Dirt Bike Debbie Adds Another Year...

Some of my friends in Junior High and High School were envious that I had three sisters and they were stuck with none. Their logic, though quite flawed, was that my sisters would always be bringing "hot" friends over and I would somehow get my pick of the litter. What my friends failed to realize was that my sisters were mostly normal and didn't exactly hang out with the fashion model crowd. In fact, I don't recall my sisters ever bringing "hot" girls around. My friends also failed to factor into the equation the fact that (even then) I was a geek. I was not exactly a chick magnet!

Despite their failure to hook me up with any "hot" girls, my sisters did provide much entertainment in other areas of life. Kim was always the prissy one. It was really almost too easy to get her riled up about something and send her off on a tirade. Beth was always "the baby," and coddled accordingly. This afforded me many opportunities to pick on her.

Debbie, though, was different.

Debbie was the oldest.

Sometimes Mom and Dad would leave her in charge. That was the best! You see, Kim thought she suddenly became the mom anytime she was left in charge; so that was a real pain. Debbie, though, would just read or listen to records. She kind of had a "no blood - no foul" approach to being in charge. I could do pretty much whatever I wanted when Debbie was in charge - as long as I didn't get Kim or Beth yelling at me.

Debbie seemed to relate to me better than either of the other girls. She got up well before dawn on many Saturday or Sunday mornings to go watch my hockey games; although, as I have mentioned before, I still think she was going in hopes of seeing Mike Rancillio rather than to watch me play hockey. Debbie also often proved to be my cohort in crime at times. Perhaps no single event reflected that more than the time she took me on a dirt bike! Mom had a deathly fear of motorcycles of any sort. She was certain that merely sitting on one put you at great risk of life and limb. The thought of her children getting on a motorcycle was abhorrent to her.

But like I said; Debbie was different. Jim had a couple of dirt bikes and several acres of land behind his parents' house where they could be ridden. I was over there for some reason when Debbie asked if I wanted to go for a ride on the land behind the house.

Well, DUH!!!!! OF COURSE I wanted to go for a ride. I was probably 13 or 14 at the time and couldn't think of anything more fun than riding a dirt bike at that particular moment; especially since I figured riding a dirt bike must be really fun since it was a forbidden pleasure!

I hopped on the back and Debbie took off. We looped around through the yard. Debbie picked up the speed just a bit with each passing lap. Soon, we were really dirt biking through the yard.

It was all fun and games - until I messed up.

I had never been on a motorcycle of any sort before and didn't quite grasp the concept of leaning into the turns. Debbie came hard around a corner and gave it gas to gain speed as the bike reached the apex of the turn.

Debbie leaned hard into the turn.

I leaned the other way.

The bike suddenly lost traction and we went down.

It wasn't pretty. While we had been spared any real injuries, we could not escape bumps, bruises, scrapes and cuts. Mom would be furious if she learned of our little riding adventure. Who knows what punishment she might seek to inflict upon me. Debbie - who seemed to be in the proverbial doghouse almost as much as I was - came up with a plan even The Grinch, in all of his devious ways, would have been proud of -

"Don't tell Mom."

It was that simple. It wasn't that we lied to Mom. We just didn't tell her about riding dirt bikes.

I'm not exactly sure how I managed to survive some of my escapades while growing up, but somehow Debbie and I both managed to survive to adulthood. Today marks a special milestone in Debbie's life as she turns the page on another year. I'm sure she hasn't been dirt biking in many years, but the memory of her taking me for a ride still sticks with me even today.

Happy Birthday, Debbie!

No Fishing...

The month of June is nearly over and I still have not even gotten my boat down from its winter storage spot. This is a bummer!!! It's depressing to see it sitting there; overturned on top of the trailer where it has been since last fall.

No boat equals, of course, no fishing.

There's just something wrong with the world when I don't get to fish.

Diane and Joseph helped me get the boat turned over for winter. Unfortunately, it's quite the ordeal with their help. Matthew is so strong that he and I can do it pretty easily by ourselves. Of course, Matthew is virtually never around.

I was hoping that today would be the day we could get it flipped over so I could rig it and, just maybe, go fishing this weekend. Matthew and Joseph went to Chicago for the day to visit with some friends.

Another day to wait...

Never Again...

As I read TSN's coverage of the Blackhawks return to Chicago after winning the Stanley Cup, I couldn't help but reflect on how different things were forty-some years ago. The reporter wrote about the "crowd" cheering as the players disembarked from the aircraft - Michael Handzus first; hoisting the Cup over his head in celebration.

The "crowd" consisted of police officers, firemen, airport staff and invited guests.

That's it; security rules prohibited the common fan from being anywhere near the celebration.

While I would certainly love to write a "Never Again" blog about how the Blackhawks will never again win the prized Cup; that's not what this is about.

This one's a never again for the fans.

I remember when the Blues returned home after being swept out of the Stanley Cup Finals by the Montreal Canadiens after the 1967-1968 season. We went to the airport; along with thousands of other Blues' fans. The crowd was released to rush toward the aircraft once it was safely stopped and shut down. Cheers of "Let's Go Blues" filled the air. The crowd grew restless as the crew had difficulties opening the main door until, finally, they decided to have the players disembark through the short stairs that dropped down below the aircraft's tail.

Dad put me on his shoulders so I could see over the crowds in front of me. I remember reaching up and touching the wing; still hot from its flight.

The crowd cheered and screamed and sang, "When The Blues Go Marching In!!"

And this was after we lost!

In any event, the players came off the airplane into the loving throngs of fans - cheering, singing, adoring fans. We were there - by the thousands - welcoming our boys home. We were there - by the thousands - standing on the tarmac; touching the aircraft, touching our players!

The Blues' players getting off that aircraft in 1968 were genuinely thrilled to see the fans who came to show their love and support after losing. They hadn't stepped off the aircraft hoisting the Stanley Cup. They returned home having lost despite giving their all as a ragtag bunch of players thrown together on an expansion team. The players shook hands, signed autographs and posed for pictures. The fans ever-pressing to be closer to our team.

Never again.

While we can blame the security rules for keeping us away from the players' triumphant exit from the plane; the separation between fan and star started much earlier than that. Somewhere along the way, the players went from being people who sold insurance during the off season to support their families to multi-millionaires who had to be protected from the ones footing the bill.

Fans will never again get to experience that celebration; relegated, instead, to staged events and parades. Normal fans can't get anywhere near an aircraft on the tarmac. Players often come and go through private entrances; protected from the very fan base that has made them stars - the chasm between the adoring and the adored growing with each passing year.

Things They've Missed...

My boys have missed out on many of the joys we had when we were kids. Our culture has changed and; while some of the things are certainly for the better, many of the changes seemed to have merely caused our kids and all future generations to miss out on the fun.

For example; my boys have never known the fun of seeing the Milk Man. He came through our neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning when I was very young; collecting the empty milk bottles from our milk box and replacing them with full ones. Sometimes, Mom would leave a note in the box for him to also leave eggs or orange juice. Rarely - very rarely - Mom would have him leave chocolate milk.

We'd go out on the porch to pull the day's deliveries from the box; pull the foil cap off the bottle and use the milk on our morning cereal.

My boys have never seen a Milk Man...

We also used to have a produce cart that came through the neighborhood. You knew he was coming because you could hear his sing-song sales pitch as he came down the street - "Strawberries! Cherries! Waaaaaaaaaaaaatermelon!!"

He always had a wide assortment of fresh fruit and vegetables on his cart. We'd race down from the porch to catch him and watch as Mom selected her produce.

My boys have never seen the produce man...

We used buy pretzels once in a while from men on street corners selling Gus's Pretzels. (I suppose there still might be Gus's vendors on the streets around St. Louis, but we don't have anything like it in Wisconsin.) They would walk between the lanes of cars at the stoplights; loaded down with brown paper bags filled with warm, soft pretzels. The pretzels somehow tasted better coming from the street vendor.

My boys have never seen the pretzel vendor...

We used to walk the block to Bob's Corner Store on the corner of Tholozan and McCausland. It was a tiny store that carried a little bit of everything. Mom used to send us to the store with one dollar; with which we could buy a gallon of mile, a loaf of bread and maybe have a little something left over for some candy. Bob had a small butcher/deli counter where he would slice bologna and wrap it in white paper for the trip home. Bob was a great guy who knew all of the neighborhood kids. He gave Kim a bag of Circus Peanuts one time when he knew the Sauermans were coming for a visit. (Mom didn't believe Kim when she said he had given them to her and took her back to the store to make sure.)

Bob had lost his stomach to cancer so he had to eat lots of tiny meals. He was pretty much always snacking on something when you saw him.

My boys have never seen anything quite like Bob's Corner Store...

Newspapers used to be delivered through the streets of St. Louis by young men standing on the back deck of specially made trucks. They had stacks of newspapers in the bed of the truck and special balers that quickly wrapped and tied a string around the rolled up paper they would insert in the baler. They stood on the back of the truck; throwing the rolled up newspapers up in the yard or on the porch of their customers. Sometimes one of the guys would have to jump off the moving truck to fetch a paper that had landed in the bushes and re-toss it on the porch before running back to jump on the still moving truck.

My boys have never seen the paperboys wrap, tie and throw the newspapers from the back of a moving truck...

Trucks drove through the neighborhoods fogging for mosquitoes throughout the summer. You could hear the hiss of the fogger as it sprayed the next block. The telltale sound was merely a warning to race to your bike so you could ride through the fog as you followed the truck when it went past your house.

My boys have never ridden their bikes through the mosquito fog...
(Okay, that's probably a very good thing, but they've missed out on the fun.)

My boys have missed so much. I wonder if someday they will look back on things from their youth; sorry that their kids will never get to experience the joys of...

The Harbinger Of Things To Come

Joseph turns 24 today. It seems like only yesterday that I had the joy of being a part of his birth. He came into the world pretty much the same way he lives his life - with great fanfare.

Diane had just finished closing out her classroom after her final year of teaching at Sherman Elementary School in Milwaukee. She had resigned her position in anticipation of her new job of being a stay-at-home Mom. We had about a month and a half to prepare everything for his arrival. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl at that point, but it really didn't matter. We were excitedly preparing our home for a major change.

Perhaps you remember the line from Robert Burns' poem "To A Mouse" loosely quoted as, "The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry." (This line became the inspiration for the title of John Steinbeck's novella "Of Mice And Men.") Well, our best laid plans went completely awry when Joseph's arrival came anything other than according to plan.

Diane called me at work during her first day off to tell me she was sick. Sick enough to call me to come home.

I raced home and found her lying in bed; feverish and sweating profusely. I checked her over and found that her pulse was 210 - even faster than the baby's pulse. I called her doctor's office and was told to get her to the hospital to be checked out. 

We were sent directly to Labor and Delivery upon our arrival at the hospital. The doctors began the task of figuring out what was causing Diane's illness. Although Diane wasn't really aware of the seriousness of the situation; the doctors were very concerned that we were going to lose both Diane and the baby. 

We had several very scary days as the doctors fought to save my wife and baby. Her water broke in the early morning hours of Sunday, June 25, 1989. The room was filled with medical personnel as they waited for my premature son; ready to whisk him away to the neonatal intensive care unit, if necessary. Joseph made his arrival amidst great fanfare shortly before 9:00 that morning. 

The doctors quickly determined that he was completely healthy and turned him over to me as other doctors continued to work feverishly on Diane as they struggled to control her bleeding. I was torn; filled with joy as I held my son, yet filled with anguish as I watched the doctors work on Diane. 

Diane's symptoms disappeared virtually as quickly as they had first appeared once Joseph had been delivered. The doctors were left to guess at what caused the problems in the first place; finally chalking it up to Diane's body just needing to get Joseph out.

Joseph's arrival proved to be a harbinger of things to come. Nothing is easy and nothing is quiet when Joseph's involved. He's extroverted, creative and over-the-top enthusiastic. Everyone knows when Joseph arrives home because you can hear him singing long before he steps foot in the house. 

Joseph tackles everything he does with full energy. There is no half effort with that boy. In fact, he is pretty much the antithesis of the rest of the family. The rest of the family can sit quietly and watch a game on television. Joseph talks and yells at the television and can only sit for a few minutes before he has to jump up to "do something."

We have tried to keep up with Joseph for 24 years. I couldn't do it when he was a toddler and I certainly can't do it now. He works two jobs and still finds time to serve on the board of a charitable organization in Waukesha, dress up as the bank's eagle mascot for parades, be a Junior Achievement leader, play his piano, arrange music, get together with friends, play videogames and eat massive quantities of food.

I don't remember being nearly that energetic at 24 years old. I'm sure I wasn't.

Maybe he was under-ripe and the extra five or six weeks of gestation would have made a difference. 

Happy Birthday, Bud!

Anniversaries

We think of anniversaries as something to celebrate. The mark of the passing of another year of marriage or service in a job or some other joyous occasion. Sometimes, though, a particular date marks an anniversary of a much different sort.

Dad's been gone for 39 years, now. It was a Saturday that year, too. On April 18th of next year, Dad will have been gone for as long as he was alive. Don't ask me why I ever bothered to figure that out, but it was somehow important for me to know.

Although long forgotten and merely another life and death statistic for most of the world; he remains much more than a statistic to me. 

He was Dad.

I've never really gotten over Dad's death. Although I only knew him for less then thirteen of his thirty-nine plus years; we had a special bond. Perhaps it was because I was the only son of an only son; the only one in the family that would hold on to the Brader name until I died. Perhaps it was because I was born on his birthday. Perhaps it was because we could find refuge with each other in a home otherwise filled with women. Perhaps it was just because we were father and son.

Mom always said that I have a lot of Dad in me. I'm regularly accused of being overly logical and analytical. Mom always made fun of the fact that I insist on having my shirts heavily starched, and I don't change out of my "work clothes" when I get home from work. She said it's just like Dad. 

Maybe so, but that's not what I remember about Dad.

I remember him getting me out of bed at 4:00 in the morning so we could be on the ice for hockey practice by 5.

I remember him buying a couple of extra donuts at the Donut Shop on the way home from practice so we could eat them before we got home "so Mom wouldn't know."

I remember him letting me sit on his lap and drive his 1964 Chevy Nova home from Nana and Papa's house. He operated the pedals and gearshift whileI steered and operated the turn signal.

I remember him taking me fishing at The Lodge.

I remember him teaching me how to manually calculate square roots in the margin of the newspaper.

I remember him playing catch with me on the sidewalk in front of the house on Mardel. 

Mostly, though, I just remember that he left us too soon.

Thirty-nine years has not erased the pain of losing him. Somehow I think that even if I should live another thirty-nine years I'll still be missing Dad.

It's Too/To/Two Much!!!

I rattled around a lot in college; unsure of what I really wanted to do. I ultimately settled on a major that made me into a radio/television engineer. I was really at a loss when forced to select a minor until my adviser noticed that I already had enough English credits (I loved English classes) to complete a minor. So, I became the very odd combination of an Engineering major and English minor.

Geeky Engineering majors had a reputation for carrying calculators, wearing pocket protectors and being rather retentive about certain things. English majors had a reputation for wearing tweed jackets with patches on the elbows, having a pipe and being rather carefree and laid back. Everyone was convinced that I was off my rocker trying to merge such divergent interests. They were probably correct.

Let's just say I fit solidly into one camp and really didn't belong in the other. Somehow, though, I had to live in both worlds. The end result proved to be great for my career because I work in a position where I have to understand extremely complex technical processes; yet discuss them in a manner that is understandable by non-Engineers.

Basically, I suppose I am a geek. I'm a geeky engineering type and I'm a geeky engineering type who has an English minor. This comes through clearly in my rather long list of pet peeves.

My rather geeky nature causes me to go bonkers when things are not done properly and in order. One of the worst offenders is people who do not know - or just choose to ignore - the basic rules of grammar.

Like when to use to versus too or two.

How about they're versus their or there?

Or your versus you're?

Or then versus than?

Or when to use me versus I?

Or when to use him/her versus he/she, or who versus whom?

The list goes on forever!

I'm an English Geek. This stuff just grates on me!!!

Come on, people!! You could not have passed third grade English without displaying at least a rudimentary understanding of word usage. It simply isn't that hard to grasp!!

The explosion of instant communication technology has further driven an entire generation to seemingly forget all of the basic rules of sentence structure in the interest of unreadable brevity!

Many schools don't even require students to diagram sentences any more!!! Is it any surprise, then, that people claim to be "good" when they should be "well," or that they don't understand that horizontal is an adjective and horizontally is an adverb and they should be used appropriately?

You would expect professional communicators to be better than society at large, but that's simply not the case, either. Perhaps one of the reasons I despise football is that I can't stand listening to the broadcasters. Football broadcasters constantly speak in the passive voice. How many times have you heard them say, "The (insert your favorite team here) have the ball on the (insert the enemy's team here) 35?" Never!!! They always speak in the passive voice and say, "The (your team) have the ball on the 35 of the (their team)."

Really????

Maybe you've never noticed that before.

You will from now on and it will drive nuts if you have a love for the beauty and structure of the English language !

There is no way a sportscaster could have passed English 101 with that sentence structure; yet it's pervasive in broadcasting.

I know that I drive my family nuts with my grammar rants, but I just can't help myself. We have a beautiful language and it should be spoken correctly. I admit that my overall geekiness is a major factor in my attitudes about the language.

I actually read the entire owner's manual that comes with any product - including a car. I do this because it is important to understand the proper use and function of whatever product the manual covers. Why then should it be any surprise that I also think it is important to understand the proper use and function of our beautiful language?

An English Geek is a dangerous combination.

First Date!

I don't really remember my first date with Diane. I don't know if she could really put her finger on when we officially dated, either. Our relationship just kind of happened, and I think that is what made it work so well.

Diane and I met at a Singles Bible Study. As you can surmise from the group's name, it was all single people; and all of us were in our twenties and thirties. Some were singles on the hunt for a mate. Most of us, though, were people who just enjoyed getting together every Friday evening for Bible Study and fellowship.

Diane had been involved in the study long before I ever joined. She played her guitar for the singing time and sat there looking quite cute the rest of the time. (She no longer plays her guitar but she is still very cute.)

The fellowship time after the study each week was an important part of the group's dynamic. Sometimes everyone just hung around the host's condo and talked. At other times we would head out for frozen custard or miniature golf or some other activity. Sometimes, though, the group ended up breaking into a couple of smaller groups based on each person's level of interest in one or more activities.

Diane and I had similar interests so we almost always ended  up in the same small group when the larger group split up. In doing so; we became friends.

It was 1987 and the Milwaukee Brewers started the season on a tear; winning their first 13 games, including the one and only no hitter in club history. Diane and I were both baseball fans so we decided to go to the game on the day before Easter. It wasn't really a date; even though just the two of us went. We were just friends who went to a ballgame together.

We did a few other things together, too, but it was still just friends hanging out together. Somewhere along the way, though, things began to change. The change was subtle at first; too subtle for me to pick up on right away.

Some evenings; when Diane had a lot of papers to grade from her second grade classroom, I would pick up a pizza and head over to her apartment to help her grade papers while we had a baseball or basketball game on television in the background. (I typically graded the Math papers because the answers were either right or wrong. Diane handled those subjects that required a more gentle, nuanced approach to correcting their errors than a geek tends to offer.)

Diane had become more than just a friend; she was my best friend.

A lot of our friends probably assumed we were dating, but I didn't see it that way at the time. In fact, I suppose if I had to pick what our first "real" date was it would be the night we went to the theater. It's tough to call it a first date, though, because it wasn't like I nervously called to ask her out; we were just best friends who went out together.

We had seen a commercial during a ballgame announcing that Camelot was coming to the Riverside Theater in Milwaukee. This was a big deal because it was being billed as Richard Harris' farewell tour playing the part of King Arthur. I had seen him play King Arthur before; the first time was when Mom took me to see Camelot at The Muny Opera in St. Louis. Richard Harris was King Arthur. No one else has ever come close to playing the part. Diane had never seen him so I suggested that we go.

I bought tickets and we made plans for me to pick her up at her place after work that day. Diane looked stunning when she answered the door; all dressed up for dinner and the play.

We chatted across the table while enjoying dinner at Mader's German Restaurant. Our conversation wasn't the awkward conversation of a couple on their first date; it was the comfortable conversation of best friends. We casually made our way through dinner and the play; enjoying each other's company as much as the play.

We ended the night with a warm embrace on Diane's front porch. It was the first physical contact we had other than the casual, spontaneous contact that happens between friends. Somehow I think both of us realized at that moment that things were different. We were still best friends, but also something more. We were best friends who had stumbled together upon the relationship of a lifetime.

Many people fall madly in love only to realize they really don't like their partner. We were best friends who loved each other deeply before ever falling in love. Two people who came to the realization that we belong together.

We were engaged about a month and a half after our "first date," and married about six months after that. The rapid progression from "first date" to engaged to marriage may sound strange to people who weren't there, but it was the most natural thing for us.

It's been twenty-five and a half years since we said our "I do's" and I love her even more now than I did then.

She's still my best friend.

Three Years

Three years.

It seems like forever ago.

It seems like only yesterday.

It has been three years since we lost Mom.

Mom, the fighter.

Mom, the one who refused to let cancer kill her spirit - even if it was going to kill her body.

Mom, the one who seemingly willed herself to live long enough to attend Bryan and Tess's wedding.

We all gathered to spend her last day by her side; surrounding her bed as she fought, even to her final moments.  We suffered with her as she struggled to breathe; refusing until the very end to let the cancer win. Each breath was a fight in and of itself. With each breath, I caught myself praying that it would be her last so her struggle in this life would end, but hoping she would fight on and take one more.

I still get a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes as I remember Mom lying on the hospital bed in her living room, her death rattle filling the room as her body fought to draw another breath.

Ted needed a break so he went out to cut the grass. I don't know that it really needed to be cut, but he needed to be out cutting it.

Debbie, Kim, Beth and I sat the death watch; knowing that it was really ending, but somehow refusing to admit that Mom had finally come upon a battle she wasn't going to win.

And then, she was gone.

I went out to get Ted. He stumbled over Shannon in his haste to make it to Mom's bedside. Shannon; the dog that had once saved his life now kept vigil beside Mom's body.

Ted sat with her lifeless body as he waited for the funeral director; their life together now over.

While the very essence of what made Mom special will never leave that house, she left home for the final time that Friday night in June.

We buried Mom on the thirty-sixth anniversary of Dad's death. It somehow seemed fitting that we would say our final goodbyes to Mom on such a significant day. Thirty-six years was not long enough to forget the searing pain of losing one parent; and now we were overwhelmed with the task of saying goodbye again.

It was brutally hot the day we buried Mom. I will never forget the sight of her six grandsons as they carried her casket from the church to the graveside.

Carrying the shell that had once been Grandmother.

It's been three years.

It seems like forever ago.

It seems like only yesterday...

A Different Sort Of Day

I'm back to work after several days off last week. Somehow it seems that time passes more quickly on vacation days and weekends than it does on workdays. Maybe that's what Einstein really meant when he talked about Relative Time...

I have a great Einstein watch that Mom gave me for Christmas one year. In fact, I'm wearing it today.

It's hard to see in the picture, but it has a caricature of Albert Einstein, complete with out of control hair. He is surrounded by the hour identifiers with a twist. Instead of 1, 2, 3; it says 1ish, 2ish, 3ish, etc. The twelve is replaced by the words "Relative Time."

Believe me; I know that Einstein's Theory of Relativity has nothing to do with work time versus time off, but it makes for a fun discussion. Time just seems to pass so quickly at times and drag on forever at other times. Perhaps it is because we look at our watches every two minutes when doing something we really don't want to be doing but get so caught up in the fun things that we do that we don't even notice the passage of the hours, days, weeks and years.

So today marks another day of the clock moving slowly. Probably VERY slowly. My five day weekend seemingly over in a heartbeat. The workday to last forever.

I'll find a way to deal with it. Perhaps I'll glance at my watch periodically throughout the day and remind myself that in only nine-ish hours I'll be able to head home.

Make that still nine-ish hours.

Last time I checked it was still nine-ish hours.

Man this watch must be stopped...

Over The Rainbow

I'm colorblind. The doctors tell me that I am severely red/green colorblind and seriously blue/yellow colorblind. I still see colors; I apparently just see many of them incorrectly. I'm much better identifying colors in bright sunlight than under artificial light or dim conditions, but I can't tell very dark colors apart or very light colors apart no matter what.

I remember when the doctors discovered my color deficiencies. I had borrowed a friend's glasses in science class and was amazed at how clearly I could see the board. I mentioned it to Mom and she did what Mom's do - she immediately made an appointment for me to see the eye doctor. She made an appointment for Beth at the same time; just for good measure.

I was up first with the eye doctor. Beth was sitting with Mom in the chairs beside the examining chair. The moment of truth came when the eye doctor pulled out that stupid little book they have with all of the dots in it. He dutifully went through the book page by page; asking me to tell him what I saw in each ring of dots.

I saw dots.

That's it.

Just dots.

Beth began giggling as each page was turned and I reported nothing on the page. I heard her ask Mom why I wasn't telling the eye doctor about the 27, or whatever number it was on the page. Convinced that there must be something on at least one of these pages; I decided that maybe I just wasn't studying the dots enough. I stared at the next page for a long time. I looked at the dots from multiple vantage points; determined to find the hidden message in the dots.

I saw dots.

Whether because he didn't need to see any more or to save me from Beth's giggling I don't know, but the eye doctor didn't even finish going through the book. I had failed the test.

Beth was overcome with joy at my failure.

I learned to deal with my colorblindness at a young age; even without knowing I had color vision problems. I tore the paper into different patterns on my crayons so I could tell them apart. I still colored many things the wrong color, but I didn't know and I didn't care. The only times my color vision has really been a problem was when I needed help reading the spectrometer in science classes.

I, like everyone else - even those with so-called perfect color vision - learned to associate the color I saw on the grass in the summer as green and the color of a clear sky as blue. Discovering I was colorblind did explain a lot, though. For example, no one in the family could ever figure out why I insisted on having my bedroom painted Aztec Gold. They all thought it the most hideous color available. I thought it was beautiful.

I wouldn't have my color vision corrected even if I could. I can't imagine something more disconcerting than waking up one morning to discover that the grass was actually what I had always thought of as blue and the sky was what I had always thought of as green. It wouldn't be worth it.

I still mess up a lot of things.

Before Diane took over my clothes shopping I only bought clothes in white, black, blue and gray because I could wear pretty much any combination of those colors in pants and shirts without a problem. Diane won't have any of that, so she buys me clothes in various colors. She buys shirts with patterns, also. That throws me for a loop because I have no idea what colors are in them. She has to pair up my pants and shirts when I travel for work so I don't look like a total dork any more than I normally do. She writes "Black" on the waistband tag of my black pants so I can tell them apart from my blue ones. She keeps my socks sorted and separated in my drawer.

Overall, I think I have adapted fairly well. I'm quite content with my color vision, or lack thereof. The only thing that bothers me about my colorblindness is that I have never seen a rainbow. Oh, I see a streak of light through the sky, but I have never seen the colors in a rainbow. Diane loves rainbows and looks for them whenever the conditions are right. She comments about the beautiful colors. I believe her, but I only see a streak of light.

I suppose that I will see colors like I have never seen them before when I reach heaven . It is then that I will see God's promised rainbow for the first time.

I'm okay with that.

I'm Dretti!!!

As my excitement builds for the Milwaukee IndyFest race this weekend, I have been reflecting on some of the more, shall we say, interesting racing related memories I have. The one that keeps coming to the forefront of my mind centers on Matthew's misunderstanding of a name.

I was a huge Michael Andretti fan when he was a driver and I remain a huge Michael Andretti fan as a race team owner. There was never a doubt who I was cheering for once the green flag flew. The boys somehow picked up on my ever-so-slight passion for open wheel racing and would sit with me to watch the races on Sunday afternoon. In fact, they came up with their own special way to watch the races.

Each of the boys would grab their child-sized chair from their small table and chair set. They would dutifully plop themselves directly in front of the television and "become" the drivers; complete with sound effects. They also attempted to mimic the effects of G-Forces on their bodies as they piloted their imaginary cars around the course. Never mind that they had no concept of how G-Force actually affects a person so they often threw their bodies in the wrong direction based on how they turned their imaginary steering wheel. It didn't really matter if they were accurate; just that they were having fun watching a race with Dad!

One year, when Matthew was probably four years old, the boys decided they needed to be real drivers as they raced. Joseph proudly declared that he was Michael. Matthew; since Michael was already taken, declared that he was Dretti. I tried to gently explain to him that Michael Andretti was his name. It wasn't  Michael and Dretti. Matthew dutifully responded that he understood, so I asked him again who he was going to be.

His response?

"Dretti!"

This continued for a while as I tried various explanations to help him understand that the driver's name was Michael Andretti. There were not two people named Michael and Dretti.

He got it!

So I asked him again who he was going to be.

"Dretti!"

Obviously I was not getting anywhere with this and I needed the assistance of a child rearing expert.

"Diane," I screamed. "I need your help!!!!"

This was probably a mistake for several reasons. First, because she thought Matthew's comments were so unbelievably cute; which Matthew picked up on immediately, thereby guaranteeing that we were never going to get beyond Dretti. The bigger reason this proved to be a mistake was that Diane did what Diane still does when one of the boys does something she deems "cute" - she started laughing in such a way that you knew she had lost it and would be of no help whatsoever.

I had just given up entirely by this point. I wasn't about to miss the entire race arguing with a four year old about a driver's name. I don't think I could win an argument with a four year old even today, anyway, so I guess it was a moot point. I resigned myself to accept the fact that Joseph was going to be Micheal and Matthew was going to be Dretti.

We went through an entire race season with Michael and Dretti in our home. I'm convinced that Matthew actually got it early on but continued the charade because of all of the attention it got him from Diane.

I guess he hasn't really changed much...

These are adults????

Joseph will turn 24 in two weeks. Matthew is 22. They are, supposedly, adults. No one would have guessed it this weekend, though.

First a bit of the backstory. Joseph had to go to Mayfair Mall after work Friday to stop at the Apple Store for a new power supply for his poor excuse for a real computer. (Obviously I am not a Mac fan.) Matthew went along so they could have some brotherly hang-out time. The mall was apparently hosting some sort of Lego building contest that stirred a whole much excitement in their lives.

Like many kids; particularly boys I believe, Joseph and Matthew wanted Legos for every birthday and Christmas for a number of years. They amassed a huge collection of the colorful plastic bricks. That huge collection was eventually dumped into large storage bins and moved to the basement.

Joseph headed to the basement to dig out the Legos immediately upon their return home. He called up to us each time he found one of his old "favorite" Lego people or some component of a kit that brought back memories. At one point he even raced up to show us some of the things he had found; his face beaming almost as if he were just a small boy again and had just gotten the Legos as a gift.

He recruited Matthew and they began digging through the Legos in the basement. They dug through the bins and began to separate the pieces by their original Lego set. The Star Wars stuff in one spot, pirates in another, cowboys and Indians in yet another.

Then they began to build.

The house was soon filled once again with the distinctive sound of the boys digging through a bin of Legos. What started as a short walk down memory lane suddenly became a passion. They decided to create a Lego Museum; with different sections dedicated to the different Lego eras.

They spent part of Saturday evening in the basement again.  In a way, we were all transported back a decade or more as Diane and I listened to them down there discussing the various Lego sets and characters. It's almost like it was then; minus the arguing that seemingly always ensued as they each had their own idea of how a particular scene should unfold.

They are building ships and spacecraft and covered wagons.

They are building forts and alien worlds.

Mostly, though, they are building memories. New memories on the backs of the memories of their youth. Memories that, perhaps someday, they will look back on and write of in whatever manifestation of blogging exists in their future.

That's Nice

I don't believe I ever heard Nana say a negative word about anyone. She was, without a doubt, the nicest person I have ever known. I think her favorite phrase was, "That's nice." It was her go-to phrase. I'm not sure if it was reserved for things she agreed with or didn't agree with because she was just too nice to say either way.

Over the years, I came to appreciate hearing, "That's nice."

Nana left a small amount of money to each of us when she died. It wasn't much, but it was significant to us. Things were financially pretty tight for us at the time. We didn't want to just fritter the money away in a way we would regret later, but we knew that if we just left it sitting around it would just mingle with the rest of our money and go toward bills and other normal day-to-day expenditures. We wanted to do something that would help us remember Nana.

So we bought a boat. Not a fancy boat; just a simple 1965 fourteen foot Lone V-hull with a 9.9 horsepower  Mercury outboard and a rather rickety, old trailer. Somewhere along the way, someone had given her a very light camouflage paint job and mounted a single cleat on the bow. She was the perfect little fishing boat and I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her.

Her transom is too small to paint a fancy name on her, but Diane and the boys and I christened her That's Nice nonetheless. It seem like the perfect name because that's what Nana would most certainly have said had I been able to tell her I bought a boat.

Through the years it has become apparent that That's Nice is the perfect name for her.

It was on board That's Nice that we ran the boat in tight circles, pounding through its wake over and over to the delight of our two little boys.

It was on board That's Nice that the boys spent hours gleefully catching bluegill after bluegill after bluegill.

It was on board That's Nice that Matthew spent fifteen minutes battling a seven pound freshwater drum on the Peshtigo River; delighted to catch such a big fish without caring that it was just a rough fish that we would throw back.

It was on board That's Nice that Diane learned the "birds" she saw flying around at sunset on Eagle Springs Lake were really bats.

It was on board That's Nice that I monitored teen canoe trips down the Menominee River between Wisconsin and the UP of Michigan.

But her name is perfect mostly because it was on board That's Nice that we built many memories; each one of which is somehow tied to Nana.

That's Nice has floated on many, many waters around the State of Wisconsin. She's floated down rivers and across lakes. She's seen many fish come over her gunwales. She's been a part of more memories than I can count.

I've had to replace the outboard and trailer through the years, but the boat remains. I've seen other small boats that have features I wish That's Nice had, but they're not the same. Diane once mentioned selling That's Nice and using the money to buy a different boat, but I just can't bring myself to do it.

That's Nice is my constant reminder of Nana - the nicest person I've ever known.

Good Old...

Linus had his blanket. Matthew had Good Old.

Good Old was a small stuffed tiger. Perhaps I should say Good Old is a small stuffed tiger; for he still holds a place of honor on Diane's bookshelf. We bought Good Old in the Children's Hospital Gift Shop when Matthew was there for a procedure to put tubes in his ears. The tiger was one of a huge collection of stuffed animals in the gift shop. I don't exactly recall how we settled on Good Old, and I have no idea how it got its name. Somewhere along the way, though, the tiger was dubbed Good Old.

Good Old quickly became Matthew's constant companion. He never went anywhere without the tiger. Like Linus; Matthew maintained a vigil anytime Good Old needed repairs or cleaning. The inability to find Good Old caused the entire family to go into a full search and rescue mode.

Matthew couldn't go to bed without Good Old.

This rarely presented a problem; that is, until Good Old didn't come home from a shopping trip. Matthew was despondent and the clock was rapidly passing bedtime. We had been to the grocery store. Matthew had Good Old when we went in, but somehow Good Old had not made it back home.

We tried the easy stuff first; searching the car in the hope that Good Old had merely been knocked under a seat. Of course, the easy spot couldn't be the right spot. Good Old had not made it back into the car at Pick n Save.

I got into the car; hoping against all hope that I could find Good Old before Matthew suffered a total meltdown. My worst fear was that Good Old had ended up in the parking lot somewhere; never to be seen again.

I went to the customer service desk immediately upon reaching the store in hopes that another customer had found Good Old.

No such luck.

Several employees began a search operation throughout the store; checking under and around all of the shelving units. Minutes seemed like hours as we worked through aisle after aisle with no sign of Good Old. I could only imagine Matthew's grief at losing his beloved tiger. We searched the entire store twice, but there was no sign of Good Old. I came to the realization that I was going to have to return home to tell Matthew that Good Old was gone.

I stopped, once again, at the customer service desk as I was leaving the store; hoping that another customer or employee had found Good Old and turned him in. My heart leaped into my throat as I saw Good Old perched on the back counter! I could barely contain myself while the person in front of me in line completed some mundane task associated with grocery shopping.

Good Old wasn't lost any more!!!

I joyously gathered Good Old and headed home; ready to present the prize to Matthew!

Good Old was back...

Why Write?

Somehow even the thought that others would be interested in what I have to say seems rather arrogant. Technology has provided a forum for pretty much anyone to claim a soapbox and climb up on it.  I claimed mine and climbed upon it.

Blogging has become ubiquitous in a very short time. Some bloggers pen voluminous posts touting their particular views on a topic. Anything from sports to current events to religion to... you name it is fair game.

I made a conscious decision when I started my blog that I was not going to use it as a forum for my personal views; even though they certainly come through from time to time because that are part of what makes me who I am. Rather, I see my blog as a canvas onto which I paint my memories with words.

Some of the paintings make me laugh. Others make me cry. All of them, though, open a window through which I can see into my own heart and soul.

Each event in my life has somehow played a part, no matter how small, in molding me into the man I have become. Each memory is more than just a recounting of an event in my life; it is a revelation - even to me - of how my past has shaped my present.

I decided to blog because I learn a little more of myself each time I sit before my keyboard and allow my fingers to translate my memories into words. The memories that remind me, for example, that I didn't randomly become who I am.

I don't see myself as the next big thing with thousands of subscribers or the ability to sell ad revenue. Instead, I see myself as more of a modern day John Boy Walton; conveying my recollections to anyone who stumbles upon my blog. Rather than putting pencil to a Big Chief tablet like John Boy; I merely let my fingers fly over the keys - the letters and numbers seemingly magically appearing on the screen. My thoughts published for anyone in the world to see with the click of a single button.

So why do I write?

The simple answer is because I can.

There's more to it than that, of course.

I write because I must.

A Band of Brothers

I love working for a small company. I have done consulting work in the past for some of the largest companies in the world. One thing that is readily apparent when dealing with large companies is that the company seems to think it owns your life. That's not true in a small company.

While we are not large enough to offer some of the great benefits packages some large companies do; the benefits of working with only seven other people far outweigh what we give up.

I work for a small manufacturing company. We serve a very niche market; making hand tools for underground electrical cable preparation. For those of you who know what underground primary cable looks like - you understand the need for specialized tools. For those of you who don't; well, I'll just say that you need specialized tools to prepare it.

We only have eight people in our entire company. We have our casting, machining, etc. done by outside suppliers, but everything else is done in house. All tool assembly, calibration, repair, marketing, order processing, etc. are handled by the eight of us.

Everyone must be a jack-of-many-trades for a small company to work efficiently. Not to brag, but I am the only one of the eight that can do any task in the company. I spend most of my time providing customer and technical support over the phone while processing orders and purchases and overseeing inventory. I can also head to the shop and build any tool in our line when we are in a pinch. I travel periodically to handle trade shows, teach lineman's schools or travel with our manufacturer's reps to visit customers.

We're small so we all have to team up in order to do it all. Being in a small company keeps life interesting.

Perhaps the best part of having only eight people is that we are all guys. We used to have a woman working here. Donna worked at Speed Systems for over twenty years and was part of the family. We all mourned when she ultimately lost her fight with cancer. Donna kind of served as buffer for us. She would roll her eyes and give us a motherly, "Tsk, tsk," when our joking around reached the imaginary line that all mothers seem to have but no guy actually understands.

We have hired two additional people since Donna died; both guys.

While we don't have a policy on hiring only guys, it has made the place a little more interesting. It's actually much better this way. For one thing; there are no distractions. I have worked with attractive young women before and one thing is certain; no one seems to get as much work done when they are around. It has nothing to do with ogling or anything inappropriate - it's just a fact of the office. With all guys, we also don't have a motherly conscience admonishing us when we make fun of each other. No, we're more like a small band of brothers than a totally disparate group of eight men thrown together for work.

We know each other. We know each others' wives and kids. We empathize with each other when kids are sick, wives are crabby (never mine, of course!) or life issues seem to interfere with life itself.

Of course, we all also know exactly what buttons to push with each other.

Rarely does a day go by when the conversation around the table at break or lunch doesn't include at least a bit of sarcasm; usually directed at one or more of the others. The group becomes like a school of hungry sharks circling a wounded animal as soon as the "fun" gets started. The faintest hint of blood in the water is all it takes to get everyone fired up and joining in the fray.

Of course, everyone enjoys dishing it out. The beauty of this band of brothers, though, is that we all recognize that you have to be willing to take it if you want to give it. So we give and we take. We all pile on when the blood hits the water, but we all gather around when there is a need.

Most of all, though, we truly care about each other.

I grew up with three sisters, but I have seven brothers now.

They Grow Up So Fast...

Like many parents, I have pictures of my kids on my desk. I look at them often, and each time I am reminded of how fast they grew up.

My favorite photo is of the boys at a Fire Department Open House during my first year on the department.

They are standing on the running boards of 3571, our new Quint, one on each side of Chief Gray; Joseph barely taller than the Chief even though he is on the running board and Matthew still shorter.

The smiles on their faces reveal their excitement at the simple pleasure of standing on a brand new fire engine.

Somewhere along the way, I blinked, and everything changed.

I keep this picture on my desk as a constant reminder of those days; now long in the past.

Another photo sits beside it; taken just a few months ago, shortly before Matthew left for his final semester of college. It's still Matthew on the left and Joseph on the right, but that's pretty much where the similarities end.

They're grown now.

No longer two little boys whose excitement and joy come from standing on a brand new fire engine; they are men.

I used to wrestle them both at the same time; eventually "succumbing" to their relentless attacks.

I used to scoop them up, one in each arm, as we chased and played in the yard.

I helped coach their soccer team; watching them progress from the stage where the entire swarm of kids followed the ball wherever it went on the field to a team that ran plays and worked systems on the field.

I helped coach their baseball team; always accused of being harder on them than anyone else just to prove to everyone that I didn't show favorites.

Eventually, I sent them off to college; little boys no more.

I used to think people were a little nuts when they exhorted me to enjoy them in the moment because they grow up so fast. Days are still twenty-four hours and years are still 365 days; it can't go by any faster or any slower no matter how much we wish we could change it.

Now I am one of those nuts exhorting others to enjoy their little ones now because they will blink and the kids will be grown.

They grow up so fast, you know.

Father's Day Memories

Father's Day is less than weeks away. Now, Father's Day is supposed to be about Dad. Sometimes, though, Dad has to put his foot down and say what he really wants to do.

A number of years ago, Diane and the boys wanted to take me out for a nice lunch after church, followed by who knows what other activities. I had other ideas, though. You see, Union Pacific's Challenger 3985 was coming to town.

627,900 pounds of steam engine heaven.

A 4-6-6-4 locomotive capable of hauling freight at up to 70 miles per hour.

And it was coming into the Union Pacific yard in Milwaukee - well technically Butler - on Father's Day!!!

Now I have nothing against nice lunches and activities with the family, but the chance to see the largest and heaviest operational steam locomotive in the world may only come around once in my lifetime. So, we grabbed a quick lunch at Taco Bell instead of whatever Diane's original idea of a nice lunch was and we headed to the Hampton Avenue overpass to watch for the Challenger's arrival.

It was quickly obvious that I was not the only father who thought this was the perfect way to spend a Father's Day afternoon. We, along with hundreds of other people, lined the south side of the overpass watching for the train's approach as it made its way up from Chicago on its excursion.

Thick, black smoke was visible on the horizon long before we could hear the sound the mighty locomotive's approach. The sight and sound of the massive machine reached us miles before the locomotive actually arrived. I watched in awe as this engineering marvel approached and came to a stop just shy of the overpass. The crew jumped out and began their task of backing off the boiler and releasing the built up steam pressure. The engineer called up to the bridge that we were all free to come down once the crew had completed making it safe.

We all made our way down a rather steep, rocky, weed-infested path from the road above to the rail yard below. It wasn't the easiest task for Diane since she was still wearing low heels; but she did it. We all walked down so we could look at the mighty Challenger 3985 up close.

The drive wheels were almost six feet in diameter - towering over the boys as they stood beside the massive locomotive.

Steam rose from the pistons and valves. The locomotive gently hissed as we approached; almost as if it was beckoning us to marvel at its beauty. Many of the passengers who had paid dearly to take part in this excursion disembarked and strolled with the rest of us around the locomotive as the oilers readied this railroad masterpiece for the next leg of the journey.

We created memories to last a lifetime.

We have built other Father's Day memories through the years, but seeing the Challenger 3985 remains one of my most treasured. Our family started a new Father's Day tradition a couple of years ago that moves to the complete opposite end of the spectrum - IndyCar races! The annual IndyCar race at the Milwaukee Mile moved to Father's Day weekend a few years ago. Now if there is one thing I love as much as steam locomotives, it is open wheel race cars! (Real racecars don't have fenders - sorry NASCAR fans!)

One of the boys' closest friends from college is the son of a bigwig in IndyCar. He gave us passes to the race the first year and full access passes for the entire weekend last year. He gave us a personal, behind-the-scenes tour of the technical inspection area and pit boxes. It was a geeky race fan's dream!!!

Perhaps the most remarkable moment of our Father's Day weekend at the races tradition came last year when I met three-time Indianapolis 500 Winner Johnny Rutherford. He may be the most special winner in my mind because he won the 1974 Indianapolis 500 just three weeks before Dad died. It was the last race Dad and I watched together - tape delayed on ABC - and I got to meet the winner. Standing with him brought back memories of those Memorial Day cookouts in the back yard; the race on the radio as Dad and I tended to the pork steaks on the grill. It's funny how little things bring back memories. It has been nearly four decades, but merely meeting Johnny Rutherford made it seem like it was just yesterday again.

We'll be at the track again this year, although the tradition will be a little different because Matthew won't be with us. We'll be taking in the sights and sounds of open wheel racing, celebrating Father's Day, and maybe, just maybe, resurrecting old memories as we build new ones.

Signs They're Home

There's no mistaking when the boys are back home. The noise level in our otherwise quiet home goes way up. It seems like I am forever loading more salt into the water softener. I need to pull out my GPS to find the window in boys' rooms and then get to back out to the hallway again. The laundry load increases by a factor far greater than one would expect with just two additional people. The grocery bill reaches astronomical levels each week. The pantry, if there is actually any food left in it on any given day, is filled with stuff like Fruity Pebbles and Chocolate Krave cereals and severely lacking in things like Quaker Oat Squares and Mini-Wheats.

Yes, things are very different when the boys are home.

Perhaps the most telling sign, though, can be observed in Diane. While she complains of the frustrations of all of the extra work they bring; deep down, she is reveling in having her "babies" with her once again - even if it's just for a brief time. She immediately goes back into Mother Hen Mode - that set of behaviors that only another mother can understand.

As a general rule, Moms and Dads see this stage of life differently. Don't get me wrong; I love the boys, but they're adults now. Nothing is really the same as it used to be. For Diane, though, it is an opportunity to live out the task she was born to do - care for her "little ones." She has a laser beam focus on her "babies."

I put on a cloak of invisibility.

Take Saturday, for instance. Matthew requested that we have ribs for dinner. Diane complied and purchased  four large half-racks of pork baby back ribs. Cooking ribs properly is a lot of work. Of course no one recognizes that since it's "Dad Work." I marinated them for hours in preparation for cooking. I have to admit that I cheated a bit to cut down on the time by pre-boiling them for a short time. They don't turn out quite as tasty and pull-apart tender as just smoking them from the start, but it cuts hours from the overall prep time.

Before starting the smoking portion of the process I asked Diane what else she had; assuming (never safe, I know) that she remembered that I don't like ribs. She rattled off a bunch of "accessory" items like beans, pickles, etc. I realized she hadn't gotten anything else and, to be quite honest, there wasn't any room left on the grate for me to cook anything else, anyway. I found a leftover brat from grilling a couple of nights before and just warmed it the last few minutes for me to eat.

Needless to say, I ate my brat while the rest of the family feasted on tender, juicy ribs. It was great watching them enjoy their dinner. Diane, of course, apologized profusely after pronouncing that she had forgotten I didn't like ribs.

Of course she had forgotten.

Her "babies" were home!

I shudder to think what life will be like when she has grandchildren...