Unplugged

The place I work at is 100 per cent totally dependent on computers. If one system goes down, odds are good it adversely effects more than half the other departments in the building and, or, our product. I perform a tiny role in this large operation's inner workings but if the PC I use ever hiccups then my job, ancillary as it is, comes to a quick halt along with the collateral work flow of other’s. Heck, many of us don't even use the bathroom without getting an Outlook alert first. Crimeny sakes, my little truck has more in-board computer chips built into it than the 6 million dollar man. I don't even want to think what happens if one of those things crashes. 

So I'm not letting out any company secrets by acknowledging how computer-dependent we are; that we all are. But over this past Thanksgiving weekend, I took a breather from modern life and returned to the dark days of yore B.M. (Before Microsoft).  From the time I left work Wednesday night until returning this morning to the sprawling office complex where I draw a paycheck, I didn't boot up a computer, activate my I-pod or log onto the Internet. I was 4 days unplugged.

Okay, I did have my cell phone on and with me. Can't help that; I feel naked without it and that's something nobody wants to see. So I had my phone. But it’s a Dumb-phone; capable only of making and receiving calls. And since I've yet to convince the lovely Amy that it'd be a wise use of our income to make my little LG Verizon, Internet compatible, there was no danger I’d be swerving back onto the information super-highway last weekend, even accidentally.

But what an incredible experience. No devices, no 'toys', I didn't even watch sports this weekend. I know, in some circles, that revelation could brand me a Communist; or worse, force me to surrender my man card. But I didn't miss football or my electronic gear. At all. For four days, I either talked with people face to face, or listened to people in the same room, or was quiet. Imagine that.  And I was never bored. I ate good food. I got to spend time outside. I ate more good food. I didn’t go to work. I ate more good food. All good things

Thanksgiving afternoon was spent with the in-laws and their thoughts on a wide range of topics, most I didn't even have to feign interest in. For those scoring at home, that's the obligatory lame in-law joke. There will be no more. So move along; there's nothing to see here. My sweet mother-in-law even sent me home with a Tupperware bowl full of homemade ice cream. How awesome is that? There are plenty of things in this world I won't eat; homemade ice cream is not one of them. And I didn't have to wait till the 4th of July. I felt very blessed.

It only rained once over the weekend, so there was ample opportunity to get outside, breathe fresh fall air, take a walk, and even do some neglected yard cleanup and even make a dump run. Of course, for most people, a dump run wouldn’t qualify as a weekend highlight but our garbage cans were full, and smelly, and disgusting. Both’s foul contents needed to be hauled away and left to decompose in the confines of the Nevada County Landfill. Once that disgusting task was completed, allowing the garage ambiance to return to its usual state of neutral, if occasionally engine-oily, ambiance, there was a stop for lunch at one of my preferred places in town to eat, Maria's, on East Main Street.

I enjoyed my favorite dish, Maria's chicken fajita burrito with sautéed onions and bell peppers. Yummy!  I even thought about ordering a Corona to go with it, but you really have to be in the mood for a Mexican beer and I wasn’t. So I stuck to ice tea.  I didn’t really need a beer anyway and I didn’t have to dine alone either as this extended outing was shared with the lovely Amy. With work and the commute, I spend so much time away from home it's kind of nice to have a little extra time- like a holiday weekend and a long lunch at Maria’s- just to hang out with my wife. To talk about nothing. Or something. Or if nothing else just to check in.

Saturday night we popped a copy of the 1942 film, "Holiday Inn", into the DVD player. Though we’d received it as a gift from a good friend last year we hadn’t watched it yet. But that was my fault.  I'd probably rather spend the day locked in a cell with an insurance salesman who, in his spare time, doubles as a member of the Geek Squad than suffer through an old black and white song and dance film. I can think of nothing more dull. But this movie wasn’t. It was charming. Bing Crosby was a little stiff, but that Fred Astaire guy? Man, can he dance! Who knew? Bottom line, the flick held my attention the entire two hours.

But I think the best part of the device-free weekend was spent with my family. And anyone who knows me knows I probably can't believe I just wrote that, either. My m.o. has always been to run from family gatherings like fleeing a burning room. But this time I’m glad I didn’t.

It started with a lengthy dinner Wednesday night with my sister. Sue brought her boys this time, too, so I got to have a little give and take with my Alaska nephews, Ben and Matt, as well. They hardly know me and I hardly ever get to see them, because we live so far apart and I don’t like to travel. But during the rare times we’ve all been in the same state at the same time, it’s been a joy getting re-acquainted. Both boys have just the right balance of smart-assness and elder-respect to make them a delight having around. When I was their age I remember any forced hang outs with the grown-ups being nothing short of an absolute yawn-fest. But Ben and Matt were engaged and engaging and wonderful dinner companions. I'm proud to be their uncle and proud of my sister and brother-in-law for the way they've been raised.

After the boys walked back to the hotel, Sue and I got down to the business of catching up. Yakking. And laughing. And crying. We talked about things that went back to our childhood; misunderstandings and misperceptions; hot button issues that, over the years, had been allowed to cool into subtle but distinct barriers between us. Barriers, that over desert and a couple glasses of wine we were at last able to take a sledgehammer to. The issues aren’t important now (I’ve touched on them in other blog posts and they mostly concern the way Mom interacted with all of us, especially me), because my sister loves me. She always has. I didn’t know. I mean, I did, but to hear her say it, it was as if I found this long lost friend that I never knew I even had. It was wonderful, being able to at last break down those walls and break through to each other. My sister loves me.

Sue and I sat there for nearly three hours and I’m sure our waitress was probably tired of us taking up table space that long without ordering anything else after the second glass of wine. But it was free flowing discussion between my sister and I that I didn’t want to end; besides it was the night before Thanksgiving and the place wasn't terribly busy. We did leave a nice tip, though. At least Sue did. She bought dinner. And though she lives a continent by the time we walked out of the Rocklin Chili's at Blue Oaks and Fairway and into the wintry November night, I don't think I've ever felt closer to her

And before the weekend got away from all of us, Sue and I ended up at Steve’s house where we spent several more hours, brothers and sister, just laughing and talking like old friends. I can't explain it but it may have been the best time I think I've ever had with my two siblings.
And not once did I miss Facebook. Or the computer. Or my email. Or the blog. Until this morning I wasn't even aware I now have 3 followers reading this nonsense. But I'd be remiss if I somehow left the impression that I'm this wise, noble fellow who can take or leave what our modern world and technology has to offer. For I am neither wise, nor noble. Quite the contrary.

We still live in the land of dial-up Internet, and this weekend I just didn’t have the patience.

 

Jill

I was at Target the other day and, after picking up the handful of items I needed was able to use an express line to check out. But there were two people ahead of me and, while cooling my heels, took notice of the girl running the register.

 

She looked vaguely familiar. Unable to immediately place her, as I waited for the line to move, my mind leafed through its index file of faces past and present until, after going back far enough, it stopped on the one that, apparently, had jogged my memory. Thirty some odd years removed, this girl looked a lot like Jill.  I hadn’t thought about Jill for a while; in fact, since the early 80’s probably not much at all. She’d fallen into that black hole of brain matter where friends and acquaintances go after falling off the radar. Nevertheless, there was a time when Jill Bauermeister had been a friend. A very good friend.

 

During the fall semester of 1977, Jill and I and a bunch of other kids became charter members of the KWRS air staff, the new campus radio station at Whitworth College. Of course, after graduation, this distinction would mean nothing on a resume. But in the beginning, all that mattered was being part of the small group of misfits lucky enough to go hands-on when KWRS first signed on. And while some of us knew a little about what we were doing- little being the operative word- it was mostly trial and error (lots of error) growing into our new roles as campus communicators. But it was an exciting time being a fledgling broadcaster on the fledgling station. It was certainly never dull and always a good time; and part of the fun was getting to know Jill. 

 

KWRS broadcast out of a small studio tucked into the loft of the Hardwick Union Building, better known as ‘The Hub”. An equally small production room was on the other side of the glass. The “lobby” (more like a bullpen) was furnished with a couple standard issue office desks and file cabinet and a teletype machine occupied a nook just behind the office door. Because of its compact size, the radio station itself wasn’t much of a hang out place, but Jill and I often seemed to cross paths at shift changes and then hang out during the transition times. She was a sophomore, I was a senior. She was from So-Cal, I was from No-Cal. But, for whatever reason, we just seemed to click. And once the friendship took, our yak-fests started spilling over from the studio into the bullpen, and then on to the snack bar downstairs. Or re-convene later at Whitworth Pizza. I guess we had a lot to talk about.

 

Not far from campus, many KWRS “off-site meetings” seemed to end up at Whitworth Pizza and, like all late-arrivals Jill and I would throw a few bucks on the table when we showed up and help ourselves to a slice from one of the large communal pizzas. To wash it down, several shared pitchers of soda or suds were readily available. Still under 21, Jill generally started with pop. But when certain nobody was around to narc, she’d graduate to beer. It was funny- she’d could knock ‘em back with anyone and swear like a longshoreman. It was funny, because she was so petite and unassuming. But it was mostly just done for effect. She knew her limits and didn’t have to curse to fit in. Adorable to a fault, everybody liked Jill just as she was. I especially liked her.

 

I liked her because she was easy to talk to. Funny and with the gift of gab, she didn’t seem to mind sharing that gift with me. Jill and I could talk for hours and many times, after everyone else had gone back to campus, we’d drift to a dimly lit booth, sit down and finish off a pitcher, listen to the jukebox and chitchat. About radio, school, life. And love. We were both coming off a bad break-up, although Jill was handling it better. At least it sounded that way. Whenever she mentioned the guy’s name, she’d roll her eyes, shake her head- like, what was I thinking?- and change the subject. Or turn it around on me.

 

Depending on the hour of the evening, song on the jukebox, beer consumption- or the right mix of all three- she had little trouble coaxing me into sharing my own tales of woe about Kelly. And poor Jill always ended up getting an ear full.  Sensitive and a good listener, though, she never tuned me out or made me feel uncomfortable. Instead, as I jabbered on she'd reach over, take my hand and say things like “It’s okay” or “Shh….It's all right. I understand.” And maybe she did. I don’t know. But when I’d finally shut up, I’d feel embarrassed for doing all the talking. I'm sure I was a complete bore some nights. But Jill was the real deal, the real compassionate deal and when I really needed a sympathetic someone to connect with, she was there. The only one there. The only one I’d allow there.

 

When we walked out together at closing time, Jill would put her arm around my shoulder, steer me towards my car and let me talk a little more. Finally there'd be that awkward moment when I knew the evening was over but wasn’t quite sure how to bring it to a proper end. But Jill never left me hanging; she’d punch me on the shoulder, give me a hug, and tell me to get a good night’s sleep because things would look better in the morning. Then with a last word, “Bye, now” (which was actually two words), she’d retreat to her own car, not look back, and I'd watch her drive off.  But while fumbling with my keys, in the serene afterglow of too much Old Milwaukee and Jill’s hug, I’d think, “Wow!  She’s so cool and so sweet and I really think I like her, and gosh, I wonder…I wonder… I wonder if I’ll remember any of this tomorrow?”

 

I did, and remember nothing ever happening besides parting pleasantly in the parking lot. Even cold sober, at that point in time I wasn’t on the lookout for a girlfriend, slash, relationship. In fact, I was actively avoiding them. Nevertheless, I liked Jill, even though (on first blush) I wouldn’t think of her as my type. With olive complexion and short black curly hair, she wasn’t at all like long-blond, fair-skinned Kelly. Nevertheless, I felt attracted to her, although not in a pining-away-for-her, way. Which was crazy.

 

Besides, I’d bet my last dollar the attraction wasn’t mutual. She just liked hanging out with me. Nothing more. That’s what I told myself, anyway. So going to the next level, like dating? No, I didn’t see that happening at all. It wasn’t even on the radar. Me and Jill; on a date? Maybe. But not with each other; we just weren’t in that place yet. In fact after Kelly I swore I‘d never date again, and nobody’d ever want to date me. Yet, when during one of our late-night chat sessions at Whitworth Pizza, I sort-of-on-purpose-but-with-absolutely-no-expectations suggested we go out sometime for real, for whatever reason, she didn't say no. But I was right: neither of us was in ‘that place’ yet.

 

We did the movie and dinner thing a couple times, and while these evenings were surely pleasant and we had some laughs, somehow they just didn’t feel ‘right’. It wasn’t the company; it’s just that we were trying to put structure, or meaning, to the comfortable, free-form friendship that’d been born out of our KWRS workload. And removed from that environment, or being out together not because of it, for whatever reason ‘we’ just didn’t work. So nothing approaching a romantic moment ever came out of these ‘date nights’. Sparks never flew.

But that was okay. I wasn’t expecting any.

 

Like I said my head wasn’t there yet; my heart certainly wasn’t. And while I can’t speak for Jill, deep down, I don’t think hers was either. Though we valued each other’s friendship, the bar had been set real low on a deepening of our platonic feelings. At least from my perspective- truth was, at the end of the day- those days- my heart was still beating for Kelly. Though it’d been over a year and, with Jill, I often referred to her in the past tense, Kelly and her memory remained very much present. I just couldn’t it let go. I couldn’t forget. So Jill and I remained ‘just friends”. But for me, that was completely acceptable; anything else would’ve just screwed things up. Even better than friends, though, Jill and I were buddies. When I needed a kind, sweet, sympathetic, soul mate, in the truest and simplest form, Jill Bauermeister had filled that role. I didn’t regret it in the least.

 

After I graduated, Jill and I stayed in touch, running into each other a couple times a year, having coffee, catching up. Stuff like that. But, as I continued the slow grind of building a career in radio, Jill went off to do something else. Though really good at broadcasting, she moved on to her other passion, the outdoors, and didn’t look back. She took a job with the U.S. Parks Service and, during that time, left Spokane, met her future husband and ended up living and working out of Washington DC. By then, we’d lost track of each other and any updates about her came sporadically and only second hand. But knowing Jill was happy and loving her life, was good to hear. It made me happy.

 

It made me happy to have known her, too. Jill was fun and a great person and I enjoyed our time together, whether on “dates” or at work. I got a kick out of her off-beat sense of humor and the kooky way she looked at life sometimes. But by the end of 1983, except for the few snippets of news I got from Whitworth, and a few other people who knew her, Jill had become just a nice memory from a different time. End of story. Except late in 2002 the story came to sad ending when I read in a bi-yearly alumni newsletter that Jill had died over the summer. Ovarian cancer had claimed her. She’d just turned 45.

 

I hadn't seen her in almost 20 years but the news of Jill’s death hit me hard. Mom had just died a couple months before, so maybe I was still bummed from that. This was hardly the first time somebody I knew had died, too, but Jill was the first from college. And though long removed from those days, and she hadn’t crossed my mind in years, reading about Jill’s untimely death rekindled thoughts of her and those magical, carefree years at Whitworth when she and I were both so young and our lives were just beginning. And now hers was over.

 

How could that be? I was stunned. How could that cute, fun loving girl that I once laughed and worked with, grew to enjoy hanging out with- and even went out with- how could she no longer be living? It just didn't add up.  But knowing she’d passed on made me grieve, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I’d cared for Jill back then more than I thought. Hard to know though; fighting through stages of hurt, anger, denial and probably a thousand other negatives after Kelly might have blinded me to it. Or maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe I was just afraid. Afraid of being completely wrong; or of getting hurt again.   But I don’t know; I guess I’ll never know. However for a long time after reading Jill’s obituary I thought about her in quiet moments, when we were still just goofy college kids “playing radio”, and missed her. And unexpectedly- just going through the check-out line at Target- I missed her again.

 

I paid the girl for my stuff, wished her a nice day and left. And I didn't look back.

 

For a Few Pieces of Silver

On the way to work this morning, I stopped at an AM/PM in Auburn to get a cup of coffee. It was crowded in front so I parked at the side of the building, out of sight of the front windows.

Making my way inside the store, I passed a guy lighting a cigarette. Long and greying around the temples, he had a mustache, too, also grey, His bike and backpack were leaning against the wall. His clothes were well worn but clean.

"Morning. Nice day, isn't it?" he politely greeted. "Yep, sure is", I answered and kept moving, hoping not to be drawn into a conversation.

"Gonna be warmer too."

"Yeah. Feels like it", I called back and continued into the mini-mart to purchase my coffee

The brief exchange wasn't more than 10 seconds because, at least from my perspective, I’d done my best to keep but break into a sprint to make sure it stayed short lived. It wasn’t anything personal- I was kind of in a hurry and just don’t make conversation very well with people I’m unfamiliar with. Anyway, I didn’t think any more of it except, in the back of my mind, I was happy I’d locked the car.

When my coffee transaction was complete, I made the return walk back to my vehicle, but once again, encountered the outgoing smoking stranger. "Hey, do you think you could spare 50 cents for a cup of coffee?"

I noticed he was holding several coins in one of his hands, so I wasn't the first person he'd asked this morning. But I had exactly 71 extra cents left over from my hot brew purchase and without hesitation, handed it over. At that particular moment, I really didn't need it and figured it make the guy leave me alone.

The man smiled and shook my hand.. "Thank you, friend. God bless you. You have a great day, okay?"

"Not a problem. You too" I answered, at last addressing him directly.

I got back into my car.  He waved and I waved back.

Backing up to vacate the Mini Mart parking area and return to the main drag, I noticed the owner of the Explorer who'd pulled in next to me, had returned from his own coffee buying expedition. When he walked by my new 71-cent-richer friend, he was clearly asked the same question that’d been asked of me. But Explorer guy ignored him. He just brushed by and didn't even look at him, like he wasn’t even there.

But the man with the ever-ready smile didn't seem to take offense. He just waved as the Explorer pulled out and lit another cigarette.

Of course, when I merged back into the busy Auburn traffic, from Dry Creek Road onto Highway 49, I remembered having an attitude similar to Mr. Ford Explorer; not just that time, but plenty of other times, too. I recall being just as dismissive, though maybe not as impolite. But I‘d blown people off, too; people just like the tobacco scented panhandler outside the AM/PM. And for no good reason. I just did.

But I wondered why, at last, I reacted differently today.

I walked by a fellow human, down on his luck, who made a simple request. I complied and moved on. That's all I did. Maybe it was a "What Would Jesus Do" moment. But the situation presented itself so quickly I didn't really have time to consciously make that assessment. Besides, Jesus would've taken the guy home, cleaned him up, fed him a full breakfast and then ask if there was anything else He could do.

All I did was get rid of some spare change, and get on with my day. End of story.

So this tiny act of charity doesn't make me a saint; any more than the Explorer guy's lack of it makes him a sinner. It just means that for today, he and I responded to the same random incident differently. Tomorrow I may revert to jackass status again he’ll become Mother Teresa. 

However, what I know for certain is that today, for a measly 71 cents I purchased a whole week's worth of satisfaction.

 

The Futility of Fall

The weather was gorgeous here in Northern California this past weekend. Perfect for being outside and perfect for getting some yard chores done before the conditions turn more November-like again; a weekend used to catch up on our raking.

Tall pines dot our property, hovering above and around the house and each autumn, after the first big storm, they leave behind a present- bunches and bags of pine needles. They blanket the driveway, the roof and decks and as fall digs in, with each subsequent windy day, dying needles descend like rain from a passing thundercloud. So it behooves us to make the effort to keep up with them, lest we be buried.

The clean-up isn't difficult, just time consuming; most of a morning. I usually get the ladder out and start on top, pushing the fall fallings off a section of our sloped roof, hopefully without falling off myself. On the ground, Amy drags around a tarp and catches the stuff I throw down. While she dumps it into the back of the truck, I sweep another section of ceiling and wait for her return and the next big push-off.

Then we switch places; she goes on the roof and takes care of the gutters, while I sweep the driveway. We take turns cleaning the decks and when the project is completed, between the two of us, it feels like we’ve raked and pillaged millions of wayward pine needles, now transferred into the back of the pick-up truck to await their final destination: the green waste section at the landfill. During October and much of November, the folks out there see us often.

So that’s what we did Saturday. And when we left for church Sunday morning, we left behind a spic and span driveway, spotless roof and squeaky clean decks. I felt quite self-satisfied with a job well done and done for maybe another couple of weeks. But another humbling reminder of how wrong my assumptions usually are and how little I’m in control was on full display upon our return home.

The wind had come up while we were away; a strong northerly. As only God can make a tree and when it'll shed all its foliage and I guess He knew our trees were still primed for more shedding. By midday Sunday, two and half hours of sweeping and dumping and hauling on Saturday was wiped out. You wouldn’t have known we’d done anything. The property was once more showered in pine needles. Many pine needles. Piles of pine needles. Mountains of pine needles. It was a freaking mess.

Oh, but people tell keep telling me what a beautiful time of year this is.  And for the most part, I agree. So can I count on one of you to come over and rake my yard again next weekend?

 

Waiting for the Dough

I was having a Monday-type of morning the other day. The type of scatter-brained day where just putting one foot in front of the other is an energy-draining challenge and going back to bed seemed like the least objectionable option. Unfortunately, I couldn't return to my blankies and it really was Monday.

The commute to work is about an hour and I had just enough gas to get half way there. No problem. That's how it usually works out. Of course, I knew I was running short on fuel on Sunday, and had ample opportunity to fill the tank up then. But no. I didn’t. I drive a small Toyota Tacoma pick-up and rack up around 500 miles a week. And though the mileage is pretty good, I find it eminently satisfying whenever I can squeeze just one more day off the calendar before having to feed the gas tank again. So, no. I didn’t fill it up on Sunday.

Again, though, this wasn’t a problem. I reached the half-way point of my daily drive at a Shell station just a half block from I-80 in Auburn. So far, so good. There was even a smidgen of daylight left above the ‘E’. Stopped in front of an empty self-serve pump and fully expecting to fill up, I reached for my wallet to pull out the Shell card to do just that and found....no wallet. It wasn’t in my pockets or in my lunch box. It was nowhere. No wallet meant no credit card to buy gas, no cash to buy gas, and nothing of value to even barter for gas. Nada. Zip. I couldn't even prove who I was.

A shell-shocked feeling of imminent dread came over me.

Oh, come on; it has to be here, I pleaded under my breath calmly, a state of being which lasted about three more seconds before I began flinging stuff all over the place in a frenzied search for the absent billfold. Lunch box, emptied and turned over; laptop turned inside out; books swiped to the floor. No wallet. Nothing Still cursing at the truck- as if that’d be helpful- I screeched away from the pump and stopped ten feet later at the air and water station where I began tossing everything from behind the seat out onto the pavement- tarps, tools, bungee tie-downs, tire chains, the jack; everything. It looked like I was moving out. Or in. Or setting up a yard sale. But the wallet remained M.I.A.

There wasn't enough gas to return home or make it the rest of the way to work. I was stranded. Fortunately, I did have my cell phone and called Amy to explain the predicament. She'd just pulled into work herself, but without complaint agreed to back-track home, grab the wallet and bring it to me. Such a trooper. I was at least 25 miles from our house, so this hand-off was going to involve about an hour of her day and a 50-mile round trip. Then I sheepishly called Andrew, my supervisor, to give him the heads-up that I might not be showing up till Tuesday.

Next, I stowed all the far flung items back to their rightful places. All the things tossed on the ground were gently returned to the backseat of the cab. Then I calmly replaced all the stuff tossed about the front seat and settled in to wait. And fume. It'd be at least a half hour before I'd be going anywhere. So I sat back and killed time listening to the radio and watching cars go by- cars who's owners did have wallets and did have credit cards- and tried not to think of all the work I wasn't getting done.

About 35 minutes later, Amy called in. "I've looked everywhere. I can't find it". Damn. I always left the wallet on the kitchen table together with my car keys and key card from work. It could be no place else. "No, it has to be there!" I yelled, because yelling always resolves a problem quicker. Err,, makes my position more valid. Errr… well,  never mind. Amy asked again, "Are you sure you've checked every place in the truck?"  What a ridiculous question, I thought. Of course I had. Did she think I was that stupid? But to re-prove my point and humor her I did a quick double check.

I got out of the truck, got down on my knees and, in contrast to the panicked frisk done before, searched everyplace including under the driver's seat. There, ya happy? But before I could become even more self-righteous and snarky, fate stepped in and, like stumbling upon the Holy Grail, there it was- my little brown leather wallet, wedged under the seat and in plain view. How I missed it, I don't know; I guess it fell through the cracks sometime on Sunday and I simply forgot about it. All my angst wasted, the silly thing was there all the time.

I breathed out a huge sigh of relief and apologized to my betrothed for pitching a fit and behaving like an out-of-control buffoon. Then I filled the gas tank, texted my boss and proceeded merrily on my way. Moral of the story: I’m an idiot. Well, sometimes anyway. For sure I’m a little high strung, quick to lose patience and slow to think things through; not the most useful reactions during a crisis. Or, non-crisis. But after all the self-flagellation, not to be overlooked was the teachable moment.  It came after I got down on my knees and actually opened my eyes. That's when I found what I was looking for.

I knew there had to be a lesson in there somewhere.

A Saturday at Save Mart

Since getting married, I haven't spent a lot of time in a grocery store. Don't have to; Amy does all that stuff now. And that's fine by me. But to be sociable- or if it’s boring at home- I've occasionally gone along for the ride.

One of these times was this past Saturday. We'd been running errands and, as because I'm such a thoughtful guy (sometimes), I checked to see if there was anything else we needed to accomplish before heading home.

"Not unless you feel like going to the store with me".

Hmmm. Did I or didn't I? Was there a right answer, or one more right than the other? 

Actually, Amy doesn't operate that way. 'Yes' or 'No' without further elaboration will generally suffice and she'd be okay with either response; although because she asked, the desired answer should’ve been clear- since we’re already out I want to hit the market now.  But I tend to over think even the simplest of things so was briefly stuck for a response. Would the grocery store really be my first choice of places I wanted to be? Not typically. However, we were having a nice outing so I opted to go along.

“Sure, that'd be fine". And off we went to forage for food.

Once inside the teeming store I wanted to reconsider my answer. People were everywhere. Lines at the registers were backed up ten deep. I wanted out. I also wanted some caffeine. Perhaps it would take the edge off the unfolding tedium. Unfortunately the Save-Mart Starbucks kiosk I was counting on being there, wasn’t.

"Nah, they took that out a long time ago", Amy informed me.

Wow- it has been a long time since I've been here. No coffee. But maybe we can get some Red Bull. Quickly.  

Strolling past the crowded check-out lanes, I noticed the "12 Items or Less" line. But the guy in front was unloading at least twice that many things and was surely moments away from pissing off the two sign-obeying customers behind him. Some things never change, I guess.

But what really got my attention, since I’d drawn cart pushing duty, was how large the shopping carts have grown. That, or like a form of architectural arteriosclerosis, the aisles have dangerously narrowed. Either way, in the more popular rows, trying to push though and keep up with Amy was like negotiating freeway traffic at rush hour. 

On one aisle, several shoppers had stopped to browse in the same general vicinity, creating a bottleneck for anyone else looking to snake by. Between dodging their carts and avoiding the various standing displays- which ate up space every few feet- getting from one end of this row to the other was like trying to thread a boxcar though my living room and not knock anything over.

Then there was the sweet old lady doing her marketing in a Hover Round.

Since we were occupying the same aisle, I was continuously aware of her. But the poor thing never saw me and we accidentally collided at least twice. Geez, Louise, look out!  It was kind of like a game of slow moving bumper cars, except if I'd hit her with the tank I was pushing around she's lose. And if that happened, there'd be chaos and carnage everywhere. "Clean up on Aisle 7!"  

Fortunately no items or sexagenarians were spilled in the completion of this food run and I was able to escape with our three bags of stuff and my sanity still in once piece; a trifle agitated and annoyed, but none the worse for wear.

But now I know why I try and avoid going into the supermarket on Saturday afternoons.

The First Noel

I got in my car this morning to go to work. Cranking the ignition, the radio came on simultaneously.  Pre-set to a classic rock station when I got home last night, I expected to hear Eric Clapton or The Eagles, or maybe even a commercial. But it wasn't any of that. Instead, The Ray Conniff Orchestra was serenading me with their way-too-perky version of, "We Need a Little Christmas".

Really?

My first reaction was WTF. My first printable reaction is, "Why? It didn’t make sense and, before putting the car in gear I checked my watch, just to make sure I hadn't slipped into some sort of weird time warp. To my relief, it was still 7:40 a.m. and still the 12^th. The 12th of November!

So did I really hear what I just heard? Here? In mid-November, with Halloween not even two weeks past and Thanksgiving still over two weeks away?  Really? I hoped maybe it was just a once an hour deal or, better yet, a mistake.  But it wasn’t. My station had made the conscious decision to go wall-to-wall Christmas music. Starting today. And continuing through midnight December 25th. But looking on the bright side, that’s only another month and a half. Oh joy. To the world, maybe. But not to me.

It's not that I'm a Scrooge or don't like Christmas and Christmas  music. I do. I love it. It’s just that I love it December. And the closer to Christmas, the better. But, please, not on November 12th. Not when there's still Halloween candy in the house. Not when it might hit 70 degrees today. Not when I have yet to get sick from the Thanksgiving meal I haven't eaten yet.

Growing up, I don’t ever remember hearing Christmas music in November, certainly not until after Thanksgiving. But either to score points with advertisers or be first to lock up that elusive fourth quarter demographic- and in case you don’t know if you’re part of that group of not, as determined by Madison Avenue if you’re loopy enough to wait in line in freezing weather to start shopping at 12:01 Black Friday morning than you are- radio stations have somehow determined that pushing Christmas music on us earlier and earlier, is somehow better and better. The way it's going, pretty soon Christmas in July will mean something more than just an outdated mid-summer retail sales campaign.

But if some corporate broadcasting geek somewhere thinks it's a good idea to start playing Christmas music today then it must mean its close enough to Christmas to get away with it. That also means its close enough to know I'm not anywhere close to being ready for it. It makes my head want about to explode thinking about it. And I’m not. There's too much to do, not enough time to do it and every waking minute from now till the end of the year is already spoken for.

So, once again I'm afraid this special time of year is going to slip by so quick I'll miss it. It'll come and go in the blink of an eye and I'll miss what it's really all about--which has everything to do with a baby and absolutely nothing to do with how much stuff I can put on my Visa Card. 

Of course I can always change the radio station. And I have. And I'm not saying a little premature yuletide spirit is a bad thing, either. I just wish it could wait until after I've choked down at least one left-over turkey sandwich. Till all the leaves have fallen. Till the pumpkin pie is all gone. Till Kohl's and Best Buy aren't receiving customers at 3 a.m. Till it doesn’t feel like springtime anymore which it does today here in balmy Northern California.

And really, how many versions of "Sleigh Ride" can there possibly be? Not that I care, but I I’d wager two turtle doves and a box of tinsel that some nameless musicologist somewhere probably has the exact figure located somewhere in his database. And by December 26^th, I’m sure the rest of us will know, too, having been forced to hear them all of them several times over. And over. Arrrrggg!!!

So who's to blame for all this torment? Well, for today anyway, I blame you, Mr. Jump-the-Gun radio programming dude. You're not very nice for making me hear Wham's! insipid "Last Christmas"  way before I was ready!  I didn’t like it in 1985 and nothing’s changed in the 25 Christmas’s since. I still don’t like it. By now I may even loathe it. So lumps of coal to you. In fact, the next time that stupid song comes on, I may reach through the radio, yank George's Micheal's creepy tonsils out and imagine I’m tearing them out of you! So go ahead, play it again. Go on. I triple dog dare ya.

Oh, by the way, Merry Christmas.

Changing Times

Well it’s been about three days since the clocks got set back an hour; part of that 'ol fall back routine we do every year about this time, when Daylight Savings Time ends. And that "extra hour" of sleep we got Sunday morning?  Well it was nice at the time. But nearly 96 hours into the season of shortened days, my internal clock has re-synced to Standard Time.  6 a.m. is again 6 a.m. Bleh!

However, as with all things in nature, there's always balance, and in March we'll once more do the spring forward thing. More daylight, longer days. Yay!

For the time being though, I frankly don’t care very much for these sunlight truncated days. I take no pleasure in seeing the sun go down around 5:00 now. And since I tend to thrive with more daylight than less, it's really going to suck in December, when it'll be getting dark closer to 4:30 than 5. 

See? I'm whining about it already.

And when I think about it, the only benefit I ever got out of this silly yearly ritual happened many “fall-backs” ago. It was October 1980 and I’d recently started working at 50, 000 watt KGA in Spokane. But as a new hire, when it came to the more ‘plum’ on-air assignments I was still at the bottom of the totem pole. So, for the first several months and, I worked a lot of graveyard shifts, particularly on the weekends.

Though I’d eventually be promoted to the overnight shift full time during the work week, this was my first time working overnights and doing it only on a part time basis Saturday and Sunday gnawed at me physically and mentally. It took me a while to adjust to the irregular and crazy hours. Until I was doing it on a regular basis, as I worked through the weekends during the last quarter of 1980 I was either feeling sick, getting sick or really sick; or just really, really tired. Or all of the above.

But that’s where I was- working the graveyard shift on KGA on the Sunday morning when Daylight Savings Time ended.  It was only the second weekend I’d pulled a graveyard shift and the first time I’d ever been awake though the time change. However, never one to function much past the level of dullard during broad daylight, the middle of the night clock alteration was asking a lot of my semi-cognizant brain.

When the ABC News came on at 2:00, before taking my caffeine break-as I usually did- I was assigned an extra task. Instead of refilling my coffee cup I was supposed to reset all the clocks in the programming wing, starting with the on-air studio. Tom Newman, the program director, left typewritten instructions attached to the program log so I wouldn’t forget. He wrote that it was critical to get it done during the newscast because when I came back on at 2:05, it wouldn’t be; it’d be 1:05. “If we’re going to be a radio station”, he went on, “one thing the public should be able to count on when they tune in, is that we’re at least giving them the correct time”.

So, as the news update was on, I had to climb a step ladder and set the studio Seth Thomas back to 1:00 again. It took nearly the entire five minutes, too because the clock face had to be taken off with a screwdriver, I dropped one of the screws, had to get off the ladder and find it, then I set the clock ahead an hour instead of back. Fortunately I noticed that glaring mistake before I screwed the clock face back on. Finally, with 15 seconds to spare the clock in the on-air studio was set to the correct time.

It was hard to reconcile how a five minute network newscast, which started at 2:00, could finish at 1:05.  It didn't make a lot of sense. Of course, I hadn’t been working graveyard for very long yet, so at 2:00 in the morning very little still made sense to me. I remember in college I’d been up at that hour, too, and though it was almost always a time of day lost in the Twilight Zone, too, at least I remember I was having fun. This wasn’t fun, it was work. So in this case, I’m chalking up the temporary confusion to the "magic of radio".

However, as I continued to work those long overnight ungodly hours, I knew people who knew people who, if needed in order to stay awake, could ‘loan’ me some ‘medicine’. Pep pills. Geenies. You name it, I knew people who had it. Amphetamines, the breakfast of champions- or night shift employees. (One guy seemed to always have a jar full of 'em). I would eventually resort to these medicinal aids often; however that night, for the record, I was flying under my own power, was fully conscious and over the course of the next half hour, during songs, managed to correctly calibrate and convert all relevant time pieces on the programming side of the building to Pacific Standard Time.

My shift was scheduled from midnight to 6 a.m. But with the two 1:00 hours, I actually worked 7 hours that Sunday morning instead of 6. So there was an extra 4 bucks in my paycheck that week. How 'bout that? Four whole dollars an hour! I had no idea that was coming, although I have no idea why I thought that either. Still a little naïve about how the world worked, I just assumed I’d get paid for the scheduled six hours and call it a day. Silly me, though- I did work 7 hours, and KGA paid me for it.

Ah, but when I worked the same shift in the spring, nature evened things out- for me and the radio station. When the studio clock struck 2 that Sunday morning, this time Tom’s instructions were to advance it an hour. From 2 to 3 a.m. Meaning, I only worked 5 hours that day and that too showed up in my next pay check. Actually, it didn't. They paid me for my time- which was five hours. I have no idea why that didn’t surprise me either. However, I think I was on speed that night. So for now, let’s just say it wasn’t my naiveté this time; it was the drugs. Works for me.

As a sun-worshiper, though- not to mention a struggling-to make ends meet 20-something- I suddenly didn't care about the extra daylight anymore. I just wanted my friggin' 4 bucks back!

Five for Fighting....er... Make that Six

I went to a hockey game last week. Sharks-Ducks. Great rivalry. The Shark Tank in San Jose. Full raucous house.  Home team won.

During the course of the game, there were six separate fights. Six. I've seen a lot of NHL hockey first hand, taking in three to five games a year. But there've been some years I didn't see six fights all season. And I've never been at a game before with 6 fights. Soi this was special.  Six fights, 12 combatants. And after each bout, each guy took their respective five minute time-out in the penalty box.

Five for fighting.

Three words that bring a smile to the face of any old-school hockey fan. Yet recent years have brought a concerted effort to reign in fighting; at least curb some of the more gratuitous NHL violence. While this has somewhat watered down the product, to the sports’ detriment, it’s also put the kibosh on any sort of 'Broad Street Bullies' resurrection. That part’s okay. Nobody wants to return to those days. Goonery and thuggery for the sake of goonery and thuggery, is lame.

Even so, the softening of the game hasn't prevented it from receiving more than its fair share of criticism, mostly from those who've never actually seen a hockey game. Passionate fans know the type; generally condescending, they see hockey as a rouge niche sport embraced mainly by beer-swilling and unsophisticated ruffians, eh?  Hockey?! Nobody cares about hockey! Hahaha! 

Hey, them's fightin' words!

Though I grew up in California, after discovering hockey while channel surfing one Sunday afternoon when I was 13, I was hooked. And I played it, too, both on wheels and blades. So if feel like dropping the gloves with some blowhard mocking my game, someone who wouldn't know a Zamboni from a Zeppelin, I’ll gladly take the penalty. Just show me to the box.

Five for fighting.

Though these know-it–all-know-nothings look down on and cry foul over hockey's inherent true north hardscrabble violence, every weekend they're whooping it up and fixated on the brutish bores busting heads on NCAA and National Football League gridirons. Equally annoying is the politically-correct melon-head who questions if even badminton might need to be gentrified. Oh, that poor birdie.

Puh-leeze.

But it's kind of a time waster trying to convince these Neanderthals that hockey isn't what they think, so I don't even try anymore. It's like trying to explain Jello to a caveman. He sees it and it looks good. But any attempt to pick it up and eat it ends with the treat slipping through his hairy oversized fingers and onto the ground. Where he laps it up like the rest of the unwashed masses, who turn up their nose at the best team sport in North America. Whatever.  I’ll take five for fighting over fist and ten any day of the week, and twice on Sunday. Go 49’ers! Nah; just go.

So, last Saturday, as the Sharks Douglas Murray squared off with Anaheim's Aaron Voros in the evening's final scrap, my heart was joyous. Not just because two guys were throwing hands, but because not one of the 17,562 in attendance at HP Pavilion was passively sitting on their hands in disapproval. They get it. It's just part of the game. And they were diggin' it.

At last, I was among friends.