To Dad; Safe at Home

After my father passed away unexpectedly on Halloween morning last week, I was asked to write a remembrance of some kind to share at the memorial. It was hard, too, because picking one event or moment out of an 88 year mosaic of life, that would be brief but poignant, and a representative of the man's body of work as a Godly parent and person would require more than a passing thought. It took the whole weekend and part of Monday. But here's what I came up with-

I could tell you a lot of things Dad and I talked about over the years. Life, school. girls; the value of working hard and doing the right things. He and I had some pretty good discussions and I think it’s safe to say, when I look back, of all the wisdom and advice he passed on- or tried to, when I was listening anyway- some of it may have actually stuck. 

Life- well, like everyone’s mine’s been up and down, littered with mistakes, failures and regrets; along with a few successes. Check.

School?  I did ok. I graduated from college anyway.  Check.      

Girls- though it took forever and several broken hearts, I was finally smart enough to find the right one in Amy. Check, check.

Hard work? Ask anyone who’s ever worked with me. They know. Some call me a workaholic. I just like keeping busy.  Check.

Doing the right thing? Well, not always; that's maybe a 60-40 proposition. But I’m getting better. Check.

But I think the one thing Dad and I were always pretty much in agreement about, from the time I was little until last week, was our shared passion for baseball.

In some ways, baseball kind of kept us connected; following the A’s, the Giants and the teams I played on and coached. Although he and I hadn't gone to a game together since before I was married, and in these later years he didn’t know the ballplayers anymore, and had forgotten a lot of things he used to know by rote- like the infield fly rule (although I'm sure even I can explain that one very well). However I know Dad still tried keeping up best he could, and I’m sure he was pulling for the Giants to win the Series last week.

But as a boy, though we didn’t play catch and he didn’t hit me ground balls, he did teach me something just as important. Because it’s something I can still do now. Dad taught me how to keep score---all the little intricate markings and symbols that go into tracking the progress of a 9 inning (or more) baseball game. Dad was the first to teach me that a “K” stood for strike out, and an "E-6" was error on the shortstop. He was good at math and knew how to calculate batters averages and earned run avaerages. He encouraged me to appreciate a beautifully turned double play as much as a long home run. He taught me to admire hitting the cut off man. And to question the umpires' eyesight.

Dad was gone a lot when I was growing up- doing all the unknown and unsung things it takes to make a decent living and raise a family; stuff children seldom see or appreciate until they get older. Regardless, he always found time on a summer weekend to take me over to a Giants or A’s game. Sometimes it'd be the whole family, but a lot of times it was just him and me. He’d buy a scorecard and then help me keep score- until I could do it on my own. When I had it down, he let me do it for the both of us, occasionally peeking at my work to see who was coming up, what they'd done in previous at-bats, who was still on the bench.

It was kind of our own little bonding thing. 

And there was one baseball outing I remember especially because it was one of those 'one of those things' type of days. Dad and I went to a Saturday afternoon A’s game. It was Labor Day weekend and Mom had planned an end of summer barbeque that evening with some families from our church.  At the time we lived in Citrus Heights, east of Sacramento, and- in those days- the drive to Oakland could be completed in two hours. A little less, the way Dad drove sometimes. So with the baseball game starting at 1:30 and ending, maybe by 4, and company not coming till around 6, we’d be back pretty close to right on time.

Except the game went into extra innings. 9 of them. 

Dad had to get me a second scorecard because the first one was all used up. It was the longest A’s game of the year- 18 innings, five hours and fifteen minutes. It ended at a quarter to seven. We didn’t make it home till 9. At night.

After about the 10^th inning, Dad went out to call home (there weren't cell phones then so he had to use a pay phone and call collect) reporting that we ‘might be a little late’.  I think he told Mom we'd be 'a little late' about four more times before the game finally ended. And I’m sure none of those calls were well received. But he always came back calm and cool, once with another hot dog for me, and said each time, "Don't worry. We can stay till the last out". And we did.  

Though in the grand scheme of life, it was a meaningless baseball game played near the end of the season by two really crummy teams- I think they played Cleveland that day, and the stupid A's lost- but for me, in my young life it was a big win. My Dad risked catching hell when we got home (and probably did), just to sit through an 18 inning extra inning baseball game with me. His priority that afternoon was not what Mom or our church friends might say or think about the barbeque. His priority that day was me.

And in fact, from the day I was born, until last Friday, I knew he still felt that way. Thanks Dad. If they've put up bleachers in Heaven, grab a spot there and rest in peace. 

A Christmas Prayer

I'm going to crawl into the way-back machine again and re-tell my favorite Christmas story. Family and friends have heard this tale about a million times. But today, instead of the long winded verbal version, you're going to get the long winded written version. Yep, it's lengthier than the other blog posts, but I've yet to find the edit function in my head; and sometimes a good story takes a little while to tell. So come back with me now to December 1983, and the Christmas I spent in Sandpoint, Idaho.

I’m doing the 5am sign on shift at KSPT, Sandpoint's little AM radio station and the region was in the middle of a serious cold snap. Of course, cold weather in North Idaho in the wintertime is nothing new. But that December brought a deep freeze so cold it challenged the memories of even lifelong residents to recall when it'd been as cold.

It began on December 15 with a chilly arctic wind plunging down from Canada. At first, it was just a breeze. But the next day it became a sustained, howling gale that blew endlessly, day and night, for the next 9 days. It was 26 degrees that first day. That high temperature for the next day was only 12 above, with a 30 mile an hour wind made it feel like minus 10. And that was the warmest day till Christmas.

The mercury continued to fall with each succeeding day as the icy north wind continued to relentlessly batter the Idaho panhandle. Even at its worst, though, the sky never clouded up; during this entire time it remained clear and sunny during the day and clear and starry at night. But it was always bitter cold, a cold I've never experienced before or since.

 

On Sunday December 18, the daytime high was 2 above and winds were gusting to 25. The wind chill that day was somewhere around minus 24. By then, Lake Pend Oreille was almost completely iced over. Exposed pipes in many homes and apartments were beginning to freeze up or break altogether, leaving many folks without water, with flooded basements, or both. In some neighborhoods, broken water mains produced fountains that gushed and then immediately froze, creating ice glazed yards, sidewalks and streets.

 

I was living in a rental house, and back in August when I moved in hadn’t noticed how drafty it was. But I did now. A-framed and poorly insulated, it didn't hold heat very well. At one time there’d been a wood stove, but the previous owners- who I assumed only lived there in the summer- had taken it out to put in a large wet bar. The heat was now provided by vintage 1960's baseboard heaters. But during the long cold spell, they barely made a difference and the house felt terribly cold and uninviting all the time. So during those North Pol’esque days I was only there long enough to sleep and shower, grateful I still had running water. The rest of the time I holed up at work, or any public place with central heat, like a restaurant, the library or the Laundromat. For over a week, I had the cleanest clothes in Bonner County.

On December 21, the pipes froze at the radio station. And with so many other places having the same problem, KSPT was put on the same waiting lists to be de-thawed. We couldn't even make coffee, which was just as well since nobody could use the bathroom either. If you needed to pee, your options were hold it all day or make a frozen dash to Dub's, the diner just across the highway where a lot of us ate lunch. The food was marginal but at least they had running water. However you’d be doing so at your own peril.

 

It was so cold, sucking the frigid air into your lungs was like sucking in razor blades, and the simple act of breathing almost seemed perilous. Inhaling the icy fingers of air felt like your lungs were being shredded. As each day grew a little colder, exposed skin was at risk of frostbite if outside for more than a few minutes. It was good being alive, but upon arising the next day, December 22, it was downright awful having to be alive in North Idaho for that was the day, with still no running water at KSPT, the pipes finally froze up at my place, too. I’d spoken to the property manager about this possibility earlier in the week, but she told me not to worry because she’d already taken care of everything. I took that to mean the plumbing was well insulated. Of course I knew better.

 

The lady didn't like me; she’d already told me so. I was too single, too young and too male, the three deadly sins in her book. And though there weren’t any loopholes in the Federal Housing laws to prevent her from renting to me, I’m sure making me feel as uncomfortable there as possible wasn’t a tactic she’s ignore. All the better if I got mad and left so she could rent to a more ‘suitable client’. At least that’s what came to mind- besides a bunch of curse words- when I tried turning on the faucet that morning. And, just as I assumed when I called Eleanor after my air shift, she wasn’t terribly sympathetic, either. She told me said she had a ‘shitload’ of tenants in the same boat as me, but many were in high-rent properties and therefore, would have a higher priority. Sorry. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. The hell she would. This very disagreeable person was about as helpful to me as a blind squirrel and cuddly as a rabid one. But I was stuck with her. Yet as long as I paid my rent on time, the old hag was stuck with me, too. 

But with all that going for me, this soon became one of the most depressing times of my life. I was cold and alone at Christmas.

 

Though we were playing Christmas music on the radio, I didn't care about Christmas at all. I certainly didn't feel it. I just wanted to go south, or anyplace the icy winds of Sandpoint couldn't follow. I didn't want to go to home, didn't want to go to work. Neither place was comfortable and neither provided much relief from the miserable freezing weather.

Christmas that year was on Sunday, which was the only day of the week I had off.  I had to work Christmas Eve, though, a day as brutal as the day before. The afternoon high that Saturday was zero with a stiff 20 mile an hour wind. Though the wind chill actually was up that day- to a balmy minus 22- it might as well have been minus a hundred. The unrelenting polar blasts cut right through you and I just knew it was never going to end. My shift ended at noon and with nothing better to do, after lunch I reluctantly dragged my sorry ass back to the igloo that doubled as my domicile; there to wait out a very bleak Christmas weekend.

 

I wanted it to be Monday again, so I could at least go back to work and be with people. And according to Eleanor, Monday was the earliest the very overworked plumbers in town could come and thaw my pipes out. 36 more hours. And with the warmth of Christmas about as far out of reach as humanly possible, I wished I was dead. Late in the day though, instead of dying I called California and talked to Mom and Dad. I didn't want to compare weather stories but that's kind of where the conversation ended up. And when I was done dejectedly rattling off what it'd been like living in the New Ice Age for over a week, Mom practically crawled through the phone. “You get yourself out of that house and go to a motel. If you need money, we’ll wire you some. But just go. Now!” Shoot. I had enough money but, whether I was too stubborn or just stupid, it hadn’t occurred to me to leave leaving as an option. But now that Mom mentioned it, a warm room, warm food and a hot shower sounded pretty darn good! It sounded like Heaven.

 

However, it was Christmas Eve. I wasn’t sure there'd be any vacancies but figured it was worth a shot to try. Besides it’d give me something to do and be one of the few times I willfully took my mother's advice. But there was no room for me at the first inn I checked. However I had better luck at the Sandpoint Lodge. The clerk said they had three rooms still un-booked and would be happy to take me in. I wasted no time getting there. I called at 5:20 and checked in ten minutes later. I didn’t even pack a bag. All I brought was my lonely, cold body and a Visa card.

 

After being handed a room key, I sprinted up the stairs and immediately cranked on the heat. As warm air began to wash over me, I sat down on the bed and, with nobody around to hear, thanked the heater from the bottom of my shivering heart. But I was getting hungry, too. I hadn't eaten anything since munching on a day old pastry I found at the radio station that morning. My blood sugar was running low, which may explain why I was speaking to inanimate objects, like a room heater. So, even though I’d have to leave all that new-found warmth behind, my empty stomach won out and I ventured back outdoors and the short walk to the coffee shop.

 

The sign on the door said they were open till 10. But when I got there and looked inside, the lights were all on but I didn’t see anybody. Because of the holiday, I wondered if they might be trying to close up early. But with the door un-locked and only a few minutes after six o'clock, I took a chance that they must still be open. So I went in and took a seat at the counter. There was music playing someplace, maybe a radio?  It wasn't KSPT. But whatever the source it was definitely Christmas stuff.  I waited a few minutes, nervously tapping my fingers on the counter and thought about leaving before a tall, slender, and kindly looking red headed lady came out from the kitchen. From the uniform, I gathered she was the waitress.

 

“Oh, hi there. I didn’t hear you come in. But I’m sorry, Hon, we’ve closed for the night.” Then she chastised herself. “Didn’t I lock that door?” From her accent it was pretty clear she didn’t grow up in Sandpoint, or even the Northwest. It was a definite Texas drawl.”Ya know, being its Christmas Eve and all, we closed tonight at 6." No, please no. Sigh...I was tired, cold, dirty and hungry. And now this. I didn’t complain or bitch about it, though, just stared up at her- probably with puppy dog eyes- and got up to leave.

 

But it was a truly pathetic way to end a pathetic week. Put out of my house with frozen pipes, I hadn’t taken a shower or been able to brush my teeth in over two days. My life was in frozen tatters.“Well, now, wait a sec. You so look hungry and like you could use a friend, am I right?” I didn’t know it was that obvious. But she was right. Yet as nice as she seemed, I'd wager I was giving her the creeps. I know I looked like hell. With dirty clothes, a dirty body and an unkempt pseudo-beard I'd tried to grow that fall, I had all the outward charm of the Unabomber. “And I’ll bet you’re hungry too.” It was the reason I was there.

 

"Well, not to put you out", I began, then like an idiot began vomiting my doleful life all over her. I couldn't stop myself and blathered on with my sad tale of being one of the locals without water for several days, both at home and work. Yadda, yadda, on and on. I was a living breathing whine-machine. But the lady listened patiently and when I was done, looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “Well, bless your heart. I’m so sorry. You’ve had one lousy time of it, haven't ya? Tell ya what. You just wait here one minute, all right? I think I can help.” Before she did anything else, though, she went to the front door and locked it, just in case one more woe-be-gone soul wanted to slither in after the early closing. ”There. Now, the cook’s gone home but I know I can find something around here to warm and fill you up. Just sit tight, okay?”

 

A few minutes later, this angel of mercy (and I never did get her name) brought out a big bowl of steaming hot split pea soup, some crackers, a dinner roll and a mug of coffee.  I don't know where it came from, whether it was left-overs she only had to re-heat or stuff she'd just whipped up herself. It could’ve come from the moon for all I cared; I’d never seen a meal that looked so inviting. Breathing in the mist rising from the soup was like inhaling the quick spritz of a sauna. My insides were as cold as my outsides, but as the hot thick stew slid smoothly down my gullet, it warmed the cockles of my heart, (wherever those are) and everything else in that general vicinity, too. With the hot coffee chaser, life slowly began to percolate from toe to head again.

 

And this dear lady stayed and talked with me the whole time. Though I ate slowly, she never rushed things or made me feel uncomfortable for being there. And, oh, it tasted so good! I had no idea I was that hungry. And I’d grown so used to the nearly two week regional jet stream of misery I almost assumed I’d never be warm again. Who knew such simple faire as split pea soup could make such a scrumptious holiday meal? The Sandpoint Lodge coffee shop was hardly the hearth and home of Christmases past but for that Christmas present, it was like being in the bosom of home. And filling my icy and empty tummy on a biting December night, the hot soup and crackers were like manna from heaven.

 

But knowing it was Christmas Eve (and being a card-carrying weenie), I felt the need to apologize.  After all, the coffee shop was officially closed and I was the last customer keeping this sweet lady at work. She was having none of it, though.”Hon, when I was a little girl, my mama taught me to live by the Golden Rule. Always be kind to animals and never send a stranger away hungry. Because you never know what kind of a tipper they are” She chuckled. “Yep, she worked in a restaurant too.” Just like, the lovely lady's delightful little bit of levity was hitting the spot, too. Frankly, there hadn’t been much to laugh about for the past week and a half. So I continued savoring the soup and ate my fill, cleaning the bowl and devouring the roll. 

 

It was nearly 7:00 when I finished eating, an hour past the time she planned to close. ”Can I help with the dishes?” It was a ridiculous question, but I felt the need to do more than just pay the check. “Nope, it’ll just take me three shakes to run 'em though the dishwasher .And someone else can worry about putting em away tomorrow so don’t worry about a thing. You just go up to your room, get cozy and try and have a good Christmas, okay?” Gosh, this was about the sweetest lady I think I’d ever run into. I nodded and smiled. ”All right, I will, thank you. Now, what’s the tab?” But my newest best friend just tilted her head and looked at me like it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard… “Darlin', you don’t owe a thing. This one's on me. Call it an early Christmas present from the motel." But I wanted to haggle with her. For all her kindness, I couldn’t go without leaving something behind. It just didn't seem right.

 

“But you can do one thing for me”, she said, walking away. Overwhelmed by gratitude, and suddenly full of Christmas spirit (the good kind), I eagerly answered. “Name it.” She put down my dirty dishes and turned around, “You can let me pray with you. Would that be all right?” A lump suddenly rose in my throat and I quietly nodded. “Sure." My hands were already on the counter and, from the other side she stepped closer and covered them with hers. Then we bowed our heads, closed our eyes and she prayed.

 

It wasn’t a momentous prayer with lots of thee’s and thou’s. But it was simple and heartfelt. She started by thanking the Lord for all her blessings, especially her kids. Then she asked blessings on me, my family and all of us from the radio station. Finally she thanked God for sending us Jesus, and for this special night when the world paused to mark the miraculous birth of the child in the manger. Then she asked the Lord to keep everybody safe over the rest of the Christmas holiday, and concluded with a hearty, A-men. It was an uncomplicated prayer, but poignant. My eyes began pooling and I quickly rubbed them; I didn’t want her to see,

 

It’d been so long since anyone- and certainly not a stranger- had prayed for me one on one like that; so long I couldn’t recall when it happened before. But if others had prayed for me, it seemed I only listened with distracted, self-absorbed ears. And as they prayed, more often than not I silently debated whether they were doing it to be nice or, like a big mountain to climb, just because I was just there. So all I heard were words, not prayers, words that missed making any kind of mark on my soul or any lasting deep connection. I missed the entire point.

 

However for a few moments, and maybe for the first time in a very long time, God once more seemed real and alive. It took a chance crossing of paths with one special person, who I only spent an hour with and never saw again. But that sweet waitress tangibly illustrated Christ’s love through the very simple act of showing kindness to a stranger, cold and alone on Christmas Eve. Humble and unpretentious, that precious lady was truly a servant. And basking in the genuine warmth of her soul and the light of Christ in her eyes, I thought for a second I was in the presence of an angel.

For the first time that entire month of December, I forgot about the weather and work and all my stupid little problems, and actually reflected on Christmas and what it’s really all about. Again, I thought I was going to cry.

 

What was wrong with me? Usually I went through life, not hard, but certainly distant. I tried not to let anything- or anyone- really get to me. But she got to me. In the deepest freeze of December isolation, this sweet lady had moved and melted me like a too-long-in-the-sun snowman. My eyes bubbled misty again, but this time I didn’t try to hide them. ”You all right?” my friend asked kindly.

 

”Yeah. Must be all this wind, it kind of plays havoc with my allergies and stuff.”

 

I lied. Like God, I know she saw right through me, but didn’t press it. “Well, I’m gonna lock up here and get on home. The family’s probably waitin.’ But thanks for dropping in tonight and making my day. And you make sure to have a Merry Christmas, okay?”  Wait; I’d made her day? How the hell could that be?! 

 

"No, you made my day, my whole year, really....”  Once more, I felt like I was going to choke up again so swallowed hard and simply wished her a Merry Christmas and said good bye. The lady smiled brightly, waved, then turned and slipped into the kitchen area. I got up and left, but once I got outside I wanted to go back in and hug her and somehow bless her back. But it was too late. She was no longer in sight and the coffee shop door had locked behind me. So braving the icy cold once more, I hurried back upstairs to my room and took the longest hot shower in the history of indoor plumbing and went to sleep in a cozy bed.

 

Strangely, though, the next day, Christmas Day, dawned clear and quiet. But that wasn’t what was strange, the strange part was not hearing any wind. It was quiet. Dead calm. The outdoor temperature showed only 5 above zero, but without the Polar Express still blowing, it felt like 50. God had given the Idaho Panhandle the Christmas gift of no more wind. And later when I got home, the plumbing company said they'd caught up with the workload and would be out later that afternoon to unthaw me. On Christmas! It was a bunch of mini-miracles. No more wind, and getting my water back. But nothing like what I’d experienced the night before. For when I wasn’t looking and least expected it, I walked right into my own little Christmas miracle.

And it’d be nice to say, like the apostle Paul I’d had a Road to Damascus type of life changing event; that from that day, that moment on, I was truly a changed person. And in the afterglow of that Christmas Eve, yeah, something had changed. I did feel different: a little more alive, more real, and actually closer to God. But the feeling didn’t last. Soon, the promises I made to myself and to Jesus had been forgotten, the follow up New Year’s resolutions gone in a flash, and once again I was more or less the same. But it was a start. And though I never got the ladies' name, to this day I've never forgotten her or that hour on a frozen, lonely Christmas Eve in Sandpoint, Idaho; when a perfect stranger went out of her way to make a lost stray feel perfectly at home, warm and loved at a time when he was feeling anything but. 

It was the greatest Christmas gift I ever received.

 

The Worst Christmas Ever

Good or bad, Christmas is always a memorable time of year. Some I’d just as soon forget. 

Others, because of my profession, I remember having to work. (Which, on the surface, probably sounds like a bad deal, but- confidentially- it got me out of a lot of family stuff. You didn't hear that from me, though). And while everybody likes to paint stories about their favorite December 25^th’s, today I've decided to go to the dark side and dredge up the tale of my worst Christmas ever. It was not one of the happier moments of my life. But I paid for it.

It was Christmas 1979 and I’d recently landed a job at Spokane Sports Specialties. (This was between radio gigs and, for a time after catching on at both KCKO and KGA and to make ends meet, ended up working at all three places). Spokane Sports Specialties sold hockey and figure skating equipment from a tiny 10 foot by 20 foot annex inside a larger all-purpose sporting good shop, DP Sports. I split the day covering the hockey store with Dennis Bossingham, while everyone else on staff worked at DP. Both stores shared a common break room, the same coffee pot and we were all one big happy family. And both stores closed at 2 pm that Christmas Eve.

 

After the last customer left, those of us on duty were joined by those who’d had the day off, and at 2:15 all 12 store employees convened in the office/warehouse in back of the store for our staff Christmas party. As the festivities commenced Christmas music played, munchies and soda were in abundance, as well as a generous selection of booze. It made for a real good vibe: a lively party followed by a day and a half off from work. Snowing heavily outside, it also promised to be a very white Christmas.

 

At work I was probably closest to Fuzzy Buckberger, who was DP’s main salesman. Everyone called him “Fuzzy” because of the dome of frizzy blondish hair on his head and worm-like mustache meandering across his upper lip. "Fuzzy" was also better than his given name, Clarence.  On first meeting you might think, "Ewww! Creepy sales guy"; and you’d be right. To know Fuzzy was to know a disingenuous huckster, shameless schmoozer and renowned skirt-chaser. He was also fun, quick-witted and charming and you couldn’t help but like him. Everybody liked Fuzzy.

 

I did, too, and as the Christmas party kicked into full gear Fuzzy found me and asked if I wanted something to drink besides Coke. “Like what?” I asked as he pulled a bottle of Smirnoff’s vodka from underneath a countertop. “This stuff is so good mixed with Coke. It’ll give you a nice Christmas glow. Try it. You'll like it.” I’d had plenty of rum and Coke in college, but never Coke with vodka; and certainly not straight vodka, either. But heck, it was a party and I trusted him, so I let him fill my coffee cup. I wish I hadn't.


The first swallow went down hard and with a nasty bite. It tasted bitter, like swallowing barely sweetened drain cleaner. Yuck. I instantly chased it with a handfull of Doritos. Even though the Coke helped soften the assault on my mouth a little, I decided on the spot I didn't like vodka. But I didn't want Fuzzy to know that. He was older and I looked up to him, and I didn't want him to think I was a wuss. So I stifled the urge to gag, quickly downed what was left in my mug and pretended it was nectar.

 

However, when I wasn't paying attention, Fuzzy gave me a refill. And, like a dope, I drank it. Then he hit me again. And I drank that, too. He never asked, just kept refilling and always with a smile. And the more I drank the less offensive it tasted. And the more I drank, the less I cared. Eventually I stopped eating and just kept drinking and, though I got a little headachy, by the end of the party I was definitely in the spirit; or it was in me- at about 110 proof. Regardless, I was feeling the warm glow of the season.

 

Around 5:30, everyone wished everyone else a “Merry Christmas" and hit the snow clogged roads to go home to their families. The weather outside was still frightful and now it was dark, too. But the lights on the stores and houses were certainly delightful. However traffic was barely crawling, lurching and slogging along. Yet even going less than 20 miles an hour, I just missed running into a Jeep’s rear end when I stopped, but my car didn’t, and slipped at the light at Francis and Division. Wow, that was fun, I thought stupidly. I was drunk and sliding. Weeeeeee!


But despite the road conditions, and a pressing need to get off them before I really smashed up my car or got busted for DUI, I decided to take a few extra minutes to stop at McDonald’s and invite Mickey D’s over for Christmas. The buzz from an afternoon of Smirnoff’s and Coke and some Doritos had worn off and I was just really hungry and wanting something more substantial to fill the empty hole in my tummy. Besides, I wasn’t in any big hurry; while everybody else was hustling off to family-filled homes for the holiday, I was headed to an empty apartment. Fifteen minutes later I was off the Spokane streets for the night, and all in one piece

 

The apartment manager had strung up blinking lights on some of the rooftops, which gave the East Magnesium Road complex a cheesy, but festive appearance. My place, though, faced a side street away from the main road, so he hadn’t bothered with our building. I didn’t have a Christmas tree, either, just a couple of cards I’d received in the mail, and taped to the refrigerator door with care. And, in keeping with the season,  just like Ebenezer Scrooge, once inside my dark, bare apartment, I closed the door on the miserable weather and settled in for a supper of gruel- or in this case a Big Mac and fries. Then I hunkered down to watch some TV and tried to forget I was alone on Christmas.

 

But it remained a peaceful Christmas Eve for less than an hour. Shortly past 7:00, the first urgent signals alerted my brain of an impending internal disruption. My head began to pound, the room spin, and dinner to come back up. Then, just like Old Faithful- and just when I thought it was all over- I’d have to make another beeline to the vomitorium, or bathroom, for another episode of “Projectile Puking”. These sudden eruptions went on, almost like clockwork, for the next seven hours. Foul and multi-colored, the rolling waves of hurl, once disgorged, allowed for brief respites of relief. But only until the growing, churning blob of nausea returned and spewed yesterday’s breakfast. Or Sunday’s lunch. Who knew? Though it was like everything I’d ever eaten was coming back on me, after a while it all looked about the same.

I did recognize dinner though and here’s a news flash- while Big Mac’s aren’t all that appealing going in, they’re even less so coming out either. When mine came back up it looked like chunks of grayish mashed up Alpo. And these days, whenever I’m tempted to purchase another one, that image is always with me. Bleah!  But it wasn’t the Big Mac that did me in. I'd allowed myself to become intoxicated beyond what I could bare. The vodka acted almost as a poison and made me violently ill. And my body, not used to the stuff, was just doing its job-- intensely purging every remaining disgusting remnant, right down to the last drop.

 

The process was a living hell, though, and went on seemingly forever. I couldn’t sleep because I had to get back up every half hour and puke. It wasn't until around 2:00 Christmas morning when the vomiting finally subsided. But I was dehydrated and my head was pounding like a hammer on anvil. Dizzy and droopy, I was just praying to die!  Instead, I fell into a restless semi-doze which lasted until around 6, when I became conscious of my gigantic Christmas morning hangover. Hallelujah! It was the gift that kept on giving. Almost all day. And the only “Carol of the Bells” I heard were the ones clanging inside my head.

 

I forced myself up and made some coffee. Moving gingerly, there was still some residual confusion and wobbliness to contend with, but the pukey illness I’d spent most of the night with had finally gone. Oh what joy! Looking out the window, the snow had stopped, too. It’d left behind a beautiful world covered in white. But I didn’t care. It sucked. I sucked. Christmas sucked. Bah humbug!  It was only my 24th Christmas but it taught me the lesson of a lifetime- that I can't handle vodka. And since that day, not another drop of that evil liquid has passed my lips. Never will, either. Education, no matter how it's acquired, is always a good thing and on that subject, I was forever educated.

 

But I think everyone should have at least one rotten Christmas, if only to appreciate all the others. And for me, that Christmas is the crummeist one ever–drunk, alone, miserable and hung over. Doesn't get much better than that, does it?  

Ah, good times...

 

Trash Talk, Part 2

Always leave ‘em laughing. Isn’t that what they say in show business?

 

Well, I guess that old rule of thumb didn’t apply in the campus newsletter biz, because in the last week of the school year, and against my protest and better judgment, Mike went ahead and placed a final barb in the final issue directed squarely at good '‘ol  Eileen Hendricks. And did not leave her laughing.

 

Eileen was South Warren's Dorm Mother, a kindly, caring widow all the kids in their home away from home affectionately referred to as "Mom". Counselor, confidant, and friend, I never forgot the extra TLC "Mom" showered on me during my freshman semester, when I was so lost and homesick that I didn't think I'd be able to stick it out or survive. She’d been a lifeline for me back then. And even into the waning days of my senior year living under her South Warren Residence Hall roof, she was still cared and looked after me as she’d been doing during my entire Whitworth tenure. But Mike never liked "Mom" Hendricks. In fact, for whatever reason, he found her worthy of contempt and ridicule. He’d been carrying on a running feud with her- mostly one-sided- for almost the whole year. 

 

And while the blurb about "Mom" in that last issue was short and quick and wouldn't be obvious to most-- I don’t even remember exactly what Mike wrote--nevertheless I began having second thoughts about running it at all. I thought it was unnecessary and beneath us. So I tried to get him to drop it. But my worthless bribery and idle threats had little effect. In fact, none. “Protest noted", were Mike's final words on the subject. It was the only time we ever quarreled over “creative content.” It also left me with a sick feeling inside as the final spring semester edition of “The Trash” went to print.

Yet even after it did, there was still a chance “Mom” wouldn’t see it. At least that’s what I prayed and hoped for once it was out. But when I saw the note on my door tersely indicating she wanted to see me right away, I knew my prayers hadn’t been answered. At least not this one and I put it off as long as I could. But when I sat down in her first floor apartment later that evening to face the music, it felt like someone had died. I've never quite been able to forget the profound sadness I saw on her face.

 

Expressing more than just disappointment, she held up a copy of “The Trash” and asked if I knew anything about the entry in question she’d circled with a bright red marking pen. I hung my head and sheepishly answered, ”Yes”.  Then she started quietly sobbing. In 4 years, I’d never seen “Mom” Hendricks be anything but gracious and accommodating and always with a kind smile on her face. And now she was weeping. I didn’t know what else to say or do. “How could you let that happen? What did I ever do to you?” she cried. Yet it wasn’t an angry cry. It was the cry of a wounded soul.

 

And I was sensitive enough to recognize it, too; just not enough common sense to act on it. Shifting quickly into self-serving justification, I instead managed to practically throw Mike under the bus and covert his ass, all in one breath. Yes, he’d written the item in question but used carefully crafted language designed to blur its subject in ambiguity. It was not one of my finer moments in life. It was also a dreadfully lousy defense. But with nothing principled to defend my line of reasoning was as shallow as a pool of spit. It was nonsense. And “Mom” saw it as if it was a plate glass window. She knew Mike’s cheap shot had been clearly aimed at her. I did too; it’d been his intent from the get-go. I just hoped we/he’d get away with it.

 

“You’ve got to believe me, I tried to get him to take it out. For two days. Really”, I offered, in a desperately lame bid to minimize my role in the fiasco. However this last feeble attempt at damage control was so lame, by then even I didn’t believe it. For sure, "Mom" didn’t. “No, it’s your paper. Yours and Mike’s. You both take the credit when all’s right with the world and you’re getting all the love. But when it’s not all right, when you’re using your platform just to be mean, then you both have to share the credit then, too. You can’t have it both ways.” She was right of course. I just didn’t want to hear it.

 

“But I‘m more disappointed in you, than I am in Mike because I know what he is; he isn’t very nice and doesn’t like me very much. But I thought you and I were friends. I thought I knew you better….” Her voice trailed off. She sniffed and blew her nose, taking a break from her sadness and perhaps waiting for me to say something. But I just stared at her, blank and stupid. "....How could you do this to me?” she asked again, rephrasing an earlier inquiry, but more as a desperate plea than angry outburst. “I….I’m… sorry....I really am….” were the only words I could make stammer out of my mouth. ”I don’t know what to do, how to make this right.”

 

“There’s nothing you can do. Not now. It's done, out there. And even if you weren’t graduating this weekend, I don’t know how we could remain friends. You've used up a lot of trust on this one and I can't tell you how much this hurts me”. There was a long and very uncomfortable pause, and the only sound was a slight drip coming from her kitchen faucet. Then she took a long sigh. ”But now, I’d like it if you’d just leave.” She wasn’t crying anymore. "Mom" was cold serious. I felt like a knife had been stuck between my ribs. How could this be happening? How did something as supposedly innocent and fun as Mike’s and my stupid little lampoon newspaper cause such grief? It wasn’t supposed to be that way. I never wanted it to be that way.

 

But taking one last deep breath, I apologized again and left "Mom" Hendrick's apartment. Closing the door, I felt like the vilest of pond scum. I'd hurt a person who'd been my friend and in my corner for 4 years. And in one afternoon, I’d allowed this long standing relationship to evaporate right before my very eyes.  My heart was breaking. I loved co-writing "The Trash", but at the end wish I'd never been involved. Yet going in, honestly, I knew the risks of dancing with the devil. I knew Mike's character and deep down knew, at some point, he'd probably screw it up. But I don't blame him. Mike was Mike. He couldn't be anything else. I blame me for not standing up to him.

And even though I didn’t write the offending piece and may have only been by proxy, I knew I was as responsible for the damage as Mike was. Just like “Mom” said. Had it been in the classroom this shameful experience would’ve been chalked up merely as an applied lesson in "the power of the pen". How it cuts both ways; used either to uplift and edify or tear down and destroy. But the lesson learned didn’t come out of a textbook or a professor’s lecture. It wasn’t theory. It was real life. Unintentionally but hardly blameless, I'd destroyed what I had with Eileen Hendricks in one literal stroke of the pen. When I told Mooney how hurt “Mom” had been, he just laughed. For him, it was mission accomplished. For me, alone in my room and distraught over what had transpired, I became physically ill. 

 

Unfortunately, I never spoke to “Mom” Hendricks again. If she was at graduation I didn’t see her, and didn’t see her the next morning before vacating the dorm for the last time. I wondered if I was being purposely avoided, but then I got busy being a 23 year old college graduate and sort of put those last couple of days at Whitworth out of mind. Then I moved away to begin my broadcast career at a Lake Tahoe country FM, but when I came  back to Spokane a year later and re-connected with friends, many still on campus, my next plan was to drop in on "Mom" and see how she was doing. “One of these days”, I promised myself.

But "one of those days" never came. Though my intentions were sincere I never got around to following through, to make things right. I was afraid; so afraid of a chancy reception and a head full of other negative ‘what if’s’, that what if I’m forgiven didn’t even cross my mind. But I’ll never know. I kept putting off this risky reunion for over six months later, until on a dark, snowy January afternoon in 1980 I stumbled across “Mom” Hendricks obit in the afternoon paper. She’d passed away in her sleep two days earlier. The news so grabbed me that I dropped the paper, dropped to my knees and openly wept.

The loss broke my heart because I knew I’d forever lost the chance to make amends. It was another really tough life lesson; things I should’ve already learned but hadn’t. There really are some things you can’t take back and can’t be undone. With “Mom” Hendricks death, I had to go on living with this sorry episode, knowing I’d never reach a suitable closure.

It pained me then. It still does.

Trash Talk, Part 1

During my senior year in college I became buddies with Mike Mooney.

Mike was an enigma: witty, moody, intellectual, athletic, and occasionally all at the same time. He also liked to drink, hated authority and greatly enjoyed  as campus alley cat, although I’m not exactly sure what the girls saw in him; especially since he saw so little in them, except maybe a good time. Whenever Mooney talked about date-night with of his honeys he made a point of running the recap through a verbal Cuisinart and making sheer vulgarity out of it. Which, he clearly enjoyed.

 

Shoot, I was no choir boy. Even so, there were lines I wouldn't cross even when the subject was “people I don’t like”. Yet Mooney's vocabulary sank to the gutter when he talked about those he supposedly did.  So there were those who, rightfully, may have considered Mike crass, a cad and a jerk. He wasn’t concerned. And I wasn't dating him.

 

But I did find him hysterically funny. And sometimes I could even make him laugh, too. And one night, under the influence of too much mirth and maybe a can or two of Coors, Mike and I decided our warped senses of humor were far too amusing to be wasted on ourselves. And that's when "The Trash" was born.

"The Trash" became our mouthpiece, a direct lampoon rip-off of The Flash, the tri-weekly campus newsletter. It was an almost dead-ringer, right down to the same bullet point format, layout and typeset. We even capped on how it was published. The Flash was paid for and published by the ASWC, or Associated Students of Whitworth College. "The Trash" was paid for and published by us- Mike and me- under the guise of the ASOV, the Associated Students of Opposing Views.  And while we didn't exactly oppose everything, we certainly made fun of everything. Every "Trash" bullet point mocked something; the more off-the-wall, the better.

Mooney and I split up the work. We both wrote, usually late at night, and before going to print Mike added the finishing touches with some crude artwork. Sure, we pushed the limits of good taste but always stopped just short of going too far. But when we did somehow manage to smear somebody or sacred cow, whether deliberately or accidentally, the writing was clever enough (and shrouded in enough layers of hyperbole), that it’d be hard to recognize the slander for the trees. And if a stink ever was raised, well… carrying on the long-standing tradition of insufferable college clowns everywhere, we simply didn't care.

But honestly, nobody ever really complained. In fact, from what we could gather everyone who read "The Trash" seemed to like it. We’d leave some around in the dining hall and Hub, or tacked to bulletin boards in other common areas and then watch and wait to see how people’s reactions. They didn’t know we’d put them there so the feedback was true and spontaneous. It’d start with a smile. Then progress to a mild chuckle, before escalating to bellowing laughter. By then, the person with them or standing behind them in line was demanding to know what was so funny, would be directed to a copy and the process would play out again. Apparently, "The Trash" and the ASOV were a hit.

Mike and I were enjoying our behind-the-scenes popularity and new-found success, and would’ve loved to take "The Trash" to the next level. However the expense was well beyond our means. It cost us about 4 bucks a week just to get 50 copies made. Even splitting the cost, there was no way we could afford pushing that up to 1500, which would’ve ensured campus-wide distribution. But then fate intervened.

We missed putting anything out during the week after Homecoming. I think we were both actually busy with class work that week. However instead of it being a set-back, the oversight apparently produced a ripple effect, all the way to the upper echelon of student affairs. We knew that was true because the Student Union Vice President posted a message in The Flash, the real newsletter.

Missing- Last week’s copy of The Trash. If you can help, contact Box 221.

Mooney and I were both amazed- and curious- and, naturally, couldn't resist getting a reply into the next Flash: 

 

Dear Box 221: To get The Trash, meet us at the campanile at 12:03 p.m. this Friday.

 

Whoever Box 221 was, they'd know the message was legit because we always made fun of the campanile- a campus landmark - and fictitious events described in "The Trash" never ever began on the hour. So the random time of 12:03 made perfect sense to us. And if anyone showed up, great, if not we'd rip 'em in "The Trash". Either way, Mike and I would be amused and have something else to write about. But Friday of that week at precisely 12:03 p.m., on one of those last really nice October days in the Northwest, where fall still fights to hold off winter, Mike and I were huddled underneath the campanile with the vice president of the Student Union.

At first, we thought we were going to be called on the carpet for our impertinence and ordered to stop.“Oh, no", Joanie, the VP assured us. "We love your stuff. In fact, I think everybody loves it and wants to know where they can get a copy. The phone in the office is ringing off the hook."  Really? We hadn't expected to hear that. And after fifteen minutes of conversation and negotiating, Joanie offered to have the ASWC pay for and distribute "The Trash" if we agreed to gentle it down a bit.

"Are you talking censorship?” Mike asked warily.

“Absolutely not. We’re not going to edit anything. In fact, nothing is really changing. You keep writing "The Trash" just as you are now. Just, ya know, when you can, be nice. The only difference is telling the print shop to bill the ASWC. And we’ll make sure it gets in everyone’s mailbox."

Mooney looked in my direction, but there really wasn't anything else to discuss. We both knew it was too good a deal to pass up and, after shaking on it, the meeting was over. “Okay, we’re going this way. Don’t follow us.”, Mike whispered as if we’d just emerged from a secret bunker even though it was the middle of the day and about a hundred other people were milling about or crossing the Loop Joanie, playing along, whispered back. “Okay. I'll go that way" and began walking in the opposite direction, towards the HUB. She disappeared into a gaggle of giggling girls, and I took a stray Frisbee off the noggin from some schmuck who didn’t know how to throw one. Then Mike and I vanished back into the dorm to write. And every Thursday after that, except over Christmas and spring breaks, Mike and I put out a new copy of "The Trash".

Our work remained scintillating silly, but we weren't hiding behind the cloak of anonymity anymore. Not as much, anyway, because some people- at least some people in the dorm- had figured out or knew first hand that Mike and I were "The Trash". Which was starting to feel okay. And though Mooney labeled me "The Big Cheese" of the operation, I was merely his friend and collaborator. I knew he was the driving force, the more gifted wordsmith and for sure, without his unrelenting impetus, "The Trash" wouldn’t have happened. And without Mooney, it wouldn't have been as fun.

 

Too bad in the end, he had to spoil it. More next time.