Auld Lang Syne: Lost and Found

Well as John Lennon once sang, another year over, a new one just begun. Personally, I'm not at all unhappy that 2010 is over; though it wasn’t the worst year ever it certainly wasn't the best either.

Here's hoping 2011 will be a keeper.

However, the year just ending hasn’t been a complete bust. A few good things happened over the past 12 months, and before allowing 2010 to disappear into history, it seems only fair to acknowledge them. Among the many mistakes, misunderstandings and missteps this year, I had a few things went right, too. Thanks to a funeral and Mark Zuckerberg's invention, (shoot, is there anyone on the planet not on Facebook?), there were some good days, too; really good days- the kind that produce unexpected surprises and blessings.

In January, Nancy Haglund returned to Northern California for a couple of days. As kids, the Haglund family and ours were friends, and Nancy and I especially were pretty good friends, too. She was one of the first girls I had a crush on, and the second girl I ever kissed.

The first one to have this dubious honor bestowed on her was Gina Ward. Gina ambushed me in her yard one day, when I was 7 and she was 5. A tiny tomboy, she dropped out of a tree - that her brother had conveniently positioned me under- and hogtied me to the ground. Then she smothered me with messy and sloppy kisses, getting more teeth than mouth, until I could roll out from underneath her and away. At the time, I didn't really like it. Heck, girls had cooties.

But I liked Nancy. And though we only kissed a few times, I liked when we did. I liked it a lot. And when we weren’t playing kissy face with each other, we were part of a rather tight Bloom Way neighborhood click that hung out and played together, both summer and winter. We went to school together, went to the same church together,  even ended up going to Whitworth College together at the same time, too.

So Nancy and I go way back. Long since moved away, though, Nancy and her little brother Paul were back in town on January 15 for their mother's memorial service. Later that day, we got together at a Denny's in Rocklin and for an hour we were all 10 years old again. We hadn’t seen each other for since 1986. But as the laughs and reminiscences flowed, for a little while it was like we were hanging out in the front yard again and gossiping about our parents and all the un-cool people, and being silly on a summer night after a rousing game of hide and seek.

Nancy and her husband live in Colorado now, Paul's in Seattle, and neither has lived in California for decades. But for an hour that cloudy January afternoon, nothing had changed and time had yet to rob any of us of our innocence. Nancy e-mailed me a day or so later and, in just a few sentences, managed to say everything I was thinking about this wonderful reunion that cloudy Friday; succinctly summing up the same thoughts I had of growing up and growing older-

...We did have fun as kids, didn't we?  It was so fun to be part of a pack and have people who knew you so very well.  I'm really glad it was comfortable getting back together again -- I thought so, too.   And I know what you mean about keeping track of the friends you have from the past.  When you're young, you're always meeting and hanging out with new people and I don't think you have any idea that it's not always going to be that way.  But once you're out of school, and in a job, and married, and kinda settled, you stop meeting new people or making new connections. So then it becomes even more special and fun to go back and see how people you used to know have grown up and changed, and yet stayed so much the same.  I really do think the people you know and care about from childhood are some of the most important and cherished things you'll have in life.

And long ago, Nancy and those neighborhood kids were an important part of my life. But she still is; in fact it’s the longest running friendship I have. Though time and life have taken us in different directions, she and I have managed to remain friends for over 40 years. And in such a transitory world that must count for something. So thank you, Nancy, for hanging out that day in January, and reminding me of all those wonderful hanging out days from childhood. Some things never change, though; you're still the same girl you always were. And thanks for being my first crush!

On April 20, the day before my birthday, I gave myself a present by finding and sending a Facebook friend request to one of my long lost college buddies, Bill Woolum.

Bill's now an instructor at Lane Community College in Eugene, Oregon-- knowing his passion for English and writing and students, I had little doubt he'd end up a great teacher some place. But before becoming a member in good standing of the Lane Community College faculty, Bill was about the best college roommate a guy could ever ask for.

I’ve written about this before, I’m sure, but after a comfortable year at American River JC, I hated the idea of leaving home and friends to attend Whitworth College in Spokane, Washington. Reason one, growing up in California, I had no idea where Spokane was and didn't want to. Reason two: Mom and Dad thought it was a great idea and a wonderful way to follow in my brother’s footsteps, a Whitworth alum. If they thought it was a great idea, I knew it was a horrible idea. Reason three: no matter who’d idea it was, I didn't want to follow in my brothers footsteps under any circumstances.

But that's where I found myself in September of 1974- lost, alone, scared, homesick, angry and living in the dorm at Whitworth College. If that wasn't bad enough, barely anything I took in JC transferred, so I started Whitworth as a freshman. It was almost like repeating a grade. No wonder I was pissed.

Yet that's where Bill found me, too; and though a couple years older, Bill accepted me; even appeared to like me. But not only did Bill seem to tolerate me at face value, he was the one who took it upon himself to really show me the collegiate ropes. Stuff like how to fit in, relax, be myself and have fun- often going above and beyond the call of duty.

I was still too young to drink in Washington State, but that didn’t stop Bill from showing me a good time- and introducing me to the joys of a cold beer from the tap. On Friday nights or weekends, Bill would often take me with him 30 miles over to Idaho- where the drinking age was 19- to a tavern he frequented in Couer'd'Alene, The Lakers Inn was the first bar I ever set foot in. Though smoky and kind of dark, I enjoyed the vibe and ambiance and, after a crappy week or hard day of classes, I thought it was grown-up awesome having a place to go and tip back a few with my buddy. Not to get hammered, but enjoy while shooting some pool, listening to the jukebox, or just talking.

After Bill kicked my ass at ‘8 Ball’- he always beat me- followed by a round robin discussion on life issues and their ramifications, we turned the conversation to the really serious stuff: sports. Items on that agenda ran the gamut: from mocking Curt Gowdy's mind-numbingly lackluster play-by-play on the Game of the Week, making fun of MLB pitcher Don Mossi for being the ugliest ball player to ever appear on a bubble gum trading card, and ridiculing Harry Missledine, lead sports writer for the local rag, the Spokane Spokesman-Review.

Bill never read a Harry "Bag that old hack" Missledine column that he couldn't poke holes in- usually for its glaring lack of actual facts. Or poke fun of, for the lazy inane writing. When he got on a Harry Missledine rant, Billy could have me laughing up an organ. And as the beer flowed, we laughed long and hard at everything and just about everyone. Bill and I were on the same wave length on all things, and especially all things amusing- like silly, past-their-prime local sports columnists.

Possessing a wonderful gift of gab, the ability to converse on any subject yet phrase things in the goofiest way with such incredible timing, Bill often sent me into fits of uncontrolled hysteria. During our lengthy conversations, he could quite literally make me giggle until bodily fluids pooled in front of me. And during that gloomy freshman year at Whitworth, I seriously needed that--not peeing all over myself but the laughs. When I absolutely needed a friend, Bill was a life saver to me that first year away from home.

And when I found him on FB and took a chance he'd still know who I was- and accept my Facebook friend request- our first conversation in about thirty years was as if we were still living on South Warren Hall's second floor, in the end room across from the phone booth, making fun of our baseball cards and a Whitworth lifer who never seemed interested in graduating-

Bill: "Okay. Al Luplow it is.  I was going to press you and insist on Juan Pizarro, but Luplow; that's a fair deal….  I think you're smart hanging on to Choo Choo Coleman, too.  I'm the same with my Mike de la Hoz.  I'll never let him go....

And Smitty? I heard he just failed to pass Core 250 for the 37th year in a row.  No diploma, yet.  But he has a quasi-nice apartment in Hillyard and they're really happy with his work at Subway."

Okay, you had to know us and be there. But trust me, as I read his words I was spewing coffee all over my keyboard, and like we'd never lost touch, never missed a beat.

For a few moments, I was no longer working away at my agreeable, though sometimes mundane, job, and I wasn’t about to celebrate another mid-life birthday. For a few moments, I was still 19 and Bill was 21 with our futures still yet to be determined….It was a wonderful half hour. Thanks, Bill.

And not to be too sappy, as I look forward to that beer we're gonna have again someday, but if it's possible to feel "love" for another guy, then for being my friend way back when I guess I really loved Bill Woolum.

In October, I found another old friend, Kenny Huston. Actually, he found me. 

BFB (before Facebook), I only knew Kenny as the long haired 10-year old kid who delivered the evening paper back when I lived in Spokane. When I moved to the neighborhood, my house was around the corner from the Huston's and in my early 20's, working two and sometimes three jobs, I kept a lot of odd nighttime hours and was often at home when Kenny, his 2 younger brothers and assorted other local rug-rats were out of school.

But since I was young, single, apparently fun- and not much bigger than Kenny or any of his gutter-snipe buddies- my place became kind of a neighborhood afternoon hang-out, and he and I became friends.

However since moving away, I've never seen Kenny as an adult. Though I spent a lot of time with the family during my Spokane years (post college), and even helped coach his little league team with his Dad, it’s really hard trying to imagine the once pint-sized mouthy shortstop as a fully grown respectable member of society, a father, and owner of his own business. That's really scary. 

As much as I liked Kenny, though, I really looked up to and admired his mom and dad, Glenna and Skeeter, even more.

'Skeeter' was really Allen, but nobody ever called him that. He was always Skeeter, the name he picked up as a teen age pin ball wizard of sorts. In the early 1980’s, in the Ridgecrest neighborhood of northwest Spokane, everybody wished Skeeter was their old man, and Glenna was everyone’s favorite Mom.

Back then, I was working hard to keep my head above water. Glenna and Skeeter thought I was a big shot because I worked at a big time radio station- even though KGA played that ‘g-damn crappy country music’, as Glenna always said. They thought I was an ‘up and comer’. But reality saw me for what I truthfully was; just a scuffling, fledgling adult. Yet the Huston's never treated me that way.

Though I only became a part of their lives because of their kid, they took me in as one of their own. I had nobody then, just my work. But they always made me feel warm, welcome, included and not so lonely-- and they didn't have to. If I ever needed help with a project at home, or extra groceries, if I was sick, or even if I needed  a little money, they were always there giving freely of their time and resources without asking anything in return. 

And on days that weren't so good, whether because of work or Mom, who even at long distance and without much effort could still bring me down, the Huston’s were there to pick me up.

Glenna didn't really 'mother' me, because she was only about 7 years older. But on the crummy days when I kind of needed one, over a cup of coffee in her kitchen she was a nurturing and wonderful surrogate “mom’, ready to lean on and lend a sympathetic ear. Skeeter was more of a jokester and comedian. But when the topic turned serious, whatever the problem was, he never failed to take the time to hear me out and hash it out, man-to-man.

In fact, Skeeter was the one who convinced me to take the job at KNCO in Grass Valley; the job that changed my whole life. Just like having to be dragged kicking and screaming to Whitworth in 1974- which turned out to be a pretty good thing- in 1984 I found myself kicking and screaming about the possibility of having to go in the opposite direction, back to California.

I loved Spokane. I'd made a home, life and marginal career there. All my friends were there, too, and I didn't want to leave. I especially didn't want to go and be someplace an hour from my real family- which was the inescapable future if I took the job in Grass Valley. When all this came up though, though, I was between radio gigs, doing odd jobs here and there to pick up a few dollars, and helping Skeeter coach Kenny’s Little League team again, while waiting for my next big radio break.

Actually, I was really struggling. I was running low on funds and pretty discouraged that my broadcast career, at least where I wanted to remain living, seemed to be drying up. So one evening after the kids had dispersed from our Little League practice, I told Skeeter about the KNCO offer, which I’d received a week or so earlier. I actually was hoping he'd tell me to forget about it and convince me to stay. But that’s not what he told me.

We were leaning against the backstop of the ball diamond and, after thoughtfully considering all angles, Skeeter got right to the point. “Are you a fuckin’ idiot?!"

Never one to mince words, there would apparently be no beating around the bush this time, either.

”Forget your old man and your mom. Take them out of the equation. Do you like painting houses, mowing lawns and doing other shit work? Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

Well, no. Not really.

“Then you have to go where your passion is. If your passion is radio and the best available outlet to satisfy that passion right now is in California, then that’s where you have to go. You know everybody here loves you. Well, except me, I hate your guts.” He paused for effect, and then broke into a grin in case I wasn’t sure he was joking; which of course I did, although he’d also been speaking very soberly and seriously right up until that.

 “And we’ll all miss you. But you can’t let that hold you back. You have to do what you know is the best thing for your life and your career, and it’s not here anymore, is it?”

It's not what I wanted to hear, but I knew he was right. I'd left or been fired from about half the radio stations in town, so knew my time in the Spokane media market was probably nearing an end. Plus, Skeeter was older, wiser, had never steered me wrong before and I trusted him. So, two weeks later, I was on the road to Grass Valley, California.  

And the rest, as they say, is history.  

Who knows how life and my career would've turned out if I'd remained stubborn and in Spokane? KNCO was the job that launched me into the most productive and creative time of my broadcasting career and I might've missed it altogether; and a lot of other good things too had Skeeter Huston not shown me the light that summer night in June of 1984.

So it was with deep sadness when I read on Kenny's FB page that Skeeter had passed away. Though he’s succumbed to cancer back in 2005, it might as well have been that day, because I wasn’t expecting to see that.  I was shocked. Though I hadn't seen him for over two decades, Skeeter had been like a Dad to me and the news hurt as if it'd been my own dad had died. 

I was at work when I was reading through Kenny’s stuff, but stopped what I was doing, went out to the car and took a drive. I had to wipe a few tears from my eyes, too. Later on, and more composed, I wrote a note on Kenny's wall. This was his response-

Thank-you for your condolences. I'll pass them on to my mom and brothers. My dad really liked you too, may I even say loved you - sure! He was really sick there nearing the end - now he's peaceful and comfortable playing pinball and havin' a beer in heaven! Love ya Rocket, and I hope all is well with you and your loved ones too!

I knew I admired Skeeter and looked up to him; until that moment I had no idea how he felt about me. He never said anything and it never came up. Why would it? If it ever did, he’d probably just wrap it up in so much bullshit, sarcasm and crap, I’d miss the point altogether. And that’d be the point. He wouldn’t want you to know how he really felt. That’s just the way he was. Skeeter did not suffer sentimentality or sappiness very well.

Nevertheless, though I was sorry to learn he was gone, the sadness was tempered knowing Skeeter thought I was okay. That means a lot to me. It really does. More than dear old bastard will ever know. So thanks Kenny and thanks, Skeeter; love ya back. 

And as 2010 comes to a close, to all my friends, Facebook and otherwise, thank you for caring about me, enriching my own life and allowing me into yours. May God bless each of you as we move ahead into 2011.

Holiday Leftovers

A couple of left over thoughts from this past holiday weekend.

....It’s now midweek. I’ve been back to work post-Christmas since Monday. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t turn down another day off to recover from having 4 days off just before that. Why is it we work so hard to get a few days off, but end up working just as hard during our days off? Off Thursday and Friday, I hardly noticed; there were last minute errands to run, a Christmas Eve service, and some housekeeping details to manage and complete all before Christmas Day, which I guess was Saturday. I guess, because by then the days had started running together. Sunday was no vacation day either. I’ll explain later.

.....We hosted Amy's family for Christmas. This was all good because it meant I didn't have to go anywhere for a change. But it's been so long since we weren't the invitees, I forgot what it’s like being the inviter; staying home has its own set of challenges. Preparing for company coming is not for the faint at heart. But I will tell you this: our house never looks as good as it does right before guests arrive. And it probably won't look that way again till next time we have a house full. But by 11:00 Christmas morning, our domicile was spic and span, spit and polished and ready for the masses.

....I'm sick of turkey. Every holiday dinner, it’s always turkey, turkey, more turkey, and then turkey leftovers. So this year, being the home team, we decided to go non-traditional and have the always yuletide inspiring lasagna and garlic bread as our Christmas feast this year. And though I'm not terribly useful in the kitchen, I ‘volunteered’ my culinary talents, boiling the noodles and, with a hand-cranked cheese grater, grinding up a pound of mozzarella, too. Amy cooked the meat and layered in the sauce and some spinach. I also set the table. It was good, too; certainly better than the tried and true stuffed bird. And if I have my way, we'll have it again next Christmas.

.....Being able to have her family in our home on Christmas Day, though it only came about because I refused to travel anywhere this year, made Amy happy-- which made me happy because, at last, my stubbornness for once, produces a good outcome for a change. Yay!

....But later Christmas night, a huge crash startled us out of a sound sleep. Instantly awakened, we simultaneously had the same reaction:  "What was that?" Okay, that's what Amy said. I may have phrased it, "What the hell was that?", because it sounded like a meteor had crashed through the roof. I don't scare easy, either, but with unknown chaos so close by, the situation seemed ripe for an alarmed expletive. And for a few minutes it did feel like my heart was going to detach itself from my chest in a heightened attempt to flee my body. So with the wrath of God apparently being visited on our sleepy little house, I think I did well to contain myself to, “What the hell was that?”

Of course, the last thing I did before going to sleep was finish a few more chapters in a book with a plot that involves many undefinable man-eating mammals doing many disgusting and gruesome things to their prey. So I was probably in the middle of a bad dream when the thing that went bump in the night woke us up. I was probably doubly full of fight-or-flight adrenaline; serves me right for reading scary fiction novels at bedtime. Glad I didn’t pee my pants. Wouldn’t that have been a nice mess to try and get relaxed and comfy in again?

Turns out, though, the noise was just the clothes rack in the bedroom closet falling. The plastic end holding it to the wall suddenly split (why it chose 2:18 in the morning to do so is anyone's guess). When it did, though, it brought the whole thing ka-thunking to the ground, rack, clothes and all, crashing into several objects on the way to the floor and making a terrible nocturnal commotion. But that's all it was. No big deal.

Of course, sleep didn't find me again till almost sunrise because I haven't been that spooked in the deep dark of night since seeing "Jurassic Park". That caused a nightmare in which I was being chased and nearly eaten by dinosaurs, and waking me at 3 a.m. in a panicked cold sweat. That night terror was so vivid I made enough noise that I woke Amy up. I didn't go back to sleep that night either

.....The next day, Sunday, (and I know it was Sunday because we went to church in the morning) we traveled down to Roseville for Christmas with my side of the family. As alluded to earlier I was fairly worn out from the previous day's activities, not to mention the overnight uproar, and would've preferred a nice afternoon nap. But I was good. I sucked it up, shut up and caused little fuss.  It was actually fine, too; low stress, no problems. Made me feel a little guilty for wishing I could've stayed home.

The only really difficult part was when Dad said grace around the dining room table. With our heads bowed, he thanked the Lord for giving him three good Christian kids that he's very proud of. It was sweet and sincere, and it's always nice to hear your parent say things like that out loud. But I couldn't help thinking about this year, and years past, when I've been anything but a good Christian- all the times I’ve let my wife down, my friends and family and even co-workers down. The mistakes of recent history and the sins of my youth. No, truth be told, I haven't done much to make Dad, or anyone else, very proud.

I even question my own faith or, sometimes, the lack of it. And when I do, I can almost imagine God looking down at His often confused child and just sigh and shake His head. I keep buying you books, but you only look at the pictures. I may talk a good game and some days I might even do okay, but I really don't have this Christ-like life down pat yet; far from it. Not to be preachy- because I've got no business preaching to anybody- but if it'd disappoint my earthly father to know all the stupid things I've done, my Heavenly Father does know about all those stupid things and is likely disappointed even more.

But when I was little and messed things up, Dad would many times give me a second chance. And though still flawed, I now serve a God of many second chances; hundreds, thousands, probably millions of 'em.  All undeserved. And maybe that's the little slice of Christmas I've been overlooking while in the hurricane of all this hustling and bustling, getting stuff done and just getting through life. If today, this week, this year I've failed somewhere or something or somebody, I'll get a second chance- tomorrow, next week, next year.

But that's the gift. God’s gift. And I almost missed it. It took Dad's prayer and a nudge to my guilty conscious, but on the last day of the crazy 4-day holiday weekend, I finally stumbled across the one tangible reminder of what Christmas is really all about: I'm loved, I'm forgiven. I found my Christmas. Or it found me.

Either way, for today anyway, I'm at peace.

 

I'll Be Home for Christmas....Eventually

 

With so many changes and innovations happening at almost lightning speed, there's certainly nothing boring about being alive in the 21st Century. Though I know my body will eventually slow down, I'm convinced my mind won't. Always active and engaged, it'll never atrophy; if for no other reason than just keeping up.

But if there’s one drawback to living in the computer age, it’s how dependent we've become on all our busy little machines. Oh don't get me wrong; the PC is a phenom. When humming along and doing what it’s tasked to do, it remains an amazing tool and modern marvel of advanced technology. However when it doesn’t, we might as well be working with stone hammers and hieroglyphics.

A broken computer can bring life to a standstill.

Case in point: yesterday was the last day before K-love/Air 1 generously let the staff begin a 4 day Christmas break. Woo-hoo! There was even talk of it being a half day, although nothing was confirmed. Just in case, I went in earlier than usual with the underlying hope of getting to leave after lunch time. Or making an earlier than usual exit at some point during the afternoon.

(Actually, the day before a holiday at K-love is really almost like a holiday. Even if nobody sends out a memo, by 1 or 2:00 it’s as if we were in a theatre and somebody yelled "Fire" -except for the heartiest of souls who remain at their posts out of duty or demand, by early afternoon the building is basically deserted.)

However, everybody in my department was asked to put in 8 hours yesterday- which, coincidentally, is what we're being paid to do so there wasn’t a lot of squawking. Besides, programming often works late on pre-holidays just out of necessity. Somebody has to keep what’s on the radio running, not just on the day before but on all the off-days created by the holiday. So that’s where we all were at 5:30; although by then we’d just about buttoned up the last remaining tasks  and were already looking ahead to the time off.

The last stragglers had left by 4, so there weren’t a lot of us left when it was our turn to depart. I still had just one more little thing to do before leaving, so I stayed behind while wishing ‘Merry Christmas’ to the last of my co-workers. It’s rare I have the traffic/continuity office all to myself so I actually didn’t mind being left behind for a few minutes. Sometimes it’s a lot easier getting things done without the other guys around, and I was looking forward to 15 minutes of concentrated peace and quiet to wrap up this last little repetitive duty and with a clear head that everything was done at least through next Tuesday, call it a week.

Because some of the K-love tasks- like final edits and checks to the program logs, which I was doing last night- take a little longer than others to complete I seldom leave before 6:00 on any work night; in fact, when I stay to do some freelance work, too, it’s often closer to 7. Yet last night I was just sailing through the logs, nothing more, and had found almost nothing that needed fixing so figured I’d be on my way, out the door and on the road maybe even before 6:00. Though leaving that much sooner last night would merge me into the rush hour commute still in its prime rather than at the tail end, I’d still be getting home much sooner than normal. Probably even before 7.

But it didn't work out that way.

While I was working in the scheduling program- and almost done- to make an even hastier get away I had the brilliant idea to tap into the time system and clock out simultaneously. Kill two birds at once. But when I hit the ADP desktop icon for the time system, it froze; not just the application, the entire desktop died.  Nothing worked. And any edits I’d made in the programming scheduler- not many, and I was working on Tuesday when things stopped so nothing super critical had been lost. I’d still have to redo the work at some point, and I hate having to redo work. With no other choice, though, I did a re-start. And waited. And waited.

The machine didn’t generally run this slow- which concerned me- but after 10 minutes I could eventually log back in and re-access the desktop. At least I could see it.  But again, nothing worked; the ions, all frozen. So, I could not redo and finish the Tuesday log and clocking out had not been completed. When things crashed the first time, the scheduling program likely quit too. I wasn’t worried about that as much as the ADP program, which was shared by everybody and I’d never not been able to clock out before.

It was still running- somewhere- whether a server somewhere internally, in Cyberspace, or both, I didn’t know. All I know for sure is that my system had completely crashed  Dang.  So it was on to re-start number two.

It seemed stupid having to re-start the computer just to turn it off again, but the ramifications of leaving the clocking out procedures incomplete- or the ADP program still running for four days- was unclear. Neither was probably a good idea. There wasn’t anyone to ask either. The help desk was gone, and there were only a couple people still working and neither of them worked in IT. Clearly on my own, I crossed my fingers and hoped the second re-start would do the trick.

But it didn’t. I couldn’t tell if the desktop was frozen anymore, either, because on this second try, the screen didn’t show any sign of life at all. The monitor remained completely dark. It looked like a picture of North Korea at night from outer space. Now what do I do?

Though the computer is my friend and I like them and, except for last night, can usually handle turning them on and turning them off without any difficulties. I even know a few steps beyond Alt-Control-Delete. Basically, I know just enough about the way they operate to be dangerous; frankly, anything with circuitry and its own logic is pretty much over my head.

But as I stewed over my next options, I recalled someone saying that a hard boot can occasionally be useful during the trials and tribulations I was experiencing last night. So that's what I tried next. Why not?

And 10 more minutes later we’d made some progress- the computer came to life again. I saw the lights on the monitor flicker on and, down below, the start-up lights on the computer come on as well. But still, the active desktop didn't. My space shuttle screen saver was gone and the monitor screen was now white. Like a blank piece of electronic paper. At least white was different, but I’d never encountered a white screen before. Fortunately, it came with a box and instructions to select "Option One" to restore the desktop to its former settings.

Which I did. But then the entire system crashed. Computer, monitor, everything.

It’ was now past 6:30, on the night before our Christmas break, and all through the building, not an IT person was stirring; it was just me and my mouse. And a dark screen.

Of course, though nobody was around, somebody from, IT and Studio Tech is always on call for major operational failures and assistance. But this didn't really qualify. Certainly not enough to bother someone who'd already left for the day. And if it was something ridiculously easy to fix, something I could've figured out myself, I didn't want a co-worker to know I was that stupid.

So I muttered a few not so nice words under my breath- because cursing at malfunctioning electronic equipment always gets them to perform correctly again- and did another hard re-boot. 

After another 15 minutes later, I was once more able to log in. And though the active desktop still wasn't working, the ADP program came up (amazingly left over from two or three restarts ago; maybe a mini-Christmas miracle for yours truly?). None of the other icons worked, but the monitor screen was no longer showing the pinwheel of death, either. But I could at last, call it a day- about an hour and 20 minutes after I'd intended to- but the computer could no longer hold me up

It was almost 7:00 straight up, and I was at last able to clock out—at just about the same time as on any other Wednesday night. Sigh. However, whatever was delaying my departure, the Help Desk can figure it out Monday; I’m sure it’s probably something really simple. And I'll be able to redo the stuff I was working on before the computer went sideways; which will also be simple.

But all that crap I wrote in the beginning, about the glories of living in the age of computers?  Forget I said anything...

Mindless Chatter

Last Saturday was, of course, the last Saturday before Christmas, and like any good manager of time, I realized I was running out of it; at least the time to finish shopping for the lovely Amy. 

However, Saturday also brought the second of several predicted days of storms, so no matter how long I procrastinate getting up and at it, no matter when I finally got out there I’d be out there in a monsoon. Coincidentally, everybody else in town was shopping, too- the weather absolutely no deterrent at all- and my car always seemed to end up at the deep end of the parking lots. Of course, everyplace I went, whether going in or coming out, that's the time the skies decided to open up. So I was running through downpours all morning, and by the third drenching was sopping wet and cold.

And as my Christmas spirit began washing down the drain with the rushing rain water, I decided to duck into the local Rite-Aid; not just to browse, but to dry off. When warmth returned to my fingers, I walked around to kill time- and avoid having to go back out again- and picked up a couple little odds and ends to look like I was really shopping before getting into the queue at the check-out lines. All of them were lengthy, so I picked the closest one and settled in for a long wait. At least the dampness was wearing off, though my shoes were still wet and spongy from splashing through too many puddles.

The person in front of me was a little old guy.  He had white hair, moved slow, was hunched over and wore a coat that smelled like rain-soaked moth balls. His basket held about ten items, mostly toys, and a couple personal things, too. That was okay. I was next after him, and the other lines weren't moving in much of a hurry either. When he got to the register, the gentleman began soliciting conversation with the lady waiting on him. He asked how her day was going, inquired about her Christmas plans; then rambled on about the weather and whether the rain was ever going to end.

Good grief. Would you please stop talking and let the lady do her job so we can all get outta here?!

And it was only after his stuff was tallied up that he decided to pull out a couple of coupons. So the register lady has to recalculate those two items and re-figure his final total.

Holy crap, Gramps! Next time do that first, please!

Next he pulled out his checkbook to pay the bill but, after asking for a pen found no checks. For a minute he seemed flustered and unsure what to do. The tranquil cashier calmly asked if he had a credit card instead. "Oh yes. Yes I do. I'm glad you reminded me", the old guy answered and began fidgeting with his coat.  I could see the billfold bulging in his back pants pocket; the thing was so big it looked like he was trying to shoplift a waffle iron.

C'mon, Moses. Check your pants. Can't you feel that? It must weight ten pounds.

He finally found the wallet and apologized to the clerk. "Oh I'm so sorry. I don't mean to take up all your time. And I know there's other people waiting”, he said, glancing back at me and the six other people snaked out behind me 

Yeah, we’re all waiting Grandpa--stuck in the line that time forgot. So wrap it up, okay? I wanna get outta here before Christmas.

The check-out was near the entrance and every time someone blew through the store's front door, a jolt of cold air kept knifed though my damp sweatshirt and further lowered my level of comfort and tolerance. As the elderly customer finally got his hands on his overstuffed wallet,  the way-too-patient sales lady patted him on the arm and put him at ease. "No. You waited your turn in line, too. So don't worry about it. Take as much time as you need."

Oh, Geez Lousie, come on!

She’d just given "Father Time" carte blanche to fiddle around at her register, apparently till next Christmas, if need be. Swell. But thankfully, the old guy finally found his Visa card and passed it over.

Please, lady, whether Credit or Debit, don't ask him which. It’ll undoubtedly confuse him. Just run it through and let the bank sort it out.

But she asked anyway and I knew I was gonna be stuck in Rite-Aid till New Year’s. But his credit card went through, and finally the old man’s lengthy transaction was finished. The clerk happily handed over his receipt, reported how much he’d saved with his coupons and Wellness card and wished him a Merry Christmas. The old dude thanked her then slowly picked up the bag of items and, slower still, turned to vacate the register area. He made sure to make eye-contact with me, though, as I began to squeeze by.  "Thank you for being so patient. I'm not usually this confused", he chuckled slightly. "You have a good day and a good Christmas, okay?"

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can you just move out of the way please?

Lying through my teeth, I told him the delay was okay, parroted his holiday greeting and put my things on the counter. The lady at the register started scanning the bar codes and nonchalantly began talking. "He's a sweet gentleman. I heard his wife died earlier this year, so it’s his first Christmas without her and I guess he inherited the job of shopping for the grand kids. That can be a little daunting first time out, but I'll bet he just couldn't let those little ones down. Bless his heart."

Immediately I felt like the schmuck who stole Christmas; like a Grinchy piece of doo-doo. What's the saying? Walk a mile in my shoes? Shoot, I hadn’t even tried the old guy's shoes on; instead I soundlessly fumed and dismissed him as an obstacle to completing my own agenda. Of course, none of that made it out into the open, and nobody in the store knew what'd been percolating between my ears. But I did and, worse, God did.

And though I hadn't run into Rite-Aid intending to be a jerk, somewhere between my entrance and exit I’d become one anyway. At least I’d been thinking like one, right at the precise moment my Heavenly Father saw me masquerading as one of His followers. I knew it and He called me on it.  I hate it when that happens. I hate getting caught trying to pass myself off as a pretty decent guy when, in reality, I'm a phony; no better than the cruel kid who catches butterflies for pets, but when nobody's looking pulls their wings off. At least the kid has the ignorance of youth as an excuse. I'm just a freaking hypocrite.

The old man lumbered out of the store and into the chilly rain, and I stood silently at the cash register, rebuked and repentant and hoping I'll get it right next time. And that's the glory of the grace of God. I will get another chance to be the guy He so patiently keeps waiting for, and wanting me to be. And one of these days, I will be. I am going to get this right. No, I didn't on this day. But someday, God help me, I will.

Not So Best Laid Plans

I knew this was going to be a bad day as soon as I booted up the PC at work this morning. I couldn't get my password to work. Dang! I kept typing it in and- dang!- nothing. Do I call the help desk, throw a brick through the monitor, what? Nothing's happening. Nothing until my office-mate walked over and causally noticed the ALL CAPS were still on.

Duh!  

Holy crap. But it got worse from there.

At my regular Monday lunch session later on with Dad, the first order of business was to finalize the Christmas Day plans. Last Monday it'd been suggested we gather at Dad's place this Saturday morning at 10. I say suggested because I also counter-suggested we might be want to hold Christmas at our house this year, so he might want to hold off making any final decisions until I got back to him. He found that completely acceptable. Last Monday

It's been 5 years since the lovely Amy and I got to spend a Christmas Day entirely at home. We generally end up going from one relatives place to the other, so we’d been considering inviting everyone over to our place this year. And last Monday, that’s kind of where we left it, open-ended for the time being, with a promise to finalize plans today when we reconvened at Mel's Diner.

However, either I didn't make this completely clear or Dad flat-out misunderstood me, because before we’d even  ordered lunch he announced that Saturday's get-together time had been moved up to 9:30.

Huh? Uh, that's not going to work for us.

Whoops. Hold on; remember, we weren’t going to decide anything until today. I had to tell him we couldn't make it because we decided to have Amy's family over at 1:00 Saturday and needed the morning to get ready for company. But the invitation was intended to include Dad and my side of the family, too. They were welcome to join us anytime Saturday and make it one big gathering. Or if it was preferential, to just come up on Sunday and we'd have Christmas with just my clan. Heck, two Christmases are always fun, right? That was the news I bought to lunch today.  

But no, there would be no fun in Mel's this Monday. My news was met with a cold stare from an upset paternal unit.  To say he wasn't pleased was as obvious as pointing out, hey, that North Pole sure gets cold this time of year." Needless to say, my Christmas tidings brought Dad neither comfort nor joy. So I spent the rest of lunch fending off barbs like "Well, we might as well just cancel Christmas this year" and trying to defend myself.

The in-laws live a half hour from us, the brother-in-law about 45 minutes, and Dad about an hour. So we're not talking a great distance either way. But here’s the rub. “Look at it from my perspective”, I tried to defend. I commute an hour to work one way, 5 days a week. And Christmas, after all, IS a holiday and supposed to be a day-off from work. For a commuter, a whole day off from being in the car sounds pretty appealing. This concept however, proved difficult to explain to a retiree. So we just knocked heads, went in circles, and I left the diner feeling pint sized again.

But I'm not really upset with Dad; I'm pretty sure this is all on me. It generally is anyway. I wasn’t very assertive about our own plans for the holiday (although we didn’t decide for sure until this morning). But I didn't have the good sense to figure all this Christmas stuff out sooner than that and at least give him the heads up. Sigh. So this really was my fault, although I’d help if there weren't so many extraneous issues and blended family needs to juggle and accommodate. Sometimes I miss those days, back when holiday planning seemed so much simpler.  

However, I don’t miss the days when I was merely my parent’s favorite disappointment (although it was kind of nice finding out today I haven't lost my touch). So it saddened me,  way out here in the middle of middle age, that one look or one word from my father can still cause me to shrivel back into the misunderstood child that really wanted to please, but never quite could. How is that even still possible anymore?

Sometimes, I'm embarrassed just being me.

But I know this is going to all get worked out, someone will compromise- probably me, as I always seem to do- and by the end of the coming weekend everyone's going to be happy and the incident forgotten. However, if over the years I've given some the impression that I don't like Christmas, its stuff like this clash at lunch that’s the reason why. These episodes, where I end up looking like– or at least, feeling like- the bad, irresponsible, or self-centered one, the role I was often cast as a kid, make me long for Christmases past.

Not the ones of childhood; but the ones where I drew holiday duty at work, or lived 900 miles away in Spokane and used that geographical distance to keep my distance from family gatherings. Back then, I often felt like an outcast anyway so staying away worked out just fine. So if, for a little while this afternoon, those hard working and far-away holidays started to look pretty good again, I hope I can be forgiven.

But maybe something good came from today's discussion after all. With Christmas only a few days away, it's kind of nice to feel like I'm ten years old again, right?

Sigh.

Shepherds and Yule Logs

 

A couple weeks ago, I participated in our yearly Christmas pageant at church. And once more I played a shepherd, but a quiet shepherd. I had no lines; just stood around and looked shepherdy. And I did okay; I didn't suck anyway. But it’s a role anyone can do and pretty hard to mess up. Still, I always feel the butterflies and- if not kept occupied- find myself distracted by the ghosts of Christmas Pageants Past and my "stellar" fourth grade performance at Kingswood School.

The school show that year was mostly singing and carols, but part of the routine spotlighted some other non-North American Christmas traditions and folk lore. That’s where our class came in.

They dressed me up as a little Norseman and all I had to do was stand on stage with David Bookey (also dressed in Norse-wear), while a narrator read the origins of the Yule Log. Then the rest of the fourth grade would sing a song. David and I were at opposite ends of this large downed tree (which was actually a roll of old white carpet spray painted brown) each holding a cardboard sword and told to act like we'd just returned from conquering the New World.

But the “helmet” I had to wear kept slipping below my eyes, which was odd because it hadn’t done that during the afternoon run-through. However, in the chaos and confusion backstage, I forgot to button the chinstrap before getting into our places. And once the curtain was up, it was too late. So I'm out there like a dufus and fumbling with my headgear. Then I dropped my sword. And when I stooped to pick it up, the damn helmet fell off altogether. And in a panic, I put it on backwards.

The audience was laughing-- good-naturedly because the situation was funny--but in my ears they were laughing at me for being a screw up. After all, we were supposed to be “serious" and "fierce" and remain in character. But I'd blown it. I went out and practically invented the term "wardrobe malfunction" right in front of the whole Kingswood auditorium audience. Eat your heart out, Janet Jackson. I couldn’t wait for our stupid segment to be over so I could go someplace and hide.

 

The narration finally ended and the curtain mercifully closed, just as I got my hat back on straight. As the fifth graders came on to do whatever they were going to do, I scurried into the dark shadows and unseen reaches of the back stage area, because I knew I was about to cry and didn't want anyone to see. I was humiliated. But our teacher, Miss Lubin, found me hiding under a desk and sat down on the floor so we were at eye level. "Why are you crying?” It seemed pretty obvious to me, but through trying-to-hold-it-back blubbering, answered her anyway. "I messed up…I made everybody laugh”.

 

Scooting closer, Miss Lubin put her hands out for me to grab, and gently pulled me out from my temporary refuge. Then she put her arms around me and spoke softly. “No, they weren’t laughing at you, they were encouraging you.” I'd never known a teacher to be wrong before, but clearly Miss Lubin was this time, because all I heard was snickering, not admiration. "They may have laughed at the helmet, but they were admiring your bravery for standing up there under difficult circumstances and staying with it, like all good actors would. So you did good.”

“I did?”

 

“Yes, you did.” Miss Lubin squeezed my body again and turned me loose. Handing over a cookie she was hiding in her other hand, she reminded me to be ready to take a bow with everyone else after the final act. Then she walked away. But in her wake, she'd taken my catastrophe and turned it into a triumph. I thought I was the dumbest kid in all of kid-dom, but Miss Lubin made me feel like the most valuable member of the fourth grade; worthy, comforted and okay. Of course, I knew I never wanted to be on stage in front of a bunch of people again, either. And often times, I really am as dumb as a downed yule log.

But I think I can handle being a silent shepherd every odd December, or so. Thanks to a very loving and caring fourth grade teacher.  

 

Goodbye Rapid Robert

Bob Feller died yesterday. He was 92.  If you're not a baseball fan, that name probably means nothing. And if you're a baseball fan under 40, that name likely doesn't mean much either. But I am a baseball fan, over 40, and I know who Bob Feller is- only one of the best right handed hurlers in MLB history and enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. So, yeah, Bob Feller's a pretty big deal. 

He retired from the game when I was a baby and I never saw him play. But growing up, whenever the topic of great pitchers and great pitching performances were being bandied about by sports scribes and commentators, Bob Feller's name came up often. Long after his career ended, Bob Feller was still a pretty big deal. That’s how it sounded to me anyway and it really was a big deal having the opportunity to meet the man during the summer I worked for the Spokane Indians Triple-A Baseball Club.

 

Fresh out of college, with few funds and no job, I answered an ad in the newspaper. Group Ticket Sales...Spokane Indians Baseball Team.. ..Apply in Person, Fairgrounds Ballpark.....See Don. Being a lifelong baseball fan, nobody had to convince me that getting paid to work for the local team sounded pretty good. All I had to do was convince them it'd be a pretty good idea to hire me. After reading the paper that morning though, it was already past 9 and I was miles from the job sight. So I threw on a shirt and tie and hauled ass to the ballpark, located in a crummy industrial area at the intersection of Broadway and Havana in the Spokane Valley.

Once there, I blindly found my way to the press box area and found this Don character. He was an old guy, probably in his mid-60s. Actually I have no idea how old he was, but his hair was grey and his face was really wrinkled. For all I know, he might’ve been 40; 40 in dog years. Suffice to say, he looked pretty damn old. But after offering a chair, Don began the interview with a few innocuous questions. None of them sounded like they had much to do with the job. But he nodded his head and grunted an, “Uh huh” to each of my answers, then excused himself.  I thought the questions would be more job-specific, or at least harder, when he came back. But a few minutes later when he did, all he did was light a cigarette, said I was hired and asked if I could start that day. Just like that.

(Once I’d been there a few days, and satisfied with my work, Don told me the only reason he hired me was because I’d been the first to apply. Not because I was uniquely qualified, gifted, talented, had some smarts or good looks. All I did was get there first and with a car and that's all he was looking for. Oh well. But I didn't care about that and didn’t have to think twice about it. I wanted the job and I got it.)

The position was in group sales. The Indians weren’t a huge draw in town, they didn’t have many season ticket holders, and most of their attendance came from walk-up clientele on game nights. But there were two big events coming up- Fourth of July Fireworks night and Bob Feller Night in August-- and Don was the point man for these two promotions. He worked the phones selling blocks of tickets to these two games and I was his courier. That’s why he was glad I showed up with wheels. My job was to deliver the tickets he sold and collect payment. The salary was a whopping 3 per cent commission on each delivery. So the bigger the order, the more money I made. 

Don wanted me in the office by 9 so we could chart a logical navigation course for the days’ deliveries. Spokane's pretty well spread out, and each day my route took me anywhere from the South Hill to the north side, Coeur d'Alene to Cheney. But once I had my itinerary mapped out, Don didn’t really care what I did as long as I was back by 5 with an envelope full of checks and cash. So before leaving the ballpark, I'd grab the morning paper and a cup of coffee and sit out in the stands and catch a few rays and fresh air before hitting the streets. If the Indians were in town, sometimes a few of the players would be out running laps or taking extra batting practice. I loved this job.

Another reason I liked it: the distinct lack of a dress code. I could wear anything I liked and I liked     cut-offs and t-shirts, so that was my uniform. Don even caught me in a tank top one 95 degree afternoon, but even that was okay. In Don's world, as long as I wasn't naked and bringing in the money he didn't care what I wore although he suggested, I throw a shirt over the tank top if my deliveries took me to one of the nicer downtown businesses. But it was the perfect summer job; outdoors a lot, driving around with the windows down and the radio cranking out the tunes, free from a desk and supervision and, sometimes, free admission to the ballgames. 

 

Because my route took me so far from the office (the ballpark), there were some days when I didn’t get back till after 7 which, on game nights, meant I’d be coming in with the crowd. Don never worried, though. “I trust you. Take your time and I’ll be here when you get back. I’ll wait for ya”, he’d say before sending me out on what we both knew would be a really long day of collections. And when I got back, that’s where I’d always find him- still at his desk, eating a late supper and smoking another God-awful Kent Menthol. I’d be hot, hungry and tired of driving, but after handing over the days’ receipts Don would give me a pass to watch the game and a five spot for something to eat. If all the good seats were gone, he'd take me to sit in the press box with the organist. I got to see half a dozen games for free that summer. Like I said, I loved this job!

    

But back to Bob Feller. Not only was he an All-star and Hall of Fame pitcher, he'd also spent his entire career with the Cleveland Indians. And during the summer of 1978, the Spokane Indians were Cleveland’s top Triple-A farm team. Hence, the connection, the ticket attraction, and how I managed to rub shoulders with the man. Bob Feller Night at Indians Ballpark was in August, on the last Friday night of the season. It was also my last day on the job. There were only two deliveries, though, and I was back before 11 in the morning. This was ‘our baby’- at least it was Don’s baby- and he expected me to stay through its conclusion. Of course that left a lot of time to kill until game time, although I suppose I could’ve gone home and come back. But Don had a better idea. When I got back from the last delivery, he tossed me a brand new baseball and told me I had the whole field to myself for the next half hour.

 

It was just me and a baseball and thirty minutes and I enjoyed every second of it. I ran the bases a couple times. Then I stood on the pitcher’s mound and fired a Nolan Ryan fastball at the backstop. It left a small bruise on the virgin horsehide, but nothing on the backstop. This was somewhat disappointing because it meant my Nolan Ryan fastball wasn’t any harder than the one he threw in the sixth grade. Out at the fifteen foot tall outfield fences, satiated with advertising, I played caroms off the walls like I was Carl Yastrzemski. Or my Uncle Carl. Then laying on my back in center field, I chewed a piece of grass and stared up at the blue late summer sky. It felt like the ball field was all mine. It was awesome.

 

When my time was up and I heard Don call my name, I sat up and saw him motioning to me from the top step of the Indians dugout. I trotted in and noticed another man was there on the Indians bench. It was another old guy in a dark suit. I didn't know who he was, maybe the owner of the team, there to tell me to get the hell off his field. But when I pulled up, Don smiled at me then spoke to the other gentlemen. "Bob, do you know who this young man is?"

Of course he didn't. What a ridiculous question. But when Don said the man’s name, I knew right away who ‘Bob’ was. I knew he was an All-star and Hall of Fame pitcher who’d spent his entire career with the Cleveland Indians. And that summer, the Spokane Indians were Cleveland’s top Triple-A farm team, which was the reason for the ticket promotion, why I had the job, why Mr. Feller was there and how I managed to rub shoulders with the man. Gosh, I love it when a plan comes together. “Bob Feller”, Don announced, “meet Rocket. He works with me in group sales and helped us make tonight a sellout”

 

Don and I both knew I had nothing to do with the game, the sell-out or anything else, except for delivering a lot of the tickets. But Mr. Feller walked over anyway, stuck out his hand and said, "Nice job, son. Thanks for all your hard work." My mouth may have dropped to the dirt. I'd just shaken hands with the great Bob Feller. I asked if he wouldn't mind autographing my baseball. He smiled and without batting an eye, put his signature to it. When he handed it back, he shook my hand again. "Enjoy the game tonight and next time you're in Cleveland, be sure and look me up and we’ll talk some ball."

 

I stayed and watched the game that night and saw Mr. Feller throw out the first pitch. He was probably 60 or so by then, but still moved with the agility of an athlete. He could still toss the 'ol agate, too. Bob Feller was very gracious to me although I’m sure he was only joking about the invitation. I was nobody. And even if it was genuine, I'd never follow up on it. I mean, really, who goes to Cleveland? For any reason. But meeting and being invited to “look up and talk some ball’ the great Bob Feller on my next trip to northeast Ohio was the capper to a great last day working for the Spokane Indians.

I haven't thought much about that day or that meeting for a long time. Unfortunately, I've long since lost the autographed baseball. And through numerous moves over the years, have misplaced the rest of the ballpark memorabilia which may have stuck to my hands that summer. But hearing of Bob Feller's passing last night brought this faded memory back to life again, if only briefly. It reminded me of a great summer and a dream summer job that included a chance meeting with a now baseball immortal. Those things just don't happen very often. But in the summer of 1978, I’d been in the right place at the right time. And the memory of it all made me smile.