jumpingfish › version 3.0

Mentors

Wed, 22 Jun 2016, 10:36 PM (-06:00)

1. Kevin Kivisto

When I started working at McDonald’s, they assigned me to the Multimixer making milkshakes.

Back then, you made a shake by sliding a cup with frozen mix up onto a spindle and letting it spin, making a little whirlpool as the chocolate or strawberry or vanilla syrup spiraled in and mixed with the mix.

The problem was, you had to get the timing just right when you pulled the cup off. Too slow, and much of the milkshake stuck to the spindle. To fast, and the spindle would spray stripes of brown or pink or white across your blue McDonald’s shirt.

I was new. And I didn’t have the timing down. On my first night of working the closing shift, the layers of brown, pink and white began accumulating on my chest. I was frustrated. Kevin was working the grill nearby. He must have heard my exasperation.

“Don’t get angry, David,” he said without turning his head. “It’s a long time until close.”

Good advice: It’s a long time until close.

2. Jim Putman

My grandfather was an engineer, and when I was a senior in high school he got me a summer job as a draftsman’s aide an Gilbert-Commonwealth. I worked for the senior draftsman named Jim.

When the end of that summer crept close, Jim talked to me about my plans for college. And he told me how he had been accepted to a university but had decided instead on a blue collar drafting career (something that in those days was a solid guarantee of a good middle-class lifestyle).

This was difficult for me to comprehend.

“I wanted to raise a family and spend time with my children growing up,” Jim told me. It was years before I fully understood.

Good advice: Spend time with your family.

3. Art Rasmussen

Not long after I started working after college, I was transferred to work on RTDS. It was a small team. It was an exciting place. The people there were at the vanguard of a new way of building control center software. And I was in the middle of it.

Still, the excitement seemed to be passing me by. While the guys I was working with would frequently hurry off to urgent meetings, I sat quietly day after day in the corner at my workstation cranking out code.

Art must have noticed my frustration. He asked me about it one day at lunch. I told him that so much was going on — that I wasn’t part of it.

“Be patient,” he said. Eventually I would get invited to one of those meetings. And then he said that I should just “say smart things.” If I did, they’d start including me. He was right.

Good advice: Say smart things.

Kayaking on the Lake

Sun, 19 Jun 2016, 10:27 PM (-06:00)

“???” Ben texted me this morning. He had been expecting to hear from me but hadn’t.

“I haven’t heard from Santosh, yet,” I texted back.

Santosh is half a world away from his family today on (our) Father’s Day, and I had offered that perhaps he should join us in our plans. But it turned out that he had other plans after all, and so Ben and I soon made ours. They involved (as they often do in good weather) kayaking on the lake.

Soon we were on the water, sitting a good two or three feet lower than the high-water marks visible on the trees along the shore, marks left after they opened all the flood gates on the upstream dams to shed as much water as they could as quickly as they could, because the lakes were over-full with no additional capacity should it rain again (which is has been doing for months).

There we were. Paddling upstream.

Under the Mopac bridge. Past Deep Eddy. Along the north shore, sometimes taking shelter from the scorching sun under a canopy of overhanging Pecan trees. Past the cliffs bedecked with mansions at the top and Canyon Wrens singing their hearts out as if we were in the middle of a wilderness.

We paddled past the swinging tree, where a group of people was swinging from a rope hanging from a massive Cypress and splashing into the water. We paddled past the downstream point of Redbud Island, where dogs were jumping into the water chasing sticks and floating toys. And we paddled toward the dam.

Toward the dam. But we didn’t get there.

As we paddled, the water became swift. And then swifter. And finally so swift that the joy of it left us. Ben looked at me and asked, “What say you?” I nodded and we ceased our paddling to let the current slowly turn our kayaks and then quickly push us back past the dogs and the swinging tree and across the river where the wind coming upstream was a welcome relief from the heat.

We paddled back to where we had started three-and-a-half hours earlier. And from there, we went to have a hamburger.

And now I must confess to you, that I am mighty tired, and I have nothing more to say about this wonderful Father’s Day (for which I am grateful), because I am about to lay me down.

Watch Out

Wed, 15 Jun 2016, 09:25 PM (-06:00)

Trudy! I wrote on a piece of paper. Watch out for the spider, Trudy. And I taped the paper to a lawn chair. And I set the lawn chair in the walkway to our front door, blocking the path.

Because there, in that space between the eaves of the roof, a spider had set up shop. And if you weren’t careful, you’d end up with a spider in your mouth.

We haven’t seen these guys for a several years, and we took it as a good indicator of the health of our yard that this spider had strung her web across the walkway. Indeed, I unhooked one of the main guy-wires the day before, but attached to the location, she rapidly redeployed.

So she gets to stay…

…for a while.

Missing

Mon, 13 Jun 2016, 09:10 PM (-06:00)

1. An Unfortunate Discovery

“Hi David,” Marcia said. I handed her my salad, which she put on the scale.

“That’ll be $7.29,” she said.

I looked up at her in a brief panic, “My Discover card is missing.”

“Oh no,” she said.

“It’s ok. I have another card.”

I pulled out the other card and swiped it… but the machine prompted me for a PIN. This wasn’t a credit card. It was a debit card that I never, ever use.

In this way, I discovered that not only was my Discover card missing, but so was my Visa, and so was my ATM card.

As panic began to descend upon me, Marcia showed me how to use that debit card as a credit card, which was fortunate, because otherwise I was going to have to abandon the salad and walk out hungry.

2. In A Real Panic

I was convinced that my cards, which are prone to sliding out of my wallet, had slid out when I grabbed my stuff from the dresser this morning in the dark. So when I got home in the afternoon, after greeting the tail-wagging dogs and giving Trudy a kiss, I walked into the bedroom. But to my grave disappointment, there was nothing on the dresser.

“And my driver’s license is gone, too!” I told Trudy.

It was gradually dawning on us that somebody had somehow taken my credit and ATM cards and driver’s license. I was cleaned out.

In denial, we began tracing our steps over the last few days. I called the barber shop. I called a restaurant. No joy. Still, there was virtually no time that we could reconstruct when my wallet had been outside my control. How could anyone have stolen anything?

So we began to think the unthinkable… that someone had come into the house Sunday while we were (all four of us) slaving away in the backyard.

Real panic began to set in, and I began to get jittery.

3. A Rubber Band

Over and over we tried to find an alternate explanation. What day was it when we went to Lowes? I paid for the popcorn at the movie, didn’t I?

But think about it. If you walked into someone’s house and needed to quickly look in one place for something to lift, it would be the dresser in the master bedroom, right? And my wallet had been there for many hours on Sunday — the only time we were apart.

Somebody had come into the house, made for the bedroom, found what they needed and quickly left.

Oh for heaven’s sake! Certainly not! Trudy kept going over the days, trying to find the explanation. I began to pace nervously back and forth. The jitters got worse, and I began to sweat.

My driver’s license and credit cards and ATM cards. They took nothing else. Just the good stuff.

And then on one of my passes thru the bedroom, I reached into the dirty clothes basket and felt in the pocket of a filthy pair of shorts I had worn Sunday. There was some kind of lump in the pocket. And my heart briefly stopped as I carefully reached in …and pulled out a lump of business cards and credit cards and an ATM card.

They had not been stolen. I had not left them at a store. They had not fallen out on my dresser or anywhere else. But what about my license? It can’t slip out of my wallet. Where was it?

I looked at my wallet again. Pulled out the empty sleeve where my license should have been. And there was my driver’s license in the sleeve backwards so that it seemed to be missing. It had never been missing in the first place.

At some point last night, a wad of business cards and plastic had slipped out of my wallet when I took it out of my shorts, probably at the end of the day when I took a shower and went to bed.

False alarm. Nothing was missing. No one had been in the house.

“I have to sit down,” I said to Trudy.

“You have to get a rubber band for your wallet,” Trudy said. “Just like your father.”

Writing on the Wall

Sat, 11 Jun 2016, 08:17 PM (-06:00)

We were going back to work from a lunch of hamburgers and fries. I was telling a story of someone I once knew who had abruptly quit his job and gone to work somewhere else. The economy had been bad. There were funding problems. And eventually other people started leaving, too.

“He must have seen the writing on the wall,” I said.

Camille asked, “What does writing on the wall mean?”

I glanced over at her to see if she was messing with me. Then I looked in the rear view mirror at Kyle.

“What… Is that an old expression!?” I asked him, stupefied that I might be using a phrase that their generation no longer uses —no longer even understands.

“Well,” he said. “It’s kind of an old expression.” And then he explained to Camille what the expression meant as I turned left at the light and lamented my plight.

On Lake Walter E. Long

Mon, 6 Jun 2016, 08:00 PM (-06:00)

After some grueling paddling into fierce winds, we finally found calm waters in the lea of the trees and cattails lining the northern and western shores of Lake Walter E. Long.

Kyle and Ry were in a new red canoe. Izzy and I were in our new red kayak. (The colors were coordinated almost perfectly.) And when we spotted a creek with ultra-calm waters, we were all in agreement, because we were all tired out and ready for a rest.

“Now this is more like it,” I muttered only half under my breath. Izzy found the courage to climb back up on the slippery bow. And Kyle threw his anchor so that we could just hang out for a while.

We drank drinks and ate snacks. Izzy found Kyle’s watermelon particularly satisfying. We told little stories about our lives.

I told them about picking up blueprints at the printing department when I worked as a draftsman’s aide my senior year in high school.

“Imagine,” Ry said. “A high school job that would actually look good on your resumé.”

“I used to work with a man,” Kyle said. And then he briefly stopped, motioning towards me. “In fact, he reminds me of you,” he said.

“Oh no,” I thought.

“All he did was smoke.”

What!? All this guy did was smoke and he reminds you of me!?

“He never ate. And I never saw him drink a thing.” Then he turned to Ry. “Just like David. He only drinks coffee. I never see him drink water.”

In the morning. I only drink coffee in the morning. …Ok, ok. I’m busted. At least Trudy wasn’t there, so she’ll never find out about this, because if she did, there would be much finger waging.

She’ll never find out, right?

Filipe

Mon, 6 Jun 2016, 07:29 PM (-06:00)

While we waited for our enchiladas and chalupas to arrive, the waiter across the room caught my attention. His face was familiar. I leaned toward Trudy.

“I think that guy used to work at El Patio,” I said.

She looked at him and smiled. Let’s just say that my reputation does not include great facilities of memory. Still, of all the things I forget (and there are many), faces is not one of them.

“It’s him, I know it’s him.” The shape of his mouth. His eyebrows. Something about his eyes.

It had to be him.

But years had passed. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. (Why is that?) I could have been wrong. So I looked at him each time he walked by.

It had to be him. No maybe not. Yes, it just had to be him.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. As he walked by our table, I reached out and touched him on the arm.

“Yes sir?” he said.

“Excuse me, but did you used to work at El Patio?”

His eyes lit up. “Just from 1981 to 2005!”

We introduced ourselves and shook hands. His name was Filipe. He told us about his years there, before he came to work here at his sister’s restaurant, Hecho En Mexico (in between long shifts doing microelectronics work).

He told us how he had started at El Patio washing dishes. And although he didn’t say it, I knew the progression, because we had seen guys work their way thru the ranks, there. From putting silverware on the tables to bringing out chips and queso to bringing out the food and finally to the main waiters. The guys there were long time employees, which is one of the really amazing things about that place.

“Did you make it to a red coat?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. And then he explained how he had climbed as high as you could climb there, because the only other position was David Joseph, the owner. He laughed when he said that.

Austin has grown very large. Sleepy nearby towns have grown into the expanding city limits of Austin, becoming sizable cities in their own right. And Austin has become a metropolis. Just look at the skyline on the lake for proof. But sometimes, if you’ve been here long enough, small town Austin still shines thru.

A Work of Art?

Mon, 6 Jun 2016, 01:08 AM (-06:00)

“Have you seen my table?” Trudy shouted across the street? She was eager to show off her husband’s (rare) handiwork.

Bill walked over and stood in the shade of the Lacy Oak. “Wow… He’s… he’s…” Then was silent, holding his chin and looking down at the ground.

“He’s what?” Trudy asked. I cringed at what might follow.

Bill held up his hand with his index finger pointing upward. “Who is the guy who painted the Sistine Chapel?” he asked.

Trudy laughed. “Michalangelo,” she said.

“That’s it!” he said. “He’s Michelangelo.”

I turned to look at my creation: an over-varnished steel wire spool converted into a crude table. I ran my hand along the top of it, getting a sliver in the process.

I’ve been to Rome. I’ve sat on the benches along the walls and strained my neck looking up at those frescos. And of course I don’t need to tell you this, but a work of art this table is not. Cool looking, yes. Useful, maybe. But art!?

Let’s just say… it doesn’t have my initials on it.

Mohammed Ali, RIP

Sat, 4 Jun 2016, 12:38 PM (-06:00)

I was in middle school. All the cool kids sang all the commercials on television. They argued with some authority about who was best, The Beatles or The Stones. And the boys passionately debated who was going to win the fight.

I sat quietly on the sidelines during these discussions, never having heard of the Frito Bandito, not knowing who The Rolling Stones were and not particular caring about the fight.

But… what a man he was. R.I.P., Mohammed Ali.

original photo credit: Gordon Parks/AP

What The Rain Did

Fri, 3 Jun 2016, 09:03 PM (-06:00)

The tomatoes and cucumbers are a lost cause. The rain has stopped them from blossoming, and the hot heat of summer is just around the corner. Another year’s fail for the Trudy and David vegetable garden.

But look what else the rain did.

Click the pics!