The Joy of Christmas Shoplifting

When I lived in Las Vegas and was old enough to hang out with my dad, I loved going Christmas shopping with him.  It was always a meaningful day filled with fatty meats and Holiday spirit(s).  Joy.

My dad is a pretty clever guy.  He is the master at twisting words into perverted pretzels.  In our house, growing up, we didn't have a salt and pepper shaker like you do.  We had "Salt and Pecker."  Eggs were "cackle berries," and your nose wasn't your nose — it was your "snot locker."  So rather than spending the day Christmas Shopping, we went Christmas Shoplifting.

Christmas Shoplifting typically happened on the last Saturday before Christmas.  Sometimes on Christmas Eve.  In order to go shoplifting with my dad, two requirements needed to be met.  You had to be 21 — and you needed your own money.

We always met around 8 a.m., at the Trap house.  Of all of the pubs on the planet, I loved that place the most.  It was a 24-hour bar that served 16 oz. Budweiser, and as long as you were drinking, they had a hotdog bar that included chili and onions and whatever else you wanted — and it was all you could eat.  "Shoplifting" with my dad meant a day of debaucherous antics.  Skip the coffee, we went straight for the sauce.

After two or three beers and a hotdog, the mall would be open and we would be off to get greatest deals possible.  I remember one year, my dad was so proud that he had bought my mom a really nice dress and spent over a hundred bucks on it.  Ordinarily, my dad hated shopping and he hated the crowds.  But on these special days, it was as if a mystical light were shining and he would be on the path to Shangri-La.  The nice thing about shopping in Las Vegas is there are plenty of bars in and around all of the malls and shopping centers.  We'd hit a few stores and then my dad would say that he was about ready for a break.  If there wasn't a pub (that he liked) within close proximity, we'd head back to the Trap House.

The nice thing about shopping with dad is that he didn't care for the way I drove — even when I was sober.  We would go out in his little white Isuzu pickup and navigate the shopping malls of Vegas.  Throughout the day we'd stop and visit his pals in the pubs around town while out stimulating the economy. 

I had always looked forward to this time of year and going "shoplifting" with my own son, Mark.  But he's the smart one (he doesn't drink). 

In four minutes it's Christmas Eve.  I'll go work my shift at Sears and go pick up Susan and Mark.  We'll make the dark trip across the Arizona desert and arrive at my dad's at about the time that Santa will be sliding down chimneys.  This looks to be my dad's last Christmas and already I'm missing more than just "Shoplifting."

A Moment of Clarity

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

Today is December 18th, and a week before Christmas. A year ago today, it snowed in Las Vegas. I remember that it was gray and very cold (imagine snow in Hell). I also remember how dark it was when they moved my mom from Recovery, to her hospital room following surgery to remove a tumor from her brain.

The day before her surgery, I drove to Vegas. My mom had had an angioplasty that into her brain and the cauterized the tumor's blood vessels from the inside. While she was in recovery, my dad went home to take care of the dog. I stayed until she got to her room and fell asleep.

My mom would have moments of clarity. She knew who I was (I think). She didn't talk much and she really didn't care if she ate. She had become very thin.

While I sat with her the nurse kept asking if my mom wanted to eat and my mom kept refusing food. After several hours, my mom agreed to a box lunch (because it had juice in it). The lunch came with a turkey sandwich that my mom said I could have. She wasn't going to eat it, so I put it in my pocket for later. We chatted as she sipped her juice and in one of those moments of clarity, she stopped sipping, looked at me and said, "You have always been a good son."

A year has passed since she spoke those words to me. My mom wasn't a person who gave praise. "I'm proud of you," was never heard in our house. So on that day, when I was the only one to hear them and to me, they were an invisible treasure.

After that day, everything changed for us. The tumor was removed from my mom's brain and it looked like my mom was going to get better. But like Charlie, in the book "Flowers for Algernon," my mom got better — and then she got worse — and then she died.

Last year, a week before Christmas, my mom gave me a gift. I wouldn't exchange it for anything.

Santa Clause Ain't Comin' to Town

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.

These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

In the closet of my office is a 40-year-old Santa who's taking it easy this year.  He's been on display for hundreds of people to see.  He's advertised for Pepsi — ridden in their trucks.  He's been seen as a threat to many of our dogs.  But this year he gets a vacation.

Before the video game "Pong," was invented and sold at Sears, my dad went to work for Pepsi.  From store-to-store, he drove a tractor trailer filled with soda pop.  And by hand, unloaded his truck and wheeled everything into the stores.  To encourage shoppers, he built end-cap displays that came with all sorts of decorations.  One year, his displays included a 3-foot-tall Santa holding an 8-pack of Pepsi.  At the end of one particular Holiday Season, Santa came to live at our house.

This is an odd Christmas.  For starters, I've been listening to Burl Ives sing, "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas," since Halloween.  Second, a year ago, my mother's brain tumor was diagnosed and removed a week before Christmas (and she passed away in February).  This will be my first Christmas without my mom and my last Christmas with my dad.

I would like to say that my life is kind of messed up, but it could be worse.  I could be in my dad's shoes (actually I kind of am — when he heard I had to wear black shoes at work, he gave me a pair that he would no longer be using).

At work I notice the Christmas music, see the Holiday shoppers and look at the lights.  It's all so surreal.  I've thought of putting up our Christmas Tree at home and decorating it.  But why?  Right now, Christmas is something that I just need to get through.  I want it done.  Over with.  Gone.  And don't get me started on the new year.  As my mom would say, "Phooey on Football!"  I say, "Phooey on 2010!"

I think my mom might have enjoyed Christmas.  I'm not real sure because I would always hear her say, "Bah Humbug!" — and then she'd utter a string of expletives.  It could be July and with a long ash hanging from her cigarette, she'd complain about how expensive everything was and how crowded the stores were.   "I hate Christmas," she would whisper.  But when you walked into her house it was always so beautiful.  She had the nicest, most perfect tree.  You would never guess that she didn't have the Holiday Spirit.  (I actually think she drank her Holiday Spirits — but that's a whole 'nuther blog entry.)

My mom's philosophy in regards to the Christmas Tree was that you couldn't have too many lights on it.  And she lit it up — Vegas style!  Lots of lights, loads of ornaments and gobs of sparkly things.  Flick the "On" switch and watch the rest of the houselights momentarily dim.  Clark Griswold would have been proud (Bethany: "Is your house on fire, Clark?"   Clark: "No, Aunt Bethany, those are the Christmas lights." )

After our son, Mark, was born, the Pepsi Santa came to live with us.  For twenty years, our forty-year-old Santa has stood in silent fear as he's had to endure our son's friends and all of our new dogs.  The dogs have quickly had to learn that Santa isn't a Bad Guy.  He won't hurt them.  And they should never bite, chew — or even think of giving Santa a sniff.  If they know what's good for them.

Last year, a week before Christmas, it snowed in Las Vegas and in the hospital, the tumor was removed from my mom's brain.  Nobody set up any lights.  I don't even recall whether we had a tree in our home in Arizona.

I'd like to tell you that I'd like to set up a tree and decorate our home for The Holidays, but I just don't have the Christmas Spirit.  At the close of business on December 24th, we'll pile into the truck and drive all night to Las Vegas.

Christmas, in the past, has been the celebration of Jesus' birth in a manger.  It's now marred with the passing of my parents.  The little Pepsi Santa always reminds me of better times — and my dad, who worked for Pepsi.

I'm giving Santa this year off.  Maybe in the future, he can come out and remind us of finer times and joy.  But this year, he needs to stay packed away.

Roadblocked By Karma's Bitch Wheel

Today is Thanksgiving and I have an odd Thanksgiving memory of my dad.

I got out of the Air Force in 1982.  I had been in a motorcycle accident and needed an operation, which meant that I had to move in with my parents for a few months.  My dad was so happy to have me around that we fought almost every day.  I already knew who was boss, but he continually let me know (I was 22 and probably needed to be reminded).

In between arguments, we drank beer, smoked cigarettes and did chores around the house.  Growing up, I felt as if I lived on a really small ranch.  My dad, a working man, always had to be busy making or fixing things.  (I think our fancy blue couch in the living room was more for show than relaxation.)

There was a nasty recession going on in 1982.  My dad had been laid off and before going to work at the Nevada Test Site, he had gone from job-to-job and spent some time working in construction.  He used his own tools, and sadly one day burned out his Craftsman drill.

Craftsman is the Sears brand and back then they had a policy that if you break one of their tools, they would replace it — no questions asked.  So my dad came to me late one Saturday afternoon and said, "C'mon boy, we gotta go to Sears and get a new drill."

Sears was down the street at the Meadows Mall in Las Vegas.  I always felt as if my dad was really trying to say, "Saddle up the horses, boy.  We're goin' to town today."  (Oddly, my dad looks like a Mountain Man and even went as far as building his own black-powder rifle.)  So I saddled up the ho...er...ah...got in the truck and we drove two miles to Sears.

Sadly, we were informed that Sears was no longer replacing electric tools, but was shipping them out for repair.  That's when the yelling began.  The poor guy in the tool department suddenly had 200 lbs of idiot on his hands and since he couldn't make him happy, he sent us to see the manager.

I remember the brown paneled walls and carpet that seemed to be in between all colors and I could never put my finger on which color it was.  Was it yellow?  Or green?  How 'bout brown?  Maybe it was just dirty.

The secretary's desk was on an island of carpet and chairs across the room lined the beige tile floor.  I remember the dry feel of the paneling snagging the t-shirt at my shoulders as my dad stood there yelling at the secretary (who just wanted to do her job, go home and collect her check at the end of the week).  But once my dad started yelling, very little was going to make it stop.  She was fucked.

Finally, the secretary came to her senses and said, "Would you like to speak to the manager?"  From there it went from bad to worse.

I guess the manager didn't hear the yelling that had been going on.  As we entered his office, he said the seven words that sealed his fate:  "What can I do for you today?"  My dad turned it up a notch and took his voice from yelling, to screaming. 

The dude from Sears did a real good job of holding his own.  He matched my dad's tone and screamed back what the company policy was.  Man it was loud! They were both on their feet and if there hadn't been a desk between them, it probably would have looked like something from a Country and Western song as they would have been fighting and rolling on the floor.

Suddenly the door opened and the secretary's head popped in to signal the end of Round One.  I gave her a curious look and shrugged my shoulders to let her know that I had no idea who was actually winning this fight over a stupid fucking drill that in 1982 probably cost $15.  I'm surprised that nobody called the cops.  They needed to be called.

In the end, I don't think my dad let Sears fix the drill.  I think he threw it away and vowed to never shop at Sears again.  He now shops at Home Depot and owns tools made by DeWalt.

With his poorly differentiated squamous-cell carcinoma, this is my dad's last Turkey Day.  He's in Las Vegas and we're in Arizona.  Ordinarily we would have loaded up the truck and gone to see him, but I have to work tomorrow.  The company I work for has a motto: "Life. Well Spent."  It's a good motto.

Spend your life well.  You don't know how things are going to turn out.  Karma has a way of rolling in large and small circles.  For those of you who don't believe in Karma, the Bible says, "Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind."

Whenever I see the Sears logo, it reminds me of a grown man's temper tantrum.  Unfortunately, I see that logo every day.  It's on my name badge, the building where I work and my paycheck.  Ironically it's Sears who has thrown us a lifeline by giving me a job in the portrait studio — yet prevented us from visiting my dad.  Karma is a bitch.  One road blocked. Another one opened.

I work at Sears.  Thank God I don't sell drills.

Those Whores!

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,

and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.

These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

It was 1972 and my dad and I went deer hunting for the first time. We drove for hours and on a lonely Nevada road I saw a beacon flashing in the middle of nowhere. I asked him what that was and he told me that it was Sherry's Ranch. "Who's Sherry," I asked. He told me that it was a whore house. "What's that?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, men can fly their plane up or drive out here so they can sleep with a woman," he told me. I guessed that they didn't have wives and I didn't understand why anyone would go out of their way for such a thing or how they could get anyone to fall asleep on such short notice. I thought a motel would be a better choice. Ely, Nevada wasn't too far away. Clearly I was thinking sleep, but he was thinking "sleep." It took a while, but I finally woke up to what he was saying.

After getting home from Las Vegas, I called my dad to check in. He was pissed off.

I asked what was going on and he said, "You know that damn Dr. Ruckdeschell? Now he's whorin' me out to 'nuther buncha god-damn doctors! Them bastards!"

"Dad, is this in regards to the thoracoscopy that you need to have?"

"Probably," he said.

I explained that he could expect to have a team of doctors and other health-care professionals lining out the door and going around the block by the time this was all done. He reminded me that he is in charge and that there would only be a line if he allowed it.

Just because they have a treatment for cancer doesn't mean he has to take it. I think he'll have the thorascoscopy, but I bet you he won't take any chemo or radiation. However much I disagree, I think that his eventual refusal of treatment and eating right will be his last-ditch attempt at controlling his life.

His life is about him. His end-of-life choices need to be respected. (Please remind me of this as things progress and I begin screaming.)

Alone Again

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,

and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

Along with not really liking Las Vegas, there are two other parts I also dislike. Driving to Vegas — and driving back from Vegas. I especially hate it when I'm driving alone.

I woke up early on Sunday. I had a few things I needed to do. I had to go see Susan's family. They had a care package for me and I looked forward to seeing them despite not being able to spend much time there. I then had to zip over to Jeff's. He's a friend I've had since I was eleven. He had a lawnmower that he's not using and wanted to give it to me. I haven't been very good at mowing my backyard with a broken mower, so after three years of neglect, it was going to get some attention. I suspected that Diamond, my dog, would freak out over the sight of watching me work.

The round trip took about three hours. I got back to my dad's house in time to see the end of a football game, visit with my dad and brother and ask if my dad had eaten (nope). He said he was going to the bar and would eat there. Cool.

At the end of the game, my brother loaded up his kids and headed out. I knew that if I stayed, the specter of my impending departure would hang in the air like a foul odor. Nobody wanting to acknowledge it, but clearly obvious. So I passed out the hugs and headed to the door.

My dad followed me to the truck and inspected the lawn mower and made small talk. Women talk about feelings, men talk about things. He was saying so much more than "clean the sparkplug." I told him I'd check out the carburetor as we spoke in our language of Man.

I told him I loved him and started the engine. I slipped my Explorer into "Drive" and pulled away from the curb. I looked back in the rear-view mirror to the saddest site I've ever seen. My thin dad with his long, gray beard was standing alone on the sidewalk. He was waiving goodbye.

We Know Dick

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

On Saturday we woke up and went out to visit Dick and Shirley who are my family's life-long friends. Dick, before my mother passed, was a few years older than her, but they shared the same Birthday. Dick has a serious liver condition and has been told he will be here for Christmas, but won't be around for summer. He's a great guy. I suspect that where he's going will be much cooler than Las Vegas in the summer.

My guess is that this was probably the last time I will have seen him alive. Susan use to work with him. I've known him since I was 5.