I think.
That I thunk.
I think,
I'm a might bit drunk.
Ah, it's been forever since I heard that one. I've only heard it used to rouse people into the school fight song, or any of many rude and crude drinking songs. I'll never touch a drop. My parents haven't had one since before I was born. All our family get-togethers are dry. One clan of cousins has beers on hand for just about anything, but we don't spend much time at shindigs they planned. If it's not a Norvell thing, and Trumbos will be involved AT ALL, don't plan on drinking there. Sure, you can smoke in the building, but take your beer outside.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Thursday, September 25, 2008
When my aunt died, I wrote a short obiruary of sorts. I'm pretty sure that's all that got published. But at least she's getting a funeral, and hopefully a marker for her grave. I didn't write much of anything when my grandpa died. The situation was different--he wasn't young and full of vigor. He had suffered enough, and it was time, if not a little past, for the Angel of Death to collect.
His wife had stopped letting him run his own business and maintain his property. The golddigging bitch finally got to spend all his cash as his mental faculties slipped. I met him when he was in his mid-70s, and again when he was about to turn 80. He wasn't sharp as a tack, but pretty damn close. When she took away his project, his focus, Grandpa slipped away, too.
When she got tired of taking care of him at home, and failing in her efforts to "take care of him" once and for all, Grandpa's wife put him in a home for Alzheimer's patients. That cost far to much, and his alzheimer's medicine wasn't helping the bankroll, either. She had him moved around after that, and the medicine taken away as more and more of his memory went away. We visited him when he was in what we're told was his favorite home. They had a dog that reminded him of one he once had in the '50s. He only remembered some of his kids, and mixed up my dad with my uncle a few tiimes, but he remembered my mom some. He did a good enough job of at least acting like he remembered me. He told the same tired old stories that he always told when we'd go visit him. He ate a lot of cookies.
He seemed genuinely bothered by the fact that he couldn't tell who we were some of the time. He'd get lost in the middle of a story and ask us to remind him where he'd left off. He asked my dad to draw him a diagram showing who his kids were, who they married, and where they lived. That way, when someone called, he said, he'd be able to tell who it was and "talk to them properly." We visited his room at this home. It had pictures from the glory days in drawers, and a large photo of the whole clan, every single damn one of us, up on the wall.
That was a few years ago.
When we saw him this July, he had been moved around to different homes a few times. He was back in Manitou, at a hospice on Lois Lane. He looked an awful lot like I expected, but a terrible sort worse. I'd only known him as an old man, and now he looked even older, but that wasn't the issue. He was stiff, and facing the wall. There were no decorations or posters. No photos. The room had a closet, where all sorts of clothes that he seemed to enjoy had been brought out of closets all over the country and given to him by relatives. Most of his old friends are dead. His lawyer's headstone can be seen from the plot that's still technically reserved for him. Although he wasn't dead yet, when I saw Grandpa's body last, he had this most pathetic, God-awful look on his face. It was one of pain, in spite of morphine that would kill you or I. His jaw was open wider than anything I would have thought possible. We looked. We talked. We said goodbye.
Two days before, his son in law and daughter had come to visit. He hadn't seen his son in law in a long time, but he walked right up, called him by name, and used every ounce of strength he could muster to try and crush his hand, just like he always did. They talked. They left. They got a call two days later that Grandpa's wife had visited, and he'd slipped into a coma. They called us. We hauled ass back home from the Western Slope.
I may live in Denver, but as far as I'm concerned, "home" is about 90 miles south.
His daughter was with him when he died. She talked about each of his children, where they were, and said that they forgive him if there was anything outstanding still on the record between them. That they said he could rest now. He could be seen to calm down, to relax, and he died peacefully. She didn't mention that his youngest daughter was dead.
There was no money for a funeral. He had wanted to donate his body to science, and that was one wish his wife was eager to grant. The coroner had other ideas. Foul play was ruled out, but I doubt that it was a very thorough investigation. Eventually, someone found a university that would take his autopsied body.
His kids got together and wrote an obituary. Originally, it was going to be printed in the city paper in each town one of his kids lived in, but when it proved to be over $200 for just one paper, they settled for his hometown of 50 years. It was run with a photograph of Grandpa with all the trophies he won for customizing his Honda Goldwing.
His wife had stopped letting him run his own business and maintain his property. The golddigging bitch finally got to spend all his cash as his mental faculties slipped. I met him when he was in his mid-70s, and again when he was about to turn 80. He wasn't sharp as a tack, but pretty damn close. When she took away his project, his focus, Grandpa slipped away, too.
When she got tired of taking care of him at home, and failing in her efforts to "take care of him" once and for all, Grandpa's wife put him in a home for Alzheimer's patients. That cost far to much, and his alzheimer's medicine wasn't helping the bankroll, either. She had him moved around after that, and the medicine taken away as more and more of his memory went away. We visited him when he was in what we're told was his favorite home. They had a dog that reminded him of one he once had in the '50s. He only remembered some of his kids, and mixed up my dad with my uncle a few tiimes, but he remembered my mom some. He did a good enough job of at least acting like he remembered me. He told the same tired old stories that he always told when we'd go visit him. He ate a lot of cookies.
He seemed genuinely bothered by the fact that he couldn't tell who we were some of the time. He'd get lost in the middle of a story and ask us to remind him where he'd left off. He asked my dad to draw him a diagram showing who his kids were, who they married, and where they lived. That way, when someone called, he said, he'd be able to tell who it was and "talk to them properly." We visited his room at this home. It had pictures from the glory days in drawers, and a large photo of the whole clan, every single damn one of us, up on the wall.
That was a few years ago.
When we saw him this July, he had been moved around to different homes a few times. He was back in Manitou, at a hospice on Lois Lane. He looked an awful lot like I expected, but a terrible sort worse. I'd only known him as an old man, and now he looked even older, but that wasn't the issue. He was stiff, and facing the wall. There were no decorations or posters. No photos. The room had a closet, where all sorts of clothes that he seemed to enjoy had been brought out of closets all over the country and given to him by relatives. Most of his old friends are dead. His lawyer's headstone can be seen from the plot that's still technically reserved for him. Although he wasn't dead yet, when I saw Grandpa's body last, he had this most pathetic, God-awful look on his face. It was one of pain, in spite of morphine that would kill you or I. His jaw was open wider than anything I would have thought possible. We looked. We talked. We said goodbye.
Two days before, his son in law and daughter had come to visit. He hadn't seen his son in law in a long time, but he walked right up, called him by name, and used every ounce of strength he could muster to try and crush his hand, just like he always did. They talked. They left. They got a call two days later that Grandpa's wife had visited, and he'd slipped into a coma. They called us. We hauled ass back home from the Western Slope.
I may live in Denver, but as far as I'm concerned, "home" is about 90 miles south.
His daughter was with him when he died. She talked about each of his children, where they were, and said that they forgive him if there was anything outstanding still on the record between them. That they said he could rest now. He could be seen to calm down, to relax, and he died peacefully. She didn't mention that his youngest daughter was dead.
There was no money for a funeral. He had wanted to donate his body to science, and that was one wish his wife was eager to grant. The coroner had other ideas. Foul play was ruled out, but I doubt that it was a very thorough investigation. Eventually, someone found a university that would take his autopsied body.
His kids got together and wrote an obituary. Originally, it was going to be printed in the city paper in each town one of his kids lived in, but when it proved to be over $200 for just one paper, they settled for his hometown of 50 years. It was run with a photograph of Grandpa with all the trophies he won for customizing his Honda Goldwing.
Alfred H Dwyer
January 17, 1920-July 22, 2008
We would like to honor our father's life by sharing what many already know of him.
For over 40 years people respected the caliber of the work that Dad completed in the Pikes Peak Region. As owner of Dwyer Construction, he had the privilege to work with/on properties such as the Broadmoor Hotel, Alamo Hotel, and the Cliff House. We know that many of his projects were completed 'on a handshake' because of his professional integrity and quality. His tremendous engineering skill was demonstrated when he and our mother, Jean, bought and renovated the Manitou Spa during the 1960's.
His life's example taught us that hard work, commitment and respect for people of all backgrounds were the foundation of a person. He taught us to never give up learning and that “there is always more than one way to solve a problem”.
We will miss you very much!
David A Dwyer, Las Vegas, NV
Daniel B Dwyer, Denver, CO
James H Dwyer, Buena Vista, CO
Susan H Ayler, Colorado Springs, CO
Mary E Dwyer, living in our memories
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Hopefully the last in a series of posts about this sort of thing
Isn't it interesting that the times you want drugs or alcohol the most are the times you need them least?
That unless you stay stone-cold sober, you'll never get out of whatever hole you've stepped into?
It's not how a man takes the good times that counts, not in the end. It's how he takes the bad times. Does he crawl into a bottle and drink the mortgage payment, or does he cut back on his own indulgence first, so the people he loves don't have to? Does he face the challenge, or does he ignore it, run away to the next one?
No matter how dark times get, they can always get darker. Things don't get better on their own. You have to make them get better. Whether it's unfair wages or a dead-end relationship, it's up to you to fix it. Sometimes that means getting out of the situation. Other times that means fixing the situation. Most of the time you just need to fix your own perspective. But it always means doing something.
Not everything you can do helps. You can grab a shovel and help your own gravediggers twice as easy as you can pull yourself up out of that grave. But you can't change anyone but you. That's all you really need, really. Nobody can make you think or feel or believe anything if you don't let them. If you aren't content with "almost" or "could have," if you are willing to try that much harder instead of just complaining, you can overcome anything. Even if the objective hazard is too great and death is certain, there is a certain dignity in facing your own death with integrity.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The real family values
Why is it that senators who run on a platform of "family values" and one-man-one-woman marriage law are always the ones who get caught with an intern or in the airport bathroom, or maybe soliciting an "escort"? Why is it that people are so damn afraid of people unlike them? Or even more, people like what they're afraid to be?
Please, someone, anyone, explain these things to me. Why in a nation where the separation of church and state is a part of our law, we have let our law be dictated by the Bible? Why any religious group except for mainstream Protestant Christians faces more challenges, prejudice, and persecution?
The Mormons were declared heretics and cast out. They found a home (what kind of God declares a lake home to his chosen people if it is too salty to even drink from and sustain life?), and established their own society according to their beliefs. That's how the colonies got started in the first place. Now it is only a splinter group that still practices polygamy, but just because the idea of polygamy makes the "family values" people feel uncomfortable, they persecute this group every chance they get.
I'll admit, I won't let a Jehovah's Witness in unless there is nothing good on TV. That's actually more than a little bit cruel, now that I think about it. But would you rather spend two hours knocking on doors and getting turned away, usually rudely, or talking about god and the afterlife with someone who doesn't believe one word you say, but will listen, entertain the idea, and bring you ice tea and snacks? I appreciate the fact that these people feel that they are duty bound to attempt to convert others. They honestly believe that they are saving souls. That's a noble thing to try to do. But I always wonder, while we're discussing the fine points of Genesis, is there someone down the block that would actually be listening and believing what this person has to say? Am I preventing this person from actually "saving a soul?" I don't know what to believe when it comes to religion, but I do believe that everyone is entitled to believe and practice whatever they want, without interference from other people.
I do know that religion is a very sophisticated brainwashing system. Brainwashing is one of those terms that depends on perspective. It's education when your side does it. It's indoctrination when the other guy does it. Religion, regardless of any basis in facts, organizes people, gives people something to think, say, and do (or tell others to do, even as they sin themselves). Religion is a necessary part of society.
But is bigotry a part of that, too? Must there always be an enemy, a subversive? This country has been jumping at shadows. It makes me angry. Jaded, too, and at times resigned to "this, too, shall pass." But then I see a loving couple who by all rights should be married by now. Or I hear someone explain their own twisted version of "morality." If only I could count the number of times I've wanted to kick in the television in the process of kicking the pundit or politician on the screen, when they began discussing that is or isn't immoral. I'll tell you what's immoral. It's deciding that people whom you have never met, who have never done anything to you, whose personal conduct does not have any bearing whatsoever on your life, that they are not equal. That they are not entitled to the same rights as everyone else.
We've seen it over and over again through history. Racism. Sexism. Social elitism and either a legal or de facto caste system. Heteronormativity.
Yeah, that's a big-ass word. That's fancy speak for straight people deciding that anyone who isn't like them, who doesn't feel or think like they do, is by definition inferior. That one man can only love one woman, and that anything other than that system is not only immoral in their eyes, but actually worthy of active defamation, persecution, and legislation against it.
Walk around on any given day, and just listen. Listen to how many times "gay" is used as an adjective synonymous with "wrong," "perverted," or "stupid." Any given day. Roger Waters has a new song, for which there is a comic strip projected behind the stage, helping to tell the story in the song. It is the story of how in the early 1960s, Waters went hitchhiking to Lebanon. I love his musical work, both with and after his time with Pink Floyd, don't get me wrong. At one point, when he was sleeping on a porch, a man who had lost a leg in WWII came up and asked him if he'd like to come back to his place for dinner and a roof over his head for that night. He said that his wife cooked very well, and would be delighted to have a guest. In the comic, there is a thought bubble from the young Waters' head which reads "Thanks God. Monopod, but not queer." I will admit, the prospect of getting taken to someone's home and raped is an unpleasant one, but really, the vast majority or rapists and pedophiles are straight men. In prison, maybe, male-on-male rape is relatively common, but that is a special case.
There is no arguing that homophobia and animosity toward gays is pervasive in our society. This is a part of people's learning from an early age, and to many people is as natural as male chauvinism or support of Jim Crow laws and distrust toward non-whites in decades past.
It is interesting, though, that although blacks and women generally enjoy an equal legal footing with the rest of society after their respective liberation movements, even after "gay liberation" in the 80s, we still face legal (not to mention social) roadblocks toward health plans, employment, adoption, foster parenting, military service, and marriage.
There was an unprecedented conservative backlash when the concept of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender equality really gained popular support. I have said before how much I admire and stand in awe of the right-wing propaganda machine. This is no different. Their ability to play on people's fears, deliver misinformation and straw-man arguments, instill new fears, drum up hate, and all the while pass themselves off as being pro-family values, protecting the masses, and most of all, not be seen my many was the hatemongers they are is staggering.
Let's talk about family values. More than half of all children are now born out of wedlock. Divorce rates are over 50%. Obviously, most people don't take the old-fashioned family unit seriously unless they happen to be voting to "protect it." Lemme tell you something, if it is so fragile that it can be destroyed by gay marriage, we are obviously not talking about the same "family." Sprechen ze englisch? Are you sure? We're both talking about the same kind of family where there are two parents, a house, 1.7 cars, a white picket fence, and 2.7 kids? Where they are still "family" to one another for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do them part? Well, it's true, 63% or American families are now considered dysfunctional according to the L.A. Times.
Let me tell you, two women or two men are far more likely to be good, prepared parents than your average two yahoos who had some fun one night and she got knocked up. They are more likely to be good parents than a married couple who decided that maybe they'd like a baby, but didn't think it through (it happens a lot). Think about it. There is so much red tape to adopting a child, you really have to want to adopt that kid (unless you're celebrity in Hollywood....). Now think about all the extra red tape gay couples face. It's true. It's part of the administrative decision checklist: are they "morally fit" to raise this child? What the fuck do you think? Becoming a foster parent is even worse. In many states an municipalities, it is actually illegal for a same-sex couple to become foster parents.
That is especially not right. The foster care system in this country is overworked and overbooked. Foster parents are underpaid for the responsibility, but if they raise the tax breaks, more people will do it just for the money, with no real regard to the people. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Many children fall through the cracks. Turning away qualified, caring foster parents is downright criminal.
While we're at it, let's talk about transgender rights. The laws are patchwork laws, and are often on the wrong side of things anyway. Most of the law is a gray area up to individual judges, and we all know how bad that can be.
Have you ever walked into a bathroom (or out of one) and had people either tell you you're in the wrong bathroom, or stare, glance away, and say something to someone near them? It doesn't happen terribly often, but just plain weird looks do. Double takes, basically.
Funny story. About two and a half weeks after freshman year started, I stopped to use the toilet in between classes. Then when I went to the sink to wash my hands, another girl came out of a stall and started washing her hands at the sink next to me, at about the same time. We had seen each other around campus. We both looked up, looked at each other, and said, "I thought you were a guy."
It's less fucking hilarious when someone says "get outta here, dyke." That's when the asskicking happens. It don't care if your dad has threatened to kill me before, tell me that and I'll rearrange your face before he can get here. And the unconscious don't make phone calls.
Please, someone, anyone, explain these things to me. Why in a nation where the separation of church and state is a part of our law, we have let our law be dictated by the Bible? Why any religious group except for mainstream Protestant Christians faces more challenges, prejudice, and persecution?
The Mormons were declared heretics and cast out. They found a home (what kind of God declares a lake home to his chosen people if it is too salty to even drink from and sustain life?), and established their own society according to their beliefs. That's how the colonies got started in the first place. Now it is only a splinter group that still practices polygamy, but just because the idea of polygamy makes the "family values" people feel uncomfortable, they persecute this group every chance they get.
I'll admit, I won't let a Jehovah's Witness in unless there is nothing good on TV. That's actually more than a little bit cruel, now that I think about it. But would you rather spend two hours knocking on doors and getting turned away, usually rudely, or talking about god and the afterlife with someone who doesn't believe one word you say, but will listen, entertain the idea, and bring you ice tea and snacks? I appreciate the fact that these people feel that they are duty bound to attempt to convert others. They honestly believe that they are saving souls. That's a noble thing to try to do. But I always wonder, while we're discussing the fine points of Genesis, is there someone down the block that would actually be listening and believing what this person has to say? Am I preventing this person from actually "saving a soul?" I don't know what to believe when it comes to religion, but I do believe that everyone is entitled to believe and practice whatever they want, without interference from other people.
I do know that religion is a very sophisticated brainwashing system. Brainwashing is one of those terms that depends on perspective. It's education when your side does it. It's indoctrination when the other guy does it. Religion, regardless of any basis in facts, organizes people, gives people something to think, say, and do (or tell others to do, even as they sin themselves). Religion is a necessary part of society.
But is bigotry a part of that, too? Must there always be an enemy, a subversive? This country has been jumping at shadows. It makes me angry. Jaded, too, and at times resigned to "this, too, shall pass." But then I see a loving couple who by all rights should be married by now. Or I hear someone explain their own twisted version of "morality." If only I could count the number of times I've wanted to kick in the television in the process of kicking the pundit or politician on the screen, when they began discussing that is or isn't immoral. I'll tell you what's immoral. It's deciding that people whom you have never met, who have never done anything to you, whose personal conduct does not have any bearing whatsoever on your life, that they are not equal. That they are not entitled to the same rights as everyone else.
We've seen it over and over again through history. Racism. Sexism. Social elitism and either a legal or de facto caste system. Heteronormativity.
Yeah, that's a big-ass word. That's fancy speak for straight people deciding that anyone who isn't like them, who doesn't feel or think like they do, is by definition inferior. That one man can only love one woman, and that anything other than that system is not only immoral in their eyes, but actually worthy of active defamation, persecution, and legislation against it.
Walk around on any given day, and just listen. Listen to how many times "gay" is used as an adjective synonymous with "wrong," "perverted," or "stupid." Any given day. Roger Waters has a new song, for which there is a comic strip projected behind the stage, helping to tell the story in the song. It is the story of how in the early 1960s, Waters went hitchhiking to Lebanon. I love his musical work, both with and after his time with Pink Floyd, don't get me wrong. At one point, when he was sleeping on a porch, a man who had lost a leg in WWII came up and asked him if he'd like to come back to his place for dinner and a roof over his head for that night. He said that his wife cooked very well, and would be delighted to have a guest. In the comic, there is a thought bubble from the young Waters' head which reads "Thanks God. Monopod, but not queer." I will admit, the prospect of getting taken to someone's home and raped is an unpleasant one, but really, the vast majority or rapists and pedophiles are straight men. In prison, maybe, male-on-male rape is relatively common, but that is a special case.
There is no arguing that homophobia and animosity toward gays is pervasive in our society. This is a part of people's learning from an early age, and to many people is as natural as male chauvinism or support of Jim Crow laws and distrust toward non-whites in decades past.
It is interesting, though, that although blacks and women generally enjoy an equal legal footing with the rest of society after their respective liberation movements, even after "gay liberation" in the 80s, we still face legal (not to mention social) roadblocks toward health plans, employment, adoption, foster parenting, military service, and marriage.
There was an unprecedented conservative backlash when the concept of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender equality really gained popular support. I have said before how much I admire and stand in awe of the right-wing propaganda machine. This is no different. Their ability to play on people's fears, deliver misinformation and straw-man arguments, instill new fears, drum up hate, and all the while pass themselves off as being pro-family values, protecting the masses, and most of all, not be seen my many was the hatemongers they are is staggering.
Let's talk about family values. More than half of all children are now born out of wedlock. Divorce rates are over 50%. Obviously, most people don't take the old-fashioned family unit seriously unless they happen to be voting to "protect it." Lemme tell you something, if it is so fragile that it can be destroyed by gay marriage, we are obviously not talking about the same "family." Sprechen ze englisch? Are you sure? We're both talking about the same kind of family where there are two parents, a house, 1.7 cars, a white picket fence, and 2.7 kids? Where they are still "family" to one another for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do them part? Well, it's true, 63% or American families are now considered dysfunctional according to the L.A. Times.
Let me tell you, two women or two men are far more likely to be good, prepared parents than your average two yahoos who had some fun one night and she got knocked up. They are more likely to be good parents than a married couple who decided that maybe they'd like a baby, but didn't think it through (it happens a lot). Think about it. There is so much red tape to adopting a child, you really have to want to adopt that kid (unless you're celebrity in Hollywood....). Now think about all the extra red tape gay couples face. It's true. It's part of the administrative decision checklist: are they "morally fit" to raise this child? What the fuck do you think? Becoming a foster parent is even worse. In many states an municipalities, it is actually illegal for a same-sex couple to become foster parents.
That is especially not right. The foster care system in this country is overworked and overbooked. Foster parents are underpaid for the responsibility, but if they raise the tax breaks, more people will do it just for the money, with no real regard to the people. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Many children fall through the cracks. Turning away qualified, caring foster parents is downright criminal.
While we're at it, let's talk about transgender rights. The laws are patchwork laws, and are often on the wrong side of things anyway. Most of the law is a gray area up to individual judges, and we all know how bad that can be.
Have you ever walked into a bathroom (or out of one) and had people either tell you you're in the wrong bathroom, or stare, glance away, and say something to someone near them? It doesn't happen terribly often, but just plain weird looks do. Double takes, basically.
Funny story. About two and a half weeks after freshman year started, I stopped to use the toilet in between classes. Then when I went to the sink to wash my hands, another girl came out of a stall and started washing her hands at the sink next to me, at about the same time. We had seen each other around campus. We both looked up, looked at each other, and said, "I thought you were a guy."
It's less fucking hilarious when someone says "get outta here, dyke." That's when the asskicking happens. It don't care if your dad has threatened to kill me before, tell me that and I'll rearrange your face before he can get here. And the unconscious don't make phone calls.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Another public service announcement
I've been told that I'll probably die in an incredibly horriffic motorcycle crash. That's probably true, and odds are, my driver's-ed instructor (who has been an EMT and Paramedic working I-70 from Morrison to Evergreen for 20 years) will be peeling me off of the pavement, or pulling me and my bike out of the ditch.
Just to let you know, in Colorado, "ditch" means bottom of steep 200-foot embankment. In most spots along that stretch of road, it's more.
What do you call a young male motorcycle rider, especially on a sportbike (Buells or Japanese crotch rockets)?
An organ donor.
It's true. More than half of all hearts donated in this country come from braindead bikers, under age 25, predominantly male, predominantly sportbike riders (or guys who decided to take their Screamin' Eagle through the mountains--Harleys are cruisers, and when you ask them to do anything else, you're not just flirting with Disaster, you're taking her back to your place for a nightcap). Most of them weren't wearing a helmet.
Odds are, you will fall or lose control, and regardless of any road rash you may get or things you'll crash into (or have crash into you), if you die, you will die of blunt force head trauma. But your major organs will be just fine. That's the way most bikers die: head trauma.
Helmets can't prevent death that way, but they go a very long way towards preventing it. No helmet can prevent death in all situations, but in those situations where the helmet did jack shit, you'd be dead of other injuries. Wear a brain bucket, and odds are, you'll live. It doesn't make you Superman. You can still die a death of your own making, and you can still get run over by a semi.
Colorado has a sensible helmet law. Minors must wear a helmet, period. But once you are legally an adult, it is your life, and your business whether you wear a helmet. That's the way it should be. Not wearing a helmet won't kill anybody but you. It doesn't put anyone else at risk. The law shouldn't get involved in situations like that, and in Colorado, it doesn't.
I'm not here to tell you to ride safely, sanely, or with a helmet on. I'm just telling you two things: don't put other people in danger, and sign an organ donorship card. If you like to go 100 down the highway on your Big Chief 45, that's your business. If you want to take your Scout 101 up Pike's Peak in June to practice for the race, that's your business. If you want to go from Denver to Buena Vista in 45 minutes, by all means, do it. But make sure that you are not even remotely putting anyone else at risk. Families like to drive Pike's Peak. If you come out of the Picnic Area at 120 and even tag their station wagon, it will be worse tha hitting a deer. Hitting a deer in a car can be fatal. Hiting an idiot hellbent on thrills head on, with a closing speed of 150 will kill that idiot on the bike instantly (that's you, asshat). He won't have to suffer. The people in the front seat will probably die on impact. But the kids in the back won't. Oh, don't get me wrong, they'll die. But they'll die of their injuries, slowly, excruciatingly. Help won't get up that mountain in time.
Then when the ambulance does arrive, they will have to search for the wreckage. Don't think that that accident will stay on the road anywhere in the mountains, let alone on the Pike's Peak highway. You will all go off the cliff, down a "hill", and into a ditch. Remember what "ditch" means in Colorado?
Go ahead and take a corner too fast, on flat land or especially in the mountains. Just don't take anyone else with you. Remember that family you hit while you were getting your thrills? It'll be a closed casket funeral. As a matter for fact, for you and the people in the front seat, it will look like you drove over a land mine.
Go ahead and lay it over at 25 over. Go ahead and die a death of your own making. Just don't kill anyone else in the process. And while you're at it, save a life. Donate your organs.
No matter whether you wear a helmet or not, no matter whether you ride reckless or not, if you're on two wheels, check the organ donation box on your driver's license application. Each day, about 77 people receive organ transplants. However, 19 people die each day waiting for transplants that can't take place because of the shortage of donated organs. You are 32 times more likely to die on two wheels than on four. Whether or not you take that risk is up to you, but if you do and one day things go horribly wrong because of something you or some other bonehead did, your organs could save or improve up to 50 lives. Think about that. It's not like you'll be using your body anymore.
_________________________________
While I'm at it, let me tell you a story. Back in the mid-60s, my uncle was 14, and was riding passenger on a friend's motorcycle. His buddy rode safe and sane, and still got hit. The offending car was about the size of a Ford Fairlane, doing 90 miles an hour, drunk driver at the wheel. I don't think the driver even saw them, or if he did, didn't react.
The feller driving the bike just had some minor road rash. The drunk driver was fine. He t-boned the very back end of the bike. My uncle was thrown 250 feet, landed, and skidded another 50. One of his shoes was at the scene, still tied. The other was 500 feet down the road, also tied. He was wearing a brand-new, extremely puffy vinyl winter coat. That must have cushioned things quite a bit, but not enough. As it was, his whole back got ripped up and little bits of gravel imbedded in it. That wasn't the worst part, though. Think about the forces involed i getting hit, flying at 90 mph 250 feet through the air, then landing (pavement ain't soft, folks) and having enough momentum to skid another 50. Damn right. Paramedics were quick on the scene, and were able to start treatment quickly because someone at the scene could look through all the blood and say "That's Dale Trumbo!" He is now pinned together in three places; his right shoulder, his right leg, and part of his back. He was in a body cast for three months, and in a wheelchair for another six. Only by the grace of God did he survive.
Don't ever, EVER drink and drive, or get in a vehicle with anyone who has been drinking. Even if they're only slightly buzzed. If someone has been drinking, take their keys, call them a cab, or, if you're completely sober, drive them yourself. Do not let them operate a motor vehicle. If you wouldn't hand them a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot, don't let them keep their keys.
As a matter of fact, if you are at a party, visiting or hosting, work the door. Take keys as a condition of entry. Even two cans of beer will put a full-size adult over the legal limit for DUI.
And even if you are driving sober, remember this rule: CHECK TWICE, SAVE A LIFE. MOTORCYCLES ARE EVERYWHERE!
Just to let you know, in Colorado, "ditch" means bottom of steep 200-foot embankment. In most spots along that stretch of road, it's more.
What do you call a young male motorcycle rider, especially on a sportbike (Buells or Japanese crotch rockets)?
An organ donor.
It's true. More than half of all hearts donated in this country come from braindead bikers, under age 25, predominantly male, predominantly sportbike riders (or guys who decided to take their Screamin' Eagle through the mountains--Harleys are cruisers, and when you ask them to do anything else, you're not just flirting with Disaster, you're taking her back to your place for a nightcap). Most of them weren't wearing a helmet.
Odds are, you will fall or lose control, and regardless of any road rash you may get or things you'll crash into (or have crash into you), if you die, you will die of blunt force head trauma. But your major organs will be just fine. That's the way most bikers die: head trauma.
Helmets can't prevent death that way, but they go a very long way towards preventing it. No helmet can prevent death in all situations, but in those situations where the helmet did jack shit, you'd be dead of other injuries. Wear a brain bucket, and odds are, you'll live. It doesn't make you Superman. You can still die a death of your own making, and you can still get run over by a semi.
Colorado has a sensible helmet law. Minors must wear a helmet, period. But once you are legally an adult, it is your life, and your business whether you wear a helmet. That's the way it should be. Not wearing a helmet won't kill anybody but you. It doesn't put anyone else at risk. The law shouldn't get involved in situations like that, and in Colorado, it doesn't.
I'm not here to tell you to ride safely, sanely, or with a helmet on. I'm just telling you two things: don't put other people in danger, and sign an organ donorship card. If you like to go 100 down the highway on your Big Chief 45, that's your business. If you want to take your Scout 101 up Pike's Peak in June to practice for the race, that's your business. If you want to go from Denver to Buena Vista in 45 minutes, by all means, do it. But make sure that you are not even remotely putting anyone else at risk. Families like to drive Pike's Peak. If you come out of the Picnic Area at 120 and even tag their station wagon, it will be worse tha hitting a deer. Hitting a deer in a car can be fatal. Hiting an idiot hellbent on thrills head on, with a closing speed of 150 will kill that idiot on the bike instantly (that's you, asshat). He won't have to suffer. The people in the front seat will probably die on impact. But the kids in the back won't. Oh, don't get me wrong, they'll die. But they'll die of their injuries, slowly, excruciatingly. Help won't get up that mountain in time.
Then when the ambulance does arrive, they will have to search for the wreckage. Don't think that that accident will stay on the road anywhere in the mountains, let alone on the Pike's Peak highway. You will all go off the cliff, down a "hill", and into a ditch. Remember what "ditch" means in Colorado?
Go ahead and take a corner too fast, on flat land or especially in the mountains. Just don't take anyone else with you. Remember that family you hit while you were getting your thrills? It'll be a closed casket funeral. As a matter for fact, for you and the people in the front seat, it will look like you drove over a land mine.
Go ahead and lay it over at 25 over. Go ahead and die a death of your own making. Just don't kill anyone else in the process. And while you're at it, save a life. Donate your organs.
No matter whether you wear a helmet or not, no matter whether you ride reckless or not, if you're on two wheels, check the organ donation box on your driver's license application. Each day, about 77 people receive organ transplants. However, 19 people die each day waiting for transplants that can't take place because of the shortage of donated organs. You are 32 times more likely to die on two wheels than on four. Whether or not you take that risk is up to you, but if you do and one day things go horribly wrong because of something you or some other bonehead did, your organs could save or improve up to 50 lives. Think about that. It's not like you'll be using your body anymore.
_________________________________
While I'm at it, let me tell you a story. Back in the mid-60s, my uncle was 14, and was riding passenger on a friend's motorcycle. His buddy rode safe and sane, and still got hit. The offending car was about the size of a Ford Fairlane, doing 90 miles an hour, drunk driver at the wheel. I don't think the driver even saw them, or if he did, didn't react.
The feller driving the bike just had some minor road rash. The drunk driver was fine. He t-boned the very back end of the bike. My uncle was thrown 250 feet, landed, and skidded another 50. One of his shoes was at the scene, still tied. The other was 500 feet down the road, also tied. He was wearing a brand-new, extremely puffy vinyl winter coat. That must have cushioned things quite a bit, but not enough. As it was, his whole back got ripped up and little bits of gravel imbedded in it. That wasn't the worst part, though. Think about the forces involed i getting hit, flying at 90 mph 250 feet through the air, then landing (pavement ain't soft, folks) and having enough momentum to skid another 50. Damn right. Paramedics were quick on the scene, and were able to start treatment quickly because someone at the scene could look through all the blood and say "That's Dale Trumbo!" He is now pinned together in three places; his right shoulder, his right leg, and part of his back. He was in a body cast for three months, and in a wheelchair for another six. Only by the grace of God did he survive.
Don't ever, EVER drink and drive, or get in a vehicle with anyone who has been drinking. Even if they're only slightly buzzed. If someone has been drinking, take their keys, call them a cab, or, if you're completely sober, drive them yourself. Do not let them operate a motor vehicle. If you wouldn't hand them a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot, don't let them keep their keys.
As a matter of fact, if you are at a party, visiting or hosting, work the door. Take keys as a condition of entry. Even two cans of beer will put a full-size adult over the legal limit for DUI.
And even if you are driving sober, remember this rule: CHECK TWICE, SAVE A LIFE. MOTORCYCLES ARE EVERYWHERE!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Forever in our hearts
This is probably the closest to an obituary that my aunt Mary will get, outside of the Sacramento newspaper. I've had some time to get a grip on myself, and to get some perspective, and I feel I owe it to her to say a few words.
My aunt Mary was an adventurous, artistic woman, with a love for life. She had a healthy portion of her father's stubbornness, plus a little more. But even more than that, she had an infectious smile, the kind of smile that would put you at ease even before you jumped out of an airplane.
In fact, she did that once. To hear her tell it, it was a damn good thing that the chute would automatically deploy, because the first time she jumped alone, she wasted no time in passing out. I hear it was fun anyway.
We visited thrice, but I only really got to meet her once. Once I was too young to remember anything, and once I was saying my goodbyes, fresh off a last-minute flight, days from the end. The third time was when we really got to meet. I was 12, maybe 13, and all the kids were in Colorado Springs to sell an old settler's cabin we owned in Cascade. I say "we," but I should say "they." I'm one of the grandkids, and had no stake in the deed to the land. I got to be involved anyway, though, for which I am grateful. The cabin may have been a financial drain, an eyesore piled with junk, and a health hazard to occupy, but dammit, it was ours. The man who bought it was a good man, and appreciated it as it was. He didn't want to bulldoze and build a townhome. He wanted to evict the mice, drink from a well, live in a cabin, shit in an outhouse, and restore and maintain the building in a way the kids never could, after Grandpa shut down his construction company. He had the money. Asked how much we wanted, tacked on five grand, and signed the check. In the time that everyone was in town to coordinate, we didn't get to swap many stories, but we did get to swap impressions of one another, to get a snapshot of their personalities and outlooks. I'm glad I got that chance.
Seeing as my parents and I never kept in close touch with my dad's family, I don't know much about my aunt's life as it was for thirty some years, as we all agree we would prefer to remember her. I know it is an awful, evil feeling to remember someone you knew and cared about in pain, wasting away, suffering; not vibrant, joyful, very much alive. Funerals are too somber in our society, and they remember the wrong part of life: the end of it. It is no coincidence that Mary's memorial was likely closer to an Irish wake than your average American funeral. I'm still sure that there was not a dry eye, though. I wasn't there, not for the California one, which was held this past Saturday. Come hell or high water, though, I will attend the Colorado memorial, and do my best to remember this woman's life, not her death. If you don't know what it's like to have to do that as you watch a casket or an urn be lowered into the ground, and with it a part of you, be thankful. Be thankful that you haven't yet held the hand of a loved one as they looked into your eyes and mustered the energy to thank you being there, just being there, and seen all the things, the regrets, the joys, the melancholy in their eyes that they just can't find the words for.
Be glad that you haven't ever heard someone whisper "I wanted to tell you..." into their brother's ear, but too weak to finish the thought.
But I hope, I hope and pray, that you will get the chance to do all of that. That you will get the chance to say goodbye, no matter how much it will hurt, because trust me, if you have the chance and waste it, it will hurt even more. And if you don't get the chance, I hope you do get the chance to say goodbye, even if it's just to a set of words carved into Pikes Peak granite.
Mary was a talented artist, working in many mediums, including charcoal, pen & ink, paint, and sculpture. She saw beauty in her surroundings everywhere she went. She and her partner of many years, Debbie, traveled every chance they got. If I said she lived even a mildly dull life, I'd be a liar. Even as she knew she was dying, Mary insisted upon going to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. It was a tremendous effort, but they managed it. I can only imagine how much better it must have been to be able to see the desert southwest during a time when most people would only be watching the other wall at home. If you've never seen the rock formations of Utah and you ever get the chance, take it. Just take it, because you might not get another. They are breathtakingly beautiful, and have an almost spiritual air to them.
It tears me apart to know that even her last wish was cut short, that aunt Mary never got to see Bryce. But I know that almost everyone Mary cared about was there for her before the end. I saw the pure love with which Debbie looked upon my aunt, and even though she was a pillar of strength in front of everyone, I'm sure she cried the most of all of us. But I'm just as sure that she never let Mary hear her do it.
The last time I saw her alive, if that state of limbo can truly be called life, was on June 3, 2008. I'm not all that religious, but the fact that I met a minister on the plane back home is no coincidence in my mind. I didn't tell him why I had been in Sacramento, and he didn't ask. I didn't cry on the plane, but he could tell that something was bothering me, and had just the right thing to say. Mary Dwyer passed away at approximately 7:00 in the morning, June 6, 2008, with Debbie by her side. May she rest in peace, and join her mother in heaven.
She was not a sinner, and I'll thrash anyone who says otherwise.
There is a flickr page of photos of my aunt Mary, enjoying vacations, birthday paries, and the company of old friends. Email me if you'd like the link.
My aunt Mary was an adventurous, artistic woman, with a love for life. She had a healthy portion of her father's stubbornness, plus a little more. But even more than that, she had an infectious smile, the kind of smile that would put you at ease even before you jumped out of an airplane.
In fact, she did that once. To hear her tell it, it was a damn good thing that the chute would automatically deploy, because the first time she jumped alone, she wasted no time in passing out. I hear it was fun anyway.
We visited thrice, but I only really got to meet her once. Once I was too young to remember anything, and once I was saying my goodbyes, fresh off a last-minute flight, days from the end. The third time was when we really got to meet. I was 12, maybe 13, and all the kids were in Colorado Springs to sell an old settler's cabin we owned in Cascade. I say "we," but I should say "they." I'm one of the grandkids, and had no stake in the deed to the land. I got to be involved anyway, though, for which I am grateful. The cabin may have been a financial drain, an eyesore piled with junk, and a health hazard to occupy, but dammit, it was ours. The man who bought it was a good man, and appreciated it as it was. He didn't want to bulldoze and build a townhome. He wanted to evict the mice, drink from a well, live in a cabin, shit in an outhouse, and restore and maintain the building in a way the kids never could, after Grandpa shut down his construction company. He had the money. Asked how much we wanted, tacked on five grand, and signed the check. In the time that everyone was in town to coordinate, we didn't get to swap many stories, but we did get to swap impressions of one another, to get a snapshot of their personalities and outlooks. I'm glad I got that chance.
Seeing as my parents and I never kept in close touch with my dad's family, I don't know much about my aunt's life as it was for thirty some years, as we all agree we would prefer to remember her. I know it is an awful, evil feeling to remember someone you knew and cared about in pain, wasting away, suffering; not vibrant, joyful, very much alive. Funerals are too somber in our society, and they remember the wrong part of life: the end of it. It is no coincidence that Mary's memorial was likely closer to an Irish wake than your average American funeral. I'm still sure that there was not a dry eye, though. I wasn't there, not for the California one, which was held this past Saturday. Come hell or high water, though, I will attend the Colorado memorial, and do my best to remember this woman's life, not her death. If you don't know what it's like to have to do that as you watch a casket or an urn be lowered into the ground, and with it a part of you, be thankful. Be thankful that you haven't yet held the hand of a loved one as they looked into your eyes and mustered the energy to thank you being there, just being there, and seen all the things, the regrets, the joys, the melancholy in their eyes that they just can't find the words for.
Be glad that you haven't ever heard someone whisper "I wanted to tell you..." into their brother's ear, but too weak to finish the thought.
But I hope, I hope and pray, that you will get the chance to do all of that. That you will get the chance to say goodbye, no matter how much it will hurt, because trust me, if you have the chance and waste it, it will hurt even more. And if you don't get the chance, I hope you do get the chance to say goodbye, even if it's just to a set of words carved into Pikes Peak granite.
Mary was a talented artist, working in many mediums, including charcoal, pen & ink, paint, and sculpture. She saw beauty in her surroundings everywhere she went. She and her partner of many years, Debbie, traveled every chance they got. If I said she lived even a mildly dull life, I'd be a liar. Even as she knew she was dying, Mary insisted upon going to see Zion and Bryce Canyon. It was a tremendous effort, but they managed it. I can only imagine how much better it must have been to be able to see the desert southwest during a time when most people would only be watching the other wall at home. If you've never seen the rock formations of Utah and you ever get the chance, take it. Just take it, because you might not get another. They are breathtakingly beautiful, and have an almost spiritual air to them.
It tears me apart to know that even her last wish was cut short, that aunt Mary never got to see Bryce. But I know that almost everyone Mary cared about was there for her before the end. I saw the pure love with which Debbie looked upon my aunt, and even though she was a pillar of strength in front of everyone, I'm sure she cried the most of all of us. But I'm just as sure that she never let Mary hear her do it.
The last time I saw her alive, if that state of limbo can truly be called life, was on June 3, 2008. I'm not all that religious, but the fact that I met a minister on the plane back home is no coincidence in my mind. I didn't tell him why I had been in Sacramento, and he didn't ask. I didn't cry on the plane, but he could tell that something was bothering me, and had just the right thing to say. Mary Dwyer passed away at approximately 7:00 in the morning, June 6, 2008, with Debbie by her side. May she rest in peace, and join her mother in heaven.
She was not a sinner, and I'll thrash anyone who says otherwise.
There is a flickr page of photos of my aunt Mary, enjoying vacations, birthday paries, and the company of old friends. Email me if you'd like the link.
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