Sunday, May 22, 2011
No News is Good News
That will be all the comment I'll make on the continuation of life on Earth despite recent prognostications to the contrary. Guess we'll still have to mow the lawn...
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Working On Commission
I'm a little bit in awe this morning. Somebody out in blog-land (someone I didn't actually bribe or shamelessly beg) showed up on the stoop of the Wayward Home and left a trail of comment-crumbs to prove they'd been here. Yes, another sort of wayward-sounding soul from America's official retirement center, theme park and hurricane magnet (Florida) slid a note under the door with compliments and an easy request. Trailer Park Cyclist (AKA Tim Joe); I'm most encouraged and happy to oblige...
As anyone even vaguely acquainted with me knows (and how could they not since I complain about it all the time?), I'm a locomotive engineer; by accident at first and profession a while later. Yes kids, I'm a card carrying, horn tooting, sleep-challenged, freight hauler for a large eastern carrier whose initials incidentally coincide with Not Sure. This is significant mostly in that I'm Not Sure exactly when the phone will ring to call me in for another adventure in Class One railroading. It's a crap-shoot when all the planets will line up, the managers on two seperate railroads will actually speak to each other, Frodo will destroy the One Ring and Crew Management will remember to unleash the automated pet Harpy of theirs that calls my bedside phone. This was illustrated nicely on the last go-round where the best-layed plans so stereotypically went awry.
Even so, with all it's well-known vagaries and tribulations...the job "suits me" as my wife so generously puts it and I plan to make an attempt at finishing out a full tour in the right seat of a locomotive. The pay is good, there's a retirement plan that hasn't been looted yet, I happen to like what I do and on top of that, it's almost the only thing in a somewhat mis-spent life that could even remotely be thought of as a career. Unless that wrinkly MegaMillions ticket in my pocket comes in with all six numbers and I'm forced to relocate "where the weather suits my clothes" like the song or everyone suddenly decides that all their 'stuff' looks pretty good right where it is and quits paying us to move it somewhere else, the carrier is stuck with me. Or I'm stuck with them depending on how you look at it. The jury is still out...
Anyway, as my esteemed commenter observed; my railroad life is filled with an interesting and 'colorful' group of people to put it mildy. It's a remarkably small terminal where I work and as with any such community, everybody knows everything about everybody else...or at least thinks they do. We have two basic subjects of cab discussion; bitching about the railroad and raw, unadulterated, vicious gossip. When you're trapped in a tiny steel box with one or two other people for many long dark hours, conversation is the only thing that keeps you going and of course the popular topic is...everybody else. I've often said that character assassination is our specialty and my wife reports that we sound like a pack of old hens in a sewing circle whenever more than two railroaders are in a room together. Who am I to argue? The good news is that for the most part, like Vegas 'what's said in the cab, stays in the cab' and while we may shred each other mercilessly, few incidents of open warfare seem to erupt. Like the true adolescents we are, we get mad and then a few minutes later get over it.
Some of that is just practicality...it's tough to not be at least civil with someone when out of necessity you're forced to work with them for extended periods in tight quarters. Then there's the realization that at times, you literally have the other guy's life in your hands. It's sobering to know that some mistakes on my part can easily kill or maim someone and that reality kind of puts the minor personality conflicts in perspective. It pays to not sweat the small, unimportant stuff when you work with such unforgiving monstrosities (the trains...I said, not the crews).
Over the long haul though, the people I've worked with and for have been a good bunch of folks. There's been the usual assortment of 'tools' but on the main, we look out for each other. The way to get through the madness is with other madness and quite often, a laugh or two. Case in point...
My first week on the property as a trainee was with a local switcher crew in a small yard that handled some industries and put together a train or two 5 days a week. The engineer and conductor were both old-heads (a not-entirely-clear designation that could mean they know what they're doing and will help you or they're obstinate pricks and hate you) who'd been at this game for about 80 years between them. The CO was a veteran of long-gone passenger service and since I was his problem to deal with, he eyed me with some distrust and informed me that my job would be limited to staying where he could see me and trying not to get killed on his watch. He was matter-of-fact in that the paperwork on a fatality was extensive and it was his night to play cards so my death would be most inconvenient. Touching.
My own initial assessment of this guy was likewise jaded by the fact that he looked like a Salvation Army thrift store had exploded and he'd been severely wounded by the clothes racks. He was an apparition in pastel polyesters and gaudy stripes that by all laws of nature should have annihilated each other in a fireball on contact. I lived through the '70s once and hoped that I'd seen the last of bell bottom stretch slacks but here they were again 20 years later; in full color...surrounded by cigarette smoke and gray hair, only partially obscured by a beat-up fishing vest festooned with pens, radio, assorted papers and other unidentifiable paraphernalia trying to escape the pockets. He was the wardrobe statement of the year but fortunately his railroad skill and patience far exceeded his fashion sense...and he turned out to be pretty pleasant to be around.
I was so new that I didn't even have a radio or switch keys so I was basically useless and couldn't do much but follow around the yard like a lost puppy. They casually spoke a language I didn't understand and worked away at accomplishing what to me looked like nothing. All the while, my keeper kept up a running commentary which might as well have been aimed at the rails. It was too much at once and I couldn't make heads or tails out of any of it. Cars moved back and forth on tracks, the engine came and went and all the while, my new mentor chattered on the radio, smoked continuously and made sure I didn't interfere with his card game. I was fascinated...baffled but fascinated. Eventually, the CO tired of holding my leash so he suggested I ride on the engine for a while.
This was the realm of another aristocracy who at least didn't have to worry about where I was standing as long as I didn't fall out the door. He was just as concerned for my safety as the conductor but instead of cards, by the fact that this was his bowling night and the loss of a trainee would probably mean a late start on his first frame. The sentimentality of these guys was overwhelming.
He allowed me to watch his incomprehensible doings and also turned out to be pretty personable. No one previously had mentioned the fact that sooner or later, I'd be required to become an engineer but he dropped that bomb on me about mid-morning and just grinned when I told him I'd likely be 100 years old before I could run an engine.
"You'll be fine", he said. "Just keep your eyes open and your lips shut and you can have this seat when I take my pension."
As it turns out, I was and did on the first through third counts and didn't on the last. I still can't touch his old job but wound up sooner-than-later making the trek to Engine School and ended up holding the same title, if not the daylight, Mon. through Fri. switcher.
Those first few days became a lot of days and a lot of nights for the next dozen years but I still laugh about the wardrobe disaster that led me through my blind walks on the yard lead and will always be grateful he didn't let me mess up his card game. We became good friends and worked together many times after those early days. He's retired now but I still catch up with him now and again...and the really funny thing is...I haven't noticed if he wears polyester anymore or not.
As anyone even vaguely acquainted with me knows (and how could they not since I complain about it all the time?), I'm a locomotive engineer; by accident at first and profession a while later. Yes kids, I'm a card carrying, horn tooting, sleep-challenged, freight hauler for a large eastern carrier whose initials incidentally coincide with Not Sure. This is significant mostly in that I'm Not Sure exactly when the phone will ring to call me in for another adventure in Class One railroading. It's a crap-shoot when all the planets will line up, the managers on two seperate railroads will actually speak to each other, Frodo will destroy the One Ring and Crew Management will remember to unleash the automated pet Harpy of theirs that calls my bedside phone. This was illustrated nicely on the last go-round where the best-layed plans so stereotypically went awry.
Even so, with all it's well-known vagaries and tribulations...the job "suits me" as my wife so generously puts it and I plan to make an attempt at finishing out a full tour in the right seat of a locomotive. The pay is good, there's a retirement plan that hasn't been looted yet, I happen to like what I do and on top of that, it's almost the only thing in a somewhat mis-spent life that could even remotely be thought of as a career. Unless that wrinkly MegaMillions ticket in my pocket comes in with all six numbers and I'm forced to relocate "where the weather suits my clothes" like the song or everyone suddenly decides that all their 'stuff' looks pretty good right where it is and quits paying us to move it somewhere else, the carrier is stuck with me. Or I'm stuck with them depending on how you look at it. The jury is still out...
Anyway, as my esteemed commenter observed; my railroad life is filled with an interesting and 'colorful' group of people to put it mildy. It's a remarkably small terminal where I work and as with any such community, everybody knows everything about everybody else...or at least thinks they do. We have two basic subjects of cab discussion; bitching about the railroad and raw, unadulterated, vicious gossip. When you're trapped in a tiny steel box with one or two other people for many long dark hours, conversation is the only thing that keeps you going and of course the popular topic is...everybody else. I've often said that character assassination is our specialty and my wife reports that we sound like a pack of old hens in a sewing circle whenever more than two railroaders are in a room together. Who am I to argue? The good news is that for the most part, like Vegas 'what's said in the cab, stays in the cab' and while we may shred each other mercilessly, few incidents of open warfare seem to erupt. Like the true adolescents we are, we get mad and then a few minutes later get over it.
Some of that is just practicality...it's tough to not be at least civil with someone when out of necessity you're forced to work with them for extended periods in tight quarters. Then there's the realization that at times, you literally have the other guy's life in your hands. It's sobering to know that some mistakes on my part can easily kill or maim someone and that reality kind of puts the minor personality conflicts in perspective. It pays to not sweat the small, unimportant stuff when you work with such unforgiving monstrosities (the trains...I said, not the crews).
Over the long haul though, the people I've worked with and for have been a good bunch of folks. There's been the usual assortment of 'tools' but on the main, we look out for each other. The way to get through the madness is with other madness and quite often, a laugh or two. Case in point...
My first week on the property as a trainee was with a local switcher crew in a small yard that handled some industries and put together a train or two 5 days a week. The engineer and conductor were both old-heads (a not-entirely-clear designation that could mean they know what they're doing and will help you or they're obstinate pricks and hate you) who'd been at this game for about 80 years between them. The CO was a veteran of long-gone passenger service and since I was his problem to deal with, he eyed me with some distrust and informed me that my job would be limited to staying where he could see me and trying not to get killed on his watch. He was matter-of-fact in that the paperwork on a fatality was extensive and it was his night to play cards so my death would be most inconvenient. Touching.
My own initial assessment of this guy was likewise jaded by the fact that he looked like a Salvation Army thrift store had exploded and he'd been severely wounded by the clothes racks. He was an apparition in pastel polyesters and gaudy stripes that by all laws of nature should have annihilated each other in a fireball on contact. I lived through the '70s once and hoped that I'd seen the last of bell bottom stretch slacks but here they were again 20 years later; in full color...surrounded by cigarette smoke and gray hair, only partially obscured by a beat-up fishing vest festooned with pens, radio, assorted papers and other unidentifiable paraphernalia trying to escape the pockets. He was the wardrobe statement of the year but fortunately his railroad skill and patience far exceeded his fashion sense...and he turned out to be pretty pleasant to be around.
I was so new that I didn't even have a radio or switch keys so I was basically useless and couldn't do much but follow around the yard like a lost puppy. They casually spoke a language I didn't understand and worked away at accomplishing what to me looked like nothing. All the while, my keeper kept up a running commentary which might as well have been aimed at the rails. It was too much at once and I couldn't make heads or tails out of any of it. Cars moved back and forth on tracks, the engine came and went and all the while, my new mentor chattered on the radio, smoked continuously and made sure I didn't interfere with his card game. I was fascinated...baffled but fascinated. Eventually, the CO tired of holding my leash so he suggested I ride on the engine for a while.
This was the realm of another aristocracy who at least didn't have to worry about where I was standing as long as I didn't fall out the door. He was just as concerned for my safety as the conductor but instead of cards, by the fact that this was his bowling night and the loss of a trainee would probably mean a late start on his first frame. The sentimentality of these guys was overwhelming.
He allowed me to watch his incomprehensible doings and also turned out to be pretty personable. No one previously had mentioned the fact that sooner or later, I'd be required to become an engineer but he dropped that bomb on me about mid-morning and just grinned when I told him I'd likely be 100 years old before I could run an engine.
"You'll be fine", he said. "Just keep your eyes open and your lips shut and you can have this seat when I take my pension."
As it turns out, I was and did on the first through third counts and didn't on the last. I still can't touch his old job but wound up sooner-than-later making the trek to Engine School and ended up holding the same title, if not the daylight, Mon. through Fri. switcher.
Those first few days became a lot of days and a lot of nights for the next dozen years but I still laugh about the wardrobe disaster that led me through my blind walks on the yard lead and will always be grateful he didn't let me mess up his card game. We became good friends and worked together many times after those early days. He's retired now but I still catch up with him now and again...and the really funny thing is...I haven't noticed if he wears polyester anymore or not.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Dark to Light...The Missing Call
Time flies when you're having fun...so the saying goes. Unless you're waiting for the phone to ring to call you to work.
Looking out from my perch in the kitchen, dawn is just cracking over in the east and I've been up since 4 am to see it. Why would anyone be up at 4 in the morning if they didn't really have to? Well, I took a look at the train lineup yesterday afternoon and saw what looked like my usual gig planned for the wee-hours of Sunday. Uh-oh. Quick run through the shower and pack up the grip for an early start, then hit the sheets to grab what looked like a couple hours of shut-eye before the call. I even woke up around 1 and hit the automated line to check on it...sure enough...ordered for 0440. Back to sleep for a little more snooze time. The next squint at the clock showed 3 o'clock and the phone should have chirped at 0240. No call and no messages. Now what? Check in with CMC to find out why the train went but I didn't. Turns out they're 'saving' my pool to use at some point later today on something else. Great. So, now I've slept almost eight hours, it's still zero-dark-thirty, I'm wide awake and the birds aren't even stirring yet. A futile attempt to close the lids back down ended in frustration and soon had my feet hitting the floor. Dogs out, coffee on. Browse email and surf a little. Watch day break rainy and cool. That's how it's gone so far.
I should be used to this after all these years but sometimes I still get fooled and wind up sleeping on the wrong end of the day. I'll pay for it later after I've been up for hours.
Oh well, the birds are singing now even though it's raining and the dogs shrugged and went back to sleep. I guess I'll take the quiet in the kitchen and be glad I got to watch the day creep in from home instead of work. I've seen enough daybreaks through a windshield.
Looking out from my perch in the kitchen, dawn is just cracking over in the east and I've been up since 4 am to see it. Why would anyone be up at 4 in the morning if they didn't really have to? Well, I took a look at the train lineup yesterday afternoon and saw what looked like my usual gig planned for the wee-hours of Sunday. Uh-oh. Quick run through the shower and pack up the grip for an early start, then hit the sheets to grab what looked like a couple hours of shut-eye before the call. I even woke up around 1 and hit the automated line to check on it...sure enough...ordered for 0440. Back to sleep for a little more snooze time. The next squint at the clock showed 3 o'clock and the phone should have chirped at 0240. No call and no messages. Now what? Check in with CMC to find out why the train went but I didn't. Turns out they're 'saving' my pool to use at some point later today on something else. Great. So, now I've slept almost eight hours, it's still zero-dark-thirty, I'm wide awake and the birds aren't even stirring yet. A futile attempt to close the lids back down ended in frustration and soon had my feet hitting the floor. Dogs out, coffee on. Browse email and surf a little. Watch day break rainy and cool. That's how it's gone so far.
I should be used to this after all these years but sometimes I still get fooled and wind up sleeping on the wrong end of the day. I'll pay for it later after I've been up for hours.
Oh well, the birds are singing now even though it's raining and the dogs shrugged and went back to sleep. I guess I'll take the quiet in the kitchen and be glad I got to watch the day creep in from home instead of work. I've seen enough daybreaks through a windshield.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Why of it All
I used to wonder sometimes about the string of co-incidences that led me to the Tour de Cure. At first glance, it looked like an easy, low pressure local ride and not much else. The cause was secondary to the attraction of the chance to ride my first Century and entering my first organized event since I took up biking again. I hadn’t really thought about the implications of diabetes and what the Tour meant much beyond that 100-mile goal of mine.
As happens, one thing led to another and a glance at the Tour website found that my employer had corporate teams riding in Virginia and Georgia. A spur-of-the-moment Sunday email to the COO soon had us off and running as the northern-most branch of Team NS Thoroughbreds and suddenly there was more to this than I originally bargained for.
We fumbled our way through the first year without much of a clue as to what we were doing but wound up having a ball and actually raising enough in donations to come in third in fundraising. A week later, I was planning for the next team.
Still, the real reason for it all remained a little hazy. I knew what we were doing was important in a distant sort of way but the ride and the team were the big focus. The disease and the goals stayed in the background of my thinking. Now it’s another year and now at last, it’s all starting to fall together, the how and more importantly, the why of Team Thoroughbreds and the Tour de Cure. I owe it to Leanne and Donnie.
Leanne is the daughter of my good friends Donnie and Sandy Cardone. ‘Cardie’ as I soon came to know him, was the first real live railroader I ever met when I was first kicking around the idea of taking up the profession. He pretty much talked me into it and has been my sounding board and advisor in a pinch for almost 14 years ever since. Luck had it that at one point, I could even hold an engineer spot on his job for a while. I learned more working with him than anywhere else since engine school and amazingly, we managed to have a good time doing it. Even after he retired and left ‘The Lakeshore Express’ for good, we kept in touch and got together once in a while to do what railroaders do best; drink coffee, gripe about the railroad and catch up on who’s doing what and where.
I knew Donnie had diabetes from watching his struggles when we worked that all-night local together and I knew Leanne had had it since she was young as well. I only actually met her once but felt like I knew her through her Dad. You find out just about everything when you spend 12 hours in a locomotive cab with someone night after night for months.
He told me in bits and pieces about Leanne’s long battle with diabetes; the hospital stays, endless tests, medications, late-night crisis’, setbacks and victories. All the while, he managed his own illness and worked a demanding job to maintain the medical coverage they both needed. I looked up to Donnie and often wondered if I could do as well.
A few days ago, I heard the sad news that Leanne had lost her fight and passed away suddenly at the young age of 41. The day before her memorial, I saddled up and rode over to see Cardie and Sandy. I can’t imagine losing one of my kids so I really didn’t know what I was going to say. I shouldn’t have worried. Donnie was just coming out the door when I rolled up and in his usual way; he smiled and shook my hand. He looked tired as well he should but through it all, he still had that smile. I knew right then why I’m doing this. It took a while but now I know.
It’s for Leanne, for Donnie and Sandy, for everyone who fights this thing every day and still manages somehow to smile. For everyone who’s had to say goodbye too soon. For everyone who’s said to me, “Hey, I have diabetes too” or “I know someone who has diabetes.”
For all of them and all of us.
I knew without a doubt right then that the Finger Lakes NS Thoroughbreds would be riding in memory of Leanne Cardone. When Donnie shook my hand, I knew that her struggle against diabetes would be our motivation.
Something good will come of this. When we head out as Team NS Thoroughbreds on the Tour de Cure this August, we’ll carry another name with us. When we ride, we’ll ride for someone we lost along the way. A friend most of us never knew and a family whose fight against diabetes is an inspiration. Cardie and Sandy are coming to see us off and I know he’ll still have that smile. When we ride, we’ll ride
As happens, one thing led to another and a glance at the Tour website found that my employer had corporate teams riding in Virginia and Georgia. A spur-of-the-moment Sunday email to the COO soon had us off and running as the northern-most branch of Team NS Thoroughbreds and suddenly there was more to this than I originally bargained for.
We fumbled our way through the first year without much of a clue as to what we were doing but wound up having a ball and actually raising enough in donations to come in third in fundraising. A week later, I was planning for the next team.
Still, the real reason for it all remained a little hazy. I knew what we were doing was important in a distant sort of way but the ride and the team were the big focus. The disease and the goals stayed in the background of my thinking. Now it’s another year and now at last, it’s all starting to fall together, the how and more importantly, the why of Team Thoroughbreds and the Tour de Cure. I owe it to Leanne and Donnie.
Leanne is the daughter of my good friends Donnie and Sandy Cardone. ‘Cardie’ as I soon came to know him, was the first real live railroader I ever met when I was first kicking around the idea of taking up the profession. He pretty much talked me into it and has been my sounding board and advisor in a pinch for almost 14 years ever since. Luck had it that at one point, I could even hold an engineer spot on his job for a while. I learned more working with him than anywhere else since engine school and amazingly, we managed to have a good time doing it. Even after he retired and left ‘The Lakeshore Express’ for good, we kept in touch and got together once in a while to do what railroaders do best; drink coffee, gripe about the railroad and catch up on who’s doing what and where.
I knew Donnie had diabetes from watching his struggles when we worked that all-night local together and I knew Leanne had had it since she was young as well. I only actually met her once but felt like I knew her through her Dad. You find out just about everything when you spend 12 hours in a locomotive cab with someone night after night for months.
He told me in bits and pieces about Leanne’s long battle with diabetes; the hospital stays, endless tests, medications, late-night crisis’, setbacks and victories. All the while, he managed his own illness and worked a demanding job to maintain the medical coverage they both needed. I looked up to Donnie and often wondered if I could do as well.
A few days ago, I heard the sad news that Leanne had lost her fight and passed away suddenly at the young age of 41. The day before her memorial, I saddled up and rode over to see Cardie and Sandy. I can’t imagine losing one of my kids so I really didn’t know what I was going to say. I shouldn’t have worried. Donnie was just coming out the door when I rolled up and in his usual way; he smiled and shook my hand. He looked tired as well he should but through it all, he still had that smile. I knew right then why I’m doing this. It took a while but now I know.
It’s for Leanne, for Donnie and Sandy, for everyone who fights this thing every day and still manages somehow to smile. For everyone who’s had to say goodbye too soon. For everyone who’s said to me, “Hey, I have diabetes too” or “I know someone who has diabetes.”
For all of them and all of us.
I knew without a doubt right then that the Finger Lakes NS Thoroughbreds would be riding in memory of Leanne Cardone. When Donnie shook my hand, I knew that her struggle against diabetes would be our motivation.
Something good will come of this. When we head out as Team NS Thoroughbreds on the Tour de Cure this August, we’ll carry another name with us. When we ride, we’ll ride for someone we lost along the way. A friend most of us never knew and a family whose fight against diabetes is an inspiration. Cardie and Sandy are coming to see us off and I know he’ll still have that smile. When we ride, we’ll ride
For Leanne
Sunday, April 3, 2011
100
Well, I popped open my dashboard (on the blog...not my truck) and noticed that this will be my 100th post...if I ever finish it. Sometimes these things take days to get off my keyboard and out into blog-space. This one is shaping up that way but in time, it will become my Century Post. Big deal? Not really but it's a landmark of sorts and hence worth at least a passing nod.
100 of anything is one of those milestones that everybody strives for or at least notes when it sails by. 100 years old is worth shooting for isn't it? Hell, speaking of sailing by, I'd settle for 100 bucks in spending cash right about now after the only 10 I had left flew from my clip, spent on coffee and crummy diner food to get me through my last 'round trip. Face it...100 is a magic number.
I should know. Just for example, my first Century bicycle ride was a pretty major event. 100 miles is a stiff investment in effort and time for an old guy like me so I was ecstatic when I finally cranked off enough practice rides to go the whole way. If I live long enough, like over 100...I might make 100 100's and that would be a real Guinness moment (the record book...not the beer). One Zero Zero was the benchmark I spent years building up to and now that I made it, it's on to bigger and better things but that first one will always be THE FIRST.
Then just by chance, I swung by my Book of Face page and found that the last person who be-friended my ethereal self brought my tally of electronic acquaintances to an even 100. What are the odds? More to the point, what are the odds that 100 people actually have enough interest in what I'm about that they drop in? Keep this up and I'll have 100 questions.
Maybe I should have played all 100s on the Mega ticket I so foolishly wasted 100 cents on. Then again...7 was the lucky number for the people who bought into that office pool in Albany. They now have the tough decision of whether it's worth it to work another day or maybe thinking it's better to just shack up with their post-tax millions and call it a career. Me, I'd keep working. You never know when 19 million might run out. That's too many hundreds to even think about.
Anyway, 100 just seems like a cool number for some reason. So I'll finally finish my Century Post and call it a day like any other except that a milestone has passed and there'll never be another one like it. Important? Not really, just a note and a nod on the Wayward Home.
100 of anything is one of those milestones that everybody strives for or at least notes when it sails by. 100 years old is worth shooting for isn't it? Hell, speaking of sailing by, I'd settle for 100 bucks in spending cash right about now after the only 10 I had left flew from my clip, spent on coffee and crummy diner food to get me through my last 'round trip. Face it...100 is a magic number.
I should know. Just for example, my first Century bicycle ride was a pretty major event. 100 miles is a stiff investment in effort and time for an old guy like me so I was ecstatic when I finally cranked off enough practice rides to go the whole way. If I live long enough, like over 100...I might make 100 100's and that would be a real Guinness moment (the record book...not the beer). One Zero Zero was the benchmark I spent years building up to and now that I made it, it's on to bigger and better things but that first one will always be THE FIRST.
Then just by chance, I swung by my Book of Face page and found that the last person who be-friended my ethereal self brought my tally of electronic acquaintances to an even 100. What are the odds? More to the point, what are the odds that 100 people actually have enough interest in what I'm about that they drop in? Keep this up and I'll have 100 questions.
Maybe I should have played all 100s on the Mega ticket I so foolishly wasted 100 cents on. Then again...7 was the lucky number for the people who bought into that office pool in Albany. They now have the tough decision of whether it's worth it to work another day or maybe thinking it's better to just shack up with their post-tax millions and call it a career. Me, I'd keep working. You never know when 19 million might run out. That's too many hundreds to even think about.
Anyway, 100 just seems like a cool number for some reason. So I'll finally finish my Century Post and call it a day like any other except that a milestone has passed and there'll never be another one like it. Important? Not really, just a note and a nod on the Wayward Home.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Way Back
Today I'm going back about as far as I can go.
Have you ever had a flash of the past hit you out of nowhere? A picture from some otherwhen that just pops into your head? Maybe some gray and fuzzy old pages out of a mental album? Everybody probably has at one time or another. You have a deja-vu moment from way back when and it feels like it might have been important somehow. But then as fast as it came, it's gone; swept back into dusty corners by bright sunlight and busy days. Whatever it was, you don't have time to fool with it and it was so long ago, it doesn't matter anyway.
But then again, maybe by some chance sometime, the old, faded photo sticks for a moment and you pay attention for a while. That happened the other day and as things do...one led to another.
I was just kind of idling at the table with my coffee, ticking over easy before the usual rush to get out the door. From wherever it was buried and for whatever reason, out of the blue I remembered a memory. I have no idea what brought it on and I guess it doesn't really matter. It was suddenly there out of the fog and just like that, I was somewhere I hadn't been in a very long time. Before I knew it, there were more dimly recalled places and people out the past and for a little while that morning, I was thinking of things I hadn't thought of in decades.
The trigger was a gauzy picture in my head that seems kind of like a worn out newspaper photo. It was of me watching my Mom working on an old dresser. She was getting it ready for my baby brother, painting and fussing with it. I can even see the room she was in. I was only about two years old when he was born, is it even possible to remember that far back?
That quick flash made me dig a bit more until I came across a very faded, dim memory of my long-gone Grandma Thorton. It's an impression more than a memory but I can feel her in a rocking chair in a living room somewhere. It's dark and I can't see her face but I remember her and I know it's her. Somehow, it's comforting to know that I know.
From there, I poked around in the cracks and found another old picture of me running home from the neighbors house across the road, scared and confused because Mrs. Brown was crying and I didn't know why. My mother told me that the president was dead and I think she cried too. I remember the television was on and everyone was afraid. I couldn't understand it but I remember it. John F. Kennedy was killed in 1963 when I was four. How can I still have that stashed away?
I went on down the alley and found more than I can believe. Where did I keep the pictures of my Grandfathers house and the feeling of how it frightened me? How do I still remember the big clock and box of wooden blocks. How did I know he didn't like us much even when I was so small?
I tripped over the Sunday jaunts in the station wagon to 'check the store' when Dad was a grocery man. Not much was open on Sunday then and he had to make sure the coolers stayed on until Monday morning. We rode cardboard boxes on the rollers and conveyors that ran around the storeroom and chased each other on pallet carts up and down the aisles. Dad would let us read the comics on the rack as long as we put them back when we were done. Sometimes there was an ice cream cone afterwards but I mostly remembered the cool, dark grocery store with the big curved windows and rows of deserted cash registers. It was like another world.
Somewhere too there's visions of a cottage on the St. Lawrence that was our vacations for a while. I can picture a big back porch and an ancient record player that cranked out "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" over and over. I can see the river and the path down to the dock through the weeds but not much else. Another summer hideout was a place on Seneca Lake that had a big dock and a million steps down to the water. Seems like it rained a lot but it's so faded that I can't be sure.
I found the the worn out memories of hand-me-down bikes, old hand-pushed reel lawn mowers, the two-wheeled garden tractor with a Radio Flyer full of kids wired to the drawbar, my oldest brother coming home from the Navy with stitches from a car crash, my sister going out on Friday with a pack of girlfriends, another brother in leather riding out on a chopper and that same younger brother with the now-old-again dresser who helped build a plywood fort and who fought epic battles with arsenals of crab apples from the backyard tree. Tucked away among the cobwebs was pictures of snowdrifts higher than our heads and a parade of much-loved but long-forgotten dogs. There's parts of me almost completely lost. Small things like being terrified of thunderstorms and airplanes. Laying in bed watching car headlights move across my wall at night and having nightmares from watching scary movies with the big kids; and larger things too, like a long line of friends now gone and a string of places now long unseen. Names like Hally, Tim, Laura, Lallie, Ronnie, Clara, Donnie, Carl, Frank, Susan, Ginny and all the rest...what became of them and how do I still remember them? How much more and how many others are hidden in old desk drawers in the back of my head? Sitting there at the table, I knew I'd never know.
Much as I'd like to, I doubt I'll ever be able to sit still long enough to sort out all that stuff I've got stashed away in back of my eyes and between my ears. That's a luxury for when I can park on the porch swing and watch the world go by, not today. I'll bore my grandkids with reminiscing someday because that's what grandfathers do when they're not spoiling them. For now, it's enough to spend a few minutes remembering and tapping it out.
Someday, I'll just have to walk back gently and knock quietly at the door to the old times and peek a little more. There's a danger in hanging around and spending too much of the right-now in the back-then so I'll wait for the opportune time. I know there's a whole pack of old hurts lurking about somewhere that are better off left undisturbed. You bury some things because you need to and there's no good to come of opening up scars that have healed or dancing again with demons that you put down years ago. But every once in a while, I don't think it does any harm to take a couple of breaths, turn off the world and look all the way back. What you are comes from there after all.
If you're careful and tread lightly, it's like digging in any old attic or musty garage. There's treasures to be found among the boxes and in the far corners. You just have to close your eyes and look.
Have you ever had a flash of the past hit you out of nowhere? A picture from some otherwhen that just pops into your head? Maybe some gray and fuzzy old pages out of a mental album? Everybody probably has at one time or another. You have a deja-vu moment from way back when and it feels like it might have been important somehow. But then as fast as it came, it's gone; swept back into dusty corners by bright sunlight and busy days. Whatever it was, you don't have time to fool with it and it was so long ago, it doesn't matter anyway.
But then again, maybe by some chance sometime, the old, faded photo sticks for a moment and you pay attention for a while. That happened the other day and as things do...one led to another.
I was just kind of idling at the table with my coffee, ticking over easy before the usual rush to get out the door. From wherever it was buried and for whatever reason, out of the blue I remembered a memory. I have no idea what brought it on and I guess it doesn't really matter. It was suddenly there out of the fog and just like that, I was somewhere I hadn't been in a very long time. Before I knew it, there were more dimly recalled places and people out the past and for a little while that morning, I was thinking of things I hadn't thought of in decades.
The trigger was a gauzy picture in my head that seems kind of like a worn out newspaper photo. It was of me watching my Mom working on an old dresser. She was getting it ready for my baby brother, painting and fussing with it. I can even see the room she was in. I was only about two years old when he was born, is it even possible to remember that far back?
That quick flash made me dig a bit more until I came across a very faded, dim memory of my long-gone Grandma Thorton. It's an impression more than a memory but I can feel her in a rocking chair in a living room somewhere. It's dark and I can't see her face but I remember her and I know it's her. Somehow, it's comforting to know that I know.
From there, I poked around in the cracks and found another old picture of me running home from the neighbors house across the road, scared and confused because Mrs. Brown was crying and I didn't know why. My mother told me that the president was dead and I think she cried too. I remember the television was on and everyone was afraid. I couldn't understand it but I remember it. John F. Kennedy was killed in 1963 when I was four. How can I still have that stashed away?
I went on down the alley and found more than I can believe. Where did I keep the pictures of my Grandfathers house and the feeling of how it frightened me? How do I still remember the big clock and box of wooden blocks. How did I know he didn't like us much even when I was so small?
I tripped over the Sunday jaunts in the station wagon to 'check the store' when Dad was a grocery man. Not much was open on Sunday then and he had to make sure the coolers stayed on until Monday morning. We rode cardboard boxes on the rollers and conveyors that ran around the storeroom and chased each other on pallet carts up and down the aisles. Dad would let us read the comics on the rack as long as we put them back when we were done. Sometimes there was an ice cream cone afterwards but I mostly remembered the cool, dark grocery store with the big curved windows and rows of deserted cash registers. It was like another world.
Somewhere too there's visions of a cottage on the St. Lawrence that was our vacations for a while. I can picture a big back porch and an ancient record player that cranked out "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" over and over. I can see the river and the path down to the dock through the weeds but not much else. Another summer hideout was a place on Seneca Lake that had a big dock and a million steps down to the water. Seems like it rained a lot but it's so faded that I can't be sure.
I found the the worn out memories of hand-me-down bikes, old hand-pushed reel lawn mowers, the two-wheeled garden tractor with a Radio Flyer full of kids wired to the drawbar, my oldest brother coming home from the Navy with stitches from a car crash, my sister going out on Friday with a pack of girlfriends, another brother in leather riding out on a chopper and that same younger brother with the now-old-again dresser who helped build a plywood fort and who fought epic battles with arsenals of crab apples from the backyard tree. Tucked away among the cobwebs was pictures of snowdrifts higher than our heads and a parade of much-loved but long-forgotten dogs. There's parts of me almost completely lost. Small things like being terrified of thunderstorms and airplanes. Laying in bed watching car headlights move across my wall at night and having nightmares from watching scary movies with the big kids; and larger things too, like a long line of friends now gone and a string of places now long unseen. Names like Hally, Tim, Laura, Lallie, Ronnie, Clara, Donnie, Carl, Frank, Susan, Ginny and all the rest...what became of them and how do I still remember them? How much more and how many others are hidden in old desk drawers in the back of my head? Sitting there at the table, I knew I'd never know.
Much as I'd like to, I doubt I'll ever be able to sit still long enough to sort out all that stuff I've got stashed away in back of my eyes and between my ears. That's a luxury for when I can park on the porch swing and watch the world go by, not today. I'll bore my grandkids with reminiscing someday because that's what grandfathers do when they're not spoiling them. For now, it's enough to spend a few minutes remembering and tapping it out.
Someday, I'll just have to walk back gently and knock quietly at the door to the old times and peek a little more. There's a danger in hanging around and spending too much of the right-now in the back-then so I'll wait for the opportune time. I know there's a whole pack of old hurts lurking about somewhere that are better off left undisturbed. You bury some things because you need to and there's no good to come of opening up scars that have healed or dancing again with demons that you put down years ago. But every once in a while, I don't think it does any harm to take a couple of breaths, turn off the world and look all the way back. What you are comes from there after all.
If you're careful and tread lightly, it's like digging in any old attic or musty garage. There's treasures to be found among the boxes and in the far corners. You just have to close your eyes and look.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
18
A milestone of sorts this week. Elder Son turned 18 a few days ago and I'm left wondering how and when all that happened. He's suddenly ridiculously tall, wears sneakers big enough to chock the wheels on an airliner and occasionally shaves the patchy fuzz on his lip. It looks like the real deal no matter how much I try to deny it, his days of little-boy stuff are pretty well over.
I guess it's a common thing among parents as their offspring get older. You get used to thinking of them as...well, children. They're small, high-maintenance packages that you can't let out of your sight for a while then with startling abruptness, you've got a near-grownup in residence across the hall. A living, breathing semi-adult that you occasionally have to ask for technical advice on Skype or your iPod but who still needs your cash card to go to the movies. The 6'2" adolescent tower sprawled out in front of a flat-screen with a computer on his lap and a cell phone in his hand can now vote, drive all night (with my gas of course), enlist in the military, buy his own 'M' rated video games and work full time (eventually) but in some ways, I still see him as my kid. A much larger package to be sure but kid nevertheless. Some things don't leave behind too easily. I should know.
It's an odd combination of child and adult that just breezed by me at the computer, tormented the cat in passing and wiped out the 'fridge again. He's dating a sweet girl who's already in college and acting above his age about it but at the same time, he's still hooked on X-Box and continuously has to be reminded to let the dogs out. His room stays in much better shape these days (now that there's a girl in the picture) but smelly t-shirts are an ongoing issue and the Malibu may blow up before he remembers to check the oil. God help him if he has to change a tire. The big lug stuck to his guns and got in at a community college even after the disappointment of not being accepted into the same school as his girlfriend but gives me grief about loading the dishwasher. All things in their own time I guess. He still surprises me at times with conversation of a caliber that I don't get from many of my of-age acquaintances so I know he's a thinking creature, reluctant maybe but thinking nonetheless. That in itself is a victory for us; to bring up a young man who can and will use his head for more than a place to hold sunglasses. The ability to consider and question is a good trait to have and it looks like he found it.
I told Older-Son and his brother once upon a time that the only thing I wanted of them was to grow up not just men, but good men. Good men before and above all else. I think the both of them are headed in the right direction.
They're the best guys I know (parents are allowed to say that), even when the dishes aren't done and all the lights are on in the house. But no matter how many birthdays and milestones pass, they'll always be kids to me...our kids, my sons. The best part of us.
Now get off your butt and go pick up your socks...
I guess it's a common thing among parents as their offspring get older. You get used to thinking of them as...well, children. They're small, high-maintenance packages that you can't let out of your sight for a while then with startling abruptness, you've got a near-grownup in residence across the hall. A living, breathing semi-adult that you occasionally have to ask for technical advice on Skype or your iPod but who still needs your cash card to go to the movies. The 6'2" adolescent tower sprawled out in front of a flat-screen with a computer on his lap and a cell phone in his hand can now vote, drive all night (with my gas of course), enlist in the military, buy his own 'M' rated video games and work full time (eventually) but in some ways, I still see him as my kid. A much larger package to be sure but kid nevertheless. Some things don't leave behind too easily. I should know.
It's an odd combination of child and adult that just breezed by me at the computer, tormented the cat in passing and wiped out the 'fridge again. He's dating a sweet girl who's already in college and acting above his age about it but at the same time, he's still hooked on X-Box and continuously has to be reminded to let the dogs out. His room stays in much better shape these days (now that there's a girl in the picture) but smelly t-shirts are an ongoing issue and the Malibu may blow up before he remembers to check the oil. God help him if he has to change a tire. The big lug stuck to his guns and got in at a community college even after the disappointment of not being accepted into the same school as his girlfriend but gives me grief about loading the dishwasher. All things in their own time I guess. He still surprises me at times with conversation of a caliber that I don't get from many of my of-age acquaintances so I know he's a thinking creature, reluctant maybe but thinking nonetheless. That in itself is a victory for us; to bring up a young man who can and will use his head for more than a place to hold sunglasses. The ability to consider and question is a good trait to have and it looks like he found it.
I told Older-Son and his brother once upon a time that the only thing I wanted of them was to grow up not just men, but good men. Good men before and above all else. I think the both of them are headed in the right direction.
They're the best guys I know (parents are allowed to say that), even when the dishes aren't done and all the lights are on in the house. But no matter how many birthdays and milestones pass, they'll always be kids to me...our kids, my sons. The best part of us.
Now get off your butt and go pick up your socks...
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