Go inside.

If it isn't too much trouble, could we all practice some courtesy at drive-through places? I mean, some people turn into narcissistic wackos when they roll up to the speaker at McDonalds--which translates into rude. The lesser among us will sense not just rudeness but disdain and disrespect which will lead to rage, and on to violence, then murder, general disorder, world domination by thugs, anarchy, armageddon...OK, maybe I got carried away there but consider a few basic rules when you drive-thru the bank or Hardees:

1. Keep it simple. If you have a huge complicated order with special requests, like "no onions" or "medium rare" could you park your car and drag your fat butt inside and not clog up the traffic in the drive-thru while you spell all this out? They are going to get it wrong anyway and you know that. Go inside!

2. The car that beats me to the speaker every time is driven by a person who doesn't have a clue what he wants (I said "he" but really this is not a gender-specific issue) and as a result 10 cars wait while he weighs the qualities of the grilled chicken versus the Quarter-pounder with cheese. Then there are always fries to consider.

Often this is a matter of being completely uninformed. ("Does that come with mayo? Is it on bread or a bun? How many fat grams in that?") If you are considering an unfamiliar item--GO INSIDE and look at the menu. Chat with the counter help; there is never anyone in there. They are all behind YOU outdoors in the drive up lane.

3. At the bank, would you please not try to negotiate a loan in the drive up lane or at the ATM? Again, GO IN! Why would you try to solve an overdraft problem through a bad two-way speaker and two-inch thick bulletproof glass? I have seen this done. Please don't make the clerk tell you this is something to resolve with an assistant manager in the office. Just keep it down to deposits, withdrawls and paying your bank box rent or car payment.

4. Be ready! Be ready with your food order. Have your money out and ready to pay. Have your deposit ready. Have your ATM card out, ready to go in the slot. Act like you know what your are doing, even if it is an act.

5. Please don't sit at the pickup window and unwrap every sandwich to make sure they didn't put pickles on your burger. Pull up out of the way and let the traffic move. Keep doing this and I swear someday you will be followed home and--if you are lucky--only your car will be damaged.

6. At the ATM, it is OK to take your card, money and receipt and pull forward to count your withdrawl, put everything back in your purse or wallet, readjust your mirrors, change radio stations or CD's, etc. It is actually preferable to do that in order for the car waiting patiently behind you to pull up and conduct ATM business. If you continue to rudely make others wait, you may find yourself being shoved out into the street before you are completely prepared by the woman in line behind you with PMS who really doesn't care what the front of her car will look like. Being shoved might be the least that will happen if you are fortunate.

OK, enough. Just a few rules. Gas is expensive, and fast food isn't very fast these days and many of us are in a hurry, uninterested in your dietary concerns. We can't control that the bank has only one of their 8 drive-thrus open or that the kid at Taco Bell got your order wrong. Don't make the rest of us pay. Put some social back in society.

A moment to remember.

This quiet scene could be the entrance to any suburban high school. But it isn't. It is the main entrance to Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado; not just a school but a memorial as well.

Columbine is grimly etched in the memory of everyone alive to hear the news back on April 20, 1999. No one could contemplate what would drive two boys to do what they did that day. So this is just a reminder: yesterday was April 20, unofficially known as "Columbine Day." For whatever reasons those boys had, they changed this country forever and not in a good way. Perhaps they were out to "get even" with classmates who they perceived--or in fact--had wronged them. Maybe they were crazy. Something pushed them outside the box, far enough out to where this all looked achievable and worthwhile to them.

This picture was taken on April 18, 2005, six years almost to the day after the massacre. The students who were there in Spring, 1999, were gone; the ones who were freshmen were two years into college, and the seniors were out starting their careers. Fourteen of them were not in careers or higher education though: the 12 who were murdered, and a teacher; and the two perpetrators themselves. Six years later on a quiet Monday afternoon, there was no sign of the violence--just a bus waiting at the door and a few cheerleaders grouped on the walk.

Life is a delicate balance of order and chaos, one only a few steps from the other. It was good yesterday, ten years after, to remember those who were caught when life was out of balance.

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Steam

Early in 2004 (and a couple of times since) the Union Pacific Railroad brought one of their two operational steam locomotives to Kansas City for a short visit. These pictures were taken in January, on a cold but sunny morning at Union Station.

Number 3985 is a Challenger, named for a landmark canyon along the UP in Wyoming. Steam engines are classified by the type and order of their wheels; this wheel arrangement is 4-6-6-4 (four pilot wheels; two sets of six linked driving wheels, each functioning as a separate engine; and four trailing or truck wheels under the cab and firebox), suitable for use in both passenger and freight service. She is a monster of a machine.

The 3900's were built in the early 1940's to help with wartime traffic. Diesel locomotives were already very much in use but not approved for manufacture because of war priorities. The government did approve some production of heavy steam locomotives for several roads and thus 3985 was assembled in 1943. If they were trying to save on steel, you have to believe they failed for there is a lot of metal in this old girl.Originally built to burn coal, many of these engines were converted to oil. The oil most railroads used was a thick, gel-like substance also used by the Navy in firing boilers for warships called "Number 6" or "6 Bunker" oil. More remarkable was the amount of water they consumed.

Wherever she goes, she totes along extra water and fuel, and a tool car in case there are mechanical issues. UP actually maintains a small steam department for 3985 and the 844, a wartime Northern (4-8-4) that also survived the scrap line. The men who are the steam department not only run these locomotives, but maintain them as well having learned to fabricate their own spare parts and diagnose problems which skilled craftsmen are no longer available to do.

The silver-painted area is the firebox, in which a large fire burned underneath part of the boiler to convert water into steam. Fireboxes on these larger engines were as big as small rooms. Steam crews probably liked the fireboxes' radiant heat in the fall and winter but oh, how they must have roasted on warm, humid summer days crossing Nebraska.

The modern diesel-electric locomotives are cleaner, more efficient and more colorful, better to such a degree that they quickly killed off steam for good once World War II was over. But they lack the fierceness, the moving parts, the smoke, noise and personalities that steamers had. I only remember them for a few short years when I was very young, seeing Santa Fe steam pass by on the main freight line in El Dorado. But I sure miss watching those big wheels and rods work together, hearing the hiss of one passing at speed, and the drama of a Santa Fe 2-10-4 starting a heavy train when a signal cleared. Fun times.

He took my career.

The man with the best job in the world is a TV host/chef/restauranteur by the name of Guy Fieri. He does not claim the best job in the world by simply appearing on TV. Nor is being a chef or owning and operating a restaurant the best job in the world. My grandfather did that; it is hard work with long hours. Fieri has the best job in the world because as the host of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives on the Food Network, he gets to go around to really good places all over the U.S.A. and eat what appears to be great food--on someone else's nickle. I think I was supposed to do that.

Is there a better job?

I don't think so. Some of the diners he spotlights are not simply breakfast and burger places, but places run by men and women with food training and vision far beyond that of a fry cook. These people are awesome.

Consider Bobo's Drive-in 80 minutes west of here in Topeka. Good burgers and fries and onion rings, like you would expect. But they also serve fresh apple pie, homemade daily right there in the drive-in. They will serve it ala mode if you like, in your car. Not standard drive-in food for Sonic or McDonald's. (No, that isn't a slam on those fine restaurants.)

How about Bert's Burger Bowl in Santa Fe? Cheeseburgers there are topped out with fresh New Mexico green chile salsa. If you want to try something even more unusual, they make a lamb-burger. They have been in business selling food like that for generations, and it looks fabulous seen through my non-hi definition analog TV screen. I can only imagine how it looks in the flesh and if it tastes half that good, it is worth a ride down there.

Another Santa Fe place is the Tecolote Cafe. Watching folks crowd in to eat blue-corn pancakes with pine nuts or huevos rancheros was just killing me, again with the New Mexico chile salsa, this time green or red: your choice. Again, made fresh daily.

I am a sucker for thin-crust pizza, and Fieri found one at Louie's in Dallas. Outside Louie's looks like an old filling station. Inside the two Chicago-area brothers that run the place are making mouth-watering thin crust pizza, similar to what you get at the Pizza Man in Overland Park. But they also do bar food and cook a mean burger, just beautifully done, with a secret soy marinade.

These are the kinds of places Guy showcases. He gives you the story of the place, what the special twist is that makes it different, and then tortures you by showing how the food comes together. Then with the audience (read: me) in virtual starvation, he samples the finished products just to twist the knife a little deeper. ("Oh, yeah!" he will say. "You would like this!") Bastard.

This is the job I know I was meant to have except for my utter lack of formal food training, my absence of having a TV (or any) personality and the need to lose 55 pounds. Except for those few minor, really meaningless details, Guy Fieri stole this career right out from underneath me.

It isn't all exceptional burgers and pizzas. He has hit places that serve lamb shank, German specialites, amazing Italian food (one place in Omaha, family run, even makes their own mozzarella.) One diner in Georgia serves it all: Greek, Italian, American--it's all there, and nearly all of it done from scratch. The patrons interviewed there at the Marietta Diner, many as they were eating, looked to me like they wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

I cannot do this kind of work; Guy is already doing it. Al Roker has a similar show. The demand has been met. Thus I will have to be prepared to go to these places and pay for my own food. I fully intend to do just that, because I have to know for myself.

I have a list.

Tough kid.

Today Annie tried a swan dive off her diaper changer-table and hit the floor. There was a great amount of crying and consoling, followed by much examining of body parts. There were hurried phone calls and a fast trip to the ER. Annie was in a bit of shock immediately after the main event and was acting sluggishly but once in the hospital for a while she got her game back. After being scrutinized all afternoon she is officially just fine.

Liz had turned away only for a second when Annie stood up and instantly went over the side. She is convinced her flash of inattention makes her the worst mother ever, obviously having forgotten about Octo-Mom and perhaps Joan Crawford. But Liz has taken two antsy boys through their diaper part of life somehow managed to prevent either of them from leaping off the tall furniture. The little creatures will do unfortunate things very much on their own and that is why God makes them tough. Yes, there are conditions for which they are simply not a match. But maybe God stuck his hand out there and cushioned her fall a bit.

No mother in the world can cover every possible situation. What will Liz do when Annie is in high school playing basketball and runs into a wall at sub-warp speed, clocking herself? Liz did that to us, and all we could do is watch helplessly from the bleachers while the coaches and officials made sure she was OK. In high school, Liz's mother hurt her back cheerleading at a football game. That time, no one was there to watch and worry about her but God made them all durable for most things just the same. Mothering is a partnership with the Almighty and sometimes He picks up the slack when mom hits a rough spotl That will have to be good enough for us.

Feeding on the forest floor.

I think they are trying to kill me at work. The boss is gone on a special assignment and they have appointed me to direct our activities. I really didn't want this. I have been in charge before, for most of my career. That was enough. The last six years as an hourly employee have been pretty decent because I could leave it all at the door every night.

Of course my brief freedom has been reflected in a reduction of earnings but I guess that's OK; I never really made much money no matter what I did. It was nice to have weekends off for a while but all glory is fleeting. Being in charge has required a shift to salary from hourly, actually a pay reduction as there is no more overtime.

Now I have the burden of leadership, no weekends and no money. The dreaded management trifecta. Charter business has exploded this week with baseball season opening and military moves. I would be tempted to seek other employment but it seems that few are hiring and even fewer seem to treasure the skills I have acquired at the airport. I considered retiring but the wife preempted those thoughts as she is still working and will be for a little longer. She has almost no interest in being the only one of us gainfully employed. Retirement is also another victim of the recession: the position is available but the pay has sharply fallen off. So for now I must celebrate just being employed. The prospect of longer hours and harder work holds little except the pay check itself.

When I can stand it no longer, maybe I will go get a job as a car rental garageman. They spend their days driving, refueling, vacuuming and washing new cars. Corporate controllers in far away cities do not call garagemen and demand to be informed about details of the inventory, food cost, manpower reports or profit and loss. Garagemen are not concerned with covering vacations or hearing the complaints of those who have sensed themselves wronged by the corporate structure. Garagemen are not awakened at unreasonable hours because an inconsiderate employee, ravaged by strong drink, failed to report for work. Yes. I want to be a garageman.

For now I will have to see it through as I have the past thirty years, laboring far too hard for far too little. Garagemen don't earn much, but they do leave it at the door.
My kids are grown and gone. Our home's mortgage has been satisfied. Mark my words, let Lufthansa make one small error--just one--and I am getting on the waiting list at Avis!

It's how we roll.

Many people have cars that like spouses, just look like they belong with each other. William Conrad, who portrayed private investigator Frank Cannon on the old Cannon TV series absolutely had a kinship to his Lincoln Continental Mark VI. My younger daughter Katie looks like her Saturn Aura was modeled and built specially for her.

Yesterday I was waiting at the bottom of the I-29 exit ramp to 72nd street and found myself behind an aging Ford Festiva occupied by a large curly-headed Seth Rogen-looking kid wearing a T-shirt that said only "CLOWN." As we all waited for the light and the other six million cars to clear, he alternated between sitting bolt upright and dropping the seat back into full recline position all the while talking on his cell phone. "He's a clown, all right," I thought. His buddy sat next to him, a little skinny guy with a white rag tied around his head. He had a scrubby beard and never moved so much as a muscle. "Those guys are perfect for that car," I continued to muse, observing its faded red paint and hearing its rumbling (yes, it really rumbled) exhaust. They were perfect for it: not at all polished, loud and goofy, very casual.

Pretty teenaged girls are meant to drive Mazda Miata convertibles, preferably red ones. They may continue to do so until in their mid-twenties by which time they really need to trade for a Mustang convertible. Incidentally, no man should ever be seen driving a Miata. Most men have the top of the windshield obscuring their vision and are so ill-fitted in this vehicle that they look like Shriners heading to a parade; Miata is for girls only.

When I used to pick up my kids after school I got a good education in car-driver agreement. I sat there in my Ranger, one of the rare trucks in the parking lot, watching the mini-vans roll in. All of the thirty-something moms parked, got out and had mini-conferences in twos and threes gassing about who knows what. In their nylon jogging suits and mom jeans they all appeared to be a good fit with their Voyagers and Caravans, a sea of which spanned the lot by the time the kids charged in from school. I would venture that mini-vans are the jogging suits of the automobile kingdom. Ten years before, the mini-van--or its older brother the venerable station wagon--would have caused these same women to recoil in horror and run screaming back to their Mustangs. Now they had sliding doors, cup holders and even televisions in the back to entertain restless urchins.

Boys are more complicated, and have to have a gimmick. Even before high school they emerge with car personalities. There are always a few who think they have to have the speediest car and only look at ease in a Corvette. Some prefer an old Firebird, which always seems to be black or have no paint whatsoever. A lot of teens abandoned the muscle car and express themselves now with pickup trucks and vie to have the largest, loudest and highest off the ground. This is the 2009 equivalent of fully-extended peacock feathers, replacing those bygone but equally loud big-block Plymouths and SS396 Chevelles. The vast majority of boys however will just settle for what they can afford, sliding into hand-me-down family cars or perhaps an aging SUV. Reflecting their individuality, boys will turn them into neat, shiny jewels or let them deteriorate into something like the Festiva, maintaining it only to the extent that it will qualify for a state license.

In some communities your car is a statement of who you are, not unlike your clothes or hobbies or even your home itself. My buddy Norton, from Garden City, bought his first car when we were in college. He selected a 1967 RS Camaro, which like Norton himself, was small, quick, sporty and agile. If Norton was not "sporty," he at least liked sports. It was a good pick. They looked like each other. Now, later in life, he has an Acura sedan. Just conservative enough, and just edgy enough for a busy internist.

Some men go into a midlife crisis and opt for Corvettes, Mustang V-8's, or exotic roadsters from overseas. Like the crisis, these cars fail to reflect the true nature of their owners, as very few men in their fifties have anything in common with high-powered, sexy, low-slung automobiles with low profile tires. These men would normally drive Buicks or Mercurys. I really don't know what makes them do that.

The one thing you can count on is guys who wear their hair long or shaggy and have a beard are almost obligated to drive a four-wheel-drive truck. The more full the beard, the bigger the truck. Even if they don't need a truck, that is how they roll. This is a way of life. Sometimes the more disheveled they personally look, the dirtier the truck stays. It has nothing to do with their work and everything to do with how much a bad-boy they want you to believe they are. I have known men who do construction for a living and drive trucks but you would need to look long and hard to find any dirt on the ones they drive.

Then there are the celebrities. Britney Spears is a match for her white Mercedes, but she should be denied a driver's license. Her driving--like the rest of her life--is a mess, thoroughly documented in endless magazines and on TMZ. Another mess, Lindsey Lohan, just this week was given a $130,000 Maserati by an adult movie producer so I guess that's a pretty good match too, for a variety of reasons. The best match ever? Sean Connery as James Bond in Goldfinger with the legendary Aston-Martin DB5. A sleek, fast car for a similar international spy-playboy.

This isn't an exact science but consider your friends and the cars they drive. As people and their spouses grow to look like each other, don't people and their cars somehow wind up as mirrors of each other? I think they do. Folks want to project an image of who they are if they can afford to do it. So check out their cars, and then lets have a look at their pets...