First Day Jitters, Part 1

Happy New Year! Whenever it's time to transition forward, from the last day of one year into the first day of another, my sometimes backward thinking mind gets the urge to momentarily muse on some other first days, too.  Like the first day of school. Or new relationship (which in most cases is nearly always much better than the last). Or the first day in a new house, or town. Or the first stressful, headache-inducing day at a new job, like my first day at KSPT-AM/KPND-FM in Sandpoint, Idaho.

First, a little background. I moved to Sandpoint during the last week of July in 1983, just days after leaving my last Spokane radio job at KKPL-FM (or, as it was better known, Apple FM). I did nights and weekends on the air as well as a little production. They say I was fired; I say I quit; fortunately I'd spent the prior few months making inroads with John Goes, the program director in Sandpoint, and as luck would have it I accepted a position there right about the time I dumped Apple- or they dumped me. Whatever the semantics, the timing was perfect. And after disposing of my house, which miraculously sold in two weeks, I left Spokane for new challenges in a new place; from the large metropolitan area of Spokane where I was well established with lots of friends, to the small burg of Sandpoint, Idaho where, except for John Goes, I didn't know a soul.

 

Nevertheless, on July 29, 1983, with butterflies in my stomach, I put Spokane in the rear view mirror and headed 55 miles northeast into the Idaho Panhandle to begin a life of new challenges, a new job and no friends. Okay, more to the point, it wasn't butterflies. I was pulse-racing scared-sick, frightened of leaving home and starting over in a strange place. But I had no choice. My house belonged to someone else now, and I'd gone through most of the Spokane area radio stations worth working at, including Apple FM. So there was no turning back. I had to go.

The KSPT/KPND set up was pretty unique. Both radio stations were owned and operated by Blue Sky Broadcasting and broadcast out of converted houses. The AM – KSPT- sat about north of town and all by itself on a large flat plot of land in the shadow of Schweitzer Ski resort. All that was out there was a fast food place (Dub's), the highway and lots of pasture land. At least it offered a nice view of Schweitzer Mountain from the broadcast studio. The KSPT ranch house was considerably larger than the KPND abode, which was really just a remodeled over-sized granny house on Marion Avenue, not that far from Sandpoint's main drag. Though it looked bigger from the street, the place was maybe 600 square feet tops

 

But the size of the building wasn’t so much the issue, as where it was. Located in town, KPND's studios were planted ten miles in the other direction from the KSPT facility, where most of the company's day to day business was conducted. Spots and copy for both stations had to be done at KSPT because, not only was there no production room in the KPND house, there wasn’t even an office; just an on air studio, a jocks lounge/work area-- including a sofa and Coke machine--and a bathroom.

 

There was no lobby or reception area, either. In fact, there was no receptionist, period. The person on the air was the only person on sight. He/she was supposed to keep the front door locked and everybody else out. There was even a sign on the front porch that referred all Blue Sky Broadcasting business to KSPT on State Route 2, or as it's known to the locals, the Bonner's Ferry Highway.

 

And with two divergent facilities, naturally, the radio station’s two formats were night and day different as well. KPND was laid back AOR, or Album Oriented Rock. KSPT was a full service, middle of the road (or musically bastardized) format. The mix was a blend of Top 40 country (like KGA), some light Adult Contemporary (like the stuff we played on Apple FM- Barry Manilow, the BeeGees, Neil Diamond, etc), and lots of news and talk. It was kind of all over the map. Put it this way: if the goal was to bake the perfect radio format cake from scratch, KSPTs recipe had at least one too many ingredients. But what did I know? I was merely the hireling.

Except for those who pulled duty at KPND-FM, Blue Sky Broadcasting's entire staff worked out of the KSPT-AM facility. And though the voices on KPND were certainly part of that staff, being assigned to the deserted FM outpost made us feel, at times, a little disembodied. Left out. I only had to do two months there before getting promoted to fill the morning slot at the energetic KSPT building. But before that, alone and with no human contact for 4 or more hours a day made time served in the FM house feel like being in solitary confinement. Nevertheless, that's where John wanted me and on Monday, the first day of August, year of our Lord 1983, I was as prepared as I was ever going to be to take over the 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. slot on KPND.

 

Prepared, yes. Calm and collected, not so much.

 

I didn’t have any breakfast that first morning because I was too nervous to eat. But I figured, once the first shift was out of the way I’d be ready to grab a bite when I got off at 2. Besides, I wasn’t a big eater and had skipped breakfast lots of times, so doing it that day, too, didn’t seem like a big deal. And I lived close enough to the FM house that I could use any mode of transportation to work off some of my nervousness. I could be lazy and drive- which I immediately rejected- or I could walk, run or ride a bike. I didn't have a bike or feel like running, but I did have roller skates. So I skated, arriving at the radio station shortly after 9 a.m.

 

First order of business was coffee. I found a clean mug and poured a cup but it was the dregs; bottom of the pot, burnt and oily. Yuk. I guess the morning guy wasn't too good about keeping the Joe fresh. But bad as it was, the liquid tar and cup gave me something to have in my hands to take my mind off what to do with them. I’d only been in town three days, hadn’t met many of my co-workers yet and was afraid of the always awkward first day introductions. Fortunately only Pat Nations, KPND’s morning host, and lax coffee maker, was on the premises when I rolled in. So I only had to meet one person.

 

Though Pat sounded serious and stoned- or seriously stoned- when behind the mic, he was quite lucid, well-spoken and gregarious and made me feel right at home. So that went well. But as I went about the task of prepping and pulling music for KPND shift number 1, a bundle of anxious energy had me running around at warp speed. I don’t know why I was so nervous though- it’s not like I hadn’t done this type of work before; it’s all I’d done for the past four years practically. Plus I’d just spent three of those years in a much bigger market, at an AM station about ten times the size of Sandpoint’s as well as a big FM, too. Still, I was the new kid at KPND, and- no surprise- felt just like the new kid on his first day at a new school.

 

Sadly, when I joined Pat in studio just before his shift was over, he told me there wasn’t any more coffee (which was why he hadn't made a new pot). But with boxes and boxes of the little Folgers bags both stations used brewed down at the AM house, after his production was done Pat promised to bring back a new box or two before going home for the day. ”Give me a couple hours”, he said as he cued up his last two records. Hey, no problem. I was new and didn’t want to make a big fuss. I'd live two hours without coffee. At least I wouldn’t have to make so many trips to the bathroom.

 

There wasn't much to do at the KPND house except work. There was a living room, if somebody actually lived there and, except for a lamp and a throw rug, the space was completely empty. Most of the "furnishings" were in the “broadcast wing”, the part of the house where the work was actually done. A short hallway bridged the gap from the living room to the studios. A Coke machine and Associated Press teletype machine stood guard outside the studios, in sort of a small ante room area. The Coke was for drinking, but the teletype was used basically for kindling.

 

We didn’t actually read news at KPND; the machine was there only as back-up in case the one down at KSPT malfunctioned. So all we ever had to do with the KPND machine was change the roll of paper every six hours and round-file the teletype tears sheets. But the trash only got emptied about once a week, so there were reams and reams of discarded news copy spilling out of the garbage can everywhere and piling up on the floor. It was an arsonists’ dream. Strike a match anywhere near this overstuffed little fire hazard and the place would go up like a kerosene soaked bonfire. Next to the teletype machine, another short hallway led to the bathroom. Before the toity, to the left, a side door exited out to a small patio and side yard.

 

Behind the ante room, Coke machine and teletype machine, two bedrooms had been combined and converted into the on-air studio. It was probably the largest room in the/building but, very dark and very enclosed, once inside it felt like being sealed up in a cave. There were no windows, except a tiny one, head high on the vault like door. So daylight never made its way into the studio. The only light came from less-than-adequate ceiling track lighting. And though the house had no centralized AC unit, the “bunker”- as Pat Nations had called it- always seemed about 10 degrees cooler than the rest of the house, even with all the built-in electronics.

 

The console was built into the bunker’s rear wall, so the d.j. sat with his back to the door. Cart racks and cart machines were to his right, turntables to the left. A blue neon, circa 1950's Pepsi Cola clock hung above the console, directly in front of the mic. Staring you straight in the face, you never had to guess what time of day it was. Naturally, all four walls were plastered floor to ceiling with posters and album covers. And with minimal lighting, even in the middle of the day the room had a “secret hideaway” ambiance going for it, which gave off the vibe of an underground, or campus radio station. It also could've, and probably had at some point, been used as a great make-out place.  On the other hand, spend too much time in 'the bunker' without a break and it felt like you'd taken up residence in a bomb shelter.

 

The studio had four turntables. Three were used for the albums, the last one for the 45's. The engineer had rigged the rpm speeds to remain permanently at 33 and a third on the designated album turntables, and 45 on the one for the 45's. So, at KPND at least, there was no way to ever accidentally start a record at the wrong speed. This was good because I had a problem being chained to the on-air studio for any length of time; I needed to move about and roam. Unfortunately, during moments of ’stretching my legs’ (or mindlessly wandering the halls), I’d forget how much time I had before needing to start the next record. This invariably set off a chain reaction of radio silence, a frantic sprint back to the studio and then- more often than not- the sound of music playing at the wrong speed.

 

Such bad form, it’s amazing I could keep a job. However, scanning the dial sometimes, I wasn’t the only one, and at KGA and Apple all the music was on cart so I never had to worry about cueing records- only paying attention to time. And I mostly always did then, too. Even so, I thought it was pretty innovative having the turntable settings locked in place. It was one less thing for an occasionally preoccupied or unfocused jock to have to worry about.

 

Pat started his last record at five minutes till ten and I was ready to go. My first couple of hours of music pulled- all on albums and determined by a very complex and specific index-card rotation (no, you couldn't just play anything you wanted) and had peed out my first nervous cup of coffee. It was show time. The first set of songs I played after the 10am legal ID were, “Come Sail Away” by Styx, then  Jackson Browne, “Lawyers in Love", that was followed by “Mexicali Blues” by Bob Weir,  Asia’s “Only Time Will Tell" came next, then  “No Woman, No Cry” by Bob Marley and "Someday, Someway” from Marshall Crenshaw rounded it out. Okay, so it wasn't exactly in-your face-cutting edge and we didn't exactly 'rock; but the mix wasn’t all that bad and the shift was off to a good start.

 

There were only about three places in an hour for the jock to talk, so it wasn't until about 10:20 before I even cracked the mic. But by the end of the first break, I was feeling comfortable, in a groove and beginning to enjoy myself. In fact, things were cruising along so well it wasn't until about two hours later before I noticed Pat Nations hadn’t come back yet with coffee. And I really had started to notice because I hadn’t eaten, there wasn’t any food in the building and a hunger, slash, caffeine headache was starting to come on. However, it wasn't yet horrible and figured I could tough it out another hour and a half. 2:00 wasn’t that far away.

 

I was getting a little antsy though, and momentarily left the studio to open the door to the back yard and get some air flow circulating through. Though the 'bunker" was cool, the afternoon had become hot and sticky and the house seemed to be absorbing most of it. Nearing 90 degrees on the patio thermometer, some puffy thunderclouds were building to the east too, and the heat wasn’t helping my headache. I went back inside and continued my shift, though without as much enthusiasm as when I’d started and made it to a quarter to two without feeling much worse. But I was starting to get concerned; not just because I wasn't feeling well but nobody had come in yet to start pulling music. I'd arrived way early because it was my first day and didn't expect anybody till about then. But there was no sign that anybody was going to show up by 2:00.

 

There was no schedule posted either, so I didn't even have a name to match the face for who hadn't shown up yet. Crap!  First day on the job and I'd already run into trouble. What do I do? The only phone number on the console was for the AM house. But there were two reasons I wasn't ready to call John yet. I didn't want him to think I couldn't handle a "crisis" on my own. And whoever was late, I didn't want to get them in hot water. What a nice first impression that'd make. Oh, the new guy? He's a little tattle tale. No, I wasn't going to inadvertently throw any of my new un-met co-workers under the bus. I'd just have to tough it out. At least for the time being.

So, I quickly began the process of pulling another hour of music, either for myself or the random next guy, and keep going. It was the only option. As the say, the show must go on….

 

Taking Down the Tinsel

Today, just some leftover random thoughts before closing the book of the 2011 holiday season. No adventures or misadventures to speak of; no wit, wisdom or astute insights, either. Nope, today I got nothin', except some meandering streams of consciousness. Those who bore easy read on at your own peril...

....Don't get me wrong, I like Christmas music. I just like hearing it more during the week of Christmas than in the week after Halloween. So when I got in the car on December 26, I was pleasantly surprised to find both my favorite music stations playing their regular stuff again rather than the all-Bing/all-Chipmunks/all-Christmas/all-the-time that’s been playing since early November. Hallelujah!

But on that subject: Mannheim Steamroller or Trans-Siberian Orchestra? 

I have friends who wouldn’t be caught dead even inadvertently listening to, what they term the musical blasphemy of Mannheim Steamroller. They’d rather listen to the Singing Dogs do “Jingle Bells”. So I’d probably put them in the Trans-Siberian camp. On the other hand, I own three Mannheim CD’s, which these same friends would mock me for if they only knew. So put me in the Chip Davis/Mannheim column. I can live with it.

It hasn't always been that way, though. Working in radio and, before that, steadfastly listening to radio, a lot of music has passed through these tin ears over the years. I'm familiar with a ton of genre's, groups, styles, singers and songs. A lot I liked, some I didn’t, but Mannheim wasn’t on my radar at all, not during their first decade anyway.  But when they started landing on mainstream radio in the late-80's, that's when I really started getting into them. 

And though the arrangements may not resonate to some, even after all this time I find the distinctive Mannheim Steamroller sound still holds up. It stands out in a very crowded field, especially at Christmas. Yeah, TSO is newer and hipper, and I'll probably continue to catch crap from the music snobs I hang out with. But Mannheim Steamroller will always be a breath of fresh winter air to me.

....I don't like when Christmas falls on a Sunday, as it did this year. Not quite sure why, either. It should be cool going to church on the same day we celebrate the birth of Christ. But we go to church nearly every Sunday. So this past Sunday didn’t feel like a special day at all- it just seemed like Sunday, even though the entire service was Christmas themed.  Except for finding a few nice things for me under the tree, this past weekend had the familiar feel of almost any other weekend.

But when Christmas happens on, say a Tuesday,  that Tuesday is like no other Tuesday the entire year. Almost everything is closed and it feels like the whole world- if only briefly and only in my mind- comes to an anticipatory stop; as if it's really in awe over the arrival of the baby King. Believer, atheist or somewhere in-between, no other holiday or observance prompts this type of peaceful sacredness.  So from now on I vote that Christmas Day can only land on, say, a Tuesday. Yeah, I like Tuesdays.

....Oh, I lost four more pounds in the week between December 17 and December 24. But with so many goodies and cookies still in the house, the odds of reclaiming at least part of that loss seem to be increasing by the day. I think I need to hire a fat guy to come over and eat everything else post haste before I eat it all myself. It's all so yummy! But I really hope the loss sticks because I'm almost back to where I was on my wedding day. That's kind of the goal, now.

....Finally, Amy asked the other day if there was any particular Christmas tradition I'd like to see started or re-started in our own home. Don't know why I didn't have much of an answer- I couldn't really think of any. I thought back to Christmases as a kid, and while always fun, if there were any established 'traditions' they escaped my tiny and too excited little mind. What'd Santa bring?! That’s all I was focused on. Later when grown, I spent a lot of years alone at Christmas, or working, and often forgot- or tried to forget- that Christmas was even happening.

Today, besides the different breakfast fare (pancakes and sausage) and opening our stockings and presents on Christmas Day, we've never really gone out of our way to do anything out of the ordinary. Besides, once December 24 arrives, the next two days are usually a blur anyway; getting from one set of relatives to the other, or receiving visitors at our place. Sometimes the pace is set so frenetic, that by the time the sun comes up on December 26th, except for the clean-up and bills to pay, I often wonder if Christmas happened at all.

And I don't say that to be cynical or Scrooge-esque; it’s just that sometimes I really miss Christmas.

But then I stopped and thought back to the 15 years spent at KNCO when I worked almost every Christmas Day the entire time I was there. At first, because I was single, I volunteered to do it so the married guys with kids could stay at home. But after awhile, and after being put in charge of the music, I actually wanted to be there on Christmas. It was the only time I could really influence how the radio station sounded.  During the hours after 8 pm Christmas Eve, through about midday Christmas morning, I purposely slanted the music in a direction it'd never go otherwise.

The regular format was chucked and poor 'ol tanked Grandma didn't get run over by a reindeer during those hours, either.  The music was softened to traditional, reverent and sacred. On such an important holiday, the office was empty and quiet, the phones seldom rang- if ever- and during the hours I worked, I used them as my own little private moments of worship. It was my time to- finally- have a chance to soak in Christmas and remember why we- or at least everyone else- had the day off in the first place.

Odd as it sound, on Christmas, working at KNCO was where I found my peace and my joy. I even read from the Bible- on the air- generally from the second chapter of Luke. Imagine pulling that off in the antiseptic world of cookie-cutter corporate radio today? How many feathers would that ruffle? I don't know because I'm not sure anyone would bother to try. Oh, at the few remaining smaller independent stations out there, where creativity and individuality haven't been completely wrung out yet, some lone spirit-filled announcer might. But likely not anywhere else on the commercial band.

However, the stuff I did on the radio 20 years ago is probably a little too unsophisticated and outdated for what radio sounds like these days. It worked then, but probably wouldn't fly now. And that's okay. Times change. Tastes change. Audiences change. Anyway, I'm not on the air anymore, KNCO let me go long ago, and if I bothered to show up to work on Christmas where I'm at now, they'd have to pay me double time and then fire me for working on a holiday without permission. So I guess Christmas mornings on the radio are the lone tradition I had that I won't be able to recreate or ever bring back.

Anyway, finding the joy and spirit of Christmas ultimately has to be up to me. It can't be contrived, made up or faked. It either happens for real, or it really doesn't; which for me, has often been the case. It shouldn't be that hard either, because I know deep down what Christmas is really all about. So often though, making that connection between heart and head stick has been like trying to fuse together two wires with a soldering iron set at room temperature. It might hold, but not for very long. 

But there's always next year and, whether Amy and I establish any new traditions by then or not, next year Christmas falls on a Tuesday... yay!

 

Our First Christmas

I always get mixed feelings this time of year; I mean, I’m partial to all the Jesus stuff; after all, He is what all the fuss is about.

 

But I also like Santa, the lights, decorations; and the Christmas music, too, now that it's 2 days from Christmas, rather than Thanksgiving.  I won’t turn down any of those yummy Christmas goodies, enjoy plastering my walls with Christmas cards, especially the old fashioned snail mail ones, and get a kick out of many Christmas movies too. "White Christmas", anyone?

But I don't like egg-nog. Not sure why. It looks okay, but it got that nasty “egg” word in it. And I don't like those nasty ‘ol eggs. It’s a minor OCD, I realize, but if 'egg' is contained somewhere in the name, it goes nowhere near my mouth. Even if it isn’t; i.e. eggplant.  Yuck. Of course, I’m also aware how terribly inconsistent this this phobia is, as eggs are used in all kinds of things I do like, like cakes and cornbread and cookies. So yeah, it’s a weird obsession. Okay, so I’m a weird dude. Deal with it.  I also don't like the malls, the crowds, and over-commercialization. I sometimes can’t ignore the temptation to over eat or the over-zealous few who insist on spoiling the season for everybody else.

Heck, I don’t care if somebody wants to celebrate Buddha, Muhammad, secular humanism, trees, unicorns or even Madalyn Murray O'Hair. I don’t care if they treat the day as any other day. Go ahead; knock yourselves out. Please. Use a hammer. Hahha. Not funny, I know. And I’m only kidding anyway. But please stop raining on everybody else's parade. Most Americans like Christmas and a majority use the day to celebrate the birth of Christ, even though most know December 25^th isn’t actually His birthday. Most concede He was probably born sometime in the spring. But it doesn’t matter; that’s the date Christmas has been observed around the world for centuries. So chill out. Keeping Christmas isn't a crime, misdemeanor or an infringement on anyone's rights.

 

Oh, but it is a Federal Holiday. So have a cup of egg-nog and shut the hell up! 

But besides all that stuff, December also makes me think of Amy and about our very first Christmas. We’ve been married for 18 Christmas’s now. But the one before we got married is probably the most special; that was our first as a couple and the Christmas on which we got engaged.

We began casually dating in June of 1992. But as that summer changed to fall, our relationship, to my everlasting amazement, had begun to deepen. We were certainly spending an awful lot of time together, anyway. My once vacant date-book was suddenly full, with outings like blackberry picking on a Sunday afternoon, an evening riverboat cruise on the Sacramento River, ballgames, movies, hanging out and making out. Lots of making out.

Though the calendar was busy, life stopped being complicated anymore. It all began to make more sense, and once it took, the relationship became easy, too.  But not in a loose or immoral way. I mean before, I had to work so hard just to get a girl to like me only to have all my hopes and dreams fall through anyway. With Amy, though, everything just seemed to come together; naturally and without any extra assistance from me at all. It all just fit. All I had to do was show up and be. And as she and I became "us", it was like it was all meant or supposed to be. It’d been years and years since a relationship had felt that way. But really knowing it was that way was both freeing and comforting.

As we moved into love, everything in life seemed to become so much more enjoyable, too. Like Christmas. Before Amy, Christmas was often such a chore. And finding or seeing or feeling the real meaning of Christmas? Fogettaboutit. Never saw it, hardly ever even accidentally bumped into it. I never put up lights or a tree or decorations of any kind, either. Why bother? I was either working or sleeping or avoiding contacting anyone else's aggravating Christmas cheer.

 

And work was always so crazy- the radio biz always is in December because that's where a good chunk of ours yearly income projections are met. But with all the commercials we had to produce and play leading up to December 24 plus all the long stressful hours to hit deadlines, finish countless projects and sound 'merry' on the air, by the time Christmas rolled around it was like an unwanted guest overstaying its welcome. I was glad to see it gone.

But to make sure I caught the holiday spirit during that first Christmas together, Amy surprised me one night by showing up at the house with a small tree. She also came with some bright balls and lights and, together, we trimmed this little tree and made my otherwise un-festive living room quite the opposite. It was the first Christmas tree I'd had in my own place of residence since I'd been away at college.

However, for so many years the worst part of the holidays had been not having anybody special to spend them with. While everyone around me always seemed happy and joyful- and paired off- I was usually walking around alone and under a December gloom that seemed to follow me everywhere. So, suffering miserably through this annual condition I avoided parties and gatherings like the plague. But that year, not only did I happily attend my own work party- with Amy- I happily went to hers too. What a difference it was, getting all dressed up for those once-annoying functions and actually looking forward to and enjoying them.

And always being one of those guys who waited till Christmas Eve before getting around to doing my obligatory shopping for family- avoiding it as long as possible- the Christmas I got engaged was the year I couldn't wait to get out and hit the stores. I have to confess, I wasn’t quite as thoughtful on family gifts as I’d been in years past, though. I put almost all my energy and shopping time into finding just the right gift(s) to bestow on my special new love. I went all over the place, back and forth all over town. But for the first time in a long, long time, I actually enjoyed the process. I got a kick out of rubbing shoulders with half the County out on their own holiday shopping quests, too. It was fun, like looking for buried treasure and actually coming up with it! Who knew?

 

But the best gift was still to come.

I asked Amy to marry me on Friday, Christmas Day, 1992, though I didn't actually make up my mind to do so until the night before. I mean, I kind of knew she'd say yes whenever I got around to asking. The topic had sort of come up indirectly. But I think I'd be forgiven if a tiny shadow of doubt still lingered in the back of my head. After all, I hadn’t had much success with the opposite sex. I had so little faith in myself, to delay any possible rejection I thought about not bringing the issue up till her birthday in January- or maybe even Valentine’s Day, three weeks after. Or maybe my birthday in April. That'd give her more time to know if she really, really, really liked me. And more time for me to work up the nerve.

 

But after dinner at her parent’s house on Christmas Eve, on the drive home I decided to go for it. Nothing seemed different or special; there were no premonitions, it didn’t seem like I was in a state of now or never, either. But heading home under the stars on that peaceful Christmas Eve night, for whatever reason I felt a peace came over me that the time was right and this time. I couldn't talk myself out of it.

I had to work the sign-on shift at KNCO Christmas morning. We all worked holidays back then, there were no computers or automation. But these were just "show-and-go" days; do your show and go. No production time, meetings, copy writing or anything else. And a holiday air shift wasn’t normally a huge time commitment- not more than 5 or 6 hours. I was doing Christmas Day 5-10 a.m. shift, which would give me the entire rest of the day free afterwards.

 

Amy wanted us to share Christmas breakfast together, though, so she offered to bring something and we’d eat there in the studio. It was a great idea, as my stomach had been rumbling and turning over on itself from the moment I for up, not only from hunger, but nerves. Food certainly wasn’t going to hurt. 

True to her word, at 7:15, as the sun came up on a calm peaceful Christmas morning, Amy arrived with two paper plates of fresh made pancakes and sausage and biscuits. And, between stopping to play, cue up or announce another record every three to four minutes, we ate our breakfast and exchanged our first Christmas gifts, in the most unlikely of places, the control room of KNCO Radio. However, there was still the issue of 'the proposal'.

Not sure how exactly I was going to pop the question, after I got to work I decided to improvise. Instead of writing out what I wanted to say and then say it, I decided to bury the question in a hastily written ‘love’ story. I’d let her read it and figure it out. There wasn’t much of a plot or storyline- I only had a few minutes to do it- but sketched out a tale of two love sick kids from long ago with enough of a narrative she’d get the picture; they lived happily ever after, etc., etc. Then I stuck it in an envelope and shoved it strategically into the bottom of her Christmas stocking of goodies. 

Of course, without naming names, the male character in this mini-epoch was me, she, naturally, was the chick. But as Amy got to the part where boy and girl "lived happily ever after", she just looked up at me and asked, "So?" Before answering I had to announce another song on the radio. But after I’d closed the mic again, I continued to hem and haw, clearly stalling. I finally asked her point blank if she got the drift or not.

 

“Yeah…So?”  Crap. This wasn’t working very well. Is that all she’s gonna say? So?  

Apparently so.

 

I thought, without saying it, I’d made myself perfectly clear. But what Amy was saying, without saying it, was that if I wanted an answer to my question I’d have to phrase it better. Like in my own words; then look her in the eye and actually say them. Damn!  As hard as I hoped I could find the point of least resistance, she was going to make me do it the hard way and get to the point. A scratched out proposal hidden in a silly little story wasn’t going to cut it. She was going to make me do it the right way. Damn! 

So, producing an opal ring- my mother's opal engagement ring, which she'd had given me years before for just such an occasion- though I didn't get down on a knee, I capitulated and forced the following words out of my mouth: "Will you marry me?" Fortunately, instead of saying so?, this time Amy answered, "Yes!"

When my air shift ended at 10:00, we dashed back to her parent’s house to make our first official engagement announcement. And so Amy show off her ring. It was clearly too big for her petite finger, but would do in a pinch. (The next day, we went down to Beitz Jewelers and I let her pick out an engagement set more to her style and liking). Darrell and Carol didn't seem terribly surprised at our news- I guess they figured it was going to happen sometime- but they were also very happy for us. 

Then we had to leave to make Christmas lunch at Steve's house, with my side of the family. I was dying to tell somebody there, especially Mom, who’d made it clear over the years how she doubted this day would ever come. After the gift exchange, I told her I had one more present for her. It was a tiny box with a simple note inside that read, "For Christmas this year, you're getting a new daughter". It took a couple beats for it to register, but when Amy flashed the ring on her finger, Mom knew. I thought she was going to cry. I didn't, but wanted to. As the last person on Earth my mother ever thought would find a mate, it made my heart burst getting to show off Amy's hand that afternoon. "Look, Ma. Somebody loves me!"

So it was a great day for me.  A Christmas to remember, that's for sure. 

Five months later, on May 29, 1993, Amy and I tied the knot. And every Christmas since, pancakes or link sausages- or both- are part of the breakfast menu. It helps preserve the memory of our very first Christmas morning, the day Amy and I transitioned from two distinct individuals into one happy couple.

 And just as the story was written, they lived happily ever after.

 

One Night Stand, Part 2

Wendy Spicer lived on the second floor of a two story apartment building just a couple blocks behind the IGA store near the Whitworth campus. When she let me in and we were properly introduced, face to face, I started having second thoughts- about not wanting to come, Wendy was cute. She wore bib jean overalls over a long sleeve flannel shirt and pink undershirt. Sort of a lumber-Jill look I guess. Kinda girly. Kinda not. But I approved. She didn't look like my friend Ron at all.

 

Her hair wasn't blond, wasn't brown and wasn't red. It was more like in-between. She called it auburn. Who knows? Not good with colors I'd have to take her word on it. Anyway, it was pulled back in a ponytail and I liked that, too. She walked around in woolly slippers, which I assumed meant we wouldn’t be going out anywhere, but that was okay. Her place was warm, tastefully decorated and felt inviting. It smelled good, too, filled with the smells of homemade beef stew and biscuits. That was also okay.

 

I followed her and the yummy aromas to the kitchen/dining area. It was small and compact and I didn't know where to position myself, so I wouldn't be in the way. Sensing my dilemma, Wendy told me to just sit down at the table as she set it. I did and when everything was ready, she pulled up a chair and we enjoyed a nice supper together. Just as she’d been on the phone, Wendy was easy to talk to in person, and while enjoying her well-prepared home cooked meal, I found myself quickly engaged in a session of light hearted banter, too. 

 

I recounted a thumb-nail sketch of my journey in life so far and she laughed at all of my stupid stories, too. Then she told me a couple things about Ron that made me laugh, and filled in a few blanks from her own story. 21 years old and a graduate of North Central High, Wendy worked as a cashier at the Fred Meyer on East Francis. "I like it" she stated. "The customers are mostly nice, I get to buy things at cost and I like my boss, too. He's, like, twice my age. But I dunno. I think he's kinda cute..." She smiled and her voice trailed off, her focus momentarily elsewhere. I tried to appear indifferent, even though the conversation had just taken an unexpected and disturbing turn.

 

Did she like the guy? Or like the guy? And why should I care?  

Not a fan of split allegiances, I guess I cared because I was hoping for a girl only interested in me. Sigh. Did she even like me, I wondered? So far I couldn’t really tell, although I’d never read women well, anyway. Damn, I needed to get a grip. This had nothing to do with me. I hardly knew this person and was only there because Ron put me up to it, I didn’t have much of a social life and this was a nice change of pace. Anything beyond that would work itself out when it worked itself out- if it ever did- which I seriously doubted. So, for the moment, I decided I didn't care if she had the hots for her geezer boss or not. Not my business. Pass the salad.

 

I worked all this out in my head just in time to hear her change the topic. "Jason's staying overnight downstairs at my girl friends' with her little boy. They're best buddies." I hope my jaw didn't drop. She's got a kid, too?!  What else is this girl hiding? I began feeling seriously annoyed. But not at Wendy; at Ron, for failing to give me a heads up before 'setting me up'. He had to know about Jason. How could he not? I didn't know what to think. Was there anything else she wasn’t telling me?  Though the kid wasn’t a complete deal breaker- wait, there was no deal!- the revelation sent red flag warnings shooting though my brain like fireworks on the Fourth of July. I made no comment, just decided to get through the meal and find a polite way to cut our visit short. 

 

When dinner ended, I helped her clear the dishes. Wendy washed. I dried. But for the first time since I’d arrived, she began to focus her attention back on me. I hoped it hadn’t been that obvious, but I think she sensed some uneasiness in me about her child. She guided me to the couch and sat down next to me and put her hand on mine. "Look, I had to let you know about Jason, just in case, you know, you decide you like me and...." She didn't finish her thought, but snuggled next to me. Goodness, that was quick. I didn't know how I felt about her or her kid, one way or the other. But I didn't move away either.

She was so close to me I detected a hint of alcohol on her breath. We'd had ice tea with dinner, so I wondered if perhaps she'd taken a nip of something before I arrived to settle her nerves (though she hardly seemed the nervous type). Right then, I sure could’ve used some, though. What was it? Gin? Bourbon? I wasn’t sure and it didn't seem to matter; she didn't look or act drunk and whatever she’d consumed didn't affect her speech or movements. It did seem to make her more flirtatious, though.

Wendy nestled her head into my cheek. Her hair had the scent of a spring-washed morning and her freshly washed flannel shirt was soft and smelled like Cheer or Clorox. Or maybe both. Then she lifted up her face and, by the look in her eyes, I think she wanted me to kiss her. No way. I had to be reading her wrong- we'd only just met! Caught off guard, I wasn't sure if I was ready and wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do yet.

It'd been a long time since I’d kissed anyone (and Pam the hockey chick didn't count). It'd certainly been ages since I kissed anyone and meant it. Would it mean something now? Was I being played, overreaching or over thinking? Or shouldn't I just go on impulse? What was I waiting for? I looked at her again. She hadn't yet pulled away and her eyes were closed, so I guess that meant I had clearance to proceed. 

 

But then the phone rang.
 

Wendy opened her eyes, glanced over at the attention stealing device, then back at me. "Sorry. I better get that. I'll be right back". She stood up and, over her shoulder, teased, "Don't go anywhere." I watched her walk away in her little overalls. She had a nice little hiney. For the first time since before dinner, I was glad I was there. I also wished residential answering machines had been more common in 1980, too.

I closed my eyes and sat back and relaxed as she picked up the receiver. However, before my imagination wandered too far off-track the angry voice from the other side of the room snapped me back to attention. Wendy was yelling at someone, actually fuming at whoever was on the other end of the line. Suddenly I felt extremely ill at ease and like a captive stranger in a stranger's house. Sure, we'd just been getting friendly but I didn't think of Wendy as a friend yet either. Sure, we'd just been getting cozy, but 24 hours ago we hadn't even met. And being privy to a one-sided profanity-laced conversation with a party she was unmistakably infuriated with was making me squirm and wanting to bolt.

She finally ended the conversation, slammed the phone down, cursing, and then caught herself and her breath. Rubbing her forehead with both hands, she looked up, apologized and told me to leave---her husband was coming home.

Husband? Yep. Her married to, but estranged from, husband.  Oh, shit.

They weren't together, but when the old man ran out of places to crash he came home. It was sort of an arrangement they kept, for the sake of Jason, she said.  Huh? Anyway, he was drunk, angry, had burned up the good graces of all his remaining friends and the only place left for him to go was Wendy's place. Their place. Their home. And I needed to leave their home- now. ”I don't want anything bad to happen to you", she said, with a fairly believable tone of concern.

Umm, me too.

But a sense of protectiveness seeped to the surface and before I could stuff it back, blurted out an offer to stay. Wendy smiled. ”Aww. That's sweet. But not a good idea. Honey, he’s 6'2, played football, is smashed to the gills right now and ready for bear. He might kill you. So you better go. Don't worry, I can handle him.” She was a tiny thing, and though the husband sounded downright menacing, once positively delighted to be let off the hook, I took Wendy at her word and headed for the door. But did she really call me, honey? Yeah, I think she did.

Wendy kicked off her slippers and laced up some tennis shoes. Then we walked down the stairs to the parking spots outside. When we were away from the building, Wendy let me in on a not-so-secret, secret; she didn’t care much for Bobby. No, way. Really?  “He wasn’t the guy I thought he was and our marriage sure hasn’t been a fairy tale, either. I’ve just gotta get out of it now. Cut my losses. Then I can look for a better alternative, once we get divorced, anyway.”

She sounded really sad. 21 years old with a kid and a failed marriage. I’d be sad, too. I was 25 with no life, except for work, and though not completely friendless, could count the ones I had back then on one hand. And when I thought about that too much, it made me sad, too. Heck, I guess we were both a couple of losers, her less than me, though. At least, she had a husband. Sort of. Me? I was still single and hopeless.  

 

But for about half a second, I wondered if she wondered if I might be the ‘better alternative’. I could warm up to her kid I suppose. However if she was drawn to the “Bobby” type, clearly I wasn’t one of those. Anyway, we’d only known each other for about 90 minutes. One way or the other, she couldn’t have formed any conclusions about me yet; although, without trying too hard I could probably make a lousy, lasting impression in half that amount of time.  Fortunately, the half second quickly passed.

When we got down to where I’d parked, Wendy apologized for cutting the evening short, hoped I wasn’t offended and even invited me to drop by again sometime.”It'll be okay. Just call first. Ya know?” Yeah, I knew. But would likely pass. I wasn’t a prude, just pragmatic. And lacking confidence. And, thought I hadn’t seen her in three years, still in love with Kelly Adams. Crazy as it seemed, she was still my blind spot. I couldn’t see past her, or myself with anyone but her. It’s why I didn’t date. It’s why Ron had to practically dump me in his cousin’s lap, who I’d actually come to like. But compared to Kelly, she didn’t. Nobody could. Anyway, as long as I let Kelly’s memory hold me back- not to mention as long as Wendy remained separated but still married- I just knew there wasn’t any future there. Not for me, anyway.

While all those things ran through my head- overthinking again- I was backed against the car and looking away from Wendy, at some of the upstairs apartment windows, framed with brightly colored lights. It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving and I was impressed to see some of her neighbors already ready for Christmas. My eyes were drawn to the festive lights. In an evening that had turned quickly uncomfortable, it kept me, briefly, from having to make eye contact.

Wendy broke the silence and regained my attention. "Well, before you go at least I owe you this", then put her arms around my neck and kissed me. On the mouth; not quite ten Mississippi’s, but more than five. And it was nice. Nice enough to make me wish I'd seized the moment up in her apartment. Before the phone rang. Nice enough to wish I could forget about Kelly. Nice enough to wish for another. But as I made the attempt, Wendy took a step back and pushed her hands out. “No, you better go now. Bobby’s gonna be here in a few minutes.” Well, that was awkward.

So I reached for my keys and quickly got in the car. I did thank her, though. Very much, I thanked her. I hadn’t been kissed like that in a very long time. Then I started the engine and drove away. I don't even think she waved.  And the date was over. In the days that followed, though, I looked back on this evening with Wendy as my one and only 'one night stand'. For that’s what it was in the most literal sense.

The date had been made at around 1 in the morning, I arrived at her house that same night at 6:45, ate dinner at 7:15 and was asked to leave by around 9, never to return. The whole ‘thing’, the ‘relationship’, whatever it was, didn't even last 24 hours. Of course, I went into it almost dead certain the date with Wendy was a dead end. Nothing was going to come of it. So maybe I got exactly what I deserved. And maybe that kind of negative thinking had something- no, everything- to do with my very lacking social life. But Ron Andrews owed me an explanation.

 

"You didn't ask", was his justification when I brought up Wendy’s kid. Which, of course, was true. I hadn't. But c'mon; why would I?  However it wasn't so much the kid, as the incensed behemoth Wendy was still married to that had me fried-at the very least, Ron could’ve given me a heads-up about Bobby. "Well, I only see her every now and then.” Now he tells me. “I thought she'd dumped him."  Wrong again. But I couldn't really stay mad at Ron. Never could. He just made me laugh too much. And the evening ended with more than decent kiss from a nice looking girl. Can’t shake a stick at that.

However, I never heard from Wendy again. Though she said I could call sometime, I didn’t and eventually lost the scrap of paper with her number on it. Of course, she certainly could’ve reached me at KGA- if she’d wanted to. But I guess she didn’t want to. And Ron Andrews? I saw him last in 1985. He was still the same- goofy, skinny as a rail, fairly odd. We were still both single then, too, but he did not mention his cousin again. Nor did I ask. But I heard he’s dead now.

A friend in Spokane read his obituary sometime back in the mid 90’s. I only found out about it recently because my friend and I didn’t reconnect until last year. Ron and I were about the same age, so in the mid 90’s he’d have been around 40, give or take. Way too soon. But I knew Ron wouldn’t last. He was always sick- or complaining to be-- and certainly always looked it. He couldn’t keep any weight on. I hope he found love at some point, though, and I hope he went easy. But recalling all those crazy years we worked together at KGA, I look back at that time and still fondly remember him as really good guy and good friend. One of the best. Goofy as hell, too.

And, as I suspected, the holidays did suck that year. But its suckiness prepared me for future Christmas suckiness. Away from the cocoon of college, I learned just how cold and lonely the real world can be; and how you sometimes do strange things- desperate things- so that it won’t be. Though my heart still pointlessly belonged to a long lost one and only, who I’d only spent one Christmas with (and who’d likely long since forgotten about me), I went to Wendy's place that night anyway.

I went because, deep down, I knew something in my life was still missing and on that that one particular Sunday night in November 1980, in spite of myself I hoped to find it with a friendly 21 year old pony-tailed stranger, and cousin of Ron Andrews. But all along, I should've been seeking a little baby in a lowly manger. However, I wasn't quite as enlightened back then. I was lost. Yet the experience of my little "one night stand" reinforced how painful the holidays can be sometimes. It prepared me for the suffering that came in future seasons of holiday discouragement; how to endure the pain and get through it myself, and how to be a little more sensitive when spotting others going through the same thing.

And I also learned, the hard way, firsthand, and over several other Christmases, that no matter how frantically I tried to seek hope and comfort in relationships, or things, or long hours of productivity, more often than not what I sought, wasn't in those things at all. There was no there, there. No, the comfort finally came with the realization- though it wasn't a Merry Christmas for me that year and might not be again this year- that it won't be that way every year. For there'll always be hope.

The spirit wavers- and on many occasions, mine has- but hope never dies. And, as the world's been doing for over two thousand years, I will look forward with awed anticipation to celebrating its birth again this weekend.  

I hope Wendy’s looking forward to that, now, too.