Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone and now we move in a hurried pace toward Christmas. For lots of people, the majority it seems, the Friday after Thanksgiving means rising from bed to the sound of an overly annoying alarm in the wee hours of the morning to stand in line at the local big box store in hopes of saving a few bucks on a movie screened sized television. As for our family? The day after giving thanks means decorating for Christmas.
Our decorating tradition has proliferated over the years to the point that I'd rather take an icy swim in the pond over the hill. I have coined the term 'White Friday' due to the abundance of tiny white lights around our home. However, 'Brown Friday' would certainly be suitable as well, due to the inordinate amount of lights that simply died over the past year. Apparently, from year to year, while tucked away neatly in the attic, several strings cease to operate. It's a strange phenomenon to be sure.
"Ryan, get up!" I barked at our almost sixteen-year-old son. He's a strange phenomenon not unlike the lights. The only distinguishable difference between he and the lights is that the lights actually worked at some point. Actually, that's not entirely true, but close. Remember, he's a teenager.
I could see the covers on his bed move slightly and then stop moving all together. "Get up, we're going to decorate for Christmas!" I bellowed once more.
The lump beneath the covers moved slightly and the top of his head appeared. "Ugh! Do we have to? Christmas is almost a month away!" the pitiful boy exclaimed. I secretly felt his dread, but was careful to put on a bold face as my wife hovered ominously nearby.
"I need you to go up into the attic and hand down all of the bins with the decorations and all. Hustle up, we need your help."
Finally, Ryan appeared in the hallway, half awake and wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Head on up, and hand the bins down to me," I stated, glad that he was now strong enough for the task and I didn't have to lumber around in the dimly lit attic looking for our decorations.
After what seemed like an eternity, we finally finished the arduous task of retrieving the massive amount of garlands, wreaths, lights, ornaments, manger scenes, nut crackers, snowy village scenes, fake lighted trees and window candles.
"Dad, the mall doesn't have this many decorations! Going Griswold are we this year?" Ryan asked.
I didn't answer, but I could certainly see his point. "You know, we need another Christmas tree" Kristi stated with a look that said I would soon be on my way to purchase another Christmas tree.
"What's wrong with the one we have?" I inquired, with a hint of dread.
"Oh that one's fine, I mean a second tree" she answered.
So just like that, there I stood, in line with the other pitiful souls with another tree. Finally, I paid and headed home to commence decorating.
"The lights on the garland worked fine last year, I wonder why they won't light up now?" Kristi asked, while simultaneously pushing the plug into the outlet and back out again several times. "Here, take it to your shop and see if you can fix it." I assumed that I once again would be heading out to purchase more lighted garland when suddenly the little white lights came to life. I guess they are similar to our son. They just needed a little warming up.
Suddenly, and without warning, Sidney appeared. "Dad, I'm trying to decorate my room and my lights won't work or stay where I want them!" I stopped wrapping the garland around the stair rail and followed her to her bedroom. "I'm trying to put colored lights around my clock, but number one, they won't come on, and number two, they keep falling down."
I studied her predicament and surmised that the clock must be removed and taken to my shop for an all out assault on her decorating plan. The clock in question is huge. Huge means approximately four feet in diameter. It doesn't keep time, but it's 'cool'. Finally, after a fuse replacement and a little bit of backyard engineering, the clock was rehung and brilliant display of colorful lights shined brightly from the wall behind her bed.
"Daaaad, this stupid tree won't light fully!" Ryan bellowed from the living room. I sighed and headed toward the boy in crisis. "The top lights, and the bottom are fine, but the middle is a barren unlit wasteland."
I poked and prodded in the middle of the old tree, sure that there must be something unplugged, but there wasn't. The middle strand of lights had gone on to the big tree in the sky. They were dead. "Alright, mom bought a couple extra strands at the store, so lets just string those around and all will be well." So, that's what we did.
"This tree is hideous!" Kristi yodeled from the upstairs window. Ryan and I had moved on to the outside of the house when she had discovered the slightly irregular lighting on our primary tree. I could hear Sidney and her infectious laugh standing behind my wife. "You've got to fix this!"
I was getting tired of fixing things, especially bothersome Christmas lights. "Just rearrange them, they'll be fine" I yelled, while attempting to coax our little lighted exterior trees to come to life.
"Ryan, pull this extension cord under the front door and plug it in. Hopefully, they'll work."
"I don't think the cord is long enough" came the swift reply.
"Sure it's long enough, it's the same one I used last year" I said, shaking my head at such a juvenile comment. I have many years of decorating experience and if I say the cord is long enough, then it's long enough.
"OK, whatever you say."
With that, they boy slid the cord under the door, gave a gentle tug, and in an instant, the garland above the door crashed down on of me and both little trees were torn from their bases and lay pitifully on their sides on the front porch. Laughter ensued. "I told you the cord wasn't long enough!" Ryan said through tears of laughter. There's nothing funny about watching your father get pummeled by a pine cone laden garland as far as I was concerned. We finally retrieved a suitable cord and continued to decorate.
Finally, we finished. As the sun dipped below the mountains to the west, we stood in front of the house and admired our creation. It looked nice. The white window candles, the tree in front of the window, the lighted garland and of course the spotlight topped it off. "Dad, there's one candle not burning" Sidney kindly pointed out. She snickered as she made the observation.
I could feel my wife staring at me. "Take it to your shop and see if you can...
Friday, November 25, 2016
Sunday, October 23, 2016
SITTIN' UP WITH THE DEAD
"Dad, what kind of vehicle are you going to buy for me when I get my license?" Ryan asked, with wide eyes and large expectations. I remembered the same conversation with my father when I was around the same age as my son. My answer to Ryan was somewhat more hopeful than that of my dad.
"Oh, I don't know. We'll find something that I'm sure you'll like," I replied.
Now we can turn the clock back to 1986 and I can quote my dad's words verbatim. "Get you a vehicle?! Damn, boy, I can barely afford to keep what I have on the road. Much less buy YOU one!" I don't recall the man even looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "Maybe you need to get a job and buy one with your own money. You'll appreciate it more that way," he continued.
I moped out the back door and into the yard, sullen, sad and dejected. Suddenly, I spotted a potential ride. My dad's old wood cutting truck! I knew many guys my age who drove similar vehicles which had been restored to sterling condition. Dad's truck and sterling should never be used in the same sentence, but there was hope. Squirrels and mice had mostly occupied the old 1970 Chevy for at least two years, and leaves from the previous autumn lined what was left of the bed. The tires were dry rotted and rocker panels below the doors had rusted back to before the iron ore had become steel. However, there was hope. I burst back into the house. "Dad, what about the old truck? Can I have it to fix up?" Slowly, he lowered the newspaper and spoke. "Sure, but you still have to get a job. The body is bad and the engine is nearly blown. It's going to take some money, but you'll get there. You'll appreciate it more if you pay for the work." Growing up, I learned to appreciate a lot of things.
Jobs in our little town were exceedingly rare. There was a small grocery store, a bank, post office and the funeral home. The grocery store was fully staffed, and there was zero chance of working at the bank or post office for that matter. So, the funeral home it was.
I drove to the front of the building and sat for a moment and stared. The hearse was parked behind the director's home, which sat mere feet from the actual mortuary. A cold chill raced down my spine. What would my friends say when they found out I was working at a funeral home? Oh well, I needed money and my grass cutting business just wasn't paying enough to restore an old truck. So, I slowly opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, the large wooden front door leading to the chapel swung open and Big Jim stepped out. "Howdy boy! What can I do for you? You don't look dead yet, so I guess that's not it!" he said with a thunderous laugh. Big Jim owned the funeral home. He was a massive man with a booming voice that carried across any room he occupied.
"Uh, I need a job," I replied, intimidated.
Big Jim had advanced to where I stood and towered over me, rubbing his chin. "Well, what can you do?" he asked, still staring down at me. "You know, this place isn't for the faint of heart."
"Well, I was thinking I could do some odd jobs here. You know, like mowing the lawn, cleaning, washing the vehicles. Maybe I could help park cars at funerals. I'm reliable and willing to work. I'll do anything you ask," I answered, trying my best to make eye contact with him. "I'm trying to raise money for a truck."
"Why don't you just ask Carl to buy you a truck?"
I sighed. "I did. He said if I work for it I'd appreciate it more," I answered with a slightly dejected tone.
Big Jim laughed and directed me into the funeral home. I followed him through the chapel and into his office, which was located at the rear of the building. During the short walk, I couldn't help but notice the mournful music and low lighting of the place. If survivors of the deceased weren't grieving enough, this place would surely finish the job, I thought. I was glad to exit the main part of the building.
We sat for a brief interview, which consisted of answering questions about mowing grass, washing cars, and operating a vacuum cleaner. Thankfully, there were no questions about what a funeral home is really about.
"You're hired," Big Jim said. He reached out with his massive hand to shake mine, and that was it. I was a proud employee of our local funeral home. Within a few minutes, I was mowing the front lawn.
As time went on, my responsibilities grew. I went from mowing the lawn and washing cars, to becoming involved with, ahem, the inner workings of the funeral business. Those occasions arose mostly due to my being the lone employee and Big Jim needing some help with a few things that won't be disclosed in this story. Thankfully for me and not so much for him, we hit a slow spell in which people simply weren't dying. We went several months without a funeral. I was afraid of being laid off, and unbeknownst to me, Big Jim was afraid I was going to quit due to lack of working hours. To rectify the situation, he offered me a salary position of seventy-five dollars a week whether I worked or not. If I worked more than that, he paid me the difference. I accepted.
"How's the old savings account coming son?" my dad asked, while staring at the evening news. Many of my memories involve my father either reading the newspaper or watching the news.
I stared out of the kitchen window and a light snow blanketed my old truck which still sat idle at the edge of the woods. Summer had turned to autumn, and autumn had turned to winter. "Oh, ok I guess. I'm not working much. People around here live forever. I've washed he hearse three times this week and taken the garbage out once, but I need more hours. I'll never get the truck restored at this rate."
Suddenly the phone rang. My mom entered the kitchen and answered. "Oh yes Jim, he's right here." My mom whispered that Big Jim was on the phone.
"Hi Jim, what's up?" I asked, sure that he wanted me to wash the hearse yet again.
"Good news my boy, someone finally died!" he exclaimed. My mother and father could easily hear his voice blast from the phone. Mom looked mortified, while my dad peered over the newspaper he was then reading and shook his head.
"That's great! I mean not great, but good. You know what I mean. Do you need me to come down?"
"Yes, and bring some old clothes and boots."
Old clothes and boots? I thought. "Did he say bring old clothes and boots?" mom asked.
Before I could answer, my dad chimed in. "Are you burying someone or are you digging one up?" he asked. giggling. I didn't answer, and retrieved my boots and an old pair of blue jeans.
I had occasionally made the trip with Jim to the hospital morgue to bring someone to the funeral home, and usually he would ask me to dress nicely because it would reflect well on the business. Old clothes and boots were a first.
I drove into the rear lot and strode anxiously to the office, where I could see Big Jim talking on the phone. "We've got a unique situation on our hands. An old man has died in a tiny cabin in the mountains. I assume it's been a few days. His closest neighbor found him and lets just hope you're in good shape. It's a hike."
I felt like I was in pretty good shape, but Jim? Not so much.
We drove as far up the tiny path as the funeral van would take us, and then we walked, and walked and walked. Skeeter, the neighbor who had found the man, served as our guide. As far as I knew, the authorities had already been there, and contacted Jim to retrieve the deceased. Finally, we approached the tiny cabin and entered. We placed the old man on the gurney and began our ascent back to the van.
The drive back to the funeral home was uneventful and quiet. Mostly quiet due to our being on the verge of having a heart attack from our climb up and down a small mountain.
I helped Jim with all that I could and climbed into my car and drove home.
The next day Jim called. "Neil, there's not going to be a formal viewing or funeral. He doesn't have any family that we know of and the state is picking up the cost. So, tomorrow night, we'll place him in the chapel and if someone wants to pay their respects, they can. I'll need you to be here from six till nine just in case. We'll be at a UVA basketball game." What?!!! He wanted me to sit around from six till nine in a creaky, old funeral home with, ah, well you know! There was no way I was doing that little chore. No Way!
"Ok, I'll see you at six," I answered.
I didn't sleep well that night, and felt an uneasy tension the next day. I counted the time until I had to sit with the old man for three hours. I peeked into my sister's bedroom and quietly asked her a question. "Want to earn some money?"
She looked and answered, "I am not going with you to sit in the funeral home tonight! No way!"
Finally, the hour arrived. I drove slowly toward my unsettling destination and parked. Big Jim met me at the door. "I don't expect anyone, but just in case, I need you here. Be sure to lock up and turn off the lights. Remember, it's the one's who are alive you need to worry about." With that, he disappeared into the night.
Jim's sense of humor needed some work for sure.
I plopped down at the front desk, because that's where I was supposed to sit, but mostly because it's proximity to the front door provided for quick egress in the event of my being scared out of my wits. I could see the streetlight outside through the triangular windows and noticed snow beginning to fall once again. I'd longed for some human interaction of the living kind, but with the snow, I was sure it was just me and the old man in the adjacent room for the night. Great.
I read a book for my English class, and called my sister at least ten times, and heard every creak and groan the old building made. When one of the creaks lasted longer than I thought It should have, I rose to investigate. Slowly, I made my way toward to doorway leading to the chapel, just to make sure that all was well. I peeked around the door frame and sure enough, everything seemed to be in order and everyone was in their proper place, and then it happened. The front door opened! I was unaware that two older ladies had entered the funeral home to pay their respects and left the door ajar. I walked in a hurried pace to close the door, still unaware of the ladies presence. I rounded the corner and nearly ran over Ethel Simpson and Cornealia Jackson! They screamed! I screamed! I think the old man in the chapel screamed! I gathered myself and looked at the ladies. "What in the world are you doing out on a snowy night like this? Did you know the man in there?" They scowled at me without answering, signed the guest book and promptly left. To them I was merely a whippersnapper with a smart mouth. Apparently, they hadn't considered the superhuman bravery I had displayed that night. I had forgotten that funerals and visitations for them were a source of socialization whether they knew the deceased or not. They were the lone signers of the guest book.
The snow began to fall faster and harder than ever. I could barely make out the lone street light by then. I looked at the grandfather clock across from the desk. Eight o'clock. Good enough. I scurried around locking doors and shutting off lights. I raced past the old man and headed toward the door. In one motion, I hopped into the car and started the engine. Slipping and sliding, I finally made it home.
"How'd it go son?" dad asked when I walked into the kitchen. "Why are you sweating?'
I shook my head and answered, "Oh, I guess sitting up with the dead can make for a pretty interesting night. But honestly, it's the live one's you have to worry about."
I finally raised enough money to restore my old truck. My dad was right. I appreciated that old truck because of all the work that was required to complete the task. However, sitting up with the dead was no doubt something that is unique to me. I moved on from the funeral business, but every once in a while I think about that snowy night and the two old ladies who nearly caused a young boy to need his own funeral services.
"Oh, I don't know. We'll find something that I'm sure you'll like," I replied.
Now we can turn the clock back to 1986 and I can quote my dad's words verbatim. "Get you a vehicle?! Damn, boy, I can barely afford to keep what I have on the road. Much less buy YOU one!" I don't recall the man even looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "Maybe you need to get a job and buy one with your own money. You'll appreciate it more that way," he continued.
I moped out the back door and into the yard, sullen, sad and dejected. Suddenly, I spotted a potential ride. My dad's old wood cutting truck! I knew many guys my age who drove similar vehicles which had been restored to sterling condition. Dad's truck and sterling should never be used in the same sentence, but there was hope. Squirrels and mice had mostly occupied the old 1970 Chevy for at least two years, and leaves from the previous autumn lined what was left of the bed. The tires were dry rotted and rocker panels below the doors had rusted back to before the iron ore had become steel. However, there was hope. I burst back into the house. "Dad, what about the old truck? Can I have it to fix up?" Slowly, he lowered the newspaper and spoke. "Sure, but you still have to get a job. The body is bad and the engine is nearly blown. It's going to take some money, but you'll get there. You'll appreciate it more if you pay for the work." Growing up, I learned to appreciate a lot of things.
Jobs in our little town were exceedingly rare. There was a small grocery store, a bank, post office and the funeral home. The grocery store was fully staffed, and there was zero chance of working at the bank or post office for that matter. So, the funeral home it was.
I drove to the front of the building and sat for a moment and stared. The hearse was parked behind the director's home, which sat mere feet from the actual mortuary. A cold chill raced down my spine. What would my friends say when they found out I was working at a funeral home? Oh well, I needed money and my grass cutting business just wasn't paying enough to restore an old truck. So, I slowly opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, the large wooden front door leading to the chapel swung open and Big Jim stepped out. "Howdy boy! What can I do for you? You don't look dead yet, so I guess that's not it!" he said with a thunderous laugh. Big Jim owned the funeral home. He was a massive man with a booming voice that carried across any room he occupied.
"Uh, I need a job," I replied, intimidated.
Big Jim had advanced to where I stood and towered over me, rubbing his chin. "Well, what can you do?" he asked, still staring down at me. "You know, this place isn't for the faint of heart."
"Well, I was thinking I could do some odd jobs here. You know, like mowing the lawn, cleaning, washing the vehicles. Maybe I could help park cars at funerals. I'm reliable and willing to work. I'll do anything you ask," I answered, trying my best to make eye contact with him. "I'm trying to raise money for a truck."
"Why don't you just ask Carl to buy you a truck?"
I sighed. "I did. He said if I work for it I'd appreciate it more," I answered with a slightly dejected tone.
Big Jim laughed and directed me into the funeral home. I followed him through the chapel and into his office, which was located at the rear of the building. During the short walk, I couldn't help but notice the mournful music and low lighting of the place. If survivors of the deceased weren't grieving enough, this place would surely finish the job, I thought. I was glad to exit the main part of the building.
We sat for a brief interview, which consisted of answering questions about mowing grass, washing cars, and operating a vacuum cleaner. Thankfully, there were no questions about what a funeral home is really about.
"You're hired," Big Jim said. He reached out with his massive hand to shake mine, and that was it. I was a proud employee of our local funeral home. Within a few minutes, I was mowing the front lawn.
As time went on, my responsibilities grew. I went from mowing the lawn and washing cars, to becoming involved with, ahem, the inner workings of the funeral business. Those occasions arose mostly due to my being the lone employee and Big Jim needing some help with a few things that won't be disclosed in this story. Thankfully for me and not so much for him, we hit a slow spell in which people simply weren't dying. We went several months without a funeral. I was afraid of being laid off, and unbeknownst to me, Big Jim was afraid I was going to quit due to lack of working hours. To rectify the situation, he offered me a salary position of seventy-five dollars a week whether I worked or not. If I worked more than that, he paid me the difference. I accepted.
"How's the old savings account coming son?" my dad asked, while staring at the evening news. Many of my memories involve my father either reading the newspaper or watching the news.
I stared out of the kitchen window and a light snow blanketed my old truck which still sat idle at the edge of the woods. Summer had turned to autumn, and autumn had turned to winter. "Oh, ok I guess. I'm not working much. People around here live forever. I've washed he hearse three times this week and taken the garbage out once, but I need more hours. I'll never get the truck restored at this rate."
Suddenly the phone rang. My mom entered the kitchen and answered. "Oh yes Jim, he's right here." My mom whispered that Big Jim was on the phone.
"Hi Jim, what's up?" I asked, sure that he wanted me to wash the hearse yet again.
"Good news my boy, someone finally died!" he exclaimed. My mother and father could easily hear his voice blast from the phone. Mom looked mortified, while my dad peered over the newspaper he was then reading and shook his head.
"That's great! I mean not great, but good. You know what I mean. Do you need me to come down?"
"Yes, and bring some old clothes and boots."
Old clothes and boots? I thought. "Did he say bring old clothes and boots?" mom asked.
Before I could answer, my dad chimed in. "Are you burying someone or are you digging one up?" he asked. giggling. I didn't answer, and retrieved my boots and an old pair of blue jeans.
I had occasionally made the trip with Jim to the hospital morgue to bring someone to the funeral home, and usually he would ask me to dress nicely because it would reflect well on the business. Old clothes and boots were a first.
I drove into the rear lot and strode anxiously to the office, where I could see Big Jim talking on the phone. "We've got a unique situation on our hands. An old man has died in a tiny cabin in the mountains. I assume it's been a few days. His closest neighbor found him and lets just hope you're in good shape. It's a hike."
I felt like I was in pretty good shape, but Jim? Not so much.
We drove as far up the tiny path as the funeral van would take us, and then we walked, and walked and walked. Skeeter, the neighbor who had found the man, served as our guide. As far as I knew, the authorities had already been there, and contacted Jim to retrieve the deceased. Finally, we approached the tiny cabin and entered. We placed the old man on the gurney and began our ascent back to the van.
The drive back to the funeral home was uneventful and quiet. Mostly quiet due to our being on the verge of having a heart attack from our climb up and down a small mountain.
I helped Jim with all that I could and climbed into my car and drove home.
The next day Jim called. "Neil, there's not going to be a formal viewing or funeral. He doesn't have any family that we know of and the state is picking up the cost. So, tomorrow night, we'll place him in the chapel and if someone wants to pay their respects, they can. I'll need you to be here from six till nine just in case. We'll be at a UVA basketball game." What?!!! He wanted me to sit around from six till nine in a creaky, old funeral home with, ah, well you know! There was no way I was doing that little chore. No Way!
"Ok, I'll see you at six," I answered.
I didn't sleep well that night, and felt an uneasy tension the next day. I counted the time until I had to sit with the old man for three hours. I peeked into my sister's bedroom and quietly asked her a question. "Want to earn some money?"
She looked and answered, "I am not going with you to sit in the funeral home tonight! No way!"
Finally, the hour arrived. I drove slowly toward my unsettling destination and parked. Big Jim met me at the door. "I don't expect anyone, but just in case, I need you here. Be sure to lock up and turn off the lights. Remember, it's the one's who are alive you need to worry about." With that, he disappeared into the night.
Jim's sense of humor needed some work for sure.
I plopped down at the front desk, because that's where I was supposed to sit, but mostly because it's proximity to the front door provided for quick egress in the event of my being scared out of my wits. I could see the streetlight outside through the triangular windows and noticed snow beginning to fall once again. I'd longed for some human interaction of the living kind, but with the snow, I was sure it was just me and the old man in the adjacent room for the night. Great.
I read a book for my English class, and called my sister at least ten times, and heard every creak and groan the old building made. When one of the creaks lasted longer than I thought It should have, I rose to investigate. Slowly, I made my way toward to doorway leading to the chapel, just to make sure that all was well. I peeked around the door frame and sure enough, everything seemed to be in order and everyone was in their proper place, and then it happened. The front door opened! I was unaware that two older ladies had entered the funeral home to pay their respects and left the door ajar. I walked in a hurried pace to close the door, still unaware of the ladies presence. I rounded the corner and nearly ran over Ethel Simpson and Cornealia Jackson! They screamed! I screamed! I think the old man in the chapel screamed! I gathered myself and looked at the ladies. "What in the world are you doing out on a snowy night like this? Did you know the man in there?" They scowled at me without answering, signed the guest book and promptly left. To them I was merely a whippersnapper with a smart mouth. Apparently, they hadn't considered the superhuman bravery I had displayed that night. I had forgotten that funerals and visitations for them were a source of socialization whether they knew the deceased or not. They were the lone signers of the guest book.
The snow began to fall faster and harder than ever. I could barely make out the lone street light by then. I looked at the grandfather clock across from the desk. Eight o'clock. Good enough. I scurried around locking doors and shutting off lights. I raced past the old man and headed toward the door. In one motion, I hopped into the car and started the engine. Slipping and sliding, I finally made it home.
"How'd it go son?" dad asked when I walked into the kitchen. "Why are you sweating?'
I shook my head and answered, "Oh, I guess sitting up with the dead can make for a pretty interesting night. But honestly, it's the live one's you have to worry about."
I finally raised enough money to restore my old truck. My dad was right. I appreciated that old truck because of all the work that was required to complete the task. However, sitting up with the dead was no doubt something that is unique to me. I moved on from the funeral business, but every once in a while I think about that snowy night and the two old ladies who nearly caused a young boy to need his own funeral services.
Saturday, October 8, 2016
FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS
The struggle is real. We've got problems. It's official, we have a diabetic dog. I'm not sure that I've ever heard of a diabetic dog, but sure enough, we own one. So, I know they exist.
I should preface this story by saying that Tippy (the dog) is thirteen-years-old. That makes her elderly in terms of dogs, but not that elderly compared to the lifespan of animals we had when I was a young boy. I'll get to that later. Lately, she exhibited some very strange behavior.
"Mom, Tip peed on my bedroom floor!!!" Ryan bellowed from the far reaches of our home.
"Well, wipe it up for heaven's sake!" came the equally firm bellow from another corner of our home. Asking Ryan to wipe dog urine from his floor is like asking a skydiver to jump without a parachute. It's not happening. The boy simply doesn't do pee or poop, especially of the canine variety.
"Oh alright! I'll get it!" Kristi barked as she stomped down the hall and into Ryan's bedroom.
"Mom! Tippy peed on the bathroom rug!" Sidney whined, while hiding behind the bathroom door, covered in a towel.
Kristi appeared in the hallway, cloth in hand and smirked. "How do you know it's dog pee? It is a bathroom rug after all?"
"Oh it's pee! Don't worry about that!" Sidney exclaimed as Kristi brushed past her to retrieve the saturated rug.
This behavior continued to happen for several more weeks. Finally 'ol Tip seemed to gain a fondness for doing her business on the kitchen floor, in the same spot. So, each night before bedtime, we placed several old towels in that spot for her peeing pleasure.
We also noticed that she was guzzling water not unlike the way a camel would before a long desert journey. "I've never seen such a small dog drink so much water! Good grief, I think she's a hydroholic!" Ryan said, as the fuzzy shih tzu lapped away at her water bow.
Kristi, who by that point was exceedingly worried about her pet, looked at me with sad eyes. "Do you think she's dying?"
"Nah, she's thirsty. Probably all those bacon treats you,re giving her. Bacon makes me thirsty too!" I said, trying hard to make light of the situation.
"You haven't peed in the floor that I know of. Actually, there was that one time... Well, nevermind." Both of our children craned their necks to hear a story about dear old dad peeing on the floor. Thankfully Kristi brought that little nugget to a screeching halt. "She needs to go to the vet. I mean, she has no appetite either."
Kristi make the appointment and with much sadness, told the kids to prepare themselves for bad news just in case. "Oh my gosh, I don't want Tip to die. I've never known anything but Tip. I mean, we're the same age!" Sidney whined, while stroking the little fuzz ball.
"Oh, don't worry. Maybe dad will have her mounted. We can set her on the mantle. Maybe the taxidermist can put her in a pose that she'd never have pulled of while she was living, like one with her holding a pheasant in her mouth or something," Ryan said. The kid never disappoints. I giggled, while the women gritted on the boy.
The day of the vet appointment came, and I loaded the pitiful animal into my car and made the short drive to the animal hospital. "What seems to be the problem?" the cheery young veterinarian asked.
"Um, she's drinking lots of water and hardly eating at all. Very lethargic, barely moves, except to pee on the floor," I answered with a hint of irritation while thinking of how many times I'd mopped up dog urine in the last month. To be completely candid, I'm not an inside of the house pet kind of guy. I feel like that if God wanted animals in the house, he would have given them the ability to build their own and stay out of mine. But, I'm always overruled, so I've simply learned to live with what I can't control.
The vet began feeling around the dog's abdomen, looked at her teeth and complimented me on how nice her teeth looked. "Wow, I see you've had her teeth cleaned on a regular basis!"
"Uh, no. I guess she just has nice teeth." I had no idea that dogs could have their teeth cleaned.
"We'll need to run some tests, which require blood work, so sit tight and we'll be back in a few minutes."
Directly, Kristi and the kids popped into the exam room. "Where's Tip?!" Kristi asked, exasperatedly.
"Back for blood work. Did you know that there's pet dentists?" I asked with a scrunched up forehead.
"Of course, I thought about taking Tippy, but just never did." I was glad she never did. I'm old school and dog dentists are not people that real men take dogs to. Dog dentists... Really?
Suddenly, and without warning, the vet and our dog burst through the door. "I have good news and bad news. There's nothing wrong with her heart, liver, pancreas, kidneys or lungs. She does however have diabetes. I stared at my wife. I pivoted my stare to the veterinarian. "Do you have questions Mr. Fix?"
"Dog dentists, diabetes? What's next hemorrhoids?" I quipped, without thinking.
"Why don't you and Ryan head home, and I'll finish up here," Kristi interjected, sensing my displeasure with our incredibly weak, spoiled dog. Ryan chuckled and shook his head. We stood and exited the exam room and drove home.
Soon, Kristi and Sidney along with our diabetic dog, strode through the kitchen door. "Oh, I'm sooooo glad that she's just a diabetic. I can't imagine life without her," my overjoyed wife exclaimed as she stroked the fur of Tippy. "Now, we will have to give her insulin shots twice a day for the rest of her life. We already gave her the first one, so I'll show you how tomorrow morning."
"You know, back in my day, a dog made one trip to the doctor and that was to be spayed or neutered. After that, it was outside city. Our little beagle (which was named Tippy as well) lived to be sixteen-years-old and never spent one day in our house. She had maybe five baths that I can remember and that was because dad threw her into the river. She ate table scraps, chicken bones, ham bones, potato chips, and dead animals. She drank from mud puddles, had fleas, and ticks nearly sucked her dry. But, she always bounced back. She was tough from living outside. Dogs today are so spoiled that they can barely live ten years! If they do live that long, there diabetics, and have all sorts of other ailments. A good drink from a mud puddle with a sheen of motor oil floating on it would do her some good! A dog dentist? I've never heard of such nonsense! Good grief!" I whined.
Ryan stared at me with sympathetic eyes and spoke. "Um dad, mom's not in here now. But, I hear you. Tippy's a first world dog and first world dogs have real problems. You know the U.S. has a weight problem when even the dogs are diabetic," the boy said as he exited the room laughing.
So there you have it. We own a diabetic dog with clean teeth. I still say that gnawing on a chicken bone and a swig of stagnant water could have prevented this.
I should preface this story by saying that Tippy (the dog) is thirteen-years-old. That makes her elderly in terms of dogs, but not that elderly compared to the lifespan of animals we had when I was a young boy. I'll get to that later. Lately, she exhibited some very strange behavior.
"Mom, Tip peed on my bedroom floor!!!" Ryan bellowed from the far reaches of our home.
"Well, wipe it up for heaven's sake!" came the equally firm bellow from another corner of our home. Asking Ryan to wipe dog urine from his floor is like asking a skydiver to jump without a parachute. It's not happening. The boy simply doesn't do pee or poop, especially of the canine variety.
"Oh alright! I'll get it!" Kristi barked as she stomped down the hall and into Ryan's bedroom.
"Mom! Tippy peed on the bathroom rug!" Sidney whined, while hiding behind the bathroom door, covered in a towel.
Kristi appeared in the hallway, cloth in hand and smirked. "How do you know it's dog pee? It is a bathroom rug after all?"
"Oh it's pee! Don't worry about that!" Sidney exclaimed as Kristi brushed past her to retrieve the saturated rug.
This behavior continued to happen for several more weeks. Finally 'ol Tip seemed to gain a fondness for doing her business on the kitchen floor, in the same spot. So, each night before bedtime, we placed several old towels in that spot for her peeing pleasure.
We also noticed that she was guzzling water not unlike the way a camel would before a long desert journey. "I've never seen such a small dog drink so much water! Good grief, I think she's a hydroholic!" Ryan said, as the fuzzy shih tzu lapped away at her water bow.
Kristi, who by that point was exceedingly worried about her pet, looked at me with sad eyes. "Do you think she's dying?"
"Nah, she's thirsty. Probably all those bacon treats you,re giving her. Bacon makes me thirsty too!" I said, trying hard to make light of the situation.
"You haven't peed in the floor that I know of. Actually, there was that one time... Well, nevermind." Both of our children craned their necks to hear a story about dear old dad peeing on the floor. Thankfully Kristi brought that little nugget to a screeching halt. "She needs to go to the vet. I mean, she has no appetite either."
Kristi make the appointment and with much sadness, told the kids to prepare themselves for bad news just in case. "Oh my gosh, I don't want Tip to die. I've never known anything but Tip. I mean, we're the same age!" Sidney whined, while stroking the little fuzz ball.
"Oh, don't worry. Maybe dad will have her mounted. We can set her on the mantle. Maybe the taxidermist can put her in a pose that she'd never have pulled of while she was living, like one with her holding a pheasant in her mouth or something," Ryan said. The kid never disappoints. I giggled, while the women gritted on the boy.
The day of the vet appointment came, and I loaded the pitiful animal into my car and made the short drive to the animal hospital. "What seems to be the problem?" the cheery young veterinarian asked.
"Um, she's drinking lots of water and hardly eating at all. Very lethargic, barely moves, except to pee on the floor," I answered with a hint of irritation while thinking of how many times I'd mopped up dog urine in the last month. To be completely candid, I'm not an inside of the house pet kind of guy. I feel like that if God wanted animals in the house, he would have given them the ability to build their own and stay out of mine. But, I'm always overruled, so I've simply learned to live with what I can't control.
The vet began feeling around the dog's abdomen, looked at her teeth and complimented me on how nice her teeth looked. "Wow, I see you've had her teeth cleaned on a regular basis!"
"Uh, no. I guess she just has nice teeth." I had no idea that dogs could have their teeth cleaned.
"We'll need to run some tests, which require blood work, so sit tight and we'll be back in a few minutes."
Directly, Kristi and the kids popped into the exam room. "Where's Tip?!" Kristi asked, exasperatedly.
"Back for blood work. Did you know that there's pet dentists?" I asked with a scrunched up forehead.
"Of course, I thought about taking Tippy, but just never did." I was glad she never did. I'm old school and dog dentists are not people that real men take dogs to. Dog dentists... Really?
Suddenly, and without warning, the vet and our dog burst through the door. "I have good news and bad news. There's nothing wrong with her heart, liver, pancreas, kidneys or lungs. She does however have diabetes. I stared at my wife. I pivoted my stare to the veterinarian. "Do you have questions Mr. Fix?"
"Dog dentists, diabetes? What's next hemorrhoids?" I quipped, without thinking.
"Why don't you and Ryan head home, and I'll finish up here," Kristi interjected, sensing my displeasure with our incredibly weak, spoiled dog. Ryan chuckled and shook his head. We stood and exited the exam room and drove home.
Soon, Kristi and Sidney along with our diabetic dog, strode through the kitchen door. "Oh, I'm sooooo glad that she's just a diabetic. I can't imagine life without her," my overjoyed wife exclaimed as she stroked the fur of Tippy. "Now, we will have to give her insulin shots twice a day for the rest of her life. We already gave her the first one, so I'll show you how tomorrow morning."
"You know, back in my day, a dog made one trip to the doctor and that was to be spayed or neutered. After that, it was outside city. Our little beagle (which was named Tippy as well) lived to be sixteen-years-old and never spent one day in our house. She had maybe five baths that I can remember and that was because dad threw her into the river. She ate table scraps, chicken bones, ham bones, potato chips, and dead animals. She drank from mud puddles, had fleas, and ticks nearly sucked her dry. But, she always bounced back. She was tough from living outside. Dogs today are so spoiled that they can barely live ten years! If they do live that long, there diabetics, and have all sorts of other ailments. A good drink from a mud puddle with a sheen of motor oil floating on it would do her some good! A dog dentist? I've never heard of such nonsense! Good grief!" I whined.
Ryan stared at me with sympathetic eyes and spoke. "Um dad, mom's not in here now. But, I hear you. Tippy's a first world dog and first world dogs have real problems. You know the U.S. has a weight problem when even the dogs are diabetic," the boy said as he exited the room laughing.
So there you have it. We own a diabetic dog with clean teeth. I still say that gnawing on a chicken bone and a swig of stagnant water could have prevented this.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
CHAUFFEUR
As time marches on, it's only natural that those of us with children will be confronted with the inevitable fact that they will simply grow up. Growing up means more freedom from mom and dad, interest in the opposite sex and many other things that make me stare in wonderment and think, "what was he/she thinking?!"
I've been doing a whole lot of that kind of wondering lately. It mostly centers around our fifteen-year-old son. Apparently, when kids reach a certain age, their brain takes a siesta and doesn't awaken for several years. My wife has always maintained that a person's brain doesn't fully develop until around age twenty-five. Naturally, I always assumed that this particular argument was a convenient excuse for bad behavior. Well, now I've began to change my way of thinking. You see, a few weeks ago, our son Ryan, passed his learner's test and is now the family chauffeur. He drives to the store. He drives to the gas station. He drives to church. He drives when we don't even need to go anywhere. He just loves to drive! He's been driving for several years behind our home in the fields and woods and became a very capable driver. However, traffic, stoplights, aggressive drivers and other obstacles make dodging lumbering cattle seem like a walk in the park. I'm scared.
I remember my father riding with me when I got my learner's permit. I also remember the very icy stare from the passenger's seat when I didn't brake soon enough, or perhaps I nearly drove the speed limit. I would simply look straight ahead, while I could sense the stare. "Are you planning on ramming into that car? Hit the brakes!" he'd bark. Now, history is repeating itself.
Our maiden voyage with Ryan at the wheel, consisted of a short trip to the gas station. The short trip go buy gas was rather uneventful until he steered into the area where the pumps are. "You stopping here?" I asked, puzzled as to why we were parked between two pumps with no possibility of having one of the hoses reach our car.
"Yeah, that's what you do. Right?" he asked, staring out of the wind shield careful not to make eye contact with me.
I thought for a moment and wondered if he'd ever been with me when I bought gas for my car. I was sure that he had in fifteen and a half years. "No, that's not what I do! The hose won't even reach us! You're going to have to back up and pull closer to the pump." I looked behind us and noticed a confused older man in a station wagon wondering what we were trying to prove.
"OK fine, I'll back up," he replied as he shifted the car into reverse.
"No! There's a car behind us! You'll have to pull forward and find another pump."
Finally, we bought our gas, although after a circuitous route to finally arrive safely at a gas pump.
On our next odyssey consisted of a leisurely ride around town with the whole family in tow. He drove through the local park without incident and through the countryside with superior command of the vehicle. I only gave the occasional icy stare, but for the most part he did fine. Then, I made a simple request. "Take us to Sheetz. I need to put a little gas in mom's car."
The boy stared at me like I had a horn growing out of my head. "Uh, where's Sheetz again?"
Cue the icy stare. "What do you mean, where's Sheetz?!"
"It's where it's always been! We just went there yesterday!" I whined.
"Yeah, but we drove from the house." he answered.
The icy stare persisted. "You've lived here for your entire life, and now you don't know how to get to the gas station?"
"It's different when you're driving. I never paid attention."
Next, my wife chimed in. "He's right, it is different when your a passenger as opposed to actually driving."
The icy stare morphed into an all out grimace of the worst kind. I could feel my heartbeat as blood pulsed through a vein in my forehead. "OK, drive. I'll show you the way."
We did make it to Sheetz and he sure enough, parked close enough for the gas hose to actually reach the car. Progress. My pinched face subsided although by then my head was throbbing.
This evening, we had an all out gully washer of a rainstorm. We'd heard that the stream which runs through the park had overflowed it's banks and had flooded most of the low lying areas to include the baseball fields. "Lets ride over there and take a look!" Ryan chirped, sure he'd get some driving time in a monsoon.
"Uh, maybe dad should drive. It's raining pretty hard and you've never driven in rain like this," my wife said.
"Nah, he'll be fine. It's good practice," I answered while simultaneously donning my hat and a pair of flip flops. So, off we went.
I gave him the standard lecture about not travelling through water that was running over the road and the dangers of hydroplaning in heavy rain. I had nearly completed saying the word 'hydroplaning', when he barreled through standing water causing my wife to hide her face and our daughter to pray aloud. Thankfully, we finished our trip without incident and returned home.
To be honest, he's doing a remarkable job driving. There's still some kinks to work out, but we're hopeful that by the time he's driving on his own he'll be ready. He's a great kid, I just hope that he can find the gas station, and when he does, there's an extra long hose just for him!
I've been doing a whole lot of that kind of wondering lately. It mostly centers around our fifteen-year-old son. Apparently, when kids reach a certain age, their brain takes a siesta and doesn't awaken for several years. My wife has always maintained that a person's brain doesn't fully develop until around age twenty-five. Naturally, I always assumed that this particular argument was a convenient excuse for bad behavior. Well, now I've began to change my way of thinking. You see, a few weeks ago, our son Ryan, passed his learner's test and is now the family chauffeur. He drives to the store. He drives to the gas station. He drives to church. He drives when we don't even need to go anywhere. He just loves to drive! He's been driving for several years behind our home in the fields and woods and became a very capable driver. However, traffic, stoplights, aggressive drivers and other obstacles make dodging lumbering cattle seem like a walk in the park. I'm scared.
I remember my father riding with me when I got my learner's permit. I also remember the very icy stare from the passenger's seat when I didn't brake soon enough, or perhaps I nearly drove the speed limit. I would simply look straight ahead, while I could sense the stare. "Are you planning on ramming into that car? Hit the brakes!" he'd bark. Now, history is repeating itself.
Our maiden voyage with Ryan at the wheel, consisted of a short trip to the gas station. The short trip go buy gas was rather uneventful until he steered into the area where the pumps are. "You stopping here?" I asked, puzzled as to why we were parked between two pumps with no possibility of having one of the hoses reach our car.
"Yeah, that's what you do. Right?" he asked, staring out of the wind shield careful not to make eye contact with me.
I thought for a moment and wondered if he'd ever been with me when I bought gas for my car. I was sure that he had in fifteen and a half years. "No, that's not what I do! The hose won't even reach us! You're going to have to back up and pull closer to the pump." I looked behind us and noticed a confused older man in a station wagon wondering what we were trying to prove.
"OK fine, I'll back up," he replied as he shifted the car into reverse.
"No! There's a car behind us! You'll have to pull forward and find another pump."
Finally, we bought our gas, although after a circuitous route to finally arrive safely at a gas pump.
On our next odyssey consisted of a leisurely ride around town with the whole family in tow. He drove through the local park without incident and through the countryside with superior command of the vehicle. I only gave the occasional icy stare, but for the most part he did fine. Then, I made a simple request. "Take us to Sheetz. I need to put a little gas in mom's car."
The boy stared at me like I had a horn growing out of my head. "Uh, where's Sheetz again?"
Cue the icy stare. "What do you mean, where's Sheetz?!"
"It's where it's always been! We just went there yesterday!" I whined.
"Yeah, but we drove from the house." he answered.
The icy stare persisted. "You've lived here for your entire life, and now you don't know how to get to the gas station?"
"It's different when you're driving. I never paid attention."
Next, my wife chimed in. "He's right, it is different when your a passenger as opposed to actually driving."
The icy stare morphed into an all out grimace of the worst kind. I could feel my heartbeat as blood pulsed through a vein in my forehead. "OK, drive. I'll show you the way."
We did make it to Sheetz and he sure enough, parked close enough for the gas hose to actually reach the car. Progress. My pinched face subsided although by then my head was throbbing.
This evening, we had an all out gully washer of a rainstorm. We'd heard that the stream which runs through the park had overflowed it's banks and had flooded most of the low lying areas to include the baseball fields. "Lets ride over there and take a look!" Ryan chirped, sure he'd get some driving time in a monsoon.
"Uh, maybe dad should drive. It's raining pretty hard and you've never driven in rain like this," my wife said.
"Nah, he'll be fine. It's good practice," I answered while simultaneously donning my hat and a pair of flip flops. So, off we went.
I gave him the standard lecture about not travelling through water that was running over the road and the dangers of hydroplaning in heavy rain. I had nearly completed saying the word 'hydroplaning', when he barreled through standing water causing my wife to hide her face and our daughter to pray aloud. Thankfully, we finished our trip without incident and returned home.
To be honest, he's doing a remarkable job driving. There's still some kinks to work out, but we're hopeful that by the time he's driving on his own he'll be ready. He's a great kid, I just hope that he can find the gas station, and when he does, there's an extra long hose just for him!
Friday, May 20, 2016
DEVELOPMENT
In the years since our children were born, we've been preparing ourselves for the day when they would not be so interested in hanging out with us. That day hasn't arrived, but all of the signs point to it's inevitable coming.
We have prepared for a great many things when it comes to our son and daughter growing up. We've saved for college. We've tried our best to guide them and help them to steer clear of the many pitfalls that young people are naturally exposed to, while being exceedingly careful to not hover. Honestly, I personally thought that I would be a master at watching my kids grow up. Now, I'm not so sure. Our daughter has begun to develop both physically and mentally. It's the physical part I'm struggling with. I don't mind that she's growing up, it's just that the requirements to support the growing up unnerve me.
I'm a man. I'm a very simple man in some respects. I don't embarrass very easily, but there are a few things that concern our daughter and her coming of age, that surely can make me cringe.
Occasionally, the need arises for me to make a quick trek to the grocery store. Usually, I'm home alone when that need springs forth, therefore I am able to purchase a few items and exit the store with superior speed and with as little expense as possible. However, there are times that the whole crew is home, which complicates my expeditious trip to the store. No only will every single person in the family need an entire list of things, but the cost skyrockets. I never knew they were so needy.
The other day, in a barely audible tone, almost a whisper, I said, "I'm going to the store, does anyone need anything?" Surely not a soul heard my quiet announcement. I waited for the onslaught of lists, needs, demands, etc. Only Sidney answered.
"I need some things!" came the yodel from the second floor of our home.
Immediately, my wife chimed in. "I'll be right down. Sidney needs a few personal items."
I could feel my spine tighten. My shoes suddenly felt too tight and my armpits felt overly moist. Personal items. Dear Lord. We all know what 'personal items' for a thirteen-year-old girl means.
My wife arrived in the kitchen with what appeared to be the top of a small cardboard box. "Here, she needs these and these. Can you handle it?" she said with a smile.
The woman had torn the tops off of two boxes. One was a box of tampons, and the other was the top of a box of maxi-pads. I guess the one time I'd failed to buy the correct 'personal items' had robbed her of faith in me. In all fairness, I wouldn't ask her to purchase a set of spark plugs for my car. "You just bought groceries! You should have bought them then!" I whined. It's not that I mind buying feminine products... well, yes I do. I hate it! It's akin to having bamboo chutes wedged under your fingernails. I have no business wandering aimlessly around the tampon and maxi-pad isle at WalMart.
"Oh, alright. I'll be back soon," I growled.
Fast forward fifteen minutes and there I am, staring at an entire wall dedicated to the female human body. I don't get it, nor should I. Remember? Simple man? I nervously studied the box tops that my wife has so lovingly ripped from their original packaging. For a fleeting moment, I was the only person in the tampon isle. Suddenly, and without warning, it was if every woman within a fifty mile radius needed feminine products. I was surrounded by teenagers, young women, middle aged women, old ladies who by my estimation must have been lost. I nervously slinked away toward the toothpaste and mouthwash. Finally, the crowd thinned and I ambled back to my original destination.
Choices. There's light days, heavy days, in between days, rainy days, sunny days, super, slim, sport, active, wings, no wings, thick, thin, barely there, and many more. I think I even noticed something that resembled a diaper of sorts. I stood, panicked and helpless, staring at the mammoth selection of pads, and tampons that towered over me.
Finally, after a few minutes, a young lady hurried past and grabbed a box near me and began to walk away as fast as she had appeared. "I'd like to see her in the motor oil isle! She'd be totally lost!" I thought briefly. Naturally she knows more about pads and tampons than I do.
"Excuse me. Could you help me find these two items please?" I asked in my most sorrowful voice.
"Sure, here ya go," she said with a smile before reaching to hand me the items she'd located without any thought whatsoever.
"Thanks, they're for my daughter."
She didn't reply, but smiled and walked away. I guess she probably assumed they weren't for a middle aged, overweight balding guy. Oh well.
I bought two boxes of each product in hopes that I wouldn't be back for some time.
I proudly walked into our home with a wide smile feeling rather accomplished at my success, even if I did receive a bit of help.
"I don't believe it! You got the right thing! Good job dad!" Sidney chirped. My wife smiled with approval.
I sat down and spoke. "The next time you go to the store, I need a case of Havoline 5W-20."
My wife looked up from her phone and said, "You know I never get the right thing. Some things you just have to buy for yourself."
We have prepared for a great many things when it comes to our son and daughter growing up. We've saved for college. We've tried our best to guide them and help them to steer clear of the many pitfalls that young people are naturally exposed to, while being exceedingly careful to not hover. Honestly, I personally thought that I would be a master at watching my kids grow up. Now, I'm not so sure. Our daughter has begun to develop both physically and mentally. It's the physical part I'm struggling with. I don't mind that she's growing up, it's just that the requirements to support the growing up unnerve me.
I'm a man. I'm a very simple man in some respects. I don't embarrass very easily, but there are a few things that concern our daughter and her coming of age, that surely can make me cringe.
Occasionally, the need arises for me to make a quick trek to the grocery store. Usually, I'm home alone when that need springs forth, therefore I am able to purchase a few items and exit the store with superior speed and with as little expense as possible. However, there are times that the whole crew is home, which complicates my expeditious trip to the store. No only will every single person in the family need an entire list of things, but the cost skyrockets. I never knew they were so needy.
The other day, in a barely audible tone, almost a whisper, I said, "I'm going to the store, does anyone need anything?" Surely not a soul heard my quiet announcement. I waited for the onslaught of lists, needs, demands, etc. Only Sidney answered.
"I need some things!" came the yodel from the second floor of our home.
Immediately, my wife chimed in. "I'll be right down. Sidney needs a few personal items."
I could feel my spine tighten. My shoes suddenly felt too tight and my armpits felt overly moist. Personal items. Dear Lord. We all know what 'personal items' for a thirteen-year-old girl means.
My wife arrived in the kitchen with what appeared to be the top of a small cardboard box. "Here, she needs these and these. Can you handle it?" she said with a smile.
The woman had torn the tops off of two boxes. One was a box of tampons, and the other was the top of a box of maxi-pads. I guess the one time I'd failed to buy the correct 'personal items' had robbed her of faith in me. In all fairness, I wouldn't ask her to purchase a set of spark plugs for my car. "You just bought groceries! You should have bought them then!" I whined. It's not that I mind buying feminine products... well, yes I do. I hate it! It's akin to having bamboo chutes wedged under your fingernails. I have no business wandering aimlessly around the tampon and maxi-pad isle at WalMart.
"Oh, alright. I'll be back soon," I growled.
Fast forward fifteen minutes and there I am, staring at an entire wall dedicated to the female human body. I don't get it, nor should I. Remember? Simple man? I nervously studied the box tops that my wife has so lovingly ripped from their original packaging. For a fleeting moment, I was the only person in the tampon isle. Suddenly, and without warning, it was if every woman within a fifty mile radius needed feminine products. I was surrounded by teenagers, young women, middle aged women, old ladies who by my estimation must have been lost. I nervously slinked away toward the toothpaste and mouthwash. Finally, the crowd thinned and I ambled back to my original destination.
Choices. There's light days, heavy days, in between days, rainy days, sunny days, super, slim, sport, active, wings, no wings, thick, thin, barely there, and many more. I think I even noticed something that resembled a diaper of sorts. I stood, panicked and helpless, staring at the mammoth selection of pads, and tampons that towered over me.
Finally, after a few minutes, a young lady hurried past and grabbed a box near me and began to walk away as fast as she had appeared. "I'd like to see her in the motor oil isle! She'd be totally lost!" I thought briefly. Naturally she knows more about pads and tampons than I do.
"Excuse me. Could you help me find these two items please?" I asked in my most sorrowful voice.
"Sure, here ya go," she said with a smile before reaching to hand me the items she'd located without any thought whatsoever.
"Thanks, they're for my daughter."
She didn't reply, but smiled and walked away. I guess she probably assumed they weren't for a middle aged, overweight balding guy. Oh well.
I bought two boxes of each product in hopes that I wouldn't be back for some time.
I proudly walked into our home with a wide smile feeling rather accomplished at my success, even if I did receive a bit of help.
"I don't believe it! You got the right thing! Good job dad!" Sidney chirped. My wife smiled with approval.
I sat down and spoke. "The next time you go to the store, I need a case of Havoline 5W-20."
My wife looked up from her phone and said, "You know I never get the right thing. Some things you just have to buy for yourself."
Sunday, March 13, 2016
NEVER THROW ANYTHING AWAY
"Let's see, mom said they were out here somewhere. Aha! There they are! Nope, that's not them! I swear, we have entirely too much junk, we need to make a dump run," Ryan said, while searching in vain for his boots. "Why do we need all of this crap anyway!?" He and a friend had planned on spending the day hunting and shooting in the woods behind our house and he had spent the better half of the morning searching for his outdoor gear. "I'm telling you, Nanny and Papaw have nothing on you and mom!" Finally, he did find his boots, and I stood silently, staring at the mountain of junk that cluttered our garage. By my estimation, every single item could possibly be of use to me one day. For example, there are a multitude of uses for a twelve year old swimming pool pump. I could use it to pump water to my garden. Of course, for the last twelve years, I've been using the garden hose to water the garden, but it's nice to know that I have a pump just in case. I feel certain that I could find a good use for several dry rotted rafts that haven't been used in nearly a decade, but like the pump, it's nice to know they're there just in case. The karaoke machine, that had once entertained Sidney when she was a small girl sat patiently in the corner, practically begging me to plug it in and break into song. Ryan stared at me, while I stared at my junk, shook his head and then disappeared from the garage.
To be honest, I probably do have entirely too much stuff sitting around my shop, garage and equipment shed. But, unlike my father, most of the things I have could possibly be of some use one day. My dad? Not so much. The man saves everything, and I do mean everything. My mother said that dad, who was born during the Great Depression, simply couldn't throw things away since during his childhood, nearly everything had a purpose. Recently, we visited my parents and mom and I were sent to the garage to attempt to locate something for my father. It was an exercise in futility. "You have to understand, that when he was a boy during the 30's and 40's everyone was poor. People just couldn't throw anything away because they couldn't afford to replace it." she said, as she had time and time again.
"I understand what you're saying, but cat food cans? Why do we need a pile of empty cat food cans?" I said, staring at the little towers of tin cans stacked on his workbench in the garage.
She stared at the cans, which were leaning slightly to one side and said, "Well, you do have a point, but if he... I have no idea, honestly."
"And this box full of old, empty oil containers? Really?" I continued. "Great Depression or not, this is some sort of hoarding disorder."
My mother turned her head to one side and looked silently at the box of Havoline, Quaker State, and Valvoline containers sitting on a shelf below the workbench. I assumed she was either attempting to count the containers, or was trying to concoct a reasonable response to my question. "I have no idea," she finally answered. "Well, there are people out there who plan for hard times. I think they call them preppers or something like that. I saw it on television the other day. People store things so in the event that something bad happens, they have plenty to get them through to better times."
"Oh, ok. I get it. Now I feel better. It's very comforting to know that in the event of a zombie apocalypse or perhaps a nuclear war, we'll always have a place to come for cat food cans and empty oil containers. Thank God for empty milk jugs as well!" A smile crept across her face and then she laughed. "I'm also thankful for those old orange juice containers."
"Do you remember what we were looking for in the first place?" mom asked, still giggling.
"No, I don't. I doubt we'd find it anyway. Look, if you want, I'd be more than happy to drive my truck out one day and haul some of this stuff away," I replied, still amazed at what I was staring at.
What I was really thinking was that one day after mom and dad had departed the Earth, my brother, sister and I would be responsible for sorting through all of the treasures they'd accumulated over the years. I also was thinking about how some people I know inherit massive fortunes, real estate, etc. Sometimes, major family feuds ensue due to someone feeling slighted or didn't receive what they thought was rightfully theirs. Not us. There may be some squabbling, but it would only be because the sibling who inherited the most would most likely be the one feeling slighted. I doubt seriously that my brother or sister have designs on hauling away empty pet food containers and milk jugs. If so, I can imagine the confrontation sounding something like this, "That's it, we'll just have to let the judge sort this one out! You both know that I've always wanted dad's collection of tin, bent up pie pans! You can have the milk jugs, but the pie pans are mine!" one of us could say.
"Oh hell no! I want the pie pans, you can have the shoe boxes... and the Montgomery Ward catalogs!" another would say.
"Figures, I get the shoe boxes and she gets the cat food cans! Fine! But everyone knows that I've always cherished the warped Cool Whip containers! Hands off, they're mine!"
My mom and I didn't find what we were looking for. Eventually, we returned home and I stared at my own collection of useless junk. "Dad, lets make a dump run," Ryan said as we slid out of the car.
"Maybe some day. Son, when I grew up in the 70's, we didn't have much money. So, we didn't throw much away because..."
To be honest, I probably do have entirely too much stuff sitting around my shop, garage and equipment shed. But, unlike my father, most of the things I have could possibly be of some use one day. My dad? Not so much. The man saves everything, and I do mean everything. My mother said that dad, who was born during the Great Depression, simply couldn't throw things away since during his childhood, nearly everything had a purpose. Recently, we visited my parents and mom and I were sent to the garage to attempt to locate something for my father. It was an exercise in futility. "You have to understand, that when he was a boy during the 30's and 40's everyone was poor. People just couldn't throw anything away because they couldn't afford to replace it." she said, as she had time and time again.
"I understand what you're saying, but cat food cans? Why do we need a pile of empty cat food cans?" I said, staring at the little towers of tin cans stacked on his workbench in the garage.
She stared at the cans, which were leaning slightly to one side and said, "Well, you do have a point, but if he... I have no idea, honestly."
"And this box full of old, empty oil containers? Really?" I continued. "Great Depression or not, this is some sort of hoarding disorder."
My mother turned her head to one side and looked silently at the box of Havoline, Quaker State, and Valvoline containers sitting on a shelf below the workbench. I assumed she was either attempting to count the containers, or was trying to concoct a reasonable response to my question. "I have no idea," she finally answered. "Well, there are people out there who plan for hard times. I think they call them preppers or something like that. I saw it on television the other day. People store things so in the event that something bad happens, they have plenty to get them through to better times."
"Oh, ok. I get it. Now I feel better. It's very comforting to know that in the event of a zombie apocalypse or perhaps a nuclear war, we'll always have a place to come for cat food cans and empty oil containers. Thank God for empty milk jugs as well!" A smile crept across her face and then she laughed. "I'm also thankful for those old orange juice containers."
"Do you remember what we were looking for in the first place?" mom asked, still giggling.
"No, I don't. I doubt we'd find it anyway. Look, if you want, I'd be more than happy to drive my truck out one day and haul some of this stuff away," I replied, still amazed at what I was staring at.
What I was really thinking was that one day after mom and dad had departed the Earth, my brother, sister and I would be responsible for sorting through all of the treasures they'd accumulated over the years. I also was thinking about how some people I know inherit massive fortunes, real estate, etc. Sometimes, major family feuds ensue due to someone feeling slighted or didn't receive what they thought was rightfully theirs. Not us. There may be some squabbling, but it would only be because the sibling who inherited the most would most likely be the one feeling slighted. I doubt seriously that my brother or sister have designs on hauling away empty pet food containers and milk jugs. If so, I can imagine the confrontation sounding something like this, "That's it, we'll just have to let the judge sort this one out! You both know that I've always wanted dad's collection of tin, bent up pie pans! You can have the milk jugs, but the pie pans are mine!" one of us could say.
"Oh hell no! I want the pie pans, you can have the shoe boxes... and the Montgomery Ward catalogs!" another would say.
"Figures, I get the shoe boxes and she gets the cat food cans! Fine! But everyone knows that I've always cherished the warped Cool Whip containers! Hands off, they're mine!"
My mom and I didn't find what we were looking for. Eventually, we returned home and I stared at my own collection of useless junk. "Dad, lets make a dump run," Ryan said as we slid out of the car.
"Maybe some day. Son, when I grew up in the 70's, we didn't have much money. So, we didn't throw much away because..."
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