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.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
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?
Saturday, February 11, 2012
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.
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.
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