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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
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.
Monday, March 5, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 27, 2012
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.
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.
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?
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