family - probably Debbie - came up with, "Lee's Has Fleas And Color TVs!"
Having color television was huge in 1969. We didn't have one at home, so it was a huge treat to get to watch a color television when we traveled. In fact, I didn't have a color television at all until I went away to college and started making a little money on the side by finding broken televisions, fixing them and selling them to other students in the Towers dorm complex at SEMO. Mom was convinced that watching a color television was certain to cause cancer where watching a black and white television was perfectly safe - as long as you sat far enough away from it. Far enough away in Mom's opinion would have required us all to have binoculars to watch the television, so it was an ongoing battle of just where we could sit when watching television.
In any case; Lee's had color TVs so it was awesome!
Now Lee's didn't really have fleas, as I recall, but on one of our trips they did have cockroaches! Getting up to use the bathroom overnight was an adventure. You might hear the crunch of a cockroach under your bare feet as you walked from the bed to the bathroom. You were virtually guaranteed to see them scurrying into the relative security of a dark corner when you turned on the bathroom light. Yes, Lee's was an adventure on that trip!
I distinctly remember Kim refusing to get out of bed in the dark. I'm quite sure she would have rather suffered through a bladder explosion than risk stepping on, or even merely seeing, a cockroach. Kim always was the prissy one in the family! I'm still not convinced that she wasn't somehow switched at birth in the hospital nursery because she is the only one who hated all of the fun things we did - camping, digging holes in the back yard, playing in lakes and rivers, going to camp, fishing, etc. etc. etc.
I'm sure Mom and Dad spoke to the hotel management and dealt with the cockroach issue, but I don't recall what ever happened. Having a cockroach problem is far more exciting to a nearly eight year old boy than having a cockroach problem cleared up! I suppose the lyrical description was born because it is rather hard to rhyme with cockroaches, so fleas were somehow substituted. To this day, "Lee's Has Fleas And Color TVs," still rings out whenever the topic of a business trip with Dad comes up.
Those were the days...
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Tall Towers
I used to be slightly afraid of heights. I was never like my sister Debbie; who probably still won't go near the railing of her deck because it's about three steps off the ground. I remember going through Onondaga Cave as a kid. She refused to walk over the natural bridge. The only way we got her to continue the tour was to make her close her eyes and allow us to lead her over to the other side.
It wasn't even that high!
I had a healthy respect for heights, but I wasn't afraid of them. I pretty much credit my brother-in-law Chris with getting me beyond any fear. Chris was into climbing and rappelling. I kind of thought he was off his rocker for jumping off cliffs; but to each his own. I had no real desire to participate. That is, until he invited me and Mom's response was, "Over my dead body!!!" For some reason that I still don't totally understand; I suddenly had an insatiable desire to go jump off a cliff with Chris and readily accepted his invitation. It wasn't that I actually wanted it to be over her dead body; it's just that her words somehow motivated me to rebel a bit and go jump off a cliff - with a descender on the rope, of course.
It took a lot for me to actually step over the edge that first time.
And the second time.
And the third time.
Eventually, though, I came to really enjoy it. I realized that I had overcome any fear of heights while setting ropes for a group one day and hung out over the cliff face to shake a rope free from a ledge below. I was just hanging out there in space with the rope looped over my arm and my feet against the rock face. It was there that the thought hit me that I would have never done that just a year, or so, earlier.
I continued to play around with climbing and rappelling through college. It was while in college that I got to experience the real fun of heights. My landlord in college was a Cape Girardeau firefighter who had a side business doing tower maintenance for the local television and radio stations. John offered me a job helping him work on the towers.
My very first climb was a whopper! The local CBS affiliate, KFVS Channel 12, was having some transmitter issues and wanted to install a dummy load in place of their antenna so they could do some testing and tweaking. The FCC required that testing be done between Midnight and 6:00 AM, so we were going to go up the tower in the middle of the night. The KFVS tower was 1,776 feet tall. An elevator went up the first 1,500 feet so we would only actually have to climb the last 276 feet to the antenna.
To say that the elevators in towers are small would be a vast understatement. There was enough room for us to load all of our equipment into the elevator and that was it. We climbed on top of the elevator, hooked our safety belts onto the elevator frame and started the ride to the top. The ascent took a long time and the view of the lights in surrounding cities was spectacular!
We climbed off the elevator and unloaded our gear upon reaching the observation deck at 1,500 feet. We rigged lines to the dummy load so we could climb to the antenna and then pull the load up behind us.
Up we went. The wind was whipping around and the temperature was significantly colder than the near ninety degree heat on the ground. We did our work and waited for the engineers to radio from the ground that they had completed their testing so we could unhook the dummy load, reconnect the antenna and begin our descent.
It was exhilarating, and I was making $10 per hour; which was great money for a college student in 1984!
I was hooked!
I did several other climbs before graduating from college and moving on. Some were easy daytime climbs and some were difficult nighttime climbs. The worst was going up an icy tower in the middle of a snowy night in an attempt to find a nitrogen leak in the transmission line. John decided that we would climb no more than 300 feet in the ice and snow since we had to physically climb to inspect the transmission line instead of riding an elevator. Fortunately we found it less than 300 feet from the ground.
I kind of miss the excitement of those climbs. Of course, I was much younger then - and in much better shape - so it was easy work. The combination of arthritic knees, asthma and protruding midsection, to put it politely, make it impossible for me to do that any more.
But every once in a while I think I would like to sit on top of one of those elevators again and ride up to an observation deck over 1,000 feet in the air just to get to be up there again.
It wasn't even that high!
I had a healthy respect for heights, but I wasn't afraid of them. I pretty much credit my brother-in-law Chris with getting me beyond any fear. Chris was into climbing and rappelling. I kind of thought he was off his rocker for jumping off cliffs; but to each his own. I had no real desire to participate. That is, until he invited me and Mom's response was, "Over my dead body!!!" For some reason that I still don't totally understand; I suddenly had an insatiable desire to go jump off a cliff with Chris and readily accepted his invitation. It wasn't that I actually wanted it to be over her dead body; it's just that her words somehow motivated me to rebel a bit and go jump off a cliff - with a descender on the rope, of course.
It took a lot for me to actually step over the edge that first time.
And the second time.
And the third time.
Eventually, though, I came to really enjoy it. I realized that I had overcome any fear of heights while setting ropes for a group one day and hung out over the cliff face to shake a rope free from a ledge below. I was just hanging out there in space with the rope looped over my arm and my feet against the rock face. It was there that the thought hit me that I would have never done that just a year, or so, earlier.
I continued to play around with climbing and rappelling through college. It was while in college that I got to experience the real fun of heights. My landlord in college was a Cape Girardeau firefighter who had a side business doing tower maintenance for the local television and radio stations. John offered me a job helping him work on the towers.
My very first climb was a whopper! The local CBS affiliate, KFVS Channel 12, was having some transmitter issues and wanted to install a dummy load in place of their antenna so they could do some testing and tweaking. The FCC required that testing be done between Midnight and 6:00 AM, so we were going to go up the tower in the middle of the night. The KFVS tower was 1,776 feet tall. An elevator went up the first 1,500 feet so we would only actually have to climb the last 276 feet to the antenna.
To say that the elevators in towers are small would be a vast understatement. There was enough room for us to load all of our equipment into the elevator and that was it. We climbed on top of the elevator, hooked our safety belts onto the elevator frame and started the ride to the top. The ascent took a long time and the view of the lights in surrounding cities was spectacular!
We climbed off the elevator and unloaded our gear upon reaching the observation deck at 1,500 feet. We rigged lines to the dummy load so we could climb to the antenna and then pull the load up behind us.
Up we went. The wind was whipping around and the temperature was significantly colder than the near ninety degree heat on the ground. We did our work and waited for the engineers to radio from the ground that they had completed their testing so we could unhook the dummy load, reconnect the antenna and begin our descent.
It was exhilarating, and I was making $10 per hour; which was great money for a college student in 1984!
I was hooked!
I did several other climbs before graduating from college and moving on. Some were easy daytime climbs and some were difficult nighttime climbs. The worst was going up an icy tower in the middle of a snowy night in an attempt to find a nitrogen leak in the transmission line. John decided that we would climb no more than 300 feet in the ice and snow since we had to physically climb to inspect the transmission line instead of riding an elevator. Fortunately we found it less than 300 feet from the ground.
I kind of miss the excitement of those climbs. Of course, I was much younger then - and in much better shape - so it was easy work. The combination of arthritic knees, asthma and protruding midsection, to put it politely, make it impossible for me to do that any more.
But every once in a while I think I would like to sit on top of one of those elevators again and ride up to an observation deck over 1,000 feet in the air just to get to be up there again.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Tears
I rarely cry. It's not from some "tough guy" mentality, but because there aren't many things in my life that make me cry.
I cried on an August night in 2007. Diane and Matthew and I had just said our goodbyes to Joseph as we drove away from Bob Jones University after dropping him off for his freshman year. It broke my heart to see him standing alone behind the dorm; waving until we drove out of sight.
I cried again Friday. This time my tears were triggered by the sight of Matthew shaking hands with Dr. Jones on the FMA platform as he received his diploma.
There were other occasions for tears through the years, but these two seem to bookend a stage of our lives. A stage that opened with Joseph's freshman year and closed with Matthew's graduation.
The circle has closed.
We drove away from Bob Jones University the first time with a mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy because we were so excited for Joseph. Sorrow because we were leaving him behind; and, with it, his childhood was truly over. At the time, the sorrow seemed greater than the joy.
We drove away from Bob Jones University for the last time with a mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy because we, as a family, have made it through. Sorrow because it was the last time. This time, the joy was greater than the sorrow.
Diane and I have made the drive to Greenville a number of times over the past six years. The highways have become so familiar that I know the curves and hills through the Cumberlands and Smokies well before we get to them. My corny jokes about some of the exits and cities we pass have become comfortable; rather like an old shoe, with everyone knowing it's coming and sometimes even trying to beat me to the punch.
Each trip brings reminders of special moments on previous trips. Memories like our trips to the National Whitewater Training Center on the way to drop Joseph off the first couple of years; and the laughter and excitement of riding through the whitewater rapids.
Memories like getting "The World's Best Pizza" from the pizza shop in the Flea Market in Kodak, Tennessee. The atmosphere was strange and the pizza was far from the world's best.
Or memories like my mad dash through the mountains to pick up Joseph after his sophomore year. For whatever reason, Joseph's storage barrel had not been picked up. That meant he (I) had to find a way to get his barrel to the storage facility before 6:00 PM. We were not going to be on campus in time, so I had to pick it up a bit as we drove through the mountains in hopes of getting there in time to get his barrel taken care of. Fortunately, he found a friend with a car who could get it taken care of for him. We still talk about that almost every time we hit a particular place on the mountain road.
I suppose we won't be reliving those memories in the same way any more.
Diane and I are moving into the next stage of life; one where our children are grown and independent. Whether they continue to live with us for the foreseeable future or not is largely irrelevant.
They are grown.
It seems hard to believe that our boys are college graduates. It seems hard to believe they are so grown up. They are, though, and they have made us proud.
I cried on an August night in 2007. Diane and Matthew and I had just said our goodbyes to Joseph as we drove away from Bob Jones University after dropping him off for his freshman year. It broke my heart to see him standing alone behind the dorm; waving until we drove out of sight.
I cried again Friday. This time my tears were triggered by the sight of Matthew shaking hands with Dr. Jones on the FMA platform as he received his diploma.
There were other occasions for tears through the years, but these two seem to bookend a stage of our lives. A stage that opened with Joseph's freshman year and closed with Matthew's graduation.
The circle has closed.
We drove away from Bob Jones University the first time with a mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy because we were so excited for Joseph. Sorrow because we were leaving him behind; and, with it, his childhood was truly over. At the time, the sorrow seemed greater than the joy.
We drove away from Bob Jones University for the last time with a mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy because we, as a family, have made it through. Sorrow because it was the last time. This time, the joy was greater than the sorrow.
Diane and I have made the drive to Greenville a number of times over the past six years. The highways have become so familiar that I know the curves and hills through the Cumberlands and Smokies well before we get to them. My corny jokes about some of the exits and cities we pass have become comfortable; rather like an old shoe, with everyone knowing it's coming and sometimes even trying to beat me to the punch.
Each trip brings reminders of special moments on previous trips. Memories like our trips to the National Whitewater Training Center on the way to drop Joseph off the first couple of years; and the laughter and excitement of riding through the whitewater rapids.
Memories like getting "The World's Best Pizza" from the pizza shop in the Flea Market in Kodak, Tennessee. The atmosphere was strange and the pizza was far from the world's best.
Or memories like my mad dash through the mountains to pick up Joseph after his sophomore year. For whatever reason, Joseph's storage barrel had not been picked up. That meant he (I) had to find a way to get his barrel to the storage facility before 6:00 PM. We were not going to be on campus in time, so I had to pick it up a bit as we drove through the mountains in hopes of getting there in time to get his barrel taken care of. Fortunately, he found a friend with a car who could get it taken care of for him. We still talk about that almost every time we hit a particular place on the mountain road.
I suppose we won't be reliving those memories in the same way any more.
Diane and I are moving into the next stage of life; one where our children are grown and independent. Whether they continue to live with us for the foreseeable future or not is largely irrelevant.
They are grown.
It seems hard to believe that our boys are college graduates. It seems hard to believe they are so grown up. They are, though, and they have made us proud.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
Dukes of Hazzard Class!
Now, without trying to be crude, you must understand that I rarely ever have to stop while on a trip to empty my bladder. It's a far cry from when I was a kid. I even flew nonstop from Chicago to Tokyo without using the aircraft's lavatory. I can just "hold it" for a very long time.
A very long time doesn't take into account drinking five Powerades while on a trip to celebrate Matthew's Graduation from Bob Jones University. We were planning on stopping for lunch about an hour up the road, so I figured I would just "hold it" a while longer. Little did I realize that we would spend one-half hour sitting in a construction stoppage. It became a much bigger deal in a hurry.
We noticed a highway information sign for The 49 ER Fuel Center truck stop at an approaching exit. I had never heard of this particular truck stop; it certainly wasn't a TA, Love's or Pilot, if you get my drift.
I should have kept on driving...
The Dukes of Hazzard were high class compared to this truck stop. The analogy is appropriate because we were within a few minutes of Hazard, Kentucky.
I should have known better...
My Mother raised me better than this...
The General Lee would have been a luxury car in this lot
A car parked beside me as I was getting out of the car. Now that, in and off itself, was not anything particularly out of the ordinary. The fact that it was a no parking area made it a bit more interesting.
I approached the door just as a woman was coming at the door from the inside. Since my Mom always taught me that you hold the door for a woman (I hesitate to call these women Ladies), I opened the door for her to exit before I would enter. The woman from the car beside me blasted through the door without a word; nearly knocking the woman coming out of the building over. The poor woman just looked at me with a rather shocked expression before laughing, thanking me and going on her way.
The building was completely filled with the haze and odor of cigarette smoke. To the right was a restaurant of sorts. A hallway to the restrooms was on the left. I thought the "Woman In A Hurry" might be having a restroom emergency, but that was quickly proven to be false when she turned to the right and made a beeline for a"back room" behind the restaurant.
The restaurant was equipped with tables and chairs from 1950's. The Formica-topped tables had metal legs and metal banding around the table top like the old kitchen table at Nana and Papa's house when we were kids. The chair backs and seats were covered with cracked vinyl and the legs were probably once chromed but now just pocked and puckered. The clientele sat, looking bored, as they ate their food in the smokey haze.
I made my way down the hall to the restrooms. There were not Men's and Women's restrooms; just two individual bathrooms. Both were in use when I arrived, so I had time to look around the dark hallway while waiting for one of the rooms to open.
The rooms were under raised about six inches from the hallway floor and were quite obviously under construction. The room was walled with concrete board screwed to the walls with no mud or paint. The floor was covered with a cheap vinyl floor covering.
The room looked as if it have been under construction for some time.
Probably years.
I was pleasantly shocked, though, to notice that the restroom was immaculately clean.
As I made my way to the exit, I noticed a Video Poker room along the hallway from the restroom to the restaurant. The room was packed with truckers at the dozens of machines; smoke filling the air.
There were two women working behind the counter; either one of whom could have beaten Leon Spinks. Okay, most women could have beaten Leon Spinks, but you get the point. I couldn't get out of there and back to the car quickly enough.
My first words upon getting back into the car were, "No restroom emergency; however great it may seem, will ever be serious enough to stop here again."
Diane and Joseph reported the woman who had busted through the door came rushing back out with whatever treasure she had purchased in the "back room." She tripped on one of the concrete parking lot curbs; swearing as she caught herself and her "treasure" before climbing back into her car and driving away.
Now I fully admit that I have, on very rare occasions, been known to exaggerate ever so slightly to make a story more interesting. This restaurant, and the story as a whole, require no exaggeration. Really!
I could not have made this up if I tried.
A very long time doesn't take into account drinking five Powerades while on a trip to celebrate Matthew's Graduation from Bob Jones University. We were planning on stopping for lunch about an hour up the road, so I figured I would just "hold it" a while longer. Little did I realize that we would spend one-half hour sitting in a construction stoppage. It became a much bigger deal in a hurry.
We noticed a highway information sign for The 49 ER Fuel Center truck stop at an approaching exit. I had never heard of this particular truck stop; it certainly wasn't a TA, Love's or Pilot, if you get my drift.
I should have kept on driving...
The Dukes of Hazzard were high class compared to this truck stop. The analogy is appropriate because we were within a few minutes of Hazard, Kentucky.
I should have known better...
My Mother raised me better than this...
The General Lee would have been a luxury car in this lot
A car parked beside me as I was getting out of the car. Now that, in and off itself, was not anything particularly out of the ordinary. The fact that it was a no parking area made it a bit more interesting.
I approached the door just as a woman was coming at the door from the inside. Since my Mom always taught me that you hold the door for a woman (I hesitate to call these women Ladies), I opened the door for her to exit before I would enter. The woman from the car beside me blasted through the door without a word; nearly knocking the woman coming out of the building over. The poor woman just looked at me with a rather shocked expression before laughing, thanking me and going on her way.
The building was completely filled with the haze and odor of cigarette smoke. To the right was a restaurant of sorts. A hallway to the restrooms was on the left. I thought the "Woman In A Hurry" might be having a restroom emergency, but that was quickly proven to be false when she turned to the right and made a beeline for a"back room" behind the restaurant.
I made my way down the hall to the restrooms. There were not Men's and Women's restrooms; just two individual bathrooms. Both were in use when I arrived, so I had time to look around the dark hallway while waiting for one of the rooms to open.
The rooms were under raised about six inches from the hallway floor and were quite obviously under construction. The room was walled with concrete board screwed to the walls with no mud or paint. The floor was covered with a cheap vinyl floor covering.
The room looked as if it have been under construction for some time.
Probably years.
I was pleasantly shocked, though, to notice that the restroom was immaculately clean.
As I made my way to the exit, I noticed a Video Poker room along the hallway from the restroom to the restaurant. The room was packed with truckers at the dozens of machines; smoke filling the air.
There were two women working behind the counter; either one of whom could have beaten Leon Spinks. Okay, most women could have beaten Leon Spinks, but you get the point. I couldn't get out of there and back to the car quickly enough.
My first words upon getting back into the car were, "No restroom emergency; however great it may seem, will ever be serious enough to stop here again."
Diane and Joseph reported the woman who had busted through the door came rushing back out with whatever treasure she had purchased in the "back room." She tripped on one of the concrete parking lot curbs; swearing as she caught herself and her "treasure" before climbing back into her car and driving away.
Now I fully admit that I have, on very rare occasions, been known to exaggerate ever so slightly to make a story more interesting. This restaurant, and the story as a whole, require no exaggeration. Really!
I could not have made this up if I tried.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Lazy Crew
It seems like a lot of people have a, "Do the least amount of work to get by," attitude. You don't survive long in a film and video production environment with that kind of attitude. In fact, you won't make it through a single shoot. Pretty much everyone I worked with had the exact opposite attitude; we came in early and worked late and did whatever we needed to do to make sure the production exceeded our clients' expectations.
That being said, there was one particular instance that we totally and completely violated that code. John was our boss. He was part owner of the business and we ultimately answered to him. He rarely came back into the soundstage or out on location other than to do a bit of schmoozing with the clients. Every once in a great while, though, he would decide to direct a shoot for a particular client. It wasn't normally a big deal because we were all used to dealing with directors and producers and their little idiosyncrasies.
John was a little different, though. He had a purely film production background and always wanted very complex lighting set ups. He was often rather difficult to please - to put it mildly. We learned our lesson on one particular shoot and pretty much carried our education forward on any shoots John directed.
I do not even remember the original client, but each evening John would tell us what he wanted for the first shot in the morning and it was our job to have it ready when he walked in the door. I was salaried so John didn't really care how many hours he worked me and I didn't really care how many hours I worked. Hey, I was single, without a girlfriend at the time and would only go home to my cat at the end of the day anyway.
The entire crew would arrive a couple of hours before we planned to roll tape. We carefully set up the lighting, ran the power and prepared the set according to his direction. John would roll in shortly before the client was set to arrive and take control of the set. We quickly learned that, no matter how much time and attention to detail we had put in on the set; John would come in and change virtually everything.
It didn't take us long to figure out that this was John's normal pattern. While none of us were afraid of working long, hard hours; we weren't naive, either, and didn't want to work long, hard hours only to have our hard work trashed.
So we came up with a plan. Each evening, John would lay out his plan for the first shot of the next morning. We all listened carefully and finished wrapping up the work for the day. The next morning, the entire crew would show up on set shortly before we expected John and randomly throw lights up in a pattern roughly resembling what he had spelled out the night before. He was going to come in and change it, anyway, so why should we go to great lengths to do it any other way?
Without fail, John would come in and complain about the lighting and pretty much change everything. We dutifully made all of his requested adjustments and often ended up with a setup much closer to what we would have set up if we had taken the time than what it would have been changed to if we had done it ahead of time.
That plan worked fine for us!
I don't think John ever caught on to us.
That being said, there was one particular instance that we totally and completely violated that code. John was our boss. He was part owner of the business and we ultimately answered to him. He rarely came back into the soundstage or out on location other than to do a bit of schmoozing with the clients. Every once in a great while, though, he would decide to direct a shoot for a particular client. It wasn't normally a big deal because we were all used to dealing with directors and producers and their little idiosyncrasies.
John was a little different, though. He had a purely film production background and always wanted very complex lighting set ups. He was often rather difficult to please - to put it mildly. We learned our lesson on one particular shoot and pretty much carried our education forward on any shoots John directed.
I do not even remember the original client, but each evening John would tell us what he wanted for the first shot in the morning and it was our job to have it ready when he walked in the door. I was salaried so John didn't really care how many hours he worked me and I didn't really care how many hours I worked. Hey, I was single, without a girlfriend at the time and would only go home to my cat at the end of the day anyway.
The entire crew would arrive a couple of hours before we planned to roll tape. We carefully set up the lighting, ran the power and prepared the set according to his direction. John would roll in shortly before the client was set to arrive and take control of the set. We quickly learned that, no matter how much time and attention to detail we had put in on the set; John would come in and change virtually everything.
It didn't take us long to figure out that this was John's normal pattern. While none of us were afraid of working long, hard hours; we weren't naive, either, and didn't want to work long, hard hours only to have our hard work trashed.
So we came up with a plan. Each evening, John would lay out his plan for the first shot of the next morning. We all listened carefully and finished wrapping up the work for the day. The next morning, the entire crew would show up on set shortly before we expected John and randomly throw lights up in a pattern roughly resembling what he had spelled out the night before. He was going to come in and change it, anyway, so why should we go to great lengths to do it any other way?
Without fail, John would come in and complain about the lighting and pretty much change everything. We dutifully made all of his requested adjustments and often ended up with a setup much closer to what we would have set up if we had taken the time than what it would have been changed to if we had done it ahead of time.
That plan worked fine for us!
I don't think John ever caught on to us.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
I Think We're In Harlem...
My sense of humor has always been just slightly off. I have been known to take great pleasure in keeping those around me slightly off balance. People who know me well attribute this to the fact that I am slightly off kilter myself.
I do not argue with them.
There may be no better example of my slightly warped sense of humor than an incident that happened while on a church mission trip with Joseph to New York City several years ago. Now I hate big cities. Despise them! My idea of a wonderful place to visit is some remote lake in the northwoods. Joseph, on the other hand, was in his element in NYC. I was convinced that they were going to use his face on the front of the new, "I Love New York," shirts. My face would appear on the, "I DESPISE NEW YORK WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING," shirts.
To give a bit of background; Joseph was going to NYC with a teen group from our church. The Youth Pastor called me one day to tell me that an anonymous donor had given money to cover the cost for me to go along as a chaperon. I was not very excited about the thought of going to NYC, but I went along to help.
Our group was comprised of 42 people and we stayed at a facility known as The Angel House in the East Village. The area around The Angel House was not a bad area, but it certainly wasn't Park Avenue, either. We occasionally heard gunshots at night. That didn't really phase me, but it gives you an idea of the kind of area we were in.
Our group was involved in many missions activities; distributing literature and doing concerts at various parks and locations around the city. Joseph even got to sing a solo during a mini-concert the group put on in Times Square! We also did some sightseeing while we were in town. We took the boat past The Statue Of Liberty and spent several hours at Ellis Island.
We also went to Ground Zero. While I am glad I went; I found the experience to be extremely emotional. I imagine that I will go back to the memorial and museum if I ever return to New York City, but the sights of the massive hole in the ground and the visible damage to the surrounding buildings were quite stressful. Many tributes still clung to the chain link fence they had built around the site; each one a grim reminder of a life that was snuffed out on that fateful Tuesday morning.
Our activities on one particular day had us taking the subway back to the station near The Angel House quite late in the evening. Two of the women in our group struck up a conversation with a young woman on our train. The women shared the Gospel with the young woman; who was very interested in continuing the conversation further. She got off the train at the same station our group disembarked in order to transfer to yet another train to continue toward our accommodations.
The women continued their conversation on the platform with the rest of the group hanging around the stairs that would lead to another platform where we would catch our next train. It became obvious as the conversation continued that we needed to split up the group to get them back to The Angel House since it was now approaching Midnight. I volunteered to stay behind and escort the ladies back to our accommodations whenever they finished their conversation. The rest of the group took off for the next train and returned to The Angel House.
I waited and I waited and I waited some more. The conversation continued for quite some time. The time really wasn't a concern except for the fact that the train we needed to take back to the station nearest The Angel House was no longer running by the time the ladies wrapped up their conversation.
The motto we lived by when I was in EMS was, "Adapt, Improvise and Overcome," so that is what I did.
Although the specific train that would take us directly to the station nearest The Angel House was no longer running; there were still trains running throughout the system so we would just have to modify our return journey through a couple of previously unnecessary stations.
No big deal.
At least for me.
The two ladies were a little unsettled by this time. The walk from our final station to The Angel House was a number of blocks. The streets of the East Village are still quite busy in the wee hours of the morning, and the ladies felt a bit intimidated. I really wasn't bothered because my attitude has always been that people don't bother you if you look like you know where you are going and know what you are doing. Don't be cocky, but don't look timid, either. Just behave like you would in any other situation.
We arrived safely back at The Angel House around 2:00 AM. Now The Angel House is a pretty secure building and you can't just walk into the building in the middle of the night. I had a cellphone, of course, so the solution was right there - call the group leader and have him come down and open the doors and outer gate from the inside.
My call was answered with a rather concerned, "Where are you?"
So, all that is background to finally get to the point where my rather warped sense of humor came into play. Without skipping a beat, I replied, "I'm not sure. I think we're in Harlem. The trains weren't running any more and I thought we got on the right train to get back, but..."
There was a very brief moment of panic as my words sunk in. Even my warped sense of humor couldn't let that go on for very long, though, before I laughed and told him we were standing outside the building.
Even he thought it was funny then.
I do not argue with them.
There may be no better example of my slightly warped sense of humor than an incident that happened while on a church mission trip with Joseph to New York City several years ago. Now I hate big cities. Despise them! My idea of a wonderful place to visit is some remote lake in the northwoods. Joseph, on the other hand, was in his element in NYC. I was convinced that they were going to use his face on the front of the new, "I Love New York," shirts. My face would appear on the, "I DESPISE NEW YORK WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING," shirts.
To give a bit of background; Joseph was going to NYC with a teen group from our church. The Youth Pastor called me one day to tell me that an anonymous donor had given money to cover the cost for me to go along as a chaperon. I was not very excited about the thought of going to NYC, but I went along to help.
Our group was comprised of 42 people and we stayed at a facility known as The Angel House in the East Village. The area around The Angel House was not a bad area, but it certainly wasn't Park Avenue, either. We occasionally heard gunshots at night. That didn't really phase me, but it gives you an idea of the kind of area we were in.
Our group was involved in many missions activities; distributing literature and doing concerts at various parks and locations around the city. Joseph even got to sing a solo during a mini-concert the group put on in Times Square! We also did some sightseeing while we were in town. We took the boat past The Statue Of Liberty and spent several hours at Ellis Island.
We also went to Ground Zero. While I am glad I went; I found the experience to be extremely emotional. I imagine that I will go back to the memorial and museum if I ever return to New York City, but the sights of the massive hole in the ground and the visible damage to the surrounding buildings were quite stressful. Many tributes still clung to the chain link fence they had built around the site; each one a grim reminder of a life that was snuffed out on that fateful Tuesday morning.
Our activities on one particular day had us taking the subway back to the station near The Angel House quite late in the evening. Two of the women in our group struck up a conversation with a young woman on our train. The women shared the Gospel with the young woman; who was very interested in continuing the conversation further. She got off the train at the same station our group disembarked in order to transfer to yet another train to continue toward our accommodations.
The women continued their conversation on the platform with the rest of the group hanging around the stairs that would lead to another platform where we would catch our next train. It became obvious as the conversation continued that we needed to split up the group to get them back to The Angel House since it was now approaching Midnight. I volunteered to stay behind and escort the ladies back to our accommodations whenever they finished their conversation. The rest of the group took off for the next train and returned to The Angel House.
I waited and I waited and I waited some more. The conversation continued for quite some time. The time really wasn't a concern except for the fact that the train we needed to take back to the station nearest The Angel House was no longer running by the time the ladies wrapped up their conversation.
The motto we lived by when I was in EMS was, "Adapt, Improvise and Overcome," so that is what I did.
Although the specific train that would take us directly to the station nearest The Angel House was no longer running; there were still trains running throughout the system so we would just have to modify our return journey through a couple of previously unnecessary stations.
No big deal.
At least for me.
The two ladies were a little unsettled by this time. The walk from our final station to The Angel House was a number of blocks. The streets of the East Village are still quite busy in the wee hours of the morning, and the ladies felt a bit intimidated. I really wasn't bothered because my attitude has always been that people don't bother you if you look like you know where you are going and know what you are doing. Don't be cocky, but don't look timid, either. Just behave like you would in any other situation.
We arrived safely back at The Angel House around 2:00 AM. Now The Angel House is a pretty secure building and you can't just walk into the building in the middle of the night. I had a cellphone, of course, so the solution was right there - call the group leader and have him come down and open the doors and outer gate from the inside.
My call was answered with a rather concerned, "Where are you?"
So, all that is background to finally get to the point where my rather warped sense of humor came into play. Without skipping a beat, I replied, "I'm not sure. I think we're in Harlem. The trains weren't running any more and I thought we got on the right train to get back, but..."
There was a very brief moment of panic as my words sunk in. Even my warped sense of humor couldn't let that go on for very long, though, before I laughed and told him we were standing outside the building.
Even he thought it was funny then.
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