The Bottle Cap Story

Do kids still collect stuff these days?

When I was little kids squirreled away all sorts of odds and ends like baseball cards, stamps, Matchbox cars, rocks, and marbles. But I wonder what valuable commodities today’s kids might be amassing for trade and amusement: Happy Meal toys? Action figures? Apps for their smart phones?  Sadly, either I’m really out of touch or times have really changed - probably a little of both- because I really don't know the answer.

But if the question had been asked of me- and I was still a kid- I'd have trotted out my own bedazzling collection of bottle caps.

Yes, bottle caps. Not the twist off things that come on today’s plastic soda bottles. I'm talking about the little metal crowns at the top of a glass beverage bottle. The kind you needed a bottle opener to slip over and pop off.

I wonder how often that little utensil gets used anymore, too. If at all.

Anyway, bottle caps- real bottle caps- with cork inside and the brand logo on the top were for me, at nine years old anyway, the 'it' items to amass and stockpile.

As a hobby, collecting bottle caps came pretty cheap. Twenty five cents for sodas I bought at the 7-11 or out of a vending machine; nothing if the cap came off a pop bottle Mom and Dad paid for. But the challenge was finding as many different caps to add to my accumulation.

The rest of my collection was gathered in public parks, along busy roadsides and wandering through vacant lots. These places were like magnets for discarded bottle caps. Garbage cans were a good place to look, too, if you didn't mind getting your hands dirty.

My little sister even helped. When playing or walking in an area where a bevy of cast-off bottle tops might be lying in wait- like a park or open field- if Sue spotted one on the little treasures on the ground, she'd pick it up and ask "Do you have this one?" She uncovered several pearls for me, including the cap from an “Upper 10”, a 7-up like drink that I’d been trying for months to get my hands on.

It was easy getting the biggies, like Coke, 7-Up, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper; they were a dime a dozen. I had all the root beers, too- Dad's, Frostie, Mug and Hires. After that came a cornucopia of caps from other brand name sodas like Bubble Up, Diet Rite Cola, Orange Crush, Grape Crush, Fresca, all the Nehi flavors, Tab, Squirt, Royal Crown Cola, Canada Dry Ginger Ale and White Rock Creme Soda.

But what made the compilation special and worthy was finding rare gems- like the Upper 10- or Schweppes's Bitter Lemon, Vernor's Ginger Ale or Sun Crest Imitation Grape Soda cap. I picked that one up in Land Park, though I'm not sure Sun Crest was even sold anywhere near California. But now I had one of their bottle caps, and it enhanced my standing as a true bottle cap connoisseur. It was like coming across a clearie marble.

However, what made my assortment superior were all the bottle caps that’d come from beer bottles. These were the cream of the crop because, in our house, they were much harder- if not impossible- to come by. Mom and Dad didn't drink beer or associate with anybody who did, at least as far as I knew. So it was really a labor of love (or luck) to scrounge up cap off of bottle of Budweiser.

But somehow I did. I also had bottle caps from such fine brews as Olympia, Hamms, Coors, Lucky Lager, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller, Falstaff, Burgermeister, Schlitz, Busch Bavarian and Carling Black Label. Though these lagers and pilsners were all fairly common and regionally distributed, I had to work really hard to acquire their lids. I wasn't hanging around bars at that age, and bottles from these brands of refreshment would not be found in any of our trash cans. So these were always good scores.

But in addition to picking off the widespread beer brands circulating in the West, I was also able to harvest a few bottle cap nuggets from East Coast brews. These caps came courtesy of friends with relatives on that side of the country. Sometimes I secured them out of generosity, other times it was a business transaction.

When Buzzy Whitnall took a trip to see an aunt and uncle in Philadelphia, he returned with a Schaffer and a Blatz. Buzzy was a pal. He didn’t ask for anything in return. But obtaining a Ballentine, and a cap off a beer made at Iroquois Brewery in Buffalo cost me a nickel each. Richard Arthur brought them back for me after a family reunion in New York. But he wouldn’t hand them over till I paid him. Richard was a little more mercenary than Buzzy and some of my other friends.

The complete bottle cap collection was stored in a Dutch Masters Cigar box. I got the carton from my friend Glenn Vogel, although I have no idea where he got it because his old man didn’t smoke cigars. And Lord knows cigars weren't allowed in our house either. Nevertheless, I was happy to have it because the cigar box held all my caps with room to spare. Plus it featured a nice easy flip top to open and examine them. Or show them off…

…which I did one summer evening when Reverend Nelson and his wife were over at our house for dinner. We hadn't been attending his church all that long, and I assume the schmoozing was for the good Reverend to become better acquainted with our family, and he with us.  

When dinner was finished, and before I’d been excused, Reverend Nelson asked if I had any hobbies. Up until then, I'm not sure any church official had ever asked me anything of such a non-Biblical nature. This was cool and I though a moment before answering, wanting to impress the man with a worthy response. "Sure. Wait here”.

Desert hadn’t been served yet- so I knew he wasn’t going anyplace- but made a beeline for my bedroom anyway, just in case he didn't want any of Mom's brownies. "Hey, hey, hey, no running in the house" Dad commanded at my back and, like a dog I pulled up short on a leash, I immediately slowed to a brisk walk down the hall.

In my room, from under the bed I pulled out the bottle caps box and hurried back to the kitchen, although at much more controlled pace. Then I proudly handed it over, opening the  box up so Reverend Nelson could inspect my cache. "Go ahead. Take some out and look at 'em if you want." Like sifting through somebody's lost fortune, his fingers caressed several bottle caps before choosing a pair. He pulled them out and studiously appraised them, as if they were pieces of silver. "Very nice. It looks like you've got quite a collection going. Where did you find them all?"

I though he was genuinely curious, though I'm sure he was just being polite. Didn't matter because when Mom was done slicing up the brownies and finally noticed what I'd brought to the kitchen table, she became immediately mortified. There, in front of God and everybody, her little boy was showing the pastor of our church, a bunch of bottle caps. Filthy, disgusting bottle caps, gathered from who-knows-where. And not just Coke or 7-Up bottle caps; but a whole mess of BEER bottle caps, too. And all displayed in a Dutch Masters cigar box.

Oh, the humanity.

Practically shrieking my name, like she'd discovered a dead body in a closet, Mom issued a command. "Put that box away! Reverend Nelson doesn't want to see your dirty old bottle caps. Take them out of here and back to your room. Now."

I’m sure Mom was probably worried what the Rev might think. She worried what everybody thought. But if Reverend Nelson got the idea that either Dad, or she, (or both) had been the consumers of all the beer that produced all those-bottle tops, Mom would be unable to ever show her face- or her families faces- in his church.  But if he thought they were the hosts of many a wild party- and cigar smokers to boot- he’d think our house was the source of everything evil in the Sacramento suburbs and we’d have to leave town.

I’m sure that was running though Mom’s mind. But not Reverend Nelson’s

My parents? Wild partiers? Puh-leese. The idea couldn't have been any farther from the truth than Sacramento is from Shanghai; a theory grounded in as much reality as the Roller Derby. Besides, as as a man of cloth, the Reverend probably didn't dabble in petty snap-judgements- particularly new parishioners. Instead, he was kind and gracious. He chuckled at Mom's over-reaction and told me I had an “A plus” bottle cap collection and to keep it up.

I still wanted to cry, though, because I'd just been bawled out in front of company. So I took my little box of treasures and slinked back to my room. I didn't even get a stinkin' brownie, and didn't make another appearance till told to, and that was only for the sake of ‘being polite’ and say good night. The next day, Mom asked for the cigar box. "Your collecting days are over. Give me the box."

And after sending me out to play, she deposited it in the garbage can. But I got even. Unknown to her, I reclaimed the box and most of the contents, and added to it until I traded them all to Teddy Shea for his entire baseball card collection. It was a pretty shrewd deal, too, because 15 years I was short rent money and sold the cards for a hundred bucks to stay current with the landlord. See Mom? And you wanted me to throw all that stuff away.

Pretty sharp kid after all, right?  

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted, Part 2

The sight of her kissing him remained stuck in my brain. It also remained unbearable.

I drove and drove, for nearly two hours, from early evening twilight into Friday night darkness, from North Spokane to Stateline, Idaho. I drove with no direction or purpose until finally stopping at a pizza joint and tavern someplace in one of the South Hill neighborhoods.  It was a long way from the roller rink and a long way from Whitworth and that was fine. I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew. But no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t outrun the inescapable truth: I’d lost her for good.

It was May 6, 1977 and I couldn’t deceive myself any longer. My relationship with Kelly was officially and unalterably over. Dead, done, expired. Cause of death?  Irreconcilable differences- she was over me, had moved on and found someone else while I couldn’t stop being over her, didn’t want to move on and didn’t want anyone else. I guess that’s about as irreconcilable as it gets.  Damn.

Parked near the tavern’s entrance, I rubbed my eyes again before getting out of the car. It was Friday night and but the place was pretty dead. Having absolutely no desire to be around a lot of people, for me, that made it the place to be. I found a dark corner, ordered a pitcher of Old Milwaukee from the server and was left alone to drink it. (Okay, so it was a pony, but that was a lot of beer to me). I usually liked Old Mil, too, but that night it went down hard; kind of like the evening had so far. But broken dreams didn’t go down easy, either, I supposed.

Nobody bothered me, except the quite efficient server. Just doing her job, she’d swing by often to dutifully check on my progress. But I was taking my time, occasionally glancing at the TV hanging from a corner above the bar, thinking… hurting…. observing the few couples at other tables interacting with each other… thinking… aching…. gazing at the three old men at the bar loudly debating various issues of the day with themselves and the bartender…and thinking some more, passing the time slowly and polishing off the pony pitcher even slower.

The server/barmaid/whatever was always pleasant and always came with a smile. But it wasn’t a smile of warmth or friendliness, just the one offered for three bucks an hour plus tips before walking away.  I didn’t even notice if she was pretty or not.  However when I finally drained the first pitcher and she offered another, she didn’t have to ask twice  And after pony number two came, I maintained my silent vigil; observing the assorted clientele, sitting unmoved and drinking, as slowly as before.

By then I'd calmed down but after crying a bucket of hot tears earlier my eyes were still scalding red.  “Anything the matter, sugar?” the server/barmaid/whatever asked next time she was at my table. “Allergies”, I answered glumly, making only brief eye contact before focusing again on my half-empty glass. “Okay. Just let me know if you need anything else”, she replied then walked on.  What I needed was something I’d never have again. Love. So, alone again I returned to my friendless brooding.

One half of one of the three couples made their way to the jukebox and plunked in a quarter. The first selection that came on was something country.  Next was something I was familiar with but didn’t give a crap about. And then…Dammit!...“Miracles”… Dammit!.... the song that was playing on Kelly’s bedside radio the night we first….Dammit! I didn’t want to think about it. ”Miracles”…  Dammit!  Why now? Why tonight? 

In the absolute worst pain I’d ever known I was begging for a miracle. But not from Jefferson Starship.  Not now, not tonight. And at seven minutes and change in length, there was no way I was going to torture myself that long waiting for it to be over.  So with a hushed anguish in my heart, tears again in my eyes and that stupid song blaring from the jukebox speakers, I pushed aside the unfinished second pony, got up and left. Dammit!

The server/barmaid/whatever said good night from across the room and I gave her a silent nod on my way out. Remarkably it was 1:00 in the morning.  I had no idea I’d been there nearly 4 hours. Who knew you could nurse a pony and a half of beer that long?  But when it came to Kelly I never could keep track of time. Even post-Kelly.

When I left the tavern I knew I was intoxicated, though not to a degree I hadn’t experienced before.  But I was as emotionally drained as I think I'd ever been, physically exhausted and probably not in the most optimal condition to drive.  Didn’t stop me, though. However I proceeded slowly and with the window open which, if I’d had the presence of mind to contemplate it, didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Spent and devastated by then, I didn’t care if I lived or died anymore so it’d have been counter-intuitive to exercise any sort of caution.

Nevertheless I made it down the South Hill with no problem, and without a lot of other traffic. It seemed a little busier once I got into downtown Spokane, but when I turned north towards Whitworth and onto the Monroe Street Bridge, it was like mine was the only car still out that night. Kelly remained on my mind as I crossed, but the misery of my imagination was amplified by the Starship song still in my head and the beer swilling in my belly and I wondered what she might be doing at that exact moment. It was precisely what I didn’t need, thoughts of him enjoying the pleasures of her company. But I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it. And with visions of someone else’s happiness dancing in my head and still wasted enough to not be thinking completely clearly, I decided that was the absolutely perfect time to stop and look out over the river.

I pulled to the side and slowed the car to a stop just north of the first portal. Then I got out, walked over to the edge. The Washington Water Power building and Post Street Bridge were the most obvious landmarks in sight, with Riverfront Park tiered beyond. Spotlighted below, the loud rushing waters of the Spokane River bashed and crashed over the rocks and outcroppings that created the Lower Spokane Falls. The noise was thunderous. It was awesome.

Overhead, it was a beautiful night with lots of stars, and I leaned on the retainer wall and thought about Kelly again; about wishing on a shooting star with her. Wishing I could go back to that night. And then wishing I hadn’t seen her at the rink on this night. Wishing I’d never seen her kissing that guy. It’d killed me. It was still killing me. And knowing I'd now never get her back was killing me. So it dawned on me. If I couldn’t have her in my life anymore, why have a life at all? After all, I was on this elevated bridge running over a deep river gorge. I could just do a quick leap over the small barrier and that’d be it.

It’d be a very long drop into a swift moving river, cluttered with rocks and boulders. I’d be dead when I hit the water and bashed to bits when they found my body downstream. IF they found my body. But whether they did or didn’t, Spokane wasn’t a big town and Kelly at some point wouldn’t be able to escape hearing or reading about the broken, battered soul, who “authorities believe jumped to his death from the bridge”. And maybe then she’d finally feel bad and want me back. She might even cry some, too. That’d be fine by me. Though I wouldn’t be around anymore, it’d be nice to imagine her at last feeling something for me again.

I could actually picture the newspaper article. It’d start with a quote from the coroner:  Suicide brought on by the betrayal of the victim’s ex-girl friend.  Then from a police spokesman: “After interviewing survivors, investigators believe the young lady is now satisfied that the only guy who ever really loved her is permanently out of the picture, leaving her free to openly pursue the asshole who the broken-hearted, and now quite deceased young man spotted making out with at a local roller rink. Funeral services are pending as soon as divers can find the rest of the body.”

Yeah. That’s good. I couldn’t wait for her to read it. That’d fix her. I kept looking out at the great rush of water, pondering my plunge and oblivious to everything else. But then my late night daydream was suddenly cut short by a roll bar of blue lights and beam of a flashlight being pointed at me. ”Sir, is there a problem?” Huh..? I looked at the light but couldn’t see who was talking. I did see the cop car in the background, though. ”Is there a problem?” the officer asked again, continuing his approach. “No. No problem.”

“Then step away from the railing, please.”  He was still several yards away and if I was quick about it, could’ve just taken one quick step and a leap and I’d be over. It’d be over. And he’d never be able to stop me. Debating what to do next, I noticed cars slowing as they crossed the bridge, drivers and passengers in both directions no doubt wondering what was going on. Where’d they all come from? Still, there was time to jump. If I hurried and if I wanted to. “Please step towards me, NOW”.

It seemed we’d both been out there for hours but, this time, the officer’s request sounded much more like a command.  Moment of truth time. I had one last split second to think and react; fight or flight. But instead, I took an anti-climactic deep breath and complied with the man’s directive. He quickly closed the remaining distance between us, took my arm and led me to the curb next to the roadway. ”May I see some identification please?”  I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my wallet, removing the driver’s license and student ID and waited quietly as he looked them over.

”Hmmm..Whitworth College. I have a friend whose daughter goes there.” He was trying to be friendly, conversational but not wanting to leave me unattended with the tempting bridge rail so close he instructed me to accompany him to the patrol car. ”So why are you stopped on the bridge tonight?” he asked as we walked. ”We don’t generally allow that. You having car trouble?”

In spite of myself, I’d done a smart thing by driving with the windows open because the chilly night air had worked to clear my head and I was able to answer very clearly. “No sir. It's a pretty night and I just wanted a look at the river, and see how far below it is, ya know?” I held my ground pretty well, appearing reasonably un-tipsy. And he didn’t pull a breathalizer out on me either. He didn’t need to though. When I completed my thought, adding I’d just broken up with my girlfriend, he knew; he knew I’d hadn’t been consoling myself with soda pop.

I thought he’d offer a comment, but all he said was, “Would you mind getting into backseat, please?” Again, this wasn’t a genuine inquiry but an actual order and again, I complied. Although given a choice, my answer would’ve been, “Yes I mind.” Sitting in the backseat of the patrol car as he radioed in my license information, I asked if I was under arrest. He said, no, he just wanted me off the bridge.

By now it was after 2 a.m. The cars that earlier had slowed for the officer’s blue lights were long gone and Monroe Street looking north appeared deserted. As did the downtown area behind us; it was just me and the cop and I was starting to get nervous. But after the dispatcher confirmed that I wasn’t a fleeing felon, he asked sympathetically, “Been a rough night, huh?” I nodded, biting my lip to keep from crying.

”Look, tonight it may seem like your life has ended, has no meaning; that you’ll never love again and never get over this hurt. But Rich.. Can I call you that?” I nodded. “Rich, I’ve been in your spot and know it’s tough. But trust me on this, throwing yourself off a bridge is no way to get your girl back.”  He said it straight faced, but I think he was making a joke. I almost laughed, too, but realized I was still sad and still in the back of a cop car. There was little funny about that. But how’d he know what I was thinking and feeling? Was he being clairvoyant, or just a smart ass?

“For one thing, she’s not going to come down here and pick up the pieces. For another thing, she’s not worth it. Your life is going to go on, as is hers. But she’s the one that's going to have to get along without you. Have you thought about that? The loss is hers, not yours.” He was being nice, trying to make me feel better. But I knew better. The loss was mine and I was the one who was going to have to learn to get along without her. But with thoughts of suicide dashed- at least for this night-I was too tired to debate the issue and just wanted to go to bed. So I passively nodded in agreement.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to look the other way and not write you up for being a traffic hazard. But you’re not driving home. You're going to get in your car and very carefully drive off the bridge and pull off on the first side street. I’m going to be following. And that’s where you’re going to park your car for the night. You can make your own arrangements to pick it up tomorrow. Then, I’m going to take you back to campus, okay?”  What could I say? It was literally the “offer I couldn’t refuse” so I followed his instructions and drove two blocks and locked my car up for the night at a gas station. The station was closed but the parking area was well lit.

Then I got back into the officer’s patrol car. This time, though, he let me sit in front. He radioed the dispatcher, saying he was ‘assisting a motorist’ on North Monroe, which I guess was mostly true. Then he floored it, like responding to an emergency (sans turning on his lights) until dropping me off in front of South Warren Hall.  During the day, getting from downtown to North Spokane could take as much as a half an hour, depending on traffic. But he made it in just over ten minutes. Of course he was going 65 and hitting all the lights right, too.  Must be nice being a cop sometimes.

We didn’t talk much during the accelerated ride. He asked about my classes and when I’d be graduating and I answered. But the rest of the time I remained quiet, listening to the occasional crackle of the police radio, alone with my thoughts and trying to figure out why the hell I was sitting in a police cruiser at 2-something in the morning. Did I really want to throw myself over the bridge? I dunno. I was sad, hurt, devastated and drunk enough to maybe want to. But the mere fact that this Spokane City cop had cared enough to see me home safely- when he just as easily could’ve dumped me in the drunk-tank for the night--made me think there might be something still salvageable about my life after all. Even if at that particular moment, I didn't really believe it.

But when we he dropped me off, though still embarrassed and feeling as if I was living in a surreal world, I managed to look at him straight in the eye and thank him. “I really mean it, thank you so much.” Still an emotional wreck, I didn't know what else to say so quickly shut up. But I was grateful. Sincerely. “Not a problem. But I don’t want to find you out driving drunk again, okay?  Next time, we won’t be coming here. We'll be going someplace else. Got it?”

Yes, I got it. Mildly inebriated or not, I understood perfectly. I thanked him again and waved as he drove slowly away, then walked as erect as possible into the dorm and up to my second floor room. I closed the door behind me and with total exhaustion finally taking over, dumped myself onto my bed and passed out. At least I think that's what happened, because next thing I knew, I was waking up fully clothed.

And the sun was out and life had gone on.

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted, Part 1

 

It was the first time I'd been back to the skating rink since she and I parted ways. It'd been one of our special places, but from here on a location I promised to forever avoid. However an all-Whitworth skate night, coupled with a bit of friendly peer pressure convinced me it wouldn't be so horrible to go along, at least for a couple of hours; to come out of my shell, get out of my comfort zone. So I allowed myself to venture back to a place of good times past.

 

Walking inside, I was immediately bombarded by the sound of happy, noisy young people on skates and "Rock and Roll All Night" by Kiss blaring over the PA system, everything seemed the same as when I'd come as one half of a couple. All that was missing was her. Though I was with a group, a wave of loneliness washed over me and while queuing up in a long line to get skates, I prayed I wouldn’t hear any of the songs she and I skated to, or ones that reminded me of her. I wasn’t sure I could take it.

After lacing up my skates, I turned to face the action on the rink. A person with blond hair darted by who was quickly lost in the crowd of other skaters. But I kept staring until whoever it was emerged again from the pack and skated back in my direction. And when I recognized the smiling face that seemed happy not to be seeing mine, I felt an abrupt stab of dread in the pit in my stomach. It was her.

 

Naturally, I didn't want it to be her. But then again, I did. Kind of. We broke up in November and the only communication since had been one long letter I wrote to her followed by a longer one she wrote back to me. Apparently we parted with a lot of things still left unsaid, but at the end of her communique, she suggested the possibility of getting back together. Someday. And like a car running on fumes, that's all that had kept me going- waiting for someday.

But her letter came in January. It was now May 6. We didn't attend the same school, spent most of our time in different parts of town and hadn't seen or spoken to each other face to face in 6 months. However during that time of space and separation I often imagined what I'd say if we ever did see each other again. And of course I just knew it’d be straight from the heart, sweep-her-off-her-feet stuff. I practically had it all memorized. But with the moment perhaps now at hand, I suddenly couldn't remember even how to talk.

 

So I turned away and decided to just wing it. Pretend I didn't see her. Wait until she saw me. Just get out there and skate with my friends and let the chips fall where they may.  And heck, if we did accidentally sort of bump into each other, she might actually be pleased at the idea. It certainly was within the realm of possibility. Right? But I never made it onto the rink.

 

Facing the migrating swarm of skaters before wading out to join them, I heard a familiar silly scream. Even in all that noise, I knew it was the same playful scream she often used around me, whenever she wanted to register surprise or mischievous shock. But this time it wasn't me sneaking up from behind and saying, "Boo!" It was somebody else. And when he came around next to her, she took his hand and they glided away, side by side.

 

Uh-oh. My worst fears were coming true right before my eyes. But like seeing an accident on the side of the road, I couldn't look away either. I kept staring as they kept circling. And judging from the body language it was clear he wasn’t a distant relative, and this wasn’t a first date. They were easy and informal with each other. Close is a better word. Everything they did conveyed the same cozy one-on-one friendship she and I used to share. In fact, the flirtatious mannerisms suggested they were probably little more than just friends. 

 

The dagger in the heart, though, was watching them do a slow twirl in the center of the rink. Holding each other's hands while gradually spinning they pulled together tighter, until ending in a snug embrace, followed by a tender kiss. It was the same sweet little dance she and I had done the first time we skated together out there, too.

 

So that's what we looked like. 

 

When it'd been us, I think I may have been embarrassed; but caught up in the thrill of the moment back then decided I didn't care. And for anyone observing from a distance we probably looked kind of cute. But it was sickening now. To me it looked like a death spiral: mine. I was going down and watching my life flash before my eyes and swirling down the drain. When they broke smooch she smiled and looked at him exactly as she used to look at me. I wanted it to just be a bad dream but I was wide awake and knew I'd just witnessed my apparent replacement receiving the same sweet embrace of loving friendship she'd once given to me. And I wanted to die.

 

It felt like all the air in the building had been sucked out and if I didn't get out was going to suffocate. I wanted to barf and quickly unlaced one skate, then the other, and dropped them both on the floor. I didn’t even return them, just left them where they fell. Then my heart raced like a marathoner as I fled to get away. Forcing my way through swarms of humanity to get to the door and away from them, I heard the PA announcing the first couples skate. God, get me out of here! Now! When I finally got to the door and burst outside, I almost knocked over a guy coming in with his date. "Hey watch it, a-hole." Ignoring him I sprinted to my car, fired it up and burned rubber getting out of the parking lot and back to the highway, leaving her and him and Pattison's North Skate Center behind me. 

 

But if I thought it was bad after our initial break up, this was a million times worse. It felt like my heart had been broken for a second time. At least before, even as we were slipping apart she still liked me. And according to her final letter said she even still loved me and hinted at a possible reconciliation. I knew now, though, that was never going to happen. I was history, just a minor player from her past. She'd moved on, something I never thought would happen. And though I’d seen it with my own eyes, I was completely unprepared for the finality of what it all meant. It meant there’d never be her and I again; only them. For us it meant there’d never be any reconciliation. And for me it meant it was over. No going back, over. Forever, over.

I drove quickly away from the rink, south and back towards town with no future or destination, only a past that was back in the rear view mirror. I kept replaying the last scene over and over in my head. Her kissing him. The same lips that used to kiss mine were kissing someone else. And seeing it was torture; like having a steak knife plunged into my abdomen and turned a quarter inch to the left...then the right…..over and over....I'd lost her.

My howls of agony drowned out the radio. Damn, damn, damn! Noooooo!!!! My eyes stung with wet tears and I continued driving aimlessly. I drove and cried and pounded the steering wheel and cursed and cried and drove some more. I drove in big circles from one end of Spokane to the other, driving myself crazy. Why? Oh, dear God, why? I'd lost her.

 

I began to recall, back when our friendship had developed and then deepened; the absolute ecstasy and wonder of falling in love for the first time. There’s nothing like it and no words to describe it. Conversely, as the friendship died, I got to experience the cold, empty, bottomless ache of a first time broken heart. There’s nothing like that, too; and no words to describe it either.

And now, she'd broken my heart again though she didn't even know it. But it was excruciatingly clear to me that the chasm between us was never going to be bridged. So I kept driving and crying and praying.  Please God, please make this pain go away. But He didn't hear me. I'd still lost her and it still really hurt; the kind of hopeless hurt that seemed to have no beginning or end. So I just kept driving.

More next time...

 

A Mom's Love

 

Many conflicting emotions run through your mind when news of the death of someone who’s been part of your life reaches you.

 

Disbelief... numbness...a kick in the teeth...heartbroken...confused...in shock.....relief...

 

It’s hard to know exactly how to feel. Or supposed to feel. Depending on the circumstances and intimacy of the relationship, processing the loss becomes a mosaic of mostly sad, uncertain and shifting emotions. And so it goes. I haven't seen Glenna for nearly 30 years, but when I heard about her sudden passing on Tuesday the news hit me like getting whacked over the head with a 2x4.

 

I haven't seen Glenna for nearly 30 years, but when I heard about her sudden passing this past Tuesday the news hit me like getting whacked over the head with a 2x4. During the often turbulent time between post-college, and before my head was on straight, Glenna was like a second mother to me. It was a difficult time; feeling distant from my own mother, detached from family in general, and trying to move into young adulthood basically alone. Some, dare I say most, manage to do make this transition really pretty easily; I wasn’t. But instead of leaving me to fail, God sent someone to come along and walk me through the struggle: Glenna and her family.

 

The Huston’s and I lived close by in the same northwest Spokane. My place was at the corner of West Columbia and North Cedar; theirs was a block over on North Walnut Street, right across from Ridgecrest School. Actually, it was their oldest boy, Kenny, who found me first. He delivered the afternoon paper, which I didn’t take. But he kept hounding me to buy a subscription until I did. The kid was a go-getter, when it came to his paper route, anyway. But also a typical rug rat, mouthy but likable. And not very politically correct, either.

 

When Kenny finally broke me down and I agreed to take the paper from him, the first time he came to collect we had an interesting exchange. He stood inside my doorway as I wrote out my check, and without fear or hesitation, asked if I was married, had any kids or was gay. In that order. ”But it doesn’t matter if you are, gay that is. My mom was just curious.“  That was my unofficial introduction to Glenna. When I asked her about this weird conversation after we'd become friends, she smiled, with a touch of embarrassment, and fessed up. "Sorry. I thought you might be a pervert or something" Really? "Sorry. I'd just been thinking out loud. I didn’t really care. Okay, maybe I thought you might be a weirdo. But I didn’t tell him to ask you that. He just did it on his own.”

 

However, Glenna's concerns weren't necessarily an unreasonable assumption. I was a young male with no sign of a mate, newly moved in, kept odd hours and my drapes closed. Most of the time, anyway. Of course, I was also working three jobs then, and when not on duty someplace was more than likely trying to sleep. But as a mother of three, I understood why Glenna’s protective instincts might have initially kicked in. Still, when Kenny first asked, I wondered if maybe I'd moved into the wrong neighborhood. But once it’s been clearly established that I was a totally harmless, gainfully employed and semi-respectable goofball, Glenna and I shared a good laugh over her mistaken first impression.
 

“You may be a lot of things, but you're not weird and you're certainly not boring.” High praise, indeed, considering I always believed I'd been spawned by the dullest two people on the planet. Though they weren't Mike and Carol Brady, Glenna and her mischievous husband Skeeter, (given name, Allen) were the kind of parents every kid wished their own were like- laid back, firm when necessary, affable, didn't take themselves too seriously and fun. Skeeter and Glenna were definitely fun. And along with their three free-spirited children and Nanna, the big black dog in the driveway, the Huston's were the quintessential all-American, all-groovy family.

 

Though I wasn’t raised cool and there wasn’t much of it stamped into my own DNA, nevertheless the Huston’s, Glenna in particular, made me feel cool- I guess in this case, accepted might be a better term- because she made me feel like one of her own, part of their family. She kind of ‘adopted’ me and, in my book, that really was cool. And while I don't want to appear disrespectful or ungrateful (though I know it's going to sound that way anyway, God forgive me), but after spending so much of my youth trying to pretend I wasn't part of my own family, it felt good to finally feel like I belonged to the Huston's.

Skeeter and I coached Kenny's Little League team (along with another family friend, Mike Kirwin), and enjoyed it so much, the three of us coached together for three consecutive years. It was hard not to like Skeeter, a guy who went through life with an impish twinkle in his eye and smart-ass remark on his lips. But if he liked you, it was all in fun and he didn’t mean it; if he didn’t like you, he just meant it and didn’t care. I loved watching him carve up somebody he didn’t particularly care for who never seemed to catch on. The manner in which Skeeter suffered fools was quite an art form.

 

Never a buzzkill and always a million laughs to hang with, I enjoyed every minute in his company. I also knew Skeeter Huston as a man who took his job, family and role of father seriously. Even to me. Whenever I had something to get off my chest man-to-man, he was always there and ready to listen. In fact, he was the one who encouraged me to get off my butt and take the job at KNCO in Grass Valley, when it was the last place on Earth I wanted to go. Changed my whole life, though- and for the better. And though he'd never say it because it was too mushy, Skeeter treated me as an extra son. I've never forgotten that.

 

Then there was Glenna, Skeeter's curly, red-headed housewife, and Team Mom during the Little League years. She not only doted on Skeeter and her three little Huston’s, but after letting me into their lives kind of doted on me, too. And I loved it. We became friends about the time I began working overnights at KGA. And in the early months (before discovering the amazing properties of amphetamines) I was having a lot of trouble staying awake. Glenna, though an ardent non- KGA listener (she was a rocker that hated country music) would often tune in, though, just to see how I was doing. And on nights she heard exhaustion in my voice, she'd sympathetically keep me engaged in conversation so I'd remain alert. We’d sometimes talk half the night. Good thing; there were a few times she saved me from nodding off between songs.

Then knowing I had no social life because of my job(s), she thought it'd be a great idea if I joined a mixed bowling league. And to keep me from backing out she joined with me. It was a winter league and every Monday night at 8 between October and April, we'd head over to Lilac Lanes together and bowl three lines before I went off to work, missing only the random nights when KGA shuffled my shift from overnights to evenings. We bowled on a team with three other people- none very good and one (after the second week) a chick Glenna wanted me to date. Ever the Mom, it seems that was the primary reason she got me involved- to meet somebodies of the opposite sex. To bring me out of my shell. To see me happy. But the girl, Chelsea, and I had nothing in common outside of bowling and, though we went out once, there really was nothing there, there. 

 

But when I had trouble with my own Mom-- who even at long distance could somehow manage to ruin my day-- Glenna was always there to pick me up and help me bounce back. But one time Mom came to Spokane for a visit. It was the first time she's been to my place and I wanted so badly to make a good impression. So much so, that Glenna came over and assisted in the clean-up. And when we were done, my little house was as spic and span as the day I moved in. However, I’d spent so much time making the house and yard look good, I'd neglected making time for the really important stuff. Like getting my hair trimmed. And that's all Mom noticed during the 24 hours she was in Spokane.

It was so disappointing. I wanted to put my fist through the wall. And after dropping her off at the airport, I sat in the Huston's kitchen pouring out my tale of Mom-woes as Glenna poured coffee. When I was done rambling, she sat across the table and looked me in the eye and put the issue to rest. "Ya know, a hundred years from now, who'll give a damn?" She said it with a straight face before breaking into that wonderful smile and continuing her thought.

"Look, your Mom doesn't mean to be on your case, she can't help it. She's a Mom. Doesn't matter if you're 5, 25 or 65, you'll always be her kid and she'll always want what's best for you. I think her approach is wrong, but I'm not her- or your Mother- so I can say whatever I want. And I say, screw it, okay? Live. Be happy. You're fine, your hair is fine, you have friends that adore you and we love you. Now shut up, drink your coffee and get out of here." And then she laughed. And so did I, then went home feeling like somebody cared about me, really cared.

 

But that was just Glenna. She and Skeeter gave freely of their time and resources, and love, without asking anything in return. They were sweet salt-of-the-earth souls who'd give you the shirt off their back and then ask if you wanted a pair of shoes, too. When I needed help with a project, or was short on groceries, or was sick, or even if I needed a little money, Skeeter and Glenna were always there. Or if I was feeling left out, like during the holidays, they included me in their holiday. They made me feel like I belonged, and the years in that Spokane neighborhood and living around the corner from the Huston's became some of the best years of my life.

 

Skeeter and Glenna were an awesome couple and made a great team. He admired her as much as she looked up to him, and it was obvious. They made their marriage and their relationship look easy, even though, as I know from even my own experience that it probably always wasn't. But they worked well together and I really respected them. Not just that, I grew to love them. They were good and decent folks who out of the goodness of their hearts, took a loser like me and made me feel like a winner. And they didn't have to. And now they're gone. Skeeter in 2006, Glenna this past Tuesday.

As I left work with tidings of her death still on my mind, my heart felt heavy and detached and weighted down by despair. Disbelief... numbness...a kick in the teeth...heartbroken...confused...in shock.....relief...I felt all those things, even relief, if only because Glenna went quick and is once more united with her beloved Skeeter. Driving through the dreary evening, a gloomy rain was falling and following me home which, knowing how I felt somehow seemed appropriate. But I’ll never forget Skeeter and Glenna Huston, especially Glenna. It seems odd to me now, too, how I sometimes felt so much closer to somebody else's Mother than my own. But Glenna wasn't just a mother; she was a Mom. And at that juncture in my life I needed a Mom's love in a way that my own Mom simply couldn't provide. God knew that, I think, and I think that's why, for a season He gave me Glenna.

And God gave Glenna to Kenny, Jason and Jeremy, too. And for four years I got to observe first-hand what a loving maternal relationship should look like. And what I sometimes believed I'd missed out on. Of course, during my days of latent rebellion, it was easy to think that. The grass always looks greener from the other side, and today I do miss my Mom and knew she loved me and cared for me the best she knew how. And Glenna only knew me as a young adult, so trying to compare her to my own Mother is unfair.

 

But I do know how she felt about her own boys and this is what I wrote to Kenny in the wake of Tuesday's news  "...Ya know, you got to have what many people never achieve: a life-long wonderful loving relationship with your Mother..Thru this difficult time of grieving, never lose sight of that, cherish her memory and know she's looking down on you guys right now and smiling, proud of the legacy she left behind in her three great sons….blessings, my friend.."

I hope Kenny and his brothers take that to heart, although I know these next few weeks and months will be difficult, especially with that first Mother's Day without her coming up next month. Life is never going to be the same again for them, and that's sad. But they're strong kids, good kids and well-grounded.  Glenna and Skeeter gave them the right balance of enough rope, discipline and emotional nourishment to thrive and do well in life. And they have. And though the world is a little darker now that Glenna's light has gone out, the sun will shine on her boys again. Sooner than later. Of that, I have no doubt. They'll be fine. 

As for me, it’s amazing how hard this news hit me. Glenna didn't do Facebook or Twitter, but Kenny would pass on greetings for me, and though we hadn't talked for a long time I always promised to call or write her a letter. Soon. But I never did. And I feel bad- especially now- because I wanted to tell her the things I’m writing about today: how much she meant to me.

 

When I was young and screwed up and trying to make my way in the world, Glenna was there with a smile, a hug, a joke, a meal or phone call to shake off the set-backs and keep my spirits up, day or night. Her encouragement made me feel important and valued and, yes, even loved. And if there are angels among us, Glenna was definitely one of them. But I hope I haven’t let her down, or failed her for not getting around to telling her any of that. Yet somehow, without me saying a word, I think she probably already knew. Mom's are just like that. I think she knew and I think she'd forgive me.

 

So God bless you, Glenna Huston, and thank you-- for everything. Go with my love and rest in peace, my dear. You did good.

Wishing Well and Well Wishing

I don't have an elongated or adventure-filled post for you today. Geez; about time that long- winded bastard gave it a rest. Yeah, I hear you and thank you for the kind words.

But really, I haven't had a lot of spare time this week to rifle through my cranial index cards and pull out a good story to share. And nothing terribly memorable happened today or recently to comment on, either. I guess that's because the dominant theme around here lately has been how busy I've been. Work has been a real grind for the last little while, and the last thing I've wanted to do at the end of a hectic frenetic day is stare at the computer screen for another hour and try coming up with more literary hot air to bestow on cyberspace. So you'll get nothing and like it.

And I blame Jack.

No, really. My colleague, Jack, left on an extended vacation last week- a well deserved (and expensive) 15 day Hawaiian cruise- leaving our 4-man department to carry on with only three. And it's not that this can't be done, but in my line of work (radio) the work simply never stops, no matter how many hands are on deck. It doesn't stop for vacations or illness; not for rain, sleet, snow or other natural phenomena. Of course it seldom slows down whether we’re all here busting our tales or not. Short-handed or full-staffed, stiff still has to get done and deadlines still have to be met. The work is always fluid, in flux and must go on because, 24/7, the radio never goes off.

While Jack's been out, the three of us in the department not on vacation have absorbed some of what he does. And we've also had the luxury of having a former team member drop in and assist a couple hours before he goes to the other job. He got hired away but still likes hanging out with us. Go figure. So the workload has been spread out fairly evenly. But because we're all doing more and using more hours just to keep up, writing has been the last thing on my mind.

However, while I was in the shower this morning preparing for another long day, I had a revelation. Remember George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life"? When he told Clarence the Angel he wished he'd never been born? Well, as I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, this flash of brilliance hit me: what a waste of a good wish! If you're granted a wish and you've gotta wish for something, wish for a Mercedes or a date with the hot chick. Make it count! George Bailey may have been a good guy, and did have a wonderful life, but when it came to wish making he was a chump.

However, back here in the non-Frank Capra world, and on a practical level, being down a man this week has made me wish I told Jack more how much I appreciate him. He brings a lot to the table and is a good guy. But on a much larger scale his absence makes me realize how much we all matter- not just as worker-bees but as people.  And how I wish I could remember that more. We matter. Jack matters. You matter. Even I matter. Everybody's important, and not just to fill a role or take up space. God put me here for a reason, and it doesn’t really matter whether I’ve figured out just what that is yet. He certainly knows. And if my presence here at this place and time matters that much to Him, it damn well better matter to me. Right, George Bailey? And what if you or I had never been born? What would happen then? Well, since none of us are that indispensable, at least on the job site, my work would get done, assigned to some other sap…..er, I mean, soul. But my soul would be missed. I hope. Maybe? By a few other souls?

Did you ever imagine that there's a piece of cloth out in the universe that's been set aside for our purpose only. And, maybe, if we're not around to put our design on it an empty corner on life's quilt is left behind that never gets filled. And the world is a lesser place. Of course, I can’t prove any of that.  It sounds good though. But all I really wished to do here was dash off a couple quick paragraphs about nothing, to blow off some steam on a day when I was feeling overworked, stressed out and petulant. There was no declared rhyme or reason to any of the above.

Yet maybe I should get cranky more often. Though drenched in hyperbole, that life’s quilt part is pretty good. Nevertheless my simple conclusion is this: at the end of the day and in the much grander scheme of things, not only is Jack precious and irreplaceable but so am I. And so are you. Maybe not always in our own sight. But always in the Creator's. So, Jack, though it's been a little crazy here, I wish you safe travels, my friend. Hope the cruise to Hawaii has been the trip of a lifetime and that you get home tanned and rested.

And soon. Before I throw something though the window