It’s the biggest game of their lives and everybody involved is getting nervous. There are only three outs left and the pitcher has almost reached the maximum number of pitches he can throw, eighty five. The coaches are pacing back and forth in the dugout trying to decide what, if anything, to do next. They can let him pitch to one more batter or take him out now. What to do when you are down by one run and facing elimination in the Little League World Series.
The manager makes his move toward the mound; he has to make a decision. He calls time out and walks on the field. The man waves his arms as he walks on the field and a crowd of long faced twelve year olds join him at the mound. Some of the boys appear to be fighting back tears while others are looking at their shoes. The team looks to have already lost the game and judging from their expressions, they are already thinking about the long ride home to New England.
The manager gathers the boys around him and looks each boy in the eyes. Here it comes, I think, he’s going to rip them a new one. “Isn’t this great? You guys are great!” he says with a thick Boston accent, “This game is great, we are a great team!” The boys look up at him and a few even manage a smile. “I’m so proud of each one of you. Go get them”. He hands the ball back to the struggling pitcher and walks back to the dugout.
Well a miracle did not happen for those boys that night, they were eliminated. They will watch the remainder of the tournament from home, and playing under the Williamsport lights will be only a memory. The numbers are not really in favor of any of these boys making it to the big leagues, so this will probably be the biggest sporting event in which most of them will ever participate. But what a memory it will be!
I have continued to think of this game since I watched it last night. Sure, the competition was intense, but what their coach told them when all was lost has really stuck with me. Whether we win or lose, we are great. If we enjoy life for what it is, what we are doing and who we are doing it with…we win every game.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Oh No!
By now I think that everyone who reads my blogs knows what I do for a living. Officially I am a monitor for the federal government’s weatherization program working in a grant funded position. Unofficially I am an inspector hired by The University of Georgia to oversee the work done by community action agencies. Before I go any further let me just say no, I can’t get you any free football game tickets, but I do like both the job and the employer. Getting to talk to the clients that have had their homes weatherized has been a lot of fun too. I’ve met some genuine southern characters.
Honestly I am a re-inspector. The work has already been inspected, so I inspect the inspectors. That is a mouthful, I know, but it’s to insure that there is no impropriety with our tax dollars. Sometimes I get to see some pretty rough stuff in some neighborhoods that, let’s just say, I wouldn’t want to be in after the sun goes down. But for the most part it goes smoothly. I have been trained on how to handle people that approach me, and I’m a diligent truck locker. I never go alone and I usually follow an inspector (my escort) from one of the agencies in my personal vehicle; safety in numbers. Sounds like we’ve got it all figured out, huh? Well something happened to me today that you just can’t train for.
We left a home in Houston County and headed for downtown Macon. I don’t care much for the east side of that town, but quite a bit of work is done in that area so I’m there frequently. We pulled into the driveway that was shared with two side by side houses and I began to look around. It was pretty much what I expected, so I grabbed my camera and stepped out of the truck. I usually let the guy from the agency go in first because he already knows the homeowner, but as I got out and walked around the home, he got back in his truck to let a car, he had blocked in, out of the drive. When I came back to the front of the house my escort was nowhere in sight, so I spoke to an older man that was sitting on the front porch as I walked in the front door.
It was pretty dark inside the home, but I could see three people sitting on the couch as I walked toward the kitchen. I said hello and they responded in kind. When I reached the kitchen there was an older woman sitting at the table. I spoke to her as well and started taking pictures of the appliances. I opened the cabinets and looked in the stove. I pulled the clothes dryer out slightly and took a picture of the exhaust pipe. As I went through the motions of my routine inspection, the lady sitting at the table asked me why I was taking pictures. I explained to her why I was there and what else I would have to do before I left. “Humph” was all she said. I apologized again as I ran another person out of the bathroom! How many people were in this home? After twenty minutes of taking pictures and opening cabinet doors I walked out back to look at the rear of the home. One of the ladies went with me because there were three pitbulls back there, and while I could tell that at least two were on chains, I didn’t want to take a chance. I hated to ask her, but I thought it was the least she could do after all of the work that had been done on her home.
She was in the middle of an apology for how much stuff she had stacked on the back porch when my cellphone rang . It was my escort, but why was he calling me? “Where are you he asked?” as the homeowner stopped her speech in mid-sentence. I thought this was a stupid question, but I told him I was in the back yard. He walked around the home at this point and stood there looking at me with a big smile on his face. “I was wondering where you were.” He almost laughed. “But I would have never dreamed you were in the next door neighbor’s house!”
Honestly I am a re-inspector. The work has already been inspected, so I inspect the inspectors. That is a mouthful, I know, but it’s to insure that there is no impropriety with our tax dollars. Sometimes I get to see some pretty rough stuff in some neighborhoods that, let’s just say, I wouldn’t want to be in after the sun goes down. But for the most part it goes smoothly. I have been trained on how to handle people that approach me, and I’m a diligent truck locker. I never go alone and I usually follow an inspector (my escort) from one of the agencies in my personal vehicle; safety in numbers. Sounds like we’ve got it all figured out, huh? Well something happened to me today that you just can’t train for.
We left a home in Houston County and headed for downtown Macon. I don’t care much for the east side of that town, but quite a bit of work is done in that area so I’m there frequently. We pulled into the driveway that was shared with two side by side houses and I began to look around. It was pretty much what I expected, so I grabbed my camera and stepped out of the truck. I usually let the guy from the agency go in first because he already knows the homeowner, but as I got out and walked around the home, he got back in his truck to let a car, he had blocked in, out of the drive. When I came back to the front of the house my escort was nowhere in sight, so I spoke to an older man that was sitting on the front porch as I walked in the front door.
It was pretty dark inside the home, but I could see three people sitting on the couch as I walked toward the kitchen. I said hello and they responded in kind. When I reached the kitchen there was an older woman sitting at the table. I spoke to her as well and started taking pictures of the appliances. I opened the cabinets and looked in the stove. I pulled the clothes dryer out slightly and took a picture of the exhaust pipe. As I went through the motions of my routine inspection, the lady sitting at the table asked me why I was taking pictures. I explained to her why I was there and what else I would have to do before I left. “Humph” was all she said. I apologized again as I ran another person out of the bathroom! How many people were in this home? After twenty minutes of taking pictures and opening cabinet doors I walked out back to look at the rear of the home. One of the ladies went with me because there were three pitbulls back there, and while I could tell that at least two were on chains, I didn’t want to take a chance. I hated to ask her, but I thought it was the least she could do after all of the work that had been done on her home.
She was in the middle of an apology for how much stuff she had stacked on the back porch when my cellphone rang . It was my escort, but why was he calling me? “Where are you he asked?” as the homeowner stopped her speech in mid-sentence. I thought this was a stupid question, but I told him I was in the back yard. He walked around the home at this point and stood there looking at me with a big smile on his face. “I was wondering where you were.” He almost laughed. “But I would have never dreamed you were in the next door neighbor’s house!”
Saturday, August 13, 2011
The old way
Another long week in Atlanta is now a memory. This last year of forty hour classes and proctored tests has taken me away from my family more than any year since Taylor was born and really even the twenty five years since PJ and I have been together. I think we have done pretty well with it, and come to find out my household will function without my supervision. But the weeks are beginning to become a blur. It would be different (I think) if the subject matter was the same, but we have jumped around a bit. Mixed in with the basic “whole house as a system” that this program is based on, we have taken classes in Thermographer imaging usage, pest control and even commercial construction safety. Yes, I am being re-trained as part of the Stimulus Package, but some days I’m not sure just exactly what I’m being re-trained to be.
Last week was the second (and final) of the commercial construction safety certifications I will be offered; the first one was basically just a study course for the second one anyway. So now after two weeks of information overload I am authorized to teach an OSHA construction safety class up to thirty hours in length. A pretty nice portable certification, I hope, for a guy that will have to re-invent himself again in less than a year. My resume looks a lot different than it did a year ago, but I’m not sure of its intended value in the small town I call home. Honestly I have never spent much time worrying about future employment, but I have never lived in a time when the economy was this bad. I have also never been forty eight years old.
Last week’s class was a little different than ones I’ve had before. Most of the ones I’ve attended lately begin with the each member of the class telling a little about themselves. Where they are from, where they work and what their interests are. The last instructor added “tell us something nobody knows about you” to the list; I thought that was a nice touch. A little window in to your personality. To me it was not so much the something itself as much as it was what you were willing to tell. The opportunity to describe yourself as you wish you were? Maybe. But it was right down my “people watching” alley because I usually sit around and imagine what I want to about the other students anyway. This was a very diverse group. We had students from 25 to 65 years old; students that called towns from New York to Miami home; students that were men and women of at least 6 different nationalities. Diverse.
Well this was a very short introduction to the class and its students, now the course begins. Industrial construction safety is, shall we say, not the most exciting course one might take. A course like this is made (or not) by the instructor. So short of standing there for five days lecturing about respirators, silicosis and mushroom caps on re-bar, our instructor took several different and interesting approaches. We played a few games and watched some silly videos and he broke us up in to seven groups that would give a one hour presentation on the last two days of the class. The instructor would choose the topic and the four other students that you would work with. Strangers that you would have only an hour at the end of each day to plan your presentation with. I, of course, got the guy that was a closet Green Bay Packers fan and the fat guy that dreamed of being a chef, but I did mention that this was a diverse group… right? Well, luckily we each had pretty strong ideas about how we wanted to do our part, so it went smoothly minus the fact that we went dead last and most of our topics had already been covered.
The part that gave me the most trouble about going last was this; everybody was really good! The majority of students were much better than I expected and I’m the one that gives everybody (according to my wife) way too much credit. Several were going to be hard acts to follow! But of all the presentations that day, only one bothered me. It was given by a twenty five year old safety manager from Alabama. He worked for a large construction company but dreamed of playing professional soccer. At least that was the thing that nobody would know about him…the person he wished he was. His presentation was on welding safety. I will add that entire class was blown away by his demeanor when it was “show time” because he had hardly said a word the entire week. He was good! He began by showing a few slides of welding equipment and tools, and then stopped on a slide that was an up close picture of a very rough looking older man. The man had obviously taken his “store bought teeth” out for the picture, and he was making a silly face with his eyes crossed. He had on overalls with the pant legs cut off and no shirt under the straps; a fuzz of red and gray hair covering his bare shoulders. If you were to look up redneck in the dictionary, his would be the picture attached. All of the students laughed at the image, and I would have to give the guy points for the distraction. But what followed really caught my attention, and kind of disturbed me; scared me.
“This is what we have to get rid of!” the young man said “This is the face of your typical construction worker, and it has to change. If I find this guy on my jobs, I will find a way to get rid of him! This is the old way and it scares me” Nobody said anything at this point and the young man proceeded with his presentation. His next slide was an image of a much younger man wearing a welding outfit that had obviously just been taken out of its packaging for the photo to be made. The guy modeling it looked to have recently received a fresh haircut and the only thing missing was the trained Palomino horse that he would ride home at the end of the day. He was… a young welding superhero.
As the young man finished his presentation, the lady sitting in front of me turned around slightly and looked at me. She was about my age, and had been an OSHA compliance for many years. She didn’t say anything, but I was pretty sure I knew what she was thinking. Before she could speak, one of the three co-workers of mine that were in the class poked me in the arm and said “That was really good.” I looked at him and catalogued the similarities he shared with the presenter. Their ages were pretty close; both could be my son. I just nodded my head and waited for the next student to stand before the class. Old guy…I’ll find a way to get rid of him…this is the old way; I could think of nothing else.
The day came to a close and I went back to the hotel to practice my presentation and study for the looming test. I had it down. I could recite my part about concrete tools without notes, and barring any type of last minute stage fright, I was ready. The old guy was giving a presentation about something that he had only learned a few days prior. Re-invention number…? Could this young man be right? How did I wake up one morning and be the old way? I had to get this out of my head and finish what I had started.
When I walked in to class the next morning, the lady that sat in front of me, the OSHA officer, was waiting for me at the door. She started talking about the young man’s presentation from the day before, and really she was talking so fast I was having a hard time understanding her. “I had to pray about it.” She said, “This is something that has followed me for my entire career.” I looked at her and decided again that she was about my age; maybe a little older. But she looked nothing like the old guy in the previous day’s photo. She was very nicely dressed and had on just the right amount of makeup and jewelry. She looked professional. “What do you think it has been like for in this business all these years?” she asked. “Honey, sugar, baby doll, I’ve heard them all. That boy yesterday is nothing but trouble.” At this point I’m thinking I missed something yesterday. He didn’t say anything about women. He was just knocking me, the old guy. The old way. “You let him get to court and tell the judge why he fired that guy. They will make a fool out of him!” she almost yelled, “A man that thinks like that will do the same with women, blacks, Mexicans and any other person on the job that is not just like him.”
Boy had I missed it. She was right. As soon as he had nailed me I had just turned on myself and turned off my logic. It wasn’t about the old guy…it was about tolerance. She had identified the big picture while I sat behind her feeling singled out; an antique. She had identified the problem, and it was neither of us. So this being said…who do you think was thinking the old way?
Last week was the second (and final) of the commercial construction safety certifications I will be offered; the first one was basically just a study course for the second one anyway. So now after two weeks of information overload I am authorized to teach an OSHA construction safety class up to thirty hours in length. A pretty nice portable certification, I hope, for a guy that will have to re-invent himself again in less than a year. My resume looks a lot different than it did a year ago, but I’m not sure of its intended value in the small town I call home. Honestly I have never spent much time worrying about future employment, but I have never lived in a time when the economy was this bad. I have also never been forty eight years old.
Last week’s class was a little different than ones I’ve had before. Most of the ones I’ve attended lately begin with the each member of the class telling a little about themselves. Where they are from, where they work and what their interests are. The last instructor added “tell us something nobody knows about you” to the list; I thought that was a nice touch. A little window in to your personality. To me it was not so much the something itself as much as it was what you were willing to tell. The opportunity to describe yourself as you wish you were? Maybe. But it was right down my “people watching” alley because I usually sit around and imagine what I want to about the other students anyway. This was a very diverse group. We had students from 25 to 65 years old; students that called towns from New York to Miami home; students that were men and women of at least 6 different nationalities. Diverse.
Well this was a very short introduction to the class and its students, now the course begins. Industrial construction safety is, shall we say, not the most exciting course one might take. A course like this is made (or not) by the instructor. So short of standing there for five days lecturing about respirators, silicosis and mushroom caps on re-bar, our instructor took several different and interesting approaches. We played a few games and watched some silly videos and he broke us up in to seven groups that would give a one hour presentation on the last two days of the class. The instructor would choose the topic and the four other students that you would work with. Strangers that you would have only an hour at the end of each day to plan your presentation with. I, of course, got the guy that was a closet Green Bay Packers fan and the fat guy that dreamed of being a chef, but I did mention that this was a diverse group… right? Well, luckily we each had pretty strong ideas about how we wanted to do our part, so it went smoothly minus the fact that we went dead last and most of our topics had already been covered.
The part that gave me the most trouble about going last was this; everybody was really good! The majority of students were much better than I expected and I’m the one that gives everybody (according to my wife) way too much credit. Several were going to be hard acts to follow! But of all the presentations that day, only one bothered me. It was given by a twenty five year old safety manager from Alabama. He worked for a large construction company but dreamed of playing professional soccer. At least that was the thing that nobody would know about him…the person he wished he was. His presentation was on welding safety. I will add that entire class was blown away by his demeanor when it was “show time” because he had hardly said a word the entire week. He was good! He began by showing a few slides of welding equipment and tools, and then stopped on a slide that was an up close picture of a very rough looking older man. The man had obviously taken his “store bought teeth” out for the picture, and he was making a silly face with his eyes crossed. He had on overalls with the pant legs cut off and no shirt under the straps; a fuzz of red and gray hair covering his bare shoulders. If you were to look up redneck in the dictionary, his would be the picture attached. All of the students laughed at the image, and I would have to give the guy points for the distraction. But what followed really caught my attention, and kind of disturbed me; scared me.
“This is what we have to get rid of!” the young man said “This is the face of your typical construction worker, and it has to change. If I find this guy on my jobs, I will find a way to get rid of him! This is the old way and it scares me” Nobody said anything at this point and the young man proceeded with his presentation. His next slide was an image of a much younger man wearing a welding outfit that had obviously just been taken out of its packaging for the photo to be made. The guy modeling it looked to have recently received a fresh haircut and the only thing missing was the trained Palomino horse that he would ride home at the end of the day. He was… a young welding superhero.
As the young man finished his presentation, the lady sitting in front of me turned around slightly and looked at me. She was about my age, and had been an OSHA compliance for many years. She didn’t say anything, but I was pretty sure I knew what she was thinking. Before she could speak, one of the three co-workers of mine that were in the class poked me in the arm and said “That was really good.” I looked at him and catalogued the similarities he shared with the presenter. Their ages were pretty close; both could be my son. I just nodded my head and waited for the next student to stand before the class. Old guy…I’ll find a way to get rid of him…this is the old way; I could think of nothing else.
The day came to a close and I went back to the hotel to practice my presentation and study for the looming test. I had it down. I could recite my part about concrete tools without notes, and barring any type of last minute stage fright, I was ready. The old guy was giving a presentation about something that he had only learned a few days prior. Re-invention number…? Could this young man be right? How did I wake up one morning and be the old way? I had to get this out of my head and finish what I had started.
When I walked in to class the next morning, the lady that sat in front of me, the OSHA officer, was waiting for me at the door. She started talking about the young man’s presentation from the day before, and really she was talking so fast I was having a hard time understanding her. “I had to pray about it.” She said, “This is something that has followed me for my entire career.” I looked at her and decided again that she was about my age; maybe a little older. But she looked nothing like the old guy in the previous day’s photo. She was very nicely dressed and had on just the right amount of makeup and jewelry. She looked professional. “What do you think it has been like for in this business all these years?” she asked. “Honey, sugar, baby doll, I’ve heard them all. That boy yesterday is nothing but trouble.” At this point I’m thinking I missed something yesterday. He didn’t say anything about women. He was just knocking me, the old guy. The old way. “You let him get to court and tell the judge why he fired that guy. They will make a fool out of him!” she almost yelled, “A man that thinks like that will do the same with women, blacks, Mexicans and any other person on the job that is not just like him.”
Boy had I missed it. She was right. As soon as he had nailed me I had just turned on myself and turned off my logic. It wasn’t about the old guy…it was about tolerance. She had identified the big picture while I sat behind her feeling singled out; an antique. She had identified the problem, and it was neither of us. So this being said…who do you think was thinking the old way?
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Rock
It’s been a long, hot week. A week that I would normally do my best to split my duties between the office and the ovens otherwise known as attics. It is a joke with the other monitors in the program that we only inspect mobile homes after lunch in the summer. Since they have no attic, they are a much better choice for 100+ degree heat. I don’t like spiders and snakes, but I will face them in a crawl space any day if I don’t have to endure 150 degree heat.
But this week I had another out of town monitor ride with me. He has only been on the job a month, and has had little hands on training. One thing about this job that is unlike any other I’ve had is that they will send you to classes and trainings until your eyes pop out. Weeks in class and little time in the field made the training very slow for a “hands on” learner like me, so I try extra hard to give new guys as much real world as possible. Since today was his last day with me, I lined up two homes in Thomaston early this morning and we took off.
We arrived at the first home about 10:30, only to discover that it was in fact a manufactured home. No attic! It was out in the middle of nowhere in a blink of a town called The Rock. The doublewide was very neat with a circular drive way and a well-kept lawn. Blooming flowers and shrubs surrounded the long front porch, while small flocks of birds battled for space at the feeders. A small black and white kitten greeted me at the front door and demanded to be recognized before I was allowed to enter the home. This place was pretty remote, but it was feeling like a little slice of paradise.
As I reached for the door knob I looked at my watch. We were about thirty minutes late so I figured the agency employee that was meeting us at the home was getting impatient. Taking us to this home was a last minute favor so I wanted to stay in his graces. “We’ll make this first one kind of quick” I told my partner, “I know our escort is tired of waiting”.
The inside of the home was as nice as the outside. Very clean, and as tastefully decorated as any home I’ve seen. A lady that could double for Paula Deen was planted in a recliner watching The Weather Channel with one eye and me with the other. After I introduced myself, I was absolutely sure this had to be Paula Deen’s sister, and I asked her if she had ever been told this. “Lord no, honey” she laughed still holding my hand. “But I bet she can’t make biscuits like me”. I guess you have to be careful telling someone that they look like Paula Deen, but I meant it as a compliment and she had taken it as such.
I asked her if it was okay if we looked around a bit as I turned my head and scanned the adjoining rooms. I noticed two AK-47 assault rifles propped against the wall by the back door, and while I’ve seen everything in these country homes, I think it worried my trainee. He is from Atlanta via New York via Maryland via Jamaica. Raised a little differently? Probably. Neither of us gave it a name, and we continued to look around in the rest of the home.
I called his attention to a door jamb in a hallway that is a notorious air leak in this type home. We were discussing the correct ways to remedy this when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a person lying in one of the beds. I’m sure I jumped when I realized he was there because I just assumed the homeowner was there alone. “I’m sorry I woke you up” I offered the young man lying on top of the fully made bed, “I didn’t know you were here”. He just looked at me for a few seconds and said “ok”. Grandson I thought, way too young for Paula Deen’s son. He was about 25 years old and was a very large, muscular man. The room he was in was quiet, (no television) and he was lying on the bed fully clothed. I have seen more than a few unemployed people since taking this job, at home during the work day, but it still struck me as odd.
As we headed back to the other end of the home I had to walk between Paula Deen and the TV. “What you planning on shooting with those machine guns?” I asked, pointing to the rifles propped against the wall. “You have one for each hand”. She laughed and told me that they were not real. “Relics” she said as she got out of the chair and walked toward them with me. “My grandson spent two tours in Iraq and they let him bring them home with him. They won’t shoot anymore.” She reached down, picked up one of the rifles and handed it to me. I knew she said it wouldn’t fire, but it always makes me uneasy holding a strange gun. I placed it gently back beside the door and followed her across the room. That is when I noticed the room was pretty much a shrine. A trophy room. Medals draped with red, white and blue ribbons arranged neatly in glass top boxes, certificates in frames hanging on the walls and a book shelf with military uniform items sitting on its shelves. Paula Deen walked over to the shelves and removed a light brown, desert camouflaged helmet that looked like it had seen better days. “You gotta see this” she said as she turned back toward me holding the helmet at arm’s length. “He got shot in the head while he was in Iraq.”
That is when I noticed the large hole in the frayed camouflage covering of the helmet. She was poking her finger in and out of the hole when she said, “He didn’t know who he was for two and a half months and his mama didn’t know where he was either. We figured he was dead.” She was handing me the helmet at this point, and I really didn’t want to take it. I couldn’t imagine what was on the inside of this thing, and she could tell I was hesitant. “Stick your finger in the hole” she said as she put it in my hands, “You won’t believe it.” It was a dead cat. It was her father’s ashes. It was something personal that I was not supposed to touch. All I could think to say as she placed the helmet in my hands was “Is that him lying in the bed in the other room?”
“Yeah, that would be him” she said “There really ain’t nothing wrong with him…physically. This here helmet saved his life. That ain’t what got him.” At this point I looked down at the battle scarred hat. I put my finger in the hole and realized it was only in the covering. “Wow” was all I could think to say. “You are lucky to have him here alive.” I was holding the shield that prevented the sword from piercing his heart. The seat belt that kept him from flying through the windshield. The suit of armor that brought him home alive to The Rock. Something both scary and magic.
“He got over this in a couple of months.” She said “Then they sent him back though, said he was fine. I don’t think he was, but I ain’t no doctor.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. She proceeded to tell me a story of how his buddy, a “colored fellow” had pushed him out of the way of a rifle shot, saving his life. How this man had been killed by a sniper’s bullet that was meant for her grandson. “He ain’t never got over that.” She said as she looked down the hall toward his room. “Sometimes he just paces around the house all night. He says he don’t want to talk about it, but I think he does.”
I had been here too long I thought as I handed her back the helmet. I could feel the tears somewhere inside looking for an escape. I turned to leave and almost ran over my new helper who I didn’t realize was standing behind me. I needed to collect my tools as well as my thoughts, and I really didn’t want to talk to anybody else. I wasn’t sure how long he had been standing behind me, so I just looked at my flashlight and walked to the kitchen to gather my files. I said goodbye to Paula Deen, and as we prepared to leave my feet directed me to the door of the room where the young man was lying on the bed. He looked up at me as I tried to make my mouth work. “Thank you” I croaked, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled a little as I turned, looking at my feet, and headed for the door. I almost plowed over the new guy again as he walked past me straight to the young man’s door. I could hear him thanking the soldier just as I had done as I walked out the front door.
We got back in the truck and headed for the next home. Neither of us said anything for quite a few miles and I silently wondered what my co-worker was thinking. What he was thinking… and how much he had heard of the grandmother’s story. What did he think about the “colored fellow” comment? I knew that Paula Deen didn’t mean anything by it, but what did this city boy think of it? I hate to say that I thought he had probably heard worse in his time and I just added that to the guilt I was feeling. Conveniently my co-worker began a conversation about the testing procedure for a gas furnace, and we talked shop until we reached the next home. Thank you for stepping in front of that bullet.
After a long drive home I dropped him off at his hotel. We had a good week together and I felt good about his training. As I drove away I realized that while we had not spoken again of the small town soldier, he had never been far from my mind. The perfectly healthy looking young man lying on the bed with nothing but his thoughts. Replaying the images of his very short life and struggling to move forward. Paula Deen had told me that he went to college some, and I could only think of how much older he was than his fellow students. How mundane a final exam must be.
We all watch the news. We tune out when we hear headlines declaring “Deadliest month since….”. The war(s) have been going on forever and the body count numbers have a way of just becoming….numbers. 36 million pounds of turkey recalled, 104 degree heat, 25 killed by roadside bomb. The media brags about the men and women that have returned safely, and family reunion stories are often quite touching. But how does one put a number on the small town soldier pacing the floor in the middle of the night. Running from the sights and sounds only he can hear. Lying on the bed in his grandmother’s home reliving the events that have changed him forever. I can’t imagine that in his mind he has returned “safely” to The Rock.
But this week I had another out of town monitor ride with me. He has only been on the job a month, and has had little hands on training. One thing about this job that is unlike any other I’ve had is that they will send you to classes and trainings until your eyes pop out. Weeks in class and little time in the field made the training very slow for a “hands on” learner like me, so I try extra hard to give new guys as much real world as possible. Since today was his last day with me, I lined up two homes in Thomaston early this morning and we took off.
We arrived at the first home about 10:30, only to discover that it was in fact a manufactured home. No attic! It was out in the middle of nowhere in a blink of a town called The Rock. The doublewide was very neat with a circular drive way and a well-kept lawn. Blooming flowers and shrubs surrounded the long front porch, while small flocks of birds battled for space at the feeders. A small black and white kitten greeted me at the front door and demanded to be recognized before I was allowed to enter the home. This place was pretty remote, but it was feeling like a little slice of paradise.
As I reached for the door knob I looked at my watch. We were about thirty minutes late so I figured the agency employee that was meeting us at the home was getting impatient. Taking us to this home was a last minute favor so I wanted to stay in his graces. “We’ll make this first one kind of quick” I told my partner, “I know our escort is tired of waiting”.
The inside of the home was as nice as the outside. Very clean, and as tastefully decorated as any home I’ve seen. A lady that could double for Paula Deen was planted in a recliner watching The Weather Channel with one eye and me with the other. After I introduced myself, I was absolutely sure this had to be Paula Deen’s sister, and I asked her if she had ever been told this. “Lord no, honey” she laughed still holding my hand. “But I bet she can’t make biscuits like me”. I guess you have to be careful telling someone that they look like Paula Deen, but I meant it as a compliment and she had taken it as such.
I asked her if it was okay if we looked around a bit as I turned my head and scanned the adjoining rooms. I noticed two AK-47 assault rifles propped against the wall by the back door, and while I’ve seen everything in these country homes, I think it worried my trainee. He is from Atlanta via New York via Maryland via Jamaica. Raised a little differently? Probably. Neither of us gave it a name, and we continued to look around in the rest of the home.
I called his attention to a door jamb in a hallway that is a notorious air leak in this type home. We were discussing the correct ways to remedy this when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a person lying in one of the beds. I’m sure I jumped when I realized he was there because I just assumed the homeowner was there alone. “I’m sorry I woke you up” I offered the young man lying on top of the fully made bed, “I didn’t know you were here”. He just looked at me for a few seconds and said “ok”. Grandson I thought, way too young for Paula Deen’s son. He was about 25 years old and was a very large, muscular man. The room he was in was quiet, (no television) and he was lying on the bed fully clothed. I have seen more than a few unemployed people since taking this job, at home during the work day, but it still struck me as odd.
As we headed back to the other end of the home I had to walk between Paula Deen and the TV. “What you planning on shooting with those machine guns?” I asked, pointing to the rifles propped against the wall. “You have one for each hand”. She laughed and told me that they were not real. “Relics” she said as she got out of the chair and walked toward them with me. “My grandson spent two tours in Iraq and they let him bring them home with him. They won’t shoot anymore.” She reached down, picked up one of the rifles and handed it to me. I knew she said it wouldn’t fire, but it always makes me uneasy holding a strange gun. I placed it gently back beside the door and followed her across the room. That is when I noticed the room was pretty much a shrine. A trophy room. Medals draped with red, white and blue ribbons arranged neatly in glass top boxes, certificates in frames hanging on the walls and a book shelf with military uniform items sitting on its shelves. Paula Deen walked over to the shelves and removed a light brown, desert camouflaged helmet that looked like it had seen better days. “You gotta see this” she said as she turned back toward me holding the helmet at arm’s length. “He got shot in the head while he was in Iraq.”
That is when I noticed the large hole in the frayed camouflage covering of the helmet. She was poking her finger in and out of the hole when she said, “He didn’t know who he was for two and a half months and his mama didn’t know where he was either. We figured he was dead.” She was handing me the helmet at this point, and I really didn’t want to take it. I couldn’t imagine what was on the inside of this thing, and she could tell I was hesitant. “Stick your finger in the hole” she said as she put it in my hands, “You won’t believe it.” It was a dead cat. It was her father’s ashes. It was something personal that I was not supposed to touch. All I could think to say as she placed the helmet in my hands was “Is that him lying in the bed in the other room?”
“Yeah, that would be him” she said “There really ain’t nothing wrong with him…physically. This here helmet saved his life. That ain’t what got him.” At this point I looked down at the battle scarred hat. I put my finger in the hole and realized it was only in the covering. “Wow” was all I could think to say. “You are lucky to have him here alive.” I was holding the shield that prevented the sword from piercing his heart. The seat belt that kept him from flying through the windshield. The suit of armor that brought him home alive to The Rock. Something both scary and magic.
“He got over this in a couple of months.” She said “Then they sent him back though, said he was fine. I don’t think he was, but I ain’t no doctor.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. She proceeded to tell me a story of how his buddy, a “colored fellow” had pushed him out of the way of a rifle shot, saving his life. How this man had been killed by a sniper’s bullet that was meant for her grandson. “He ain’t never got over that.” She said as she looked down the hall toward his room. “Sometimes he just paces around the house all night. He says he don’t want to talk about it, but I think he does.”
I had been here too long I thought as I handed her back the helmet. I could feel the tears somewhere inside looking for an escape. I turned to leave and almost ran over my new helper who I didn’t realize was standing behind me. I needed to collect my tools as well as my thoughts, and I really didn’t want to talk to anybody else. I wasn’t sure how long he had been standing behind me, so I just looked at my flashlight and walked to the kitchen to gather my files. I said goodbye to Paula Deen, and as we prepared to leave my feet directed me to the door of the room where the young man was lying on the bed. He looked up at me as I tried to make my mouth work. “Thank you” I croaked, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled a little as I turned, looking at my feet, and headed for the door. I almost plowed over the new guy again as he walked past me straight to the young man’s door. I could hear him thanking the soldier just as I had done as I walked out the front door.
We got back in the truck and headed for the next home. Neither of us said anything for quite a few miles and I silently wondered what my co-worker was thinking. What he was thinking… and how much he had heard of the grandmother’s story. What did he think about the “colored fellow” comment? I knew that Paula Deen didn’t mean anything by it, but what did this city boy think of it? I hate to say that I thought he had probably heard worse in his time and I just added that to the guilt I was feeling. Conveniently my co-worker began a conversation about the testing procedure for a gas furnace, and we talked shop until we reached the next home. Thank you for stepping in front of that bullet.
After a long drive home I dropped him off at his hotel. We had a good week together and I felt good about his training. As I drove away I realized that while we had not spoken again of the small town soldier, he had never been far from my mind. The perfectly healthy looking young man lying on the bed with nothing but his thoughts. Replaying the images of his very short life and struggling to move forward. Paula Deen had told me that he went to college some, and I could only think of how much older he was than his fellow students. How mundane a final exam must be.
We all watch the news. We tune out when we hear headlines declaring “Deadliest month since….”. The war(s) have been going on forever and the body count numbers have a way of just becoming….numbers. 36 million pounds of turkey recalled, 104 degree heat, 25 killed by roadside bomb. The media brags about the men and women that have returned safely, and family reunion stories are often quite touching. But how does one put a number on the small town soldier pacing the floor in the middle of the night. Running from the sights and sounds only he can hear. Lying on the bed in his grandmother’s home reliving the events that have changed him forever. I can’t imagine that in his mind he has returned “safely” to The Rock.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The man
I decided to get up early this morning and drive to a job that was underway in a county that was one of the most distant in my inspection area. I made an extra cup of coffee for the road and took off. Some good quiet time in my truck with the sun just starting to rise. I entered the address in my GPS but I knew where to go except for the last couple of turns. I could relax with the radio and plan my lecture for a crew that was struggling to get things right. I’ve never been a big “on paper” planner, but I mentally lay every scenario out, sometimes to a fault.
With only a few miles left to my destination I get a phone call from the crew leader. This could not be good.
“We have to go to another job a few counties away to fix a roof leak from last night’s heavy rain” the worker says. “I guess I should have called you earlier, huh?”
Yeah, that would have been a great idea I think, but I don’t say anything. He was probably telling the truth, but it was awfully convenient for them to have other last minute plans. I know he was anticipating what I was planning to tell him, and he was just delaying the inevitable. Staying home from school on the day of the big test.
“That’s ok” I offer, doing my best not to accuse him of anything “Are there any contractors at the job?”
He said that the heating and air guys were there and gave me the homeowner’s name. I rarely go alone for safety reasons, but I was almost there and quite frankly needed this home for my monthly numbers. Well at least now I wouldn’t have a confrontation with the crew, I just needed to think of what I would say to the homeowner about my surprise visit. A visit from “the state man”.
As I pulled in the driveway I saw the HVAC guys working on some ducts in the carport. I had never met this group, so I got a couple of cards out to validate my introduction. After rustling for a few nonexistent items in my truck, I opened the door and walked to the house. The two very young guys were hard at work and barely looked up as I approached. Since when did they let fifth graders install air conditioning I wonder? I said good morning, but their smiles disappeared when they realized who I was. I’ve spent most of my life on their end of the job, so I am all too familiar with the look on their faces. I do my best to minimize their dread. I ask them a few simple questions just to be a fellow human, then head inside to talk to the homeowner.
I walk in to a very dark home, a television blasting in some distant room. I don’t think I will surprise anybody because the workers are coming and going from the carport to the attic, but I make more noise than necessary just in case. The TV noise seems to be coming from a room down the hall, but I need my flashlight to insure that I don’t stumble over anything in the hall. When I reach the doorway I see a man lying on the sofa, the crook of his elbow covering his face. Before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve shone the beam of the flashlight right in his face. He quickly sits upright and struggles to stand. Judging from the wild look in his eyes, I’ve scared him.
“How you doing?” I ask, trying to calm his nerves. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
The man just stood there and stared at the hand I had shoved in his direction. He was caught somewhere between the TV, his dreams and the beam of the flashlight, and for a second I imagine he thought it was the microphone that the host of The Price Is Right was pointing at the giggling contestants. Or worse, the police asking him to step out of the car. I hate when that happens, but I don’t know how I could have done it any differently. He finally accepts my handshake as I attempt to explain my presence.
“Just taking a look around” I say, as his eyes leave mine and scan the darkened room. “No reason in particular I’m at your house, just looking at some jobs and yours came up.”
I move through the house, and he hesitantly follows me. I continue to make small talk about the weather and the work done, but all he really wants is for me to leave. Am I going to ask him questions about the application he filled out to get the work done? Will he remember the answers he chose to write down six months ago? Am I going to look in the medicine cabinet or count the beers in the refrigerator? All of these questions and more flash through his mind as he grabs a towel and wipes the kitchen counter.
We all have these emotions. When you hand your driver’s license to the policeman that pulls you over, of course you are nervous, even when you’ve done nothing wrong. But we also have them when we do something as simple as showing ID while writing a check or using a credit card. Calling in sick to work requires the use of a strained voice that has little to do with the ailment. It feels like you are asking for a favor; begging. Being validated by another before you get what you want; what you deserve. We would all do well to recognize this situation and try to put others at ease. When you reach a point where you enjoy “being the man”, you are headed for disaster, we all answer to somebody.
With only a few miles left to my destination I get a phone call from the crew leader. This could not be good.
“We have to go to another job a few counties away to fix a roof leak from last night’s heavy rain” the worker says. “I guess I should have called you earlier, huh?”
Yeah, that would have been a great idea I think, but I don’t say anything. He was probably telling the truth, but it was awfully convenient for them to have other last minute plans. I know he was anticipating what I was planning to tell him, and he was just delaying the inevitable. Staying home from school on the day of the big test.
“That’s ok” I offer, doing my best not to accuse him of anything “Are there any contractors at the job?”
He said that the heating and air guys were there and gave me the homeowner’s name. I rarely go alone for safety reasons, but I was almost there and quite frankly needed this home for my monthly numbers. Well at least now I wouldn’t have a confrontation with the crew, I just needed to think of what I would say to the homeowner about my surprise visit. A visit from “the state man”.
As I pulled in the driveway I saw the HVAC guys working on some ducts in the carport. I had never met this group, so I got a couple of cards out to validate my introduction. After rustling for a few nonexistent items in my truck, I opened the door and walked to the house. The two very young guys were hard at work and barely looked up as I approached. Since when did they let fifth graders install air conditioning I wonder? I said good morning, but their smiles disappeared when they realized who I was. I’ve spent most of my life on their end of the job, so I am all too familiar with the look on their faces. I do my best to minimize their dread. I ask them a few simple questions just to be a fellow human, then head inside to talk to the homeowner.
I walk in to a very dark home, a television blasting in some distant room. I don’t think I will surprise anybody because the workers are coming and going from the carport to the attic, but I make more noise than necessary just in case. The TV noise seems to be coming from a room down the hall, but I need my flashlight to insure that I don’t stumble over anything in the hall. When I reach the doorway I see a man lying on the sofa, the crook of his elbow covering his face. Before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve shone the beam of the flashlight right in his face. He quickly sits upright and struggles to stand. Judging from the wild look in his eyes, I’ve scared him.
“How you doing?” I ask, trying to calm his nerves. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
The man just stood there and stared at the hand I had shoved in his direction. He was caught somewhere between the TV, his dreams and the beam of the flashlight, and for a second I imagine he thought it was the microphone that the host of The Price Is Right was pointing at the giggling contestants. Or worse, the police asking him to step out of the car. I hate when that happens, but I don’t know how I could have done it any differently. He finally accepts my handshake as I attempt to explain my presence.
“Just taking a look around” I say, as his eyes leave mine and scan the darkened room. “No reason in particular I’m at your house, just looking at some jobs and yours came up.”
I move through the house, and he hesitantly follows me. I continue to make small talk about the weather and the work done, but all he really wants is for me to leave. Am I going to ask him questions about the application he filled out to get the work done? Will he remember the answers he chose to write down six months ago? Am I going to look in the medicine cabinet or count the beers in the refrigerator? All of these questions and more flash through his mind as he grabs a towel and wipes the kitchen counter.
We all have these emotions. When you hand your driver’s license to the policeman that pulls you over, of course you are nervous, even when you’ve done nothing wrong. But we also have them when we do something as simple as showing ID while writing a check or using a credit card. Calling in sick to work requires the use of a strained voice that has little to do with the ailment. It feels like you are asking for a favor; begging. Being validated by another before you get what you want; what you deserve. We would all do well to recognize this situation and try to put others at ease. When you reach a point where you enjoy “being the man”, you are headed for disaster, we all answer to somebody.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Vote
I will have to start this blog with an admission. I like to listen to talk radio. I still like music and play around on Youtube on a regular basis, but when I’m driving I like conversation. It can be sports, NPR or political talk; it doesn’t matter. I don’t remember exactly when this happened, but I think it was somewhere around the time that I had to start cutting long hairs from my eyebrows. It really doesn’t matter if I agree with what is being said, I just like to hear people voice their opinions. Kindred souls; I have been known to be opinionated myself.
I was in Macon one morning earlier in the week and I was listening to AM 940. Their early morning show is mainly about local issues, and while most of that doesn’t apply to me, I find it interesting. This particular show was dedicated to the mayoral race. It was the day after the election and they were taking calls from local people that wanted to weigh in on the outcome. Many of the callers told of how they had to find a ride to the polls because they had no car and one lady had to get a ride because a tree had fallen on her vehicle. This was amazing when you consider that 74% of the population of Macon did not vote at all! Three out of four citizens didn’t even bother.
The hosts, and some of the callers, were really down on black residents for not voting. I know they have been voting the least amount of time, but it really hasn’t been that long for women either. Some of the singling out seems unfair because if you really think about it, it hasn’t been that long for any of us. We crossed the ocean to get rid of kings and queens so we could vote for our own government, and now only a couple of hundred years later we hardly participate. One out of four citizens voting is inexcusable.
Most of the calls were pretty much the same until one man called in to explain why it was alright not to vote. He explained that he liked none of the candidates and that none of them had a viable plan for running the city. The hosts tried to empress upon him that he had to pick the best of the worst and vote anyway. He wouldn’t listen. He continued with his argument that he hated all of them and didn’t want to give them the honor of his vote. This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Surely this man does not believe that if nobody shows up to vote nobody wins! There will be a winner, and if you don’t like it you have only yourself to blame.
I was in Macon one morning earlier in the week and I was listening to AM 940. Their early morning show is mainly about local issues, and while most of that doesn’t apply to me, I find it interesting. This particular show was dedicated to the mayoral race. It was the day after the election and they were taking calls from local people that wanted to weigh in on the outcome. Many of the callers told of how they had to find a ride to the polls because they had no car and one lady had to get a ride because a tree had fallen on her vehicle. This was amazing when you consider that 74% of the population of Macon did not vote at all! Three out of four citizens didn’t even bother.
The hosts, and some of the callers, were really down on black residents for not voting. I know they have been voting the least amount of time, but it really hasn’t been that long for women either. Some of the singling out seems unfair because if you really think about it, it hasn’t been that long for any of us. We crossed the ocean to get rid of kings and queens so we could vote for our own government, and now only a couple of hundred years later we hardly participate. One out of four citizens voting is inexcusable.
Most of the calls were pretty much the same until one man called in to explain why it was alright not to vote. He explained that he liked none of the candidates and that none of them had a viable plan for running the city. The hosts tried to empress upon him that he had to pick the best of the worst and vote anyway. He wouldn’t listen. He continued with his argument that he hated all of them and didn’t want to give them the honor of his vote. This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Surely this man does not believe that if nobody shows up to vote nobody wins! There will be a winner, and if you don’t like it you have only yourself to blame.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Everything changes
I read a post on Facebook a few weeks back that, for some reason, has really stuck in my head. It was a short bio about a young man that died at the age of 26. It was written by his older brother and accompanied by a short video. None of the footage was taken any later than 1994 because that was the year of his death. I knew both of the brothers while I was growing up but had lost touch with both of them as we got older. The brother has now been gone for 17 years.
In one part of the video the young man is carrying a microwave oven through the house. It was Christmastime and the oven appeared to be a gift. It is one of those parts of a video that is annoying when someone is taking it of you because at the time, it seems meaningless. It is now priceless. The young man has a big smile on his face, glad to have received a gift of the latest technology. The writer mentions that his brother never sent an email or even had a pager. He missed the computer age. We changed that much in only 17 years.
We have all lost loved ones, this is inevitable fact of our lives. If you live long enough, your friends and loved ones will die. Some deaths hurt worse than others, and it seems extra painful when the one who dies is too young. But they all hurt. You start with unimaginable grief that slowly changes to reflection. From how will I go on, to what if he was…wouldn’t she have loved to….this makes me think of…..But this can be a slow process.
I’m not really sure when this happened to me. My little brother has been gone for over 8 years now, and no it does not hurt the same way it used to. It is different. My wife and I talk about him daily at home, but it is no longer my first reaction to pick up the phone and call him when something good or bad happens; that is not when I think of him. I think of him when I pay my cell phone bill; he had one before anybody I know. I think of him when I say something mean to another person; he always told me it wasn’t cool. I think of him when I pet my dog; he loved his dog more than life.
Writing this makes me sad, but thinking of him daily does not. I miss him and I would love to call him up and say, “can you believe I just….”. I don’t think (and I hope) this never goes away. I like to think when I have these thoughts he is hearing me; we are communicating. What has really changed since time has passed is that I can once again say I love to think about him.
In one part of the video the young man is carrying a microwave oven through the house. It was Christmastime and the oven appeared to be a gift. It is one of those parts of a video that is annoying when someone is taking it of you because at the time, it seems meaningless. It is now priceless. The young man has a big smile on his face, glad to have received a gift of the latest technology. The writer mentions that his brother never sent an email or even had a pager. He missed the computer age. We changed that much in only 17 years.
We have all lost loved ones, this is inevitable fact of our lives. If you live long enough, your friends and loved ones will die. Some deaths hurt worse than others, and it seems extra painful when the one who dies is too young. But they all hurt. You start with unimaginable grief that slowly changes to reflection. From how will I go on, to what if he was…wouldn’t she have loved to….this makes me think of…..But this can be a slow process.
I’m not really sure when this happened to me. My little brother has been gone for over 8 years now, and no it does not hurt the same way it used to. It is different. My wife and I talk about him daily at home, but it is no longer my first reaction to pick up the phone and call him when something good or bad happens; that is not when I think of him. I think of him when I pay my cell phone bill; he had one before anybody I know. I think of him when I say something mean to another person; he always told me it wasn’t cool. I think of him when I pet my dog; he loved his dog more than life.
Writing this makes me sad, but thinking of him daily does not. I miss him and I would love to call him up and say, “can you believe I just….”. I don’t think (and I hope) this never goes away. I like to think when I have these thoughts he is hearing me; we are communicating. What has really changed since time has passed is that I can once again say I love to think about him.
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