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.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
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.
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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.
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