Vernon's Law

I love diners--Much better than trendy coffee shops. I don't even drink coffee. But every so often, I'll go to a Starbucks and order a soda just to make the barrista furrow her brow and deny me. "What? You don't serve Coca Cola? What the hell kind of American company is this?" "Oh OK..I'll have one of those boysenberry, blackberry, Chuck Berry spritzers...and a bear claw"

If you sit at Starbucks long enough, you're bound to overhear the coffee bean intellectuals, still pissed that George Bush was ever President and that Fox News is allowed to broadcast, quoting some heady philosopher like Kierkegaard. I, for one, have never read Soren Kierkegaard and I suspect that those who quote him probably haven't either. It makes my ass crochet when people quote authors without having read the work.

I even caught myself doing it with Thomas Wolfe the other day....or was it Virginia Woolf?....I get my woolves confused.

"You can never go home!" Or was it "You can never go home, AGAIN?"

The point is...I seriously doubt anyone who hasn't read the book You Can't Go Home Again...truly understands the context of the quote. I don't either, but I do know an aging Annette Funicello said it to an equally aging Frankie Avalon in the forgettable 1987 movie Back to the Beach. Anything a Mouseketeer finds worthy of quoting is just fine with me. Can't get more bubble gum than that.

Or how about...chewing tobacco?

I came across an amazing quote by Vern Law. WHO?

Only a hard core sporto would likely recognize the name. Vernon Law, star pitcher and winner of the Cy Young for the 1960, World Champion Pittsburgh Pirates.



Who knew Vernon Law? Who knew Vernon Law was such a philosopher?

Here's his quote that keeps ringing in my ears today?

Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first and the lesson afterwards.

WOW...deep stuff worthy of posting on my redneck refrigerator in the basement....the one with the hole cut in the door so I can tap a beer keg through it to watch Da Pisburgh Stillers play. That's how they talk there!




The lacerated leg is on the mend and I'm off to get tested on the golf course with my very cantankerous Dad. That lesson will be equal to anything I'd get at Harvard.

I Hurried!

Yep..I hurried and blood was spilled! My own blood.

How is it that I so actively consume morsels of wisdom only to cough them all up like a giant feline hairball?

Today my task was to go over to the house and mow the lawn. Keep in mind, that house seems to be a brick and mortar crucible for explosive fights with my father.

I do understand it. It was his house for 40 plus years and I moved him out into a condo when it was clear he could no longer maintain it safely and adequately. He is fine with the condo, but he also is drawn back to that house like a moth to a flame.

I understand that. I totally understand that he feels it is HIS house, and it is.

But it is MY job now to try to get this place ready for sale or rent and it is a huge undertaking. Dad does not always, er..SELDOM, agrees with the things I believe need to be accomplished to make the house economically productive. As it is now, it is a wasting asset.

This morning, he insisted upon going with me over there and retrieving a circular table saw he had in the basement. I've learned to pick my battles. Even though I know he will have ZERO use for a table saw in the condo, I agreed to let him take it and store it in the outside tool shed. If it makes him more at ease to have his power tools nearby, so be it.

However, I told him there was one condition about going over to the house: "You have to call me to carry the saw upstairs when you have it ready to transport." He apparently had some unbolting and other prep work to do before it could be moved. I went outside to cut the front lawn. As I was cutting, he came out and started talking to me with the mower running. It forced me to kill the motor and I was somewhat peeved. That motor is very difficult to get started, so having to stop it down did not sit well. Of course, Dad was ready for the saw. I told him to hang on until I finished the front yard. Immediately he started up and I could sense a tantrum: "I'll just get the Goddamned thing myself." Once again, I let him push my buttons and have his way. I stopped everything I was doing, HURRIED downstairs to get the saw and was out of control. A person in their right mind would have made sure all doors were open and pathways clear before carrying outside a heavy saw. I did not. I got to the closed storm door, tried to open it with one hand while steadying the saw with the other. The saw gave way and the blade sliced my leg open.

I hurried and THIS was my lesson:



When will I ever learn? And yes, it hurts. Yes, I do think it needs stitches. And no, I'm not going to get them. I'll bleed to death just to prove a point.

Be Quick But Don't Hurry

Well we lost the great John Wooden overnight. He was just four months shy of his 100th birthday. What a long and wonderful life he had, and what an example of how to live and behave. They say he was sharp as a tack until the very end, an encouraging reminder that advancing age need not always result in mental decline.



I keep using the word "ironic" to describe the timing of events this week and, as I'll explain later, perhaps "irony" is not what's at work here. But there is no escaping the incredible timing: As I wrote in this blog, Sunday and Monday were particularly trying for my patience in dealing with my father's dementia. I hated the way I was responding to the challenge and I desperately needed some wisdom. Sunday night, as I was out driving around taking pictures of quirky neon signs, the concept of "hurrying" kept popping in my mind. I ALWAYS feel hurried. In fact, I usually feel like a contestant on Beat the Clock, assigned some difficult task on a seemingly impossible time table before the buzzer sounds to end the game, or in my case provoke my father's agitation...an agitation that will surely make the rest of his my day or night miserable, as well as mine.

I couldn't sleep Sunday night; I was too anxious, so I went to my bookcases and the one book that jumped out from ALL others was "Be Quick, But Don't Hurry," by Coach John Wooden and Andy Hill, one of Coach's former UCLA players.

I first bought and read the book seven years ago and I admit I had forgotten most of the "Wooden Maxims" it relies upon to instruct and inspire. I had also forgotten that Andy Hill went on to become head of programming at CBS and brought us the series "Touched By an Angel," among others.

The chief maxim is, of course, "Be quick, but don't hurry." It makes sense if you think about it. You have to act fast, but always stay in control. Easy to say, but hard to do. Yet, that's how championships are won.

I'm just amazed that I picked up this book the very night Coach Wooden's body finally started to give out, though nobody knew it until later in the week when reports from the hospital said he was in "grave condition." Early this morning, when I learned he died, I felt compelled to send Andy Hill an e-mail. I thanked him for the book and told him how ironic it was that I picked it up to re-read when I did. Here's his response:

Don:

Thanks for the kind words. You say it is “ironic” that you picked up my book when you did. I guess I’d say it was more of a coincidence…and coincidence is just God’s way of staying anonymous.

May your Dad find peace like Coach.

Andy
Andy Hill

http://www.AndyHillSpeaks.com

Pretty good stuff right from the CBS Godfather of "Touched By An Angel."

God's way of staying anonymous.

Oh yeah...I should also admit that my own refrigerator has long had just one piece of wisdom that has stayed amidst the flotsam and jetsam of appointment reminders, store receipts, lottery tickets and newspaper clippings.



It is at the bottom, a black and white card that is a small facsimilie of Coach Wooden's "Pyramid of Success."

He sent it to me years ago (at my request), along with a larger signed copy that I've framed and have hanging in my office.

I scanned the larger version because it is easier to read.



Rest in Peace, Coach John Wooden. 1910-2010.

Lesson from the links

Thankfully, an uneventful day. No flare ups. I held my tongue and kept my sanity. Perhaps I'll get some sleep tonight.

We had our golf lesson today at Ruth Park in University City. Once again, I didn't think ahead. The lesson was at 1:00 in the afternoon. Fine for me, but the high midday sun was a bit much on Dad. He started to get pretty shaky towards the end. I think he thought we'd actually PLAY golf, even though I've repeatedly told him these are lessons.

He's been playing golf for decades, although not recently. I, however, have never really enjoyed the game enough to want to learn. Several years ago, Dad gave me a full set of clubs for my birthday (hint, hint.) I was living in Santa Fe at the time and I did, in fact, take lessons at a beautiful course on Cochiti Pueblo. The setting was spectacular but the desire to practice wasn't there. This time is different though. It's not that I like golf any more than I did ten years ago. But, now I see these lessons and frequent trips to the driving range as SOMETHING to do to kill time and occupy my father. He seems to enjoy swinging a club, so maybe golf will be my savior. And maybe, just maybe I'll find something to like about the game. I've just always found it too boring and too time consuming. Right now, however, consumption of time is precisely my goal.

One thing I did learn today:

I was having a hard time getting good contact with the ball. Oh I was hitting it but it just seemed to flub off the tee and not go very far. The instructor noticed I was trying too hard to hit it. He was right. I was swinging the club like a mallet and the ball was a rodent. This was not golf. It was a game of Whack a Mole at the state fair.


"Let's try this," he said. "Get yourself lined up and close your eyes. THEN swing the club." I laughed. Yeah right. Close my eyes? "Just try it!" So I did and I'll be damned if I didn't hit that ball perfectly. Not once, but at least a half-dozen times. I was amazed.

I was trying so hard to hit my mark, I was missing it. Actually, I was half-hitting it. I was crushing it straight into the ground so it couldn't go anywhere.

When I stopped trying so hard and had faith that everything was lined up right, I clobbered that ball with my eyes closed.

Good lesson for life there. I think the golf lessons have already paid off, even if I do have to play 18 holes looking like a panelist on What's My Line!