One Long Month Later

One month ago today my world plunged into a place of hellish turmoil. It took twenty-eight days to climb back to the land of the living. Yesterday, I put a gardenia bloom to my nose and it smelled sweeter and more fragrant than it ever did in the past.

Experiencing the king of ironies, one month ago today, I sat in the office of my unit superintendent and finally unloaded my burden for my son’s anguish, his problems concerning post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and the reason I had taken four weeks of emergency vacation in the first four months of the year. Little did I know that as I talked to my boss, my son was already dead and I would never talk to him again, except in my prayers and memories.

Today, one month later I’ve experienced five nights without constant dreams of Nick and I must say, that that has been a good thing. Although I have avoided feelings of guilt, as I truly believe I did my level best to do and say the right thing to him, some guilt must be shouldered for I missed key trigger points that should have warned me that things were dangerously wrong.

Going back to the year 1972 when I got orders for Vietnam and my World War II Veteran father admonished me to “not do anything over there that I would regret for the rest of my life” and was the exact phrase I repeated to my son before he went to South Korea, then Kuwait and finally Iraq. Just a few days before his demise Nick signed back up for the Infantry in the US Army and repeated “the admonishment” to me, but added this: “Dad, remember what you told me? Well, this time, I’m going to kill them”.

I should have recognized this for what it was, but I blew it off as just…anger. It was anger all right, but the wrong kind. It was the kind that shows a much deeper problem - one that screams out for counseling. I should have recognized the cycle of self-destruction sooner. But, my son had a whole lot of his Dad in him and I guess it’s a Marshall trait also, that we don’t seek counseling – we give it. We are an internalizing group, who suck it up when things don’t go the way we think they should, remaining self-reliant and guess what? It’s not always good for us, or those we love.

Two days ago I finally had a release of pent-up emotion that cleansed and later comforted me. It came over me so suddenly that I just surrendered to it. It was time. I have this crazy notion that grief on my part is selfish and blatant self-pity and I avoided it like the plague. I had the stupid thought that all I’m doing is feeling sorry for myself, like a big baby. It’s stupid and self-destructive and if all of this has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t know anything and grieving is okay. Besides others are grieving and I think their grief is normal.

One month ago I told my wife the same thing I’ve said many times: “I don’t have a single close friend, I just have acquaintances”. My God in heaven was I ever wrong. I have a whole lot of friends, close friends. Friends, who have sacrificed for me and mine. Oh, to go through life and not know what a friend is would be a miserable existence indeed. It’s another thing I didn’t recognize.

One month ago I started to live all over again and it was a painful entry, but now after a month has gone by, the flower blooms smell sweet again and I am surrounded with family and friends that are dearer and more a part of my life than my wildest imagination could have predicted.

There's That Old Man Smell Again!

Sitting comfortably at my desk at work, contemplating my day's activities and minding my own business, I reach into a side drawer and pull out my trusty plastic container of Williams Lectric Shave, Electric Razor Pre-Shave with soothing Green Tea Complex…liquidy stuff.

With semi-sleepy eyes on my computer screen and still minding my own business, I might add, I casually unscrew the black plastic lid and dribble a small puddle of the pleasant smelling pre-shave into the palm of my left hand and then liberally rub it onto my chin and ample jowls and that my friends is when the action starts here in the prairie-dog cubicle office.

"There's that old man smell again!" chirps the witty youngish female Engineer/Intern from the obviously shallow depths of her inexperience in these matters. I blame her response on the fact that I have a small fan on the floor, which blows the pungent (and yes – youthful) aromatic green tea-smelling facial panacea over to her desk behind me. This probably makes it smell like "old people" to her.

Doesn't she realize that as a Chemical Plant operator, it is my duty to be clean-shaven at all times in the event that I have to don a respirator or a self-contained breathing apparatus to possibly rescue her and other less skilled coworkers from imminent disaster? Throwing my head back in an obnoxious silent and self-righteous guffaw I think to myself "I guess not", as she looks like a little kid in comparison to us seasoned veterans and how could she possibly have lived long enough to recognize what should be obvious? Whippersnapper!

Never mind. I ignore her weak humorous attempt at senior citizen verbal abuse and crank up my Norelco Speed-XL triple-head electric razor and start burning off the tonic laden and offensive whiskers from my jawbones. I like to stay on top of the game and no amount of prattle from the ignorant will stop me from getting and staying there. I'm a smooth Operator, so to speak.

About this time, my partner in labor and beloved Crosby, Texas denizen Charles Kelm begins his daily expostulation of all that needs adjusting inside our limited domain. He does this by slapping his hand down hard on his desk and yelling "HEY", which makes the entire office staff jump. He then sits down with no apparent point to be made.

Charles is my friend and I dubbed him a Ronin Engineer when he first made the transition to this section of the Plant. A ronin is a term for a samurai warrior without a master and I say that facetiously, but it fits him well and he has come to enjoy the title. He's a "Mech-E" in a "Chem-E" world. In other words, he's a Mechanical Engineer working as a Chemical Engineer and he has adapted like a true warrior and he performs his duties with determined and vigorous flair.

Numerous times each day he stumps a tirade about some injustice and standing up behind his desk, he will snatch up a dry marker and draw something on the Board on the wall. Try as I might, I have no idea what correlation this drawing has to do with the subject being discussed. He usually ends up with a loud "HEY" and suddenly extends both arms straight up in the air and between this and the "shout", most everyone is startled from their semiconsciousness, as he reseats himself, justified in every way.

Not long ago, he launched into an seemingly cryptic dissertation about the inefficiency of separating clothes into numerous piles and washing multiple small loads, when by utilizing a "superload washing machine"; all the clothes could be washed simultaneously using cold water and only one big load was actually necessary; thus saving time, water, soap and utility costs. "Everything is washed in one load" was his battle cry and he repeated it at least six times, in case we would forget.

Leaping to his feet – chair flying and dry marker open and ready, he began drawing a series of circles and lines, which in his mind explained everything. Honest to goodness, this was simply a general variation of most all of his artwork, but I was ready and had my trusty camera ready to record this particular expression and I did. Opening the photo in Photoshop, I added some text, had it printed on two coffee cups and sent them to his house (one for him and one for his dear patient wife of 34 years) so she can benefit from his wisdom and efficiency and have a daily reminder to boot.

Today, both my Ronin friend and our intern prodigy are on vacation, so I have peace as I smile and spread extra crunchy peanut butter onto my Nature Valley Oats 'N Honey crunchy granola bar.

This years nominees are…

Working in the same Plant for many years has made me an expert people observer and I would be willing to bet my personal Super Bowl football pot winnings from today's game, that others share like observations in each Chemical Plant on the ship channel.

My favorite category is of course, Drama - with Comedic performances taking a close second. Sometimes the two are so closely entwined, only a seasoned audience can tell them apart. Come to think of it, I imagine most administrative offices experience the same behavior, but in a basically male dominated Chemical Plant industry , the participants get little or no mercy from the audience. Men are very harsh judges of other men and yes sometimes they are downright cruel.

This year is starting off with a whole host of potential Oscar nominees and I might have to call in help to keep it all straight come awards time. One of the current front-runners is an aging athletic rotundic fella who is obviously and expressively sickish at least 4 times a year.
February has just begun and he's already ten days into his first presentation…and this exhibition of sickness is maybe one of his best performances!

I'm thinking "Oscar" in at least three (maybe four) categories. Drama, Comedic performance and Sound effects are shoe-ins, as no one has ever come close to getting four, at least not since my compadre "Maximum Bob" retired. My Buddy Bob, who I affectionately named Maximum Bob was, well, maximum in everything he did.

On any given day, Bob would come into work in the most wrinkled pair of Nomex coveralls ever seen, hair askew, face unshaven, shoes untied and in bad need of 14 or 15 cups of coffee (his usual). He would be literally dragging a bag full of various accouterments, but most of all, his treasured one-gallon freezer bag of prescription medicines.

At some time soon after his arrival, he would dig through the freezer bag while mumbling and with no apparent order, or amount, self-medicate. No rhyme or reason which container he opened was apparent to us, even if we watched closely and no manifest change in his demeanor or obvious symptoms developed throughout the day. This was "Sick Bob" and we knew and loved him well.

The next day Max Bob would burst through the control room door, bag over his shoulder, spring in his step and an Exxon Styrofoam cuppa Joe in his hand. His hair would be greased down Fonzie-style, uniform neatly pressed and even his shoes were tied. He would head directly for the locker room, much to everyone's dismay and shortly appear with his tool belt, gloves and with channel locks in hand; out the door he would go. Make relief - NO, he didn't need no stinking relief; he was on a mission from god!

Shortly after this, alarms would start to sound as Max Bob uncovered one mystery after another in his quest for excellence. The guys running the Control Panel did not like Max Bob as much as they did Sick Bob.

My favorite was "Dancing Bob". Dancing Bob was quite the exhibitionist and in his mind, an excellent dancer. I worked with Max Bob for about 15 years and as far as I could tell, there wasn't anything in particular that could trigger Dancing Bob onto the scene. Dancing Bob was a cross between John Travolta and Tom Bombadil from "Lord of the Rings" lore.
The first sign that Dancing Bob was on the scene was certain music would set him off. When this happened, DB would make an "O" with his lips, hunch his shoulders and hold both hands out in front of him, with thumbs up. Inevitably, you would hear someone say "Dear Lord" and off DB would go into one of his self-taught crouching tiger and feet shuffling dance moves.

I saw DB numerous times and at least twice he got so wound up that he disrobed completely. It was a gruesome and ghastly sight to see as he took our objective and embarrassed screaming as encouragement. The wildest incident took place in front of at least 10 people and involved the inspirational song "Chariots of Fire", one which we all agreed never need be played again in DB's presence.

Although my buddy Bob was a kind hearted fellow and a Purple Heart recipient from his Army days in Vietnam, he could also be provoked into assuming "Mean Bob" and MB was no one to truck with. He was grouchy. We much preferred "Hungry Bob". HB had peculiar eating habits. My first real encounter with Bob's alter-ego HB, took place early one morning, when I watched him heat up a plate of mustard sardines in the microwave and eat them while gnawing on a whole purple onion, apple-style.

A reoccurring comment in the lunchroom was whether Hungry Bob would eat this or that, which was left in the refrigerator. No one would take bets though and HB one time told me he had eaten a rat sandwich, while in Vietnam. I believed him. Heckfire, we all believed him. "Hey, you gonna eat that"?

Yeah, we have a few front-runners already this year here at the Plant for Academy Awards, but they remember a legacy that will be difficult to meet. Our friend Bob (is it any surprise he is a Bob?) is out there somewhere and even if you don't know him personally, you know someone just like him…now, don't you?