...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

...and you may want to take a relaxing drive

It was shortly after 3pm when I dropped my boss off at Reagan National airport yesterday…and after seeing her off safely I switched the satellite radio station in her Hybrid Ford off its perpetual public radio feed (Zzzz) to number 71, and settled in for my Seriously Sinatra 90-minute rainy commute to a business event not far over the Bay Bridge on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Unlike my life in Los Angeles where I spent a good deal of time commuting on a winding two-lane road  through the San Gabriel Mountains, I don’t spend much time on long drives living in DC. So even on a dreary and unseasonable cool inclement afternoon, I was looking forward to some relaxing and scenic windshield time.

Well, you know what they say about getting what you wish for. Over one hour into the drive from DCA airport up 295 to Route 50 for the roughly 65 mile trip, I’d traveled less than eight miles. After another hour…I covered approximately ten additional miles.  At some point there was a digital sign over the expressway that read  “Bay Bridge 24 Miles – Travel Time 86 Minutes.” Now…I’m no math whiz (and judging by the red line that appeared under the word whiz when I tried writing it four times as wiz…I won’t be spending much time on the stage in National Harbor either), but if there was anything to the accuracy of the sing, my anticipated 90-minute leisurely drive was going to take me a minimum of about 3 hours and 30 minutes.  Thankfully my lack of calculation prowess revealed itself again…as I pulled into my destination parking lot 4 hours and 8 minutes later.

I rarely used profanity when I moved to the District of Columbia about 9 ½ years ago, and I never used any that began or included the letter F. Never.  Now, fully entrenched in the big city East Coast culture where I’ve heard professionals use the F-Word in formal meetings, I routinely use curse words for every occasion. I may have even found a way to weave it into greetings like “Happy (expletive deleted) Holidays” and such, so my four-plus hour bumper-to-bumper slog along Route 50 provided me with the perfect opportunity to work through multiple renditions of my four-letter repertoire (had to actually look that word up after trying to spell it 10 times). Ironically though…despite the frustrations associated with the snail-paced commute…I don’t believe I uttered one swearword.  There were multiple opportunities too. I could have screamed an appropriate word at time or two when some jerkoff cut me off, or shared my displeasure with a well-meaning colleague that texted me a “shortcut” that wound me around the scenic Naval Academy that I’m convinced shortened my travel by an additional thirty minutes. Though he called several times to check my deteriorating status, I was cool as a cucumber throughout each conversation.

When I pulled into the parking lot off the long tree-lined winding driveway that provides access to the sprawling pastoral bayside property, I could actually feel my body decompressing. I suspect the soothing sounds of Seriously Sinatra helped prime me for the evening…but walking into the room full of denim wearing sportsmen and sportswomen relaxing and chatting after the camaraderie that comes from an afternoon of rural outdoor activity, I could actually feel my heartbeat slow down. It reminded me of the feeling I get when I hop of my bike and saunter into a roadside café in South Dakota each August, or for that matter, the same feeling one would get if they ever ventured outside the beltway to just about any of the red area that dominates most of the map between the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans.

I was only at the Eastern Shore event about 90 minutes total…so it was pretty hard to fully assimilate. I still stood out like a sore thumb in my slacks and ironed golf shirt, and while most were drinking long-necked ice-cold Anheuser Busch products, I still couldn’t fully shake my metro-cool and skipped up to the bar for a room-temp glass of Cabernet.

Despite the nightmarish drive, it ended up being a rewarding epic evening and I’m glad I honored the promise I made to a friend to be there. As  I sat around laughing with colleagues and meeting new business contacts, there was a general sense that life was good. Several of the normally workaholic people I spoke with talked about the almost immediate decompressed feeling that came with “just being outside,” and as you eavesdropped on the laugher and pleasant conversation throughout the evening, it was crystal clear most in attendance were enjoying an absolutely wonderful time.

What’s the f-ing point of all this? Don’t know really, but presume I’m more just trying to fill space as part of my regrettable self-imposed obligation to pound out this sh#tty weekly blog. It could also simply be the best I could come up with between sets at zero four hundred on a Friday morning…or it might suggest there’s some correlation between Frank Sinatra’s music and the need to use profanity.  It might mean it would behoove us to all invest in satellite radio, or that if we have satellite radio, we all need to turn to channel 71…or at least spend some time over at Willie’s Roadhouse on channel 56. It might mean that for every ten trips we make to some exotic European city like Paris…we need to take an unsexy domestic flight to some town like Peoria. Maybe it just means I need to exert a little more effort to curb my increasingly foul mouth…or it might just mean we all need to turn on the radio…and take a drive. Preferably…on some two-lane road…well outside the beltway.

It’s f-ing Friday…so have a wonderful weekend. If you can, please do something that will last the test of time. Spend some time with the people and pets that matter most. Sit on a porch in a rocking chair, chat with some friends, enjoy an ice-cold longneck and listen for the distant unmistakable sound of a slamming screen door. It’s summer, and it’s time to take advantage of the healing that comes from simply “being outside.”

...the road would never bend  

...and this is an especially important weekend

I’m not really sure how or when the longstanding habit started, but for many years as a young man my routine on Memorial Day was always exactly the same. Sometime around 13 or 14 years old, I decided to hop on my 10-speed and make the three or so mile schlep from our modest home in West Los Angeles, California up Westwood Boulevard to the United States National Cemetery in Westwood. The 114 acres of hallowed ground sits in the shadow of the University of California Los Angeles (where I’d eventually embarrass myself on the practice field) and is bordered by famed thoroughfares Wilshire Boulevard on the south and Sepulveda Boulevard to the west. Even after I turned 16 and had the option of driving my shinny ’72 red pinto, I still chose to ride my bike up there most of the time.    

Seems to me I almost always went alone. I can remember a time or two in my early twenties when my girlfriend (now wife) came along, but for the most part it was a pretty solitary thing. I’d usually try to go early…before the place got too packed with other visitors and I’d always ride around the place for a while before getting off the bike. Unless you’ve been to a place like Arlington or some other massive Veteran cemetery, it’s hard to really describe the scene. I’m sure there were exceptions, but in my mind every single headstone was accompanied by a small American flag. The flags were placed there by thousands of volunteers (a lot of Boy Scouts as I recall) in the days leading up to the holiday, and riding and walking by the rows of stones and flags was always a moving experience for me.

                                                                                                                                                                                  

Eventually I’d try to find some spot up on the hill on the northern edge of the property where there weren’t many people around. I’d disembark from the bike and simply walk up and down some of the rows…reading the names of people, the wars where they served and the date that they perished.  As I walked I’d think about the  young men and women in places like Yorktown, Lexington, Concord, Antietam, Hampton Roads, Gettysburg, Flander’s Field, Normandy, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, The Chosin Reservoir, Tet and La Drang Valley. I think about all the young people that fought in those places and that didn’t come home. I think about the terrible conditions they had to endure,  largely so I’d have the freedom to enjoy Memorial Day and go for a bike ride and walk through a cemetery.

By virtue of pure timing, luck, no doubt some cowardice and probably the fact that I actually had a choice, I never had to serve our nation in time of war. I wasn’t around for WWII or Korea, and was too young for Vietnam. By the time we went to Iraq I was well past my prime…so for the most part my biggest struggles in life have been crises like having my prized bicycle stolen in childhood, an unflattering Division I college football failure and dealing with the consequence of procrastination with respect to the squirrels I suspected were dwelling in attic of my house. In light of this, the practice of taking a few hours to reflect in Westwood always provided a healthy dose of perspective as a young man…and for obvious reasons, I always returned from the experience a better person…at least for the few days that followed.

Ironically, my wife and I now live on the opposite coast…just miles from Arlington Cemetery. We manage to go over there about twice a year when visitors are in town…but never on Memorial Day weekend. Sometimes we drive by on the Harley, but the lines to enter the place are always insane…so we never seem to get any closer than the off ramp on the George Washington Parkway.

It’s too bad really…because I could use a good Memorial Day dose of the perspective I’d get from those early Westwood pilgrimages. Most of my thinking time these days is spent kvetching over injustices like having to get up early, working too hard, unproductive meetings, the exorbitant cost of manhattans at the St. Regis, and inconsiderate shitheads that block traffic lanes during rush-hour by flipping on their hazard lights and double parking so they can run into the Walgreens to pick up a case of Depends.

I’m guessing a couple of hours in Arlington’s Section 60 would help me with my attitude.

All across this country, people will gather this weekend at barbeques, family gatherings, summer homes, baseball games and a host of other iconic places and events to enjoy the extra day of rest and relaxation provided by Monday’s holiday. Many like me,  will revel in the good life with nary a thought about the multitudes that gave so much. Not sure what you’re doing this Memorial Day Weekend, but whatever it is, spend some time doing something you enjoy with the people that you truly love. Some folks paid a significant price to make it all possible, so out of deference to them, let’s make their sacrifice count.

 

Through many dangers, toils and snares...