TEXTERS

     I've never been a huge fan of telephones. I especially loathe the act of actually answering the phone.  Apparently, I have been stricken with a syndrome that my father was afflicted with many years ago.  The man, to my knowledge, has never answered a ringing phone.  "You going to get that?" I would say, while the phone rang off the hook.  Usually, he wouldn't reply and simply continue watching the ball game or the news, or perhaps he would be staring off into space.
    "Ok, I'll get it," I would reply to my own question.  Of course, by then the phone would stop ringing and we would be left with only the faint curiosity of who could have been calling.  Thankfully, we never missed an emergency of some sort.
     So, I inherited my dad's disdain for ringing telephones.  I hate answering, talking or even looking at a telephone.  I'm not sure why.  I guess it's in the genes.  Often times, I longed for a way to communicate without actually having to talk to someone.  Again, genes.  It's not that my dad and I are some sort of weird introverts who don't have the skills to engage in conversation, it's just that we are in fact a bit strange in that we have an inexplicable phobia of telephone communications.  Finally, in the age of technology, my prayers were answered... texting.
     I have become a textaholic.  Primarily, my attraction to texting revolves around the fact that I can sent out my message (in 160 characters or less) anywhere, anytime. I can also respond to a text at my leisure.  I've been known to text an entire conversation with our pastor while firmly planted on the toilet.  He didn't know my particular whereabouts during our texting marathon and probably didn't care.  For all I know he was answering natures call too.  Texting is, as with everything, not without it's drawbacks.
    Admittedly, and begrudgingly, there are advantages to actually talking to the other person.  Tone of voice is always an advantage when the other person can hear you speak.  Enunciation, voice expression, are two things that immediately come to mind that let the person on the other end of the line know how you are responding to what they say.  Unfortunately, texting doesn't offer the same.
     Recently, I sent my wife a very simple message, "Get a gallon of milk on the way home."  Her response?  "Why don't YOU get a gallon of milk on YOUR way home!"  I scratched my head. I was home.  Apparently, my lack of typing the word 'please' and my subsequent failure to properly punctuate my message gave her the vibe that I was demanding that she stop and buy some milk.  I quickly responded with, "Will you please get some milk!" which escalated the mini milk battle that could have quickly become a major milk war. A question mark would have been just fine.  For some reason I inserted an exclamation point instead. I punched in her number and called her.
     "Honey, would you mind stopping and picking up a gallon of milk?  I'm making dinner are we're out.  I need it for the macaroni,"  I said, in a soft tone, which bordered on groveling.
     "Oh, sure.  I can swing by the store in a few minutes.  Thanks for making dinner."
     Not everyone enjoys a good 'ol text.  Or maybe it's just that they're not especially enthused at being inundated with texts during their son's basketball game as was brought to my attention at a recent Christmas gathering.  The whole issue started a week or so ago when my cousin texted me requesting our mailing address.  "What's your address?" she asked.  In this age of terrorism, crime and overall bad behavior, I had to verify who was actually in need of my address.  Despite the fact that her number and name appeared on my tiny screen I had to be sure.  Well, not really, I was simply trying to be silly.  "How do I know that it's really you?" I replied in a flash.  I still us an old, obsolete phone which features a slide out keyboard, thus allowing me to reply with superior speed.  I forget exactly how she replied, but she did, sure enough respond.  So, I in turn replied.  Then she replied, and then I replied. I was able to glean from her messages that she wanted to send us a Christmas card. I did, however notice that her replies were getting shorter and shorter until they simply stopped coming.  I surmised that she was probably on the toilet, so I gave her a couple of minutes to finish the job at hand... and then texted again.  Still nothing.  'Probably constipated'  I thought, so I gave up.
     A week passed and I was advised that the annual family Christmas gathering was to commence at my aunt and uncles home, which also happened to be the parents of my constipated cousin.  Unfortunately, the start time of the gathering was the same time that our daughter's volleyball practice was scheduled to start.  "I had better text Suz and let her know we'll be late," I said to my wife, who was busy gathering volleyball gear for the practice.  So, I whipped up a text with superior speed (remember my slide out keyboard) and touched send. She responded immediately.  So, in trying to be polite, I responded.  Again, she responded.  I responded.  She responded.  We just kept right on responding until her messages ominously stopped.  "Suz stopped responding.  Probably in the bathroom," I casually mentioned Kristi, who was glaring at me for some reason.
     "Or, maybe she's sick of texting you.  She has three kids, it's Christmas.  Do you think maybe she's got better things to do than sit around texting you endlessly!!?  For heaven's sake, you'll see her in an hour!  And, just because someone stops messaging you doesn't always mean they're going to the bathroom!"  she barked.  I stared at her with a puzzled look.
     "No, she's in the bathroom. I know it."
     "Whatever, let's go!  I swear, you're worse than any woman I know.  Jeff's not far behind!"
     I'm not sure why she saw fit to drag my poor brother-in-law into the debate, but she did.  He likes texting too.
    We went to volleyball practice and arrived at the family gathering just in time to eat, and of course I had the opportunity to see relatives that I don't see often.  We had great fun.  I also had the opportunity to apologize to my cousin for blowing up her phone with texts.  Apparently, she wasn't in the bathroom, or constipated for that matter, she simply had other things to do.  So, because I felt so bad about what I'd done, I gave her phone number to several other family members and urged them to text her as often as possible.  She probably doesn't get many text from people other than me, so surely it will be refreshing to hear from someone different from time to time.
     So, as I sit here about to conclude this blog, I find myself smiling and thinking that after all these years, and despite the busy lives we lead and the geographical separation, we can still share many good laughs.  I think I will send her a text.
   

CINEMA

     My wife and I share a great many common interests.  I guess most happily married people do, or they wouldn't be married in the first place.  We have the same philosophy when it comes to raising our children.  We have similar ideas on vacation destinations and both value hard work to accomplish goals in life.  We don't however, share any common ground in movie or television interests.
     The other day, I strode into the kitchen to find Kristi asleep under a blanket with the television on. I quietly removed my shoes and assumed a prone position on the opposite couch.  I stretched for the remote, which was lying on a little wooden chest close to where she slept.  Quietly and calmly, I began to surf.  Much to my delight, I stopped on the American Movie Channel, which had endless Steven Seagal movies on continuous loop.  Under Siege had just begun and I settled in for the long haul.  I still love the action movies of the nineteen eighties and early nineties.
     "You've got to be kidding me!"  came the muffled voice of my wife from somewhere deep within the pile of blankets that she was buried in. "Good grief, can't you switch it to something we can both enjoy?"
     I didn't utter a word.
     "Hello?  I don't want to watch this."
     Silence.
     Finally, through my peripheral vision, I could see her.  Her head was sticking up out of the covers, and she was staring at me with wide eyes and flared nostrils.  I gave in and looked directly at her.  "What?" I asked.
     She continued to stare and then spoke once again.  "Let's watch something we can both enjoy!"
     "There's nothing we both enjoy," I said, hoping she'd rebury herself and go back to sleep.
     "Oh, for goodness sake!  Surely there's something we both can watch."
     "We can both watch Steven Seagal."
     She continued to stare at me as though she was looking deep into my soul, desperately trying to figure out why I continued to enjoy watching Seagal shoot people and break bones with reckless abandon.  "Look, I'm not watching Dr. Phil.  I'm not watching people wander around in the woods looking for Big Foot.  If they'd find him once in a while, maybe, but they never do.  I'm also not going to watch those alien shows either.  Same as Big Foot, they never find any."  I assumed that I should continue to make my case for Steven Seagal.  "At least the events in Seagal's movies have the potential to happen."
     "Whatever," came the exasperated reply.
     "OK, lets talk about this.  Suppose YOU were tasked with jumping out of a cake on a Navy ship, and then dance for the sailors.  But, unbeknownst to you, some very bad guys had taken over the ship.  You didn't know, because you were inside the cake of course.  But when you do jump out, you realize that Steven Seagal is going to save your life.  Now, wouldn't that bring you some comfort?" I said, trying very hard to reason with her.
     "I can't think of any time I would be on a Navy ship," she quipped wryly.
     "Let's just pretend that you were on the ship," I answered.
     "Number one, I have never, nor will I ever go onto a Navy ship.  Number two, I don't jump out of cakes.  And three, I'm never going to dance for a bunch of sailors."
     For a moment, the conversation ceased.  I was exceedingly interested to see how Seagal was going to wiggle out of his latest seemingly hopeless predicament.  "This is so stupid, I don't see how anyone..." Kristi had gained her second wind.
     I shushed her and pointed to the TV.
    "Oh good Lord!  You know what's going to happen!  You've know what was going to happen for the last twenty years!  How may times have you seen this movie?"
    "About as many times as you've seen Grease!"
    She was right.  Maybe I could find something on another channel that we could watch, and reach a healthy compromise.  I began surfing again.  My surfing was short lived.
     "No!" she bellowed.
     I had pushed the channel button twice and landed right, smack, dab, on Spike TV, which was featuring none other than Sylvester Stallone in Rambo.  "Now, there's a movie we can both enjoy!"
     With that, she threw off her blankets and stomped to the nether regions of our home.
     Yep, there's no doubt.  We have lots of common interests.  But if I could just get her to appreciate broken bones, and shoot 'em up action scenes, we'd be forever on the page.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

    "Dad, what do rock collectors gain from collecting rocks?" Ryan asked, while simultaneously chomping on a piece of pizza.  "I mean, rock collecting?  Please."
    I pondered the question and surmised that as his father, I should at least attempt a fairly intelligent and well though out response.  "Well," I started.  "You see, people who collect rocks... Heck if I know.  Seems pretty pointless to me if you want my opinion."
     "Exactly!" the boy answered, before washing his pizza down with a rather large gulp of water.  "It just seems that people could be putting their time to better use that going around gathering a bunch of useless rocks."  I wasn't sure what his point really was, but I was wondering if he sure enough was a chip off the old block.  His mother doesn't have much use for rocks either.  "Bird watchers are another crowd that bother me,"  he continued.  Before I could expand on the bird watchers, he disappeared into his man cave.
     I have watched birds.  I guess most people have, but I have WATCHED BIRDS!  Like, with bird watchers.  How I came to be a bird watcher is of superior story quality.
     During my years in the Air Force, I had the unique privilege of meeting a great many people from all over the country and also a variety from around the world.  One of those people was none other that George Tackett from Pennsylvania.  When one thinks of Pennsylvania, some of that state's major cities come to mind.  Pittsburg and Philadelphia along with many others are at the forefront of places people have heard of.  Well, George was from neither.  He was from a place so remote, that according to him, dirt and tree bark were part of their basic sustenance.  I believed him.
     George was one of those guys who was country to the core.  He loathed the military way of doing things and was occasionally known to kill squirrels around the base with a pellet rifle and fry them on a hot plate in his barracks room.  I didn't spend much time with him as we worked opposite shifts, thus limiting our exposure to one another.  But, one day, he poked his head into my room.  "Whatcha doin' Fix?" he said, with a stubby Marlboro protruding from his lips.
     "Oh, just sitting around.  How about you George?" I asked without looking up from the comfort of my old, plaid couch.
     "Bored to tears.  I've killed all the squirrels and it looks like you and me are the only ones here today.  I took leave for a week, but my family is away, so I guess I'll just hang around the base," he continued as he plopped his lanky body down on my bed.  "I swear, I should hook you up with my older sister, Loretta," he said.  He had reached into my tiny dorm style fridge looking for who knows what so I was staring at his back, which was covered with a tee-shirt featuring a woman in a swim suit surrounded by the words, 'we dive at five'.  It was widely known that he'd been named for George Jones.  His older sister had been named for Loretta Lynn.  His younger sister was named Dolly.  I don't need to explain that one.
     "Hook me up with Dolly!  She's the one I want!" I said, with an ear to ear grin on my face.  He turned from the fridge and frowned.
    "Naw, pervert.  She's only twelve."
    "Oh, sorry."
    George lit another cigarette, and scrunched his face.  "I hate this place.  There's nothing here but concrete and pavement.  Back home we hunted and fished everyday.  Gotta drive a hundred miles now just to find a decent patch of woods in this hell hole!" he moaned.  He did have a fairly valid point.  There surely aren't many places in Washington, D.C. to hunt and fish.
     Suddenly, another of our barracks mates leaned into my room.  Mike Scanlon lived across the hall.  He was a very intelligent guy, who attended the University of Maryland while also keeping up with his Air Force duties.  Rarely, he would make an appearance, and simply disappear, rarely hanging around long enough to engage in real conversation.  I had a feeling that our conversations weren't very stimulating as far as he was concerned.  I doubt that he cared how many empty beer bottles were needed to completely fill a urinal.  He apparently came from well to do parents as he was the only person we knew who drove a decent car.  I still don't like Volvos for that reason.  He also had a girlfriend who happened to be one of he prettiest girls I'd ever seen. I do however, continue to like girls.  How he wound up as an enlisted man in the military was a question that has never been answered.  "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about being bored and longing for the peace and serenity of the outdoors," he said with a wide smile.
     George looked puzzled.  I figured the peace and serenity  bit had confused him.  "What?" he asked, while exhaling a perfect smoke ring from his mouth.
     "Look fellows, I'm a very avid birdwatcher.  My girlfriend and I belong to the Upper Chesapeake Birding Society.  It's great fun!  Why don't you guys come along with our group sometime?  You'd love it!"  I could see that Scanlon was joking or was trying to make us the joke.
     "Can we shoot them birds after you watch 'em?" George squawked.  "The only birds I've ever watched were the ones I blasted with my shotgun."
     "No, you can't shoot them!  We try to see how many species of birds we can observe in a day.  It's great fun and afterwards there's always plenty of food and drink."
     "Well, I guess it might be ok.  You in Fix?"  George asked.  At that point, I was sure that bird watching and food had little to do with George's sudden enthusiasm with Mike's suggestion.  The drinking?  That's a different story. George and Jim Beam were rather cozy friends.
     Scanlon continued to stare at us.  "Well?"
     "Alright, call us the next time you go. If we're not busy, we'll think about it," I replied.
     Several days later, I was summoned to the hall telephone.  "Hello."
     "Fix, it's Mike.  My group is going bird watching this morning and I was wondering if you and George would like to tag along!"  I was not the tag along type.  In fact I especially wasn't the bird watching tag along type.  There was no way I was going to be duped into participating in Scanlon's little charade.
     "Yeah, sure.  Let me see if George is in," I said, as I walked toward George's room.  There was never a question of whether or not he was in.  There was, however, always a question of whether or not he had sobered up from the previous night.  I banged on his wooden door.
     "George, get up!  We're going bird watching with Scanlon this morning!"  I heard a faint groan and then a thunderous crash.  Suddenly the door flew open.  George was unfit for bird watching.  In fact he was unfit for almost anything from the looks of him.  His boxer shorts were dangling from his waist, his hair was a tangled mess, and his boots were muddy and wet.  He reeked of alcohol.  "Good Lord son, what happened to you?"
   "I tried frog gigging in the base lake last night and it didn't turn out so well.  How the hell did my boots wind up back on my feet?  Oh, must have put them on to get some smokes from my car this morning.  Damn."
     "Well get dressed, we're going bird watching today!"
     After what seemed forever, George presented himself at my room.  His hair was still the same tangled mess it had been before, and he sported the same muddy combat boots.  Thankfully, he did don a tank top and a pair of cut off blue jeans.  I stared at him. "You're wearing that?" I asked, incredulously. The words 'bird watcher' did not come to mind unless we were referring to a street person feeding pigeons.  "Let's go.  Scanlon gave me directions and said to be there no later that ten."  With that, we made our way to my 1986 Dodge Omni.  George sat for a moment and then he turned his head toward me and spoke.
     "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, looking at himself.
     I didn't answer and continued to drive.
     Luckily we didn't get lost and found our way to the park in which the bird watching adventure was scheduled to commence and found Scanlon's directions to be perfect.  We also found the other bird watchers to be perfect as well.  I steered my little rattling car into a space next to Mike's Volvo and observed that we had probably made a huge mistake in accepting his invitation.  There were at least twenty other people milling around.  Most of them appeared to be of the noble variety.  At least two of the men wore safari hats and all of them had khaki shorts on.  One fellow was busy adjusting the tripod on his rather large spotting scope, while another wiped the lenses on his binoculars.  None of them sported a tank top proclaiming that they always fished with a 'Big Johnson' as George did. "Did you bring binoculars?" I asked, without looking at George.
    "Hell yeah.  They ain't big as that guy's but they'll do.  His looks like something you'd use on a Navy ship.  Damn, we looking at a bunch of birds or we trying to find Jupiter!!!"  I chuckled but didn't look at him.
   "Well, lets go," I said.
    We made our way to the group, who were gathered around one of the men in the safari hats.  He was handing out something to each person.  "These are the species most likely to be observed in this area today.  But, often times we will see the occasional  odd duck, no pun intended, around this parcel,"  The crowd erupted in laughter and George obviously didn't get the joke.  Maybe the guy truly was trying to be funny, but I felt like George was the odd duck that day.  The crowd had been staring at us since we'd parked.  It was as though Elvis Presley was along for the day.
     I noticed that nobody smoked as my old Pennsylvania buddy did.  Apparently, George was the only one who reeked of liquor, but it was hard to tell as the smell enveloped the entire parking lot. I didn't notice anyone else in a tanktop with mustard stains on it.  Standing beside him, I felt that at least I wasn't the very bottom of the barrel.
     "What's this paper with pictures of birds on it for?" George asked without removing his the cigarette from his mouth.
     The finely dressed lady standing beside us stared ominously at us and answered.  "If you happen to spot one of these birds, write down where you saw it, what time you saw it, and approximate size of the specimen."
    George leaned over to me.  "What'd she say?  Are we looking for birds or specimens?"
   "Both."
    Safari hat man, whom I assumed must be the leader spoke again.  "Does anyone have any questions."
    George raised his hand.  "Yes, what is it?"  the leader asked with a booming voice and a slight hint of irritation.
    "Well, I've seen almost all of the birds on this sheet.  Matter of fact, I've killed right many of them.  Why are we looking for them again?"  Several gasps floated through the air, along with many looks of disgust.
     The leader didn't answer George.  Scanlon instantly regretted his decision to include us in his bird watching adventure.
     With that, we began our journey around the trail in search of birds.  Oddly, I didn't notice a single person writing anything on their sheet.  Even more odd was the fact that George had nearly run out of room to write on his.  "What in the world are you writing?" I asked, trying to make out the scribble that covered his sheet.
     "These people must be blind!  I'm seeing all sorts of birds.  There's one on that branch over there," He said with his arm outstretched and his index finger extended.  The guy with the spotting scope spun his contraption around and announced, "A big hand for George, he's just spotted the elusive eastern pine cone bird!"
     A huge amount of laughter ensued.  I felt bad for my friend, but not really bad.  He did, after all have a pair of binoculars that were once commonly given away as prizes in cereal boxes.  Suddenly, an older lady with a large flowery hat exclaimed with a hushed voice that she'd spotted an Eastern Mourning Dove.
     "Mourning Dove?" George asked.  "Hell, we got them back home.  After we got done with them, they was in mourning all right!"  Again, gasps filled the air.
     We continued for at least another mile or so and I simply could not take another minute of bird watching.  I turned toward my sweaty, hungover friend and quietly said, "I think it's time to go. You  and I are going to head back.  I'm tired and I think maybe bird watching isn't our thing." I thanked Mike for inviting us along and to be honest the guy looked relieved. With that, George and I meandered back to the car.
     "Those people are hateful.  One old lady said she'd never seen a chain smoking bird watcher before and that lady with the flowery hat said that someone smelled like a bar room trash can. Whoever she was talking about probably had their feelings hurt," he said.
     "Yeah, probably," I said as I drove away from the park.
     We didn't say much on the way back.  George slept most of the way, and finally woke up as we entered the base.  "I have killed almost every one of those birds at one time or another.  No lie."
     I haven't been bird watching since.  I haven't laid eyes on George for over twenty years.  But, one thing is for sure.  He was great entertainment that day, and much more so that watching a bunch of birds.
 
   
   

PATIENCE

    I've never been accused of being too patient.  It's a problem I've dealt with for many years and to be completely candid, my inability to wait is getting worse.  Apparently, many men are afflicted with a condition commonly known as, "Are you kidding me?  I've been on hold for over three minutes.  One more minute and I'm going through the phone and beat somebody down!"
     My wife, who I adore, is of a somewhat more understanding nature.  She moves at her own pace, which often counters my need for hurrying at everything I do.  I have mellowed somewhat over the years, but my impatience is alive and well.  I've simply learned to bottle up my disgust at all things slow moving.
    Several years ago, when energy prices soared to astronomical levels, we decided to purchase an insert for our fireplace to supplement our heating oil consumption.  We assumed that if we occasionally burned wood, then our house would be warmer and our checking account would be fatter.  So, I made the purchase and carefully slid the steel behemoth into the fireplace opening.  We were pleased at the way it looked and were eager to light the inaugural fire.  I gathered some firewood and in an instant our house was cozy and the furnace seemed to enter into a deep sleep, rarely roaring to life.
     As with everything, our new found source of heat came with a few draw backs.  One of those included the need to sweep the flue every year.  "I'll head over to Lowe's and get a brush.  Be back in a few," I said, while heading for my truck.
     In an instant, I appeared at the back door and announced the need for removing the insert and to cover the fireplace opening to prevent ash and soot from entering the house as I swept the chimney.  "I have a huge piece of plastic in the shop.  I'll grab it and a roll of duct tape, and you can cover the opening while I grab the ladder and other tools I'll need for the job."  I gave my orders as I walked toward my shop to retrieve the said items for my wife to do her part of the job.
     With much ado, we gently slid the insert out of the fireplace and onto a few boards I had rounded up while digging for duct tape and plastic.  Again, I barked a few  more orders.  "Be sure to cover the opening well, we don't want a mess in the house."  With that, I retrieved my trusty extension ladder and headed to the roof of our two story home.  Upon my arrival at the crest of the roof, and the subsequent removal of the flue cap, I assumed that my wife would have surely completed her part of the job.
     Immediately, I hastily screwed on the first extension rod, then the next and then the next.  Finally, I had attached all of the shiny metal rods together and could feel the brush reach the bottom of the chimney.  In an instant I began jerking the rod violently up and down.  I could hear the chunks of black, sooty buildup fall to the bottom of the black abyss that was our chimney.  Suddenly, I heard what sounded vaguely like my wife yelling up into the chimney.  "What?!!" I wailed into the opening, which was surrounded by a black dusty cloud.  Again, a muffled cry wafted up the chimney and into the dusty air.  "I can't hear you!" I cried.
     Suddenly, and without warning, Kristi appeared below me.  "Can you hear me now?!!  What the hell is wrong with you?!!  I swear, you are the most impatient man I've ever known!!!"  She was a pitiful sight for sure.  In an instant Sidney and Ryan crawled across the grass and collapsed beside her, hacking and coughing all the way.  For a brief moment, I wondered where my family had gone, and who the heck where the three coal miners lying on my lawn?  Eventually, our tiny, fuzzball of a dog appeared.  I had remembered it as being a mix of black and white fur, but now all I could see was a solid black mutt coughing and wheezing in an attempt to breathe.  Finally, the pitiful animal simply began rolling in the grass and attempting to rid itself of the noxious, black soot which covered it's entire body.
     Kristi and the kids, continued to hack and cough, spitting with superior regularity.  I simply stared in amazement.  Eventually, the three ebony souls stared up at me with very ominous faces.  "Dad, Tippy is going to get lung cancer!" Sidney wailed.  Ryan had removed his tee-shirt, revealing the extent of the damage to is body.  His head and arms were completely black, while his torso was a pearly white.  By that time, Sidney had wiped her eyes and resembled a reverse raccoon.  Kristi continued to stare at me.  "Do you think that maybe you could have waited until I finished covering the opening before you started brushing the chimney?!!  I'm telling you, if I were you, I'd stay on the roof for awhile!"
     "Good grief, I figured that you had plenty of time to get the job done.  Don't blame me, you should have been faster at the simple task I asked you to do," I said, in a feeble attempt to save face.  At least my face was still the same hue it had always been.
     I slowly climbed down to survey the damage.  Sooty, black clouds wafted from the window screens, and the front door.  The interior of the house was covered in a layer of fine, black dust.  "It's going to be a long night, that's for sure, maybe I should have given you a bit more time," I said, in a small attempt to reconcile with my very black and very angry wife.
     We bathed the kids, and the dog, but spent the rest of the evening cleaning, and wiping every surface in the downstairs of our house.
     In the years since, I have exercised some patience when it comes to chimney sweeping, but I'm sure one day, my disdain for waiting will once again cause an uproar with the family.  But, nothing could possibly top the day I turned my family into hacking, coughing coal miner look alikes.