This story goes back as far as the early 70s, long before I met Melodie but not before I first met a bicycle. For many troubled youths bicycling became an escape from a rough family life. They would travel into worlds unknown for as long as they could before returning home to a turbulent life. This was not the case for me.
I loved being on a bike for the simple joy of having the air blow in my face. I love to hear the sounds and smell the smells. I don’t know, maybe I’m part cocker spaniel or something. Anyway, I have had a bike (or 2 or 3) ever since I was old enough to ride “a two wheeler”. I dreamed of one day taking my bike on the open road. I had little, ok no, idea of what that entailed; but I was going to do it someday.
That day finally arrived in 1971, the summer between my years at James Monroe Jr. High and Burroughs High School. I don’t really recall where the genesis for this trip was but at some point my friend, Gary Woods, and I decided we would take a bike trip. I was 14 years old and Gary was 13 years old. Neither of us had a bike worthy of going but that didn’t deter us. Mine, was actually my sister Nancy’s bike, an old 10-speed Schwinn that she had paid $10 for at a yard sale.
We didn’t have modern day “panniers” which are bags that are attached to the frame near each wheel, so we improvised with what we knew. Being avid backpackers we simply devised a plan to secure my backpack to the bike rack on the rear. Dad found some angle metal that allowed us to cut and fashion the perfect solution. Once completed, I could take my backpack, set it on the base of the frame, just above the rear wheel, and strap it to the uprights. Gary’s bike came over for the same retrofit job. Once loaded this 25-30 pound pack made the bike extremely heavy and unstable, the entire weight of it all resting on what were probably $.15 bolts (only 3) attached to the bike frame.
Our plan, albeit loosely defined, was to get dropped of at Lone Pine where we would camp and fish for a few days and then we would ride our bikes back to Ridgecrest, a distance of 80 miles. The route would be Hwy 395, which even now is not a route I would call safe. Then it was mostly a 2-lane road with an occasional 3rd center lane for passing. The “bike lane” then and now could not have been more than 4 feet wide at its most generous point.
My dad drove us to Lone Pine on the appointed day and dropped us off at Tuttle Creek Campground, just about ¾ of a mile from the town center. There was a stream for fresh water and bathrooms nearby. The proximity of the town would facilitate both food and entertainment. We each had about $20 for the 4-day trip, but since we expected to catch and eat most of our dinners that seemed very doable.
We explored town and many of the side streets on our bikes. One day we rode our bikes about 4 miles up Whitney Portal Road to where we found excellent fishing. We both caught our maximum, coasted back to our camp, unloaded and head back up to do it again. Our youthfulness knew no limits of energy. One day we rode north to Independence, a distance of 32 miles round trip, just to eat a burger and milk shake. I don’t remember if the burger joint was our destination or simply what we did to once we arrived at the smaller town and county seat.
For four days and three nights we had an absolute blast. There were no beds to make, certainly no lawns to mow but best of all we were our own captains. We rode when we wanted, ate when we wanted, slept when we wanted and arose when we were good and ready. However there came a time when we were expected to be home so we prepared ourselves for the ride south.
We woke early that day and packed up our equipment and loaded them on the bikes. This was really going to be our first effort to ride any considerable distance with the racks fully loaded. After a few miles I knew this was going to be tougher than expected. Although we each had one water bottle fitted snuggly in a new bottle cage recently purchased from Western Auto on China Lake Blvd, we had absolutely no training; we had no tools or extra equipment for repairs and to top it off we didn’t have a two pennies to rub together.
I think my most vivid memory is of the heat and my unquenchable thirst. My water bottle became bone dry after 10 miles or so. At one point we were coasting down a hill and saw some greenery along side the road. There were a few cars pulled over there so we figured it must be a rest area of sorts and would certainly yield us more water for our bottles. We stopped. Not only was there no water to be had, we also lost all of our downhill momentum in the failed effort.
We continued on and after 20 miles we were nearing Cartago. There wasn’t much there, and certainly less today, except an auto repair shop and a few homes. About a mile from town I spotted and retrieved from the side of the road an 8-inch Crescent Wrench that someone had the misfortune of losing. I put it in my pocket for safekeeping.
Just as we were approaching Cartago part of the framework my dad and I had fashioned broke. This loose piece wanted to work its way into my spokes and made riding impossible. Now, you probably think that I’m going to tell you the wrench I found allowed me to fix the problem and triumphantly finish the ride. Not so. Who do you think I was, a 14-year old MacGyver?
The breakdown was a big problem. It quickly became evident that this was a showstopper. Gary and I never talked about it but I believe both of us were somewhat relieved that we had an excuse to abandon the trip. In our youthful excitement we had clearly bitten off more than we could chew or swallow. Today I wonder if our parents knew this and were willing to simply let us learn a life lesson. If not, then I have to ask, “Mom and Dad, what were you thinking?” Were you crazy? We were just 13 and 14.
Well, we limped our way into town and pulled into the auto repair shop. The mechanic took time to look at our problem and agreed there was no way to repair it without the likelihood that it would fail again just 5 miles down the road. We were going to have to call home to get rescued.
We had no money……but I did have that wrench. With little hesitation I accepted the offer from the mechanic to trade that wrench for 4 quarters. It was enough to make the call home and buy each of us a pop to quench our thirst while we waited for the ride to show.
I really wish I had pictures from this trip, as it was such a blast. Was it a failure? In some respects yes, and in other respects it was a launching pad to bigger and better things. I have continued to cycle since those days and have had much more success at planning and executing successful trips. Please see http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/ttfc for an example. Thanks for joining me on this adventure.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
It’s a Burger To Go
Each year the BFD would host an awards dinner. We would take all of the engines out of the main bay at Station 1, sweep, mop, set up tables and chairs and throw ourselves a party. This was the one and only time when alcohol was available at the firehouse, as wine was served that night. You might think it’s stupid for the one and only fire department in town to start drinking together but it wasn’t really that way. There was always about 15 or 20 men who didn’t drink at any time and this was no exception. Addtionally there were always designated firemen who were not allowed to leave the city limits. We called this “on standby” and this assignment rotated every 2 weeks. These 5 men had to stay at the firehouse even if the rest of us left the city limits. The logic being that we needed to be able to respond with a full engine company to the city limits at any given time. If you were designated as “on standby” during this dinner you also couldn’t drink. So, out of 55 firemen there were nearly half there that didn’t drink wine that night. Now that I have managed to digress a bit, I’ll continue.
This special awards dinner was the culminating night of the year for everyone. Awards and promotions were given and we wanted to honor each other and do so in front of our families that supported us throughout the year. I remember that every year as the event approached, Phil Moxley, the fire chief would always remind us to bring our families and guests in this manner, “Bring your wife or your girlfriend, but please don’t bring both. We don’t need that kind of mess that night”.
Here is another digression that I must take. At this dinner there were nearly 100 -120 people. Some had attended the dinner for years, others were new to the department or had just recently married or begun dating a fireman, but it was a huge crowd. Every year, Stan Lloyd, the Assistant Fire Chief would get up and without notes introduce everyone in attendance. He would simply go down the tables and say “This is Steve Perkins and his wife Melodie, next to them is Ray Walker and his date, Susan. Across from them is longtime friend of the fire department and widow of…..”, until everyone in that room was introduced. Occasionally he’d have to pause to remember a name of someone he had just met that night, but he’d do an amazing job. At the end there would be an applause. It was awesome.
Anyway, because the dinner was hosted by the members, we created a committee of about 5 guys to plan and present the awards, etc. For many years I was on that committee and enjoyed taking the time to plan and prepare. This required about 5 or 6 meetings in the months just proceeding the dinner. One Tuesday night I had barely made it home from work in time for the meeting so I simply picked up a couple of burgers and arrived just as the meeting started.
We began our discussion and I started chowing down my first burger. It was so good, because I was so hungry. I was only a few bites into it when our pagers went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, please respond to an auto accident, with possible extrication at North Sierra Highway and Tu Su Lane.” Before the announcement was finished we were all scrambling for the trucks. I ended up dressed and in the driver’s seat of Engine 5, our utility vehicle. I fired it up and realized since we were at the station it was still going to 2-3 minutes for enough men to staff that rig before I could roll. I hopped out, leaving Frank Carr in the passenger side and ran back and got my 2 burgers.
Shortly we had our crew and headed north on Main Street, full lights, siren and air horn, which by the way is so fun you wouldn’t believe it.
After a few blocks Frank looked over at me and said, “What are you doing?” It was at that point I realized I was driving code 3 with one hand and eating my burger with the other. I just looked him and said, “it’s a burger to go”, reached in the pocket of my jacket, pulled out my second and offered it up. “Do you want one?”
At this point we started laughing so hard at our ridiculous situation that it made it very tough to continue, but we managed to settle down by the time we had to pick up the radio and transmit, “Engine 5 to Bishop Base, We are on scene and in service”.
This special awards dinner was the culminating night of the year for everyone. Awards and promotions were given and we wanted to honor each other and do so in front of our families that supported us throughout the year. I remember that every year as the event approached, Phil Moxley, the fire chief would always remind us to bring our families and guests in this manner, “Bring your wife or your girlfriend, but please don’t bring both. We don’t need that kind of mess that night”.
Here is another digression that I must take. At this dinner there were nearly 100 -120 people. Some had attended the dinner for years, others were new to the department or had just recently married or begun dating a fireman, but it was a huge crowd. Every year, Stan Lloyd, the Assistant Fire Chief would get up and without notes introduce everyone in attendance. He would simply go down the tables and say “This is Steve Perkins and his wife Melodie, next to them is Ray Walker and his date, Susan. Across from them is longtime friend of the fire department and widow of…..”, until everyone in that room was introduced. Occasionally he’d have to pause to remember a name of someone he had just met that night, but he’d do an amazing job. At the end there would be an applause. It was awesome.
Anyway, because the dinner was hosted by the members, we created a committee of about 5 guys to plan and present the awards, etc. For many years I was on that committee and enjoyed taking the time to plan and prepare. This required about 5 or 6 meetings in the months just proceeding the dinner. One Tuesday night I had barely made it home from work in time for the meeting so I simply picked up a couple of burgers and arrived just as the meeting started.
We began our discussion and I started chowing down my first burger. It was so good, because I was so hungry. I was only a few bites into it when our pagers went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, please respond to an auto accident, with possible extrication at North Sierra Highway and Tu Su Lane.” Before the announcement was finished we were all scrambling for the trucks. I ended up dressed and in the driver’s seat of Engine 5, our utility vehicle. I fired it up and realized since we were at the station it was still going to 2-3 minutes for enough men to staff that rig before I could roll. I hopped out, leaving Frank Carr in the passenger side and ran back and got my 2 burgers.
Shortly we had our crew and headed north on Main Street, full lights, siren and air horn, which by the way is so fun you wouldn’t believe it.
After a few blocks Frank looked over at me and said, “What are you doing?” It was at that point I realized I was driving code 3 with one hand and eating my burger with the other. I just looked him and said, “it’s a burger to go”, reached in the pocket of my jacket, pulled out my second and offered it up. “Do you want one?”
At this point we started laughing so hard at our ridiculous situation that it made it very tough to continue, but we managed to settle down by the time we had to pick up the radio and transmit, “Engine 5 to Bishop Base, We are on scene and in service”.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
A sheepish Standby Call
I should have known this was going to be different. It was very unusual for my fire pager to go off and request a crew without being specific what the need was. This was one of those unusual calls.
It began about 2:00 in the morning. I don’t recall what year, but it was a wintery night. My pager went off like this, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, We need a standby crew to report to Station 1 for assignment”. My assumption was that we were receiving snow and needed to chain up trucks “just in case”.
I got dressed into my turnouts and drove to the firehouse with a bit less urgency than normal. My thoughts raced as questions entered my mind. If we needed to chain trucks, wouldn’t we do so at all 3 stations? And, how come I don’t see any snow at all?
I arrived at station 1 within minutes of the call. I stood and waited with the others until Chief Phil Moxley explained our assignment. North of town there was a wide sweeping turn near the “town” of Laws. It was a turn that could be taken at 50 mph, but not on an icy night. This particular night a tractor and trailer rig hauling a load of sheep was heading south and had not successfully negotiated this turn. It was on its side with the sheep trapped in the trailer. We needed to get the sheep out before a Class 1 wrecker could even attempt to right it.
We arrived on scene to find the scene exactly as described. There were about 200 sheep in this trailer that lay on its side. We had access to the side door but because the way the trailer was, that door was about 8 feet in the air. There was no way we could lift that many sheep to safety.
We made the decision to cut a section out of the back of the trailer, using a metal cutting saw blade and the Jaws of Life. It was harder work than imagined and we only opened a hole large enough to send small men in and sheep out. There was no way these sheep would exit on their own. Many sheep had not survived the accident and others were trapped beneath them. Those that were free were so scared from the accident and then from the equipment we used that they weren’t going anywhere near the hole we had just created.
We sent 3 men in; John Williamson, Dick Weller and Donny Kunze. All 3 were about 5’6” or so and weighed about 150 lbs. The sheep were scared beyond imagination. Most had urinated on themselves or each other. Add that smell to the natural sweet smell of 200 sheep, coupled with a cold crisp windless night and you had a situation that was nearly unbearable. It was great to be 6’1” at that time because the work inside the trailer was horrific.
My job along with the other 15 or so guys was to herd the sheep as they exited. Once the 3 men inside got a “victim” outside, the sheep would run the first direction it saw, which in most cases was back towards the highway. We had to grab and stop them, settle them down and give them a shove back towards the rest of the herd that was slowly growing about 75 yards from US Hwy 6.
After about 4 or 5 hours, we eventually extricated all of the living sheep but there were more than 80 that did not survive. Even though they were “just sheep” it remains a tragedy that could have been avoided by a more cautious driver.
Oh…my turnouts were not allowed in the house for weeks. They continued to smell like sheep urine and the only way to resolve this was to continuously scrub them and let them sit in the sun day after day after day, until the smell was gone.
It began about 2:00 in the morning. I don’t recall what year, but it was a wintery night. My pager went off like this, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, We need a standby crew to report to Station 1 for assignment”. My assumption was that we were receiving snow and needed to chain up trucks “just in case”.
I got dressed into my turnouts and drove to the firehouse with a bit less urgency than normal. My thoughts raced as questions entered my mind. If we needed to chain trucks, wouldn’t we do so at all 3 stations? And, how come I don’t see any snow at all?
I arrived at station 1 within minutes of the call. I stood and waited with the others until Chief Phil Moxley explained our assignment. North of town there was a wide sweeping turn near the “town” of Laws. It was a turn that could be taken at 50 mph, but not on an icy night. This particular night a tractor and trailer rig hauling a load of sheep was heading south and had not successfully negotiated this turn. It was on its side with the sheep trapped in the trailer. We needed to get the sheep out before a Class 1 wrecker could even attempt to right it.
We arrived on scene to find the scene exactly as described. There were about 200 sheep in this trailer that lay on its side. We had access to the side door but because the way the trailer was, that door was about 8 feet in the air. There was no way we could lift that many sheep to safety.
We made the decision to cut a section out of the back of the trailer, using a metal cutting saw blade and the Jaws of Life. It was harder work than imagined and we only opened a hole large enough to send small men in and sheep out. There was no way these sheep would exit on their own. Many sheep had not survived the accident and others were trapped beneath them. Those that were free were so scared from the accident and then from the equipment we used that they weren’t going anywhere near the hole we had just created.
We sent 3 men in; John Williamson, Dick Weller and Donny Kunze. All 3 were about 5’6” or so and weighed about 150 lbs. The sheep were scared beyond imagination. Most had urinated on themselves or each other. Add that smell to the natural sweet smell of 200 sheep, coupled with a cold crisp windless night and you had a situation that was nearly unbearable. It was great to be 6’1” at that time because the work inside the trailer was horrific.
My job along with the other 15 or so guys was to herd the sheep as they exited. Once the 3 men inside got a “victim” outside, the sheep would run the first direction it saw, which in most cases was back towards the highway. We had to grab and stop them, settle them down and give them a shove back towards the rest of the herd that was slowly growing about 75 yards from US Hwy 6.
After about 4 or 5 hours, we eventually extricated all of the living sheep but there were more than 80 that did not survive. Even though they were “just sheep” it remains a tragedy that could have been avoided by a more cautious driver.
Oh…my turnouts were not allowed in the house for weeks. They continued to smell like sheep urine and the only way to resolve this was to continuously scrub them and let them sit in the sun day after day after day, until the smell was gone.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Happy Birthday Melodie - 2009
Wow…it wasn’t easy converting my thoughts about Alessandra to words. This task however may prove to be impossible. Alas, challenging as it may be, I must try. There is no way that I can write a tribute to my wife in a page or two, but I will try my best to convey through images some of our experiences.
I first met Melodie in the fall of 1973. She was a 14 year old, giggly, outgoing freshman in high school. I, on the other hand, was a sophisticated junior. We were introduced by Melodie’s sister Candy, whom we lost to an untimely death in April 2005. It was my opinion that she was about the cutest girl to ever step foot on that campus. I didn’t let on to that but simply kept that opinion stored away.
Melodie & her mother Charlotte - 1976
I first met Melodie in the fall of 1973. She was a 14 year old, giggly, outgoing freshman in high school. I, on the other hand, was a sophisticated junior. We were introduced by Melodie’s sister Candy, whom we lost to an untimely death in April 2005. It was my opinion that she was about the cutest girl to ever step foot on that campus. I didn’t let on to that but simply kept that opinion stored away.
Melodie & her mother Charlotte - 1976
My best friend, Gary Tharp, and I would go to the campus early enough to sit down in the main portion of “The Quad”. Like most of our days we had no real purpose, other than to entertain ourselves at anyone else’s expense.
Melodie and her seminary carpool would arrive on campus shortly there after and walk past us. Occasionally she would stop to say hi, or wave as she passed, always with that awesome smile that has brought me so much joy over the years. One day after she gave me an encouraging look, I turned to my friend and said, “I’m gonna marry that girl someday.”
Our friendship continued for the next few years, most of that time spent somewhere between good acquaintances and friends. Let me just say that even though we had a few common interests, we ran in different circles.
After my High School graduation, I left town and went to Bakersfield to work and attend college. I returned to Ridgecrest (R/C) in the early fall of 1976 and spent much of my leisure time with my very good friend Dave Colpitts.
Melodie in front of my pickup - 1977
One evening Dave and I were walking through K-Mart when this same giggly, outgoing, now 17 year old senior literally jumped out from behind a clothing rack to stop me. She had seen me approaching and wanted to be sure to say “hi”. Well in the midst of our conversation she asked how long I had been back in R/C. When I replied, “since September”, she quickly retorted with these exact words. “You’ve been back for 4 months and you haven’t called me yet?” I stumbled out a befuddled reply, “er, I guess I’ll have to”. She confidently said, “Yes, it’s in the phonebook, on Coral”. She then turned on her toes and walked away.
Even with that obvious provocation, it took me 3 weeks to muster the courage to call her. Well I did and we had our first date on January 25, 1977 when we went to see the movie “Noah’s Ark” which was showing at the Ridge Theater.
We were inseparable for many weeks until I moved north to Bishop California where I had started a job as a firefighter with the California Dept. of Forestry. Unfortunately time and distance caused us to break it off after months of a “long distance” relationship. A work injury and 2 subsequent surgeries brought me back to R/C for recuperation later that year.
Melodie at my parents house - 1977 (no wonder I was twitterpated, sheeze)
I got in touch with her and she came by for a visit with her friend Kathy Kruse. It must have been extremely awkward for Kathy, because I felt there was this instant spark and rekindle between us and it seem like Kathy wasn’t even there as we visited.
Well, we’ve been together ever since. We were engaged in 1978 and married in 1979. Our union has brought me immense joy and satisfaction. Melodie has always been a blast to be with, always with a positive attitude. Never has there been a worry about what her mood would be like. She is fun, laughable, loveable, and beautiful beyond looks, caring, giving, and selfless.
Melodie in San Diego - 1978
We celebrated 30 years (28 beautiful years, not bad out of 30) just last April. I wonder how and why she invested so much in me. I’ll never understand her commitment to me but will always appreciate it. She is my rock, my buddy and pal, my partner in crime, my cycling mate, and the one who keeps me motivated. She has provided me with 3 daughters that bring such joy and blessings into my life.
Melodie & first fish - 1979 Bishop California
So, Melodie , Happy Birthday**. I love you….looking forward to many more of these great years with you.
(** Editorial note: This was posted one day late ‘cause yesterday was just crazy busy.)
Melodie and her seminary carpool would arrive on campus shortly there after and walk past us. Occasionally she would stop to say hi, or wave as she passed, always with that awesome smile that has brought me so much joy over the years. One day after she gave me an encouraging look, I turned to my friend and said, “I’m gonna marry that girl someday.”
Our friendship continued for the next few years, most of that time spent somewhere between good acquaintances and friends. Let me just say that even though we had a few common interests, we ran in different circles.
After my High School graduation, I left town and went to Bakersfield to work and attend college. I returned to Ridgecrest (R/C) in the early fall of 1976 and spent much of my leisure time with my very good friend Dave Colpitts.
Melodie in front of my pickup - 1977
One evening Dave and I were walking through K-Mart when this same giggly, outgoing, now 17 year old senior literally jumped out from behind a clothing rack to stop me. She had seen me approaching and wanted to be sure to say “hi”. Well in the midst of our conversation she asked how long I had been back in R/C. When I replied, “since September”, she quickly retorted with these exact words. “You’ve been back for 4 months and you haven’t called me yet?” I stumbled out a befuddled reply, “er, I guess I’ll have to”. She confidently said, “Yes, it’s in the phonebook, on Coral”. She then turned on her toes and walked away.
Even with that obvious provocation, it took me 3 weeks to muster the courage to call her. Well I did and we had our first date on January 25, 1977 when we went to see the movie “Noah’s Ark” which was showing at the Ridge Theater.
We were inseparable for many weeks until I moved north to Bishop California where I had started a job as a firefighter with the California Dept. of Forestry. Unfortunately time and distance caused us to break it off after months of a “long distance” relationship. A work injury and 2 subsequent surgeries brought me back to R/C for recuperation later that year.
Melodie at my parents house - 1977 (no wonder I was twitterpated, sheeze)
I got in touch with her and she came by for a visit with her friend Kathy Kruse. It must have been extremely awkward for Kathy, because I felt there was this instant spark and rekindle between us and it seem like Kathy wasn’t even there as we visited.
Well, we’ve been together ever since. We were engaged in 1978 and married in 1979. Our union has brought me immense joy and satisfaction. Melodie has always been a blast to be with, always with a positive attitude. Never has there been a worry about what her mood would be like. She is fun, laughable, loveable, and beautiful beyond looks, caring, giving, and selfless.
Melodie in San Diego - 1978
We celebrated 30 years (28 beautiful years, not bad out of 30) just last April. I wonder how and why she invested so much in me. I’ll never understand her commitment to me but will always appreciate it. She is my rock, my buddy and pal, my partner in crime, my cycling mate, and the one who keeps me motivated. She has provided me with 3 daughters that bring such joy and blessings into my life.
Melodie & first fish - 1979 Bishop California
So, Melodie , Happy Birthday**. I love you….looking forward to many more of these great years with you.
(** Editorial note: This was posted one day late ‘cause yesterday was just crazy busy.)
Monday, June 1, 2009
"I'm a Walker"
For some reason I am feeling a bit nostalgic this morning. It’s not because I turned 50 a few years ago; it’s not because Melodie is about to turn 50; it’s not because we recently celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary; it’s not because my mom just became a great-grandma on the 28th of May (welcome Ryder Walden); I think it’s because my youngest, the baby of the family, our little boogerbutt is turning 18 on Wednesday.
Wow…I remember very vividly the day she was born. It was in Bishop, California and she was my third daughter. For some reason I was in much better shape mentally to be a positive part of this birth and it was a great experience for me. After all of Melodie’s hard work the nurses whisked her off to be gently washed and wrapped so that I could hold her. They handed her to me a few minutes later and I didn’t let her go for nearly 4 hours. I’m not even sure I looked up at Melodie much. I studied that face and without really trying I had it memorized. It’s not that I was worried about it, but I thought to myself if someone mistakenly swaps babies, I’ll know it right away. I could have picked her out of 100 little girls, with one eye open and both hands tied behind my back.
At the time I had Sundays and Mondays off. Melodie said to me, “I don’t think that we can afford to send her to Mama Gail’s on Monday too, you’ll need to watch her by yourself.” Now even before Melodie had said that I just always assumed that I would be super dad on Mondays.
Monday did become my favorite day. While she slept I tidied the house, when she was awake I held her. As she got older, I would hold her in my arms and we spent hours dancing together to country music. (No wonder she considers herself a country girl). When she was a toddler we baked bread and made homemade bagels together as we waited for her older sisters to get home from school. Once they were in the house, I was forgotten as she moved on to play with them. She never knew she was younger than the others, always thinking she should be doing what they did.
When she was about 4 she wanted to learn to ride a 2 wheeler, as trikes were for kids. We put her on a tiny little black bike and started her out on the grass. This way is she fell down she would at least land on soft grass rather than pavement or concrete. Within days she was ready to graduate to harder surface so she could increase speed and momentum.
I took her next door to the parking lot of the Kindergarten at Elm St. School. She managed to ride very well right away, but it was amazing because with all that room to park 100-150 cars, she couldn't help but ride in circles around me and kept running into my legs. My shins were bruised for days.
It wasn’t long before she headed to Kindergarten class. He teacher was Mrs. White, who drove a Black VW bug and also Mrs. Black, who drove a white car. Our house was about 60 yards from the front door of the kindergarten class so she was expected to walk home. If you didn’t ride a bus, the teachers would put a yarn necklace around your neck with a laminated card that read, “I’m a Walker. I still have that card, it’s hanging with my bike tools in the garage.
She has been a walker, and often a runner, ever since, never slowing down to accomplish something she wanted to do. Like her two older sisters, Charlotte and Cara, she has made being a dad very easy, and extremely rewarding. With all my girls they succeed despite my limited efforts. I have had people tell me how good my girls are and what nice ladies they have become and I simply tell them that I just stayed out of the way.
In 2005, Ali and I rode hundreds of miles together on our tandem bike while we circumvented Washington State as we raised awareness for Celiac Disease. What a champ she was and continues to be.
So Alessandra graduates and heads to college soon. We will have an empty nest before fall sets in. A part of me is looking forward to this time but most of me is really sad. I love my girls. I miss having them around as much as they used to be. On the other hand I am so proud of who they are all becoming and it’s exciting to watch them grow.
So, to Alessandra, Ali, Alioops, Alibaba, AliBob, Bob & Robert; I wish you the best years to come. Thanks for the chance to be your dad.
Remember, You ARE a Walker.
Wow…I remember very vividly the day she was born. It was in Bishop, California and she was my third daughter. For some reason I was in much better shape mentally to be a positive part of this birth and it was a great experience for me. After all of Melodie’s hard work the nurses whisked her off to be gently washed and wrapped so that I could hold her. They handed her to me a few minutes later and I didn’t let her go for nearly 4 hours. I’m not even sure I looked up at Melodie much. I studied that face and without really trying I had it memorized. It’s not that I was worried about it, but I thought to myself if someone mistakenly swaps babies, I’ll know it right away. I could have picked her out of 100 little girls, with one eye open and both hands tied behind my back.
At the time I had Sundays and Mondays off. Melodie said to me, “I don’t think that we can afford to send her to Mama Gail’s on Monday too, you’ll need to watch her by yourself.” Now even before Melodie had said that I just always assumed that I would be super dad on Mondays.
Monday did become my favorite day. While she slept I tidied the house, when she was awake I held her. As she got older, I would hold her in my arms and we spent hours dancing together to country music. (No wonder she considers herself a country girl). When she was a toddler we baked bread and made homemade bagels together as we waited for her older sisters to get home from school. Once they were in the house, I was forgotten as she moved on to play with them. She never knew she was younger than the others, always thinking she should be doing what they did.
When she was about 4 she wanted to learn to ride a 2 wheeler, as trikes were for kids. We put her on a tiny little black bike and started her out on the grass. This way is she fell down she would at least land on soft grass rather than pavement or concrete. Within days she was ready to graduate to harder surface so she could increase speed and momentum.
I took her next door to the parking lot of the Kindergarten at Elm St. School. She managed to ride very well right away, but it was amazing because with all that room to park 100-150 cars, she couldn't help but ride in circles around me and kept running into my legs. My shins were bruised for days.
It wasn’t long before she headed to Kindergarten class. He teacher was Mrs. White, who drove a Black VW bug and also Mrs. Black, who drove a white car. Our house was about 60 yards from the front door of the kindergarten class so she was expected to walk home. If you didn’t ride a bus, the teachers would put a yarn necklace around your neck with a laminated card that read, “I’m a Walker. I still have that card, it’s hanging with my bike tools in the garage.
She has been a walker, and often a runner, ever since, never slowing down to accomplish something she wanted to do. Like her two older sisters, Charlotte and Cara, she has made being a dad very easy, and extremely rewarding. With all my girls they succeed despite my limited efforts. I have had people tell me how good my girls are and what nice ladies they have become and I simply tell them that I just stayed out of the way.
In 2005, Ali and I rode hundreds of miles together on our tandem bike while we circumvented Washington State as we raised awareness for Celiac Disease. What a champ she was and continues to be.
So Alessandra graduates and heads to college soon. We will have an empty nest before fall sets in. A part of me is looking forward to this time but most of me is really sad. I love my girls. I miss having them around as much as they used to be. On the other hand I am so proud of who they are all becoming and it’s exciting to watch them grow.
So, to Alessandra, Ali, Alioops, Alibaba, AliBob, Bob & Robert; I wish you the best years to come. Thanks for the chance to be your dad.
Remember, You ARE a Walker.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
"Dodge Darts" Anyone?
So the other day I was listening to my favorite radio talk show host, Dori Monson. He read a news story where an “adult” was injured slightly while playing “Lighter Fluid Tag”. His clothes had caught fire and it seems he was burned a bit.
Duh… Apparently the game is played by squirting some lighter fluid on your own clothes. The fluid is lit by someone else while you try to put the fire out. You are “IT” until you put it out and can then light someone else on fire and the whole process starts over.
Well this led to a radio discussion of how stupid these guys were but it didn’t take long for the conversation to change to all the stupid things the rest of us had done, including some surprisingly near death experiences. Turns out these morons weren’t that different at all.
So at dinner that night Ali asks me to tell the story of “Dodge Darts”. Apparently mom had put her up to it. Well I told it and of course then realized it needs to be put on my blog of stories.
So here goes nothing…..
This story begins in the 60s when I was about 7 or 8 years old. My family was headed over to Bill and Marilyn Porter’s house for dinner one night. David and I were dressed and ready to go while the rest of the family was pulling it together. It was cool fall evening so we were wearing sweaters with stylish baggy sleeves.
We headed outside and before we know it we found a dart with a sharp metal tip. We tossed it around for a bit and then we had the bright idea to begin a game of “Dodge Darts”. We had never played before and rules were not established. That didn’t matter as each of us soon realized the dart is thrown at you and it was your job to avoid it.
Because David was 10 years old, was much more skilled, and carried an ornery streak, he was much better at this than I was. Before we both knew it he had landed a solid strike in my inner forearm of my left arm. He looked at me, I looked at him and neither of us had the nerve to pull it out. At this exact moment my parents came out the back door with the announcement. “in the car, let’s go”. I acted quickly. Knowing my dad would be furious at our stupidity I did what any smart kid had would do. I pulled my rolled up sweater sleeve back down to my wrist and hid the dart under it. “That’ll fix it”, I thought. “We’ll just deal with this later”.
Well the drive to the Porters was at least 15 minutes to get from our house and onto the base. We had a good dinner but I really wasn’t in the mood for much food. The dinner had been served and all the kids were in the backyard tossing balls, climbing trees, etc. I, for some reason, felt more like sitting inside with the adults and remaining still. It had probably been about an hour and a half since the initial impact and I was turning green.
My dad came over and said to me, “Son, why are you sitting in here with us old folks, why don’t you go out and play with the others?” By this time I was about in tears from the pain in my arm. I tried but couldn’t utter a word. I simply reached down and pulled the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow exposing the dart still stuck in my left arm.
Well I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I am pretty sure my dad pulled it out….hold on…yeah it’s gone. I don’t recall what kind of trouble I got into for that stunt but if history repeats itself I would guess that I went to bed as soon as we got home and David was given seconds on dessert.
Duh… Apparently the game is played by squirting some lighter fluid on your own clothes. The fluid is lit by someone else while you try to put the fire out. You are “IT” until you put it out and can then light someone else on fire and the whole process starts over.
Well this led to a radio discussion of how stupid these guys were but it didn’t take long for the conversation to change to all the stupid things the rest of us had done, including some surprisingly near death experiences. Turns out these morons weren’t that different at all.
So at dinner that night Ali asks me to tell the story of “Dodge Darts”. Apparently mom had put her up to it. Well I told it and of course then realized it needs to be put on my blog of stories.
So here goes nothing…..
This story begins in the 60s when I was about 7 or 8 years old. My family was headed over to Bill and Marilyn Porter’s house for dinner one night. David and I were dressed and ready to go while the rest of the family was pulling it together. It was cool fall evening so we were wearing sweaters with stylish baggy sleeves.
We headed outside and before we know it we found a dart with a sharp metal tip. We tossed it around for a bit and then we had the bright idea to begin a game of “Dodge Darts”. We had never played before and rules were not established. That didn’t matter as each of us soon realized the dart is thrown at you and it was your job to avoid it.
Because David was 10 years old, was much more skilled, and carried an ornery streak, he was much better at this than I was. Before we both knew it he had landed a solid strike in my inner forearm of my left arm. He looked at me, I looked at him and neither of us had the nerve to pull it out. At this exact moment my parents came out the back door with the announcement. “in the car, let’s go”. I acted quickly. Knowing my dad would be furious at our stupidity I did what any smart kid had would do. I pulled my rolled up sweater sleeve back down to my wrist and hid the dart under it. “That’ll fix it”, I thought. “We’ll just deal with this later”.
Well the drive to the Porters was at least 15 minutes to get from our house and onto the base. We had a good dinner but I really wasn’t in the mood for much food. The dinner had been served and all the kids were in the backyard tossing balls, climbing trees, etc. I, for some reason, felt more like sitting inside with the adults and remaining still. It had probably been about an hour and a half since the initial impact and I was turning green.
My dad came over and said to me, “Son, why are you sitting in here with us old folks, why don’t you go out and play with the others?” By this time I was about in tears from the pain in my arm. I tried but couldn’t utter a word. I simply reached down and pulled the sleeve of my sweater up to my elbow exposing the dart still stuck in my left arm.
Well I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I am pretty sure my dad pulled it out….hold on…yeah it’s gone. I don’t recall what kind of trouble I got into for that stunt but if history repeats itself I would guess that I went to bed as soon as we got home and David was given seconds on dessert.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
"a helluva job”
It is my experience that firemen are really just boys who have grown up enough to play with fire and do it legally. During training sessions we built our own fires, the bigger the better, and practiced putting them out. The day we were given an abandoned house “to burn”, was like winning the lottery. It was what we enjoyed doing.
That being said, there is nothing worse for a fireman, especially a volunteer, than having days or even weeks go by without a fire call. I know that this sounds weird, but it gets depressing. Well this story begins at the end of a 3-week dry spell for fires in Bishop California.
Our pagers went off at about 4:00 in the afternoon. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a brush fire in Round Valley near Horton Creek Campground, Please respond.” Immediately my heart pounded. Was it excitement, was it joy, or a combination? Who cares!!
I responded to Station 1 and knew that we were to take the large brush trucks. I jumped into Engine 14 and looked to the driver’s seat to see Hugh Henderson. Hugh had joined the fire department a few years after I had, but was very experienced and I had no concerns about responding with him as the Engineer. I preferred to be “just” the firefighter on this rig anyway because the action was better. I would get to stand on the front deck and run the permanently mounted nozzle as Hugh slowly inched the former military AWD vehicle through the fire scene.
As we approached the scene, which was about 10 miles from the firehouse we could see a large column of black smoke. We got so excited that we looked at each other and then shared an enthusiastic high five amidst our whooping and hollering. We knew that there was going to be lots of action and we would tackle a good portion of it.
As we pulled onto the scene we could see that nearly 60 acres were already blackened, smoldering or on fire. The area was completely fenced with a barbed wire and 6x6 post fencing. We came to a stop and Phil Moxley, the fire chief, stepped up onto the side running board. He looked at us and he said, “There is a CDF (California Dept. of Forestry) truck that has gotten themselves in a bit of a pickle. They went too far into the fire scene and the engine on their truck has died. They can’t get it restarted and the crew of 4 is in danger. Go in and get ‘em out.” Knowing there was no time to find a gate to enter, he looked at the fence then back at Hugh and said, "take it out".
Hugh put the 6 wheel drive vehicle in low gear and we proceeded to simply drive over the fence line, knocking down fence post and wire as if it were made of balsam wood.
We went directly to the stranded crew, attached a chain to the front of their vehicle and with little or no effort we were able to pull them about 200 yards into the burn area** and to safety. Here the CDF mechanics would be able to restart the engine without any concerns of safety.
(note: ** When you are on a brush fire and you are in danger of being overrun by a fire that may have turned back, the safest place to be is “in the burn”. It’s hard for a fire to come back through and burn an area that has been burned previously. It might be smoky, but it is safe.)
Once this crew was safe we could put our efforts into fire suppression. By this time Engine 9 had also arrived and between the 2 of us and one small dozer from the US Forest Service, we knocked that fire down in a few hours. Our tactic was to attack each flank with a different rig and try to pinch it at the point. This took careful work as the fire could always flare back up behind you and surprise you. Once we and Engine 9 met at the point we had pretty much surrounded the entire fire with only a few small spot fires within. This allowed the local hand crews, staffed by prisoners, to complete the mop up work.
The engine crew we had saved still had not been able to get their rig running so we really handled the fire all by ourselves, even though it was within the jurisdiction of the CDF. And to top it off we managed to keep it from running up the face of Mt. Tom, which would have been extremely disastrous as the fire entered the Inyo National Forest.
As if the fire fighting that day hadn’t been enough, the crowning moment was when the Chief for the CDF station came on the radio and said for all of humanity to hear, “you Bishop boys did a helluva a job out there today.”
That being said, there is nothing worse for a fireman, especially a volunteer, than having days or even weeks go by without a fire call. I know that this sounds weird, but it gets depressing. Well this story begins at the end of a 3-week dry spell for fires in Bishop California.
Our pagers went off at about 4:00 in the afternoon. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a brush fire in Round Valley near Horton Creek Campground, Please respond.” Immediately my heart pounded. Was it excitement, was it joy, or a combination? Who cares!!
I responded to Station 1 and knew that we were to take the large brush trucks. I jumped into Engine 14 and looked to the driver’s seat to see Hugh Henderson. Hugh had joined the fire department a few years after I had, but was very experienced and I had no concerns about responding with him as the Engineer. I preferred to be “just” the firefighter on this rig anyway because the action was better. I would get to stand on the front deck and run the permanently mounted nozzle as Hugh slowly inched the former military AWD vehicle through the fire scene.
As we approached the scene, which was about 10 miles from the firehouse we could see a large column of black smoke. We got so excited that we looked at each other and then shared an enthusiastic high five amidst our whooping and hollering. We knew that there was going to be lots of action and we would tackle a good portion of it.
As we pulled onto the scene we could see that nearly 60 acres were already blackened, smoldering or on fire. The area was completely fenced with a barbed wire and 6x6 post fencing. We came to a stop and Phil Moxley, the fire chief, stepped up onto the side running board. He looked at us and he said, “There is a CDF (California Dept. of Forestry) truck that has gotten themselves in a bit of a pickle. They went too far into the fire scene and the engine on their truck has died. They can’t get it restarted and the crew of 4 is in danger. Go in and get ‘em out.” Knowing there was no time to find a gate to enter, he looked at the fence then back at Hugh and said, "take it out".
Hugh put the 6 wheel drive vehicle in low gear and we proceeded to simply drive over the fence line, knocking down fence post and wire as if it were made of balsam wood.
We went directly to the stranded crew, attached a chain to the front of their vehicle and with little or no effort we were able to pull them about 200 yards into the burn area** and to safety. Here the CDF mechanics would be able to restart the engine without any concerns of safety.
(note: ** When you are on a brush fire and you are in danger of being overrun by a fire that may have turned back, the safest place to be is “in the burn”. It’s hard for a fire to come back through and burn an area that has been burned previously. It might be smoky, but it is safe.)
Once this crew was safe we could put our efforts into fire suppression. By this time Engine 9 had also arrived and between the 2 of us and one small dozer from the US Forest Service, we knocked that fire down in a few hours. Our tactic was to attack each flank with a different rig and try to pinch it at the point. This took careful work as the fire could always flare back up behind you and surprise you. Once we and Engine 9 met at the point we had pretty much surrounded the entire fire with only a few small spot fires within. This allowed the local hand crews, staffed by prisoners, to complete the mop up work.
The engine crew we had saved still had not been able to get their rig running so we really handled the fire all by ourselves, even though it was within the jurisdiction of the CDF. And to top it off we managed to keep it from running up the face of Mt. Tom, which would have been extremely disastrous as the fire entered the Inyo National Forest.
As if the fire fighting that day hadn’t been enough, the crowning moment was when the Chief for the CDF station came on the radio and said for all of humanity to hear, “you Bishop boys did a helluva a job out there today.”
Monday, May 4, 2009
Where in the world is Alessandra from?
For years we have been astounded at the individuals that will ask Alessandra what race she is. She has had school chums ask her if she was part black, part Mexican, full Mexican or Asian. I mean to tell you this has happened probably 40 or more times over the past 8 years or so. It’s uncanny.
What is even stranger is that people will ask her are you “fill-in-the-blank”? And the most common fill in the blank is “Guatemalan”. I once was talking with a ward member who had served a 2-year mission in Guatemala and I asked him his opinion about this. His answer was, “you know I can see it. Put her in native dress and she definitely would pass as a Guatemalan native”. Crazy!!
Anyway the reason I bring this up, the other day Ali was cleaning her room and came a cross a notebook where she had written down a few of these exchanges with strangers and/or school mates. Here are a few good ones.
1. The three of us are at Taco Bell in Yakima. Ali is holding our table while Melodie and I order the food. Her hair is braided very tightly for a week of Young Women’s Camp. A 60ish black woman walks by and stops. She says, “Who braided your hair?” Ali replies with “My mom”. The woman says back, “Oh is she black?”
2. Troy, a black student in the high school band, asks Ali to produce a picture of her mom. He wants to figure out why she turned out so “not white”.
3. While on a trip to Washington DC after 8th grade a young lady, who has one white parent and one black parent confesses that she thought Ali was always of the same parentage.
4. During a band performance the Saxophone section queries Ali.
Saxes: Are you black?
Ali: No I’m not.
Saxes: Asian?
Ali: No.
Saxes: You mean you’re white?
Ali: Yes.
Saxes: You sure you’re not Puerto Rican?
All this racial background and there’s no college money. Where is the “Guatemalan/Part Black/Asian/Maybe Puerto Rican College Fund” when you need it? It’s just not right.
What is even stranger is that people will ask her are you “fill-in-the-blank”? And the most common fill in the blank is “Guatemalan”. I once was talking with a ward member who had served a 2-year mission in Guatemala and I asked him his opinion about this. His answer was, “you know I can see it. Put her in native dress and she definitely would pass as a Guatemalan native”. Crazy!!
Anyway the reason I bring this up, the other day Ali was cleaning her room and came a cross a notebook where she had written down a few of these exchanges with strangers and/or school mates. Here are a few good ones.
1. The three of us are at Taco Bell in Yakima. Ali is holding our table while Melodie and I order the food. Her hair is braided very tightly for a week of Young Women’s Camp. A 60ish black woman walks by and stops. She says, “Who braided your hair?” Ali replies with “My mom”. The woman says back, “Oh is she black?”
2. Troy, a black student in the high school band, asks Ali to produce a picture of her mom. He wants to figure out why she turned out so “not white”.
3. While on a trip to Washington DC after 8th grade a young lady, who has one white parent and one black parent confesses that she thought Ali was always of the same parentage.
4. During a band performance the Saxophone section queries Ali.
Saxes: Are you black?
Ali: No I’m not.
Saxes: Asian?
Ali: No.
Saxes: You mean you’re white?
Ali: Yes.
Saxes: You sure you’re not Puerto Rican?
All this racial background and there’s no college money. Where is the “Guatemalan/Part Black/Asian/Maybe Puerto Rican College Fund” when you need it? It’s just not right.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Me, Bucky and a Standby Crew
Bishop Fire Dept had a well-established rule that rookies of 2 years or less could not ride on the first responding engine unless he was the third man. The logic being that the engineer had to run the pump upon arrival and if you were the only other first responder you should have more than 2 years experience and know what hose to deploy and how to do it effectively and safely.
This rule applied to both Standby Crews and a full response fire alarm. Let me explain the difference. 9 times out of 10 our pagers would go off and we would respond Code 3, full lights and siren, to the scene. Other times we would be asked to send a “standby crew”, which meant send one or 2 trucks to help out with a situation or to check out a situation further pending a full response. We would drive the speed limit and not use any lights or sirens to respond to a standby call. Examples of a standby crew call would be to help free a horse whose foot had gotten stuck inside a cattle gate, or maybe to a small brush fire the size of a bathroom that had no chance of spreading.
This particular day in 1985 our pagers went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, please send a standby crew to the 2900 block of Mesquite Drive to check a report of an electrical smell”. I responded, as did others, to Station 1 and Jeff “Bucky” Stewart was firing up Engine 10. Bucky was always excitable and did all but order me into Engine 10. He wanted to get going and didn’t want to wait. I reminded him that I was a rookie and shouldn’t respond in Engine 10, to which he replied, “it’s only a standby call…get in”.
We headed west on W. Line Street and less than a block later our pagers went off again. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, callers report a heavy electrical smell.” We continued on and once more our pagers went off 2 blocks later, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, we now have a report of smoke coming from electrical sockets”. As we debated whether we should hit the lights and siren our pagers went off a third time in less than 5 blocks, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, this is now a possible structure fire”.
By this time I realized someone was going to have a word with me about why I was on Engine 10 as a rookie. I was getting more nervous and our pagers went off one last time, Attention Bishop Volunteers, attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a fully involved structure fire, please respond full Code”.
We were at the intersection of W. Line and Home Street, a distance of only 7 blocks from the firehouse and this call had escalated from a standby call to a fully involved structure fire. Amazing! I looked at Bucky and wondered what he had gotten me into.
We arrived on scene to find the fire was contained in the garage, but it was ‘burning good” as we used to say. As Bucky put the PTO in gear and started the pump I pulled the 1 ½" line off the middle compartment and stretched it toward the garage. We carried about 400 gallons, our pump at full capacity would deliver 150 gallons per minutes; so that meant that I had just under 3 minutes to get a handle on this fire all the time praying that Engine 4 would be right behind us.
Well, we did a good job that day. We managed to knock the fire down enough for Engine 4 to come in and complete the mop up with its payload. The assistant Fire Chief, Stan Lloyd came up to me and complimented my efforts, turned to walk away and then paused. He looked up and said don’t get yourself in that situation again, Perkins.
This rule applied to both Standby Crews and a full response fire alarm. Let me explain the difference. 9 times out of 10 our pagers would go off and we would respond Code 3, full lights and siren, to the scene. Other times we would be asked to send a “standby crew”, which meant send one or 2 trucks to help out with a situation or to check out a situation further pending a full response. We would drive the speed limit and not use any lights or sirens to respond to a standby call. Examples of a standby crew call would be to help free a horse whose foot had gotten stuck inside a cattle gate, or maybe to a small brush fire the size of a bathroom that had no chance of spreading.
This particular day in 1985 our pagers went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, please send a standby crew to the 2900 block of Mesquite Drive to check a report of an electrical smell”. I responded, as did others, to Station 1 and Jeff “Bucky” Stewart was firing up Engine 10. Bucky was always excitable and did all but order me into Engine 10. He wanted to get going and didn’t want to wait. I reminded him that I was a rookie and shouldn’t respond in Engine 10, to which he replied, “it’s only a standby call…get in”.
We headed west on W. Line Street and less than a block later our pagers went off again. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, callers report a heavy electrical smell.” We continued on and once more our pagers went off 2 blocks later, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, we now have a report of smoke coming from electrical sockets”. As we debated whether we should hit the lights and siren our pagers went off a third time in less than 5 blocks, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, this is now a possible structure fire”.
By this time I realized someone was going to have a word with me about why I was on Engine 10 as a rookie. I was getting more nervous and our pagers went off one last time, Attention Bishop Volunteers, attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a fully involved structure fire, please respond full Code”.
We were at the intersection of W. Line and Home Street, a distance of only 7 blocks from the firehouse and this call had escalated from a standby call to a fully involved structure fire. Amazing! I looked at Bucky and wondered what he had gotten me into.
We arrived on scene to find the fire was contained in the garage, but it was ‘burning good” as we used to say. As Bucky put the PTO in gear and started the pump I pulled the 1 ½" line off the middle compartment and stretched it toward the garage. We carried about 400 gallons, our pump at full capacity would deliver 150 gallons per minutes; so that meant that I had just under 3 minutes to get a handle on this fire all the time praying that Engine 4 would be right behind us.
Well, we did a good job that day. We managed to knock the fire down enough for Engine 4 to come in and complete the mop up with its payload. The assistant Fire Chief, Stan Lloyd came up to me and complimented my efforts, turned to walk away and then paused. He looked up and said don’t get yourself in that situation again, Perkins.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Alessandra – Seldom at a loss for words
I have a couple of stories that will illustrate Alessandra’s vocal skills. Not only can she talk a lot, but she can “say the darndest things”.
1. Until she entered Kindergarten she spent much of her days at “Mama Gail’s”, which was at Gail Paul’s, her babysitter. It seemed like so much happened during those short hours that during the 7 minute drive home she would just talk my ear off. If she got done with her stories before we got home then she’d just start back at the beginning and go through them again.
One particular day, when she was about 3, my mind was mulling over a technical problem at work and I just wasn’t up for any noise beyond what was already going on in my head. As she began a rerun of story she’d just finished, I stopped her rather abruptly. “Ali”, I said “you’ve gotta stop talking, I need to think”. There was a brief silence until I glanced over at her and noticed she was quite upset. She looked at me through her glistening eyes and quietly said, ‘I just don’t know how to stop”.
2. In the mid 90s we got our first cellular phone. It was that ever-popular Motorola flip phone that weighed about 2.5 pounds. One day when she was 3 years old we let her place a call to one of Melodie’s friends. They talked for just a few minutes and then she hung up. She handed her mom the phone back and with no emotion whatsoever said, ‘hmm, now I know how to use a cell phone”, as if it was on a “to do’ list to be checked off.
3. About this same time we were driving in my pickup on North Main Street in Bishop. A 60s era Chevy El Camino passed us on the roadway. She exclaimed, “Hey Dad….look at that thing. It’s not really a car and it’s not really a truck. What’s the point?” I looked at her and in all the seriousness I could muster simply uttered back. “That’s a question that no one is able to answer.”
Oops….gotta run, Ali’s calling on the phone.
1. Until she entered Kindergarten she spent much of her days at “Mama Gail’s”, which was at Gail Paul’s, her babysitter. It seemed like so much happened during those short hours that during the 7 minute drive home she would just talk my ear off. If she got done with her stories before we got home then she’d just start back at the beginning and go through them again.
One particular day, when she was about 3, my mind was mulling over a technical problem at work and I just wasn’t up for any noise beyond what was already going on in my head. As she began a rerun of story she’d just finished, I stopped her rather abruptly. “Ali”, I said “you’ve gotta stop talking, I need to think”. There was a brief silence until I glanced over at her and noticed she was quite upset. She looked at me through her glistening eyes and quietly said, ‘I just don’t know how to stop”.
2. In the mid 90s we got our first cellular phone. It was that ever-popular Motorola flip phone that weighed about 2.5 pounds. One day when she was 3 years old we let her place a call to one of Melodie’s friends. They talked for just a few minutes and then she hung up. She handed her mom the phone back and with no emotion whatsoever said, ‘hmm, now I know how to use a cell phone”, as if it was on a “to do’ list to be checked off.
3. About this same time we were driving in my pickup on North Main Street in Bishop. A 60s era Chevy El Camino passed us on the roadway. She exclaimed, “Hey Dad….look at that thing. It’s not really a car and it’s not really a truck. What’s the point?” I looked at her and in all the seriousness I could muster simply uttered back. “That’s a question that no one is able to answer.”
Oops….gotta run, Ali’s calling on the phone.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Who’s Gonna Kick Daddy’s Butt?
When I joined the fire department in 1984, they gave me a BFD ball cap and a badge. Eventually I was given a white uniform shirt with Bishop Fire Department and American flag patches, etc. This shirt along with a clean pair of Wranglers and cowboy boots combined to make our “dress uniform”. Why we had a dress uniform is beyond me. We seldom wore them except during Fire Prevention Week each October, at parades and solemnly at funerals.
Regardless of the reason I had one, I was very proud of it. It was a source of much pride and unfortunately, in my case, much trouble.
The story begins in January of 1988. It had been a cold, snowy day in Bishop and when we all got home from work and school it was decided that we would go get some dinner. The four of us (pre Alessandra) all piled into our 1986 Nissan Sentra and headed through the dark of the night to El Charro Avitia on North Main St. We liked going to this place because Melodie knew the owner and half the time he’d walk by us and take our bill from us before we could pay it.
While driving there, a large Ford truck turned into the lane next to me and nearly cut me off. When the driver saw how close it was he made a pivotal decision. Rather than slow down and come in the lane behind me, the driver gunned it and whipped in front of me, fishtailing as he did so. This only served to further fuel the ire that had welled up almost instantly.
The actions of the driver caused me to presume it was a 17 year old local boy with no common sense and I began the chase. I pulled up along side of him just to see what this idiot looked like. Without any thought to the matter and certainly no thought to the potential outcome I whipped out my fire department badge and flashed it at the driver. After all, this kid wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between my badge and a cop’s badge. He needed to learn a lesson and I, in my wisdom, had appointed myself the teacher.
As the badge was flashed I realized this wasn’t a kid at all, it was an adult. By the look on his face I could tell he had taken notice. Well….it didn’t matter; even adults, lousy driving adults, could use a scare now and then.
I pulled ahead and by this time had passed my destination. Chips and Salsa were calling and I wasn’t going to waste any more time with this guy. I pulled into the Copeland Lumber parking lot so that I could turn south on Main St and back to dinner. I look in the mirror…geez this guy pulls in behind me and by now I can tell he’s a big dude.
I’m already getting looks from Melodie for flashing the badge, but I take off anyway and head south, but this guy follows me South on Main St. Now I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of my wife, because she is awesome in every situation. However, the first words out her mouth are, “he’s gonna kick your butt.” She repeated this several times as I headed south.
Cara and Charlotte unbuckle themselves and start defrosting the rear window with the sleeves of their jackets, all the time 5 year old Cara is asking, “who’s gonna kick daddy’s butt…who’s gonna kick daddy’s butt?” I tell the girls to sit back down and put their belts on. They do so as Cara asks again, "but who's gonna kick your butt daddy?".
By this time I decide that if that is going to happen it’s going to be at the police station. I drive there and park on the side of the station, all the while I was pretending I never saw this guy following me.
With all the confidence that Melodie had recently instilled in me I stepped from the car only to find he had parked behind me and was exiting his truck too. This guy was huge, probably 6 inches and 100 pounds bigger than me. He called out, “hey, I wanna talk to you”. I looked up and feigned that I was surprised to see him. He continued, “man I owe you an apology…I’m a retired state police from Nevada and I was way out of line back there. I was trying to get your attention, didn’t you see me?” I answered that I hadn’t seen him behind me at all.
After a few minutes of his apologizing and my accepting of his apology, he asked, “so what were you doing here?” Once again, quick on my feet, I declared, “this is the police station; I was going in to file a report.” Of course we agreed that there was no reason to do so.
After about 5 minutes of visiting by the hood of his truck we shook hands and departed company. The whole time the occupants of my car were staring through the rear window at the exchange we were having. I entered the car to Melodie’s silence. Finally she broke it, “what happened”, she asked? I thought for a moment and said, “I gave him a warning.”
From that moment on my fire department badge went on a long sabbatical, only returning to my possession in time to wear it to a funeral of longtime firefighter and friend of the department, Bobby Richards.
Regardless of the reason I had one, I was very proud of it. It was a source of much pride and unfortunately, in my case, much trouble.
The story begins in January of 1988. It had been a cold, snowy day in Bishop and when we all got home from work and school it was decided that we would go get some dinner. The four of us (pre Alessandra) all piled into our 1986 Nissan Sentra and headed through the dark of the night to El Charro Avitia on North Main St. We liked going to this place because Melodie knew the owner and half the time he’d walk by us and take our bill from us before we could pay it.
While driving there, a large Ford truck turned into the lane next to me and nearly cut me off. When the driver saw how close it was he made a pivotal decision. Rather than slow down and come in the lane behind me, the driver gunned it and whipped in front of me, fishtailing as he did so. This only served to further fuel the ire that had welled up almost instantly.
The actions of the driver caused me to presume it was a 17 year old local boy with no common sense and I began the chase. I pulled up along side of him just to see what this idiot looked like. Without any thought to the matter and certainly no thought to the potential outcome I whipped out my fire department badge and flashed it at the driver. After all, this kid wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between my badge and a cop’s badge. He needed to learn a lesson and I, in my wisdom, had appointed myself the teacher.
As the badge was flashed I realized this wasn’t a kid at all, it was an adult. By the look on his face I could tell he had taken notice. Well….it didn’t matter; even adults, lousy driving adults, could use a scare now and then.
I pulled ahead and by this time had passed my destination. Chips and Salsa were calling and I wasn’t going to waste any more time with this guy. I pulled into the Copeland Lumber parking lot so that I could turn south on Main St and back to dinner. I look in the mirror…geez this guy pulls in behind me and by now I can tell he’s a big dude.
I’m already getting looks from Melodie for flashing the badge, but I take off anyway and head south, but this guy follows me South on Main St. Now I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of my wife, because she is awesome in every situation. However, the first words out her mouth are, “he’s gonna kick your butt.” She repeated this several times as I headed south.
Cara and Charlotte unbuckle themselves and start defrosting the rear window with the sleeves of their jackets, all the time 5 year old Cara is asking, “who’s gonna kick daddy’s butt…who’s gonna kick daddy’s butt?” I tell the girls to sit back down and put their belts on. They do so as Cara asks again, "but who's gonna kick your butt daddy?".
By this time I decide that if that is going to happen it’s going to be at the police station. I drive there and park on the side of the station, all the while I was pretending I never saw this guy following me.
With all the confidence that Melodie had recently instilled in me I stepped from the car only to find he had parked behind me and was exiting his truck too. This guy was huge, probably 6 inches and 100 pounds bigger than me. He called out, “hey, I wanna talk to you”. I looked up and feigned that I was surprised to see him. He continued, “man I owe you an apology…I’m a retired state police from Nevada and I was way out of line back there. I was trying to get your attention, didn’t you see me?” I answered that I hadn’t seen him behind me at all.
After a few minutes of his apologizing and my accepting of his apology, he asked, “so what were you doing here?” Once again, quick on my feet, I declared, “this is the police station; I was going in to file a report.” Of course we agreed that there was no reason to do so.
After about 5 minutes of visiting by the hood of his truck we shook hands and departed company. The whole time the occupants of my car were staring through the rear window at the exchange we were having. I entered the car to Melodie’s silence. Finally she broke it, “what happened”, she asked? I thought for a moment and said, “I gave him a warning.”
From that moment on my fire department badge went on a long sabbatical, only returning to my possession in time to wear it to a funeral of longtime firefighter and friend of the department, Bobby Richards.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Another Face to Face Encounter with a CHiP
** Be warned. This story will make no sense if you read it before you read the post below. Proceed at your own puzzlement **
So one afternoon, about 2 years after the day I said NO to the CHiP officer I was traveling in my silver Nissan pickup eastbound on W. Line St. Alessandra was in the pickup with me, probably in her car seat, and undoubtedly talking. This talking may have been the root of the problem because where the speed limit lowers drastically from 45 to 35 and then quickly to 25 I was not paying attention to my speed. This implies that I was paying attention to Alessandra’s stories, but that may not be true either. I digress.
Somewhere between the 45 mph zone and the 25 mph zone I was traveling about 35 mph, or possibly more. Next thing I know lights are flashing behind me and I am pulled over between See Vee Lane and Sunland Ave. It’s the California Highway Patrol.
Interestingly he pulled in front and then walked back towards where I was stopped. I recognized him immediately. It was THAT officer. I braced myself for the worst. I knew this was going to be costly.
He approached my window and we exchanged all the obligatory documents and he stepped back to his car and presumably “ran my plates”. As he walked back towards the truck he noticed the red and white “Fire Dept.” reflective sticker mounted above my license plate and took silent notice of it. I must have come back clean because he gave me a warning to “keep your speed down”, and he sent me on my way.
I was stunned. I expected to be cuffed and stuffed, leaving Ali on the side of the road to walk home or something. Nonetheless, with warning in hand, I watched him walk back to his car to leave so that he could ruin someone else’s day.
He got about 30 feet from me and stopped in his tracks. He raised his right hand to the side of his head and snapped his fingers together as the light bulb when off. With the precision of an Nazi SS officer, he turned sharply around on his right toe and with reddened face marched quickly back to my window.
“Oh crap, here we go”, I thought. He arrived at my window and stuck his right pointer in my face and said, “You’re that firefighter from Collins Road aren’t you?” I said “yes” and braced for the onslaught. He was speechless. He was so red in the face he just stood there for about 30 seconds and couldn’t utter a word. Realizing he had already given me a warning he resorted to pointing to me once again and saying, “I’ve got my eyes on you Perkins.” With that he marched back to his vehicle and departed.
How I escaped that, I’ll never know. After he drove off, I took one look at Ali and she continued with her story.
So one afternoon, about 2 years after the day I said NO to the CHiP officer I was traveling in my silver Nissan pickup eastbound on W. Line St. Alessandra was in the pickup with me, probably in her car seat, and undoubtedly talking. This talking may have been the root of the problem because where the speed limit lowers drastically from 45 to 35 and then quickly to 25 I was not paying attention to my speed. This implies that I was paying attention to Alessandra’s stories, but that may not be true either. I digress.
Somewhere between the 45 mph zone and the 25 mph zone I was traveling about 35 mph, or possibly more. Next thing I know lights are flashing behind me and I am pulled over between See Vee Lane and Sunland Ave. It’s the California Highway Patrol.
Interestingly he pulled in front and then walked back towards where I was stopped. I recognized him immediately. It was THAT officer. I braced myself for the worst. I knew this was going to be costly.
He approached my window and we exchanged all the obligatory documents and he stepped back to his car and presumably “ran my plates”. As he walked back towards the truck he noticed the red and white “Fire Dept.” reflective sticker mounted above my license plate and took silent notice of it. I must have come back clean because he gave me a warning to “keep your speed down”, and he sent me on my way.
I was stunned. I expected to be cuffed and stuffed, leaving Ali on the side of the road to walk home or something. Nonetheless, with warning in hand, I watched him walk back to his car to leave so that he could ruin someone else’s day.
He got about 30 feet from me and stopped in his tracks. He raised his right hand to the side of his head and snapped his fingers together as the light bulb when off. With the precision of an Nazi SS officer, he turned sharply around on his right toe and with reddened face marched quickly back to my window.
“Oh crap, here we go”, I thought. He arrived at my window and stuck his right pointer in my face and said, “You’re that firefighter from Collins Road aren’t you?” I said “yes” and braced for the onslaught. He was speechless. He was so red in the face he just stood there for about 30 seconds and couldn’t utter a word. Realizing he had already given me a warning he resorted to pointing to me once again and saying, “I’ve got my eyes on you Perkins.” With that he marched back to his vehicle and departed.
How I escaped that, I’ll never know. After he drove off, I took one look at Ali and she continued with her story.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Day I said “NO” to the California Highway Patrol
In the summer of 1992, we received a call for extrication. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we need an extrication crew and fire response on Hwy 395, South of Warm Springs Road, Please respond.”
Extrications always added a greater sense of urgency. There was at least one victim trapped and at any car accident there was always a chance the fuel was leaking and could catch fire. That is not a good combination when someone is trapped.
I arrived at Station 1 and was the 3rd or 4th in the door. Engine 10, our quick response truck, was already warming up and was close to responding. I got into my turnouts and grabbed my coat and helmet. I jumped into the driver’s seat of Engine 5 and fired her up. This was our rescue rig and it carried all the equipment needed to complete the extrication. Another firefighter climbed into the passenger seat and when the back compartment had 3 more men, I hit the air horn and headed out south of town.
We arrived on scene and found there was a victim trapped in a car that was badly mangled and resting in the dirt meridian of 395, the major (translated to “only”) artery through the area. Traffic was all but stopped as they were rerouting it onto the dirt shoulder. The fire equipment, my truck included, was in the paved lane closest to the meridian.
After about 25 minutes of work we were making great progress to get the victim out of the damaged vehicle. It was then that a particular California Highway Patrolman came up to me and asked if I was in charge of “that rig”, as he pointed to Engine 5. I looked up and said, “yes, that’s my truck.” He responded by saying, “Great, I want you to move it to the other side of the roadway so we can get this traffic moving.” Now, keep in mind I still had men working to return equipment back on Engine 5. If I moved it then my men would have been crossing 2 lanes of traffic to accomplish the task and I didn’t feel it was a safe thing to do.
I looked back at him and said, “No”. Needless to say he was caught off guard and said, “what did you say?” I replied, “I’m not moving that truck.” He quickly retorted, “you’ll do as I say’, to which I replied. “See that man over there in the white helmet….Well that is the Fire Chief and I work for him. I’m not moving this truck.”
Completely steamed he marched off to have a word with Chief Phil Moxley. After 3 or 4 minutes of what seemed to be a disagreement, the officer stormed off in another direction.
A few minutes later the Fire Chief motioned me over. “Perkins” he said, “did you refuse to move Engine 5?” I responded, “sure did.’ To which he replied. “Good job…wait about 10 minutes and move the truck on the other side of the road.”
Stay tuned for my next post regarding another interaction with this same officer years later.
Extrications always added a greater sense of urgency. There was at least one victim trapped and at any car accident there was always a chance the fuel was leaking and could catch fire. That is not a good combination when someone is trapped.
I arrived at Station 1 and was the 3rd or 4th in the door. Engine 10, our quick response truck, was already warming up and was close to responding. I got into my turnouts and grabbed my coat and helmet. I jumped into the driver’s seat of Engine 5 and fired her up. This was our rescue rig and it carried all the equipment needed to complete the extrication. Another firefighter climbed into the passenger seat and when the back compartment had 3 more men, I hit the air horn and headed out south of town.
We arrived on scene and found there was a victim trapped in a car that was badly mangled and resting in the dirt meridian of 395, the major (translated to “only”) artery through the area. Traffic was all but stopped as they were rerouting it onto the dirt shoulder. The fire equipment, my truck included, was in the paved lane closest to the meridian.
After about 25 minutes of work we were making great progress to get the victim out of the damaged vehicle. It was then that a particular California Highway Patrolman came up to me and asked if I was in charge of “that rig”, as he pointed to Engine 5. I looked up and said, “yes, that’s my truck.” He responded by saying, “Great, I want you to move it to the other side of the roadway so we can get this traffic moving.” Now, keep in mind I still had men working to return equipment back on Engine 5. If I moved it then my men would have been crossing 2 lanes of traffic to accomplish the task and I didn’t feel it was a safe thing to do.
I looked back at him and said, “No”. Needless to say he was caught off guard and said, “what did you say?” I replied, “I’m not moving that truck.” He quickly retorted, “you’ll do as I say’, to which I replied. “See that man over there in the white helmet….Well that is the Fire Chief and I work for him. I’m not moving this truck.”
Completely steamed he marched off to have a word with Chief Phil Moxley. After 3 or 4 minutes of what seemed to be a disagreement, the officer stormed off in another direction.
A few minutes later the Fire Chief motioned me over. “Perkins” he said, “did you refuse to move Engine 5?” I responded, “sure did.’ To which he replied. “Good job…wait about 10 minutes and move the truck on the other side of the road.”
Stay tuned for my next post regarding another interaction with this same officer years later.
Friday, March 27, 2009
First Fire Response
I thought I should tell the story of the very first fire call that I ever responded to. I joined the fire dept in the summer of 1984. Because of insurance, etc I could not respond until after the 1st of July when the insurance would kick in.
Fortunately this was “fireworks” season. Fireworks were and are illegal in California. I don’t know how the law reads today but then it read something like “if it explodes, leaves the ground or flies through the air, it is illegal”. Well, we had an Indian reservation next door to the city limits and the sale of this contraband went forward without a hiccup.
On the 2nd of July 1984, my pager went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a tree on fire on the 1500 block of Lazy A Drive, please respond.”
I was working in my retail store The Phone Booth at the time and before the firehouse siren sounded I was out the door and making my way through the back door of Bishop Rexall Drugstore. This would give me access to Main Street and a clear shot through the parking lot of Joseph’s Bi-Rite Market directly to the side entrance of the firehouse. As I ran the final 50 yards or so, I already had my door keys in hand.
As I entered the firehouse I could see that Engine 3 was waiting for a full compliment of firefighters to show so I kicked off my shoes and worked my way into my ‘turnouts”. Turnouts were assigned to each person so that we could jump in them, pull the pants up, buckle them and then slide under the red suspenders. I put on my turnout coat and grabbed my helmet. It had “Perkins” stenciled on the back and I couldn’t wait to put it on.
By the time I reached Engine 3 the cab was full and there was only one man on the tailboard so I joined him. Back then we could actually ride the tailboard on the back of the truck, strapped in and safe, but riding on the back of the Engine. That was the most fun, unless it was raining or snowing. This particular day was warm and we hit the siren and turned east on Line St towards the intersection of Line & Main St. Turning north we picked up our speed until we were about 40 mph on Main St. Sirens and air horns blaring I was having the experience I had dreamed of since the early 60s and my trusty Schwinn Stingray.
As we round the corner near “the Y”, my tailboard partner, Mike Holland turn to me and said. “Hey Steve, I know you’re having the time of your life, but you’ve gotta wipe that smile off your face. I’m not sure the locals want their firemen smiling that much when something is burning.”
Well, I wiped it off, but I must say I enjoyed that response and each one after that. There was an unofficial motto that we had in the fire service. It went something like this, “We don’t want your house to catch fire, because that would be a tragedy, but if it does….I’m gonna enjoy trying to put it out.”
Fortunately this was “fireworks” season. Fireworks were and are illegal in California. I don’t know how the law reads today but then it read something like “if it explodes, leaves the ground or flies through the air, it is illegal”. Well, we had an Indian reservation next door to the city limits and the sale of this contraband went forward without a hiccup.
On the 2nd of July 1984, my pager went off, “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a tree on fire on the 1500 block of Lazy A Drive, please respond.”
I was working in my retail store The Phone Booth at the time and before the firehouse siren sounded I was out the door and making my way through the back door of Bishop Rexall Drugstore. This would give me access to Main Street and a clear shot through the parking lot of Joseph’s Bi-Rite Market directly to the side entrance of the firehouse. As I ran the final 50 yards or so, I already had my door keys in hand.
As I entered the firehouse I could see that Engine 3 was waiting for a full compliment of firefighters to show so I kicked off my shoes and worked my way into my ‘turnouts”. Turnouts were assigned to each person so that we could jump in them, pull the pants up, buckle them and then slide under the red suspenders. I put on my turnout coat and grabbed my helmet. It had “Perkins” stenciled on the back and I couldn’t wait to put it on.
By the time I reached Engine 3 the cab was full and there was only one man on the tailboard so I joined him. Back then we could actually ride the tailboard on the back of the truck, strapped in and safe, but riding on the back of the Engine. That was the most fun, unless it was raining or snowing. This particular day was warm and we hit the siren and turned east on Line St towards the intersection of Line & Main St. Turning north we picked up our speed until we were about 40 mph on Main St. Sirens and air horns blaring I was having the experience I had dreamed of since the early 60s and my trusty Schwinn Stingray.
As we round the corner near “the Y”, my tailboard partner, Mike Holland turn to me and said. “Hey Steve, I know you’re having the time of your life, but you’ve gotta wipe that smile off your face. I’m not sure the locals want their firemen smiling that much when something is burning.”
Well, I wiped it off, but I must say I enjoyed that response and each one after that. There was an unofficial motto that we had in the fire service. It went something like this, “We don’t want your house to catch fire, because that would be a tragedy, but if it does….I’m gonna enjoy trying to put it out.”
Saturday, March 14, 2009
A Snake and a Worm
Well... before I begin this story I need to give some background. From 1986 to 1996 I worked at Mammoth Mountain Ski Area, a period of time that brings many memories to mind. In those early days the company provided a couple of 15-passenger vans that went from Bishop up to the resort, a distance of about 47 miles. This “carpool” became an interesting part of our day, filled with many characters and even more ridiculous experiences.
For some reason during this period many nicknames were handed out. Names such as Eric Bocanegra became simply “Broken Eggroll” and Don Brickell became “the Brick”. I know this may surprise you but my nickname was “Workin’ Perkins”, presumably for the number of long days I worked without taking time off. (Heck I was younger those days and had a young and growing family, OT was always welcomed.) Anyway, on the van was a guy named Joe Parsley, who became known as “Snake”. Snake often talked about his son Clint and it didn’t take long for us to start referring to Clint as “The Worm”.
Now that is all set up, here is the important story. Clint was Charlotte’s age and went to the same school. When Charlotte was in 4th grade there was a particular boy who picked on her. You know, took her books, kicked her, hit her in the lunch line, etc. I did all I could to contact the school and complain but there was never any resolution. It went on for many weeks.
One day while talking to the Snake I asked him if would have the Worm talk to this one boy, explaining that he was Charlotte’s friend and she shouldn't be picked on…..and that no girls should be hit for that matter. Snake went home to ask the Worm to step in.
The next day the Snake sat next to me on the van. I said, “So, how did it go?” The Snake said that the Worm had agreed to take care of the problem but that Snake was to deliver a message to me. I looked at Snake quizzically. “The Worm told me he’d take care of it but if he had to throw a punch it was gonna to cost Perkins 10 bucks”.
Problem resolved. 10 bucks was never paid to the Worm.
For some reason during this period many nicknames were handed out. Names such as Eric Bocanegra became simply “Broken Eggroll” and Don Brickell became “the Brick”. I know this may surprise you but my nickname was “Workin’ Perkins”, presumably for the number of long days I worked without taking time off. (Heck I was younger those days and had a young and growing family, OT was always welcomed.) Anyway, on the van was a guy named Joe Parsley, who became known as “Snake”. Snake often talked about his son Clint and it didn’t take long for us to start referring to Clint as “The Worm”.
Now that is all set up, here is the important story. Clint was Charlotte’s age and went to the same school. When Charlotte was in 4th grade there was a particular boy who picked on her. You know, took her books, kicked her, hit her in the lunch line, etc. I did all I could to contact the school and complain but there was never any resolution. It went on for many weeks.
One day while talking to the Snake I asked him if would have the Worm talk to this one boy, explaining that he was Charlotte’s friend and she shouldn't be picked on…..and that no girls should be hit for that matter. Snake went home to ask the Worm to step in.
The next day the Snake sat next to me on the van. I said, “So, how did it go?” The Snake said that the Worm had agreed to take care of the problem but that Snake was to deliver a message to me. I looked at Snake quizzically. “The Worm told me he’d take care of it but if he had to throw a punch it was gonna to cost Perkins 10 bucks”.
Problem resolved. 10 bucks was never paid to the Worm.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
99 bottles of beer (root) on the wall
So, one day I was out grocery shopping with Melodie. My job is to drive the cart, follow her to and fro, and when she isn’t looking toss a box of butterscotch pudding in. It must have been a hot day, one of about 20 we see here in Seattle, because instead of pudding I put a bottle of cold root beer in the cart. I had it polished off before we got home.
What came next was a turning point. I could have easily tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin and been done with it. For some reason I was pretty impressed with the label on the bottle. I wish I could remember what brand it was, but since I didn’t know where this story would end up I didn’t notice. I simply put the bottle on the window sill in my office.
It wasn’t long before I picked up another bottle, albeit a different brand, of root beer; drank it and it too went into the window sill. Before I realized what was happening there were probably about 6 or 7 different bottles sitting there “on display”. Without any forethought or any planning I had unwittingly become a root beer bottle collector.
Within months my collection was too big for the window so I had to find more room. Finally I found shelving and put up enough to display 48 bottles. Well just the other day I had to double that shelving to accommodate as many as 96 bottles. Currently I have 59 different bottles on display and probably about 6 or 7 more in my fridge waiting to be consumed.
I have purchased bottles as far away as Hawaii, Alaska, Texas and California. One or two people have brought me bottles as well. All except for 1 I have consumed myself. The next question you might ask is “which brand is the best?” Well that is like asking someone to decide which BBQ sauce is best. There are too many tastes and preferences to come up with one winner.
We have had some taste offs, but I’ll save that for another post.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Volunteer Firefighter vs. Career or Professional Firefighter
Ok…I don’t mean to start this post with a rant, but it seems like I need to get something off my chest. It’s not uncommon to see stickers on a car or pickup that say “Professional Firefighter”. That’s great on the surface except for the fact that us Volunteers know that it is a dig at us. The implication is that the Volunteers are not professional. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Granted, volunteers are not career firefighters because we do hold down other jobs or businesses, but we take our “job” seriously and have been through hundreds of hours of training.
Even more relevant, is that according to the National Volunteer Fire Council, 73 percent of firefighters in the United States are members of VFDs. I can’t tell what year this was true but even if the data is 10 years old, I’d bet the percentage was still well above 50 percent.
Ok, ok….. movies such as “Roxanne” starring Steve Martin and Daryl Hannah do help to paint the volunteers as bumbling idiots that rush to a fire and then realize no one brought a fire truck with them. I guess it’s enjoyable for city folks (movie writers and producers) to poke fun at country bumpkins, towns where the population and financial resources dictates the need for volunteers over career firefighters.
Now all that being said, there are some times when the small town atmosphere provides a few chuckles. My favorite fire call, at least in its delivery, went like this. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a large brush fire in the field next to Bobby Barren’s cousin’s house.” Well, that might drive the “professional” firefighters nuts because the call didn't include an address with a major cross street, but we knew where it was.
Even more relevant, is that according to the National Volunteer Fire Council, 73 percent of firefighters in the United States are members of VFDs. I can’t tell what year this was true but even if the data is 10 years old, I’d bet the percentage was still well above 50 percent.
Ok, ok….. movies such as “Roxanne” starring Steve Martin and Daryl Hannah do help to paint the volunteers as bumbling idiots that rush to a fire and then realize no one brought a fire truck with them. I guess it’s enjoyable for city folks (movie writers and producers) to poke fun at country bumpkins, towns where the population and financial resources dictates the need for volunteers over career firefighters.
Now all that being said, there are some times when the small town atmosphere provides a few chuckles. My favorite fire call, at least in its delivery, went like this. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, we have a report of a large brush fire in the field next to Bobby Barren’s cousin’s house.” Well, that might drive the “professional” firefighters nuts because the call didn't include an address with a major cross street, but we knew where it was.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Vehicle Modifications – Free of Charge
I don’t recall what year it was but it was a fairly nice spring or early summer evening. I was at home and my pager went off. “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop Volunteers, please respond to a vehicle vs. power pole accident on North Sierra Highway, approximately ½ mile north of the “Y”.”
I drove to the firehouse, only to learn that Engine 10 and Engine 5 had already responded and that I had missed the first run. Shortly thereafter enough firefighters showed at the firehouse to where we could man Engine 3. Even though Station 3 was close to the scene and would likely have an Engine company there, we went anyway. Volunteers love to serve and look for every opportunity to do so, but I must be honest a big part of this service is about driving Code 3 (full lights and siren) down main street. It’s a rush you have to experience because no description can do justice.
Eventually I, along with others, arrived at the scene on Engine 3. There was already much action going on. The car had indeed hit a power pole just east of Lee & Holly Tatum’s place and the victim was trapped inside. Her injuries were not life threatening but they were severe enough that we needed to extricate her with the “Jaws of Life” in order to have her transported to Northern Inyo Hospital.
The equipment was running and men were working to release her. Usually the two most common efforts are to “pop” the door so that the individual can be released or to remove the roof of the vehicle for the same purpose. Typically when removing the roof, you cut on both sides of the vehicle the first pillar which is designated the A post, then the next one, (B post) and so on until you can fold the roof back towards the rear of the vehicle allowing access.
This victim was pretty trapped and one of our smaller firemen Donny Kunze had wormed his way in so that he could hold her hand and talk to her while the others continued to work. I came closer to see if Donny needed anything and before I could ask him I heard him say to this young lady. “Ma’am, you just need to relax and let us take care of it. We are going to turn your car into a convertible and there will be no charge.” There was a short chuckle from her and within minutes she was free and on her way to the ER.
I drove to the firehouse, only to learn that Engine 10 and Engine 5 had already responded and that I had missed the first run. Shortly thereafter enough firefighters showed at the firehouse to where we could man Engine 3. Even though Station 3 was close to the scene and would likely have an Engine company there, we went anyway. Volunteers love to serve and look for every opportunity to do so, but I must be honest a big part of this service is about driving Code 3 (full lights and siren) down main street. It’s a rush you have to experience because no description can do justice.
Eventually I, along with others, arrived at the scene on Engine 3. There was already much action going on. The car had indeed hit a power pole just east of Lee & Holly Tatum’s place and the victim was trapped inside. Her injuries were not life threatening but they were severe enough that we needed to extricate her with the “Jaws of Life” in order to have her transported to Northern Inyo Hospital.
The equipment was running and men were working to release her. Usually the two most common efforts are to “pop” the door so that the individual can be released or to remove the roof of the vehicle for the same purpose. Typically when removing the roof, you cut on both sides of the vehicle the first pillar which is designated the A post, then the next one, (B post) and so on until you can fold the roof back towards the rear of the vehicle allowing access.
This victim was pretty trapped and one of our smaller firemen Donny Kunze had wormed his way in so that he could hold her hand and talk to her while the others continued to work. I came closer to see if Donny needed anything and before I could ask him I heard him say to this young lady. “Ma’am, you just need to relax and let us take care of it. We are going to turn your car into a convertible and there will be no charge.” There was a short chuckle from her and within minutes she was free and on her way to the ER.
Friday, February 20, 2009
To Volunteer or Not to Volunteer
Bishop Fire Department, or Bishop Volunteer Fire Department, hereafter known as BFD, is an interesting blend of organizations. It could be said that it is actually three departments in one fire department. Let me try to explain.
Bishop California is an incorporated city with a population of 3500 during the 80s and 90s. The greater Bishop area, with all the unincorporated area, has a population closer to 8,000 or more.
Because of these numbers the city of Bishop purchased fire trucks that were considered “city trucks”. That meant that unless extremely unusual circumstances warranted it, those trucks could not leave the city limits, presumably keeping them in reserved to respond to fires of city residents and taxpayers.
On the other hand the remainder of the residences lived in very clearly defined “Bishop Rural Fire District”. This district and the city of Bishop had completely different governing bodies, funding and goals.
Neither the city nor the fire district had its only fire department, but relied on the Bishop Volunteers to respond to their area with the appropriate truck or equipment.
In addition to the city funding and the fire district funding the volunteers had their own internal funding. More on that later. With this funding the members of the BFD purchased or built their own trucks that were available for use.
So all that being said, here was the breakdown of how the trucks could be utilized during the time that I served.
City of Bishop
All equipment must stay inside the city limits
3 pieces of equipment
Bishop Rural Fire District
All equipment must stay inside the fire district but could be used inside the city, since the city was surrounded by the fire district.
8 pieces of equipment
Bishop Volunteer trucks
14 pieces of equipment that we could take anywhere we wished. We owned them and could take them outside the district to neighboring towns or even throughout the state.
Apparatus List – as best as I can remember
Engine 1 City of Bishop 65 ladder
Engine 2 Volunteer truck – built in 40s and used for parades, etc.
Engine 3 Volunteer truck – 750 gallon per minute pumper (one of my favorites)
Engine 4 Volunteer truck – 500 gpm pumper, limited use
Engine 5 Volunteer rescue rig
Engine 6 City of Bishop – 1959 American Le France (another favorite)
Engine 7 Volunteer Truck - quick response with 200 gallons – 1964 Ford with 14,000 miles
Engine 8 Volunteer truck - Newer Rescue Rig
Engine 9 Volunteer truck – Brush rig 2000 gallons, AWD
Engine 10 Volunteer truck – quick response with 400 gallons
Engine 11 City of Bishop – Fire Chief’s truck
Engine 12 Volunteer truck – Brush rig with 3000 gallons AWD
Engine 13 Volunteer “truck” – golf cart, never started or used during my tenure with BFD.
Engine 14 Volunteer truck – 3500 gallon brush truck AWD
R1 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R2 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R3 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R4 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R5 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R6 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R7 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R8 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Quick response truck
There is one more truck I haven’t mentioned yet. It was named OES160. It belonged to the State of California Office of Emergency Services. It was not used often but we would take it out fairly regularly to run it and exercise the pump, etc. The point of this truck is that the state could call for it and we were required to man it with 3 men and take it anywhere we were told to take it to assist wherever it was nee
So all that being said, when we received a fire call we needed to first determine where the fire was, decided which agency’s equipment we used and then select the correct type of equipment. This always was a bit of a challenge.
Calls would come over our pagers as “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop, we have a report of a structure fire at 1916 Lazy M Lane. Please respond”. At this point the wheels in our heads would turn as fast as the wheels of our vehicles as we drove to the firehouse.
Bishop California is an incorporated city with a population of 3500 during the 80s and 90s. The greater Bishop area, with all the unincorporated area, has a population closer to 8,000 or more.
Because of these numbers the city of Bishop purchased fire trucks that were considered “city trucks”. That meant that unless extremely unusual circumstances warranted it, those trucks could not leave the city limits, presumably keeping them in reserved to respond to fires of city residents and taxpayers.
On the other hand the remainder of the residences lived in very clearly defined “Bishop Rural Fire District”. This district and the city of Bishop had completely different governing bodies, funding and goals.
Neither the city nor the fire district had its only fire department, but relied on the Bishop Volunteers to respond to their area with the appropriate truck or equipment.
In addition to the city funding and the fire district funding the volunteers had their own internal funding. More on that later. With this funding the members of the BFD purchased or built their own trucks that were available for use.
So all that being said, here was the breakdown of how the trucks could be utilized during the time that I served.
City of Bishop
All equipment must stay inside the city limits
3 pieces of equipment
Bishop Rural Fire District
All equipment must stay inside the fire district but could be used inside the city, since the city was surrounded by the fire district.
8 pieces of equipment
Bishop Volunteer trucks
14 pieces of equipment that we could take anywhere we wished. We owned them and could take them outside the district to neighboring towns or even throughout the state.
Apparatus List – as best as I can remember
Engine 1 City of Bishop 65 ladder
Engine 2 Volunteer truck – built in 40s and used for parades, etc.
Engine 3 Volunteer truck – 750 gallon per minute pumper (one of my favorites)
Engine 4 Volunteer truck – 500 gpm pumper, limited use
Engine 5 Volunteer rescue rig
Engine 6 City of Bishop – 1959 American Le France (another favorite)
Engine 7 Volunteer Truck - quick response with 200 gallons – 1964 Ford with 14,000 miles
Engine 8 Volunteer truck - Newer Rescue Rig
Engine 9 Volunteer truck – Brush rig 2000 gallons, AWD
Engine 10 Volunteer truck – quick response with 400 gallons
Engine 11 City of Bishop – Fire Chief’s truck
Engine 12 Volunteer truck – Brush rig with 3000 gallons AWD
Engine 13 Volunteer “truck” – golf cart, never started or used during my tenure with BFD.
Engine 14 Volunteer truck – 3500 gallon brush truck AWD
R1 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R2 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R3 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R4 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R5 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R6 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R7 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Pumper
R8 Bishop Rural Fire Dist. Quick response truck
There is one more truck I haven’t mentioned yet. It was named OES160. It belonged to the State of California Office of Emergency Services. It was not used often but we would take it out fairly regularly to run it and exercise the pump, etc. The point of this truck is that the state could call for it and we were required to man it with 3 men and take it anywhere we were told to take it to assist wherever it was nee
So all that being said, when we received a fire call we needed to first determine where the fire was, decided which agency’s equipment we used and then select the correct type of equipment. This always was a bit of a challenge.
Calls would come over our pagers as “Attention Bishop Volunteers, Attention Bishop, we have a report of a structure fire at 1916 Lazy M Lane. Please respond”. At this point the wheels in our heads would turn as fast as the wheels of our vehicles as we drove to the firehouse.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Chasing on a Stingray
For as long as I can remember I would get pretty excited to hear and then see the fire trucks responding from the station on Panamint in Ridgecrest. In those days we would hear “the bonk” of the firehouse. The bonk was simply an air horn that we as kids only knew as the bonk. It would relay, in coded bonking fashion, the location of a fire. Now don’t misunderstand, the bonk would not be able to give an actual address, but in those early days (50s, 60s and 70s) it would indicate a section of town that had a particular bonk pattern assigned to it.
Growing up, we lived about 5 blocks north of the firehouse and anytime we heard the bonk I would jump on my red Schwinn Stingray, complete with a white banana seat and a short “sissy bar”, and chase the fire trucks. Chasing isn’t a fair description. I would really listen for the direction of travel and try to meet them (beat them on a good day) where I figured they were going. If there was a column of smoke, that made it all the easier.
Why do I take you on this walk down history’s dirt road, you ask? Well, many of my stories will be situated around the years I spent as a volunteer fire fighter with the Bishop Fire Department.
The Bishop Fire Department was organized about 1905 and I joined in 1984. At the time Charlotte was four and Cara was 2 years old. I remained with the department until I left the area in 1996. I have no doubt had we stayed in the Bishop area I would still be extremely active and involved, because I miss it to this day. The men that I associated for those 12 years were of the finest quality. Some were close friends, others were only good acquaintances; but they all were like family. It just gets that way.
In a future posts, I will give a detailed description of how the department was organized and how it operated so that you may be better able to visualize the stories I will relate.
Growing up, we lived about 5 blocks north of the firehouse and anytime we heard the bonk I would jump on my red Schwinn Stingray, complete with a white banana seat and a short “sissy bar”, and chase the fire trucks. Chasing isn’t a fair description. I would really listen for the direction of travel and try to meet them (beat them on a good day) where I figured they were going. If there was a column of smoke, that made it all the easier.
Why do I take you on this walk down history’s dirt road, you ask? Well, many of my stories will be situated around the years I spent as a volunteer fire fighter with the Bishop Fire Department.
The Bishop Fire Department was organized about 1905 and I joined in 1984. At the time Charlotte was four and Cara was 2 years old. I remained with the department until I left the area in 1996. I have no doubt had we stayed in the Bishop area I would still be extremely active and involved, because I miss it to this day. The men that I associated for those 12 years were of the finest quality. Some were close friends, others were only good acquaintances; but they all were like family. It just gets that way.
In a future posts, I will give a detailed description of how the department was organized and how it operated so that you may be better able to visualize the stories I will relate.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
“Hey Dad, tell the story where you….”
For years my kids have been hinting that I should put some of my stories on paper. They often say, “Tell the one…..” Once I even created a list of stories that my kids love and even some they’ve never heard while flying from the Freeport, Bahamas to Ft. Lauderdale, FL. I’ve not made much progress on that list because it seems silly to write them down and save them to the hard drive of my laptop, leaving no chance they will be read. So I decided to use this forum for such efforts.
So from time to time I will post a story that is completely out of context with current events and you will now know why. Unfortunately, my guess is that I will go down in history as a better storyteller than a storywriter. I have never figured it out, but often I simply start a story and they are laughing. It must be something to do with my face or my mannerisms. Either way, I will promise to make a grand effort.
Many of my stories will be centered on Ridgecrest, where I was born and raised; but most will be from my 20 years in Bishop, California. I have many experiences with and without my kids there. All three were born there, Charlotte in 1980, Cara in 1983 and Alessandra in 1991.
Bishop was also the place that Melodie and I moved to as soon as we were married in 1979. Although I had lived there previous to that date Melodie, the girls and I remained there as a family until 1996, when we moved to Seattle.
So, keep an eye out and you may have a chance to hear a new tale….
So from time to time I will post a story that is completely out of context with current events and you will now know why. Unfortunately, my guess is that I will go down in history as a better storyteller than a storywriter. I have never figured it out, but often I simply start a story and they are laughing. It must be something to do with my face or my mannerisms. Either way, I will promise to make a grand effort.
Many of my stories will be centered on Ridgecrest, where I was born and raised; but most will be from my 20 years in Bishop, California. I have many experiences with and without my kids there. All three were born there, Charlotte in 1980, Cara in 1983 and Alessandra in 1991.
Bishop was also the place that Melodie and I moved to as soon as we were married in 1979. Although I had lived there previous to that date Melodie, the girls and I remained there as a family until 1996, when we moved to Seattle.
So, keep an eye out and you may have a chance to hear a new tale….
Monday, February 2, 2009
Football, Family, Food and a Foot
Well it’s common knowledge that I like to watch sports on television. I am one of those lucky guys whose wife also enjoys sports on the tube. Now years ago I’d have said that football was my favorite sport to watch on TV, but compared to baseball the season is just too short for me to stay on top of it. It seems like most games are on Sunday, which these days tend to be the busiest day of the week for me. Baseball on the other hand is much more Steve-friendly. There are 162 regular season Mariner games on each year and I manage to catch 20 or 30 on TV, maybe a half dozen at the stadium and listen to most of the remainder on the radio. I’m sorry, football and basketball are much too fast of a game to listen on the radio, but baseball….that works!
All that being said I do look forward to the Superbowl each year. With our meeting block ending and 12:00 noon this year I am able to have my other meetings that day and still get home in time to watch the game.
Usually its just family that gets together at our house, but this year we went to Cara and Eric’s great little condo. Cara has it looking so warm and cozy and it was very fun and comfortable. We had a great afternoon watching what may have been the better of superbowls in the past few years, sprinkled with some of the most boring commercials known to man. I was sure glad there was food nearby to take my mind off them.
And what food we had!! Cara and Melodie did a fantastic job with lots of awesome treats. Football food galore. I didn’t really eat that much but I sure felt sick later. I think I either ate more than I realized (was it the 7 deviled eggs??) or I got some cross contamination with wheat somewhere. I think it must have been the former because my girls are very careful about keeping the food gluten free. Oh well, I do feel better today.
Let me say this about the game. It was a good game. However, it felt like the Cardinals were Seahawked a number of times including that final touchdown. Santonio Holmes did make a great catch, but from where I was sitting (3500 miles west of Tampa) it looked like his right foot did not touch the ground, but was caught by the cleat of his left foot.
I’m just saying…….
All that being said I do look forward to the Superbowl each year. With our meeting block ending and 12:00 noon this year I am able to have my other meetings that day and still get home in time to watch the game.
Usually its just family that gets together at our house, but this year we went to Cara and Eric’s great little condo. Cara has it looking so warm and cozy and it was very fun and comfortable. We had a great afternoon watching what may have been the better of superbowls in the past few years, sprinkled with some of the most boring commercials known to man. I was sure glad there was food nearby to take my mind off them.
And what food we had!! Cara and Melodie did a fantastic job with lots of awesome treats. Football food galore. I didn’t really eat that much but I sure felt sick later. I think I either ate more than I realized (was it the 7 deviled eggs??) or I got some cross contamination with wheat somewhere. I think it must have been the former because my girls are very careful about keeping the food gluten free. Oh well, I do feel better today.
Let me say this about the game. It was a good game. However, it felt like the Cardinals were Seahawked a number of times including that final touchdown. Santonio Holmes did make a great catch, but from where I was sitting (3500 miles west of Tampa) it looked like his right foot did not touch the ground, but was caught by the cleat of his left foot.
I’m just saying…….
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Do I need a blog?
This is a huge question. Do I want one, or do I even need one? Well maybe neither and then maybe a little of both. Heck, my wife who has little interest in technology, even has a blog. Hers is at http://www.melsonwheels.blogspot.com/. She is an amazing cook and will use this medium to share her skills. I guess I need a username, etc. to follow her blogs as well as others in my extended family. But I must admit, this is already feeling a bit like a journal.
Now don’t get me wrong, I see great value in journals. The problem is that most of my journal entries begin with, “Well it’s been quite some time since I made an entry here, so here goes…..”
So I guess a little introduction. I am presuming that you don’t know me but on the other hand why would you be here if you didn’t? Sheeez, this is gonna be boring. I’m already talking in circles.
Background:
I’m in my 50s, yes too old for such a young guy.
Born in Ridgecrest, CA. A great place to be from. (I graduated Thursday and left Friday morning.)
Happily married, when I’m not deservedly in trouble, for nearly 30 years.
3 daughters, Charlotte, Cara (hubby is Eric) and Alessandra.
I am a Latter Day Saint, serving as bishop since June of 2005.
Cycling is a huge part of my life, but I haven’t done much since June of 2005. Melodie says I can buy a new bike after my release. My current bike was built by me in 1989. She is a great bike, but needs to go into retirement.
We live in Renton Washington, about 15 miles from downtown Seattle.
I have worked in Telecommunications since 1978. Currently as Sr. Telecom Engineer for Black Box Network Services. I am lucky enough to work out of my home.
I have Celiac Disease, which is intolerance to Gluten found in Wheat, Rye and Barley. My daughter Alessandra and I did complete an awareness ride for this disease in 2005. You can find our online journal at http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/ttfc
So I guess that is it for now.
Later, Steve.
Now don’t get me wrong, I see great value in journals. The problem is that most of my journal entries begin with, “Well it’s been quite some time since I made an entry here, so here goes…..”
So I guess a little introduction. I am presuming that you don’t know me but on the other hand why would you be here if you didn’t? Sheeez, this is gonna be boring. I’m already talking in circles.
Background:
I’m in my 50s, yes too old for such a young guy.
Born in Ridgecrest, CA. A great place to be from. (I graduated Thursday and left Friday morning.)
Happily married, when I’m not deservedly in trouble, for nearly 30 years.
3 daughters, Charlotte, Cara (hubby is Eric) and Alessandra.
I am a Latter Day Saint, serving as bishop since June of 2005.
Cycling is a huge part of my life, but I haven’t done much since June of 2005. Melodie says I can buy a new bike after my release. My current bike was built by me in 1989. She is a great bike, but needs to go into retirement.
We live in Renton Washington, about 15 miles from downtown Seattle.
I have worked in Telecommunications since 1978. Currently as Sr. Telecom Engineer for Black Box Network Services. I am lucky enough to work out of my home.
I have Celiac Disease, which is intolerance to Gluten found in Wheat, Rye and Barley. My daughter Alessandra and I did complete an awareness ride for this disease in 2005. You can find our online journal at http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/ttfc
So I guess that is it for now.
Later, Steve.
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