A Few Memorable Thanksgivings.

As I'm about to celebrate my 54th Thanksgiving, I thought I'd share several Thanksgiving memories.

Thanksgiving Day 1972.  I'm pretty sure I have the year correct.  Derby played Shelton at Lafayette School.  I remember that it was very cold and if I recall correctly, there was freezing rain falling.  Back in those days, the Derby-Shelton game attracted thousands of people and bleacher seats (especially at Lafayette) were at a premium.  This game stands out because it was the first time I remember my dad getting angry with someone.  He got angry with my brothers and sister plenty of times, but he was generally a very nice person.  I left my seat to go buy a cup of hot chocolate.  As I was returning, a man tried to take my bleacher seat.  My dad confronted him and said, "this seat is saved."  The guy replied, "they don't reserve seats here."  My dad looked the guy in the eye and said, "they do now."  I was proud as I saw the guy walk away sheepishly while my dad stood his ground and welcomed me to stand beside him.  I'm sure Derby won...they always did back then and later the family would have all been fighting over the white meat at the table.

Thanksgiving Day 1979.  I was getting ready to play my final football game for Derby High School.  I had a decent senior year.  In my first varsity start against Branford, I caught 8 passes for a new single game receiving record.  I'm amused to think of how much the game has changed since that time.  If you think of it, Derby football had been around since the early 1900's and through 70 plus years, the receiving record was 7 catches in a game.

Later in the season against Amity, I tied my own single game record of 8 catches.  As we entered the Shelton game, I needed 4 catches to break the all-time single season receiving record held by the great Dave Berey.

We entered the game with a 4-5 record and it looked like we were going to be the first DHS team coached by Lou DeFilippo to have a losing record.  A week earlier we entered the Cheshire game with a 3-5 record.  We had lost to Seymour that year by a score of 64-16 and Cheshire had beaten Seymour.

We ended up beating down Cheshire and headed into the Shelton game with a chance to avoid a losing season.

In a previous blog, I mentioned how Walt Lungarini scored the winning touchdown against Shelton by stepping in front of a pass that was intended for me.  I remember walking from the end zone to the 50-yard line with a double claw (for those of you not familiar with the claw, it was a gesture we used my senior year...we'll leave it at that) that I extended to both sides of the field.  Coach DeFilippo hated "hot dogs" and those who drew attention to themselves rather than the team, but this was the first and last time I ever was caught up in a game moment.

Afterwards, Coach presented me the game ball and I gave a little speech to the underclassmen about never quitting.  Note:  I only caught two passes that day, so the season reception record stood.

Looking back, this was the last Thanksgiving my family was together.  The next year, I was in the Air Force and the year after that, my brother was in the Marine Corps.  A memory of this day is when my father called us to the dinner table.  The table was set with the same familiar green set of china that had been on our table for as long as I can remember.

Dad called at least three times before we all gradually entered the room to sit down for dinner.  We were all seated when my youngest brother, Kevin entered last and sat down in his seat with no shirt and wearing a pair of underwear.  My father said, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"  Kevin answered cluelessly, "what?"  I distinctly remember my father smacking him across the ass and saying, "don't you ever come to my dinner table in your underwear."  Of course, the rest of us laughed as Kevin went scampering off to his room.

After dinner I met with many of my classmates to celebrate our victory.

Thanksgiving Day 1980.  I celebrated the day by attending mass in the chapel of Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi.  I remember being away from my family and a sense of loneliness.

Thanksgiving Day 1981.  The morning began by heading to Storks Tavern to partake in their 25-cent draft beers.  At some point, I painted my face with war paint and headed to the Derby-Shelton game.

I remember waking up that evening and realizing it was still Thanksgiving.  It was soon apparent that I was alone in the house and that I had missed the Thanksgiving meal (undoubtedly I had too much fun in the morning).

This particular Thanksgiving is memorable not only for the pre-game festivities, but also for a Vermont trip.  A bunch of my former classmates were renting a cabin in Vermont and had invited me.  When I awoke from my stupor, I washed my face, looked at the clock and realized I had 15-minutes to get my act together in order to meet my pals.

I gathered my wits about me and grabbed a tooth brush, a jacket and left for Vermont for a 3-day party.  There would be hell to pay for missing the meal and for running off to Vermont without telling anyone, but at 19-years-old, I figured I would deal with the consequences when I returned.

Thanksgiving Day 1982.  I was living in California and celebrated with my grandparents and uncle.

Thanksgiving Day 1984.  I had returned to Connecticut.  My dad was in the best shape of his life.  He was 52 and running 5-miles each day, however, he had developed a cough that had lingered for about two weeks.  He was popping cough drops every few minutes, but nothing seemed to help.

I remember coming to dinner that night and as I looked at him, I was overcome with a sense of dread.  I kept it to myself, but as he coughed during the meal, I felt something was not right.  A week or so later, he went for an x-ray and was told he had terminal lung cancer.  He was diagnosed in December and fought until April when he passed.

Thanksgiving Day 1988.  My mom and I decided to hop on a plane and surprise our California relatives.  We arose early, caught a flight to LA, rented a car, and were at my uncle's dinner table for the Thanksgiving meal.  We hadn't told a soul and it was a great day and weekend.

Thanksgiving Day 1994.  This was the day I proposed to Patsy.  I had purchased an engagement ring and decided I would pop the question after the meal.  Dinner was at her parents home and her family were around the table.

After dinner, I went downstairs to ask her dad for her hand.  Let me set the scene.  Her dad's name is Pasquale.  Pasquale was as tough as his name sounds.  He coached me in Pop Warner football and was a larger than life Derby figure.

The two of us were alone in the basement when I said, "I'd like to ask Patsy to marry me, but out of respect, I'd like to ask you for her hand first."  He replied, "Sure, do you want a beer?"

With his blessing in hand, I decided I would ask Patsy to go for a walk.  The family was laughing and joking and I finally said, "Patsy, do you want to take a walk with me?"  Her response, "What are you crazy?  It's cold and we haven't had dessert."

"Go ahead. Go for a walk," said Pasquale.

Patsy reluctantly left with me and we walked down Derby Neck Road until we got to perhaps the most scenic overlook in Derby.  We were near the barn overlooking McConney's Farm with its view of the Housatonic River below when I finally asked her to marry me.

In the subsequent years, our children and nieces were born, and we've lost many of our beloved family members.  Through it all, we still follow our old traditions (mom still breaks out the green china each year) and we've started our own traditions.

For the past decade, Patsy and I have hosted a Thanksgiving breakfast for our families and friends.  The breakfast is a way for us to get our families and friends together first thing in the morning before everyone goes their own way to dine with their extended families.

On a side note, I'm still waiting for someone to show up at my dinner table shirtless and in their underwear.  When they do, I will be sure to keep alive my dad's tradition of that great '79 Thanksgiving.

The Pickleman thanks you for reading and wishes you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Raider Numerology

Today I'm going to let my hair down a bit and give you a glimpse of my dementia.  I'm a fan of numbers.  Not the mathematical numbers that I struggled with as a youth (just ask Ann DiCenso, Norm Mittendorf, or any of my college professors), but football numbers.  Specifically, Derby football numbers.

There was a time that I could name the numbers of all the football players of my era.  It wasn't just me, many of my friends were talented with Derby football numbers.

Any fan of Derby football from my era could name who wore 44...John Pagliaro.  48?  Mike Sullivan.  I could go on and on.

Of course, I've had a fascination with 47, which was my number.  It was also Dave DeRosa's number and the recently departed Frank Zuba's number.  There was a time or two while Frank was alive that the three of us happened to be together.  I would deadpan, "do you realize that at this moment the three greatest number 47's in DHS history are together?"  Of course, the three of us were the only 47's that I knew.  Now that Frank has passed, I suppose that Dave and I are the two greatest living 47's in DHS history, but again I don't know of any other 47's.

This kind of illogical thinking has led me to today's blog.  I'd like to call this Project Raider or Raider Numerology.

I have prepared on Google Sheets a spreadsheet from 1900 - 2019 that contains the numbers 0-99.  I don't believe we've ever had single digit numbers or number 90 or above, but I've included them in the spreadsheet just in case.

There is a tab at the bottom listing the decade.  40's, 50's, 60's, 70's, etc...  Find the decade you are interested in and then find the year and enter the name of the person who wore that jersey.  Keep in mind, I graduated in 1980, but my final year of football was 1979.  Therefore, the years I played would be 1977, 1978, 1979.

Here is the link to the spreadsheet.

http://tinyurl.com/hjvtsgf

You can only view.  If you want permission to edit and add names, please send me a message and I'll give you access to edit.  If we get someone knowledgeable from each decade or break out the old photos, we could get a pretty good list together.  Fill in as many names as possible over the next few weeks and in the end we should have a pretty comprehensive list.

Once we have a comprehensive list, we'll explore the second part of my dementia.

As I get older and celebrate a birthday, I celebrate by entering the Year of the Players' jersey from my era.

Here's an example.  When I turned 44, I entered the Year of the Pags (after John Pagliaro).  When I turned 45, I entered the Year of the Jocko (after Jocko Vielette).  My greatest year was when I turned 47 (Year of the Gerckens), followed by my 48th birthday when I entered the Year of the Berey (after Dave Berey).

Now, I know what you're saying, either, "how the hell did we ever elect this guy to public office" (valid point), or "Hold on a minute, I played with Bob Orchano and to me 48 would be the Year of the Orch."  That's fine.  Your year should correspond with whoever wore that jersey the longest while you played.  Except for the Year of the Pags.  Since his number was retired, anyone who turns 44 enters the Year of the Pags.

This leads to another question that deserves an explanation.  Why the Year of the Person who wore a jersey?  Back in 70's the Super Bowl announcers would try to make arguments that the Chinese New Years had something to do with the eventual Super Bowl winners.  For instance during the Year of the Snake, Ken "Snake" Stabler led the Oakland Raiders to the Super Bowl.  During the Year of the Horse, the Broncos made the Super Bowl.  This theory died out quickly when the Broncos kept getting beat and during the Year of the Dog, the Browns (remember the Dog Pound) fumbled away a chance to go to the Super Bowl.

Anyways, this is my dementia, so these are my rules.  Right now, I am rapidly approaching the Year of the Owney (55 - Owney DiMauro), but I look forward to retirement when I hit the Year of the Batman (63 - Tony Battaglino).  More likely though, I'll probably need to keep working until I reach the Year of the Agim (67 - Agim "Jim" Spataj).  I think we'd all be lucky to live to the Year of the Snowman (78 - John Snow), Year of the Garf (79 - Roy Garofalo) or better yet, Year of the Pierce (88  - Lenny Pierce from my era, or the Year of the Vicidomino for the era before me).

So there you have it.  No great meaning, no great writing style, just a quick blog inviting people to participate in my dementia.

If you'd like to contribute to the spreadsheet, contact me and I'll give you permission to enter data.

In Derby we trust.  :)

RIP Tommy

Tommy Dow passed away a couple days ago.  Tommy had many more family or friends who could talk more eloquently than me about his life.  After all, Tommy wasn't one of my close friends.  Years would pass and then once in a while I would happen to run into him or see him at the mutual home of a friend.  There was a time, however, in the mid-80's when Tommy was one of my genuine local rock-n-roll heroes.

He was the drummer for the band Bad Attitude.  Bad Attitude never made it to the big time, but boy oh boy did their music speak to me.

I came to follow Bad Attitude because I went to school with their bass player, Mark.  Soon, I was going to all their shows and rehearsals.  For several years my pal Joe and I were their unofficial roadies, sound guys, and cameramen.

I say unofficial since there was never any pay, but since we helped them move their equipment, we considered ourselves roadies.  We would put blank cassette tapes into sound boards and capture bootlegs of their live shows.  In our minds, this meant we were sound men.  I would bring a clunky VHS camera with a blinding white light to record their performances.  Of course, the fact that we had a camera made us cameramen/videographers.

A decade ago, Tommy gave Joe a cd he had burned from one of those long forgotten cassette recordings of a live Bad Attitude show.  Joe gave it to me and I converted twenty-eight live BA songs into the mp3 format.  These songs remain a treasured addition to my musical collection and a constant reminder of that time in my life.

I attended Tommy's benefit several months ago and was glad we had a few precious moments together to talk about the old days.

Click on the link to hear a live recording from the mid-80's of the Bad Attitude song, "I'm not Changing."  

http://tinyurl.com/hjd63mr

A sampling of the lyrics include the lines:

I'm not changing anything

I'm not changing a single thing

I look back at the past 30 years and although I swore by those lyrics, upon reflection, I realize I have indeed changed.  I look back at those same 30 years and can state proudly that Tommy kept right on rocking to the bitter end.

Tommy my friend, my rock-n-roll hero from so long ago, you remained true to your craft.  You rocked, you kept your terrific sense of humor, and you fought the good fight.

Thank you.  May your family and friends know that your musical talent and sense of humor spoke to countless people in the region.

Rest in peace, buddy.

Kayaks, Canoes, and Ridiculous Defined?

At the most recent Board of Aldermen (BOA) meeting, a request from the public (who we were elected to serve) denied Derbyites the opportunity to kayak or canoe on the Witek Park Reservoir.

The residents who asked this issue be pursued did everything by the book (even though that book can be frustrating).

The process started months ago with a simple statement, ”I’d like for my wife and I to be able to kayak at Witek Park, but the signs read no boating.”

Despite seeing others on the reservoir illegally paddling with their kayaks, this citizen choose to go through the legislative process so that his concern could be addressed.

He enlisted my help.  Why me?  Well, I'm currently the Chair of the Operations & Procedures subcommittee of the Board of Aldermen.  I placed this item on our agenda and for three months we've been fine tuning the ordinance.  The philosophy?  Keep the ordinance enforceable, yet simple.

At the eleventh hour of last month’s BOA meeting, it was learned that since the reservoir is a body of water within the confines of the State of Connecticut, the Department of Energy and Environmental Protection (DEEP) would need to sign off on our ordinance.  When we first started, we had been told that since it was our reservoir, we could pass whatever ordinance we desired.

Armed with this new information, we tabled the item for a month while we worked with DEEP.   Although summer was slipping away, the resident waited patiently.

After a series of email messages and corrections, we received DEEP’s tentative approval.  All we needed to do was inform them once the ordinance had passed and they would sign off on it.

Our subcommittee met one final time to hash out any further details.  When we were satisfied, we voted unanimously to send the ordinance to the full Board of Alderman with the recommendation to approve.

A brief explanation of the subcommittee process is in order.  At the subcommittee level, ideas, questions, problems, and other issues are discussed and vetted.  The public has the opportunity to be heard and once all of the prior steps have been completed, a vote is taken, and a final recommendation is made to the full Board of Aldermen.  Generally, by the time the issue has reached the full board, it is packaged and ready to be voted upon.

Normally, the process works.  Unfortunately, at this past meeting the process failed the citizens of Derby.

The day of the meeting arrived and the motion to approve was made.  The motion was seconded and it was time for discussion and then the final vote.

During the discussion phase, it became apparent that several aldermen were against the proposal (including one member of the subcommittee who had voted to send it to the full board for approval).

The arguments.

This ordinance didn’t make it clear that the opportunity to canoe and kayak was for Derby residents only.  The following is the first sentence of the proposed ordinance:

The Board of Aldermen of the City of Derby desires to provide a safe and healthy environment for all City of Derby residents wishing to enjoy Witek Park Reservoir.

The city insurance will go up.  No it won’t.  We were provided a letter from the city’s insurance broker that stated the city's insurance premium would not go up as a result of allowing kayaks or canoes at Witek.

I worry about the city's liability.   We have been told over and over again by legal that the city is always liable.  We get sued for slips and falls, debris on roadways, fights in our school system, and plain old stupidity.  If it happens in our city limits, we get sued.  There is no increase in liability.

We don’t want to be overrun with kayakers.  This will not be like the scene in the movie 300 where the Persian flotilla is attacking the coastline of Greece.  You will likely have 3 or 4 kayakers on the reservoir.  Keep in mind this is a small body of water.  The true kayakers, may do it once and realize they’d rather go elsewhere.

We need age restrictions on who can kayak.  It was suggested that a person should be either 18 or get this…21 years of age before being allowed to kayak on this small reservoir.  Despite our city ordinances, if there is a conflict with local ordinances and the State of Connecticut general statutes, the state regulations take priority.  The state allows children as young as 12-16 to operate personal watercraft (but recommends someone 18 or older accompany them).

In fact, the state allows a sixteen-year-old to operate a motorized vessel as long as they hold a permit and are under the supervision of an eighteen-year-old.

A child under the age of 12 who has obtained a Safe Boating Certificate (SBC) or Certificate of Personal Watercraft Operation) CPWO may not operate a vessel with greater than 10 horsepower, unless the youth is accompanied on board by a person at least age 18 who holds a SBC or CPWO.

It is perfectly legal in this state (although frowned upon) for a 12-year-old with a certificate to take out a small motorized boat with an 8 horsepower engine.

A direct question was asked, “So you want the regulations to operate a kayak on the reservoir to be more difficult to obtain than the state requirements?”  “Yes.”

The tougher age restrictions seems silly to me.  A man or woman can enlist in the service and risk being killed while serving their country, but cannot paddle a kayak in this small body of water located in our municipality.

The noise will be a problem.  A citizen who lives on the reservoir complained of the noise of dirt bikes and ATV vehicles running through Witek Park and didn’t want to be distracted by kayakers.  First of all, that's a whole separate discussion about police enforcement.  The splash of a paddle does not compare to the noise of a dirt bike.  In fact, there are relaxation tapes sold that include the soothing sounds of water and water splashing.

The Police Chief wasn't consulted.  Yes, he was.

The vote was actually 4-3 in favor (two members were absent).  In order to pass an ordinance, we needed five votes, so although the vote was in favor, we did not have the fifth vote that was needed.  Perhaps we will raise this again when we have a full board.

Until then, let me leave you with a final thought.  We tried to allow kayaks and canoes for the enjoyment of our citizens who already pay way too much in property taxes and sewage fees.  This effort was all about that couple who tried to do the right thing by patiently going to their representatives to make a change.

Interestingly, at the same meeting, the City of Derby received a Consent Order from the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) for among other things, discharging raw sewage into the Naugatuck and Housatonic Rivers.  The people operating that plant and who are responsible for handling 31 million dollars of the public’s money, didn’t realize that when you discharge into a Connecticut waterway or plan to repair a busted Water Pollution Facility, it might be a good idea to contact the EPA.  The kayak discussion lasted nearly twenty minutes.  There was no discussion on the Consent Order and the woeful performance of our Water Pollution Facility.

The Pickleman wonders…have I adequately defined ridiculous?

Goodbye to the Truck Driving Man

Today I renewed my driver's license.  For the past 25 years, I've held a Commercial Driver's License (CDL).  When I left California in 1991, I needed a job.  I decided to enroll in the All State Tractor-Trailer School.  At that time, they were located in Bridgeport.

How did I decide to become a tractor-trailer driver?

My Uncle John has been a great influence on my life.  "Unc" was born in Scotland but eventually the family moved to Connecticut.

My grandparents and uncle moved to California in the late 60's.

Unc was a high-school football star and went on to be recruited by many colleges in California.  He played for Cypress College and I have held onto a treasured photo of him from the Orange County Register chasing down an opposing player.

It was no surprise that having a football star in the family and growing up in Derby when I did, that I would try to follow in his footsteps.

After my uncle's football career, he bought a big rig and became an owner operator truck driver.

There was something romantic about being a truck driver in those days.  Smokey and the Bandit was the number two movie in the land (behind Star Wars) and in fact, my uncle looked a bit like Burt Reynolds.  We nicknamed him "Uncle Burt."

He was single, traveling the country, and always had either a Corvette or a Porsche in his driveway.

Highlights of our family's childhood were whenever Uncle John would call and say he would be in Connecticut for a few days.  I always had a love of geography and found his tales from the road fascinating.

When I was fourteen, my uncle took me and my brother on a cross country trip in his rig to Los Angeles to visit our grandparents.

The trip was awesome.  Here was a guy who would climb in the cab and at all times be in control of his life.  If he didn't want a load, he would reject it.  If he wanted the truck unloaded, he'd throw some cash the way of the locals and get them to unload the truck for him.  Although being Scottish, I don't think he threw too much money around.  :)  He lived the Southern California lifestyle.  He played golf, he surfed, he shared an apartment with other beachcombers and at fourteen I looked up to him more than he could ever realize.

Fast forward to my time at All State Tractor-Trailer School.

It was tougher than one would think, but in the end I received a certificate for being "Best in Class."  This would be the only time in my scholastic career that I would ever be best of anything.  My buddies joke with me about this honor to this day, but hey...someone has got to be best in class, so why not me?

I was hired shortly thereafter by Werner Enterprises of Omaha, Nebraska.  You can still see their rigs all over the country (baby blue with an arrow on the cab and trailer).

As a new driver, I had to go on the road for two months with trainer drivers.  These trainer drivers earned a little more money per mile to give their advise and to show the newbies how to succeed on the road.  They ensured the new drivers were safe and knew what they were doing before the keys were turned over and the new drivers were allowed to go solo.

When I finally went solo, it was magical.  My hub was Springfield, Ohio and I was given the keys to a new Kenworth with a 53-foot trailer.  I got a kick out of all the CB handles out there.  I remember traveling up the coast from Georgia in a small convoy of Werner drivers to Halifax, Nova Scotia.  I was with Mr. Magic, the Terminator, and Pooh Bear.  Pooh Bear had a boom mike and sounded like the biggest, baddest man you could imagine.  I was surprised when we stopped somewhere along I-95 and saw all five feet of the mighty Pooh step out of his cab.  Me...I thought I had a great CB handle, "Hey, Weenie Wagon (this is what other drivers called Werner trucks), who we got driving that rig up yonder?"  I replied, "You got the Jerkin' Gherkin."  You see, my handle was a play on my last name.  Other truckers didn't care for my handle, in fact, Pooh Bear stated, "You don't mind if I just call you Gerckens?"  I still find people still don't get my sense of humor, but I've always been about getting people to laugh.

One of my first solo trips was a load that had to be delivered to Chicago.  Chicago, as it turns out is a tough location to drive a big rig.  There are so many low bridges (less than the 13' 6" required for most rigs) that they actually had a Chicago Bridge Commission.  A driver needed to call them to be routed through Chicago to ensure they would circumvent any low bridges.  I made my call, wrote down the route and thank God I did.  There were low bridges all around me as I snaked my way through the urban streets.  I got to my location okay, but what they didn't tell me was that I would need to back the wrong way down a two lane one-way street and then perform a blind alley dock parking maneuver.  This meant backing up two to three feet, engaging the brake, getting out of the cab, and walking behind the truck to ensure I didn't hit anything...talk about pressure.

Some say that driving a truck is a lonely life.  I looked at it as an exciting life.  I had family on the East Coast and family on the West Coast.  At Werner we received 3 days off for being three weeks on the road.  I divided my time between Derby and three weeks later, I'd spend my time in LA.  I carried my scuba diving gear in my rig and whenever I was in LA or Florida, I would park the truck and spend some time scuba diving.

I'm a sports fan and would think nothing of grabbing a load that went through Minnesota so that I could see the Vikings play.  Another time, I was in Texas, so I drove to Arlington to see the Rangers play the Red Sox.

The pay...well let's say that you had to drive a lot of miles in order to make any money.  At that time, I was making $.20 per mile.  My best week was leaving Derby and picking up a load in Hartford.  I brought it to Baltimore.  From Baltimore I was sent to Townson, Maryland and needed to bring that load to Pittsburgh.  From Pittsburgh I headed back east to Washington, D.C.  I then secured a load from Virginia to LA.  At some point near Gallup, New Mexico, I ran out of hours and rather than spending my three days in Gallup, I continued on to LA.  Was I wrong?  Absolutely, but there were ways to navigate around the system in those days.

By the end of my driving career, I had driven to every state in the union (except Alaska).  No, I did not drive to Hawaii, but had been there on a couple of vacations.  Alaska remains a sore point for me.  I've been stuck on needing Alaska to say that I've been to all fifty states for two and a half decades.  One day, I'll get there...I hope.

I met my wife (Patsy) while driving.  During one of my three days off in Connecticut, country line dancing was popular.  I know it sounds like a sappy Country-Western song, but me and Patsy were the only single people, so she became my dance partner.  Facing the road alone became increasingly harder and I eventually left the truck driving business.

In the subsequent years, I've held onto my CDL.  I always thought that if times got hard, or if something happened to my job, I could always go back to driving.

Today, I decided that the likelihood of returning to the open road at this stage of my life is probably slim to none, so I downgraded to a regular drivers license.

Part of me will always treasure my days on the road.  I owe my fiercely independent streak to my truck driving career.  It takes independence to roll into a strange town, keep one's own schedule, decide when to eat, shower, use the restroom, wash clothes, etc....  I still look up to my uncle for being a special role model for me.  Mostly, my truck driving days introduced me to my wife which then introduced the world to my beautiful daughters.

So goodbye to the Class A truck driving man, and hello to the Class D Man.

  

Detention

It finally happened.  Brittany received her first detention.  I’m so proud.  I’ve had so many detentions in my life that I can’t remember which one was first.

Since I can’t remember my first detention, maybe some highlights (or lowlights) will aid me as I walk down memory lane.

I received many detentions at St. Mary School.  Most of them were for fighting.  Our playground was a proving ground and the older kids often distracted the yard mothers while we bloodied our noses.

Two things stand out during this period.  My younger brother David was always getting in fights and as a result, I was always in fights.

One day a 6-grader beat the heck out of David (a 4th-grader at the time).  When we got home that night my father was furious with me.  “What did you do while this was going on," he asked.  “I watched," was my response.  I was no dummy.  I was in 5th-grade and the 6th-grader was twice my size.

I remember my dad’s life lesson like it was yesterday, “I don’t care how big or how many, don’t you ever stand back and watch someone lay a hand on your brother ever again. Do you understand?”

My brother heard every word and used this knowledge to his advantage.  Perhaps a week later, David went looking for the same 6th-grader.  He swung at David and I immediately tackled the bully onto the hard asphalt.  I rolled him over and me and David pummeled him into a bloody mess.

My dad came to the school and met with the nuns who were irate with us.  Dad took it all in and used the correct words to appease the nuns.  He yelled at us in the school office and promised the sisters that he would take care of the situation.  It was silent on the ride home from school.  That night, the family went to Carvel’s Ice Cream in Ansonia, and the day's events were never mentioned.

In high school, my first detention was administered to me on the very first day of school.  Since I went to a parochial elementary school, I didn't know too many public school kids.  When it came time to go to lunch I spotted a high school senior who lived on my street.  I sat down next to him.  Soon a group of seniors with one ringleader sat down next to me and started squashing my lunch.  At the time I didn't realize freshman sitting at a senior table was frowned upon.  I flipped my entire lunch tray (milk included) all over the aggressive senior.

I think my next detention was later on during my freshman year.  I got into a fist fight in the hallway after one of Mr. Alu's classes and was led promptly into the principal's office.

My most famous detention occurred during my senior year and was the result of the great 1980 food fight in the cafeteria which resulted in a week of in-school suspension.  Sadly, the movie Animal House was very influential to me during that time of my life.

But I digress.  This blog started out as a story of how proud I am of Brittany.  People say that both my girls look like their mother (which is a good thing).  They are doing well in school and have turned into wonderful young ladies (all traits of their mom).  Patsy, however, never received a detention in her life.  This means, I can finally point to something in my daughters (yes, Ashley received her first detention a week ago) that is exclusively mine.

Let’s not get carried away.  Their detentions were for too many times being tardy at school.  Guess who drives them to school in the morning.

Oh and by the way, Brittany was inducted into the National Honor Society last night.  It looks like the Patsy gene has reestablished dominance.  Yet for one shining moment, dad can claim partial responsibility for the detention, and that has brought a smile upon my face.


Seriously, I'd like to congratulate Brittany.  I couldn’t be more proud of you for this awesome accomplishment.

For those interested, a short video clip of Brittany being inducted.

My Trump Encounter

Apparently, there's this fellow going around the country named Donald Trump.  If this is the same guy I met in 2005, I'd like to share our encounter.

On May 19, 2005 I was in New York City attending the Association of College and University Mail Services conference hosted by NYU.

A group of ten or so attendees had gone to dinner and then saw an off-Broadway show at a small theater in Greenwich Village.

As we were walking back to NYU, we noticed a string of limos parked in front of one of the buildings.  As we got closer to the entrance, we could see a large crowd beginning to form.

There was a buzz in the crowd and some excitement in the air as my group tried to figure out why there were so many limos and why this large crowd was gathered.

At that moment, I remembered reading that the finale of The Apprentice was being broadcast live from NYU.  I looked at my watch and realized the show must have ended.  I turned to the group and asked if they wanted to hang around and see if we could get a glimpse of Donald Trump.

The group agreed and we were hanging around the sidewalk in front of the exit doors.

It seems that I should take this opportunity to describe my attire.

I was dressed in a pair of grey dress slacks, black shoes, collared shirt, and a blue blazer.  I was sporting a flat top hair style, carried mirrored sunglasses in my blazer pocket, and wore my Blackberry (geesh, was it that long ago) on my belt.

I was still fairly new to the mail business after transferring from the campus Public Safety Department.

Suddenly, some fellows in similar-looking clothes exited the building and asked people to move away from the door.  They proceeded to move everybody aside but me.  I quickly realized what was happening, winked at my group, and started to ask people to please step back.

Soon, there were temporary barriers set up and I found myself inside the barriers.

I decided to play along while the group I was with laughed uncontrollably.

I reflected back to my crowd control days on campus.  I had helped to provide security for Howie Mandel, The Gin Blossoms, and some lesser known shows.

I stood with my back to the glass exit doors and scanned the crowd.  I refrained from smiling and occasionally took my Blackberry from my belt and pretended to be looking at messages.  I placed one of my ear buds from the phone into one of my ears.

This performance went on for about 15 minutes, much to the delight of the ACUMS conference attendees..

The crowd on the sidewalk grew larger and larger and suddenly there seemed to be a lot of commotion behind me.

I heard one of my pretend security brothers' radios call, "Mr. Trump is in the elevator and on his way to street level."

The rest of "my teammates" were asking the crowd to step back.  I looked back, saw the elevator doors open, and observed Mr. Trump and his entourage step out.

He chatted to a few people and then made a beeline for the exit door.

At this point, he could have exited out of at least a half dozen different doors.  I thought to myself, "How do I get him to exit through my door?"  I turned and opened the door behind me.  He switched direction and headed my way.

I held the door and said, "Good evening, Mr. Trump" and extended my hand in a handshake gesture.

My first impression was how tall he seemed.  I've been around tall people (especially basketball players) on campus, but he seemed much taller than I would have thought.  He stopped and looked down at my extended hand.  He then looked me directly in the eye and gave me the now infamous "Trump sneer."  Without saying a word, he walked through the door I was holding open for him and into a waiting limo.

As he walked by me, I realized the gig was up.  His security detail (which up until a few seconds ago, I had been a part of) quickly asked me to step to the other side of the barricade.  I obeyed the command (this chap was of substantial height and girth) and joined my group who were laughing hysterically.  I called out to the security man, "Dude, I thought we were brothers."  He didn't laugh.

On our walk back to our building several members of the conference group informed me that Trump is a germaphobe.  Everyone knows he doesn't like to shake hands.  When you offered your hand to him, he knew you weren't one of his people.

I suppose everybody knew that little detail but me.

In any case, many people have lots of reasons to not vote for Trump.  The reason I won't be voting for him (assuming he gets the GOP nomination) is because the man dissed me.  What kind of a man doesn't shake hands with another man when it's offered?  He left me hanging in front of my friends and for that Mr. Trump, to paraphrase the Soup Nazi from the television series Seinfeld, "No vote for you!"

My Mt. Whitney Adventure

Now that I'm back to the daily grind, it's time for me to take you on a journey to the summit of the highest peak in the lower 48 states.  Today's blog will take you 14,500 feet up and back down to camp. The journey lasted 18-hours and we hiked for 22-miles.  Join me for the next few minutes as you embark on Arturo's Magical Mt. Whitney Adventure.

Be prepared.

I believe in preparation.  When I realized there was no backing out of this trip, I decided to start researching the climb.  I read two books that dealt with the Mt. Whitney day hike, watched several documentaries, and then examined YouTube videos of others who had challenged this rock.

There was never any doubt in my mind that I could reach the top.  I knew I was mentally tough enough but I had some doubts as to whether or not I could physically accomplish what lay ahead.

I realized early that I needed to get serious about my physical conditioning.  I joined the new Planet Fitness in Derby and was able to run on the treadmill continuously at 6 mph for an hour without a break.  I was feeling good about this since I really hadn't done much running in about six years.

Trained at PF 06418

When the first of my books arrived, their advise was to get outdoors and start hiking.  There was very little mention of using treadmills to run.  When you think about it, I wasn't going to be running up anything.  The book stressed time and time again, the need for stamina.  When it discussed gym equipment, it usually focused on cycling.  When treadmills were discussed, the incline function was stressed.

I did the math.  If I was going to be hiking for 18 hours and covering 22 miles, my average pace would need to be roughly 1.25 miles per hour.

This seemed like a ridiculously slow pace to me.  In fact, I was embarrassed to put the speed of the treadmill at 1.25 miles per hour.  It seemed like it was barely moving and even though Planet Fitness is the No Judgement Zone, I couldn't help but feel all eyes were on me as I walked a mere 1.25 miles per hour.

I thought I'd be better served by putting the incline as high as it would go (level 15) and try not to dip below 2.5 miles per hour.  I was able to accomplish this pace but was drenched in sweat by the end of my hour-long workout.

Although I was proving to myself that I could maintain 2.5 miles per hour at the level 15 incline for sixty minutes, the reality was there was no way I'd be able to maintain that pace for 18 hours.

Training in the gym was helpful, but it wasn't until I started hiking the mountains (more like hills in retrospect) here in Connecticut to make me feel like I had bitten off more than I could chew.

Sleeping Giant

My first hike was up Sleeping Giant.  True to my nature, I tried the double blue trail which was the hardest this hike had to offer.  That first hike was tough.  I thought my workouts prepared me, but there was a big difference between hiking on a trail and scrambling over rocks (which is what I did at Sleeping Giant) and working out on a treadmill.  I was exhausted and a little unnerved after that first hike.

The next hike I tried was a 7-mile hike on the Appalachian Trail. Although I felt pretty good, my knees gave out during the last 1 1/2 miles back to my car.  I was literally wincing in pain with each step.

By the time I tackled my third hike (Bear Mountain, the highest summit in Connecticut), I was

Summit of Bear Mtn

donning knee pads.  This really helped my knees and for the first time I felt I could climb and walk a reasonably far distance without pain.

I hiked every weekend leading up to Mt. Whitney and was feeling more and more confident in my abilities and in the shape I was getting in.  My leg muscles grew and I had dropped about 10 pounds.

The next big concern for me physically was how would my body react to the high altitude?  Both books suggested getting out and doing one or two 10,000 foot hikes so that your body could acclimate to the high altitude.  This sounded good in theory, but we just don't have any big mountains around here. Everyone was saying, "why don't you go to Mt. Washington in New Hampshire?"

I'm sure Mt. Washington would have been challenging but it was still only 6,288 feet.  To give you food for thought, 2 and a quarter Mt. Washington's could fit in Mt. Whitney.

The books discussed how everybody's body reacts differently to high altitude.  Some people are fine and others get headaches and then very sick.  The only thing to do for high altitude sickness (which can be very serious) is to go back down the mountain.  My wife, suggested that I get a prescription for some anti-high altitude sickness medicine as a precaution.  I did.

The other physical challenge I would face would be my asthma.

My trusty inhaler

I've had asthma ever since I was a child.  It never stopped me from playing sports, but it was always present.  I would get short of breath and wheeze when I over exerted myself. During the last twenty five years, they've made great strides in treating asthma and for the most part I am able to keep it in check.  Still, I use maintenance inhalers just about every day and occasionally need my rescue inhaler when I hear myself wheezing.

The final physical concern was that my gall bladder was removed several years ago.  This in and of itself is not a major concern except for one embarrassing side effect.  There have been times when I would literally get about a one minute warning before needing to use the bathroom.

After a year of dealing with this nasty little side effect of gall bladder surgery, I finally saw the doctor

Side effects?

and he prescribed something that has helped that issue.

So there you have it.  Mentally I was ready, but I was concerned over my knees, high altitude sickness, asthma, and my little missing gall bladder problem.  These issues planted a slight seed of doubt in my mind as to whether or not I could make it to the top.

After a 4 1/2 hour drive from Tracy, California through some gorgeous mountain passes, we entered the town of Lone Pine.  Lone Pine is in the shadow of Mt. Whitney.  We drove to the Visitor Center to pick up our hiking passes.

My buddy Scott, who had arranged this trip was surprised to learn that you needed to pick up your hiking passes before noon, otherwise the passes could be given away.  Since it was 3:30 in the afternoon, our passes were distributed to some other party.  This meant that the training, the planning, the cost of flying to San Francisco and back was wasted because Scott didn't read the fine print on the web site that issued the passes.

I mentioned that we were in the shadow of Mt. Whitney.  We still couldn't see Mt. Whitney because it was tucked behind other ferocious looking ranges, but when we first entered this valley I felt a little bit of apprehension.  This uneasy feeling quickly caused my little gall bladder issue to flare up which sent me scrambling for the men's room.  This caused further discomfort since this problem had all but gone away and now less than 24 hours from embarking up the mountain, I felt like I was in deep shall we say do-do.

Most people would be pissed at Scott for screwing up the hiking passes.  Not me.  This was actually the best thing that could have happened.  I would be able to triumphantly return to Derby and say that I could have ascended the summit if Scott hadn't screwed up.

I emerged from the rest room to learn that the park ranger had located 4 passes from some other group that didn't meet the noon deadline.  The climb was back on.

Rock formation in Alabama Hills

We decided to get lunch in town before heading up to our camp site.  Lunch was good, but I was more impressed with the Alabama Hills which surrounded us.  We learned this area was a popular filming location for many of John Wayne's westerns. There were pictures of John Wayne everywhere we looked in this little town of Lone Pine.

We returned to our car and took a narrow, windy 13-mile road through the mountains to our camp located at Whitney Portal.  The temperature in Lone Pine was in the mid-90's.  As we arrived at our camp area, there was a late afternoon chill in the air.  Although it wouldn't be sunset for another 4 hours, the sun was blocked from our site by the imposing mountains that lay ahead.

We arrived at our camp site and were greeted by signs that informed us we were in bear country. There were bear lockers on the other side of the road from our camp and the signs read not to leave food in our car, inside our tent, or anywhere other than the bear lockers.  My stomach started acting up again once I read these warning signs causing me to head for the latrine.

My worst nightmare seemed like it was going to be realized.  Knowing I had this little problem, I was very interested in what the books had to say about this subject matter.  I had medicine to control the problem, but it looked like with less than 12-hours to go, medical science was going to fail me and I was going to need to adapt to the situation.  This was a real crappy turn of events.

When one hikes Mt. Whitney, everything you carry in must be carried out.  This includes human waste.  Each person issued a hiking pass is also issued what is called a WAG bag.  The books all said that it's an easy process to find some privacy at the beginning of the climb while you are still surrounded by trees.

An official Mt. Whitney WAG bag

Apparently, it's a lot harder to find privacy once you hit about 12,000 feet and are above the tree line.  Knowing how my luck runs, I knew I would be fine until getting above 12,000 feet.  

We set up camp and I suggested to Scott and our group which included his 19-year old son, Gus, Gus's 25-year old friend, Tim, and me and Scott (both 53) that since it was still daylight, we should go on a brief half hour hike to get acclimated to the altitude.

With that, we left camp and stepped foot on the Whitney Trail.  We were certainly in the wilderness, but those first few miles didn't seem too bad.  I seemed to regain my confidence and I felt better with the knowledge that I had been walking trails for four months.  I could do this.

We settled in at camp and I asked Scott what time we were going to head out in the morning.  Scott replied, "I thought we'd get up around 8, have some breakfast and then head out by 10."  I replied, "Scott, every book I read said that this could be an 18-hour or more hike.  Most people leave in the darkness at around 3 or 4 in the morning.  The books say that we need to reach the summit and start heading back down before the afternoon lightning strikes hit the peak."  Scott looked at me like this was all news to him.  "Really, okay Arturo, how about we leave at three then?"  Scott's lack of knowing or even caring what we were about to do caused a new wave of nausea, which sent me running for the latrine.  I tripled up on my medication and hoped the nausea would be gone by morning.

I went in my tent and bundled up.  Although it was in the 90's in the Valley, the temperature was cold at the camp.  I zipped up my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep.

Our heros at the start

I remember being roused from sleep and thinking there must be an animal outside.  After a few moments, I realized Scott was awake and then I heard, "Arturo, it's 3:15, time to go."

Art/Tim in the a.m.

I gathered my wits about me and started putting on layers of clothes.  I took my high altitude sickness pill, swallowed some water, grabbed my backpack and headed towards the waiting car.  Once the four of us were inside, we drove the half mile to the start of the trail.  We parked the car, gathered our gear, strapped tiny little lamps on our heads, and started our journey.

During the first 2-hours of our hike, we were in total darkness (except for the tiny 18-inch diameter beam of light that emitted from our heads and lit the path in front of us.  I took the lead position and despite Scott's warnings, "Arturo, you're going too fast," I continued setting the pace.

Scott at daybreak

We climbed and sipped water as we went.  We crossed streams and fields as we steadily gained elevation in the darkness.  Every now and then, my mind would wander and think, "Hmm, if I were a bear, this is where I would hide."  We walked and made noise as we traveled which the guide books had said to do.  The last thing you wanted was to walk quietly and startle any bears one might encounter.

I failed to mention that since our plans had changed from a leisurely wake-up call with breakfast beginning around 10, to waking up at 3:15 and getting on the trail in darkness, we had missed one essential thing...breakfast.  The sun was starting to rise and we had been walking at a pretty good clip for nearly 3 hours.

Banana break

I could feel the hunger pains in my gut and stopped.  "Scott, I think we should take a food break."  He agreed, and I took a banana out of my pack and promptly devoured it.  I then ate an energy bar, took a swig of water and once again, started to climb.

We were now moving at a pretty good clip.  I was no longer leading the group, but was still feeling pretty good.  One thing I noticed as the sun rose was it was no longer in the 90's.  There was a pretty good chill in the air and I was glad I was wearing a jacket.

During my training hikes, the longest hike I completed was a section of the Appalachian Trail in Kent.  It surely had some tough sections, but for the most part, after getting to the top, it was level hiking.

This was not the case on the Whitney Trail.  We were constantly climbing.  As we were approaching the base of the fabled 99 switchbacks, a wave of nausea hit me like a ton of bricks.  I slowed my pace and felt the sweat start to pour of my body.  I was in trouble, my little gall bladder issue had finally decided to pay me a visit. I kept proceeding forward, but it was pointless...the time had come to search for some privacy.

I called out to Scott and the rest of our group and told them that I needed to stop to take care of some business.  They thought this was funny because we were above the timberline and there were precious few areas that one would consider private.

At this point, the nausea, the sweating, and my mind knowing that I had been given ample warning to find someplace, made me realize that I was now in emergency mode...it caused me to throw caution to the wind.  I left the trail and found a boulder about 4 feet off the trail.  I took out my trusty WAG bag and with no time to spare did what needed to be done as I watched a seemingly never-ending procession of hikers walk a mere 4-feet from where I was crouched.

My WAG bag spot

Now, I should add that Scott and our team were relishing this moment and Scott even took a picture of my head rising over my rock.  This did not phase me in the least, since I instantly felt the wave of nausea leave.

What did phase me was the disappointment in my WAG bag.  Apparently, these things are designed for the healthy diet of native Californians and not for us meat eating East Coasters.  In order to keep some dignity with this part of my tale, I will simply say, "...the WAG bag was too small and they could use a few more wipes."  Since my WAG bag was going to be strapped to my backpack for the rest of the trip, I must say nobody ever walked behind me for the rest of our adventure.

We arrived at the base of the 99 switchbacks and by now, I could feel my boots cutting into the back of my heels.  We decided to rest and I took my boots off, placed a band-aid on the backs of both heels, and changed my socks.

We decided to have lunch before tackling the hardest part of our climb.

Now when I had asked Scott, if he had plenty of food for us, he replied, "Don't worry about anything, Arturo.  I have so much food, there will be no worries."  He was right.  He had peanut butter sandwiches, peanut butter energy bars, trail mix (composed mainly of nuts), and beef jerky.

Certainly, this is food that one could sustain themselves on, however, this food was very dry.  I was having a problem staying hydrated.  I had a mouthful of trail mix, and then needed water.  I took a bite of beef jerky and had to spit it out before I was done.  I simply could not keep my mouth from feeling like it was drying up.

We rested for a bit while Scott refilled our water from a very green mountain lake.  He had a filter on a pump which was able to make the worst looking water drinkable and let me tell you, this water was not Fiji water.  The filter worked incredibly though, and despite the appearance, the water was welcomed and refreshing.

Climbing the switchbacks

We started up the switchbacks and words can not describe how high they rose.  From the starting point you could look up the mountain and every now and then you could see little dots moving near the top of the mountain.  These dots were actually people climbing ahead of us.

Somewhere near the bottom third of the switchbacks, I realized I would need to take it very slow if I wanted to make it to the top.  The high altitude medicine I took was working.  The others were complaining of mild headaches.  Not me, I never once had a headache.

The thing giving me the most trouble was my asthma was flaring up.  Somewhere around switchback 33, I took my first puff of my rescue inhaler.  I instantly heard the wheeze go away, but knew from experience that the wheezing and shortness of breath would be nearby for the rest of the ascent and descent.

I made up my mind that I wasn't in a race and decided to climb the mountain on my terms.  This meant I was going to control my breathing and I wouldn't let other circumstances get in my mind.

I had used this technique before when I started scuba diving.  For many asthmatics, scuba diving is a frowned upon activity.  When I started diving, my doctor told me to puff on my inhaler before going in the water and then to focus on my breathing.  I would take long, slow, breaths and never had any problems while diving.  I would use the same method to continue up Mt. Whitney.

I measured my paces and breaths and soon realized that I could walk 100 steps at this altitude before I would hear a slight wheeze.  If I rested for 30 seconds, the wheeze would go away.  This became my plan and I would not deviate.

For the rest of the climb, I would take 100 steps and then stop for thirty seconds.  This slow ascent

Walking up the switchbacks

went on for hours and hours, but I finally reached the top of the 99 switchbacks.

From here, we crossed into the back side of the mountain across what is known as the "windows."  This section is called the windows because although the trail is nearly 8-feet wide (which is relatively wide), on either side of you there are 10,000 foot drops.

Left is our green water supply

From one of these windows, I looked down at the green putrid looking lake that we had last filled our packs with water and pointed to Scott the crystal clear blue lake that was unseen but perhaps 100 yards from our little scummy pond.  We laughed.

We now entered a portion of the legendary John Muir trail and

At the trail crest

walked along a ridge line to a marker post that read that the summit was 1.9 miles away.  I was relieved.  Heck, we all were.  We had completed the hardest part of the journey (or so we thought).  We still couldn't see the summit, but just knowing we were a mere 2-miles away was reassuring.

Since I'm the person who read about the climb, I didn't want to be the "Debbie Downer" of the group, but felt it necessary to tell everyone that many consider the final 2-miles extremely difficult.  I read it, but could not believe anything could be tougher than those switchbacks.

2-miles to go

This part of the trail became tougher to walk on.  The trail wasn't as wide and often we had to scale over boulders.  It was draining and combined with my breathing strategy and my unwillingness to eat the dried food for fear of becoming dehydrated, I could feel my energy leaving me.

We pressed on.  There were no trees to block the wind.  The wind was gusting and we passed snow and ice tucked behind some of the boulders where the sun couldn't shine.  It was amazing to realize that it was in the mid-90's down in the valley and up here the temperature was in the high 30's with the wind gusting.

Off in the distance, I could see the Smithsonian summit shelter signifying the end of our climb.  I knew the shelter

The shelter...so close, yet so far

was the top and although I could see it, it still seemed far off.  From my training routine at Planet Fitness and my training hikes, I knew 2-miles was nothing.  Still, it seemed to take forever to walk towards the summit through this moon like landscape.  The trail was very hard to follow at this point and if you missed a turn, you would find yourself scaling over boulders until you saw the faint traces of the trail underfoot.

For the final hundred yards or so, I knew I was about to accomplish something very few people get to write about.  I was about to stand on the highest point in the continental United States.  I did this at 53-years of age and battled my asthma for much of the way.  I thought of the nausea that hit me so many hours ago and felt proud that none of these very real impediments were enough to stop me on my goal to reach the summit.

Made it

I was out of breath, so I decided to stop and go inside the summit hut.  I had seen pictures of the hut and read the ominous warning not to go in the hut during thunderstorms.  In fact, the hut is the worst place you could be in a storm.  I looked for the guest book that climbers sign and thought about what I would write for my entry into the book.

I wrote the following in reference to the first Rocky movie:  Art Gerckens, Derby, CT.  "Ain't gonna be no rematch, rock.  Ain't gonna be no rematch."

I was so glad to be at the top, I felt that I needed to give Mt Whitney (the rock) the respect it deserved.  I was letting it know that through perseverance, I had made it to the top, but there was no way I was going to ever attempt this again.

I left the hut and quickly found Scott and the others passed out in between the crevices of boulders. They were in between boulders in a feeble attempt to see if the rocks would offer protection from the wind which was dancing around the top of the peak like some macabre ballerina.

I tried some jerky, but spit it out.  I couldn't stop the wind, so I decided to take off my jacket for a quick photo op.  I had worn a DeFilippo shirt under my jacket during the climb.  I chose this shirt

Summit of Mt. Whitney

because, "hey, I'm from Derby," but more importantly because Coach hated quitters.  It was one thing, if I physically couldn't do the climb, but for those times (and there were a few) when my mind played games and whispered to my subconscious to give it up, I remembered the words of my old high school football coach, "There's nothing worse than a quitter.  If you get into a pattern of quitting, you will quit your team, your wife, your kids, your family, your job.  Boys, don't ever quit."

If you've read this far, we've made it to the halfway point in our journey.  We stayed on top of the mountain for nearly an hour but realized we needed to start heading down.  Lightening strikes and daily afternoon thunderstorms are a real concern at Mt. Whitney, and everything you read reminds you to get off the mountain before late afternoon.  It was now 2 p.m.

The view from the top of Mt. Whitney

As I started walking the 2-miles to the marker, my knees started to give out.  It became extremely painful to scale the return trip boulders and each step I winced in pain.  My trusty knee pads were no longer able to provide any comfort and I accepted the fact that it would be a painful return trip.

What goes up, must come down

Since I had eaten very little and kept drinking to stay hydrated, I was now almost out of water.  Scott gave me a precious few swallows out of his canteen, but it would be about 5-miles before we got back to lake putrid.  Besides not having any food, I would now need to monitor my water intake.

I continued my 100 step pace only this time I was limping with each step.  We made it to the top of the 99 switchbacks and there was a marker that read 7 miles to the end of the trail.  These 7 miles would seem like an eternity.

There would be hours when I was walking alone.  I had told Scott and the guys to go ahead of me, but the sun was now blocked behind the mountain I was descending and it seemed like hours since I had last seen them.

I finally emerged from the switchbacks and saw Scott and my team waiting for me.  I was out of

Trying to get back before sundown...we failed

water and they promptly filled up my canteen. It was now dusk as we finally walked below the treeline and I once again thought what a great place to be a bear or hungry mountain lion.

The sun finally set and once again I had to strap the tiny light to the top of my hat so I could see.  My mind once again started to wander.  Boy, it's been a while since I last saw Scott.  What would I do if a wild animal came at me?  I had a little carving knife, but certainly nothing that would enable me to protect myself.  I picked up my pace and made noise as I entered into some secluded wetlands.

Ahead in the distance I could make the faint outline of Whitney Portal (the entrance and end of the trail).  I could see in the distance the tiny beam emitting from Scott's light as it circled downward towards the end of the trail.

In the darkness I could hear Scott and Gus and Tim at the bottom of the trail.  I emerged to find them lying on boulders at the end of the trail.

We high-fived each other and congratulated ourselves on a job well done.  We had visions of coming off the trail and getting a bite to eat.  This did not happen since it was 9:30 p.m. and the tiny general store was closed.

We got in the car and drove the 1/2 mile back to our tents.  We were going to cook and stay up and chat.  Instead, we each drank two Gatorades and went straight into our tents, exhausted.

So there you have it.  Since the people of the valley like records, I thought I would compile a few records that may have been set with this climb.  Until proven otherwise, Scott and I proudly claim the following:

• Only St. Mary School of Derby graduates to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• First Derby High School graduates to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• Only teammates in the history of the DHS wrestling team to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• Oldest (53 years) Derbyites to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• Only ex-DHS football player to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• Highest ranking government official of the City of Derby (BOA President) to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• First asthmatic DHS graduate to summit Mt. Whitney and return in a single day.
• Highest altitude (13,600 feet) that a DHS graduate and elected official from the City of Derby has used a WAG bag.

Bad Attitude

I love music.  As a kid, I used to listen to Casy Kasem's American Top 40 every Sunday morning.  I remember getting introduced to rock through hand-me-down albums from one of my older neighbors.  My first concert was Frampton and I followed that up with The Doobie Brothers.

In high school, I heard rumors of a hole in the wall of the New Haven Coliseum.  I was taken to the hole and learned how to sneak in through the roof of that venue.  Throughout high school I became one of the "wall people" who snuck into every concert that came to New Haven.  If an artist or band came to the Coliseum, I saw them and usually for free.

As I got older, I discovered local bands.  I've been supporting local bands ever since.  I forget all the names, but followed Wildcat Strike, Overture, and any band featuring Nick DeFala or Junior Palmieri.

These days, I've been following Flying Meat, Lost Rebel, Crossroads, The Juicy Grapes, and The Dixie Rebel Band.  The one group that I was closest to in my twenties was a band called Bad Attitude.

Bad Attitude spoke to the rebel inside of me.  They were loud, rude and crude.  My buddy Joe and I became their roadies and unofficial rehearsal singers.  Since the vocals were so loud, we stepped up so the lead singer, Wayne wouldn't strain his vocal cords before a gig.  Joe and I didn't mind.

In true rock and roll fashion, we drank, we fought, and we were all about having a good time.

I've learned that everything you do as a youth helps shape and create the person you become as an adult.  Did I make mistakes...absolutely, but the friends and experiences I've shared have become a treasured part of me.

The drummer for Bad Attitude is a friend named Tommy Dow.  Tommy was the comedian in the group and the driving beat behind the music.  Tommy has been playing in different local bands all

these years and I have to admire someone who has remained dedicated to his craft for all this time.

Recently, Tommy has had some health issues.  His friends are hosting a fundraiser to help with his medical expenses this Sunday at Cherry Street Station in Wallingford.  His band, Crossroads will be hitting the stage at 3.  I'm crossing my fingers that maybe, just maybe there might be a Bad Attitude reunion.  I know one thing, I'll be there to lend my support to a friend from many years ago.