Pressure to change

Until recently, I have not been good about making regular visits for medical care or checkups. Two years ago, after a period of not feeling well, I decided it was time to find a local primary care provider. Plus, my boss at the time had been a nurse practitioner and more or less ordered me to go see a medical professional.

So, I made an appointment through a local medical clinic and went in for a checkup as a follow-up to some sever and ongoing bouts of dizziness and nausea I had been experiencing. As my appointment began, a nurse made me get on a scale and got my weight, then took me into an examination room to take other vitals. She took my blood pressure, but it took a couple of attempts to get a reading and the expression on her face was not reassuring. She didn't tell me what she was thinking, or what she knew, but I knew it was not good.

I thought perhaps my blood pressure was a bit high because I was nervous about seeing a medical professional for the first time in many years. And the primary care provider I had been assigned was a woman, as well, which made me nervous because I had never had a female doctor/care provider.

I few minutes later the nurse practitioner came in and took my blood pressure again. Then she told me she was cutting my initial examination short because she was going to send me down the hall to the attached hospital and to the emergency room. My blood pressure was too high and needed immediate attention. As I was preparing to get up to walk over the the hospital, she instructed me to wait because they were going to send me over in a wheel chair.

That news did not help me relax or ease my anxiety.

I soon found myself in an exam room in the ER. Staff members were shaving spots of chest hair with a dry razor to attach heart monitoring equipment, There were more blood pressure checks, including being attached to a machine that periodically took my blood pressure on its own. Then there was intravenous medication. And a litany of questions. I don't remember them all, but I was asked it I had any chest pains several different ways.

After while, when the staff had more confidence I wasn't actively having a heart attack or a stroke, I was left alone in the exam room for periods of time to let the medication do its work. During one of those moments of peace, interrupted only by the beating of the heart monitor and the occasional inflation of the blood pressure cuff, I decided I wanted to see what the monitor behind me and above my head was indicating, so I took a picture of it with my cell phone, since I couldn't turn around with all the wires and tubes and equipment securing me to the examination chair. I managed to get a photo that was clear enough for me to read the numbers, but I certainly had no clue what the readings meant.

After several hours, the numbers had improved enough that I was discharged. I don't recall the exact order of events and what directions I got from the ER doctor and which I got from subsequent visits to my new primary care provider.

But over the last 2 years, I have been prescribed medications for blood pressure, cholesterol, some pre-diabetic symptoms, had blood drawn for tests multiple times, been assigned to a specialist to make sure my kidneys weren't damaged by the high blood pressure, had follow-up visits with my eye doctor to check for blood pressure related eye damage.

I own my own blood pressure monitor now and take my readings twice a day. I've also lost more than 30 pounds in body weight. I'm keeping my blood pressure under control, generally feeling better physically and keeping up with regular medical visits.

I thought I had made note of the initial BP reading they charted at the medical clinic, but I can't find it right now. But you can see from the picture of the monitor that the reading after I had been receiving IV blood pressure medication -- and the numbers started coming down -- was 186/118. The initial reading I got at home after getting my own blood pressure monitor was 207/119. The website I use that tells me what my numbers mean tells me those number are "Way too high" and a "hypertensive crisis". This morning, my numbers were 125/76, which the website describes as "ideal" and "normal."

I learned later that the reason I was sent to the ER by wheelchair was that the clinic staff was concerned I might have a stroke at any moment. That shocked me a bit, but I didn't quite know how to gauge that. I got a new perspective on just how dangerous that likely was earlier this year when two high-profile individuals, Luke Perry and John Singleton where were both close to my age, died of stokes. Perry died in March and Singleton died in April following massive strokes.

It's a bit of a dubious anniversary, but it is also the date I began to start paying attention to my health, probably for the first time in my life.

Emotional legacy of 9/11

The fear is gone. The questions of how and why have been resolved. The feelings of unity of purpose and resolve have long-since disappeared.

But 10 years after Sept. 11, 2001, the pain and emotion remain just below the surface, like water behind a dam just below the level of the spillway. All it takes is the least bit of rain, the smallest wave, to make the emotions spill over again.

I am not delving in to much, or any, of the 9/11 anniversary coverage. I don't want to be overwhelmed by the pain and sadness anymore. I'm tired of tears.

The rawness of emotion exposed on Sept. 11 has never healed in me. Any sad news seems to strike that same sensitive wound created on that surreal day. My heart bleeds at the slightest touch.

This weekend, I'm just trying to get through and not poke that sensitive spots any more than is absolutely necessary.

Thanks, to a very special nurse

There's one nurse I appreciate above all others this National Nurses Week. I've never been her patient, but I know Monica's nursing knowledge, compassion and caring firsthand.

She's my daughter's mom. She was, and is, amazing for that one, important fact and more than 19 years of making difficult choices. She's deserving of respect and admiration for that alone. She's part of my family. Our relationship, our family dynamic, is not always easy to explain. Our relationship was not always so good or so close.

The reason I appreciate her as a nurse was a turning point in our personal relationship. Circumstances allowed me to get past a lot of old, personal baggage and see her in a new way due to her professional abilities and personal compassion.

About a dozen years ago my dad was in a serious car crash. I was living in California and got the call that my dad was in a hospital in Eastern Oregon. I could tell, even over the phone, that my mom was worried. I made arrangements to get home as quickly as I could and asked Monica if she could pick me up at the airport. She graciously accepted and drove me straight to the hospital where my dad was in intensive care.

Monica had been an intensive care nurse at another hospital. She went with me into my dad's room in the ICU. The room looked pretty much like any other hospital room, but my dad looked anything but normal.

There was a tube down his throat to help him breath. His bald head bore the unmistakable signs of road rash. He was scraped and bruised all over. His hands were puffy and swollen, so that his wedding band cut into his ring finger, turning the flesh slightly cyan. The ring would eventually have to be cut off to keep him from losing his finger.

Beside his bed hung an assortment of bags pumping fluids and drugs into his body. Monica read the labels and her face sank. And my heart sank right along with it. She could tell that he was in bad shape by the medication they were giving him. Before I could muster the courage to ask her how bad, she summoned up her nurse's professionalism and started going down the litany of things hanging on the racks, telling me in layman's terms what they were and what they did.

One was a paralyzing medication, to keep him immobile while on the ventilator. There were IV fluids and another medication to make his kidneys produce urine so the fluids didn't build up in his system, which obviously was not working too well based on his swollen, bloated appearance. The others are lost to time, faulty memory and the shock of the moment. These were intense drugs for someone needing intensive care.

He had white stocking-like things one his legs designed to prevent blood clots in people who are lying still for long lengths of time. A urine bag hung at the foot of the bed.

I don't think I've ever felt so helpless. When Monica dropped me off at my parent's house I tried to thank her for picking me up, taking me to the hospital and explaining the medical treatment. I tried to thank her for being my friend. I tried to speak but couldn't, the words caught in my constricted throat and got hung up on my trembling lips. She offered me a hug, which a gladly accepted. In her embrace I broke down, crying like the small boy my parents brought to that very house 25 years earlier.

In short order, I'd been hit with all sorts of stuff. There was the realization that my dad might not make it and I could not do anything about it. I had never stopped to consider that someday he might not be around and I might become the man of the family.

At that moment, I found that the woman entrusted with our daughter's primary care was also the person to whom I entrusted my own vulnerability and fear. She was the person I also turned to for advice for my father's care.

Dad eventually got better and was discharged from the hospital, although he didn't know I had even been there. He'd been in a drug-induced coma for much of his care. While Monica was not his nurse I am convinced that neither he, nor I, would have come out of the ordeal nearly as well without her help. Neither dad, nor I, are very good at asking for help. Lots of people helped my dad in the immediate aftermath of his crash, from the good Samaritans at the scene, to the ambulance crew, to the doctors and nurses at the hospital, to the family and friends that came to his bedside at the hospital.

When we are at our weakest, our most vulnerable, we need people to look out for our interests and our well being. Sometimes we need them to make critical decisions we can't make for ourselves. Sometimes we aren't even conscious enough to see their faces or know their names. Oftentimes those people are nurses.

I feel fortunate that my daughter, who seems to catch every bug that passed through the area, has a mom, who is a nurse, to watch over her. And I am grateful that a dozen years ago, when my dad and I needed help, Monica -- and other nurses who's names I never even learned -- were there.

Thank you, Monica, and all nurses, who give so much of yourselves to care for others.

The man with the long beard makes an unlikely Santa Claus

I haven't written a post here in about two and a half months and that post was about a trip my dad and I made to Nebraska for his brother's funeral, and in the time since that post was made two of the people we saw on that trip have also died.

The latest call came today. My dad called me while I was at work. He never does that. My parents rarely call, but when they do it's almost always bad news.

When I got the call in early November about my Dad's brother in-law Doug dying, that was not too much of a shock. He was not in good shape when we saw him in September. He was 86 and in failing health. It was sad, but not a stunning development.

One of the reasons I felt it was important to make that trip was to see and spend some time with family because I knew some members of the family might not be there the next time I was able to get back there. My dad is the youngest of his siblings and my parents are now both in their early 70s. I think I've only been back to Nebraska four times in the last 27 years. All four of those trips were for funerals. There have been funerals I've missed too, like my grandmother's. I'm not a big fan of funerals. I'd skip my own if I could, but missing Grandma's was hard, even though I had said a tearful goodbye to her when she left Oregon for Nebraska not long before her passing. I didn't go back for my Uncle Doug's funeral either, but was glad I got to sit and talk with him and hear him my dad share stories just a few weeks before he died.

The call today threw me for a bit of loop though in a very different way. Dad was calling to tell me that my cousin, Mike, had died. I have a lot of cousins that are quite a bit older than me, but Mike is not one of them. He's actually younger. It's also upsetting because a member of my family is gone and I didn't really know him that well, and now I never will. Sadly, there are far too many members of my family that I don't know very well. Too may years and too many miles separate our time spent together.

The amazing thing I experienced on the last couple of trips to see family is that the years and the miles didn't seem to matter. The family bonds are still there.

My cousin Mike served as host on the last trip my dad and I made to Nebraska together. Mike gave up his bed during our stay and he made sure we felt at home. He also helped us catch up on the happenings within the family and took us out on the town one evening.

I was quite impressed with Mike. His mother has been quite ill, recovering from a stroke, and Mike has been taking care of her. He had become her full-time caregiver. I remember asking myself: "Could I do that?"

I didn't know the answer, if push really came to shove. The best I could come up with was maybe. And then again, maybe not.

Mike had also cultivated a distinctive look for himself with an amazingly long beard. He looked like he was auditioning for a spot in the ZZ Top lineup. I kept expecting him to flip it over his shoulder, or swoosh the hairs back and forth in dramatic fashion like Pai Mei in Kill Bill Vol. 2. How did he manage to ignore that thing dangling from his chin?

I know Mike had a keen interest in music and played guitar, but I never heard him play. There is much I don't know about him. Over the years I've been much closer to some of his siblings. His sister Tammy was my babysitter when I was young. Mike's brother Bill was a little older than me, but I always looked up to him, almost like a big brother. I always wanted to hang out with Billy. I wanted to be like Billy. He just seemed so cool to me. Mike's brother Randy was older still, and I didn't know him as well when I was young, but we have got to know either other quite well in more recent years. Randy moved in with me for a while when I was living and working in Hermiston about 20 years ago. He is funny and can always make me laugh. Because he was older, and had maintained his ties to Nebraska, even over years of working in Oregon, he knew more about the older generations of the family. He was my connection to the family. Their oldest brothers, Steve and Keith, were already out of the house by the time of my earliest memories. They were more like uncles than cousins.

When we were children, I didn't spend much time with Mike. He was the same age as my brother Ron and I felt too old, too mature to hang out with the younger kids. Ironically, I did every thing I could to hang out with Bill, who was about as many years older than me as I was older than Mike. Bill was much more magnanimous with his time than I was with mine.

I regret that now. The regrets are piling up with age. I used to arrogantly tell a former girlfriend that I had no regrets. It may have been true then, back in my college days, but then there wasn't much life lived to realize the mistakes that would haunt me. Now the haunting spirits of regret emerge with frightening regularity.

I got an e-mail from Mike a few days ago. It included a whole bunch of pictures of a guy who builds scale model airplanes out of metal. I thought about writing back just to see how things were going. But I was annoyed too because all the photos attached to the message were clogging up my e-mail program and it was taking forever to see the text of the message and the photos. In frustration I just tossed the message into the trash and never hit the reply button. Hindsight, being what it is, I certainly regret that now.

If I could go back a few days, I would write to Mike and say something, anything. And if I could go back to those college days I would not be so boastful about lack of regret with a certain young woman. Isn't that how it goes? Once so proud of a lack of regrets, now here I am facing regrets about things said and things left unsaid.

It's easy to forget that I come from a big family. I'm glad I got to go back to Nebraska in September to spend some time with Mike and Uncle Doug and so many other members of both sides of my family who I now so rarely see. We don't get all the time we want to do all the things we want with all the people we want. I'm thankful for the time I got and for the chance to learn how strong family ties can remain, in spite of time and distance.

Grieving can be a lonely experience, but it's mitigated when it's shared with others close to you. I'm so sorry for the loss Mike's death will mean to family and friends, particularly to his mother who has been able to live in her own home with Mike's help.

I really haven't been looking forward to Christmas this year for a very pathetic reason. Finances are tight and I am not going to be able to buy gifts for as many people as I would like to and won't be able to spend as much on the gifts that are given. I was even thinking about not going to see my parents and brothers to avoid any awkwardness over gifts or the lack thereof. Silly. And sad that it takes the loss of a cousin to remind me of what I should already know. Certainly there will be a some grieving over this holiday season, but I shall attempt to make this also a season for celebrating life and family -- those I will be fortunate enough to see for Christmas, those far away, and those gone but not forgotten.

Mike, Steve and Keith West at graveside services for Clyde West in September 2009 at the Mitchell, Neb., cemetery.

Heading back up the Oregon Trail

My dad and I headed back to Nebraska for his oldest brother's funeral last week. It was good to see family, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.

I heard a god today

To say I didn't like country music when I was young would be the ultimate understatement. I hated it. I was a rocker. I was a head banger. I like AC/DC and Van Halen. I liked Ozzy Osbourne, Cinderella, Queensryche and the like.

Country was my parents' music.

But one summer when I was in college I met a guy from Texas. Our musical tastes were not directly compatible. Tom's musical tastes tended more toward alternative music. It was music I was somewhat familiar with, since some friends at the college radio station had similar tastes. But it's wasn't stuff in my personal musical catalog.

Tom and I were both interning at the Corvallis newspaper. (I wrote some about Tom and Texas in this post.) One day we had no particular assignment, so we were just cruising around the city and talking. We got talking about music and both expressed a dislike for country music. But Tom surprised me by saying there was one guy who's stuff he liked. The artist's name was George Strait.

I'd never heard of this George Strait guy. We ended up going to a record store and bought a couple of cassette tapes "Ocean Front Property" and "Greatest Hits". We drove around Corvallis with the music playing and before I knew it I was singing along. Good thing we weren't on the normal payroll because we were not working. As we listened to those tapes, the music got into my head. It shouldn't have. It contained all the things I thought I hated about country music -- those steel guitars and that twangy sound. When Tom left town, he left the tapes with me and I kept listening. The music was infectious and I grew not just to like it, but to love it.

I've been listening to George Strait music for nearly 22 years now and have seen him in concert more than any other artist. I saw him perform first at the Pendleton Round-Up at at his country music festivals featuring other up-and coming artists in San Bernardino, Anaheim and Las Vegas and with another artist at the Forum in Inglewood, Calif.

CBS broadcast the all-start concert tribute to George Strait as the Academy of Country Music's Artist of the Decade tonight. Congratulations Mr. Strait and thank you for decades of great music. And thanks, Tom, for introducing me to the King of Country Music. Fifty-seven No. 1 songs, and he's not done yet.

Now, in this digital music age, I don't buy as many full albums as I used to. But George Strait's music I will continue to buy by the album because each one is well worth the price. Here's to many many more years of George Strait music.

Prom night

Tonight is prom night for my daughter and her boyfriend. Here are some pictures of them getting ready for the big night with a little help from my daughter's mom.

Much too old to feel this damn young

My daughter turns 18 today. I'm not quite sure how that happened. I mean, I've been witness to her growth and maturity over the years, so I know it's her and she is, indeed, a young woman. But I don't feel like I'm old enough to have an adult daughter. Some days I don't feel like I'm adult yet myself, particularly in my after-work-hours life. At work, I feel mature and in control, but afterwards, not so much.

Oh, sure, I see signs of the middle-aged dude I undoubtedly am when I look in the mirror. The gray hair is not young-guy hair. The wardrobe is no longer a young-guy wardrobe. But inside my head, I still feel as mixed up, confused and insecure as I did on the day she was born. OK, maybe not that confused.

That was a very confusing time. Little did I know that tiny little girl would change my life so such massive ways.

Our story could have been much different. I feel lucky to have her in my life at all. The time around her birthday has always been a special time. Even when I lived far away, I used to time my vacation to spend her spring break with her, which always fell right before her birthday. Now that I've moved back to Oregon, I get to see her much more often, but I miss those intensive week-long visits sometimes, especially near her birthday.

Suzanna is a senior this year and will graduate from high school this summer. Then it will be college and all too soon she will be starting her only life with her own career aspirations and life. There is no guarantees that we will be able to be together for birthdays and holidays and family outings.

I've learned to appreciate every moment, every conversation. Each one is one more than I thought I would have.

Suzanna is very much her mother's daughter. She is beautiful and smart and a loving, giving person. I could not be prouder of her.

Happy Birthday Suzanna. I hope you have a great one and I look forward to celebrating with you this weekend.

Remembering The Day The Music Died

He died before I was born, but Buddy Holly's music has been part of the soundtrack of my life, just like it has been part of so many people's lives for generations.

When Holly, Ritchie Valens and the J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson were killed in a plane crash on Feb. 3, 1959, it became known as The Day the Music Died.

Of course music lived on, as did the music of Holly, Valens, and even The Big Bopper. But losing those talented people at the peak of their creativity and fame must have been a crushing blow to their fans.

The day the music died for me came more than 30 years later, on Aug. 27, 1990 when Stevie Ray Vaughan died under similar circumstances, in a helicopter crash following a concert. My roommate at my first newspaper job had introduced me to Vaughan's music less than a year before. His blues-infused guitar captivated me. And just after I found it, found him, he was gone. And I felt an emptiness and loss as sure as if a friend or family member had died.

I still love and listen to Vaughan's music. It still moves me. But there is no sense of sadness when I listen to the energy and power of Vaughan's distinctive sound. I feel happy. It makes me feel energized.

I can't help but wonder what more Vaughan could have done musically if he had lived. But his music lives on. As does the music of Buddy Holly, who was only 22 when he died. So much music lost.

I bought some Buddy Holly music today. It was an obvious gap in my music library. Rest easy Mr. Holly, you and your music did "Not Fade Away".

And in spite of Don McLean's iconic tribute, "American Pie," that day 50 years ago was not The Day the Music Died. It was a day a generation -- several generations -- learned to love and appreciate the music and all those who made it and left the stage far too soon.

Pumpkin magic

It wasn't my normal time of year to come home for a vacation. In the years I lived in California, it became my routine to come back to Oregon during my daughter's spring vacation, which was always close to her birthday. And whenever possible, I would try to come home as close to Christmas as possible.

Why I came home in October eight years ago is lost to posterity. But for a change I came home near my birthday. I got to thinking about that trip over the weekend. I had to do some research to figure out just when it was I made that trip.

The reason it came to mind is that over the weekend I visited one of the same spots, with many of the same people important to my life. We went to the Pumpkin Patch on Sauvie Island in Portland to pick out some gourds for carving. There was a certain symmetry to the visit. I wish I had a scanner to scan in some of the photos I took on that trip eight years ago. I would love to post them side by side with some of the pictures I took this weekend.

Eight years apart, but it was like that pumpkin patch was a portal through time. Same place, different times, all side by side in my mind and my emotions.

Online social life is booked solid

Holy cow, I haven't posted here in ages, and to make my online live just a little crazier, I've added LinkedIn and Facebook account. How will I ever keep up?

I held out as long as I could. I avoided LinkedIn and Facebook (and before that MySpace) well past the point where they were hip. But too many people I know are on those services. And I'm glad I've signed up, because at least it makes it possible to see (even if it's only in photos) a lot of friends I don't get to see often enough, especially some friends from my days in Southern California. Life just moves on, and I don't get to see the people who have been, and remain, important as often as I would like -- as often as I should.

So, it's been nice getting back in touch with some friends and former colleagues. But, I'm not sure I can handle the pressure to provide updates, upload photos, send do-hickeys and whatchamacallits to people.

If I had as many active social contacts in my offline world as I do in the cyber realm, I'd never be home.

Reliving the gory, glory days

This upcoming weekend, the Fourth of July weekend, is one I've been looking forward to for a long time. Now, for some unexplained reason, I find myself having mixed emotions about it.

I've been looking forward to it for months now because there is a reunion in my old hometown and I'm hoping to see a lot of old friends from school, many of whom I probably haven't seen in 20 years or more.

Our school was quite small, so we can't really have traditional high school reunions, where a particular class gathers at those various milestone years -- 5, 10, 20, 25 years, etc. If we did that for my class, there would only be 17 of us there, and spouses perhaps, and that's if everyone showed up, and if I'm rightly remembering the number of people in my class. Obviously, everyone would not show up. So, every so often a school/community reunion is scheduled where everyone from any year, or who has ever just lived in the community can show up. So, that might improve the odds that more than 17 people will be there, but it also means that people far younger, or older, than I and whom I don't even know will be there. It's not just classmates, or even immediate year schoolmates.

I already know at least one of my classmates, and the guy who was my best friend from second grade through college, won't be there. He has a family event to attend for the holiday weekend.

Maybe part of the reason I'm having mixed feelings is because I'm skipping out on a family event myself to attend this school/community reunion. But this is only the second school reunion like this I've heard about since I graduated. The only other one I knew about occurred when I was living in California and the time off just wasn't in the cards, or something. I don't really remember when it was or why I didn't go, but I didn't.

I am excited to see at least one person who I know is expected to attend. One of my old running buddies who now lives in Germany is bringing his wife and kids home to visit his family and they scheduled their visit to coincide with the reunion.

The friend in question was a few years ahead of me in school, and had a bit of a wild boy reputation. Why he ever let me hang out with him, I'll never know. But we had a good time pursuing, if never quite capturing the elusive females of the species on warm summer days and nights in a beat up Chevy Vega, or whatever vehicle I could manage to borrow from my folks.

In fact I even served as best man at his first wedding, a casual backyard affair. I had no clue what a best man was supposed to do, and in hindsight I was a lousy one, but I stood up with my friend and witnesses the momentous occasion, all the while fawning over his then-new bride's younger sister.

My ol' buddy and I got reacquainted not so long ago over the Internet. In fact he was the one who told me about the reunion. Obviously he's got better connections around the old homestead than I do. Given the time difference, we often catch up with each other just as he is starting his work day and I'm thinking I should head off to bed.

Getting a chance to get caught up should be worth the trip. And who knows, maybe there will be some still single, or single again, women there too. And I can get absolutely nowhere again with the girls-turned-women of my old hometown.

Sometimes I get quite nostalgic for home, that home of my youth, and the people I spent it with. But I don't miss the boy I was, perpetually shy and terrified of members of the opposite sex. The boy who was unsure of himself and his place in the world. That boy is, for the most part, gone. But his ghosts haunts the present day from time to time, like when I'm confronted with a new situation, or meeting new people in a purely social context. It's those times I wish I had my old running buddy or my old best friend to lead the way with their outgoing, seemingly unflappable natures. Their confidence, bordering on arrogance, was something I've never perfected, except sometimes in the working world. Sometimes, when I know I need to take a leap, not like the one at the swimming hole along the Umatilla River of my teens, I need someone to leap first to show me the water is deep enough. And sometimes I need someone to give me a little nudge to leave the relative security of solid ground to step out into thin air and feel the rush.

A night reminiscing reminiscing about sunny days gone by

It's rather amazing to find that when I have a life, and life it, I don't have much time to post to the blog.

Last weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of taking my daughter out to lunch for her birthday. And while I did find time to write a post about that, I haven't spent much time in recreational writing since then.

On Friday, a couple of friends and former coworkers were coming through Portland and I met them for dinner and drinks. We spent far too few fun-filled hours sharing stories of the old days (roughly about 3-8 years ago) when we worked together. There were tales of people we encountered along the way.

Two members of our party are now living here in the Northwest, still enduring a winter than refuses to yield to spring, in spite of the longer days an blossoms on the trees, now being beaten off the branches by those mythical April showers. But the third member of our triumvirate still lives in sunny Southern California. I'm sure you can tell who is the sun worshipper by the photo.

It fascinates me how sometimes time can melt away when friends or family get together after an absence. Weeks, or months -- even years -- can disappear, almost as if no time at all has passed. But for our little trio, a surprising amount of time has passed. It's been about five years since we shared a good meal, good drink, good stories and good laughs.

My friends, Julie and Cindy, and I worked together at a newspaper in Palm Springs. Working in an environment of deadline pressure and high expectations forged some tight bonds, and forced some others to unravel.

I feel lucky to have made some good friends during the years I spend in California. But there is a sadness to it too, realizing that circumstances and distance have scattered us to all corners of the country. I don't see so many of the people that I grew to admire and respect, personally and professionally.

But for a few hours on Friday, time not only stood still, but the clock turned backwards to a time when the 21st century was just beginning and the sun shone every day. And the days the sun didn't shine were so unusual that it made news.

Reaching for the breaching

I've had this urge. It's a craving. A pull. A need. It's a hunger that I have been unable to fulfill.

I've had this urge to write. Not a work of fiction. Not something related to my job. Something more personal. But I haven't been able to start.

It's sort of like when I have insomnia. No matter how tired I am, there are times when I can't bring myself to even try to sleep. It's been like that. I haven't been able to bring myself to write whatever it is in the middle of the whirlwind swirling around in my brain.

At so many points in my life, writing has been my solace. My therapy. It's as if the words flowing out through the ink from a pen, or that are tapped out through the stream of consciousness on a keyboard carry me like a river on some great expedition of self discovery.

I have the distinct impression, a feeling, that I'm coming up on some sort of turning point. A new phase. Like I want -- need -- to do something bold. But I need to write it out to figure out what that thing is.

I've done a little research for a blog post I want to do based on something I found online a few days ago. It was something that reminded me of my dad and family and my early childhood. I've bookmarked a few sites that I want to link to in that post. But that isn't the story I feel the need to tell. It's not the source of the craving. The urge.

This post ain't it either. I thought maybe if I started trying to explain the feeling that the source of the feeling would reveal itself.

If only the words would come. The right words. Then maybe I could find what I'm looking for.

An enjoyable journey down October Road

This season's TV viewing has been pretty much a bust. The writer's strike left a lot of long winter nights without some familiar faces and video friends to keep us company.

I'm currently watching the season finale of October Road. I find it ironic that the second season is ending after showing about one season's worth of shows since it's debut.

In this strike-shortened year, it is an odd irony that one of the bright spots of the last few weeks has been a show that is very well written. I hope that's not a kiss of death for the show as the last well-written show I became a fan of was the Aaron Sorkin drama, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. That show died an all-too-quick death.

But October Road is different, because it's a show about normal people and the normal dramas of life. It's not another cop show, or a hospital show or a show about a show. It's a show a bout a small town guy and his mixed feelings about returning home. Trying to get a life back he left behind and reconnect with the people he loves who he once walked away from in pursuit of a dream.

I can related to that. And it features great music.

I like October Road. I hope it has a long and winding journey.