Getting My Hands Dirty

I have a couple of good friends who are in the construction trade. As independent contractors, they make their living building things. Big things. They spend the majority of their workdays using manly trucks full of power tools to dig, saw, sand, drill, hammer, mix, fasten and grind all sorts of materials and turn them into things with addresses.  

I’m fascinated with what my hammer-wielding friends do for a living because it’s just so dang cool to be able to build something out of nothing. That, and these guys get to wear leather tool belts all day. They hit things with sledge hammers and cut through steel plates with white hot acetylene torches. The only careers above it on the testosterone scale would be bull rider, F-16 jockey and mixed martial arts champion. Or being a member of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team or a Navy SEAL. That would be cool, too.

In the morning, contractors show up on the job site, which is often no more than a dirt lot. Then, they keep showing up day after day and soon there’s a foundation and then framed walls and a roof and electrical and plumbing systems and insulation and windows and trim and … before you know it, a building is there that wasn’t there before you and your crew started.

Sometimes I’m envious of how my friends make their living. After all, when I go to work each morning, I don’t face an empty lot but an empty page on a monitor. My tools, a desk and laptop computer, laser printer and wireless router, would look ridiculous hanging from a belt around my waist. After all, I tell stories that (hopefully) enlighten, entertain and sell things. The stories my builder buddies make are parts of buildings that people live or work in, take shelter from storms in, raise families in – you get the idea.

The results of my work any given month can be saved onto a USB drive or printed out and stashed away in a file folder with lots of room to spare. My contractor friends can drive around their hometowns past actual physical structures they’ve built with their own hands. How cool must that be?

It’s no wonder then, that whenever I get a chance to actually build something out of raw materials, it usually winds up being a thoroughly relaxing and satisfying experience. Take this past cold, stormy weekend, for example. In spite of looming writing deadlines, I spent much of Saturday and Sunday in my garage building a custom, rustic-framed chalkboard. My wife had seen something similar in a gift shop on one of our weekend travels last summer and thought it would look wonderful in our guest bedroom. Unfortunately, the price tag on the unique piece was higher than the mountain town we were visiting, so we walked out empty handed. Unbeknownst to my wife, however, I had made enough mental notes about the chalkboard’s design to make one myself and surprised my wife with it on her birthday a few weeks ago.

My crafty project was such a hit with the Mrs., she asked if I’d be able to design and build a different one for the wall in our dining room. Oh, and could I possibly have it finished and hung before our company arrives for Easter supper? (Heavy sigh.) Okay, if you insist.

And so, I wound up back in my garage this past weekend with the radio blasting my favorite computer-tech-guy-talk-show, making a cacophony of noise using as many power tools as I possibly could without tripping circuit breakers, sending clouds of sawdust out into the steady rain falling on our driveway, and generally having as much fun as a big, balding, middle-aged kid can have.

Okay, so projects like these aren’t even close to building a house. Duh. But actually making something physical that will be around for years to come – and holding a nail gun in my hands instead of a wireless keyboard – it’s a pretty good feeling.

Maybe I should start wearing a framing hammer and carpenter’s belt while writing at my desk. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my column first published yesterday, 3.29.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

Always Something to Celebrate

Just ask any of my close friends or immediate family members; I am one painfully, obsessively, ridiculously fanatical guy when it comes to celebrating (or at least recognizing with great fanfare and proclamation) any and all milestones. Be it birthdays (yes, even our dogs’), anniversaries of any kind, new jobs begun, old goals reached, pounds lost, memorabilia found, first steps or last graduations. My poor unfortunate family members will often pretend to be as excited as I am about any given commemorative occasion. More often than not, however, I’m met with exasperated sighs and rolled eyes whenever I ask, “Do you know what today is?!?”

For example, each October 24^th for the past 15 years, I’ve made it a point to take my dear wife out to dinner in recognition of another year of my self-employment. Granted, some years we’ve had a whole lot more to celebrate than recently. But nevertheless – not having to deal with combat driving to and from an office in the mid-Wilshire district and waste hours of every day in meetings listening to some self-impressed marketing monkey with an MBA and a penchant PowerPoint decks – is reason enough, I think, for an annual dinner out to mark the occasion.

One of my favorite annual rituals is to sit at a table on New Year’s day with a drawer-full of various colored Sharpie and highlighter pens, last year’s calendar, and three new, unwritten-upon calendars in front of me – one to hang in our kitchen for our primary family use, one that will live all year under the wireless keyboard on my office desk and one small, day-planner type that I carry with me to client meetings. I spend hours the first day of every January transferring each of the birthdays, anniversaries, school dates, work dates, planned trips and outings, and anything else that I feel deserves recognition during the upcoming year.

Depending on its perceived significance (in my mind, at least) each event listed will either get a simple underline, a colored underline, “stars” drawn next to it, a colored highlighter frame, multiple colored, concentric highlighter frames, lovingly drawn red hearts of various sizes (for wedding anniversaries and Valentine’s day, of course), cartoon fireworks, streamers, balloons, confetti and well, as I said – I’m a tad bit obsessive about this stuff.

Over the years, it’s always been fun to surprise a good friend or business associate by remembering their birthday or anniversary. I’ve lost track of how many people have – upon receiving a card or email from me on their special date – said something like, “How in the world did you remember that? My own husband/wife/kids/parents didn’t even remember!” Of course, with all the calendar/reminder apps now in use on everyone’s smart phones and lap tops, and with Facebook automatically sending daily reminders of friends’ birthdays, it’s taken a lot of the fun and uniqueness out of my habit. To surprise anyone today takes the mailing of an actual greeting card to their residence. Talk about your old school tactics.   

Okay, so having explained my passion for celebrating milestones of almost every and any kind, you’ll understand why I can’t let this, my 200^th official “My Thoughts, Exactly” column, pass without at least a mention. So, ta-da! Consider it mentioned and duly celebrated. I have now had the joy and privilege of writing two hundred weekly columns for editor, Robin Goldsworthy.

Some readers may remember that my first seventy-some-odd columns were published when Robin was editor of the now-defunct Crescenta Valley Sun, whose parent company was the Los Angeles Times. When the above-mentioned dysfunctional parent unceremoniously killed its offspring in 2009, Robin recognized the resulting void in community coverage, held her breath, said a whole bunch of fervent prayers and boldly launched the Crescenta Valley Weekly on her own dime. (Many locals have celebrated her efforts ever since, I might add.)

So what’s next on my calendar of celebrations? Since you asked, tomorrow just happens to be “Near Miss Day” to commemorate that fateful event in 1989 when a mountain-sized asteroid passed within 500,000 miles of earth. Whew, that was close. Then, Saturday marks the birthday of legendary magician and escape-artist Harry Houdini, although it’s probably too late to make reservations at the Magic Castle. Next, break out the ouzo because Sunday is Greece Independence Day. (Already? Wow, time flies.) Monday is actor Leonard Nimoy’s birthday, may he live long and prosper. And next Tuesday marks the annual Blessing of the Horses, Tractors and Cars in Osweiler, Luxembourg. Just because I won’t be attending in person, doesn’t mean I can’t raise a glass to the occasion.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This post is a longer version of my column first published yesterday, 3.22.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

A Mammoth Loss

In the fall of 1994, my parents bought their dream vacation home up in the Northern California resort town of Mammoth Lakes. Because of their investment and generosity, my own family has been blessed beyond measure to enjoy innumerable weeks and extended weekends up there for these past almost twenty years. We have escaped to this breathtaking mountain retreat for as long and as often as we possibly can throughout any given year.

When back home in the Crescenta Valley (in Los Angeles County), however, my personal link back to the mountains has always been our wonderful next-door neighbor and full-time Mammoth resident, Evie. A gourmet chef and professional caterer, Evie has always let me know right away by email whenever a storm would dump snow on our neighborhood. She would attach pictures taken from her living room window of the back deck on our family cabin, to show us how much snow had fallen. Or how the wildflowers were growing in the summer. Or of a deer or bear running wild between our homes. Her emails from 300 miles away have always been a welcome respite from the humdrum and ho-hum of “normal” life and a reminder that high-altitude adventure and escape is only a six-hour drive away.

As much as the towering Jeffrey pines, jagged granite peaks and snowmelt-fed, gem-blue lakes, Evie has been an integral part of our family’s Mammoth experience and – of course – of our many memories of long, leisurely vacations and weekend getaways up there. On countless occasions, Evie and her husband, Paul, have graciously invited us to walk the winding dirt path between our high-altitude homes to join them for a multi-course, expertly prepared dinner.

If there was a limit to her hospitality, we’ve never found it. When our daughter got married several years ago and spent part of her honeymoon up in Mammoth, Evie hand-delivered a specially prepared dessert to the happy couple to help celebrate the occasion. 

Two winters ago, our son drove up to the cabin late one Friday night with friends on what was supposed to be a long Valentine’s weekend snowboarding trip. Upon arrival and after digging through a deep bank of snow to unlock the front door, our son and company were greeted with no power and the sound of rushing water. Lots of water. They quickly discovered that a water pipe had burst in an upstairs bathroom more than a week before their arrival and had been flooding both upstairs and downstairs ever since. When Evie found out about the disaster, she insisted that our son and his friends stay at their house for the weekend, but also cooked wonderful meals for them their entire stay.

I’m writing all of this in somewhat of a state of shock. That’s because late this past Sunday night I received one of those calls that you almost immediately wish you’d never answered. It was from Evie’s husband, calling with the unbelievable news that she had collapsed and died earlier that day. She was fine on Saturday and gone on Sunday.

How could that be? Evie had emailed me just this past week with a report of fresh new snowfall. When were we coming up again, she asked, like she always did. And if so, would we have time to join them for dinner? Again, like always.

We did not share a common faith or political views. But that never seemed to matter, because we spent so much time sharing our mutual appreciation for – and enjoyment of – the mountains, good conversation and even better food. (It makes me want to gather our current crop of politicians together in a glorious place like Mammoth and see what happens.)

Although most of our state is emerging from one of the warmest and driest winters on record, this past weekend winter suddenly turned painfully harsh in Mammoth Lakes. For my family in particular, it has left a chill that we’ll feel for many seasons to come. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 3.15.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

The Boy(s) in the Band

Forget John, Paul, George and Ringo. In 1967 the hottest band in the Crescenta Valley was “Mother’s Complaint,” whose members consisted of Rene, Kevin, Dennis and yours truly.

In spite of the fact that I’ve made a living as a writer most of my adult life, I won’t be surprised if during my welcome interview at the Pearly Gates I’m asked, “So, didn’t you know you were supposed to be a drummer?!?”

I had enough clues. From banging incessantly on the copper bottoms of my mother’s Revere Ware with wooden spoons, to scouring the used drums for sale ads every week trying to build my dream drum set; a double-bass Ludwig kit with a five-inch, chrome-over-brass Sonor snare and full rack of hand-hammered Zildjian cymbals. Yep, the drumming gene was strong in me.

Contrary to the stereotypical “garage band” label, our group rarely parked in anyone’s garage. Since my Dad was loath to inflict anything even remotely rock-music-related or loud on our neighbors (unless, of course, it was running a big snarling V8 engine that he was working on “uncorked” painfully early on a Saturday morning). He more than frowned on my band rehearsing in the garage where the sound could waft throughout our neighborhood. In fairness, we did have one terminally cranky neighbor who seemed to have the CV Sheriff on speed dial and would call to report my brothers and me or any of our friends for perpetrating even the slightest perceived infraction of a parking, noise or some other imaginary ordinance. And so, our band practiced in our own living rooms, rotating homes each time so as not to annoy the same parents and siblings too often.

Memories of those marvelous, magical, musical years came flooding back to me this past weekend when former band-mate (and fellow La Crescenta native), Dennis Cant sent me an email with pictures attached of our former band. Along with a couple snapshots of us playing at some St. James Catholic school function (where our two other band mates were students) and at a Battle of the Bands in the gym at Rosemont Jr. High (where Dennis and I would soon attend), he sent a priceless picture of our band posed for the camera in our coolest rock star outfits – matching white short-sleeved dress shirts, skinny Beatlesque ties and wildly colored, paisley patterned homemade vests sewn by – you guessed it – our mothers.

We stayed together as a band from fifth grade through our senior years in high school – changing a member or two every couple of years and changing our name to “Dr. Livingston’s Experiment in Flower Power” and then “The Millennium Odyssey.”  (Alright, so I wasn’t a writer yet, okay?)  I spent considerably more time designing and creating our various band logos that I mounted on the front head of my bass drum than I ever did on any homework assignment. (Sorry, Mom & Dad.) As our band’s members graduated from high school and moved away to college, the band finally broke up. I grew from goofy teenager into a goofier young adult and soon realized that the only thing I wanted more than a career in music was a wife and family. So sometime after college, the late nights at clubs, gigs every weekend and holiday, and the pathetically puny musician’s income were gradually replaced by more sensible, sustainable pursuits.

In theory, at least.

Granted, writing hasn’t always been a career path that allows for much (if any) financial security. Or exotic vacations. Or many other things, for that matter. But, I’m more than okay with that. Because, unlike what life would likely have been had I pursued my passion for music, I’ve had the blessing and privilege of being home and available for the better part of my marriage and our kids’ lives.

And that, dear readers, is music to my ears. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 3.8.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.

A Time of Wonders

Increasingly, we’re living in a land of wonders. I submit for your consideration:

I wonder … if anyone else finds it unbelievable that the California Department of Health Services has just made it possible for boys ( “boys” being the operative word here) as young as 12 to order condoms – free of charge, mind you – by mail or online? Because, as every progressive adult knows, lack of access to free condoms is the problem with today’s youth.

I wonder … now that Alaska Airlines has ended their 30 year tradition of including a small prayer card with passengers’ in-flight meals, if they will react as decisively to the deluge of letters management has reportedly received from customers who are offended and saddened by the removal of the cards? Apparently, a small number of travelers had complained that their right to “separation of religion and travel” was being violated. I’m not kidding. Maybe Alaska Air should go completely “PC” and place a condom on every tray so passengers can practice safe flying.  

I wonder … if advances in television technology are contributing to the problem of obesity today? Think about it – as TVs have gotten slimmer, people have gotten fatter. Coincidence?

I wonder … why dog owners have been so effectively trained to carry plastic bags to pick up their pooches’ poops, but the same courtesy hasn’t yet caught on with owners of horses? Granted, equestrians would need to strap rolls of Hefty bags to their saddles to clean up after their steeds, but I for one would certainly appreciate the gesture. Last Saturday on an otherwise wonderful bike ride in, around and through the Southern California neighborhoods of La Canada, South Pasadena and Altadena, pedaling near the landmark Devil’s Gate Dam recreational area required some rather artful dodging around many massive mounds of aromatic and well-used hay. Talk about your road (apple) hazards.  

I wonder … if the moral termites in the programming department at ABC Television would be so quick to green light a series with the title of  “GJB” or “GMB” as they have their latest anti-Christian comedy; “GCB”? Note to the entertainment industry: we’d be slightly more receptive to your laughable claims of diversity, enlightenment and tolerance when your shows equally mock and/or ridicule Muslims, Jews, Hindus and, oh yeah … Democrats. (Now THAT would really be a dangerous and edgy move!) This might come as a huge surprise to the entertainment industry elite in their insular and self-congratulating worlds, but it ain’t bold, creative or even remotely original to routinely slander and malign Christians and/or conservatives. Frankly, your brand of Christophobia is easy and expected. Come on, kids. Lift the lids just a teeny bit on those supposedly open minds of yours and try something new. Please.

I wonder … if I’m the only one who shops for greeting cards, chooses exactly the right one out of hundreds of options, and then wastes a ton of time trying to remember where I found that card because for some reason I think only the envelopes in THAT slot will fit my card. As if 99.9% of the other cards and envelopes right in front of me aren’t the same size!?!?  I always feel like such a ditz when it dawns on me that any envelope of any color will fit the card in my hand and I’ve just totally wasted ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

I wonder … if all Prius vehicles make that odd sound as they drive by – you know the one that sounds like someone laughing their head off? I usually hear it when I’m standing by the side of my truck at the gas station and watching the total on the pump roll past three figures. Sometimes I have a hard time hearing the strange laughing-Prius sound over my own sobbing, but I’m pretty sure it’s happening.

See what I mean? Wonders all around us. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a post of my column first published yesterday, 3.1.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2012 WordChaser, Inc.