I have seen it in many places. I saw it growing up. I've seen it in other countries and cultures. I have even seen it in church. No place on Earth is exempt from it. "It" is the grimace. I myself, am a professional grimacer.
The grimace is unique to fathers around the world. This particular facial expression is used often to denote something uncanny or perhaps unusual, or possibly to drive home the fact that the father is purely and most completely befuddled by something or someone. My face has become a perpetual grimace. Raising children has ramped my grimace meter to the red zone.
Early in my life, I noticed that my dad almost always had his grimace on full display. My dad grimaced when my older brother and I nearly ripped the door of his car while trying to practice driving. I was seven, Jarrett was ten. The grimace was never ominous or sinister in nature, but rather, it was of incredulous thought at how someone could possibly complete an act or task in such a cavalier manner. My brother and I were masters at arousing the grimace from my father. Mothers don't generally grimace much. I suppose the tenderness of a caring mother erases the natural predisposition that us dads have to stifle our anger, but still express frustration nonetheless. Therefore, we grimace.
Recently, my wife sent our college aged son a text asking him to retrieve the garbage cans from the roadside. Easy enough. Upon our arrival home that evening, we were somewhat puzzled to discover our overflowing garbage cans sitting neatly on the garage floor. "I'm positive mom wanted you to put the cans in the garage AFTER they had been emptied!" I exclaimed with full on grimace.
"Hey dad, all the text said was to put the cans in the garage," the boy explained, looking at me as though I had three eyeballs. I could feel my face contort and change, similar to the way the Incredible Hulk turned green in stressful situation. Full on grimace mode.
I surveyed the situation carefully and deduced that he should simply take the full garbage cans to the landfill himself. I could feel my face beginning to relax, but it was too late. With each passing grimace, the lines around my eyes and forehead deepen.
Years ago, yearning for an evening of reading in bed without interruption, I showered and slowly slid into my side of our bed. I positioned the pillows against the headboard just so, and opened my book. I slid my left hand between my pillows behind my head, while holding the book with my right hand. Immediately, and without warning, I began to grimace. I turned and faced my wife who could easily surmise that there was a problem on my side of the bed. "What's the matter?" Kristi asked, surely tipped off by the expression I wore. Grimace.
"There's something wet between my pillows." I pulled my hand out from behind my head and studied my glistening fingers. "Smells like mayonnaise," I said, holding my hand beneath my nose.
"Why is there mayonnaise between my pillows?!"
Kristi began to snicker, while I went into nuclear DEFCON 4 grimace mode. Lifting the pillow, I discovered a half eaten ham sandwich, which bore the damage of my hand's recent collision with it. "Ryan was in here watching cartoons this evening, maybe he did it," she said, still snorting at my most recent grimace inducing misfortune.
I thought about her hypothesis. "Ryan was in here watching cartoons this evening? Maybe he did it? No, my money is on some random stranger who sneaked in our house, planted a half eaten ham sandwich between my pillows and left. Clever guy! Of course it was Ryan!"
After more grimacing and a complete interrogation of our ten-year-old son, we discovered that Ryan had indeed left his sandwich for "later."
Daughters are the source of many a grimace. Sidney, our daughter, has been linked to countless grimaces.
Recently, I was grilling some juicy steaks when she galloped out of the kitchen and across the sidewalk. "Where ya headed babe?" I asked, while simultaneously poking at one of my masterpieces.
"Gym."
"Be careful."
"I will," she replied from out of sight.
Suddenly, and without warning, the sound of crinkling metal filled my ears. The crinkling metal sound, sounded eerily similar to metal that a car hood would be constructed of. Specifically, my car hood.
Immediately, I raced to the driveway to see the hood of my car folded up similar to what you would expect to see after erecting a pup tent. You guessed it. Grimace face on full display! Thankfully, I was able to bend the hood back to a point where it at least resembled a car hood, although getting it to latch required some extensive shade tree engineering and copious amounts foul language.
Upon my return to the deck and the grill, the grimace which had subsided briefly, reappeared. The juicy sirloins I once salivated over had been transformed into smoldering, smoking rectangular charcoal briquettes. I felt a deep sorrow at the loss of four perfectly fine pieces of meat. I grimaced and then moped into the kitchen and made a tuna sandwich, grimacing all the way.
Wives can also be the source of a fine and miserable grimace. This past Christmas, I was delighted to open a package that contained a new pair of tan dress pants. I had been in desperate need of a new pair due to the fact that my old pair had become rather threadbare. You see, I wear what is often referred to as a "church uniform." That is to say that I wear the same old clothes to church each week. That isn't exactly accurate, as I often wear different socks and underwear.
Honestly, I could not wait to slip into my new khaki slacks and stroll down the isle as an usher in our church. However, after sitting under our tree for weeks, the pants needed a quick run under an iron. I unfolded the ironing board and plugged the iron into the socket in the laundry area of our home. Cotton setting on the iron, check. Ironing board in place, check. Can of spray starch, check. The iron reached the desired temperature as I misted the first pant leg with starch. Immediately, I commenced ironing. Houston, we have a problem. The iron stuck fast to my pants. Suddenly, my nostrils were filled with an incredible noxious aroma, complete with whispy white clouds of smoke enveloping my head. Kristi, who had been busy folding clothes nearby began her usual snicker at the sight of my misfortune. Cue the grimace.
"Good Lord," I exclaimed, coughing. "Dollar Tree starch I presume?!" I continued, while
moving toward less toxic air.
The sight of my wife crying usually requires my affection and understanding. However, the sight of her crying through laughter usually means that misfortune has befallen me in some way. "Ha, Ha, har, har," she laughted. "You used my crafting spray paint on your pants! Oh, this is one for the record books!"
Yes, the record books were in no danger of being ignored. "Spray paint?! Why the heck would you put a can of spray paint with the ironing stuff?!" I retorted, pretending to ignore her laughter. Once more, I could feel my face begin to contort and become grossly malformed. Full grimace mode.
"I spray painted a couple Christmas ornaments the other day and I guess I simply left the can sitting on top of the dryer. You should read the can first from now on," she explained, shifting the blame to me.
"Whatever."
Thankfully, I hadn't coated the pant leg with a thick layer of paint. We were able to scrub off most of the paint, but sure enough, one leg is slightly lighter than the other. Upon salvaging my new pants, I felt my grimace give way to a smile. Later that morning, I strode down the isle of our church in my newest church uniform pants, even if one leg was of a different hue and stiffness. I guess at some point, perhaps when we are empty nesters, or perhaps after I depart this world, my face could possible revert back to a place of normalcy. A place of contentment. A place where the garbage cans are always returned to their rightful spot after having been emptied. A place where ham sandwiches don't dwell behind my pillows and my car hood isn't an inverted V. A place where spray paint isn't stored next to the iron. Time will tell. Until then, I will continue to squint my eyes and shake my head to and fro, deepening the lines around my eyes and on my forehead. I will embrace the grimace and wear it proudly like the many men before me.
Saturday, January 11, 2020
Friday, February 15, 2019
POOF!
Today marks one month since my father passed away at the age of eighty-five. He had been in failing health for some time so I thought I was prepared for the inevitable. Unfortunately, and naturally, there is no way to fully accept that one half of the people responsible for my life is gone. I loved my dad.
My father wouldn't want us to mourn his death. Instead, I'm sure he much prefer laughter and happiness for the remainder of our lives. Thankfully for him and the family, laughter came the day after his death.
"We are meeting at the funeral home at ten o'clock in the morning," my mother said. The men from the funeral home had arrived to arrange a few early details on the evening dad passed. They had briefly gathered in the living room while most of the extended family waited in the kitchen. My head throbbed and I longed for the comfort of my bed. Emotions washed over me in waves.
I sat silently as the men embraced my mother and bid her goodnight. She turned and found the one empty chair in the room and sat down. "So, we will meet at ten in the morning to make arrangements. Does that work for everyone?" Everyone included my older brother and younger sister and myself of course.
"Yeah, ten is good," we answered in unison.
By that point in the evening, I was ready to decompress a bit. I think everyone was. "I'm heading home to try to get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." I embraced my mom and walked slowly to the car, my head in a fog. Thankfully, my wife was by my side.
After a night of restless dozing and wondering if I was dreaming or if my dad was really gone, I finally and slowly eased from my bed and made the trek to the downstairs family room of our home. Soon, Kristi arrived and sat next to me offering comfort. "I'm here for you." She is a good wife and I was thankful to have her by my side.
"I'm O.K.," I said, staring at nothing in particular. Soon after, she and our two children left for school.
Driving slowly and deliberately, I steered my car toward the funeral home, unsure of what to think, or how to act. I'd never had to make funeral arrangements.
The parking lot was mostly empty, with the exception of a few vehicles parked at the far corner of the lot. I assumed they belonged to employees. I was the first of my family to arrive.
Very little time elapsed before my mom, brother and sister arrived. Everyone had an emotionless gaze on their face. They looked tired, and I assumed that they too hadn't slept much.
"How are you doing mom?" I asked as we walked toward the entrance.
I put my arm around her to express support as we walked. "Oh, I'm fine. Tired, but fine." My mother is a shining example of strength and resilience. She had vowed to take care of dad until the end and she did. I aspire to have her strength. Her life was difficult in the last months of my dad's life. Somehow, she soldiered on, committed to her husband of nearly fifty-four years. I am thankful for her.
The four of us were greeted by the funeral director and owner of the business. He had grown up in our small town, so we knew him well. "Good morning. If you will just follow me, we can begin making arrangement for Mr. Fix."
We discussed dad's military service, employment, obituary, and all other necessary information. Occasionally, small talk broke the sullen mood in the room. For that, I was thankful. "I think we've covered everything, so if you'll follow me once more, I'll show you to the display room and you can make your selections concerning the casket and vault," the director said, rising from his chair. We followed, unsure if our emotions would stay in check long enough to finish the arrangements.
Funerals come at a cost. Yes, a life is lost, but funerals come at a financial cost. The director dutifully explained the difference in the various metal and wood caskets as well as the construction of the vaults and quality of each piece. The prices were displayed before each item. There were also a large selection of cards, guest books, and other merchandise available. The director explained that some caskets have a variety of hardware included while others don't. Vaults are the same way. Some are very ornate, while others are plain and simple. In a nutshell, a person can spend as much or as little as they desire.
The presentation seemed to continue for what seemed like an eternity. In reality, only minutes had elapsed, but with swirling emotions and fatigue from a sleepless night, time seemed to stand still. Evidently my older brother felt the same way. He ambled toward me and leaned close, "I've already told my girls to forget all of this stuff. I want to go out as simple and cheaply as possible," he said, leaning even closer to my sister and I. "Good grief, I know we should honor dad, but he was a simple man! He wouldn't want us spending a pile of money of his funeral. He told me so!" he continued. My dad was a simple man indeed, but not a simpleton in any way. Money and material items meant nothing to him. He told me often that a person really only needs enough food, shelter, clothing and family. Everything else is unimportant. His words are profound and true.
I thought about my brother's words and was sure that his idea of what his funeral would entail was coming right up. I hoped it would anyway due to the fact that surely he'd want to go out in grand fashion. Grand and inexpensive. Jarrett was never one to mince words, and despite his best efforts at being serious, he has a unique way of making people laugh whether intended or not. I admire that quality in him. "You want to know how I'm going out?! I'm getting cremated and then blasted out of a muzzle loader!" A brief silence enveloped the room. I turned and stared at him. Carla, turned and stared at him. My mom stopped leafing through a variety of thank you cards and stared at him. The lady at the desk across the room stared at him. The funeral director was surely trying to process whether he could possibly carry out such an unusual request. He too, stared at him.
"Did you say you wanted to be blasted out of a muzzle loader?!" I asked, trying to control my facial muscles in a way that didn't produce a smile, after all this was a somber occasion and only dignity need apply. Despite my best efforts, laughter welled up inside me. The thought of my brothers ashes being blasted out of the barrel of a black powder rifle overpowered my attempt to stay stone faced.
"Yes, I did. Take me out on North Mountain and stuff me down the barrel of a muzzle loader and blast away. Poof, gone," he continued. Carla began her famous snicker, and I broke into an all out uncontrollable laugh. The funeral director stood staring off into space with his hand gently rubbing his chin, no doubt still trying to decide if he could honor such a request.
Mom looked quizzically at all of us, a smile creeping across her face.
In an instant, I had tears of laughter running down my cheeks. A welcome change from the tears of sadness I had endured for the last twenty-four hours. I attempted to speak, only to laugh more. Finally, the words found their way to my lips. "Well, it's whatever you want. But, you are a big man, I doubt a muzzle loader will hold all of your ashes. Unless of course you would be okay with a twenty-one muzzle loader salute! Or perhaps we could borrow a cannon. I think we could stuff you into a cannon!" By that time, I was doubled over laughing. Carla continued to snicker. My poor mother must have thought that despite our advancing age, we were still unruly children at heart. Finally, she added some commentary.
"Oh for heaven's sake, would you knock it off?! I'm trying to make funeral arrangements for your dad. I never thought we'd be discussing whether or not to shoot you from a muzzle loader or a cannon," she said, smiling.
The funeral director added his input as well. "Hey, I think we could pull it off. I really do. I guarantee you that I would be the first to do it in Virginia. Maybe in the whole country."
We finally finished the arrangements for my father amid more laughter. The mere sight of the family standing on top of a mountain loading my brother's ashes into a muzzle loader continued to make me laugh with no hope of letting up. Carla giggled continuously as did my mom. The funeral director continued to display a face that said he was already sorting out the details of the muzzle loader funeral.
I still think about that moment. I probably always will. The day we could thank our older brother for giving us a much needed dose of humor despite the fact that surely he was serious. We needed it.
Dad's memory will linger on. His legacy lives through his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and the impact he had on this world. Dad left the world a better place for simply having lived. I am thankful to God for his life, and I'm thankful for his oldest son desiring to be blasted from a muzzle loader.
My father wouldn't want us to mourn his death. Instead, I'm sure he much prefer laughter and happiness for the remainder of our lives. Thankfully for him and the family, laughter came the day after his death.
"We are meeting at the funeral home at ten o'clock in the morning," my mother said. The men from the funeral home had arrived to arrange a few early details on the evening dad passed. They had briefly gathered in the living room while most of the extended family waited in the kitchen. My head throbbed and I longed for the comfort of my bed. Emotions washed over me in waves.
I sat silently as the men embraced my mother and bid her goodnight. She turned and found the one empty chair in the room and sat down. "So, we will meet at ten in the morning to make arrangements. Does that work for everyone?" Everyone included my older brother and younger sister and myself of course.
"Yeah, ten is good," we answered in unison.
By that point in the evening, I was ready to decompress a bit. I think everyone was. "I'm heading home to try to get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." I embraced my mom and walked slowly to the car, my head in a fog. Thankfully, my wife was by my side.
After a night of restless dozing and wondering if I was dreaming or if my dad was really gone, I finally and slowly eased from my bed and made the trek to the downstairs family room of our home. Soon, Kristi arrived and sat next to me offering comfort. "I'm here for you." She is a good wife and I was thankful to have her by my side.
"I'm O.K.," I said, staring at nothing in particular. Soon after, she and our two children left for school.
Driving slowly and deliberately, I steered my car toward the funeral home, unsure of what to think, or how to act. I'd never had to make funeral arrangements.
The parking lot was mostly empty, with the exception of a few vehicles parked at the far corner of the lot. I assumed they belonged to employees. I was the first of my family to arrive.
Very little time elapsed before my mom, brother and sister arrived. Everyone had an emotionless gaze on their face. They looked tired, and I assumed that they too hadn't slept much.
"How are you doing mom?" I asked as we walked toward the entrance.
I put my arm around her to express support as we walked. "Oh, I'm fine. Tired, but fine." My mother is a shining example of strength and resilience. She had vowed to take care of dad until the end and she did. I aspire to have her strength. Her life was difficult in the last months of my dad's life. Somehow, she soldiered on, committed to her husband of nearly fifty-four years. I am thankful for her.
The four of us were greeted by the funeral director and owner of the business. He had grown up in our small town, so we knew him well. "Good morning. If you will just follow me, we can begin making arrangement for Mr. Fix."
We discussed dad's military service, employment, obituary, and all other necessary information. Occasionally, small talk broke the sullen mood in the room. For that, I was thankful. "I think we've covered everything, so if you'll follow me once more, I'll show you to the display room and you can make your selections concerning the casket and vault," the director said, rising from his chair. We followed, unsure if our emotions would stay in check long enough to finish the arrangements.
Funerals come at a cost. Yes, a life is lost, but funerals come at a financial cost. The director dutifully explained the difference in the various metal and wood caskets as well as the construction of the vaults and quality of each piece. The prices were displayed before each item. There were also a large selection of cards, guest books, and other merchandise available. The director explained that some caskets have a variety of hardware included while others don't. Vaults are the same way. Some are very ornate, while others are plain and simple. In a nutshell, a person can spend as much or as little as they desire.
The presentation seemed to continue for what seemed like an eternity. In reality, only minutes had elapsed, but with swirling emotions and fatigue from a sleepless night, time seemed to stand still. Evidently my older brother felt the same way. He ambled toward me and leaned close, "I've already told my girls to forget all of this stuff. I want to go out as simple and cheaply as possible," he said, leaning even closer to my sister and I. "Good grief, I know we should honor dad, but he was a simple man! He wouldn't want us spending a pile of money of his funeral. He told me so!" he continued. My dad was a simple man indeed, but not a simpleton in any way. Money and material items meant nothing to him. He told me often that a person really only needs enough food, shelter, clothing and family. Everything else is unimportant. His words are profound and true.
I thought about my brother's words and was sure that his idea of what his funeral would entail was coming right up. I hoped it would anyway due to the fact that surely he'd want to go out in grand fashion. Grand and inexpensive. Jarrett was never one to mince words, and despite his best efforts at being serious, he has a unique way of making people laugh whether intended or not. I admire that quality in him. "You want to know how I'm going out?! I'm getting cremated and then blasted out of a muzzle loader!" A brief silence enveloped the room. I turned and stared at him. Carla, turned and stared at him. My mom stopped leafing through a variety of thank you cards and stared at him. The lady at the desk across the room stared at him. The funeral director was surely trying to process whether he could possibly carry out such an unusual request. He too, stared at him.
"Did you say you wanted to be blasted out of a muzzle loader?!" I asked, trying to control my facial muscles in a way that didn't produce a smile, after all this was a somber occasion and only dignity need apply. Despite my best efforts, laughter welled up inside me. The thought of my brothers ashes being blasted out of the barrel of a black powder rifle overpowered my attempt to stay stone faced.
"Yes, I did. Take me out on North Mountain and stuff me down the barrel of a muzzle loader and blast away. Poof, gone," he continued. Carla began her famous snicker, and I broke into an all out uncontrollable laugh. The funeral director stood staring off into space with his hand gently rubbing his chin, no doubt still trying to decide if he could honor such a request.
Mom looked quizzically at all of us, a smile creeping across her face.
In an instant, I had tears of laughter running down my cheeks. A welcome change from the tears of sadness I had endured for the last twenty-four hours. I attempted to speak, only to laugh more. Finally, the words found their way to my lips. "Well, it's whatever you want. But, you are a big man, I doubt a muzzle loader will hold all of your ashes. Unless of course you would be okay with a twenty-one muzzle loader salute! Or perhaps we could borrow a cannon. I think we could stuff you into a cannon!" By that time, I was doubled over laughing. Carla continued to snicker. My poor mother must have thought that despite our advancing age, we were still unruly children at heart. Finally, she added some commentary.
"Oh for heaven's sake, would you knock it off?! I'm trying to make funeral arrangements for your dad. I never thought we'd be discussing whether or not to shoot you from a muzzle loader or a cannon," she said, smiling.
The funeral director added his input as well. "Hey, I think we could pull it off. I really do. I guarantee you that I would be the first to do it in Virginia. Maybe in the whole country."
We finally finished the arrangements for my father amid more laughter. The mere sight of the family standing on top of a mountain loading my brother's ashes into a muzzle loader continued to make me laugh with no hope of letting up. Carla giggled continuously as did my mom. The funeral director continued to display a face that said he was already sorting out the details of the muzzle loader funeral.
I still think about that moment. I probably always will. The day we could thank our older brother for giving us a much needed dose of humor despite the fact that surely he was serious. We needed it.
Dad's memory will linger on. His legacy lives through his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and the impact he had on this world. Dad left the world a better place for simply having lived. I am thankful to God for his life, and I'm thankful for his oldest son desiring to be blasted from a muzzle loader.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
ALONG CAME ZSA ZSA
Periodically over the course of my marriage, I've taken to referring to my wife as Zsa Zsa. As in Zsa Zsa Gabor. Why? Well, I'll explain.
I often refer to myself as a simple man. I prefer a simple car, simple clothes, simple lifestyle, and simply trying to always save a dollar where I can. Maybe the simplicity of my life centers around how I was raised or perhaps it was simply in born. Either way, I'm trying to slide through life as easy as possible. There's that word again. Simple. I cannot overstate my desire for simplicity. This desire includes family vacations.
"Where are we going on vacation this year?" Kristi asked while simultaneously brushing her diabetic, mostly blind and hobbling lame excuse for a dog. The pitiful thing is anything but simple, but for further details, you'll need to refer to an earlier story.
"Oh, maybe the Outer Banks. Simple enough, I guess," I answered, studying her expression carefully. I've learned over the years to read my wife's words and expressions before she speaks to find out my answer. She was looking away from me and the dog, with squinty eyes, which meant that she was processing what I'd just said. Yep, processing it in one ear and out the other. It usually means that she's not fond of what I had to say.
"Uh, we did that last year. You said then that we should take a simple vacation to the Outer Banks, and this year we could go big," she said, while commencing brushing the dog, which at the mere mention of the word 'vacation' usually sent the poor animal into a deep depression. Vacations meant a trip to the boarders, which never set well with the spoiled fuzz ball.
I began to think. Surely, she was using the same tactic I had just employed. She was feeling me out through facial expressions and body language. "I said that?" I asked with an incredulous look on my face, not unlike the facial expression I would make while watching a meteor crash through the roof of our house.
"Yes, you did! Ryan, Sidney, come in here please!" she bellowed. Oh no, she was bringing in reinforcements. Supports troops if you will. Occasionally, Ryan would side with me, but on this issue I was a loner, a man on an island. Gilligan Fix. I was about to be over ruled. Sidney almost always sided with her mother as a general rule.
The kids appeared in the downstairs living room with superior speed and stood looking at us. That in and of itself was highly unusual. They usually moved at snail's pace when called by either of us. "What?" they asked in unison, which I also found to be strange.
Kristi spoke. "Did dad or did he not say last year that we would take a big vacation this year?" she asked with her head leaning to one side and bobbing to and fro. I didn't like her tone or the fact that I was on the verge of being overridden once again.
Both kids looked at me. I put on my most pitiful face, the face that says "Please, side with your poor father. I'm getting up in the years, I need your help." More than once I'd threatened them with the old college funding line. Ryan was going to wind up in barber school, and Sidney would be forced into the carnival life, probably tearing tickets for entrance onto the Ferris Wheel or perhaps doling out half dead gold fish at the ring toss game. "There will be no money for college if we don't rein it in!" I'd say time and again to no avail. The college fund is healthy, but they don't necessarily need to know that.
They studied my face briefly and said in unison, "Yep, that's what you said dad! You promised, we remember very well!" I was beginning to wonder if their uncanny ability to recite their answers in unison had been rehearsed. My sinister wife had surely been up to no good, corrupting our kids into joining her in the vacation bombardment. In quick fashion, I was losing the battle. Losing the battle meant airline tickets, overpriced accommodations and food, rental cars and much more. We'd taken several 'big' vacations in the past. They were anything but simple.
"Oh OK, you win Zsa Zsa! We'll do it big this year, but your planning it. Zsa Zsa." I whined. I enunciated the final two words for maximum effect. They had zero effect.
"Fine by me. Call me Zsa Zsa if you must, but I'm not staying in some rat's nest just to save a buck. It ain't happening." To be fair, my wife is very thrifty most of the time and she's what most men would consider low maintenance. However, thrift on vacation planning flies right out of the window. She puts a premium on travel.
I had grown accustomed to the rat's nest comment over the course of our marriage. I would assume that it stemmed from an incident several years ago during a trip to Canada. She had booked our stay in all but one city, which was left to me. Naturally, I did my research and found a lovely little place outside Quebec City which suited our needs and was priced right. Priced extremely right. In fact, I wondered if there had been a slight mix up in communication when the lady (in broken English) told me the price. When we arrived, and entered our room, Kristi was appalled and shocked to find out that our room featured a toilet in the room. I do mean in the room. Like, it wasn't surrounded by walls. I thought it was great. I could watch television while simultaneously answering nature's call. However, the sink and bathtub were in a separate small room, so as far as I was concerned all was well. I briefly pondered how a carpenter could rationalize such an arrangement. I spent several hours driving around the Canadian countryside several times while Kristi, ahem, took care of business. I haven't been given the responsibility of lodging since.
"Oh, alright," I said, defeated, dejected and surely on the verge of becoming a little less well-to-do.
"We're going to Puerto Rico!" Kristi, Zsa Zsa, screeched. The kids high fived. This was a mutiny plain and simple. Immediately, she galloped over to a wooden chest in our living room, and produced several books, pamphlets, and other literature related to vacationing in Puerto Rico. A mutiny for sure. Preplanned and well orchestrated and the children had been used as pawns in my wife's all out assault on my check book.
The next day, I received a flurry of text messages inquiring about airline tickets, lodging, rental cars and the like from Zsa Zsa. "I'm at work. We'll look things over when I get home," I responded. The flurry continued.
Finally, we began to plan our trip. "I like this place," I stated wryly, while I watched Zsa Zsa scrunch her face. She didn't answer, which meant she was still not over the Canada vacation of years ago. "I'm sure the kids wouldn't mind sleeping on an air mattress," I said, while both Ryan and Sidney glanced at me with a look of shock and dismay. I thought they'd better toughen up. Life in the carnival is no picnic. She quickly scrolled past my selection.
"Ooooh, I like this place! It has a private infinity pool! I'm sending an e-mail now!" she said excitedly, while tapping away on the laptop. I grabbed my phone and Googled 'infinity pool'. "Why don't you look at airline tickets?" she continued, before I had educated myself on what an infinity pool even was. I quickly found out what such a pool was. Great, at least I could end it all by swimming off the top of a building. Nice.
After what seemed like days of searching for the best possible deal on airline tickets, I had narrowed my search down to two possible routes. "Alright, this flight originates in Washington, D.C. and stops in Fort Lauderdale on the way down. On the way back, we'll stop in Tampa, which is good," I said, happy that I'd found the best possible deal.
"Why Tampa? This one backtracks through Fort Lauderdale. Plus it will put us back in Washington earlier. That's the best one for the return trip as far as I'm concerned," she said.
"Well, maybe we could see some people we know in the Tampa area during the layover. That'd be nice," I said.
Kristi had that weird look again. "The layover is forty-five minutes! See some people?" she said with a high pitched voice. Her sister and brother-in-law live in Clearwater, so I thought maybe we could see them, if only briefly. "What are they going to do, wave at our plane as we fly over their house?"
I decided to have some fun. "Oh I know some people alright. I know people all over the world. I know some in Clearwater."
"Whatever," she said, without making eye contact. "Let me guess, an old Air Force buddy?" she continued. I thought about the Air Force buddy comment. I did know people from all over the United States, and a few from other parts of the world. Who do I know in the Tampa area? Surely there was someone. Oh well, I could think of someone if I gave it enough thought, and they were probably planning a simple vacation unlike the one we were mired in.
"Maybe, they could wave at our plane as well," I said, tired of vacation planning.
Zsa Zsa finally made most of our arrangements, and I took care of air travel and the rental car. I was happy to have that chore behind us. I'm excited. It's going to be a wonderful trip, and I'm thankful to God that we have the means to allow our children to experience different places, cultures, etc.
I'll be sure to pass on our flight info to our Florida people, just in case they want to wave to our plane as we fly over. I'll be waving goodbye to my checking account and my simple life for at least a week.
I often refer to myself as a simple man. I prefer a simple car, simple clothes, simple lifestyle, and simply trying to always save a dollar where I can. Maybe the simplicity of my life centers around how I was raised or perhaps it was simply in born. Either way, I'm trying to slide through life as easy as possible. There's that word again. Simple. I cannot overstate my desire for simplicity. This desire includes family vacations.
"Where are we going on vacation this year?" Kristi asked while simultaneously brushing her diabetic, mostly blind and hobbling lame excuse for a dog. The pitiful thing is anything but simple, but for further details, you'll need to refer to an earlier story.
"Oh, maybe the Outer Banks. Simple enough, I guess," I answered, studying her expression carefully. I've learned over the years to read my wife's words and expressions before she speaks to find out my answer. She was looking away from me and the dog, with squinty eyes, which meant that she was processing what I'd just said. Yep, processing it in one ear and out the other. It usually means that she's not fond of what I had to say.
"Uh, we did that last year. You said then that we should take a simple vacation to the Outer Banks, and this year we could go big," she said, while commencing brushing the dog, which at the mere mention of the word 'vacation' usually sent the poor animal into a deep depression. Vacations meant a trip to the boarders, which never set well with the spoiled fuzz ball.
I began to think. Surely, she was using the same tactic I had just employed. She was feeling me out through facial expressions and body language. "I said that?" I asked with an incredulous look on my face, not unlike the facial expression I would make while watching a meteor crash through the roof of our house.
"Yes, you did! Ryan, Sidney, come in here please!" she bellowed. Oh no, she was bringing in reinforcements. Supports troops if you will. Occasionally, Ryan would side with me, but on this issue I was a loner, a man on an island. Gilligan Fix. I was about to be over ruled. Sidney almost always sided with her mother as a general rule.
The kids appeared in the downstairs living room with superior speed and stood looking at us. That in and of itself was highly unusual. They usually moved at snail's pace when called by either of us. "What?" they asked in unison, which I also found to be strange.
Kristi spoke. "Did dad or did he not say last year that we would take a big vacation this year?" she asked with her head leaning to one side and bobbing to and fro. I didn't like her tone or the fact that I was on the verge of being overridden once again.
Both kids looked at me. I put on my most pitiful face, the face that says "Please, side with your poor father. I'm getting up in the years, I need your help." More than once I'd threatened them with the old college funding line. Ryan was going to wind up in barber school, and Sidney would be forced into the carnival life, probably tearing tickets for entrance onto the Ferris Wheel or perhaps doling out half dead gold fish at the ring toss game. "There will be no money for college if we don't rein it in!" I'd say time and again to no avail. The college fund is healthy, but they don't necessarily need to know that.
They studied my face briefly and said in unison, "Yep, that's what you said dad! You promised, we remember very well!" I was beginning to wonder if their uncanny ability to recite their answers in unison had been rehearsed. My sinister wife had surely been up to no good, corrupting our kids into joining her in the vacation bombardment. In quick fashion, I was losing the battle. Losing the battle meant airline tickets, overpriced accommodations and food, rental cars and much more. We'd taken several 'big' vacations in the past. They were anything but simple.
"Oh OK, you win Zsa Zsa! We'll do it big this year, but your planning it. Zsa Zsa." I whined. I enunciated the final two words for maximum effect. They had zero effect.
"Fine by me. Call me Zsa Zsa if you must, but I'm not staying in some rat's nest just to save a buck. It ain't happening." To be fair, my wife is very thrifty most of the time and she's what most men would consider low maintenance. However, thrift on vacation planning flies right out of the window. She puts a premium on travel.
I had grown accustomed to the rat's nest comment over the course of our marriage. I would assume that it stemmed from an incident several years ago during a trip to Canada. She had booked our stay in all but one city, which was left to me. Naturally, I did my research and found a lovely little place outside Quebec City which suited our needs and was priced right. Priced extremely right. In fact, I wondered if there had been a slight mix up in communication when the lady (in broken English) told me the price. When we arrived, and entered our room, Kristi was appalled and shocked to find out that our room featured a toilet in the room. I do mean in the room. Like, it wasn't surrounded by walls. I thought it was great. I could watch television while simultaneously answering nature's call. However, the sink and bathtub were in a separate small room, so as far as I was concerned all was well. I briefly pondered how a carpenter could rationalize such an arrangement. I spent several hours driving around the Canadian countryside several times while Kristi, ahem, took care of business. I haven't been given the responsibility of lodging since.
"Oh, alright," I said, defeated, dejected and surely on the verge of becoming a little less well-to-do.
"We're going to Puerto Rico!" Kristi, Zsa Zsa, screeched. The kids high fived. This was a mutiny plain and simple. Immediately, she galloped over to a wooden chest in our living room, and produced several books, pamphlets, and other literature related to vacationing in Puerto Rico. A mutiny for sure. Preplanned and well orchestrated and the children had been used as pawns in my wife's all out assault on my check book.
The next day, I received a flurry of text messages inquiring about airline tickets, lodging, rental cars and the like from Zsa Zsa. "I'm at work. We'll look things over when I get home," I responded. The flurry continued.
Finally, we began to plan our trip. "I like this place," I stated wryly, while I watched Zsa Zsa scrunch her face. She didn't answer, which meant she was still not over the Canada vacation of years ago. "I'm sure the kids wouldn't mind sleeping on an air mattress," I said, while both Ryan and Sidney glanced at me with a look of shock and dismay. I thought they'd better toughen up. Life in the carnival is no picnic. She quickly scrolled past my selection.
"Ooooh, I like this place! It has a private infinity pool! I'm sending an e-mail now!" she said excitedly, while tapping away on the laptop. I grabbed my phone and Googled 'infinity pool'. "Why don't you look at airline tickets?" she continued, before I had educated myself on what an infinity pool even was. I quickly found out what such a pool was. Great, at least I could end it all by swimming off the top of a building. Nice.
After what seemed like days of searching for the best possible deal on airline tickets, I had narrowed my search down to two possible routes. "Alright, this flight originates in Washington, D.C. and stops in Fort Lauderdale on the way down. On the way back, we'll stop in Tampa, which is good," I said, happy that I'd found the best possible deal.
"Why Tampa? This one backtracks through Fort Lauderdale. Plus it will put us back in Washington earlier. That's the best one for the return trip as far as I'm concerned," she said.
"Well, maybe we could see some people we know in the Tampa area during the layover. That'd be nice," I said.
Kristi had that weird look again. "The layover is forty-five minutes! See some people?" she said with a high pitched voice. Her sister and brother-in-law live in Clearwater, so I thought maybe we could see them, if only briefly. "What are they going to do, wave at our plane as we fly over their house?"
I decided to have some fun. "Oh I know some people alright. I know people all over the world. I know some in Clearwater."
"Whatever," she said, without making eye contact. "Let me guess, an old Air Force buddy?" she continued. I thought about the Air Force buddy comment. I did know people from all over the United States, and a few from other parts of the world. Who do I know in the Tampa area? Surely there was someone. Oh well, I could think of someone if I gave it enough thought, and they were probably planning a simple vacation unlike the one we were mired in.
"Maybe, they could wave at our plane as well," I said, tired of vacation planning.
Zsa Zsa finally made most of our arrangements, and I took care of air travel and the rental car. I was happy to have that chore behind us. I'm excited. It's going to be a wonderful trip, and I'm thankful to God that we have the means to allow our children to experience different places, cultures, etc.
I'll be sure to pass on our flight info to our Florida people, just in case they want to wave to our plane as we fly over. I'll be waving goodbye to my checking account and my simple life for at least a week.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
SAFE AT HOME
I've been pondering my life lately. The pondering has mostly centered around how I wound up on our couch, with two teenagers, a good wife, and a decent laptop in which to write. No, the wife and teenagers aren't currently piled onto the couch with me. They are however, somewhere in our house. I have a nice house too. The financial outlook here is good, everyone is healthy, and I'm safe at home. The story surrounding where I am at this very moment involved a rather circuitous route ranging from late high school until age twenty-seven plus a few months. I'm exceedingly glad the route has become a straight line.
I graduated from high school in June of 1988. I was smitten with a young lady as most guys were at that age. In fact, I was so smitten, that I thought surely we would be married in a few years. However, I had enlisted in the Air Force and was scheduled to fly away tearfully in several months. She left for college soon after graduation. So, if we fast forward to the following year, it had become very evident to me at least, that marriage would in no way enhance my life at that point. I was having fun. Too much fun. Over time, I mustered the courage to at least break the news that we would certainly need to postpone the marriage. "It's all or nothing," was the reply. I thought for a moment and then spoke.
"I guess it's going to be nothing. I'm just not ready to be married." Even at that young age, I knew the financial hardships that we were going to be faced with. She was in college, and I was making a pittance of pay in the military. She drove away and that was the beginning of the end for us.
Within a few months, I met a very nice young lady who was studying at the University of Maryland. She was beautiful, articulate, well spoken, educated, and wealthy. Really wealthy. How she became interested in a guy with my credentials was and still is a mystery. That romance fizzled out barely before it got off the ground. I've always blamed the flame out on the fact that I referred to hors d'oeuvres as 'horse devers' while attending a swanky gathering for her father's work. The waiter looked quizzically at me and walked away, surely wondering if I had a speech impediment. My Andy Griffith accent didn't help matters much.
The next contestant showed promise, and I honestly thought for a reasonable period of time that she could possibly be a candidate for a long term commitment. It should be noted that I never viewed myself as a prize necessarily, its just that I did have a few standards which shouldn't have been hard to meet as far as I was concerned. I was excited at least for a while. One balmy Summer evening, while sitting on the tailgate of my truck watching the sun dip below the horizon at the base lake, the conversation turned from lighthearted to personal. "You know, I could do things to you that would make your head spin. I mean stuff that porn stars do," she said. I noticed that her facial expression had turned from endearing to something almost sinister. The waning daylight accentuated her face which had turned from charming to ominous and scary. Her eyebrows were slanting downward and her eyes were mere slits. I wondered if I should just high tail it through the weeds or perhaps make a run for it into the lake and return later when the coast was clear. "I've got tons of experience, lets get a room and I'll show you what I can do!" She gushed. Directly, she proceeded to tell me of every single encounter in full detail she had had prior to meeting me.
I looked around, suddenly feeling very alone and secluded as we were the lone inhabitants of the area surrounding the lake. "Uh, it's getting late, and I have to work in the morning, so I'd better be heading back," I stammered. There was simply no way I was going to spend a night with her in a hotel room. I don't sleep well with one eye open.
As we meandered back to her apartment through the streets of suburban Washington, D.C., the conversation was non-existent. I prayed for green traffic lights along the way. When we arrived, she turned and looked at me. "Something tells me this is it for us. Was it something I said?" she asked with a scrunched face. I stared straight ahead and made an attempt to process what she had just asked me. Inside my head a voice was screaming at me to put my truck in reverse and do my best Duke boys imitation out of the parking lot. Thankfully, she shut the door and disappeared into her apartment. Later, I thanked God for the security of the military base. I never spoke to her again.
As the time passed, a few young ladies came into my life and back out as quickly as they'd arrived. Suddenly, my enlistment was nearing its end and I began to make plans for my life post Air Force. One day, while sitting around with a few other guys who were also nearing the end of their military commitment, the subject turned to wisdom teeth. Yes, wisdom teeth. "You know, you should have your wisdom teeth removed before you get out. It's free here, but I hear it's expensive when you get out. You should have it done," my friend said, between deep draws on his Marlboro cigarette. "Like eight hundred dollars a tooth expensive," he continued. That was all I needed to hear. The next day I scheduled an appointment and was well on my way to my first oral surgery.
The doctor, calmly told me to count backwards from one hundred after carefully placing a plastic mask over my mouth and nose. I made it to ninety-six.
I woke up in a fog, unable to speak. I could feel the pressure on the sides of my face and my cheeks felt like what I envisioned a squirrel would look like with a mouth full of acorns. I had a mouth full of bloody gauze. "This is terrible," I thought. I was alone, wearing a baby blue gown, with a mouth full of gauze, unable to speak. Air Force rules stated that if a patient was single and living in the barracks, then they must stay in the hospital overnight for observation. I fit the criteria for an overnight stay. Ugh!
Lying there, and listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, I briefly wondered if I was the only person in the building at the time. Suddenly, the door to my room opened and in strode a young, blonde, and very beautiful young lady adorned in hospital scrubs. She looked at a few things, I suppose to determine if I was alive or not and turned to me and smiled. "How are you?" she asked with a reassuring smile. I notice teeth, and she had nice teeth. I closed my eyes momentarily, and then reopened them, sure that I was hallucinating from the anesthesia that had yet to fully wear off. She was still standing there.
"Uh, great, I suppose. Despite the circumstances I guess," I said through a mouth full of gauze and pooled blood. I was sure she didn't care to see my toothy grin.
"Well, I'll be taking care of you for a while. Don't hesitate to call if you need something," she continued. I called her with superior regularity. I needed pain medication. I needed help to the bathroom. The curtains needed to be closed, The curtains needed to be open. I was cold. I was hot. The sheets on the bed needed to be adjusted. Each and every time, she showed up with a smile. Leaving the hospital without a way to contact her was not an option. In one of our conversations, I discovered that she was only assigned to the base for a short time. Soon, she'd be heading home to Florida. I felt a sense of urgency, although my current predicament diminished my courage somewhat.
The following morning as I removed the drafty hospital gown, and prepared to be discharged from the hospital I couldn't help but think that the perky, smiley and friendly nurse had finished her shift and probably would never lay eyes on me again. I was wrong. "How are you this morning? Oh, you're really swollen. Did you have a good night?" she asked. She had reappeared and I was extremely relieved.
There was no way I was going to risk her disappearing again. "I need a way to contact you. I mean if you don't mind." With that, she left as quickly as she had appeared. Oh well, nothing ventured nothing gained.
I sighed and continued to put my clothes on and head in the direction of the nurse's station to check out. The hallway was bustling with people coming and going in all directions. I was glad to be leaving, yet I wasn't. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "I hope you get along well. See you around," came the voice from my then favorite nurse. "It's been nice getting to know you." With that she handed me a rubber surgical glove and walked away. She had written her phone number on the glove. I was elated.
The wisdom teeth extraction had produced what I can safely say was the best few weeks of my Air Force enlistment. We enjoyed our time together. Her soothing personality and genuine ways made my final days in the military much easier. She went back to Florida much too soon by my estimation, and shortly after, I moved back to Virginia. We promised to keep in touch, and we did for a while. However, as things often go, we set out on different paths, and long distance relationships rarely survive. I've often wondered how her life has been in the twenty-four years since I last saw her. I hope things turned out well. I like to imagine her with a kind husband, who appreciates what he has. She is probably a mother, the kind society desperately needs in this day and time. Far to many children are brought into the world by less than capable parents. She ranked at the top but it wasn't meant to be.
In the immediate years after my Air Force days ended, I dated off and on. Mostly off, but somehow there was always someone in the wings. Once, I dated a young lady who outwardly appeared to have all the criteria for a relationship. She like me too. She said I was a great catch. I owned a home, had a good job, was going to college, and seemed to have my act together. After a while the subject of religion arose. I have always attended church and hoped that she had too. So, when I felt comfortable asking her about her religious leanings, I asked how she felt about such things. "Well, this may make you a tad uncomfortable based on what I know about you, but it's not a problem for me. Do you promise to listen with an open mind?" she asked.
"Of course. I'm not that much of a shallow, small minded guy!" I answered. I had a huge smile on my face, sure that she was going to say that she was a different denomination than I was.
"Well, OK then. You see, I'm into Voodoo. Does that make me a weirdo?" she stated with wide eyes. Voodoo? Why couldn't she be just your run of the mill Presbyterian or something. Good grief! I was dating a witch of some sort! Suddenly, the sharp pains I'd been experiencing in my lower back for the last few weeks made perfect sense.
"Well, uh, I've never know anyone who practiced Voodoo. But, um, I guess it's OK," I said, sure that this little charade had to be a joke. It wasn't. She proceeded to tell me all about Voodoo and what it meant to her. What it meant to me was her taking a short trip out of my front door to never be seen again. Voodoo girls need not apply.
As time went on, I formed a great relationship with my neighbors. One couple, next door, had a young son, who usually showed up at my house daily. He often spoke of his beautiful science teacher, who was single and ready to mingle as he put it so eloquently. "You need to meet her Mr. Fix," he'd say time and again. "I've told her about you as well, but she said she doesn't care to be set up by a teenager." I understood her feelings about that. I didn't care for him playing cupid any more than she apparently did.
As time went by, I poured myself into work and school, sure that 'the one' would come along. One day a friend showed up at my house unannounced and as almost everyone did in those days, asked who I was dating. In the part of the country I'm from, if a person isn't married by age twenty-five the consensus is that either their gay, or simply some sort of anomaly. "Oh, not much of anyone right now," I said, thinking about the one person I did see from time to time, but showed no promise of a future with. "Why?"
"Well, my wife works at the middle school and knows a teacher who's single, good looking, Christian, and alone. Very alone. She's from West Virginia and hasn't been here long. Maybe you guys should meet. I think you'll find she's your type. I can get her number if you're interested," he explained.
"Oh, why not," I said, sure that this could potentially be yet another dead end. My mother had recently attempted to set me up with a young lady who had turned out to be a bouncer at a local bar, so I wasn't overly optimistic. In mom's defense, she didn't know about the bouncer part.
Within a few days, I had the mystery science teacher's phone number in hand, so I called. She seemed nice and we continued to talk for a few days after the initial call. Amazingly, we found out that we shared a great many common interests, and she wasn't into Voodoo, nor had she been a novice porn star. All good signs. We agreed on a first date and in no time I was standing at her doorstep eagerly awaiting our first face to face meeting.
On March 27th of 1999, we were married. This has been a good life. We have two teenagers, a daughter and a son, and life is cruising along just swell. A good mother's protective instincts with regards to her children are unrivaled in nature. She proves that every day. I am thankful for her, our life, our home and the security that each provide. Throughout the workweek, I find myself longing for the weekend and time spent with my family. God sure does work in mysterious ways. I often wonder if just one tiny thing had been different, where I'd be. Where would I have landed? Who would I have landed with? Our lives are just like a mighty river that runs to the sea. We wind and meander until finally we're safe at home.
I graduated from high school in June of 1988. I was smitten with a young lady as most guys were at that age. In fact, I was so smitten, that I thought surely we would be married in a few years. However, I had enlisted in the Air Force and was scheduled to fly away tearfully in several months. She left for college soon after graduation. So, if we fast forward to the following year, it had become very evident to me at least, that marriage would in no way enhance my life at that point. I was having fun. Too much fun. Over time, I mustered the courage to at least break the news that we would certainly need to postpone the marriage. "It's all or nothing," was the reply. I thought for a moment and then spoke.
"I guess it's going to be nothing. I'm just not ready to be married." Even at that young age, I knew the financial hardships that we were going to be faced with. She was in college, and I was making a pittance of pay in the military. She drove away and that was the beginning of the end for us.
Within a few months, I met a very nice young lady who was studying at the University of Maryland. She was beautiful, articulate, well spoken, educated, and wealthy. Really wealthy. How she became interested in a guy with my credentials was and still is a mystery. That romance fizzled out barely before it got off the ground. I've always blamed the flame out on the fact that I referred to hors d'oeuvres as 'horse devers' while attending a swanky gathering for her father's work. The waiter looked quizzically at me and walked away, surely wondering if I had a speech impediment. My Andy Griffith accent didn't help matters much.
The next contestant showed promise, and I honestly thought for a reasonable period of time that she could possibly be a candidate for a long term commitment. It should be noted that I never viewed myself as a prize necessarily, its just that I did have a few standards which shouldn't have been hard to meet as far as I was concerned. I was excited at least for a while. One balmy Summer evening, while sitting on the tailgate of my truck watching the sun dip below the horizon at the base lake, the conversation turned from lighthearted to personal. "You know, I could do things to you that would make your head spin. I mean stuff that porn stars do," she said. I noticed that her facial expression had turned from endearing to something almost sinister. The waning daylight accentuated her face which had turned from charming to ominous and scary. Her eyebrows were slanting downward and her eyes were mere slits. I wondered if I should just high tail it through the weeds or perhaps make a run for it into the lake and return later when the coast was clear. "I've got tons of experience, lets get a room and I'll show you what I can do!" She gushed. Directly, she proceeded to tell me of every single encounter in full detail she had had prior to meeting me.
I looked around, suddenly feeling very alone and secluded as we were the lone inhabitants of the area surrounding the lake. "Uh, it's getting late, and I have to work in the morning, so I'd better be heading back," I stammered. There was simply no way I was going to spend a night with her in a hotel room. I don't sleep well with one eye open.
As we meandered back to her apartment through the streets of suburban Washington, D.C., the conversation was non-existent. I prayed for green traffic lights along the way. When we arrived, she turned and looked at me. "Something tells me this is it for us. Was it something I said?" she asked with a scrunched face. I stared straight ahead and made an attempt to process what she had just asked me. Inside my head a voice was screaming at me to put my truck in reverse and do my best Duke boys imitation out of the parking lot. Thankfully, she shut the door and disappeared into her apartment. Later, I thanked God for the security of the military base. I never spoke to her again.
As the time passed, a few young ladies came into my life and back out as quickly as they'd arrived. Suddenly, my enlistment was nearing its end and I began to make plans for my life post Air Force. One day, while sitting around with a few other guys who were also nearing the end of their military commitment, the subject turned to wisdom teeth. Yes, wisdom teeth. "You know, you should have your wisdom teeth removed before you get out. It's free here, but I hear it's expensive when you get out. You should have it done," my friend said, between deep draws on his Marlboro cigarette. "Like eight hundred dollars a tooth expensive," he continued. That was all I needed to hear. The next day I scheduled an appointment and was well on my way to my first oral surgery.
The doctor, calmly told me to count backwards from one hundred after carefully placing a plastic mask over my mouth and nose. I made it to ninety-six.
I woke up in a fog, unable to speak. I could feel the pressure on the sides of my face and my cheeks felt like what I envisioned a squirrel would look like with a mouth full of acorns. I had a mouth full of bloody gauze. "This is terrible," I thought. I was alone, wearing a baby blue gown, with a mouth full of gauze, unable to speak. Air Force rules stated that if a patient was single and living in the barracks, then they must stay in the hospital overnight for observation. I fit the criteria for an overnight stay. Ugh!
Lying there, and listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, I briefly wondered if I was the only person in the building at the time. Suddenly, the door to my room opened and in strode a young, blonde, and very beautiful young lady adorned in hospital scrubs. She looked at a few things, I suppose to determine if I was alive or not and turned to me and smiled. "How are you?" she asked with a reassuring smile. I notice teeth, and she had nice teeth. I closed my eyes momentarily, and then reopened them, sure that I was hallucinating from the anesthesia that had yet to fully wear off. She was still standing there.
"Uh, great, I suppose. Despite the circumstances I guess," I said through a mouth full of gauze and pooled blood. I was sure she didn't care to see my toothy grin.
"Well, I'll be taking care of you for a while. Don't hesitate to call if you need something," she continued. I called her with superior regularity. I needed pain medication. I needed help to the bathroom. The curtains needed to be closed, The curtains needed to be open. I was cold. I was hot. The sheets on the bed needed to be adjusted. Each and every time, she showed up with a smile. Leaving the hospital without a way to contact her was not an option. In one of our conversations, I discovered that she was only assigned to the base for a short time. Soon, she'd be heading home to Florida. I felt a sense of urgency, although my current predicament diminished my courage somewhat.
The following morning as I removed the drafty hospital gown, and prepared to be discharged from the hospital I couldn't help but think that the perky, smiley and friendly nurse had finished her shift and probably would never lay eyes on me again. I was wrong. "How are you this morning? Oh, you're really swollen. Did you have a good night?" she asked. She had reappeared and I was extremely relieved.
There was no way I was going to risk her disappearing again. "I need a way to contact you. I mean if you don't mind." With that, she left as quickly as she had appeared. Oh well, nothing ventured nothing gained.
I sighed and continued to put my clothes on and head in the direction of the nurse's station to check out. The hallway was bustling with people coming and going in all directions. I was glad to be leaving, yet I wasn't. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "I hope you get along well. See you around," came the voice from my then favorite nurse. "It's been nice getting to know you." With that she handed me a rubber surgical glove and walked away. She had written her phone number on the glove. I was elated.
The wisdom teeth extraction had produced what I can safely say was the best few weeks of my Air Force enlistment. We enjoyed our time together. Her soothing personality and genuine ways made my final days in the military much easier. She went back to Florida much too soon by my estimation, and shortly after, I moved back to Virginia. We promised to keep in touch, and we did for a while. However, as things often go, we set out on different paths, and long distance relationships rarely survive. I've often wondered how her life has been in the twenty-four years since I last saw her. I hope things turned out well. I like to imagine her with a kind husband, who appreciates what he has. She is probably a mother, the kind society desperately needs in this day and time. Far to many children are brought into the world by less than capable parents. She ranked at the top but it wasn't meant to be.
In the immediate years after my Air Force days ended, I dated off and on. Mostly off, but somehow there was always someone in the wings. Once, I dated a young lady who outwardly appeared to have all the criteria for a relationship. She like me too. She said I was a great catch. I owned a home, had a good job, was going to college, and seemed to have my act together. After a while the subject of religion arose. I have always attended church and hoped that she had too. So, when I felt comfortable asking her about her religious leanings, I asked how she felt about such things. "Well, this may make you a tad uncomfortable based on what I know about you, but it's not a problem for me. Do you promise to listen with an open mind?" she asked.
"Of course. I'm not that much of a shallow, small minded guy!" I answered. I had a huge smile on my face, sure that she was going to say that she was a different denomination than I was.
"Well, OK then. You see, I'm into Voodoo. Does that make me a weirdo?" she stated with wide eyes. Voodoo? Why couldn't she be just your run of the mill Presbyterian or something. Good grief! I was dating a witch of some sort! Suddenly, the sharp pains I'd been experiencing in my lower back for the last few weeks made perfect sense.
"Well, uh, I've never know anyone who practiced Voodoo. But, um, I guess it's OK," I said, sure that this little charade had to be a joke. It wasn't. She proceeded to tell me all about Voodoo and what it meant to her. What it meant to me was her taking a short trip out of my front door to never be seen again. Voodoo girls need not apply.
As time went on, I formed a great relationship with my neighbors. One couple, next door, had a young son, who usually showed up at my house daily. He often spoke of his beautiful science teacher, who was single and ready to mingle as he put it so eloquently. "You need to meet her Mr. Fix," he'd say time and again. "I've told her about you as well, but she said she doesn't care to be set up by a teenager." I understood her feelings about that. I didn't care for him playing cupid any more than she apparently did.
As time went by, I poured myself into work and school, sure that 'the one' would come along. One day a friend showed up at my house unannounced and as almost everyone did in those days, asked who I was dating. In the part of the country I'm from, if a person isn't married by age twenty-five the consensus is that either their gay, or simply some sort of anomaly. "Oh, not much of anyone right now," I said, thinking about the one person I did see from time to time, but showed no promise of a future with. "Why?"
"Well, my wife works at the middle school and knows a teacher who's single, good looking, Christian, and alone. Very alone. She's from West Virginia and hasn't been here long. Maybe you guys should meet. I think you'll find she's your type. I can get her number if you're interested," he explained.
"Oh, why not," I said, sure that this could potentially be yet another dead end. My mother had recently attempted to set me up with a young lady who had turned out to be a bouncer at a local bar, so I wasn't overly optimistic. In mom's defense, she didn't know about the bouncer part.
Within a few days, I had the mystery science teacher's phone number in hand, so I called. She seemed nice and we continued to talk for a few days after the initial call. Amazingly, we found out that we shared a great many common interests, and she wasn't into Voodoo, nor had she been a novice porn star. All good signs. We agreed on a first date and in no time I was standing at her doorstep eagerly awaiting our first face to face meeting.
On March 27th of 1999, we were married. This has been a good life. We have two teenagers, a daughter and a son, and life is cruising along just swell. A good mother's protective instincts with regards to her children are unrivaled in nature. She proves that every day. I am thankful for her, our life, our home and the security that each provide. Throughout the workweek, I find myself longing for the weekend and time spent with my family. God sure does work in mysterious ways. I often wonder if just one tiny thing had been different, where I'd be. Where would I have landed? Who would I have landed with? Our lives are just like a mighty river that runs to the sea. We wind and meander until finally we're safe at home.
Friday, November 25, 2016
WHITE FRIDAY
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...
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...
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..."
Monday, December 28, 2015
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.
"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.
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