First Serve!

Our church used to rent out a small racquetball club periodically for a late night Friday activity. We would all show up at 10:00 when the club closed, pay a small fee and have full use of the facility until 2:00 AM. It didn't matter whether you were a first time player or an experienced tournament competitor; everyone had fun.

My friend Arturo was at the upper end of the competence spectrum. I, on the other hand, resided on the other end. We played anyway; often doubles to level out our skill levels. Occasionally, though, we would play singles. Arturo regularly beat me. In fact, Arturo regularly shut me out. I felt like I had won the match if I managed to score even a single point.

This friendly rivalry turned into a bit of entertainment for the rest of the folks. They would stand at the viewing window and watch Arturo toy with me for a while before smashing a shot for a point. One night, Mr. Stewart - a man from our church who also happened to be a police officer in our community - stopped by during his shift to visit with everyone. Somehow - and I remain unsure of how this little escapade started even to this day - someone challenged that Arturo could beat me with handcuffs on.

I laughed, but soon realized that they were serious. They were asking Mr. Stewart to handcuff Arturo (in front, of course, since even I could probably beat him if his hands were cuffed behind his back) to see if he could still beat me.

Momentum built for this little escapade until virtually everyone was huddled around the main court (with lots of glass to allow spectators to observe the heated match) pushing for the combatants to accept the challenge.

Like an idiot - I did.

Mr. Stewart, although technically Officer Stewart at the time, pulled the handcuffs from his belt and proceeded to apply them to Arturo's wrists. They played around with them a bit to make sure he could still swing his arms albeit they would have to swing together.

We entered the court to begin the match that would put us on a level playing field; Arturo in handcuffs and me handcuffed only by my own lack of ability. One set of cuffs would prove to be the root cause of a loss.

We volleyed a little to allow Arturo to get the feel of playing while handcuffed and then started the match. Arturo, perhaps a bit overconfident, offered to allow me to serve first without volleying for serve like we normally would. This was a bit of a new thing because I don't believe I had ever served first. In fact, in some matches I didn't serve at all.

That was about to change! I was serving first to a man in handcuffs.

I assumed my position between the service lines as Arturo moved to the back wall.

I had a plan.

The ball rocketed off the front wall as it angled back toward the corner that would force Arturo to manipulate his cuffed hands to execute a backhand shot from very close to the back corner. I faced the front wall; not really expecting to see a return come from behind me. He was, after all, in handcuffs and having to pull off a pretty good shot with very little room to maneuver.

But there it was! The ball rocketed across from behind me to hit the front wall just inches away from both the floor and the opposite wall.

A man in handcuffs had just taken serve.

He never gave it back.

More Than I Can Chew?

I have been accused of over-analyzing everything. I am one of those measure ten times and still purposely cut it slightly long to give me room to tweak it people. I often worry when taking on a new project that I will bite off more than I can chew and be left with an imperfect result.

I have a problem with that.

For example, the only way we could afford to build our home twenty years ago was for us to handle the roofing, siding, electrical, painting, staining and finish carpentry - including installing 1200 square feet of wood flooring. It was certainly more than I could chew.

For months, Diane would prepare dinner, pack it into a cooler, pack up the boys and meet me at the house after work each night. I would work until dark; and then much later once we had electricity in the house. We spent countless hours at the house each Saturday and Sunday after church. The boys, quite young at the time, were troopers. They wielded hammers and "helped" with many tasks around the house.

To this day, I really only see those things that turned out less than perfectly and wish I could just tear it out and re-do it. Time and money have kept me from doing that, so I look at the glaring mistakes around the house each day.

Diane says they are not that bad.

To me, though, they are daily reminders of having bit off more than I could chew.

The next project around the house is to do a minor reconfiguration of our kitchen. This will involve removing the countertop and disassembling several of the base cabinets in order to re-install them in new places. Then we'll install a new tile countertop and backsplash with hickory trim to match our cabinets and the top of Diane's new island.

Not a big deal for someone who knows what they are doing.

A lot of stress for the one who fears he has, once again, bitten off more than he can chew.

The work itself is not that complicated. There's no structural work involved. There will be time pressure, though, because we will be without a kitchen sink and food prep area from the day I pull off the countertop until everything is complete.

That's stressful for a measure ten times kind of guy.

I just hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew again...

HOCKEY'S BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It has been 117 days.

That's 2,808 hours.

Or 168,480 minutes.

Or 10,108,800 seconds.

But today, the wait is over!

I have been waiting 117 days since Gary Bettman (BOO!!! HISS!!!) handed the Stanley Cup to LA Kings captain, Dustin Brown (BOO!!! HISS!!!).

One hundred and seventeen days since the puck hit the ice in a game that mattered.

But that ends tonight!

At 6:07 Central Time tonight, the puck will hit the ice at the Air Canada Centre (Centre rather than Center because it is in Canada, after all) and the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Maple Leafs will kick off the 2014-2015 NHL season. Just twenty-five hours later the action will be repeated at the Scottrade Center as the St. Louis Blues take the opening faceoff of what will certainly be their Stanley Cup winning season.

I have missed the sights and sounds of the greatest sport on Earth.

But that ends tonight!

Hockey's Back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to my world.

There are some phrases that are just so annoying that they should never be spoken again. I nominate, "Welcome to my world," as one of those phrases to be banned.

We've all heard it, I'm sure. One person mentions a problem they are dealing with and the response is an oh, so compassionate, "Welcome to my world," as the listener discounts any issue or concern with the claim that they are forced to deal with that - and worse - on a regular basis.

Perhaps no situation provides a better example of why this should be banned than a conversation recently recounted by a co-worker. As a bit of background, we have been extremely busy at work this year. No one is complaining about being busy (that does, after all, mean we are successfully marketing and selling our products as we head toward a record year). Being this busy does mean, though, that some of us don't have time for our normal tasks because we are periodically summoned back to help in the shop. It's all just part of working for a small company.

Anyway, several weeks ago one of my co-workers reported going home after work and mentioning how tired and stressed he was at work because he was behind on his normal tasks to his wife - who doesn't work outside the home and spends much of her time shopping with her daughter and daughters-in-law or spending time with her grandchildren.

Her reply?

"Welcome to my world!"

What?!?!?!?!?!

She went on to say she could hardly keep up around the house because her life was so busy.

Welcome to my world????

Now I realize that being a wife is a lot of work (especially for Diane who goes to great lengths to take care of me), but it's not like someone who chooses to spend her day doing "fun" things (shopping and little kids don't sound like "fun" to me) really has the right to complain that she can't keep up at home. There's only the two of them at home and my co-worker is absolutely anal about everything being in its place, so it's not like there's a lot of cleaning up after him. Yet, somehow, she feels like her husband's stress is just a tiny window into her daily life.

I've heard the phrase, "Welcome to my world," many times. From my own experiences, I would say that most of the time, the person uttering those words has no clue. Not only are they exhibiting a total lack of empathy and compassion - two traits I have never been known to be very strong in myself - but they often also have an unrealistic view of their own situation.

Shopping and spending time with grandchildren does not equate to the stress of falling further behind on normal tasks at work because we are in a particularly busy period.

We know that we'll eventually get caught back up at work; whether because the pace returns to a more normal one or we decide to add staff once we determine that the higher workload warrants it. But for now, the stress levels at work are pretty high. Hearing, "Welcome to my world," reveals a certain selfishness and cluelessness.

As such, it should be banned.

The Old Drum

A mix of hickory and cherry smolders in my smoker; wisps of a blueish smoke rising gently from the exhaust holes. The aroma overwhelms my nose as I step from the garage.

Yes, the sweet smell of true slow-cooked BBQ is hard to beat.

My home-built smoker started life as a plain old 55 gallon steel drum. I picked it up from one of our suppliers at work and, with a little work and some plans from the Internet, turned it into a UDS, an Ugly Drum Smoker. And ugly it is...

The outside is rusty and dented; the inside well seasoned from many hours of smoking.

To the casual observer, it's just an old drum.

But to me, it's a masterpiece.

I don't know who came up with the original UDS plans, but it really is a marvel of BBQ. A crude, homemade basket holds the smoldering coals a couple of inches off the bottom of the drum. A grate sits on supports near the top. The only other parts of the smoker are three intake holes near the base that I open or close by sliding magnets over part of the holes to control the temperature and several exhaust vents in the top from which the sweet smelling smoke wafts.

The design is ingenious. The temperature typically stays within a couple of degrees for hours with little adjustment once I get it set up.

Two hundred and forty five degrees.

Pretty much locked in.

We'll be feasting on savory pulled pork sandwiches in another eight hours, or so.

Slow cooked in an old drum.

Mom's Lies

One of Mom's favorite phrases was, "You can't be too rich or too thin."

As I grew into adulthood (or at least the age where I was supposed to be an adult), I learned that this was a lie. Through the years I have seen the horrible effects, particularly in young women, who didn't understand that you certainly can be too thin. Bulimia and Anorexia have claimed the dignity and lives of far too many people who viewed their skeletal frames as fat.

I've also learned that you can be too rich. Perhaps this could not be more obvious than in the irrational behavior exhibited by many of today's professional athletes. 

Athletes who make it to the professional level in any major sport are a unique breed. They are enormously talented and often have egos that match, or even surpass, their talent levels. They have largely been coddled by coaches, supporters and fans for years. There is often a wealthy booster willing to step in and help sweep legal troubles under the rugs or hush the detractors. 

The result is often a narcissistic spoiled brat with an attitude that they are somehow above the law and other people. This has been made painfully obvious lately by the seemingly constant parade of National Football League players who have made more news for their off field crimes than their on field accomplishments.

Maybe we shouldn't be surprised that giving large sums of cash to previously a coddled athlete; often from a poor background, results in a young man who doesn't understand how to live in a normal society. Furthermore, how often do we hear of athletes who have made many millions of dollars ending up bankrupt and destitute after blowing or being cheated out of their money?

Perhaps the rest of the sporting world should take a lesson from the greatest sport on Earth - Hockey. 

While the NHL has certainly had its fair share of problem children; they have a system to help young players adapt to the sudden status and money that comes with being a professional athlete. Young players often live with an established veteran's family for the first couple of years of their professional career. They are expected to help around the house, deal with the veteran's kids and overall live like a member of the family. 

The veteran often helps the young player manage their money and learn to live with a budget. Perhaps even more importantly, the veteran helps the young player adapt to being a professional hockey player.

Imagine the rush a young man feels when he he sees fans wearing their sweaters with HIS NAME on the back...

Or the excitement from being pursued by "adoring" young ladies who want to be seen with the newest star...

Or the swarm of new "friends" who see the young man as a funding source for their plans and exploits...

Or the temptation to spend massive amounts of money on an exotic sports car - merely because he can.

In these cases, it is the veteran's (and his family's) job to bring them back to Earth; to remind them that they aren't the mighty force that they begin to believe they are, to remind them that giving their time and resources to causes within the community goes along with the notoriety of being a highly paid athlete. 

Is it an inconvenience for the veteran's family? 

Of course it is! It's hard enough for a professional athlete's family to deal with the stresses of day to day life as a public personality and the travel and the hassles of trying to be a "normal" family without having to deal with the additional monitoring and occasional discipline of a young man learning to find his way in the world of professional hockey.

But it appears to work at least most of the time.

Maybe these kids in other sports need the same sort of mentoring so they don't continue on the path that leads to the headlines no fan ever wants to see. 

Maybe they need to understand that having sudden wealth thrust upon them doesn't make them superior. 

Maybe these guys just need to understand that, without proper discipline, you absolutely can be too rich.

Not Possible To Care Less

I have been bombarded with news of the World Cup for months. It seems impossible to watch any sports news without the reporters talking about the upcoming tournament. Even the crawl across the bottom of the screen during hockey and baseball games lists World Cup news.

I just don't get it.

While I understand that soccer has become much more popular in the United States than it was when I was a kid; it's still not like we have, as Mom used to say, "an ice cube's chance in hell," of actually winning anything. Let's face it; USA men's soccer pales in comparison to USA women's soccer. We will certainly play (and likely get walloped) in the first round and then go home.

Only one of my co-workers cares about the tournament; but, then again, he lives, eats and breathes anything sports. I'm pretty sure that's his only interest in life. He talks about the World Cup. A lot. Unfortunately, he sits right beside me at work so I have to hear it.

I'm sure Matthew will want to watch soccer. I would rather watch a 50th rerun of the paint drying special on DIY Network. (I actually love DIY Network, but you get the point.)

I don't believe it is possible for me to care less about the tournament. At this point, I just want it to be over with so I can stop hearing about it. I would almost (key word, almost) rather watch the NBA.

Torture either way.

Bring on channel 230 and its constant stream of DIY shows!

Free Falling

I've always wondered what it would feel like to free fall.

A long way.

Like from an airplane.

I don't fly all that much any more, but I often catch myself looking out the window and imagining just how exciting it would be to put on a parachute and jump; the air rushing past my body as it plunged toward the Earth far below, free falling as long as possible until I eventually glided to the ground under a colorful canopy.

There's just something fascinating about the thought of totally submitting to gravity as I watch the ground below seemingly transform from a vast unidentifiable patchwork of land into defined areas of trees, buildings, roads and fields.

Diane has always been fearful of the what ifs... What if your parachute doesn't open? What if you hit something? What if something hits you?

What if...

I've heard the horror stories; some of them personally from people who have had near misses, but that hasn't taken away the desire. Something deep inside of me still longs to know what it feels like.

I don't think my knees could actually handle the landing any more, but I still dream that I could someday free fall; a long way.

Not A Topless Place!

I went to Florida every January for a number of years to build an on-site network for a client's National Sales Meeting. The hours were long and the pace was hectic, but the crew always had a great time. The meetings were always held in very exclusive resorts and we were generally treated like royalty by the staff; who seemed to be completely unaware that we, too, were there as hired-help rather than the guests of honor.

We typically arrived on site a couple of days before the meetings actually started to build a stage, set up sound, lighting and video projection systems and build a temporary computer network on site to allow the presenters to work on their presentations up to the moment they went on stage, yet still have them ready to go without a hitch once they started for what the client expected to be a flawless show.

The show days were typically pretty tense. The setup and teardown days were a different story entirely. We still worked long hours at a hectic pace, but the pressure was pretty low. We took advantage of every opportunity to kick back and relax whenever possible. One way involved scheduling our day to allow us to head out for a nice dinner.

One night in particular still brings a smile to my face every time I think of it. The resort's concierge highly recommended a tapas restaurant in town for dinner. Our group of eight guys took a break from our setup routines to head over for a delicious, laid back dinner on the night before the event was starting. We got back to the room around 8:00 to find it full of people setting up chairs and draping off areas of the room.

The client's show director was in a near frenzy as she tried to make sure everything was in place for a perfect kickoff in the morning. She came over for a status report and asked where we had gone for dinner that night. None of us remembered the name of the place so I told her, "We went to a Tapas place that the concierge recommended."

Her eyes opened very wide and she nearly shouted, "You guys went to a topless place?!?!?!?!"

The whole room got very quiet as everyone stopped to see what had caused the director to freak out so close to the start of the event. Eight guys broke into laughter almost in unison; which only served to confuse her all the more.

"No," I was finally able to explain, "We went to a tapas place; not a topless place. Tapas - as in T. A. P. A. S."

Virtually everyone in the room joined in the laughter and her face immediately turned bright red and she, too, quickly joined in the laughter.

The conversation proved to be like a giant relief valve on the poor woman's heart - the tension of the coming event suddenly forgotten as we all enjoyed the discussion of how we had NOT gone to a topless place.

The Blackish- Brownish-Widowed-Recluse

One of the coolest places at the house where I grew up was under the porch. There was a small hatch you could crawl through on the east end to get into the crawlspace below the porch. It had, like most crawlspaces, a dirt floor and was always full of spider webs and bugs.

Mom was never too keen on me going under the porch. She was somehow convinced that every spider in the entire State of Missouri was a Black Widow, Brown Recluse or, perhaps, the most feared spider of all, the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse.

Now I wouldn't say that I actually like spiders, but I'm certainly not afraid of them, either. Mom, on the other hand, was certain that every spider under the porch was going to aggressively attack me and bring about my certain, painful death.

That didn't stop me from going under the porch, of course.

Mom determined that I should not go under the porch. I determined that I just wouldn't tell her when I went under the porch. That would work fine as long as one of the tattle-tales known as Debbie, Kim or Beth didn't go running to Mom to tell on me in an attempt to win brownie points for being such a wonderful child.

I already knew that I would never win any wonderful child brownie points, so I never even bothered to try.

I somehow survived those under the porch excursions without ever being attacked by the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse.

It's funny how time and situations change one's perspective, though. I recall another episode a couple of decades later when Mom needed some phone or video cable, I don't recall which, routed through the crawlspace under their old farmhouse while we were visiting. She had no qualms then about having me face the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse while crawling around there.

I don't think it mattered so much anymore whether I was facing a certain, painful death by spider bite then since I had already completed my duty of providing her with grandchildren.

Something Strangely Unfamiliar

An eerie silence settled on our home this weekend.

Both boys are gone; Matthew for the week and Joseph to his new apartment. For this week at least, Diane and I will return to the pseudo-empty nest we enjoyed while both of the boys were in school. Pseudo, of course, because Lola is still there. She tends to stay in her living room watching television (much of which she has found a way to do with her eyes closed and a snoring sound emanating from her mouth and nose) so the house is pretty much an empty nest in the evening.

The quiet house is somehow new and unfamiliar. Quite a change from the hustle and bustle that has marked the last two and one half years. 

This week, Diane and I will be re-adjusting to that unfamiliar atmosphere in our home.

It's Time

This weekend brings another major change to our home. Joseph is moving into his own place.

It's time.

We encouraged both of the boys to live with us for a while after college to allow them to build up some financial stability. The plan has worked very well for Joseph to this point, but no more. We simply live too far from his church. It wasn't such a big deal when his full time job was at a nearby bank and he only drove back and forth to the church a couple of times each week. The driving became much more problematic when he went full time at the church this year. With the drive running about an hour each way depending on traffic, it was time for Joseph to begin looking for something closer.

Joseph signed the lease on his first place last week. It's a small one bedroom apartment; but it is perfectly adequate for a 25 year old, single guy.

It's time.

Joseph is both excited and nervous.

Diane is both nervous and excited.

I'll be picking up a small U-Haul trailer early tomorrow morning to begin the process of moving Joseph into his new place - starting a new phase of his life. Matthew is out of town on business so Diane, Joseph, some of his friends and I will load up his furniture and belongings, head to his new place and help Joseph establish his new home. A home that signifies so much more than just his first apartment. It's a home that will be uniquely his.

Joseph will only be about 40 some odd minutes away, so it's not like he's moving too far, but it's still something different.

We said goodbye to Joseph when we sent him off to college. We didn't know then whether he would ever return to live with us or if God would lead him off to who knows where. He ended up right back with us - right back in the house that he has called home for virtually his entire life. We welcomed him back knowing full well that the time would come when he moved on - when we all would know for sure that he had truly moved away from home.

It's time.

Our home will be much different beginning tomorrow night. Joseph brings a vibrance and dynamic to our home that is unique to him. He is never still and never, ever quiet. His over the top exuberance both entertains Diane and overwhelms me at the same time.

But tomorrow we will all look to the future as he moves on.

It's time.

Just a Babe...

Today would have been Nana's birthday. It has been a special day my whole life. While Nana has been gone from us for a long time; today is still a special birthday.

Today is Shelley's 21st birthday. It's a big deal.

Shelley doesn't drink, so it's not a big deal for that. But it's still a big deal.

At 21, Shelley is growing up. She's one of the grownups to the little kids. She's an adult.

Truth is, though; she's just a babe.

Context is important. Matthew says Shelley's a babe, too, but he uses the term quite differently than I do. When I say she's a babe it's just that.

Shelley - for all of her grownup-ness - is just a babe. We're going to celebrate her special day when she is with us in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, we celebrate this day from a distance. Happy to celebrate her birthday - even though she's still just a babe.

They say they need my help...

I recognize the tremendous economic impact a successful professional sports team can have on a community. The economic benefit extends far beyond the team's ownership group to include the venue's employees, local restaurants and bars, parking garages and mass transit entities. While my rant focuses on Milwaukee's current arena battle; no city with a major or minor league sports franchise is exempt from the problem.

The Milwaukee media has been bombarding us for years about the need to replace the "aging" BMO Harris Bradley Center; a multi-sport venue in downtown Milwaukee. The facility is over 25 years old and is - or so we've been told - so antiquated and deficient that it's a hindrance, rather than a benefit, to the community. They have threatened that the NBA's Milwaukee Bucks will leave Milwaukee if we don't come up with a new arena.

Lest I get too far off course, I do want to point out that these are the same Milwaukee Bucks that finished last in the NBA with a whopping 15-67 record. The same Milwaukee Bucks who, despite what the "announced attendance" figures would lead one to believe, haven't drawn decent crowds for years. Yes, the same Milwaukee Bucks that just sold last week for a little over half a billion dollars.

Yes, you saw that right - the worst team in the league sold for HALF A BILLION DOLLARS!!! That's $500,000,000-plus!!! (Kind of makes you wonder what a "real" team would be worth, doesn't it?)

No sooner had the sale been announced than the media started anew on their propaganda blitz that we (the taxpayers) simply MUST get behind the effort to build a new arena or risk losing this "valuable community asset" to some other city.

Really? (Now I freely admit that I despise basketball. I really don't care if Milwaukee has a basketball team or not. However, I am consistent in that my opposition to my tax money being used to make team owners even richer is not limited to those sports I despise.)

The voters in southeast Wisconsin bought into all of the fear mongering years ago when the five county region enacted a sales tax to pay for a new stadium for the Milwaukee Brewers. This "temporary" sales tax to build a new stadium started in 1996. Current projections have it ending as late as 2020. Unfortunately, the tax revenues also go toward some improvements, etc. which, in essence, means that it could go on forever. The crowd behind building a new arena for the Bucks tout the continuation of the tax as one means to pay for that, too.

Anyone who can pay half a billion dollars for a sports franchise can build their own arena as far as I'm concerned.

"But they'll leave Milwaukee," the Chicken Littles cry out.

I say, "Then let 'em go!"

"But the city needs a great venue for sports and concerts," they say.

"Then let the people who own and promote those events pay for the venue," is my reply.

"But the private sector needs a vibrant sports scene and downtown in order to thrive," they blather on.

Well, if a new arena is that important to the private sector, then let the private sector pony up the money. They will see a huge return on their investment if the venue is even half as successful as they claim it will be.

We need to be on our guard, though. Some cities have used what I believe to be deceptive tactics to build new sports arenas "without tax money."

Reallly?

Look at San Antonio, they say.

San Antonio redirected parking revenues to pay for a new arena. They made the claim that the parking revenues from people going to the games paid for the new arena and it was not put onto the citizens as a whole.

Wrong!!!

I suppose you can pull the wool over people's eyes with a story like that if they're bad at math or don't understand how government works.

The citizens still have to pick up the costs of those services the parking revenues used to pay for. So, while the local politicians can claim that they didn't make the public pay for the new stadium - that's exactly what they did; they just disguised it in such a way that many of their (dare I say, less informed) constituents - who may have vehemently opposed public money for a new sports venue - are paying the tab without even realizing it.

Unfortunately, this cycle will not stop as long as the politicians keep preying upon the public's unfounded fears. The public - whether in southeast Wisconsin now or any of the dozens of other regions faced with the same issues - must stand up once and for all and declare that we will no longer be held hostage by ridiculously wealthy sports franchises, no matter how important they may be to the community.

I can hardly afford to attend more than one or two baseball games per year. Why should I be forced to pay for a stadium to showcase men making more in one year than I will make in my lifetime just for playing a game; or to stroke the egos of the men and women who pay hundreds of millions of dollars to join the elite club of major sports team owners?

Quite simply - I shouldn't be forced to pay for it.

Let them pay for it themselves.

I'll get off of my soapbox now...

14,545

Fourteen thousand five hundred and forty-five.

Depending on what you're talking about, that could sound like a very big number or a very small number.

That number of dollars would have bought you quite the sweet car not all that long ago. It would have bought you a pretty nice home not too much longer before that. It would barely buy you a nice used car today.

A number's significance, or insignificance, is largely based on its context.

Numbers are important to me. I tend to keep track of many of the most mundane things. I know my driver's license number, my credit card numbers and various other account numbers - among the many bits of minutiae I tend to keep track of. I really don't know why it's important to me to do that, but it is.

Fourteen thousand five hundred and forty-five is one of those numbers. 

Dad was born on August 26, 1934. 

He died on June 22, 1974. 

He died on the 14,545th day of his life.

That makes today a rather significant day; for today marks the 14,545th day since Dad died.

He has been gone for as long as he lived.

There comes a certain hollow feeling with knowing the significance of that number. It is even more poignant when I reflect on the fact that this day falls on Good Friday.

Fourteen thousand five hundred and forty-five days have done nothing to soften how much I miss him.

All Grown Up

Joseph has been living at home since he graduated from college. We all thought that it would be a good idea for him to build up some financial stability before taking on the responsibility and expense of having his own place. The arrangement worked great for the first two years since he worked full time at a bank about ten to fifteen minutes from home and only part time at the church an hour from home.

That all changed when he went full time at the church on January 1 of this year. So, for the last three and one half months, Joseph has driven about an hour each way every day while looking for an affordable housing option closer to the church.

That time appears to be upon us.

I took Tuesday afternoon off work to meet Joseph at an apartment he was looking at. The apartment is only about fifteen minutes from his church. It's even on the same road so even Joseph can't get lost going back and forth to work!

He filled out an application and should hear whether he got the apartment within the next couple of days. If all goes well, we will load Joseph's belongings into my truck on the first weekend of May to move him into his own place.

His first, own place.

While we have enjoyed having Joseph living with us; it is time. He's ready to be in his own place. He needs to be closer to his job and ministry.

We are very excited for him.

He's all grown up.

What A Difference Two Weeks Makes...

Two weeks isn't a lot of time, but it's amazing how much can change in such a short time.

With two weeks left in the regular season, the Blues were in the driver's seat. They were atop the league standings and well on their way to clinching, at a minimum, the top spot in the Western Conference if not the President's Trophy.

What a difference two weeks can make.

Instead of being atop the league, or even the conference, the Blues ended the season tied for the fourth most points in the league. A long fall in such a short time.

We can try to blame injuries - for we certainly have suffered more than our fair share in the last couple of weeks. We can try to blame goaltending - because it certainly has not been what we were expecting when we traded for Ryan Miller. We can try to blame coaching - because the staff couldn't seem to get the mix and match line combinations motivated to perform. We can try to blame management - because we didn't have the organizational depth to deal with the sudden rash of injuries (what club would?).

The reality is, though, no one really cares who or what you try to blame. The only thing that matters is that we faltered when we should have charged.

A run deep into the playoffs will cause everyone to forget the last two weeks. A quick exit will have everyone pointing fingers for the next five months.

The beauty of the NHL playoffs is that everything is new. This could still be our year.

We have our work cut out for us, though.

Lola's 1011011th Birthday

Today is a big day in the our home - for today we celebrate Lola's 1011011th birthday.

That's 91 in binary, but 1011011 looks a whole lot cooler! Besides, telling people she's 5B (91 in Hex) or 91 doesn't sound nearly as old as 1011011.

However you look at it, though, 91 is very old.

Lola still gets along remarkably well for someone that age, but she definitely shows the signs of living that many years. The few friends she has are younger than her; her original circle of friends largely having already died. There is much that Lola can't do any more; even though she thinks she is doing just fine. That work falls on Diane.

Lola passes her time reading, playing solitaire, napping and watching television. We bought her a headphone amplifier and headphones for Christmas a few years ago. She had to have her television on so loud for her to hear it that we could clearly hear it through the firewall between her living room and the main house (the wall that used to be between the garage and house before we remodeled), across the house and down a floor. The headphones allow her to turn it up as loud as she wants without disturbing the neighbors. Okay, maybe the disturbing the neighbors part is a slight exaggeration, but it certainly allows her to hear her television without disturbing us!

I suppose she does okay for someone turning 1011011. As for me, I hope I never reach 1011011 unless I'd still be able to hunt and fish and putter around the house and go shooting and... Not that I actually expect to live to 1011011. Brader men simply haven't had that kind of longevity.

The women in Lola's line do, though. Lola's mom lived to be 96; although much of her last decade was spent in declining physical and mental health to the point where she didn't recognize anyone for the last few years of her life.

For now, Lola is still going pretty strong for someone her age. She has battled through various hospitalizations over the last few years. Several times, Diane has steeled herself for the inevitable news that Lola had come up against something she couldn't beat this time; yet each time she has somehow beat the odds and survived whatever infection, surgery or illness had struck her.

We recognize that the day will come when she just doesn't wake up one morning, or she runs headlong into some health issue that she can't beat. Until then, we just deal with each day, and the challenges it brings.

Tonight, though, we plan on gathering together to celebrate Lola's 1011011th birthday.

Don't Want To Go There

I don't know what the fascination is with "Throwback Thursdays." My Facebook feed is bombarded every Thursday with pictures from years, sometimes decades, ago; all tagged with some form of #TBT. (I don't get into hashtags, either, but that's a different topic entirely.)

I can't believe the pictures that some people post.

I mean, really???

I have looked at pictures from when I was a kid. Most of them are goofy. There is nothing about the pictures that make me want to dwell on them other than the personal memories that a few of them may evoke. Notice that I said personal memories. I don't deceive myself into thinking that anyone else would enjoy them as much as I do.

There is certainly nothing about the pictures that make me want to show them to the world. People see them, notice what a cute kid I was and immediately begin to question what happened in the intervening years to turn me into what I look like now.

I take enough flak from my friends without giving them additional ammunition!

I was there when the picture was taken. I really don't want to go back there again. I'll be content to occasionally look at a photo from the past and reflect on it without giving my friends even more reason to give me flak.

Just Leave It Alone!

This week has been a frustrating one at work, to say the least. It's bad enough when people do something, shall we say, less than wise that causes me more work and frustration. It's even worse when that person is a one of your bosses.

I got a call while I was on my way to work Monday morning. His computer wouldn't boot up. 

No big deal, right? I'll get in there and figure it out and get him on his way.

Well, that's how it is supposed to work.

I was presented with some strange options when I sat down in front of his computer. He proceeded to tell me that he had, "clicked on some things I thought would help," while he was awaiting my arrival. I'm not really sure what all he clicked on, but whatever it was, my only recourse was to completely restore the system to its factory state.

That means I basically "got to" reformat his hard drive and start all over with reloading his operating system, programs, drivers, files, etc. etc. etc.

No fun at all! It's not like I don't have anything else to do this week.

Well, to make a very long story as short as possible, I still have not finished his computer. I keep getting sidetracked with other things that require my time. I put his old computer back onto his desk so he could at least keep working while I tackle this task.

Sometimes I think only geeks should be allowed to touch computers...

It's Not "Plain"

My favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla.

Vanilla is used in many recipes and, as many people have discovered to their horror, forgetting to add it ruins the recipe.

I'm surprised, then, when so many people (including a very special person in my life who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are Diane Brader) refer to anything vanilla as "plain." The term "plain vanilla" is used - often in a derogatory fashion - to describe something that is boring.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Vanilla is aromatic and delicious. It is one of the few substances that enhances virtually everything.

It is far from "plain."

Diane will offer ice cream as dessert in the evening. She rattles off a laundry list of flavors she has accumulated in the freezer. I usually, but not always, choose vanilla. This often starts an interrogation where Diane asks me about specific other flavors she has offered, but I stay with vanilla. I am then, of course, mocked for wanting "plain" ice cream.

Diane and I visited our nephew Brad's Orange Leaf frozen yogurt store when we were in Missouri last month. He has sixteen flavors available every day.

I chose vanilla.

"Don't you want something with flavor," Diane asks?

Vanilla is a flavor; and a remarkably deep and delicious one at that.

There is nothing "plain" about my favorite ice cream flavor.

Lola's Table

Diane's mom has lived with us since March of 2000. For those of you bad at math, that means she has lived with us for just over fourteen years.

Trust me - fourteen years is a very long time to have your mother-in-law living under your roof. I call her Lola. Her real name is Loretta, but she made the mistake of telling us one time that she had dreamed of being a showgirl when she was young. She had already chosen her stage name.

You guessed it - Lola.

So while she's Loretta, or Lo, to most people; she's Lola to me.

The Old Table

Lola uses a flimsy, cheap bed table as a primary piece of furniture in her living room. She eats most of her meals while watching television in her living room, so the table serves as her dinner table. It also serves as her solitaire table, side table, library table, etc. In short; she uses the table constantly.

We bought the table for Diane's dad while he was largely confined to a chair; or, later, a hospital bed in their living room during the final months of his life. It was really flimsy and cheap when we bought it and it certainly hasn't gotten any sturdier in the last thirteen-plus years.

The table is quite unstable. Lola tips it over at least once a week; sending her juice, books, snacks, etc. to the floor. She made several attempts at rigging up some sort of lip around the table's edges to help keep her from pushing things off the edge to the floor.

The table, though, is well beyond its expected lifespan. (Of course, so is Lola...) Last week, Diane asked me to take a look at it to see if there was anything I could do to make it a bit sturdier. I tightened down all of the screws and bolts, and added a brace on the suspended end, but the table is simply beyond repair.

Diane started looking for a replacement online. It's amazing how expensive cheap tables are!

I mentioned to Diane that it would probably be no more expensive to just build her a new table instead of buying another cheap, flimsy table. Plus, building one would allow us to size it to her needs and install quality casters.

Great idea, right?

Diane decided that a new table would make a wonderful gift for her 91st birthday. The problem is that this idea came about in the middle of last week. Lola's 91st birthday is this coming Friday. That left a very short time to do a lot of work.

Actually building the table wouldn't be the hardest part. Finishing it would be. For anyone not familiar with woodworking, the sanding, staining, topcoating, letting it cure, sanding again, putting on a second topcoat, letting it cure, sanding again and then putting on a third topcoat and letting it cure is not something that can be rushed. Building the table and finishing it traditionally simply can't be finished by Friday.

Diane is undeterred.

We bought the wood last Wednesday and I put it into the basement shop to acclimate for a couple of days to prevent warping and twisting. We cut the pieces Friday and prepared for the initial sanding and assembly when a problem reared its ugly head. We had picked a mix of oak and maple for the various components. Diane decided, though, that she didn't like the wood we had chosen for the table top.

That took us back to the lumberyard Saturday morning to get more oak to replace several pieces that were originally going to be maple. Once there, I found a finish I've never used before that will allow me to sand and recoat in as few as six hours.

Maybe Friday isn't completely out of the question after all.

The New Table Awaiting Finish

Lola doesn't know we're building her a new table. She thinks I'm working up some scheme to build a new lip around her current table. (My blog entry doesn't really risk spoiling the surprise since Lola, like most 90 year olds, doesn't go on the Internet.)

Come Friday afternoon, we'll head into Lola's living room and tell her I need to take her table downstairs to put the new lip on it. After a delay to make it seem like I'm actually doing something, we'll bring in her new table.

She said we are not supposed to give her gifts since she's over 90. I suppose I could tell her that the gift is really for Diane so she doesn't have to come in and clean up the spills caused by her unstable table.

Tick, Tick, Tick

As we sit here waiting for some future manifestation of Spring in Wisconsin, I am reminded that "tick season" will soon be upon us. There are few things that elicit as violent of a reaction from Diane as even the thought of a tick. I'm sure that even the mention of a tick in my blog has sent shivers down her spine and caused her to verbalize some form of, "Eewwwww!"

I don't believe I have ever met anyone as grossed out by - and afraid of - ticks as my lovely bride.

Now, I'm not saying that I like ticks; they just don't really bother me. I can't begin to count the number of them that I have pulled off of dogs, kids, myself, etc. I like to do things that require me to go into places where ticks thrive. I figure ticks just go with the territory and that I'm going to have to check for ticks if I want to continue fishing, hunting, wandering in the fields and woods, walking the dog or working in the backyard.

Okay, I suppose I'm willing to stop working in the backyard to eliminate that risk, but the other activities are here to stay.

Ticks were a bigger deal when I was a kid. Today, they're just a nuisance. A potential disease-carrying nuisance, perhaps, but just a nuisance nonetheless. I don't freak out if I find one crawling up my leg or embedded somewhere on my body; I just flick it off or pull it out. Done and done.

Not Diane, though. No, Diane freaks. One would think that all of nature had unleashed its fury on my lovely bride if she sees a tick. You can just imagine what happens if she finds one that has embedded.

That happened a few years ago and, the circumstances surrounding it, caused me more stress than a man should have to endure.

It was Easter morning and Diane and I had headed to church very early so I could set up an overflow area at church. I was working to get the sound and projection working when Diane came into the room with a stricken look on her face and said, "Scott, I need you to check something."

My heart nearly stopped, because the look and words were identical to the situation just a few years earlier when she asked me to check the lump she felt in her breast. That one moment was the precursor to six months of torture for her.

That's the only thing I could think of as she led me into the women's restroom (there was no one else in the building, yet). My panic was quickly alleviated, though, when she pulled her skirt up a bit, pointed to a black dot on her thigh and asked, "Is that a tick?"

I was SO relieved!!! It wasn't a lump! It was just a stupid little tick!

I checked and, yes, it was a tick.

Diane's response was immediate and violent.

"Get it out of me!!!!"

I struggled to keep myself from laughing at what was, to me, an extreme overreaction to a simple tick. To her, though, this was a huge deal.

I pulled the tick, flushed it down the toilet and instructed her to wash the area off well and forget about it. Diane was certain that she would soon come down with every tick-borne disease known to man; including those only carried by African species of ticks.

She didn't, of course, but that did nothing to lessen her future responses to the humble little arachnid. So now I am preparing myself for yet another season of Diane's tick-paranoia as the clock ticks ever so slowly toward Tick Season.

Little Sisters

Little sisters have a way of getting on your nerves sometimes. I don't know if they do it on purpose or if it just comes naturally to them. I'm guessing the latter.

I sat near the back of the room in seventh grade homeroom. The room normally served as the science classroom, so it was equipped with two-person tables instead of the standard desks. The class wasn't overly large, but I was pretty far away from the chalkboard. My table-mate wore glasses. We were goofing off one day, as seventh grade boys were wont to do, when he gave me his glasses to "throw Mrs. Buck off a bit." Much to my surprise, I  could see the chalkboard clearly while wearing his glasses.

I reported the vision issue to Mom when I got home and she immediately scheduled an appointment for me to see the eye doctor. She scheduled Beth for the appointment slot after mine; and thus created the situation for Beth to get on my nerves.

The nurse called my name and Mom, Beth and I made our way to the examination room where the nurse went through all of the initial screening before the doctor would come in. I went first.

Mom and Beth sat in chairs beside me.

I don't recall ever having been to an eye doctor before that fateful day, so I'd never been subjected to the torture of the dot test. The nurse handed me a small book as I sat in the examination chair; opened it and asked me what number I saw on the first page.

What was wrong with this woman?

Was she nuts?

What number do I see...

Really?????

There was no number on the page; there was just a jumbled mess of dots that made up a larger dot!

That's when it started.

I heard Beth start to quietly giggle.

The nurse turned the page and asked me what I saw on the next page.

More dots.

Beth's giggles became more pronounced. Apparently she and the nurse were in cahoots and "saw" things in the dots. (They have special doctors for people who "see" things; and both Beth and the nurse apparently needed to pay the doctor a visit.)

The nurse pointed to the jumbled dots on the next page and asked me again what I saw.

Dots! Just dots!

At this point Beth's giggles turned to laughs and she asked Mom, "What's wrong with him? Doesn't he know his numbers?"

The nurse had pity on me and ended the torture session early by putting the book away while there were still many pages that had, what I can only presume to be, more pictures of dots. Beth was quite entertained by my failure and proceeded to tell me what "numbers" were supposedly hidden in the jumbled dots.

Right...

Well I got a prescription for glasses that day that allowed me to see the board clearly, but while I have visited the eye doctor many times since that fateful day, I have yet to see any of the imaginary numbers they have supposedly hidden in the jumbled dots. Still; they hand me the little book every time and ask me what numbers I see on several pages before they give up.

I think it's a trick question.

Changing Colors

If there's one spruce up project that I absolutely detest, it would be painting. There's nothing fun about it! The prep and the cleanup invariably take longer than the project itself, and the task almost always leads to an argument. We repainted virtually our entire interior about a decade ago. I informed Diane that either she would be solely responsible for future painting projects or we would hire someone to do it because I was finished. I would never paint again.

Diane and I rarely argue.

When we do, there's a good chance we've been painting together.

I suppose I don't understand the desire to repaint walls. I am, after all, a color blind guy who - Diane is convinced - has no fashion sense whatsoever.

None.

I still think purple and brown make a wonderful shirt and pants combination and all of the walls in our home should be painted Aztec Gold.

Diane doesn't let me wear purple and brown together and none of our walls are painted Aztec Gold. What does she know??? They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and my eyes - flawed as they may be - behold those to be beautiful colors.

But I digress...

Some time ago Diane decided that "we" needed to repaint our kitchen, dining and living rooms. She picked Crisp Linen - which is really just a fancy name for some variety of off-white - for all of the walls except the west wall of living room. For that wall, she picked some brownish color that she says is burgundy, or some such thing.

Diane and Matthew wanted to make sure the kitchen and dining room walls were painted before Shelley came to visit at Christmas. Matthew was Diane's helper, but - as often seems to be the case - he managed to find some very important things that forced him to abandon his post after a very short stint. So, the guy who swore he would never paint again was once again forced to take up a roller.

It took two coats of Crisp Linen to cover whatever the grayish color previously covered the walls. I "got to" roll virtually all of both coats.

What fun!

Diane decided she was no longer so sure of the colors she had picked for the living room after seeing the paint on the walls in the kitchen and dining room. Mind you, we had already purchased enough paint to do all three rooms, but that is not important.

We - well to be honest, she - decided to charge on and paint the brownish/burgundy wall last Saturday. I got everything prepped. I'll spare you all of the details, but it turned into a typical painting project. After two coats (with a third still needed due to a, shall we say, "difference" in painting technique) the wall is temporarily finished. The living room's other walls have not yet been repainted because Diane is not so sure she likes the Crisp Linen paint against whatever color the brownish/burgundy wall is.

I'm not in a big rush for her to decide to paint the rest of the walls because I know I will, in all likelihood, be enlisted to take up a roller again. I would, though, like for it to be finished because I can't finish the trim and box beams on the ceiling until after the walls have been painted.

So I sit idly by while Diane peruses paint chips and decorating websites looking for the "perfect" color. (I'm pretty sure Aztec Gold would look awesome beside the brownish/burgundy wall, but Diane has not, to date, asked for my opinion.)

In the meantime, I have nearly two gallons of Crisp Linen in the basement if anyone is looking to paint their walls with some version of off-white with a really fancy name.

Play Ball!

There is still snow in my yard, yet they are playing baseball.

Yep, that's opening day in Wisconsin!

I remember having to wear a winter coat to games over Memorial Day weekend before Miller Park opened. While I still think the roof should be opened for every game unless it is raining; I must admit that it is very nice to have the roof so we never have to worry about a rain out.

I'm ready to cheer my Redbirds on as they defend their National League Championship. I only hope that we take that final step this year and win the World Series again.

It's nice to hear the announcers say that it's time for baseball again.

My Fault!

I am not superstitious. Not in any way. I find it odd, though, that some things seem to tie together a little too closely sometimes. I speak, of course, of the Blues record when I am not wearing my "lucky sweatshirt."

I have a plain old Blues Hockey sweatshirt that I put on when I get home from work virtually every evening throughout the autumn, winter and fall. Diane keeps our house relatively cool to help minimize the impact of her hot flashes. I compensate by putting on a sweatshirt.

Not just any sweatshirt, though. It has to be my lucky Blues Hockey sweatshirt.

I end up wearing my Blues Hockey sweatshirt during almost every Blues game I watch on television. I say almost because even my lucky sweatshirt has to be washed occasionally.

My lucky sweatshirt is not perfect. I haven't kept track of the wins and losses while wearing it, but I have noticed a troubling trend - we have lost every game I have watched on television while not wearing my lucky sweatshirt.

I'll bet you can guess what comes next - the losses to the Blackhawks and Flyers last week came while my lucky sweatshirt was waiting to be laundered.

The losses are my fault.

I accept full blame.

I mentioned this troubling trend to Diane after our loss to the Flyers Saturday and she immediately retrieved that load of laundry and got it into the washing machine.

I was wearing my lucky Blues Hockey sweatshirt during our exciting 1 - 0 game against the Penguins Sunday.

Now I'm not claiming any magical powers being associated with my sweatshirt, but you can't deny that we played horribly when I wasn't wearing it and then played well and won a very exciting game when I put it back on.

You can bet I'll be wearing that sweatshirt all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals, now!

Feeling Naked

Every morning I get out of the shower and dress in my seemingly standard khakis and crisply starched shirt with lace up leather shoes. I load up with my standard daily carry items and place my Cross pen and pencil into my shirt pocket - always with the pen to the left side. I finish up my daily preparation routine by strapping one of my three old-fashioned analog watches to my left wrist.

Yes, my routine is another example of my rather rigid, anal-retentive personality. Occasionally, though, something goes awry and my routine is shattered. It might be the distraction of one of the cats popping open the bedroom door and jumping onto the bed; hoping to get a bit of attention, or maybe because Diane has not yet written the pants color onto the inner tag of my new pants so I can tell if I have selected black pants or blue pants.

Whatever the cause; it is a very bad thing when my routine is thrown off.

Wednesday was one of those days. Haley, the cat I have nicknamed Cat Ballou because she is, like the song from the movie said, "mean and evil through and through," burst through the bedroom door and jumped onto the bed next to me as I stood getting ready. One must always keep one eye on Haley when she is nearby because she will try to lull you into a false sense of security by purring loudly - only to go into full attack mode with no warning. The only good thing is that she is declawed so she can only bite me instead of bite and scratch me!

My routine was thrown into a loop by my attempts to protect myself from Haley. I got to work and glanced at my wrist only to realize that I had forgotten to put on my watch! Now that may not seem like a very big deal to you, but trust me, this was very bad! I look at my wrist constantly throughout the day; expecting to see my analog watch riding there so I can monitor the passage of time.

But it wasn't there!!!! It's almost worth driving back home to get my watch because I go bonkers all day when it's not on my wrist where it's supposed to be.

I felt so naked!!!

The Pause Button

Ron and I were virtually inseparable as teens. We had a unique bond. No one would have expected us to be best friends. I was a geek even before geeks existed. I helped Ron with his math homework and made a little money by doing calculations with my slide rule faster than the other kids in the cafeteria could with their newfangled calculators. Ron, on the other hand, was the cool jock. He pretty much beat me in every game or sport we played, and he was the one the girls wanted to hang around with.

I really liked one of the girls in our youth group and hoped she would ask me to her school's Sadie Hawkins Dance. I was really excited when she came up to me one Wednesday evening and asked if she could speak to me privately for a minute.

This was it!!!! I was going to Sadie Hawkins with her!!!

She spoke as soon as we got a little bit away from the rest of the group, saying, "Do you think Ron would go to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me if I asked him?"

I was shell shocked! Here I was certain that she was going to ask me to the dance, but all she really wanted to ask me was whether I thought my best friend would consider an invitation from her. I hid my disappointment and told her I was pretty sure he would.

Yes, Ron and I were about as different as they come, but somehow we had ended up best friends.

Life intervened and the kids who were inseparable became distant friends. I moved to Wisconsin three decades ago and our contacts gradually tapered off to almost nil. Facebook has recently allowed us to sort of keep track of each other, but our visits and conversations are few and far between.

I hadn't talked with Ron for a long time - nearly four years, in fact. The last time we visited was shortly before Mom died when I stopped by his house for coffee and conversation.

A lot has happened since then.

Four years is a long time.

I had a business trip that took me to St. Louis for a week earlier this month. I finished up with the business side of the trip on Thursday. Diane came in on the train so we could spend Friday and Saturday visiting with family. Friday morning, though, was set aside to visit with Ron.

I suppose it would seem normal that our first conversation would be awkward, a bit of small talk about our families interspersed with long periods of silence.

That might be normal, but our relationship was never normal. While we're both a bit older, a bit grayer and, perhaps, a bit chunkier than the last time we sat at his dining room table; our visit was as if time had stood still. We had the relaxed conversation that only true friends can have. There was, of course, all of the obligatory updates about our kids, but our conversation was more like one you would expect between people who get together every week.

We talked about the similarities between his battle with cancer and Diane's, we talked about Dad dying shortly after we moved into the house behind Ron's family, and we talked about the difficulties of watching his parents grow old.

We talked like people who really knew each other; like the friends we were and, obviously, always will be. We talked like people for whom time had stood still and had merely put our conversation on pause for the last four years.

I don't know when we will have the next chance to sit and talk, but I know that, whenever it is, we'll just pick up where we left off.

Once again, we'll just release the pause button and our friendship will continue on as if we'd never paused at all.

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

I know I'm not hip, with it, down or whatever the current term is for being culturally relevant. I look in the mirror each morning and the face looking back at me is that of a mildly paunchy, middle aged product of some previous generation. I have no doubt that no one other than my family really wants to look at this mug; and even they would probably rather skip it most of the time, too.

That said; I simply don't get this new "selfie" fad. What's the point of taking pictures of yourself and posting them all over social media for all the world to see. What's more, many young women feel the need to pucker up their face and flash the peace sign before taking the picture.

What's the point?

The standard female "selfie" expression can make even attractive women look bizarre. Yet they continue to appear on social media with frightening frequency.

I don't take "selfies."

I see that face in the mirror - and the mirror doesn't lie.

I guess it's just because I'm not hip - or whatever.

Lunch Surprise!

I rarely know what I'm having for lunch on any given day. I pull my lunch bag from the refrigerator in the lunch room at work and open it to find what my lunchtime surprise is for that day.

Allow me to explain in order to quickly put to rest any notion that my mental faculties have deteriorated to the point that I no longer remember what I made for lunch each day. Diane has gotten up with me well before dawn and lovingly made my lunch virtually every day for many years. On occasion she will ask what I want that day, but most of the time I have no idea what I'm having for lunch until I sit at the table and open my lunch bag.

Diane normally puts some special treat at the top of the bag that I take out to have for morning break. It's often some homemade muffin, coffee cake or other special treat. The rest of my lunch waits in the refrigerator for the Noon bell.

My lunch isn't anything fancy. In fact most days my lunch simply consists of a sandwich, some chips or cottage cheese, a piece of fruit and a carton of yogurt. Either the fruit or the yogurt stays in the bag for a snack during my afternoon break, but I dig into the rest for lunch.

I always enjoy my lunch - no matter how simple it may seem - because I am reminded of Diane's loving hands preparing it for me each and every day.

I Can Do It Myself!

It has been said that you can determine who is really your best friend by locking your dog and your wife in the trunk for an hour and then seeing which one is happy to see you when you let them out. I'm quite sure I already know the answer to that question, and I'm glad that is not the true test of determining which one loves me more. That said, it's a wonderful feeling to have a dog that loves me.

I don't doubt that Sadie loves me. She is always thrilled to see me when I get home. (Of course, she's always happy to see anyone when they arrive.) There is also no doubt that I love my dog very much.

For all of her wonderful qualities, Sadie also has a rather annoying habit. She apparently thinks that we are unable to perform routine tasks without her. For example, Sadie will push into the bathroom and lie down on the bath mat while one of us is in the shower if we do not make sure the door is completely latched behind us.

Really, Sadie, I can do it myself!

Sadie is not allowed in the basement. The cats' litter boxes are down there. Anyone with both cats and dogs needs no further explanation. Anyone else can simply use their imagination. We have a baby gate installed in the doorway leading to the basement to keep her from heading downstairs. My newly re-configured workshop also happens to be in the basement. Sadie apparently thinks I am unable to function in the workshop without her so she fidgets at the gate while staring downstairs to make sure I don't get out of her sight. She will slowly sneak down the stairs if I neglect to close the gate behind me. She sits there until I either come back upstairs or fire up any of my power tools. She doesn't like the noise they make so she reluctantly abandons her post when I use them.

Really, Sadie, I can do it myself!

Perhaps most annoying, though, is that Sadie apparently thinks that we are unable to function in the bathroom without her help. She often lies just outside of the bathroom door awaiting our return - her whimpers building as the time passes.

Really, Sadie, I can do it myself!

UNCLE!!!!!

There Ought To Be A Law...

Living ten time zones away from Sochi, Russia has both good and bad points. It's good, because I would rather live in the Upper Midwest than anywhere closer to Sochi. It's bad, though, because it means the Olympic hockey games are on at very strange times.

So, while Team USA is in the midst of pounding the Czech Republic; I am stuck at work - limited to following the game vicariously through periodic text updates from Diane.

There ought to be a law prohibiting companies from expecting their employees to work during an Olympic hockey game.

The Gift Of Languages

I am severely lacking when it comes to linguistics. I failed French, Spanish and German in school. I ran out of languages to fail at that point since the schools had not yet added the variety of languages available to today's students.

I don't really know what it was about foreign languages that stumped me. I simply couldn't get them no matter how much I studied. I suppose I just am not gifted when it comes to foreign languages.

I excelled in English, though. I also flew through Koine Greek, but that's another story entirely.

I didn't even realize how much of a passion I had for English until my college advisor told me I had taken enough English/Writing courses to complete my Minor in English. I hadn't taken them for any particular reason; just because I enjoyed them and used my electives to take English courses. I immediately declared an English Minor and my advisor turned in the appropriate paperwork to mark my minor complete.

My boys did not inherit my language deficiencies. Both of them easily cruised through advanced levels of both high school and college Spanish. Joseph developed such a fluency that he was designated as a Spanish-speaking teller, and then teller supervisor, at the bank where he worked after graduating from college. Many of the bank's Spanish-speaking customers commented that he spoke Spanish as if it was his native tongue.

Matthew, while not as comfortable as his brother in foreign languages, also developed a level of fluency that put me to shame.

I could never even pass the most rudimentary level of a foreign language and here my sons were flying through advanced courses in conversation and literature.

They excelled where I failed.

For some reason, my brain simply couldn't grasp the sounds and inflections of any of the three languages I so spectacularly failed. They just sounded like gibberish. I couldn't even understand people who spoke heavily-accented English. It's as if they were just making up sounds that had no structure or cohesion.

My language failures have become even worse as my hearing suffers from the effects of age and abuse. I am often forced to turn on the closed-captions on television when someone with an accent is being featured. The church we used to attend had a large Spanish ministry. I often found myself standing there feeling foolish as I habitually misunderstood our Spanish-speaking members as they spoke to me (in English, no less)! I did better with our Deaf members because I had managed to learn at least a modicum of American Sign Language, and the Deaf could figure out what I meant even when I botched it up.

But when it comes to spoken langues - I am lost.

I have resigned myself to the fact that my foreign language struggles dating back to seventh grade French class are destined to only get worse in the future.

I'm just not gifted when it comes to languages...

One More Chance

I have often wondered what I would say to Dad if I had one more chance to speak with him. What is the most important thing I would tell him, or what would I ask?

Would I apologize for something in my past?

Would I seek his advice on a matter in my present?

Would I introduce him to my family?

After all, he was gone before I graduated from high school or college; before I got married and before I had kids. He never got to meet Diane or the two young men who now carry on the Brader name.

What if I was told that I could speak with him one more time, but I could only say one thing or ask one question. It could never happen, of course, but what if...

What would I say if I had one more chance.

I have come up with many options through the years, but every time I have thought through it I find my ideas lacking.

I'm pretty sure that, if given one more chance, I would simply say, "I love you, Dad."

If I had one more chance...

Built To Last

I have been accused of over-engineering many of my projects through the years. I strongly disagree. Merely because something is designed and built to withstand virtually anything short of a direct hit from a tactical nuclear weapon does not automatically mean it is over-engineered.

It simply means that it was built to last.

I am reminded of the value of that design philosophy every time I look at the playset in our back yard. I set out to design and build a playset for the boys after we were unable to find a pre-built play system that had the features we wanted at a price we could afford. I (correctly) surmised that I could build a much more robust playset for far less money than the ones commercially available.

So that is exactly what I did.

That playset consists of a massive deck that sits about six feet off the ground. A slide at one end provides a means of rapid egress when needed. The deck is accessed by set of stairs leading to a bridge that leads to another, smaller set of stairs back down to the deck itself. The underside of the bridge serves as the mounting points for a couple of swings and a set of rings. The playset also has a single monkey bar connected to one side.

That playset was a magnet for the neighborhood kids when the boys were young. As the boys grew, it became the "high ground" to be captured and defended as the boys and I acted out massive AirSoft campaigns in the yard.

The playset still stands tall and proud in the yard today; and I'm sure it will stand strong in the yard long after I'm dead and gone. For now, though, it sits idle; ready for any grandchildren that may one day revive the glory of the playset in our back yard.

I'm Getting A Daughter!!!

I was delighted to hear the doctor proclaim not once, but twice, "It's a boy" upon delivering our children. Being the only son of an only son made it very important to me to carry on the Brader name. It's not that I wouldn't have loved to have a daughter, but I'm pretty sure I would have been a terrible dad to a little girl. Diane and the boys even go so far as to accuse me of that based only on how I treat my cat and dog.

I disagree. While I'm pretty sure that I would have struggled as a father of a little girl; I don't think it's because I would have spoiled her. No, I'm pretty sure I would have been viewed as a tyrant father. I don't think she have been allowed to date until she turned thirty and, even then, I would have insisted on being the chauffeur. Any young man casting a glance at her would have been invited to accompany me on a little visit to the shooting range where I would proceed to show him how effectively I am able to handle many types of weapons - all the while chatting with him about the precious treasure that he had expressed an interest in. 

That is, I'm sure, why God gave me two sons and no daughters. 

Until now, that is.

I had been sworn to secrecy regarding Matthew's plans to propose to Shelley. On Friday, though, the secret became public knowledge so I am free to proclaim it to the world.

I'm Getting A Daughter!!!

I don't know the "due date," yet, but I know she's on the way!

Congratulations Matthew and Shelley!!!!! 

Happy Faux Holiday!!!!

I'm pretty sure a prominent greeting card company invented the whole fiasco that Valentine's Day has become in order to separate otherwise prudent men from their money. Virtually every commercial break includes a collection of "special" Valentine's Day ads imploring men to buy their special woman flowers, strawberries, chocolates, jewelry or gigantic stuffed Teddy Bears. Although I must admit that I have not paid a ton of attention, I cannot recall seeing a single commercial encouraging women to head to Cabela's, Bass Pro Shop, Menard's, Farm and Fleet or Rockler to buy their man hunting and fishing gear, tools, lawn and garden toys or woodworking goodies.

No; Valentine's Day is all about coercing men into buying expensive things for their woman.

I'm convinced that it's all part of a diabolical plot conceived by some woman who was looking for something to hold over her husband's head. After all; she wins if the man buys her gifts, and she wins if the man forgets so she can hold it over his head for the next year. It's a win-win for the women and a lose-lose for the men.

All that being said, I am blessed to be married to a woman whose desire for frugality far exceeds her desire for Valentine's Day gifts - or the ability to hold it over my head.

Many other women have also recognized the evil intentions behind Valentine's Day advertisers' intentions and spare their loved ones from the agony of either spending ridiculous amounts of money or enduring their wrath.

I don't need a special day to let Diane know how much I love her. I try to do that every single day - without expensive trinkets. So we're celebrating Valentine's Day this year by going to the Home Improvement show at the Wisconsin Exposition Center this afternoon and then stopping for dinner at Fuddrucker's on the way home. We're hoping to get some great ideas for the next list of projects that will fill my task list.

In the meantime, Happy Faux Holiday to you all!

Southeast Snowmageddon II

Air travel and severe weather never play nicely together. Somehow, it always seems that the weather often infringes on our travel plans.

This phenomenon goes back many years; starting, perhaps, with the mad scramble my secretary had to deal with to get me to Miami for a job when virtually all air travel in Wisconsin was shut down. This was before the days of the Internet, so she had to work with the travel agents and airlines to come up with an alternate plan that forced me to race to O'Hare in order to get to my project in Florida on time.

Our family dealt with weather issues again more recently when Joseph was coming home for Christmas Break during his sophomore year of college. He and his roommate Andrew had made it as far as Cincinnati when they were told that all flights to Milwaukee were shut down and they would be stuck in Cincinnati for at least three days. I began working one plan of attack that would have me driving to Cincinnati - only about six hours away - while Andrew's mother started working the phones with the airlines to look for another option. We figured that I could always stop somewhere along the way if she managed to work something out. Again; through an arduous process of working the phones, she got them onto a flight to Chicago. Diane and I headed to O'Hare to collect the boys and get them home.

There have been other incidents through the years that have sometimes dramatically increased my travel times as I waited out storms or manipulated my itinerary in order to reach my destination. It's rarely that big of a deal for me because I don't often have issues that are so emergent that a delay will cause great strife. That's not always true for everyone else in the family, though.

The severe weather beast raised its ugly head again on Tuesday when the approaching storm in the Southeast caused Delta to cancel all Thursday flights from Milwaukee to Atlanta. As luck would have it, of course, Matthew was scheduled on one of those cancelled flights on one leg of his flight to spend Valentine's Day weekend with Shelley in Greenville.

Fortunately, through the wonder of the Internet this time, Matthew was able to find a flight out of O'Hare Tuesday afternoon that would allow him to beat the storm to Greenville. This required him, of course, to get to O'Hare on relatively short notice.

Have no fear; Dad will take care of it, right?

I (fortunately) didn't have anything too pressing at work so I was able to head home to drive him to O'Hare. Diane offered to drive him, but Diane driving to O'Hare and back would have been a pretty stressful event in her day. Not that I like driving around Chicago, mind you, but it's much less stressful for me than it would be for Diane.

We dropped Matthew off at O'Hare's Terminal 1 in plenty of time for him to make his flight. He did not tell Shelley that he was coming early, so he was able to surprise her by arriving Tuesday instead of Thursday. The bonus time down in Greenville was made even more exciting when the university announced they were cancelling all Wednesday classes and activities because of the impending storm.

Even Southeast Snowmageddon II couldn't put a damper on Matthew's plans to spend Valentine's Day weekend with Shelley - and what a story this will be for the ages!

Life's Seasons

There's an old saying along the lines of, "Youth is wasted on the young."

I suppose that is somewhat true. When we think about the seasons of our lives we often don't even realize that we are living in the spring and summer of life until we have passed on to autumn. Likewise, we often miss out on much of the beauty of autumn because we are reflecting back on the spring and summer, or dreading the coming winter.

Somehow we always seem to be looking back or looking ahead without taking the time to look around.

I don't deny that I'm in the autumn of my life. The carefree days of my youth are well behind me; the days I have left certainly fewer than the days already spent.

I'm okay with that.

My hope is that I will be able to look around and enjoy the beauty that is the changing of the seasons - this period of transition between the sunny, energetic days of the past and the approaching subdued tones of the winter.

Things tend to move at a slower pace in the winter. Our lives are no exception. I watch the actions and antics of young people and catch myself wondering how long I would spend in bed - or the hospital - after attempting to copy them. Of course, with the coming of winter there also (hopefully) comes wisdom to know better than to even try.

There are some who fight the approaching winter with a vengeance; hoping somehow to hold off, or at least hide, the effects of the seasons. I'm sure we all know at least one person like that; the person who whether through medical interventions or clothing selections or hair manipulation or whatever seeks to give the outward appearance that they are still living out the carefree days of summer.

I don't want to hold off the changing seasons. I have earned each and every one of the gray hairs I see in the mirror each morning. Each gray hair brings with it a reminder to enjoy the day and all it brings. I want to embrace the life God has given me here and now no matter how many days I may have left.

Sometimes the little things are big things.

Overall, I really don't think I'm that hard of a person to please.

Now I freely admit that I tend to be a rather picky eater (Diane would argue my modification of picky with rather, but it's my blog so I'm keeping it as a rather picky eater.)

Okay, I also tend to be slightly OCD about my shirts being starched a certain way and always wearing shoes when I am awake and maybe just a touch of OCD tendencies appear in my insistence to have structure in EVERYTHING in my life.

Other than that, though, I'm really not a hard person to please.

Really.

One of my pet peeves (I only have about 3,000 of them) has to do with my tools being where they belong so I can find them the next time I need to use them. Through the couple of decades that we have lived in our home, the basement and garage became a catch all - causing virtually every attempt to find a particular tool to be an exercise in futility and frustration.

Maybe that's just a little thing to most people; but, to me, it was a very big thing.

I got the bug last fall to tackle the garage and basement so I could (once and for all) get things organized so we could find needed items without having to set a GPS waypoint to find our way back from the jungle the storage areas had become. Thus started a carefully choreographed process of organizing and cleaning. I started on the garage one Saturday morning; moving everything from the garage onto the driveway. I assembled some shelves and started the process of bringing things in and putting them away.

This could only go so far, of course, because there were some items in the garage that had to go to the basement; which wasn't ready to receive anything, yet. We got the garage to a semi-finished state so I could turn my attention to the basement. This created another conundrum because I could only get so far with the cleaning and organization down there before coming up with a way to get rid of some stuff.

After much hemming and hawing about how to handle some stuff, we finally got the basement cleaned and installed more shelving down there to allow me to shift my focus to my ultimate goal of getting my workbench cleaned off and organized once and for all. This finally became possible because Joseph, Matthew and Shelley got together and gave me thirty-two beautiful square feet of pegboard, a whole collection of hooks and tool holders in various sizes and a Menard's gift card that I can use to add more goodies to the collection! It's much easier to know what I need when I can see what I have.

I spent a couple of evenings last week running wires and moving light fixtures around to better light up the basement.

Then came Saturday...

Matthew and I hung the furring strips on the concrete wall and fastened the pegboard.

Then I got started on figuring out just where I want to hang all of my tools. I'm sure the configuration will change at least a couple of times before I settle on a final layout, but at least it's a start! I have printed out labels for all of my tools that I will affix to the pegboard where each tool is to hang once I settle on a final configuration. That will make it very easy to determine what is missing when a tool is "borrowed" and not returned to its proper place. It will also make it very easy for whomever "borrowed" the tool to make sure it gets back into the correct place when they finish using it and are diligent about returning it to its proper place.

The next step is moving my table saw down there to complete the workshop.

It may seem like a little thing to you that my tools are now organized, but to me, it is a very, very big thing.

You see; sometimes the little things are big things...

Mulligan!!!

I suppose everyone has a collection of moments in their life for which that they wish they could just call a mulligan and start over.

I'm sure there are a lot of Denver Broncos fans who would make that call on this year's Super Bowl.

I'm sure Blues goalie Jon Casey would have loved to have "done over" that one shot from Steve Yzerman in the second overtime of a game seven playoff game against the Wings in 1996.

There are a lot of things I, too, wish I could just "do over."

I suppose my biggest mulligan wish would be that I had just enjoyed my boys more when they were young. I'm not a "kid person." Don't get me wrong - I loved my boys dearly from the moment they were born - even before they were born - but I didn't really "enjoy" them when they were small.

Diane has always been a baby/little kid person. She continues to work with the infants and toddlers at church to get her weekly fix of little ones while she patiently waits for a grandchild to dote over at some point in the future.

Me, though, not so much. I couldn't wait for the boys to get old enough to carry on "normal" conversations and do other "normal" things.

As a result, I missed out on a lot.

I didn't "enjoy" the moments as they played out.

I lived through them and, in some cases, endured them, but I didn't really "enjoy" them.

There are times when I look back on those days and wish I could just call a mulligan and try it all over again.

That chance is gone forever and now I look back from my middle aged years with regret.

Thanks for the job, Mr. Dierdorf!

While many of my high school friends went to work at various fast food restaurants, I was lucky enough to be hired at the Sears store in Chesterfield Mall. I was hired as seasonal help leading into the Christmas season in 1977. I remember asking the HR person who interviewed me if there was any chance that I could stay on after Christmas; only to be told that the store was already above the corporate quota for part time workers and I would be let go after Christmas. I figured that working for three months was better than not working at all, so I jumped at the job offer she made.

I went through a couple of weeks of training before learning that I was being assigned to the sporting goods department. It was a dream come true! Sears' sporting goods department at that time featured the standard baseball, football and basketball equipment, but it also had guns, hunting supplies, fishing supplies, pool tables and the recently introduced video game systems. The store added a display of ping pong tables and pool tables for the Christmas season.

It was there that I met Dan Dierdorf.

We had a small storeroom and locked gun room in the back of the department where we stored our jackets and personal belongings while we worked. I was cutting through the department to put my jacket away when I passed what had to be the largest human being I had ever encountered. He politely stopped me as I walked past and asked if I worked in the department. I immediately recognized him as Dan Dierdorf, an offensive lineman for the St. Louis Cardinals Football Team. I told him I would put my jacket in back and be right back with him.

Upon my return, Mr. Dierdorf told me he was interested in getting a pool table for his family for Christmas. I was able to answer all of his questions about the various models we offered (good thing I listened during my training sessions in the department), and he ultimately selected one of our slate-topped models. We took care of all of the necessary paperwork for the sale and delivery and he went on his way.

That transaction, though, contributed to me being allowed to keep my job.

Christmas came, and went, and all of the other seasonal help was gradually dropped from the schedule over the next several weeks, but my name continued to appear. I wasn't going to complain, of course, because it meant I still had a job. I kept quiet about it; hoping that my manager simply forgot that I, too, had been hired as seasonal help and was supposed to be let go once the seasonal rush was over. I finally worked up the courage to ask after several more weeks passed, only to be told that the store manager had given her permission to keep me on as a permanent part time employee.

Why?

Well probably not because of my dashing good looks or charming personality; although I'm sure that was a contributing factor.

No, I was kept on partly because I had the highest per-hour sales of any part timer in the entire store each month since I had been hired. My manager had apparently determined that I could sell pretty much anything to anyone. It didn't hurt, of course that I was passionate about the products in the sporting goods department. It also didn't hurt that I would go in to work pretty much any time the HR department called to see if I would be willing to cover a shift in another department for someone who had called in sick or just if a department found themselves short staffed.

I kept that job until I quit to head off to college, and I kept up my sales numbers and my willingness to cover shifts in any department at a moment's notice. Through the years I worked in hardware, paint, men's clothing, televisions, catalog fulfillment, the bike shop, deliveries and candy counter, among other things.

While Dan Dierdorf never gave another thought, I'm sure, to the sixteen year old kid who had helped him purchase a pool table; I always remembered him fondly as the guy whose big ticket purchase contributed to me keeping a seasonal job for several years.

Thanks for the job, Mr. Dierdorf!