Tuesday, March 15, 2005

No worries

A relative of the victim Posted by Hello


Growing up in the valley was pretty cool. Though the valley was on the verge of making its transition to a wasteland of homes and mini-malls, there was still plenty of open lots, orange groves and even the occasional cornfield where a gaggle of boys could find an adventure. Despite the sometimes oppressive heat, summers were great. My parents were divorced when I was little, so my sister and I had free reign while my mom worked. It was sweet freedom to a ten-year old boy. If I close my eyes I can still picture the front-yard football games, the swim parties at Greg McGuire’s house, and Evil Knievel jumps we used to set up in the streets. What I’d give to go back to that time. Days spent without a single worry. Those really were the good old days. Well, most of them...

Gary’s dad had promised to take him and three friends of his choosing to the beach. I was fortunate to be among the chosen few. Matt Merkley and Wayne Zuko rounded out the foursome. It was going to be great – riding boogie boards while the unwashed masses sweated it out in the valley. Just as we were about to load into the van, his dad received a call from the office saying he had to go into work immediately. What a drag. We sat around the air conditioned house, moaning and complaining until his mother finally told us to go outside and play while she finished her housework. We had really gloated about our impending beach trip and our other friends were going to pay us back with interest. We couldn’t bear the shame of showing our faces. Rather than hang around where they might spot us, we decided to walk to the mall where we’d sneak into a movie and spend the rest of the daylight hours in hiding. It was a masterful plan.

To shave some time off our trek to the mall, I suggested we hop the Handyman fence and cut through their lot. A little background on Handyman stores... they were just like today’s Home Depot stores only without the incompetent, know-nothing employees. The place was huge and unfinished like a warehouse. They had pretty much everything you’d need to build and maintain a house. I sometimes wonder why Home Depot has thrived and Handyman went bust. Maybe if they had fired the conscientious, intelligent personnel, and hired the mouth-breathers that Home Depot employs they’d still be around. I don’t know. Annnywwaaaayyy…. Handyman had this huge sign in their lot, similar in design to the one in the picture, except much larger. It was made of plastic with fluorescent lights inside of it and it sat about 40 feet in the air atop two enormous pillars. At the base of the pillars was a rock bed with some flowers in it. Whoever decided to put the rocks at the base was obviously never a young boy. It was common practice for passing kids to test their manhood by attempting to punch a hole in the sign with one of the rocks. Many were successful as evidenced by the swiss-cheese appearance of the sign. Slinging stones at the sign had to be done relatively quickly and discreetly because the store manager was aware of this little ritual and watched the sign like a hawk, attempting to seize any vandals and holding them for the cops. Why he didn’t just remove all the rocks is beyond me, but it would have saved us all a whole bunch of misery if he had.

On this particular day, we were all feeling a bit adventurous so we made our way to the rock bed. Just when we had each selected a suitable candidate for the deed, Wayne remembered that he had some “smoke pots” in his pocket. You remember these things, you get them at the fireworks stand. You light the fuse and they make a big cloud of smoke. They are instrumental in the healthy development of the male juvenile. Wayne pulled out a smoke pot, I lit it, and he let it rip. His aim was true and the pyrotechnic sailed right into one of the holes. There were high-fives all around as we eagerly anticipated the great smoke-out. We were not disappointed. Within seconds gray smoke poured from the sign. We stood in awe, our heads tilted back, mouths open, marveling at the sight. This beat going to the beach any day. After admiring our handiwork for a few moments, we split for the mall before the evil store manager could get his hooks into us.

After our failed attempt to sneak into a movie and being tossed out of the mall, we sat dejectedly on the curb. We all thought the same thing: “Those other guys are probably going for a swim right now.” We decided we’d take our lumps from our friends, fall on our swords, and hopefully they’d let us join them for a dip. We were soon on our way. Just as we cleared the mall parking structure the Handyman store came into view. The sign, which had only been smoking when we left it, was now fully engulfed in flames. Thick, black smoke billowed into the air. Melted plastic oozed and dripped from the sign’s frame. Fire trucks surrounded the blazing structure and showered it with water. The manager stood to the side and conversed with a police officer, gesturing wildly with his hands. I nearly committed a hygienic indiscretion in my pants. I was speechless. Wayne started to whimper. Gary began stammering, “Nnnnooo, nnno, nnoo!!!”. Only Matt kept a cool head. "We didn’t do nothin’. We were at the beach. We’re takin' the long way home. Let’s go.” And the long way we did. I conservatively estimate that we walked five miles to make a one-mile journey. Nobody spoke the whole time. When we got back to our neighborhood, we all split and went to our own homes. I don’t know what those other guys did, but I locked the doors, closed the blinds, and hid in my room. I pondered my fate. Would I go to jail? Or even worse, would my mom find out? Whenever the phone rang or there was a knock at the door I was sure that they were coming to take me to the Big House. It’s really a burden bigger than any ten-year old boy should have to bear. I finally decided I’d play it cool. After all, I had only lit the smoke pot, I hadn’t thrown it. Just for some insurance, I stayed on my best behavior doing all my chores unasked. I didn’t backtalk. I didn’t feign illness on Sunday mornings to get out of church. I recall my mom saying to me one day, completely out of the blue, “I don’t know what you did, but it must have really been something.” She’s a smart woman. Over the next several weeks the fear slowly subsided. A new sign went up at the Handyman and the manager had all the rocks removed. My mom didn’t kill me, I didn’t go to jail. Life just moved on. A year or so later I even managed to sleep through the night.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Pals, part II

I first met my buddy Joe when we were in a church college group together. I don’t even remember how our friendship began, I think we got into a small group or something and it started from there. He’s a guy that anybody would be fortunate to know, let alone call “friend”. There’s a saying that goes something like, “When everybody else walks out, friends walk in.” That saying epitomizes Joe. He & I don’t see each other near as much as we used to since we both had families but I know if I ever need him, all I have to do is pick up the phone. I named one of my sons after him, and I’ll be pleased if he turns out like my friend. Joe is probably the most easygoing guy you’ll ever meet. Whatever the plan is, he’s up for it, always anxious for a new experience and to just be with the guys. So I wasn’t all that surprised that he said “Yeah, that sounds cool!” when I invited him to go wild hog hunting, despite the fact that he’d never hunted and only shot a gun 2 or 3 times. Rob accompanied us on this trip but didn’t hunt because he had broken his hand the week before and couldn’t hold a gun in his injured paw. Only a sliver of the rising sun was visible when we arrived at the ranch and met our hunting guides Tom and Ed. They briefly talked over our hunt plan and then Tom said, “One guy goes with me, the other two go with Ed.” I looked at Joe and his face spoke a thousand words. His efforts to conceal his anxiety were valiant but totally ineffective. He even volunteered to go with Tom so Rob could go with me. What a cool guy. We hopped into the trucks and they took off in opposite directions. I asked Ed, “So are we meeting them someplace?” to which he replied, “Nah, they’ll go to the other side of the valley and we’ll meet up with them later.” I have hunted with Tom before and, while he’s a great hunter, he’s not the most gregarious guy you’ll ever meet. I felt a twinge of guilt because Joe was stuck with this cantankerous character. But at the same time, I grinned a little grin. Joe’s such a flexible, cool-headed guy… I knew this would test him pretty good. We cruised the hills for 30 minutes or so, scanning for signs of our quarry. We eventually found ourselves on the top of a ridge. The topography could best be described as a big “U”. We were positioned on the top of one side. Across the small valley at top of the other side were Tom & Joe. I peered through my binoculars and could barely make out Tom’s truck. They were maybe 800 yards away and it felt good to know that Joe was over there even if there was nothing I could do to help him. We glassed the area intently when Tom’s voice suddenly blared through the radio, “Alright, we’re into some pigs over here.” There was a pause that seemed like an eternity and then we heard a shot ring out. Moments later, another. A few moments more, yet another. Tom’s frustrated voice buzzed across the radio, “They’re coming your way.” After an eternity, we spotted a lone porker climbing a steep ridge perpendicular to the ridge we were on. I waited patiently and it when made it’s way to a small clearing I put him down for a dirt nap with a lead pill to his head. Rob and I started the long drag down the ridge while Ed worked his way around in the truck. About 45 minutes later, the hog was gutted out and we were swinging it into the back of the truck. Just then we heard a three more shots in the distance. Tom’s voice came over the radio that Joe had gotten one. “Alright!!” I thought, and a smile came across my face. Tom told Ed to swing over and pick up Joe while he went after a pig for himself. We made our way to Joe’s location and I saw something I’ll never forget. There stood Joe, in the middle of a huge field of waist-high barley with a look of both pleasure and panic on his face. He raced to the truck and asked me, “Do you have any more bullets? My gun is empty and I can’t find my extras!” I said, “Huh? What for?” Joe said in a panicked voice, “It’s not dead!” I laughed and gave him two bullets from my gun and we slowly approached the injured hog which was laying in the barley. At our approach, the hog jumped to its feet and ran. Joe leveled his gun and fired. The hog tumbled and then staggered to its feet again. Another shot knocked him down but he was still kicking. “Gimme another one!” I gave Joe my last round and he placed it behind the hog’s ear, finally putting it out of its now very apparent misery. Now for the fun part. I don’t mind dressing out a harvested critter, but the gutting out of this hog was especially bad. It had been shot several times, at least once through the stomach. With the hog on its back I took my knife and made a slice up the belly. Immediately stomach acids and half-digested barley spilled out of the abdomen. The stench was enough to give a hyena a case of the dry heaves from 50 yards and I was positioned squarely above it. Noxious fumes rose into my face and I began to turn green. Several times I wanted to puke but Joe and Rob eagerly stood by with cameras hoping to catch me in a moment of weakness so I choked it back and finished the job. Three years later (or maybe it just seemed that long)the job was done. After skinning and hosing them down at the barn we dropped them at the butcher where they would be made into some of the best tasting chops & sausage you’ve ever had. We returned to our hotel to clean up and then went to lunch at the barbecue shack. If you ever make it to Paso Robles, you owe it to yourself to eat at this place. It’s right off of Highway 46 and the 101. They have the best tasting tri-tip sandwiches I have ever had. They come with a side of french fries that would fill a large suitcase. Joe earned his nickname, “The Grubmaster” at this place by consuming a tri-tip sandwich, a side of fries, a side of 8 onion rings (each roughly equal in size to the spare tire on my truck) and a large DIET coke. We then returned to the hotel for some napping, ESPN, and lounging about in our underwear. The next morning we picked up our hogs from the butcher and headed home, stopping at the barbecue joint for an encore of The Grubmaster’s eating performance. It was a great trip, one that I will always treasure, along with the other fishing and hunting trips we’ve since taken.

Joe and his family are considering a move to Washington. Man, if that happens it's going to be a total bummer. I guess I should feel fortunate... most people live a whole lifetime without having a friend like Joe. I've been blessed to call him my best friend for 15 years. If he goes, I should wish him well and just treasure the good times. Nahh, I think I'll just be bitter.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Pals, part I

It’s great to have pals. I’ve got two in particular that I don’t really see all that often anymore but I think we’ll always be best friends, no matter the distance between us.

I met my buddy Rob in an accounting class when we were at Pierce College. He and I worked on a class project together and things snowballed. We eventually became such good buddies that we shared an apartment – those were good times. Our apartment was on the top floor of a 4-story building. We had a big sliding glass door that led onto a balcony that faced the street. With all the lights in the apartment out, one guy would look out the bedroom window and holler when a car was approaching. At the signal, the other guy would toss a water balloon from the middle of the living room, out the open door and down onto the passing car (hopefully). It was unbridled hilarity. I know, it doesn’t sound like all that much fun. Consume a 12 pack of Coors Light, try it, and get back to me. I’m sure you’ll have changed your mind. I think one reason Rob and I are such good buddies is that we both have the little boy in us that refuses to grow up. The kid that likes to shoot rockets and guns, blow up things, build airplanes & fly them, etc. One time we were sitting around the apartment, fresh out of water balloons, bored and we decided to make a run to Vegas. Most guys in their early 20’s would roll to Vegas to gamble, get loaded, maybe check out a strip club. Not us. We drove there and back, staying just long enough to completely load the trunk of the car with illegal fireworks. The water balloon bomb game took on a whole new dimension with an M-80 taped to it. Those were good times.
One day he called me while I was kicking back at the apartment.

“Hey, what are you doing?”


“Nothin’ man, just watching t.v. Where are you?”

“I’m over at my parents’ house taking in the mail while they’re out of town. Say, you remember ‘Linda’ from my office? Her husband passed away a couple years ago. He was a real gun nut. Linda was cleaning out the garage and she came across this box that says, “EXPLODING TARGETS”. She gave 'em to me.”

“I’ll be right over.”

His parents didn’t live far and it probably took me all of about 6 minutes to get there. Apparently, that was far too much time for Rob. I guess he got to looking at those targets and just couldn’t help himself. I suppose he thought he’d cook one off himself and still have plenty to share with me when I arrived, me being none the wiser. Each target was a rectangular box the size of those little Kleenex packages your mom carries in her purse. On the back was a strip of 2-sided tape. Rob pulled off the backing, stuck the target to the block wall and, with his Crossman BB gun in hand, retreated to the other side of the yard. He took a couple shots but couldn’t hit it. So he closed the distance a bit. A few more shots, nothing. In a little closer. More shots, nothing. Impatience and poor shooting skills had now brought Rob not more than a few feet from the target. I parked in front of his parents’ house and had just closed the door to my truck when I heard a thunderous “KABOOOOMM!!!” And I can’t even describe how loud this was, it literally shook the windows on the house. Smoke from the backyard billowed into the air, over and around the house. I ran for the side gate to check on the condition of my imbecilic friend. The gate flew open and he staggered out, BB gun still in his hand, blood dripping from his forehead, hacking and coughing and a look of total shock on his face. “Those things are awesome!” was all he could choke out. Neighbors poured from their houses, “What the hell was that??” “Yeah, sorry about that," I covered. "We were trying to light the barbecue and there was a leak in the propane tank. It’s okay, just go on inside, nothing to see here.” When the smoke finally cleared and the neighbors were all back inside their houses we sat on the back patio eyeing the divot in the block wall where the target had recently resided. Rob sat pensively, caressing the bandage on his forehead. He finally spoke, “My dad has a welding helmet in the shed. You should wear it when you shoot the next one.” How can you not be friends with a guy like that?

Friday, March 11, 2005

Home on the range

God has blessed me with the greatest family. My wife, man, I just can’t go on enough about her. They boys turned 4 on Wednesday so Donna had a party for them at the park. She got there early to set things up and before she even had the car fully unloaded Joey did a faceplant off the monkey bars and split his chin open. She took him to the hospital and got him sewn up and then went back to the park to clean up the party mess and go home. After hearing about the experience at the hospital I have to believe that I’d have a serious drinking problem if I had to live through that. She didn’t complain though, all in a day’s work for a mom. I can cut open a deer or a wild hog and have my hands inside it up to my elbows with no worries but my kid starts bleeding… yeah, I’m not really good in that. The way she juggles the boys and all the other home business, she's really quite amazing. Oh yeah, and she's HOT.

Most mornings the boys ask me, “Are you going to work today?” and on the weekdays the usual answer is “yes” which is usually followed with a “Whhyyyyyyy?” I tell them that it’s so we can have money to pay for our house, food, toys, etc. A few months ago as I laid in bed early one morning, staring at the ceiling I could hear them stirring in their bedroom. Their little voices were muffled but I could still hear them:
“Yeah, get that.”
“Here’s some more.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Is that enough?”
“No, we need more.”
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Then I heard the patter of their little feet as they came into our room and around to my side of the bed. Their jammy shirts had been stretched out to carry all the coins from their piggy banks. “Look, Daddy!” They stood beaming. “We have money so you don’t have to go to work today!” It was the sweetest, most tender thing I’ve ever witnessed and it was all for me. I sometimes wonder if we spoil our kids. Between their grandma, their aunts, and a few others those kids are floating in toys. It’s little events like the one above that make me think that they’re alright. (I’d like to say that I called my office and told them I wouldn't be in that day, but I didn’t. I did come home early, though. I’m not a total heartless bastard.).

This morning we had all just woken up so Donna and I went into the boys room to talk to them. Jack said to me, “Are you going to work today?” I said, “Yeah, buddy, I have to… it’s tax time.” He said sadly but with kind of a hope in his voice “Yeah, but we have enough money.” It’s pretty cool to be loved by your kids like that, even when you make mistakes with them. I suppose 10 years from now they'll remember every screwup I make, but I'm loving it right now.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Short memories

"As Pharaoh and his army approached, the people of Israel could see them in the distance, marching toward them. The people began to panic, and they cried out to the LORD for help. Then they turned against Moses and complained, "Why did you bring us out here to die in the wilderness? Weren't there enough graves for us in Egypt? Why did you make us leave? Didn't we tell you to leave us alone while we were still in Egypt? Our Egyptian slavery was far better than dying out here in the wilderness!"" ~ Exodus 14:10-12
When I read this passage, I initially thought, "What a bunch of boobs those Israelites were. God had already demonstrated His power to them in amazing ways (plagues, etc.) and yet they still were unbelieving." But then I thought about my own life and I'm that way sometimes, too. God has demonstrated His power and rescued me so many times, and yet I'm not always faithful. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm alone in this. I think that lots of Christians struggle being faithful through the trials of daily life. I think part of the fix is immersing ourselves in His word and finding practical ways to apply it to our lives. We can't go into spiritual battle (trials) without any weapons. Knowing God's promises and His history of delivering His people will go a long way in helping us to be faithful. Any suggestions on ways that you do this?

It’s a small world

Funny how you bump into people from long ago. This afternoon I went to the credit union to get a few frogskins for the weekend. As I walked into the credit union I saw this old Cuban guy standing in line and I just knew that I knew him from somewhere. He looks at me, I look at him, our eyes meet… and we both get that, “I know you from somewhere” look on our faces. I cruised on over to the ATM to make my withdrawal and as I waited for the machine to spit out my cash, it struck me. It was my good friend Les…

I worked for Huge Aircrash (Hughes Aircraft) as a summer hire while going through college about 15 years ago. I worked in the plant facilities department with some of the laziest sons o’ guns you’d ever have the displeasure of meeting. I mean, to call them lazy was to compliment them extravagantly. It was a union shop and most of these guys would take full advantage of it. There was a big, ugly painter who stood heads and shoulders above the other guys in the lazy department and it was just my luck to get paired with him regularly. His name was “Les” (short for Lester) and I often cracked when we were all sitting around eating lunch that his name was particularly fitting because he did “less” work than anybody I’d ever known. The other slackers thought that was hilarious and really rode him for letting the college boy get the better of him. We had a mutual disrespect for each other built on a firm foundation of distrust and the plant facilities manager (who resembled Harry from Harry and the Hendersons) thought it was hysterical to pair us up together. One day we were given the task of painting a machine room. The walls were in terrible condition, full of holes and cracks so our first task was to slather joint compound on the whole thing to cover all the walls’ imperfections. Les delighted in talking to me like I was an idiot and told me to liberally fill any crack I saw, demonstrating the proper technique with long, S-L-O-W strokes. One of the machines was particularly close to the wall and the small amount of space made it awkward to fill some of the cracks in the wall behind it. To make matters worse, there was a thick layer of hydraulic fluid and grime on the floor between the wall and the machine. Les ordered me to climb behind the machine and fill the cracks. Until that time I never refused an order to do work but this time I told him to do it himself. Being that I was a summer hire I didn’t have the company-provided Dickies that the regular guys had and there was no way I was going to soil my own clothes doing this job. After a lot of empty threats, he decided he’d show me how work is supposed to be done. As he got down on his hands and knees to climb behind the machine, his shirt rode up and his pants slid down, revealing a sizable portion of the crack in his large, hairy ass. Over the din of the running machine, I hollered that I could see a big crack and did he want me to fill it. He instructed me to fill it. Just to remove any doubt, I asked again and he enthusiastically confirmed that I was to fill the crack. Seldom one to disobey and order, I loaded my 12” drywall knife and slapped down that joint compound, generously filling the crack and a fair amount of Les’s britches. “MOTHERBLEEPER!!” was all I heard. I dropped the knife and mud bucket and ran for my life. I spent the rest of the day hiding in the bathroom. I needn’t have worried, though. In his haste to extricate himself from behind the machine, he hit his head and knocked himself cold as a mackerel, also opening a nice gash on the back of his melon. When I went to clock out that day, the plant manager was waiting for me. Behind closed doors he admitted to me that he had a dilemma. Apparently my low opinion of Les was shared by many (including the boss himself) and none of the other guys could stand him. They all firmly announced that if I got canned for my misdeed they’d quit (certainly empty threats, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless). So I got off with a verbal reprimand, a note to my personnel file and the instruction that I apologize to Les (which I did… afterall, I didn’t want to really hurt the guy, just have some fun). The bonus was that I finished out my summer job never having to work with Les again.

As I walked back through the bank, Les still stood in line and our eyes met again. He still had that puzzled look on his face until I called out to him, “Heya, Les! How’s your head?”

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

The Promise

"Nevertheless, God's solid foundation stands firm, sealed with this inscription: "The Lord knows those who are His," and, "Everyone who confesses the name of the Lord must turn away from wickedness." ~ 2 Timothy 2:19


One thing for sure, the Word is not wishy washy. We certainly can't have it both ways. We can't have fellowship with Him and cling to the world. Also, I see that when you emphasize, "Nevertheless" you realize that in spite of the devil, demons, evil spirits, false teachers and false prophets, we have the promise of God that cannot be broken.