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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Malaise
I’d love to say that it’s been an interesting summer, but the truth (at least for me), is that it’s been a fairly miserable summer. Before I sound like I’m going to throw a pity party for myself, I will fully admit that no great ill has befallen me. No natural disaster has rerouted the course of my life. In fact, the worst thing that I can say has happened to me is that “absolutely nothing” has happened.
Compared with those folks out in the real world who have been dealing with floods, tornadoes, oil spills, unemployment, wars and numerous other tragedies, my sad-sack whining is beyond pathetic. The realization of just how ridiculous it is to be burdened by nothing more than the microscopic weight of my own malaise is not just humbling, but more than a little bit humiliating.
I was tired coming into the summer. My travel schedule was heavier this year than ever, and there were added levels of stress related to that. I have always tried to follow a “work to live, not live to work” philosophy, but sometimes necessity becomes priority and your personal life doesn’t just get kicked into the back seat, but is wrapped in a tarp and thrown in the trunk.
Still, in these difficult economic times, I’m not going to complain about having a good job that just happens to keep me away from home more than I like. I understand that it’s not really the job but the way I handle things that cause me the most trouble. I am my own worst enemy.
For the last couple of years, one of the things that kept me busy and out of trouble was my relatively consistent scribbling in my blog. It didn’t really accomplish anything other than give me something to do and a way to vent, but that release valve was a crucial fulcrum in helping me balance the various stresses and weights I faced. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I stopped writing a few months ago.
I’m not really sure why I stopped. My excuse was that my brain was fried from too much travel, and that was partially true. I was exhausted and mentally spent from one trip after another; smiling and pretending to care about whatever new, almost always pointless way that someone had come up with to spend our tax dollars. I had dreams where I grabbed some of them by the collar and screamed “No one cares about what you’re doing! Go get a real job!” Of course, they could have just as easily done the same thing to me and I would have had no justifiable response. We were both just cogs in the machinery.
I did attempt to write…sitting in my hotel room with the television muted and the cold air blowing full force to try and fight off the oppressive summer heat...but the words were disjointed and randomly bitter. I couldn’t find a through-line to hang my intentions on.
As summer draws to a close, I’m hoping that the falling leaves of autumn will give me a new spark. Maybe it was just the incessant rays of the sun that baked away my energy and castrated all signs of creativity. Or maybe I had one too many eggs and my mind is roiling from salmonella. It’s difficult to say.
Either way, I’m going to force myself to write until it spills out easily again. It might not be pretty, and I don’t count on anyone reading it, but that’s okay. This is much cheaper than therapy.
Compared with those folks out in the real world who have been dealing with floods, tornadoes, oil spills, unemployment, wars and numerous other tragedies, my sad-sack whining is beyond pathetic. The realization of just how ridiculous it is to be burdened by nothing more than the microscopic weight of my own malaise is not just humbling, but more than a little bit humiliating.
I was tired coming into the summer. My travel schedule was heavier this year than ever, and there were added levels of stress related to that. I have always tried to follow a “work to live, not live to work” philosophy, but sometimes necessity becomes priority and your personal life doesn’t just get kicked into the back seat, but is wrapped in a tarp and thrown in the trunk.
Still, in these difficult economic times, I’m not going to complain about having a good job that just happens to keep me away from home more than I like. I understand that it’s not really the job but the way I handle things that cause me the most trouble. I am my own worst enemy.
For the last couple of years, one of the things that kept me busy and out of trouble was my relatively consistent scribbling in my blog. It didn’t really accomplish anything other than give me something to do and a way to vent, but that release valve was a crucial fulcrum in helping me balance the various stresses and weights I faced. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I stopped writing a few months ago.
I’m not really sure why I stopped. My excuse was that my brain was fried from too much travel, and that was partially true. I was exhausted and mentally spent from one trip after another; smiling and pretending to care about whatever new, almost always pointless way that someone had come up with to spend our tax dollars. I had dreams where I grabbed some of them by the collar and screamed “No one cares about what you’re doing! Go get a real job!” Of course, they could have just as easily done the same thing to me and I would have had no justifiable response. We were both just cogs in the machinery.
I did attempt to write…sitting in my hotel room with the television muted and the cold air blowing full force to try and fight off the oppressive summer heat...but the words were disjointed and randomly bitter. I couldn’t find a through-line to hang my intentions on.
As summer draws to a close, I’m hoping that the falling leaves of autumn will give me a new spark. Maybe it was just the incessant rays of the sun that baked away my energy and castrated all signs of creativity. Or maybe I had one too many eggs and my mind is roiling from salmonella. It’s difficult to say.
Either way, I’m going to force myself to write until it spills out easily again. It might not be pretty, and I don’t count on anyone reading it, but that’s okay. This is much cheaper than therapy.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Family
Summer is not my favorite time of year. When you’re overweight, out of shape, and work in an office with air-conditioning for most of your day, it’s not easy to step out into the thick muck of heat that has settled over us. It is only the beginning of July and we’ve already had more ninety degree days this year than all of last year; so to say that my mood has not been pleasant is an understatement.
I’m a fall person…or better yet…a winter person. I’d much rather put on more clothes than take anything off (and after taking a brief survey of both family and friends, they too agree that they would rather I put on more clothes than take anything off. It’s a rare moment of total agreement; although some of the survey comments were a bit more hurtful than I felt was necessary).
Last weekend Connie and I traveled to Kentucky for a family reunion of my father’s side of the gene pool. Shelby and Ashlyn had to work Friday night and Saturday morning, so they could not go, and Taylor was away at a church camp until Sunday, so it was a rare, but pleasant road trip for my lovely bride and me. We listened to the music we wanted to listen to, and we got to talk without constant interuption. Unlike most of the trips from our door in Oak Ridge to Mom and Dad’s door in Shelbyville, it seemed to pass by too quickly. I am sure I did not drive any faster than usual, but the 211 miles sped by in a blur.
When we arrived, Dad was out on the front porch, which is the throne from which he overlooks his little kingdom. Dad is an outdoor person and is as resistant to Air Conditioning as I am to heat. He has worked outside all of his life, from farm work as a child to hard, manual labor on the County Road Crews in his teens. Through his years as a truck driver, he drove with the windows down and his left arm lay across the edge to receive a dark, permanent tan.
Mom likes to give Dad a hard time about sitting on the porch, and I’m not sure why. I think she sees it as a waste of time, but the way I see it, if you’ve worked hard all your life and you’ve finally retired, then you should be able to do what you want to do.
Dad enjoys sitting on the porch more than sitting in the house watching television. He enjoys the feel of the sun and sound of the occasional breeze in the leaves of the dogwood tree nearby. He enjoys watching the cars pass by on their way into or out of town. He recognizes a lot of the people and waves…and they wave back. He sometimes waves at those he doesn’t know too. Most of them return the friendly greeting.
As the sun was slowly setting Friday evening and the air got slightly more bearable, I sat on the front porch with Dad and we waved at those driving by together. I had to admit it was relaxing.
When it got a bit darker, we went inside, where Mom and Connie had been sharing stories about mine and Dad’s problems and how they intended to fix them. Although I had told Mom we would eat dinner on the way and not to fix any food, she couldn’t resist breaking out some home-made pound cake and ice cream. Far be it from me to hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of her generosity.
We talked into the evening about family and the kids. Again, the lack of interruption was nice, but there was a bit of sadness in the undertone of the conversation. My kids were growing up and their absence was like a vacuum. Not only had I grown up and moved away, but now my kids were growing up and moving on with their own lives. They would visit again, of course, but not nearly as often.
Saturday morning Mom was up before five, starting a kettle of green beans. Dad had hoped for a mess of fresh beans from his garden, but we were about a week early so Mom was using canned. Still, a piece of salt pork for seasoning and a long time to simmer and they would taste just fine.
I had made a Mississippi Mud Cake, since it travelled easily, and planned to buy fried chicken from Kroger’s. Mom made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and Dad made his world famous banana pudding. We were prepared to feed the multitudes.
The reunion was supposed to start at 11am, but since everyone had been told that we wouldn’t eat until noon, that’s when everyone showed up. There was more food than there were people, and we had to add tables for desserts and drinks. Everyone out-did themselves with their favorite recipes, and when I say “out-did” I also mean that some went too far. I didn’t recognize what everything was…although it mostly resembled food.
There are some excellent cooks in my family¸ evident by the numerous shirts stretched near the point of fabric failure, but there are a few experimenters as well. I don’t mind trying new things, or new recipes, but I generally try them at home, where smoke detectors and waste baskets are close by. My basic rule at pot-lucks and reunions is that I don’t partake of foods that I can’t easily identify or if the ingredients aren’t obvious to my naked and extremely well-trained eye…especially if I have be somewhere in the next twenty-four hours.
Fortunately, there were plenty of the basics. Fried Chicken in all varieties except home-made (I guess no one actually fries chicken at home anymore), several batches of Mac and Cheese (with varying levels of cheesiness), corn, beans, potatoes, and a variety of casseroles with cracker toppings. One odd thing that Connie and I both noticed (and discussed in some detail on the way home) was that no one had brought “deviled eggs.” In retrospect, I still find it rather shocking.
Connie also noted (on our quiet drive home that evening) that my family was obviously a “mac and cheese” family and her family was a “hash brown casserole” family. It took only a moment’s thought to realize that she was absolutely right. No Warford family gathering seemed complete without a dish of baked macaroni and cheese, while the Dunkel family could not seem to meet without the hash browns. There is probably an interesting social study in that nugget of information, but I don’t really care. Fortunately, I like them both.
I always look forward to the reunion to see family members that I do not see the rest of the year (unless it is at a funeral). After the loss of my uncle Lee last year, there are only three siblings left in Dad’s family, from the original thirteen. Dad is now the oldest, followed by his brother Bill and sister Eleanor.
There were many of my cousins at the reunion, and many more that did not make it. The greeting etiquette of family members who have essentially become “strangers” is an odd, but consistent one: for male cousins, there is a quick handshake and a chipper “Hey ______, how have you been?” This is answered by a simple “Good, and you?” The response to this question can vary between “fine” and “great,” but never more detailed than that.
Female cousins sometimes get a hug, followed by the same general dialog. Occasionally someone will ask me if I still live in Tennessee, and I’ll say “yes.” They might follow that up (if we haven’t been interrupted by another arriving cousin) with, “now that’s near Nashville, right?” And I’ll say, “No, near Knoxville.” Since I’m always afraid of asking a question that I should already know the answer to or might not want to know, I generally shuffle my feet awkwardly and say something about how unbearably hot it is.
The heat was miserable. We were under a shelter, but it had a tin roof that seemed to be conducting the sun’s rays into a microwave. Dad and my brother David had brought some fans to sit around and people were not so casually situating themselves in front of them. Those spots were prime real estate and provided the only breeze and relief while trying to eat.
Despite a strong suggestion that we sit with people that we normally don’t see, everyone mostly broke up into their immediate family groupings. Old habits die hard, and we all gravitate to our comfort zone. Nothing is more comfortable than family.
Barely an hour and a half after getting in line to eat, people were packing up to go. It was just too hot to sit around and try to make conversation. It was really a shame though; because I think the longer we had stayed, the more we would have been forced to catch up. I might have actually learned what a few of my cousins do for a living.
My cousin Kevin, however, was the hero of the day. When a discussion arose about next year’s reunion, he suggested that we find a place indoors (even offering his church’s fellowship hall). As sweat dripped off my forehead and down the tip of my nose, I think it mixed with tears of joy at the thought that we would be in air-conditioned comfort next year. I quickly added my support to the idea and so did most of the others. (I think Dad was a little disappointed, but he was the only one present who didn’t look like he had just stepped out of the lake. He was as cool as the glass of ice tea he was holding).
Soon we were back at Mom and Dad’s house unpacking leftovers. I lifted the lid and looked down at my carefully and lovingly prepared Mississippi Mud Cake. One solitary corner piece had been removed. The rest of the cake sat there in the pan like some unwanted ugly stepchild. Connie noticed the cakes sad plight as well and said “Didn’t you get a piece of that at the reunion?” Yes, I nodded. One piece had been eaten from my cake and it was I who ate it. Kind of sad.
We visited a while longer, then hugged and kissed everyone before heading south toward home. I cranked up the air conditioning and set the cruise control. Another peaceful ride home, full of uninterrupted conversation and music of our choice. I couldn’t help but miss the kids.
I’m a fall person…or better yet…a winter person. I’d much rather put on more clothes than take anything off (and after taking a brief survey of both family and friends, they too agree that they would rather I put on more clothes than take anything off. It’s a rare moment of total agreement; although some of the survey comments were a bit more hurtful than I felt was necessary).
Last weekend Connie and I traveled to Kentucky for a family reunion of my father’s side of the gene pool. Shelby and Ashlyn had to work Friday night and Saturday morning, so they could not go, and Taylor was away at a church camp until Sunday, so it was a rare, but pleasant road trip for my lovely bride and me. We listened to the music we wanted to listen to, and we got to talk without constant interuption. Unlike most of the trips from our door in Oak Ridge to Mom and Dad’s door in Shelbyville, it seemed to pass by too quickly. I am sure I did not drive any faster than usual, but the 211 miles sped by in a blur.
When we arrived, Dad was out on the front porch, which is the throne from which he overlooks his little kingdom. Dad is an outdoor person and is as resistant to Air Conditioning as I am to heat. He has worked outside all of his life, from farm work as a child to hard, manual labor on the County Road Crews in his teens. Through his years as a truck driver, he drove with the windows down and his left arm lay across the edge to receive a dark, permanent tan.
Mom likes to give Dad a hard time about sitting on the porch, and I’m not sure why. I think she sees it as a waste of time, but the way I see it, if you’ve worked hard all your life and you’ve finally retired, then you should be able to do what you want to do.
Dad enjoys sitting on the porch more than sitting in the house watching television. He enjoys the feel of the sun and sound of the occasional breeze in the leaves of the dogwood tree nearby. He enjoys watching the cars pass by on their way into or out of town. He recognizes a lot of the people and waves…and they wave back. He sometimes waves at those he doesn’t know too. Most of them return the friendly greeting.
As the sun was slowly setting Friday evening and the air got slightly more bearable, I sat on the front porch with Dad and we waved at those driving by together. I had to admit it was relaxing.
When it got a bit darker, we went inside, where Mom and Connie had been sharing stories about mine and Dad’s problems and how they intended to fix them. Although I had told Mom we would eat dinner on the way and not to fix any food, she couldn’t resist breaking out some home-made pound cake and ice cream. Far be it from me to hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of her generosity.
We talked into the evening about family and the kids. Again, the lack of interruption was nice, but there was a bit of sadness in the undertone of the conversation. My kids were growing up and their absence was like a vacuum. Not only had I grown up and moved away, but now my kids were growing up and moving on with their own lives. They would visit again, of course, but not nearly as often.
Saturday morning Mom was up before five, starting a kettle of green beans. Dad had hoped for a mess of fresh beans from his garden, but we were about a week early so Mom was using canned. Still, a piece of salt pork for seasoning and a long time to simmer and they would taste just fine.
I had made a Mississippi Mud Cake, since it travelled easily, and planned to buy fried chicken from Kroger’s. Mom made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and Dad made his world famous banana pudding. We were prepared to feed the multitudes.
The reunion was supposed to start at 11am, but since everyone had been told that we wouldn’t eat until noon, that’s when everyone showed up. There was more food than there were people, and we had to add tables for desserts and drinks. Everyone out-did themselves with their favorite recipes, and when I say “out-did” I also mean that some went too far. I didn’t recognize what everything was…although it mostly resembled food.
There are some excellent cooks in my family¸ evident by the numerous shirts stretched near the point of fabric failure, but there are a few experimenters as well. I don’t mind trying new things, or new recipes, but I generally try them at home, where smoke detectors and waste baskets are close by. My basic rule at pot-lucks and reunions is that I don’t partake of foods that I can’t easily identify or if the ingredients aren’t obvious to my naked and extremely well-trained eye…especially if I have be somewhere in the next twenty-four hours.
Fortunately, there were plenty of the basics. Fried Chicken in all varieties except home-made (I guess no one actually fries chicken at home anymore), several batches of Mac and Cheese (with varying levels of cheesiness), corn, beans, potatoes, and a variety of casseroles with cracker toppings. One odd thing that Connie and I both noticed (and discussed in some detail on the way home) was that no one had brought “deviled eggs.” In retrospect, I still find it rather shocking.
Connie also noted (on our quiet drive home that evening) that my family was obviously a “mac and cheese” family and her family was a “hash brown casserole” family. It took only a moment’s thought to realize that she was absolutely right. No Warford family gathering seemed complete without a dish of baked macaroni and cheese, while the Dunkel family could not seem to meet without the hash browns. There is probably an interesting social study in that nugget of information, but I don’t really care. Fortunately, I like them both.
I always look forward to the reunion to see family members that I do not see the rest of the year (unless it is at a funeral). After the loss of my uncle Lee last year, there are only three siblings left in Dad’s family, from the original thirteen. Dad is now the oldest, followed by his brother Bill and sister Eleanor.
There were many of my cousins at the reunion, and many more that did not make it. The greeting etiquette of family members who have essentially become “strangers” is an odd, but consistent one: for male cousins, there is a quick handshake and a chipper “Hey ______, how have you been?” This is answered by a simple “Good, and you?” The response to this question can vary between “fine” and “great,” but never more detailed than that.
Female cousins sometimes get a hug, followed by the same general dialog. Occasionally someone will ask me if I still live in Tennessee, and I’ll say “yes.” They might follow that up (if we haven’t been interrupted by another arriving cousin) with, “now that’s near Nashville, right?” And I’ll say, “No, near Knoxville.” Since I’m always afraid of asking a question that I should already know the answer to or might not want to know, I generally shuffle my feet awkwardly and say something about how unbearably hot it is.
The heat was miserable. We were under a shelter, but it had a tin roof that seemed to be conducting the sun’s rays into a microwave. Dad and my brother David had brought some fans to sit around and people were not so casually situating themselves in front of them. Those spots were prime real estate and provided the only breeze and relief while trying to eat.
Despite a strong suggestion that we sit with people that we normally don’t see, everyone mostly broke up into their immediate family groupings. Old habits die hard, and we all gravitate to our comfort zone. Nothing is more comfortable than family.
Barely an hour and a half after getting in line to eat, people were packing up to go. It was just too hot to sit around and try to make conversation. It was really a shame though; because I think the longer we had stayed, the more we would have been forced to catch up. I might have actually learned what a few of my cousins do for a living.
My cousin Kevin, however, was the hero of the day. When a discussion arose about next year’s reunion, he suggested that we find a place indoors (even offering his church’s fellowship hall). As sweat dripped off my forehead and down the tip of my nose, I think it mixed with tears of joy at the thought that we would be in air-conditioned comfort next year. I quickly added my support to the idea and so did most of the others. (I think Dad was a little disappointed, but he was the only one present who didn’t look like he had just stepped out of the lake. He was as cool as the glass of ice tea he was holding).
Soon we were back at Mom and Dad’s house unpacking leftovers. I lifted the lid and looked down at my carefully and lovingly prepared Mississippi Mud Cake. One solitary corner piece had been removed. The rest of the cake sat there in the pan like some unwanted ugly stepchild. Connie noticed the cakes sad plight as well and said “Didn’t you get a piece of that at the reunion?” Yes, I nodded. One piece had been eaten from my cake and it was I who ate it. Kind of sad.
We visited a while longer, then hugged and kissed everyone before heading south toward home. I cranked up the air conditioning and set the cruise control. Another peaceful ride home, full of uninterrupted conversation and music of our choice. I couldn’t help but miss the kids.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Emergency!
I hate hospitals. It’s not an irrational hatred or a paralyzing fear reaction, and it’s certainly not a lack of respect for the fine individuals who provide such necessary and life-saving care, but like most people I simply would prefer never to step inside one again. Of course, I rarely get what I prefer.
Sunday night one of those things happened that you can’t predict or plan. Rather than a quiet evening of television and an early bedtime that we were expecting, Connie and I ended up in the emergency room of Oak Ridge’s Methodist Medical Center with our daughter Ashlyn. She had been complaining about her stomach hurting throughout the afternoon, but as dusk began to fall it became more obvious that it was not just “something she ate.”
Since my aim here is not to write a medical mystery or a draw out the concern for her well-being, let me say upfront that Ashlyn is okay. The final diagnosis was that she had a cyst that was causing the pain and after a few days it should go away.
To borrow from Connie’s favorite quote, however, this is about the “journey, not the destination.”
Hoping to avoid a trip to the Emergency Room, we called our family doctor for some advice on Ashlyn’s malady. Of course, being the weekend, we ended up talking to the phone service and then to an intermediary person whose primary job seemed to be keeping us from talking directly to a medical professional.
There were several calls back and forth, each with a new list of questions and answers, and finally we were asked to have Ashlyn jump up and down. Apparently, this is a standard tool for over-the-phone diagnosis, because when she admitted that “yes,” her abdomen did hurt more after jumping, we were instructed to go to the hospital.
The emergency room experience is unlike any other, except maybe for the green room of The Jerry Springer Show during an episode entitled “Cousins Who Marry.” I am actually tempted to spend some evenings there with my camera so I can start the next Internet sensation: PeopleOfTheEmergencyRoom.com.
The lady at the registration desk was very professional. I assume she has seen and heard a lot over the years, so she has removed any sign of emotion or compassion from her face or body language. She questioned me in more detail than my last home loan application and then took my insurance card and driver’s license to make a copy. I was not surprised by this, but was concerned when she said I would not get them back until Ashlyn was discharged. I wanted to ask her why, but I was a little concerned that she was related to the “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld and might say “no Emergency Care for you!” For the good of my daughter, I kept my mouth shut.
We had barely taken our seats in the waiting area when Ashlyn’s name was called out from across the room. We excitedly stood and made our way toward the sound of the voice but could not find where it came from. There were about five doors on that side of the room and none of them were open. We stood there dumbly, wondering if all three of us had somehow imagined it together.
After a few awkward minutes of feet shuffling, one of middle doors cracked open and a man’s head poked out. “Ashlyn Warford!” As soon as he said it, his head disappeared and the door shut again. It was a little disconcerting. Were we supposed to go in there? Or was he just practicing name pronunciations?
I went to the door and knocked. The man quickly opened the door and said, “Warford?” We nodded yes and he let us in. Once inside, he did not seem so anti-social, and even joked some with Ashlyn, who was smiling and laughing despite her abdominal pain. His tag said he was an RN, and he took Ashlyn’s vitals and description of her problem. He agreed that the symptoms appeared to suggest Appendicitis, and then informed us that they had received several ambulances in the last hour and had no beds available. They would get to us as soon as they could.
We returned to our seats in the waiting area and spent the next three hours watching a parade of interesting, sort of scary, oddly dressed characters come and go. I was surprised at how many came in wearing their pajamas, and mentioned to Connie that I would have to bleeding profusely or passed out not to throw on some clothes before going out in public.
While we and a few others walked in with a dazed and confused look on our face, searching for signs to tell us where to go and what to do, most of the people who entered that evening looked like they were visiting their grandmother’s house. They seemed to know where everything was, and several even knew each other. I felt like we had stumbled onto a reunion of some sort.
To keep ourselves occupied as the hours passed, we tried to guess which person of each new group was the actual patient in need of Emergency care. It was more difficult than you would think.
A young woman came in carrying a sleeping baby and was followed by a heavyset, older woman pulling an oxygen tank. The woman with the tank moved slowly and wheezed with each unsteady step. To the untrained eye she was the obvious patient, but I was a quick learner that night and put my money on the infant. I was right.
After signing in, the three sat nearby and I was amazed that the baby could continue to sleep over the constant hacking cough and coarse, honking whistle that accompanied every labored breath the woman made. The only time there was some quiet from that side of the room was when the woman staggered her way back outside to smoke a cigarette.
There were an abundance of “coughers” in the waiting room that night, and I told Connie that if a person wasn’t sick when they got there, they would almost definitely have something before they left. One woman was there before we arrived and continued to wait; called back at the same time we were, minutes after midnight. We tried to guess her ailment, but except for an occasional cough (which she refused to cover with her hand), she seemed in good health. She spent most of her time on her cell phone, laughing and talking. We could not understand why anyone would sit for so long if they didn’t have an actual “emergency” concern. I think I could wait until morning to see someone about a cough, but that’s just me.
After a while, it became obvious that this was not necessarily an “emergency room” for many of the people there that night, but their only form of health care available. Without insurance they couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Here, they could show up for almost anything and receive treatment.
A man and a boy who looked to be around ten years old had been waiting since we arrived and Connie and I were both touched by the father’s attentiveness. The boy was definitely sick. Pale and weak, he lay down beside his father and slept most of the evening. The father would occasionally lay his hand on the boys shoulder or carefully touch his brow. At one point he gently shook him and said that he had to go the bathroom and was sorry to wake him but he didn’t want him to be scared if woke up and he was not there.
Later, after hours of waiting, the boy sat up and his father felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think your fever has broke,” I heard him say. The boy said that he felt better. They waited twenty more minutes and with a quiet look at each stood and walked silently to the door and into the night. I nudged Connie and said, “They either heal you here or make you wait long enough to get better on your own.”
When the clock struck midnight and my patience neared a breaking point, we got called back to a room. While we thought that we were at last making progress, we had merely switched tracks to another slow train to nowhere. The waiting with a different view had begun.
Sunday night one of those things happened that you can’t predict or plan. Rather than a quiet evening of television and an early bedtime that we were expecting, Connie and I ended up in the emergency room of Oak Ridge’s Methodist Medical Center with our daughter Ashlyn. She had been complaining about her stomach hurting throughout the afternoon, but as dusk began to fall it became more obvious that it was not just “something she ate.”
Since my aim here is not to write a medical mystery or a draw out the concern for her well-being, let me say upfront that Ashlyn is okay. The final diagnosis was that she had a cyst that was causing the pain and after a few days it should go away.
To borrow from Connie’s favorite quote, however, this is about the “journey, not the destination.”
Hoping to avoid a trip to the Emergency Room, we called our family doctor for some advice on Ashlyn’s malady. Of course, being the weekend, we ended up talking to the phone service and then to an intermediary person whose primary job seemed to be keeping us from talking directly to a medical professional.
There were several calls back and forth, each with a new list of questions and answers, and finally we were asked to have Ashlyn jump up and down. Apparently, this is a standard tool for over-the-phone diagnosis, because when she admitted that “yes,” her abdomen did hurt more after jumping, we were instructed to go to the hospital.
The emergency room experience is unlike any other, except maybe for the green room of The Jerry Springer Show during an episode entitled “Cousins Who Marry.” I am actually tempted to spend some evenings there with my camera so I can start the next Internet sensation: PeopleOfTheEmergencyRoom.com.
The lady at the registration desk was very professional. I assume she has seen and heard a lot over the years, so she has removed any sign of emotion or compassion from her face or body language. She questioned me in more detail than my last home loan application and then took my insurance card and driver’s license to make a copy. I was not surprised by this, but was concerned when she said I would not get them back until Ashlyn was discharged. I wanted to ask her why, but I was a little concerned that she was related to the “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld and might say “no Emergency Care for you!” For the good of my daughter, I kept my mouth shut.
We had barely taken our seats in the waiting area when Ashlyn’s name was called out from across the room. We excitedly stood and made our way toward the sound of the voice but could not find where it came from. There were about five doors on that side of the room and none of them were open. We stood there dumbly, wondering if all three of us had somehow imagined it together.
After a few awkward minutes of feet shuffling, one of middle doors cracked open and a man’s head poked out. “Ashlyn Warford!” As soon as he said it, his head disappeared and the door shut again. It was a little disconcerting. Were we supposed to go in there? Or was he just practicing name pronunciations?
I went to the door and knocked. The man quickly opened the door and said, “Warford?” We nodded yes and he let us in. Once inside, he did not seem so anti-social, and even joked some with Ashlyn, who was smiling and laughing despite her abdominal pain. His tag said he was an RN, and he took Ashlyn’s vitals and description of her problem. He agreed that the symptoms appeared to suggest Appendicitis, and then informed us that they had received several ambulances in the last hour and had no beds available. They would get to us as soon as they could.
We returned to our seats in the waiting area and spent the next three hours watching a parade of interesting, sort of scary, oddly dressed characters come and go. I was surprised at how many came in wearing their pajamas, and mentioned to Connie that I would have to bleeding profusely or passed out not to throw on some clothes before going out in public.
While we and a few others walked in with a dazed and confused look on our face, searching for signs to tell us where to go and what to do, most of the people who entered that evening looked like they were visiting their grandmother’s house. They seemed to know where everything was, and several even knew each other. I felt like we had stumbled onto a reunion of some sort.
To keep ourselves occupied as the hours passed, we tried to guess which person of each new group was the actual patient in need of Emergency care. It was more difficult than you would think.
A young woman came in carrying a sleeping baby and was followed by a heavyset, older woman pulling an oxygen tank. The woman with the tank moved slowly and wheezed with each unsteady step. To the untrained eye she was the obvious patient, but I was a quick learner that night and put my money on the infant. I was right.
After signing in, the three sat nearby and I was amazed that the baby could continue to sleep over the constant hacking cough and coarse, honking whistle that accompanied every labored breath the woman made. The only time there was some quiet from that side of the room was when the woman staggered her way back outside to smoke a cigarette.
There were an abundance of “coughers” in the waiting room that night, and I told Connie that if a person wasn’t sick when they got there, they would almost definitely have something before they left. One woman was there before we arrived and continued to wait; called back at the same time we were, minutes after midnight. We tried to guess her ailment, but except for an occasional cough (which she refused to cover with her hand), she seemed in good health. She spent most of her time on her cell phone, laughing and talking. We could not understand why anyone would sit for so long if they didn’t have an actual “emergency” concern. I think I could wait until morning to see someone about a cough, but that’s just me.
After a while, it became obvious that this was not necessarily an “emergency room” for many of the people there that night, but their only form of health care available. Without insurance they couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Here, they could show up for almost anything and receive treatment.
A man and a boy who looked to be around ten years old had been waiting since we arrived and Connie and I were both touched by the father’s attentiveness. The boy was definitely sick. Pale and weak, he lay down beside his father and slept most of the evening. The father would occasionally lay his hand on the boys shoulder or carefully touch his brow. At one point he gently shook him and said that he had to go the bathroom and was sorry to wake him but he didn’t want him to be scared if woke up and he was not there.
Later, after hours of waiting, the boy sat up and his father felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think your fever has broke,” I heard him say. The boy said that he felt better. They waited twenty more minutes and with a quiet look at each stood and walked silently to the door and into the night. I nudged Connie and said, “They either heal you here or make you wait long enough to get better on your own.”
When the clock struck midnight and my patience neared a breaking point, we got called back to a room. While we thought that we were at last making progress, we had merely switched tracks to another slow train to nowhere. The waiting with a different view had begun.
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