One recent morning I woke up determined I was going to kick the day’s butt. I then headed out to face the day. I soon realized the day was going to get the better of me. Lesson of the day: if you plan to kick the day’s butt make sure you wear the right shoes to get the job done.
It is the end of one year and the start of another which means we are about to be inundated with awards shows. Yippee! Let’s see what actor/athlete/movie star/reality TV star/famous person for doing nothing can do something outrageous in an attempt to shock the rest of the world and set the TV talk shows into talking about it nonstop for days until the next awards show where something similar will happen again. I suppose you have to do something like that when there are so many awards shows which mean the awards mean next to nothing anymore because there are too many of them.
Rhetorical question of the moment (after listening to oldies radio): Can I get a witness?
If a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush then what is a bird stuck in your basement worth?
I spent about ten minutes watching a segment on the “Today” show this week which celebrated the scandals of the year 2009. I sat in amazement as the show host and a magazine editor took glee in reporting marriage break-ups and other meltdowns. I understand the celebrity world doesn’t look at life the same way many of the rest of us do. I couldn’t help but consider though which was more sad…the “scandals” or the thought that there are people who live and breathe this stuff like it were oxygen.
I also have come to believe that the local news shows should just record a report to run during every holiday season that tells viewers a) the malls are crowded and b) everyone is wondering whether or not people are buying gifts for others. Let’s see, people are at the mall during the holiday season? Wonder if they are buying anything? Thanks for figuring that one out for the rest of us, guys.
The best Christmas gift I received this year was the ongoing affirmation that my wife has a heart big enough to care for those she knows and loves but also big enough to reach out to help those in need.
After living in our house for several years, I can’t help but wonder the thought process that went into its actual construction. In our house we have a central heating and air system. This means we have vents located throughout the house. We also have a very small closet just off our kitchen which houses our washing machine and clothes dryer. Folding doors keep this hidden from the rest of the house. Inside this small enclosed area is, you guessed it, a heating/air conditioning vent. Why?
Two more things that really make no sense at all: color weather radar on the radio and blimp coverage of a football game in a dome.
During the holiday season there is nothing quite like the laughter of family together again after a long time separated from each other.
Tattoos are something to look at but scars tell more interesting stories.
Here’s wishing the New Year reinvigorate your goals and dreams as you look back at the past and look ahead to the future.
12.30.2009
12.23.2009
Christmas Present
Standing still, a warm glow sunk in all around me. The dreamy world I felt wrapped in was disrupted by a soft voice urging me to come to life out of my slumber.
I spoke, “Just five more minutes. I’ll still be able to make it to work on time.”
The voice replied, “No work today for you. You though do need to get a bit more alive than what you are now.”
A cool breeze hit me in the face as if someone had just raced through the house, charged through the front door and left it open. I sighed and said, “I suppose you are the spirit of Christmas present or some other title which has been bestowed on you by someone somewhere. I must admit this whole looking back and looking forward thing hasn’t really been the most enjoyable experience. Can I not just go back to sleep?”
The voice paused a few seconds before responding, “Well, I suppose you could go on sleeping. Is that really what you want?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Is it really what you need?”
“Yes, sleep is what I need. That, and maybe a warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie.”
The voice questioned me, “Do you not even want to process this whole adventure, you know, the past and the future? Do you not even want to maybe take a look at Christmas present?”
“Well, Christmas past was nice. Christmas future was a bit weird. And, honestly, I have seen the checking account this month so I have a bit of a grip on Christmas present. I imagine though you won’t go away easily. You just won’t give up, will you?”
“I like to think persistence and patience are good things to have. Don't make me get them out”
“All right. What do I need to do?” I asked.
“Look around.”
“What?”
“Just look around. What do you see? Take it in. Slowly, take it in.”
I looked through the bleariness in my eyes and responded, “I see a Christmas tree, Christmas lights. I see lots and lots of food. I see Christmas cards. I see gifts under the tree. Stockings hung by the fire.”
The voice interrupted me, “No. Slow down. What do you really see?”
I paused and looked more intently than before, “I see my wife, my family, my friends.”
“Yes. You take away any meaning from that revelation?”
“These are the things, actually, the people, that really matter.”
“Good. One last piece of advice, don’t ever stop looking.”
“But what about the past and the future? What am I to make of them?”
“It isn’t that hard to understand. I imagine you can come up with something that will make sense to yourself.”
“Okay. I suppose there’s nothing I can do about the future. There will be time later to be concerned with that. The past is around but all I can do is recall it from time-to-time and try not to live there from day-to-day. And if I thought about it even more I might realize I idealize the past a bit more than I should and I may even fear the future with a bit more than I should.
“Okay, that's good enough for a made for TV movie. It works for me. Nothing too earth-shattering but I guess it will do.”
“So, are we through here?”
“Yeah, that probably wraps it up. It is getting close to Christmas and well, I have miles to go before I sleep.”
“So, is there some deep valuable lesson I need to know before you go? Is there some deep underlying grand theme to all this that I need to be aware of?”
“Who do you think I am? Oprah? Look, I’m not sure you’re capable of much more than what you can consider at this very moment. And I’m even more certain that is really all that you need to think about right now anyway. So, lighten up, wake up, enjoy, just look around. It doesn't take much to see others who do not have it as well as you do. Look around.”
The voice faded. It was replaced by the sound of a remote control falling out of my hand and hitting the floor. My eyes popped open and I began to awaken. I rose to my feet and heard people down the hall enjoying themselves. The voices were familiar and the laughter was warm and spontaneous. I peaked around the corner to see a roomful of family and friends. I then stepped back out of sight just so I could soak in the feeling. As I did, I caught my likeness in a mirror. As I looked at my reflection I asked myself, “Is this really me?”
Before I could answer my own question the noises from the next room intensified and came into a sharp focus…kids fighting over just-unwrapped toys, family members arguing over politics, a football game playing on the television set, the same bad jokes being told again by the same people who have told them year after year, the clink of forks on plates as dessert after dessert just had to be sampled, the roar at the dining room table as a handful of folks play some challenging card game.
I take a deep breath and step into the room. I look around the room as my ears fill with the sweet sounds in the room and I think to myself, “Yep, this is really me. Thank God, it’s really me.”
I spoke, “Just five more minutes. I’ll still be able to make it to work on time.”
The voice replied, “No work today for you. You though do need to get a bit more alive than what you are now.”
A cool breeze hit me in the face as if someone had just raced through the house, charged through the front door and left it open. I sighed and said, “I suppose you are the spirit of Christmas present or some other title which has been bestowed on you by someone somewhere. I must admit this whole looking back and looking forward thing hasn’t really been the most enjoyable experience. Can I not just go back to sleep?”
The voice paused a few seconds before responding, “Well, I suppose you could go on sleeping. Is that really what you want?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Is it really what you need?”
“Yes, sleep is what I need. That, and maybe a warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie.”
The voice questioned me, “Do you not even want to process this whole adventure, you know, the past and the future? Do you not even want to maybe take a look at Christmas present?”
“Well, Christmas past was nice. Christmas future was a bit weird. And, honestly, I have seen the checking account this month so I have a bit of a grip on Christmas present. I imagine though you won’t go away easily. You just won’t give up, will you?”
“I like to think persistence and patience are good things to have. Don't make me get them out”
“All right. What do I need to do?” I asked.
“Look around.”
“What?”
“Just look around. What do you see? Take it in. Slowly, take it in.”
I looked through the bleariness in my eyes and responded, “I see a Christmas tree, Christmas lights. I see lots and lots of food. I see Christmas cards. I see gifts under the tree. Stockings hung by the fire.”
The voice interrupted me, “No. Slow down. What do you really see?”
I paused and looked more intently than before, “I see my wife, my family, my friends.”
“Yes. You take away any meaning from that revelation?”
“These are the things, actually, the people, that really matter.”
“Good. One last piece of advice, don’t ever stop looking.”
“But what about the past and the future? What am I to make of them?”
“It isn’t that hard to understand. I imagine you can come up with something that will make sense to yourself.”
“Okay. I suppose there’s nothing I can do about the future. There will be time later to be concerned with that. The past is around but all I can do is recall it from time-to-time and try not to live there from day-to-day. And if I thought about it even more I might realize I idealize the past a bit more than I should and I may even fear the future with a bit more than I should.
“Okay, that's good enough for a made for TV movie. It works for me. Nothing too earth-shattering but I guess it will do.”
“So, are we through here?”
“Yeah, that probably wraps it up. It is getting close to Christmas and well, I have miles to go before I sleep.”
“So, is there some deep valuable lesson I need to know before you go? Is there some deep underlying grand theme to all this that I need to be aware of?”
“Who do you think I am? Oprah? Look, I’m not sure you’re capable of much more than what you can consider at this very moment. And I’m even more certain that is really all that you need to think about right now anyway. So, lighten up, wake up, enjoy, just look around. It doesn't take much to see others who do not have it as well as you do. Look around.”
The voice faded. It was replaced by the sound of a remote control falling out of my hand and hitting the floor. My eyes popped open and I began to awaken. I rose to my feet and heard people down the hall enjoying themselves. The voices were familiar and the laughter was warm and spontaneous. I peaked around the corner to see a roomful of family and friends. I then stepped back out of sight just so I could soak in the feeling. As I did, I caught my likeness in a mirror. As I looked at my reflection I asked myself, “Is this really me?”
Before I could answer my own question the noises from the next room intensified and came into a sharp focus…kids fighting over just-unwrapped toys, family members arguing over politics, a football game playing on the television set, the same bad jokes being told again by the same people who have told them year after year, the clink of forks on plates as dessert after dessert just had to be sampled, the roar at the dining room table as a handful of folks play some challenging card game.
I take a deep breath and step into the room. I look around the room as my ears fill with the sweet sounds in the room and I think to myself, “Yep, this is really me. Thank God, it’s really me.”
12.16.2009
Forthcoming Festive Seasons
As I stepped forward, a dark fog engulfed me, an ominous siren began sounding faintly in the distance and a slight sulfuric smell hung in the air. Then I heard a voice being cleared, followed by a rather timid voice saying, “Not too far.”
I asked, “What?”
“Don’t take another step. We have regulations about where you can and cannot go. You are close to the line. Stop where you are.”
I stopped and rocked forward on my toes, “Okay. I guess you are the spirit of Christmases past.”
“No. My official title is Assistant Associate Administrator of Unconscious Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons.”
“Hmmm, regulations, official titles, not a “Christmas” or even a “holiday season” in sight. I see that political correctness has now come to my dreams.”
“We no longer call them dreams. We refer to the sleep-like state where you sometimes envision things other than your actual life or envision your life in an exaggerated manner as ‘unconscious mind patterns’.”
“As opposed to conscious mind patterns which I suppose might include having goals or aspirations?”
“Well, there is some of that. Our leaders though are working to defeat that sort of thing.”
“Lovely. I’m not sure I want to know more. Can we just get on with this? I’ve already been to Christmases Past and—“
“We refer to that now as the Time Formerly Known as Christmases Past. In six more years, our leaders will eliminate that word from our vocabulary.”
“Yeah, words hurt. Can we just get on with this? There’s the Past, you are in the Future—“
“Forthcoming.”
“---and at some point I have to land back in the Present. Can we just get on with this, so I can get back home? I’m really not into where this is going.”
The voice then produced a stack of papers which began at my feet and reached to my belly button. An ink pen appeared on the top of the papers.
The voice spoke, “Okay. Before proceeding we need you to sign some release forms. I can get you another pen in case that one runs out of ink.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, sometimes in this process ink pens run out of ink. There are a lot of places where you have to sign. Oh, wait, you mean with this as a whole, don’t you? Trust me, we take this very seriously. You need to sign these forms. We have to protect you.”
“You have to protect me? From the future, er, forthcoming? This is a dream, unconscious mind pattern or whatever, and you still have to protect me?”
“Well, yes. And us. We do have to protect us, too. I mean if you found out something you weren’t happy with, well, we just can’t take any chances.”
“My wife and I didn’t sign this many papers when we bought our house. I am not signing anything.”
A nervous laugh emanated in the direction of the voice, “You should have seen the paperwork that had to be signed to get us to this point. It’s been years and the Office of Media, News, Infotainment and Hype is still trying to read it all.”
“I think I have seen enough.”
“No, stop. What can I do to get you to view your forthcoming festive seasons?”
“Why do you care? Really, from just our few minutes together, I know I would not enjoy living in this type of environment. I’m going home.”
“Come on, I lose too many people this way.”
“Do you work on a quota?”
On top of the papers, a small remote control-looking device appeared.
“Pick up the spectromaviewer.”
I reach down and pick up the device. As I do, the stack of papers disappear.
As I look at the device, I ask, “What do I do next?”
“I normally don’t allow this. And I shouldn’t. I could get into trouble letting one of you avoid the paperwork. And then there’s all that time I have to take looking through the archives to find the file that will forge your signature. I can’t lose any more than I do now though.”
“You are a fine one, Mr. Grinch. Look, I promise not to get you into any trouble. I would like to see what the future—“
“Forthcoming.”
“—has to offer.”
The voice paused, “Your promise is no good here. Promises are only words.”
“Yeah, words hurt. Okay. Just let me go. I don’t care about the future, the forthcoming or whatever you have decided to call it. I would like to go home.”
“Hold the spectromaviewer in front of you and press the button labeled ‘Play’.”
I laughed, “So, in the future despite the political correctness we will still have the good ol’ remote control.”
As I pressed the Play button a video screen magically appeared in the space in front of me. A series of commercials began to air. I looked at the device but could find no button which would allow me to quickly scan through the messages.
The voice spoke, “There is no fast forward button. Our leadership eliminated those when they bailed out the media, the electronics companies and France a few years ago.”
Then the commercials ended and my name appeared on the screen. Underneath it a graphic read, “Magnolia Creek Quality Life Facility” then the video changed to show the back of an old man sitting in a rocking chair. A moment later, a handful of people approached the man in the chair. Their faces were digitally altered. When they spoke their voices were also altered. Nothing they said was very emotional or personal. No one even approached the old man in the chair to hug or even touch him. Two minutes later, they all left. The screen faded to black but not before a graphic popped up that read, “The actors portraying once-traditional families and people who are considered friends appear courtesy of PBS and were compensated for their performances.”
The screen disappeared. I looked around, “That’s it?”
“We’re very proud of what we are able to show people.”
“What you show people? I didn’t recognize any of those people. None of them were family or friends that I recognized. The words they spoke were dull platitudes. No one even got near the older man in the chair. No one wished him a Merry Christmas or brought him a gift. And no one spent any real time with him. It was so generic.”
“We can’t have real once-traditional families or real people who are considered friends appear. There’s too much risk.”
“This is a joke. You show nothing.”
“We show the future.”
“Future? I thought it was forthcoming. Either way, I’m done. I want to go home.”
“I’ll need the spectromaviewer before you depart.”
I reach the device toward the voice but as I do, I press the Play button one last time. The giant screen reappears briefly and the old man in the rocking chair from Magnolia Creek turns to face the camera. Just as quickly, the screen disappears.
I ask, “Is that me?”
The voice spoke, “This session of Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons has ended. Please step aside.”
To be continued.
I asked, “What?”
“Don’t take another step. We have regulations about where you can and cannot go. You are close to the line. Stop where you are.”
I stopped and rocked forward on my toes, “Okay. I guess you are the spirit of Christmases past.”
“No. My official title is Assistant Associate Administrator of Unconscious Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons.”
“Hmmm, regulations, official titles, not a “Christmas” or even a “holiday season” in sight. I see that political correctness has now come to my dreams.”
“We no longer call them dreams. We refer to the sleep-like state where you sometimes envision things other than your actual life or envision your life in an exaggerated manner as ‘unconscious mind patterns’.”
“As opposed to conscious mind patterns which I suppose might include having goals or aspirations?”
“Well, there is some of that. Our leaders though are working to defeat that sort of thing.”
“Lovely. I’m not sure I want to know more. Can we just get on with this? I’ve already been to Christmases Past and—“
“We refer to that now as the Time Formerly Known as Christmases Past. In six more years, our leaders will eliminate that word from our vocabulary.”
“Yeah, words hurt. Can we just get on with this? There’s the Past, you are in the Future—“
“Forthcoming.”
“---and at some point I have to land back in the Present. Can we just get on with this, so I can get back home? I’m really not into where this is going.”
The voice then produced a stack of papers which began at my feet and reached to my belly button. An ink pen appeared on the top of the papers.
The voice spoke, “Okay. Before proceeding we need you to sign some release forms. I can get you another pen in case that one runs out of ink.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, sometimes in this process ink pens run out of ink. There are a lot of places where you have to sign. Oh, wait, you mean with this as a whole, don’t you? Trust me, we take this very seriously. You need to sign these forms. We have to protect you.”
“You have to protect me? From the future, er, forthcoming? This is a dream, unconscious mind pattern or whatever, and you still have to protect me?”
“Well, yes. And us. We do have to protect us, too. I mean if you found out something you weren’t happy with, well, we just can’t take any chances.”
“My wife and I didn’t sign this many papers when we bought our house. I am not signing anything.”
A nervous laugh emanated in the direction of the voice, “You should have seen the paperwork that had to be signed to get us to this point. It’s been years and the Office of Media, News, Infotainment and Hype is still trying to read it all.”
“I think I have seen enough.”
“No, stop. What can I do to get you to view your forthcoming festive seasons?”
“Why do you care? Really, from just our few minutes together, I know I would not enjoy living in this type of environment. I’m going home.”
“Come on, I lose too many people this way.”
“Do you work on a quota?”
On top of the papers, a small remote control-looking device appeared.
“Pick up the spectromaviewer.”
I reach down and pick up the device. As I do, the stack of papers disappear.
As I look at the device, I ask, “What do I do next?”
“I normally don’t allow this. And I shouldn’t. I could get into trouble letting one of you avoid the paperwork. And then there’s all that time I have to take looking through the archives to find the file that will forge your signature. I can’t lose any more than I do now though.”
“You are a fine one, Mr. Grinch. Look, I promise not to get you into any trouble. I would like to see what the future—“
“Forthcoming.”
“—has to offer.”
The voice paused, “Your promise is no good here. Promises are only words.”
“Yeah, words hurt. Okay. Just let me go. I don’t care about the future, the forthcoming or whatever you have decided to call it. I would like to go home.”
“Hold the spectromaviewer in front of you and press the button labeled ‘Play’.”
I laughed, “So, in the future despite the political correctness we will still have the good ol’ remote control.”
As I pressed the Play button a video screen magically appeared in the space in front of me. A series of commercials began to air. I looked at the device but could find no button which would allow me to quickly scan through the messages.
The voice spoke, “There is no fast forward button. Our leadership eliminated those when they bailed out the media, the electronics companies and France a few years ago.”
Then the commercials ended and my name appeared on the screen. Underneath it a graphic read, “Magnolia Creek Quality Life Facility” then the video changed to show the back of an old man sitting in a rocking chair. A moment later, a handful of people approached the man in the chair. Their faces were digitally altered. When they spoke their voices were also altered. Nothing they said was very emotional or personal. No one even approached the old man in the chair to hug or even touch him. Two minutes later, they all left. The screen faded to black but not before a graphic popped up that read, “The actors portraying once-traditional families and people who are considered friends appear courtesy of PBS and were compensated for their performances.”
The screen disappeared. I looked around, “That’s it?”
“We’re very proud of what we are able to show people.”
“What you show people? I didn’t recognize any of those people. None of them were family or friends that I recognized. The words they spoke were dull platitudes. No one even got near the older man in the chair. No one wished him a Merry Christmas or brought him a gift. And no one spent any real time with him. It was so generic.”
“We can’t have real once-traditional families or real people who are considered friends appear. There’s too much risk.”
“This is a joke. You show nothing.”
“We show the future.”
“Future? I thought it was forthcoming. Either way, I’m done. I want to go home.”
“I’ll need the spectromaviewer before you depart.”
I reach the device toward the voice but as I do, I press the Play button one last time. The giant screen reappears briefly and the old man in the rocking chair from Magnolia Creek turns to face the camera. Just as quickly, the screen disappears.
I ask, “Is that me?”
The voice spoke, “This session of Mind Patterns Relating to Forthcoming Festive Seasons has ended. Please step aside.”
To be continued.
12.09.2009
Christmases Past
The voice urged me to step back. As I did, I felt a cool wind rush by and then a blinding light forced me to close my eyes. As I acclimate myself to the chilly air, I tentatively open my eyes. Looking down, I see a tight-knit carpet colored green, white and gold. Looking around, I see the old-style pine paneling of the living room walls. Behind me I hear my mom humming as she works away in the kitchen. The smell of cookies baking in the oven tickles the tip of my nose. I note a shadow at one of the windows and a moment later I make out the figure to be my dad standing on a ladder untangling Christmas lights. I look around again and spot the Christmas tree in the front picture window. Mix and match ornaments dangle on the limbs of a Christmas tree whose top just almost grazes the ceiling. Confetti-like strips of silver hang off the limbs simulating icicles. Underneath the tree are stacks and stacks of boxes wrapped in holiday paper.
Again, I hear a voice. This time the voice welcomes me to Christmases past.
Bewildered, I ask, “Why are you here?”
The voice answers, “Slow month. That, and it’s part of the stimulus package.”
“Just my luck, I get an apparition with more sarcasm than a roomful of fourteen year olds who just had their cell phones taken away. Really, why are you here?”
“You know, you should look back now and then. This time of season is a good time to do that.”
I looked in the direction of the voice and let the quiet edge in from the corners. Then I asked, “Do you know me? I like looking back. I try to trash the bad memories and cling to the good ones. I mean read my blog, man. It’s about ninety percent looking back at people, places and things.”
Quiet crept back in between me and the voice. As I grew uneasy at the silence I thought I heard a hushed laugh before the voice said, “Oh, yeah, your blog. You truly are a lone voice crying in the wilderness.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Come on, humor me, look back at past Christmases.”
“If I do this, what happens?”
“I can’t answer that,” said the voice.
Before the words could sink in I found myself drowning in a swirl of memories…an aluminum Christmas tree with a Western Auto color wheel sitting on the floor, Rock ‘Em-Sock ‘Em boxing robots, an electronic football game that shook the plastic players up and down the field. Being young and opening boxes to find socks or a sweater while trying to hide my disappointment that it wasn’t some gift I really wanted crossed my mind. I also remembered the snowy Christmas morning when our phone rang and we heard the news that my nephew had been born. Other things came to mind…fruitcakes so heavy that could be used for doorstops, shiny Hot Wheels, board games only broken out when family was in town, bowls of party mix, platters of cherry muffins and white chocolate-covered pretzels and even the few years when some of my relatives refused to participate in Christmas because they were convinced Jesus wasn’t born on December 25. All of these things made me smile and shake my head. The memories continued to flow in and as they did they grew more recent in time. Memories of receiving gifts were replaced by memories of giving gifts and watching loved ones as they really enjoyed Christmas.
The voice intervened, “You could stay here awhile couldn’t you?”
“Yes. I have had a good life so far. There are a lot of good memories this season brings.”
“You have pictures?”
“What?”
“Pictures? Do you have any pictures you can look at and remember those times?”
“Yeah. I have some on a CD, some on a hard drive, some on Kodak, some Polaroids, may even have some on video somewhere.”
“Hey, flash drive, Shutterfly, Flickr or YouTube, dude, I don’t care. You have them somewhere. You can look at them later. We have to be going. We have other places to go before this deal is done.”
“Other places?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I look around one last time? I have a lot of memories here. I love it here”
“Don’t take long.”
I took one step back and looked around one more time. As I did, I could see my parents, my sister and her family, my brother and his family and my wife. Laughter filled the small room as we spilled out across every piece of furniture and as we filled every empty space on the floor.
The voice spoke, “It’s time to go.”
I turned toward the voice. Then I turned back and saw nothing more than a fog of white light. I squinted my eyes and through the mist I could see a little boy on a floor playing with a toy train.
Again the voice spoke, “Come on.”
I turned toward the voice and asked, “Is that me?”
“The time for looking back has passed. Please step forward.”
To be continued…
Again, I hear a voice. This time the voice welcomes me to Christmases past.
Bewildered, I ask, “Why are you here?”
The voice answers, “Slow month. That, and it’s part of the stimulus package.”
“Just my luck, I get an apparition with more sarcasm than a roomful of fourteen year olds who just had their cell phones taken away. Really, why are you here?”
“You know, you should look back now and then. This time of season is a good time to do that.”
I looked in the direction of the voice and let the quiet edge in from the corners. Then I asked, “Do you know me? I like looking back. I try to trash the bad memories and cling to the good ones. I mean read my blog, man. It’s about ninety percent looking back at people, places and things.”
Quiet crept back in between me and the voice. As I grew uneasy at the silence I thought I heard a hushed laugh before the voice said, “Oh, yeah, your blog. You truly are a lone voice crying in the wilderness.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Come on, humor me, look back at past Christmases.”
“If I do this, what happens?”
“I can’t answer that,” said the voice.
Before the words could sink in I found myself drowning in a swirl of memories…an aluminum Christmas tree with a Western Auto color wheel sitting on the floor, Rock ‘Em-Sock ‘Em boxing robots, an electronic football game that shook the plastic players up and down the field. Being young and opening boxes to find socks or a sweater while trying to hide my disappointment that it wasn’t some gift I really wanted crossed my mind. I also remembered the snowy Christmas morning when our phone rang and we heard the news that my nephew had been born. Other things came to mind…fruitcakes so heavy that could be used for doorstops, shiny Hot Wheels, board games only broken out when family was in town, bowls of party mix, platters of cherry muffins and white chocolate-covered pretzels and even the few years when some of my relatives refused to participate in Christmas because they were convinced Jesus wasn’t born on December 25. All of these things made me smile and shake my head. The memories continued to flow in and as they did they grew more recent in time. Memories of receiving gifts were replaced by memories of giving gifts and watching loved ones as they really enjoyed Christmas.
The voice intervened, “You could stay here awhile couldn’t you?”
“Yes. I have had a good life so far. There are a lot of good memories this season brings.”
“You have pictures?”
“What?”
“Pictures? Do you have any pictures you can look at and remember those times?”
“Yeah. I have some on a CD, some on a hard drive, some on Kodak, some Polaroids, may even have some on video somewhere.”
“Hey, flash drive, Shutterfly, Flickr or YouTube, dude, I don’t care. You have them somewhere. You can look at them later. We have to be going. We have other places to go before this deal is done.”
“Other places?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I look around one last time? I have a lot of memories here. I love it here”
“Don’t take long.”
I took one step back and looked around one more time. As I did, I could see my parents, my sister and her family, my brother and his family and my wife. Laughter filled the small room as we spilled out across every piece of furniture and as we filled every empty space on the floor.
The voice spoke, “It’s time to go.”
I turned toward the voice. Then I turned back and saw nothing more than a fog of white light. I squinted my eyes and through the mist I could see a little boy on a floor playing with a toy train.
Again the voice spoke, “Come on.”
I turned toward the voice and asked, “Is that me?”
“The time for looking back has passed. Please step forward.”
To be continued…
12.03.2009
One Day It Rains...
One day it rains. It doesn’t even rain the entire day, just part of the day. Possibly the rain is cold and falls heavy in sheets making one long for a hot cup of soup and dry feet. Maybe the rain is a much needed welcome in the dog days of summer and provides a quenching few moments to the parched ground and from the roasting heat. But the rain falls just part of one day and still before that day is over I am lamenting how I think the rain won’t ever, and I mean, e-v-e-r, stop falling.
Meantime, I live in a time when I can turn on a box in any room in our house and choose from hundreds of entertainment and informational choices. I can walk into another room in our house and literally trip over all the books I possess. And I can hold a device in my hands practically anywhere I may roam anymore that can dial a number so I can talk to a friend half way around the world and then click a few things so I can hop on the world wide web and follow the latest news from my favorite sports team and then I can type out some crazy gibberish in text to send to a family member who will receive the message on a similar device hundreds of miles away in mere seconds. And yet, I often claim to be so bored that I do not know how I can survive another moment without going stark raving crazy.
Maybe I don’t know how to more fully express things other than to label time on my hands as boredom. Maybe I don’t appreciate the rain because getting wet means my hair might mat to my head.
In the quiet, still moments when reflection puts the ground underneath my feet again, I find it, ummm, what’s the right word here, ironic or maybe sad or maybe maddening or maybe any other number of a dozen or so words that race through my mind when I really think about how my own complaining is nothing short of ridiculous. After all, I live in a world warmed by a giant sun and lulled to sleep by a glassy moon. In between the time it takes for the sun to be make way for the moon I am provided opportunities my forefathers never imagined and enough possibilities that I could never fully pursue them all. Still, I find the time and the audacity to complain and feel unsatisfied.
Then on deeper reflection, I wonder if God looks at me, notes I am spinning my wheels again and wonders will he e-v-e-r get it?
Meantime, I live in a time when I can turn on a box in any room in our house and choose from hundreds of entertainment and informational choices. I can walk into another room in our house and literally trip over all the books I possess. And I can hold a device in my hands practically anywhere I may roam anymore that can dial a number so I can talk to a friend half way around the world and then click a few things so I can hop on the world wide web and follow the latest news from my favorite sports team and then I can type out some crazy gibberish in text to send to a family member who will receive the message on a similar device hundreds of miles away in mere seconds. And yet, I often claim to be so bored that I do not know how I can survive another moment without going stark raving crazy.
Maybe I don’t know how to more fully express things other than to label time on my hands as boredom. Maybe I don’t appreciate the rain because getting wet means my hair might mat to my head.
In the quiet, still moments when reflection puts the ground underneath my feet again, I find it, ummm, what’s the right word here, ironic or maybe sad or maybe maddening or maybe any other number of a dozen or so words that race through my mind when I really think about how my own complaining is nothing short of ridiculous. After all, I live in a world warmed by a giant sun and lulled to sleep by a glassy moon. In between the time it takes for the sun to be make way for the moon I am provided opportunities my forefathers never imagined and enough possibilities that I could never fully pursue them all. Still, I find the time and the audacity to complain and feel unsatisfied.
Then on deeper reflection, I wonder if God looks at me, notes I am spinning my wheels again and wonders will he e-v-e-r get it?
11.24.2009
November 2009: Chicken Fingers for the Soul or Random Thoughts That Pass Through My Mind And Stick There Like A Cheap Magnet Sticks To A Refrigerator Door
In the fall of the year, as a pale yellow sun fades slowly in the sky, there is nothing quite like a smoky haze on the horizon and the sweet smell of leaves burning in the distance.
After watching some recent awards shows and tuning in a bit on the radio, I have determined I liked today’s country music much better when we called it pop music back in the 1970s.
Yes, I know some folks really like Christmas. I do too. Must we though begin to celebrate it right after Halloween? Can’t we properly honor our veterans on Veterans’ Day and then celebrate Thanksgiving first? Halloween weekend a local radio station began airing Christmas music twenty-four-hours-a-day-seven-days-a-week. That weekend, we also noticed a house in our neighborhood which has a large Snoopy on the side of their house with an electronic countdown in large red numbers of the days, hours and minutes left until Christmas. I hope the kids in that house have a really super Christmas because if all they get is a small red ball tied to a paddle by a rubber band after almost two months of anticipation then the let down is going to be as great as another Garth Brooks comeback.
Laughter may be the best medicine but if you’ve got the crud some strong cough medicine works better than a ‘knock, knock’ joke.
I do not understand why Gomez Addams’s expression “capital idea” from the TV show “The Addams Family” never became a household catch phrase.
I recently spent four hours with a vice-like grip on a leaf blower but am glad I had my iPod along for the journey. At one point, while waist deep in leaves, I thought I would never finish the task before me. After shutting off the leaf blower my body pulsated for a few more hours like I was still clutching the leaf blower. Despite the constant trembling, it was not enough to shake “Living on Tulsa Time” out of my head.
I am glad we live in a community just remote enough where a train whistle can still be heard in the distance when things grow quiet enough. Even now when I hear such a whistle, it makes me realize what a lonesome sound it really is. And then the whistle fades away and total silence engulfs the moment. And in that moment, the sound of silence becomes even more lonesome sounding.
You know there are a lot of inventions I would like to see but maybe none more than something that could automagically transport a body from one place to another without waiting in traffic or having to go through an airport security line.
And on a related topic, it’s almost 2010; shouldn’t we be getting around in car-plane things like the Jetsons by now?
While I am no slave to fashion, I do admit I own some pretty ugly shoes. After looking around though at some of the shoes other people wear, I think I may be somewhat fashionable after all.
How in the world did a large wheel come off our garbage can at home and where did it go?
11.20.2009
Old Friends
I have a lot of things to be thankful for as Thanksgiving 2009 approaches. And while I like the challenge of trying to work words into a form that might adequately describe my thankfulness for certain things there are just sometimes when that doesn’t happen for whatever reason.
During this past year, some of you have made it a regular habit to stop by here and read the ramblings I post from time to time. Thank you so much for doing that. And more than that, thank you for your friendship, old friends!
Old friends, pitching pennies in the park
Playing croquet 'til it's dark
Old friends, mmm old friends.
Old friends, swapping lies of lives and loves
Pitching popcorn to the doves
Old friends, mmm old friends.
Old friends, looking up to watch a bird
Holding arms to climb a curb
Old friends, mmm, old friends.
Old friends, Lord when all my work is done
Bless my life and grant me one, old friend
At least one, old friend
Old friends, looking up to watch a bird
Holding arms to climb a curb, old friends
Old friends, Lord when all my work is done
Bless my life and grant me one, old friend
At least one, old friend("Old Friends" written by Roger Miller)
11.16.2009
Catch My Breath
I’ve been trying lately to just catch my breath. Sometimes work and other obligations trip me up in this regard. This time though it’s a nagging health issue that has thrown me behind where I feel I should be. Seasonal allergies teamed with an elusive fever and an out-of-the-blue ear infection to make my world slow to a crawl. While my world took on a snail’s pace the rest of the world seemed to race right on by me.
During this time, Jennifer and I have been able to once again test that part of the marriage vow I suppose you could call the health clause, you know the part of the vow where you promise to care for one another “in sickness and in health”. At the start of this whole thing, I was a coughing, slobbering mess. I got a bit better in time. Somehow though, I transferred a portion of the sickness stuff to Jennifer. Since the family that coughs together can quickly get on each other's nerves together, we took a trip to see the doctor together. The most memorable part of the visit was when a nurse took our vital signs and then promptly handed us face masks. We then had to wait for a few minutes for the doctor to see us. As we stood there a slight distance away from others, face masks covering our mouths while strangers shot curious and slightly fearful glances our way, Jennifer whispered she felt we were suddenly lepers, sick and standing outside the rest of the group. We laughed through our congestion and those face masks. In sickness and in health, indeed. In time, the doctor emerged, provided his diagnosis and since then a slow recovery has followed.
I must admit while I find a certain charm in watching Judge Judy slice and dice small claims court cases into small pieces with her common sense, I know that the haze of over-the-counter allergy meds combined with the more ramped-up meds the doctor provided has to eventually wear off and will cause me to leave the comfort of the living room couch and return to the real world. The broken rattle I hear and feel when I inhale and exhale will disappear and take with it the cough that bursts out in to spasms I can’t control. The tasks I left undone at home, at work and anywhere else I venture will still be there with my name attached to them. For now though, I’m just trying to catch up to where I left off a week and a half ago. I’ll get there. Just let me catch my breath.
During this time, Jennifer and I have been able to once again test that part of the marriage vow I suppose you could call the health clause, you know the part of the vow where you promise to care for one another “in sickness and in health”. At the start of this whole thing, I was a coughing, slobbering mess. I got a bit better in time. Somehow though, I transferred a portion of the sickness stuff to Jennifer. Since the family that coughs together can quickly get on each other's nerves together, we took a trip to see the doctor together. The most memorable part of the visit was when a nurse took our vital signs and then promptly handed us face masks. We then had to wait for a few minutes for the doctor to see us. As we stood there a slight distance away from others, face masks covering our mouths while strangers shot curious and slightly fearful glances our way, Jennifer whispered she felt we were suddenly lepers, sick and standing outside the rest of the group. We laughed through our congestion and those face masks. In sickness and in health, indeed. In time, the doctor emerged, provided his diagnosis and since then a slow recovery has followed.
I must admit while I find a certain charm in watching Judge Judy slice and dice small claims court cases into small pieces with her common sense, I know that the haze of over-the-counter allergy meds combined with the more ramped-up meds the doctor provided has to eventually wear off and will cause me to leave the comfort of the living room couch and return to the real world. The broken rattle I hear and feel when I inhale and exhale will disappear and take with it the cough that bursts out in to spasms I can’t control. The tasks I left undone at home, at work and anywhere else I venture will still be there with my name attached to them. For now though, I’m just trying to catch up to where I left off a week and a half ago. I’ll get there. Just let me catch my breath.
11.05.2009
Memories and Lessons Learned
It has been many years since I last saw Lora. It is just a fact of life that somehow, someway, even in today’s connected world, we still sometimes lose contact with people we know from an earlier time and place. Lora was one of my college professors. She taught public relations and journalism courses. One semester I took a reporting class in order to flesh out my broadcasting degree also knowing the class provided an opportunity to write for the college newspaper. Even after the class ended, I continued to work with the newspaper. During my senior year, with Lora’s encouragement, I began writing a weekly column whose spirit matches the tone of this blog.
Lora wasn’t out of graduate school long when she stood before us sharing public relations concepts and pointing out the intricacies of law in the world of journalism. Lora and I clashed some, never in a mean or malicious way, but, always in a good-humored manner. It’s hard for me to not like someone who can be just as sarcastic as I can be even in disagreement. Being slightly obstinate, one semester I determined part of the work she gave us each week in class was “busy work” and that I was, in fact, too busy to make the effort to complete it. It was a model case of stubborn student meeting stubborn professor. Stubborn professor won as Lora responded by giving me the grade I earned for not turning in part of what she expected.
Lora also proved to be loyal to those who worked on the newspaper staff for her. I know on more than one occasion she was called to task by the school administration for letting something go to print they weren’t happy seeing in black and white for the whole world to read. On at least one occasion, some of my work in print was behind a trip she had to make in order to do some explaining about the newspaper’s latest issue. Lora though got through that and never blamed me or my efforts for the newspaper even though in reality I was at least partly responsible for the matter.
Today, particular memories crash through from that time. I remember going into Lora’s office and hearing her singing along to Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt’s version of “Those Memories of You”. I recall numerous times writing, then, at Lora’s urging rewriting articles as a deadline for the newspaper approached. I also think back to a certain article I had written and turned in to Lora in the days before spell-check discouraged the use of a dictionary. In this article I had used the word “governor” multiple times. Each time I used that word, my north Georgia accent apparently came oozing through the keys on the word processor and I left out the first “r”. Lora approved of the piece as it was written with the exception of the oft-misspelled word. When she returned it to me I saw she had spelled “G-O-V-E-R-N-O-R” in giant letters above the article title. Since that day I don’t believe I have ever misspelled that word again although I almost always stop and search for the first “r” when I type it making sure it is present and in the right place. I also recall being in one of Lora’s night classes. It was a challenging multi-hour once-a-week class discussing law. It was also the only class I had anywhere in which the whole class, Lora included, took regular breaks at the local Dairy Queen.
The last time I really remember seeing Lora was at my own graduation. I may have seen her after then but if we did cross paths I don’t remember it. I know we exchanged some email years ago and sent greetings to one another through mutual friends over the years. I do vividly recall my own graduation though and Lora being there in faculty regalia. I had an aisle seat for the ceremony. I walked the stage that day and received my diploma. I then sat down and watched the rest of my classmates receive their diplomas noting various faculty members, including Lora, sitting in the rows ahead of me. After the ceremony came time to walk up the auditorium aisle and out into the much-hyped full-blown world of adulthood. As is custom, the faculty walked out before us. As they marched by, I saw Lora approaching my row. As she neared, she stopped, smiled, joked, laughed, then hugged and congratulated me. This is the last time I remember seeing Lora. It is also the Lora I will always remember.
Earlier this week, Lora passed away after several battles with cancer.
Now not only do the memories crash through but the lessons learned from Lora become even clearer. Lessons such as knowing people can have professional disagreements yet still work beside one another in an enjoyable manner. I learned what you receive is usually equal to the effort you do, or don’t, put forward, and that when that is the case it typically means that the payoff you receive is truly deserved. I learned to appreciate how loyalty from a superior is a gracious gift especially when you may feel that gesture may not be totally justified. I also learned that writing, reading, rewriting, reading again and rewriting again is just part of a process that sharpens and focuses what you are trying to say and, ultimately, is a very good thing. And of course, I learned how to correctly spell “governor” without the use of spell-check.
Others knew Lora during her struggle against cancer. I am sure they can pinpoint lessons learned from that time. From what I know, she faced her battle in typical-Lora fashion, head-on, full-speed ahead and determined to win the battle. Those of us who knew her, even from years ago, expected nothing less from her.
I suppose that is another lesson learned from Lora. Winning the battle is important but striving to win the battle is more important. The attempt has to be made because in that effort are other good things which can be discovered…renewed hope, stronger faith, untapped strength, deeper friendships, even the simple realization that in the trying, no matter the outcome, the effort really is worth it.
Lora, thanks for the memories and the lessons learned. May God surround your family and friends with love and peace.
###
(With a special nod of thanks to Scott S for remembering how we always ended the articles we turned in to Lora, a lesson learned through Lora’s use of the Associated Press style book.)
Lora wasn’t out of graduate school long when she stood before us sharing public relations concepts and pointing out the intricacies of law in the world of journalism. Lora and I clashed some, never in a mean or malicious way, but, always in a good-humored manner. It’s hard for me to not like someone who can be just as sarcastic as I can be even in disagreement. Being slightly obstinate, one semester I determined part of the work she gave us each week in class was “busy work” and that I was, in fact, too busy to make the effort to complete it. It was a model case of stubborn student meeting stubborn professor. Stubborn professor won as Lora responded by giving me the grade I earned for not turning in part of what she expected.
Lora also proved to be loyal to those who worked on the newspaper staff for her. I know on more than one occasion she was called to task by the school administration for letting something go to print they weren’t happy seeing in black and white for the whole world to read. On at least one occasion, some of my work in print was behind a trip she had to make in order to do some explaining about the newspaper’s latest issue. Lora though got through that and never blamed me or my efforts for the newspaper even though in reality I was at least partly responsible for the matter.
Today, particular memories crash through from that time. I remember going into Lora’s office and hearing her singing along to Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt’s version of “Those Memories of You”. I recall numerous times writing, then, at Lora’s urging rewriting articles as a deadline for the newspaper approached. I also think back to a certain article I had written and turned in to Lora in the days before spell-check discouraged the use of a dictionary. In this article I had used the word “governor” multiple times. Each time I used that word, my north Georgia accent apparently came oozing through the keys on the word processor and I left out the first “r”. Lora approved of the piece as it was written with the exception of the oft-misspelled word. When she returned it to me I saw she had spelled “G-O-V-E-R-N-O-R” in giant letters above the article title. Since that day I don’t believe I have ever misspelled that word again although I almost always stop and search for the first “r” when I type it making sure it is present and in the right place. I also recall being in one of Lora’s night classes. It was a challenging multi-hour once-a-week class discussing law. It was also the only class I had anywhere in which the whole class, Lora included, took regular breaks at the local Dairy Queen.
The last time I really remember seeing Lora was at my own graduation. I may have seen her after then but if we did cross paths I don’t remember it. I know we exchanged some email years ago and sent greetings to one another through mutual friends over the years. I do vividly recall my own graduation though and Lora being there in faculty regalia. I had an aisle seat for the ceremony. I walked the stage that day and received my diploma. I then sat down and watched the rest of my classmates receive their diplomas noting various faculty members, including Lora, sitting in the rows ahead of me. After the ceremony came time to walk up the auditorium aisle and out into the much-hyped full-blown world of adulthood. As is custom, the faculty walked out before us. As they marched by, I saw Lora approaching my row. As she neared, she stopped, smiled, joked, laughed, then hugged and congratulated me. This is the last time I remember seeing Lora. It is also the Lora I will always remember.
Earlier this week, Lora passed away after several battles with cancer.
Now not only do the memories crash through but the lessons learned from Lora become even clearer. Lessons such as knowing people can have professional disagreements yet still work beside one another in an enjoyable manner. I learned what you receive is usually equal to the effort you do, or don’t, put forward, and that when that is the case it typically means that the payoff you receive is truly deserved. I learned to appreciate how loyalty from a superior is a gracious gift especially when you may feel that gesture may not be totally justified. I also learned that writing, reading, rewriting, reading again and rewriting again is just part of a process that sharpens and focuses what you are trying to say and, ultimately, is a very good thing. And of course, I learned how to correctly spell “governor” without the use of spell-check.
Others knew Lora during her struggle against cancer. I am sure they can pinpoint lessons learned from that time. From what I know, she faced her battle in typical-Lora fashion, head-on, full-speed ahead and determined to win the battle. Those of us who knew her, even from years ago, expected nothing less from her.
I suppose that is another lesson learned from Lora. Winning the battle is important but striving to win the battle is more important. The attempt has to be made because in that effort are other good things which can be discovered…renewed hope, stronger faith, untapped strength, deeper friendships, even the simple realization that in the trying, no matter the outcome, the effort really is worth it.
Lora, thanks for the memories and the lessons learned. May God surround your family and friends with love and peace.
###
(With a special nod of thanks to Scott S for remembering how we always ended the articles we turned in to Lora, a lesson learned through Lora’s use of the Associated Press style book.)
10.28.2009
Sunday Morning Coming Down
It was an early Sunday morning. Jennifer and I had taken a few days to escape to the mountains. Before we knew it, time had raced by and now it was time to head toward home. On this Sunday, we had an hour and a half ride ahead of us before we reached the church where my Mom attends as we had planned to stop and spend some time with family before making the last part of the trip back home.
The towns and communities we drove through are rather familiar to me as I have passed through them for most of my life having grown up a few counties to the west. We drove through small towns, some with names derived from the Native Americans who once ruled the area, and communities, some seemingly no larger than the two or three houses your eye sees but no doubt have become endeared in the hearts of some who know the place as deeply and firmly as their first true love. Since I have seen these places many times before, the scenery is not that new to me although it is still spectacular at times. On this Sunday, things seemed different.
Autumn fog clung to the trees on the mountains temporarily veiling the kaleidoscope of colors the rain and cooler weather is producing. The morning sun chased us westward toward our destination and began to cut through the mist on the mountains to reveal a gorgeous, crisp fall morning. As the vapor lifted even more, a grander picture of mountains sitting in the distance seemingly stacked against one another came into view. The low hum of a CD set a steady rhythm in the background as the miles clicked away. The car’s heater provided enough warmth along with the rays of sunshine to keep the two of us toasty on our trip. Although I have traveled these roads many times before I sensed there was something slightly different about the journey on this day.
Most likely it all felt so different because this was a Sunday morning. The road was less cluttered with traffic but the times I have been on this road through these towns have mostly been during the week or late on a weekend. That was partly the reason things felt different on this day. The other thing that struck me was how unrushed the whole world seemed on the drive. It just seemed as if everything was less anxious, less uptight, more calm, more reasonable. It wasn’t just those things the senses could experience that felt that way then but that feeling just seemed to extend to the whole world at large at that moment. Those out traveling around didn’t seem to be in such a rush. It all seemed to make me think this is really how it is here when so many of the things that bear down and beat you down every day are stripped away for a time.
I felt if I slowed down enough or even stopped and began looking around I suspected I could locate a couple of good old boys hitching up a flat-bottomed boat to a beat-up old pick-up as a day of fishing and tall tales were just ahead for them. I imagined an older lady peeking out her window with the smell of coffee percolating in the next room as she pulled her shades open before sitting down to open her well-worn King James Bible, taped at the spine after years of correction and reflection, to begin her day. I visualized an older man, decked out in a ragged flannel shirt, faded denim jeans, old work boots and a frayed cap from a local auto parts dealer tossing out scratch to his chickens as a floppy-eared hound watched from a distance.
Knowing that a return to the usual hubbub of life’s routine waited in the week ahead, it made me want to stop the world at that instant. I wanted to find a front porch surrounded by enough trees so that small slivers of sunshine slid through onto the wooden planks beneath my feet while the leaves quietly rustled in the breeze. Our car though rolled westward toward our destination, toward the return of our day-to-day world as a Sunday morning came down.
The towns and communities we drove through are rather familiar to me as I have passed through them for most of my life having grown up a few counties to the west. We drove through small towns, some with names derived from the Native Americans who once ruled the area, and communities, some seemingly no larger than the two or three houses your eye sees but no doubt have become endeared in the hearts of some who know the place as deeply and firmly as their first true love. Since I have seen these places many times before, the scenery is not that new to me although it is still spectacular at times. On this Sunday, things seemed different.
Autumn fog clung to the trees on the mountains temporarily veiling the kaleidoscope of colors the rain and cooler weather is producing. The morning sun chased us westward toward our destination and began to cut through the mist on the mountains to reveal a gorgeous, crisp fall morning. As the vapor lifted even more, a grander picture of mountains sitting in the distance seemingly stacked against one another came into view. The low hum of a CD set a steady rhythm in the background as the miles clicked away. The car’s heater provided enough warmth along with the rays of sunshine to keep the two of us toasty on our trip. Although I have traveled these roads many times before I sensed there was something slightly different about the journey on this day.
Most likely it all felt so different because this was a Sunday morning. The road was less cluttered with traffic but the times I have been on this road through these towns have mostly been during the week or late on a weekend. That was partly the reason things felt different on this day. The other thing that struck me was how unrushed the whole world seemed on the drive. It just seemed as if everything was less anxious, less uptight, more calm, more reasonable. It wasn’t just those things the senses could experience that felt that way then but that feeling just seemed to extend to the whole world at large at that moment. Those out traveling around didn’t seem to be in such a rush. It all seemed to make me think this is really how it is here when so many of the things that bear down and beat you down every day are stripped away for a time.
I felt if I slowed down enough or even stopped and began looking around I suspected I could locate a couple of good old boys hitching up a flat-bottomed boat to a beat-up old pick-up as a day of fishing and tall tales were just ahead for them. I imagined an older lady peeking out her window with the smell of coffee percolating in the next room as she pulled her shades open before sitting down to open her well-worn King James Bible, taped at the spine after years of correction and reflection, to begin her day. I visualized an older man, decked out in a ragged flannel shirt, faded denim jeans, old work boots and a frayed cap from a local auto parts dealer tossing out scratch to his chickens as a floppy-eared hound watched from a distance.
Knowing that a return to the usual hubbub of life’s routine waited in the week ahead, it made me want to stop the world at that instant. I wanted to find a front porch surrounded by enough trees so that small slivers of sunshine slid through onto the wooden planks beneath my feet while the leaves quietly rustled in the breeze. Our car though rolled westward toward our destination, toward the return of our day-to-day world as a Sunday morning came down.
10.21.2009
The Steps
Few things seem to last. You know this is true once you buy a house. If you are a homeowner you know all too well how quickly you can begin to feel that the house you bought, the place where you plan to plant roots, make memories and live until someone plots your move to some facility where prune jello and warm milk are the soup of the day is nothing more than a place to shovel whatever money you might, or might not, have. Some days this is truly how I feel, despite all the good things that home buying brings.
I suppose this feeling deepens when I realize I am no handyman. It's the house exterior or the dishwasher or the toilet or the yard or the carpet or the heating system or dozens of other things that sooner or later bend, break, give up or die. There are some things I can handle without much problem but other things tend to crop up that baffle me, other things appear that terrorize me and still other things emerge that seem to live to taunt me in regards to the upkeep of a house. Top my ineptitude off with the fact that spending money to fix the problem gets thrown in the equation and you have a recipe for certain indigestion.
Ultimately, things have to be fixed despite my own incompetence and my own frugality.
A few months back, Jennifer almost took a tumble down our front steps. Well, okay, tumble sounds dramatic and life-threatening. I suppose if I were part of the news media these days, I would choose the word “tumble” to describe the fact that the front part of the bottom step, two inches from the ground, finally gave way. The step and it’s co-horts had been beginning to fade for some time prior to this fateful day. My attempts at nailing the boards back down and praying and hoping that my effort in preserving those steps a little longer would be enough to be make it all better came to a grinding stop that day. So, I began to ponder what I should do regarding the steps. And for a few weeks our front steps stood damaged but still usable.
As I pondered, Mom and Dad came to town. Before the day was over the steps were almost replaced totally with Dad taking charge of the project at hand. As we worked our way through the task the thought came into my head that I might have been able to have done this job by myself after all. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m glad I didn’t attempt it though. I would have missed the time I spent with Dad. Yes, maybe I could have replaced the steps without his help but I would have missed the teamwork, the jokes, the little hints here and there about how to tackle and defeat such a chore. I would have missed the little things I see in him that I sometimes see reflected in me, the slow yet steady pace that drives some people crazy, the slight hesitation before pounding a nail into the wood just so you can measure one last time how close to hold the nail without placing your fingers in too much danger and even something as simple as recognizing the sound I make when I clear my throat sounds just like him when he clears his throat.
Today marks my Dad’s birthday. As I grow older I find myself continually amazed at how he quietly serves as the rock of our family. I stand in wonder as stray dogs and cats follow him around as if he were a long lost friend. I smile remembering the nicknames he gave every grandchild. I marvel at how his great-grandchildren always want to be near him, how they reach out their arms for him when their eyes lock in on him from across the room. I nervously chuckle at his stubbornness because that is an inherited trait that hits a little close to home. I smile thinking about times watching him laugh so hard he could barely catch his breath and thinking how I always want to be able to remember that happy moment. I am touched knowing how he looks after Mom as her health slowly becomes a battle they will have to wage together. I am amazed that he still plants and tends a garden every summer. I am terrified knowing his eyesight is not what it once was and worry what will happen if it fades away more than what it already has. Today, I am glad we built a set of steps together.
There are so many memories I could relate at this moment. Some things though I like to hold near and hang on to a little longer. I do wonder though if one day in the future, way, way, way in the future, if I will be sitting on the front porch of this very house, where my roots are now planted and where new memories are being made, waiting for some folks in some medical coats to come to carry me down the road to a new residence. And as they tell me about the shuffleboard games and the tantalizing evening meal of strained carrots and unsweetened tea that await me I can imagine interrupting them to tell them to take it easy as they haul me down the steps because me and my Dad built them a long time ago. And we built them to last.
Happy birthday, Dad. And many, many more.
I suppose this feeling deepens when I realize I am no handyman. It's the house exterior or the dishwasher or the toilet or the yard or the carpet or the heating system or dozens of other things that sooner or later bend, break, give up or die. There are some things I can handle without much problem but other things tend to crop up that baffle me, other things appear that terrorize me and still other things emerge that seem to live to taunt me in regards to the upkeep of a house. Top my ineptitude off with the fact that spending money to fix the problem gets thrown in the equation and you have a recipe for certain indigestion.
Ultimately, things have to be fixed despite my own incompetence and my own frugality.
A few months back, Jennifer almost took a tumble down our front steps. Well, okay, tumble sounds dramatic and life-threatening. I suppose if I were part of the news media these days, I would choose the word “tumble” to describe the fact that the front part of the bottom step, two inches from the ground, finally gave way. The step and it’s co-horts had been beginning to fade for some time prior to this fateful day. My attempts at nailing the boards back down and praying and hoping that my effort in preserving those steps a little longer would be enough to be make it all better came to a grinding stop that day. So, I began to ponder what I should do regarding the steps. And for a few weeks our front steps stood damaged but still usable.
As I pondered, Mom and Dad came to town. Before the day was over the steps were almost replaced totally with Dad taking charge of the project at hand. As we worked our way through the task the thought came into my head that I might have been able to have done this job by myself after all. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m glad I didn’t attempt it though. I would have missed the time I spent with Dad. Yes, maybe I could have replaced the steps without his help but I would have missed the teamwork, the jokes, the little hints here and there about how to tackle and defeat such a chore. I would have missed the little things I see in him that I sometimes see reflected in me, the slow yet steady pace that drives some people crazy, the slight hesitation before pounding a nail into the wood just so you can measure one last time how close to hold the nail without placing your fingers in too much danger and even something as simple as recognizing the sound I make when I clear my throat sounds just like him when he clears his throat.
Today marks my Dad’s birthday. As I grow older I find myself continually amazed at how he quietly serves as the rock of our family. I stand in wonder as stray dogs and cats follow him around as if he were a long lost friend. I smile remembering the nicknames he gave every grandchild. I marvel at how his great-grandchildren always want to be near him, how they reach out their arms for him when their eyes lock in on him from across the room. I nervously chuckle at his stubbornness because that is an inherited trait that hits a little close to home. I smile thinking about times watching him laugh so hard he could barely catch his breath and thinking how I always want to be able to remember that happy moment. I am touched knowing how he looks after Mom as her health slowly becomes a battle they will have to wage together. I am amazed that he still plants and tends a garden every summer. I am terrified knowing his eyesight is not what it once was and worry what will happen if it fades away more than what it already has. Today, I am glad we built a set of steps together.
There are so many memories I could relate at this moment. Some things though I like to hold near and hang on to a little longer. I do wonder though if one day in the future, way, way, way in the future, if I will be sitting on the front porch of this very house, where my roots are now planted and where new memories are being made, waiting for some folks in some medical coats to come to carry me down the road to a new residence. And as they tell me about the shuffleboard games and the tantalizing evening meal of strained carrots and unsweetened tea that await me I can imagine interrupting them to tell them to take it easy as they haul me down the steps because me and my Dad built them a long time ago. And we built them to last.
Happy birthday, Dad. And many, many more.
10.07.2009
October 2009: Chicken Fingers For The Soul or Random Thoughts Floating Through My Mind Like High Puffy Clouds On A Clear Day
Random thoughts from today:
I took a short van ride this morning with a giant black Great Dane. The dog struggled to get his big body into a spot not inhabited by others. His face was accented by the graying hair on his chin. When I looked into the dog’s eyes he looked back the way an old friend looks back at you after having not seen you for a long time. I now wish that ride had lasted just a little longer.
My car radio presets get a good workout some days. This morning as I traveled to work and played radio station roulette, I landed on a “classic” country music station playing the 1970s Crystal Gayle hit, “You Never Miss A Real Good Thing”. Now that song is stuck in my mind. It's made me wonder if I underestimated the music of Crystal Gayle. Of course, the irony of it all is not lost on me...if I did not appreciate her music before then I did miss a real good thing.
I recently saw a young woman with a low cut top. It was one of those tops with strings that tie on the top of the shoulders. After she walked by I noticed on her left shoulder was a tattoo. The tattoo was a barcode. I know there are some things you cannot put a price on but I guess there are some things folks do try to put a price on, I just never expected it to be the left shoulder of a young woman.
I also recently saw an older woman, probably in her mid or late fifties. She was wearing a shirt with the word “Flirt” on it. I just hope this wasn’t a gift from her grandkids. And if it was, Granny, you didn’t have to wear it outside the house and you should have held out for a "World's Greatest Grandma" shirt.
Who designs the parking lots in larger shopping complexes? Do they ever return and park in these places? And why can’t some people learn to drive in parking lots, you know between the rows and up and down the correct way in the rows? And when some folks stop driving around the parking lot why can’t they park correctly, you know in between the two lines evenly?
If an atheist takes God's name in vain does that make him a hypocrite?
One of the best dinners I had recently was splitting a Subway sandwich with my wife while we sat side by side at a picnic table overlooking the river. The sun eased behind a bridge then lowered itself behind a mountain in the distance while we caught up on the day's events. The food was okay but the setting, the company and the timing was perfect.
Why do I have five name tags on my desk at work?
Isn't it amazing how some of the nicest automobiles apparently do not come equipped with turn signals?
I often walk around seemingly lost in my own thoughts. It used to be so nice because it seemed I wasn't alone in that habit. Now though I don’t get to do that very often as most people walk around with a cell phone stuck to their ear detailing their lives to some poor soul on the other end of the phone line. Of course they are loud enough so that anyone close enough can hear most of what is said. I do find some comfort in this phenomenon because from what I am able to determine by hearing one side of these calls, most people lead very uninteresting lives.
I am amazed that the button I spent 45 minutes sewing back on to a pair of my pants one recent Saturday morning is still attached to the thread and the pants. Now if I can just work up the courage to wear the pants somewhere.
Crayola does a great job with their colors. Still, they cannot match the blue of a clear sky in October.
I took a short van ride this morning with a giant black Great Dane. The dog struggled to get his big body into a spot not inhabited by others. His face was accented by the graying hair on his chin. When I looked into the dog’s eyes he looked back the way an old friend looks back at you after having not seen you for a long time. I now wish that ride had lasted just a little longer.
My car radio presets get a good workout some days. This morning as I traveled to work and played radio station roulette, I landed on a “classic” country music station playing the 1970s Crystal Gayle hit, “You Never Miss A Real Good Thing”. Now that song is stuck in my mind. It's made me wonder if I underestimated the music of Crystal Gayle. Of course, the irony of it all is not lost on me...if I did not appreciate her music before then I did miss a real good thing.
I recently saw a young woman with a low cut top. It was one of those tops with strings that tie on the top of the shoulders. After she walked by I noticed on her left shoulder was a tattoo. The tattoo was a barcode. I know there are some things you cannot put a price on but I guess there are some things folks do try to put a price on, I just never expected it to be the left shoulder of a young woman.
I also recently saw an older woman, probably in her mid or late fifties. She was wearing a shirt with the word “Flirt” on it. I just hope this wasn’t a gift from her grandkids. And if it was, Granny, you didn’t have to wear it outside the house and you should have held out for a "World's Greatest Grandma" shirt.
Who designs the parking lots in larger shopping complexes? Do they ever return and park in these places? And why can’t some people learn to drive in parking lots, you know between the rows and up and down the correct way in the rows? And when some folks stop driving around the parking lot why can’t they park correctly, you know in between the two lines evenly?
If an atheist takes God's name in vain does that make him a hypocrite?
One of the best dinners I had recently was splitting a Subway sandwich with my wife while we sat side by side at a picnic table overlooking the river. The sun eased behind a bridge then lowered itself behind a mountain in the distance while we caught up on the day's events. The food was okay but the setting, the company and the timing was perfect.
Why do I have five name tags on my desk at work?
Isn't it amazing how some of the nicest automobiles apparently do not come equipped with turn signals?
I often walk around seemingly lost in my own thoughts. It used to be so nice because it seemed I wasn't alone in that habit. Now though I don’t get to do that very often as most people walk around with a cell phone stuck to their ear detailing their lives to some poor soul on the other end of the phone line. Of course they are loud enough so that anyone close enough can hear most of what is said. I do find some comfort in this phenomenon because from what I am able to determine by hearing one side of these calls, most people lead very uninteresting lives.
I am amazed that the button I spent 45 minutes sewing back on to a pair of my pants one recent Saturday morning is still attached to the thread and the pants. Now if I can just work up the courage to wear the pants somewhere.
Crayola does a great job with their colors. Still, they cannot match the blue of a clear sky in October.
9.30.2009
Blood Will Tell
As you grow older some things begin to become more commonplace. For instance, you may still feel like you are 25 years old until you do something really physical and your body unleashes all sorts of ways to tell you that you are not quite as young as you may feel. Those sorts of things just seem to happen more often as your age increases. You also find that while you may have at one time felt bold enough, strong enough and invincible enough to never darken the door of a doctor you now find yourself no longer willing to take unnecessary chances so you find yourself paying more frequent visits to your local neighborhood doctor.
Recently, I had such a visit. I should back up to provide a bit of context. This most recent doctor’s visit wasn’t to my regular doctor. Several years back, my body was inhabited for a time by a kidney stone. I’m a big boy, I can handle tough things. I’m only reduced to tears when someone nearby is chopping onions or when my favorite college football team loses. I like to think I can handle me some physical pain when I need to do so. Sometimes with pain, you just grit your teeth, suck it up and go forward. If it doesn’t kill you, you are made stronger. Kidney stones on the other hand, well, they truly are bad news. I have only had two attacks of these in my life. I hope I never have another. With the last attack, I broke into a sweat. I twisted my body in various ways in order to find relief to no avail. I laid on the couch, on the bed, on the floor. I would have laid on a bed of nails surrounded by angry, hungry wolves if I could have located such just to ease the pain. I also became physically ill with this attack. And I hurt. And hurt. And hurt.
Many of my fellow kidney stone sufferers will claim the pain you feel is comparable to the pain a woman feels in childbirth. I won’t go there. I can’t go there. I do know the pain I have felt with kidney stones is the most intense physical pain I have ever felt and that would include surviving a car wreck or two, a bike ride gone bad that saw me slide face first down some pavement and a few headaches that would not let me lift my head off a pillow. I also know during this last episode I took two heavy duty prescribed painkillers with a glass of water and it did not ease my pain one bit. Those pain pills may have as well been Skittles. A few days and literally hundreds of glasses of water later, the pain and the stone went away.
The kidney stone episode though led my regular doctor to eventually direct me to a kidney specialist in order to make sure there was no permanent damage and to make sure my kidneys got back to a normal functioning place. So, now, every so often, despite not having any more kidney stone attacks since those horrible summer days a few years back, I visit this doctor as well as my regular doctor.
This doctor runs blood work and then sits down with me and goes over how I am doing and reviews the blood work results. This, of course, takes all of maybe five minutes. Getting to this place though often takes hours. On my last visit to this doctor, I ended up spending close to two hours total in the office. And I spent maybe a grand total of five minutes with the doctor. And if I’m fine, I’m okay with that, I would rather the doctor spend time with someone who really needs his expertise than for him to be sitting with me when there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with me. Still, those few minutes during this visit were memorable for me.
Of course, the actual visit begins with the typical pleasantries and greetings followed by some general questions about my health. This is followed by the doctor poking and prodding my stomach, sides and back and then listening to my body through a stethoscope. One of the things this doctor always asks is how much water I am drinking. I know I do not drink enough water. I try. Well, some days, I try harder than other days, but I do try. I just know I have never consumed enough water to feel comfortable answering this question for this doctor because I know no matter my answer the amount I say will not be enough to please the doctor. He’s a kidney doctor. Water keeps the kidneys flushed. I could be consuming enough water to make the levels on a nearby lake drop daily into a drought stage and I feel like it would not be enough to ever answer this question adequately for this doctor.
Since the doctor had my most recent blood work results in his possession, one of the things we discuss is the results of this blood work. This is always one of those hold-your-breath moments because you never really know how it’s going to go. I had some weird results from this blood work one time before regarding my liver. Again, it happened once and now my regular doctor always checks this one specific result as if he were combing for clues at a crime scene. The one bad result was a shock then but between that check and the following check the results improved and have never reverted to that one time anomaly. Still, that one time just adds to the apprehension that the results which seem to be transcribed in some code similar to early attempts at creating a written language will bode ill for me.
The doctor indicates my blood work doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary and we continue to discuss things. Then, sort of as an aside to the whole conversation, the doctor mentions one thing that was just a bit off about my blood work. I braced myself, fearing bad news, knowing it likely meant having to drink more water and then to submit to more blood work or even more detailed testing. The doctor then revealed to me that the blood work indicated my phosphorous level was a bit low. I imagine a puzzled look came across my face. The doctor asked me if I knew how to correct this. I relayed to him I did not know. He said correcting my phosphorous level was through diet. I momentarily braced myself again for bad news. No doubt, this meant drinking even more water and adding bland, colorless vegetables to my diet. He then asked if I knew what foods would boost my phosphorous levels. Again, I had no clue as I was reeling just a bit from this news, anticipating the hammer to fall on my regular routine of life. The doctor laughed a bit and then told me the foods which would help me raise my phosphorous level were foods he normally would not ask kidney patients to consume…dairy products such as milk, ice cream and cheese.
I think for a moment I went totally blank until the voice inside my head blurted out into the halls of my mind, ‘did I just understand my doctor to say I need to be drinking more milk and eating more cheese and ice cream?’ I reached up to my beard and subtly tugged on it in order to make sure I was conscious and not in some dream state still sitting in the waiting room. I then heard the doctor chuckle a bit and say something to the effect that asking a patient to intake more dairy goes against everything he, as a kidney doctor, prescribes most of his patients. I told him I thought I was up to the challenge of getting my phosphorus levels up to where they need to be, especially if this diet was the answer. As he continued to talk though, I briefly considered asking him for a note that I could show to my wife detailing my low phosphorous levels and how the remedy is to eat more cheese and ice cream and drink more milk because I just know she would have trouble believing a doctor would say such in this day and age. Or maybe I need the note because I know she would have trouble believing I hadn’t made up such a thing.
The next thing I know, the doctor is leaving and ushering me out of this room and down the hall to take care of the co-pay. There is some discussion as to when I need to return for a visit before I am eventually out the door on this day.
I phone Jennifer and give her the good news. I am fine. Well, except for the low phosphorous levels. I then begin pleading with her to begin filling the week's grocery list with all sorts of cheeses and different flavors of ice cream. Even over the phone lines I visualized her rolling her eyes at me all the while wondering if she could somehow get through to my doctor and explain to him that his diagnosis will leave me begging for cheese on every piece of food to be served in our house for the next three weeks and how his plan to raise my phosphorus level goes against her loving concern for me to eat healthier.
My mind though raced with the possibilities the rest of the day. Chocolate milk. Chili cheese fries, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, milk shakes, Cap’n Crunch cereal…with lots of milk, of course. Lasagna, nachos covered in queso, macaroni and cheese, banana splits, cheese whiz, triple dipped ice cream cones. Wow! I haven’t been this concerned with, ahem, getting healthy, in a long time!
Since that diagnosis I can say I have worked to up my phosphorous level. Milk, cheese, ice cream. Hey it’s tough, but you must do what you must do in order to get those numbers right. Iced coffee? Hey throw in some extra cream if you got it. Grilled chicken sandwich? Hey, if you don’t mind, add a few slices of cheese to that if you can. Cheetos? Do these come in an extra cheesy flavor?
I sit here now content that my phosphorus level will soon return to the level it belongs while looking at my calendar and the month ahead. Another busy one. Some work stuff, some fun stuff. Oh, and then there’s one day marked off for some sort of an appointment. Yep, a doctor’s appointment, a visit to my regular doctor. And yes, it’s one where there will be more blood work. And the realization that another needle will soon pierce my skin and remove some blood which will find it's way into a small tube to be transported to the lab and tested and eventually reported back to my doctor and to me makes me almost stop eating the moose tracks ice cream I have in my hand. It does dash my dream of a hamburger with six slices of cheese later today. Somehow, I already know, the results of that blood work will be, you guessed it, the fact that I need to cut back on my dairy intake. And, when that moment arrives, I will be struck with the realization that all along I should have been drinking more water.
Recently, I had such a visit. I should back up to provide a bit of context. This most recent doctor’s visit wasn’t to my regular doctor. Several years back, my body was inhabited for a time by a kidney stone. I’m a big boy, I can handle tough things. I’m only reduced to tears when someone nearby is chopping onions or when my favorite college football team loses. I like to think I can handle me some physical pain when I need to do so. Sometimes with pain, you just grit your teeth, suck it up and go forward. If it doesn’t kill you, you are made stronger. Kidney stones on the other hand, well, they truly are bad news. I have only had two attacks of these in my life. I hope I never have another. With the last attack, I broke into a sweat. I twisted my body in various ways in order to find relief to no avail. I laid on the couch, on the bed, on the floor. I would have laid on a bed of nails surrounded by angry, hungry wolves if I could have located such just to ease the pain. I also became physically ill with this attack. And I hurt. And hurt. And hurt.
Many of my fellow kidney stone sufferers will claim the pain you feel is comparable to the pain a woman feels in childbirth. I won’t go there. I can’t go there. I do know the pain I have felt with kidney stones is the most intense physical pain I have ever felt and that would include surviving a car wreck or two, a bike ride gone bad that saw me slide face first down some pavement and a few headaches that would not let me lift my head off a pillow. I also know during this last episode I took two heavy duty prescribed painkillers with a glass of water and it did not ease my pain one bit. Those pain pills may have as well been Skittles. A few days and literally hundreds of glasses of water later, the pain and the stone went away.
The kidney stone episode though led my regular doctor to eventually direct me to a kidney specialist in order to make sure there was no permanent damage and to make sure my kidneys got back to a normal functioning place. So, now, every so often, despite not having any more kidney stone attacks since those horrible summer days a few years back, I visit this doctor as well as my regular doctor.
This doctor runs blood work and then sits down with me and goes over how I am doing and reviews the blood work results. This, of course, takes all of maybe five minutes. Getting to this place though often takes hours. On my last visit to this doctor, I ended up spending close to two hours total in the office. And I spent maybe a grand total of five minutes with the doctor. And if I’m fine, I’m okay with that, I would rather the doctor spend time with someone who really needs his expertise than for him to be sitting with me when there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with me. Still, those few minutes during this visit were memorable for me.
Of course, the actual visit begins with the typical pleasantries and greetings followed by some general questions about my health. This is followed by the doctor poking and prodding my stomach, sides and back and then listening to my body through a stethoscope. One of the things this doctor always asks is how much water I am drinking. I know I do not drink enough water. I try. Well, some days, I try harder than other days, but I do try. I just know I have never consumed enough water to feel comfortable answering this question for this doctor because I know no matter my answer the amount I say will not be enough to please the doctor. He’s a kidney doctor. Water keeps the kidneys flushed. I could be consuming enough water to make the levels on a nearby lake drop daily into a drought stage and I feel like it would not be enough to ever answer this question adequately for this doctor.
Since the doctor had my most recent blood work results in his possession, one of the things we discuss is the results of this blood work. This is always one of those hold-your-breath moments because you never really know how it’s going to go. I had some weird results from this blood work one time before regarding my liver. Again, it happened once and now my regular doctor always checks this one specific result as if he were combing for clues at a crime scene. The one bad result was a shock then but between that check and the following check the results improved and have never reverted to that one time anomaly. Still, that one time just adds to the apprehension that the results which seem to be transcribed in some code similar to early attempts at creating a written language will bode ill for me.
The doctor indicates my blood work doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary and we continue to discuss things. Then, sort of as an aside to the whole conversation, the doctor mentions one thing that was just a bit off about my blood work. I braced myself, fearing bad news, knowing it likely meant having to drink more water and then to submit to more blood work or even more detailed testing. The doctor then revealed to me that the blood work indicated my phosphorous level was a bit low. I imagine a puzzled look came across my face. The doctor asked me if I knew how to correct this. I relayed to him I did not know. He said correcting my phosphorous level was through diet. I momentarily braced myself again for bad news. No doubt, this meant drinking even more water and adding bland, colorless vegetables to my diet. He then asked if I knew what foods would boost my phosphorous levels. Again, I had no clue as I was reeling just a bit from this news, anticipating the hammer to fall on my regular routine of life. The doctor laughed a bit and then told me the foods which would help me raise my phosphorous level were foods he normally would not ask kidney patients to consume…dairy products such as milk, ice cream and cheese.
I think for a moment I went totally blank until the voice inside my head blurted out into the halls of my mind, ‘did I just understand my doctor to say I need to be drinking more milk and eating more cheese and ice cream?’ I reached up to my beard and subtly tugged on it in order to make sure I was conscious and not in some dream state still sitting in the waiting room. I then heard the doctor chuckle a bit and say something to the effect that asking a patient to intake more dairy goes against everything he, as a kidney doctor, prescribes most of his patients. I told him I thought I was up to the challenge of getting my phosphorus levels up to where they need to be, especially if this diet was the answer. As he continued to talk though, I briefly considered asking him for a note that I could show to my wife detailing my low phosphorous levels and how the remedy is to eat more cheese and ice cream and drink more milk because I just know she would have trouble believing a doctor would say such in this day and age. Or maybe I need the note because I know she would have trouble believing I hadn’t made up such a thing.
The next thing I know, the doctor is leaving and ushering me out of this room and down the hall to take care of the co-pay. There is some discussion as to when I need to return for a visit before I am eventually out the door on this day.
I phone Jennifer and give her the good news. I am fine. Well, except for the low phosphorous levels. I then begin pleading with her to begin filling the week's grocery list with all sorts of cheeses and different flavors of ice cream. Even over the phone lines I visualized her rolling her eyes at me all the while wondering if she could somehow get through to my doctor and explain to him that his diagnosis will leave me begging for cheese on every piece of food to be served in our house for the next three weeks and how his plan to raise my phosphorus level goes against her loving concern for me to eat healthier.
My mind though raced with the possibilities the rest of the day. Chocolate milk. Chili cheese fries, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, milk shakes, Cap’n Crunch cereal…with lots of milk, of course. Lasagna, nachos covered in queso, macaroni and cheese, banana splits, cheese whiz, triple dipped ice cream cones. Wow! I haven’t been this concerned with, ahem, getting healthy, in a long time!
Since that diagnosis I can say I have worked to up my phosphorous level. Milk, cheese, ice cream. Hey it’s tough, but you must do what you must do in order to get those numbers right. Iced coffee? Hey throw in some extra cream if you got it. Grilled chicken sandwich? Hey, if you don’t mind, add a few slices of cheese to that if you can. Cheetos? Do these come in an extra cheesy flavor?
I sit here now content that my phosphorus level will soon return to the level it belongs while looking at my calendar and the month ahead. Another busy one. Some work stuff, some fun stuff. Oh, and then there’s one day marked off for some sort of an appointment. Yep, a doctor’s appointment, a visit to my regular doctor. And yes, it’s one where there will be more blood work. And the realization that another needle will soon pierce my skin and remove some blood which will find it's way into a small tube to be transported to the lab and tested and eventually reported back to my doctor and to me makes me almost stop eating the moose tracks ice cream I have in my hand. It does dash my dream of a hamburger with six slices of cheese later today. Somehow, I already know, the results of that blood work will be, you guessed it, the fact that I need to cut back on my dairy intake. And, when that moment arrives, I will be struck with the realization that all along I should have been drinking more water.
9.16.2009
I'm With The Band
It’s a Friday night in the South. The shadows of summer are present but still fall far enough away from me so I don’t realize how close autumn is on my heels. As the sun slips behind the mountains, the trees, the horizon, crowds in towns near and far gather to watch their young gear up to knock the slobber out of each other up and down a football field.
It’s been a dozen or so years since I spent anytime near a high school sporting event. Then, one of my nieces hit the basketball hardwood for a team that would make regular trips to the state championship tournament. It has been even longer since I spent a Friday evening sitting on a slab of concrete underneath giant blinding lights gazing out onto a football field. I spent a few Friday nights here not as a player but as a fan.
I recall going to games when my brother and sister were in high school. Then the field was within walking distance of our home and we would go to watch the hometown team try to pull out a win. I remember getting a bit caught up in the whole atmosphere of the event, the smell of concession stand food, the energy the cheerleaders provided through some practiced choreography and unified encouraging, the different set of characters from the area who gathered for a few hours all in the name of football, the chaos of two teams vying against each other on the green stage below, all set to a soundtrack provided by the marching band. And about as soon as my skin became comfortable with the cool fall air settling in, the game was over and I found myself hanging on to Daddy’s hand as we crossed the main thoroughfare walking home and into the soft velvet black of the night before reaching our home’s front door long after my regular bedtime.
There’s just something unique about having someone you know out there on the field or the court. It adds heightened tension and drama in keeping your interest in the game during the evening. If the team on the field is the school you attended then throw in a bit more apprehension and expectation. If they are playing an arch rival then bragging rights and reputation get thrown into the mix. Soon, you are really invested in who wins and who loses.
Jennifer and I have spent some time this year back underneath the Friday night lights. This time though is different for me than times before. I’m not sure I know anyone all that well involved in the game on the field. I don’t have a deep-seated rooting interest in the team whose side I sit on since I did not attend school here. The rivalries are present but since I did not grow up here I am not intimately acquainted with all the folklore associated with them.
Still, though, we will have someone on the field tonight. Our nephew is in the marching band. He’s following in the footsteps of his parents, his aunt and his uncle. Now his parents are band parents like their parents were at one time. The grandparents are here too, delighted beyond description as they watch their pride and joy in his sharp-looking uniform. Behind their smiling faces are the memories of long Friday night band trips, pranks, performances and a million other moments that parents store in their hearts and would not trade for all the money in the world.
This side of a football game is a new experience to me as I learn the protocol and traditions of a marching band. I suppose to ease my learning curve, Jennifer allows me to explain the game of football to her from time to time although most of my explanations somehow end up with her understanding the concept of what I’m saying but not fully understanding why football can be so enjoyable, maddening, frustrating and satisfying all at the same time.
I am no athlete yet I have almost always had a rooting interest for one of the two teams on the field or on the court at the games I attend. I now find that I still rise to my feet when a running back breaks out of the backfield or a receiver makes a remarkable catch but I have discovered I am more aware now than ever of the much broader atmosphere of what is happening at this event than at any other game I have ever attended.
The smell of popcorn, hot dogs and hamburgers hovers invisibly in the air. The cheerleaders show off their gymnastic abilities and cheer a catchy ditty in unison to fire up the home crowd. The sounds of cowbells, giant plastic clappers and air horns now fill the air throughout the game. Looking around, one can get a good microcosm of the community where we live… family, friends, neighbors…seemingly average people just like ourselves with the exception of one or two folks who just give off a creepy vibe. The game goes on a few feet away, Friday night warriors racing to outscore each other before time runs out. And the band still provides the soundtrack to it all. Now though I sit in the stands waiting for halftime, searching up and down the lines of uniformed band members trying to find our nephew so we can watch every step, cheer every song, and marvel when the show is over at how the time sped by again this week.
It’s a Friday night in the South and deep in my gut, I feel a churning, a warm burning sensation down in my belly. I sense the anticipation. Soon, Jennifer and I will head out in the car and sit in traffic to park in a lot which will mean a good ten minute walk to a ticket stand. After a ten minute wait to get our tickets, we’ll venture past all the vendors to find a seat near the band. Then for the next two hours, we’ll listen to marching band versions of songs by Santana, Fleetwood Mac and Led Zeppelin along with some obscure song that we recognize but to which we can’t remember the title. Now and then I’ll spot a play on the field that I wish I could see again on instant replay but I am just as soon distracted by the orchestrated sounds ramping up the intensity of the environment around us. I hear the growl of the tubas, the power of the trumpets, the majesty of the woodwinds and the rhythmic pounding of the drums as it all comes together in a crescendo of sound and emotion. I look across the field and into the night sky veiled from the dark of the night by the intense bright lights and I can feel time slipping away and before I know it today’s shadows have caught up with me and slipped by but not before I feel the shifting of time and generations.
On Saturday morning, I will unfold the newspaper. I will locate the sports section and look up the game’s score to see who won and who lost, all the while humming a song I heard the band play the night before.
It’s been a dozen or so years since I spent anytime near a high school sporting event. Then, one of my nieces hit the basketball hardwood for a team that would make regular trips to the state championship tournament. It has been even longer since I spent a Friday evening sitting on a slab of concrete underneath giant blinding lights gazing out onto a football field. I spent a few Friday nights here not as a player but as a fan.
I recall going to games when my brother and sister were in high school. Then the field was within walking distance of our home and we would go to watch the hometown team try to pull out a win. I remember getting a bit caught up in the whole atmosphere of the event, the smell of concession stand food, the energy the cheerleaders provided through some practiced choreography and unified encouraging, the different set of characters from the area who gathered for a few hours all in the name of football, the chaos of two teams vying against each other on the green stage below, all set to a soundtrack provided by the marching band. And about as soon as my skin became comfortable with the cool fall air settling in, the game was over and I found myself hanging on to Daddy’s hand as we crossed the main thoroughfare walking home and into the soft velvet black of the night before reaching our home’s front door long after my regular bedtime.
There’s just something unique about having someone you know out there on the field or the court. It adds heightened tension and drama in keeping your interest in the game during the evening. If the team on the field is the school you attended then throw in a bit more apprehension and expectation. If they are playing an arch rival then bragging rights and reputation get thrown into the mix. Soon, you are really invested in who wins and who loses.
Jennifer and I have spent some time this year back underneath the Friday night lights. This time though is different for me than times before. I’m not sure I know anyone all that well involved in the game on the field. I don’t have a deep-seated rooting interest in the team whose side I sit on since I did not attend school here. The rivalries are present but since I did not grow up here I am not intimately acquainted with all the folklore associated with them.
Still, though, we will have someone on the field tonight. Our nephew is in the marching band. He’s following in the footsteps of his parents, his aunt and his uncle. Now his parents are band parents like their parents were at one time. The grandparents are here too, delighted beyond description as they watch their pride and joy in his sharp-looking uniform. Behind their smiling faces are the memories of long Friday night band trips, pranks, performances and a million other moments that parents store in their hearts and would not trade for all the money in the world.
This side of a football game is a new experience to me as I learn the protocol and traditions of a marching band. I suppose to ease my learning curve, Jennifer allows me to explain the game of football to her from time to time although most of my explanations somehow end up with her understanding the concept of what I’m saying but not fully understanding why football can be so enjoyable, maddening, frustrating and satisfying all at the same time.
I am no athlete yet I have almost always had a rooting interest for one of the two teams on the field or on the court at the games I attend. I now find that I still rise to my feet when a running back breaks out of the backfield or a receiver makes a remarkable catch but I have discovered I am more aware now than ever of the much broader atmosphere of what is happening at this event than at any other game I have ever attended.
The smell of popcorn, hot dogs and hamburgers hovers invisibly in the air. The cheerleaders show off their gymnastic abilities and cheer a catchy ditty in unison to fire up the home crowd. The sounds of cowbells, giant plastic clappers and air horns now fill the air throughout the game. Looking around, one can get a good microcosm of the community where we live… family, friends, neighbors…seemingly average people just like ourselves with the exception of one or two folks who just give off a creepy vibe. The game goes on a few feet away, Friday night warriors racing to outscore each other before time runs out. And the band still provides the soundtrack to it all. Now though I sit in the stands waiting for halftime, searching up and down the lines of uniformed band members trying to find our nephew so we can watch every step, cheer every song, and marvel when the show is over at how the time sped by again this week.
It’s a Friday night in the South and deep in my gut, I feel a churning, a warm burning sensation down in my belly. I sense the anticipation. Soon, Jennifer and I will head out in the car and sit in traffic to park in a lot which will mean a good ten minute walk to a ticket stand. After a ten minute wait to get our tickets, we’ll venture past all the vendors to find a seat near the band. Then for the next two hours, we’ll listen to marching band versions of songs by Santana, Fleetwood Mac and Led Zeppelin along with some obscure song that we recognize but to which we can’t remember the title. Now and then I’ll spot a play on the field that I wish I could see again on instant replay but I am just as soon distracted by the orchestrated sounds ramping up the intensity of the environment around us. I hear the growl of the tubas, the power of the trumpets, the majesty of the woodwinds and the rhythmic pounding of the drums as it all comes together in a crescendo of sound and emotion. I look across the field and into the night sky veiled from the dark of the night by the intense bright lights and I can feel time slipping away and before I know it today’s shadows have caught up with me and slipped by but not before I feel the shifting of time and generations.
On Saturday morning, I will unfold the newspaper. I will locate the sports section and look up the game’s score to see who won and who lost, all the while humming a song I heard the band play the night before.
9.03.2009
From Around Here
My hometown is tucked away in the mountains of Georgia. Until about twenty years ago, getting to anywhere from there was a real struggle because the roads were all two-lane, remote and curvy. Then, a new four-lane highway came through between there and the northern-most suburbs of Atlanta. When this happened, other people began to discover all the small towns and communities along that four-lane road, including the little town my family has called home for over a hundred years.
Now, twenty years down the road, so to speak, when you visit there you will run across a fairly wide group of people from various places. Older people have retired there from Atlanta and Florida. Yep, many people elsewhere retire to Florida, but the Floridians have to go somewhere when they retire and they have discovered the Southern Appalachian mountains where they build houses on sides of hills amid the tall, brittle Georgia pines. You’ll also find folks from other parts of the country and world there. And while it isn’t exactly the big overflowing melting pot that America is, it more likely resembles a bowl of soup or stew with a couple of exotic spices and maybe a dash of hot sauce thrown in for kicks.
While it’s been many years since I lived there I have often returned there over the years. On one of those trips back several years ago, I was sitting in a local restaurant with my Mom and Dad. I began looking around and noting how I felt I could tell who the locals were, who the transplants were and who the tourists were just through a few moments of simple observation. So, I began to amuse my parents by telling them who grew up there, who moved there after living a life somewhere else before living there and who was just passing through. I’m not sure I was totally accurate with what I was talking about the times I tried this, and I'm not sure in a grander scheme of things if it really mattered. I do know as I did this, I felt most at ease guessing who was from my hometown.
Maybe it was their Southern accent I heard that gave them away. And if you are Southern you know there are so many…big city word alert…nuances, in Southern accents, that sometimes only your ear picks up that the accent someone else has may be the same Southern accent you carry around in your own voice, that it may have germinated and aged to perfection on a mountaintop or down in a valley between two hollers over the course of the passing of generation after generation. Maybe it was the clothes they wore that gave them away. Nothing fancy, denim and maybe a Western style shirt for the man topped off with an Atlanta Braves cap and maybe denim and a simple blouse accessorized with a plain pocketbook (yes, pocketbook, not a purse) for the woman.
Maybe it was those things. I though like to think it was the look on their faces that gave them away or more to the point, the look in their eyes that gave them away. I want to think it was that momentary meeting of my eyes with their eyes that somehow transcended any words that might explain the connection we share and into an unspoken recognition that we were born and raised in this same small community. It’s kind of like being somewhere else totally away from that town and running into someone you do not know but when you look them square in the eye you just know without anything being said that this person grew up in the same little town, the same county you did. And when he speaks you more fully understand without it having to be said that he knows where the high school kids park on Saturday nights to get into a little mischief and that he knows the preacher who performed your wedding ceremony and that he knows the same slick-rocked creek banks and shady, muddy lake nooks to catch some fish just like you do.
I was reminded of all this in the last week or so when I came across a lady who spoke with a Southern accent like mine. As I processed the accent, I wondered where this woman was from but only for a second. Her eyes seemed to look a bit deeper beyond cursory eye contact and into a place that seemed to ask, ‘how’s your Momma and all the rest of yuns doing?’ And as I looked at her trying to place in my mind if I knew her I found that she reminded me of one of my aunts in her younger years.
Now, I have no idea where this lady is from originally. I suspect she’s hails from some small Southern town not too far away where folks still number foggy mornings in August to determine how many snowy days we’ll have in the winter and where homemade pies are still baked then cooled by the wind as they rest in the window sill of a kitchen and where a local can spot a newcomer to the area with just a mere glance.
But briefly, she came from my hometown. I could see her enter a restaurant just off a main street in that little town and begin digging into her gigantic black pocketbook in an effort to find an ink pen to write down the address of an old friend she just ran into in the parking lot. I could see her sitting at a table drinking a cup of black coffee with her family. I could hear her talking about going to a gospel singing with her cousins the next weekend or figuring out when she would have time to string, break and can the fresh green beans waiting on the porch back home.
Projection spurs the imagination.
While my hometown changes, it sometimes doesn't seem to resemble the place stuck in my memory. It also seems I lose a bit more of my own accent with each passing year. Maybe all those changes are why hearing an accent that matches my own catches my ear and makes me pause even for just a brief time. Maybe I find a bit of comfort in thinking that the accent that comes out in my own voice when I'm excited or around home folks still echos back in that mountain town where the locals can talk to one another and without words tell anyone observing that they are 'from around here'.
Now, twenty years down the road, so to speak, when you visit there you will run across a fairly wide group of people from various places. Older people have retired there from Atlanta and Florida. Yep, many people elsewhere retire to Florida, but the Floridians have to go somewhere when they retire and they have discovered the Southern Appalachian mountains where they build houses on sides of hills amid the tall, brittle Georgia pines. You’ll also find folks from other parts of the country and world there. And while it isn’t exactly the big overflowing melting pot that America is, it more likely resembles a bowl of soup or stew with a couple of exotic spices and maybe a dash of hot sauce thrown in for kicks.
While it’s been many years since I lived there I have often returned there over the years. On one of those trips back several years ago, I was sitting in a local restaurant with my Mom and Dad. I began looking around and noting how I felt I could tell who the locals were, who the transplants were and who the tourists were just through a few moments of simple observation. So, I began to amuse my parents by telling them who grew up there, who moved there after living a life somewhere else before living there and who was just passing through. I’m not sure I was totally accurate with what I was talking about the times I tried this, and I'm not sure in a grander scheme of things if it really mattered. I do know as I did this, I felt most at ease guessing who was from my hometown.
Maybe it was their Southern accent I heard that gave them away. And if you are Southern you know there are so many…big city word alert…nuances, in Southern accents, that sometimes only your ear picks up that the accent someone else has may be the same Southern accent you carry around in your own voice, that it may have germinated and aged to perfection on a mountaintop or down in a valley between two hollers over the course of the passing of generation after generation. Maybe it was the clothes they wore that gave them away. Nothing fancy, denim and maybe a Western style shirt for the man topped off with an Atlanta Braves cap and maybe denim and a simple blouse accessorized with a plain pocketbook (yes, pocketbook, not a purse) for the woman.
Maybe it was those things. I though like to think it was the look on their faces that gave them away or more to the point, the look in their eyes that gave them away. I want to think it was that momentary meeting of my eyes with their eyes that somehow transcended any words that might explain the connection we share and into an unspoken recognition that we were born and raised in this same small community. It’s kind of like being somewhere else totally away from that town and running into someone you do not know but when you look them square in the eye you just know without anything being said that this person grew up in the same little town, the same county you did. And when he speaks you more fully understand without it having to be said that he knows where the high school kids park on Saturday nights to get into a little mischief and that he knows the preacher who performed your wedding ceremony and that he knows the same slick-rocked creek banks and shady, muddy lake nooks to catch some fish just like you do.
I was reminded of all this in the last week or so when I came across a lady who spoke with a Southern accent like mine. As I processed the accent, I wondered where this woman was from but only for a second. Her eyes seemed to look a bit deeper beyond cursory eye contact and into a place that seemed to ask, ‘how’s your Momma and all the rest of yuns doing?’ And as I looked at her trying to place in my mind if I knew her I found that she reminded me of one of my aunts in her younger years.
Now, I have no idea where this lady is from originally. I suspect she’s hails from some small Southern town not too far away where folks still number foggy mornings in August to determine how many snowy days we’ll have in the winter and where homemade pies are still baked then cooled by the wind as they rest in the window sill of a kitchen and where a local can spot a newcomer to the area with just a mere glance.
But briefly, she came from my hometown. I could see her enter a restaurant just off a main street in that little town and begin digging into her gigantic black pocketbook in an effort to find an ink pen to write down the address of an old friend she just ran into in the parking lot. I could see her sitting at a table drinking a cup of black coffee with her family. I could hear her talking about going to a gospel singing with her cousins the next weekend or figuring out when she would have time to string, break and can the fresh green beans waiting on the porch back home.
Projection spurs the imagination.
While my hometown changes, it sometimes doesn't seem to resemble the place stuck in my memory. It also seems I lose a bit more of my own accent with each passing year. Maybe all those changes are why hearing an accent that matches my own catches my ear and makes me pause even for just a brief time. Maybe I find a bit of comfort in thinking that the accent that comes out in my own voice when I'm excited or around home folks still echos back in that mountain town where the locals can talk to one another and without words tell anyone observing that they are 'from around here'.
8.25.2009
Summer Storm
As the wind picks up, the green leaves on the trees effortlessly flip to show their light-colored bellies. Despite the breeze generated by the wind, the humidity feels as if it were some invisible force a body would have to strive against to get anywhere by foot. The tint of the sky changes from it’s usual transparent shade to one that mixes a pale red with a muted black. Clouds bump other clouds out of the way as if they were racing away from impending chaos.
A moment later, a large drop of rain smashes against the dry ground. A streak of lightning blitzes in front of the clouds so fast you ask yourself if you really saw it. Thunder rumbles in the air then bounces off the sky and shakes the ground. Another raindrop falls, then another and another.
The wind dies down for a moment, the leaves on the trees become still. The weird coloring of the sky seems like a photograph stuck in time. The humidity seems more stifling than before, so thick it could choke you if you had to breathe it very long.
Again, lightning cuts a zigzag pattern in the sky. Before you can count to the number two a roll of thunder growls from the belly of the earth while the sky turns black as night. Out of the darkness of the sky, the raindrops begin to accelerate. The wind picks up again, whipping and howling and keeping an un-synchronized rhythm with the lightning flashes and booming thunder.
Standing in shelter from the storm, the wind splashes water onto my arm and tries to tossle my short hair. The smell of new rain meeting a sun-parched earth fills my nostrils. Steam seems to rise from the soil. Lightning hits a few yards away and just as my nerves settle from it’s sudden strike, a clap of thunder rattles me again making me feel as nervous as a sinner in a snake-handling church service.
Retreating inside, I crack a window, settle into an easy chair and hope the rain settles in for a stay. I hear the rain pitter-patter on the roof and I feel myself growing sleepy. Rain falls, lightning crashes, thunder rolls, I fall asleep.
As my eyelids open I can see the sun shining brilliantly. I rise, step outside and find that the rain has left. I look at my watch and realize it was only ten minutes since one of those passing summer storms drove me inside. Standing there, I feel the humidity wrap itself around me like a coat. I see puffy, white clouds drifting in front of a blue sky. And I find myself wishing for just one gentle breeze.
A moment later, a large drop of rain smashes against the dry ground. A streak of lightning blitzes in front of the clouds so fast you ask yourself if you really saw it. Thunder rumbles in the air then bounces off the sky and shakes the ground. Another raindrop falls, then another and another.
The wind dies down for a moment, the leaves on the trees become still. The weird coloring of the sky seems like a photograph stuck in time. The humidity seems more stifling than before, so thick it could choke you if you had to breathe it very long.
Again, lightning cuts a zigzag pattern in the sky. Before you can count to the number two a roll of thunder growls from the belly of the earth while the sky turns black as night. Out of the darkness of the sky, the raindrops begin to accelerate. The wind picks up again, whipping and howling and keeping an un-synchronized rhythm with the lightning flashes and booming thunder.
Standing in shelter from the storm, the wind splashes water onto my arm and tries to tossle my short hair. The smell of new rain meeting a sun-parched earth fills my nostrils. Steam seems to rise from the soil. Lightning hits a few yards away and just as my nerves settle from it’s sudden strike, a clap of thunder rattles me again making me feel as nervous as a sinner in a snake-handling church service.
Retreating inside, I crack a window, settle into an easy chair and hope the rain settles in for a stay. I hear the rain pitter-patter on the roof and I feel myself growing sleepy. Rain falls, lightning crashes, thunder rolls, I fall asleep.
As my eyelids open I can see the sun shining brilliantly. I rise, step outside and find that the rain has left. I look at my watch and realize it was only ten minutes since one of those passing summer storms drove me inside. Standing there, I feel the humidity wrap itself around me like a coat. I see puffy, white clouds drifting in front of a blue sky. And I find myself wishing for just one gentle breeze.
8.17.2009
Food and Death
Note: The following was written in the spring of 2003. Famed author Fannie Flagg ("Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe", among other works) visited our school then. On her visit to our library, Ms. Flagg was presented with a book library staff had gathered from school faculty and staff. The book featured memories of growing up in the South as well as uniquely Southern recipes. My friend, Sharon, works for the library and recently recalled my essay for this project and requested it be posted here. So, here it is, as it appeared in 2003, complete with a recipe for sweet iced tea. Sharon, thanks!
Death is one of those things we all experience. It seems to be something that also unites and reunites those of us who were blessed enough to be born and reared in the South and those of us who choose to live here after being born and reared here and who always seem to be drawn back here, irretrievably, no matter where we roam. Somehow in the midst of all this birthing and rearing in the South the lonesome experience of death is also present and almost always tied in with food.
My mother’s father died on the second day of October 1975. I was eleven years old on that autumn Thursday and had never entertained the idea that my grandfather, an ordinary man who stood ten feet tall in my eyes, would ever die. I had been grocery shopping with my parents that evening. As we came home, our telephone was ringing. It was my mom’s youngest brother urgently telling her he believed their father, my Papaw, was dying. As my mom and dad left I retreated a few hundred yards away to my brother’s house. As I walked there, an ambulance siren screamed in the distance. I recall stopping in my tracks as I watched the ambulance pass by realizing where it was going.
A few hours later, my dad returned with the news that Papaw had died. It was my first experience with death. It hasn’t been my last experience with the cold, clammy hands of mortality but looking back I understand it as an experience that still flavors my life to this day.
Two days later, my grandfather’s funeral took place. As we drove from the funeral home to the church, cars pulled to the side of the road out of respect for the deceased, in this case for my grandfather, and for our grieving family. In a white framed church in one of the most rural parts of already rural north Georgia, a congregation sang the grand ole hymn, “Farther Along”. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, or as some in the family refer to those who have earned their designation in the family by marriage, outlaws, were all there. After the eulogy, my grandfather was rolled out of the church in his casket to be laid to rest at the top of the hill in the cemetery behind the building. Only then, as his casket rolled past me and my family, did I cry…and I cried like I had been whipped. I also discovered during this time most everyone who knows you has no idea what to say or to do to make you feel any better although they try desperately.
Later that evening, our family gathered at my grandmother’s house. Her nine children and their spouses and their children crowded together to share a meal. Neighbors and church ladies had supplied plenty of food, no doubt some of it having grown in nearby gardens just a few weeks earlier. I recall there being some laughter there that evening as we sat down together. I couldn’t understand that at the time. I didn’t fully understand how the uniting and reuniting of those whose blood we share is part of the healing process. I also didn’t understand then the therapeutic powers cornbread, fried chicken and gravy, pinto beans and banana pudding have when the world has become a place where one of your heroes is no longer around.
Every third Sunday in August is Homecoming and Decoration Day where my grandfather is buried. It is one of those picturesque times of the year, every year, mind you, that many in small Southern towns can’t imagine life without. Family members return and bring flowers to adorn the graves of loved ones. The whole ritual is about missing and remembering those who have gone on to their reward and in some small way honoring what they still mean to us. We gather in the church for preaching and later outside the church building for dinner on the ground. Once again, food unites us in death.
Time has moved on swiftly since my grandfather died. I rarely get back for Homecoming and Decoration Day. I have buried the rest of my grandparents and other family members since then as well. With each death, we have been surrounded by family, friends and neighbors and by food…good Southern food like fried corn, fresh green onions, leather britches, chicken and dumplings, apple stack cake, cracklin’ bread and lots of sweet iced tea.
With each death it has also become clearer to me that those you know still struggle with ways to console you. They hug you and tell you how much your loved one meant to them and you often hear the words of your deceased loved one ringing in your memory about this person saying how they always had a ‘good turn to them’. These people you know almost always ask you to let them know if there is anything they can do to help. They realize though, as you already understand too well, nothing short of a miracle the width, depth and breadth of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead can really make things as they were. Maybe this is why when someone dies in the small town South, neighbors and church ladies still fill dining room tables with home-cooked food, fresh garden-grown vegetables and desserts whose recipes are passed from generation to generation by memory. It is one very significant way people show they care. At a time in your life when the world seems darker than it ever has that care and concern mean more than you could ever express or maybe even comprehend. As you sit there with your family recalling good times and lamenting how we only see each other anymore at funerals you are filled with food and memories and your own mortality. Somewhere though creeps in the comforting knowledge as you look around at these people you love so much that there is a place where you belong and you know it is with them.
Sweet Iced Tea
Fill a mid-sized pan three-quarters full with cold water.
Place five tea bags in the water and bring to a boil.
Brew until the tea turns a muddy ruddy color.
Remove pan from stove.
Pour the contents of the sauce pan into an old clean plastic milk jug or large glass container.
Add cold water to fill the jug or container until it is about three-quarters full.
Add sugar to taste.
Cap the jug and shake well or use a large spoon to stir the contents of the glass container until the sugar dissolves.
Chill.
A few hours later, serve, preferably in a large glass with lots of ice.
Fresh lemon, not lemon juice, optional.
Death is one of those things we all experience. It seems to be something that also unites and reunites those of us who were blessed enough to be born and reared in the South and those of us who choose to live here after being born and reared here and who always seem to be drawn back here, irretrievably, no matter where we roam. Somehow in the midst of all this birthing and rearing in the South the lonesome experience of death is also present and almost always tied in with food.
My mother’s father died on the second day of October 1975. I was eleven years old on that autumn Thursday and had never entertained the idea that my grandfather, an ordinary man who stood ten feet tall in my eyes, would ever die. I had been grocery shopping with my parents that evening. As we came home, our telephone was ringing. It was my mom’s youngest brother urgently telling her he believed their father, my Papaw, was dying. As my mom and dad left I retreated a few hundred yards away to my brother’s house. As I walked there, an ambulance siren screamed in the distance. I recall stopping in my tracks as I watched the ambulance pass by realizing where it was going.
A few hours later, my dad returned with the news that Papaw had died. It was my first experience with death. It hasn’t been my last experience with the cold, clammy hands of mortality but looking back I understand it as an experience that still flavors my life to this day.
Two days later, my grandfather’s funeral took place. As we drove from the funeral home to the church, cars pulled to the side of the road out of respect for the deceased, in this case for my grandfather, and for our grieving family. In a white framed church in one of the most rural parts of already rural north Georgia, a congregation sang the grand ole hymn, “Farther Along”. Aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, or as some in the family refer to those who have earned their designation in the family by marriage, outlaws, were all there. After the eulogy, my grandfather was rolled out of the church in his casket to be laid to rest at the top of the hill in the cemetery behind the building. Only then, as his casket rolled past me and my family, did I cry…and I cried like I had been whipped. I also discovered during this time most everyone who knows you has no idea what to say or to do to make you feel any better although they try desperately.
Later that evening, our family gathered at my grandmother’s house. Her nine children and their spouses and their children crowded together to share a meal. Neighbors and church ladies had supplied plenty of food, no doubt some of it having grown in nearby gardens just a few weeks earlier. I recall there being some laughter there that evening as we sat down together. I couldn’t understand that at the time. I didn’t fully understand how the uniting and reuniting of those whose blood we share is part of the healing process. I also didn’t understand then the therapeutic powers cornbread, fried chicken and gravy, pinto beans and banana pudding have when the world has become a place where one of your heroes is no longer around.
Every third Sunday in August is Homecoming and Decoration Day where my grandfather is buried. It is one of those picturesque times of the year, every year, mind you, that many in small Southern towns can’t imagine life without. Family members return and bring flowers to adorn the graves of loved ones. The whole ritual is about missing and remembering those who have gone on to their reward and in some small way honoring what they still mean to us. We gather in the church for preaching and later outside the church building for dinner on the ground. Once again, food unites us in death.
Time has moved on swiftly since my grandfather died. I rarely get back for Homecoming and Decoration Day. I have buried the rest of my grandparents and other family members since then as well. With each death, we have been surrounded by family, friends and neighbors and by food…good Southern food like fried corn, fresh green onions, leather britches, chicken and dumplings, apple stack cake, cracklin’ bread and lots of sweet iced tea.
With each death it has also become clearer to me that those you know still struggle with ways to console you. They hug you and tell you how much your loved one meant to them and you often hear the words of your deceased loved one ringing in your memory about this person saying how they always had a ‘good turn to them’. These people you know almost always ask you to let them know if there is anything they can do to help. They realize though, as you already understand too well, nothing short of a miracle the width, depth and breadth of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead can really make things as they were. Maybe this is why when someone dies in the small town South, neighbors and church ladies still fill dining room tables with home-cooked food, fresh garden-grown vegetables and desserts whose recipes are passed from generation to generation by memory. It is one very significant way people show they care. At a time in your life when the world seems darker than it ever has that care and concern mean more than you could ever express or maybe even comprehend. As you sit there with your family recalling good times and lamenting how we only see each other anymore at funerals you are filled with food and memories and your own mortality. Somewhere though creeps in the comforting knowledge as you look around at these people you love so much that there is a place where you belong and you know it is with them.
Sweet Iced Tea
Fill a mid-sized pan three-quarters full with cold water.
Place five tea bags in the water and bring to a boil.
Brew until the tea turns a muddy ruddy color.
Remove pan from stove.
Pour the contents of the sauce pan into an old clean plastic milk jug or large glass container.
Add cold water to fill the jug or container until it is about three-quarters full.
Add sugar to taste.
Cap the jug and shake well or use a large spoon to stir the contents of the glass container until the sugar dissolves.
Chill.
A few hours later, serve, preferably in a large glass with lots of ice.
Fresh lemon, not lemon juice, optional.
8.11.2009
Small Town
A few times a year I have to travel for my job. Sometimes the travel involves luggage and working my way through the gauntlet of an airport. Other times though it only means securing a car provided for me and driving up or down the road to a nearby town.
Recently, I had to take a half hour drive to a nearby town and attend a meeting one of my supervisors was originally scheduled to attend but could not. The reason for the meeting isn’t really important for our purposes now. I learned what I needed to know and passed the information on to those who needed it at my place of employment. The half day away was a nice change of pace from the normal routine. It was a sunny day and driving away from the traffic and hubbub of the city and into the slower pace of a small town was rather relaxing.
Not to sound too much like John Mellencamp but I was born and raised in a small town, educated in a small town, taught the fear of Jesus in a small town and had myself a ball in that same small town. And I imagine many from that small town today think I live in a big town, or a big city, and in some respects I do, especially compared to where I am from originally.
That said the trip to this town made me think about living a small town life. The actual purpose of the meeting I attended had nothing to do with this realization. It was more what I observed and felt while there.
I was an outsider to this group. It didn’t take much time or effort though to see and feel the camaraderie this group of thirty to forty people shared. Sprinkled in to the conversations prior to the meeting were comments and questions about neighbors and relatives and the community at large. Sitting there I couldn’t help but notice how all connected with one another they seemed.
Having spent parts of my life in a small town I came to understand many of the connections between people, how they were related to each another, how they worked side by side day after day, how they counted on each other for things great and small. I remember how not only the electrician on the edge of town sponsored the little league team you were on but also was the man your uncle worked for during the week. I recall how your third grade teacher was the sister to your next door neighbor. I remember how your arch rival in high school sports was the other high school on the other side of the county even though that was the school where your favorite cousins attended.
I understand I can get a similar experience in the community where I presently live, you know in the big city. And I know it’s similar but also I know it’s just different. It just feels more real in the small town, more genuine, less anonymous, like in some greater scheme of things you matter more because it’s harder to hide in a small town. In the small town, you have to pitch in and help out when it comes time to do so.
On the ride back to work that day, I could not help but think over some of these things. I couldn’t help chuckling how some folks can’t wait to leave the small town life behind while others dream of moving out of the big city and into a place where the pace is slower. And later while I slipped into the ambiguity of my suburban cookie-cutter neighborhood I thought of a small town not too far away where two old men regularly sit on a park bench outside the county courthouse and remember days gone by, where the lady down the road a mile not only is your wife’s Avon lady but also your children’s Sunday school teacher and where most of the citizens there look at living in a small town as the only way of life they have ever known or ever really want.
And as the day ended I knew deep down those idealistic thoughts of a small town might not be as realistic as I imagined. It is nice though to think that they just might be.
Recently, I had to take a half hour drive to a nearby town and attend a meeting one of my supervisors was originally scheduled to attend but could not. The reason for the meeting isn’t really important for our purposes now. I learned what I needed to know and passed the information on to those who needed it at my place of employment. The half day away was a nice change of pace from the normal routine. It was a sunny day and driving away from the traffic and hubbub of the city and into the slower pace of a small town was rather relaxing.
Not to sound too much like John Mellencamp but I was born and raised in a small town, educated in a small town, taught the fear of Jesus in a small town and had myself a ball in that same small town. And I imagine many from that small town today think I live in a big town, or a big city, and in some respects I do, especially compared to where I am from originally.
That said the trip to this town made me think about living a small town life. The actual purpose of the meeting I attended had nothing to do with this realization. It was more what I observed and felt while there.
I was an outsider to this group. It didn’t take much time or effort though to see and feel the camaraderie this group of thirty to forty people shared. Sprinkled in to the conversations prior to the meeting were comments and questions about neighbors and relatives and the community at large. Sitting there I couldn’t help but notice how all connected with one another they seemed.
Having spent parts of my life in a small town I came to understand many of the connections between people, how they were related to each another, how they worked side by side day after day, how they counted on each other for things great and small. I remember how not only the electrician on the edge of town sponsored the little league team you were on but also was the man your uncle worked for during the week. I recall how your third grade teacher was the sister to your next door neighbor. I remember how your arch rival in high school sports was the other high school on the other side of the county even though that was the school where your favorite cousins attended.
I understand I can get a similar experience in the community where I presently live, you know in the big city. And I know it’s similar but also I know it’s just different. It just feels more real in the small town, more genuine, less anonymous, like in some greater scheme of things you matter more because it’s harder to hide in a small town. In the small town, you have to pitch in and help out when it comes time to do so.
On the ride back to work that day, I could not help but think over some of these things. I couldn’t help chuckling how some folks can’t wait to leave the small town life behind while others dream of moving out of the big city and into a place where the pace is slower. And later while I slipped into the ambiguity of my suburban cookie-cutter neighborhood I thought of a small town not too far away where two old men regularly sit on a park bench outside the county courthouse and remember days gone by, where the lady down the road a mile not only is your wife’s Avon lady but also your children’s Sunday school teacher and where most of the citizens there look at living in a small town as the only way of life they have ever known or ever really want.
And as the day ended I knew deep down those idealistic thoughts of a small town might not be as realistic as I imagined. It is nice though to think that they just might be.
8.03.2009
Really, I Like The Cake
Wax runs away from a flame and down a small candle. A thin rubber band, no longer shaped in a circle but as a line, finds itself stapled at both sides of a flimsy cone-shaped paper hat with celebratory designs. A rectangular cake resting on a piece of cardboard covered in aluminum foil is the center of attention as icing in colors of white and green and red and yellow tease onlookers with the promise of an impending sugar rush.
Every year it is a ritual. Family and friends gather round and celebrate the passing of time known as a birthday.
I like the cake. Actually, I probably like the cake too much. I also enjoy the time with family and friends. But, honestly, I really don’t care that much about celebrating my birthday. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to be alive. I just don’t enjoy the fuss some wish to make over my birthday. I mean I don’t think I did all that much on that August day so many years ago. Maybe we could verify my exact role then with my Mom, my Dad and the medical staff on hand then, but I’m pretty sure I just sort of made an appearance. Maybe we should be throwing some of the praise to those who did all the work that day.
Despite my ambivalence, the party goes on.
There are pictures somewhere on thin, yellowing paper that time tends to curl at the edges or pictures pressed onto the hard backing of a Polaroid of my birthday parties through the years. They begin with the early years as a child and progress through time into adulthood. Family and friends crowded around to get in the picture with the birthday boy. Years ago, the cakes were round but still colorful and loaded with icing and candles. Some were taken while we were around our dining room table, others as we were around our picnic table in the back yard. Maybe in the background a balloon floated through the air or a game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ was ongoing as a brief moment of a party was caught on celluloid to mark that instant in time.
The cakes became a bit more elaborate over time, maybe one was in the shape of a car or another in the shape of a guitar. I was fortunate enough to have an aunt who made a good living for several years as a cake maker and I was the recipient of some of her better cakes.
Some photos have a year written on the back, while others find me trying to determine a year by straining to count candles on a cake and doing a little math. As the dates on photos creep closer to today’s date, the photos show me growing older. As this happens, the photos become more posed, less spontaneous, more aware of the presence of the camera and maybe more cognizant of time moving forward.
The photos show other things. Places I once lived, people I once knew, people I have known longer than I can remember, times in my life when storms raged inside me or were battering my family and friends, times when it seemed nothing could bring any of us down, times before I met my wife, times since she became my wife, bad haircuts, poor fashion sense, questionable taste in furniture and gifts.
Those photos don’t show other things. Trouble at work, words spoken hours before in haste or anger at a loved one, what I was planning to do later that day, even the wishes made just before the candles get blown out, things that seemed like mountains to climb then but now fade into a place time has sealed shut from my memory. I can’t see those things in the photos. I can’t retrieve them by looking more intently at the photo.
Now the cake sits before me. Folks gather round and tentatively sing-song the words to “Happy Birthday”. Someone appears with a camera, so I stretch a smile across my face and give the camera my attention for a brief moment. I look at the cake and the flames from the candles momentarily run together in my line of vision. My mind races with all sorts of thoughts. As I stand, my eyes mesmerized by the miniature flames, I notice a drop of wax begin to slide down a candle so I bend down and blow out the candles before the wax drips onto the cake, thankful for another birthday and wishing for many more to come.
Every year it is a ritual. Family and friends gather round and celebrate the passing of time known as a birthday.
I like the cake. Actually, I probably like the cake too much. I also enjoy the time with family and friends. But, honestly, I really don’t care that much about celebrating my birthday. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to be alive. I just don’t enjoy the fuss some wish to make over my birthday. I mean I don’t think I did all that much on that August day so many years ago. Maybe we could verify my exact role then with my Mom, my Dad and the medical staff on hand then, but I’m pretty sure I just sort of made an appearance. Maybe we should be throwing some of the praise to those who did all the work that day.
Despite my ambivalence, the party goes on.
There are pictures somewhere on thin, yellowing paper that time tends to curl at the edges or pictures pressed onto the hard backing of a Polaroid of my birthday parties through the years. They begin with the early years as a child and progress through time into adulthood. Family and friends crowded around to get in the picture with the birthday boy. Years ago, the cakes were round but still colorful and loaded with icing and candles. Some were taken while we were around our dining room table, others as we were around our picnic table in the back yard. Maybe in the background a balloon floated through the air or a game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ was ongoing as a brief moment of a party was caught on celluloid to mark that instant in time.
The cakes became a bit more elaborate over time, maybe one was in the shape of a car or another in the shape of a guitar. I was fortunate enough to have an aunt who made a good living for several years as a cake maker and I was the recipient of some of her better cakes.
Some photos have a year written on the back, while others find me trying to determine a year by straining to count candles on a cake and doing a little math. As the dates on photos creep closer to today’s date, the photos show me growing older. As this happens, the photos become more posed, less spontaneous, more aware of the presence of the camera and maybe more cognizant of time moving forward.
The photos show other things. Places I once lived, people I once knew, people I have known longer than I can remember, times in my life when storms raged inside me or were battering my family and friends, times when it seemed nothing could bring any of us down, times before I met my wife, times since she became my wife, bad haircuts, poor fashion sense, questionable taste in furniture and gifts.
Those photos don’t show other things. Trouble at work, words spoken hours before in haste or anger at a loved one, what I was planning to do later that day, even the wishes made just before the candles get blown out, things that seemed like mountains to climb then but now fade into a place time has sealed shut from my memory. I can’t see those things in the photos. I can’t retrieve them by looking more intently at the photo.
Now the cake sits before me. Folks gather round and tentatively sing-song the words to “Happy Birthday”. Someone appears with a camera, so I stretch a smile across my face and give the camera my attention for a brief moment. I look at the cake and the flames from the candles momentarily run together in my line of vision. My mind races with all sorts of thoughts. As I stand, my eyes mesmerized by the miniature flames, I notice a drop of wax begin to slide down a candle so I bend down and blow out the candles before the wax drips onto the cake, thankful for another birthday and wishing for many more to come.
7.22.2009
Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition
Hardly any other time of the year makes me recall my childhood more than summer. For some reason I seem to recall more about the summers of my youth than any other season, whether those memories are good or bad (for now we won't mention the summer bike ride accident that I am convinced paid for college for my dentist's children). Recently, one of the most special rites of my past summers, Vacation Bible School, came to mind, in the form of a plain cookie, a cookie I like to refer to as a Vacation Bible School cookie.
What exactly is a Vacation Bible School cookie? The answer is a bit more involved than just a simple answer in a handful of words, so bear with me while I try to explain. To do this, we need to talk a bit about Vacation Bible School.
For the uninitiated, a quick review of Vacation Bible School is in order, and for those very familiar with Vacation Bible School, maybe a quick trip down memory lane will make you smile. Vacation Bible School is a time a church sets aside during the summer vacation from school for kids to have an intensive time of Bible school. Think of it as Sunday school on steroids. I remember we usually had it one week during June or July, during evenings Monday through Friday. I recall once or twice we had it during the day but as more and more moms joined the workforce that seemed to disappear. I even know some churches get all fired up and do the whole thing in one day.
Usually there is also a theme to the week. This year, Crocodile Dock seems to be popular, which I am sure thrills Elton John (“Crocodile Rock”, 1972) to no end. And of course, since one generation called a thing one thing another generation comes along and decides to call that thing something else. I realized Vacation Bible School wasn’t exempt from this form of rebranding a year or two ago when I saw a church near where we live proudly proclaiming one upcoming summer week as Neighborhood Bible Time. Well, okay, all righty then. Maybe it's me, but Vacation Bible School still sounds cooler to me.
Anyway, Vacation Bible School, or VBS, as it is also known, usually is geared for the kids of a church. But it is also geared to the friends of the church kids as well as the grandkids and nieces and nephews of the rest of the church who do not attend this particular church or any other church regularly. So, during VBS, you see not only the usual kids you would see on any given Sunday there but also the neighborhood kids and the kids of relatives of church members. So it really is one time of the year at a church when a future generation outnumbers the present generations. I suppose you could stand at the back of the church auditorium and get a good glimpse of what your community will be in twenty or thirty years just by watching how these young ones act and react with one another.
At VBS, kids get divided by age or school grade. Someone in the church has located the most patient women the church has and during this week these women become the teachers of these kids. Church pews are sectioned off for each group so kids in the same grade or the same age can all sit together. I can recall feeling a form of solidarity and empowerment during VBS week when I was a kid just because there were ten or eleven of us third-graders. Add a theme like “Warriors for God” and, hey, we were ready for battle…praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Also, at VBS, songs are sung which do not see the light of day during regular church services. Nothing raises the roof of a church building quite like a rousing version of “Booster! Booster! Be A Booster!” Segue way into “This Little Light of Mine”, followed by “The Wise Man Built His House” and the rousing “I’m in the Lord’s Army” and suddenly the singing in the building rivals the singing on Easter Sunday morning. And while the kids sing “Jesus Loves Me” and “Jesus Love the Little Children,” you can’t help but wonder why we don’t sing these songs more often since the songs are so simple, yet so loaded with meaning or why we don’t sing with more heart like kids do.
At some point, class takes place. The kids march off to their classrooms usually by grade or age. During the class time, there’s often a crafts event or some other activity occupying the attention of the kids for a few minutes. The adults usually have some similarly themed class while the kids are off in their class. There are some adults though, hard at work, in another part of the building, preparing the night’s finale. For the kids, the payoff at the end of each night at VBS is cookies and Kool-Aid.
This brings us back around to the topic of cookies and defining a Vacation Bible School cookie. Here is my take. Recently, my wife and I were leaving our church after services. As we passed by the kitchen, we noticed some cookies and cake on the counter that had been left behind following an earlier gathering. I picked up a cookie, looked at it and declared, “that is a Vacation Bible School cookie” just before I bit into it. I knew it was a VBS cookie from all my experience at eating them.
If you are a VBS veteran, consider this. Usually VBS cookies weren’t fresh baked cookies just out of the oven. They weren’t Rice Krispy treats. They weren’t lemon bars. They weren't slices of fruit. They were cookies.
They were usually a white cookie with white cream or a black cookie with white cream or even sometimes, one white cookie and one black cookie with white cream in between. The actual cookie part would have some intricate design on top of it with maybe three or four small holes around it. I have placed a photo accompanying this post of what I am trying to describe so you can better visualize what I mean. I think when you see it you will understand.
Beyond the physical appearance, a Vacation Bible School cookie is one that you bite into and you automatically think your teeth will break into pieces. VBS cookies are also fairly good size cookies, they aren't wimpy size cookies the size of a quarter. These cookies could probably crowd the edges of the palm of your hand comfortably. They are also usually packaged under some generic sounding name like, ‘Cookies’. You know the kind; you can buy a package of them at the grocery store for one dollar. These cookies come in a plastic pack that holds one hundred cookies. These are not "name brand" cookies.
Think about this. These cookies become VBS cookies because the ladies of the church are trying to feed all those kids, the regular kids and their friends and the other kids just along for the ride this particular week. It’s much easier and cheaper to buy a couple packs of VBS cookies than to spend a lot of time, effort and money to home bake 200 cookies or buy the overpriced name brand cookies. Maybe this is why some churches also have potluck dinners. Maybe it keeps many of these women in practice for preparing large amounts of food for a hungry group of people. “VBS is coming in three months...time for a potluck dinner this week.” Is it for fellowship? Sure, but maybe it also is a trial run to see how the women of the church do preparing large amounts of food for a large number of people. No self-respecting VBS cookie-provider wants to be remembered as being part of a group that did not have enough cookies during the "Hungering and Thirsting for Righteousness" themed Vacation Bible School. Jesus feeding thousands with a few fish and some bread was truly a miracle but forty women feeding 200 kids with Hydrox and vanilla cream cookies for five straight nights only comes about after precision planning.
I recall the VBS cookie being paired with another cookie or two and placed on a plain white napkin. Then you are handed a cup of Kool-Aid. VBS cookies must be washed down with something. And let’s set the record straight, VBS cookies must be washed down with Kool-Aid. Let’s briefly mention the VBS Kool-Aid. It's Kool-Aid. It's not a drink box. It's not iced tea. It's not a soft drink. It's Kool-Aid. It's Kool-Aid made in Meemaw's kitchen earlier that very afternoon. She mixed it out of a packet, stirred it up, poured it into a clear plastic milk jug that she washed out with scalding hot water then saved for weeks with this very moment in mind. Once mixed, she probably even capped the jug, picked it up and shook it for a few seconds before setting it in the refrigerator until church time.
And one parting thought on VBS Kool-Aid, no matter what you think, the best Kool-Aid flavor for VBS is red. Mind you, red could cover a lot of different flavors, but during VBS, the best and most popular flavor of Kool-Aid is, and always will be, red. You can have your grape Kool-Aid, you can have your orange Kool-Aid but if you ask most kids what kind of Kool-Aid do they want with their Vacation Bible School cookies and the overwhelming answer will be red.
This summer is slipping away. School will be opening soon for another year. The time for Vacation Bible School will also be gone for another year. It seems as if everything moves so fast these days. Maybe it’s time to slow down and take a few minutes to reminiscence about this time of year from many years ago. Summer nights spent singing “The B-I-B-L-E” and hanging out with others my age just knowing that at the end of the night waited Vacation Bible School cookies and red Kool-Aid.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition indeed.
What exactly is a Vacation Bible School cookie? The answer is a bit more involved than just a simple answer in a handful of words, so bear with me while I try to explain. To do this, we need to talk a bit about Vacation Bible School.
For the uninitiated, a quick review of Vacation Bible School is in order, and for those very familiar with Vacation Bible School, maybe a quick trip down memory lane will make you smile. Vacation Bible School is a time a church sets aside during the summer vacation from school for kids to have an intensive time of Bible school. Think of it as Sunday school on steroids. I remember we usually had it one week during June or July, during evenings Monday through Friday. I recall once or twice we had it during the day but as more and more moms joined the workforce that seemed to disappear. I even know some churches get all fired up and do the whole thing in one day.
Usually there is also a theme to the week. This year, Crocodile Dock seems to be popular, which I am sure thrills Elton John (“Crocodile Rock”, 1972) to no end. And of course, since one generation called a thing one thing another generation comes along and decides to call that thing something else. I realized Vacation Bible School wasn’t exempt from this form of rebranding a year or two ago when I saw a church near where we live proudly proclaiming one upcoming summer week as Neighborhood Bible Time. Well, okay, all righty then. Maybe it's me, but Vacation Bible School still sounds cooler to me.
Anyway, Vacation Bible School, or VBS, as it is also known, usually is geared for the kids of a church. But it is also geared to the friends of the church kids as well as the grandkids and nieces and nephews of the rest of the church who do not attend this particular church or any other church regularly. So, during VBS, you see not only the usual kids you would see on any given Sunday there but also the neighborhood kids and the kids of relatives of church members. So it really is one time of the year at a church when a future generation outnumbers the present generations. I suppose you could stand at the back of the church auditorium and get a good glimpse of what your community will be in twenty or thirty years just by watching how these young ones act and react with one another.
At VBS, kids get divided by age or school grade. Someone in the church has located the most patient women the church has and during this week these women become the teachers of these kids. Church pews are sectioned off for each group so kids in the same grade or the same age can all sit together. I can recall feeling a form of solidarity and empowerment during VBS week when I was a kid just because there were ten or eleven of us third-graders. Add a theme like “Warriors for God” and, hey, we were ready for battle…praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
Also, at VBS, songs are sung which do not see the light of day during regular church services. Nothing raises the roof of a church building quite like a rousing version of “Booster! Booster! Be A Booster!” Segue way into “This Little Light of Mine”, followed by “The Wise Man Built His House” and the rousing “I’m in the Lord’s Army” and suddenly the singing in the building rivals the singing on Easter Sunday morning. And while the kids sing “Jesus Loves Me” and “Jesus Love the Little Children,” you can’t help but wonder why we don’t sing these songs more often since the songs are so simple, yet so loaded with meaning or why we don’t sing with more heart like kids do.
At some point, class takes place. The kids march off to their classrooms usually by grade or age. During the class time, there’s often a crafts event or some other activity occupying the attention of the kids for a few minutes. The adults usually have some similarly themed class while the kids are off in their class. There are some adults though, hard at work, in another part of the building, preparing the night’s finale. For the kids, the payoff at the end of each night at VBS is cookies and Kool-Aid.
This brings us back around to the topic of cookies and defining a Vacation Bible School cookie. Here is my take. Recently, my wife and I were leaving our church after services. As we passed by the kitchen, we noticed some cookies and cake on the counter that had been left behind following an earlier gathering. I picked up a cookie, looked at it and declared, “that is a Vacation Bible School cookie” just before I bit into it. I knew it was a VBS cookie from all my experience at eating them.
If you are a VBS veteran, consider this. Usually VBS cookies weren’t fresh baked cookies just out of the oven. They weren’t Rice Krispy treats. They weren’t lemon bars. They weren't slices of fruit. They were cookies.
They were usually a white cookie with white cream or a black cookie with white cream or even sometimes, one white cookie and one black cookie with white cream in between. The actual cookie part would have some intricate design on top of it with maybe three or four small holes around it. I have placed a photo accompanying this post of what I am trying to describe so you can better visualize what I mean. I think when you see it you will understand.Beyond the physical appearance, a Vacation Bible School cookie is one that you bite into and you automatically think your teeth will break into pieces. VBS cookies are also fairly good size cookies, they aren't wimpy size cookies the size of a quarter. These cookies could probably crowd the edges of the palm of your hand comfortably. They are also usually packaged under some generic sounding name like, ‘Cookies’. You know the kind; you can buy a package of them at the grocery store for one dollar. These cookies come in a plastic pack that holds one hundred cookies. These are not "name brand" cookies.
Think about this. These cookies become VBS cookies because the ladies of the church are trying to feed all those kids, the regular kids and their friends and the other kids just along for the ride this particular week. It’s much easier and cheaper to buy a couple packs of VBS cookies than to spend a lot of time, effort and money to home bake 200 cookies or buy the overpriced name brand cookies. Maybe this is why some churches also have potluck dinners. Maybe it keeps many of these women in practice for preparing large amounts of food for a hungry group of people. “VBS is coming in three months...time for a potluck dinner this week.” Is it for fellowship? Sure, but maybe it also is a trial run to see how the women of the church do preparing large amounts of food for a large number of people. No self-respecting VBS cookie-provider wants to be remembered as being part of a group that did not have enough cookies during the "Hungering and Thirsting for Righteousness" themed Vacation Bible School. Jesus feeding thousands with a few fish and some bread was truly a miracle but forty women feeding 200 kids with Hydrox and vanilla cream cookies for five straight nights only comes about after precision planning.
I recall the VBS cookie being paired with another cookie or two and placed on a plain white napkin. Then you are handed a cup of Kool-Aid. VBS cookies must be washed down with something. And let’s set the record straight, VBS cookies must be washed down with Kool-Aid. Let’s briefly mention the VBS Kool-Aid. It's Kool-Aid. It's not a drink box. It's not iced tea. It's not a soft drink. It's Kool-Aid. It's Kool-Aid made in Meemaw's kitchen earlier that very afternoon. She mixed it out of a packet, stirred it up, poured it into a clear plastic milk jug that she washed out with scalding hot water then saved for weeks with this very moment in mind. Once mixed, she probably even capped the jug, picked it up and shook it for a few seconds before setting it in the refrigerator until church time.
And one parting thought on VBS Kool-Aid, no matter what you think, the best Kool-Aid flavor for VBS is red. Mind you, red could cover a lot of different flavors, but during VBS, the best and most popular flavor of Kool-Aid is, and always will be, red. You can have your grape Kool-Aid, you can have your orange Kool-Aid but if you ask most kids what kind of Kool-Aid do they want with their Vacation Bible School cookies and the overwhelming answer will be red.
This summer is slipping away. School will be opening soon for another year. The time for Vacation Bible School will also be gone for another year. It seems as if everything moves so fast these days. Maybe it’s time to slow down and take a few minutes to reminiscence about this time of year from many years ago. Summer nights spent singing “The B-I-B-L-E” and hanging out with others my age just knowing that at the end of the night waited Vacation Bible School cookies and red Kool-Aid.
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition indeed.
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