After my father died I attended a fairly tough boy’s camp during the summers. This was an adjustment for the type of mother’s boy I had been up until then. One morning at breakfast I was sitting across from a camp counselor who was a bit of a bully. Alright, quite a bully. I don’t think he liked me very much. I have no idea why.
He was also considerably bigger, older and stronger than me. I no longer remember what he said but it must have irked me a lot because I took my cereal bowl, and the remaining milk in it, and dumped it onto the top of his head. I remember there was a pause then as he sat there with the bowl still on his head dripping milk onto his gigantic shoulders because I think he was surprised. I never moved although my heart was beating like crazy.
Before he could reach across the table and break my neck, other more level-headed folks had intervened. I gained a sort of reputation for a dangerous lack of impulse control. And maybe a little bit of a death wish. I also had to begin looking more carefully behind me throughout the day and the night.
Daughter Jessica called recently, at the end of a trying day, to say she had had a meeting with granddaughter Olivia’s kindergarten teacher. It seems that during lunch a classmate of Olivia’s named Max was kicking her under the table. Unfortunately, just as the teachers called for silence to make announcements young Olivia stood and dumped her remaining strawberry milk over Max’s head.
This, as we all know, was not then and is not now thought to be generally acceptable lunchroom behavior. At my tough camp I was whacked in the back of the head and told to smarten up. Not so, poor Olivia. She had to meet with her teacher. Her mother had to meet with her teacher. She had to write the dreaded note of apology. She had to give that note to her teacher. She had to apologize directly to the foot kicker Max.
Looking back on all this with the wisdom of the ages I can only say two things. It doesn’t run in my family and good for you, Olivia!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Skiing in the Southland
So, we are sitting on the deck at the lodge in Virginia’s Shenandoah Mountains when an SUV with Florida plates screeches to a halt at the end of the parking lot and a family of four jumps out onto the snow. While everyone grabs handfuls of snow Dad throws a pile into the air and shouts, “We’re playing in snow”!
I have never seen camouflage outfits used for skiing. They must have had these clothes for hunting in the closet and thought, “Well, there’s a warm outfit”! Southern accents were, of course, everywhere. Daughter Jess and I had never skied in 50 degree temps before. So we were surprised when the folks in front of us in the lift line announced that they had never been so cold in their lives! Their noses, they said, were practically frozen off. We almost fell down chuckling in out light sweaters and jeans.
I had two incidents involving chair lifts.
I joined Jess and granddaughter Molly on one first thing in the morning. Perhaps I hadn’t sufficiently limbered up at that point. I was on the inside which spins around at the top faster than the outside edge. Jess and Molly popped up and off. I needed a little time to stop chatting, groan and grunt, actually push myself sort of upright and by then the chair had passed the drop off point slightly and I had to make a split second decision, so I jumped. I was confident I could land on my skis and I did. But then I fell on my bum. Luckily no one was on the chairs right behind me. I flipped off my skis and move to the side. Daughter Jessica seemed more excited than the situation called for. She’s a worrier.
Later that day granddaughter Lillian and I were to take the same chair up the mountain. She told me not to help her. I’m sure that’s what she said. So I didn’t grab her and lift her on. I sat down. The chair pushed her forward and she fell. I passed over her while hearing her mother scream. The chair lift stopped and the attendant helped Lilly onto the lift with her mother and sisters. When we got to the top Molly suggested I ski down immediately because Mom was angry with me. What a worrier.
There were deer everywhere and mountain goats at the top of the very top lift. Jess and Molly went up there to feed the goats peanuts. I didn’t. The trails down from there are all double black diamonds and actually require some skiing ability. And falling off ski lifts on the kiddie slope doesn’t develop a lot of confidence!
I have never seen camouflage outfits used for skiing. They must have had these clothes for hunting in the closet and thought, “Well, there’s a warm outfit”! Southern accents were, of course, everywhere. Daughter Jess and I had never skied in 50 degree temps before. So we were surprised when the folks in front of us in the lift line announced that they had never been so cold in their lives! Their noses, they said, were practically frozen off. We almost fell down chuckling in out light sweaters and jeans.
I had two incidents involving chair lifts.
I joined Jess and granddaughter Molly on one first thing in the morning. Perhaps I hadn’t sufficiently limbered up at that point. I was on the inside which spins around at the top faster than the outside edge. Jess and Molly popped up and off. I needed a little time to stop chatting, groan and grunt, actually push myself sort of upright and by then the chair had passed the drop off point slightly and I had to make a split second decision, so I jumped. I was confident I could land on my skis and I did. But then I fell on my bum. Luckily no one was on the chairs right behind me. I flipped off my skis and move to the side. Daughter Jessica seemed more excited than the situation called for. She’s a worrier.
Later that day granddaughter Lillian and I were to take the same chair up the mountain. She told me not to help her. I’m sure that’s what she said. So I didn’t grab her and lift her on. I sat down. The chair pushed her forward and she fell. I passed over her while hearing her mother scream. The chair lift stopped and the attendant helped Lilly onto the lift with her mother and sisters. When we got to the top Molly suggested I ski down immediately because Mom was angry with me. What a worrier.
There were deer everywhere and mountain goats at the top of the very top lift. Jess and Molly went up there to feed the goats peanuts. I didn’t. The trails down from there are all double black diamonds and actually require some skiing ability. And falling off ski lifts on the kiddie slope doesn’t develop a lot of confidence!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
So much for Madonna
After getting some really nutty spam comments on my blog posts I have again restricted the comments to people who are my friends (or “followers” as Blogspot calls them). I do care if people I know and respect wish to comment on some stupid thing I have said. For them, I am ready to stand corrected. On the other hand, I do not care if Madonna really did pay for her baby in Malawi.
A good friend argues that the Internet should be free flowing and always two-way. He is probably correct. But I’m 63 years old and retired and I don’t really give a rat’s ass what 99.9% of the Internet world thinks about me or my idiotic blog posts. As far as I can tell there are only 3 people reading this stuff anyway. Sign-up or don’t comment. Life as we know it shall carry on in any case.
A good friend argues that the Internet should be free flowing and always two-way. He is probably correct. But I’m 63 years old and retired and I don’t really give a rat’s ass what 99.9% of the Internet world thinks about me or my idiotic blog posts. As far as I can tell there are only 3 people reading this stuff anyway. Sign-up or don’t comment. Life as we know it shall carry on in any case.
The twenty-first century lynch mob: some members of the 24 hour television news media and what we owe them.
Why do so many ordinary people under suspicion, in distress, or related to a personal tragedy appear on so-called television news? What the hell are they thinking? Isn’t anyone advising them to stay in the house and close the curtains? What do they think the advantage will be?
And here I’m not talking about those dopey trailer park residents who get a free trip somewhere and lots of money to talk about their sexual relationship with their cousin Joe Bob. We would all continue to live successfully if they went away.
I heard a guy on TV a couple of weeks ago, a so-called media adviser, saying that the only way Tiger Woods could turn his terrible situation around was to appear immediately on TV and declare his sorrow for all he had done. The very worst thing he could do, this moron said, was to not put his face on the screen. After all, the American media had made him who he was and they deserved their pound of flesh. No mention of the fact that he was a pretty good golfer to begin with.
I think that is descriptive of just how important certain media elements think they are in forming the news as opposed to reporting it. You owe us. It appears to be what drives paparazzi photographers who will go to any length, legal or otherwise, endangering lives even, to take an embarrassing picture of a movie actor. The actor owes them. They made them who they are. Their ability to act is irrelevant.
There is a lady on Head Line News named Nancy Grace who decides what she believes is the news of the day, week, month or year, at least in her scandal-ridden mind, and literally beats the story to death. She screams and shouts at anyone appearing on her program if they suggest anything that differs from her view on the murder, kidnapping or whatever she is currently promoting or the person she has chosen as the murderer, kidnapper, etc. Sadly, she is not alone.
Not only do these poor, sorry souls, guilty or not, owe her, she is their one person lynch mob. She is making the news, not reporting it. She is relentless. These people are getting what Nancy Grace has decided they deserve. She must, like God, never be mistaken. We can only hope.
And here I’m not talking about those dopey trailer park residents who get a free trip somewhere and lots of money to talk about their sexual relationship with their cousin Joe Bob. We would all continue to live successfully if they went away.
I heard a guy on TV a couple of weeks ago, a so-called media adviser, saying that the only way Tiger Woods could turn his terrible situation around was to appear immediately on TV and declare his sorrow for all he had done. The very worst thing he could do, this moron said, was to not put his face on the screen. After all, the American media had made him who he was and they deserved their pound of flesh. No mention of the fact that he was a pretty good golfer to begin with.
I think that is descriptive of just how important certain media elements think they are in forming the news as opposed to reporting it. You owe us. It appears to be what drives paparazzi photographers who will go to any length, legal or otherwise, endangering lives even, to take an embarrassing picture of a movie actor. The actor owes them. They made them who they are. Their ability to act is irrelevant.
There is a lady on Head Line News named Nancy Grace who decides what she believes is the news of the day, week, month or year, at least in her scandal-ridden mind, and literally beats the story to death. She screams and shouts at anyone appearing on her program if they suggest anything that differs from her view on the murder, kidnapping or whatever she is currently promoting or the person she has chosen as the murderer, kidnapper, etc. Sadly, she is not alone.
Not only do these poor, sorry souls, guilty or not, owe her, she is their one person lynch mob. She is making the news, not reporting it. She is relentless. These people are getting what Nancy Grace has decided they deserve. She must, like God, never be mistaken. We can only hope.
Monday, January 11, 2010
When the elderly make their own reservations
I have a complaint. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. Apparently it didn’t surprise United Airlines. I made my flight arrangements for the holidays online. The prices were quite high, I thought. I also noticed an odd quirk at United.com. When I put a December departure date in, at least in the second half of the month, the month of the return section shifted ahead a month. Does no one travel within the same month?
I looked several times at the site and was discouraged each time regarding the prices until, at last, I knew I had to make a reservation and, by golly, there was a flight for a very reasonable price. My good fortune. I booked it, printed out the itinerary, checked the dates, felt superior.
I was leaving from Providence, RI for a change on December 22 at 6 am in the morning. This is my latest theory about flying. Go first. It won’t get really screwed up until later in the day. So I booked early to go to Raleigh and early coming back. I assumed that was why the flight was so inexpensive.
This was my first time traveling with a pacemaker. I had my driver’s license out, along with my card from Meditech, my shoes and jacket off, everything in three gray plastic tubs when I told the TSA guy I had a pacemaker and could not go through their machinery. He looked at me like I was demented and said in a loud voice that I should be in line seven. Where, I asked, was that. Line seven he said again. I asked if there was a sign. He sighed. Only complete morons fly from Providence, that’s what that sigh conveyed.
He led me to Line seven which was not identified in any way whatsoever that I could see. The female agent at line seven used the microphone to request a male agent for a pat down and I was instructed to enter the glass room and sit down. People stared as they passed by in the regular security lines. Finally, an old buck showed up in a uniform bejeweled with the same array of medals and ribbons that Francisco Franco wore.
He asked if I would prefer to hear what he was going to do or just have him do it. I said I thought he should just do it. I was actually there to catch a plane as opposed to hear a lecture on patting down old fellows with pacemakers. This was before Christmas. But he seemed to know where something might be hidden. Too bad he didn’t work in Lagos. Luckily, I did not giggle.
On the Saturday after Christmas, I went on daughter Jessica’s old computer and attempted to print out my boarding pass for Sunday December 27. No luck. I was confused. I tried again. I should be able to get a boarding pass within 24 hours of departure. Still no luck. I thought it might be her computer.
Then I looked closer. I couldn’t print a boarding pass because my departure wasn’t until JANUARY 27! No wonder the damned flight was so cheap. I called United. Now remember, we are two days after Christmas and we all know what had happened that day. I couldn’t get through in this lifetime.
I attempted to switch my ticket from January to December online. In fact, the computer said I could get a flight later in the day Sunday the 27 of December for an additional $150. I grabbed it. It was, after all, my mistake.
So I flew out of Raleigh at 2:30 pm. At security, I got in the old geezer-pacemaker line by looking at the folks in each line. I got to Dulles for my change to Providence and everything was complete chaos. Four hours later I finally got on a small plane and arrived at 8 pm.
All in all, it could have been worse given that it was Christmas and shit was happening. But two days later I filled out the survey provided by United online and told them us elderly had trouble with calendars that automatically moved ahead. So far the company President has not thought to call me and apologize!
I looked several times at the site and was discouraged each time regarding the prices until, at last, I knew I had to make a reservation and, by golly, there was a flight for a very reasonable price. My good fortune. I booked it, printed out the itinerary, checked the dates, felt superior.
I was leaving from Providence, RI for a change on December 22 at 6 am in the morning. This is my latest theory about flying. Go first. It won’t get really screwed up until later in the day. So I booked early to go to Raleigh and early coming back. I assumed that was why the flight was so inexpensive.
This was my first time traveling with a pacemaker. I had my driver’s license out, along with my card from Meditech, my shoes and jacket off, everything in three gray plastic tubs when I told the TSA guy I had a pacemaker and could not go through their machinery. He looked at me like I was demented and said in a loud voice that I should be in line seven. Where, I asked, was that. Line seven he said again. I asked if there was a sign. He sighed. Only complete morons fly from Providence, that’s what that sigh conveyed.
He led me to Line seven which was not identified in any way whatsoever that I could see. The female agent at line seven used the microphone to request a male agent for a pat down and I was instructed to enter the glass room and sit down. People stared as they passed by in the regular security lines. Finally, an old buck showed up in a uniform bejeweled with the same array of medals and ribbons that Francisco Franco wore.
He asked if I would prefer to hear what he was going to do or just have him do it. I said I thought he should just do it. I was actually there to catch a plane as opposed to hear a lecture on patting down old fellows with pacemakers. This was before Christmas. But he seemed to know where something might be hidden. Too bad he didn’t work in Lagos. Luckily, I did not giggle.
On the Saturday after Christmas, I went on daughter Jessica’s old computer and attempted to print out my boarding pass for Sunday December 27. No luck. I was confused. I tried again. I should be able to get a boarding pass within 24 hours of departure. Still no luck. I thought it might be her computer.
Then I looked closer. I couldn’t print a boarding pass because my departure wasn’t until JANUARY 27! No wonder the damned flight was so cheap. I called United. Now remember, we are two days after Christmas and we all know what had happened that day. I couldn’t get through in this lifetime.
I attempted to switch my ticket from January to December online. In fact, the computer said I could get a flight later in the day Sunday the 27 of December for an additional $150. I grabbed it. It was, after all, my mistake.
So I flew out of Raleigh at 2:30 pm. At security, I got in the old geezer-pacemaker line by looking at the folks in each line. I got to Dulles for my change to Providence and everything was complete chaos. Four hours later I finally got on a small plane and arrived at 8 pm.
All in all, it could have been worse given that it was Christmas and shit was happening. But two days later I filled out the survey provided by United online and told them us elderly had trouble with calendars that automatically moved ahead. So far the company President has not thought to call me and apologize!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I know I got up to do something…
I used to pride myself on my efficiency. I didn’t waste a lot of motion. I even knew how to take a Navy shower and not waste any water or movement. Talk about efficient! I could load the truck to go to the dump on a Saturday morning and do every errand I needed to do that was either on the way to or from. I never had to make two trips anywhere.
And I was efficient at work as well. The organizations I managed were examples of great efficiency. If I had to prepare a budget for one entity I might as well prepare budgets for all the other organizations we sought funding from in a year. If I wrote a speech for the Rotary Club I knew just where else I might use that same material.
It is a good thing I retired June 30 of 2009. I had very little stamina over the summer ending with the installation of a pacemaker in September. I now, apparently, can work only in short bursts. Then I’m looking for a nap! Eight hours of hard work a day without stop has faded into a memory.
I’m up at 7 am, believe it or not. But I can’t get out of the house until 11 am or so after my morning routine of meditation, treadmill walking, other exercises, looking at my e-mail, reading a chapter or so of a book, drinking 3 cups of coffee, eating breakfast, taking a shower and various pills, perhaps even shaving. I then work on whatever the project is until perhaps 3 pm at the latest. Then it’s time to take a nap, then fix supper, watch some sports on TV, hit the sack by 8 pm. Toddler hours.
Believe me, however, when I suggest I am not going all out like a toddler when working on whatever the day’s project might be either. It’s a pace slightly faster than just plain puttering around.
In part that’s because the old mind wanders. Aimlessness is my best friend. I was sorting paperwork for filing the other day when I heard my tea kettle whistling. My first thought was who the hell was making tea in my kitchen! Of course, it was me before I wandered into the den and discovered the paperwork.
I went to the dump three times this week. It wasn’t that I didn’t remember going the first or second times. It was that I forgot items each time. And the horrifying aspect to it: I didn’t mind going back! What the hell. It’s not like I have any budgets to prepare. I think I’ll take a nap.
And I was efficient at work as well. The organizations I managed were examples of great efficiency. If I had to prepare a budget for one entity I might as well prepare budgets for all the other organizations we sought funding from in a year. If I wrote a speech for the Rotary Club I knew just where else I might use that same material.
It is a good thing I retired June 30 of 2009. I had very little stamina over the summer ending with the installation of a pacemaker in September. I now, apparently, can work only in short bursts. Then I’m looking for a nap! Eight hours of hard work a day without stop has faded into a memory.
I’m up at 7 am, believe it or not. But I can’t get out of the house until 11 am or so after my morning routine of meditation, treadmill walking, other exercises, looking at my e-mail, reading a chapter or so of a book, drinking 3 cups of coffee, eating breakfast, taking a shower and various pills, perhaps even shaving. I then work on whatever the project is until perhaps 3 pm at the latest. Then it’s time to take a nap, then fix supper, watch some sports on TV, hit the sack by 8 pm. Toddler hours.
Believe me, however, when I suggest I am not going all out like a toddler when working on whatever the day’s project might be either. It’s a pace slightly faster than just plain puttering around.
In part that’s because the old mind wanders. Aimlessness is my best friend. I was sorting paperwork for filing the other day when I heard my tea kettle whistling. My first thought was who the hell was making tea in my kitchen! Of course, it was me before I wandered into the den and discovered the paperwork.
I went to the dump three times this week. It wasn’t that I didn’t remember going the first or second times. It was that I forgot items each time. And the horrifying aspect to it: I didn’t mind going back! What the hell. It’s not like I have any budgets to prepare. I think I’ll take a nap.
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