...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.

...and I haven't been skiing in over 10 years.

Jack’s Ski Shop was a small business on the north side of Pico Boulevard between Westwood and Sepulveda boulevards in West Los Angeles. It was owned at the time by the same guy that owned the more posh Sporthaus in Westwood…just blocks from UCLA, but at least in my mind…Jack’s was a much cooler (more blue collar) place.

It was just a little east of the Anwalt Lumber facility that still sits on the southeast corner of Pico and Sepulveda and just a few doors west of the classic Norm’s restaurant and the old-school shoe repair store that stood almost directly next door.  I used to love going into that ski shop with my father when I was a kid and still remember the time he bought his red and white 200cm Kneissl White Star skis, Geze bindings and new Nordica boots (with buckles instead of laces). The shop had expert ski technicians that would professionally mount the bindings to the skis for about $8.00 as I remember…but my Depression era WWII vet father was way too thrifty not to call on his handy skills as an IBEW electrician and mount the bindings himself with the instructions and paper jig that came in with the new bindings.

I always thought that ski shop seemed like such a cool place to be…and dreamed of working there some day when I reached the appropriate age. When I was fifteen I rode my bike the two or so miles up  to Jack’s ski shop one afternoon and asked the manager Yogi Sawada for a job application. He was an avid outdoorsman and accomplished skier…and he always seemed to have a darkly tanned face that at least partially hid the faint scar that stretched diagonally across his face as a result of a ski edge that whipped up into his head (back in the day before ski breaks when skis were tethered to your ankles with leashes) during a bad racing fall. I still day he called the house (there were no mobile phones or computers back then) in 1977 to tell me to come by the shop. I hopped on my Schwinn almost immediately and peddled my way up Overland and west toward the beach on Pico to get to the shop.

Despite his reluctance to hire somebody so young, Yogi brought me onto the Jack’s team and it wasn’t long before I was dripping Ptex into damaged ski bases and using Nicolson files to put an edge on racing skis that you could use to shave. There were several guys that worked in the back with me. There was this crazy guy Bob…and dude named Tom and three cats named Mark Kleinman, Russell Nakiama and Jay Nakamura. We’d work into the night in the back tuning and engraving skis…and we usually stayed pretty busy in the rental shop as well…fitting up eager skiers before their big trips up to the local resorts or maybe even Mammoth. The older more accomplished ski technicians (Mark, Bob, Yogi and sometimes Russell) would work on the more sophisticated mounting bench, and at least as I recall the atmosphere in the shop was always carefree. It wasn’t uncommon to have a couple of 12-packs in the back (I didn’t drink) and we often brought in pizza or some other health food that would help us get through the backlog of skis that needed to be tuned, mounted or repaired ahead of a some holiday weekend or big holiday.

Seems like there was never a shortage of banter either. I don’t recall all the subject matter, but seems to me we’d chat a lot about skiing…including the then long-standing debate about long skis versus short skis. There was this fad at the time by some short skiers called “ballet,” and I remember my giant slalom racing buddy Mark Kleinman disgustedly summing up the ridiculous back-n-forth by saying “if you can’t ski…do tricks.” I was firmly in the longboard racing camp…and I’m still there today.  We’d laugh, sharpen edges, drink (they’d drink),  listen to soft rock on LA’s KNX FM radio (92.3 as I recall) and talk about approaching storm fronts and inevitable fresh snow. We’d argue about the greatest rock-n-roll guitar player (as a Sinatra buff…I mostly just listed to those debates), debate some Cold War politics, critique the Los Angeles Rams and kill a ton of discussion time all lying a lot about girls. It was a great place…and it broke my heart when Yogi came to me in the late spring and told me the store was closing (the owner kept the upscale Sporthaus going for a while).

Yogi, Mark, Jay and I all moved over to the new Oshman’s Sporting goods store on the southwest corner of Pico and Sepulveda for two seasons…and several of us made another move over to Westridge sports on Olympic and Bundy where I worked for several years for the Brekke family (the owner Ed loved me because of my partial Scandinavian lineage). That was a great place too, and it wasn’t uncommon at all to have Hollywood stars like Charles Bronson, Harvey Korman or Glenn Ford wander in. Stevie Nicks was coming in so often for a while (she was doing this Outward Bound program with the owner’s wife) that she called me by first name and the atmosphere in general served as a great proving ground before moving up to Mammoth Lakes to be a real ski bum.  But that’s another story for a another Friday morning.

What’s the point of all this? None that I can think of. It’s simply 4am on a Friday morning and amidst all the chaos in the world some old story about my first real job in Los Angeles (after a many year newspaper delivery gig) was the best I could do. Hope you all have a great weekend, and if you can, do something fun with the people and pets that you love. It may even hit 70 here in nation’s capital on Saturday, and after the winter we’ve had…you may want to slip outdoors for a few hours too.

 

Clarinet heaven...

 

...so don't miss the chance to help a brother out of a bind

This week didn’t start well for me. It involved one of those work-related incidents that makes you glance in the mirror and wonder if you’ve really learned a single thing over the course of your fifty-three years. Actually… “wonder” is the wrong word. It was the type of experience that more-or-less ensures that you actually haven’t learned a single thing. To add insult to injury, the incident confirmed yet again what I already know but never seem to remember...that most of the unpleasantness I'm involved in is my own, damn fault.

What actually took place isn’t important for this morning’s drivel, and though I know it’s frustrating to leave out the details…the point really for this offering was that this week, like I suspect some weeks do for some of you, seemed to start out very, very, badly. Then, just like a lot of weeks, yesterday, after a couple of fairly mediocre days, early Thursday morning brought an unexpected change.  A former classmate from the MPA program we went through at the University of Baltimore sent me an email early yesterday which was actually a chain letter. The message claimed in was National Friendship Week, and included a little story about some poor Scottish farmer cat named Fleming.

Apparently, one day, while working out in the fields, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog. He dropped his tools and ran to the bog. There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. According to the story, Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.

Supposedly the following  day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman's humbled farmstead surroundings and an elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

“I want to repay you,” said the nobleman. “You saved my son's life.”

“I can't accept payment for what I did,” the Scottish farmer replied waving off the offer. At that moment, the farmer's own son came to the door of the family hovel.

“Is that your son?” the nobleman asked.
“Yes,” the farmer replied proudly.

“I'll make you a deal. Let me provide him with the level of education my own son will enjoy If the lad is anything like his father, he'll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of.” And that he did.

Farmer Fleming's son attended the very best schools and in time, graduated from St. Mary's Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.

Years afterward, the same nobleman's son who was saved from the bog was stricken with pneumonia.

What saved his life this time? Penicillin.

The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill . His son's name?

Sir Winston Churchill.

True? I don’t have a clue…but I doubt it. At the very least, the teller of the story probably took some real artistic license and I’m guessing the details were somehow embellished over the years…kind of like the old telephone game. I suspect a quick internet search could probably give some sense of the story’s accuracy…but you see, the veracity of the story here also really isn’t the point…or at least it wasn’t for me.

The thing that caught my eye was National Friendship Week, and the line at the end that included a chain-related plea for the reader to forward the story to anyone you consider a FRIEND. There was even some weird kind of scorecard tally that suggested a relationship between the number of people you would send it to and how quickly your “wish” would be granted.”

You see, that’s where things didn’t seem to bode too well for me. After the way the week started I figured I could send one blast email or about four separate electronic emails…but either way…according to the numbers, I was going to wait a long time for my wish to be granted (if you sent it to 20 friends…your wish would be granted in 3 hours).

So…two big problems for me. The first was I didn’t have a ready-made wish. The second seemingly bigger problem was at first glance…I thought I’d have trouble busting the 5-friend mark (3-month wish wait).

But then I started thinking about all the farmer Fleming’s in my life. All of the selfless people that put aside their immediate priorities to help be out of the mud. The list seemed short at first, but as I thought through all the folks that made a difference, there really was this kind of Wonderful Life moment.

Now sadly…I haven’t held up my part of the bargain. To my knowledge I haven’t sent any of my many Fleming’s offspring to medical school…and other than installing a couple of ceiling fans and approving a few check authorizations, I haven’t gone on to lead a nation or help save the world for democracy. The worst part is I also haven't even repaid the favor by pulling my share of folks out of the mud.  

I don’t think it’s actually National Friendship Week (might be in February if there is one), but I do think St. Patrick’s Day might be creeping up on us. As mentioned I’m also skeptical  about how true the story actually is…but regardless…it might be appropriate to start this Friday by thinking about all the Farmer Fleming’s in your life. It could even offer an opportunity for all of us to take the time to pull a brother or sister or two out of the bog.

Have a wonderful weekend.

 

You won't catch me dead with no blues...

...and despite the lure of greener grass...happiness is often right in your own backyard.

Have you ever arrived at the airport at 4:35am on a Thursday, jumped out of the cab and glanced back inside the car to make sure you didn’t leave behind your cell phone only to spot one of your right-rear molars (no dental expert but I think it was #33) siting on the contaminated leather seat? Well for your sake I’m guessing no. But believe it or not that’s what happened to me  in the wee hours yesterday morning in Fort Lauderdale… and to say it had been an unpleasant 36-hour travel experience would be putting it mildly. At least with respect to the actual travel part…this was the trip from hell.

It’s not like there weren’t early warning signs of what was to come. After teaching all day Tuesday up near Baltimore, MD, I flew out of Washington National after a 2 ½ hour weather delay down to Fort Lauderdale to do a presentation that was scheduled for the following morning at 8am. . It was supposed to be a quick trip, as the return flight back to DCA was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon at about 2pm…just a few hours after my scheduled talk was to end. Getting back home was critical, or at least it seemed that way to me, because I had committed to being back in class first thing Thursday morning to finish out the week up near Baltimore with the original group.

When I arrived at the swanky Florida beachside hotel about 11pm, I was looking forward to settling in for a few hours rest before waking at 4am for an anticipated ocean-side run and some pre-presentation prep work. At check in the front desk clerk was courteous and competent, and she warmly welcomed me back to the property as she handed me the card key and instructed me to go to room 1705. I thanked her, asked for a bottle of water and hurried up the elevator anxious to get some needed sleep.

The signs in the 17^th floor elevator lobby were very clear, but I somehow managed to turn left even though the arrow to the group of rooms where mine was located clearly pointed to the right. After wandering for a while on the wrong end of the hall, I did an about-face and headed the right direction. Finally I was standing in front of door #1705.

That was the good news. The bad news was I didn’t see anywhere on the door or the lock mechanism were you would insert or slide the key. I examined the door for a good number of minutes, and even opened my briefcase and pulled out my reading glasses to try to discern what was happening. I even looked at some of the other doors…including one with a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the handle which provided me some comfort that there was indeed a way to gain entrance.

I was still stumped though, and while I’m hardly Platinum hotel status in the Hilton Honors program, it’s not like I don’t do a fair amount of traveling and I like to fashion myself as fairly adept with the latest and greatest hotel keycard technology. I finally got down on my knees…and used my cellphone light app to illuminate the lock mechanism. That’s when I spotted what looked like an small infrared eye…and it dawned on me that perhaps all you had to do was hold the key up to the eye and the door would unlock. I know what you’re thinking…and yes…I am borderline genius. So…eagerly, I held the blank key card up to the eye and like magic…I heard a faint beep.

Crap…isn’t the little light supposed to be green and not red? I tried the handle and it was still locked. So…I kept doing the exact same thing over-and-over and expecting a different result…but every time I held the key up to the eye…the door beeped and the light blinked red. Every time I tried the handle…the door was still locked. But I don’t give up easy…and I never want to let the fact that just because everything I been doing hasn’t worked force me to alter my determined course. So, like some kind of possessed moron…I kept repeating the motion over-and-over-and –over somehow hoping things would be different and that if I just tried long enough…the door would eventually open. That’s not how things usually work though, and just like the unmistakable wake of experience in my life that has proven this over time, I eventually concluded that no matter how many times I tried this same operation, I probably wasn’t getting in this room…with this keycard.    

Believe it or not my already sunny disposition was starting to deteriorate, so I hopped back on the elevator and went to the front desk…promising to keep my cool and to try to be polite. As I approached the desk the woman that had checked me in said… “oh I’m so sorry…was there a problem?” I politely responded that it was no big deal, but that the key simply didn’t work. She called over a supervisor that seemed generally perplexed, and  she checked the key several times to verify that it indeed worked just fine on her stupid little front desk machine.

She then asked if I was contending that someone was already in the room…to which I responded that I didn’t know…but that the key simply didn’t work. Remarkably I kept fairly cool and even managed to smile. I finally did get impatient, and pointed out to her that I needed to get into my room, not into the computer at the front desk. I explained it might be easier for her to understand if she’d simply  accompany me to the door and see for herself how the key worked on 1705. She smiled and said she’d be happy to…but that after we tried that it might be smarter to try the key on my actual room…which was 1708. She then pointed at the little envelope that holds the card which was clearly marked with 1708…not 1705. I then accused them of swapping out the number on the envelope (which I did look at upstairs), but they weren’t buying it.

I know what you’re thinking…maybe I’m not a genius. Well…you’re right…and this was just the start of a trip that except for the presentation part, deteriorated into a travel hell which included; a six-hour mechanical return flight delay, eight hours inside the airport on an otherwise gorgeous South Florida afternoon, an eventual cancellation, a night in a flea infested flop house operated by Comfort Suites and an alarmingly bland Filet-of-Fish sandwich from a McDonald’s on Federal Highway just north of the A1-A.

Then there’s the whole rear tooth thing…but I’m going to stop right here because you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And just for the sake of truth in advertising, it wasn't the actual tooth...it was the crown for tooth #33.

It’s Friday, and if you’re ever stuck overnight in Fort Lauderdale, don’t stay at a hotel near the airport on Federal Highway (at least not the Comfort Suites) and don’t take a walk down to McDonald’s for a combo #16 (I didn’t even know they went that high). Oh yeah…if you do go to McDonald’s and order any one of their 16 healthy combos, quickly scream no when they inquire if you want to “go large.”

Have a great weekend, and if you don’t have to travel, be happy and take in all of the comforts of being at home.

There are multiple versions of this old gem and perhaps the most popular one is by Brenda Lee. Bing Crosby, Sammy Davis Jr. and North Dakota's Peggy Lee took a stab at it too...but for some reason, this version might be the one I like the best.

You'll see your castle in Spain through your window pane

...and this phone thing is getting out of hand.

One of the toughest things about trying to write a blog here each Friday morning, is coming up with something worthy of sharing. If you’re a frequent visitor to this site, or if you unexplainably receive these Friday missives via email as a willing subscriber, you already know the pitfalls of putting fingertips to keyboard absent anything worthwhile to say. This week strikes me as yet another example of the virtue in remaining silent on such occasions, but it’s early Friday morning and I’m a slow learner…so here you go.

There have been more than a few postings here over the years that attempted to deal with the astonishing deterioration of manners proliferated by people’s almost frightening preoccupation with mobile devices. Actually, much of what’s been written here has been about my own etiquette decay in that area, but recently I attended a meeting and several associated social events that convinced me that things really are coming off the rails.

There were probably about 150 people at this meeting when it started, and though folks were mildly engaged when it began, it wasn’t long before people’s faces were illuminated by the antiseptic cool-white glow of their iPhones, Galaxy 4 mini flat screens and even some Blackberrys. It wasn’t much longer before the tablets, netbooks and even small laptops broke out…and by the end of the meeting,  I think several bored participants actually set up Desktop computers and laser printers on their classroom-style tables.  At one point I walked about the room and counted 116 people that were looking at some sort of device rather than engaging in the discussion. There may have been more…but I only spotted six people that appeared to be looking up, with no device to distract them from the presentations and what was supposed to be an interactive experience.  

A good buddy of mine shared  what he called his “Blackberry Rule” with me more than a couple of years ago when the once unthinkable practice of pulling your phone out to stare at it while in the company of another human started to catch on. I was lamenting my wife’s frustration with my practice of checking my phone within the first few minutes of our evening conversation after a 12-hour work day, when my friend passed along the guidelines of the rule. Essentially, it states that you shouldn’t pull out your phone to check it in any situation where you wouldn’t otherwise open the paper and start doing a crossword puzzle. In essence, if you’re sitting across from another human being having a conversation, you probably wouldn’t open the newspaper (remember those) and start solving the puzzle...so…don’t pull out and stare at our phone.  

Now that may be too much to ask for in a meeting where people are speaking to you or sharing a presentation they’ve worked on, but certainly it has some merit when you’re sitting with an individual or smaller group of people where you’d think each other’s company should be enough to hold people’s attention.

One night after the meeting, about half-a-dozen colleagues went out to dinner one evening at a nice place not terribly far from the host hotel. As we sat around the restaurant table, it was astonishing how many of the diners were looking down at their phones. Now, if you’ve ever had me for a dinner companion you can probably feel their pain, but really, why go through the rigmarole of even going out and having a meal together if everyone is just going to stare at their phones? Couldn’t you do that in the comfort of your room…or perhaps at some establishment as an individual diner where you don’t have to sweat having to divert your attention from cyberspace long enough to look someone in the eyes and have a conversation?

Listen, I’m no prince when it comes to exhibiting model mobile device etiquette, but if you even go to dinner with me, you can rest assured I’ll stare at my phone no more than 20% of the time. Some days, when I harken back to the basic manners I learned in kindergarten, you might even get me through the entire evening without me ever once checking my phone.

It’s Friday, so take a minute to look up from your mobile device long enough to connect with the people and pets around you through something other than your keyboard. Then, after you’ve burned those 10 minutes, go ahead and get back online…24/7…no matter who else is around.

...not so many years from now.