A Dog Gone Mistake

28 08 2023

First, let me begin this post by affirming my love for dogs. I have owned dogs and they have been a fixture in my family for generations.

My all-time favorite was a little black lab mix named Mabel. She was such a sweet girl.

So sweet, in fact, that she provided comfort to some thieves that broke into my brother’s apartment when he was in college. As the story goes, they loaded up the television and electronics, while Mabel gleefully stood by during the heist.

Not long after that, Mabel came to live with me. I took her to Texas where she would show off her adorable pointer pose at the park whenever a squirrel or bird was nearby.

I have so many Mabel stories. She was the best.

My parents eventually adopted her after I moved back to Florida and she enhanced the quality of their lives for many years. After all, that is what a good pet is supposed to do.

Now, back to our story. I’m in El Centro, California visiting my good friend Daniel on a business trip. Daniel had graciously offered to quarter me at his house and as we pulled into the driveway you could hear the sound of barking coming from inside the house.

“I’m going to unlock the door and get the dogs, John, so you just run past them and into the house,” Daniel instructed.

For the life of me, I don’t know why I didn’t immediately refuse to do this.

It was a big mistake.

Daniel opened the door and instead of running to him, they chased after me. The golden retriever clawed me in the leg and the tiny mutt leaped and took a painful bite into the back of my upper thigh.

Ouch!

Daniel quickly scooped up the mutt before any more damage was done as I raced up the stairs and into the bathroom. There, behind a closed door, I nursed my wounds.

It was a traumatizing incident. My leg hurt for days and it would be a month before the bite mark disappeared. Daniel apologized profusely and assured me the dogs had all of their shots and there was no chance of catching rabies.

The little mutt was named GG, after a former congresswoman from North Florida, who I had helped elect before heading west to work in the national parks. Was this the universe’s way of getting back at me for leaving, I wondered.

After everything calmed down, I finally met Kai, Daniel’s husband. That night we toured the food bank with business leaders from the Imperial Valley.

A soft-spoken, tall and muscular young man, Kai emigrated to the States from Taiwan. He met Daniel in South Florida through a dating app and they quickly fell in love and were married in a very public ceremony inside the Florida Capitol. It was quite the statement, given the political climate at the time.

Kai liked living in California and hoped they would eventually find their way to Los Angeles or San Francisco. I quickly got the feeling, Imperial Valley was not the place they would be settling down longterm. For my safety, Kai kept GG locked away in their bedroom for the remainder of my stay.

At the food bank, Daniel worked the crowd with ease. He introduced me to the Commander of the Naval air facility, which serves as the winter home of the famous Blue Angels flight demonstration squadron. The Commander and I had a intelligent conversation about military readiness and the beauty of the Florida panhandle. I kept the dog bite story to myself.

The following morning, I would limp down to the border to finally set eyes on what had become a much ballyhooed issue. Daniel had lined us up a meeting with the mayor of Calexico.

“Get some rest, John,” Daniel advised as we left the chamber soiree. “Tomorrow is a big day.”


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Categories : Business, California

Business on the Border

31 07 2023

It had been quite a while since I had last seen Daniel. Four years to be exact. In our haste to leave Florida, we did not have a going-away party. Maybe that’s because, deep down, we knew we see each other again.

This was a new and improved Daniel I would come to find. Still that same confident bravado, bursting with energy, only now operating far from home. He had been hired by a chamber of commerce in southern California’s Imperial Valley — perched on the U.S.-Mexico border.

“Come on down and I’ll show you the border,” he said over the phone, making his best sales pitch. “It’s nothing like you’ve seen on TV.”

There was something else new about Daniel. He was married now — to a man — completing his journey from a closeted political aide. Daniel was excited to introduce me to his husband, Kai and I was looking forward to meeting the guy that was able to reel him in.

Flush with cash from my warehouse endeavors, I booked a flight to Los Angeles and then hopped aboard a small turboproped plane. There were nine seats inside the cabin. I was a tad nervous, particularly when the pilot appeared to be a recent college graduate. But she did a fantastic job, restoring my faith in future generations that had been so badly damaged by bratty Portland anarchists.

Our flight was smooth and the scenary was amazing. From the container ships lined up off the Long Beach port, we flew southeast into the desert, over the mountains and into Imperial Valley. El Centro, with its lush green farms, appeared like an oasis from the air. As I would learn, those farms provide a great amount of fruits and vegetables to so many households near and far during the winter.

Once on the ground, I was greeted by one of Daniel’s assistants from the chamber, who gave me a short tour around town. It was autumn and the locals were celebrating cooler temperatures.

“So Daniel tells me your a journalist,” the driver said.

“Among other things,” I coyly replied.

“Well, there are plenty of stories here,” she said in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Then her phone rang. It was Daniel and immediately their conversation turned into crisis control. This was, after all, Daniel’s purpose here. He was tasked with bringing three chamber of commerces together to operate as one entity. Not an easy assignment, by any stretch and especially difficult for the new CEO from Florida.

“He wants to speak to you,” she said handing me the phone. Daniel’s attitude instantly cheered up. I like to think I have that effect on people. “Welcome to Imperial Valley!!!,” he shouted.

“Thanks,” I said, “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes, it’s just the mayor and I are having a little disagreement, that’s all,” he said.

Oh boy, I thought, here we go again. Daniel was famous for assisting and butting heads with politicians and it seemed that was still the case in California. When we arrived at the chamber, Daniel gave me a big hug and it was like old times again as he bounced off the walls with enthusiasm. He took me into his office and in between phone calls and directions to staff, he showed me some of his favorite momentos and awards from various stints of service.

“This is me with Speaker Pelosi,” he beamed, showing me a photograph of him alongside the Queen of San Francisco.

Tired from a long day of traveling, I asked Daniel if I could get some rest and unpack so he took me to his house, where I would be staying in their guest bedroom. It was a nice sized house, two stories with a garage and big backyard in a modest neighborhood at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Staying here saved me money, but there was a catch that I didn’t fully calculate — There would be dogs.


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Categories : Business, California, Confidence

Book Published

29 07 2022

Update: At long last, I have published my first book. You can order your copy through the link below:

Meanwhile, much has changed in my world since my last post here. I escaped the warehouse with the government’s help and traveled to the southern California desert and Alaskan arctic. Currently, working on a sequel with more colorful characters, fun adventures and happy trails.

Ciao for Now,

John

Memoirs from 2009 to 2021.

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Future Designs Downsized

23 12 2018

PDXStudio

Space comes at a premium in most urban American cities. I’m fortunate to be living with a master designer and am getting quite a lesson here in Portland.

It’s winter now. I have my boots and heavy parka coat ready — if Alaska calls.

Working at the grocery store is making me stronger and wiser. Major construction projects continue around our market. Cranes coming in, yellow vested workers becoming more frequent and long nights with plenty of rain.

David has worked miracles with his design on our studio. I’d love to see him get a chance in the neighborhood. Portland’s northwest has some landmark structures, no doubt.

I have been learning how to operate in tight spaces. At home, at work, in life.

There are times when you must move your body certain ways. City living is a lot like yoga class only at a faster pace. Although David says this is nothing like New York. The market floorplan can be challenging for both consumer and employee. Even more so in a full, petit warehouse. I believe I am holding my own quite well, thank you.

David has done much of his studio design with a modest budget. Portland has some real gems in thrift stores but for furniture, we have leaned heavily on Ikea, the Swedish retailer out by the airport. You can shop and munch on meatballs as the jets hum overhead. It’s fantastic.

Our studio is 500 square feet. At first we took what we could get from thrift stores but it was never a proper fit. The studio is nearly completed now, just in time for the holidays. We have a dwarf Alberta spruce decorated with lights and ornaments. The idea is to put the tree back into the ground after the new year. It’s a different concept from before when we relied on artifical trees or ones chopped down in the prime of life.

Recycling and sustainibility are central themes of our new life here in Oregon.

When space matters, trash is reduced. A limited amount of room means clearing out the things you can live without and removing toxic elements. There are times when I miss Florida’s sunshine, but I will not weep over its entrenched political culture. It’s a deeper dive on the West Coast. Liberal positions on the environment, planning and engineering, social economics and human rights are embraced and implemented. At last, I have a job that pays a fair and livable wage.

Am I satisfied? No.

Getting a foundation should have never been this hard. Perhaps, that is my southern, white male privilege showing. I know I must let go of the frustration with Florida. Bitterness will only drag me down. I am determined to be happy and cherish all that life offers. I am committed to providing for my family and grateful for the strength to earn.

May these blessings continue in 2019.

Red Dawn

 

 


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Coming Back, Gracefully

7 08 2018

Recovery going well. It has been a surprisingly hot summer in Portland. I accepted a union job offer from a local grocery store. Cleaning toilets and taking out the trash. It’s a smelly job, but somebody’s gotta do it and I am damn glad to have the work while earning a decent wage.

Walking the streets has been challenging but it has made me stronger. One must stay ever vigilant in certain sections of the city (Old Town/Chinatown) where those who have fallen on hard times lurk and dwell. I was not prepared for such a stark reality. Skid row here is ugly. Real ugly. These conditions I had not seen since the summer of 2009 in New York. People had lost their minds and were living like dirty gutter rats.

Old Town’s Stag

I’ve seen that here. On more than one occasion.

At my new job it is required to interact with the public. A daily evaluation of the local market. Even in brief conversations, messages can be exchanged. Understanding the neighborhood is important. Knowing hot and cold trends keeps you in the game.

Physically, the job can be exhausting. There is a lot of time on your feet. I average seven miles a day. There is also a lot of lifting to be done. There is even a demolition component involving “bottle machines.” The bottles and cans provide a source of revenue for people living on the margins. A tiny profit for people living on the streets or neighborhood folks trying to pay down bills.

I walk to and from work most days and nights. It is a safe neighborhood with a hospital nearby, plenty of construction projects, shopping and street car lines. Portland, I’m learning, is a major rail city. David and I enjoy riding in the street car. We’ve taken it to the riverfront, library and over to the eastside. Our studio apartment is coming along, albeit slowly. The biggest fix was getting rid of the leaking air mattress.

The Jeep is gone as well. God bless that vehicle. It did its job and more from Calgary to Miami. But, when in recovery mode — rebuilding lives — one needs less worries not more. Vehicles in the city are a luxury. There are risks to street parking no matter where one calls home.

I’m still reporting on queer issues for south Florida and, locally, have picked up a restaurant beat for a Portland neighborhood newspaper. We have joined an Episcopal Cathedral and begun volunteering at community events. Friends are planning visits…. I’m happy again. That’s the most important thing. 


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Seeing Red

28 07 2014

No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape politics.

This summer I stepped right into it, unaware of just how delicate a situation I was entering. For the first time in decades, a new concessonaire contract was awarded at Glacier National Park. This contract includes the park’s historic fleet of red buses, which have been masterfully rebuilt from the frames of the original 1930s White Motor Company models. The red buses have come to represent Glacier, providing an iconic symbol associated with the park’s renowned Going-To-The-Sun Road.

The buses were previously operated out of East Glacier, their hub being the Glacier Park Lodge, located on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. That all changed last year when the National Park Service, much to the locals’ surprise, awarded Glacier’s concessionaire contract to Xanterra Parks & Resorts. Xanterra, in turn, pitched its tent on the west side of the park near the rapidly developing tourist towns of Whitefish and Kalispell.

Red Ride

Red Ride

Losing the contract and its red buses has left East Glacier isolated and angry, its community suffering from a dramatic drop in revenue. There are hard feelings in the park. I experience them every day.

I lost count of how many times locals, posing as tourists, came in to question me about Xanterra’s operations. I found the questions odd at first, but then began to notice a trend and with it an unpleasant demeanor. I was a target no doubt, the new guy with the 10 gallon hat, riding in to represent the big corporate outfit from Denver — unaware of just how many roots had been ripped out in this move.

Early on, I tried to keep a positive attitude, but the constant attacks have worn me down. There are incredible logistical challenges here — it is a remote area drawing affluent visitors who expect every modern luxury while experiencing a true backwoods wilderness adventure. Delivering this total package is the challenge that gets me out of bed at 6 a.m. every morning.

Through all the complaints, raised voices and temper tantrums, I have managed to keep my cool. I am determined to leave here with my dignity intact. Again, I think of my father often now and what it must have been like to go through those hurricanes back in Florida — as he did many times — and manage to keep emotions in checks while restoring power to the masses.

Here in Glacier, appeasing tourists is just part of the equation. A big chunk of my time is devoted to our red bus drivers. Keeping them happy is as vital — if not more — than our guests. Affectionally known as “Jammers” for their gear shifting driving style, red bus drivers do require a certain skill set to succeed. The Going-To-The-Sun Road is no piece of cake with its twists and turns, falling water, ice and rock and God knows what else lurking in the other lane just behind the bend.

Jammers provide commentary along the way, each with their own unique personality. Some have been doing this upwards of 40 years, others like me, thrown into the fire for the first time. In the old days, it was college aged men driving the red buses across the Continental Divide. This year, in another first for the park, we have an equal number of women Jammers, including several college aged girls.

Evelyn, one of our veteran Jammers, is quick to cite statistics showing women to be much safer drivers than men. I’m not sure where she gets her data, but Evelyn is not one to pick a fight with. She’s a motherly hen type, her beautiful white hair braided in a long ponytail and her knowledge of wildflowers is unmatched. Evelyn recognized early on that I was in for a rocky ride this summer.

“Hang in there, John McDonald,” she said during a recent stop by my concierge desk at the Lake McDonald Lodge. “You are halfway there.”

 

 


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Categories : Business, Glacier, Montana, Politics, Tourism, Women