...and if you go to Las Vegas, stay indoors between 3 and 4am

Growing up in Los Angeles, I used to love going to Las Vegas. I remember my first trip with my parents as a kid. It was in 1969…as part of a summer driving trip from Los Angeles to visit my grandparents in North Dakota. My father, a WWII E Division Navy veteran and IBEW construction electrician, loved to see what he considered architectural marvels. He had heard about a new high-rise hotel in Las Vegas called the International that was supposed to be the new jewel of the desert…and he was eager to see if this budding palace matched up to its description and his expectation.

I still remember the instant we opened the door to the room. First of all, the interior seemed abnormally dark. Almost the entire space, including the velour bedding and full-length curtains that hung to the floor, were a deep ruby-red color.  It looked like a late nineteenth century Deadwood bordello, or at least the that’s the way I’ve heard them described since in Louis L’amour novels or Robert Parker books that describe the travails of gunslingers Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch.  

As an 8 year-old I’d never been in accommodations this plush…or for that matter…this high off the ground. I believe we were on the 27^th floor…with a view looking over the famed Las Vegas Strip. It was still early afternoon when we checked into that room and I remember being almost blinded when I peeled back the curtains to see the view. I also remember the cost of the room being $42.00 (my mother was horrified by the amount), which was unheard of at a time when most of the other motels we would stay at on that trip would cost something between $6 and $9 per night (and sometimes you got free color TV).

My parents took me to a show the first night we were there too, starring John Davidson and Phyllis Diller.  I remember standing in a long line that wrapped through the casino as we were waiting to get in. My father was dressed in all black and was smoking a filter-less cigarette (he rarely smoked) he’d gotten for free while playing black jack. He looked like Tyrone Power or some other 40’s leading man from the silver screen.

I recall him taking a silver dollar, putting into a slot machine and pulling the handle only to have $25.00 in silver dollars drop out. I can still vividly remember the sound of those big heavy coins hitting the metal tray…and the noise made by my dad scooping them all into a plastic bucket. I thought that must happen every time you put a dollar into a machine, and couldn’t understand why my dad just stopped after one.

“You have to know when to walk away” my dad said as he backed away from the machine and headed over to the cage while my mom and I held the place in line. “Let that be a lesson to you.”

On the return trip back from North Dakota we stopped in Las Vegas again. This time, we stayed at what was then the southern-most end of the Strip, and actually for most of Las Vegas really, at the Tropicana.

It was really more of a two-story motel at the time, long before they had built any glitzy towers. The place had this great old-school classy desert ambience…and if you sat at the peaceful pool area you half-way expected to see Dean Martin stroll by in a white terry cloth shirt with a chilled Manhattan and a Lucky Strike dangling from his mouth.

My mom and dad took me to another show the night we stayed at the Tropicana too. We were seated in a nice elevated booth toward the back of the house when entered the ballroom, but I saw my father hand the guy wearing a tux that had seated us some money…and he promptly escorted us down to a front-row table that lined up with the center stage. I remember wondering how my father knew all this stuff…and even at that age, I remember feeling as though I was hanging out with Al Capone.

Over the years the allure of Las Vegas pretty much wore off on me. My wife and I used to go to the Las Vegas Hilton when we were younger (the old International described above), but as the charming old hotels like the Dunes and the Desert Inn were imploded and replaced by monstrosities that I can’t even really describe, somehow the charm just seemed to fade.

I only go to southern Nevada for business these days, and most of the time when I do I end up going for daily morning runs sometime between 3am and 4am (I’m on east coast time and get up early). You see a lot of weird crap when you go running east of the Strip at 3am, and most of it isn’t good. Come to think of it, I don’t really recall seeing anything that I could characterize as good.

On my last trip two weeks ago I stayed at Caesar’s Palace. I was always almost afraid to go into that joint when I was younger…always felt like it was over my head. The original structure is barely noticeable anymore, literally dwarfed by the massive towers of sleeping rooms just west of the old building on the north and south sides of the property. The old outdoor boxing area is gone too…replaced by conference space and an expanded pool area that must be 20 football fields in total area.

I was able to steal about an hour after the meetings late one afternoon so I went down to the pool to chill for a while. Actually…there were about six pools in the outdoor area if I counted correctly, and while I can’t really describe the atmosphere, I had zero expectation that Dino or any of his modern-day equivalents would come strolling by. Oh wait…there are no present-day equivalents…not in saloon style singers or old-school hotels on the Strip.

The pool was packed though, mostly by frolicking younger generations gyrating to unrecognizable pulsating music that don’t long for (or even know about) what I so fondly long for. Like a lot of things…I miss the old Las Vegas…and the saddest thing of all is I know for certain that it’s never coming back.  The encouraging thing for folks charged with filling the sleeping rooms in Las Vegas though is that I’m a dying breed…and the lust for whatever was happening at the pool that afternoon seems to be trending in only one direction…directly away from me.  

It’s Friday, and if you can, try to do something you enjoy with the people you love. There will always be work to do…but see if you can steal away more than a few hours to create some memories that really will matter when it’s all tallied up at the end.

 

The room was completely black...

...and I'm going to start eating more meals at home

Just about ten months ago, a new restaurant opened up about three blocks from our house in DC. Though the place was being built in what had been a failed run-of-the-mill Chili’s style chain, the construction seemed to take forever. Given the area’s dearth of upscale eateries, my wife and I were looking forward to having a decent walkable restaurant less than a ten minute stroll away.

In a neighborhood that has an overabundance of low-end Walmart-like noisy fast-food establishments where you stand in line to order in a cattle-call style that would make Southwest Airlines proud,  a new upscale, sit down restaurant complete with an old-school bar, tasteful music and a wait staff that takes your order at your table like you’re over twenty five years old should have been a welcome addition to the community. Believing we had a duty to support the new local business, my wife and I immediately began to patronize the place.   

Like most fledgling places, the joint struggled from the start…especially with respect to service. The food from our perspective was fantastic, and though neighborhood folks yearning for yet another kid-friendly Chuck e Cheeses type place complained about the stodgy  atmosphere and inflated prices, we reveled in the quiet booths that were conducive to a relaxing conversation over a bottle of wine after a hectic week. Over time the initial service challenges got better, and at least for me, the place represented a throwback slice of heaven.

My wife and I liked it so much that we’d gotten in the habit of walking up there on most Friday evenings. We dug the vibe a lot, and we even strolled up the bar occasionally on a Saturday afternoon just to have a couple of glasses of wine and chill. It was the restaurant’s inviting atmosphere that encouraged us to do that…as it’s something we almost never do. We even watched the last U.S. World Cup game (and I don’t even like soccer) with the some friends in the bar amidst a setting that was both festive, yet remarkably civilized.

I remember sitting in a both by the window one quiet Friday evening sharing a bottle of Malbec and enjoying  a scrumptious roasted chicken dinner. The background music courtesy of Pandora had been playing a magical set of Bobby Darin, Nat King Cole, Julie London and Francis Albert Sinatra. My wife glanced across the table at me and said with a smile...

“Look at you…you’re in heaven…you absolutely love this place.”

“I do” I responded in a melancholy way as I glanced out the window at a new restaurant across the street. “But there’s one big problem.  This joint is completely deserted and that new noisy Mc Donald’s style Portuguese chicken hell-hole across the way is absolutely packed. It’s like a moron convention over there.” [This is why my wife needs a couple of glasses of wine when she dines with me].

Though it survived much longer than I predicted, inevitably my throwback piece of heaven went out of business. It was actually more dramatic than that…and the owners were evicted and the contents of the restaurant were emptied out in the light of day onto the western sidewalk along Wisconsin Ave. According to the story in the paper, some well-to-do neighborhood folks actually helped themselves to some of the valuable cooking equipment while the cops simply watched. I’m guessing many of these same fine citizens celebrated by waiting in line to order dinner somewhere.

What’s the point of all this? I tend to think that it means the world is coming to end, or at the very least that most of what I romanticize is clearly dying. It could mean that if you’re looking for a decent place to eat north of the 3800 block of Wisconsin where you don’t have to stand in line to order, you may have to drive to Pennsylvania border (or at least to Friendship Heights).  One thing is clear…dimly lit restaurants with candles on the table, soft romantic background music and attentive wait staff are a dying breed. Cookie cutter fast food restaurants and standing in line to pay inflated prices at what were once roach coaches are all the rage.

What I wouldn’t give for one night back at Chasen’s…or even just one more meal at the Fire Lake Grill.

Have a great weekend. Whatever you’re doing, try to spend at least some time with the people and pets that you care about doing the things you love. If you decide to dine out…even at a place where you have to order like you’re in a chow line at a mess hall, try to pick a place where you can have a nice conversation after you’ve ordered at the counter.

 

If you're my age...you probably hate this song. That said, you still smile every time you hear it...and the worst part is...you know every single lyric. Here's a catchy newer version.

 

At a bar called Scrappy Malloy's

 

...and out of nowhere on a Saturday afternoon, my life was changed forever by an unexpected source

About two months ago we had some old friends visit us from California. It was a couple we’ve known for a long time and their two kids (ages 12 and 18). The older child (we love her) will be attending college nearby in the Fall and she was here with her parents for orientation so it was a good time to reconnect with some old friends.  

We go way back with this couple. I attended the same elementary, middle and high school as the father and his wife went to the same middle school and high school as my wife. Not sure you’re following all this…but we all went to the same middle school and high school. I’m a bit older so it wasn’t all at the same time…but the point of all this is…we essentially have roots in the same hood and they really area  wonderful family. 

I hadn’t seen any of them in the 10 years since we’d moved to the nation’s capital, and both the kids had grown considerably since the last time I had. The boy, who was only about two the last time I’d seen him seemed a bit bored with the trip, and though I tried to make conversation with him as we stood on the porch as they arrived, he just didn’t seem to be all that into the trip thus far.

When we walked in the house, I noticed the kid appeared to be mesmerized by the music corner of the living room. Immediately to the left as you enter the room is an upright piano, a clarinet, a guitar and two ukuleles. It’s handy having a lot of instruments around because while it might look impressive, it always seemed to be a good alibi for my inability play any of them particularly well.

The boy just stood there and gazed…and it was clear from the kid’s expression that he was interested in music. His father announced that his son (Jason) loves to play the guitar, and suggested that perhaps I’d allow him to play mine. Trying to be the consummate host I obliged, but I clearly wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

Jason picked up the guitar and sat down on the oversized chair in the opposite corner of the living room by the fireplace. The 12 year-old looked a bit awkward with the six-string in that oddly large chair…but within seconds something magical started to happen as it wasn’t long before he was picking away like Hendrix. I looked across the room at his beaming dad and held out my hands as to say “what the hell?” as Jason played away. His dad just returned the “hell if I know” gesture and simply said… “the kid is just a musical genius.” Jason played for about five minutes and then stopped and abruptly held out the guitar and said “now…you play something.”

I laughed and said I wasn’t about to touch that guitar after that demonstration…and that I may not ever try to play again.  We begin talking about Jason’s guitar prowess and I learned that he’d only been playing for about 18-months. To add insult to injury, he further shared that he was essentially self-taught. I’ve been playing for about 30 years, and I know about 8 chords. This cat was moving his fingers up and down the neck like a rock star…and I’m still struggling to play more than a three chord Willie Nelson song.

Jason asked me to play something again…but I cowardly reiterated I wouldn’t be touching the guitar again anytime soon…especially while he was in the house. His dad, who has also struggled to play for years was laughing, and then Jason said simply “ then play something on the uke.”

For some reason this seemed less threatening, so I picked up the uke and began to play (and sing) something like Blue Hawaii. Jason was smiling from ear-to-ear as I strummed along, and when I finished he enthusiastically said “wow…you are good.” Well, aside from his musical prowess, it was immediately clear that this little liar has a very bright future. He not only plays like Clapton but he’s quick on his feet too and knows what to say even when it’s obviously over-stated. His compliments kept coming…and he convincingly encouraged me to “play something else.”

I told Jason that I could play all night…but that none of the old songs would be anything he’d ever heard. He claimed he didn’t care…and continued to urge me to play. I asked if I played some song if he could follow along on the guitar and he nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders and said “sure…no problem.” I announced that I’d be playing some old country song from the ‘40s called “Careless Hands,” and he smiled and said “cool.”

“It’s in the key of…” I started to say when he held up his hand in a stop-like fashion and blurted out “don’t tell me the key…just start playing.” I hate these arrogant little musical geniuses. I started to strum the uke and sing and within seconds Jason was wailing on the guitar and dressing up the tune like never before. When we finished up, we both simultaneously strummed the same chord…and it was pretty clear to everyone we were headed to Nashville.

When we finished I asked Jason what key we’d been playing. He looked up…thought for a minute, smiled and correctly said “C.” We continued to play several songs…and at least for me, playing with this incredibly talented kid was true magic. After about four songs we took a break…and I began to ask Jason how it was that he could play so effortlessly to songs he’d never heard before. “I have perfect pitch” he responded…but that really didn’t mean anything to me.

“So what” I said… “how does perfect pitch allow you to play along to songs you don’t know.”

“Well, once I figure out the key, I just essentially start playing the appropriate pentatonic scale notes and try to come up with something that sounds cool.”

“What the hell is a pentatonic scale?” I asked.

“Well” Jason responded… “every key has a corresponding pentatonic scale with five notes any of which can be played during the song and it all sounds pretty good. You just have to know the key and the right scale notes. It’s really pretty much a breeze.”

I was really starting to like him a lot less, but after they left and over the course of the next few days, I started researching pentatonic scales on the internet and learned quickly that the kid was right…the theory (or at least that part) really is pretty simple. It wasn’t long before I’d was tinkering on the piano…dressing up old hymns I’d been playing for years with fancy new riffs that dramatically altered the sound (in a good way). Now…regardless of what I’m playing, I’m all about the pentatonic scale. I come into the office in the morning, put on some old hymns or country on Grooveshark, and pick up my uke and play along (most of the time I can find the key). At least while I’m sitting there in the empty office in the morning…it all sounds pretty good.

On the weekends, I can play the piano for hours just expanding on what Jason taught me. Whenever I’m done playing, I turn to my wife and say the exact same thing. “That little sh*t changed my life.”

What’s the point of all this? Well…if you know…please tell me. For over thirty years I’d be struggling to play guitar the exact same way. Three chords (maybe four if I was feeling really adventurous) and singing old cowboy songs as I strummed along. I’ve played for decades with talented guys that could pick lead and they all seemed to have this just natural ability to know what to play. I always thought that…but I never really understood it all. Then, out of nowhere when I least expected it from an unlikely source, this unassuming yet remarkable little kid walks into my living room on a Saturday afternoon in April and changed my musical life. I love this kid...and I owe him too.

It’s a great life.  

BTW…there’s still a song at the end of this unorganized drivel each Friday…and I’m always amazed at how many folks don’t bother to listen (thankfully…there are more that listen to the music and don’t waste time with the stupid blog). I heard today’s song last Saturday night while driving with my wife and  there was just something about it. If you take a few minutes to listen, I have a feeling it will be a good way to kick off your Friday and set the table for a truly splendid weekend.   

 

...and it's your second cousin

...and I really don't need air-conditioned seats

Sometime in 1972, when I was about 11 years old, my father and I stopped at the Jules Myers Pontiac Dealership on the southwest corner of Westwood and Santa Monica Boulevards in West Los Angeles. It was sometime in the early evening on a weekday, and on a whim my dad turned left from the northbound Westwood lanes and pulled into the car lot to look at a brand-spanking new black ‘72 Grand Prix. We were driving a black ’65 Thunderbird at the time (that still shined as well as the day he drove it off the lot in ’65), so sticking with a Pontiac made some sense.

I’ll never forget the test drive that followed. My dad got behind the wheel of that beautiful new union made sled and the salesman hopped into the front passenger seat.  I climbed into the back…and the red vinyl interior looked so luxurious it was like settling into a junior suite at the Waldorf Astoria. It was the first time in my young life that I recall experiencing “that new car smell,” but the most memorable thing about that drive was yet to come.

As my dad pulled out of the dealership to drive north up Westwood (toward the UCLA campus),  the salesman leaned forward and turned on the FM stereo. As an 11 year-old in 1972, I’d never heard the sound of an FM stereo in a vehicle. I’m pretty sure my father hadn’t heard it either and I remember snapping my head around when I realized there was quadrophonic music emanating from the two rear speakers behind me. I’d never heard anything but AM music coming from small speaker in the dash board and now it was like Carnegie Hall on wheels. I remember thinking instantly that we had to by that car.

We didn’t buy the Pontiac. Though my dad tried to dicker with the salesman he couldn’t get him where he wanted. My old man had also heard about a new Ninety Eight Oldsmobile Regency, and he wanted to see that car before he decided what to buy. A couple of weeks later we ended up at the Albertson Oldsmobile dealership on Sepulveda a few miles south in Culver City. Doubt many of you can recall what the Ninety Eight looked like…but it was one of the biggest vehicles tip-to-tail that GM ever made. The Regency (the top-of-the-line for the Ninety Eight) had brushed velour interior and a quadrophonic 8 Track Stereo. If the Grand Prix was like Carnegie Hall, the Olds was like Carnegie Hall meets a high-end Bordello (I mean...as I've imagined).

 After chiseling down the poor sap that was working the showroom floor that night (and walking out the door at least twice), dad bought the car for what I believe was about $5,500.00. Dad had a rule that you should never make an initial offer unless you were embarrassed by the amount (otherwise your initial offer was too high) and though I don’t recall the spread…he drove off the lot paying considerably less than the sticker. We paid cash…because the only thing my old-school father ever reluctantly bought on credit was one home. I’ll never forget when we pulled off of the lot in the new car…my dad announced “well…we just lost one thousand dollars.” He went on to explain that the minute you drove a new car off the lot…you lost money because you could typically never get what you just paid for it.

My depression era mom (she was born in ’29 and lived in North Dakota through the dust bowl years) didn’t sleep for a week after making that luxurious purchase. In the typical conservative form of her Scandinavian ancestors…she was convinced we were shamefully “putting on the dog” and the vehicle was in her words… “just too swell.”

That struck me as strange, because from my perspective my WWII veteran and IBEW electrician father was doing well enough with his collectively bargained wages that he could have bought a Cadillac (or certainly entertained the idea by test driving one). At the end of the day though, he was never going to pay the premium “just for a fancy hood ornament.” He used to say all the time that a Buick, Mercury, Olds, or Pontiac “was plenty good enough for the working man.”

 

Even later in life…when he saved enough that he could have easily afforded his and her Lincolns every other year, he never strayed from his philosophy of restraint. The most luxurious car he ever owned was a Mercury Grand Marquis…and even long after his passing, his last shinny Grand Marquis still sits in his garage in Santa Paula, CA and my 84 year-old mom still drives it every single day. The Merc looks about as good as it did when it was driven off the lot about 10 years ago…and just about every other trip back to California I wash and Simonize it from top-to-bottom while listening to my dad’s old 8-tracks which can still play on his garage stereo.

 I always kind of resented my father’s hood ornament thriftiness when it came to cars…and resolved not to make his same mistake by denying myself the luxury I was so certain I was entitled to. I dumbly bought my first used ’76 Cadillac Seville in my late 20s for $3,000. I remember my dad was disappointed when he first saw it…feeling I’d learned nothing about the conservative spending (or more importantly saving) values he demonstrated so well.  Though a gorgeous ride, that car ended up costing me a fortune…and there was really no good excuse for me driving that kind of vehicle at that age.   

About two weeks ago I drove a new vehicle off the Jim Coleman Cadillac Dealership in Bethesda, MD. The car made me think about my dad…because if it floated, it could easily fit right in to the Carnival or Viking fleet. It is immaculate, and drives like an absolute dream.

Can’t know for sure, but I imagine my dad kind of frowned as I drove off the lot though I’m hopeful he may have felt a little better knowing the car wasn’t new. Sure…I wanted the hood ornament, but like him I didn’t want to fork over the premium price. It was actually a 2005 with 67,000 miles…and after going back-n-forth with the salesman in a way that would have made dad proud, I got it for a song.  The car is in absolutely showroom condition…and I can’t help but think it must have been owned by someone that took care of it just like my dad would have.

What’s the point of all this? Not sure really…just wish I had a bit more of my dad’s saving discipline. I probably spend more on wine each week than my dad spent on meals in a month (even adjusting for inflation). If I applied even half of his restraint in my own life…I’d be retired by now…and no doubt driving a brand-spanking-new Buick with all the options…paid for in cash…at well-below the sticker price.

And I’d drive it for at least 10 years...  

Have a great weekend 

 

Who do you think you're fooling...

 

 

...and today is the Fourth of July

We were just north of Breckenridge, Minnesota, not far beyond the Highway 210 junction (which takes you east to Fergus Falls) and heading home up Highway 75 toward Abercrombie, North Dakota. It was sometime in the mid-to-late ‘80s, and we were driving back at about 10pm on a hot and humid summer night after attending a Sunday evening dance at the Eagles Club in the small Minnesota town of approximately 4,000.

I was probably in my mid to later 20’s at the time, and had tagged along with my uncle Donald (my mom’s brother), who loved to go to various dances around that part of the country and pretty much had an almost nightly routine of various places he could go to listen to music and “dance with the widows.” It probably sounds weird, but I loved going with him to those things and just sitting back and watching all the local color. I like kibitzing with the older folks too…and they always seemed to get a kick out of chatting with the kid from Los Angeles.

It was just a couple of days before the Fourth of July, and we were driving directly into what appeared to be a hellacious electrical storm directly to the north. My uncle had country music playing as we chatted, and I remember commenting that I never recalled seeing a thunder storm that looked quite that ominous. I distinctly recall him replying that I’d probably also never been in a situation where I was driving directly into such a storm…at least voluntarily.  

We were talking about various things when the conversation turned to the looming Fourth of July holiday and the many family  celebrations at his kids (my first cousins) lake places. My cousin Pam would undoubtedly have a BBQ at her place on Pelican Lake, and her brother Brent would surely put on an elaborate show at his beautiful lake place on Lake Lizzie. My uncle started talking about how much he loved the Fourth, and before long he started romanticizing about all the reasons he loved the Fall.

I remember thinking it seemed like an odd segue. We’d just been looking forward to Independence Day and all of the sudden he jumped ahead to thoughts of basement church suppers, threshing festivals, changing leaves and carving pumpkins. As a product of Southern California the Fourth-of-July seemed like early summer to me, and I couldn’t understand how he made the transition to Fall…which at that point in my life still seemed like light-years away.

When I inquired why he was already talking about the Fall, I remember him saying that he’s always thought of the Fourth of July as kind of the gateway to Autumn. That sounded insane to me at the time…but he went on to explain that after the Fourth, the days are rapidly getting shorter, the church suppers start in earnest, he’d be closing down his Crane Lake cabin a month later around Labor Day and it just wouldn’t be long before the cooler temperatures arrived. He basically said that once the Fireworks are over…it won’t be long before we’re decking the halls. He told me when I got older I’d realize that…and boy…my uncle could have been a profit.

I’m 52 now, and the rapidity with which time flies by really is nuts. With every passing year, the craziness somehow conspires with an out-of-control work pace and my growing number of years to create a condition where the months feel like weeks and the weeks pass like days.

When I was a kid storming out the doors of my elementary school on the first day of summer, those three glorious months seemed like a literal lifetime. Now…I no sooner get the patio furniture out, when it seems like I’m pulling up the garden and setting up the decorations for Halloween.

What’s the point of all this…not sure really. Today is the Fourth of July…and once again it snuck up on me and I’m haunted by the fact that I should have planned better how we’d spend it. Time is so precious, and before we know it, summer will be winding down and the back-to-school sales will be in full swing. However you spend the long weekend, make the most of it doing the things that matter the most with the people you care about. Put down the smart phone, stay off email, enjoy some grilled sweet corn, have a glass of lemonade, hold a march to a sparkler and do all you can to take in this wondrous holiday. Most of all, exhale long enough to fully appreciate the precious gift of time. Whether you realize it or not... it’s ticking by way too fast.

Hurrah for the Fourth of July!

 

Something touched me deep inside...

...and I'm glad I went to public school

Sometime when I was in the 9^th grade and attending Palms Junior High School in Los Angeles, California, I began to be concerned about where I’d go to high school. The junior high was highly diverse, and race relations at the campus were challenging enough for a lily white bred kid like me without worrying about making the transition to the predominantly black  Hamilton High several miles to the east. The student body was approximately 27% in the late ‘70s, and many of the neighborhood white families made arrangements to switch to private schools on the west side like St. Monica’s (in Santa Monica) or St. Bernard’s (in Westchester). Many more worked to get some kind of fake address so they could go to theoretically better public schools like University…which was almost in Brentwood in the shadow of UCLA.   

One afternoon while my father was puttering away in the garage, I reasoned it would be a good time to broach the subject with the old man. Though I didn’t recall discussing it with him previously, I was confident he too was aware of the demographic challenges at Hamilton and that he would no doubt share my concerns about being a distinct minority at the new school. More importantly, there was a common understanding that I would play football at Hamilton, and we both knew (or at least I assumed we did) that the existing team that year was 100% African American (including the head coach).

My dad was a gruff, no nonsense WWII vet and union building trades guy, but even with that rough exterior, I knew he’d sympathize with the reality of my dilemma. So, on that afternoon sometime in 1977, I decided to bring it up.

I remember beginning by telling him that it was time to give some consideration to where I’d go to high school, and being almost immediately struck by the fact that my statement didn’t even seem to register with him. He had is back to me as he milled around on the work bench…and though I watched him closely he didn’t really respond. So…I repeated the statement and the rest of the conversation went pretty close to this…

“Why do we need to give any thought to where you’re going to school?”

“Well…many of my friends in the neighbor are switching to private schools like St. Monica’s or St. Bernard’s.”

“Would you like to switch to a private school?” he asked.

“Yeah…maybe” I said… “A lot of the kids are doing that.”

“Well,” he responded, “that’s fine then. You should start making arrangements to switch.”

Like so many things in life, I remember being relieved that the conversation had gone so much easier than I had envisioned.

“Oh…by the way” my dad inquired already knowing the answer, “do they charge tuition at those schools?”

“Yeah…they do” I shot back… “they’re private so they have to.”

“How much does it cost?” he asked.

“I don’t know” I responded… “but I’ll find out for you.”

“Don’t find out for me” he said… “find out for you. You’re the one that is going to be paying it. By the way…just out of curiosity, did you recently come by some windfall of cash I’m not aware of…because just off the top of my head, I’m not really seeing how you’re going to afford this private school scheme of yours.”

“You mean you’re not paying for it?” I asked.

“I already pay taxes into the public school system, so why would I pay additional money to send you to a school miles away from the neighborhood?”

“Because that’s where most of my friends in the neighborhood will be going to school. The schools are just better there.”

“Well, unless you have a plan on paying for it, you better just plan on going to school at Hamilton.”

“Well can’t I at least go to University?...A lot of my friends are going there instead.”

“Did they redraw the district lines so that you can attend University?” he asked.

“No” I responded… “but  a lot of my friends are getting fake addresses so they can go there.”

Now…I could see my dad was getting a little agitated. He turned in disgust and faced me…clearly tiring of my line of questioning.

“Listen…we’re not going to lie so that you can feel more comfortable going to school with a bunch of people that look more like you. Give it up…you’re going to Hamilton.”

“Dad…all my friends are going to different schools that are all better and more equally mixed racially.”

“Well…maybe if all your friends had some guts and went to Hamilton where they’re supposed to, it would be a better mix.”

Then…finally, I decided to play what I was sure would be my best selling point. I was so certain he’d see my side once I laid what I thought was an obvious fact out there for him to consider. I will never, ever, ever forget this exchange.

“Dad…I’m pleading with you. If I go to Hami I might end up being the only white kid on the football team. We've been to some games...and this year there isn't a single white kid on the team. Do you hear me…I'll be the only white kid.”

“Well good…I’ll be proud of you ” he said softly as he confidently smiled and looked at me… “maybe you’ll start a trend.”

Well... I ended up the only white kid on the varsity team that year at Hami...and I wouldn't trade my experience at that school for anything in the world.

It’s Friday, and it’s time to spend some time with the people and pets you love doing the things that matter the most. Have a wonderful weekend, and if you get the chance…give someone you care about a big hug.

 

We ain't got time to chat...

 

...and sorry for all the typos and misspellings...didn't have time to proof it even once.

...and today is no ordinary Day

It’s Friday June 6^th, 2014.

Now quick…what does that make you think of?

About 16 years ago, my wife and I were sitting in a park just south of the 210 Freeway in La Crescenta, California. We were at what my mom called at the time a “cousins’ picnic,” which was made up largely by her mostly seventy-something first cousins that were all transplants from North Dakota.

My mom’s cousin Mildred (her husband Bob has passed away) was there with her daughter Pam (Pam was a couple years older than me). So were Alice and Bill, Roy (never married), Paul and Helen, Harlan and Pearl and Delores and Martin. My mom and dad were there too, and for some odd reason, I can still vividly see those Scandinavian ancestors (mostly first cousins once-removed to me) sitting around the wooden picnic tables in the shade on that very hot summer day.

I recall attending somewhat reluctantly, probably only after being shamed into it by my mom who probably said that it would “mean a lot” to the older folks if my wife and I could make the 60 or so mile drive to join the family picnic. It was hard for me to give up a cherished weekend day to go to the gathering, but I remember seeing the smiles as we arrived and feeling glad we’d made the effort.

Not sure this still happens all that much anymore, but in those days, at least for folks of that age (maybe it’s a North Dakota thing), the genders tended to separate after the meal. I recall the women all sitting at the east end of the picnic tables chatting about lost relations or some such, while us men all gathered at the west end to kibitz about the stuff North Dakotans tend to discuss. I’m guessing that every other male there was at least 70 at the time (I was in my early 30s), and having just finished Tom Brokaw’s recent book “The Greatest Generation,” I decided to ask them about the book and how they all felt about the “greatest generation” moniker.

Over the course of my then young life, I’d probably been around most of these characters at least 100 times. They always seemed so old to me, and in all those encounters over all those years, I am fairly certain I’d never heard one of them make any reference to being a veteran. None of them had read Brokaw’s book, and I recall them being almost perplexed and annoyed by the contention that they were somehow special. To a man they believed (my father was especially vehement about this), that my generation (or any other) would be equally up to the task if ever faced with a similar threat. To a man, they seemed to detest the implication that they were somehow better…or that there was anything even remotely extraordinary about what they did.

 

Each one of them had volunteered for some branch of the service and though I had to pull it out of them with repeated questions, they each had amazing wartime stories. My dad reluctantly told of harrowing Kamikaze attacks while on the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, and described in chilling detail the images right after the enemy planes smashed into the deck.

 

My cousin Martin had been one of those cats that sat in the little bubble in the back-bottom of a bomber operating a machine gun. He’d been in missions over Berlin and Paris. I remember him reflecting humbly… “yeah…the last time I saw Paris…it didn’t look too good.”

 

My cousin Harlan (now well into his 90s…and he still drives) nonchalantly told of his boot camp experience, shortly before being shipped off to his first battle experience on an island in the Pacific. I asked him what island and remember him almost whispering “Okinawa.” He described the chaos of the invasion and told of being shot in the leg several times almost immediately after existing the beach landing craft. In what still seems like a remarkably thick Swedish accent, he talked matter-of-factly of getting patched up and sent back to the front several weeks later.

 

I recall asking them if they were scared…and across the board, most of them responded by shrugging their shoulders and say things like “yeah… I s’pose…but the troot is we didn’t tink about it too much.”

On the morning of June 6^th, 1944, an extraordinary generation carried out the invasion of Normandy. This morning, 70 years later to the day, I awoke at 3:55am and rolled out of the comfort of my bed to stumble downstairs to the home gym and hammer out a poorly written blog.

It’s Friday, and today marks the 70^th anniversary of D-Day. For many, the day will pass without even a thought about that event. For many more that will be reminded by some blurry black and white images during a 30-second news story playing in the background or a quick snippet on their smartphone (there’s no google doodle but there is a reference at the bottom of the page), few will likely have a full understanding of the significance of that day and its overall consequence.

Have a fabulous weekend, and if you’re spending it doing anything other than storming a beach in a hellish hail of gunfire, try to take a minute to feel a little grateful. If you see some old chap shuffling along in plaid pants, a baseball cap and a windbreaker…you just might want to say thank you.

 

A seaside cafe in Arromanches