Sunflower

I spotted her making her way across the street again, and instantly felt that dread. She was one of those girls that forced herself upon you. I didn't want to talk to her, or be around her. I’d much rather help out dad with whatever it was he was doing outside; tinkering on the ’56, most likely. I remember she used to invite herself over to our house occasionally. I’m pretty sure since Mel was the closest in age, and female, she used to get stuck “playing” with Hillary the most.  I am also fairly certain none of us actually enjoyed her visits. Looking back, I feel a bit bad. Maybe I should have been more tolerant. Let's be honest though, I'm not exactly a tolerant person. 

Like a lot of my childhood recollections, the ones of Hillary are a sparse patchwork of mostly hazy images with one or two very vivid memories. She lived across the street, she was a bit older than me, may have had dirty blonde hair, and possibly a cast on her arm at one time or another. There was the time her and I were playing in Mel and Jess' room with some perfume maker toy, and she had that dirty cast saturated in vaguely flowery smelling water, holding it up to my nose and insisting I smell it. Then there was the sunflower incident. 

("I don’t want to play with her!") I was having a good time being outside with my dad, and I didn't want to have to entertain anyone, especially her. The downfall of being raised with manners, however, is that we were expected to be polite to guests. All I could do was watch her trudge across the street to come ruin my afternoon.  “Why don’t you guys go play in the back yard?” dad suggested. Ugh, I get it. I mean, he wasn't going to be able to get much work done if he had to entertain her too. Sacrificed for the greater good, I suppose. 

So I took dad’s hint and led her back to our back yard. We had a sandbox to play in, and a swing set. We also had this giant green bush with waxy leaves that scared the hell out of me as a kid. I didn't like to go near it because I didn't like bugs, and everyone knows bugs live in giant green bushes with waxy leaves. Hillary didn't mind the big bush though. That bush stunk too, if I remember right. I didn't like the smell one bit. It was a strong weedy smell like if you were to chop down a big milkweed. I hated it when a ball would roll under it (actually, under isn't the proper word. The bush was actually on the ground, so the ball would be swallowed up by it). If Greg didn't go in and get it, I would just as soon let that thing have my ball.

We were playing in the sandbox, and to be honest, I don’t know what we were playing. I was probably just wandering around feeling sorry for myself while Hillary played with whatever cool toys we had in the sandbox. That’s when I heard her exclaim “Hey, cool!” I looked up and saw her holding a faded plastic spinning sunflower thing with a rusted metal wire sticking out of it. I remember those being all the rage in the 80’s, and people would put them in their gardens. They were everywhere. This one had a faded brown center, and pale yellow “petal” blades. I’m not too sure some of the blades weren't broken off or missing. “Where did you get that?” I demanded. “In that bush” she replied, “and I’m going to take it home”. I was furious. Who the hell did she think she was, going to steal our sunflower? No way. There was no way I was going to let her get out of my yard with that thing. “That’s my dad’s”, I said, “You can’t have it”. Well, she was going to prove me wrong. She left the sandbox to go ask him if she could have it. Go ahead, I thought, there’s no way in hell he’ll let you take that home. False. “Hey Jeffrey, he said I can have it!” she called down to me from atop the concrete steps. Then she disappeared. Presumably back across the street with her new, stolen sunflower.

To say I was devastated would be an understatement. I was absolutely and irrationally crushed. I could not believe she stole our flower. That was bad enough, but the fact that dad let her steal it was beyond comprehension. Did he know that it didn't belong to her? Did he know that it was ours? Sure, she found it, but she found it in our bush. It was on our property. I remember coming to my dad with tears in my eyes asking why he let her steal our flower. I remember the bemused look on his face when he looked down and said “she needed it more than we do, son”.

I’m sure he thought it pretty humorous that I would get so worked up over a broken garden decoration that had been long forgotten and tossed into a giant stinky green bush with waxy leaves. And although I don’t think he meant to, he taught me an important lesson that day – there are always going to be people that come and steal your stuff…wait, no, that’s probably not it. I’m sure the lesson was to let other people have the junk you were going to throw away anyways because it’s free to give it away, and costs money to toss it in the garbage…nah, that probably wasn't it either. Well, either way, when I look back on that day I remember my dad being kind. Or he knew how to get Hillary to go home…that’s it! He was a genius! He knew she would leave me the hell alone and go back across the street if he just let her take the stupid broken flower. Wow, I can’t believe I didn't realize it until now….that’s awesome! Thanks dad! 

You Stay Classy, San Diego

One of the things I love most about the company I work for, is they are willing to send me to training classes for my job. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been afforded the opportunity to obtain certifications in my job field each year. Since I don’t much care to travel, I usually look for trainings in Reno, since it’s just a short drive. I like the convenience of staying at the hotel across the street from my training center so I don’t have to drive anywhere. 

This year, unfortunately, the certification class I wanted to take wasn’t available in Reno. The closest city they offered the training was San Diego. I was actually a little bit excited since I hadn’t been to San Diego since I was very young. The initial class I signed up for was for back in August, but got cancelled. The company offering the training rescheduled me for October 1 – 5^th. That was a minor inconvenience, but I just rolled with it. We were able to get my flights changed, but the hotel next door to the training center was already booked for that week. That meant I would need to stay in another hotel much further away. Since I didn’t want to deal with a rental car, I made the decision to still walk to my classes each day. It amounted to about a 15 minute walk, but it was worth it to me.  

My journey began Sunday morning. My flight was to leave Reno at 10:50, arrive in Las Vegas around noon, change planes, leave Vegas at 2:00, and arrive in San Diego around 3:00. The first hiccup occurred in Las Vegas. All flights going out were delayed for, what I’m told, the President being in town. I was finally able to leave Las Vegas around 3:00, so it was about a 3 hour layover. I landed in San Diego around 4:00, collected my bag and quickly found a shuttle service. There was a line of vans, and I just grabbed the first one I came to. The fact that I didn’t bother to take note of any details of that shuttle would prove to be a mistake later on. 

I was the only passenger on this particular trip, so I got to visit with the driver quite a bit. I told him what I was in town for, and he told me about the different local attractions in my area. As we arrived at my hotel, I paid him in cash, and he got out to grab my bag.  I thanked him for the useful information and proceeded to my hotel. I approached the front desk and gave the lady my name to check in. She then asked for a photo ID. That was when one of the worst feelings came over me as I realized I was no longer in possession of my wallet. Since I paid the shuttle driver with cash that was in my wallet, I at least knew I had it in the shuttle. I quickly ran out to the curb, but the driver was already gone. I did a quick search of the gutter and street in case I had dropped it out of the van, but it was nowhere to be found. 

I let the lady at the desk know what my situation was, and she graciously allowed me to check in without my ID. After I got checked in, I talked with the concierge who let me use their computer to contact the different shuttle companies. I couldn’t remember the name of the service, the name of the driver, or even what color van it was. The concierge contacted the surveillance department to see if they had any footage of the van. Unfortunately, the closest camera coverage was from inside the hotel lobby, and the only thing they could tell was that it appeared to be a dark colored van (the camera had a partial view of the front window). They could not, however, read the name on the shuttle. I went through the list of shuttle services and contacted each one to file a lost and found report. All I could do now was hope that the driver found it and return it to me, or that one of the companies would call me back. Until then, I was without cash, credit cards or ID.

Since my company had authorized me to charge incidentals to my room, I would at least be able to eat at the restaurant and charge it to my room. 

By the time I got done making all my phone calls, got showered and changed my clothes, it was getting a bit late. I hadn’t eaten anything since I was in Las Vegas, so I decided to stop by the restaurant. I approached the bar and explained my situation to the bartender. He was very nice, and told me it wouldn’t be a problem. He allowed me to order a much needed beer while I looked over the menu. I settled on the recommended brisket grilled cheese sandwich, finished my beer and ordered another. It was during that second beer that the bartender returned with a regrettable look on his face. Afraid he was going to tell me I couldn’t charge drinks to my room, I started chugging that beer before he had a chance to snatch it from my hands.  “Sir, I feel horrible to tell you this, but the kitchen has closed for the evening”. I began to ease up on my brew, but only slightly. The bartender appeared sincerely sorry, especially after I had told him this was the only place I would be able to eat until the morning. I asked if I could possibly nibble on some olives or maybe a cocktail onion, but I think he thought I was joking as he just chuckled and apologized again. After having had a few beers, genius struck me as it normally does after a few beers, and in an attempt to outsmart the bartender, I ordered a martini. It came with an inedible orange rind. By then, not only had I racked up quite a bar tab, but I was having trouble intelligibly communicating other drinks that may contain food, so I decided to pack it in for the night.  

On my way out of the restaurant, I noticed a small community had formed on the sidewalks up and down the street. There were tents, blankets, shopping carts, and most notably, homeless people. The restaurant was actually connected to the hotel, so the front doors weren’t more than 20 feet apart, yet somehow, in that 20 feet I met a vagrant. He politely asked me for change, and already having had my lips loosened by a few drinks, I proceeded to tell him my entire story, and therefore why I only had 68 cents in my pocket. I did give it to him though because…well, I hate having change in my pocket, and it wasn’t going to do me a damn bit of good. I’m sure the story took only a few minutes to tell, and my memory is a bit hazy after those drinks on an empty stomach, but it seemed like I was talking with this guy for quite some time. At the end of it, he offered me his roast beef sandwich. I told him I would be fine, thanked him just the same and returned to my room. 

I woke up Monday morning ready to go to class and reeling a bit from the drinks the night before. The continental breakfast no longer sounded appetizing, so I decided to skip it. I grabbed a quick shower, drank some water and set out on my 12 block journey to my training. The walk itself was actually a lot shorter than I thought it would be, and was not unpleasant at all. I arrived at the building, and reached the floor I was supposed to be on. Once I arrived, I notified the lady at the front desk I was there for my computer security class. There was no computer security class. I just laughed, and asked if I could take a look down the hall, which she let me do. I was able to find a server/datacenter room and asked the guy if he knew about my class. He said he didn’t, but he knew the company that was supposed to put it on. He called the company for me, and I was able to talk to the representative, who then says “Oh…you didn’t get my email? That class has been canceled”. I thanked him and hung up. I had no ID, no money, and now no training course. I began my walk back to my hotel room. 

The rest of the day was filled pretty much spent on the phone with my work as they were trying to figure out how to get me home without an ID. Annie’s boss did the research and found that since Annie had a passport, a social security card, and a birth certificate, she could fax it to the airport, and I would only have to go through additional security, but would be able to board the plane. It was actually really cool that my company was handling it like they were, and mostly that it was HR taking care of it. They were also going to wire me some more money. Things were starting to look up. I just needed to have the front desk print out the documents for me, and I should be home free.  

About then, my hotel phone rang. Thinking it would be the front desk telling me my documents were ready, I answered. A gruff voice on the other end spoke. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hello?

Voice: Jeffrey.

(Ok, not the front desk)

Me: Hey.

Voice: How are you?

Me: I’m doing good, how about you?

Voice: Are you sure?

(Oh no, did I give that homeless man my room number?)

Me: Yeah, not bad at all.

Voice: You didn’t lose your wallet?

(I told that homeless man I lost my wallet, this is the homeless man. Damnit, now he’s rubbing it in too.)

Me: Oh, yeah, I did do that.

Voice: Well, I have it.

(No! This is the shuttle driver! I can tell by his accent now!)

Me: You.have.to.be.joking.

Voice: Ha ha, not at all. I’m downstairs.

Me: I’ll be right there!

I got downstairs and noticed the man parked across the street. I ran across and he told me another passenger found my wallet. He went through it to see if there were any clues as to how to contact me. He then remembered me from the day before and dropping me off at my hotel. He must have called the front desk, and they transferred him to me. I opened the wallet, and everything, including all of my cash, was in there. I thanked him many times, gave him a 20, and hurried to let everyone know that I had my wallet back.

From that point on, everything went smooth. I was able to get on my plane, and made it home by 8:30 that evening.

When I returned to work today, I was greeted with this flyer: 

Healing Elixir

I'd previously written a short blog about, what is essentially the same story, just not in as much depth. I only revisit the story to explain my absence from what used to be one of my favorite hobbies. 

Much like a writers block, I feel like I've had a 'brewer's block'.  Unlike my writers block, however, it's not too hard to pin down the cause. The last time I brewed a batch of beer was, obviously, with my dad, and it was one of the best memories I have with him. We spent time out in his garage constructing what would be an untested and unproven brewing apparatus. Neither of us knowing if it would really work or not (it did), but (myself, anyways) not really caring either way. We were just having fun building something out in the garage. When it was finished, we tested everything out live - no dry runs for us. The style of beer to be brewed was initially to be an 'American Brown'. I wanted to tweak the recipe a bit, however, and make it a tad bit darker than the last time I brewed a brown - which was for wedding favors.

This wouldn't be a problem. I knew my styles, I knew my ingredients, and I knew my limits. We weren't going to over-hop it, and we weren't going to go with too much chocolate or black patent malt. I was shooting for the 'Brown', but a tad darker was fine. The whole brewing process was a complete blast. I'd never been able to explain the step by step process to anyone, and dad was eating it up. Watching him was like watching a kid at Christmas.  He was soaking in every bit of information as if I were going to be turning him loose on the next batch. He helped any time he could get his hands on a piece of equipment, and was there to offer the occasional words of encouragement. All in all, the process was over in the blink of an eye because I was having just as much fun as he was.  We ran into one little snag, however. The piece of equipment we built worked great, I just designed it with a minor oversight. It was a design flaw on my behalf, but it didn't ruin the batch.

 

While we were in the garage after having poured the wort into the lauter tun, a leak sprung in the new spigot apparatus we just made. The wort was a piping 170°, so trying to plug the hole with 170° liquid shooting all over my hands was a bit uncomfortable. We were able to get everything fixed though without losing too much of the liquid. It was because of that one little mishap that I will forever look back and laugh about how fun that day really was. It didn't go perfect, but it you couldn't tell by drinking what eventually be our 'Porter' (it was just too dark to call an American Brown anymore).

We brewed it, waited out the fermentation period, bottled it, and waited out the carbonation period. 4 weeks later, it was finally time to taste the finished product. I can, to this day, remember my dad's reaction to tasting the beer he had a hand in creating for the first time out of that frosty mug. If the entire process of making the beer wasn't perfect enough, watching him enjoy our hard work certainly was. Those that knew him, undoubtedly know the one word he said after taking that first drink. And outstanding it was. Smooth, but packed full of coffee, and smokey chocolaty flavor. It had decent foam retention, and the carbonation wasn't too much. This was by far the best batch I'd tasted since I stared brewing, so I was pleased.

To this day, there are still quite a few bottles of those beers at my mom's house. I'm not sure if they're any good or not anymore, but the one I had last year was still drinkable.  I just could never bring myself to drink them all. I don't know why, and I understand it's pretty silly...it just didn't feel right.

Since then, I've all but forgotten about brewing. It was what dad and I would talk about when we would smoke cigars. It wasn't something that I did on my own for the sake of doing it; it was something I did so that we could share it.

So here we are, a little over 3 years after he passed, and I have finally decided to blow the dust off of the equipment. I think this time around, I'm going to chronicle the process a bit better. I'll be certain to post my results when it's finished.