Dad's Stories

My Dad was a great story teller. he didn't invent any, embellished maybe, but had a knack for finding interest and humor in the events of his life. He lead an interesting and varied life.

One of his favorites, Dad invited an athletic young lady to his high school football game. As the game progressed, it was quite dull. Dad and his date were eating oranges. It was a different era. She said to Dad, "See that cop down on the field? I'll be I can hit him with this orange." True to her word, she plastered the officer right in the back of the head. Today, the officer would be in the stands and the offending young lady, and likely her date, would be off to jail. But in the 1930's, nothing happened. Like I said, it was a different era.

Like me, Dad struggled in chemistry. His teacher was Miss Pickett, granddaughter of General Pickett of Gettysburg fame. Miss Pickett had a wooden leg so it was difficult for her to get around. Dad offered to drive her to school every morning. He finished chemistry with a C-. My chemistry teacher was in great shape and had his own car. I would have loved a C-.

More sensitive readers may want to skip this one. Dad graduated from Inglewood High School in 1937. He immediately secured a job as a reporter with the Los Angeles Examiner. One night, he was sent out to report on a suicide. Dad arrived at the scene, showed his credential to officer guarding the door and started in. The officer stopped Dad and said, "Kid you don't want to go in there. The guy used a shotgun."

One night, Dad was manning the night desk. A call came in about a huge fire in Culver City. Dad called the Culver City Fire Department. The fireman who answered said, "Yeah, we know. They are burning Atlanta over at MGM." The filming of Gone With the Wind had just started.

About the time Dad graduated from high school, he had a girlfriend named Evelyn. Evelyn was convinced that the two of them were destined to spend their lives together. Dad was more hesitant. Grandpa Ross was at the grocery store one day and visited with Evelyn. When Dad came home that day, Grandpa looked at him and said, "I hear you're getting married. Anything you want to tell me?" My Mom's name is Joyce.

One of the most dreaded words in the English language...

COLONOSCOPY!

I had mine yesterday and survived once again. Thanks to Lynne, here's Dave Berry's take on it:

ABOUT THE WRITER: Dave Barry is a Pulitzer Prize-winning humor columnist for the Miami Herald.

 

Colonoscopy Journal:
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy.

A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis .

 

Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner.

I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'

I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America 's enemies..

I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous.

Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.

Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons). Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.'

This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.

MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but, have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch?This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.

After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep.

The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked..

Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep..
At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.

When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point..

Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand.

There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' had to be the least appropriate.

'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me..

'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.

I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.

Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that It was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.

New Blog

You may find my new blog, The World's Worst Housewife, at wwhousewife@blogspot.com. Enter at your own risk.

Mike

When my Dad was a young boy, he was swimming in the Stanislaus River were it crosses Highway 99. He waded in too deep and started to drown. His dog, a German Shepherd, grabbed his arm and pulled him to safety. That began a run of many German Shepherd dogs that graced our homes.

Mike came to us as a puppy. I remember Dad laying newspapers out on the kitchen floor and when we woke up in the morning, Dad rubbed Mike's nose in the inevitable poop and swatted him with a rolled up newspaper. About three days of that and Mike was trained to go outside to do his duty.

From the beginning, Mike had an engaging personality. He loved to romp all over our 40 acres. I roughhoused with him many times. He would hold his own by biting my arm, but would never break the skin. We both enjoyed fighting to a draw.

We had another dog, a mongrel named Scottie. Scottie was smaller than Mike, but he could hold his own too. I had to be about 12 when Dad let me drive the tractor down the street a little way. Dad was walking along side and Scottie and Mike were playing and tussling with each other. Then a second before it happened, I knew we were in trouble. Mike made a wrong move and was run over by the front tire and the huge back tire before I could stop the tractor. Mike took off and ran yelping like a banshee. We all thought he was a dead dog. I was surprised he could run. He finally came limping back and Dad took him to the vet. "He'll be sore for a few days, but should be just fine," came the diagnosis. I felt responsible and was afraid Dad would take a rolled up newspaper to me, but he understood. It was an unavoidable accident. Relief and celebration were the order of the rest of the day. 

Several years later, our neighbor across the street, Mr. Banks, a grey haired, gentlemanly, old farmer, informed us that two of his prized sheep had been killed in the night. Their throats had been chewed through. Although there was no blood on the muzzles of Scottie or Mike, Mr. Banks was certain our dogs had done the deed. Banks was very reasonable, but as there were no other dogs in the immediate vicinity, the conclusion was that we had to get rid of Mike. I assume Dad paid for the sheep. We had to take Mike to the dog pound and we knew what usually happened to dogs there. The next Saturday, Dad dutifully took our German Shepherd to the pound and Mike was gone from our lives forever, or so we thought.

Some months later, Mike came happily bounding into our backyard. He had escaped from whoever had picked him up from the dog pound and returned to us! Mike was the prodigal dog and we were overjoyed to see him. Even Scottie was happy. After a week, however, Mike disappeared. He was gone for about ten days, then suddenly returned. This episode evolved to where Mike would spend a week on and a week off. We were overjoyed when he came and sad when he left. We realize that whoever had picked him up from the pound had taken good care of Mike and that he had an attachment with his other family.

After more weeks, Mike began to spend ten days with us and a week with his other family. Then it became two weeks with us and three days away. Finally, Mike just stayed. He had chosen us! We felt privileged. I don't know that Mr. Banks ever saw Mike after his return, but no further complaint was lodged.

I was 16 when we moved from our 40 acre farm to more acreage across town. Old Scottie was taken to the pound. He was arthritic and in pain and we decided this was a good time to let him go. It would be better for Scottie too. I drove him the 15 miles to the pound. It was hard as part of my youth left with Scottie.

Mike was as happy as ever with our new place. Dad put in a swimming pool in the backyard and now it was fun to even swim with Mike. In the late fall, I remember wrestling with Mike. I had a thick coat on, but again, Mike would not break my skin. As lonely as life can get sometimes, my best friend was Mike. I went for walks and Mike would come with me. He was always there and never complained.

At Christmas, my Uncle Jim dressed as Santa Claus and was coming through the backdoor to surprise my young cousins who had come to our home for the holiday. Mike had seen Jim a number of times, but the Santa costume was new to him and Uncle Jim had to make his way onto the roof to save himself. Dad controlled Mike, who was in a rage and Jim came in through the front door startled, but no worse for the dog attack.

A couple of months later, late on a Sunday night, there was an ominous knock on our door. A neighbor said, "You're the house with the German Shepherd?" Dad answered affirmatively and we were told that a German Shepherd had been hit on the main highway about 400 yards from our house. Dad and I somberly took flashlights and drove to the highway. After a brief search, we found Mike's lifeless body in weeds by the side of the road. Dad and I didn't speak to each other, but lifted Mike's body into the back of our station wagon.

There was weeping throughout the house when we brought Mike home. We all agreed that there would never be another dog like Mike. There never has been. Finally, Dad drove the station wagon around the side of our barn and began to dig a hole to bury Mike. Dad was fighting hard to control his emotions. I had never seen him cry, but his chest was heaving in grief.

"I'll take care of this. You go inside." I figured that Dad wanted to be alone so he could let go of his emotions alone. I turned to walk back to our house. I didn't look back.

Utah

I'm on my way to Utah today. My batteries always recharge there. Beautiful mountains that take your breath away, wonderful relatives, great friends. I wish I could see them all.

Green. Where I live in Arizona is brown. Utah is green, at least in comparison.  There will be a conference I am attending, so my time with others is limited. I will be connecting with my college roommate, Craig Lewis, and an old college friend I haven't seen in 10 years. I'm also hoping to see some triplets.

Just 1 1/2 hours on the plane! To paraphrase the state song, Utah, I love thee (but I don't want to live there!).

Is There Hope in Arizona?

Over my protests, I have lived in Arizona since 1971. Actually, from October until the second week in June, it's a great place to live. As an observer of Arizona weather for 42 years now, I have made some observations that should make anyone who lives here feel a little better, especially in the middle of May. 

August-no temperatures over 120.

September-no temperatures over 115.

October-no temperatures over 110.

November-no temperatures over 100.

December-no temperatures over 90.

January-no temperatures over 85.

February-you're on your own.

NOTE: All of the above are generalities and could change due to global warming.

Despicable Me 2 revisited

or

Despicable Me 2 two

Some years ago, I worked with a young Hispanic woman. She was brilliant, talented and passionate about her ethnicity. I had worked on a film documenting the positives of our school. When the film came out, my co-worker was upset that no Hispanic teachers on the staff were represented, especially one who was very popular with all students. Justifiably so. I told her I was responsible for the content and that I had to agree with her. Our Hispanic students felt marginalized to a large extent and given the preponderance of them, I should have been more sensitive. As is usually the case, Anglo students didn't have a problem with making the school their own. 

I thought of my friend and co-worker this last week when I saw Despicable Me 2 a second time. The villain, El Macho, in the film is an Hispanic full of stereotypes and a heavy accent. Grue, the hero of Despicable Me, did not want his adopted daughter hanging around with the villain's son. It was all played for laughs, but I am surprised the Hispanic community has not raised a stink about the negative portrayal of Hispanic characters. The presence of an Hispanic character, of course, should be encouraged, even if the individual is on the wrong side of legality. But in Despicable Me 2, the Hispanic character is so full of stereotypes that it made me a bit uncomfortable. That is thanks to my wonderful co-worker and others who have helped me be more aware.

I am a Mormon. In the last three years or so, my religion has had its fair share of stereotyping, poking and prodding with the results being far from positive. Like Hispanics, blacks, women and other minority groups which are frequently demonized, I have become more sensitive yet to the plight of others who are are more frequently victims of thoughtless jokes, bias and bigotry. We still live in a tough society and any one in the minority still seems to be fair game.

How much damage will there be from this one film. Will those who watch it put El Macho into the cartoon category or will there be fallout in schools and neighborhoods across our country from further stereotyping. I fear the latter and if one Hispanic kid is demonized as a result. it will be one too many.

The villain in the first Despicable Me was a small fellow with glasses and a pot belly. He was obnoxious, but not stereotypical (unless geeks of the world unite). Some one has to be a villain, but I hope the next time movie makers are a bit more sensitive to the difficulties they might cause. While I am not an advocate of taking life too seriously, this stereotyping dimmed what was other wise a funny, enjoyable film.

Maybe they can pick on fat, bald, old men next.