Aug. 11, 1992

So I got my start in what would turn out to be quite a prosperous and surprisingly lucrative career in valet parking during this particular summer. Just a few months into the gig, 14 years ago today actually, I remember getting a message from a hotel co-worker after taking my dinner break to call home. Such a message was commonplace; it was often J.B. or Dave or one of the other roommates telling me which bar I was supposed to meet them at after I left work, or that there was a nasty seventh wheel over with her girlfriends, so I should consider taking my time getting home.

I picked up one of the hotel lines, and the operator apparently was waiting for me because she was preparing to dial from another phone elsewhere in the building. She asked the number, and I told her, adding that I was plenty qualified to make the call on my own, and if she stayed on, she'd probably hear something offensive in less than 60 seconds.

But I told her the number, and she asked what the area code was "up there," knowing that I was a Cleveland native at the time living in Cincinnati. I said "513; it’s like two miles up the road."

"No, John, you need to call home home," she said, making sure I understood the gravity of the call I was about to make by repeating that last word. "Your mom is waiting to hear from you."

It didn't take more than a second to figure out that Mom, who never called me at work, needed to tell her son that his father died after an eight-month battle with a deteriorating liver, initiated some 40 years earlier when he first picked up the brown-bottle habit.

So there it is. A dubios anniversary indeed. I miss ya, Pops!