PINK'S

Not that I needed a shove in that direction but did you ever have a craving for a good hot dog.  I do every time I go to a baseball or football game.  You can have all the burgers and tri-tip you want at a tail gate party but without hot dogs it’s just not right.  Even a backyard family barbecue, no matters how gourmet, must include hot dogs to be considered legit. 

So I’m driving down the 405 during virtual grid lock, early morning traffic on my way to an appointment with my heart doctor in LA when hot dogs come to mind.  It dawns on me that I will be done with my appointment and beginning the drive home about lunch time.  Not too far from my doctors office is Pink’s. 

For those of you not in the know, Pink’s is a hot dog stand at the corner of Melrose and La Brea in Los Angeles.  It began in 1939 as a pushcart location by Paul Pink. In 1946 he traded in his pushcart for a small building on the same spot.  That was 73 years ago.  It is a genuine Hollywood landmark.   

The appointment is the second follow up to an angiogram/blood clot removal/ stent procedure I had a few months back.  After drawing blood and the usual prodding, poking and questioning the good doctor said everything was hunky dory, renewed my prescriptions and said see you in 2 months. 

As I leave his office and head for Pink’s the irony of going from my cardiologist office to Pink’s for a chili cheese dog gives me pause for thought.  Briefly. 

Tooling down Melrose in LA is a treat in itself.  You have some of the finest chef owned restaurants and haute couture stores in the world next door to tattoo parlors and shops selling clothes that if you saw you daughter in them you would forbid her from leaving the house for the next 100 years.  To say this stretch of road is eclectic in style and commerce is to understate the extremes.  I love it because it gives me a taste of what’s going on off Main Street. 

When I get to the Farmers Market area and La Brea I hang a left and there’s Pink’s.  It was the lunch hour and the place was jumping.  I took my place in a long line along with 8 motorcycle cops and 2 medic wagon crews.  It could have been a scene from “Southland”, one of my favorite cop shows about their day to day life on the gritty streets of LA.  The thought occurred to me that if I were a burglar driving by I might think my timing was good because half the local precinct was at Pink’s.   

As the line shuffled along the cops were kept busy by kids wanting to touch their badges and listen to their radios.  They were also quite humorous in discussing their morning shift in cop lingo.  We were all well entertained.

The wall behind the servers is a huge menu with options galore, such as The Brando Dog, Martha Stewart Dog, Pastrami Burrito Dog, Rosie O’Donnell Long Island Dog and many, many more.  Each with description such as the “LA Philharmonic Conductor Gustavo Dudamel Dog with 9 inch stretch Dog , guacamole, American and Swiss Cheese, fajita mix, jalapeno slices, topped with tortilla chips – A REAL RHAPSODY!”  So I went with the Chili Cheese Dog and a Coke in an old fashioned glass bottle.

The dining room and seating area walls are covered with hundreds of celebrity pictures, most autographed.  They ranged from old timers like Marlon Brando and Rock Hudson to Michael Jackson, Steve Martin, Phyllis Diller and Jay Leno.  If your picture was not here I am sure you were not Hollywood royalty.  I am positive I was sitting in the same chair as Betty White once sat because her picture was right next to me.

The dog itself is served on a bun made to be like a bed for the hot dog.  It is placed on a doily and smothered with chili and then mustard.   Picking it up and eating it is out of the question.  It must be attacked with a knife and fork.  But man is it good. 

As I walked back to my car I passed a medical marijuana business with an ATM machine out in front.  Parked at the curb in front at an expired meter was a midnight blue Bentley that cost who knows how much, at an expired meter.  A cop, who I had just had lunch with, was writing up a ticket with a big smile on his face. 

I have made my journey to hot dog Mecca.

 

MOM'S DAY

 

 

No, it wasn’t Mothers Day but it was a day for mothers.  At a time when the ethics of some involved in athletics is being questioned your faith is restored by someone like Jim Walker, head high school football coach of the Redlands Terriers. 

As we head into football season at high schools across the country it was his idea to include the mothers of his players in a day of fun, which began with a late lunch of lasagna, salad, mixed fruit and brownies.  While players and Mom’s were munching away Coach Walker made his way around the room, stopping at each table to introduce his players.  They, in turn, were to introduce their Mom’s and tell why they love them and a secret about them that no one knows anything about. 

This made for some very heartwarming comments as well as some hilarity.  If I were keeping tabs I would say the most often heard comment was in appreciation for the sacrifices made by their mothers.  A close second was “She’s always there for me.”  Some burly, tough-as-nails football players revealed a soft side when expressing their feelings for their mothers.  The mothers too were touched by words they may not have heard for a while.    

When it came to the secrets some players showed promise as future stand-up comics.  One boy said his mother had been arrested when she was in college for being involved in a protest movement she felt strongly about.  Another said his Mom had been in jail 11 times.  “Just kidding, ha-ha.”  Then he tried to save himself by saying she had won the league 100 meter championship as a sprinter on the track team.  Nice save. 

From there everyone adjourned to the football field.  There Mom’s joined their sons for a sampling of what the boys go through at a typical football practice.  They were grouped by position.  The defense and their Mom’s were at one end of the field and the offense and their Mom’s were at the other. 

The mothers were all decked out in everything but shoulder pads and helmets.  Wearing eye black and their son’s jerseys they went through calisthenics to get loose and avoid a hammy injury then ran some plays.  They were taught the proper stance and what to do when the ball was snapped.  Being properly warmed up and having received a crash course in Football 101, they were ready.  The respective coaches worked them into a frenzy then sent them to mid-field to do battle. 

You know how they say a dog looks like its owner.  Well the same can be said for people.  Kids look like their parents.  I am trying to be delicate here but the mothers looked like their son’s.  The backs and receivers Mom’s appeared smallish while the Mom’s of the linemen were a little healthier looking.  As they glared across the line at each other, it was on.

My daughter Romy was the QB for the offense and was being tutored by Kody, the son of her fiancée and the QB of the Redlands Terriers.   They were lined up in something resembling a winged-T formation with all kinds of Mom’s in motion, fake hand-offs and deceptive trickery.  Some of which worked and some of which the defense stuffed.  Romy connected on a skinny post pattern and another to a Mom in a different colored jersey.  One Mom, whose son must have been a full back, took a handoff on a sweep left, built up a head of steam and bowled over everyone in sight for a nice gain.

The contest was declared a draw.  There were high fives and fist bumps all around followed by a picture taking session on the field that I am sure will produce some great memories.

The best part of the day for me came just before the group broke up after the dinner.  The last player and Mom had been introduced when Coach Walker, who is in his last season as coach, spoke up.  He talked of the importance of a strong family, saying that the success of the team this season would begin with strong support at home.  While there are many facets to such support this day spent with boys proudly showing their Mom’s what they do after school and love so much while the Mom’s show the boys how much they mean to them, will be a huge step in the right direction.  The win-at-all-cost coaches could take a lesson from Coach Walker about what is really important in life.      

   

THE BOOB TUBE

 

TV gets a bad rap.  I haven’t researched the matter but I’m guessing the term “Boob Tube” came about from some nerdy types who lumped all TV watchers into one category of lazy, couch bound zombies who weren’t intelligent enough to entertain themselves.  A kind of a Forrest Gump category of people.  I beg to differ. 

There are those of course, who that description aptly describes.  These are the same people who have immersed themselves in to today’s tech world so deep they can no longer communicate in the English language.  Hoodies were invented for these people who exist in a slumped over state, so engrossed in their e-device du jour, for such extended periods of time their friends no longer know what they look or sound like.  Leaving those people aside, for the rest of us the Television may be the greatest invention since clothing. 

On July 20, 1969 I sat transfixed in front of my TV as Neil Armstrong’s voice spoke the words “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed”, from the surface of the moon.  THE SURFACE OF THE MOON!!  As spellbinding a moment as I can remember.  Thanks also to television I witnessed the thrilling countdowns to blast off of most of our space programs successes as well as the gut wrenching explosion of Challenger, 73 seconds into its flight and the breaking apart of Columbia upon re-entry into earth’s atmosphere.   

I was watching live as John F. Kennedy gave his famous “Ask Not” speech and recall vividly his funeral.  The image of the prancing horse Black Jack with simple black, spurred Cavalry boots reversed in the stirrups signifying a fallen leader looking back on his troops for the last time, will be with me forever.  

There were assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, inaugurations of presidents, Royal weddings and tributes to many entertainers who Americans loved, most recently Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson. 

And who among us can’t remember where they were and what they were doing on the morning of September 11^th.  As the entire nation did, I sat in front of my TV in horror and then disbelief as a wayward plane crash into the World Trade Center turned into a well orchestrated stab at the heart of America.  Thanks to television we will never forget.

Millions begin their day with a quick news fix and a weather report, ever so helpful in dressing for the day, and then a glance at the screen with different colors and flashing lights signifying traffic conditions as they head out the door.  Returning home at the end of the day they settle in front of the TV in their favorite chair hoping to lose themselves for awhile before turning out the lights.  They next morning they repeat the ritual for the gazillionth time, maybe having been slightly refreshed by an episode of Mash, Cheers, The Office or Modern Family. 

Then there is the little noticed educational side of television.  What parent can’t trace some of our kid’s earliest learning experiences to Sesame Street?  Elmo, the Cookie Monster and Oscar were positive influences for generations of kids.  As they grew older there were documentary series such as Victory at Sea, Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau, Band of Brothers and Blue Planet.   There are channels that teach you how to cook, remodel your house, make jewelry and design clothes.  There are History channels, those featuring autobiographies, the Discovery Channel and National Geographic. 

Once in a while you come across a gem.  I recently watched the story of how Dolly Parton conceived the song “I Will Always Love You”.  She said she simply wanted to tell a man how she felt about him.  Then there was an emotional documentary about Bob Marley and how he helped so many of the downtrodden people of Jamaica mon who were given hope when he sang “Everything going to be alright”.   

Some will say nothing says couch potato like sports on TV.  I must agree that it can bring out the worst in some of us.  But on the positive side are the too many to mention memorable moments we have front row seats for thanks to TV.  The impact on young minds can be significant as I can personally attest.  Our family watched Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci bound through there Olympic gymnastics routines, arch their backs and thrust their chests forward while throwing their arms up and back to signify a completed routine for the judges.  Suddenly our daughters, along with millions of others, were flopping around their living rooms then doing the Olga and Nadia posses as if performing on stage themselves. 

One of my personal favorite TV sports moments was so much more than sports.  It was the little noticed performance by a brave Iranian woman in a sprint race at the last Olympic Games.  Despite ridicule and death threats towards her and her family she was on the starting line ready to race.  The head to toe clothing required by her religion could not hide the fear in her eyes.    When the gun went off she was so startled she did not move at first and then took off running.  She finished last by a bunch but she finished in what was one of the most moving scenes of the Games. 

I defend television because some would have you believe there is something cerebral about reading a book that is lacking if one chooses to watch a television program about the very same subject.  I am all for books and libraries but there are certain things that are immeasurably enhanced by beautiful, high definition color and artful narration.  The best writers in the world could work their magic on any of the subjects I have mentioned here and not produce as impactful a finished product as the best TV producers and directors. 

I enjoy a good book as much as anyone but given the choice of isolating myself while I spend the hours or days it takes to read a book or spend the time watching a TV special, event or series while chatting with my family or friends, I’ll go the TV route. 

My name is Forest, Forest Smith.

 

  



OLQA

OLQA stands for Our Lady Queen of Angels or, as we call it for short, OLL CWAA.   It is a beautiful Catholic Church and 1-8th grade school in our community.  As churches go it is relatively new and just got newer with the building of a new, larger church necessitated by an ever increasing flock. 

For many years there were 2 Catholic churches in town.  On Balboa Island there was quaint St. John Vianney and on the Balboa peninsula was Our Lady of Mount Carmel, steps from the ocean, where our family was baptized.  As the city spread into the hills overlooking the harbor, land that had been grazed by cattle was now covered with master planned housing.  More people mean’s more schools and churches—Our Lady Queen of Angels was born.

At this time, the early sixties, local residents were asked for donations and contributions to get things off the ground, one of those being my Dad.  He owned and operated Irvine Coast Country Club, a local golf course frequented by one Father Harvey from OLQA.  When I say frequented, I mean he was a regular golfer on priests-day-off along with other priests from nearby parishes.  He was also a regular at the 19^th hole following said rounds of golf.

When your parish priest stands before you in full priest garb and asks, in an Irish accent, for help it is difficult to say no.  My Dad couldn’t so he agreed to donate the Stations of the Cross to the new church.  They were 14 hand carved, beautiful wood works of art depicting Christ’s suffering and death.  The Stations remained in place on the walls of the Church from that time until last year when they were taken down, refurbished, and now adorn the walls of the new OLQA across the street.

I understand the need for growth, expansion, meeting earthquake regulations and all the other reasons given for the change, but this one bothered me.  It’s just an outdated church, right?  No, that’s not right.  Three of our 4 kids were baptized there.  All of them had their first communions there.  Two of our kids were married there.  Funeral services for my grandmother, aunt, mother and father were there.  Also, baptisms, first communions, weddings and funeral services for many, many good friends and relatives were there.

Our 4 kids attended first through eighth grade at the adjacent school which meant everything from plays, choir performances and graduations for each one of them.  The foundation for their lives was formed there. 

The ceiling inside the church had these beautiful dark wood beams.  I have told my family many times that they reminded me of the hull of a ship, namely the ARC.  They helped create a feeling of strength, protection and calm that made a visit there a source of renewed spirit.  The cross, bearing Christ, was the most basic, simple, yet striking cross that commanded the altar with its simplicity.      

My Mothers favorite was Mary.  The right side of the altar was home for a small statue of Mary.  Maybe it’s possible to move something and not lose something but Mary in that place in that church was my mothers and my go-to spot when the need was great. 

One of my more memorable visits there was the Sunday following 9/11.  Many of the United Airlines flight crew that had departed from Boston that morning had been based in Corona del Mar.  The church was packed and there was a large contingent of uniformed flight personnel there to honor their friends and relatives.  Moving speeches indelibly stamped that day in my mind.  

As I drive by and turn left into the new church parking lot now it is sad for me to see the old church awaiting its fate.  No it’s not just a church.  It is a lifetime of profound memories for me.   At least the Stations of the Cross carry on.   

 



I was a junior in college when I got the dreaded letter.  Every trip to the mail box for young men of my age could be the one where we leaf through the mail and find an envelope from the United States Government.  It was inevitable and one day it was there.  Hoping it would vanish if I stalled long enough I finally gave in and opened it slowly.  The letter was folded so that the first thing I saw was the letterhead, which read “ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSICAL EXAM”. 

The rest of the rudely abrupt notice gave me a time and place to report for my physical prior to induction into the Armed Forces.  I was being drafted.  There were rumblings at the time about the run-up to Vietnam so it was common for every eligible male citizen of the United States to be drafted.  There were a few exceptions but not many. 

No one at that time could foresee the impending backlash to America’s next military engagement.  Bob Dylan and many others were struggling entertainers yet to have heaped upon them a cause that would carve their place in history.  While many ardently sought deferments that would keep them out of the draft, enlisting was still seen as the patriotic thing to do.  Enlisting also gave one the choice of the branch of service they wished to join.

I reported to a recruiting depot in downtown Los Angeles on the assigned day.  I took my place in a line that wrapped half way around the block and inched forward.  In my hand were 3 letters from ear specialists I had been seeing since I was a little kid.  They were in response to a request from Uncle Sam for documentation as to why I might not be fit to serve. 

As I approached the head of the line I got a firsthand look at the militaries version of a physical.  It was more like a glance at your eyes, your ears and a tongue depressor look at your throat and “OK, you’re good to go”. 

When it was my turn I slowed the line down a bit.  I handed them the letters which stated I was born with nerve deafness and was profoundly deaf.  That means more than a 90 decibel loss which means without hearing aids I hear no sound whatsoever.  They didn’t believe the letters apparently because they halted the whole line while they gave me their version of a hearing test.  This consisted of standing off to the side and then behind me while yelling at me.  With my hearing aids on I could hear them but not tell what they were saying.  Without the aids I heard nothing. 

After a meeting of the assembled personnel I guess they decided it would not be wise to have an entire battalion depending on me to receive a hushed, jumbled radio transmission from the commandant while all hell was breaking loose on the battlefront.  I think it was a good call.  They stamped my papers 4-F, which meant I was physically unable to qualify for service in our armed forces. 

While not being overly disappointed at the time I have always had mixed feelings.  These feelings surface from time to time such as when I recently attended a ceremony honoring the Wounded Warriors at Camp Pendleton Marine Base.  Those honored had suffered unspeakable horrors and yet every man and woman among them spoke of to-the-death allegiance to their country. 

I knew kids, and they were kids, who did not return from Vietnam.  I have known parents who suffered the ultimate loss.  My brother, 13 months younger than I am, passed his physical.  When he got off the train at Fort Ord Army Base with all the other recruits he was immediately selected as a platoon leader because he raised his hand when asked who was a college student.  He served his 2 years and then some reserve time.  I have always envied him.      

How different might my life have been?  Had I been asked to report for duty would my college career have ended?  If so, I would not have met Terry on a blind date a year later.  All you have to do is watch the news to be aware of the endless possibilities.

Had I been qualified to serve I think I would have enlisted in the Navy.  I love the ocean and I could see myself as an Admiral or something, or maybe swabbing decks.  Some years later the draft ended and our military became all volunteers.  They are the best of the best. 

When it comes to flag waving I can hold my own and if that’s my path I am not complaining.  But there will always be a tinge of regret that I didn’t do my part.     

LET'S EAT

 



I am not known for my prowess in the kitchen.  In high school I did do a summer stint as a fry cook in a coffee shop by the Newport pier, which toughened me up a bit.  You can’t call yourself a cook until you’ve worked a weekend breakfast shift in a coffee shop.  You’re juggling soft boiled eggs, eggs over-easy, scrambled eggs, oatmeal, crisp bacon, lightly buttered wheat toast and a medium stack, all while kids are running amuck and there is syrup everywhere.  To make matters worse my grill was located in a glassed in enclosure fronting the sidewalk, which made it inviting and easy for my surfing buddies to give me all kinds of grief.    

But I digress.  That doesn’t count when it comes to preparing a romantic meal for you and the wife in your own kitchen.  Not long ago I thought it was time to show her much she meant to me by preparing a meal fit for a queen.

I went to our local bookstore and zeroed in on the cook book section.  All seemed a bit snooty for my taste until I found a section on Rachael Ray.  She had many books but one caught my eye.  The cover had a picture of Rachael standing at a kitchen counter and said “365: NO REPEATS, A YEAR OF DECLICIOUSLY DIFFERENT DINNERS”.  Down at the bottom it said “A 30-MINUTE MEAL COOKBOOK”.  The last part is what sold me. 

Secretly leafing through the book I settle on a meal planned for day 284.  It is called “FOR NEIL DIAMOND: TANGY CHERRY CHICKEN”.  Since I was told by a couple I met on an elevator one time that I looked like Neil Diamond and I love Sweet Caroline, it was an easy choice. 

Glancing over the recipe I realized the ingredients needed were mostly foreign to our cupboards.  This necessitated a trip to the market.  I told Terry she had to be out of the house on the selected day and not to return until dinner time.  Thus the afternoon was free for shopping. 

 

My list included EVOO (my new favorite word which, for those of you not hip, stands for extra virgin olive oil), chicken breast halves, thyme, salt and freshly ground black pepper, red onion, celery ribs, red pepper flakes, freshly grated nutmeg, dry white wine, chicken stock, dried cherries and unsalted butter.  Not being a seasoned shopper I mistakenly bought big sized everything and I walk out with enough to feed a village and wondering how I just blew $112.15.  

With the clock racing I spread out all the ingredients and utensils on the kitchen counter.  I am careful not to place anything more than 1 step away and in the order of need.  Reading Rachael’s instructions is intimidating.  Once the green flag drops there will be many tasks to perform at once, each requiring a precise amount of time.  This is a lot to ask of a male in the kitchen. 

I read and re-read Rachael’s instructions until I had everything committed to memory.  Once the process began with the preheating of a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat with 2 tablespoons of EVOO (twice around the pan) there was no turning back.  It was on. 

First was the cooking of pre-seasoned chicken, 5 to 6 minutes on each side.  Remove chicken and cover with foil, so far so good.  Then things got tricky.  First was to add the remaining EVOO to the skillet then onions, celery, red pepper flakes, nutmeg, salt and pepper and cook for 3-4 minutes.  My head is spinning.  Next, and this is crucial, add the white wine and cook until the pan is almost dry.  FINALLY, add the chicken stock, dried cherries and thyme, cook for about 4-5 minutes, then add the butter and whisk until it has completely melted.  Rachael suggests serving this dish with a green salad and boiled baby potatoes, which I had already prepared. 

 

Terry arrived just as I was pouring the piping hot cherry sauce over the sliced chicken breast.  She was flabbergasted.  She reminded me “I remember you when you wouldn’t even touch lettuce”.  We both agreed that if we did a blind fold taste test using an impartial third party to compare my (Rachael’s) dish with a like dish from Paula Deen it would be a tough call.        

The kitchen looked like a war zone and we could have gone to our favorite restaurant with no dishes to do and tipped generously for about the same money but what’s the fun in that.  I felt good.                 

I just dropped Terry off at the airport this morning.  She is going to a family wedding in Omaha.  Terry’s early roots are in the Cornhusker state and her ties have remained strong.  Most of the cousins and their families would rather spend their valued vacation time visiting with each other than on a beach in Tahiti.

Over the years I have done this a few times, always for very brief trips.  But if I had done it a million times it would not diminish the feelings I get each time when I take one last look in the mirror at her, little blond bun and all, waving good-by. 

We had a CD playing in the car.  Not just any CD.  This was a special one that had been mixed by our son-in-law James for us and had many of our favorites including the Beatles, Beach Boys, Adele, Louis Armstrong and many others. 

As I drove away the song playing was being sung by Jimmy Durante and was from one of our favorite movies, “Sleepless in Seattle”.  The title is “Make Someone Happy”. Please forgive me getting so personal in a thing such as a blog but it has been a reflective time lately.  No words I could write here would express how I feel quite like the lyrics to this song.

Make Someone Happy by Durante, Jimmy

Make someone happy,
Make just one someone happy;
Make just one heart the heart you sing to.
One smile that cheers you,
One face that lights when it nears you,
One girl you're ev'rything to.

Fame if you win it,
Comes and goes in a minute.
Where's the real stuff in life to cling to?
Love is the answer,
Someone to love is the answer.
Once you've found her, build your world around her.

Make someone happy,
Make just one someone happy,
And you will be happy, too.

SO WHAT'S NEW?

Things going swimmingly for you are they?  Other than the little nuances of day to day living, it’s smooth sailing?  What could possibly go wrong?  Until last Saturday night, that was me. 

I had just stood on our porch and waved good-by to our last guests after a birthday party for Romy.  I tidied up the house a bit, no too much, but a bit, and then went to bed.  I had just watched the opening of Saturday Night Live and the introduction of Zach Galifianakis when I noticed a slight pain in the right side of my chest, near the chest bone.  I had earlier stuffed myself to the gills with Mexican food so I thought I was paying the price. 

 

Over the next 2 hours the pain had spread toward and into the right shoulder.  I was not overly alarmed thinking that all the typical warning signs of heart trouble are signaled by pain on the left side.  I was alarmed enough, however, that I took a full aspirin.  No relief. 

At 2 am I woke up Terry as the pain increased and we drove to Hoag Hospital.  Some 6 hours an EKG, chest x-ray, and cat scan later we were released.  Your heart is beautiful, whatever is causing the pain it isn’t the heart, we were told, “Give it some time”. 

 

It must have been hammered home in med school that doctors must ask everyone “On a scale of 1 to 10, what is the pain?”  I had told them 7-8 in the ER and it stayed that way all day Sunday and Sunday night.

During the day Sunday Forest called and I mentioned how our night had gone.  I mentioned that as long as the heart was fine I was going to ride it out.  He wasn’t buying it.  He called a cardiologist we both use named Dr. Jay Shapira, at Cedars Sinai Hospital in LA.  On a Sunday mind you, the doctor returns the call.  Forest explains things and the doctor said to call his office in the morning and he would see me right away.  Monday morning Terry calls Hoag Hospital to have our records sent to Dr. Schapira and we head for a quick trip to LA. 

 

The first test is another EKG.  Comparing that carefully with the records sent from Hoag, the good doctor noticed a slight difference.  Still a regular heart beat, but slightly different.  Next, a blood draw and then an echo cardiogram.  Everything is still fine.  Lastly, a chest x-ray was ordered.  We were told to go to lunch and come back for a pow-wow.

Gathered in his small office, Terry and I watched the Doctor intently study all the results.  He looked up, stared straight ahead, rubbing his chin, for several minutes.  Then he said, “OK, I want you to check into the hospital right now”. 

 

In hindsight I feel his gut instinct told him he must act.  He told us, however, all results were fine and pointing to something other than the heart but just to rule the heart out completely and then concentrate on what was causing the pain, he wanted to do an angiogram.  This is a lovely procedure where they make an incision in your groin and then run a dye through the heart to check for blockage.  He explained that he didn’t expect to find anything but with the high calcium levels I have had for a while he would rather be cautious.

After a wheel chair ride to our room, during which my pusher kept shouting “chest pains” to make people part like the Red Sea, another EKG was ordered.  Our wonderful nurse, named Ann, noticed the heart beat was now abnormal, A-Fib, as she called it (did I mention nurses are vastly underpaid).  She called Dr. Schapira to report her findings and the tone of everything changed. 

 

We were immediately transferred to another room more geared to heart issues.  A special drip was started to normalize the heart beat and all manner of stepped up blood tests, blood pressure monitoring and other procedures were begun.  Terry, Erin, Forest, Romy and Molly all gathered around my bed that evening giving me immense support.  

         

By mid-morning Tuesday the heart beat had returned to normal.  There was optimism as we were wheeled into the prep area.  The anesthesiologist and Dr. Schapira explained the procedure to us and we started.  Because they want to know if you are experiencing any heart discomfort during the procedure a local anesthetic is administered as well as a mask that puts you in la-la land but you are still awake.  An hour later the doctor walks up to me, leans down inches from my ear and says “We found a blood clot and an artery that was 95% blocked.  We removed the blood clot, the blockage and inserted a stent”.  Well, OK!!!   

It wasn’t until we were being wheeled back to my room and my family was at my side that I found out the doctor had told them that had they not done this procedure that I would have had a massive heart attack on Wednesday.  This was on Tuesday. 

That night, in a darkened hospital room with Terry and my kids, who we call our gang, gathered around my bed, life was starting over.  I have much unfinished business and it’s time to get started. 

After the kids had left and late into the night a nurse wakes me up yet again for another test of some kind or other.  I glance over the side of my bed and there is my soul mate Terry asleep on a rock hard mat on the floor.  In the darkness I can see her beautiful blond bun on top of her head, peaking out beneath her blanket.  From the first day I met her among the gazillion reasons I fell hopelessly in love with her, right at the top of the list would be her beautiful smiling face topped by her beautiful blond bun.

 

Last night I said good night to Terry then sat in my tilt-back lounge chair.  I was thinking how lucky I was.  Terry and each one of our gang had played huge roles in the last few days.  I was lucky for that and I was lucky for them beyond any meager words I can write.  I was also lucky for a series of events that began during Saturday Night Live that could only have been orchestrated by a higher power.  There is no other explanation.  God is good.

Feeling the need to give Terry another hug or, if she was asleep, just to look at her, I went back to our bedroom.  There Terry was, kneeling down beside our bed saying the Rosary with a beautiful crystal Rosary blessed by the Pope that Molly gave her.  That said it all. 



RED BULL

You know that kid that grew up down the block that you thought would never amount to anything.  Guess what?  He, she, did grow up to be something.  In fact I saw that kid on TV this past weekend.  I didn’t actually see THAT kid but a bunch of kids just like him or her. 

There were a bunch of them running amuck in Brazil on the X GAMES sponsored by Red Bull.  As I tuned in they were interviewing a girl skateboarder from the United States.  She was excitedly thanking everyone she has known since birth for helping her on her path to victory.  As she was talking they cut away to highlights of her performance.  There we see this cute, blond, girl-next-door flying through the air on her skateboard, wearing Van’s type sneakers, baggy pants and oversized double layer tee shirts down to her knee’s.  Arms flailing as she skids sideways down a rail while flipping her board over with her feet and plunging into a swimming pool with cement lumps in it made to enhance her performance. 

In what must be an orthopedic surgeons dream the X GAMES stages one event after another featuring the kid down the block.  Gangsta style hat on sideways or backwards, hair sticking out every which way, lots of plaid oversized shirts with droopy pants and attitude galore.  They look into the camera with this kind of FU, I don’t give a bleep look any person of authority knows well from having asked the kid down the block to tone it down a bit. 

These tatted up kids are now the envy of those that wish they had the stuff to do whatever they enjoy without any concern for what others think.  They are performing on TV, own their own surf, skate and snow board companies and clothing lines, endorse products and benefit in many ways open to free thinkers.  One of the top Red Bull motorcycle riders is a girl Vogue model who is deaf.    

Capitalizing on all this in one of the more genius advertising blitzes ever is Red Bull.  They have brilliantly created a glamorous, living-on-the-edge aura from a huge jolt of caffeine.  Funny, I had not previously related jumping off skyscrapers, hang gliding, surfing monstrous waves or driving a Formula I car to walking around all jittery from a caffeine fix.  Somehow Red Bull has made the world think there is a relationship. 

Frankly, if I’m about to attempt one of these death defying feats I would want ice water in my veins.  It would never occur to me in my adrenaline hyped state that I should, just for good measure, toss down a can of Red Bull containing 3 million grams of caffeine. 

If you doubt me, pick up a copy of the Red Bull magazine called The Red Bulletin some time.  It is aptly named “A Beyond the Ordinary Magazine”.  There are fascinating, edgy, quick, easy-to-read stories on most anything with risk involved, including, believe it or not, food and music.  A recent issue had a fascinating report on the Red Bull Startos, the Red Bull sponsored balloon.  In what is my candidate for the gutsiest human undertaking ever, a man jumps from a balloon 128,100 above earth, free falls for 119,846 feet at 833.9 mph before opening his chute for a safe landing.  Again, marketing genius.

I got a little off the subject there but the point is, next time you see one of those kids that look like they got a little carried away with the grunge look, smile to yourself.  I think it is safe to say some of our more creative thinkers come from their lot.            

    

PHONE CALLS

Few things make my heart flutter more than a phone call from one of our kids.  We have 4, a girl, a boy and then 2 more girls.  They cover a span of 7 years.  They are well along into leading their own lives.  The 2 oldest have blessed us with 5 heaven sent granddaughters while the 2 youngest are zeroing in on that part of their lives. 

As any parent can tell you, the flight from the nest is really a beginning.  Up to that point life has consisted of being in survival mode while preparing your kids for their lives.   In our case each of them took flight at varying stages of their lives.  All returned for spurts and eventually, well into our senior years, Terry and I had our first night alone in our house.

From that point on we observe from a distance, thankful for every family get together and fascinated by the growth of what were once our little guys wrapped in a pink or blue blanket.  The caring only intensifies. 

Thankfully they all live close by and we see them often.  But as they lead their own lives and deal with their own versions of survival mode, contact is not as frequent.  That’s why I treasure the phone calls.

There are phone calls and then there are phone calls.  I am thankful for all of them but I particularly treasure the calls that are made for no other reason than at that time they wanted talk to me about something in their life. 

Case in point:  One early morning recently I got a call from our son Forest.  I knew he and his family were In Cabo San Lucas for a short 4 day Easter week vacation.   He was calling from a fishing boat.  His wife Lina and their daughters Jordan and Kelly had balked at a pre-dawn departure but his life-long friend Dave, son of my life-long friend Richard (may he rest in peace), was with him.  It was 85 degrees and flat calm.  They had seen a few marlin.  Check with you later. 

Shortly after lunch Dave calls.  He is out of breath as he tells me they had just caught and released a 200 pound marlin.  He gives me a blow by blow and then thanks me for taking him fishing when he was a little kid.  I melt.  Then Forest gets on the line and excitedly details everything from strike to release.  In that moment, in my mind, it was he and I fishing together as we had countless times, a while back.  Later, he texted a picture of Dave fighting the fish.  My day was made.

I have also received calls from Forest as he is driving to or from an airport somewhere in the country, often in the middle of the night.  He tells me how things are going with his business, his wife Lina and daughters Jordan and Kelly.  We discuss many things and invariably end up talking USC football.  Quite often the conversation ends as he is sitting in a gas station or returning his rental car. 

A call from Erin proudly talking about her kids and their accomplishments is special.  I get to hear about band practice, a flirting boy or a mean teacher.  I love it.  Erin has had great success in her business career.  As she has progressed along the way she has called many times to see what I thought about a dilemma she had or a tough decision she had to make.  Facing the economy we have had the last few years she has been faced with decisions that dramatically affect people’s lives.  Hearing her thoughts and being included in the journey is priceless to me.    

Romy and I have spent countless hours discussing things.  I consider myself very lucky that she often shares the ride with me during a phone call.  I have called her so often her pet parrot Rico says “Hi Dad” when she answers the phone, before Romy has said “Hi Dad”.  We have talked about everything from a dog named Thatch she fell in love with but couldn’t keep, Rico attacking her, bands she loves and dealing with work related dilemma’s.  Perhaps the most special Romy call of all was recently when Kevinn proposed to her on bended knee, on the beach.  She called to tell us and it was several minutes before I could understand a word she said.  The inflection in her voice when she says “Hi Dad” or “Bye Dad” is heaven sent.

Molly and I have had some of my longest conversations.  Mostly because we are often dissecting a complicated business problem she is faced with.  Usually we start in the early evening and go to very late at night.  She is light years ahead of me when it comes to SAP, which is an accounting program she specializes in as an independent consultant.  I usually don’t have a clue what she is talking about but I feel there is value in the thought process that comes from explaining what the problem is to someone willing to listen.   We have literally talked right up to a midnight deadline for Molly to make a decision affecting many, many people and involving huge dollars.  I once talked with her for hours one night from a job I was on in Las Vegas about a career move she felt she had mistakenly made and wanted to correct.  She had to make a decision that night.

As the years have gone by and they become more enmeshed in their own lives, the calls have diminished, which only enhances my joy when hearing from them.  Each time, when I hang up, my day has gotten a little bit better.  Whether they have called for their benefit or mine I feel good.         

      

   

DEJA VU

I have run out of daughters.  Let me explain.  I have three.  One has been married long enough to provide us with three “this is what life is all about” granddaughters.  One has exhibited patience beyond belief in her pursuit of Mr. Right and the other has been in a kind of happy, go-with-the-flow holding pattern.  Seemingly circling the airport but in no hurry to land. 

A few weeks ago, documented in a blog called The Secret, the patient one, Romy,  got the down-on-one-knee, moon lit beach, proposal treatment from Mr. Right, Kevinn.  A proposal known to me 2 days in advance but, sworn to secrecy, I could not say anything.  I spent the 2 days avoiding phone calls and not making eye contact with loved ones.  It was torture.  Even though the request for secrecy was over the phone it was the equivalent of a firm handshake, look-me-in-the-eye commitment that no man worth his salt violates.  One of these in a life time is enough, right.  NOT!!

A scant few weeks later the holding pattern one, Molly, was coming by our house for dinner after work.  Her partner in the holding pattern, Marc, was meeting her at our house and had arrived early.  I was sitting in my TV chair cheering on one of my bracket picks in the March Madness pool.  Marc was sitting on the couch.  I noticed he was texting someone.  This is not uncommon in his line of never-off-the-clock work.  After seemingly enough time to write a novel he turned his phone to me to read the text.  Here is what I read:

     I've been wanting to ask you for your blessing on asking Molly for her hand in marriage but everyone is always around. It would be a honor to have your blessing. I don't want anyone else knowing please once again another secret.

Thanks

 

Marc Denny

Before I could get to the part about “another secret” I jumped up, gave Marc a fist bump and a hug, then turned to tell Terry, who was nearby preparing dinner.  Before I could get out a word Marc held his finger to his lips in the universal sign to keep quiet.  Marc whispered that two days hence, on Easter Sunday, they would make a formal announcement. 

Shortly thereafter Molly arrived, my team won and we had a delightful dinner.  All the time I am looking my life partner and my own flesh and blood in the eye and not divulging my secret.  And there are 2 more days to go.  This is inhumane. 

Flash forward to Easter Sunday.  Following a spirited Easter egg hunt we all sit down for a spectacular dinner hosted by Molly’s sister Erin and her husband, our resident chef James.  Someone asked me to say a blessing before dinner.  Immediately after I finished Marc, spoke up.  Being across the room I could not hear what he said but suddenly everyone was cheering and screaming with excitement.  Hugs and kisses followed.  Once free, Molly worked her way over to me and we hugged.  She was as radiant, content and happy as I have ever seen her.  Life is good.  No more secrets.    

THE MAKEOVER

I am thinking of getting a makeover.  The idea came to me as I was lying on the floor doing my daily back stretching exercises while watching the Today Show with Hoda and Kathy Lee.  As you may or may not know Hoda and Kathy have a regular segment where family members write in and make a plug for a loved one to be selected for a makeover on their show.  They provide a picture and a written pitch as to why their candidate should be chosen. 

If chosen they are flown to New York with the one who nominated them, fawned over by a bevy of beauty experts, pampered from head to toe, dressed in clothes designed by some Frenchman, then, after showing the national TV audience a “before” picture, comes out from behind door #1 to reveal herself.  You can almost hear the collective gasp of the national TV audience as the nominator stares in disbelief at the “after” version.

At this time the “after” person says she has never been happier, her life has changed wishes she had made the move years ago and thanks her nominator, who by now has collected herself enough to speak. 

This last part is what gets me to thinking.  Why can’t guys have a makeover?  If it does all that for someone, sign me up.  Of course I will have to sign myself up because no one I know will nominate me.  The first anyone from my family will know is when I wave to them on TV. 

I would call the show Stud Re-Do.  The premise being that we are not starting with a blank canvas but merely trying to freshen the paint a little bit.  Maybe we get Justin Timberlake to be the MC and work it into his appearances on Saturday Night Live. 

The first show in New York would have to be a knockout.  Maybe we go with Gary Busey and Mel Gibson.  One needs some cosmetic help and the other a new image, and then me.  Before the show we would meet with our team and discuss what we envision for the “after” version of us. 

First, the hair.  I have always wanted hair like Rod Stewart but then again I’m partial to the spiky Colin Farrell look.  Since the whole idea is to come up with a fresh outlook I would probably go with the Colin Farrell look.  He is more contemporary plus he’s Irish, a huge plus.  I like the whole bad ass thing he has going on. 

The ensemble might require a casual or day time look and an evening look.  At night I go with the James Bond look.  It’s suave and cool.  Because I need a little help in that department it is any easy decision. 

The casual day time attire might be a hodge podge.  Unlike most clothing fads that come and go Quiksilver has not and remains my favorite.  I love the surfing vibe.  But with the goal here being something new I must make some hard decisions.  The tight legged pants popular now make you look like a pear with legs so that’s a no go for me.  The same with the whole European thing.  It makes you look like all your clothes shrunk 3 sizes.  And a white belt, hell no.               

So, with show time approaching I am forced to make a decision.  I settle on a pair of Black Nike’s.  Comfy, slightly baggy, bleached Lucky jeans.  A Keith Urban style T-shirt with an eagle or something on the front.  It being winter now I would want a zip up sweater/hooded sweat shirt combo of a mix between Boss and Tommy Bahama in muted Bob Marley colors.  I would love to top it off with a lavender pork pie hat but then my Colin Farrell do would not show.  No hat.

As I step out from behind door #3 and wave to my family back in California I can hear them saying to each other “Dad’s lost it.”

  

   

   

THE SECRET

I was sitting at my desk this rainy Friday afternoon going through some e-mails when my cell phone rang.  Glancing at it as I flipped it open I noticed the name Kevinn. 

Kevinn is my daughter Romy’s boy friend.  My mind whirling at warp speed, several thoughts came to mind.  He needed to know what Romy might want for her birthday.  Her birthday is 4 months away so that’s out.  He needed a loan.  Not likely, he is a Captain with the Fire Department so I doubt he is short of cash.  Something was wrong with Romy.  I instantly knew by the tone of his voice that was not the case. 

There were a couple of other options but before I could think further Kevinn asked “What are you guys doing?”  I explained that Terry was out previewing some homes and I was working in my office.  Then we spent an exorbitantly long time discussing the weather, a sure sign something was up.  Don’t quote me on this because what was said next was kind of a blur but after an exorbitantly long pause, Kevinn said something that sounded like “I was just wondering what you would think if I asked Romy to marry me?” 

I went into a stammer before I answered “I think it’s fantastic.”

Kevinn said all the right things.  His kids, Kody and Jordin adored Romy.  He had felt everything was perfect from the first but wanted to be patient.  All the things that make a Dad misty eyed.  I told him how special Romy was to me and Terry and that we had never seen her happier.  I also told him that, being old fashioned, it meant a great deal to me that he asked what we thought of his proposing to Romy.  Does that even happen anymore?

I said “I’ll pass the word to everyone on our end.”  Kevinn said “Not yet, I haven’t asked her yet.  I will soon but you can’t say anything now”.  I’m thinking to myself, what is soon?  Like tonight, next week?  I promised him I wouldn’t say a word to anyone. 

If you Google the United States Census Bureau you see the current estimate of the world’s population is 7.012 billion.  If you ranked the ability of everyone in the world to keep a secret, my wife Terry would rank 7.012.  So here I am the bearer of earth shaking family news and I can’t tell anyone.  Not Romy’s Mom, not her sisters, both of whom I talked to on the phone that evening and not her brother, whom I had exchanged several e-mails with that day.

Terry came home that evening and, as she always does, asks “What’s new?”  I would rather be water boarded than go through that again.  “Soon” could not come soon enough.

Some 31 excruciating hours later I’m thinking Kevinn better get off his ass and do something because I don’t know if I can keep quiet much longer.  We are having dinner with Romy’s sister Molly, her man friend Marc and watching a Jeff Foxworthy “You Know You Are A Redneck”  Special when my cell phone rings.  It’s Romy but she is sobbing so hard I can’t understand most of what she said except “I said yes”. 

Kevinn had asked Romy to go for a little Saturday evening drive to her favorite beach called Wood’s Cove.  Sitting on the sand they watched the waves crash against the rocks on a beautiful, moon lit night.   Romy got up to leave but Kevinn hesitated for a moment and then, while on one knee, held out a ring and asked Romy if she would marry him.  What happened next is a little fuzzy but eventually I got The Call. 

They came by our house, Romy still sobbing, and we all hugged and kissed.  Phone calls, photos and texts went back and forth to those not there.  One of Kevinn’s brothers (reportedly a jokester) texted “Does she know you are gay?” 

Terry and I stood on our porch waving goodbye to all of them. It was, at the same time, the end to a very, very special day and an enormous relief that I no longer had to look my family in the eye and keep a secret from them.