The year in review or, wait, we did what???

For starters, let's examine human nature.

Now, most of my writing takes place at a lovely, little, locally-owned coffeehouse.  Hey I've got nothing against the Pacific northwest based, coffee-based beverage, super, mega, global conglomerate with a mermaid in their logo, even if they refuse to sign on as the official coffee sponsor of this fine little blog.  I'd just rather give my hard earned money to a small business in the town I live or work in, you know?  I've fired a few of these off at work when time and/or call volume allow; and if the mood strikes while I'm out on the road somewhere, say with the pink fire trucks, I'll write there too.  But, especially for the last couple years, probably 85% of my writing takes place here.

Among the benefits of being a regular here is that pretty much all of the baristas know my order (16oz. in-house vanilla latte if you're taking notes) and (even if you're not taking notes, that's the order) always greet me warmly.  Most know me by name and that too is a nice touch.  There are multiple regulars here as well and, while I don't typically strike up conversations with them, we usually at least acknowledge the existence of each other.

And, some of my co-regulars have... ohhh let's say... quirks about them.  For instance; yesterday I stopped in briefly in between errands.  And I saw one of them.  A man, probably mid 40's, balding, apparently leading a mostly sedentary lifestyle if you get my picture.  He was in one of the overstuffed chairs (pot, meet kettle) with his laptop placed, oddly enough, atop his lap.  He was wearing what I can only describe as jammies and, I shit you not, had taken off his boots and propped his sock clad feet up on one of the other chairs.

Let that image sink in for a minute.

That's a fine position to be in at your own place of residence.  But in public?  Yikes.

And that's not even the worst example of classless, clueless, somewhat disturbing public behavior imho.

I will also present to you the following.  You know how most places of this type will have, for public consumption a variety of local newspapers, right?  This one does too.  It also has a regular, an older guy that, to look at him you'd see nothing out of the ordinary.  Sitting by himself, sipping his coffee, reading one of the papers.  Occasionally working the crossword or jumble or sudoku or whatever.  Until, of course, the bran muffin he ordered along with his coffee starts to do what it's intended to do and he heads toward the mens room.  With the paper under his arm.

Before you think I'm some kind of creeper, the only reason I noticed this behavior is because of the sheer volume of times it's happened.  I've seen it repeated probably a dozen times.  Every time I see him there it happens, like some kind of ancient ritual to the gods of defecation to ensure lower gastrointestinal health.  The only variance I've noticed is sometimes he'll put the paper back on the counter and sometimes he'll leave it at his table when he leaves.  I've never seen him take the paper with him out the door.

My suggestion to you is; never, under any circumstances, (save for watching them get delivered) read the free newspapers.  Remember kids, nothing is free.  Except maybe E coli.

Oh thank god.  I just looked up from this and not six feet in front of me is a little old lady that, I thought, was preparing lines of glitter.  Then she took out thread and started stringing something together.  Wow, that would have been a whole post in and of itself.

Ok, I'm gonna start to wrap this up, "poopy paper" just walked in and, cross contamination being what it is, well, I'm just going to reduce the odds, you know?

Oh wait, the year in review.

So, as it turns out this is 2016 in a nutshell -

That amber liquid you see at the bottom represents the Cubs winning the World Series while the rest of the glass represents everything else that happened in 2016.

Cheers.

And,

Peace

V.I.P.s

I've been on a bit of a roll lately, what with the ongoing adventures of our new guys and looking back fondly on my time in the Deeg.

Today, however, is not a day for that.

Today my look back is only going as far as last night.

To my semi-regular gig at the College of Lake County.  For the monthly Victim Impact Panel.  Speaking to a room full of first-time DUI offenders.  I say "semi-regular" because I'm not there every month.  But, if I'm not at work or out of town, you can find me there the second Wednesday of every month speaking to around 150 people.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Every. month.  150 first-time DUI offenders.  In Lake County.

There are panels in every collar county, every month.  And some counties have multiple panels.  Without looking it up, I think Cook County has four a month.

I'm not positive but I'm fairly certain I just marked my tenth anniversary speaking there.  Every month, telling a roomful of strangers intimate details of my life, trying to relate to them the pain my family has experienced since a drunk driver took Caitlin's life and, I believe ultimately, Diane's.  It is both crippling and cathartic.  There are times where the emotions and the memories come flooding out in a torrent of tears, while other months I'm able to keep my composure.  Either way, as I tell the crowd right up front, my goal is to get through to every one of them.  You hear the cliche "If you reach one person it's worth it" and I say to that "Bullshit" because if I only reach one person, I've wasted everyone's time, mine included.

A couple of things... first, because it's important to me that they not tune us out, I tell them that the other speakers and I are not trying to scold them or tell them they are bad people, we're only sharing our stories to try and change their behavior.  The act they committed does not make them inherently bad people, so having them ignore the message is counterproductive.  Second, I let them know that I'm not looking for sympathy, my life is good and I've been blessed many times over. And I admit that there have been times I drove when I had no business getting behind the wheel of a car.

But never since Caitlin was killed.

I was never a big drinker, it was a fairly easy decision for me to make.  If I have to drive, I drink water or coffee or anything non-alcoholic.  I figured it was easier to avoid it altogether rather than try and figure out if I was "ok to drive" you know?  That was my choice.  I'm just trying to encourage them to do the same.

As I inferred a couple paragraphs earlier, I'm not alone at these panels.  A typical group consists of a victim, an offender and a facilitator.  Over the years, between the various panels and high school presentations, I've told the story of these two -

hundreds of times and with dozens of different speakers joining me to tell their stories.  About a year ago, instead of talking about Caitlin and Diane, I started facilitating the Lake County panel.  The change just made sense to me.  Our panel had evolved to four speakers instead of three and the panel started running long.  In addition to the things I mentioned above, I felt like people started to zone out if they were in there too long regardless of the quality of the speakers.  Kind of a "the brain can only retain what the butt can tolerate" approach. After all, they're not there because they want to be, they're there as part of their sentence.  Since they don't usually know what to expect from the evening, they are often a tad anxious and it's not uncommon for people to be laughing and joking amongst themselves before we start.  Besides, it's kind of a long process for the Probation Department to get them checked in, so some are sitting for thirty minutes or so until the room is filled.

Last night was no exception, as illustrated by the four young (I'd guess they were all 25-30) people sitting togetherish in the two front rows.  They were chatting casually, laughing about whatever it was they were discussing.  I really wasn't paying too much attention until they all laughed loudly about something and I heard the young man in the front row say "I hope you don't make me laugh after this thing gets started"

I thought; well, we'll see about that.

As I said, I've spoken alongside dozens of people.  The two I speak with now are among the best.  Margaret's ten year-old son was killed while tubing on a local lake when a boater; drunk and high on cocaine, ran him over, decapitating him.  It happened four years ago and the pain is still incredibly raw every month when Margaret recounts the events of that day and so many horrible days since then.

The other speaker, Kris, tells of a loving, caring, dedicated school teacher who was killed by a drunk driver.  And that she, Kris, was that drunk driver.  And she tries to express the guilt she lives with every single day of her life.  She does a very good job of that.

They are, individually, very powerful speakers.  Together, they make an incredible impact on the room.

And over the course of the evening, as I watched the faces of the four young people, it was obvious they had been reached.

The final part of the program is when the audience files past us, shaking our hands (although some choose to pretend we aren't there) and often offering a hug or some words of condolence for our loss or gratitude for our time.

Last night, when front row guy got to me, I put a hand on his shoulder and told him I was glad he didn't feel the need to laugh at us.  He got a sheepish look on his face and told me we had definitely had an impact on him.

There's no real way to quantify what kind of an overall impact we have on people, though I think last night we had a higher than normal number of people offering hugs to the speakers at the end of the night.  I hope it counts for something, but statistically, panels like this don't hold their effectiveness for more than eighteen months.

After we had finished, we were picking up and chatting idly, the Sheriff's deputy that sits in every month asked me if someone could come in and talk to me.  I said sure, and in walked front row guy.  He apologized for his behavior before the panel.  I thanked him but told him that it was unnecessary.  I told him that, due to his earlier comment, I had watched him in particular over the course of the evening and that I saw that he "got it".  I wished him well and finished gathering my stuff.

Several family members have and will continue to post on social media not to drink and drive.  Consider this my effort towards that.  Like I tell the panel-

I'm not going to tell you not to drink.  If you're over 21 you have the right to drink yourself stupid every day of the week and I'll defend your right to do that.  But you don't have the right to drive drunk.  Take the bus, take the train, take a cab, call Uber, call Lyft, call a friend, stay where you are, have a designated driver, BE a designated driver.  There are so many options now.  Don't drive if you've been drinking.  Don't put another family through what my family has gone through.  Don't put YOUR family through what my family has gone through.

This tenth year since Diane died has been rife with memories, both fond and harsh.  As I've aged and grown with my grief, I've tried to focus more and more on the positive.  I still have far to go, but I do feel like I'm still making progress.

And that's a good thing.

Maybe the best thing.

One last photo before I go.  I may have used this one here before, but it's my favorite of us and it is, after all, my blog so...

I'm not sure if I'll be back here before the holiday, so in case I'm not-

Happy Holidays to all!

And,

Peace

The Night of the Dancing Red Scro***s

Ok, this is a first.  Usually I encourage EVERYONE to read these missives, but, today's post is... uhhh... I'll say PG-13.  And since Blogger doesn't have a way to post an "Explicit" rating, I'll do it this way.  So, to be clear, kids, don't let your kids read this one.

Now then.

If you know me IRL, you've probably heard me comment (read: whine) about winter.  As in-

I. HATE. IT.

Cold weather?  Hate it.

Gray sky?  Hate it.

Snow?  I'll grudgingly admit fresh snow has some charm, but roughly 11 nanoseconds after it stops falling?  Hate it.

I don't snowmobile, ski, snowshoe, sled, toboggan, ice fish, ice skate, ice sculpt, ice dive, I don't even like iced coffee.  In short, here's me in winter

And here's me the rest of the year

Side note, none of the people pictured are actually me.

Now, having said that, I'm doing my level best to enjoy what, with a little luck, is my last winter this far north.  And, as self-reflection tends to do, I occasionally expand my thought process to include fond memories from 24+ years at good old Local 3234.  

This particular round of warm fuzzies was prompted by the latest podcast from my friends Seth and Kyle.  This episode deals with Camaraderie in the Fire Service and they bring in a round table (disclaimer: for all I know their table is some shape other than round) of co-workers to talk about changes on the job over the years.  

One of the things they singled out was the advent of smartphones.  You know, we sit around the table at meals and at some point most of us are on our phones instead of talking to each other.  Now, while I don't necessarily disagree, I've noticed the same phenomenon at our place, I would push the real root cause of a lack of social discourse to the loss of bunk rooms.  And this actually also came out during the podcast, but imho it wasn't given the blame it probably deserves.  Clearly, smartphones have played a huge role in breaking up the family-like atmosphere, I just feel like this started the slide.

Allow me to illustrate.

Quick editorial note: even though I'm the only one left on the job and I'm fairly certain any possible statute of limitations has expired, I'm leaving names out of this one.

A long, long time ago, in a far off galaxy... Sorry, wrong story.  

Anyway, right around the time I came off probation, I worked in the only two story firehouse in town.  There were six of us regularly assigned there; a Lieutenant, an Engineer, a firefighter and three firefighter/paramedics.  Our bunk room was wide open, with the exception of a four foot high wall that divided the room length-wise and had three beds on either side of it.  Over the years, as I've looked back on these days, I always remember the excitement we all had over going to work.  Like, I never needed an alarm clock because I couldn't wait to get to work.  We referred to it as a sleepover in a treehouse with a bunch of twelve year-olds.  It always felt like we spent more time laughing than anything else.  And there was a steady stream of juvenile pranks.  One of the guys was, ohhh, let's say, jumpy.  For example if we were watching a suspenseful movie, he was the one that would jump out of his chair and scream during key moments.  He also had an aversion to being touched.  In an inappropriate manner.  Which, of course, provided all the encouragement we needed to touch him inappropriately every. chance. we. got.  

One night in particular, "jumpy" went to bed earlier than the rest of us.  This was because the rest of us were in on the plan.  A plan which required him to be either asleep or very close to it.  For maximum effect, and the stealth this mission required.  Every one else, save for two guys, was lying in bed, wide awake, in anxious anticipation, giddy as school girls.  The two remaining guys stripped naked and, grabbing only their flashlights, (that's not a euphemism btw, actual flashlights) crept quietly toward "jumpy's" bed.  As they got next to it, they each strategically placed their flashlights and, flipping their respective switches, illuminated their scrotal regions.  Now, before you think this is too kinky or anything, each guy illuminated his own.  What kind of sickos do you think we are?  At any rate, "jumpy" awoke to two glowing, spectral, amber-red, man-purses, floating eerily mere inches from his face.  

Hilarity, as you might imagine, ensued.  

As soon as we got jumpy down off the ceiling.  

Ahhh the good old days. See you can't quite pull off a thing like this with individual bunks.  Also this bit is almost certainly not going to go over well if you have female firefighter/paramedics in the house.  Don't misunderstand me either, I'm not one of those grumbling about how it "used to be better in the old days" and I think the better perspective might be "I'm glad there were no cellphones and/or social media back then" in no small part because really, how do you represent someone in the disciplinary hearing for something like this?  "Well, you see, Chief, ummm 'boys will be boys?'" is probably not going to get it done.

Having said all that, it was and will remain, one of my favorite memories of the best job I've ever had.

Peace

Frequent Flyer Miles

Here I sit, in my favorite local coffeehouse, being serenaded by what I'm assuming is the madrigal group from one of the local high schools, thinking about the last 48 hours.  Ok, I'm not personally being serenaded, there's a full house here today.  And if they're not madrigals from one of the local high schools, well, fashions sure have changed around here.

But that's not why you tuned in...

As you may (or may not) know, our shifts at work are 24 hours on and 48 hours off.  Since I took overtime yesterday, I was at work from 7:00 AM Thursday until 7:00 AM this morning.  The overtime is nice, with the holiday approaching and small people to bribe with various gifts, the cash infusion will help.  And before any of you work-related people get all frazzled, this is NOT going to turn into a pitch, one way or another, about 48/96's.

This is simply about observation and reminiscence from my time in the Deeg and some of the people I came to know.

From the title, you may (rightly) pick up on the fact that we see some patients more often than others.  These regular callers are known as "frequent flyers" due to the fact that some of them spend more time in the back of the ambulance than we do.  Ok, slight exaggeration there, but you get the picture.  Now, this is not specific to Downers Grove.  If you work in public safety, either police, fire or EMS, you have them.  And, some are eminently more likable than others.

Joe for example.  He was a frequent flyer earlier in my career.  He used to meet us at the sidewalk in front of his apartment, hat and suitcase in hand, waiting for his ride to the ER.  His complaint was typically "trouble breathing" yet he exhibited no signs or symptoms of any trouble.  We soon came to understand that he was, in fact, lonely.  He had no family.  He had no regular outlet for human contact.  When he needed a fix of humans, he called 9-1-1 and spent a few hours in the ER getting what companionship he needed to get by.  As time went on, Joe's complaints started to become more genuine and we got to where we would have to go in to his apartment and help him, if not carry him, out to the ambulance.  Toward the end of my "relationship" with Joe he would, on occasion, need actual treatment.  Joe always treated us with the utmost respect.  I was out of town when Joe passed.  I wish I had known, I would have certainly gone to pay my respects to a nice man that lived a lonely life.

Another example is Betelgeuse (not his real name).  The nickname kind of evolved because, like in the movie, we joked that if we mentioned his name, he'd appear.  This guy was an ex-con, a recovering junkie, and a not-so-recovering alcoholic.  It was not uncommon to find him covered in, well, covered in nasty.  Use your imagination.  But, Betel always, ALWAYS, treated us with respect.  He told us, right up front, that he carried a couple of infectious diseases and that we should use caution.  That, to me, is a stand up move from a guy that maybe didn't make the most of the opportunities life offered him.  He could have said nothing and risked an exposure on our part.  But he didn't.  And no matter how messed up he was when we went to get him, he always called us "sir" and thanked us.

I'll always remember the first time I met Betelgeuse.  We got a call for a "man down" and, when we got there, his sponsor met us.  He had tried to reach him all day without success.  So he drove over and, looking through the patio door, saw his friends feet sticking out from the bathroom.  We got in the apartment and found Betel, passed out drunk.  We checked for injuries and, finding none, helped him to a chair while we waited for our far south side ambulance to get there.  Now, on this particular night E-3 consisted of me, another old head, and a brand spanking new guy.  I don't remember exactly how long he had on-the-job, but it was only a couple months.  Maybe three.  So, since we had time to wait, we suggested to our new guy that he start an IV on Betel while we waited.  He got alongside the patient and started looking for a likely spot on the back of Betel's left hand, a typical site for IV's.  Watching this unfold, Betel helpfully offered that it might be a better idea to use a similar site on his right hand.  New guy looked at him briefly and resumed the search for a vein on his original choice of sites.

Old guy and I looked at each other and smiled.

Hey, kid's gotta learn, amirite?

Predictably the new guy was unable to get the IV.  Since by this time M-5 had arrived, we helped Betel out to the ambulance and got back in E-3.  As we were pulling away I asked the new guy what he had learned.

"Uhhh, I need to use a better angle of approach..." or some such blather was his reply.

I told him that no, he was wrong.  His takeaway from this particular call SHOULD have been-

"When a junkie tells you what vein to use, always use the vein he tells you."

Believe me, no-one on. the. planet. can find a vein better than a junkie.

So, me personally, I don't have a huge problem with frequent flyers as long as they're respectful.  And this whole stream of consciousness was brought about by three visits to another frequent flyer over the last 48.  Frank certainly falls into the "Joe" category.  He's older, his heath, while not great, is iffy, he lives alone, no apparent family nearby and he is in need of assistance, more and more each day.  Again, Frank is always nice to us, apologizes for bothering us, etc.  But he needs help and we can provide it.  I think in his case, it's actually health-related more so than loneliness although there is an aspect of that too.

Still, these three, while having differing issues and needs, all treated us lowly public safety folks politely.

Not so much with Russell.

In a two year period, Russell and/or his wife Carol used our services over 180 times.  That's not a typo.  180.  And that doesn't count the times a neighboring town took one or the other (or both) in.  Or they took a bus.  Or walked.  Any of the other ways one might get themselves to the ER.  Probably the most memorable incident with them came around 11:00 one night.  Just to give you a frame of reference, my firehouse is, straight line, between 200 and 300 yards from the front door to the ER.  Like, two or three football fields away.  Like, you can clearly see the ambulance entrance from "the bubble" at the front of the firehouse.  And btw that's the best spot in any of our firehouses.  But that's a story for another day.  Anyway, around 11:00 PM we get a call for "chest pain" at the intersection between our station and the ER.  We looked out the door as we got ready to head out and saw...

Russell and Carol standing under the streetlight.

As it turned out, Carol had just been released from the ER for another nonexistent illness and, since PADS was long since closed for the night, Russell started having chest pain.  He didn't of course.  He never did.  Nor did she.  But they knew how to work the system, the right words to use to guarantee a trip to a dry place to sleep and warm food.

Don't misunderstand me, I don't mean to imply they had no redeeming qualities, although none ever presented to any of us, I'm just saying that when it comes to frequent flyers, Russell and Carol brought more groans per capita than possibly any other system abuser.

Ok, I'm back at it tomorrow.  I'm going back to take another leisurely walk around the neighborhood with the Blond Dog.

Peace

Umm, wait, you asked her what???

As regular readers are aware, I've gotten significant mileage from our steady (some would say unending) stream of new guys at work.  For proof you need look no further than here or here or here and my point is proven.  Fwiw, Wes, the second "here" above, has the distinction of being #2 on my list of all-time page views.

By, like, ten percent over number three.

So you've got that going for you Wes...

I had just about given up hope of gleaning any nuggets from our current new guy.  He settled in to our particular routine rather quickly and, though he's new with our department, he's been in the fire service for a little while, so he knows what's expected of him and how to fit in to life at a firehouse.

But then, last night happened.

Actually the call came in first thing in the morning, within minutes of our 7:00 AM shift change.  It was for a woman in her 20's with abdominal pain.  Both units (Engine 3 and Medic 3) responded since there's a high probability a call of this type will result in ALS care (read full paramedic skills) being needed.

Our new guy, let's call him "Dan" (especially since that's, you know, his name) was the passenger on M-3 meaning he takes the history, does the assessment and determines the course of treatment we'll initiate.  He's also responsible for reporting to the hospital via cell phone to tell them what we found, what we've done, and to see if the hospital wants anything further done care-wise, and finally, documenting the call as a written report.

Since the young lady met us at the door of the building we were sent to (not unusual) and was immediately ushered in to the back of M-3 along with three of our crew members, I didn't feel the need to crowd in.  Also, when we pulled up, we blocked in a delivery guy parked in the fire lane.

That's an added bonus that I delight in more than I probably should.  Blocking in someone that's parked where they shouldn't be, that is.  Hey they're called "fire lanes" for a reason, amirite?

However. as our actor (acting Lieutenant) and I were standing alongside the ambulance, behind the delivery van, I saw the back up lights come on, indicating this guy thought he could get out by backing along the side of the ambulance.

This was a poor idea imho.

I could have responded in one of two ways; either lighting the guy up and telling him he could sit and reflect on his poor decision making skills until M-3 was done or by telling him to wait while I moved the Engine out of the way so he could leave.  Being the pleasant, agreeable, people-loving person I am, I chose the latter.

What?  I'm pleasant as hell, dammit!

So, I relocated and as soon as we cleared from this call, we caught another and the day spun off into the type of day where we don't necessarily catch up with details of our goings ons until later on.

Which brings us to the dinner table last night.  Figuratively.  At least I don't think any of you have figured out time travel...

So, sitting around the table, talk turned to our first call of the day and I heard someone reference Dan asking the patient when she last had intercourse...

See the title for my reaction.

To be a little more accurate I think I used a word that is ofttimes used in place of intercourse and rhymes with a word in the name of this blog.  No, not "relate"...

What, exactly, were you thinking Dan?  His response was something along the lines of wondering if she might be pregnant.  That, btw, is a reasonable query.  One of the typical questions we ask of female patients between "16 and 60" experiencing abdominal pain, is "any chance you're pregnant?"  This is relevant in developing a diagnosis as things like an ectopic pregnancy can be serious medical conditions and shouldn't be overlooked.  Additionally, we're trained to ask when her last menstrual period was for the same purpose.

Now, I know the paramedic curriculum has changed in the years since I became one.  I think many strides have been made to produce superior paramedics.  I think it's more than reasonable to suggest that today's paramedic students come out on the street with a far better base of knowledge than we did back in the Stone Age.

But that particular question put me back on my seat and involuntarily produced my best Dad face.  Which was instantly followed by nonstop harassment of young Dan.  And more than a little ridicule.  Of course, it was all in good fun.  Dan's a pretty good cook, so you have to walk a fine line when it comes to verbal beat-downs.  No one benefits from an angry cook.  Least of all my palate.

Ahh new guys.  Entertainment at it's finest.

Peace

Let us give great thanks.

It's sometimes hard to remember this, but we really do have much to be thankful for.

Let me explain.  No, there is too much.  Let me sum up...

At the Boy Child's suggestion, I just binge-watched (the binge-watching part was my idea fwiw) "The Man in the High Castle" on Amazon Prime.  It's set in America in 1963 but the hook is that the U.S. lost World War II to the Axis.  America west of the Rockies is Japanese territory and America east of the Rockies is German territory.  The Rockies are known as the Neutral Zone and are controlled by neither side.  I highly recommend it, it's a really well done show.

But, watching it, watching how things might have been, it kind of makes one appreciate just what we've got here.

Without going off on a political tangent here, we should all be thankful for where we live.  Warts and all, this is still a pretty great place to be when you look at the world as a whole.

And this retrospective mood makes me think of things like the decisions we make; the mundane, day-to-day, run-of-the-mill coin flips that end up having a more significant outcome than we ever could have imagined.

When I took my first EMT class, a million lifetimes ago, I had no way of knowing I'd end up here.

How could I?

And now, as I near the end of my career here in beautiful Downers Grove, I can't help but think of all the things I've done; the calls I've been on, the people I've met, the places I've gone, the lives I've touched and those that have touched mine.

The fodder it has given to a budding blogger...

For instance, let me tell you about the Naked Man fire.

This particular tale occurred in early January of 2009.  Sometime around midnight or 1:00 AM we got a call for a house fire.  On this particular night I was riding backwards on Engine 3, that is to say, I was responsible for grabbing the hose line off the engine and putting the fire out.  As we pulled onto the block we could see smoke and the flames reflecting off the trees.  Pulling up to the front of the house I looked to see what was coming our way and I saw a tri-level house with flames out a window on the ground floor of the west side and a man in a second floor window on the north side of the house with light smoke coming out from behind him.  Two of our Coppers were standing in the front yard, it appeared they were talking to him.  I imagine trying to keep him calm and telling him the fire department was here and that the FD would get him out.

As I walked around the back of E-3 to grab the hose line, I looked back up at the window.  The man wasn't there anymore.  I thought that was probably a bad sign as I walked up to grab the crosslay (the hose is literally side-to-side across the middle of the engine) and flake it out on the front yard.

I reached up and grabbed the hose, pivoting to load it onto my shoulder so I could deploy it, and as I spun around to again face the house I was met by one of the police officers.  Something wasn't quite right and in the few seconds it took him to get to me, my mind quickly processed what was different about him.

He was carrying a one-legged, naked man, bear-hug style, in front of him.

Now, that's not something you see every day.

Even in this job.

I was particularly pleased with myself for not bursting out laughing.

And when Scott (the cop) asked me where I wanted the naked man, I helpfully pointed to Medic 3, parked several houses away, and told him they'd be more than happy to help him with his cargo.

The rest of the fire was pretty uneventful.  Damage was contained to the kitchen (where it originated) and no one was injured, including the naked man.  He was a WWII vet, btw, lost his leg in the war, and he also liked to sleep in the nude.  Which explains his predicament at the time of the fire.  Scott and Brian tried to go in and get him before we got there, but they started to become disoriented in the smoke and decided, wisely, to get back out before they got themselves in trouble.

So, as I look at all the things for which I am thankful, and there are many, I'll always be thankful for the decision to take that first EMT class and the path it has led me along from there.

Someday, I may even be thankful for Daffodils.

Maybe.

Don't hold your breath.

Happy Thanksgiving!

And

Peace

Not surprisingly, I'm a day late...

So, last night, I went to the annual Badge Pinning ceremony at the firehouse.  This is, for those wondering, (actually, whether you're wondering about it or not, this is what it is) the evening where any employees that have
A.) been promoted
B.) successfully finished probation or
C.) been added to our little family in some other fashion i.e. hired in from another FD e.g. last night we added a Deputy Chief hired in from a neighboring department.
D.) can you (and by "you" I mean "me") use i.e. and e.g. in the same sentence?
E.) I don't really care, I'm just curious
F.) if you don't like it call the blog police

As I was saying, last night the above mentioned got their badges and were welcomed in to our humble, little, FD family.  It's a nice event and it seems to get bigger every year, although we did add six (Jesus, six of them!) new guys off probation.  The six included the previously famous Shawn and the equally famous Wes and so, that's what drew me to last night's event.  I figured the least I could do was come in and congratulate them, since they were the fodder for so many laughs on my part.

Which brings me to my point.  Kind of.

By the time I got back home it was 9:30 ish.  Typically, around this time I'm calling it a night.  But, last night, since Sophie was stuck in the house for the evening, I figured instead of just taking her out to the backyard to go about her end-of-the-evening business, we'd go for a walk around the neighborhood.  It was a lovely November evening, cool, crisp, and clear and we wandered around one of her familiar courses unremarkably.

But at one point, while Sophie took a break in the yard of a neighbor, I looked up at the stars and saw the constellation Orion.

Now, to be clear, I'm not a big astronomy guy.  I can find the Big Dipper and the North Star but beyond that, I'm not going to be able to help you find anything useful and/or educational in the sky.  And I hope you can appreciate the restraint I'm using here to not make a joke about Uranus...

But I digress.

The reason I always look for Orion, which is actually pretty easy to find this time of year, it's in the Eastern sky and it looks like this-

The three vertical stars in the center of the picture are referred to as Orion's Belt and that's what I look for.  But back to the why.

In early 2003, when the Boy Child was somewhere in the Middle East, in the build up to the invasion of Iraq, it was something that helped ease the jangled nerves of an Army Dad.

I'm not sure why it brought comfort to me.  I think it had something to do with the thought that, I could see this object, millions of miles away, and, on the other side of the planet, he could too.  I'm not sure if he could, of course.  Even if he knew to look for it.  But the thought that he could helped deal with the reality that one of the beings I was responsible for, was no longer in a position where I could do anything about anything that might happen.

As a parent, that was one of the most difficult things I had to learn.  I wrote about that time in greater detail for Memorial Day but, seeing that belt last night, on Veteran's Day, every memory came flooding back to me, as it often does when I look for that particular constellation.

I think the only thing I posted on social media yesterday was the link to a website that helps homeless vets (something no vet should ever be, but that's a post for another time) and I did send him a text yesterday, but I just wanted to say here, for the world (or at least my handful of regular readers) to see...

Not just for Veteran's Day, but for every day, I love you and I'm so very proud of the man you've become.

Peace.

The girls volume V

Well, on the heels of all the excitement over the last week, what with the Cubs winning the World Series and... what the heck... it seems like there was something else... Oh yeah, the end of civilization as we know it (just kidding) I almost overlooked the 5th and final episode of everyone's favorite serial blog post.

This is quite ironic actually.

Because today, in addition to being Dalmy's birthday (YAAY Dalmy!) it's also MY birthday.  We've exchanged texts both yesterday and today and acknowledged each other on social media today.  And as I sat here, thanking those that have sent a post of kindness to my page, I realized that I have yet to pay tribute to one of my favorite people on the planet.

From Mel to Sarah to Meg to Ashley with a chaser of Megan's wedding we have shared many laughs and more than a few tears as we think back on how we've come to this point in our lives.  I've said it before and I'll say it again and again until the day I die, I love each of these girls like they're my own flesh and blood.

But now, it's Dalmy's turn.

As with the rest of the girls, I don't remember the first time I met her, but also as with the rest of the girls, I can't imagine her not being around.  I do, however, remember her Mom's homemade tamales.

Oh. Good. Lord.

They were ambrosia in a corn husk.

Excuse me for a few minutes while I get my taste buds back in line.

Ok, I'm back.

I've probably seen more of Dalmy since Diane died than I have any of the other girls.  She was, for more than a little while, at the advent of the smartphone era, my personal technology consultant (whether she knew it or not, lol) and I remember more than one frantic call or text to her wondering how I did something to my phone and asking how I could undo it.  She shepherded me through the whole process with the patience of a caregiver steering a doddering old man (a more accurate analogy than I care to admit) to the dining hall of the senior center.  And the pirate and I went to dinner with Dalmy and John (with an "H") before they got married.  We had a really nice time too.  Plus I seem to recall being at her townhouse when she got Lucien too.

I think, however, my favorite Dalmy memory (with bonus Megan props too!) is probably this...

The Christmas after Diane died, Dalmy and Megan made HUGE holiday greeting cards for the Boy Child and I.

I mean, physically huge.

Like Early Ed art project paper big.

All handmade, with a festive coffee cup filled with candy and a bracelet that had each of their names on it.  They were really very sweet (and I felt horrible when the bracelet finally fell apart).  It put a smile on my face and in my heart at a time when I needed it most.  See, that's the thing about these girls.  They always seem to know when I need an emotional lift.  And when it comes to them, all it takes is a text, phone call or social media post to get my spirit right.

Since I'm in the high-rise district today, I want to wrap this literary treasure up.  So I'll close simply by saying this.

Happy, happy birthday Dalmy!  I love you!

Peace

Metaphors

Just breathe America.

Regardless if your candidate won or lost.

Believe me, this wasn't the outcome I expected or the one I'd hoped for.  And, even though I'm a lifelong Democrat, the Dem candidate was, in all honesty, my third choice.  But I voted for her because I believed she offered the best chance to do the best for ALL of us.

So much of our future is up in the air, as it would be had she won.  I'm not sure any of us knows with any certainty what to expect from the next four years.  I admit, I was encouraged by the remarks I heard and the humility I saw in last night's speech by the President-elect.  Perhaps he truly recognizes that he does, in fact, represent all of America and not just the lunatic fringe that embraced him.

And before you get your undies in a bunch, I'm not calling all of you that voted for him crazy.  Only the KKK and American Nazi party members.

You may know who you are, I don't think I want to.

To my liberal family and friends, I'd like to go baseball with you.  As was reported often during this World Series winning season, Joe Maddon gave this team thirty minutes to celebrate a win or fume over a loss.  After that, it was time to move on.  As the family youths have taken part in sports over the years, I've tried to send a similar message, most recently to the Heir to the Throne.  When he has a bad at-bat; fooled by a pitch, "victimized" by an umpire's strike zone, robbed of a hit by a fielder, whatever, I told him to learn from it.  Don't dwell on it, rather he should prepare himself for his next at-bat so he doesn't repeat the "mistake" and move on.

So I now say the same thing to you, my Dem friend.  Examine what could be done differently.  By you.  I've spent the last few years worth of union meetings urging my younger coworkers to get politically active.  I have the same message for you.  Are you unhappy with the results from last night?  Don't expect someone else to do the heavy lifting for you.  Get up, go out, and do something about it.  Contact the local office of the political party of your choice and ask how you can help affect the future.  Democracy is not a spectator sport and if you don't like the outcome, but did nothing (or not enough) to make change, fix that.

To my conservative friends and family, I'm glad none of you made a wager with me over the outcome last night, I would owe you a large sum of money today.  Congratulations on your "win" but please, remember, there isn't a "Red" America and a "Blue" America.

There is only an America.

An America built by immigrants.  By natural born citizens.  By men and women.  By all races, creeds, colors, religions, sexual orientations.  You name it.  Some segment of that population has contributed to the America we celebrate (or should) today.  It's not perfect.

But it never has been.

And it never will be.

As I try and bring this to a close I've got a really cheesy metaphor for you...

Be like a dandelion and Let. It. Go.  

Let go of the anger, let go of the resentment, let go of the frustration, but most of all, let go of the fear.  Fear leads us to terrible places.  It does none of us any good.  Focus on the things that unite us rather than those that divide us.

And work to change the things you can.

Peace

Living in the moment; the evolution of a life-long Cubs fan.

Holy shit

That's a direct quote, btw, from the Boy Child, sent seconds after the game-ending double play that gave my beloved Cubs their first National League pennant since "The War to end All Wars" was still a thing.

It's a sentiment I echoed fwiw.  And still do.

Like many of you (at least the ones that share my affliction) I've spent the seconds, minutes, and hours (Oxford comma, it's ok.  Really, it is) not only basking in the afterglow of last night's win, but thinking of the Cubs fans that aren't here to enjoy these moments.

I think of Diane and her Kerry Wood #34 jersey, one she wore often that last summer.  And I wonder how many of these games we would have gone to, damn the cost.  Not that she was extravagant, but she loved the team and I'm fairly sure she would've talked me into it.

For the record, it would not have taken much effort.

I think of my Mom and Dad, as many of my nieces, nephews, and my kids have.  I think of how I owe my Cubs fandom to them, and all the time (and times) we spent watching or listening to their games.  How, all summer long, regardless of the quality of play, it was a backdrop to much of what we did.  I think it was the Oldest One that posted a comment about Gram, sitting at the kitchen table, fingers crossed, hands in a position of prayer, watching last night's game.  And that's spot on, too.  Actually, let me take a minute here to blame Mom for creating the superstitious sports fan in me.  It's only been in the last few years that the rational part of my mind convinced the rest of my gray matter that the seat I chose, or the hat I wore, or whatever random act that happened to occur miles away from the actual event had no bearing at all on the outcome.  That's all you El, lol.  And if you ever watched a game with her, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

I don't recall the moment I knew I was a hopeless Cubs fan.  But I do remember, vividly, standing in front of the TV in the living room of the house on Burlington Road (the blacktop for you long timers) swinging an imaginary bat along with the Cubs teams of the mid to late 60's and running imaginary bases in the living room.  I even remember doing my best impression of the public address announcer back then as he called the next batter to the plate.  Ernie Banks and Ron Santo were, of course, two favorites of mine, their joy for the game obvious even to the sub ten year-old me.  But I always had a spot in my heart for Billy Williams.  He was, and still is, an under appreciated ball player, Hall of Fame berth notwithstanding.  Billy had the most beautiful swing, one I can still see clearly in my mind's eye.  In fact, as I got a little older, yet still too young to understand my "skill set" would take me no farther (further?) than Little League, I decided I needed to learn how to be a switch hitter.  And I patterned my left-handed swing after Billy's.  Poorly, I might add, but still.

As I sit here, trying to put into words all the feels I'm feeling, reading and watching reactions of others, either fans or the players themselves, one thing came into focus for me.  This is, for long suffering fans, an emotional event.  And, for an emotional-type person such as myself, tears at a moment like this are pretty common.  Yet, last night, watching the game and the aftermath, and occasionally texting with the Boy Child as we watched, I lost exactly one tear.  And I don't even know if that one counts since I don't remember it rolling down my cheek, more like it got reabsorbed into the eye it tried to leave.  And I'm not sure why that was all I had.  If you know me IRL or if you've spent any time around here, you know how I am.  For an event that I felt so personally attached to via my lifetime spent watching the Cubs play (mostly poorly) I expected feelings that were more visceral than logical, you know?

Maybe I understand that this is only another step on the teams journey, that the ultimate goal is not to make the World Series, but to win the World Series.  I hope that's it.  I hope that the adult in me has convinced my inner ten year old that this is a fine thing, but there's more, so much more, that waits and that will be far sweeter than anything that has been experienced yet.  I've lived through a Bears Super Bowl (an NFL Championship too, but I was too young), six NBA titles (thanks Michael Jordan!), and four Stanley Cups (like with the Bears I only remember the most recent three) and all of those were great as a fan.

But this, this is different.

The Cubs are my first love.

They are attached to so many memories, good and bad; whether baseball-related or not.

I don't, of course, know what the next week will bring.  None of us do.  But I'm going to enjoy every minute of being a Cubs fan.  Win or lose, I'm going to watch, or at least listen, to as much of this as I can.  And I'll think about everyone that would've loved these moments, unleashing a lifetime as a frustrated fan.

They may win, they may not.  Either way, life will go on.  And I'm going to enjoy every minute it.

But I have a hunch it won't be 71 years before they get back to the World Series.
Go Cubs!

Peace

Partners, friends, and un-indicted co-conspirators

Well, I alluded to this post yesterday and here it is.  The Great One's birthday.

No, not Gretzky, at least I don't think (frankly I don't care enough about Wayne's birthday to hit the Google machine) it is.

The Great One, if you don't know, is the Great Vincenzo, Vinnie, the Chick Magnet, the Croatian Sensation aka Bryan.  We were partners at the firehouse for eight years uninterrupted and that, class, ranks as the longest I ever worked with anyone over the course of my career.

Now, before I dive into this particular group of further fables from the firehouse, I'm going to use a quick segue into an endorsement of my favorite podcast "Firehouse Problems Kitchen Table Solutions" starring Seth Rainwater and Kyle Jones, both from El Dorado, Arkansas.  Seth and I attended the IAFF Political Training Academy in February 2015 and in addition to a great education, we had more fun than you're probably supposed to in a class.  So click on the link and check out their podcasts, they do a great job and obviously enjoy doing it. My personal favorite is Episode 23 featuring everyone's (?) favorite blogger.  One of their regular bits is called Nicknames and Mustaches and there you have a high quality segue.  Because Vin has more nicknames than any other single person I know.

Vinnie came on the job about six months after I did, at a different station and a different shift.  So we never really had much interaction for the first few years.  He takes great pleasure in telling anyone that will listen that when he first saw me he thought I was gay.  I don't know why he thought that, getting a straight (see what I did there?) answer out of him is never easy.  But regardless, that's what he thought.  We started working together around 1997 or 98 and, miraculously, never got written up for anything.  Now that the statute of limitations has expired, and pretty much anyone else that might be offended by our on duty hijinks has retired, I'll try and put a couple out for the general public.

Vin and I both got along really well with our Lieutenant back then, though he had a reputation for being... crusty.  And we were fortunate in that the other members of our crew tended toward... unique.  So, basically had we chosen to, we could have run naked up and down Main Street and it would've been fine because the boss was busy corralling knuckleheads.

We didn't, btw.  And sorry for any visuals that might have caused.

We did, however, tend to disappear for long periods of time.  Vin did most of the cooking at the firehouse so, of course, shopping for said cooking fell on us.  And Fightin' Medic 2 would head off to the local Dominicks (pour some out for a departed grocery store chain) to take care of business.

Business, in this case, included making the rounds of pretty much every department at the store.  The ladies in the bakery almost always had snacks for us so we'd start there.  Then backtrack to the deli counter where one or both of us would chat up whoever happened to be there that day.  From the deli we'd make our way over to the meat counter to see if we could get a hookup from the butchers.  We usually did, btw.  Not free, but a nice discount or at the very least they'd point us in the direction of the best sales.  A quick stop by the service counter for more chattery with the ladies working there and, in due time, we'd make our way through the rest of the store to finish shopping.  It wasn't unusual for this little expedition to last for well over an hour, which is about 45 minutes longer than it should have taken.

If we weren't tied up on one of our shopping trips, we were very likely prolonging our time in the Emergency Room after dropping off a patient.  The regular routine would be to deliver a patient to whichever room they were assigned to, wait to give a verbal report to the nurse, and while one medic wrote up the paper (later electronic) report, the other would clean and restock the ambulance.  All of this would generally take 30 or 40 minutes, depending on how in-depth the report needed to be.  I don't think we ever made it out of there in under an hour, certainly not once we got transferred to Station 3, conveniently located across the street from the hospital.  We had doctors to chat with, nurses to flirt with, many important things to do there, you know?  It actually had certain fringe benefits, relationship building like that.  Feeling a sore throat or sinus infection coming on?  Ask one of the docs for a "Z-pack" and voilà; no office visit, no wait, no fuss, no muss.  No joke, that alone was awesome.  Of course, that was back in the good old days.  You can't get away with that stuff now.

I think, however, my all-time favorite Vinnie story, one I've told dozens of times to a variety of audiences is this one-

It starts with Engine 3 and Medic 3 going out to do fire inspections, a regular part of our job.  Vin and I were on M-3 but we were, for whatever reason all doing the inspections together.  If I remember right, our Lt. for the day was an actor.  That is to say, he was on the list to be promoted to Lt. but hadn't made it just yet.  On this particular day, one of the businesses on our list was a beauty school.  Is that the right name?  A place where cosmetologists are trained?  At any rate, it was, as you might imagine, populated by young, attractive women.  With five firefighters doing the inspection.  What could go wrong?  As we wandered through the business, checking fire extinguishers, emergency lights, exit lights and the like we would chat up the students, all in good fun, of course.

When we were finished, as the Lt. was going over what we'd found with the manager, I did a quick head count and came up one short.

"Where's Vinnie?"

"I don't know, not my day to watch him" was the reply.

Now, since he was my partner on M-3 I couldn't very well leave without him, so I decided I'd better investigate further.  As I walked through from room to room he was nowhere to be found and he's not an easy guy to overlook, you know?

But, as I walked past one of the salon stations with the curtains drawn, I heard a high-pitched giggle.  I stopped, backed up and looked under the curtain.  I saw two pair of feet, neither of them his.  But then, I heard a lower pitch giggle and, throwing open the curtain I saw...

Vin.  On his back on a salon table.  Getting his eyebrows waxed.

"Really dude?"  I said, laughing.

"What?  They said they just learned how and wanted to practice.  I needed it done.  Perfect timing!"

That's the Vinnie I know and love, always looking to help out someone else.

Happy birthday friend.  I hope you have a great day.

Love ya!

Peace

The telephone game played out in real life

Well, that month just flew by.

Apparently whatever secret muse it is that controls the writing portion of my brain left town, cause I really haven't had much to consider sharing here.  Meh, it happens, you know?

In the mean time, not much has gone on for the last month.  A family birthday (s/o to the Quiet Child), some softball games for the Reigning Princess, a new crop of new guys at work (there's promise for future material there) and, tomorrow, another birthday, this one for the Great Vincenzo and there's DEFINITE potential for material there.

Just sayin...

So, if you come by here regularly you may recall my retelling of the last in-ambulance birth I was a part of (brief editorial note: When did people become incapable of telling the difference between "a part" and "apart"?  They are distinctly different, people! C'mon, pick up your social media game would ya?) and I referenced how, often times the information gets lost between what happened, the caller, dispatch and us.  And again, I'm not throwing stones at anyone in that chain, stuff happens, adrenaline gets pumping or there's some minute miscommunication that throws the whole thing off kilter.

Sometimes, however, it's easy to identify the weak link in the telecommunication flowchart that is inherent in one of our emergency responses.

Like, for instance, yesterday.

In the typical swirl of activity that takes place between lunch and dinner at the firehouse, we had a brief calm yesterday afternoon.  Our Lieutenant was going over some things with our current new guy, the guys on Fightin' Medic 3 had just gotten back from another life-or-death emergency and I was left to my own devices.

The tones went off and we were dispatched to a "partial roof collapse of a building with a person trapped under debris."  The dispatch included our Station, Truck 2, the Battalion Chief and the Safety Officer, a typical response for this type of incident.  Now, this is not a common call for us to respond to.  But as we rolled into action (conjures up a very heroic image, no?) all the thoughts were going through our heads of what we might possibly encounter.  I knew the building we were being sent to, it once housed a motorcycle dealership, and has been vacant for quite some time.  I hadn't driven past it for a while, but the thought that some construction or renovation for potential new tenants was going on made sense to me, so in that respect nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  When we were around two blocks away our Safety guy requested PD to block off the street in front of the address.  This also made sense to me since it could quickly escalate into a big deal, a large scale incident and quite frankly, it wouldn't have surprised me if someone had activated a Technical Rescue response.  I anticipated also some type of update from our PD once they got on scene since they always beat us to larger incidents.  They are, after all, already out on the street and they get the information almost simultaneously to us.  But I didn't hear anything from the coppers.  We were directed however to enter through the overhead doors and as we pulled onto the scene I saw an open overhead door on the west side of the building and drove to it.  I also saw marker ribbon around the perimeter of the roof, indicating some type of work on the roof of the building and squaring, in my brain at least, the increased potential for collapse.  We looked in from the cab of the engine and saw nothing to suggest a collapse had occurred.  This immediately kicked in the "what did we miss?" response in our collective brains and we agreed to check the next building down since that business was mentioned in the dispatch.  I backed away from the building and as I pulled past it the three of us looked through the front windows trying to see some indication of collapse.  We saw none and I drove around the corner to check the next building.

The occupants there were looking back at us, probably wondering what the commotion was all about.

I drove back to our original position by the overhead door and we went in to investigate.  The Lt. and our new guy went straight in and I peeled off to the right.  I noticed several interior walls were still in place, so I thought the collapse must have happened somewhere that was shielded from our view by those walls.

As I made my way toward the front of the building I heard a voice calling out feebly "I'm over here" and started heading in the direction of the voice.  I was looking for some sign of collapse the whole time, since I would've done no good for anyone if I got trapped too.  As I walked to the front there was a row of small offices on my right, formerly sales offices I think.  And, as I got to the last one I heard the voice say "they're here now, ok, thanks" and as I looked in to the last office I saw our patient lying on the floor with one leg bent underneath him.

And four acoustic ceiling tiles on top of him.

Yes, that's right.

You know them.  Two feet by two feet square and about a half inch thick.  Each one weighs roughly twelve ounces.  You may have them in your home or place of business.

Acoustic.  Ceiling.  Tiles.

And, as I looked up to the ceiling I saw the underside of a completely intact roof about three feet above the dropped ceiling he had been trying to remove when the ceiling tiles let loose and landed on him.

All four of them.

I pulled the tiles off him and asked where he hurt.  His response?

"I've got dust in my eyes."

Now, I have to admit right here that, in the past, I haven't always been as sensitive to what others might find offensive and have used terms that I'm not particularly proud of when describing certain individuals.  But, I think I've made great strides in this attempt at self-improvement.  I am, however, still exercising great restraint when it comes to what I desperately want to say in describing my feelings toward this individual.  Let's just say that, in my personal opinion, this was perhaps the single-most inappropriate use of emergency resources in quite some time.  Possibly in my entire career.

And there have been some doozies.

So, as it turns out, our "patient" was using a piece of the aluminum framing or track that the tiles rest in to pull the ceiling tiles down.  And this action caused them to, of course, fall down.  And gravity being what it is, they fell straight down on top of our plucky little survivor.

You've got to watch out for gravity, it'll get you every time.

There you have it, a perfect example of the single weak-link in the communication chain that leads up to a 9-1-1 dispatch.  And the difference between what is perception and what is reality.  Kinda helps illustrate why we try to take our dispatches with a grain of salt.  And why we sometimes don't, even when we should, lol.

Oh, I almost forgot my favorite part.  As the guys on the ambulance started assessing his "injuries" I heard him mention to them that he was (or *shudder* is) a firefighter.

Sigh.

Peace

Let's go for a walk

These words invariably elicit a prompt response from an otherwise sedentary dog.  Namely, mine.

Sophie is, as I've mentioned here before, my very favorite dog of all time.  And this is one of my favorite pictures of her, odd as it may seem.  It will forever put a smile on my face because, when she's laying down like this, if I lay down in front of her, like I did to take this picture, her tail immediately starts rhythmically thumping the floor.  So, I mean, obvs, right?

Today, she and I are celebrating her 11th birthday.  I'd like to say I remember the day we brought her home, but that would be a lie.  Of sorts.  I don't have any clear recollections of that day.  I do, however, vividly remember the day I found out we were going to get her.

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned here, multiple times, Tobi the Jack Russell terrorist (not an autocorrect) and how he ruled the roost.  So, adding a dog to the family wasn't something I'd really considered, even though (maybe especially because) we'd taken an ill-fated attempt at taking in a Lab that needed a new home.  As it turned out the reason the Lab needed a new home was her inability to get along with other dogs...  $600.00 worth of vet bills later, the Lab was out and Tobi was recuperating.

So, when the Quiet Child remarked how she'd like to get a puppy so that the soon-to-be-born Boy Genius would have a puppy to grow up with, Diane offered up her assistance and even recommended a breeder that lives near us.  She called and found out that he did, in fact, have two litters of puppies to check out.  Diane made an appointment to see said puppies the next day.

While I was at work.

My phone rang the next afternoon.  It was Diane.  What follows are direct quotes, etched in my memory...

Me: Hi

Diane: These puppies are so frickin' cute!

M: You want one don't you?

D: Can we?

Like I really had any say in the matter.  Picking out which puppy went similarly...

Diane: Do you want a Black Lab or a Yellow Lab?

Me: (after several seconds of careful consideration) you know, I'm kind of a traditionalist.  I think I'd like a Black Lab.

D: We're getting a Yellow one.

M: Ok

Even though Diane was the one to take Sophie to obedience classes as soon as Soph was old enough, and she worked with her every. single. day. Sophie always gravitated to me, a trait which continues to this day.

We've been through a lot together, Sophie and I, over the last 10+ years.  From Diane's passing to two moves to my divorce from the pirate.  And through so many times when I didn't really care to interact with people, Sophie was always there, laying at my feet, completely non-judgmentally supporting me as only a dog can.  So the least I can do for her is try and make her life as comfortable as I can.

That's not always easy for this dog.  She's got a dietary condition that, if left untreated results in explosive (not an exaggeration) diarrhea (sorry for the visual) along with arthritis in both hips and synthetic ligaments in both knees.  If someone had told me ten years ago that I would spend THAT much money on a dog I'd have laughed in their face.  Now?  How could I not?

At this point in her life, Sophie isn't really up for long walks.  Or moving rapidly.  Instead, we take four or five walks of maybe a half-mile or so over the course of the day when I'm home.  These walks take anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour.  Allow me to try and reproduce a typical timeline-

9:03 Leave the house.
9:04 Sniff the neighbor's yard.
9:07 Sniff the neighbor's yard three houses down.  Also, lose interest in her squeaky ball.
9:12 Take care of business.
9:17 Lay down in the shade.

9:24 Sniff the shrubbery on the corner.
9:25 Lay down in the shade.

9:31 Cross the street.
9:40 "Visit" with one of our neighbors and her Black Lab Junie.
9:46 Gaze longingly at Junie's kiddie pool while I tell her no.
9:55 Lay down in the shade.  Roll around in something disgusting.

10:02 Grudgingly go back into the house.

Due in large part to our walk routine, we have met most of our neighbors.  In fact, more neighbors know her name than mine.  And I'm not even joking.

She's been good for me in so many ways, getting me up and out of the house so many times when that wasn't necessarily something I was prepared to do.  Sometimes like this.

Subtle, no?

Over the years, she has offered no solid advice yet listens patiently whenever I need to vent.  To say I've been through a lot in the last ten years is kind of an understatement.  And Sophie has been there for me every step of the way.  She regularly brings a smile to my face.

Sometimes when I need it most.

Let's go for a walk.

Peace

In order to be a smart ass, first you must be smart

I'm fairly confident I can pinpoint the place in time in my life where I made a conscious decision to be more mindful of how I treat the world around me and those I encounter in my day-to-day existence.

Now, I don't mean to say I was a bad person before this decision.  Andy and Ellie raised me better than that.  They raised all of us to be better than that.  But I can also admit to the world (or at least the part of said world that reads this) that I haven't always been the kind of person I'd like to be.  Even after I became more mindful of it.

Hey, I'm a work in progress, I'll admit it.

What was the root cause of my desire to be a better person?

The day that this once little boy entered my life -

I don't remember how old he is here, eighteen months or so, and he's giving Papa a goodnight kiss while on a sleepover at our house.  Btw, no snark on Papa's hair or the hair color please.  Just sayin...  This is one of my favorite pictures of the Heir to the Throne and certainly my favorite of the two of us.

No offense to the generation that separates us, but I don't remember feeling the need to be more aware of who I was and what I stood for when they were little.  But when this face -

came along I found a feeling that, I don't know, maybe drew my own mortality into focus.  And I just knew I needed to try and make a better, safer world for him and for those that would follow him.

Wow, that took a turn I didn't really see coming.  This is all way too heavy for a Saturday morning, right?

I tried to impart some grandfatherly advice when he hit his teens but I'm afraid it turned out with kind of a fortune cookieish quality to it.

And so young man, there are so many things I want to tell you, so many things I want to share here for the world (more or less) to see as I try and express my feelings and wishes for you.

Here goes...

Let's start with the title for this post.  And a quick disclaimer.  Just because I used that word doesn't mean you're allowed to use it around me or any other adult yet.  Nice try.  But the title is, imho, accurate.  So pay attention to the world around you and the events that shape it.

Now that I've got that out of the way.  Let me tell you this.  You're the best baseball player this family has produced.  Without question.

But having said that, let me also say that particular bar was never very high.  I was a pretty terrible Little Leaguer.  Your uncle was a little better than me.  And as softball players go, your Mom fit right into the family profile.  She is, after all, the one you got your "blazing" speed from... just like she got hers from me.

Sorry.

Baseball gets a bad rap, in my opinion, from many people.  "It's boring" "bunch of overpaid whiners" and so many more knocks on such a beautiful game.  Let me tell you something.  And you may not appreciate the truth in this for a while.  A long while.  Baseball transcends generations.  It is essentially the same as it was a hundred years ago.  "Field of Dreams" expressed that beautifully, and many other movies have drawn from the romanticism of the game.

The love of baseball is a common bond you and I share that no one and no thing can ever take from us.  Even if you never play another game.  Forty years from now, as you approach the age I'm at now, you'll see something; some common, ordinary, everyday, thing that will remind you of a time in your youth when life was so much simpler.  Appreciate the beauty of the moment.  As you get older, life tends to get more hectic, there's not much you can do about that.  Looking back on fond memories with family and friends can help you refocus on what is most important to you, whatever it may be.

The decisions you make moving forward are yours and yours alone to make.  Think them through carefully, there are few small ones.  And sometimes those that seem the most inconsequential will have the loudest repercussions.  Sometimes life-changing.

I'll explain that one to you later.

I'll always be there for you pal.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

Peace

Ten Years Gone

This is not a new song, it's from Physical Graffiti, an album that came out in the mid 70's.  But, as happens from time to time, random songs pop in to my head.  This time though, I don't think it's quite so random.  I don't know why, but a couple days ago the song appeared in my brain.  Probably because I had been thinking about the the time, ten years ago, leading up to this date.  I started thinking about the lyrics and, while they're not a perfect fit, they sum up nicely what it's been like.  As I wrote a couple weeks ago, this month contains some memorable days both good and bad.

Today is the first of each.  Even though yesterday we celebrated the first birthday for the little Diamond (shown here with her "smash" cake) today is her actual birthday.

 

This one is actually fairly early on in the "smash" process.  Shortly after I took the picture I had to walk away for a couple minutes and regain my composure.  

Because today is also ten years since Diane died.  As I stood in the driveway (smash cakes should be an outside event whenever possible, for obvious reasons) I couldn't help but reflect on how spoiled the grandkids would be had Diane and Caitlin been here.   I could clearly imagine Diane beaming, could almost hear her laugh, as she watched this little gem destroy her own personal chocolate cake.  I thought of something the Oldest One posted about Caitlin referring to the Heir to the Throne as "her" baby when he was an infant and transferred all those feelings in to yesterday.  And to every single event involving each of the grandkids for the last ten years.  Today too.  So, feeling the emotions get the best of me, I chose to walk away rather than allow my sadness to intrude on a day of joy.  

Removing myself like that probably isn't the healthiest way to deal with grief, I recognize that.  But, at this point in my life it rarely lasts more than a few moments.  Whether that's a function of a normal grief life-cycle now or me willing it away I don't know.  But it's been a long time since it brought me, quite literally, to my knees.  

Time has a way of marching on at it's own pace.  Despite our best efforts to change it.  In that respect not much is different since we marked a decade without Caitlin.  In my humble opinion, grief marches at it's own pace too.  At least it should if we allow it to.  

That's a lot easier to do after ten years though.  I read something recently by Patton Oswalt about the sudden passing of his own wife.  He wrote about how, after doing something for 102 consecutive days, you should become quite good at it.  And yet, 102 days after his wife's death, he felt no better about any of it.  It was really well done, quite profound and right. on. point.  If I can figure out how to link it here, I will.   Done.  Give it a look.  But as I was saying, grief needs to move at it's own pace.  I've mentioned here before about how making it through the first year is all well and good, but that the "seconds" will hit you hard if you're not aware of them.  I feel like that's one of my missions in life now, to spread that information around to people that may find it useful. 

It's taken me a lot longer to get to where I am now than I thought it would.  Literally.  I started this post this morning at the coffeehouse, but I wanted a picture or two that I only have on my home computer.  

And, I took a side trip to the cemetery.  It seemed like the thing to do.  I took Diane a rose, "talked" to her for a little bit, and headed back home.  I used to to do that a lot more often (I promise, no more links today) but the last time I was there was, I think, last fall when the Boy Child and I took the grave blankets there.  

I don't really have a feel for how I want to wrap this up so I think I'm going to default to one of the aforementioned photos 

Ok, one last thought from the cemetery.  When we picked out the headstone I had a verse inscribed on the back.  I don't remember where I heard it originally, I've searched the interwebz a few times looking for it (most recently about thirty seconds ago) but can't find it's origin so I can't give props.  But, to paraphrase it -

Know the gift you have been given.  And realize the gift has not been taken from you, only the wrapper.  For once you have been given the gift, it can not be taken away.  

Maybe it can help someone else.  I know it helped me.  So did believing that these two were together again.

Peace