Author: ICRTD

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Immortality

I just got back yesterday, after a mad dash to Illinois and back.  Diane’s Mom passed away last week and the funeral was Tuesday.  Last minute airfare being what it is *hint- ridiculously expensive* the only choice was to make the drive.  So I left central North Carolina around 5:00 Monday morning and drove to the Greater Elgin area, paid my respects Tuesday to a truly lovely woman, and started making my way back Tuesday afternoon.

I have thoughts and comments about the driving portion of my week thus far, but before I bury the lede and wreak literary havoc upon the drivers sharing the road with me, I need to say a few words about my Mother-In-Law.

If you know any of us either IRL or at least on social media, you’ve probably seen the outpouring of emotions in describing what Laurelle meant to my kids and grandkids.  They all did a wonderful job painting the picture of what she meant to us and I’m not sure I can say anything that hasn’t already been said.  But I’m about to give it a shot.

I used the word “lovely” in the opening paragraph and I meant it.  From the start, Laurelle was exactly that.  She welcomed me, my kids, and grandkids into her family unhesitatingly and I don’t believe the word “step” was in her vocabulary. We were all part of her family and that was that.  And so much more.  She was, quite possibly, the only person that loved poor puns as much as I do and she threw them out with great flair and regularity.  She was not afraid to laugh at her own puns too and that just added to the enjoyment.  She enjoyed teasing, about any number of things, those she cared about and was always gracious on the receiving end when that time came.  She was a large, probably the largest, part of the sense of humor that endeared Diane (and her siblings) to me and even though their eyes weren’t a color match, they shared the same spark of pure joy that was visible from across a crowded room.  I have many fond memories of practical jokes played back and forth between Laurelle and Caitlin.  Like Caitlin hiding in a laundry hamper and jumping out at the last minute to startle her Grandma.  Or a long running gag that involved one of them being called “dumb” and the other being called “stupid”.

But Laurelle was so much more than just a comedienne.  She was, without question, the most devout person I’ve ever met.  Granted, I don’t spend a lot of time hanging around people of great faith, but I’d match her devotion to her faith with anyone, anytime, anywhere.  And while I didn’t share her views on everything, I always respected them, keeping my cynicism and skepticism at bay.  Whenever we met in the time I spent with the pirate and in the time since, she would always tell me she prayed for my happiness.  It always meant a lot to me (still does and always will btw) because I recognized the place it was coming from.  Absolute sincerity.  And the fact that, no matter what may have been going on in her life, she found the time to consider me and my emotional well-being in her private moments with her Maker was not something to be taken casually.

The service was much like any other, in the way that it was a chance to see old friends and family members and it’s an opportunity to be cherished even as we mourn the passing.  I saw one of Diane’s besties, Lorraine, for the first time in many years and she and I shared a couple laughs from the past as we caught up.  I also saw a few nieces and nephews that I hadn’t seen in a while and the changes over the years ranged from multiple (adorable) kids, to venturing out on new careers, to facial hair.  Nephews only on the facial hair part.  Just sayin’

One last thing about this week.  I don’t know if any of you share this, but I feel like it’s probably pretty common, so…

They make me flash back on final services for others I’ve either attended or been a part of.  Also, funerals tend to make me look at my own mortality.  And I spent a lot of time thinking about my own shuffle off this mortal coil.  Oftentimes there are things we know we should do, but for one reason or another, procrastination kicks in and we leave them undone.  Wills, for instance.  I know I should have one… but… yeah… you see… it’s like this… I don’t.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to me or my stuff after the fact.  So I sat down at the keyboard the other night and emailed a few thoughts to the progeny (which, btw, sounds so much better than “fruit of my loins” don’t you think?) to try to get some stuff right.  For example, I want to donate not just my organs, but my entire body.  I’m sure I’d make for an interesting trip around the cadaver lab at a medical school somewhere.  “Jesus, how did this guy live THIS long?” or something.  I want my memorial service to be light-hearted.  Or, at least as light-hearted as funerals can be, you know?  Tell stories of stupid shit I did and leave people laughing.  If you’re going to shed tears at my passing, I’d much rather they be tears of laughter.  I don’t know what awaits me (see my faith comments above) but I’m comfortable in the belief that whatever or wherever it may be, I’ve lived a great life.  I’ve experienced more love and joy than I was probably entitled to, so I’ll ask no questions when it’s time and gladly take what I’ve been given.

Nothing profound as I close, rather the familiar.  Love the ones you’re with and live each moment as if it was your last.

One day, for each of us, it will be.

Peace

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This one goes to 11

Welp, this has taken me entirely too long to get to.  I was actually a little embarrassed when I checked the site the other day to see when my last posts had been (quite a while back) and I’ve had a busy last month or so.  As a consequence, I have much to write about.  I promise not to get too wordy here though.

Kinda…

I’ve got Tom Petty blaring at me whilst I work on this, it’s a holiday weekend Saturday morning, and life, on the whole, is pretty good.  Let’s get started.

I drove back to Illinois for an extended visit last month.  And I’ve already got to back up a wee bit; my travel weekend started with a trip about three hours southwest of me to Greenville, SC for a concert.  Jason Isbell and The 400 Unit with Richard Thompson as the opener.  Great.  Concert.  My hotel was literally across the street from the venue, which was kinda sweet in and of itself, but the show was just stellar.  I’ve been a Thompson fan for over thirty years and he’s an amazing musician.  If you’re not familiar, I highly recommend checking out his music.

The morning after the concert I headed north, and, as I’d intimated earlier, I split the trip into two days.  Pretty unremarkable journey home.  That’s a good thing, btw.  Especially if you’ve read any of my previous travel foibles.  You have, right?

My time in Illinois was spent with family, splitting my time between the homes of the Oldest One and the Quiet Child, but I spent time with all the kids and littles and it was delightful.  A lot of baseball games and softball games were watched and, by and large, thoroughly enjoyed.  I even got the see the Heir To The Throne hit his first high school home run, which was cool AF.

In addition to hanging with friends and family around home, I went to Springfield with nine other members of Local 3234 (our largest contingent ever!) for the state Legislative Conference.  So I got to hang with firefighter friends/union activists from across Illinois.  Spent a little quality time with some of the elected officials there, including a couple of after-hours gatherings in local watering holes.

Sorry, no stories will come from those escapades…

I got to hang out with the guys in the high-rise district for breakfast one Sunday (one of the best experiences of firehouse life), saw several friends and relatives for coffee (not all at once), I also swung by the cemetery to “chat” with Diane and Caitlin.  To be sure, there were several people (you know who you are) I had intended to get together with, that, for one reason or another was unable to, but there will be other trips home and I’m hopeful scheduling will be a little smoother.

The visit wrapped up with the 11th birthday of the Reigning Princess, which is where this pic was taken.  I can’t believe how big these guys are getting.  Pretty handsome group, no?  Speaking of time flying, when did I turn into an old man?  That’s a rhetorical question, btw, no comments necessary.

Just sayin’

I hit the road before 5:00 AM last Monday to head back to central North Carolina.  I guess karma was in my corner after the whole Memphis excursion, as this was also a really smooth trip.  The only time I used my favorite twelve letter word was to thank a fellow motorist, one with Wyoming plates on his car, for moving out of my way, allowing me to pass him easily.  I threw out the Bruce Willis line from Die Hard, you know the one.  I felt like it was appropriate given where he was from, you know, cowboys and all.   One of the high points was a lunch stop at the Bob (don’t hate, I like it) Evans restaurant in Chillicothe, OH.

Considering the rest of the clientele, I’m guessing the median age to have been 83. #83Nation.  There was also a bonus sighting of what I believe may have been the love child of auto huckster Bob Rohrman and novelist Steven King.  Yikes.  To make my lunchtime people watching even more interesting, I’m fairly certain there was a carny convention or something in town.  Again, Yikes.  But the blueberry pancakes were just the thing to get me to my next stop, one I plan for every trip between IL and NC, Beckley, WV.  I’ve never gone through the town itself, but I think it’s similar to Asheville, NC in that it is filled with artisans and has a kind of hippy vibe to it.  The rest stop/tourist center is filled with all kinds of locally made craft-y type stuff.  Blown glass, pottery, sculptures in both wood and metal and actually really good food.  If you’re ever traveling through West Virgina on either I-64 or I-77 you must stop and check it out.  Trust me.

Finally, from the “out of the mouths of babes” file, I’d like to quote the grandchild formerly known as Beatle Baby (he’s 6 years old already, I guess I’ve got to come up with a new nom de plume for him) “Grandpa Joe, you live far away.”

Yes, yes I do.  Smooth trip or not, it’s a long day on the road and I was glad to be home.  Let’s see what kind of nonsense comes my way so I can share it with you here.  But in the meantime, I’m going to head out to the shed and see what I can accomplish…

Peace

PS- what with the holiday weekend and all, I want to leave you with a PSA of sorts.  No, not my usual entreaty to not drink and drive, although, obvs.  Instead I’d like to ask you to take a minute to remember why this holiday exists.  Quite literally, thousands have given their lives to allow us the freedoms we take for granted today.  Let’s do our part to honor their memories and, to quote Labor Activist Mother Jones “Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.”

Again, Peace

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May 24, 2003

It’s been a terribly long time since I sat down at the keyboard to hammer one of these out.  No reason to it, really, I just haven’t.  But I do have plenty to say and a trip back home to get down here.  I’ve got that swirling around my head, so I do expect to get it up here fairly soon, like, tomorrow-ish.

But first things being what they are and today being what it is, I decided I’d rather do this first.

Fifteen years ago today Caitlin died.

Technically that’s not accurate, since we made the decision to donate her organs, her body remained hooked up to the equipment that kept her blood circulating and oxygenated until the 25th when the “harvest team” came to get whatever organs were viable for transplant.  I’ve always hated that term in this application btw.  Harvest.  I suppose it’s accurate, but so completely dehumanizing to someone who you love.

At any rate, today, I felt like putting up another excerpt from that weekend, now fifteen years later.

When we were finally led in to Caitlin’s room in the NICU, around 3:00 AM Friday morning, we could hardly believe our eyes.  It, almost literally, took our breath away.

As we walked into her room in the NICU, the first glimpse of Caitlin took my breath away.  That image is one of the things from this time that is indelibly burned into my brain.  She looked so tiny in the huge bed.  Her arms were bundled up in huge rolls of gauze and she was propped up by pillows under both arms and both legs.  Her face was bruised, swollen and distorted.  She had tubes and wires everywhere.  She was on a ventilator.  She had a broken femur in her left leg and a broken tibia in her right leg.  She had a broken humerus in her left arm and a broken ulna in her right arm.  She had a fractured pelvis.  A lacerated liver, a ruptured spleen and contusions on her heart, lungs, and brain.  Even though she hadn’t regained consciousness since the crash, they had her in a medically induced coma because they were already concerned about the bruising on her brain.  The doctors were concerned that the swelling of her brain, left unchecked, would increase pressure on her brain and reduce blood flow to, and oxygen supply for, her brain.  The brain is surrounded by cerebrospinal fluid.  Among other things, it acts as a cushion for the brain so if, for example, you hit your head against something, your brain won’t smash against the inside of your skull causing even more damage.  Typically, at rest, the pressure in your brain is measured in the low teens.  Caitlin’s intracranial pressure (ICP) was already in the low 20’s and, despite the best efforts of the doctors, it showed no signs of slowing down.

Diane sobbed as we walked up to Caitlin’s bedside.  The nurse was speaking to us, explaining everything we were looking at, but I don’t think either of us heard a word she said.  

It was hardly the first time I’d seen something like this.  In my job, it’s not unusual to be on the scene of a crash like the one Caitlin was in, a crash that results in multi-system trauma.  It’s also not uncommon to be passing through the Emergency Department and see someone with the types of injuries Caitlin sustained.  The problem came in, for me, because very early in my career I learned to de-personalize the things I saw.  I learned how potentially easy it was to assign the personality traits or the physical characteristics of a family member to many of the emergency situations I would encounter.  And how unsettling it would be to me unless I removed every bit of emotion from what I needed to do.  So that’s what I always did.  Not this time though.  This, this was so different from anything I’d ever known.  I couldn’t possibly de-personalize this.  Not that I ever wanted to.  I mean, for crying out loud, this was Caitlin lying there, broken and bruised.  This hurt like nothing I’d ever known before.  And I know it was a hundred times worse for Diane.  A thousand times worse.  

How could it not be?  I think the bond between mother and child is probably the strongest human connection.  At least in most cases.  And the bond between Diane and her girls was always strong.  Sure they had their differences, who doesn’t?  But they genuinely enjoyed the company of each other in any number of different settings.  True, most that I’ve mentioned revolved around shopping, but to leave it at that is an oversimplification and it does a great disservice to them.  

She was a beautiful, vibrant, young woman turned into a shattered shell of herself.  Her face was swollen and bruised.  Her body was propped up by pillows everywhere.  Soon we learned what her injuries were; broken bones in both arms and both legs, a fractured pelvis, lacerated liver, and bruises on her heart, lungs, and brain.  She had chest tubes in both lungs.  She was on a ventilator.  And, even though she never regained consciousness since the crash, she was in a medically induced coma.  The Trauma Surgeon told us they were concerned about the swelling on her brain and they felt that by keeping her in a deeper coma, they might reduce the risk of more swelling.  With good reason.  Every time the nurses checked Caitlin’s vital signs, indications were that her Intracranial Pressure (ICP) was rising.  Typically, for an adult at rest, ICP is between 7-15 mm Hg.  By the time doctors inserted a monitor through Caitlin’s forehead to continuously measure her ICP, it was already in the high 20’s, still with no indication it would decrease.  As we watched that monitor over the course of Friday and on into Saturday it continued to climb, dangerously high.  Although at the time, we didn’t understand how dangerously.  

As family started to gather in Caitlin’s hospital room, we started trying to anticipate the changes we would need to make.  She’ll need some time to recuperate, we thought.  We can turn the dining room into a temporary recovery room for her so she doesn’t need to worry about the stairs, we told ourselves.  

Cassi had been in St. Louis with one of her sorority sisters.  She flew in to O’Hare and Diane’s sister-in-law went to the airport to pick her up and bring her to the hospital on Friday morning.  We spent all day Friday in Caitlin’s room or in the waiting room shuttling family back and forth so they could see Caitlin and be with Diane.  I don’t think Diane or Cassi left Caitlin’s side for more than a minute or two the whole weekend.  I did most of the shuttling.

I had called off work at about 6:00 Friday morning, once everyone was awake.  Around 7:30, one of the guys that worked the day before me at the firehouse, Skip, brought by coffee and bagels for Diane and me.  He said he didn’t want to stay, knew we had a lot on our minds; he just wanted to drop off some breakfast for us. The first of I-can’t-tell-you-how-many kind gestures we would receive in the days ahead.

By late morning on into early afternoon, the nurses told us they were concerned that Caitlin’s intracranial pressure was still not decreasing.  Every time they checked her vital signs, the ICP was up a little.  So they ushered us out of Caitlin’s room and the doctor came in.  He took a measuring device, I don’t know what it’s called, and inserted it, through Caitlin’s skull, right in the middle of her forehead.  Through this device, they were able to continuously measure Caitlin’s ICP.  We watched the monitor nonstop.  And prayed the same way.  Prayed for the number to drop.  

It never did.  

OK, it fluctuated a little bit.  

Up ten points; down five.  

Up four points; down six.  

Up two points; up two more.  The end result was that every hour it was a little higher than it had been the hour before.  

I’m a huge football fan.  I love the Chicago Bears and I’ve been a fan since I was a little boy.  Walter Payton, Sweetness, was one of my favorite players, a Hall of Famer, one of the all-time greats.  Diane and I actually had the opportunity to meet Walter before he passed away.  We went to his restaurant in Aurora one night with my brother and sister-in-law and Walter was there greeting people as they came in.  We shook his hand and Diane was joking with him about his handshake, until he started to squeeze her hand.  We all had a good laugh about that.  When I think now about the number 34, I don’t think about Walter Payton’s jersey number.  I think about how 34 was as low as Caitlin’s ICP got that night.  It soared up over 100 and stayed there for prolonged periods of time.  

Diane and I talked about the boys, Ryan and Maun, in Iraq.  We decided it was time to let them know what had happened.  I opened up my wallet and took out the little slip of paper with the 800 number for the Red Cross.  “Just for emergencies” Ryan had told me.  This qualified.  The lady I spoke with offered us her prayers and said she’d do everything she could to get the boys home as quickly as possible.  

Hug the ones you love, often.  Tell the ones you love that you love them, often.  And please, not just this holiday weekend, but every day, don’t drive if you’ve been drinking.

Peace

 

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Road Trips

Well, I had fully intended to do this yesterday, but adulting got in the way, as it is wont to do from time-to-time.  And in the true spirit of the subtitle to this blog “where I write things about stuff” I’m going to hit to all fields today.  Well from left-center to right-center, at least.

Since I’ve got my hyphen quota out-of-the-way…

Wait, one quick side note here.  I love adjectives.  And I love the storytelling aspect of writing.  Sometimes, when I come across a particularly beautiful piece of the art, I feel compelled to share it and I want to put this in here.  Background on it is this; William Nack was a sportswriter for Sports Illustrated for 23 years, covering, among other things, the career of Secretariat.  He passed away last week at the age of 77 after a fight with cancer.  For the uninitiated, Secretariat was (imho) the greatest athlete of all time.  As I read some of Mr. Nack’s stories, this line in his tribute to an amazing horse stood out to me.

“Oh, I knew all the stories, knew them well, had crushed and rolled them in my hand until their quaint musk lay in the saddle of my palm.”

It’s one of those lines that makes me want to write forever, the image it projects in my mind’s eye.  The article itself is a long read, but it’s stunning in it’s beauty, an homage to a greatness seldom seen and I highly recommend making the time to read it.

To the trip.

I left Memphis Sunday morning, heading back to central North Carolina.  I’d gone there for a concert and a little touristing, more about both later.  The impetus for this post was the trip from Hell.  Not really, but Sunday was one long ass day behind the windshield, let me tell you.  No, really, that’s why I’m doing this.

I got on the road about 8:00 AM central time and according to the GPS it was going to be about a ten-hour drive.  That’s about what it took me to get there on Thursday, so I had no reason to doubt it.  I knew there was a storm out ahead of me, but I was hopeful I could stay behind it.

Ha!

The first thing that jumped out at me (not literally) was the number of highway patrol cars out on the interstate, running radar.  And reaping the benefits of their actions.  I’m not sure why, other than the easy pickings due to the quantity of drivers with a heavy right foot.  I’m sure the Tennessee state coffers were enriched significantly that day.  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they had a quota to meet too.  But, according to my friends with stars on their chests, ticket quotas (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?) don’t exist…

I saw not less than eight officers in the first hundred miles moving east from Memphis.  I need to note here that none of them carried my name in their ticket book, so, that’s a win.  And, despite the need to monitor their presence, I was making good time.  Outstanding time, in fact.  I felt like I may have been able to shave at least a half hour off my travel time.

Until I caught the aforementioned weather.  About half way through Tennessee.  And can I just say that Tennessee is one wide damn state.  I mean, really.  Roughly 450 miles from Memphis to the North Carolina border on I-40 in case you were wondering.  As you might imagine (go ahead, imagine away) this length of trip, sharing the roadway with throngs of others, each with their own places to go (and a variety of urgencies to get there) may elicit an occassional bad word from yours truly.  By my count, a rough guess, but it’s still mine, I used my favorite twelve letter word (rhymes with “brother trucker”)  a minimum of 27 times.  This may surprise you, but I’m quite certain that if you ask the Oldest One or the Boy Child, they will confirm that is a reasonable estimate.  When they were much younger we would have to drive through downtown St. Charles fairly often and they learned some creative and colorful language earlier than they probably should have thanks to my reaction to the other drivers there.

It was somewhere east of Nashville, maybe an hour or so east, where I caught up with the rain.  An inconvenience perhaps, but not that big of a deal.  I had gained considerable time, so I really wasn’t all that bothered.  Until I got closer to Knoxville and hit a traffic jam.  About ten miles worth of a traffic jam.  That took me over an hour to get through.  So much for early arrival.  I thought I’d seen a sign as I approached the backup, something about a wreck ahead, but if that was the case it had long since been cleared up by the time I got through it.  Things flowed well for about an hour when, approaching the border, Tennessee traffic gave me one last body cavity search and for no apparent reason I hit another traffic jam in excess of thirty minutes.  Into North Carolina the rain picked up in frequency and intensity.  I made it into Asheville for fuel and coffee and figured I’d be home in three hours or so.

Again, Ha!

Figuring 8:30 for my eta home, an eleven hour plus trip was not ideal, especially the way it started out, but I was ok with it.  The volume of traffic had lightened considerably and the rain had pretty much stopped so things weren’t too bad.  Until I got near my exit.  Brief explanation, there are approximately 47 exits labeled route 64 on this stretch of I-40.  Ok, that’s not exactly accurate, but there are three plus one exit marked for the town of Mocksville, which is the first town I pass through on the way from I-40 to my home.  I, of course, chose the wrong one.  The best part of that choice was that I didn’t realize how route 64 curves.  When I choose the correct exit, I turn right to head home.  As I came up the exit ramp I realized I should have gone five more miles to the next exit.  But I had seen a sign advising another (#*@#*%) traffic jam and thought I’d stay on 64.

I turned right.

I should’ve turned left.

I was almost eight miles down the road when I saw I was heading west.  Pro tip, my home was east of me.  I turned around headed back to the interstate.  With callous disregard for a potential traffic jam I drove east on I-40 and made it to the correct exit.  Not a brake light in sight btw.  Insert eye roll emoji >here<.  Coming in to Mocksville I came up behind someone with an aversion to the speed limit.  And not in a good way.  What do you call someone who consistently drives 10-15 mph below the speed limit?  I call it the car in front of me.

I finally pulled in the driveway a couple of minutes after 9:00 PM.

This has caused me to rethink my trip home next weekend.  Not making it, I’ll still be in Illinois for an extended stay, but rather this; it’s a 14 hour drive under good circumstances.  I’m chopping that sucker into more manageable bites.

I don’t think my vocabulary is ready for another all day road trip.

Peace

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Things Left Unspoken

I mentioned here a while back that I wanted to post excerpts of what I’ve written to this point on Caitlin and Diane, and my life without them.  I like the idea of, as I wrote then, “semi-regularly” posting excerpts from what I have done so far.

Today, I’ve decided, is semi-regular, so here’s the next one.  It’s not immediately after the last post I shared from my notes, it takes place about two months after we moved in to Wonder Lake.  In fact, it’s my recollection of some of the events from the night of the crash.

Obviously, it’s an emotional piece, for me at least.  And this post will be a little longer than my usual.  Typically, I try to keep these around 1,000 words and this one will be closer to 2,000 words.

As we move through this holiday weekend, take some time to let your loved ones know how much they mean to you.  That sounds clichéd, I know, but I feel like something that simple really does tend to get overlooked.  I wish I had something really profound to add to that, but instead, I give you this…

The phone rang and Diane answered.  It was Caitlin.  She was done shopping.  She found an outfit she was happy with and called to tell her Mother about it.  Since this was the first time Caitlin had gone to Woodfield Mall since we moved, she wasn’t sure how to get home from there.  Diane tried to tell her which roads to take and where to turn, but after a few minutes Caitlin told her she would just go the way she always went.  It would take longer but at least she would, more or less, know where she was.  Diane was tired.  She had worked that day and I had been off.  I told her to go in and go to bed and I would wait up for Caitlin.  This wasn’t all that uncommon.  She’d had to get up early that morning, at 5:00 AM, to get ready for work and I had nothing going on the next day so it didn’t matter if I slept in a little.  Diane went to bed around 9:15.  

I went into the office in our house and sat down at the computer to wait for Caitlin.  I started playing solitaire, trying to do something to pass the time until she got home.  Solitaire seemed like a nice, mindless way to fill some time.  

I need to get something off my chest here.  This will bother me until the day I die.  

I never told Caitlin that I loved her.  

From before Diane and I got married.  From before the point where we knew we would eventually get married, I felt like Cassi and Caitlin were my own daughters.  I knew they weren’t.  I mean, I knew I wasn’t their biological father.  But I did love those two girls, just like they were my own flesh and blood.  And I still do.  That hasn’t changed.  And it never will.  But I never said those words to her.  I never once, in the eight years between the time Diane and I met, to the day Caitlin was killed, said to her “Caitlin, I love you.”  And it bothers me.  Diane always told me, and Cassi did too, don’t worry about it.  She knew you loved her and she loved you too.  But still.  How could I do that?  How could I be around someone I cared about that much and not say those words?  There were many nights when it was just the two of us at home and we’d hang out and watch TV together until she went upstairs to do her homework.  She used to enjoy watching “Trading Places” a show where neighbors would remodel a room or rooms in each others house.  She started me watching it.  She also loved “Full House” and watched it whenever it was on.  And I made fun of her for that.

She was such a funny kid.  Funny, I mean, with a great sense of humor.  She had a vivacious personality too; it was impossible not to like her.  And she was as cute as a button.  She was about 5’2” tall and 100 pounds soaking wet.  She had the same electric blue eyes as her mother and the same “light up a room” smile.  Her natural hair color was blonde just like her personality, as we used to tease her.  The Blonde Child, we called her.  Plus she had really small feet.  No, I mean really small.  Petite.  And for some reason, Tobi the Jack Russell always felt the need to try and bite her feet.  This resulted in hours of entertainment for the rest of us.  Caitlin was the type of person that, in a room full of people, you could always find.  She was the one in the center of the biggest crowd.  She just had that effect on people.  She told us she’d thought she wanted to try acting.  I’ve often thought it was what she was born to do.

At 9:30 the phone rang again.  I answered.  It was Caitlin.  She was on Route 72 and she wondered if she was going in the right direction.  And I assured her she was.

“Should I be going east or west on Route 72?”

“You should be going west.”

“Oh good.  I’m going the right way.  I’ll be home in a little while.”

“Ok.  Drive Careful.”

I have no clue how many solitaire games I played.  But as 10:30 PM approached, I was getting tired.  I’d spoken with her an hour ago; she should be home by now, or at least very close.  I tried to call Caitlin’s cell phone.  It rang two or three times and went to her voicemail.  I didn’t think too much of it.  There were a lot of bad cell sites where we lived, especially back in 2003.  So I went back to my solitaire game.  And I waited a little while and tried the number again.  

Same result.  Caitlin’s voicemail.  

More solitaire.  

And I kept trying her number, the frequency coming faster and faster. 

I left a message on her voicemail “Hey kiddo, it’s me.  Just checking on you.  Call my cell when you get the message.” 

And I kept trying her cell phone number.

“She’s lost” I told myself.  “She made a wrong turn or two and isn’t sure where she is” I said.  “She knows it’s me calling her and there’s no way she’ll answer the phone.  She knows how much grief I’ll give her for getting lost.” I laughed to myself “That goof.”

And I kept trying to reach her phone, each call closer to the last.

“She must be on her way to Grandma’s house for the night.”  I was certain of it.  “Or maybe she’s going to one of her girlfriends.  She won’t come home this late, she’ll stay in Elgin.”

And then, around midnight, I woke Diane.  

“Caitlin isn’t home yet.”

Diane woke from the last sound sleep she would have for a long time.  She sat bolt upright in bed and said “Oh my God.  Something’s happened.  I’m going to go look for her.”  As Diane tried Caitlin’s cell phone, I told her I thought maybe Caitlin had made a wrong turn or two and had gone to Elgin to spend the night with Grandma or one of her girlfriends.  I told her Caitlin had called me from Route 72 wondering if she was going in the right direction.  

Diane called her oldest daughter, Cassi.  She was in her second year of college at Southern Illinois University (SIU).  She and Caitlin were very close and spoke on the phone often.  Diane asked if Cassi had heard from her sister.  Cassi said they had spoken around 9:15 when Caitlin called to tell her all about the outfit she’d bought at Woodfield.  Diane told her Caitlin hadn’t made it home from the mall yet and we were worried. 

Diane decided she was going to get in the car and go looking for her.  She was going to head down to Route 72 and start there.  I stopped her. “Wait honey, wait.  Don’t go running out of the house just yet.  Let me make some phone calls first.” 

I called the non-emergency number for the Schaumburg Police Department, the town Woodfield Mall is in.  When I spoke with the dispatcher, I couldn’t remember the license plate number so I gave the vehicle identification number (VIN) from a copy of her insurance card and a description of Caitlin’s car.   I asked if they’d had any incidents with the vehicle.  

“No sir.  Nothing with that vehicle.”

And I tried to retrace what I’d expected Caitlin’s route home to be.  I tried the Hoffman Estates Police Department.  I gave them the VIN and a description.  Same thing.  

“No sir.  Nothing with that vehicle.”

East and West Dundee Police Departments had the same response and so did the Kane County Sheriff’s Office.  And then I tried the McHenry County Sheriff’s Office.

“My step-daughter should have been home from the mall several hours ago.  She was on her way, I spoke with her, but she hasn’t made it yet.  Have you had any incidents involving this vehicle?”  And I gave them her VIN and the vehicle description.  

And they put me on hold.

Forever.

At least it felt like forever.  In all honesty, it was probably only a minute or two at most.  When the dispatcher came back on the line, she asked me a couple of questions and I really don’t remember what they were.  But I was put back on hold.

Again, forever.

When they came back on the line, I was told Caitlin had been involved in a crash.  She was being flown to Lutheran General Hospital’s Level 1 Trauma Center and we needed to get in there as soon as possible.  We got in the car and started driving to Lutheran General, a little over an hour away.  

It’s funny how some of this night is just gone and some of it is burned into my memory so vividly it can never fade away.  I’m sure Diane and I spoke on the way to the hospital but I have no clue what we talked about.  Probably trying to encourage each other that Caitlin was fine, that this was all just a precaution and she’d be home in a couple days.  Maybe just a broken bone.  Nothing serious.  But the reality of the situation is; you don’t get flown to a Level 1 Trauma Center for a broken bone.  Or two.  You get flown to a Level 1 Trauma Center when you have serious, life-threatening injuries.  And I think we both knew that.

As we walked in to Lutheran General’s Emergency Department, we were met by a Chaplain and a Trauma Surgeon.  They told us they were prepping Caitlin to transfer her up to the Neurological Intensive Care Unit (NICU) and they couldn’t take us in to see her just yet. 

They tried to prepare us for what we would eventually see.

They couldn’t do it.

I tried to find a couple different things to say here, but couldn’t come up with something that didn’t come across as disjointed at best and smarmy at worse.  So instead, I’ll leave you with this.

Again, love the ones you’re with, and let those that aren’t with know how important they are to you.

Happy Easter/Passover/Whatever you celebrate.

Peace

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Retired Guy Post Number 1

As promised a couple days ago, here is my first ever published piece.  As I’ve said, and will continue to say, being asked to submit something for the official Illinois retired fire-guy biannual (that’s right btw.  I can never remember, so I looked it up) newsletter/magazine *not it’s official name* is one of the thrills of my writing life.   I figure once a new article gets published there, it should be ok to put my stuff up here for the rest of the world to see, right?  As long as I don’t get a “cease and desist” order from someone, I’ll continue to cycle these through here every six months.

This one, as you can see, was a brief introduction to the members of the Illinois Association of Retired Firefighters.  So, without further adieu-

Let me start by briefly telling you a little about me…  

I just retired from Downers Grove Professional Fire Fighters Local 3234 after twenty five years on the job.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  As I write this, I’m still on-the-job.  Literally.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table at Station #3, watching a couple of new guys prep dinner (chicken enchiladas) and trying to figure out what I’m going to say here.  My last shift will be September 15th and my last day on the books will be September 29th.  I need to have this to the printer by September 1st and, deadlines being, well, deadlines, I’m working on it now.  

And let me just say, when President Schrepfer asked me if I would like to write something to be published in the quarterly retired guy newsletter (not the official name, but you know what I mean) I jumped at the chance.  

But back to where I was originally headed.  

I’m retired.  

That sounds weird.

Where in the heck did twenty five years go?  It feels like I just walked in the door about six months ago.  Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s time.  Everything aches but nothing hurts, so it seems like the time is right.  I have days where I feel really good, like maybe I’m 40 years old again (I’m 58 by the way) and I have days where I feel like I’m 75 years old.  I just said that the other day, to a cousin I hadn’t seen in a very long time.  She just looked at me and said “I’m 75”.  She wasn’t impressed with my choice of ages, apparently.  In my defense, she was using a cane, so…

But I digress.  

So, what does a retired guy do anyway?  And I’m not even trying to be a smart aleck when I ask that.  I mean, I’ve got a little bit of an idea since I don’t currently work a side job, but I’m pretty sure once the newness wears off, I’m going to be needing a little more to do besides walking the dog twelve times a day.  I do, in all honesty, plan to devote a good portion of my newly found leisure time to writing more, I’ve had a blog that I’ve been writing on (at?) for the last seven or eight years and I’d like to flesh that out into something more, perhaps a book, but I’m not yet convinced I can make that work, sooooo. 

Sorry, we just got back from three calls back-to-back-to-back and I lost my train of thought.  I’m going to miss that.  Not the losing my train of thought part, the running calls part.  I take great pride in the fact that I’ve been at the busiest house in town for 15 of my 25 years, mostly here at the end of my career.  I don’t understand why most of these kids today don’t want to work at the busy house.  

That’s another reason I know I’m ready to retire; I say “I don’t know why these kids” a lot lately.

Ok, I think I’m running out of room so, even though I haven’t really accomplished anything here, I’d better wrap it up.  I’m looking forward to this new phase in my life, the friends of mine that are retired all seem pretty happy, and I can’t wait to jump in and see what comes next.

One last thing…

Who shows me the secret handshake?  We have one, don’t we? 

There you have it.  I must say I was pleased with it, and the Pres. was too, so I’ve got that going for me.  Which is nice.  And if anyone didn’t care for it, well, take comfort in the knowledge that I got paid exactly as much as you did for reading it, lol.

Peace

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Leadership. And Lack Of Same. Oh Yeah, Bonus Weather Update Too…

The good news is; the ground is too warm and it’s melting as soon as it hits.  The bad news is; it’s snowing again in central North Carolina.  I know some will take joy at those last two sentences, you know who you are, (wtf indeed) but I figure since I have, on occasion, weather shamed here, I’ve got to own up to the shite weather too so…

This one has percolated far too long so I’m just gonna move on and let it go where it may cause I need to post something for chrissakes.  Bear in mind the timeline is a wee bit off, but still.

Before I get to the titular topic, I’m gonna drop some, well I wouldn’t exactly call it filler, but rather, the events of my last few days.

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, I’m (*timeline alert*) currently traveling via Amtrak back to North Carolina from Washington D.C. where several hundred union firefighters met with our elected officials to promote legislation to try to improve working conditions, health, and safety or firefighters across the country.  It’s an annual pilgrimage where, in addition to fighting the “good fight” we also get the chance to catch up with our brothers and sisters from across the country.

Let me amend something from the previous paragraph… Due to track work, we’re currently crawling through Richmond, VA on the way back to NC.  Grand scheme of things it’s not that big of a deal, it’s not like I have any plans this evening so it really doesn’t matter if I get back later than I planned.  Just an inconvenience.  Over all, I’ve really enjoyed this trip to and from D.C. and I’ll definitely look for more trips to take by rail in the future.

As with air travel, you cross paths with a unique cross-section of America when you use mass transit.  For instance –

I witnessed one of the more unique drink combinations ever on that same leg of the trip.  The woman sitting next to me for a couple of hours ordered, and I swear to you I’m taking no literary license with this; a hot tea with 2 creamers, 2 honey packets, 4 Splenda, and 2 sugars.  Again, I’m not even joking.  Talk about diversification of your sugar portfolio (h/t to Kent for that line btw)

Also, I continue to be amazed at the attire some people choose for their travels.  Again, no throwing of stones intended, and I get it that you choose comfort over almost anything else, but what part of your brain says it’s ok to wear, essentially, pajamas on public mass transportation?  And if you’re that committed to comfort, why not go all the way and leave the gym shoes at home?  Slippers would be the perfect match to your jammies, no?

Now that I’ve got that out-of-the-way, let’s talk about Leaders.

Leaders lead.  It’s what they do, which makes for an easy way to title them.  Leaders, when they no longer lead, are, imho, no longer leaders.  I can point, with relative ease, to an example that hits close to home for me and also for many of my regular readers.  My union.  Not at the local level and not at the state level.  Those two groups are both blessed with dedicated, hard-working, responsive, and responsible leadership.

Not so much at the national level.

Throughout the entirety of my career in the fire service, I was taught that leaders lead.  They decide things.  Sometimes they are faced with two or more awful options and must choose the most palatable.  Or the least offensive.  And they need to prepare, both themselves and those for whom they’re charged with advocating, for whatever outcome their decision elicits.  That’s what leaders do.  They don’t “sit one out” they choose.  If they get pushback from the rank and file, they explain their rationale.

I may have mentioned this here at some point over the last couple years, but I feel strongly enough about this that, frankly, I don’t care and I’ll gladly repeat myself.  Without getting too much into my personal politics (and if you spend any time here, you probably know what way I lean) in the build up to the 2016 election, my union chose not to endorse anyone.  Neither candidate.  In my time in this great union, I have been told, countless times – “we support those that support us, regardless of whether their name has a ‘D’ or ‘R’ after it.” and I have taken that very phrase back to my local as well as at numerous meetings across the state of Illinois as a member of our Labor History committee.  And I believed those words.  They were important to me.  I know a lot of guys on-the-job that are far more conservative than I am.  And that’s fine.  I respect your right to an opposing opinion on many topics.  But, to me, the opinion that outweighs them all is this one.  Does a candidate or an incumbent politician support my position as a member of Organized Labor?  That’s the one that gets my vote.

You know what?  I can’t even finish on this leadership (or lack of same) rant.  It’s frickin’ SNOWING here.  In North Carolina.  On March 21st.  The day after the Vernal Equinox.  Sure it’ll get “up” into the mid 40’s today but come on.

Sigh.

Peace.

PS – As I wrote here I was asked to contribute a regular column at the official retired guy magazine for the Illinois Association of Retired Firefighters.  I was, of course, thrilled at the offer.  I also felt like they should get some kind of exclusivity so I declined to post that column here.  However, since the newest edition is currently going to press (sounds so official doesn’t it?) I figure it’s probably ok to share my pearls of wisdom *snark* here now.  So that’ll be coming up in a couple days…

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It’s A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

Apologies to Fred Rogers, but I liked the sound of that title.

I may have alluded to this in earlier posts but, despite a recent downturn in temperatures here this past week, to my mind, Spring has sprung here in central North Carolina.  This, btw, works for me.  The oak trees haven’t started to bud yet, but a good number of plants in the neighborhood have started budding if not actually blooming as evidenced by this arrangement made from the neighbors Magnolia Bush – 

Lovely, no?  In addition to the Magnolia, which btw has an incredibly short bloom life, I’ve got a Camellia in my back yard that is also producing blooms like crazy – but in a tech flashback to a couple of months ago, I’m unable to share the picture with you.  Trust me, it’s beautiful… (expletive deleted WordPress…)

Here’s another thing I like the sound (kind of a rocky segue, I know, but whatevs.) of… this bird and if anyone can tell me what kind of bird it is, I’d appreciate it.  I’m not John J. Audubon-y enough to look it up, but I’m a little curious what kind of bird serenades me most mornings while I drink my coffee in the carport.  I’ve played this clip back for the birds sometimes, usually getting a response from him (her?) so far without getting dive-bombed as an interloper attempting to take over the little guys territory.  Although I must say I get a kick out of him (I’m pretty sure it’s a him, since I vaguely recall from somewhere that only male birds sing, either for prospective mates or to mark out boundaries) peeking between the branches of the not-yet-leafed-out bush he sits in to see where/who the other bird is.

But wait, there’s more from the This Week In Nature file…

Do female Robins look exactly like male Robins?  There’s a couple that frequent the neighbors back yard that are either –

A.) In a running territorial pissing match or

B.) in the build-up to an avian mating ritual

I can’t tell which.  They seem to stay in pretty close proximity to each other, hopping around the yard looking for worms.  If one flies up to the roof, the other isn’t far behind and usually lands within a few feet of the first or occasionally on a higher part of the roof.  I’ve even seen them tangle mid-air in a flurry of flapping wings and tangled feet that lasts as long as thirty seconds, rising up to fifteen feet or so in the air and falling almost to the ground before they disengage and land, again, within a few feet of each other.  That inability to differentiate between courtship and combat probably speaks to my inability to maintain long-term relationships as much as it does to my lack of bird knowledge fwiw.

Just sayin.

I’m gonna leave this one shortish, I’m currently on Amtrak headed back to North Carolina.  Since I’ll be relatively captive here on the train for another five hours or so, I’m going to try and use some of the time productively ish and recap my last few days.

Here goes nuthin’

Peace

 

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Now Is The Winter Of My Content

I know I said in an earlier post I wanted to avoid weather shaming, but Geez Louise, I was sitting out here in the carport this morning in shorts and a t-shirt being serenaded by neighborhood birds, so it’s kinda tough not to.  Weather shame, that is.  Besides, I needed fodder for a post so, you know, low hanging fruit, right?

Winter apparently ends in February here.  Buds are starting to appear on various plants already and while working at clearing away the last vestiges of fallen leaves yesterday (in jeans and a t-shirt) I was sweating my butt off.  Figuratively, that is.  I still have a butt, so…

I was actually back in Illinois last weekend, a whirlwind tour if you will, coming back in for Local 3234’s annual Recognition Dinner.  A wonderful evening celebrating the guys that retired last year, myself included.  I had a wonderful evening catching up with people I’ve spent a great deal of time with over the last 25 years or so.  Many laughs were shared, a tall tale or two were told, and a bunch of hugs were distributed throughout the room.  I even got a promise for some of Bob’s homemade, deep dish pizza when I come back in May for an extended visit.  At least I think it was a promise.  If it wasn’t, well Bob, you’re on the spot now, so I guess you’ve gotta come through.

Speaking of amazing food… among the high points (there were many) was a special delivery from one of my bonus kids, Courtney.  Yes, you guessed it, RVCB’S!  Amazing as always, I just popped the last one this morning.  And like the old Folger’s coffee ad, they were good to the last drop.  Since it took a Pony Express type delivery I especially liked the threatening tag on the package, something to the effect of “If your name isn’t Joel keep your hands off the goods” which made me literally lol when it was pointed out to me.

In true Illinois fashion the weather was not great.  Several inches of snow in the days leading up to the dinner and daily high temperatures in the teens for the duration of my brief visit.  The coldest I saw was 8º with a wind chill of -3º and I have to say, it was ok.

That last statement gave me pause, because if you know me IRL, you know how much I like to bitch about cold weather.  *Hint- the correct answer is “a lot” *  After giving the matter a little more thought, I came to the conclusion that it’s kind of like hitting your thumb with a hammer.  It hurts.  But if you only do it once, the pain passes relatively quickly.  I was only in town for a couple of days and so was only briefly exposed to Illinois winter.  Unlike my entire life prior to this winter, when my thumb was hit roughly 27 times a day for each and every one of the approximately six month-long Illinois winters I ever experienced.

Several hours were also spent with the kids and the littles on Sunday.  Almost everyone knew I was coming in, so we all figured it would be a good way to see each other and arrangements were made to meet up at the home of the Boy Child and PhojoMama™.  I say “almost” everyone because the Quiet Child decided to leave my arrival as a surprise for the Reigning Princess.  When they arrived, RP stood in the hallway for five or ten seconds staring at me before she broke into a full on sprint, launching herself at me for an enormous hug.  It was awesome.  Another awesome part of the weekend was having the Little Diamond spend probably more time on my lap Sunday than she had cumulatively for her entire life to that point.  It was just a really nice way to wrap up a great weekend.

Speaking of wrapping up (smooth, huh?) it’s about time for me to head over to the “Y” because, you know, fitness is my middle name.

Peace

PS- because, well, you know…  Happy birthday baby!  I hope you two are doing everything you love.  Much like every other day if it’s like we’ve always been told it’s like.  And I won’t mention any numbers because my Mom didn’t raise any dummies.

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The Return of Fables From the Firehouse

I make no excuses for the way my brain works (or doesn’t, depending on your perspective) and this is a fine example of the maelstrom in my head bouncing from thought to thought to thought…

I was listening to a playlist the other morning, and a song came up that always takes me back to when the Oldest One was about six or seven years old.  The song “I Know What Boys Like” by The Waitresses has always made me chuckle and I still remember the first time I heard her singing along to the chorus.  The mixed emotions of her carrying the tune pretty faithfully (Hey!  Maybe she’ll grow up to be a singer and make millions!) blending against my precious little daughter singing “I know what boys like, I know what guys want.”

Insert wide-eyed emoji >here<

That got me thinking about other things from “back in the day” and how things have changed, for the better, around the firehouse.  No, not by my leaving, smartass, I’m talking about the difference in how we protected ourselves then versus now.

*Salt Alert*  When I started in the fire service, the soot on your gear was viewed as almost a badge of honor.  The nastier it looked, the more you had seen/done/accomplished.  And it was the same way to some extent with air packs (SCBA’s) in that we never wore them at, for example, car fires.  Why would we need one for a car fire, we’re outside for crying out loud.  And there was no small amount of new guy shaming to try to impress upon them just how much machismo we had because of these beliefs and how they needed to be “just as manly” as we were.

I vividly (well, as vividly as my memory will allow) recall a garage fire from late summer or early fall of 2002.  I know it was the summer of 2002 because we had a “new guy” with us and I checked with him to see when he started.  The call came in late in the evening; a garage on fire about two blocks from the firehouse.  Vin and I on the ambulance, John, Andy and Zig on the engine.  We got there and sure enough, the garage was on fire.  It hadn’t gotten through the roof or the overhead door yet, but I think it had taken out a window before we got there and was blowing pretty good.  Not too much, mind you , but what you would call a nice little fire.  If it’s not your stuff that’s burning.  Andy got the water supply squared away, John checked on the hazards, and Vin and I took the handline, and Zig, to the garage to put out the fire.  As they got the line and themselves ready to go in at the side door, I walked around to the back to see what all we had.  I found a second, smaller overhead door on the back wall and tried it to see if it was locked.  It wasn’t, and since I figured the line was on the verge of going in, I opened it to lift the smoke for Vin and Zig.  I stuck my head in and could see the fire towards the front of the garage but didn’t see those two inside yet.  I came around to the side and saw them kneeling at the door, Zig trying to get his mask right and Vinnie berating him for not being ready to go.  Berating may be too strong a word, but he was definitely giving him shit for it.  I, of course, joined right in.  Because, new guy, you know?  I don’t remember the exact words but it was something to the effect of “you don’t even need your mask, it’s only a garage fire and the smoke lifted when I opened the door, Nancy.”  Or maybe Sally.  I don’t remember which, but I’m pretty sure I used a woman’s name when I yelled at him for not being in yet.  To his credit, Zig held his ground and went “on air” before he went inside.  I wanted to make sure and put that in there, cause I know his Mom reads this from time-to-time.  Despite our “best efforts” your oldest made sure he was protected.  We made quick work of the fire, quicker than I realized, because as we were walking back up the driveway toward the fire engine we were met by the guys from the ladder truck bemoaning the fact that we put the fire out before they got there.  That’s always the goal btw, for engine guys at least, so we were pretty pleased with ourselves.  Still, looking back, it was pretty dumb on our part to go into a fire without the safety of the air packs on our backs.  That was kind of the culture back then though.  You’d come out of a fire, blow the accumulated crap out of your nose, and if the fire was out, light up a cigarette, because why not?

Fortunately, times change.  And I have to tip my hat to the DGFD and the progressive way they got back-up gear for everyone on the department along with extractors so we could wash our gear when we got back from a fire instead of wearing that shit for weeks after.  I’m not sure, but I think we were one of the first departments in our area to have those.  And I have to believe they made a difference.  Without getting all scientific on you, studies have found that a number of different bad things (medical term) leach into our skin through the gear that protects us and the sooner you get those bad things (medical term) off the gear and off your skin, the better off you’ll be.  I know a lot of places are now carrying softcloth wipes to clean your skin as soon as you get back to the engine, to further reduce the risk of down-the-road cancer.  Whatever it takes.  I’m all in favor of these guys making the workplace safer for themselves and their loved ones.  Without going too far off on a tangent, I think about things like this when I hear someone talk about how much “better” it was before, well, fill in the blank, you know?  The reality is, we’re almost always better off now.

As I said, almost.  This photo just came in courtesy of Dan T. showing a new guy and his attempt at chopping an onion.  And maybe his finger.  Also, note the onion skin still in place on said onion

Sigh.  New guys.  At least they’re entertaining.

 

Peace.