Three Beautiful Things 06/17/09: Endurance, World Problems Solved, Dreamin' Katrina

1. Snug and I went for a walk on the Rexius trail. I wanted him tired for his grooming and I wanted to see if I felt as well after a long walk as I do when just puttering around the house. It worked. Snug was great at the groomer and I felt great after walking for about a mile and an hour or so. This is very encouraging.

2. Michael, Margaret, Jeff, and I ranted, laughed, cursed, told stories, recounted movies, asserted world views, bitched, complimented, praised, and got, by turns, agitated and relaxed over coffee late this afternoon. We have so much fun.

3. I had a mirthful dream just before waking up in which Katrina (Notes on a Napkin) and I were team teachers in a college level Christian Fiction course. The class was overenrolled, we were blown away by the interest, and we started class with a study of Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find".

Three Beautiful Things 06/16/09: Radio Star, Gratitude, Time Gets Chewed

1. It took some patience, but I'm happy to say that the radio star high above Eugene is transmitting an XM radio signal into the new receiver in the Subaru.

2. I told Allan at the Stereo Store that it looked to me like he had three jobs. He was answering phones, helping customer face to face, and sorting out the store's inventory. He seemed pleased I noticed and shook my hand when we completed our transaction.

3. I discovered Farkle. It's fun. Holy cow, though, time flies when I roll those dice.

Three Beautiful Things 06/15/09: Couch Coma, Gratitude and Grace, Let's Get Lenient

1. I was going strong this morning when I suddenly hit the wall and fell into a bottomless sleep, made immensely enjoyable by lying down on our new couch and indulging its comforts.

2. One of my former students graduated this weekend from the U of O and sent me a Euphoria chocolate bar in thanks for our work together. She didn't put enough postage on the envelope and the mail carrier waved off the fee. So much goodness.

3. My favorite lines from Gerald Stern's poem "Her Right Eye Catches the Lavender": "Why did it take so long / for me to get lenient"? These lines have been echoing in my head all day today, telling me that I've found the central focus for my work at the writing retreat in July. Imagine how much fuller and richer the world of writing would be if writers were lenient with themselves instead of so brutally demanding and self-critical.

CLOSTRIDIUM DIFFICILE COLITIS or C. Diff

Here's a summation of what's been ailing me for the last six weeks, off and on.

C.Diff. (also known as Clostridium Difficile Colitis,

Antibiotic-Associated Colitis, or C. Difficile) is a bacteria that

lives in the intestine. Normally, healthy and ill people alike have

millions of bacteria residing in their intestines, some helpful and

some potentially harmful.

“Clostridium difficile is a "bad" bacteria. Fortunately, when you are

healthy and not taking antibiotics, the millions of good bacteria in

your system keep the c - diff under control and in smaller numbers.

However, when you take an antibiotic, the levels of good bacteria are

reduced down to a smaller number. If your c-diff is strong and

doesn't get killed by the antibiotic along with the good bacteria,

then it is possible that the c-diff will overpopulate inside your

intestine or colon. When this happens, you may get the illness

called clostridium difficile colitis.

“When you have an imbalance of bacteria and c-diff takes over, it

creates two main types of toxins that affect your body and give you

the symptoms of the actual disease. The toxins attack your intestinal

wall and left untreated may cause ulcerations. Your symptoms may

include diarrhea and cramping at first. The later stages are

commonly flu-like symptoms of weakness, dehydration, fever, nausea,

vomiting and in advanced stages - blood in your stool / feces

“Antibiotic usage is usually the initial cause of developing this

disease. Additionally, antibiotics are usually the cause of recurrent

cases of c-diff. Ironically - two very powerful antibiotics are used

to primarily treat the disease!”

You can read more about C.Diff, diagnosis, treatment and alternate

treatments at the C.Difficile Colitis Support Group

http://www.cdiffsupport.com/aboutcdiff.html

And their main page is here:

http://www.cdiffsupport.com/

Three Beautiful Things 06/14/09: A Deep Drive...,Alive!, Wanna Dance?

1. I was jazzed when Ed called today to tell me his morning coffee buddy Dave is from Lake Oswego and that Dave and I played American Legion baseball against each other. We not only played against each other, but in an email Dave sent to me a while after Ed called, he recalled that the home run he smashed against us at Lake Oswego was the longest homer he ever hit. I relish these connections through this blog.

2. Leapin' lizards. I had a whole day of feeling good today. Could I actually be coming around. Might I be heading toward regaining strength and having some endurance? I hope so.

3. Sturt called to check up on my health this morning and we talked for a while about what girls we asked to dance with us at dances during high school when the live band covered Led Zeppelin's "Living Loving Maid (She's Just a Woman)".

Three Beautiful Things 06/13/09: Third Diploma, C-Diff Retreat, A Living Room!

Patrick in Cap and Gown,
Diploma in Hand

Patrick and His Beaming, Proud Mom

1. Patrick arrived back home this afternoon, having walked through commencement at Oregon State University, and set his three diplomas on the piano. He is now a graduate of South Eugene High School, Lane Community College, and Oregon State University.



2. For a day and a half I suffered through the various indignities of the return of c-diff, but today things settled down and it feels like this latest episode is over. I'll keep pounding the Flagyl, yogurt, kefir, probiotic pickles and sauerkraut, and the Florastor.

3. Our new and puffy couch and puffy chair arrived yesterday and it felt so good to have Patrick, the Deke, Mary F., the dogs, and I all seated comfortably in the living room, a space that has seen way too little comfortable, communal action over the last many months.

Three Beautiful Things 06/12/09: Restorative Sleep, Wonderful Friends, Gratitude

1. Lengthy periods of sleep today while my system fights off the C-Diff.

2. Thoughtful expressions of support and suggestions for how to care for myself have come my way via my blog and Facebook. I appreciate these thoughts and ideas a lot.

3. I received an email of gratitude today from one of my students. The Lane Community College's highly competitive nursing program accepted her and I couldn't be happier for her. I'm happy, too, that she felt I played a role in her success.

Three Beautiful Things 06/11/09: C-diff Back, Excellence, Finished

1. It's not beautiful, but if truth is beauty, it's true: I jumped the gun in my last 3bt when I bade C-diff goodbye. It's back. If it's not C-diff, it's a very good imitation. I'm discouraged.

2. Earlier today I went to the dentist for a couple of small jobs. No Novocaine. I thought as the doctor worked on the two teeth: he's really good. Careful. Deliberate. In charge. Efficient. Visiting his office makes going to the dentist a pleasure and I never dreamed I'd ever say that.

3. The house is painted. When I get to feeling better, I'll post pictures. I'm really happy it's finished.

Sibling Assignment # 101: US Route 101 to Carter Lake

I gave the assignment for our 101st piece of writing. Here it is:

Let's focus on US Route 101, the north/south route running from Olympia/Port Angeles to Los Angeles. Read more about the highway, here. We've all traveled different sections of this famous highway. Write about a specific experience you enjoyed or survived on U.S. Route 101.

You'll find Silver Valley Girl's 2002 travelogue here and I'll post InlandEmpireGirl's piece as soon as it's ready.

For years, driving from Eugene to U.S Route 101 in Florence met an automatic right turn, north, to Heceta Beach, the Hobbit Trail, Yachats, Newport, or up to Lincoln City.

But, about fifteen years ago, my involvement in a couple of Sierra Club outings and in a cross disciplinary program at LCC that included marine biology, got me turning south at Florence.

I discovered the Oregon Dunes country.

August of 1996 was oppressively hot in Eugene. I was enduring it, but I was in a serious relationship with Helen, and she was wilting.

She mandated that we go to the coast. Immediately, I figured we'd go north of Florence, but I was wrong.

Helen loved the campground at Carter Lake, south of Florence, in the middle of the dunes.

As it turns out, my insecurities about this relationship began to surface on this camping trip and I hate myself for that. This trip marked the beginning of the end of our relationship. Going to Carter Lake stirs up my regret and self-loathing.

Luckily, though Carter Lake and the Taylor Dunes are so resplendent in natural diversity that its wonders transport me out of my past regrets and lock me into the beauty of the present.

The Taylor Dunes hiking trail, near the campground, a gentle walk, features a variety of conifer trees and huge ferns and flirtatious glimpses of Carter Lake itself, a modest seaside lake.

Soon the forest land ends, and a panorama of sand, tall grasses, scrub trees, various flowers, and finally the ocean opens up and the dunes invite visitors to trudge over sand hillocks and through oceanside vegetation toward the expansive beach, littered with driftwood and shells, and the wonders of the Pacific Ocean.

Snug and I visited Carter Lake last summer. Here are some of the pictures I brought home. Go here, to my Flickr page, if you'd like to see a lot more photographs.

Three Beautiful Things 06/10/09: Bye, Bye C-Diff, Touch of Gray, Sharp Dressed Burger

1. Back to Dr. Ghandour today. We are cautiously optimistic that the Clostridium Difficile (C-Diff) is, if not gone, very close; nonetheless, he prescribed medicine to use and orders to the lab for testing should the dreaded C-diff come roaring back again. I hope I see nothing but c-diff's tail lights from this point forward.

2. I like how the shades of gray on the porch and the trim work with the white of the house. I think our house is looking a lot better. I think tomorrow will be the painters' last day at work: pictures then.

3. I got a little extravagent with my hamburger tonight and melted two year old Vermont sharp cheddar cheese on the patty: that burger owned (pwned) me.

Three Beautiful Things 06/09/09: Blueberry Doughy, Cleaned and Polished, Photo Surprises

1. Back in 1985, 86, on into 87 I frequented the Keystone Cafe on 5th and Lawrence a few times a week. Today I ate breakfast at the Keystone for the first time in, oh, I'd say at least ten years. The old place has been favorably spiffed up a bit, the counter seating reduced, and the menu is very much the same. I ordered an old favorite: oatmeal sesame pancake with blueberries and pure maple syrup. A new cook prepared my pancake and undercooked it. The pancake was edible, but a doughy, not as good as it could have been. The cafe owner only charged me half and explained that the cook was learning his way with pancakes. I'll go back. I love the oatmeal sesame blueberry pancake so much that I want to come back and have one cooked up right.

2. Chris, the dental hygienist, kept asking me today if I was okay and apologized for how long it was taking to get a full range of X-rays done. Finally, I told her that as an old codger I'd been going to the dentist for fifty years now and that contemporary dentistry is such an improvementn over what I endured fifty years ago that I enjoyed having dental work done. It's true. My visits to the dentist are pleasant and painless. I'm staggered by how little I dread going to the dentist after years of fear and trembling in my youth.

3. I continue to organize, file, and label photographs and was especially happy with this picture of my mother, taken Thanksgiving morning, 2008, at my sister's house.

Three Beautiful Things 06/08/09: Travels with Snuggy, Bruges Brutality, Ice Cream

1. Snug and I took a drive out Bailey Hill, connected with the Loraine Highway, and returned to Eugene via Fox Hollow Road. The sun was setting and the roads were often shaded. Very relaxing.

2. I found "In Bruges" a scintillating cocktail of existential, Roman Catholic-tinged philosophical and theologican examination, brutal hit man violence, superb acting, and reckless humor, much of it very dark.

3. Peaches and strawberries over vanilla ice cream. Refreshing. Sweet.

Three Beautiful Things 06/07/09: Crying Inwardly for Father, Wetland Pix, Forever Nineteen Years Old

1. We learned from his sermon today that when Father Ted, as a little boy, got lost at the Fair after riding the carousel, he eventually ran into his father who took Ted into his arms. Ted's feelings as a lost child in deep need of being found perfectly illustrate two of Paul's most tender words in the Letter to the Romans: "Abba, Father!"

2. Russell and I went on a photo outing to the Fern Ridge Wildlife Area where the air was cool, the clouds dramatically blue and gray, and the photographic subject matter bountiful.


3. I found "Anvil" an insightful study of arrested development, sometimes humorous, but most often painful. It reminded me of the documentary "American Movie".

Three Beautiful Things 06/06/09: Paint, Holding Up, Raymond Carver Minimalist Burger

1. The new colors of our house are starting to emerge. I think it'll work.

2. My first long drive since March: Snug and I went to Florence, walked, and I played (badly) some slots and we came home. I held up great. Going over, I thought I felt some fatigue setting in, but it lifted...and the driving and walking energized me.

3. I have been craving hamburgers and tonight I did it my way. Simple. Patty seasoned with garlic granules and pepper fried in a pan with Sesame bun toasted on top of the toaster, Bubbie's dill pickles (with live culture) sliced as circles, placed on each bun half, and ketchup and yellow mustard. Simple. Burger, pickle, yellow mustard and ketchup. No American cheese, cheddar cheese, Swiss cheese, or Provlone cheese; no lettuce, onion, tomato, mayonnaise, or bleu cheese; no bacon, pepperoni, Canadian bacon, onion rings, BBQ sauce, Dijon mustard, relish, chili, fried egg, special sauce. Nope. None of that. Just a seasoned patty, toasted bun, dill pickle, ketchup, and mustard. Holy.

Three Beautiful Things 06/05/09: W Was Finger Lickin' Good, Paint Scrapes, Stronger and Better

1. After watching the movie "W" last night, it was on my mind today. Josh Brolin is a superb actor. No one plays scenes while eating and talking with his mouth full and sucking and licking his fingers while getting ready to sign off on torture than Josh Brolin.

2. Scraping and sanding and masking windows: the painters are making great progress.

3. I will never again know what's called "full health", but is it possible, after two months of illness, that I am getting closer to the full bloom of the best I can be, given the compromised nature of my health? I'm feeling better and stronger.

Three Beautiful Things 06/04/09: Jack Robinson: RIP, Pat's Insurance, Vanilla? Bland? Go Away!

1. Jeff Robinson's dad, Jack, and my dad were lifelong friends. Jeff is the managing editor of the Ellensburg Daily Record. Today is the anniversary of his father's death in 1986. Inspired by what I wrote about my dad on the anniversary of his death, Jeff wrote a column for the Daily Record in memory of his dad. I'll post it at the bottom of this post.

2. I've arrived at a decision regarding what plan to buy for Patrick so he has health insurance.

3. Tillamook Old-Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream: no syrup, no fruit, nothin'. Just ice cream, kind of soft and oh so satisfying.

Jeff Robinson's tribute to Jack Robinson:

It was 23 years ago today that my dad died.

Seems like only yesterday.

I wasn’t quite 21 when the world I knew changed forever.

Dad was 56 at the time and for much of my life we didn’t see eye-to-eye.

In his youth he was a drinker, a gambler and a barroom brawler and, still today, if you wander into the right bars in the panhandle of Idaho you might just know someone who remembers Jack Robinson.

Some remember how big a man he was. Six-foot-2 and broad shouldered with fists like anvils, he made an impression when he walked in the room, standing half a head taller than most of his peers.

Some remember his kindness, how he would do anything to help a friend in need.

Others remember his nearly all-consuming passion for fishing and how few could match his prowess on the north fork of Coeur d’Alene River.

My conflicted memories swirl about inside my head.

I was proud of my dad for being tough, except when his anger and aggression erupted at his children.

I was proud of my dad for his work ethic, which thankfully he passed on to all of his children.

But, too many times when he was alive I felt myself embarrassed by his fondness for the bar and his penchant for parking our bright red truck directly in front of it.

Kellogg, Idaho, in the 1970s was certainly a different time and place. It was a place with few comparisons, where the reality was often so outlandish that it’s almost unbelievable to those who didn’t experience it.

It was a tough place, a place where I spent fourth grade sporting either a fat lip, a bloody nose or both — every day. OK, maybe there were a couple days where I escaped unscathed, but there weren’t many — at least not that year.

If Kellogg was a harsh place when I was growing up, I can’t imagine what it was like in the ’30s and ’40s when my dad was coming of age. His mother died when he was just 5 and his father, who was 62 at the time of my grandmother’s death, wasn’t the nurturing type.

So at a young age my dad learned to adapt to survive. He learned to fight; by age 10, he was a smoker; and not long after that he started work — something he would continue to do until he died. As an adult he spent most of his working years as an underground miner.

He tried to make sure his children lived a better life than the one he’d led. He and my mother always made sure we had the basics — food, clothing and shelter — and Mom always made sure we had lots of love. I now know Dad loved us too. He just struggled to show it.

On the night before he died (he was killed in an accident while helping a friend) we stayed up late and visited. I’d been home for a quick break before leaving for my summer job in another town. We’d had some disagreements the year before, mostly as a result of me struggling to establish my independence while he grappled with letting me enter adulthood on my own terms.

Before we went to bed he told me two things he’d never told me before. He told me he was proud of me and he told me he loved me.

The next day, long before cell phones were common, when I was halfway across the state of Montana, my uncle was able to get a message to my brother and me that Dad had been in an accident and it didn’t look like he was going to make it.

We rushed back, racing across two states in time to see him in the hospital in Spokane.

We were there with Mom when we decided to remove him from life support. The accident left him without oxygen for too long. He was brain dead.

I went to his intensive care unit bed before they unplugged the machines keeping him alive.

“I love you,” I said. I wanted him to know. I wanted it to be the last thing I ever said to him.

Three Beautiful Things 06/03/09: Mellow Snug, Molly at Church, Ice Cream Delight

1. Snug can be protective in situations when he doesn't need to be. Today the painter arrived, opened the garage door and Snug ran to the garage. He didn't growl or snarl or, thank God, bite the painter and was cooperative when I brought him back into the house. I was hugely relieved, but will take measures with closing the right doors so that neither Snug nor the painter are in that situation again.

2. I hadn't seen Molly at church for ages and she arrived to quilt the same time I arrived to celebrate the Eucharist and we had a good chat before going our separate ways. She's a very kind soul.

3. The Deke and I enjoyed some Tillamook Old-Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream with blueberries...and I threw some raspberries in my bowl for good measure.

Three Beautiful Things 06/02/09: Father Daughter Sweetness, Strong Walk, King Lear Chickens Out

1. The painter hired on his daughter today to help out with prep. I enjoyed seeing her work so hard for her dad. Their mutual respect and good rapport with each other was sweet.

2. I took a walk to 7-11 and back, about twelve blocks round trip, and tried to pick up my pace a bit. I'm feeling stronger.

3. During tonight's vigorous thunder and lightning storm, with the accompanying downpour of rain, I felt like being King Lear, opening my bare chest to the elements, and shouting, "Pour on! I will endure!" But I didn't. Instead, I went grocery shopping.

Sibling Assignment #100: The Humility of Glenn Exum

Silver Valley Girl decided that for this historic occasion of us siblings reaching our 100th assignment together that we should do the following:

Think back to your music education from the Kellogg School District,and talk about the influence one of your instructors had on your life and how they influenced you musically.

On the 13th anniversary of his death, InlandEmpireGirl went outside the assignment a bit and wrote about our father, here; once Silver Valley Girl is done single-handedly rescuing the Sixth Street Melodrama from financial peril, I'm sure she'll be posting her piece. (It's not easy being the single most industrious person in the Silver Valley.)

I wanted permission to post a picture of Glenn Exum at age 88. The photographer didn't respond to my request. It's a superb photo. If you'd like to see the picture go here and here.

Around the world, Glenn Exum's legacy rests with his distinguished career as a mountain climber and guide, especially in the Tetons. He was the first to climb the exposed ridge to the summit of Grand Teton which now bears his name. The Exum Ridge remains one of the most popular routes to the summit of Grand Teton (Wikipedia).

Exum Mountain Guides was Mr. Exum's summer gig. In the fall, winter, and spring, he labored with instrumentalists of all ages and with high school singers as a music teacher in Kellogg, Idaho.

I can't say that Mr. Exum had much of an influence on me as a musician.

I'm a crappy baritone horn player and mediocre singer who's always been a tweener: part tenor, part baritone. I loved singing in high school and I loved playing in the band, but I'd be exaggerating the truth if I made any claims that Mr. Exum did much to help me improve.

I just played and sang. Did my best.

I didn't know the word in high school, but I know now that Glenn Exum was a pontificator. Mostly his pontificating focused on personal character. He hated quitters. If he was walking down the street and a quitter was coming toward him, he'd cross the street so as not to come face to face with a quitter.

The strong horse is best at the end of a race.

Still water runs deep.

Glenn Exum used to advocate a hunting season that would license the shooting of creeps. He was especially adamant about creeps, who sent him in orbit, whenever he returned from the University of Idaho and saw all the long-haired creeps there.

Sometimes creeps would be on the news. For example, Eastern Washington State College in Cheney held a kiss-a-thon. A mixed race couple won it. This mixed race couple engaging in a marathon kiss on television sent Mr. Exum into orbit and he ranted about it for quite a while.

I think back to Mr. Exum's rants and I think today about all the fretting I hear about teachers who have an agenda. Mr. Exum had an agenda. He wanted students to come out of Kellogg High School disciplined. He wanted us to be in good physical shape. We did push ups in boys choir. He wanted us to stick it out. He wanted the world cleansed of creeps and radicals. He gave us merits for the good things we did and punished us with demerits if we messed up.

He indoctrinated us, especially boys choir, with his points of view, often at the expense of the time we could have spent singing.

Was I brain washed by Glenn Exum? Hardly. Did he shape my mind in ways I couldn't resist? Nope. I admired him. I respected him. I played and sang as hard as I could for him.

I also thought he was a bit of a nut, kind of out in orbit himself, and my friends and I had a great time laughing off his diatribes and imitating his many funny pronunciations and other ticks.

I recall one of Glenn Exum's ongoing diatribes. It had to do with rock and roll music.

Mr. Exum was not impressed with these long haired screamers, ultimate creeps, who could only play three chords and sounded like banshees when they sang.

My sophomore year, a senior music student had had enough. Jim Etherton confronted Mr. Exum about his prejudices regarding our music and brought Blood Sweat and Tears self-titled second album to class. He might have brought Chicago's first album, too.

The timing was perfect. Mr. Exum had just come back from the University of Idaho Jazz Festival raving about Hermiston's jazz band and their trumpeter John Sheeley. He loved playing John Sheeley's stratospheric work on "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy".

To his everlasting credit, Mr. Exum played the album(s) Jim Etherton brought. As he listened, we could see Mr. Exum's features soften, and a look of pleased surprise cross his faced. The fusion of jazz and rock and roll in Blood Sweat and Tears and/or Chicago worked for him.

Mr. Exum then manned up.

He said he didn't know young people were listening to this kind of music. He didn't go so far as to ask Jim to put on a Steppenwolf album, but he acknowledged that he'd been too harsh. He admitted his ignorance.

That day, my already high estimation of Glenn Exum went into orbit. It was a moment when he wasn't indoctrinating us, but a moment of spontaneous humility and appreciation that will live with me forever.

I'll take it one more step. I do my best to remain accepting of the music my students enjoy and stay humble in the face of the things they do that are outside my little orbit. If, however, I fail at this and if a student does for me what Jim Etherton did for Glenn Exum, I follow Mr. Exum's example.

I appreciate learning from my students and show them my humility.

Three Beautiful Things 06/01/09: Nice Chilly Stroll, Remembering Pert, Photo Archives

1. I was able to get in another stroll this morning. I didn't give in to the chilly morning and wear a long sleeve. I enjoyed the morning air raising bumps on my arms.

2. I thought a lot about my dad today on the 13th anniversary of the day he died. I'm touched by the number of people who read my tribute to him, found here, after I posted it on Facebook.

3. I'm, oh, maybe a quarter of the way finished getting my external storage drive properly organized. It's tedious work, but I've enjoyed looking at photographs I've taken that I haven't looked at for quite a while.

Rest in Peace, Dad: Here Are Some Things You Taught Me

Thirteen years ago, on June 1, 1996, my dad died of liver cancer. He died early in the afternoon, in his own bed. His last morning had been a brutal test for my mom and me. Dad began flopping around, as if he were physically fighting the end of his life. He wasn't really conscious, so he couldn't hear our pleas for him to settle down. His flopping caused the mattress to slide off the box springs and Mom and I called our next door neighbor to help us lift him and the mattress back on the box spring. We succeeded and then we called Dad's medical guy who recommended that we give Dad a dose of his pain killer, morphine, I believe, and soon after I poured it, crushed in a tablespoon of water, he settled down.

Gradually his breathing slowed down and soon his breath came out in only a slight whistle. He died peacefully after a morning filled with thrashing. I was with him when he died and could hardly tell when he passed from being alive to having died. His breathing had become so weak, that when it ceased, it bore little difference to when he was breathing.

So, today, these thirteen years later, I've been thinking about what I learned from Dad and decided to compile a list. The order is random.

I learned from my father:

1. How to drink. Dad was kind of adamant when I turned eighteen/nineteen years old that I learn how, above all else, "to pace" myself, to quote him, when I started drinking beer. He never recommended moderation. He assumed that if I was going to spend a day or a night drinking beer, that it was not for any reason other than to get drunk. But, he told me again and again that I needed to "pace myself" and not drink like a "meat head". He also reminded me constantly that "a lot of people think being a drunk is fun. It's not. It's hard work." In other words, he knew that getting drunk always came at a cost, but the one thing he never did and would never allow me to do, was miss work, or, when I was in college, miss class, just because I felt lousy after a night of drinking. I don't remember Dad ever missing a day of work because of a hangover or because he was still drunk when he woke up in the morning and I followed in his footsteps. It didn't matter what shape I was in, getting drunk was never a reason to miss work or miss class. I always remembered, "A lot of people think being a drunk is fun. It's not. It's hard work."

2. Where to hit a baseball in order to pull it to right field. I threw a baseball right handed, but I was a left handed hitter. Therefore, if I pulled a pitch, it was down the first base line or into right field. On more than one occasion, especially when he was shaving and getting ready to go tend bar at the Sunshine Inn, Dad would call me into the bathroom and would hold his hand out about arm's length and tell me, "Here's where you want to hit the ball. Out here, out in front of you. Your power is to right field and if you hit the pitch when it's out here, you are gonna pull it and hit the ball harder and farther." I succeeded at that sometimes. But, I was a stupid hitter. I got it in my head, especially in high school, that I needed to hit with a 34 or 35 ounce bat. It was too heavy for me, so my swing always dragged and I rarely got the bat on the ball out where Dad taught me to do it. I got some great extra base hits to left center and down the third base line and Dad always gave me a hard time when my hits went in that direction. If I'd thought about using a bat I could generate speed with, a lighter bat, I might have succeeded more in doing what Dad taught me. I was too stupid to realize that.

3. Respect for rivers, especially the North Fork. Dad played around and swam in the North Folk a lot when he was a kid. He knew about too many deaths that occurred. His idea was that a person has to respect the river's strength and not get cocky. I didn't spend much time in or on the river, but if I did, I heeded Dad's words and never forgot them, "You've got to treat the river with respect, son. It's stronger than you. Always. Don't forget it."

4. How to love and hate sports franchises. I've fallen off this one a bit. I no longer have seething feelings of hatred for one professional or college team or another, nor do I have passionate love for them the way my dad did. Dad's love and hate was pretty clear: love the 49ers, hate the Cowboys; love USC, hate Notre Dame; love the Yankees, hate the Dodgers; love the Vandals, hate the Cougars, and on and on. I enjoyed the times when I was younger when I felt these same passions and even had the guts to branch away from Dad. I fell in love, as a kid, with the National League (except the Dodgers). Yet, in '67, we both got caught up in the Impossible Dream of the Boston Red Sox and I threw my NL allegiance aside for Yaz.

5. How to give people a hard time. Dad lived by a well-hewed principle: "If I didn't give you shit, how would you know I loved you?" As I've grown older, I've come to appreciate this principle more and more. I thrive on finding the student or the fellow teacher or friend that I can give a bunch of shit to and they won't lay some Fruedian interpretation of it on me, that I am covering up deep hostility by giving people shit. Why do I love going to Kellogg? Why do I love being with my high school friends so much and why do I love seeing my dad's friends when I return home? They give me shit. They needle me. They tease me. I get to do the same in return, although living in Eugene has left me rusty. My dad was a major leaguer in the sport of giving people shit and I heard friends level him in return. Dad relished it. Even as he was dying, if someone came to visit him and showed the least weakness, Dad, dying of cancer, pounced on them and did his best to the end to keep the shit giving alive.

6. How to make people laugh and have a good laugh, too. If he was going to give people shit and if it was going to get it laid on him, my dad knew he'd better have a great sense of humor and he sure did. He was amazing with plays on words, making faces, coming up with funny voices, coming up with nicknames, thriving on dirty jokes and off-color comments, seizing an opportunity to give the needle and enjoying it being given back to him. Dad was sarcastic, ironic, sanguine, and jolly; he loved people, unless they were phonies. Phonies couldn't laugh, couldn't give and take, couldn't just be real. Dad's disdain for phonies was thick, caustic. But, put Dad in his element, whether at Dick and Floyd's or at the Zinc Plant or with his good friends in a living room watching college football and my sides would ache from all the laughter. I'm not in my Dad's league, but every once in a while I get a good one off and I sure enjoy having other people make me laugh.

7. How to be sentimental. Dad poured himself a brandy on the rocks, sat in the living room, and listened to Dinah Washington or Sarah Vaughn or Teresa Brewer and he went into a world of his own sentimentality. He was very sentimental about my mother. Numerous times he found ways to get me alone and he'd tell me, while drunk, how much he loved my mother and how he could never live without her, and would weep. He was sentimental about Christmas, about the USA, and about his family. My dad's sentimental side surprised people sometimes because he so often was playing the role of being gruff or because his sense of humor. Dad's heart was on his sleeve. I'm like my dad in this way, especially in private. I'm deeply nostalgic and tend to live parts of my life more romantically than logically. I learned it from Dad.