First Dates

Do you remember your very first date?

Through the wonders of the internet and Classmates.com I was contacted by a high school friend, Judy Friddle, whom I was delighted to hear from and catch up with what she has been up to for the last 35 years.

It took me a couple of days to recall, but she was my very first date! I remember it now so vividly because, through no fault of Judy's, it was a disaster!

In high school I was pretty outgoing but, like most teenage boys, lacked a certain confidence level when dealing with girls. I had postponed dating, through sheer terror of rejection, until my senior year in high school when I finally, after dozens of dry runs, called Judy for a date. She apparently accepted, because I cannot recall any of the conversation, and we decided that we would go to her high school play (she attended Pinole High School and I attended DeAnza High School). It seemed like a safe first date.

Having no car of my own, I was forced to ask the old man for the use of his car, a green 1965 Ford Galaxie 500 with an awesome 390 cubic inch engine. His response was typical of any dad... a short and sweet "NO!". I pleaded with him, and after finally confessing that I had a "date", he responded:

"With a girl?"

Apparently pleased that it was indeed a girl, Dad relented and agreed to let me use the Olson family's "second car", an old, grey, 1960 Pontiac Catalina station wagon that my Dad salvaged from some fellow worker who was ready to completely junk it. Dad would tinker on that car for many weekends and finally got it running but I was always suspicious about it's lifespan and it had a annoying quirk of refusing to restart if you were ever listening to the radio.

I was dressed and ready to go about 5 hours early. Finally, after giving myself ample time to drive to Judy's house in Pinole I cruised in my pimped out ride and being a typical teenager...I turned on the radio!

Ater the normal meet the parent pleasantries we headed to the Catalina station wagon and I dutifully opened the door for her and hopped into the driver's seat, turned the ignition and...

Nada! Nothing, ziltch, not a peep from that freakin' pile of dung...it was dead as a doornail!

Bent on showing my prowess as a mechanic I quickly popped the hood and stood with all the masculinity I could muster staring at the jumble of wires, pipes, filters and belts that comprised the beast's innards.

"Must be a dead battery," I said as I leaned around the hood.

The thought then came to my mind that we could "compression start" the vehicle by getting it rolling. As fortune would have it, Judy lived at the top of a street that was straight with a slight downhill slope to the barrier at the end of the street.

"Slide over to the driver's side, put the car in neutral, and I will push you, then you can start the car!" I instructed confidently.

The old Catalina station wagon started her journey down the street with me pushing from behind and began to pick up speed where I was basically holding on to the back of the car. It was at that point that the ignorance of youth, and my inability to inherit anything remotely mechanical from my father, was made manifest by the fact:

YOU CANNOT COMPRESSION START AN AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION!

Now the Catalina station wagon is really rolling with me in a dead sprint behind it! I'm yelling to Judy to hit the brakes which she attempts with her entire 5'2'' frame standing on the brake pedal. The car is not stopping because, of course, with the ignition off, the power brakes are not going to work.

A vision of the Catalina station wagon and my date careening down the street and crashing through the dead-end barrier flashed through my mind when finally, the Catalina station wagon began to slow and stopped just short of the barrier.

Crestfallen from this lame attempt, I knew that my date was toast. Fortunately, Judy showed some compassion and said,

"It's okay, we'll just walk!"

We walked 4 miles to her school with me trying to make small talk and mentally scolding myself for being such an idiot. We got there well after the school play had started and luckily got a ride back to Judy's house from one her friend's mom.

The humiliation was almost unbearable.

Judy invited me inside for ice cream and after a little while I left, walked down to the end of the street got into that stupid, grey, Pontiac Catalina station wagon and turned the key.

It started right up.

I drove home with the radio blasting so loud you couldn't hear me swearing at that old Pontiac Catalina station wagon.

Reunion Psyche

Why do we go to high school reunions?

Simple. We love seeing how old everyone else looks and "catching up" with your classmates.

For guys, it takes about 5-7 minutes to catch up with another guy you haven't seen for 30 years. The conversation goes something like this:

Me: "Bob?"

Bob: "Jeff?"

Me: "You look the same!" (Lie. He looks like he's been run over by a herd of yaks)

Bob: "You too..." (Lie. He thinks I look like I have been run over by a herd of yaks, TWICE!)

Me: "Whatchubeenupto?"

Bob: "Divorced three times, jail once, retired from Chevron and livin' large in Ely, Nevada, you?"

Me: "Ah, married for 27 years, 5 kids, couple of grandkids, still work in real estate, and well, you know..."

Bob: "Yeah, yeah...Hey, you hear Joe passed away?"

Me: "Yeah, yeah, I did... but you know, nude parachute jumping has its risks..."

Bob: "Yeah, yeah...

Me: "Yeah...well...(long pause) How 'bout those Giants this year?"

This ritual is repeated 10 to 15 times with other classmates.

The final portion of the reunion consists of watching the old high school clicks reunite, the aging cheerleaders squealing like they are 16 again, and the former jocks getting drunk.

You finally leave the reunion marveling at how mother nature has hammered your classmates and feel satisfied that you can easily go another 10 or 20 years before you ever see them again.

As you exit, however, you think you overhear someone say, "Wow, HE sure looks old!"

They're Dropping Like Flies...

Where the term "...dropping like flies...", this Posting's Title, originated from is almost as confusing as it's literally meaning. I, for one, have never observed a single fly just keel over in mid-flight, let alone a whole group suddenly meet their maker without the benefit of a can of Raid.

Most of us, however, know the general meaning of the axiom and I use it because a number of friends, ex-teammates, work associates are among the many individuals that have met with an early exit from this mortal life this summer. Other friends have had some close calls with open heart surgery, chemo, and other life-altering ailments.

All of this bad news has put me into a funk.

Part of the psychology of aging is the coming to grips with your own mortality contrasted with your most basic of desires to keep breathing, remain upright and above ground. So now, anytime I experience a hint of heartburn, the slightest numbness anywhere, minor ache, or pain it is sufficient reason to panic fearing that the BIG ONE has come!

Therefore, I have decided that when I do kick it (aka: buy the pinewood condo, kick the oxygen habit, or PC version "become metaphysically challenged"), it will be with humor.

I haven't completely decided yet, but here are a few ideas for what I want my epitaph to read:

I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK...

HEY, AT LEAST I'M FINALLY LOSING SOME WEIGHT!

(In real small letters at the bottom of the head stone) IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU ARE KNEELING ON MY HEAD...

DON'T LOOK NOW BUT I AM STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU!

IT REALLY STINKS IN HERE...

IF YOU HEAR SNORING, DIG ME UP!

DON'T BE SMUG, YOU ARE ONE BIG MAC AWAY FROM BEING HERE TOO!

Ahhhh....Summer!

I have always loved the summer.

Vacations, swimming pools, baseball, the beach, camping, and all the activities. Most of the great memories I have occurred during the summer.

Until now.

Saturday, after spending the better part of the morning and early afternoon in the backyard cleaning and power washing the barbecue grill I was hot and sweaty. The pool looked extremely inviting, and Olivia (age 3), my granddaughter, was encouraging me to join her and Nana in the pool.

I already had my swimsuit on so I thought I would enjoy a refreshing plunge. As Olivia, stood by the edge waiting for me, I removed my shirt.

Olivia stared wide-eyed at my chest and then declared,

"Papa! You have BREASTS!"

She yelled this loud enough, I am quite sure, for the entire neighborhood to hear.

I am hitting the gym today.

Cry Wolf!

My son, Derek, is currently serving as a missionary in Lima, Peru. He left the comforts of home, family and friends to serve for two years among the people of Peru. Elder Olson has a little more than a year left on his mission and has grown a lot spiritually, but...

The phone rang at our house around 11:15 pm and my heart jumped. Typically, a phone call this late at night is not a welcomed event because it usually involves something that is either bad news, inconvenient news, or the guard house saying that my garage door is open (our community has an unnerving fetish about open garage doors, which is ironically interesting since, if I am living in a gated community with a security patrol, should not my garage be safe?)

I answer the phone with a timid, "Hello?"

"Is this Brother Olson?" came the voice of a young man on the other end of the line.

The "brother" part of his question is the obvious giveaway that it is a church member calling, but I am curious, because most Mormons are asleep by 10 pm on a weeknight. (BYU students would be the exception here)


"Yes..." I responded. The line is clear of any static so I am thinking it is one of our local missionaries calling me about something. I am thinking, he is up way too late...


"This is Elder Brandenburg from the Peru Lima North Mission..." he says. My heart starts to pound and it feels like I can't breathe.


"Brother Olson, are you sitting down?"


Now I am in the throes of a full on panic attack as I tell the Elder on the phone to "hold on" while I turn off the din of ESPN spewing out, what is now, totally insignificant scores. I yell to my wife, Margo, to come downstairs.


I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver again, still standing, but leaning on the counter in the full anticipation of the horrible news that awaits my ears.


"Okay, I am here, what..."

Elder Brandenburg interrupts me in mid sentence, "I have bad news..."

Time begins to slow as I interpolate the rest of his sentence and my heart begins to explode in the anticipated and overwhelming grief that comes to any parent who has ever lost a child...


"Elder Olson has..."


Tears are welling in my eyes and I am now mentally resigned to the "what happened" and wondering the "how's"...

"broken..."


Huh?


"his..."


He is alive...this is good...


"camera...and the bad news is that it will cost about $300 for the new one that he really wants!"

There is giggling in the background. I hear a faint, "I love you papa!"


Elder Brandenburg, along with Elder Derek Jay Olson, work in the mission office and were waiting for a group of missionaries to arrive very late (or very early in the morning) from the U.S. and, with the 2 hour time difference, made it around 1:30 am in Peru when they decided to pass some time with a prank call.


Giddy from an apparent lack of sleep, and (I am being extremely lenient here) their judgement impaired by fatigue, and (the old fall back) Elders will be Elders...they decided that it is not against the rules for an elder to call (and play a joke upon) another elder's father...just twisted, and worthy of Extreme Repentance...(yes, I am talking to you too, Brandenburg!)


Sitting on our shelf, at the top of the steps of our home, is a portrait of Elder Derek Jay Olson and beside it is a "Missionary Countdown Clock", indicating that he has 410 days left on his mission.

410 days.

Then, I am gonna kill him myself...

Out at the plate!

Time, someone once said, is God's way of preventing everything from happening at once.

It was a nice base hit to left field, just between the outstretched glove of the shortstop.

Me, being the runner on second base, make a mad dash to third with the full intention of scoring on this play. As I have taught all my high school players to do, I hit the inside part of the base with my right foot and head for home with legs wheeling and arms pumping in the up-down and straight back motion that our speed coaches preach. As home plate draws nearer, my heart is pounding from the 180 foot sprint and from the anticipation of adding an insurance run to our somewhat tenuous 3 run lead.

As I look up one last time to see if a slide is necessary or if I should just "go in standing" I notice the opposing team's catcher firmly camped (I use the word "camped" for obvious reasons that will become apparent shortly) at home plate. With the ball securely in his catcher's glove via a relay throw from that very shortstop who, only moments ago, agonized over his almost miraculous defensive play, he applies the tag as I deftly attempt a hook slide to the right side of home plate.

YOU'RE OUT! Comes the call from the home plate umpire...whose parting comment to me is, "Hey, 32, nice effort..." I walk slowly back to the dugout nursing my newly-skinned knees.

(EDITORS NOTE: Let me inject a "sports information tidbit" here so that the punchline is more relevant: Pro players can usually run to first in 4 seconds or less.)

The play described above took roughly 30 seconds....

The mad dash home was perhaps the slowest in recorded (or even unrecorded) baseball history. The only reason it was even close was that the shortstop was so surprised to see me rounding third that he finished tying his shoe, put his glove back on, and then threw home.

My speed can now be "timed" with a calendar.

We all get old, but for me this is the first time.

When I was young, I never heeded the warnings of my future "allies in age", my elders. The stories of their feats of athleticism during their youth were apocryphal at best and most likely an outright lie. I would look at their aging physical forms and to visualize anything remotely athletic was an impossible task. Their only rejoinder was a simple, "Yeah, one day you'll be my age too!"...

The thought then creeps across your mind like the crawling headlines on the bottom of the screen on CNN...

"Yeah right, you old fart..."

Now, I am relegated by the Master of Time, to only remembering being fast, thin, and athletic. Running a 4.7 second 40 yard dash during my football tryouts at Contra Costa College is the truth-turned-to-lie that I must endure till my tenure here on earth is complete. Diving for balls hit deep in the hole or making a game saving catch in center field are only in the memory banks and no film exists to support the claim. The only evidence that it ever happened at all are the faint scars on my arms and knees.

Yeah, getting old sucks. But to you young guns out there who doubt my stories of glory I have one thing to say...

"Someday you will be my age too!"

And that, my friends in this time continuum, is every old person's revenge (that and Depends)!

Doggone it...

Well, I knew it...the puppy training, discipline, and clean up has fallen upon me as expected...

Pooper scooper technology has improved since Zoey, our families first dog (who was inherited by my business associate, Paul, after Alex was born). So the stinkin' task is not as distasteful as the old days of sliding the "post-production kibble" into a dustpan on a stick.

The latest version of Poopscooping technology is the "Jaws of Death" where you squeeze the handle and the two opposing "jaws" open wide allowing you to surround, and upon releasing the handle, deftly snatch those offending lawn nuggets.

Which brings me to a fundamental social dilemma...Doggy-doo etiquette.

I am a neophyte dog walker. However, I have observed over the years a variety of dog owners and the manner in which they handle their dog's business. There are several types:

Type 1: The Conscientious dogwalker. He/she carries a variety of socially responsible, biodegradable, and earth friendly poop collectors and is quick to pick up his charge's dump at any time and any place. All their dogs are anal retentive.

Type 2: The Clueless dogwalker. He/she rarely leashes their dog. They just take their pet on a "walk" as an excuse to get out of the house and smoke a cigarette. They don't even know their beloved pooch just poached on your newly sodded lawn. If they do, they just shrug their shoulders and give you a look that says, "You should be glad my Bull Mastiff didn't tear your leg off...oh, and have a nice day!"

Type 3: The Charlatan dogwalker. He/she walks with the basic of dog doo disposal tools, the white plastic grocery bag clearly in sight of anyone who should observe said dogwalker. Secure in the knowledge that should their mutt "manure-mine" the property of a neighbor, if it is unobserved by anyone, stays put, smoldering on the grass, subscribing to the philosophy of, "If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it really make a sound?". If, however, they are within visual proximity of anyone, they become a concerned and responsible dog owner and grab up the goodies using their remedial retrieval system with a Pharisaic smugness that shouts out..."Look at the righteous dog owner!".

What category do I fall into? Let's just say that the lack of light that the early morning provides is an added benefit when I walk the puppy with my plastic Safeway bag...

Lost your puppy? Call the Doggone department.