It was 12 years ago that my twin daughters entered this world. And boy did they enter with a splash. I had decided to take my wife on one last getaway...just the two of us before the girls were born. It was 6-weeks before her due date. Against everybody's concerns, I planned a long weekend in Lee, Massachusetts. The weekend was going to be filled with lounging by the pool and relaxing.
The first evening, my wife was sick all night. The following morning, I approached her and said that this was probably a bad idea...maybe we should go home. She said that she was feeling better and would see how she felt later in the day.
The day was relaxing. We spent our time shopping at the Berkshire Mall and then lounged around the pool for the rest of the afternoon.
I hopped in the shower to get ready for a nice dinner with my wife. When it was her turn to get ready, she was in the shower for an unusually long time. When she came out, she said that she thought her water had broke. Being the compassionate and considerate person that I am, I said, "what do you mean, you think your water broke?"
From that point, Murphy and his famous law kicked in at every opportunity.
We called her OB. He was out of the office, so we spoke to the on-call physician. He said to get to the nearest Emergency Room. I called the front desk of the hotel and asked for the closest hospital. I was dismayed to hear that it was a 40-minute drive up Route 7 in Pittsfield.
I received the directions and headed with my wife to our brand new mini-van (we had just purchased it in anticipation of the birth of our twins. It was the type of van that has sliding doors on each side for easy in and out access).
I stopped my wife before letting her in the van and ran back to the room. You see, it was a brand new car, so I grabbed the towels from the room and covered my new seats...just in case. It's amazing the little details you can remember in crisis situations.
We made it to Pittsfield. My wife was taken by the medical personnel while I filled out the paperwork.
When I finally got to see my wife she was crying. The doctors told us that the twins were coming. The bad news was that the hospital wasn't equipped to handle high risk premature babies, so my wife would need to be transported by ambulance to Bay State Medical Center in Springfield. Since I know a thing or two about geography (I was a long haul truck driver in a previous career), I asked how long it would take to get to Springfield. The doctor said about 45 minutes. My reply, "just wrap her up and I'll get her back home to Connecticut in a little over an hour."
It was at that point, that I realized the seriousness of the situation. The doctor said, "you don't know how sick your wife is...she could go into convulsions...she needs to go by ambulance to Bay State right now." My reply..."make it happen."
As soon as I got in the mini-van to follow the ambulance, I realized that my gas tank was on empty. When you have owned a car for awhile you realize how far you can push the gas gauge. There was no such luck this time as this was the very first trip we had taken with the van. I couldn't lose the ambulance and traveled the entire Mass Pike with the light on and bells ringing telling me I was almost out of gas.
While driving, I decided I had better call my in-laws and my family. Every single member of our families had told me it was a stupid idea to take a person on a trip when they were carrying twins and only 6-weeks from their due date.
We arrived at Bay State and as it turns out, we were at a hospital that was more than capable of handling high risk pregnancies. They halted my wife's contractions because as it turns out, only Baby A's water had broken. It seems that Baby B wasn't ready to come out.
As my wife went into contractions the next day, the families all started arriving at the hospital. Baby A was born at 5:02 p.m. and then the labor stopped. Baby B still didn't want to enter the world. The doctor's decided that Baby B was coming one way or the other and induced labor. That night, at 10:19, Baby B finally entered the world and joined her sister in the neonatal unit.
They spent a four days in Massachusetts and then were transported to Yale New Haven for another week of close monitoring and growing.
When their tour of New England had finally ended Baby A (Ashley) and Baby B (Brittany) were brought home nearly 2-weeks after being born.
My message to my two beautiful, bright, and precious daughters...I love you both with all my heart and each day you each make me so proud of you.
And to my readers...the Pickleman speaketh...don't drive on empty, don't take your high risk pregnant wives on trips during their final trimester, don't think you know more than skilled physicians, and don't worry about staining your car seats in emergency situations. But do love your wife and children every single day.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Pickleman Speaketh...My QR Code Obsession
QR codes are exploding all around us and I've become obsessed with them and their potential. QR stands for Quick Response and from someone who oversees a print and mail business, they offer excitement to the sometimes tedious ways direct mail campaigns are operated. In fact, the opportunities to be creative are only limited by your imagination. Let's look at an example.
I am going to shamelessly plug the 3rd Annual Derby Dash 5k & Fun Run being held on Saturday, June 25th at 8 a.m. on the Derby Greenway. Proceeds from the race benefit St. Mary-St. Michael School in Derby.
In the past, we would send a press release to the local newspapers (both print and electronic media), send the information to the various running websites located in the area, print flyers and place them strategically throughout the town.
Let me ask a question...how many of you take a pen and piece of paper with you when you go walking, jogging, or running errands? More specifically, for those who walk the Derby Greenway, are you carrying pen and paper in hand? I would expect that a few carry these items, but that most would not. I would be willing to bet that most people are carrying their cell phones.
There are always notices at the fountain that leads to the Greenway. Likewise, there are notices in the supermarkets and other places of business we frequent. If something interests you, you'll need to either borrow a pen and paper, take the flyer, or commit the item to memory.
On our Derby Dash flyer, as always, we included our web site so people can download the registration form. The form can be found at:
More interesting to me is that we included a QR code that when scanned will download our race registration form in a matter of seconds. You can then print the form and fill it out at your leisure. Below is our QR code that will download our 5k race application...go ahead, scan it, but more importantly, fill it out and get your butt out of bed on the 25th and join in the fun.
More examples of my QR code obsession will be available in the weeks to come.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Pickleman Speaketh...Thank you St. Mary-St. Michael Girls JV Basketball Team!
It’s not often that an elementary school girl’s JV basketball makes it to the sports pages or any section of the newspaper. With that in mind, I felt compelled to write and acknowledge the girls from the St. Mary-St. Michael School in Derby, Girls JV basketball team. Yes, this is a sports story, but the themes of pride, honor, history, and appreciation affected me in a way that is difficult to express.
Most of us are familiar with the film, Rocky. In Rocky, Sylvester Stallone plays a fighter who is given the opportunity of a lifetime when he is offered to fight for the heavyweight championship. Stallone doesn’t have the best equipment, manager, girlfriend or lifestyle, yet as the story progresses his character grows into one of the most beloved characters in motion picture history.
The St. Mary-St. Michael Girls JV basketball team is part of the Greater New Haven Parochial Athletic League. In the 2009-2010 season with only one 6th grade student and a core group of 5th graders, our team finished with 2 wins and 12 losses. To say the competition was fierce would be an understatement. The girls played hard every night but were outsized and we found it difficult to compete. This year the team consisted of five 6th graders, four 5th graders and a whole slew of 4th graders
An issue that has made the headlines lately is the whole “pay-to-play” argument many athletic departments in the public sector are condemning. In private schools, “pay-to-play” is a given. In fact, “pay-to-learn,” “pay-to-be-in-the-band,” “pay-to-be- in-an-after-school-program” is a way of life. Our team had to pay the league entry fees and then divide the cost by the number of players on the roster. In other words, if we wanted a team, we had to be self-sufficient.
Since we do not have a gym of our own, a primary concern was where to practice? The former St. Michael campus building has a small gym, however, since that location had been leased to an outside party we were presented with logistical, insurance, and other problems. By the time we had our roster in place and the league fees paid, the schedule had been made.
With no place to practice and two days before our first game we took advantage of some unseasonably warm December weather, blew the leaves out of my driveway, and went to work. The girls arrived wearing their winter coats and their parents watched as we practiced. Two days later we played our first game, and through sheer effort won.
Three days later we were scheduled to play a school from West Haven that has its own gym, so we knew they would be well prepared. We went to our parents and raised enough money to rent the Derby Veteran’s Memorial Community Center gym for a couple of hours. Despite our best effort, we lost our second game. Shortly thereafter, we were granted permission to use the Irving School gym for 2 hours each week.
To make a long story short, we rolled to an impressive 13-3 regular season record. We were seeded number 3 in the tournament and won two playoff games in the same day (including knocking the number 2 seed out) in order to advance to the championship game.
Moments before tip-off, as we tried to get the girls ready to play for the championship, we figured the girls didn’t need to take any more foul shots or layups. We spent the final five minutes reminding the girls of how far they had come. How we started in December in a driveway wearing our winter coats. How their parents had to reach into their own pockets so they could play on a real floor. How we had played 16 games and how each and every one of them were away games in places like Madison, Branford, New Haven, and Milford.
I would like to say we won the game and brought home the championship, however, we did lose in the finals to St. Rita’s of Hamden. There's no disgrace in losing to a more talented, better coached, and disciplined team.
In Rocky, Stallone loses the fight, but gets respect. Today, we applaud St. Rita’s for a job well done, but we need to remind our foes in the Greater New Haven Parochial Athletic League that in Rocky II, Stallone wins the championship…so we’ll see you all next year.
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The girls with their individual and 2nd place team trophy. |
I would like to thank all the girls, parents, and fans of the St. Mary-St. Michael School Girls JV basketball team for a memorable year.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Pickleman Speaketh...Don't Drink and Drive
I've shared this before, but since today is the 36th anniversary, I thought I'd share a true and personal story about the dangers of drinking and driving. I wrote the following in 1998. All it takes is one mistake or bad decision and your life and the lives of those you love are changed forever. What you're about to read happened on Labor Day weekend, September 3 - 6th, 1983. I am still haunted by the poor decisions I made that night.
I opened my eyes to the sound of my mother's voice. It was strange. She sounded far away. I was disoriented. Gradually my surroundings came into focus. A piercing bright light blinded me. The last thing I remembered was lying down in the van.
"Ouch."
I imagined her at home in Connecticut. Whenever my grandparents called us from California, my brothers and sister would go scattering to the different phone extensions to say a few words. It was always the same. We would relay to them everything that had happened to us since the last call, then Pop would tease us about how lovely the weather was in L.A. Nana was always the last to speak and the calls always ended the same, "Good-bye. Love ya'. God Bless."
"Mom, what's happening?"
I turned my head. The clock on the wall, beyond the annoying stranger with the tweezers read one-thirty. I pictured my mom on the phone, and could hear my dad on the extension. Some quick math told me it was four-thirty back home.
"I can't do this if you keep moving."
David was labelled as the problem child. He had the terrible knack of getting caught. On the other hand, much of what I did was just as bad, if not worse, however, I was rarely caught and often said anything to appease my parents. If David disagreed with something, he ranted and raved about it until he found himself getting punished.
A great lesson of my childhood occurred in the fourth grade when I watched David get beat up in the school yard by an older and bigger boy. I was sure that when we got home from school that day he'd be punished for fighting. To my surprise, it was me who was punished.
"But dad, David started it."
In Little League I was the catcher and David was the pitcher. Dad could be heard in the stands, "C'mon Davey-Baby." My dad knew the importance of good left handed pitching.
"I love you too."
I was invited to a party filled weekend at my buddy's house in San Francisco. I asked David to come along. He was stationed in California at the time.
"Where's my brother?"
More than three decades have passed since that night. The pain in my family's eyes is always evident. At times I dream of him but the final moments are never vivid. Maybe it's better I can't fully remember. Still I wake with questions in the middle of the night. "Why?" is the most prominent. I am reminded of my nana's words from so long ago..."Good-bye, Love ya', God bless."
I opened my eyes to the sound of my mother's voice. It was strange. She sounded far away. I was disoriented. Gradually my surroundings came into focus. A piercing bright light blinded me. The last thing I remembered was lying down in the van.
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| David and I in California |
"Sir, you're gonna have to be still."
"Are you all right?"
"Mom, is that you?"
"If you keep moving I'm going to remove the phone," said a faceless stranger with tweezers and string in hand.
"Mom, are you there?"
"I'm here."
I imagined her at home in Connecticut. Whenever my grandparents called us from California, my brothers and sister would go scattering to the different phone extensions to say a few words. It was always the same. We would relay to them everything that had happened to us since the last call, then Pop would tease us about how lovely the weather was in L.A. Nana was always the last to speak and the calls always ended the same, "Good-bye. Love ya'. God Bless."
"Mom, what's happening?"
"Have you seen your brother?"
I turned my head. The clock on the wall, beyond the annoying stranger with the tweezers read one-thirty. I pictured my mom on the phone, and could hear my dad on the extension. Some quick math told me it was four-thirty back home.
"I can't do this if you keep moving."
"Son, there's been an accident,” my dad said, his voice cracking. I had never heard that sound before. He was the strongest man I ever knew. I could hear my mom sobbing on the extension.
"How much have you been drinking?" another voice asked. I turned and saw an officer standing next to the doorway with pen and notebook in hand.
"Oh! This is impossible!" She turned and left in a huff.
"David might not make it through the night."
"What?"
"I said, how much have you had to drink?" He looked like he was getting impatient.
I was the oldest child. My brother David was a year younger. He was followed by my sister and my youngest brother. My parents were hard-working people.
David was labelled as the problem child. He had the terrible knack of getting caught. On the other hand, much of what I did was just as bad, if not worse, however, I was rarely caught and often said anything to appease my parents. If David disagreed with something, he ranted and raved about it until he found himself getting punished.
A great lesson of my childhood occurred in the fourth grade when I watched David get beat up in the school yard by an older and bigger boy. I was sure that when we got home from school that day he'd be punished for fighting. To my surprise, it was me who was punished.
"But dad, David started it."
"I don't care who started it. Don't you ever just stand by and watch your brother get beat up."
I'm sure I saw David smirk out of the corner of my eye and I know he used that bit of knowledge to his advantage. Over the years the two of us were sent home from school for fighting more times than I care to remember.
I'm sure I saw David smirk out of the corner of my eye and I know he used that bit of knowledge to his advantage. Over the years the two of us were sent home from school for fighting more times than I care to remember.
In Little League I was the catcher and David was the pitcher. Dad could be heard in the stands, "C'mon Davey-Baby." My dad knew the importance of good left handed pitching.
"I don't remember."
"We found about a dozen empties in the van."
I started drinking my senior year in high school. My grades slipped and with no plans for the future, I enlisted in the Air Force. With my future secure, I drank more frequently. After enlisting for four years, I was sent home after a mere 10-month stint.
David joined the Marines and went to Japan. Everyone said that the Marines had straightened him out. I moved to L.A. and didn't see him much.
David joined the Marines and went to Japan. Everyone said that the Marines had straightened him out. I moved to L.A. and didn't see him much.
David had a welcome home party in Connecticut when he returned from Japan. He called me in L.A.
"How ya' doin'?"
"Great, hey, how's your party?"
"We’re having a ball."
"That's great. I wish I could've made it home."
"I wish you could've as well. I gotta go now. I love you big brother."
I don't know why I felt embarrassed. I was all alone three thousand miles away.
I don't know why I felt embarrassed. I was all alone three thousand miles away.
"I love you too."
I was invited to a party filled weekend at my buddy's house in San Francisco. I asked David to come along. He was stationed in California at the time.
"I don't know. I went to sleep."
"So your brother was driving?"
"You have to say good-bye from all of us." I heard her sob.
"I'll get the details later," he said as he closed his notebook and left the room.
"Listen to me," he ordered. "You have to say good-bye to your brother. We'll be there as soon as we can."
"Mom, dad, I'm sorry. I love you."
"Sir, we really have to close that wound."
Earlier it had taken David two and a half hours to get from Camp Pendleton to L.A. It was already dark when he arrived. We loaded the van and I bought a case of beer for the drive to San Francisco. I drank while driving, like always. David drank one beer, then slept in the van's bed. Four hours later, I woke him up.
"Here, you drive. I need to get some sleep."
"Why don't we just stop for the night?"
"We can't. We don't want to waste the whole weekend driving. We gotta be in San Fran for sunrise."
David drove.
David drove.
"Where's my brother?"
"He's in the next room."
"I need to see him, now."
I passed a mirror as I was wheeled to the next room. My body was torn but in time it would heal. David was lying in white linens surrounded by technology. He looked so peaceful.
I passed a mirror as I was wheeled to the next room. My body was torn but in time it would heal. David was lying in white linens surrounded by technology. He looked so peaceful.
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| My younger brother, David |
© Art Gerckens, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Pickleman Speaketh...Hello!
For my first post, I'd like to introduce myself. You might be asking yourself, "why is he calling himself the Pickleman?" My last name is Gerckens. I can't tell you how many times in my life that people have said upon hearing my last name, "Oh, do you mean like the pickle?" Rather than fight it, I've learned to accept being called the pickleman. Believe me when I tell you that it beats being called the other name that people have innocently (well, not all have called me it so innocently) referred to me upon hearing my last name..."Jerckens."
I tell you that Jerckens doesn't bother me, but it infuriates my mother. I once tried to correct people by asking them what's up with the soft g sound? You don't call "God", "Jod", or "gold", "jold", so why do you feel the need to say "Jerckens" instead of "Gerckens?"
I thought I had a logical argument until people started giving me examples of soft g words that dismissed my argument. Geriatric, does in fact use a soft g, as does gerbil, and a whole host of other words.
I've spent a lot of time talking about my name. I feel it's important to get the name issue out of the way. Besides there might even be a point or two to be made by being up front. I do believe that if you feel strong enough to state a position, then there is nothing wrong with people knowing your name. I know that is a hard line approach, but that's what I learned when I went to school in the 1970's. I'm not saying the opinions of those who choose to hide their identities are any less valuable than the opinions of the named, but I will admit to taking the named opinions more seriously.
The other point that may have been made is that I've told you publicly of a mistake I made by demonstrating my wrong approach to the hard g, soft g naming issue. I make lots of mistakes and try to learn from them. If I misspeak or my opinion can be proven incorrect, by all means, call me on it...just don't call me Jerckens. It's been done before and if it's said with enough venom, I'll sic my mother after you.
Finally, I have been asked to create and discuss different issues on this blog. Currenlty, the topics seem endless (but we'll see how it goes as I write about them). I work at a university, manage three departments, have seats on national and regional boards in the mail and print industries, lead a parent task force at a parochial school, coach recreational basketball and soccer, speak at national conferences, travel, scuba dive, fundraise, and try to raise my family as best I can.
With that, I'd like to say Welcome to The Pickleman Speaketh...
I tell you that Jerckens doesn't bother me, but it infuriates my mother. I once tried to correct people by asking them what's up with the soft g sound? You don't call "God", "Jod", or "gold", "jold", so why do you feel the need to say "Jerckens" instead of "Gerckens?"
I thought I had a logical argument until people started giving me examples of soft g words that dismissed my argument. Geriatric, does in fact use a soft g, as does gerbil, and a whole host of other words.
I've spent a lot of time talking about my name. I feel it's important to get the name issue out of the way. Besides there might even be a point or two to be made by being up front. I do believe that if you feel strong enough to state a position, then there is nothing wrong with people knowing your name. I know that is a hard line approach, but that's what I learned when I went to school in the 1970's. I'm not saying the opinions of those who choose to hide their identities are any less valuable than the opinions of the named, but I will admit to taking the named opinions more seriously.
The other point that may have been made is that I've told you publicly of a mistake I made by demonstrating my wrong approach to the hard g, soft g naming issue. I make lots of mistakes and try to learn from them. If I misspeak or my opinion can be proven incorrect, by all means, call me on it...just don't call me Jerckens. It's been done before and if it's said with enough venom, I'll sic my mother after you.
Finally, I have been asked to create and discuss different issues on this blog. Currenlty, the topics seem endless (but we'll see how it goes as I write about them). I work at a university, manage three departments, have seats on national and regional boards in the mail and print industries, lead a parent task force at a parochial school, coach recreational basketball and soccer, speak at national conferences, travel, scuba dive, fundraise, and try to raise my family as best I can.
With that, I'd like to say Welcome to The Pickleman Speaketh...
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