Stretching the Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but. . .

I sometimes wonder about lies that people tell, and the reasons they tell them. To keep from hurting feelings, and attempt to stay out of trouble are probably the two main reasons, and most people will admit it (if only to themselves). The problem with lies is that they compound a problem, because once told, they need constant reinforcement. Some people are so good at it that they (almost) end up believing it themselves. But they almost always get tripped up or, in a bout of conscience, "come clean". Coming clean before getting caught is always better. I remember a "whopper" that I told that could have cost me my job. But first, a little background:



I was working in the machine shop of a defense contractor. My foreman was a good man, as were most of the supervisors in the shops. The assistant foreman in the weld shop was the father of a guy that I had gone to school with. He and I had not been "close friends", but we had "hung out" together during P.E. class, mainly because neither of us were highly athletic. He was kind of a brainy kid with nonexistent social skills. Nowadays we call them Nerds. Anyway, this kid was a "Junior", meaning that he had been named after his father. So I recognized the name of his father. His father had built some (for lack of a better description) sculptures out of metal: two humanoid forms that he had on either side of his driveway. One of them had an "arm" out holding the mailbox. The other held a garbage can with each arm. I had seen these works of welders' art many times over the years. I knew whose house it was, although I had not yet met his father, and had not figured out that his dad was a welder.

The State of Florida made a mistake that they later corrected. They allowed the drinking age to drop to 18. I happened to be 19 years old when it took effect. I was visiting one of the favored watering holes one Saturday afternoon. I was seated at the bar nursing a beer, and happened to overhear a conversation between some guys about my age seated a few seats away from me. The conversation centered around a prank that one of the guys had been a party to. It involved the digging up and theft of one of the "metal men" that I mentioned earlier. The story was highly entertaining and many aspects of the escapade were described in great detail, from the month and year to how they had placed the metal man in a phone booth at the junior high, from placing the phone in its "hand" to calling the police and reporting a spaceman from another planet at the junior high. I chuckled to myself, because I knew whose metal men they were talking about. A few months later, I was transferred to the weld shop, where I eventually got the opportunity to learn the trade that would support me for the next 30 or more years. As in the machine shop, my welding foreman was a pretty good guy. He was always up for a practical joke, as long as nobody got hurt and nobody got into a fight over it. One afternoon, I saw him and the assistant foreman talking. After the assistant foreman (my friend's dad) left the shop, I went over to talk to the foreman. Knowing that he had a rich sense of humor, I related every detail from the "metal man caper" with one added detail: I included myself, as if I had been right in the middle of it all. He thought it was funny, then gently reminded me to "get back to work". I got back to my welding, and when I looked up, my boss was gone. About 5 minutes later, when I raised my welding helmet, the ASSISTANT FOREMAN was standing right next to me. And I couldn't tell if he was in a good mood or not. He had wondered for almost a year what had happened, and now, here was the "guilty party".


"Next time you take my girl out, make sure she makes it home", he said to me. Caught by surprise, I could only sputter "that is a GIRL?" He started laughing, and now, up to my eyeballs in the lie, I answered his questions, filling in any details that I had earlier left out, but had overheard. The man didn't trust me for years. He later was promoted to foreman, and I was subject to his criticism and scorn. To try to set things right, and tell him that I actually had no part in the aforementioned escapade, would not have been an option. He would have trusted me even less. He and I were like "oil and water" for years. I remember him telling me one time, after one of our heated exchanges, "If I didn't need you, I'd fire you right now." To which I replied, "I guess it's a good thing that I'm such a good welder!" He spat on the floor and walked away.

About a year earlier, we the bosses had called one of their "all hands meetings", where they would fill us in on pending contracts, workloads, etc. Usually, there were one or more "problems" that were also addressed: people using their sick leave to go fishing (one person was actually spotted fishing when he had called in "sick"), or not calling in if one was not going to be at work that day. "The next person that does not come in, and does not call in, will be fired". Guess who the next person was. Thankfully, the powers-that-were decided not to fire me, but did place a letter in my file that I had to sign ackowledging that there would not be another incidence. Grateful that I still had a job, I looked the Director of Personell in the eye and told him that I would prove to him that he had made the right decision, and that in 3 years, I would be the "best welder" in the Company. I always made it a point to call in after that.

Anyway, my foreman and I were at constant odds. I used to (literally) dream of ways to make sure he had an "accident". One day, he and I (we still had to WORK together) were rearranging an area of the shop, he directing me on the forklift. The forks were up about three feet off the floor, and he walked in front of me. (This part still ashames me, and scares me to this day). I felt my foot start to slide off of the clutch pedal. I had a brief vision, just a millisecond, of him being impaled on one of the forks. I slammed on the brakes, dropped the forks, and turned off the engine. "I gotta hit the men's room", I said by way of explanation. I went in the bathroom and started shaking. Luckily, he had never known or noticed just how close he came to possibly dying. And, luckily for me, it was almost time to go home for the day. I requested, and was granted, a week off. I did a lot of thinking and soul-searching during the next week. I saw, and faced up to the fact, that I had been terribly foolish, stupid, arrogant, and disrespectful. I was (and still am) ashamed of myself for what could have been a tragedy of my design.

I returned to work after my week-long vacation a new man, strike that, just "a man". I set about repairing the damage I had done to the working relationship. It took some time, but we actually became friends after a while. A year or two afterward, our workload was rather light in the welding area, so I had been working in the machine shop for about six months. At quitting time one day, one of the welders caught me on the way out and told me that Certification Testing would be done the next day. I figured that I would run my welds and fail and life would go on. I came in the next day, and took all the tests for aluminum, steel, and stainless steel. Imagine my surprise when, about three weeks later, the test results came back. Out of more than twenty welders, I was the only one that had passed all of the tests! This meant that I was the only person who could work on some of the jobs in the shop. There were some who resented the fact that they were "outdone" by a young kid with a ponytail down his back, and I was even approached with wagers, "I'll bet you a hundred dollars you couldn't do it again". 'Turns out that the foreman was the next-highest "qualified" guy in the shop. So, we had the opportunity to work together a lot. At some point in time, he "stepped down" from the Foreman position and assumed the duties of the Assistant Foreman. I think there were some health issues that necessitated the move.

One day, I was called into the Director of Personell's office again. We chatted for a little while, and then he handed me a piece of paper. It was the "letter" from my file. "We don't need for this to be in your folder any more. I don't know if you remember, but when this letter went INTO your file, you told me that you would be the best welder in the Company. As far as I am concerned, you have succeeded in that goal." I might add that, in addition to "directing personell", he was actually the Head of Engineering and knew his way quite skillfully around all of the shops: sheet metal, machining, welding. "In fact, we are making you the Assistant Weld Shop Foreman." I threw myself into the position with gusto. Here I was, maybe 24 years old, with 27 welders under my command, many of whom had been welding longer than I had been breathing! My former nemesis had been working in our smaller weld shop, many times by himself, doing some of the smaller and more "precision" work. I would make it a point to pass through the small weld shop and see how things were going, and suggest job prioities to him. About five months after my promotion, I again raised my welding hood to see him staring at me. "How long have you been the Assistant Foreman?" I told him it had been about five months or so. "I sure wish the hell somebody had told ME". Somehow, he had never been officially notified of my promotion. I felt bad for him, but also took pride in the fact that I had never let the job "go to my head", so he had never felt threatened. We were friends from then on. I heard that he had passed away about four years or so after that. I had moved on to new jobs and new places. But I still never got to tell him the truth about his metal man.

In Memorium

I spoke on the phone today with one of my oldest and dearest friends, also a Fighter Pilot's son. We reminisced about our Fathers and how they had managed to cheat Death in their youth, flying what were (then) the best and fastest airplanes in the U.S. Air Force. I told him of one of my last conversations with Dad, when I got to ask him, "How high did you fly? How fast have you flown? What was it like the first time you soloed in a fighter jet?" I never did (get to) ask him what it was like in War. He never spoke much about it to me. I don't know if he ever talked with Mom or not about it. I know that it must have taken a toll on him, even though, for the most part, it was probably a lot more "impersonal" from up in the air. I do remember that he spent part of a night under his cot because of an enemy mortar attack. He did tell us about that.
Today is Memorial Day. I know that most people relate this day to remembering those who have fallen, given their all, for their Country. But this day is also for remembering those who didn't necessarily die for our Freedoms, or the defense of those Freedoms, but for remembering all those who are dear to us. . .those that have passed on and, yes, those that are still with us. While talking to my friend, we of course talked about our fathers. I already said that. But I also thought of my daughter Hilarie, and the almost "tangible" bond she had with my Dad. I miss them both immensely.
When I got off the phone with my friend, the dogs needed to go out and potty. When I took the first one out (the "dawdler" of the two), I heard some jets flying nearby. I looked up and saw a flight of F-16's flying over, probably returning from a fly-over for a Memorial Day ceremony or parade. They were still in formation. The "Missing Man" formation. Just a gentle reminder, for me, that the sacrifices go on. Pray for those who serve, and for the families who have given of themselves for us.

The Cost of "Freedom"

I remember when Hilarie, our older daughter, decided to move back home to "get a grip" on some of her finances etc., before eventually striking out on her own to try again. (I know that I had multiple "moves back home" when I was younger, before finally making it on my own.) We told Hilarie that she would always be welcomed at home, but since she was moving back "under our roof", she would again be subject to (most of) the same rules she had while growing up: We would not enforce a "curfew" for her, as she was now 23; we would, however, appreciate that she not play her music/tv too loud during the later hours when we were trying to sleep, we would like her to let us know if she was not going to be home until very late (if at all), and that she let us know that she was home when she arrived in the wee hours (just an "I'm home, Goodnight") so that we wouldn't worry unnecessarily. Etc., etc. However, in exchange for her "freedoms", we did expect that she carry her own weight financially, i.e.: pay us a reasonable rent every month. Not so large as to place a burden on her, but somewhere between $200 and $300 a month. This would still be cheaper than her previous rent, and we would absorb the utilities. Also, she would be responsible for her own entertainment (movies, video/computer games, fast food, etc.). This did not mean that she had to be entirely self-sufficient, she was still welcome to eat with us, etc. One thing that she was not told when she was moving back home was, that I planned to put half of her monthly "rent" in an account to remain untouched until such time as she was ready to "try it again on her own", at which time the funds would be available for deposits, "first and last", etc., depending upon how long she had been back home. Sadly, she passed away (at "home") before any of these could be implemented.

Now, our other daughter is wanting to move out and share a place with some close friends, a married couple and their two young children. This will be her first attempt at "leaving the nest". Her mother and I have concerns, just like we did with her sister (and I am sure that my mother had similar concerns for me) but are willing to let her try. As most of us know from experience, this is a "wake-up call" and a definite learning experience. Money that used to go for fast food and snacks and video games now goes for structured grocery shopping and menu planning. Money that used to go for clothes and cute shoes needs to go for rent, utilities, and transportation costs (either bus passes or gas money). Words like "lease", "contract", and "past due" take on a whole new meaning. In exchange for sacrifices, freedoms are attained. If, after a while, she needs to come back home to regroup, she will of course be welcomed home with open arms. And we will expect the same from her as we did for her older sister. Freedoms and Liberties will be available, but they will come with a price.

In this Country, we brag of our "Freedom" and "Liberty". Have we ever considered the cost of these? Our freedom to buy or rent a home is countered by the right of the bank or landlord to exact a payment from us. Our right to live on nothing but Whoppers and Big Macs is countered by not only prohibitive cost, but probable health risks as well. Our right to complain about government is guaranteed by that same government, but if one does not get involved (vote, pay taxes, etc.) in the administering of that government, then that person has no freedom to complain. The list of our Freedoms is almost endless. We enjoy more liberties and freedoms than any other nation on Earth. But at a cost. My father recognized this. He understood just how fortunate, and how obligated, we are. He was willing to support the continuation of these freedoms, even at the cost of his life, if necessary. He was willing, when asked, to go into harm's way to preserve these rights for the rest of us. And he wasn't the only one. Many, many men (and women) have gone to battle at the request of their Country. Most of them have come home to enjoy ongoing freedom with their families. Some have not. I would like to think that most, if not all, of them understood and accepted the possible sacrifice involved with preserving our rights.

So, to my daughter: Go forth and stretch your wings. Fall to the ground. Get up and dust yourself off and try again. Pay your bills. Don't pay your bills. Splurge on yourself. Be hungry. Be humbled. Find your strengths. Address your weaknesses. Enjoy your freedom, but be prepared for the cost. Come "home" if you need to. And when you finally succeed, you will see and know that it was worth all the trouble and hard times, and you will be stronger for it. We love you, Dad and Mom.

So now I'm a Mountain Man?

Alas, I have been sorely remiss in my attention to the blog. Frankly, I had a long dry spell. I would think of things at work, and space them by the time I got home. . . Home. . . We have a new "home". We had grown tired of the apartment complex we were living in, and Janet got on the internet to "find us a new place to live". I wasn't totally against it, I just hated the physical processes involved in moving from one place to another. Maybe (although I have moved myself many, many times) it's because when I was growing up, the "moving men" came and packed us and moved us. All we had to do was stand there and watch, make sure that whatever we planned on taking with us in the car didn't get packed, and stay out of their way. Then we would hop in the car with our games and toys and snacks and drive to our new house. Simple. That's not the way it works when you don't have the cash for a moving company. More on that later.

Anyway, Janet kept finding "places for us to live" and she and Angie would maybe drive by and look at them. If they were a "possible", they would drag me to go look at it. Most were close to where we were, so a move would be a lot of short trips, or fewer if we could borrow/rent a truck or trailer. But, I didn't feel that it would be worth the effort involved just to move two miles away, I guess. So, she started looking for places in Salt Lake County, which would be closer to my work, but less desirable as a place to live. Then, she found a house for rent in an area that we had always (not so) secretly wanted to live. It was close to our favorite fishing lake, and in a small, mountain town. We drove out to look at it on a Saturday (we kinda wanted to get out for a drive anyway) and found it to be a "definite possible". As we were driving back into the Salt Lake Valley from the mountains, we could see a thick layer of "sludge" resting on the city. Right then, I decided that I had had enough of city living. We drove back out the next day, and looked at it again. Granted, it would mean almost an hour of commute time (one way), but the air was clean, there was a mountain for the back yard, and the population density dropped from 3300 people per square mile down to 40 people per square mile. There would actually be BREATHING room! We talked with the landlord, and he said that we were the only people that came back for a second look. I told him that I would get back to him within two days, and we headed back down the mountain to the smog and noise. But only temporarily. I borrowed some money against my 401k, and paid the first, last, and deposit, and we started moving. It took us a week and a half to get all our stuff moved, because I couldn't afford to rent a large truck. Although, we probably spent more than that would have cost just putting gas in the cars to make a couple of trips a day. I was able to scrape enough money together to rent a small truck to haul the large stuff that wouldn't fit in the cars (couch, washer and dryer, beds, etc.) But being able to "stretch out the spending" over two pay periods worked well. I would get off work, run to the apartment and load up the car, head up the mountain, unload, and some days make another trip before falling into bed exhausted, only to repeat it again the next day. Some people might consider us to be crazy, moving from the city (with a 20-minute commute) to a "summer home community" (with a 50-minute commute). I think we would have been crazy not to have made the move. The stress levels are much lower, the air is unbelievably clean, the skies are full of more stars than I ever remembered seeing before, there are deer, elk, moose, raccoons, skunks, foxes and probably more types of wildlife as well, and most importantly, it feels like HOME. It has been many years since I was somewhere that I felt totally at home. When I was growing up, we lived in a small town in Colorado. When Dad got transferred, he and Mom kept a bank account in Colorado, because, for a time, that was where they planned on ending up after Dad retired. Colorado was "home" for Dad. I now understand a little more. I don't know that we will stay in this rental house for a long time. But, I hope to be able to stay in this quiet, peaceful, beautiful area from now on. Of course, I do get some good-natured teasing from some of my co-workers about becoming a "mountain man". Growing my beard back for the winter has only added fuel to it. But that's okay. I'm home.

Small World

(I know, it's a "repeat" picture, but stick around anyway).

I was searching the "Web" last week for additional pictures of "Dad's" plane, when I stumbled across some pictures of assorted Phantoms. Particularly, "Air National Guard" Phantoms. I found a picture of a Phantom that was flown by Daniel (Chappie) James, now on display at Tuskegee University in Alabama. (This is another man that I have tremendous respect for). I happened to notice the tail number and thought it looked familiar. The number was 64-0851. If you look at the picture of the two Phantoms next to the "tanker" in Hawaii, you will notice that the plane closest to the tanker is Dad's plane, 64-0806, and the other plane is Chappie James' plane, 64-0851. These planes flew together in Viet Nam, both were used to shoot down MIGs, and they flew together at their last (active) duty station, the Hawaii Air National Guard. Small world.

What Goes Around, Comes Around

We recently got rid of one of our vehicles. The engine stopped while I was driving home. We got it towed to a tire store and swapped the tires on it with our other vehicle. Then it went to the junkyard. The other car seemed to "like" the better tires, but as a whole, we were never really happy with it. We bought it out of necessity, and it was all that I really qualified for at the time (my credit had some bad scars on it) that we felt like we wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in. It was a "newer" car (2007) but we think it had been in an accident sometime before we got it. It never felt right, or "safe". So, last week, we bit the bullet and got a new 2009 car, and a used 2007 SUV. (The SUV is "mine".) We have enjoyed both of them so far, and we not only feel safe in them, but aren't ashamed to be seen driving them, either. Now comes the tough part. Our 23 year- old daughter asks to borrow a car to drive to the store. We made sure that she was comfortable driving the car, and that she knew where all the switches and buttons were. But, then she wanted to drive "Dad's" car. Being really protective of both my daughter AND my car, I made sure she did okay driving it as well.
Tonight, she asked if she could go to a friend's house. By herself. In my car. All manner of "what-if's" went through my mind, as well as a multitude of excuses/reasons why I shouldn't let her. Then I admitted to myself that not only is she a good driver, she's a good kid, (and she knows that if she goes joyriding tonight, she won't get the car again for a long time), and I also remembered a similar time in my youth involving Dad's car: Dad had bought a brand new Volvo 1800E. This car was, as Dad put it, "a sports car driver's 'sports car'". It was, to many, well. . .ugly. But in a beautiful way. Leather seats, Blaupunkt FM stereo radio, air conditioning, four-speed, fuel injected engine, and plenty of exhilaration for the lucky driver. Dad was visiting for an hour or so, and my friend Randy was over at our house. I asked Dad if I could take Randy home in his car. To my surprise and delight, he consented. We took off in the car and I returned about 20 minutes later (actually, it was more like 45 minutes). Not too much of a problem, except for the fact that Randy only lived a half-block or so away. I could walk to his house in under three minutes. Dad was, understandably, a little perturbed with me upon my return. "I thought you were going to take Randy home and be right back", he said. I apologized, and offered the reasoning, "if you had the rare opportunity to drive a car like that under the same circumstances, you might have done the same thing." Maybe he reflected back upon HIS youth, but he mellowed out a little. It probably wouldn't have been quite as big of a deal, except for the fact he had needed to get on the road to be somewhere soon.
All of this went through my mind this evening when Angie asked to use my car. Maybe that's why I let her.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today, July 11th, would have been Dad's 80th birthday. We didn't do much in the way of commemorating, except for tentatively plan a weekend trip to Las Vegas (Nellis AFB). We plan to see some sights, lights, and the vehicle for Dad's flights. Yep, I want to go see"Dad's" plane. (Stay tuned for pictures.) 'Don't know exactly when, but probably this summer, sometime. I am, of course, excited about seeing the plane up close.

Jen, my youngest sister, emailed some pictures of Dad when he was much younger. They, or at least some of them, will probably make their way onto the pages of this blog.

Dad was always pretty quiet, and I'm not really sure how he felt about birthdays. I don't remember a lot of celebration when I was a kid, but I know we got him presents and a cake. Of course, he was also gone a lot during those years, and may not have been "home" for his birthday. But, he is "home" now, so "Happy Birthday, Dad!! We love you and miss you!"