Did I Tell Ya it Rained on This Year's Road Trip?

Did I Tell Ya it Rained on This Year’s Road Trip?

I really don’t know how many of you might be interested in the minutia of the road trip our family took this year, but if you are, you are in luck!  This is it!  To be precise, here follows the exploits of Bill, Judy and Tony on a 2,000 mile odyssey this October; their ups and down, their encounters with the strange folk of far-away states and their experiences negotiating the odd customs and rituals of said far-away states.

So, fellow traveler – grab a cup of strong coffee, set yourself down in a comfy chair and get ready for the show.

Ready?  Then let’s have at it!

On the first day of travel, Tuesday, we were lulled into thinking that the trip just might be pleasant, weather speaking, as the sun shone as we headed out of Ohio in a westerly direction.  I’d checked the forecasts for the trip, however, and was not fooled by Mother Nature’s initial offering.  I knew better what lay ahead.  We said hello to our first rain near Indianapolis and it was pretty miserable for a couple of hours.  It gradually eased off somewhat near St. Louis and was hospitable again until we reached our destination for the evening at St. Robert, Mo.  It was a long first day and I was tired.  We all slept soundly that evening at the hotel and arose to continue our journey only slightly the worse for wear.

On Wednesday after a nice sunny drive west, we arrived at our first destination, Judy’s sister and brother-in-law’s house in Sand Springs.  This town is one of Tulsa, Oklahoma’s suburbs, about 8 miles southwest of the city.  After some catching up with Judy’s sister Lori (the brother-in-law Harris was working late that day) and unpacking, we adjourned to an Italian restaurant in Tulsa for a late lunch/early supper.  After returning we again noticed that their house is a very nice-looking brick and sits on a large lot due to their buying the lots on either side of them – a very smart thing to do in my estimation.  Harris, Lori’s husband and the brother-in-law arrived later in the day and we all continued our catching up.

Please note that I have a serious disability insofar as I unconsciously try to mimic the accent of people around me.  I fought it the whole trip but wanted to apologize to our hosts if they detected something off-key in my speech patterns.  It wasn’t intended as mockery.  Honestly!

Thursday we were up and off to Utica Square in Tulsa for a breakfast at a rather eclectic place called the Wild Fork.  A bit high-end and very generous in their servings (I got stuffed!).  Then, as the day was beautiful, we were off to Bartlesville in the beautiful Osage country north of Tulsa to visit Woolaroc – Frank Phillips (founder of Phillips Oil) ranch and museum.  Woolaroc – the name denotes wood, lakes and rocks – was founded in 1925 originally as a get-away place for Mr. Phillips and a place to entertain his friends in the oil and show business.  He was a heavy collector of Western art and artifacts and that’s how the museum started.  It was added to many times over the years and is now quite extensive in those areas.  His lodge house is still there, too, in the same condition it was when Mr. Phillips was alive and is very interesting with its rustic look and the many stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls.  He also loved wildlife and there are now many examples of native and exotic animals roaming the grounds – elk, longhorn cattle and bison along with lesser-known beasts from around the world. In the quite large museum we found many examples of Indian art and many, many beautiful bronzes of Western life.  (I totally loved the bronzes!)  It also contains his airplane and oil memorabilia.  They even have a stagecoach that used to run a route in Montana and is reputed to have 650,000 miles on it!  That’s a LOT of rough riding!

We returned to Tulsa after a great afternoon exploring Woolaroc.  That evening we ate at a very well regarded Mexican restaurant in downtown Tulsa named the Mexicali Border Café.  Good food, good waiter, great Margaritas!  We then went about 2 blocks to check out “the Center of the Universe”.  This is an odd little place in a pedestrian-only plaza that has some very unique acoustic properties – bizarre echoes and strange auditory effects when you stand in a specific spot.  Hard to figure out what’s happening or how, but it’s surely unique.  Afterwards we adjourned back to Lori and Harris’s home for more conversation.

The rains and storms started late that evening.

On Friday it rained most of the day.  We ate breakfast at home and shared some of our recent cruise photos to them on their big 60-inch TV.  Later in the afternoon we drove to a consignment store to wander around a bit and see if Oklahoma junk looked different than Ohio junk.  The answer was yes and no.  More cowboy stuff and less Amish stuff, I guess.  More Merle Haggard albums and less AC/DC.  Ate supper at a downtown Sand Springs hamburger joint.  Tasty!  Watched a couple movies with them at their house that evening – “Million Dollar Baby” and a comedy whose name escapes me.  Judy and Lori went grocery shopping during the first half of the first movie while Harris, Tony and I watched it.

On Saturday morning we ate some of Lori’s homemade oatmeal – yummy – along with some toast with jalapeño jelly!  Good stuff!  Drove to the Saturday Flea Market in Sand Springs and perused the goods available.  Since it was still a RAINY DAY (thought I’d remind you) some of the stalls were not open.  At least it was indoors as it was chilly.  I spent a pleasant 10 minutes or so while there chatting with one of the stall owners who used to be a scoutmaster.  Interesting fellow.  Back at the house we did the lazy Saturday thing of watching college football, which they take quite seriously out there.  The best game was a Baylor vs TCU matchup in which Baylor won 61 to 58.  LOTS of scoring in that one!  Knoshed on Lori-provided frozen yogurt cones during the games, too.  Thanks Lor!  Supper was at a tiny diner in downtown Sand Springs – fish sandwiches and onion rings.  Simple and nice!

Sunday was another oatmeal day – still good but…  After breakfast, Lori and Harris headed off to church and we drove over to Broken Arrow – another suburb of Tulsa – to visit with an old friend of mine and her husband – Linda and Bob. Linda was the youngest sister of a girl I used to date waaaaay back in the ‘60’s.  We’d lost touch with each other over the years, but got back in touch not too long ago using Facebook.  This was the first opportunity we had to see each other in about 40 years.  They had graciously invited us to their home that day and we’d happily accepted.  They introduced us to their white Westie dog named Maisie and we happily played with Miss Maisie while yammering away about old times, old friends and almost half a century of our lives.  We took a break for a good Mexican meal and a better Margarita, then, after a guided tour of the rapidly growing city of Broken Arrow, returned to their home for more conversation and memories.  I gave them a copy of the two books I’d written and they were tickled to get ‘em.  We bid a fond farewell around 7 and then returned to Sand Springs.  We grabbed a quickie supper at a local Sonic – just Judy, Tony and I that evening as Lori and Harris had eaten earlier.  More football was enjoyed on their big TV and Lori and Judy washed all our dirty clothes from the trip.  Sooooooo nice!  Thanks Lor and Judy!

On Monday we bid a sad farewell to our hosts and headed on an eastward course to Fayetteville, Arkansas, where we were to meet with an old Air Force friend and his fiancé – Al and Sandy.  We arrived at their house around noon in the rain.  (Did I mention that it was STILL raining in the area?)  We ate at a barbecue place nearby for lunch and returned afterward for a tour of their house.  They’d only just moved into this residence about four months ago and it was a nice one!  What was the coolest part of this particular house was the movie theater in the attic!  Yes, a movie theater!  12 movie seats, a huge projection TV and big screen.  Al was in the process of rewiring it and doing some maintenance.  But…  a movie theater in your home?  Wow!  I dropped off some more of my books with them and we visited until about 6 p.m. when we had to leave for Branson.

The drive to Branson, Missouri from Fayetteville, Arkansas consisted of a windy 2-lane mountain road for about 80 percent of the drive.  It was dark and did I mention IT WAS STILL RAINING AND WINDY?  Quite a white-knuckler of a drive for yours truly, for sure.  We checked into our hotel and dined at a Denny's for supper (we do love the high life!).  Hit the hay early as the drive had about done me in.

On Tuesday we ate at the hotel buffet which was about as good as those things get.  Scrambled eggs, sausage, biscuits and sausage gravy, waffles, juices, coffee, fruits, cereals.  Quite nice!  We then visited the Titanic Museum.  Judy and I had seen it some years ago, but this was Tony’s first time.  It’s a very nice place with all kinds of information and exhibits about the Titanic.  You’re given a passport as you enter with one of the passenger’s names signifying yourself.  At the end of your trip through the museum you see if you lived or died.  As you might have guessed it was too bad for our surrogates.  Then it was a trip to old downtown Branson for some souvenirs and tee shirts and a lunch at Steak and Shake.  Supper that evening was at a seafood buffet.  We went to the Baldknobbers Jamboree Show at 8 that night – a Branson “must see” with great country music and hilarious comedy.  Tony loved it!  Back at the hotel by 10:30 and had hot cobbler and ice cream.  At the HOTEL!  I just love this place.  This was an everyday feature of the hotel.  Nice!

Wednesday was our last day at Branson.  We had the great buffet again for breakfast and went to a big craft mall to walk around and drool at some of the neat stuff for sale.  We were basically just killing the morning while we waited for our first performance of the day.  There was a Coleman outlet store next door and we wandered its aisles for a while also.  And, can you believe it - THE SUN STARTED COMING OUT OF THE RAINCLOUDS!  Just in time for our last day. 

Our first show that day was an Elvis impersonator named Joseph Hall – a young Elvis and a really good one.  Two hours of singing and hip gyrations had us all sweating along with Joseph (Elvis).  Supper afterward was at a steakhouse where prime rib was enjoyed.  At 8 o’clock we went to a show called the Revollusionists.  It was a magic show with six young magicians doing their specialties – slight of hand, escape, close-up, big illusion and juggling.  Quite a mix.  They, as all entertainers we’d seen in Branson, worked very, very hard and put on a humdinger of a show!  We think we might have seen the juggler on one of our cruises but couldn’t be sure.  Back to the hotel for more cobbler/ice cream/cookies.  Love this place!

Thursday was our travel day and the less of it remembered or talked about the better.  Loooong hours driving the 763 miles from there to home.  We left around 6:30 am and got home nearly 10 pm.  So very, very tired.

So there you have it, for the folks still with me.  Ten days on the road – doing stuff, seeing stuff, enjoying (for the most part) each other’s company and relishing not having to go to work.

So thanks again to the three wonderful couples that put up with our shenanigans over those ten days and to tell them to make sure to say howdy when you’re in our neck of the woods.  We’d love to show ya around!

The Retirement Present

The Retirement Present

It was a normal sort of day, one that wasn't displaying any remarkable ups or downs. I was driving to work in the afternoon of this unmemorable day, listening to a talking book as I often do and watching the landscape stream by on either side of the Honda. When I was about half-way to work on the state highway I usually traveled I saw a speck approaching way off in the distance. As I drove closer I saw it was a man proceeding down the highway toward me. At first I thought he was walking, but his motions were not those you'd associate with a walker. It was a little herky-jerky if you follow what I mean. Kind of a wobble as he proceeded down the road. And he seemed so doggone TALL! When I finally got even with him I could see it was a guy riding on a unicycle! And it was one with a wheel quite a bit larger than ones I'd seen in circus acts or on TV and that had accounted for the guy's apparent height. He was smiling and happily wobbling his way south. I marveled at his balance and also at the fact he was performing this incredible perambulation down a state highway. A little too fanciful on the one hand and more than a little dangerous on the other. I shook my head at the crazy things one sees when you least expect them.

And that got me to thinking...

How is it that we humans are able to perform such magnificent balancing acts? How many decisions per second was that unicyclist processing to allow him to remain on that unicycle? Not only was he having to keep himself from pitching forward or falling backward as he was proceeding down the road, he was also having to keep himself from tipping left or right at the same time! If one had never seen a sight such as that and someone was describing it, you might guess that it sounded impossible.

Or at least very improbable.

But it's not. It's apparently not very easy, but it is attainable and can be achieved without any superhuman ability.

And that led me to also muse about that particular unicycle's 2-wheeled brethren, the bicycle. When you examine the mechanics of riding one, you realize that riding a bike is almost as miraculous as sitting on that unicycle and making it go where you want it to. You understand that if you set a bike up on its two wheels and let go of it, it falls down. If you give it a push forward and let go, it also falls down albeit a little further down the road from where you gave the push. But if you get on the bicycle and know how to ride one, you can go forever and never fall down!

The trick is “knowing how to ride a bike.”

Everyone who knows how to ride a bike has had to learn how at one time or another. That obviously goes without saying. And the actual ability to ride arrives all at once, in a single moment of time. Think about it and you'll agree. One moment you are NOT a bicycle rider and the next moment you ARE! You have learned the trick.

I remember helping my son learn how. We'd gone the training wheel route, him “riding” a bike with the training wheels for some time, but one day it was time for him to do the real thing. I removed the outboard wheels and we went to a big empty parking lot at a school just a block from where we lived. He was apprehensive and a bit fearful, of course. I assured him that it was time to learn how to ride “like a big boy” and it wasn't that hard. I crossed my fingers at this fatherly simplification of a complex task. So for a while it was my job to hold the bike up while he pedaled and trot along with him. And then watching him tip over. Then repeating and repeating. I will say he was quite tenacious, getting back up after each fall and trying again. Then, when it was just about time to call it a day and try again later, he got it! I let him go that time and chug, chug, chug he was riding the bike around the parking lot like a seasoned rider! His mind/body/muscle memory had finally figured out the hard-to-describe process of bike riding and he, at last, had it.

I was so glad as I was getting exhausted chasing him around and around the parking lot.

For those of us who DO know how to ride, it's a skill that never goes away, and how cool is that! It's not like algebra where you learn how to do all those manipulations of a's and b's and x's and y's when you're in school and a decade later it ALL looks like Greek to ya.

But riding a bike sticks with you!

Yes, after years of not riding you will be a bit wobbly for the first minute or two, but the ability of moving along on two wheels is still there, still ingrained in your muscle memory.

You're still a rider and the miracle of that skill is still extant.

So, at last, this long-winded prelude has brought us to the actual subject of this blog.

I'm retiring in a little under 2 months and, doing so, have decided to reward myself with a little gift to commemorate the achievement. I bought myself a new motor scooter just the other day. It wasn't an impulse buy, I did think about doing it for a while, but it might be called a rather odd purchase for a mid-to-late sixties dude. And also not a real practical conveyance for this area of northern Ohio.

But I'll say to all the detractors and the poo-poo-ers – mind your own business! If I want to join nerd city and putt-putt my way around town in my flashy orange-and-black scoot with my neat-o silver helmet on, that's exactly what I'll be doing! Us cantankerous ol' fuddy-duddys need to be given some latitude in their later years. Right?

So, had I been a bicycle rider in the past? A motorcycle rider? Ever?

Sure. I learned to ride a bike, like perhaps ALL of my schoolmates, back in early grade school and owned a number of bicycles as a kid. In high school I owned a motor scooter which I rode all over the doggone place. Later, in the military I owned two motorcycles and enjoyed riding around the foreign country where I was stationed. So I wasn't a pure beginner.

But that was 45 years ago. And I was 22 when I was last on a motor-driven cycle. That, gentle reader, was a VERY long time ago.

So I had some concerns about making the plunge of buying a new bike. What should I get? What can I afford? And more importantly, did I still remember how to ride on two wheels without falling down?

Perhaps a little sleep was lost at my home while I pondered those questions before making the purchase. Perhaps my nervousness was noticeable to those around me. But I finally sucked it up, metaphorically girding my loins, and made the decision.

The purchase was made last Saturday and I was told the scoot would be ready on Monday. I bought a helmet, a riding jacket and riding gloves that day, returned home and counted the hours until Monday morning.

My son drove me out to the motorcycle shop that morning and I was at last going to face the answer to my most pressing question: could I still ride? The salesman had told me that it'd come back to me “no problem”. Of course he probably said that to all his prospective buyers in my situation. And it was even probably true.

At least that's what I hoped.

So there I was at last, sitting on the scoot in the bike shop's garage with the big door open in front of me. One of the shop's mechanics had gone over all the controls and how they worked. The motor was running and all I had to do was twist the right handle a little bit and I'd be off. So I took a deep breath, did the loin girding thing again and twisted.

(Are you ready for the big reveal? OK, here goes...)

And I remembered how to do it within five feet! The scoot stayed up and moved forward and mostly in the direction I was pointing! Hurrah! The shop had a very-lightly used paved road that adjoined their parking lot where I could practice riding and using the controls before venturing onto the highway. I took advantage of that lane for 15 minutes or so and finally felt that I was comfortable enough to head home.

And I got there without any problems. Yes I was a little hesitant in my starts and a bit jerky in my stops and perhaps a tiny bit wobbly when starting to move, but the incredible feeling of being on a bike again, wind in your face, moving on down the road like a low-flying bird was oh so very, very nice! I put 16 miles on the scoot that day before having to put it in the garage and heading off to work in the car.

Of course it rained the following day and I didn't take the scoot out. No need to take any chances on a wet road and I didn't want to get my pretty scoot dirty!

But tomorrow is forecast to be sunny and nice.

I'll bet you can guess what I'll be doing then!

Don't Worry Baby, Everything Will Turn Out Alright

Don't Worry Baby

Everything Will Turn Out Alright

Of course he'd pick that song, I thought. He seems to get into the zone and just wants to hear those particular three or four songs, but most especially that one. I sighed and smiled. It wasn't a bad song. In fact it was a pretty good one, all things considered. Good tune, easy to sing along with. Can't really gripe about it.

We were sitting in a restaurant, one that we frequented quite often, eating cherry pie and drinking cup after cup of hot coffee. It could have been sometime in the afternoon, but it was more likely late at night, maybe even after midnight. Since the time period was late Eisenhower or early Nixon, each of the booths in the joint had a juke box selector right there on the wall. Ya slid in yer quarters and ya punched in the buttons. Then yer song played. They were all mostly rock 'n roll, of course. This was actually before they dropped the “'n roll” to make it just rock. Definitely back in the early '60's.

The quarter was finally inserted and the appropriate buttons pushed. The first was good ol' Elvis singing “Crying in the Chapel”. Of course it was. It was OK, I thought. Not my fave – a little on the mournful ballad side, but... Bill surely liked it. But when it was over and the next song started I smiled. This was more like it. The Beach Boys and “Little Honda”. First gear, second gear – all those so, so familiar lyrics. Of course we sorta jiggled along with it and sang the lyrics around bites of the cherry pie and sips of hot coffee.

That was back when Honda in America meant a two-wheeled vehicle of lower power. I think. Like the song said, a groovy little motorbike. Cool! And more fun than a barrel of monkeys! Hot dog! Dunno if a barrel of monkeys would make my day now, but they sounded like so much fun back then. And the song was by the Beach Boys, doggone it! Those surfer dudes out there in California where the waves were (apparently) big, the cars were all woodies (what's a woodie?) and all the girls were blond surfer girls with hot bikinis (that part seemed alright!). The Beach Boys! Son of a gun. What would that era have been without their musical offerings? Probably all Elvis mooning about crying or something.

Or about his pore hound dog.

For an Ohio boy, California and surfing and lil' Hondas were pretty exotic. Dairy farming, homework, small-town doings, camping with the Scouts on weekends, dad working in the factory and mom staying home and keeping house were the norm, the invisible ocean of here-and-now that we, like fish, unconsciously swam through. With the occasional musical Cliff Note that another whole different world was out there.

Of course these are all jumbled recollections of the past. Sometimes all it takes is a smell to transport you somewhere or to retrieve a long-forgotten memory. Or a taste. For instance, the taste of root beer takes me immediately to a small diner in my hometown, the Dyn-a-Mite Cafe in the very early '60's. I am playing a pinball game and drinking Hires out of a long-neck bottle. It's vivid, too. I'm there, doggone it! Other times it's a scent that's the triggering element. White Shoulders was my mother's scent. It and my mother are virtually synonymous in my head. As is the same with Estee and my wife. I'm sure you can bring to mind similar ones.

But it's music that, at least for me and probably for you also, is the trigger for a lot of memories. Not all songs, but a lot of them will take you somewhere. Usually some place pleasant. With a particular girl, a particular place. Some songs won't bring about a single memory but a melange of connected images – a vacation to the beach, a hot date with your sweetheart of the moment, a close friend, your sixteenth birthday or a very special kiss. Maybe a juicy story about the singer you remember or a concert you attended? There are many, many memories that can be triggered by a song. Hell, maybe only a chord or two from the beginning of the song and voila, Sandy of the dancing blue eyes and honey-blond hair is back in front of your face, smiling at you and holding out her hands for you to dance with her.

Oh yeah...

Anyhow, a lot of these memories came floating back to me last night. My wife and I, along with four other friends, attended a concert at our local fairgrounds. In the infinite wisdom of the committee that picks the artists that perform at our annual fair, the selection comes usually from the ranks of country and western performers. I guess it's a pretty good bet for them as the cowboy hat wearing dudes usually draw a good crowd and that's more money for the committee to spend on improvements to the fairgrounds. I'm usually surprised at that as I'm not a fan of most mainstream country western music. I suppose I haven't been enlightened as of yet.

But, as I said, it's usually a few artists of the country western persuasion that work the grandstand at our fair.

However, this year I guess the available talent also included an old rock 'n roll band who's name was very familiar. And they picked it! Along with two other performers of the country/western ilk, of course, but the headliner this year was... Get ready for it!

The Beach Boys!

I ordered the tickets as soon as they were available for the six of us and began counting the days until “the day”. And that day was last night!

It had been very hot last week here at home and I was concerned that the concert would be a scorcher, a sweat box with music. Our part of Ohio can be a fickle bitch in early September. You can sweat your butt off one day and be shivering and wrapped up in a sweater the next one. Luckily for us the heat wave broke a day or two before the concert and the cooler weather appeared. It actually was very pleasant.

Our noble fairground's grandstand was constructed sometime around a hundred years ago, so you could say it's not really state-of-the-art. The seats do have backs to them, but the seats and backs are all made of wooden slats and they will make your backside feel really sore after a couple hours perching on them. And they're narrow, too! I'm sure that's a relic of our parents and grandparents day when their backsides were not as, ahem, wide as ours are now? Of course the seats could have shrunk over the years, but that's not very likely, is it?

Anyhow, there we were, sitting with the other bazillion (seemed like) folks all squeezed together watching the sun go down, watching our watches and watching the empty stage. Of course the curse of every concert on earth was once again the norm as the 8 o'clock start time was not to be. Should have figured, I guess. All those geezers around me took so darn long to haul their carcasses up the aisles that the performers had to wait on them. I suppose geezerhood would have to include me and my group also, but I hate to admit it. And boy I didn't really remember those grandstand steps being so doggone steep!

At about a quarter after eight the announcer finally came out to make the obligatory statements about not smoking, no photography, no sound recording, yadda, yadda, yadda. And then... it was time for the show!

Now you have to realize that the Beach Boys have gone through a LOT of transformations over the years. A death here, mental illness there, various substitutions and what have you. So the product that was before us last night carried the name Beach Boys, but they were definitely not THE Beach Boys of yore. But, you know... They still were GOOD! We were guessing that one or two or maybe even three of the performers may or may not have been somewhere close to being one of the originals, but by the second song it was pretty much immaterial. They were very, very good! Every gray-and-bald head (and that was a lot of us) was a-bobbin' and a-weavin' as the songs came out, most of the music and lyrics old friends. We sang along, we tapped our feet, we wiggled and danced a bit as the tunes came thick and fast. And there were a LOT of them! The Beach Boys had been so prolific. Barbara Ann, 409, Be True to Your School, California Girls, Don't Worry Baby, Fun-Fun-Fun, Good Vibrations, Help me Rhonda, I Get Around, Little Honda (of course!), Shut Down, and all the surfin' ones – Surfer Girl, Little Surfer Girl, Surfin', Surfin' Safari, Surfin' USA and many, many others.

They did about an hour and three quarters with no intermission. They joked around a bit, but it was almost all songs and almost all of them well, well remembered. Hell, even MY throat was sore from singing along, and I just don't normally do that. Guess the ol' boy got a bit carried away last night. Go figure...

Even with the cramped quarters and the sore butt, the time just flew by and before we knew it they were done. We got 'em back for a quick encore with Fun-fun-fun and her daddy's T-bird, but after that the stage was dark and it was time to go home. The thousands of us soon filed out to the vast parking lots and finally to our cars. Soon we were home and the magic was fading.

But the old songs were still alive in there today, buzzing around in my head and still surfacing from time to time. I find myself humming a tune or voicing a lyric or two as the day has gone on. And the visions of a younger me walking along a golden beach, watching the surfers and the surfer girls under a clear blue California sky, eatin' caramel corn and dancing to a rockin' band still echo and reverberate in the county fair grandstand of my mind.

It was a good time.

And yes baby, everything did turn out alright!

Double Digit Dance

Double Digit Dance

I promised myself that I wouldn't write a blog about this subject until a bit later down the road, but have realized something that makes broaching the topic a little more appropriate now. It's kind of a matter of timing and of days.

Let me explain. I won't keep ya but a couple minutes.

Let's start approaching this subject a bit circuitously by saying this: there's a site out on the web that has lots and lots to do about cruising. You know, getting on one of those big boats and going somewhere generally exotic. Cruising. And on this particular website there is a gigantic forum where people can talk to other people about cruising in its various aspects – cruise lines, ports, getting to the port, new cruisers, cruise photography, special interests, home ports and other sub-topics. Trust me when I say there is a LOT of information out there. Sometime before my wife and I had our first cruise I happened upon this website and began doing my due diligence by devouring all my head could contain on cruising. While doing this I ran across a term which I had to research a bit to understand. Some of the forum posters would talk about doing their “single-digit-dance”. When I read further I realized that they were talking about being less than 10 days away from sailing. They were so happy their vacation was about to begin that they were dancing!

I thought it was kind of a cute way to say “our cruise is just around the corner.” Single-digit-dance!

Some others, having booked a long way in advance, were also getting excited when they got to the time where they could do the “Double-Digit-Dance.” Those cruisers had just dropped below 100 days before sailing. About three months and a week, give or take, and it made them happy also.

And so that brings us to my particular situation.

Today marks 100 days before I retire. Three months and a week, give or take.

Tomorrow I start my Double-Digit-Dance!

I didn't really want to write anything about my retirement until the day was a bit closer, but when I saw my countdown clock at work today and it displayed “100”, the numbers just pulled me in. It's actually quite mesmerizing. 99 days to go. Like the middle of March when you're in school and waiting for summer break. Or waiting for a loved one to return from an overseas military assignment. Or being that loved one waiting for the flight taking you back home to “the world.” And only having 99 days to go!

Or, to bring it back to where we started a few paragraphs ago, three months and a week until you sail.

I've been there. I've been there three times where I was counting the days before going on a cruise. I've done the Double-Digit-Dance then.

But I've never did “the dance” for retirement.

One obviously only does this one time. Usually, I guess. There are those who retire a few times, but for the vast majority of us there is only the one time.

99 days. Wow!

But wait a minute. I always thought it was OLD people who retired. I remember seeing folks retire from previous jobs I had held and they were... well, dammit, they were old! But me? I guess maybe those ol' fogies who retired back in the day weren't really all that old. Not really.

Were they?

I guess my generation's definition of what's old is anyone who's about 20 years older than us. Sounds about right.

So here I sit at my work-site, plugging away at my job and occasionally glancing at the calendar. Only have to turn 3 more pages and I'm done! I think. Only have to get in the car and drive to work about 62 more times, then all my driving from that day forward will be for ME!

How do I feel about all this? What are my thoughts as I approach this significant milestone in my life? What am I going to do afterward?

Tell ya what. Why don't we leave that for another blog, shall we?

Just suffice it to say, it's Double-Digit-Dance time for lil' ol' me and I, for one, am countin' the days! And it's easy. There's only TWO digits!

Fade to Black

Fade to Black

The Grim Reaper was active again last week in my circle of friends and family. We all knew he was in the neighborhood for quite some time, maybe for as long as a year or two we'd seen him skulking about. He'd been sharpening his scythe and keeping a hungry eye on a friend of mine. Last Friday his waiting was over and he harvested another soul. And even though most of his family and close friends knew this was going to happen, it did come as a shock. You go along in life, becoming accustomed to a friend being sick, even with a terminal sickness. Your mind accepts this state of affairs as status quo and you go on, expecting the friend to somehow remain in his present state for a long, long time. Maybe the word should be hoping rather than expecting.

But a terminal disease is named so for a reason, and we all know what that reason is.

Please note that during this blog I'll attempt to refrain from using last names. Since I have no permission to use them, I'll stick to first names. If you're aware of the circumstances you'll know who the people are. If not, it'll just be a story about someone. Just a story. Except for one last name which I will use. You'll see it later on and may understand why I used it.

Let's start this sad story now, shall we?

I took a job many years ago for a telephone company in Hudson, Ohio, as a mainframe computer operator. After working in the smallish computer room at their headquarters for a few years they decided that the facilities were too limited and they would have to expand. The company, instead of building new, bought a large bakery some miles to the north, demolished the building down to the girders and rebuilt it as a regional data center. This operation took somewhat over a year. When the building was very near complete, we computer operators were moved to the new building. The “powers that be” had decided to complete the new computer room first, then finish the rest of the building somewhat later. Due to that, when we reported for work the next day we were routed through the warehouse area instead of the uncomplete main lobby, and our id's were checked and verified by a security guard.

And that was the first time I met Jeff.

He was a young man at that time, barely out of his teens if my calculations are correct. I believe the company providing security at that new data center and for whom Jeff worked was Pinkerton. Jeff sat there at a temporary desk wearing the blue uniform shirt and badge identifying him as the security guard that first day. He examined all our id's as we passed him and waved us through into the new facility. That would be our procedure for some weeks to come as the construction of the rest of the building continued. Finally it was done and the security guards were moved to the front lobby and began manning the receptionist's desk there. However, the security guards were relegated only to the off-shifts, second and third. During first shift the front desk was occupied by a receptionist who answered and forwarded calls for the building and performed what security tasks that were necessary on that shift. Jeff was placed on third shift for the data center at that time and that is where he remained for the next almost three decades.

To be honest, I had little dealings with him for perhaps the first decade of his employment at that facility. I'd see him in the mornings I worked day shift when I arrived and might have spoken to him for a minute or so. When I was moved to second shift I'd see him toward the end of my shift and we might have talked a bit then too. There were also several periods of my tenure there where it was my lamentable chore to work third shift. (I always hated thirds.) During those time periods I really made friends with Jeff. We had numerous periods of time when the work was slack when we could talk at length. And we also conversed during our middle-of-the-night meals. (Did I mention before I hated thirds?) I learned some of what made him tick and he was perhaps entertained from time to time by my chit-chat also. We both liked to write a bit and would occasionally let each other critique what we were working on. He was a big fan of the pulps and loved writing crime drama for the fanzines

We both had a mutual friend named Mike, another operator, who was a bit closer to Jeff as they were both third-shifters. Mike also started doing some social activities with him around this time. I was invited not too long afterward to join them for some of the outings they had been enjoying.

Now, gentle reader, be advised that I'm going to relate some stories of a few of those outings I enjoyed with Mike and Jeff. Be aware that we didn't go to tea parties or sewing bees or any other G-rated activities. Our outings consisted of visiting a number of bars, taverns and strip clubs in and about the Akron Metro area. If you think you aren't up for some R-rated tales of those evenings, you might want to skip ahead a ways.

I remember the first time I got invited by Mike and Jeff to join them for an outing on the upcoming weekend. On that Saturday night we met at Jeff's house, got into my car and joined a few other friends of Jeff's heading down the road to a place called The Nest. I was pretty naïve then as to the kind of place it was, but I was quickly educated when I entered. As an aside, Ohio has some quirky laws. At that time and, I think still, a bar that served alcohol was not permitted to have totally nude dancers. Only topless was permitted. Places that had nude dancers were not able to sell alcohol and therefore were called juice bars as they could serve anything else other than liquor.

The Nest was one of those so-called juice bars.

We entered the nondescript building and paid our admissions to a burly, tattooed gentleman behind a window who took our entrance fees and gave us membership cards. They were only good for that day. Another Ohio law work-around I think. Or maybe it was only a stamp on the arm? Can't really remember. The entrance to the club proper was through another door and through it you emerged at an upper level, a second-story balcony if you will, circular and going all around the stage which was a story below. The dancer pole (and there was ALWAYS a dancer pole in places like that) extended from the stage and up to the second story ceiling where we were. We could either stay up there and watch the dancers below us or go down some stairs and join the guys sitting around the stage. We descended down to the stage level and watched the show. Each dancer had a certain amount of time to strip and to entice customers to put money in her garter – the only clothing she normally kept on. And so it went for the time we were there, a succession of ladies “doing their thing.” A large group of college men were also there that night and they were very definitely enjoying themselves.

I noticed that Jeff and Mike seemed to be watching me more than the girls for part of that night. They later explained that they were getting a kick out of the fact that I'd never been to a place like that and were watching the expression on my face. I think I might have surprised them a little by being a “cool customer” and acting like I'd seen this sort of activity many times before. But of course that was a fabrication as my idiotic grin plainly demonstrated.

And that was one time. Other times we would go to a “normal” bar first that had dancers and stay there the whole night, watching them dance and go topless. Dreamers and The Back Bar come to mind as two we frequented. The Back Bar got closed later as a public nuisance. That always made me smile for some perverse reason as it was one of our favorites. Of course we would have a few drinks also besides watching the girls. And then a few more. On even other times we'd start out at a bar with alcohol then, after some numbers of drinks, adjourn to a juice bar to top off the evenings. At a lot of those earlier outings one of Jeff's best friends accompanied us. His name was Bobo. I thought that was his nickname when I first heard it, but found out later that it was his real last name. Bobo was about 400 pounds of mostly muscle and around 6 foot 3 inches tall, a giant black man who strongly resembled Rosie Greer if you can recall that name. (New York Giants football star.) We all liked Bobo as we knew that for as long as he was with us we could go into almost any bar and not worry about getting into any trouble. Troublemakers took one look at him and eased away.

On a couple other occasions Jeff would host a bachelor party for one of his soon-to-be-wed friends. He'd hire some strippers to come in and would provide a choice of drinks for the attendees. Those parties were always well attended!

There was a story floating around of Jeff's bachelor party itself. Mike had been invited but I was not “in the circle of friends” just then and missed it. Apparently it was the mother of all parties, a monumental blowout.

I still regret not being there!

During the last decade or so, as Jeff and the rest of us aged a bit, the nights out having “fun” as previously described decreased. We found we were more interested in gabbing about our lives and talking about our other interests than actually paying too much attention to the strippers. And boozing that heavily required much more time to recover from.

Eventually we just stopped altogether. See, I told you the story was sad.

Our wives weren't always left in the lurch either. There were any number of times we all went out to eat, then adjourned to a comedy club or perhaps to the University of Akron for a presentation of some sort. Once was when Ray Bradbury was in town and we went to see him. Another was when the two “Mythbusters” guys, Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman gave a talk about their show. There were a bunch of us who attended that one. Other times we went to one of the comedy clubs and had an enjoyable evening, drinking pitchers of Long Island Ice Teas and laughing at the comics.

When I was downsized from the telecommunications company a dozen years ago where we all worked, a lot of this stopped. It was more difficult to schedule times for all of us to get together and so we drifted a bit apart. I realized this at some point about 6-7 years ago and felt bad about it. So I contacted Jeff and Mike to see if they'd be up for a lunch from time to time, to reacquaint ourselves with each other and to catch up on what was happening in our lives. It was amenable to them, so we started scheduling a lunch every couple of months. It was generally at an Indian restaurant or a Mexican one, both close to where Jeff lived in Akron. Mike would generally take a day vacation to join us and I'd catch the guys on my way to work. (I was back to work at a second-shift job in a city west of Akron) It was nice seeing each other and we'd generally commandeer a table in our restaurant of choice and yammer on and on at each other until we were kicked out or I had to vamoose off to work.

That was the situation until about a year or so ago.

At a lunch during that time Jeff dropped the bombshell on us that he'd been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma – a type of leukemia. I'm not sure what the odds were for him at that time, I'm sure he probably told us, but they were not tremendously good. I don't believe he told us what stage the disease was in when they found it or what specific kind of NHL he had, but seeing the progression over time it obviously was not one of the good kinds. I believe he started with some sort of drug therapy, then went the full chemo route with the accompanying hair loss and all. Finally they tried the stem cell into the bone marrow business.

It all pretty much didn't work.

We continued having our lunches, more often than before considering the weakening of Jeff as his disease progressed. He was almost always, at least at the lunches, upbeat, and could joke about how his life had changed. One story he told with a twinkle in his eye was this: he'd bumped into someone in the hallways at work one day and the man had remarked how good he looked, how much weight he'd lost and just how the heck had he done this miracle. Jeff had replied, “I got blood cancer.” Apparently the man had blanched and apologized profusely. Talk about putting your foot in your mouth!

Jeff thought it was kinda funny. He was that sort of guy.

As the days passed Mike and I could see Jeff fading, growing weaker and skinnier each time we'd see him. He could still joke around a bit, but was growing quite fatalistic about his chances. He'd talk about how he was dying and the things he still had left to do before the end overtook him. He was well aware of the few days he had left.

On our last lunch together he came with his wife, Ruth. She was driving and helped him get from the car to the restaurant. They could only stay an hour as they had to get to the hospital where Jeff would receive another blood transfusion. The transfusions were about the only things keeping him going. He was noticeably in worse shape that day and we tried to keep the conversation lighter and more about the “good ol' days” rather than the bleak ones immediately ahead.

That was the last time I saw Jeff alive.

Five weeks later Mike and I received word that Jeff had passed away. He'd been in a hospice and had expired from a heart attack that very day.

We'd been more than halfway expecting this notification, hell, anytime in the past six months wouldn't have surprised us at all, but the fact of his passing still hit like a blow to the gut. Jeff had been a piece of our history for over 30 years and it was so tough accepting that his part in our combined story was now over.

Jeff's viewing and services were as most of these thing normally are: lots of tears and smiles, hugs and long looks, a few friends and many, many people you don't know. Jeff had a big family, lots of siblings, cousins, nephews and nieces and a lot of friends who Mike and I were unfamiliar with. That was no surprise. If it had been one of us instead of him, he wouldn't have known hardly any of our present friends or any of our families. In any event there were a lot of people there. We chatted with Ruth, his wife, a few minutes, expressing our condolences. Ruth stated that Jeff had been a “tough guy” in how he'd stood up to the disease for so long.

We agreed.

On the way home afterward I chatted with my wife about what we'd seen. We smiled at the cards that were there for the attendees that said “In loving memory of Jeff” along with his birth and death dates. On the back of each card was a Batman symbol. Jeff was a huge fan of the comics and was a connoisseur of the superheros – Batman, Superman, Spiderman and all the others. He knew more about them than any grown man probably should have. It was one of his true passions and he passed it along to his twin sons, Nick and James. There was even a flower arrangement in the Batman symbol shape!

I wondered also on that long drive home what Jeff himself might have thought about the scene at the funeral home, whether he might have been happy to see so many people show up or whether he'd have liked to have “taken care of business” more quickly, with less people and have it done and over with. I also like to think he'd have been happy to see a couple of his ol' pals show up to say adios.

So the story of my friend Jeff is over. No more will he tell us what TV shows he saw recently that he really enjoyed or what politician had said something that annoyed him. No longer will he share stories of things done, memorable meals eaten, celebrity autographs obtained, movies he was anticipating and new comics he'd enjoyed.

I'll miss that. I'll miss the shock of his brown hair that inevitably ended up almost obscuring his right eye. I'll miss his enthusiasm for life and his freely acknowledged love for his wife Ruth and his two boys.

I'll miss all that.

And I'll remember him often.

Tough Days

Tough Days

There are stories and there are stories. Some of them are funny or cute or poignant or have other merits. Some are throw-aways and are just the thing to fill a few minutes of your time and then forget about. Others are more substantial. This is one of the latter. Please come along, if you will, and see what's been happening in my world as of late. Also remember as you read along that the recollections I'm about to relate are from my perspective. My knowledge of some of the recent affairs is sketchy and second-hand at best. The difference between these words and the actual truth may be slight or also may be more substantial. Keep that in mind.

&

It's kinda hard to remember just exactly when I met him. Was it in my Sophomore year in high school? Maybe my Junior year? Possibly even earlier? I should remember, of course, and I apologize now for not being able to. Some memories from those long-ago years are as fresh as the cup of tea I just finished drinking, but others are slippery, oh so very, very slippery, sliding back into the mists even as they're half remembered. In any event, sometime during my formative years I met Bill and we hung around together. Quite a lot, actually.

Take that as a given.

Bill was and is a very bright guy and proved this fact by taking a number of high school science courses a year early – chemistry and physics come to mind at the moment, and the reason those come to mind is that we took them together, he as a Junior and me as a Senior for the physics, he as a Sophomore and me as a Junior for the chemistry.

I suffered somewhat in those classes – I probably wasn't the brightest student in the room, but Bill always seemed to be there to lend a hand. Perhaps with a helpful tip on something we were studying or to explain a formula that had seemed hazy to me when we were introduced to it in class. I suppose I helped him from time to time also with our schoolwork, but a lot of the help was one way – him to me.

We did a lot together back in those days – studying, messing around with cars, goofing around, almost drowning paddling around in a canoe and mostly just trying to be normal high school kids. We even went on double-dates a time or two!

Good memories!

There were other connections between us (other than both our names being William) that I only found out about later in life. Apparently Bill's father had been my father's boss at the factory they both worked at not long after World War II. I didn't know that! One day my father approached him and asked for some time off. When he was asked what for, dad said he wanted to get married. I understand Bill's dad rolled his eyes and spent quite some time trying to talk him out of it, but then reluctantly agreed to the vacation time.

I'm glad dad was resolute, else... possibly no me!

Anyhow...

Bill suffered from a stutter when I knew him in school, quite a pronounced one at that. He always seemed to know what he wanted to say, but a lot of the time his brain tried to outvote his voice and they would vie for control of his vocal cords. I know he took a lot of teasing in those years and perhaps I might have been one of his tormentors from time to time too, much to my chagrin later in life. The stutter also made him quite shy. He overcame this shyness later in life and became one of those guys that everyone seemed to know and who knew virtually everyone.

To be honest, most of the time I just ignored the stutter like you'd ignore someone's limp or someone else's funny accent. Once you grew accustomed to it, it was normal – just a facet of that person. So I mostly just accepted Bill's stutter as... well, just him – no more and no less. No big deal as they would say nowadays.

Bill arrived in his family as a very late addition – a love child as some might say. When I met him as a mid-teenager, his father had already passed away and his mother was, to my eyes at least, a very old woman – much more akin to my grandmother than my mother. His brother Jack had taken on the responsibilities of the head of the family and was doing a good job taking care of their mother and filling in as Bill's ersatz father. I always liked Jack. You always knew where you stood with him. He was a down-to-earth guy, maybe a bit gruff from time to time, but quite likeable. Jack, upon our first meeting, accepted me without reservations as Bill's friend and someone who would be hanging around his house. A lot.

As I said before, I always liked Jack. However, there were some things, such as...

I remember quite distinctly an early visit to their house. Jack had got up from his chair to get another beer and asked if Bill or I would like a bottle of pop. (We were both too young to drink alcohol at that time.) Bill said yes and I said I didn't care. Jack returned with one bottle of pop and handed it to Bill. I looked at him blankly, wondering it he'd misheard me, if I'd annoyed him or what the story was. He looked at me with twinkling eyes and said, “you said you didn't care, didn't you?”

I admitted that I had. He replied, “If you want something, ask for it. Don't prevaricate and be all namby-pamby.” Maybe the words weren't prevaricate or namby-pamby, but the sentiment was identical.

I then meekly said, “could I have a bottle of pop, Jack?” He smiled, knowing the lesson had been learned and got it for me. I remember that lesson to this very day and try to never say “I don't care” to anyone unless I really mean it.

Especially in earshot of Bill.

As with a lot of friendships, ours had periods of time where we weren't physically very close. One of those periods was after I graduated from high school when I had volunteered for the Air Force and was off on my four-year stint doing what Uncle Sam wanted me to do. Bill and I may possibly have written to each other during that time period, but I can't really recall. He was drafted a couple years later and also served our mutual uncle in the Army, amazingly missing out on visiting the little fracas going on at that time in Southeast Asia. He spent a lot of his military time in Alaska! I'd venture to say he was one of the few draftees in that time period who can claim that distinction.

It was during his time in the service that he got some intensive counseling and therapy on his stutter and was taught how to overcome it. I would not have believed it possible, but he exited the U.S. Army with absolutely no stutter! I met him sometime later when we were both civilians and we talked a bit. As we chit-chatted I had the creepy feeling of some strange difference in him, some anomaly. I studied his face, his dress, his demeanor, his... and then it hit me. He wasn't stuttering! I was very surprised and delighted with the “new” Bill and made sure I asked him about how this miracle had happened. It seemed to be a real life changer for him.

We hung around, off and on, for the next few years and I became friends with his first wife Jeanette. My wife and I were often visitors in their house and they in ours. During the next few years I went to business school, got a diploma and entered my field of work in computers. Bill went back to his first employer – Sears – and began a long career as a service technician. We meshed up together again later in the '70's when we both went back to college, together again, and earned associate degrees.

Over the next period of time Bill broke up with his first wife and, some time later, married another lady – Sue. This was on one of our “off” periods of time when we weren't together much. We were aware of each other's circumstances but were living our lives mostly apart from each other. His brother Jack passed away sometime in that time period and Bill inherited his house. Sometime around there Bill got his first computer, called me and asked whether I'd like to see it. It was a little Apple IIc with the small green monitor. He demonstrated to me how he was doing some home finances and other interesting things with Appleworks running on it and I was quite taken with the machine and the implications of what it could do. Enough so that I bought one not long afterward!

We popped into each other's lives often from that point forward.

Bill lost his long-time Sears job a number of years ago and held two more afterward, one in an electronic flash gun manufacturing plant as a tech and the second in a custom paint mixing shop as the plant maintenance supervisor. After the paint shop job ended he was out of work and looking again. A position was opening up at the county building where I worked and I knew it was just up his alley. I facilitated his application, helped to fast-track the interview process and soon he was hired.

We've been working in the same office together now for 6 or 7 years.

So enough with the history lesson. Let's get on with more recent stuff...

A couple of nights ago my boss asked me to drop off some equipment at Bill's house on my way home. Bill was off work, we both live in the same town and our mutual workplace is a little less than an hour's drive to the north. I said fine and, since I work second shift, I pulled into Bill's driveway a little before 1 am. I rang his doorbell and soon was invited in. He took the equipment I'd brought, put it away and we sat down in the living room. He then looked at me with a sad, faraway look in his eyes and began to talk.

He talked and talked about many things and I listened to his words far into that night. He had so, so much on his mind and, knowing the circumstances of his recent past, I knew that my role that dark and rainy night was to just be an ear, to just listen and acknowledge my listening, to be the “everyman” for him, the non-critical, non-judgemental, non-problem-solving friend he needed at that moment in time.

I hope I was that sounding board for him there that night. I hope I was perhaps able to allow a little catharsis to flow. I hope I provided him some modicum of normality to this decidedly abnormal period in his life.

For you see, Bill had lost his wife five days before that night. Her funeral had been the day before.

I could go on and on now about the circumstances of her passing, the news of her illness, of the days when the end seemed near but then receded, when an organ transplant and cure seemed possible – even likely, of the failure of the transplant operation and the terrible devastation afterward.

Of her last hours.

But those are Bill's memories and they shall remain Bill's choice for sharing or withholding.

I thought about what Bill had said after I left and I thought also about what was left unsaid, the lines between the lines. What came to mind was that we all will be in his wife's shoes one day. Sooner or later. Whether our passing will be quick and painless or will be strewn with sorrow and tears and long periods of decline before the end, who can tell? We mostly never get any choice on the method of our leaving - the dice are rolled, the cards are dealt, your number is up and the flavor of your demise is writ.

Bill went through the fire this past month being with his wife and being the rock she needed. I like to think that fire has tempered him and made him a better man. I like to think that fire has given him a tensile strength that will last him the rest of his days.

Bill has a journey to make now, to find a new “normal” for him, to find a new equilibrium where he can plant his feet and carry on.

But he's a survivor. He always has been. I like to think that he'll find that equilibrium, that balance and will be able to forge a new path for his life in the coming years.

I look forward to remaining his friend and walking with him a ways down that new path.

Flags, Flowers and Families

Flags, Flowers and Families

Today marks my 67^th Memorial Day, my 45^th as an American veteran. I'm at work as I type these words, putting in some overtime to help out the piggy bank at home and to allow another man to have the day off. It's a quiet day here so I can afford to spend a little time to reflect on the holiday.

It was a beautiful drive to work today with its much-appreciated blue skies and warm temperatures. A perfect day, actually, for a ball game, a barbecue or to sit under a freshly-budded oak and watch the puffball cumulus clouds drift by. We dreamed about such a day back in January. And February. And March. We dreamed about it throughout our seemingly endless winter past and urged it to please come soon.

And now it's here and boy it is something to behold!

But Memorial Day here in the States is more than just a day off (for most folks) and a party on the lawn with ribs and Cole slaw and some cold lagers. It's primarily a day to remember the sacrifices of our military. To reflect on those who have guaranteed us the right to have those cookouts and lazy days of early summer. It is especially designated to those men who have paid the ultimate price.

It's a day to reflect on those sacrifices and remember our honored dead.

It has also become a day in which to remember all the people who have passed before us and to also honor them.

And so it was that during the past weekend it fell upon my wife and I to visit the graves of our families and to place a decoration upon them, to stand a few minutes and reflect on those family members who have passed.

It was my family's turn first on Saturday. We traveled up the road north from our hometown for a few miles until we arrived at the cemetery where my father is laid to rest. We drove down the winding lane, our eyes pleased with the sight of the hundreds and hundreds of American flags flying, both on the veteran's graves and also larger ones lining the lanes. We finished our drive at an area close to where the grave was, exited the car, got the decoration out of the trunk and proceeded to the grave. We remembered that dad's spot was very near a tree, so we walked up to the tree that “looked” to be in the correct spot. The grave there was not that of my father. I looked around, eyed another tree, one that wasn't quite where I remembered it should be, and walked over to it. Again I struck out with the wrong name on that marker. I gazed around again. There were only those two trees that were even close to the spot. I scratched my head and started looking at more graves, knowing I couldn't be too far from where it just had to be. Please note that this cemetery is one that did not allow above-the-ground markers. All the plots there were designated with flush markers. So the search was a bit more prolonged than it might have been otherwise. Finally I spotted it. There it was, the bronze marker with his name and all the other information on it. And right behind it was... a doggone stump! It was cut flush with the ground and was difficult to see unless you were very close to it. There was that “tree” I was looking for!

We stood a while after placing the red, white and blue arrangement with the American flag in the bronze urn that came with the marker, looking at his name and remembering dad. It's always sad being there, remembering him as a vibrant man, playing his golf, playing cards, enjoying his extended family and generally just enjoying life.

But the world is as it is and he is now gone.

We also thought a bit about my younger brother Gary. He passed away at the very young age of 42 back in the early 90's. He lived in California for most of his adult life after his service with the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War. His last request to my brother, who was with him at the end, was to be cremated and to have his ashes scattered in a particular beautiful lake in northern California where he liked to fish and vacation. I talked to my other brother Chuck about this request after the service was held for him and made a request of my own. I asked him if I could have a small portion of Gary's ashes sent back to Ohio to me so I could make sure a small piece of him would always be here with us. I remember when that small jar came in the mail, I took half of the contents and scattered it over our dad's grave and then the rest over our mom's. So my wife and I paid tribute to two family members and two veterans then, my dad and my brother, one represented by a bronze plaque and the other only in our hearts.

The next stop was another cemetery in our hometown where my mother and grandmother were interred. We decorated mom's grave with a pretty arrangement and did some more remembering. Then it was over to gram's and another few minutes of recalling her life. One more stop before leaving this graveyard and that was at the stone of a good friend of mine. He and I shared a hobby over the years – metal detecting – and many of my readers may remember stories of our quests for buried treasure. He passed on a number of years ago and is interred near one of the entrances to the cemetery in an area reserved for veterans. Gregg's stone is identical with its mates all around it. It simply states his name, his rank in the military and his birth and death dates. I was happy to see flowers planted at his stone and guessed his sister had been busy there recently. I said a silent hello to my old friend and slowly walked back to the car.

Sunday it was my better half's turn, so we headed over to her old hometown to visit her family's plots. As we arrived there we could see that they had just concluded with their Memorial Day commemoration ceremony and the attendees and all their cars were beginning to leave. We slowly drove around the cemetery for a few minutes to give the crowd a bit of time to thin out and to also try to recall exactly where her family was buried. It seemed we were both totally hopeless that weekend finding graves! Before long, though, we again were back near where the commemoration ceremony had taken place and found the grave sites. Of course everything about the area where the graves were looked “familiar” once we were there! Anyhow, we placed another wreath there and chatted a few minutes about her family. Her grandfather had bought six plots in that particular cemetery a long, long time ago – for him, his wife, his two daughters (my wife's aunts), his son (my wife's father), and for my wife. That was their entire family at that time. All the aforementioned are interred there now with the obvious exclusion of my wife. They're all in a row with two of the graves sporting American flags to denote they were veterans – her dad and grandfather.

I recalled when her grandfather passed and his graveside service at that very spot. He was very active with the veteran's groups late in life, particularly the American Legion and the Forty-et-eight, a body commemorating WWI veterans of which he was one. At that ceremony there was a military firing squad and a rifle salute which I can even now hear echoing in my mind. My wife still flinches at gunshots and shakily attributes it to that ceremony. She really liked her grandfather and his passing was a tough go for her for a while.

So many memories.

And so yet another Memorial Day weekend passes, with parades and speeches, with specials on television that bring a lump to your throat and with the spectacle of snapping American flags flying from one end of town to the other. But mostly it passes with little flashes of memory. Of when dad did this or when my brothers did that, when Gram made that great meal or when mom dried your tears after you skinned your knee. Of that time when your mother-in-law was so supportive and when your wife's aunts showed up at that campground. And memories of Christmases and Easters and other family times, of friends both still here and not here, of days past.

And of other Memorial Days.

It is a weekend of memorials, both public and private, to remember the sacrifices of the military and to remember our families and friends who are no longer here.

Remembering is a good thing.

I'm glad we have Memorial Day to remind us.