Weddings

I can't stand weddings anymore. How could anyone get excited about a wedding these days? Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with marriage, it's just the "show" that I can't stand. The typical bride thinks she's going to have the wedding she's dreamed about since she was a little girl. She'll want it to be all her own, better than other weddings, but it usually ends up being just like the others. There will be a small army of bride's maids and groomsmen who usually look less than interested in the whole dog and pony show. The bride's maids have to purchase their dresses, which is stupid, and the groomsmen have to rent poorly fitting tuxedos. A night or two before the event there's usually a rehearsal. I don't know why. I'm surprised that there's anyone out there that doesn't know how things go. Everyone's at the church/local garden/backyard early. There's a lot of milling around after changing into dresses or tuxedos until the photographer calls people up. This is the time when the wedding party gets their photos taken. Groomsmen lined up on either side of the groom, holding the groom off the ground, lined up with one hand in a pocket etc. After the routine groomsmen shots, the groom is shooed away and the bride is brought down. Same routine, different spouse. Lined up either side, lined up hand in pocket, bride on best man's knee... the groom is doing something similar with the bride's maids during this time. Pre-game photos done, the wedding party lines up outside the sanctuary with the last bride's maid and last groomsmen at the front, maid of honor and best man at the end. The first pair walks down the aisle and when they get half-way down, the next pair starts down the aisle. The pairs split when they reach the front and go off to their respective sides. Repeat until the maid of honor (henceforth referred to as MOH) and the best man (BM) are in place. The groom walks out on cue from the minister and waits awkwardly until the ho-hum organist starts the wedding march. The bride and her father then walk down the aisle. The bride cries and gives her father a peck on the cheek and a hug before she's passed off to the groom. The bride and groom take the usual spot on the top step, in front of the minister and the MOH will pass her flowers to the gal behind her so she can straighten the mile long train on the bride's dress. The minister starts his monologue. The next hour or more is nothing but songs, communion (if applicable), lighting of the unity candle, more monologue, another song, exchange of vows (which are mostly a joke these days), the presentation of the newly minted husband and wife, then the exit which is just the entrance reversed. After everyone exits there's the three hours of sitting on your ass waiting to be called for the standard wedding photos. The bride and groom with every possible combination of wedding party and/or family. Ahhh, but it's not just bride, groom, wedding party and family waiting around. The guests are outside wondering when the hell the bride and groom will be coming out so the damned bubbles can be used. OK, run of the mill photo session done, bride and groom exit church to be showered with bubbles. Bride & groom, wedding party, a couple of kids and some family members get into the limo/bus/old car/carriage... whatever, then head to at least one bar just long enough for the best man to get a beer and have a few sips from it before everyone is rounded up to leave. "Son of a bitch! Couldn't even finish my beer!" At long last, everyone arrives at the place where the reception is being held. But wait! We haven't come to the end of this script yet. By this time, the only thing the people in the wedding party want to do is just sit down and relax, but noooooo. Wedding party pairs up yet again, bride and groom at the end of the line, and the pairs are announced as they enter the hall. The bride and groom, obviously, get the biggest round of applause as they enter. Finally at the head table, the wedding party gets to sit down and eat some sort of food that has been prepared in bulk (unless you're lucky and get some home cooked buffet chow, but it's rare). The minister provides a prayer and dinner is served. Though blinded by incessant use of flash from the photographer, dinner is started. Then comes the round of toasts *groan* in this order. BM/MOH, bride, groom and then the bride and groom's parents. Champagne and other booze is consumed until the cake cutting is ready to go. Bride and groom both grasp the knife and slice off cake for themselves, pose for the photographer and then they may or may not shove it in each others face. After the cake walk is done the DJ, who until now has been outside smoking while his "dinner music" CD/playlist runs, comes in to start his bride and groom dance. This is followed by parents dancing with bride or groom and the groomsmen dancing with their respective bride's maids after that. Depending on the DJ, the next thing will either be the dollar dance or the bouquet/garter toss. We'll go with the toss in this example. The single women (a few girls thrown in for the "cuteness" factor) gather while the bride is spun 'round a few times. The bride tosses her bouquet over her shoulder causing the single women to look like a pack of wild dogs going after a fresh kill as they scramble to catch the bouquet. Then the single men are begrudgingly pulled away from the bar or the outside smoking area to gather for the garter toss. The bride is placed upon the BM's knee, the DJ spins the beaten-to-death striptease music and the groom sticks his head up the bride's dress to remove her garter with his teeth. As with the bride, the groom is spun 'round and then tosses the garter over his shoulder. The single men (with a few boys in there for "cuteness factor") make a half-hearted attempt to catch the garter and, unless the garter happens to land directly on some guy, it will fall to the floor only to be scooped up by one of the boys because they have know idea what the whole process means. Next up is the "dollar dance" segment. This is usually the time when the wedding party, who has been bored out of their skulls until now, starts perking up. Some of it has to do with the booze that's been consumed and some of it has to do with the fact that they know this is their last "duty" in this three ring circus. The bride and groom are placed on the dance floor, usually in front of the DJ's booth, and guests line up. Women line up for a dance with the groom (with the occasional guy mixed in there for laughs) and men line up for a dance with the bride (with the occasional woman in there for laughs). The BM takes the dollar bills from the women and limits the amount of time they have with the groom and the MOH is doing the same thing over by the bride. Finally, the dollar dance comes to an end and everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief. Obligations to the bride and groom done, the wedding party splits up to socialize with the people of their choosing. The people not crafty enough to know how to escape it, will have to suffer the "chicken dance" and the "hokey pokey" sometime during the night. Usually early enough so that the old people can either watch or participate. The rest of it is just a typical night at a bar, but in formal wear. Guys looking to score with the good looking single ladies and fat/ugly ladies trying to break out of their shells enough to (maybe) score with some drunk groomsmen. There might be some people passing out, or there might be an angry drunk to spoil things. The night finally winds down and everyone goes their separate ways, hoping that the marriage they just witnessed is one that will buck the odds and last. The BM and MOH might wind up back at the church getting the b&g's shit together and cars moved where they need to be. All the while realizing that despite the bride's planning of every minute detail of her wedding for three years in advance, nobody had thought of how to get gifts, clothes, vehicles etc. to the proper places. Luckily(?) the over-achieving, annoying, obsessive-compulsive, batshit-insane friend of the bride (who's bitter about not having been the MOH or even a bride's maid) starts barking out orders. The MOH and BM ignore her and go about getting things done. It's 02:00 after all, and everyone's tired and possibly grumpy.

Think I've been in a few weddings? Trust me, it's been more than a few. I'll never be in one again, that's a fact. A good friend called me a couple of years ago and said he was getting married. I was in his first wedding and was placed at the end of the line. At least the gal I was paired with was smokin' hot. Anyway, he called me not long after I had been through yet another wedding as best man. I was thoroughly sick of weddings by then and when he asked me to go out to California for his second wedding, I told him that I didn't have any vacation time left and was about to explain that I couldn't afford the trip when he hung up on me. I wasn't too concerned. I hadn't exactly seen him much the previous five years and I don't remember him returning my emails or phone calls. I guess I was an on-demand friend at that point. Besides, I honestly don't think I could have faked my way through another wedding.

Safety Is #1... or not

My week of being on call is winding down and I only have another fourteen or so hours left until the next guy takes over. I just had a call from one of the larger companies and the dude wanted to know if I could "help him out." This person had a truck broken down on the side of the road because a set of wheels came off the trailer. It sounds terrible, but it happens quite frequently when people don't maintain their equipment and drivers don't do pre-trip inspections like they're supposed to. Anyway, I was starting to think about how I'd have to tell him the trailer would be stuck until Monday when he says something that shocked me. He asked me to go out there and chain up the axle so the driver could get to his destination. His destination was four hours away! Uh, no. I'm not going to do that. I was told that there was only about 12,000 pounds in the trailer and that he's had this done before. WTF?! I told him that I'd chain up the axle to either get the rig off of the road or back to our shop for repairs, but no further. I could just picture my boss's insurance rates going up and the costs related to a lawsuit if the thing crashed and, you know, killed a busload of nuns or something. Besides, any DOT official would have to break out a fresh violation booklet if that trailer should get pulled off into a scale. I can just hear it now. "So, who chained up this axle and let you go?" The cops would let us take the trailer to our shop for repairs, but wouldn't ever let it proceed down the road. I can't believe the dude who called me actually thought we'd do that sort of thing. It's just fucking crazy! After I refused to do something so stupid, the jerk asks me if there's anyone else in the area that could do that for him. I gave him the name of another shop in the area which I know well. I know the guy who'd be running the call and he's not stupid enough to do it either. But that's not all! The company which called me also has other surprises that I learned the hard way. A vendor can only get paid between the hours of 09:00 and 17:00, Monday-Friday. The last service call I did for this company (it was about two years ago) was on a Saturday afternoon. I was on hold for an hour and a half before I actually talked to someone and got paid. I had to keep scratching out the total and adding on more time. They got billed an extra $135.00 for the time I was on hold. That was under the old rates, it would be a lot more expensive now. The dude who got me set up with a com check was some mechanic in one of their shops and he sounded totally worn out. He was the only person there and I think every department, from corporate on down, kept transferring the phones right down the chain until it got to the person I spoke with. So, having thought of the trouble with getting paid coupled with the extreme liability concerns, I politely refused. My boss hardly EVER turns work down regardless of how crazy it might seem, but I think he'd agree with me on this one. Besides, I have past experiences to draw from. One time we had a guy come to the shop after one of my coworkers went out to chain an axle after some serious wheel bearing failure. He found out that we couldn't get parts NOW and he wanted to pay for the service call (including the chain) and take off so he could get his load where it needed to be. My foreman at the time said "No, you're not taking that trailer anywhere in that condition. It's not safe." The driver turned into a real asshole and was calling everyone names and threatening us (not wise in a diesel shop). He was outside talking to someone on his cell phone trying to figure what to do. After a little bit, my foreman asked me where the guy was. I told him I last saw him outside. He wasn't there. He took off down the road. With our chain holding up one end of a trailer axle. We knew where he was headed because we always where a driver's headed. If someone runs off without paying or, as in the case of Mr. Angry, takes off with an unsafe trailer, we know what to tell the state patrol. And call the state patrol we did. I found out later that the dude didn't even make it two miles from the shop before he was stopped by the state patrol. It was this experience which led to my decision to not help the moron who called me today. The rig isn't going anywhere. Well anywhere too far. If he had asked me to fix it, it wouldn't happen because I wouldn't be able to find parts anywhere until Monday. If I did chain up the axle, he'd probably have to pull into a scale somewhere along the line and they'd put the rig out of service until it could be repaired. The dude is shit outta luck, plain and simple.

It's only a box, but...

"Home is where the heart is." You read it and hear that phrase all the time. You see it done in needle point, paintings, wood carvings, blankets, posters, photographs... So much that we tend to take it for granted and not think about the meaning. Home truly is where the heart is. The house is just a big box. A box that contains and shelters the people you love and who love you, a box that contains "home." I keep reminding myself of this fact because the house that was home, is being sold. I haven't lived there for ten years and have a house of my own, but Mom still lived there and it was always "home" to me. In fact, right now I'm noticing that referring to this place in the past tense is rather awkward. My parents bought this house before me and my brother were born. My Sister and oldest brother were still fairly young when the family moved in. It seems rather rare these days for a family to stay put in one place for very long, but this house was the family home for around 44 years. There's so many things that happened in that house that I can't possibly remember them all. I knew Mom was going to sell the place for quite some time, but it didn't really sink in until I saw the "for sale" sign planted firmly in the middle of the front yard. I hit it with the lawn mower. My Dad passed the lawn mowing duties to me when I was a pre-teen. Being the youngest I was permanently on lawn mowing detail until recently. I'd mowed that lawn for around twenty two years! You can probably understand why I hit the sign in the front yard. It's the only thing that's changed in that yard for a long, long time. I was daydreaming like usual and then *CLANG*, I hit the sign. I just sort of stopped and stared at it. It was swinging on the post a bit as if to taunt me. The family had been fixing up the new house Mom was going to be living in and slowly, a little at a time, she would move things from the old house to the new one. The old house had a lot of boxes sitting around upstairs and some of the smaller furniture was gone, but it still looked like "home." My sister-in-law (a truly wonderful lady) helped Mom sort through all of the "stuff" and helped with packing and moving the smaller things. One Sunday when I was over for dinner Mom presented me with a tote full of stuff. That lady had every report card I'd received, baby stuff, school related stuff and the like packed into this tote. Apparently aside from being "home", the house was also the family archive. Then came moving day. In the space of six hours, the family had emptied our house of everything that was left. Except the garage, but more on that in a few minutes. I was selected as U-Haul driver. Apparently because having a Class A CDL made me the most qualified to drive an F-350 with a square box on it *shrugs*. I also deemed myself "Assistant Move Coordinator." The irony of the situation is even though I didn't want to see my home disappear, I wanted the move done right and as efficiently as possible. I'd reminded myself that the house isn't important, it's my Mother that's important. Though they weren't my Father's dying words, one of the last duties he'd assigned to me was "Take care of your Mother." What he told me has been in the back of my mind since he died and I hope that, in his eyes, I've been doing a good job. So, the night before moving day I started hauling stuff out on my own in my little truck. I wanted the next day to go smoothly with the least amount of stress for Mom. I had to be out of bed by 09:00 on moving day and I was tired right away. Having worked nights at almost every job I've had, getting up before noon is rather difficult. I knew I'd have a hard time seeing my home slowly emptied so I put it out of my mind and turned into a sleepy robot. Load the truck, drive the truck, empty the truck, repeat as necessary. After everything had been moved and the truck returned, I went back to the "old house" (the place had changed designations sometime during the move). I had a garage to empty out. Having been the last of my siblings to have lived there, I knew what was going into the trash pile or the "keep" pile. Once I got to the old house I realized that I was alone. I unlocked the back door and walked in. It was a very, very strange feeling that came over me. Even though everything was gone, my mind was so used to seeing things in the same spots for so long, that I just couldn't grasp that the place was empty. The other senses didn't help things any. The familiar sounds of doors opening and closing, creaks in the floors and steps, the familiar smells... It sounded like home, it looked like home and it smelled like home. "Is it home?" I asked myself. I really didn't know. If you asked me about some of my memories about home last year, I could have pulled a couple of the big ones off the top of my head, but having to think about it, I wouldn't have been able to recall too many. Being there alone, however, was different. As I walked from one empty room to the next, the memories came flooding back. It was almost more than I could take and I started to cry a little bit. The one place on the planet where I always felt totally and completely safe, was now gone. I felt... lost. Then the sun came shining through the windows. During the move, the weather had played its part well. It was cold, cloudy and gloomy. Then, as I was at the lowest point of the day, the sun breaks out. Now, I wouldn't call myself "religious" by any means, but I am spiritual. I'd like to think that My Dad, my brother, my grandparents, uncle Jack and the other family members so important to me who have passed on, were behind those rays of sunshine. They were giving me the support I needed so badly at that time the only way they could. It rejuvenated me and, though very tired, I got what I needed to carry on with the task at hand. I backed my truck into the garage and went back to "robot" mode. Load truck, drive truck, empty truck... I got back to my place at 23:00 that night. The only stuff left were some things my brother could sort out. There's some tool boxes from Dad still there, but those will be removed before the closing date. The following week was a bit strange, but being at work took my mind off of things. After leaving Mom's new place to return the rental truck, I didn't go back. So, I hadn't seen the new place "arranged" yet. This past Sunday, I went over for Sunday dinner like I usually do (the older I get, the more I appreciate a "home" cooked meal) and I finally saw her new house set up the way she wanted it and everything started falling into place. I looked at the kitchen floor, the fresh paint on the walls, the new tile in the bathroom, the familiar furniture and realized that all of the work was done out of love. Not for money, not to collect "loot" from old tool boxes and such. It was MY family working together because we all love each other. As I sat at the counter eating dinner with my Mother, I put it all together. My family is what I love, love comes from my heart and my heart is with my family. "Home is where the heart is."

My Dad

I can't speak for anyone else, but for me writing is good therapy. I don't really care if these posts are read or not. Sometimes I simply need to get things off of my chest, and now is one of those times.

When I was 22 my father died after a long battle with cancer. He slipped away peacefully in his own home while he was asleep. The last few days of his life he'd become a little loopy due to the cancer having spread throughout his body and I was preparing myself for the time he'd be gone. One night I came home from work (I was living with my parents at the time) and popped in a movie down in the living room. My aunt and uncle were asleep upstairs because they'd come for a visit knowing that Dad wasn't going to last much longer. My sister had been spending as much time as possible with Dad, but she'd had to go back to work. As I was watching the movie, I heard my Mom get out of bed. She came into the living room and I thought she was going to tell me the TV was too loud. She had that "just woke up" look and in a totally normal voice she said "He's gone." Mom had grown used to the sound of my Dad breathing through the oxygen machine and she woke up because the sound had changed due to Dad having passed away. Contrary to what you see in the movies, there's no instant crying. What I felt was nothing. I was totally numb. I went upstairs to my aunt and uncle that Dad was gone and came back downstairs. By then all the lights were on and I went in to take a look at Dad. Someone had to close his eyes and that someone was me. I didn't want to do it, but I had to do it.

The way my mind handles grief is like a time-release pill. A little bit is broken off, dealt with and then put away. Repeat as necessary. Even though Dad died in 1994, every now and again something will trigger a memory I had buried about that night. Tonight I was watching the show "Without A Trace" and Jack's father died. That show triggered my memory of my Dad's eyes the night he died. I'd always remembered closing his eyes, but tonight I remembered what his eyes looked like. Dad's eyelids were half shut and I could see his grayish-green eyes. It's very true that a dead person's eyes definitely look lifeless. It's that memory, a little piece of the grief, that came out tonight fifteen years later after the event. I thought that I'd "gotten over it" but I don't think anyone ever does. I loved my Dad and having him die when I was only 22 changed me.

After I had closed Dad's eyes I stood up and looked at him for a little bit. I turned around and my Uncle was standing there. That's when I lost it. I grabbed my Uncle and started crying. He hugged me and said "He's in a better place now". I don't know who was making the phone calls, but my sister wanted to be there and was in no condition to drive down and my brother in law would have to stay with the kids. So, I went to pick her up and she was crying almost the whole way back. I don't know how I kept my wits about me. Maybe it was youth, maybe it was because I'd already released some of the anguish earlier... I don't know. By the time I'd returned, the funeral directors were there to take Dad away. They told us that sometimes the family would stay in a different room because seeing their loved one taken away was too painful. Some of my family went to the basement, but I stayed upstairs. I honestly can't remember who else was with me, but I watched Dad's body being carried out. I knew it was just a shell, that Dad wasn't in there anymore. He'd been released from all the pain and suffering. I understood that. I remember the visitation and parts of the funeral service at church, but I can't recall the burial. After that, life was a matter of us learning how to live without him. Every now and then, something will make me think of Dad and sometimes that leads to a bit of crying. Tonight is one of those times.

The Borg

The diesel borg is trying to assimilate me. At the shop I work at I don't do much engine work aside from replacing the things bolted to the outside. Coolant pumps, exhaust manifolds, thermostats etc. Every now and again they throw an injector job my way, but those are so few that I have a hard time remembering how to change them. It's fine with me, because I'm not really interested in engine work and I don't know enough about heavy duty diesel engines to do that sort of thing. If I have a decent service manual at my disposal I can do whatever needs to be done, but it takes me a lot longer than someone who does engine work frequently. Things seem to be changing these days. I've been given more engine work and I'm not sure why. Maybe the foreman is getting tired of doing it (he's gettin' pretty old) or they've realized that my neat, clean and orderly working habits (bordering on obsesive-compulsive) are suited to engine work. Last night I was doing a head gasket job on a Cummins M11 and much to my chagrin, I was actually liking it. I guess it's because I'm more familiar with diesels than I used to be. I have no problem tearing into a gas engine in a light truck or car, but I think my lack of knowledge with diesels made me fear having to work on them. Adjusting valves on a diesel is humorous though. Car engines haven't required regular valve adjustment for decades, but the archaic diesels that are installed in big trucks still have to be "tuned up" from time to time. It's a perfect example of how big trucks are "old tech." Speaking of old technology, while I was working on that M11 there was a driver in the next bay talking cars with my foreman. The driver gave the old "I'll work on old cars, but the new ones.... What do you need all those wires for?" I smiled to myself and thought "Oh great another one of those guys." The truck this guy owned was an old and decrepit 1996 Freightliner with a Cummins N14 engine. Which, of course, is all mechanical. I was wondering if he kept clinging to that old clunker so he didn't have to drive something with one of those "new fangled electronic pieces of shit." Back to the engine work. I'm not knocking guys who like doing engine work. Someone who's a good engineman is a valuble asset in any shop. It's just not the thing for me. I never understood the fascination with engine guys. Just because someone can spit out specifications for a few engines doesn't necessarily mean he's good. It just means he has a great memory. But, the guys who get all their specs from memory aren't always right. They do things the same way so often that they think it's not just the right way, it's the ONLY way. For example, the last time I was being punished with a valve adjustment job, before I could find the engine's data plate (valve lash specs are always on the data plate) my foreman spit out HIS specs. By the time he finished his sentence I had found the data plate and *snicker* he was wrong. Now, I know better than to tell him he's wrong so I made sure he saw me writing down what he told me and even asked him to repeat the specs. There's a touch of the "I'm right" disease in our shop and I'm just as guilty as anyone. Nobody wants to admit they were wrong and I learned early in my employment at this shop that it's easiest to salute, say "Yes sir!" and then do the job how you want to do it. This sort of thing happens so often that a former coworker and I would salute each other whilst being lectured by someone who was "right." So, what I did with that valve adjustment was said "Yes sir!" and waited for the foreman to hide in the office. Then I did the job with the manufacturer's specifications. Everyone walks away happy. I guess things like that contribute to me not wanting to do engine work. Because I have to do it their way, and their way might not work well for me. Since I'm a bit of a noob with engine work, I frequently do things the way I'm told to. If I find a way that works better for ME, then I do it my way. In the end, if they'd just provide me with a service manual and leave me the hell alone, I'd probably be happy doing engine work. It's a small shop though, so the politics will always be getting in the way. Maybe I just don't play well with others.