Dave

Last week, I needed to pick up my oldest son from school after work. To avoid rush hour traffic, I meandered through some back roads of the northern suburbs. As I drove one road in particular, I thought back to the first time I'd ever been on it.

Back in the mid-eighties I moved to Saint Paul and started my first real job after college. The company was located not far from where I work today. The company is long gone, as is the young test engineer I was back then. There were a lot of things I loved about that job, the company was good to its employees, the product was innovative, the employees dedicated. It was here that I first met Dave.

Dave was a manager but I technically never reported to him. I did, however, work with and support his team. After six months of work, Dave pulled me aside one afternoon to tell me that while he was pleased with the work I was doing, I had made one flagrant mistake - I'd accepted too low of a starting salary. He'd already talked to upper management and my base pay had retroactively been raised 15%. At the time I was dumbfounded. Partly because after living off next to nothing during college, I was already making more money than I could comprehend and partly because this man I barely knew had gone out of his way to help me, even when I didn't know I needed it. But then I would soon learn that was just the way Dave was.

Not long after our meeting, my old Monte Carlo finally died and I purchased a spiffy used 1983 Escort. I hadn't had it very long when one afternoon it wouldn't start as I was leaving work. I popped the hood and within about five minutes Dave was there by my side. He spotted the problem quickly - a loose and corroded battery connection. Even though our company likely had plenty of tools, Dave was sure that he had just the right steel wool and wrenches in his garage. Before I knew it, we were climbing into his truck and heading off on a mini road trip.

The route to Dave's house took me down the same road I was driving last week. I still remember riding along in his meticulously clean vehicle. When we got to his house, he had no trouble locating the supplies we needed - his garage was tidy and ordered. We didn't run back to work. Instead, he invited me in and found a couple of beers in the fridge. Eventually we made our way back to my car, where Dave got me up and running again.

We worked together for about five years. During that time I knew Dave always had my best interests at heart. Truthfully, he cared about everyone he knew. He gave me a nickname - the only one I've ever seriously had. Only he used it, but he did so with such ease that it felt like it was mine. Sadly, our company decided to relocate to California. Most of us scattered to new jobs in the metro area. Over the years, I kept in contact with Dave and even flirted with working with him again but the timing was never quite right. In the past few years, our communication had dwindled - not much beyond Christmas cards. Still, I thought of him often - like during my drive last week. In my heart I knew I should make an effort to contact him.

Yesterday, I received an email from another friend from those days letting me know that Dave had passed away unexpectedly. I sat and stared blankly at the screen most of the afternoon - allowing a mix of sadness and regret to wash over me. I know that life is short and precious - I just hate being reminded of it.

The Girl Who Hates Vegetables

I know it's never wise to assume things about people but I've never claimed to be particularly wise. I assume the girl on the assembly line at the local Subway hates vegetables. The store is close to my work and I frequently stop in for lunch. If you just watched her face as she touched the "free fixings" you'd think she was handling raw chicken or toxic waste. She makes no attempt to mask the look of disgust as she adds minuscule amounts to the sandwiches. The first couple of times I asked her to add more. Now, I just accept my lot and instead consider it the price I pay for the entertainment of watching her in action.

She seems to dislike some items more than others, like spinach for instance. I prefer it over lettuce. I recently watched her lay four spinach leaves, edge to edge, across my six inch sub - all the while grimacing as if she was fighting back the urge to vomit. The spinach was followed by two tomato slices, each pinched between thumb and forefinger to limit contact even though she was wearing gloves. Asking for onion is almost pointless, a single strand draped across bun. Finally, two banana pepper slices and a single jalapeno slice round out the sandwich. She always looks up, ready to add something else, but her eyes are pleading for you to be done. I get the feeling that, in her mind, she has dumped heaps of veggies onto the sandwich - more than any person could care for. I also think she feels that with each added topping the quality of the sub is diminishing. When you tell her you're done, you can sense her relief.

Sometimes, as I stand in line waiting to order, I listen to the people in front of me: "can I get more lettuce?"; "a little more onion, please". Each of these requests is met with a look of disgust and mild shock and she reluctantly complies. You would think she would realize that if almost everyone is asking for more, she must be adding too little initially. Instead, she continues to ration, unable to comprehend that her tastes differ so from the average customer.

I've contemplated ordering a veggie sub but I'm afraid of how she'd handle it.

Old Pictures

As my wife and I approach our twenty year wedding anniversary, I've had occasion to browse through old photos of our time together. I mostly only look at the last decade or so since that's about the time we bought our first digital camera. Having an archive of pictures online and accessible from my laptop makes taking the occasional stroll down memory lane pretty simple. It's been so enjoyable that I briefly considered going through all our old albums and scanning their contents. It would be great to have digital access to everything but when I think about the amount of effort it would take I can't see it ever happening. I guess I need a more compelling reason before I'm going to work that hard.

Looking at old photos of one's self can be a humbling experience. A number of times I've looked at a picture and thought, "What am I wearing?" Apparently, we must have gone for some time without any full length mirrors in our house. That's the only explanation I can come up with for some of my wardrobe choices. I actually renamed one file "awkward.jpg". It's a shot from long ago of my wife and I standing near some trees at a state park. She looks great. Me, not so much. I'm wearing some almost powder blue shorts that are just a wee bit too short and just a little too snug. I'm not certain if the snugness is behind odd posture I've chosen. It's as if the upper and lower halves of my body couldn't decide if they should face my wife or the camera. It's makes me uncomfortable but I'm thinking about printing it and placing it in my bedroom as a reminder to honestly check the mirror when dressing for the day. I feel bad for the goofball in the photo, even worse when I remember how much I liked those shorts and how often I wore them - in public.

Browsing through the years, I can watch my hair thin a little, gray a lot. My weight went up then down then up again and then back down. Beards came and went. I parted my hair on the left because the right side receded more. Eventually, the left side was worse and so I started parting on the right. Finally, I went with a shorter cut that doesn't really part anywhere. My wife went through a variety of hair styles from short to medium length, straight to permed. It's easier to note changes in fashion from my wife's picture - shoulder pads, floral prints, etc.. If you just looked at me, you might think fashion was fairly static for quite awhile. Apparently, for about five years, I only had one shirt I deemed appropriate for special occasions. At least, I assume that's the reason I'm wearing it in posed Christmas photos from multiple years.

The last time I was looking at these pictures, my sons joined me. They seemed to enjoy seeing what Mom and Dad used to look like. To them I'm sure we've always kind of looked like we do now. For the most part that's true but I think it's good to remind them that we were once younger. It hopefully gives us a little more credibility when we try to help them with the many issues involved with growing up. My younger son has known us for the shortest amount of time so, to him, the old pictures seemed the most foreign. He relied on his brother for confirmation that these were indeed Mom and Dad. Apparently, he thinks this is the sort of thing I might try to fool him with. Even though I was sitting with them, I tried to remain silent as I pulled up different images. It was fun to listen to their reactions. Here's a snippet I remember from a shot of me during some of my heavier days:

N: Is that really Dad?
B: Yeah.
N: Really? Because it kind of looks like Dad but not really.
B: Yeah. (pauses and looks at me) I don't think you were running much back then.

Only to the refrigerator.