My dad and I often found reason to fly to Chicago and parts north of there, usually to Oshkosh for the air show. Meigs Field was a short, public airport literally out in Lake Michigan, running parallel to Lakeshore Drive in Chicago. We often flew in to have dinner or to sight-see. Since the runway was surrounded by water on three sides, and was just a few feet above the water level of the lake, it was almost like you were at sea trying to get back aboard the carrier.
Many times we would be flying over Lake Michigan, usually on autopilot, just monitoring the instruments and the systems. Occasionally, like all pilots do, we would look out at the water or the shoreline passing by below and comment on how big Lake Michigan is.
Every time we flew over Lake Michigan, my dad would say the same thing. "John's still down there. Someday, they will find him." And on we would fly. I did not think much about his comment until one evening as we were headed back to Kokomo, out over Lake Michigan, just cruising on autopilot, I asked who John was and why dad always said that. This is the story he told me.
My dad, Lieutenant Commander L. O. "Bo" Bolinger, was the executive officer of a Navy jet fighter squadron based at Glenview Naval Air Station, which is right on the edge of Lake Michigan and about five or six miles north of the Chicago Loop. The squadron was commanded by Commander Richard Schmutzler. The squadron had gone from flying piston-engined fighters (the F8F Bearcat) to the Banshee, a primitive jet fighter, infamous for its engine and hydraulic system failures, both of which were unpredictable.
Lt. John was a WW2 veteran and often served as my dad's wingman. John, like my dad, simply loved to fly. They both often said that they could not believe they were getting paid to fly, as they would have done it for free.
It is widely known that Carson's Restaurant in Chicago has great ribs. It was widely known that the shrimp boats around Pensacola, Florida, have caught a shrimp or two. It is also widely known that Naval aviators like ribs and shrimp. The problem was that the aviators in Chicago wanted shrimp, while the aviators in Pensacola wanted ribs. What to do?
The remedy for this problem was simple. Send somebody in one of the fighters to get the shrimp or the ribs. This had been going on for so long that a system was in place to establish whose turn it was to fly the food. After all, what could be better than a solo, cross-country flight in your very own, I-can-do-what-I-want-for-awhile, no-pesky-wingman, no-flight-leader, no-training-mission, fighter jet?
Schmutz told my dad, "Bo," that the squadron morale of the Sky Giants was in need of improvement and to inquire whether the Jolly Rogers in Pensacola might be interested in trading ribs for shrimp. Appropriate calls were made between commanding officers and it was determined that in fact a trade of ribs for shrimp was in order, as the morale in the Jolly Roger's Squadron was also in need of improvement. Once a deal was made, the system went to work.
As it was the Sky Giants turn to fly, Schmutz ordered dad to assign a pilot to make the hop to Pensacola. Dad chose John from among a number of eager volunteers. Dad then went to pay a call on the Chief Petty Officer in charge of maintenance of the jet fighters to inquire as to whether one might be available for a shrimp hop. After the Chief consulted with the other Chiefs, it was determined that there just might be a jet available to make the hop…for a price, which was ten pounds of the shrimp cargo. A deal was made, but only after the officers of the Sky Giants agreed to spring for the ribs for the Chiefs in Pensacola. As Dad used to say, no ship will sail or airplane fly without the Chiefs' approval.
John strapped in and launched for the hop to Pensacola. Now you might think that the flight was pretty simple. Take off, fly south and turn left or right went you got to the Gulf of Mexico, depending on which way the wind was blowing. Not true. This was back in the day when precision navigation was in its infancy. Aviators still plotted courses based upon forecast wind (often forecast wrong) and timing the various legs of the flight. In other words there was a lot of room for error in going from point A to point B.
To make matters worse, there were those pesky regulations. The rule was that you had to have enough fuel in your aircraft to get to your intended destination, then divert to your alternate airport, if the weather at your intended destination was bad, plus 30 minutes. It sounds reasonable. Except that the Banshee would not hold that much fuel and everybody knew it. So, the regulations said that you needed to stop to refuel at Wright-Patterson Air Farce Base. Except that all the Navy aviators were hated by the Air Farce pilots, who always found a way to delay the refueling transient, interloping Navy guys. Not good.
However, the Banshee would make the trip to Pensacola on one tank of fuel, if you forgot about the regulations, providing the wind and weather cooperated. The problem was that it would only just make it. By a hair. with ten minute's fuel remaining, providing everything went right. So, the aviator would file a flight plan for Wright-Patterson, going and coming, and then just fly straight to Pensacola and then back to Chicago, ignoring the regulations. If anything went wrong, the commander was off the hook for authorizing an illegal flight, as he could always say that he approved a proper, within-the-regulations flight plan, which the pilot chose to ignore.
John managed to find his way to Pensacola, where the Jolly Rogers Chief was waiting on the ramp with the refueling truck and a bag for the ribs, which had been stowed in the ammunition bays in the nose and wings of the Banshee. Out came the ribs and in went the shrimp. John never even got out of the plane. Refueling complete, John launched for the return hop to Chicago.
All went well until John was about 150 miles out from Glenview. It started to snow. Heavily. Unpredicted. Inbound came John.
This was in the day that there were no fancy instrument landing systems like there are now. You called the tower and asked for a ground- assisted approach. What this was is where a controller would tell you what direction to fly and when to descend so as to line you up with the runway at the right height to land. It might sound easy and the concept is simple, but it is not so easily done on dark, snowy nights when your fuel state is critical.
John reported in and was handed off to the controller, who began giving John directions for the approach. As John got closer to the end of the runway, the corrections on the heading of the airplane were as little as two or three degrees left or right. Cleared to descend to four hundred feet off the runway, John flew a textbook- perfect approach. Except it was snowing so hard that John flew the length of the runway level at four hundred feet and never saw the runway lights. Everyone heard him go over. Schmutz and Dad, growing more concerned by the minute, were in the control tower.
John declared a missed approach, which meant that he could not see to land. Going below four hundred feet, called "busting minimums." was strictly prohibited as the runway was surrounded by civilian housing. He poured on the power and pulled up, telling the controller to give him a tight approach for another try. The controller asked for John's fuel state. John responded that he had enough for another pass, but not much more.
The controller gave John as tight and quick an approach as he could do. Once again, John shot the approach perfectly, but flew down the runway unable to see it. The unpredicted snow had increased to a near blizzard as can only happen on Lake Michigan. John poured on the power and pulled up into the swirling, cold snow.
The controller asked John was his fuel state was and John replied calmly that the warning light was on and he expected to engine to flame out within a few minutes.
The controller then said, "State your intentions, Navy flight 246."
Dad said there was a momentary hesitation, then John matter-of-factly said, "Give me a vector for the lake. Tell mom I love her." And nothing more was ever heard from him.
In the days and weeks that passed, there was discussion among the aviators about John's options that night. He could have ejected, which would have put him into the lake in the winter. He would have lasted maybe twenty minutes floating in the frigid water. But in those days ejection seats were not as good as they are today. An ejection would guarantee a broken arm or leg. He could have tried to ditch the plane in the lake, get out and into the dinghy, but that was almost an impossibility. He could have just waited for the engine to quit and flown it into the lake in a glide, only to sink beneath the dark waves of the lake. Or he could have nosed it over with the engine running and bored straight in. A quick and final end.
No one knows what John did. But what we know was that John knew he had danced one too many times with Fate. His number was up through no particular fault of his own. There was not going to be a happy ending. What we also know is that John did not try to land and risk killing civilians. It takes a man with character to make such a decision. There were no medals given to John posthumously for making such a courageous and selfless decision. His death was attributed to a "training accident compounded by unexpected adverse weather conditions."
All of us will one day have our "rendezvous with death." I hope all of us will have the courage that John had that wintry, Chicago night.
Mike out.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
About Dogs and Those Who Own Them
I read an article recently about the relationship dogs and their owners have with each other. When asked about how dogs view their owners, the author said most dogs view their owners as "very large, infinitely interesting tennis balls." I, for one, take that as a compliment. You could do a lot worse.
The article got me thinking about the dogs that have owned me. Make no mistake about it. Most dogs own their owners, even if the human does not want to admit it. I know not about you, yours, and your house, but I know who runs the show here on West Taylor St. Not me, not Lynne. Ivy runs it. Period. As Lynne often says, Ivy rules with an iron paw.
Most of us had a pet dog when we were growing up. I had a rat terrier named Kay. As dogs go, she was homely. She was mostly white with small black and brown spots. She was a mutt. But like you learn later in life, beauty is much more than how a person looks on the outside, it is what is on the inside that truly counts in the long run. So it was, I was to learn, about Kay.
I had a downtown paper route when I was about thirteen. Passing papers to the businesses downtown and about a block surrounding the downtown area was where I was on my 20 inch bicycle every morning seven days a week about 5:30 am. Kay would always run along beside me on the route which covered about five miles. Several times I would be riding along and Kay would growl and the hair on her back would stand up. Each time a person would be standing hidden in a doorway or alley. No one ever tried to hurt me, but you have to ask what were they doing there at that time of morning? Kay was looking out for me. She could not have weighed 20 pounds, but she could be fierce if provoked or if someone threatened me.
As time went on, I noticed that Kay was having a hard time keeping up with me on the bike. Simple solution, so I thought, just leave her at home. Kay would have none of that. If I went out the door with my paper bag, she would bark at the door until I let her out to go with me. A barking dog at 5:00 am is not what my parents wanted to hear. What to do?
What I did was to buy another paper bag. I hung the bag with the papers in it on the front of my high rise handlebars from two hooks. I hung the second bag on the inside of the handlebars from the same two hooks. Into the second bag I put Kay, who seemed happy to ride in the bag. Off I would go with Kay peering out over the top of the newspapers. And so it went for many months, through rain, snow, sleet, fog and everything else that comes with living in Indiana.
When I finished my route each morning, I would grab a quick breakfast and head out to school. When school was over, home I would go on my bicycle to be greeted each afternoon by Kay who would be lying on the back steps faithfully awaiting my return.
You cannot imagine the shock that rocked me one afternoon when I came home from school and was informed by my mother that Kay had died of an apparent heart attack while I was at school. I was devastated. I asked if she had suffered and was told she had died peacefully in her sleep. I asked for the body so I could bury her in the back yard. I was told that her body was already gone and could not be retrieved. I was shattered. I moped around for a few weeks, but life went on and I suggested to my parents that I needed another dog. The response was not hopeful. They said they would think about it, but not right now. So I waited.
You cannot imagine my joy when I came home from school shortly thereafter and who do you suppose was waiting, like nothing had happened, on the back steps? You got it. Kay was back.
Now being a parent, I recognize that my parents had a significant problem. They had been caught in a despicable lie to their child about his most treasured possession. I was not around to hear the phone conversation, but I know what Lynne would have done. I would have gotten a call at my office that would have gone something like this: "Mike, we got problems. Kay is back! No I don't know how this has happened! What are we going to tell him?" Good questions all. And not a good answer in sight.
Like I said, I never heard the phone conversation, but I am sure it happened. Dad came home that night and did not say much. We ate dinner and there in the doorway to the dining room lay the damning evidence of their guilt, which is how I see it now, but not then. I was sure there was an explanation, other than that Kay had risen from the dead. There wasn't.
It turned out that Kay, who was elderly, had begun peeing on occasion in the house. One or both of my parents, I was never told who, could not deal with it. So, one of my parents, I do not know who to this day, took Kay to the pound where she would be gassed. Except something happened that neither of my parents counted on. The pound manager took a liking to Kay. She became his dog with the run of the pound, including the yard outside the pound which was surrounded by an eight foot high chain link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire. According to Dad, the last the manager saw of Kay was her climbing the fence, scrambling over the barbed wire, which accounted for some cuts I noticed on her tummy, and heading for home. It had taken her five weeks to plan and make her break for freedom and home. And some people say dogs are just dumb animals. Not by a long shot. The "Kayshank Redemption", if you will.
How Kay managed to find her way home is something I have always wondered about until I sat down to write this. I think I know how she did it. The pound is about ten or fifteen blocks from downtown Kokomo. By random chance she probably found the downtown area and remembered the way home from the paper route.
From then on Kay lived in our house until she died of congestive heart failure, in my arms one afternoon. I buried her in the backyard.
Years later after my Dad died unexpectedly, I was having some trouble dealing with it. I went to see a psychologist who dealt in grief therapy. I do not know how this event in my life came up, but it did and I told him the story as I have told you. After hearing it, he sat there for a while and then said, "It is a wonder you are not more screwed up than you are. Has it occurred to you that this incident is the cause for your inability to trust anyone close to you?" That shrink hit the nail on the head and was worth every penny I paid him.
Years later, when Lynne and I moved into the house we now live in with Allyson and Zach, we decided we needed a dog. I went to the library and got a book about the various breeds. A lively debate took place nightly for weeks over which dog would be best. Ultimately, like every yuppie couple with kids, we decided on a golden retriever. I was assigned the task of getting the dog. I quickly located a six-week-old litter about fifty miles away. I made an appointment.
Before I went to look at the pups, I knew I knew nothing about picking a good pup. So, I called on my good friend, Lee Moore, who knew a lot about dogs. He gave me wonderful, if not comical, advice. He told me to quietly enter the room where the puppies were and sit down for fifteen minutes and do nothing but watch them. He said that there would be one pup who would walk around and occasionally fall over, while running into the other pups and knocking them over. He said it would be like the dog was saying: Yup, yup, yup. I am the dog. Yup, yup, yup. In other words pick out the "bozo" (my word, not Lee's). And Lee was exactly right. It was obvious which pup was the bozo. I bought him and took him home. Like a true bozo, he crapped, peed, and puked in my car on the way home. The kids named him Buster. And a magnificent dog he was.
Let me tell you two stories about Buster.
Golden retrievers are bred to fetch. Period. It is all they can do. It is all they want to do. As my sister, a fellow dog-lover said, "The only chip in that dog's brain is the fetch chip." Buster lived to fetch anything that was throw able. He could not help himself. He was as addicted to fetching as the worst druggie is addicted to crystal meth. Buster would fetch sticks, no matter how small or large. As he fetched them, they would begin to get smaller from his teeth. I saw him fetch a twig less that an inch long. I saw him fetch firewood chunks. Tree limbs. Rocks, bricks, concrete blocks, old tires that would roll, baseballs, footballs ( if deflated a little), soccer balls, golf balls, tennis balls, paint brushes, and once, a tire iron. He also went for Coke cans, beer cans and anything else that was handy to throw.
With that background, we would occasionally have a Buster day. We would go to a park and throw a ball to Buster till he wore out. Except he never wore out. I did. It got to be a challenge.
I knew that the park had a hill in the center. So Lynne and I would go to the top of the hill with one on those flyswatter-like throwers with a place to put the tennis ball in the end and throw the ball downhill. Off Buster would go, tearing after the tennis ball, only to have to run back to us up hill. We kept throwing the ball and that crazy dog just wouldn't quit. I was about ready to give up, when I threw it one last time. Off Buster went. He snatched it up and took off back up the hill. Halfway up, he stopped and fell over. He dropped the ball from his mouth and his tongue was hanging out. I thought I had killed him. We ran to where he was and he just laid there, totally exhausted. Then he got up, picked up the ball and dropped it at my feet ready to fetch again. What a dog! We never did the hill trick with him again. I think that dog would have run himself to death, just to please me.
Spring break rolled around and I planned a spring camping trip to Big South Fork National Park in southern Tennessee. To this day, if you ask my children or wife about this trip, they will hoot with laughter and say it was a total disaster. It was. It was even worse. A complete fiasco. It started to snow and sleet at our campsite, so we packed up and headed for a motel.
Buster, a member of the family, was with us. I checked ahead of arrival to make sure the motel was pet-friendly, but I did not tell the kids that such was the case. When we arrived, just before I went in to get the keys, I told the kids to keep Buster down, so the manager would not see him. If we got caught with the dog, they would throw us out of the motel I warned.
When I returned with the two keys, I drove to a parking space. I pointed out the number of the room the kids would share with Buster. I handed the key to Allyson and told her to go to the room and let herself in. When she was ready, she was to flash the lights twice. I would respond by flashing the headlights twice. Zach would quietly let leashed Buster out the side door and quickly go up the stairs to the room so no one would see him. James Bond and family and dog. It worked like a charm. Lynne and I retired to our room next door to the kids.
Several times that night someone walked down the hall past the kid's room. Each time I would hear a low growl from Buster, who was letting the passerby know that he was on guard and anybody wanting to harm his two charges would have to get through him first.
After the growl, I would hear Allyson's hushed voice say, "SHHHHHHHHH Buster. If they hear you, they'll throw us out."
Buster died of kidney failure when he was 10 years old. I knew he was dying, so I called my friend, Dr. Bob Mason, who made a house call and put Buster to sleep in my arms. I went into the bedroom and cried over my dog. At the time I was ashamed of my behavior. I thought I was being unmanly. Later on I realized Buster was as much a member of the family as were my children and wife and my reaction to this terrible loss was normal. Buster's portrait hangs in the hallway in my house in Winona Lake.
The family lasted two weeks without a dog. The house just seemed empty. I was ordered by the kids to get another golden. Off I went and, using the tried and true Lee Moore Technique of dog selection, I came home with another bozo. We named the pup, Beaumont, and a magnificent dog he was.
Like Buster, the only chip in Beau's brain was the fetch chip. About this time, we had bought our lake house on Winona Lake. The house came with a pier that stretched from the shore about 50 feet into the lake.
Using that fly-swatter like thrower to fling tennis balls into the lake for Beau was great sport. I would make the dog sit in front of me on the shore. His eyes would never leave the tennis ball. If I did not throw it soon enough, he would start to whine. When I finally let it fly, Beau would streak to the end of the pier and dive in after the tennis ball. It was great entertainment for the neighborhood. After a while I started using two tennis balls, so I wouldn't have to thrown them so often.
You see, that was the problem. He wouldn't let you quit. You could not sit on the pier and read, because there would stand this dripping dog with the tennis ball in his mouth. If you tried to lie on the pier in the sun, Beau would stand over you dripping cold water on you. If you still did not throw the ball, he would drop the slimy, slobber-coated ball on your chest. It was maddening.
One day I told Lynne that I was going to see how many times I had to fling the ball with the flyswatter to wear Beau out. About two or three hours and 336 throws later, I was worn out and the dog was going strong.
Beaumont got sick one afternoon. I knew he was bad, so I took him to Dr. Bob, who told me he was terminal with a form of leukemia. Bob put him to sleep while I patted him one last time. Beaumont had a heart that was bigger than he was. I still miss him.
Toward the end of Beaumont's days, my daughter and her husband got a golden they named Bob. Bob was cool.
Bob, we used to say was "just glad to be here." He was a true party animal. When Lynne and I would get ready to go to the lake, we had to be careful and not say the word L-A-K-E in front of Beau and Bob. At the mention of the L-word they would become frantic and would run to the truck and wait impatiently for me to lower the tailgate. As soon as I did, they would jump in and off we would go to the lake.
Except we never went straight to the lake. The dogs knew I was going to stop at Wendy's on the way. The lady at the drive-through window would hand Lynne and me our food. I would then pull up so that the truck bed was even with the window. The lady would then throw two hamburgers and two large fries into the bed for Bob and Beau. Both dogs often told me that was truly living large and that they were the envy of the other dogs in the neighborhood.
After Beau passed, I had to put Bob down. He was only four years old, but he tore a ligament in his left rear paw. It was not fixable and was causing him severe pain. Bob-dog, as he was known, was a good dog. As Dean Koontz has said, there is nothing better that can be said about a dog than that he or she was a good dog.
Sometime before Beaumont and Bob died, Ivy came to live with us. I am not sure how we ended up with three dogs in the house, but we did. Eventually it was just Ivy, known also as "the Ive" and "Iverson."
When Ivy first arrived, she would have nothing to do with me. When I walked into a room she occupied, she would hide in the corner and tremble. She would not allow me to touch her at all. Once I picked up a broom to sweep the floor and she cowered under the table and whimpered.
I asked my daughter how Ivy came to live with them. It turns out that Allyson asked Jeremy to go to the pound and pick out a dog no one would ever adopt. Jeremy picked Ivy.
We noticed that Ivy has a permanent limp on her back left side. The vet said it was an untreated broken bone from when she was small. Someone probably beat her which accounts for how she acted with the broom. Also, she would hide from all males.
About six months after she moved in, she let me pet her. We are now the best of buddies. She goes almost every where with me. She is a regular at Lowe's and Menard's. She is on a first name basis with everyone at Moody's bike shop. She is known by all of our neighbors, most of which feed her every morning.
Her most important task is to keep me company. She sleeps with Lynne and me. Anytime I go somewhere in the truck, she goes. She knows that dog treats are given at Burger King and Menard's.
When I am working in my shop, she sits on the floor mat just inside or outside the door, depending on the temperature.
When I came home from the hospital in April, she lay beside me with her head on my chest most of the day. She knew I was sick. She wanted me to get well.
That is about all I have to say about Ivy. She is a good dog. She loves me without condition which is how it should be. As a final gesture, check out the picture below. Is she not the finest of dogs?
Mike out.
The article got me thinking about the dogs that have owned me. Make no mistake about it. Most dogs own their owners, even if the human does not want to admit it. I know not about you, yours, and your house, but I know who runs the show here on West Taylor St. Not me, not Lynne. Ivy runs it. Period. As Lynne often says, Ivy rules with an iron paw.
Most of us had a pet dog when we were growing up. I had a rat terrier named Kay. As dogs go, she was homely. She was mostly white with small black and brown spots. She was a mutt. But like you learn later in life, beauty is much more than how a person looks on the outside, it is what is on the inside that truly counts in the long run. So it was, I was to learn, about Kay.
I had a downtown paper route when I was about thirteen. Passing papers to the businesses downtown and about a block surrounding the downtown area was where I was on my 20 inch bicycle every morning seven days a week about 5:30 am. Kay would always run along beside me on the route which covered about five miles. Several times I would be riding along and Kay would growl and the hair on her back would stand up. Each time a person would be standing hidden in a doorway or alley. No one ever tried to hurt me, but you have to ask what were they doing there at that time of morning? Kay was looking out for me. She could not have weighed 20 pounds, but she could be fierce if provoked or if someone threatened me.
As time went on, I noticed that Kay was having a hard time keeping up with me on the bike. Simple solution, so I thought, just leave her at home. Kay would have none of that. If I went out the door with my paper bag, she would bark at the door until I let her out to go with me. A barking dog at 5:00 am is not what my parents wanted to hear. What to do?
What I did was to buy another paper bag. I hung the bag with the papers in it on the front of my high rise handlebars from two hooks. I hung the second bag on the inside of the handlebars from the same two hooks. Into the second bag I put Kay, who seemed happy to ride in the bag. Off I would go with Kay peering out over the top of the newspapers. And so it went for many months, through rain, snow, sleet, fog and everything else that comes with living in Indiana.
When I finished my route each morning, I would grab a quick breakfast and head out to school. When school was over, home I would go on my bicycle to be greeted each afternoon by Kay who would be lying on the back steps faithfully awaiting my return.
You cannot imagine the shock that rocked me one afternoon when I came home from school and was informed by my mother that Kay had died of an apparent heart attack while I was at school. I was devastated. I asked if she had suffered and was told she had died peacefully in her sleep. I asked for the body so I could bury her in the back yard. I was told that her body was already gone and could not be retrieved. I was shattered. I moped around for a few weeks, but life went on and I suggested to my parents that I needed another dog. The response was not hopeful. They said they would think about it, but not right now. So I waited.
You cannot imagine my joy when I came home from school shortly thereafter and who do you suppose was waiting, like nothing had happened, on the back steps? You got it. Kay was back.
Now being a parent, I recognize that my parents had a significant problem. They had been caught in a despicable lie to their child about his most treasured possession. I was not around to hear the phone conversation, but I know what Lynne would have done. I would have gotten a call at my office that would have gone something like this: "Mike, we got problems. Kay is back! No I don't know how this has happened! What are we going to tell him?" Good questions all. And not a good answer in sight.
Like I said, I never heard the phone conversation, but I am sure it happened. Dad came home that night and did not say much. We ate dinner and there in the doorway to the dining room lay the damning evidence of their guilt, which is how I see it now, but not then. I was sure there was an explanation, other than that Kay had risen from the dead. There wasn't.
It turned out that Kay, who was elderly, had begun peeing on occasion in the house. One or both of my parents, I was never told who, could not deal with it. So, one of my parents, I do not know who to this day, took Kay to the pound where she would be gassed. Except something happened that neither of my parents counted on. The pound manager took a liking to Kay. She became his dog with the run of the pound, including the yard outside the pound which was surrounded by an eight foot high chain link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire. According to Dad, the last the manager saw of Kay was her climbing the fence, scrambling over the barbed wire, which accounted for some cuts I noticed on her tummy, and heading for home. It had taken her five weeks to plan and make her break for freedom and home. And some people say dogs are just dumb animals. Not by a long shot. The "Kayshank Redemption", if you will.
How Kay managed to find her way home is something I have always wondered about until I sat down to write this. I think I know how she did it. The pound is about ten or fifteen blocks from downtown Kokomo. By random chance she probably found the downtown area and remembered the way home from the paper route.
From then on Kay lived in our house until she died of congestive heart failure, in my arms one afternoon. I buried her in the backyard.
Years later after my Dad died unexpectedly, I was having some trouble dealing with it. I went to see a psychologist who dealt in grief therapy. I do not know how this event in my life came up, but it did and I told him the story as I have told you. After hearing it, he sat there for a while and then said, "It is a wonder you are not more screwed up than you are. Has it occurred to you that this incident is the cause for your inability to trust anyone close to you?" That shrink hit the nail on the head and was worth every penny I paid him.
Years later, when Lynne and I moved into the house we now live in with Allyson and Zach, we decided we needed a dog. I went to the library and got a book about the various breeds. A lively debate took place nightly for weeks over which dog would be best. Ultimately, like every yuppie couple with kids, we decided on a golden retriever. I was assigned the task of getting the dog. I quickly located a six-week-old litter about fifty miles away. I made an appointment.
Before I went to look at the pups, I knew I knew nothing about picking a good pup. So, I called on my good friend, Lee Moore, who knew a lot about dogs. He gave me wonderful, if not comical, advice. He told me to quietly enter the room where the puppies were and sit down for fifteen minutes and do nothing but watch them. He said that there would be one pup who would walk around and occasionally fall over, while running into the other pups and knocking them over. He said it would be like the dog was saying: Yup, yup, yup. I am the dog. Yup, yup, yup. In other words pick out the "bozo" (my word, not Lee's). And Lee was exactly right. It was obvious which pup was the bozo. I bought him and took him home. Like a true bozo, he crapped, peed, and puked in my car on the way home. The kids named him Buster. And a magnificent dog he was.
Let me tell you two stories about Buster.
Golden retrievers are bred to fetch. Period. It is all they can do. It is all they want to do. As my sister, a fellow dog-lover said, "The only chip in that dog's brain is the fetch chip." Buster lived to fetch anything that was throw able. He could not help himself. He was as addicted to fetching as the worst druggie is addicted to crystal meth. Buster would fetch sticks, no matter how small or large. As he fetched them, they would begin to get smaller from his teeth. I saw him fetch a twig less that an inch long. I saw him fetch firewood chunks. Tree limbs. Rocks, bricks, concrete blocks, old tires that would roll, baseballs, footballs ( if deflated a little), soccer balls, golf balls, tennis balls, paint brushes, and once, a tire iron. He also went for Coke cans, beer cans and anything else that was handy to throw.
With that background, we would occasionally have a Buster day. We would go to a park and throw a ball to Buster till he wore out. Except he never wore out. I did. It got to be a challenge.
I knew that the park had a hill in the center. So Lynne and I would go to the top of the hill with one on those flyswatter-like throwers with a place to put the tennis ball in the end and throw the ball downhill. Off Buster would go, tearing after the tennis ball, only to have to run back to us up hill. We kept throwing the ball and that crazy dog just wouldn't quit. I was about ready to give up, when I threw it one last time. Off Buster went. He snatched it up and took off back up the hill. Halfway up, he stopped and fell over. He dropped the ball from his mouth and his tongue was hanging out. I thought I had killed him. We ran to where he was and he just laid there, totally exhausted. Then he got up, picked up the ball and dropped it at my feet ready to fetch again. What a dog! We never did the hill trick with him again. I think that dog would have run himself to death, just to please me.
Spring break rolled around and I planned a spring camping trip to Big South Fork National Park in southern Tennessee. To this day, if you ask my children or wife about this trip, they will hoot with laughter and say it was a total disaster. It was. It was even worse. A complete fiasco. It started to snow and sleet at our campsite, so we packed up and headed for a motel.
Buster, a member of the family, was with us. I checked ahead of arrival to make sure the motel was pet-friendly, but I did not tell the kids that such was the case. When we arrived, just before I went in to get the keys, I told the kids to keep Buster down, so the manager would not see him. If we got caught with the dog, they would throw us out of the motel I warned.
When I returned with the two keys, I drove to a parking space. I pointed out the number of the room the kids would share with Buster. I handed the key to Allyson and told her to go to the room and let herself in. When she was ready, she was to flash the lights twice. I would respond by flashing the headlights twice. Zach would quietly let leashed Buster out the side door and quickly go up the stairs to the room so no one would see him. James Bond and family and dog. It worked like a charm. Lynne and I retired to our room next door to the kids.
Several times that night someone walked down the hall past the kid's room. Each time I would hear a low growl from Buster, who was letting the passerby know that he was on guard and anybody wanting to harm his two charges would have to get through him first.
After the growl, I would hear Allyson's hushed voice say, "SHHHHHHHHH Buster. If they hear you, they'll throw us out."
Buster died of kidney failure when he was 10 years old. I knew he was dying, so I called my friend, Dr. Bob Mason, who made a house call and put Buster to sleep in my arms. I went into the bedroom and cried over my dog. At the time I was ashamed of my behavior. I thought I was being unmanly. Later on I realized Buster was as much a member of the family as were my children and wife and my reaction to this terrible loss was normal. Buster's portrait hangs in the hallway in my house in Winona Lake.
The family lasted two weeks without a dog. The house just seemed empty. I was ordered by the kids to get another golden. Off I went and, using the tried and true Lee Moore Technique of dog selection, I came home with another bozo. We named the pup, Beaumont, and a magnificent dog he was.
Like Buster, the only chip in Beau's brain was the fetch chip. About this time, we had bought our lake house on Winona Lake. The house came with a pier that stretched from the shore about 50 feet into the lake.
Using that fly-swatter like thrower to fling tennis balls into the lake for Beau was great sport. I would make the dog sit in front of me on the shore. His eyes would never leave the tennis ball. If I did not throw it soon enough, he would start to whine. When I finally let it fly, Beau would streak to the end of the pier and dive in after the tennis ball. It was great entertainment for the neighborhood. After a while I started using two tennis balls, so I wouldn't have to thrown them so often.
You see, that was the problem. He wouldn't let you quit. You could not sit on the pier and read, because there would stand this dripping dog with the tennis ball in his mouth. If you tried to lie on the pier in the sun, Beau would stand over you dripping cold water on you. If you still did not throw the ball, he would drop the slimy, slobber-coated ball on your chest. It was maddening.
One day I told Lynne that I was going to see how many times I had to fling the ball with the flyswatter to wear Beau out. About two or three hours and 336 throws later, I was worn out and the dog was going strong.
Beaumont got sick one afternoon. I knew he was bad, so I took him to Dr. Bob, who told me he was terminal with a form of leukemia. Bob put him to sleep while I patted him one last time. Beaumont had a heart that was bigger than he was. I still miss him.
Toward the end of Beaumont's days, my daughter and her husband got a golden they named Bob. Bob was cool.
Bob, we used to say was "just glad to be here." He was a true party animal. When Lynne and I would get ready to go to the lake, we had to be careful and not say the word L-A-K-E in front of Beau and Bob. At the mention of the L-word they would become frantic and would run to the truck and wait impatiently for me to lower the tailgate. As soon as I did, they would jump in and off we would go to the lake.
Except we never went straight to the lake. The dogs knew I was going to stop at Wendy's on the way. The lady at the drive-through window would hand Lynne and me our food. I would then pull up so that the truck bed was even with the window. The lady would then throw two hamburgers and two large fries into the bed for Bob and Beau. Both dogs often told me that was truly living large and that they were the envy of the other dogs in the neighborhood.
After Beau passed, I had to put Bob down. He was only four years old, but he tore a ligament in his left rear paw. It was not fixable and was causing him severe pain. Bob-dog, as he was known, was a good dog. As Dean Koontz has said, there is nothing better that can be said about a dog than that he or she was a good dog.
Sometime before Beaumont and Bob died, Ivy came to live with us. I am not sure how we ended up with three dogs in the house, but we did. Eventually it was just Ivy, known also as "the Ive" and "Iverson."
When Ivy first arrived, she would have nothing to do with me. When I walked into a room she occupied, she would hide in the corner and tremble. She would not allow me to touch her at all. Once I picked up a broom to sweep the floor and she cowered under the table and whimpered.
I asked my daughter how Ivy came to live with them. It turns out that Allyson asked Jeremy to go to the pound and pick out a dog no one would ever adopt. Jeremy picked Ivy.
We noticed that Ivy has a permanent limp on her back left side. The vet said it was an untreated broken bone from when she was small. Someone probably beat her which accounts for how she acted with the broom. Also, she would hide from all males.
About six months after she moved in, she let me pet her. We are now the best of buddies. She goes almost every where with me. She is a regular at Lowe's and Menard's. She is on a first name basis with everyone at Moody's bike shop. She is known by all of our neighbors, most of which feed her every morning.
Her most important task is to keep me company. She sleeps with Lynne and me. Anytime I go somewhere in the truck, she goes. She knows that dog treats are given at Burger King and Menard's.
When I am working in my shop, she sits on the floor mat just inside or outside the door, depending on the temperature.
When I came home from the hospital in April, she lay beside me with her head on my chest most of the day. She knew I was sick. She wanted me to get well.
That is about all I have to say about Ivy. She is a good dog. She loves me without condition which is how it should be. As a final gesture, check out the picture below. Is she not the finest of dogs?
Mike out.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The PRINCESS and one of her servants
She rules with an iron paw.
Princess Ivy
And the servant..................
Princess Ivy
And the servant..................
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
35 1/2 Years
The hub and I just returned from a return trip to Fort Lauderdale. Mindful again of the school calendar, we took advantage of a 3 day weekend (thank you, Dr. King) and returned to our little slice there on the beach.
Our Fort Lauderdale friends asked us how we found this place, a small 7 room place, right on the beach. We told them we lucked into it, having conducted a search on THE GOOGLE. (Z: for you)
We got our same room; that would be #3. Our window is less than 50 feet from the beautiful ocean so we can listen to its grandeur all night long.
But how did we find it? We agree that it's another gift from our Father. It is as close to perfect as a place can be.
So this is our most recent trip to salt water regions.
Our first, together, was in August 1974 on our honeymoon. Mike's father gave us the gift of a trip 'anywhere.' We chose PuertoRico and St. Thomas. We were so young. We have lived quite a life since then.
No one knows, when he or she starts on that journey where it will lead. We continue to discover what God has for these two children.
Details on New Kitchen at the Lake
Pegs: no nails
The corner 'lazy susan' was a new challenge.
And: colors by Fran at The Color Company.
NEXT PROJECT? Walnut sofa table to locate behind 'that' couch.
Do Something They Will Remember
One of the many wonderful things about being a friend and having friends is that on occasion your friends do something unexpected for you that gives you indescribable joy. This happened to me this past weekend.
The lovely Lynne and I took a long weekend in Ft. Lauderdale. We intended to goof off, play in the water, and do absolutely nothing of worth, except have fun. When we go to Ft. Lauderdale, we always visit two of my friends, Brent and Brian Hermann, who both live there.
Brent and Brian are yacht brokers. They buy and sell luxury yachts to people all over the country and the world. We are talking about boats costing several millions of dollars. You can tell that they love their work and it is obvious they are very good at it.
I got to know Brent and Brian when they were frequent visitors to my lake house. Brian loves sailing and Brent loves flying airplanes. I like both. You can see the connection. Put the three of us together and there is never a dull moment. There is not a lick of sense in any of us when we are not supervised by a responsible adult.
I called to give them the info on when Lynne and I would arrive. I got a call back telling me not to schedule anything for 3:00 pm on Saturday, as they had a surprise for me.
Promptly at 3:00 Brian picked me up in his Land Rover and off we went on a 45 minute drive. We ended up at an aviation community near Orlando. The beautiful houses surrounded a private airstrip, which was bounded on both sides by concrete taxiways. Each house had a hanger with a driveway leading to the taxiway. The taxiway could be used to get to the take off position in your airplane or be used to drive out to the highway in your car. I figured out that the surprise was probably going to involve flying.
Lynne and I got out of the car and were introduced to Ted, who had been working on one of his five airplanes. The hangar behind Ted's house was colossal. Ted and Brian spoke privately for a minute and then Ted informed us that his flying buddy, Mike, would be here shortly, as he was inbound in Ted's Piper Navaho ( an eight passenger, twin engine private plane).
A few minutes later I heard the roar of two fire walled Lycoming engines as the Navaho streaked over our heads about 100 ft off the ground at 250 knots. Mike pitched the nose up into a tight left bank, threw down the gear and flaps, and plopped it onto the runway. Nicely done. He taxied it to Ted's house and got out. Introductions were made all around.
Mike said to me, "I understand you can do some aerobatics?"
"Maybe a little," I replied.
"Let me go get my plane and we will have some fun with it," said Mike. Off he went in the golf cart.
About five minutes later, I heard a very throaty growl of an idling engine as Mike taxied up in an Extra 300. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this airplane let me simply say that if you were planning on flying the world aerobatic championship or the Red Bull air races which have recently been on TV, this is the airplane you would want. It has no aeronautical purpose except to do unlimited aerobatics. It is built so strong that the pilot will be incapacitated before the airplane breaks. It weighs 900 lbs and has 350 horsepower. It is an animal. It is not for amateurs. I was very concerned and definitely intimidated. I was going to get to fly this thing?
"Let's go," said Mike. I put on my parachute and strapped into the plane. Mike got in behind me and fired up the engine. We taxied to the takeoff position. I noticed that every time Mike blipped the throttle, the airplane torqued to the left. This thing had power!
Rolling into takeoff position, Mike said," You set? I'll get it off the ground and then it's yours."
"Light it," I said, trying to be cool. I braced myself for the takeoff roll.
Instead of hitting the throttle, Mike said, "Oh, I almost forgot, I never fly this thing without my tunes." Suddenly, "Sweet Home Alabama" came blasting over my earphones, as Mike hit the throttle. The bird rocketed down the runway and leaped into the air and started climbing. Mike flicked it into a right knife edge turn as we shot over the top of Ted's house. A quick waggle of the wings and we were gone. I was in heaven.
There was a low overcast with a 1500 foot ceiling. As were approached the lower layer of cloud, Mike said, "It is all yours. Have fun."
I took hold of the stick and promptly pitched it up 45 degrees , corrected it, and pitched it down 45 degrees. All unintentionally. Any tiny left of right movement of the stick made a 30 degree bank angle. I was wobbling all over the sky.
"Wow, is this thing sensitive!" I said.
"Give it a couple minutes, you will get used to it," Mike said.
I fiddled with it a little more and discovered that if you flew with the stick between your thumb and index finger, it smoothed out. Problem solved.
"See that break in the clouds up there?" Mike asked.
"Got it," I replied.
"Let's try to shoot through that little gap and see if we can find some clear air and sunshine to play in."
I aimed the plane for the gap and sailed through it into clear air in front of us. But on either side were dark clouds going up to maybe 10,000 ft. We were in kind of a giant hallway framed by clouds. It was clear in front of us and above us, but not to the sides.
"I think that this is as good as we are going to get today, but I think there is enough room," said Mike.
"It looks good to me," I said. I then pitched the nose up just a hair and flicked the stick to the right. The Extra instantly rolled 360 degrees in about one second. Wow! That was quick!
"Try a loop," suggested Mike.
I picked up 160 knots, and pulled the stick back. The airplane went vertical pulling 7 g's on the way to the top of the loop. I lost all color in my vision as I grayed out at the top. As I went through the top of the loop inverted and started down the back side, color came back to my vision. I started to pull out of the loop at the bottom and I grayed out again. 7 g's will do that to old pilots, and young ones, too. That airplane would load up the G's like nothing I have ever flown.
"Well, I can see that you can fly. Do whatever you like", said Mike.
So that is just what I did. I did loops, slow rolls, aileron rolls, snap rolls, a spin, a hammerhead, an Immelman and a couple of Cuban eights. All the while listening to Lynrd Skynrd, Allman Brothers and AC/DC. It does not get better. I was having the time of my life. As I have often said, there is no fun like having fun with a lethal toy.
But it did get better.
As always, I flew until I got sick. I told Mike I was queasy, so we headed for home, picking our way through the clouds. Up over one, under another, and around a few. It was breathtaking. Eventually we popped out under the overcast with in sight of the airstrip.
"Your airplane," I said and wiggled the stick to give it back to Mike.
"Unbelievable," said Mike. "Look at that! A B-17!"
Sure enough, there was a B-17 flying straight and level at our 10 o'clock. It is not every day you see a real life, vintage WW 2 bomber actually flying.
"Let's get over there and check it out," said Mike. With that said he turned to intercept the old bomber, which was giving rides to paying passengers at the Pompano airport.
We pulled up along side about 100 yds away and waggled our wings two or three times. Eventually they waved back. This was just too good to be true. There we were flying formation with the bomber that had won the air war in Europe in WW2. Too cool.
Then, to my astonishment, Mike said, "Your airplane, do something so they will remember us." I sat there thinking for a few seconds, and then rolled the plane inverted and flew in formation with the old bomber, upside down. We waved, and they waved back. I laughed out loud.
It does not get better than that. A hard turn to the right and down we went to an uneventful landing.
Writing this, I am so grateful to my friends, Brent and Brian, who arranged all of this. What else can you say but "Thanks guys, I owe you big-time."
As the commercial goes, some things are priceless.
Mike Out.
The lovely Lynne and I took a long weekend in Ft. Lauderdale. We intended to goof off, play in the water, and do absolutely nothing of worth, except have fun. When we go to Ft. Lauderdale, we always visit two of my friends, Brent and Brian Hermann, who both live there.
Brent and Brian are yacht brokers. They buy and sell luxury yachts to people all over the country and the world. We are talking about boats costing several millions of dollars. You can tell that they love their work and it is obvious they are very good at it.
I got to know Brent and Brian when they were frequent visitors to my lake house. Brian loves sailing and Brent loves flying airplanes. I like both. You can see the connection. Put the three of us together and there is never a dull moment. There is not a lick of sense in any of us when we are not supervised by a responsible adult.
I called to give them the info on when Lynne and I would arrive. I got a call back telling me not to schedule anything for 3:00 pm on Saturday, as they had a surprise for me.
Promptly at 3:00 Brian picked me up in his Land Rover and off we went on a 45 minute drive. We ended up at an aviation community near Orlando. The beautiful houses surrounded a private airstrip, which was bounded on both sides by concrete taxiways. Each house had a hanger with a driveway leading to the taxiway. The taxiway could be used to get to the take off position in your airplane or be used to drive out to the highway in your car. I figured out that the surprise was probably going to involve flying.
Lynne and I got out of the car and were introduced to Ted, who had been working on one of his five airplanes. The hangar behind Ted's house was colossal. Ted and Brian spoke privately for a minute and then Ted informed us that his flying buddy, Mike, would be here shortly, as he was inbound in Ted's Piper Navaho ( an eight passenger, twin engine private plane).
A few minutes later I heard the roar of two fire walled Lycoming engines as the Navaho streaked over our heads about 100 ft off the ground at 250 knots. Mike pitched the nose up into a tight left bank, threw down the gear and flaps, and plopped it onto the runway. Nicely done. He taxied it to Ted's house and got out. Introductions were made all around.
Mike said to me, "I understand you can do some aerobatics?"
"Maybe a little," I replied.
"Let me go get my plane and we will have some fun with it," said Mike. Off he went in the golf cart.
About five minutes later, I heard a very throaty growl of an idling engine as Mike taxied up in an Extra 300. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this airplane let me simply say that if you were planning on flying the world aerobatic championship or the Red Bull air races which have recently been on TV, this is the airplane you would want. It has no aeronautical purpose except to do unlimited aerobatics. It is built so strong that the pilot will be incapacitated before the airplane breaks. It weighs 900 lbs and has 350 horsepower. It is an animal. It is not for amateurs. I was very concerned and definitely intimidated. I was going to get to fly this thing?
"Let's go," said Mike. I put on my parachute and strapped into the plane. Mike got in behind me and fired up the engine. We taxied to the takeoff position. I noticed that every time Mike blipped the throttle, the airplane torqued to the left. This thing had power!
Rolling into takeoff position, Mike said," You set? I'll get it off the ground and then it's yours."
"Light it," I said, trying to be cool. I braced myself for the takeoff roll.
Instead of hitting the throttle, Mike said, "Oh, I almost forgot, I never fly this thing without my tunes." Suddenly, "Sweet Home Alabama" came blasting over my earphones, as Mike hit the throttle. The bird rocketed down the runway and leaped into the air and started climbing. Mike flicked it into a right knife edge turn as we shot over the top of Ted's house. A quick waggle of the wings and we were gone. I was in heaven.
There was a low overcast with a 1500 foot ceiling. As were approached the lower layer of cloud, Mike said, "It is all yours. Have fun."
I took hold of the stick and promptly pitched it up 45 degrees , corrected it, and pitched it down 45 degrees. All unintentionally. Any tiny left of right movement of the stick made a 30 degree bank angle. I was wobbling all over the sky.
"Wow, is this thing sensitive!" I said.
"Give it a couple minutes, you will get used to it," Mike said.
I fiddled with it a little more and discovered that if you flew with the stick between your thumb and index finger, it smoothed out. Problem solved.
"See that break in the clouds up there?" Mike asked.
"Got it," I replied.
"Let's try to shoot through that little gap and see if we can find some clear air and sunshine to play in."
I aimed the plane for the gap and sailed through it into clear air in front of us. But on either side were dark clouds going up to maybe 10,000 ft. We were in kind of a giant hallway framed by clouds. It was clear in front of us and above us, but not to the sides.
"I think that this is as good as we are going to get today, but I think there is enough room," said Mike.
"It looks good to me," I said. I then pitched the nose up just a hair and flicked the stick to the right. The Extra instantly rolled 360 degrees in about one second. Wow! That was quick!
"Try a loop," suggested Mike.
I picked up 160 knots, and pulled the stick back. The airplane went vertical pulling 7 g's on the way to the top of the loop. I lost all color in my vision as I grayed out at the top. As I went through the top of the loop inverted and started down the back side, color came back to my vision. I started to pull out of the loop at the bottom and I grayed out again. 7 g's will do that to old pilots, and young ones, too. That airplane would load up the G's like nothing I have ever flown.
"Well, I can see that you can fly. Do whatever you like", said Mike.
So that is just what I did. I did loops, slow rolls, aileron rolls, snap rolls, a spin, a hammerhead, an Immelman and a couple of Cuban eights. All the while listening to Lynrd Skynrd, Allman Brothers and AC/DC. It does not get better. I was having the time of my life. As I have often said, there is no fun like having fun with a lethal toy.
But it did get better.
As always, I flew until I got sick. I told Mike I was queasy, so we headed for home, picking our way through the clouds. Up over one, under another, and around a few. It was breathtaking. Eventually we popped out under the overcast with in sight of the airstrip.
"Your airplane," I said and wiggled the stick to give it back to Mike.
"Unbelievable," said Mike. "Look at that! A B-17!"
Sure enough, there was a B-17 flying straight and level at our 10 o'clock. It is not every day you see a real life, vintage WW 2 bomber actually flying.
"Let's get over there and check it out," said Mike. With that said he turned to intercept the old bomber, which was giving rides to paying passengers at the Pompano airport.
We pulled up along side about 100 yds away and waggled our wings two or three times. Eventually they waved back. This was just too good to be true. There we were flying formation with the bomber that had won the air war in Europe in WW2. Too cool.
Then, to my astonishment, Mike said, "Your airplane, do something so they will remember us." I sat there thinking for a few seconds, and then rolled the plane inverted and flew in formation with the old bomber, upside down. We waved, and they waved back. I laughed out loud.
It does not get better than that. A hard turn to the right and down we went to an uneventful landing.
Writing this, I am so grateful to my friends, Brent and Brian, who arranged all of this. What else can you say but "Thanks guys, I owe you big-time."
As the commercial goes, some things are priceless.
Mike Out.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Then and Now or What Was I Thinking?
The alarm CD would go off at 7:00 am, usually with a tune by Bob Marley and the Wailers. I figured out that you cannot go back to sleep with a reggae beat echoing through your bedroom. I would get up and head to the kitchen, where I would throw a boil-in-bag of rice into a pot of water to boil. Back to the bedroom where I would make the bed. Then to the bathroom where I would shave, shower, wash my hair, and brush my teeth while standing in the shower. It is quicker doing all at once. Out of the shower to the bedroom where I would get dressed in the clothes I laid out the night before. I did not want to waste time looking in the closet for something to wear. After dressing, out to the kitchen where the bag of rice was boiling. Slam it down with a banana and my heart medications and I was out the door to work. Altogether, I had this down to 25 minutes.
Most mornings I had to be in another county for court. Peru and Logansport courts started at 8:00 am, while Kokomo did not start until 9:00 am. I could be in Peru or Logansport by 8:00 am and back in Kokomo by a little after 9:00 am, usually. If I was running late, the girls in the courthouse were good about taking care of me.
While driving to court, I was usually on my cell phone, a file open on the passenger's seat, steering with my right knee. I got so I could easily drive 75 mph this way.
As soon as I got back to Kokomo, I was met at the office door by one of the four secretaries who would say, "Go! They are waiting on you!" I would almost run to the courthouse, reviewing the files as I trotted along.
Court was usually done about 10:30, so back to the office I went to answer the mail. Appointments were scheduled at 11:00 am through 12:30pm, so I had enough time to get to court out of county, if I needed to. While driving, I again was on the cell phone dictating letters or legal pleadings that were needed, or returning calls from a list the secretaries made up.
Back to the office about 3:30 pm for the appointments which were double-booked every 15 minutes. Done at the office about 6:00 pm. Then off to the YMCA to swim my mile. Then home for dinner about 7:00 pm.
Most of the time, I skipped breakfast and rarely had time for lunch. Often dinner was the first meal of the day.
The simple truth is that I loved this hectic treadmill. The best days were when I could say that not one minute was wasted. It was all productive. It made me a lot of money. And that was the point, right?
And then the cancer thing happened. Suddenly, my schedule was not all that important. Suddenly, my work was not all that important. Suddenly, I did not care too much about making a buck. I will not bore you with the details, except to say I decided not to play lawyer anymore. I gave away my office building, parking lot, and everything connected to the law practice. I figured I was dead, so why not get rid of this stuff? I figured that the Kokomo Rescue Mission, located at the rear of my property, could use it. I had 90 days left on this earth, they said.
Except I did not die on schedule. Ha! I am still here! And now……
Yesterday I woke up to Harvey Reid playing a pretty acoustic guitar slide tune. I got up and walked into the kitchen to have some boiled rice and a piece of toast, while I read the newspaper. I petted and talked to my dog, the Iverson. Then I took a ten minute hot shower and made the bed. I put on my jeans, which I had worn for 3 straight days and clean undies and a t-shirt. Out the door I went to sign a contract to teach at IVTech. I took the Iverson with me. After signing the contract, I headed to the oncology center to get some medical reports for my flight surgeon, so I can start up my aerobatic flying again.
From there I headed to the motorcycle shop, where everybody plays music and a guitar and amplifier are always available. I hung out for a little while and headed home to work on a walnut sofa table I am building for the lake house. It is such a pleasure to stand in front of my workbench and look out through the picture window, as I plane or sand the wood, all the time being guarded by the Iverson, who is there to be petted frequently.
I got a cell phone call from a friend who wanted to have lunch, so I packed up the dog and off to lunch I went. After lunch, I stopped by a local guitar shop to see how the owner was coming on a guitar he is building.
On the way home I stopped at another guitar shop to talk to the owner, a former client about a business matter. His shop is loaded with the finest acoustic guitars money can buy. Since he had a student who was there for a lesson, he handed me one of his favorite guitars and suggested I go into the auditorium, sit on the stage and play this guitar. So I did. After about ten minutes, I thought I had better get home. Then it occurred to me that I did not have to get home at all. So I stayed played another three or four guitars for an hour.
I went home and resumed work on the sofa table. Iverson rested on the dog blanket in the shop. Sitting on the stage, playing old blues and ragtime tunes was just plain fun.
Lynne came home and fixed dinner. We talked for awhile. I cleaned up the dishes and the kitchen while Lynne took a shower and went to bed. I played my guitar for an hour, showered, and climbed into bed.
As I lay next to my beautiful, warm wife, I told her that this was the first day in 33 years that was a delight to me. There was no stress; I accomplished a few things; I played music; I hung out with friends and spent time with my dog. It does not get better.
I told her that since my recent tests were clear, maybe I would ride my motorcycle to California or take a week and hike a part of the Appalachian Trail. Since I am rid of that awful office these things are not just daydreams, but are possibilities now.
My shrink told me the other day that his experience with counseling terminally ill patients was that a small number came vibrantly alive in their last days. He said they spent much of their time doing what they felt was truly meaningful to them, deriving great joy from these little things. I now understand this at least a little bit.
My pastor once told me that the Lord delights in what we do if it is done to honor Him. I would not want to say I am a great Christian, but I have a little bit of understanding about what he was talking about. When I build furniture or play music or hang out with friends, or talk with my wife, those are meaningful things to me and are what we all should be doing when the opportunity arises. I hope that these things make the Lord smile. I never did any of that before. I was always working.
I think I missed a lot in my earlier life, but I am trying to make up for the loss with the time I have remaining. Old dogs can learn new tricks. Iverson said so and dogs cannot lie.
Mike out.
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