A recent study claims that despite new laws banning the act of texting while driving, the percentage of accidents due to texting might actually be increasing. The study suggests that now that drivers can be stopped, ticketed and fined when they are seen texting by police officers, they have not discontinued their behavior, but are doing so in a more discreet manner. Instead of holding the phone at windshield level (where their actions can be viewed), they are holding their phones lower; therefore taking their eyes and concentration even further from the road.
How stupid are we?
I won’t go into the numbers. The statistics are overwhelming regarding the percentages of drivers who text and the number of deaths caused by distracted drivers. Do a Google search: “Texting while driving.” Pages and pages of the same data will be available to you, but do you really need it? Does it take a genius to know that this is an incredibly dumb and dangerous thing to do?
In today’s world, texting is becoming the default communication. It’s the way teens (and a lot of adults) talk. Many feel that not responding to a text immediately is the same as ignoring someone who asks you a question face to face. Even while driving, they consider it “rude” not to answer.
Amazingly stupid.
Like all idiotic things people do on the road (speeding, aggressive driving, driving while under the influence), it wouldn’t be so bad if they had the road completely to themselves. We have all heard the expression “they think they own the road.” Apparently, many people actually do.
When I heard of a single car accident in Knoxville a few months back where the driver was killed while racing down a busy street at speeds in excess of 120mph, I felt bad for the family (and no matter how an accident happens, there will be pain and loss experienced by someone), but I was also glad that this person was no longer on the road. I drive that road with my family. My wife drives that road. My daughters drive that road.
People get behind the wheel of their car and forget the awesome responsibility that they are taking on. The crushing weight, speed and power of the vehicles we drive can change from a beneficial mode of transportation into a violently brutal weapon of destruction in a matter of seconds. Unlike the little Matchbox cars I pushed around my bedroom floor as a child, they are not toys.
We are spoiled and selfish. We want what we want. We get aggravated when someone is driving in the passing lane and going too slow (I’m as guilty of this as anyone). We fuss and fume when people do not race through a yellow light so that we can follow. We honk our horns if they do not floor it as soon as the light turns green.
We are not only the most important person on the road at all times; we are the only person who has the right to actually be there. I have places to go and things to do! Why don’t these people get out of my way? Why don’t they know where I am going? Where did they learn to drive?
Our excuses and justifications are endless:
I am an excellent driver.
I’ve never had an accident.
I’ve never had a speeding ticket.
I only had a couple of drinks.
I don’t text often…
It won’t happen to me…
I get angry about this kind of thing because it’s personal. It’s not just personal to me; it should be personal to all of us. My worst fear is that dreaded phone call or knock on the door, when someone’s moment of stupid might forever change my family’s future.
Part of me wants to grab my wife and kids and go hide somewhere deep in the Canadian woods (this is also my fall-back plan if Sarah Palin is ever elected President), but I’m not sure the kids could handle the lack of cell phone reception.
Yes…my kid’s text. So does my wife. Occasionally I even get my own chubby fingers to bang out a message. Like many things taken on their own, texting is not evil. It’s just the way that we opt to use it.
My kids know my rules. They know that if I ever find out that they are texting and driving they lose the phone (and a good bit of their driving privileges). They know that if they need to answer or make a phone call while driving, they need to pull over. They know these things. I pray they do these things, because I can’t be with them all the time (and I think they know that despite what I have told them in the past, I do not actually have a video camera hidden in the car).
I hope that if I have taught my children anything about responsibility, it is that they are not just responsible for themselves, but also those around them. As I’ve told my daughters many times, the only thing worse that causing an accident that gets yourself killed, is causing an accident that kills someone else and having to live with that the rest of your life.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Springs Eternal
It could be a long, rough, angry life if we didn’t have the ability to laugh at ourselves. If I’ve learned one thing about myself, it’s that I am a walking amusement park of stumbles and gaffes, so if I didn’t laugh I’d have a long row to hoe. As it is, I would rather giggle than fume, so I try to look at things with a reasonable perspective. As long as I haven’t hurt anyone else, I try to shrug off my goofs with a smile.
I was a clumsy kid; and apparently it was a very rare thing for me not to have some type of bandage, stitches, a plaster cast or a large, purple bruise somewhere on my body. If there was a tree root snaking through the grass, I would trip over it. If there was a slick spot on the hardwood floor, I would slip on it.
By the time I was twelve years old I had fallen face first into a galvanized bucket (8 stitches), rode my bike into a barbed wire fence (10 stitches) , crashed into a coffee table (5 stitches) and broken both arms. Trust me when I say that these are just a few highlights from a long list of injuries (and I have the scars to prove it), but I think you get the picture.
One of my greatest humiliations, and therefore the one that brings my children the greatest joy whenever they hear the story, was an incident that occurred in my freshman year of high school. At that time it was required that all ninth graders take Physical Education (or as I liked to call it: one miserable hour of unrelenting HELL in an otherwise stressful day).
When you are blessed with neither the slightest shred of gracefulness nor an ounce of athletic ability, the daily torture of attempting to perform a variety of seemingly impossible tasks while wearing a snug white t-shirt and ill-fitting white shorts gave new meaning to the term “awkward.” Like most kids who were teasingly called “pudgy” (at least on a good day), white was not my color. It was an incredible boost to my self-esteem. (sarcasm)
Of course, I was well aware of my own limits. When it was time to climb the big rope (which hung from the roof of the gymnasium some 40 or 400 feet above), I told my parents that I would probably fail the class. Not only was I completely positive that I did not have the physical ability to climb to the top of the rope, I was absolutely certain that when I inevitably lost my grip and slid downward with ever increasing speed, I would severely burn my hands and inner thighs in the attempt to stop. Between that foregone conclusion and a fairly strong aversion to the big knot at the bottom, I knew that my climb would not end well.
Through a careful balance of luck, skilled avoidance and faking sick, I was able to skip out on the joys of “rope-climbing” days.
The story that haunts me, however, even today, did not involve the rope. It was one of those winter days when we couldn’t go outside and run. Rather than play Volleyball, which was one of the few things I actually enjoyed, Coach Kuhl decided to teach us the intricacies of the trampoline.
For safety, he had us all gather around the outer edges of the trampoline. We were instructed to be careful of flying feet and elbows, but also that it was our responsibility to stop any of our fellow students who bounced wrong and became human projectiles. We braced ourselves to save lives.
I can still remember, very clearly, his detailed instructions on the proper mounting of the trampoline. From the narrow end of the stand, we were to grasp the frame firmly with both hands and jump straight up, dropping our head and pushing up with our arms so that we could tuck and roll smoothly on to the top. It looked very easy. He called on one of my more athletically inclined classmates to show us how it was done, and they did so with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.
In my deluded mind, I could see and feel myself doing the same. Jump, push, lift, tuck, roll…I could do this.
Although the class was not officially co-ed, there were certain activities in which the girls having class during that period joined the boys. Trampoline day was one of those days. In hindsight, I’m not sure it was a spectacularly great idea to have teenage boys and teenage girls watch each other jump up and down on a trampoline in tight white t-shirts and shorts, but I personally have no memory of it being a problem or a distraction. I was completely focused on the task at hand.
As each student took their turn, we slowly rotated around the trampoline frame. When I finally reached the end of the line, I was ready. I grasped the frame like I was supposed to, then waited for the Coach to give me the nod to go ahead. I closed my eyes and talked myself through the mounting steps.
I jumped…and felt myself rising. I dropped my head…chin to chest, just as I had been told. My arms tightened and lifted my body even further….then I felt myself tuck and start to roll forward. I could feel the watchful stare of forty pair of eyes upon me. I was almost there…
…and then my forward momentum stopped.
It took a moment to realize where I was and what I had done. I was not lying on the black mat of the trampoline like I should have been. I was still gripping the padded frame with both hands and my feet were flailing wildly above my body. Somehow (and I find this particularly amazing considering the size of my noggin), as I tucked and rolled, my head slipped between two of the heavy springs which provide the bounce in the trampoline and got stuck.
I’m not sure what this must have looked like to my classmates. I’ve tried to visualize it in a way that looked somewhat natural or even cool, but after years of trying I have accepted that it is impossible. I was stuck upside down, legs flopping wildly in all directions, head missing in the underworld of the trampoline.
My kids would rob a bank to buy a video of this.
I don’t know how long I stayed there like that. It seemed like hours. I don’t recall hearing laughter, although with my ears pinned so tightly in the grip of those springs, I don’t think I could have heard anything anyway. Eventually, Coach Kuhl got over his shock and came to my rescue. He grabbed the springs and spread them apart enough for my head to pop free. Fortunately, my legs were flopping in the direction of the trampoline, so I collapsed into a motionless heap…surrounded by a large group of my peers.
It took a while to get my body to move again, and I wasn’t up to bouncing or doing flips at that point, so I just rolled to the edge and slithered off the side. Although my legs were shaking I was able to stand and walk. Coach Kuhl said I could hit the showers early and it wasn’t until I was looking in the mirror in the locker room that I saw the striped red whelps that had burned into both sides of my neck and face. Small patches of hair were missing and later found still trapped between the tight coils of the trampoline springs.
I’m eternally grateful that this little experience took place in the days before cell phones and viral videos. I would not enjoy being a YouTube laughingstock.
Still, I can look back on it now and laugh. Not as hard as my kids do whenever they think of my head stuck in the springs of that trampoline. Not nearly as hard as my friend Thaddeus, who asks to hear the story again like it’s a child’s favorite bedtime story. Probably not as hard as any of my classmates whom I have foolishly hoped wiped it from their memory.
The only one who doesn’t laugh quite as hard is my sweet, loving wife Connie. She looks on with a balanced mix of compassion, good humor and concern. I’m pretty sure that the concern is not for me, though. I know that she is thinking, “Why did I marry this guy?”
I was a clumsy kid; and apparently it was a very rare thing for me not to have some type of bandage, stitches, a plaster cast or a large, purple bruise somewhere on my body. If there was a tree root snaking through the grass, I would trip over it. If there was a slick spot on the hardwood floor, I would slip on it.
By the time I was twelve years old I had fallen face first into a galvanized bucket (8 stitches), rode my bike into a barbed wire fence (10 stitches) , crashed into a coffee table (5 stitches) and broken both arms. Trust me when I say that these are just a few highlights from a long list of injuries (and I have the scars to prove it), but I think you get the picture.
One of my greatest humiliations, and therefore the one that brings my children the greatest joy whenever they hear the story, was an incident that occurred in my freshman year of high school. At that time it was required that all ninth graders take Physical Education (or as I liked to call it: one miserable hour of unrelenting HELL in an otherwise stressful day).
When you are blessed with neither the slightest shred of gracefulness nor an ounce of athletic ability, the daily torture of attempting to perform a variety of seemingly impossible tasks while wearing a snug white t-shirt and ill-fitting white shorts gave new meaning to the term “awkward.” Like most kids who were teasingly called “pudgy” (at least on a good day), white was not my color. It was an incredible boost to my self-esteem. (sarcasm)
Of course, I was well aware of my own limits. When it was time to climb the big rope (which hung from the roof of the gymnasium some 40 or 400 feet above), I told my parents that I would probably fail the class. Not only was I completely positive that I did not have the physical ability to climb to the top of the rope, I was absolutely certain that when I inevitably lost my grip and slid downward with ever increasing speed, I would severely burn my hands and inner thighs in the attempt to stop. Between that foregone conclusion and a fairly strong aversion to the big knot at the bottom, I knew that my climb would not end well.
Through a careful balance of luck, skilled avoidance and faking sick, I was able to skip out on the joys of “rope-climbing” days.
The story that haunts me, however, even today, did not involve the rope. It was one of those winter days when we couldn’t go outside and run. Rather than play Volleyball, which was one of the few things I actually enjoyed, Coach Kuhl decided to teach us the intricacies of the trampoline.
For safety, he had us all gather around the outer edges of the trampoline. We were instructed to be careful of flying feet and elbows, but also that it was our responsibility to stop any of our fellow students who bounced wrong and became human projectiles. We braced ourselves to save lives.
I can still remember, very clearly, his detailed instructions on the proper mounting of the trampoline. From the narrow end of the stand, we were to grasp the frame firmly with both hands and jump straight up, dropping our head and pushing up with our arms so that we could tuck and roll smoothly on to the top. It looked very easy. He called on one of my more athletically inclined classmates to show us how it was done, and they did so with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.
In my deluded mind, I could see and feel myself doing the same. Jump, push, lift, tuck, roll…I could do this.
Although the class was not officially co-ed, there were certain activities in which the girls having class during that period joined the boys. Trampoline day was one of those days. In hindsight, I’m not sure it was a spectacularly great idea to have teenage boys and teenage girls watch each other jump up and down on a trampoline in tight white t-shirts and shorts, but I personally have no memory of it being a problem or a distraction. I was completely focused on the task at hand.
As each student took their turn, we slowly rotated around the trampoline frame. When I finally reached the end of the line, I was ready. I grasped the frame like I was supposed to, then waited for the Coach to give me the nod to go ahead. I closed my eyes and talked myself through the mounting steps.
I jumped…and felt myself rising. I dropped my head…chin to chest, just as I had been told. My arms tightened and lifted my body even further….then I felt myself tuck and start to roll forward. I could feel the watchful stare of forty pair of eyes upon me. I was almost there…
…and then my forward momentum stopped.
It took a moment to realize where I was and what I had done. I was not lying on the black mat of the trampoline like I should have been. I was still gripping the padded frame with both hands and my feet were flailing wildly above my body. Somehow (and I find this particularly amazing considering the size of my noggin), as I tucked and rolled, my head slipped between two of the heavy springs which provide the bounce in the trampoline and got stuck.
I’m not sure what this must have looked like to my classmates. I’ve tried to visualize it in a way that looked somewhat natural or even cool, but after years of trying I have accepted that it is impossible. I was stuck upside down, legs flopping wildly in all directions, head missing in the underworld of the trampoline.
My kids would rob a bank to buy a video of this.
I don’t know how long I stayed there like that. It seemed like hours. I don’t recall hearing laughter, although with my ears pinned so tightly in the grip of those springs, I don’t think I could have heard anything anyway. Eventually, Coach Kuhl got over his shock and came to my rescue. He grabbed the springs and spread them apart enough for my head to pop free. Fortunately, my legs were flopping in the direction of the trampoline, so I collapsed into a motionless heap…surrounded by a large group of my peers.
It took a while to get my body to move again, and I wasn’t up to bouncing or doing flips at that point, so I just rolled to the edge and slithered off the side. Although my legs were shaking I was able to stand and walk. Coach Kuhl said I could hit the showers early and it wasn’t until I was looking in the mirror in the locker room that I saw the striped red whelps that had burned into both sides of my neck and face. Small patches of hair were missing and later found still trapped between the tight coils of the trampoline springs.
I’m eternally grateful that this little experience took place in the days before cell phones and viral videos. I would not enjoy being a YouTube laughingstock.
Still, I can look back on it now and laugh. Not as hard as my kids do whenever they think of my head stuck in the springs of that trampoline. Not nearly as hard as my friend Thaddeus, who asks to hear the story again like it’s a child’s favorite bedtime story. Probably not as hard as any of my classmates whom I have foolishly hoped wiped it from their memory.
The only one who doesn’t laugh quite as hard is my sweet, loving wife Connie. She looks on with a balanced mix of compassion, good humor and concern. I’m pretty sure that the concern is not for me, though. I know that she is thinking, “Why did I marry this guy?”
Monday, September 20, 2010
Road Trips
I enjoy the concept of a road trip. The dream of the open highway and the beauty of the American countryside flowing by is a glorious thing. If not for time and scheduling, I’d rather drive than fly. There’s something freeing about being behind the wheel and in control of your own destiny.
Like a lot of things, however, these trips can get idealized in our minds before we ever open the car door. The open road is not really so open. There are other cars, pickups, motorcycles and massive trucks which get in our way, block our view and endanger our existence. There’s road construction and speed traps and potholes; you have to take the good with the bad.
Last Saturday we left home at 8am to drive the two hundred and eleven miles to my parent’s house to surprise my Mom for her birthday. Shelby and Ashlyn couldn’t get off of work, so it was just Connie, Taylor and I. It was the first time we’ve only had one child in the car for a trip since before Ashlyn was born. Instead of the constant chatter of three voices in the back seat, we only had the constant chatter of one. That evening as we drove back home, I was reminded of some of the best and worst things about our family road trips.
Best
The excitement of leaving. There’s something about getting out of the house early in the morning and getting settled into the car that gives you a little thrill. This is best if you know you are actually heading off to a real vacation, but it’s still fun just to know you’re going somewhere.
Worst
The frustration of leaving. Those last minute arguments and searches for shoes, IPods, cameras and car keys. The check and double check of lights, stove, locks and windows. The battle over who sits where in the car and why it’s not fair because someone ALWAYS has to sit in the middle. Of course, after everyone is settled and you think that you are ready to go, someone remembers something they absolutely must take and you have turn off the car, get out, unlock the house and start all over again.
Best
Road music! Certain songs seem made for cruising down the highway. My personal playlist would include almost anything by the Eagles, Jackson Browne, Lynard Skynard, Boston, Kansas and REM. Certain songs seem to merge with the speed and rhythm of the road, but you have to be careful. When I was commuting back and forth to college I wore out the cassette tape of The Police performing the song “Synchronicity II.” That song started out fast and built in tempo as if the drums, guitar and lyrics were racing each other to see who could reach the end of the song first. My foot seemed to want to keep the beat as well, and I often found myself edging past 90 mph on Interstate 64 on my way home. I soon learned I was better off listening to the Eagles singing “Take it Easy.”
Worst
Road Music! I have learned the hard way that my experience with road music is only great if I am in complete control of the music and I am the only person in the vehicle. Connie and I both love the “70’s on 7” channel on satellite radio, but when a disco song comes on, I want to change it and she goes into foggy eyed memory mode. I do not “boogie.” Never have, never will.
It’s even worse when the girls are in the car. No matter how well I hide the audio cable that plugs their IPods into the car sound system, they always seem to find it. They have also learned how to make their own mix cd’s. These are often painful and contain no central theme or pattern, other than the songs they like at the moment.
While I argue that they need to bring headphones to listen to the music that they like, they insist that we should all HAVE to listen. They are like parent’s trying to get kids to eat brussel sprouts: “If you try it you will like it…and if you don’t like it at first, or it makes you feel nauseous, just keep going, it will get tolerable and eventually you’ll love it.”
On a good day, there might be one song in twenty that we all equally like. Depending upon the general tolerance level of the moment (and let’s face it, there’s not a lot of tolerance amongst my three girls as they sit in the backseat of a car), they can either listen to a song they don’t like with mild disdain or decide that they won’t have to hear much of it if they simply grumble their way through it.
Best
Road food! One of the joys of driving for a long distance is the promise of stopping along the way to eat. My general preference is to try something new, not the same old thing I can get in my home area. With the family, however, stability and familiarity is important, so we’ve learned we can’t go wrong with Cracker Barrel or McDonald’s. Both for variety or price, these give us the options we need and the speed to get us back out on the road quickly. It’s a rare road trip that we don’t stop at one (or both) of these establishments.
Worst
Road food! Although I should know better, I have many weak moments where I tend to forget who I am dealing with and make the mistake of asking, “Where would everyone like to eat?” The battle that follows is bloodless but verbally brutal. No one likes the same thing, and their individual likes and dislikes seem to change from hour to hour. If they liked Arby’s yesterday, they simply “aren’t in the mood for it today.” (This is usually in response to someone else saying “I would really like some Arby’s!”).
I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I’m learning. I’ve learned that a Wendy’s Frosty is not a satisfactory replacement for a Dairy Queen Blizzard.
I’ve learned that no matter how sincere a person seems when they say “I’m not picky…you know what I like, “ that I should just hand them cash and INSIST that they order for themselves.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that no matter how much they beg, I should never stop for Mexican food or let them order chili.
Best
Time together! At its best, a road trip can remind you how much fun your family can be. For some strange reason, I am much funnier in our car than I am at any other time. Even Connie, who generally stopped finding me amusing quite some time ago, will laugh at my quips in the car. Maybe it’s the hypnotically lulling sounds of the tires. It reduces her resistance.
When the girls aren’t arguing over music or food or whose elbow is in whose side, they can be adorably sweet in the car. They will break into song and harmonize together. They will play silly games. They laugh.
When it’s quiet, I’ll move the rearview mirror just so I can watch them sleep.
Worst
The smells! If boys are grosser than girls, I’m glad we didn’t have any sons. I’m fairly positive that some of their tennis shoes and sandals were made with possum hides, because when they take them off in the car, it smells like week old August road kill. Other odors flow forward as well, and they can’t be blamed on the shoes. As mine and Connie’s windows roll down and we gasp for breath, the giggles follow. Apparently, there is no shame amongst family.
As we crossed the state line on our way back into Tennessee Saturday night, darkness had fallen and Taylor was sleeping quietly in the back seat. She didn’t have to sit in the middle on this trip. She had the entire seat to herself and was stretched out across it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was more comfortable sleeping that way, or squeezed in between her sisters with her head on Shelby’s shoulder? Our trips are changing. Fewer and fewer trips will find us all together. Sooner than I am prepared for it will be just Connie and I, driving in relative peace, listening to the music we want to listen to.
I’m sure that as I think back on our family road trips, even the “worst” things about them will be cherished memories.
Like a lot of things, however, these trips can get idealized in our minds before we ever open the car door. The open road is not really so open. There are other cars, pickups, motorcycles and massive trucks which get in our way, block our view and endanger our existence. There’s road construction and speed traps and potholes; you have to take the good with the bad.
Last Saturday we left home at 8am to drive the two hundred and eleven miles to my parent’s house to surprise my Mom for her birthday. Shelby and Ashlyn couldn’t get off of work, so it was just Connie, Taylor and I. It was the first time we’ve only had one child in the car for a trip since before Ashlyn was born. Instead of the constant chatter of three voices in the back seat, we only had the constant chatter of one. That evening as we drove back home, I was reminded of some of the best and worst things about our family road trips.
Best
The excitement of leaving. There’s something about getting out of the house early in the morning and getting settled into the car that gives you a little thrill. This is best if you know you are actually heading off to a real vacation, but it’s still fun just to know you’re going somewhere.
Worst
The frustration of leaving. Those last minute arguments and searches for shoes, IPods, cameras and car keys. The check and double check of lights, stove, locks and windows. The battle over who sits where in the car and why it’s not fair because someone ALWAYS has to sit in the middle. Of course, after everyone is settled and you think that you are ready to go, someone remembers something they absolutely must take and you have turn off the car, get out, unlock the house and start all over again.
Best
Road music! Certain songs seem made for cruising down the highway. My personal playlist would include almost anything by the Eagles, Jackson Browne, Lynard Skynard, Boston, Kansas and REM. Certain songs seem to merge with the speed and rhythm of the road, but you have to be careful. When I was commuting back and forth to college I wore out the cassette tape of The Police performing the song “Synchronicity II.” That song started out fast and built in tempo as if the drums, guitar and lyrics were racing each other to see who could reach the end of the song first. My foot seemed to want to keep the beat as well, and I often found myself edging past 90 mph on Interstate 64 on my way home. I soon learned I was better off listening to the Eagles singing “Take it Easy.”
Worst
Road Music! I have learned the hard way that my experience with road music is only great if I am in complete control of the music and I am the only person in the vehicle. Connie and I both love the “70’s on 7” channel on satellite radio, but when a disco song comes on, I want to change it and she goes into foggy eyed memory mode. I do not “boogie.” Never have, never will.
It’s even worse when the girls are in the car. No matter how well I hide the audio cable that plugs their IPods into the car sound system, they always seem to find it. They have also learned how to make their own mix cd’s. These are often painful and contain no central theme or pattern, other than the songs they like at the moment.
While I argue that they need to bring headphones to listen to the music that they like, they insist that we should all HAVE to listen. They are like parent’s trying to get kids to eat brussel sprouts: “If you try it you will like it…and if you don’t like it at first, or it makes you feel nauseous, just keep going, it will get tolerable and eventually you’ll love it.”
On a good day, there might be one song in twenty that we all equally like. Depending upon the general tolerance level of the moment (and let’s face it, there’s not a lot of tolerance amongst my three girls as they sit in the backseat of a car), they can either listen to a song they don’t like with mild disdain or decide that they won’t have to hear much of it if they simply grumble their way through it.
Best
Road food! One of the joys of driving for a long distance is the promise of stopping along the way to eat. My general preference is to try something new, not the same old thing I can get in my home area. With the family, however, stability and familiarity is important, so we’ve learned we can’t go wrong with Cracker Barrel or McDonald’s. Both for variety or price, these give us the options we need and the speed to get us back out on the road quickly. It’s a rare road trip that we don’t stop at one (or both) of these establishments.
Worst
Road food! Although I should know better, I have many weak moments where I tend to forget who I am dealing with and make the mistake of asking, “Where would everyone like to eat?” The battle that follows is bloodless but verbally brutal. No one likes the same thing, and their individual likes and dislikes seem to change from hour to hour. If they liked Arby’s yesterday, they simply “aren’t in the mood for it today.” (This is usually in response to someone else saying “I would really like some Arby’s!”).
I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I’m learning. I’ve learned that a Wendy’s Frosty is not a satisfactory replacement for a Dairy Queen Blizzard.
I’ve learned that no matter how sincere a person seems when they say “I’m not picky…you know what I like, “ that I should just hand them cash and INSIST that they order for themselves.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that no matter how much they beg, I should never stop for Mexican food or let them order chili.
Best
Time together! At its best, a road trip can remind you how much fun your family can be. For some strange reason, I am much funnier in our car than I am at any other time. Even Connie, who generally stopped finding me amusing quite some time ago, will laugh at my quips in the car. Maybe it’s the hypnotically lulling sounds of the tires. It reduces her resistance.
When the girls aren’t arguing over music or food or whose elbow is in whose side, they can be adorably sweet in the car. They will break into song and harmonize together. They will play silly games. They laugh.
When it’s quiet, I’ll move the rearview mirror just so I can watch them sleep.
Worst
The smells! If boys are grosser than girls, I’m glad we didn’t have any sons. I’m fairly positive that some of their tennis shoes and sandals were made with possum hides, because when they take them off in the car, it smells like week old August road kill. Other odors flow forward as well, and they can’t be blamed on the shoes. As mine and Connie’s windows roll down and we gasp for breath, the giggles follow. Apparently, there is no shame amongst family.
As we crossed the state line on our way back into Tennessee Saturday night, darkness had fallen and Taylor was sleeping quietly in the back seat. She didn’t have to sit in the middle on this trip. She had the entire seat to herself and was stretched out across it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was more comfortable sleeping that way, or squeezed in between her sisters with her head on Shelby’s shoulder? Our trips are changing. Fewer and fewer trips will find us all together. Sooner than I am prepared for it will be just Connie and I, driving in relative peace, listening to the music we want to listen to.
I’m sure that as I think back on our family road trips, even the “worst” things about them will be cherished memories.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Swiss Cheese Mind
Since I was never very good at sports, or much of anything else, one of the rare qualities I could take some small measure of personal pride in was my ability to remember random, frequently useless bits of lore, legend or unimportant fact. In particular, I was good at movie and television trivia.
Throughout high school and college, I devoured books and magazines about films and film-makers. I don’t know whether it was due to my youth or just a keen interest, but my brain was able to retain that information like a fat sponge. For years it was a useful party trick, and I think that often people thought I was much smarter than I was because I didn’t just know the year a film was released, but also who wrote it, directed it and whether the lead actor had an affair with the lead actress during filming.
Fortunately, they didn’t ask me any questions that would require Algebra.
Before we all had access to the World Wide Web, friends and family members would call me for the sole purpose of asking, “Who was that guy in that show? You know…the one with the girl?” I’m not sure what was scarier…that they would ask such a vague question…or that I would usually know exactly what guy and what show they were talking about.
So, I had a reputation. In retrospect, it was kind of sad and pointless reputation, but it was basically all I had, so I shined it up and placed it on my mantel. Did you need to know the chronological filmography of Spielberg, Scorcese, DePalma or Hitchcock? I was your guy. Curious about the color template of cinematographer Gordon Willis, or the editing style of Verna Fields? I could regal you for hours. It was a hobby that was more interesting to me than any job I ever had.
With the advent of the Internet, I found new avenues of information. Websites devoted to the kind of details I loved; operated by kindred spirits. I learned the term “film geek” and recognized immediately that I had always been one…I just didn’t know the name.
My lovely wife Connie, who…like most women…had dreamed of marrying a tall, dark, rugged and handsome Sean Connery or Sam Elliott type had to adjust her expectations a wee bit to accommodate my average height, pale skin, and injury prone clumsiness. I was lucky that throughout our months of dating, I often had a cold, which fortunately lowered the timbre of my voice by at least an octave. By the time my sinuses cleared and she heard my natural speaking tone, with its occasional higher pitched falsetto exclamations, we were already married. Occasionally I will attempt to treat her to a Connery style Scottish brogue, usually failing miserably, but even after a week of strep throat I don’t try to imitate the gravelly baritone manliness of Sam Elliott. I don’t think that her heart could take the laughter.
Connie was not aware that she had married a “film geek.” She thought that I was a smart guy with a lot of potential. Little did she know that my knowledge was primarily focused in areas that allowed for minimal income producing possibilities. Still, I was somewhat useful to have around.
If we were at a movie or watching a television show and someone came on screen that looked familiar, all she basically had to do was glance my way and I’d give her a brief rundown of that persons film credits. Eventually I would say the name of the film or show that she remembered so she would nod and say “that’s it.” I may not have been Sean Connery, but it was my own little Bond moment.
Recently, however, I’ve noticed that I’m not quite up to my game. Connie will give me that questioning glance during a movie and I’ll hesitate, finally telling her, “You know…he was on that show we liked. The one about the doctors.”
I know that it’s age. Like the rest of my body, my brain is slowing down. I’m just not as sharp as I once was. It feels like I’m half asleep all the time.
My short term memory is pretty well shot as well. I’ll go to the grocery store for bread and milk…that’s all…two things (!)…and as I’m driving home later with four bags of groceries that I hadn’t planned to buy, I’ll realize that I didn’t get one (or both) of the two things I went there to get in the first place.
I have recently found myself watching a television show for 30 or 45 minutes, then when a commercial comes on I’ll channel surf (I am a guy, after all) and after a few minutes of perusing what else is on, I’ll completely forget what I was originally watching. I could say that part of that is based on the fact that television shows today are relatively forgettable, but it’s still pretty sad.
I can still remember the days when people, including my wife, said that I had a mind like a “steel trap.” Now I sometimes feel that drudging up memories is like trying to catch water with a fish net. I need to clear the cobwebs and spray some mental WD40 on my rusty hinges. It’s time to wake up.
Throughout high school and college, I devoured books and magazines about films and film-makers. I don’t know whether it was due to my youth or just a keen interest, but my brain was able to retain that information like a fat sponge. For years it was a useful party trick, and I think that often people thought I was much smarter than I was because I didn’t just know the year a film was released, but also who wrote it, directed it and whether the lead actor had an affair with the lead actress during filming.
Fortunately, they didn’t ask me any questions that would require Algebra.
Before we all had access to the World Wide Web, friends and family members would call me for the sole purpose of asking, “Who was that guy in that show? You know…the one with the girl?” I’m not sure what was scarier…that they would ask such a vague question…or that I would usually know exactly what guy and what show they were talking about.
So, I had a reputation. In retrospect, it was kind of sad and pointless reputation, but it was basically all I had, so I shined it up and placed it on my mantel. Did you need to know the chronological filmography of Spielberg, Scorcese, DePalma or Hitchcock? I was your guy. Curious about the color template of cinematographer Gordon Willis, or the editing style of Verna Fields? I could regal you for hours. It was a hobby that was more interesting to me than any job I ever had.
With the advent of the Internet, I found new avenues of information. Websites devoted to the kind of details I loved; operated by kindred spirits. I learned the term “film geek” and recognized immediately that I had always been one…I just didn’t know the name.
My lovely wife Connie, who…like most women…had dreamed of marrying a tall, dark, rugged and handsome Sean Connery or Sam Elliott type had to adjust her expectations a wee bit to accommodate my average height, pale skin, and injury prone clumsiness. I was lucky that throughout our months of dating, I often had a cold, which fortunately lowered the timbre of my voice by at least an octave. By the time my sinuses cleared and she heard my natural speaking tone, with its occasional higher pitched falsetto exclamations, we were already married. Occasionally I will attempt to treat her to a Connery style Scottish brogue, usually failing miserably, but even after a week of strep throat I don’t try to imitate the gravelly baritone manliness of Sam Elliott. I don’t think that her heart could take the laughter.
Connie was not aware that she had married a “film geek.” She thought that I was a smart guy with a lot of potential. Little did she know that my knowledge was primarily focused in areas that allowed for minimal income producing possibilities. Still, I was somewhat useful to have around.
If we were at a movie or watching a television show and someone came on screen that looked familiar, all she basically had to do was glance my way and I’d give her a brief rundown of that persons film credits. Eventually I would say the name of the film or show that she remembered so she would nod and say “that’s it.” I may not have been Sean Connery, but it was my own little Bond moment.
Recently, however, I’ve noticed that I’m not quite up to my game. Connie will give me that questioning glance during a movie and I’ll hesitate, finally telling her, “You know…he was on that show we liked. The one about the doctors.”
I know that it’s age. Like the rest of my body, my brain is slowing down. I’m just not as sharp as I once was. It feels like I’m half asleep all the time.
My short term memory is pretty well shot as well. I’ll go to the grocery store for bread and milk…that’s all…two things (!)…and as I’m driving home later with four bags of groceries that I hadn’t planned to buy, I’ll realize that I didn’t get one (or both) of the two things I went there to get in the first place.
I have recently found myself watching a television show for 30 or 45 minutes, then when a commercial comes on I’ll channel surf (I am a guy, after all) and after a few minutes of perusing what else is on, I’ll completely forget what I was originally watching. I could say that part of that is based on the fact that television shows today are relatively forgettable, but it’s still pretty sad.
I can still remember the days when people, including my wife, said that I had a mind like a “steel trap.” Now I sometimes feel that drudging up memories is like trying to catch water with a fish net. I need to clear the cobwebs and spray some mental WD40 on my rusty hinges. It’s time to wake up.
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