Solo - Running on Empty

I didn’t have to worry about the plane exploding. I was “running on empty.” I don’t think an exploding plane would have stopped “Clem.” He was mad.

From the opposite corner of the field his neighbor came running. “Clem, wait! This could be exactly what you need! You can sue him,” he shouted. At this point I was “break necking” – watching the activity between these two men as they formulated a plan for retirement. As it turns out, Clem was 3 years behind on his mortgage and was in foreclosure.

The neighbor had two phones to avoid long distance charges. One phone was tied to Thurston county, and the other to Kitsap county… I landed on “the line”. He went to call the sheriff.

I don’t think he even made it to the phone before the Sheriff had arrived. He followed the silence of the plane which had just flown slowly over the top of him just moments earlier – the lone car on a backwoods stretch of two lane blacktop. The shadow of the plane blocked out the sunshine glimmering off his morning doughnuts. A second later, the plane arced to the left into a stand of trees.

I swear it was only five to ten minutes after the plane plowed Clem’s strawberry field, an armed Sheriff was walking into the field. Clem obviously enjoyed attention, but not the kind brought by the law and he settled down. The Sherriff started the process of contacting my parents and Seattle Flight Service – they were expecting to hear from me as I completed legs of my flight.

My flight instructor periodically would call Seattle Flight Service to status my position while on his way to Yakima. He was told I had been to Auburn, and had left Bellingham. “This is the flight instructor for N11758 – could I get a status on his location?” “We don’t have a flight plan for that plane,” came the response from SFS. “I know he had a flight plan. I was there when he filed it this morning.” “One moment.” “Ah, flight instructor? That plane went down south of Bremerton International.”

I am sure John had this sinking feeling. John was a devoted Christian man, and we talked frequently about our individual beliefs. Jesus saved John. Jesus saved me. John was actually next on the scene.

My parents arrived to pick me up. I know we talked about that day several times over the next weeks. It was mostly business. The deductible was…, there is discussion over who paid how much because what was signed ($250) and what the current contract showed ($500). Dad and the flight club split the difference, and I would be allowed to fly again (under certain restrictions for a while). I am sure the phone call from the Sheriff switchboard was scary. They didn’t have much information other than the plane had crashed, and an address. I am not sure they even told my parents I was unhurt, protected by three simple words. “God help me.”

My dad had to be strong for my mother because I am sure she was a wreck the whole two plus hours of drive time. He was genuinely loving and concerned. He didn’t scold. I am sure he was scared, but he had to pretend he was doing well to help my mother deal with the fact their son could have died in a single moment that morning (statement adapted from Anne Lamott – Traveling Mercies).

The Federal Aviation Administration defined it as “pilot error.” No kidding. Four hours of fuel had turned into two-point-five. I could have “topped off” twice, and I wasn’t watching the gas gauge. I was “running on empty.”

- Craig

Solo – Strawberry Fields

When you are in a plane dropping from the sky without a running engine, you really don’t care “why.” Your survival instincts kick in. Survival for me was “a miracle.” “God help me.” “I will do anything you want.” I remember both of these sentences vividly.

The trees parted over a two lane road below. At 9:30 AM on a holiday, I was fortunate. There were no cars to be seen on a long straight stretch. I don’t remember the name of the road. I knew I would never make the Bremerton airport. I had to touch down.

All landings are performed at idle. The main reason for landing at idle is for the ability to “add power” at the last moment in case of trouble. I had to do this once at Boeing Field when I got hit by a crosswind. “Student Pilot, going ‘round.” I was probably only fifty feet above the ground with my wings tilted vertical, pushing on the rudder, shifting the stick and hitting power. “Student Pilot, we didn’t think you were going to make it. Going around granted. Call on base,” came the shaky voice from the tower.

A secondary reason for landing on idle is for the very reason I was in now. No power and I’m going down. As I neared the road, I passed slowly over a single car heading in the same direction as me. It was at that moment I saw power lines on both sides of the road. I was probably at about 500 feet, but I wasn’t taking notes on my altitude. I was still descending. I saw a field to the left of the trees along the road. Just as I was approaching the tops of the trees, I saw my opening. God answered my prayers and I began a beautiful left hand turn between two sets of trees. I was at the north end of a field stretching for nearly a half mile.

The field was divided nicely in half by a barbed wire fence. In the south pasture was a herd of cattle. I needed to stop before the fence. Cattle don’t move fast, and besides, they were mesmerized by the unidentified flying object dropping like a rock into the “Strawberry Fields” to the north… their mouths agape much like my children’s when they visited Central Park.

It was a perfect landing. The soil was soft with the new spring planting of strawberries. I gently plowed the middle of the poor farmer’s field as I lightly touched down. The rear wheels of the tricycle landing gear sinking into the soft soil slowed me down quickly and I nosed the front gear down, but it collapsed.

It was like being in a slow motion movie. Dirt began spraying the windshield as the nose of the plane and the misplaced prop dug deeper. The windshield shattered. The agonizing slowness of the plane arching vertical and then crashing to its back took forever.

I found myself hanging upside down in the plane. It was dead. It had stopped. I was alive! Wait! Shit! I have to get out of the plane before it explodes! I grabbed the seatbelt release and dropped the 18 inches solidly onto my head. Reaching for the door, I pushed. It opened and I crawled out onto the wing. I didn’t see smoke or smell gas. I began kicking the side of the plane. “F#&@! F#&@! F#&@!,” I shouted and kicked until my right foot hurt.

It was only then that I noticed “Clem” (I don’t recall his name) running toward me from the far side of the “Strawberry Field.” He had a shotgun and was yelling “you F’ER – I am going to kill you! You guys keep doing this to me!" (as if a plane crashes into his field everyday). "I have to make it this year or I am going to lose everything!”

(to be continued)

- Craig

Going Solo – Part I

I really struggled on what to title today’s blog. “Strawberry Fields” after the song by the Beatles came to mind. A few years ago my immediate family went on an East Coast trip. During a leisurely evening stroll to see Central Park, we came upon “Strawberry Fields.” We took a family picture by the sign, and proceeded to a sidewalk embedded memorial to John Lennon. There were lit candles, and a dozen or so people sitting around smoking dope. They paid no attention to us even with my kids’ mouths more than slightly agape. None of this has anything to do with today’s blog except “Strawberry Fields.”

Another song also came to mind as the title of this hastily written blog. “Running on Empty” was a song by Jackson Browne. Although I have “run on empty” many times, I have only run out of gas once (that I recall). I learned my lesson that one time. Now I watch the gas gauge closely.

Memorial Day 1975 “was a day that will live in infamy” – maybe not for the world or the United States, but for my parents and me.

The day started off normal. I had to be at the airport about 4:30 AM. My flight instructor and I filed my flight plan: BFI (Boeing Field International) to Auburn, Bellingham, Olympia and back to Boeing. I planned on completing my solo cross-country flight that day. My instructor, John Richardson who worked with my father at Boeing, was taking another student to Yakima for his “instrument rating.” You have to wear a hood and can only see the “instruments.”

I am shortening this story, and adding details not contained in “Air Scare,” published in Campus Life Magazine in the summer of ’75.

I left Bellingham after a hearty breakfast. Heading south toward Olympia at about 7500 feet altitude I was traveling in and out of cotton balls of clouds, trying to piece together the trail to the next airport.

I passed over Bremerton International. It looked small from that height. My gut told me I needed to drop lower. Although I had worn the hood, I was many hours from an “instrument rating.” I called into Seattle Flight Service and informed them of the weather – broken clouds at 5000 feet. I began my decent to 3500 where I had an unobstructed view of the ground.

Within moments, my engine sputtered and died. Shit. I set my flaps at 30 percent and began a glide path for 70 mph, and started a turn for Bremerton. I had just passed it!

I turned the key and pulled the engine to idle, setting the choke in one smooth motion. The engine started. I began calling on the radio “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” “This is November One One Seven Five Eight. I am going down.” There was no answer. I tuned the dial to Bremerton just as the engine died again. “Mayday, Mayday Mayday. This is November One One Seven Five Eight. I am going down.” I said aloud “God help me.”

(to be continued)

-Craig

Dead Duck Walking

"John Kerry went duck hunting and he's doing that to fulfill his campaign pledge to hunt down the ducks and kill them wherever they are. Kerry did pretty well; he came back with four ducks and three Purple Hearts."
—David Letterman

“I went hunting with Dick Cheney and all I got was this bloody T-shirt.”
—T-shirt Slogan

This is not the title of a new movie. It is not about "shooting fish in a barrel" either. But hunting ducks can sometimes be just that easy....

I learned to shoot shotguns fairly young. I remember going to the Renton Gun Club to practice. Years later we joined the Boeing club. There we competed in “turkey shoots.” Five shooters, twenty-five shells – five from each position. The high score got a frozen turkey. I don’t think we ever won a turkey, but often we hit an average of eighteen. Twenty-one was usually the winner.

I still own the 16 gauge model 12 Winchester I used to shoot. Not that long ago I sold the re-loader and all of the dies. My brother had a 20 gauge. Shooting a 20 is harder than a 16 or a 12 gauge. The shot spread is smaller at the same distance from the barrel than from a 16 or 12 gauge. Hitting 18 “pigeons” with a 20 gauge is harder than hitting 18 with the larger gauges (16 or 12).

Geronimo was our hunting lab. I have several stories I can do on this dog. But, today’s story is about one specific duck hunting trip.

We were hunting in the public pot holes north of George, Washington, and southwest of Ephrata. This trip we spent the night in the back of the pickup. We had a custom made height canopy from Bob’s of Issaquah. Dad had asked Bob to build it a little higher because he had to “stand up to put his pants on.”

The first day was beautiful – not a cloud in the sky and 20 degrees. Duck hunting is pretty crappy when there are no clouds. Ducks can fly way out of range. If we humped the brush, maybe Geronimo could scare up a pheasant or two, but ducks were pretty much out of the question. But wait! Is it a bird? No, it's de plane!

No – IT'S A DUCK! It had to be at least a hundred yards out, flying away from us over the frozen pond. Greg raised his gun, and I said “that’s way too far out.” BOOM! The duck crumpled in mid-air and fell into the reeds on the far side of the pond. I have to give my brother credit – it was “one helluva nice shot.”

Dad was over a hill or two and saw none of what happened next. Greg and I moved around the pond. We could hear the duck rustling in the reeds. I told my brother I would walk out on the ice and flush it toward him. “If it flies, then shoot.”

With the gracefulness of a clodhopper I moved through the reeds, flushing the bird toward Greg. BOOM!

“Did you get it?” I yelled. “I think so,” Greg replied.

When I got to Greg, I saw a twenty foot streak of blood across the ice – starting three feet from him. “What the hell happened?” “The duck came walking out…” (Scary - huh?)

I probably called my brother an idiot. It was not a nice thing to say, but I meant it. When a bird is walking toward you, simply grab it by the neck and wring it… I can’t fault my brother – he probably never learned that from dad.

I picked up the duck, and there was a "fifty-cent piece sized hole" right through the middle of the breast. You could see cleanly through it. There wouldn’t be enough meat to make de-feathering and cleaning the bird worth the time. I said “wait until dad sees this.” “Does he have to?” Greg said.

“Yup,” I said with a huge grin.

- Craig

Sheds

I have absolutely no idea what year we built the shed at our house in SeaTac. We positioned it where the rabbit hutch had been. The shed was huge. Building the shed utilized most of the skills I had learned from my father while working on the cabin.

We build a form for the concrete slab, erected the walls, doors, and a light entering fiberglass roof (just like the outhouse at the cabin!). Inside were shelves and hooks. The ceiling was at least ten feet high. I actually think the shed was bigger than my room!

Dad and I put a skylight into the shed I have in Puyallup. I had the pleasure of shingling that roof as well. It leaks.

The entire family went to Wyoming in the summer of 2006 to celebrate Mom & Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary. A great time was had by all. Fishing, horseback riding, bocce ball and shed building…

Dad had bought a metal shed at a charity auction. He built a wooden base for the shed, but waited for his boys to “put it up.” I don’t know about you all as readers of this blog, but putting up a metal shed in 105 degree heat is not my idea of fun. Greg and I may dispute this to some extent, but my son will have claimed to do most of the work. If nothing else, he will claim he read the instructions. As such, Chad says the shed was completed in half the time it would have taken if Greg, Dad and I been left to our own devices.

So I have been a party to building three sheds. I look forward to helping Chad and Amanda build theirs some day using the skills I learned from my father.

- Craig

Cutting Wood

Our home was heated by oil, and sometimes, the sweat off the backs of children. I am not saying my brother and I were slaves. Everyone outside our immediate family might have thought so. I don’t think they had child protective serves back them or one of the neighbors might have called.

Like most kids we liked getting up early on Saturday and Sunday morning to head somewhere to work all day cutting, splitting and stacking wood – no – we really did! It meant spending time with dad and being away from most other people. Our neighbor Chuck came often too.

With ours and Chuck’s, we had two full size pickups to use. Our routine was to fill both pickups on Saturday, and both on Sunday… for a few weeks straight. The goal was to have 5 to 7 cords of wood for the winter burn. I got to learn how to cut, split, and stack wood (twice - once into the truck and once when we got home), sharpen the saw, replace the chains. Some of my best lessons in driving were turning around or backing in deeply wooded areas so my brother and I wouldn’t have to “hump the logs” clear to the truck.

We also got good at “tossing rounds” in a “chain gang” line. It was a game of watch where you were throwing, and watch what is being thrown at you. The were lots of "near misses." Mostly we laughed about it. Some times "choice" words were emitted from young kids' mouths.

With the wood split and stacked neatly, and the added “side racks” we could get about a cord and a quarter to the top of the cab, sometimes more. “Remember to add air to the tires to accommodate the extra weight!”

It was the rare occasion where some one got hurt while we were cutting wood - mostly smashed hands or fingers, a dropped tree round on a foot. I learned never to use a chainsaw to clear brush because of “kick back.” That happened a few times. One time several stitches were required in a leg, and I saw a pair of glasses get cut neatly in half at the bridge of the nose – but there were no lasting scars – except maybe the leg.

When I was in college my roommate Clay and I cut wood to make extra money. Our other roommate’s father, Evan, let us cut wood on land he owned near Newcastle. It was called Cougar Mountain, and for years it was wilderness near the city. Today that area is all housing and golf courses. Clay and I had fun taking down huge alders – almost imaging we were true lumberjacks trying to lay it down between standing trees with precision. By the end of the day we were exhausted, so when we delivered the wood (green and split) the price became “eighty dollars dumped” or “one twenty stacked around back.” I think only one person wanted it stacked, but by the time they were through they wished they had paid the extra forty.

When I got married, Dad, Mom, Julie and I would go cut wood. We usually only went a couple of weekends, and my truck was a mid-size. We also changed our routine. We didn’t split on site, but simply loaded as many rounds as possible and dumped them in the driveway. We made a couple of trips per day to get "rounds." We then split, and stacked once rather than twice. One time we got really nice maple and the splitting maul just bounced off the rounds. I ended up renting a gas powered splitter… in just a few hours I was done!

I don’t burn much any more, and I haven’t cut wood in years. The memories I have of those days, and all of the things I learned remain dear.

- Craig

Pea Shooters

While we lived in Renton, my parents joined the local Methodist Church. They developed many close, life long friends. And, although they maintained friendships from high school and their hometown, our family’s life centered on the families of the church.

We also grew up camping. I still own the giant 200 pound canvas tent we toted around in the red ’64 Dodge Dart station wagon, and later, the Chrysler. We had all of the camping gear you could imagine. We stuffed the car and tied more to the luggage rack on top. Sometimes when I think back on this, I wonder if people thought we were the Joads in the “Grapes of Wrath” – taking everything we owned. Only we had a nice red car and the Joads had the junkie truck.

One year when I was eight or ten we decided to go camping in the Okanogan with friends from church. It was a particularly northwest winter-like summer. It rained the whole week. But the tent was comfortable and dry except where we boys touched the sides. I was told more than once to “don’t do that or the tent will leak.”

When we weren’t around the camp fire, we were “holed up” in the tent playing cards.

On the way, the caravan of friends stopped somewhere – I can’t remember exactly where, but it was a small store and gas station. It was a perfect time for a “nature break.” We all bugged our parents for something, maybe ice cream, maybe some other snack. I don’t remember what the girls bought – probably candy. Steve got a peashooter and either cut it in half, or I got one too. My brother may have even had one but my memory says “no,” mostly because Steve and I took turns shooting at the girls or my brother.

Everyone knew about the peashooters, but they were never taken away. Just thinking back about those peashooters, I want one now.

We got a “talkin’ to” – maybe a couple of times. But – watching that pea pop off the neck or the back of the head of our siblings was something we just couldn’t resist. Thanks for the camping trip Dad! And, thanks for the peashooter Steve!

-Craig

Dodge Ball

Ben Stiller was the star of “Dodge Ball” a few years ago. I never saw the movie, only the commercials. The movie brought back the memory of a game we played in elementary school. Dodge Ball was a great equalizer – the fast versus the strong. The accurate thrower could be the smallest weakling. There were only a couple of people that didn’t do well in dodge ball - the slow and those that got picked on at lunch.

Slowness was an obvious disadvantage. Even the girls picked out the slow moving targets. It was an ego boost, watching the large rubber ball bounce off the back of the head of a slow moving opponent.

There was a point where I had grown wider faster than I had been growing taller. I guess it would be similar to middle age, but I was in 3rd or 4th grade at the time. The good news was that I had the agility of a gazelle. I probably looked a little funny because I had this geeky awkwardness to my leaps and dodges. If you ever saw me dancing to hip hop or rap, you would know exactly what I mean. But I didn’t get hit often.

I don’t know if schools still play dodge ball. The liability insurance must cost a lot. I saw Dusty get his feet taken out by Terry, and he landed on his wrist. It snapped.

Dusty was relegated to the sideline for a while. Dusty is an EMT the last I heard. I don’t know if the emergency treatment he received had anything to do with it or not.

One day in fourth grade we had all four classes playing dodge ball all at once. There must have been sixty kids per side, in a single gymnasium. Lots of people meant easy targets, but scrambling for the few red rubber balls was dangerous! People might get hurt fighting over “the ammo.”

Our fourth grade teachers conferred and thought for some odd reason we should get those hard volleyballs out… as if that would reduce injuries…

I saw the volleyball close to the centerline, and the slower targets were holding to the back wall. My quickness was an advantage. Just as I picked up the ball, I got hit full force from five feet away… cleanly knocking the ball from my hand. Yes it hurt. Everyone in the gym stood still from the chilling screams of a wounded gazelle. Dusty was first on the scene (along with my teacher). “Are you okay?” “No.” I am thinking you idiots – didn’t you hear my scream?

Dusty throw up on the gym floor when he saw my dislocated thumb. I had to sit in the principal’s office to wait for my mother to come get me. The fun part was watching Gary “gettin’ a talkin’ to.” His dad was in the office too. Gary’s dad said “I’ve seen this before and usually we could just pop it back in – but this looks bad. We should wait for his mother.” I thought “you idiot – do you really think I would let someone other than a doctor fix this?” It still hurt, but Gary’s dad wasn’t a doctor.

Mom took me home. I had to sit on the couch and “wait for my father.” That wasn't usually a good thing. He had to drive me to the hospital. It was probably the longest few hours of my life. Pinched nerves hurt! I know mom heard my screams from the waiting room while the doctor tried to get my hand flat for the x-ray. I know she felt bad.

The doctor said to “look away.” I turned back just as he let go of my eight inch thumb – it was stretched way out… Yes – that hurt too. Even today my right thumb knuckle is larger than my left…

-Craig

Ham

Ham is the thigh and rump of any animal that is slaughtered for meat, but the term is usually restricted to a cut of pork.
- Wikipedia

Defn: [short for hamfatter, from "The Ham-fat Man," minstrel song]: a showy performer; especially : an actor performing in an exaggerated theatrical style.
- Webster's

I am a ham. I love ham. I think my dad loves ham too, but mom never fixes it anymore when the family gathers. My Aunt Martha lived with us in Renton while she went to “Mr. Lee’s Beauty College.” It was located in downtown, not far from my father’s favorite hardware store – McLendon’s. McLendon’s has expanded and now has a number of stores two of which are close to me.

Aunt Martha was genuinely amused by our family travesty one night. She was brought to tears laughing so hard. There were a number of things which she laughed at – not the least of which was my father’s lack of control over the situation which was about to unfold.

We were having a leisurely family dinner. I don’t recall everything we were having that night, but the meat dish was ham. Greg and I were commanded to try everything, if not clear our plates. You see – there were people in India starving – or some African nation – I forget. Mailing our food to them was not an option according to my dad. My brother in-law Jeff would hide his food behind the refrigerator. When my in-laws moved the frig they even found a missing plate.

Most kids think they are smarter than their parents. Jeff got away with throwing food (and entire plate) behind the fridge. My parent’s table was not near the fridge – and dad was watching every minute. I think the native American tribes of northern Wyoming and Montana called him “Eagle-Eye Edmonds.” He was probably an honorary member of the “Cree”, but most likely it was the “Flatheads.” (just a joke Dad…)

Greg didn’t like ham. He had a sly style of “not eating” it. “You need to eat it all,” Dad said. “Can I have another napkin?” “No, you’ve had…” I don’t recall how many paper napkins, but there were a pile by his plate. “Chew and swallow.” Somewhere in the conversation my mom said “Duane don’t make him eat it,” or “Duane, he doesn’t have to eat it.” There was a touch of frustration or anger because mother’s intuition told her what was coming next.

“I am feeling sick.” “Finish your Ham – now!”

When Greg started upchucking, I was hiding behind the couch (I was much smaller then!). I couldn’t take it and headed for the bathroom. I didn’t make it. Within moments I heard my mom gagging, and she didn’t make it either.

Aunt Martha was laughing hysterically. Dad had lost control because of a single piece of ham.

-Craig

Pizza Face

My brother’s sixth grade teacher became a close family friend. He was someone the family could “count on” when you needed help. Dave invited us to meet his family and his mother and father went salmon fishing with my father once.

Years ago, in your typical grocery store, the state of Washington, only allowed the sale of “three-two” beer. Three point two percent was the maximum alcohol content in beer sold outside the state liquor stores. I am not sure if was because organized crime ran the liquor stores or the state was just greedy. They kept the good stuff for themselves.

But, in those days we didn’t have all of the “high-falutin” micro-beers. Dave had been at the liquor store. He brought my father a six pack of “Olde English 800.” It might have even been a “five-oh.” Dad never tried it, and the beer sat in the old yellow refrigerator in the workshop - for months.

When I was in college, and my brother was in high school, my parents went to Wyoming for vacation. My mother had made several pizzas and put them in our deep freezer for us to cook and consume after our daily jobs. As with any good mother, she watched out for her boys even when she was 1000 miles away.

I had been eyeing the “Olde English 800” for quite some time and the perfect opportunity was with a homemade, fresh cooked pizza while mom and dad were on vacation. I popped the pizza in the oven at 400 degrees, set the timer for 15 minutes and cracked an “Olde English.” Actually it was the “pop-top” where the aluminum separated from the can, and you could make beer and pop-top chains… however, I never did that – I had only heard rumors from others at college.

Back to the story… the oven timer had just gone off as I finished the first can of beer. The beer did not taste all that good – but it was cold. I was used to “Bud,” the “High Life,” “Animal Beer,” and “Beer Beer.” The most expensive beer I had was probably a “Colt 45.” I pulled the pizza from the oven and let it cool for a few minutes before slicing it with the pizza cutter. My wife likes to have salad with pizza. That would have been way too much work “back in the day.” Anything other than buying dinner at McDonald’s or Taco Time, was usually too much work.

I carried the whole pizza downstairs, setting it down on the TV tray which conveniently remained set up – right by the couch where I “vegged.” I walked to the workshop and grabbed another beer, popped the top and started chowing down on my first slice of pizza. Mom’s pizza is one of my favorites, and hunger made it all the better. I took a sip of beer, pulled another slice of pizza to my plate (balanced on the arm of the couch) and flipped the channel.

I don’t remember what was on that day, but I remember waking up about an hour later with nearly a full can of beer, one slice of pizza gone, and second one wedged between the couch and my face. I never finished that warm “Olde English 800.” I went to the fridge to get a cold one (but washed my face first).

-Craig

Birthdays

Today is my father’s 76th birthday. Birthdays were always a big thing at my house. As a child it means you are “getting older.” It might mean you are big enough for that ride at Disneyland, or getting that special birthday gift reserved for “older kids.” Many times getting older meant different, or more chores - more responsibility. It might have meant a bigger allowance! I remember wanting a watch and I had to wait until my eighth birthday. It was a Timex with a gray watch band. I really liked that gift!

When you get older, there are other important milestones. Being old enough for a part time job, turning sixteen so you can get your drivers license, or for some being old enough to buy booze are all examples of birthdays which hold some significance for many.

Some women hate certain birthdays. Turning thirty, forty, fifty, and sixty are sometimes traumatic. They don’t want you to do anything special (although they secretly do…). “Don’t tell everyone how old I am!” I always try to say something nice like “you don’t look a day over sixty” – if they are fifty for instance. I try to lighten the mood. Usually you get a smile and a “Thanks.” When women get older though, they take pride in their birthdays. “Just turned eighty” some say with pride. “Ninety!” another might state with only the enthusiasm a ninety year old can muster.

Men on the other hand for the most part take birthdays as another accomplishment. The same birthdays which women abhor, the men look at like a “job promotion” or a “raise.”
In April, I just got a “raise” to “fifty!” I don’t look a day over forty-nine, and some even say I could be as young as forty-seven. I take it all in stride.

Today I am including a few “birthday quotes.”

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.
- Mark Twain

Inside every older person is a younger person - wondering what the hell happened.
- Cora Harvey Armstrong

Growing old is like being increasingly penalized for a crime you have not committed.
- Anthony Powell

I have achieved my seventy years in the usual way, by sticking strictly to a scheme of life which would kill anybody else....I will offer here, as a sound maxim, this: That we can't reach old age by another man's road.
- Mark Twain, at his seventieth birthday dinner, in 1905

- Craig

Wiring

Uncle Jim was an electrician. That was his career. He didn’t teach me to wire though, my dad did. Even today, I can’t profess to always remember how it works. Black to black and white to white. There is something about the non-insulated wire being “the ground.” I hate when you open a wire or a new light fixture and there are three insulated wires or one of them is red. But, when it comes to wiring, remembering how it works is pretty important.

We wired the cabin. I watched. We added outlets to the workshop, the garage, and replaced light fixtures. I learned to add new light fixtures – crawling in the attic amongst the fiberglass insulation. “Step only on the rafters and don’t fall through the ceiling dry wall.” I never did.

When building a new structure – you wire without worry. You simply have to meet “the code.” It is easier if you drill the studs before you put the wall up. Placing the outlets higher on the wall means you don’t have to bend over as far. These are all things I have learned from my dad. Oh – and don’t forget to get everything inspected before you drywall… less work!

Remember to turn off the circuit at the “fuse box" before beginning. I have really only seen fuses once. Today they call them “circuit breakers.” Flip the switch.

I have never been bitten by a snake. I have also thought that when I did get “bit” by the electricity, it would feel like getting bit by a snake. I hope I never find out.

I've been bitten a few times - maybe more. It “smarted” every time.

One day earlier this spring, one of our outside spot lights stopped working. Both lights were out at the same time. This made the “cheap light switch” I had purchased and put in a few years ago – suspect. What “a perfect opportunity to teach my own son,” the basics of “wiring.”

Chad knows one thing – electricity “bites.” I told him he had to help – he had to learn to do this. I had already gone out to the circuit breaker and flipped the switch which said “west outside.” But, he had not seen me do this and I told him I was going to show him how to change the switch “hot.” Now I had his attention – He muttered “you are soooo stupid.” I was laughing to myself as he watched intently.

I had unscrewed the cover plate and the switch. I pulled the switch out of the box. At this point I was explaining the need to attach the wires on opposites sides of the switch. “Do you want to do it?” I asked. “No” he replied.

So I continued, removing the white wire from the switch. Sparks flew and the smoke of melting insulation filled the air. I thought I had flipped the correct circuit breaker but I hadn’t. This time he muttered “you idiot – I told you so.”

Dad taught me “wiring." I taught my son "not to be stupid."

- Craig

Texas Hold ’Em

The “World Poker Championship” series plays a single poker game, Texas Hold ‘Em. My favorite player is Annie Duke. Years ago when I first heard of the event, I learned the championship was won on a “pair of Jacks.” Now I watch poker on TV. (There is something wrong with this world or with me.) Because of my father I think I could win it all – the championship, the whole enchilada – “I’m all in.”

I have only played Texas Hold ‘Em once for money. I didn’t play long. A friendly game with low stakes can usually be played for several hours. There are no big winners and no big losers. People go home, sometimes a little tipsy, sometimes a little poorer, but none go home mad. The one time I played Texas Hold ‘Em, I was “in the game” for maybe half an hour. Family only – and my fourteen year old son took the rest of us for fifty-five bucks. The whole game went a little over an hour. I was fortunate – I only lost $10.

I learned poker very young. Maybe we have a genetic propensity for poker or even gambling. When I was a boy, my father played poker once a month with men from work. They rotated hosts so I when I was lucky they were at our house a couple of times a year. The host fed the guests, had the table, the poker chips and cards – and one of the guests brought the beer.

We played poker at Thanksgiving, Christmas and sometimes I believe we even played on the holiest day of the year – New Years Day. College football fans – I apologize for the sacrileges I have committed!

I watched, I learned. Little did they know I was a shark circling, waiting for the feeding frenzy; camouflaged as a youth in pajamas. Sometimes after the hand was finished, and chips were being gathered, I asked questions. Everyone politely answered. “Full House beats a Flush.” I would reply “okay – thanks!”

Not all of our friends or family play poker. So we bought a less threatening version of the real thing. Kids could play. People who knew little could play and still win! The board game was called Tripoli or Tripoly. I am not sure of the game’s spelling. But, it laid the poker hands over various areas of the playing surface. “One Pair,” “Three of a Kind,” “Full House,” “Straight” – they were all there! A simple game of “everyone antes one chip to each of the pots” laid out on the board. I don’t recall much more about that game, but I know some pots grew larger than others. Maybe mom and dad even still have that game somewhere.

One Thanksgiving, with the neighbors in attendance, the family stuck up the game with “maybe we should play some poker” – penny, nickel, dime… Was this an attempt at entertainment or the opportunity to recover some costs of the feast?

Mr. Ketchum lived across the street with his wife. He liked playing poker that day, but he wasn’t having much luck. At one point the pot had grown to a substantial amount, and he was raising – his hand looked good… seven card stud. He turned his cards over, “Full House” he said actually smiling for the first time that day and starting to pull the chips toward him. “Full House beats a Flush” my little brother said…

One time at the Friday night poker game they “were short one guy.” “Can I play? I have my own money.” The Friday night poker game always ended at midnight. That night I heard one man say to my dad “next month at my house, but don’t bring the kid.” I smiled slightly when my winnings added up to $12.50. That’s a lot of money to a twelve year old.

- Craig

Smoking in the Boys Room

I don’t know when dad started smoking cigarettes. He probably changed brands several times over the years, but the one I remember was Pall Malls; a red pack with white lettering. It could have been my grandfather who smoked the Lucky Strikes.

At some point dad stopped smoking cigarettes and started with a pipe. The smell of pipe tobacco was better than any cigarette – any day. Cherry? The variety of “flavors,” the different colored tin foil packets and logos… Dad would carefully unfold the packet, opening it slowly while one of his many pipes lay silently on his leg or the arm of the chair. Dad’s style of pipe was a wooden, beautiful wood grain, straight stem. He replaced them as fast as he misplaced them.

Pipes need breaking in – like a good horse, a comfortable pair of shoes or tight jeans. Some circles the cliche might include "men" or "women." The first few “smokes” are about tempering the bowl. He would dip the bowl of the pipe in the packet, scooping a “bowl full.” Tamp. Tamp. Tamp. Usually with the thumb, packing the tobacco tightly.

Dad had several lighters, and the cans of lighter fluid refills – blue on the bottom and yellow on the top. You would unscrew the bottom and pour the lighter fluid onto the cotton packing inside the lighter and replace the screw. It was the perfect opportunity for me to learn how to “unscrew” a screw with my thumbnail or the back of one of many pocket knives.

At some point when I was much older, my father quit smoking pipes too. I must have been in college. Dad waited for his boys to notice, but we never did. I am sure he was disappointed. We “didn’t miss it.” Mom questioned us relentless: “Do you notice anything different about your father?” Nope. She couldn’t take it any more. Dad had quit smoking – weeks ago. Of course we were proud!

When I think back to the smells of the pipes, my memories are much more romantic than reality. Over the course of several days our toilet became plugged. A “bowl full” means something different than previously discussed. And, a full bowl meant a plumber. It took awhile, and I am sure it irritated my dad to pay the plumber bill, but he found his missing pipes.

-Craig

Laughter is the Best Medicine

This is a titled section from the Reader’s Digest magazine. My parents had a subscription for many years. I liked reading the short jokes, flipping through to the cartoons and reading the short humorous story section, “Laughter is the Best Medicine.” All were funny and I always believed most bore their origins in true events, whether it is in a doctor’s office, the bank, or an elementary school room.

Having an optimistic outlook can clearly have positive affects whether it be medicinal, or dealing with the mundane daily items we encounter; the person who thinks you are driving too slow in stop-n-go traffic (so they give you the “you’re number one” salute) to the salsa which drips down your dress shirt (when you don’t have a change of clothing) right before an important meeting. Some times you need to “smile” and just “move on.”

Mind over matter is a scientifically studied “theory” where people’s mental capabilities overcome the laws of physics. Time travel, levitation, and out-of-body experiences can all be classified as “mind over matter” in one sense or another.

I believe in all of these: “laughter” and “mind over matter.” My brother thought both of these together could overcome the power of “a good spanking.”

Being older, I tended to encourage my brother in a number of different things, and the influence an older sibling has, is actually quite incredible when the young sibling has limited “real world” experience. Spankings hurt and I knew that. However, while we were still young (8 and 5 respectfully) I encouraged and influenced my brother to test his theory.

I don’t recall what led up to Greg’s opportunity, but I clearly remember the results. Both of us were in trouble. It certainly wasn’t the kind where our punishment was a “stern talking to.” We were going to get spanked. We in fact, got spanked “n” times, plus “one” over the course of our younger years. We learned from those spankings. Specifically, if you started crying after the first swat, you didn’t get another one. One was enough to get the message – but it still hurt.

I bent over and grabbed my ankles and dad swatted me. I started crying. Greg bent over and got a swat, but to my delight and eventually his own horror, he laughed! “HA HA HA!” He said it with enthusiasm, the cogs of his brain trying to latch and twist and turn, dealing with the pain. “Mind over matter” was the signal he was looking for, but instead, he got another swat. “HA, Ha…” he stated less enthusiastically this time; trying gallantly to hold back the tears.

At this point I turned my encouragement toward my father. “He thinks it won’t hurt if he laughs” I said through tearful whimpering. My father looked at me and said “What?”

Swat. “ha…” Greg said before the tears started flowing. Laughter is not always the best medicine. Some times medicine tastes bad. Laughter doesn’t make it taste better… (smiley face).

-Craig

My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory is not of my father or my mother. When you think back you hope that it would be. As I have gotten older (and, I am not old – thank you) I find that memories are locked away in a series of file cabinets stacked and scattered around the inside edge of my scull. When thinking back, sometimes I am working my way through a store room of cabinets, pushing aside the cobwebs, or moving storage boxes so I can open the drawer.

Often I find the cabinet drawer locked or stuck, and I tug sometimes softly and other times hard. Sometimes the drawer opens and the details of the memory flood the room. Other times the drawer never opens and I stand there holding the fragment of the memory on a slip of paper the librarian gave me.

Ansel Adams was a great photographer. Noteworthy was his ability to bring his subject to striking life in a black and white print. He didn’t use fancy equipment and he didn’t “morph” the subject to fit his idea of how the final product should look.

My earliest memory is in black and white. On the scrap of paper there was a single thought. Pulling on the cabinet drawer brought out more detail; black and white and still quite vague. One piece of color showed through, so parts of the memory are a composite.

When we moved to Seattle I was just over 2 years old. Dad and mom had rented an apartment in the Fauntleroy area of West Seattle. I can still see “California Avenue” as it tapers down toward the water from the top of the hill. If the apartment building still exists, I think I could drive there. It was a two story brick structure, quite plain and boxy. The color of the brick was a kaleidoscope sandy color with some speckles darker than others, but overall lighter rather than darker. It looked much like a Motel 6 with bricks.

The rest of the memory is black and white. We had a neighbor named Mary. She was older. I recall “visiting” her at her first floor apartment which opened to a large grassy area. I remember her white colored hair as she sat in a chair on the sidewalk; in the shadow of the balcony above; her apartment door opened to the background. While I can’t see in, I know I have been there. My mom has too.

I don’t think Mary had a wheelchair, but she had only one leg. I hope Mary enjoyed my visits as much as I enjoyed visiting her in my black and white memory.

- Craig

Learning Shop Safety

I watch “The New Yankee Workshop” with Norm Abrahms (sp?). He opens his show with “Before we get started… Read and follow all safety precautions… and the most important is these (as he points to his face) safety glasses.”

I am not sure that is true. Yes they are important, but “Before we get started” is pretty important and “Read and follow all safety precautions” is probably at the top.

I think I actually have more tools than Norm. My dad loves tools and he knows I love them too. So, it makes sense that almost every time I see him, for my birthdays, for Christmas, or even summer visits he gives me tools.

Sometimes my father escaped to the workshop downstairs to avoid the “brotherly love” Greg and I showed each other. He was working on a project which involved a wooden pointed oval shape (much like a football if sliced down the middle lengthwise, only ¾” thick). The edges had a number of ¼” slits almost all of the way around. It was the base for a simple African style mask. The face was formed by a slit concave piece glued perpendicular to the center of the base. Everything was painted black, and two empty thread spools, painted white which became the eyes were glued on each side of “the nose”. A white thread was woven between the slits of the base, back and forth across the nose in a crisscross pattern. It made a simple, and yes, odd African style wall ornament.

It was interesting enough, and it elicited comments of “groovy,” “cool” and “neato” (depending on the era, or political alignment from which you sprang). “Neato” was pre-Cambrian Nerd language, and we all know Nerds evolved into Geeks. No one said a negative word, and most of our friends owned one. I think the original design came from Denny, dad’s good friend from high school. Denny and Janet lived near us in when we had moved to the SeaTac area.

I thoroughly enjoyed working with my father learning to use the various tools, and making the African style “masks.”

One Saturday, my brother and I were going at it upstairs while my father was “sanding” pieces for the masks in the workshop downstairs. Greg had locked himself in the upstairs bathroom as a self-defense mechanism, while I shouted “I am going to get you, you little #!@&#!.”

I don’t know exactly how old I was, but I am guessing 12 to 14. I was still quite a bit bigger than Greg, who had not yet begun wrestling or this story might have had me inside the locked bathroom.

Dad started to come up the stairs holding his hand, and I could see blood “oozing” from his hand, and I started banging on the door for my brother to “Let me in! Dad’s hurt! Hurry!”

Greg shouted back “Liar!”

By this time dad was at the top of the stairs, and maybe something in my voice – panic – caused my brother to open the door. Dad had caught his right hand ring finger in the portable belt sander while it was turned on automatic, upside down on the work bench.

From the “ring” knuckle to the end of the finger there was almost nothing but bone. While holding his hand under water, I was able to tie a gauze “tourniquet” to stem the flow of bleeding. Scouts had provided me my First-Aid training.

Dad probably still doesn’t have all of the feeling in that finger, but he did get to keep it, and all of us learned “shop safety.” I think dad also bought an upright sander, and we stopped making African mask wall hangings.

- Craig

Shoot the Moon

“A Christmas Story” shows very small, but almost reflective glimpses into my life as a young boy. Many differences can be noted too – for instance, my name is not Ralphie. I didn’t learn “that word” from my father either.

It was coming up on my birthday – it must have been my 9th, because I got my first watch for my 8th. I wanted the “official Red Ryder Carbine-Action two hundred shot range model air rifle!” Actually I asked for a BB gun. I think my mother was much like Ralphie’s – “Be careful or you’ll shoot your eye out.” She might have even had a similar conversation with my dad, with dad responding to the effect “he’s a boy!”

If you’ve ever seen the movie you know exactly what I mean.

After a brief training lesson on how to load the BBs I was set loose into the back yard. There might have been more to the training such as “don’t point that thing at anybody, etc., or else!” but I don’t recall that much.

Although Ralphie had this imaginary gang of villains, I only had my brother. I know you think you know what is coming next, but no – I never shot my brother in the back. I did let him try out the gun though. We would stroll the back yard shooting at things in the garden – particularly cans.

Within a few weeks, and maybe within a day or two, my brother and I were in the back yard shooting "the gun." Vern or Ronnie might have been there too. The moon was full and clearly visible in the day light; big, round, white – an easy target. That day I was particularly selfish – I was a big shot.

Greg (but it could easily have been Vern) urged me to shoot the moon. Showing off is a good way to get you in trouble.

That night while sitting around the dinner table, my father asked “what did you boys do today?” Greg piped right up, “Craig was shooting the moon with his BB gun.” My dad said “what?” Actually it was more like “WHAT?!” The look which came over his face when he said “What did I tell you…!?” was one I’d see many times over many years (reference “Wait Until Your Father Gets Home”).

I don’t remember exactly what my punishment was after the quipped reply “don’t point that thing at anybody. You never said don’t shoot the moon.”

- Craig

The Bottom of the Outhouse

I am not sure exactly when we bought the property upon which we would erect our mountain getaway. It was definitely in the early 60’s, maybe ’62 or ’63. Long before we built the cabin, we would set up the large blue canvas cabin tent. I think my father bought it at Sears in Renton. I still own it today, although we haven’t used it in years.

I have many stories about camping in that tent; the stories told, eating in it when it rained.

Our mountain getaway property consisted of two primary levels. The lower level ran along May Creek, and had naturally occurring springs which bubbled out from the hillside. As boys we spent many hours along the creek, searching, investigating, or basically hiding from work which my father freely assigned.

The upper area was a large flat area. A single lane, one-way road spurred South and then West from the main road into the development. We spent many weekends at the property in preparation for building the cabin. One of the very first things we built was the outhouse. My dad was familiar with outhouses from his own childhood, and knew clearly the construction basics. We purchased a used toilet seat and painted it in preparation for the outhouse’s first use. Dad even improved on that basic design by applying a clear fiberglass sheet to the roof. Outhouses are notoriously dark – and scary. Besides spiders and bugs of a wide variety, we always thought snakes might be in there. Even when Amanda, Greg, Dad and I went fishing in 2006 at Gibbs Bridge, we checked the outhouse thoroughly for snakes.

We spent nearly every weekend at the property working toward building the cabin (and many many friends and relatives helped – thanks!). When Steve was in junior high or high school, he made our family a sign in woodshop: “The Edmonds’ Family Privy.” We displayed it proudly and it remained on the outhouse even on the day the cabin was sold many years later.

It only made sense to "store what we could" at the property – hauling everything we needed to the site every weekend was a chore unto itself. Our only lockable facility was the green outhouse with the red painted toilet seat.

One time we arrived to find someone had broken into the outhouse. The lock had been snapped and our worst fears had been realized. All of dad’s tools were gone! The only remaining item was about 20 pounds of lime we used for flushing (lime helps keep the odors to a minimum – something else I learned from my father).

Wait! It must have been kids who broke in! The expensive tools were not stolen! They lay at the “bottom of the outhouse.” It took only a short discussion before it became obvious what must be done. No one could fit down "the hole" except my brother and me.

I am not sure if the vote was fair or not, or what other considerations there may have been (such as my brother was “too small” to do it), but I won that election – sort of. I was lowered to the bottom of the outhouse by my ankles, past spiders and bugs, to retrieve dad’s tools, one at a time.

- Craig

Snakes in the Hay

The barbershop was across and just down the street from the Weagers (sp?) from church. Mr. and Mrs. Weager were an older retired couple that a number of the younger couples befriended. I don’t recall her first name, but Mr. Weager went by Wally which could have been short for Walter or Wallace.

I liked going over there because they had acreage. There are several stories I can relate about their small farm so watch this blog for more on the Weagers.

My father always told great stories. When we were camping, there were lots of stories. We would be bundled into sleepwear in our sleeping bags when dad would begin. He had many and today’s memory combines the Weager farm and one of dad’s stories.

The Weager farm might have been ten acres. Part of it was wooded, but the “front yard” was a large pasture of about 3 acres. From the highway you could see the small white house at the end of a long single lane dirt driveway. The house sat on the upper slope, with the wooded acres behind.

Mr. Weager had mowed – or maybe had some one mow – the front pasture for hay. Wally needed the hay picked up. I can’t remember everyone that was there, but it seemed our neighbor Chuck from SeaTac was there. He knew Wally from church too.

Greg and I were too small to throw the hay into the “hay wagon” but we could certainly help. We rode in the wagon towed behind a small tractor and stomped down the hay. The men used pitchforks to throw the hay over the sides of the trailer as it moved slowly along the dried rows.

Occasionally a pitchfork of hay contained a snake. Several snakes got pitched into the wagon that day and you could see them crawling around as we stomped. I don’t like snakes, although at that age, I was a “handler.” My brother and the neighbor boys would go snake hunting in our backyard as it backed up to an undeveloped area. Handling snakes was not much of a problem when I was younger – I understood one thing. These were Gartner snakes – the black harmless ones with yellow stripes. Some times we found ones with red stripes, and some with blue. We called those “blue racers.”

Some of the snakes we found were small and some were larger. One of the biggest ones I ever saw was pitched into that wagon, that day. The snake didn’t bother me – in fact I rather enjoyed watching it wrap around my brother’s leg. When a snake begins to climb your leg, you scream! My brother was no different. I think all the men were laughing and I know they did it on purpose. Torturing, and teasing little kids - what fun!

Dad said something to the effect “when I was little the men always threw snakes into the hay wagon too… only they were rattlesnakes.” “Stop your whining…”

(I might have made that part up for my brother).

-Craig

Saturday Morning Haircuts

I don’t know how often Dad got his haircut. It might have been every couple of weeks to a month. There really was only one rule – it can’t touch the ears.

If you look back at pictures of Dad – he has the same haircut, same hairstyle since he was 12. Mine has changed several times. My brother has had a few too.

When you think of why a man wears a particular hairstyle, it is usually because it looks good on them. Men don’t change their styles often – not like women. Dad though has really had only one style.

I think a lot of it had to do with his upbringing. Clean and off the ears. It reminds me of something a farmer would have his sons wear. I don’t know if my grandfather made Dad keep his hair “off the ears” but I know the Air Force did.

Sometimes a look can become a habit. Dad’s hairstyle looks good on him. Dwight’s was similar (Dad’s identical twin). Maybe that style was in the genes.

Dad would pack my brother and I into the little blue “Renault” for Saturday haircut mornings. This has also become a tradition for my son and myself too. Be the first in line – don’t waste time waiting. We would arrive at the barbershop, the kind with the fancy spinning bar pole on the outside. It probably didn't spin, but I let my memory think it did. The shop was right across the street from some friends from church and not far from the parsonage. It was however a few miles from home, so we had to get up early.

This was the closest barbershop, but I think it also might have been the cheapest. Dad grew up on a farm during “the great depression.” You had to be frugal – or cheap. My memory has faded on the prices, but I think it started at $1.75. He probably complained when the price went up to $2.25. It would have had to be a really good haircut to be worth that – “off the ears and shirt collar too.”

It was more than great prices or the location that took my father and his two boys to this particular shop though. The barber gave “free” crew cuts to kids if there was a paying adult. Frugal!

For many years my brother and I had crew cuts. When I was a toddler, I had curly hair. It is not so curly now and mom blames dad for it - and the crew cuts.

I am wondering what happened to that barber – something must have happened which changed our haircut routine. He might have retired, been bought out, or simply moved. At some point, the barber started charging for our crew cuts. I think it was 75 cents. Dad might have been outraged, or just frugal, but we stopped going to that barbershop.

Dad bought some barber shears. Frugal? I think it was his keen "long-term investment skills." I don’t recall my father ever cutting my hair, but my mom did. She cut Greg’s too. In the summer we sat on a chair on the pink patio.

We still had the crew cuts, but they just “didn’t look like what the barber did.” Our new style was full of nicks and chunks missing and more than once we cried when we looked in the mirror. At least once my mom cried too.

I don’t think dad ever let my mom cut his hair – it turns out he was both frugal and smart!

- Craig

Wait Until Your Father Gets Home

I don’t think my brother and I were wild. Some of the neighbors might disagree. It was more like “boys will be boys!” My brother and I were practically best friends as kids. Although there were other boys in the neighborhood within a year or two of our age: Randy, Geoff and Paul, Vern and Ronnie – we both knew “blood was thicker than water.”

We frequently teamed and schemed against the neighbor boys. Sometimes it was subtle and sometimes more overt. But all those are stories for another time.

Sometimes Greg and I fought. Most of the time no one got hurt seriously although occasionally I would get kicked in the groin or my brother would get his head banged against the ground. When we got like that, mom couldn’t really do much except say “sit on the couch and wait until your father gets home.”

Sitting on the couch with my brother – waiting for Dad to walk in the front door – was painful. No matter what we had done, it seemed like that was punishment enough. Occasionally we would blame each other quietly as to not get into further trouble. Sometimes we would punch the others arm. “Mommmm!”

I know my father looked forward to coming home. He always wore a suit because you “need to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” When he came home he was almost always in a good mood. But when the boys were "waiting for their father to get home” his look, his body language changed, and we knew we had disappointed him somehow.

He walked to the fireplace mantel and removed his Boeing badge, the pens, his glasses and wallet, keys and some change. Sometimes we would start crying just from "the look." He never said a word. Dad would head to his bedroom to change his clothes while we were weeping quietly (when we were younger, although we were sat on the couch as old as fourteen).

It never really seemed to matter “what” we had done – only that it had made Mom sit us on the couch to “wait until your father gets home.”

-Craig

Learning To Fish

My dad taught me to fish at an early age. I am not sure exactly when. I might have been three, but it could have been four. We lived in a neighborhood called Heather Downs. This was the first home my father and mother purchased. Our house sat on a hill above the Cedar River in Renton Washington.

My dad had bought me a fishing pole and showed me how to cast. I had this little rubber weight on the line and practiced casting in the back yard. I am not sure why it was even rubber because this thing was pretty solid. It could have broken the back window if I aimed in that direction. Mostly I aimed for my little brother, or the dog - just about anything other than the middle of the yard.

I wasn't old enough for school yet, so in my mind I practiced all day. In reality I probably had cast for one half of an hour. I was ready!

Although I know I would sit patiently waiting for him to come home from work so we could go fishing, my mom would probably dispute that. This seemed to be a regular routine. My memory says we would go fishing for about an hour (most likely all my dad could take!) before dinner. It seemed like every day, and I looked forward to it.

The Cedar River ran through a valley into Renton. We would drive up the highway to a few different spots. Sometimes it was a wide area we could pull off from the highway and in others there was a dirt road. In each case though we had to cross the railroad tracks. Every fishing trip was an adventure!

I got to carry my fishing pole and the new green creel for the fish we caught! When we walked on the trail to the river I remember all of the blackberry bushes. They were way above my father's head. I envisioned being in a jungle, if I even knew what one was.

I followed close behind. I didn't want to get lost. When we got to the river we would walk back and forth until he could find a place where he could sit me down without much fear of me wandering out of his sight.

He would get me tied up with a little hook and a little red worm. For those of you who have fished with us in Wyoming, the worms there eat the Washington worms for lunch. You have to put a small worm on a small hook, and you need a small hook because the fish in Washington are small. We were always happy if we caught something 'legal' which I think was six inches.

When I first learned to fish, dad would cast it for me. After practicing I got to cast myself. Invariably, right after my father cast his first line, I would have mine tangled in a mess on the reel, or be snagged on the bottom.

I don't recall if my father ever really got to fish those evenings or not. But I know God was teaching him patience.

Soon we would pack up and head home for dinner which mom always had ready. I would look forward to another day of fishing with my father.

- Craig

Initial Post

On Tuesday evening, my father called to tell us - me - directly that his test results were "not good". I broke down. I don't think I have ever cried in front of him as a grown man. We cried together. Two to six months.

You never have enough time with your family - your mother, your father, your spouse or your children - you can never tell them often enough that you love them.

I always thought Dad would be at my kids' graduation from high school, from college or be at their weddings. I thought he would see Chad become an Eagle Scout, or be at the birth of his great grandkids. In fact - it was never even considered that he wouldn't be there.

I have decided I need to write. I need to tell him of all of my memories.

- Craig