I REMEMBER- Kramore Inn Creperie in Chico

...working in Chico restaurants (part 2). After working at the Italian Cottage for quite a while, I grew my hair down to there, bought a bigger motorcycle and headed to the “City” (San Francisco) to make my fame and fortune…many stories connected here, but later for those.

I eventually came back to Chico and got a job as a waiter and cook at a very cool crepe restaurant called the Kramore Inn. The restaurant morphed into being pronounced: “Cray –Moor Inn” (very sophisticated sounding for economic development reasons)…but in the beginning, owners Steven and David, were goofing one night, trying to come up with a name for their budding restaurant idea, and as they made fabulous food you just couldn’t stop eating…they came up with “Cram More In”.
 
Great little restaurant, where I learned the fine art of being a good waiter. Crackers and banana slices immediately to families with small children, before they even order. Quiet dinner, bigger tip.

Young women tipped the best, sometimes with a slip of paper and a phone number. Young men didn’t tip at all (slobs) and even more insulting, was a table of old ladies…all had to have a separate check, after endless haggling over who ordered what. Then they would each leave a quarter or even less, in small change.

I learned how to cook well, how to make an impressive crepe dinner (all young men should learn how to do this, as it works wonders on a “have dinner at your house” date night).

I also learned the hard way why you don’t ever chip frozen ice off the freezer elements with an ice pick. I had sleepless nights for awhile after stabbing to death the house freezer in the middle of lunch rush and standing by helplessly as Freon spewed out through the stab wound to the coils.

A few days wages covered the repair and paid for the hard-knock lesson.

I REMEMBER-Working in Chico Restaurants & The Music Scene

...working in restaurants while living in Chico [part one]. I had worked in the school cafeteria (Bradley Hall) while a student at Chico State College (1965-1969). I had been "recruited" by the wrestling coach (Doc Peterson) and our 'scholarship' was that he would get us a job, get us all the classes we wanted in advance, without having to stand in line and apply and at least 2 classes we could get an "A" in, to keep our GPA up so we wouldn't be kicked off the team for academic issues.

My job was working in the cafeteria (for about $4.75/hr) and my two gimme classes were sex education that Doc Peterson taught and a communications class where I was actually the DJ on the school radio station ( I now do very well with 60's music trivia contests).

Those classes could be another story, but today it is about working in restaurants in Chico. My first job outside the cafeteria was working for Pizon's Pizza on Nord Ave. where the owner taught us to make intentionally bad coffee, so students wouldn't hang out and take up the tables and lose potential dinner customers. He also watered down the pizza sauce so much, you had to hustle it out to the customer before it separated into red water and tomatoes.

The San Francisco hippie scene was in full swing with the greatest (soon to be classic) rock music and a host of young bands you may have heard of ( Jefferson Airplane - Hot Tuna, King Krimson, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Janis Joplin, Santana, Savoy Brown, The Band, Golden Earring, Delanie-Bonnie & Friends (Eric Clapton), Country Joe & the Fish, Laura Nyro, Sly & the Family Stone, Joy of Cooking, Fleetwood Mac, Guess Who, Seals & Croft, Chicago, Beautiful Day, Albert King, B.B. King, Canned Heat, Cold Blood, Jimi Hendrix, Buddy Miles, Dino Valenti, Al Kooper & Friends, Mike Bloomfield, Creedence Clearwater, Moody Blues, Deep Purple, Jeff Beck, Frumious Bandersnatch, Sha-Na-Na, Kinks, Taj Mahal, Greatful Dead, Humble Pie, Chambers Brothers, Grand Funk Railroad, Fat Mattress, Noel Redding) and a host of others. As I purge myself of excess, I continue to run across some very cool rememberances of the past. Just found a handfull of playbills from Bill Graham Presents from the late 60's and early 70's - Winterland, Fillmore West, etc. Tickets to see the greatest bands ever were about $3 and on Tues nights from 9pm to 2am was "Sounds of the City" - Auditions, Jams and Guest Performers - only $1.

Anyway, as I said, this is a story about restaurants in Chico (part one)...so I was off to the "City" (often referred to as "Frisco") to live the good life during the Summer of Love (1967) on weekends and even grew (gasp) a mustache and hung out in the Fillmore and in the Haight Ashbury. The owner of the bad coffee, watered down spaghetti sauce, Pizon's Pizza, became paranoid that I would bring back "hippie diseases" in my mustache from the city of sin and infect his restaurant, so it was my job or the mustache. The mustache won.

As I was only 20, I went to the only place that would serve me beer to bemoan my unemployment, The Italian Cottage Restaurant. Very cool place, sawdust on the floor, good pizza, good coffee and good pizza sauce.

They had a job open for night manager, and as I was having a beer while filling out the application...I put down that I was 21. As interim manager, my job was to answer the phones when applicants called about the manager's job. Strangely, none of them seemed to be qualified and I got the job. I managed that restaurant for quite a while and had to forgo an eventual 21st birthday celebration at work, as I had to tell everyone I was turning 22. Every night after work, everyone would head to the "Silver Room Bar," in downtown Chico and I couldn't go, so I wouldn't get carded and expose my tender age. Once, the owner, age 35, got carded at the liquor store buying more wine for the restaurant. He didn't have his ID, so he came back to the restaurant, got me, and took me back to the liquor store to buy the wine. I was terrified I would lose my job, until I discovered I was born for sales and never stopped talking until we were out the door with the wine- never got asked for my ID.

Side bar: a kindly pregnant waitress at the Italian Cottage lent out her birth control prescription to a young couple I knew, as they were too young and too intimidated to get their own. The pharmacy was in "White Front", an early forerunner of stores like Sam's Club. It would have worked, except for the couple's reluctance to pick up the prescription when their name was called over the store loud speaker system. As the waitress's name was Vera Dee Balls ( I am not making this up), the prescription was called out with initials and last name: "V D Balls, your birth control pills are ready." They just left the store and never came back.

Now that my fading memory is jogged a bit - coming soon: partying with Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna in Asbury Park, New Jersey and my trip to Woodstock West - the Altamont Free Concert...but not now, as I said before, this about my jobs in restaurants in Chico (part one).

Today's song: Super Jam - Santana, Greatful Dead & Jefferson Airplane

I REMEMBER-Mother's Day Tradition

...little traditions that have come to pass over various holidays. We have our Christmas totally on Christmas morning. Whereas, for various reasons, some families have their celebration on Christmas Eve or at least partially on Christmas Eve. Ours has always been on Christmas morning. When I was a single Dad, the boys always were at their Mom's house on Christmas Eve and then brought to me late that night to wake up at my house on Christmas morning.

On Father's Day, I always barbecue ribs and we go bowling [Bob's BBQ and Bowling day].

On Mother's Day, we go on a picnic up to the American River Canyon outside of Placerville. We always go to the same spot. There always seems to be one spot left to park along side the road, next to the trail to walk down to the river [we say it is due to excellent Karma]. We have been going there for many years, starting when Sarah was so small, I had to carry her up and down the steep path, balancing myself with the picnic basket.

We had a favorite particular spot under a big Valley Oak, until it was washed away one winter. We had to move to a different spot about 100 feet away, but still just as nice. Sarah and I go to the deli and procure delicious treats that Lise doesn't know about until we pop open the picnic basket once we are there. The picnic basket is always a bit too heavy on the way down, but after we eat it all, it is not so bad coming back up.

We have a whole slate of great pictures, at the same spot on the river, just about one year apart. As Lise and I will be forever young (thanks, Bob Dylan), the great part is noting Sarah in each set, being one year older.

Song of the Day: Forever Young...Bob Dylan

I REMEMBER - My Sons & the Fraternity House

...that when my boys were small and we were a fraternity house...they were always being ornery, as all boys are meant to be. They always got lectures [extended lectures] from their Dad [me] as Dads are meant to do.

My oldest, Ian, finally figured it out and instead of arguing with me, right after the beginning of one of my finest extended lectures, would cut me off and say- "You're right Dad, it won't happen again"[it always did, but that isn't the point]. That would put a halt to the perfectly logical argument I had prepared, hoping, that at the end, he would say just that...but he would beat me to the point and I was done.

His two brothers, Nick and Dustin hadn't figured it out yet, and my career as a lecturer was able to continue. Older brothers have a certain responsibility and whether they like it or not, they burn [literally, sometimes] the path their younger siblings follow.

Sometimes, when he did stuff that was cool [to his brothers, not necessarily to me] they would be his pack of lemmings and try their versions of whatever it was he was doing. Sometimes, when he was doing something stupid and not cool and got in trouble for it, his brothers [it is easy to appear smart when your sibling is getting in trouble for being stupid...just ask my sister, Sharon] would learn a good lesson by NOT repeating his actions.

All parents know that when there are three teen/pre-teen boys in the same room with each other and there is no noise, something [usually bad] is going on. Stumbling upon one of these moments, I overheard [back in the day when I could still hear] my oldest son giving advice to his younger brothers: "Listen to me, do you really like Dad yelling at you? He just goes on and on and when you fight back, he just starts all over again. All you have to do is say 'O.K. Dad-I won't do it again' and he will have to shut up". At that moment I was stunned and a bit proud of him as an ally in the family responsibility program....until he continued...."you don't have to stop doing it, you just tell him you won't and he will stop the lecture".

They all turned out to be good guys and I am absolutely confident it was a result of the 100+ decibel wisdom I imparted to them before they figured out how to push my mute button.

I REMEMBER-Sacramento River Rats Hockey

...my experiences as President of the Roller Hockey International, Sacramento River Rats.

I was happily performing my duties as a sales manager for the Raley's Senior PGA Gold Rush Golf Tournament in El Dorado Hills, California (side note: part of the job was to drive Chi Chi Rodriguez around in a golf cart to sign autographs...but that is another blog) when I was enticed away to run the professional RHI Sacramento River Rats roller hockey team.

I was doing well economically with the PGA gig, so when approached, I said no thank you. Next, the CEO asked what it would take to make the move, and I told them a certain dollar figure, President of the team, stock in the team and a three-year personally guaranteed contract from the owners. (That last part turned out to be very cool. I had seen on an ESPN report that Steve Young had a personal contract with the owners of some NFL wannabe league, and when it folded, he kept on getting his money.) I had replied with this ridiculous counter-offer to end the conversation and have them stop, as I truly loved what I was doing. So, if you actually read the opening sentence you can see how that went.

The principal owner of the team and CEO of the RHI League was Larry King, ex-husband of Billy Jean King and owner of the Virginia Slims Tennis tournament (and others) . Very honorable guy, and when the RHI league folded (lost contract with ESPN) a few years later, he honored the contract and paid me for my last year in the deal. He actually gave me his BMW 740i to drive for a few months until he sold one of his tennis tournaments and paid me off. Very nice.

Three main stories that stand out:

1. July 1996, Arco Arena (home of the NBA Sacramento Kings), Sacramento, California. It is hotter than hell outside, easily past 100 degrees. It is Fan Appreciation night for the Sacramento River Rats as Arco Arena was our home stadium. A rolling power "Brown Out" in most of northern California and all the power is lost just before the puck is dropped. Emergency lighting pops on, but there is no Jumbo Tron video, no electricity to the beer vendors and no power to the automatic flushers in the restrooms. 

Quite a visual: A pro hockey game and no beer (probably just as well, seeing as how the toilets didn't flush). I think we played against the LA Blades and we needed the win to stay alive in the playoff hunt. So, as necessity is truly the mother of invention (there is my Mother's Day [tomorrow] tribute), we started our indoor inflatable miniature dirigible to fly around dropping numbered ping pong balls into the crowd, to be redeemed for prizes, snagged some flashlights so the players could get dressed in the darkened locker rooms, pulled a police cruiser (always on duty next to the ambulance--kind of required attendance at hockey games) down one of the aisles to park up against the glass, put the sports announcer on the roof with the police loudspeaker (yes, the power was out to our announcing system as well), placed a couple of guys behind the nets with bright red long underwear and started the game.

The announcing was actually pretty good through the police cruiser system, and when a goal was scored, the cop would turn on his siren and red lights would flash and the guy behind the just-scored net would stand on a chair and wave the red underwear (no net lights operational). I think we won, but don't actually remember. It was such a carnival.

2. June 18, 1997, Cal Expo Arena, Sacramento, California. We dropped our expensive lease with Arco Arena and opted to build a controversial outdoor hockey arena at a rarely used rodeo arena on the California State Fairgrounds. It actually was pretty cool (figuratively, not temperature wise) and this was opening night. It was a great crowd, lots of press and VIPs from around the RHI League to see how this new phenomenon would work out. We worked 24/7 the last week , but could not get it finished enough to satisfy the building inspector, so he closed us down and drove away. My very thankless job was to go out into the middle of the arena and announce (once again, this is a hockey crowd) to everyone that the game was called, a forfeit to the San Jose Rhinos, and give everyone a refund and send them home before the puck even dropped. I must have aged about 10 years in that last hour--probably the toughest thing I have ever had to do. I definitely recalled how I had given up hanging out with Gene Littler and Chi Chi Rodriguez in the Senior PGA Miller Beer Tent to have this shining moment.

3. July 1997, Cal Expo Arena, Sacramento, California. The Sacramento River Rats are playing, ironically, once again against the LA Blades RHI team (owned by Jeannie Buss, daughter of Jerry Buss, owner of the NBA Los Angeles Lakers). There has always been a Sacramento vs. LA rivalry in the NBA, and it quickly spread to the RHI and our two teams. Picture this: A nice warm, summer night in Sacramento at the new Cal Expo Outdoor Arena (yes, we finally got approval from the building department and were finally getting our season under way). The roller hockey playing surface was constructed of smooth plastic squares made by Sport Court, and ours was colored deep blue. The stadium was a hop and skip from the Sacramento River and a short flight for about 5,000 giant June Bugs this particular night, who were looking for a pond to land in. They descended onto the arena like a plague from the Bible, covering the court, the fans and, of course, down the blouse of LA Blades owner, Jeannie Buss, who was in town to check out the new outdoor stadium. It was quite the scene, with some hysteria, cursing and partial wardrobe malfunctions. It was just about the funniest thing I have ever seen and somehow Jeannie did not appreciate the humor of the situation...mumbling something about our "freaking" hick town.

That short two-year stint (1996 and 1997) as Sacramento River Rats president ended after our attempt to sell stock in the team fell short of its goal, and with the loss of the ESPN contract, the team and the RHI League took a year off and then folded. I had drastically cut the expenses and tripled the revenue from the previous season, but it was too little, too late. The stock sale was an interesting experiment and got me in the newspaper in a more positive light than in the sports columns that followed a team loss. Even with the addition of goalie, Manon Rheaume, model pretty, two time world champion goalie for Team Canada, Olympic Silver Medalist for Team Canada, first woman to play in a professional hockey game, etc. couldn't drive enough revenue to cover the losses.

After many years working in professional sports with the Canadian Football League Sacramento Gold Miners, the Sr. PGAGold Rush Classic and the RHI Sacramento River Rats, I was done with the ups and downs of pro sports. When your team is winning, the stands are full, sponsors are happy, and "We will Rock You" is on the sound system, it is truly an incredible high. When you are 0-10, fans are dropping like flies along with the sponsors, owners are losing millions, it can be a living hell.

I miss the highs, but do not miss the lows (unless you count the scourge of the June Bugs...then maybe...).

Song of the Day: Queen - We Will Rock You.

I REMEMBER- Summers in Tishomingo

....summers at Grandmother Clara Whitlock's house in Tishamingo, Oklahoma. It was a small white house with a big yard, shaded by many large trees. She never worked at a job outside the home. She was the Harriet of Ozzie and Harriet.

I remember her always wearing an apron and every once in awhile her German would slip out. [The kitchen sink was the "zink."] I loved the summer vacations at her house. She spoiled my sister (Sharon Kay Welton Chamberlin) and me in fabulous old-fashioned ways. Summers in Oklahoma were hot and humid, and the fans and swamp coolers were always running. We spent the days in shorts and tee shirts. My grandfather bought me a 5 lb. keg of nails (an actual tiny wood barrel full of nails) and brought home a short length of railroad tie. I would sit in the shade of that big tree in the yard and pound nails until the cows came home. Each summer I would take up where I left off the summer before, until there was no more wood to be seen: it was just nails. I could barely move it.

My job around the house was to take the kitchen scraps (eco-composting was alive and well in the early ’50s) out to the garden and bury them. It was mostly egg shells, coffee grounds, and orange peels, as I recall. There were tons of worms in the dirt each time I dug a new spot. The garage was a stand-alone building away from the house and next to the garden. It housed a beautiful root beer-colored early ’50s Plymouth, long cane fishing poles (about 10-12 feet—could have been a lot shorter, but they sure seemed long to a 7-year-old) and mud dauber (wasps) nests in the rafters. On bold days, I would poke the tip of the cane pole into one of those nests to piss off the wasps and then run like hell. I remember vividly [and this is 55 years ago, so it made quite the impression] the last time that I pulled that stunt. The very angry wasps flew right down the pole and into the armpit of my shirt and stung the bejesus out of me. Bees only sting once, and then their guts pull out while leaving the little barbed stinger in their victim [little Kamikaze bees]. Wasps have little needle stingers and can sting you repeatedly. Well, I am running, yelling and screaming into the back door of my grandmother’s house with the wasps fast after me. My grandfather thought it was pretty damn funny and that I deserved it, and my grandmother felt sorry for me and put baking soda poultice into my flaming armpit and made me a sling to keep my arm still. Never did that again...sort of instant and short learning curve.

When my grandfather and I went fishing, it was always a grand experience. I got to ride up front in the old Plymouth (it was of course new then). No booster seat, no seat belts. The seats were made of wool and were as scratchy as hell on my legs (wearing shorts). We went fishing in a little river (stream) a few miles from my grandparent’s house. It had a rickety old swinging bridge that was fun (and scary) to walk across. This one time we did not have the proper stringer to keep the fish on, so we used a length of clothes line (before driers) and a spindle part off my grandmother’s sewing machine. Nobody messed with my grandmother’s kitchen and even fewer dared to touch her sewing machine. My brave grandfather snagged the part with the stipulation to me that we would go fishing for a few hours while my grandmother was visiting friends and get the part returned before she got home. No harm—no foul. Or so we thought. We caught a mess of fish and had a stringer full—until I dropped the stringer into the river and the little horde of strung-together fish just sort of swam away in front of our eyes. Nothing ever happened to me, but I am sure my grandfather paid the price.

One of my favorite pastimes, when I wasn’t pounding nails, going fishing, or aggravating wasps, was to go to Alaska [in my mind]. I mentioned there was a giant swamp cooler in a window in my grandparent’s bedroom. It would blast ice-cold air like a jet engine. I would pull a big overstuffed arm chair up in front of the cooler and fill it with all the goose-down pillows in the house. I would then climb into the chair and snuggle down under the pillows [including one on top of my head] until just my eyes and nose stuck out. I would carefully reach through the pillows and hit the on button. I was in Alaska! Could sit there for hours and imagine trekking to the North Pole. Remember: no day-time TV shows, no Nintendo, game boy, PC’s, computers, internet, etc. We had to use our imagination…it was a blast.
 
As the summers were hot and humid, my grandmother would have my sister and me take a bath each night, powder us down with foo-foo powder from a big, pink round box, and then we would lay down on a pallet [pal・let (pal′it) noun - a small bed or a pad filled as with straw and used directly on the floor] in front of the black-and-white TV (giant box, small screen) to watch Lawrence Welk. [We didn’t care for it much, but my grandmother loved it.] We would have root beer floats with cherries in them. 

No way at home would mom let us have a root beer float and watch TV before bed. It’s good to be spoiled by grandparents.

I REMEMBER- Train Your Brain to Have a Good Day

...that each of us has good days and bad days. Regardless of your age and circumstance, we each have unique criteria that determines whether we are "having a good day or a bad day". For some, it might be the weather or their hair, their job, their friends, clothes, money, health, etc. that determines the quality of their day.

A mentor of mine shared a mind trick with me some time ago that has kept me in "good days" for many years.

His advice was thus: "If a good friend, a colleague or trusted mentor called you in the morning, just as you woke up, and said how pleased he/she was with the honor of being your friend, how they admired your skills and work ethic, and how much they valued your character"....how would the rest of your day go [for me, I would be on Cloud 9 and I would be unbeatable that day]? Conversely, if that same respected and revered acquaintance called early in the morning and said how disappointed they were in your character, your abilities and lack of skills"....how would your day go [pretty bad I'd say]?

In both scenarios, nothing changed in who you were, what you can do, your skill set or level of experience. It was just your ears and your brain hearing words of encouragement and admiration or words of discouragement and negativity. Nothing real happened, just "PERCEIVED TRUTH". The truth is only just what we perceive it to be. Does the mere fact that someone I admire telling me that I am a great guy, make me a great guy? Does the mere fact that a stranger, co-worker, mentor telling me that I am a rotten guy, make me a rotten guy? No. So why do we let other people's opinion (and that is all it ever is) "make or break" our day?

The trick is to "train your brain" into believing what YOU tell it, not what other people tell it. If you mentally tell yourself every day (just like physical exercise - do it daily to get into shape and keep it up forever to stay in shape) that you are good, you are the best, you can do it, you will do it, etc. You don't get into physical shape overnight and this mental exercise is the same. Keep it up, and you will notice how increasingly immune you become to the discouraging elements that impact all of us daily. Soon you will be in a good mood all the time.

The encouragement of others doesn't necessarily "make our day"...because our day is already "made"...and the discouragement or negativity of others doesn't have to always bring us down...because we should believe something more positive. Thus, we each can always have "Another Day in Paradise".

When I was going through my radiation treatments [five days a week for seven weeks] I had to lie down on a hard, cold metal table and have this custom-fitted, hard plastic mask [covers entire head and tops of your shoulders] snapped down tight to the table, so you are immobile. VERY CLAUSTROPHOBIC! You can't move, scratch your nose, move your head or neck even the slightest inch...and you have to stay that way in a semi-darkened room, alone - all the tech's leave and stand behind a wall. Oh, yeah, and they stick a padded wooden stick deep in your mouth to keep your tongue from moving. All this is to insure pinpoint accuracy in the radiation treatment to the cancer tumors and not your healthy body parts...but, it is still very difficult to endure...I always joked that they probably had a host of S & M patients that paid extra for it. Rubber, leather and whips were optional, only bondage was covered by medical insurance.

You are alone with your over-active brain for about 15+ minutes daily for the radiation. I learned early on to bring my own CDs and have the tech play MY music during the treatment. You don't want to be tied down and trapped listening to [fill in blanks: Perry Como, John Denver, Rap, Country, bad Jazz, head-banger, etc.] music that some tech picked out. I knew each song was about three minutes long, so I counted the songs and when I got to number five, I knew I was about done - it was easier to hang in there if I was uncomfortable, mentally or physically.

My mental mantra during songs number one and three was "I can beat this Cancer", my mantra during songs number two and four was "I will beat this Cancer", and my mantra for song number five was "I did beat this Cancer". I just repeated it over and over, just like every morning, BEFORE you even open your eyes, before the alarm goes off, before you step on a tack, stub your toe, break a shoelace, discover your pants shrunk overnight, see your shoes need to be polished, but you are running late, burn the toast, drink that cold cup of coffee, get teenager back lip, spouse critcisim about what you are wearing today....BEFORE, all of that, conduct your own mental personal phone call from your most respected mentor - YOURSELF. Tell yourself you are great, you can do it, you are the best, etc. It is like a "force field" around you that the longer you practice it, the stronger it gets. Train your brain to believe that YOU are the respected mentor, that your message is the TRUTH, and it is stronger and more virile than any other message you will receive that day.

It certainly protected me in the Doctor's office the day I was told I had Tonsil Cancer. The next day I started my other Blog, "Another Day in Paradise". I reminded myself of all the good things I had in life: family, friends, experiences, stories, memories [say, maybe I should start a blog]. Even through the down side of treatment, weight loss, hair loss, throwing up, totaling my beloved PT Cruiser, falling down the stairs on my back in the night, multiple emergency room trips and hospital staya, etc. I was able to maintain a fairly positive outlook. I wish I had started this powerful practice earlier in my life.

So, here is the segue to stories I REMEMBER...

My daughter Sarah (10) was playing with a friend at our dining room table one cold and overcast weekend day. They had a boatload of colored play-dough and were making a "Buffet". Corn, hamburgers, tomatoes, apples, oranges, etc. ordained the table. The girls were quiet, no need to interfere.

Soon, Sarah was upstairs, crying in Lise's arms, sobbing "This is my worst day, ever".. Asking what happened, Lise soon discovered the problem. Each girl was making playdough fruit for the play-dough fruit basket. Sarah had made a large yellow pineapple with big green leaves sticking out the top. Apparently, the friend's perceived truth about the appearance of fruit was different than Sarah's and in her mind pineapples didn't have leaves (check out Dole sliced pineapple - it's true - no leaves in the can). The "clay pineapple abboration" that Sarah created was just too much for the friend to abide. We all know that feeling when something is bugging us and we just can't take it anymore.

So, the friend reaches over and plucked the leaves off Sarah's pineapple.

Sarah's was stunned, shocked and speechless. With big tears dripping down, she charged up the stairs to find solace in mom's arms [hmmm, I know an adult colleague that acts similarly when a bad thing happens in her day... she charges off to the mall/shoe store, credit card in hand to find solace - with a pint of ice cream thrown in at the end]. Sarah, sobbing in disbelief, cried "Mom, I wasn't doing anything wrong and she just reached over and yanked the leaves off my pineapple!"

What a great analogy for all of us. We all know just how she felt and how tenuous our daily happiness is when we allow others to be in a position to "yank the leaves off our pineapple". This now is a great Welton family story that permeates our lives. Our family conversation at the dinner table each night, now revolves around someone asking the others " How is your pineapple, today? Anybody try to pull the leaves off?"

A good day is when someone/something may have tried, but we were strong and true to ourselves and didn't let it get us down. A great day is when our pineapple was shining all day long...all leaves intact.

I REMEMBER- Decomposition is Age 40

...about fifteen years ago, Lise and I were newly married and she was still getting adjusted to an instant family when she inherited my three sons (wow, what a great name for a TV show...must work on that) along with me. I was about 46 and Lise was 36.

My mom [a school teacher for most of her life] was a big fan of "educational toys". She had supplied some great tools to read to the kids. At bedtime for the boys [about ages 10 -Ian, 8-Nick, 6-Dustin], we would pull out books, etc. for reading calm down time.

This particular night, the boys were all tucked in (very cool set-up I made - a stacking bunk bed for the older boys with a roll-out bed for Dustin that fit under the bottom bunk during the day) and we were picking out the reading story for that evening. We chose a science game. It was a series of questions appropriate for their ages.

The question and answer that stopped the game and brought down the house was this:

"At what point in the life cycle of living things does decomposition begin"? While Ian and Dustin mulled it over, Nick (8) waved his hand wildly in the air.

" Ok, Nick, when does decomposition begin?"

"I know, I know! At age 40!!!!!!!"

I never felt so old....Hell, I was six years into decomposition...no wonder. I, however, can now attest (15 years post event) and share with the world that there is indeed Life after Decomposition!

I REMEMBER - Hampster in the Pants

…I thought I had experienced just about everything, but got to add a new one to my cadre of stories recently. After telling Sarah to be careful about playing with her miniature hamster outside the cage, because it might get loose in the house (unwanted advice administered many times), the inevitable happened. Lillian (the Dwarf Hamster) made The Big Escape in Sarah's bedroom. Her room is like every child's room--far too much stuff for a dwarf hamster to hide in, behind, under, etc.

We had Mom, Dad, Sarah and her friend Heather all scrambling around with baskets, cupped hands, buckets, etc., trying to dig her out from behind stuff and catch her. We moved the bed, stacked toys, etc.

The poor little hamster was totally freaked out, scurrying around, past all these yelling, jumping, grabbing people. Finally, the hamster ran right at me and past me into the corner. Sarah jumped behind me to grab Lillian, and that is when the hamster decided to run up and hide in my pant leg. I stood up and grabbed the cuffs of my pants tight around my ankles. We finally had her captured--INSIDE MY PANTS! Now what to do? While I duck-walked to the bathroom with my hands holding the cuffs tight to my ankles, Lillian decided to explore her new environment by going up and down my legs and back and forth in my crotch and across my bottom. Lise and the girls were laughing hysterically, as if that would somehow magically help the situation! I managed, amidst the laughter and rodent antics, to hobble into the bathroom and hop into the tub. I was able to stand up and "encourage" the hamster to leave my pants and run down into the tub.

I can now recommend a unique and surefire way to capture loose hamsters in the house.

I REMEMBER - Paint on Ian's Head

...the time I took my oldest son to Home Depot on a father-son bonding trip to pick up building supplies. He was about 5 years old and loved to ride in the cart full of supplies. We had loaded the card with bricks and paint. For the life of me I cannot remember what the heck I was trying to build with bricks and paint, but that is what was in the cart...with Ian sitting on top.

So, we come out of the store and the little kid [Ian] says to the big kid [me]...."push it fast down the ramp for a ride, Dad" Why not? What could possibly go wrong? Off we go cruising down the ramp into the parking lot at less than supersonic speed, but still a bit too fast for the circumstances (that is how the highway patrol guy always describes it).

We leave the ramp at breakneck speed and head uncontrollably (no, you can't steer a shopping cart when you both are riding it and hanging on for dear life) toward a big pothole in the lot. "Of course it is always big fun, until somebody gets hurt" in my Mom's most disapproving voice was ringing in my ears, as we approached the pothole. Of course I was 41 and a responsible adult(?), so we were safe.

Yes, we hit the pothole and in very slow (painful-to-watch and yes, the parking lot was full of people watching this insane action) motion, and we began to tip over. I jumped off and grabbed the side of the tipping cart. Usually, holding up a tipping cart was a relatively easy thing to correct, but today, I had decided to fill the cart with heavy bricks [and paint]. It tipped over and try as I might, I could not hold it up with one hand. It crashed over and Ian and the bricks fell into the parking lot...Ian was ok and the bricks were ok. But, in a parallel universe that magically merged with this one, the paint flipped up and over and hit the bricks in a way that didn't even dent the can, but popped the lid off and dumped the paint over Ian's head.

Ian started to cry and I tried to wipe the paint off of him as best I could with a little rain water in a puddle next to the cart. It was a losing battle, so we loaded up the car and headed home. On the way, I coached him very carefully on what to do when we arrived home. He was very brave and very calm. We would pull into the driveway and quietly go to the side yard, get the hose out and wash him off before we went into the house...and under no circumstances would we let his mom know until we had it fixed. We agreed. Agreements with a five year old often don't hold up so well. We parked the car and I headed into the side yard to turn the hose on. Ian, instead of following me [as we had agreed], instead ran screaming up the walk into the front door yelling "Mom, Mom.....Dad dumped paint on my head."

It was a long cold day after that. Much funnier now. Ian now has his own son, Zak and I can only wish him a similar experience...many of them...and would like to hear how his private agreements with my grandson go.