Chapter 21A: Addendum

My sister, Cathe, saw the blog recently and made a comment I wanted to share:

I daresay Dad loved all of our spouses a lot. Jack (Cathe's husband) was really his "go to" guy in the last 4 or 5 years. He would always call Jack to run errands, take him to VA (which we all ran screaming from the room when mentioned), etc. Since Margit worked full time--and the rest of us worked at least part time, Jack was his guy. As you know, Jack is quiet and unassuming; however, I really can't remember a single time that he told Dad "no". He would adjust his schedule as req'd to take care of Dad's needs. I have repeatedly thanked him for all he did for dad. When Dad died, we were in the room--and Jack was very upset. He loved Dad a lot too. Joan, Glenn, Ken, Renae, Trish, you and I all did things for Dad--but nobody did as much for him as Jack did (except Margit, of course).

I often thought if they put all 4 of us and our spouses in a room that Dad AND Mom would have chosen Jack, Glenn, Trish, and Renae!All of us definitely hit the mother lode of spouses.

I just wanted to share this info about Jack because I think it's an important part of our family history.

Cathe is like all of my siblings, generous and gracious. Jack is one of those guys you always count on and he never lets you down. As I said to Dad in my eulogy. Thanks for giving us the most precious gift we could ever want....each other.

But not all of Dad's jokes were lame. There was one he used to tell at seminars by way of illustrating the most basic part of sales....supply and demand.

As he would tell it, there was a man who had a speech impediment. Some people called him a hair lip. This man rose above his problems and became the world's greatest retail floor salesman. He could sell anything.


One day he decided to take on a new challenge. He had heard that Kmart was on the brink of ruin and sales were terrible. So he went into the local Kmart, sought out the manager and asked to be hired.


“Hey buddy, how 'bout a job? I am the world's greatest salesman,” he said enthusiastically.


The sales manager looked at him and scoffed. “We don't hire salesmen here.”

“Maybe that's why yer sales thuck,” said the salesman. “I tell you what I'll do. You give me anything you can't sell and I'll sell it for you. Then we can talk and you will be able to hire me on a commission basis.”

The sales manager wanted to get rid of our hero, so he grabbed a cigar box full of nasty, dirty tooth brushes they had been using to clean the tile in the bathrooms. He handed it to the salesman and shooed him away.

Within a couple of hours the salesman was back in front of him with a big grin. He opened the cigar box and it was chuck full of ten dollar bills.


“Where'd you get all that money,” asked the manager.

“I sold dem toot brushes ten bucks a shot,” said the salesman.


“How the hell did you do that?”


“Well you have to remember the law of supply and demand. If you create a demand and supply the solution, you can sell sell sell. So I went over and got some of your card tables and set me up a nice display at the front of your store. I got some bowls from housewares and some potato chips and then I made me some dip. Then I went over to the garden supply and got my secret ingredient. People would come along and take a tater chip and dip er down in dat dip and take a big ole bite and say, “Hey! This dip tastes like chicken manure.”


And I'd say, “It is chicken manure. You wanna buy a toot brush?”

A great joke. People are always laughing long before I get to the punchline. The church was filled with laughter as I continued the eulogy. I got choked up and had to read the last part. Here is what I said:

You know what Dad?

We gathered here to tell you how much we all appreciate what you did for us.

For all the ice cream cones and cotton candy

For tickling us til we begged for mercy

For telling us what we needed to hear especially when we didn’t want to hear it

For fighting for the little guy and cheering for the underdog

I don't know about the rest of these people here

But I have already forgotten the frail old man who died last week.

I really have no memory of him any more.

I can only remember the wonderful man who kept everybody laughing.

The funny little guy who told lame jokes and somehow made us laugh anyway. I will never forget

the impish look on your face when you told the one about the peach to my sweet wife.

You died a rich man, Dad.

For if the measure of a man is the value of the love he leaves behind,
you truly were the richest man I ever knew.

Good bye dad

You left us with the most precious gift
we could ever want....each other.


Rest in peace.

When he had his mini stroke just before Christmas, he came back quickly. I was calling him regularly and reading the funny parts in my blog. He especially loved the chapter about taking a shit in Japan. He was fully aware back then.

But this time, within a couple of weeks, Dad had another stroke and it was pretty much over. He would mindlessly push the wheelchair backwards through the halls until he bumped into something. Dad never liked sitting still. His favorite phrase was, “Let's go!” It was a bit like he was trying to escape. But he no longer knew how to get up and go. I knew when I shaved him I was saying good-bye. He died a week later and I tried to put some thoughts together for his eulogy. He wanted me to do it for him and I was glad to.

Dad was a character. He was a delight to be around. He was a traveling salesman from the old days and he fit the stereotype exceptionally well. Whenever he walked in a room, everyone brightened. Richard was going to entertain anybody who would listen. He and I were sort of like oil and water, but later in life I came to admire him and marvel at his tenacity. He had an ongoing love affair with two women. One was an old battle axe named Hazel and the other was my beautiful Trish.

He loved Hazel because she was so damn full of life. She was like a female version of Dad. She was probably in her 80s but none of us were sure. She often showed up dressed flamboyantly with a wild smear of red lipstick that missed the mark. She was annoying to proper people, which is exactly why Dad and I loved her so much. Dad's love affair with her was well known and we all approved of it.

His relationship with my wife was also pretty well known. I would be upstairs writing and Trish would be downstairs talking to him on the phone. I often wondered who she was talking to. She would bill and coo like a high school girl. Then she would laugh her hearty laugh and I would traipse downstairs to see who was causing all the commotion.

“It's your Dad!” she would say, blushing as if she had been caught doing something inappropriate. Usually, he had just told here a disgusting joke and she was laughing despite herself. Dad loved Trish so much, I think, because Trish always meets people on their own level. She judges no person. She thinks of herself as nobody's superior, even though her basic human kindness outshines anyone.

Dad was a big sports fan. In the last few years of his life, he was pretty much stuck alone in the house with nothing to do for most of the day. And without a car to get him out, he felt like a prisoner in his own house. Thank God for sports. Dad loved the big blue, the University of Kentucky Wildcats. My little brother Ken went there. I went to Louisville. You can imagine what basketball season was like. Fortunately, our two favorite teams seldom met so we all pulled for both teams throughout March Madness every year. We knew Dad's end was near when he refused to watch the Cards fight their way through to the championship. It was really sad for us.

He had this lame joke that he loved to tell to the kids. I think it was probably the only clean joke he ever told. He would grab a quarter out of his pocket and ask some poor kid to look closely. Then he would lay the quarter in the palm of one hand and beat it methodically with his fist.

“You know what that is?” he would say. Children never knew what to make of this. They knew enough about Dad not to trust him and they would cut their eyes around looking for one of us to help. Finally, Dad would announce, “That's called a quarter pounder. Get it? Pound! Quarter! See?”

The kids would giggle a little and walk away shaking their heads. And Dad would stand there and laugh his ass off. “Didja see that? Got him didn't I!”

Everyone would roll their eyes and smile. Yep, there he goes again.

But not all of Dad's jokes were lame. There was one he used to tell at seminars by way of illustrating the most basic part of sales....supply and demand.

CHAPTER 21: My Mortal Fear

A few weeks ago my Dad had a stroke. I was told he was not likely to recover. I gathered up a few shirts and a pair of jeans and I drove to Louisville with my dear Trish. My sister Joan met me and we went straight to the nursing home. It was a dreary, rainy afternoon. We walked past the front desk and into the dining room where Dad sat in a stupor. He eyes were closed and his mouth was agape. I had seen this blank stare in old people many times but seeing it hang from my father's face was a shock.

Dad was a vibrant, irreverent, irascible man with a quick temper and big heart. He was the original cussing Catholic. Some would say he was a vulgar man. But I would say we are all vulgar. Some of us are hypocrites about it but all of us are essentially vulgar. (I especially loathe people who substitute the word “heck” for “hell”. Dad would say they were bible-thumpers or just plain pussies. I agree whole heartedly. )

I sat and tried to make conversation with Dad that day. He did not seem to be the least bit interested in me, nor did he appear to know who I was. But when Trish came in, Dad lit up. “How's your job coming?” he asked as clear as a bell. But then the sparkle left as quickly as it had come and he returned to oblivion. I wheeled him around the home for a while after his meal. There were sad, dying old people everywhere. They were clean and well looked after, but pathetic and sad. I saw that yearning look on many of their faces as I passed. It seemed to me that they wanted so desperately to share a smile or a conversation. But I feared being drawn in, knowing that I was not strong enough to share their burden.

The next day, I went back to feed him again. The nurse asked me if I wanted to shave him. I gulped down my fear and took the razor from her.

I had a bit of trouble getting started. I was sitting on Dad's bed and he was in his wheelchair. Every time I leaned over to minister to him, the bed alarm would beep. It was one of those monitors designed to warn the staff if the resident left the bed at night and I did not know how to turn it off. Eventually I figured out that it would be easier to stand and walk around him while I shaved him.

His skin was loose and I was terribly afraid I would cut him. I figured out how to stretch his neck so that the wrinkles would disappear. Then I carefully shaved him, one stroke at a time. He had no reaction whatsoever and I resolved to do a good job. By the time I finished, my back was sore and I had made quite a mess but the job was done and he looked good. I cleaned it all up and wiped his face. Then I sat down and tried to talk to him.

“Can you hear me, Dad?”

“It's Rod. Can you hear me?”

“I came this morning to shave you and warm up your donut. Would you like to have a donut?”

I grabbed his donut and walked down to the microwave in the kitchen. I warmed it up slightly as I had seen him do for himself every morning of every day. I took it to him and fed it to him one little crumb at a time. He seemed to like it and he opened his mouth wide after every bite in anticipation of the next. After about half the donut, he lost interest and we sat there in silence for a while.

I thought about my stepmother, who had sat with him like this every day for weeks since he was admitted and I got a new appreciation for her strength and devotion. In fact, I began to greatly admire all of the Thompson women who had been sitting so patiently with Dad for so long.  

CHAPTER 20: God is Finite

Okay, it's time to come to grips with the liberal God.

I know. The very idea sounds oxymoronic.

But hang with me. What if we started pushing the idea that there is a finite God? What if we decided that God was really only a creation of mankind...a mental escape hatch for those of us afraid to give up immortality? What if we accepted the fact that we all constantly redefine our individual understandings of God? And what if we also assign him powers that fit nicely with scientific ideas about the universe? Would that necessarily change our concept of Jesus?

Well, obviously, it would revolutionize our ideas about Christ. But I contend that those liberal ideas, the ideas about the probable nature of a man like Jesus, are actually universal ideas. There is no more stunning example than the sermon on the mount. I have written about it repeatedly. The ideas that are central to that sermon do no harm to any religious notion. In fact, those ideas are central to the philosophies of virtually every single religious organization.

Matthew reported it this way:

Blessed are...

...the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
...those who mourn: for they will be comforted. ...the meek: for they will inherit the earth. ...those who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be filled.
...the merciful: for they will be shown mercy.
...the pure in heart: for they will see God.
...the peacemakers: for they will be called children of God.
...those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

And look at this one from Luke:

Woe to you who are rich for you have already received your comfort.

Were they quoting Jesus or writing their own interpretations? How could Matt miss these critical parts that Luke included? You just don't forget something as profound as that, do you? But if you allow yourself to assign human pride and competition to the equation, it becomes relatively easy to blame this disparity on human frailty...acceptance of the fact that two human beings can report completely different versions of the same event. Bias creeps in and we start to realize that using the Bible as a history book is not merely wrong minded. It is incompatible with logic. You cannot believe that the Bible is literally true and reconcile these two accounts any more than you can profess that a scribe jotting down notes can do the job of a tape recorder. It is a fact that seems to escape the fundamentalist ideal.

But let's get back to that idea of the finite God. If we limit God to the collected goodness of all creation, we have automatically limited him...if only slightly. If we furthermore decide he is incapable of independent creation and reliant on the evolution of the universal life forces that rule our world, we enable our own spiritual evolution in a way that makes our union with science synergistic instead of antagonistic! Wow!

When James Earl Ray escaped from prison, I was sent to cover the story.  There were a few dozen of us from all over the world.  It was a crowded mass of reporters and photographers laden with film cameras, tape recorders and harsh camera lights.  Nothing like the hundreds who would cover the event in modern times.  By that standard it was a small group of locals and a few national people.  I was struck by the nonchalance of all the crews.  I was not used to being around such a big story but soon I learned to dial back the sense of urgency and go with the flow. 

Every one was chasing rumors, often created by the journalists about how he escaped and where he was headed.  Every now and then a prison spokesman would walk to the makeshift podium and fill us in on the latest.  There just wasn't much news.  So as the afternoon sweltered into the night, we all found a way to get comfortable.  It was a nervous wait.  I kept my camera next to my leg and my battery pack in stand by.  As the night wore on, it began to rain.  And that was exactly what the trackers were waiting for.  Now the dogs could go to work.  We heard them wail as they ran down the road away from us.  Some tried to follow but the police were quick to halt them and we were resigned to the fact that we were not going to be allowed on the hunt. 

I sat down next to a journalist from somewhere north of New York and we started to talk.  I soon learned that she was a very bright girl who was looking to get laid.  So I shared my room number with her knowing that I would be relieved in a few hours.  My attention shifted from covering the story to watching the clock, waiting idly for my relief. 

In a few hours, we gathered again and the warden gave us encouraging news.  The rain had made it possible to pick up a strong trail and the dogs were making great progress.  It was believed that they would find Ray within the hour and it would all be over soon.   I peered over at my pretty young reporter and smiled.  She looked away, feigning indifference, as if she was too wrapped up in covering the news conference to notice me.  I took the rebuff in stride and turned my attention back to the presser.  After a few minutes, they finished and we quickly dispersed, settling back into the waiting routine. 

Chapter 18: TAKING A SHIT IN JAPAN

I have told this story a few times in mixed company. It is absolutely one hundred percent true. Not a single word is embellished. Most of the stuff I am writing here is riddled with bullshit. But this story is the God's honest truth.

I went to Japan as a documentary photographer for Channel 5 back in 1980. We were supposed to visit the Nissan plant and sample Japanese culture and bring back video of the trip. It was a plumb assignment with a reporter who was a great writer and a close friend. Greg and I had teamed up for a lot of great assignments and some really lame shit as well. We always managed to laugh our asses off and work our asses off at the same time. It was great to get the opportunity to go to Japan for ten days but going there with Greg was the icing on the cake.

When we got to Japan, we were met at the airport by a chauffeur with a little cap and a big sign that said, “Mr. Zerb. Mr. Thompson.” They spelled Greg's name wrong somehow but mine was perfect. We had never been escorted from any airport before so this was a blast. As we grabbed our bags we tried to make a detour to the bathroom but this poor guy spoke no English and we couldn't get him to slow down. So we followed him to the van and settled in with our stuff, hoping it would be a short ride.

Greg and I had opted not to take a shit on the airplane for some ungodly reason.

So as soon as we arrived at Nissan headquarters, we piled out of the van and skipped up the stairs and into the elevators. It was a long elevator ride. Both of us were suffering mightily by the time it stopped. We were greeted at the door and ushered into a large meeting room. They immediately started handing out business cards and I became greatly afraid that everything was coming to a head.

I looked at Greg. He was starting to sweat. I made my way over to him and I decided to take matters into my own hands. I lifted my arms in the air and asked for everyone's attention.

“Please!” I said, “Greg and I have just finished a very long flight and we must visit the bathroom before we can meet with you guys.”

After a brief moment of silence, I wondered if Greg had just shit on the floor. Apparently, it is bad form to make a public announcement like that in Japan. They looked at us as if we had just soiled the carpet. It really didn't matter to me. I knew they thought of us as vulgar Americans and I was gonna give them exactly what they were looking for.

The interpreter finally told the others what we had said and there was some nervous laughter. Finally, a young man took me by the arm and led us to the latrine. I thanked him and we walked through the door.

Finally! Everything was clean as a pin and orderly as hell. I opened one of the stalls and noticed that there was no toilet, just a porceline hole in the floor. Greg opened the next door stall. Same thing. We looked at each other and started to laugh. Then we noticed shitting noises and realized we weren't alone.

I walked into my stall and closed the door. I heard Greg walking down the long row of stalls, opening doors and closing them. I could see that there was a man in the stall next to me. As I took down my pants, I tried to figure out how to aim my ass at the little hole.

It was a really small hole. So I pulled my pants down to the floor, positioned myself as if I were sitting on an air toilet, took careful aim, and let fly...sort of like a bombadier bracketing in on his target.

I missed. Most of the shit hit the little porcelin thingee and some of it landed on the floor. It took a supreme effort, but I managed to stop the shit in mid turd. Now I had to clean up the floor without getting shit all over my hands and clothes. It was hard to do because my pants were still on the floor and the toilet paper was really thin. I thought I heard the guy next to me mutter something in Japanese. He seemed to think I was some kind of scum bag. I have no idea what he was saying, but he clearly was talking to me. I ignored him and cleaned up the mess.

Now it was time to give her another go. This time I sighted the hole and then moved forward a few inches. Bulls eye! Only one problem. When the shit hit the water, it splashed up all over my clothes. I had to stop again and reconnoiter.

Suddenly, it hit me. You ain't supposed to act like you are in an imaginary chair. You are supposed to crotch all the way down and put your ass on the little porcelin thing. Wow! What an uncomfortable way to take a shit. But once I got the mechanics down, I was able to finish the job without too much further ado...or should I say doo doo ado?

Anyway, as I came out of the stall, I began to snicker. Greg came out about the same time and he was laughing pretty hard. I thought we were both laughing at the same thing. But Greg was laughing harder. In fact, he was laughing so hard, he couldn't talk. He just grabbed me by the arm and led me down the row of stalls. He opened the last stall and showed me what was so damn funny.

It was regular, American style toilet sitting there in the last stall, still warm from Greg's enormously relaxing dump. We both pealed with laughter as the suit clad Japanese gentleman came out of his stall. He did not share our bemusement.

It was the beginning of a great adventure.

In the next few days that followed, Greg and I were treated like royalty...albeit imprisoned royalty. Everything we did was by their schedule. We were television reporters. And working by a schedule was absolutely foreign to both of us. The Japanese wanted to make sure we took back footage of exactly the right kind. That meant we were not to ask for interviews or do anything off schedule. We soon learned that our trip was not meant to be great journalism. It was meant to be a public relations production...propaganda.

Greg and I talked about this. I was hard on poor Greg. I urged him to ask hard questions and be a good journalist. But I was like a kid in a candy store. The Japanese know how to make a good cameraman salivate. In fact, I may have been preaching journalism to Greg, but I was practicing propaganda myself.

It was just so hard to keep a good perspective with these guys. Our interpreters were the nicest people you ever met. They tried their utmost to wine and dine us even though we were uncomfortable being catered to in that way. And every time we asked to jump out of the bus and shoot something that was happening extemporaneously, they looked at their watches and said, “But schedule says...” This became a joke with Greg and me. We would throw out a suggestion and then watch them confer and look at their schedule. Then we would smile at one another when they carefully told us that there was no time to do what we had suggested.

I cannot emphasize how valuable it was for me to be there working with Greg. I knew him as a friend, not just a reporter. So even though the trip was often stressful, I always knew that Greg would have my back. This became necessary when we had to go to a Japanese news station to sort out an equipment problem.

We were in a long line of traffic creeping along, trying to get to the station before our deadline. The traffic finally came to a complete standstill. I got out of the bus to see what was wrong. The Japanese freaked out. We were not supposed to venture out on our own like that. As I walked away from the bus, they all yelled at me to come back. Then they all filed out of the bus like a line of keystone cops with black suits and skinny ties.

I had walked less than a block when I saw the problem. Somebody ahead of us had parked illegally in a spot that was way too small. It was a Volkswagon beetle. There were at least a dozen Japanese gathered around scratching their heads. A large bus was unable to get through and that caused the bottle neck. So I walked over to the car and opened the door. My little entourage began chattering disapproval. They kept saying, “No No No, must ask permission!”

I turned to Mitsunaga, my lead interpreter, and asked him why I should be polite to this unknown Volkswagon owner when he had shown no deference to the rest of us. But Mitsunaga just kept insisting that I ask permission. In fact, all of the Japanese around me were extremely distressed at my actions. I ignored all of them. Greg nodded his approval. So I slipped into the driver seat and pulled the gear shift to neutral. Then I pushed the car out of the way to the approval of everyone watching, and everyone quickly got back into their vehicles and drove through the now clear intersection. It was a lesson in culture I will never forget. The Japanese culture is polite to a fault. This was proof.