A Special Message about Chewing Tobacco

Gang, this story “Mercifully” is not about me, but a really great friend/person named Andy.  Andy’s older brother Ken is telling the story to Andy’s Daughter.  Andy and Ken spent over a week one summer traveling with a friend in a broken down station wagon through the National Parks of the West.  P.S. do not read this story right before or after a large meal.  So the story goes like this:

“When we left Wind River the second day, Steve Tarr was driving. Andy was riding shotgun, tending to the 8-track, chewing and spitting tobacco into his Bronco cup. Most guys use something smaller than a Big Gulp when they chew, but not Andy; he wanted to see how much saliva he could produce. Anyway, I was sitting in the middle of the back seat reading a coffee table book about Yellowstone that my sister Cathy gave me the previous Christmas. (Probably, it inspired the trip.) It was a warm day. All the windows were open as we cruised through the Big Horn Valley toward Cody. Leafing through the book, I’d occasionally comment on what we might do or see once we got to the park. At one point, Andy was fussing with the tape deck, so I looked up to give him further instruction in how to work it. With that sense of frustration some younger brothers feel when they’re corrected by an older one, Andrew sat back. Suddenly, a gust of wind caught his baseball cap, blew it back toward me, and as he instinctively grabbed for it with both hands, he also threw the cup of chew spit in his left hand in my direction.

Most of the brown wave landed below my chin, covered my neck and chest, and ricocheted downward onto the book, rendering it useless for all but the most Texican of coffee tables.

Judging by my screams, Tarr concluded that it was probably a good idea to pull over. The instant he stopped, I got out and stripped, choking back my own vomit while peppering your soon-to-be-father with a succession of very bad bowling words. Andy, whose famous “Uncle Buck” looks revealed his sincere regret, made a perfunctory effort to assist in the clean up, even though he didn’t want to touch the stuff either. For years, I took it as proof of his innocence.

But, now, as I write this little memoir, I’m getting signals from the Great Beyond that his actions that day may not have been as artless as I thought. Regardless of his intent, though (or lack thereof), this undoubtedly proved to be my least treasured moment with your father. But it’s exactly the reason I loved him so much.”

Folks, the lessons learned here?... not the least of which is that tobacco products are very dangerous; Forgiveness also comes to mind.

Always remember:  Hug your Family and Cherish the Good Times! 

How to get a Heart Attack for $4 a Gallon

So it’s the summer of 2008, the price of gas is over $4 a gallon.  I’m sitting in the backyard with my friend and fellow commuter Brian.  We’re having a few adult beverages watching my dog destroy our back yard.  It doesn’t get much better than this.  Brian and I are grousing about the price of gas. It’s an outrage.  There’s a glut of oil, yet the powers that be have determined that we all need to PAY through the nose!

One more beer and I have an epiphany.  I will Not PAY the MAN any more.  Enough is enough, it’s time to make a serious statement and stand up for something. 

To solve the gas crisis, I’ve decided that instead of driving to the train station every day, I’ll ride a bicycle the 4 miles there and back.  I still have a gift certificate to a local sporting goods store from my birthday last year.  (Right there, that should have been a signal)  I go to the sporting goods store and purchase a very cool black knapsack that can hold a laptop.  I’m done with the briefcase, I’m now Mr. Green.  And I will NOT be paying the MAN any longer!

The other side benefit is that I can get back into some sort of shape…who knows what I could make myself into doing 8 miles a day.

There was one little problem (and it’s not the fact that I need to wear a suit to work every day, which of course I had not thought through).  The problem was that I live on top of a mountain…in the morning its 4 miles almost straight down.  You go very fast.  Another neighbor who was an avid cyclist warned me that early in the morning, even in the summer, when you’re cruising at 50 mph…it gets nippy.  Okay, yeah fine…I survived.  

The return trip was a different story.

It’s now about 7PM, oh.. 87 degrees out, and the humidity is about the same…87%.  My 1978 Raleigh Team Sport 10 Speed bike is still at the train parking lot…what a shame.  I’m a little run down, but still kind of excited about getting my exercise and defeating Exxon.

I start out on relatively flat terrain and I’m cruising, my confidence is building.  I then run into a gradual incline which is causing me significant discomfort.  I blame it on the 30 year old technology I’m riding.  Then like Lance Armstrong I hit the base of the mountain and begin to shift into lower gears as my lungs begin to scream at me.  They were using a lot of four letter words.  It’s now pretty clear that even if this bike had negative gears, I’d still be in a world of hurt. (Usually at this point in the movies, the cyclist summons some supernatural power and its mind over matter, he fights through the agony and triumphs.  I can tell you right now, that’s a bunch of crap.)  At this point I’m drenched in perspiration and my lungs can’t process oxygen any longer.   I look down at my chest…it’s as if I have a pet rock in my breast pocket and he wants out….only that’s my heart bouncing off the walls of my rib cage. I’m now being passed by biking families with small children, people in walkers…. It’s not good.

I get home totally humiliated.  My family asks me if I stopped off to go swimming…with my clothes on.  Fortunately for them I only had enough breath to scream for paramedics.

I think I made my point…that one day…the price of gas did come down.  

I Win.

I go out for Printer Ink, I come home with a Cat

How does this happen…it does if your Staples is sitting right next to Petco.  So we’ve now upgraded.  We not only have a cat, but we also have a large hairy, smelly beast of a dog that likes to live in water.  So we’re set, right?  One dog, one cat, two kids, we even still have a hamster.  I’ve done my Fatherly duty, provided food, shelter, a generous helping of pets…I’m done.  Yeah right.

We’re heading off to the Staples for printer ink.  Right next door is the Petco, where we’re going to pick up a bag of greenies and the “Gentle Leader Collar” for our dog who at the time had a mind of his own while on walks. 

We’re at the Staples on line to check out and I tell my family, “Why don’t you go over to the Petco and pick up the stuff there and I’ll come over when I finish here.”  That was my first mistake.  

I finish paying and walk over to the Petco.  There’s a sign outside.  It’s says, “Adopt a Cat Sunday.”  Not sure if you’re old enough to remember, but there used to be a TV series called “Lost in Space.”  In the show there was a robot.  And if really bad sh*t was going to happen he could sense it, and he’d start flailing his arms and scream, “Danger Danger Danger.”  That’s exactly how I felt when I saw that sign.  I walk into the store and just as you come in there are stacks and stack of cages of cats and kittens.  My family is immersed in them.  I start to become apoplectic.  My daughter has multiple cats on her head and shoulders, my son is juggling cats, and my wife has stacks of adoption papers in her hands.  This is not good at all.

I compose myself and with the mental agility of a super hero, I dart into the Petco without being noticed and devise a plan.  The plan is: I’ll buy the items we need, sneak out to the car, and just not come back in.  They’ll eventually need to leave and when they’re out of the store I’ll scoop them up and make my escape.

I pick up the bag of greenies, I go down the aisle for the “Gentle Leader Collar” and get the last one in my dog’s size.  I’m now on line to check out….I’m almost on top of my family, but they’re too busy with the cats and cat people that they don’t notice me.  I’m almost home free, when the cashier notices that there is no price tag on the collar.  Want to see somebody’s heart sink.  I see the cashier pick up the overhead speaker and request assistance:  “Could I get a price check on the “GENTLE LEADER COLLAR?”  I cringe.  My family is awakened.  They start to look up in the air and then quickly spot me at the counter.  They enlighten me about how lucky we are to have stumbled across these Free Cats.  I dig in.  My feeling is, “Hey, we have a dog, we have a cat, even a hamster.”  Are we looking to build an Arc?  We don’t NEED another cat.

So this cat’s an even a better bargain.   The cat people have arranged to have her all fixed up at their Vet for next to nothing.  The only possible catch is they give her an “aids” test.  If she tests positive, they’ll just put her to sleep right then.  They tell us they’ll call and give us the test results.  I’m home alone one night and there is a flashing new message on the answering machine.  It’s the Vet’s office.  The kitten has a clean bill of health, we can pick her up any time we want.

Now this thought only passed through my mind for a very brief moment…but I was thinking…if I erase this message and just tell my family things didn’t work out….I’m home free.  Then my mind switch to the Express Elevator to Hell I’d be taking if I were to do something like that.  I decide that two cats and a dog might be a little less painful.

When to Ask for Help

A while ago, when I still had a shred of pride about any kind of athletic skills I might possess, I was in Hawaii and had the opportunity to learn how to windsurf from a co-worker, Diane.  That week there were reports of two people that went swimming too far out.  They couldn’t make it back and were eaten by sharks. 

Diane was teaching me how to windsurf, and as I continually fell off and got back on the @#$% board we drifted out quite a distance.  I finally had enough fun and it was time to head back in.  The plan to get back was she’d windsurf the board, and I’d just hang on the back.  Unfortunately whatever I was doing kept knocking her off the board.  So I said, (being the manly man that I am…was)  “You go ahead, I’ll swim back.”  (I almost burst out laughing when I read that statement now.) 

We’ll cut to the chase here:  Ocean current very strong / Steve very weak…I’m headed out to sea. 

Now just a touch of panic sets in as I realize there is ABSOLUTELY No Way I’m making it back in.  And I’m not within shouting distance of anyone…other than the Sharks (Of course if I was going to call for help, that would also presuppose I have any breath left).

Then (in what can only be considered a true act of God) I see a rowboat with lifeguards speeding by.  They’re headed out to pick up someone else who is out past me and in trouble.  On their return trip they come by me.  One of the lifeguards looks at me with an inquisitive face.  It could be that he doesn’t want to insult me, but he asks, “Do you need help?”  I never cease to amaze myself.  But for a split second, I almost said, “No, I’m okay.”   Fortunately there was a guy in my head named Survival.  He picked up a large shovel and put Mr. Pride’s lights out.

So with absolutely no self-esteem left what so ever, I swim to the rowboat.  My arms at this point were like led weights, it’s amazing I didn’t just sink to the bottom.  They might as well have gaffed me.  That would have been a lot less embarrassing than the maneuver they used to roll me into the boat.  The ride back is quiet...having been neutered and all.  I turn and ask the lifeguards, “So, how many idiots like me did you pick up in week?”

How I Got a Cat for Father's Day

So its Father’s Day and we decided to head to the local farm/garden center and pick up some ‘Shrubbery” to plant.  It’s a big place and you can easily lose family members as you check out the farm animals, plants, trees, and their store.  But I’m leading the charge.  We’re going to get in and get out.  As we’re walking down a path, there are two young teen-age girls and they have a box of kittens.  The box actually says “Free Kittens.”  I turned and looked at them, and as I did, I unintentionally blocked my family from seeing them.

Then in what can only be described as a complete breakdown in mental capacity, I said to my wife, “Hey Joanie, look, a box of kittens.”  Sometimes things happen in your life that can actually enable you to measure the speed of light.   At the exact moment I finished speaking, my senses came roaring back.  I tried to grab the air that my words were floating off on and jam them back down my throat.  After that the next hour became a senseless blur.  The only thing I can remember is saying the word “No” about sixty thousand times as my wife and kids rushed over to the box.  For a short time I thought I was going to be stuck starting my own cat farm.

They picked out one male black cat “kitten.”  For the next 19 minutes I said, “No” in every conceivable way.  By the 20^th minute we owned a “Free” cat.  That was the first of many lies about Jack the Cat.  Our first vet bill addressed the “Free” notion.  Then there was the 20 minutes of promises that my kids made about taking care of the cat.  You won’t have to do a thing Dad…..HA!

I never owned a cat, but what I learned is that you really can’t, or shouldn’t play with them like puppies.  My wife warned me, but of course I knew better.  Yes puppies have sharp teeth, but nothing compared to cats.  And then with cats you have the ever popular “Wolverine” feature where their claws become weapons of mass destruction.   Picture this:  You’re gently wrestling with the little guy, waving your hand in front of him.  The CLAWS come out and with lightning speed he punctures and hooks the tip of your pinkie.  If that’s not bad enough, you’re now trying to calm him down so he’ll release.  But he’s getting super p*ssed off because he can’t get his claw unhooked….from your flesh.  So he starts flailing his paw like a maniac in frustration.  I can now confirm the belief that the tips of your fingers are one of the most sensitive parts of your body.  But I forgave him, that was my fault.  I should have known better.  But what I won’t forgive him for is when I used to come home at night, he’d jump up on my dresser put his paws on my shoulders and start licking my chin.  I thought, okay, he’s trying to make up for the pinkie and the transfusion I needed.  But what I didn’t realize is that his was just tenderizing me.  After about 5 licks he sinks his four saber teeth into my chin.  The pain was so intense that it brought tears to my eyes and I almost lost consciousness.

Over the years we’ve lost some cleaning people, but we still have Jack the Cat….and he still has all of this teeth, paws, and claws.   We’re the only people in town who have a sign in front of their house that says, “Beware of Cat”

Now You Are a Judo Student

When I got out of college my career as a public accountant crashed at take off.  Same basic problem with my next job as a forklift driver.  Casino Control Commission...a bad fit.  So my next employment opportunities brought me back to my Dad’s house in Bergen county for a while.  I was bored out of my mind and getting no exercise so I decided to take up Judo.  The guy who ran the place was a nice guy but really into Martial Arts.  Not only was he like a triple knot Judo Black Belt, but he was also a multi-level Black Belt in Karate. 

Judo is very much like wrestling, only instead of wearing the fitted Karate like Fight’n PJs, you wear a heavy coat-like garment.  The main purpose of the heavy coat is to enable you to easily grab, throw, and CHOKE your opponent.  (I always had an issue with the Choking part.  It just ran against some deep-rooted belief system inside of me - am I really going to potentially kill this guy?)

I was a pretty good wrestler in high school so I was able to have my way with just about every student in the class.  The teacher (Sensei) would constantly tell me, “Less Wrestling, More Judo.”  And I would respectfully acknowledge his instructions and then conveniently go back to what I’d been doing….because it was easy and I was always winning.

That all changed one day.   Sensei decided on this day that I’d be his rag doll, I mean practice partner.  I was about 6 feet tall and weighed about a buck85.  He was about 5 feet 5 inches tall and probably weighed less than 135 pounds.  In a short period of time I learned a really good rule to live by:  “Don’t go out of your way to p*ss people off that can easily hurt, kill, or maim you.”

When we locked up I had my hands on his upper arms.  It felt like I was holding onto two think chunks of Steel.  (At this point a lot of things are running through my head, like I’m about to fight a very angry Terminator cyborg…or more plainly, I’m about to get my *ss severely kicked.) I thought about screaming for help, but I was too busy fighting off losing my limbs and vital organs.   Sensei then grabbed the thick collar of my Fight’n PJs and began choking me.  (Unlike me, he had no problems whatsoever applying lethal force)   At a certain point I thought to myself, "Is this guy kidding?" When it became apparent, by the lack of oxygen going to my brain, that he wasn’t, I decided that a quick change in plans might be in order.  I thought I saw a path out and was trying desperately to twist out of his death grip.  (Think:  007 about to be put away by a much larger, stronger, more powerful opponent, but at the last moment he comes through with a trick move that saves the day…only my opponent was much smaller than me)

I’m out of my mind straining now and I think I can see daylight…until,.. the next thing I remember is Sensei smacking me continually on the back as I regain consciousness.  As I come to, Sensei is looking me straight in the face.  He says, “NOW You Are a Judo Student.” 

The Ski Lesson

Our kids had finally gotten to an age where they were ready to learn how to ski.  Both my wife and I had enjoyed skiing when we were younger, but for one reason or another hadn’t gone in over 10 years.  And we now had the perfect small hill close by our house in PA.  So we drive to the Ski Barn to rent all of the equipment and accessories necessary to get them on their way. 

The place is packed and there's equipment and paraphernalia all over the place.  Also the temp is miserable, it feels like a Turkish Bath.  Just finding a place to stand, let alone getting help is a struggle.   Trying to get a child to understand how a ski boot should or should not feel for the first time is a painful time consuming challenge all by itself. Naturally my kids are perfect angels, and they’re doing everything in their power to make this process as simple as possible.  I can feel my blood pressure begin to boil.   

We finally get the kids all set and we’re ready to go.  My wife decides that since they’re having a sale and her equipment is old, now would be a good time to get new stuff.  You might as well have told me that my seat on the last rowboat off the Titanic had been taken, “Oh Mr. Risavy, we’ll need to see you back inside the insane asylum a bit longer.”  Now my kids are way past their expiration date.  They’ve made a game of running past, climbing on and destroying anything that looks expensive.  All the employees that couldn’t be found when I needed help are now letting me know that I should have a better handle on my kids – Thanks! 

After what seems like an eternity in purgatory, my wife finishes up with all her new wares and asks me if I want to get new equipment.  I tell her, “I’d rather be lit on Fire!”  Which wouldn’t be a stretch considering temp in the building.  At this point I’m a volcanic sweating mush puddle.  I NEED fresh air and a lot of alone time.  In my infinite wisdom, I decided that I'd just use my "vintage" 1988 ski equipment as opposed to waiting on line for new stuff.  I figured, "Hey I'm going to be doing the bunny hill for a year.... who needs new gear."  I’m saving money and my sanity…this is a good decision.  My wife thinks I’m crazy.  But of course, I know better. 

So I haven't touched this gear in over ten years.  It's been sitting

in my basement all this time.  The night before we're about to ski I decide "now" is a good time to dust the equipment off and make sure everything fits.  I FEEL like the same person, why wouldn’t the equipment fit the same.   (For the record, plastic and moldy basements can be problematic.)

As I put on the boots I notice major cracks forming over the tops of the foot part of both boots.  This is not a great sign, but I won't be deterred.  I’m still thinking this will be low impact skiing, (and solidifying my position – there’s no time left to rent anything and more importantly, I can’t be proven wrong)

I quietly grab a big roll of silver duct tape and "fix" the problem.  (Duct tape and I go way back.  I once used duct tape to hold my 1969 Karman Gia AKA “Silver the Wonder Car” together.  That was until the headlights fell out on the NJ Turnpike going 65mph)

Being that my boots are gray, it doesn't look too bad.... or so I think.  (There are benefits to losing your hearing…it’s a lot more difficult to hear laughter behind you.)

Now the day of skiing comes – Very Exciting!  We pull into a crowded parking lot, and my wife takes our two kids (with their new rental gear) and heads off for passes and a lesson.  I tell them I'll catch up. Now I'm putting my mended ski boots on.  I notice the cracks in my boots enlarging as I force my feet into the boots, a mild level of panic rises.  But once my feet are all the way into the boots, the plastic goes back together.  I figured, "Geez that was a close one, I'm okay now though."  My ski gloves are on the opposite side of our van, so I walk around the van to get them.  As I'm walking back I notice small and large chunks of sharp gray plastic in my path.  (For a split second I'm thinking more duct tape... I can still do this).  Then I see the whole plastic sole of one of my boots on the pavement... I take another step and half of the other breaks off too.  I’ve now come to the realization that I'm doomed; there isn't enough crazy glue or duct tape in the world to save this fiasco.  Now I'm frantically trying to pick up more and more large sharp pieces of plastic from the parking lot pavement. As a car tries to pull into the spot next to me, I have to explain to him that my ski boots have just disintegrated and unless he waits for me to pick up the pieces, he's guaranteed four flat tires.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in my sneakers pushing my kids half way up the bunny hill and chasing down after them.