The Night Terror

Dear Shawn,

It’s not very often that I have nightmares, and usually, when I do, I actually enjoy them. As a writer, they are often fodder for great ideas. Very rarely do I have a nightmare that really scares me. Last night was such a night. After it woke me up, I laid still, terrified there might be someone in my room, listening carefully at the whole house. A cat was lying next to me. Phoebe always lays next to me on my left side. This cat ball was my right, so I assumed that it was Cooz. He didn’t move. I didn’t move. That cat had no idea what I had just lived through, and that was a good thing. Then my mind raced.

In the dream, I was witnessing an active shooter situation, except that for part of the dream, I was the shooter, and part of the dream, I was the shoot-ee. I approached my target, took aim and fired. The gun misfired, so I cocked it and fired again. Another misfire. At this point, I became the target. I hid in the corner and threw a sheet over me. I can’t see you, you can’t see me, but he did. He came close and fired a third time. At this time, I was witnessing the entire ordeal, seeing the shooter misfire, and the terrified target trying to hide, but to no avail. I was hit and could feel the warm blood oozing out of my body, feel the dampness as the blood pooled into the sheet that now clung to me.

I awoke. My mind now began to evaluate what just happened. I thought how I should have just run after the first misfire, maybe even mow the shooter down- he wouldn’t have anticipated that. I would still be alive had I just run and not tried to hide. But I was alive! Scared. I listened and didn’t move at all, not even wanting to breathe.

Unable to move to see what time it was, I have no idea when I finally fell asleep again, but I would estimate it took at least half an hour. At least the cat’s body heat was comforting. When my alarm went off and it was time to get ready for work, I was much more at ease. It appeared that this happened only minutes after last falling asleep, I could tell from the different lighting, that had to have been a while. I reached down, expecting to touch the fur of Cooz, since Pheebs never sleeps on my right side. The warm cat body was still just as comforting now, as it was after my nightmare. It didn’t feel like cat fur, and there was a dampness on my hand. I looked and my heart sank as I found my had red with blood. The warm lump at my side was not a cat, but a blood-soaked sheet.

No, not really. It was just a cat, but it wasn’t Cooz. It was odd for her to be where she was, but it was Pheebs. Sorry to freak you out, I know how delicate you can be. I did warn you, however, that nightmares are often fodder for my writing. Enjoy your day.

Rodeo Time

Dear Shawn

February means rodeo season, once again. I have so many memories of going to the rodeo when I was younger. It was billed as the world's largest, and was held in the Houston Astrodome, the "Eight Wonder of the World". I loved that building.

One of the most vivid memories was the odor. When first walking into the livestock area, the odor of the animals hit me like jet exhaust. It only took a few minutes to acclimate, and then it was hardly noticeable. I remember how Mom would always point out how large some of the bull's testicles were. As a young boy, this would embarrass me to no end. How could they let these things just hang out so exposed like that?

After all the sights and smells of the livestock area, it would be time to head into the Astrodome for the show. It was a typical rodeo, with barrel racing, calf roping, buck riding, kids trying to catch pigs, tiny covered wagons racing, dogs herding sheep and cowboys in tight jeans trying to rope steer with big horns and not so silly clowns distracting the bull when the cowboy fell off.

Today, now that I'm an adult, I find many of the rodeo activities a little off-putting. I now have feelings for the treatment of animals that I lacked when I was a boy. I still enjoy seeing the animals and marveling at how magnificent they can be. At least it's not as bad as a bull fight!

The best part of the rodeo as a kid was always the concerts. They would wheel this fancy trailer-like stage to the center of the Astrodome floor, which was quite spacious. The stage was so far away, but with seats surrounding it in 360 degrees, it was really the only option that they had. The stage would rotate one way, then slowly rotate the other, so that all patrons got the chance to see the artist from the front.

This was where I fell in love with Olivia Newton-John. She may have been the first concert I every attended. I also recall seeing Glen Campbell, Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson when I was a kid. It was fun when the lights went down and suddenly all these vendors would converge on the crowd with blinking lights and glowing swords and colorful flash lights with a spray of fiber optics bouncing with their movement. I wanted one badly, but very rarely was I able to convince Mom to buy one. "You'll use it once and that's it. It's a waste of money." Poo!

One of my fondest rodeo memories was from the last year I lived in Houston before moving to Maryland, in 1995. I lived in an apartment along Memorial Drive, at the back of the property. On the other side of the fence in my back patio was a parking lot of a small three-story office building. Each year, trail riders paraded through Houston from different directions, and Memorial Dr. was one of the main routes through town to the Astrodome. They would camp overnight in the various open spaces along Buffalo Bayou, which included the parking lot of the nearby building. I awoke that particular morning to the sound of a horses. Quite confused, and not realizing that space was used by the trailriders, I cautiously peered over my fence to see a completely new world of horses and wagons and tents. My home was transported to the wild west!

Now that I'm back in Houston, I have yet to return to the actual rodeo, which is no longer held in the old Astrodome. I do, however, love that Mother Airlines has a BBQ team and that I am invited to the tent for free BBQ and drinks. I always take my old school friend, Chris. We sample our team's BBQ, which is good, but not the best. What is the best, however, is their potato salad, served warm, creamy and with melting cheese. I've been known to go back for seconds of nothing but potato salad! Just a plate filled rim to rim with it. Damn, now I'm hungry. Just a few more weeks, and I'll do what I do only once a year...don my cowboy hat and western shirt and head to the Astrodome parking lot, home to the best potato salad in the world. Oh, and some BBQ, the many carnival rides, and cowboys and girls with their hats, boots and bedazzled western belts.  

Caturday Greetings

Dear Shawn,

My cats appreciate that you are always inquiring about their well-being. Not as impressive as my grandmother. She's terrified of cats, and she'll ask, from time to time, how they are doing. If you think I'm impressed that she cares enough to ask, you should see their reaction!

I've started to notice something about them. I'm usually coming and going so much with my job, that when I come home, they are so excited to see me that they can't leave me alone. Of course, the follow me everywhere. If I leave the room for thirty seconds, I'll tell them I will be right back, but they have to follow me, anyway. When I go to bed at night, they are right there with me. Cooz won't sleep with me, but he'll be there when I wake up. Pheebs is there, too.

Last night was the fourth night for me to be home in a row, which is sort of rare that I have four days off to be at home. I noticed when I walked to my room to get ready for bed, no one came with me. I awoke alone, not seeing their furry faces until I had my moment on the oval office, got dressed and went to the living room. Pheebs was in her kitty condo, Cooz was in his secret hiding place (don't tell him that I know he's under the guest bed, he thinks it's his secret). I need a trip just so they keep their interest in me!

Of course, during the day, they are not completely happy unless I'm sitting in my recliner so that they have my lap to sleep on. No sleep is finer than that of the sleep on Daddy's lap! If it weren't for my bladder causing me to get up every hour or so, I seriously think they could stay there all day long, with nothing but those occasional little stretches they do, where they tuck their head under their arms. What would I do without my fur-babies?

Oh, and my new couch? Cooz thinks I bought it for him. When he doesn't have my lap, that's where I find him all day long. Most expensive cat bed I've ever bought! They send their regards.

411

Dear Shawn,

Lately, I’ve heard of several people losing their phones. When I was visiting my parents last week, a friend of Mom’s called her, needing a number, because the woman had left her phone at a restaurant and needed to get in touch with someone. Recently, we had to remove a passenger from our flight to Honolulu because he could barely find his seat, and when he did, he was so intoxicated that he could barely keep himself upright. As we pushed back, the woman who moved into his seat found that he had left his phone behind. The pilot was nice enough to open the cockpit window and do a drop so they could get his phone back to him.

My phone has nearly my whole world in it. Without it, I’m like my mom’s friend and would have no phone numbers. Remember when we used to keep everyone’s phone number in our heads? I used to have at least a dozen numbers memorized. These days, the only phone number I know I my own, and I often have to think to make sure I’m getting that correct.

Actually, I do have a number in my head. My aunt has lived in the same home for as long as I can remember. Her number, when pushed on the old phones that made tones, would create a familiar song, which I always sang as I dialed it, so I still remember her number. They say you can remember anything if you put a tune to it.

For years, I’ve been telling myself that I need to make a list of emergency numbers to keep in my wallet. If I were in an emergency and without my phone (I’m often forgetting it at home when I run errands), I wouldn’t be able to call anyone.

And now I’ve got that tune stuck in my head. Maybe I should call my aunt!

A Super Move Night

Dear Shawn,

Well, today didn’t work out as planned. To think, I put off trying to pick up a trip so I could attend a Super Bowl party. Last year, I was invited to the party of my fun neighbors across the street. I arrived late, having just driven into town from Dallas. There were fun people, lots of games and contests, terrific food (I probably put on three pounds due to my lack of will power against tasty food) and I actually enjoyed the game. You know me, such a sports fan (not).

I’d not heard anything from my neighbors about a party this year, but knowing how much I travel, I thought maybe they’d send a last minute invite once they saw that I was home. I would look out the window across the street, hoping I’d see someone come out of the house, checking the mail, any thing, so I could just happen to go outside at the same time. I’ve previously landed last minute party invites from neighbors using this very method.

Years ago, when I lived in South San Francisco, my Filipino neighbors were having an epic BBQ in their back yard. From there, they could see my second floor patio, which I suddenly felt needed a good cleaning. With broom in hand, I was summoned to come over, post haste, and indulge in all sorts of delicacies, many of which were new to me. I was even forced to bring food home. There was enough to feed half the city, and it almost felt like half the city was in attendance. It was a church function.

So, I wanted to land a party. Knowing others in town who were likely to have an in to a Super Bowl party, I sent a few innocuous texts earlier in the day. It almost worked, too, but by the time I got a text back, I’d already engaged in movie night and had downed a cold beer. I was in my pajamas with cats on my lap enjoying the cold Texas weather that I had allowed to seep into my home creating the perfect atmosphere for which to snuggle under a blanket in my recliner. To top it off, I watched one of my all-time most favorite movies, “Being There.” So here was my invitation to the party I had hoped would come, but I found myself preferring to be home, even though I could have made it there prior to half time. Meh, I had also already eaten dinner, so whatever treats would have been a waste on me.

After my movie night concluded, I got on line, watched all the commercials and the half time show. It was almost much better, as those are usually what I care for most from watching the Super Bowl, anyway. Look at the time I saved! For me, it’s about being with fun people, good food, funny over-priced commercials and marveling at the half time show. Only, this year, I traded in fun people for my cats. Good thing they cuddle so well.

Loss of a Friend

Dear Shawn,

My heart is heavy. A friend of mine passed away. We weren’t very close. Our paths crossed on what was one of the most interesting cruise vacations of my life. In so many ways, it was one of the best cruises I’ve been on. I went on a two-week cruise across the Atlantic with a group of friends, but also, I met some really good people, many of whom I still keep in touch with today. We call ourselves our Spirit friends, that being the name of the ship. I saw some great sights, having stopped in the Azores, and then spent a week with my friends in Barcelona, which has become my favorite European city. In many ways, it was also the worst trip of my life. I hated the ship, broke up with the girl I was dating before we reached Spain, and had my wallet and camera with all of my photos stolen from my pocket in a Barcelona night club. So much good. So much bad.

Not too long after returning home, I got a Facebook message from a woman I’d met on the cruise. She and her husband had been part of the little on-line community that had formed prior to setting sail, which is how I came to meet so many people on board. There were so many people, I never really got the chance to know Marj and Ed, so all those months later, when I got her friend request, I didn’t recognize who she was. I at first denied the request, having a strict policy of only friending people I knew.

Once she refreshed my memory, I accepted her request, but there was some confusion surrounding a post she had made. An accusation was thrown my way for deleting a comment, which was not possible, because I didn’t have the ability to delete comments from another person’s thread, and some feelings may have been hurt.

We patched things up quickly, with a few back and forth notes and resumed. We kept in touch often and shortly after moving to Houston, she and her husband sent to me a cute little figurine of a penguin hugged by a bear. It was as if she were the bear and I the penguin. It sits on my shelf this very day.

A few days ago, I saw a post from her on Facebook, only it was not from her, but from her husband, who was using her account. He did so to inform her friends that she had stopped breathing during the night and crossed over. It was short and to the point. I was filled with sadness.

What really hit me, was then going to her Facebook page and seeing her recent posts. I’ve done this in the past when losing a friend on line. It’s so odd to see the mundane posts leading up to a point where then there are no more posts. Death. Life, life life. Death. It often comes so suddenly.

A few years ago, I lost a friend I had only recently begun to know better. My community was hit hard by his sudden and most untimely passing, which left a family without a father. Before that, a friend of mine committed suicide, and it was odd to go into his account and try to find signs of what was to come. And then, there was my dear friend, Coyote, who was killed in a tragic bicycle accident, once more, leaving a community completely devastated. Again, one could read the ordinary posts of a friend on line, and suddenly, the posts from those left behind, now missing someone dear.

Marj was not young, but she should have had many years left. I feel so bad for her husband. His post resulted in the expected shocked replies from her friends- mine included. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her and the penguin she had sent to me. I meet a lot of people, and not many take the time to send me a penguin (thank the gods, too! I’d have far too many to know what to do with, and now I’m trying to get rid of them!). So I went back on her page and left a simple little poem. She had told me how her husband had helped pick it out and wrap it up for me. I hope he remembers. Here’s to you, Marj!

My dear Marj to me gave a sweet penguin gift

For my sinking spirits in hopes to lift

Now that she has crossed and left us behind

My dear little penguin is now on my mind

Thank you Ed and thank you Marj

For your gifts of love show your spirits are large

Lunch with a Friend

Dear Shawn,

There’s nothing like a visit to see my parents in Colorado. I love the mountains, the fresh air, the chance to relax and hike, the sight of elk, deer, humming birds, little critters scurrying about, and the occasional fox, coyote or bear. Oh, and seeing my folks is always fun.

On this trip, I got to see Robert. He was my best friend in third grade, when we lived on Creekbend St. These were the best days of my youth. It was on this street my brother was born. When my parents moved to the ranch on which they currently live, with a creek running through the property, I suggested they name it The Creekbend Ranch. Everyone loved the suggestion, so I’m writing you from there now.

I lost touch with Robert a few times in my lifetime. He moved from Creekbend St. to another city. We reconnected a few years later, when his family moved back. Oddly enough, his family moved to another part of Houston, close to where my family had already moved. Then I moved away (to Dallas, which coincidentally, is where Robert’s family had moved to when leaving Creekbend St.) and we lost touch once again.

After my illness in 2009, I started to long for the days of my youth and began to search for and reconnect with all sorts of old friends. I found Robert. My parents were now in Colorado and that’s where Robert was living...only two towns away. In fact, they both frequented the same Thursday night Grange pot luck dinner and jam sessions, so it’s possible they were in the same room at the same time and didn’t realize it. Seems nothing could keep Robert too far from his childhood best friend!

Robert moved a little further away a few years ago, so I don’t get to see him as often, when I’m visiting Creekbend Ranch. So when I found I was coming to town, landing around lunch time, I asked if he’d like to have lunch. He suggested a great Italian place, and he, Mom and I had a great time catching up.

We both started mulling over old memories, and he brought up the time he’d broken his arm- a time I remember quite well. Usually, Robert and I would come home from school and immediately head to his place to play, have a snack his mother would prepare, and watch the Banana Splits. Then, our favorite part of the afternoon, when we would play in the sand box out back, in which we’d dig trenches, fill them water, and sail our tin foil boats, made from the foil used in our lunch boxes from lunch.

One day, I had an after school event; I think it was choir practice. I ran home to play with Robert, knocking on his door. His sister answered and informed me that he had been rushed to the hospital because he broke his arm. I was about nine. I didn’t fully understand the meaning of one breaking their arm. I felt like the world was about to end. Poor Robert. I guess he’s done. I’ll have to find a new friend! In the Italian restaurant, the three of us laughed at my recounting my side of the story.

Robert and I are fifty, now. He’s got two kids, one about to start high school, and the other about to start college. It’s so nice that we have reconnected and are still friends- sharing what are the best times of our lives.

Coffee Break

Dear Shawn,

I’ve become one of those people- a coffee drinker. When I was in high school, my father was addicted to coffee; had to have it every morning. At one point, for some reason, he got tired of coffee, but had to have his caffeine, so every morning, from anywhere in the condo, I could tell when he’d awoken by the telltale pop of the can of Diet Coke. Every single morning. My aunt would come over on Sundays to take me church and would first have to run to the bathroom, blaming it on the cup of coffee she’d had.

Addiction has always sort of scared me. I’ve heard of so many lives ruined by it. Rock stars and their drugs and pain pills. Families and the alcohol. I’ve seen addiction in my own family, outside of caffeine. I do not want to be addicted to anything. Not even playing video games! (Let us not get into my various addictions, such as aviation and pizza. No lives are being destroyed because I take a million photos of airplanes.)

Eight years ago, after surviving that odd viral infection and suffered from acute fatigue, one of the suggestions I received was to drink coffee, in an attempt to overcome the tiredness. I did try it a few times, to no avail, and to be honest, I was glad it didn’t seem to work. Addiction.

The only time I ever really drank coffee was when I would visit my parents in Colorado. It was already made and Mom had all these great flavorful creamers to add to it. I’ve always run sort of hot, so the thought of coffee in summer was never appealing. But at my parent’s mountain home, it was always so cold, even in summer, that it seemed natural to drink hot coffee.

Then they put in a new coffee maker at work and added hazelnut creamers. At the start of a red-eye trip, still feeling tired, I thought I’d have a bit of caffeine to help me... give me a little boost. I was working all these trips leaving at 10 at night. I started having all these cups of coffee.

Next thing I know, I’m buying a coffee machine for my house. I had two cups yesterday. I’m having one now. I can’t wait for tomorrow to have more. Hell, why wait. I’m going in for another. See ya!

Enough with the Penguins!

Dear Shawn,

Tonight, I was watching Blue Planet 2 with my mother when they showed penguins. Mom made a cute little noise and looked over at me with the sweetest face. We watched and listened as we learned about chinstrap penguins. She noticed that in the shot of what looked like a billion black and white birds, that they were all facing the same direction, which was into the camera, certainly for the sake of the show. (Who wants to see the backs of a billion chinstraps?) She wondered why this was. Thinking maybe for the warmth of the sun, or some mind-numbing fact that perhaps penguins have a built-in compass and always face (insert direction here), I replied, “So they could look into the camera.” Her failure to laugh at my funny made me wonder if she didn’t, just perhaps, believe me.

Then she turned to me with a serious look and asked, “How did you get into collecting penguins?”

“Really?” I replied, as I waited for her to laugh, or something, to show that she was kidding. No, she was serious. This is the point I might say something about her age, and how people start to lose it when they get older, but I just turned fifty a month ago, and lately, it seems like I can’t remember anyone’s name. In the past two days, I’ve forgotten the names of Robin Williams (that comedian who died a few years ago), Nicole Kidman (that beauty from down under who I used to call my wife, but she just didn’t know it), Kevin Costner (that guy, who played the NASA boss in that movie we watched last night) and a few others I’ve already forgotten again as I write this letter. So I have no room to kid Mom for forgetting why I started to collect penguins, over thirty years ago.

She asked why the big sigh, and I reminded her that this is probably the question I get asked most often, usually followed by, “Do you mean real, live penguins?” to which I love to retort, “Yes, I keep real, live penguins in a huge refrigerated pool in my back yard, which is full of the fish they need to sustain life. You know you love me for my sass! Of course, Mom knows I don’t have live ones, so this time I was spared.

For Mom, I pulled out the shortened, abridged version: In high school, I loved Opus the Penguin and Fleetwood Mac. I had ten, then twenty, then fifty, and at around two-hundred, I decided to go for the record.

“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.

“Yeah, their Rumors album had penguins on it and they had an album named Penguin.”

She gave me a “Hm” of approval and went back to Blue Planet 2, which was now telling us about the walrus of the Arctic. Then she asked, “What are you going to do with all of your penguins when you die?”

“I’ve told all of my friends that when they leave my funeral, everyone has to take about a dozen or so with them to remember me by.” She thought this was a good idea.

“Well,” she said, “you sure have enough.”

At over 4,000 penguins, I sure do. I may need a few more friends, though!

Secret Codes

Dear Shawn,

Going to the airport is so much fun. I have always enjoyed doing so, even before I became a flight attendant. I love people watching. I love plane spotting. I love the architecture of a well-designed airport terminal. The large windows make for great storm watching, or just enjoying takeoffs and landings on a clear day.

After I got my job at Mother Airline, my mother asked me about something she had observed when making a change to her ticket. I had noticed it, too and I’m sure many others have. Mom wanted to know why it takes the agent so long to make changes, “What is all that typing she is doing?” She had this whole comedy routine about dealing with the agent in the airport, complete with her mimicking the typing motion with her hands.

“Hi,” Mom would say as she reached the imaginary counter. “I’d like to see if I could change to a window seat.” The agent would take the ticket and begin typing.

The agent would ask a simple question, and there would be more typing. “Do you want towards the front of the plane, or back?” Type, type type. “Are you checking a bag?” Type, type, type. Wait. Type, type, type. Wait. Glance up and back down. Type, type, type.

Mom would ask, “Are they writing a letter? Are they writing to their kids in college? Letters to the editor? Working on a book?”

Mom’s comedy always made me laugh, but what I found out with this job is that the computer systems used by the airlines are so antiquated, that every entry requires a code and then the information. It’s not like a windows-style computer, where you just enter or click. In fact, there aren’t even mouse devices on their computers.

Talk about brain exercises, to look up my work schedule for the month, I have to remember a six-digit code: ‘dsplof’. This pulls up a line of code with spaces. In the spaces I input my file number, the month and base. At the end of the line of code, I enter, and then my schedule for the month comes up. Want to write a flying partner? That starts with ‘bldnot’. To pull up an upcoming flight- ‘dspid/’. Want to know who I’m working with- fltlof. Lots of codes. Nothing but codes. Every flight attendant has stashed away somewhere, and more likely in more than one location, a list of codes needed in order to survive the behind the scenes aspect of flying the skies.

Good times. I’m thinking maybe I should actually go write Mom. See you soon.