Winging it

Despite the good intentions, I was a bit embarrassed that yesterday was deemed “Bruce Warford Hot Wing Day” at the hotel conference center where I am staying. They didn’t make a banner or announce it over the public address system, but it was common knowledge and I was reminded of the fact throughout the day.

This hotel provides what is called a “CMP” or “complete meeting package.” It includes the meeting room, continental breakfast, morning break, buffet lunch, and an afternoon break with one hot hors d'oeuvres and ice cream all in one package price. I have learned from past visits here that Mondays are usually “Mini-pizza Day,” Tuesdays are “Mini-hot dog Day,” Wednesdays are “Hot Pretzel Day” and Thursday is “Hot Wing Day,” which is by far my favorite. Fridays are good too, with some really tasty and addictive “Jalapeño Poppers.” A word of warning, however, you have to be careful about over indulging on “Jalapeño Popper day.” They are the gift that keeps on giving.

It has become well known among the staff here that I love “Wing Day.” They are among the better hot wings I have ever had in my life, with that perfect combination of crispy exterior, juicy interior and spicy, fully integrated coating. Good hot wings are an art form, with the key being the perfectly timed introduction of freshly deep fried wing to saucy coating. If the wings are not extremely hot when tossed in the hot sauce, then the coating does not become a part of the wing. It is like the coat of chubby kid, and I should know; awkward and ill-fitting, it will not button or zip. It provides no real warmth and is practically pointless.

Wings should be tossed in the hot sauce immediately upon removal from the deep fryer. The heat from the wings basically cook the sauce into the outer layer, creating a flavorful seal around the entire wing. Although some wing aficionado’s might disagree, I believe the perfect wing is not swimming in wing sauce, but a little bit less messy. The flavor flashed through the entire wing, not just dripping off the edges.

I may have given this way too much thought.

When members of the hotel staff learned that I would be here for meetings only through Wednesday of this week, they made a point of saying “but you will miss Wing Day!” I thought it was nice that they remembered how much I enjoyed their wings, but I had to wonder what I had done in the past to make such a strong impression. Did I stand salivating by the refreshment table on Thursdays, wearing a plastic bib and carrying a roll of paper towels, just waiting for the delivery of hot wing nirvana?

Yesterday morning I was greeted by the floor manager with a big smile and a heavily accented “we have a surprise for you Mr. Bruce!” I gave only a half smile back because I have had equal parts glory and disaster when presented with surprises in the past. “Today will be wings!” he said, with the same enthusiasm I have heard Bob Barker announce to contestants that they had won a new car on The Price is Right.

“But it’s not Thursday,” I said, and in my confusion I almost followed up with, “is it?” The concept of Thursday being “Hot Wing Day” was absolute in my mind. Any deviation from the carefully established norm might have devastating consequences.

“We do this for you,” he said, still smiling but beginning to wonder why I was not doing back flips at this point. “You not be here on Thursday…so today is Wing Day!”

I was touched. I thanked him and walked away. It was flattering that they thought of me, but it was strange too. I had to wonder how much I talk about food. I need to find another hobby.

Throughout the day, other staff passed me in the halls and brought up the special “wing day.” By the time they were put out at 2pm, I was almost not in the mood to eat any. Almost.

As usual, they were delicious. I had skipped lunch, as I do most days, but especially on “wing day,” so with my afternoon consumption of wings, celery and carrots (I’ve got to eat some veggies!), I was set for a light dinner and some brain dead television.

Something kept bugging me though, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It was the visual of the round chafing pan piled full of wings. I don’t know how many were there, but quite a few. There were four different stations setup in various locations of the conference center, and they were all identical. Lots of wings. I ate my share, and there were still lots of wings.

It crossed my mind that it took a lot of chickens to make those wings, and then I thought of all the restaurants and hotels in the Rockville, Md area that were probably serving hot wings that day. I considered the DC metro area wing consumption and then the entire United States. That’s a whole lot of wings.

Broadening my thoughts, but sticking with the chicken theme, I wondered how many KFC’s there were in existence (I looked it up...over 11,000), but there are lots of other chicken franchises, like Popeye’s and Bojangles too. Include all the other restaurants that serve Grilled Chicken, Teriyaki Chicken, BBQ Chicken, Chicken Quesadilla’s and Chicken Tenders. That’s a phenomenal amount of poultry.

Turning to my “how did I ever live without you” friend Google, I asked the simple query: How many chickens are killed in the US every day? I knew the answer would be high, but the number kind of shocked me. I checked multiple sources and they all confirmed. Over twenty three million. If that doesn’t shock you, look at it numerically: 23,000,000. That’s one chicken killed for every person in Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama…every day.

I sat for a long time and wondered just what I would do with this information. I knew that I would never join PETA. I could never become a vegan. I can’t imagine life without meat. It just tastes too good and I’m too selfish.

Still, I could cut back on my wing consumption. If I could save just one chicken a day (or six, since I usually order a dozen wings at a time), I would be doing my part for our fine feathered friends. It was a good plan and I had every intention of acting on it, until I spoke to a friend about my sudden awakening to the plight of the birds that cluck. She made a rather brilliant, but brutally obvious observation.

Chickens don’t fly. They don’t need wings. With careful surgery and removal, they could continue to live a long and happy life. The genius of this concept gives me new hope to have my wings and feel good too. Maybe if I could establish a new system of wing harvesting which would allow the eventual retirement of wingless chickens to a barnyard in south Florida, I would be truly worthy of a “Bruce Warford Hot Wing Day.” Until then, I’m just a man with a vision.

Doing the right thing

They say that your life passes in front of your eyes when you are about to die and I am in no hurry to find out if that is true, but I certainly believe it is likely because my daughter’s life passed in front of my eyes on Saturday night and it felt like I might never breathe again.

I had not planned to be there. In one of those “logical decisions that make no sense” choices I had intended to stay in DC based on the theory that returning home for just one day was not rational. Of course, it was not rational…most truly wondrous experiences in life are not rational.

I began questioning my decision early in the week and by Friday morning I was beating myself up pretty hard. Changing plans in mid stream is never easy, particularly when government travel rules and regulations apply, but I became obsessed that day with getting home. Between Shelby’s Prom and Connie’s Dad being in the hospital, I decided that I would find a way even if it meant renting a car and driving.

Fortunately, and the only time it occurred all week, our meeting ended early that day. That gave me time to get a new ticket issued for the late direct flight to Knoxville that evening and an early connecting flight back to DC on Sunday morning. I did not tell the family I was coming home, so when I knocked on the door at 11pm, I could hear the frantic scamper of feet and the screaming whisper of “someone’s at the door!” Surprised smiles, then hugs and kisses greeted me. It was great to be home.

Connie and I woke up early Saturday morning and tried to map out our day. Shelby had a hair appointment at 10am and was going with her best friend Christine to do nails at one. Connie and Christine would do Shelby’s makeup at 3:30pm, and we all had to be at the Farragut Park for pictures at 5:15pm. I may be a guy, but I’ve lived in a house full of women long enough to know not to ask too many questions or interfere with the hair, makeup and nails process. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll drop off, pick up or get out of the way.

Somewhere amidst all of the running around, we needed to go to the hospital in Knoxville, and I needed to do my laundry. Simple enough. There was a lot of daylight ahead of us. I put a load of laundry in the wash and we realized that we had enough time for the three of us to go to Panera Bread for coffee before she and Shelby drove to Maryville for the hair appointment.

It was a beautiful morning, with the promise of a spectacularly beautiful day, so we sat outside of Panera at the little black metal tables that wobble a bit, drank our coffee and I ate a good, but not very filling carrot-walnut muffin while they ate bagels and cream cheese. In the morning sun, with very little makeup and minimal attention to hair, I was struck by the amazing natural beauty of my wife and daughter. Some have to try very hard to draw attention to themselves, and it’s blatantly obvious that they do, but a rare few are born fortunate. I’m glad that all three of my girls received this special gift from their mother. From me they received a regrettable love for macaroni and cheese and the odd ability to do party tricks with their double jointed fingers.

We left Panera and headed our separate ways. Connie and Shelby rushed off to Bebe’s Salon where Cousin Betsy would transform Shelby’s hair into a tight swirl of glamour. I went back home to finish laundry, clean the kitchen, rouse the younger sleeping beauties and give menacing looks at the dog.

I filled a bag with items from a list of things they forgot to take earlier, and by Noon I was back in the car, on my way to pick up Connie at Christine’s house. We grabbed a quick bite of lunch and arrived at St. Mary’s hospital by 1:30pm. Her Dad looked good, but was still very weak. Five days in a hospital bed had been almost as draining as the illness, and he dozed on and off while we were there. As always though, his attitude was positive, and if for no other reason than to take his hand and see his big broad smile, it was well worth going home.

I dropped Connie back at Christine’s at 3:30pm and drove home to retrieve Ashlyn and Taylor for the rest of the evening’s activities. I grabbed cameras, batteries and another, smaller group of forgotten, but essential items and we ventured forth once again. We arrived at Farragut Park a few minutes early and realized that this must be THE place for prom pictures in the area. A colorful array of shimmering gowns and suave tuxedos dotted the landscape, while parents dutifully snapped digital memories of this once in a lifetime event (well, twice if you go to your Junior AND Senior Proms. Three times if you go as a sophomore with an older date. Four times or more if your parents have very relaxed standards and are really in a rush for a grandchild).

Connie, Christine and Shelby were fashionably late. It was worth the wait. I am trying to be as objective as possible, but as Shelby walked across the grass in that bright afternoon sun, the only word I could think of was “Stunning.” I was a bit dazed for a moment, and that was when her life flashed by in my head. The tiny baby crying, and then sleeping in my arms just after her birth. The toddler on my lap watching Disney Sing-a-long videos. The First day of pre-school, loving big sister, singing the song I wrote in the church Christmas play. The images were on fast forward, but I could see them all, clear as the day we lived them.

I’m sure I felt every clichéd father feeling there is that afternoon; proud, happy, protective, afraid. I did my best not to embarrass her by saying anything too stupid. That’s very tough for me. Stupid comes naturally, so the only way to hinder it is to keep my mouth shut. I slipped a few times. When her date arrived I shook his hand and told him he looked “dapper.” I suppose I should have warned him to stay away from those dangerous “speakeasies” too. Fortunately, I think he was too nervous to hear me or care that I was an idiot. At least I hope so anyway.

We got some great photographs. Dogwood blooms accented the background and we framed the shots so that none of the other couples or dog walkers could be seen. Soon, they were anxious to go. Dinner reservations awaited and the thrill and mystery of prom beckoned. I was surprised to learn that Shelby was taking a change of clothes, and even more surprised that she would be changing in order for them to go bowling after the dance. Apparently going bowling after the prom is a tradition, I just did not know. Maybe it’s something kids do everywhere, or maybe it’s just we live in Tennessee. I decided that there could be far worse post-prom activities.

As they were leaving, I stayed back, letting Christine walk them to the car and offer words of wisdom and threats on my behalf. Since I was not expected to be there, she had prepared to be “Mr. Bruce” (as she calls me). I have no doubt she did a better job than I would have done that evening.

After a quick dinner at the Smoky Mountain Brewery, we headed back to St. Mary’s for more visiting with family and Connie’s Dad. Everyone wanted to see pictures, so like any good father I took out my laptop and prepared a quick slideshow. Of course, they all thought Shelby was beautiful. They also noted that the photographer had an eye for capturing the essence of the moment with an artistic flair that transcended that of mere humans. Not in so many words, of course, but that was the gist of the conversation.

We got home around 12:30am and got a call from Shelby. She was having a great time. Done with bowling they had just arrived at a pool party at a friend’s house in Oak Ridge. I wondered how long this “prom” thing would last. Normally, my Dad alarm would be ringing loudly, but the parents spoke to me and assured me that there would be good supervision. What could I do? I have to keep reminding myself that Shelby is almost nineteen years old. I can give her the “disappointed” speech, but I’ve never been able to do that one convincingly. It usually ends up with someone giggling.

Besides, I was not disappointed in Shelby. Not in the least. I was glad she was out having fun. And, I fully realized that night…I trusted her completely. Shelby had never given me a reason to worry. She has a good level head on her shoulders and a good self esteem. I could sleep soundly while she was out.

I did not sleep well at all. I lay awake, exhausted, knowing that I would have to get up soon to answer the door. My mind raced in circles, lapping around ideas and taking brief pit stops to toss and turn, disturbing Connie. At 2:30am Shelby called and asked if I would make coffee for Zach so that he would be good and awake for his drive home after he dropped her off. Sure, I said, I can do that. I have no idea what his cup of coffee tasted like. I don’t remember making it, just handing him something resembling a to-go mug and ushering him out the door. I said something stupid again, like “be careful, young man,” but I blame that one on lack of sleep. It can’t be held against me.

Shelby came into our bedroom and told us all about her evening. Even as we approached and passed three in the morning, her excitement for the night had not diminished. She talked until Zach called and said he was home, and then talked a little more. I would not have stopped her. My alarm was set for 4:30am, so it made no difference to me. I could sleep on the plane.

I’m back in DC now, wishing I was home again. I can’t believe that I almost missed out on such a wonderful experience. It was tiring, and I slept most of Sunday afternoon when I got back to my room at the hotel, but I slept better, deeper, and more contented than I have in a long time. I knew I had done the right thing. I never felt so good.

And now for something completely different....

Some weeks are harder than others. Most of the time we drift along, dancing between the raindrops, eyes focused on that empty space in front of us. We never seem to realize how fragile our house of cards really is. We get up each morning and go about our routine. We get in our cars and drive to work or school or Wal-Mart. We kiss our spouse and children on the way out the door and have no doubt whether we’ll see them again that evening.

This week I’ve had a series of “bad news” calls. You know the kind. We don’t know they are bad news calls until we’ve answered and hear the voice on the other end. The tone is different, strange, broken. Even with one or two words of greeting, we know something is wrong. Our tone changes too, our heart pumps a little faster. Depending on who is calling you, your mind races through the gamut of possible tragedies that you are about to be told. We prepare for the worst.

Last Friday I was waiting for a call from Connie about Shelby’s audition for a music scholarship at Carson Newman College. When the call came, her voice was not what I expected, sadder than it would have been if Shelby had not done well in her audition. She was at her Dad’s house and he had fallen. We tend to forget that he is almost 90 years old because he not only appears much younger, but he is sharper and more full of life than most people half his age (that includes me). He lay on the floor for over an hour before being found and was pretty weak. Fortunately, no bones were broken and he appeared to be okay. Connie and the girls stayed for much of the evening, and her brother came over to spend the night, just in case.

He remained weak throughout the weekend but did not want to go to the Emergency Room. He was pretty sure he had exhausted himself trying to get up from his fall, and that made good sense. He wanted to be at home, and he wanted to rest. On Monday morning, he was feeling worse and had developed stomach cramps and a fever, so the family took him to the doctor. The doctor quickly realized that there was something more serious at work and sent him to the Emergency Room.

When I’m travelling, I usually talk to Connie at least twice a day. I’m sure sometimes I annoy her with questions about what’s going on and what they are doing. I’m not checking up on them or being nosy. I just hate being so separated from their lives. She and the girls are the reason I travel, and also the reason that travel is so hard. I need to hear her voice to keep me balanced. I need to hear about what they are doing so I can feel a part of Home.

It’s hard hearing her voice when she’s standing in a hospital. Her tone is hushed, her timbre on the edge of breaking into a cry. I can’t hug her from 500 miles away, and that’s what I want to do. I feel totally useless and that’s pretty accurate. Depending on what the doctor tells them, I can arrange to fly home, but it won’t be as quick as I want it to be. Someone has to fly here to take my place and schedules have to be coordinated. I start planning for a worst case scenario, but hope that particular call doesn’t come.

It’s determined that he has a kidney infection and septicemia (blood poisoning). His fever drops and then spikes again as he is given Tylenol and it wears off. After hours of exhausting tests, they decide to put him in ICU for observation overnight. Connie calls and updates me, her voice tired, worried. She, her sister Diana and her husband Ken will spend the night at the hospital. Our girls will be alone at home, which bothered me despite the fact that Shelby is almost nineteen and more mature than I am most of the time.

I called my parents to let them know what is going on. No matter what the news is, good or bad, after I’ve talked to Connie, the next thought in my head is to tell my parents. No one in this world will ever understand me, love me or give me a sense of comfort like those three people.

My brother David called to check on Connie’s Dad, and he also had bad news to share. The mother of our cousin’s wife had passed away suddenly on Monday. Her story was eerily similar to Connie’s Dad in that she had started feeling bad on Friday and continued to feel bad through the weekend, but refused to seek treatment. She finally went to the Emergency Room on Monday, and while there had the last of several heart attacks that she had apparently been having and ignoring all weekend.

More bad news came on Tuesday, when a co-worker and friend back in the office at Oak Ridge let us know that her father in Colorado was having complications during what had been considered to be a minor surgery. A little over an hour later the news came that he had died on the operating table. She was understandably devastated, and also frustrated that she could not be there instantly for her mother. I could relate to that feeling. You can’t get there fast enough.

I will never forget the call I received a few years back. I was attending a conference in Sanibel Island, Florida, which is paradise compared to my typical travel locations. Midway through an eight day trip, I was having dinner with some fellow travelers at Cheeseburger/Cheeseburger when my brother Wayne called to tell me that my Mother was in the hospital and that she was not doing well. Her blood pressure had plummeted and she was drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctors said that family should be notified, which is never a good thing. He said he would call me as soon as he knew more.

I was trapped. There were no flights out that night and it was at least an 18 hour drive to Kentucky from South Florida. It was a miserable feeling, and an interminable hour waiting for an update. When it finally came, the news was better. She had stabilized, and the next morning she was even stronger. Surgery was planned for later that week, and I was able to be there. I was greatly blessed in that situation, but it also made me mindful of how delicate our hold on those we love can be.

Connie has two sisters and two brothers, and all five of them have been at the hospital throughout the week, taking turns staying with their dad each night. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Connie said it was good to be together. It was a rare time to just spend time with each other without the need to be somewhere else. All the other priorities and schedules that seem so important during any other week or any other day were pushed aside. There was nowhere else more important to be than right there.

Connie’s Dad continued to be weak and have problems with fever through the day yesterday, but this morning when she called her tone had changed. She was more of herself, and I could visualize her beautiful smile just from the sound of her “Good Morning.” When she had arrived at the hospital today, her Dad was out of bed and together they walked down the hall. He told her and her siblings that he felt better than he had in weeks.

Dan Dunkel is an optimistic man. In the twenty four years I have known him, I can’t remember a negative word ever crossing his lips. He is a retired Baptist Minister who actually lives what he preached. When he gave up his own mobility to stay home and care for his invalid wife, he started an email ministry that now reaches over 500 people each day. His positive outlook and spirit has touched many lives and invoked many prayers on his behalf this week. Last night, as he lay in his hospital bed, he told his five children that the first email devotional he would write when he gets out would be about how he is a little disappointed that he didn’t get to go “home.“ He said God must have decided it wasn’t his time.

His family and friends are very happy with God’s decision. We still want to see him. We want to read more of his PTL’s and hear his prayer at family meals. We still want to get his advice, hear his stories, and watch a UT ballgame with him. We are amazingly selfish creatures.

We desperately cling to life when we are surrounded by death or the threat of death. Even if you have a strong faith in the hereafter, it’s difficult to let someone go. This week the sting of death hit people I care about, and someone even closer was passed over for a time yet to be determined. It was a reminder to me, as I waited on those phone calls of good, bad and worse news, that we should never waste a minute of this constantly diminishing lifespan. We all have our own measure of sand in our individual hourglass. There are no guarantees how many grains are left to fall.

Survival of the Species

More than forty five years after the publication of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, and with the Sexual Revolution continuing to rage against job classifications, unequal pay and harassment in the workplace, it’s comforting to know that there are still some members of the fairer gender who have a burning desire to be a Mom. Forget annihilation through wars or global warming, the possibility that all women might toss aside motherhood for the satisfactions of career advancement would have been the true death blow to humanity.

Last year I was hopeful. Two strong women forged a path to some of the highest offices in our nation. When Hillary Clinton ran for President and Sarah Palin ran for Vice President, the message seemed be, “You can have it all!” Both were successful, strong and more importantly…mothers. Sarah took that message several steps further by having five children, the youngest born while she served as Governor of Alaska! It seemed inevitable that one of these women would land in the White House, finally proving that mothers truly are the most powerful people in the world.

Sadly, both of these women lost their bids for election, and the primary reason had to be the medieval notion that motherhood would only hold a woman back. It couldn’t have been anything else.

I grew concerned that there would be a drastic drop in pregnancies after the election. Women would realize that childbirth would mark them for failure. The distractions of raising children would draw focus away from other, more important things. Choices had to be made, lines had to be drawn, and birth control adhered to religiously.

And in one hundred and fifty years…our planet would be ruled by the monkeys. Charleston Heston would be proven right. Damned dirty apes, indeed.

But in January 2009, Nadya Suleman attempted to repopulate the world all by herself. In what seemed to be a one woman effort to establish motherhood domination, she added to her already large brood of six by giving birth to eight more. Like any good Superhero or Super heroine, she even has her own cool comic book name: OCTOMOM! Single, jobless and bankrupt, her motto isn’t “you can have it all,” but “if you give birth, money will come.” Young women everywhere are following in her fine example by offering fertility clinics 25% of the profits on all future book deals, reality shows, photo shoots and mall appearances...if they will only pump them full of embryos. The race to see who can have nine, ten or better yet, an even dozen babies is on. The winner gets a replica of the Partridge Family bus and a plastic surgery gift card to remove up to 15 pounds of overstretched tummy skin.


With the credibility of motherhood reestablished, other women are stepping into the limelight as well. Publicity shy Angelina Jolie, who has quietly adopted over six hundred children in the last 10 years, shocked the entertainment industry and tabloid journalists recently with the news that she had given birth to twins in July of 2008. In the last few months, she has announced the desire to adopt more children, claiming that she has plenty of money to hire staff to love and care for her kids. (Brad Pitt stands quietly in the background, holding two toddlers and a diaper bag and thinks "I gave up Jennifer Anniston for this?")

Not to be outdone, Madonna ditched her husband so she could have more love to give to another adopted child. On a dual mission to save children from a lifestyle of poverty and oppression while also sleeping with as many Dominican baseball players as possible, her time is limited, but her dedication is steadfast. Undeterred by an African judge’s ruling that she not be able to adopt a young girl, Madonna promises to continue fighting until she can take that child home and hug her to her cone shaped chest. There truly is nothing quite like a mother’s love.

Finally, I heard this week the news that dreams of motherhood can tame even the wildest hearts. It is being reported that Amy Winehouse is considering adoption. Although, she would love to have children on her own, she unfortunately sold her uterus in 2007 for three rocks of crack cocaine. Also, she is very afraid what a pregnancy might do for the artistic integrity of her various tattoos.

As these ladies are celebrated in the media, set forth as examples of maternal love and selfless existence, I know that now I can rest easy, secure in the knowledge that motherhood, and therefore the survival of the species, has been restored to its rightful glory. Bless their hearts.

Under a Bitter Moon

Hate is far too strong a word, but I really don’t like a 13 year old I have never met before. I don’t like his parents either. In fact, I doubt I would like anyone in his entire family or close circle of friends. There might possibly be a second cousin, definitely an outcast, in whom I might find some redeeming qualities, but for the most part, I think I would find them all fairly offensive.

I’ll try to explain, but I have to warn you that my justification for this little tirade will probably seem petty and web thin, but that’s all I have, so you’ll just have to deal with it.

I have been staying at a fairly large hotel in Rockville, Md. While discussing my weekend plans with some friends of mine on the staff, I learned that there was going to be a rather large event held there on Saturday evening. Having worked in the hotel industry in the past, I was curious about the function and asked some questions, which they were gracious enough to answer.

I learned that a prominent local family would be holding a Bar Mitzvah for their son. “That’s nice,” I said, appreciating the tradition and the celebration, “how many people?”

“Two hundred,” I was told. That’s some party, I thought, so I asked how much…and that’s when I got angry. “$180 per person.”

For those of you without an internal calculator, that’s $36,000! Of course, that doesn’t count the extra costs, like the DJ, the gift bags for each attendee (I tried to sneak down and get one, but the hired security looked pretty serious about keeping the scavengers away). I also learned that the family was picking up the cost of the hotel rooms for guests who had travelled in from out of town. I’m not sure what the total ended up being, but if it was less than $50,000 then they were probably happy.

I strolled slowly through the lobby that evening, defiantly wearing my blue jeans, Big Dogs t-shirt, white New Balance walking shoes and Life is Good cap, while a parade of tuxedos, evening gowns and designer handbags passed me by. Not a single one made eye contact, and I guess it was pretty obvious that I was not going to be joining them in the Ballroom.

Part of me says that it’s just envy. Maybe I want to have that kind of money to lavish on my kids. That could be true. Everyone wants their kids to be happy. We want to be those parents who stand back, arm in arm, and watch our daughters or sons beam with joy at the gifts lay before them. I’m as guilty of it as anyone. I love that feeling when the girls run up to me, throw their arms around my neck and say “Thanks, Dad!” (In all honesty that doesn’t happen very often because they are a relatively ungrateful lot with extremely high expectations, but on the rare occasion that it does….it’s a good feeling).

And don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge this kid his Bar Mitzvah. He earned it. He has lived to the ripe old age of thirteen and deserves a massively expensive party in his honor. Just like those girls who have blessed the televisions screens with their humility and grace with those “Sweet 16” party shows. What kind of society do we live in when every teenage girl isn’t given a new convertible sports car for her 16th Birthday? Why isn’t that a part of the Stimulus Package?

There have always been the “haves” and the “have-nots” and that’s sort of what makes our great nation wonderful…the “have-nots” drive through the fancy neighborhoods of the “Haves” and imagine a better life. It’s the American Dream. Still, if fortune ever falls my way, and I have the money to spend on whatever I want, I hope that I do not blow fifty thousand dollars on a party that could pay for some kid’s college education, a home for Habitat for Humanity or several families mortgage for six months. That is the example I would want to set for my kids, and a better gift than a sinfully wasteful excuse to show off for my rich friends.

Who knows though, I may be wrong. If I actually had that kind of money…I just might do that for my kids. But I’m pretty sure that when I am writing that check or handing over my credit card, I wouldn’t like myself very much either.


p.s. My kids are not really "ungrateful," but I was on such a rant that some of my bile spilled over on them. Sorry kids...when I get home, I'll buy you something nice!

Musings on Museums and other stuff...

Yesterday was one of the rarest of rare days that I had entirely to myself. Going home for one day did not make sense when the possibility of a flight delay or cancellation could have caused problems getting back, so I stayed here in lovely Rockville, Maryland. I had dreams of sleeping late, but my internal clock would not allow that and I was up before 7am. It had been a few years since I had done the “tourist” thing in DC, so I decided to head down the Monuments and the Museums and see what had changed.

I took the Red Line train to Metro Center, with plans to switch to the Blue Line and get off at the Smithsonian, but I changed my mind when I saw the massive crowd of red shirted pre-teens standing at the top of the escalators. I could see that their chaperones were trying to herd them in the right direction, but the kids were so full of early morning energy that they seemed to have little interest in doing what they were told. I glanced over the railing to see that the Blue Line platform was full of more young people, dressed in varying shades of t-shirt colors, and that was when I decided to walk.

It’s about seven blocks from Metro Center to the National Mall if you leave the Metro from the correct exit, which I did. Unfortunately, I turned the wrong way and walked two blocks in the opposite direction before I realized what I was doing. In my defense, I had not had coffee at that point.

Being flexible, I decided to make the best of my detour and circle around to see the newly renovated Ford’s Theatre. When I reached the intersection of 10th and F Streets, I realized that there was no point going further. The sidewalks were full of school groups and families, lines stretching to the far corner and beyond. Once again, I altered my plan. Ford’s Theatre would wait for another day.

It was a beautiful morning to walk. The sun was shining brightly, but the air was still cool. I found a little diner where I grabbed a quick breakfast and some coffee to go. Without the obnoxious rush of weekday traffic, the streets were pleasant. No honking, no delivery trucks belching black fumes. By the time I reached Constitution Avenue, I was in good spirits.

I had heard about the new Lincoln Exhibit at the American History Museum and I was anxious to see it, but I decided to make a quick run through the Natural History Museum first. Inside, I grabbed a brochure and immediately recognized what I wanted to see first. There was a new exhibit on the second floor called “Written in Bone, Forensic Files of the 17th Century Chesapeake.” I waded through the crowd of youngsters and families and made my way upstairs.



The exhibit was fascinating, detailing the exhumation of graves from Jamestown and other Chesapeake area settlements, and describing the science of how the bones gave clues into the daily lives of those people. As with all exhibits I have encountered in Smithsonian museum, it was meticulously detailed and beautifully displayed. As I roamed the maze of bones, photos and recreated burial sites, I could feel the history of the Chesapeake area come alive. That is the magic of the museums, reminding us that we are a part of something much bigger than ourselves.

Toward the end of the exhibit, there was a Forensics Laboratory, where you could examine and even hold different bones. Staff were present to explain (and protect) the bones, and I struck up a conversation with one about Dr. Bill Bass, famous for developing the University of Tennessee’s Body Farm. Having read his books and attended some of his lectures, I am a big fan. The young lady told me that an Anthropologist who died in 2002 had requested that his body be donated to the Body Farm for research and then his bones brought to the Smithsonian for display. When his dog died soon after, both of their bones were used to create an exhibit which was just outside the lab. She also told me that his wife has requested her bones to be added to the display when she passes. I thought this was all extremely cool.

Having no desire to see the Hope Diamond again and growing tired of the crowds, I made a quick pass through the Oceans, Orchids and Mammal exhibits and left the Natural History Museum. When I came out into the bright open area of the National Mall, I was a bit overwhelmed by the vast number of people everywhere I turned. I started visiting DC on a regular basis just after 9/11, so the tourist business had been drastically impaired. I think that spoiled me a bit. When I first visited the museums and the monuments, there were people, but not masses of humanity. Tourism is back in full swing in DC, and although I completely understand it, I don’t particularly like being in the middle of it.

I made my way down to the Museum of American History and thought as I entered its doors, what an incredible thing John Smithson did for this nation. Despite the fact that he had never stepped foot on our shores, he had an interesting stipulation in his will. He ordered that his fortune be passed to his one heir, a nephew named Henry James Dickinson. The will further stipulated (and I think this part is very interesting), that if his nephew died without either “legitimate or illegitimate children” then the money should go "to the United States of America, to found at Washington, an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men." Fortunately for us, when the nephew died in 1835 he had no heirs, legitimate or otherwise, and the Smithson fortune worth $508,318 was sent to the United States to develop his legacy.

In his wildest dreams, I’m sure James Smithson could have never imagined the scope of that legacy today. Currently there are 19 museums, the National Zoo, and 9 research centers funded by the Smithsonian Institution. In an incredible gift to not just the American people, but the visitors who come here from all over the world, all of the museums and the zoo are completely free (as long as you stay away from the museum stores, cafes and snack bars). There are over 136 million items in its collections, and they have an average yearly admittance of over 25 million people. In the last three months alone, nearly one million people have visited the Museum of American History. In fact, I think they were all there on Saturday.

I wove my way through the awestruck tourists and first-timers to the East Wing escalators. Lincoln awaited, and I was excited to see what the museum had waiting for me. When I got to the entrance of 3 East, I realized that what was waiting on me was an extremely long line. Imagine Disney World on a Summer Day. School groups and families, strollers and wheelchairs, crying kids and fanny packs. It was a nightmare.

I felt bad for these people. The line didn’t seem to be moving AT ALL. Those who had actually made it inside the exhibit were no doubt taking their sweet, loving time. This might be their one and only trip to DC and the glory of these magnificent museums. They were going to read every word on every placard. They were going to examine the photographs and the heirlooms. They were going to imagine the recreations coming to life around them. It was their right, and honestly, I didn’t blame them one bit.

Unlike most of these people, I had options. A bright flashing sign erupted in my head reading “YOU ARE HERE TWICE A MONTH, MORON!” The sign kicked me with two blatantly obvious notions: 1) I was in DC an average of twice a month, so there was no need to stand in line like this when I could easily come back on one of my other numerous visits, and more importantly 2) If I am in DC an average of twice a month, why do I not make a greater effort to come to the museums?

The answer, as with most things in my life that I look back at and frown upon, is that I am a spectacular procrastinator, and more than a little bit lazy. It takes effort to be enlightened and entertained, and it’s so much easier to choose to do nothing.

As I watched the line of folks who had spent their own, hard earned money to drive or fly to DC, who had planned this trip for months (and maybe dreamed of it for years), and as they stood in line because they didn’t have a choice to return on a weekday afternoon in two weeks when the crowd will be much lighter, I felt pretty pathetic. I have gotten into quite a rut of retreating to my room each evening, settling for reruns on USA and TNT networks or browsing the Internet, watching or reading about other people who are actually doing interesting things.

Defeated by the crowds and slapped around a bit by my conscience, I decided by lick my wounds by visiting Fonzie’s jacket and the Seinfeld “Puffy Shirt.” I knew that if anything could make me feel better, it was the “puffy shirt.” When I reached 3 West and the “Thanks for the Memories” wing, I found the other half a million people who were not in line for the Lincoln exhibit. No “puffy shirt” for me, I decided. My lesson in DC tourism, school trip schedules and family vacations was complete.

I wandered back out to the sparse grass and trodden dirt of the Mall and appreciated the impressive bookends of the Capital and Washington Monument. I contemplated a walk to the other side of the Mall where the World War II, Vietnam, Korean and Lincoln Memorials honored the heroes of our nations past. Much as I love them, I could see the throngs of people heading that direction, and I decided that one more person would just be in the way.

Instead, I just sat on a park bench for good long while, watching as parents held the hands of their toddlers, kindergartners and even teenagers. Next week, when they are back home and in their routine again, those teens and parents probably won’t be speaking much. The parents will be rushing to get to work or running errands, worried about bills and how to pay for what they had to put on their Credit Cards while in DC. The teens will be texting and worried about who likes who. I hope the memory of their trip lingers though, and the feeling of visiting the Smithsonian Museums, taking photos of each other in front of Monuments, and most importantly, holding hands with each other as they walked across the National Mall. Those are the things that really matter.

Bruce vs. the Room Service Menu

After a couple of chilly, cloudy days, it was nice to take a walk in the sunshine this afternoon. I checked into my second hotel of the trip, contemplated the room where I would spend my next fourteen nights and decided to get out whenever I had the opportunity. I also needed to stock up.

It’s all about the money on the road. Hotel vending machines can charge $2.00 or more for a bottled water or soft drink. The hotel stores are no better. They profit on the desperation of exhausted travelers and pray for rainy days when people like me stare out the window and try to decide if it’s worth the walk to a nearby store. They know that a large percentage of us will give in to the lure of a quick, precipitation free, but outrageously expensive bottle of water and bag of trail mix. No doubt they have spent a small fortune on consultants who tell them just how much they can push the price envelope based on the prevailing weather in the area.

There’s a Walgreens about four blocks from the hotel and I’ve made that trek many times. You can’t always find a grocery store or a Wal-Mart when you’re travelling, especially if you don’t have a rental car, but you can always find a Walgreens, Rite Aid, CVS or Revco. Usually there are two or three bunched together, the same way a Lowe’s always seems to build across the road from a Home Depot.

I used to buy a pack of Diet Cokes, but I’m on a “no soda” kick right now, so I’m saving some money there. I can grab an extra bottle or two of water from our meeting area for my room and save a little more. Primarily though, I have to keep some food in my room to stop me from eying the room service menu. That menu is like the Sirens call to bored and lonely travelers. I don’t know about other people, but I usually glance at the menu soon after I check into my room (it doesn’t take a genius to look at me and know that food is near the top of my priority list). I glance at the prices, but I’m basically checking only two things:

• Do they have Hot Wings on the appetizer menu?
• How much are the Burgers?

Hot Wings may not seem like that big a deal, but in general I have found that if they do not have Hot Wings, the rest of the menu will be over-priced and probably full of “snob-food.” If they have excluded Hot Wings but included “Hummus” on their appetizer menu, I know immediately that the prices will be too high, the portions too small and the burger will be called something like “chopped angus steak” or “le burger de fromage.” I usually just close the menu in disgust.

Still, after a long day of meetings, the thought of going out to dinner is not very appealing. The only thing worse than eating alone is eating with co-workers who I have already spent the day with. It’s not that I don’t like my co-workers, because for the most part I genuinely do, it’s just that by the end of the day I like to unwind and put the day behind me. Seeing the same faces and talking about the same issues doesn’t really help with that. Besides, I’m a loner…a rebel.

So the options are minimal. If I’m lucky, there’s a takeout place nearby. If the weather is nice, I can walk there and get something to take back to my room. I can also order delivery from Pizza Hut or some local Chinese place (but some hotels don’t allow them to deliver to the rooms, so I have to go the lobby and pick up my order, which kind of defeats the purpose of ordering in the first place). It’s a sad evening ritual, trying to decide what to do, and the longer I ponder my choices, the louder the call of that room service menu becomes. Being weak, I pick it up and glance through it again. Sure, it doesn’t have Hot Wings, and the burger is priced almost as much as a ribeye at the Outback, but I could kick off my shoes if I ordered room service. I wage an internal battle, reminding myself that it’s not just the outrageous menu price, it’s the $3.00 delivery charge, plus tax and the 18% service charge. I always wonder, “Is that gratuity? Do I still need to tip the delivery person?” I tip them anyway, partly because they have carried my food and it seems like the thing to do, and also because they’ve now seen my messy hotel room and me with my socks off.

I do the math in my head and quickly realize that I can easily spend close to twenty five dollars on a burger! That’s insane. I close the menu forcefully.

However, the menu voice argues, it’s just one night. What’s your time worth? What’s the value of your need for relaxation? You have not spent a dime on food today (thanks to your partaking of the continental breakfast and afternoon meeting snacks). You would still be saving a good bit of your per diem for the day.

At this point I would be halfway through an episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent or NCIS , shows that I never watch at home, but find absolutely magnetic in a hotel room. I would really like to find out who the killer is. “Treat yourself Bruce,” I hear that little voice say, “You deserve it.”

Having food in my room can help avoid the menu debate. I had requested a refrigerator and the hotel graciously complied, so I knew I could purchase items from the Walgreens cooler. They did not have sandwich meat, which was disappointing, because that would have solved my meal dilemma entirely. They did, however, have milk, and on the next aisle they carried a fine selection of cereals. Yummy, I thought, and purchased some Cheerios and a package of environmentally safe bowls. I was set for dinner. I also grabbed some almonds and bag of dark chocolate miniatures to have some kind of snacks. I carried the purchases back to my lodgings confident that I had defeated the menu monster.

Last night, when I returned to my room after working, I quickly realized I had made a fatal mistake. I had purchased the cereal, the milk, and even the bowls to take care of my in room dining, but while patting myself on the back in the aisles of Walgreens, I had forgotten to purchase a spoon. This disrupted my entire plan. I briefly considered just drinking the cereal from the bowl like a child would do, but the vision of spilling milk and wholesome little O’s all over myself was vibrantly clear in my head and sadly accurate based on all past experience.

The menu beckoned, the voice barely restraining laughter at my fruitless attempt to circumvent the inevitable. Defeated, I ordered the expensive burger, and it was good, but more importantly I received a nicely rolled black napkin containing a full set of silverware. As the room service menu watched in silence, I wrapped the shiny silver spoon in the black napkin and hid it in my sock drawer.

Tonight, I shall dine like a King on my own terms…eating Cheerios in a bowl of fresh, cold milk while watching NCIS with my shoes kicked off. And the Room Service Menu will spend the night in the closet.

Reading Tea Leaves

I have arrived in DC on the evening of tax day. I missed the tea party by about 5 hours, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Sweet Tea, so I don’t think I would have liked it anyway. In fact, it turns out that it wasn’t much of a party at all. Protesters arrived in Lafayette Park with one million bags of tea and plans to dump them in a symbolic gesture of civic unrest. Unfortunately, they forgot to get the proper permits and were forced to pack up their rain soaked tea bags and leave. Personally, I find it pretty hilarious that a group dedicated to protesting government waste completely squandered not just the cost of one million tea bags but also a golden opportunity to make strong visual statement. On second thought, this whole situation might not be that funny.

In Texas today, Governor Rick Perry spoke at a Tea Party rally in Austin (one of three he attended) and suggested that Texas might secede from the Union because of Federal mismanagement of tax dollars. "There's a lot of different scenarios," Perry said. "We've got a great union. There's absolutely no reason to dissolve it. But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, you know, who knows what might come out of that. But Texas is a very unique place, and we're a pretty independent lot to boot." The audience waved flags and signs reading “secede!”

It’s interesting how upset people are about taxes, big government and the Stimulus package. They are so angry with our government and its leadership decisions that they want to break apart our nation. Fox News is calling it a “grassroots movement” and Glenn Beck is inviting families to take their kids out of school to join in, “see history being made.” This is a red, white and blue, apple pie eating, all-American day for true patriots.

Sarcasm aside (at least for a minute), I believe our country was founded on people standing up for what they believe in. The founding fathers risked their lives to establish the rights and liberties that we so freely enjoy today. Unfortunately, the passion and intelligence of a John Adams or a Thomas Jefferson are missing in the self-serving oppositions currently being flaunted. I may be a little jaded, but the politicians on either side of almost any issue are primarily interested in only one thing: re-election. And the throngs of protesters who show up...signs in hand, fists in air and chants on their breath...only do so based on which political party is currently in office.


I admit that I may have some residual frustration and a little bit of “are you kidding me?” response to these patriotic protesters who are so angry with our government and its leadership. My problem is that I still vividly remember getting ugly looks, verbal lashings and the threat of familial exile for even suggesting that our invasion of Iraq was ill conceived and irresponsible. Yes, just five short years ago I was deemed “un-patriotic” for questioning our government and its leadership. People like me didn’t love our great country and didn’t support our troops. (Funny, I kind of thought wanting them to be at home with their families and not dying was pretty supportive, but we all have the right to our opinion).

Now the name calling is even worse. I’m not just “unpatriotic,” I am also a “socialist,” and probably a “communist” too (although I doubt many of those who would say that know the difference). We’ve got lots of other dirty words in our vocabulary today, like “liberal” and “right wing extremist.” The use of either one conjures up abstract images of unfettered evil (depending on your political viewpoint).

It may not surprise me, but it definitely saddens me that this groundswell of protests that is being idealized as “patriotic” revolves around MONEY. I have to admit that I am also concerned about the growing National Debt and the possibility that the Stimulus Plan might not work. From where I sit and with the job I have, I see massive amounts of goverment waste. It's been going on for years and encouraged by both parties. There are entire Departments of the goverment that I believe could shut down today and the only people who would even notice them missing tomorrow would be those who do not continue to get a paycheck.

Part of my problem with these protests is the timing. Most of it has the bitter feel of sour grapes. It's not a generic, honest protest on Big Goverment or those people would have been picketing the White House while the Department of Homeland Security was created and swollen to a bloated, unweildy size. We HAVE created a monster...and it's been out of control for a long time. These protests stink of anger and frustration over the loss of an election and more importantly the loss of idealogical control. The frustration is understandable, I have felt some of that in the past as well. However, there's an ugly double standard at play here. The suggestion that it’s somehow okay to threaten secession and wave hate signs for a President over money, while questioning the purpose and justification of sending soldiers into harm’s way is not…well, there’s something fundamentally wrong with that.

The Egg and I

When I was a kid, I always wondered what Easter Eggs and bunnies had to do with the resurrection of Christ. How we got from the Cross to Peter Cottontail seemed like a pretty big stretch. I didn’t give it a lot of thought, I’m sure, because I had eggs to hunt and chocolate to eat, but it did hang around in the back of my mind.

Thanks to the wonders of Google, I finally learned the intricate history of the Easter celebration and how it came to involve decorated eggs and basket bequeathing rabbits. The egg has apparently represented “rebirth” and “new life” for thousands of years. The ancient Persians painted eggs for Nowrooz, their New Year celebration, which falls on the Spring Equinox. The Nawrooz tradition has existed for at least 2,500 years. A hard-boiled egg dipped in salt water is part of the Jewish Passover Seder and symbolizes the Passover sacrifice. Pre-Christian Saxons had a Spring Goddess called “Eostre,” who was celebrated at a feast on the Vernal Equinox (around March 21). Her favored animal was the Spring Hare, which represents the fertility of spring and the abundant opportunity for new life.

Pope Gregory the Great ordered his missionaries to absorb old religious rites and festivals into Christian rituals when possible, so the Christian celebration of the Resurrection of Christ was ideally suited to form out of traditions set forth from the Pagan feast of Eostre. Thus began the celebration of Easter and the inclusion of eggs and rabbits. Now I know. Thank you, Google.

When I was growing up, Easter was a special day. A few weeks prior my mother would take us shopping for new Easter clothes. Sometimes it was even earlier, and those clothes would held for us in Layaway, somewhere in the back room of Lerman’s Department Store. It was always exciting. Easter was a day to look our best. We would wear those clothes again throughout the year, but we never looked as good as we did on that one Sunday in spring.

There are four extra special days in the Kid Year:

• Christmas
• Halloween
• Birthday
• Easter

Other days were good (last day of school, Valentine’s Day, etc.), but only those particular days held the mystery and promise of gifts and candy. What a wonderful thing to wake up on Easter Sunday morning to find a basket full of chocolate happiness. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, digging through that tangle of cheap green plastic grass, I searched for the treasures hidden within and that which had fallen to the bottom. It was great to be a kid.

On Easter Sunday the ladies in my church were stunning in their spring attire. Most had been to the beauty shop on Thursday or Friday to have their hair permed, colored and trimmed, and the few inches of hair you could actually see under their bright and flower adorned hats looked perfect. Even as a boy, on a day when candy mysteriously appeared in baskets delivered by a human sized rabbit, I had mind enough to notice the pretty dresses and hats. Our church was a small church, and our choir was not so much a choir as a group of people who just happened to stand in the choir loft and sang with everyone else. There was not an Easter Cantata, but as a congregation we always sang the standards: “He Arose,” “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” and “Because He Lives.” After the service, the older men would go out and hide eggs on the big front lawn, and I remember to this day the excitement of running on that crisp, cut grass, hunting through tulip beds and around sticky bushes.

Those were real eggs then, not the fake plastic ones we use today. No fancy glitter or stickers, just plain old colored eggs…and that was plenty good enough. Each family had brought some eggs for the hunt, and we had colored ours the day before, dipping them in that hot, smelly vinegar mixture that we had to use back then. My fingers will still be a little stained on Easter Sunday morning from handling the eggs while still wet. I didn’t mind.

At home Mom always had a good meal waiting for us, and although that was typical for any Sunday, on Easter there was an added degree of difficulty. She not only had to cook a small feast, she had to stop four kids from overdosing on peeps and cocoa products, get them ready and presentable, fix breakfast, clean that up, get dressed, and have us all ready to walk out the door when Dad was ready to leave. I’ve been involved with a lot of meetings and coordinated a lot of projects. I’ve seen a lot of war movies. I have never known anyone who could marshall the troops and maintain a schedule like my mother on a Sunday morning.

I know today we can’t leave a bread crumb out for fear of some kind of airborne bacteria causing food poisoning in less than five minutes, but back then Mom would leave green beans and corn covered on the stove, and Ham, chicken or casseroles in the oven, where the Reynolds’s Wrap would keep it from getting too brown and it would all stay warm until we returned after church. Somehow, by the time I had gone to my room, changed out of my Sunday best and returned to the kitchen, Mom had also changed clothes, reheated most of the food and set the table. She was like a NASCAR pit crew racing to get her family to the table, and she was always a winner.

Later, on those lazy, happy Easter afternoons, when the fullness of lunch was allowing us to walk again, we’d have another egg hunt. Some of the eggs had cracked by then and others were scratched a bit. They still hid just as well, and we had just as much fun. By evening we had hunted our last egg, and despite the fact that they had spent most of the day lying on the ground in the warm spring sun, we cracked them open and ate them with a dash of salt. We know better than that now, because those eggs should have killed us. Year after year, egg after egg…they never did. It could have been an Easter miracle, or just the innocence of a much simpler time, but I didn’t even get a tummy ache.

Home

I talked to my parents last night, and now I feel like the worst son in the world. I’m sure that’s not true, and I doubt I would even come in second (thank you Menendez brothers), but I’m feeling pretty bad about myself anyway.

I had planned to go home more often this year. I’m fortunate to have to two homes. The one I share with Connie and the kids, and the one that I was raised in. Mom and Dad still live in that home, soon to be fifty years. The rooms are much smaller now, and the yard…which once fielded kickball games and bike races…now seems hardly long enough to play a decent game of catch. But I was kid size then, and the world was much bigger. That yard was a war zone and a jungle. It was our playground and it was plenty. Summers in that yard were sweaty and dirty and full of adventure.

My brother David and I shared a room back then, and our beds ran alongside the wall by the window. In the summer we’d lay with our heads at the footboards, because that was where the window was. Downstairs, Dad had placed a window fan in the laundry room window and had it pointed blowing out. Footboard to footboard, head to head, we lay there in that open window as the air drafted over us and raced downstairs to be forced out through the humming blades and back outside to cool further in the dewy night.

Many nights we’d lay there quietly, watching the stars and listening to the far off sound of trucks dropping gears on the hill just past our exit two miles away. The sound travelled so clearly at night. We could imagine them driving through the darkness, headlights beaming, hot thermos of coffee to keep the weary driver awake. We could see all this because we had seen it before. We had watched Dad leave many times, and had ridden with him enough to know how it looked when he checked his mirrors, dropped the clutch, shifted gears and eased into the road. It was real to me then and it is to me now. If I catch a whiff of diesel exhaust while driving, while Connie and the girls turn up their noses, I am taken back to my childhood, and I stay there as long as I can.

My last visit to my Kentucky home was just after Christmas. Our plan was to celebrate with the entire clan, swapping gifts and eating too much food. It seems that most of our traditions revolve around food, so it was fitting that food ruined our visit. On the way to there we stopped to eat a quick dinner. About an hour later, thirty minutes after arriving at Mom and Dad’s house, the long, ugly night of bathroom visits began.

All five of us were violently ill. Whatever we had eaten seemed to be eating us up inside. We were miserable. By 8:30 the next morning, with almost no sleep from any of us, I was sure of two things: we weren’t better and we couldn’t face my family that afternoon.

I love my family, but I also know my family. It would have been impossible to be quarantined. Someone would have broken through the shield to check on us, and with the dam broken, the flood of well meaning visitors would have started. We would have been killed with sympathy and stories about the time they too had food poisoning. That, plus the prospect of not having unrestricted access to the bathrooms forced me into the difficult decision of renting two hotel rooms nearby. Sad, weak and pathetic we left our gifts and the smell of Mom’s cooking and banished ourselves to the Best Western. The party went on, but we slept through it. Our holiday visit officially a disaster.

The plan was always to return soon. Probably within a month, but surely no more than two. Now it is mid-April and I still have no date set. How does life keep driving us away from what we so desperately want to do? I make excuses, and they seem like pretty good ones at the time, but as calendar days drop rapidly into the past, they look more and more like opportunities lost.

I call Mom and Dad and I ask what they are doing. Each week, they say the same thing. They are sitting in the den and they are doing okay. In my mind I can see them, Mom on one end of the couch and Dad in his chair. The Television flashes blue light across their faces. Every evening they sit…and I make excuses.

I wanna go home….

Little White Lies

I’m having a very hard time accepting that my oldest daughter, Shelby, is 18 years old. I’m having such a hard time that I have made the subconscious decision to ignore it altogether. My justification is that she’s still in high school and living in my home, but if it were not that, I’d probably come up with something else. She may be technically an adult, but I’m her Dad and she will always be that little girl holding her arms out for me to pick her up.

As she’s gotten older, we’ve had moments where we frustrate each other. I am fairly positive that I have frustrated her much more than she has frustrated me, but that’s probably true of every relationship in my entire life. I remember when she stopped looking at me with the wide-eyed, innocent awe of a child for her father and started looking at me with the bored, disillusioned stare of a teen. I think I amuse her, but not in the way I want to. I amuse her in the same way we watch American’s Funniest Home Videos and laugh when guys get hit in the crotch.

Like her sisters, Shelby gets her beauty, talent and grace from her Mom. Any awkward personality traits and particularly her tendency to resort to sarcasm as a means of communication, she gets from me. I am so proud. (You’d probably have to hear that last line in my head to know that it was “dripping” in sarcasm, but since you can’t be in my head…and be eternally grateful for that…just take my word for it.)

When any of the girls respond sarcastically, or try to make a joke that is just a little too personal, my wife just looks at me and shakes her head. My mother gives me the same look when I complain about Taylor’s incessant questioning of EVERYTHING. My sins are revisiting me, passed down to my girls like eye color and my love for macaroni and cheese.

One of the flaws that have returned to taunt me is my history of twisting the truth for the sake of a joke. Some would call this “pulling one over” or “tricking.” I like to consider it “creative” and “light-hearted teasing.” Those without a sense of humor simply call it “lying.” I think that is a serious over-reaction, and I will point out that I do have some firm personal policies regarding these “tricks” and stories I tell. First, it can do no harm. I would never tell someone that doing something is safe when it is not. Second, I would never intend to hurt anyone’s feelings. That does not include the degree they may feel tricked by the story, because I assume that they have a sense of humor, but rather I would not want to say anything mean-spirited or personally demeaning.

I have always had a decent ability to tell a story with a straight face. This has gotten me into trouble a few times. In an effort to be funny (which is all relative to the degree that you and those around you actually GET the joke), I’ve made statements that I thought were so OBVIOUSLY ridiculous and not true but my audience didn’t understand. “When did you have dinner with O.J. Simpson?” was an actual response after a throw away comment I made about hiding the cutlery. So …I have to be careful.

I’m constantly reminded that I do this kind of joking too often, and started far too early with my kids, because Taylor likes to say “you know you can’t believe what Dad says…” Ouch. It’s not that they think I’m a liar, but they never know when to take me seriously. Not a good thing. Sometimes I want them to take me seriously. Sometimes I desperately need them to take me seriously. I have to put on my “mean Dad” face for them to know that sometimes. None of us like that face.

Of course, kids mimic what they see their parents do. That’s a scary responsibility, and sometimes we see mirror images of ourselves that we don’t like. My kids picked up the sarcasm quickly, and fortunately their primary target is almost always me. They also try to get back at me for years of make believe stories by trying to pull one over on me occasionally. Usually they are not very effective, and I can see through their game pretty quickly. In general, they haven’t learned that for a story to be believable there has to be a thread of possibility running through it.

Last week, Shelby and her school choir attended a music festival in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. (When I was in school, we attended music festivals in Frankfort, Kentucky…which was twenty miles away. We stopped for lunch at Arby’s. We were back home the same day by 2pm. We thought it was a big deal). They left Thursday morning and came back Sunday night and had plenty of time in between for beach play, shopping, eating and general enjoyment in being young and away from the parents. Thanks to a Facebook message I sent to her Director, Shelby was finally guilted into giving us a call Friday evening and letting us know she was still alive.

Saturday, on our way to the airport for my current trip, Shelby sent a text to my cell phone. Nothing fancy, just letting us know how they did in the festival. I let Connie respond and she asked how the trip was going. Shelby’s response was this:

Got a little sunburn, but having lots of fun…got a tattoo last night. I’ll send a pic.

Now, let me first say that I don’t have a big issue with “tattoos.” They are not exactly my thing, but they definitely fall into my “to each their own” category. Personally, I do not want to defile my body with a tattoo. I’ve done enough of that with pizza and hot wings. Also, I really, really hate pain.

We received a pic, but it was a sunny day and we had the top down on the car, so we couldn’t see anything. I was a bit panicked. This was my little girl. This was my baby. I envisioned the name of some temporary crush etched permanently across her forehead or a full color drawing of the Jonas Brothers covering her back. Connie assured me that it was probably very small and tasteful. I agreed that I would be fine with that. She said that they had even discussed tattoos a few weeks before and Shelby had expressed some interest. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was like I didn’t know these women at all…or worse…they didn’t know me and how I might react.

We arrived at the airport and I kissed Connie goodbye…she gave me a hug and the bemused look that said she was going to say something but knew I would do the exact opposite. “Don’t worry,” she said, as she got behind the driver’s seat and buckled in to leave. I nodded and watched her drive away.

I was very worried. I dialed Shelby’s cell number and waited for her to answer. She finally did and I tried to be calm. We chatted a bit about the trip and what they had done until I could wait no more and brought up the tattoo. “It’s on my ankle, Dad, and not very big” she said, trying to make it sound like she had bought a pack of gum at the local store. “It’s a heart over a peace sign over a cross,” she said, and I was grateful for that. I said something about her being an adult, and she said, “yes, and this was my first adult decision on my own.” I was glad she didn’t say “mature,” because I might have chuckled. Making the decision to get permanent body art while on a beach trip with friends is not exactly the definition of maturity. Instead, she said “adult,” and as I’ve proved, time and time again, “adults” make mistakes all the time.

Inside the airport I found a dark corner and took another look at the picture Shelby sent. It was much clearer now. Holding the photo closer, I recognized that it had the look of a tattoo. I remember my Grandfather and the tattoos he got in the Navy. Pale blue with a little bleed from the lines. This had that look, but the drawings were rudimentary at best. Logic would tell me that it was a trick…probably drawn on by one of the girls she was travelling with. I could see them giggling in their hotel room, plotting the joke they would play on Shelby’s dumb old Dad.

Only this didn’t have the look of ball point ink on skin. The ink really looked in there…it really looked like a tattoo. I thought about Shelby. She’s not great with money, but she knew that she only had a certain amount to spend on this trip. What if she went looking for a bargain? I could just see Shelby and her friends roaming the streets of Myrtle Beach in search of “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Discount Tattoo Shop.” He was probably running a 5 for 1 special on Friday night!

I called Connie. She listened as I hyper-ventilated my concerns into the phone. “It looks horrible,” I told her. “It looks like something an eight year old with no artistic talent would draw!” (This could have been a slight exaggeration, but I was in a bad place).

Connie was calm and repeated her mantra, “don’t worry.” It did no good. I was nearly sick thinking about this ugly little drawing staining my beautiful daughters leg for the rest of her life. I ended the call with Connie because she was useless. She couldn’t make it go away and she didn’t even offer to drive to Myrtle Beach to retrieve our child. I boarded the plane for Washington and settled into my seat for more anxiety.

Twenty six hours later, Shelby returned home and Connie picked her up at the school. I called and talked to Shelby as they drove home. I listened as she told me details about her trip. Where they ate, what they had seen, who had been annoying, etc. She did not mention the tattoo and neither did I. It was torturous. Any other time I would have wanted to know all those other things, but in that particular call, all I really wanted to know about was the tattoo.

A little while later, Connie called and I immediately asked if she had seen “it.” She said she had, and agreed that it was not high quality art. My heart sank. I had already considered some possible ways to fix this. Acid removal would be painful and leave scars, so that would not go over well. The best way to deal with this would be to hire a better artist…no, make that the best Tattoo Artist we can find…and have them make something beautiful out of the rough sketch on her leg. It was the only way and I would make it happen. I would help my daughter fix what had been a very bad mistake.

“It’s Henna,” Connie said.

I almost cried. Henna meant it would all go away. The long nightmare was over.

Then it hit me. I had been played. Shelby had pulled a fast one on the master. She broke the first rule (which is “do no harm”), because I could have easily had a heart attack worrying about all of this, but it was a fairly spectacular illusion nonetheless. While I’m a little concerned that she could pull this off so effortlessly…and the ramifications of this type of behavior being used for nefarious reasons might give me many sleepless nights in the future, I still felt a tinge of pride. It was a good prank and I probably deserved a good burn. My daughter…I think I’ll keep her.

Of course, my revenge shall be unwavering and without pity. The gloves are off, baby. Be afraid…be very afraid.

Scary Stuff

When I was younger, I loved a good horror movie. Halloween, Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street and some of their sequels were great fun and I spent many Friday nights in a dark theater getting spooked and laughing at the idiots on screen who always seemed to go into dark rooms on rainy nights or investigated strange noises all alone. If and when they finally overpowered the crazed killer in the film, they always stopped just short of finishing them off, leaving one last good jump scare when the psycho rose up once again to chase and taunt them (and the audience) further. There was always room left for a sequel, and we left the theater happy and relieved to be going back to the safe haven of our lives.

I quit going to horror movies a while back. The movies had changed, turning nastier and becoming less of an escape than a brutal attack on the senses. The new movies even gained a new name. They weren’t just “horror movies” or “slasher films” anymore. Films like Saw and Hostel (and their sequels) have been successful with audiences, and have ushered in a new genre of horror accurately titled “torture porn.” The threat of death (which provided the suspense in older horror films) has been replaced with a series of intricately designed death traps and sadistic human on human sustained torture.

Of course, our culture loves violence in entertainment. Grand Theft Auto is an extremely popular series of video games which puts the player in the role of a criminal. You gain points by shooting or running people down with your car. Doom and many other games put you in charge of a variety of guns as you shoot your way through buildings, caves, streets, or anywhere there might be a worthy target.

As kids we had cap guns and plastic army weaponry. I still have a plastic gun that’s a replica of James Bond “Walther PPK.” I played war with friends and Cowboys and Indians with my cousins. We aimed toy guns at people we loved and pulled triggers. It was almost as fun to be the one who got shot and die spectacularly. We weren’t going to win Oscars, but there was satisfaction to be had in a good fall from a tree or a drop and roll while running. Today, there are more elaborate versions of those old back yard games. Laser Tag and Paintball businesses thrive today with both young and young at heart gleefully hunting and shooting their friends, family and even strangers. Like everything we do, it’s been taken up several notches to appease our desire for more.

If you are wondering where I am going with all of this, I have to say, “I don’t know.” I do know what got me thinking about these things, but it all depends on your perspective as to whether you think I’m on a ramble or a true, focused rant.

If you’ve turned on the news in the last few days, you’ve heard about three individual shooting incidents.

Fourteen dead in Binghamton, New York.
Three police officers shot dead in Pittsburgh.
Five children shot by their father in Graham, Washington.

These are not the first shooting incidents of this relatively young year, and unfortunately, I doubt they will be the last.

We’re approaching the 10th anniversary of the Columbine High School shootings. I remember staring numbly at the television screen on April 20, 1999 and watching as young people crawled out windows and ran from exits, desperate to escape the horror inside. It was not the first time a mass murder had taken place on American soil, but there was something about the photos, shown repeatedly after the tragedy, of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold…their faces like almost any other in any high school yearbook…that still haunt me to this day.

Since Columbine, there have been multiple incidents. So many that it seems that we aren’t even shocked anymore. Two have hit close to home for me, and particularly affecting two co-workers and friends. I was on travel with a woman whose husband was teaching at Campbell County High School on November 8, 2005 when word came through that there had been a shooting. The terror for her was real, and although we quickly learned that he was safe, the fact that he was only one room away when the shootings took place can give a person many sleepless nights wondering “what if?”

July 27, 2008 a gunman opened fire at the Tennessee Valley Universalist Church in Knoxville. Another co-worker and her family arrived a little late that morning, one of those frantic, “hurry up and get ready” Sunday mornings that many of us have had (and for some of us, it’s a weekly occurence). Being late might have saved their lives. Their teenage daughter was dropped at the door and came in behind the shooter as he was firing into the congregation. She is still dealing with what she saw and questions what she could have done, if anything, to have stopped him.

There have been hours and hours of debate and discussion, trying to establish a root cause for this random, cold blooded violence. Blame gets dumped on multiple causes: Parents, Television, Movies, Video Games, Guns, etc. It seems that the only thing that hasn’t been brought up as a potential cause is Global Warming, but I expect someone to start research on that soon.

What is the answer? How do we keep our children safe? How do we keep ourselves safe? Should we ban all guns? (That’s neither practical, nor in any way likely to happen). Censor Television, Movies and Video games; removing all violent content? (again, not likely to happen). Maybe we should imprison anyone who shows any kind of anti-social behavior (Just let me say goodbye to my family before you lock me up). There are no good answers.

Sadly, “no good answers” has led us down the destructive path of not doing anything at all. Sure, banning guns would mean that “only criminals will have guns,” but is it too much to ask why we are still manufacturing automatic and semi-automatic weapons? How many rounds do you need to fire in a minute to shoot a deer or to protect yourself from a home intruder? Don’t use the old “right to bear arms” debate when my children’s lives might be at stake. I absolutely agree with the argument that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” The problem is that people kill other people “with guns.” We have made laws which restrict the manufacture and sale of drugs (which in general only harm the person who takes them), yet we refuse to set permanent limits on the manufacture and distribution of automatic weapons (which are designed for one particular use: to kill and kill as quickly as possible).

I believe the Founding Fathers gave us a set of guidelines, but hoped that we would have sense enough not to abuse the privileges for selfish purposes or profit. Our personal rights and liberties should only go so far as they do not infringe upon the safety and liberties of others.

We’re a selfish society. We want to do what we want to do. We might get upset about the gun violence we see on the news, but how much will we personally sacrifice to try to slow it down or stop it? Will we give up violent movies? Video games that reward violence? Automatic weapons? Will we submit to metal detectors in all public buildings? Will we push for more research on the psychology of these killers so we can detect behavior indicators? How far are we willing to go?

Our answers are always the same:
“Why should I be punished for other people’s bad behavior?”
“I’m responsible with my guns.”
“I can watch a violent movie and not want to kill anyone! It’s just a movie!”
“I love to play video games and I can separate that from reality. I don’t kill people!”

I can’t argue with any of these answers. The truth is that it isn’t fair. You really shouldn’t have to do without any of these things. In a perfect world, we’d all be safe...all the time. My girls could go to school every day and I wouldn’t worry about who they might meet in the hall between classes. We could go to church and never have to wonder if someone agrees with our religion or viewpoint. We could drive down the street and never get caught in the crossfire of drugs or gang violence.

I can't even make a halfway decent argument that any significant changes in these areas will guarantee a difference. My cynical side keeps whispering in my ear that "crazy will find a way," meaning that even if we get rid of all violent images, abolish guns and make sure every child is well fed, hugged and loved through all its formative years, there's no way to stop some psychopath from finding a way to kill.

In my other ear, however, is another voice. That voice whispers, "so what? What if you can stop just one? What if you could only save one life?" And that's the real question: What are we willing to sacrifice if we could save just one life? The kicker is that you will never know if you did or not. You'll never know if your action, your sacrifice, made a difference. No parade, no medals, no picture in the paper. You're like that person at a party who is pretty sure they can drive home after a few drinks, but calls a cab anyway. Was it a waste of money, or did you prevent a tragic accident? We don't get second chances to find out, but it's always better to put others safety ahead of your own desires.

Like I said, it's not fair, but it’s really not a question of “fair.” It’s not about “freedom” and “liberty” or “conservative” vs. “liberal.” It should be a question of "where do we start?" and “what are we…as individuals…willing to do?” Like any problem, we shouldn’t look at it in our lazy, “there’s nothing I can do about it anyway,” type of response. We can do things. We can let our representatives hear our voices. We can demand stronger laws. We need to take a stand and throw every potential solution at the wall and see what sticks. Anything we do is better than not doing anything at all. The excuses we make are costing lives.

Keeping it Simple

I just had a great breakfast. You never know what kind of food you’re going to get when travelling. Hotel food is usually expensive and impersonal, prepared by chefs and not cooks. I always prefer a meal prepared by a cook. They taste their own food, and they worry more about that than they do how it looks. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be served a plate of purple goo that tastes great but looks like it was spit up by a yak. I just don’t need a plate that has been years in design, ready for the cover of Bon Appétit magazine.

I left the hotel this morning in search of a good breakfast, which absolutely is the most important meal of the day. It’s a beautiful day here in Bethesda, Maryland and the air is crisp. I thought of that word “crisp,” as I walked, and it reminded me of bacon. I can enjoy a good breakfast of cereal, even yogurt and granola can satisfy a morning hunger, but if I have my druthers, it’s always the basics: bacon and eggs (and on very special occasions, country ham). I am a fair to middling pancake maker for the ladies of my house, but I do not partake. I am just not a fan. I used to like sausage, but as I grew older and realized what goes into it, I pretty much lost interest. No, bacon might not be healthy, but what you see is what you get.

So I walked the unfamiliar streets of Bethesda, looking for bacon. At one point I saw the recognizable yellow humps of McDonalds rising in the distance, but I was not in the mood for familiar. I wanted a local place, owned and cared for by a family who make it’s living off the satisfaction and repeat business of the community. Meeting those people, and realizing that no matter where I go in this country there are always people like that to find, is a true fringe benefit of travel that I did not expect and appreciate more than I ever thought I would.

About eight blocks from the hotel, after walking past the closed doors of dry cleaners, realty offices and two Thai restaurants, I caught the unmistakable whiff of my goal. The source was not immediately apparent, but my nose was confident, and I was persistent. Like a detective on the trail of a clue, I checked the prevailing winds and continued up Wisconsin Avenue. At the next block I crossed, but then stopped, turned and looked down the side street. There it was…Tastee Diner. A couple was walking out the door, smiling and talking. He had a little grease stain on the front of his shirt. I had found the place I was looking for.

I opened the door and was hit by a blast of overwhelming olfactory goodness. Home fries with onions sizzled in a huge pile on one side of the wide, flat griddle, while French toast, eggs and pancakes laid claim to their own hot sections and were watched over by an attentive cook in the proverbial stained, white apron. The sound of the sizzling food was met by the relaxed Sunday morning chatter of couples and families, and the clinking of silverware against plain white dishes.

Like the best diners and local dives, it had booths along the outside windows and a long counter, equipped with padded, swivel stools. Of course, they were red. I was greeted by an old man, who I took as the owner patriarch, and was given the choice of booth or counter. Being alone, I chose the counter, but also because that is the best vantage point to view the efficiency of the operation. Barely had I settled myself onto the stool until I was presented with a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of water. The lady behind the counter welcomed me with a smile and a menu, and then left me alone. She was busy and I had choices to make.

There were no fancy names on this menu. I understood every word. It could have been a menu from my hometown in Kentucky or my current home in Tennessee, with just a few regional exceptions. We don’t serve “Scrapple” in the South, but I don’t see a lot of Spam or fried bologna on the menus up here either. In general, they don’t serve biscuits and sausage gravy, although some places do have chipped beef gravy. Sometimes you take what you can get, but I usually leave the “chipped beef gravy” for the desperate.

(To save you some time, here is the definition of Scrapple, per Wikipedia: Scrapple is a savory mush of pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal and flour, often buckwheat flour. The mush is formed into a loaf, and slices of the scrapple are then fried before serving. Scraps of meat left over from butchering, not used or sold elsewhere, were made into scrapple to avoid waste. Scrapple is best known as a regional American food of Delaware, Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Maryland.) I have not, nor will I ever eat Scrapple.

I’m a basic kind of guy, and I chose a basic kind of breakfast. Two eggs (over medium), bacon and wheat toast. When the waitress asked if wanted “home fries” I could not resist and said “sure.” With the order out of the way, I was able to observe a little. It was fascinating.

I believe a lot of servers at mainstream restaurants count on the price of the menu to supply them with tips. A couple having dinner on an average night will easily spend $40 on a meal, affording the server a decent tip on even mediocre performance. A diner worker doesn’t have the benefit of expensive food. Quality of service and turnaround on available seats is key. Watching the workers of Tastee Diner was a study in the art of efficiency and teamwork. Although they had their own stations, if they were at the window when the cook presented a plate, they grabbed the food and took it to the grateful customer. My food came to me hot, potatoes steaming. Coffee pots filled any cup, and I doubt any cup ever reached a level of empty.

My eggs were just right, not a yolk broken and the whites firm but not overcooked. It’s an art that even the finest chefs in France might never master, but Diner cooks seem to get right most of the time. The potatoes were amazing. I usually prefer the smell of fried potatoes to the taste. I took a bite of these, expecting to leave most of them on the plate. It was the bacon and eggs I really wanted, but the potatoes surprised me. They had not been afraid to cook them, taking them to the point of crunchy, but not burnt. They had been seasoned just right and fried with real butter, not just oil. The serving was generous, and I quickly decided that this would be Brunch, not just Breakfast, and that I would need to walk a few extra blocks on the way back to the hotel. It was worth it.

What had brought me there, enticing me from the street, was the bacon, and it did not disappoint. Three pieces, fried just right (which means crispy enough to break and not have to tear, and all the corners of it evenly done). I carefully rationed the bacon throughout the meal, careful not to waste it or rush. Nothing is worse than having eggs or home fries still on your plate but no bacon left to balance the flavors. As carefully prepared as the meal had been, I was just as careful in its consumption.

The toast was coated lightly with real butter, not some oily spread. Saving the last half piece for some Smucker’s Strawberry jam dug from a peel and eat cup gave me a nice little dessert. It was the perfect end to a perfect diner meal.

While I ate a father and young daughter came in and sat at the counter a few stools from me. It was soon obvious that this was a regular Sunday date for them. The servers knew them by name and asked the girl about school. She was brought a large, cold glass of chocolate milk and her face lit up. It doesn’t get any better for a kid.

I didn’t stay long after I finished eating. I quickly finished off my last cup of coffee before someone tried to refill it and dropped my two dollar tip by my plate. I paid on my way out the door, like you do at all good diners, and gave one last look around before stepping back out into the sunshine. In the time I had been there, many new faces had arrived, taking the rapidly cleaned tables of those who had just left. My own spot had been cleared and wiped down, ready for another lone person in need of a good meal and a friendly smile.

Walking away I felt a strong comfort in the knowledge that there are diners just like Tastee Diner all over the United States, and maybe the world. Most have been there for years. Family owned, serving good food and a welcoming atmosphere that is that rarest of refuge from the commercial, freeze-dried paint by numbers options lining the edges of suburbia. It’s more than a business to them. It’s their life. They don’t make menu choices in the boardroom. They don’t bring in consultants to tell them how to do their jobs. They just serve good food. It really is that simple.