the gully book

   My family, that is my mother's family and my father's, come from a little tiny town in northwestern Minnesota called Gully. My mom's family help settle the area in the late 1800's, my father's family arrived in the area around the turn of the century. Truly, these were pioneers. They cleared the land, built houses, tilled the soil, planted and raised crops and dairy cattle, and raised families. Big families. When I was a kid, it seemed that I was related to everyone in town. Haugens, Paulsons, Dahls, Ringstads, Soliens, just about everyone was a relative or as Aunt Max would say, a 'shirt tail' relative. This was home for the family. My mom was born there, both of her parents were born there. Her parents were baptized on the same day, in the same holy water, as the story goes. They grew up together, married and started their family there. The aunts and uncles had the farms, and it was on one of these farms where my dad and his dad were working on a threshing crew when my dad met my mom. 

   In May 1979, Grandpa's funeral was there, in December, Grandma's. 5 years later, my Dad's funeral was there, and 5 days later, his dad's. Dad's mom had her funeral there too, in 1975. The cemetery is a regular stop when I visit, as most of the family is now there, dating back to the pioneer days. Relatives who died young, in the influenza outbreak of 1918, World War II, accident, illness, old age. Perhaps someday, a long long time from now, I will be there too, in that quiet place next to the woods and wheat fields. 

   As when I was a kid, my boys loved running around town, exploring the streets, buildings, and meeting people that we may be related to. A quiet little place called Gully.

   So you see, Gully is home to the family, for many reasons. The family has been there for well over 100 years.   Most of the family is scattered across the country now, and the younger ones don't have occasion to visit there very often. But in 2010 a number of us made the trip for a weekend in July to celebrate the Gully Centennial. There was a lot of food, drink, a parade, and plenty of visiting. Everyone had a good time, and it was the event of a lifetime.

And, there was the book.

   A committee was formed, and it was thought a good idea to make a book celebrating Gully, telling the story of many of the families, tons of pictures. Everyone in the family paid $50 apiece for a copy, which we expected to take delivery of sometime in the not too distant future.

   We're still waiting. The trouble is, the book is being produced by volunteers, and clearly it has not been a priority, as we are closing in on year three and still no book. There has been some grumpiness and anxiety about this, and questions about when it will arrive. We have been told we can get our money back. Speaking for myself, I will wait, as I would rather have the book someday than the $50 now, which would only buy me a tank of gas. As long as the gauge is on the quarter mark.

So I hope the book arrives soon. It will be fun to see the pictures, see the story, and to share that with my kids, and grandchildren someday. 

After all, we've been there a long time. There is a lot to tell about this little town, village actually, called Gully.

my nieces, part 4

I met my second niece when she was just a couple weeks old. My parents were very excited about this grandparent thing, so we packed up the car, drove all night to Arizona where my brother was stationed, and saw the new addition to the family. There is a Polaroid snapshot in a book somewhere of me holding her in my hands. I was 11 at the time, by now a 3 time uncle and an old hand at this. I only got to see her a few times a year, as we lived in northern California and my brother was in the Air Force, so they lived in several places, all a long way from us, all over the world. Except for the three years they were in Panama, I managed to see them as often as I could. My niece always loved to sit in laps, so I spent many hours with her there, reading her stories and playing with her. She was quiet, studious, and very very sweet. As she grew older, she retained her sweetness, but left the quiet part behind. She grew into a lovely, fun person, striking off on her own to college and eventually a career in dentistry. "Sucking spit" as she refers to it.  As an Air Force kid, she managed to have friends all over the world. I had the pleasure of meeting a few 'gentleman callers' and giving them the once over. While I enjoyed this immensely, she was probably just a bit concerned that I might scare them away, or at least make them wonder about the family. At her wedding, I met her husband for the first time. As I shook his hand, she told me, 'uncle Kerry, don't do that, I told him all about you'  Rats. Oh well. She made a very good choice, he is a terrific husband, father and person. 

Recently, she became an Advisory Commissioner for the parks and rec department where she lives. Pretty impressive, but she still calls me 'unc'. I hope she remembers me when she is elected to the Senate, the House, or the White House.

Happy Birthday, April Marie.

my nieces, part 3

My oldest niece is a force of nature. Fiercely independent, she has been that way her whole life. As a little girl, she was not the type of kid that would sit in your lap and cuddle up. She would engage in conversation, had an active imagination, and loved to make up silly names. She often called me 'silly billy'. Her dad, my brother in law, would call her silly names and she reveled in that. One such name was 'anglelupepasqualegobaglutchiesmithandjones'. She loved that. She was very much like her dad, and they were very close her whole life.

I spent a lot of time at their house while she and her sister were growing up. During my stays I would read bedtime stories to them. She always enjoyed being read to, and we spent many hours watching PBS in the afternoons: Sesame Street, Electric Company, Carascolendas. She could sit for hours watching these programs. I remember watching her, sitting quiet as a church mouse, watching those shows, and repeating softly the things they were trying to teach kids. Certainly the lesson was not lost on her as she grew up.

As an older child, I would take her shopping to K Mart and short trips to the local A&W on my motorcycle for some root beer. Maybe not exactly bonding experiences, but I have always loved being an uncle. Really. I love being an uncle. Even as an adult woman, she still calls me Uncle Kerry.

I did not get to see a lot of her during her high school years, I was raising kids of my own then. I would go see her play the occasional volleyball game and see her at family gatherings. Our re connection started with her high school graduation. When I went to her graduation and spent a bit of time with her at her parent's house, I discovered the little girl who was my niece was a wonderfully warm, funny, vibrant young woman.

After doing a couple years at a community college, she transferred to a state college not far from where I was living. She would come and see us often then, and she formed a strong bond with my oldest son. True to her upbringings, she soon gave him a nickname, Kemosabe. She and 'kemo' were inseparable. She loved him, and he adored her. Best friends. So much so, that she had a portrait taken of them together. Later, when 'kemo's' brother was born, she would come watch him a couple days a week, better to pay her than a daycare. She doted on the boys like a mother, and they both are the better for it. Patient, kind and giving, she was a positive, loving influence on her little cousins. She read to them, played with them, talked to them like they were adults. History repeats.

She graduated from college, but I missed her graduation as I was at my own going away party, we were leaving California for a new life in the midwest. The details of our lives would become distant, but not the bond. One morning, she called very early to tell me she was engaged. I was so touched that she called to share that. We made the trip and watched her start a new phase of her life.

Now she is a mom to three wonderful kids, has a successful career, and is still a force of nature. She lost her dad a few years ago, and still mourns that loss. Like her uncle, she has trouble letting go, but I know she will learn the same lesson I did: we are not supposed to let go. We move on, not without those we lose, but taking them with us every step of the way. I recently danced with her at her sister's wedding. We laughed, we shared, and we shed a few tears.

And why not? She is my niece. My girl.

Happy Birthday, Angela Lynn.

one giant leap

Recently the nation mourned the passing of Neil Armstrong, the first man to set foot on the surface of the moon. I was ten years old on July 20, 1969 when Neil stepped out of the LEM and stood on the moon. Who cannot feel emotional when we see this, and hear Walter Cronkite say "....Neil Armstrong, 38 year old American, standing on the face of the moon..." Wow. He stood on the moon, looked at his home a quarter of a million miles away, and said something about one small step....

As a kid, I watched this, thought it was cool, and then went back to my comic books, bike, and those things that ten year olds do. It was only later, much later, as an adult, that I began to have a real appreciation for Mr. Armstrong. Not for stepping out on the moon, uttering an historic phrase, planting a flag, gathering some rocks and then blasting off back home. Sure, cool stuff. What made him a hero, a real hero to me, is something else.

Neil Armstrong knew how to hang in there. He could wait until the last second until making a life or death decision. In a training exercise, the LEM trainer went out of control, but he hung in until the last possible second before ejecting out. The trainer crashed, he survived, and flew to the moon. As the mission commander, it was his job to pilot the LEM to the surface of the moon with Buzz Aldrin. As Neil and Buzz were descending, there was a glitch, so the LEM had to be landed manually. Neil guided the spacecraft to a landing spot in the Sea of Tranquility with only a few seconds worth of fuel left. Now we're not talking running around in the Hyundai with the gauge on E. This is serious stuff. Run out of gas on the moon and life gets real pretty quick. The alternative is to abort, fly back into orbit, hook up with the command module and go home. No moon, no historic words, no flag, no rocks. No parade when you get home. No high schools named after you. Well, you get the point. I'm pretty sure Neil was not doing this because he wanted a high school named after him. He was a pilot. Moreover, he was a test pilot. He loved to fly. By some stroke of luck, NASA picked him to be the first on the moon. Probably because someone knew that he could hang in there, not panic, make the call, and do the job.

That's why he was a hero to me. Not for doing the glamorous thing, but for doing something only a very few can do. Stay calm. Process information. Trust your intuition. Make the call. Do your job. He set an example for me. I don't think I will be flying to the moon or testing the latest suborbital space plane, but I do make decisions every day. I try to live by Neil's example and not panic, process the information, trust my intuition, and make the call.

Rest in peace Neil. I hope that I will live to see someone like you step out on the planet Mars one day. Why? Because like you, it will capture the imagination of an entire generation, and because we can.

595 Walnut Park Avenue

   I grew up in the same town my grandparents, my mom's parents, lived in. We lived on the south end of town, grandma and grandpa more to the north. They had a little house with two bedrooms (one for grandma, one for grandpa), and converted the garage into a little guest house with a bedroom and bathroom. In California you can do that and park your car on the street without living in fear the snowplow will bury it in the wintertime. When my parents and I moved to California in 1966, we stayed for a short time in that little garage guest house.       After a month or so, my parents rented their own house on the other side of town but we saw my grandparents almost every day. Grandma and grandpa had fixed up their little place quite nicely, in addition to the guest house, they built a screened in porch that connected the house and garage. The porch had a couch, chairs, refrigerator, and was a great place to play cards. Year in and year out, there were many family gatherings at this house, and you could count on card games at these gatherings. In the porch the men would play poker. Here is where I learned to play 2 and 22, 7 card no peekie, 5 and 7 card stud, 5 card draw and other variants of poker. In the house, the women would play canasta. Grandma was a fierce, and I mean fierce, canasta player. She called 7's "meat axes" and red 3's "red treys", and if you made a play she did not like, she would call you a "dret sek" ....look it up.
   Grandma loved to have company. She loved to feed us, and she would always have several kinds of homemade cookies on hand. When the weather was nice (remember, this is California) we would eat outside, in their backyard. My grandparents took particular pride in their backyard. They had many lawn chairs, lounges, tables and lawn ornaments decorating the yard. They built a playhouse for the great grandchildren to play in, complete with little wooden refrigerator and oven. Gotta have some place to make those pretend cookies. The centerpiece of the backyard was a large weeping willow tree, which they trimmed like a  huge umbrella, giving us shade from the hot summer sun. My cousins and I would climb the willow and explore it, and sway back and forth in the breeze. Under the weeping willow tree was an old yard swing, a heavy metal frame and springs that supported a couch like seat. Grandma would recover the seat every few years to keep it fresh. On Sundays you could find Grandpa laying in the swing, reading the Sunday paper or a paperback book, he was a voracious reader. He loved his Charley Pride and Merle Haggard records, and was not afraid to turn up the stereo loud and play them.
   When there were family gatherings, we would all  gather at Grandma and Grandpa's house: Aunts, uncles, cousins, my sisters, their husbands, my nieces and nephew, and the occasional  visiting relative from Minnesota, who would marvel at us parading around in shorts and t shirts while the mid west would still be under a blanket of snow. Christmas time would find us all there, having Christmas Eve dinner, then a frenzy of gift giving, followed by pie and coffee. Christmas Day, back to the house for leftovers and cards. Grandma was her happiest when the house was full.
   Their house was not fancy or expensive; it was just a simple house that they bought and fixed up when time and money would allow. The front door had a tendency to stick, so once in awhile I would crawl under the house and turn a screw jack until the door opened and shut properly. I was usually rewarded with some cookies and milk. You could not be at their house without having something to eat. Don't even try to get around it. Just sit down and enjoy it.
   As the years passed on, the large family gatherings were taking a bit of a toll on my grandparents; the preparation, the event, the clean up were wearing them out.  The end of an era was approaching. To reduce the wear and tear on grandma and grandpa, the gatherings would be shorter and fewer would attend. Grandma did not like this, but she knew that it was tougher on them to do it too. She insisted that it was more fun to be at her house for gatherings, with all the family.
   In May of 1979, Grandpa passed away. He became terminal with cancer, and rather than spend his last days in a hospital, the family wanted to take him home. He died in his own room, in his bed, surrounded by his family. The house that he worked so hard to fix up, the place that his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren gathered in, had one last gathering for his passing.
 Now that Grandma was alone, I tried to see her every day, dropping in to say hi or to stop by with some A&W root beer to share. She still baked cookies, so we would sit and have some root beer, cookies, watch some TV and talk, then I would go home. My uncle would come by to do yard work and whatever else Grandma needed. The city needed to rebuild a storm sewer that passed right under their beautiful back yard, so the willow tree and yard were all dug up. A new tree and grass were planted, but it was not the same. Losing her back yard was hard on Grandma, being a Norwegian she would not say so, but it was tough.
In the Fall of 1979 Grandma left for a trip to spend the holidays with one of her sons on the east coast. A cousin came to pick her up, so I drove over to say goodbye. As I walked out of the house with her, Grandma shut and locked the front door, turned to me and said "I'll never come back here again. Don't you dare tell your mother." I told her that was silly, that I would see her after the holidays, but she repeated "no, I won't ever be back"
   We said our goodbyes, Grandma got in my cousin's car, and left.
The day after Christmas, early in the morning, we got a call that Grandma had passed away during the night. She never did come back to the house where she hosted so many family gatherings, to the kitchen that she made countless dozens of cookies, doughnuts, lefsa. Somehow, she knew she would not return. Why she decided to tell only me this, I will never know.
   After Grandma passed, the house sat empty for a few months, then my mom and her brothers had the sad duty of going through the contents of the house, the personal possessions, distributing to various family members, and then selling the house. The house finally sold, and over the years has changed appearance. The porch is gone, the yard is gone, and the neighborhood has changed. I drive by the house whenever I visit the area, but I don't take pictures. I would rather remember it the way it was, Grandpa laying in the yard swing, Grandma baking in the kitchen, the men playing poker and the women playing canasta.
There is an old country song, it's never heard on the radio anymore, but I remember hearing it when I was a kid. Whenever I think of 595 Walnut Park Avenue, I think of this song, and vice versa.

This old house once knew my children 
This old house once knew my wife 
This old house was home and comfort 
As we fought the storms of life 

This old house once rang with laughter 
This old house heard many shouts 
Now it trembles in the darkness 
When the lightning walks about 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pane 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints

This old house is gettin' shaky 
This old house is gettin' old 
This old house lets in the rain 
This old house lets the cold 

On my knees are gettin' chilly 
But I feel no fear or pain 
'Cause I see an angel peepin' 
Through the broken window pane 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pane
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm gettin' ready to meet the saints 

This old house is gettin' shaky 
This old house is gettin' old 
This old house lets in the rain 
This old house lets in the cold 

On his knees he's gettin' chilly 
But he feels no fear or pain 
'Cause he sees an angel peepin' 
Through a broken window pane 

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pain 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm getting ready to meet the saints 

This old house is afraid of thunder
This old house is afraid of storms
This old house just blows and trembles
When the night cames after dawn
This old house is getting fragile
This old house is in need of paint
Just like me it's starting to die
I'm getting ready to meet the saints

Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
Ain't gonna need this house no more 
Ain't got time to fix the shingles 
Ain't got time to fix the floor 
Ain't got time to oil the hinges 
Nor to mend no window pain 
Ain't gonna need this house no longer 
I'm getting ready to meet the saints 

reinvention

   How many times have you heard about someone reinventing themselves? Madonna has supposedly done this many times. I am not sure that posing nude for the camera alongside the road or marrying a Brit or kissing Brittney on stage is really reinvention, but it seems to work for her. Nixon reinvented himself after resigning the Presidency and being exiled to California (could be worse). He emerged as a 'statesman' who gave advice to a new generation of politicians. Jimmy Carter didn't really reinvent himself, but he started living the life he was best fit for, doing humanitarian work, writing books and winning the Nobel prize. Maybe that is more an example of redemption, not reinvention. And, I don't have enough time to talk about Robert Downey Jr., who reinvented and redeemed himself many times.

   These famous people became more famous by this reinvention.  But there are countless millions who reinvent themselves every day, or made decisions to take another path, or find another way. We all know of someone who has done this, and probably can list failures and successes for each. Life is a crap shot. We make it up as we go along. Man plans, God laughs.

   Recently I observed my 18th anniversary of moving to the midwest. I was born here, but when I was 7, my parents moved to California, in pursuit of a better life and snow free winters. I grew up in California, went to school there, had my first jobs there, got married, had kids, bought a house, had a life. In the early nineties the house was sold, the jobs were quit, the stuff and kids were packed up and we headed to Minnesota. It took 5 days to make the trip, along the way we almost lost everything in the truck, but in early June we arrived. No job, no place to live, no fricking idea what to do next. God wasn't laughing, he was hysterical. Probably to tears.

   So it was time to reinvent myself. At age 35 I finally realized, admitted to myself, that I needed a career. I had avoided that for my whole life, scoffed at those who went to college and got degrees, thinking they thought they were better than me. It was time, I decided, to become better than me. I went to school. Three years of 2 nights a week, summers included, and I earned the degree. By then I was firmly entrenched in the career, working on those pesky computers so others can do their jobs. In addition to the degree, I earned some professional certifications. It seems I was always going to school. If I wasn't in school, I was working. Or sleeping. I changed jobs too, making the move 4 times in 10 years. The best way to move up is to move around. Working for the government is not very exciting, sometimes not challenging. Contrary to popular belief, those who work for the government are not overpaid and underworked. We are pretty much the same as those who work in the private sector, except our salaries are published in the local paper. But back to reinvention.

   My career path has not been smooth, or linear. I was not one of those who knew what I was going to do with my life since age 7. I had to compete with people younger than I, so I worked harder, longer than most. I was hungry, figuratively and literally. And, I had mouths to feed. Later, I was given the opportunity to teach part time at a local college. Wow, if my high school classmates could see me now. If my dad could see me now. This reinvention was not by design, or part of some grand plan. Things just happened. Some hard work, lots of long days, and a bit of luck. No Nobel prizes, no advising Presidents, no posing nude along the highway. Just living a life.

   This is life. We make it up as we go along. We improvise, we adapt, we overcome. We reinvent, or plan, or go to class, or move. Or none of the above.

   A long time ago, some friends of mine had twin boys, plus an older son. Their house was always in a state of chaos. I asked the dad, a very reasonable, sane person, how they coped with this chaos, this mob rule. Without missing a beat he told me, "...we learned to surf".

Do yourself a favor. Head to the beach. You never know what the tide will bring in, it might be a sail.

Ray

   A couple weeks ago I traveled to Tucson Arizona to attend a memorial service. The service was for my sister in law's brother. We knew each other as kids, and since we were the same age and had something in common (his sister married my brother) we had a sort of bond. We played with Hot Wheels together as kids,  we did impressions of Johnny Carson, and when we were teenagers my brother would sneak us beers to drink with him. Pretty cool stuff. The last time I saw him was at my niece's wedding several years ago. By then we had not seen each other in many years, and really did not talk much. But, we had something more in common: we were both uncles to our sibling's daughters, who had grown to be lovely, remarkable women. (readers of this blog know of my weakness for my nieces) So even though we did not keep in contact, we had a bond that could not be broken. Two kids, from different parts of the country, different cultures, brought together through the love of family.
   When I heard of his death, I made plans to attend his memorial service. I wanted to be there to express support for my sister in law, who has been a sister to me for most of my life.  It was a beautiful service, with our  nieces doing readings, some nice words by the priest, and mariachi music. Lots of music. It was his wish to have a song played, "play music when I die" and that wish was fulfilled. Yes it was a sad occasion, yet also there was happiness, as friends and family came together to celebrate a life that ended much too soon. For me, I was lucky to spend time with my brother, my sister-in-law, my sister, my sister in law's family, and of course our nieces and their daughters, a new generation of nieces to love and enjoy.

Welcome to the family, Esperanza.

   I have been to many funerals, most for elderly relatives who lived long lives. I have only been to two funerals for contemporaries, people my own age. The first was my best friend, who died suddenly at age 46. I still, and probably always will grieve his  passing. The second, for my friend Ray, who too died much too young. We shared a common generation, a brother and sister, and our nieces. Although I did not see him much, I will miss him, knowing he is gone and won't come back. Like my best friend, I will never forget him or let him go.

adios mi amigo.

bikes

     As I mentioned in a previous post, I was never an athlete. Sure I love a good game of softball, some 1 on 1 b-ball, and was a pretty fearsome flag football player in high school, but I never got into team sports. I didn't dislike playing with teams, I just never fit into that mold very well. At least when I was younger. Now that I am older and wiser and in management, I preach the gospel of teamwork.

Yeah I know. Life is funny.

     The one activity, the one thing I loved doing, and was pretty OK at it too, was motorcycling. Over the past 53 years (almost) I have owned and ridden a variety of bikes, and enjoyed them all. I caught the bug for bikes when I was about 12 years old. I was visiting my brother with my parents and got to ride a minibike that he had built himself. He was in the Air Force at the time, so I suspect this was a very well built minibike. It didn't take me long to figure out that fast is fun, and faster is better. Always a kid at heart, my dad caught the bug too, which is important not only to this story, but an insight to that man.

     A few months after that visit, I was going through a rough time, lots of worries and anxieties, and my dad thought it might be fun to build a go kart with an old lawnmower engine we had laying around. That plan never got off the ground, as dad was pretty busy working a couple jobs, so one day he came home with a brand new Western Auto minibike, some assembly required. Dad  said that once he got it together, I could have the first ride. So he put it together, poured some gas in the tank, gave the rope a pull, and promptly took off down the street. So I got the second ride. It was at the beginning of summer, so I spent days riding along the railroad tracks and the fields around Dixon. I soon became part of the minbike / dirtbike counterculture of our hometown. I beat the crap out of that minibike, learned alot about small engines, clutches, wheels, cables, sprockets and chains. In a year I had pretty much worn it out. After much cajoling, I convinced Dad to part with a couple hundred bucks and buy a Honda Trail 70. These are now collector items and can fetch between 800 and 4,000 dollars. The Trail 70 was a step above the minibike, but not really a motorcycle. It's 5 horsepower overhead valve engine could propel me up to a whopping 45 miles per hour. The gas tank was under the seat, and the handlebars would fold up so the whole bike could fit into the trunk of a car. (we're talking cars built in the 60s and 70s, to be clear) I punished this bike for a couple years until I literally outgrew it. I then entered a hiatus from motorcycles that lasted a few months. I scraped some money together and bought my first 'real' motorcycle that could be ridden (legally) on the street, a Hodaka Ace 100. This was a two stroke on/off road bike that was built in Oregon from parts made in Japan and elsewhere. Truly, a harbinger of the world economy we live in now. The Ace 100 was a fun bike when it ran. However, I spent more time fixing the Ace 100 than actually riding it. Thanks to my brother in law Dave who would do parts runs for me when he came to go fishing with my dad. My mechanical knowledge increased, and my bank account withered. Ironically, I sold it to a kid from Oregon, so the Ace went back home, never to be heard from again.

     I now entered another bike hiatus. During this time, I got around on a Peugot 10 speed bike, which was quite chic and light, but not the horsepower I needed. 

After a summer of mowing lawns and taking any odd job I could, I saved enough money to buy my first brand new motorcycle, a Kawasaki KS 125. The KS was another on / off road bike, and was a joy to ride. It would turn a little over 70 MPH in the quarter mile, utilized a 2 stroke engine with a rotary valve, and had decent styling. It cost $18 every 6 months to insure, and mixed the oil and gas automatically. I got to be pretty good at riding wheelies on this bike, going for over a 1/4 mile on the bike tire only in the dirt, considerably shorter on the street. My mom really frowned on this wheelie stuff, having seen me coming down the street from school one day like that. No sense of adventure. I rode the KS through my junior year in high school, and into my senior. But by the time I was a senior, I wanted a car. So in one of the more catastrophic decisions of my life, I sold the KS to a snotty kid in town and bought my first car, a Chevy Vega.

Yeah, I know. Life is funny.

     Several years passed before the next bike, which was almost an accidental purchase. One Sunday morning, I was going through the free want ads in the local paper and saw an ad for a street bike for $60. I called the guy, thinking it was a typo. No, the price is $60 he says, he just wants to get rid of it. I shagged over to his house, and there was a near perfect 1978 Honda CM 400 with fairing. The guy had just bought a new bike and wanted to get rid of the Honda. Cash please, so I found an ATM, pulled out some 20s and bought the bike before the guy changed his mind. I rode that old tired Honda for a few years then sold it for $500. Ah, if only I had more investments like that.  I entered another dry spell that lasted about 12 years. Life got busy and in the way. Although during that time I bought a '68 Camaro. Yes, topic for another post.

     In the late 90's I bought a '77 Yamaha 650 Special from the original owner. I actually think he cried when I drove it off. This was a sweet bike, very stylish and very reliable. I spent a few years on that bike until neck and shoulder problems convinced me to take another break. I sold the bike and bought a laptop computer. I still have the laptop, although it is quite outdated and useless now. I'm guessing the Yamaha is still on the street, and worth twice what I sold it for. The laptop is in a closet somewhere.

     Which brings me to my latest toy. In the mid 80's Honda ran some TV ads for their new line of bikes, kind of pre-crotch rocket muscle bikes that were made to burn up a quarter mile very fast. The commercial starts with a guy walking the bike to a starting line, burning out until smoke obscured the whole bike, then eating up a quarter mile in less than 10 seconds. You have my attention. All I needed was the money.......

Yeah I know. Life is funny.

     So this year, I resolved to get that bike. Living in the Northern Plains, motorcycles age well, as they are used only half the year, and the UV is not as harsh as the sun belt. A perk to living somewhere where winter lasts 6 months. Anyhow, I went shopping on a beautiful March day when the skies were sunny and the temps were in the upper 70s and low 80s.  I found a beautiful V65 Magna, low miles, good shape, and 116 horsepower. Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

     In the days since, our temps have returned to normal so I am now enduring some cold rainy weather while the Magna sits in the garage. But warm weather is almost here and I envision many rides, zooming down bucolic country roads, meeting interesting people along the way, and having adventures. Or maybe riding to Home Depot, work, and school. Either way, the open road beckons, and whether it is Main Street or Route 66, it feels good to be back in the saddle. 

the boys of summer

   Today I watched a baseball movie, "Moneyball". I thought it was a pretty good movie, in that it was balanced between the romantic notions of baseball and the ugly realities of professional sports. We love the game, but it is a business. A big fricking money making business. Ball players are just as much entertainers as they are athletes. You have to be an entertainer to get someone to pony up hard earned cash to watch you hit, run, and catch.  Easy for me to say, I was never an athlete. Never had dreams of smacking a homer in the bottom of the ninth, down by a run with two outs. My dreams were on 2 or four wheels, more about that in another entry, later.

   I really was not introduced to pro baseball until the fall of 1987, when I was able to get two tickets to the playoffs from my sister (at cost; family is family but remember, baseball is business) I got the tickets and invited my buddy Eric to the game. I knew Eric was a big ball fan, and he liked to drink beer, so how can this fail? We went out to Candlestick Park (this is before stupid corporate names were attached to ball parks and stadiums, for all I know it's probably called Amway Park now or some other silly ass name) and watched the Giants lose to the St Louis Cardinals. I can't remember much about the game, but I remember having a good time and drinking beer with a good friend on a sunny day, it don't get much better than that. 

   In the years that followed, Eric and I spent many Sunday afternoons and Friday evenings (watching the f**king Dodgers) play the Giants. We could buy some nose bleed seats for about $6 and just enjoy the game. Unlike football, where everyone watches the clock, baseball is leisurely. We have at least 9 innings, so don't get excited. Anything can happen. And, we can buy beer until the 7th inning, so pace yourselves. We had nine innings to comment on the game, discuss the geopolitical situation, movie quotes, women, work, life. When the season was over, Eric and I would change venue to the bowling alley. The sport changed, and we became participants, but the discussion continued. And, like baseball, bowling is leisurely. The next frame can wait while we get another beer. And after the game, there is the lounge. Truly, the sport of kings.

   When I moved away, I left behind these great times and a good friend. A very good friend. But my friend taught me about how to enjoy, appreciate baseball. 

thanks, Eric.

   In my new home, I discovered minor league baseball. Same game, more mistakes maybe, but tons of fun. Cheaper tickets, cheaper beer, more fun. Yes, there is a major league team in town, but somehow, it's not the same. The game is there, the beer is there, the leisurely pace continues. But it's not the same. The discussions are gone. Those esoteric talks about everything and nothing are just echoes of the past. We came, we drank, we watched. Then one day, I headed east. My friend stayed in the west.
   A few years ago, I caught a Giants game with Eric at the new downtown ballpark in San Francisco. The beers were expensive. The seats were good. The view of the city and bay was great. And the conversation was the best.

driver's ed

When I was in high school driver's education was included in the curriculum, free of charge. It was called 'state requirements' then. No doubt that name came from a lengthy committee meeting chaired by our counselors. I could write thousands of words about our counselors but will save that for a day when I need to work off some anger. Now back to driver's ed. Driver's education was a combination of classroom education and behind the wheel practice. The classroom portion consisted of endless lectures on safe driving and a memorization of the California Driver's Handbook. We also watched some cool movies like 'Red Asphalt' and 'Mechanized Death'. During one of those movies one of my buddies grew faint and had to go the nurse's office. I really don't know why anyone would get queasy seeing someone's entrails spread across a highway, but it happens. I guess the point of  those movies is to scare the crap out of teenagers in the hopes of making them safe and sane drivers. Right.
In addition to the blood and guts movies, we sat at a machine that tests our reflex speed, and a Highway Patrolman came in to talk to us and demonstrate his fast draw. And I thought that only worked on the streets of Dodge City. Perhaps the nicest thing about State Requirements is that it was a pass/fail class, meaning letter grades were not awarded upon completion of the class. You either passed or failed. And it was pretty hard to fail this class. Impossible, I'd say. State Requirements was taught by two teachers: one was the track coach, the other a football coach. I got the track coach, a very nice man who happened to be into recreational vehicles.

The second part of driver's education was behind the wheel training. Our high school had 2 cars to use for this, donated by the local Ford dealer. One car was a Pinto station wagon. The other was a Gran Torino. Yeah, like in Starsky & Hutch. Well it wasn't racing red with white stripes, but essentially the same car. In some cruel twist of fate, the football coach got the Gran Torino. The track coach got the Pinto.

Yes. I learned to drive in a Pinto. A bomb waiting to explode.

For behind the wheel sessions a pair of students went out with the instructor. The instructor had his own brake pedal that he could use to keep the students in check. And the track coach liked his brake pedal. Anyhow, my driving partner was Victor.    Like many of the kids in school, Victor and I had been friends since we were little. Victor was an only child and his parents doted on him. In return for this devotion to their only child, Victor referred to his parents as the 'old man' and the 'old lady'. I don't think he meant to demean them, but rather establish himself with his buddies as a man's man, not to be trifled with. One of the perks of their devotion was allowing Victor to drive at an early age, so when he arrived for his behind the wheel sessions with me, he was clearly a man of the world and I was the newbie, the greenhorn, the virgin. OK, stop giggling. Unfortunately, his superior driving skills were wasted on the Pinto. How much damage can you do in a Pinto wagon? If you really wound it out on a downhill, you could hit 63, 64 mph. That was it. However, the Gran Torino was another story. The Gran Torino was better suited to our collective driving talents, all we had to do was get behind the wheel. So for one of our freeway sessions, Victor talked the track coach into letting us use the Torino so we could have experience in another car. Further, Victor came up with a scheme to keep the instructor from using the brake pedal and paying attention to our driving. When we were driving, the student not behind the wheel would keep the instructor talking about recreational vehicles (RVs), freeing the other student to   drive the Gran Torino with abandon, living out his Starsky & Hutch hot rodding crime fighting dreams. Naturally, Victor would drive the first leg. As we hit the freeway, the plan worked perfectly. I talked RVs with the instructor and Victor put the pedal to the metal. We scooted down I-505 like nobody's business, exceeding the speed limit by a wide margin. Cool. We were so smart. Soon, it would be my turn to lay down some miles.

Then we passed another student driver from another town like they were standing still. There was no amount of RV talk that could mask that. As we sped past the car from the other school with the large "Student Driver" sign on the back, I knew we were done. Without hesitation, our instructor looked over at the speedometer. 75 mph in a 55 zone. Victor did not have to be told to slow down. Our instructor noted that passing another student driver did not present ol Dixon High in the best light. Whatever. I knew that I would be watched like a hawk on the way back. Doomed to a 55 mph cruise all the way home.

Despite our antics, we managed to pass both the class and our driver's test. The state had no choice but to issue driver's licenses to us. Fooled them.

Our high school class numbered 100. Most of us had been together for many years. After  high school, as often is the case, we  move on to college, jobs, marriage. Victor got a job with PG&E, I went to work in construction. We rarely saw each other again. Then, in the early 80's, Victor was killed in a car accident. I had moved out of town and found out afterwards. Victor and too many others from the class of 77 died young as a result of car accidents. Victor's parents moved out of town, devastated by the death of their son. And every time I see a car with a 'Student Driver' sign attached, I think of  State Requirements, the Gran Torino, and Victor. Rest in peace my friend. Say hi to John, Joey, Cathy, and the rest of our friends.

my nieces, part 2

I did not meet my youngest niece until she was about 2 years old. She was born in the Panama Canal Zone, as her father (my brother) was in the Air Force and was stationed there. I am her godfather, but since I could not be there for the baptism, someone stood in for me then. When I first met her, she was just a toddler, but oh so cute. Almost immediately we bonded. I was only 17 at the time, but experienced in the uncle business, having been once since age 9. Since my youngest nieces were only a month apart in age, they competed for lap time with their grandpa, my dad. Dad loved his grandchildren, but I think the youngest had him wrapped around their little fingers. There is an iconic photo of Dad walking down the sidewalk with a little girl on each of his calloused hands. The photo was shot from behind so all we can see are their backs, but I dare you to look at that picture and not get a little choked up. I can proudly say that the youngest nieces also competed for Uncle Kerry lap time and I admit I enjoyed every second. It is true, I have a weak spot for my nieces, and I like it that way.

Now that my brother was stationed in the States, I got to see him and his family more often. I did not get near enough time with my nieces but treasured every minute. When she was about 4 or 5 she would take a toy microphone and 'sing' Blue Bayou, being so very expressive with her eyes and mannerisms. Like my brother, she grew up playing and caring for the 'creepy crawlies': bugs, snakes, turtles, tarantulas, anything that would come along. This is a trait she has carried into adulthood; she has always had a pet. 

When she was about 15, she came to stay with us for a few weeks. That time was pure bliss for me, as I got to spend some real time with her. Although she was new to the area, it wasn't long before she knew all the kids her age in the neighborhood. She has never been shy, or hesitant to talk to people she doesn't know.

Around age 16, she decided to become confirmed in the church. I made the trip to watch this, and celebrate with her. It was so touching to see this little girl grow up and make her way through life. One of the few regrets I have in this life was not being present at her wedding. I can't recall why I wasn't there but I think it had something to do with having a newborn or infant in the house, they tend to crimp traveling and attending such events, especially those at a distance. I became even more proud of my niece when she had children of her own. Both are very precious, and her youngest reminds me so much of her at the same age, a slightly off center sense of humor, somewhat outspoken, and so very cute. 

As an adult, she continues to amaze me and make me so proud to be her uncle. She returned to school and earned her undergraduate degree and now plans to attend law school. Last year, when a friend of her oldest daughter needed a home, she brought her in and became her guardian. That has been a repeating theme in her life: always room for one more at the table, always room in her heart. She possesses a pioneer like spirit, a can do attitude towards life. Her independent spirit has no doubt caused her parents some anxiety at times, but her love, her devotion to family was ever questioned.

A short time ago, my brother sent me a video he recorded of his youngest daughter, my niece, speaking about my dad. Through tearful eyes and with her daughters at her feet, she talks about how much she loved her grandpa, and how much she misses him still. But through the tears, we see a woman of strength who cherishes her family, her life, telling a story of the nickname she gave to her grandpa, and the name he gave her. They were very much alike. I like to think she and I are alike too, both a bit off center at times, both stubborn, both strong but sentimental. She still calls me Uncle Kerry, and I call her (sometimes) by the nickname she was known as a child. I guess I might be exercising my rights as an uncle to call her by that name, but that is a perk of the job. And one I will not ever give up.

Happy Birthday Aubrey Elizabeth.

band of brothers

Dates stick in my head. If you are a regular to this blog you probably have figured that out. One date in particular is March 5, 1945. On this day 14 years before my birth, my dad's older brother was killed in action near Trier Germany. Palmer was a tank driver in the Third Army under the command of General Patton. Third Army was the terror of the German Army as they tore through Europe like a hot knife through butter, truly the stuff of legends. Obviously I never met Palmer but I grew up learning about him through stories told by family members. According to my aunts and uncles Palmer was a bit high strung but very friendly and loving. He and my father were close, they worked together, 'ran around' together, and no doubt did the things that brothers do together. He was very musical, he taught himself to play the guitar and mandolin. My grandmother played the organ, so they would entertain the family with their music after dinner. As a kid I would stay with my grandparents occasionally and I remember seeing his instruments hanging on a wall in their house all wrapped up in plastic, probably wrapped up after he died. I also remember seeing his Purple Heart that was given to my grandparents after his death. He did not have a wife or kids when he died so there is no direct connection to him, no cousins, no grandchildren. I understand he left behind a girlfriend who eventually married and lived a long life. I suppose she spent the rest of her life wondering what a life with Palmer would have been like. But dreams of a life together changed one month before the war in Europe was over. His Sherman tank was hit by an 18 inch German artillery shell, destroying the tank and killing an uncle that few of us cousins would ever know.

My dad was in Germany at the same time Palmer was, a crew chief on an anti aircraft gun crew. There is an iconic picture of Dad standing by a white wooden cross in a military cemetery with Palmer's dog tags hanging from the cross. No grass, no marble markers, just rows of wooden crosses with dog tags hanging from them.  After the war my grandparents chose to have Palmer's body exhumed from Hamm Cemetery in Belgium and reburied in the home town cemetery in Gully, Minnesota. There are pictures of the reburial ceremony held in October of 1948, of a soldier handing a folded flag to my grandparents, of the somber relatives and friends gathered  there three years after his death. Every year when we would visit Gully to see my grandparents, my dad would drive out to the cemetery to visit his brother's grave. He never talked about it much or outwardly grieved, but I could tell that the pain never went away, the grieving was ongoing. It was only years later I found out the depth of this pain and grieving.

In December of 1984 Dad passed away. After the funeral, Mom gave away some of his personal items. I got Dad's wallet. Like many wallets it contained the usual items: license, photos, receipts. After I got home, I went through the wallet and found a piece of yellowed paper tucked away out of plain sight. I removed this paper and realized it was a telegram, hand typed on thin paper, and it was old. It was dated March 25th of 1945 and bore the news of Palmer's death. My dad had carried this telegram in his wallet from March of 1945 until his own death, 39 years later. In that time, I am guessing he wore out a few wallets and that telegram must have been transferred each time. The gravity of this did not really hit me until   years later when my best friend died and I too was dealing with grief.

Over the years, I have given away a few items from that wallet. I gave the pictures of my nieces to my brother. I gave the picture of my mom to my sister. But I have kept the wallet and the telegram is still inside it, in the same place Dad kept it. Someday, that wallet will be the property of one of my sons. I hope they too will learn to appreciate the meaning of a very old piece of paper, that a young man who went off to war never came home.  And another young man, their grandfather,  who came home from war but would spend the rest of his life missing a lost brother and silently dealing with the scars that war inflicted on him.

the comics

When I was a kid, before I discovered motorcycles, beer and girls (in that order as it sadly turns out) I spent my time reading comic books. I was a fan of Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, The Legion of Super Heroes and many more. Later I got into the Marvel Universe, reading Spider Man, Thor, Iron Man, Hulk. And I went through an Archie stage too, but only because I was in love with Betty. Sigh. Comics cost 12 cents then, and the big '80 Page Giant' annuals were 25 cents. My finances were underwritten by my mom, who gave me a weekly allowance of 50 cents. Once I had the cash in hand, I would walk to the Rexall Drug Store in downtown Dixon (aptly named Dixon Drug Store) and spend my two quarters on a couple comic books. I could get two 12 cent comics and a large frosty cone for a quarter on the way home. Unless of course there was a new comic annual, then I would skip the frosty cone. I suppose it was the combination of reading comics and eating frosty cones that contributed to  me being the designated fat kid in class. Once I had the new comic in hand I was lost in the world of secret identities, capes, super powers, and crime fighting.

As odd as it may seem, I remember (and still have) the first comic I ever bought. It was Action Comics #350. Action Comics featured Superman, and in this particular adventure Superman traveled back in time to cave man days to investigate why Perry White found a Superman costume on a caveman skeleton. If you want to know more, Google it. Anyhow, over the years I managed to hang on to this comic, even after the Great Purge when I gave away most of my comics to Goodwill after several years of nagging by my parents. They insisted that I should be going to the library and check out BOOKS to read, real books. I rejected that advice, but by now I had discovered motorcycles (beer and girls were just around the corner) so my interest in the comics had waned. I bundled up my comics, several hundred, and dropped in the collection box. I try not to dwell on that but I think of how much they would be worth to me now, especially when writing checks for college tuition. I resist the urge to throw that up in my mom's face too, but at times I am tempted. I managed to earn 3 college degrees despite the time spent with Batman and Robin the Boy Wonder.

I recently re purchased Action Comics #350 on Amazon.com. You may be able to get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant, but Amazon delivers to your door. While I was cruising Amazon for comics, I also found Superman #200. There is an axiom that everyone remembers where they were when JFK was killed, or when Challenger blew up, or when the Twin Towers fell. I remember where I was when I bought Superman #200. I bought that issue at San Francisco International Airport. I remember this as my dad, my brother in law Dave and I had just dropped off my brother at the airport so he could catch a flight. I can't remember where he was headed to, but it was the fall of 1967, so chances are it was to Viet Nam or the first leg of that trip. So it stuck in my mind. Superman #200 was lost in the Great Purge but now I was able to get it back. I suppose that is a trip down memory lane, but thanks to Amazon and my Visa, I was able to revisit that night. It's OK to look back now and then as long as we keep moving forward.

After all this time, I still like the feel, the smell of the comics. I enjoy the styles of the different artists, the details of the drawings, the bits of stories that make up the comic universe. And I remember being a kid. That kid is still inside, he comes out now and then. I think that is a good thing.

And on Veteran's Day of 1968, my brother came home. That was a good day.

miller road

My hometown is Dixon, California. I wasn't born there, but I grew up there. From the mid 60's through the early 80's I called Dixon home. It was just a small farm town then, and most people worked and lived in town. Back then, commuting meant driving from one side of town to another. We didn't have a McDonalds or a Pizza Hut or Wal Mart then, but we did have an A&W (on the edge of town) and a small drive in called the 'Frosty' in the middle of town. We had one movie theater with shows on Friday and Saturday nights.

When you grow up in a small town, you learn to have fun where you can find it and to make the most of it. Once we got to high school and the State of California foolishly issued us driver's licenses, a whole new world opened up. Now we could drive to the nearby towns and enjoy the things they had to offer: first run movies, fast food, drag racing, record stores (real records, not CDs or online digital music stores thank you) and other amenities that we did not have growing up in Dixon. One particular venue of entertainment was Miller Road. If you grew up in Dixon, you are probably smiling now. That's because 1.) you drank a lot of beer on Miller Road or 2.) you got lucky on Miller Road or 3.) you drank a lot of beer and got lucky on Miller Road.

Miller Road was a few miles out of town, a smaller road off of the larger Robben Road. There were no street lights, yard lights, or any lighting out there except for the vast sky that covers the Sacramento Valley. At night there were thousands of stars to be seen even through the haze in the air. It was quiet, except for the sound of irrigation pumps, crickets, and the occasional car or truck speeding down another road. This is in the heart of farmland, so there was not much traffic or many people out there. It was, and I suppose still is, a popular place to drink and raise a little hell because it was away from town. There was always a chance that the county sheriff could drop by, but if everyone turned off their headlights chances were excellent that a group of Dixon youth could spend the whole night out there undetected. In the summer the smell of alfalfa was in the air, kind of a sweet smell that was uniquely Dixon. I too drank my share of beer on this road, sitting on the hoods of cars and trucks contemplating life under the stars.

You could tell when it was someone's first trip to this place; they would become awestruck by the big sky and universe laid out in front of them, with a childlike look of wonder on their faces. Like standing on the beach and looking out at the ocean, looking up at the night sky reminds us of the larger world outside of the little town we called home. Or maybe it was the beer. In either event, it was fun in our home town. No parents or law enforcement to get in the way. Just young people drinking, laughing, flirting, and wondering what lay ahead of them. Wondering about life. Before HD TV, before the Internet, before you could look up the constellation on your iPhone, we had a little place that didn't belong to us, but was owned by everyone. Every town had a place like this. Ours was called Miller Road. The next time I go back there, I just might buy some beer, drive to Miller Road and sit on the hood of the car and look up at the sky. Hopefully the police won't be patrolling that night.

P.S. To the football players that scattered when a spotlight was shined on them in the fall of 1978, that was not the sheriff. That was me and Gene. psych.

country boy

If you are one of the regular readers of this blog, you have probably figured out that I talk about, write about, a person named Gene. I talk about him because he was my best friend. Period. He never saved my life in combat, never loaned me money for a life saving operation or gave me a kidney. He was just my friend. He was a loyal friend, always supportive and giving. He kept me honest by always telling me when I was full of shit. He listened to me when I had troubles, towed my car when it broke down, and stood by my side when we had to literally fight our way out of a tough situation. Gene and I had many adventures together, drank more than our share of beer, and on one occasion ate a whole pan of brownies together. Yes, those type of brownies. We were chased by police, double dated, and worked side by side from time to time. Gene was a gentleman. When other friends would compete for the affections of a girl Gene liked, he would stay out of the fray. "I don't want to beat anyone else's time" he would tell me. I knew that he wanted to, and also knew that he probably could too, if he wanted to. He could have had any girl he wanted. Gene was smart, polite, charming and romantic. He was the swarthy type, a stocky Portuguese-Italian that could talk to anyone about anything. He and I attended community college together for awhile, but classes were not his thing. He never earned a degree, but was incredibly smart and well-read.
Gene and I met when were in high school. He transferred to our school in mid term of our sophomore year. It wasn't long before we started hanging out together, and I became an unofficial member of his large family. He was conservative, I a liberal.

He lived in the country, about a mile outside of town on a farm. I lived in town. The town we lived in was about 5,000 people at the time, so for him to call me a city kid was a bit of stretch I thought. But Gene was very proud of living on a farm and being a country kid. He belonged to 4H and FFA. He loved working in the fields, driving tractor cutting and baling hay. He and I planted an orchard one summer when I needed work and his dad put me on the farm payroll for a few weeks. We probably took longer than we should doing those jobs but at the time, the hours passed quickly. That's just the way it was. I spent countless hours with Gene, but there were not nearly enough. Gene referred to he and I as the square pegs in round holes. We were not jocks, or scholars, or bad kids or angels. We were just two kids growing up in a small town, figuring it out and making it up as we went along.

One day six years ago  after I came home from work  the phone rang. It was my friend Robert. I answered the phone, he told me to sit down, he had bad news. I didn't sit, I just asked him what was wrong.

"Gene died"

I sat down. My head was spinning, really spinning. We exchanged a few words, then ended our conversation. Head still spinning, I got on the computer and booked a flight, arranged for a car rental, made plans. In two days, I was back home. I sat on a plane, drank a lot of vodka and wrote a eulogy. I did not deliver that eulogy in the church, but afterwards with some of his close friends and his brothers and sisters we gathered at his grave, drank a couple bottles of Glen Fiddich and I said the eulogy.

I reunited with friends and family and buried my best friend. I grieved, I cried, I went back home and resumed my life. And very often, I would stop and think of Gene, and cry. This happened at home, at work. The grieving process was very prolonged. I missed him, I felt guilty for moving away from him, and wished we had more time. I was living in a place where no one knew of him. My new friends were sympathetic, but they did not grieve, they did not miss him. They were polite. Grieving alone is not a fun process. I was perplexed why this process was taking so long. Years had passed, but the grief, the pain remained. It came and went, I went on with my life, but I could not let go. I did not know why, and it was really bothering me.

Then a couple years ago, I traveled back to our little home town for the annual fair. I saw many old friends, had some fun, and was ready to leave town so I could get back on the plane and go home. As I was leaving town, I met up with Gene's younger sister. We went for a little drive and wound up having what would be one of the most important parking lot talks of my life. As we talked and reminisced, we shared many thoughts and feelings about this person we both loved and missed. I had known for years that while Gene was my best friend, his best friend was his sister. They were close in age and were inseparable as kids. We both expressed guilt and regret about time lost with him, about doing more of this and less of that, and just missing him. Finally, I confided in her that I could not let go of him, of his memory, and that I was having a real struggle with that. She looked at me through her teary eyes and said that we were not supposed to let go, we are supposed to keep him close and never let go. Just like that.

The weight of the world was off my shoulders.

Thanks Deanna.

Gene did many things for me while he was alive. He took care of me when I needed it, he kicked me in the ass when necessary. He would get pissed at me, console me, advise me, and laugh at me. He never lost faith in friendship.

As it turns out, he never really died. Yes, his body is no longer of this earth, but he lives on. He keeps me company every day. Today, he would have been 53 years old. After I moved away, I would try to call Gene on his birthday. One year I forgot. I called him a few days later, and started the conversation by saying '...meant to call you, but I forgot.'

"I noticed"

He was truly a man of few words, but when you use few words, people tend to listen closely.

Happy Birthday Gene. Say hi to your dad from me, and mine too.

oh my aching back

A very long time ago, I worked in construction. An ironworker, to be precise. I built pre fabricated steel buildings and grain storage systems. I did not make a lot of money doing this, or meet cute girls, or go to faraway places doing this work. It was just a job. I was young, and had no skills, so any job is a good job. One day, I fell off a step ladder. It wasn't that far, but it injured my back. That fall, and several years of lifting heavy objects I should not be lifting has resulted in a herniated disc that causes new adventures in pain. I have undergone physical therapy (which is really just a very expensive workout), chiropractic treament (pops and yanks in the spine that sound terrifying at first, but then I wiggle my toes and thank God I have movement still) and a series of epidural steroidal injections, known in the trade as an ESI. I have now had 6 ESI injections, including 2 today. An ESI is injecting steroids in the back to reduce the swelling. Only in the trade we call swelling 'inflammation'. Whatever. The doc takes a really long needle and slides into the lower back and shoots the steroid solution in between the discs so the nerves get a break and stop hurting for awhile. Sometimes the relief will last a year, sometimes a week. Thus the term practicing medicine. Today I went to a 'pain center' for the first time. Where it takes a few hours as a hospital out patient procedure, the pain center gets the job done in less than an hour. I enter the procedure room, lay face down on the table, drop my pants, raise my shirt, and the doctor and her team get down to business. With the speed and spirit of an Indy pit crew (not a NASCAR fan, sorry) the doc and her nurses numb, jab, inject. One of the nurses patted me on the back during the procedure. I suspect this was just a cover move for pinning me down in case I went psycho on them. Good luck with that. In just a few minutes they are done, I pull up my pants, pull down my shirt, and am whisked away to the recovery room, which is just a place to sign a few more papers. Then they give me the heave ho and I am on my way home. Now I just wait for the ESI to kick in and give me relief. Since was my fifth and sixth inject I suspect it may not be my last, but if I have my way surgery is the next stop. Either that or they install a fitting in the lower back, much like a grease fitting on a car, so I can just stop by and get some relief. Because I am getting weary of injections, therapies, adjustments, advil, ice packs, and mostly, pain surveys. How is my pain? It fricking hurts, that's how it is. Now can we just get an injection please?

my nieces, part 1

So this is the first of a 4 part series about four remarkable young women I proudly call my nieces. It's true, I am prejudiced in this subject, but that comes with having known them since they were born, so I have some attachment.
My next-youngest niece celebrated her birthday yesterday. I won't say which one as that would just make me feel older and I don't need that. Although I could not be with her on her day, I did extend my wishes and love via Facebook, one of the few redeeming virtues of that site. I told her in my message that it did not seem that long ago that I was reading bedtime stories to her. I was fortunate to spend a lot of time with her when she was little, as I would come and stay with them a lot. I think it is safe to say their home was like a second home to me. So I would come and stay and play with my nieces, read them stories, and yes, change the occasional diaper. So she grew up knowing who her uncle was, I knew her. I would read her those stories at bedtime, over and over. Dr. Seuss got to be a way of life. As she would drop off to sleep I would try to get off cheap by skipping some pages. I would no sooner skip a page when her eyes would open and she would say "uncle Kerry you  missed a page". So I would start over, reading from the last page.  As she grew up she was unbelievably cute, as many photos from those years reveal. Very cuddly and loving, she spent countless hours in my lap, both of us blissful in the knowledge that we were safe and loved. In one of my first official acts, I was asked to be her godfather and  I promised to do so. I think in some way, that gave a special quality to our relationship. As she grew into a young woman and then an adult, I was not able to see her as often as I would like. She was on her way through life, having boyfriends, high school, college. I enjoyed meeting her boyfriends, and would 'run them through the mill' when I met them, letting them know they would have to pass my standards if they wanted to spend time with her. This was known as the Uncle Kerry test. I made more that a couple young men think twice when they met me and I believe she took great enjoyment out of that. As a Girl Scout, she would call me every spring, saying 'hi unc, how many boxes this year?', hitting me up for those famous cookies. Every year I bought and ate more that I should have, but my resistance to her was nil. Later in life, I had the honor of reading at her wedding, something I took great pride in doing. Later I watched as she handled a divorce and a battle with cancer with strength and character. She won that battle and has made a good life for herself, with a family that loves her and many good friends. To this day, she still calls me 'Uncle Kerry' and puts her arms around me when she sees me. And I am pretty sure that if I were to read to her now, she would open her sleepy eyes and say, 'don't skip anything unc'. Happy Birthday Shanie Lee.