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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
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!
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!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
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?
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.
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.
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
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.
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