Hurricane Ready

At last reports, the eastern seaboard is being threatend by a hurricane. The Weather Channel is breathlessly hyping the storm. Their ratings in NYC are going to be great. The major networks, thankful for something other than the economy to talk about, are exersizing extreme gravitas when speculating about the possible impacts of the storm on New York City. Grim faced broadcast professionals are advising us to 'get hurricane ready'.

This is gonna be tough, as I have barbeque responsibilites I have to meet, but I'll give it my best shot.

It looks like it will be a two day event, so I'm thinking a 1/2 gallon of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, and a 1/2 gallon of Malibu Caribbean Rum wiht Coconut Liqueur. I have a gallon of Nature's Select orange juice with Calcium and 3 cans of frozen orange juice. I have a 1/2 gallon of cranberry juice.

On the bloodmary front, I have 3 containers of Tabasco bloodymary mix, a fresh bottle of Tabasco, a fresh bottle of Worchestershire Sauce, 3 limes and a half gallon of vodka.

We have 2 boxes of wine, and a gallon of bourbon.

I have 6 lbs of frozen shrimp, and a new can of Old Bay Seasoning. There are 4 ribeyes and 4 filets in the freezer. I have some ribs I brought home from my bbq gig at the bar. I'm going to buy a couple of bags of ice, just in case we over run the ice maker.

I am as ready as it is possible to be....well...maybe I should get some batteries for the flash light, if I get a chance.

As I survey my preparations, I am reminded of a cheer I last heard at my sister's 1973 High School Graduation in the wreckage of Jonesboro High following the tornado that year....

Open the roof and let it rain, Give'em Hell, Hurricane!

Plaid Clad Strangers Invade Jersey Town

All manner of wilted, worn out, sold out hippies and roving yuppies have arrived in our fair town. Freely roaming the streets in BMWs, a number of them sporting plaid shorts and polo shirts descended on KC's Korner last night.

Each approached me and the smoker with great caution. It was as if they were approaching an alien spacecraft. Warily they eyed me, which was odd because I wore shorts yesterday, not a kilt. I have become aware that kilts sometimes freak people out. Women are particularly intreigued by a kilt, and they pose quite a threat to the unguarded. Eventually, our plaid clad friends ordered ribs, or chicken, and cautiously retreated to the Patio Bar area.

Ten minutes later, after they had devoured the chicken and ribs, I discovered these guys weren't worn out hippies and yuppies, these guys were my new best friends! We began chatting about all manner of things and having just a hell of a time. One guy was from Philly, was a auditor with a giant consulting firm, and he'd never had dry rubbed ribs before. A lady, who's father was some sort of judge, ordered 1/2 a chicken, and devoured the entire thing. She wanted to know if I would be there again today. Several bought ribs to take home with them.

So today, we're told to expect 50,000 people in our little town. It's going to get 'interesting' today. Our friends from yesterday said they'll be back, and that they'll bring there friends. I can just see the teaser on the news...."Plaid Clad Strangers Take Over Jersey Bar...Film at 11:00

Ribs and Yard Birds

The sun finally clawed it's way over the horizon just an hour ago, and my bloodymary sits sweating and waiting. From my kitchen window, I see a great expanse of green grass, and uncounted huge corporate 'hospitality' tents. The Woodstock generation is all grown up, has adopted golf as it's new religion, and will be descending on us tomorrow for the Barclay's Golf Tournement. Fifty thousand strong they will come in Saabs, Mercedes, and Volvos. They are going to clog our streets, and annoy the hell out of everyone....except me.

One of the great things about having a smoker is that occasionally a friend who owns a bar will ask you to come over, hang out and cook ribs....all week long. This just amazes me. I get to hang out at a bar all week long and cook ribs. He's hopeful that some of our locals will find their way to KC's Korner for a cold one and some ribs. I'm thinking this is a hell of a good idea.

KC's is a great little bar. Twenty years ago, it was a biker bar. It's no longer a biker bar, and today, it has the best food in town. It's clientele is an ecletic mix of locals, and imports (me). It's like 'Cheers', but without Kirsty Alley. I'm setting the smoker up by the new 'patio', and will be doing ribs everyday. I'm going to do them as if we were in a competition, which means I'll be mostly sober for most of the week.

So, beginning this afternoon and going for 7 days, there are king hell, championship quality, Memphis style, dry rubbed baby back ribs at KC's.

Baseball

A few years ago, for some reason, Catfish decided he wanted to play Little League Baseball. He's always been a 'soccer kid', and had never really got into baseball. We go to see the Yankee's about two or three times a year, but throwing the baseball in the front yard just doesn't happen. I never played baseball, so I didn't really didn't encourage him to play. When he asked to join a Little League team, I thought "What the hell....this will be fun."

That was a understatement.

Our team was a collection of about 12 or 14 10 year old boys of various sizes, skill levels, and attention spans. We had one kid, a tall lanky pitcher, who threw smoke. He was probably the best pitcher in the league. No one got hits off this kid. We had another kid, a much shorter hyper-competitive pitcher, who threw almost as well, but would let the other team get into his head. One kid, a big bear of a kid, showed up for practice about a 2 weeks after we had begun training the team. He was a big kid, and talkative. Our head coach sent him to me. I was working with kids in right field, and the coach was hitting balls to us. We had a kid serving as a runner so that when the coach hit the ball, we had someone to 'throw out'. The big kids was explaining to me that he knew all about baseball.

Coach hit the ball, a slow grounder, to the big kid. He trotter up to field the ball. The kid running the bases saw the big kid trotting to the ball, and kicked it into high gear. The kid was trying to get to second base. He was really moving as he sprinted past first and toward second. It looked like it was going to be close. By this time, the big kid had the ball, and with a long and very athletic stride, he threw a rocket and nailed the runner in the back with the baseball about 4 strides short of second base. The runner was down.

It seems that the big kid actually knew a lot about kick ball, and very little about baseball.

Catfish, on the other hand, understood baseball. It only took getting hit once or twice by a pitch for him to figure out that if he stepped backwards out of the batter's box, he would avoid getting hit. Unfortunately, when you are stepping backwards out of the batters box, you don't hit the ball very often.

One Saturday, we were playing a pretty good team. Their pitcher threw hard and well. We just weren't getting hits. It was a zero/zero game into the 4th innning. Catfish had come up to bat a couple of time, and on each occasion, with each pitch, he stepped back and out of the box.

Finally, it was Catfish's turn to bat again. Before he went up to bat, I told him, "Don't back out of the box.". He looked at me like I had two heads, and said "He's going to hit me with the ball.". No, I assured him, he's not. He hasn't hit anyone in the whole game. My words fell on deaf ears.

Catfish walked to the batters box, and got set. The kid readied to pitch. With a swerl of arms and legs that only a 12 year old boy can accomplish, a pitch came rocketing right down the middle of the plate, and Catfish stepped back.

Again, I called to him. "Don't step back!". He glared back at me, and got ready for the next pitch. Again, another strike emerged from the swerl of arms and legs, and again, Catfish stepped back. He looked over at me with that 'I know I'm in trouble look'. I again told him to not step back.

He stepped back into the batters box, and readied for the pitch. The pitcher readied, and the tornado of arms and legs began again. Once more the ball came smoking out of the tangle, and sped toward home. This time, Catfish stood as still as a statue. He didn't step back. He didn't flinch.

The ball nailed him right in the kidney. It was a smoking fastball, and it got him solid. It didn't richochet off and go to the back stop. It hit him solid on the kidney and dropped at his feet.

He was kind of hunched over as he trotted to first base. As one of the Coaches, I was allowed to go check on him. As I trotted across the field, he glared at me. I could almost see smoke coming from his ears. He wasn't rubbing his back, but I knew it had to really hurt. I slowed from my trot to a walk just a few steps short of first.

Before I could ask how he was, with a steely gaze fixed on my eyes, he said "I told you he was going to hit me with the damn ball."

Catfish prefers soccer.

The Last Swim Meet

In early August of 1965, I joined the Jonesboro YMCA swim team. I joined on a Friday, and the State Swim Meet was held the next day in Jonesboro. I won 3rd place in Freestyle and Backstroke, and would have had 2nd in Butterfly, but I was disqualified. Before that morning, I had never heard of "Butterfly" and the kid who explained the stroke to me before the race didn't tell me I had to touch the wall with both hands at the same time, so I was disqualified. I swam competitively for the next 10 years until I discovered cigarettes, beer and women.

Several years ago, Jenn and Jordan were on the swim team here in New Jersey. At the final meet of the year, the last event was the "Parents Relay". My daughters, having grown up hearing of my adventures swimming,and seeing my trophies and medals, were particularly excited by this event. Of course, they ensured that I was recruited to be on the relay team. I wasn't overly concerned about it because the other parents recruited for the relay team were about 10 years younger than me and looked to be in pretty decent shape. We would be competitive with the parent's of the other team. I wasn't going to have to really sprint or anything.

In those days, I still smoked so naturally I watched the swim meet, and cheered our team on while having cigarettes and beer in the bar/patio area of the swim club who hosted the meet. The teams were well matched. It was a close meet. Though our relay would not officially be included in the point tally, in the end, it would take a 'win' by our relay team would produce a team victory in the 'UnOfficial' tally.

Our relay team gathered behind the starting blocks. I stubbed out my last cigarette, and handed my beer to one of the timers. I climbed up on the starting blocks which were higher than I remembered. I stood there...all 226 lbs of pot bellied, hypertensive me. I was sporting a two or three year old knee length baggy bathing suit that still had a little sand in it from the last visit to the Jersey Shore.

I looked down the blocks at the other 2 relay teams preparing for the race. Their lead off men were tall... much taller than me, and they wore Speedo's and had bathing caps with their team logo, and goggles. They were stretching and shaking down. What the hell? These guys really looked like swimmers!! They weren't fat. They looked like early middle aged marathon runners. They were skinny and had long arms and legs. Compared to them, my whole team looked like Danny DeVito impersonators wearing bad swimming suits and having a bad hair day. We drank, smoked and wheezed everyday while these guys obviously were running or swimming. They wore Speedos and caps and goggles. We wore baggy swimming suits and needed bifocals. "Oh damn", I thought to my self. This is going to be ugly. I looked at the crowed, and saw my daughters waving and smiling at me.

In looking from the crowd at me on the blocks beside the tall, skinny guys in Speedos, my daughters saw 'invincible dad'. Everyone else saw a fat middle aged man in a baggy bathing suit about to drown himself in a race against real athletes. Oh damn.

I looked back down the blocks and began to construct a plan to make this as respectable as possible. I knew I needed to be the first one off the blocks because that might be my only advantage. I had always has a quick start, and I knew I'd really need it this time. Each leg of the relay was 25 yards, so if I beat them out of the blocks, maybe it would take them a bit to catch me, and I could make this respectable.

I tried to shake down some but the only thing that moved very much was my belly, and I'm sure that wasn't very attractive. I began to hyperventilate. I figured if I could go the whole 25 yards without taking a breath, it might save me a stroke or two. I continued to hyperventilate to get as much oxygen in my blood as possible.

The starter was ready, and called out "Swimmers, take you mark!". I bent down into a starting posture that probably hasn't been seen in competition in 20 years. It was a little awkward. Swimming starts aren't normally done by a person sporting a pot belly. The starters pistol sounded. In the corner of my eye, I saw that I had them off the blocks. I hit the water, and sprinted. It was only 25 yards but when you haven't sprinted in 20 years, thats like a marathon. My arms were burning and getting tight after only 6 or 8 strokes, and my lungs screamed for air. I wished I hadn't had that last cigarette. I could feel the muscles in my chest getting tight, and the muscles under my arms start to cramp, and then with one final thrust of my arms, it was over. My right arm stretched out and tagged the wall. The next swimmer on our team flew over me and began sprinting his 25 yards.

I was wheezing and coughing, and exhausted. My heart rate must have been 200 beats per minute. Gasping for breath, I looked up at my team mate for help getting out of the pool, but he was looking at the other team. I turned and looked, thinking that we must have been smoked really badly.

Our second swimmer, who wasn't very fast, was nearing half way of the pool, and the lead off swimmers of the other two teams were just now reaching the end of the pool. I hadn't been smoked. I hadn't been humiliated in front of my kids. I had won. I smoked the tall lanky guys in Speedos, caps and goggles. I beat both of them by 1/2 the length of the pool.

With my chest pains beginning to subside, one of the other parents helped me out of the pool, and told me that my 'split' was a 12.9. "I swam 25 meters in 12.9 seconds?" , I wheezed as I looked around for my beer. I looked back at the race. Our third swimmer was in the water, and we were still holding a 1/2 length lead. I looked down the lanes at the other teams, with their speedos, and caps and goggles. Our fourth and final swimmer hit the water, and churned his way through the final 25 yards to victory.

Still standing poolside and wheezing and coughing, I reflected on the moment. From that first meet in in August of 1965 in the Jonesboro YMCA pool, until this one, last race at a club pool in New Jersey, there was never a sweeter victory than this one. I waved at my kids, swigged my beer, and looked for my smokes.

That was the last swim meet.

Morning Coffee in Memphis

Seated in front of the fountain, and between the marble columns of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, watching the procession of early risers seeking coffee is an event unto itself. Beginning at about 6:00am, bleary eyed guests, shaking off the night before and wrestling free from the sultry embrace of Beale Street, wander slowly in. Pausing to extend a courtesy or two at casual encounters, each guest is drawn irresistibly by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Meandering ever so casually and yet striding so discretely and purposefully across the shiny marble floor of the lobby, they are on quest. Guests walking past the grand piano smile faintly at the tunes from the night before that now exist only in memory, smiles and photographs. Up the six steps to the hall leading to the Deli, each in turn go only to emerge seconds later smiling and clutching a steaming cup of hot coffee.

It’s only fitting that a day in Memphis begins this way.

37 West 65

Sometimes you run across something that really puts life in a new perspective. You pause for just a moment, and reflect on the blessings that you have been given.
Last week, Catfish and I had a wonderful weekend of diving. We dove in deep, dark, cold water, and he accomplished things that few kids his age attempt, much less accomplish. In training for these dives, and in acquiring the skills and knowledge to make the dives, he's achieving a maturity of thought at an early age. He's learning that anything can be accomplished with proper equipment and training. Anything.

On Wednesday of last week, his 8th grade class went on a three day trip to Washington, DC. One of the places we visited was Arlington. It may not have occurred to anyone else, but it struck me that each of the heros buried there was someone's son, someone's brother or sister, or someone's dad. Over 600 acres of heartbreak. At the Tomb of the Unknowns, the click of the heels of the Honor Guard echoed across the plaza while 300 8th graders stood silently. The sun beat down on everyone, but the silence of so many lay very heavily on the moment. Again, the little voice in my mind whispered to me that this was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's father.

We visited the Vietnam Memorial. It looks like an open wound across a grassy field. At panel 37 West, Line 65 the name Douglas D Estes appears.

On December 8, 1968, Doug was Killed in Action in Vietnam. He was 18 year old, and he was my cousin. I met him but once in the spring of 1968 at my grandparents home. It was a hot day, and he was smiling and laughing and horseback riding with his girlfriend. He had kind words for his little cousins. I remember thinking that he was so big, and so strong. He was a soldier. He knew how to shoot a machine gun. He got to fly in helicopters. He was there that one weekend, and then he was gone.

Only a parent can know the heartache of burying a child. As I looked at panel 37 West, Row 65, I remembered Aunt Dale's tears at Doug's funeral in Memphis. For a moment, I remembered Doug, smiling and laughing at my grandparents home. I looked further down the sidewalk before the Wall, and caught a glimpse of Catfish and his buddies, looking somberly at the wall. Like a bolt of lightening, a thought struck me. I looked up the sidewalk and saw only children coming down, looking at the wall. I looked back at the wall, and knew that each name was someone's child. I looked back toward Catfish and his buddies, but in that instant, they were gone.

I looked at Doug's name on the wall again. It was there, but he was gone, and for just a second, I sensed the utter loss and profound sadness that covered Aunt Dale for the rest of her life. With a new insight, I moved up the sidewalk to find Catfish and his buddies.