Liam is an eternally happy little boy.  In his whole life, there has not been many times I remember him without a smile on his face.  He’s a rugged boy; a polite boy; a loving boy.  Donning his UK baseball cap, he’s Opie Taylor and Beaver Cleaver, all wrapped up in one.  As I pen these words, Liam is four years old and the world is a buried treasure chest just waiting for his discovery.

So, on Saturday, August 14, 2010, Liam and I passed through security at Standiford Field International Airport, in Louisville, Kentucky, for a half-day of flying to Portland, Maine.  He had never flown before and I was uncertain how he’d react to being belted to his seat for an extended period.  I’ve seen kids, older than him, stir up enough trouble on planes, only to have their parents threatened with being put off the flight.  As I buckled him in for his first flight, I could only cross my fingers and hope he’d be okay with having to sit still.  With his little LL Bean backpack filled with snacks and treats, and his iPod Touch charged and loaded with his favorite video games, we set sail on two perfect flights to our destination.   I couldn’t have asked for a better behaved travel-mate.   And although we’d spent half the day in airports and on planes, when we finally landed in Portland, later that afternoon, Liam was still smiling and ready for more adventure.

During his week in New England, Liam practiced the art of having fun, with passion.  He walked, jumped and ran through Millinocket, Maine like a whirlwind.  No pebble was safe from his gaze as pitched them, one after the other, into the Penobscot River.  One group of women campers even let him experience kayaking on the downstream side of some of the most awesome rapids in North America.  In the midst of frogs and small fish, he swam in Jerry’s Pond with my wife, whom he affectionately calls Nonna—which is Italian for grandmother.  He blew bubbles, sprayed everything in sight with his water pistol and even had a couple of up-close experiences with several horses.  We explored, picked wild blackberries and had fun with several cats.  He jumped on a trampoline with Rhylie, a relative from the other side of his family, and fell asleep on his great grandmother’s lap.  He ate pizza and ice-cream and drank unsweetened tea with Splenda.  He sat through Despicable Me, in Bangor, and never once made a peep.  At night, when bed-time came, he went willingly, never whimpering or complaining.  And each morning he awoke, with his big toothy grin, ready to get on with the day.

On the day we were to fly home, the alarm pulled us from sleep at 4:00 AM.  As always, Liam was ready to go.  He dressed, shouldered his backpack and climbed into Nonna’s car for the ride to the Portland airport.  Due to a mechanical failure, the airline pushed our plane’s original departure time of 6:00 AM, back to 1:30 PM.  As I stood in line for over an hour, waiting to make arrangements to fly on that later flight, Liam sat quietly, by himself, playing with his iPod.  He never moved until I finished with the re-ticketing for our new flights.  In the end, it took nearly eighteen hours to get back to Louisville and my car.  During that whole, disastrous day, my grandson never once complained, dozed or lagged behind as we trudged through three airports. 

When eventually we made it back to my car and I had him strapped into his seat for the ride home . . . without a care in the world, sleep found him at last.  There was nothing left to do, nothing left to see.  The little boy had spent every ounce of himself and had nothing left to give.

The next morning, at work, I sat down at my desk and began the process of catching up.  As I drew in a refreshing breath and reminisced on the week I’d just spent with my grandson, I only hoped his memories would be good ones.  Then, as I got back into the swing of what I do almost every day, I realized I was back at work and I could rest.

He reigned, in this life, a short, thirteen years.  But those thirteen years were enough to spawn his legend.   Those that loved him, will miss him, but it’s his growing legend that all will remember. 

As I walk the lonely corridors of his abode—left empty by his passing—it’s impossible to miss the signs of his life as I move from room to room.  I find myself conversing with him, out of habit, even though I know he’s gone.  What an imprint he made on me during his life, and I didn’t even realize it until he was gone.

Have I mourned him?  I’d be lying if I said no.  Would you call him a king?  If you had known him in life, you’d be hard-pressed to deny him his status as the king of his kind. 

King Spaz, cat of all cats, good-bye.

If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the indelible memory of those simple instructions, first read in my youth. I don’t exactly remember my age at the time but, because I was old enough to read, I’d say about eight or nine.

Back in the day, being without a driver’s license didn’t keep my mother from getting around town. On a particular Saturday, the day I learned a little more about the workings of the grownup world, my mother rounded up her small tribe of three kids for a bus-ride into the city and a day of shopping. The plan had been to take the bus into town, spend the day shopping and then, later in the afternoon, catch a bus that could drop us off at my dad’s shop. Then we’d simply ride home with him in the car.

I don’t remember much of that day before the event occurred. I’m sure my behavior earlier in the day had been saintly, knowing how my two younger siblings looked to me as an example of pristine behavior. It was when we were waiting for the afternoon bus that I found myself like many kids with nothing to do and too much time on their hands: bored.

People—some shoppers and others workers—waiting for buses, in order to leave the city, crowded the corner where we stood. As we waited with them, I became aware of a red metal box with a glass cover situated on a pole next to me. Having nothing better to do, and with the curiosity of a youngster attempting to expand his horizons, I moved in for a closer look. Printed across the top of the box were the words, Lift Glass and Pull Lever. As one never to be put off by a challenge, I did just that. When I pulled the lever the box began buzzing. Confused, I examined the box for further instructions. Just below the glass cover, printed in bold letters, were the words, In Case of Fire.

As my chest constricted, forcing the air from my lungs, I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so I started bouncing up and down where I stood. A million thoughts went through my head all at once, and every one of those thoughts ended with me being killed by my dad. And where were we headed? To see my dad, that’s where.

I don’t know if I came to my senses and ran to my mother or she noticed me going into cardiac arrest, but somehow she had figured out what I’d done. As the sirens of the approaching fire trucks grew louder, my mother directed me, along with my brother and my sister, into the alcove of a furniture store and pretended we were window shopping. All I could manage as I stood staring at furniture through a thick plate-glass window and seeing none of it was a sense of impending doom . . . my dad was going to kill me.

Several fire trucks had rolled into the intersection nearest the buzzing fire alarm and a squad of firefighters, dressed in fire fighting gear, had exited the trucks and begun searching for a fire. After an exhaustive but futile search for the blaze, the Chief made his way to the center of the intersection and announced, false alarm, folks.

A short while later our bus pulled up providing us a means of escape. All I can remember of that ride was the anxiety associated with having to face my dad and give an accounting of what I’d done. When we arrived at our stop, I didn’t want to get off the bus, but what choice did I have? It had been a good life and, at eight or nine, I felt as though the end of mine was just across the street in my dad’s shop.

As soon as I walked into the shop, I immediately knew fate was laughing in my young face. Across the room and pinned to the wall, a poster declaring National Fire Prevention Week urged responsible citizens to observe fire safety. If the people in my dad’s shop thought enough of fire safety to hang posters, none of them would be too forgiving of a little miscreant setting off fire alarms. This was it, the final nail in my youth-sized coffin.

As it turned out, when my mother told my dad what I’d done, he laughed. He didn’t get angry at all. However, he did put a fear in me that lasted for months after that day. He told me that I’d better hope those fire trucks didn’t run over anyone as a result of me pulling that fire alarm. It seemed, according to my dad, if anyone had been hit by a fire truck on the way to my false alarm, the police would go to the fire alarm box, retrieve my young fingerprints, and then come to the house and get me.

I guess the one good thing that came from the whole ordeal: I learned to pray.

Although I was diagnosed with this disease several years ago, today, I attended my first diabetic education class.  The first half of the class was administered by a dietician who gave me the wonderful news that, although I’m a diabetic, I can still eat cake: as long as the cake measures two inches square.  I thought, that’s all right, I’ll just make sure it’s a three-layer cake.  Wrong.  It seems the cake can’t be over two inches tall, either.  And by the way, scrape off all the icing.  I don’t know about you, but that’s just enough cake to make me mad.

In my opinion, this herald of nutritional deprivation seemed to get a slight thrill showing us little pieces of rubber food—cake, baked potato, steak, chicken, half a banana, spaghetti, . . . et cetera—that were proportionally correct for a diabetic’s daily dietary needs.   To give you an idea of the sizes of these mock morsels: I could hold the contents of my recommended evening meal in the palm of my hand.

If any of you, reading this article, see me in the next few days and I don’t seem to be in the best of moods, it’ll be because I’m starving.

Eating is something I’ve grown quite fond of.  I’ve been practicing the art of caloric ingestion for fifty-two years and I’ve actually become somewhat of an expert.  From potatoes to pot roast, apples to ziti, I can eat it all . . . with one exception.  There is a food group that renders me as powerless as Superman in the presence of kryptonite: vegetables.  And guess what my thin friend, the dietician, has asked me to add to my daily meal plan?  That’s right . . . you guessed it: crispy, crunchy vegetables.  It seems that now I’ll not only be able to plate my meals on a saucer, a portion of that tiny plate will contain some sort of loathsome, green plant, grown in dirt.

After Mr. Get-thin-like-me left the room, the second half of the class was taught by a registered nurse, who happened also to be a diabetic.  Her part of our diabetic education consisted of informing the class that each of us would find it more difficult to control our diabetes as we grow older.  I was so pumped up by that bit of news I could scarcely wait for what was coming next.  I didn’t think it could get any better.  It did.

It seems that getting the heart pumping harder is good for controlling blood-sugar levels.  Of course, this means exercise.  Oh boy!  I remember the last time I walked a mile on the treadmill; I thought my lungs would explode.  And that was after eating, what I consider, a good meal.  I can only imagine how much fun I’ll have working out after ingesting less food than I feed my cat.

Well that’s the crux of what diabetes education is all about.  At the end of the course, we were asked to rate our instructors.  The last time I’d had this much fun, I was sitting in an auditorium with my grandson and a thousand screaming five-year-olds, watching Sesame Street Live.  So of course, I gave them both a superior rating.

The bottom line is: diabetes is a friend to no one.  Education is certainly the key to making healthy decisions if you or a loved one live with this disease. 

Got to go . . . I’m preparing a pot of gruel, and I think I hear it boiling over.

Today, these many years later, I’m still a dedicated, but frustrated, fan of Kentucky athletics.  My frustration, as I put down these rambling thoughts in the early days of November, concerns football.

For years, now, my brother and I have journeyed many times to our football Mecca—Commonwealth Stadium—with the single hope that, like the mighty Phoenix, rising reborn from the flames of destruction, our Big Blue gladiators will overcome the adversity of the mighty SEC opposition, and rise from the dismal cellar of defeat to stand alone atop the division, proudly displaying the banner of victory.  But alas, as my dad has often said, Kentucky can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, every time, filling the empty void left at the bottom of the SEC by the Florida’s, Alabama’s, Tennessee’s and LSU’s of the world.

Doing my best to remain optimistic, I must remind myself of the positive aspects of Kentucky sports.  Of course we have basketball and its storied tradition, but basketball is really a different topic for another time and another place.  And we have fans: thousands upon thousands of fans spread throughout the Bluegrass, and beyond.  And we have hope.  Hope that each new season has delivered just the right mix of football talent to best the competition in what is arguably the greatest football conference in the country: the SEC.  We have the venue: Commonwealth Stadium, the grassy battleground where, throughout the years, our pigskin pugilists have elicited the cheers and jeers, laughter and tears, high-fives and low-down moments from the faithful following.

And still, I, and my brother, whom the fans call “Coach” for his intuitive play-calling—usually shouted out as the opposition is short-circuiting the actual play that’d been called in from the side-line—, climb into the thin air of section two-twenty-eight in order to support our Big Blue brothers as they battle for the day’s bragging rights.  We go because we love University of Kentucky sports.  But we also go, so that on that bright and glorious day, when the Kentucky Wildcats finally break free from the bonds of defeat, to stand aglow in the warm adoration of those naysayers across the football nation, my brother and I will rise to our feet, each thrusting a clenched fist toward the heavens . . . we’ll stand and we’ll yell in our best Scottish brogue, “FREEEEEDOM”.

Well, that was twelve years ago.  My daughter’s grown up and gone . . . I still have the cat.  I can’t exactly remember how or why that arrangement was made; it was probably bad karma.

Early into my lone existence with my daughter’s ex-cat, I did exhaustive research on felis domesticus, the basic house cat.  The first thing I wanted to know was how long did they live.  I was quite saddened to learn that the average cat lives approximately fifteen years.  At that time, I believe he was three or four.  My research definitely didn’t start off on a positive note. 

I promised myself that money for litter and food would be all I’d spend on this mistake in my better judgment.  Then, as time went by, I realized he needed a few plush animals, several kitty-cubes, and a post to scratch on.  A few extra dollars wasn’t going to break me, but I drew the line right there.  Guess what, I forgot about vacations.  I couldn’t leave this fur covered sack of curiosity alone in my house for ten days.  So off he’d go to the kennel to co-exist with others of his kind while I went on holiday three weeks a year.  Ten dollars a day and a rabies shot once a year; this cat was becoming very expensive.  I definitely knew that if the time ever came when this animal became ill, I was certain I’d have him euthanized; I wasn’t the type to spend hundreds of dollars to keep a dumb animal around.

A couple of months ago, I noticed the cat was losing weight.  Strangely, it actually concerned me that he might have something wrong with him.  So today I paid three hundred dollars to have him checked out by a veterinarian, and now I’m hiding pills in his food to treat his thyroid problem.  Three hundred dollars!  What’s wrong with me?

Could it be that over the last twelve years this feline leech has made a place for himself in my heart?  I don’t know if I’ve become a cat lover or not, I just know when his fifteen years are up, I’m going to miss him.

Roni, the longest tenured employee of the bunch, is a single woman—a military brat: never been married.  Well, apparently the maternal bug hit Roni a while back and she decided to get a dog.  To protect the dog’s identity, I’ll call the mutt, Choco.  Because Roni lives only a short distance from work, she’ll go home on her lunch-break to fuss over this fleabag, and then high-tail it back to work in order to clock in on time.

As is my habit, I attempt to go through the Customer Service department each day, just to make sure there are no critical issues.  When Roni first brought this pooch into her life, I’d hear, Choco this and Choco that.  It actually got kind of sickening.  As she’d blather on about this dog, I’d form a picture in my mind of a little brown fur ball, all cute and cuddly, tongue flying.  I imagined Roni, holding it in front of her face, kissing on it, talking to it in baby-talk.  Yuck!

One day, as I headed home from work, I happened upon Roni’s car at a stop sign.  And there, standing in the seat beside her, head stuck out the window, the infamous Choco.  How I’d pictured this dog, from Roni’s descriptions, compared to what I was seeing with my own eyes, was as different as day is to night.  This mutt was truly the ugliest living dog I’d ever seen.  In fact, I’ve seen road-kill that’s had better appeal.

The next time I spoke with Roni, I mentioned seeing her and her dog and the comparison to road-kill.  I felt, because I had no relationship with the dog, my objective opinion would open Roni’s eyes to the absurdity of Choco being cute.  How could I have been any more wrong?  She actually acted a tad offended. 

Then I remembered something I’d heard a long time ago: Everyone has someone who loves them.  Usually it’s their mother.

So from here on out, I’ll bite my tongue concerning any references to the ugly dog.  Let it be said that it’s not my style to say anything out-of-the-way about other people’s ugly kids.  There, I feel better.

As an example, I was recently shocked to find out my daughter hadn’t taught her son [Liam] how to blow the wrapper off a soda straw, in a restaurant.  This is major stuff for a three-year-old.  What will the other kids at school think about a boy who can’t bean an unsuspecting classmate with a spit-wad?  You first learn about this skill by practicing blowing the paper wrapper off the end of straws when you’re three.

And shrill whistles.  Every kid loves to blow shrill whistles.  Does Liam have one?  Why, no!  But I’m getting him one.  Until then, I’ve given him a harmonica to practice on at home.  With a little practice, I’m quite sure he’ll be playing peppy little songs for his mother, every morning, as he helps usher in the new day.

There are so many things I need to teach these two youngsters.  Such as, how to keep a turtle you might find out in the yard, under the bed so your mom or dad won’t find it; or how to start an indoor ant-farm with a Mason jar full of dirt and a few ants kidnapped from their colony?

As a father of young children, my role was to teach them to be careful crossing the street, to do their homework, to do their chores.  You know, all the boring things . . . needed, but boring.  But, as a grandfather, I get to teach the cool things, the things that the parents don’t seem to recognize as important.

Being a grandfather is a great privilege that I humbly accept.  I’m so glad I’ve been blessed with these two boys; I can barely wait for their next lesson.  Oh no!  I’ve got to go.  I’ve just noticed several ants crawling across my desk, and I can’t remember if I screwed the lid back on the Mason jar.

If ever I wake up and discover I’ve won the lottery’s big prize and I don’t keel over with a heart attack, I’ll gladly trade the stress-related issues associated with my present life in exchange for the stress-related issues involved with not worrying about where my next paycheck is coming from. 

When the lottery was first offered in Kentucky, someone asked me, if I won the lottery, would I keep on with my current job?  My heart-felt answer was, yes, I would.  What an idiot!  That’s like asking someone in prison if offered the chance for freedom, would they turn it down.  Of course they’re going to say, why yes I would.  Yeah, right!  In reality, I would not quit my job, outright.  But as someone once told me when discussing their motivations to work should they ever win the lottery: I’d be happy to train my replacement; however, they’d better pay close attention because I’m only going over it once.

I don’t know if I’ll ever match all the numbers and win the lottery.  It would be nice but, until then, I’ll keep getting up and going to work; my bi-weekly paycheck is more of a sure thing.  However, I’ll keep spending my two dollars a week for the chance to dream about getting the big money.  I just hope I win soon.  If I keep losing my two bucks for many more years, my lottery budget may exceed anything I might win.

As time went on and I began, in earnest, to learn the trade of carpet installation, above all else, I remember something my boss told me as I sat on the floor in an empty office at the GE Appliance Park in Louisville, Kentucky.  We had been installing carpeting in this particular office and, as he taught me the tricks of his trade, my boss offered the following: Whenever you install carpeting in a room, install it as well as it can be installed.  So well, in fact, that you could sign your name to a card and lay it against the wall proclaiming, to anyone who reads it, that it was you who installed it.  I’m sure he didn’t feel the impact his comment had on me; it was just a piece of advice, offered with no more forethought than telling someone to be careful crossing the street.   But that piece of advice has been the keystone of my working career, and has been altered to be relevant to each job I’ve held since then.  Over the years, I’ve held numerous positions in companies I’ve worked for.  Most of those positions were the result of being promoted from a lesser position.  And in every job, I’ve done my best to perform as well as, or better than, anyone else could.  I honestly believe the successes I’ve enjoyed in my working life, have been a direct result of following the advice my boss offered me all those years ago. 

I’ve been working, either part-time or full-time, for thirty-seven years.  I would like to say I chose an easier path in life, but the fact remains that I didn’t; however, I feel the path I’ve taken has led me through learning experiences that can’t be taught in the classroom.  I’m not a proponent of the path I chose those many years ago—I’ve even tried to steer my own kids away from it—but to those who end up choosing the same path as me, there are opportunities to be had.  The key is: although we all work for a paycheck, not everyone works to be the best they can be.  But for those that do choose to be the best they can be, chances are, that is how they will turn out.