That's Nice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Old...

Linus had his blanket. Matthew had Good Old.

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

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

Matthew couldn't go to bed without Good Old.

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

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

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

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

No such luck.

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

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

Good Old wasn't lost any more!!!

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

Good Old was back...

Why Write?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why do I write?

The simple answer is because I can.

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

I write because I must.

A Band of Brothers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Grow Up So Fast...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're grown now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They grow up so fast, you know.

Father's Day Memories

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

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

627,900 pounds of steam engine heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We created memories to last a lifetime.

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

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

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

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

Signs They're Home

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

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

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

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

I put on a cloak of invisibility.

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

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

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

Of course she had forgotten.

Her "babies" were home!

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