I can only dream about the games

I would love to be in the Olympics

     Surely, there has to be an event I can do.
     Anything on skates or skies is out.....and I am not to thrilled about a bobsled ride.  And people who do the skeleton are one nut short of a bolt set.
      So maybe I can concentrate on curling.
     If I can  sweep, I can do it.
     If I can toss a stone using a handle, I could do curling.
     If I can yell and scream things like go go go go, or slow slow slow or fast fast fast .... you get the picture....I could do it.
     I am sure it takes more than just that.  Maybe I'll look for a curling club around here.
     Every time I watch the winter Olympics, I want to be there.  I want to watch the skiers go down the slopes, using their graceful turns and lithe bodies to roar down a mountainside.  I love to watch the luge teams as they race downhill and 80 or 90 miles and hour.
     Remember that one Olympian, from Great Britain, Eddie the Flying Eagle?  He did not win, but he was there.   And to fly through the air like that must be a thrill that would cause me to wet myself.....but I'd be there.
     Tonight there was a cross country skier who said he had no hopes of winning, but he was there.
     The businessman from Long Island who made the Dominican Republic team because he gave lots of money to charities....he and his wife were there.
     They are all competing on the biggest sports stage of the winter.
     Too old?  Laugh if you will, but there was a man from Mexico who was 55.....sure he didn't have a huge pot belly and he actually looked like he could walk 15 minutes without puffing... but he was older than the normal athlete.  And he was there.
     So I am going to start a training regime.  Early to bed, oatmeal for breakfast, brisk 5 mile walks every day, arm weights to build up my stone throwing arm.
     You never know.
     When the next winter games come, I will be 70.  Hell, I just hope I am here!
   

My compass can't find north

A lack of knowledge never prevented me from doing something

     This is a continuation from yesterday.

     Once the soffit was up, it was time for drywall.

      I was young.  I was not knowledgeable.  I bought drywall.

     There was a knee wall of about 56 inches in the basement.  Drywall comes in 4 x 8 sheets, so no matter how I cut it, I would be wasting a lot of drywall.

     So I cut, and nailed, and cut, and nailed.  I thought I did a good job.

     Ok, so I had one piece over the window that did not lay flat.  I put some extra nails in it.

     I only had two walls to go....full size walls, no cutting needed.  

     I called my brother in law and mentioned I had accomplished much, but it took a long time to nail.

     He said it should not be that hard.....I only needed nails about every 16 inches.  That hit me like a slap from a pretty girl that I just pinched.

     I put nails every two inches.  Carefully measured out.  Two inches.  Except above the window.  That 12 x 24 section had 46 nails.

     There was so much iron in the walls, a compass would spin around, totally confused about which way was north.

     I finished the rest of the drywall, nailing every 16 inches...or so.

     Then I called a drywall guy for an estimate on taping and mudding.

     He stood in the basement,  and just kept turning around, as if he had never seen a drywall job like this before.

      I used every scrap.  And every nail I could get.

      After what seemed like an hour, he said the obvious.

      "I have never seen a drywall job like this before,"  and he spun slowly around again.

      "You can't really afford me to mud and tape this.  There are too many nails," he said, still spinning in wonderment.

      "This wall over here I can do..and that one over there.  That will be fine.  But these other walls......" his voice trailed off, I would like to think in appreciation of my devotion to detail.
      I asked what I should do.
      "Paneling.  Paneling.......that is the only thing you can do," and he made one more turn.
     So panel it we did.  On the "good" wall we hung wallpaper that resembled an abstract forest.  The room had a homey, funky kind of appeal.
      We ended up with a family room and two bedrooms in the lower level.  It took us some time, and we did it in phases, and I learned from my mistake.
      But compasses never worked down in the family room....like the drywall guy, they would just spin in circles.

     
   

If I were a carpenter, and you were a lady......

I forgot, I am not a carpenter

     That was a painful lesson to learn in life.
      Jackie and I were going to finish the lower level of our first house, a bi level.  Jackie's brother was training to be a carpenter and he came out to build a soffit around the heat ducts so we could drywall that part of the basement.
     We had a system.  He would put the framing in place and I would finish nailing while he continued working in other areas.
     I was hammering  2 X 2s together.  I managed to do fine on the first three, but I hit a knot on the fourth.
    The nail bent.
    I did not want a bent nail, so I started to pull it out......but it would not budge.
    I pulled harder.  It would not budge.
    I figured it was a matter of leverage.  So I stood underneath it, grabbed hold of the hammer and yanked.
     At first I thought I broke my nose.  Then I checked my teeth and lips.  All seemed intact, but very painful.  And my vision was watery.
     "Problem Terry?  came a voice from the other room.
      Through the tears I managed to say no problem, just a bent nail.
      He was quiet for a few seconds, then he said.
      "You didn't hit yourself in the face with the hammer, did you?"
      It's hard to say no to that when you are checking for loose teeth and blotting blood from your nose.
     While I repaired myself, he repaired my area.
      After a few minutes I was ready to tackle it again.
      "What can I do? "I asked.
      "I need some stuff from the lumber yard...you can  go get it," he answered.
      "What do you need?"
      "About 25 minutes," he replied.
      So, I left and spent time wandering around Rochelle.  When I got home he was done and my teeth were still intact.
      But my lesson was far from over.
     

'Twas a biting wind blowin' from the west

    It was cold, and the west wind was blowing through the patio doors of our house on Mill Pond.
    Before winter came, I had covered the outside of the doors with Visqueen, a think plastic, hoping to cut down the breeze.
     But it was January.  And cold....at least 60 below, or so it felt.  We could feel the wind and cold through the door.
     I examined the door and found the Visqueen  had come off the bottom left corner.
     It was cold.  It was windy.  The wind was howling.  It was cold.
     Too cold for anyone else in the house to go out an repair the Visqueen.  So I donned boots, gloves, hat, scarf, long underwear, hot pants......well, not hot pants.  I bundled up like a bluish Pillsbury Doughboy.  I grabbed the scissors,  duct tape, and a hammer to nail the molding back on that was supposed to hold the Visqueen.
     I got out there and found the molding was nowhere to be found.  The wind was now roaring.....I believe it was called Maria.......and the temperature had dropped.  Looking inside, I saw all the family safe and warm while my teeth were chattering and parts of my body I never thought could get cold were partially frozen.
     I tried holding the plastic and cutting the tape.  Now if I had four hands, that would have been possible.  But with two, and in gloves, it was not.
     So I improvised.

Sometimes I don't think things through  when I improvise

    I took my gloves off, cut the duct tape and then put one end in my mouth so I could put the plastic in place  with both hands, hold it in down with one hand, and take the duct tape and put it on the plastic.
     All went well until I tried to take the tape.  The damn stuff was frozen to my lips.
      It was freaking cold and there was a strong wind.  The wind chill must have been 90 below.
   
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise

     That bears repeating.
     My fingers were numb, the wind was howling, I was freezing and the tape would not come off my bottom lip.   I tried again, gently tugging as my ears began to burn.  I tried a third time and the tape was stuck fast to my bottom lip.

Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise

     So I gave it a good yank.  It came off, and for a few seconds, I felt like I had a really dry bottom lip.
     I put the tape on the plastic and door frame,  added some extra tape and made sure it was good and stuck.  By now I had been out there about 20 minutes (and nobody had checked on me) including the last 10 with the burned lip.
     People don't seem to bleed very much when they are out in subzero temperatures.
     But when they hit the heat, Lordy does the hemoglobin flow.
     You might have thought I was in a fight with a slasher.
     And it hurt.  Try ripping skin off you lip sometime, it is not very pleasant.
     Strangely, cold compresses and plenty of Vaseline helped a lot.
     And the plastic stayed....so in the end, I did accomplish my goal.
     I just lost a little lip skin doing it.
   

I fought the law, and the law won

     My cuckoo clock stopped working.  And Ernie's ball fell off its base.  Small ripples in the pond of life, which led to this small fact.

I got a parking ticket in Sycamore today

     I have a cuckoo clock from Germany.  I love listening to it chime the hours and to watch the little chimney cleaner pop up ever time the little bird goes cuckoo.  Twice a day I yank its chains, but Friday night I yanked too hard and the cuckoo went quiet.  So I had to take it to the clock shop in Sycamore.
     Saturday night I bought a shadow box at From the Heart.  The box is about 8 x 11 and can be hung on the wall or set on a shelf.  In it is a picture of Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks, and a real major league baseball autographed by Mr. Cub sitting on a little cup like platform.  Unfortunately, if you pick the shadow box up and hold it upside down, the ball falls off the holder..... and you can't see the signature at all.  So, I took that to Michael's in DeKalb, the people who created the box and could easily fix it.
     Now I hate having change in my pocket.  I always throw it into a container in the closet and at some point I will take it into the bank and put it in  my vacation account.
     So when I drove into Sycamore, I realized I had no change and they had parking meters.
     I looked for an unexpired meter....but found none.  Since my clock was in a box, I decided I could park in front of the shop (or shoppe), run in, run out and hop in the car.  I was living on the edge, baby!!
     Lovely Rita, meter maid, may I enquire discretely, were you just waiting for me?  I couldn't have been  in there two minutes....I can't believe you wrote the ticket and put it under my wiper in such a short time!
     The fine?  $1 if paid right away.  I had a dollar bill, so I slipped it into the fine envelope and put it in one of the convenient drop boxes thoughtfully located on the post next to where I parked.
      When I got home, I found a couple of pill containers and put some change in them to keep in the car....they won't get my dollar again unless they pry it out of my cold, stiff hands.
     So you see, I do have a rebel side to me....but you can't beat the man!!  Or in this case, the meter maid.


   

Little D, how about a big D??

A professor and I drank beer on campus, in a car

     I was a journalism major at Northern.  I was also going to be the next Bob Woodward, the award winning reporter from the Washington Post.
     One of my instructors was a veteran newsman turned professor, name of Roy Campbell.
     Mr. C was irreverent, droll,  smart, and a good teacher and newspaperman.
     We had classes in what was called Reavis, maybe Reavis West, a stout, red bricked building almost in the center of campus.
      One night I was passing through the building and stopped off at the lab to see who was around.  Now we had a group of people who frequented the Shamrock in downtown DeKalb.  Mr. C called them seminars, and he presided over them regularly.
      Jackie went, and Julia even went once.....but as a one year old, she created quite a stir when she knocked over a been into the lap of one of the many under age drinkers discussing journalism.
      But I digress.
      I was passing through and noticed his office door was open, the light was on, and he was sitting at his desk, reading something.
      "Hey Mr. C," I said.  "How are you doing?"
      "Terry.....come in."  So I did, and we talked for about 10 minutes then he said, "Little D, how about a Big D?" he asked.
      He liked Drewrys beer, his Big D.
       I told him I had to head home, and didn't have time or money to head to the Shamrock.
      "Follow me," he ordered.
       We went to his car, parked illegally behind the building, and he said, "Get in."
       He then proceeded to pull out two cans of ice cold Drewry's Beer from a cooler on the back seat.
        He popped one, gave it to me, popped another, and took a big sip.
        I must have looked like a deer in the headlights!  Here I was drinking in a car, on campus, at night, with a professor.......nothing spelled academic dismissal any better than that.
       He noticed my hesitancy, then said, "Relax.  I do this all the time.  All the cops no me.  They won't blink an eye."
       So we sat there, drinking our Big Ds.....talking about the world, class, school, the future.  It was a moment when the man made me feel special, important, someone who mattered in the department and in the world.
      It was a moment I'll always cherish.
      I know he is gone, and I think Drewrys is too, although there was a story that it was being revived as a nostalgia brand.
      As I remember that night, it was one of the best beers I ever had.
     

I generally don't speed, but.....

I usually obey the speed limit

     That being said, the winter of 78 or 79 had a lot of snow.  Roads were constantly closed and I felt like we were going to be trapped until spring sprung in Rochelle.
      One weekend, like a miracle, the skies turned blue, the wind stopped blowing, and the roads were actually clean.
      We headed to DeKalb and coming out of Creston, I was doing about 70 when I saw the state trooper sitting in a little dip just east of town.  I immediately slowed down, but his lights went on.
I pulled over before he could even get on the road.
       "Do you know how fast you were going?" he asked.
        "Yes sir, I was at 70."
        "I clocked you at 67," he replied.
        "Well, I saw you first."
         "Are you in a hurry?  Late for an appointment? Need to be someplace?"
         "No sir."
         "Then why were you going so fast?"
          I looked him straight in the eye and told the truth:  "It felt good.  We haven't driven on a clean road in months.  I just got carried away."
         He gave me a warning.  I don't know if it was my honesty or the fact his first name was also Terry that left me with a written warning instead of a ticket.
         Five months later, in Iowa, coming down a hill I hit 65 and an Iowa trooper pulled me over.  He gave me a  written warning and said to slow down.
         That August, driving a dealer loaner car because mine was in the shop, I got stopped on bypass 20 near Freeport.  My speedometer went on the 0s....50, 60, 70....this car showed the fives  55, 65,75.  I thought I was doing 60 when I was doing 65.
         When he ran the plates, he discovered the dealer car had an invalid registration plus some other issues....so he gave me a warning.
         "This is a written warning.....do you know what to do with this?"  he asked.
        And without thinking I replied, "Yes sir, stick it in the glove box with all the other ones."
      Within an eight month period, I had three warning tickets.  Three strangers, policemen I had never met, had graciously given me a second chance.
       Alas, my luck finally ran out.  I was on my way to the doctor, had a case of strep throat, could barely talk, overslept and was late for my appointment.  On Il. 38 in front of May Mart, I was doing 35 in a 30 when flashing lights appeared.
      I was working at the newspaper then, and knew most of the policemen in town, including the officer who pulled me over.  I breathed out a sigh of relief.
     He did not get out of his car right away, but when he did, he said "Hello Terry.  You were doing 35 in a 30, and I am giving you a ticket for that."
      To this day it irks me that total strangers let me off, but guy I knew gave me a ticket.
      And yes, I deserved it....I deserved all of them.
      But I haven't had one since......because now I watch the speed limit very carefully,