9 or 10 at Rush Hour

 

This is a partial reprint from long ago.

In the mid-1970s I was directing traffic at one of the busiest intersections in downtown Houston, Walker Street at Bagby. It is a major freeway entrance to I-45 North.  Traffic was heavy from both streets trying to exit downtown during evening rush hour. Bagby street had traffic moving North and South while Walker was Westbound only. There was always heavy pedestrian traffic as well, it being next to City Hall and some large parking facilities.

My approach to working traffic was to let Walker run wild and fast to clear out as many vehicles as possible. When the lights would change it was important to let the pedestrian traffic cross; but only until their “Wait” sign lighted, at which time I was quite forceful in halting anyone from crossing while at the same time directing those drivers in the turning lanes to begin the mad dash to the freeway. I stood in between, much as a matador directs a bull fight, intimidating drivers to turn the steering wheel to accommodate traffic from both directions at the same time. It was challenging, maybe that word covers how I managed to stay alive each time the lights cycled and the process was repeated.

One day, a light and breezy mild afternoon with clear blue skies, I was in full swing directing traffic when a drop dead gorgeous young woman began to cross the street. You may recall the movie with Dudley Moore, “10”; perhaps I should rephrase that, the movie with Bo Derek, a young woman of exquisite form, perhaps beyond belief. The point being that most men have never seen a perfect 10; a few 7’s or 8’s that made them forget their names and maybe a 9 but they were too blown away to remember any of the details.

The young woman crossing the street at Bagby and Walker that afternoon was somewhere between a 9 and a 10. How do I know this; because I was temporarily removed from my mortal body, not a good thing to do while standing in the middle of moving traffic. I remember directing two columns of opposing traffic into each other, one from Walker Street and the other from Bagby. The only thing that kept everyone from having a terrific accident was luck; either that or the fact that all the male drivers had stopped observing my orchestrations, their attention diverted to something quite a bit more appealing. I caught myself, forcing my arms down, a sheepish grin on my face for having proven once again that I was a victim of hormonal influences.

A Right Way and A Wrong Way

 

It’s interesting how the mind works as you review various events that took place long ago. For instance, this past week or so I’ve been remembering things that happened when I was a Rookie Police Officer for the Houston Police Department back in the early 1970s. The other day I wrote about purchasing my sidearm pistol while still in the Police Academy.

That brought up some other memories. The first place I worked as a Rookie was the Beechnut Substation out on the southwest side of Houston.  They had me ride with several different veteran officers, each lending aspects of the job that would be valuable during my time as an officer.

One of the first senior officers I rode with out of Beechnut was Ricky Rice, who eventually got promoted to Sgt and, for all I know, may have gone on to become a Lt or Capt.  Anyway, Officer Rice knew I was uncomfortable wearing the blue uniform and all, so he went out of his way to explain things and simply be a nice guy.

Instead of taking a break to have lunch at some burger stand, Officer Rice welcomed me to join him at his apartment, meet his wife and grab a sandwich there.  Upon arriving at his apartment complex, we walked up some stairs to get to his unit.  He opened the door and was about to introduce me to his wife when I recognized her from being in my home room back in high school, Sharon Thomas; make that, Sharon Thomas Rice.

(The photo was scanned from my high school yearbook.)

“Hey, Sharon,” The look on Officer Rice’s face was hard to explain. Here I was a Rookie about to be introduced to his wife; but I already knew this lady, well enough to call her by name. So much for the introduction; I couldn’t tell you what kind of sandwiches were for lunch.

Then there was a different experience that same week while riding with another veteran officer; I won’t include his name, a little like the opening remarks on the old television series, Dragnet. “The story you are about to see is true, only the names have been changed to protect…”  Let’s just call him Ray, as good a name as any.

When it came time for lunch he drove to a fancy restaurant on Westheimer, Christies. If you’re familiar with this location, it would fall under the listing, expensive and far beyond the average fast food place cops would go for lunch.

I checked my wallet before getting out of the patrol vehicle.  I had around eighteen dollars, maybe enough to get a hamburger if that was even on the menu. Ray assured me that this was a friendly place for cops and was always free, opening the door for me to enter the restaurant.

This early in my experience as a Police Officer, I had yet to learn about ‘Dragging the Sack”.

We were seated quickly and handed menus. I glanced at the prices and knew I couldn’t afford anything on the front page.  I found hamburger listed in the children’s section of the menu and ordered that since it came with fries, all for fifteen dollars.

Ray, on the other hand, ordered half a dozen oysters, a fancy specialty dish and didn’t blink as the waiter took the order.  I figured out in my head that Ray had just ordered about fifty dollars in fancy food.  I felt out of place and didn’t want to be sitting there.

We ate and when it came time to leave the manager quietly approached Ray, lightly touching Ray’s shoulder as he spoke, “Ray, I can’t continue to give you any more free meals. This is the last time.”  The manager stepped back as Ray got up and tossed his napkin in the middle of the empty plate.

I was not prepared to hear Ray’s reply, “I hope you M------F-----rs get Robbed!”, spoken loud enough for anyone within a few tables to hear.

I thought to myself how it would have been nice, being a police officer for more than a whole week, getting fired wasn’t something I wanted as we exited Christies and got back on patrol.  Nothing ever happened, nothing. I don’t remember much from that day’s patrol work; but I never had to explain up the chain of command why I witnessed the event from that day.

I guess you could sum it up by saying, there’s a right way and a wrong way of going about your business as a Police Officer.  May you always choose to do it the right way.

Becoming a Police Officer was Getting Expensive

 

This morning while enjoying some of the postings on Facebook I ran across an offering on eBay where someone was selling printouts of Smith and Wesson pistols.  A memory jumped into my mind, one from back in 1972 when I was about to graduate from the Houston Police Department’s Academy.  I was about to become a police officer.

There were still a few weeks of training to go when they explained that we needed to decide which pistol or pistols we would purchase.  I hadn’t thought about that, naively believing the City of Houston Police Department supplied each officer with all the tools required. 

I should give a little background at this point regarding my financial status.  I’d been employed by Montgomery Ward as a salesperson in their Hardware and Electric department making minimum wage just prior to being accepted into the police academy.  I saw this opportunity as a major improvement financially.  Think about that for a moment; the chance to make almost six hundred dollars a month was going to be a major improvement for me.

Back to being asked to purchase a new Smith and Wesson duty pistol with my own money had me wondering, “Will they be asking for a down payment on a patrol car next?”  I gulped a couple of times and decided, since this was a ‘one time offer to purchase these pistols at cost’, I decided to purchase a Smith and Wesson Model 19, 357/38 duty pistol along with a Smith and Wesson Model 36, 38 caliber off duty pistol. 

I can’t recall offhand how much the total came to; but each pistol was over a hundred dollars, or about half of what I would make in take home pay that month. There may have been a partial payment required along with a way to take care of the rest via payroll deductions; this happened so long ago. 

A few years went by and I found it impossible to resist having a silver and gold butt plate made by Nelson Silvia’s, a rather impressive piece of jewelry that had my name and badge number engraved on it. Think of that fancy butt plate as a symbol of having graduated from Rookie to Seasoned police officer, similar, I imagine, to a ring ceremony for those about to graduate from college.

My house got burglarized while I was at work and one of the few items taken was my Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol.  I happened to be enjoying the use of a Colt Commander 1911 as an alternative duty weapon and so the loss of the other pistol, while painful, didn’t affect my ability to work. 

I did eventually purchase a replacement revolver, a used Smith and Wesson Model 586, blue steel 357/38 from a police officer who didn’t consider revolvers a serious police officer’s weapon.  No need to get into that conversation; I obtained it for exactly one hundred dollars, a steal since he didn’t see its monetary value either.

Several more years went by, imagine that… I got a call from the Harris County Sheriff’s Department asking if I had ever reported a Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol stolen and if so, had it ever been recovered.  Wow, they’d actually found my stolen pistol by the serial number entered into the original burglary report.

Turns out a member of their department had gone to the pistol range to qualify using that pistol.  I have no idea how he obtained it, don’t want to know either.  I explained that my insurance company had settled with me which meant the pistol now belonged to them.  A few phone calls later and my insurance company said I could keep the pistol for a nominal fee of one hundred dollars; done!

The pistol was returned to me, without the fancy butt plate; only two small holes in the pistol grips where it had been removed.  Whoever had stolen the pistol, or whoever purchased the pistol had removed the butt plate.  That’s the only thing I really wanted back, a stupid chunk of silver and gold that had my name and badge number on it.

To bring an end to this memory, there was a night security guard working out in the Spring Branch area where I patrolled.  He’d been promoted and asked me where he should go to get a good deal on a duty pistol, one he could afford.  I sold him my old Smith and Wesson Model 19 for exactly one hundred dollars. 

  

Officer McDonald Liked Slurpees

 

In the mid to late 80s I was a Field Training Officer (FTO) on night shift for the Houston Police Department.  It was about the only time I had a partner assigned to ride with while working night shift, and then it was a rookie police officer who may or may not understand the duties associated with wearing a blue uniform.

(Image courtesy of nbclosangeles dot com)

I had a basic rule when working with these rookie police officers, their having had three weeks of riding on day shift prior to coming over to night shift for continued training.  The first week was a chance for me to see how much they’d adjusted to being a police officer and so they were passengers in the patrol car doing reports and other regular duties.  Then on their second week of training I’d go out on a limb and see if they could drive.

Enter my chance to meet Officer McDonald.  He loved that police officers were given a free soda or Slurpee at the local 7-Eleven store each night.  He had his Slurpee with him during most of the shift and didn’t think it would interfere with his duties.

During his second week riding with me I let him take the wheel as we set up to catch a red light violation at one of my favorite intersections, Long Point at Hollister.  There’s a modest incline as part of the parking lot for whatever business is located at the southwest corner.  This position relative to the intersection gave a good view of any traffic while at the same time was far enough from the intersection to allow a relaxed setting for us.

After a short while sitting atop our perch, sure enough, a vehicle driving westbound on Long Point ran the red light by a couple of car lengths, plenty enough to justify pulling the driver over and issuing a traffic ticket.

“Let’s go”, I motioned with my hand, letting McDonald know it was time to put his police driving skills to use.

“Here, hold my Slurpee”, as he pushed the drink cup in my direction.  I tossed his Slurpee out the passenger window.

“You threw my Slurpee out the window?!”  McDonald couldn’t believe I’d tossed a perfectly good Slurpee out the window.

“You’re supposed to be paying attention to the driver of the vehicle that just ran a red light, not worrying about the Slurpee and I’m supposed to be making sure you get it done safely.  You can get another Slurpee later.

I suppose there are plenty of police officers who can drive in pursuit of a traffic violator while holding a hot cup of coffee, soda or even munch on a burger; but letting a rookie develop those skills wasn’t on the list.

To be fair, Officer McDonald turned out to be a fine police officer and I’m pretty sure he made it to retirement, in spite of my having destroyed his favorite Slurpee that night.

Going for a Ride

 

When it’s time to take the trash out to the dumpster, the moment the puppies hear the plastic trash bag being removed from the canister in the kitchen, their ears perk up. Then, once I take the keys for the truck off the hook, they know it’s time, they’re going for a ride. 

The puppies have linked the idea of going to the dumpster or mailbox as a chance to have fun; but only if I go in the truck.  If we place the kitchen trash bag behind the front seat of the car then they know the game is over, no going for a ride this time.

On the other hand, if they see me with the keys to the truck it doesn’t matter whether or not there’s a bag of trash going to the dumpster, it’s time to go for a ride, at least that’s the mindset of our puppies, even the newcomer, Harold has joined this group.

Harold doesn’t want to actually get in the truck, just that he can tag along as the truck eases its way to the dumpster or mailbox.  Max and Shadow will sit in the passenger seat until the truck arrives at the dumpster, a tad over half a mile.  As soon as the truck stops, Max jumps out while I unload the trash from the back of the truck.  Then Max waits to see if I’m going the last bit of the way over to our mailbox or, if not, if I’m headed back to the house.

Shadow likes to ride the whole way while Harold, being a younger version of a puppy, runs the whole time, trying to prove he’s the lead puppy on this job.  As soon as the mailbox has been checked I tell Max, “Let’s go home!”  Max heads back down the road towards home and Harold figures he better do the same, trying to overtake Max for the lead.

This is how it’s done, most of the time.  There’s a glitch in this system, one that presents itself when I want to go into town in the truck.  The puppies automatically think the truck only goes to the dumpster and mailbox; why else would I take the truck?

When they follow me all the way to the dumpster and mailbox; but I’m actually going somewhere else, I have to tell Max to head on home and then goose the engine so the truck leaves in the opposite direction so quickly that the puppies can’t keep up.  I do this until I’m well down the road, around the bend and out of sight.  This works, most of the time.

Today wasn’t most of the time as I later found out.

I headed toward Crockett to visit some friends from church.  Their property is almost all the way to Crockett, a good thirty minutes or so drive.  We visited for almost an hour before I headed back home.

I knew something was wrong as the truck pulled into our driveway.  Max was the only puppy waiting for me to park the truck.  Shadow and Harold were nowhere to be found; that’s not normal.  I gave them a little while to turn up; perhaps they spotted a squirrel or a rabbit and went chasing it off to the other side of the fence line. 

After a while an empty feeling landed in the pit of my stomach, maybe these two puppies didn’t follow Max home, maybe they tried to follow the truck as I sped off down the road.  That’s when I got in the truck and started driving around the area looking for two really stupid puppies, puppies who got lost and couldn’t find their way back home.

I made a large circle, driving down each of the county roads that all are connected spanning several miles; nothing.  I drove back to our property and there was Max, all alone still.  I glanced at the time and knew it was time to drive over to the Thornley’s for Family Home Dinner.  I put Max in the house so he wouldn’t try to follow as I’d be in the truck again.

I drove really slow, going down the same county road; but asking a road crew if they’d seen two puppies, giving them a brief description of how they both had a white blaze mark on their chests. It might have been a waste of time since it appeared the workers only spoke Spanish as they waved to me.

A little further I spotted one of our neighbors driving one of those sport vehicles, camouflage paint on what could easily have been a golf cart sized vehicle.  Before I could ask, he must have read my mind as he asked, “Are you looking for two black dogs, look like Pits?”

I was already nodding that I was as he pointed down the road a way, “They’ve been on our property by the pond for a long time, looked like they were exhausted”.  I figured it to be about  two miles from our property since it was right near where CR 358 intersects with CR 314.  That’s a busy place for a stupid and confused puppy to be wandering around. 

As soon as I drove a bit further, I saw both coming towards the truck.  There was a school bus coming at the same time and I could only hope the puppies wouldn’t dart out in front of the school bus once they recognized my truck.  Their tongues were hanging out and both of them were drenched in sweat from having run so much. 

Shadow jumped inside the truck, but Harold was still not sure how to react as he backed away. I turned the truck around, calling out the whole time, “Let’s go home, Harold, let’s go home!”

Harold is a young puppy, guessing he’s less than two.  He had enough energy to keep up with the truck as I carefully and slowly inched back home.  Harold kept up the whole way while Shadow was totally winded sitting on the passenger seat.  All the puppies are home now, Harold had enough energy to go chasing a rabbit that ducked under the cargo container.

I called the Thornley’s and let them know I’d be a little late; but that I had some brownies, a sort of tradition for our family to take when we go for Family Home Evening.  I didn’t mention to anyone that Shadow had stepped on the plate of brownies.  They were well protected within a gallon freezer bag and I didn’t see any damage. 

So, how was your day?

The U-Haul Game

 

Some of you might be wondering, “The U-Haul Game, what’s that?”  It’s a game we made up when our kids were young to keep them entertained on road trips.  When I was young the game was associated with the Volkswagen Beetle.  The first person to say they’d seen a “Bug” got the point. 

I saw this photograph of a U-Haul truck sometime back but didn't notice who to give credit for it. That reminded me to write down this short item.

Prior to that game we had a similar one we played while on the way to Jones Beach on Long Island. There’s a red brick obelisk that we’d look for as we approached the beach.  From our vantage point in the back seat of my parent’s car we’d intently pay attention for a chance to be the first to shout, “I see the tower”. 

In the movie, The Count of Monte Cristo, there was a medal of honor bestowed upon the hero of the day, “Kings to you”.  There’s probably a variation of this game that goes back in time prior to recorded history, parents figuring out how to keep their kids occupied. “I see the volcano erupting”, might have been said by some kid buried under the ash in Pompei.

Getting back to the U-Haul game, at the time we started this nonsense I did locksmith work for the U-Haul companies in and around the Houston area.  I’d rekey the doors of one of their outlets if a manager quit or got fired. If a customer lost the keys to a rental unit I’d go out and make a replacement key. 

When we, as a family, went on road trips, spotting a U-Haul truck or van became something of interest, even to our kids.  They might not have understood that U-Haul was partly responsible for our being able to afford a road trip; but they knew there was something about seeing a U-Haul on the road made me smile.

Being retired, my locksmith days are long gone. Our kids have all grown up and so Lucy and are empty nesters. For some reason, the game goes on.  We’ll drive into Houston on I-45, paying attention for road hazards or something that draws our interest, a beautiful sunrise, mist hanging in the trees off to the side of the freeway; or a single U-Haul coming from the other direction.

“U-Haul!”, the words landed on my ears.  I was raising my hand to point out the prize; however, as is often the case, Lucy had seen it first, so she got the point.  Imagine that, two old fogies getting excited about a silly U-Haul truck going down the freeway.

 

Now and Then Photograph This Day 2015 to 2025

 

Facebook sends reminders, a photograph of what we thought was interesting enough to post for all to see and then asks if we’d like to compare that with a recent photograph.  

The image on the left is when I attended the Texas Locksmith Convention, representing a wonderful organization, the Society of Professional Locksmiths (SOPL).  For about 30 years I’d been a member of another organization, Associated Locksmiths of America (ALOA).  At some point I no longer wished to associate with that organization.

The problem with ALOA, they were far too politically oriented toward socialism, perhaps the correct term would be corporatism.  They believed the State knew better than individuals how to properly run businesses.  ALOA worked with State legislators and foisted licensing on locksmiths through the Alarm Services Industry without having any locksmiths representing our interests on the licensing board in charge of our industry.  That didn’t set well with many locksmiths.

I tried to launch a startup locksmith organization, Fiercely Independent Locksmiths of America (FILOA); but for one reason or another FILOA never gained a foothold among other locksmiths.  Membership numbers didn’t come in as I’d hoped and so I joined forces with SOPL, their having a similar attitude, that of locksmiths being highly qualified and in charge of their own businesses with a minimum of interference from government.

The image on the right was taken by the camera in my laptop, a ‘selfie’ if you will, this past Thursday evening.  This is my office, a retirement shadow box above where I sit displaying key elements of the Houston Police Department issued uniform along with items attached to that uniform. It’s difficult to make out, but the dark blue material came from a pair of police trousers, complete with the ‘thin blue line’.

I was attending a leadership meeting put on by the Conroe Stake Presidency of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  The beautiful part about our meetings has to do with the ability to attend in person or, if need be, via the Zoom App. It’s an hour and a half drive from my property in Buffalo, Texas to the Stake meeting in Conroe, Texas.  That and I’m getting to where driving at night isn’t a great option anymore.  Being seventy in the twenties isn’t the same as being twenty in the seventies, or something like that.

Thursday I’d been moving boxes out from a closet in our second bedroom, boxes that contained tax return records that no longer seemed important enough to be taking up space in the house.  I loaded them into my truck and relocated them to a storage unit on our property where they’d be safe from the elements, but out of the way.  That’s when I noticed my back was sore.

Lucy, or should I address her as Doctor Lucy… rubbed a concoction of oils all over my back to ease the swelling and pain.  When I pulled my jeans back up, that’s when I noticed how much swelling had taken place.  I couldn’t bring the two portions of the waist fabric together, there was a gap of perhaps six inches keeping me from being able to button my pants. 

Fortunately for everyone, no doubt, the camera on my laptop only captured my upper torso and face during the Zoom meeting.  No one needed to know my britches were gapping wide open as I quietly sat through that important meeting.  That explains the Then and Now images you see here.

Thirteen Fourths

 

Today’s my wife Lucy’s birthday. I’ll be taking her out this coming Friday at the Texas Roadhouse for a steak dinner.  She already has everything in this world she needs or wants, at least that’s the way things appear.  If she needed or wanted anything she’d have had it by now.

She requested I bake a cake for her, a simple wish that I could accomplish without destroying her kitchen. She made sure to supervise and suggest rather than leave anything to chance.  Bobby Flay has nothing to worry about.

I used one of the store-bought cake mix boxes with simple instructions on the back panel. One package of mix, 1 cup of water, 1/3 cup of oil, and 3 eggs (without shells).  To keep it within my range of abilities, this was all placed into a greased 9 X 13-inch clear glass baking dish.  The photo was taken after it came out of the oven.  I’ll spread some store-bought chocolate icing over it once the cake has had a chance to cool down.

You might wonder about the title, Thirteen Fourths. 

When I was about seven or eight years old going to elementary school, we were learning how to work with fractions.  I’d figured out how they operated and considered myself ‘adequate’ in their use. 

My mother’s birthday was in June, and it would be a nice gift if I were to make her a birthday cake.  I’d watched her make cakes before and it didn’t look all that difficult.  All I’d need to do was find the recipe card and follow the instructions.

I should mention that all my mother’s recipe cards were handwritten, a beautiful example of script as was expected of young ladies growing up in her time period.  She liked to use a shade of blue ink that made it look even more refined; each letter or number being defined against the white index card.

I went down the list of items needed, placing each on the countertop. I didn’t think about anything other than following the instructions to the letter.  If I’d been a chef; but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The cake looked like it was supposed to when it came out of the oven.  I spread chocolate icing over the top, placed candles in a neat circle and presented it for the family to enjoy after dinner.

I noticed right away that it was a tad difficult for the knife to cut into as each piece was placed onto a dessert plate.  Eating the cake was something of a challenge as well.  It took quite a bit of milk to be able to swallow a piece of cake.  I was beginning to think perhaps I’d made a mistake while following the instructions.

Mom, being a gentle woman trying to keep my feelings in check asked me to show her the index card, the one I’d used to make her such a beautiful and thoughtful creation.  If that sounds a bit over the top, she was doing her best to keep me from crying.

I showed her the recipe along with the scratch paper I’d used to calculate how much flour was called for.  Ah, therein was the answer. 

Her handwritten instructions called for 1 ¾ cups of flour; however, since I’d learned how to reduce fractions this was literally a “piece of cake”.  There wasn’t all that much space between the 1 and the 3 / 4.  No problem, that was easy to figure out, 13/4.  Divide 4 into 13, comes to…a whole lot more flour than 1 ¾.

So, now you know why Lucy kept an eye on me while baking her birthday cake.

You must know my father, T F Stern

I was on the phone talking with my son on his birthday a little while ago.  The conversation turned to eating out on Valentine’s Day.  Neither of us had wanted to take our wives to an overly crowded restaurant and decided to stay home or go for fast food. I joked that I’d taken Lucy to Arby’s, a really nice place, one that had free refills on soda.

I should explain the joke.  Lucy and I’d watched a television interview where a young woman from the inner city was asked about the kind of man she considered attractive when it came to dating. She thought one of the ways to determine a quality date was being taken to a really good restaurant, one where they didn’t charge for refills.  Let that sink in for a moment.

William acknowledged that Arby’s made a pretty good Ruben Sandwich; but next time we were in town we should go to Victor’s Sandwich Shop for their Ruben’s.  I’d have to agree, Victor’s Ruben’s was better.  But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.

Several years ago…why is it most of my stories start off with, several years ago?  Anyway, back when we were still living in Olde Oaks we had a family living close by and we would visit with them once a month as part of what used to be called Home Teaching, an older version of Ministering. 

Terrell Hunt was an environmental lawyer as was his wife Karen.  They met and hit it off despite social norms.  It was a mixed marriage; Terrell was White and Karen was Black.  Their politics tended to lean left, which made it interesting since Lucy and I were more conservative politically.  It didn’t matter all that much since all of us had a firm testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and we treated each other as brothers and sisters.  Any time we’d be shopping and see her mother, I’d openly greet her, “Hey, Mom!”  There was a special acceptance that permitted such a lighthearted meeting in public.

After a couple of years of enjoying a mutual friendship, Karen had become more comfortable when we’d come by to visit.  On one such visit Karen explained that she’d been to Victor’s Sandwich Shop, and you were wondering how Victor’s would figure into this; anyway, that afternoon she went to pick up lunch. There was an informal retirement party going on for a police officer with all his friends at Victor’s Sandwich Shop.

Karen waded into their merriment and started off with, “You must know my father, T F Stern. He’s a retired cop too.”  Mind you, Karen is an attractive middle age Black woman and I’m a little past middle age White guy.  Some, if not all the police officers who were enjoying the moment probably knew me as those words rumble around in their heads.

One of them responded with something like, “It must be a different Stern from the one we know”.  The smile on his face must have been too much fun for Karen.

“T F Stern retired a few years ago, you know, he’s also a locksmith, worked night shift for HPD”.  She didn’t wait even half a moment as she added, “He met mom when he busted her for prostitution and, well, they hit it off and here I am.” 

I’d have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall that day.  Karen’s face was all aglow as she related the encounter that evening.  I’m sure there are police officers wondering to this day how much of that yarn was true.

The glue that holds friends together is, in part, a warped sense of humor and the ability to bond despite social norms or expectations.

My friend Terrell suffered a major stroke a few years later and died.  This was about the time we moved to our property in Buffalo, Texas.  We’ve since lost track of Karen but wanted her to know, she always has a place in her old dad’s heart.

  

From Approval to Disgust in Less Than an Hour

 

Various articles get my attention while going down those entered on Facebook.  Today was no different as I stumbled across a photograph of a rapper surrounded by five pregnant women, all of whom he had impregnated.  Most folks would grimace at even the thought of being so reckless, much less bragging about it.  I just laughed, quietly remembering an experience from many years ago.

I had walked Lucy into the front doors of the Maternity Section of Memorial Hospital out off Interstate 10 where the Beltway now crosses.  We were about to celebrate the birth of our second child as I proudly escorted her through the waiting room and left her in the hands of the nursing staff.

When I went to find a chair to spend the rest of the afternoon in, I couldn’t help but notice there was an older gentleman sitting across from me, probably a WWII aged veteran.  He had watched as I escorted Lucy, proudly giving her a hug as she disappeared with the nursing staff.  He gave me a big thumbs up as he nodded in approval for having stood by my wife during her time of need.

A few minutes later, it might have been closer to half an hour, my sister-in-law came to sit by me in the Maternity Waiting Room.  She was also nine months pregnant as she leaned over to give me a hug.  The fellow who’d given me a big thumbs up earlier was no longer thrilled with my having ushered my wife past the hospital doors.  No, he was decidedly not thrilled.

It got even better when my partner’s wife, that being my partner at the police department, strolled into the Maternity Waiting Room.  She was also about nine months pregnant as she came over and gave me a hug in support of our anticipated arrival. 

The look of disgust from across the room was palpable.  I’d gone from, “Way to go young man”, to, “You low life scum” in less than an hour. 

Fortunately, I didn’t let my warped sense of humor take over at that moment.  I was tempted to go over and ask the fellow if he’d like to know more about the Book of Mormon. I’m sure my Bishop would have been proud of me for remaining silent as well.

It’s 908

While cranking up my laptop this morning to catch up with email and news items, the familiar warm-up screen presented itself letting me know what day and time it was.  You know how us old people can never be too sure what day of the week it might be, even wondering what year we’re in.  It was reassuring to see President Ronald Reagan addressing the press.

A bright blue screen announced that it was 9:08 on Saturday, February 8^th.  Silly as it might sound, that always brings a smile to my face.  It’s 908, much more than telling me what time it might be; 908 was the badge number on the blue uniform I wore as a police officer for the City of Houston until I retired in 1992.

When working the near west side of town in the Montrose area, there was a young vendor who frequented some of the same places I liked to visit for lunch.  I couldn’t say what his product was other than he got around on a bicycle instead of a motor vehicle. He was a pleasant individual whose lifestyle was a bit different than my own; nothing too wild, just that he made it a point to let me know I was considerably more conservative.

His greeting was genuine each time we’d cross paths, “It’s Nine Oh Eight!”, as if he didn’t see my name tag, only my badge.  I’d smile back and we’d continue our acknowledgment of each other.  I’d go on to explain that the local banker and I were good friends, that each day he’d flash my badge number up on a big sign atop his bank, once in the morning and then again in the evening.  He’d smile while shaking his head at such a dumb response.

So, yes, anytime I see a clock display the time, 9:08, I smile and remember having worn the uniform, having stored so many memories and been able to share them with folks who might enjoy a momentary distraction.  

Reality Checks and Bad Habits

 

While watching the movie, A Beautiful Mind, there was an interesting exchange between a fellow named Martin who was interviewing Professor John Nash to see if he might be an embarrassment were he to be awarded a Nobel Prize due to his documented life of mental issues which included a full-time cast of imaginary characters.  When asked about the possibility of becoming an embarrassment, John responded, “I’m still crazy”, then he added an important thought regarding his never-ending struggle to separate imaginary individuals from reality.

“They are my past. Everyone is haunted by their past.”

We all have issues that would be embarrassing were they to be brought out on the public stage. I suppose it would make a huge difference if that public stage were broadcast to a worldwide audience as would be the case with accepting a Nobel Prize.

Nash then clarified his ability to fit in with society, despite his ongoing mental issues.

“I’ve gotten used to ignoring them, and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me. I think that’s what it’s like with all our dreams and our nightmares, Martin. We’ve got to keep feeding them for them to stay alive.”

That one line could be applied to most of the bad habits we might have picked up over the years.  It doesn’t eliminate bad habits; however, it does place it into an isolation room, a place where bad habits are less likely to be a daily challenge.

I remember back in the mid-1970s being told by a doctor that because of having a collapsed lung (Spontaneous pneumothorax) I had to quit smoking cigarettes.  That was a bad habit I’d had for years, and I’d tried quitting without success.  Being faced with a rather bleak future, were I to continue smoking, it was much easier to place the urge to smoke in an isolation room way back in my mind where it could be ignored.

I took up chewing tobacco as an alternative, dipping Skoal was a natural extension of my newest bad habit.  Being crude and not really caring about what anyone thought of my bad habit was an unexpected bonus.  If you wanted someone unpleasant to leave, just spit and without much fanfare the individual would find an excuse to leave.

Then in 1978, when I was about to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the missionaries teaching me of various rules and customs informed me about the “Word of Wisdom” as found in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 89.  Turns out tobacco products were not to be used for smoking or chewing. 

Some folks would have had a problem deciding how to proceed.  Would they continue using tobacco products and ignore the newly discovered admonition to abstain or would they accept reality, join the Church and live in such a way as to be in accordance with the will of the Lord?

The young missionaries were a bit surprised when I reached into the refrigerator for a newly purchased roll of Skoal that I’d purchased the day before.  Upon handing the Skoal over to them I explained that I’d just quit and for them to do me a favor and dispose of it for me.  I later found that they’d tossed the Skoal over the edge of a bridge into the bayou below while on their way home.

As far as my former bad habits regarding smoking or dipping Skoal, “I’ve gotten used to ignoring them, and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me.”