I've been on a new writing schedule for a couple of weeks now and feel pleased to recognize the productivity potential it contains. I have to pat myself on the back for the concerted effort of getting in bed at a reasonable time and I of course have to thank my wife for her support. I can't accomplish much without her and all that she does.
Anyway, we'll be into the 700s with the next installment. I feel certain that my vast readership will have "700 Club" t-shirts printed and in distribution by Tuesday.
You people rock.
Jokes aside: Thank you for reading.
Eight Hundred
Twenty-Five: Pitt State Spanish teacher
Can’t recall
the dude’s name, but he hailed from Bolivia, and used to bust my balls for
being late to class. He dug Rumillajta a ton and I think he gave me a ‘C’. He
set me up for appropriate studies in Durango, though, so thanks, dude.
Eight Hundred
Twenty-Four: Reinaldo Alcazar, instructor of Intermediate Spanish
Conversation
Only
remember what the dude looked like. Think he was tight, dug the girls in the
class, but he did a good enough job to get me onto…
Eight Hundred
Twenty-Three: Lourdes Carrasco, instructor of Intermediate Spanish I
Sweet lady,
great teacher. She dug me, which made her course a breeze. Glad I took her
summer offering.
Eight Hundred
Twenty-Two: Catalina Aguilar, instructor of Hispanic Culture &
Civilization I: Spain
I should’ve
cut myself off in the Spanish classes before enrolling in this one as my other
areas of study and responsibility demanded too much of my focus and energy.
That said, Catalina rocked. She taught a hard course and demanded a ton out of
us. I think at one point she got frustrated with us and told us we’d better
figure our shit out if we were going to take courses higher than this one. By
that point in the term I’d already peaced out on trying in there. I had way
more to take care of than reading Don
Quixote in Vosotros. My bad. Good experience, though.
Eight Hundred
Twenty-One: potatoes
Might just
be the Irish in me, but man do I love me some spuds. Chips, mashers, hash,
bakers, fries, tots, skins, all of it. Little nutritional value and high on the
sensory-satisfaction scale. Right up my alley.
Eight Hundred Twenty:
campfires
I've only experienced a fraction of stuff that makes one feel human in that
profound, spiritual way, positive or otherwise, but to my knowledge, not many
things can touch that zoned-out mental chasm we enter when we sit around
burning wood. I love the feel of its warmth, the limitless time spent gazing
into it, the constant need to nudge and poke and rearrange it. I love the smell
of campfire smoke, the sound of hissing heat, the pop of its molecular
shifting. Campfires give us presence and safety, a reason for being.
Eight Hundred
Nineteen: annual-cost analysis
Discussing
money sucks. Seldom does such a conversation flow unless its participants have
come to silent conclusions that one another have similar financial backgrounds.
I say this because I’ve always found it difficult to think about and discuss
the economical background from which my sister and I came. The simplest
analysis covers two components: a) our every need was met, and b) compared to
those around us we were pretty poor. This meant that we worked -- at young ages
-- for most everything we wanted, and in some cases that grew to include our
needs.
Somewhere
along the way, I became obsessed with getting length and life out of everything
I purchased, and when an item appeared near the end of its use, I would
calculate the dollars spent versus the years in my possession, and from there
determine the level of satisfaction gained from the buy. Now, as an old dude, I
find this peculiar considering my lengthy history of impulse purchases. I still
do it, though. I still do it, still find value in it, and because I’ve been
doing it for so long, I like it.
Eight Hundred
Eighteen: the Rodeo
I bought
this car from Shawn Weissenbach at Molle Toyota and did so when not there to
shop. I never named this rig, but its forest-green handsomeness made me feel
like an adult driving it, and I might’ve hung onto it for longer had the
following three things not happened in a brief span:
1) the
six-disc changer crapped out and left the loaded music irretrievable
2) the
suspension seemed to die, making every pothole and pebble feel monstrous
3) someone
slashed my two front tires and carved “Not a Parking Space” in the hood while I
slept one night
Good car, though. I enjoyed it
while I had it, but to be honest, I never miss it. Probably ‘cause I never
named it. Oh, well.
(Update: I wrote an
entry about synchronicity in this series. Two weeks ago we wound up at Molle
Toyota to look at a new car for my wife. Who greeted us? Shawn Weissenbach. We
bought a vehicle that day, but not from him. I left feeling like I’d been
unfaithful. Now I have a new Molle friend, though, and his name is Nathan
Coker. His name is Nathan Coker. His name is Nathan Coker. That’s for all you Fight
Club kids out there.)
Eight Hundred
Seventeen: Festival 8
Six years
ago the wife and I flew out to California for a Halloween weekend of Phish.
Things become blurry as time passes, but not too many details of this trip have
yet. From the guys at KCI carrying the loose, unrolled sleeping bags to the
shuttle, to the nightmare bus ride from LAX to the Empire Polo Grounds, to all
of the Halloween costumes, to the “eye surgery” booth, to the insane amount of life-size
artwork on display at the grounds’ center to the acoustic set with free coffee
and doughnuts. The last-night pyrotechnics, the glowing mini spaceship, our
festival camping company, the night nap while waiting for the departing bus,
the going separate ways home, the request of an airport employee to watch my
stuff so I could brush my teeth. Such an experience. I’ll never forget it.
Forever thankful.
Eight Hundred
Sixteen: Mary Fran Barnard
We always
called my mom’s mom Nana. I think back on my youth and recall what sweetness
she had inside of her. She smiled often, laughed with heartiness, engaged in
conversation, hugged and kissed. I’m thankful that I still have those memories
of her because for some time I’d only recalled her as grumpy, thankless, and
needy. In reality I saw her twice in three years almost a decade before she
died and prior to those visits another decade had passed. For me to opine on
her mindstate that late in life would reek of unfairness. I don’t know what
kind of woman, wife, or mom Nana was, but I’m going to try and remember her for
how I first knew her: warm and loving.
Eight Hundred
Fifteen: Marggie Johnson
I can’t say
anything half as nice about my dad’s mom. Oft-touted as cold and heartless, I
saw Grandma Marggie maybe five times my whole life, and I’ll choose to remember
her in the excited, almost-warm fashion in which I saw her for the final time.
Somewhere inside of her I think she meant well. I don’t believe she carried
malice in her heart or ill will in her soul, but I don’t think anyone taught
her how to be. I’m thankful that I knew her, though. If nothing else, she
taught me how to be frank.
Eight Hundred
Fourteen: Genny Beck
As I wrote
with James Beck, I knew my stepmom’s parents better than either of my
biological grandparents and suffice to say blessings rained down on me and my
sister Tiffany in that Jim and Genny embraced us -- from the beginning -- as
family. I never got to spend significant adult time around Grandma Beck and I wish
that I could have. By the time I had a fraction of a head on my shoulder she
had lost her vision, become wheelchair-bound with such frailty and fatigue that
I think intimidation prevented me from excessive engagement with her at family
functions. The Genny I remember from my youth seemed a curious lady. No doubt a
tremendous woman, wife, mother, and grandmother, I can’t quite determine what
level of closeness one could obtain with her. Sometimes it seemed as though she
a permanent guard up, that she didn’t want anyone too close. It didn’t matter, though. She loved, nonetheless, and
I’m gracious to call myself one of her grandkids.
Eight Hundred
Thirteen: unnamed friend #14
I’ve only
spent time with this dude in select settings; we share the same two recreational
passions. We’ve known one another for over 10 years and have seldom strayed
from engagements of our primary sorts. This guy, though, has the biggest heart
of anyone I’ve ever known. Through no obligation he has tolerated the massive
annoyingness that I imagine comes with hanging out with me for extended periods
of time. I know he’s come through some tough family situations to get to the
space in which he lives today, so perhaps he’s someone I should model. Leisure
caused our paths to cross, and I couldn’t be thankful enough for that.
Eight Hundred Twelve:
Uncle Dale
I don’t
remember how many years I’d known him when I discovered that James Beck had
adopted Genny’s son Dale, but I remember having to scoop my jaw up off of the
ground. It still kind of blows my mind. I remember questioning Uncle Dale about
it as we visited his folks’ grave sites. I wish I would’ve had a tape recorder
going for that conversation because Uncle Dale tends to be a man of few words.
Don’t get me wrong: He engages and displays warmth and affection, but you
wouldn’t be too far off if you labeled him as a quiet cat. In that moment,
though, he spoke without restriction for several minutes, and hearing him
articulate the thoughts in his head soothed me.
I have
always had a tremendous amount of respect for Uncle Dale and when someone you
admire displays a rare openness the moment can have a medicinal feel and this
was true that day.
Uncle Dale
has always shown his family what a loving husband looks like. He taught his
boys how to be intelligent, responsible, loving people. I have known Uncle Dale
for 30 years now, and I cannot recall him ever losing his cool. For three
decades I have admired the talent in his hands, his way infrequent way with
words, and his resiliency. I’m proud to call myself his nephew.
Eight Hundred Eleven:
Uncle Mike
Where do
you even start with Mike Beck?
I’ll tell
you where: Not that you need a reason in our family, but if you ever found
yourself dreading a family gathering and sought one piece of motivation to get
yourself there, it would be Uncle Mike.
Uncle Mike
has held the cool/funny-uncle role since 1985 and probably even longer than
that. He used to be the wild uncle that rode motorcycles and ATVs and let his
eight-year-old nephew drink some of his beer. In time he became the father of
three beautiful children that worked long hours and faced health issues in his
family. He added the grandfather feather to his cap a little over a year ago,
and has maybe become more obsessed with music than at any other point in his
life. I wouldn’t call Mike Beck graceful, but I will say that he has weathered
time in an admirable fashion. He’d probably still get on an ATV and he’d
probably still let his nephew sample his barley beverage.
Uncle Mike
brings happiness and laughter to our family in a way that only he can. We
should all be grateful for him. I know I am.
Eight Hundred Ten:
that fall-’95-tour weekend run
Twenty
years ago this October McConnell and I hopped into Pale Face and made the
Durango-to-Kansas City haul on a Wednesday. The level of irresponsibility I
executed here by missing three days of classes remains remarkable, but
nonetheless we arrived at night. By 4:00 Thursday afternoon a caravan of four
vehicles and 20 people gathered outside my mom’s house and when we made our way
to Municipal Auditorium, our group doubled. During the first set of that
weekend’s Phish shows, my sister and her crew almost didn’t find me, Nate Wolz
almost lost his freaking mind, and at setbreak, big Emily blacked out, seized,
and vomited white foam. We were off to a good start.
In Cedar
Rapids the next night, Tiffany and I sat in seats, stage left. Afterwards we
hung out on the roof of a parking garage with the Quad Cities portion of the
crew that had met us in Kansas City. I have no idea where we slept.
In Lincoln
on Saturday the entire general-admission floor leapt in unison to “Sparkle.”
Ryan Mattes drew directions to his Omaha apartment on his arm with a Sharpie,
and somehow we found it. En route we could only do three things: 1) discuss how
terribly lost we were, 2) ask one another if it smelled like McConnell had pooped
in the truck’s bed, and 3) laugh.
On Sunday I
dropped Tiffany in Kansas City and listened to a Steve Bono-led Chiefs handle
the Denver Broncos at Mile High Stadium as I drove across Kansas. The weather,
however, turned after dusk, and before long a Colorado state trooper ushered me
off of I-70 as he closed the highway’s gate. I slept in the back of my truck in
the parking lot of Rip Griffin’s Truck Stop in Limon and they didn’t reopen the
road until after noon the next day. So make that four days of classes I missed.
Right
around the time we hit the 55-mph mark in the truck, I hit a dry-ice patch and
spun out of control, coming to a stop in the ditch of a median some 300 feet
from the freeway. I didn’t sit there too long, though, as some do-gooder in a
Hummer traversed that stretch of I-70 pulling people -- and there were many of
us -- out with his chain and push bar. Unreal.
Quite the
weekend, though. All for some Phish shows with my kid sister. Such a blast. So
grateful.
Eight Hundred Nine:
Titan
My wife
likes to tell people I hate our cat.
I do not
hate our cat.
I do not
care for cats and our cat drives me insane, but I do not hate him.
Our cat has
made it his late-life’s mission to purge my soul of peace via his incessant
wailing and his disgusting catness, but I do not hate him. He came to us by way
of adoption after unnamed friend number 12 took his own life, and for that I
will always love him as he exists as a reminder of life’s challenges and
brevity.
I’m glad we
have him.
I wish that
poop did not cling to his fur and wind up on my basement floor. I think Maine
Coons are cool, but I wish that their grooming did not result in puked hair
turds scattered about our home. Titan means no ill will; he can be called a
good boy and we will miss him when he leaves us. He has never missed a meal yet
refuses to not remind us that feeding time will arrive in an hour. I wish cats
could be let outside to relieve themselves as managing the litter box disgusts
me more than most any other task, but contrary to what my wife would have you
believe, I do not hate Titan. I love him and include him here for good reason.
Eight Hundred Eight:
Otis the Vespa
When my father
died, his wife gifted me her late husband’s scooter. The 150-cc Italian motor
bike’s relic status rests both a) in my garage and b) on my list of prized
possessions. I did -- for a spell -- ride it with regularity, but have not --
at all -- for several years now. One day I will ride it again, but life with
children has pushed it down the priority list. It will always remind me of my
father, and although it has served as the source of occasional headache, I’m
happy to call it mine.
Eight Hundred Seven:
Boy Scouts
Participating
in scouting taught me more than I could express here. I’m grateful my mother
enrolled me in it at a young age. I learned so many invaluable skills from so
many great peers and leaders and look forward to the opportunity to scout with
my son.
Eight Hundred Six:
Camp Bartle
I imagine
Camp Bartle reigns as scout-function supreme for most of my scouting peers.
Nothing says figure yourself out like 10 days in Osceola.
Eight Hundred Five:
the tribe of Mic-O-Say
Witnessing
the activities and ceremonies associated with the tribe of Mic-O-Say signifies
why Camp Bartle resides as the supreme scouting experience. The only thing
better than witnessing them: participating in them. For two years I longed for
inclusion in what I’d seen (and more so what I had not) the older scouts engage
in as members and inductee members of Mic-O-Say, and I’ll never forget that
third summer when I heard my name called for Foxman. In my fourth year I became
a Brave; in my fifth I earned Warrior.
Had I not
deemed partying and work more important, I might have returned to Bartle for a
sixth summer, but my cards held other contents. I have once been back to Bartle
and took great pride in walking beyond the painted white rocks. I anticipate
the day that I get back there again as Warrior Distant Stalking Eagle. Bartle
and Mic-O-Say enhanced my idea of spirituality. They showed me what
responsibility meant and they introduced me to the idea of meditation. I carry
tremendous honor as a member and eternal gratitude for my experiences.
Eight Hundred Four:
Lamar Hunt
I can’t
imagine growing up without the Kansas City Chiefs as a huge part of my life.
That Lamar Hunt founded the American Football League and selected Kansas City
as the spot his franchise would call home helped define who I am. The late Mr.
Hunt never had the trophy named for him placed in his hands, but I can picture
the day in which his son receives his father’s namesake prize and a colorful glory
will rain. Thank you, Mr. Hunt, for the many gifts you gave our city, but above
all, thank you for making us Chiefs.
Eight Hundred Three:
Ewing Kauffman
At some
point in the 1950s, the sporting gods decided that Kansas City would soon
receive the blessing of great sports-team ownership. Just as I cannot imagine
life without the Chiefs, my childhood as a Royals fan taught me how to dream
and served as a vehicle for father-son bonding. Like the Hunts, the Kauffmans
have done so much for our city, but above all they gave us the Royals. Last
October served as a great reminder for when an outing to the ballpark meant so
much. It hadn’t been that way for a long time, but through no fault of Ewing
and Muriel Kauffman. Thanks, Mr. K., for who you were and what you gave us.
Eight Hundred Two:
David Glass
Somebody had
to buy the team and it could have been worse. It could have been Marge Schott
or something. The procurer could’ve moved the club to another city or appeared
to have less inspiration and motivation than David Glass (Note: Seems impossible, I know.) does. So, thanks for buying the
Royals, Mr. Glass. We’re glad you kept them around, even if you don’t seem to
get what passion for sports means.
Eight Hundred One:
the YMCA of the Rockies
When I
opened the mailed correspondence stating I’d been accepted for employment at
the famous resort, it would come to signify the holding of my own St. Louis
Arch in my hands; the United States Postal Service delivered me a personal
gateway to the west. I worked my ass off that summer in exchange for room,
board, three squares and two dollars an hour. It was worth every penny and
more.
The food
didn’t register as four-star and we didn’t sleep on comfy new kings. We waited
for available shower stalls and shared one rotary phone amongst an entire
floor. If you were a parent calling your kid and were lucky enough to get
through, you had to know your child’s room number, because whoever answered
probably didn’t know your son or daughter. Not in the early summer, anyway. I
scrubbed shit stains from toilet bowls and wiped pubes out of bathtubs all day
for an entire summer. What I earned I spent on music, weed, and beer. All my
needs were met; my days off: pure play.
Working at
the YMCA of the Rockies -- even as a housekeeper -- served as a phenomenal
first step to figuring out who I was, what I wanted to do, and where I wanted
to be. Incredible experience. Forever grateful.
No comments:
Post a Comment