Honoring My Father

 

The movie, Big Fish, caught my attention while looking for a DVD to watch.  We’ve watched this one several times, so I’ll skip to the part that relates to my thoughts today.

Near the end of the movie, where the son arrived at the hospital, finding his father was near death after he’d suffered a serious stroke.  The young man volunteered to sit by his bed all night and gave his mother a chance to go home.

If you’re familiar with the movie; his father woke up momentarily and sat up wild eyed saying something that sounds like, “the river”.   His son reached as if to hit the Call Nurse button but instead waited to find out his father’s request. 

“Tell me how it ends”.  The young man wasn’t prepared with a response because his father never told him what he’d seen in the old witch’s eye so many years earlier, a prophecy of how he was going to die.

The son, being familiar with the many fantastic yarns his father had shared, began to carefully create the vision his father never told him about, pausing as details sprang to mind in such a way as to fit with other stories his father conjured up throughout his life; all having to do with the river.

According to his son’s interpretation his father was no longer constrained by oxygen tubes, able to move about and pointed to a wheelchair and stressed the need to escape from the hospital in order to return to the river…

 

Interestingly, I found tears streaming down my cheeks, an uncontrollable transference of emotions as thoughts of my own father came crashing down on my consciousness.  

One of the earliest memories of my father is linked with a trip to Jones Beach out on Long Island, New York.  We’d gone to the huge Olympic pool and dad was standing in the water making sure I didn’t drown; but the memory had to do with how much hair covered his chest and back, more like a friendly bear than a human to my young eyes.

Dad’s physical strength and mental awareness were cause for concern as Alzheimer’s robbed the best of him.  When mom died dad was in the hospital and they were reluctant to tell him that his wife of 67 years had passed away, leaving that task to me when I arrived a couple of days later.  Dad was really upset, thinking she was avoiding him when she didn’t show up with his newspaper each morning. 

Dealing with these feelings, the movie progressed; but I was already lost in my own thoughts.

I can’t turn the clock back. My father passed away about eight years ago, complications from old age and a used-up body.

For a few moments I can visit an earlier time, like when I first saw him playing ball with other young fathers on a field of dreams, a battered old First Baseman’s ball glove on his hand.  From then on I wanted a First Baseman’s glove, to be just like dad.

One chilly winter day, my father attempted to get me off to meet the school bus and noticed I had no jacket.  He grabbed a brown jacket belonging to my brother; but my jacket was blue, certainly dad should have known my jacket was blue, so I refused to wear the brown one.  Getting chased around the house was going to make me miss the bus so I ran out the door before dad could catch me; I wasn’t wearing that brown jacket and he couldn’t make me.

Many years later I recall sitting down for lunch at Sharpstown Mall with dad and some of his friends from work to tell him I’d joined the Houston Police Department; now that was a day to remember.  Dad wanted me to be an accountant; he’d paid for the first two years of college and was totally blindsided by my decision.  It was the first, perhaps the only time dad was unable to speak a word.

These thoughts and a thousand more rushed through my mind as the movie played on. The young man carried his father, placing him in the magically restored factory new Charger’s passenger seat for a crazy drive to the river as everyone waved goodbye, the river where it all started, the river where it all must end.

So, this is how it is and as it should be…

Not too long before my father died, as his mind wandered into dementia more and more, I grew concerned that my father hadn’t shared his last wishes with me.  He’d mentioned that he wanted to be cremated but hadn’t indicated where he wanted his ashes to be spread.

That’s an awkward topic to bring up. I asked him straight out and watched his reaction, his shoulders rising in unison to match his eyebrows indicating he hadn’t really considered the thought.

“How about Lucy and I sneak your ashes out to Northgate Golf Course in the middle of the night and scatter your ashes there?” My dad’s eyes showed signs of excitement as he became part of an event we could get in trouble over. “Now, you realize…” I paused and then continued, “…we’ll have to scatter you in the rough since you hardly ever landed on the fairway.”  Dad actually smiled and enjoyed my making fun of his golfing abilities.

“I have a better idea.  We could scatter your ashes on the river in that same spot we placed mom’s ashes.”  Dad may have been aware of the special location on the river mom had picked, a secluded place among the Mangroves in a recess tucked away from the main portion of the river.

Dad took a deep breath, picturing in his mind the exact location.  I watched a few tears trickle down his cheek.  Yes, that would be a better place, there, on the river.

So, this is how it is and as it should be…

And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.   Malachi 4:6  

In the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ.  Amen

 

The Power was Out on Memorial Day

 

We had some more thunderstorms bust on through knocking the power out, not just once, but twice in a twenty-four-hour period.  The first time was in the morning around eight o’clock on Memorial Day.  Lucy had started the crock pot getting her Cowboy Beans ready for the church social that was to begin around one o’clock.  Without a blink or a worry, we got out the emergency solar powered generator/battery unit, hooked the crock pot up and cooked the Cowboy Beans all morning using the power supply in that battery unit.

We’d looked at the KPRC weather radar forecast and could only hope that the line of thunderstorms would pass and permit the social to happen.  On that we were truly blessed as the sun came out and everyone had a great time.  When we got home around four in the afternoon the power had come back on; but for some reason the main air conditioning unit wasn’t working.

That evening, with our emergency window AC unit keeping the living room nice and cool, we were watching a movie on Amazon Prime about time travel, not a great movie; but I’m a sucker for that kind of movie.  Around ten o’clock, only half an hour or so into the movie, the next line of thunderstorms pushed over us and the power went out again. 

We have battery operated emergency candles scattered all over the house and so it was no big deal.  Lightning and thunder made the puppies nervous, so Shadow jumped into our bed while Max shook and trembled, hiding in our bathroom.  The power was out all night, and we started Tuesday off with the idea of cranking up the outside generator. 

I hooked up some extension cords that ran from the porch and into the kitchen area. Used a splitter so the refrigerator could be plugged in and ran a second line to the freezer unit.  I also took a small fan out onto the porch to keep the exhaust away from the house and the generator, making sure not to let the carbon monoxide accumulate. 

While this all worked as it should, I took the time to place the solar panels for the other generator out and recharge that storage unit.  We try to be prepared for emergencies, learning a little more each time we get caught short.  While the power was out, I ran another extension cord from the generator over to the window air conditioner unit, the emergency AC unit we use when the main AC unit for the house goes out.

While the refrigerator was pulled out from its regular place in the kitchen, I mopped that portion of tile floor.  When I went to scoop up some dirt that was in the corners, using only my index finger, that’s when I found a small piece of glass mixed in with the dirt; probably from a glass that fell long ago but a small piece disappeared under the refrigerator.  That sliced the tip of my finger, and I dripped blood all over the freshly mopped area of tile floor.  This was becoming a Hollywood movie script as I went to the bathroom to clean the cut, put triple antibiotic ointment on it and cover my finger with a small band aid. 

When the power to the house returned thirteen hours later, it was time to put all the emergency power stuff back where it belongs.  The extension cords were unhooked and the refrigerator and freezer plugged back into the wall outlets.  I pushed the generator back to its storage location on the porch. I then went to hook up the trickle charge unit to the generator’s battery.  I felt a stinging on my right hand and, at first thought it might be electrical in nature; but quickly realized that I was being attacked by several Yellow Jackets. 

I’d shot long-distance wasp spray at a nest on the porch earlier in the morning and assumed it had wiped them out; I was mistaken.  Apparently, several wasps had been off and away in the morning; but upon returning were upset to find their nest had been sprayed.

When I got close to their nest, not thinking of looking for any wasps, they took their anger out on my thumb and wrist.  They got me about seven or eight times before I could pull my hand back and exit the area. I returned to the bathroom, applied Bactine pain spray on my thumb and wrist, which now were bright red and swollen.  Later Lucy put some essential oils on the area, and took a Benadryl intended to reduce the swelling.  I slept for half the afternoon as a result.

We left a text message for our AC repair company to see about fitting us into their schedule, knowing that this company had invested several hours of time attempting to get our heat pump system to work.  The heat pump system was still under warranty, and they replaced almost every part of the system, some parts were replaced twice; but the heat pump system never did work the way it was supposed to.  The AC company are people of integrity and never charged us, not a penny even after they spent considerable time working on it. 

Today, Wednesday, we got a call from the AC serviceman telling us he was on his way and would see what’s going on with our unit.  I didn’t recognize him so I explained some of the history of our AC/Heat pump unit as best I could since I really have little understanding of what all didn’t work. 

The AC repairman was in the attic for a long time working on things while he was on the phone talking to someone at his office trying to figure things out.  He eventually got the unit to push cold air through the vents; but explained that it was a temporary fix for a problem that required replacing some electronic control panels in the main unit.

All the parts are still under warranty; but it sure makes us wonder about our decision to have an AC/Heat pump unit installed when we built our house in the country.  So, how’d your Memorial Day go?

Those Premonitions are Serious Stuff

 

I’d almost forgotten about the little old lady who had serious premonitions about evil going on outside the window of her bedroom; that is until someone posted a photo of a fellow in bed with his shotgun laid across his chest, just in case.

The little old Black lady lived in a rough neighborhood and didn’t want anyone to come in and take advantage of her frail body.  That’s why she kept her 22 cal. Saturday Night Special on her nightstand, just in case.

We’d gotten a dispatched call regarding a kid who’d been shot at while on his way to the local convenience store.  He cut through the breezeway that ran between two houses and the next thing he knew some lady was shooting at him through the screen that covered her bedroom window.

Sure enough there were several holes in the screen, many more than had been added that particular day.  We were glad the kid hadn’t been injured as we talked to the little old lady.

“I get these premonitions, you know, the ones where I’m being warned that evil is outside my window.  That’s when I had to grab my gun and started shooting to scare it away.”

“You almost shot a little boy who was walking by. Aren’t you glad you didn’t hit him while you were shooting out the window without looking?”

“He shouldn’t be cutting through like that, Scared me half to death.”

I’m guessing the word got around the neighborhood, don’t cut through that little old lady’s yard. Those premonitions can be deadly.

A Little Traveling Music

 

I used to visit the Abracadabra Magic Shop, which we were told was owned by several police officers. On Saturday mornings working in the downtown business district of Houston things were extremely slow.  My partner and I found ways to amuse ourselves; what better way than having amateur magicians practice their sleight of hand in preparation for their next show.

These young men let us practice a bit of sleight of hand if we purchased a silly magic trick suitable for fooling kids.  One trick they taught me was how to make a card disappear or seemingly disappear.  It was a dexterity challenge where the target card was held in place by your index finger and pinky.  The two middle fingers would be bent and act as a spring while you brought your hand down.  It was a neat trick; but harder to master than I’d anticipated.

The rest of the afternoon while walking around across the street from Foly’s I kept practicing and practicing trying to get all the functions coordinated.  Right as I was passing in front of the parking lot entrance for the Foley’s garage, it all came together.  I’d made the card look as if it had disappeared. I hadn’t considered the lady driving into the garage at that moment as she nearly lost control of her car.  I must have really done a good job with that trick; but in the future it was to be practiced out of the public’s eye.

One autumn day after a dry ‘Blue Norther’ had pushed through we happened to stop by for a visit with our young magicians. They were eagerly anticipating a visit from a prospective out of town magician, one who could make their cash register sing if they could show him enough stage props to make it worth his while. There were all manner of incendiary devices placed strategically on their display case’s glass top which were used as distractions while other sleight of hand tricks were going on; nothing like show business.

Unfortunately the lack of humidity had not been taken into consideration. An accidental static discharge from our friend’s fingertip set off a chain reaction of flash paper which happened to be next to an aerosol can of spray paint. The heat generated was sufficient to explode the can, breaking the glass display case top and so on down the line until all the incendiary items had ignited and filled the shop with smoke.

Our friend lost an eyebrow and small patch of hair as the momentary blast of flames shot past his forehead. All his hard work went up in smoke, literally. Adding insult to injury, some busy body called the fire department to report an explosion.

The arson team came out looking for violations of the city code; samples of residue were collected and marked for future criminal prosecution. My friend was eager to assist while trying to explain what each item had been prior to being set off; but the investigator was a hardnosed veteran and wanted to be left alone.

There was some sort of residue, a grayish-white blast pattern on the wall directly behind where the display case had blown up. The investigator scrapped off a small portion and placed it into a clear plastic envelope; my friend desperately tried to explain what it was, only to be told to be quiet. The fellow then placed the tip of his finger on the residue, took a sniff while lifting his brow to the unknown substance he’d been unable to identify. He placed the fingertip on his tongue hoping for a telltale trace of illegal evidence that could be used against the Abracadabra magicians.

It was at this moment I noticed my friend breaking out in uncontrollable laughter, holding his stomach as he bent over in a horse laugh. The arson investigator didn’t see what was so funny; this was a serious criminal investigation.

“That’s where the show doves were caged. When the stuff went off it scared them; I mean they were really scared.” The blast pattern was the natural elimination caused by scared doves sprayed on a wall.

(Image of Magician Dove  courtesy of School of Illusionism)

9 or 10 at Rush Hour

 

This is a partial reprint from long ago.

In the mid-1970s I was directing traffic at one of the busiest intersections in downtown Houston, Walker Street at Bagby. It is a major freeway entrance to I-45 North.  Traffic was heavy from both streets trying to exit downtown during evening rush hour. Bagby street had traffic moving North and South while Walker was Westbound only. There was always heavy pedestrian traffic as well, it being next to City Hall and some large parking facilities.

My approach to working traffic was to let Walker run wild and fast to clear out as many vehicles as possible. When the lights would change it was important to let the pedestrian traffic cross; but only until their “Wait” sign lighted, at which time I was quite forceful in halting anyone from crossing while at the same time directing those drivers in the turning lanes to begin the mad dash to the freeway. I stood in between, much as a matador directs a bull fight, intimidating drivers to turn the steering wheel to accommodate traffic from both directions at the same time. It was challenging, maybe that word covers how I managed to stay alive each time the lights cycled and the process was repeated.

One day, a light and breezy mild afternoon with clear blue skies, I was in full swing directing traffic when a drop dead gorgeous young woman began to cross the street. You may recall the movie with Dudley Moore, “10”; perhaps I should rephrase that, the movie with Bo Derek, a young woman of exquisite form, perhaps beyond belief. The point being that most men have never seen a perfect 10; a few 7’s or 8’s that made them forget their names and maybe a 9 but they were too blown away to remember any of the details.

The young woman crossing the street at Bagby and Walker that afternoon was somewhere between a 9 and a 10. How do I know this; because I was temporarily removed from my mortal body, not a good thing to do while standing in the middle of moving traffic. I remember directing two columns of opposing traffic into each other, one from Walker Street and the other from Bagby. The only thing that kept everyone from having a terrific accident was luck; either that or the fact that all the male drivers had stopped observing my orchestrations, their attention diverted to something quite a bit more appealing. I caught myself, forcing my arms down, a sheepish grin on my face for having proven once again that I was a victim of hormonal influences.

A Right Way and A Wrong Way

 

It’s interesting how the mind works as you review various events that took place long ago. For instance, this past week or so I’ve been remembering things that happened when I was a Rookie Police Officer for the Houston Police Department back in the early 1970s. The other day I wrote about purchasing my sidearm pistol while still in the Police Academy.

That brought up some other memories. The first place I worked as a Rookie was the Beechnut Substation out on the southwest side of Houston.  They had me ride with several different veteran officers, each lending aspects of the job that would be valuable during my time as an officer.

One of the first senior officers I rode with out of Beechnut was Ricky Rice, who eventually got promoted to Sgt and, for all I know, may have gone on to become a Lt or Capt.  Anyway, Officer Rice knew I was uncomfortable wearing the blue uniform and all, so he went out of his way to explain things and simply be a nice guy.

Instead of taking a break to have lunch at some burger stand, Officer Rice welcomed me to join him at his apartment, meet his wife and grab a sandwich there.  Upon arriving at his apartment complex, we walked up some stairs to get to his unit.  He opened the door and was about to introduce me to his wife when I recognized her from being in my home room back in high school, Sharon Thomas; make that, Sharon Thomas Rice.

(The photo was scanned from my high school yearbook.)

“Hey, Sharon,” The look on Officer Rice’s face was hard to explain. Here I was a Rookie about to be introduced to his wife; but I already knew this lady, well enough to call her by name. So much for the introduction; I couldn’t tell you what kind of sandwiches were for lunch.

Then there was a different experience that same week while riding with another veteran officer; I won’t include his name, a little like the opening remarks on the old television series, Dragnet. “The story you are about to see is true, only the names have been changed to protect…”  Let’s just call him Ray, as good a name as any.

When it came time for lunch he drove to a fancy restaurant on Westheimer, Christies. If you’re familiar with this location, it would fall under the listing, expensive and far beyond the average fast food place cops would go for lunch.

I checked my wallet before getting out of the patrol vehicle.  I had around eighteen dollars, maybe enough to get a hamburger if that was even on the menu. Ray assured me that this was a friendly place for cops and was always free, opening the door for me to enter the restaurant.

This early in my experience as a Police Officer, I had yet to learn about ‘Dragging the Sack”.

We were seated quickly and handed menus. I glanced at the prices and knew I couldn’t afford anything on the front page.  I found hamburger listed in the children’s section of the menu and ordered that since it came with fries, all for fifteen dollars.

Ray, on the other hand, ordered half a dozen oysters, a fancy specialty dish and didn’t blink as the waiter took the order.  I figured out in my head that Ray had just ordered about fifty dollars in fancy food.  I felt out of place and didn’t want to be sitting there.

We ate and when it came time to leave the manager quietly approached Ray, lightly touching Ray’s shoulder as he spoke, “Ray, I can’t continue to give you any more free meals. This is the last time.”  The manager stepped back as Ray got up and tossed his napkin in the middle of the empty plate.

I was not prepared to hear Ray’s reply, “I hope you M------F-----rs get Robbed!”, spoken loud enough for anyone within a few tables to hear.

I thought to myself how it would have been nice, being a police officer for more than a whole week, getting fired wasn’t something I wanted as we exited Christies and got back on patrol.  Nothing ever happened, nothing. I don’t remember much from that day’s patrol work; but I never had to explain up the chain of command why I witnessed the event from that day.

I guess you could sum it up by saying, there’s a right way and a wrong way of going about your business as a Police Officer.  May you always choose to do it the right way.

Becoming a Police Officer was Getting Expensive

 

This morning while enjoying some of the postings on Facebook I ran across an offering on eBay where someone was selling printouts of Smith and Wesson pistols.  A memory jumped into my mind, one from back in 1972 when I was about to graduate from the Houston Police Department’s Academy.  I was about to become a police officer.

There were still a few weeks of training to go when they explained that we needed to decide which pistol or pistols we would purchase.  I hadn’t thought about that, naively believing the City of Houston Police Department supplied each officer with all the tools required. 

I should give a little background at this point regarding my financial status.  I’d been employed by Montgomery Ward as a salesperson in their Hardware and Electric department making minimum wage just prior to being accepted into the police academy.  I saw this opportunity as a major improvement financially.  Think about that for a moment; the chance to make almost six hundred dollars a month was going to be a major improvement for me.

Back to being asked to purchase a new Smith and Wesson duty pistol with my own money had me wondering, “Will they be asking for a down payment on a patrol car next?”  I gulped a couple of times and decided, since this was a ‘one time offer to purchase these pistols at cost’, I decided to purchase a Smith and Wesson Model 19, 357/38 duty pistol along with a Smith and Wesson Model 36, 38 caliber off duty pistol. 

I can’t recall offhand how much the total came to; but each pistol was over a hundred dollars, or about half of what I would make in take home pay that month. There may have been a partial payment required along with a way to take care of the rest via payroll deductions; this happened so long ago. 

A few years went by and I found it impossible to resist having a silver and gold butt plate made by Nelson Silvia’s, a rather impressive piece of jewelry that had my name and badge number engraved on it. Think of that fancy butt plate as a symbol of having graduated from Rookie to Seasoned police officer, similar, I imagine, to a ring ceremony for those about to graduate from college.

My house got burglarized while I was at work and one of the few items taken was my Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol.  I happened to be enjoying the use of a Colt Commander 1911 as an alternative duty weapon and so the loss of the other pistol, while painful, didn’t affect my ability to work. 

I did eventually purchase a replacement revolver, a used Smith and Wesson Model 586, blue steel 357/38 from a police officer who didn’t consider revolvers a serious police officer’s weapon.  No need to get into that conversation; I obtained it for exactly one hundred dollars, a steal since he didn’t see its monetary value either.

Several more years went by, imagine that… I got a call from the Harris County Sheriff’s Department asking if I had ever reported a Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol stolen and if so, had it ever been recovered.  Wow, they’d actually found my stolen pistol by the serial number entered into the original burglary report.

Turns out a member of their department had gone to the pistol range to qualify using that pistol.  I have no idea how he obtained it, don’t want to know either.  I explained that my insurance company had settled with me which meant the pistol now belonged to them.  A few phone calls later and my insurance company said I could keep the pistol for a nominal fee of one hundred dollars; done!

The pistol was returned to me, without the fancy butt plate; only two small holes in the pistol grips where it had been removed.  Whoever had stolen the pistol, or whoever purchased the pistol had removed the butt plate.  That’s the only thing I really wanted back, a stupid chunk of silver and gold that had my name and badge number on it.

To bring an end to this memory, there was a night security guard working out in the Spring Branch area where I patrolled.  He’d been promoted and asked me where he should go to get a good deal on a duty pistol, one he could afford.  I sold him my old Smith and Wesson Model 19 for exactly one hundred dollars.