When I was in college, I had a creative writing class.  It was a small class, less than 20 of us, and we met in one of the cool nationality rooms at Pitt.  The professor’s last name was Hall, and I enjoyed her and the class tremendously.  I don’t claim to have had a special connection with her, but I can tell you that she made me feel special.  She always had not only good things to say about my writing, but she had encouraging things to say.

Sure, maybe that was just her style, and she told everyone that they should submit writing to contests.  Maybe she suggested everyone contact the local radio station, WYEP, to fill a spot reading their poetry.  All I know is that she gave me confidence in my work to do those things because she convinced me she believed in me, so why shouldn’t I believe in myself?  One thing stands out though.  When she opened up a Red Rose Tea box, and picked out the glazed ceramic animal figures, I doubt she thought of every student she had.  As she picked up a peregrine falcon piece, she remembered a short story I wrote that included the falcons.  She gave me that figurine at the end of the semester and I still have it and remember what it symbolizes.  It might have been something simple and small to her, but beyond the fact that I already enjoyed collecting the figures, I was filled with joy to be receiving something back.  She didn’t just read my short story, she remembered it enough to be inspired.  THAT is what I would live for as a writer.  Affecting people by simply expressing my thoughts would fill me with such life.

I attribute that class to a lot of my desire to write, or even blog at all.  I never won any of those contests.  WYEP said they wanted established poets who were published.  For some reason though, none of that felt like rejection.  It felt like satisfaction.  Sometimes, I yearn for that unique feeling.  To be so filled with joy, that rejection rings in a sense of completion rather than discouragement.

My friend Ashley used to be super politically active.  Maybe she still is, not sure.  Prior to the 2008 election though, she was working as a volunteer for Barak Obama’s campaign.  He had a stop planned for somewhere in Ohio, perhaps Youngstown, and she wanted to go, but didn’t have a car.  I had my truck, and I was up for an adventure.  I never claim to be involved in politics, but I was certainly intrigued by Obama, and I had been doing a little bit of homework.

So we filed into a packed college gymnasium to hear his speech.  I couldn’t tell you what he said now, but I remember appreciating his charismatic ways.  After the speech, Ashley wanted to get close enough to shake his hand or talk with him.  I wasn’t all about that, but I stood with her.  As he’s making his way down the line of people, shaking hands, taking pictures, signing autographs, he ends up taking a book from a girl and signing the cover.  I watched this happen and then the girl kind of lost position as Obama’s posse kept moving him along.  He looked for the girl, but couldn’t find a way to give her the book back.

I caught his eye.  I definitely stood out in the crowd due to my stature.  I gestured for him to pass me the book with a lower lip curl, a head tilt, and a flip of my hand.  His eye brows raised and he motioned the book in the girl’s direction, confirming my intent and our understanding.  He handed me the book as I reached above the head of the guy in front of me.  For that split second, we carried the weight of that book together.  I took the burden of the book from him, and then gave it to a very excited college girl.  She immediately thanked me and flipped open the cover to see what he had penned.

I thought I was just going to give Ashley a ride, but I ended up helping the president complete his duties.  Go me.

My senior year in high school, I was dunking.  My hands were too small to palm a basketball firmly enough, so I had to build up the ability to get high enough for both hands to be above the rim.

Let me step back a bit.  We had a new coach my senior year.  I was also spending half days at high school and the second half at a Laurel Business Institute pursuing an associate degree.  On those days that we had basketball practice right after school, I’d either have to miss practice, or show up really late.

Now, most adults have the student’s best intentions in mind.  Like in soccer, my coach didn’t penalize me for missing practices.  He knew that I wanted to play, and I was the kind of guy that would work extra hard to make up for it in a game.  My basketball coach did not share the same view.  Sometimes, my teammates would agree with me that our coach had something personal against me.

Flash to an early season game at Charleroi.  We’re doing our warm-up lay-up drill and I’m feeling pretty energetic.  All of us are always trying to get as high as we can.  In my mind, I didn’t know that it was considered a technical foul to dunk in warm-ups.  I also didn’t do a flagrant, hanging from the rim, kicking my legs, aggressive, spectacle of a dunk.  I just tipped it in the basket.  The ref didn’t like it though, and immediately blew the whistle.  Everyone was confused.  That’s probably the only pre-game whistle anyone will ever hear.  The other team was awarded 2 foul shots, before the clock started, and they made them both.

Our coach was livid.  At half-time, the locker room “pep talk” included references to everyone having to make up for my mistake.  When we came back at the end of the game, having lost by 2 points (the equivalent of the 2 foul shots)  The coach specifically said we lost the game because of me and even physically pointed at me.

I didn’t get to play that game, and many games after that.  Had I been given the chance to prove my worth, I’m confident my season would have gone a lot better than it had.  I think that coach was one of the first people to confuse me with their ridiculousness.  Logically, without those foul shots, that just ties the game.  Even in practical terms, to say I caused our team to lose the game, without me actually participating in the game, seems wrong if not just simply unfair.

Anyway, I dunked my senior year of high school.  If you don’t believe, go ask the old coach. I bet he blames his short lived coaching career on me dunking.

Growing up at my dad’s house, we had an above ground pool.  I think it was about 4 feet high and 24 feet wide.  We loved when the water got low, because that meant that  Jay Gillis was coming over with his water truck to fill it up.  He’d take the hose from his truck, hook it up to the rim of the pool at an angle, and flip the switch on his truck to send gallons of water rushing into the pool, enough to create a decent current for a whirl pool.  It was awesome.

Mr. Gillis was more than our water guy, he was sort of a family friend.  His daughter, Janna,  went to school with us at Bentleyville Wesleyan.  Jay was a quiet guy though, and I think that’s why I enjoyed him so much.  When he would deliver water for our cistern, he’d go sit on our porch or play with our dogs, and I’d go out and hang with him.  Sometimes, I’d take him something to drink.  I didn’t want him to be out there by himself.

Anyway, after my parents had split, and my brother had died, our church attendance was sporadic at best.  One summer day, we did go to church, and Jay was there.  When the pastor asked what good news anyone had to share with the congregation, Jay raised his hand and stood up.  He said that he had delivered water to us the day before, and it just brought him so much joy to see us kids playing and laughing.  I was so stunned to see the quiet guy I admired so much speaking up to everybody about us.

What’s so great about that memory is that we were able to bring him joy.  I know he’s still around, and we have a few degrees of separation socially, so he may stumble across this, but Mr. Gillis played a big role in the happiness and maturing of my childhood.  He was a man that I respected, appreciated, and enjoyed.

hearing the talk about Queen Elizabeth being in Canada and then speaking at the United Nations made me remember the time I saw the Queen.  In May of 2007, Keren was spending a semester in Italy, so the whole family decided to take a trip over to see her.  While I was over there, I was fortunate enough for work to foot the bill for me to stay in London for a few days and meet everyone I work with on a daily basis.  While I was there, my friend Penny took me to see Equus, staring Daniel Radcliffe, of Harry Potter fame (yes, I saw him naked).  Anyway, on our walk home at night, past the London Eye, we hear all these sirens behind us, and then a cop (bobby?) on a motorcycle pulls up and blocks the intersection we were walking past.  I was a little scared, but we kept walking, and then saw some more bike cops roll on by, finally followed by an old style brown car, in which i could easily make out the Queen.  They just zipped right on by.  Penny was shocked.  I think she had never even seen the Queen.  I fumbled for my camera, but it was too late to snap even a blurry pic.  I’ll see if I can get Penny to back me up on this claim.

Alright, this memory is going to be a little graphic, but i have to live with it, so I’m going to share it. With an opening sentence like that, how could you not read more?

So while I was at pitt, I lived in Lothrop Hall. Lothrop Hall had disgusting bathrooms and the stalls did not offer much for privacy. If I remember correctly, it may have even only been a sheet in front of you. Either way, it wasn’t be best place for a #2. The Cathedral of Learning however, had an awesome 2nd story bathroom. It was very hard to get to, so it made it typically pretty sanitary, but it also had the longest hallway of stalls that I think I’ve ever come across. There must have been 15 stalls on either side. You don’t want to pick the close ones, because those are for people that had emergencies, and you don’t pick the ones all the way at the end, because that’s too obvious and frequented. Somewhere in the middle though, you find the perfect balance of cleanliness and privacy. The problem is, others, 1 gentlemen in particular, thought the same thing I did.

So I sitting in one of the right side stalls, doing my thang. Every once in a while, someone will walk by, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s only when a dude takes the stall directly across from me that I’m a little perturbed. I hear some strange noises. I peer through the crack in my door to see what’s up. This skinny black dude is sitting on the toilet, with the door open, stroking his wookie. WTF. I don’t know what his logic was with the door, but when he’d hear someone coming through, he’d shut it, at least enough to prevent seeing what he was doing, but then he’d open it back up again.

I tried to ignore it. I don’t know what triggered it, maybe he didn’t see me at first, but he got up and came over to my door and knocked on it. I didn’t respond and kept my head down. He was peaking through the cracks at me and I think he mumbled something, but I have no idea what. I think he was crazy. After perhaps a second knock, he retreated back to his stall, I assume to continue his work.

What he probably didn’t realize was the implications of his actions. He’s stuck with me now. There’s no way I’m leaving the security of my stall. I have my cell phone and my vocal chords if he tries anything. I’m there for the duration.

I have no idea if he finished his deed or not, but he did end up leaving after a while. I gave it a good buffer time before I left. I thought he might be waiting for me outside, so I chose a public and quick exit.

I never returned to those stalls, I think. If I did, I remember thinking to never go back during that same time frame. Too much privacy has tainted it.

In the summer of 1996, my family took a trip around the country in a Winnebago.  Along the way, we stopped at Mount Rushmore.  In the middle of the night.

I was asleep as we rolled into the parking lot.  I’m not a quick one to rise, so by the time everyone was heading out to see how close they could get, I was just coming to.  In order to catch up, I had to go as I was;  in my underwear.  I was a newly converted boxer man, and I wasn’t afraid to show it.  We all strolled up in pajamas and such, right up through the main souvenir concourse and gazed at the giant faces carved into the mountain.

here’s another memory of when I almost died, or at least, almost caused severe bodily damage to myself.  Twice.

I was changing the tires on my 92 ford taurus at my mom’s house one day.  I had it jacked up, and the wheel was off.  I was sitting down, with my legs out in front of me, and as I was reaching and rolling the new tire to me, a big gust of wind came, just enough to knock the car off balance from the jack.  The…circular part that the wheel connects to…went slamming to the ground and took a big chunk out of the driveway.  I think my feet were just barely in the wheel well area, safe and untouched.

Then, when I had my truck, I learned that just any tire on a truck won’t do.  I must have changed the tires on the truck a dozen times.  I want to say I had the truck fall twice…, but I only remember 1 time for certain.  I was changing the front passenger tire on Erin Street across from my house.  If you’re familiar with where I live, Erin street is at least a 30% grade hill.  Same thing as with the taurus, I nearly lost my feet.

Remember kids, always block off the opposite/diagonal tire from moving before you jack you’re car up.  It doesn’t hurt to block them all off either.  If you can, get to a flat surface as well.

- this message brought to you in part by safe tire changers of america.

I’ve told this story to only a few people.  You might be a little grossed out, but it’s pretty funny.

Sometime when I was in college, my cousin, Adam, invited me to take a trip to Cedar Point with a bunch of his friends.  We met up at like 6 am and drove out to the park.  I was just getting over a bit of a cold, but it wasn’t all that bad, just needed to blow my nose every few hours or so.  We got in line for the Mantis, which is one of the better rides in the park.  The line was unusually long, but it was definitely worth the wait.  If you’re familiar with the ride, it does this fantastic set of 3 inverted loops for the finale.  The G force is so intense and that fact that you’re standing up makes it completely different from anything you’ve felt before.

What made this ride so memorable was what happened during those loops.  Standing in line for so long, sniffing my snot, didn’t seem like that much of a worry.  As soon as I hit those loops though, my nasal passages had nothing of a fight against gravity.  Snot went everywhere.  It was along the sides of my face, on my shoulder, and by the screams of “EWWWWWW!!!” behind me (I was in the front), I’m pretty sure some people got a present as well.  The fortunate thing (for me, at least) is that you do those loops on top of a body of water, so it’s not uncommon to get hit with some moisture.  I don’t think anyone knew what happened, until I told Adam, much much later.

It’s been a while since I’ve put up a post in the "memories" category.  I was thinking about times I’ve almost died.  There aren’t many, I think, but still something worth sharing.

When I was in high school, I dug up my Uncle Jay’s 250 watt 15" Pevey bass amp from my dad’s barn.  The funny thing about this amp was that it didn’t have a ground wire in it.  It just had a 2 prong plug.  I ended up cutting off the plug since it was damaged and put a new grounded plug on the end, which at least gave me a sense of security that it wasn’t going to come out of the wall.

Later on, my Uncle Kenny gave me my first 4 string base.  IT was a black "series 10" bass.  Nothing special about it, but it did the job.  I had gotten it in my head that I’d like a natural wood finish instead of the black matte, so I got some sand paper and started to go to town on the bass.  This was a lot of work.  When it got time to get around the pickups and bridge, I had to undue the strings.  I had the bass plugged into the amp, and the amp on, just so I could hear the awesome tones as I detuned.

So there’s me, in a damp basement, sitting in a metal chair, next to a 250 watt bass amp, that’s plugged into a surge protector on the floor next to me with a bunch of other devices, and 4 nickel wound, 1/8-1/4 inch diameter bass strings flopping around in my lap.  As luck would have it, something like the alarm clock was barely plugged in to the surge protector, and one of the strings found it way in the gap.  You want to know how I was sure something was wrong?  Because one of the base string starting glowing bright orange.  I jumped out of my seat, which was enough to move the bass string, but after some damage to the surge protector, which I still use today.  Here it is:

I think that counts as almost dying.