Someday I'd like to meet the person that one day sat down to decorate the public restroom in their place of business and thought "wouldn't it be really cool to hang something interesting in front of the man using the urinal so that he can be entertained while he relieves himself?"
We've all seen them. Well, we men, anyway. Anything hung in the ladies' stalls would be difficult to see since it would be hanging behind their heads. But I've been in public restrooms that have had flat screen TVs mounted in the wall at head level (watch it!) so you can get a racing sports update while you whiz. (I'm sorry, I just couldn't pass that one up). Or watch a linebacker unload on a running back (sorry again - I can't help myself). Or see Coach Knight get pi--... Okay, I'm going to stop now.
There have also been the day's newspaper mounted to the wall. That one made good sense. Leaving newspapers laying in the restroom has never been too high on the hygiene list, and it doesn't work if you're standing to - well, you know. So placing the newspaper in a glass frame was genius, in my humble opinion. "But what if you need to turn the page?" you ask. Just how long do you need to do Number One, anyway? remember, this is the stand up urinal. People are waiting behind you. Finish and move on.
And wash your hands.
Tonight's visit to the Necessary Room was a bit different, however. This was a nice restaurant, the three figure kind when you pay the bill. Hey, it was Valentine's. I go in and begin to...begin. Once it has started and you know you aren't missing the mark, you no longer need to look down. (Yes, ladies, some of us do try to keep the stream on target). It's then I notice the restaurant management has chosen some old black and white photos in keeping with the restaurant and bar theme mounted on the walls. A couple of photo prints are near the sink but not above it. They're just wall decor. But there are two nicely framed photos mounted at the two urinal stalls. The one directly in front of me is one from some restaurant at the top of a high rise building, I assume, based on the view outside the restaurant. Two men wearing 1960's thin ties and suits are sitting at a table next to a high view window and a demure Asian waitress is standing beside them, all smiles. They're smiling at her, she's smiling at them. It's obviously a posed promotional photo for whatever restaurant she worked in at the time.
Now I'm thinking to myself "I wonder when these fine people posed for this photo if they could have possibly suspected that their faces would be giving me something to occupy my wandering mind while I completed the digestive cycle of the liquids I had consumed at this particular eatery?"
So now I'm becoming interested in what the subject matter could be in the photo mounted above the stall next to me. I started to look but the stall next to me was occupied by another middle aged man trying to hit his mark so I refrained from peering over. Yes, this is something that men do NOT do in the public restroom. I speak of The Look Over.
Maybe that's why the guy cooked up the photo in the urinal idea. To help keep the pi --, I mean peace - in the restroom.
Okay, I'm done now. And yes, I always wash my hands. Like a surgeon, so I'm told.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Campfire stories
I like to hike.
Now mind you, I haven't ever completed one of those types of hikes you read about in Sierra Magazine about trekking along the complete Appalachian Trail that people with either lots of money or absolutely no bills take off six months for to test their mettle. I think the longest hike I took was at Ray Roberts State Park, which totaled about 11 miles round trip. My hamstrings hurt so bad for the last two miles of that hike that I was having true difficulty walking. It wasn't the most interesting trail I'd ever seen, either. It was a fairly warm day and it's a popular equestrian trail as well as for the two legged kind of hiker. That means there are long stretches of treeless, open areas and a little too much generosity of manure for my liking. But there have been other jaunts that were more enjoyable.
I think I attribute this love to traipsing through the woods (we Texans call it "the woods" versus "The Forest") to the fact that I grew up being exposed to the great outdoors on a relatively few but memorable occasions. I recall, when my age was in the single digits, my Dad getting the big family tent down from the open attic area of the detached, single car garage that he had built himself in our back yard after our family grew too big for the wood frame two bedroom house. The then-attached single car garage was turned into a bedroom resulting in the need for the detached version.
He'd roll out the dull bluish green canvas family size tent and check to make sure there were no tears or holes that had "developed" during storage and that he had all the necessary poles and stakes. We'd get up super early the day of the trip, after he'd already loaded up the tent and other gear in and onto the 1960 Chevy station wagon, and head out while it was still dark. I only really recall us doing this one time and I suspect it was because the trip I mention didn't go as well as one might hope.
We traveled to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and set up camp. I think we did have one or two good days of camping before the rain set in on the Tennessee side of the ridge. It was then that I discovered why we weren't supposed to "touch" the tent when it was raining. The coating on the canvas, as anyone over the age of 40 today might recall, would lose its water repelling qualities if you touched the tent material while it was wet. The result? You and anything else or anyone else got damp that was near the affected area.
So the next night we moved to the North Carolina side of the ridge. Was there rain? No.
But at night the temperature dropped down below freezing.
When the temps drop down below freezing and some of the gear is still damp from the night before, the camping euphoria fades as quickly as the campfire flames do during a downpour. I do recall us all getting loaded into the car in the middle of the night and going to a motel.
Bed sheets never, ever felt so warm. Or dry.
While we slept in the next morning, Dad got up and drove back to the camp site, I think, and broke down the camp.
I think the fact that camping was as much, or more, work for Mom as staying at home would be was the reason we didn't break out the camping gear again.
Following this family version of camping experience, I attended a Dallas Parks and Recreation sponsored summer camp. These weren't overnight stays but were day camps in which we learned how to make a Hobo stove from a large coffee can, among a few other things which now escape my memory. (Of course I remember the things that involved cooking and fire). I also learned to not lay your new pocket knife down and expect it to still be there some minutes later. Well, it definitely wasn't church camp.
Speaking of which, my future "brushes" with Nature came at church related camps during the summer. There was R.A. camp, pre-teen camp, and youth camp, all which were held at Mount Lebanon Baptist Encampment in Cedar Hill. It seemed so far away when we were kids, and I guess it was in those days. Cedar Hill is now a bustling suburb and Mount Lebanon, while still there, is now squeezed in between the southernmost neighborhoods of Cedar Hill and the ever growing city of Midlothian.
These camps were oodles of fun. There were no tents involved, since the Baptist Association had the foresight to build cabins and some of the larger churches had their own lodges, a bit nicer version of the aforementioned cabins. There were many things learned at these church camps - things other than the Ten Commandments and Bible verses. Important things, like just how big a welt a towel can leave if someone twirls it tight enough and has a wicked whip action with it.
Hey, it wasn't me that proved that fact of physics. I just witnessed it.
I loved attending this particular camp facility so much I ended up joining the Recreation Staff after graduating high school one summer. Creatively, it was called the "Wreck Staff".
It was during this employment stint that I began drinking coffee black. I think the average hours of sleep per night were about four.
Following the church youth and church camp staff experiences were several camping outings with college fraternity brothers. Attending a university that offers a Doctorate in Forestry and being a member of a fraternity with its origins in the Boy Scouts made an easy segue into camping. (Before you wonder, no, my degree wasn't in Forestry). We'd drive an hour or so out of town to the Boy Scout Explorer camp and see just how disgusting we all could look after waking up in a sleeping bag a couple of days without a shower. Hey, there wasn't any hot water and it wasn't summer in Texas. If it was only two nights without a shower I could live with myself, so long as I hadn't fallen into a pig slop. As for anyone else, they were guys. We weren't getting THAT close to each other.
There were flash light wars that honed one's ability to camouflage themselves, or at least manage to stay quiet and even accidentally fall asleep while buried under a layer of leaves. If we'd have been the kids at the camp where Jason in the movie "Friday the 13th" hung out, it would have been a very boring movie. No one would have died. We were all hidden too well. And there were no women to scream.
We even incorporated camping into our Spring formals on occasion. Well, at least one night of it. Sure, we'd all find a place to get all gussied up for the formal event, but the rest of the time it was sleeping rolls and camp fires, complete with a chuck wagon load of brewskies. I learned that when you set up your spot to sleep, make sure it's on level ground and not on a slope. You'd think I'd have figured this little factoid out before college.
Once again, I didn't really drink much of said chuck wagon load. I just witnessed it. (I was more of a wine sipper in those days).
So now lately I have been having the urge to actually go camping. Now I know my physical limits, and want the experience to actually be pleasurable before, during and after. This means no sleeping bag or hammock. There will be use of the finest outdoor sleeping technology available, namely, the inflatable mattress. And despite the current desire to go camping sooner than later, it will be when the night temps are not in the extreme lower or upper digits.
But I do long to smell the smoke of a campfire and hear the wood crackle and hiss with the drippings of hotdogs and marshmallows on a stick. Separately, of course.
Then I'll pop my blood sugar and cholesterol meds in my mouth, wash it down with a swig from the trusty bottled water since no one uses canteens anymore, curl up on my felt lined inflated mattress with its pillow top technology and watch the stars twinkle until I doze off. Which usually only takes me about three minutes.
What kind of tent will I use? Whaddaya, nuts? I make a decent living. Minimally, I'm renting a shelter. I like listening to the occasional summer rain while sleeping, not feeling it.
Now mind you, I haven't ever completed one of those types of hikes you read about in Sierra Magazine about trekking along the complete Appalachian Trail that people with either lots of money or absolutely no bills take off six months for to test their mettle. I think the longest hike I took was at Ray Roberts State Park, which totaled about 11 miles round trip. My hamstrings hurt so bad for the last two miles of that hike that I was having true difficulty walking. It wasn't the most interesting trail I'd ever seen, either. It was a fairly warm day and it's a popular equestrian trail as well as for the two legged kind of hiker. That means there are long stretches of treeless, open areas and a little too much generosity of manure for my liking. But there have been other jaunts that were more enjoyable.
I think I attribute this love to traipsing through the woods (we Texans call it "the woods" versus "The Forest") to the fact that I grew up being exposed to the great outdoors on a relatively few but memorable occasions. I recall, when my age was in the single digits, my Dad getting the big family tent down from the open attic area of the detached, single car garage that he had built himself in our back yard after our family grew too big for the wood frame two bedroom house. The then-attached single car garage was turned into a bedroom resulting in the need for the detached version.
He'd roll out the dull bluish green canvas family size tent and check to make sure there were no tears or holes that had "developed" during storage and that he had all the necessary poles and stakes. We'd get up super early the day of the trip, after he'd already loaded up the tent and other gear in and onto the 1960 Chevy station wagon, and head out while it was still dark. I only really recall us doing this one time and I suspect it was because the trip I mention didn't go as well as one might hope.
We traveled to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and set up camp. I think we did have one or two good days of camping before the rain set in on the Tennessee side of the ridge. It was then that I discovered why we weren't supposed to "touch" the tent when it was raining. The coating on the canvas, as anyone over the age of 40 today might recall, would lose its water repelling qualities if you touched the tent material while it was wet. The result? You and anything else or anyone else got damp that was near the affected area.
So the next night we moved to the North Carolina side of the ridge. Was there rain? No.
But at night the temperature dropped down below freezing.
When the temps drop down below freezing and some of the gear is still damp from the night before, the camping euphoria fades as quickly as the campfire flames do during a downpour. I do recall us all getting loaded into the car in the middle of the night and going to a motel.
Bed sheets never, ever felt so warm. Or dry.
While we slept in the next morning, Dad got up and drove back to the camp site, I think, and broke down the camp.
I think the fact that camping was as much, or more, work for Mom as staying at home would be was the reason we didn't break out the camping gear again.
Following this family version of camping experience, I attended a Dallas Parks and Recreation sponsored summer camp. These weren't overnight stays but were day camps in which we learned how to make a Hobo stove from a large coffee can, among a few other things which now escape my memory. (Of course I remember the things that involved cooking and fire). I also learned to not lay your new pocket knife down and expect it to still be there some minutes later. Well, it definitely wasn't church camp.
Speaking of which, my future "brushes" with Nature came at church related camps during the summer. There was R.A. camp, pre-teen camp, and youth camp, all which were held at Mount Lebanon Baptist Encampment in Cedar Hill. It seemed so far away when we were kids, and I guess it was in those days. Cedar Hill is now a bustling suburb and Mount Lebanon, while still there, is now squeezed in between the southernmost neighborhoods of Cedar Hill and the ever growing city of Midlothian.
These camps were oodles of fun. There were no tents involved, since the Baptist Association had the foresight to build cabins and some of the larger churches had their own lodges, a bit nicer version of the aforementioned cabins. There were many things learned at these church camps - things other than the Ten Commandments and Bible verses. Important things, like just how big a welt a towel can leave if someone twirls it tight enough and has a wicked whip action with it.
Hey, it wasn't me that proved that fact of physics. I just witnessed it.
I loved attending this particular camp facility so much I ended up joining the Recreation Staff after graduating high school one summer. Creatively, it was called the "Wreck Staff".
It was during this employment stint that I began drinking coffee black. I think the average hours of sleep per night were about four.
Following the church youth and church camp staff experiences were several camping outings with college fraternity brothers. Attending a university that offers a Doctorate in Forestry and being a member of a fraternity with its origins in the Boy Scouts made an easy segue into camping. (Before you wonder, no, my degree wasn't in Forestry). We'd drive an hour or so out of town to the Boy Scout Explorer camp and see just how disgusting we all could look after waking up in a sleeping bag a couple of days without a shower. Hey, there wasn't any hot water and it wasn't summer in Texas. If it was only two nights without a shower I could live with myself, so long as I hadn't fallen into a pig slop. As for anyone else, they were guys. We weren't getting THAT close to each other.
There were flash light wars that honed one's ability to camouflage themselves, or at least manage to stay quiet and even accidentally fall asleep while buried under a layer of leaves. If we'd have been the kids at the camp where Jason in the movie "Friday the 13th" hung out, it would have been a very boring movie. No one would have died. We were all hidden too well. And there were no women to scream.
We even incorporated camping into our Spring formals on occasion. Well, at least one night of it. Sure, we'd all find a place to get all gussied up for the formal event, but the rest of the time it was sleeping rolls and camp fires, complete with a chuck wagon load of brewskies. I learned that when you set up your spot to sleep, make sure it's on level ground and not on a slope. You'd think I'd have figured this little factoid out before college.
Once again, I didn't really drink much of said chuck wagon load. I just witnessed it. (I was more of a wine sipper in those days).
So now lately I have been having the urge to actually go camping. Now I know my physical limits, and want the experience to actually be pleasurable before, during and after. This means no sleeping bag or hammock. There will be use of the finest outdoor sleeping technology available, namely, the inflatable mattress. And despite the current desire to go camping sooner than later, it will be when the night temps are not in the extreme lower or upper digits.
But I do long to smell the smoke of a campfire and hear the wood crackle and hiss with the drippings of hotdogs and marshmallows on a stick. Separately, of course.
Then I'll pop my blood sugar and cholesterol meds in my mouth, wash it down with a swig from the trusty bottled water since no one uses canteens anymore, curl up on my felt lined inflated mattress with its pillow top technology and watch the stars twinkle until I doze off. Which usually only takes me about three minutes.
What kind of tent will I use? Whaddaya, nuts? I make a decent living. Minimally, I'm renting a shelter. I like listening to the occasional summer rain while sleeping, not feeling it.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
"Peace in 1944": Our high school production of "Diary" takes the cake
It's funny how listening to the on again, off again sound of rain falling on the house puts me in the mood to sit back in my office chair, upholstered by yours truly in the army olive drab WWII U.S. Army surplus wool blanket, and think back in retrospect to those days in high school when I performed in various school plays and musicals. Rainy weather also puts me in the mood to lean forward in said chair and scroll through the social network of choice to see who else has so little to do this holiday season that they are also signed into the network.
And last, but not least, rainy weather puts me in the mood to write.
So, combine old high school memories, seeing friends from the high school years on line, and the rain induced urge to write, and you have this latest story.
Those friends from high school will take note that I avoided using the phrase "old high school friends". You're welcome.
(Rain also has a more, shall we say, physical affect on me, but fortunately I took care of that shortly after dinner).
I briefly chatted with one member of our high school theatrical clan this evening and the memory of a specific play popped into my head. Memories, for me anyway, come up in clusters, like a key word search engine. First there's the play, then the funny stories or pranks that occurred in that play's rehearsal or performance. Then the memory jumps to a vacation years later.
As I have stated in a past blog, allow me to 'splain myself.
The person whose digital persona that graced my laptop screen this evening portrayed Mrs. Frank in the play "The Diary of Anne Frank". I (as many of my friends will hopefully remember) played Peter Van Daan, the character of a 16 year old boy who was also hiding with his family in the multi-level building during the Nazi occupation of Holland.
The scene we performed that comes to my mind out of the entire production is a scene in which the entire cast is gathered around the kitchen table to celebrate the New Year holiday. Anyone who either acted in this play or has seen the old movie of the production will remember that someone brings in a cake and sets it on the table. One of the characters (I don't recall which one) verbalizes they remember each year how the character that baked the cake would write on the icing of the cake "Peace in 19... blank blank" (whatever year that was being celebrated). "Peace in 1942, Peace in 1943", et cetera.
So the character quoting their line reads out loud what is purported to be on this cake, with its white icing, sitting on the set's kitchen table: "Peace in 1944".
Only it didn't really read "Peace in 1944".
It read "Piss in 1944".
There was always someone on the stage crew who apparently felt we actors needed to repeatedly test our ability to stay in character regardless of the form of distraction. Sometimes they felt that these "tests" should take place in a real performance.
Fortunately, handwritten red icing on an 8 inch diameter white cake can't easily be read by audience members sitting several yards away in a huge high school auditorium, most of whom are at eye level with the floor of the stage. There was, I'm sure, a lot of lip biting going on during that scene by most of us surrounding that table. The audience probably thought we were accurately depicting the emotions of those characters, locked away for years, hiding from the evil oppressors, wondering if peace would ever come.
Nope, we were just a small troupe of high school actors valiantly maintaining control and trying not to...peace on ourselves in laughter.
As for the vacation part of the memory, this little stunt came back to mind while my wife and I visited the Anne Frank House Museum in Amsterdam, The Netherlands a few years ago. While the multiple floors and rooms obviously differed somewhat from the set structure I recall from my Thespian days, the actual kitchen layout was exactly as it was on our high school set. The various beds and curtains set up in the museum were replicas of the ones actually used back in the 1940's, but the museum building was the actual business and home of the Franks and this museum kitchen counter was the actual counter used by the Franks and their Jewish guests who hid along with them from the German Nazis. The humanity of their plight hit me like - well, the rain currently hitting my own roof - when I saw the worn area where they must have used the kitchen knife to cut up the evening meal's meager vegetables and occasional meat that Miep would sneak into their humble hideout under the suspicious eyes of the Gestapo.
That was a very strange sensation, the hilarity of the high school play prank memories mixed in with the historic reality I was seeing and touching in front of me. The fact that a young boy, who was the same age that I was when I played his character, experienced a much different reality than I did as a young teenager, and spent what was to be his last few years sitting in this very room, eating food prepared on this very wood kitchen counter, smuggled past the tormentors who would eventually be the actors in his undoing.
Incidentally I also learned that my character's actual name was Peter van Pels. Anne apparently was known to use pseudonyms in her diary for some of the other family members that stayed in the house.
I was in one other play and a number of musicals during my high school educational experience. I have some golden memories from those productions as well. One evening I chased one of my fellow cast members of our high school production of "M*A*S*H" around the high school parking lot near the fine arts wing a few minutes before a performance while we clowned around. I think it was in retaliation for some wisecrack or prank he pulled on me. What I didn't know is that he had, just before, taken a Valium to ease his nerves a bit.
As always, I will leave out the specific name of said individual. There were a few of his lines that night that suffered a sort of dyslexia, an unfortunate side affect of the drug being pumped a bit more quickly through his veins than was originally intended by its pharmaceutical designer.
Example: Instead of hearing him speak his line "I received the call from General Hammond" it came out "I received the hall from General Cammond".
No one in the audience seemed to notice. Somewhat like no one noticed the cake inscription in our production of "Diary".
Ahhh, those high school theatrical productions. Whether or not the play prop list included any baked desserts, they always did take the cake.
And last, but not least, rainy weather puts me in the mood to write.
So, combine old high school memories, seeing friends from the high school years on line, and the rain induced urge to write, and you have this latest story.
Those friends from high school will take note that I avoided using the phrase "old high school friends". You're welcome.
(Rain also has a more, shall we say, physical affect on me, but fortunately I took care of that shortly after dinner).
I briefly chatted with one member of our high school theatrical clan this evening and the memory of a specific play popped into my head. Memories, for me anyway, come up in clusters, like a key word search engine. First there's the play, then the funny stories or pranks that occurred in that play's rehearsal or performance. Then the memory jumps to a vacation years later.
As I have stated in a past blog, allow me to 'splain myself.
The person whose digital persona that graced my laptop screen this evening portrayed Mrs. Frank in the play "The Diary of Anne Frank". I (as many of my friends will hopefully remember) played Peter Van Daan, the character of a 16 year old boy who was also hiding with his family in the multi-level building during the Nazi occupation of Holland.
The scene we performed that comes to my mind out of the entire production is a scene in which the entire cast is gathered around the kitchen table to celebrate the New Year holiday. Anyone who either acted in this play or has seen the old movie of the production will remember that someone brings in a cake and sets it on the table. One of the characters (I don't recall which one) verbalizes they remember each year how the character that baked the cake would write on the icing of the cake "Peace in 19... blank blank" (whatever year that was being celebrated). "Peace in 1942, Peace in 1943", et cetera.
So the character quoting their line reads out loud what is purported to be on this cake, with its white icing, sitting on the set's kitchen table: "Peace in 1944".
Only it didn't really read "Peace in 1944".
It read "Piss in 1944".
There was always someone on the stage crew who apparently felt we actors needed to repeatedly test our ability to stay in character regardless of the form of distraction. Sometimes they felt that these "tests" should take place in a real performance.
Fortunately, handwritten red icing on an 8 inch diameter white cake can't easily be read by audience members sitting several yards away in a huge high school auditorium, most of whom are at eye level with the floor of the stage. There was, I'm sure, a lot of lip biting going on during that scene by most of us surrounding that table. The audience probably thought we were accurately depicting the emotions of those characters, locked away for years, hiding from the evil oppressors, wondering if peace would ever come.
Nope, we were just a small troupe of high school actors valiantly maintaining control and trying not to...peace on ourselves in laughter.
As for the vacation part of the memory, this little stunt came back to mind while my wife and I visited the Anne Frank House Museum in Amsterdam, The Netherlands a few years ago. While the multiple floors and rooms obviously differed somewhat from the set structure I recall from my Thespian days, the actual kitchen layout was exactly as it was on our high school set. The various beds and curtains set up in the museum were replicas of the ones actually used back in the 1940's, but the museum building was the actual business and home of the Franks and this museum kitchen counter was the actual counter used by the Franks and their Jewish guests who hid along with them from the German Nazis. The humanity of their plight hit me like - well, the rain currently hitting my own roof - when I saw the worn area where they must have used the kitchen knife to cut up the evening meal's meager vegetables and occasional meat that Miep would sneak into their humble hideout under the suspicious eyes of the Gestapo.
That was a very strange sensation, the hilarity of the high school play prank memories mixed in with the historic reality I was seeing and touching in front of me. The fact that a young boy, who was the same age that I was when I played his character, experienced a much different reality than I did as a young teenager, and spent what was to be his last few years sitting in this very room, eating food prepared on this very wood kitchen counter, smuggled past the tormentors who would eventually be the actors in his undoing.
Incidentally I also learned that my character's actual name was Peter van Pels. Anne apparently was known to use pseudonyms in her diary for some of the other family members that stayed in the house.
I was in one other play and a number of musicals during my high school educational experience. I have some golden memories from those productions as well. One evening I chased one of my fellow cast members of our high school production of "M*A*S*H" around the high school parking lot near the fine arts wing a few minutes before a performance while we clowned around. I think it was in retaliation for some wisecrack or prank he pulled on me. What I didn't know is that he had, just before, taken a Valium to ease his nerves a bit.
As always, I will leave out the specific name of said individual. There were a few of his lines that night that suffered a sort of dyslexia, an unfortunate side affect of the drug being pumped a bit more quickly through his veins than was originally intended by its pharmaceutical designer.
Example: Instead of hearing him speak his line "I received the call from General Hammond" it came out "I received the hall from General Cammond".
No one in the audience seemed to notice. Somewhat like no one noticed the cake inscription in our production of "Diary".
Ahhh, those high school theatrical productions. Whether or not the play prop list included any baked desserts, they always did take the cake.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Thanksgiving Abroad: Days following "Over the river and through the woods"
It's 5:00 o'clock PM.
I know this without looking at an actual clock because I have an old cheapie wrist watch apparently given to me by a former co-worker that has an alarm which is set to go off at this time. Well, it's actually set to go off at 18:00, which is 6:00pm on the 24 hour clock, but this watch has not been reset for Daylight Savings Time. The reason the alarm has not been deactivated and the time has not been reset is because the instruction booklet for the watch was not included when this little timepiece was left on my desk following the former co-worker's exit from the company. (Incidentally, she left of her own accord, a career change choice).
The reason I have a watch that I don't know how to operate? Hey, it was free. And it's the only one out of four watches I own that the battery hasn't run down and that the wrist band hasn't recently broken.
Okay, so the primary reason is I procrastinate when it comes to buying watch batteries and similar small tasks.
But as I stated, it's five o'clock in the evening on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. And my throat is a little scratchy. Since we are staying with good lifetime friends who don't have the days off leading up to this wonderful holiday to otherwise entertain us, I have had a little idle time to speculate if the source of this esophageal annoyance was from various co-workers (still present at work) who had coughs and sniffles the week prior to my departure, or if the house dust cleaning completed the day before we left town infected me, or if the germs are from my lovely spouse who recently mentioned her own throat related symptoms revealing themselves to her a couple of days before our jaunt across two mid sized states.
After some careful thought, I'm going with a combination of all three. It was a multi-tiered attack.
On a tangent, does anyone else wonder how the advertising staff that wrote and filmed the latest Santa's workshop themed ad for T-Mobile could have missed the fact that the hot pink wigged elves singing the lyrics "something in a 4G wonderland" sounds like "something in an orgy wonderland"? No, I don't have a dirty mind. It just sounded that way the very first time I overheard it playing on the TV and it makes me chuckle now every time it comes on.
I blame the above digression on the nine hour and twenty minute drive. Yes, I've had an entire day to recover from that little trek, but as stated before, we're all somewhat waiting on the holiday to arrive. So the mind wanders aimlessly.
This trip has taught me a few things which I will now share with my readers. To practice for the upcoming List of All For Which I Am Thankful, I will share these "few things" in classic "list" fashion:
(1) The instrument panel - also commonly known as the dashboard - of the current model Volkswagen Beetle makes a top notch eating tray as you drive down the highway after making a fast food stop.
(2) You will never see deer in the "Deer Crossing" zones that are dutifully advertised by those bright yellow diamond shaped signs. You will see them, however, running along the entrance ramp to the freeway in a large metropolitan industrial area long after the "zone" warning has expired.
(3) Remember to dress for your destination when you leave your house, particularly if you live in a warmer climate and are driving Northbound. (Now the shorts do come in handy for comfortable clothing to wear around the house. They aren't so good when you have to move your car out of the driveway for someone to leave the house).
(4) Nothing makes you realize just how much too long it has been since you have last visited your friends than their children being able to practically look you level in the eye without standing so much as on tippy-toe. (To do so the last time we were here would have required standing on a chair).
(5) Never forget any of your prescriptions when you travel. I was almost driven to request a new prescription to alleviate stress suffered from trying to arrange for a short 6 day script to be filled at a pharmacy local to where we are staying.
Now that my typing fingers are warmed up, I can proceed on to the personal Thanksgiving List. This must be done now since the next few days will be spent preparing for The Meal, The Game, The Post Meal Nap, The Biggest (Biggest...biggest) Shopping Day Of The Year (the second two "biggest"s were tractor pull-esque announcement echoes) and The Return Drive. These items are not in any certain order.
I am thankful...
(1)...for the physical, mental, and financial ability to be able to write this list in this fashion. This means having my hands and eyes and intact thought processes, the education to utilize them, and the income to afford the tools and the electricity to power said tools.
(2)...for the vehicle that brought us here and the safe journey to get here. Hey, if there is anything I have learned in my line of work, it is that a lot of people do not have comfortable or even reliable transportation to get from A to B.
(3)...for the other person in the aforementioned "us". That would be my wife.
(4)...for the friends who now host us in their home.
(5)...for the other friends who are also visiting with us.
(6)...for the children of our friends. They give me real hope for the future of our society, our nation and our planet.
(7)...for the steady employment that provides the income I earn and the health insurance that helps keep me moving. Without the income....well, I try not to think about that. Too many people have to live with that these days. Or I guess I should say withOUT that.
(8)...for those who are working in far flung parts of the globe in uniform, away from their families, and who have more to worry about when they drive on the road than whether or not they'll hit a deer. Here's a big "Hooah" to your coming home soon, mission accomplished.
(9)...for the food, of course, that we enjoy; not just on Thanksgiving Day, but every meal we have, regardless of whether we consume it from the dashboard of a Beetle, a shiny restaurant booth or at the family table complete with the additional leaf installed.
(10)...for the past memories we will share, the fellowship we will enjoy, and the new memories we will create with our dearest, longtime friends on this Holiday. And if our friends manage to find the time to read this entry between the soccer games, the homework, the turkey basting and the channel surfing, they will see this heartfelt "thank you" for putting us up and for...
...well, for being our friends.
I know this without looking at an actual clock because I have an old cheapie wrist watch apparently given to me by a former co-worker that has an alarm which is set to go off at this time. Well, it's actually set to go off at 18:00, which is 6:00pm on the 24 hour clock, but this watch has not been reset for Daylight Savings Time. The reason the alarm has not been deactivated and the time has not been reset is because the instruction booklet for the watch was not included when this little timepiece was left on my desk following the former co-worker's exit from the company. (Incidentally, she left of her own accord, a career change choice).
The reason I have a watch that I don't know how to operate? Hey, it was free. And it's the only one out of four watches I own that the battery hasn't run down and that the wrist band hasn't recently broken.
Okay, so the primary reason is I procrastinate when it comes to buying watch batteries and similar small tasks.
But as I stated, it's five o'clock in the evening on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. And my throat is a little scratchy. Since we are staying with good lifetime friends who don't have the days off leading up to this wonderful holiday to otherwise entertain us, I have had a little idle time to speculate if the source of this esophageal annoyance was from various co-workers (still present at work) who had coughs and sniffles the week prior to my departure, or if the house dust cleaning completed the day before we left town infected me, or if the germs are from my lovely spouse who recently mentioned her own throat related symptoms revealing themselves to her a couple of days before our jaunt across two mid sized states.
After some careful thought, I'm going with a combination of all three. It was a multi-tiered attack.
On a tangent, does anyone else wonder how the advertising staff that wrote and filmed the latest Santa's workshop themed ad for T-Mobile could have missed the fact that the hot pink wigged elves singing the lyrics "something in a 4G wonderland" sounds like "something in an orgy wonderland"? No, I don't have a dirty mind. It just sounded that way the very first time I overheard it playing on the TV and it makes me chuckle now every time it comes on.
I blame the above digression on the nine hour and twenty minute drive. Yes, I've had an entire day to recover from that little trek, but as stated before, we're all somewhat waiting on the holiday to arrive. So the mind wanders aimlessly.
This trip has taught me a few things which I will now share with my readers. To practice for the upcoming List of All For Which I Am Thankful, I will share these "few things" in classic "list" fashion:
(1) The instrument panel - also commonly known as the dashboard - of the current model Volkswagen Beetle makes a top notch eating tray as you drive down the highway after making a fast food stop.
(2) You will never see deer in the "Deer Crossing" zones that are dutifully advertised by those bright yellow diamond shaped signs. You will see them, however, running along the entrance ramp to the freeway in a large metropolitan industrial area long after the "zone" warning has expired.
(3) Remember to dress for your destination when you leave your house, particularly if you live in a warmer climate and are driving Northbound. (Now the shorts do come in handy for comfortable clothing to wear around the house. They aren't so good when you have to move your car out of the driveway for someone to leave the house).
(4) Nothing makes you realize just how much too long it has been since you have last visited your friends than their children being able to practically look you level in the eye without standing so much as on tippy-toe. (To do so the last time we were here would have required standing on a chair).
(5) Never forget any of your prescriptions when you travel. I was almost driven to request a new prescription to alleviate stress suffered from trying to arrange for a short 6 day script to be filled at a pharmacy local to where we are staying.
Now that my typing fingers are warmed up, I can proceed on to the personal Thanksgiving List. This must be done now since the next few days will be spent preparing for The Meal, The Game, The Post Meal Nap, The Biggest (Biggest...biggest) Shopping Day Of The Year (the second two "biggest"s were tractor pull-esque announcement echoes) and The Return Drive. These items are not in any certain order.
I am thankful...
(1)...for the physical, mental, and financial ability to be able to write this list in this fashion. This means having my hands and eyes and intact thought processes, the education to utilize them, and the income to afford the tools and the electricity to power said tools.
(2)...for the vehicle that brought us here and the safe journey to get here. Hey, if there is anything I have learned in my line of work, it is that a lot of people do not have comfortable or even reliable transportation to get from A to B.
(3)...for the other person in the aforementioned "us". That would be my wife.
(4)...for the friends who now host us in their home.
(5)...for the other friends who are also visiting with us.
(6)...for the children of our friends. They give me real hope for the future of our society, our nation and our planet.
(7)...for the steady employment that provides the income I earn and the health insurance that helps keep me moving. Without the income....well, I try not to think about that. Too many people have to live with that these days. Or I guess I should say withOUT that.
(8)...for those who are working in far flung parts of the globe in uniform, away from their families, and who have more to worry about when they drive on the road than whether or not they'll hit a deer. Here's a big "Hooah" to your coming home soon, mission accomplished.
(9)...for the food, of course, that we enjoy; not just on Thanksgiving Day, but every meal we have, regardless of whether we consume it from the dashboard of a Beetle, a shiny restaurant booth or at the family table complete with the additional leaf installed.
(10)...for the past memories we will share, the fellowship we will enjoy, and the new memories we will create with our dearest, longtime friends on this Holiday. And if our friends manage to find the time to read this entry between the soccer games, the homework, the turkey basting and the channel surfing, they will see this heartfelt "thank you" for putting us up and for...
...well, for being our friends.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
My (belated) personal homage to Veterans Day
Count on me to be a day late with my own personal take in remembering the first Veterans Day in a hundred years to have the date 11/11/11.
As with any speech or presentation, one starts with the "thank yous" to the individuals responsible for one's being in the position to give said speech or presentation. So here goes.
First, I'd like to thank my Dad. If it wasn't for him, I truly wouldn't be here. (That goes double for my Mom, but since I'm writing about veterans, I'll have to save thanking Mom for Mothers Day).
Dad joined the Army Air Corps in WWII and served as a Mechanic, working on B-29 Stratofortresses.
He probably got a nice tan on Guam, which was a major base of operations in the Pacific for the long range bombers my Dad kept in the air.
Next in line are my uncles. My uncle Norman, one of my Dad's older brothers, served in the United States Army and fought at the Battle of the Bulge, if my childhood story memory is correct.
My uncle Joe served in the U.S. Navy in WWII as well. He worked in the morgue, if memory serves, preparing those who sacrificed everything for their last trip back home. He was one of my Mother's older brothers. My Uncle John, my Mother's oldest brother, served in the U.S. Army as well in WWII. He was a cook. When he came home on leave he would bring home gifts like sugar and flour, which were greatly appreciated since much was given up on the home front for the war effort in those days.
We must count our blessings that we give up very little for a war effort nowadays, except for those who have family in harm's way. No gas lines or rationing of basic supplies here any more.
My Uncle Gerald, who married my Dad's only sister, also served in the Army in WWII.
Another brother of my Mother was too young for WWII but served in Korea in the U.S. Air Force. Thank you, Uncle Frank.
My Father in-law, also named Frank, also served in the Air Force between Korea and Vietnam. It was the beginning of the Cold War years. A few of the peace time stories he has told also spoke of some cold weather in remote mid west air bases! Thanks for keeping guard, Frank.
Then in my generation there was my older sister, Pam. She joined the U.S. Marines right out of high school. This decision was right out of left field for my parents. She re-upped after getting out for a few months following her first hitch. I think the first hitch was four years and the second six, or vice versa. I was only around 12 years old so I don't recall.
Then she got hitched to another Marine. The Marines look for a few good men. She found hers.
Which brings me to another same generation veteran, my brother in law Paul. Thank you, Paul, for your service.
One of my cousins had a stint in the Marines, also. Thank you, David, for your time in the uniform.
And Tommy, I appreciate your service in the Air Force.
I have a number of current and former co-workers who have served. Brooks Rose, my thanks go out to you, Marine. Hooah.
Josh Lehmann, I don't know what you did to talk the Army into taking you, you crazy Cajun, but thanks to you as well. Capt. Theresa Sommers, U.S. Army, (and your husband as well), I appreciate your service to our country, doing multiple tours abroad, particularly these days.
To my former Team Lead, Gary McDonald. I might have been too young to really appreciate your service in Vietnam when you were serving, but I certainly do now. Thank you for coming home safe and being a great boss.
Rick Alvarado, U.S. Army, thank you for your time away from your family and your sacrifice. I'm glad you came home safe, too. Rick is married to a former co-worker of mine who, last I knew, was working for Homeland Security.
There may be a few others I haven't mentioned here, but if the lateness of the hour has suppressed my memory of names, forgive me.
As I sit here in my military theme decor home office writing this blog, I look around at the ammo crates I purchased at a local Army/Navy store some years ago that I used to build my desk, shelves and wall cabinets. I gaze at the photos and posters of various military aircraft I have framed and hanging on the wall. I glance up at the camouflage netting "curtains" draped over an old Army tent pole that is resting on old bayonet handles I've mounted to the wall as if they are stuck in the wall itself. I look at these things and wonder just how many sons, husbands, daughters and wives carried these pieces of equipment and supplies and speculate who flew those aircraft over the years that I now admire in these frames. I wonder if they came home to the welcoming arms of their families and spouses or...if they did not. I wonder if any of the ordnance that sat in these wooden crates stopped an advance of an enemy or if they were just used in a training exercise.
I do know one thing. I like Veterans Day. I like that we set aside a 24 hour period to pause and remember the men and women who have served and continue to serve. I know in these times I think about them more than just one day a year. Heck, I usually think about them at least a couple times a week.
To all of those whom I have mentioned above,
Thank you.
As with any speech or presentation, one starts with the "thank yous" to the individuals responsible for one's being in the position to give said speech or presentation. So here goes.
First, I'd like to thank my Dad. If it wasn't for him, I truly wouldn't be here. (That goes double for my Mom, but since I'm writing about veterans, I'll have to save thanking Mom for Mothers Day).
Dad joined the Army Air Corps in WWII and served as a Mechanic, working on B-29 Stratofortresses.
He probably got a nice tan on Guam, which was a major base of operations in the Pacific for the long range bombers my Dad kept in the air.
Next in line are my uncles. My uncle Norman, one of my Dad's older brothers, served in the United States Army and fought at the Battle of the Bulge, if my childhood story memory is correct.
My uncle Joe served in the U.S. Navy in WWII as well. He worked in the morgue, if memory serves, preparing those who sacrificed everything for their last trip back home. He was one of my Mother's older brothers. My Uncle John, my Mother's oldest brother, served in the U.S. Army as well in WWII. He was a cook. When he came home on leave he would bring home gifts like sugar and flour, which were greatly appreciated since much was given up on the home front for the war effort in those days.
We must count our blessings that we give up very little for a war effort nowadays, except for those who have family in harm's way. No gas lines or rationing of basic supplies here any more.
My Uncle Gerald, who married my Dad's only sister, also served in the Army in WWII.
Another brother of my Mother was too young for WWII but served in Korea in the U.S. Air Force. Thank you, Uncle Frank.
My Father in-law, also named Frank, also served in the Air Force between Korea and Vietnam. It was the beginning of the Cold War years. A few of the peace time stories he has told also spoke of some cold weather in remote mid west air bases! Thanks for keeping guard, Frank.
Then in my generation there was my older sister, Pam. She joined the U.S. Marines right out of high school. This decision was right out of left field for my parents. She re-upped after getting out for a few months following her first hitch. I think the first hitch was four years and the second six, or vice versa. I was only around 12 years old so I don't recall.
Then she got hitched to another Marine. The Marines look for a few good men. She found hers.
Which brings me to another same generation veteran, my brother in law Paul. Thank you, Paul, for your service.
One of my cousins had a stint in the Marines, also. Thank you, David, for your time in the uniform.
And Tommy, I appreciate your service in the Air Force.
I have a number of current and former co-workers who have served. Brooks Rose, my thanks go out to you, Marine. Hooah.
Josh Lehmann, I don't know what you did to talk the Army into taking you, you crazy Cajun, but thanks to you as well. Capt. Theresa Sommers, U.S. Army, (and your husband as well), I appreciate your service to our country, doing multiple tours abroad, particularly these days.
To my former Team Lead, Gary McDonald. I might have been too young to really appreciate your service in Vietnam when you were serving, but I certainly do now. Thank you for coming home safe and being a great boss.
Rick Alvarado, U.S. Army, thank you for your time away from your family and your sacrifice. I'm glad you came home safe, too. Rick is married to a former co-worker of mine who, last I knew, was working for Homeland Security.
There may be a few others I haven't mentioned here, but if the lateness of the hour has suppressed my memory of names, forgive me.
As I sit here in my military theme decor home office writing this blog, I look around at the ammo crates I purchased at a local Army/Navy store some years ago that I used to build my desk, shelves and wall cabinets. I gaze at the photos and posters of various military aircraft I have framed and hanging on the wall. I glance up at the camouflage netting "curtains" draped over an old Army tent pole that is resting on old bayonet handles I've mounted to the wall as if they are stuck in the wall itself. I look at these things and wonder just how many sons, husbands, daughters and wives carried these pieces of equipment and supplies and speculate who flew those aircraft over the years that I now admire in these frames. I wonder if they came home to the welcoming arms of their families and spouses or...if they did not. I wonder if any of the ordnance that sat in these wooden crates stopped an advance of an enemy or if they were just used in a training exercise.
I do know one thing. I like Veterans Day. I like that we set aside a 24 hour period to pause and remember the men and women who have served and continue to serve. I know in these times I think about them more than just one day a year. Heck, I usually think about them at least a couple times a week.
To all of those whom I have mentioned above,
Thank you.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Good fences make good times
I didn't always have such a cushy job.
One thing about having to work for a living from the time you could (legally) drive a car is that you learn to appreciate the employment you have as an older adult. I have had many jobs, the first being the typical paper route type, of which I had two different routes. Wait, back up a minute. There was that convenience store short, short, short term job I had when I was roughly thirteen before the paper routes. A school buddy of mine named Ronald, a nice red headed kid, hooked us up with an after school gig where we mopped the floor and stocked a few shelves after the store closed and made a few bucks. I think that ended when I slipped once and used the term "pissed off" in front of my parents and my Mom got...well, pissed off. I blurted out that I had heard that term from the store owner when we didn't complete some task as we should have and, well, there went that job.
So, after the store job, I had two paper routes, the larger one fetching enough funds to buy my first ten speed bike and a blue jean jacket, the rave of style in those days.
I looked studly in it. Does anyone remember the term "studly"? No? Anyone? Anyone? Okay, so I looked cool in it. On my ten speed. Which was also blue.
There were a few other pre-college jobs; The Dallas Morning News, where I worked in "Quality Control". The title of the department had nothing to do with what we did. Essentially we filed the ads that they would pull to lay out, shoot the plate for the page to be printed, and then file them back in a large wall of slots. The coolest part of this coveted position was the ability to read the entire week of newspaper comic strips before they went to press. Well, all but Sunday's comics, or "funny papers". Those were full color and kept elsewhere.
You wouldn't think a sophomore in high school would find that part of the job so cool. But we did, because we sat around. A LOT. Easiest minimum wage ever made.
Then came the summer of 1979, following graduation from dear old Kimball High.
My best friend in life was good friends with a guy whose father owned a fence company. Being that neither of us were from what you would call rich stock, we had to work for any money to go anywhere or do anything, so this was prime full time employment. And I didn't even need to drive to work because they would pick me up from home every morning.
Yeah, almost like in the movie Good Will Hunting. Except we weren't THAT poor, we didn't drive down the street and pick fights at random, and we had Texas twangs instead of "Bah'sten" accents.
These were good times. Now I don't know if we found so many things amusing about the job because the heat wave of 1981 (my second summer at this job) fried our brains, or because we were early college age guys enjoying the last days of essentially care free work before we joined the rank and file of working stiffs having to make car and house payments with their employment income. We all still lived at home rent free, our cars were old hunks that were paid for, and our dating lives were...sporadic. So the money we made either went into the bank to eventually pay for books or it paid for FUN.
Most of the fence we built - in fact, ALL - of the fence we built was galvanized chain link. We did have one wood privacy fence job fencing around some pool pump equipment for some woman who had sons our age, and this job ended with us borrowing said sons' swim trunks and hitting the pool.
Like I said, good times.
The first fence job I worked was a large chain link fence job for a really, REALLY old woman somewhere in North Dallas who wanted to keep "those stupid keeids" out of her yard. That job almost gave the crew supervisor - the owner's son - an early heart attack. She couldn't hardly be pleased.
We had some close calls with death, too, on this job. Other than the heat of 1981. We once had a load of sand in the back of our 8 foot bed 1979 Chevy Cheyenne crew cab pickup and blew a tire while traveling in the middle lane of south bound Interstate 35 near downtown Dallas. As luck would have it, the tire tread remnants wrapped around the rear axle and clinched the emergency brake cable so tightly against it that it jerked us to a quick stop IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREEWAY.
I swear that - sounding dangerously close to Rosanna Rosannadanna - I thought I was gonna die.
But we didn't. Months later, while driving down that stretch of historic road, I used to show friends, with pride, the deep gouge in the concrete running from the center lane of five lanes all the way over to the shoulder that was created by our left rear rim - sans tire - when some good Samaritan helped push our truck over to the side of the freeway. Amazingly enough, there were no accidents.
We didn't get much fence built that day.
There were also shenanigans that helped pass the time. You know, pranks.
One day I was too slow getting a nut threaded onto a bolt being held by a straining, trembling hand of a co-worker through the hole of a fence bracket that holds the chain link fence against the pole. So, in retaliation, later that day one of the crew laid some of the fence bolt nuts out in the sun for a few minutes and then casually let one of them drop down my "plumber butt crack" whilst I was crouched down working on....something.
I swear I thought they were going to wet themselves watching me move faster than I ever had in my life to shake that red hot nut down my pants leg. If we hadn't been so dehydrated I think they might actually have stained themselves.
Then once I was pulling up on a wire with my trusty pliers and the pliers slipped off the wire and popped me in the mouth. That was while installing fence along the roof of one of the utility rooms at the Cotton Bowl at Fair Park. I went into a temper tirade for about 15 seconds, throwing tools, buckets, spools of wire everywhere. When I played out, I looked around at the other two workers who were staring at me like I'd lost my mind.
Good times.
I'll be seeing the friend who helped me land that job this Thanksgiving. We'll drive up to see him and his family along with some other friends and we'll probably share other stories that we HAVEN'T heard a hundred times - like these stories - because we've both lived long enough to have experienced just a few more golden moments.
But no story or experience will be about a time where I was so darkly tanned, scratched up from barbed wire, or had fingers (or lips) so bruised up from pliers, pinching brackets, or red hot bolts.
"Good fences make good neighbors"? Maybe, Mr. Frost. but they also make great friendships and even better memories.
One thing about having to work for a living from the time you could (legally) drive a car is that you learn to appreciate the employment you have as an older adult. I have had many jobs, the first being the typical paper route type, of which I had two different routes. Wait, back up a minute. There was that convenience store short, short, short term job I had when I was roughly thirteen before the paper routes. A school buddy of mine named Ronald, a nice red headed kid, hooked us up with an after school gig where we mopped the floor and stocked a few shelves after the store closed and made a few bucks. I think that ended when I slipped once and used the term "pissed off" in front of my parents and my Mom got...well, pissed off. I blurted out that I had heard that term from the store owner when we didn't complete some task as we should have and, well, there went that job.
So, after the store job, I had two paper routes, the larger one fetching enough funds to buy my first ten speed bike and a blue jean jacket, the rave of style in those days.
I looked studly in it. Does anyone remember the term "studly"? No? Anyone? Anyone? Okay, so I looked cool in it. On my ten speed. Which was also blue.
There were a few other pre-college jobs; The Dallas Morning News, where I worked in "Quality Control". The title of the department had nothing to do with what we did. Essentially we filed the ads that they would pull to lay out, shoot the plate for the page to be printed, and then file them back in a large wall of slots. The coolest part of this coveted position was the ability to read the entire week of newspaper comic strips before they went to press. Well, all but Sunday's comics, or "funny papers". Those were full color and kept elsewhere.
You wouldn't think a sophomore in high school would find that part of the job so cool. But we did, because we sat around. A LOT. Easiest minimum wage ever made.
Then came the summer of 1979, following graduation from dear old Kimball High.
My best friend in life was good friends with a guy whose father owned a fence company. Being that neither of us were from what you would call rich stock, we had to work for any money to go anywhere or do anything, so this was prime full time employment. And I didn't even need to drive to work because they would pick me up from home every morning.
Yeah, almost like in the movie Good Will Hunting. Except we weren't THAT poor, we didn't drive down the street and pick fights at random, and we had Texas twangs instead of "Bah'sten" accents.
These were good times. Now I don't know if we found so many things amusing about the job because the heat wave of 1981 (my second summer at this job) fried our brains, or because we were early college age guys enjoying the last days of essentially care free work before we joined the rank and file of working stiffs having to make car and house payments with their employment income. We all still lived at home rent free, our cars were old hunks that were paid for, and our dating lives were...sporadic. So the money we made either went into the bank to eventually pay for books or it paid for FUN.
Most of the fence we built - in fact, ALL - of the fence we built was galvanized chain link. We did have one wood privacy fence job fencing around some pool pump equipment for some woman who had sons our age, and this job ended with us borrowing said sons' swim trunks and hitting the pool.
Like I said, good times.
The first fence job I worked was a large chain link fence job for a really, REALLY old woman somewhere in North Dallas who wanted to keep "those stupid keeids" out of her yard. That job almost gave the crew supervisor - the owner's son - an early heart attack. She couldn't hardly be pleased.
We had some close calls with death, too, on this job. Other than the heat of 1981. We once had a load of sand in the back of our 8 foot bed 1979 Chevy Cheyenne crew cab pickup and blew a tire while traveling in the middle lane of south bound Interstate 35 near downtown Dallas. As luck would have it, the tire tread remnants wrapped around the rear axle and clinched the emergency brake cable so tightly against it that it jerked us to a quick stop IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREEWAY.
I swear that - sounding dangerously close to Rosanna Rosannadanna - I thought I was gonna die.
But we didn't. Months later, while driving down that stretch of historic road, I used to show friends, with pride, the deep gouge in the concrete running from the center lane of five lanes all the way over to the shoulder that was created by our left rear rim - sans tire - when some good Samaritan helped push our truck over to the side of the freeway. Amazingly enough, there were no accidents.
We didn't get much fence built that day.
There were also shenanigans that helped pass the time. You know, pranks.
One day I was too slow getting a nut threaded onto a bolt being held by a straining, trembling hand of a co-worker through the hole of a fence bracket that holds the chain link fence against the pole. So, in retaliation, later that day one of the crew laid some of the fence bolt nuts out in the sun for a few minutes and then casually let one of them drop down my "plumber butt crack" whilst I was crouched down working on....something.
I swear I thought they were going to wet themselves watching me move faster than I ever had in my life to shake that red hot nut down my pants leg. If we hadn't been so dehydrated I think they might actually have stained themselves.
Then once I was pulling up on a wire with my trusty pliers and the pliers slipped off the wire and popped me in the mouth. That was while installing fence along the roof of one of the utility rooms at the Cotton Bowl at Fair Park. I went into a temper tirade for about 15 seconds, throwing tools, buckets, spools of wire everywhere. When I played out, I looked around at the other two workers who were staring at me like I'd lost my mind.
Good times.
I'll be seeing the friend who helped me land that job this Thanksgiving. We'll drive up to see him and his family along with some other friends and we'll probably share other stories that we HAVEN'T heard a hundred times - like these stories - because we've both lived long enough to have experienced just a few more golden moments.
But no story or experience will be about a time where I was so darkly tanned, scratched up from barbed wire, or had fingers (or lips) so bruised up from pliers, pinching brackets, or red hot bolts.
"Good fences make good neighbors"? Maybe, Mr. Frost. but they also make great friendships and even better memories.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The lost TV
When scrolling through the hundreds of satellite channels we have at our disposal on occasion, I am reminded of the choices we had for indoor entertainment when I was but a short first grader with a crew cut and a growing "uni-brow".
The term "disposal" might be a Freudian slip. I seem to recall my Mother saying more than once (a day) that the TV was "trashing" our minds. She also called it the One Eyed god. In hindsight, I suppose we did look like faithful little disciples, kneeling in front of this object, eyes glazed, stares unbroken for hours. I now also appreciate her disdain for a lot of cartoons if watched for too long since we have installed flat screen televisions at work for the customers. The company purchased only four channels - ESPN, CNN, Disney and Nickelodeon, the last two meant to entertain the children of our customers. I can see how the noise of Sponge Bob Square Pants can raise the angst of adults if played loud enough and long enough.
See how TV has affected my brain? I'm off the subject. It must be the influence of the TV remote.
Now some of you may be thinking "Oh, boy, another rant about how 'in MY day' he says they had to use pliers to change the channel and that they only had four stations, etc., etc., ramble ramble ramble."
Nay, nay, (a subliminal influence of Mr. Ed) nay. I assume that most of my audience is my age, so that would be preaching to the choir. Pay close attention, Wilbur, for this is a story that may explain a lot about yours truly. For this is the story of how we lost our TV. For a very long time.
It's early morning on a school day back in January of 1968. How do I remember this when I can't remember why I walk into the kitchen when holding an empty glass? I remember because I was waiting impatiently for something to happen on TV so I could leave for school. And also because what occurred was obviously traumatic. You always remember the traumatic events of your life. I remember when...
Focus, focus.
I was watching my favorite morning show in glistening black and white, framed by a dull 19 inch plastic frame.
Mr. Peppermint. The good thing about black and white TV is that it required imagination. We didn't need color to know those stripes on his jacket were red. Everyone knew peppermint was red and white.
Mr. Peppermint had numerous characters on his show, one being Mr. Wiggly Worm. This was high tech stuff. No computer graphics here. A finger of Mr. Peppermint was poked through a hole in his straw hat. He talked to his finger, essentially. And his finger talked back to him. This was great stuff for the studio, because they were getting two characters for the pay of one actor. And I was enthralled with it. Usually.
but today I was ready to scream at the screen "enough with Mr. Wiggly Worm! Get to the birthday list!!"
Yes, this day was not just any school day. It was my 7th birthday. And I was going to stay in front of this TV set until my name was read by Mr. Peppermint on TEE VEE. (I assume, at this point, that my Mom had mailed in a card or called in my name to the station to be read aloud by Mr. P. I'm sure he wasn't psychic).
As the clock above the set ticked toward departure time for school, I grew more anxious. Hurry up! and PLEASE no commercials right now!!
Then just as Mr. Peppermint was wrapping up the worm show, the screen went black and a puff of smoke akin to the view Oppenheimer must have had those miles way from the first A-bomb test at Los Alamos rose up from the back of the TV set.
No, this is no joke. As God is my witness, the screen went black, and a puff of smoke akin...you get the idea.
I may have blacked out what followed as it was quite literally a shocking moment for this little TV addict, but I may have hit the set and wrangled the knob somewhat in a feeble attempt to get the picture back.
I truly don't recall how the day at school went. Small wonder, no?
I do recall we always took our TV sets to a man called Mr. Spring. Apparently he was not able to save the thing. Mom (who was, and I suppose, still is, a very spiritual person) considered it a sign from God, and she was not joking. As I grew older, I figured out how TV must have been changing and how it probably upset her to have us watching TV. I also know her eyesight was probably getting to the point watching TV was a bit frustrating, a symptom of diabetes that began to plague her health around that time. But I think it was mainly the fact that TV had gone from the innocence of Milton Berle and the Dick Van Dyke show to the emergence of Laugh In - off color humor for those days - to the news reels of Vietnam piped into American living rooms. That's one theory, anyway. She also was the one that had to break up arguments of what show we wanted to watch and who's head was in the way and so forth. And there was probably the expense of buying another set.
The silver lining of this catastrophic event was we as kids ended up reading more. I bet you thought I was going to say that we played outside more. Nope, we already did that a LOT. We had no need for incentive to go outside. There truly weren't that many shows on TV during those years that interested children. There was no Cartoon Land cable on all day. A short morning show, noon cartoons during the summer, and Saturday morning cartoons that lasted around 2 hours, I think. That was it. And watch the NEWS? No way! I'm going to Charles' house on my bike and playing army, Mom!
So I dog-eared the encyclopedias and encyclopedia Yearbooks we had. During the summer, we swam at the city park pool and then we went to the library. I'd check out a stack of books such as Peanuts, Hardy Boys, and others and have them read and back in a week. Give me a tube of saltines, a glass of strawberry Kool-Aid (don't ask me why, it was just really good) and I'd read for hours.
Now there were the weird stares we'd get if we visited someone with a TV, which was pretty much the rest of civilization. We could be predicted to stop 4.5 feet from wherever the television was located in the house. How long we stayed there depended on what was on.
So how did we watch history unfold? The first lunar walk by Neil Armstrong? Seven - 11 rental. These were always iffy. You'd turn it on and get a picture at the store but something would happen in transit and you'd have to stand on your head to get the picture back. Sometimes we'd have to go to a second or third store to find one available. One being visible inside the store as you pulled up didn't mean it worked!
The moon walk was in black and white anyway, so there was no loss in renting a B & W for that event. The Dallas Cowboys first Superbowl victory? Watched it at my Uncle Frank's with my cousin Joe. I still remember seeing him so happy, which was a good thing, since the Cowboys could always produce a red faced "Stupid stupid stupid!" bellowing from my Uncle. (My mother's people were a fiery lot at times). "Look it that, Joe! Worl' Champions!!"
That was a great Sunday. And it was in color! I'm sure my uncle bought the first color set that hit the shelf. He did love his TV.
I did finally get a TV set of my own. A man who was a huge part of my life, Richard S. Bryan, taught choir, Musical Stage performance and, well, life lessons, at my high school. He was like a second father to me, not that I needed one, of course. I was killing time one summer at his house (you could do that in those days) and we must have been talking about some show that I didn't see and it came up that we didn't have a television in the house. Not a hardship thing, just had become accustomed to not having it around. He had an old black and white 13 inch TV he wasn't using and just gave it to me. So I had my own personal set in my room after that. I actually used it to watch the Channel 13 (educational channel) course shows for my freshman college English Reading Comprehension class until I realized that it was better to watch the video tapes at the library during humane hours instead of staying up until 11:00pm or getting up at 7:00am on Saturday to watch them.
I wonder what ever happened to that set.
So that's the story. Now I think I'll go hit the bed, grab the battery powered "pliers" that allow me to lay unmoved and change the channel, color tint, volume and see what's on without looking for the Sunday paper TV Guide pages, then tilt my adjustable bed to just the right position, and watch the sharpest picture the world has ever seen until I fall asleep.
The term "disposal" might be a Freudian slip. I seem to recall my Mother saying more than once (a day) that the TV was "trashing" our minds. She also called it the One Eyed god. In hindsight, I suppose we did look like faithful little disciples, kneeling in front of this object, eyes glazed, stares unbroken for hours. I now also appreciate her disdain for a lot of cartoons if watched for too long since we have installed flat screen televisions at work for the customers. The company purchased only four channels - ESPN, CNN, Disney and Nickelodeon, the last two meant to entertain the children of our customers. I can see how the noise of Sponge Bob Square Pants can raise the angst of adults if played loud enough and long enough.
See how TV has affected my brain? I'm off the subject. It must be the influence of the TV remote.
Now some of you may be thinking "Oh, boy, another rant about how 'in MY day' he says they had to use pliers to change the channel and that they only had four stations, etc., etc., ramble ramble ramble."
Nay, nay, (a subliminal influence of Mr. Ed) nay. I assume that most of my audience is my age, so that would be preaching to the choir. Pay close attention, Wilbur, for this is a story that may explain a lot about yours truly. For this is the story of how we lost our TV. For a very long time.
It's early morning on a school day back in January of 1968. How do I remember this when I can't remember why I walk into the kitchen when holding an empty glass? I remember because I was waiting impatiently for something to happen on TV so I could leave for school. And also because what occurred was obviously traumatic. You always remember the traumatic events of your life. I remember when...
Focus, focus.
I was watching my favorite morning show in glistening black and white, framed by a dull 19 inch plastic frame.
Mr. Peppermint. The good thing about black and white TV is that it required imagination. We didn't need color to know those stripes on his jacket were red. Everyone knew peppermint was red and white.
Mr. Peppermint had numerous characters on his show, one being Mr. Wiggly Worm. This was high tech stuff. No computer graphics here. A finger of Mr. Peppermint was poked through a hole in his straw hat. He talked to his finger, essentially. And his finger talked back to him. This was great stuff for the studio, because they were getting two characters for the pay of one actor. And I was enthralled with it. Usually.
but today I was ready to scream at the screen "enough with Mr. Wiggly Worm! Get to the birthday list!!"
Yes, this day was not just any school day. It was my 7th birthday. And I was going to stay in front of this TV set until my name was read by Mr. Peppermint on TEE VEE. (I assume, at this point, that my Mom had mailed in a card or called in my name to the station to be read aloud by Mr. P. I'm sure he wasn't psychic).
As the clock above the set ticked toward departure time for school, I grew more anxious. Hurry up! and PLEASE no commercials right now!!
Then just as Mr. Peppermint was wrapping up the worm show, the screen went black and a puff of smoke akin to the view Oppenheimer must have had those miles way from the first A-bomb test at Los Alamos rose up from the back of the TV set.
No, this is no joke. As God is my witness, the screen went black, and a puff of smoke akin...you get the idea.
I may have blacked out what followed as it was quite literally a shocking moment for this little TV addict, but I may have hit the set and wrangled the knob somewhat in a feeble attempt to get the picture back.
I truly don't recall how the day at school went. Small wonder, no?
I do recall we always took our TV sets to a man called Mr. Spring. Apparently he was not able to save the thing. Mom (who was, and I suppose, still is, a very spiritual person) considered it a sign from God, and she was not joking. As I grew older, I figured out how TV must have been changing and how it probably upset her to have us watching TV. I also know her eyesight was probably getting to the point watching TV was a bit frustrating, a symptom of diabetes that began to plague her health around that time. But I think it was mainly the fact that TV had gone from the innocence of Milton Berle and the Dick Van Dyke show to the emergence of Laugh In - off color humor for those days - to the news reels of Vietnam piped into American living rooms. That's one theory, anyway. She also was the one that had to break up arguments of what show we wanted to watch and who's head was in the way and so forth. And there was probably the expense of buying another set.
The silver lining of this catastrophic event was we as kids ended up reading more. I bet you thought I was going to say that we played outside more. Nope, we already did that a LOT. We had no need for incentive to go outside. There truly weren't that many shows on TV during those years that interested children. There was no Cartoon Land cable on all day. A short morning show, noon cartoons during the summer, and Saturday morning cartoons that lasted around 2 hours, I think. That was it. And watch the NEWS? No way! I'm going to Charles' house on my bike and playing army, Mom!
So I dog-eared the encyclopedias and encyclopedia Yearbooks we had. During the summer, we swam at the city park pool and then we went to the library. I'd check out a stack of books such as Peanuts, Hardy Boys, and others and have them read and back in a week. Give me a tube of saltines, a glass of strawberry Kool-Aid (don't ask me why, it was just really good) and I'd read for hours.
Now there were the weird stares we'd get if we visited someone with a TV, which was pretty much the rest of civilization. We could be predicted to stop 4.5 feet from wherever the television was located in the house. How long we stayed there depended on what was on.
So how did we watch history unfold? The first lunar walk by Neil Armstrong? Seven - 11 rental. These were always iffy. You'd turn it on and get a picture at the store but something would happen in transit and you'd have to stand on your head to get the picture back. Sometimes we'd have to go to a second or third store to find one available. One being visible inside the store as you pulled up didn't mean it worked!
The moon walk was in black and white anyway, so there was no loss in renting a B & W for that event. The Dallas Cowboys first Superbowl victory? Watched it at my Uncle Frank's with my cousin Joe. I still remember seeing him so happy, which was a good thing, since the Cowboys could always produce a red faced "Stupid stupid stupid!" bellowing from my Uncle. (My mother's people were a fiery lot at times). "Look it that, Joe! Worl' Champions!!"
That was a great Sunday. And it was in color! I'm sure my uncle bought the first color set that hit the shelf. He did love his TV.
I did finally get a TV set of my own. A man who was a huge part of my life, Richard S. Bryan, taught choir, Musical Stage performance and, well, life lessons, at my high school. He was like a second father to me, not that I needed one, of course. I was killing time one summer at his house (you could do that in those days) and we must have been talking about some show that I didn't see and it came up that we didn't have a television in the house. Not a hardship thing, just had become accustomed to not having it around. He had an old black and white 13 inch TV he wasn't using and just gave it to me. So I had my own personal set in my room after that. I actually used it to watch the Channel 13 (educational channel) course shows for my freshman college English Reading Comprehension class until I realized that it was better to watch the video tapes at the library during humane hours instead of staying up until 11:00pm or getting up at 7:00am on Saturday to watch them.
I wonder what ever happened to that set.
So that's the story. Now I think I'll go hit the bed, grab the battery powered "pliers" that allow me to lay unmoved and change the channel, color tint, volume and see what's on without looking for the Sunday paper TV Guide pages, then tilt my adjustable bed to just the right position, and watch the sharpest picture the world has ever seen until I fall asleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)