Category: Writing

When I first came to this area many years ago, I heard the name “Kalakala”—and since I was in the broadcast business, my first thought was that it was the longest set of call letters I’d ever heard.

The name was so long—and redundant—that when people said it, it was hard to know where to stop.
But as old-timers (or new-timers who are paying attention) know, the Kalakala was the name of our ferry system’s most iconic vessel—if you give exception, of course, to Ride the Duck.

The Kalakala was the star attraction of what used to be called “The Black Ball Ferry Line.”Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters—who were the Justin Bieber and Spice Girls of their day—even sang about the legendary enterprise.

Listen to this catchy tune. It’s a chestnut, but you’ll hear mention of several ferries—including the one this column is about. “The Black Ball Ferry Line (1951)”

The Kalakala was retired in 1967, but had operated since 1935—and even before that as a ferry under a different name. After getting mothballed (turns out moths have no taste for metal)—someone towed the old boat to a seafood processing company in Kodiak, Alaska—where it spent several years as a cannery. Some saw that as a bit ironic, since the old ferry itself looked something like a ham container.

In 1998, it was rescued and towed all the way back to Seattle where plans were hatched to refurbish it and perhaps make it into a museum. Personally, I always thought the vessel could somehow be attached to the Experience Music Project—where its strange shape would blend right in.

Maybe it could be resurrected as a Greek restaurant featuring Kalakala baklava.

Or it might become a bagel place offering Kalaka-lox.

With a bit of sprucing up, the old ferry could even be placed on a waterfront pier and turned into an espresso stand. I can taste that Kalaka-latte’ right now.

But no, none of that is destined to happen—because after languishing for years at a mooring in Tacoma, it was announced recently that the end of the line had finally come for the old girl—who looks much more like an old boy by now—a boy named Rusty.

In 2011, the Coast Guard declared the crumbling ship a hazard to navigation. (That same day, they declared a guy named Larry—who has a 2010 Sea Doo—also a hazard to navigation. But that’s another story. )

Later this month, the Kalakala is scheduled to be scrapped. Human beings die and get a eulogy. Old ferries die—and get scrapped.

It’s hard to appreciate it now, but in its glory days, the Kalakala was—well—glorious.
Its shimmering metallic exterior and art deco design made it look like the largest and hippest floating toaster in the world.
Sometimes I lament all the old noises there used to be in this world of ours, that are now
extinct, or nearly so. Like the clickety-clack of the keys on a manual typewriter.
Or that huge whooshing sound that emanated from your TV when a station would sign off at night. Nobody signs off anymore—they stay on the air all night now with essential programs about Bowflexes and juicers.

Noises like clunky slide projectors, the old man’s 8mm film projector—and those distorting speakers at drive-in movies—are all pretty much gone now.

Also gone: The sound of guillotines. So it’s not all bad.

But by all accounts, the Kalakala was famously ear-splitting—with a cacophony of clanking from the engine and heavy vibrations throughout—it got people where they were going, while also loosening their teeth.

The Kalakala didn’t always get the love it deserved. Some called it the “Silver Slug,” or the “Silver Beetle”—and sometimes the “Galloping Ghost of the Pacific Coast.”
That last nickname seems most apt now—because one of the icons that made Seattle, Seattle—is about to vanish forever.

Kalakala is said to be a Chinook word meaning “bird.” For a time, it was very much more eagle, than turkey.
Farewell, Galloping Ghost.

My wife and I were looking at a beautiful sunset over Hawaii the other day. More specifically, we were looking at a photo of a beautiful sunset over Hawaii. There must be photos of beautiful sunsets over Covington, but they’re not as widely distributed.

“That sunset sure is neat,” I said.

“Neat? ”said my wife. “What century are you living in? Who says neat anymore?”

I replied loftily, “Guys who are cool cats and groovy hipsters—that’s who! Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go get something out of the icebox.”

Yea, it IS something I do—use words long after their expiration date—but mostly just to be ironic. I just think it’s sort of funny to say, “How’s it going, Daddio?”—as if I were a latter day beatnik dropped to earth.

My wife thinks it’s pathetic. “You are about as much of a beatnik as you are an NBA power forward,” she says. Remarks like that can cut deep into my 6’ 11” muscular frame.

Who gets to decide which words—or practices—are no longer relevant? Why do perfectly good,
timeworn, antediluvian, moth-eaten, old-hat things suddenly get discarded?

And why did they cancel Leave it to Beaver?

When I was a kid long ago—in the days before Kardashians ruled the earth—the bane of my elementary school experience was a subject called “cursive.”

I once asked a second-grader what she thought the unfamiliar word meant. She pondered for a moment and then said, “Cursive is what my dad is when he tries to fix stuff around the house.”

In fact, the kind of cursive I’m thinking of refers to a style of handwriting—longhand, script—that is conjoined in a flowing manner. In my school days, they called it “penmanship”—and I was spectacularly horrible at it.

The Cashman kid report card would arrive—time after time—with the invariable grim news: “Your son continues to show poor skills in penmanship. He needs to work harder at it. However, his neatness has improved slightly.”

My dad—always the optimist—thought that my indecipherable handwriting meant I might someday become a doctor. But my mom was mortified.

“If you don’t improve your penmanship,” she warned, “you’ll have to give up your piano lessons.” When she found out I didn’t like my piano lessons, she pivoted. “If you don’t improve your penmanship,” she said, “you’ll have to continue your piano lessons.”

I got the message. I worked at it—really hard. And suddenly, the cursive looping hand movement no longer threw me for a loop. I got it—became good at it—and before long I began to dream of a career as a professional hand-writer.

But now, all these years later, my number one skill is as obsolete as the quill I prefer to use. More and more schools around the nation no longer even teach cursive—or very little of it. Today, it’s all about laptop and tablet keyboard learning.

So if Lincoln wrote the Gettysburg Address today, it wouldn’t be on the back of an envelope, but on the front of an iPad—or in a pinch, a Kindle. And with battery life what it is, good thing it’s a short speech.

John Hancock’s famous signature would be rendered with the obscurity of a keystroke font. Who would want to name an insurance company after a guy so mundane?

Modern day bank robbers would be greatly handicapped too. Simply handing a teller a handwritten note wouldn’t do. It’d have to be an email written with a subject line that wouldn’t send it straight to spam.

There is still hope for real handwriting though.

Microsoft’s new device laboratory is developing a digital pen—and a start-up company called Mail Lift has a handwritten letter service for marketers and sales professionals, who have figured out that a thank you note with real handwriting, no fonts, is much more personal—and more likely to yield continued business.

Because there’s no doubt about it—nothing can replace the thoughts conveyed by real penmanship. As someone recently said, “The pen, as a tool for someone’s mind, to express ideas and make them tangible, is incredibly powerful.” It’s true, even though the writer of those words probably did them on a keyboard.

I remember how my mom used to emphasize to my brothers and me the importance of the written thank you note for birthday gifts, Christmas presents and other kindnesses.

I bore that in mind as I carefully wrote out a card to my grandma when I was twelve- years old. I wrote: “Thank you, Grandma for the nice birthday card with only a dollar in it.”

My penmanship was perfect, but thanks to my eagle-eyed mom, that card never got sent.

A few years ago, I stopped at a little convenience store. My then-teenage daughter wondered why.
“Because I like stores that are little and convenient,” I said.

She shot back. “Well then you must also like stores that are little—and expensive. “

Before I could reply, she quickly threw another punch: “And as long as people like you will pay those high prices, I guess that makes it very convenient for the guy that owns that little convenience store.”
I tried a weak counterpunch. “I’m willing to pay more for service,” I said.

She came back with a vicious upper cut: “Right,” she said. “The clerk rings you up for FIVE DOLLARS on your small bunch of bananas and then tells you to have a ‘nice day.’
Now THAT is service!”

She had me.

But first of all, I should point out that that particular store doesn’t even sell bananas—or any other fresh foods—unless hot dogs and Twinkies are considered such.

Secondly, the guy who runs the store NEVER says, “Have a nice day.” In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He never even looks up. I just make my purchase and walk on. I might be making off with loads of other merchandise under my coat. He wouldn’t notice.

But “Mean Old Man” Jarvis was a whole different guy. He would have noticed—and if he caught a shoplifter, they were dead meat—especially if the shoplifter was stealing dead meat.

Jarvis ran a little grocery store about four blocks from the house I grew up in—and when any kid in our neighborhood wanted some gum or candy, “Mean Old Man” Jarvis’s store was the place to go, like it or not.
We called him “Mean Old Man” because he was elderly—perhaps nearly 40. But also because he was sour as curdled milk—and hated kids the way a mare hates a horse fly.

Jarvis scowled anytime a youngster would enter the store—and watched each one like a dyspeptic hawk. If he caught anyone shoplifting, he’d call the police—hoping the young thief would soon be headed for a long stretch in the penitentiary.

Jarvis deliberately stacked the deck against kid customers to discourage them from coming in at all. For example, he’d take bubble gum that would normally sell for a penny a piece, and painstakingly scotch-tape ten of them together so that kids had to buy the bunch—or none at all. That may have been fiscally pragmatic for Jarvis, and not truly cruel—but there was no way a kid was going to call him “Fiscally Pragmatic Man” Jarvis.

As a result, some of the neighborhood kids—one in particular—would occasionally take the “Five Finger Discount.” It convinced Jarvis that ALL of us were robbing him daily.
But there was really only one primary culprit: Bobby Belcher.

The neighborhood’s artful dodger was a local legend for his skills at petty larceny—and being the primary thorn in “Mean Old Man” Jarvis’s side.

I recently looked Belcher up in the index of an old high school yearbook: BELCHER, ROBERT: Future Criminals of America Club 10,11,12.

Belcher made off with loads of stuff from Jarvis’s store over the years—and Jarvis knew it. He could just never catch him at it. To make matters worse, Belcher would leave some sort of calling card behind to make Jarvis even more flummoxed.

For example, if Belcher swiped one of Jarvis’s self-created ten-packs of bubblegum, he’d mockingly leave the crumpled scotch-tape behind. It was like Zorro leaving the mark of the Z—and it made Jarvis bug-eyed with fury.

I lost track of Belcher over the years, but have often wondered about him. Did he grow up to become a car thief? A grave robber? A congressman?

Someone told me they’d heard he had become a parish priest. Father Belcher? If true, I hope someone’s keeping close tabs on the collection basket.

There are some who think that people today are less trustworthy than in the past. It would be hard to prove, but I’ll wager that the percentage of dishonest types hasn’t changed a great deal since people first started walking the earth.

But my daughter thinks that’s not particularly good news.

“If a person believes that Adam and Eve were supposedly the only two people on earth at the start,” she says, “and then Eve went and sneaked a bite of the forbidden apple—that means that 50% of people can’t be trusted.”

Hmm. So that’s why that little convenience store doesn’t sell fruit.

We bit the holiday bullet last year and bought an artificial Christmas tree. It looks genuine, but it’s entirely fake—sort of like a top-of-the-line toupee.

My wife had been pushing for the imitation evergreen for years, but I had always resisted.
“What about the wonderful romance of going out and cutting our own tree every year?’ I would say. “Or going to a lot? It’s a time-honored tradition.”

Then she pointed out that burnt toast, leaky pipes and hemorrhoids were also “time-honored” occurrences—but that doesn’t make them things to long for.
She was right, of course. All the cheery Norman Rockwell images I recalled of hunting for and decorating holiday trees were utter fiction.

Looking back at photos and videos of Christmases past, one thing becomes clear: Most of the trees I selected and erected wound up looking pretty lousy.

They all died in vain. Some were probably suicides.

I’m the actual guy who has drilled holes in a Christmas tree in order to glue on additional branches—branches that wouldn’t have been available if I hadn’t stupidly sawed them off in first place.
And I’m the same person who somehow could never remember to keep water in the base of the tree—thereby turning Tannenbaum into Tan ‘n brown within a few days.
That’s when I got the idea of restoring the color with green paint. Sure enough, two or three cans of spray paint could turn that tree with the dead needles into a tree with dead needles painted green.

Even the family cat wasn’t fooled.

Another time, we bought a tree from a Boy Scout troop. That one died before we got home.
But one year, the holiday tree experience proved downright terrifying. It happened late on a frigid winter night—a night of sudden terror—when a 14-foot noble became ignoble.

We’d made the purchase from a nearby tree farm on an afternoon when freezing rain and snow made conditions miserable. Luckily, the farm had several trees already cut, bundled up in sturdy string and ready to go.

The grizzled octogenarian owner of the lot assured us that while our new tree was quite frozen, it was a beauty—and once it gently thawed, the branches would gracefully lie out—and the tree would reveal its true magnificence. Sounded good to me.

Our home had a wonderful 18-foot entry hall, and the tree was intended to make the inside of the place look like Rockefeller Center, without the ice rink.

We drove the frozen tree home atop a neighbor’s truck—and with his help and two other guys, got the tall timber erected. Next, the tree was encircled it with a huge plastic tarp intended to catch the melting ice. Things were going beautifully.

By then, the hour was late—so we decided to decorate the tree in the morning while it de-thawed overnight. We trundled upstairs and got nestled all snug in our beds as visions of sugarplums—actually Sweet ‘n Low plums—danced in our heads.

Sometime around two in the morning, there arose such a clatter—I sprang from my bed to see what the heck was going on. There was a series of loud “thwacking” noises —like a lion tamer cracking a big bullwhip.

I got downstairs just in time to see the finale of the great Christmas tree thaw—as its mighty branches were snapping open like blades on a Swiss army knife.
Pictures were knocked off walls. A large pot was upended and broken. A nearby window was cracked right down the middle.

Someone screamed in horror at what appeared to be a big, scary tree coming to life.
Someone screamed again each time another branch snapped down like a hatchet blade.
When the tree was finally finished opening, I stopped screaming.
Then, finally calm, I had to admit that the tree really was quite beautiful, just as the old tree farmer had said.

Three days later, it was as beautiful as a doornail—and twice as dead.

That’s why we have a fake tree now.

It was some expert on television the other night. He was comparing the fat content of two different cheesecakes. “This one has less calories than this one,” he announced.

“Fewer,” I muttered to the screen. “It has fewer calories, not LESS!”

My wife called out from another room: “Give it up! You have lost the less-versus-fewer war, “she declared. “That train has left the station.”

She’s right. I just haven’t accepted it yet. But I’ve decided that it’s about time.

A friend is fond of saying, “That ship has sailed.” My wife likes “That train has left the station.” I’ve combined them into “That train has sailed.”
It all means the same thing: Change is inevitable—even grammatically incorrect and cultural change.
So I’m waving the white flag on all of it—from the pointed to the pointless.
Like the oft-heard phrase “It put a smile on my face.” I’m no longer going to say, “As opposed to where else? Your rear-end?” That train has sailed.
For that matter, I’m also going to look the other way when I hear, “I was thinking in my head.” That head has left the station.

The next time I’m in a restaurant, I’ll simply ignore any overheard utterances such as:
“So I was like…and then she was like…and then we were both like…”
In a world of far too many incomplete similes, I’ll now just turn a deaf ear to like. I will. For real.
Why should I care if someone says, ‘totally’ when the word ‘yes’ will do?
“Hey, Dave! Did you eat the cheese fries?”
“Totally!”
“So you didn’t just eat them partially?”
I think it’s also useless to rail any longer over the constant use of ‘absolutely,’ ‘definitely—and ‘for sure.’ After all, it is what it is—when it’s all said and done.

And it’s time (for people like me) to stop carping about ‘issue.’ True, the word used to refer to actual matters that were debatable—like slavery, poverty and human rights. But now, issues are what kind of condiment to use on a hoagie.

No one has a leaky faucet anymore. They have a faucet issue. Normally, a person could sop up the leaked water with a Kleenex—but not anymore, because that might cause a tissue issue. Yet, I will look the other way when I hear the word misused. It will no longer be an issue with me. I really mean it.

The so-called phenomenon of ‘up speak’ is locked into our world now—I’ve got to get over it. It’s the conversational habit of ending every sentence with a rising inflection—making everything sound like a question.

So if Lincoln were addressing Gettysburg today, his speech pattern would be: “Four score and seven years ago? Our forefathers brought forth on this continent? A new nation?” And so on.

But forget about it. That new habit is here to stay. At least for now.

So I’m not going to fight it…any longer?

And it’s not just screwy grammar that I will overlook. It’s all the other things that have become part of our new culture:
Remakes of perfectly good movies.
Phony outrage on talk radio.
Supposedly hip marketing in advertising.
Things that are ‘organic.’
Exit strategies.
Tweeting and Instagramming photos of food.
People saying “Umm,” “Ahh,” and “Y’know.”
Going forward, at the end of the day, I’m here to tell you—I’m over it. That’s how I’m trending.
So never mind that the word ‘awesome’ has now become completely devalued as a true superlative. I now accept that not only is the Great Pyramid of Giza awesome—but so is a Dunkin’ Donuts Sausage Supreme Omelet and Cheese on a Bagel.

Although the Pyramid might have less calories.

Yep, that train has sailed all right.

This is supposed to be the busiest shopping day of the year—although not for places that sell suntan lotion and flip-flops. This is Black Friday.

Except for the police. For them, it’s Joe Friday. (Thanks to my neighbor, Margie Walsh, for the preceding rather retro joke.)

Apparently the term ‘Black Friday’ started in Philadelphia some years ago, referring to the lousy and congested traffic that would happen in the “City of Brotherly Love” the day after Thanksgiving. (By that definition, Seattle now pretty much has Black Friday-through-Thursday, 365 days of the year.)
Between Labor Day and Thanksgiving, retail businesses are said to be operating “in the red”—losing money. (This column has been operating in the red for some time.) But on the day after Thanksgiving, stores move into “the black”—when everything from automobiles to underwear sells like gangbusters.

[SIDENOTE: Gangbusters was a long-running radio program that showcased police chase stories. The show started with a noisy blast of sound effects including squealing tires, wailing sirens—and a bunch of machine gun fire—pretty much the same sounds you hear most mornings when Walmart opens.]

I once saw two guys in a music store fighting over the last remaining copy of John Lennon’s Give Peace A Chance—so it’s not surprising that shoppers will duke it out on Black Friday to get the last remaining toaster. They sometimes call them “Door Buster Sales”—and in this wonderfully ironic world in which we live—there’s probably a store out there today offering “Door Buster” savings on repair kits for doors.

Target is advertising a 60-inch TV that “won’t last long.” Sounds perfect for watching all the new TV series that “won’t last long.”

If you’re in the market for girls’ toys, Barbie is always a popular option. And for the frugal, look for those factory-second Arbie dolls with the missing first letter. They usually come with the boyfriend doll, En.

Also popular for the holidays are so-called gross-out toys. Actual names include Stink Blasters, Toe Jam Jimmy, Burpin’ Buddy, Barfin’ Ben—and Butt Breath Bob. Those are also the names of people you’ll find living in college frat houses.

Near the top of the gross-out doll list is B.O. Brian. The package says: “Squeeze his head and—Pee-You!!!” This teaches a valuable lesson to kids: Don’t squeeze people’s heads.

You’ll need to get to the store early to find the most popular Puget Sound area toys. These include “Baby’s First Bandwagon”—teaching little one’s how to jump on or off depending on how the Seahawks are doing.
“Cabbage Patty Murray” is still a perennial favorite—and the “Tickle Me Tim Eyman” dolls are available on the shelf right next to the clipboards.

Remember the old Ant Farm? There’s a new one with a local twist out this holiday season: It has all the usual ants and tunnels—but also features a Little Bertha tunnel digging machine. The ants move like crazy, but Little Bertha is stationary.

My mom used to save all her buying for one particular day in our hometown. It wasn’t Black Friday—it was sometime in mid-July. It was the day all the local stores offered deep discounts on everything from shoes to cheese graters—and my mom would snap them up.

I remember she once bought my son—her grandchild—a tiny sweater outfit perfect for a toddler. Unfortunately, she gave it as his high school graduation present. She said it had been just too well priced to pass up.

By the way, that mid-July sale that she always found so irresistible? It was called “Crazy Day” because prices were so ridiculously low.
Later, the name of the sale proved offensive—and was changed to “Deranged Day.”
Sort of like Black Friday.

The history of history has quite an interesting history, historically speaking. And a lot has been written about it:

“History is a set of lies agreed upon.” Napoleon Bonaparte

“History is only a confused heap of facts.” Earl of Chesterfield

“History is the biography of great men.” Thomas Carlyle, moments before Mrs. Carlyle told him to fix his own damn dinner.

“Those who don’t repeat history are doomed to remember it.” My brother, Terry Cashman, incorrectly quoting George Santayana on his senior history final.

In high school, we had a history teacher who was also the part-time varsity basketball coach. As a history teacher he was an outstanding basketball coach.
Even the dumbest of my classmates scratched their heads during the history lecture period. “Benjamin Franklin invented so many things”, our history teacher once said between dribbles.
“Franklin invented the bifocal, the lightning rod and swim fins,” he said. “And perhaps greatest of all, he invented electricity.” Our history teacher actually said that.
Of course, he was wrong. Franklin invented the kite—and the key.

By the way—and this one is true—Franklin also invented the flexible urinary catheter. Yet, for some reason, Franklin never really embraced the nickname “Father of the Flexible Urinary Catheter.”

Our basketball coach/history teacher also once confused George Washington with George Washington Carver—asserting that the first president was one of two with a peanut connection—ahead of Jimmy Carter.

(NOTE: Benjamin Franklin also invented the peanut allergy.)

But our history teacher’s crowning declaration was the day he opined that the greatest day in American history was when Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in a single game. Shortly after that, our teacher was named the full-time high school basketball coach.
Of course, it’s easy to feel superior about knowledge of history facts. But how much do you and I really know about history—especially our own local history?
It’s time to find out.

What is the Washington state motto?

Alki (as in Alki Beach) A Chinook word meaning “by and by.”
“Hey Idaho! What are YOU looking at?”
“Why buy a mattress anywhere else?”

What is considered this state’s most popular tourist destination?
Mt. Rainier National Park
Mt. St. Helens National Monument
The West Seattle Bowl

The official name for the elevated waterfront roadway in downtown Seattle is:
The Alaskan Way Viaduct
Old Shaky
c) Ride the Duct

What book did James G. Swain—and early resident of the Washington territory write?
The Northwest Coast
A Tale of Tri-Cities
Tukwila Mockingbird

The well-known sculpture in Fremont featuring a group of people standing and waiting is called:
Waiting for the Interurban
Waiting at the DMV
Waiting for the cable guy to show up sometime between 9am and 4pm

What is a cotlet?
A jellied candy made out of fruit.
A jellied candy made out of a cot.
A partial spelling of the words “Costco outlet.”

The answers might be published in next week’s column. But if history is any judge, don’t count on it.

My son Chris was born on October 24th–one of the happiest of my life.

I’m not saying how many years ago, but back then there was no internet, no cell phones, no Facebook—and no Twitter except for an occasional parakeet.

The Tesla was not on yet on the road. Neither was Justin Bieber. Times were not so bad.

By my rough count at the time, I figured my wife had been pregnant for about 17 months. By that reasoning, I expected she would give birth to a child nearly a year old. That meant there was an outside chance they’d be ready for me to take trick-or-treating the following week.

I decided I would dress the child up either as a Hobbit—or Danny DeVito. Even if it was a girl.

Halloween was, after all, my favorite day of the year when I was a kid—and my four brothers felt the same way. For one magical night, we could score a king’s ransom in Butterfingers and Sweet Tarts—all for simply walking door-to-door dressed like dorks. In fact, some dorks in our neighborhood didn’t bother dressing up at all.

In our neighborhood, it was important to avoid the lousy houses—those that gave out smallish candies, single sticks of gum, fresh fruit—or tubes of toothpaste. Sharing “intel” from other trick-or-treaters, we learned where the primo places were: the ones serving up candy bars the size of Presto-logs.

Four blocks from our house lived Mr. Sweeney. He handed out cigarettes. Real ones. But no matches. He wasn’t irresponsible. And, it should be noted, all the cigarettes he gave us were filtered.

But sadly, there comes a year when a kid is too old to trick-or-treat any longer. I can’t remember the final time for me—but perhaps it was the year I went door-to-door dressed as Abraham Lincoln—and had a real beard.

By time I received my AARP card in the mail, I knew I had to give it up.
But that was the beautiful anticipation of having my own child some day. Somehow I decided I could continue the high of Halloweening through my youngster. Like Dracula, it was a way to experience eternal life—and perhaps eternal Snickers.

Fast forward many years, I was married and awaiting my first child.
It turned out that Chris was born at right around the nine-month mark—not 17 months as my math had calculated—so I realized he would not be old enough for Halloweening any time soon.
I had already been plenty nervous the days before Chris’s birth.

For one thing, my wife and I had elected not to find out if we were having a boy or a girl. OK, the truth is this option wasn’t even offered to us back then. A coin flip was all we had to go on—and we didn’t know if we were going to give birth to a head or a tail.

So when the doctor announced that we had just given birth to a boy, I was thrilled. Hedging our bet, we had picked the name Chris—a name that work for either gender. Turns out Pat would have worked just as well, but it never occurred to me.

For years after, I delighted in taking Chris trick-or-treating—hiding in the shadows as he approached the neighbors’ doors dressed as everything from wizards to cowboys. He would come home straining under the weight of all the candy he had acquired. Then he would go off to bed.
The next morning, he would be mystified. “Where did all my candy go from last night?” He would wonder. I would shrug and change the subject. If he had looked closer, he would have noticed that my face was broken out.

In some years presidential candidate costumes are popular. But this Halloween—and no clear such candidate evident as yet—look for a lot of kids to show up as Jim McDermott. Or Craig Keller.
And a few as Eileen Cody.
As for my son Chris, he told me he’s going to an adult party this year as Big Bertha, the tunnel- digging machine.
He said he plans to arrive at the party, plop down on the couch—and remain motionless the rest of the night.

“Marriage is like a dull meal with the dessert at the beginning.” Henri, Comte de Toulouse-Lautrec, French painter (1864-1901)

Someone once asked a famous WW2 general, “What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given?”
He replied, “To marry the girl I did.”
“And who gave you that advice?”
“She did.”

My wife gives good advice. And so it came to be that on an October day many moons ago, she decided that we should get married. While I was crazy about the woman, I had cold feet. She suggested thicker socks. That seemed to do the trick.

The wedding was to take place in a beautiful catholic church here in the Northwest. Unfortunately, the beautiful Catholic Church was yet to be built—and so the service was set for the parish’s temporary quarters: A school gymnasium.

Further mention of that gymnasium in a moment.

It seems like in recent years, a number of my acquaintances maintain that the idea of getting married has become rather quaint. What used to be called “tying the knot” has changed to “tying the square knot.” According to them, it just isn’t very hip.

Pew research studies lots of things—and not just pews. Pew has found that 20% of people over 25 have never been married—and don’t plan to. Simply living together works best for some folks—and doesn’t require a blood test, marriage certificate—or rented tuxedo and shiny shoes.

But on my wedding day, a basketball uniform and Air Jordan’s seemed more suitable—especially since the make-shift church was better geared for a game of horse than getting married.

The night before, we’d held a rehearsal in the place. Regular churches often smell of incense and floral arrangements. This one smelled like P.E. clothes—the kind not laundered for at least two semesters.

As soon as I entered the gym, the familiarity of my school basketball days came flooding back—and I immediately walked over and sat in my customary position at the end of the bench. My wife gave me a look. “You’re not sitting this time, Cashman, “ she said. “You’re a starter.”

The next morning, the guy who agreed to be my best man picked me up for the short drive to the wedding place. I was a mess. A rock of pudding. Spineless as a marshmallow.

Jumpy as a fire-walking rabbit.

When the car approached the turnoff for the church-nasium, I told the best man to continue straight. “Just keep driving,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to see Florida.”

But after a couple of blocks, we turned around and drove into the parish parking lot.

My bride was waiting with tapping foot. “Did I just see you driving past here a couple of minutes ago?”
“Uh, yea,”I attempted. “I forgot exactly where this place was.”
“Since last night’s rehearsal, you forgot?”
“Well, one gymnasium looks pretty much the other,” I said—a response lamer and more clumsy than an ox with gout. If my wife had second thoughts, she overlooked them. It was game-time!

The lines on the basketball court made it easier for me to remember where I was supposed to go. When the procession music started, I moved from the scorer’s table straight down the mid-court line to the center circle. I stopped there—did a stutter step—gave a quick head fake—and then cut right.

I slightly turned my ankle as I sauntered down to the free-throw line, but knew my best move was just to play through the pain. Once at the top of the key, I turned and waited for the bride.

She entered the room—radiant as a sun lamp—and moved far more gracefully than me. I took one look at her and knew I had made two great decisions:

Getting married to her.

Giving the quick head fake.

The presiding priest gave a longer than-planned-for homily. We told people later that the
ceremony had simply gone into an overtime period.

But the final score was official: We were hitched.

And despite the opinion of Toulouse-Lautrec, my marriage has been years and years of nothing but tiramisu, apple pie and cheesecake.

Yes, Mrs. Cashman suggested I write that.