...and I should have stayed in bed

Normally I wake up a few minutes before the alarm so the fact that it went off this morning at 3:55 should have been my first clue it would be a good day to stay in bed. I stumbled down the stairs as always, let the cat out, and then when I looked into the mirror, I knew sleeping in would have been a much better option. After brushing my teeth I went into the basement to knock out a couple of sets of bench-press, but my back was sore from having to change a tire on my wife’s car last night. Actually, it was my car, which she’s using because her car is not running. That means I have to schlep to work by foot (I cheat and take the metro part of the way), but that’s probably another reason my back hurts.

I sat down at the computer between sets to hammer out the song of the day story, but there just wasn’t anything there (there’s stuff in the gym…there just wasn’t anything in my mind). I laid back down to do another set, but I didn’t push up the bar because that hurt too. I started thinking about my sore back and what a pain it was to be without wheels. That got me to thinking about some of my old cars.

For most of my life, especially all the years I wore a tool-belt in the trade, I drove a good, old-fashioned standard pickup truck.  I had a couple of them, but my favorite was a blue 1974 full-sized Ford with a standard transmission that I purchased from my cousin’s Ford store in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. When I think back about all the therapeutic drives I had in that rig on gravel roads around North Dakota, I can’t help but think about how nice it would be to do that now. Somehow, crammed into the Red Line with my face slammed against the glass next to some cat that is having the same problem with his indoor plumbling that I am with my cars,  just doesn’t provide the same level of therapy.

Anyway, this is starting to shape up as a great example of the contrast between having something to say and feeling the need to say something. As I noted earlier, there just isn’t much there today…must be my sore back.

Hope you have a terrific weekend. It’s shaping up to be a Fall beauty here in the east, so hopefully you’ve planned something fun. If you feel the tug to work too much…fight it. It may not feel like it now, but whatever you think is so important that it should keep you from what really matters in life, will seem much less significant when the final curtain falls.

If you start today with some music, you'll have a better day.

Take a drive...

Know when to fold 'em

Several years ago when the whole Friday morning email/song thing started, the weekly practice was little more than an informal attempt to do something nice at the end of the week...and partly in hopes of encouraging hardworking coworkers to go out and truly enjoy a well-deserved weekend. After a long and fairly popular ride in its largely unchanged original format, the weekly practice morphed into something more formal, where at least the attempt was made to make the stories more than the impromptu blathering contained in the less structured initial design. I suspect that happened for several reasons, including both the urging of well-intended colleagues that thought the weekly missives deserved a wider audience, and my own gargantuan ego that somehow believed there would indeed be broader interest.

I’m trying not to beat myself up too much about that expectation…I suspect most of us want to believe what we think matters to others, and that people will be interested in what we have to say or write...but that’s probably only true you if you have interesting thoughts, tell good stories, or if you particularly write well. I wanted to believe folks would eat up musings about quirky people on airplanes, seeds-of-faith infomercials, personal college football failures, the human hunger for appreciation, altar boy experiences (that just sounds bad), the death of style, my father’s wisdom, self-reflection, the value of a smile, growing older, listening, two-lane roads covered with Buffalo, the greatest generation, road trips, motorcycle rides, chivalry, noteworthy retirements, enduring romance, South Dakota, holidays in mid America, the fragility of life, balconies in Tuscany, North Dakota, formica kitchen tables…and the people, pets and things that should matter most in our lives.

I guess I thought the popularity of the narratives would grow, and that fascinated readers would share the missives with their friends and relatives, who would then pass them along to their various contacts…and so it would go. Soon, I reasoned readership would go global, and folks in other countries would start following, followed not long after by my inevitable appearance on Oprah. Actually, the stats function of the formal blog shows there are readers in France, Germany, Austria and Switzerland. That sounds encouraging, but deep down inside I know I’m the one that accessed the site from those locales…so aside from some Canadian and UK followers (who I’m guessing stumbled on the site thinking it was connected to the god-awful internet song “It’s Friday)…the thing just hasn’t caught on oversees…or anywhere else for that matter.  

Unfortunately, the blog stats feature also shows actual page views, and since the switch to the online format the trend line is heading down at a steeper angle than my 3-year GPA at Alexander Hamilton High School. On top of all of this, I have received a ton (maybe four people) of feedback from folks that don’t like having to hunt for the stories online or the antiseptic environment of the blog. Perhaps more importantly, they note they also miss the more folksy appearance of the “It’s Friday” message in their personal inboxes. I guess it was kind of a modern-day version of the flag up on the mailbox.

So, given the unlikelihood that I’m going to become a better writer (think comas and the whole desert vs. dessert thing…still not clear on that one), and knowing that my life and related stories are probably not going to get any more interesting, it seems quite clear that it’s about time to look in the mirror and scrap the formal blog approach. 

Not sure how I’m going to remedy all this. I’m tempted to revert to emails but I don’t want to presume anyone really wants the weekly messages. Actually…judging by the blog stats, there isn’t really much to wonder about. Maybe I should just enroll in a writing class at UDC or at least figure out how to disable the stats feature on the blog account.

What’s the point of all this? Well the six of you still reading know there is no point. I suspect there could be some connection to lessons about not tinkering with something that isn’t broken, but I’m not really sure. In the meantime, let’s get back to having a great weekend, spending time with the people we love, relaxing, and starting the day off with some good music.

I actually heard this song while watching Imus earlier this week and I had to get up off the couch at 6 a.m. and dance. Now, if I could just get that video on the blog…that would go viral.

Have a wonderful, relaxing, family-filled weekend. Do something fun…you certainly deserve it.

http://grooveshark.com/#/s/I+m+Goin+Down/2rRunH?src=5

Stand Aside

Not sure why, but all this talk of the recent earthquake got me to thinking about the big shakers I experienced during the 43 years I lived in Los Angeles. These quakes were different than the recent one we had here in DC...these were the kind where the ground actually shook violently and stuff fell down…including some actual buildings (to be honest, I wasn’t even here during the recent DC tremor, but I thought a little California quake-snobbishness might be a good engaging hook at the outset of this story). The last really big one I remember was the Northridge quake in 1994, and ironically, I was running a big new electrical construction project on the campus of Cal-State Northridge. 

The events of that day the quake hit and the devastation that occurred are another story for a different time, but what is interesting to me is that as dramatic as that episode was; navigating on that morning around crumbled overpasses, sunken streets, downed power lines, demolished buildings, and finally arriving at the collapsed parking structure where I’d parked every day for over a year, all that was not the most memorable part of working on that campus.  While the images of that destruction are vivid, the thing I think most about that project is the influence is had on my own professional career.  

Back when I was a young crackerjack electrical foreman, I was the gold-standard for micro managers. I would lay-out all the associated tasks with color-coated instructions (literally) that were almost idiot proof. I was the test, and the rule was if I could figure out my instructions, anyone should be able to do it. Boxes were color coated for conduit systems (power was blue, fire-life safety red, lighting was orange etc…) and the so were the diagrams carefully spray-painted on the floor for the journeymen to follow. I was real proud of the system, until one day when someone actually had the the nerve to challenge the perfect model.

He really wasn’t that much older than me, but he’d been around the trade for awhile and he was a seasoned journeyman electrician named Tom. One day while I was instructing him on his next project, I noticed he was smiling. When I sternly asked him why, he hesitatingly pointed out to me that I might want to try standing back and letting the talented folks around me do what they were trained to do. To me, that sounded like idiocy… and I remember asking him if he really thought he could read the blueprints and actually put in the installation without my guidance. He asked me to let him try, and even implied I might like the outcome if I gave it a shot. It was laughable really, and I remember looking forward to the “I told you so” moment when I returned to see he’d screwed it up royally without my guidance.

I watched him from a distance for a while, and wallowed with satisfaction as he studied the prints and removed his hardhat to scratch his head. I figured I’d give it a couple of hours, and when I returned at the end of the day, my instincts were immediately validated. Predictably, Tom had installed the conduit runs completely different than my well-thought-out layout. Then, as Tom feebly tried to explain his rationale for his bonehead approach, I started to realize that his ideas and ultimately his entire installation, was superior to what I initially wanted done.  

It wasn’t easy letting out the reins at first, but once the talented well-trained crew on that IBEW job was really unbridled, even better things started to happen. It wasn’t long before that became the model on every job, and soon I was benefiting from the skills and expertise of those around me. Eventually, I learned my best strategy was often to just get out of the way (too often the crew would reminded me of that), and over time, I benefitted more and more for the good work done by others.

Though I still stick my nose into things way too much, the hands-off approach has for the most part been a good model. To put it simply, I have had a blessed life…often getting credit, or at least far too much recognition for the work done by people theoretically working for me (at least on the org chart). Usually, they are accomplishing it by their own initiative with little or no direction. Then, by virtue of their efforts, I often end up with a preponderance of the credit they deserve. To the degree I’ve amounted to anyting, being pushed up by others, and ton of luck (and having a great boss) has been the quintessential blueprint. At no time in my life has that been as true as it is right now.

I miss the days I worked in the field and the lessons I learned while doing so, but I can’t complain  too much.  Now days I have a pretty cool office and to be completely candid, sometimes I look out the window at the stunning view and wonder how it all happened (people that know me well are even more perplexed…actually perplexed doesn’t cover it). In the corner of my office is a hard hat from my home local union. It’s the one I wore when Tom told me to stand aside and let the talented folks around me do what they knew how to do. I won’t lie and try to tell you I think about it every day, but when I do, it reminds me of one ultimate truth. Every good thing I’ve ever enjoyed professionally (and much of the happiness I’m blessed with personally), is due to the work of others.

Have a terrific Labor Day weekend and try to spend a minute or two thinking about the good work people do and how it has affected your life.

When I think about the look on Tom's face when he gave me that sage advice...I wouldn't be too surprised if he was thinking about this song.

Happy Labor Day

Now Boarding...

The past couple of weeks I’ve had the good fortune to do an inordinate amount of traveling (at least for me), and while flying to various destinations on largely leisure travel, I witnessed several things that literally drove me nuts. I know that many of those living in the modern era are convinced that they are the only people inhabiting the planet, but the deterioration of the airline travel experience really seems to be spiraling out of control.  
 

Now, let’s just establish at the outset that this diatribe is probably going to upset a few people.  To be honest, it wouldn’t be completely surprising if half of the approximately six people that regularly follow this weekly offering stop doing so after today. However, even after considering the potential downside, I’ve decided to plow ahead nonetheless. I can’t really afford to lose any friends here, but somehow, I’m naively hoping that two of the six will feel the same way and that maybe we’ll start a trend.

OK…here’s the deal. Quite a few people (most of the six) have pointed out to me that a good deal of the subject matter contained here each week deals with nostalgia. As one reader recently noted…much of the Friday Song blog seems to be about a fixation for “days gone by.” 

To be honest, that actually stung a bit because though I suspect I’m the quintessential old soul, I don’t like to think of myself as obsessed with the past. When I note the myriad of technological improvements just in my lifetime alone, I am often almost overwhelmed at the good things that have evolved over the course my mere forty-nine years (don’t laugh…it’s been a rough life).  

Actually, I can still remember a time before cell phones, when an actual human being was enough to hold someone’s attention.  But as much as I might romanticize the way I liked things before, I am under no illusion that we’ll ever retrieve much of that simplicity nor do I deny the obvious fact that we’re largely better off off due to much of the progress. There are however a couple of areas when I’m convinced we’re de-evolving, and though I suspect  we’ll never reverse the trend, I’m still clinging to the far-fetched hope that somehow, someway, some things are going to come back.

Now, though I’m only 49 (remember what I said about laughing), I can still remember a time flying commercial airlines when the planes only had props and when people actually dressed up…I mean really dressed up, when they traveled by air. The fact that planes now have jet engines is a vivid example of the way things have improved over time. The fact that many of the people that now fly in them dress and behave as though they were raised in a freaking barn, is an equally clear example of how we’ve regressed (I can also remember a time when you would never see or hear a word like “freaking” and what it implied).

When I was a young boy, I can remember flying on TWA planes with legions of flight attendants wearing outfits that looked like something out of the Royal Navy. Male passengers were often in suits or at least slacks, and women were usually dressed as nice or better. Somehow though, in the course of just a few decades, we have advanced technologically while undergoing an equally proportionate deterioration in the area of civility…and in no area is it more evident than commercial air travel.  

Fortunately, I fly often enough on the same airline that I’m upgraded to first class about two-thirds of the time (I never buy the first class ticket). Unfortunately, even the curtain and those bigger seats provide little insulation from the depravity that seems to have largely overtaking the industry. Regardless of where I’m seated, there is an increasing chance I’ll be placed next to some cat in cutoffs and flip-flops (it’s especially nice when they then cross their leg and rest there dirty foot on their knee about 24 inches from my face). Sometimes, that fresh-from-drunk-tank look is exceeded by somebody in what I swear has to be a pair of pajamas (at least the bottoms). Increasingly, they’ll augment that stellar fresh-off-the-mattress-without-brushing look by towing along a stained, lice-laden pillow from home.

Now, I know we’ll never get back to a time where folks dress up to fly. Guys in white uniforms are never going to come jogging out from the Texaco station again to wash my windows and people will probably never get back to visiting with one another for more than 5 minutes without looking at their smartphones. Though some things are clearly gone for good, maybe people will stop boarding planes looking as they do in bed or after a workout at the gym. Perhaps, some element of consideration will seep back into travel. Sure, I know generations of folks obsessed with only their own comfort will find it astonishing to recognize they have a duty of consideration to those around them, but maybe, just maybe, some young hip, throw-back star will come along and stop dressing like a meat locker… and instead inspire folks to emulate something with bit more classic style.

When I was a kid, I remember my father popping me in the head as we walked down a Ramada motel hallway very early one morning while on one of our classic summer car trips (had to cross the desert early to ensure the radiator didn’t overheat…another example of real progress). I wasn’t initially sure what I’d done wrong, but my dad quickly pointed out there were paying customers trying to sleep just on the other side of the hallway door and that even my “inside” voice wasn’t appropriate for that early hour. He told me we had a duty to leave quietly and consider the comfort of others by not subjecting them to our pre-dawn conversation. When I asked why, he told me that is how we would expect to be treated if we were trying to sleep.

Some will have trouble connecting today’s song to the drivel above, but then again, that is nothing new. There is something about this tune however that just smacks of class, and I always connect it to the original Hollywood gem Sabrina. I have no way of knowing this, but I want to believe not one of the stars of this film ever boarded a plane looking like they’d just rolled out of bed.

Have a great weekend…and if you live on the east coast, stay dry.

Audrey, Bill and Bogie...

The Voice of the Dodgers

There was an obituary in this past Tuesday’s New York Times for a fellow by the name of Nate Allbright. He was 87, and to my knowledge, I had never heard of him before. This actually seemed more that a bit odd, because the caption above the article stated that Mr. Allbright had been the “Voice of Dodger Games…” As a once devoted Los Angeles Dodger fan (I attended 56 home games one year and mooched every ticket), I was fairly certain the only voice of the Dodgers in my lifetime was Vin Scully (and perhaps Red Barber). I recall routinely hearing Scully fondly refer to Barber, but the name Allbright wasn’t ringing a bell. Given his age and my affinity for my hometown Los Angeles team, Nate Allbright seemed like someone I should know.

As I read the obituary, I realized that Allbright had been the voice of Brooklyn Dodger games he didn’t actually attend. As the story noted, for cost savings purposes he had been employed by the Dodgers during the 50’s to broadcast games remotely, creatively re-enacting the contests as though he was actually there. He would begin his broadcasts by saying “Welcome to Ebbett’s Field,” and his accounts went to stations on the Dodger network throughout the eastern United States from Cleveland to Miami.

Using Morse code teletype feeds (something like B1W for ball 1 wide) he would deploy sound effects to recreate the game on radio. The article noted that over the span of a decade, he broadcast over 1,500 games without ever seeing one. Fifty two stations apparently carried the Dodger network the first year and that number doubled in year two. He apparently had sound effects to mimic all the needed sounds; the crowd roar, the slap of the ball in a glove, and he could make the noise of the bat cracking the ball by using his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Apparently, if the teletype jammed, or if a feed was delayed, he would buy time and narrate several fictitious foul balls or feign a slight rain delay by crinkling a cigarette wrapper. According to Dodger Owner Walter O’Malley, Allbright was so good at his craft that O’Malley once suggested they should skip playing the actual games and just let Nate do his thing.

Actually, thanks to the advent of television putting an end to the need for Nate’s recreating talents, he actually did get the opportunity to do just as O’Malley suggested. The obituary noted that he broadcast fictitious games during the baseball and football labor disputes, creating entire imaginary games that never actually took place. He did this according to him, largely because of the demand of fans to listen to games on the radio…even if they weren’t real.

When I was a kid, I laid in bed many nights nestling my beloved transistor radio while listening to Vin Scully magically paint a vivid picture of Dodger games. His words seemed like poetry to me, and in my mind I could clearly s stars like ee Garvey, Lopes, Russell, Cey, Yeager, Sutton, Baker, Monday, Smith and so many others. Sometimes, when things went well, I would leap from my bed and run out to see if my dad was still listening (or watching) so we could celebrate together. I don’t have the time to sit and listen to baseball games on the radio anymore and I haven’t listened to full game since I stumbled across the broadcast the night Cal Ripken broke the consecutive game streak (I was listening while driving to North Dakota). But though it’s probably been almost thirty years, I remember the magic of those Dodger games like it was yesterday.

I never heard one of Nate Allbright’s recreated broadcasts, but they must have been something to hear. He sounded like a talented man, who was able to use his skills to weave simple teletype messages into a believable baseball experience. I’m not really sure why, but hearing of his passing saddened me, I guess because it made me think of yet another bygone thing I used to love but no long have time, or the attention span, to enjoy.

I hope you have a truly wonderful weekend. Whenever you are, maybe you can set aside a few hours to take in America’s pastime. If you can’t make to the park, maybe you can at least catch part of a game on the radio. If you don’t have a few hours, perhaps you can at least take a few minutes to listen to a special song. If you do, I think you might smile.

Have a great weekend.  

If you're not smiling after this...I can't help you

Grandpa's Kitchen

The chipped linoleum on my grandparent’s kitchen floor was off-white as I recall, and it looked as though it had been there since sometime in the 1940s. The counter tops were Formica, and I suspect they had been installed about the same time as the flooring. Across from the radiator on the south side of the room was the 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 metallic latch handle, it may have just as well been built by the U.S. Navy as General Electric. Though I never had to lift it, I suspected it weighed about 1,000 pounds. 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. In all my years visiting that house, from sometime in the 1960s until the early 1990s, I don't believe that table ever changed.

The Table

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 variation of eggs, some type of meat (usually bacon), piles of white toast (usually Wonder bread), and slabs of real Land O’ Lakes butter. The coffee was made by pouring the coffee grounds directly into the boiling water. There was always real cream and a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, 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.

No Whole Grain Here

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, and then recite a couple of bible passages from the associated scripture. After that, he would slap the bible shut and enthusiastically pray in a thick a thick Swedish accent. Every day until she passed away, he would ask for relief for my ailing grandmother, and usually request some help to ensure a bountiful harvest. On the days I was there, he would almost always include thanks for the visit and appeal for my safe return trip home. In my mind’s eye, I can see us all sitting there like it was yesterday.

As for me, I don’t remember the last time I even looked at a bible. To be honest, I’m not sure where that prized book I received in confirmation even is. I know I’ve looked up some verses up electronically for some teaching that I do (looking up the Golden Rule), but that was all online. I may have picked up a large print bible in a Barnes and Noble a few years ago but that was only to get a sense of how it might work as a Christmas present for my mom. Other than the gospel music I play occasionally with a buddy at a bar in Old Town now and then, I really have almost no remaining connection to the devotion that was so central to my grandfather’s life.

What’s all this mean? Well, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time, you know better than to presume I know. I really don't have a clue other than I heard this morning’s song on Pandora earlier in the week, and I guess it just got me to thinking about that kitchen table. As I get older and find my self reminiscing, it's always about times like these and seldcom ever about work.  

Whatever you’re doing the next two days, try to make it a truly wonderful weekend. If you can, steal away some time and do something that counts with your family.

I can see us sittin' round the table...
                   The Song

Hot Springs

About 60 miles straight south or Rapid City, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, is the southern Black Hills town of Hot Springs. It’s only about 25 minutes east of the Wyoming line, and roughly the same distance just north of the Nebraska boarder. To me, it is the classic Black Hills town…a regular trip back in time with a main street lined with sandstone buildings that look like something out of an 1800’s movie set. The Fall River runs next to the main road, and the city’s warm springs were the impetus for the several late 19^th century health spa resorts that once lined the river.

When I was younger, I would make an annual summer drive from Los Angeles to Abercrombie, North Dakota, and on the morning of the second day (driving straight through), I would drive along Highway 18 from Lusk, Wyoming and into Hot Springs. Just west of Hot Springs, there is an incredible valley, and as I would make that eastward trek in the morning light, it usually struck me as among the most beautiful spots on earth.

Amazingly, my first cousin Brent purchased about 3,000 acres about ten years ago just south of that highway…in pretty much the the exact same spot. He still lives in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, but he flies several times a month (especially in the summer) to spend time in the peaceful ranch setting. For that past couple of years, I have been able to make yearly trips out there in the spring and summer to help with branding (spring) or ride motorcycles (summer) during the Sturgis bike week. For a host of reasons, the time enjoying the Black Hills is always a highlight...and the time spent on horseback or on the bike is therapeutic beyond any words I know how to convey.

I wish I could pinpoint exactly why the annual excursions are so comforting, but I’m presuming it has something to do with the stability of the area. Whether I ride across the state or fly into Rapid and drive down to the ranch, things always seem pretty much the same. After living in the ever-changing hustle-and-bustle of both coasts, there is just a sense of contentment that comes from the sameness the American West.

If you’ve ever been there, you already know the magic you encounter while driving through this beautiful area. If you haven’t, I truly hope you find time to make a visit someday. There is simply something healing about the Black Hills, and when driving down the two-lane roads you really never know what you might see. After a couple of days, you just can’t help but feel that everything is going to be alright.

Have a truly wonderful weekend, and whatever you do, please take a little time to do something you truly love.

Take a ride to the end of the line...