...so make this holiday weekend unlike any other

About a three years ago, there was a post here about the kitchen in my grandparents home in Abercrombie, ND. It's not clear why, but for some reason it seemed to resonate with some people who fondly recalled a similar setting from some point in their past. Though this is an awfully low bar, it was also among the most popular posts to appear on this site. It’s been updated but be forewarned, part of this post is a retread. That said, I’m hoping it will stir a memory or two for more than a few of you.

 I’m sure I’ve heard many screen doors slam over the course of my lifetime, but the one I’ve heard swing shut the most was on the back door of my grandpa and grandma’s old house in the small Midwest hamlet of Abercrombie, North Dakota. The door was on the north side of the back of the house…right off of the kitchen…and though I haven’t been in that place in over 25 years, I can close my eyes and hear it slam just like it was yesterday.

 As you walked up the old wood steps from the backyard into the rear of the house, there were some stairs that went up into an attic area above the kitchen. I never really went up there a whole lot as there didn’t seem to be much up there but dusty old junk, cobwebs, stacks of papers and Boo Radley lurking just around the corner.  

Behind the back door to the left of the staircase that went to that attic, were a couple of old cans, hanging winter barn coats, a few soiled farmer’s coop ball caps and some old rifles leaning against the wall. One of those guns was a loaded 410 shotgun that my grandparents used to keep by the door at the farm. It was handy to have ready in the event that a pheasant appeared or a wild turkey sauntered by...but that was about all. That gun sat there for at least 50 plus years (probably longer), and to my knowledge nobody ever got a hankering to take it to a cafe, post office, school or to the local movie house...or anywhere where they'd randomly ruin lives. That 410 (unloaded) hangs in the basement of my home now...and an occasional glance at it is always reminder of a much simpler time.

If you turned immediately to the right you were in the kitchen. Man…that room was classic. I’m sure the original linoleum was white…but it looked almost yellow…or at least partly yellow now…I suspect from the years of sunlight and meat and potatoes meal preparations. There was an old gas stove to the left where my grandpa made strong black coffee the Scandinavian way…by pouring the grounds from the can directly into the boiling coffee pot.

Just around the left of the stove was the cellar. I was always afraid to go down there as a kid...you had to descend some creaky old wood stairs before getting to the dirt floor basement to the pull chain that operated the single porcelain light fixture. The few times I remember venturing down there to fetch one of my grandmother’s canned fruit jars for dinner (which we ate at noon) or supper, it was always more than a little creepy. Plus...when Boo wasn’t in the attic…I’m pretty sure the cellar was his favorite spot to just hang.

Across from the radiator on the south side of the room was the American made General Electric refrigerator. It too appeared to be from sometime in the 1940s…and at least to me, it seemed to be one of the first post-ice box electrical appliances that actually contained a condenser to refrigerate air. It was white enamel, and judging from the huge chromed latch handle that looked better suited as a hatch on a WWII era submarine, it may have just as well been built by the U.S. Navy. Though I never had to lift it, I suspect it weighed about as much as a modern day Lexus SUV…and I know it was built better and lasted longer too. If you opened the freezer door (on top behind the big door), the actual freezer compartment always appeared to be filled with more frost than food. On top of the refrigerator was a worn King James bible, and a small monthly daily devotional called "Our Daily Bread."

In the center of the room, between the refrigerator and the radiator, the four-seat kitchen table had a Formica top with a metal band around the perimeter. The table's chairs were metal too, with plastic seat cushions. I’m 52 and  on my fourth kitchen table…and all of them were probably in much better shape when I got rid of them than the old kitchen table in my grandpa’s kitchen. In all my years visiting that house, from sometime in the 1960s until the early 1990s, I don't believe that table ever changed…and I know it was made in America too.  In the center of the table there was a glass salt and pepper shaker, with the dented metal stainless tops like you see in restaurants. There was always an old metal creamer too…with real cream…just like you’d expect to see in some old school Midwestern café.

 

Growing up in Los Angeles, I wasn’t there for every breakfast at that North Dakota table, but every morning I was, the ritual was always exactly the same. The menu didn’t vary much. It was usually some some type of meat (usually bacon), some variation of eggs that were fried in the grease provided by the meat, piles of white toast (usually Wonder bread), and slabs of real Land O’ Lakes butter. Slabs. If you needed more grease, there was always an old coffee can with old cooking grease in the cupboard just under the sink. There was always a cup of sugar cubes on the table too, and my grandpa would pour his coffee onto the saucer (to let it cool) and slurp it off the small dish... often while sucking on a sugar cube that he’d soaked with coffee on the saucer. When we were done eating, I’d always grab a maple leaf cookie or four from the formica counter top that ran along the west wall of the kitchen.

Once we were done eating, grandpa would fetch the old bible and the daily devotional from the top of the refrigerator. In all the days I was in that house, I don’t ever recall him missing this daily routine. He would read the assigned short simple lesson from the pamphlet (that somehow tied a short story to a bible verse), and then recite a couple of passages from the associated scripture. After that, he would slap the bible shut and enthusiastically pray. Every day until she passed away, he would ask for relief for my ailing grandmother, and usually request some help to ensure a bountiful wheat and soybean harvest. On the days I was there, he would almost always include thanks for the visit and appeal for my safe return trip home. He wound up every prayer the same way…by saying   “…and so again we pray…” and much like that slamming screen door…I can close my eyes and hear his thick Swedish accent still today.

 

There was something about the stability of that scene that I thought would be there forever.  My grandmother passed away in the late 70’s, and my grandpa died in 1991. Though it’s been well over 25 years since I’ve sat in that kitchen, in my mind’s eye, I can see us all sitting there like it was yesterday.

What’s the point of all this? Not sure really. Could be it’s all I could come up with at 4:00am on an early Maundy Thursday morning. Could also be that as I get older, there’s somehow a greater sense of priorities. The older I get, the less I think about all the work-related crap I often feel should demand all my time…and the more I reflect on the people that have touched my life.

 

You’re on the cusp of a big holiday weekend, so whether you’re coloring eggs or asking why tonight is unlike any other, try to do something fun with the people and pets that matter the most to you. When you get to the end, you’ll be thinking a lot less about your job…and a lot more about places like your grandma and grandpa’s kitchen and the people that were sitting around the table.  

...but through the haze I see your face

...and no matter what you have to deal with today..don't foget it's the people that matter most

If I think back on my career as a union organizer, few if any people had a greater impact on me than my friend and mentor Duane W. Moore. When I began in that position in Los Angeles in late 1998, Duane, who was the veteran organizer in the neighboring local union to the north, was already a legend in the building trades world.  I remember a fellow rookie colleague simply referred to him as “The Great One from the North.”

Duane was truly larger than life. He was a rodeo bull rider as a young man, rode a Harley (and he was the genuine biker article), and was quite simply the toughest dude I’ve ever encountered. The first real organizing campaign I ever worked as a cub was just north of our jurisdiction in the remote desert town of California City. Duane tutored me throughout that effort, and though he was highly frustrated by what he no doubt thought was my naïve and less combative approach, he always gave me the latitude to do it partly my way. He could never resist the urge to also let me know my candy-assed approach was destine to fail…but he always gave me a long leash.

Often times on our long drives down the lonesome two-lane hardtop that descended gradually into the Mojave valley, Duane and I would talk strategy as we rolled down the road toward the jobsite. Duane would go over in detail the tactical moves he was advising we make in almost military precision, then…at some point…he’d turn to me grinning and say something like… “so…now that we know what we should do and what works…what kind of dumbass thing do you suggest we do when we get there…invite the owner to lunch?” He always said it which a genuine smile too…legitimately entertained by whatever farfetched softer plan I’d no doubt propose.

While Duane was often frustrated by what he often characterized as my “kiss ass” demeanor…he always gave me high marks for hard work. He also loved walking on jobsites with me…precisely because we had such antithetical styles. I remember one night we were driving back from a big pizza party that we’d had with about 30 of the company’s workers…when he turned to me and said… “you’re a good organizer…and the best thing about you is that you believe.” To me, that was like getting a compliment from god, and for years after and until this day, Duane and a handful of other veteran organizers still proudly refer to ourselves as “believers.”

After pure luck intervened and I had the opportunity to head up the national construction organizing efforts for our organization, my first call was to Duane W. Moore. Ironically, this was one of those incredible situations where the pupil finds himself in charge of the giant that help put him there…and to be honest, the team that was assembled as part of that effort included more than a few of those types of mentors. While it was a genuine organizing all-star team, nobody worked harder, cared more, or achieved a greater amount in the way of genuine results than Duane. I loved everybody on the magical team, but nobody ever made me look better or helped grow our membership more than Duane.

We experienced a lot over the years. We walked a lot of jobs, shared a lot of laughs, and I was with him earlier in the afternoon of the evening he laid his Harley Night Train down at over 100 mph on the Golden State Freeway just north of Los Angeles. I was also with him years later, riding our beloved bikes (he was riding the very same repaired Night Train) with some brothers through the Black Hills of South Dakota. I remember that trip vividly, because as we met up in the southern Black Hills town of Hot Springs, he was incredulous when I rode into the parking lot with a detachable windshield on my bike. Because this is largely a family show, I won’t even tell you what he called me (repeatedly for the rest of the trip).   

Duane was diagnosed a couple of years ago with some sort of aggressive cancer that I don’t even know how to pronounce. Throughout his valiant fight he was perpetually Duane…never complaining, always fighting, and ALWAYS far more concerned about his friends than he ever seemed about himself. There was a lot to love about him, but I think what I liked most was that his despite his gruff exterior…he truly loved the people that loved him. That was especially true of his family, his brother, his son, his step-children and his beloved wife…and you don’t often hear guys talk about their spouse with the reverence that he always reserved for her.  

About a week ago I received an email from a dear friend at approximately 8:25pm EDT. Compared to most of the electronic messages I get and send, this one was pretty brief. All it said was…

“Just so you know, Duane passed on several minutes ago.”

Duane…I am going to miss you more than I have the words or talent to convey. You were a giant…and at the end of the day, I guess I just want to say thank you for making so many lives better.

What’s the point of all this? Well, if you’d dropped in here before you probably know there usually isn’t one. Seems to me though you might glean at least this though. Today is Friday, and on the cusp of your weekend that people like Duane worked so hard to provide, take some time to acknowledge the fragility of life and do some stuff that matters. You will no doubt face some level of frustrations and challenges today, but in the big scheme of things, it is the people (and pets) you care about that will matter to you a lot more in the end.  

Have a great weekend, and if you can, give someone you care about a hug.

I've seen it all...

...and one, small comment can alter the rest of your life

On most winter mornings, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky as my Sorrels crunched through the deep snow on my frosty quarter-mile walk from employee dorm room 100 at the Mammoth Mountain Inn over to the Main Lodge warming hut. Nestled at 9,000 feet in the California’s Sierra mountain range roughly 300 miles north of Los Angeles, the original wooden lodge at the base of the marquee resort housed the Main Lodge Ski Repair and Rental shop where I worked for two ski seasons after dropping out of UCLA in 1981.

For a host of what I believe are largely meteorological reasons, the huge mountain resort typically receives abundant snowfalls as a result of moisture-packed Pacific storms which routinely wallop the area in a normal winter cycle. As a matter-of-fact, the average snowfall at Mammoth is over 200” a year, but the two epic seasons I called the resort home (’81 and ’82), snowfall totals exceed 500” in each of the two years. No…that’s not a misprint.

It wasn’t hard to distinguish yourself as a reliable worker in the California ski culture of the early 1980s…especially if you were a drug-free, tee-toddling choir boy who went to bed most nights by 10pm while most of your peers were carousing the bars down in the Village.  In my first month at Mammoth my supervisor asked me if I’d mind coming in early at about 6:30am, and I remember telling him I’d be happy to be there at 5:30am if that’s what he wanted. As you might imagine, it’s not easy finding early twenty-something cats living the ski-bum life to get up at the crack of dawn to come to work so I was distinguishing myself as the quintessential butt-kisser early on.

It turned out my boss was glad to have me there for the early rush each morning, but he was lamenting one day that my 8 hours were up before the inevitable slam of afternoon rental returns. I suggested that I’d work a split shift (see butt kissing), starting at 6 and working until about 10…and then returning sometime in the afternoon and working from about 2pm to 6pm. Each forenoon I’d clock out about 10, hitchhike or run the four miles down to the Village (it was at about 7,000 feet) to work out at the Body Shoppe Gym…and then thumb back up the mountain where I’d usually work on my tan on the sundeck overlooking the hill with a Molson Golden while listening to some soft rock on my stereo Hi-Fi headphones.  

 

Aside from being an instructor or maybe on ski patrol, it was tough to get a better gig in the hierarchical ski culture than working in the Main Lodge Ski Repair Shop. Even the pompous poster-boy (and girl) ski  instructors in their navy and dark red sweaters needed their skis tuned and waxed, so to say I was living the good life would be an understatement.

Early on Sunday morning after making my way over to the Main Lodge, I was sharpening the edges on a pair of demo giant slalom rental skis on the workbench in the sunrise light from north window at the back of the old shop. The mountain had received about a foot of snow the night before, and amidst sips of fresh black coffee, some old-school country music playing on the radio and the beautiful scene out the window, it was a clearly the type of epic mountain morning that made life in the Sierras pure heaven. Suddenly, the morning meditation was interrupted by the unusual sound of the back door opening (nobody else typically arrived for about an hour).

I looked up and to my surprise one of the Repair Shop veterans…a guy named Rick* but that we all called Slick*, strolled in wearing a tweed sports jacket, jeans and cowboy boots. I remember thinking he looked atypically overdressed for 0-600 on a Sunday, and blurted out something like “you’re looking awfully sharp for early on a Sunday.”

“Well…I haven’t been home yet” he replied.

“What do you mean you haven’t been home yet” I answered.

“I mean we went out last night and I haven’t been home yet” he explained.

Not even familiar with the concept, I again asked “you mean to tell me you went out on a Saturday night, stayed up all night…and now you’re coming in straight to work?”

“Yep” he said… “it was a one gram night.” 

“One gram of what?” I said.

He looked at me quizzically and stated “cocaine.”

I remember my heart sinking. How could this guy that I looked up to do drugs? He was always so nice, funny, surrounded by women…and now he’s telling me he does cocaine?

“You’ve had cocaine haven’t you?” he asked.

“Nope…never” I responded.

“Well...” he said… “we’ll fix that sh*t right now.”

He reached into his sports coat pocket and pulled out a little mirror and what looked like a little vile. It’s odd, but even after more than thirty years I remember that little glass tube had a distinct black top. As he put down the mirror, tapped out a little coke and formed up a small line with razor blade, I remember rationalizing that I was 20 years old, that everyone was doing it, and that it was time to see what all the fuss was about.  

As a leaned over with a crisp rolled-up one dollar bill at my nostril…I remember Slick saying the following…

“Just lean over, put the bill up nose…hold your other nostril closed with your finger tip and inhale the line.”

I was just about to do as instructed…and then he added this…

“Go ahead…you won’t be sorry. I remember the first time I tried it…and I knew instantly was better than sex.”

I remember hearing that more distinctly than just about anything in my entire life.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“It’s better than sex” he repeated confidently.

“Do you mean that?” I asked.

“Yep…without question.”

Well…it’s not like that should have mattered to me at the time. As best I can recall it’s not like I had anything other than expectation to contrast it to, but his comparison immediately resonated with me. If that was indeed true…it would certainly explain why so many good people had their lives screwed up by an unshakeable addiction to that little white powder.

So…I put down the bill….pushed back from the workbench…and decided not to try test Slick’s comparison. Oddly, I’ve never been even tempted since.

It’s funny…I still remember all those ski shop cats now…even after some thirty years. Billy Glenn, Jimmy Cefalo,  Glen Miyatta, Dave Maughn, Donnie Riederson, Steve, Tim, Spike, Pam, Donna, Brett…my lord we were all so cool. At least that’s the way it was in all our heads…and over a couple of blended margaritas at the end of a long double-shift ski day in paradise…what else really matters.

Those of us in the IBEW family lost another true giant this passed Wednesday, and the pain associated with such a passing was accentuated by the fact that this genuine legend was just too young to go. It was yet another reminder of the fragility of life, and another vivid signpost screaming the need for all of us to follow his lead by making the most of our time here on this earth.

It’s Friday, so if you can, try to do something meaningful with the people that matter most to you. Much of what stresses us out the most is not really all that important…and at the end of the line, it’s going to seem even less so.

Have a great weekend...and start with a little music.

 

...all I do is think of you.

 

*Name changed

 

Sorry for all the misspellings, terrible grammar and abysmally poor writing.