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Road Trips

Well, I had fully intended to do this yesterday, but adulting got in the way, as it is wont to do from time-to-time.  And in the true spirit of the subtitle to this blog “where I write things about stuff” I’m going to hit to all fields today.  Well from left-center to right-center, at least.

Since I’ve got my hyphen quota out-of-the-way…

Wait, one quick side note here.  I love adjectives.  And I love the storytelling aspect of writing.  Sometimes, when I come across a particularly beautiful piece of the art, I feel compelled to share it and I want to put this in here.  Background on it is this; William Nack was a sportswriter for Sports Illustrated for 23 years, covering, among other things, the career of Secretariat.  He passed away last week at the age of 77 after a fight with cancer.  For the uninitiated, Secretariat was (imho) the greatest athlete of all time.  As I read some of Mr. Nack’s stories, this line in his tribute to an amazing horse stood out to me.

“Oh, I knew all the stories, knew them well, had crushed and rolled them in my hand until their quaint musk lay in the saddle of my palm.”

It’s one of those lines that makes me want to write forever, the image it projects in my mind’s eye.  The article itself is a long read, but it’s stunning in it’s beauty, an homage to a greatness seldom seen and I highly recommend making the time to read it.

To the trip.

I left Memphis Sunday morning, heading back to central North Carolina.  I’d gone there for a concert and a little touristing, more about both later.  The impetus for this post was the trip from Hell.  Not really, but Sunday was one long ass day behind the windshield, let me tell you.  No, really, that’s why I’m doing this.

I got on the road about 8:00 AM central time and according to the GPS it was going to be about a ten-hour drive.  That’s about what it took me to get there on Thursday, so I had no reason to doubt it.  I knew there was a storm out ahead of me, but I was hopeful I could stay behind it.

Ha!

The first thing that jumped out at me (not literally) was the number of highway patrol cars out on the interstate, running radar.  And reaping the benefits of their actions.  I’m not sure why, other than the easy pickings due to the quantity of drivers with a heavy right foot.  I’m sure the Tennessee state coffers were enriched significantly that day.  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they had a quota to meet too.  But, according to my friends with stars on their chests, ticket quotas (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?) don’t exist…

I saw not less than eight officers in the first hundred miles moving east from Memphis.  I need to note here that none of them carried my name in their ticket book, so, that’s a win.  And, despite the need to monitor their presence, I was making good time.  Outstanding time, in fact.  I felt like I may have been able to shave at least a half hour off my travel time.

Until I caught the aforementioned weather.  About half way through Tennessee.  And can I just say that Tennessee is one wide damn state.  I mean, really.  Roughly 450 miles from Memphis to the North Carolina border on I-40 in case you were wondering.  As you might imagine (go ahead, imagine away) this length of trip, sharing the roadway with throngs of others, each with their own places to go (and a variety of urgencies to get there) may elicit an occassional bad word from yours truly.  By my count, a rough guess, but it’s still mine, I used my favorite twelve letter word (rhymes with “brother trucker”)  a minimum of 27 times.  This may surprise you, but I’m quite certain that if you ask the Oldest One or the Boy Child, they will confirm that is a reasonable estimate.  When they were much younger we would have to drive through downtown St. Charles fairly often and they learned some creative and colorful language earlier than they probably should have thanks to my reaction to the other drivers there.

It was somewhere east of Nashville, maybe an hour or so east, where I caught up with the rain.  An inconvenience perhaps, but not that big of a deal.  I had gained considerable time, so I really wasn’t all that bothered.  Until I got closer to Knoxville and hit a traffic jam.  About ten miles worth of a traffic jam.  That took me over an hour to get through.  So much for early arrival.  I thought I’d seen a sign as I approached the backup, something about a wreck ahead, but if that was the case it had long since been cleared up by the time I got through it.  Things flowed well for about an hour when, approaching the border, Tennessee traffic gave me one last body cavity search and for no apparent reason I hit another traffic jam in excess of thirty minutes.  Into North Carolina the rain picked up in frequency and intensity.  I made it into Asheville for fuel and coffee and figured I’d be home in three hours or so.

Again, Ha!

Figuring 8:30 for my eta home, an eleven hour plus trip was not ideal, especially the way it started out, but I was ok with it.  The volume of traffic had lightened considerably and the rain had pretty much stopped so things weren’t too bad.  Until I got near my exit.  Brief explanation, there are approximately 47 exits labeled route 64 on this stretch of I-40.  Ok, that’s not exactly accurate, but there are three plus one exit marked for the town of Mocksville, which is the first town I pass through on the way from I-40 to my home.  I, of course, chose the wrong one.  The best part of that choice was that I didn’t realize how route 64 curves.  When I choose the correct exit, I turn right to head home.  As I came up the exit ramp I realized I should have gone five more miles to the next exit.  But I had seen a sign advising another (#*@#*%) traffic jam and thought I’d stay on 64.

I turned right.

I should’ve turned left.

I was almost eight miles down the road when I saw I was heading west.  Pro tip, my home was east of me.  I turned around headed back to the interstate.  With callous disregard for a potential traffic jam I drove east on I-40 and made it to the correct exit.  Not a brake light in sight btw.  Insert eye roll emoji >here<.  Coming in to Mocksville I came up behind someone with an aversion to the speed limit.  And not in a good way.  What do you call someone who consistently drives 10-15 mph below the speed limit?  I call it the car in front of me.

I finally pulled in the driveway a couple of minutes after 9:00 PM.

This has caused me to rethink my trip home next weekend.  Not making it, I’ll still be in Illinois for an extended stay, but rather this; it’s a 14 hour drive under good circumstances.  I’m chopping that sucker into more manageable bites.

I don’t think my vocabulary is ready for another all day road trip.

Peace

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Things Left Unspoken

I mentioned here a while back that I wanted to post excerpts of what I’ve written to this point on Caitlin and Diane, and my life without them.  I like the idea of, as I wrote then, “semi-regularly” posting excerpts from what I have done so far.

Today, I’ve decided, is semi-regular, so here’s the next one.  It’s not immediately after the last post I shared from my notes, it takes place about two months after we moved in to Wonder Lake.  In fact, it’s my recollection of some of the events from the night of the crash.

Obviously, it’s an emotional piece, for me at least.  And this post will be a little longer than my usual.  Typically, I try to keep these around 1,000 words and this one will be closer to 2,000 words.

As we move through this holiday weekend, take some time to let your loved ones know how much they mean to you.  That sounds clichéd, I know, but I feel like something that simple really does tend to get overlooked.  I wish I had something really profound to add to that, but instead, I give you this…

The phone rang and Diane answered.  It was Caitlin.  She was done shopping.  She found an outfit she was happy with and called to tell her Mother about it.  Since this was the first time Caitlin had gone to Woodfield Mall since we moved, she wasn’t sure how to get home from there.  Diane tried to tell her which roads to take and where to turn, but after a few minutes Caitlin told her she would just go the way she always went.  It would take longer but at least she would, more or less, know where she was.  Diane was tired.  She had worked that day and I had been off.  I told her to go in and go to bed and I would wait up for Caitlin.  This wasn’t all that uncommon.  She’d had to get up early that morning, at 5:00 AM, to get ready for work and I had nothing going on the next day so it didn’t matter if I slept in a little.  Diane went to bed around 9:15.  

I went into the office in our house and sat down at the computer to wait for Caitlin.  I started playing solitaire, trying to do something to pass the time until she got home.  Solitaire seemed like a nice, mindless way to fill some time.  

I need to get something off my chest here.  This will bother me until the day I die.  

I never told Caitlin that I loved her.  

From before Diane and I got married.  From before the point where we knew we would eventually get married, I felt like Cassi and Caitlin were my own daughters.  I knew they weren’t.  I mean, I knew I wasn’t their biological father.  But I did love those two girls, just like they were my own flesh and blood.  And I still do.  That hasn’t changed.  And it never will.  But I never said those words to her.  I never once, in the eight years between the time Diane and I met, to the day Caitlin was killed, said to her “Caitlin, I love you.”  And it bothers me.  Diane always told me, and Cassi did too, don’t worry about it.  She knew you loved her and she loved you too.  But still.  How could I do that?  How could I be around someone I cared about that much and not say those words?  There were many nights when it was just the two of us at home and we’d hang out and watch TV together until she went upstairs to do her homework.  She used to enjoy watching “Trading Places” a show where neighbors would remodel a room or rooms in each others house.  She started me watching it.  She also loved “Full House” and watched it whenever it was on.  And I made fun of her for that.

She was such a funny kid.  Funny, I mean, with a great sense of humor.  She had a vivacious personality too; it was impossible not to like her.  And she was as cute as a button.  She was about 5’2” tall and 100 pounds soaking wet.  She had the same electric blue eyes as her mother and the same “light up a room” smile.  Her natural hair color was blonde just like her personality, as we used to tease her.  The Blonde Child, we called her.  Plus she had really small feet.  No, I mean really small.  Petite.  And for some reason, Tobi the Jack Russell always felt the need to try and bite her feet.  This resulted in hours of entertainment for the rest of us.  Caitlin was the type of person that, in a room full of people, you could always find.  She was the one in the center of the biggest crowd.  She just had that effect on people.  She told us she’d thought she wanted to try acting.  I’ve often thought it was what she was born to do.

At 9:30 the phone rang again.  I answered.  It was Caitlin.  She was on Route 72 and she wondered if she was going in the right direction.  And I assured her she was.

“Should I be going east or west on Route 72?”

“You should be going west.”

“Oh good.  I’m going the right way.  I’ll be home in a little while.”

“Ok.  Drive Careful.”

I have no clue how many solitaire games I played.  But as 10:30 PM approached, I was getting tired.  I’d spoken with her an hour ago; she should be home by now, or at least very close.  I tried to call Caitlin’s cell phone.  It rang two or three times and went to her voicemail.  I didn’t think too much of it.  There were a lot of bad cell sites where we lived, especially back in 2003.  So I went back to my solitaire game.  And I waited a little while and tried the number again.  

Same result.  Caitlin’s voicemail.  

More solitaire.  

And I kept trying her number, the frequency coming faster and faster. 

I left a message on her voicemail “Hey kiddo, it’s me.  Just checking on you.  Call my cell when you get the message.” 

And I kept trying her cell phone number.

“She’s lost” I told myself.  “She made a wrong turn or two and isn’t sure where she is” I said.  “She knows it’s me calling her and there’s no way she’ll answer the phone.  She knows how much grief I’ll give her for getting lost.” I laughed to myself “That goof.”

And I kept trying to reach her phone, each call closer to the last.

“She must be on her way to Grandma’s house for the night.”  I was certain of it.  “Or maybe she’s going to one of her girlfriends.  She won’t come home this late, she’ll stay in Elgin.”

And then, around midnight, I woke Diane.  

“Caitlin isn’t home yet.”

Diane woke from the last sound sleep she would have for a long time.  She sat bolt upright in bed and said “Oh my God.  Something’s happened.  I’m going to go look for her.”  As Diane tried Caitlin’s cell phone, I told her I thought maybe Caitlin had made a wrong turn or two and had gone to Elgin to spend the night with Grandma or one of her girlfriends.  I told her Caitlin had called me from Route 72 wondering if she was going in the right direction.  

Diane called her oldest daughter, Cassi.  She was in her second year of college at Southern Illinois University (SIU).  She and Caitlin were very close and spoke on the phone often.  Diane asked if Cassi had heard from her sister.  Cassi said they had spoken around 9:15 when Caitlin called to tell her all about the outfit she’d bought at Woodfield.  Diane told her Caitlin hadn’t made it home from the mall yet and we were worried. 

Diane decided she was going to get in the car and go looking for her.  She was going to head down to Route 72 and start there.  I stopped her. “Wait honey, wait.  Don’t go running out of the house just yet.  Let me make some phone calls first.” 

I called the non-emergency number for the Schaumburg Police Department, the town Woodfield Mall is in.  When I spoke with the dispatcher, I couldn’t remember the license plate number so I gave the vehicle identification number (VIN) from a copy of her insurance card and a description of Caitlin’s car.   I asked if they’d had any incidents with the vehicle.  

“No sir.  Nothing with that vehicle.”

And I tried to retrace what I’d expected Caitlin’s route home to be.  I tried the Hoffman Estates Police Department.  I gave them the VIN and a description.  Same thing.  

“No sir.  Nothing with that vehicle.”

East and West Dundee Police Departments had the same response and so did the Kane County Sheriff’s Office.  And then I tried the McHenry County Sheriff’s Office.

“My step-daughter should have been home from the mall several hours ago.  She was on her way, I spoke with her, but she hasn’t made it yet.  Have you had any incidents involving this vehicle?”  And I gave them her VIN and the vehicle description.  

And they put me on hold.

Forever.

At least it felt like forever.  In all honesty, it was probably only a minute or two at most.  When the dispatcher came back on the line, she asked me a couple of questions and I really don’t remember what they were.  But I was put back on hold.

Again, forever.

When they came back on the line, I was told Caitlin had been involved in a crash.  She was being flown to Lutheran General Hospital’s Level 1 Trauma Center and we needed to get in there as soon as possible.  We got in the car and started driving to Lutheran General, a little over an hour away.  

It’s funny how some of this night is just gone and some of it is burned into my memory so vividly it can never fade away.  I’m sure Diane and I spoke on the way to the hospital but I have no clue what we talked about.  Probably trying to encourage each other that Caitlin was fine, that this was all just a precaution and she’d be home in a couple days.  Maybe just a broken bone.  Nothing serious.  But the reality of the situation is; you don’t get flown to a Level 1 Trauma Center for a broken bone.  Or two.  You get flown to a Level 1 Trauma Center when you have serious, life-threatening injuries.  And I think we both knew that.

As we walked in to Lutheran General’s Emergency Department, we were met by a Chaplain and a Trauma Surgeon.  They told us they were prepping Caitlin to transfer her up to the Neurological Intensive Care Unit (NICU) and they couldn’t take us in to see her just yet. 

They tried to prepare us for what we would eventually see.

They couldn’t do it.

I tried to find a couple different things to say here, but couldn’t come up with something that didn’t come across as disjointed at best and smarmy at worse.  So instead, I’ll leave you with this.

Again, love the ones you’re with, and let those that aren’t with know how important they are to you.

Happy Easter/Passover/Whatever you celebrate.

Peace

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Retired Guy Post Number 1

As promised a couple days ago, here is my first ever published piece.  As I’ve said, and will continue to say, being asked to submit something for the official Illinois retired fire-guy biannual (that’s right btw.  I can never remember, so I looked it up) newsletter/magazine *not it’s official name* is one of the thrills of my writing life.   I figure once a new article gets published there, it should be ok to put my stuff up here for the rest of the world to see, right?  As long as I don’t get a “cease and desist” order from someone, I’ll continue to cycle these through here every six months.

This one, as you can see, was a brief introduction to the members of the Illinois Association of Retired Firefighters.  So, without further adieu-

Let me start by briefly telling you a little about me…  

I just retired from Downers Grove Professional Fire Fighters Local 3234 after twenty five years on the job.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  As I write this, I’m still on-the-job.  Literally.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table at Station #3, watching a couple of new guys prep dinner (chicken enchiladas) and trying to figure out what I’m going to say here.  My last shift will be September 15th and my last day on the books will be September 29th.  I need to have this to the printer by September 1st and, deadlines being, well, deadlines, I’m working on it now.  

And let me just say, when President Schrepfer asked me if I would like to write something to be published in the quarterly retired guy newsletter (not the official name, but you know what I mean) I jumped at the chance.  

But back to where I was originally headed.  

I’m retired.  

That sounds weird.

Where in the heck did twenty five years go?  It feels like I just walked in the door about six months ago.  Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s time.  Everything aches but nothing hurts, so it seems like the time is right.  I have days where I feel really good, like maybe I’m 40 years old again (I’m 58 by the way) and I have days where I feel like I’m 75 years old.  I just said that the other day, to a cousin I hadn’t seen in a very long time.  She just looked at me and said “I’m 75”.  She wasn’t impressed with my choice of ages, apparently.  In my defense, she was using a cane, so…

But I digress.  

So, what does a retired guy do anyway?  And I’m not even trying to be a smart aleck when I ask that.  I mean, I’ve got a little bit of an idea since I don’t currently work a side job, but I’m pretty sure once the newness wears off, I’m going to be needing a little more to do besides walking the dog twelve times a day.  I do, in all honesty, plan to devote a good portion of my newly found leisure time to writing more, I’ve had a blog that I’ve been writing on (at?) for the last seven or eight years and I’d like to flesh that out into something more, perhaps a book, but I’m not yet convinced I can make that work, sooooo. 

Sorry, we just got back from three calls back-to-back-to-back and I lost my train of thought.  I’m going to miss that.  Not the losing my train of thought part, the running calls part.  I take great pride in the fact that I’ve been at the busiest house in town for 15 of my 25 years, mostly here at the end of my career.  I don’t understand why most of these kids today don’t want to work at the busy house.  

That’s another reason I know I’m ready to retire; I say “I don’t know why these kids” a lot lately.

Ok, I think I’m running out of room so, even though I haven’t really accomplished anything here, I’d better wrap it up.  I’m looking forward to this new phase in my life, the friends of mine that are retired all seem pretty happy, and I can’t wait to jump in and see what comes next.

One last thing…

Who shows me the secret handshake?  We have one, don’t we? 

There you have it.  I must say I was pleased with it, and the Pres. was too, so I’ve got that going for me.  Which is nice.  And if anyone didn’t care for it, well, take comfort in the knowledge that I got paid exactly as much as you did for reading it, lol.

Peace

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Leadership. And Lack Of Same. Oh Yeah, Bonus Weather Update Too…

The good news is; the ground is too warm and it’s melting as soon as it hits.  The bad news is; it’s snowing again in central North Carolina.  I know some will take joy at those last two sentences, you know who you are, (wtf indeed) but I figure since I have, on occasion, weather shamed here, I’ve got to own up to the shite weather too so…

This one has percolated far too long so I’m just gonna move on and let it go where it may cause I need to post something for chrissakes.  Bear in mind the timeline is a wee bit off, but still.

Before I get to the titular topic, I’m gonna drop some, well I wouldn’t exactly call it filler, but rather, the events of my last few days.

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, I’m (*timeline alert*) currently traveling via Amtrak back to North Carolina from Washington D.C. where several hundred union firefighters met with our elected officials to promote legislation to try to improve working conditions, health, and safety or firefighters across the country.  It’s an annual pilgrimage where, in addition to fighting the “good fight” we also get the chance to catch up with our brothers and sisters from across the country.

Let me amend something from the previous paragraph… Due to track work, we’re currently crawling through Richmond, VA on the way back to NC.  Grand scheme of things it’s not that big of a deal, it’s not like I have any plans this evening so it really doesn’t matter if I get back later than I planned.  Just an inconvenience.  Over all, I’ve really enjoyed this trip to and from D.C. and I’ll definitely look for more trips to take by rail in the future.

As with air travel, you cross paths with a unique cross-section of America when you use mass transit.  For instance –

I witnessed one of the more unique drink combinations ever on that same leg of the trip.  The woman sitting next to me for a couple of hours ordered, and I swear to you I’m taking no literary license with this; a hot tea with 2 creamers, 2 honey packets, 4 Splenda, and 2 sugars.  Again, I’m not even joking.  Talk about diversification of your sugar portfolio (h/t to Kent for that line btw)

Also, I continue to be amazed at the attire some people choose for their travels.  Again, no throwing of stones intended, and I get it that you choose comfort over almost anything else, but what part of your brain says it’s ok to wear, essentially, pajamas on public mass transportation?  And if you’re that committed to comfort, why not go all the way and leave the gym shoes at home?  Slippers would be the perfect match to your jammies, no?

Now that I’ve got that out-of-the-way, let’s talk about Leaders.

Leaders lead.  It’s what they do, which makes for an easy way to title them.  Leaders, when they no longer lead, are, imho, no longer leaders.  I can point, with relative ease, to an example that hits close to home for me and also for many of my regular readers.  My union.  Not at the local level and not at the state level.  Those two groups are both blessed with dedicated, hard-working, responsive, and responsible leadership.

Not so much at the national level.

Throughout the entirety of my career in the fire service, I was taught that leaders lead.  They decide things.  Sometimes they are faced with two or more awful options and must choose the most palatable.  Or the least offensive.  And they need to prepare, both themselves and those for whom they’re charged with advocating, for whatever outcome their decision elicits.  That’s what leaders do.  They don’t “sit one out” they choose.  If they get pushback from the rank and file, they explain their rationale.

I may have mentioned this here at some point over the last couple years, but I feel strongly enough about this that, frankly, I don’t care and I’ll gladly repeat myself.  Without getting too much into my personal politics (and if you spend any time here, you probably know what way I lean) in the build up to the 2016 election, my union chose not to endorse anyone.  Neither candidate.  In my time in this great union, I have been told, countless times – “we support those that support us, regardless of whether their name has a ‘D’ or ‘R’ after it.” and I have taken that very phrase back to my local as well as at numerous meetings across the state of Illinois as a member of our Labor History committee.  And I believed those words.  They were important to me.  I know a lot of guys on-the-job that are far more conservative than I am.  And that’s fine.  I respect your right to an opposing opinion on many topics.  But, to me, the opinion that outweighs them all is this one.  Does a candidate or an incumbent politician support my position as a member of Organized Labor?  That’s the one that gets my vote.

You know what?  I can’t even finish on this leadership (or lack of same) rant.  It’s frickin’ SNOWING here.  In North Carolina.  On March 21st.  The day after the Vernal Equinox.  Sure it’ll get “up” into the mid 40’s today but come on.

Sigh.

Peace.

PS – As I wrote here I was asked to contribute a regular column at the official retired guy magazine for the Illinois Association of Retired Firefighters.  I was, of course, thrilled at the offer.  I also felt like they should get some kind of exclusivity so I declined to post that column here.  However, since the newest edition is currently going to press (sounds so official doesn’t it?) I figure it’s probably ok to share my pearls of wisdom *snark* here now.  So that’ll be coming up in a couple days…

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It’s A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

Apologies to Fred Rogers, but I liked the sound of that title.

I may have alluded to this in earlier posts but, despite a recent downturn in temperatures here this past week, to my mind, Spring has sprung here in central North Carolina.  This, btw, works for me.  The oak trees haven’t started to bud yet, but a good number of plants in the neighborhood have started budding if not actually blooming as evidenced by this arrangement made from the neighbors Magnolia Bush – 

Lovely, no?  In addition to the Magnolia, which btw has an incredibly short bloom life, I’ve got a Camellia in my back yard that is also producing blooms like crazy – but in a tech flashback to a couple of months ago, I’m unable to share the picture with you.  Trust me, it’s beautiful… (expletive deleted WordPress…)

Here’s another thing I like the sound (kind of a rocky segue, I know, but whatevs.) of… this bird and if anyone can tell me what kind of bird it is, I’d appreciate it.  I’m not John J. Audubon-y enough to look it up, but I’m a little curious what kind of bird serenades me most mornings while I drink my coffee in the carport.  I’ve played this clip back for the birds sometimes, usually getting a response from him (her?) so far without getting dive-bombed as an interloper attempting to take over the little guys territory.  Although I must say I get a kick out of him (I’m pretty sure it’s a him, since I vaguely recall from somewhere that only male birds sing, either for prospective mates or to mark out boundaries) peeking between the branches of the not-yet-leafed-out bush he sits in to see where/who the other bird is.

But wait, there’s more from the This Week In Nature file…

Do female Robins look exactly like male Robins?  There’s a couple that frequent the neighbors back yard that are either –

A.) In a running territorial pissing match or

B.) in the build-up to an avian mating ritual

I can’t tell which.  They seem to stay in pretty close proximity to each other, hopping around the yard looking for worms.  If one flies up to the roof, the other isn’t far behind and usually lands within a few feet of the first or occasionally on a higher part of the roof.  I’ve even seen them tangle mid-air in a flurry of flapping wings and tangled feet that lasts as long as thirty seconds, rising up to fifteen feet or so in the air and falling almost to the ground before they disengage and land, again, within a few feet of each other.  That inability to differentiate between courtship and combat probably speaks to my inability to maintain long-term relationships as much as it does to my lack of bird knowledge fwiw.

Just sayin.

I’m gonna leave this one shortish, I’m currently on Amtrak headed back to North Carolina.  Since I’ll be relatively captive here on the train for another five hours or so, I’m going to try and use some of the time productively ish and recap my last few days.

Here goes nuthin’

Peace

 

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Now Is The Winter Of My Content

I know I said in an earlier post I wanted to avoid weather shaming, but Geez Louise, I was sitting out here in the carport this morning in shorts and a t-shirt being serenaded by neighborhood birds, so it’s kinda tough not to.  Weather shame, that is.  Besides, I needed fodder for a post so, you know, low hanging fruit, right?

Winter apparently ends in February here.  Buds are starting to appear on various plants already and while working at clearing away the last vestiges of fallen leaves yesterday (in jeans and a t-shirt) I was sweating my butt off.  Figuratively, that is.  I still have a butt, so…

I was actually back in Illinois last weekend, a whirlwind tour if you will, coming back in for Local 3234’s annual Recognition Dinner.  A wonderful evening celebrating the guys that retired last year, myself included.  I had a wonderful evening catching up with people I’ve spent a great deal of time with over the last 25 years or so.  Many laughs were shared, a tall tale or two were told, and a bunch of hugs were distributed throughout the room.  I even got a promise for some of Bob’s homemade, deep dish pizza when I come back in May for an extended visit.  At least I think it was a promise.  If it wasn’t, well Bob, you’re on the spot now, so I guess you’ve gotta come through.

Speaking of amazing food… among the high points (there were many) was a special delivery from one of my bonus kids, Courtney.  Yes, you guessed it, RVCB’S!  Amazing as always, I just popped the last one this morning.  And like the old Folger’s coffee ad, they were good to the last drop.  Since it took a Pony Express type delivery I especially liked the threatening tag on the package, something to the effect of “If your name isn’t Joel keep your hands off the goods” which made me literally lol when it was pointed out to me.

In true Illinois fashion the weather was not great.  Several inches of snow in the days leading up to the dinner and daily high temperatures in the teens for the duration of my brief visit.  The coldest I saw was 8º with a wind chill of -3º and I have to say, it was ok.

That last statement gave me pause, because if you know me IRL, you know how much I like to bitch about cold weather.  *Hint- the correct answer is “a lot” *  After giving the matter a little more thought, I came to the conclusion that it’s kind of like hitting your thumb with a hammer.  It hurts.  But if you only do it once, the pain passes relatively quickly.  I was only in town for a couple of days and so was only briefly exposed to Illinois winter.  Unlike my entire life prior to this winter, when my thumb was hit roughly 27 times a day for each and every one of the approximately six month-long Illinois winters I ever experienced.

Several hours were also spent with the kids and the littles on Sunday.  Almost everyone knew I was coming in, so we all figured it would be a good way to see each other and arrangements were made to meet up at the home of the Boy Child and PhojoMama™.  I say “almost” everyone because the Quiet Child decided to leave my arrival as a surprise for the Reigning Princess.  When they arrived, RP stood in the hallway for five or ten seconds staring at me before she broke into a full on sprint, launching herself at me for an enormous hug.  It was awesome.  Another awesome part of the weekend was having the Little Diamond spend probably more time on my lap Sunday than she had cumulatively for her entire life to that point.  It was just a really nice way to wrap up a great weekend.

Speaking of wrapping up (smooth, huh?) it’s about time for me to head over to the “Y” because, you know, fitness is my middle name.

Peace

PS- because, well, you know…  Happy birthday baby!  I hope you two are doing everything you love.  Much like every other day if it’s like we’ve always been told it’s like.  And I won’t mention any numbers because my Mom didn’t raise any dummies.

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The Return of Fables From the Firehouse

I make no excuses for the way my brain works (or doesn’t, depending on your perspective) and this is a fine example of the maelstrom in my head bouncing from thought to thought to thought…

I was listening to a playlist the other morning, and a song came up that always takes me back to when the Oldest One was about six or seven years old.  The song “I Know What Boys Like” by The Waitresses has always made me chuckle and I still remember the first time I heard her singing along to the chorus.  The mixed emotions of her carrying the tune pretty faithfully (Hey!  Maybe she’ll grow up to be a singer and make millions!) blending against my precious little daughter singing “I know what boys like, I know what guys want.”

Insert wide-eyed emoji >here<

That got me thinking about other things from “back in the day” and how things have changed, for the better, around the firehouse.  No, not by my leaving, smartass, I’m talking about the difference in how we protected ourselves then versus now.

*Salt Alert*  When I started in the fire service, the soot on your gear was viewed as almost a badge of honor.  The nastier it looked, the more you had seen/done/accomplished.  And it was the same way to some extent with air packs (SCBA’s) in that we never wore them at, for example, car fires.  Why would we need one for a car fire, we’re outside for crying out loud.  And there was no small amount of new guy shaming to try to impress upon them just how much machismo we had because of these beliefs and how they needed to be “just as manly” as we were.

I vividly (well, as vividly as my memory will allow) recall a garage fire from late summer or early fall of 2002.  I know it was the summer of 2002 because we had a “new guy” with us and I checked with him to see when he started.  The call came in late in the evening; a garage on fire about two blocks from the firehouse.  Vin and I on the ambulance, John, Andy and Zig on the engine.  We got there and sure enough, the garage was on fire.  It hadn’t gotten through the roof or the overhead door yet, but I think it had taken out a window before we got there and was blowing pretty good.  Not too much, mind you , but what you would call a nice little fire.  If it’s not your stuff that’s burning.  Andy got the water supply squared away, John checked on the hazards, and Vin and I took the handline, and Zig, to the garage to put out the fire.  As they got the line and themselves ready to go in at the side door, I walked around to the back to see what all we had.  I found a second, smaller overhead door on the back wall and tried it to see if it was locked.  It wasn’t, and since I figured the line was on the verge of going in, I opened it to lift the smoke for Vin and Zig.  I stuck my head in and could see the fire towards the front of the garage but didn’t see those two inside yet.  I came around to the side and saw them kneeling at the door, Zig trying to get his mask right and Vinnie berating him for not being ready to go.  Berating may be too strong a word, but he was definitely giving him shit for it.  I, of course, joined right in.  Because, new guy, you know?  I don’t remember the exact words but it was something to the effect of “you don’t even need your mask, it’s only a garage fire and the smoke lifted when I opened the door, Nancy.”  Or maybe Sally.  I don’t remember which, but I’m pretty sure I used a woman’s name when I yelled at him for not being in yet.  To his credit, Zig held his ground and went “on air” before he went inside.  I wanted to make sure and put that in there, cause I know his Mom reads this from time-to-time.  Despite our “best efforts” your oldest made sure he was protected.  We made quick work of the fire, quicker than I realized, because as we were walking back up the driveway toward the fire engine we were met by the guys from the ladder truck bemoaning the fact that we put the fire out before they got there.  That’s always the goal btw, for engine guys at least, so we were pretty pleased with ourselves.  Still, looking back, it was pretty dumb on our part to go into a fire without the safety of the air packs on our backs.  That was kind of the culture back then though.  You’d come out of a fire, blow the accumulated crap out of your nose, and if the fire was out, light up a cigarette, because why not?

Fortunately, times change.  And I have to tip my hat to the DGFD and the progressive way they got back-up gear for everyone on the department along with extractors so we could wash our gear when we got back from a fire instead of wearing that shit for weeks after.  I’m not sure, but I think we were one of the first departments in our area to have those.  And I have to believe they made a difference.  Without getting all scientific on you, studies have found that a number of different bad things (medical term) leach into our skin through the gear that protects us and the sooner you get those bad things (medical term) off the gear and off your skin, the better off you’ll be.  I know a lot of places are now carrying softcloth wipes to clean your skin as soon as you get back to the engine, to further reduce the risk of down-the-road cancer.  Whatever it takes.  I’m all in favor of these guys making the workplace safer for themselves and their loved ones.  Without going too far off on a tangent, I think about things like this when I hear someone talk about how much “better” it was before, well, fill in the blank, you know?  The reality is, we’re almost always better off now.

As I said, almost.  This photo just came in courtesy of Dan T. showing a new guy and his attempt at chopping an onion.  And maybe his finger.  Also, note the onion skin still in place on said onion

Sigh.  New guys.  At least they’re entertaining.

 

Peace.

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Hey Siri…

So, since we all can agree that, to quote a very wise woman, live music is better live, I saw some the other night.  Live music that is.  A band by the name of Devil Makes Three (h/t to McG) was playing at venue about an hour from me called the Haw River Ballroom.  Great place btw, in the dye room of an old cotton mill, and somewhere I’ll definitely keep on  my watch list for future concerts.  The concert was pretty great as both acts put out excellent vibes.  The openers have, quite possibly, the longest name of any touring band – The Huntress and Holder of Hands – but they were really quite good.  One of the songs that stuck with me, actually more than anything the headliners did, was a cover of a wonderful Cranberries song that kind of slid out of my memory.  Just a really nice night.

Now the town this place is in is pretty small, about 1,600 people, and I’d never heard of Saxapahaw, NC before so I pulled it up when Mike first mentioned the band to me.  Looked pretty simple to get to, a couple state highways and only a few turns.  Piece of cake.  However.  Since I’m still pretty new out here, if I go anywhere other than Asheboro itself, I typically punch the address into a map app just to make sure I don’t miss a turn or something.  I’ve always been pretty good with directions but why mess around, right?  So I got in the car, typed in the destination and took a look before I headed east.  I looked at the map and noticed right away it was different from what I had pictured in my head.  Pretty much straight-line diagonal from my house to the venue and I thought from looking at the map that I would need to backtrack slightly to get there.

Now, if your history with Siri is anything like mine, you’d appreciate the sense of trepidation I felt right there.  I thought I’d already shared my Siri-induced misadventure on my way out here, but I just checked and apparently I haven’t.

Yet.

I got around Winston-Salem and had been going Siri-less for several hours since I had been out this way a few times and was fairly confident I could find my way to the hotel in Asheboro.  Until I caught a detour.  Since I was driving and didn’t want to pull over (an obvious sign of weakness *snark*) I said to myself “I have a smartphone, I can just talk to Siri and she’ll give me directions to my hotel.”

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I received directions to a hotel in Lexington, KY.  Several times.  I also received directions to a Waffle House in Burlington, NC.  More than once.  I received directions to so many different places and never less than sixty miles from where I wanted to be.  This, as you may imagine, displeased me.  Especially so close to the end of 14 hour drive from northern Illinois.  Fun fact.  Did you know that launching a profanity-laced tirade at Siri will cause her to, not unlike an actual human being, shut down?  She has a particular dislike for being called a word that rhymes with “brotherclucker” fwiw.  I think Apple missed the boat in not pointing out that attribute.  She’s so lifelike!

Needless to say, I finally pulled over and typed in the address to my hotel, arriving without further Siri-related incident about 45 minutes later.

So there was a brief hesitation as I left the house under Siri’s guidance.  I drove through, what I assume was a pretty bucolic part of the state.  And I’m not throwing stones with that, I mean after all I grew up in the Greater Burlington Metropolitan area (*more snark*) but since it was, you know, dark, I couldn’t really tell.  Also the two-lane, curvy, country roads were not conducive to the wandering driving eye I picked up from riding in a car with my Dad during my formative years.  All in know is, on the way home I saw, probably fewer than five cars, until I got back on the state highway about 30 miles later.

All in all it was an outstanding way to spend a Thursday evening.  The next concert on the books isn’t until April, I’m gonna have to work on something before that.

Time to search the interwebz!

Peace.

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Snowmageddon 2018

It started snowing about 7:00 this morning here, as I write this we’ve gotten about 2″ and I think we might get a couple more before it’s done.  Everything is shut down, or at the very least, delayed in opening.  The crawler on the news last night was chock full of closures, based on the likelihood of snowfall today.  I got an email from the YMCA last night advising they wouldn’t open until 1:00 this afternoon instead of at 5:00 AM as usual.  The street I live on isn’t terribly busy, but I’ve heard almost no one driving by, certainly less than a normal day.  I was just thinking, if I was in Illinois I’d probably grab the shovel and at least make the first run at removal before it piles up too deep.  Here, on the other hand, our forecast is for temperatures in the 40’s tomorrow and the 60’s by the weekend.  And I’m perfectly content to let Mother Nature take care of her own mess.  I’ll probably throw some salt on the front steps/porch so the mailman doesn’t slip, but that’s going to be the extent of my snow removal.

**UPDATE**  A follow-up email from the Y came in moments ago with the notice that they will be closed all day today and reopen at 8:00 tomorrow morning.  Insert wide-eyed emoji >here<

Now, this storm tracked across parts of the U.S. of A. that typically don’t get snow.  Including southern Arkansas which btw is home to my friend and internationally renowned podcaster, Seth.  I bring that up because I got a phone call from Seth Monday, the day before Snowmageddon 2018 was due to hit his little corner of the world.  He said that, while he wasn’t on shift, he had been in town and had gotten a phone call from his daughter to let him know they were out of milk and asking him to pick some up on his way home.

Pretty mundane request, right?

Not in the context of Snowmageddon 2018 (brief editorial note- I highly recommend reading “Snowmageddon 2018” in the deepest, most authoritarian voice you can conjure up in your head.  Try it, it’s awesome and if you can add in some “Breaking News” music as a backdrop in your head it’s even more amazing) which, apparently by default, includes undercurrents of chaos.  Seth told me when he got to the grocery store, not only was the parking lot so packed he had to park across the street and walk over, but the only milk left in the store was those little single-serve size bottles.

**UPDATE #2**  While not actively paying attention to it, I haven’t heard any traffic on my street whatsoever for roughly the entire time I’ve been working on this post.

I’m not sure how much snow is typical for this part of the country, obviously, I mean this is my first winter here, right?  But from watching the local weather on TV, I know the average high temperature for today is 49º so I’m thinking this may well be our first, and last, significant snowfall of the year.  I am absolutely ok with that fwiw.

You know, it suddenly occurred to me I may have buried the lede.  I joined the Y. Now, if you know me IRL, you know that “Fitness” is my middle name (not really).  The truth of the matter is, I haven’t done any walking to speak of since I’ve been down here.  That’s a result of being a dog-less household (pour one out to a great dog) but it also has brought me, in and of itself, no closer to adding a dog.  Just yet.  That time is coming, but, like me saying “y’all” it isn’t here now.  You people (yes, I said “you people”) will be among the first to know when I get serious about adding a dog.  But in the interim, I joined the Y last week and have done a decent job of getting over there and actually doing something.  Baby steps, no pun intended, but in the right direction nonetheless.

**UPDATE #3** I just went out to the front porch to throw the aforementioned salt for the mailman.  Our snowfall is 3″ or so.  I saw what I’m fairly certain was his footprints across the front yard.  Not close to my mailbox up on the porch.  I’m hoping it was because I had no mail today, otherwise that throws the whole “rain nor sleet nor gloom of night” thing right out the window.   I gave the man homemade brookies for Christmas for Chrissakes, certainly he could trudge ten feet to the right and up four stairs for me, right?  Hmmmm.

Ok, I think I’m good here for now.  I may go out and seek some snow mischief, I haven’t decided.  But one thing I won’t be doing is shoveling snow.

To quote Ren and Stimpy “Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!”

Peace

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This Post Is For the Birds. Well, Partly…

As I was sitting out on the back patio with my morning coffee, I noticed a couple of birds sitting in my neighbors tree.  That’s a euphemism, btw.  The “back patio” part, that is.  It’s actually a carport.  When I started house hunting down here, I kinda wanted a garage, because, why not?  The problem with that lies in the fact that, due to the fact I really wanted an older house, garages aren’t typically part of the deal.

Back in the day, garages were not as important as they are today I guess.  If I found a house with a garage, it was an old, small, one-car size but as often as not, not only did the house not include a garage, it probably shared a driveway with a neighboring house.  Carports, on the other hand, are everywhere down here.  And I’ve grown to like mine a lot.  It keeps my car out of the rain/snow (so far) and provides me with a lovely spot for coffee (in the morning) or sweet tea (in the afternoon) or what have you.

Can I just take a minute here and sing the praises of sweet tea?  Cause I’m going to anyway.  That stuff is the King of soft drinks.  Or is it Queen?  Not sure if a gender has been assigned to sweet tea, but either way it’s the real deal.  It migrated north a few years ago, you can get it at ubiquitous fast-food joints in every part of the country, but it’s like an art form down here.  Although, if last night is any indication I need to watch my intake.  It’s not like I had the caffeine shakes or anything, but I had a couple of glasses with dinner (a lovely pot roast ftw) and slept like crap last night.  Like I was back at the firehouse.

But I digress…

I’m enjoying the heck out of my carport.  I need to get some actual furniture to set out there.  I’ve got an old office chair, no longer fit for office duty due to an unfortunate tipping incident, that is kind of a “make do” patio chair for now, but I’ve been scanning Amazon and checking out the local home improvement stores waiting to see what I can find.  I need to relocate my garbage and recycle bins, but that’s nothing.  The concrete needs a good cleaning too, since the previous owners apparently had an oil leak or twelve on their cars.  I think I’ve got a photo of it from one of my pre-purchase visits.  

Found it!

The Big Wheel isn’t mine btw.  Don’t ask me why I’ve got two back doors either, it’s a mystery to me too.  There’s also a side door in addition to, of course, the front door so… If the zombie apocalypse comes to Asheboro I guess they’ve got a 1 in 4 chance of guessing the right door, which works in my favor.  I think.  If there’s any zombie apocalypse experts reading this, feel free to chime in.

Peace

PS- Because, well, you know, I started this by watching a couple doves in a tree and that got me to thinking, I haven’t seen any pigeons since I moved down here.  Like, not a single one.  I wonder if the story of my interaction with Jake the pigeon last summer preceded me down here…