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.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Monday, December 21, 2015
CINEMA
My wife and I share a great many common interests. I guess most happily married people do, or they wouldn't be married in the first place. We have the same philosophy when it comes to raising our children. We have similar ideas on vacation destinations and both value hard work to accomplish goals in life. We don't however, share any common ground in movie or television interests.
The other day, I strode into the kitchen to find Kristi asleep under a blanket with the television on. I quietly removed my shoes and assumed a prone position on the opposite couch. I stretched for the remote, which was lying on a little wooden chest close to where she slept. Quietly and calmly, I began to surf. Much to my delight, I stopped on the American Movie Channel, which had endless Steven Seagal movies on continuous loop. Under Siege had just begun and I settled in for the long haul. I still love the action movies of the nineteen eighties and early nineties.
"You've got to be kidding me!" came the muffled voice of my wife from somewhere deep within the pile of blankets that she was buried in. "Good grief, can't you switch it to something we can both enjoy?"
I didn't utter a word.
"Hello? I don't want to watch this."
Silence.
Finally, through my peripheral vision, I could see her. Her head was sticking up out of the covers, and she was staring at me with wide eyes and flared nostrils. I gave in and looked directly at her. "What?" I asked.
She continued to stare and then spoke once again. "Let's watch something we can both enjoy!"
"There's nothing we both enjoy," I said, hoping she'd rebury herself and go back to sleep.
"Oh, for goodness sake! Surely there's something we both can watch."
"We can both watch Steven Seagal."
She continued to stare at me as though she was looking deep into my soul, desperately trying to figure out why I continued to enjoy watching Seagal shoot people and break bones with reckless abandon. "Look, I'm not watching Dr. Phil. I'm not watching people wander around in the woods looking for Big Foot. If they'd find him once in a while, maybe, but they never do. I'm also not going to watch those alien shows either. Same as Big Foot, they never find any." I assumed that I should continue to make my case for Steven Seagal. "At least the events in Seagal's movies have the potential to happen."
"Whatever," came the exasperated reply.
"OK, lets talk about this. Suppose YOU were tasked with jumping out of a cake on a Navy ship, and then dance for the sailors. But, unbeknownst to you, some very bad guys had taken over the ship. You didn't know, because you were inside the cake of course. But when you do jump out, you realize that Steven Seagal is going to save your life. Now, wouldn't that bring you some comfort?" I said, trying very hard to reason with her.
"I can't think of any time I would be on a Navy ship," she quipped wryly.
"Let's just pretend that you were on the ship," I answered.
"Number one, I have never, nor will I ever go onto a Navy ship. Number two, I don't jump out of cakes. And three, I'm never going to dance for a bunch of sailors."
For a moment, the conversation ceased. I was exceedingly interested to see how Seagal was going to wiggle out of his latest seemingly hopeless predicament. "This is so stupid, I don't see how anyone..." Kristi had gained her second wind.
I shushed her and pointed to the TV.
"Oh good Lord! You know what's going to happen! You've know what was going to happen for the last twenty years! How may times have you seen this movie?"
"About as many times as you've seen Grease!"
She was right. Maybe I could find something on another channel that we could watch, and reach a healthy compromise. I began surfing again. My surfing was short lived.
"No!" she bellowed.
I had pushed the channel button twice and landed right, smack, dab, on Spike TV, which was featuring none other than Sylvester Stallone in Rambo. "Now, there's a movie we can both enjoy!"
With that, she threw off her blankets and stomped to the nether regions of our home.
Yep, there's no doubt. We have lots of common interests. But if I could just get her to appreciate broken bones, and shoot 'em up action scenes, we'd be forever on the page.
The other day, I strode into the kitchen to find Kristi asleep under a blanket with the television on. I quietly removed my shoes and assumed a prone position on the opposite couch. I stretched for the remote, which was lying on a little wooden chest close to where she slept. Quietly and calmly, I began to surf. Much to my delight, I stopped on the American Movie Channel, which had endless Steven Seagal movies on continuous loop. Under Siege had just begun and I settled in for the long haul. I still love the action movies of the nineteen eighties and early nineties.
"You've got to be kidding me!" came the muffled voice of my wife from somewhere deep within the pile of blankets that she was buried in. "Good grief, can't you switch it to something we can both enjoy?"
I didn't utter a word.
"Hello? I don't want to watch this."
Silence.
Finally, through my peripheral vision, I could see her. Her head was sticking up out of the covers, and she was staring at me with wide eyes and flared nostrils. I gave in and looked directly at her. "What?" I asked.
She continued to stare and then spoke once again. "Let's watch something we can both enjoy!"
"There's nothing we both enjoy," I said, hoping she'd rebury herself and go back to sleep.
"Oh, for goodness sake! Surely there's something we both can watch."
"We can both watch Steven Seagal."
She continued to stare at me as though she was looking deep into my soul, desperately trying to figure out why I continued to enjoy watching Seagal shoot people and break bones with reckless abandon. "Look, I'm not watching Dr. Phil. I'm not watching people wander around in the woods looking for Big Foot. If they'd find him once in a while, maybe, but they never do. I'm also not going to watch those alien shows either. Same as Big Foot, they never find any." I assumed that I should continue to make my case for Steven Seagal. "At least the events in Seagal's movies have the potential to happen."
"Whatever," came the exasperated reply.
"OK, lets talk about this. Suppose YOU were tasked with jumping out of a cake on a Navy ship, and then dance for the sailors. But, unbeknownst to you, some very bad guys had taken over the ship. You didn't know, because you were inside the cake of course. But when you do jump out, you realize that Steven Seagal is going to save your life. Now, wouldn't that bring you some comfort?" I said, trying very hard to reason with her.
"I can't think of any time I would be on a Navy ship," she quipped wryly.
"Let's just pretend that you were on the ship," I answered.
"Number one, I have never, nor will I ever go onto a Navy ship. Number two, I don't jump out of cakes. And three, I'm never going to dance for a bunch of sailors."
For a moment, the conversation ceased. I was exceedingly interested to see how Seagal was going to wiggle out of his latest seemingly hopeless predicament. "This is so stupid, I don't see how anyone..." Kristi had gained her second wind.
I shushed her and pointed to the TV.
"Oh good Lord! You know what's going to happen! You've know what was going to happen for the last twenty years! How may times have you seen this movie?"
"About as many times as you've seen Grease!"
She was right. Maybe I could find something on another channel that we could watch, and reach a healthy compromise. I began surfing again. My surfing was short lived.
"No!" she bellowed.
I had pushed the channel button twice and landed right, smack, dab, on Spike TV, which was featuring none other than Sylvester Stallone in Rambo. "Now, there's a movie we can both enjoy!"
With that, she threw off her blankets and stomped to the nether regions of our home.
Yep, there's no doubt. We have lots of common interests. But if I could just get her to appreciate broken bones, and shoot 'em up action scenes, we'd be forever on the page.
Monday, December 14, 2015
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
"Dad, what do rock collectors gain from collecting rocks?" Ryan asked, while simultaneously chomping on a piece of pizza. "I mean, rock collecting? Please."
I pondered the question and surmised that as his father, I should at least attempt a fairly intelligent and well though out response. "Well," I started. "You see, people who collect rocks... Heck if I know. Seems pretty pointless to me if you want my opinion."
"Exactly!" the boy answered, before washing his pizza down with a rather large gulp of water. "It just seems that people could be putting their time to better use that going around gathering a bunch of useless rocks." I wasn't sure what his point really was, but I was wondering if he sure enough was a chip off the old block. His mother doesn't have much use for rocks either. "Bird watchers are another crowd that bother me," he continued. Before I could expand on the bird watchers, he disappeared into his man cave.
I have watched birds. I guess most people have, but I have WATCHED BIRDS! Like, with bird watchers. How I came to be a bird watcher is of superior story quality.
During my years in the Air Force, I had the unique privilege of meeting a great many people from all over the country and also a variety from around the world. One of those people was none other that George Tackett from Pennsylvania. When one thinks of Pennsylvania, some of that state's major cities come to mind. Pittsburg and Philadelphia along with many others are at the forefront of places people have heard of. Well, George was from neither. He was from a place so remote, that according to him, dirt and tree bark were part of their basic sustenance. I believed him.
George was one of those guys who was country to the core. He loathed the military way of doing things and was occasionally known to kill squirrels around the base with a pellet rifle and fry them on a hot plate in his barracks room. I didn't spend much time with him as we worked opposite shifts, thus limiting our exposure to one another. But, one day, he poked his head into my room. "Whatcha doin' Fix?" he said, with a stubby Marlboro protruding from his lips.
"Oh, just sitting around. How about you George?" I asked without looking up from the comfort of my old, plaid couch.
"Bored to tears. I've killed all the squirrels and it looks like you and me are the only ones here today. I took leave for a week, but my family is away, so I guess I'll just hang around the base," he continued as he plopped his lanky body down on my bed. "I swear, I should hook you up with my older sister, Loretta," he said. He had reached into my tiny dorm style fridge looking for who knows what so I was staring at his back, which was covered with a tee-shirt featuring a woman in a swim suit surrounded by the words, 'we dive at five'. It was widely known that he'd been named for George Jones. His older sister had been named for Loretta Lynn. His younger sister was named Dolly. I don't need to explain that one.
"Hook me up with Dolly! She's the one I want!" I said, with an ear to ear grin on my face. He turned from the fridge and frowned.
"Naw, pervert. She's only twelve."
"Oh, sorry."
George lit another cigarette, and scrunched his face. "I hate this place. There's nothing here but concrete and pavement. Back home we hunted and fished everyday. Gotta drive a hundred miles now just to find a decent patch of woods in this hell hole!" he moaned. He did have a fairly valid point. There surely aren't many places in Washington, D.C. to hunt and fish.
Suddenly, another of our barracks mates leaned into my room. Mike Scanlon lived across the hall. He was a very intelligent guy, who attended the University of Maryland while also keeping up with his Air Force duties. Rarely, he would make an appearance, and simply disappear, rarely hanging around long enough to engage in real conversation. I had a feeling that our conversations weren't very stimulating as far as he was concerned. I doubt that he cared how many empty beer bottles were needed to completely fill a urinal. He apparently came from well to do parents as he was the only person we knew who drove a decent car. I still don't like Volvos for that reason. He also had a girlfriend who happened to be one of he prettiest girls I'd ever seen. I do however, continue to like girls. How he wound up as an enlisted man in the military was a question that has never been answered. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about being bored and longing for the peace and serenity of the outdoors," he said with a wide smile.
George looked puzzled. I figured the peace and serenity bit had confused him. "What?" he asked, while exhaling a perfect smoke ring from his mouth.
"Look fellows, I'm a very avid birdwatcher. My girlfriend and I belong to the Upper Chesapeake Birding Society. It's great fun! Why don't you guys come along with our group sometime? You'd love it!" I could see that Scanlon was joking or was trying to make us the joke.
"Can we shoot them birds after you watch 'em?" George squawked. "The only birds I've ever watched were the ones I blasted with my shotgun."
"No, you can't shoot them! We try to see how many species of birds we can observe in a day. It's great fun and afterwards there's always plenty of food and drink."
"Well, I guess it might be ok. You in Fix?" George asked. At that point, I was sure that bird watching and food had little to do with George's sudden enthusiasm with Mike's suggestion. The drinking? That's a different story. George and Jim Beam were rather cozy friends.
Scanlon continued to stare at us. "Well?"
"Alright, call us the next time you go. If we're not busy, we'll think about it," I replied.
Several days later, I was summoned to the hall telephone. "Hello."
"Fix, it's Mike. My group is going bird watching this morning and I was wondering if you and George would like to tag along!" I was not the tag along type. In fact I especially wasn't the bird watching tag along type. There was no way I was going to be duped into participating in Scanlon's little charade.
"Yeah, sure. Let me see if George is in," I said, as I walked toward George's room. There was never a question of whether or not he was in. There was, however, always a question of whether or not he had sobered up from the previous night. I banged on his wooden door.
"George, get up! We're going bird watching with Scanlon this morning!" I heard a faint groan and then a thunderous crash. Suddenly the door flew open. George was unfit for bird watching. In fact he was unfit for almost anything from the looks of him. His boxer shorts were dangling from his waist, his hair was a tangled mess, and his boots were muddy and wet. He reeked of alcohol. "Good Lord son, what happened to you?"
"I tried frog gigging in the base lake last night and it didn't turn out so well. How the hell did my boots wind up back on my feet? Oh, must have put them on to get some smokes from my car this morning. Damn."
"Well get dressed, we're going bird watching today!"
After what seemed forever, George presented himself at my room. His hair was still the same tangled mess it had been before, and he sported the same muddy combat boots. Thankfully, he did don a tank top and a pair of cut off blue jeans. I stared at him. "You're wearing that?" I asked, incredulously. The words 'bird watcher' did not come to mind unless we were referring to a street person feeding pigeons. "Let's go. Scanlon gave me directions and said to be there no later that ten." With that, we made our way to my 1986 Dodge Omni. George sat for a moment and then he turned his head toward me and spoke.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, looking at himself.
I didn't answer and continued to drive.
Luckily we didn't get lost and found our way to the park in which the bird watching adventure was scheduled to commence and found Scanlon's directions to be perfect. We also found the other bird watchers to be perfect as well. I steered my little rattling car into a space next to Mike's Volvo and observed that we had probably made a huge mistake in accepting his invitation. There were at least twenty other people milling around. Most of them appeared to be of the noble variety. At least two of the men wore safari hats and all of them had khaki shorts on. One fellow was busy adjusting the tripod on his rather large spotting scope, while another wiped the lenses on his binoculars. None of them sported a tank top proclaiming that they always fished with a 'Big Johnson' as George did. "Did you bring binoculars?" I asked, without looking at George.
"Hell yeah. They ain't big as that guy's but they'll do. His looks like something you'd use on a Navy ship. Damn, we looking at a bunch of birds or we trying to find Jupiter!!!" I chuckled but didn't look at him.
"Well, lets go," I said.
We made our way to the group, who were gathered around one of the men in the safari hats. He was handing out something to each person. "These are the species most likely to be observed in this area today. But, often times we will see the occasional odd duck, no pun intended, around this parcel," The crowd erupted in laughter and George obviously didn't get the joke. Maybe the guy truly was trying to be funny, but I felt like George was the odd duck that day. The crowd had been staring at us since we'd parked. It was as though Elvis Presley was along for the day.
I noticed that nobody smoked as my old Pennsylvania buddy did. Apparently, George was the only one who reeked of liquor, but it was hard to tell as the smell enveloped the entire parking lot. I didn't notice anyone else in a tanktop with mustard stains on it. Standing beside him, I felt that at least I wasn't the very bottom of the barrel.
"What's this paper with pictures of birds on it for?" George asked without removing his the cigarette from his mouth.
The finely dressed lady standing beside us stared ominously at us and answered. "If you happen to spot one of these birds, write down where you saw it, what time you saw it, and approximate size of the specimen."
George leaned over to me. "What'd she say? Are we looking for birds or specimens?"
"Both."
Safari hat man, whom I assumed must be the leader spoke again. "Does anyone have any questions."
George raised his hand. "Yes, what is it?" the leader asked with a booming voice and a slight hint of irritation.
"Well, I've seen almost all of the birds on this sheet. Matter of fact, I've killed right many of them. Why are we looking for them again?" Several gasps floated through the air, along with many looks of disgust.
The leader didn't answer George. Scanlon instantly regretted his decision to include us in his bird watching adventure.
With that, we began our journey around the trail in search of birds. Oddly, I didn't notice a single person writing anything on their sheet. Even more odd was the fact that George had nearly run out of room to write on his. "What in the world are you writing?" I asked, trying to make out the scribble that covered his sheet.
"These people must be blind! I'm seeing all sorts of birds. There's one on that branch over there," He said with his arm outstretched and his index finger extended. The guy with the spotting scope spun his contraption around and announced, "A big hand for George, he's just spotted the elusive eastern pine cone bird!"
A huge amount of laughter ensued. I felt bad for my friend, but not really bad. He did, after all have a pair of binoculars that were once commonly given away as prizes in cereal boxes. Suddenly, an older lady with a large flowery hat exclaimed with a hushed voice that she'd spotted an Eastern Mourning Dove.
"Mourning Dove?" George asked. "Hell, we got them back home. After we got done with them, they was in mourning all right!" Again, gasps filled the air.
We continued for at least another mile or so and I simply could not take another minute of bird watching. I turned toward my sweaty, hungover friend and quietly said, "I think it's time to go. You and I are going to head back. I'm tired and I think maybe bird watching isn't our thing." I thanked Mike for inviting us along and to be honest the guy looked relieved. With that, George and I meandered back to the car.
"Those people are hateful. One old lady said she'd never seen a chain smoking bird watcher before and that lady with the flowery hat said that someone smelled like a bar room trash can. Whoever she was talking about probably had their feelings hurt," he said.
"Yeah, probably," I said as I drove away from the park.
We didn't say much on the way back. George slept most of the way, and finally woke up as we entered the base. "I have killed almost every one of those birds at one time or another. No lie."
I haven't been bird watching since. I haven't laid eyes on George for over twenty years. But, one thing is for sure. He was great entertainment that day, and much more so that watching a bunch of birds.
I pondered the question and surmised that as his father, I should at least attempt a fairly intelligent and well though out response. "Well," I started. "You see, people who collect rocks... Heck if I know. Seems pretty pointless to me if you want my opinion."
"Exactly!" the boy answered, before washing his pizza down with a rather large gulp of water. "It just seems that people could be putting their time to better use that going around gathering a bunch of useless rocks." I wasn't sure what his point really was, but I was wondering if he sure enough was a chip off the old block. His mother doesn't have much use for rocks either. "Bird watchers are another crowd that bother me," he continued. Before I could expand on the bird watchers, he disappeared into his man cave.
I have watched birds. I guess most people have, but I have WATCHED BIRDS! Like, with bird watchers. How I came to be a bird watcher is of superior story quality.
During my years in the Air Force, I had the unique privilege of meeting a great many people from all over the country and also a variety from around the world. One of those people was none other that George Tackett from Pennsylvania. When one thinks of Pennsylvania, some of that state's major cities come to mind. Pittsburg and Philadelphia along with many others are at the forefront of places people have heard of. Well, George was from neither. He was from a place so remote, that according to him, dirt and tree bark were part of their basic sustenance. I believed him.
George was one of those guys who was country to the core. He loathed the military way of doing things and was occasionally known to kill squirrels around the base with a pellet rifle and fry them on a hot plate in his barracks room. I didn't spend much time with him as we worked opposite shifts, thus limiting our exposure to one another. But, one day, he poked his head into my room. "Whatcha doin' Fix?" he said, with a stubby Marlboro protruding from his lips.
"Oh, just sitting around. How about you George?" I asked without looking up from the comfort of my old, plaid couch.
"Bored to tears. I've killed all the squirrels and it looks like you and me are the only ones here today. I took leave for a week, but my family is away, so I guess I'll just hang around the base," he continued as he plopped his lanky body down on my bed. "I swear, I should hook you up with my older sister, Loretta," he said. He had reached into my tiny dorm style fridge looking for who knows what so I was staring at his back, which was covered with a tee-shirt featuring a woman in a swim suit surrounded by the words, 'we dive at five'. It was widely known that he'd been named for George Jones. His older sister had been named for Loretta Lynn. His younger sister was named Dolly. I don't need to explain that one.
"Hook me up with Dolly! She's the one I want!" I said, with an ear to ear grin on my face. He turned from the fridge and frowned.
"Naw, pervert. She's only twelve."
"Oh, sorry."
George lit another cigarette, and scrunched his face. "I hate this place. There's nothing here but concrete and pavement. Back home we hunted and fished everyday. Gotta drive a hundred miles now just to find a decent patch of woods in this hell hole!" he moaned. He did have a fairly valid point. There surely aren't many places in Washington, D.C. to hunt and fish.
Suddenly, another of our barracks mates leaned into my room. Mike Scanlon lived across the hall. He was a very intelligent guy, who attended the University of Maryland while also keeping up with his Air Force duties. Rarely, he would make an appearance, and simply disappear, rarely hanging around long enough to engage in real conversation. I had a feeling that our conversations weren't very stimulating as far as he was concerned. I doubt that he cared how many empty beer bottles were needed to completely fill a urinal. He apparently came from well to do parents as he was the only person we knew who drove a decent car. I still don't like Volvos for that reason. He also had a girlfriend who happened to be one of he prettiest girls I'd ever seen. I do however, continue to like girls. How he wound up as an enlisted man in the military was a question that has never been answered. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about being bored and longing for the peace and serenity of the outdoors," he said with a wide smile.
George looked puzzled. I figured the peace and serenity bit had confused him. "What?" he asked, while exhaling a perfect smoke ring from his mouth.
"Look fellows, I'm a very avid birdwatcher. My girlfriend and I belong to the Upper Chesapeake Birding Society. It's great fun! Why don't you guys come along with our group sometime? You'd love it!" I could see that Scanlon was joking or was trying to make us the joke.
"Can we shoot them birds after you watch 'em?" George squawked. "The only birds I've ever watched were the ones I blasted with my shotgun."
"No, you can't shoot them! We try to see how many species of birds we can observe in a day. It's great fun and afterwards there's always plenty of food and drink."
"Well, I guess it might be ok. You in Fix?" George asked. At that point, I was sure that bird watching and food had little to do with George's sudden enthusiasm with Mike's suggestion. The drinking? That's a different story. George and Jim Beam were rather cozy friends.
Scanlon continued to stare at us. "Well?"
"Alright, call us the next time you go. If we're not busy, we'll think about it," I replied.
Several days later, I was summoned to the hall telephone. "Hello."
"Fix, it's Mike. My group is going bird watching this morning and I was wondering if you and George would like to tag along!" I was not the tag along type. In fact I especially wasn't the bird watching tag along type. There was no way I was going to be duped into participating in Scanlon's little charade.
"Yeah, sure. Let me see if George is in," I said, as I walked toward George's room. There was never a question of whether or not he was in. There was, however, always a question of whether or not he had sobered up from the previous night. I banged on his wooden door.
"George, get up! We're going bird watching with Scanlon this morning!" I heard a faint groan and then a thunderous crash. Suddenly the door flew open. George was unfit for bird watching. In fact he was unfit for almost anything from the looks of him. His boxer shorts were dangling from his waist, his hair was a tangled mess, and his boots were muddy and wet. He reeked of alcohol. "Good Lord son, what happened to you?"
"I tried frog gigging in the base lake last night and it didn't turn out so well. How the hell did my boots wind up back on my feet? Oh, must have put them on to get some smokes from my car this morning. Damn."
"Well get dressed, we're going bird watching today!"
After what seemed forever, George presented himself at my room. His hair was still the same tangled mess it had been before, and he sported the same muddy combat boots. Thankfully, he did don a tank top and a pair of cut off blue jeans. I stared at him. "You're wearing that?" I asked, incredulously. The words 'bird watcher' did not come to mind unless we were referring to a street person feeding pigeons. "Let's go. Scanlon gave me directions and said to be there no later that ten." With that, we made our way to my 1986 Dodge Omni. George sat for a moment and then he turned his head toward me and spoke.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, looking at himself.
I didn't answer and continued to drive.
Luckily we didn't get lost and found our way to the park in which the bird watching adventure was scheduled to commence and found Scanlon's directions to be perfect. We also found the other bird watchers to be perfect as well. I steered my little rattling car into a space next to Mike's Volvo and observed that we had probably made a huge mistake in accepting his invitation. There were at least twenty other people milling around. Most of them appeared to be of the noble variety. At least two of the men wore safari hats and all of them had khaki shorts on. One fellow was busy adjusting the tripod on his rather large spotting scope, while another wiped the lenses on his binoculars. None of them sported a tank top proclaiming that they always fished with a 'Big Johnson' as George did. "Did you bring binoculars?" I asked, without looking at George.
"Hell yeah. They ain't big as that guy's but they'll do. His looks like something you'd use on a Navy ship. Damn, we looking at a bunch of birds or we trying to find Jupiter!!!" I chuckled but didn't look at him.
"Well, lets go," I said.
We made our way to the group, who were gathered around one of the men in the safari hats. He was handing out something to each person. "These are the species most likely to be observed in this area today. But, often times we will see the occasional odd duck, no pun intended, around this parcel," The crowd erupted in laughter and George obviously didn't get the joke. Maybe the guy truly was trying to be funny, but I felt like George was the odd duck that day. The crowd had been staring at us since we'd parked. It was as though Elvis Presley was along for the day.
I noticed that nobody smoked as my old Pennsylvania buddy did. Apparently, George was the only one who reeked of liquor, but it was hard to tell as the smell enveloped the entire parking lot. I didn't notice anyone else in a tanktop with mustard stains on it. Standing beside him, I felt that at least I wasn't the very bottom of the barrel.
"What's this paper with pictures of birds on it for?" George asked without removing his the cigarette from his mouth.
The finely dressed lady standing beside us stared ominously at us and answered. "If you happen to spot one of these birds, write down where you saw it, what time you saw it, and approximate size of the specimen."
George leaned over to me. "What'd she say? Are we looking for birds or specimens?"
"Both."
Safari hat man, whom I assumed must be the leader spoke again. "Does anyone have any questions."
George raised his hand. "Yes, what is it?" the leader asked with a booming voice and a slight hint of irritation.
"Well, I've seen almost all of the birds on this sheet. Matter of fact, I've killed right many of them. Why are we looking for them again?" Several gasps floated through the air, along with many looks of disgust.
The leader didn't answer George. Scanlon instantly regretted his decision to include us in his bird watching adventure.
With that, we began our journey around the trail in search of birds. Oddly, I didn't notice a single person writing anything on their sheet. Even more odd was the fact that George had nearly run out of room to write on his. "What in the world are you writing?" I asked, trying to make out the scribble that covered his sheet.
"These people must be blind! I'm seeing all sorts of birds. There's one on that branch over there," He said with his arm outstretched and his index finger extended. The guy with the spotting scope spun his contraption around and announced, "A big hand for George, he's just spotted the elusive eastern pine cone bird!"
A huge amount of laughter ensued. I felt bad for my friend, but not really bad. He did, after all have a pair of binoculars that were once commonly given away as prizes in cereal boxes. Suddenly, an older lady with a large flowery hat exclaimed with a hushed voice that she'd spotted an Eastern Mourning Dove.
"Mourning Dove?" George asked. "Hell, we got them back home. After we got done with them, they was in mourning all right!" Again, gasps filled the air.
We continued for at least another mile or so and I simply could not take another minute of bird watching. I turned toward my sweaty, hungover friend and quietly said, "I think it's time to go. You and I are going to head back. I'm tired and I think maybe bird watching isn't our thing." I thanked Mike for inviting us along and to be honest the guy looked relieved. With that, George and I meandered back to the car.
"Those people are hateful. One old lady said she'd never seen a chain smoking bird watcher before and that lady with the flowery hat said that someone smelled like a bar room trash can. Whoever she was talking about probably had their feelings hurt," he said.
"Yeah, probably," I said as I drove away from the park.
We didn't say much on the way back. George slept most of the way, and finally woke up as we entered the base. "I have killed almost every one of those birds at one time or another. No lie."
I haven't been bird watching since. I haven't laid eyes on George for over twenty years. But, one thing is for sure. He was great entertainment that day, and much more so that watching a bunch of birds.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
PATIENCE
I've never been accused of being too patient. It's a problem I've dealt with for many years and to be completely candid, my inability to wait is getting worse. Apparently, many men are afflicted with a condition commonly known as, "Are you kidding me? I've been on hold for over three minutes. One more minute and I'm going through the phone and beat somebody down!"
My wife, who I adore, is of a somewhat more understanding nature. She moves at her own pace, which often counters my need for hurrying at everything I do. I have mellowed somewhat over the years, but my impatience is alive and well. I've simply learned to bottle up my disgust at all things slow moving.
Several years ago, when energy prices soared to astronomical levels, we decided to purchase an insert for our fireplace to supplement our heating oil consumption. We assumed that if we occasionally burned wood, then our house would be warmer and our checking account would be fatter. So, I made the purchase and carefully slid the steel behemoth into the fireplace opening. We were pleased at the way it looked and were eager to light the inaugural fire. I gathered some firewood and in an instant our house was cozy and the furnace seemed to enter into a deep sleep, rarely roaring to life.
As with everything, our new found source of heat came with a few draw backs. One of those included the need to sweep the flue every year. "I'll head over to Lowe's and get a brush. Be back in a few," I said, while heading for my truck.
In an instant, I appeared at the back door and announced the need for removing the insert and to cover the fireplace opening to prevent ash and soot from entering the house as I swept the chimney. "I have a huge piece of plastic in the shop. I'll grab it and a roll of duct tape, and you can cover the opening while I grab the ladder and other tools I'll need for the job." I gave my orders as I walked toward my shop to retrieve the said items for my wife to do her part of the job.
With much ado, we gently slid the insert out of the fireplace and onto a few boards I had rounded up while digging for duct tape and plastic. Again, I barked a few more orders. "Be sure to cover the opening well, we don't want a mess in the house." With that, I retrieved my trusty extension ladder and headed to the roof of our two story home. Upon my arrival at the crest of the roof, and the subsequent removal of the flue cap, I assumed that my wife would have surely completed her part of the job.
Immediately, I hastily screwed on the first extension rod, then the next and then the next. Finally, I had attached all of the shiny metal rods together and could feel the brush reach the bottom of the chimney. In an instant I began jerking the rod violently up and down. I could hear the chunks of black, sooty buildup fall to the bottom of the black abyss that was our chimney. Suddenly, I heard what sounded vaguely like my wife yelling up into the chimney. "What?!!" I wailed into the opening, which was surrounded by a black dusty cloud. Again, a muffled cry wafted up the chimney and into the dusty air. "I can't hear you!" I cried.
Suddenly, and without warning, Kristi appeared below me. "Can you hear me now?!! What the hell is wrong with you?!! I swear, you are the most impatient man I've ever known!!!" She was a pitiful sight for sure. In an instant Sidney and Ryan crawled across the grass and collapsed beside her, hacking and coughing all the way. For a brief moment, I wondered where my family had gone, and who the heck where the three coal miners lying on my lawn? Eventually, our tiny, fuzzball of a dog appeared. I had remembered it as being a mix of black and white fur, but now all I could see was a solid black mutt coughing and wheezing in an attempt to breathe. Finally, the pitiful animal simply began rolling in the grass and attempting to rid itself of the noxious, black soot which covered it's entire body.
Kristi and the kids, continued to hack and cough, spitting with superior regularity. I simply stared in amazement. Eventually, the three ebony souls stared up at me with very ominous faces. "Dad, Tippy is going to get lung cancer!" Sidney wailed. Ryan had removed his tee-shirt, revealing the extent of the damage to is body. His head and arms were completely black, while his torso was a pearly white. By that time, Sidney had wiped her eyes and resembled a reverse raccoon. Kristi continued to stare at me. "Do you think that maybe you could have waited until I finished covering the opening before you started brushing the chimney?!! I'm telling you, if I were you, I'd stay on the roof for awhile!"
"Good grief, I figured that you had plenty of time to get the job done. Don't blame me, you should have been faster at the simple task I asked you to do," I said, in a feeble attempt to save face. At least my face was still the same hue it had always been.
I slowly climbed down to survey the damage. Sooty, black clouds wafted from the window screens, and the front door. The interior of the house was covered in a layer of fine, black dust. "It's going to be a long night, that's for sure, maybe I should have given you a bit more time," I said, in a small attempt to reconcile with my very black and very angry wife.
We bathed the kids, and the dog, but spent the rest of the evening cleaning, and wiping every surface in the downstairs of our house.
In the years since, I have exercised some patience when it comes to chimney sweeping, but I'm sure one day, my disdain for waiting will once again cause an uproar with the family. But, nothing could possibly top the day I turned my family into hacking, coughing coal miner look alikes.
My wife, who I adore, is of a somewhat more understanding nature. She moves at her own pace, which often counters my need for hurrying at everything I do. I have mellowed somewhat over the years, but my impatience is alive and well. I've simply learned to bottle up my disgust at all things slow moving.
Several years ago, when energy prices soared to astronomical levels, we decided to purchase an insert for our fireplace to supplement our heating oil consumption. We assumed that if we occasionally burned wood, then our house would be warmer and our checking account would be fatter. So, I made the purchase and carefully slid the steel behemoth into the fireplace opening. We were pleased at the way it looked and were eager to light the inaugural fire. I gathered some firewood and in an instant our house was cozy and the furnace seemed to enter into a deep sleep, rarely roaring to life.
As with everything, our new found source of heat came with a few draw backs. One of those included the need to sweep the flue every year. "I'll head over to Lowe's and get a brush. Be back in a few," I said, while heading for my truck.
In an instant, I appeared at the back door and announced the need for removing the insert and to cover the fireplace opening to prevent ash and soot from entering the house as I swept the chimney. "I have a huge piece of plastic in the shop. I'll grab it and a roll of duct tape, and you can cover the opening while I grab the ladder and other tools I'll need for the job." I gave my orders as I walked toward my shop to retrieve the said items for my wife to do her part of the job.
With much ado, we gently slid the insert out of the fireplace and onto a few boards I had rounded up while digging for duct tape and plastic. Again, I barked a few more orders. "Be sure to cover the opening well, we don't want a mess in the house." With that, I retrieved my trusty extension ladder and headed to the roof of our two story home. Upon my arrival at the crest of the roof, and the subsequent removal of the flue cap, I assumed that my wife would have surely completed her part of the job.
Immediately, I hastily screwed on the first extension rod, then the next and then the next. Finally, I had attached all of the shiny metal rods together and could feel the brush reach the bottom of the chimney. In an instant I began jerking the rod violently up and down. I could hear the chunks of black, sooty buildup fall to the bottom of the black abyss that was our chimney. Suddenly, I heard what sounded vaguely like my wife yelling up into the chimney. "What?!!" I wailed into the opening, which was surrounded by a black dusty cloud. Again, a muffled cry wafted up the chimney and into the dusty air. "I can't hear you!" I cried.
Suddenly, and without warning, Kristi appeared below me. "Can you hear me now?!! What the hell is wrong with you?!! I swear, you are the most impatient man I've ever known!!!" She was a pitiful sight for sure. In an instant Sidney and Ryan crawled across the grass and collapsed beside her, hacking and coughing all the way. For a brief moment, I wondered where my family had gone, and who the heck where the three coal miners lying on my lawn? Eventually, our tiny, fuzzball of a dog appeared. I had remembered it as being a mix of black and white fur, but now all I could see was a solid black mutt coughing and wheezing in an attempt to breathe. Finally, the pitiful animal simply began rolling in the grass and attempting to rid itself of the noxious, black soot which covered it's entire body.
Kristi and the kids, continued to hack and cough, spitting with superior regularity. I simply stared in amazement. Eventually, the three ebony souls stared up at me with very ominous faces. "Dad, Tippy is going to get lung cancer!" Sidney wailed. Ryan had removed his tee-shirt, revealing the extent of the damage to is body. His head and arms were completely black, while his torso was a pearly white. By that time, Sidney had wiped her eyes and resembled a reverse raccoon. Kristi continued to stare at me. "Do you think that maybe you could have waited until I finished covering the opening before you started brushing the chimney?!! I'm telling you, if I were you, I'd stay on the roof for awhile!"
"Good grief, I figured that you had plenty of time to get the job done. Don't blame me, you should have been faster at the simple task I asked you to do," I said, in a feeble attempt to save face. At least my face was still the same hue it had always been.
I slowly climbed down to survey the damage. Sooty, black clouds wafted from the window screens, and the front door. The interior of the house was covered in a layer of fine, black dust. "It's going to be a long night, that's for sure, maybe I should have given you a bit more time," I said, in a small attempt to reconcile with my very black and very angry wife.
We bathed the kids, and the dog, but spent the rest of the evening cleaning, and wiping every surface in the downstairs of our house.
In the years since, I have exercised some patience when it comes to chimney sweeping, but I'm sure one day, my disdain for waiting will once again cause an uproar with the family. But, nothing could possibly top the day I turned my family into hacking, coughing coal miner look alikes.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
LAZY
I have nearly lost faith in the human race. Well not entirely, but to be honest, I think we've become lazy to a point of no return.
I've been combating a nasty sinus infection for the last few days and needed to make a quick trip to the local Wal Mart in search of some good old over the counter relief. The words 'quick' and 'Wal Mart' should never be used in the same sentence. Upon my arrival at the store, I drove slowly toward the entrance closest to the pharmacy and the Mucinex. Suddenly, and without warning, a middle aged woman pranced confidently off the sidewalk and into the middle of the road. I was in the area directly in front of the store that is painted with yellow lines designating it a safe zone for pedestrians. I smiled slightly and motioned for the woman to continue, as I knew she had the right-of-way. She responded by smiling slightly and holding her outstretched arm toward me with her palm up as if to say, "I know I have the right-of-way, so you'll just have to wait...buster." So, I waited. And waited some more. Finally, a car zoomed up and she hopped in. She gave me a gentle wave as if I had planned to sit in the middle of the road for five minutes. I'm sure the parade of vehicles behind me were glad to see he go as well. She could have easily walked to the Wal Mart in the next town in the time she stood waiting for her ride to show up.
Next, I turned into the parking lot only to be stopped by a car idling in front of me. It became obvious that the person piloting that car was waiting for someone to exit their parking spot, which was very close to the store entrance. It became painfully obvious that I was once again going to be sitting for a while. The car that occupied the parking space was driver less. The rear of the car was occupied by an elderly gentleman unloading an overflowing shopping cart into the trunk of the car. There were several vacant spaces mere yards from where we sat. Again, I waited. To that point, I had over fifteen minutes of my life chewed up in a parking lot and had traveled a grand total of sixty feet! Finally, the gentleman backed from his space and drove away. The car in front of me sped into the space. I drove the extra twenty feet and parked. I was eager to see who the parking lot perpetrator was, so I quickly sprang from my car and noticed a guy who was probably half my age slowly exit his car. He was typing away on a cell phone as he walked in the direction of the store. I could have parked at my house and walked to Wal Mart in the time I waited behind this guy!
Thankfully, I was able to grab the medicine I needed and make a run for my car. Upon my arrival at the car, I was greeted by a shopping cart. Someone had decided that the cart rack was just too far to travel, and thus left their cart behind my car. Nice. I put the cart in it's proper place and went home.
Last night, my wife informed me that her Kindle Fire had gone on to that electronics place in the sky. I'm not one to give up without a fight, so I took the gadget apart in a feeble attempt to find the problem. No luck. So, today I bought her a new one and she was exceptionally grateful. She told me so in a text message she'd sent from the adjacent room. To be completely candid, she did tell me in person many times, but...
"Dad, will you hand me my backpack?" Sidney asked from the comfort of the recliner in our family room.
"Sure, where is it?"
"Beside the chair."
I scrunched my face and stared at her for a few seconds. "Why don't you get it?"
She gave me her most sorrowful look. "Because, I'm soooo comfortable and I don't feel like having to put down the footrest to reach it." I handed the kid her backpack although I did shake my head as I walked into the kitchen.
My phone buzzed again and I casually leaned over to read the newest text that had showed up. "There's soup in the fridge. You'll have to heat it up." My wife had struck again, except this time it came from the far reaches of the second floor of our home. I strode to the refrigerator, and found the soup. I thought that soup would be a fine dinner with my sinus problems and all, so I ladled a healthy portion into a bowl and opened the microwave. "What the..."
"Oh yeah, I made a pot pie last night, but it was so hot I couldn't get it out of the microwave. By the time it cooled I wasn't hungry anymore," Ryan said. The boy had crept into the kitchen unnoticed in search of sustenance and was digging in the cabinets for who knows what.
"Last night?! The pot pie has been sitting in the microwave for a solid day?"
He could sense my disapproval and stopped pilfering the cabinets for a moment. "I mean, I can eat it if you want."
I didn't answer right away, because my head was shaking again. "No, I don't want you to eat it, but why didn't you throw it away?" I asked, not having the energy to launch my wasting food speech once again. I grabbed the pot pie and carefully opened the trash can.
There was no answer. The boy had retreated back into his man cave as silently as he had appeared.
My phone buzzed once again. "Will you bring me some cheese?" the text said. Ryan had struck. He had somehow sneaked away with a loaf of bread, lunch meat and a drink. He had forgotten a slice of cheese.
"No," I texted back.
"That's ok, I don't need cheese anyway. Thanks." came the instantaneous reply.
Finally, I heated my bowl of vegetable soup. I carried it into the adjoining family room and sat down. An eerie feeling swept over me. The television remote was missing! I stood and surveyed the room. I didn't see the gadget anywhere. I began to panic! In a flash I removed the couch cushions, crawled around on the floor, and finally bellowed at the top of my lungs, "Has anyone seen the remote control!" I got no reply. Fearing that I would actually have to get up and turn on the T.V. manually, let alone change the channels, I barked again. "I said, has anyone seen the remote control?!" Immediately, I got a response... on my phone.
"Have not seen it," from Kristi.
"Look in the couch," from Sidney.
"I think I do want cheese after all," from Ryan.
There's no doubt about it. We are a very lazy species.
I've been combating a nasty sinus infection for the last few days and needed to make a quick trip to the local Wal Mart in search of some good old over the counter relief. The words 'quick' and 'Wal Mart' should never be used in the same sentence. Upon my arrival at the store, I drove slowly toward the entrance closest to the pharmacy and the Mucinex. Suddenly, and without warning, a middle aged woman pranced confidently off the sidewalk and into the middle of the road. I was in the area directly in front of the store that is painted with yellow lines designating it a safe zone for pedestrians. I smiled slightly and motioned for the woman to continue, as I knew she had the right-of-way. She responded by smiling slightly and holding her outstretched arm toward me with her palm up as if to say, "I know I have the right-of-way, so you'll just have to wait...buster." So, I waited. And waited some more. Finally, a car zoomed up and she hopped in. She gave me a gentle wave as if I had planned to sit in the middle of the road for five minutes. I'm sure the parade of vehicles behind me were glad to see he go as well. She could have easily walked to the Wal Mart in the next town in the time she stood waiting for her ride to show up.
Next, I turned into the parking lot only to be stopped by a car idling in front of me. It became obvious that the person piloting that car was waiting for someone to exit their parking spot, which was very close to the store entrance. It became painfully obvious that I was once again going to be sitting for a while. The car that occupied the parking space was driver less. The rear of the car was occupied by an elderly gentleman unloading an overflowing shopping cart into the trunk of the car. There were several vacant spaces mere yards from where we sat. Again, I waited. To that point, I had over fifteen minutes of my life chewed up in a parking lot and had traveled a grand total of sixty feet! Finally, the gentleman backed from his space and drove away. The car in front of me sped into the space. I drove the extra twenty feet and parked. I was eager to see who the parking lot perpetrator was, so I quickly sprang from my car and noticed a guy who was probably half my age slowly exit his car. He was typing away on a cell phone as he walked in the direction of the store. I could have parked at my house and walked to Wal Mart in the time I waited behind this guy!
Thankfully, I was able to grab the medicine I needed and make a run for my car. Upon my arrival at the car, I was greeted by a shopping cart. Someone had decided that the cart rack was just too far to travel, and thus left their cart behind my car. Nice. I put the cart in it's proper place and went home.
Last night, my wife informed me that her Kindle Fire had gone on to that electronics place in the sky. I'm not one to give up without a fight, so I took the gadget apart in a feeble attempt to find the problem. No luck. So, today I bought her a new one and she was exceptionally grateful. She told me so in a text message she'd sent from the adjacent room. To be completely candid, she did tell me in person many times, but...
"Dad, will you hand me my backpack?" Sidney asked from the comfort of the recliner in our family room.
"Sure, where is it?"
"Beside the chair."
I scrunched my face and stared at her for a few seconds. "Why don't you get it?"
She gave me her most sorrowful look. "Because, I'm soooo comfortable and I don't feel like having to put down the footrest to reach it." I handed the kid her backpack although I did shake my head as I walked into the kitchen.
My phone buzzed again and I casually leaned over to read the newest text that had showed up. "There's soup in the fridge. You'll have to heat it up." My wife had struck again, except this time it came from the far reaches of the second floor of our home. I strode to the refrigerator, and found the soup. I thought that soup would be a fine dinner with my sinus problems and all, so I ladled a healthy portion into a bowl and opened the microwave. "What the..."
"Oh yeah, I made a pot pie last night, but it was so hot I couldn't get it out of the microwave. By the time it cooled I wasn't hungry anymore," Ryan said. The boy had crept into the kitchen unnoticed in search of sustenance and was digging in the cabinets for who knows what.
"Last night?! The pot pie has been sitting in the microwave for a solid day?"
He could sense my disapproval and stopped pilfering the cabinets for a moment. "I mean, I can eat it if you want."
I didn't answer right away, because my head was shaking again. "No, I don't want you to eat it, but why didn't you throw it away?" I asked, not having the energy to launch my wasting food speech once again. I grabbed the pot pie and carefully opened the trash can.
There was no answer. The boy had retreated back into his man cave as silently as he had appeared.
My phone buzzed once again. "Will you bring me some cheese?" the text said. Ryan had struck. He had somehow sneaked away with a loaf of bread, lunch meat and a drink. He had forgotten a slice of cheese.
"No," I texted back.
"That's ok, I don't need cheese anyway. Thanks." came the instantaneous reply.
Finally, I heated my bowl of vegetable soup. I carried it into the adjoining family room and sat down. An eerie feeling swept over me. The television remote was missing! I stood and surveyed the room. I didn't see the gadget anywhere. I began to panic! In a flash I removed the couch cushions, crawled around on the floor, and finally bellowed at the top of my lungs, "Has anyone seen the remote control!" I got no reply. Fearing that I would actually have to get up and turn on the T.V. manually, let alone change the channels, I barked again. "I said, has anyone seen the remote control?!" Immediately, I got a response... on my phone.
"Have not seen it," from Kristi.
"Look in the couch," from Sidney.
"I think I do want cheese after all," from Ryan.
There's no doubt about it. We are a very lazy species.
Friday, September 25, 2015
A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS OR MORE
Thank God for digital cameras. Photography has come a long way over the years and with the much improved technology, even the most novice of photographers can manage to snap a decent picture. Well, almost.
Do you remember the good old 35mm camera? I do. In fact I saw one recently at my mother's house. The ancient artifact was perched proudly on a shelf in her bedroom and was surrounded by those little, round rolls of film. Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to investigate and see if the rolls had been exposed or not. Of course, there is a reason for my snooping, which I will cover later. Not entirely surprised, I noticed that some of the film was exposed, some of it wasn't, and some of it had surely been double exposed. Thus, the story comes.
I may as well cut to the chase. Every single, major event in my life has been double exposed at the hands of my mother. Now, to be kind, her heart was always in the right place. It's just that she never promptly had her film developed. So, invariably, she'd place an already exposed roll into the camera to capture that special event. Maybe she was trying to kill two birds with one stone, but I doubt it. There's nothing special about a photo of your son marching with a flight of fifty airmen during his Air Force graduation, while a ghastly image of his eighty-year-old grandmother hovers above in a lounge chair eating a slice of watermelon. Another of my favorites also involve my Air Force graduation. My parents, and sister had made the journey to Texas for the special event. So, naturally, mom wanted to capture the excitement with lots of pictures.
Several months after my training ended, I was afforded the opportunity to enjoy a week of leave from the military. "Here, take a look at the pictures I took in San Antonio," mom gleefully said. She handed me the little packet, which was stuffed with photos.
I reluctantly flopped down onto the couch and allowed my mind to wander briefly to my high school graduation. The picture that most stood out in my mind was one that featured me receiving my diploma from the principal, while my father stood nearby frying hamburgers on the grill. Dad's cut off jean shorts, black shoes and brown socks pulled to his knees made that milestone especially memorable. "Ugh, you did it again!" I whined.
"Did what?" mom asked, as if she hadn't a clue.
"Did what?!!! You double exposed the film again!" I continued. I stared at her in disbelief. How could she had not noticed the very first photo in the pile. I stared at the snapshot and began to laugh. It featured me, in Air Force dress, standing at full attention beside of my commander, a colonel. We both smile proudly and looked very sharp if I do say so myself. Sandwiched between us stood my older brother, proudly holding up a citation rainbow trout he had caught sometime in the distant past. His hip waders and muddy shirt added a nice touch, but I especially enjoyed the trout transposed over the spot where my head would have been. I continued to scan mom's pictures. Thankfully, some of them turned out, but most of them didn't. Another of my favorites was a shot of my dad and I standing together while our little beagle, Tippy, hovered in front of us with a chicken bone hanging from her mouth. Oh my.
A few years later, a local politician contacted me to request my participation in a local parade to honor the military after our victory in the Gulf War. Naturally, I obliged.
The float that I was assigned to featured a member of each branch of the military. I was truly excited. So, of course I wanted to have the event photographed. "I'll take my camera," mom said proudly. Immediately, felt the pangs of worry creep into my mind.
"Uh, maybe Carla can take the pictures," I said, while standing in front of the mirror adjusting my tie.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking. I bought two new rolls of film and I promise I won't double expose these," mom answered as she dug through her little camera case. Reluctantly I agreed to let her document the special occasion.
"I thought for sure that I put a new roll in," mom said in a somewhat surprised tone.
I stared ominously at her while she flipped through the pictures. I was home on leave a few weeks after he parade and couldn't wait to see her pictures. "Let me see," I said with a very monotone voice.
The very first picture I looked at made me laugh. Standing and waving on a nicely decorated float, stood a finely dressed marine, one sharp navy guy, an army ranger, and me. Oh, there was also a baby, a gigantic baby. She took up the entire picture. On one end of the float her head rested on a stripped pillow, and on the other end it looked as if she was kicking the army ranger off the float. I looked as though I was riding a pacifier. My dad's foot was driving the tractor that pulled us down the road.
So, thank God for the digital camera. Now if I can only convince my mother to purchase one, maybe, just maybe, if I ever do experience another milestone, I can have the event documented without hovering pets, babies, angling brothers and dear grandmothers creeping into those snapshots.
Do you remember the good old 35mm camera? I do. In fact I saw one recently at my mother's house. The ancient artifact was perched proudly on a shelf in her bedroom and was surrounded by those little, round rolls of film. Curiosity got the best of me and I decided to investigate and see if the rolls had been exposed or not. Of course, there is a reason for my snooping, which I will cover later. Not entirely surprised, I noticed that some of the film was exposed, some of it wasn't, and some of it had surely been double exposed. Thus, the story comes.
I may as well cut to the chase. Every single, major event in my life has been double exposed at the hands of my mother. Now, to be kind, her heart was always in the right place. It's just that she never promptly had her film developed. So, invariably, she'd place an already exposed roll into the camera to capture that special event. Maybe she was trying to kill two birds with one stone, but I doubt it. There's nothing special about a photo of your son marching with a flight of fifty airmen during his Air Force graduation, while a ghastly image of his eighty-year-old grandmother hovers above in a lounge chair eating a slice of watermelon. Another of my favorites also involve my Air Force graduation. My parents, and sister had made the journey to Texas for the special event. So, naturally, mom wanted to capture the excitement with lots of pictures.
Several months after my training ended, I was afforded the opportunity to enjoy a week of leave from the military. "Here, take a look at the pictures I took in San Antonio," mom gleefully said. She handed me the little packet, which was stuffed with photos.
I reluctantly flopped down onto the couch and allowed my mind to wander briefly to my high school graduation. The picture that most stood out in my mind was one that featured me receiving my diploma from the principal, while my father stood nearby frying hamburgers on the grill. Dad's cut off jean shorts, black shoes and brown socks pulled to his knees made that milestone especially memorable. "Ugh, you did it again!" I whined.
"Did what?" mom asked, as if she hadn't a clue.
"Did what?!!! You double exposed the film again!" I continued. I stared at her in disbelief. How could she had not noticed the very first photo in the pile. I stared at the snapshot and began to laugh. It featured me, in Air Force dress, standing at full attention beside of my commander, a colonel. We both smile proudly and looked very sharp if I do say so myself. Sandwiched between us stood my older brother, proudly holding up a citation rainbow trout he had caught sometime in the distant past. His hip waders and muddy shirt added a nice touch, but I especially enjoyed the trout transposed over the spot where my head would have been. I continued to scan mom's pictures. Thankfully, some of them turned out, but most of them didn't. Another of my favorites was a shot of my dad and I standing together while our little beagle, Tippy, hovered in front of us with a chicken bone hanging from her mouth. Oh my.
A few years later, a local politician contacted me to request my participation in a local parade to honor the military after our victory in the Gulf War. Naturally, I obliged.
The float that I was assigned to featured a member of each branch of the military. I was truly excited. So, of course I wanted to have the event photographed. "I'll take my camera," mom said proudly. Immediately, felt the pangs of worry creep into my mind.
"Uh, maybe Carla can take the pictures," I said, while standing in front of the mirror adjusting my tie.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking. I bought two new rolls of film and I promise I won't double expose these," mom answered as she dug through her little camera case. Reluctantly I agreed to let her document the special occasion.
"I thought for sure that I put a new roll in," mom said in a somewhat surprised tone.
I stared ominously at her while she flipped through the pictures. I was home on leave a few weeks after he parade and couldn't wait to see her pictures. "Let me see," I said with a very monotone voice.
The very first picture I looked at made me laugh. Standing and waving on a nicely decorated float, stood a finely dressed marine, one sharp navy guy, an army ranger, and me. Oh, there was also a baby, a gigantic baby. She took up the entire picture. On one end of the float her head rested on a stripped pillow, and on the other end it looked as if she was kicking the army ranger off the float. I looked as though I was riding a pacifier. My dad's foot was driving the tractor that pulled us down the road.
So, thank God for the digital camera. Now if I can only convince my mother to purchase one, maybe, just maybe, if I ever do experience another milestone, I can have the event documented without hovering pets, babies, angling brothers and dear grandmothers creeping into those snapshots.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
THE 'ALMOST' BARBER
I haven't been to a barber in over 15 years. To be honest, it would be a colossal waste of money on my part. Unfortunately, at forty-five years old, I have completed the entire process of becoming folicularly challenged. I still have a fine swath of hair above my ears and around the back of my head, but from my forehead and across the top and down the back, it's a barren wasteland. So, I cut what's left of my hair with a cheap set of clippers that are equipped with a guard.
This evening, I was sensing the need for a haircut based on the fact that I had gone a couple weeks without a trim and I had also begun to resemble Crusty the Clown. So, I stood in front of my wife's full length mirror and trimmed away. As I trimmed, my mind wandered to the day years ago that my father pretended to be a barber.
In 1975, I was all of five years old. Jarrett, my older brother was eight. My dad was old enough to know better than make a feeble attempt at being a barber. Dad had marched proudly into the kitchen of the old house we rented and confidently placed a cardboard box onto the metal table in the center of the room. "What's that dad?!!!" Jarrett asked excitedly. He had raced into the kitchen and left me sitting on the floor of the dining room alone with our racetrack.
Dad gently slit the packing tape which sealed the box with his pocket knife and answered without looking up. "It's a barber kit."
"A barber kit?" Jarrett asked, with his head turned to one side.
"Yep, a barber kit," dad replied as he slid a shiny metal box from it's packaging.
I arrived at the kitchen table and studied the package closely. "What do you need a barber kit for?" I asked.
"Well, Mr. Hilderbrand is charging way too much. Besides, he shakes so much, it isn't safe sitting in his chair anymore. So, I'm giving the haircuts now," dad said, as he studied the assortment of attachments, blades, combs and other trinkets that were now strewn across the table. He was right. Mr. Hilderbrand was the only barber in our small town and was probably years past the optimal time to retire. My brother and I had left his shop bawling with bandaids on both ears many times. Bloodshed was simply part of the whole process of having him cut your hair.
Jarrett cut his eyes to me, and I noticed a very worried look on his young face. "Who's hair ya cuttin' dad?"
Dad looked at him as if he really didn't need to give an answer, but he did. "Yours...and Neil's."
My mom had entered the room. She gently slid out a chair and sat down. She was holding our younger sister who was around two-years-old. She had a worried look on her face. I had seen that look before. "I didn't know you ordered a barber kit," she stated blankly. Dad gave no answer.
Jarrett and I stared nervously at each other. We were silently trying to decide who was going to be dad's first victim. "Do you know how to be a barber?" I asked, while peering over the tabletop.
"Well," dad began. "When I got out of the army I almost became a barber. But I decided to go in a different direction. But I read a book one time about it and I remember most of it."
Again, my brother and I stared at one another. Almost became a barber? Read a book? I had read a few children's books about cowboys, but I wasn't about to mount a raging bull.
"Jarrett, hop up here! Let's trim that mop on your head," dad said. Jarrett ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. Maybe he was offended by the mop comment, but I think he mostly was saying goodbye to his hair as he knew it.
To be honest, I felt a little bit sorry for him, and that in itself was something noteworthy. In those days I didn't even like him. But, at that particular juncture I couldn't help but feel for the poor soul.
Reluctantly, Jarrett sat on the kitchen table. Directly, dad draped a plastic cover over the front of his body and snapped it together behind his neck. To this day, the image of my older brother sitting there in that predicament ranks with the most pitiful sights I've ever seen. Tears began to well up in his eyes, and he once again felt his hair.
Dad plugged in his shiny new trimmer and pushed the switch forward. The hum of the contraption wasn't unlike the hum of my industrial table saw. Jarrett's eyes widened to golf ball sized spheres ready to pop out of his head. "Dad, I don't want...!"
Immediately dad went to work. Huge swaths of hair fell to the floor. Jarrett almost fell to the floor. I fell to the floor and hid under the table. Carla sucked on her pacifier and seemed entertained. Mom had a look of horror upon her face. "Jarrett, for heaven's sake, sit still and stop fighting me!" dad growled as the hum of the trimmers slowed and sped up according to how deep they were in my brother's hair. I slowly crept out from under the table to survey the situation and could not believe my eyes. There was a bald spot along his left ear, and a huge chunk of hair was missing from just above his eyebrows. The back of his head was worse. The hairline on his neck had been removed and went from his earlobe on one side to an inch lower on the other.
Poor Jarrett wailed and cried. Dad just kept on cutting. The more he cut the worse it got. Finally the hum of the clippers stopped. "Dear Lord! He looks like he fell under a lawnmower!" mom shouted. Carla began to cry. I also started crying. I think my mom was crying. I wasn't crying for my brother, I was crying because I knew my time was quickly approaching.
"Don't worry I can fix it! If he would stop squirming..." dad bellowed. Again, the ominous hum of the trimmers started again. More hair hit the ground. More crying ensued. Finally, the kitchen fell silent.
We stood staring at my sorrowful looking older brother. We stared at him like a family that had just witnessed a heinous crime. His head looked like a cross between Mr. T and Alfred E. Newman. Tears streamed down his cheeks. My mom raced to console him. I raced to distant corners of the house. My mom looked sternly at my father. "You are not touching Neil's head!"
Thankfully, my dad's barber career ended after one haircut. He did try to shape it up a bit, but there was no salvaging Jarrett's head.
The following week, mom had to attend a conference with Jarrett's teacher concerning his unwillingness to remove a toboggan from his head in school. When he was forced to remove the hat from his head, the teacher agreed that it would be best to let him wear it until his hair grew back in.
I don't know what ever happened to dad's barber kit. Occasionally, Jarrett would ask if dad still had it. Surely he'd been traumatized and was fearful of another butchering. But, whenever he would ask about it's whereabouts, mom would grin and assure him that he would never have to endure dad's barbering again.
This evening, I was sensing the need for a haircut based on the fact that I had gone a couple weeks without a trim and I had also begun to resemble Crusty the Clown. So, I stood in front of my wife's full length mirror and trimmed away. As I trimmed, my mind wandered to the day years ago that my father pretended to be a barber.
In 1975, I was all of five years old. Jarrett, my older brother was eight. My dad was old enough to know better than make a feeble attempt at being a barber. Dad had marched proudly into the kitchen of the old house we rented and confidently placed a cardboard box onto the metal table in the center of the room. "What's that dad?!!!" Jarrett asked excitedly. He had raced into the kitchen and left me sitting on the floor of the dining room alone with our racetrack.
Dad gently slit the packing tape which sealed the box with his pocket knife and answered without looking up. "It's a barber kit."
"A barber kit?" Jarrett asked, with his head turned to one side.
"Yep, a barber kit," dad replied as he slid a shiny metal box from it's packaging.
I arrived at the kitchen table and studied the package closely. "What do you need a barber kit for?" I asked.
"Well, Mr. Hilderbrand is charging way too much. Besides, he shakes so much, it isn't safe sitting in his chair anymore. So, I'm giving the haircuts now," dad said, as he studied the assortment of attachments, blades, combs and other trinkets that were now strewn across the table. He was right. Mr. Hilderbrand was the only barber in our small town and was probably years past the optimal time to retire. My brother and I had left his shop bawling with bandaids on both ears many times. Bloodshed was simply part of the whole process of having him cut your hair.
Jarrett cut his eyes to me, and I noticed a very worried look on his young face. "Who's hair ya cuttin' dad?"
Dad looked at him as if he really didn't need to give an answer, but he did. "Yours...and Neil's."
My mom had entered the room. She gently slid out a chair and sat down. She was holding our younger sister who was around two-years-old. She had a worried look on her face. I had seen that look before. "I didn't know you ordered a barber kit," she stated blankly. Dad gave no answer.
Jarrett and I stared nervously at each other. We were silently trying to decide who was going to be dad's first victim. "Do you know how to be a barber?" I asked, while peering over the tabletop.
"Well," dad began. "When I got out of the army I almost became a barber. But I decided to go in a different direction. But I read a book one time about it and I remember most of it."
Again, my brother and I stared at one another. Almost became a barber? Read a book? I had read a few children's books about cowboys, but I wasn't about to mount a raging bull.
"Jarrett, hop up here! Let's trim that mop on your head," dad said. Jarrett ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. Maybe he was offended by the mop comment, but I think he mostly was saying goodbye to his hair as he knew it.
To be honest, I felt a little bit sorry for him, and that in itself was something noteworthy. In those days I didn't even like him. But, at that particular juncture I couldn't help but feel for the poor soul.
Reluctantly, Jarrett sat on the kitchen table. Directly, dad draped a plastic cover over the front of his body and snapped it together behind his neck. To this day, the image of my older brother sitting there in that predicament ranks with the most pitiful sights I've ever seen. Tears began to well up in his eyes, and he once again felt his hair.
Dad plugged in his shiny new trimmer and pushed the switch forward. The hum of the contraption wasn't unlike the hum of my industrial table saw. Jarrett's eyes widened to golf ball sized spheres ready to pop out of his head. "Dad, I don't want...!"
Immediately dad went to work. Huge swaths of hair fell to the floor. Jarrett almost fell to the floor. I fell to the floor and hid under the table. Carla sucked on her pacifier and seemed entertained. Mom had a look of horror upon her face. "Jarrett, for heaven's sake, sit still and stop fighting me!" dad growled as the hum of the trimmers slowed and sped up according to how deep they were in my brother's hair. I slowly crept out from under the table to survey the situation and could not believe my eyes. There was a bald spot along his left ear, and a huge chunk of hair was missing from just above his eyebrows. The back of his head was worse. The hairline on his neck had been removed and went from his earlobe on one side to an inch lower on the other.
Poor Jarrett wailed and cried. Dad just kept on cutting. The more he cut the worse it got. Finally the hum of the clippers stopped. "Dear Lord! He looks like he fell under a lawnmower!" mom shouted. Carla began to cry. I also started crying. I think my mom was crying. I wasn't crying for my brother, I was crying because I knew my time was quickly approaching.
"Don't worry I can fix it! If he would stop squirming..." dad bellowed. Again, the ominous hum of the trimmers started again. More hair hit the ground. More crying ensued. Finally, the kitchen fell silent.
We stood staring at my sorrowful looking older brother. We stared at him like a family that had just witnessed a heinous crime. His head looked like a cross between Mr. T and Alfred E. Newman. Tears streamed down his cheeks. My mom raced to console him. I raced to distant corners of the house. My mom looked sternly at my father. "You are not touching Neil's head!"
Thankfully, my dad's barber career ended after one haircut. He did try to shape it up a bit, but there was no salvaging Jarrett's head.
The following week, mom had to attend a conference with Jarrett's teacher concerning his unwillingness to remove a toboggan from his head in school. When he was forced to remove the hat from his head, the teacher agreed that it would be best to let him wear it until his hair grew back in.
I don't know what ever happened to dad's barber kit. Occasionally, Jarrett would ask if dad still had it. Surely he'd been traumatized and was fearful of another butchering. But, whenever he would ask about it's whereabouts, mom would grin and assure him that he would never have to endure dad's barbering again.
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