The college nightmare

It's now been 32 years since I graduated from the University of Montana. I was 17 when I began college and I was 20 when I graduated. The three years of college were filled with adventure. I lived on campus my freshman year and off campus the other two years. I also attended a couple of summers, where I also lived in a dorm.

My mom and dad with me for graduation at the University of Montana

There was quite a bit of difference between summer classes and the rest of the year. The big difference was that were always a number of teachers in my summer classes and it wasn't very hard to do better than the teachers who had returned to campus for continuing education classes. I don't mean to demean the teachers...but I was attending college year-round and had gotten this study thing down to a science. Teachers were only part-time students and, frankly, I'm not sure their hearts were into it. It's hard to believe now, but the teachers actually dressed worse and looked worse than the full-time students.

All in all, college life was a fairly pleasant experience. Sure, I had the obnoxious professor who thought it was beneath him to be teaching. There was also the foreign professor whom you couldn't understand. And the very liberal professors who would have been better teaching out East than in Missoula, Montana, but I digress.

If there was a downside to college, it was that I was always broke. I had part-time jobs, such as working as an umpire for softball games or at Eddy's Bakery when I was a junior, but I was still broke. I remember writing my senior paper while eating Salted Nut Rolls and drinking Mountain Dew. Going out for a drink meant going somewhere where the pitchers of beer cost a dollar. Hopefully, the popcorn was free.

But  I seemed to take all of this in stride because all of my college friends were also broke. I guess misery loves company. Anyway, being poor didn't seem to be too big of a hardship.

But now that I'm older, I seem to have a recurring nightmare about college. It doesn't have to do with snooty professors, part-time jobs or what I was eating...it has to do with not showing up for classes because I somehow always manage to forget my class schedule.

Like most nightmares, there isn't really a lot of rhyme or reason. In fact, sometimes it seems I'm still in high school because there seems to be a central locker where I'm going to load and unload my books. There were no lockers at college. A backpack or a briefcase, yes, but no locker.

But the real nightmare starts when I begin to hunt and search for my different classrooms. Now I do remember this being somewhat of a chore because my classes were often in different buildings and the buildings could be located north and south, east and west on campus. That meant for a lot of walking. What made it more difficult was there were 8,000 other students also trying to traverse the campus at the same time as me.

Still, when I went to college, this didn't seem like such a difficult chore and I rarely missed a class. I wasn't sick very much and I generally liked my classes...which is why I took them.

But in my nightmare, I always seem to forget where my classes are...because I haven't gone in a couple of weeks. And to make matters worse, I forget the combination to my locker. What I've been doing instead is always a mystery, but it hasn't been school work. Perhaps I go on a two-week bender...who knows.

Now I don't know how many times I've had that particular nightmare, but it seems to pop up a couple times a year. And it always ends bad because I have to take a test for a class that I haven't attended nor have I read the book or completed the assignments. Hopefully, I wake up before I get my final grade because it isn't going to be good.

A couple of weeks ago, I was visiting with brother-in-law Rich Graves who graduated from Eastern Montana College about 10 years before I graduated. We were talking about nightmares and both of us shared this one about college. It was almost word for word. Both of us agreed that while in college, we attended our classes. But in our nightmares, we don't go for some odd reason until we can't even remember where the classes are.

So I'm writing today not to relive this nightmare one more time, but I'm wondering if others share this same frightening experience. Maybe it's not about college, maybe it's about high school. But somehow, there is always that final humiliation because I've not studied, I've not read the material and I haven't heard the lectures. Boy, talk about taking a test with your eyes closed.

Again, my college was nothing like this. I enjoyed college. I really did. But I don't enjoy this recurring nightmare.

Memories of the Babe Waitress

Once upon a time, the boys were little and Belinda was a stay-at-home mom. She watched a little girl – Allison Haider – who was as close to a sister as my boys ever had. But alas, when Scott went to first grade, Belinda wanted to quit her day care business and get a job where she would actually have conversations with adults. So she went to work at our church as a part-time secretary…the same job she has today.

About that same time, she was invited to join the Prairie Rose Lions Club. Again, she wanted to interact with adults. I belonged to the North Star Lions Club and wouldn’t you know it, the two clubs met once a month on the same night. Well, it didn’t make any sense for us to get a babysitter so we could attend our separate Lions Clubs meetings and, frankly, I was getting enough adult interaction at my job at MDU, so I quit my Lions Club so Belinda could join hers.

This created the perfect situation for me and the boys to have one night out a month by ourselves, which became known as “Boys Night Out.”

As was customary, Derek, Scott and I always went to the same restaurant, month after month….Red Lobster. And the stories are legendary.

For instance, there’s the time that Derek bet me a dollar that he could eat the “Ultimate Feast” by himself. I’m guessing he was about 10 years old at the time. Anyway, I took the bet thinking that this was a no-lose proposition for me. Not only would I get a dollar from him when I won the bet, but I would also get to eat the rest of his shrimp, lobster and crab when he was full.

Much to my chagrin, Derek ate every bite of his meal. So not only did I owe him a dollar but I also had to pay for his meal…which was about $15 at the time.

Our drink of choice in those days was rootbeer. Normally if you need a refill at Red Lobster, the servers are johnny-on-the-spot with another glass of pop. However, when you order root beer, it comes in a brown glass bottle, and when one bottle is gone, you have to order another. So the first time this happened, we were surprised at how fast our bill grew because we were sucking down the bottles of rootbeer like people crossing a desert and eating salty potato chips at the same time.

But the funniest story that ever occurred involved a young, bouncy blonde whom we referred to as the “Babe Waitress.” The boys and I thought we had died and gone to heaven just to eat at Red Lobster but to also get the Babe Waitress was really an extraordinary event.

At the time, it seemed the Babe Waitress only served tables way in the back of the restaurant so if we got seated at a table in the back, our pulse would race thinking that our chances had improved that we would get the Babe Waitress. Even if she didn’t wait on our table, at least we got to stare at her for an hour while we ate our meal.

Anyway, the stars aligned this one Thursday night. Belinda went to her Lions meeting. Derek, Scott and I were seated in the back of the restaurant and we had the Babe Waitress…and probably three rootbeers sitting in front of us. Just as we were about to order, our bubble was popped and we slowly floated back down to earth.

Belinda’s Lions Club had canceled its meeting and Belinda had walked into the Red Lobster to eat dinner with her family. I think Derek was the first person to spot mom walking toward our table.

He gave me a look that resembled the face of a worried safe cracker who has just seen the cops enter the bank.

Just as the Babe Waitress was approaching our table to take our order, Belinda sat down with us. Suddenly the three bachelors out for a good time sipping on rootbeers turned into a married husband, a wife and two little sons of their mother.

Somehow the atmosphere had changed. Now Belinda is not one to spend our money foolishly, so I think the boys’ meal selection changed from the Ultimate Feast to popcorn shrimp.

Still, it was one of those unforgettable memories that still gets talked about today when we are eating at Red Lobster. By the way, what ever happened to the Babe Waitress? 

It’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight

Summers in Roundup, Montana, were hot. But firecrackers, sparklers and things that go “bang” in the night, seemed to make the heat tolerable.

My first memories of Fourth of July celebrations were the parade of floats and horses down Main Street. We generally were sitting or standing in the shade of the trees that lined Main Street by the Catholic Church. It was only a block away from where my Grandma Anderson lived.

The highlight, of course, was collecting all the candy that was thrown from the floats…and the firemen squirting us with water at the end of the parade.

As I got older, I played the tuba on the band float…and then I went away to college.

Memories of fireworks always involved the rivalry between Black Cat and Zebra firecrackers. My brother Randy swore that one of them was better than the other. Whatever he liked, I had to like the other.

Randy was an ant hill’s worst enemy when it came to firecrackers. There was one humungous ant hill up in the first hills not far from our house. One summer, Randy nearly annihilated all the ants by placing firecrackers in all their little holes in the ant hill and then watching them explode.

Rodeos were also a part of Fourth of July celebrations. My parents didn’t go to the rodeos but my aunts and uncles did. One of our neighbors – Donny Tomlin – was one of the cowboys competing. Later on, one of my classmates – Wayne Kelly – competed at the local level. Knowing some of the cowboys made it more interesting. But the part of the rodeo I liked best was visiting with people and eating the grilled hamburgers.

We have a rodeo on the Fourth of July in Mandan and I’ve never been to it. I guess the memories of the scorching heat and waiting and waiting for the next rider at the Roundup rodeo took some of the fun away.

The other thing that I remember about the Fourth was the family picnics. We always seemed to be involved in a picnic. When I really young, the picnic might have been at Grandma Anderson’s. It would involve my aunts and uncles…but mostly it involved my cousins. And in those day, my cousins in Roundup were as thick as ticks on a dog’s back in June. When Grandma died in 1972, the picnic migrated to our yard. Later on, more and more people got invited and the picnic was held at the city park.

Still, what I remember about the Fourth was that it didn’t take a lot of money to have a lot of fun.

It was a nice holiday…a good time to feel patriotic, eat a little food and watch a parade.

Now that I’ve grown up and moved away from Roundup, I think of these things with some nostalgia. The parade in my adopted hometown of Mandan lasts about two hours long and is even broadcast on a local TV station. The rodeo is also a much bigger event and draws cowboys from several states and Canada. Even the fireworks shot off after the rodeo are much bigger and brighter…they can be seen from miles around.

Still, you don’t forget about your childhood…how good the watermelon tasted, the smell of a burning punk and sitting on a bale of hay playing the tuba in the hometown parade. Those days are gone…and some of the people are gone, too….but the memories live on.

So quickly...it was over

I have never experienced anything like it. You know that iconic photo of the sailor being hugged in Times Square after World War 2? That lucky guy must have felt like me at the Denver airport on Friday afternoon. Belinda, Grandpa and I had walked off the plane and were stumbling through the big airport looking for baggage claim. Suddenly, it felt like I was being tackled. Someone or something had grabbed me around the knees and wasn't letting go. When I looked down, there was my four year-old grandnephew Joshua Baker holding onto me with the biggest, widest grin on his face. "Unka Steeeeeve." 

We had arrived for a short three-day weekend in Aurora, Colorado, and Joshua came with his dad to take us to their home. The flight had been uneventful, even pleasant. I say that because flying for 80 minutes beats the heck out of driving for 15 hours. 

The only downfall of the flight involved dad getting a "patdown" by a TSA officer at the Bismarck airport. Ninety-one-year-old men don't like to be touched -- period -- yet be touched by a 25-year-old guy who they don't know in a strange place (I'm not talking about the airport). Dad looked at me with a quizzical expression. I think a couple more "pats" and dad would have floored the guy. (The TSA screening in Denver on the return flight went a lot better because they had a machine that x-rayed dad for any guns or other contraband.)

Our trip to the Baker residence was a ride in the family van listening to kid's tunes on the stereo. There was a song that seemed to fit Joshua to a "T." It was something about "me and my energy." Who ever wrote that song either knew Joshua personally or knew a boy who was identical to Joshua. 

After arriving, we enjoyed a delicious barbecued meal of vegetables, beef and chicken. I think all of them were cooked with a different seasoning or marinade, but they were all delicious. We sat outside on their deck to eat and visit. Nothing like living it up in warm temperatures when the family you left back home is freezing on Memorial Day. Our family in Montana even had to suffer through snow. 

When we went to bed, what I worried about most came to pass. Dad was "nervous from the service" so I gave him a couple of Benadryl with a sip of water. He fell asleep and didn't wake up until 2 a.m.....what, 2 a.m.? Yes, you read right. And he had to go to the bathroom at 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m., 5 a.m. and was up for good at 6 a.m. 

The next night we tried something stronger...Tylenol PM. Again he slept like a log until 3 a.m.! And then he was up every hour going to the bathroom just like the night before. On the third night, I thought things would be different. After all, he hadn't slept well for two nights and didn't take a nap during the days either. So I thought he could go to bed without any pills. Nothing doing. Within minutes, he was up and going to the bathroom again. So I gave him two Tylenol PM and he slept from 9 p.m. until 6 a.m. This was truly a blessing, because I got to sleep as well. 

Other than that, we ate like kings. On Saturday for lunch we ate a rib's place, the food was delicious. There was also a lot of it. For dinner on Saturday, we were treated again to Luke's delectable barbecue skills -- this time it was burgers and roasted ears of corn on the gas grill. The corn on the cob tasted so sweet. 

On Sunday, we went to church -- across the alley from their house -- and heard Luke preach. I believe that Luke was born to preach. He can stir up your blood with a good sermon. There were only two people in the church that weren't mesmerized by his preaching -- one was his son Joshua who threw a pencil that whizzed past the head of the person sitting in front of him, and the other was my dad who kept looking at watch. As the time approached noon -- which is dad's time to eat lunch -- Luke made an altar call for the unsaved souls in the church. It was at that moment that dad uttered a common barnyard phrase that I'll euphemistically translate as "Oh, Nuts!" Again, the only people who heard it were the in-laws of the man who earlier had seen the pencil fly by. 

So, the lesson learned, is never sit in front of Joshua and his great-grandparent if it appears the sermon is going to run long. Before I leave the preaching completely, I want to give Luke credit for something he said that was an outstanding analogy. He said, "Church is like an airport. Just as an airport isn't your destination, neither is church. An airport --like a church -- helps you reach your final destination." I told Luke later, "That'll preach." It did. 

Other than that, we had a great time. Mary makes the best raspberry, white chocolate scones for breakfast. Their other son, Jonas, could become quite a rodeo rider. I would bounce him on my knees until both of them would hurt from arthritis, and then he would come to me and say with all the sincerity that a one-year-old can muster "Down", which of course meant "Up." He was ready to ride into the sunset. While he was bouncing, I would sing the tune to "Bonanza!"

And I would bounce him on my knees some more. 

We had a great time. It was filled with fun, adventure, great food (don't get me started on the potluck after church on Sunday - the food went on forever) and lots of great family time. All in all, it was a memorable Memorial Day weekend.  

Let the Memorial Day adventure begin

Tomorrow, Belinda, Grandpa and I are going to step out of our comfort zone. We're going to fly to Denver to visit my niece Mary, her husband Luke and their two young sons Joshua and Jonas.

The idea of flying to Denver intrigued me when I learned that Frontier Airlines flew non-stop between Bismarck and Denver and didn't charge an arm and a leg to do it. Mary and her family moved to Denver in February, so we now had a reason to do it.

The Colorado Rockies aren't playing at home over the Memorial Day weekend, so no one can think that I'm really using my niece as an excuse to see a professional baseball game -- although the thought did cross my mind.

Belinda and I have both been to Denver before but not as a couple. Both of us went before we were married....and we didn't travel together. When I went, I was working for Mid-Rivers Telephone Cooperative and I traveled to Aurora to learn how to use a Compugraphic typesetter. It might as well have been a lead-based Linotype machine, because both of them have long been put out to pasture and probably can only be seen today in museums.

Anyway, my hotel was right beside the training center so I didn't see a lot of Denver, but I do remember that the traffic was terrible, there was a street named after Martin Luther King, and airport was a mess....but that was more than 25 years ago. I can only imagine that Denver has grown up since 1984, has a new airport and the traffic is probably even worse today.

However, we won't have to go to Denver...unless Luke or Mary are driving. We will land at the airport that is east of Denver and go to the Baker residence, that is also east of Denver.

Now Belinda and I like to fly so the trip is not out of our comfort zone. It is, however, for Grandpa Van Dyke. Although he traveled by plane during World War 2 in India, Pakistan and Burma when he was in the Army Air Corps, he didn't do a lot of flying when he was a civilian. I remember he flew to Houston once when he was employed with Continental Pipeline Company. I think they wanted him to move his family to Houston, but dad was too close to retirement and wanted to stay in Montana.

He also flew from Roundup to Mandan in a single engine aircraft when he moved to North Dakota in July 2006. This flight was mostly so he wouldn't get out of the car and try to head back to Roundup when we were somewhere around Miles City or Glenidve. It seemed safer that he would stay in the airplane than he would in a car. Plus, the trip was an hour and a half by airplane and it was six hours by car.

So dad will be flying and earning his wings once again. I think that it shouldn't be much of a problem as he only has to sit on the plane for 90 minutes between Bismarck and Denver. If they serve us a cold pop and a bag of peanuts, it takes almost 90 minutes for the flight attendants to serve everyone on the plane and pick up the trash.

My next worry is dad sleeping in a different house. Dad seems to get nervous when he's not sleeping in his own bed, and if he doesn't sleep, I don't sleep. My "cure" for this is a couple of Benadryl. They seem to put him to sleep, and once a sleep, he rests for a long time.

So tomorrow will begin an adventure. Hopefully, everything goes according to Hoyle and we all enjoy our Memorial Day vacation.

More than one way to skin a cat....

Belinda and I have celebrated 26 wedding anniversaries...all of them in Mandan. Most of our anniversaries were celebrated at the Seven Seas on the northwest edge of town. My favorite meal was the king-sized South American steak. I loved that steak so much that I looked for all kinds of opportunities to go to the Seven Seas and eat my favorite meal. A number of my relatives have also enjoyed eating at the Seven Seas with me and enjoying the steak as much as me.

However, two or three years ago, that changed. The Seven Seas became Montana Mike's. The decor changed from an upscale dining establishment to something that now resembles a hunting lodge on Lolo Pass. The servers also changed. Instead of the matronly ladies dressed in black dresses with white trim, we are now greeted by teenagers dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts.

The South American steaks hot off the grill

But the biggest change was the menu. No longer could I order the South American steak. This baffles me to this day because the same people own Montana Mike's who previously owned the Seven Seas. I know they still have the recipe. However, when I ate at Montana Mike's and ordered a South American steak, my server told me that they served 21 different kinds of steak, but none of them were the South American variety.

Really, I thought, you couldn't serve 22 varieties of steak...including my favorite. I tried to think of the hundreds of times I ordered that steak. Not once did I write a bum check or not leave a nice tip for the servers, so why in the world did I deserve this punishment.

Now supposedly, the recipe of the secret sauce for the South American steak is held by only a few select people in the world...however, I happen to be one of them. So tonight, Belinda and I decided to splurge for old time sake and make our favorite steaks. First we grilled a couple of T-bones outside. Then we brought them in and slathered them with South American steak sauce. And just to make sure that I had enough of the sauce on my beef, I dipped every piece I ate in small bowl of sauce...just like I used to do at the restaurant.

Belinda's first try at a blooming onion...it was delicious!

To make our dinner even more special, Belinda fried up a blooming onion, served us baked potatoes and her delicious cucumber salad. I'm sure our entire meal didn't approach the price of even one steak at Montana Mike's.

If you would like to make your own South American steak sauce and be one of the growing number of people in the world to possess the recipe, here it is: 15 ounces of reduced sodium soy sauce, 6 ounces of tomato paste, 6 tablespoons of white vinegar, 3 teaspoons of garlic powder, one and half teaspoons cayenne pepper, 1 teaspoon of paprika, 1/2 teaspoon of cumin and one half teaspoon of sage. 

The moral to my story is this...if I can't eat my favorite steak at my former favorite restaurant, at least I can eat it every once in a while at home. And now you can too!

If I could write a pilot for a TV sitcom....

I've spent a good deal of my life sitting in front of the TV set watching situation comedies. Some of them -- like Seinfeld, The Office, King of the Hill, Modern Family and the Big Bang Theory -- I nearly have memorized.

So it seems to me that I could write for any of them. I know the characters. I understand their distinct speech patterns so I can write dialogue for all of the characters from Bobby Hill to Sheldon Cooper.

But what I would really like to do is write a pilot for a new sitcom. Call it the "Steve Van Dyke Show." The stars would be my family. We don't have a quirky neighbor but we do have a quirky guest who lives with us 24-hours-a-day...my dad.

Last night for instance, he sat in the exact spot where Scott wanted to sit on the couch. Scott came home from work about 6:45 p.m. so the rest of us had already finished dinner in the kitchen.

Scott was warming up his food while hoping to settle down on the couch, enjoy dinner and watch the Red Sox game. To mark his spot, Scott placed his water glass on a stand next to the spot he hoped to sit.

Unfortunately, Scott was still putting the final touches on his soup and sandwich when Grandpa sat down...in Scott's spot. Scott had to sit in the middle of the couch, much to his dismay.

Normally, this isn't a big deal as dad has a hard time sitting still and gets up several times to check on his cat, go to the bathroom, feed his cat, go to the bathroom or just generally roam around the house.

But last night was different. Grandpa sat down at the end of the couch and a Mack truck couldn't budge him.

Scott really wanted to sit next to his water and watch the Red Sox, so he got up and found dad's cat. He placed Picasso next to his kitty food dish in hopes that Grandpa would spring to his feet to see if the cat had food. But Grandpa didn't move.

Picasso wasn't hungry so the cat simply looked at his food dish and then slowly wandered into the livingroom and then back to the office where he proceeded to take a nap.

Finally, Scott needed a drink of water. No problem. He asked for his water and Grandpa ignored him. Probably because Grandpa can't hear. So I picked up Scott's water and handed it to Grandpa to hand it to Scott. However, Grandpa said he didn't want any water. He wasn't thirsty.

I loudly told him that it wasn't for him. Scott wanted the water. So Grandpa got involved in the process and passed the water to Scott. However, after Scott had gotten a drink of water, Grandpa again didn't want to take the glass because he still wasn't thirsty.

After a while, I got up to go to the bathroom. This finally tilted the game in Scott's favor.

Grandpa had to see where I had gone, so I when I emerged from the hallway, I could see that all was right with the world. Grandpa was in the office by his cat and Scott was sitting next to his water.

I don't know if there are enough laughs in my TV pilot or not, but I know I sure enjoyed laughing at the antics of Scott and how Grandpa just ignored him.