1981: Lieutenant Moonlight!

This week’s selection for ReRun Saturday. It’s been interesting working with so many veterans at Nashville State – among other things I’ve learned that I was far from being only soldier trying to reconcile two vastly different worlds…

David R. Deitrick, Designer

scan0006

(Boy, that sounds like a Golden Age superhero titles, doesn’t it? Flyer’s helmet and goggles, short cape, boots and a half-moon logo on my chest.)

Ah, but it is not to be. Rather than fighting criminals or “Ratzis” the subject of today’s post has to do with the amount of freelance art work I did while serving in the Army – and it started the summer before my last year of undergraduate study.

Actually, it had been an issue since the day I signed up for ROTC. I knew that there would be a built-in conflict between the two career fields and I would bounce back and forth between planning for a career in the active army and a career in the design field combined with duty in the reserves. I would like to note that it never was a question of whether or not I would serve, but when…

View original post 1,041 more words

Music: Reasons for Waiting (Reconsidered)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iybAyDFrhhI

 Schadenfreude has never had any appeal to me. I’m convinced that taking “shameful joy” in another person’s failure is both pointless and petty, but there is one failure for which I will be forever thankful.   Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull fame gave up learning to play the guitar when he became convinced that he’d never play as well as Eric Clapton and I applaud that set-back for two reasons:

  • We’ve already got an Eric Clapton.
  • Without Anderson’s skill with the flute we’d never have had “Reasons for Waiting”.

1972

Room-mate Roulette is just one of the challenges a college freshman encounters, but it may be the most crucial. The stress involved in learning to mesh with a complete stranger can have a major effect on both your academic career not to mention your entire life so I’d assumed that careful thought and preparation went into room assignments…so please forgive me for being disturbed when I learned that the selection process was only slightly more sophisticated than a dart game.

Unfortunately I had to go throw the dart board twice. The first assignment worked out well : I drew an upperclassman whose part-time job and interest in the outdoors essentially gave me a private room. Unfortunately he dropped out mid-year and I had to go through the room assignment game a second time and ended up with Scott, a fellow freshman with a heavier footprint requiring  more accommodation and coordination, especially in the following areas:

  • Getting up in the morning
  • Turning in at night
  • House-cleaning
  • Laundry
  • Setting the thermostat
  • Female visitors
  • Post-fart courtesy

…and so on. Music was one of the hardest points to negotiate –  Scott favored hard rock (Grand Funk Railroad/Quicksilver Messenger Service/ Led Zeppelin)  while I preferred progressive rock and acoustic groups (Moody Blues/Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young/America) Playback volume was sticky issue until we agreed on a head-phone truce which unintentionally kept us from mixing our music  and appreciating what the other guy listened to.

It took the simple act of Scott turning over in bed one February morning to change all that. The sun was just peeking over the Alaska Range to the south and was bathing the morning sky with orange, magenta and purple while a train crawled along the track on the other side of the parking lot, building up speed for the day-long run to Anchorage, the exhaust from its diesels adding to the wisps of ice-fog that had come up from the Chena River. As I was taking this all in I was mug-in-hand, leaning on our chest-high window sill with my toes tucked under the heat register when somehow in the process of waking up Scott pulled the headset cord out of his stereo and the first notes of possibly the most beautiful song in rock music poured out into our little basement dorm room.

The soft acoustic introduction of  Jethro Tull’s Reasons For Waiting  leads into a flute solo so beautiful that my eyes welled up — then Ian Anderson started to sing in his slightly wavering tenor:

What a sight for my eyes
To see you in sleep.
Could it stop the sun rise
Hearing you weep?

 Writing under the pseudonym Stendhal, 19th Century French Novelist Marie-Henri Beyle observed that viewers can be overwhelmed by the sight of an art masterpiece and sent into a state of distress much like a panic attack. What I felt at this particular moment was probably a low-grade Stendhal incident: the music, the view, the warmth from the hot chocolate, being in love – I couldn’t catch my breath

Oh –  I  didn’t mention that I had recently fallen in love? My Best Friend and I had spent the first semester playing at being in love – making those first tentative moves: holding hands, sneaking a kiss, whispering endearments hardly understood, but it wasn’t until the separation at Christmas Break that the relationship really found its depth.

We were in capital “L” Love.

You’re not seen, you’re not heard
But I stand by my word.
Came a thousand miles
Just to catch you while you’re smiling.

Notes from the flute become frenzied and erratic but then acoustic guitar steps back in for just a moment to restore the orderly flow of musical notes.

What a day for laughter
And walking at night.
Me following after, your hand holding tight.
And the memory stays clear with the song that you hear.
If I can but make
The words awake the feeling
.

Again the flute become frenzied but just at the point of discomfort, the song explodes into a cascade of violins with Anderson’s flute weaving a thread of notes in an around the strings as they underlie the final verse

What a reason for waiting
And dreaming of dreams.
So here’s hoping you’ve faith in impossible schemes,
That are born in the sigh of the wind blowing by
While the dimming light brings the end to a night of loving.

I’d spent most of the previous evening curled up on the couch with my Best Friend watching television, but by the middle of Night Gallery she’d fallen asleep tucked up against the left side of my chest.  As the closing credits ran I looked over at her snuggled up against me and suddenly Stukas started to fly interdiction against my central pump. I’d never really looked at anyone sleeping much less a beautiful blonde and I just marveled at the soft, open look to her features.

Fast forward to the next morning: that memory from the night before combined with scenic beauty, the music –  h*ll even the mug of hot chocolate –  all combined to create one of the most heart-flutteringly joyful moments of my life,  an instant of gestalt wherein the beauty of the moment outshined the factors creating it. I wanted to break the channel-selector off my life  and stay in that moment forever. In my short eighteen years of life I had never felt anything like that particular four minutes and seven seconds.

…and forty-seven years later just thinking about that moment still makes me smile.

1964 Bike Ride to Mike’s House

This week’s Saturday re-run. One of the things I haven’t written much about is how different that stretch of highway looks now. There were some major changes made in the early 1990s; between that construction and the way the trees have grown back you can hardly recognize the old landmarks.

David R. Deitrick, Designer

I threw exactly one tantrum as a kid. I was normally pretty placid – an old man in a child’s body – but in the spring of 1964 when my dad announced that we were moving from Anchorage down to the Kenai Peninsula something snapped. I can remember screaming and yelling that I didn’t want to go, I wasn’t going to go and that we were all going to be eaten by bears. I was surprised that my parents let us rant like that (my older sister Robin was pitching a fit as well) but there were no spankings or shakings. They let us go on and on until exhaustion – then calmly moved us the following August to a small ranch in Sterling.

We had moved as a family many times before so why was this time so much more traumatic? There were several reasons, mostly social in nature…

View original post 1,629 more words

Thank You India

Earlier this year I wrote 2018: Bubble Wrap – a post concerning the personal fallout from the death of an old friend and mentor. When first published the post received  moderate  attention so I filed it away as one of my average efforts….but a week or two later  I learned that my  assumption was wrong. Something in that post  must have touched a collective nerve because the readership climbed very quickly, bringing about the following developments

  • FA large number of initial views on 2018: Bubble Wrap.
  • A large number of comments and “likes” on that particular post.
  • A sharp increase in “second-viewers” – readers who came to my page looking for the Bubble Wrap post but then stayed to read some of my other work.
  • A sharp increase in registered followers

As expected most of the readers have been my countrymen – readers from the United States. What was not expected was the nationality of the second-largest sub-group in this surge of readers. One would  assume that they would be from Canada, Australia or the United Kingdom, but in fact India is the home of the second largest group of people reading my blog.

It was a total surprise, and my first thought was trying to figure out what I’d said that would be of the slightest interest to  people living on other side of the planet. I grew up on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska and while my training in military intelligence left me with a bit more knowledge of the Indian subcontinent than most Americans, I am still mystified by so much interest in my work coming about in a country on the opposite side of the globe.

I’ve been trying to figure out a way to express my thanks for this interest and thought maybe I could find a way to express myself in Hindi or Urdu but as I started research I had visions of committing some terrible social blunder through miscommunication. There are innocent terms used in North America can take on very different meanings in other languages – for example, payday is what we call the day wages are disbursed  but “payday” is also a homonym for “fart” in some Latin American countries. I’ve known of American hipsters getting tattoos based on (mistranslated) Chinese or Japanese characters that were later found to have ” undesirable” connotations.

Besides – how do you say “thank you” to an entire continent? It’s like having a blue whale for a pet. The relationship might mean something to you, but I doubt the whale would be aware of your existence much less develop any sort of fondness.

Maybe the answer is intrinsically undefined and is a more personal matter. Despite my Teutonic surname most of my ancestors came from the British Isles – and not just England but Ireland, Scotland, Wales and Cornwall.  Military service runs several generations back in my family – I could possibly have had an ancestor stationed on the Northwest Frontier but as far as I can tell the regiments don’t match up…and it might not be the most politically correct idea at this point in time.

There’s always the chance that connection comes from a time even further back than the Raj.  I’ve recently discovered the music of Archie Jay & her bag-piping lady snake charmers and (all musical puns aside) it strikes a resonant chord. My family has always kept in touch with its Celtic roots and years ago before Mean Old Mr. Asthma literally took the wind out of my sails, I was a passable piper. Even to this day I can squeak out “Amazing Grace” and “Cock of the North” on my chanter so it should be no surprise that  the first time I heard Miss Jay and her team of snake-charming lady bag-pipers a chill went up my spine as the tears went down my cheeks. It felt familiar yet alien so maybe that amorphous  connection happened millennia in the past before the great Indo-European migrations split us up into Celts, Aryans and the countless other subgroups that wandered all over the globe.

…all of which is a much deeper subject than I can handle for now. Please keep reading, liking, sharing and recommending to your friends.  If you’ll excuse me, I have to go try and put a collar on a whale.

Requiem For An Almost-Mom

Re-run Saturday. It’s hard to believe that three years have passed by since Sister Smith passed away.

David R. Deitrick, Designer

For the last four or five days I have been running through a wide range of emotions – primarily those clustered at the sad/lost/frustrated point in the continuum. I’ve found myself wasting time at my desk puttering at pointless tasks like making copies, stacking papers and sorting tubes of paint while getting easily distracted….

(Paint. Hmmmmm. This could either be the beginning of a great analogy or just another a flash of attention-deficit disorder…)

As a student I was surprised to find that painting entails a lot of chemistry. Mixing colors is not always a straightforward proposition wherein blue plus red always equals purple. For one thing colors are not “pure” hues but can lean towards one side of the mix more than another. Sap Green is a very warm green that looks closer to the yellow side than the blue while Viridian is a cool green favoring blue over…

View original post 1,199 more words

1963: Ejection Seat

This week’s entry in the “Run It Again” sweepstakes. One nice development: I found a Steve Canyon lunchbox on eBay just like the one I took to school for a good part of the year this story is set in….

David R. Deitrick, Designer

Forget “Fast and Furious”

Forget “Iran-Contra”

Forget anything y you may know about arms trading, illicit or otherwise. They all pale when compared to the rampant weapons dealings of Woodland Park Elementary School in the early sixties. More weapons (albeit toy weapons) changed hands during that year than at any other time in history. I personally went through two Mattel Tommy-bursts, a Marx Gung-Ho tripod machine gun, two Monkey Division weapons (bazooka and mortar) and a host of other off-brand toy firearms including what looked like an M1 carbine hybrid with a pistol grip that shot gold-painted wooden bullets….that I wouldn’t mind having a functional version of as an adult.

It was a very different political and social climate then. It had been less than twenty years since the USA had kicked Hitler’s and Tojo’s collective a**, the country was coasting off the red-hot economy of the Fifties and it…

View original post 1,341 more words

1966: Super-Ball

(You’d never guess by the size of my waistline but I fight a daily losing battle with perfectionism. I like to go back and edit/improve/tweak old posts, like this one first posted a little over four years ago.)

David R. Deitrick, Designer

Image

One unique aspect about growing up in Alaska was the sense of cultural disconnection we had to deal with – a disconnection that was even wider because we didn’t know it was there. I spent my young adulthood thinking that my youth and adolescence were just like everyone else’s – just colder and darker. There were in fact large communication and social gaps that made life on the Last Frontier more like life on another planet. For example, there were no same-day network news programs on television until I was a senior in high school and even then they weren’t simultaneous broadcasts. The early evening news was videotaped in Seattle then put on an airliner to Anchorage, where it was broadcast after 10 at night. It made watching the Super Bowl problematic; the game was broadcast live on radio so you were faced with either knowing the score beforehand as…

View original post 860 more words

1972: Transition From Black & White

The more things change the more they stay the same. In this case the  “same” part was the fact that It was autumn and I was standing with a pretty girl in the waiting line in front of the campus cinema. The changed part? Twelve months earlier I had been taking Molly Dunham to see Castle Keep showing at the University of Alaska student cinema. Now I was taking my Best Friend to see The Wizard of Oz at the Manwaring Center at the Ricks College student cinema.

Also changed? I was really, really not-happy. Not necessarily “unhappy” but there were several places I’d rather be than Rexburg, Idaho.  I had spent the previous academic year at a state school with no real restrictions and my transfer to a faith-based conservative school with precise dress, grooming and conduct codes was something that would have not happened had I not been following my Best Friend, who’d chosen to attend Ricks long before she met me.

The dress and grooming standards weren’t the only drawback though. Up to this point my life had been spent on the Left Coast – California, Alaska and a brief interlude in Washington State. Going to school at Ricks College was like living in an Archie comic and whenever we were on the road I kept looking for signs that read “Welcome to Idaho – Please set your clocks back twenty years”.  People were nice enough but quirky.

However, that quirky behavior wasn’t all bad.  Going out at night was a lot less stressful that it had often been at home when any kind of weekend evening activity could involve navigating around people in various degrees of chemically-induced mental/emotional impairment. That impairment took different forms depending on the chemical involved; if weed was involved people were laid back and pleasant, but if there’d been some heavy-duty drinking, chances were someone would eventually start swinging. As sweet as she was my Best Friend was clueless to these kinds of situations and was baffled at my change in demeanor when walking from the car to wherever we were going. One minute I would be making my usual bad puns but once I was out the door I was as taciturn and alert as John Wayne in Fort Apache (“I don’t like it Cookie. The Indian drums have stopped and it’s too quiet out there!”).

I’d had to deal with some ugly situations with drunks interfering with other dates and there was no way I was going to let something like that happen to my Best Friend, so going to and from most of our activities were more like tactics exercises than anything else. I expected the situation to be much the same in Idaho but fortunately during the few weeks we’d been in Rexburg had been pretty peaceful and pleasant.

…including this particular trip to watch Judy Garland prance around with Munchkins at the student cinema on the third floor of the Manwaring student center. We arrived early but there was already a number of students waiting in line down the hallway. The hallway was a bit unusual:  To accommodate rooms of various size and configuration doors leading off this hallway were set back in varying depths with some of the doors flush with the wall and others inset anywhere from six inches to two feet. We’d parked ourselves in front of one of these inset mini-alcoves when the door at the end of the hallway crashed open and a very cowboyish-looking guy walked in. As he moved down the hall and past the line of people waiting for the movie he brushed shoulders with another young man standing a couple of spaces ahead of us.

AH-OOGAH!

My inner alarm system kicked in at what I figured to be an imminent fight. As the adrenaline started pumping I turned and swept my Best Friend into the alcove behind us, then stood in front with my hands up, ready to push the combatants away if the inevitable fight started to move in our direction.

Then something completely unexpected happened.

“Sorry – I warn’t watching whar I was going” said the cowboy.

“No problem” said the brushee.

“David, what is going on?” said my Best Friend, her muffled voice echoing from the alcove behind me.

I was totally bewildered as the two shook hands and the cowboy kept walking down the hall. I could feel little mental fuses and circuit breakers in my brain burn out and pop. The situation had resolved itself in a manner completely foreign to my experience  – Instincts kicked in and I started to loudly berate the young man in the line ahead of us.

“What are you doing you >expletive deleted<?”

 “He just ran RIGHT into you!  And your girlfriend too!”

 “Kick his a**!”

 A slender hand reached around, grabbed the front of my overcoat and gently pulled me around and away from the others in the line. While she straightened my lapel and brushed non-existent dust off my shoulders my Best Friend quietly said:

David, we’re not in Fairbanks anymore. Things are different here and different doesn’t always mean bad…or worse.”

 …which completely shut me up.

 …and I stayed quiet because I had a lot to think about. The parallel between what had happened outside and what was happening on the screen was sledge-hammer obvious.  I’d come from an environment that was just as black-and-white as the scenes in Kansas up on the screen and I while I wasn’t ready to say that Idaho was “color” in comparison to my home in Alaska, I was finding that “quirky-but-nice” might be just nice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

1971: “…then Dave turned sixteen and discovered girls.”

It was Brother Lombard’s favorite quip:

 “Yeah – it was all Batman and Star Trek until Dave turned sixteen and discovered girls

It may have been funny to some members of our congregation upon first telling, but after being retold several hundred times over the next two years it lost whatever wit it once had. I do have to admit that he did get one thing right with the pop culture reference – life as a teenager in   Alaska wasn’t just The Wonder Years with snow and moose; battling isolation and a hostile environment six months out of each year left a kid with a lot of time to kill and it was easy to murder the hours and minutes sitting in front of the tube.

Truth be told, I was very aware of girls all along and at an age younger than most of my peers. It was proficiency in “hustling” that I lacked:  introducing myself to young ladies, chatting them up, securing phone numbers and making dates –  basically becoming Tarzan in a letterman’s jacket. My approach was much more low-key in that I was polite to parents, well-mannered out in public and witty enough to keep a smile on the face of any young lady I kept company with. Maybe it was because I was one of those kids born “middle-aged” and for the previous 17 ½ years I had been the only adult in a bi-polar family of seven, acting as the peacemaker and keeping long-term consequences in sight when everyone else was angry.

You’d think that sense of propriety would go a long way towards building a measure of trust with my parents but unfortunately that didn’t happen. From the very beginning Mom had Puritanical-verging-on-medieval standards when it came to dating and when my older sister left home under clouded circumstances the rules tightened up even more.   While Mom wasn’t as strict with me as she was with my younger sisters it had less to do with any increased trust than the fact that I couldn’t get pregnant – if there’d been a chastity jock strap she would have had me fitted for one on my sixteenth birthday.

 Getting out of the house on a date was like living out an episode of Hogan’s Heroes with me as a prisoner of war and my mom playing the part of Colonel Klink. While there weren’t any tunnels running underneath the homestead I did make a secret passage from my closet to the garage rafters but rarely had to resort to its use –  my escapes hinged on more on quick-thinking than escape & evasion.

The camp house rules for dating or activities with the opposite sex were as follows:

  • Mom had to personally approve each activity in detail at least a week in advance.
  • We were not to date any one person more than two times in a row.
  • A single date had to be followed by two double dates before another single.
  • We weren’t allowed any sort of personal diary.

No debate was allowed on the subject and the penalties for noncompliance were dire, so like any kids I found ways to work around those draconian regulations – I never lied to my parents but I did become quite adept at “editing” what I told them. For example, I’d tell them I was going to a wrestling match while conveniently omitting the fact that A) I was taking my girlfriend and B) the wresting match was in Ninilchik.

Colonel Hogan couldn’t have done it better.

I had a social life – but I paid for it. Subterfuge did not come to me naturally and my technical honesty compounded the “normal” stress any eighteen-year-old encountered while jumping through the hoops that were supposed to be preparing me for a future that could entail either college classes or rice paddies. Instead of becoming part of the path to normal socialization process, dating became a pitfall and an additional source of stress which meant that I didn’t always make good choices. Instead of The Dating Game I was stranded in The Gong Show and the contestants weren’t always a good match.

  • Bachelorette #1 should have had a staple in her navel. She could put any Playboy Playmate to shame: Beautiful, petite and as curvy as a Coke bottle and blessed with long luxurious brown hair cascading down to the small of her back – the kind of girl that you expect to have “Mattel” embossed on her tush.  Sadly, there was no real connection in terms of personality and after three dates of one-way conversations we went our separate ways.
  • Bachelorette #2 was also a knock-out with the added advantage of having been a good friend before we became romantically involved. Unfortunately, she lived fifty miles away and taking her out entailed cover stories that were harder to support when things went wrong. In the end logistics won out over love and we reluctantly reverted to “good friends” status.
  • Bachelorette #3 was a recent move-in and younger-than-usual, both of which aggravated her innate teen-age angst for which she would compensate in unexpected ways. For example, for one big date she wore an oversized wig then spent the evening constantly adjusting it to the exclusion of everything else.  Unwilling to find out what other unconventional grooming changes were in the works I hastily withdrew from the relationship

At that point I was close to giving up.

Not that I had much faith in long-term relationships to begin with as it seemed like people all around me were getting divorced. The idea of a permanent commitment to another person seemed bankrupt and became little more than a point of contention with my locker-neighbor Carey, who was counting down the days to her own nuptials soon after our graduation in May.

It was during one such bicker-fest that I met her locker-mate Debbie, a junior and recent transfer from Oregon. Dark haired and leggy with a Jane Leeves vibe (before there was a Jane Leeves) Debbie had already turned the smart-kid’s mafia a** over teakettle with a razor-sharp intellect and a GPA to match. My interest was piqued but she showed no interest at all – for that matter she wouldn’t even talk to me and Carey refused any aid in the matter at all: “She’s a nice girl Dave and she wants to have a family someday. You don’t ever want to get married so all you’d do is break her heart.”

BAM! Usually it was at least ten minutes before the inevitable shut-down but this time I was shot out of the saddle right away. I slunk off to class, but when I went to my locker the next morning Carey and Debbie were already there taking much longer than usual to stow their lunches and retrieve books. I nodded hello as I started rooting around in my own space, but something clicked when Carey managed to loudly mention the up-coming Valentine’s dance three times during their morning conversation – so I wasn’t totally surprised the next morning when Debbie was at the locker by herself. I immediately looked around for the neon sign flashing “SET-UP/SET-UP/SET-UP”, but no man ever went to his doom happier than I was. After some small talk I politely asked if she would go to the dance with me to which she smiled for the first time and simply said “Yes”.

I couldn’t tell you whether the Valentine’s dance was a success that year – all I know is that we walked in, I turned to ask her to dance and the whole universe changed.  By the end of the evening we were an item, but within days it was apparent that we were the only people pleased by the arrangement.  Her mom didn’t want Debbie in an exclusive relationship with me, the smart kid mafia was incensed that I had poached one of their own and one of my own close friends took a totally random dislike to her – none of which changed the fact that I was totally smitten with this wonderful young lady who inexplicably liked me.

On my part the attraction could have been due to any number of things – she was drop-dead gorgeous, she was extremely (but not insufferably) intelligent, her singing would bring tears to my eyes – and she “got” me.

  • She understood why I drew.
  • She understood why I wrote.
  • She understood why I preferred the Moody Blues over Creedence Clearwater Revival.
  • She understood why I thought Robert Klein was much funnier than Flip Wilson.
  • …and she got all my terrible puns.

It was the first time I could completely drop my guard, be myself and be happy in what should have been a lengthy rewarding relationship. Unfortunately, when you grow up in a bipolar household “happy” doesn’t feel normal. Even though by this point in time my mom’s dating rules minefield had been defused it had been replaced with the objections of family and friends and it seemed like the relationship was doomed. There was no big blow-up but by the time I graduated we were no longer an item and at some warped level I thought that I was happy for getting out cleanly…

It was only later that I discovered how wrong I had been. All my spare time had been taken up with navigating through high school graduation and starting my summer construction job, so it was early June before I got a chance to sit down and look through my yearbook. It was then that I found out that my exit had been far from clean –  between the stereotypical “remember cutting up in (fill in the blank) class” and “don’t ever change” dedications I found a short note written in a perfect cursive:

Dave:

To a real nice guy. I’ll never forget you, ‘cuz ya see, I’m in love with you.

Good luck attorney

Love, Debbie

I can still feel everything about the exact moment I read that inscription:

  • The ache in my back where I was leaning against the side of my bunk
  • The sharp acrid smell that came with wooden walls warmed up by a summer sun
  • David Crosby’s rich tenor woven that of Nash and Young in “Music is Love”
  • The total shock that came with her declaration

It was the first I’d heard the word “love” directed at me since we’d moved to Sterling seven years earlier.

I wish I could say that I immediately ran out, found her and reconciled on the spot but that didn’t happen. It was more like a Harry Chapin song; we did briefly date again later that summer, but I was off to college before any rekindling was possible.  Any subsequent chance of a do-over was obliterated a year later by a prank on the part of a buddy that went bad with craptacular results and finally in the spring of 1974 I learned that she was married.

Why is this an issue with me over forty years later? Part of the interest is fueled by nostalgia. Part of it is just one of the on-going hazards of being blessed/cursed with this laser-sharp, steel trap memory…but part of it is gratitude. Lori laughs when I tell her that she wouldn’t have liked me much had we met when I was eighteen instead of five years later but it’s true. Like my parents I wasn’t so much raised as dragged up and I am not joking when I say that I had a thin exterior layer of “thug” when I was eighteen.

But at the same time….

Call it good luck, a blessing from God or the planets being properly aligned – starting with Debbie and every intervening girlfriend between her and Lori I was completely outclassed by each young lady in question – and I knew it. No matter how cool a pose I may have been putting on inside there was always a nerd-boy spazzing out as in “Hummana-hummana – I CAN’T FREAKING BELIEVE SHE LIKES ME!” so and I would try as best as I could to refine my manners, curtail the fart jokes and generally try to be someone worthy of the girl I was matched up with.

What this means is Debbie was the homeroom teacher in husband school …and for that I will always have a soft spot in my heart for her. I have no idea where she is now though I occasionally check face book and do a Google search. I did get a scare about ten years ago when I found an obituary notice with a similar name but the dates didn’t match up.

I just hope she’s happy and doing well.

GoldGreen600dpi-CC

Redesigned XL5 Jetbike

2017-12-02 Reworked XL5 Jetbike

They’re the first thing you see on an episode of Fireball XL5

“OK Venus?”  “OK Steve”  “Right…let’s go!”

SteveVenusJetbike

Some guys my age like to golf all the time. Other guys work in their gardens. Me – I like to re-design things just for the h*ll of it. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Fireball XL5, if nothing else but for the fact that it was my favorite show during 5th grade at Woodland Park Elementary in deepest, darkest Spenard…and it was time to give the jetbike a reworking….