My Blog

It’s all about the pretty.

I've never considered myself fashionable, a good decorator, as having an eye for coordination, none of that.  I've always been a bit rough around the edges.  A tomboy, some would say, but I think that is incorrect.  I know plenty of tomboys who aren't rough around the edges.  I've always preferred function over form, is all.  (OK, I can come up with examples where that is a lie, but seriously, who wouldn't prefer to walk the last 2 blocks to school, even in the rain, to getting dropped off in a tan/brown AMC Pacer back in 1984?  Who among you would have argued with me that I was wrong?)  I've been involved in many projects, designing simple things, where we would get hung up for hours, days, weeks, WEEKS, people, seriously, over user interface design.  Everyone in the room suddenly became all about the pretty.  I was there to discuss function.  Why in the world are we hung up on form?

It is something that I, as a hard core geek usually involved in the functionality of the system in question, could never understand.  I cut my IT teeth in command line.  I lived and breathed horrible C code that needed to be hacked to get installers to work properly; shell scripts that produced line after line of debug scrolling down the screen searching for the elusive variable $i (what a STUPID thing to call that placeholder, BTW) to figure out where it was getting incorrectly assigned.  In the end, I cared if the process WORKED, not how the process LOOKED.  Sadly, it wasn't just that I didn't care, I didn't get why anyone else should care.  Again, function over form.

I got smacked yesterday between the eyes with a 2x4 of WHY.  I'm involved in a project again.  Yay, me.  This time, though, I'm not writing anything.  I'm evaluating.  Line up the vendors, time for the standard issue dog & pony shows.  Blissfully, it isn't just me.  My brain was full at some point during the discussion and I was more than happy that there were other people there to listen, because I'm sure I missed things.  Not everything got missed because my brain was full, though.  There, on slide 5,868,243 out of 10 million, was something sticking out like a sore thumb.  It was a rough process workflow slide that was obviously reused from a different presentation, maybe an earlier iteration.  They changed it with awful, mis-aligned, non color-matched blocks of text.  You couldn't NOT notice it.  At least I couldn't.  I honestly don't know what they said for the next 5 minutes, as I sat there staring at the most horrible hack job on a power point slide I'd ever seen in a vendor presentation.

It wasn't this bad, but it may as well have been…

Like I said, it was a 2X4 between the eyes of realization.  SOMEBODY has to care about the pretty, because when nobody does, everyone involved looks bad.  I'm still completely hung up on that awful slide.  If they can't care enough to put together a proper, clean presentation, what in the world are they selling?  How complete is it?  How much support are you really going to get?  You see where I'm going here.

So Emmanuel, I dedicate this to you.  You are all about the pretty, and I doubt anyone who knows you would argue otherwise.  I'm a convert.  I'll never get to the degree you are at, but I get it.  Sometimes pretty matters more than anything else you have to say, because without the pretty, they will never hear it.

Thank you.

-Candi McKelvey

Manager, Technology Architecture

What did we learn today?

One universal truth I've come across over the years is that everyone has made a mistake doing their job at some point in their career.  I'm talking big mistakes, the kind where you really should learn something fundamental from it.  This isn't limited to IT.  Granted, IT mistakes tend to be visible organization-wide and therefore easy to point at.  But in the end what matters is the impact of the mistake on the person who made it.  That person is who really needs to learn and take something away from the event.

For example, I used to work for a company that ran all the latest, greatest ERP system technologies.  Most current databases, operating systems, even ran as an early adopter of VMware (yes, even in production).  Because of all these cool technologies, we could create copies of the environment in a few hours for specialized use.  It was mostly automated, the only manual processes were the kickoff of the scripts to copy and rename everything and the eventual deletion of the environment.  It was great!  It was flawless!  It had human intervention.  Uh-oh.  In walks Candi, confident of the processes she helped create.  Email in hand, ready to delete a copied environment whose useful life was over.  Run script, type name, hit enter.  Wait 60 seconds, and the phone rings.  User training stopped working.  The user training where we flew about 30 people in from all over the US to get training in HQ.  Uh-oh.

In the end, it was me.  I learned a few things that day.  First and foremost, I learned to think more about my naming conventions.  If the primary environment is A, the copy shouldn't be called A2.  That just begs for errors to take place.  Secondly, I learned to be more careful when I did things like that.  Typing a command, smoking a cigarette, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers on full volume and arguing about where to go for lunch all at the same time was assuredly a contributing factor.  Third, I learned to just say what happened, because that is the fastest way to get it fixed.  Deal with blame and punishment later, just fix the problem at hand. 

That third point is what I've taken away with me most strongly.  Yet, it is the hardest thing for everyone to do.  Look at the picture above.  If everyone involved sat there arguing about how the child got lipstick, who wasn't watching, etc, the mess wouldn't get cleaned up.  As a matter of fact, it would get worse, because the kid would still be covered in lipstick, touching everything and spreading the problem.  Admit what happened (the kid got lipstick) and clean up the mess (alright, get some amusing evidence first).  Deal with the hows and whys of prevention later. Why is it so easy to do that sometimes, but so rarely in work situations?  I can't begin to count the number of times I've been involved in trying to figure out why something was broken when, in the end, something had been changed by somebody.  There are always a few arguments, generally broken down into the following categories: 1.  Outright denial of involvement (AKA I didn't touch anything, therefore it wasn't me) - These are my favorite.  There is absolutely no possibility that they have any bearing on the situation in their mind.  These people will not assist in finding what is wrong, because it is 100% not their problem.  Of course, sometimes it is, and then they get angry, but I digress. 2.  Admission of changing something, but "it wouldn't cause THIS" – Generally, this group has some knowledge of how they think the systems work, but it is likely flawed in some way.  They will help trouble shooting when you finally get them to admit that they changed something, but they will argue the entire time that it couldn't possibly be because of them.  They will forget the knowledge they pick up about how things work after trouble shooting, leading to this argument over and over and over and… 3.  Deflection (AKA "X always does things that causes problems…") – The most dangerous group, they always start out assigning blame.  There is no research, and they call for blood of whoever caused the latest nightmare.  When and if it comes down to them having any part in the problem, they will spend the entire time talking about how it still is all somebody else's fault.  The logic hurts my brain, but they will try. In the end, none of these help solve the problem.  I don't know if it is fear, pride, a mixture, or something else that makes people reluctant to potentially take on some blame for issues that occur at work.  I've found that, unless there was some malice, the consequences meted out are rarely as bad as expected.  So go forth, own your mistakes, fix the problems, learn something, and move on with your day.  We'll all be better for it.

   

Thank you.

   

-Candi McKelvey

Manager, Technology Architecture

To upgrade or not to upgrade…

Here is another post by my sister Candi. It relates heavily to her profession, so I included a small part of her signature so you would understand where it comes from. While it goes against my vow of only using pictures I personally produced, I inserted the picture for my own amusement…

How do you decide to upgrade?  It seems like a technical question, but in reality, it is not.  At least not in the conventional IT way.  People upgrade the house they live in.  They upgrade the car they drive.  Would either of these be technical decisions?  Again, not in the conventional IT way, they aren't.

I point out this obvious fact because often it isn't obvious.  All of us in IT know about upgrades.  There is always an upgrade being planned, worked on, proposed or completed.  When dealing with technology, we just get used to it as a given.  A fact of daily life, such as it were.  We even get used to the constant questioning, both from internal and external (to IT) customers, about when product XYZ is going to FINALLY get upgraded.  Like I said, just a fact of daily life in IT.

That brings us right back to the decision to upgrade.  For those of us in IT, we are used to thinking about it as a technical question.  We think about support, features, etc.  But most often, we tend to think in our very limited scope of what pertains to our individual areas of expertise.  You want an upgrade to product X?  No problem, we can do that.  The first thought is "Can we?", the second thought seems to be "At what cost"?".

Maybe it is time to really take the technology out of the mix.  Start having everyone think of corporate IT upgrades the way they would an upgrade to something within their own home.  Let's start small.  Imagine deciding to buy a new shower curtain.  Sounds simple, right?  Can you do it?  Sure.  For only a few dollars, at least at the start.  However… a new shower curtain doesn't match the existing towels.  The new towels go better with new accessories for the sink top.  And what about the window curtains?  You are now spiraling down the rabbit hole which started with a new shower curtain that likely cost less than 20 bucks at Target. 

Bear in mind, that was just a small example.  How about a new TV?  Again, simple.  The dollar amount to enter the market is far more substantial than that of the shower curtain, but it was something you just had to have.  Well, if you are getting a new TV, is it still compatible with your old sound system?  How about your peripherals (Roku, DVD, Wii, Xbox, Apple TV, etc.)?  Do you need to run new cabling?  Is there now construction involved to hang this new equipment up?  You see how it spirals.  Again, this is bigger, but not big.  If you want to consider big, think about a "small" house remodel (like such a thing actually exists).  They ALWAYS spiral out of control.

Let's bring this back to IT and consider something simple.  Data replication software needs to be upgraded for supportability.  The requirements mean a new server.  If we are building a new server, it shouldn't be with the old operating system.  If we are going to the newest operating system, the database should be brought current.  That now brings every retail location into scope.  And so it goes, the shower curtain, all over again.

Hopefully you are starting to get to the idea of why the decision to upgrade really isn't a technical question.  It starts with a need.  The need isn't technical, it is just resolved via technology.  The reasoning and compatibility aren't really technical questions.  They exist regardless of technology's involvement in the process.  It is always more involved than we would like to think.  So the next time somebody asks you when something is going to FINALLY be upgraded by IT, try talking to them about shower curtains instead.

How do you decide to upgrade?  It seems like a technical question, but in reality, it is not.  At least not in the conventional IT way.  People upgrade the house they live in.  They upgrade the car they drive.  Would either of these be technical decisions?  Again, not in the conventional IT way, they aren't.

I point out this obvious fact because often it isn't obvious.  All of us in IT know about upgrades.  There is always an upgrade being planned, worked on, proposed or completed.  When dealing with technology, we just get used to it as a given.  A fact of daily life, such as it were.  We even get used to the constant questioning, both from internal and external (to IT) customers, about when product XYZ is going to FINALLY get upgraded.  Like I said, just a fact of daily life in IT.

That brings us right back to the decision to upgrade.  For those of us in IT, we are used to thinking about it as a technical question.  We think about support, features, etc.  But most often, we tend to think in our very limited scope of what pertains to our individual areas of expertise.  You want an upgrade to product X?  No problem, we can do that.  The first thought is "Can we?", the second thought seems to be "At what cost"?".

Maybe it is time to really take the technology out of the mix.  Start having everyone think of corporate IT upgrades the way they would an upgrade to something within their own home.  Let's start small.  Imagine deciding to buy a new shower curtain.  Sounds simple, right?  Can you do it?  Sure.  For only a few dollars, at least at the start.  However… a new shower curtain doesn't match the existing towels.  The new towels go better with new accessories for the sink top.  And what about the window curtains?  You are now spiraling down the rabbit hole which started with a new shower curtain that likely cost less than 20 bucks at Target. 

Bear in mind, that was just a small example.  How about a new TV?  Again, simple.  The dollar amount to enter the market is far more substantial than that of the shower curtain, but it was something you just had to have.  Well, if you are getting a new TV, is it still compatible with your old sound system?  How about your peripherals (Roku, DVD, Wii, Xbox, Apple TV, etc.)?  Do you need to run new cabling?  Is there now construction involved to hang this new equipment up?  You see how it spirals.  Again, this is bigger, but not big.  If you want to consider big, think about a "small" house remodel (like such a thing actually exists).  They ALWAYS spiral out of control.

Let's bring this back to IT and consider something simple.  Data replication software needs to be upgraded for supportability.  The requirements mean a new server.  If we are building a new server, it shouldn't be with the old operating system.  If we are going to the newest operating system, the database should be brought current.  That now brings every retail location into scope.  And so it goes, the shower curtain, all over again.

Hopefully you are starting to get to the idea of why the decision to upgrade really isn't a technical question.  It starts with a need.  The need isn't technical, it is just resolved via technology.  The reasoning and compatibility aren't really technical questions.  They exist regardless of technology's involvement in the process.  It is always more involved than we would like to think.  So the next time somebody asks you when something is going to FINALLY be upgraded by IT, try talking to them about shower curtains instead.

Candi 

Manager, Technology Architecture

Mobile Phone Madness

My sister has started a blog as well. It's on a private network, so I can't link to it, but I get a copy and here it is:

There is no doubt about it.  A mobile phone is a necessity for me in this day and age.  I have a full time job.  My husband has a full time job.  We have a young child.  We are home so infrequently to answer phone calls that I disconnected our land line some time ago (a year, give or take) and haven't missed it a bit.  It took some time for some companies to deal with our  response to home phone (don't have one), but it seems that companies are finally starting to catch up to the reality of the situation.  We aren't the only household that has abandoned a land line.

Now that we are past that hurdle, our mobile phones have become crucial to maintain connectivity with one another and the rest of the world.  Heck, I couldn't tell you most people's phone numbers anymore.  I dial by name or speed dial key.  I rely on my text message history to find information I've requested and dates that certain events took place.  My phone is paired with my car, my husband's car and with my motorcycle helmet.  It is hooked into both my private and work email accounts.  I have Skype, Facebook, and other chat clients at the ready on it, able to reach out to whoever I need, when I need to.  It is my daily-use camera.  It is my life.  It is also old.

Hi.  My name is Candi, and I carry a BlackBerry.  There, I said it.  I've gotten it out there.  The ugly truth.  I should be ashamed.  At least that is what my friends, family, and the media tell me.  I get taunted and roared at by my colleagues (roar as in dinosaur, fyi).  My friends ask incredulously when I plan to upgrade my "old phone".  The media constantly points out RIM's failings and likely impending demise.  And still, I carry a BlackBerry.  The main reason?  Because it WORKS.

Let's go back to the beginning again.  I NEED my phone to function.  It is my lifeline.  The closest my BlackBerry came to disappointing me was when I dropped it in water.  In less than 48 hours, it came back to life.  True the 7/Z key is a little picky, but it functions well otherwise.  When the battery started not holding a charge well, I picked up a new battery for well under $5.  Viola, the phone was like new.  There was one very public RIM network outage, but otherwise I have no complaints about how my phone has served me.

Many of the people I work with have moved away from the BlackBerry and are constantly nudging me to do the same.  Well, not so much nudging as taunting, prodding and annoying, but you get the point.  Knowing that I need a smart phone, that leaves me limited options.  I can move to a newer BlackBerry, which I am reluctant to do.  I don't believe that RIM's demise is certain, but I'm not willing to spend money on a device to bet on it.  I can move to the iPhone, but I'm reluctant to do that as well.  There have been battery life issues with the 4s.  The iPhone is still only 3G network, and the iPhone 5 is probably right around the corner.  That leaves me with one of the many Android devices.  Well, if I'm going new, I'm going 4G LTE.  And while I'm at it, I may as well get the new Android OS.  That limits my selection pretty dramatically to just a couple of newly released devices.  And they have issues being worked out.  And they aren't guaranteed to pair up well with my car, which is kind of a deal breaker.  ARGH!!!

I can't be the only person who is hesitant to buy a new phone in the current mobile smart phone landscape.  I know there will always be something cooler, newer, better, etc.  I'm not waiting on that.  I'm trying to decide what phone I'm willing to spend a couple of hundred dollars on that will do what I need, which is NOT playing Fruit Ninjas or Angry Birds.  Can't a girl make a phone call around here without being judged?

I should have seen that coming… the second of many, part b. Ping-Pong, Pain and Poop.

If you have not read part a, go back to it. This will make more sense to you after you do so.

Monday morning, I had stuff to do. I called the doctor, who set me up an appointment to come in and see him the following day. I went in to work to fill out my workers comp paperwork, and, as a friend reminded me after reading the last installment, I had a difficult time getting the nessacary documentation to go see the doctor. Eventually, the powers that be set me free from my stress and allowed me to go get my operation within the magical week the doctor had initially told me was the crucial time. I don't really remember the couple of days in between Sunday and the time when I went in for my operation, but that is the beauty of time. It softens the rough edges of the bad memories, especially if that is your personality trait. So I will pick up the story where the memories become clear again.

I was sitting in the surgery center, waiting for an eternity to be brought into the prep area. The surgeon was running behind schedule. I don't remember what time I was supposed to be in, but I do remember that I was hungry, and I was supposed to be done by 2pm. It was about 2 pm when I was brought to surgery perp. A nurse gave me the run down, asked me the standard questions like had I eaten. Had I eaten? Of course not! I was told not to, I was starving and they were late, but we'll let that slide. There was some discussion as to how to take my blood pressure since both arms were getting worked on. The nurse was kind enough to start the IV in my ankle for the same reason. It felt odd in my ankle. It didn't hurt, but it was indescribably odd. It kept commandeering my attention. I wanted to pull it out so bad. People came and went as I sat there in my bed listening to the elderly woman next to me tell anyone who would give her the opportunity about how her hernia was pressing on her clitoris and made her have to pee… (Don't let in that mental image. Don't don't don't… ahhh… too late. Now you're stuck with it. You're welcome.) I heard bitchy doctors yell at nurses by the truck load. My anesthesiologist took his turn at the nurse who prepped me. He walked up one side of her and down the other over putting my IV in my leg. Who told her to he wanted to know. Who told her not to? That was my question. It seemed to makes sense that I was getting both arms worked on and there were no instructions left.

Eventually, I saw the anesthesiologist and others involved, not the surgeon though, and they gave me my anesthesia. As people milled about, I wondered how long it would take. They began to push me down the hall in my bed. We came to a set of double doors, and an aid hit the auto open button. Instantly I heard something a kin to static. It sounded like someone was slowly turning up the volume, and I heard a voice, "He's thrashing! He's thrashing!" The world gushed back in over the levi the anesthesia put up. I felt someone grab my upper arms to hold me still, which brought to my attention that I was thrashing. I was rolling left to right in the bed. That led to an awareness that my wrists hurt so fucking bad. Never had anything hurt like that. Not the total of every cut, fall, or broken bone I had ever had felt like that. Soon enough though, I realized that if I opened my eyes, I would join the rest of the world. With that added to all the other input, the pain started to fade into the background… a little. I was suddenly, completely alert. Soon, my girlfriend at the time, Betsy, started to tell me the stories. There was nothing too bad. It was just difficult for me to wake up. That level of difficulty waking, without showing any signs of distress is reserved for younger men than I, as the nurse told Betsy. I apparently chimed in that I am a younger guy. I also remarked, as I am told, while they removed my IV that it hurt, but I like pain, so hurt me some more.

When I finally got home, and at the time I was sharing a house with my cousin and his mom, my cousin choady was there to meet me. Standing in the living room, in my maroon sweat pants I had bought because of this injury, I looked helpless. I had both hands completely wrapped up so just the tips of three fingers shown on my right hand, and nothing on the left. They were exposed not even to the first knuckle, so they were obviously useless. Choady said in his rough, raspy voice, "Dude. I hate to say it, but, if you need someone to wipe your ass for ya, I'm there for ya man." I was completely caught off guard. What does one say to that. It's the nicest, most mortifyingly invasive moment I ever had… to that point.

"I'll figure it out," was all I could say back. I never did have to take him up on that by the way. Within twenty minutes of Choady's selfless offer of assistance, I was home alone and the pain was starting to settle back in. I had filled a prescription for pain meds, but I could not get them open. I tried my three finger tips. I tried wedging the top in something and turning the bottle with my teeth, arms, knees. Nothing worked. It was even a struggle to flip open my phone so I could dial. "Eddie? I'm in pain and I cant get my medicine open." I whined like a little girl. I was in pain though and spent an hour failing to open the bottle.

"throw it on the ground and step on it stupid." I felt stupid hearing that. I looked around the house and figured out ten different ways that didn't work, and the one that did, a 5 year old could have gotten.

A day passed and I got bored, so choady gave me a ride to Jamie's house. I hung out there for a while, and I got bored. Bored was the theme of this time in my life. I am a go do something person. I don't sit home and watch tv well. Jamie loaned me his jeep Grand Cherokee to drive since it was easy to get in and out of and not a stick like my jeep. I was able to steer by griping the top of the steering wheel with my first and middle fingers. It was a finger tip grip since the cast only allowed me to use them to the first knuckle, but I made it by. From then on, it was on. I was running. Eddie cleaned pools and was usually home early. Jamie was opposed to working a full day, and I had another friend who just bought boobs and was taking time off to recover. Needless to say, I was doing all I could to stay busy. Near the first night, I tucked a ping pong paddle into the tip of my cast. It took a couple of rounds to get the feel for it, but soon enough I was in the game. We played for a few hours, talked a bunch of shit and just generally enjoyed the cool weather of early February in florida. I got in trouble. Out of position and a bad shot, I hung one slow and high. Eddie buried it, and I gave chase. The Ball came in low and fast and I swung wildly trying to save the point. When I hit my hand on the edge of that table, I let out a yelp that woke every soul in the neighborhood. Lesson learned? No, play resumed in about 10 minutes.

The next day, I went home and found my dog, Camnden, had been in the trash. Camnden was a good dog, fun, obedient and mellow. It took an act of god to get him to bark. He had a weakness for trash tough. He knows he'll get in trouble, but can't seem to stop himself. It makes me see red. I learned to live through it by putting the trash up high when I leave. I am not always the last one out though. I took Camnden with me and went back to Eddie's. It was cool out, so he would be okay in the car, and he liked to ride. At some point after being at Eddie's for a while, there was something I felt like I needed from the jeep. I don't remember what it was now, but at the time, I went out to search for it in a car with no interior light. I opened the door. "Wow," I coughed. That trash did not agree with Camnden's belly. He really let one loose in this car. I sat in the driver's seat and began to look for what I was after. I opened the glove box and looked in the center console, soon enough locating what I was after. I walked toward the front door of Eddie's house but I couldn't shake the smell. It was so bad. It was following me. Did Camnden crap in the car and I sat in it? I touched my ass with my splint on my right hand and came up with super foul liquid shit all over my bandages. I guess the garbage didn't agree with him.

I walked into the house as close to tears as I had been in years, helpless and covered in shit. I whimpered my story to Eddie and he jumped into action. Now I was standing in his living room as he stripped me naked, and cleaned me off. I could not imagine feeling more like a child than I did at that moment. Thankfully his children and wife had gone off to bed earlier, so at least I was aloud some semblance of modesty. While Eddie dressed me in some of his clothes, another friend cleaned the Jeep out by the light of a Bic cigarette lighter… Some debts cant be repaid. To Be Continued….

I should have seen that coming… the second of many, part a

I have relived this story over and over again so many times; I sometimes grow weary of its telling. This is probably where my reputation for being incautious with my personal well-being originated. As I approach the 4th anniversary of my accident, I suppose a retelling is in order. I had a lot going on in my life at the time. I just bought a new CBR1000RR, started dating a cocktail waitress, was recently introduced to the world of triathlon and cycling by proxy, and had a fledgling business with a partner. I used to stop in the bar every day and have 1 drink on my way home from work so I could have someone to talk to. I was recently divorced and still getting accustomed to spending time alone. I didn't like being alone (I still don't) and was willing to pay for a drink even though I don't drink, in order to have someone to talk to. That is where I got introduced to cycling. I bought a bike after only 2 or 3 rides on a borrowed road bike, and then I had a bad day….

I was tasked with installing hurricane shutters on a house on Merritt Island, and was instructed like so, "The lady there is bipolar and super protective of her flowers. Try not to touch them." When I arrived at the home, it was surrounded by a forest of flowering plants. There was no way in this life I would be able to avoid them, but I did my best. On the first shutter, I saw an issue. I couldn't get the enclosure high enough to avoid interfering with the operation of the windows because of a cedar false rafter above it on every window. I called into my office and they said they were okay to cut. It had already been cleared with the home owner, and I just had to do a neat job so the finished product looked nice. I tried a jig saw, a sawzall, a hand saw, a circular saw and every combination of them all. No matter what, it took forever to cut them and a couple I could not get the angle on to cut. A little light bulb went on over my head and I ran off to Home Depot. I found the smallest saw blade I could find which was a 6" saw blade. I had a 4" grinder, and I was determined to make it work. I had to remove the guard entirely to get the blade on. The blade was designed to spin at a maximum of 7000 RPM and the grinder spun at 20000, so I was a bit concerned it wouldn't take the force. The saw teeth also passed within a half inch of the on/off switch and left little room to grip the grinder. So, a saw blade on a grinder that it was not meant for, no guard, no handle and a ladder set up horribly off balance so as not to touch a flower left me with a tenuous grip on the grinder at best. I was nervous, but not too much to do it.

As I cut rafter after rafter and fit in my shutter housings, I was confident I would finish quickly and make a lot of money, but then the grinder pulled out of my hand. It shot toward the wall, bounced back, ricocheted off the fascia, and dropped. By the time it did, I had gotten both hands on the ladder as I prepared for whatever would happen. I felt the hit me like something heavy had fallen and then bounced away. Of course my eyes were closed the moment it hit, but I looked quickly, and quickly I knew it was bad. Both of my hands were bleeding. My first thought, before how will I heal or what is I going to be left when this is over, how am I going to pay my bills. In retrospect, there seems to have been far more on the line than that, but for years I had been tuned to work to pay my bills and what was left at the end was cream.

The grinder was now hanging at the end of its wire, whining was it spun at max rpm unmolested. I tried to climb down the ladder, but when I lifted my left hand from the rung, it flopped over. I was unable to will it to respond to my commands. That moment was frightening. Now I had not only a concern about how I would pay my bills, but the possibility that I would be damaged goods. I may end up less than the man I was just moments ago. For those who haven't been there, it's a high mental hurdle. I yelled for the guy I was working with on that job. "Joe!" He came running. I don't yell to people for stuff. I get it and let them do their jobs. That coupled with the sound of the grinder running at the end of its leash was enough that Joe knew what happened before he could see me. As he came around the corner I said "you gotta unplug the grinder. I can't get it." He shuffled back and forth quickly, struggling to make the decision to go for the plug at the wall rather than at the wildly spinning grinder. The stress was obviously above his tolerance level. He pulled the plug and the grinder spun down. I then loosened my pressure on the part of the cord that looped past my legs, which allowed the grinder to descend the remaining 6 feet to the ground. All I wanted was to get off this ladder and to the hospital so I could find out how bad I messed up. My hands felt strange, but did not yet hurt. They felt alien, like they were not completely mine, but to some degree they still were. I made my way down the ladder with the fingers of my right had that still worked as Joe nervously move around at the base of it.

"I need you to drive me to the hospital Joe." I said and he turned and took off rapidly toward his truck. I had intended on taking mine. His was nicer and I was bleeding a lot. I was at least conscious of that. But when he got to his, I was in no mood to dispute his decision. He moved some stuff off the seat and we climbed in. As he started the truck, I tried to find a position that would leave me not bleeding too much on his interior. I put my feet on the dash, laid my left arm across my lap and applied ample pressure with my bloody right hand. "I'm bleeding a lot Joe. I'm sorry." I knew I was going to leave a mark.

"You want a towel?" he asked and I accepted. I wrapped it tightly around my left. It was able to catch a fair amount of blood from my right also, but I was still bleeding a lot. Joe backed up. He missed the curve of the driveway and bumped into a tree, pulled forward and redirected his efforts. Out on the road, he was rushing too much. He drove very, very abruptly and even missed a stop sign.

"I'm not dying yet Joe. I'd rather not on the way to the hospital." I tried to settle him down. It was nearly 20 minutes to the nearest hospital. By the time we got there, the pain was well established and the blood had pooled up in my lap and breached the dam that was my elbow. As it ran over the top, I began to wonder how much blood that was. I was relieved when we pulled into the hospital entrance and under the canopy where the ambulances delivered their patients. I climbed from the truck, trying less than successfully to pour the pooled blood outside the truck. As I stood, and took a step, the world spun faster than that run away grinder, and I listed heavily to the right. "Joe. Joe." I said his name twice to emphasize my need for his attention, but it was too late for him to make it around the truck. Within four steps, I crashed into the wall. I managed to hold there, thankful for the wall as opposed to the ground. Joe grabbed me by the shoulders and moved me into the doorway. I was met immediately with a wheelchair, and the intake nurse said I could be registered from my bed in the back as she wheeled me in.

"Joe, call Betsy and tell her I won't be over tonight. Call Steve and tell him I have to miss our meeting and call Eddie. I'm supposed to meet him at the gym." I instructed Joe as I motioned toward my phone. Joe worked with me or for me often enough that he knew Betsy was my girlfriend at the time, Steve was a business partner and friend in a separate venture from the shutter company and Eddie was my recently acquired trainer, teaching me to swim so I could do a triathlon. With that bit of instruction, Joe vanished and I don't think I saw him again that night. As soon as a doctor came to my bed side, he ordered an IV, pain meds and an x-ray series on both hands. A beautiful young tech came and put in my IV which was quickly utilized by a nurse to inject duladin (I spelled that the way it sounds, but is probably wrong). She explained to me that I would feel warm, then floatie, then everything would be better. I was squirming quite a bit by that time. She was right. The moment she pushed the plunger on the syringe, I felt my skin heat up, within a moment, I felt adrift on a raft on some gently rippling body of water. As the pretty, young, IV inserting tech held my hand up (I wasn't able because I had hacked though 6the tendons that give one that ability) and another, larger, older, not looking nearly as good in his scrubs, guy washed out my wounds, I got a little playful under the meds. "Why, this is so sudden. I don't even know your name." I said in the corniest tone I could muster to the poor girl tasked with holding my hand. She was obviously less amused with her position than I was. When they finished, I asked the doctor if I could get a gown to change into because my underwear was soaked in blood and starting to get sticky. I was ignored. The doctor even went as far as to tell me that 'they might not fix' what I had damaged. Talk about panic. You want to get to the core of what I fear. That's it, being unfixable.

I hadn't noticed Dennis slip in. He was in charge of all the comings and goings of Jobs at shutter outlet. He had the owner's ear directly. "The owner said he doesn't care if he has to pay himself. You will do what you have to to fix this." He said, and my moment of terror was abated. That doctor would not do the required operation. He was not qualified. The attending he called also was not really comfortable or qualified to take on something of that magnitude. If I cut one tendon, sure. I cut everything on my left hand from thumb to pinky, and both tendons to my right thumb. I was told I had a week to get it done before it was critical, and given a number to call for a doctor who specialized in this type of repair. They wrapped me up and sent me on my way. Before I left the hospital, my sister texted me. She was getting on a plane to come from NJ to Florida. Apparently the only message Joe got out was a voice mail to Steve that said "Brandy cut his hands with a saw. There's a lot of blood." That made it to NJ as "Brandy cut his hands off and they don't know if they can fix them." I called her off, and told her the real story and that I didn't need special assistance, though I was very thankful to have someone willing to go to those lengths. Now I don't remember who picked me up from the hospital, or where I went that night, but I know I was scared and miserable, and heading into the weekend unsure of where Monday would find me. Having just bought a road bike that cost me almost $2000.00, I did show up to the bike ride on Sunday. I brought my stationary trainer and rode in the parking lot while the group I had spent just a few weeks with went out on the road. I did it because I was afraid to be left behind, because I didn't want to be alone with myself wondering how this would turn out. I did it to feel less damaged. That day gets mentioned from time to time by those who I now consider friends. It embarrasses me when it does. They think I did it because I am so tough when the truth is I did it because I was so afraid. I was happy I did though. It did make me feel better, and to this day my bike consoles me whenever I have a bad day.

This is the first 3 days of 3 months of recovery before I would be allowed to return to work. Then I promptly hurt myself again. I will continue the telling in another installment… The inset picture is from after the operation. I do have pictures taken in the emergency room for all you morbid folk out there, but you'll have to message me to see those.

Perpetuating Legends

Everyone knows the name of Lance Armstrong, the Texan who beat brain, lung and testicular cancer to go on and win the Tour De France a record 7 consecutive times. He founded the Live Strong organization which has fingers out into everything from cancer research to nutrition information. Lance is assured a place for all time as a legend in the cycling world, but, aside from that, he has reached past that natural boundary into the consciousness of the world at large. There are many other names the cycling world knows, Coppi, Merckx, Bartali, Anquetil, Hinault and Gaul just to name a few past legends. Currently Mark Cavendish and Alberto Contadore are dominant forces in cycling, but there are others. Those guys alone don't buy enough bikes, if they buy any at all, to keep all those manufacturers churning out equipment. There is a whole separate breed of cyclist out there, one who works a 9 to 5 job and doesn't get paid to train, one who will probably never sign an endorsement contract or get any compensation for their efforts past a pat on the back from a respected peer.

To me, those men, the world class athelets, exist in a dream. They aren't real. I know they are real, but on a different plane than the people I know. I didn't play organized sports as a child. I didn't own a bike that wasn't bought at K-mart. I certainly didn't have access to a professional coach. Now I'm well past the point in my life where I could have a shot at being a pro. So what. I still absolutely love cycling. It makes me feel good both physically and emotionally. Most of the people I know have the same type of relationship with cycling, they started as adults, they schedule rides around work, and enter organized (sometimes very loosely) events when they can afford to pay their own entrance fee and equipment costs.

Offhandedly, a friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, introduced me to the idea of riding a road bike, loaned me a bike and took me to my first group ride. Without this first nudge in the right direction, I likely would have never even tried cycling. After that though, week after miserable week I went to the rides and was unable to hang in the draft. I'd struggle back, miserable and alone, but each week, I made it a bit further into the ride before I fell off the pace. Soon enough I was able to stay with that group and wanted to try the fast group. I did and it was like starting all over again. Every week I would get chewed up and spit out the back of the pack to struggle home alone. The amount of work one has to do alone instead of in the group is substantial, but if you can't keep the pace, you can't and that is all there is to it. Eventually, I was able to hang on to that ride consistently.

That was a bittersweet day, the day I realized I was good enough to stay with these guys. It was the Cocoa Village ride, one of my favorites, when I was riding with all of the usual suspects. I had made it to the halfway point with the group, struggling at times and in pain the whole time, but I did my fair share of work. I didn't hide in the back, which I always had to resort to sooner or later on previous rides. On the way back, I took my turn on the front and just took off up an incline, unintentionally splintering the group. When I crested the top, I said "that f***ing hurt!" and Rick responded "good, Maybe you'll learn your lesson." At the time, I thought he just didn't like me. He often had things to say when I got done that I didn't particularly like. Now over the top of that incline, I fell to the back of what was now a group of 5 including myself. Soon enough though, Matt pulled off the front and just kept adding distance between us and he. It was obvious that none of us had that pace left in us at the moment, and quite a good gap grew. After a few miles of hiding in the back of my now small group, I decided to go for matt.

I spent probably the next 10 miles out in no man's land, on two separate occasions getting to within 3 bike length of matt. I was trading off leads with Motorcycles, buzzing through intersections and just all around being reckless. I never caught him, and spent myself so that my smaller group would pass me and catch Matt without me. I so admired Matt that when no one paid attention, I tried to figure out what he did differently from me so I could get to his level. Matt got hurt on a ride to work one day so I was never able to catch him and stand on common ground with one of my heroes, but I still use that chase, when I'm alone, trying to get through a ride. I envision Matt, off in the distance, slow cadence, baggy shorts, and looking like it was easy. In the embedded photo are some of my heroes, the guys who have become legends in my cycling circle.

From left. Kevin- I remember when he joined our group and couldn't hang on. That was a very short lived chapter. He became one of the engines that drive the group out on the rides. Doug.- he has always been at the top of my list of people I strive to be like, polite and pleasant, driven.  I didn't like following him early on because of his strange ability to fling drops of sweat over his right shoulder.  I learned eventually to avoid them, and have been chasing him ever since.  Skip over the guy in the center, he doesn't matter. Jacob. My son, my partner, my reason for many adventures. At the ripe old age of 13 covered most of the distance between NJ and Florida with me by bike. No one else would even attempt it, but he embraced the challenge and excelled in his cycling ability. Then we come to the two Daves. Dave has always been there, encouraging we lesser riders. One of those Daves is the one we all admire. In his 70's, his latest trip to the senior games earned him 6 medals. He is there always, unshakeable, tenacious, rich with experience and doling out bits of cycling wisdom to those willing to listen to him in his quiet demeanor. There are others who weren't in the photo. Rick, who I mentioned earlier as someone I thought didn't like me, actually was giving me advice and strategy, Lenny was one of the first I met, and still sort of chairs the rides as it were. A very encouraging sort. Eddie, who I no longer see eye to eye with, had quite a bit of influence on me, and so many others who offered advice, put up with me, and challenged me to do more, be better. These are my heroes. These are the people I talk about to anyone who will listen, as I perpetuate their legends.

Road Trip!!!

I am always so impatient to get to Florida. Last month I needed to renew my license. This month my daughter is singing at Disney. Work is slow this time of year, I mean who wants to spend money fixing their heat so they can stay warm? There are presents to buy. So, as things go, I saw an opportunity and I went for it. With it being the less than planned exit it was, I had some loose ends to tie up, a set of attic stairs to install, bicycle equipment to gather and pack, and laundry to do. The attic stairs got installed which gave me a little money for the trip. The bikes got packed, all four and the laundry, well, it stayed laundry, got packed in a Rubbermaid bin and loaded into the back of the truck for me to deal with later. The original plan was for me to take my mom's CR-V, but it wasn't going to be available until Friday. It was Tuesday night and I was ready to go, so I decided to take the leap and take my truck.

Exactly how much of a leap is it to drive my truck? The most notable issue is transmissions, which is at best shaky and at worst a complete mess. It's a 2000 dodge pickup with 230000 miles give or take a few, and, as such, it had been through like 4 transmissions since I got it with 80000 miles on it. It's time for another. A couple of transmissions ago, I was towing my rock crawler in NJ from FL. The trans temp light was on most of the trip up and I had no overdrive. I, not having the money or time to get a new one in before I needed to be back at work in Florida, asked the advice of a transmission guy. His exact words were "get on the highway, don't stop and don't look back till you get there." I did. It worked, towing a truck on a trailer 1200 miles home. The shop I dropped my trans off to, showed me the purple shaft, with the overdrive gear welded on, not by design, by abuse.

Every road trip seems to have some hiccup. Every time, they are overcome, with a little help from my friends, and the journey is more exciting for it. This time, I decided to leave, had some things to tie up, but, once I had the notion I was leaving, I felt behind schedule even though I was a couple days ahead (that was a lot of commas. I have to have broken a rule or two with that sentence.) By the time I got on the road, laundry in tow and all, it was 11:00 pm. With 17 hours of driving ahead of me, I knew I would have to stop. By 1:00am, I was past being able to drive anymore. A stop had always been in the plan. No need to push, so, with about 3 miles left in NJ, I stopped. By 3:00am, I was back on the road. Nothing notable happened over the next few hours. As I arrived in Richmond, VA, I noticed my truck was driving strange. It was pulling to the right, and felt like I was tapping the brakes, though I wasn't. I also, hit the brakes, and they were soft on the first press, and good on the second. I've had that happen before, when my wheel bearing went bad. As it started to wobble, it pushed the brakes back.

I got off the highway as soon as I could and looked for an auto parts store, off a random exit. What is the chance that will work out? Pretty good it turns out. It wasn't too long before I came across and Advanced Auto Parts store. I got out and looked at the wheels, the passenger side front was a bit crooked and smoking. The smoking gun as it were. And I had had that exact bearing replaced in the not too distant past. It was still before sun up, so I settled in for a bit of a wait. I walked up and checked the hours. This store opened at 7:30! Friggin awesome!! I had full expected to have to wait until 9 for help. As I was directly across the street from a Comfort Inn, I figured I should be able to get some wireless internet. No good. A bit too far to be in range. There was nowhere that wouldn't be awkwardly obvious if I sat closer to the Motel without my truck. Instead, I resorted to early morning texting and shooting what turned out to be a spectacular sunrise which I had an ugly point of view to shoot from. The area of Richmond I was in just stank of industry. All the buildings, including the motel were these behemoth, absolutely pure, utilitarian structures. They were giant square boxes devoid of any interesting architecture, and draped in a tangle of utility lines.

Having lost interest in trying to get a decent photo of the sunrise, I wandered back to the truck parked in the back lot. As I did, an employee wearing his company's logo on his shirt pulled up. I asked what time they opened and he responded. I didn't really need to know. I was just breaking the ice for the next question. "I am driving from NJ to FL, and I think my wheel bearing went. I know I'm not supposed to, but you think anyone will say anything if I fix it her. I don't have many options."

"I need these spots for employees, but if you could back into one of those, you should be fine." He pointed to parking spots directly opposite the one I was in. I had to back up maybe 30 feet to be in compliance with his request.

"I can do that. I really appreciate it." I knew from experience most towns that aren't rural have an ordinance specifically banning working on vehicles in an auto parts store parking lot. Some places put up signs, others rely on the workers to bitch at you, but almost all will stop you from doing anything more complicated than pouring in a quart of oil or changing a wiper blade. I figured my best bet was to put someone on the spot with my sob story and make it hard for them to say no. It seemed to work too. I used to just accept the rules and the defeat that often meant, but, over the years, a good friend of mine taught me to ask for the result I want. I am still not bold talking to people, but when I must, I can usually find a way to manipulate the situation so it is no longer impossible to deal with.

I had just a little longer to wait till they opened up. I was waiting outside the door when they unlocked it and got right to work. I had in the truck a pipe wrench and a Phillips head screw driver. Anything else I would need I'd have to buy. So I started taking to Ayne at the counter about what was going on and what I potentially needed. They didn't have any tools to lend there like other places I had been, but they had enough for sale for me to get through it, and she let me take various sockets out to the truck to see which I needed prior to buying them. A 3/8 drive ratchet, a t45 to take off the brake caliper, a 2 foot breaker bar, a 36MM socket for the spindle nut, and some other assorted odds and ends before I bought the unit bearing. I also broke the pipe wrench and bent an inch and a quarter wrench I had in the truck trying for leverage before I bought the breaker bar. I've broken better tools for less gain. I am thankful the spindle avoided major damage, and am not much of a fan of unit bearings, but for now, she's back on the road. The rest of the trip was less eventful. I stopped in South Carolina and got a few nice shots and some cotton. (I always wanted to grow some since another good friend of mine did. The cat killed the plant he gave me). The rest of my time was spent fighting sleep and running over the rumble strip. For all those who got texts from me that were absolute gibberish, sorry but I needed the activity to keep my awake and even that failed often. At the end, I spent 23 hours in the truck, with 2 of those hours being some type of pseudo sleep, having worked all day the day before. It was hard, but it's done, and the drive was worth it.

I should have seen that coming. One of many

I have been accused of several indiscretions to my own safety. I once posted as a status "It never occurred to me that I couldn't." There was no arrogance in that statement. Instead, it was an admission of a childish thought process that hatched strange plans and lacked the foresight to see any other possible outcome than that which I imagined. My son, at the ripe old age of thirteen is better at contingency planning than I am. I have been called clumsy, accident prone, foolish, dangerous, and my personal favorite, a daily risk taker. I don't buy into it. The way I see it, I am merely a perpetually young man, trapped in a body which ages and shows the ever accumulating damage. It's a shame, but a shame realized by all men. Youth is wasted on the young.

My Journey through life has taken a few turns which I should have seen coming, several I could not have, but all have added their own character to my finish, mostly in the form of grey hairs. I have been called a lot of things, accident prone, dangerous, clumsy, and my personal favorite, a daily risk taker. Aside from my other reputation, I have acquired a more positive reputation as someone who gets the job done. I am decidedly blue collar, as such, I am somewhat good with my hands, and I am tenacious when set upon a task. Having been in construction in one form or another for years before I was old enough for it to be legal, I had seen enough problems to be able to figure my way around them fairly well.

When I hired on to install hurricane shutters in Florida, there were a dozen or more pairs of guys working for the company that hired me installing shutters. At first I had all the crappiest jobs, and, as a matter of fact, the guy who hired me was very smug and asked in the interview if I knew how to use a drill. It is less than important to the story, but in the end, when there were only 2 sets of 2 guys left, I got called into the office and they asked me if I wanted to be laid off or if I wanted them to lay him off. I stayed working. After not too long, my ability to get jobs done, and the fact that I was pretty good at making customers happy, I started getting the better jobs, and the harder jobs.

One job I had in cocoa beach was a three story house with not nearly enough yard to set up a ladder that high. I had some scary moments on that one. Standing on a window sill 3 stories up , holding the top sash with my fingertips, I wielded a hammer drill over my head to secure a shutter to the concrete house. On the other side of the home, I stood on the railing around a deck, also on the third floor. I leaned out to the right to drill the crank through the wall. My hammer drill would not pass. I had hit rebar. So I put a 'rebar eater' on a low speed, high torque drill. The rebar eater was just a carbide tipped drill bit 16 inches long designed to cut through the metal rebar. Once through the rebar, I switched back to my hammer drill, and again, it stopped. I switched back to my rebar eater. The important part of that struggle was the fact that I was standing on a railing with my waist almost touching the building, using a drill that was more than two feet long. That meant I had to reach back over my head and push on it. The directions for a rebar eater say "apply plenty of installer pressure." Needless to say, it is hard to apply enough pressure from that position. I made it through the second bar and switched back to my hammer drill. Within a moment, I hit another piece of rebar. The homeowner was standing on the balcony to my right and said "when we had this house built, we put in extra rebar on the third floor." Firggin great. I was working this one hole for an hour. Again I switched to the rebar eater.

My back was starting to hurt as I leaned back with my spine heavily arched in order to put as much pressure on the drill as I could and still keep my balance. My cousin held my belt to aid in my balance. As the day progressed into the evening, the wind had also picked up a bit, and finally my hat blew off. It had been greater than a year since my last haircut, and my hair had grown somewhat unruly. The thought flashed through my mind. I saw the teeth on the drill chuck that the key engaged. I thought about how many times this drill had hurt my arm. "What if this thing catches my hair," I thought, "nah, never happen," I dismissed that momentary flash of reason in under a second from it's inception.

Within about another four seconds it happened. "Aheee!" I let out a quick, high pitched yelp and my cousin grabbed tight on my belt. In his mind, I thought I was falling. Meanwhile, my right index finger hunted franticly for the reverse switch on the drill. My head was pulled up tight to the drill and the drill was buried in the wall, so I had only one option. I found my target, pulled the switch up with my finger and quickly pressed and released the trigger. "vzzzzzz…" My hair unwound. I grabbed at my head with my left hand. I pulled off a shockingly large tuft of hair and watched as it floated away in the wind. I turned my eyes up to the drill bit. It was covered with hair so no metal shown. I quickly grabbed a tight hold of the top of my head. "Am I bleeding?" I said coarsely.

"Move your hand." My cousin now lost the concern that I may fall and took up the concern that he may have to drive me to the hospital.

"Hell No!"

My head felt like it was on fire! I was in a state of disbelief. The tuft of hair that floated away was gone, but the one that was on the drill bit slid right off and onto my dashboard. Somewhere along the line, I came up with this crappy little troll doll with yellow hair. The hair that came off the drill bit seemed to be made for that doll. It slid off the bit still wrapped as though it was on it. It made a nearly perfect bee-hive wig for the troll. When I saw it on, it reminded me of Madeline Kahn as the wife of Frankenstein's monster in Young Frankenstein (which came out in 1974! Holy crap I feel old). It had a couple greys and tiny pieces of metal and concrete in it from the day's work. I took it into my office the next morning to have a laugh. I always seek attention even when I am not cast in the best light. One of the receptionists there who was a little too fond of me, kept it… on her desk… creepy.

. Through it all, the one lesson I failed to learn was when to heed that voice in my head. That was hardly my last incident, but those are stories for other times..

What's with the ugly little troll doll??? That's my hair. I tried to find the picture of the back of my head. I was missing hair in the shape of a question mark, but this was the best I could find after years of jumping computers.

Random Acts of Kindness Part 2

I parked at the top of the exit ramp where it met up with the surface street and got out. I wandered back and forth in a small area trying desperately to get enough cell service to call my sister. That by itself probably took about 15 minutes. When I did finally get through, the conversation did not go the way I had hoped. I told her what exit I had gotten off at, and she, being the aforementioned 'Swiss Army Sister', pulled up my location on Google or whatever was the hip site to do such things on at the time. "Look to the right," Candi instructed me, "you see the road off to the left way down the road?"

"I do."

"I can't tell how far it is on this map, but you want to go up that road. The nearest place is about seven miles away." Her tone betrayed her expectation that I would respond poorly to the news.

"I guess I should start walking." I continued the conversation with her. I described 'nothing'. Having grown up in NJ and spent almost every moment of my life very close to population centers, I truly perceived this as nothing. The only thing I saw from my vantage point was the rusty old sign of an abandoned truck stop. As I got closer, however, I noticed a sign advertising 'girls dancing' and thought to myself "really? There is no place better?" Better news to me was that there were 2 cars parked around the side. One had a man leaning into the window speaking with the occupants. "I gotta go Cand. I am gonna see if these guys know somewhere closer to get a tire." And I hung up the phone.

I had been walking against traffic, not that there was any, so I had to cross the street to get to the abandoned truck stop. As I approached, the man leaning into the second car must have heard my footsteps on the gravel, because he suddenly turned and look toward me. He gave me that look. You know the "who the hell are you and where in the world did you come from?" It was a valid look. I was basically on a paved route through wilderness for all that was around. "Hey. My truck got a flat on the highway. You guys know where I can get a tire around here?" I Trumpeted as I approached, still more than 20 paces out. I could see I caught them by surprise and was trying to put them at ease that I wasn't some lone vagrant, bent on committing a crime. The man then launched into the most beautifully contrived display designed to emphasize what an absurd question I had just asked. He stood up straight and tall next to the car. Slowly he turned his head and looked over his left shoulder. Then he turned slowly and looked over his right shoulder. Finally, he centered his gaze on me and said, "Nowhere," followed by a painful silence. I felt dazed like he landed a vicious left hook squarely on my jaw. It took a few moments for me to regain my focus enough to voice all the thoughts that raced in my head.

Nowhere? I have never heard of nowhere. Maybe I could reason with him. "I'm driving to Florida and I'm a long way from home. I have to get a tire." Again with the painful silence. Eventually, a voice came from an obscured passenger of the car, "Freehold, New Jersey?"

It took me a few seconds, but then I realized the question was in reference to the hat I was wearing that said 'Freehold.' "Yeah, my wife used to work at the water department." Only days into being estranged, I felt odd saying wife, but didn't know how to express the situation without going into some long explanation.

"I lived there. I gotta go get my truck, then I'll come back and take you to get a tire. Where is your truck?" His words were both pleasant in tone and message. Maybe this would be easier than I thought. "I'm Eddie."

"It's just up at the end of the exit." I was happy to have some prospect for getting out of this.

"Not on the highway right?" The last exit had been several miles back. I'm sure he wanted to make sure he wasn't in for some long journey.

"nope. Right up here at the end."

He went along on his way in the back of the car and I headed back to my truck to await his arrival. Await his arrival… await his arrival… Yoo Hoo! Ahem, ahem his arrival!!! So, a couple hours went by, and I figured I was on my own. I was starting to settle into the concept that now, with the sun threatening to call it a day, I would be walking the several miles to civilization. Just when hope was all but a small pile of ash, here comes this Toyota pick up. It was light blue and twice the piece of crap my truck was. His truck however didn't have a flat. When he arrived he looked a bit bewildered, probably because my wheel wasn't off yet. I was not only missing my spare tire, I didn't bring a jack or a lug wrench. Eddie had all I needed to do the job and I threw the tire in the back of his truck happy to be on my way to get a tire. As we headed off down the road, the first detail that caught my eye after nothing was parking lots, and parking spots. There were many abandoned, or at least they looked so, homes and businesses. In the derelict lots, I mean in nearly every lot, were between two and three cars parked, often drivers window to driver's window or next to each other with the occupants standing outside talking. Now I know I'm in the sticks. There is nothing else to do?

We drove into town in a way. We drove there sure. The 'in a way' referred to the town. It was more some houses that were not as far apart as the rest in the area. Some of them had been converted into businesses. There was a Wachovia bank at an intersection, and I was thankful for that. I had a feeling wherever we were going was probably not going to have a visa logo stuck on the front door. As we drove, I started to get a little warm. I grabbed the window crank and gave it a little twist. Immediately I knew that was a mistake. I could feel the crank just release the window. The window went down about a half inch and stopped but the handle continued. Eddie didn't notice, or if he did, he didn't acknowledge my mistake. I'm sure, at that moment, I looked like a little kid who's mom walked in on him with his hand in the cookie jar. I tried several times to discreetly roll up the window, but to no avail. Finally we arrived at a tire shop, a house with a pile of tires under a car port. It was obviously closed already, and Eddie had not only suspected that would be the case, but referred to the owner by name when saying he thought that was a possibility.

That began a period of driving, and driving and driving and driving. We began to have a conversation. Not a tell all deep introspective, but there was enough detail that I saw a certain pain there. He has lived in Freehold NJ with his girl and their kids. When she died, he moved them back to South Carolina. I never asked how she died. It didn't seem appropriate. His tone was somewhat matter-of-fact when he told me, but his eyes told a slightly different tale. His eyes were so dark it was hard to tell where the color ended and his pupil began. He gave me only a glimpse when he said she died, but it was enough I felt that I should not continue the discussion. I felt like a burglar, breaking into his fortress and stealing his secret pain. We all carry some. Some scar, some cut that we carry privately either too hurt or too ashamed to show it in the light of day. I know I was carrying a lot of baggage with me on that trip. We would spend hours and hours in the truck until finally coming to a Wal-Mart that had a auto service center …at a quarter to 9pm.

The sign on the door clearly stated the service center closed at 9, though the Wal-Mart stayed open 24 hours. "I need to get a tire." I told the young lady behind the counter, and she was young.

"I'm sorry sir. We're not taking any more orders tonight." She was nice enough about it, but I was starting to panic. This was the last chance for me for the night, and I didn't even have a clue how far away from my piece of crap truck I was.

"I need to see a manager." I spouted right away. That is not a card I ever play, but I was desperate. The girl scurried off behind a locked door. Within a few moments she reappeared and motioned for me to follow her. Eddie followed me. Through the doorway was an office with a desk, and at that desk sat a middle aged, balding man, slight in stature, and who appeared 'soft' to me, like he had never in his life preformed any physical activity more vigorous than brushing his teeth. His gaze was fixed in the direction of his desk, but unfocused. I would say it was a personality trait that made him so nonconfrontational that he couldn't look at the guy who just demanded to see a manager.

"I am driving from New Jersey to Florida," I started into my story in the absence of any acknowledgment that I was there, "and I got a flat on the highway. I don't have a spare and this nice guy gave me a ride here from some distance off. I don't know how to get back to my truck or how far away it is, so if you don't sell me a tire, I am going to have to sleep on a bench in your parking lot till morning, buy the tire then, and carry it back to my truck." I paused very briefly, "Please."

After some uncomfortable silence, he said, "What size?" and I answered. He then said "Just one right?" Again I answered. "Bring it in." he said as he tapped a few keys on his computer. He never did look up. He stayed in what struck me as a very submissive posture.

"Thank you. Thank you very much. You're a life saver." I said. He did not acknowledge, and I moved back out to the truck to get the tire. I brought it in to the technician who was not expecting me. I explained to him my previous conversation, and he verified my story with the young lady at the counter. It took another 10 minutes or so for him to retrieve the tire he would mount on my rim, and in the mean time, I paid in anticipation of getting done and back to my truck. Once done, I threw the tire in the back of Eddie's truck.

"I need to stop for gas." Eddie said. This Wal-Mart had a station, so we went there.

"I got it." And I put my card in and filled his truck. It cost me like $40.00. In the grand scheme of things, nothing. "I need a drink," I told him as we started back. Eddie stopped at some run down little store where I got an orange soda and offered to buy whatever he wanted. Eddie got a 40 oz bottle of some beer or malt liquor. Whatever it was, I wasn't doing cart wheels for his sipping it and storing it in his lap as we drove, but I wasn't about to argue.

By the time we made it back to my truck and mounted the tire, we had spent more than six hours together. "You want some money?" I asked. In retrospect, not the most eloquently phrased question I had ever asked. He declined. "Are you sure I can't give you something?" a little better that time, but still he refused. I thanked him profusely, but it didn't seem enough. I would have taken money offered. This area seemed so run down, he had to need the money. It just didn't quite compute for me. I was very greatful for the help, and his kind act has stayed in my consciousness for seven years now. It is only as I finally commit this to written words that it dawns on me. Whether or not he needed the money, he didn't help me for his potential to profit. I think he did it to help someone who had the most distant affiliation with the woman he lost, even just being from the same town, so he could be just a little closer to her memory for a little while.

Thanks Eddie. I hope fortune smiles on you wherever you go.