The Day The Mountain Blew

On Sunday May 18, 1980, Mt. St. Helens erupted destroying thousands of acres of property across an entire region, and killing 57 people. That was 31 years ago today. But it’s what happened in the aftermath, the volumes of volcanic ash left behind in the wake of the violent explosion that I remember the most. However, living in Spokane at the time, about 200 miles from the mountain, I wasn't even aware of the 8:31 a.m. eruption till later that afternoon.

It was a beautiful spring morning, the type of day I couldn't wait for during the long, cold Northwest winters. It was a day to be out among the living, too nice to stay inside and watch TV or listen to the radio- that was for sure. My focus that picture perfect morning was on getting outside and playing, so I had no clue what had happened or what was on the way.
 

Dennis Bossingham came over around 9:30. We made some calls to organize a baseball game at Manito Park with some of the guys from Whitworth. Noon was when we planned to meet, and with time to kill before heading to the South Hill, Dennis and I finished off a round of mini-golf at the course next to Lilac Lanes and fed some quarters to the Pac-Man and Space Invaders machines inside the adjacent arcade. After that we made a quick pit stop over at Zip's Drive-In on Francis for some lunch.
 

As we left the arcade however, we both noticed the bright sunny day had begun to cloud up. Moving west to east, a huge black cloud appeared to be devouring the once pristine sky. In the warm spring air, it uncharacteristically looked like a big storm was brewing. We didn’t usually see those until summertime, but thunderstorms in May weren’t completely unheard of, either. Besides it still looked a long ways off and even if it held together wouldn’t dampen anyone’s spirits for too long. They usually blew by quickly and playing ball during a cloudburst was kind of fun. Nothing like sliding into second base on a muddy infield. You might not stop.
 

However as we reached the car, somebody pulled into the space next to us and when he got out asked excitedly, "Hey did you hear? Mt St Helens blew!"  Actually, not at all. The old saying, its news to us, well, it really was. That wasn't a storm moving in; it was the leading edge of the eruption’s ash cloud and though there was still sunlight underneath the apocalyptic-looking cloud-mass, the day was growing quickly and eerily darker. The temperature had fallen, too. Perhaps as much as 15 degrees from the previous hour and suddenly it wasn’t such a nice day to be outside.
 

So much for our baseball game, too. With everyone abuzz about the eruption and glued to its coverage, none of the guys wanted to play ball anymore.  It was a quarter to 1. Dennis and I left Zip’s and headed back to my house. Turning up Division, the roiling stone grey cloudbank kept gobbling up sky and turning the daylight even darker. Oddly, it seemed like it was following us, too- we couldn’t get away from it. Back at my place we turned on the TV. It was 1:00 in the afternoon and all three Spokane stations- Channels 2, 4, and 6- were offering live wall-to-wall updates on the eruption. Dennis stayed for awhile, but then decided to go home himself.
 

I continued to watch the tube with an eye out the front window. Within the hour, I couldn't believe what I was seeing: at 2:00 in the afternoon the sky had become pitch black. Like the dead of night. Stepping onto the porch, the birds that’d been singing and chirping all morning had gone to sleep and the street lights had come on. It was as dark and quiet as midnight. Then it started snowing. Only it wasn’t snow- it was ash.
 

From playing mini-golf at 11 a.m., in perfect golden spring sunshine, to standing in my front yard at 2 p.m. under a gentle falling of ash and what seemed like 2 in the morning; it was the strangest weather day I think I'd ever seen. The sky eventually lightened up, but only a little. At 6 p.m. under a murky overcast, from an 80 degree high at noon the temperature had dropped 21 degrees, down to 59, and the sky continued a slow rain of Mt. St. Helens dust. 
 

In the dim gray twilight, the sun, blotted out by smoke and ash, had begun to sink. It was a curious looking evening and on impulse, decided I wanted to venture out into the gathering gloom. Heading down West Columbia, the volcanic grime had covered everything, including the road, coated in a thick layer of chalky powder, which contributed to a slippery ride. It was like driving on a thin coating of snow. I had to drive much slower than the speed limit because as the car moved it disturbed the fallen soot, causing it to belch up a haze of veiled dust that reduced the visibility.

At the major intersections, though the signals worked, cops were out directing traffic. With vehicles moving ever so cautiously, they stopped each one (though there weren’t many) and politely asked drivers who didn’t need to be out- like me- to not be. In other words, get off the roads. At the Rowan & Maple crossing, that’s what the officer tersely requested of me when it was obvious I was just out looking around. ”Now, please!” Message understood, ten minutes later I was off the dusty and dark streets, and safe at home.
 

As Sunday night turned to Monday, city, state and even federal officials still didn’t know what to do, and seemed to be grabbing at straws for solutions. At midday, Mayor Bair ordered surgeons masks be distributed to every person within the city limits, and asked all residents to wear them outdoors to keep from breathing in the dust. (I wonder how much that cost the City of Spokane- we all got 2 of 'em).

Next, the mayor encouraged all home owners to hose the ash off of the lawns, sidewalks and driveways on and around their property. We were to wash it into the gutters, where the City - in theory- would dispatch its entire fleet of street sweepers at regular intervals and suck it all up. It was a nice idea but completely unworkable. They couldn’t keep up with it. Besides, you really couldn't sweep or spray the stuff down; there was too much of it to sweep and applying water just turned it into a gooey paste. So the streets remained mostly un-scrubbed. And what didn’t soak in, stick or get washed off, just stayed where it was; drying into a fine, flaky, dust. A shoe-top fog kicked up whenever you walked in it. It made me think of “Pig-Pen”, in Charlie Brown comic strips.

One thing the City of Spokane did get right was keep all non-essential traffic off the streets. It minimized the clouds of wispy gray soot that every passing vehicle kept kicking up. Not only were these moving billows of ash a safety hazard, as the cinders scattered into the air, the odds increased of breathing them back into your lungs. But when the stay-at-home order came out, though prudent, living in Spokane after the eruption was almost like living under Marshall Law. Except for walks to the grocery store, or another futile attempt at yard and sidewalk ash clean-up, for the next five days I was pretty much indoors and home bound.
 

The mess wasn’t confined locally, either; President Carter declared all of Washington state, Idaho and most of Western Montana disaster areas. But with nearly the entire population of Spokane pretty much confined to their homes, schools and businesses were closed for the entire week, too, including the hockey store I worked at part time. And though my other part time job was in the media, my position at KCKO was deemed non-essential. The station was not a news source and my position as board operator/producer could be covered by staffers who lived closer to KCKO’s South Hill studios. On the complete opposite side of town, over a half hour drive time away, I was told to stay home, with no place to go and no way to earn an income. Working hourly, if you’re not there, you don’t get paid.

Worse, though, was my car. I didn't have a garage, just an open carport. So my VW Rabbit was basically left outside to fend for itself in the aftermath of the eruption; which meant it was doomed. Volumes of soot and ash settled into the guts of the car, grinding and eating away at its internal workings and gears and rendering the vehicle nearly inoperable. The powdery pumice basically killed it. When finally allowed to get out and drive, I took my little Rabbit-- coughing and sputtering all the way- to a nearby mechanic, who pronounced it gone beyond repair. So I left it there, on its death bed waiting to be put out of its misery, and walked home. I assumed they disposed of the body because I never saw it again.
 

Before looking for a replacement vehicle, I called the insurance company. They gave me the good news that the now totaled Rabbit wasn’t insured. Oh, I had comp and collision coverage- but not volcano coverage. Insurance--what a scam. You pay into it, but when you really need some help, they devise a way not to pay out. However, Allstate “graciously” (their words, not mine) gave me a $250 stipend to cover the rent-a-wreck I paid to borrow. The balance on any new vehicle would have to come from whatever was left over and out of my own pocket.

Mt. St. Helens sucked.

 

It was, however, probably the last major news event that wasn’t instantly covered nationally and globally by cable or satellite TV news. CNN was still a couple weeks from signing on for the first time, so they weren't even in the picture yet (so to speak). Nor was Fox News, CNBC or any of the other now pervasive 24-hour cable news sources. The images and reports the nation and the world saw of Mt. St. Helens on the day of its eruption were all picked up from the local affiliates in Spokane, Portland and Seattle, tracking the eastward drift of the explosion fallout which ended up coating the ground and everything above it all the way into Montana.

In the days that followed, the dust cloud circled the earth, could be seen from space, and adversely affected the climate in the Pacific Northwest for the next several months. It made 1980 the coldest summer I’d ever lived through. It was similar to summer in San Francisco, minus the whiffs of sourdough and the sea breeze. From May 18, the day of the eruption, though late August, Spokane experienced an almost uninterrupted string of cloudy, clammy 55-60 degree days during the time of year when the normal temperature would be 20 to 30 degrees above that. Even when it was clear, it really wasn’t; the blue sky muted by a filmy haze of still migrating ash.

And well into the fall, still under layers and layers of ashen gray soot, the landscape remained something akin to a moonscape. Mile after mile, the familiar green and amber terrain of Eastern Washington was there somewhere but altered; disguised and buried under the remnants of Mt. St. Helens' turbulent innards. The proud mountain itself lost about a thousand feet off its top, the grand summit replaced by a crusty, misshapen crater. At its base, beautiful and pristine Spirit Lake was transformed into an ugly, uninhabitable quagmire, full of avalanche debris and volcanic waste.

And the fallout cost me one perfectly good Volkswagen Rabbit.

Me and Mom

There’s June Cleaver, Claire Huxstable, Mother Teresa. And then there's my Mom.

 

About the only thing all four ladies had in common were high levels of estrogen.

 

Mom and I didn't see eye to eye on many subjects and that's putting it lightly. If I was having fun, I shouldn't be. If I wasn't having fun, then that's just how it should be. We fought constantly: over my hair, my clothes, my grades, my choice of friends, and my life in general. The disapproval came in many forms, mostly verbal, starting very young and carrying on well into adulthood. And even though it’s all history now, I still remember the sting of some of the things she used to say.

 

Sometimes, even now, those words are right there in front of me again like an unwanted imaginary billboard. And if I allow it, I’m still 10 years old and feeling totally inadequate. My care wasn’t inadequate: I was looked after, fed, watered, had a bed to sleep in. But in all the years I lived under my own mother’s’ roof, though I knew it wasn’t so- couldn’t be so- I never felt truly and unconditionally, no-strings attached, loved.

 

It felt that way because, through my eyes, Mom’s love so often came out in such peculiar and unloving ways over the same small and- in the big picture- nit-picky issues. Again- hair, clothes, friends, not living up to her expectations- it was like a long playing broken record that she never removed from the turntable. Same ol, same ‘ol. I didn’t specifically measure up well with my big brother Steve. I never measured up in general. And it hurt that I didn’t.

It broke my spirit and often, broke my heart. Sometimes I didn’t know where to go to feel okay, just as I was, except around my friends. Or in my room, with my books and baseball cards.  But this broken relationship with my own Mom, all the heaviness that came with it sometimes made me feel a little jealous of all the kids I knew who had intact, and even great relationships, with their Mom's; the kids with Mom's that really seemed to not just love, but like their kids, too.

 

Oh sure, I did typical little boy things that would land me in hot water with anyone’s Mom. But when she was angry at me for stuff that seemed unfounded and unfair, I used to think, "Why can't my Mom be more like Kirt's mom, or Gary's, or Paul's?" Or at least be a little less rigid. Lighten up a little Be More understanding. More patient? Or maybe, why couldn’t she just leave me alone?

I'm not sure that was in my mother’s maternal DNA though. However to her credit, I think Mom was born to be a Mom. She took the role seriously and seriously cared about the raising of all us kids, though my interpretation of "caring" and hers were most likely worlds apart. Besides, the way Mom learned to mother probably wasn’t anything she could control. She went on her instincts, or perhaps was just doing as her Mother had raised her. I don’t know. My perceived shortcomings and faults seemed to set her off though and she often took them out on me. Of course, none of her babies came with an instruction manual, either. I wish we had because, though. Maybe it would’ve been easier for her. Or easier on me.

Or at least, going though it with her, wouldn’t have sucked so much.

But I refuse to go around and 'blame my life' on Mom or my upbringing. Any mistakes I’ve made- and there have been plenty- I made ‘em on my own and with no help from the sidelines. Being Mom's kid didn’t cause me to go out and 'do something stupid'. All my errors and transgressions are nobody's fault but my own, and I take full responsibility. So there.

Mom died in 2002.

She’d had a bad heart for a long time and it finally gave out (and I often wondered if raising me had been a contributing factor to her heart disease). But fortunately, by the time of her death, she and I had finally put up the white flag of surrender. The wars and little skirmishes we’d waged forever it seemed, were over. A working truce had finally taken root in our relationship and at long last we'd achieved peace in our time. We'd pretty much buried the hatchet, and not in each other.

Though a description of our relationship wouldn't be found in a Hallmark card, by the end I'd come to appreciate and love her for who she was. And I think maybe she'd come to love and appreciate the person I'd grown to be, too. I was finally “ok”; at least okay enough that in her final year, her perceived shortcomings in me were never brought up for discussion. I called it progress. She called it “mellowing with her age.”

Whichever, at the end, we'd become friends and because we had, Mother’s Day remains a hard weekend for me. Nobody sees it, I keep it locked up inside, but every Mothers Day since she's been gone--maybe in the shower, getting ready for the day, or at church-- there’s always a random small little moment where I find myself thinking about her and missing her. I guess it doesn’t seem to matter how old you get, or how positive or dysfunctional the relationship was, the boy never forgets his mom.

But it's on Mom's Day especially that I struggle not to beat myself up for growing up such a challenging child. I know I was a pain sometimes and often tried her patience. Mom was also diabetic. And when her blood sugar ran low, it likely contributed to, or set off, her mighty mood swings, rants and rag-on sessions. As a kid, though, I didn’t make that correlation. I just knew she was mad at me and I was bad. Yet as an older kid and young adult I wouldn’t cut her any slack for it.  By then, I think I pushed her buttons on purpose, just to "get even".

I never derived much satisfaction from it though, and it’s often been hard to forgive myself for letting the all-important maternal relationship sink to the depths of disharmony that it did. When Mom was alive, I tried to make up for it by always sending cards and flowers on birthdays and Mother’s Days and calling weekly as well. Did it make a difference? I don’t know. But in our not always very hand-in-hand relationship, I think it mattered to her which, I suppose if nothing else, meant she still mattered to me. And though I can't go back and try and get my childhood right, at the end of Mom's life, I think I finally did. Or came close.

On a whim one Saturday after a dump run, I called to see if she’d like to join Amy and me for lunch. She sounded delighted at the invitation, and an hour later she and Dad joined us at Bakers Square in Auburn. And for the next ninety minutes, over a sandwich and some fries, we caught each other up on the latest news and gossip. We didn't talk about anything special, just shared some pleasant conversation on a random Saturday afternoon. Nice meal, good chat. But as we were leaving, she pulled me aside and told me "It made my day that you called. Thank you. That was a really good time. Let's do it again soon."

It was the last time I saw her.

The next morning, as she and Dad were on their way to see her grandkids over in Reno, she suffered a final, massive coronary. Taken to a local hospital, she was placed on life support as the family gathered. From what we were told by the doctors, she wasn’t going to make it this time. So everyone went in and said their farewells. But not me. I chose to remember her the way she’d been 24 hours before, and how happy she said I’d made her feel. That's the last memory I wanted to have of her; the battles were over and put to rest and that I’d finally done something right and good for my Mom. I wanted to remember the good day we'd had in life on Saturday, not the deserted jar of clay being kept alive only by machines on Sunday.

Amy and I didn’t even stay the night in Reno. It was clear Mom’s time was very close, but I chickened out on staying to the end. Consumed with worry, fear, regrets, anxiety- the finality of it all- I wanted to go home and go to work the next day to keep my mind occupied on something else. So we went home. Sleeping in my own bed didn’t help because after a mostly sleepless night, the sun rose on a picture perfect summer-like Monday morning and nothing had changed. Mom was still dying and I was still being eaten up by the past.

It was September 30, 2002. 

Dad called about a quarter to ten with the expected news that the doctors had pulled the plug. Less than five minutes later, Mom took her last breath and peacefully left this world bound for eternity with Jesus. Oddly, the time of death was 9:30 on 9/30.

I went out to my car and cried for what seemed like an hour, thought it was really only about 15 minutes. Nobody noticed the red eyes, or if they did, didn’t ask. I didn’t even volunteer the information of a death in the family till I had to ask for the day off for her funeral. I guess everybody handles bad news differently; I did anyway. Looking back, though, the way I handled it seems really strange. Was I just trying to compartmentalize, or just copping out. Either way, working the rest of the week, and not talking about the family situation, seemed therapeutic. At least, it kept me busy.

As my mind wandered during the funeral, I wished I could go back and just one more time look her in the eye and tell her “I love you”- and really mean it. That would mean a lot to me. But I can't do that now. Yet someday I will see Mom in Heaven again and when that day comes, I sometimes wonder if I'll crumble in tears in front of her and beg forgiveness for being so difficult on her in life, or if she'll smile and hug me and  tell me all along how proud she was that I was her kid.

Putting the past in the past is still a work in progress. No, I didn't have a storybook upbringing. It was dysfunctional. However, in reality, it could’ve been a lot worse. Besides, in one way or another, I think everybody’s family is probably a little messed up. It’s the human condition. Nobody’s perfect. Nobody’s a perfect parent. None of us were perfect children. We’re all a product of our environment- dealing with the hand we’re dealt as life works itself out. Or, to borrow from an overused contemporary phrase, it just is what it is.

In life, Mom and I coexisted on an emotional battlefield, each of us taking shots, inflicting wounds, declaring small victories or retreating to fight another day. And though some scars remain, the battle, at last, is over. And at the end, I know she loved me. Mom didn't show it very well, but if nothing else, in her own way, she tried to. I don't miss the quarrels, put-downs, and bad feelings. But sometimes, I miss the friendship we settled into at the end. I miss just getting together to talk.

 

And as I pass this 9th Mothers Day without her, I think the following status update I saw in Facebook today makes a nice Mom's Day milestone marker. I think she'd like it too-

"If roses grow in heaven then pick a bunch for me. Place them in my Mother's arms and tell her they're from me. Tell her that I love and miss her and when she turns to smile, place a kiss on her cheek and hold her for awhile."

God bless you, Mom.

. 

Get A Whiff Of This

 

Today's topic is public restroom etiquette. If you're not into that, then please stop reading now. But it's on my mind because the problem described below, whether through bad luck or bad timing, seems to follow me like a bad penny. I keep running into it. And though I hate to be so obsessive-compulsively anal on the subject, I feel something needs to be said.

We stopped into Carl's Jr the other day after church to get some lunch. But after the ritual Sunday morning shaking of hands, I wanted to wash up before eating. Of course, I'm sure the grease from Carl's extensive menu of stuff-that's-very-bad-for-you would be a sufficient to kill or maim the millions of microscopic organisms living on my hands. Nevertheless, I like to be as germ-free as possible before eating.

So as the lovely Amy got in line to order, I headed to the bathroom. When I arrived, the door was locked. Okay, no problem; there's no rush. But 2 minutes, then 3 minutes….then 4 minutes later, the door remained locked while whoever was in there continued doing God-knows-what. Meantime another dude entered the premises who was in a hurry to use the men's room, too. Walking past me as if I was invisible, he also tried the door handle and, like me, found his admittance delayed. The man was instantly annoyed and muttered a couple of curse words. I'd have been more sympathetic, but instead became doubly annoyed because I'd been annoyed first and longer and the guy hadn't even noticed. Acknowledging my presence at last, the latecomer excused himself under his breath and went to stand in line.

But I'm still on the clock and almost five minutes into my vigil, the mystery man in the men's room had yet to reveal himself and emerge. For a brief moment I thought maybe he was sick and passed out or something. Nope. I heard a cough followed by some other extraneous noises which indicated he was still with us, but hadn't fully completed the task at hand. Whatever, it wasn't going to be pretty.

Frustrated, I joined Amy at a table she'd settled at with our food. "Whoever's in there has been in there forever, and knowing what I know I don't wanna go in when he comes out. Do we have any lotion in the car?" Amy directed me to the front seat where I generously lathered up my hands and fingers in a glob of anti-bacterial hand soap. I smelled sanitized and sickly sweet, but at last could proceed to eat lunch.

I forgot about the guy in the toilet until after eating. Waterlogged with coffee from church and a big gulp of Carl's Jr. ice tea, I needed to pee. It wouldn't wait till home, and though I considered the possibility of something bad waiting on the other side, tried Carl's bathroom door again. It’d been 15 minutes and must’ve been okay to enter by now. And good news- this time it was unlocked. So I pushed the door in....and was immediately enveloped in the most toxic of toxic fumes.

The place reeked as if it'd been ground zero for an atomic stink bomb. Good grief, I had no idea one human being could produce such a formidable stench. I assumed the odor had been left behind by the gentlemen who'd camped out there earlier. And now he was either someplace in the restaurant eating with the rest of us--its alivvvvee- or had already fled the scene of his crime. Regardless, at that moment that particular bathroom was the most disgusting place on Earth. It was gross. Peeing as fast as I could, my nostrils begged for fresh air. When finished and still holding my breath, upon my escape I nearly busted the door down.

But I wondered why anybody would go into a public restroom and foul it up like that. I mean, I understand the call of nature; sometimes you're out and caught with a problem, and have nowhere to go except the nearest public place with indoor facilities. But c'mon. That guy died in there. There's no excuse for that. Hey, just because you ate several servings of rotting road-kill and messed up your intestinal tract at breakfast, don't take it out on the rest of us at lunchtime That's bad form; really nasty. Stop it.

Bottom line: stay home and stink up your own bathroom.

Okay, 'nuff said. Thanks for your patience. I feel so much better now that we've cleared the air.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

Approaching East Lime Kiln Road and Highway 49 on my way to work this morning, I had to stop my car completely as the narrow roadway momentarily became a livestock cross walk. There was a dog, a goat and a scattering of chickens. Yes, chickens. And they were all impeding traffic.

After the dog, goat and remaining poultry got out of the way, a one-legged rooster limped behind the menagerie. As two other cars stopped behind me, their drivers likely growing impatient, the disabled bird took a quick gander in my direction. Maybe he admired my view that way. Or perhaps making sure he had the right of way. Whichever the reason, for a split second, the full-of-himself-fowl seemed to take on human characteristics. He strolled with an over-confident air, almost like he was daring me to step on the gas and run over him- go ahead punk; make my day- before calmly proceeding across the pavement.

He took his time, though, favoring his game leg. I have no idea what was wrong with it but the injury hadn’t kept the cocky capon from strutting his stuff.  After swaggering to the other side of Lime Kiln, he was quickly surrounded by the chicks. The dog was peeing on a tree and the goat was eating grass. But the hens swarmed the conceited rooster like he was a winged rock star (an Eagle? A Byrd? A Black Crowe? Or maybe just a Sheryl Crow?) Whichever, the five females scurried along in his wake, pecking and squawking at each other and fighting for his attention. However, the smug rooster paid no attention and, at least outwardly, ignored the ruckus.

Oh, but he was happy.

It'd be a stretch to assume I know anything about reading birdy body language, but clearly that rooster was in his element and clearly lovin' the attention. As traffic moved again, the flock of feathered friends moved as a clique and off into the brush, to do whatever it is that chickens do for fun. But the answer to the age old question became obvious: why did the chicken cross the road?  For love, baby. Just show me the honeys. Yep, the boy did it all for love.

Awww. Don’t you love a story with a happy ending?

Wanna Fight?

I watched two guys nearly come to blows in a gas station/mini-mart the other night. I don't know what they were mad about, but they both knew all the right swear words and then some. But before all the loud posturing gave way to the throwing of hands, a sheriff's car pulled into the parking lot. The two almost-combatants were relatively small. The cop tipped the scales somewhere north of 250. So it didn’t take him long to defuse the argument- probably through shear intimidation- and shoo both parties on their separate ways.

After things calmed down, I went about topping off my tank and began thinking about the two- almost three- honest to goodness bare-knuckle fights I've found myself in. As a mostly benign and non-belligerent (or bland, take your pick) person who’s managed to live a fair number of years without resorting to violence, these incidents stand out as rare and memorable indeed. Now, don't get me wrong, I do get pissed off; but seldom pissed off enough to take a swing at another human being. So what about these "alleged” two- almost three fights? I've already written about one of these battles; the hockey fight in "For the Love of the Game".  Before that, my first 'almost' fight came in the fourth grade.

I had to do an oral report on animals and chose cats as my topic. I was nervous and nearly peed my pants that day, but succeeded in giving a satisfactory presentation. Miss Lubin even gave me a "B". But out at afternoon recess, mouthy little cat-hater Michael Nylander started called me “Pussy.”  I laughed, even though it wasn't funny. Ha-ha. That was on Tuesday. However when Friday came around and he was still addressing me as "Hey Pussy", I'd had enough. In a moment of puffed up self-righteous anger that morning on the playground, I blurted out the age old challenge, "Okay, Nylander. I'm callin' you out!"

But as soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. What was I thinking? I didn’t really want to fight him. I just wanted him to shut up. Can’t we all just get along???! By then, though, there was nothing I could do about it. Not only had I called him out, I’d done it in front of witnesses. My only hope was if Nylander declined the invitation. But again, there were witnesses; he really couldn’t. "Okay, I'll see ya at the bike rack after school." Crap. 

Fortunately, little Michael wasn’t much bigger than me and more mouth than anything else. At least I had that going for me. If I was going down, he’d probably be going down with me. But if was only 8:40 in the morning. I'd have to wait nervously for 6 more hours and twenty minutes to see if I was right.

All day long the clock ticked slowly- too slowly. I wanted 3:00 to come so I could get it over with. Then again, I prayed it’s never come. Then prayed Michael would chicken out before I did. Or think I’d been kidding (even though I wasn’t). Then I prayed, maybe, that he just merely misunderstood me. ”Hey Nyrlander, I’m calling you a trout.” Nah.  I knew what I said. And he knew what I said. All the praying wasn’t wasted, though. It did produce this epiphany- it’s easy being brave when you don’t have to back it up. It was an uncomfortable moment of clarity, though.   

Finally the 3:00 bell rang and while all the other kids broke excitedly for home or the bus to take them there, like the condemned man going to the gallows I slowly trudged to the bike rack to await my fate. When I got there, it was 3:05. Then it was 3:10, then 3:15. And little Mikey still hadn’t shown. I was still there. A group of gawkers who'd heard scuttle of fight were there, too. But Nylander wasn't.

And at 3:25, when it became clear my opponent-to-be was a no-show, the bike rack crowd declared me the winner by default. Then, anti-climatically everybody drifted off, their hopes for a good ass-whipping for somebody, denied. I breathed a sigh of relief, unlocked my Stingray and headed home. I don’t know where Michael went or what happened to him, and frankly, I don’t care. And I don't know if Nylander finally figured out he wasn't as tough as he thought he was. I had, though. I was certain he wasn’t. Oh, just kidding. Funny thing though; Michael Nylander never called me a pussy again.

But several years later I became embroiled in another heat-of-the-moment defense of my manhood, and this dust-up turned out to be the real deal.

It happened while playing JV soccer, midway through the season, in a road game against Encina High. The match produced a rare win for us, but as it progressed had turned chippy. Guys were deliberately crowding, getting or giving an elbow or a shove and there was enough trash talk to fill the county landfill. By the second half, with all the extra ‘stuff’ going on behind the play it seemed more like hockey than soccer. It didn’t help that Encina’s home jerseys were bright yellow with black horizontal stripes that made their players all look like a bunch of wingless bees or fruity-attired prisoners. It was hard to take them seriously. They looked ridiculous.

Anyway, there was this one Encina kid about my size. I played half-back and he was a forward and lining up that afternoon, he was always coming down my side of the field. So over the course of the game, he was often my man to cover- and I his- and we got to know each other pretty well. Though not in a friendly way. But if anyone asks, he started it.

He started chirping right from the kick-off. Every time he came near me he was giving me shit. I don’t know why. Maybe he always played like that. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Or maybe he was just a little prick. I ignored him at first, probably because I was too stupid to figure out the ‘game’ I’d yet to encounter such a disagreeable opponent before. But once I took the bait, we engaged in our own private little war. Exchanging crude insults and elbows, he and I carried on a running profanity-laced dialog, up and down the field for practically the entire 90 minute scrimmage. After awhile it was actually kind of fun. But all good things come to an end, even a good grudge match, and at the final whistle San Juan had prevailed over the Encina team, 5-1.

Traditionally, at the end of all games it was a league-wide policy for both teams to meet at the center line and shake hands before leaving the field. It was a nice sounding, good-sportsmanlike idea. However there weren’t a lot of good sports that day and this was one time when this cordial ritual should’ve been blown off. The match had been pretty one-sided and tempers on both sides- not just between me and my "little buddy"- were still running a little high. But both coaches insisted, and the ref was still there and, realistically, the game was over. There was nothing left to battle over.

So we grudgingly filed out to center field to slap hands with all the Encina guys. As I made my way through the parade line, I eventually met up with my obnoxious opponent. Could’ve been awkward, but was handled pretty well, all things considered. When we intersected, neither of us said anything. All he did was smirk as we lightly, and with little feeling, smacked hands in passing. It was kind of like being forced to politely kiss your ugly old Aunt Matilda, the one with halitosis and warts. But it was over, we’d done what we had to do and I thought everything was cool.

But he was no more than a step past me when, from behind, he suddenly jumped me. “What’d you call me?” he seethed into my ear while trying to wrestle me down. I knew I’d called him a lot of unpleasant things during the game but nothing since. However somebody in the handshake line had distinctly called someone else a "fag". I don’t know if it was one of their guys or one of ours, but everyone heard it. All I knew was it hadn’t come from me. And my game-long adversary knew that too; nevertheless he seized the moment as the perfect opportunity to settle the score for whatever I really had said during the game.

Fortunately he wasn’t very heavy and I was able to bend forward and quickly flip him over my back. Instead of taking a header though, he landed on his feet and directly in front of me. He looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected to land upright either. But in that split second as we sized up where we were in relation to time and space, something went off in my head- hit him. So before he could react, I cocked my fist and hard as I could, jabbed it straight into his eye. It all happened so fast. I wasn’t thinking, just reacting. But he’d been asking for it all day and he’d pissed me off so I belted him flush in the face. As he attempted to get back up, I pounced on him, ready to strike again. But my ‘attack’ had set off a chain reaction of sorts, and before I could deliver another shot a second Encina player slammed me from behind. But almost immediately, that guy was run over by someone from my team coming to my defense, followed a half beat later by two or three other guys.

And then it was on.

There was sweating, grunting and lots of cursing; guys knotted up, pulling at jerseys and trying to get at each other. Swallowed up in the mini-scrum, I lost track of how many other people were rolling around down there because I was up to my arm pits in it. I was working like a mad-man, though, trying to untangle myself from whoever I was tangled up with, still hoping to get a piece of the bastard who’d assaulted me. But in the pretzel of nearby arms and legs, I couldn't spot him or free myself from the nameless third party who still had me in a headlock.

However I quickly discovered that fighting is harder work than it looks and the tussle was forcing me to expend a great deal more effort than when it began. I was getting tired. But so was everyone else. I caught a break though, and a brief second wind, when I managed to wriggled out of the pile and come back swinging. However I only connected with air before someone else grabbed me from behind again. This time it was one of the team parents. And after I mis-connected he yanked me out of the melee and held me back. But I wasn’t going back.

The battle had just about run its course, allowing coaches, the ref and other players to wade in and begin pulling the remaining belligerents apart. Finally, without a lot of fight left in anybody- and everybody separated- the whole thing kind of just petered out. Once it did, and as the visiting team, the ref insisted we get proceed to get the hell out of there; now. Which we did, but not before I caught a final glimpse of my new ‘pal’.

I didn’t know his name but he knew mine; “Hey, Asshole!” he called at me and flashed his middle finger. I laughed and returned the salute. His coach pushed him away. But it wasn’t hard to miss the spurting flow of red running down his chin and staining his yellow uniform. He was bleeding from his lip. I knew I hadn't done it though. After getting lost in the pile I was preoccupied with survival. Whoever I got paired up with kept trying to pull the jersey over my head and tie up my arms, forcing my attention and energy into finding a counter move and causing me to lose track of the only dude out there I was truly upset with. Someone else bloodied his lip. But I didn’t mind letting him think it was me who’d given him the shiner I knew he woke up with the next day.

 So I hadn’t inflicted any damage- not that I was aware of anyway- but Coach Terwilliger knew I'd started the fight. And while it was happening, I’d swear there’d been about a hundred guys brawling in a donnybrook that seemed to go on forever. However Coach said it'd taken less than a minute to restore order and only 6 players were actually participating, 3 from each side. But as we walked up the grassy slope from the field to the parking lot he asked, with a mix of pseudo-anger and sincere-amazement, “What made you do it!?” I told him the guy had been riding my ass all game, had 'pearl harbored' me and was asking for it. “So I hit him.” Coach just grinned and shook his head. "Okay. Nice job.” He got it. “But don't do it again”, he added then smiled and walked on.

Coach then treated us to pizza and sodas on the way back to San Juan, and the three of us who fought were treated like rock stars. Teammates rallied around us with lots of loud 'way to go's'  back slaps, high fives and hog-tie hugs. I liked the attention but knew I wasn't really a fighter, and had no intention of starting a scrap that day. All I did was act on pure impulse, emotion and adrenaline. But, I’d actually stood up for myself and there was nothing wrong with that. However I didn't tell my parents anything about that game, except the final score. Dad might’ve been okay with it, but knowing I'd been brawling- and thrown the first punch, Mom would’ve probably grounded me till college.

Regardless, that day was one of the best days of my life. Actually, it was one of the few really great days that stand out in my 4 years at San Juan. And I guess not making the JV football team because I was told I was too small didn’t turn out to be such a bad thing after all. That closed door opened up another door over at the soccer field. And had I not played soccer, I'd have missed that special game and special day.

And that dude from Encina wouldn’t have got a black eye either.

Kodak Moments

Somebody showed me a real nice photo taken during a recent work-related dinner event. Everyone at the table looked pleasant, relaxed and normal- except for the ugly duckling at the bottom of the shot. Who the hell is that? Oh. It was me.

Pretty as a picture? Hardly.

But I don't get it. Every morning as I shave and brush my teeth- not generally at the same time- I look in the mirror and swear the guy looking back at me isn't all that horrible. I wouldn't call myself strikingly handsome, not by any stretch of the imagination. But I'm not walking though the world wearing a grotesque Halloween mask either. The lovely Amy even says I'm cute.

I don't know about that, but it beats being compared to the Elephant Man any day.

Yet whether posing, or unaware a camera is even pointed at me, why do I always come out looking like a mistake whose mold, after seeing the finished product, the Almighty would be happy to break? Don't want to inflict another one of those on humanity. I know we're all made in God's image, but I find it hard to believe my ugly mug is anything the Creator is rushing to grab any credit for.

I swear, in every picture ever taken of me I see a face looking back that only a mother could love; and even that's open for debate.  Am I really that hideous? Who knows? But even my baby pictures suck. They're so bad, that old joke- when you came out, the doctor slapped your mother-might actually really apply.

It's hard to explain and I don't quite understand, but every picture of me is dreadful. 

I want to blame the lighting or shadows, or the rube snapping the picture. But like they say, the camera doesn't lie. If that's true though, then honesty sucks. Even professionals can't help; my appearance in formal portraits leaves much to be desired as well. And all the touching up in the world wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

It makes me so sad, because subtly or not, everybody's judged on appearance, one way or another. So I shudder to imagine what people must think when they see me. Do mothers hide their children when I walk on their side of the street? Do members of the opposite sex look at me and feel sorry for the poor woman who married me?  Do even less not-so-good looking guys see me and talk themselves into believing they aren’t so bad after all?

Why do those things cross my mind at all? I wish I had an answer but I don't. It's just more of the moronic junk that still trickles through my pee-brain from time to time. Yet I believed this junk for a lot of years. And it's been a colossal chore to finally begin the process of chucking this crap into life's landfill and call it what it is- a lie. God does not judge me by how I look. Nor does He care.

And neither should I.

If I’m judged at all, it should only by what's on the inside. And though that's not always a thing of beauty either, I'm working on it. But someday, the torture I’ve put myself through in life over such trivial matters will at last be over. I will be made whole and perfect and if I was ever worried about the outward appearance, I won't be anymore. For at that point, God will smile at the newly finished product and say, "Well done". And the next snapshot will reveal a very pretty picture of a very pretty soul that’ll last for all eternity.

But in the meantime, I beg you: get that stupid camera outta my face!

My Cup Runneth Over

  

This past Sunday at church was Communion Sunday, a sacred rite I've participated in countless times since becoming a regular church goer. But before that, there were many years when I was in church about as often as a total eclipse of the sun. Starting in college and for about the next 15 years, I may have darkened a church’s doorstep maybe three times; once for a funeral, once for a wedding, and one memorable Sunday in Sandpoint, Idaho.

It'd been a difficult first few months living in Sandpoint and working at KSPT and KPND-FM. Not much was going well. The weather was cold, the job was a real grind, I was single with no vision of that ever changing. I just wasn't enjoying life. So as 1983 gave way to 1984, I made a New Year’s resolution to change things up. First thing I resolved to do was get myself back into a church. I wanted a fresh start and figured that was a reasonable place to start. And with New Year’s Day falling on Sunday that year, there was no good excuse to put it off. 

So instead of the usual Sunday routine-sleep till 10, head to the Laundromat, drink copious amounts of coffee, do laundry, fold laundry, read the morning paper, go home, put laundry away, go back to sleep- I rolled my butt out of bed and opened the phone book. I didn't know any churches off the top of my head, so used the Yellow Pages church directory to narrow my search. Actually, I just closed my eyes and pointed.

 

The first time I landed on a Christian Scientists listing. Though woefully un-churched, I knew enough to know I didn't want to go there. So I picked again. This time my pinkie landed on the United Methodist Church of Sandpoint. Whew! I'd never been to a Methodist church before, but it sounded mainstream enough for my limited theological tastes.

They offered two Sunday services, at 9 and 11. It was past 8:30 so I was already late for the 9:00 one. But I’d have no trouble making it in time for the 11. I showered, shaved and rummaged for my Sunday go-to-meetin duds. However, not a guy to dress up much, I didn’t have a closet of nice clothes or much to select from. But I did find one white shirt and a “just-in-case-I-need-one” tie so I wouldn't be going out dressed as the abominable radio man.

 

Yet as I drove off, I wondered why was I doing this? Church was boring and, deep down I really didn’t want to go. Plus, I wouldn’t know anybody there, it’d feel awkward, and what if they were, ya know, weird? Worse, what if they thought I was weird? The internal inquisition and thoughts of dread, crackled though my mind like mosquitoes being zapped on a bug light. And suddenly I wanted to turn around and go home.

 

There wasn’t a lot of time to argue with myself, though, because in less than ten minutes I found myself in front of the church. Located in the seven hundred block of Main Street, the building looked fairly new. The walls had a fresh coat of white paint, anyway. There was a little bell tower over the front door which I liked, because it reminded me of the church I went to as a kid. But this place had something else going for it, too- a rather encouraging street number, 711. Perhaps it was a good omen. Perhaps this was exactly where I was meant to be.

 

There were a lot of people going in and out, so as I made my way into the sanctuary it was easy getting lost in the crowd. Instinctively I sought out a seat near the back door and on an aisle, in case I needed to make a quick getaway. And at first I thought I'd made a pretty good choice and briefly felt safe and secure, and almost comfortable. But just before 11, a large family came in and asked if I’d slide over; they had an elderly grandma with a walker who preferred sitting on the end. So I got pushed into the middle, surrounded by a big family to my right and some stragglers to the left who’d filled up the rest of the row. I was now trapped.

 

Less than a minute later, though, the service began and momentarily I was able to forget how squeezed in I felt. The worship order seemed fairly routine; there were some hymns-one I even knew, “Holy, Holy, Holy”- some general announcements, a couple of prayers, an offering, a soloist and then the sermon. By then, I was ready for a nap, but the Reverend was a fairly young guy and a pretty capable speaker. So I didn’t zone out as much as I thought I might. His topic of choice was centered on new beginnings for a new year. Not real original, but what other sermon theme would you expect on a January 1^st? It wasn't half bad either.

At the conclusion of the message, they did communion. Well that’s cool. It'd been a long time since my last communion, but, I thought, what better way to kick off 1984? Yet with so much to be forgiven for since about high school, I wondered if there'd be enough juice in the cup to atone for everything. But even if there wasn’t, with the dawn of the New Year maybe there’d at least be enough for a clean start. I was stoked at the possibility, anyway.

 

Communion, of course, is a solemn ritual and the sanctuary took on a very serious tone. As the bread and juice were passed, quiet background organ music played in the otherwise still room and, except for a couple of stifled coughs, nobody uttered a sound. When the bread basket came to my row, I quietly and reverently took a small piece as it was passed to me, and held it in my lap. The juice followed. And when it was my turn, I removed one of the tiny cups and started to pass the plate on to the person next to me.

But then I dropped the silly thing.

I don’t know how or why it happened but, like an unforced error on an easy ground ball, I simply booted it; or in this case, dropped it. Maybe my palms were sweaty, but it just slipped out of my grasp. As it did, the remaining cups of juice spilled out and the brass holding plate clanked brashly on the polished hardwood floor. Even my own cup of juice sloshed onto my nice white shirt.

When the plate settled, I looked down and saw tiny puddles of commercial grade grape juice pooling at my feet and starting to run everywhere, like a bleeding-out body. The abrupt sharp and clanging racket caused an immediate murmuring and turning of heads with my face, no doubt, already turning as red as the crimson stain on my shirt. And right then and there, I wanted the ground to swallow me up, never to see the light of day again; at least not in this town or in this building.

See? I knew I shouldn’t have gone to church. I just knew it! Why hadn't I trusted my first instinct an hour earlier, to just flee on arrival.

One of the ushers rushed over to assess the mess. He shook his head disapprovingly- right at me- and I swear his face registered something like, "Nice going, ass hole". But then he gently pushed his hands out in front of him, as if to non-verbally assure me that all was okay, it'd be taken care of, don't worry. Then another guy brought another juice plate, and passed it down for the rest of the row that didn't get any the first time. But as it came my way, I kept my hands folded and let the guy on the right pass it around me to the lady on my left. I didn't even want to breathe on the thing.

 

The lady let me take a new cup of juice and smiled at me, too- though probably more out of pity than because we were sharing a funny moment. And though I'd made a mess in His house, I wondered if God kind of saw the humor in it, too.  

 

But there I was, in a new, unfamiliar situation and wishing to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and what do I do? Drop the communion plate--loudly--in the middle of the service. Had I been much of a praying man then, I'd have prayed for someone to lead me to the nearest bus and instruct the driver to kindly run over me.

 

I hung my head in shame. It was humiliating. I'd disrupted the service and made a fool of myself but there was no place to hide. I was still stuck in the middle of that long, long pew with no easy way out. And I never knew this before, but there's something dreadfully unpleasant about sitting in church drenched in grape juice, and feeling like every pair of eyes behind you is boring into the back of your head. Welcome to my world. Fortunately, I didn’t have to bare this cross much longer. After Communion and another song, the benediction and dismissal, I scrambled out of there as if my clothes were on fire.

But before I could make a final escape, the few people who dared speak to me were gracious and offered general words of comfort:

 

It could happen to anyone.

 

Some of the older folks were asleep. You just woke them up.

 

The floor needed cleaning anyway.

 

Hahaha. I plastered on the 'ol fake smile, thanked them, wished them a nice day and practically sprinted to the car like the cops were after me, never to set foot in that church, or any other Sandpoint house of worship, again. 

But eventually, a few years later- in a new state and town and far from Sandpoint, Idaho- I dipped my toes into the proverbial pool of religion once more and found sanctuary and forgiveness in God's house. And this time, I stayed and went back. And in all those Sundays since, have yet to spill the Communion juice again.

And after Sandpoint, I haven't made many more New Year’s resolutions, either.