Have You Had Deer?

Photo: Paul Downey

Remember when Super 8 used to be the same price as Motel 6?

Somewhere along the line, Super 8 must have rebranded itself because I just paid $77.00, including tax, to stay in one in Fort Morgan, Colorado. It’s the first time I have been in one for years because their prices have been inching higher and I can usually find a Comfort Inn, or something similar, for that price.

But I am surprised by the quality of this particular Super 8. I have a refrigerator, a coffee maker, a nice TV, a comfy chair, fast Wi-Fi, and my room is extremely clean. The man who checked me in was friendly and helpful, but since I have a rather difficult time with foreign accents, his friendliness led to a comedic exchange between us.

“Ha you ha deer?” he asked.

“Deer?” Is he asking me if I hit a deer or if I saw a deer on the interstate? Or is he actually asking me if I want to eat deer? If so, am I going to be eating roadkill?

“No. Deer.” he said.

I tilted my head in wonder. What in the world is he asking me? 

“Deer?” he asked again.

I squinted my eyes, hoping the extra concentration could help me interpret what he was saying. How could I possibly ask him to say it again? I didn’t have to.

“Deer?”

This time I detected a slight “n” in the middle of the word (Dener).

“Oh, dinner! No I haven’t had dinner yet.”

We both chuckled.

He drew me a map of nearby restaurants where I could receive a 10% discount. I went to one of them and the server said the discount doesn’t apply to what I ordered because it was already discounted.

I’m planning to explain that to the clerk at the motel if I see him when I check out in the morning, and that could lead to another post. No telling how that conversation will go down.

Naming Inanimate Objects

“Gigi told me to tell you she forgives you for setting her down a little roughly last week,” I told a friend in my bowling league last night. “She wanted to text you to tell you that, but she doesn’t have thumbs.”

“Umm Lee, if you are wondering why you are still single …” my friend’s wife said without finishing her thought. It was all in good fun.

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just kind of creepy that you name your pen.”

I bring a G-2 pen to bowling each week, and really, everywhere I go because you never know when inspiration is going to strike and you might need to jot down something. I’m a little particular about my Pilot G-2 pens and my friends kid me about it, probably justifiably so.

The Gigi idea is new and it just came to me last week after bowling, thinking that G-2 is like saying the letter “G” twice. So G-2 becomes G-G and that becomes Gigi. Maybe you just had to be there, but I thought it was funny.

“How is naming a pen creepy?” I said. “I think it’s endearing.”

She wasn’t buying it.

I’ve never been one to name my car or other possessions. But a few years ago I bought a GPS and during a trip with a friend, he began calling her Garmina (which is just a take on the Garmin brand name). I liked it, so it stuck.

Once in a while, I’ll tell Garmina that I want to go to Starbucks. She’ll lead me to a building that used to be a Starbucks but is now a Hardees. When Garmina leads me astray like that, I get a little upset with her and her call her out by name. It’s more fun that way.

The used van I bought last year is beginning to have some mechanical problems. As I was thinking about those problems a few days ago, a name for her popped into my head: Samantha.

I don’t know where it came from, but it seemed to suit her. When I looked up the meaning of the name for this post, it made even more sense. According to this website, Samantha is Aramaic and it means “listener.” What car doesn’t know a lot about its owner – from the music we like to the conversations we have?

Yeah, it’s all a bit silly. But it is one of the ways I let my hair down around friends. Does that make me creepy? I hope not. What do you think? Do you name inanimate objects? I’d love to hear a good story from you about names you’ve given your cars or some other possession so I don’t feel like I’m off my rocker.

#69 Thunderstorms

Gavins Point Dam on a day that looks eerily
similar to the one described in this post.
Photo: U.S. Army Corp of Engineers

Continuing with the 100 life-enriching little nuances series …

We both thought it would be best if Jim drove the little fishing boat, although, neither of us was the most experienced. Okay, I had no experience since I was a young boy sitting on my grandpa’s lap on a lake in Minnesota. That probably doesn’t count.

The boat puttered painfully slow – no more than five miles per hour. As we went across the choppy waves at Gavins Point Dam in South Dakota, the boat we rented would rock back and forth. Jim, one my best buddies from high school, was in total control though. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he steered the boat with one hand while straddling the back seat so he could see where we were going.

We traveled several miles up the shoreline, found what appeared to be an ideal place to fish and dropped our lines in.

Neither of us are great fishermen, but that didn’t matter. We were there for a weekend of fun and fishing. No tents for us either. We stayed in a hotel. And we certainly were not dependent on what we caught for dinner. Thankfully.

As is typically the case for me when I go fishing with friends, we had our share of bites as the morning wore on, but no success in landing the big one.

Me (left) and Jim (right) on the night before he
shipped off to Iraq for a year-long tour of duty in 2007.

A huge storm front was moving in and appeared to be nearing the dock where we rented the boat. Fishing is supposed to be better in the rain – at least that’s what real fishermen say, right? What’s a little water among friends? We decided to keep fishing.

A few minutes later, the waves began to get more violent. Our choices didn’t thrill me. We could do nothing and try to wait out the storm. We could pull to the shore, out in the middle of the boonies, and try to wait out the storm, but there was nowhere to take cover. Or we could try to putter our way back to the dock, driving straight through the storm.

Keep in mind that The Perfect Storm had not yet been released. If it had been, we may have chosen one of the other two options.

No matter which option we took, we were going to get soaked. So, we pulled in our lines and headed for the dock in the slowest boat in the history of the world. I wasn’t even sure if the motor could navigate the increasingly choppy waves.

Rain began to fall shortly after we headed for the dock – which we couldn’t even see yet. Then the heavens opened up and I was expecting to see Noah’s Ark come floating by. Thunder rumbled overhead. This could get interesting.

The rain stung our faces as the boat fought against the waves. A third of the way into our trek, a much larger boat with official lettering on it sped by us in the opposite direction, and one of the men on board pointed us back toward the dock.

Yeah, we figured that one out already buddy. You want to give us a hand?

They must have had more confidence than we did in the boat because they kept going.

As the dock came into view, Jim and I laughed – partially out of relief and partially out of the silliness of the situation. Our clothes were stuck to our bodies. All of our possessions were drenched. And we both knew that if you added up our experience with boating on such a big body of water, especially in conditions like this, it would still equal nothing.

We made it back safely, pretending like it was no big deal, but happier than ever to see wet land. We drove back into town and had a nice meal, talking about the storm the entire time and knowing this would be a story for the ages.

And even though this happened a good twenty years ago, it really was one for the ages. But the funny thing is, I still love a good thunderstorm.

Paying the Price to Eat Healthy

Photo: catsper

“I’ll take the Texas BBQ brisket sandwich from your lunch menu, and can I get a salad instead of fries for the side?” I asked, attempting to squelch my growing irritation over supermarkets and restaurants that charge more money to eat healthy than to eat fried, fatty foods.

“It’ll cost extra, but yeah, you can do that.”

And there it is again – it costs more to eat lettuce, a little cheese and salad dressing rather than a mound of French fries. Why is that?

Turns out that it cost quite a bit extra. The brisket with fries would have cost $6.99. The brisket minus the fries with a salad was $9.85. Throw in $2.40 for a beverage and it’s more than $12.00 for something I ordered off the lunch menu, which is supposed to offer specials.

Fast forward a few hours and I’m in Walmart to do some major grocery shopping. Lean Cuisine meals are nearly three dollars. I look across the aisle and see Banquet meals for less than a dollar. Sugar free ice cream is nearly four dollars. The Walmart brand is less than two. Lean hamburger is eighty cents more per pound than fatty hamburger. Low-fat cheese is more expensive than regular cheese. Wheat tortillas are more expensive than flour tortillas.

On and on it goes.

I visit the diabetic section in the pharmacy to see how much Glucose control drinks cost – a six pack costs nearly $10.00. I could easily pick up a six pack of a sugary drinks for a fourth of that price. Snack bars in this section are way overpriced too. I make a mental note to avoid this section in the future.

Healthy foods, especially those that are packaged, are more expensive to manufacture because, presumably, there isn’t as much volume so sales are lower. More research goes into creating those products as well and they need to recoup the costs. I understand all of that. But the idea of paying more – much more in some cases – for food that is healthy, rather than food that is full of sugar, salt and all sorts of preservatives is ... well, irritating.

I need to get past the irritation.

I’d rather pay an extra $30.00 per week in groceries and be healthy than the alternative. But I would love it if a restaurant or two would cut me a break and substitute a salad for fries without charging me extra.

Would love to hear your thoughts and stories about the cost of eating healthier.

Two Beautiful Acts of Mercy

Photo: Alex Proimos

The woman shuffled her feet, allowing the cane in her left hand and the Village Inn employee on her right side to help her get from the lobby of the restaurant to her car.

“You got a great spot today,” the male employee said to her. He looked to be 24 or 25. “Right up front.”

She spoke in such a hushed tone that I couldn’t hear anything she said.

Once she got outside, the employee stayed with her, helping her into her car that was parked at a 45-degree angle. I slid into my van, which was parked close by. I couldn’t help but watch.

They chatted for a couple of minutes and then he placed one of his hands on her shoulder as they said goodbye. It made me want to go shake his hand, or go tell his manager about this tender act of mercy. But I got the feeling that this was a common occurrence. Apparently she is a regular. And why wouldn’t she be with service like that?

My mind raced to fill in the gaps of her story.

Is she a widow whose only regular contact with people is at Village Inn? Is she stressed out, thinking about the day she will no longer be able to drive to the restaurant, church or the grocery store? Who will be there for her when that day comes? Are her days of independent living coming to an end, causing her to savor Saturdays like this one in which she can still drive to her favorite restaurant to enjoy her favorite meal that always ends with a nice chat with the employee who goes the extra mile with her?

Two nights later, I was in a different Village Inn with my mom. When we walked in, a woman was seated in the lobby with a walker in front of her. She was waiting for a ride.

“Your cab is here,” said a female employee who has worked at the restaurant for 10 years.

The woman began the laborious process of gathering her things.

“Take your time,” the employee said. “I’ll go tell the driver that you are on your way.”

She came back in and the rustling behind me said she was helping the woman gather her things.

Two beautiful acts of mercy in two restaurants in the same chain across town from one another. Who says chain restaurants can’t have a homey, personal touch?

We Need Each Other

Today is going to be crazy.

I need to get my driver’s license renewed, renew my license plates on my van, take care of some legal paperwork and I have a couple of work projects I need to complete. Those projects are dependent on me having access to my email, which is normally not a problem. But Yahoo! email has been down all morning. 

Yeah, I know. I should use an email address from my own domain. But even those aren’t foolproof. And using an email address from my own domain doesn’t work well for me. I have my hands in too many cookie jars.

For example, when I’m working on an editing project for a publishing house or a manuscript critique company, it would look odd if I sent an email to the client from an email address that ended with @christianmanuscriptediting.com. It would be similar to working as a consultant for McDonald's and then sending a client an email from a Burger King email account.

Putting all of that aside, I’m reminded of how dependent we are on one another. I have two clients who are waiting to hear from me today regarding their respective projects. I am waiting to access their projects that are stored in my email that I cannot get into. Since I have already made other appointments today, my window of time to handle these projects is dwindling. If I were to push any of those other appointments back, it affects other people’s schedules. And so it goes.

This isn’t a knock against Yahoo! I rarely have email issues with them. But it does make me wonder about the ripple effect. How many times have I dropped the ball regarding another person, which caused him or her to make adjustments I was oblivious to?

Sometimes it can’t be helped. But I would like to limit those instances on my end.

A Red Wall of Support

Sometimes you stumble into something and you learn about its significance later. That’s what happened to me on Saturday.

My brother-in-law turned right onto a street in Columbia, Missouri that was lined with Harley Davidsons as I looked on from the passenger seat. The motorcycles had signage that identified their owners as the Patriot Guard Riders.

Everywhere we looked, we saw the American flag. Every motorcycle displayed one and many people who were milling around had one in their hands. One person draped a huge flag across his or her truck’s tailgate.

My brother-in-law and I kicked around ideas about what might be going on – a patriotism parade of some sort or annual festival? Neither one of us is from Columbia, so we had no idea. We were there from my niece’s soccer tournament.

The mood wasn’t festive. It was somber, determined.

I shot a few photos with my cell phone from inside the vehicle and figured I would look up the event later. Once I was back in my hotel room, I found this article in the Columbia Tribune: ‘Red Wall’ of supporters comfort fallen soldier’s family.

Turns out that Columbia native Sterling Wyatt, 21, was killed while serving in Afghanistan on July 11 and when an acquaintance found at that the hatemongers from Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka planned to protest Wyatt’s funeral, she decided to organize a small gathering to show Wyatt’s family their support.

She had no idea that thousands of people would show up.

They wore red shirts, forming a red shield to protect Wyatt’s family as they entered First Baptist Church to mourn the loss of their loved one. The line of support also ran along Broadway Street and on the route to the funeral home.

The event occurred after the Boone County Fair parade. Apparently, my brother-in-law and I arrived after the parade and the funeral, because, like I said, the mood was somber and the supporters seemed to be breaking up.

The good news is, the red wall worked. The newspaper reported that “About six people from the Westboro group held signs at College and Broadway, although most of the messages were blocked by American flags that Patriot Guard members waved nearby.”

Several times, Wyatt’s family came out of the church to thank the supporters. I imagine the tears flowed both ways.

I wasn’t wearing red that day, but as I wrote this after learning about what took place, I envisioned myself wearing a red shirt.

*****

As I was about to post this, I found this video on YouTube about the Patriot Guard Riders. They have been showing up at funerals of fallen soldiers for years. God bless this group for mourning with those who mourn. 

The Before and After

Photo: AudreyJM529

July 3 was the five-year anniversary of my mom’s stroke.

I always dread that date. What do you say to someone on such an awful anniversary date?

“Happy recovery day, Mom,” seemed to work best, even though the recovery took much longer than one day. It just feels more redemptive to talk about the recovery than it does the stroke – it’s a way of taking the date back.

As I thought about how I would acknowledge the date to my mom, it made me realize something. Most of us, myself included, can point to a date (or an event) in our lives in which the natural course of events changed so much that we refer to a before and after. Sometimes it is health-related, sometimes it’s not.

Before I ruptured my right Achilles tendon in 1997, I had never experienced physical rehab, or heard of a Pulmonary embolism, or been totally dependent on other people. I never had to worry about blood clots forming in my leg when I rode in an airplane or drove long distances in a car. And I never dreamed that I would spend portions of every afternoon since then sneaking away from whatever I’m doing to elevate my leg to keep it from swelling.

After I ruptured my right Achilles tendon in 1997, I longed to play tennis the way I used to, but my side-to-side mobility was limited. My internal anticipation on the court was the same, but my body would not cooperate. In hindsight, I should have kept playing anyway, but it was frustrating to be a shell of the player I was before the accident. In more ways than one, I was struggling to process the after of my injury, and in some ways, I still am.

Many people face health challenges that are far more severe than mine. I recently followed Olympic swimmer Kaitlin Sandeno as she visited ill children at Children’s Hospital & Medical Center here in Omaha (here’s a link to the story I wrote for the US Olympic Committee website about the events of the day -- Kaitlin Sandeno: Joy by the Jar). Seeing what those kids are facing put my after into perspective.

But this isn’t a competition. It’s reality, and we all have realities to face.

I cannot speak for anyone else, but personally, I like it when people ask me about my before and after. Not because I need or want anyone to feel sorry for me, but because it tells me they care enough to ask and then genuinely want to hear my answer. Somehow, having someone else acknowledge my before and after makes it feel like they are sharing my burden, and that makes it lighter.

This makes me want to ask other people about their before and after. I feel like I need permission to do this though. The before might be too painful to think about and the after might be too depressing. But I think I’ll gently broach the subject with people in the future because if it helps me to tell my story, it might help them too.

A Long Pit Stop

Photo: U.S. Army

It was supposed to be the equivalent of an average NASCAR pit stop – 14 seconds. My plan this morning was to be in and out of Dollar Tree in a minute or less with a box of the pink stuff for my coffee and a three litter bottle of pop.

The round trip should take 12 minutes or less. I would be at my desk with a steaming cup of coffee, complete with the pink stuff, in 15 minutes.

Knowing exactly where both items were located in the store, I found them easily and got in the check out line behind a woman and her little boy.

Uh oh, this doesn’t look good. The clerk looks confused.

“Ma’am, this table cloth is ringing up as one cent and it should be a dollar. I’m going to have to get my manager.”

He walks toward her office, but she can’t be bothered. “Ring it up as a $1.00 miscellaneous item,” she says through the door.

He tries it. This time it rings up as a quarter.

Another clerk comes over to try to help him. And then another. And another. And another. And another. And another. Seven people are now trying to figure out what to do. Nobody thinks to open another register to check me out. I ask one of them to do so and he says he’s not open.

Okay, I might as well settle in. This is going to be a while.

The seven people discuss the possible problem. Maybe he hit the wrong key? Maybe it was entered in the computer incorrectly? Another clerk says it happened to her yesterday too. Finally the manager leaves her office and tells all the other clerks that the item must be on recall and they can’t sell it.

“Maybe you can choose another color,” the manager says to the woman.

“But I don’t want another color. I want this color.”

At this point I don’t want this store. I want another one.

“But I can’t sell you this color. It has been recalled.”

Funny how definitive she is about the recall at this point.

“Well, what are you going to do with them? Throw them out? If so, I’ll take them.”

This is one determined customer. How could I not laugh? My one minute pit stop has now turned into ten minutes and there appears to be no end in sight. I now know what Greg Biffle feels like when the gas man cannot get the can lined up with the car and his stop takes much longer than anticipated.

“Ma’am, we have to return the table cloths to the manufacturer. It’s a recall.”

She sighs and then decides she wants the red table cloths that are not on recall. And the clerk plans to wait for her to return before ringing me up. Thankfully, the manager intervenes.

“Ring up your customer,” the manager says to him.

“That’ll be $2.00.”

I can’t tell you how happy I was that he didn’t say two cents.

Learning to Drive

The local writer's group I attend each month met last Thursday night. We were supposed to bring a 250 word story about driving, in a voice that could not be traced back to us. That was more difficult than I imagined, but in the end, I don't think anybody guessed that I wrote this about how I learned to drive (which includes mostly facts and an embellishment or two -- well, nearly all of the lingo is an embellishment since most of it didn't even exist when I was 15, and it wouldn't have been possible for somebody to "hit me up" while I was driving back then). 

Photo: Alamosbasement

I was 15 when Grandpa offered to teach me how to drive. 

Driving any vehicle was the grip – even if it was a beat up old pickup truck. When it was time for us to bounce, he drove to an old dirt road by the house, stopped the truck and handed me the keys.

I was crunked. My first step toward freedom.

We got out of the truck to switch sides. All I saw was mile after mile of corn fields. I stepped into the driver’s seat, started the truck and slid the shifter into “drive,” nearly missing a gear.

“My bad, Grandpa,” I said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Now, just focus on the road. You’ve read the manual. Stay on the right side and keep both hands on the wheel. And obey the speed limit!”

“This is tight!”

Gravel crunched under the wheels as I hit the gas pedal.

“How does it feel?” he said after a couple of minutes.

I smiled at him.

“Eyes on the road.”

I drove for a couple of miles before handling a left turn without any problems. I wished one of my friends would hit me up, but I knew Grandpa wouldn’t approve. Still, this was crescent fresh – an experience I would never forget. But I’d have to keep it on the down low around my friends.

Nobody likes a tool.

“Okay, that’s enough for your first time out,” Grandpa said. “Pull over and I’ll take it from here.”

Things That Make Me Go Hmm

Photo: Sam Howzit

For years, the most popular posts here at Little Nuances were related to the movie Elizabethtown – specifically the post I wrote about the phrase, “substitute people,” from that movie. But there’s a new sheriff in town. It’s a post I wrote called Baseball Dartboard, and if Blogger’s statistics are correct (I’m pretty sure they are inflated), then some 3,384 people have googled or found that post – far more than my “substitute people” post has drawn (2,147). What it is about a baseball dartboard that is drawing so much interest?

While in various waiting rooms the past few weeks, I’ve heard the song “Easy” by the Commodores a couple of times. I love the line, “I’m easy like Sunday morning,” but I have no idea what it means. From what I can tell, it’s a song about a man who is leaving a woman after knowing he’s done all he can do to make the relationship work. And now that he’s come to terms with that, the pressure is off. What do you think?

While sitting in yet another waiting room this morning – this time at my car dealership, waiting for some routine maintenance to be completed – an elderly gentlemen sees me pull out my laptop and says, “A laptop, huh? Do those damn things work?” I had no idea how to answer him. I didn’t really have to though. Without missing a beat, he glanced down at the USA Today on the table between us and started complaining about something President Obama did. I’m thinking he just needed somebody to talk to.

Same car dealership waiting room, one hour later. A woman sits down at the PC provided by the dealership for customers to use while waiting for their vehicles to be fixed. She brings up a website and begins playing a pinball game. It’s so loud that it wakes up the the guy who was questioning the validity of laptops, but has since fallen asleep. And it causes me to do a double take. I’m thinking, “Surely, she won’t keep playing it, given how loud it is.” And I was wrong.

How about those recent changes to Facebook? They seem to have generated a lot of complaints. I’m not really complaining. I just no longer understand what I’m looking at when I sign in. Little info bubbles pop up, informing me about the changes and all I can think is, “Why in the world would I want to do that?” In fact, the more I look at the news feed, messages, events, pages, lists and apps, the more I want to hit the X button and sign back into Twitter. But I’ll stick around anyway. Too many people I know and love are on Facebook.

My bowling season started a few weeks ago. I entered the season with a 180 average. I just never found a rhythm last season – couldn’t make the proper adjustments. I didn’t touch a bowling ball all summer, but three weeks into the new season, I have a 202 average. The adjustments I’m making are working. I have no idea why, but I’m not complaining.

Yeah, it’s a random list, but it’s what is floating around in my head right now.

Gold Dollar Coins Trigger Childhood Memories

The dollar coins are similar in size to a quarter

“I’m sorry to do this to you.” She handed me three gold dollar coins through the drive-through window instead of three dollar bills. “US Bank won’t give us any ones and this is all we have to make change with.”

I didn’t even know dollar coins were still in circulation. I looked down at them – barely bigger than a quarter – and remembered why Susan B. Anthony dollar coins didn’t go over all that well in the late 70s and early 80s. They looked and felt like a quarter. At least the new dollar coins are gold, which makes them a little easier to distinguish.

“You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, right?” Obviously, she felt bad for pawning these coins off on me. I bobbed my head from side to side as if to say, “I guess.”

As I drove home, I remembered collecting a few real dollar coins (I say “real” because only things from the past can be considered so – of course, I’m kidding, sort of) as a kid in the early 70s. They had President Eisenhower on the front and an eagle on the back, which I think changed to the Liberty Bell in 1976 for the bicentennial.

There was no mistaking these coins for a quarter. They were huge. They could have doubled as a pirate’s eye patch. And they were heavy. At one point, I saved eight or ten of them in a box in which I also stored Kennedy half dollar coins, Indian head pennies, silver pennies from 1943, wheat pennies, a Canadian coin or two, and a few other odds and ends coins.

I think I still have most of those coins stored somewhere (although, I may have spent the Eisenhower dollars and Kennedy half dollars on baseball cards). I hung on to most of the collection because the coins were oddities and therefore, collectable. It never dawned on me that any of these might actually be worth something someday. My guess is, most of them aren’t – at least monetarily.

The new gold coins won’t make the collection, but receiving them did trigger a memory and they helped me realize my small coin collection from yesteryear is a nice snapshot of my childhood – assuming I can ever find the collection.

Even if I can’t, it’s still a nice memory.

Bombarded

Photo: Danny Sullivan

I favor Twitter over Facebook. It’s just personal preference, but it sort of matches my personality because I have just one column of information to read. Simultaneous reference points usually means overload for me.

My brain just doesn’t process and then properly prioritize multiple calls to action or requests for information. And between the news feed, messages, marketplace, groups, and invitations, Facebook comes at me in so many directions that I just can’t keep up.

When I signed onto Facebook this morning, I noticed something I’ve never seen before. The “Messages” section (which I don’t view often enough) contains an “Other” section.

What in the world is that?

After clicking on it, I saw several messages from people dating back to June. One was from a woman thanking me for editing her book and another was from an author who read an article I wrote and she was writing to say she liked the way I handled a sensitive topic.

I have Facebook set up to send me an email when I receive a message, but I don’t always receive them (or maybe I do and they fall into that “simultaneous reference points usually means overload for me” category) and I don’t think I have ever received one for a message in the “Other” section.

Apologies were in order to those who had sent messages, so I did so. One of the women responded by saying, “Nice to hear back from you, Lee! No worries on the delay. We are all bombarded with too much anyway.”

I couldn’t agree more. I once heard somebody say that an email inbox is largely a storehouse for other people’s demands or desires. That is a profound statement. Keeping up with my own demands and desires is usually all I can handle.

That doesn't mean I don’t want to engage with other people. I really do. I just have to do so in a way that makes sense to and for me.

We are bombarded with so many messages now that we send text messages to schedule phone calls. And to be honest, I prefer it that way. The world is a different place than it used to be. Everybody is accessible at all times, and 9:00-5:00 work schedules are no longer the norm. So many of us work from home now and our work schedules easily blur with our life schedules.

What we don’t tell each other though is, all of us have a small circle of people we respond to quicker and there isn’t anything wrong with that.

I don’t take many personal phone calls during my work hours (thank you caller id), but when my mom, my siblings or my niece is calling, I always pick up. When a close friend sends me a text, I always try to respond during my next mini-break. The other, non-work related requests, have to wait until later.

What do you do to filter the messages you receive each day?

Third was the Fence

A friend posted a video on my Facebook wall on my birthday a few days ago, knowing I would like it since I’m a baseball fan. She was right.



This video reminds me of when neighborhood kids used to gather in front of my house to play baseball in the street (it’s a side street). I don’t know how it happened, but at some point, a bit of tar or rubber embedded itself into the street and we used it as home plate. We used the tree on the side of my yard as first base. We used a Frisbee, a shirt, or an unused baseball glove for second base. And we used another tree on the other side of the street for third base.

Ah, those were the days.

Photographing Old Church Buildings

Do you ever drive by old barns or church buildings on road trips and wish you had time to stop and snap a photo or two? Nearly every road trip I take, that thought goes through my mind. But there is always a schedule to keep. In my case, it's often a schedule I predetermined that could be changed if I really wanted to.

A couple of weekends ago, a couple of my friends and I took a trip to Kansas City. Our normal route isn't passable due to flooding, so we had to travel two-lane highways, mostly of the way. On the way down to Kansas City, we passed the church building you see to the right while traveling south on Highway 71 in Iowa.

It looked like something out of a movie. It had an old fashioned chruch bell with an old stone stairway that leads inside. One of my friends pointed out that there was a cable across both doors, maybe indicating that the building was no longer in use. That made me wonder about the building's story. Who started the church? How long ago did they start it? How many pastors preached sermons there? How many lives where changed as the gospel was preached? If the building was no longer in use, why not?

As we zoomed past it, I made a mental note to snap a photo of it when we returned. Unfortunately, I didn't bring my camera on the tripo so my cell phone camera would have to do. On our way back, I pulled off the road and snapped three photos. Unfortunately, the one I shot of the church sign containing the name of the church turned out too small, so I cannot read it, which sort of adds to the intrigue.

But if I find myself on that stretch of Highway 71 again, you can be sure I'll have my camera and a notebook with me. In fact, I might even stop at a nearby business to see if I can get the full story behind the place.

Sugar Substitute and ELO

Photo: Alan Levine

Experienced a couple of funny anecdotes over the weekend and what’s a blog for if not to share such moments?

*****

Friday night, a couple of my friends and I hit a coffee shop we’ve only been to a few times. It’s small, but has good coffee, so it’s always worth stopping there.

After we ordered our coffee, one of my friends saw a new sweetner – one I’ve never heard of, nor can I remember the name of it. But he opened a small package of it, poured a little on his pointer finger and gave it a taste. My other friend asked for some too, so friend #1 pours a neat line of the white stuff onto friend #2’s pointer finger just as a baurista looks over at us.

I knew what she was thinking – we were doing drugs, which is pretty comical given that we are three 40-something Christian dudes whose notion of going crazy includes trying the latest blend of frou-frou coffee at Borders, before closing the place down at 9:00 pm.

“Oh!” the baurista said, realizing we were dabbling in sugar substitute. She placed her hand over her heart. “I thought you guys were doing drugs!” She laughed. “Not that I would judge or anything, but you cannot do drugs in my store.”

“We don’t do drugs,” we said collectively – as if we actually did do them, we would admit to it in a situation like this.

“I’m just saying, if you did, you couldn’t do it in my store,” she said.

Okay, we got it. No drugs in her store.

*****

Saturday, I walked into a Radio Shack to trade cell phone plans. The salesman who helped me was knowledgable and we were able to get through the process fairly quickly. Toward the end, we started talking about music.

“What was your first concert?” he asked.

“ELO,” I said, thinking about the band for the first time in years. I think I owned one of their singles, “Don’t Bring Me Down,” when I was a kid. The only thing I can remember about the concert was a robot that came out and introduced the band.

“Ah, I’m about ten years before you then,” he said. “ELP for me.”

ELO, ELP – what are the chances of the two names being so similar?

“Emerson, Lake & Powell?” I said, apparently thinking Colin Powell was part of the group at one time.

“Emerson, Lake & Palmer.”

“Ah, okay. I was close.”

Walking Toward Hope

Photo: barto

The first time I took to the walking trail at Churchich Park many months ago, I sensed all of us were walking or running from something.

The trail is flat and meanders around life on the softball field, tennis courts and playground. The trail’s flatness is less intimidating for the broken. Anybody who can walk can navigate her curves. 

A short, elderly woman wearing a purple jogging suit slumbered toward me one day, her hand grasping her Chihuahua’s leash as he pulled her along. Her eyes met mine, which is walking trail code for “Please acknowledge me.”

I took a chance and stopped. 

“His feeties are covered in mud – looks he’s having the time of his life,” I said, pointing at her dog. He looked up at me with his head tilted as if to, “What’s the problem?”

The woman smiled.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “The dirtier he is, the happier he is.”

We both knew the exchange was about more than her dog. I suspected she was lonely, so she fled her home for the walking trail. I could be wrong of course, but I doubt it. I trust the code.

During another walk at the park a guy dribbled a soccer ball past me multiple times. He stayed off the walking trail, dribbling the ball in the grass next to the trail – probably partially as a courtesy and partially because soccer fields aren’t made of cement. Apparently, he was trying to get in, or stay in soccer playing shape. I got the feeling he was running from stagnancy – not wanting to give up on a dream.

Since I started walking on this particular trail I’ve seen fathers and sons playing catch, fathers pitching to their kids, middle-aged men playing tennis, families navigating the playground, young men playing basketball with no thought of waking up with sore knees or stiff backs, twenty-somethings playing softball and 40-somethings attempting to play softball.

It’s a beautiful mixture of life.

I took to the walking trail a couple of years ago because I have type 2 diabetes and one of my A1C tests didn’t delight my doctor.

“You need to get more active,” he told me. “Even if it is just walking.”

So I hit the trail, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that all of us at the park are either walking or running from something.

Katherine's Baseball

My mom and I visited the cemetery this weekend to decorate graves. During our visit, we went looking for the headstone of a couple of relatives – a husband and wife – we’ve never visited because we didn't know for sure where it was. But I had a general idea of where it might be and we had some time, so we gave it a shot.

As we browsed the rows of headstones, I stumbled across a headstone that stopped me in my tracks.

Her name was Katherine. She was born in 1911 and died in 1999. I stopped because somebody had placed an old beat up baseball where flowers or flags would ordinarily go – at the top of the headstone.

Obviously, Katherine must have been a baseball fan. Growing up in the 1920s, she would have had the chance to gather around the radio with her family and listen to broadcasters paint beautiful pictures of players such as Babe Ruth, Rogers Hornsby and Lou Gehrig in action.

I couldn’t help but wonder about the story behind the baseball itself. Did it belong to her? Was it autographed? Did she play catch with her grandkids with it? Did she catch it at a baseball game? Did one of her grandkids inherit it?

Oh, if baseballs could talk!

After stopping for a minute to snap a photo of Katherine's baseball with my Blackberry, my mom and I found the headstone we were looking for. I made a mental note of where to find it in the future. And when I visit it, I’ll be looking for another baseball on the headstone nearby.

Slow Walker

Photo: dospaz

I’ve never been the fastest walker. I’m probably a tick below average, but never slow enough to get in people’s way. That was my perception anyway. But that’s beginning to change.

A few days ago, I was leaving the grocery store and a woman on her cell phone was so close to me that I could hear the person on the other line. I got out of the way and the woman rushed by me.

Over the weekend, I was headed to a baseball clubhouse to interview a player, thinking I was walking by myself. I got the feeling someone was behind me, even though I couldn’t hear anything. I turned around in time to see the team mascot walking behind me – apparently tracing my steps. I shook my finger at him in mock anger. He spun around and pointed his blue lion head toward the sky as if to say he was innocent.

After church on Sunday, I walked out the doors, down the steps and headed for the parking lot. As I approached the lot a woman and two kids were right on my heels. I don’t know why they just didn’t go around this slow poke – they had plenty of room, but they stayed right behind me until I finally just stepped aside and let them pass.

I already had a complex about people walking behind me because I ruptured my Achilles tendon in 1997 and after my physical therapy was complete I was afraid someone would accidentally step on the back of my heel and re-rupture the tendon. After the events of the last few days, I really have a complex.

Maybe I should lose the complex and just pretend I’m out for a stroll like the guy in the photo.

Goodbye Mt. Gayler Tower & Gift Shop

Photo: Clinton Steeds

Progress always comes with a price. Something dies so something else can be made new.

The price for constructing I-540 in northwest Arkansas that now bypasses parts of Highway 71 and its treacherous, winding roads was the death of Mt. Gayler Tower & Gift Shop – a multi-generational business that once flourished as weary travelers stopped to pick up a souvenir or make a trek to the top of the tower behind the shop to marvel at God’s creation.

Ruby Jo Bellis still lives there. She’s alone now. Her father was killed in 1985 on Highway 71, less than a mile from the shop. Her grandmother, whom Ruby Jo ran the business with after her grandfather died, is gone now too. And her son died in 2009.

She says she’ll stay there as long as she can pay the taxes and pull the weeds.

“The tower has steps that need repaired so I don’t dare let anyone climb it,” Ruby told the Washington County Observer last October. “I can’t afford to keep the electricity on in the shop when no one stops anymore, but this is my home.”

The newspaper points out the irony of her statement, given that the Bellis family bought the first generator that brought electricity to the mountain top.

I remember the days when people did stop in her gift shop. When I was a teenager, my grandparents used to take my sister and me on road trips to Arkansas during the summer to visit family. The Mt. Gayler Tower & Gift Shop was a guaranteed stop on our journey. By the time we got there my grandfather needed a break after an extended white-knuckle driving experience through the mountains.

My sister and I had a curiosity about the lookout tower. If my memory is correctly, we chickened out once and we made it to the top the next time. It was windy the day we made it to the top, causing the tower to sway slightly. I was a little freaked out by the cable that ran from the top of the tower to the ground – presumably for support.

Our grandparents stayed down on the ground and watched us. Once we made it to the top we could see lakes nestled between mountains that were miles away and hidden to anybody except us and people traveling by air. Trees showed off their red, orange and yellow leaves. Vehicles passed by on Highway 71, oblivious to the beauty they couldn’t see.

I don’t think I took any photos, which sort of bums out. But in October of 1993, my grandmother and I made that same drive. Of course, we stopped at the gift shop and I climbed to the top of the tower with my camera and took these photos:

Progress always comes with a price.