How NOT to Heat the Shop

Winter in the shop is always fun.

Working in basically an uninsulated overgrown poleshed during these Wisconsin winters is always fun. Some days it seemed that management forgot to pay the heating bill and you would swear you could hear ice hitting the pot when you went to the bathroom (don't ask about no. 2). Other days, it seemed that they were dreaming of some tropical vacation and we all had sweat rolling down places that I wouldn't care to mention. I do recall on one of those days a rather unpleasant surprise.

We were working on these items that required three rather SLOW welds, so it took me about 3 minutes per to finish it. We only had about a billion of them to do, so I was set for the rest of the day. That morning had started at a balmy 18 below, so I was shaking like a leaf, and my welds looked like bird sh.. ummm, poop. I was more interested in huddling close to the weld and soaking up the heat than what the weld actually looked like, damn them. You know, after you do something about a hundred times in a row, your mind begins to wander. Occasionally, it jumps in the car a drives away. This was one of those drive away days. I'm standing there, mentally whistling while I worked (oh if my co-workers only knew), when I felt a warm breeze wash over my leg. "Gee, it sure was nice of someone to put a heater over here", I thought to myself. I kept welding, finishing the first and moving on to the second. I sort of glanced around before I started the second weld to see where the heater was - maybe I could get a little closer. No such luck. I got about halfway through the second weld and thought, "It is starting to get a little warm in here". I was just finishing up the second weld when an odd odor smacked my nose. "Gee, it smells like something is burning..." I looked around - nope, no flames in sight. I started on the third weld. By now, sweat was starting to drip off my nose. I finished up my third weld and flipped my hood up. "Uh-oh, something IS burning..." I frantically glanced around trying to identify what was on fire. Then I looked down.

I can't really remember what what I thought at that moment, but it was something like "Holy SH**,  I'm on FIRE!" Flames had engulfed my left leg all the way up to my, well, about 6 inched below my belt. I quickly patted out the flames and assessed the damage. About a quarter of my pant leg was gone and there were black floaties all around me. Let's see - still have the hair on my leg, no crustiness, no blisters - good to go. I did a quick sweep to see if anyone noticed the blazing inferno (me) on the line. Nope. Thank GOD!

For the rest of the day I poked around with a good part of my pants missing. Nobody seemed to notice. Well, I'm sure they did, and they were silently laughing their ass off, but the same thing has probably happened to them at some time or another, so they said nothing. Of course, my wife had no reservations about that, she laughed so hard I think she hurt herself. For days. Every time I walked by. I remember the words "moron", doofus", and "idiot" floating around the house, but I paid no attention to it (right).

I never did wear my cool (frayed) jeans to work again.

Humility In a Golf Ball

Proof positive that you only learn life's lessons when you are good and ready.

I knew what the word humility meant as a kid, I even knew that it was a virtue to be striven for, but I didn't really get it until my dad took the opportunity to teach me on the golf course. I was in my early twenties at the time, and had been forced into being a golf junkie by some of my work buddies. It is, after all, the only instance where it is perfectly acceptable to drink and get behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle. They even bring it around in these motorized coolers, usually driven by quite attractive beer bi.... ummmmm, ladies. I had gone from an average score of something like, oh about a billion strokes, to the mid seventies over the course of a year of daily $5 all-you-can-play-till-its-dark outings after work. For those of you that have not been infected by the degenerative and incurable golf disease, a "perfect" score, or par, is around 72-74 strokes for 18 holes. Hats off to the pros - I never did get a round of under-par golf. Anyway, Dad and I would go to the practice range, talk about strategies, go over techniques and the like during my golfing journey. He seemed pleased that I had taken an interest in something that he enjoyed also and had made the time and effort to get better at it. Notice here that I didn't say good at it - more about that later.

Strangely, in all of the time we spent together, Dad and I had never actually played a round of golf together. He decided (I suppose) that it was about time that we cleared that little situation up. He invited me to one of the more swanky courses in the metro area that we lived in, and in truth, I looked forward to the day that I would be able to show off my considerable skill and aptitude at at this game. Visions of the PGA tour were dancing in my head at this point, holding up the trophy, getting the Green Jacket, and big fat checks (I know, just let me have my delusions of grandeur for just a moment here).

We arrived at the course and strolled out to the first tee box. We spent a moment or two warming up in the cool morning air. Now it was the time to decide who teed off first. Dad was gracious enough to allow me the first stroke, but then he asked "You wanna make this a little more interesting?" Huh? "What do you mean by that?" I responded. "How bout 2 bucks a hole - I'll spot you a stroke on the front nine and one on the back nine". Now usually, I am okay with a good bet, sometimes I play pool that way, but this was my dad. There was no way I was going to take money from him. "Just for fun" I said after a moment. A rather strange smile crossed his face and he gestured for me to address the ball.

The first hole in this particular course was a par 5 and had about a 90 degree bend in it at about 160 yards or so. I thought about it a moment, then pulled out my 5 wood, and figured that if I could cut the corner a little bit, I would be in the middle of the fairway with another 140 or 150 yards to go to the green. Cool. I took a nice easy swing and watched as the ball shot down the fairway and landed just about where I wanted it to. Cheers and applause were roaring in my head.

Dad didn't say a word, a puzzling smirk crossed his face as he pulled out his driver and addressed the ball. Driver? My dad was in his early sixties by then, but I knew from our trips to the practice range that he could still pound a ball 220 or 230 yards or so. That would put him over the fairway and into the woods on the other side. "Ummm, Dad?" I said. He just glared at me with his best "shut up" expression. Okay, I thought, do it your way then. He took a nice easy swing and launched the ball like a bullet. I smiled inwardly, "too strong" I whispered. "Watch." was his only response. Then the most astonishing thing happened. Imperceptibly at first, his ball began to curve.  As I tried to work out in my head what was happening, the ball rounded the corner and somehow flew straight down the fairway. After the bend. It rolled to a stop about  70 yards further up than mine and smack in the middle of the fairway. I stood there speechless and looked at him. Still smiling, he said "I may have taught you how to play, but I didn't teach you everything I know. Some things you'll just have to learn on your own."

In the end, I was thankful that I had not taken him up on his offer. He finished with a three-under-par 69. I finished with a 9-over 81. I was crushed. I found out later that my dad had emptied the local golf pro's wallet on more than one occasion, and that in his younger years, he was on tour and sponsored by a big name transportation company. To further put this in perspective, at the time we had our little lesson, he had already had one foot amputated because of diabetes, was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's, and had a surgery to fuse two vertebra in his neck. And he beat the pants off me. Since then, I have never assumed that my abilities or skills were any better than anyone else's.

Some lessons are harder to learn than others.