CATCHING UP

 CATCHING UP 

BY DUNCAN 

BLOOR REDDING - DUNCAN - MARQUETTE MANOR - LUNCH 

When I returned from my whirlwind trip to the lower reaches of the United States, I had to take a few days to decompress. I lived in Florida for five years and don’t mind returning occasionally. I still have wonderful friends who invite me down. I meet new people all the time who always give me a thrill. Florida is a unique environment. 

  

Now, back home, I need to check on my friend and former boss, Bloor Redding, who is staying at a senior retirement facility called Marquette Manor. Bloor is in his early 90s and has lost most of his eyesight, but he still welcomes visitors. (Even me.) 

I have a love/hate relationship with Marquette Manor. My father (George R. Duncan) stayed there when he was recovering from prostate surgery. During the early 1980s, I discovered that Marquette Manor was a business. Like all senior living facilities, it measures its success by “the number of cheeks on the sheets!” Make no mistake about these places—it’s a business. 

I shall not dwell on the negative aspects of a group of people who believe they are offering a needed service. However, I still can’t get over a nurse who got in my face and yelled at me when I was taking Dad home. 

“He needs to stay here; if you take him home, you are going to kill your father!” 

Before this confrontation, my father's insurance was running out, and I had to meet with a very attractive, red-headed, mature woman in a well-appointed private office. She closed the heavy wooden door, and I sat in a plush chair at her desk. Her job was to tell me as gently as possible that Dad’s health insurance was running out, and the monthly bill or rent for Dad's stay would be my responsibility beginning the following month. 

I would be responsible for $6,000 a month for Dad sharing a room with someone or $9,000 monthly for a private room. I was taken aback by the number. 

The beautiful red-headed woman was more than compassionate. She understood the look on my face, as I’m sure she had seen the same look of astonishment one hundred times before. Getting old and going to a “HOME” is expensive. I lacked the means of paying $9,000 a month. This creates a real problem that must be solved quickly. 

The solution to the problem is to take Dad home. Or take Dad home and hire a “Home Health Care Service.” The attractive red-headed woman came around the desk, sat close to me, and showed me brochures of Home Health Care Companies. She held my hand for a few seconds to assure me things would work out so I could move forward. 

My antenna went up when she touched my hand. This hand-holding was a service beyond the call of duty. I was stunned at the cost. I was not weeping or emotionally out of control. Do other people lose it, and then she sympathetically touches them? I asked a few questions about how long I had before I had to make the decision. She indicated I had a little over a month.  

We ended our conversation, and she encouraged me to visit her regularly in her office to give her information on how I would handle the dilemma. A few days later, I peeked into her office. She noticed me standing in the doorway. She smiled, encouraged me to enter her office, and she asks me to close the door. I will admit I had an attitude. Here I am; my father is being priced out of this place. I have a feeling that I have lost control. 

I asked her, point blank as gently as I could. “Do you always close your door when you talk to clients? After all, you are a very attractive woman, and where I come from, it would be problematic if a man and an attractive woman like yourself were in the same room with the door closed.” 

“I trust you know how to behave. There is no reason for you or me to feel uncomfortable. I’m sure you’ve been with other beautiful women before in a closed room. Have you not?” 

The pattern—it's always there. I sat back in my chair and looked at her briefly before answering. 

“Tell me about yourself. I know nothing about you except that you have a nice office with no windows and a heavy wooden door. I notice there is a lock on the door. Is there a reason you lock your office door? Do you have secrets or confidential information in your office that you need to lock up at night? Plus, I could not help but notice the sparkle in your eyes when you told me the cost of living in this place. I’m sure you do the same thing day after day. You must get restless to do something else once in a while. Are you married? 

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“No”

“What does your husband do for a living?” 

“He’s a cop.” 

“Well, then, let's get down to business. I have contacted three home healthcare companies. I plan to talk with them this coming week. Do you have any information on any of them that would be helpful to me?” 

“My oh my, are you afraid of doing the wrong thing? It shouldn’t be that difficult to figure out what to do.” 

She got up from her chair and moved around her desk; I stood, too. She moved to the heavy wooden office door and touched the doorknob. She stopped and said, 

“Are you having trepidations about this decision? There is nothing for you to worry about; you only need a good hug. You know how to handle the situation. Now, hug me, and get out of here. She then handed me a business card, 

“My personal cell phone number is on this card. I may or may not answer; if I don’t, not to worry; I will call you back.” 

This is an interesting way to run a ship. The long carpeted hallways are all very plush. I walked back to Dad’s room. He has no idea he is about to see a major change in his life. I was under the gun. I had places to be; I had to interview people and make decisions. Somehow, I had to get Dad out of Marquette Manor. And I had a month to figure it out.

BLOOR REDDING IN HIS APARTMENT 

THE LONG ROAD HOME

THE LONG ROAD HOME

By Duncan 

The road ahead is long, dark, and can be lonely. 

Yes, the bright lights of Ybor City last night lifted my spirits. As I headed back home, it was time for me to join the crazies on the super slab. 

It was 8:15 PM when Erik and I left the Irish Pub. His two-way was crackling with urgency and emotion; it was time for him to join the fray. He was like a dog on a leash that wanted to be free to run. 

I’m sure there is a “10-something” for a young police officer who returns to work. In most places, 10-8 means "in service/available for assignment.” 

Our dinner lasted about an hour, and it was over. Erik gave me a quick hug goodbye, and as I wrapped my arms around him, his protective vest was hard; my hands brushed his handcuffs, and my elbow scraped his service revolver. His protective gear separated us. 

He smiled, jumped into his shiny patrol car, and took off down the street. I could see other flashing red and blue lights already on the scene. He loves his chosen path. Is it all about the chase? The emotion of the moment? I still worry. 

I wound through the streets of Ybor City until I found the on-ramp to I-75. Once on the interstate, I had a thousand miles ahead of me. It was dark, and traffic was chaotic. I decided to go a few miles and look for a room for the night. 

Headlights at night are a challenge. The newer cars have digital lights that blind me at night. My Mean Yellow is a 2007 model with light bulbs in the headlights. I strain to see the long and winding road ahead. 

The glitter and invitation of flashing bar lights were gone. I had a ribbon of black asphalt as my reality.  I needed a place to stay for the night. Tomorrow will be the beginning of the long road home. 

In the darkness, I look for the tall signs advertising several motels waiting for late-night travelers. I pull into a parking lot. The outside looks clean, so let's talk to the night clerk.  

“How may I be helping you?” 

“Do you have a room available? 

“How many?”

“Just me.” 

“You have dog?” 

“No, I don’t travel with a dog; it’s just me.” 

“We have a no-smoking policy.” 

“Terrific. I don’t smoke.” 

“I offered my driver’s license and asked for the room rate.” 

He takes a few seconds to look at his computer screens. 

We have nice room for you, $109.00.

“Does that include tax and all charges?” 

“It is “berry” nice room, jes, everything.” 

I don’t normally look at the room before I say yes! I judge what I will get by the way the lobby looks. If it's clean and orderly, then odds are, the room will be okay. 

Notice the lack of nightstand lights. One light bulb is in the center of the ceiling.

Notice the lack of a desk lamp. 

Notice one light bulb in the center of the ceiling for light. 

It didn’t matter; it was clean. All I wanted was to lie down and get a good night's sleep. As I looked around, I realized this was an old Red Roof Inn that had been remolded. It seems like a “minimalist” decor and is, I assume, easy to clean. If that makes this Quality Inn a few bucks a night, then more power to them. 

The next morning was a little chilly, so I let the “Mean Yellow” warm up for a few minutes. Yes, this Quality Inn was an old Red Roof Inn. I noticed the signage over the front door. I tuned in my electronic key card to the front desk and grabbed an orange juice. 

I also noticed the owner's car sitting outside the front door. It is a very high-end luxury vehicle. He engaged me at the front desk. Wanting to know if my room was satisfactory. I know he wanted me to say that it was a fabulous room. However, I could not give him the Gold Star he wanted. Neither was I going to complain. I thanked him for a comfortable and clean room for the night. 

I parked my orange juice in my cup holder and headed for the interstate. I had a long way to go and a short time to get there. Reminds me of the Jerry Reed song in Smokie and the Bandits. 

I’ve often been asked why I drive to Florida and not fly. 

“It only takes a couple of hours to fly.” 

Yes, I have been back and forth from Indianapolis to Florida several times on Allegiant Air Lines, and yes, it’s a two-hour and twelve-minute flight. 

But look at it this way: I want to be “Shane.” I like my own company. I put my foot in the stirrup and mount my ride. I adjust my cowboy hat and mosey off into the sunset as I hear Joey’s refrains, 

“Shane … Shane … SHANE.” 

What you may not realize is … “Shane” rhymes with pain. There is a reason a man needs to ride the range by himself. Perhaps to clear my head, set new goals, different goals, adjust, weed out the negative, and replace them with the positive. Focus on why we are put on this planet. 

I can push out the clutter of voices telling me what to think and what is important. There is no criticism, no radio, no social media, no politics, no one telling me what to think when I am on the road. Let me make the decisions. It’s my life, and I need the time alone to think. 

DUNCAN

Sitting by the water is another way to evaluate my life. Years ago, I used to go to Tampa to visit Mr. Maynard. I would excuse myself for a day and walk the beach. I was working then, but I cherished that time alone when I was in Tampa. I would spend hours watching the waves move in and out on the beach, thinking it was the planet's heartbeat. Of course, the question is, will any tangible answers come to me while I sit and ponder?  

Sitting in the “MeanYellow” for sixteen hours gives me time to think. Sure, the silence is broken by the signs that say you are leaving Florida or Atlanta ahead. Fasten your seat belt; the next hour will be a traffic challenge. 

I pushed hard to get through Atlanta and beyond. I found myself in Franklin, Tennessee, just a few miles from Nashville. It was dark. I had to get off the road. I needed to get off my horse. I looked for a motel sign I could feel comfortable with. 

The room was acceptable at $77.16. Next door was a Waffle House. I was in no mood to look for another restaurant in Franklin, Tennessee. So, I slipped into a booth and ordered my old standby. Two over easy, bacon, hash-browns, and toast. 

The Waffle House always seems to have a young, pretty girl working as a waitress and a loud, poorly dressed younger guy who hasn’t had a haircut in a while trying to impress the young waitress with constant chatter. As I watch the other employees and the pretty young waitress ignore the guy, it seems he doesn’t get the hint. 

This is where parents have failed the fine art of mentoring. I know this sounds elitist, and perhaps I’m guilty. But his “pick-up lines” are not working. As usual, he slithers out the door after a while. I finish my meal and head back to the motel. 

This will be the last stop on my Florida Trip. I’m about five hours from the house. I need to make it through Nashville, which has become a major pain in the ass. The connecting road from I-75 to I-65 is Highway 24 through Nashville. As usual, it is an extreme traffic challenge.  

The other hurdle for me is the Lousiville Bridge. Once I cross the Ohio River, I’ll be back in Indiana, which, at that point, means “HOME.” 

I got through Nashville and decided I could use one more tank of gas. I was close to Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Years ago, on its last leg, my Oldsmobile couldn’t make it up the steep incline going south to Florida. The engine clunked out on me, and I had to spend the night in Elizabethtown. I called for help, and Bob Cheek came to my rescue. I decided to pull over and fill the tank for old time's sake.   

As I filled the tank, I noticed a brand new White Castle across the street. I thought to myself. 

‘When’s the last time I had a White Castle slider or two?’ 

So, I pulled into the parking lot and went inside to order. There was a crowd of people waiting in the lobby. I was trying to figure out if they had ordered and were waiting to order. I stood there for about ten minutes. I watched the young people behind the counter, overwhelmed by the number of people in the lobby and the crush of cars waiting outside the drive-through.  

It was obvious that very young people were running the place. I stood there, looked around the restaurant, and tried to figure out how much money somebody had in this building. And the first figure that came to mind was … at least a million dollars for the building. Who knows if that includes the latest and greatest kitchen equipment? 

I watched a young man standing behind the grill. How he handled the spatula and turned the burgers clearly indicated that it was his first day on the job. There is no reason to complain or get upset; I have just spent ten minutes realizing that stable employees who show up for work are one of fast food's biggest problems in Elizabethtown. I stood there and wondered where the shift manager was if there was one, and who was training these people, if anyone. 

Amazingly, someone would put up a million-dollar building and then turn it over to young people who need more training or experience. So, this was a dose of reality for me on my trip home.  

I turned and left the building without having lunch at The White Castle in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. 

Well, this is the last story about my “Florida Trip.” I made it across the Louisville Bridge, knowing I would get a bill in the mail for a $5.00 toll. It’s one of my last expenses on this trip. Thanks for coming along.  

STOPPED BY THE POLICE

STOPPED BY THE POLICE 

By Duncan 

It was time to head for the house. I was stopped in Tampa. 

As seems to be my fate, people will say, “You're going to stop by and have lunch, right, Mr. Duncan?” 

Tampa is no exception. This story goes all the way back to Indianapolis. There is a little Baptist church called Crooked Creek Baptist Church. The congregation is much smaller today, with a handful of believers who still come each Sunday. My parents called it their church home for 40 or more years. They loved this church. 

George Ronald William Duncan 

My father, George Ronald William Duncan, was a strong believer and a “Go-to-Church-Every-Sunday” kind of guy. One Sunday, a new couple came to church. My dad approached, asked their names, and welcomed them to the church. Over the years, he and the Lopez family became close friends. 

I was at church one Sunday with my dad, and we all went to lunch after church. They had a young son named Erik, who was very shy. So, at lunch, I sat next to Erik and engaged him in conversation. He was very shy and very respectful and called me “Mr. Duncan.” 

I was impressed with Erik, and I was just as impressed with his parents. They were raising a polite young man. 

Duncan, Erik Lopez 

Erik knew I was riding a motorcycle and asked if he could take a ride. His mother, Guemalli (his mother), was not excited about Erik being on the back of a motorcycle. However, one afternoon, Merlin brought Erik over to the house and, more or less, gave his blessing. Erik and I were off to places unknown. 

Erik Lopez, Merlin Lopez. 

I think Merlin was so relieved after our bike ride that his son was safe that he couldn’t help but give him a hug. That afternoon, I became an extended member of their family. 

I was invited to Erik’s wrestling matches and football games. Erik was becoming a focused young man. 

Erik Lopez - Pike High School. 

#11 - Erik Lopez

Merlin, Erik, Guemalli Lopez

#11 - Erik Lopez, Duncan

We all had lunch one Sunday after church, and Erik was sixteen. So I decided to give him a little trouble in front of everybody.  

“So, now that you are sixteen and can drive, how many girlfriends do you have? How many dates will you be on, Erik?”

“I don’t have any girlfriends, Mr. Duncan. I don’t have a driver's license.”   

I looked across the dining table at Guemalli and said, “He doesn’t have a driver’s license; why not?”  

“He doesn’t need one!”

I always knew Guemalli was a strict mother, and she expected Erik to toe the line. But I have to admit I was surprised, shocked, and flabbergasted. 

”Every sixteen-year-old kid looks forward to a driver's license.” 

I looked at Merlin; he just dropped his head slightly. Well, we know what that means, don’t we? The decision maker is Guemalli. I began my flamboyant rant, 

“Guemalli, you have got to be kidding me. You’re not going to allow your ONLY sixteen-year-old son to have what every sixteen-year-old son in America longs for, wants, and needs … a driver's license? What about dates with girls? Are you going to be driving him on his dates? Will you allow the date to sit in the back seat? Oh, I can see that happening. I don’t think so; what’s the problem here?” Guemalli, talk to me. 

“If you think he needs a driver's license, you can teach him to drive; I’m not doing it!” 

I turned to Erik and gave him a “Stage Whisper” so everyone at the table could hear what I was about to say. 

“Erik, you and I will meet tomorrow at that church parking lot close to your home, and I will begin teaching you how to drive a car. You’ll learn on a manual transmission automobile. I’m bringing the Mean Yellow.

“Mr. Duncan, I don’t know how to shift a car.” 

“You will when we get finished tomorrow.” 

I have never heard my Mean Yellow Pontiac Solstice gearbox make so many ugly grinding sounds. And Erik must have restarted my supercharged engine a hundred times. But at the end of the day, as Larry, the cable guy would say, “Get-R-Done.” Erik was asking if he could borrow the car for prom. Now that progress. 

Time flies when you are having fun. Erik graduated from high school and wanted to attend the University of Tampa. I left Indiana in 2014 and decided to Live in North Fort Myers. I took Dad with me, and he enjoyed his last four years in Florida. 

Merlin Lopez, George R. Duncan (98), Guemalli Lopez (December 2017) North Fort Myers. Visiting from Indianapolis. 

Merlin Lopez, Erik Lopez, Guemalli Lopez - Graduation Day, University of Tampa. Tampa, Florida. 

“What do you want to do with your life now, Erik?” 

“I want to be a policeman. I want to go to the Tampa Police Academy.” 

Merlin Lopez, Officer Erik Lopez, Guemalli Lopez. Graduation Day, Tampa Police Academy.

Tampa Police Officer Erik Lopez, Duncan. 

So, Erik is aware I’m in Florida. He said, “You will stop by Tampa and have dinner with me.” I’m not going to disobey a Police Officer. It’s set. I will leave Sebring in the late afternoon, head north for about two hours, and have dinner with Erik. However, Erik works tonight and says he has an hour for supper. So let’s meet in Historic Ybor City. I arrive in Ybor City and find the public parking lot one block off the main drag. 

I parked the Mean Yellow in the public parking lot. Erik says he will meet me here. I wait. 

Tampa Police Officer Erik Lopex reporting as requested. 

A woman who did not make much sense.

As Erik and I stood in the parking lot talking, a woman approached Erik and wanted information about a disturbance. She wanted some kind of help. 

Erik stood his ground, and I moved back a few feet, for I didn’t know what would happen. She began a rant, which I couldn’t understand. I watched Erik. He stood and listened to the woman with a bland, straight face; he asked a few polite questions. The woman looked at me and said, “Good Luck getting any help from him. Are you in trouble?” 

I didn’t answer but bowed my head. I guess she took that as a sign she needed to move on. And she did. 

“Does that happen to you often?”  

“Often enough.”

JAMES JOYCE IRISH PUB

JAMES JOYCE IRISH PUB

A James Joyce Irish Pub was across the street from the parking lot behind us. We decided to have dinner there. I wasn’t sure if Erik was comfortable going to the restaurant in full police mode. I noticed he sat with his back to the wall and was scanning the place the whole time we were there. 

Duncan, Tampa Police Officer Erik Lopez. 

I had to ask if he was doing what he wanted to do. Has your path to a Police career been as you envisioned it? And he lamented. 

“Well, I love the weather in Tampa; I know Tampa. I love my job. Yes, there are times when things don’t go as I would like, but it’s what I do, a career, and I’m very happy here. It’s what I wanted to do, and I’m doing it.”

“Well, Erik, my dear friend, I’ve got to ask the sixty-four dollar question. Have you got a woman in your life?”

With my hours, different shifts, and being on-call, I don’t know any woman who would put up with my work schedule. I bought a big truck, and I love driving it around.”

Erik was always easygoing. In high school, he was strong on the wrestling mates and wanted to win on the football field. At one point, he thought about joining the Marines. 

When he announced, “I want to be a policeman,” his family and I were worried. I became intently scared for his safety. 

As we discussed his day and work, he seems to take everything in stride. He even hinted he wants to move up in the police department—hinted, mind you. 

I’m unsure if he has a clear goal for his next challenge, but I think he has something in the back of his mind. Whatever it is, I think at this point, at least, it will be in public service in and around Tampa. 

We walked out of the Pub and across the street. He looked at my Mean Yellow Pontiac Solstice and said, “You know, it all began in this car.”  I had to laugh. I looked at my hot rod. I turned and looked at his patrol car. I smiled, and he smiled back. 

“You have moved up in the world. Be safe, Erik, and keep in touch.”