Field of Steve

When I was in sixth grade I could have probably told you any program that was on in prime time on the major networks. That was true for even the shows I never watched. We subscribed to TV Guide, for one. For the other, it’s not that hard to memorize the schedule for three networks. Now, though, it isn’t just the insane number of channels we have to choose from that makes me less inclined to have the agenda down pat. It’s that life has served up things more important than whether Richie, Potsy and Ralph Malph manage to foil the guys burglarizing the Cunningham’s house.

Still, I love television. I love all the news shows available. I love “Lost” and “Saturday Night Live.” Assuming I remember it’s Thursday I’ll often watch “The Office.”

Despite that, we’re considering turning off the cable television. One reason is the instrument in front of me. All of the shows I mentioned can be seen online, at a time of my choosing.

Second, though, is the concern over whether I’m watching my children become too attached to the screen. The house might be quieter. There might be more noise from the piano. It would benefit me, for almost certain, but I’m more wondering whether this might be the right move for the kids.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Diana wants to watch “ER” on my laptop and I’m going to see if the latest episode of “Mad Men” is available.

Weeks ago I was home on a vacation from work. The whole week was spent in the garage, clearing out stuff and rearranging things, something we’ve been waiting about three years to do. Our next door neighbor, Craig, a 71-year-old guy who is pretty much the caretaker of the neighborhood was bringing a plant to my wife. Shortly after there was a trauma. You can Diana’s account on her blog and the version I wrote on the Kitsap Caucus blog. Seriously, go read those so you know a little bit about Craig and the trauma.

The short version is he fell off his deck. Diana was the first to render help after a contractor was yelling for someone to call 911. Craig’s face was buried in the grass. He wasn’t breathing. We all know to not move people in that situation, but he was not breathing. So she moved his head. As soon as she did he started to breathe again.

Since Craig has been hospitalized, and the injuries were severe, our role has been to take care of their little dog and send out the e-mail updates. Diana sent one out tonight. Shortly after, she received the following comment from an anonymous writer.

“While I admire your ability to post this information, I am apalled at the fact that you would post pictures of you and your family showing off your bloody hands and clothes. What are you thinking?? Do you for one minute think that his family would want to see this??? Did it also occur to you that by moving him immediately following the fall may be the reason that his injuries are that severe?? The first thing you learn in first aid in an emergency situation is that if you suspect a neck or spine injury, you never, ever move the head or neck!!! My prayers are with him and his family.”

Diana did decide to take the pictures down and wrote a response herself, saying she believed at the time she was doing the right thing. This is the first time that has been questioned. Diana was shaken by the comment, sent a note to Craig’s wife apologizing if the blog post was offensive. The photo was one of her with the ambulance in the background. In it you would have seen a little blood on Diana’s hands. I took the photo. Being a newspaper guy, I saw it as the best illustrator of the trauma we were all experiencing.

While Diana was upset, I was incensed, basking in my own self-righteousness, I suppose. I have learned to not write things when I’m angry. Tonight I didn’t care.

Dear anonymous, Perhaps you missed the part where Diana wrote that Craig’s face was buried in the grass. He wasn’t breathing. Had she, and then we, not moved him he would not have survived, because the paramedics took well more than five minutes to get there. Go without oxygen for eight-ten minutes and paralysis will be the least of your problems.

I don’t know if you have ever been in a situation in which you know you’re holding someone’s life in your hands. You don’t make decisions irrationally, but you make them quickly. Diana knew the risks. We all knew the risks, but he needed to breathe. Diana did the right thing. You weren’t there, so keep your armchair quarterbacking to yourself.

You’re appalled? I am absolutely disgusted there are people like you who are so quick to judge and then to suggest that perhaps it’s Diana’s fault that his injuries were so severe. You think those pictures were insensitive? Look in the mirror.

OK, so I know I relied on a couple of standard phrases common in Internet fights. “Perhaps you didn’t notice . . .” “Look in the mirror.” Be kind to me. I wrote it on deadline. The anger was fading, I had to get my wrath out quickly.

“And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the LORD caused the sea to go back by a strong east wind all that night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided.”

Illahee Road near our house. This means our son’s bus ride to school has gone from 10 minutes to a half-hour. Kitsap Sun photo by Larry Steagall.

On Wednesday we returned from a week’s vacation in sunny (mostly) Southern California to this.

While in San Diego at Legoland, my brother-in-law sent a picture to my cell phone of a car submerged in water. It was in Silverdale, and the water flow is the worst there when it rains heavily, so I thought perhaps we had a storm that was a little wetter than usual. Then I talked to him and it took me a while, but I eventually understood that the storm this region was getting was significantly bigger than normal. I made some calls to folks from church to make sure they were OK and to see if someone could come sweep some debris out of a couple of storm drains at our house, but one guy I talked to said he didn’t think he could make it. He lives about a 10-minute walk away, but it sounded to him like the road was out.

The picture here is what had happened.

Our house was fine. The water got a few inches deep in the driveway, but none went inside. We didn’t take the laptop with us on our trip, so I wasn’t checking my paper’s Web site for updates. We relied on phone calls and watched Nightline, surprised that rain in the Pacific Northwest merited a segment on the show.

It wasn’t until we got home that I really understood the strength of the storm. The road outage you see here means my son’s bus ride to school has gone from about 10 minutes to about 30 minutes. Not only was this road completely destroyed here, two others that beat a path to the school were partially damaged, enough to close them for a few months.

In short, this was a big deal.

On Friday before the storm we were at Disney’s California Adventure Park, the new amusement park next to the main park. It rained on us hard that day. We found out Disney stores could run out of ponchos. Across the way another store had them. My daughter and I went on the rides while my wife and sons went after less rapid amusements. It’s pouring rain on us and we decide to go on this river rapid ride. Because everything is so wet, there’s no waiting in what is the slow season anyway. We get around one time only partially soaked (thanks again to the ponchos) and we get asked if we want to go again. I say, “no,” but Sarah wants another round. It was a fun ride, so I agreed. We got a little wetter.

We then head to a couple more rides and get on the California Screamin’ roller coaster, which is probably the best roller coaster I’ve ever ridden. (I don’t get out much.) Again, the rain is so constant that there’s no waiting for any rides. We get off the first time and walk around to get on again. After that I tell Sarah, “I think I’ve got one more in me,” and we get in line again, holding out for the front seat. (That meant waiting behind one set of people.) The last ride was great again, but as the cars begin coasting into the end point, my stomach tells me the last ride may have been one too many. I manage to get off the ride but linger back a bit to let everyone else get ahead. When everyone’s out of sight I lean over a railing in case I need to deposit my breakfast. I’m grateful I didn’t, though I came close.

We went on one more ride before deciding we’d had enough after only three hours. My wife and sons were ready to go, too. (Heck, our youngest is nine months old and will basically do whatever we tell him.)

We were cold and wet, which at Disneyland counts as suffering.

Nothing like coming home, however, to bring on the dreaded disease — perspective.

When Mom died she and I my father had been together about 50 years. I’m not sure how much either one had thought about what life would be like without the other. I am pretty certain neither would have minded the other dating. I’m also pretty sure that neither would have relished the other having to experience the ugliness of dating, or the potential for it.

Dad didn’t seem to be that interested in “dating” per se, but liked the idea of having someone to hang out with. Probably for a while after Mom died he thought about a potential second wife, but I don’t recall it ever being that serious.

A few months ago Dad told us he had joined an online dating service. “Good for him,” I thought. Perhaps there would be someone who could be a buddy of sorts. Dad’s health has declined and he has a hard time getting around. He’s also always struggled with weight, so it’s not like he’s Sean Connery. Nevertheless, he’s a good man. He’s the best, I’ll tell you. So I was a little protective when he began a particular friendship with a woman on the other end of the Internet. They chatted for a while. Neither seemed interested in anything serious. That was good, I thought. They talked about meeting up some day and that day continued to be delayed.

After a few weeks they finally managed to get together. She came to the house. They talked, had a good time, it seemed. As she left she gave him a kiss. Whenever someone has to travel any distance, Dad always wants a call to make sure the trip was safe. Hours passed and she didn’t call. He called her and got voice mail. He may have called again.

On the dating service he joined, it is possible to not accept messages from individuals, with several reasons a user can choose for doing so. Within a couple days after my dad’s date with the woman, she had decided to not accept messages from Dad, choosing the option “other.”

Bear in mind again my father spent 50 years of his life with the same woman. He raised three boys and served his community as a police officer. The online woman he met has been through a couple marriages. He’s been a model of stability and basic goodness. He deserved better than “other.” His experience reminded me so much of my experience of dating in Utah. Things might seem to be going well, but then it all disintegrates and you’re the last to know. If you ever get an honest answer why you’re lucky. I never thought my father would ever have to experience that kind of gracelessness again. Neither did he. Nor is he willing to again. He quit his membership in the dating service. “Good for him,” I say.

I find myself in Southwest Washington on a little thing called “vacation.” Perhaps you’ve heard of it. When you have a regular job that pays you money and for most of your fistula surgeries, one of the requirements is that you spend a designated number of days the hell away from the office. Now that I have five years with my current version of The Man, I am ordered to vacate the premises for four weeks a year. I’m in the middle of week one and boy has it been exciting! I finished a book, I’ve slept late and driven around some. We’re kind of into vacation on the cheap right now, which means our friends become our hoteliers. The beds are so-so, but the concierge is top notch.

Our plan was to go to Seaside, Oregon for a night or two. It’s August and most summer days are sunny, even in the Pacific Northwest. We pictured walks along the beach with the kids playing in the sand. It’s a trip we’ve taken several times before and most times the summer weather has cooperated. I’ve been in the rain on the coast in the summer, but it never lingers.

Not so this week.

Instead, the clouds have been heavy. If we had hotel reservations we would have gone anyway. But we didn’t, and the place we normally go to is full this week. So we’re waiting for better weather to take the 90-minute or more drive. In the meantime the sun has broken through here around Portland, so our hopes are high for a decent day.

It hasn’t always taken a decent day to get me there.

(more…)

Circa 2002 or so. Some of the people in this photo were not acting.

Click on the link to see a little ditty about our boy Apollo. Do it soon before the copyright cops get wind.

Our boy was born Thursday a 6:44 a.m. His name is Apollo Alexander Gardner, appropriate given that he came into the world weighing a wee bit less than 12 pounds.

It will one day seem absolutely astounding that we ever lived without Apollo, the same way it seems about Sarah and Sascha.

For now, though, his presence is a miracle, something to make me reconsider my thoughts on a lot of things.

If I’d had more sleep lately, perhaps the new thoughts would make more sense.

The NASCAR thing has kept me swamped at work, my brother was in town and a pretty big family change is imminent.

International Speedway Corp. of Daytona Beach, Fla. wants to build a NASCAR speedway near us and I’ve been the lead reporter on the issue for paper for more than a year. Through most of 2006 we’ve been following it, but stories would come and go. Now it’s constant while the company tries to get the state to authorize a funding package. I made two trips to Olympia to cover different events. That was a blast and after this weekend I could be back there again.

With that, my brother’s visit and what’s happening probably this weekend, I’ve been too busy to come here. I’ll be back. Within a few weeks I plan to come back on a constant basis. If nothing else, I want to keep posting stories about the News-Press in Santa Barbara, the journalism world’s version of Britney Spears.

Dad got a letter and frankly I was crushed. It was an invitation to join a secret society and the letter was full of invitations to join the world of the wealthy. “It is really amazing how much promise we see in you,” they wrote. That’s what really set me off. They see promise in my dad? Not me? He’s 76, loves cop shows and makes monthly investments into the lottery. I’m 44, work spreading truth to the Kitsap masses have two brilliant children and one on the way and have lots more years left. I didn’t get the invite.

The letter smartly points out that it didn’t come by a mass mailing, that it came by first-class mail. Surely nothing bad can come in a letter that has an actual stamp on it.

The society is called the Nouveau Tech Secret Society. I guess since I read the letter, it’s not so secret anymore, now is it. You’re on my blog Nouveau Tech SECRET Society. You won’t be secret for long!

The letter says the members of the society analyzed my dad’s profile. Translated, that means they bought a mailing list my dad’s name was on. “you’d be unbelievably flattered if you knew who these individuals were,” it reads. Yep, I’m always thrilled when I find out the name of the telemarketer.

From what I’ve read, you get some materials, then you pay $140 for a big book.

On the bright side I got two free tickets to a full-day “celebrity conference,” with George, one of Trump’s gofers on “The Apprentice.” It came from American Fork, Utah. I’m thinking of going just to see if I know someone. Sadly I used to work for an outfit like this, and some of my former coworkers still do.

Things are a mess here in the field of Steve.

On Thursday I began getting a sense that I was about to embark on a food-poisoning ordeal. By 8 p.m. I was firmly seated on the toilet confirming my earlier suspiscions when the lights in the bathroom flickered off. They came back on about five seconds later. A couple minutes later they went off again and it’s about almost three days later and they’re still off.
(more…)

Last night on Letterman they had a reminder, “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.” That explains all the vacuuming, shopping and food prep I did, which wasn’t near as much as Diana did, of course.

So happy Thanksgiving and stuff. The surprise here is after the million days in a row of rain we’ve had, I look out the window and see occasional snowflakes. Perfect day to be grilling steaks, which I will be doing in just about two hours. We opted out of the ham or turkey and smartly decided to barbecue. We’re geniuses.

Diana cooked burgers tonight.
Me: Mmmmmmmmm. Burgers.

Field of Steve

Parent-teacher conferences today. So encouraging.

Field of Steve

No, not me.

I’m thankful for our family up here. First, you’ve got your Duboises and Fentons and McMullins, and now we have Macris, Norseth and Fyffe. They all deserve their own entries.

What you were looking for that here? Someday soon.

Pauline Dubois gets a special nod, because she always compliments my writing. I’d have her give my eulogy except that I don’t plan on dying.

Field of Steve

It has been tough to get back into a routine that would have me blogging again. A couple weeks ago I flew to Utah to help my dad pack his house and move up here. This is one of those times where it’s difficult to remember how tough it all was physically to do all that work. But lest I forget, it was one of the most physically demanding weeks of my life.
The steps at the old house going up to the second floor were a bit steep. There was a lot to pack and carry down, and it seemed to never end. It was heavy, and for three days I did most the work myself.
On Wednesday night I felt like my body could do no more, so I rested. The next day I started off well, but after a trip to the dump I felt the need to rest, to catch a nap perhaps. I caught a few winks, but not long after my brother Mike and his friend (and dad’s real estate agent) Rob Ellertson arrived. I didn’t want them to work alone while I rested, so I began to get up. Prior to that I had felt a chain on the right side of my chest, the non-heart attack side. I figured it was minor muscle cramps. Then it moved to the left side, then it went into my arm.
When I got up from the chair I felt one of the worst pains I’ve ever felt in my inner thigh from my knee all the way up to my pelvis. It was nothing more than muscle cramps, but it was amazingly painful. I soaked up some more Gatorade and about an hour later I was fine, and man was I grateful for Rob and Mike.
Rob came back the next day and helped us work so we could get out of there. Had he or Mike not shown up, it might have been days later before Dad and I could take off.
I drove the 24-foot rental truck here, about 935 miles. On Friday night we left Midway and drove as far as Tremonton. On Saturday night we stayed in Ellensburg, Wash.
The next day we drove over the Snoqualmie Pass, rode the Edmonds-Kingston ferry and made it here to unload the truck.
The next week was tough at work. I called in sick Tuesday and probably should have on Monday, but I’m reluctant anymore to not try to tough these things out. Since then I’ve been recovering.
This last weekend I just spent time trying to get things accomplished around here. The house is looking great, but we’ve still got a lot of boxes to unpack and things to learn, such as how to take care of the jacuzzi. Tough life, I know.

Field of Steve

This past week I flew down to Utah to help my dad pack up his house, then drove his moving truck up here. He’s in. It’s all good, but I am absolutely beat. Every time I walk upstairs it feels like I’ve done squats. I’ll be resting today. I’ll start writing again when things are a bit more settled.

Oh, and BYU sucks.

Field of Steve

Carpet is being put into the house and Elders’ Quorum guys are coming over today to help us move. It’s good-bye to Poulsbo. I knew I wanted to post some photos showing what we’re leaving, but I started looking them and realized Poulsbo isn’t just a place with a nice view, it’s three years of memories. We moved here from Camas in 2002. While Camas was a nice place to live, for me it’s more the place I would push Sarah and Sascha in the double stroller, where Sarah and I agreed the 100-acre woods was right there, but we didn’t want to go in because Tigger might bounce on us.
Poulsbo is where Sarah learned to ride her bike and swim and had her first two years of schooling. It’s the place where Sarah got off the bus, saw me and yelled “Daddy!” It’s where Sascha learned to appreciate knock-over hugs. It’s where he did an amazing impersonation of Donkey, Shrek’s friend. It’s where he was too sick to enjoy his own birthday party.

Poulsbo is doughnuts at Sluy’s, a walk out on the docks to get a closer look at the harbor seals.
It’s Third of July fireworks and running races during Viking Fest. It’s the place where downtown closes off the street to cars and let’s the kids go trick or treating on Halloween. Where we’re going is a better situation for us. The last three years have been real magic. Poulsbo is where I learned to appreciate dusk, where a family grew up a bit and laid down roots.

Poulsbo, Washington’s Little Norway, was home.

Field of Steve

Nothing major, just thought I’d share a couple of the stickers we rounded up while cleaning the house. When we first toured the house there was one of those astrological charts with a position for each month.

Sadly, the poster was gone when we got there, but the former owners left behind a sticker on the master bathroom mirror reading, “Make love, not war. Ask driver for details.”

In one of the downstairs bedrooms was the sticker, “Love is a long and slender thing.” I guess they really like Shawn Bradley.

Field of Steve