Devotee's of Wicked know this as lyrics to the final duet between Glinda and Elphaba, "For Good". As a song, it is a powerful piece of music, beautifully done, on CD by Kristin Chenowith and Idina Menzel, but the lyrics make a great poem, too, which pretty much says how I feel towards those people who I've had the chance to know over the years.
"I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason,
Bringing something we must learn.
And we are led to those who help us most to grow,
If we let them, and we help them in return.
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true,
But I know I'm who I am today because I knew you.
Like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes a sun,
Like a stream that meets a boulder halfway through the wood,
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
Because I knew you, I have been changed
For good.
It may well be that we will never meet again in this lifetime
So let me say, before we part, so much of me
Is made of what I've learned from you.
You'll be with me, like a handprint on my heart,
And now, whichever ways our stories end
I know you have rewritten mine by being my friend.
Like a ship blown from its mooring by a wind off the sea,
Like a seed dropped by a bird in a distant wood,
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
Because I knew you, I have been changed
For good.
And just to clear the air, I ask forgiveness
For the things I've done you've blamed me for.
But then, I guess, we know there's blame to share,
And none of it seems to matter anymore.
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
Because I knew you, I have been changed
For good."
The list of those to whom this is intended is long. My family certainly, though I get the chance to see them pretty regularly, and tell them of my love for them. The rest of you, have indeed placed your handprint on my heart. Looking back, there were many friends, shipmates, teachers, classmates, coleagues, and students who taught me lessons I've needed to learn, it would be impossible for me to name them all. But a few were special enough to warrant recognition.
Like Mr. Bill. William Frank Case, Bill to his friends, is my oldest friend. Not that he's old, we've just known each other since two days before forever. Actually, 45 years this August. We met in line, waiting for physicals for football. Something clicked, and we've been friends ever since. Billy was always one of the first people I tried to make contact with whenever I came back to Vacaville during my Navy days. Billy learned to play golf about 20 years ago, and we play together almost every Satuday. Not everyone has a friend for 45 years anymore.
Larry Watters, you're one of those "special few". I learned a lot from you. I learned of the Pacific Crest Trail from you, and got to see some incredible sights going camping with you. I used to like camping, but grew to enjoy it a whole lot more because of you. I look back on those trips with great fondness. If we both weren't "paying the price of youth," it'd be great to do it (go camping, that is) "one more time," but I know that's probably impossible. Mary and I do a little traveling, though we haven't camped since we moved back from Spokane, but we get out. When we do, I always think of a white VW bus with an orange tabby streched out across the dash. Can't help it.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Some Post-Dr. Visit Thoughts
Hey, it happens. You get into your late 50's, and Doctor Appointments become very important, particularly if you have a history of stroke. Today, Dr. Pettit (imagine Doogie Houser in Air Force blue) and I went over the results of a follow-up blood test, about 60 days after I started taking Lipitor. Doogie, I mean, Dr. Pettit was pleased at the difference. On the test in December, he told me my cholesterol was "high." but didn't give me a number. He showed my my "bad cholesterol" number, which was 178 and high, and my triglycerides, which were 24, and low. What he didn't tell me was that my overall cholesterol was 250 (I found out today). It's probably a good thing he kept that tidbit to himself, I'd have probably "stroked-out" on the spot. It was only 217 when I had my stroke in '02.
The good news is, overall cholesterol is 166, HDL's are 130, and LDL's are 39.6. He called it "perfect," I call it "better living through chemistry." I've been on a "limited" diet for a long time, the problem is, it's limited to all of the wrong things, red meat and the like. I detest most veggies, like few fruits, and must have ice cream at fairly regular intervals. I'm the poster-boy for "ticking time bomb," and yet I can take a pill and it makes it OK. God I love the 21st Century.
As for my other issues, traumatic arthritis and a bulging disk at L5/S1, I survive. As a former athlete, I learned to "go beyond the pain," and to focus on things other than pain, to go on. As an "overweight" (at 5'8" and 165 lbs) 50-something, that ability helps me get through my days, Vicodin gets me through the nights when the pain is bad, which is fairly often. I try not to use the Vicodin too often, it's not a nightly-thing. My jetted bathtub is actually very effective at easing some of the pain, and I'm in it sometimes twice per-day. I have an Epidural Steroid Injection coming up March 18th, that eases the symptoms of sciatica by shrinking the disks, and taking pressure off of the sciatic nerve. For those of you with sciatic problems, I know what you're dealing with, and I sympathize. I deal with that excruciating little malady too.
I suppose, if I have any regrets it's that I didn't take better care of myself when I was younger. But very few of us did. Of course, if I had taken better care of myself when I was younger, I wouldn't have had near as much fun. If it was a trade-off, I got the better deal.
The good news is, overall cholesterol is 166, HDL's are 130, and LDL's are 39.6. He called it "perfect," I call it "better living through chemistry." I've been on a "limited" diet for a long time, the problem is, it's limited to all of the wrong things, red meat and the like. I detest most veggies, like few fruits, and must have ice cream at fairly regular intervals. I'm the poster-boy for "ticking time bomb," and yet I can take a pill and it makes it OK. God I love the 21st Century.
As for my other issues, traumatic arthritis and a bulging disk at L5/S1, I survive. As a former athlete, I learned to "go beyond the pain," and to focus on things other than pain, to go on. As an "overweight" (at 5'8" and 165 lbs) 50-something, that ability helps me get through my days, Vicodin gets me through the nights when the pain is bad, which is fairly often. I try not to use the Vicodin too often, it's not a nightly-thing. My jetted bathtub is actually very effective at easing some of the pain, and I'm in it sometimes twice per-day. I have an Epidural Steroid Injection coming up March 18th, that eases the symptoms of sciatica by shrinking the disks, and taking pressure off of the sciatic nerve. For those of you with sciatic problems, I know what you're dealing with, and I sympathize. I deal with that excruciating little malady too.
I suppose, if I have any regrets it's that I didn't take better care of myself when I was younger. But very few of us did. Of course, if I had taken better care of myself when I was younger, I wouldn't have had near as much fun. If it was a trade-off, I got the better deal.
Some Things I Wonder About
Oh, I don't know, maybe it's because I like watching other people, but sometimes I wonder...
Who wears spiked heels and blue jeans to the grocery store? I saw one at the Travis AFB Commissary on Wednsday, made my feet hurt. To her credit, she looked good, but Why? I had several thoughts, admittedly few of them kind, but Why?
Had a chance to drive the So-Cal freeways lately? It's hard to imagine that kind of traffic, especially if you find SF or Sac busy. So many lanes... I wondered how it could ever be gridlocked... Then I hit a three-mile backup on I-5 South, right around the 605 merge at 11 am. I wondered how people could face that day-after-day. I-5, in So-Cal, has 24-hour car pool lanes, with limited access. Once we got into LA-proper, we breezed through traffic, which was heavy, and made excellent time, but every day? San Diego isn't much better, basically LA-South, which will offend everyone in San Diego, but it's true. I'm on I-805, doing 80 (by my speedometer), and was getting run over by little-old-ladies in walkers. Every day?
Every day, I wonder what kind of Grandfather I will be. Isabella is such a joy, the first of my own blood. Victor, too, brings me great joy, but I'm guarded. Adoptions have so many uncertainties, and I watched what happened with my sister the first time she tried. Not that there are any similarities, Mark was part Native American, and the Tribe got involved. Victor, on the other hand, was neglected by his birth-mother, who was, apparently, not equipped to deal with Victor's fussiness. As a result, Victor became a "failure to thrive" child, and taken by CPS to UC Davis Children's hospital. Once stabilized, he was placed in foster care, pending a court decision on parental rights. I'm not certain how Tyffany (my daughter) came to know this little guy, but I'm really glad she did. She wants to adopt him; I pray for it to happen.
I always wonder where our futures lay. I've lived through tense times before, my first the Cuban Missle Crisis of 1963, but not like today. I've lived through some hard financial times before, double-digit inflation, recession, but not like today. I have dedicated a large portion of my adult life working towards a small, government pension, the Navy, so far, has honored it's commitment, but will Social Security? Is my Navy pension at risk? "Obamacare?"
I wonder why people can't seem to get along. Wherever you go, someone seems to go out of their way to be heard, to be seen, to be first, to be "ahead of you," to have more, earn more, buy more... It wears me out. Hardly anyone shows respect for anything, or anyone else. Pepole are in such a rush... To get where, exactly? I've taken to listening to Classical music, or the Mormon Tablernacle Choir, whenever I drive into a "city". The music calms me, and I am rarely "in a rush" to get anywhere. I'll keep up with the flow of traffic, and try to keep lane changes to a minimum, but invaritably there will be someone "in a rush" who rides your bumper, flashing his lights, who speeds around you, and then cuts you off, trying to make the next exit, usually accompanied by some form of gesture (most often, "The Bird"). All for what?
In my times "overseas," I got to meet a good number of the "local indiginous people," wherever I was, and some became friends. I used my "at sea" time to learn about the people of a nation we would be visiting, local customs, the whole nine yards. I even learned phrases in the various languages, enough to say "Hello/Good-bye," "Do you speak English," "How much for two beers," things like that. You'd be surprised at the number of Europeans who speak English, when you take the time to learn a bit of theirs. One thing that has always stood out, to me, whether in Europe, Africa, or Asia, people all want the same basic things. Once I found that out, I could no longer justify any "-ism" that demeaned people because they were "different". In our own ways, with our own beliefs, customs, ceremonies, people just want to live a relatively comfortable life, and to be proud of who they are. What more can one ask?
Who wears spiked heels and blue jeans to the grocery store? I saw one at the Travis AFB Commissary on Wednsday, made my feet hurt. To her credit, she looked good, but Why? I had several thoughts, admittedly few of them kind, but Why?
Had a chance to drive the So-Cal freeways lately? It's hard to imagine that kind of traffic, especially if you find SF or Sac busy. So many lanes... I wondered how it could ever be gridlocked... Then I hit a three-mile backup on I-5 South, right around the 605 merge at 11 am. I wondered how people could face that day-after-day. I-5, in So-Cal, has 24-hour car pool lanes, with limited access. Once we got into LA-proper, we breezed through traffic, which was heavy, and made excellent time, but every day? San Diego isn't much better, basically LA-South, which will offend everyone in San Diego, but it's true. I'm on I-805, doing 80 (by my speedometer), and was getting run over by little-old-ladies in walkers. Every day?
Every day, I wonder what kind of Grandfather I will be. Isabella is such a joy, the first of my own blood. Victor, too, brings me great joy, but I'm guarded. Adoptions have so many uncertainties, and I watched what happened with my sister the first time she tried. Not that there are any similarities, Mark was part Native American, and the Tribe got involved. Victor, on the other hand, was neglected by his birth-mother, who was, apparently, not equipped to deal with Victor's fussiness. As a result, Victor became a "failure to thrive" child, and taken by CPS to UC Davis Children's hospital. Once stabilized, he was placed in foster care, pending a court decision on parental rights. I'm not certain how Tyffany (my daughter) came to know this little guy, but I'm really glad she did. She wants to adopt him; I pray for it to happen.
I always wonder where our futures lay. I've lived through tense times before, my first the Cuban Missle Crisis of 1963, but not like today. I've lived through some hard financial times before, double-digit inflation, recession, but not like today. I have dedicated a large portion of my adult life working towards a small, government pension, the Navy, so far, has honored it's commitment, but will Social Security? Is my Navy pension at risk? "Obamacare?"
I wonder why people can't seem to get along. Wherever you go, someone seems to go out of their way to be heard, to be seen, to be first, to be "ahead of you," to have more, earn more, buy more... It wears me out. Hardly anyone shows respect for anything, or anyone else. Pepole are in such a rush... To get where, exactly? I've taken to listening to Classical music, or the Mormon Tablernacle Choir, whenever I drive into a "city". The music calms me, and I am rarely "in a rush" to get anywhere. I'll keep up with the flow of traffic, and try to keep lane changes to a minimum, but invaritably there will be someone "in a rush" who rides your bumper, flashing his lights, who speeds around you, and then cuts you off, trying to make the next exit, usually accompanied by some form of gesture (most often, "The Bird"). All for what?
In my times "overseas," I got to meet a good number of the "local indiginous people," wherever I was, and some became friends. I used my "at sea" time to learn about the people of a nation we would be visiting, local customs, the whole nine yards. I even learned phrases in the various languages, enough to say "Hello/Good-bye," "Do you speak English," "How much for two beers," things like that. You'd be surprised at the number of Europeans who speak English, when you take the time to learn a bit of theirs. One thing that has always stood out, to me, whether in Europe, Africa, or Asia, people all want the same basic things. Once I found that out, I could no longer justify any "-ism" that demeaned people because they were "different". In our own ways, with our own beliefs, customs, ceremonies, people just want to live a relatively comfortable life, and to be proud of who they are. What more can one ask?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Some Thoughts on Today's TV
Make no mistake, I love television. I was in the First Generation of television, where, if your family had at TV, they were considered "well off" by the rest of the neighbors. My next-door neighbor had the first color TV I ever saw, maybe 1960? I remember getting an "Antenna Rotor," one of the first electric-motorized TV antennas, that relieved my sisters and my requirement to go out and physically turn the antenna pole whenever Dad changed a channel. We had a black-and-white Zenith console, that had one of the "clunky" first remote controls. In Vallejo, depending on the weather, we got five channels, ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS, and an independant, KTVU, all out of San Francisco/Oakland. On rare evenings, we could pick-up the Sacramento channels, but that took a lot of adjusting, antenna-wise. Today, with cable/sattelite TV, the reception is great, and there's a lot on. Today's television set, or should I say "monitor" provides a clearness, a sharpness that we couldn't even dream of back in the early days. If it was possible to pluck someone out of a 1950's armchair, and place a 2010 television in front of him, they wouldn't believe it. As a technology, television hasn't just evolved, it continues to grow in leaps and bounds.
I just wish that the quality of television programming had followed suit...
In my youth, the networks competed in an attempt to bring wholesome, family entertainment. Now-days, it's anything goes. I remember Marshall Dillon shooting the Bad Guy, we didn't have to see the realism, blood splattering everywhere, gory wounds of all kinds, and on one show, the path of a bullet through a persons body (courtesy CGI). An the language...
It's bad enough that we've become a profanity-driven society, but now it's on TV, in my home. I'm old-fashioned, I believe that my home can be an oasis from that kind of language. Certainly I would never refer to Mary as a "B&*%$" at home. Not because I'm afraid of the consequences, I've been handed my testicles before, metaphorically. It's because I have a deep respect for her, and am incapable of thinking of her in that manner. Profanity deeply offends Mary, particularly when it invokes God. To that end, taking control of the only environment I can influence, my home is a profanity-free zone. At her work, out of respect for their Manager's desires, the use of profanities has dropped significantly. Away from home, however, ...I'm a golfer, c'mon, you gonna render me speachless?
Ever since the Writer's Strike, TV has gone to "reality telivision". What I want to know is "whose" reality are we talking about? Certainly the Kardasians don't mirror my reality, nor do any of the guests on Springer, or Maury. My reality, in all honesty, bore y'all to death. OK, I do peek in at Celebrity Rehab, from time-to-time, but only to reassure myself that other people are just as screwed up as me (I came to terms with those problems years ago, however, and live a comfortable, sober life at present). The themes of these shows, Maury and his ilk, are a litany of marital/sexual woes that are best left to privacy.
Privacy, there's something you hear a lot about, often in the context of a "right to privacy". Guess what, folks, you do not have a right to privacy, the word isn't mentioned anywhere in the Bill of Rights. You can have a "reasonable expectation of privacy," but even that is open to debate. Your privacy ended with the internet. The more it's used, the more information there is about you floating somewhere in cyber-space. Privacy became an issue in an old, gay rights Supreme Court decision, and the court ruled on the basis of that "reasonable expectation," but you had better start learning that your life is "an open book."
But I digress... I have channels, lots and lots of channels. Most of it is crap, lots and lots of crap. I have Spanish-language channels, didn't ask for them as I speak "muy picito espanol," but got them anyway. I don't mind it so much, but didn't it tell the cable company something when I pressed "1" for English? Seems to me that piece of information is being ignored. There are probably a dozen, or more, shopping channels, food channels, sports channels, local access channels, travel channels, the list is long, but nowhere can you find good, wholsome programming anymore. It's like the network is a shark in a net, constantly probing for an opportunity to go a little further. The various networks duel to bring you the events, "as they happen," regardless of the outcome. Television networks have all battled to be able to actually show an execution, live, but the courts have had the decency to continue to forbid it.
Shock TV. That's what it has become. Who can be shockingly graphic, or graphically real? How many times do you hear the words "...the shocking conclusion...," or "...shocking horror...," or more than a dozen other references to "schock"? My favorite is, "...this shocking development..." Again, to whom? Some schmuck in LA leads a police chase, and it's on 50 different channels. "...this shocking development, just in, Congress holds itself in contempt, and everyone resigns." That would be shocking. Short of that, I've had a stroke, actually at least two, I don't need shocking. I need entertainment.
Of all of the "reality" programming, I actually like two shows. I will state, at this point, for the record, I am not, now, nor have I ever been gay. I like American Idol, and America's Got Talent. As a former singer and actor, I enjoy watching new talent. It's just a long-running talent contest, narrated by a "pretty boy," and allows people an opportunity to perform, and to be professionally critiqued. Wish I'd had that opportunity when I was young. Who knows, I might have been American Idol 1975, or something. AGT is different, in that it's more than just singers. Some of the dancers, and specialty acts, are pretty good.
I've been watching History Channel quite a bit, lately. With 2012, and the expiration of the Mayan Calendar looming, it's been quite informative. Since I am a history and archeology devotee, History Channel is definitely one of my favorites.
I just wish that the quality of television programming had followed suit...
In my youth, the networks competed in an attempt to bring wholesome, family entertainment. Now-days, it's anything goes. I remember Marshall Dillon shooting the Bad Guy, we didn't have to see the realism, blood splattering everywhere, gory wounds of all kinds, and on one show, the path of a bullet through a persons body (courtesy CGI). An the language...
It's bad enough that we've become a profanity-driven society, but now it's on TV, in my home. I'm old-fashioned, I believe that my home can be an oasis from that kind of language. Certainly I would never refer to Mary as a "B&*%$" at home. Not because I'm afraid of the consequences, I've been handed my testicles before, metaphorically. It's because I have a deep respect for her, and am incapable of thinking of her in that manner. Profanity deeply offends Mary, particularly when it invokes God. To that end, taking control of the only environment I can influence, my home is a profanity-free zone. At her work, out of respect for their Manager's desires, the use of profanities has dropped significantly. Away from home, however, ...I'm a golfer, c'mon, you gonna render me speachless?
Ever since the Writer's Strike, TV has gone to "reality telivision". What I want to know is "whose" reality are we talking about? Certainly the Kardasians don't mirror my reality, nor do any of the guests on Springer, or Maury. My reality, in all honesty, bore y'all to death. OK, I do peek in at Celebrity Rehab, from time-to-time, but only to reassure myself that other people are just as screwed up as me (I came to terms with those problems years ago, however, and live a comfortable, sober life at present). The themes of these shows, Maury and his ilk, are a litany of marital/sexual woes that are best left to privacy.
Privacy, there's something you hear a lot about, often in the context of a "right to privacy". Guess what, folks, you do not have a right to privacy, the word isn't mentioned anywhere in the Bill of Rights. You can have a "reasonable expectation of privacy," but even that is open to debate. Your privacy ended with the internet. The more it's used, the more information there is about you floating somewhere in cyber-space. Privacy became an issue in an old, gay rights Supreme Court decision, and the court ruled on the basis of that "reasonable expectation," but you had better start learning that your life is "an open book."
But I digress... I have channels, lots and lots of channels. Most of it is crap, lots and lots of crap. I have Spanish-language channels, didn't ask for them as I speak "muy picito espanol," but got them anyway. I don't mind it so much, but didn't it tell the cable company something when I pressed "1" for English? Seems to me that piece of information is being ignored. There are probably a dozen, or more, shopping channels, food channels, sports channels, local access channels, travel channels, the list is long, but nowhere can you find good, wholsome programming anymore. It's like the network is a shark in a net, constantly probing for an opportunity to go a little further. The various networks duel to bring you the events, "as they happen," regardless of the outcome. Television networks have all battled to be able to actually show an execution, live, but the courts have had the decency to continue to forbid it.
Shock TV. That's what it has become. Who can be shockingly graphic, or graphically real? How many times do you hear the words "...the shocking conclusion...," or "...shocking horror...," or more than a dozen other references to "schock"? My favorite is, "...this shocking development..." Again, to whom? Some schmuck in LA leads a police chase, and it's on 50 different channels. "...this shocking development, just in, Congress holds itself in contempt, and everyone resigns." That would be shocking. Short of that, I've had a stroke, actually at least two, I don't need shocking. I need entertainment.
Of all of the "reality" programming, I actually like two shows. I will state, at this point, for the record, I am not, now, nor have I ever been gay. I like American Idol, and America's Got Talent. As a former singer and actor, I enjoy watching new talent. It's just a long-running talent contest, narrated by a "pretty boy," and allows people an opportunity to perform, and to be professionally critiqued. Wish I'd had that opportunity when I was young. Who knows, I might have been American Idol 1975, or something. AGT is different, in that it's more than just singers. Some of the dancers, and specialty acts, are pretty good.
I've been watching History Channel quite a bit, lately. With 2012, and the expiration of the Mayan Calendar looming, it's been quite informative. Since I am a history and archeology devotee, History Channel is definitely one of my favorites.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
In Tribute to Russell Green
Russ Green was one of the first people I got to know in Vacaville. He was in my first period World Geography class, Mr. Rocha's class. World Geography was a freshman requirement, Russ was a junior. Russ' dad did construction site clean-up in the neighborhood where my parents home was being built, and I got to know Noah Green, as well. It wasn't long before I was invited over to meet the whole Green clan, Dottie (Mom), Judy (Sister), and Jimmy (Nephew). Dottie was a Pentacostal Minister, and there was a converted church in the front of their house.
One thing the entire family had in common was an ability to talk, and tell stories. I spent more than a few evenings with the family, listening to them tell stories. Russ was, perhaps, the best story teller I have ever heard. About half of his stories were true, Russ would embellish some minor detail, making it fun. An example: Russ had to play a golf shot out of a ditch that was muddy, and pretty nasty. After hitting the ball back to the fairway, Russ came up out of the ditch, spotted his ball, and pronounced, "Not bad, considering I had to rassle dinosaurs to get to it."
At the Green's house, a simple question often got a lengthy answer. "Have you seen Russ?"
"Well, I saw him this morning, about eight. Saw him again 'bout noon. He went into his room a while back, and I haven't seen him since."
That was Noah. It was also Russ. Russ' favorite joke was this (and I hope I do him justice):
A man dies, and goes to Hell. He's sitting on a patio, under an umbrella, a cold drink on the table in front of him. People are going about socializing, and it isn't long before a man approaches him, introduces himself as The Devil, and welcomes the man to Hell.
"This isn't quite what I expected," the man confided.
"Oh, you'll have a great time here," The Devil replied. "We do lots of things, and since this is Hell, we can do it to excess. Are you a drinking man?"
"I've bent my elbow a time or two."
"Well, then you're going to love Mondays. We drink beer; we drink wine; we drink bourbon, and whiskey; we drink scotch; we drink gin; we drink vodka; we drink ouzo. We drink all day; we drink all night; we drink until we can't drink any more, and we go to bed."
"Sounds like a great party." The man observed.
"Do you smoke?" The Devil inquired.
"Yeah, I do."
"You're going to love Tuesdays, then. We smoke cigarettes; we smoke cigars; we smoke pipes; we smoke pot; we smoke opium; we smoke crack. We smoke all day; we smoke all night; we smoke until we can't smoke any more, and we go to bed."
"Cool."
"By chance," The Devil began, "are you a homosexual?"
"Uh, no, I'm not."
"Well, you're going to hate Wednsday.
One thing the entire family had in common was an ability to talk, and tell stories. I spent more than a few evenings with the family, listening to them tell stories. Russ was, perhaps, the best story teller I have ever heard. About half of his stories were true, Russ would embellish some minor detail, making it fun. An example: Russ had to play a golf shot out of a ditch that was muddy, and pretty nasty. After hitting the ball back to the fairway, Russ came up out of the ditch, spotted his ball, and pronounced, "Not bad, considering I had to rassle dinosaurs to get to it."
At the Green's house, a simple question often got a lengthy answer. "Have you seen Russ?"
"Well, I saw him this morning, about eight. Saw him again 'bout noon. He went into his room a while back, and I haven't seen him since."
That was Noah. It was also Russ. Russ' favorite joke was this (and I hope I do him justice):
A man dies, and goes to Hell. He's sitting on a patio, under an umbrella, a cold drink on the table in front of him. People are going about socializing, and it isn't long before a man approaches him, introduces himself as The Devil, and welcomes the man to Hell.
"This isn't quite what I expected," the man confided.
"Oh, you'll have a great time here," The Devil replied. "We do lots of things, and since this is Hell, we can do it to excess. Are you a drinking man?"
"I've bent my elbow a time or two."
"Well, then you're going to love Mondays. We drink beer; we drink wine; we drink bourbon, and whiskey; we drink scotch; we drink gin; we drink vodka; we drink ouzo. We drink all day; we drink all night; we drink until we can't drink any more, and we go to bed."
"Sounds like a great party." The man observed.
"Do you smoke?" The Devil inquired.
"Yeah, I do."
"You're going to love Tuesdays, then. We smoke cigarettes; we smoke cigars; we smoke pipes; we smoke pot; we smoke opium; we smoke crack. We smoke all day; we smoke all night; we smoke until we can't smoke any more, and we go to bed."
"Cool."
"By chance," The Devil began, "are you a homosexual?"
"Uh, no, I'm not."
"Well, you're going to hate Wednsday.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
More Stuff
Mary and I went out to Nations for dinner last night. I saw a young man who looked familiar, and who was trying not to look at me, yet he recognized me. After a couple of minutes, he came over, greeting me as Mr. Martin, and I knew he was a former student, but I couldn't quite place his name, and I had to ask. James (Jimmy) Thompson, twice a student of mine, one of several of those. Not that they were repeating my class, per-se, I was fortunate to teach a variety of class levels, from freshmen to seniors. Jimmy had me as a junior, and a senior. I remember him as a bright young man, full of life, but not quite sure how to express himself.
Six years may not seem like a long career as a teacher, I might have done more, but my last year broke me. In that time, I got to know about 900 kids, and it gets tougher to remember them all the time. I got to know them on a level their parents can only hope for. I got to read their thoughts, and ideas; their hopes, and their fears. Most were normal, therefore, goofy kids, who had stores of passion, but no direction for it. Some, as we talked about life, and literature, and writing, found a way to express themselves, not as teenagers, but as people. Getting to know them was my extreme pleasure.
There are, without a doubt, students who will stand out, forever, in my memories, because they were such unique individuals. One of those was a young man who once wore a dress to school, just to see how people would react. The schoo's administration tried to send him home, but the school's dress code didn't say anything about it, so he went to classes, all day, in a dress. Do NOT get any idea that this young man was insane, or disabled in any way. To the contrary, I found him to be a delightfully intelligent person, albeit possessing a rather warped sense of humor. Ted Velasquez, if you're out there, God bless you. I hope you haven't lost that sense of self-identity; in an environment where most kids said they didn't care, you really didn't. In some ways, I admired that.
One of my former students, who was the son of one of my classmates, played in this year's Super Bowl. I've followed Kyle DeVan's career, from a distance, as a Center at Oregon State, through the Skins and Jets, to finally land in Indy. Kyle started the Colt's last 12 games at Right Guard, including the playoffs, and Super Bowl. From what I saw, and Indy is on TV a lot, no one got to Peyton Manning over Kyle. He's a big guy, and a two-time State Wrestling Champion. He won the starting spot in Week 7, and has played right-next to one of his idols, Jeff Satuday,ever since. It's been a good year for that young man. May he have many, many more.
Another former student committed suicide, trying to break a steroid habit. Having been at the brink, for other drugs, I understand, and grieve at the depths of depression Effrain must have suffered before taking his own life. No teacher who ever cared about his/her students wants to read about one in an obituary.
My favorite all-time student was a young lady by the name of Kylie Roberts. Kylie transferred in to my freshman English class from another teacher at Coeur d' Alene High. She was, at the time, a wisp of a thing, small, thin, blonde, and just as cute as she could be. I told her that we were working on writing, and gave her my usual first writing assignment, to introduce herself to me. All of my other students had completed this assignment, and I gave her a week to write the essay.
On the due date, Kylie's mom showed up with the essay, as Kylie was not feeling well. We talked for a moment, and Mrs. Roberts told me why Kylie wasn't feeling well. It seems she had been up, all night, trying to write the essay, and not out of procrastination. Mrs. Roberts told me that sometime after 3 am, she heard Kylie go to bed. The essay was on the printer, and as she assembled the three pages, she started to read the essay, and wanted to thank me for making the assignment. In her essay, she talked about feeling "stupid" and "dumb," and gave the reader great insight to a world of low self-esteem. It was brilliant, poignent, and tear-wrenchingly emotional. In a single essay, Kylie found a powerful voice. The changes in her sense of worth were dazzling. In my year at CHS, I watched a frightened girl become a confident, and delightfully funny young woman. It was amazing.
Six years may not seem like a long career as a teacher, I might have done more, but my last year broke me. In that time, I got to know about 900 kids, and it gets tougher to remember them all the time. I got to know them on a level their parents can only hope for. I got to read their thoughts, and ideas; their hopes, and their fears. Most were normal, therefore, goofy kids, who had stores of passion, but no direction for it. Some, as we talked about life, and literature, and writing, found a way to express themselves, not as teenagers, but as people. Getting to know them was my extreme pleasure.
There are, without a doubt, students who will stand out, forever, in my memories, because they were such unique individuals. One of those was a young man who once wore a dress to school, just to see how people would react. The schoo's administration tried to send him home, but the school's dress code didn't say anything about it, so he went to classes, all day, in a dress. Do NOT get any idea that this young man was insane, or disabled in any way. To the contrary, I found him to be a delightfully intelligent person, albeit possessing a rather warped sense of humor. Ted Velasquez, if you're out there, God bless you. I hope you haven't lost that sense of self-identity; in an environment where most kids said they didn't care, you really didn't. In some ways, I admired that.
One of my former students, who was the son of one of my classmates, played in this year's Super Bowl. I've followed Kyle DeVan's career, from a distance, as a Center at Oregon State, through the Skins and Jets, to finally land in Indy. Kyle started the Colt's last 12 games at Right Guard, including the playoffs, and Super Bowl. From what I saw, and Indy is on TV a lot, no one got to Peyton Manning over Kyle. He's a big guy, and a two-time State Wrestling Champion. He won the starting spot in Week 7, and has played right-next to one of his idols, Jeff Satuday,ever since. It's been a good year for that young man. May he have many, many more.
Another former student committed suicide, trying to break a steroid habit. Having been at the brink, for other drugs, I understand, and grieve at the depths of depression Effrain must have suffered before taking his own life. No teacher who ever cared about his/her students wants to read about one in an obituary.
My favorite all-time student was a young lady by the name of Kylie Roberts. Kylie transferred in to my freshman English class from another teacher at Coeur d' Alene High. She was, at the time, a wisp of a thing, small, thin, blonde, and just as cute as she could be. I told her that we were working on writing, and gave her my usual first writing assignment, to introduce herself to me. All of my other students had completed this assignment, and I gave her a week to write the essay.
On the due date, Kylie's mom showed up with the essay, as Kylie was not feeling well. We talked for a moment, and Mrs. Roberts told me why Kylie wasn't feeling well. It seems she had been up, all night, trying to write the essay, and not out of procrastination. Mrs. Roberts told me that sometime after 3 am, she heard Kylie go to bed. The essay was on the printer, and as she assembled the three pages, she started to read the essay, and wanted to thank me for making the assignment. In her essay, she talked about feeling "stupid" and "dumb," and gave the reader great insight to a world of low self-esteem. It was brilliant, poignent, and tear-wrenchingly emotional. In a single essay, Kylie found a powerful voice. The changes in her sense of worth were dazzling. In my year at CHS, I watched a frightened girl become a confident, and delightfully funny young woman. It was amazing.
Where to Go From Here
I'd like to talk about my faith. I'm not usually one to talk about religion, I'd have made a lousy Missionary, so it's probably a good thing I didn't grow up Mormon. I grew up with a mom who had embraced Lutheranism, after growing up in a Catholic home. It made sense, the first time I attended a Catholic Mass; Lutheran was Catholic without the Latin. My dad never went to church, he called himself "a member of the Mattress Chapel." He never interfered in Mom's dragging me to church on Sundays, nor in my Confirmation classes; he simply deferred to Mom's wishes for my sisters and my religious upbringing.
I've always loved to sing, fortunately, had a voice that was pleasant, and could carry a tune. In my adulthood, it was a low-Baratone with range in both directions. As a child, however, I sang Soprano for a youth choir. As I headed into puberty, singing the high-notes got more difficult, but our choir director, a man named Kyte, refused to let me move to alto, so I quit. It wasn't long before I got invited to join the adult choir, where I croaked out tenor lines, until my voice finally deepened. Today, my voice is mostly gone. I really do croak out hymns, in church.
To be honest, I went to church, sang in the choirs, became an "Acolyte" (the guy who lights the candels, and puts them out), and even went throught the Confirmation classes, just because Mom would take me to IHOP, afterwards. Well, that and Pastor John Zeltin.
Pastor Zeltin was a Russian-refugee, who left the Mother Country as a child. I don't know much else about him, but his voice, his accent, was the neatest thing I'd ever heard. I attended his 100th birthday, some years ago, now, and have no idea about what happened to him. He was frail, but he remembered me, and shed a tear for me as we embraced. As a child/youth, I loved him because he was a faithful man of God. He taught me a great deal about Christianity, albeit with a Lutheran perspective, and, quite frankly, scared the bejeebers out of me when he talked of God being "vengeful" and "merciless". You see, at a young age, I had a concept of a Heavenly Father (God), who would be forgiving, and understand. When we left Vallejo, and Pastor Zeltin, I fell into the "Mattress Chapel" fellowship, not setting foot in a church for a couple of years.
It's funny, thinking back, the first church I went to, after moving to Vacaville, was a Mormon church. I didn't realize, at the time, what an influence the LDS Church would have in my life. I was, merly, a member of a singing group, called "A Small Cyrcle of Friends" (there were 9 or 10 of us), who were all Mormons, except for me. We sang at a thing called Mutual, an evening for LDS Young Men and Young Women to meet in a more social setting. It was fun, I got to know a girl named Mary Gardner (who had piqued my interest in Home Room), we sang, people clapped, we left. I was 16, it was 1967, I had my license, and a sports car. Religion didn't mean much to me, I preferred to let people believe whatever they wanted. I had also found pot, and "bennies," and mescaline, and LSD.
I look back on that time of depravity, and it's hard to not remember all of the great times we had, compared to the damage we were doing to our minds, and our souls. Some of my best memorys from those days involve some form of drug or alcohol abuse, which to most of my Mormon friends, is a totally alien way of thinking. I had a great time, drinking and doing drugs. There, I said it. I mean, unless you count the time I was seriously considering suicide, because the drinking and drugs weren't working anymore.
In 1972, I was on USS INDEPENDENCE, in the midst of a 13-month overhaul at Portsmouth Naval Shipyards in Virginia. For those of you not familiar with life on-board a Naval vessel in a shipyard, imagine living inside a big bell. Every time someone strikes the hull, deck, bulkhead, the sound reverberates throughout the ship. The yard goes 24/7, so those unfortunates who actually live on the ship, do so in a loud, stressful environment. Try going without a full nights sleep for weeks at a time, see what happens, it isn't pretty.
As the Thanksgiving/Christmas holidays approached, I started thinking about home, got depressed, and contemplated ending my life. One evening, while on a Roving Patrol for the 03-level and above, I happened out to an area that accessed the ship's mast. I climbed for a bit, until I got to a radar platform that was empty, and had a rail. I got lost in how quickly all of my problems would end if I jumped into the empty drydock (a few hundred feet to solid concrete). Apparently, I spent quite a bit of time there, as my relief had to come looking for me, and asked what the Hell I was doing. I had a hard time explaining. Fortunately, for me, my relief was in my Division, and I knew him pretty well. He told our LPO, PT1 Gibson, that I was acting kind of strange, and "Gibby" and I spent an entire night playing cribbage, and talking.
Right before Christmas, my Division Head, LCDR Art Grayson, came to me and told me that I would have the next ten days off. He said he didn't care what I did, but I was to get away from the ship, hopefully to go home. He said he knew that air tickets were expensive, and he couldn't help me, there, but he let me call my dad from his office. I protested that I didn't have the time "on the books," and he said that this wasn't annual leave. Dad bought the tickets in Sacramento, keeping it secret from the rest of the family. That turned out to be fortuitous, as I caught the flu on the plane out of Norfolk, and spent the first three days of my "vacation" sick.
As I began to feel better, I started thinking of people I wanted to see, and had a short list of people to call, but I dialed Mary Gardner's number from memory. We had dated, for a time, and I had no idea what she might be doing, but it turned out that she was home. We spent a great deal of time together, and she saw me off at the airport. I realized, during this time, that I still cared a lot about her, and we wrote lots of letters after I went back. Because of her, I looked into the LDS Church, and found a religion I had been unconsciously yearning for.
Instead of "vengance" and "wrath," I found forgiveness, and mercy. In the process of my conversion, which continues to this day, I have discovered a Heavenly Father who loves me in ways that shame my love for my own children. He sent His Son, my brother, Jesus Christ, to atone for the sins of Man, my sins. I have found great comfort, after losing a child, in the concept of Eternal Families, that will be together beyond this life. I have found an amazing woman, yeah, Mary Gardner, who for the past 36 years has been Mary Martin, to whom I have pledged my devotion to "for time and all eternity." I have gained, somewhat, an Eternal Perspective, understanding more and more about how precious our time on Earth is, and what I need to do to be worthy of living in His presence once again. I believe, with all my heart, that those who refuse the Gospel in this life, will be given a chance to hear it in the next. I believe, since my father was never baptized (to my knowledge), that I may be baptized for him in death, to satisfy the requirement that only those who repent and are baptized may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. I believe that a Prophet of God sits at the head of the Church, and that person is Thomas S. Monson, currently. I believe that Scripture does not end with the Bible. I believe that God has, and continues to speak to Man concerning His will for us. I believe that through the Holy Spirit, which is my constant companion when I am doing what I should, that I can have a personal relationship with God, and receive his guidance regarding my family, and my callings.
In short, I'm a Mormon. I'm not weird, well, not that weird, and I don't have multiple wives, or secretly worship Satan, or any other urban legend about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I'm a guy, struggling with life, with lots of flaws. I go to Church, not because I'm a righteous person, but because I'm not. I am a Spiritual person, and have felt God's influence in my life many times. Those, however, will have to wait.
I've always loved to sing, fortunately, had a voice that was pleasant, and could carry a tune. In my adulthood, it was a low-Baratone with range in both directions. As a child, however, I sang Soprano for a youth choir. As I headed into puberty, singing the high-notes got more difficult, but our choir director, a man named Kyte, refused to let me move to alto, so I quit. It wasn't long before I got invited to join the adult choir, where I croaked out tenor lines, until my voice finally deepened. Today, my voice is mostly gone. I really do croak out hymns, in church.
To be honest, I went to church, sang in the choirs, became an "Acolyte" (the guy who lights the candels, and puts them out), and even went throught the Confirmation classes, just because Mom would take me to IHOP, afterwards. Well, that and Pastor John Zeltin.
Pastor Zeltin was a Russian-refugee, who left the Mother Country as a child. I don't know much else about him, but his voice, his accent, was the neatest thing I'd ever heard. I attended his 100th birthday, some years ago, now, and have no idea about what happened to him. He was frail, but he remembered me, and shed a tear for me as we embraced. As a child/youth, I loved him because he was a faithful man of God. He taught me a great deal about Christianity, albeit with a Lutheran perspective, and, quite frankly, scared the bejeebers out of me when he talked of God being "vengeful" and "merciless". You see, at a young age, I had a concept of a Heavenly Father (God), who would be forgiving, and understand. When we left Vallejo, and Pastor Zeltin, I fell into the "Mattress Chapel" fellowship, not setting foot in a church for a couple of years.
It's funny, thinking back, the first church I went to, after moving to Vacaville, was a Mormon church. I didn't realize, at the time, what an influence the LDS Church would have in my life. I was, merly, a member of a singing group, called "A Small Cyrcle of Friends" (there were 9 or 10 of us), who were all Mormons, except for me. We sang at a thing called Mutual, an evening for LDS Young Men and Young Women to meet in a more social setting. It was fun, I got to know a girl named Mary Gardner (who had piqued my interest in Home Room), we sang, people clapped, we left. I was 16, it was 1967, I had my license, and a sports car. Religion didn't mean much to me, I preferred to let people believe whatever they wanted. I had also found pot, and "bennies," and mescaline, and LSD.
I look back on that time of depravity, and it's hard to not remember all of the great times we had, compared to the damage we were doing to our minds, and our souls. Some of my best memorys from those days involve some form of drug or alcohol abuse, which to most of my Mormon friends, is a totally alien way of thinking. I had a great time, drinking and doing drugs. There, I said it. I mean, unless you count the time I was seriously considering suicide, because the drinking and drugs weren't working anymore.
In 1972, I was on USS INDEPENDENCE, in the midst of a 13-month overhaul at Portsmouth Naval Shipyards in Virginia. For those of you not familiar with life on-board a Naval vessel in a shipyard, imagine living inside a big bell. Every time someone strikes the hull, deck, bulkhead, the sound reverberates throughout the ship. The yard goes 24/7, so those unfortunates who actually live on the ship, do so in a loud, stressful environment. Try going without a full nights sleep for weeks at a time, see what happens, it isn't pretty.
As the Thanksgiving/Christmas holidays approached, I started thinking about home, got depressed, and contemplated ending my life. One evening, while on a Roving Patrol for the 03-level and above, I happened out to an area that accessed the ship's mast. I climbed for a bit, until I got to a radar platform that was empty, and had a rail. I got lost in how quickly all of my problems would end if I jumped into the empty drydock (a few hundred feet to solid concrete). Apparently, I spent quite a bit of time there, as my relief had to come looking for me, and asked what the Hell I was doing. I had a hard time explaining. Fortunately, for me, my relief was in my Division, and I knew him pretty well. He told our LPO, PT1 Gibson, that I was acting kind of strange, and "Gibby" and I spent an entire night playing cribbage, and talking.
Right before Christmas, my Division Head, LCDR Art Grayson, came to me and told me that I would have the next ten days off. He said he didn't care what I did, but I was to get away from the ship, hopefully to go home. He said he knew that air tickets were expensive, and he couldn't help me, there, but he let me call my dad from his office. I protested that I didn't have the time "on the books," and he said that this wasn't annual leave. Dad bought the tickets in Sacramento, keeping it secret from the rest of the family. That turned out to be fortuitous, as I caught the flu on the plane out of Norfolk, and spent the first three days of my "vacation" sick.
As I began to feel better, I started thinking of people I wanted to see, and had a short list of people to call, but I dialed Mary Gardner's number from memory. We had dated, for a time, and I had no idea what she might be doing, but it turned out that she was home. We spent a great deal of time together, and she saw me off at the airport. I realized, during this time, that I still cared a lot about her, and we wrote lots of letters after I went back. Because of her, I looked into the LDS Church, and found a religion I had been unconsciously yearning for.
Instead of "vengance" and "wrath," I found forgiveness, and mercy. In the process of my conversion, which continues to this day, I have discovered a Heavenly Father who loves me in ways that shame my love for my own children. He sent His Son, my brother, Jesus Christ, to atone for the sins of Man, my sins. I have found great comfort, after losing a child, in the concept of Eternal Families, that will be together beyond this life. I have found an amazing woman, yeah, Mary Gardner, who for the past 36 years has been Mary Martin, to whom I have pledged my devotion to "for time and all eternity." I have gained, somewhat, an Eternal Perspective, understanding more and more about how precious our time on Earth is, and what I need to do to be worthy of living in His presence once again. I believe, with all my heart, that those who refuse the Gospel in this life, will be given a chance to hear it in the next. I believe, since my father was never baptized (to my knowledge), that I may be baptized for him in death, to satisfy the requirement that only those who repent and are baptized may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. I believe that a Prophet of God sits at the head of the Church, and that person is Thomas S. Monson, currently. I believe that Scripture does not end with the Bible. I believe that God has, and continues to speak to Man concerning His will for us. I believe that through the Holy Spirit, which is my constant companion when I am doing what I should, that I can have a personal relationship with God, and receive his guidance regarding my family, and my callings.
In short, I'm a Mormon. I'm not weird, well, not that weird, and I don't have multiple wives, or secretly worship Satan, or any other urban legend about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I'm a guy, struggling with life, with lots of flaws. I go to Church, not because I'm a righteous person, but because I'm not. I am a Spiritual person, and have felt God's influence in my life many times. Those, however, will have to wait.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Meet Taz. Absolutely the most mellow cat I have ever met. He's a "rescue kitty," his mother meeting her demise in the street. The girls who took care of weaning him, used to hold him like a baby, and feed him from toy baby bottles. How often do you see a cat so comfortable exposing his belly?
Taz likes visitors, and often attempts to give them "kitty blessings" (see my main photo). He's been neutered, and had his front claws removed. Those of you now cursing me can just stop. Taz is not an "outside" cat. He's curious about "outside," but is quite happy living in comfort.
Taz likes to play, and has toys that he really likes. He really likes to rough house, and purrs loudly whenever "the claw" starts in on him.
A Story...
I had been teaching the Integrated Tactical Warfare Data System, or ITWDS (pronounced eye-tawds), for a couple of years. I was assigned to teach the Systems Configuration, Software, and P- and Q-Languages, used to request information from the system. My students were, for the most part, Navy Data Processing Technicians (of various pay grades), a few Naval Officers, and members of the Marine Landing Force assigned to the USS Tarawa-class, general-purpose amphibious assault ships (LHA's 1 - 4). The classes seemed to alternate with mostly DP's in one class, Navy and Marine officers in another, and "ground-pounder" Marines in another.
The officers, and the DP's were kind of easy classes, often the students who were "way ahead" tutored classmates who struggled, and classes would often get ahead of schedule. These made for some seriously-long lunches (5 hours was the record), or as with the DP's, long hours in the lab. The LHA Training Staff was a dedicated, and highly professional teaching staff. Most had experience working with previous generations of the systems, I wasn't one of them, so they taught me. By the time we actually gave our first set of classes, I was a Subject Matter Expert, and had multi-media presentations (in 1975 technology), that were hailed by our Audio/Visual Department. They should know, they helped create it.
Marine classes, however, always presented some unique challenges. The concept itself, teaching Infantry and Gunnery Marines to operate and program computers, is just not logical, but once, or twice a year, we'd give it our best shot. We had Marines in all shapes and sizes, from a full-colonel to PFC. Many were field Marines, who were being given an assignment to an administrative post, all of the "gunnies" and "tops" were on those assignments. Occassionally, we'd get a PFC, or Lance Corporal fresh from Infantry Training, but mostly the Marines were Vets. One of the NCO's had been the recipiant of a Congressional Medal of Honor, for jumping on a fragmentation grenade, protecting the life of a colonel. It took something from him. He didn't like to talk about it, but I had recognized the sky-blue ribbon on his uniform, and had to ask, anyway. I promised not to ask again, if he would wear it on the last day of class, he did so as a favor to me.
It was during one of my Marine-dominated classes, that Fleet Combat Training Center, Pacific, held its annual Instructor-of-the-Year competition. I was ready, had all my materials ready; equipment on stand-by, so I was pretty confident that everything would go well. It actually started real well, I had put my name and the title of the lesson, as we learned in IT School, and in pretty large letters, "Be sure to reset your clocks on Sunday," as it was the end of Daylight Savings Time. I told a joke, pretty standard for me, and we set about aquainting my students with the data terminal display and keyboard.
We got through the scheduled 1-hour lesson in good time, and used the remaining few minutes for Q & A. One of the Marines asked about the Delete key, and in which direction did it erase. I stepped to the chalkboard, my back to it, and drew a short, horizontal line (my Daylight Savings warning still on the chalkboard), and told them to imagine that line was the cursor, and wanted to erase that character. "Depress the Delete key," I told him, "and the character above the cursor was erased (a swipe of an eraser made the character disappear), and the remaining text on that line would move one character to the left. Now the line would read..." I turned to the board for the first time, and noticed my "cursor" had been under the "L" in "clocks". "Be sure to reset your cocks on Sunday?"
The laughter was long, and loud. The Evaluators, the students, even the CO (who had stopped in, and stayed), laughed until the tears set in. "I swear," I told them, "I didn't plan that, it just sort of happened." The laughter started anew.
When it was done, the Evaluators critiqued my lesson, and no one, not even the CO, had anything bad to say about my presentation. I came in Second, to some "hotshot" Electronic Warfare geek in the Instructor Competition that year for E-5 Instructors. (Ring any bells, Ted?)
The officers, and the DP's were kind of easy classes, often the students who were "way ahead" tutored classmates who struggled, and classes would often get ahead of schedule. These made for some seriously-long lunches (5 hours was the record), or as with the DP's, long hours in the lab. The LHA Training Staff was a dedicated, and highly professional teaching staff. Most had experience working with previous generations of the systems, I wasn't one of them, so they taught me. By the time we actually gave our first set of classes, I was a Subject Matter Expert, and had multi-media presentations (in 1975 technology), that were hailed by our Audio/Visual Department. They should know, they helped create it.
Marine classes, however, always presented some unique challenges. The concept itself, teaching Infantry and Gunnery Marines to operate and program computers, is just not logical, but once, or twice a year, we'd give it our best shot. We had Marines in all shapes and sizes, from a full-colonel to PFC. Many were field Marines, who were being given an assignment to an administrative post, all of the "gunnies" and "tops" were on those assignments. Occassionally, we'd get a PFC, or Lance Corporal fresh from Infantry Training, but mostly the Marines were Vets. One of the NCO's had been the recipiant of a Congressional Medal of Honor, for jumping on a fragmentation grenade, protecting the life of a colonel. It took something from him. He didn't like to talk about it, but I had recognized the sky-blue ribbon on his uniform, and had to ask, anyway. I promised not to ask again, if he would wear it on the last day of class, he did so as a favor to me.
It was during one of my Marine-dominated classes, that Fleet Combat Training Center, Pacific, held its annual Instructor-of-the-Year competition. I was ready, had all my materials ready; equipment on stand-by, so I was pretty confident that everything would go well. It actually started real well, I had put my name and the title of the lesson, as we learned in IT School, and in pretty large letters, "Be sure to reset your clocks on Sunday," as it was the end of Daylight Savings Time. I told a joke, pretty standard for me, and we set about aquainting my students with the data terminal display and keyboard.
We got through the scheduled 1-hour lesson in good time, and used the remaining few minutes for Q & A. One of the Marines asked about the Delete key, and in which direction did it erase. I stepped to the chalkboard, my back to it, and drew a short, horizontal line (my Daylight Savings warning still on the chalkboard), and told them to imagine that line was the cursor, and wanted to erase that character. "Depress the Delete key," I told him, "and the character above the cursor was erased (a swipe of an eraser made the character disappear), and the remaining text on that line would move one character to the left. Now the line would read..." I turned to the board for the first time, and noticed my "cursor" had been under the "L" in "clocks". "Be sure to reset your cocks on Sunday?"
The laughter was long, and loud. The Evaluators, the students, even the CO (who had stopped in, and stayed), laughed until the tears set in. "I swear," I told them, "I didn't plan that, it just sort of happened." The laughter started anew.
When it was done, the Evaluators critiqued my lesson, and no one, not even the CO, had anything bad to say about my presentation. I came in Second, to some "hotshot" Electronic Warfare geek in the Instructor Competition that year for E-5 Instructors. (Ring any bells, Ted?)
Friday, February 19, 2010
Who is This Guy, and Why am I Reading His Blog?
I probably should have posted this first, but I didn't know which direction I would be going with a blog. Heck, I'm new at this, so you have to bear with me....
I'm an average guy. So average, stores usually run out of clothing that is "my size" before any others. I'm a political moderate, in that I see the need for government programs, but can't stand it when my tax money gets wasted. I don't like politics, I think it breeds corruption and abuse, so I don't talk much politics-wise. I was a "Navy Brat," my father was a Torpedoman during WWII and Korea, and retired in 1960, when I was nine. I was also a Sailor myself, enlisting in the Navy (of course) in 1971, and retiring in 1991. I was a Data Processing Technician, operating, programing, and analyzing computer systems, and data bases. I was a student, returning to collage after my Navy career, obtaining my Bachelor's Degree in English (Language and Literature) from Chico State in 1997. I taught high school for a while; four years at my alma mater Vaca High, a year in Couer d' Alene, ID, and a year at Will C. Wood, again in Vacaville. I've done lots of other jobs, but mostly identify myself as "Retired Navy/Former Teacher".
I'm somewhat a Spiritual person, in that I believe in God; a Christian, since I beleve that Jesus is the Son of God; and a Mormon, since I believe that Scripture doesn't end with the Bible. I'm what I like to call a "practicing" Mormon. Who knows, someday I may actually get it right. I am not afraid to state that I have felt the Hand of God in my life, many, many times. I may write about them at some point.
I'm a father, and a grandfather. My family is the most important thing in my life. Whenever I have forgotten that, I have had some rather brutal reminders that family comes first. My children are grown, and have become "down to the ground" good people. They are all talented, and all in different ways. They are succeeding, as adults, in ways neither they, nor I, ever imagined. I'm very proud of my children, but it's the good kind of pride.
I have been married to the most incredible person for almost 36 years. Mary never fails to suprise, astound, and amaze me, even after all this time. She hasn't a mean-bone in her entire body. She treats everyone she encounters with patience, understanding, and love. Anyone who gets to know her loves her, and those that don't have something wrong with them.
I'm a Golfer. I love to play, although I'm not very good anymore. I've played on courses worldwide, and some of the ones played by the PGA. I love golf stories, jokes, anecdotes, etc, and have many of my own. In my golfing career, I've had lots of birdies, pars, bogeys, and worse, but I've also had 125 eagles, the last of which on a Par 3 (yeah, a hole-in-one). It's a great game, and it's taught me a lot about myself, and life in general.
I decided to call my blog "Rambling With Steve," mostly because I never know which direction things may go. I may write about a lot of things, all in the same post, soooo...
Sit down. Hang on. Keep reading. I hope you enjoy the journey.
I'm an average guy. So average, stores usually run out of clothing that is "my size" before any others. I'm a political moderate, in that I see the need for government programs, but can't stand it when my tax money gets wasted. I don't like politics, I think it breeds corruption and abuse, so I don't talk much politics-wise. I was a "Navy Brat," my father was a Torpedoman during WWII and Korea, and retired in 1960, when I was nine. I was also a Sailor myself, enlisting in the Navy (of course) in 1971, and retiring in 1991. I was a Data Processing Technician, operating, programing, and analyzing computer systems, and data bases. I was a student, returning to collage after my Navy career, obtaining my Bachelor's Degree in English (Language and Literature) from Chico State in 1997. I taught high school for a while; four years at my alma mater Vaca High, a year in Couer d' Alene, ID, and a year at Will C. Wood, again in Vacaville. I've done lots of other jobs, but mostly identify myself as "Retired Navy/Former Teacher".
I'm somewhat a Spiritual person, in that I believe in God; a Christian, since I beleve that Jesus is the Son of God; and a Mormon, since I believe that Scripture doesn't end with the Bible. I'm what I like to call a "practicing" Mormon. Who knows, someday I may actually get it right. I am not afraid to state that I have felt the Hand of God in my life, many, many times. I may write about them at some point.
I'm a father, and a grandfather. My family is the most important thing in my life. Whenever I have forgotten that, I have had some rather brutal reminders that family comes first. My children are grown, and have become "down to the ground" good people. They are all talented, and all in different ways. They are succeeding, as adults, in ways neither they, nor I, ever imagined. I'm very proud of my children, but it's the good kind of pride.
I have been married to the most incredible person for almost 36 years. Mary never fails to suprise, astound, and amaze me, even after all this time. She hasn't a mean-bone in her entire body. She treats everyone she encounters with patience, understanding, and love. Anyone who gets to know her loves her, and those that don't have something wrong with them.
I'm a Golfer. I love to play, although I'm not very good anymore. I've played on courses worldwide, and some of the ones played by the PGA. I love golf stories, jokes, anecdotes, etc, and have many of my own. In my golfing career, I've had lots of birdies, pars, bogeys, and worse, but I've also had 125 eagles, the last of which on a Par 3 (yeah, a hole-in-one). It's a great game, and it's taught me a lot about myself, and life in general.
I decided to call my blog "Rambling With Steve," mostly because I never know which direction things may go. I may write about a lot of things, all in the same post, soooo...
Sit down. Hang on. Keep reading. I hope you enjoy the journey.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Back from San Diego
We actually got back on Tuesday. About 6 pm, not bad since we had left about 9:30 that morning... I just kept thinking about climbing in to my jetted tub. I was wearing a lidoderm patch, so the driving wasn't all that bad. It also does a lot for my ego, knowing I can still drive 400 miles in a day. The last long drive was in 2007, when we brought Cory and Angel out from Oklahoma City. Nice to see I can still drive.
"Props" out to my old Navy buddy George Haw, whom I got to spend a couple of hours with during my trip. George and I go back to 1981, pre-commissioning crew for the USS McKEE (AS-41). The ship has been de-commissioned, as the days of repair-at-sea are over. I guess the Navy finally realized how a tender, with surfaced submarines, presented a pretty big target for the sophisticated weapons of modern design. My firs ship, USS INDEPENDENCE (CV-62), is also de-commissioned. NTC San Diego has become a business/residential area. Most of my historic landmarks are gone! I'm sorry, I'm digressing...
George, you old sea-dog, it was great to see you, swap some memories, and to see you doing so well. You seem to be in a good spot, and who knows... Seeing you, and being somewhat overwhelmed by how far you took your career. I was content to be good at what I did, you went way beyond that.
I was reminded of an incident that happend during the Commissioning of McKEE, and decided to write about it on my blog...
Commissioning ceremonies are a lot more than a few speaches, bands, and the traditional "manning-the-ship". We were, after all, the newest, most updated Submarine Tender in the US fleet. The Secretary of the Navy, John Warner (in 1981), would tour the ship and see most of its key spaces. The Data Processing Center (S-8 Division) was determined to be one of those "key spaces". Each area on the itinerary would provide a "tour guide," who would "present" the spaces to our distinguished guest. Our LCPO (DPC Michanowicz) wanted nothing to do with the job, and it fell to me. Personally, I considered it an honor to be able to meet the Secretary of the Navy, and took it pretty seriously, until the XO (a CDR Watterman) started having "rehersals" every day. Watterman and I had a "history," in that I had carried his drunken-ass back aboard the ship one evening, and to him, DP's were NFG.
Watterman pressed these rehersals to the point that they became annoying. The final-straw was a "Dress Rehersal" in which we were supposed to wear our Service Dress Whites (with Medals). I was tired of these rehersals, and wore a Summer White uniform, with a well worn pair of Corafam's, my Service Dress uniform hanging in my office, along with a new pair of shoes. Watterman got after me, but I told him I wanted to make as little movement as possible in my Dress Whites. I planned on changing in my office. After a minute, he recognized the sense of my intent, we did the "Blah-Blah's," and he left.
On Commissioning Day, I changed in my office, made the few strides to my "position," and prepared myself for my required greeting. I don't remember, now, exactly how it went; I should, I said it enough times in the rehersals, but I told the Secretary of the Navy (SECNAV) my name, "Petty Officer Martin". Understand, this is 1981. Radio Shack had just unveiled the TRS-80, one of the first "home" computers, multi-function digital watches were not exactly new, and these all had more internal memory than the 16K of the AN/UYK-5 computer, the staple of the Supply Corps. SuDAPS was 20 years out-of-date when I first heard about them 10 years before. Ours was painted, and looked new, but it was a "refurbished" model, and wasn't working at the time.
SECNAV looked around and asked, "This looks like new equipment, Petty Officer Martin, is it new?"
"Sir," I replied, "you are standing in the finest example of a Data Processing Museum that the Navy owns."
Watterman almost passed out. SECNAV laughed and asked what I meant.
"Sir, do you carry a calculator?" I asked in return, and he did. "You have more memory in that calculator than this 6'x2' box."
"Go on..." SECNAV prompted.
I went on to show him the other parts of our system, 1/2-inch tape drives, a teletype for a primary interface, a printer that could probably survive a nuclear detonation, and a punched-card reader/puncher/interpreter. It was called a CRPI (pronounced "crip-eee"), we would joke that CRPI stood for Card Ripper Perpherator and Incinerator. It was guaranteed to jam, it was always a matter of how many cards had to be re-punched. SECNAV was attentive, and really listened, as I got my "two cents worth" in on the state of data processing at the time.
As the tour came to an end, SECNAV asked, "So how many people work here, Petty Officer Martin?"
I couldn't resist. "About half of 'em, but we get the job done." I replied with a smile.
SECNAV laughed for a few seconds, shook my hand, and said, "Well done, Petty Officer Martin. Very well done."
Watterman scowled at me, giving me on of his "This isn't over." looks. The rest of the tour group laughed, and congratulated me on my performance. It turned out that Secretary Warner was so impressed by my presentation that he signed a personal Letter of Commendation. Watterman made sure that there was no presentation, and I received the letter in the on-board mail. Then, CDR George Watterman, USN, did something heinous. After Commissioning, almost everyone received a Navy Achievement Medal, if they were a part of getting things fired-up and running. All kidding aside, this group of kids, my S-8 Division people, went far and above the call, begging for computer time, traveling to Bremerton from West Seattle, toting cards, tapes, and all that crap on the ferries, driving around the Puget Sound to Tacoma, and back up to Bremerton to avoid the tolls. This is a group that pounded out an end-of-the-fiscal year accounting, dragging it all from Seattle, to Mare Island, to the Naval Training Center San Diego, to get everything done (SuDAPS, IMMS, Payroll) in a timely-manner. Not one of them received as much as a "Thank you," or "Well Done." As the Leading Petty Officer, I took that very hard. I've always felt that it was Watterman's embarassment, to be passed-out drunk in the parking lot, and carried back by two "DP's" that fueled his detestation of ADP. To Odie, Daphne, Joe Wolfe, Tony Izzo, Louis Bollinger, Michael (Mico) Glover, Danilo Pascasio, Phil Rallos, Pat Story, and all of the rest of you who lived through it, I hope nothing ever came down to having a NAM, or not. It certainly had an impact upon my career. Had we been so recognized, as the rest of Supply Department had been, I may have gone further, but that's another story.
I've always been the type of person who takes "You can't do that." personally. The surest way to get something done is to tell me I "can't". We moved an 8-foot long, 2 1/2-foot wide, 40-inch tall sorter from the second, to the fourth deck, intact, when the ship's riggers told us it was impossible, but it got there, intact. We were told, going to the CADE (Computer Assisted Data Entry) system programming class that we couldn't connect the Maintenance requisitions with the appropriate Supply document required to place the orders, but we did. We learned to become Experts in a new generation of "remote terminal users," where Maintenance, Supply, Payroll, all had the ability to enter data into the system, which could independently trigger updates to their appropriate data bases. It was the begining of the end of Data Processing as a specialty, and the birth of interactive Information Systems, and Management.
Ah, but I drag on. But it's there, somewhere. We did it. We dragged cable to connect the first remote terminals to the DPS-6. Even in '81, data management was changing rapidly, the begining of the snowball of technological break-throughs in the past 30 years. "Gigabytes," no one knew that phrase. "GIGA?" OK, I met ADM Grace Hopper, got my set of wires from her very hand. "Nanoseconds," the distance an electron travels in one-billionth of a second. "GIGA?" Sorry, I'm into simple math.
Got to hold my grandaughter. I could make this really long, but I'll just say she's cuter than all of yours. I'm a happy grandpa. On Monday afternoon, I got to hold my grandaughter, and the young boy we pray will become a member of our family, Victor. the following day. What more can I ask, eh?
"Props" out to my old Navy buddy George Haw, whom I got to spend a couple of hours with during my trip. George and I go back to 1981, pre-commissioning crew for the USS McKEE (AS-41). The ship has been de-commissioned, as the days of repair-at-sea are over. I guess the Navy finally realized how a tender, with surfaced submarines, presented a pretty big target for the sophisticated weapons of modern design. My firs ship, USS INDEPENDENCE (CV-62), is also de-commissioned. NTC San Diego has become a business/residential area. Most of my historic landmarks are gone! I'm sorry, I'm digressing...
George, you old sea-dog, it was great to see you, swap some memories, and to see you doing so well. You seem to be in a good spot, and who knows... Seeing you, and being somewhat overwhelmed by how far you took your career. I was content to be good at what I did, you went way beyond that.
I was reminded of an incident that happend during the Commissioning of McKEE, and decided to write about it on my blog...
Commissioning ceremonies are a lot more than a few speaches, bands, and the traditional "manning-the-ship". We were, after all, the newest, most updated Submarine Tender in the US fleet. The Secretary of the Navy, John Warner (in 1981), would tour the ship and see most of its key spaces. The Data Processing Center (S-8 Division) was determined to be one of those "key spaces". Each area on the itinerary would provide a "tour guide," who would "present" the spaces to our distinguished guest. Our LCPO (DPC Michanowicz) wanted nothing to do with the job, and it fell to me. Personally, I considered it an honor to be able to meet the Secretary of the Navy, and took it pretty seriously, until the XO (a CDR Watterman) started having "rehersals" every day. Watterman and I had a "history," in that I had carried his drunken-ass back aboard the ship one evening, and to him, DP's were NFG.
Watterman pressed these rehersals to the point that they became annoying. The final-straw was a "Dress Rehersal" in which we were supposed to wear our Service Dress Whites (with Medals). I was tired of these rehersals, and wore a Summer White uniform, with a well worn pair of Corafam's, my Service Dress uniform hanging in my office, along with a new pair of shoes. Watterman got after me, but I told him I wanted to make as little movement as possible in my Dress Whites. I planned on changing in my office. After a minute, he recognized the sense of my intent, we did the "Blah-Blah's," and he left.
On Commissioning Day, I changed in my office, made the few strides to my "position," and prepared myself for my required greeting. I don't remember, now, exactly how it went; I should, I said it enough times in the rehersals, but I told the Secretary of the Navy (SECNAV) my name, "Petty Officer Martin". Understand, this is 1981. Radio Shack had just unveiled the TRS-80, one of the first "home" computers, multi-function digital watches were not exactly new, and these all had more internal memory than the 16K of the AN/UYK-5 computer, the staple of the Supply Corps. SuDAPS was 20 years out-of-date when I first heard about them 10 years before. Ours was painted, and looked new, but it was a "refurbished" model, and wasn't working at the time.
SECNAV looked around and asked, "This looks like new equipment, Petty Officer Martin, is it new?"
"Sir," I replied, "you are standing in the finest example of a Data Processing Museum that the Navy owns."
Watterman almost passed out. SECNAV laughed and asked what I meant.
"Sir, do you carry a calculator?" I asked in return, and he did. "You have more memory in that calculator than this 6'x2' box."
"Go on..." SECNAV prompted.
I went on to show him the other parts of our system, 1/2-inch tape drives, a teletype for a primary interface, a printer that could probably survive a nuclear detonation, and a punched-card reader/puncher/interpreter. It was called a CRPI (pronounced "crip-eee"), we would joke that CRPI stood for Card Ripper Perpherator and Incinerator. It was guaranteed to jam, it was always a matter of how many cards had to be re-punched. SECNAV was attentive, and really listened, as I got my "two cents worth" in on the state of data processing at the time.
As the tour came to an end, SECNAV asked, "So how many people work here, Petty Officer Martin?"
I couldn't resist. "About half of 'em, but we get the job done." I replied with a smile.
SECNAV laughed for a few seconds, shook my hand, and said, "Well done, Petty Officer Martin. Very well done."
Watterman scowled at me, giving me on of his "This isn't over." looks. The rest of the tour group laughed, and congratulated me on my performance. It turned out that Secretary Warner was so impressed by my presentation that he signed a personal Letter of Commendation. Watterman made sure that there was no presentation, and I received the letter in the on-board mail. Then, CDR George Watterman, USN, did something heinous. After Commissioning, almost everyone received a Navy Achievement Medal, if they were a part of getting things fired-up and running. All kidding aside, this group of kids, my S-8 Division people, went far and above the call, begging for computer time, traveling to Bremerton from West Seattle, toting cards, tapes, and all that crap on the ferries, driving around the Puget Sound to Tacoma, and back up to Bremerton to avoid the tolls. This is a group that pounded out an end-of-the-fiscal year accounting, dragging it all from Seattle, to Mare Island, to the Naval Training Center San Diego, to get everything done (SuDAPS, IMMS, Payroll) in a timely-manner. Not one of them received as much as a "Thank you," or "Well Done." As the Leading Petty Officer, I took that very hard. I've always felt that it was Watterman's embarassment, to be passed-out drunk in the parking lot, and carried back by two "DP's" that fueled his detestation of ADP. To Odie, Daphne, Joe Wolfe, Tony Izzo, Louis Bollinger, Michael (Mico) Glover, Danilo Pascasio, Phil Rallos, Pat Story, and all of the rest of you who lived through it, I hope nothing ever came down to having a NAM, or not. It certainly had an impact upon my career. Had we been so recognized, as the rest of Supply Department had been, I may have gone further, but that's another story.
I've always been the type of person who takes "You can't do that." personally. The surest way to get something done is to tell me I "can't". We moved an 8-foot long, 2 1/2-foot wide, 40-inch tall sorter from the second, to the fourth deck, intact, when the ship's riggers told us it was impossible, but it got there, intact. We were told, going to the CADE (Computer Assisted Data Entry) system programming class that we couldn't connect the Maintenance requisitions with the appropriate Supply document required to place the orders, but we did. We learned to become Experts in a new generation of "remote terminal users," where Maintenance, Supply, Payroll, all had the ability to enter data into the system, which could independently trigger updates to their appropriate data bases. It was the begining of the end of Data Processing as a specialty, and the birth of interactive Information Systems, and Management.
Ah, but I drag on. But it's there, somewhere. We did it. We dragged cable to connect the first remote terminals to the DPS-6. Even in '81, data management was changing rapidly, the begining of the snowball of technological break-throughs in the past 30 years. "Gigabytes," no one knew that phrase. "GIGA?" OK, I met ADM Grace Hopper, got my set of wires from her very hand. "Nanoseconds," the distance an electron travels in one-billionth of a second. "GIGA?" Sorry, I'm into simple math.
Got to hold my grandaughter. I could make this really long, but I'll just say she's cuter than all of yours. I'm a happy grandpa. On Monday afternoon, I got to hold my grandaughter, and the young boy we pray will become a member of our family, Victor. the following day. What more can I ask, eh?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Other Stuff
OK, I'm over the "patriarch" issue, at least for the moment. On to other stuff.
I live in a "retirement community," another name for "senior housing". I used to make fun of this place when I was a kid. My dad used to call Leisure Town "the only cemetery with street lights." Mom, when they used to travel, would send cards addressed to a friend who lived here, but instead of puting "Vacaville," she would put things like "Limp Richard Village," or "Floppy Johnson Meadows," but the Zip was correct, so they always got delivered.
Well, now I'm one of the "old folks," and I see the alure of age-controlled housing. Mom, who's still kicking, and will be 84 on Tuesday Feb. 16, lives in a "regular" neighborhood, with families, kids, and people with lots of "toys". She has two neighbor-boys who like to climb trees, and she's scared they'll fall out of her tree, and she'll ge sued. Me, at 58, I'm one of the "youngsters" on my block. Our neighborhood association provides RV and boat parking, outside of the streets, and regulates parking. No one climbing trees, no loud parties, it's pretty quiet here in the Meadows. About the only noise we get is sirens, but that happens so often, it's almost become part of the background noise.
I have some good neighbors, and we look out for each other as though we've been neighbors for decades (we've been in this house for almost 14 months). The last time we went to San Diego, my neighbor had a panic attack, because she didn't see us for a while. It's forgivable, as the previous owner of my house died in her bedroom. I promised to let her know when we would be leaving for extended periods. Mom refers to her neighbor by an ethnic slur (he's Latino), because she doesn't know his name. They've lived there seven years. I like my neighborhood.
I mentioned the sirens... I had an "evil" thought, a while back, when we first rented here in Leisure Town: set up a system that detects sirens, and plays Queen's Another One Bites the Dust. Been here three years now, and it's still the first thing I think of when I hear sirens. Cruel, but it's still an amusing thought.
Music. Love music. I'm fairly eclectic when it comes to music (see Profile). Love the Blues, Eric Clapton, BB, Susan Tedeschi, lots of others. Saw Maria Muldar at a blues-cafe in Sunnyvale about 10 years ago, and she was wailing as a blues singer. There was a lot more than Midnight at the Oasis to her. I'm running i-Tunes, have an i-Pod, and about two and a half days of music stored. Just finished listening to Master of the House from Les Miz, and now, Something by the Beatles. I love technology. At least the kind I understand.
I don't get i-Phones, or i-Pads, or Blackberrys, or whatever. I have a cell phone, it makes the Jitterbug look like a top-of-the-line phone, but it serves my purpose. I prepay time, use it when I need it, and don't use it that often. I have a young (35) friend with an i-Phone who can't seem to resist telling me how "cool" it is to have a computer in the palm of your hand. He doesn't seem to understand my not wanting one, considering my Navy computer experience, but even in the "Digital Age," I'm still kind of old fashioned. I like to talk to people, but face-to-face, not while I'm in the grocery store. To me, a cell phone is a convinence, not something I live with.
In my thinking, a cell phone is a teather, a leash, another means by which someone can contact me when I'm not at home. If I want to be contacted, I'll give the person my cell number, or take the privacy feature off when I call, so they can have the number on Caller ID. Most of the time, my phone is off anyway, and usually laying on the counter top. If I'm traveling, or expecting a call from someone to whom I've given the number (and there aren't many of 'em), I'll carry it. I guess, with my mom's situation, I should probably take it with me to the golf course, but I'm the guy who hates it when people bring cell phones out on the links. I've had them go off in the middle of a swing, in the middle of putting, and I'd like to take a 5-iron to the phone, and the "bonehead" who's yakking away, oblivious to the fact that I'd like to see him dead.
I'm just not that damned important, that the world needs to get in touch with me 24/7. After a career in the Navy, where "privacy" is a screen between toilets, I like my privacy. It's probably one of the top-five things I like about golf. I can play my own game; think my own thoughts. If I'm in a foursome, or other grouping, I can be social, but, even in a foursome, there's space, and unless someone is keeping an official score, my score is a private matter. When people ask about my golf handicap, I usually tell them "Oh, Driver, 3-, 5-, and 9-woods, two hybrids, five irons, two wedges, and a putter." Actually, I'm not that bad, if you consider the fact that only something like 20% of golfers break 100 on a regular basis.
That brings up something else... At one time, and we're talking golf here, I was a 9-handicap, back before "slopes," which means I was shooting low-80's all the time. I've broken 80 a few times, but I was young (pre-40's) back then. At 51, I had a stroke. August 6, 2002, and I was the head coach of a high school girl's team who's season started on the 19th. Golf hasn't been quite as rewarding since then. I can still break 100, but it's more of a challenge, now. I play on, however, and recently had one of golf's most rewarding things, a Hole-in-one, on the Par 3 11th Hole at Cypress Lakes. It was my first in more than 40 years of playing.
Larry, I see you've been here before, so I hope you'll let me know what you think. You've got the e-mail...
I live in a "retirement community," another name for "senior housing". I used to make fun of this place when I was a kid. My dad used to call Leisure Town "the only cemetery with street lights." Mom, when they used to travel, would send cards addressed to a friend who lived here, but instead of puting "Vacaville," she would put things like "Limp Richard Village," or "Floppy Johnson Meadows," but the Zip was correct, so they always got delivered.
Well, now I'm one of the "old folks," and I see the alure of age-controlled housing. Mom, who's still kicking, and will be 84 on Tuesday Feb. 16, lives in a "regular" neighborhood, with families, kids, and people with lots of "toys". She has two neighbor-boys who like to climb trees, and she's scared they'll fall out of her tree, and she'll ge sued. Me, at 58, I'm one of the "youngsters" on my block. Our neighborhood association provides RV and boat parking, outside of the streets, and regulates parking. No one climbing trees, no loud parties, it's pretty quiet here in the Meadows. About the only noise we get is sirens, but that happens so often, it's almost become part of the background noise.
I have some good neighbors, and we look out for each other as though we've been neighbors for decades (we've been in this house for almost 14 months). The last time we went to San Diego, my neighbor had a panic attack, because she didn't see us for a while. It's forgivable, as the previous owner of my house died in her bedroom. I promised to let her know when we would be leaving for extended periods. Mom refers to her neighbor by an ethnic slur (he's Latino), because she doesn't know his name. They've lived there seven years. I like my neighborhood.
I mentioned the sirens... I had an "evil" thought, a while back, when we first rented here in Leisure Town: set up a system that detects sirens, and plays Queen's Another One Bites the Dust. Been here three years now, and it's still the first thing I think of when I hear sirens. Cruel, but it's still an amusing thought.
Music. Love music. I'm fairly eclectic when it comes to music (see Profile). Love the Blues, Eric Clapton, BB, Susan Tedeschi, lots of others. Saw Maria Muldar at a blues-cafe in Sunnyvale about 10 years ago, and she was wailing as a blues singer. There was a lot more than Midnight at the Oasis to her. I'm running i-Tunes, have an i-Pod, and about two and a half days of music stored. Just finished listening to Master of the House from Les Miz, and now, Something by the Beatles. I love technology. At least the kind I understand.
I don't get i-Phones, or i-Pads, or Blackberrys, or whatever. I have a cell phone, it makes the Jitterbug look like a top-of-the-line phone, but it serves my purpose. I prepay time, use it when I need it, and don't use it that often. I have a young (35) friend with an i-Phone who can't seem to resist telling me how "cool" it is to have a computer in the palm of your hand. He doesn't seem to understand my not wanting one, considering my Navy computer experience, but even in the "Digital Age," I'm still kind of old fashioned. I like to talk to people, but face-to-face, not while I'm in the grocery store. To me, a cell phone is a convinence, not something I live with.
In my thinking, a cell phone is a teather, a leash, another means by which someone can contact me when I'm not at home. If I want to be contacted, I'll give the person my cell number, or take the privacy feature off when I call, so they can have the number on Caller ID. Most of the time, my phone is off anyway, and usually laying on the counter top. If I'm traveling, or expecting a call from someone to whom I've given the number (and there aren't many of 'em), I'll carry it. I guess, with my mom's situation, I should probably take it with me to the golf course, but I'm the guy who hates it when people bring cell phones out on the links. I've had them go off in the middle of a swing, in the middle of putting, and I'd like to take a 5-iron to the phone, and the "bonehead" who's yakking away, oblivious to the fact that I'd like to see him dead.
I'm just not that damned important, that the world needs to get in touch with me 24/7. After a career in the Navy, where "privacy" is a screen between toilets, I like my privacy. It's probably one of the top-five things I like about golf. I can play my own game; think my own thoughts. If I'm in a foursome, or other grouping, I can be social, but, even in a foursome, there's space, and unless someone is keeping an official score, my score is a private matter. When people ask about my golf handicap, I usually tell them "Oh, Driver, 3-, 5-, and 9-woods, two hybrids, five irons, two wedges, and a putter." Actually, I'm not that bad, if you consider the fact that only something like 20% of golfers break 100 on a regular basis.
That brings up something else... At one time, and we're talking golf here, I was a 9-handicap, back before "slopes," which means I was shooting low-80's all the time. I've broken 80 a few times, but I was young (pre-40's) back then. At 51, I had a stroke. August 6, 2002, and I was the head coach of a high school girl's team who's season started on the 19th. Golf hasn't been quite as rewarding since then. I can still break 100, but it's more of a challenge, now. I play on, however, and recently had one of golf's most rewarding things, a Hole-in-one, on the Par 3 11th Hole at Cypress Lakes. It was my first in more than 40 years of playing.
Larry, I see you've been here before, so I hope you'll let me know what you think. You've got the e-mail...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Going to See My Grandchild
We'll be making a trip to San Diego, tomorrow, to see Isabella, our first grandchild. We're leaving at 5:00, just in time for the "Rush Hour" on I-680/580/5. We could go across the Delta on CA-12, but at that time of day, the road scares me. So, I will risk Altamont Pass rather than the ususal shortcut.
I haven't decided, yet, the intent, or purpose of my blog. I enjoy writing, very much in a therapudic way, to put down some ideas, memories, stories I'd like to tell, and just generally ramble along. Hence the name of this Blog. Maybe my family will get into this, and see what makes the old man tick.
Today, I want to talk about something that happend last year, and has suddenly become a realization for me. On April 10, 2009, at 10:00am, my father passed away. At the time, I was in a barber shop, getting my 16 months of uncut hair shorne. Dad bitched the entire 16 months, "Why doesn't he get a haircut?" I started to wonder if, by cutting my locks, I had taken away his reason to live... Never very seriously, but it was a thought. He died as he had entered the world, naked. He had been in the shower, and couldn't get up from the seat. Mom said she tiried to help him up, but that he sat back, said "Oh shit," and closed his eyes. Mom said that she knew he was gone, but called the paramedics anyway.
I found out about it an hour later, and just beat the Coroner to my parent's home. My last vision of my dad is of him lying naked (but covered) on the bedroom floor, a tube still in his throat, pale, fragile, lifeless. What happend after that, however, something amazing happend, and totally changed my emotional direction.
It started out with my family, Mary, Tyffany, Jacki, Mom, and myself. Mom was sitting with Tyff on one side, Jacki on the other, still very much in shock. Tyff is amazing. It's as though she were a "Betazoid," for you Star Trek TNG fans. She is able to sense a person's emotional state, and respond in such a gentle, caring manner. She sat beside Mom, a hand gently touching my mother's arm, and respectfully allowed my mother to cry her first tears as a widow. It was such a sad scene, at first.
When the tears dried up, Mom broke the silence, telling us what happend, and about Dad's last words. Tyff responded with "That's my grandpa!" Mom actually chuckled, and told the first of many funny stories about my dad that day, and I began to think that things were going to be OK. Everyone had a Dad-story, and everyone shared their favorites. We laughed, we cried, hell, we didn't even notice when my sister and her husband showed up. The first time I remember seeing her she looked shocked that we were "poking fun at Dad." She got laughed out of the room for that one, it was absolutely hysterical. Her husband, sitting in his motorized chair, wondering what was going on, and looked so dumbfounded, we started laughing at him. He would have walked out, if he could, but my sister returned, and demanded to know what was going on. When that round of laughter died off, we explained that Mom started it, and it just went from there. With the addition of my drama-prone sister, and her husband, it got sort of wierd, but we had made a good start.
In the intervening ten months, it didn't dawn on me until three days ago, I have become the Patriarch of my family. You know, I had never (and I mean, never) considered the possibility of my becoming the oldest-living male. I mean, it made sense, only son of an only son (only CHILD). Mary thinks I should look up "patriarch," and I will. First, however, I want to wallow in my own ignorance, and form my own opinions about what being a "patriarch" means.
This trip to San Diego, then, is field-research. I get to visit with my "only son," who will one day, by default, inherit both the title, and the "Grumpy" hat.
I haven't decided, yet, the intent, or purpose of my blog. I enjoy writing, very much in a therapudic way, to put down some ideas, memories, stories I'd like to tell, and just generally ramble along. Hence the name of this Blog. Maybe my family will get into this, and see what makes the old man tick.
Today, I want to talk about something that happend last year, and has suddenly become a realization for me. On April 10, 2009, at 10:00am, my father passed away. At the time, I was in a barber shop, getting my 16 months of uncut hair shorne. Dad bitched the entire 16 months, "Why doesn't he get a haircut?" I started to wonder if, by cutting my locks, I had taken away his reason to live... Never very seriously, but it was a thought. He died as he had entered the world, naked. He had been in the shower, and couldn't get up from the seat. Mom said she tiried to help him up, but that he sat back, said "Oh shit," and closed his eyes. Mom said that she knew he was gone, but called the paramedics anyway.
I found out about it an hour later, and just beat the Coroner to my parent's home. My last vision of my dad is of him lying naked (but covered) on the bedroom floor, a tube still in his throat, pale, fragile, lifeless. What happend after that, however, something amazing happend, and totally changed my emotional direction.
It started out with my family, Mary, Tyffany, Jacki, Mom, and myself. Mom was sitting with Tyff on one side, Jacki on the other, still very much in shock. Tyff is amazing. It's as though she were a "Betazoid," for you Star Trek TNG fans. She is able to sense a person's emotional state, and respond in such a gentle, caring manner. She sat beside Mom, a hand gently touching my mother's arm, and respectfully allowed my mother to cry her first tears as a widow. It was such a sad scene, at first.
When the tears dried up, Mom broke the silence, telling us what happend, and about Dad's last words. Tyff responded with "That's my grandpa!" Mom actually chuckled, and told the first of many funny stories about my dad that day, and I began to think that things were going to be OK. Everyone had a Dad-story, and everyone shared their favorites. We laughed, we cried, hell, we didn't even notice when my sister and her husband showed up. The first time I remember seeing her she looked shocked that we were "poking fun at Dad." She got laughed out of the room for that one, it was absolutely hysterical. Her husband, sitting in his motorized chair, wondering what was going on, and looked so dumbfounded, we started laughing at him. He would have walked out, if he could, but my sister returned, and demanded to know what was going on. When that round of laughter died off, we explained that Mom started it, and it just went from there. With the addition of my drama-prone sister, and her husband, it got sort of wierd, but we had made a good start.
In the intervening ten months, it didn't dawn on me until three days ago, I have become the Patriarch of my family. You know, I had never (and I mean, never) considered the possibility of my becoming the oldest-living male. I mean, it made sense, only son of an only son (only CHILD). Mary thinks I should look up "patriarch," and I will. First, however, I want to wallow in my own ignorance, and form my own opinions about what being a "patriarch" means.
This trip to San Diego, then, is field-research. I get to visit with my "only son," who will one day, by default, inherit both the title, and the "Grumpy" hat.
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