Born in the Panama Canal Zone 80 years ago, Mr. Zidbeck came to California in 1944 with his mother and three siblings. He enlisted in the US Army after graduating from high school. Honorably discharged in 1952, he attended college under the G.I. Bill. After graduating from UCLA in 1958, he worked as a probation officer in LA County. George's wife of 55 years died in August 2010. He plans to remain in San Luis Obispo County, having been here since retiring in 1985.
In addition to penning observations and reflections since living in San Luis Obispo County, George has authored six volumes of a family saga that address the negative influence of alcohol on a family from the perspective of the mother (two volumes); the father (three volumes); and the first born son. Anyone interested in contacting the author, may write George Zidbeck.
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Rochester, My Good Buddy |
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HOPPY NU JEER!
by George Zidbeck
Pardon me for my misspelling — just an effort at informality and to make us both comfortable. To any insistent grammarian it might offend, please accept my apology. Language parsing and pronunciations aside, January 1st promises an individual the opportunity to change in some measure or achieve some goal long ignored. If we don't quickly and silently forget our resolutions, we often joke about our failure. But, whether keeping mum or joking, we get on with our misbegotten lives, then maybe next year make the same resolution or try a new one.
But this January 1st, I'm going to repeat a goal I gave myself at a New Year's Eve party in 1983 and fulfilled it. I then weighed 190+ pounds. My wife and I lived in Whittier and had about a dozen people attending the year's end celebration. A small clique, including myself, were discussing the whole notion of resolutions, and I — stone cold sober – mentioned that I planned on getting myself down to 165 pounds by summer, explaining, "I entered the (LA Co) Probation Department with a beautiful body and I plan on leaving (my retirement expected in two years) with a beautiful body."
After the snickers subsided, Jay-Jay countered, "You're not going to do it. No way."
"Well, let's bet on it." Not prepared right then to make a specific wager, I thought for a while. Jay-Jay liked Scotch; so I added, "If I don't, I'll give you a case of whatever Scotch you name."
"Hoo, man, I can already taste it. But, I'll top your bet by giving you a week on a house-boat in the (Sacramento) Delta."
"You're on. If I'm not 165 by June 30th, we have these witnesses to make sure I win or lose."
I jumped on a low calorie diet the very next day. My having a sedentary job daunted my expectation of an early victory. Still, week after week the scale slipped downward. By the first of June, I had dropped to 170.
Overconfidence might have allowed larger portions on my plate, but come June 29th the house scale registered 166. I worked out some the next day and, during the hot afternoon, I rolled the windows up and used the car as a sweatbox. Toward the late afternoon, I realized I needed verification of my avoirdupois. The La Mirada Hospital sat about two miles away, so I drove there and went into the emergency room. A smallish hospital, the open counter offered a receptionist and two nurses in close proximity to each other. Therefore, when I explained my desire to get officially weighed, all three smiled, and one nurse told me to enter thru the side door.
The standard scale, one such even used in my grammar school days, had the standing platform with an adjustable height bar in the rear. A notched, number marked, horizontal scale with a sliding weight easily allowed one to determine his exact bulk. I took off my shoes, unbuckled and removed my belt, and emptied my pockets. I stood atop the platform. The nurse moved the weight to 165. A deep breath and a fulfilling smile soon heightened the euphoria that overwhelmed me. One hundred and sixty-four and a half pounds. Stark naked, I'd've been under 164.
After redressing, I asked the nurse if she'd write a testament on hospital stationery, verifying my weight, while also including the date and time. That she did.
I kept the pounds off until my retirement in March of 1985. Soon thereafter, my wife and I came to San Luis Obispo County to fully tame the three acres we had purchased in 1978.
The first few years, having to clear raw land kept my weight close to that desired 165 pounds. As age slowed my metabolism and reduced my stamina, I allowed a gradual annual increase. Then, when I disciplined myself in 1998 to write a roman-fleuve of six books to portray a family's dysfunction via alcohol abuse, the past decade saw my weight balloon to 222. (Currently, it's 216). Egads and gadzooks!
Thus, this epistle that now confronts thee demands that you now witness my resolution, a rephrasing of what I announced over 27 years ago: Here I testify, on my squiredom's sod, swearing before all you herewith gathered where you sit/stand/squat, that I came to San Luis Obispo County with a beautiful body, and when the time comes for me to leave, it's going to weigh 165 lb. (+/- 2) – beautiful or not.
I ask for but one caveat, and that you grant me an allowance of one day. Traditionally, on January 1st, I start the day with ice cream and continue that nutritional mode until beddy-bye. Consequently, my six-month's weight loss program will not officially jumpstart until January 2nd. For those who want to make side bets or start a betting pool, feel free. Enjoy yourself at my expense — I don't mind. Now and then I'll provide a one liner progress report.
PS: Oh, some of you might be wondering if I ever got that houseboat ride. No, my friend (now deceased) never honored his wager. Would I have fulfilled my side of the bet? Sure. No doubt in my mind. But, I likely would have done so a bottle at a time. I'm afraid to ask what a case of Glen Livet runs today.
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