A-Train Tripping Down Memory Lane

Monday my BBL and I initiated what will hopefully become a new tradition for us.  She’s labeled it Monday Meanderings because she now has most Mondays off from her gainful employment which consequently offers us some additional freedom to “explore.”

We agreed our first venture would be to discover some of our local public transportation options.  Our first choice:  the Fort Worth stockyards, which was do-able until we slept in and missed the 8:30am departure on the Green Line to Big D where we would have connected to the Trinity Railway Express, then transferred to a Fort Worth bus which would have deposited us at the Stockyards just past noon.  [Note: My BBL will fly to Chicago (AA willing) in significantly less time later this week] 

So instead we opted to take the 10:30am departure on our tax-dollar sponsored (+$12 out-of-pocket) light rail innovation called the “A-Train” to our county seat. By 11:00 we were in downtown Denton after an extremely smooth ride.  We were pleasantly surprised at the number of riders on the train, all of whom were pleasant toward us newbies. The terminus was right next to the old Moore Business Forms plant where I first made sales calls in 1981.  It now houses several municipal departments--a transformation that sort of pains me.

For the next four hours we circled Denton’s core business district.  We invested in a cup of Costa Rica java at Jupiter House Coffee, an enterprise that proudly boasts its reputation (voted best coffee house three straight years!) and its sleeveless cups.  We spent some time feeling and smelling the dust in Recycled Books, a sprawling place located in the Opera House, apparently another example of infrastructure re-purposing in this city.  Went in and out of several antique/junk shops and made a purchase of an old glass doorknob that my BBL intends to re-purpose.  And in the center of the Square, we admired the iconic Courthouse, unfortunately closed in honor of Presidents Day.  After a hefty late lunch on the patio at Hannah’s Off The Square (we can definitely recommend the White Truffle Pomme Frites), we ambled back to catch the 3:00pm return of the “A-Train” -- and I am transported back to my other best memory of taking a train ride.

The year was 1955.  My mother and I had to walk about a mile from home to catch the Chicago, Aurora & Elgin electric train.  I remember we had to raise a semaphore to signal the train to stop for us.  Our destination was downtown Elgin to see the matinee showing of perhaps the best animated film ever - Walt Disney’s Lady And The Tramp. It was my birthday present.  I was seven years old.

. . . two great days connected by interurban train rides, two wonderful ladies and this old tramp.

Picture This (If You Can)

Those who know me also know I enjoy taking pictures.  Photos help me (and occasionally others) remember a scene, a suspended point in time, a memory.  For me, taking a photograph is merely a personal experience – not a competition to come up with the best pixels money can buy.

It occurred to me recently, and perhaps belatedly, there are scenes occurring daily in my life that are essentially impossible to photograph with any meaning.  Most of you would say books also fall into this category (and I would agree) -- although the motion picture industrial complex continually begs to differ.

For example, picture this if you can:

•  A 64+ year old white-haired male watching a show on his 55” Sony 1080p HD TV
• The show is a fuzzy PBS rerun of the Ed Sullivan’s 1966 rock ‘n roll performances dating back to the viewer’s high school graduation days -- and does not utilize the entire screen's lamdscape
•  The viewer is frugally sipping boxed Merlot from a treasured wine glass while sitting in a leather chair normally reserved for his BBL who is off visiting relatives in Illinois which makes him all the more introspective
• While comfortable, the viewer is unconsciously conscious of his left side clumsiness that still resides after an unfortunate accident which occurred several years earlier by a driver under the influence of an illegal substance -- necessitating a certain due diligence when the viewer handles his wine glass  
•  The viewer wonders again how in the world Ed Sullivan ever had his own TV show due to Ed’s own apparent lack of showmanship
• Ed introduces a group called The Association who performs their hit song “Along Comes Mary” which transports the viewer to a spot unremembered until now
• The viewer comes to a revelation that the song is most probably about marijuana, something that never had occurred to him during the hundreds of times he previously heard the song
• The viewer has a hard time grappling with how he could NOT have perceived this before; after all, he had understood the implications surrounding Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”
•  Later in the program, the viewer decides that The Turtles’ “Lucky Man” is a song much more worthy of his affection as it is a more relevant reflection of his current life situation than when his youthful ears first heard it.

Now, how in the world could you photograph that?

He was a “Duesy”

Looking back, I remember Dad had an absolute crush on the Duesenberg and Cord motor cars of his childhood days.  They weren’t only stylish, but were also technically superior to any other automobile at the time. Trouble was they were too expensive (unpractical) for the times. The dichotomy that was my Dad can be summed up with my own memory of 1957.  Dad was going to buy his first brand new car ever.  The choice was between a Chevrolet and a Rambler.  I was rooting for the Chevy (which remains a classic) but the Rambler ended up in the driveway because it was the practical choice!  God help me, I hated that car!

Today was (or is?) my father’s birthday.  Since he would have been 90 years old today, I guess using the past tense is proper.  Except he remains alive in my memory as much --  maybe even more so -- than ever.

Tom Brokaw would have characterized him as a member of The Greatest Generation.  I don’t believe he would have ever self-identified with that moniker.  But I know firsthand he was a significant contributor to the “Baby Boomer” generation (for which I will be forever thankful)!

You grow up in the shadow of someone and still rarely know what makes him “tick.”  Sure, you learn if I say “this” his reaction may predictably be “that”. But rarely have I ever contemplated what life experiences he might have had that could have shaped a particular reaction.

Born in 1922, the only son of an only son (a tradition that has continued for two succeeding generations), it was the beginning of the Roaring Twenties. By all accounts, the Chicago-land area faired exceedingly well (particularly if you factor out Wall Street).

By the time he was 7, a Great Depression had fallen upon the land.  His family survived because his father was a highly skilled, unionized, printing craftsman called an electrotyper.   I can imagine (now) how seemingly important and practical it would be to him to develop technical capabilities.  And he did so, first by enrolling in Lane Technical High School, then going on to apprentice as a tool and die maker.  Nuts and bolts basically, as important as any cog in a functioning wheel.

Along come WWII, and he gets drafted into the Army.  Because of his “technical” background (and I suspect his solid physic) he became a field radio operator.  Fighting in Germany, with a surname the same as an opposing German general, must not have been any picnic.  But it was during this time that a pen-pal romantic relationship took root with my mother.  As someone famous once quipped, it must have been “the worst of times and the best of times.”

Some of both were still in his future.  Upon his return, he proposed to his sweetheart (knowing a little about his personality, I still cannot fathom the depth of his courage to do this) and married soon after.  He became an entrepreneur in a partnership with a high school friend to create and sell authentic-to-scale model railroad cars, specializing in electric interurban specimens.  This was a disastrous combination of skill and passion. 

At the same time the business venture was falling apart, I entered his world.  I can never say I was unwelcomed or unloved, but I definitely had to have been a burden.  The financial situation was such that my first address was identical to my grandfather’s -- because my parents had to move back to his home.  Dad petitioned Grandpa to sponsor him as an apprentice in the Electrotyper’s Union.  Long story short, Dad followed in his father’s profession.

Anxious to gain a sense of independence (I’m sure), my parents bought a bungalow way out in the Chicago ‘burbs.  It was really a shack, but it had “promise.”  I was 4.  I was 30 before the promise was completed.  I saw Dad self-learn to become a builder/carpenter, pipefitter, brick mason, roofer, landscaper -- a true jack-of-all-trades.  He did this on weekends and weeknights after a two hour round trip commute to the city.

Technology changes and union inflexibility eventually led to the demise of the electrotyping trade.  Out of work with 30+ years of experience in a now non-existent field, Dad went back to school to learn to become a computer programmer and landed a position with the local school district.  I think it was at this point that I first remember being so proud of him, not only for this but for all his accomplishments.

I was fortunate he was able to spend the last few months of his life nearby and we used that time to connect again. He told us stories I had never heard, which only made me appreciate him more.  My advice:  don’t wait until the last few months to connect.    

The Ides of March

On the Roman calendar, March 15^th was known as the Ides of March, a term that simply reflected the lunar appearance of a full moon.  Two thousand fifty six years ago, it became a day of infamy and synonymous with abrupt change.  Why?  Because Julius Caesar, a man who had spent his life serving the Empire, was murdered that day.

The current Ides represents my own day of change as it is the last day of a formal association with my past employer and marks the end of a 40+ year career with them.  In reality, the abrupt change occurred a few years ago when I was terminated during a downsizing/restructuring event.  Fortunately I was given the opportunity (and gladly continued) the relationship as a part-time consultant (although I preferred the term “ambassador”).  The finality of this change will still take some getting used to.  

It was a nice gesture when I was invited to attend one last company sales meeting.  I arrived to learn that the theme was ironically (at least to me) “Ain’t No Stoppin' Us Now!”  I was even given the official t-shirt as a keepsake.

I can chuckle about it now. Et tu Brute?

Certified: I’m Digit(ally) Impaired

The bushes in our backyard were threatening to become trees with some having reached beyond the height of the purple martin house. I knew that they should be cutback and had tried more than once to get my two-cycle gas hedge trimmer started. It took me awhile to figure out the plastic tube from its gas tank had broken – as it also had on my gas powered blower.

Within three short weeks of this discovery, everything was fixed and ready to go. Except I wasn’t. Temperatures started regularly exceeding the century mark and my enthusiasm for the task (which was low to start with) became inversely proportional to the temperature. When I finally got the gumption, I found the ”repaired” gas hedge trimmer again would not start. Closer inspection revealed the little plastic bubble used to prime the engine had developed a hole in it about the size of the price tag of my earlier repair. Rats! I decided against throwing more good money down this path and headed for Home Depot. I was going electric.

I found a beautiful model for a little more than I wanted to pay but rationalized it because (1) it would never require fuel line repairs and (2) it was Father’s Day and I deserved to splurge. Plus it could cut ¾” limbs and had a l-o-n-g blade so I could reach those higher branches. Feeling good with this decision, I brought it home and put it in the garage where I admired it every time I passed it during the next couple of weeks.

Last Tuesday I tardily decided to get outside early and get as much trimming done as I could before the thermometer hit 100. By 9:30am I was in a hospital emergency room having been transported there by my very pale BBL. The top inch of my left index finger was being held on by a bare thread of skin. [Some advice to DIY hackers: if you’re going to maim yourself, do it fairly early in the morning and you’ll avoid the long lines that develop at the ER later in the day.]

Ironically, my BBL recognized the ER doctor as the one who had attended to my last emergency visit a couple of years ago. If nothing else, we are loyal with our patronage. Dr. Z quickly consulted with a couple of different hand surgeons to assess the prospects for re-attachment. He reported it could be done but would probably require a 10 hour operation followed by an ICU stay, and probably cost >$100,000; and then there would be the increased possibility for complications. Not a hard decision for me. I’m no fan of surgical operations or hospital stays, having had some past experience with both. Besides, I’m already used to typing one-handed.

Dr. Z referred me to the hospital’s hand surgeon on call – Dr. A (no kidding). We were told to show up in his office by 3:00pm and he would work me in. We cheated a bit and showed up earlier. This is when I learned that hand surgeons usually double as plastic surgeons (maybe it’s vice versa). Arriving early meant we got to study at length all the “before and after” pictures displayed on the wall and the digital picture frame in the waiting room. We saw lots of shots of improved butts, thighs, breasts, tummies, throats, chins, etc., but not one hand!

When Dr. A finally worked through his more interesting procedures and got to me, he asked how I was doing. I felt oddly fine under the circumstances, but told him I was going to really freak out if he asked me to disrobe. An hour later, he announced the completion of “a textbook amputation”. Certified by Doctors A to Z, now I can only count to 9 2/3 – unless I’m totally disrobed.

It Was All Relative

My BBL achieved her XXth birthday last week. On her short “wish” list was a desire to visit family by taking a roadtrip to roam the Northwestern reaches of Chicago-land & /Northern Indiana capped with a stop in St. Louis.. The caveat (and I think her real birthday wish) was that she wanted me to chauffeur her! So we packed up the Mighty Mercury Montego and racked up some impressive stats:

2443 total miles
219 hours away (start to finish)
200 tollbooths (it seemed like that many!)
87 gallons of gas
53 average miles per hour (not 83 as originally posted!)
46 hours (behind the wheel)
28 average miles per gallon
Resulting in visits with:
1 Father (in-law)
1 Mother (in-law)
1 Son
1 Doctor (SO)
1 Step-Cousin
3 Brothers (in-law)
3 Sisters (in-law)
5 Nephews (in-law)
6 Nieces (in-law)
6 Spouses of brothers/sisters/niece (in-law)
7 Pets (in-law?)
Or:
28 family members visited (excluding pets)
87 miles driven per relative
199 ounces of gas consumed per relative
469 minutes away from home per relative . . .

But who’s counting? It was a priceless experience.

Thanks to all who have served

These aren't my words, but they definitely mirror my sentiments:

It is the VETERAN, not the clergy, who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the VETERAN, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the VETERAN, not the legislator, who has given us freedom to assemble.

It is the VETERAN, not the judge, who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the VETERAN, not the politician, who has given us the right to vote.

It is the VETERAN, not the orator, who has given us freedom of speech.

And if you can read this in English, thank a VETERAN!

If you've got two minutes, check out this link, then click on the screen to start.

Best wishes for a happy and safe holiday weekend.

Voir Dire Y’all

Last week I answered my civic jury duty “invitation” for the DC court system. Not the DC you might immediately think of, but the local county court system with the same initials and, I guess, the same pedigree.

This is the third time I’ve been summoned for jury duty by this court. In retrospect, that averages about once for every ten years I’ve resided in their jurisdiction (and about half the invitations my BBL’s experienced, for which I’m thankful).

In the past, the event ALWAYS came at an awkward time for service, but this time there were no conflicting pressures upon my time and I approached this “opportunity” with a different mindset: I found myself mentally willing, albeit not particularly anxious, to serve should I be selected.

The first couple of hours were no different than my previous visits – essentially a boot camp to explain the process, how honored one should feel that a computer had selected you at random, how even MORE honored you should feel if the computer again randomly selected you for a specific jury pool, but that you could not feel honored if the computer selected you and you happened to somehow be associated with the legislative branch of government, etc. Thank God the court has some minimal standards!

So I felt duly honored when the computer randomly selected me to report to the 999th district court – but they won’t need you for at least an hour. We were instructed to show up again no later than 11:15 or else the sheriff would be sent to find our honored bodies, presumably to dishonor them somehow/someway.

At 11:30 the 999th Court bailiff came to read off my name with approximately 34 other honored people and inform us that (a) the judge does not like cell phones, particularly ones that ring/buzz in his courtroom; (b) if your cell phone does make its presence known, he will bestow a contempt of court fine of at least $100 on your honored wallet, and (c) show up at the courtroom no later than noon without food, drink and preferably your cell phone (or else you know what).

At the appointed hour, we were role-called in to the courtroom. I am not in the first twelve, but find myself well within the first half of prospective jurors. After we genuflect to the cell phone phobic judge, we begin the process of voir dire. Anytime anything remotely representing a French phrase is uttered in Texas, one can be forgiven to assume the worse could happen.

Both the prosecuting and defense attorneys “explained” the voir dire process as meaning “to tell the truth.” They both professed to wanting to get to know us better. In actuality, what they both really wanted to do was start un-randomizing the process of jury selection that the County had spent so much time and treasure to accomplish. In other words, they each wanted to stack the jury in their favor as much as possible. The game was on!

Although we could see the defendant, the rules of this game were that the attorneys could not represent any specific facts of the case; they could only ask questions about jurors thoughts of the case in the abstract. The only specific: the charge in this particular case was burglary of a habitation.

The prosecutor started hitting voir dire paydirt when he explained the penalty for this particular crime could be 20 years to life under certain circumstances. The question: could you consider such a sentence? Much consternation arose among my peers that they could vote for such a sentence. What circumstances would warrant it? The prosecutor offered as one scenario: what if you found out the defendant had murdered someone in the past? Hmmm. Defense attorney calls a sidebar conference with judge. The verdict – let’s adjourn for lunch,

We reconvened at 2pm. It’s the defense attorney’s time at bat. We learn that at one time he was a mayor of a small municipality nearby (I can’t help myself hoping that they had a good audit committee there). He tries to address the prosecutor’s scenario with a different one of his own. We find out if the defendant is found guilty of this crime and, let’s suppose, he was guilty of two other felonies, say as simple as passing 2 bad checks (>$1500 each) twenty years ago, A-HA, then the State would require us to consider that 20-year to life sentence as minimum. Oh, and by the way, what do you think if I don’t put my client on the stand to testify in his behalf? You know he doesn’t have to say a word – you have to presume his innocence. Can you do that? Consternation consequently expressed on several levels amongst my peers = defense voir dire paydirt.

To make the proverbial long jury selection story bearable, the judge eventually called the attorneys to his bench where they conferred for some time. At the end, I was not particularly surprised to learn I wasn’t selected to serve, but I was surprised that NO ONE was selected to serve from this group. The system voir dired itself out of a jury and I’m still unsure of the mechanism (I thought each side could strike 10 prospective jurors apiece which would have still left at least 12).

What I do know is approximately 35 citizens sacrificed a day of their time and treasure (mine amounted to driving ~70 miles + lunch) – but for the infrastructure (judge, attorneys, bailiffs, court reporter, security screeners, etc.) it was just another day at the office, playing the game where they know the rules.

Reflecting upon the experience, I was extremely surprised to learn that seemingly more than half of my fellow jury candidates had experienced some type of theft; most were in-personal (garage, auto, office, etc), but some were of a very personable nature – and under capable attorney questioning, I found out that none of the perpetuators had been identified, much less brought to justice. I, for one, am therefore very surprised at the restraint these “random victims” exhibited at potential sentencing scenarios during voir dire.

One result of all this: I have started setting the home security system again. Why? In addition to the above, what if I told you (hypothetically, of course) I heard a court employee say the defendant has been charged with more than 15 similar offences?

Collaborating Testimony

I have always thought of my BBL as an angel (well, at least most of the time). She came home last week with a letter that had been sent to the hospital by a patient she had briefly interacted with.
“Three days until Christmas and nine days before my scheduled surgery, I found myself at the pre-op appointment at the hospital. It was the third hour taking care of the business at hand and I was growing weary, but this was my last stop. This particular nurse was asking questions regarding my health history and, as her fingers typed feverishly on the keyboard, I couldn’t help but notice a silver ring on her little finger. From my vantage point it looked like a small angel charm dangled from the ring. It was the smallest charm I’d ever seen, and the angel appeared to be holding a trumpet. I answered her questions without too much effort but was mesmerized by her ring.”
“Abruptly, my eyes were removed from the ring as she turned toward me waiting for an answer to her last question. I paused for a second but knew no other way to answer except to honestly say, ‘I don’t recall much about myself at that time of my life because my middle son had just passed away from cancer and I was grieving.’ She turned even more to face me and gently asked what form of cancer. I replied, ‘Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma; he was about to turn 21 when he passed away. He was an A&M student when he …’ And by that point the tears spilled out and I began sobbing, Just thinking back to that time … in the grip of the darkest season of my life, produced such intense pain and sadness. The nurse graciously shared that no mother should ever have to endure such pain.”
“For some reason, I told her that I’d been staring at her angel ring and that I wanted to buy myself one like it—that I believed in angels. Without hesitation, she shocked me when she spoke: ‘Please take my ring—I want you to have it! This angel charm isn’t even made anymore.’ I argued that I had no intention of taking her ring, but she softly said, “I haven’t worn this ring in a long time. I don’t know why I wore it today, so it must have been to give it to you. Please, have my ring.’ She took it off her little finger and I tried it on mine…it fit perfectly.”
“We completed the questions and stood up. We hugged. She was my nurse, my friend and my angel that day – and she had no idea that I had prayed to God that morning desiring more of Him and a strong sense of my son’s presence in my life that day.”
That’s my BBL. 
1/24/11 edit: corrected typo "harm" to "charm"

Spirit of St. Louis

Less than ninety days ago, it wouldn’t have entered my wildest dreams (not that I have that many anymore) that I would ever spend a Christmas in St. Louis. My visit there awakened some good, and some sad, memories.

In November, our Denver-based number one son moved East to Lucky Lindy’s hometown in order to join a firmly rooted Western based financial firm (whose motto is “Together We’ll Go Far.”) Fulfilling the “together” role, Dr. S(O) also made the same journey (we will not speculate on who followed whom). Faced with the prospect of not having our kids together with us on Christmas morn, my BBL artfully wrangled an invitation for us to visit the new transplants. And so we did -- and had a great time. Then, on the day after Christmas, my Blackberry calendar reminded me that John, my St. Louis friend/associate, had died nine years ago.

In the 27 years I served as a region manager, St. Louis had been in-and-out of my geographical sales “responsibility” at least three times. During one of those touch points in the 1990’s, it represented the best market share area in my region, if not in the entire nation. Certainly not because of me, but most certainly because of John.

I remember that John almost didn’t get hired by my company. The region manager who was trying to hire him confided that he was very worried that the current perceptions of what a sales rep should look or be like (young, athletic ie. run/play tennis, etc.) would wash him out during the HQ interview process. He shouldn’t have worried so much, because the guy who looked like a balding fireplug proved to be the sparkplug most of us would come to admire. As evidence, I remember that John’s name, when mentioned during national sales meetings would elicit a spontaneous karaoke version of Volare – a close approximation of his surname.

Confident. Intelligent. Engaging. Cognizant of “the little people” in any organization. Independent. Principled. Loyal. Seeing/Using Humor. Organized. Networking for the good of all. Devoted to family/friends/associates. All attributes of John – and every other person I know or have known from this city. Perhaps all represent the true “Spirit of St. Louis”.

It pays to go to the State Fair

[But only if you’re smart enough to take your wife (and not eat tooo much of the food)]!

My BBL and I managed to squeeze in about 7 hours at the Great State Fair of Texas a few days before it ended for the purposes of:
 Enjoying an absolutely beautiful outdoor October afternoon, and
 Ride the huge Texas Star Ferris Wheel, and of course
 Savor our 2010 Fletcher’s Corny Dog, and
 Sample one of the newest confectionary Fair concoctions – fried Oreo cookies!
I’m happy to report we accomplished all of these objectives (and we are still alive). Unexpectedly, we also thoroughly enjoyed a couple of other experiences, namely:
 Discovery Gardens and the Butterfly House (we must be getting old), and
 The Russian Bar Troupe (three talented folks from Quebec–go figure).

However, our most favorable unexpected experience was when we visited an unusual booth in the Texas Food Pavilion (after sampling some Nolan Ryan’s sausage). It was displaying signs proclaiming “Your Father was wrong – money does grow on trees” and “Texas’ Best Cash Crop.” Because there was a non-existent crowd around this booth, I sauntered up and inquired about its purpose. The lone worker somewhat boringly explained that Texas has a great amount of unclaimed property which they would willingly return to its rightful owner, pending due process of proper ID, claim, etc.
Intrigued, I asked him to enter my name (18 letters + a space) into his laptop. Nada. I asked him to do it again, since his attitude and the number of keystrokes could easily have produced an error. Zilch. I had struck out.
Enter my BBL (who had been off on her own sampling a quesadilla). She quickly grasped the concept and asked the worker if he could just search by surname. While I suspect she was really trying to see if her or our kids’ names popped up, I struck pay dirt. First initial, middle initial, surname = $75 (a rebate from a computer accessories firm that probably dated back a dozen years or so).
We figure our net gain will be about $10 after deducting parking, admission, food, drink, rides, etc. After factoring in gas, tolls and inflation, it might even be breakeven – but good fortune nonetheless, thanks to my BBL. But a coronary from the corny dogs or the Oreo’s would definitely wipe out any benefit! Live and learn: my tactic for the next visit is to eat healthier and go for the fried chef’s salad with dressing on the side!
And, of course, I will check out the Texas’ Best Cash Crop booth again.

Magic Out Of Thin Air (Again)

I’m young enough not to have known this world without AM radio --- and old enough to remember discovering the existence of FM radio. I don’t exactly remember when it happened, but when that wonderful development that amplified the FM experience (FM STEREO radio) I coveted it immediately. I think I bought a different car just to enjoy that one feature.

I am now ancient enough to know some people who have never listened to any station broadcasting on the AM “dial”—and with good reason. The last time I was there was to listen to a sporting event on KRLD (1080), an event that surely ended badly at the time (according to their website they started broadcasting on Halloween Day in 1926 which somehow seems appropriate). I suppose there are also some youngsters I know who aren’t at all familiar with FM radio either (which is to say radio period).

I bring all this up because I recently acquired a Microsoft Zune – a portable everything device similar to the fruity i-Touch – but with the all important distinction of having a FM radio, which is the sole reason I bought it. At my advanced age, I don’t get delighted easily, but the Zune did it. It brought me back to me the wonder of FM and FM Stereo . . . with its HD FM receivership capabilities.

It seems in the recent past, some FM stations have quietly added HD multi-casts to their assigned bandwidth. Who knew? Surprise! HD radio (which does NOT stand for High Definition like you’d think it would) simply performs like it is High Definition radio. A single station can broadcast up to 7 different programs digitally with absolutely clear (no static) reception (although I haven’t found one yet with more than 3). Plus it can tell you the artist, song etc.) currently playing. I was transported back to the magic of going through a tunnel with no loss of the FM radio signal while different sounds were coming out of the left and right speakers.

The cost of this magic? Zero. NaDa. Free. Just like before. Take that satellite radio!

Beyond the benefits of crystal clear reception, the other benefit seems to be (with stations broadcasting on their 2nd or 3rd HD program) an almost complete lack of advertising. It’s almost like listening to a CD.

Why has this been under the (my) radar? I suggest perhaps poor marketing, at least to my age group. I offer the idea that they adopt a theme along the lines: “Let us create your ‘playlist’ for you.” Might even catch on with the younger crowd.

On August 24th--

10,957 days ago, a baby girl joined our family. And we were blessed.

52 days ago, she symbolically left us to adopt a different last name and officially start a new branch of our family. And she was blessed, just as my BBL and I were blessed in our own right only 13,478 days ago – and every day since.

When birthdays or anniversaries come around, it is only natural we tend to score their accumulation. But the real measure of success and/or just plain good fortune is the quality of the accumulation, not just the quantity.

When my favorite daughter “left us” via her wedding (the afore mentioned 52 days ago), I declined my opportunity to offer a toast, but only due to practical reasons. The ceremony ran long, the reception was rapidly accelerating toward its end, and the best man and maid of honor had the occasion fully covered. But I offer this sentiment now in lieu of doing it then:

As we all know, the weather was a bit threatening on your wedding day, but co-operated during all the “strategic” times when we had to be outdoors. It occurred to me then that we didn’t know if the weather was due to the end of Hurricane Alex or perhaps the beginning of Hurricane Baker (your new surname). Hopefully not the latter! But as you face your future, there is no doubt you two will encounter some rain – be it in a physical state that threatens to spoil a pretty day, or in a mental state that threatens to spoil contentment and happiness. To paraphrase a prayer I learned as a child, I offer you this thought whenever it may be appropriate to consider – and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to consider it daily:

“Lord, we await the day when your Kingdom will come. Until then, may the rain [reign] of Your Divine Truth, Life and Love nurture us individually and help us grow together as husband and wife. We ask You to help us repel the sins of this world and that Thy Word continually enrich the affections we have toward each other -- and that we have toward all mankind.” Frankly, so far I think it’s worked fairly well to maintain my perspective.

Happy birthday, baby. Here is your entire wedding reduced to a 14 minute video.

Thankfully It Wasn’t Posthumous

A couple of weeks ago, my BBL and I managed to escape the blast furnace we call Summer in Texas by climbing aboard a jet bound for the Pacific Northwest. We arrived to a positively refrigerated Seattle climate and, through no planning on our part, just in time to experience the opening of Seafair and its Torchlight Parade. However, apparently 75,000 other people did plan to be there which created a crowded downtown experience that was very close and way too personal for us. We decided to go camp in our Arctic Club hotel room and watch the parade on TV along with some local Pinot Noir.

The next day we escaped the Seattle crowds by climbing aboard the Victoria Clipper IV bound for (you guessed it) Victoria, BC Canada. The day didn’t start off all that promising – downright cold and overcast – but things started to brighten up as we pulled into our foreign harbor (sorry, harbour). We were immediately surprised to see the amount of seaplane activity in the port. We boarded a pre-arranged tour bus and were whisked off to the incredible Butchart Gardens only about 12 km away. This is the most fantastic reclamation project I’ve ever seen! The place exists because the Butchart family mined limestone/cement and the naturally ugly quarry it left behind was transformed into a thing of unparalleled beauty. The Gardens now take in more revenue than could ever have been imagined when the mining project began.

We were deposited back in Victoria with a few hours to spend before the Clipper departed. Again, without any advance planning, we arrived in the nick of time to witness the beginning of their outdoor Symphony Spash Festival. Lots of people to rub elbows with but it hardly registered on our Seattle “hassle” scale. Our return cruise was faster due to now perfect weather conditions and we were treated to a marvelous sunset off the stern which seemed to underscore our good fortune to have experienced someplace truly different and wonderful. We’d go back in a heartbeat, particularly if we can find someone to pay the freight.

Our next day in Seattle was all touristy. The “hop on -- hop off” bus tour moved us around the city to visit the Space Needle, the city mall area, Pike market, original Starbucks store, stadiums, waterfront, Pioneer Square and the sundry stores in these different areas. Two establishments stand out in our memory: the Chocolate Market (which had only been open a week and who were so happy to see us—or anyone—come in that they gave us several free samples and even took our Canadian coins when we made our purchase) and the KuKuRuZa “gourmet” popcorn shop (I heartily endorse the jalapeno cheddar option).
Leaving Seattle provided another first for us – a trip on Amtrak using business class service. Our destination was Vancouver, WA, a 3 hour trip but destined to be 4+ (due to track work and a dispatcher in Ft. Worth accused of being on a smoke break). Not a problem due to the scenery, first class seating, power outlets for the computer, free drink/food coupons, free movie and the freedom to move around. We were met in Vancouver by a longtime friend and resident who delivered us to our downtown Portland hotel after treating us to dinner at the Blue Hour restaurant where we feasted on the sea bass spaghetti entrée, the first of many delightful dining experiences in Portland.

In truth, Portland was our ultimate destination for this trip and the place where I had to go to “work.” I had been given an assignment to represent my employer at the summer conference of the Association of Independent Printing Paper Merchants, an assignment that has occurred as often as twice a year for the past 6 years. Attending this group’s meetings has always been a highlight for my BBL and me, but I cannot describe the surprise and shock I felt when the Executive Director announced me as the recipient of their “Career Leadership Award” named after their founder, Peyton Shaner. I left my camera with my BBL, stumbled forward to accept the honor, and mumbled a few words of appreciation all of which probably left the majority of the audience wondering about the selection process!

I have never been particularly good at impromptu speaking (and I know plenty of folks who would say “his public speaking in general”). Being caught flat-footed certainly didn’t make it any better. So my inevitable post-mortem evaluation of my acceptance comments leads me to wish I would have been astute enough to address:
- The kind/humorous comments of Joe and Noel, the award co-presenters and long-term customers;

- The selection process may have confused the terms "leadership" and "longevity";
- A plug for my company whose values have allowed actions in the field worthy of this recognition for one of its individuals – and not just once, but twice – and I know how much the recognition also meant to the other recipient;
- That both my VP and new Director of Sales were present in the room and equally surprised (I think) -- and that Jim’s presence represents my employer's new emphasis on the Association's segment of distribution;
- Most of all to recognize my “secret selling weapon” and soul-mate, my BBL, who has not only totally supported me during my career, but has made genuine friendships in her own right among many in the Association; and
- My gratitude they did not wait to perhaps present this award posthumously (as they did with their founder). Thank you!

Pictures of Victoria
Pictures of Seattle
Pictures of Portland

The Milestones Just Keep On Comin'

First, today is Memorial Day. In my humble opinion, we need to thank all those who have served our country, particularly the fallen. Their sacrifices have allowed us to experience all of our daily tribulations and trials under the blanket/blessing of freedom.

Since my last post, the seasons have morphed from Winter, through Spring (in just a blink of a pansy or two), and we now sit perched on the edge of Summer (high was 97 again today). It’s almost getting warm enough for an Al Gore sighting!

It would have been busy enough for me just watching the weather change and our pond water evaporate, but life and its relentless need to change has offered some additional seasoning of its own – salt and pepper, sweet and sour -- in the past couple of months.

My favorite daughter was asked by her favorite guy to marry him. Guess what she said? The wedding is planned for July 3rd when they will formally acknowledge the end of their individual independence. Being the day before Independence Day, something in me finds that ironic, yet appropriate. That day will also be the second anniversary of the beginning of their courtship.

As if a wedding isn’t enough to plan by itself, there has been a near frantic drive to stabilize/remodel/redecorate/landscape their future residence (see earlier post). That sucking sound you hear is the house gobbling more resources – mostly time, energy and money. The latest news is the air conditioning system needs to be replaced! But even though significant progress can be seen, the suspense continues to build whether or not it will be ready in time. As my daughter observes, “EVERYTHING TAKES LONGER THAN IT SHOULD.”

Frankly, if all of this wasn’t happening, I probably would have been more affected by the passing of my last maternal aunt in early April. Although I never put it in this perspective before, upon going through her papers I realized she was barely 20 years old when I was born. My most vivid memories of her probably date back to when I was 8 or 9. I was in awe of her beauty, vitality, and sense of “being with it.” And it didn’t hurt that she also gave me the best wrapped birthday and Christmas presents! She would regale me with stories about being a single girl working for DuPont in downtown Chicago, fending off unwanted advances from men she came in contact with. My memory doesn’t have to be too sharp here, because she repeated this story during my last (almost) weekly phone call.

Although I lost Aunt B in Lakeland, Florida, I am fortunate to say I transitioned an acquaintance there to full-fledged friendship status as a direct consequence of this sad event. If you would ever doubt angels exist, I could offer proof by introducing you to Mrs. G, who had been a local ray of sunshine to my Aunt B for years, and now she has taken on that role with me. Combing through 30 years of another’s residence is not my idea of fun, but having someone to share emotional support, advice, a sense of teamwork, run countless errands (and provide meals too) was/is priceless.

Just as each of these events could be an individual post, there was also the trip/escape to Phoenix/Sedona; the ride on the Grapevine (Texas) Wine and Jazz train; my favorite son advancing to the wise young age of 32; and my other angel (BBL’s) completion of her xxth trip around the sun tomorrow. Which also is the same day I celebrate(??) my 40th year of association with the best little paper company on the planet. Whew!

The Weirdest Super Bowl Wager?

When I saw this I knew the Saints would be the more motivated “artsy-fartsy” team! Or maybe it was this musical tribute to the “Bayou Beasts” that did the trick?

Congratulations to the long suffering Crescent City.

Indy vs. New Orleans respective Museums of Arts’ wager:

From IMA's Anderson: "Deal -- Claude for Turner. Two masters in spirited competition across the channel, and between our fair cities. Go Colts!"

And in polite, collegial reply, NOMA's Bullard: "Max is a gracious opponent. Thanks for accepting the wager of a Claude from New Orleans for a Turner from Indianapolis. But this is definitely the Saints year. They are the Dream Team and in New Orleans we know that dreams come true. Geaux Saints!!!"
http://www.artknowledgenews.com/2010-02-04-01-18-21-museum-directors-bet-masterpieces-in-2010-super-bowl-wager.html

Becoming a (Federal) Good Neighbor

On February 5th at approximately 2 pm, my favorite daughter officially became a homeowner, joining the fraternity (sorority?) of citizens who are expected to be responsible enough to pay real estate taxes. In retrospect, I would rather have a root canal than watch her go through this process again.

It certainly started off with a lot of euphoria about three months ago when she learned she had “won” a lottery to purchase a HUD foreclosure under their “Good Neighbor” program. In return for her commitment to fix up an unsalable house and live in it for three years, she could purchase it at a significant discount to its (HUD) appraised value.

I had never heard of this program before, but it seemed to have many virtues like:
- Giving a legitimate “break” to those who serve our community (e.g. teachers, firemen, police officers, etc.).
- Placing community-minded, gainfully employed people in the affected neighborhood, and
- Helping maintain/improve real estate values in the area of the foreclosed home (not to mention continuing the revenue stream in the form of taxes to help pay for those teachers, firemen, police officers, etc.)

Thus began the saga of dealing with our benevolent government. It soon became apparent I was not the only one unfamiliar with this program and its requirements. Her real estate agent (a family friend) readily admitted this and brought in a colleague with HUD experience, who promptly filled out incorrect paperwork, again and again. Not totally her fault, as she attempted to get the correct procedures from that faceless government agency (with often nameless employees – I dare you to be able to talk with the same contact twice).

My daughter was advised to approach Bank of America for her HUD financing. Remember them – the folks that received billions recently from the government? They apparently didn’t have a clue about processing the “right” kind of mortgage for this government loan – and didn’t admit it either.

Inspections were another area of frustration. During the 15 day window to back out of the deal, my daughter had an independent inspection done, plus an estimate for foundation repairs. The need for foundation repair was fairly evident because, even to my untrained eye, the house slanted in several different directions. Having received an estimate on foundation repairs, this had to be validated by a structural engineer. A recommendation was made for a particular professional by a family friend (turned out to be someone who had never personally been used before!). He came in with an approach/estimate that even the foundation repair service took moral and practical exception with (and they would have benefited from all the excess work),

Then the new lender, (who replaced the “too big to fail” bank after it failed my girl) advised her HUD would only accept an inspection from one of their “approved” people. And this had to happen immediately in order to continue the loan application process. The $600 man showed up at the duly appointed time and, miraculously, within 15 minutes the process was able to continue. Oh, yeah, this was explained as being necessary “for her protection.” I’m biting my keyboard not to comment further.

I was invited to the final walk-through two days before closing which is basically done to ascertain the house is still standing and that no one has ripped off the air conditioner (although they had taken the mailbox!). That was when the real estate associate dropped the bomb that my daughter needed an extra $5000 at closing (~45 hours away) to pay for her services (all along my daughter had been told the government would take care of real estate fees). After all the things she had encountered, it was almost a deal breaker because she did not have the money to comply (and I couldn’t help her because there are all kind rules about using your own funds). While I was fuming and muttering about calling senators, congressmen, newspaper columnists, lawyers, et.al., fortunately they reached an agreement barely hours before the scheduled closing.

So approximately 3 months after starting the process, negotiating all of the many obstacles (including several holidays) along the way, shuffling reams of paper and signing her life away countless times, she has become an official real estate tax-paying Good Neighbor for HUD. I’m very proud of her for competently dealing with the roller coaster ride. Maybe the environment she works in as a kindergarten teacher has conditioned her to deal with it better than I can.

Although it is probably just part of my DNA, but observing this whole experience has, sadly, served to make me even more wary of government programs. The problem does not lie with the ideas nor their intent – just the seemingly constant inability to smoothly implement them. It doesn’t exactly encourage me to turn over the keys to our health system.

Once In A Blue Moon

A full moon occurred December 31, 2009, the second time during the month which made it an official “Blue Moon”. The next time we should see two full moons in one month will be August, 2012 (which, incidentally, was the month I had originally planned to retire). The next time a “blue moon” will coincide with a new year’s eve is calculated to be in 2028. Hopefully, you, I, the country and the world will be around to see it. If I do, I’ll be 1/3 of my way through my 80th year. On one hand, this is encouraging since the chance of this happening is so much better than the odds of me seeing Halley’s Comet again (July 2068). On the other hand, it might be a moot point if it is too overcast (or smoggy) to see it. In that case, I'll just listen to Elvis Presley croon it from a record/CD/MP3/MPEG4/Internet or whatever form exists in the future.

BEST WISHES FOR A HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

(AND AN EVEN HAPPIER NEW DECADE)!!

My Wurst Texas Experience

(aside: I attended a recent neighborhood party (featuring fantastic BBQ BTW) and was chided by one friendly literally-attuned little lady about the absence of blog entries lately. So with my thanks and apology, I submit my following 2¢ for which “1¢” is now responsible.)

In early November I found myself a new Texas experience as I was working my way down I-35 toward San Antonio. After stops in Waco, Austin and San Marcos, I decided to pull up for the night in New Braunfels, arguably a suburb of the Alamo City.

New Braunfels was named after, of course, (old) Braunfels in Germany by none other than its wayward son Prince Carl who had a temporary job as Commissioner General of Adelsverein, a Society for the Protection of German Immigrants in Texas. Shortly after establishing NB as the first Germanic colony in Texas (circa 1845), he became homesick for the old castle and returned to Germany (you would too if you saw his Texas castle – kind of looked like a drive-in beer store before its time).

Like Prince Carl, I’m also of German ancestry and I got to Texas as soon as I could too. So I guess I was genetically disposed to be absolutely enthralled when I stumbled into the traditional New Braunfels celebration called “Wurstfest”. – billed as their annual 10 day salute to sausage. Thankfully it is not a celebration of Hossenfesser, which I suspect would be much harder to market.

For a Tuesday night there was a big crowd, maybe 1500 or so. About 15% of the people there were dressed in Germanic garb – and maybe half of those were there as entertainers, booth workers, etc. Lots of funny hats prevailed. I’m sure the attendance was helped by the mild weather. Except for lack of any costume, I had the weirdest feeling of blending right in with the crowd – age, hair/skin color, waistline, appetite. I am a stereotypical Tuesday evening Wurstfest attendee!

True to form, there were dozens of different type of sausage offerings. The most popular seemed to be a combo sausage, potato pancakes and apple sauce plate – no fewer than 150 people in line all three times I counted! The most iconic offering was the “wurst-kabob” consisting of 5 kinds of sausage on a stick. Personally, I opted for a foot long sausage link wrapped in a tortilla along with a couple mugs of Shiner Bock while listening to a few really good polka bands (enough Shiner may impact your judgement).

I was back at the Hampton Inn ~3 hours after my Wurstfest arrival, well fed, oiled and convinced that regardless of what they say, lederhosen is not designed to make you appear slimmer (although it is better than wearing knee socks with Bermuda shorts). My only regret is I didn’t buy the T-shirt that proclaimed “I’m Perfect . . .and I’m German too!”

While Wurstfest would typically provide all you could want in terms of encountering sausage, my return trip home included a small side trip through Elgin – home of three sausage companies (and three brick companies if you want a full accounting). One of the sausage outlet’s motto is “You’ll Love Our Guts!”

Actually, the real draw of my visit to this place was due to the town’s name. My boyhood hometown is just south of Elgin, Illinois (where namesake watches and street sweepers were made). But the locals of these two municipalities pronounce the name of totally differently: Up north it’s el-GIN (like L-Beefeaters); in Texas, it’s said el-KEN (kinda like L-Barbie’s boyfriend). Who knew I was pronouncing it wrong all these years?

When I got back to the interstate on the way home, I pulled into the “Czech Stop” in the town of West. This is one of the few places where you can gas up AND load up on kolachies – and you guessed it – sausage. In recognition of my Wurst Texas trip ever, it just seemed right to bring home some local six inch “Hot Chubbies.”

Hope you always experience only the best Wurst – wherever you are! Click here to see pictures/evidence. (suggest you select slideshow)

New Beginnings Again

This past week brought about a new school year, and for some of a tender age, the entry into the most German of American educational experiences – Kindergarten.

This is our daughter’s ninth year in Kindergarten. Of course, the first time (see picture) was a couple of dozen years ago, when she was facing the teacher along with a bunch of other 5 year olds. Whatever happened that year apparently resonated with her—enough to grow up with the desire – and now with 8 years of experience – to be the one facing an ever increasing number of kids in her classroom. The current count is 22, but others are expected to show up after Labor Day when their “traditional” parent(s) think that’s when school really starts. [Side thought: I know there will be those who might argue with me, but I really think Labor Day exists primarily to recognize our nation’s teachers return to their livelihood.]

I’ve been observing the preparation/tension that precedes the start of each school year for awhile now and can say, honestly, the time frame for foreboding shortens with each passing year – but is no less intense in the final week. In the beginning, my BBL initially volunteered to help prepare the classroom. While I think that characterization still “officially” applies, lately for some reason, it seems more like she’s been drafted!

My arm length involvement is sooo much longer than her mother’s, but my respect and pride of her daily endeavors takes a backseat to no one. There is no doubt that I could NOT do her job -- even if I had two Aggie degrees in Education. And I challenge any school administrator or public official involved in setting teacher compensation to try it for a year. And I know I would fail at the most rudimentary of her tasks – like remembering the kids’ names. Seems like these days most of their first names are distilled from a brew of alphabet soup spiked with vowels. I’m not saying that’s bad (our surname certainly contains a hefty surplus of consonants); just that it’s an indication of my memory limitations.

Along those lines, I regret to admit I don’t remember my own Kindergarten teacher’s name, but I suspect my mother would. Just like the cashier today at our local PETCO store did of her kid’s. I had provided my credit card to her to pay an exorbitant price for some food to feed the Koi (fancy carp) in our pond. The cashier asked if I was related to a certain Kindergarten teacher. After I responded in the affirmative, she told me her daughter had been in my daughter’s class three years ago and had loved the experience.

That absolutely made my day.