It's snowing today. Tomorrow is Christmas 2012. As with many out there, this Christmas will be a "lean" one, materially. There won't be as many presents under the tree, and those that are there won't be as nice or expensive as "Santa" might have wanted. Most grown-ups will understand this. Unfortunately, there are those that are younger and still innocent that will not appreciate the hardships and sacrifices that others have made so that there will be something "under the tree" for them. I have had a few "lean" Christmases over the years. I remember one year, as a single parent, where I couldn't afford even a small Charlie-Brown-sized tree. I had some decorations and ornaments, my "share" from a failed marriage, but nothing to put them on. I had what seemed like "miles" of green tinsel garland in my box of Christmas stuff. So I made my own tree.
In my little basement apartment, there was a swag hook in the ceiling. Apparently I was supposed to hang a lamp on it. I didn't have a lamp. So I took the green garland, anchored it to the carpet, and ran it up to the hook in the ceiling. I repeated this process, looping from the floor to the ceiling until I had a thin pyramid shape that kinda looked like a tree. I hung a few ornaments on it, and my decorating was complete. Now, what to put "under" it?
My sons were still fairly young, and the thing they wanted most was a Nintendo. Not the fancy-schmancy game systems that are out now, just a plain, first-generation Nintendo. I managed to find one (they were a hot item that year) and wrapped it up for them. But having to "share" a gift can take some of the "sparkle" out of the Christmas spirit. And, with the game system only having one game with it, I feared they would grow tired of it quickly. So I found a couple of used games and wrapped them up as well. I don't remember whether or not each of them got "their own" game, but they ended up more than one game to play. They were young enough, and excited enough by the Nintendo that they didn't mind that they had to play with it on my "loaned" black and white portable television. I enjoyed that Christmas, in spite of the sparse surroundings and the garland "tree" in the corner. I can actually look back on it and smile.
This year, I have instructed everyone to not spend any money on me, to not buy me anything for Christmas. I hope that they listened. I have said it in previous years, and ended up with presents anyway. But this year I mean it. It is one of the leanest Christmases to date. However, we do have a tree. I got it out of the attic yesterday, and I'll set it up today. Probably take it down soon, it may not last until New Year's. I don't know yet.
One of the (many) reasons it is so lean this year is where we live. I love it out here. We are away from the hustle and bustle and sirens and drive-by shootings of the big City. It's ten miles to the grocery store, and farther to most everything else. That is also the reason we don't have any money. All of our money seems to go into the gas tank. I recently joined a car pool with other people from my work. We originally took turns driving for a week at a time, and have since changed to alternating days, so no one has to log 360 miles in a week on their vehicle. However, if I get taken to the pick-up point (the grocery store) and dropped off, that means I also have to be picked up at the end of the day. Let's see, ten miles to the grocery, ten miles back, any errands that might crop up, ten miles back to the grocery, pick me up, and ten miles home. That still puts 40 miles minimum through the exhaust pipe. It's only 72 miles round-trip to work and back. I'm not saving much by carpooling. So we are going to fix that. Next month, we will move into an apartment complex "behind" the grocery store. I will be able to walk, in a matter of minutes, to the pickup point for the carpool, thereby saving 40 miles a day when it is not "my" day to drive. Plus, it is a brand-new building, and should have affordable utility bills. Hopefully that will also offset the slightly higher rent. And we had to pay a deposit, so that money was not available for Christmas as well.
But, we will make it through this Christmas, as we have in the past. We will have a White Christmas, if what I see by looking out the window is any indication. We will remember past Christmases, and plan for future ones, tell ourselves (again) that this year we will shop all through the year so it's not one big hit all at once, and next year will be better.
I wish all of you the Merriest of Christmases, and the most Prosperous and Happiest New Year.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
All Dogs go to Heaven, I hope
December 18, 2012
Today I lost another good friend. I had to put my Basset Hound "Gracie" down. She was 12-1/2 years old. She had some chronic cysts, which I guess are somewhat common in Bassets. She had two or three removed in the past, but had one close to her left shoulder that the vet was "watching". He said that if it ruptured to the "inside", it could cause some problems. But if it ruptured to the "outside", it might drain and maybe go away. It ruptured to the outside, luckily, and just "leaked" occasionally. However, after time, and the addition of Sophie (our chihuahua) to our family, the wound got a lot more attention. Sophie would try to "keep it clean", and possibly rubbed it raw in her enthusiasm. Then it would itch, and Gracie would scratch at it. It got progressively worse, and would bleed when disturbed. Then it got to where it smelled like rotting flesh, which it probably was. I don't know that it wasn't cancer, I just couldn't afford the tests and biopsies it would have taken to find out. Also, she was developing two more lumps on her right side. Knowing what I was probably going to have to do made it no easier to do it. But the whole house literally smelled like death. And I realized that I could put it off no longer. So after work today, Janet, Angie, and Gracie "picked me up" after work and we drove to the vet. I signed a form stating that she had not bitten anyone in the last ten days. Then we got to sit in a small room with a couch in it. Gracie was nervous, as she always got when we went to the vet. She hated to have her nails cut, and the vet was the only one who could do it. It was just too stressful on all of us to try to do it ourselves. I was secretly hoping (selfishly, I know) that they could "fix" her and I would have her for longer. But I knew better. They might have been able to extend her life, or she could have died from the anesthesia. She was over twelve, remember?
So Janet and Angie made their exit, as they didn't want to "see" it or be present when "it happened". So Gracie and I and Dr. Clark spent her last minutes together. I loved on her, and pet her while he shaved a spot on her back leg. He told me it was up to me, then. I kissed her on the head, told her I loved her, and Dr. Clark prepared to give her the injection. He mentioned that it would work fast, and that she probably wouldn't even "vocalize". She went to sleep in about five seconds, and her heart stopped about 30 seconds later. Dr. Clark thanked me for allowing him to take care of her over the last twelve years, and I thanked him for his kindness and compassion. Then I removed her collar, and walked in tears, through the waiting room, and went to the car. I am devastated, but I know she is out of pain.
A lot of people pick out their pets, and some spend a lot of time finding the right one. 'Didn't happen that way with Gracie. She picked ME. From the first time I held her, I knew I was her Human.
She loved everyone in the family, but was devoted to me. Would sleep either on my feet or at my feet if she could get up on the bed, and by my side of the bed if she couldn't. She spent the last year or so sleeping on the floor next to the bed.
Today I lost another good friend. I had to put my Basset Hound "Gracie" down. She was 12-1/2 years old. She had some chronic cysts, which I guess are somewhat common in Bassets. She had two or three removed in the past, but had one close to her left shoulder that the vet was "watching". He said that if it ruptured to the "inside", it could cause some problems. But if it ruptured to the "outside", it might drain and maybe go away. It ruptured to the outside, luckily, and just "leaked" occasionally. However, after time, and the addition of Sophie (our chihuahua) to our family, the wound got a lot more attention. Sophie would try to "keep it clean", and possibly rubbed it raw in her enthusiasm. Then it would itch, and Gracie would scratch at it. It got progressively worse, and would bleed when disturbed. Then it got to where it smelled like rotting flesh, which it probably was. I don't know that it wasn't cancer, I just couldn't afford the tests and biopsies it would have taken to find out. Also, she was developing two more lumps on her right side. Knowing what I was probably going to have to do made it no easier to do it. But the whole house literally smelled like death. And I realized that I could put it off no longer. So after work today, Janet, Angie, and Gracie "picked me up" after work and we drove to the vet. I signed a form stating that she had not bitten anyone in the last ten days. Then we got to sit in a small room with a couch in it. Gracie was nervous, as she always got when we went to the vet. She hated to have her nails cut, and the vet was the only one who could do it. It was just too stressful on all of us to try to do it ourselves. I was secretly hoping (selfishly, I know) that they could "fix" her and I would have her for longer. But I knew better. They might have been able to extend her life, or she could have died from the anesthesia. She was over twelve, remember?
So Janet and Angie made their exit, as they didn't want to "see" it or be present when "it happened". So Gracie and I and Dr. Clark spent her last minutes together. I loved on her, and pet her while he shaved a spot on her back leg. He told me it was up to me, then. I kissed her on the head, told her I loved her, and Dr. Clark prepared to give her the injection. He mentioned that it would work fast, and that she probably wouldn't even "vocalize". She went to sleep in about five seconds, and her heart stopped about 30 seconds later. Dr. Clark thanked me for allowing him to take care of her over the last twelve years, and I thanked him for his kindness and compassion. Then I removed her collar, and walked in tears, through the waiting room, and went to the car. I am devastated, but I know she is out of pain.
A lot of people pick out their pets, and some spend a lot of time finding the right one. 'Didn't happen that way with Gracie. She picked ME. From the first time I held her, I knew I was her Human.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
It Starts With A Dream
I have posted in the past about Progress, and Technology. Each is an indicator of the other. But any Progress, or any Technology, can be traced back to an idea, to a "Dream", if you will. Someone somewhere, at some time, thought to themself, "Gee, if there was a(n) [insert anything here], it would sure make Life easier. I wonder why no one has made/invented/thought of one before." I think everyone can understand that concept. Sometimes these revelations or insights happen while we are performing mundane tasks, like scrubbing the floor on our hands and knees. How many innovations could we get from just this one task? Let's see: rubber gloves, knee pads, mops, waxless flooring, electric floor polisher/cleaners, and "skin safe" cleaning solutions all come to mind rather quickly.
Sometimes we may stumble across an idea in an actual dream, while we are asleep. Do you think the Wright Brothers ever dreamed that they could fly like birds? I know that I certainly have.
Do you think that perhaps we have progressed to a point, after which, there is no further progression? Has all technology been discovered? Before you answer, I will admit that there are still an almost infinite number of "things" to invent, books to write, and problems to solve. But except for a very few things, the basic "ingredients" are already there. Electricity, printed circuits, computers, building materials, paper, and ink, (just to mention a few) have all been a part of our daily existence. Are there truly any "new" ideas any more? I don't think there are that many. I think that we, as a society, actually go back to the "time" when the original "invention" came to be, and improve upon it. Not Develop it, just approach an old problem with a new and improved solution. I remember when a modem was limited to 14.4 Kb/s. Someone wanted to go faster, so that it would not take 4 minutes for a page to load on the internet. Old problem, same technology used in the solution, just a different combination of "ingredients". 'Still uses electricity, circuit boards, and a computer, but the parts are put together differently, and now we can communicate in the Gb/s range. Thinking we should be able to go faster is not a "new" idea.
Where am I going with this? I'm not sure, but I think I am going backward. Back in time, you might say. I had a dream the other night:
In my dream, I remember my father taking me around a room, possibly a basement, and showing me lots of things. Things from his past. Toys that he played with when he was a young child. Books that he read, or that were read to him. Clothes that he wore. Papers that he had written, or had "colored". All stages of his life were represented to me. From his early pre-schooling years, through his flight training, and beyond, his life was laid out to me. He wanted me to know of these things. Things that had shaped and steered his life, things that were important to him, and he wanted them to be as important to me. I was shown artwork, his violin and clarinet, even a car that he might have very well driven. All seemingly "ordinary" things. But they shaped his life.
One of my favorite authors is Ray Bradbury. Many years ago he wrote a short story by the name of "A Sound of Thunder". This story, in a nutshell, is about a company that offers trips back in time to give people a chance to hunt and kill a dinosaur. Prior to the adventure, a team was sent "back" to choose and follow the prey so that the hunter(s) would encounter it right at the end of its life. A floating metal walkway was there so that the hunters would not disturb anything on the ground, no matter how seemingly insignificant. During the actual hunt, one of the hunters panicked when he saw the intended prey, a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He left the path and ran blindly through the jungle. The remaining hunters tracked and killed the intended dinosaur. Shortly after the kill, a large tree fell upon the dead dinosaur, insuring that its life was ended "on schedule". After the panicked hunter had found his way back to the path, the party returned to the "present". The office looked the same, but different. Discussion with the staff indicated that a recent election had ended differently than it had before the trip, and the nation (whichever one it was) was now under a dictatorship. Upon examining the hunter's boots, they found a prehistoric butterfly squashed on the sole.
A seemingly innocent deviation of Nature, the early demise of a butterfly, had altered history.
Would my father's life have been different if he had not played the clarinet, or colored a particular picture? I can't say, for sure. How would my life have been different? Or would it have been?
I don't know what the significance of the dream was. Was he telling me that we can't go back, or that we must go back to simpler times?
My friend Randy passed away ten days ago. My father passed away ten years or so ago. My daughter Hilarie passed away eleven years ago today. If I could go back even two weeks, could I make a difference? Ten years? Twelve years? Would I make a difference? If I hadn't killed that rattlesnake up on the mountain, twenty or so years ago, would they still be here? No, I don't think so. The dinosaur was destined to die either way. The Bradbury story was a good one, even thought-provoking. But it was still just a story.
I do remember waking up after the dream, and I felt GOOD. . .refreshed, you might say. I was glad to "see" my Dad again. I remember just "knowing" that what he was saying to me, and what he was showing me, was important. Important not just to him, but for me too.
We can't physically go back in Time. But we can still go back to simpler times. It's how we Progress.
Sometimes we may stumble across an idea in an actual dream, while we are asleep. Do you think the Wright Brothers ever dreamed that they could fly like birds? I know that I certainly have.
Do you think that perhaps we have progressed to a point, after which, there is no further progression? Has all technology been discovered? Before you answer, I will admit that there are still an almost infinite number of "things" to invent, books to write, and problems to solve. But except for a very few things, the basic "ingredients" are already there. Electricity, printed circuits, computers, building materials, paper, and ink, (just to mention a few) have all been a part of our daily existence. Are there truly any "new" ideas any more? I don't think there are that many. I think that we, as a society, actually go back to the "time" when the original "invention" came to be, and improve upon it. Not Develop it, just approach an old problem with a new and improved solution. I remember when a modem was limited to 14.4 Kb/s. Someone wanted to go faster, so that it would not take 4 minutes for a page to load on the internet. Old problem, same technology used in the solution, just a different combination of "ingredients". 'Still uses electricity, circuit boards, and a computer, but the parts are put together differently, and now we can communicate in the Gb/s range. Thinking we should be able to go faster is not a "new" idea.
Where am I going with this? I'm not sure, but I think I am going backward. Back in time, you might say. I had a dream the other night:
In my dream, I remember my father taking me around a room, possibly a basement, and showing me lots of things. Things from his past. Toys that he played with when he was a young child. Books that he read, or that were read to him. Clothes that he wore. Papers that he had written, or had "colored". All stages of his life were represented to me. From his early pre-schooling years, through his flight training, and beyond, his life was laid out to me. He wanted me to know of these things. Things that had shaped and steered his life, things that were important to him, and he wanted them to be as important to me. I was shown artwork, his violin and clarinet, even a car that he might have very well driven. All seemingly "ordinary" things. But they shaped his life.
One of my favorite authors is Ray Bradbury. Many years ago he wrote a short story by the name of "A Sound of Thunder". This story, in a nutshell, is about a company that offers trips back in time to give people a chance to hunt and kill a dinosaur. Prior to the adventure, a team was sent "back" to choose and follow the prey so that the hunter(s) would encounter it right at the end of its life. A floating metal walkway was there so that the hunters would not disturb anything on the ground, no matter how seemingly insignificant. During the actual hunt, one of the hunters panicked when he saw the intended prey, a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He left the path and ran blindly through the jungle. The remaining hunters tracked and killed the intended dinosaur. Shortly after the kill, a large tree fell upon the dead dinosaur, insuring that its life was ended "on schedule". After the panicked hunter had found his way back to the path, the party returned to the "present". The office looked the same, but different. Discussion with the staff indicated that a recent election had ended differently than it had before the trip, and the nation (whichever one it was) was now under a dictatorship. Upon examining the hunter's boots, they found a prehistoric butterfly squashed on the sole.
A seemingly innocent deviation of Nature, the early demise of a butterfly, had altered history.
Would my father's life have been different if he had not played the clarinet, or colored a particular picture? I can't say, for sure. How would my life have been different? Or would it have been?
I don't know what the significance of the dream was. Was he telling me that we can't go back, or that we must go back to simpler times?
My friend Randy passed away ten days ago. My father passed away ten years or so ago. My daughter Hilarie passed away eleven years ago today. If I could go back even two weeks, could I make a difference? Ten years? Twelve years? Would I make a difference? If I hadn't killed that rattlesnake up on the mountain, twenty or so years ago, would they still be here? No, I don't think so. The dinosaur was destined to die either way. The Bradbury story was a good one, even thought-provoking. But it was still just a story.
I do remember waking up after the dream, and I felt GOOD. . .refreshed, you might say. I was glad to "see" my Dad again. I remember just "knowing" that what he was saying to me, and what he was showing me, was important. Important not just to him, but for me too.
We can't physically go back in Time. But we can still go back to simpler times. It's how we Progress.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
So Long, My Friend
Randy's memorial service was yesterday. I was not able to attend, though I really would have liked to. From the moment I heard that he had left us, I was subconciously preparing his eulogy. I gave the eulogies at Hilarie's and Dad's funerals, and in doing so, felt that I was able to give one final tribute "for the road". My mother was able to attend the service and meet Randy's wife, as well as see Mom Parker again. I don't know how many years it had been since they last saw each other, but, like Randy and me, they have known each other for about 44 years. I was glad that Mom went, not only to pay her respects, but to offer mine as well by proxy. I needn't have worried about the eulogy. From what I hear, some excerpts from my previous posts regarding Randy were read aloud during the service. I am deeply honored to have had my thoughts related to others that also loved Randy. I will carry that honor proudly in my heart for the remainder of my earthly days.
"Goodbye" has always sounded so "final" and "permanent" to me. I have always preferred to say "So Long", because to me, it sounds like there will always be another chance to get together; I say "So Long" because I know that we will run into each other again someday.
Randy was laid to rest today, November 29, 2012, in Pensacola, Florida. He was interred in Barrancas National Cemetery. I stated in an earlier post that I never got to say "Goodbye" to Randy. I just optimistically assumed that he would beat his affliction and Life would continue unabated. I was half-right, anyway. Life will go on, and I will carry his memory with me far beyond this life. I salute you, "Ensign Parker". Thank you for your service. Thank you for being my friend. Until we meet again, Randy, I wish you Peace.
"Goodbye" has always sounded so "final" and "permanent" to me. I have always preferred to say "So Long", because to me, it sounds like there will always be another chance to get together; I say "So Long" because I know that we will run into each other again someday.
Randy was laid to rest today, November 29, 2012, in Pensacola, Florida. He was interred in Barrancas National Cemetery. I stated in an earlier post that I never got to say "Goodbye" to Randy. I just optimistically assumed that he would beat his affliction and Life would continue unabated. I was half-right, anyway. Life will go on, and I will carry his memory with me far beyond this life. I salute you, "Ensign Parker". Thank you for your service. Thank you for being my friend. Until we meet again, Randy, I wish you Peace.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Only The Good. . .part two
As I mentioned earlier, Randy and I both love to fish. If you couldn't find us, we were usually down at the bayou, with our fishing pole, tackle boxes, and a seine net. He and I both had a seine, a long straight net with floats on one side, and weights on the other side. The ends had "borrowed" broomsticks or boards or pipes that were used as handles. We would flip a mental "coin" to see who went "deep". We would walk out into the water, never deeper than our waist, and stretch the net out between us. We would then walk parallel to the shore for a short distance, maybe 20 feet being the farthest, the "deep" person would arc in toward the shore, and we would bring our net in. This served us well, as far as "free" live bait. A usual haul would net us a small school of "glass minnows" and a few baby fish. Sometimes we could get a school of shrimp (those were the HOLY GRAIL of bait). Frequently there were assorted small crabs, and (a few times) baby flounder, which were thrown back to continue their life, with hopes that we would encounter them again in the future. Occasionally, we would go fishing in the Gulf (of Mexico). We would plead for a ride, load our stuff in Randy's Parents' station wagon, and head to one of the piers that dot the Gulf coast. I know we went to "Crystal Beach Pier" a few times, and also "Wayside Pier", among a few others. We never really had much luck with pier fishing, but if nothing else, we were able to cast for what seemed like a mile. We called it "getting the twists and kinks out of our lines". We also used to occasionally fish off of one of the many bridges down there. These were highway bridges that ran across the various bayous in the area. One that we frequented more than the others was the Shalimar Bridge. It connected Shalimar with Fort Walton Beach. There was a "catwalk" for pedestrian traffic on each side, so we were somewhat safe from the cars and trucks that were crossing all the time. One time, Randy, another friend, Mike McCollister (I hope I spelled it right, Mike), and I went to the Shalimar Bridge for a day of fishing. We were dutifully dropped off by Randy's dad, agreed upon an approximate pickup time, and left to our vices. Little did we know what that day held in store for us.
There is a species of fish known as the mullet that is prevalent in that area, as well as numerous others world-wide. They travel in huge schools that make the water look black as they pass. We stood on a dock one time and watched a school swim by us. The procession of fish must have been thirty feet wide, and at least two hundred yards in length. They swam by us forever. Oh yes, and the mullet is also highly elusive, and very desirable as a main course. They are delicious. Catching one with a baited hook is an art that we never mastered. The preferred methods of catching them was to either net them (a highly difficult task from shore) or "snag" them with a larger weighted treble hook which we called "snatch hooks". To "snatch", one cast out past the intended target, and then reeled and jerked the hook through the water with the hopes of impaling an unwary fish on the hook. Success rates were usually about 20% or less. Anyway, the three of us were up on the bridge, and the water (about 35 to 40 feet below us) turned BLACK. Immediately we all thought "mullet", but then Mike, (who had the enviable privelege of working as a deck-hand every summer on the charter boats and was something of a "fish expert") got us excited when he identified the fish as Spanish Mackeral. Hooks and lures splashed down into the school from all along the bridge. And they weren't touching anything. We tried in vain for at least fifteen minutes to lure one onto our hooks. Then Mike, who had switched to a snatch-hook, connected with one and started winching it up to the bridge. As it got nearer, it started to regurgitate the contents of its stomach, (a possible last-ditch attempt to confuse a predator?) and continued to do so as it arrived on the catwalk. The only thing that it had been eating was a species of small bait fish known as "alewife" which the locals pronounced as "ay-la-wie". We frequently caught them (as minnows) in our seine when shore fishing, as they were rather common. As luck (or fate) would have it, we had included someone's seine net in our pile of fishing gear, as well as a bait bucket. Randy and Mike hurried to the Fort Walton end of the bridge, got down to the water, and within 5 minutes, returned with a bucket crammed with alewife minnows. We all baited up, cast down into the water, and BOOM! all three of us immediately had fish on. There were probably about thirty or forty people fishing off of our side of the bridge, and all of them had been trying in vain to catch one of these fish. So, we immediately got their attentions. But, due to fishing "etiquette", and the possibility that it could just be a "fluke", nobody came to check it out. However, after our sucesses had been repeated consistently (we each stopped counting at 30 fish), we definitely had their attention because we were the ONLY people on that bridge that were catching anything. We had people offering to buy DEAD minnows from us because the alewife minnnows were the only thing they were taking. We were amused and excited when we found that these fish were actually coming out of the water to get the minnows as we slowly lowered our baited hooks to the water. Then, we all watched as the entire school dropped to the depths. They just disappeared. We threw a few futile casts at where they had just been, but all action had stopped. Tired from hoisting these fish up to the bridge (they probably were all a pound or two minimum, with some closer to 4 or 5), but still wishing it would have lasted even a little bit longer, we stared at the water. Then we saw a shark just "cruising" through the area where the fish had been. The shark was about eight feet long, about 2 or 3 feet under the surface, and in no hurry. (Author's note: We used to water ski under this bridge all the time, and never once did the possibility of even a small shark enter our minds.) As the shark continued under the bridge, apparently headed for the bay (or maybe the Gulf), we looked at each other in amazement. Commenting on how "cool" that shark had been, we looked out over the water. And, right on schedule, the school of Spanish rose from the depths and we were back in business. We had brought a long stringer and a length of rope so we could keep any fish we might catch in the water. Needless to say, the stringer was full, and so was a good portion of the rope attached to the stringer. We fished for another half hour or so, and Randy's Dad came to pick us up. We offered the remains from our bait bucket to those around us, and then collected our stuff and proceeded to the car. As we crossed the bridge on our way home, we saw our former bridge-mates finally catching fish with "our" leftover minnows. I believe that Randy's mother still has a snapshot of us holding up (with some difficulty) the rope full of fish. It was an awesome day for us.
Friday, November 23, 2012
ONLY THE GOOD. . .
I started this post on November 17, 2012
This is a posting that I never would have thought that I would have to write. Any faithful readers will know of my friend Randy. My oldest friend has become ill, and dreadfully so. I feel so helpless, knowing that I can't really do anything to stop it. He has cancer, and it has settled in his spine. He is in incredible pain, and I can do nothing but offer my love, friendship, and support to him. Some might say, "Roger, that's enough. It's all that you can do for him." And they might be right, but it ain't enough. I want him to be well. He and I still have way too many adventures and escapades ahead of us, and they may now never be realized. I went to visit him in the hospital earlier this week in Las Vegas, where he and his new bride have taken up residence. He was in good spirits, given the circumstances at the time. There was a fair amount of frustration on his (and my) part, as two of his doctors (surgeons) gave him two different opinions on how (and how much) surgery should take place. The tumors are affecting two of his vertebrae, and one doctor planned to go in through his chest, possibly deflate a lung to get it out of the way, and attack the tumors from the "front" of his spine. Then, after an indeterminate amount of recuperative time, go in from the back and remove the remainder of the tumors. Needless to say, this sounded like a terrible, although possibly necessary, option. A few hours later, another surgeon came in to talk with him. His option was to just go in and get it. Plain and simple. The previous doctor's option was discussed with him. His response was that although the other guy might be a good surgeon, he was not a "cancer only" surgeon, and might not have extensive enough experience in that area, whereas doctor #2 had been a cancer surgeon for twenty or more years. Obviously, doctor #2's news was received much better. During my far-too-brief stay with him, we talked about old times, and the possibilities for the future. He was making plans to move back to Florida where they could stay with his mom, or in a condo on the beach that his family owns. His wife could help his mother around the house, and Randy would keep himself occupied with little putterings in the garage, find something to do (he joked about being the oldest "Grit" salesman, a reference to the many comic book ads from our youth. He was well aware that his activity and mobility level would be severely hampered. He was making grown-up decisions, and thinking everything through, allowing for any necessary deviations or roadblocks regarding his future. I needed to return to Utah, and after shaking his hand and hugging them, I left Randy and his wife in the hospital room and drove home.
I had promised a mutual friend and his wife, also very close friends, that I would let them know about Randy's condition. I called him after my return home, and gave him my "report". He asked if I thought Randy might be up for a phone call. Knowing how close these friends were to Randy, I felt that Randy would appreciate hearing from them. About 15 minutes after we had gotten off the phone, I received a call from them, actually the wife, because he was not able to talk. They had gotten a call from Randy's wife telling them that they had talked with the doctors, and that the decision had been made to NOT perform any surgeries. Whether it was because it was "too risky", would not do any good, or both, I never heard. But I think it was both. Randy was given 3 to 5 months. I pray that he will have more than that, and at the same time my heart bleeds to think of him in pain. So, faithful reader, I'm going to tell you about one of the better people that I know.
Thanksgiving Day, 2012
I found out that Randy passed away this afternoon.When I left him only a week ago, I had no idea that it would be the last time I saw him.
I met Randy 44 years ago this month. We had both just moved from Missouri to Florida within a week of each other, and we lived half a block from each other. We had just eleven days difference in our ages. He was the older of the two of us. And although he had lived there when he had been younger, we were both "new kids" in school. (We moved there in November of 1968). Never had two young boys (we were in ninth grade) been more suited to be friends. He was blondish, and I was dark-haired. We were pretty much evenly matched in size. Our fathers were both fighter pilots. We both liked to fish. He was my best friend.
I had moved from a small town that had a "lower" educational standard than the one in Florida. Prior to Missouri, we had been stationed in Tucson, Arizona, where the standard had been much higher. As a result, while in Missouri, I had become a bit lazy in regard to my school work. I was not challenged. I don't recall taking books home for homework very much, because I didn't need to. I seemed to be able to pull passing grades or better with little effort. So when I got to Florida, I had some poor study habits, and did not do well. One class, Civics, was difficult for me. I had it first period, and it was not the way to start my day. One interesting fact came to light rather quickly in that class. Our teacher, on test days in particular, would leave the room for fifteen to twenty or more minutes to go have a cup of coffee and a smoke. I know that, because he would have a coffee cup in his hand when he returned, and if he walked by you, the smell of fresh cigarettes smoke could be detected. One test day, he did his normal routine. I really think I knew all the answers. In fact, I finished my test in time to be able to copy the entire test, and what I thought the answers were, for my friend Randy, who had the same class during fourth period. I passed the copied test to Randy between classes.
Later that same day, during fourth period band class, the "squawk box" (PA system/intercom) interrupted our class. "Mr. Sills, do you have a Roger Fields in your class at this time?" Mr. Sills, the band director replied that yes, he did have a student by that name. "Could you have him report to my office, please?" It was the Principal and he wanted to see me. Completely oblivious as to the reason why, I made my way to the office. When I walked in, the secretary informed me that I should take a seat because the principal was not in his office at the moment. I sat on a chair, wondering what was going on. Suddenly, the door opened, and Mr. Peterson, the principal walked in. He glanced at me, asked if I was Roger Fields, and when I acknowledged my identity, he asked that I follow him. He walked into his office, and I followed, still bewildered as to the reason why. When I cleared the doorway, I saw Randy sitting in a chair, and on Mr. Peterson's desk was THE PAPER with all the test questions and answers in my handwriting. Randy looked up at me as I entered the room, gave me a quick "holy crap we're in trouble" look, and I took a seat for the inquisition. We had gotten caught cheating on a Civics six-weeks test. We both got Zeroes on the test score, and an "F" for that six-week term. As ashamed as I am of that incident, it also cemented our friendship forever.
As happens to all young men, we discovered girls around that time. I had a girlfriend, and so did Randy. But since Randy and I were almost inseparable, we would accompany each other to each other's girlfriend's house. Randy would frequently come along when I went to see my girlfriend, and vice-versa. It served to widen our social circles, and probably kept us in line, as well. This tradition continued through high school, and a few years beyond.
Randy and I got our driver's licenses during our junior year. Although neither of us had a car of our own, we did have occasional access to our family's cars. We used to dream about having our own cars so that we could "get the girls", much like we had dreamed that we would get them "once we got our licenses". In our senior year, Randy got his car, a 1960 Chevrolet BelAir that had belonged to a great-aunt, or something like that. It looked and smelled new, and had only 25000 miles on it. Not bad for an 11 or 12 year old car. She had literally been the "little old lady that drove it on Sunday". And she must have been a small lady, because there were 4-inch riser blocks of wood under the seat mounts so that she could see over the dash. As Christmas 1971 approached, Randy was chosen to drive to Missouri to pick up his grandmother and bring her back to Florida for the holidays. Randy asked if I could go along for company etc. I didn't think my mother would agree to it, especially as I would have to miss the last day of school before the holiday break, but was pleasantly surprised when she agreed. Randy and I took turns driving, while the other one would handle the 8-track tape player and navigate. I remember that the speedometer in the car was broken at the time, so I would watch for road signs indicating miles to a city and log the time. Then when we passed another sign, I would check my watch and compute the miles traveled in whatever time period had passed. I remember one time we drove an estimated 6 miles in 4 minutes. That computed out to 90 mph. Whether we were actually travelling that fast, I can't say for sure. But I'm sure we were still well over the speed limit.
We got to Dexter, Missouri safe and sound, and spent a night at his grandmother's house. This was the town that Randy had moved from, and we spent the next day driving around town and seeing some of Randy's old friends from there. We spent another night, and then Randy, Grandma, and I headed back to Florida. Grandma was content to sit in the back seat, and her only complaint was about our cigarette smoke. We tried to accommodate her by opening vents (remember those?) and it worked, a little. We made it back home safely, and Randy and his family enjoyed Christmas with his grandmother.
During the summer between our junior and senior year, I got my first motorcycle, and Randy had an old Honda 125 "Dream". We rode those things everywhere. City, Highway, and DIRT RIDING, although we called it "trail riding". We rode on dirt roads out on the military reservation. We could spend hours just exploring, and probably never get more than 20 miles from home. There were that many roads out there. I believe that he and I were better motorcyclists because of our experiences on dirt. We used to go out on the elementary school playground, which was just a huge flat expanse of red clay and sand. We would accelerate to 30 or 40 mph and slam on the brakes, just to practice sliding and skids. We got to where we could lock up both wheels at 40 mph and not crash. I think this experience probably saved our lives more than once in later years. In subsequent years, we got different bikes, bigger bikes, and continued to ride together whenever we could. Randy was one of the few people that I trusted to drive a bike with me on the back. I trusted and knew his abilities. I could actually relax and enjoy the ride. And he was a pleasure to have as a passenger, because he knew how much and when to lean when we turned. Oh, to have those days back!
Randy had taken drafting classes during our senior year. He and other students would board a bus and travel to the local Junior College to take their career training classes. I had always enjoyed drafting and mechanical drawing, but my poorer grades and my commitment to the high school band (probably the main reason that I even stayed in school) precluded my leaving campus for half a day. We graduated, and set forth into the world. Randy eventually secured a drafting job, a career he kept for many years. He moved around a little, and actually ended up working at the same company as I worked at for a while. I helped him move up to Greenville in one of the "Carolinas", but I don't remember which one. I think it was South Carolina, but there is a "Greenville" in both of them, evidently. Anyway, he packed his car with most of his belongings (he was now driving an MGB), and I put the remainder in my car, and we caravanned up there. I spent the night up there, unloaded his stuff from my car, and drove home. I know that he also moved to Louisville, Kentucky, and was up in Massachusetts for a while. I remember him settling in the Tampa area, but don't remember exactly when.
He joined the U.S. Navy, and applied to be a RIO (radar intercept officer) or as they were also known, "GIB" for 'guy in back'. I know that he attained the rank of Ensign, because he used to get teased about being "Ensign Parker", a character in "McHales Navy", a popular comedy show on television in the 60's and early 70's. But Randy had a hard time getting his radar intercept times down to the desired mark, evidently. He ended up leaving the Navy, although he did get to "see the world" a bit. I believe he stayed in the Naval Reserve for a number of years, as I remember he had yearly trips to the UK.
When another close mutual friend (Brad) and I got our first apartment, Randy was a frequent, no, make that "constant" visitor there. We let our hair grow, learned to drink (practice make perfect), and pretty much partied every night.
Randy would have been my best man at my (1st) wedding, but I had asked my father to fill that slot. But Randy was in our wedding party as one of my groomsmen. He sure looked sharp in that tux.
When I went back for my 30-year class reunion, Randy and I visited the Armament Museum at Eglin AFB, where our fathers had been stationed. Randy's father had flown the F-104, and mine had flown the F-4. They have an F-104 on static display, and Randy's father's name is painted on the side of the canopy. I know he was proud, I was proud. I find it a little comforting that in some way, our fathers' careers have been immortalized. Randy's father may very well have flown that very aircraft that has his name painted on it. And the plane that my father flew in VietNam is now on static display at Nellis AFB outside of Las Vegas. I have not personally "visited" the plane at Nellis. I had planned to, on the way out of Las Vegas last week, but I knew that Randy wanted to accompany me when I went. And at the time, he was not well enough. I figured that we would go together "next time".
Randy and his first wife, Lori, moved to St. George, Utah from Tampa. He started his own business installing satellite dishes. It must have been lucrative enough for him to make a living, but I think he grew tired of it. He and I have jet fuel running through our veins instead of blood, we used to say. I know that he wanted to be associated with aviation, as did I. So he dropped a chunk of money into taking training to be a dispatcher for airlines. He completed his training, and secured a job with SkyWest Airlines, a small airline based in St. George. He enjoyed his job, and the free (or reduced fare) airline travel afforded to him as an airline employee. Occasionally, he would get to travel in the cockpit along with the flight crew. He loved it. Once, he took his video camera and recorded the action in the cockpit, and burned a copy of it to DVD and sent it to me. This DVD has just now become one of my favorite movies. Randy and Lori decided to "call it quits" after 16 years or so of marriage. Randy, seeking new horizons, and a fresh start, applied for and received employment in Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirate. Somewhat saddened by the relocation of my friend, I nonetheless supported him in his venture. After all, he was going to make premium wages, and he planned to "bank" a good portion of his money. He spent roughly three or four years over there working for the airline "ETIHAD". After his first year there, he started fulfilling his dream of seeing the world. He also, to keep everyone entertained and informed, started a blog "Abu Dhabi Dispatches" which I read voraciously. Needless to say, I was envious of him and his travels. But I was also happy for him, and very impressed with his writing abilities. I was evidently not the only one, as he was also a contributor to a newsletter/magazine over there giving an "American's" perspective.
This is a posting that I never would have thought that I would have to write. Any faithful readers will know of my friend Randy. My oldest friend has become ill, and dreadfully so. I feel so helpless, knowing that I can't really do anything to stop it. He has cancer, and it has settled in his spine. He is in incredible pain, and I can do nothing but offer my love, friendship, and support to him. Some might say, "Roger, that's enough. It's all that you can do for him." And they might be right, but it ain't enough. I want him to be well. He and I still have way too many adventures and escapades ahead of us, and they may now never be realized. I went to visit him in the hospital earlier this week in Las Vegas, where he and his new bride have taken up residence. He was in good spirits, given the circumstances at the time. There was a fair amount of frustration on his (and my) part, as two of his doctors (surgeons) gave him two different opinions on how (and how much) surgery should take place. The tumors are affecting two of his vertebrae, and one doctor planned to go in through his chest, possibly deflate a lung to get it out of the way, and attack the tumors from the "front" of his spine. Then, after an indeterminate amount of recuperative time, go in from the back and remove the remainder of the tumors. Needless to say, this sounded like a terrible, although possibly necessary, option. A few hours later, another surgeon came in to talk with him. His option was to just go in and get it. Plain and simple. The previous doctor's option was discussed with him. His response was that although the other guy might be a good surgeon, he was not a "cancer only" surgeon, and might not have extensive enough experience in that area, whereas doctor #2 had been a cancer surgeon for twenty or more years. Obviously, doctor #2's news was received much better. During my far-too-brief stay with him, we talked about old times, and the possibilities for the future. He was making plans to move back to Florida where they could stay with his mom, or in a condo on the beach that his family owns. His wife could help his mother around the house, and Randy would keep himself occupied with little putterings in the garage, find something to do (he joked about being the oldest "Grit" salesman, a reference to the many comic book ads from our youth. He was well aware that his activity and mobility level would be severely hampered. He was making grown-up decisions, and thinking everything through, allowing for any necessary deviations or roadblocks regarding his future. I needed to return to Utah, and after shaking his hand and hugging them, I left Randy and his wife in the hospital room and drove home.
I had promised a mutual friend and his wife, also very close friends, that I would let them know about Randy's condition. I called him after my return home, and gave him my "report". He asked if I thought Randy might be up for a phone call. Knowing how close these friends were to Randy, I felt that Randy would appreciate hearing from them. About 15 minutes after we had gotten off the phone, I received a call from them, actually the wife, because he was not able to talk. They had gotten a call from Randy's wife telling them that they had talked with the doctors, and that the decision had been made to NOT perform any surgeries. Whether it was because it was "too risky", would not do any good, or both, I never heard. But I think it was both. Randy was given 3 to 5 months. I pray that he will have more than that, and at the same time my heart bleeds to think of him in pain. So, faithful reader, I'm going to tell you about one of the better people that I know.
Thanksgiving Day, 2012
I found out that Randy passed away this afternoon.When I left him only a week ago, I had no idea that it would be the last time I saw him.
RANDAL B. PARKER
October 3, 1954 – November 22, 2012
The remainder of this post is a collection of thoughts and memories.
The chronology is not necessarily in sequence.
I had moved from a small town that had a "lower" educational standard than the one in Florida. Prior to Missouri, we had been stationed in Tucson, Arizona, where the standard had been much higher. As a result, while in Missouri, I had become a bit lazy in regard to my school work. I was not challenged. I don't recall taking books home for homework very much, because I didn't need to. I seemed to be able to pull passing grades or better with little effort. So when I got to Florida, I had some poor study habits, and did not do well. One class, Civics, was difficult for me. I had it first period, and it was not the way to start my day. One interesting fact came to light rather quickly in that class. Our teacher, on test days in particular, would leave the room for fifteen to twenty or more minutes to go have a cup of coffee and a smoke. I know that, because he would have a coffee cup in his hand when he returned, and if he walked by you, the smell of fresh cigarettes smoke could be detected. One test day, he did his normal routine. I really think I knew all the answers. In fact, I finished my test in time to be able to copy the entire test, and what I thought the answers were, for my friend Randy, who had the same class during fourth period. I passed the copied test to Randy between classes.
Later that same day, during fourth period band class, the "squawk box" (PA system/intercom) interrupted our class. "Mr. Sills, do you have a Roger Fields in your class at this time?" Mr. Sills, the band director replied that yes, he did have a student by that name. "Could you have him report to my office, please?" It was the Principal and he wanted to see me. Completely oblivious as to the reason why, I made my way to the office. When I walked in, the secretary informed me that I should take a seat because the principal was not in his office at the moment. I sat on a chair, wondering what was going on. Suddenly, the door opened, and Mr. Peterson, the principal walked in. He glanced at me, asked if I was Roger Fields, and when I acknowledged my identity, he asked that I follow him. He walked into his office, and I followed, still bewildered as to the reason why. When I cleared the doorway, I saw Randy sitting in a chair, and on Mr. Peterson's desk was THE PAPER with all the test questions and answers in my handwriting. Randy looked up at me as I entered the room, gave me a quick "holy crap we're in trouble" look, and I took a seat for the inquisition. We had gotten caught cheating on a Civics six-weeks test. We both got Zeroes on the test score, and an "F" for that six-week term. As ashamed as I am of that incident, it also cemented our friendship forever.
As happens to all young men, we discovered girls around that time. I had a girlfriend, and so did Randy. But since Randy and I were almost inseparable, we would accompany each other to each other's girlfriend's house. Randy would frequently come along when I went to see my girlfriend, and vice-versa. It served to widen our social circles, and probably kept us in line, as well. This tradition continued through high school, and a few years beyond.
Randy and I got our driver's licenses during our junior year. Although neither of us had a car of our own, we did have occasional access to our family's cars. We used to dream about having our own cars so that we could "get the girls", much like we had dreamed that we would get them "once we got our licenses". In our senior year, Randy got his car, a 1960 Chevrolet BelAir that had belonged to a great-aunt, or something like that. It looked and smelled new, and had only 25000 miles on it. Not bad for an 11 or 12 year old car. She had literally been the "little old lady that drove it on Sunday". And she must have been a small lady, because there were 4-inch riser blocks of wood under the seat mounts so that she could see over the dash. As Christmas 1971 approached, Randy was chosen to drive to Missouri to pick up his grandmother and bring her back to Florida for the holidays. Randy asked if I could go along for company etc. I didn't think my mother would agree to it, especially as I would have to miss the last day of school before the holiday break, but was pleasantly surprised when she agreed. Randy and I took turns driving, while the other one would handle the 8-track tape player and navigate. I remember that the speedometer in the car was broken at the time, so I would watch for road signs indicating miles to a city and log the time. Then when we passed another sign, I would check my watch and compute the miles traveled in whatever time period had passed. I remember one time we drove an estimated 6 miles in 4 minutes. That computed out to 90 mph. Whether we were actually travelling that fast, I can't say for sure. But I'm sure we were still well over the speed limit.
We got to Dexter, Missouri safe and sound, and spent a night at his grandmother's house. This was the town that Randy had moved from, and we spent the next day driving around town and seeing some of Randy's old friends from there. We spent another night, and then Randy, Grandma, and I headed back to Florida. Grandma was content to sit in the back seat, and her only complaint was about our cigarette smoke. We tried to accommodate her by opening vents (remember those?) and it worked, a little. We made it back home safely, and Randy and his family enjoyed Christmas with his grandmother.
During the summer between our junior and senior year, I got my first motorcycle, and Randy had an old Honda 125 "Dream". We rode those things everywhere. City, Highway, and DIRT RIDING, although we called it "trail riding". We rode on dirt roads out on the military reservation. We could spend hours just exploring, and probably never get more than 20 miles from home. There were that many roads out there. I believe that he and I were better motorcyclists because of our experiences on dirt. We used to go out on the elementary school playground, which was just a huge flat expanse of red clay and sand. We would accelerate to 30 or 40 mph and slam on the brakes, just to practice sliding and skids. We got to where we could lock up both wheels at 40 mph and not crash. I think this experience probably saved our lives more than once in later years. In subsequent years, we got different bikes, bigger bikes, and continued to ride together whenever we could. Randy was one of the few people that I trusted to drive a bike with me on the back. I trusted and knew his abilities. I could actually relax and enjoy the ride. And he was a pleasure to have as a passenger, because he knew how much and when to lean when we turned. Oh, to have those days back!
Randy had taken drafting classes during our senior year. He and other students would board a bus and travel to the local Junior College to take their career training classes. I had always enjoyed drafting and mechanical drawing, but my poorer grades and my commitment to the high school band (probably the main reason that I even stayed in school) precluded my leaving campus for half a day. We graduated, and set forth into the world. Randy eventually secured a drafting job, a career he kept for many years. He moved around a little, and actually ended up working at the same company as I worked at for a while. I helped him move up to Greenville in one of the "Carolinas", but I don't remember which one. I think it was South Carolina, but there is a "Greenville" in both of them, evidently. Anyway, he packed his car with most of his belongings (he was now driving an MGB), and I put the remainder in my car, and we caravanned up there. I spent the night up there, unloaded his stuff from my car, and drove home. I know that he also moved to Louisville, Kentucky, and was up in Massachusetts for a while. I remember him settling in the Tampa area, but don't remember exactly when.
He joined the U.S. Navy, and applied to be a RIO (radar intercept officer) or as they were also known, "GIB" for 'guy in back'. I know that he attained the rank of Ensign, because he used to get teased about being "Ensign Parker", a character in "McHales Navy", a popular comedy show on television in the 60's and early 70's. But Randy had a hard time getting his radar intercept times down to the desired mark, evidently. He ended up leaving the Navy, although he did get to "see the world" a bit. I believe he stayed in the Naval Reserve for a number of years, as I remember he had yearly trips to the UK.
When another close mutual friend (Brad) and I got our first apartment, Randy was a frequent, no, make that "constant" visitor there. We let our hair grow, learned to drink (practice make perfect), and pretty much partied every night.
Randy would have been my best man at my (1st) wedding, but I had asked my father to fill that slot. But Randy was in our wedding party as one of my groomsmen. He sure looked sharp in that tux.
When I went back for my 30-year class reunion, Randy and I visited the Armament Museum at Eglin AFB, where our fathers had been stationed. Randy's father had flown the F-104, and mine had flown the F-4. They have an F-104 on static display, and Randy's father's name is painted on the side of the canopy. I know he was proud, I was proud. I find it a little comforting that in some way, our fathers' careers have been immortalized. Randy's father may very well have flown that very aircraft that has his name painted on it. And the plane that my father flew in VietNam is now on static display at Nellis AFB outside of Las Vegas. I have not personally "visited" the plane at Nellis. I had planned to, on the way out of Las Vegas last week, but I knew that Randy wanted to accompany me when I went. And at the time, he was not well enough. I figured that we would go together "next time".Randy and his first wife, Lori, moved to St. George, Utah from Tampa. He started his own business installing satellite dishes. It must have been lucrative enough for him to make a living, but I think he grew tired of it. He and I have jet fuel running through our veins instead of blood, we used to say. I know that he wanted to be associated with aviation, as did I. So he dropped a chunk of money into taking training to be a dispatcher for airlines. He completed his training, and secured a job with SkyWest Airlines, a small airline based in St. George. He enjoyed his job, and the free (or reduced fare) airline travel afforded to him as an airline employee. Occasionally, he would get to travel in the cockpit along with the flight crew. He loved it. Once, he took his video camera and recorded the action in the cockpit, and burned a copy of it to DVD and sent it to me. This DVD has just now become one of my favorite movies. Randy and Lori decided to "call it quits" after 16 years or so of marriage. Randy, seeking new horizons, and a fresh start, applied for and received employment in Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirate. Somewhat saddened by the relocation of my friend, I nonetheless supported him in his venture. After all, he was going to make premium wages, and he planned to "bank" a good portion of his money. He spent roughly three or four years over there working for the airline "ETIHAD". After his first year there, he started fulfilling his dream of seeing the world. He also, to keep everyone entertained and informed, started a blog "Abu Dhabi Dispatches" which I read voraciously. Needless to say, I was envious of him and his travels. But I was also happy for him, and very impressed with his writing abilities. I was evidently not the only one, as he was also a contributor to a newsletter/magazine over there giving an "American's" perspective.
.
These are a couple of the pictures from his "adventures" in the Middle East. The one on the left is, of course, Paris. The one to the right is in Abu Dhabi. The picture above is of Randy and the Jeep that he bought over there to get around. He also visited Moscow, Nepal, and Thailand among other exotic (to me, anyway) locations. He also managed to make it back to the States once a year for his "vacation" time. I managed to catch up with him once, while he was back here, but it was only on the phone. We never managed to get together face to face while he was on "leave". But we always wanted to. If you would like some entertaining reading, and a lot more pictures, you might search for his blog. It is still up, as far as I know. Look for "Abu Dhabi Dispatches". Randy grew a little dissatisfied with the situation in the Middle East, and decided to come home. He returned at the beginning of 2012, after securing a job in Las Vegas, working for a small airline there. He also had been cultivating a relationship, of sorts. A "girl" from our class had captured his attentions, and they had communicated and spent time together when possible. This relationship blossomed, and culminated in their marriage in July of this year. Now, let me explain something here: I have a lot of "friends", but there is a small number of people that are my "FRIENDS". More like family. And with each of these few friends (around as many as there are fingers on one hand, counting Randy), their spouses are loved by me unconditionally and are viewed as "sisters" to me. And all of us have an agreement that if something happens to any of us, his wife (our sister) is to look to us for anything. And if we have it, whether it be: support, help, comfort, or even money, if we have it to spare, all she has to do is ask. (Karen, I hope you don't mind that I "borrowed" a couple of pictures from you. Thank you for making Randy's life complete).
These are a couple of the pictures from his "adventures" in the Middle East. The one on the left is, of course, Paris. The one to the right is in Abu Dhabi. The picture above is of Randy and the Jeep that he bought over there to get around. He also visited Moscow, Nepal, and Thailand among other exotic (to me, anyway) locations. He also managed to make it back to the States once a year for his "vacation" time. I managed to catch up with him once, while he was back here, but it was only on the phone. We never managed to get together face to face while he was on "leave". But we always wanted to. If you would like some entertaining reading, and a lot more pictures, you might search for his blog. It is still up, as far as I know. Look for "Abu Dhabi Dispatches". Randy grew a little dissatisfied with the situation in the Middle East, and decided to come home. He returned at the beginning of 2012, after securing a job in Las Vegas, working for a small airline there. He also had been cultivating a relationship, of sorts. A "girl" from our class had captured his attentions, and they had communicated and spent time together when possible. This relationship blossomed, and culminated in their marriage in July of this year. Now, let me explain something here: I have a lot of "friends", but there is a small number of people that are my "FRIENDS". More like family. And with each of these few friends (around as many as there are fingers on one hand, counting Randy), their spouses are loved by me unconditionally and are viewed as "sisters" to me. And all of us have an agreement that if something happens to any of us, his wife (our sister) is to look to us for anything. And if we have it, whether it be: support, help, comfort, or even money, if we have it to spare, all she has to do is ask. (Karen, I hope you don't mind that I "borrowed" a couple of pictures from you. Thank you for making Randy's life complete).
  |
| The happy couple |
I will close this post for now, but rest assured that it will be added to. If not by me, by others.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Happy Thanksgiving
I know that just about everyone will be posting well wishes and statements of thanks on all the social media today, and possibly either be calling or be called by, loved ones from around the world. Families will gather together to give a Prayer of Thanks for their blessings, and proceed to gorge themselves on a sumptuous repast, unbutton their top button, watch football and take a well-deserved nap. But I wonder, if you could only give Thanks for one or two blessings, what would they be?
Most people would top their list by being thankful for their family and/or friends. Maybe they would follow with gratitude for the freedoms that they enjoy, being blessed to be an American, the knowledge of a True and Loving God to whom they can give Thanks, the food on their table, the list could and does go on almost forever. And sometimes, so does the Prayer, or at least that may be how it seems, to an empty and growly stomach that has been tempted and tortured for hours prior to the feast. I'm sure that at least two of these will sound familiar to everyone. But remember that you are, for the sake of this exercise, limited to two. Now it becomes a little more difficult, and thought-provoking. If this were an "official rule" for Thanksgiving, how much thought and introspection would take place before the prayer? Thankfully, there is no such rule. I do know some families that ask each person around the table to relate something that they are grateful for, prior to "The Prayer". Responses can vary from "my new puppy" to "Johnny came home safe from the Middle East" to "I'm grateful for the ultimate sacrifices of far too many of our troops fighting to secure and protect our freedoms." All are from the heart, and most spur thoughts of understanding and sometimes,"Gee, I wish I'd said that. Mine sounded kinda dumb compared to that." Don't worry. God hears and answers all prayers. What would my two "choices" be?
My first would be that of most people, a blanket statement of Thanks for my Family and Friends and the ability, right, and privilege to assemble together for fellowship around a table piled high with food. But what of my second one? Many things come to mind, but which one to pick? The mere fact that I am offering a prayer of thanks indicates my belief in a Higher Power, a Supreme Being, or (in my case) the existence of the aforementioned True and Loving Heavenly Father. So that part is a foregone conclusion, and need not be counted as "one of my two". Gee, there are so many things to be thankful for. But I know what My Second would be. It would be Knowledge. Not just my knowledge, which is limited, though contantly being added to, but the pure Existence of, and Quest for, Knowledge. The Glory Of God IS Intelligence. And, since it is my "rule" we're playing by, I get to expand upon it. I'm grateful for Science and Mathematics, for without those constants, the quest would falter. Without them, we would have no Technology. And yes, Technology is a two-edged sword. It is Technology that allows us to perform all manner of tasks. From driving to the store for more cranberry sauce, to delivering lethal payloads to our "enemies". From the manufacture and distilling of gasoline to put in the car to go get the cranberry sauce, to the explosives being delivered by airplanes, ground vehicles, and computers. For the concept of flight, which allows us to bring Aunt Bertha from Maine so she can eat Thanksgiving dinner with us. For electricity to power our lives, our homes, our work. All technology is like "the Force", or a "superpower". It can be used for Good, and for Evil as well. The computer on which so many of us now rely can be used to destroy lives or livelihoods, as well as pay bills and send messages almost instantaneously. The aircrafts and cars and trains and ships can deliver Death, as well as: Joy, for Aunt Bertha's safe and speedy trip; Hope, by delivering needed medicines or getting someone to a hospital in time; Peace, because Dad made it back from the War or that Bible you ordered finally came in the mail. The list could go on and on.
So I am thankful for Knowledge, and by virtue of that, for Technology. I believe that all technology is a gift from God, as a means of furthering Knowledge of Him. The telephone - a means of communicating His message. Radio lets us hear about His Works, besides our rock-n-roll or the news. Television and Movies allow us to see whatever we desire, but was allowed to be developed for the Furthering of His Word. Satellite Communication, cell phones, computers. . .same reasons. That airplane that brought Aunt Bertha can also deliver missionaries and doctors and messengers to all parts of the world. Yes, most (or all) technology can be used for Good or Evil. I believe that it was allowed to be developed for Good. The decisions on how to best utilize it are ours.
Have a Safe and Happy Thanksgiving.
Most people would top their list by being thankful for their family and/or friends. Maybe they would follow with gratitude for the freedoms that they enjoy, being blessed to be an American, the knowledge of a True and Loving God to whom they can give Thanks, the food on their table, the list could and does go on almost forever. And sometimes, so does the Prayer, or at least that may be how it seems, to an empty and growly stomach that has been tempted and tortured for hours prior to the feast. I'm sure that at least two of these will sound familiar to everyone. But remember that you are, for the sake of this exercise, limited to two. Now it becomes a little more difficult, and thought-provoking. If this were an "official rule" for Thanksgiving, how much thought and introspection would take place before the prayer? Thankfully, there is no such rule. I do know some families that ask each person around the table to relate something that they are grateful for, prior to "The Prayer". Responses can vary from "my new puppy" to "Johnny came home safe from the Middle East" to "I'm grateful for the ultimate sacrifices of far too many of our troops fighting to secure and protect our freedoms." All are from the heart, and most spur thoughts of understanding and sometimes,"Gee, I wish I'd said that. Mine sounded kinda dumb compared to that." Don't worry. God hears and answers all prayers. What would my two "choices" be?
My first would be that of most people, a blanket statement of Thanks for my Family and Friends and the ability, right, and privilege to assemble together for fellowship around a table piled high with food. But what of my second one? Many things come to mind, but which one to pick? The mere fact that I am offering a prayer of thanks indicates my belief in a Higher Power, a Supreme Being, or (in my case) the existence of the aforementioned True and Loving Heavenly Father. So that part is a foregone conclusion, and need not be counted as "one of my two". Gee, there are so many things to be thankful for. But I know what My Second would be. It would be Knowledge. Not just my knowledge, which is limited, though contantly being added to, but the pure Existence of, and Quest for, Knowledge. The Glory Of God IS Intelligence. And, since it is my "rule" we're playing by, I get to expand upon it. I'm grateful for Science and Mathematics, for without those constants, the quest would falter. Without them, we would have no Technology. And yes, Technology is a two-edged sword. It is Technology that allows us to perform all manner of tasks. From driving to the store for more cranberry sauce, to delivering lethal payloads to our "enemies". From the manufacture and distilling of gasoline to put in the car to go get the cranberry sauce, to the explosives being delivered by airplanes, ground vehicles, and computers. For the concept of flight, which allows us to bring Aunt Bertha from Maine so she can eat Thanksgiving dinner with us. For electricity to power our lives, our homes, our work. All technology is like "the Force", or a "superpower". It can be used for Good, and for Evil as well. The computer on which so many of us now rely can be used to destroy lives or livelihoods, as well as pay bills and send messages almost instantaneously. The aircrafts and cars and trains and ships can deliver Death, as well as: Joy, for Aunt Bertha's safe and speedy trip; Hope, by delivering needed medicines or getting someone to a hospital in time; Peace, because Dad made it back from the War or that Bible you ordered finally came in the mail. The list could go on and on.
So I am thankful for Knowledge, and by virtue of that, for Technology. I believe that all technology is a gift from God, as a means of furthering Knowledge of Him. The telephone - a means of communicating His message. Radio lets us hear about His Works, besides our rock-n-roll or the news. Television and Movies allow us to see whatever we desire, but was allowed to be developed for the Furthering of His Word. Satellite Communication, cell phones, computers. . .same reasons. That airplane that brought Aunt Bertha can also deliver missionaries and doctors and messengers to all parts of the world. Yes, most (or all) technology can be used for Good or Evil. I believe that it was allowed to be developed for Good. The decisions on how to best utilize it are ours.
Have a Safe and Happy Thanksgiving.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
I Came By It Honestly
In my an earlier post, I detailed my (powered) two-wheeled history. As it was getting late, I neglected to mention that Dad had ridden motorcycles as well. So in this short space, I shall attempt to rectify that.
Somewhere in the boxes of pictures spread out between Mom's house and Judy's house and maybe even some of my siblings, there exist some photos of Dad and his motorcycle. My knowledge of his exploits is somewhat limited, and I can only relate what I remember being told many years ago.
Dad bought a military surplus motorcycle, I presume from an auction, that was still in a crate. He had to assemble the machine, an olive drab 1949 Harley Davidson motorcycle. He had to clean all the parts, which were packed/coated with "cosmoline". There was even a machine gun mount for it among the parts. I don't think he used it, though. I don't know whether he painted it a different color, or left it "o.d." like it came. But he rode it all over the country. I remember when I got my first bike, he talked about the noisy motorcycles (dirt bikes) that were popular at the time. He said that he used to park his Harley between two buildings, and when he would get up early and go to work, he would start it and idle out to the road. No one ever complained about the noise. If he had been riding one of the two-stroke dirt bikes like I later had, he would have awakened everyone.
I haven't seen any of the pictures for a long time, so I can't say whether he did any customization to the bike. But my mother, after reading my previous post, related how much she enjoyed riding behind Dad on the motorcycle. I don't know if they both "shoe-horned" onto the single seat, or if there was an additional seat behind the driver's saddle. Either way, they did go for rides together. This picture is of a 1949 Harley Hydraglide (named for the hydraulic front forks, a "new" innovation at the time for Harley Davidson motorcycles).
During the 60's, when we were stationed at Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson, I remember that Dad "bike-sat" a scooter for someone in the squadron while he was away. Dad rode it to work sometimes, and I remember him taking me somewhere on it once. I climbed on the back of it, wrapped my arms tightly around Dad's waist, and we ran some sort of errand. I had never been on "powered two wheels" before, and though a little nervous about the leaning in turns, had nothing but confidence in Dad's abilities. After all, he flew airplanes, and they "leaned" in turns, too. It was a short adventure, lasting less than an hour, with only a total of maybe twenty minutes on the scooter. But it was thrilling. Not only for the two-wheeling, but it was just Dad and me. I have always treasured the time we spent together, just him and me. They were far too few, and far too short, and sometimes a little unpleasant (like being called into the den and discussing grades or a minor family "misdemeanor"), but I would not trade a second of any of them.
After Mom and Dad divorced, he was stationed at the Pentagon. He and Judy lived in Virginia on the outskirts of D.C. I moved up there, after a fruitless summer of job-searching (I had been laid off from the defense contractor), and stayed with them. At some point, he purchased another motorcycle, to save on gas. I think he said it was roughly a 45-minute commute to D.C. So when I got up there, I found a beautiful Honda 500 four cylinder sitting in the garage. It had a fairing and windshield, and hard saddle bags (something I would have NEVER put on it). This motorcycle, or actually the use of it, was allowed to me for access to the job I had secured at the toy store in Fairfax. It was a heavy motorcycle, a little top-heavy, but very reliable and plenty fast. I rode it until I could get back down to Florida and drive my car back up there.
When Dad retired, he had a job set up and waiting for him in Phoenix. As I was going to be unemployed (I had to quit at the toy store, I couldn't afford to live on my own at the time) I moved there with them. Dad bought a motorcycle trailer, we installed a hitch on my car, and I pulled the bike down to Florida for the Christmas Holidays. Dad and Judy towed one car behind the other a few days later. As soon as I got to Mom's house, I promptly unloaded the bike and enjoyed the mild Florida winter weather. After the holidays, I reloaded the bike on the trailer, met up with Dad and Judy, and we formed a small convoy to Phoenix. I was out there about a month, and my former employer called. They were gearing up again, and they had tracked me down in Arizona. I packed my car, and headed back to Florida. But I did miss that Honda.
Somewhere in the boxes of pictures spread out between Mom's house and Judy's house and maybe even some of my siblings, there exist some photos of Dad and his motorcycle. My knowledge of his exploits is somewhat limited, and I can only relate what I remember being told many years ago.
Dad bought a military surplus motorcycle, I presume from an auction, that was still in a crate. He had to assemble the machine, an olive drab 1949 Harley Davidson motorcycle. He had to clean all the parts, which were packed/coated with "cosmoline". There was even a machine gun mount for it among the parts. I don't think he used it, though. I don't know whether he painted it a different color, or left it "o.d." like it came. But he rode it all over the country. I remember when I got my first bike, he talked about the noisy motorcycles (dirt bikes) that were popular at the time. He said that he used to park his Harley between two buildings, and when he would get up early and go to work, he would start it and idle out to the road. No one ever complained about the noise. If he had been riding one of the two-stroke dirt bikes like I later had, he would have awakened everyone.
During the 60's, when we were stationed at Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson, I remember that Dad "bike-sat" a scooter for someone in the squadron while he was away. Dad rode it to work sometimes, and I remember him taking me somewhere on it once. I climbed on the back of it, wrapped my arms tightly around Dad's waist, and we ran some sort of errand. I had never been on "powered two wheels" before, and though a little nervous about the leaning in turns, had nothing but confidence in Dad's abilities. After all, he flew airplanes, and they "leaned" in turns, too. It was a short adventure, lasting less than an hour, with only a total of maybe twenty minutes on the scooter. But it was thrilling. Not only for the two-wheeling, but it was just Dad and me. I have always treasured the time we spent together, just him and me. They were far too few, and far too short, and sometimes a little unpleasant (like being called into the den and discussing grades or a minor family "misdemeanor"), but I would not trade a second of any of them.
After Mom and Dad divorced, he was stationed at the Pentagon. He and Judy lived in Virginia on the outskirts of D.C. I moved up there, after a fruitless summer of job-searching (I had been laid off from the defense contractor), and stayed with them. At some point, he purchased another motorcycle, to save on gas. I think he said it was roughly a 45-minute commute to D.C. So when I got up there, I found a beautiful Honda 500 four cylinder sitting in the garage. It had a fairing and windshield, and hard saddle bags (something I would have NEVER put on it). This motorcycle, or actually the use of it, was allowed to me for access to the job I had secured at the toy store in Fairfax. It was a heavy motorcycle, a little top-heavy, but very reliable and plenty fast. I rode it until I could get back down to Florida and drive my car back up there.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
I can't believe I have to repeat myself, but. . .
Okay, the 2012 election was a couple of days ago. I couldn't wait for it to finally get here. Because I wanted a "change"? No. Because I was sick and tired of all the campaign BS on virtually all levels. I enjoy Facebook, it gives me a chance to "track down" old friends and maybe catch up on what's been happening in their lives over the last 20 to 40 years. However, some of my friends seem to think that by inundating the social media with propaganda either for their candidate or, more often, against the "opponent", they could "sway" my opinion. Rather than step on their toes, or hurt their feelings, or maybe even jeopardize our friendship, I did not respond to any commentary regarding the campaigns, until the elections were over and done with, and then, I pretty much expressed my preferences to the public. That was two days ago. I figured that yesterday would be the 'wind-down' and there would be a few hangers-on that would either gloat over "their" victory, or complain that "they" lost; I was prepared for that and was ready to accept it. But now, it is MY TURN to get on my soapbox and say, once and for all:
GET OVER IT. GET ON WITH YOUR LIFE! Quit blaming one side or the other for your own failures. Can't get a job that pays what you need to make? It's called entry-level. Very few people manage to get their dream job on the first try. Are you a member of the "older" work force? Mad because nobody respects your years and years of short-term employments? Again, if you are 50 or older, you are certainly entitled to a job, and there is one out there for you (and this is important) IF YOU QUALIFY. Don't expect that because you are the oldest worker that you are also the smartest or best worker. I know, there are people that will say ,"but there are no jobs that I qualify for". You should have thought about that when you started your working career many years ago. Now, I just turned 58 last month, and the longest job I ever held was for 5 1/2 years. But except for two times, I always had another job to go to when I quit. Once, I was out of work for 6 weeks. The other time I was unemployed for about 9 months, but during that period I also found little side jobs that would last for a couple of weeks, maybe a little more. It helped me to stretch my unemployement benefits out long enough to find a permanent job. That was in 1988, and I haven't been unemployed since then. And remember, I have never been at one place for more than 66 months. That's a lot of jobs, and also, a lot of experience and learning. I consider myself to be one of the most qualified persons for the job I have now. Because of my extensive (and widely varied) experience in manufacturing and fabrication, I can analyze blueprints for ease of use, ease of assembly, and clarity. Blueprints are not pictures or drawings, they are a means of communicating ideas and instructions to those that use them. Anyway, on with my rant.
I DON"T CARE if you want to leave the country. Hell, I'll hold the door open for ya. But it won't be as easy as you might think. Getting into Canada is not as easy as you might think. And I think it is the chicken way out. What the citizens of this country need to do is to UNITE behind their leader and guide him. Let me say, like I did four years ago, "my guy" didn't win this time either. I really wanted him to. But he didn't. He, unfortunately, is not my President. But even HE pledged support and guidance to the President in his concession speech. Sure, he may end up the proverbial "thorn in his side", but at least he will offer constructive criticism. Not whining and crying and bitching and moaning. The World Will End, someday. But I don't think it is going to be this President's fault. Maybe he is just the fulfillment of an ancient prophesy. If he had not won, somebody else like him probably would have. So here again, with no reluctance, I pledge my support to the President of the United States as long as he remains in office. I may not like what he does, I may not even like him personally. In my other blog, I always tried to relate my topics to my father. So here goes: How long would our country remain strong if our military said, "I didn't vote for him, I don't have to defend the country. I don't have to do my job." Dad served under Republicans and Democrats and NEVER shirked his duty. Thirty or forty years ago, a large percentage of our military personnel were draftees. Possibly people inducted against their wishes. BUT, they still did their damned job! Now, we have a volunteer military. And they are still doing their damned jobs. No matter who won the election. Grow up. Pull up your big-boy or big-girl pants and quit complaining. Because, although you may feel that "the squeaky wheel gets the grease", in this case I think "an empty can makes the most noise" is more appropriate. May God bless America. We need it.
GET OVER IT. GET ON WITH YOUR LIFE! Quit blaming one side or the other for your own failures. Can't get a job that pays what you need to make? It's called entry-level. Very few people manage to get their dream job on the first try. Are you a member of the "older" work force? Mad because nobody respects your years and years of short-term employments? Again, if you are 50 or older, you are certainly entitled to a job, and there is one out there for you (and this is important) IF YOU QUALIFY. Don't expect that because you are the oldest worker that you are also the smartest or best worker. I know, there are people that will say ,"but there are no jobs that I qualify for". You should have thought about that when you started your working career many years ago. Now, I just turned 58 last month, and the longest job I ever held was for 5 1/2 years. But except for two times, I always had another job to go to when I quit. Once, I was out of work for 6 weeks. The other time I was unemployed for about 9 months, but during that period I also found little side jobs that would last for a couple of weeks, maybe a little more. It helped me to stretch my unemployement benefits out long enough to find a permanent job. That was in 1988, and I haven't been unemployed since then. And remember, I have never been at one place for more than 66 months. That's a lot of jobs, and also, a lot of experience and learning. I consider myself to be one of the most qualified persons for the job I have now. Because of my extensive (and widely varied) experience in manufacturing and fabrication, I can analyze blueprints for ease of use, ease of assembly, and clarity. Blueprints are not pictures or drawings, they are a means of communicating ideas and instructions to those that use them. Anyway, on with my rant.
I DON"T CARE if you want to leave the country. Hell, I'll hold the door open for ya. But it won't be as easy as you might think. Getting into Canada is not as easy as you might think. And I think it is the chicken way out. What the citizens of this country need to do is to UNITE behind their leader and guide him. Let me say, like I did four years ago, "my guy" didn't win this time either. I really wanted him to. But he didn't. He, unfortunately, is not my President. But even HE pledged support and guidance to the President in his concession speech. Sure, he may end up the proverbial "thorn in his side", but at least he will offer constructive criticism. Not whining and crying and bitching and moaning. The World Will End, someday. But I don't think it is going to be this President's fault. Maybe he is just the fulfillment of an ancient prophesy. If he had not won, somebody else like him probably would have. So here again, with no reluctance, I pledge my support to the President of the United States as long as he remains in office. I may not like what he does, I may not even like him personally. In my other blog, I always tried to relate my topics to my father. So here goes: How long would our country remain strong if our military said, "I didn't vote for him, I don't have to defend the country. I don't have to do my job." Dad served under Republicans and Democrats and NEVER shirked his duty. Thirty or forty years ago, a large percentage of our military personnel were draftees. Possibly people inducted against their wishes. BUT, they still did their damned job! Now, we have a volunteer military. And they are still doing their damned jobs. No matter who won the election. Grow up. Pull up your big-boy or big-girl pants and quit complaining. Because, although you may feel that "the squeaky wheel gets the grease", in this case I think "an empty can makes the most noise" is more appropriate. May God bless America. We need it.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
My Life on Two Wheels
What red-blooded American male has not, at least once in his life, entertained the notion of riding a motorcycle? I'm here to tell you, my blood is as red as anyone else's. Just the concept of "not having to pedal" was the initial motivation for myself and my good friend Randy.
I dated/"went steady" with a girl in junior high and part of my high school years. One of her brothers had an old, beat-up, should-have-been-scrapped Cushman scooter with a foot clutch and hand shifter. I think it only had two speeds. It probably looked similar to this picture when it was new in the 60's. By the time Robbie (her little brother) got it, it had been through the mill. But, the engine still ran, even though you had to start it by jumping it off a car battery. The procedure was: unwind the two wires from around the handlebars, jump the starter off the car, keep the throttle open enough to stay running, wind the wires back out of the way, step on the clutch, shift into gear, and go. We just rode it around the yard, and prayed that it didn't die, because then you had to push it back over to the car with the battery. Even with all the missing parts, the thing still must have weighed close to 250 pounds or so. But that was my introduction to controlling a powered two-wheeler. Her brother later got a "real" motorcycle, a Yamaha 80cc road-burner that topped out around 50 mph or thereabouts. I was kinda jealous, because he was still in junior high at the time, and he already had a motorcycle. Of course, he wasn't supposed to ride it on the street, but he did anyway. I was allowed to ride it with his permission, and I had a driver's license, so occasionally his sister and I would go for rides or "run errands" on it. It was a fun motorcycle to ride and learn on, and Randy and I would occasionally borrow it to go ride around. Robbie, after the initial "newness" wore off, was willing to let us take it for hours at a time. It got its share of scratches and dents, but it originally looked kinda like this.
After my junior year, her father asked me if I wanted a job for the summer. I guess he figured that if I was going to date his daughter, I should be able to spend some hard-earned money on her. He happened to be an electrician and had his own business. The building was right next to their house. I started working for him as a helper/apprentice the next day. I had use of my family's station wagon to drive to work, so I had transportation. But it was a big, heavy, gas-guzzling car, and although it was great for dates and such, it was not "my" vehicle. I decided to bite the bullet and buy a motorcycle. After all, I now had an income. I shopped around the local bike shops, and tried to find a suitable motorcycle at an affordable price. I ended up trying to decide between a Yamaha 175 enduro, and a Yamaha 200 street bike. They were the same price,($659) and I did want to be able to go "trail riding", but the street bike had more power and more "seat". In the end, I ended up with the street bike. I rode it whenever the weather was good, and frequently when it was not-so-good. I took it out trail-riding quite a bit. It was a fun motorcycle. When I graduated from high school, I did something that most people thought was crazy: I rode my 200 cc two-stroke motorcycle from Florida to Missouri, a trip of roughly 1000 miles.
One morning, in the summer of 1972, I packed a shaving kit with: deodorant, a comb or brush, socks and underwear. I wrapped two days' worth of clothes (jeans and a couple of t-shirts) around it and wrapped that up in a green Boy Scout poncho. The entire package was strapped to the rear half of the motorcycle seat with one bungee cord. I rolled up an old cargo parachute that I had acquired (from Captain Mitchell up the street) and tied it to my handlebars. My initial plan was to use the chute as a tent/sleeping bag and camp all the way to Missouri. At (literally) the last minute, Dad handed me a $20 bill and told me to use motels "for my first trip". I kicked the engine over, waved to everyone, and left to find my destiny. I was in no real hurry, I figured that if I broke down, I'd get a short-term job at the closest town til I had enough to fix it, and press onward. I planned to take two or three days for the trip, only traveling 300-400 miles a day. I stopped at darn near every rest stop, stayed off the interstate, and traveled "the roads less traveled" when I could. I rarely exceeded 50 mph. (Doing so seemed like it might stress the engine, although it probably wouldn't have made any difference.) I stopped at truck stops, chatted with truck drivers who on occasion would pay for my lunch, stayed in older but clean motels that were $6 - $8 a night (thanks, Dad), met all kinds of incredible people, came to understand what the "freedom of the open road" truly meant, and GREW UP. I made the trip in two-and-a-half days, spent 3 weeks at my grandparents' house, and figured I better start back to Florida. Almost the same departure scenario occurred. I still had a small amount of cash, and was fully prepared to camp if necessary, when Grandpa held out THREE twenty-dollar bills. He told me it was my "graduation money". I hugged and kissed them goodbye and headed back to Florida. Again, I stopped at truck stops, rest areas, ate with truckers (once I encountered a trucker I had met three weeks earlier in a truckstop that was hundreds of miles from the one I was in), got my meals paid for a couple of times, stayed in low-cost motels, and made it home in two and a half days. (And, I still had a little "graduation" money left.)
I realized that now that I was out of school, the next obligation to myself was to find permanent employment. Anything would do as a starting point, so I took a job as a busboy at the local Sheraton. Things went well, I had occasional squabbles with the "Hostess" (a fire-breathing b*tch of a dragon if there ever was one), and made some lifelong friends with some of the staff. But, it was Autumn now, and that motorcycle ride in the morning (around 5:00 a.m.) was getting cold. I also wanted to start forming my career. I applied at a local defense contractor, and they liked my application, but could not hire me yet because I was not 18 yet. But either way, I needed to replace my two wheels with four wheels. I said goodbye to my purple motorcycle, and traded it in on my car.
I drove the car for roughly five years, during which I had it parked in Mom's garage for a year or so after I had gotten mugged and lost the keys. Not thinking that I might have the money to repair it (there were a couple of things that needed fixing) I figured I would get another motorcycle. A friend of a friend had an enduro for sale, (and I had just gotten my tax refund) and very soon I was the owner of a Yamaha 175 Enduro. I rode it everywhere, got good gas mileage, it was a very enjoyable bike, but somewhat lacking in seating room.
Since the young woman I was dating at the time actually enjoyed riding on the back of a motorcycle, I set about finding a suitable street bike that could move two people around without too much difficulty.
Again, I went down to the local Yamaha-Triumph store and looked for a motorcycle. I figured a 650 would have the power I needed, and except for a few bikes like Harleys and some Honda and Suzuki 750's the 650's were among the largest motorcycles available. I had almost decided on a 650 when the dealer called me over to the counter and handed me some snapshots. "These are from a bike show we just went to. Yamaha is coming out with some new bikes". I looked at the pictures, and fell in love. Yamaha was bringing out what they called "Specials": a 650 and a 750 motorcycle that looked almost chopped. On the spot, I picked out the 650 Special. "I want one of these!", I told him. He then told me that there were none of them out yet, but they should be on showroom floors in roughly three months' time. I told him I wanted the first one that they got.
I continued to ride the 175 and at times, actually forgot about the 650. Then one day, I got a call at work: "Your motorcycle came in. Do you want black or burgundy?" I told him burgundy, and he said it would be ready around lunchtime. Randy drove me to the shop at lunch, and I first laid eyes on THE FIRST 1978 650 Special in town, Northwest Florida, maybe the whole state, and possibly the Country! I rode it back to work and worked the Longest afternoon in History. I couldn't wait to ride it around town. When the day was FINALLY over, and I had punched out, I took it out for a spin. That motorcycle was incredible. It only took about half a block, and you felt like you had been born on it. You didn't "ride" it, you "wore" it. It became an extension of one's body. Anxious to see how it handled with two riders, I went to my girlfriend's house picked her up and we went for a ride. Same story. Smooth riding, excellent handling, and very distictive styling.
I rode the 650 for many years. I rode it from West Palm Beach to Fort Walton Beach, a trip of a little over 600 miles, in one day. It was a long day, but the bike performed flawlessly. . .even in the three-hour rain storm that I went through. Actually, I don't know if I went "through" it, or if it camped out on top of me for a couple hundred miles.
I moved to Utah, and commuted 80 miles (one way) to work. That worked out to 800 miles a week on the motorcycle. After a few years in Utah, I stumbled across an enduro (my 175 had been gone for a few years) that was for sale. I ended up owning a Yamaha 360 Enduro. I rode the "crap" out of it in the mountains. I took it on an overnight camping trip, and went riding as the sun was coming up. I saw deer, elk, and some ghost owls gliding across a valley. Just totally awesome.
I went without a bike for quite a few years (20 or so). Now, on the back side of 50, I decided I needed to get back on two wheels. I found a beautifully restored 650 Special, and even test rode it. The guy wanted a couple of grand for it (new in 1978, mine cost $1889). I bit the bullet, borrowed against my 401k, and almost bought the 650. But, I had not actually gotten the check yet, and I noticed that he was dropping his price. I decided to play a waiting game, and kept shopping. I had always wanted to ride a "V-twin", (like the Harley engines,) but Harleys were just way out of my price range. I did find one of the first Japanese V-twins, a Virago 750 (yes another Yamaha). I ended up buying the Virago because I started nibbling away at my cash pile, and was determined to buy a bike with it. I kinda wish I had shopped a little longer. I love the Virago, it has plenty of power, but I would like a little more horsepower and mass underneath me.
So, a few months ago, I started window shopping for a Harley. It has not necessarily been on purpose, but every motorcycle I have ever owned has been a Yamaha. I believe that they (as well as Honda, Kawasaki, and Suzuki) make quality motorcycles for (sometimes) affordable prices. I have even had compliments from Harley riders that, (regarding my 650) if they couldn't ride Harley, they might consider riding a Yamaha. But, there is something about owning a Harley.
I had ridden a friend's Sportster a few year back, and found it to be an enjoyable, although far too short in duration, experience. So I started shopping for Sportsters. I found one I liked online, and talked the wife and daughter into humoring me and stopping by the Harley shop to look at it. It turned out to be an Anniversary Edition (105th) Sportster. It was parked next to a white Sportster that was also worthy of interest.
Before we left the Harley shop, my wife and daughter had not only expressed interest in learning to ride, but had already picked out their prospective bikes. The wife wanted the white one, and the daughter had her eye on a smaller Sportster 883. The two bikes above are both 1200's.
This little encounter created not one, but three monsters. Computer wallpapers rapidly changed from flowers and landscapes and island paradises to Harleys. Big ones. Bigger ones.
We visited a couple of Harley shops, sat on a multitude of bikes, changed our minds, changed them back, and now are as confused as we are determined to get bikes. I have gone from the Sportster to what they call a "Softtail Slim" for my preference, and then on to what they call a Dyna. So far, I have not found a bike that fits my butt or my size like the Dyna. But we'll see what happens NEXT week.
I dated/"went steady" with a girl in junior high and part of my high school years. One of her brothers had an old, beat-up, should-have-been-scrapped Cushman scooter with a foot clutch and hand shifter. I think it only had two speeds. It probably looked similar to this picture when it was new in the 60's. By the time Robbie (her little brother) got it, it had been through the mill. But, the engine still ran, even though you had to start it by jumping it off a car battery. The procedure was: unwind the two wires from around the handlebars, jump the starter off the car, keep the throttle open enough to stay running, wind the wires back out of the way, step on the clutch, shift into gear, and go. We just rode it around the yard, and prayed that it didn't die, because then you had to push it back over to the car with the battery. Even with all the missing parts, the thing still must have weighed close to 250 pounds or so. But that was my introduction to controlling a powered two-wheeler. Her brother later got a "real" motorcycle, a Yamaha 80cc road-burner that topped out around 50 mph or thereabouts. I was kinda jealous, because he was still in junior high at the time, and he already had a motorcycle. Of course, he wasn't supposed to ride it on the street, but he did anyway. I was allowed to ride it with his permission, and I had a driver's license, so occasionally his sister and I would go for rides or "run errands" on it. It was a fun motorcycle to ride and learn on, and Randy and I would occasionally borrow it to go ride around. Robbie, after the initial "newness" wore off, was willing to let us take it for hours at a time. It got its share of scratches and dents, but it originally looked kinda like this.After my junior year, her father asked me if I wanted a job for the summer. I guess he figured that if I was going to date his daughter, I should be able to spend some hard-earned money on her. He happened to be an electrician and had his own business. The building was right next to their house. I started working for him as a helper/apprentice the next day. I had use of my family's station wagon to drive to work, so I had transportation. But it was a big, heavy, gas-guzzling car, and although it was great for dates and such, it was not "my" vehicle. I decided to bite the bullet and buy a motorcycle. After all, I now had an income. I shopped around the local bike shops, and tried to find a suitable motorcycle at an affordable price. I ended up trying to decide between a Yamaha 175 enduro, and a Yamaha 200 street bike. They were the same price,($659) and I did want to be able to go "trail riding", but the street bike had more power and more "seat". In the end, I ended up with the street bike. I rode it whenever the weather was good, and frequently when it was not-so-good. I took it out trail-riding quite a bit. It was a fun motorcycle. When I graduated from high school, I did something that most people thought was crazy: I rode my 200 cc two-stroke motorcycle from Florida to Missouri, a trip of roughly 1000 miles.
One morning, in the summer of 1972, I packed a shaving kit with: deodorant, a comb or brush, socks and underwear. I wrapped two days' worth of clothes (jeans and a couple of t-shirts) around it and wrapped that up in a green Boy Scout poncho. The entire package was strapped to the rear half of the motorcycle seat with one bungee cord. I rolled up an old cargo parachute that I had acquired (from Captain Mitchell up the street) and tied it to my handlebars. My initial plan was to use the chute as a tent/sleeping bag and camp all the way to Missouri. At (literally) the last minute, Dad handed me a $20 bill and told me to use motels "for my first trip". I kicked the engine over, waved to everyone, and left to find my destiny. I was in no real hurry, I figured that if I broke down, I'd get a short-term job at the closest town til I had enough to fix it, and press onward. I planned to take two or three days for the trip, only traveling 300-400 miles a day. I stopped at darn near every rest stop, stayed off the interstate, and traveled "the roads less traveled" when I could. I rarely exceeded 50 mph. (Doing so seemed like it might stress the engine, although it probably wouldn't have made any difference.) I stopped at truck stops, chatted with truck drivers who on occasion would pay for my lunch, stayed in older but clean motels that were $6 - $8 a night (thanks, Dad), met all kinds of incredible people, came to understand what the "freedom of the open road" truly meant, and GREW UP. I made the trip in two-and-a-half days, spent 3 weeks at my grandparents' house, and figured I better start back to Florida. Almost the same departure scenario occurred. I still had a small amount of cash, and was fully prepared to camp if necessary, when Grandpa held out THREE twenty-dollar bills. He told me it was my "graduation money". I hugged and kissed them goodbye and headed back to Florida. Again, I stopped at truck stops, rest areas, ate with truckers (once I encountered a trucker I had met three weeks earlier in a truckstop that was hundreds of miles from the one I was in), got my meals paid for a couple of times, stayed in low-cost motels, and made it home in two and a half days. (And, I still had a little "graduation" money left.)
I realized that now that I was out of school, the next obligation to myself was to find permanent employment. Anything would do as a starting point, so I took a job as a busboy at the local Sheraton. Things went well, I had occasional squabbles with the "Hostess" (a fire-breathing b*tch of a dragon if there ever was one), and made some lifelong friends with some of the staff. But, it was Autumn now, and that motorcycle ride in the morning (around 5:00 a.m.) was getting cold. I also wanted to start forming my career. I applied at a local defense contractor, and they liked my application, but could not hire me yet because I was not 18 yet. But either way, I needed to replace my two wheels with four wheels. I said goodbye to my purple motorcycle, and traded it in on my car.
I drove the car for roughly five years, during which I had it parked in Mom's garage for a year or so after I had gotten mugged and lost the keys. Not thinking that I might have the money to repair it (there were a couple of things that needed fixing) I figured I would get another motorcycle. A friend of a friend had an enduro for sale, (and I had just gotten my tax refund) and very soon I was the owner of a Yamaha 175 Enduro. I rode it everywhere, got good gas mileage, it was a very enjoyable bike, but somewhat lacking in seating room.Since the young woman I was dating at the time actually enjoyed riding on the back of a motorcycle, I set about finding a suitable street bike that could move two people around without too much difficulty.
Again, I went down to the local Yamaha-Triumph store and looked for a motorcycle. I figured a 650 would have the power I needed, and except for a few bikes like Harleys and some Honda and Suzuki 750's the 650's were among the largest motorcycles available. I had almost decided on a 650 when the dealer called me over to the counter and handed me some snapshots. "These are from a bike show we just went to. Yamaha is coming out with some new bikes". I looked at the pictures, and fell in love. Yamaha was bringing out what they called "Specials": a 650 and a 750 motorcycle that looked almost chopped. On the spot, I picked out the 650 Special. "I want one of these!", I told him. He then told me that there were none of them out yet, but they should be on showroom floors in roughly three months' time. I told him I wanted the first one that they got.
I continued to ride the 175 and at times, actually forgot about the 650. Then one day, I got a call at work: "Your motorcycle came in. Do you want black or burgundy?" I told him burgundy, and he said it would be ready around lunchtime. Randy drove me to the shop at lunch, and I first laid eyes on THE FIRST 1978 650 Special in town, Northwest Florida, maybe the whole state, and possibly the Country! I rode it back to work and worked the Longest afternoon in History. I couldn't wait to ride it around town. When the day was FINALLY over, and I had punched out, I took it out for a spin. That motorcycle was incredible. It only took about half a block, and you felt like you had been born on it. You didn't "ride" it, you "wore" it. It became an extension of one's body. Anxious to see how it handled with two riders, I went to my girlfriend's house picked her up and we went for a ride. Same story. Smooth riding, excellent handling, and very distictive styling.
I rode the 650 for many years. I rode it from West Palm Beach to Fort Walton Beach, a trip of a little over 600 miles, in one day. It was a long day, but the bike performed flawlessly. . .even in the three-hour rain storm that I went through. Actually, I don't know if I went "through" it, or if it camped out on top of me for a couple hundred miles.
I went without a bike for quite a few years (20 or so). Now, on the back side of 50, I decided I needed to get back on two wheels. I found a beautifully restored 650 Special, and even test rode it. The guy wanted a couple of grand for it (new in 1978, mine cost $1889). I bit the bullet, borrowed against my 401k, and almost bought the 650. But, I had not actually gotten the check yet, and I noticed that he was dropping his price. I decided to play a waiting game, and kept shopping. I had always wanted to ride a "V-twin", (like the Harley engines,) but Harleys were just way out of my price range. I did find one of the first Japanese V-twins, a Virago 750 (yes another Yamaha). I ended up buying the Virago because I started nibbling away at my cash pile, and was determined to buy a bike with it. I kinda wish I had shopped a little longer. I love the Virago, it has plenty of power, but I would like a little more horsepower and mass underneath me.
So, a few months ago, I started window shopping for a Harley. It has not necessarily been on purpose, but every motorcycle I have ever owned has been a Yamaha. I believe that they (as well as Honda, Kawasaki, and Suzuki) make quality motorcycles for (sometimes) affordable prices. I have even had compliments from Harley riders that, (regarding my 650) if they couldn't ride Harley, they might consider riding a Yamaha. But, there is something about owning a Harley.
I had ridden a friend's Sportster a few year back, and found it to be an enjoyable, although far too short in duration, experience. So I started shopping for Sportsters. I found one I liked online, and talked the wife and daughter into humoring me and stopping by the Harley shop to look at it. It turned out to be an Anniversary Edition (105th) Sportster. It was parked next to a white Sportster that was also worthy of interest.
We visited a couple of Harley shops, sat on a multitude of bikes, changed our minds, changed them back, and now are as confused as we are determined to get bikes. I have gone from the Sportster to what they call a "Softtail Slim" for my preference, and then on to what they call a Dyna. So far, I have not found a bike that fits my butt or my size like the Dyna. But we'll see what happens NEXT week.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
The Perils of Growing Older
I had a blog going for a couple of years, and it was good therapy for me. I received some interesting comments, most of which were complimentary. I deleted the others. When I initially started with nothing but a idea, I had no idea just how EASY it was to set up a blog that could be read by anyone on Earth with access to the internet. So, I had my wife help me set it up. We used one of her email addresses, and a password that I could remember. At least for a couple of years, anyway. After being "on the web" for a couple of years, I figured that maybe I could add my own email to the administration of the blog. So, I set everything up, only to find that I needed to "allow" the sharing of administration by authority granted by the original "owner". Simple, I'd just log in on the old account and give myself permission to add the new one. That's where the trouble started.
Let me break in for just a minute here. I am only 57 years old (okay, my 58th is this weekend). But I'm not (you know,) 'THAT' old yet.
I should have had no trouble remembering how to log in using the old account. Except I suddenly went BLANK. I could not remember the password. Over the course of a few months, I occasionally remembered what it MIGHT be, and also remembered that I had associated the old account with one that I had set up just for the blog and junk mail. Now all of a sudden I had THREE user login email addresses, with any number of possible passwords (okay, I wrote down all the passwords on a piece of paper, and there were eight that I have used, and "rotated" when I had to). What seemed simple at first had mushroomed into a possible 84 combinations! So I sat by the wayside and stewed. I had things to say! And no way to say it! <light bulb> Hey, I'll just create a new blog, go into the old one, cut and paste into the new one! Okay, I got the copy/paste done, but I had to reload my Office suite so I could use Word. Only one problem, I have exceeded the number of installations on my license. WHAT!? I uninstalled it when I got my new computer! After two months of dragging my feet, I finally got my Office "authorized" to use again. Now, it's just too much trouble to copy the old one www.fighterpilotsdoitbetter.blogspot.com into this new one, where Fighter Pilots Still Do It Better. Maybe in time, I'll get it moved over. After I've rested, maybe.
Anyway, if you would like background and want to read the original, please visit the site above. Then come back here. I have the login written down. Three different places. (I just hope I remember where they are).
Let me break in for just a minute here. I am only 57 years old (okay, my 58th is this weekend). But I'm not (you know,) 'THAT' old yet.
I should have had no trouble remembering how to log in using the old account. Except I suddenly went BLANK. I could not remember the password. Over the course of a few months, I occasionally remembered what it MIGHT be, and also remembered that I had associated the old account with one that I had set up just for the blog and junk mail. Now all of a sudden I had THREE user login email addresses, with any number of possible passwords (okay, I wrote down all the passwords on a piece of paper, and there were eight that I have used, and "rotated" when I had to). What seemed simple at first had mushroomed into a possible 84 combinations! So I sat by the wayside and stewed. I had things to say! And no way to say it! <light bulb> Hey, I'll just create a new blog, go into the old one, cut and paste into the new one! Okay, I got the copy/paste done, but I had to reload my Office suite so I could use Word. Only one problem, I have exceeded the number of installations on my license. WHAT!? I uninstalled it when I got my new computer! After two months of dragging my feet, I finally got my Office "authorized" to use again. Now, it's just too much trouble to copy the old one www.fighterpilotsdoitbetter.blogspot.com into this new one, where Fighter Pilots Still Do It Better. Maybe in time, I'll get it moved over. After I've rested, maybe.
Anyway, if you would like background and want to read the original, please visit the site above. Then come back here. I have the login written down. Three different places. (I just hope I remember where they are).
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