The weather dictates. It controls farming and recreation and attitudes. If you’re lucky enough to wake up in a certain mood, pre-determined toward a specific chore or type of entertaining activity, and the skies are in alignment with that desire, it turns out to be a pretty good day.
On the other hand, if your intentions are completely contrary to what Mother Nature is willing to provide, you either suck it up and make do or alter your plan. Choosing to do absolutely nothing except watch television and eat junk food is allowed, but only once every three or four months; (Saturday or Sunday game days are not included.)
The clouds are gray and persistent, a cooler than normal August puff of wind lightly blows. I don't feel dreary or depressed, believing it's in my North Atlantic Irish DNA to accept and enjoy such conditions. And with the dream I had last night about my old cherished pal David, it's a perfect time to reflect.
David was a twin. He and his brother were adopted at birth by a loving couple and lived in a nice neighborhood with rolling hills and large oak trees. Their father was the chief mechanic at the overhaul base and headquarters for TWA airlines.
Cancer claimed the life of his adoptive mother while he was in grade school, so obviously that was a downer, but they battled through it – David, his brother and his father.
They were big boys, tall and athletic, very friendly and well liked. I don't recall ever hearing a negative word spoken toward anyone or intended toward them.
He played the left offensive guard position in football, his brother the left tackle. Since most quarterbacks are right-handed, the left side of the line is the most crucial; protecting the QB in passing situations. I played the right guard.
David was far more serious than I about learning the plays in the game book. The rotating tight ends would enter the huddle and relay our next directive. "Cross buck X-ray Trap," they whispered. I would look at David, confused.
"You pull right, sweep the end, look for a linebacker," he'd tell me confidently. We gained eight yards.
Huddling up shoulder to shoulder, the rotating end squeezes through. All ears are open. "Iron curtain Smash 35." David knows I have this one figured out and leaves me be. Anything "Iron curtain" is just straight ahead; on the snap of the ball, go forward and hit somebody.
We played poker occasionally at David’s house around the kitchen table, buying beer over the state line in Kansas, legal back then for an 18-year-old. He took our keys away if we got crazy.
He wanted to be in the restaurant business after graduation. I showed him everything I knew and was still learning, offering him a job alongside me. He declined, preferring instead to work at the newly-opened 20-story Ramada Inn near the airport.
People grow and move on. The years add up. He eventually made his way to Dallas, becoming the vice president of a major restaurant conglomerate with several well-known national concepts. Self-employed and burned out, I needed advice on which way to pull. I called David.
“What’s up, Monster Man?” he asked – (my nickname in football.) We talked for a little while until he said he'd just fly up to Omaha to meet with me. That next afternoon, he hired me to manage and consult on two different properties. He had my back again.
After a couple of years, his stores were fixed and I had other opportunities, both of us happy.
Our 30-year class reunion was approaching; friends in K.C. telling me to come. I did. David was there. His 220 pound frame was now down to maybe 160, face drawn, pale, walking feeble.
"David!" I hollered. “What’s up, Monster? How’s it goin’?” I asked if he was okay. He said some internal things weren't working too well, but ever the optimist, he was going to be fine. He passed away a few months later.
At the pearly gates if I make it, it's possible he'll be standing there, smiling, making sure I know which way to go. I don't think Saint Peter will mind.
