My Back Pages Volume Ii

By Daryl Fisher

My Back Pages Volume II is a collection of 60 funny, insightful, and often poignant columns penned over the past few years by Daryl Fisher for his hometown newspaper, the West Sacramento News-Ledger. His columns have received statewide attention, including a prestigious Gold Medal Award from the California Newspaper Publishers Association.

Fisher's columns talk positively about family, friends, and community, the three things which he believes connect us all and give us the comforting illusion that we are not alone in the world. He writes about the fun and games of raising children, the love of all creatures great and small, politics, and his friends and neighbors. Sometimes a column also becomes a eulogy, a way of saying goodbye to those who have touched and enriched his life. It is one of those rare books that you can pick up, turn to any page, and find yourself there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 30, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595916214

Daryl Fisher

Daryl Fisher is the Features Editor for his hometown newspaper, the West Sacramento News-Ledger. He and his wife, Mary Lynn, have four children, Carrie, Ty, Paul and Kyle, and one grandson, Riley. Daryl served in Vietnam from July of 1969 to July of 1970 as an Army infantryman, where he attained the rank of sergeant. He was also awarded the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star for valor. Daryl has written a weekly humor column called "My Back Pages" for almost two decades and has published a collection of his 100 favorite columns under that title. This is his first novel.

Book preview

Contents

wHO TAUGHT YOU HOW TO DRIVE A CAR?

KISSED BY A TENNIS BALL

JUST WHAT HAVE WE GOTTEN OURSELVES INTO IN IRAQ?

PARENTS GOING ON STRIKE SOUNDS LIKE A GOOD IDEA TO ME

HOW TO TELL A REAL PROSTITUTE FROM A POLICE DECOY

ARE YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC, TOO?

DO YOUR KIDS CLEAN THEIR ROOMS?

INTERESTING THINGS HAPPEN WHEN YOU WEAR RED SHOES

OLD KING ARTHUR COULD SURE SPIN A GOOD TALE

WE’RE JUST NOT AS IMPORTANT AS WE THINK WE ARE

ARE YOU A GENEROUS TIPPER, OR ONE OF THOSE MISERLY ONES?

REMEMBERING THE LIFE OF A GOOD AND DECENT MAN

A CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT WORTH SUPPORTING

A NEW DILEMMA—SHALL I BE GRANDPA, GRAMPS, OR POPS?

REMEMBERING SERGEANT JIM GRATTON

A FEW WAYS TO HELP AN OVER-DUE BABY GET INTO THE WORLD

SOMETIMES LIFE CAN BE MUCH TOO EXCITING

DOES PRESIDENT MILITARY SERVICE MATTER?

BUSH’S REALLY

A FEW THOUGHTS ON VALENTINE’S DAY

IE JOBS OF OUR YOUTH TEACH US VALUABLE LESSONS

BEING A GOOD GRANDPA ISN’T AS EASY AS I THOUGHT

MUSIC FOR THE LONELY AT HEART

AM I THE LAST PERSON IN WEST SAC WITHOUT A CELL PHONE?

HOW I HELPED MY MOTHER FINALLY QUIT SMOKING

SHOULD WOMEN BE ALLOWED TO FIGHT IN A WAR?

IS IT UN-AMERICAN NOT TO ATTEND YOUR HIGH SCHOOL REUNION?

DREAM JOBS ARE PRETTY HARD TO COME BY

HOW DID YOUR NEW

YOU SPEND YEAR’S DAY?

IN THE END, ONLY KINDNESS MATTERS

YOU MEET THE MOST INTERESTING PEOPLE GOLFING

A GOOD BOOK IS ALWAYS A GREAT CHRISTMAS GIFT

NO WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION? OH WELL, NEVER MIND.

TERRY HOUCK—ONCE A PATRIOT, ALWAYS A PATRIOT

HAVE YOU EVER DREAMED YOU WERE ABOUT TO BE RICH?

REAL WORK SHOULD MAKE YOU SWEAT, SMELL AND CUSS

IS A DOCTOR SHORTAGE SUCH A BAD THING?

IF YOU WANT TO GET OUT

OF A HOLE, STOP DIGGING

CAN AN "EXTRA CRISPY’ MEAL AT KFC KILL YOU?

WEST SAC WAS NEW HOME TO MANY RETURNING WWII VETS

DID RAISING KIDS TO BE SO DARN DIFFICULT?

WHEN GET

WHY DO THEY HAVE REUNIONS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT?

A REUNION I WILL ALWAYS BE THANKFUL I ATTENDED

SURVEY FINDS MAJORITY OF WOMEN PREFER PETS TO HUSBANDS

HALLOWEEN SURE CHANGES AS YOU GET OLDER

REMEMBERING BILLY NICHOLS

REMEMBERING A TIME WHEN SHOPPING WASN’T SO IMPORTANT

HOLIDAY FROM HELL

WHAT TO DO ABOUT JENNY?

IS IT TOM DELAY’S PROBLEM—OR IS IT OURS?

THE EMMY AWARDS—IT’S NOT ABOUT THE TALENT

REMEMBERING MIKEY

SWEET SMELLING SUMMER

FEET

IRAQ WAR HITS LOCAL FAMILY HARD

PULLING WEEDS AT RIVER CITY HIGH SCHOOL

MY YOUNGEST SON IS TURNING INTO THE CINCINNATI KID

WHAT DO LOVE LETTERS AND BANK BOOKS HAVE IN COMMON?

So, DAD, I HEAR YOU GOT YOURSELF A HOLE-IN-ONE?

IF JUST ONE PERSON

REMEMBERS US, WE NEVER DIE

ARE YOU HUGGING YOUR KIDS OFTEN ENOUGH?

A FEW THOUGHTS ON THE PASSING OF ANOTHER LABOR DAY

To mary lynn, carrie, ty, paul, kyle, dallas, douangchanh, and riley dagen stone—my family

wHO TAUGHT YOU HOW TO DRIVE A CAR?

Quite a few years ago, after my only daughter had just crashed her car into a parked vehicle while driving and trying to keep a milkshake from accidentally falling out of her hand at the same time, I raced to the scene to find her basically unhurt although the front end of her car looked like an accordion. While talking to the policeman who had phoned me I also learned she had left her driving license at home, forgot to put her proof of insurance in the glove compartment, and came within a few inches of having her head go through the windshield.

Later that week, in a column I wrote about the incident, I penned the following paragraph:

As the anger inside of me began to build, I wanted to grab my beloved daughter by the shoulders and shake her until she completely understood the following: Parents live under the very comforting illusion that if they spend 18 years or so properly raising their children, then those children will somehow grow into reasonably responsible and mature young adults who will no longer worry us to death. And after those 18 long and hard years, the very last thing we ever want to get is a phone call in the middle of the night informing us that our child’s life has been snuffed out in a damn automobile accident.

My daughter is my oldest child, and after her accident, I decided I would make an even more determined effort to make sure her younger brothers were properly trained in how to drive a motor vehicle before they were ever turned loose in one.

You were more or less a Nazi, explained my middle son in recently describing my training techniques when I used to take him out on drives before he went for his driving license exam.

But you’ve never been in an accident, have you? I reminded him.

However, realizing that I may have indeed gone a little bit overboard with my oldest and middle sons, I reluctantly agreed to let the latter take my youngest son out on his first couple of driver training forays.

So, how did it go? I asked with great interest when they had finally returned safely from the first one.

Well, explained my middle son while my obviously worried youngest son looked on, he actually did pretty good. In fact, he did everything really well—except for one little thing.

And what is that? I asked with interest.

Well, he doesn’t steer very well. But honest, Dad, he did everything else great!

He can’t steer?

Not very well.

But what’s the bloody good of doing everything else well if he can’t steer? I demanded to know.

I’ll get better, my youngest son quickly promised.

Anyway, to make a long story short, after quite a bit of negotiation, it was finally agreed that instead of me or his older brothers being responsible for teaching my youngest son how to drive, his mother (who is much more tactful than all of us put together) would give it a shot.

So, I asked my son after he and his mother had been out on a few test drives, how goes the driver training?

Okay, I guess.

Are you always staying right around or under the speed limit?

Yes.

And I want you to always remember that there’s never any need to get to where you’re going a few minutes faster.

I will.

And are you always looking in your mirrors?

Yes.

Good, because it’s just as important to know what the people behind you are doing as it is to know what’s going on in front of you.

I know.

Who taught you how to drive a car?

Has your mom mentioned to you that I don’t want you talking on a cell phone while you’re driving, or eating a Carl’s Jr. burger, or playing your music so loud you can’t concentrate on driving, or chatting with whoever you’ve got in the back seat?

Yeah, she’s said all that stuff.

And do you understand that you should always check to make sure that there’s enough air in your tires before going any place?

I do.

And you know that you absolutely always have to wear your seat belt, right?

I always do.

And you are never, ever, under any circumstances, to get behind the wheel of a car if you’ve been drinking.

I would never do that.

Well, I had to admit, it sounds like things are going pretty well. Plus, your mother tells me you now steer better than anyone in the family.

Yeah, I think I should be able to pass my driver’s test with no problem.

Good. So, I guess letting your mother teach you how to drive turned out to be best for everyone.

Yeah, I guess so.

And it sounds like you’ve learned all the things I wanted you to know. Was there anything else you learned that kinda surprised you?

Just one thing.

And what was that?

I had no idea that mom knew so many cuss words.

KISSED BY A TENNIS BALL

The other evening, after yet another long day of slaving away at the News-Ledger, I shuffled through my front door, slowly made my way over to my favorite easy chair (which is situated so that it has the best television viewing in the house), grabbed the TV remote control from its sacred resting place, clicked on one of those headline cable news programs, collapsed in my chair, and waited anxiously to see if the world had blown up yet. And just as one of the reporters assured the viewing audience that North Korea was still months away from creating a bunch of nuclear bombs and that the United States probably wasn’t going to invade Iraq for at least another two weeks or so, my wife suddenly tapped me on the shoulder.

What? I asked, my eyes still fixed on the television screen where Saddam Hussein now appeared to be giving an interview to Dan Rather.

I think you need to have a little talk with one of your sons, said my wife.

Which one?

Your youngest son.

But I’m watching the news, I whined. Do I have to do it right now?

Yes.

When my wife refers to one of our three sons as your son, it is usually her way of telling me that one or more of them have done something she doesn’t particularly approve of and that it’s more or less my fault for having created an environment conducive to the offense having happened.

So what did he do this time? I asked with interest, guessing in my mind that he had probably brought home another poor progress report in math. "If he’s

having trouble in math again, I continued, I think you have to keep in mind that I was one of the worst math students in the history of James Marshall High School and it probably doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense for me to be lecturing him all the time about the need to get A’s and B’s in math when I have always been more or less brain dead in that area. Then, sensing that maybe there was a way I could pass the buck to my wife and therefore keep watching the nightly news in peace and quiet, I added, Plus, you’re the one who always got such great grades in math. Maybe you could give him the lecture this time?"

He’s doing fine in math, Daryl, my wife assured me.

So, then what’s the problem?

Have you seen his neck lately?

His neck? I asked, not having a clue what my wife was talking about.

That’s right, his neck.

What’s wrong with his neck? Did he hurt it or something?

I tell you what, said my wife, who has always been a believer in that old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words, why don’t I just go drag him away from his video games and have him pay you a little visit. Then you’ll know what is wrong with his neck.

Fine, I said, having already missed whatever lies Saddam Hussein had just told Dan Rather.

A few minutes later, with my youngest son and wife standing in front of me and blocking out the television photographs of the Pakistani house where they had just arrested one of Osama bin Laden’s top lieutenants, I said, So, your mother tells me you hurt your neck or something? How did you do that?

It’s no big deal, said my son, his voice a little more contrite than usual.

Go on, said my wife to my son, show your father your neck.

Reluctantly, my youngest son pulled down his shirt collar a few inches and there, for all to see, was a bright red hickey.

Your son has a lovebite on his neck, said my wife with emphasis.

It would definitely appear so, I agreed, making a quick mental note that this was probably not the appropriate time to be giving my son a high-five.

Lovebite? said my son. Just how old are you people anyway? I’ve never even heard of that term before.

And do you want to know how your son said he got that thing? my wife asked me with interest.

I don’t think so, I admitted.

He told me that he got smashed with a hard-hit tennis ball during tennis practice this afternoon, explained my wife.

Is that what you told your mother? I asked my son, trying to keep a straight face.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, said my son with words to that effect.

Well, said my wife, glancing over again at the obvious hickey on my son’s neck, if he got hit on the spot I’m looking at with a tennis ball, then that tennis ball must have stopped there for a good couple of minutes and sucked real hard on his neck!

Can i please go now? My son pleaded with me.

Not until you tell me how you’re doing in math, i said, figuring i might as well kill two birds with one stone.

JUST WHAT HAVE WE GOTTEN OURSELVES INTO IN IRAQ?

I was glancing at the headline news stories on the Internet the other morning when the following article suddenly popped up on the screen:

Dubai, United Arab Emirates. The former Iraqi information minister, who gained notoriety during the war for wildly implausible claims of victory, showed up on Arab television today, his first appearance since the collapse of Saddam Hussein’s regime. In an interview with the Al-Arabiya satellite network, Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf, better known by many in the West as Baghdad Bob, claimed that he had surrendered to American forces, was questioned, and let go. In the interview, he appeared fit and wore civilian clothes, although he was thinner and his hair was white, a sharp change from his previous look of military fatigues and black hair tucked under a beret.

For those of you who may have missed his act, in the weeks and months leading up to America’s most recent war with Iraq, Baghdad Bob bemused the West with his claims of improbable victories over coalition troops, and entertained Arabs throughout that part of the world with his daily insults directed towards Western military might. Fluent in both English and Arabic, Baghdad Bob held daily court and made himself famous in his part of the world by coming up with the following kind of comments:

God will roast their stomachs in hell at the hands of the Iraqis.

We will welcome them with bullets and shoes.

We will push them back into the swamp.

"They are not even within a 100 miles of Baghdad (said of course while coalition troops were overrunning the Baghdad airport).

Anyway, as I read through the article, I was reminded of how ludicrous almost every word that had come out of Baghdad Bob’s mouth had seemed to me and the entire Western world a few months ago, and I also recalled questioning how anyone with a brain in the Arab world could have believed a single word the man said. But the more I think about it, when it comes to the many unanswered questions still surrounding the war with Iraq (how many lives will be lost, how many years will our troops be there, how many hundreds of billions of dollars is it ultimately going to cost, whether or not Iraq was ever really an imminent threat to America, whether or not Iraq ever had any meaningful connection with al-Qaida (much less the events of September 11th), whether or not Iraq possessed great stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction and was feverishly working toward becoming a nuclear power, etc., etc.), it is becoming more and more obvious that the Arab-speaking nations of the world weren’t the only ones being given misinformation by their respective medias, political leaders, and official spokesmen.

This I do know. Ever-growing numbers of United States military personnel are dying in Iraq (even though major combat was officially declared over on May 1, 2003), and increased guerilla-style attacks and sabotage are greatly hindering U.S. efforts to re-establish order. Bandits continue to roam the after-dark streets of the country and saboteurs are attacking Baghdad’s power grid, oil pipelines, and water supply, obviously hoping to make reconstruction under American and British rule as difficult as possible. Raw sewage is pouring into the Tigris River, hospitals that are secure enough to remain open are overflowing with patients, and Iraqi civilians are arming themselves to the teeth in an effort to protect the few possessions the looters haven’t already taken away.

Writing in the June 9th issue of The New Yorker magazine, Hendrick Hertzberg wrote, Baghdad, along with almost all the rest of Iraq, is a catastrophe. For that matter, conditions are disastrous even by the looser standards of places like Beirut, Bogota, and Bombay. Reports from the scene are in general agreement on the essentials. Iraq is well rid of the murderous regime of Saddam Hussein. But the blithe assumptions of the Iraq war’s Pentagon architects—that a grateful Iraqi nation, with a little help from American knowhow and Iraqi oil cash, would quickly pick itself up, dust itself off, and start all over again—are as shattered as the buildings that used to house Saddam’s favorite restaurants.

Just what have we gotten ourselves into in Iraq? 9

For someone who served in Vietnam and spent much of his tour of duty hoping and praying to survive the next ambush, my heart goes out to the thousands of young American men and women in Iraq that our political leaders have put in harm’s way without apparently seriously thinking through what was going to happen once the