National Cancer Survivor Day

Today, June 2, is National Cancer Survivor Day.  It’s a day to recognize those that have been diagnosed with and survived cancer of any type.  It’s a day for those who have cancer to feel hope that surviving is possible.  It’s a day for those who have not been touched by cancer to take action to prevent it.  It’s truly a day for all.

Skin cancer…even deadly melanoma…is often thought of as the cancer that can “simply be cut out.”  The vast majority of skin cancer found is basal cell carcinoma which is rarely deadly. For the most part, such a cancer is truly “simply cut out” with minimal physical scarring as the end result.  The same is true for squamous cell carcinoma which is statistically more deadly, but still usually far less invasive than melanoma, which accounts for 75% of all skin cancer deaths.  As for melanoma, those who are diagnosed with Stage 0 or Stage 1 level cancer typically also have their cancer “simply cut out.”  Are those who have skin cancers “simply cut out” with no additional treatments considered survivors? 

My brother was diagnosed with melanoma in 2004.  He had a very large, ugly, and cancerous mole removed from his back and was left with clear margins…no evidence of remaining cancer.  He was also left with a golf ball-sized divot on his back but otherwise seemed unscarred.  Was he a survivor?  Jeff was reluctant to make that claim.  Although he often volunteered for Relay for Life, he never visited the survivors’ tent nor wore a special survivor t-shirt.  He would look at other survivors, those who had bald heads or were forced to walk with a cane and proclaim, “Those are the survivors.  Not me!”

Jeff was adamant about his friends and family wearing sunscreen.  He would often state, “You don’t want to go what I went through!”  He also lived with the knowledge that one out of every three melanoma survivors has a recurrence of the disease.  Whenever he would spot a new mole, or even a freckle, he would have it checked out immediately.  He became very diligent about his skin.

I would ascertain that while Jeff didn’t show any obvious physical scars (except for his rarely exposed back) he had many deep mental and emotional scars.  His whole outlook on his skin changed.  His insistence that his little brother get his skin checked yearly showed that he was affected by his experience.  His involvement in Relay for Life was a way for him to express his understanding of the cancer world.  He was indeed a survivor.

About a year after Jeff when through his melanoma experience, a lump was felt on my prostate during a routine exam.  I was sent to an urologist who also felt the lump and determined that a biopsy was needed.  The results of that painful experience were inconclusive and another biopsy was ordered.  The second experience was worse…but at least it showed no signs of cancer.  Yes, the word cancer was spoken to me.  And fear shot through me as soon as that word was spoken.  My mortality was suddenly challenged.  So many thoughts came to mind as to what I might miss far sooner in life than expected.  When I was told that no cancer was found, the relief I felt was indescribable.  I had a new lease on life.  My friends, this was only from my doctor mentioning the possibility of cancer.  I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be told that indeed there IS cancer.

With that in mind, I completely support and agree that anyone that has been diagnosed with cancer…even the simple “cut it out” cancers…is a survivor.  Being told that you have cancer is a life changing event.  If a simple in-office surgery can eliminate it, than you are truly lucky and blessed.  But knowing you had cancer in or on your body makes you feel vulnerable and violated.  And you know it can happen again.  You have survived it…hopefully for good..

My brother survived his first round, but he didn’t survive 6 years later.  He died of melanoma on November 15, 2010.  My mother died of lung cancer 5 years earlier on January 20, 2005.  This past December, on December 20^th, 2018, my dad also died of lung cancer.  My three family members all died of cancer.  I’m the last surviving member.  I hope to God that I won’t have to be called a “survivor” in my life.

 Cancer sucks.  Honor a survivor today. And remember those who have passed.

Second Prompt – First Job (or…”We think you’re perfect for this job”)

This is my second article in the “Prompt” Series.  The prompt for this piece is merely two words…First Job.

I am struggling with what to exactly write.  After all, my first job after college was as an assembly engineer for Mitsubishi Semiconductor out of Durham, NC.  I was sent to Japan for two years to learn my craft; so obviously, this first job is a bevy full of stories.  However, if I were to recall my FIRST job, that would be as a lifeguard at Lakewood Swim Club while in high school and college.  At least this is the first job from which I received a paycheck…minus taxes of course.  But then again, my literalist side starts to argue that my very first job was mowing lawns in the neighborhood, especially for the one house across the street as the occupants moved and “hired” me to upkeep their lawn until their house sold.  This job could certainly create a story or two as the house was atop a riverbank and I spent as much time knocking down monstrous wolf spider webs in the back yard as I did actually mowing.  This was a stressful job for someone with arachnophobia.

All scenarios are worthy of a “first job” prompt, but my gut tells me to switch things up a bit.  As I’ve mentioned before, I’m currently unemployed.  The ride I’ve ridden the last two months while seeking employment has been rather interesting.  It’s not like I haven’t searched for a job before, but after 20 years since my previous job search, things have changed quite a bit!

When I sought out my very first job as a lawn mower (before “landscaper” was a known term), I pretty much knocked on doors.  The only competition was from other kids in the neighborhood.  Honestly, I got the one job because I used to play with the family’s oldest son who was two years younger than me.  There weren’t many in his grade in the neighborhood so I believe the family “rewarded” me with the job.

My first paying job as a lifeguard was almost a default position.  I was on the swim club’s swim team since an early age…a regular pool rat.  Nearly every summer day was spent at or in the pool unless I was mowing a lawn.  It was nearly a rite of passage for those older “15 to 18” age group swimmers on the team to work as a lifeguard once earning their Water Safety Instructor certificate.  Once you earned that WSI badge, you were pretty much guaranteed a job of whistle twirling, trash collecting, restroom scrubbing, and sun tanning.

My first “adult” job was assisted greatly by my college career counseling service.  Companies from all over the east coast would visit the university seeking out college seniors to hire after graduation.  I interviewed with a couple companies without really having to reach out by myself.  All I had to do was look at the companies listed for the next week, sign up for an interview time, and show up.  This is how I introduced myself to Mitsubishi…not all that difficult.

About 9 years into my career I was laid off and had to seek employment on my own.  It was tough.  This was before the internet, so I spent countless hours in the library reviewing classified ads and microfilms of regional newspaper ads.  I remained unemployed (except through a temp agency) for about 16 months.  Eventually I found the job that would cement my career path for the next 20+ years.

A few months ago, a series of events and decisions took place that led me to my current unemployed status.  Once again, I faced the daunting task of finding a job, only this time I had a wife and kids to worry about supporting.  Oddly, I wasn’t worried. After all, I had years of experience and respect in my position as well as plenty of business contacts.  Plus we now had the internet which opened the world up to my fingertips.  Finding a job would be easy…right?

Almost immediately upon uploading my resume onto various job boards, I received notices of potential employment in my email inbox.  “Wow,” I thought, “this will be easier than I thought!”  Then I opened the emails.

“We’ve reviewed your resume online and feel that you would fill our needs perfectly as a sales consultant for Liberty Mutual Insurance….”

“My manager has authorized me to contact you to with an employment opportunity as a franchise owner...”

“Your resume has been reviewed by our Human Resources Department and we are contacting you for employment as a gift wrapper effective immediately….”

“Uber wants you….”

I was totally surprised.  And disappointed.  Jobs related to my actual experience and skills were not as easy to come by as I had hoped, but I never expected to be inundated with the “junk” job offers I received several times a day.  The offers extended into phone calls as well.  The phone would ring and my name would be mentioned followed by an inquiry as to whether I was still seeking employment.  My heart would race with excitement until I realized it was once again an opportunity for under employment.  Apparently I was perfect for so many jobs for which I had absolutely no skill set or interest, and yet not quite right for those positions that more closely matched my experience. 

The good new s is that I have been hired for a position and I start the job in a few days.  It’s a job with a familiar company from my past but in a different position, so there’s some nerves and excitement for something new.  I might not be the perfect fit at first, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be a heck of a lot happier that I would be with one of those other “perfect” jobs.

First Prompt...My Earliest Memory

Prologue

It’s been a long time since I’ve written any of my thoughts down, especially here.  I spent a good 4 or 5 years writing on my “Black is the New Pink” blog page, but I’ve failed to contribute to that blog for over a year now.  It’s not for the lack of desire, but due to the lack of time and opportunity.

No…that’s not true.  I have time now like I’ve not had for many years.  You see, I’m unemployed now which has opened up a lot of time to spend on writing.  Or maybe not.  If I seem rather unfocused it’s because being laid off of a job messes with your brain.  It drains you of enthusiasm.  It causes you to wonder why you’re in such a burdened position.  It causes you to stress out.  A lot.  And when you’re stressed, especially about needing to find a job, you feel guilty when you’re not taking action to find that job.  But in today’s day and age, you check the online job boards and you email friend s or colleagues and you input the same information over and over and over again at each application for a job you “might” be able to do.  And after to press the “Send” button, you sit there.  You wonder if your application is truly being seen.  You sit there.  You worry.  And you realize sitting there does nothing…but there’s no more you can do.  So you have to do something physical to get your mind off of the worry.  You mop the floor.  You paint your children’s bedrooms.  You power wash your drive way.  You work on your landscaping.  And at the end of the day, you still don’t have a job and you worry.  And at the beginning of the day…you repeat and rinse.  So is there truly time to write one’s thoughts…or are you afraid of your thoughts? 

I choose the latter.  I’ve been afraid to write only because it takes me away from my job searching activities which…are unfulfilling.  Writing fulfills me…but I feel guilty when I do write.  It’s taking precious time away from what I should be doing.  It’s a maddening cycle.  But I’ve come to realize that, like the physical work, I have to exercise my thoughts…my brain.  I have to escape the worry and stress zone and take my brain for a walk.  The easy way would be to binge watch Netflix, but that’s sedentary, and not exercise.  The keyboard is my treadmill.  It’s time to walk.

So after that dramatic portion of this prologue, what is it I’ll write about first?  Well, I have a good friend who made a suggestion.  She shares an interest in writing like I do, but she in fact writes.  She has a blog and her words are occasionally published in a local magazine.  I’m quite proud of her work and definitely listen to her when she makes a suggestion.  What she did was provide me a prompt…a statement or scenario or word…something.  And from that simple prompt, I’m to write whatever that prompt inspires.  As we discussed this exercise, the topic of early memories came up.  I can’t recall why now in that our conversations are typically quite random…almost like a waking texting dream.  But as the topic of early memories came up, she said, “That’s it!  Describe your earliest memory!”  So…with that being said, here’s my first entry of my “Prompt Phase” of writing….

My First Memory

I began to write an entire thesis on memory loss and how one can recall an event many years in the past, but can’t remember what they wore to work a couple of days prior.  But that didn’t really address the prompt of “what was your first memory?”  So I’m starting over.

I lived most of my childhood in a town called St. Albans, WV.  I attended all 12 years of school there and my parents lived there throughout my college years.  But the first 2 ½ years of my life, my family lived in a small town called Nitro which sat across the river from St. Albans.  At such an early age, it’s difficult to imagine that I have any memories at all, but I do have two distinct images that I can remember from our time on Lee Street.

The first of the two images (and I’m not sure which one is actually first) is my view from my bed.  I envision laying on a twin bed, but the view I had was of the ceiling where the wall meets.  I know it sounds weird, but that’s about all there is to it.  I’m thinking I just awoke from a nap or else I was being put down for naptime.  Heck, it could even be that I was having my diaper changed.  Either way, I know that my mom was nearby.  She’s not in my image, but I sense her presence there.  That memory, or sense of a memory, gives me comfort.

The second recollection also involves my mother.  We were good friends with the family that lived across the street and down a house or two.  I remember that they lived in a brick ranch house while our house had light colored siding…possibly wood.  My mom used to play bridge with Mrs. Walker…her first name was Alpha, which seems like an odd name today.  I believe Alpha was also in a bowling league that my mom also participated in.  But that’s beside the point.  They also had a son which I can’t recall whether or not he was younger or older.  His name was Paul; Paul, Jr. to be exact because his father’s name was also Paul. 

Anyhow, on this day, mom and I were leaving our house to walk across the street for her to play bridge.  I must have been rather small because I had a set of large plastic keys like you see for infants and toddlers who are teething.  They were primary colored and I held them in my hand.  As we were walking out the front door, I turned around to lock the door with my play keys.  I remember my mom telling me that I did a good job as we stepped down the stairs.

It’s an odd memory and I found that I remembered more detail as I wrote it just now.  This leads to one other digression.  After my mom died, my dad wrote a book about his earliest memories of growing up in Nitro during the depression and World War II.  The title of his book is “Growing Up in Nitro.”  I can see now that he wrote the book not only to document the times of his childhood and the story of growing up and falling in love with my mom, but to help provide the detail that passing memories generally don’t provide.

What pleases me most about the two “earliest memories” is that they involved my mom.  That’s pretty special. 

Easter

When I think of family and holidays, I can’t help but think of Christmas.  I have so many fond memories of Christmases past with my mom, dad and brother.  I recall Christmas in Japan.  I remember the infamous Christmas Ball.  I remember my own children’s first Christmas and beyond.  Christmas is such a magical time of year.  Yet, I think it’ll be Easter that holds the most special part of my heart.

We’re not an overly religious family.  Oh, we certainly have our roots in religion, especially on Kim’s side of the family.  Her mom worked at the church when we first met and through the years well after we were married and had children.  Kim has been through Confirmation and all the other Lutheran traditions that I’ve not experienced.  I even give our faith credit for allowing our children in our lives as we introduced prayer in our ritual while attempting artificial insemination.  Yes, I have faith that there is a power…perhaps a God…that seems to have a hand in all that happens.  Easter is perhaps the most religious day of the Christian year.  But this is not why I’ll hold Easter dear to my heart.

About four years ago, in 2010, I was into a hobby called Geocaching.  I still participate on rare occasion, but back then I was full on into it.  So was my brother Jeff.  It was stated that our mutual interest in geocaching is what brought my brother and I together more than any other event in the last…well, many years.  It was true.  Our once in a blue moon phone calls turned to weekly calls to compare geocaching stories.  We even had a little bit of a contest going to see who could find the most.  We were somewhat competitive that way.

Since I was into this treasure-hunting hobby, I decided to make Easter, 2010 a little bit of a geocaching-like event for my kids.  Instead of placing the baskets on the coffee table as I had done on previous years, I hid them, and left a single egg with a clue within.  This led the kids to hunt out a series of eggs throughout the house, collecting clues that eventually led them to the ultimate hiding place.  I was nervous that the first such hunt would be foiled by discovering the baskets too soon, but my plan worked perfectly.  So I did it again the next year.  And the next.  And the next.  And this year, I hid them in a puzzle-like way for the 5^th year in a row!

Last year I changed the written clues to simple yet challenging photo clues.  This year, I allowed the egg hunt to be more traditional, but each egg contained a letter.  When all were collected, it was up to the kids to piece the letters together to form the solution.  Next year, who knows what I’ll do.

While this hunt is certainly the main reason I hold Easter so dear, it’s not my own ingenuity on developing he hunt that makes it special.  Watching my kids work together, think for themselves, and experience joy at the challenge is my greatest joy.  My kids are good, they’re smart, and they love one another.  There is no greater joy to a parent than to realize that about your children.

Tonight, each of my kids separately admitted to really enjoying this day.  They started off with the egg hunt, and then we colored eggs (a chance for them to be creative and silly).  They didn’t fret on limited gifts, but enjoyed what they received.  They enjoyed another hunt at their grandparents’ house…showing me how much they love being around the previous generation.

Easter is an incredible day for many reasons.  But for me, Easter is a day that allows me to have fun, and reminds me every year how blessed I am to have these incredible children.

A Little About Me

I’ve noticed as my “Black is the New Pink” blog gets more readership, a few people peek in on this blog.  As I stated in my last post about 2 months ago, I don’t write as often as I should here.  This is more of a private journal than a soapbox…but still, I put it out there for anyone to read.  Stupid perhaps…but that’s me.

Speaking about me, that’s what this post is about.  I figure if some of the BITNP readers happen to stumble in here, I might as well introduce myself…or at least as much as I’ll allow myself to do online.  Consider this post a special treat for being a little curious about the BITNP writer/founder.

As you may know by now, my name is Al.  I’m 49 years old, married (for over 15 years) and have two beautiful twin children…one boy and one girl, age 9.  I work as an engineer for a manufacturing company and have a pretty cookie-cutter life.  I learn more of how to be a parent every day of my life and realize that I’ll never be an expert.  I stay up late at night…mostly typing on BITNP or surfing on the web.  As a result, I get far too little sleep.  My company was just acquired by another, so while the future seems bright at work, there’s still always a little uncertainly.  I have the same worries as everyone…finances…kids…health.  And I have many of the same dreams.

About 5 years ago, I became aware of a dream of mine.  That dream is to be a writer.  I had begun this blog before that time, but decided to really start making an effort.  That lasted a few months.  (Losing motivation seems to be a flaw of mine.)  Still, I had a yearning to write, but my work/life schedule never seemed to offer an opportunity.  You’ll notice when opportunity struck as you review the history of this blog.  There were some months that I had several entries and other months where I had none at all.  I think what I lacked was focus.

Then my brother died.

My mom died back in 2005.  Her passing affected me very hard.  I fell into a bit of a depression from which I finally crawled out.  I think I was in denial during her illness…thinking that my mom would never leave.  When she did…well, she was gone and I wasn’t prepared.  I finally came to terms with it about two years later.  But in 2010, my brother’s melanoma came back.  He’d had it before, but none of us really took “skin cancer” all that serous.  (You should know by the BITNP blog that I take it VERY seriously now).  Anyhow, his passing didn’t affect me as much as did the months leading up to his death.  I can’t explain why I handled the two deaths differently, but I did.  And Jeff’s passing suddenly became that writing focus I needed.  In March 2011, “Black is the New Pink” was born.  The rest can be read there.

But I will tell you here that I can’t be any happier with how it’s going.  I never EVER expected to have over 17,000 page views…or over 900 “Likes” to the accompanying Facebook page.  My goal was never to reach a certain number, but how cool would it be to hit 1,000 by my first anniversary?

And THAT is the most amazing part.  I’ve been writing for 10 months and entered over 75 blog entries.  I’ve had focus and motivation!  I’ve tried to make each one unique yet to have a common theme.  It’s not an easy task and I often have blogger’s block…but it’s SO rewarding to me. 

But it comes with a price.  I become close to some of the reader’s own stories.  You see, I don’t have melanoma but so many of my readers do.  No matter how much I read of personal accounts, there is no way I can truly understand what it’s like to have melanoma.  While it’s inspiring to read some blogs, it’s heart breaking to read others.  One of my favorite bloggers (Chelsea) said it best…”We live from one scan to the next…3 (or 6) months at a time.”  I don’t see how these folks can live as they do…yet they do and they’re inspiring.  Unfortunately, some have died…especially in the last couple months.  And each death reminds me of the passing of my own loved ones and that gets me a little depressed.  It’s hard to hang out in the lobby of the Hotel Melanoma.  But at the same time, I can’t imagine a better place to be.

Not only am I taking steps towards my dream to write, I feel as if I’m helping…doing something.  A co-worker and reader of mine told me that I am inspiring people…teaching people…saving people.  Sometimes, I feel like I’m “just writing.”  Other times, I know I’m inspiring others because as I read my own words, I feel inspired.  I know that sounds a bit arrogant, but it’s true.  Would a musician write music that’s uninspiring to him?  I would hope not.

I felt as I wrote “Real People of Melanoma” that it was my best piece…my most inspiring piece.  It put a face to Melanoma.  And my goodness, did the readers respond!  I’ve had nearly 1,000 page views on that post alone…easily triple of any other.  I am most proud of that piece, and proud that my readers seem to agree.

I’ve written dogs as well.  Some I thought were decent and others just didn’t flow well.  In one piece, I wrote about a friend and his bout with melanoma.  He contacted me later to remind me that cancer is private to many folks and asked that I take down that post.  I did…I forgot that while folks talk openly about their cancer in the Hotel Melanoma, many people…most people…consider cancer a very private thing.

And so, I’ve learned.  I’ve learned more about melanoma.  I’ve learned a little on how to write.  I’ve learned a little about how to not write.  And I’m still learning.

Thanks for coming along for my learning experience…

PS…Please do not link this on Facebook.  While I don’t mind others reading it, this is intended to be more of an intimate chat than a soapbox session.

Let the Living Begin

Wow…has it been a year?  Yes…it has.

Mind you, while I’ve been absent from “Causal Thoughts,” my writing juices have been flowing over at “Black is the New Pink.”  I realized that all of my “Causal Thoughts” postings were becoming centered on my brother Jeff and his death from melanoma cancer.  So, rather than bog down the sometimes humorous slant here, I decided to devote an entire blog site to his memory, which inevitably led to writing about melanoma and skin cancer.  It was a good decision, and I plan to keep that blog going, but I’ve decided it’s time to return to my more casual thoughts.

However, my thought tonight is hardly casual.  My Aunt Irma died yesterday.  She was just over 93 years old and lived a good long life.  Honestly, I never really knew her.  I vaguely remember seeing her over 16 years ago when my mom and dad drove her south to see my late Uncle Bernard in Myrtle Beach.  They stopped by my townhouse in Durham and stayed for a short while.  Other than that, I have very little recollection of Aunt Irma.

She left three children…Steve, with whom I’ve had some contact on Facebook; Vicki, with minimal contact on Facebook; and Carole, who I think is closest to my age but with whom I’ve totally lost touch.

I called Dad and told him of Irma’s passing.  Unfortunately, I had to leave a voice mail.  But eventually we did talk “live.”  Our conversation was light, but there was one moment of tenderness or sadness when he stated, “well, there’s only three of us left now.”  He was talking about him and his siblings.

Dad had five brothers and one sister.  Grenfall (aka, “Sweat”) was the oldest born in 1911 and died in 1990.  I remember that Mom and Dad were visiting me when they got the news.  Irma was the next oldest, born in 1911.  Next was Earl, Jr. (aka, “Bubbles”).  He was born in 1921 and died during the Vietnam War in 1968 when I was almost 6 years old.

Bernard was next in line and the first of the Estep Uncles that I knew better.  He lived in Nitro and Cross Lanes when I grew up in St. Albans, so we would visit he and his wife (Geri first, then Pat) and kids a few times a year.  He was born in 1923 and died in August of 2003.  Kenneth was even closer to me, although never really “close” close like some Uncles can be.  I was just never the kind of person to be close like that.  But our family and his family would get together about once per month.  He was born in 1926 and still lives with his long time wife Gertie in Nitro, WV.  Robert was born in 1928 and still lives in Missouri near St. Louis.  I’ve seen Uncle Bobby a few times over the years and recall a couple long trips to St. Louis to visit his family.  My dad, Keith is the youngest…born in 1934.

I’m sharing this mostly as a blog for my kids to read later in life.  As they (and you) most likely know, my dad wrote a book about him growing up in Nitro, West Virginia during the depression and World War II.  Both of my kids have a signed copy of his book and they’ll both hopefully read it someday.  I have one as well, but I have something a bit more valuable to me.  Dad “published” his first draft in a three-ring binder, and included photos, drawings and unpublished tidbits.  To read these more “raw” thoughts is incredible and invaluable to learn about oneself.  I have to admit I’ve not read all of Dad’s published book but I have read about all of this pre-published work.  Within this piece, he shares a brief passage about Irma:

Irma Lee Estep Sandifer

Irma married Carlton Sandifer, a construction supervisor from Lynchburg, Virginia who was in Nitro building a rayon manufacturing plant for American Viscose Corporation.  They had two daughters who reside in Virginia and one son who lives in West Virginia.  Irma is known for her short stature, pleasant personality, and giggly sense of humor.

Writing this blog isn’t about Irma…or about Dad.  It’s about family…and sharing one’s experiences in life.  I recently posted that this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for life's experiences...past, present and future. And for the lives of others that have graciously affected my own.  I hope to start writing in this blog again, along with BITNP, as a means to document my life to the world, but mostly to my kids.

Let the living begin.

Being Watched

As most of you know, my brother passed away only a couple weeks ago. I decided that I wasn’t going to flood my blog with “memories of Jeff” stories, although I’m sure I’ll share some over time. However, I was encouraged to share one story…I suppose our last story...with others.


If you’ve read some of my Facebook postings, you know that I engage in a hobby known as geocaching. Basically, geocaching is a global scavenger hunt. The location of hidden objects can be found on the website, Geocaching.com. If you type in an address and find the link to a map, you’ll see that there’s most likely a hidden object nearby. There are about 5,000 “treasures” hidden within a 10-mile radius of my house. In fact, there are well over a million such treasures, or caches, hidden world-wide from country parks or city blocks and even the International Space Station. I bet there’s one near you!

Caches are rated 1 to 5 for both difficulty and terrain with 1 being the easiest. Seeing as I’m not a rock climber or scuba diver, I tend to look for ones rated 1.5 or easier. Whenever I travel out of town, I can load the latest cache locations into my GPS along with previous logs from other geocachers and a description of what I’m looking for. Caches can range in size from smaller than a thimble to a rather large water-proof box. I’ve found all sorts, although there are some types that are more common than others.

A 35mm film canister makes a perfect geocache container. Other geocachers hide the caches for others to find. One simply places a log inside for geocachers to record their find and perhaps adds a coin or little trinket. All caches contain a log on which the finder will sign his or her geocaching name (mine is MountieAl). Most small caches contain only a log. The “treasure” is in the hunt itself, not the end prize. Anyhow, one takes this small container and hides it in a tree stump or other such place. One very common hiding location is within a light pole in a parking lot. Most poles have a metal or plastic skirt at the base of the pole which can easily slide up, thus making a perfect hiding place for smaller caches underneath. And yes, most cachers will giggle when announcing they’ve found a cache “under a skirt.”

Jeff read a few Facebook postings of my intitial geocaching finds and started to ask me about the hobby. After I described it, he started looking for some in Ohio, especially while walking his dog. I remember the first day he found one…he called me on his cell phone asking questions and giving me updates. He was so thrilled at the first find, and I knew he was hooked. “Jadestep” was introduced to the geocaching world. As he always did with things that interested him, he quickly became very involved in the hobby and even helped organize a few Geocaching gatherings. He started to become one of the more involved geocachers in the Akron area.

When Jeff and I attended my step-mother’s family reunion in June, we made sure to go on a Hurricane, WV area cache run together. We found about eight caches that day…a record for me at the time. When we finished, my dad commented that geocaching was the first thing Jeff and I had done “together” in a long, long time. And it was true…somehow this silly little hobby bonded us closer than we’d been in years.

During that trip, Jeff commented that he had wanted to hide his own on a guardrail near the Walgreen’s in Hurricane. He always liked puns and many geocaches were given such titles which would also offer up a clue to the hide. His idea for this cache was “Guarding the Wal.” Jeff was always quite clever. Sadly, he never got to hide that cache.

Before I traveled to WV for Jeff’s funeral, I loaded the caches along my travel route into my GPS as I usually do. Granted, I had no intention of making this a caching trip, but seeing as how he loved to geocache, I thought it appropriate to be able to find one or two during the trip...perhaps at a rest area along the highway or near a restaurant during a lunch or dinner break. But honestly, my mind was far from caches as I drove up the day before his funeral.

The next morning, I decided to run out before we headed to the service and fill my car with gas. As I drove past Walgreen’s in Hurricane, I noticed an icon on my GPS indicating a newer cache had been hidden near the drug store only a couple weeks prior. Again, I hadn’t planned on seeking any caches, particularly on the day of Jeff’s funeral, but curiosity got the better of me. I drove past the guardrails and into the parking lot. The prize seemed to be hidden under a lamp post skirt like so many others, so I parked near the suspected post. Attached to the pole was a sign that said “Area Under Video Surveillance.”

I pushed a few buttons on my GPS to read about the cache and look for any clues. What I read gave me chills. I jumped out of the car, lifted the skirt (giggle) and grabbed the 35 mm film canister. There was only a log inside, as suspected, and I signed it “MountieAl for Jadestep.” I returned the cache to its hiding place for others to find and then sat back in the car with my heart racing. Not to sound cliché, but I had tears in my eyes as I drove away and yet, had a very peaceful feeling.

The name of the cache that I found on the day of Jeff’s funeral at the location where he wanted to hide a cache? “Big Brother Is Watching.”

Jeff, thank you for continuing to join me on my geocaching adventures…and thanks for letting me know that you’ll always be watching.

Memories of Jeff

My brother Jeff Estep passed away last night (November 15, 2010) after a brief bout with Melanoma that metastasized to his brain and lungs. He left us far too soon.

I can’t really compose my thoughts at the moment…but I thought typing random memories and thoughts may help me a bit. There seems like so few…and yet so many, if that makes sense. While I stop to think of specific memories about Jeff, I have trouble coming up with much at all. But then something happens and a memory will hit me like a ton of bricks.

One such occurrence was as I was putting the dishes away the other evening. I grabbed a paper towel that I had bread sitting upon and I suddenly recalled that it was Jeff that taught me how to fold up a paper napkin and not spill all the crumbs (corners in first). Of all the things to remember, that’s one specific lesson I remember.

Christmas…oh my. As we prepare the house for Christmas decorations, many memories flood on in. He and Debbie love Christmas so very, very much. Even when I visited in September, there was a Christmas tree in Debbie’s dressing room. It’ll be hard to have Christmas without Jeff coming to mind. And I know that Jeff wants us all to enjoy Christmas…not to shed a tear for losing him, but cast a smile on the beauty of the season…and the beauty his life left behind.

I remember the Boy Scout Indian Hand signals we used to use as kids. Our plan was to get up on early, and I mean EARLY, on Christmas morning to see what Santa had left behind. We’d not talk, but walk stealthily through the darkness with flashlights while communicating with Indian hand signals learned from the Boy Scout handbook. Of course, upon first sight of the Christmas tree and decorations, we forgot all hand signals and made a bigger racket than we did the year before.

We had a couple Christmas traditions...one that I’ll keep to myself. It was very juvenile and sophomoric…but it was ours. I know Jeff is smiling when I mention it.

The golf ball. What a wonderful tradition that was. Exchanged over several years, we would alternately give this old Elmer Fike golf ball to one another for the holidays. Until my last attempt pretty much destroyed the ball, we would both look forward to either receiving the ball, or the delight in watching the other receive. It was a tradition followed by many…and enjoyed so much by the two of us.

The two of us. We were seven years apart. When I enjoyed Bugs Bunny, he was into American Bandstand. When I started watching Dick Clark, he was back to watching cartoons. He entered WVU as I was still in elementary school. Eventually I also attended WVU…and a very large reason I did so was because of witnessing Jeff’s experiences in college. It wasn’t the partying…and there was some. It was just the whole experience and how I witnessed my brother grow up from a geeky acne-faced teen to a responsible young man. Whether he knew it or not, watching that was as much of a mentorship as I ever had.

He so loved that college. One of the highlights of his last couple months was attending a game and having his cousin, Coach Dunlap, take him on a tour of the locker room and inner sanctum of the team. I’d never heard him talk in such a giddy way than he did about that day.

I take that back. There was another time, at WVU that he was more excited and full of life. That’s when he met and fell in love with Debbie. He could never have asked for a better partner than Debbie. The love they share is incredible. And once again, showing his love and devotion became another standard I hoped to follow.

Like I said, we were 7 years apart, so we were never really “close” close. We were brothers, but not the call-every-day type. It’s just how we were wired. Or maybe it’s perhaps how I’m wired. Regardless, we still were brothers. And when he lost his job in Florida several years ago and lived with me in NC for a short while, that’s the first time we really shared our brotherhood. We shared secrets of growing up…stories of our experiences. While that was a tough time for Jeff and Debbie, it was a very special time for me.

Recently, Jeff and I shared the hobby of geocaching. I’m not sure why, but that hobby brought us closer than I ever recall. We actually started to become a pair of brothers that would call one another often…just to share stories of the hobby and, of course, toss in a few tidbits about life as well. The last photo I ever had taken with Jeff was when we went gecaching together in September. That’s most definitely my favorite photo of us, ever.

He was with me when I got my first birdie in golf, and he was the obvious choice for Best Man in my wedding. But I guess the greatest legacy I have of my brother is his shared birthday with my kids. How ironic that they were both born on his 47th birthday. They’re a product of my love for my wife Kim…and yet a reminder, even once a year, for the love I have for my big brother.

One final memory I'd like to share, although I apologize for the dark humor.  When we were kids, we played cops and robbers or some variation of the game.  Whoever played the robber would ultimately get shot and play out a death scene.  Every time, the robber would mutter, "The treasure....the treasure is...the treasure is hidden in the....." and then die.  My father told me that on Jeff's real death bed, thay my brother muttered something illegible three times before taking his last breath.  He could have said anything, but a part of me thinks that maybe, just maybe, he was playing that game one last time.  That was his sense of humor.  And I think he's safe with his treasure.

I do love you Jeffrey…and I’ll miss you. God bless you

The Lesson of Living Life

Over the last few weeks, I’ve learned a little bit about life. No, I’m not talking about the meaning of life, but the gift of life and how quickly it can change or be taken away. Unfortunately, I’ve had this epiphany due to the misfortunes of others.

I traveled to Johnstown, PA to attend my wife’s grandmother’s funeral. She was 92 years old and lived a long life with many experiences. We helped my wife’s parents sort through her belongings and close out her affairs. While roaming through the old photos and such, I was impressed by the amount of friends she had throughout her life, and really started to appreciate all that life can offer. After all, there is so much to do in 92 years and I’m only a little over half way there.

When I returned home, I got news that my brother had been admitted to the hospital. He had some memory problems and it was soon discovered that his earlier melanoma had metastasized to his brain and lungs. He has a very challenging fight ahead of him. He’s 55.

My first cousin Perry’s granddaughter has been going through a tough time herself. She’s having rapid heart rate which is wearing the poor girl down, as it is her mother. Both are fighters. Berklee is only 3 months old.

My cousin’s best friend form high school, who happened to marry a gal from my graduating class suffered two strokes and a heart attack within a week’s time about a month or so ago. He’s younger than my brother. He survived and is apparently doing well in therapy…but he has quite a struggle ahead. As does Berklee…and my brother, Jeff.

The combined ages of these three barely add up to the age of Kathleen when she passed on. It hardly seems fair that people so young, whether it be 55 years or 3 months, should face such life-threatening challenges. And that’s when it really hit home.

It may be a cliché as much as it’s a song title, but I’d realized it’s important to live like you’re dying…to live as if it’s your last day. Carpe Diem. However you want to say it. I tend to live my life by following a pretty basic routine. I get up in the morning, fix breakfast for the family, go to work, come home and fix dinner, then relax and go to bed. Weekends are spent running errands as our work day evenings don’t allow time to perform such deeds. I enjoy my life, but frankly, there’s not much “fun” to it outside of the general joy of parenting and family life. And if I were to die today, I can’t say that I’d have more than a handful of people attend my funeral. I’m alive, but I can’t say I’m absolutely living.

My wife and kids mean the world to me…they ARE my life. But again, I’ve realized that I need to lead them as a father/husband should do…lead them into a life of living and excitement. Not a life of unnecessary risks, but a life of breathless moments and joyful giving.

I would love to live a life as long as Kathleen did. But it’s become all too clear lately that life may not last that long. There may not be a tomorrow to allow me to do something I want to do. Now is the time to do it.

I can’t change immediately…I’m not wired that way. But recent events have slapped me in the face pretty hard, and it’s time to listen.

30th Reunion Thoughts

My 30th High School Reunion is approaching. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to attend due to work. I’m a little disappointed, although there’s no guarantee that my better friends of those days will be in attendance. Still, I can’t help but get a little melancholy about those “old days.” High school brings back a lot of memories. Time has filtered out most of the negative experiences and helped me embrace those that should last a lifetime.

There were a few highlights…and people I’ll remember fondly. My “Three Amigos” were Chuck, Ted and Greg. The four of us would usually get together for some very innocent fun. Yes, I said innocent. I was a pretty squeaky clean guy overall and had the near-invisible persona to go along with it. But I had my three buddies to engage in whatever we decided was entertaining at the moment. Many times, this involved board games. Ha! I bet you never expected playing Yahtzee to be a fond memory of teenage years. Still, I recall playing hours of the game along with Tripoly and Monopoly. (I still have “high scores” written on the inside of my original Yahtzee box in the family room). We’d play to the music of Billy Joel, Queen, Styx, or other basic rock bands of the 70’s, all whom we saw in concert in either Charleston or Huntington. We also spent many an evening at the St. Albans Mall. This was a very small mall as compared to most malls nowadays, but contained all the basic stores: an arcade, a pizza place, National Record Mart, and Baskin Robbins. It was quite the hangout of its day, as was Pizza Hut, Rax Roast Beef, Del Taco, and Church’s Fried Chicken.

I had other friends of whom I share specific memories. I recall Chuck and me visiting my friend Bruce once. We arrived unannounced and his brother let us in the front door. We ran up to Bruce’s room and arrived just as he opened his door. This startled him so much that he nearly fainted on the spot. Chuck and I fell down in hysterics. Bruce’s goal in life was to work in film as a director and I’m sure the terror on his face at that moment inspired future horror flicks somewhere.

Mark was a band friend that I later shared some party time in college. His mother taught at our junior high school and his dad taught biology at the high school. He lived in the next county, so it was always a trek, but a welcomed one, to venture out to his house for a visit. He ended up being a veterinarian as he worked so hard to get that degree. Considering his nickname was “Punkin’ Head,” I have to believe he became a vegetarian as well.

Speaking of the band, that organization created enough memories to inspire many other blogs. Starting band camp in August was an activity dreaded yet looked forward to every year. We ended up marching in all sorts of weather in every game of our undefeated football season and it couldn’t have been a better experience. It’s a shame we lost in the championship game, but what a fun season it was. I played the tuba, or sousaphone. Others that played the same were John, Mike and Rob. All three were taller than I, so it was very easy to see which sousaphone was mine on the field or in a parade… the short one.

I recall other short memories: Playing ping pong at Cliff’s house while listening to Boston. Decorating the homecoming float with a group from the marching band with whom I became close friends that last year. Writing commentary pieces for the school newspaper, “Simmerings.” Helping make a home movie about Macbeth with Tim at the camera. (I still have the “credits” we wrote on toilet paper). Singing Cheap Trick songs and “Pain” in the “Interact Jam Band.” Taking an excruciatingly slow city bus to Morgantown to watch our basketball team in the state playoffs. It was a shame we lost the championship game, but what a fun ride that was!

Then there were the girls. Sadly, none really acknowledged me due to my intense shyness (and short stature most likely), but I still had my share of crushes. There’s no need to list them now…my life has moved on and I have no regrets where my relationships have fallen. Still, like everyone, I hope the best for those I cared for in such shy ways…and I hope you know who you are.

In fact, I hope the same for everyone from the Class of ’80…as well as the teachers. Mr. Willis was a delightful chemistry teacher and possibly my favorite. The late Mr. Keadle was passionate about his marching music. Mrs. McClanahan was beautiful, and also provided great guidance toward writing for the newspaper. And even Mr. Morgan is much appreciated, although I’m sure he’d have a real hissy fit at some of my grammatical errors in this piece.

I hope old friends reunite this weekend as the Class of ’80 gathers in St. Albans. And I also hope that those who were never really close so many years ago feel a greater closeness to other classmates now as we grow older and witness our own children growing up. There are many phases in life that fill our lives with incredible memories. Life in high school was no different.

Ed, Farrah, Michael and feeling big

I just took my two kids to bed. Despite them sitting on the couch with droopy eyes and yawning faces, they moaned and groaned about having to go to bed. Even though it’s a school night, they wanted to stay up late into the evening. I had to put on my daddy-face and enforce the bed-time, but I also laughed a little at myself. I remember being that age and wanting so badly to stay up late. It made me feel “big.”

To stay up after 8:00 was a big event when I was so young. Hearing the opening sequence of Monday Night Football at 9:00 was a distinct “stay up late” milestone at one point in my life. On Saturdays, being able to stay awake all the way through “Love American Style” to the scary opening credits of “Night Gallery” just after 10:00 was indeed a sleepy medal of honor. But the ultimate goal of staying up late was that magical moment when one would hear the booming voice of Ed McMahon saying those infamous words, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!” Hearing Ed’s voice made me feel big.

As I grew a little older to age 14, other interests made me feel more grown up. I was well into puberty and my focus was mostly on the opposite sex. There was no example of sexuality more popular, and accepted by the mainstream, than the hit TV show, Charlie’s Angels. I recall my brother being in college and talking about the show. Eventually, it was one of the staple shows we watched as a family…publicly for the Aaron Spelling produced action, but more subtly for the titillating action of the three actresses which entertained me and my dad. Like so many other teens in 1976, I had the famous poster of one of the actresses, Farrah Fawcett. I remember my brother wanted it as much as I, but it donned my walls. My first poster. My first crush. And Farrah made me feel grown up.

Eventually though, this poster and others accompanied me to college. The drinking age back then was 18 and the place to socialize and feel grown up at the university was at any number of local bars and dance clubs. The Disco Era had long passed a decade ago, but new dance music emitted from the DJ booth. This was also the booming age of MTV and everyone was into it. To watch MTV and go to dance clubs meant that you were part of the “in” crowd, which of course was all about feeling “big”…feeling grown up…feeling accepted. There was no greater icon of both of both MTV and dance clubs than Michael Jackson. We all danced to “Beat It” and we all owned his album, “Thriller.” The album was not just popular, but it was also damned good music (and still is). To hear Michael’s music and move to its rythym made me feel part of the crowd.

These three icons passed away this week. Ed died on Tuesday while Farrah and Michael both left us today (Thursday). Each had their difficulties and bad publicity later in life, ranging from bankruptcy to bizarre behavior, but they still remained positive symbols of their peak era. And each, ironically, served as a milestone as I grew up. In the past, each, in their unique way, made me feel more grown up. Their passing saddens me as it somewhat marks the passing of my youth. But now that I’m grown up, thinking back on these moments makes me feel young again. I suppose memories of growing up still makes me feel good and hopeful for what lays ahead for me, and my sleepy, growing kids.

Round-about Advice

We’ve all encountered them, and they seem to be growing in number. They’re popular in new housing developments and the City of Raleigh is considering adding them to Hillsborough Street. I’m talking about traffic circles, or round-abouts.

These are circular intersections into which you turn right and go in a circle until you arrive at the appropriate out-going turn. Round-abouts allow traffic to flow more smoothly than a tradition two- or four-stop intersection in that there is no intended stopping, but only yielding to the car in the traffic circle. It seems simple enough, but apparently, it’s not.

Within in the last week, I’ve driven through one round-about or another of various sizes at an average of once or twice a day. At least three times, I’ve witnessed a car stopping in the traffic circle to allow a waiting car to enter! This not only grinds the in-circle traffic to a halt, but creates anarchy as those awaiting try to enter all at once.

The NCDOT Driver’s Handbook has this to say about traffic circles:
A traffic circle is a specially designed intersection. All cars in a traffic circle travel to the right. You drive around the circle in a counter-clockwise direction until you come to the road or street where you want to turn. You leave the traffic circle by making a right turn. If there is more than one lane in the circle, be sure you are in the outside lane before you come to the place where you intend to exit the circle. Look and signal before you turn or change lanes. Never make a right turn from an inside lane. An entire traffic circle is an intersection. Vehicles already in the circle have the right-of-way.

Please note that last sentence again…that vehicles already in the circle have the right of way. That means you do not stop in the circle to let others in, they wait for you.

If we all follow the rules and common sense, round-abouts should be as simple to maneuver as operating a turn-signal. But let’s not start THAT discussion.

A Considerate New Year

Usually at this time of year, most folks will share their New Year’s resolutions and set goals on how to better themselves. While I certainly have such goals for myself, I’d rather share one major resolution for others. Be more considerate.

There have been several moments in the last few days that test my faith in others. How many times have I approached an “Express Lane” at the grocery store only to see someone in line with well over the maximum limit for the lane? During the holidays, I often have had to pick up just one or two items at a time…dip for the football munchies or ginger ale for the punch. Yet most of the time, someone was in the express lane, checking out the week’s groceries. But inconsiderate actions aren’t limited to the grocery lanes.

Last night in Apex, I stopped by Food Lion and parked in a space about 50 or 60 feet from the front door. There were other spaces just as close and handicap spaces even closer. Still, as I walked towards the store, a sporty Mercedes pulled up along the curb, an area clearly marked as “No Parking,” and nearly blocked the entrance. One person sat in the passenger seat as the driver got out with the motor still idling. I surmised that the driver might have worked there or was dropping something off quickly. I spent a good 10 to 15 minutes inside shopping, walking the length of the store more than once (I’m not as familiar with the lay-out of this store). As I walked out, the Mercedes was sit idling with the passenger inside (I guess they assumed that an idling car was not a “parked” car). Apparently, the driver had entered Food Lion, not to run in quickly, but to actually shop. If the driver was handicapped, there were plenty of such spaces available. But the only handicap I could observe was the lack of patience and consideration.

In each encounter, I said nothing. During the holidays, I tend to lean to the side of tolerance and patience so as not to induce any negative feelings at this time of year. But frankly, I’m tired of it. Maybe I should simply resolve to be less tolerant and more aggressive. Not that such an attitude is a bad thing, but I would certainly hope the easier route would be simply for people to be more considerate and less selfish. Is it really that difficult?

Regardless, may your new year be full of joy, peace and considerate acts of kindness.

Santa Drives a Pinto

This past weekend, I took my kids for their official Santa Claus visit. I say “official” because they’d already encountered Santa or his helpers several times. Some talked to the kids while others merely handed them a candy cane. Santa and/or his helpers have had many accents, skin tones and beard styles. It’s been a challenge to explain why there are so many Santas, but I finally told my children that any one could be the real Santa, so they have to treat each as if they were. It’s his way of making sure they’re nice.

This is just one of many explanations I’ve had to add to the Santa mystique. When my kids were born some 6 ½ years ago, I never knew there would be so many twists, turns and variations to the basic philosophy of Kris Kringle. Luckily, some of the Christmas specials explain much of the Santa Legend. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and “Polar Express” are probably two of the best at explaining flying reindeer and treks down the chimney, but two years ago, I ran into a situation that no Rankin/Bass animated special could explain.

We had completed our “Official” Santa visit about 30 minutes before his final shift ended. After the big event, we grabbed a bite to eat in the mall. Towards the end of our meal, who to our wandering eyes should appear walking across the Food Court with coat thrown over his arm, but Santa, himself. He tossed a smile, waved back at the kids and walked out the door. The kids watched his trail through the window, hoping to see eight tiny reindeer (or possibly nine) launching into the night sky. Instead, they spotted the red capped gentleman stepping into a red 1983 Ford Pinto and driving away. Confusion set into their tiny faces.

My wife and I stared in horror. After all, we’d convinced the kids that this was indeed the REAL Santa. We glanced at one another and I could tell we were both thinking “Maybe they didn’t notice.” Then I felt the tug and looked at my son’s quizzical look.

“Daddy, where are the reindeer?” My mind quickly filed through the previous years’ explanations of all things Santa…trying to confirm that what I was about to say didn’t conflict with previously stated “fact.”

And then I responded, “At a farm…the mall is no place to keep reindeer with all the cars and such. And there’s no food on the roof of the mall to keep them fed ALL day. So they keep the reindeer at a farm.” We got up, tossed our scraps and headed for the parking lot in pondering silence. Another tug.

“But why is he driving a beat-up old car like that?”

“Well, if he drove a fancy car, he’d attract a lot of attention and everyone would follow him around. If people followed him, they’d find out where the reindeer are and maybe feed them some bad food or something.”

“Like in the movie ‘The Santa Clause 2?’”

Ah…a holiday classic once again came to safe the day! “Yes, remember Comet got sick on candy? The same thing could happen if people fed them the wrong food.” We got into our car and buckled the children in. My wife and I climbed in and we drove towards our home. The ride was silent except for holiday music serenading us from the radio.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad we saw Santa tonight and told him what we wanted. But next year, I’m going to wish for Santa a better car.”

Merry Christmas everyone.

Politic-Al Thoughts

It’s not very often that I share my political views. And to be honest, I’m really not planning to share many now. I’ll admit that I moderately lean to the left, and I’ll leave it at that. But the intent of my comments here is not to persuade you to vote one way or the other, but merely to share some mostly unbiased observations. What I do care about is that you vote…no matter your candidate. Failure to vote takes away any right you have to complain about the politicians in office. Now who wants to forfeit their right to complain?

I have to admit that I’ve a Palin watcher. No, I’m not going to vote for her ticket, but I find the media coverage of her every move fascinating. But what I find even more intriguing is that there is finally a "soccer mom" vying for a significant national office. Women in their 30’s and 40’s rule this country. Really. Whether as a wife or mother, these women serve as home managers better than any man probably could. It only makes sense that one is finally hitting the big time to help manage the country. Hillary never struck me as the "soccer mom" type. Margaret Thatcher and Madeleine Albright certainly did not fit the bill. It’s not because Sarah Palin is more attractive than the others I mention; it’s just that she seems to fit in that neighborhood PTA lady, girl-scout leader mold more comfortably. Again, her politics are not going to earn my vote, but she represents a long-ignored and very significant portion of our population. I hope to see more women take the national spotlight in the future.

Barack Obama has the easiest name to belch than any other presidential candidate in history. “Ba-Raaaaaack”

Did anyone else notice that John McCain did not look at Barack Obama once during the first debate? Despite the moderator asking the candidates to talk to one another, McCain continued to talk to the camera and audience.

I find it interesting that incumbent politicians are claiming that they’ve opposed current unpopular legislation, or proposed favorable legislation that Congress or whomever shot down. That tells me that the incumbent wasn’t very effective or influential to be able to pass the more favorable proposals. I’d suggest trying someone else.

I have a female friend that stated, during the primary season, that she couldn’t believe anyone would ever vote for a female for president. She blatantly told me during the primaries that she could never ever vote for a woman and planned to vote Republican this year. I have to wonder if she’s still going to vote that way now that Palin shared the presidential ticket, or if “never vote for a woman” actually meant “never vote for Hillary.”

Speaking of female candidates, Elizabeth Dole is running for re-election as Senator in North Carolina. I have one question. Where the hell is Bob Dole? He hasn’t been seen once during the campaign.

Political advertisements actually make me miss the obnoxious car dealership commercials.

Vote. Just do it. It matters. Especially this year.

Cracking a Smile, China Style

Did you see the Opening Ceremony of the Beijing Olympic Games? Admittedly, they were spectacular to watch, but did anyone else sense a “cult-like” feel to the presentation? The commentators on television mentioned that the synchronous performance of the 2,008 drummers was a bit intimidating during rehearsals, so the producers encouraged the drummers to smile more. This reminded me of my trip to Beijing back in 1986.

My travel companions and I found ourselves at the Beijing Hotel seeking an English-speaking guide. After having endured a 36-hour ride in a rather dirty train from Guangzhou to Beijing, we were hungry and thirsty. All we had consumed on the ride was warm beer and M&M’s. If you had seen the dining car, you would have understood why. The Beijing Hotel offered an oasis…a sundries shop with recognizable food and drink.

I can’t recall what we ordered, but as each of us placed an order at the counter, the clerk would stare coldly, then crack a smile, which looked more like a grimace, and then turn to fetch our order. Once he returned with the natural cold stare, he’d hand us a drink or food item, crack that same forced smile, and return to his work. I swear I could hear his skin crackle from the nature of his strained expression. We asked the guide what was going on and she explained that the Beijing “authorities” were encouraging all service workers to smile more so as to appear more warmly towards Western tourists.

During the next few days, we encountered a few “real” smiles from passers-by, but not once did I encounter a worker in a restaurant or shop that seemed genuinely happy. Of course, such folks have bad days here in the US, but it was obvious to me that many people in China simply did not have happy lives.

Simply speaking, freedom contributes to happiness. We were in a communist country in which the same freedoms didn’t exist as they did in the US. And they apparently still don’t.

I read in the paper this morning that the young girl who sang so beautifully in the same opening ceremony didn’t sing at all. Another girl actually sang the words, but she was deemed as being not cute enough to represent China to the world. A government official selected a more visually pleasing child (in his opinion) to sing the music. Unbeknownst to this pretty young performer, her microphone was shut off and the words of the "ugly girl" were heard by the world. It was stated that this was done in “the nation’s best interest.”

Calling any child “ugly” is just wrong, especially when the singing child in fact was as cute as any other child. Doing so in the nation’s best interest is simply imposing the government’s will on the people. This is not freedom. This is not happiness.

Twenty-two years ago, a clerk smiled at me in the most painful way. Drummers smiled for billions of people on television the other night so as not to be intimidating. I’ve met real people in China and they are beautiful people indeed. But until the government let’s go of their hold and allows true freedom, the people will never be truly happy.

Health Update

Many of my readers have asked how my health is…particularly my blood health. Well, it had been six months since I last had my blood levels checked. If you recall, the combination of medication and diet had an extraordinary effect to reducing my "bad" cholesterol and my triglycerides, while increasing my "good" cholesterol. However, I was a little skeptical prior to my most recent appointment last week.

Before my appointment six months ago, I went on a pretty strict low-carb diet. I limited myself from almost anything "fun" to eat, such as breads, cookies, pizzas, pastas and (gasp) M&M’s. But the effort was worth it. My total cholesterol was cut in half and my doctor stood dumbfounded in front of me for my success. Since then, I haven’t been so disciplined.

The holiday season came and went with the usual sweet temptations. I resisted pretty well and only ate an occasional cookie. Then came Valentine’s Day with all the chocolate temptations. Finally, Easter reared its ugly ears as jelly beans and chocolates danced teasingly in front of my taste buds. I’ll admit that I had to sample a few here and there.

My kids started karate and gymnastics after school on Thursdays and it became difficult to find time to cook a nice meal. Bojangles, Jersey Mike’s or McDonald’s seemed to be the offering of the evening on such busy evenings. And then there is pizza. Probably my weakest moments were when I was confronted with pepperoni pizza. I had to have a slice here and there…and occasionally over there.

So, as you can see, my diet was not nearly as strict as before. Still, I have to admit that my pizza indulgences were much less than in the old days. In many cases, I chose to enjoy only two slices rather than the old three or four. The candy was always merely sampled and I haven’t bought a four-pound bag of M&M’s (to be consumed within 3 days) in many many months. To use a cliché, the key is moderation.

Well, along with moderation should come a bevy of will power. I’m not sure many people could sample one french fry and not be tempted to eat a whole bag. Luckily, I’ve had such will power. Maybe it’s because I was always such a picky eater and a nibbler in my younger days (a trait my daughter now frustratingly seems to have inherited). But I’ve found that when I have a craving for a french fry or macaroni and cheese, I can simply take a bite of what’s left over from my kids’ meal…usually from my daughter’s plate…and be satisfied with only that one tasting.

I guess moderation is the key to my diet…or as I’ve said in the past, my lifestyle. (A side note…South Beach has changed the name of their entrees and wraps from "South Beach Diet" to "South Beach Living." I think that maybe I should have copyrighted the "lifestyle" label.) But is moderation enough?

I received the blood results this morning, and I’m happy to report that, yes, it is enough. Although my triglycerides were up slightly from 107 to 112, it’s still well below the recommended maximum of 150. My "good" cholesterol improved from 60 to 62 and my "bad" cholesterol reduced further from 57 to 45. In fact, the only concern that my doctor had was that my "bad" cholesterol was a little too low now. As a result, he’s cutting my Zocor dosage in half. I was hoping he’s prescribe a Big Mac a day, but no such luck.

Needless to say, I’m pretty happy. I’ve been able to integrate my favorite foods back into my diet without falling off the wagon. I still do not consume cereal and orange juice for breakfast, but instead have a low sodium V8 and either oatmeal or an omelet. My lunches are primarily South Beach wraps, or a sandwich using whole wheat bread, and a salad. I eat fish at least once or twice a week, and when we do order out, I choose the smarter menu choices. And lastly, I haven’t had a drink of alcohol in over nine months. Even my consumption of non-alcoholic beer is limited to less than one a week.

I’ll continue to keep you posted on my blood health as well as any other related issues. But again, thanks for the moral support in the beginning and thanks for continuing to inquire.

Knowing Denny

When I started to date my wife nearly 14 years ago, I had to eventually face a major obstacle: meeting her dad. I had met her mom when I first met my wife at a university alumni function (should I even say I met my wife and her mom in a bar?). But of course, meeting "the dad" is always a different thing entirely. After all, I was dating his little girl and, well, you know the anxieties of a father (and I'm beginning to dread those same anxieties as my daughter grows older).

I'm happy to say that the initial meeting and all subsequent meetings since have gone very well. Wayne is an entertaining and humorous guy with a good head on his shoulders. He was very personable and made me feel like part of the family from the beginning. In fact, it wasn't long that I found myself invited within a most sacred of groups: his golfing foursome.

I can't recall exactly the first time I joined him golfing or the circumstances as to how I was invited. But I'm sure that we golfed together with two other gentlemen that made up our foursome for many outings. Krish was Wayne's next door neighbor and eventually became friends enough with me to be apart of our wedding party. He also had a great sense of humor and loved the movie "Blazing Saddles" which is probably why we instantly connected. The fourth member of our group was Denny. He was a good friend of Wayne's from church and they shared the fact that they were both Pennsylvanian born and bred. Denny was a good guy as well, but I really didn't know him as well as the others.

What I do recall about Denny was his love of Rusty Wallace. I was never a NASCAR fan, although by proxy of living in North Carolina, I had to have some familiarity with the sport. Except for the more household names of the day, such as Jeff Gordon and the late Dale Earnhardt, I didn't really know much about the other drivers. But in golfing and associating with Denny, I eventually learned that Rusty's car number was "2," and that Miller Genuine Draft was his team sponsor. Whenever a hot golf day insisted on liquid refreshment, you can bet that Denny would buy a MGD for Rusty's sake.

Other than the occasional golf encounter, I would sometimes see Denny and his wife at church (back when we attended church regularly...is that thunder I just heard?) His wife Jean has a remarkable sense of humor and is a beacon of light to all that know her. She's always involved in church and social activities, and it is always a pleasure to make her laugh. I knew that Denny had to be a good guy to have such a good wife.

After my kids grew out of their cribs and into "big" beds, we sold the crib furniture to Jean and her expectant daughter. "Sold" seems like a harsh word because there's definitely an emotional attachment to such furniture: the nights of kids crying and the subsequent soothing, the bouncing of happy faces in the cribs, and the eventually tumbling out after the first adventurous climb. So rather than say they we "sold" them the furniture, I suppose it's more accurate to say that we "entrusted" them with the furniture. Denny's family is worthy of such trust.

Denny passed away last night after an extended illness. And even though the golfing expeditions stopped long ago (Krish got married and moved, I had kids, etc.), it will feel a little different the next time I grab the clubs. In as little as I really knew and socialized with Denny, I'll still miss him. He was a gentleman of goodness overall, and an accompaniment of good times for me.

Here's to you Denny, and may your angel's wings be adorned with the number 2.