Sleep-Deprived Samaritan
March 2, 2010
In 1977 I was working part time at an auto body shop while attending college. Since I was paying for my education, I jumped at the chance to drive the shop tow truck (wrecker) and make some extra cash. My employer had arrangements with the county police to have an operator available 24/7. So after hours and on weekends, I was on call. Depending on the situation, towing services typically cost between $20 to $40 dollars—and I received half. Considering my circumstances, the money was significant.
That winter was unprecedented. The number of consecutive freezing days and snowfall set an Illinois record and resulted in 62 deaths and more than 2,000 injuries. I was kept very busy.
One morning the shop received so many calls about stranded motorists, abandoned vehicles and accidents, I decided to skip class and keep working. The local radio station and newspaper warned residents to stay inside unless it was an emergency. They said if you absolutely had to travel be certain to carry a first-aid kit, flashlight (extra batteries), blankets, waterproof matches, a sack of sand, a shovel, tool kit, tow rope, booster cables, compass… the list was as extreme as the weather. Since cellular phones weren’t around back then, you had to think before venturing out.
By the end of the day I was beat. I arrived home and started taking off my boots when the phone rang. It was the county police: “This situation has gone from bad to worse… get back out there and start towing in any and every vehicle in sight.” Apparently the number of stranded vehicles was making it impossible to plow—not to mention dangerous.
I grabbed a sandwich and went back to work… and continued working for nearly 40 consecutive hours. Before long I had pulled in enough vehicles to pay for an entire semester of school. Financially, the blizzard seemed like a blessing to me.
At some point, as my boss was writing reports on all the frozen vehicles that had filled the parking lot, it hit him… “How long has McMillan been working?”
“Wrecker Boy, Wrecker Boy, do you copy?”
That was my “handle.” The older shop guys gave it to me. They found it funny. I didn’t mind. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered—the police called me “Wrecker Boy,” too.
“I read you… over,” I responded.
“What’s your twenty?”
The radio was breaking up. I tried adjusting the squelch control but to no avail. “I’m not certain… out in the country… some place west of town,” I replied. I had strategically pulled in the vehicles closest to the shop first, then slowly worked my way further and further into the country… off the beaten path.
“It’s time you bring that damn wrecker in and get some rest.”
He was more right than he knew. I was exhausted and in desperate need of rest. Read more
Fragments of Johnny Cash
February 3, 2010
I never met Johnny Cash in this lifetime, but in a way, I feel I know him well. Shortly after his death, a friend of mine was hired to produce a pictorial biography about his life. After remarking, “I don’t have much time or a big budget, but I still need some great images,” he asked if I would do him a favor and create photographic still lifes of what Johnny had left behind. Spending days intimately walking through Johnny Cash’s life… his personal notes, poems to his wife, unfinished lyrics, sketches, photos, guitars, correspondence, passports, calendars, albums, clothes, bible scripture tests… memories and clues to nearly every piece of his life… didn’t really feel much like a favor at all. So I agreed.
As promised, I was left alone and given total access to “be creative.” Staying focused and on task was difficult. The amount of material was vast and my mind wandered like a school kid in class. I was so hyper-focused on the subject matter, the assignment seemed meaningless.
At first I felt a little uncomfortable… like I shouldn’t be reading his personal notes, handling his guitars, or messing with his stuff… like his boots or blue jumpsuit from San Quentin! But then I realized Johnny kept all these things for a reason. Collectively, they represented him… his memories, thoughts and special moments on earth. Some were fragments… personal pieces of a complicated puzzle, clues from an unconventional life. Many of his notes, sketches and lyrics were scribbled out on random sheets of paper, crossed out, rewritten, edited, and often left unfinished. It was these pieces that I connected with most. The fragments… ideas he had worked on but never finished. The idea seeds… the work in progress… the unsolved mysteries that we all carry with us throughout our lives… hoping to someday find them a home. Read more
Purpose + Passion = Mario Andretti
January 6, 2010
To me, Mario Andretti is more than a racing legend… he’s also a friend. I met Mario several years ago when we worked together on his book, “Andretti.” You don’t need to spend much time with Mario before you realize he’s a quality person… and someone who truly understands the power of purpose and passion.
One night over a glass of wine (or two), I asked, “Mario, before or during a race, do you ever think about the possibility of being seriously injured… or even dying?”
It was later explained to me that asking a professional race car driver such a question was inappropriate at best. Perhaps so, but Mario didn’t seem to mind. “I try not to think about it, Michael,” he responded.
I took another sip. “I understand, but isn’t it hard not to think about it at times?” Read more
Me and My Drum
December 25, 2009
Yesterday I was in a store doing some last-minute holiday shopping when The Little Drummer Boy started playing. It’s magical how music can shift your mood and reconnect you to people, places, situations and feelings you thought you had forgotten.
When I was around six years old, my sister and I used to perform The Little Drummer Boy together. Connie is seven years older than me and played piano. I sang and operated the sustain pedal. Since The Little Drummer Boy was the only song we performed, December was our busiest month. Connie had a larger musical repertoire, but most of her songs didn’t require vocals… or so I was told. Had I only known “Alley Cat” had lyrics, we could have doubled our set list.
Our primary audience consisted of my mom, dad, brother and dog—in various combinations. (Note: Were it not for my love of animals, Punky, the meanest dog I’ve ever known… may he rest in peace… would not be included in this story, nor considered an audience member.) Since the piano was adjacent to the kitchen, my mom heard us perform the most. Read more
“SEE ME!”
December 8, 2009
I just learned that my second grade teacher, Mrs. Storm, is very ill… it’s been 45 years since I was in her class but I still have many fond memories.
There’s one very vivid memory I have never shared before… but under the circumstances, I’d like to share it now. Besides, the statute of limitations for second grade violations surely has lapsed by now… right? I’ll let you be the judge.
“SEE ME!” was written in red ink at the top of my paper. After making my way to Mrs. Storm’s desk, she said, “Michael, a period is a small dot… why do you insist on making yours so large?” I glanced down at my paper. The nearly dime-sized dots sprinkled about suddenly seemed to be the only visible things on the page.
“Um, I really don’t know,” I responded. My answer wasn’t truthful. I knew exactly why I made my periods so big. I also knew I couldn’t tell her. In kindergarten I learned our imaginations were good things. In fact, kids like me with overactive imaginations were actually celebrated. But this celebration stopped—abruptly—in first grade. By the time I reached second grade, my glory days of sharing unusual ideas and observations with others had ended. But Mrs. Storm was a nice person and the fact I couldn’t tell her the truth made me feel terrible.
My punctuation problem (large periods) started one cold and rainy fall afternoon. Instead of going right home after school, I hung around the playground with some older kids until it started to get dark… until only Jim and I were left. Jim didn’t attend our school and I didn’t know him too well… only that he was considered a hoodlum of sorts by many parents, including mine. Read more
In the End… We Are All Mentors and Mentees
November 14, 2009
Note: The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent.
Eighth grade wasn’t the first time I had been kicked out of class… nor would it be my last. While many of my trips to the principal’s office were well deserved, this one (in my opinion) wasn’t. That said, I’m glad it happened. Like many things in life, it was a blessing in disguise.
It started when we were asked to pick a student from the class ahead of us that we admired. Someone we considered to be a positive role model that we could emulate… a mentor of sorts.
I didn’t know at the time, but the word “Mentor” comes from Greek mythology. When Odysseus left for the Trojan War, he put his friend Mentor in charge of his palace and his son, Telemachus. These days “mentor” typically refers to a trusted counselor or teacher… an experienced person who provides guidance.
Back to the assignment… my classmates had little trouble picking a mentor. Most chose the likely suspects… popular kids, cheerleaders, athletes, members of student council, and so on.
Before long, everyone but me had made their decision. Unable to think of a single person I wanted to emulate, I raised my hand. “What happens if you can’t think of a mentor?” My simple question created quite a stir. Read more
Sheep Follow Blindly…
October 28, 2009
Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who has said it, not even if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense. —Buddha
Buddha’s words seem more pertinent than ever today. Maybe time is the truest test of wisdom?
Back in high school, a friend of mine from a neighboring town was arrested for smoking pot. The following day I nervously stopped by his house, uncertain of what to expect. His mom, whom I knew well and respected greatly, answered the door. She was clearly (and understandably) shaken up by the event. At some point, my buddy, his mom and I ended up at the kitchen table talking about what happened… and more importantly, what my buddy’s future held.
I will never forget that discussion, mostly because of the way his mom reacted to the problem at hand. She seemed less concerned about him getting caught, or even smoking pot—than the fact it wasn’t his idea to smoke it. Unlike most parents who would have been screaming about the dangers of drugs, how marijuana was an illegal gateway drug, how this would hurt the family’s reputation, and so on… she mentioned none of these things. At first I thought I must be missing her point. But as the conversation continued, she made it perfectly clear—I wasn’t. Read more