I Cried Because Captain Phil Died

I am a big bawl baby. My daddy always said if you looked at me cross-eyed I would cry. I cry when I am sad. I cry when I am happy. I cry when I laugh too hard. If I see someone crying, I will cry. I could enter a funeral of a complete stranger, and if I see someone crying I will cry also. My movie rating system is based on how many Kleenexes I use while watching the movie. So, why was I surprised that I cried when Captain Phil died?

There are an abundance of reality shows on TV: Ice Truckers, The Real Housewives, Helicopter Loggers, Dog Town, Alaska State Troopers, The Bounty Hunter, Intervention, I Survived, and The Last American Cowboy just to name a few.  The Deadliest Catch is just one more of those reality shows that follow common ordinary folks around twenty-four, seven. It follows a group of king crab fishing boats in the Alaskan waters. Captain Phil was the captain of the Cornelia Marie. 

The Deadliest Catch is not a show I watch or even TiVo, really, it isn't. Yesterday, there was a Deadliest Catch marathon. I have always wondered who could possible have the time or patience to watch a marathon. I "accidentally" came across the marathon while I was surfing for something to "listen" to while I did some work at home. For all intent and purposes, I was planning to only listen, and then I caught myself frequently turning my head to see what was going on. Finally, I ended up planting my butt directly in front of the TV, and intently watching The Deadliest Catch marathon. I became one of those people I always wondered about.

I have always had a secret passion for two types of men. I am mad for "MacGyvers" and "bad boys". I always felt that MacGyver could fall in love with an overweight crippled kid and he would be an asset to have a round. MacGyver could build anything with three pipe cleaners and a Swiss Army knife. I have a secret desire for bad boys because I would never do anything bad. I was and still am a "goody two shoes". Bad boys send shivers down my spine. A MacGyver/Bad Boy sends shivers down my spine and makes my toes tingle. Captain Phil was a very bad boy with a heaping spoonful of MacGyver, and I think he had a dash of pirate (#3 on my secret passions list).

Captain Phil was a gravelly voiced, chain smoking, caffeine drinking, F word using, badferya food eating, face making, money spending, fortune hunting,  whiskey drinking scoundrel. Captain Phil was a family man that loved his boys. Captain Phil would take a bullet for a friend. Captain Phil admired honorable, hard-working men. Honorable, hard-working men, in return, admired Captain Phil.


Captain Phil had a debilitating stroke. After brain surgery and a sixty-five day hospital stay, Captain Phil lost his valiant fight and died. Before Captain Phil died the Alaskan waters were rumbling and his fellow captains were struggling to steer their ships through tumultuous seas. The moment Captain Phil died, the seas became calm, the sun shone, and I cried.


Last night I couldn't sleep (nothing new) and I was up at 2:18 am. I was scanning my TiVo list and I found A Tribute to Captain Phil (I had to stop watching the marathon at some point.). At 3:10 am as I watched the Deadliest Catch cameramen cry when they were informed of Captain Phil's death I cried again, and I deleted the next episode of the Deadliest Catch.

Paco's Perspective

I don't know who Captain Phil was but do you know when you cry your tears drip all over me? 

The Flip Side

Do you think I will ever catch those lizards out in the yard that I watch all day through the window? Who's crying and why?

Golf's Life Lessons

I really think golf is boring. I don't understand how anyone can get excited watching golf on TV. I would rather watch an ant farm than a TV golf match. After I think about it, I also have the same feelings about other sports on TV like baseball and basketball. Really one only needs to watch the last two minutes of any televised sport. If it is a good game, the last two minutes are the best. I enjoy watching sports up close and personal.

This summer I have "played" golf with my sister, Caren, quite a bit. Okay, I followed her around and took score. Participating in golf has taught me some life lessons:

Always be a straight shooter. The fairway is down the middle of the course, and the green is at the end of the fairway, so hit it straight. Caren tells me that is easier said than done. In life we need to be straight shooters, too. Tell the truth, even if it hurts someone's feelings. I would much rather be surrounded by straight shooters than liars.  Sometimes a liar will lie even when it isn't necessary. Remember the old cliche: Honesty is the best policy. I have got myself into some predicaments following this policy, and I have lost friends, but I will always be a straight shooter.

Sometimes you hit in the rough. The fairway is down the middle of the course and the rough on the edge of the fairway. There is short rough, tall rough, and then trees and shit. No matter how hard a golfer tries to hit on the fairway sometimes the ball will get away from the golfer and the ball lands in the rough. And then when the golfer tries to hit the ball out of the rough, it lands in even deeper rough. If the golfer hits the ball enough it will eventually make the green. In life we sometimes hit rough patches, and when we try to get out of the rough patch we get in even deeper. Don't give up! You will eventually hit the green. It takes will. It takes determination. It takes time. And it always gets better.

Everybody deserves a mulligan. In golf a mulligan is a do over. If a golfer hits a really bad shot like in the trees and shit, the golfer can have a mulligan or a do over. Now, this is not true in tournament play, but in a friendly game of golf a golfer usually gets two mulligans. In life everybody deserves a mulligan. When people mess up and get themselves in the trees and deep shit, they should be able to shout, "Do Over!" Don't get me wrong, I don't think rapists and murders deserve a mulligan, but maybe someday forgiveness. I am mainly talking about breaking hearts, hurting feelings, screwing up at work. Take your mulligan, but use it wisely because you only get two.

Today was my last golf game with Caren for sometime. I will miss the great drives and the near miss putts. I will even miss the sand shots and the hits in the trees and shit. Most of all I will miss the time spent with my dear friend and sister, Caren. In summers to come I may learn some more golf life lessons and if I do, I am sure I will share. 

Paco's Perspective

Are you saying even Flip deserves a mulligan?

The Flip Side

Does that mean when I poop in the house I can shout, "Mulligan!"?

 

Small Town, America

Bigfork is a small town in northwest Montana along Flathead Lake. The population is around 1500 (the school I teach at in Phoenix has a population of around 1000). Bigfork has one stoplight and that is on the main highway 35, so residence can turn onto the highway. The main street in Bigfork is about one-quarter of a mile long. Bigfork is one of those town where everyone knows you. I am only there during the summer and every summer someone I don't recognize will come up to me and say, "Hey, it is good to see you back in town." I love towns where everybody waves and calls out, "Hey!"

Bigfork, MT has a Fourth of July parade every year. Caren and I have been coming to Montana for the summer for at least fifteen years. In the past, we haven't attended the parade until a few summer's ago someone told us attendance is a must, and we were asked to assist in building a "float" for the Adopt a Soldier organization. Now it has become a Fourth of July tradition.

Caren and I go about two hours early, yep, two hours! We set up chairs for any friends and family in town. We bring books to read while we wait for the action. Lately, we haven't read the books because people watching is so much more fun. At the time of the parade I think there are at least over three thousand people lining the street of Bigfork. 

After two hours of people watching and anticipation, IT starts. Caren and I have decided that anyone can be in the Bigfork parade:

If you have a cool car, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have a cool car but you decorate your car with red, white and blue, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you have a boat, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have a boat but you have an oar, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you have a motorcycle, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have a motorcycle but you have a bike, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you have a fire engine, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have a fire engine but you have a golf cart, you can be in the Bigfork parade. 

If you dress like a clown, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't dress like a clown but you act like one, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you have a Berenese Mountain dog, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have a Berenese Mountain dog but you have a dog with a flag tied to its tail, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you have a cheer squad, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have a cheer squad but you yell really loud, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you have an ice cream truck, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

If you don't have an ice cream truck but you do have ice cream, you can be in the Bigfork parade.

This year it rained for a week prior to the parade. Someone asked me if I was going to the parade this year and I replied I was only going if it didn't rain. The person who inquired about my attendance looked at me with shocked indignation and said, "God NEVER rains on the Bigfork parade!"

It was a close one this year. As we waited for the parade. The dark, gloomy thunderclouds formed off to the west. The temperature dropped about ten degrees. We were deciding whether or not to make a run for it to the car. Just before the parade started, the clouds moved north and the sun came out. It was a perfect day for the Bigfork parade because God never rains on the Bigfork parade. 

Paco's Perspective

You have put more than enough silly costumes on me, why not a tie a flag to my tail so I could be in the Bigfork parade?

The Flip Side

What's a parade?

Easy Clothes

The book, The Graduation of Jake Moon by Barbara Park, is a bittersweet account of a middle school aged boy, Jake, and his grandfather's descent into the Hell of Alzheimer's disease. Jake and his mother have lived with his grandfather, Skelly, since Jake was an infant. Skelly was even his room "mother" throughout his elementary school career. Skelly has always been there to care for Jake. Then Skelly contracts Alzheimer's disease and the tables turn. I have read this many times and I have bawled my guts out each time I read it.

When Janet and I drive to and from work I am her book on tape. I read books to her all the time. I read The Graduation of Jake Moon to her. Janet had many connections with this book because her mother suffered from Alzheimer's disease so reading this book was a catharsis for her. She bawled through just about every chapter and then I would bawl because she was bawling. It got so bad I could only read it to her on the way home because we didn't want to go into work with red, swollen eyes and our make-up dripping on our shirts. 

There is a part of the book with which I have a deep connection. Skelly has slipped into the abyss of the final stages of Alzheimer's and Jake and his mother have become Skelly's caregivers. Jake is trying to help Skelly get dressed and he discusses the progression of Skelly's clothes from well-groomed to "easy clothes". Jake explains that "easy clothes" are the ones with no buttons or zippers. Clothing someone with Alzheimer's can be a struggle so "easy clothes" (sweatpants, t-shirts, sweatshirts, and slip on shoes) are the way to go. 

I too have had a progression of dress. I once wore dresses and high heals, but I couldn't drive in heals and I would have to change into sneakers every time I got in the car, so I eventually just went to wearing sneakers all the time. Sneakers don't go well with dresses so I started wearing pants. In the movie Steel Magnolias one of the characters states in her best southern drawl, "Darling, accessorizing is what separates us from the animals." I took this quote to heart. I was the Queen of Accessorizing. I am no longer able to reach my hands to my face so no more accessorizing. Just recently, I fell and broke my leg so I can no longer stand at all to get pants on, so I am at another stage of dress progression. I have had to go to stage 1 of "easy clothes". I am unable to stand to pull up pants and it is practically impossible to pull them up laying down. I am back to skirts because they are "easier". No one has designed skirts for crippled kids so they are too long. The skirts are so long I have to wear them as dresses. I use to wear tailored jackets, but those have become difficult to put on so I am wearing sweaters instead. I am thinking that skirts worn as dresses, sweaters, and opened back sneakers are not real fashion statements. There might be a picture of me on the "Glamour Don't" page in Glamour magazine.


The other day Caren and I saw the epitome of "easy clothes". We were waiting to get my hair cut and there were two women waiting, also. A mother and daughter. The daughter was dressed to the nines. She wore a skirt with a bright yellow tailored shirt with matching heals and purse. Her mother was in a wheelchair and had Alzheimer's. The daughter kept showing the mother pictures of her on her phone and would say, "See, Mom, this is a picture of you at the Japanese Gardens." And the mother would angrily reply, "I have never been to the Japanese Garden!" The mother wore very "easy clothes": dirty gray sweatpants two sizes too big, a blue Montana State sweatshirt three sizes too big and black Ugh boots, of course, too big. 

When Caren and I left the place I looked her directly in the eye and said, "Whatever you do,"

She interrupted me and said, "I know, I know, I promise your clothes will never get that easy."

"If it comes to that, you better get a big pillow," I demanded.


"What are you gonna do with a big pillow? Make a dress out of the pillowcase?" she asked.


"No, you are going to use the pillow," I said.

"I am not going to wear a pillowcase! . . . . Oh, wait I get it. Ha, funny!", she chuckled.

Paco's Perspective

I would like to say the Halloween costumes, jackets and sweater you put on me are not "easy clothes" AND I would prefer to NOT wear them. I look ridiculous!

The Flip Side

I happen to think we look jaunty in our matching argyle sweaters!

Hey, Where Did They Go? They Were Here Just Awhile Ago!

I looked up endowed in the dictionary and it means to provide with property or income or to equip or supply with a talent or quality. In reference to women, why does well endowed mean big chested or in layman's terms, "She's got boobies!"? The Cunningham girls are well endowed we come from a long line of well endowed women. Instead of lineage we have boobage. Yep, we got boobies! 

Throughout my life I have had to deal with well endowedness. I was the first to get a bra in my crowd. I had cleavage that started at my chin. I was looked upon with awe by my fellow female classmates in the sixth grade. They wished they were me or they wished they had boobies like me. Someone once said that the perfect size breast could carry a pencil under it. I could carry luggage and a small dog. 

Throughout my life they, my boobies, have been there staring back at me. I have spent thousand of dollars "supporting" them. I have permanent dips in my shoulders. I could be carrying a purse, tip sideways and never lose the purse thanks to the many years of supporting them. 

And then one day it happened. I don't when it happened. I am not sure if it happened suddenly or gradually when I wasn't paying attention. One day those lovely, milky white bosoms were staring at me, and then they were no longer looking at me. They were looking south at my toes. My toes are not that attractive, so there was no reason for them to adjust their gaze. It has been years since we have looked at each other eye-to-eye. I was told all I need is a better bra. I am beyond needing a better bra I need a carpenter and an iron worker.

And then when you think it can't get any worse, it does! When I lie down in bed they disappear completely. Apparently my chest is too hard for them and they have decided to escape under my arms and lie on the mattress. I should be happy because now when I lie in bed my face looks great. I think I will have all future pictures taken laying down.


My boobies have turned their loving gaze towards my toes and are hiding under my arms in bed. It couldn't get any worse, right? WRONG! The other day I was laying in bed watching TV and I suddenly got a pain in my chest, and then it traveled around to my back. I was thinking, "Oh, man, I hope this isn't a heart attack. I would hate to have the paramedics come in and find me watching RuPaul's Drag Race!" I was starting to get really worried because the pain was getting worse. Then I noticed my boob had disappeared completely under my arm, and when I put it in its proper place the pain miraculously disappeared. 

I am fifty-four years olds. I am proud to be this age because my parents were informed that I wouldn't live past the age of sixteen. So I have outlived my life expectancy by decades and I don't mind telling people how old I am. I want to know at what point does one become old. Many say age is in your attitude. I have a young attitude. I am very young in my mind. The problem is no one has informed my body how young I think I am, and no one has especially told my boobies. They probably weren't listening. Along with losing their elasticity, they have lost their ability to hear.

Paco's Perspective

Remember when I was a puppy how much I loved sitting on your boobies. I am a boob "man"!

The Flip Side

So that's what's staring at me when I lie my head in your lap and look up at you!

The Games People OOPS! I Mean Dogs Play

Osa is a beautiful, well-trained Akita mix female dog that is owned by my sister, Caren. Osa was a stray. As a matter of fact, she was found under my van at my home in Buckeye. People have a tendency to dump dogs out by my house quite often. My home is somewhat in the boondocks, I guess that is where people like to dump dogs. Osa didn't get along with the alpha female dog in the backyard so I had to find her a home. I knew Caren was looking for a dog for her husband, so I gave her a call. Osa now lives with Caren and her husband, Darrell, in Park City, Utah which is a much better place for her because she is a huge, hairy dog that loves snow, hiking, snowshoeing, exploring the wilderness, Caren, and Darrell. Osa also spends the summers in Montana with Caren, myself and my two dogs, Paco and Flip.


Osa has some favorite games that she loves to play. Her favorite games are: Go, Osa,  Go!, Chase Me, and Fetch. She and Caren have made up the rules for the games, except for Fetch, they have also made up the games. Osa is ready and willing to play these games at any time.


Go, Osa, Go is played in the yard. Caren whistles and yells, "Go, Osa, go!" Osa proceeds to run around the yard with abandon. Paco has experienced this game with Osa for many summers, and he has learned to stay out of the way. When Caren and Osa start playing Go, Osa, Go Paco runs to the topmost part of the deck as far away from the action as possible. This is Flip's first summer in Montana and he hasn't experienced this game, so he tries to join in. As Osa runs by Flip she slaps him with her paw and rolls him like a burrito. He tumbles across the lawn until he runs into a tree or a rock, and gets up dazed and confused. Flip then proceeds to stagger his way back into the game. Apparently, Flip enjoys tumbling like a dryer.

Chase is a game that Osa plays with Paco and Flip in the house. Osa grabs one of their toys and runs up the stairs into the kitchen and then down the stairs into the living room in hopes that Paco and Flip will chase her, and they do somewhat. Paco chases until he gets excited and then he starts "humping" Osa. Paco is a neutered male and I was told, "He won't hump or lift his leg once he is neutered." Wrong! Instinct is instinct, so if you are thinking of neutering your husband, don't! It won't change anything! Osa runs, Paco humps. He humps her leg, he humps her tail, he humps her head, and she flicks him off as if he were a Flea. Flip is also a neutered male, and he has not exhibited any humping prowess until the Chase game. Osa runs, Paco humps, Flip wrestles with Osa and ends up on her head and guess what? Yes, you are correct. In Montana, every day is hump day.


Osa's final favorite game is Fetch. You know Fetch, get a stick, throw it, dog gets it and brings it back. Oh, no, not Osa! Osa has made her own rules. Caren gets a stick and throws it, Osa gets it and . . . . eats it. It doesn't matter how large or how small the stick is, Osa will eat it. Paco and Flip, otherwise known as, Monkey See and Monkey Do have decided if stick eating is okay for their buddy Osa, then it is okay for them, too. Paco and Flip have not contained their eating of the forest to only sticks. They eat sticks, pine cone seedlings, pine cones pine needles, and grass. I am just waiting for all three of them to . . . shit a tree!

Paco's Perspective

Oh, Man, Chase Osa in the house is my favorite game. It's my favorite game! It's my favorite game! It's my favorite game. I don't know why. I don't know why. I don't know why. It just is.

The Flip Side

Would someone please explain the rules to me? All I know is I end up walking funny after every game.

Jumping for "Jay Zuzs"

At one time my sister, Caren, was a a nonbeliever emphasis on the word was. I guess having two handicapped siblings and a father passing away at an early age could cause disbelief. I remember her asking me once, "How can you have faced all the bad things that have happened to you over the years and still believe in God?"

My simple reply was, "How can I not?"

My oldest sister, Chris, worked hard at trying to get Caren to believe. She would look up churches for Caren to attend in Arizona, Utah, and Montana. Caren would go to church with us, but would not go on her own, and she definitely did not like attending churches where an expression of faith was demonstrative.

After attending church with Chris in Texas and myself in Arizona Caren started exploring churches. A few summers ago she surprised me by suggesting we try attending some churches in Montana. A church that was near the movie theater we attended (This was a good lure for Caren because after church we could go to the movies.) was a Vineyard nondenominational church. I knew that a nondenominational church was the way to go for Caren, and I had a friend that attended a Vineyard church in Arizona and she assured me that they were "quiet" worshippers. 

Caren and I entered the huge church and the first thing we noticed was the casual dress, but Montana is a casual place where Berkinstocks, socks, and shorts are worn to weddings. When the musical worship started a very young band got on stage which we were okay with. They started to play and many of the worshippers ran to the the stage and raised their hands in praise and started swaying to the music and jumping which we were okay with. A few minutes later a few people laid prostrate in front of the stage, and Caren gave me a look, but we were okay with it. This continued for about 30 minutes. Suddenly from behind I heard someone shout, "Jay Zuzs heal this woman!" Caren and I turned around just in time to see a woman slapping another woman on the forehead with the heal of her hand. Knowing Caren's dislike for demostrative praise I said, "Caren, we can leave, if you want."

She replied, "No, I am okay. Let's give the preacher a chance."

After another 20 minutes of singing, swaying, laying prostrate, and shouting, "Heal this woman, Jay Zuzs!", I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and I suggested, "Ummm, really, Caren, we can leave, if this is too much for you."

She smiled at me and replied, "This is kind of entertaining. What do you think the preacher is gonna do?" And at that moment the preacher entered. He was a middle-aged man in a basic cowboy "uniform" (Wranglers, and boots). I thought we might be okay and then he started praying and praying and praying and praying and praying. Thirty minutes later, he asked for another song and he hadn't even started the sermon, yet. 

The song started, the people rushed forward, the man laid prostrate, the woman shouted, "Heal, Jay Zuzs!" and then it happened Caren's final straw was pulled. Two woman ran up by the stage and started waving flags. Huge flags, the kind of flags that male cheerleaders wave at college football games.

It had been over an hour and a half and no sermon yet, but there was a lot of praying, shouting, lying prostrate, swaying and now flag waving. I might be a bad Christian, but an hour and thirty minutes is about as much sitting in church that I can do without looking at my watch wondering when things are going to finish up. Thank, Jay Zuzs, Caren looked at me and said, "Okay, I think we can sneak out and nobody will know."

I didn't want that experience to scare Caren away from attending church so a friend of Caren's and I convinced her to try a different church. It was called the Cowboy Church. It was so "cowboy" that it was held at the Grange. On a Saturday night, the three of us entered the very small building where folding chairs were lined up for seating. As I scanned the room, I looked at Caren and said, "I think I recognize some faces in here."

"Oh, you do not," was her reply.

We sat in the very last row, just in case. The small room was stifling hot with the only means of air being two floor fans. One of those fans happened to be next to us, so we were okay. At that time a man and woman entered with their dog which is casual to the extreme. The dog looked like a Bernese, huge and very hairy, and it looked very hot. But not to worry the lady that brought the dog to church proceeded to turn the fan so it blew directly on the dog and only on the dog. 

I continued to have that deja vu feeling. I was sure I recognized people in the room. Then the preacher stepped up to the podium to begin the service and it was the preacher. Caren and I looked at each other wild-eyed and started to giggle which is not a good idea in such a small, close space. Lying on the floor in a far corner of the room I saw them, the flags. I pointed them out to Caren and her eyes almost bugged out of her head. In unison, we turned to Caren's friend, Pam, and giggle whispered, "We gotta go!"

Pam replied, "We can't go. That would be rude. The place is so small and everyone will see us."

"No, really we should go," we implored.

"Come on, girls, you can handle this," Pam insisted

After an hour of sweltering heat with no breeze because the dog needed it, swaying, lying prostrate, shouting, "Heal Jay Zuzs" Pam turned to us and giggled, "I think we might be able to sneak out and not get noticed."

As we tiptoed out of the building someone stopped us and asked if we were okay and why were we leaving? Caren and Pam both pointed to me and said without skipping a beat, "She has to pee and you don't have accessible bathrooms."

I looked at the person with my best crippled kid who has to pee look and squeaked, "Yea, sorry!" 

A few months later, Caren was at a party and a woman asked her to attend a Bible study class. Caren said she wanted to say, "Hell no", but the lady was so nice she said, "Sure, I know where it is I will meet you there," knowing she could bow out. The lady must have known Caren might chicken out and she insisted on picking Caren up. Caren attended the Bible study class and has been going every Friday since then.

In September of 2007, Caren met her friend from Bible study by Flathead Lake and QUIETLY gave her life to Christ. I had the opportunity to hear Caren give her testimony to a large Bible study group and she said, "I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders when I gave my life to Christ." 

"Thank you, Jay Zuzs!"

Paco's Perspective

I don't discuss religion or politics. I just want to say I am glad we are back in Montana. I love the mountain air, and I, especially, love playing with Osa.

The Flip Side

I have two questions: Who is Jay Zuzs? How did that dog Reflection get to Montana? I didn't see him in the van on the drive up. P.S. Osa scares me. She is one big dog.