My Dad

I never played catch with my Father. He didn’t know how. As a young man growing up in Mexico he had other priorities. Earning a living and getting an education took precedence over beisbol. He might have been a capable futbol player but I never knew. My Dad kept those things to himself.
My own life always seemed like a series of disappointments to my Dad. The few moments that felt like triumphs were met with little acknowledgement, let alone praise. The occasional hug or even rarer fumbled words of encouragement prompted me to finally decide that they were best celebrated within me; in emulation of his life.
There was, however, never a lack of words of caution. “Don’t act silly” was his favorite and most often heard. Really? How else was an immature young man supposed to act? Silliness was my forte, always just below the surface of my personality. Lurking, waiting for the right moment to surface. But his admonishments to stifle that behavior overruled my own feelings. Most of the time anyway.
But as we both grew older I came to understand my Dad. Little by little secrets of his own life surfaced revealing a complex set of ethos held deeply in his heart. His Dad wasn’t around much, leaving my Dad to fend with his siblings. Stories of disappointments, heartaches and frustrations would occasionally be told. But not to me by my Dad. Usually from my brother who never played catch with my Dad either.
Much later I was asked to leave my last real job. You know, that’s just the PC way of saying I was fired. After much debate, I decided to become a self employed handy man. It was tough at first and I literally hit the streets distributing self made flyers door to door. It was from that activity and word of mouth that my business grew.
One day on my weekly lunch visit to my parents my Mom had to make a quick trip to the store for some missing ingredient. It was just my Dad and me sitting at the kitchen table. I savored those times when it was just us two. We could put our guards down and have normal conversations about anything. He asked how work was going. I told him the truth, that things were not bad. He looked at me and in the filtered sunlight coming through the curtains; it almost looked as if his eyes were a little teary. I knew better and wrote it off to the eye drops he used.
In a very quiet tone he told me that he was very proud of how I had built up my own business. To the impartial observer it might have appeared that I had also become teary eyed. I told him that the work ethic in me was learned from him. Before anything else was said, Mom walked in from her errand and the conversation turned to the price of groceries.
I never played catch with my Father, but I learned so much more. Thanks, Dad. Rest in peace.

Faceless Book

My FaceBook days are once again behind me. Hopefully this time for good. It has very little to do with any privacy issues but more to do with my expectations. Or maybe I’m just one of those grumpy old men that can’t abide foolishness. In others.
The lure of FaceBook is appealing. Staying connected to friends and family. It’s free and relatively easy to use. But those two facets cut both ways. It’s what makes it hugely popular and at times a pain the neck. Reading about other people’s lives can be educational if not entertaining. But hearing other people’s political and religious opinions can be at the very least tedious. And a monumental waste of time. It brings to mind my philosophy about opinions. Someone’s attempt at changing my opinion is usually about as successful as me changing theirs.
The use of FaceBook as a forum for expressing opinions was not something I anticipated. Or welcomed. I looked forward to hearing about the weather in different parts of the state and country or even the world. Even hearing about children and grandchildren or even pets was nice. Or how about a vacation, a weekend getaway? Yeah, bring it on. Lousy day at work? Go ahead, cry on my electronic shoulder. I can take it. But I just don’t think FaceBook is the place to solve the world’s problems.
I even abided those silly games like The Farm (or whatever it’s called), or Mafia Wars or, well you know what I’m talking about. At least those were usually just one line items easily ignored, unlike the rants about government and politicians. Jeez, take it to the ballot box. And judging by the latest election, it’s probably something that most FB users don’t do. It is after all, much easier to sit on our butts typing than it is studying the issues and voting. But do you think that we can solve the world’s problems by venting our opinions on FaceBook? Really?
Back in the 60’s I learned through during my protesting days that the petition was the least effective tool in changing the status quo. What a petition represented was the zeal and effort of the person gathering signatures. It showed that one person went through the exercise to contact others and gather signatures. Those signing simply did just that. Nothing else required. Not sure if that still holds true today, but judging from the actions or inactions of politicians today, I think today’s electronic petitions are even less valuable. To begin with, how do you verify the validity of electronic signatures? So requests to join others in protest or support via emails and websites and FB pages might be pretty damn silly. Plus it was one more thing that bugged me.
Yeah, yeah, I know there’s a way to block, hide or otherwise keep people off my page. Pretty simple stuff, I’m told. But why have them as friends if I have to block them? I enjoy hearing about their ups and downs and sharing laughs. Even the occasional witty barb directed at politicians can be enjoyed. Occasionally.
So it’s no big deal. I’ve disabled my FaceBook account. Picked up my marbles and gone home. Partly petulant, partly disgusted, largely disappointed. But mostly just a grumpy old man.

I WON(?)

Got a notification via email that once again, I was on the winning side of a class action law suit. But I’m older and a little wiser now about being a winner in those actions. This time I didn’t come up with big schemes on how I would spend my money.
I remember my first win, the thrill of victory, the smell of impending riches. We, abused customers, had brought the big giant, AT&T, to its knees. Bloodied and head bowed, it had sent up the proverbial white flag in defeat and resignation. My notification way back then, pre email days, came via USPS. It had that official look to it. In anticipation the envelope was ripped open and the letter quickly scanned for those magic word$. There, in the first paragraph which was a good omen, the pronouncement of our victory was heralded for all the world to see. Millions of dollars had been won. Millions!! To be shared by all us winners. Containment of my excitement was barely possible.
Even with some quick math done in my head, my share of the loot would formidable. My brain was working overtime. Where could that money be spent? New tools, shoes or jewelry for the wife? Or, was my share big enough for, gulp, a new car? The classic American Dream of getting something for nothing had finally come true for me. But I knew better than to tell anyone. No need to have friends and relatives coming out of the woodwork for a handout. Let them win their own lawsuit.
Reading further down the congratulatory letter, the terms of my victory were disclosed. Yikes. My portion of the winnings was that I was entitled to a ten percent discount on my next purchase at any AT&T store, or a free upgrade of my memory card for my cell phone. That’s it?! A discount or a free upgrade? It took me a week before I was able to face the disappointment and make a trip to the local AT& T store. As if to add insult to injury, I was told my cell phone already had the big memory card. I had walked in dejected and walked out humiliated.
My next victory was over the big orange box, Home Depot. Once again, us little guys had prevailed over a faceless, uncaring and greed y corporation. Once again I was notified that my hard working attorneys, altruist fellows that they are, had extracted an agreement from the big orange box on my behalf. This agreement was also worth millions of dollars. Maybe this time was different. Maybe there would be a check in the mail. Maybe I could at least go to MacDonalds for lunch with my portion of the settlement.
But alas, the losing attorneys were quite the clever group. They knew better than to offer any free merchandise but gave us a discount on future purchases. But with a disingenuous twist. In order to receive said discount, the purchase had to be over a specific dollar amount. Then I had to send in the original receipt along with the enclosed post card to a specific address. Then as I recall, my credit card account would be credited with the discount amount. Well, we’re both waiting for me to do that.
So my latest win is over Classmates.com. My account expires this month and I had already decided to let it lapse. So my part of the settlement, a whopping two dollar discount on enrollment fees is for naught. Is it just me, or is the timing of that offer just a coincidence? Nah, corporate America and the attorneys of the world wouldn’t be so devious. They surely have their customer’s best interest at heart.

Oil and Us

The BP oil spill in the gulf has sure turned out to be a disaster. Of course it’s brought out all the self righteous and convenient environmentalists. The same people that are shaking their heads and pointing fingers while driving their cars around town.
We all share in the blame. Our incessant and increased dependency for oil in its many forms has gotten us to where we are today. I accept my share of the blame. Proudly. I’ve listened to others just as proudly attest to their part in the fight against big oil. Some have even said that they’ve written their elected officials. Really? Do they mean the same people that we all criticize and call names? The same people we hate and whom we say ignore us and aren’t doing their jobs? So, let’s see. We, all of us, got ourselves into this mess and the solution is to ask for help from the people we accuse of being inept? Hmm, well good luck with that.
Passing the buck is a fine American tradition. It’s sure beats actually doing something such as giving up your cars, motorcycles, boats, RV’s and anything else that uses oil in any form. I don’t even bother passing the buck, so you’re one up on me. But at least I’m honest in my lack of efforts, as disturbing as that might be. I have two vehicles, none of which is known for good gas mileage. Give either one up? Talk to me when gas is $20 a gallon.
So what, you might rightly ask, is my solution? I don’t have one. No wait, I do. Let the next generation take care of it. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Remember when as a kid you broke something, you would take it to your parents cradling it in both hands and offering it up? You would have that lower lip sticking out, eyes tearing up a little and tell them you broke it and could they fix it. Pretty please? In a reversal of roles, that’s what us old farts can do. Hand the world to our children. What the hell, it’s their turn to help us out, isn’t it?
I don’t recycle. Just as with the oil problem, I rely on others to do that for me. Just as I prefer to leave driving those sissy hybrid cars to, um, others as well. If you want to save the planet for following generations, I applaud and encourage you. Why, I’ll even send you good vibes as I sit here typing on my laptop in my office while my iPod plays oldies and the TV playing in the living room. I raise a plastic glass of beer in your honor. Good work. Keep it up.
It’s not that I don’t believe in recycling, it’s just too big a hassle for me. For me. Maybe not for you, but for me. So next time you drive to the recycle center to redeem those cans and bottles, pat yourself on the back for me. And forget about the irony that we use even more oil driving to that center. Tell you what, if it makes you feel any better, go ahead and use me as an example to your friends and relatives. You know, “I know this guy that refuses to do his share to save the world.”
Well my gardener is pushing his rather noisy mower back and forth across my front lawn and it’s disrupting my thoughts. Maybe I’ll go for a ride in my gas guzzler pickup to buy some petroleum based products.

It's gone

I was driving home from the weekly bike group ride the other day. I was in my pickup with my neighbor Libby riding shotgun. The group had met at a local pizza place to refuel our bodies, celebrate our twenty mile ride and gab. As is my usual practice, I took the long way home and drove through Hart Park. Libby, having grown up in Bakersfield, always points out landmarks along the way. I love hearing stories about my new hometown and she’s a capable storyteller.
Hart Park is a major landmark, established years ago. The Kern River forms its eastern and northern boundaries. Off of the Kern is a smaller canal type diversion. On that canal is what is commonly called the water wheel house. Or what’s left of it. It’s a wooden log type house with a big water wheel. I’m not sure what purpose it served but it’s in really bad shape having been ignored for years; left own its own to shamefully decay and crumble. It represents government at its worse, hiding their own greed, ineptitude and self interests behind the ever popular excuse of budget restraints. Well, they at least had enough money to surround the house with a chain link fence. Yikes.
As we drove past, I couldn’t help but notice that the house had suffered another collapse, this time along the roofline. Like an old nag now suffering the indignity of a swayed back. But unlike that nag, who might mercifully be put out of its misery, the house remains. Struggling hopelessly against the inevitable surrender to gravity. I slowed and made a comment about the poor condition of the house. Then Libby uttered this: “It’s like watching my youth disappear.” It went in my ears and directly to my heart.
I grew up in a company owned lumber mill town. The homes, the buildings, the land, the mill, all owned by Pickering Lumber. It was considered by many in the county as the other side of the tracks. The far side. But it was home. Where I learned how to ride a bike, went to church (believe it or not), joined Cub Scouts and later Boy Scouts. Where we got our dog “Sparky” and learned about life.
Then ownership of the lumber mill changed hands and the new company, Fiberboard, decided it was time to get out of the landlord business. I was long gone by then, forging my way through life but my parents had stayed. One day they got an eviction notice. Thirty days to get out of town. Thirty days. After nearly thirty years of faithfully paying rent, maintaining their home, raising four children and making countless memories. Hit the road, Jack. Corporate America at its finest.
A petition was circulated, my parents at the forefront. Letters to the editor written. Fiberboard relented. But not on its decision of eviction, but on the number of days given to hit the road. They also gave residents an opportunity to buy the homes. But not the land. The home would have to be moved. Like most of the others, my parents sold the house to a local contractor. Standard, the town where all this happened, by childhood home, would cease to exist.
My parents had a home built and finally lived the American Dream. Now on my visits to that area I always drive through Standard. Sometimes I actually stop, emotions permitting, and walk along the highway that was the main street, memories flooding in. Picking out landmarks, usually trees or remains of an old dirt side street. Remembering where the families of my youth lived. Scattered now like the ashes of the burning lumber from the mill.
Well at least the homes got new families and a new life. Making memories for new generations, providing protection and warmth to body and soul. Hopefully they’re being taken care of in their old age. Not being allowed to crumble and fall which would be like watching my youth disappear.

Volunteering again

Volunteered for the Ronald McDonald House walk today. I didn’t do any walking, but was supposed to hand out water to the heartier souls. To those braving the sun and heat while raising money for an admirable cause. That’s what was supposed to happen.
As is usually the case with volunteer driven events, it was chaotic. I found my leader, Julie and then we took off in search of finding our respective spots. She was walking, but the task at hand was to find my spot. I let her do the talking as I had already started a pretty good sweat and the heat was already starting to wear on me. She spoke with one volunteer diligently guarding the entrance who directed us to a person seemingly in charge who promptly proceeded to tell us that they already had enough people to hand out water. Well, OK.
She looked a little at a loss as what to do with me, and I quickly suggested that I could just go home. No big deal. She actually looked like that might be a viable option. Then she got on her walkie talkie and made the announcement that she had a volunteer and asked if anyone was in need. She pointed to another in charge person that was waving her hand in the air. She told me to go see her. Geez, and to think that I was that close to just going home. Said goodbye to Julie and off I went.
Introductions were made and she asked how I felt about trash. I contribute daily, I thought, but instead replied that whatever she needed me to do was fine. First we went to the sign up table and a yellow ID band was placed on my wrist. It evoked the powerful words of Jesse Jackson: “I am somebody”. Then she turned to two young volunteers and told them they were to help me with the trash duties and that we should follow her.
When we got to the appointed spot, we both turned around and quickly realized that it was just the two of us. She told me to go back and tell those two young uns that she said they are on trash duty. Well, all of us parents know how that went. I’ll just say I wound up pulling out trash bags from cans and replacing them with new ones with two other adult volunteers. Of course the irony that they had what looked like possibly the only adult male volunteer that is Mexican doing trash patrol didn’t escape me. Guess the lawns didn’t need trimming.
But honestly, it didn’t matter to me, it was brainless work that included lots of sitting in the shade watching people getting free McDonald’s coffee drinks and bagels and other snacks. It was perfect as I’m such an avid people watcher. Plus it got me into the VIP area which is always of interest. Even at charitable events there’s a pecking order. Usually in direct correlation to the money contributed. But with us trash guys, we have access to almost all areas. Walking into the VIP area empty trash bag in hand reminded me of when I actually worked for a trash company. Using the old, “I’m with the trash company” routine, I was given access to the streets around OJ’s house when the LAPD closed them to non residents due to so many gawkers.
I actually had a good time and it was for a very good cause, so it was a win-win. I was happy to help. Plus I’ll be better prepared next time. Hope the organizers are as well.

My Day

As days go, today was not a good one. Not a bad one, but just not a good one. Started off feeling a little out of sorts and went downhill from there.
Had a job at 8AM and on the way, stopped from some coffee at the community center where I live. Thought I might run into someone to help pull me out of my funk. Walked out with a cup of coffee and my mood not much better than when I walked in. Did have some small talk with the receptionist, she’s getting married soon. Real soon. Wished her well. Couldn’t help but notice the optimism in her eyes and comments. Ah, youth. Then realized I had forgotten my cell phone. Yeah, that’s more in tune with the mood of the day.
Went back home, got my cell and off to my job. It went OK except that I had forgotten my wire cutters. But Gwen, my customer, was nice as usual and I enjoy her sardonic wit. Finished the work in time for a call from another neighbor with another job. Really wanted to go home and mope, but duty calls.
The job went smoothly. She has a small dog, well actually two, but one is a Jack Russell Terrier. Jeez, you can’t look at that dog without smiling. Running and barking. Jumping up on the recliner and to the top of the back of the chair. Reaching out, begging for attention. Who can resist that stuff? Certainly not me. Had to go over and talk that “baby dog talk” while petting and rubbing.
Went to the bank and then to Starbucks. Yikes. I go more often than I care to admit, but I needed something sweet to get my blood sugar out of the homicidal range. Looked like it might be crowded inside and I didn’t feel like sitting alone so drove into the drive thru. I was the third car in line. Should be a piece of cake getting my sugar fix. Or so I thought.
I sat as patiently as possible for what seemed like an hour and a half waiting for the car already at the window to get their order and get the hell out of the way. I actually thought that maybe he was on a run from the office. You know, twenty different orders, twenty different ring ups on the register, twenty different envelopes with money. I was wrong about that too. He got his one drink and off he went. The driver ahead drove up to the window. Won’t be long now.
I had been lucky with the first driver but then it became apparent that maybe the driver in front of me was the one with the twenty orders. As they finally got their one drink, I realized once again I was so wrong. So what the hell was going on inside? Sorry I asked. But that’s the problem with drive thru’s; once you’re in, there’s no getting out.
When it was finally my turn, the young man with long unkempt, unruly and seemingly unwashed hair pulled back in a futile attempt at a pony tail asked me what I had ordered. Deep breath. Serenity now. I repeated my order and off he went. Back he came with my scone and coffee. As he was ringing up my total, he was talking into his Madonna headset. But not to another drive thru customer. He was talking to some unseen coworker. I handed him my Starbucks gift card. He ran it through, handed me my order and then my receipt and card. Without missing a beat with his conversation. But more important to me, anyway, without a word of thanks.
Fortunately that level of service is very unusual at Starbucks. Fortunately I was able to control my outrage. Another deep breath and instead of saying something, I drove off. It actually a good thing for both of us. After a few more errands, I got home to my own hounds. They’re always happy to see me, even if it’s just for the treats they get whenever I come home.
Stayed home for the rest of the day, doing crosswords and reading. Took a snooze on the sofa with my hounds. I only do it for them. Well, maybe I get something out it as well. Sure gave me a new outlook for the rest of the afternoon. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe there will be someone different at the drive thru at Starbucks. Someone that embraces the corporate attitude of excellent customer service. Here’s hoping.