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.