The Roller Coaster Wait: mad as hell and the big to-do

I hate haircuts. Fortunately, I wasn’t waiting for my own haircut but was sitting in the waiting area of Great Clips reading the July issue of Texas Monthly while my wife and the stylist discussed baseball, cars or whatever women talk about when they get their hair cut. And the read proved to be quite a roller coaster ride.

Publisher William Broyles is madder ‘n hell . . . and justifiably so. In his magazine column, he outlines his family’s four consecutive generations of military service – WW I, WW II, Vietnam and now Afghanistan/Iraq – and describes his son’s eroding idealism as a result of the U.S.’ botched involvement in Iraq.

Broyles’ son is an Air Force pararescueman, which Broyles likens to a Navy Seal, and he writes of his admiration for the professionalism and commitment of his son and his team members.

Since leaving the military, Broyles’ son and a friend have established a foundation to assist wounded veterans; and after describing the horrible losses that many of these veterans face – Broyles writes about losses of benefits, homes, jobs, families, arms, legs, faces and that about 1,000 a month attempt suicide. He dedicates the remainder of his column to blasting the U.S. government’s mismanagement of the war in Iraq (did you know we’ve been fighting in Iraq longer than we fought in World War I and World War II combined?).

He never slights the performance of the men and women in the military, but he attributes billions of dollars lost to mismanagement and corruption and attempts to estimate the total cost of the war at somewhere around $3-4 TRILLION. Like the rest of us, he wonders what we could do with that money. Suddenly, I’m Peter Finch in the movie Network, shouting "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Then I turn the page.

Did you know there’s a couple in Frankston, Texas, who have been married for 80 years? They’re 100 and 101 years old; and back in 1927, when a traveling carnival came through town paying $25 to any couple who would get married on stage, they stepped up on the stage and took the money. The $25 paid for a bedroom suite, dishes and a kitchen cabinet; and since the couple has lived in the same house for 79 years -- which they built for $1,000 (oops! had to pay another $50 for the lot) -- they still use those dishes and the kitchen cabinet.

The couple eats bacon, eggs and biscuits for breakfast nearly every morning and has outlived four doctors. And as they explain, ‘Every occasion, every birthday, is a big to-do these days. It’s rare for two people to live this long together.’

What a ride! I’m not a magazine salesman, but find a copy of the July issue of Texas Monthly or go online. There is something worth being as ‘mad as hell’ about. And there’s something that gives you hope and assures you that life is worth making a ‘big to-do’ about.

Lose your flamingo? Don't tell anybody your age.

I have to pay more attention. Last week, I read a newspaper article about pink flamingos being stolen out of a yard here in Fort Worth. I also read an article about a home burglary where the report quoted the '52-year-old homeowner.' These could be the same article and for the sake of this post, I'm going to believe they are.

When I read about the 52-year-old homeowner, I felt so bad. Someone's ripped some poor old guy. Then it occurred to me . . . I'm 52!!!

About the same time, I received an e-mail from my friend TJ in Austin that included George Carlin's Views on Aging. Snopes says that George Carlin actually isn't the source of these views, although the Internet has attributed them to him since November 2002; but I like 'em, especially after I forgot my age and felt sorry for the 'old guy' whose pink flamingos were stolen.

TJ's e-mail -- and somebody other than George Carlin's views on aging -- wrapped up with the following (and I like it!):

HOW TO STAY YOUNG

1. Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctor worry about them. That is why you pay him/her.
2. Keep only cheerful friends. The grouches pull you down.
3. Keep learning. Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever. Never let the brain idle. " An idle mind is the devil's workshop." And the devil's name is Alzheimer's.
4. Enjoy the simple things.
5. Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.
6. The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person who is with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.
7. Surround yourself with what you love, whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever. Your home is your refuge.
8. Cherish your health: If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.
9. Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, to the next county, to a foreign country, but NOT to where the guilt is.
10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER:
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

BUT . . . if the 52-year-old homeowner is anything like me, he may have just forgotten where he left his pink flamingos. I'm sure his wife knows. She's just fed up with him losing things and refuses to tell him.

Always Trust Your Cape

May sucked. Maybe even March and April, too. Gasoline was skyrocketing to a formerly-never-in-my-lifetime high and everything else was going right along with it. People were losing their jobs and their homes. The news was painful to watch, almost as painful as my checkbook balance.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: if I love life and my outlook is usually brighter than most, what’s happening now to those folks who scowl and snarl and moan because they’re still trying to figure out how they always end up with the winning ticket in the crap-on-me lottery? Even worse: how’s all this impacting that poor soul who’s teeter righting on the edge of sanity, struggling to stay away from the suicide note with his name at the bottom?

The world had beaten me up. Bad. I wasn’t sure how to get back up and, me being me, worried that those who stayed on the mat waiting for the count might never get up. Not even a blog entry for me . . . I figured no one wanted to hear my cyber-whining. I semi-desperately whispered/apologized to a friend at work, ‘This is not a good time for me.’

So I’m at work last month, plunking away at my keyboard, bitching to myself about all the things I’d always swore I’d never bitch about . . . those things I couldn’t control. My IPod shuffles to Guy Clark and ‘The Cape.’

Eight years old with flour sack cape
Tied all around his neck
He climbed up on the garage
Figurin’ what the heck
He screwed his courage up so tight
The whole thing come unwound
He got a runnin’ start and bless his heart
He headed for the ground

He’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold you breath
Always trust your cape

I never jumped off the roof, but I clothes-pinned many a bath towel across my super-hero shoulders as a kid. Although I could never get the towel to blow in the wind like Superman’s cape or mimic the intimidating shadow of Batman’s, I was courageous and always managed, no matter how badly Kryptonited, to spring back up for ‘Truth, Justice and the American Way (I may have been considered a little odd in my neighborhood).’

All grown up with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his dream
He’s full of piss and vinegar
He’s bustin’ at the seams
He licked his finger and checked the wind
It’s gonna be do or die
He wasn’t scared of nothin’, Boys
He was pretty sure he could fly

I listened to Guy Clark, and I thought about my own cape. I’d never let life drag me down like it had recently. Where’d I lose my cape?

Old and grey with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his head
He’s still jumpin’ off the garage
And will be till he’s dead
All these years the people said He’s actin’ like a kid
He did not know he could not fly So he did

I guess that’s the problem super-heroes have with secret identities. You have to remember where you hid your costume. I may not be back to leaping buildings with a single bound or stopping speeding bullets, but I remembered where I put my cap, and I try to wear it more often when I’m out on the town. Or buying groceries. Or pumping gas. And I loved it earlier in June when, once again, someone asked . . . no, not who was that Masked Man . . . ‘Why are you in such a good mood?’

Vacationed in Red River, New Mexico, a couple of weeks ago. I feel much better now. Take a look.

Them's Fightin' Words, or Who You Callin' Perky?

Earlier this evening, I participated in a City of Fort Worth Town Hall Meeting, where the topics included the collaboration between the City and the YMCA to build a $5-million facility in our area. Each side is pitching in $2.5 million: the Y from a bank loan and the City from a 2004 bond.

I'm on the board of the local Y and my mission was to lend moral support if disgruntled residents lit their torches, grabbed up their pitchforks and attempted to chase the monster Y director out of the village. Fortunately, the issue quickly turned away from the Y and toward the trustworthiness of the City Council.

But me being me, I felt compelled to defend the Y early on when its value to the community was questioned. After a few hostile misstatements were fired across the bow, I stood and explained that I had lived in Summerfields (the hostile group) from 1990 to 1997 then moved to my current, nearby neighborhood -- Park Glen -- in 1997.

All was going well as I explained my role as a volunteer with the Y and how I'd even raised money to provide scholarships for kids who couldn't afford Y programs. I talked briefly about my daughters and how they've grown up with the Y, and when questioned whether I voted for a YMCA in the bond package, I responded that I voted for the bond package and that I was happy that the City was doubling its investment by collaborating with the Y.

I heard a few minutes ago that I even made the Channel 11 news.

After the meeting adjourned, I was talking with a group of friends near the stage, when I turned to ask our local City Councilman a question about the bond package. The Councilman is in a wheelchair, so when I turned, I was facing a hostile mother who looked at me and said, 'Yes, Mr. Perky-I-live-in-Park-Glen . . . '

I must've looked less-than-perky when I pulled out my six-gun-of-a-finger and -- probably spitting perky all over her -- told her that I'm a cancer survivor and that I love life. I'm not going to apologize for being 'perky.' Before I could get out the words 'bitter old bitch,' her friend grabbed her and dragged her to the door.

She's just lucky that she didn't call me handsome and charming. I would've been all over her like white on rice.

I talked with Lance Griggs, the long-time president of the Summerfields Neighborhood Association, and he explained to me that the 2004 bond program specifically identified a community center in District 4, which is our area. The YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility will be slightly north of the area, out of District 4; and that location has become the real issue behind the protests.

His neighborhood, Summerfields, has become one of the lower-income neighborhoods in our North Fort Worth community; and, unfortunately, many of its residents feel betrayed that the new community center is not located in their neighborhood as they feel was promised in the bond program.

When I asked Lance what he wanted to happen, he said that he'd like to see the City of Fort Worth pay its portion of the YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility with windfall monies from the Barnett Shale (natural gas drilling) and use the $2.5 million in bond money for a community center in District 4.

I just checked the City of Fort Worth's Web site; and after some digging, I found a list of 2004 bond projects, including the allocation of $7.5 million for three community centers that included the Far Northeast Community Center in District 2, which is where our new Y will be located.

I know Lance Griggs to be a caring, trustworthy and concerned citizen, and I'm looking forward to talking with him again, especially to clarify the promised location of the community center.

But just don't let anybody call me 'perky' again!

Poetic License to Kill

I am so thankful for my get-a-rope posse of blog readers, but this is sort of a confession. I mentioned in my last post that a co-worker criticized my writing and that I was ready to shoot it out at high noon over the slight. I was so proud . . . all you guys sounded like real Texans, just like Willie sings in Beer for My Horses:

Grandpappy told my pappy: 'Back in my day, son,
A man had to answer for the wicked that he done.
Take all the rope in Texas, find a tall oak tree,
Round up all of them bad boys, hang them high in the street'

And for that I'm thankful that I didn't identify my co-worker. I like him a lot and I'd hate to find him dangling from a blog noose with that 'what'd-I-say-and-who-are-those-guys' look on his face.

So, maybe I should clarify . . .

My co-worker is actually my boss, and we're close friends, to continue our Western saga, kind of like:

Butch and Sundance

And I did take a little bit of poetic license with my last blog, but reality was way too complicated.

The two days I described were very stressful, but my boss didn't actually criticize my writing. His frustrations just poured over onto my job about the same time that two (count 'em, two) of my projects found themselves:

Custered right in the middle of their own Little Big Horn

When the arrows started coming a little too close, I raised my white flag, unaware that my boss, too, was just about out of bullets; and I asked if we might be saved by his managerial cavalry. He replied with his best Tonto:

'What do you mean 'we,' paleface?'

Okay, he actually just held his head in his hands and mumbled, 'Maybe what they're saying is true.'

I take a HUGE amount of pride in my job because 1) I'm very good at what I do (at least one other person said so) and 2) I think I've made a difference in our firm (I think somebody else agreed).

So them were fightin' words!

But, being a good employee and loyal friend, I probably should've listened when my 'they're-taking-scalps' news pushed my boss under the Monday-morning cattle stampede. But it was much more satisfying to scratch out a guns-blazing blog in response to a perceived assault on MY work.

My boss and my peers and I are necessary-but-not-billable evils in an engineering firm . . . we are the Marketing Group. Marketing professionals and engineers are not from the same teepee, and for the four years since my boss and I arrived, we've fought off the Indians, most still pissed off about those earlier whiskey-selling-blanket-trading marketing people. And we've done a great job building credibility and trust, but sometimes, like the two days I described in my previous blog, we do feel a lot like Butch and Sundance:

In the movie's final death scene

But guess what . . . we get to keep our scalps. Our engineering Indians, who really aren't such bad guys (and girls), have a huge (HUGE) new contract, thanks in part to our little Marketing Group.

So, please, blog posse, don't hurt my boss. He's just trying to get some of those arrows out of his back.

In response to one of the comments to my last post, I do get paid to write, but kind of like those guys at the United Nations get paid to scribble something in English when the Prime Minister of Outer Zwenbornio gets up to speak. I translate our technical guys' a-thousand-multi-syllabic-words-are-as-good-as-one monologues into marketable qualifications and customer benefits.

High Noon at Work, and It's Not Time for Lunch

Monday morning of last week and my barn was burned down, the stream had been dammed up and my cattle run off. And there was my co-worker smelling of kerosene, pants wet to the knees and cow-poop all over his boots. Being an even-dispositioned kind of man, I figured he'd had a bad day and accidents do happen.

Tuesday morning and the well's been tainted, my wife and kids sold to Indians and my best dog lured away with bon-bons and Scooby snacks. And there was my co-worker again, sipping on a chilled Ozarka, a pocket full of chips from the Indian casino, and sporting a new 'I love my dog' T-shirt. When a man's had a bad Monday, sometimes it's hard to bounce back on Tuesday, so I could let an little grouchiness on his part slide.

And then he criticized my writing. That's enough to get a normal man riled, but for me, it means the clock is ticking toward high noon. I looked to my role models and pondered, 'What should I do?'

Taking their best advice, I load up the pearl-handled pistols, strap on the hand-tooled leather holster, tying it on the leg, snap the brim of my Stetson, and call him out in the street. I stood there in the dust and the mud, and shouted to the saloon, 'I'm callin' you out, you barn-burnin', stream-damming, poopy-booted, well-taintin', wife-and-kid-discountin', dog-stealin', writing critic (I was nearly exhausted and breathless by this point)!

The sun high overhead and the Clint Eastwood music cued up, I motion my co-worker out into the street (okay, into his office) and townspeople begin running for cover (okay, I close his office door). I look him in the eye and say, 'You seem to have some issues with me during the last couple of days. What seems to be the problem?'

He looks back at me, his hand twitching near his holster and says, 'I do have some issues, but they're not with you. I'm sorry. You're the only one I can count on to help me through this.'

Well, I don't need a barn anyway now that my cattle are gone, and I can always buy my own bottled water. I never liked the dog anyway, and I probably rate my writing higher than it deserves; so I unbuckle the holster, kick up some dirt, and say, 'Oh. Okay.'

I just hope my co-worker has a better week this week. These boots are killing my feet.

By the way, the 3:10 from Yuma photo at the far right is for my friend Kristi. She's already written the Russell Crowe Caveat for her wedding vows. If Russell Crowe ever shows up, she's outta there.

If you're an -IST, I must be old

I hate being old! Okay, maybe not being old, but I hate feeling old every time I see an '-IST.'

Today, I went to the opthamologIST and learned that I have 'vitreous separation.' When I walked away from the computer Saturday night, a small black splotch with a tail made its way into the corner of my eye, and the opthamologIST told that this is a 'floater,' a result of the vitreous separation.

The vitreous is the gel-like substance inside the eye and, 'as we get older,' it shrinks and sometimes the stringy edges cast shadows that the eye sees as 'floaters.' The doctor assured me that it's common among people 'my age' and that I'll get used to it.

When I showed up at the opthamologIST's office, I should've anticipated the 'age' tag, because his waiting room is filled with 'old people,' some even delivered by the nursing home van. Today's visit was just another calendar page in the 'if I'm seeing an -IST, I must be getting older' saga.

When I go to my urologIST once a year, as a follow-up to a bout with cancer in 2004, I sit in the waiting room with all the 'old people.' In fairness, there are some people my age . . . they're bringing their parents to see my doctor. I also have an annual visit with my neurologIST, a result of a 1999 seizure that was an indirect result of a 1974 car wreck; and he tells me how lucky that I'm only there for our yearly 'how-ya-feeling' chit-chat, because his waiting room is filled with . . . well, you know who.

A couple of years ago, my podiatrIST diagnosed me with plantar fasciitis, which he added is not unusual for active adults (thank God for that consolation) 'my age.' I also see a dermatologIST once a year, thanks to too many days enjoying the sun as a kid (okay, frying in the sun as a kid), but at least his waiting room has some not-yet-but-almost old people eager for their Botox fix.

The '-IST theory' seems to have an indirect '-CIAN' corollary, too. My wife and 19-year-old daughter #1 love our pediatrician of 17 years. Last month, my wife rushed daughter #1 to her with a neck-and-shoulder paralysis that earlier left daughter #1 incapable of getting out of bed (ironically, the same morning she was scheduled to have all four wisdom teeth removed).

Daughter #1 is no less than two feet taller than any other patient in the waiting room; but our pediatrician, who calls the evening after every visit to check on her patients, still sent her to a Cooks Children's Hospital clinic for X-rays. When 5'11" daughter #1 was finished, the technician turned to her, smiled and said, 'You're too big to come here anymore, but I'll still give you a sticker for being so good.'

So daughter #1 is old enough to see an gynecologIST (and she does) -- one -IST I'd really rather not think about -- and that's just one more step toward becoming the ultimate 'old people' . . . grandparents!

But sitting in waiting rooms with 'old people' is much better than being in the same room with my friends and family, when they gather to mark the dreaded alternative to my getting older. I'll take regular visits with any of the aforementioned -ISTs, and any of their professional associates, over that final appointment with, you guessed it, the corollary mortiCIAN.

Although it sure would be nice, if just once, one of those -ISTs would turn to me and say, 'Here's a sticker because you've been so good.'

A Napkin Holder, A Sports-Fan Dog and People Who Still Call Me Georgie

I know I don't get there often enough
But God knows I surely try
It's a magic kind of medicine
That no doctor could prescribe

That's the opening of Jimmy Buffett's One Particular Harbour, one of my all-time favorites. I was driving home from my Aunt Dorothy's late last Sunday, when the familiar thump-thump-thump, which sounds kind of like the sound of waves lapping against the bow of a boat, rolled out of the speakers.

As I drove, I'd been thinking about how much I enjoy being at my Aunt Dorothy's and how, for as long as I can remember, her home's been the center of the energy that drives our extended (WAY extended) family and a comfortable refuge from the storms of whatever age I happened to be. Hearing Jimmy Buffett sing, I realized that Aunt Dorothy's home, her kitchen table more specifically, has been my own 'particular harbour' for the last 50+ years.

Daughter #2 has become obsessed with my Aunt Dorothy, partly because she's as close to a grandmother from my side of the family as daughter #2's known and partly because she's told daughter #2 that she'll spank me if I'm mean to her. Both of us -- non-stop talkers, randomly energetic, always a friend and . . . hardheaded and a tendency toward bossiness -- are very much like Aunt Dorothy. Our drive was the return trip from a weekend that we'd spent visiting with her (in Southeast Texas, near the coast).

I've always gravitated to Aunt Dorothy's, even more than my own parents' house, and most of the time has been around her kitchen table. Aunt Dorothy has a front door, but I think the hinges would've frozen long ago if she didn't use it to check the mail every day. Anybody who's ever visited Aunt Dorothy goes through her always-open garage door and into her always-unlocked kitchen door, rarely knocking, and sits right there at the kitchen table.

I never realized one of the keys to the comfort of that kitchen table until last weekend. Aunt Dorothy served boiled crawfish before daughter #2 and I left town. When I needed a napkin after I'd used about half a roll of paper towels, I reached up to the same napkin holder -- if you're a boomer, you've seen them: wooden box, mounted on the wall, red rooster prancing on the front -- that's been there for my entire life. There's real comfort in that kind of consistency.

Aunt Dorothy's house is on a well-traveled street, once the main street for her small town, two blocks from the shopping area that included the drug store, where we always went for cough syrup (never remember getting a prescription from the doctor); Dryden's, where we bought most of my clothes (I think we had a charge account there); Spencer's, where the ladies shopped (or maybe just window-shopped); a store that carried toys (my favorite); and maybe 4-5 other stores. The Catholic Church -- Aunt Dorothy's church -- still anchors the other end of the main street.

Aunt Dorothy's house is unique because, like Aunt Dorothy, it seems bigger than life. My Uncle Emmett built it himself in the '50s and even though it's only about 1,600 square feet, it seemed huge when I was growing up. Even as an adult, her home, with all its 'extraterritorial jurisdiction,' still seems huge.

Across the street -- from her main entrance through the garage -- is her parking lot, a requisite for the traffic of friends, kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and the rest of us who flow non-stop through her house. The parking lot was a small store and apartments, I believe owned by Uncle Emmett's family. The building was gone decades ago, and the slab and shell parking area has been shared by Aunt Dorothy and the former-grocery-store-now-church that's catty-cornered from her house.

Across the street on the side of the house, which is actually the nearly unused front of the house, is a grassy, pecan-treed block, never built-on, and the family's super-size playground, for as long as I can remember. The now-nearly vacant downtown is on the other side of this block. A gazebo sits on the property now; and, in a decades-long tradition of knowing everything that goes on in her town, through the kitchen window above the sink, Aunt Dorothy (with some help from the rest of us) stayed up-to-date on the progress of last weekend's wedding at the gazebo.

Aunt Dorothy's house is actually one of two houses on the double lot. The second house, a smaller post-World War II pier-and-beam house, is where she, Uncle Emmett and their three kids lived before building her current home. Her grandson and his family live in the older house now. Storms and age have taken their toll, but at one time, the two lots had -- my guess -- six large, very generous pecan trees.

Just as an aside, her grandson has a black Labrador retriever. From his house, he can send the dog to Aunt Dorothy's, then call to ask for the sports page of the newspaper. About that time, the dog scratches on the door, Aunt Dorothy hands it the sports page, and it obediently returns home.

So Aunt Dorothy's house -- actually two houses, a double lot, a parking lot, a park-like block, an old downtown, a steady stream of friends and family, a sports-fan dog and people who still call me Georgie -- may actually be larger than life. It remains one of my favorite places and like Jimmy Buffett describes, my 'particular harbor.'

Aunt Dorothy? She'll be 85 next month, and she's thinking about retiring from her job. She has three children, seven grandchildren and 13 grandkids. Just a few years ago, the local chamber of commerce voted her 'Mother of the Year.' She survived breast cancer a couple of years ago, facing it with a relaxed 'I'm 82, I've lived a long time' attitude. An embarrassing amount of energy, and she loves the beach, where she and her family celebrate Easter and her birthday every year. Always a finalist in the annual croquet tournament.

Her multi-generational offer to me, my other cousins and probably a hundred other teenage friends of her sons and grandsons: 'If you're going to smoke, drink or gamble, you come over here. I don't want you on the streets getting into trouble.'

Her advice when I complained of daughter #1's teenage behavior: 'Georgie, she's not on drugs, in jail or pregnant. What more do you want?'

But, most importantly, Aunt Dorothy has me being a lot nicer to daughter #2. I'm way too old to be spanked . . . but she's not too old to do it.

And there's that one particular harbour
Sheltered from the wind
Where the children play on the shore each day
And all are safe within

How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#5)

Here's the 'When We Last Saw Our Hero' catch-up: During a TV show set in Kentucky, I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, and she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' So I'm scribbling down 10 things for her to know about my dad. I posted Numbers 1-4 earlier.

Number 5

My dad was so trusting, and his friends and family (okay, me) knew it. I played that trust for a few minutes; a friend of his took him for a 'ride' for 18 years. If MTV practical joker Ashton Kutcher knew him, my dad would've easily been 'Punk'd.'

PUNK'D BY ME
Some time around 1993-94, my parents, my wife, daughter #1 and my son spent Thanksgiving with other families at Sid Richardson Scout Ranch near Bridgeport, Texas. I was working for the Boy Scouts, and a tradition had started a few years earlier that those staff members and their immediate families who couldn't be with their extended families for Thanksgiving would meet at Sid for a huge, community meal. Sid has a large dining hall with cabins and dorms to accommodate the more civilized camper.

After dinner, I was talking with my dad on the porch of the dining hall. Jim Gidley, who was responsible for the local camping programs, was building a fire down near the lake for . . . you guessed it, s'mores.

Knowing how trusting my dad was (and thinking that he would appreciate a good practical joke), I tested an old Tenderfoot Scout trick on him. I told him that I couldn't find the tool that we needed to help build the fire, so I instructed him, 'Go ask Mr. Gidley where I can find a left-handed smoke-shifter (for you non-campers, there is no such thing as a left-handed smoke-shifter).'

My 70+ year old dad walked the 150 yards down to the lake, which was too far for me to hear the conversation, talked with Mr. Gidley, then trudged back up the hill. As he got closer to the porch, I asked him what Mr. Gidley said.

My dad replied, 'He told me to tell you to go to hell,' and gave me that 'smart ass' look and laugh.

PUNK'D FOR 18-YEARS
My son's mom and I were born two days apart in Port Arthur's St. Mary's Hospital. Both of us are the youngest in our families; she has two older sisters, and I have one older sister. Our dads had worked together at Texaco since the '40s, and like any group of co-workers, everybody knew their wives were pregnant.

I was born first, and my dad was so proud. In a world of blue-collar working men, most of them World War II veterans, having a son must've been like winning the title fight or hitting a home run to win the World Series. My dad followed a long-lost custom and passed out cigars to friends at work while he bragged about his new son. When the phone rang and the caller asked for George, he'd ask, 'Do you want to talk to George Senior or George Junior.'

My son's mom and I grew up in the same town and both attended St. James Catholic Church, but we didn't meet until the summer after high school, when we were 18 years old. When I told my dad who I was dating, he said, 'I work with her daddy. She has a brother about your age.'

I'd just met this girl, but I knew enough about her to correct him, 'Daddy, she doesn't have a brother. She has two older sisters.'

For more than 18 years, my outgoing, very trusting dad would ask my future father-in-law, 'How's your son?' And, for more than 18 years, my tight-lipped FFIL responded in his typically Cajun mutter, 'He's fine,' never admitting that he'd had a third daughter instead of a son.

Punk'd for 18 years, but one of my dad's best traits was that he loved to be around people, and he trusted them, maybe the most important gifts he passed on to my sister and me (and I see it in both daughter #1 and daughter #2).

My dad died in 1999, and the visitation at the funeral home became a real celebration of his life, as his former co-workers and friends approached me with 'George' stories: 'good man,' 'always smiling,' 'always happy,' 'always playing a joke on somebody' . . . WHAT!?

How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#4)

Here's the 'When We Last Saw Our Hero' catch-up: During a TV show set in Kentucky, I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, and she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' So I'm scribbling down 10 things for her to know about my dad. I posted Numbers 1-3 earlier.

Number Three Postscript
My dad's recovery from alcoholism gave me a fun look into his childhood. When asked about his first exposure to alcohol, he said it was as a young kid in Kentucky, when he and his buddies would eat the sugar out of the bottom of moonshine stills (someone later told me that Federal agents would monitor the amount of sugar sold at local grocery stores because of the large amounts required to make bootleg whiskey). I don't think my parents would've let me play with my dad as a kid.

Number Four
I love my job. I've always been blessed with jobs that I've enjoyed, even taking into account unfair managers, career-threatening pressures, highly stressful deadlines and, yes, even some opportunities to find employment elsewhere. Overall, I've worked for organizations I believe in and with people that were a joy to know. And that's the message I try to deliver to my kids when we talk about choosing college majors and possible careers: don't worry about money; do something you like because you're going to be doing it for a long time.

What's this have to do with my dad?

My dad was a boilermaker at the Texaco refinery in Port Arthur for, I'm guessing, 30 years. I still don't know what a boilermakers does, but I do know that my dad built and helped maintained the huge oil storage tanks at the refinery. He talked about working with riveters (in the early days), welders, machinists, pipe fitters and crane operators, but I never understood what he did.

To explain to me why my dad never did custom woodwork, a friend of his told me that if two pieces of metal weren't measured correctly and left a gap, a boilermaker just welded another piece of metal on top to fill the gap. No fine craftsmanship there; that explains a lot about my own handyman skills.

He was a member of the Oil, Chemical and Atomic Workers (OCAW) Local 4-23 of the AFL-CIO; and, as a result, he could look forward to going on strike every couple of years and being without a paycheck for weeks and sometimes months. If the strike appeared to be long, between taking his turn at walking the picket line or serving food at the union hall, he'd head to the non-union American Steel to make extra money.

But he would never cross a picket line. When he went to pick up tires that he bought on layaway at the Gibson's in Port Arthur (Gibson's was like an early version of Wal-Mart) and saw that employees were picketing the store, he went to the local motel where union representatives were staying. He explained his situation and returned to the store with a handwritten note giving him permission to cross the picket line; he'd already paid for the tires and his business would not benefit the store during the strike.

Have I mentioned that he brought me bubble gum every day from work? He rode in the back of Mr. Beck's truck and later in his VW bus to and from the plant, and I knew that he'd be home with Dubble Bubble bubble gum every day at 4:30. The gum may have really only been for a short while, but the consistency of daddy's 4:30 arrival and 5 o'clock supper was a constant throughout my childhood (for some reason, my mother called dinner supper and lunch dinner).

Somewhere in here will be the reason I love my job.

I do remember explaining to my dad early in my career how unfairly a manager had treated me. He nodded that he understood and laughed, then said, 'That's the kind of guy we used to take out behind the tanks and explain to him how things worked.'

He never complained about his job. When I think about how a day of yardwork leaves me tired and sore, it pales in comparison to him, in his 50s, climbing up and down metal ladders and through steel pipes (I have claustrophobia) to work in Port Arthur's hot, humid summers and cold, damp winters -- in a volatile environment that could literally explode with a mistep.

He never said it, but I think he realized that bitching and moaning about a job never changed it, so why make yourself miserable? He liked his job, but I think he loved, in a union boilermaker kind of way, the people he worked with.

So, here's the story -- I heard it from several of his friends later in life -- that I think best reflects my dad's attitude and that I'd like to think has shaped my own work ethic:

A co-worker of my dad's went to their supervisor, sometimes called a 'gang pusher,' to complain about working with my dad. The hard-hatted pusher simply said (snarled? growled?), 'If you can't work with George, you can't work with anybody. Go back to work.'

I love my job.