Mrs. Shuckle

I was at Chic-Fil-A the other day, lunching on a #1 Chicken Sandwich- plain, no cheese and no fries- and an unsweetened ice tea. I was by myself and mindlessly chewing and occasionally glancing at others in the room sharing their lunch hour with me. It was mostly young moms and kids, a few college age types and several members of the work force, like me, spending a half hour away from the office. But the patrons at a nearby table, in particular, caught my attention.

There was an elderly woman eating lunch with a small child. I assume the kid was her granddaughter. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the old lady; in fact I almost had to do a double take because this elderly matriarch, munching on her fries, looked exactly like Mrs. Shuckle, my 6^th grade teacher. And almost instantaneously, I felt I was 12 years old again, scared to death and sweating out another day in her class.

Everyone walking around Kingswood Elementary School in the mid to late 1960’s lived in mortal fear of Victoria Shuckle. To be kind, the lady was definitely a piece of work. To be brutally honest, nobody wanted her as a teacher. Being stuck in her class was the stuff nightmares, of course, confirmed by all the Shuckle Horror Stories we’d all heard- that she yelled at the kids, smacked hands with rulers on a daily basis- just for kicks- and may have even eaten or killed one or two of them. Nobody knew for sure. That’s what we'd all heard, anyway. And we all believed it.

She also wore a perpetual scowl on her kisser that made her seem totally unapproachable, or even human, and added to the perception that she was at least a hundred years old, if she was a day. Toss in the wrinkled skin, hunched-over posture, and walking around all day like a broomstick was stuck up her ass, she’d earned the nicknamed we hung on her: The Wicked Witch of the West. Though not quite as appalling as Dorothy’s nemesis in “The Wizard of Oz’, in choosing the homeliest one of all, the mirror-mirror on the wall would’ve definitely taken a good second look at Mrs. Shuckle before passing judgment. She was certainly a dead ringer for pictures of the witch I’d seen in my in my Hansel and Gretel storybook.

With straight lifeless hair, red but turning gray and tied in a severe bun, our ‘beloved’ teacher also had a random nervous nose twitch, one that was not at all similar to the enchanting Samantha on the “Bewitched” TV show ". On the contrary, Mrs. Shuckle’s was more like an old hag about to sneeze but couldn't. Mrs. Shuckle was a piece of work and, to a bunch of crass dopey elementary school boys, if looks could kill, we were damn sure hers would do us all in.

But as physically unattractive as Mrs. Shuckle appeared to my cackling smart ass friends and I, nobody had the foggiest idea how the hell she’d ever snagged a Mr. What-in-God’s name did he look like became the burning question during many recess bull sessions And, heaven forbid, their offspring, too?  Yikes. So upon completion of 5th grade, to a man, my friends and I were praying to get any other teacher but Mrs. Shuckle for the 6th. Nobody wanted to go through the nightmare of a school year trapped in a room presided over by an ancient relic too scary to look at and, if the rumors were true, too likely eat you up and spit you out merely for being there.

Unfortunately, between fifth and sixth grade, my summer prayers went unanswered and in August I learned I'd been assigned to Mrs. Shuckle’s class for the coming year. I hoped somehow science could quickly figure out a way to extend August, like indefinitely. But that didn’t happen and on the day after Labor Day, when I left home for the first day of school, it felt like I was walking to the gallows. I’m sure my friends felt the same way.

 

But you know, Mrs. Shuckle didn’t exactly live up to her billing. Sure, she looked like an old battleax, and was strict and intimidating, too. However, a lot of that was just hype and more rumor than fact, which, naturally, she used to her advantage. It certainly kept people honest.  And it was true- she did walk around with a ruler and occasionally cracked a desk to get someone’s attention. But she was no witch. On the contrary, the classroom dynamic was just that- dynamic.

There were no slow times in her class. Mrs. Shuckle kept things lively and moving, always interesting and made us learn. In fact, she expected it. If you were trying and making progress, she was fair and in her own way, could be kind. And the few times she actually dared to smile, you know what? It was a warm one. But she accepted no excuses for lack of effort and no one was allowed to lag behind. If you weren’t getting it, she'd make you work at it till you did. I know because she made me stay after many days to learn and relearn my long division. And the extra 'help' really helped. I finally got it. (Of course these days, a smart phone with a calculator is so much handier).

And while I don’t know how she did it, God bless her for paying that much attention to all 33 kids. Yeah, it was difficult to warm up to her, but I most definitely learned under her. She may also have scared the hell out of me to make it happen, too, but I got almost all A’s that year. Makes me think now that whatever they were paying her then probably wasn’t enough. The lady knew how to teach and run a classroom. I may not have loved Mrs. Shuckle as I did some of my other teachers; actually I think I feared her as much as anything. Nevertheless, she still managed to get the most out of a shy, and not terribly bright, little kid, and made me ready and prepared for what was coming in the higher grades.

But back to the present.

Of course, it wasn't a teacher from my youth eating lunch in Chic-Fil-A the other day; just somebody’s grandmother who looked like her, though considerably softened by a more contemporary hair style and advances in modern cosmetics. Heck, Mrs. Shuckle was old when I was a kid- however probably not as old as we all thought she was- and I'd stake my report card from that year that by now she’s probably long since gone on to that great classroom in the sky .

But for the commitment, effort and hours she poured into my 6th grade experience, I have to give Mrs. Shuckle a well-deserved "A".  Though I’m sure I didn’t when I was 12, I really do appreciate her un-sung labor of love now, and hope, somehow, I was worth the effort. God bless Mrs. Shuckle, wherever she is.  I hope I made you proud.

How Not So Sweet It Is

"Dr. Claydon needs you to come back in."

 

Two days after my physical last month, that was the message Dr. Claydon’s nurse left on our answering machine.

 

Huh? Why?

 

Never before had a doctor asked me to come back in for any reason and worry did all it could to creep into my reckoning: They found something, and it’s horrible. I’ve got six months to live. Have I updated my will recently? With all these unanswered fears swimming through my cranial cavity, the earliest I could get the follow-up appointment was two weeks out. But if it was that bad, they’d want me back sooner, right?

Maybe. Maybe not.

 

A few years ago, I had a different medical problem. A real one with some actual tangible evidence; I felt lousy. It started on Memorial Day Monday 2003 with a bolt-out-of-the-blue horrific stomach ache. I'd never felt so awful. Doubled over in pain, the kind I'd never felt before, had it been anatomically possible I'd swear I was giving birth that day; when I could stand up at all, all I could do was drag myself to the bathroom to throw up. This went on for nearly four solid hours before things began to settle down.

 

I went to the doctor the next day, but it was nearly two years before I felt right again, and I mean, really right. Normal, right. Healthy. From Memorial Day 2003 until mid-summer 2005, this malady hung on; not all the time, it waxed and waned, sometimes I didn’t notice it much at all, sometimes it dogged me as often as five days a week. Regardless, it always had me feeling lousy with a capital 'L'. 

 

On the first visit to Dr. Claydon, right off the bat his first suspicion was gall bladder disease. I wasn’t completely sure what or where the gall bladder was, but if it was somewhere in the abdomen and could make you feel sick all the time, I was willing to go with it. To confirm the diagnosis, Claydon sent me to a couple specialists. Apparently I needed to not only feel near death I actually had to be near death to be seen right away because I had to wait a week to see one and a week and half after that to see the other.

 

But after all that waiting around I'd say neither specialist was all that special because neither found anything wrong. They poked and prodded and did blood work- lots of blood work- yet always they found me to be pretty healthy. In fact, one of these guys dismissed the g-bladder idea out of hand. His exact words? “Nah. No way is it your gall bladder.”

It was during these first doctor visits though, that Dr. Claydon discovered I had hypertension, a fatty liver, elevated cholesterol and extremely elevated triglycerides. I was only 48, but left untreated I was a ticking time bomb for a major coronary. Knowing what I know now, had I not become aware of these issues, unrelated to why I went to the doc in the first place, I might be here today.

 

I was quickly started on medication, and within a year my cholesterol, triglycerides, and blood pressure levels were all at or below the norms of a healthy adult, and my liver was completely clear and free of fat. So guys, there’s a lesson there- after 40, go see the doctor. You don’t know what’s going on inside your body sometimes until it’s too late. For me, I got there on time. 

 

But the pain and illness persisted. Even after multiple visits to my GP and other tummy docs, there was no change: no firm diagnosis and little permanent relief from my stomach woes. So Doctor Claydon sent me to another medical expert. This one did lots of poking and blood work, too- and an even more invasive test, called an endoscopy. They stick a lighted tube down my throat to study the upper GI from the inside. That was pleasant- not- fortunately they knock you out first. And when I woke up, they sent me home and told me I was fine. Well, mostly anyway.

 

While the endoscopy did reveal some inflammation of the stomach lining, a little gastric reflux and some other odds and ends, none of the discoveries were terribly serious and all of it could be treated with medication and a change in life style. Added to my high blood pressure and bad cholesterol readings (which would soon start showing improvement), I was otherwise good to go. Which was certainly good news; except I seldom still felt very good.

 

Yeah, I did the medicine they prescribed and altered my diet and did all the other things they recommended. But the discomfort, nausea and general yuckiness was always only one disagreeable meal away, and by the spring of 2005 it was almost more than I could stomach.

As the weather warmed, I began losing my energy, then my appetite and then my weight. By June, I was sick almost every day and during endless nights when I couldn't sleep, sat alone in the living room, crying out to God and nearly crying for real. In the darkness of the night, feeling awful and with no light at the end of the tunnel, I convinced myself I had cancer and was surely going to die; and hopefully soon. I prayed for the pain to go away; pacing and praying, then curling up in a ball on the floor and praying some more until I'd finally go to sleep, if only for a little while. And though I still felt crappy when I woke up, I took some comfort knowing I’d made it through to another morning.

 

In July, with no relief or improvement in sight, Doc Claydon sent me to one more specialist, this one a surgeon. A surgeon? Geez Louise, I really am gonna die, I thought while sitting in his waiting room one really hot sticky morning. But where Dr. Claydon had nearly run out of ideas, and the specialists basically dismissed what I was going through as basic run-of-the-mill, middle age GI issues, the surgeon took me and my symptoms much more serious.

Dr. Moaldonado ran a CT Scan on my abdomen, which showed nothing wrong except for a dying gall bladder. The next day, I had to go through another MRI, called a HIDA Scan which, after another 45 minutes in or under a machine where I couldn’t move, corroborated that the organ was functioning at around 13 percent and falling. Normal function for a healthy gall bladder is anything above 35 percent so it was no wonder I was sick.

But not as sick as realizing this was the preliminary diagnosis Dr. Claydon had reached in 2003!!

Five days later, on August 2, 2005, my nearly dead gall bladder and I parted ways. Dr. Maldonado said it popped out like a cork I groggily heard him say- maybe to me, maybe to Amy, as I slowly drifted back into consciousness in the recovery room. But the two year ordeal was finally over, though I wished confirming the diagnosis had gone as quickly as the surgery. I went to the hospital that day around noon, the surgery was at one and I was home recuperating in our living room by 5:00 the same afternoon.

That was the second time I had surgery. The first time I was ten and had my tonsils out. But the solution to what ails me here in August 2011 won't be as simple as a childhood tonsillectomy or laproscopic gall bladder surgery 6 summers ago.

"You have diabetes", Dr. Claydon informed me, matter-of-factly and looking at me over his laptop from across the room. The laptop held all the numbers from my latest blood work. “But your cholesterol numbers are darn near perfect", he added, after running through the laundry list of levels that weren’t all that great. So it wasn't the worst news I could've heard at the doctor's office. I wasn’t going to die. It wasn't the best news either. A diabetes diagnosis never is. I’ve got two close examples of what diabetes does to people, living and dead, and why it's a disease to avoid.

Mom developed diabetes around 40. She took pills and had to give herself insulin shots every day, yet made little effort to change her lifestyle; eating things she shouldn’t and not getting a lot of exercise. Although she managed to live with Type 2 Diabetes for another thirty five years, in spite of not always managing it as she should’ve been, I believe the quality of her life was appreciatively diminished and, I know it significantly contributed to her death. Meanwhile, my father-in-law has lived with diabetes since his mid-20’s. He’s still kicking, but has lost an eye, his circulation is poor and he's this close from having to go on kidney dialysis.  Life is a challenge for him and he’s only in his late 60’s

I’m considerably younger and know I don’t want to go through what he’s had to endure, or what my mother had to live through, for however many years I have left. Of course, I never thought I’d have to. Somehow, I thought I was always in better shape, took better care of myself and, though tits an inherited disease, thought I could simply outlast. But running from it all my life, apparently, diabetes has finally caught up with me.

But it’s not all bad news. The blood test they used on me, which has a name longer than a giraffe's neck and averages the blood sugar level for the previous four months, was at 129. The baseline for being diabetic is 120. So I'm only a few ticks above the line. And the treatment is a lot simpler too. No shots; just medication and watching what I eat, especially my sugar intake. I'm not on insulin, but the pill I'm taking, Metformin, suppresses my metabolism and digestive system and leaves me sometimes feeling quite sluggish and unwell. I don't like it. I have no choice though but to keep taking it- at least for now.

I'm also living on between 1000 and 1500 calories a day.  I'm not a big person and have never been a big eater, but didn't know just how much beyond that I was eating till Amy and I started aiming for that number by writing down everything I take in and counting the calories.  We found out, it doesn’t take much to exceed it.

At work, I used to like having a Coke or Snickers Bar in the afternoon, as an energy boost, and then maybe a cookie or a handful of crackers in the evening for desert. Well, that's about 4-500 extra empty calories, I didn’t need and had to be crossed off the list starting on the first day. And going out to eat? Don't even ask. Not on purpose, but I was not really aware that I could consume almost an entire days’ allotment of calories on one entree. So, when we go out, I've had to seek out the items with the smallest caloric count. And surprisingly, I've been able to find some that are even tasty and fill me up. Who knew?

But I still crave things; things I don't really even want. Last week at work, there was a plate full of chocolate chip cookies in our break room. Fresh baked by some unnamed co-worker, they were just sitting there, saying "We're really yummy, come have one". But I had to ignore them and walk away. Twice. The next day, somebody else brought in a cheesecake. I love cheesecake, but had to turn my back on that pretty looking pastry, too. Then yesterday there was an office bake sale going on, with cupcakes, cookies, muffins and pies all over the place. There was a treat at almost every turn, a treat I really wanted. It made me want to run from the building screaming. Instead, I was good and quietly stayed away.

I guess it’s true though; you never know what you've lost until you can't have it anymore.

However, I may only have to be this restrictive till the next blood draw. That happens in December and , as Dr. Claydon suggests, the number drops below 120 again- he says he thinks it will if I stick to all this stuff- then I can at least get off the medication. Good. I already have to take medication for my blood pressure and I’d be quite happy to someday be able to wean myself off those too. But in the meantime, not having to stay on this Metformin crud for too long would be a nice early bonus.

When Claydon and I had this chat earlier in the month, he also said it'd be helpful if I’d drop ten pounds or so. Nobody likes to hear that but, since starting this rather spartan diet two weeks ago Monday I'm more than two thirds there, down 7 whole L. B.’s.

But even if I do lose all ten pounds and even if I do get my blood sugar levels back down to acceptable levels, I can't eat like I'm still 25 anymore.  I simply can’t go back to living and eating as I did before. If I'm not careful, I know now that the weight and elevated blood sugar can come back quicker than a 3-day binge at McDonald's. So I really mean it. While I may again allow myself more than 1500 calories a day and the occasional treat, the calorie counting notes Amy and I are compiling will never be far from reach, whether at home or on the road. Food tracking is going to have to be my handy little post-it note and cheat sheet to keep me nutritionally accountable the rest of my life.

I'll admit, knowing the family history I was kind of scared when Dr. Claydon told me I have the diesase. But maybe scared in a good way, and blessed. Scared of knowing the devastating end game diabetes usually takes; and blessed to given a chance to stop it in its tracks before it does the ruinous things it did to my Mom and is doing to my father-in-law. I don't want that. I don't want any of it.

I hate writing about this stuff though; it reminds me so much that I'm starting to wear out. I hate having to come to grips with knowing my best days- health wise anyway- are probably behind me now. It reminds me of my not necessarily imminent, but approaching mortality. But I need to talk about it so it doesn't drive me nuts while my body adjusts to all these changes and my mind accepts life’s new realities. Fortunately, I don’t have to do any of this stuff alone either; I have Amy, my friends and especially my God to see me through this current chapter, and the future chapters I want to look forward to, beyond Diabetes101. 

So, if you’re a praying person, keep me in your prayers as I maneuver my way through this somewhat challenging time.  I'd really appreciate it.  Pray that God sees me though it successfully, pray the medication will stop making me sick, pray I can continue to get by on minimal daily calories without getting headaches...

And pray I quit dreaming about chocolate chip cookies and Snickers Bars!!!

Army and Baseball Brats

Though I may have been shortchanged in the brains and brawn department, I've never been at a loss for friends.  Making friends has always come easy, going all the way back to the old neighborhood. Glenn Vogel and his three brothers, the Woody kids, Nancy Haglund, Mary Tait, Scott and Rob Winter, Teddy Shea- these were the close connections of childhood, friendships forged within the 4-corner Citrus Heights comfort zone bounded by Bloom Way, Primrose Dive, Longwood Way and Kensington Drive.

 

Then there was Terry Lindsay, probably my first ever best friend. And I was his, confirmed during a lunchroom pinkie swear. We were in the second grade class at Skycrest School and, though placed on opposite sides of the room because of Mrs. Byrd’s seating chart, were instantly drawn to each other because we were both little runts, exactly the same size. So we instantly hit it off and, outside the classroom, spent recesses climbing and swinging on the monkey bars, playing tether ball and bugging the bigger kids.

 

Sometimes after school, Terry and I would play Army or one-on-one football in his backyard, two miles from Skycrest and typically innocuous and All-American boyhood diversions. But with the Lindsay house located on busy San Juan Avenue, I remain amazed to this day that my overprotective mother ever allowed me to engage in. It wasn’t so much the activities as the venue. Even then San Juan was a busy street and, though the crosswalk at Madison was controlled by a traffic light, Terry and I were 7 years old- easily prone to distractions, goofing off and taking the quickest route from point A to point B. We called it ‘dodge cars’. More specifically, a short cut. The authorities would probably refer to it as jay-walking. Oh well. The Mom’s never knew and he and I both lived to see the third grade.

 

The Lindsay's back yard stopped at an unfenced ledge that fell about 20 feet into a gully of weeds and high grass. And each time Terry or I took an imaginary bullet at the drop-off, just like a couple of pint-sized drama queens we’d always take an overplayed tumble down the slope. Oh ya got me. I’m deaadddd….The plunge was steep but the downward roll, tempered by the loose soil and thick grass was forgiving, which considerably softened the blow of getting killed. Although I never went home in clean clothes. But, oh, we were magnificent; the magnificent two. There were other times when Terry tagged along home with me. We didn't play Army at my house, though, because Mom didn't like us "shooting" at each other with our toy machine-guns. So our military maneuvers were done strictly at Terry's house.

Terry was also the first non-relative I’d ever spoken to on the telephone. Significant? Not now. But when you're 7 it is. I’d only talked to Mom or Grandma on the phone before and, only very briefly, and thought it was absolutely the coolest thing yakking with my friend from school for hours instead –or at least 15 minutes- sitting in his living room several miles away as I was sitting in ours. But it wasn’t so cool when Terry told me- also on the phone- that he was moving away. It was during the summer between second and third grade when the Lindsay’s moved away and I was down one best friend. However that was also around the time our family became acquainted with the Thome's while attending Celtic Cross Church, and I started paling around with middle son, Paul. Soon, I didn’t miss Terry as much.

 

Paul's also important because his house was my first sleep over house, the first friend I spent the night with. At that time their house was on Coyle Avenue in Carmichael, which seemed like a trillion miles from ours. Paul had stayed over at our house a couple times, but I’d yet to spend the night at his place. As much as I liked hanging around with him, the thought of sleeping away from home frightened me. I’d managed to slip out of it once but the second time Paul asked, Mrs. Thome insisted and Mom wouldn't let me beg off. So, the date was set and confirmed; the following Friday night, August 2, 1963.

 

I remember the date because it was my brother’s birthday weekend and he, or Mom and Dad- or maybe all three of them- wanted me out of the house. Regardless, unless I got pukey sick, I was goin’! But when Friday came around the fear still hadn’t dissipated, and on the drive over was so scared I thought I was going to puke. I begged Mom to take me home, but she wouldn’t listen. She did promise a spanking and grounding if I didn’t stop my belly-aching. When we got to the Thome’s- about a 15 minute drive-Paul invited me in, made me feel welcome and took me around the house and backyard, while his Mom and my Mom chit-chatted in the kitchen. In retrospect, I think this was a diversionary plan they’d all concocted because while Paul and I were in the backyard tossing a baseball, that’s when Mon left. I heard her drive away. I wanted to chase after her but didn't want Paul to think I wasn't brave. So, counter-intuitively I stayed where I was and kept playing catch.

 

When we went inside, my little knapsack of belongings, Mr.Thome had been taken from the kitchen and placed in Paul’s room. That’s when it hit me that Mom wasn’t coming back and I was there for the duration. I don’t know if I wanted to cry, but I leaned into a door jamb feeling abandoned and out of place. But Mrs.Thome offered me some cookies and a glass of milk and told me she was glad I was there and that I was going to have a good time. And guess what? She was right. After dinner and a whiffle ball game, we slept in sleeping bags in Paul’s backyard looking straight up at the stars in the summer night sky and exchanging fanciful stories about our future exploits when we both got to the Big Leagues until I dropped off to sleep. When Mon came and got me the next morning shortly after breakfast,  I didn't want to go and wondered why she’d come so early.

From then on, though, even after they moved to a bigger house in Fair Oaks, Paul and I swapped turns spending Friday night’s at each other’s houses. Friday was always The Man from U.N.C.L.E. night on NBC, Channel 3. UNCLE was an acronym for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement and, after baseball, was our next-favorite pastime.  If we weren’t watching UNCLE we were playing it.  Tall and dark haired Paul was  Napoleon Solo (Robert Vaughn, the tall and dark haired agent); shorter and blond, I always played Ilya Kuriakyn (David McCallum, the shorter, sandy haired agent). Fighting the evil-doers from arch nemesis T.H.R.U.S.H (the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity), with our official replica Man from Uncle weapons and devices, Paul and I- er, agents Solo and Kuriakyn- spent many a weekend hour taking orders from Mr. Waverly back at headquarters and saving the world. It was great fun.

 

But baseball was the real draw. Whenever we got together, Paul and I could spend literally the entire time either talking baseball, trading baseball cards or catching any baseball game we could find on TV. We were baseball buddies. Our families organized outings to Giants games at Candlestick Park and when we weren’t watching the big boys from the National League play, we were playing in our own “little National" league, consisting of two teams, his and mine. But though we lived in California, neither one of us chose to emulate the Giants or the Dodgers. He was the Cardinals and I was the Cubs.

 

My abode was “Wrigley Field”, because if you used your imagination (and, as kids, that's what we did best) the shrubs around the house bore a very un-reasonable facsimile to ivy, just like the covered outfield of the real Wrigley. The short “porch” over the garage in ‘left field’ kind of mimicked the short dimensions of the real Friendly Confines. And our lights weren’t situated at all to play night games, so just like all the games at Wrigley Field in Chicago (back then anyway) all my home games were day games. Paul’s house, of course, was “Busch Stadium” renamed that way whenever I was a guest, anyway. Like the St. Louis Busch, the Thome’s backyard was bigger and harder to hit a home out of, and they did have great outdoor lighting. So we played night games there, which was a nice break from a steamy July or August afternoon game at my house.

 

At both places, we laid out a standard diamond and used a piece of plywood to act as the backstop/umpire. If a pitch hit the backstop, it was a strike. If it missed, it was a ball. The "field" at my house was fairly unencumbered, but at Paul’s we had to dodge all of their olive trees that played havoc with almost any hit ball. Needless to say, there were a lot of ground rule singles and doubles at the Thome’s “Busch” compared to my “Wrigley”. But we played the same way at both yards, a whiffle ball and a plastic bat, one pitcher and one hitter. There were no live fielders only imaginary ones. To record an out, you had to hit the batter with the ball before he got to a base which, when using a whiffle ball, is much easier said than done. But somehow it all worked. At least we made it work and with Paul’s never ending running play-by-play (Gibson into the windup and here's the pitch…. Banks hits a shot to deep left….Flood's at the track, at the wall, he looks up... and it’s gone! A home run!!), these games were some of the best parts of summer vacation.

We kept score and stats, too, but most of the games ended up a Cardinal victory for Paul. He was a head taller and older by two years, yet never treated me as the annoying little brother who wouldn't go away. We were equals. He also played organized ball so he was by far the better baseball player. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have won half the times I did, though in some cases, especially if the game was a blowout, I think- no, I know- Paul made a bunch of ridiculous errors to keep the humiliation level down and the game closer. But that's just the way Paul was; in fact it seems he always seemed to be looking out for me. Case in point-

I'd heard on one of the Giants broadcasts that, during an upcoming off day in their schedule, Tom Haller and Hal Lanier were appearing at Leighton Little John Field to conduct a baseball clinic for all Little Leaguers. And I sooo wanted to go. Not because I was a Giants fan (wasn't then, aren't now) but to meet two real ballplayers. However, I wasn't in Little League at the time and technically ineligible to attend, which definitely created a problem. But Paul was. He signed me up, probably as his little brother or something, and got me in. The whole morning was a whirlwind, but I was on the same field with Tom Haller and Hal Lanier of the San Francisco Giants! It was like they'd popped out of their baseball cards and into three-dimensional real life, standing in front of us and actually talking, not just to the crowd of 9-13 year olds, but to me!

 

I even got to take a ground ball- which I missed- but got to be one of several kids used as an example of how NOT to play the infield. Hal Lanier patiently re-positioned me but I was still too much in awe to concentrate, and didn't catch the next one cleanly either. However I did keep it on front of me, which was Lanier's main point. Of course, when the even ended 90 minutes later, I was the same crappy 10-year old ballplayer as when we’d arrived. And it was years before I’d play a half decent shortstop. But I’d had a day most little kids only dream of. I rubbed shoulders with two Major Leaguers; and none of it would’ve happened if not for Paul Thome. He was truly a great friend.

 

However childhood doesn’t last and boyhood best friends are often that for only a season. I never saw Terry Lindsay again after second grade. I have no idea what happened to him. And while Paul and I kept up on each other until our 20's, I've only seen him once in the last 25 years. He's a pastor now, and when I heard that he was, it wasn’t a major surprise. When we played ball, he didn’t swear or act up like I did when things weren’t going well. Off the field, he always seemed like a good kid, too. More importantly, Paul was just a good person; he always had a heart for other people, like me, and a sincere heart for Jesus. I saw it all the time.. So I’m sure he made the right career choice.

But I remember Paul and Terry with affection and always will. True, our days in the sun together were long ago and our interactions next to nil since. And though I can't really call them friends now, I remain grateful for the times when I could.

To The Moon, Alice

Though I first earned my nickname playing hockey, with a handle like "Rocket" it wouldn't be wrong to assume I've had more than just a passing interest in space travel. From the Mercury and Apollo programs, from Captain Kirk to Luke Skywalker, going where no man has gone before has always fascinated me. What’s even more fascinating, to me anyway, is that it’s all happened on ‘my watch’. From John Glenn’s first 15 minutes in orbit to Space Shuttle Endeavor’s glide to its final landing last month, I’ve been alive to see it all. Including the big kahuna of all space exploration, the day we landed a man on the moon.

 

I remember July 20, 1969 as a baking hot Sunday in Sacramento and there we had a bunch of people over that afternoon; Grandma and Grandpa Mason, friends from church, the Petefish’s, and Bill and Norma Stamper, Mom and Dad's chums from So Cal. But when the time got close for the landing, everybody stopped what they were doing and held their breath. There wasn’t much to see, it was mostly the radio back and forth between Mission Control and the astronauts. Nevertheless, it was riveting TV as the lunar lander made its slow, gentle decent to the surface of the moon with the world anxiously waiting to hear whether or not, “The Eagle has landed”. Which, of course it did. But that was only the first part of Apollo 11’s mission. The other half of the historic day wouldn’t happen for 6 more hours.

 

So for those of us in the under-18 bracket, the wait time was filled outside swimming or playing games. The grown-ups stayed in the air-conditioned indoors playing cards, snacking and yakking. When the dinner hour arrived and the astronauts remained parked on the moon and going no place fast, the barbeque was fired up, table set and hot dogs and hamburgers for dinner were served. Followed by and ice cream sundaes for dessert. After much eating, yakking and clearing of dishes, at last the big event was about to happen.

 

Shoehorned again into the living room, everyone remained glued to the grainy images coming from CBS Television and hanging on Walter Cronkite's every syllable as Neil Armstrong made his shadowy decent from “The Eagle”. When Armstrong’s shoe at last made contact with moon dust, it was 7:56 in the evening, Pacific Time, and audible cheering broke out in the room. So much so I almost missed hearing him say, “One small step for man....One giant leap for mankind.” Fortunately, they played it again- and again- on replay. And then I went swimming again.

But I wasn’t even 7 when John Glenn made the first space flight and have no living memory of that event. Only what I’ve seen in old newsreels and documentaries. But 19 years later I was on the air and working the graveyard shift at KGA in Spokane when STS-1 Columbia began its historic maiden voyage. KGA was a music station, but the event was so significant (nobody was even 100 per cent sure the thing would fly) management elected to carry the       lift-off live. It must've been a last minute decision though, because I didn't get the word till after clocking in that night.

 

There was a note in my box from Tom Newman,  the p.d., telling me to cut away from regular programming at exactly 3:40 a.m. to join the ABC Radio Network for their launch coverage. His instructions were to stay with it “until it’s either safely away or they're fishing pieces of it out of the Atlantic." Fortunately that didn’t happen and at straight up 4:00 Pacific Time on Sunday morning April 12, 1981, Columbia successfully lifted off from Cape Kennedy, as it was called back then. I got chills watching it on the TV from the news booth as it made its first ascent to the heavens. It was awesome. Ten minutes later the ABC guys signed off, and on KGA, I went back to playing Marty Robbins.

 

But in addition to all our space successes, I’ve seen the failures, too, including Columbia’s last flight which ended on February 1, 2003. Not a jock on the radio anymore, all I could do that Saturday morning was watch TV at home and wait along with the rest of the world for word on what happened after NASA lost radio contact as the Shuttle prepared to land. However, I think most people had already assumed the worst, even before Mission Control confirmed that Columbia had broken up over Texas during Earth re-entry. There were no survivors.

 

Back in 1967, though, three Apollo astronauts died just sitting on the launch pad, strapped into their capsule and running routine tests, incinerated in seconds during an oxygen-fed flash fire. I was almost 12 then and in 6^th grade. Fast forward to January 28, 1986. By then I was 30 and working in Grass Valley at KNCO when the space program experienced its first failure since 1967, the explosion of Space Shuttle Challenger. 

By the mid 1980's, space flight, and the Shuttle program in general, had become so routine that hardly anyone paid attention anymore. Not like in the beginning. Certainly none of the major news networks bothered to cover launches and landings live anymore. But the January 1986 flight was the first space mission where a private citizen would be riding along, teacher Christa McAuliffe. So this lift-off was different. Everybody was there that Tuesday morning, as Christa and the Challenger roared into space. From NBC to CNN to little ‘ol KNCO. We were all along for the ride. And it all looked so good until a minute and a half into the flight. As Challenger climbed into the blue Florida sky, we all heard Commander Dick Scobee answer the order from Mission Control in Houston to, "Go at throttle up. And then it was over.

 

A split second later the orbiter exploded and disintegrated. As pieces free-fell into the Atlantic, the nation was plunged into instant grief. It was horrific. It was awful. And you couldn’t turn away. But at KNCO, after two and a half hours of continuous coverage from the ABC Radio Network, we decided to break away. Not to be disrespectful but it’d been a hard morning and there really wasn’t anymore ‘news’. So at 11:00, we returned to regular programming. But it wasn’t easy. I was the personality on duty at that hour of the day, however with a National tragedy in Florida unfolding before everybody's eyes on television and within the sound of KNCO's voice, had it been up to me I’d have taken the rest of the day off. I just didn’t feel like being on the air. It seemed a little sacrilegious to start playing music and running commercials as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. To me, it’d be like selling used cars during somebody's funeral.

But for one of the few times in my radio career, I think I actually may have done something right. After the news ended at 11:05, instead of reading the weather I began the hour by asking everyone to stop what they were doing- except if driving in their cars- to close their eyes, bow their heads and say a prayer- for the loss of the Challenger and its crew, their families and for the nation. On the radio, I asked for a moment of silence.

 

Of course it's considered radio death to have even accidental dead air. But in this case, it seemed poignant and the right thing to do on a surreal morning weighted down in coast to coast sorrow. Besides, I don’t think it lasted more than 20 seconds and then it dissolved straight into “Amazing Grace”. Was it small town and a little goofy? Maybe. But I got a lot of nice feedback from callers, thanking us, thanking me, for the short tribute. I guess it really was the right thing to do. And after that, though we followed the story the rest of the day, KNCO returned to its regular format and proceed as best we could. It was a hard air shift and a hard day, but life had to go on- at least on the radio.

That was over twenty five years ago, though it seems like only yesterday. The time between the first moonwalk and last Shuttle flight seemed to go by in the blink of an eye, too. I was thinking about that the other night, while gazing at the full August moon. How my life has pretty much spanned the entire Space Age. And as I stood alone the other night, pondering this grand revelation under a moon so big it filled the vast summer night sky, I suddenly felt tiny and trivial and wondered what it all meant?  And you know what I came up with? You know what it means?

 

It means I'm getting old.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I don't do summer vacations much anymore.

Oh, I'll take the odd day off here and there, or a long weekend; anything bigger than that usually lingers indefinitely on the back burner, mostly because of time or financial constraints. But last weekend, with the summer hour glass more than half empty I caught myself almost wishing to be on a long excursion again; daydreaming about the trips of childhood, when summer vacation was a three month state of being. Thinking back on the enjoyable forays to Disneyland and camp-outs with Grandpa Mason, I flashed back to the vacations I looked forward to the most as a kid, the ones spent with the Hazzard's at Payette Lake, near McCall, Idaho.

Mom and Dad and Mr. and Mrs.Hazzard had all first met during their Southern California church youth group days. Twenty years later, they remained friends. And even after our family moved to Sacramento in the early 60’s, and a few years later the Hazzard's moved to Boise, the connection between the grown-ups and their kids remained strong.

Tom and Barbara Hazzard's second home was a big, beautiful 2-story cabin only steps away from the lake, and every year our family had a standing invitation to drop in. And for seven straight July's, from the summer I was 7 till after turning 13, that’s what we did; we’d cram into the family wagon for the long trip north.  And the trip itself sucked. Back before the SUV, sharing the too crowded back seat with my brother and sister for the 9-hour drive was a major pain. Before thirty miles had ticked off we already hated each other. But the suffering and bickering was worth it because of all the fun waiting when, at last, we "were there yet." 

With so much cool outdoor stuff to do, Payette Lake was kind of a boy’s paradise. And I got to do all that stuff with my best summer friend, "Tiger". His given name was Tim Hazzard, but everybody called him "Tiger and I never knew him as anything else. Tiger and I never saw each other either, except for that one week in the middle of summer. But every time we got together it was like we'd said good bye only the day before. And once the family car was stopped and parked at the cabin, Tiger and I’d be off and running. But we did have to go to sleep at some point, and on one of those balmy Payette evenings during one of the family Payette excursions, I had a little accident. And no, it wasn't that kind of accident.

 

Tiger and I, along with a couple of his brothers and a cousin or two, all shared a room with triple-decker bunk beds. Oh, they were so cool, and I so wanted to sleep on the top bunk. I was never allowed to, though, because the grown-ups said I was too small or might fall out. So I always had to sleep in the bottom bunk. Bleh! But one night Tiger convinced his brother Donny to change places and let me sleep in his bunk on top. I felt like I was king of the world. But the first and only time I was given that honor, I fell out in the middle of the night. The crashing thud on the hardwood floor woke the whole house. And apparently, I was also screaming like I’d been shot, or so I've been told. I call b.s. though, because I don’t remember that happening at all (although I do recall waking up a bit confused in a bottom bunk the next morning). After that though, Dad and Mr. Hazzard- and the bigger boys- all made sure I never got the top bunk ever again.

 

It wasn’t that big deal though; the bunks were just a stopping off place before more outdoor adventures once the sun came up. Tiger and I spent practically every daylight hour hiking the woods, swimming or rowing out onto the lake to spy on the people hanging out on other beach-fronts nearby. We fished a lot too. And catching one, usually a trout, was pure magic; although getting to clean and scrape out its innards later on was not. I did it, though, because I couldn’t eat it otherwise. But I didn't like it

 

Dumping the late creatures’ internal organs into the lake, the smell was nauseating. I could barely keep from puking and wondered if I really wanted trout for dinner after all. I’d have to wipe from memory what it looked and felt like only few hours before- dead and unmoving as my knife carved and scooped out all its vital organs and other odds and ends that make a fish work. Eww. But after Mrs. Hazzard fried it up, the once disgusting catch looked and smelled a lot better. And by then, I’d be real hungry, too. However, after those summers, I never ate fish again.

More to my liking were the trips in Mr. Hazzard's speed boat. Every morning, he made a crossing to pick up the mail or run an errand and if we'd finished breakfast by then, Tiger and I were invited to tag along. And once out of sight of the dock and the Mom's, he let us take turns steering!!  Wow! Before discovering girls, there may not have been anything on Earth as decidedly awesome as bouncing and skimming across Payette Lake, the wind whipping through my hair while going about a hundred miles an hour in Tom Hazzard’s circa 1955 Chris-Craft varnished mahogany Runabout. Although with Tiger or I behind the wheel, I'm pretty sure Mr. Hazzard didn't let the boat's speedometer clip past 15 or 20 mph. But it felt about 100 miles an hour. Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

 

Once in town and with a thirty minute time limit, Tiger and I walked- or ran- two blocks to The Merc, the big all purpose, full service grocery store on McCall's main drag. That's where he introduced me to Mountain Dew.
Mountain Dew wasn't yet available in California. So my young palate had only been exposed to the pleasing, though common tastes of Coke, 7-Up or Pepsi. Or the occasional random Orange Crush or Frostie Root Beer. And while these soda strains were all okay, I had no idea what I'd been missing. The first time I ever sampled a Mountain Dew in the parking lot of The Merc, I swear it was the most heavenly liquid ever splashed down my gullet. The cool green, bubbly, citrus fluid was about the most refreshing stuff I’d ever tasted. It was like swallowing nectar of the gods.

After that, Mountain Dew became the number one thirst quencher anytime Tiger and I needed a cold pop, either after the boat rides into town or during hot afternoons of exploring. And I looked forward to having another bottle or two each July after that, until Mountain Dew finally came to the Golden State. It's kind of funny, though; once I could get it anytime, it didn’t taste nearly as special. Anyway, on the rare exception when I treat myself to a pop-top can of the stuff now, it always reminds me of those golden summer afternoons with Tiger at McCall, Idaho. 

 

And though it probably sounds childish and simple now, for me those carefree days at Payette Lake were some of the most idyllic ones ever. With parental oversights loosened, there were no set plans, time tables or places you had to be. It was just 5 or 6 days of fun with Tiger and his brothers and sisters on the shore, or in the chilly waters of the lake; swimming, sipping Mountain Dews and catching fish under the expansive Idaho summer sky.

 

But eventually, everybody grows up and wants to do different things and we didn’t drive up to Idaho anymore. Last time we were all there as kids was 1968. And in all the years since, I haven’t really heard much about the Hazzard's, either, except of Mr. Hazzard’s passing in 2005. The last time I saw Tiger was the summer we were both 21. He and his folks were passing through Sacramento on their way to or from someplace else. Like me, Tiger (Tim by then) was in college. He was studying engineering, but wanted to work for the Forest Service. And it was cool to see him, too. But the spark and excitement of getting together when we were younger wasn't there anymore. It was kind of sad. We'd out-grown each other. And with little in common anymore, after a three hour visit I wasn't as sad as I should've been when he had to leave.

Last week was hectic and kind of crummy, so I guess it was good for me, on a slowed-down Saturday, to close my eyes, let my mind escape and take a mini-vacation. It was kind of nice, for a few minutes anyway, to magically slip back and get lost in that place and time again; when Tiger and I were best friends and knew we always would be. Now that life runs so fast and complex, and I can never be 10 years old again, something as simple as fishing with a buddy at an otherwise out of the way lake, at an unremarkable place, during a long ago summer sounds like it'd hit the spot. Just like that very first frosty Mountain Dew.

Or maybe I just need to plan a real vacation, and take a real break from the craziness. And then really go do it.