Do you bow up or bow out?

 

Fight or flight?

I can only imagine the number of blog entries and google searches pertaining the caveman instinct of fight or flight.  I probably should have researched this overquoted stress response prior to declaring myself informed enough to post a blog but I did not.  I chose not to become the hyper-informed Googler on this topic because I simply want to make application to the level I currently understand and not complicate my opinion with clinical facts.  This is a blog, after all, not www.webmd.com. 

The question is not ‘do you fight or flee?’.  What I really want to know is what route you take when you run? 

In animation a strong squeeze to the adrenal gland might trigger flaming red face, steam blowing from the ears, or feet running in thin air. I was not looking in the mirror last time my hormones topped out so I may have been red faced and steamy eared but I was not physically in motion.  In my head and possibly my heart, I was circling the world like a rocket ship or perhaps a balloon that was inflated and then released to blow spit like a fire hose.  Either way, I was very much running.

What sets me into flight may not trigger a response from you at all but yesterday I was caught metaphorically with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose.  You know that feeling?  All dressed up and feeling the power.  Briefcase in one hand, latte in the other.  For those of you that didn’t follow the dressed-up-briefcase-carrying-latte-drinking symbolism, imagine you look like Jackie O until you pass a mirror to see Lucy Ball looking back at you.  Don’t hate.  No one is more of a Lucy fan than me and Ethel.  However, my attitude was in drag thinking Jackie but my actions were Lucy in pantyhose so I looked for the open door.  I was run ready.  Release the spit balloon.

I did not physically run, leave or even fake a seizure.  I closed my computer.  I poured a cup of coffee.  I sat in my recliner.  I watched the wind chime wiggle in the breeze.  I updated my resume.  I sipped my coffee. I reread my most current resignation letter. I opened www.Indeed.com.

The lesson here:

Whether you bow up or bow out recognize your actions, own it, and know it comes at a cost. For me, a strategically placed speed bump will keep me from getting too far, tripping on my shoe laces, or carrying around too many regrets.

Can you Google your way through an American Ninja Warrior Course?

 P is for Prosciutto

We gather as a family after church every Sunday for lunch.  I always look forward to the recaps from the week, the inside jabs, and the candor of conversations as everyone filters into the kitchen.  This past Sunday as Angel and his boys came in he pointed across the table at a meat tray and said, “Eli, that’s Prosciutto.”  Most of us stopped what we were doing and waited for the explanation of this rather random declaration.  Angel explained that on the way to church they were playing a game by going through the alphabet naming a food that starts with each letter. A is for apple, B is for bread, P is for prosciutto. 

The conversation opened my memory like a time capsule to the games we played as we rumbled the national and state highways in the 1970’s.  Remember Slug Bug, a fun little bruise producing game?  We played I Spy, and many games that involved billboards and license plates and cows and graveyards and railroad tracks.  It’s amazing what we did to entertain ourselves prior to having personal handheld reach to the world wide web.  Sometimes we had to have conversations or sing songs uphill both ways in the snow. 

You have likely told someone in the last thirty days to put the phone down for a second, screen time is over, or be present only to find yourself jumping from Facebook to Google to Amazon to Zillow like an American Ninja Warrior.  I cannot be the only one on both sides for this problem.   I am the problem and I am the solution.  Somedays I am the villain and other days I am the victim.  We have outsmarted our own culture.  

The worst is in the car.  We should be playing silly word games and counting cows.  I am not making light of the dangers of texting and driving, but googling in the passenger seat comes at a cost too.  I pick up the phone to Google one little random thought or piece of nonsense, and then realize I have left the car entirely.  In a matter of miles, I have clicked from “chartering a jet to Hawaii” to “home of the sod poodles”. See picture below.   We are plugged into the trivia, knowledge and pseudo wisdom of this world and beyond but disconnected from those buckled in beside us. 

Challenge: look out the window and count cows, drive by my house and slug someone in the biceps, or play food games but remember P is for Pizza.

There is a Booger on the Couch, is that okay?

 

Just one germ:

 

When I travel I do my best to stay in hotels that consistently meet certain requirements. Some would call me a hotel snob but name brand hotels are more predictable, easier and safer.  I stay away from hotels that have doors that open to the outside. I stay away from most local chain hotels with few exceptions.  I don’t stay in hotels that are adjacent to truck stops.  Having coffee in the room or available in the building is a definite plus but I have two absolutes: safety and cleanliness.  These two qualifiers not only keep me from some brands but can direct me away from some towns altogether.  

 

While I don’t typically check the rap sheets for hotels before I make a reservation, I have been known to drive to the front door and cancel my reservation while sitting in their parking lot. There is no check off list for me that makes a hotel safe; well-lit parking area: check; currently no one being shot onsite: check; no first responders blocking the door: check.  It’s an emotional gut feeling that makes me check out before I check in.  

 

It’s much easier to assess hotel hygiene.  I don’t travel with a UV light and I do not have special vision to know when a hotel room is clean, but I am confident in knowing dirty when I see it.  

 

The biggies: 

The bed isn’t made:  We would not consider staying in a room if the door swung open to a bed that was crumpled from where another human slept. If there were dirty towels in the bathroom? No.  Those are things we are not expected to compromise on. 

 

The smalls: 

What if the hotel room was a little dirty?  Everything was clean except the toilet wasn’t flushed?  Yucky but we can flush, as we do in public restrooms, and the problem is seemingly gone.  What if the trash had not been pulled?  

 

The day after finds:  

This is a special surprise. It’s a nice enough hotel. I slept good. I felt safe. I watched some TV and went to sleep without issue. I woke and showered with clean towels. However, when I opened the coffee maker I gagged. Not only was it not clean but it was a carpet of mold growing on a bed of coffee grounds. 

 

Thatguyilivewith and I recently stayed in an extended stay hotel in Tampa that was beyond what I considered acceptable.  The king size bed had queen size linens, the dishwasher was full of dirty dishes, the shower was moldy, and there was a booger on the couch.  Additionally, there were no clothes hangers in the closet and apparently no forks, clean or otherwise in the building.  We checked out early and I took my-hotel-snob-self down the road to a brand name hotel that I know and trust.   

 

Could we use the same hotel cleanliness scale to evaluate our own lives? I will use the term obstacles but these could be anything from sin to bad habits.  Do I have big obstacles like an unmade bed that I just ignore?  Do I have obstacles that are just inconvenient that I have learned to tolerate?  It is a personal reflection that sometimes only you can see.  The big heavy hotel room door is slammed shut, the peep hole only sees out, and you are there looking around the room: what do you see? 

 

 

Not Intended for Cult Leaders

 What do you want to be when you grow up?

When my oldest granddaughter, Kallie, was wrapping up kindergarten she took part in an annual tradition of surveying the class.  Each spring the teacher would ask every child that was to be promoted to the first grade, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  On graduation night they read the responses of the children: “I want to be a teacher” or “I want to be a policeman.”  Some said nurse, doctor, veterinarian, etc.  It was adorable to see a snaggle toothed five-year-old walk across the stage in a miniature white satin robe trying to balance the matching hat on her head.  Their future aspirations were tossed into the air like a tassel and cap.  It was a milestone in life for the parent and children.  The parents were so proud.  I can only assume it was a relief for the teachers. 

I don’t remember having the forethought to ask myself this question when I was graduating from kindergarten.  I don’t remember my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Ruth Bristow, asking us in any formal manner but if she reads this maybe she will let me know.  I remember my sister always wanted to be a teacher or perhaps I just thought she wanted to be a teacher because she made me play school all the time.  I never wanted to be a teacher; that much I remember.  I don’t remember ever wanting to be a doctor or a lawyer or a nurse or an astronaut or a fireman or a cowboy.  Perhaps I didn’t have that type of ambition or maybe I never thought beyond the moment. 

In high school my classmates declared their intentions and decided on courses to study or paths to follow.  Even though I took college classes between my junior and senior years of high school I still had no idea what degree or life I would pursue.  Still the one thing I knew was that I did not want to teach.  At one time, like a lot of high school kids I could envision myself coaching high school basketball but I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the classroom or the students or the lockers or the grades or the courses or test or the students.  I know I said students twice.  I thought it deserved repeating. 

Just after high school graduation a best friend and classmate had knee surgery.  I remember helping her mother to get her in and out of her Pontiac Grand Am that summer.  Her mother told me that I should look at nursing because I was helpful with my friend. It was a kind complement but it didn’t suit me.

Finally just before the fall semester started I decided! I will not major in Psychology or Art (choices I had considered) but I will take the classes that my friend was taking.  Apparently, I wanted to be whatever she wanted to be.  Together we registered for our first semester of classes at Panola Junior College.  We took the usual basics plus ‘Math for Elementary School Teachers’.   (Later in life I will write the pantyhose story from this class.) 

For now, I will just say that 2-3 years in the future this plan was derailed and I was back to square one.  With student loan debt and a college catalogue in my lap. I flipped pages looking for the degree that would allow me to use all the science classes that I had taken in preparing to teach grade schoolers.  I was not alone as this unfolded.  That guy I live with was knee deep in a plan to be an engineer as his father had suggested from his early years.  

 

The questions that I cannot answer for me or you:

Questions ONE:  Do you look at your future as who/what you want to BE or what you want to DO?  I do not intend to declare one of these as right and the other wrong.  I don’t even have an answer.  I do see a difference though. 

Kallie’s response to the question was not in the format of what do you want to be but she declared, “I want to work at Sonic”.   She did not say “I want to be a sock hop”.  She said that she wanted to work at Sonic.  It was very cute and the girl loves a slushy.  We still give her grief about this. 

Unless you aspire to be a cult leader or serial killer few occupations equal who you are.  I realize that a doctor is a doctor and a teacher is a teacher for twenty-four hours every day but does that equal who they are or more likely what they do? 

 Question TWO:  More importantly, does what you do as an occupation determine who you are as a human? Cult leaders and serial killers need not answer.  Most of us know better than to answer yes to this. In my career, not as a teacher or a nurse, I have spent a lot of time in a hospital environment.  There’s a vast difference in the education, responsibility and daily payable tasks of the neurosurgeon and the admissions clerk. 

This is the part of the blog that I don’t like. The few sentences that I add that sound preachy and self-righteous. The part where you say, duh, I knew that 978 words ago.  I only preach through this to bring out one point and that is this: Remove “just” from your occupational title.  I am always frustrated with people that say, I am just a clerk or I am just a phlebotomist.  You will never hear a space cowboy say I am just an astronaut. You will never hear a neurosurgeon say I just operate on the brain.  And the one that needs to be banished from all declarations of self, “I am just a stay at home mom”. Its that one word, just, that clouds the line between who you are and what you do.   Be who God intended for you to be regardless of what you do.                  

Friends with Skates

Would you share your roller skate?

Recently thatguyIlivewith and I were moving slowly on a road beside a small private grade school campus.  On one corner sat a beautiful open-air church and on the other a playground.  We were at a stop sign when we saw two girls that appeared to be about 9 or 10 years of age.  They were cute girls.  Both were wearing jeans and their sweaters were normal 10-year-old girl pink and purple and white colors. They were cute and I would have taken an iPhone photo of them through my dirty windshield but thought better of it.  Taking pictures of random minors, regardless of how cute they are, seems inappropriate in 2021.  Though I don’t have the photo I hope I never forget what I saw those two girls doing.  They were sharing.

Ladies of the 80's skating back in time. Fall 2020

Throughout my life I have been told to share the candy, share the couch, and share the tv. I have been told to share the blame, share the credit, and share the responsibility. I have had to share access and availability to a washing machine and a pay phone as I got older. But not once was I ever asked to give up one of my skates. 

It appeared that one of the girls had a pair of white roller skates.  The cute ones.  Not like the pair for rent at the skating rink.  They had pink bubblegum wheels and pink sparkling laces.  I could not tell who the skates belonged to because each girl was wearing one skate.  The girl in the front had a tennis shoe in her left hand and one on her left foot with a white skate on her right foot.  The other girl was holding onto her friend’s forearm and had a blue tennis shoe in her left hand.  She had a skate on her left foot and the other blue shoe on her right foot.  They were like a three-legged sack race on pink wheels.  And they giggled.   I couldn’t hear them but I could see it on their faces. They stumble skated the sloped pavement just off the curb and we watched as they crossed the street in front of us.  

It’s not likely anyone told this girl to share her skate.  That is what made it awesome. That is what made us stop and watch them like white van creepers. They were sharing so much more than a skate.   It was inspiring and hopefully contagious. 

I decline to draw conclusions on this. I just want to challenge you and me to find a place in our minds to see these two girls as a pink and purple rolling inspiration to give, laugh and continue down the road, and to not focus on only having one skate but celebrate having that special friend that will share her wheels with you.

The Gray Guys

I have been to Mayberry on two different occasions.  My kids stood in the jail where Otis Campbell slept it off.  I stood in Floyd’s City Barber Shop while that guy I live with got a little trim.  We took turns sitting at Sherriff Taylor’s desk. We stopped at Wally’s Service Station and we drove past the house where Andy Griffith was raised, bathed and disciplined.

  

 

Of course, some of these we only did through the imagination of Andy Griffith as Mayberry is actually Mount Airy, North Carolina.  I find the life of Andy Griffith through the character of Sheriff Taylor to be fascinating.  I love the simplicity of the plots.  I love the morals of the regular people.  I love the clutter-free program that my grandsons call the Gray Guys.  

You probably have a favorite scene or moment from the sitcom.  At the very least you can whistle the theme song.  Go ahead.  Pause for a second to whistle the tune.  Visualize Andy and Opie almost skipping down a dirt road with fishing poles laid over their shoulders and pitching rocks.  Even in black and white you can see the sun is shining brightly. They are happy to spend some time at the fishing hole.

By the way, that is the name of the song; “The Fishin’ Hole”.  It’s not called the Andy Griffith Show theme song but it is noted as the most iconic theme song ever written. 

Also, did you know that there are actual lyrics to the song?  I hope it doesn’t disappoint you to know that according to the World Wide Web it wasn’t written by Andy Griffith.

The link below is Andy Griffith singing it for your listening enjoyment and the words in case you want to karaoke along.

https://youtu.be/j_IfSxMQ7yg

Well, now, take down your fishin' pole
and meet me at the fishin' hole.
We may not get a bite all day,
but don't you rush away.
 
What a great place to rest your bones
and mighty fine for skippin' stones.
You'll feel fresh as a lemonade,
a-settin' in the shade.
 
Whether it's hot,
whether it's cool,
oh what a spot
for whistlin' like a fool.
 
What a fine day to take a stroll
and wander by the fishin' hole.
I can't think of a better way
to pass the time o' day.
 
We'll have no need to call the roll
when we get to the fishin' hole.
There'll be you, me, and Old Dog Trey,
to doodle time away.
 
If we don't hook a perch or bass,
we'll cool our toes in dewy grass.
Or else pull up a weed to chaw,
and maybe set and jaw.
 
Hangin' around,
takin' our ease,
watchin' that hound
a-scratchin' at his fleas.
 
Come on, take down your fishin' pole
and meet me at the fishin' hole.
I can't think of a better way
to pass the time o' day.

 

So, who cares?  Why did I write that little blurb with information that you could have easily retrieved for yourself with a few clicks on google?  Could you have gone the rest of your life without those facts?  Without a moment to pause and whistle?  Without knowing the words? Of course.  I typed this for one brief analogy that I promise not to beat to death.

Possibly you didn’t know that lyrics ever accompanied the upbeat whistling but you still knew that show.  You most likely know the characters:  Aunt Bee, Deputy Barney Fife, Opie, Floyd the Barber, Goober and/or Gomer, and of course Andy.  We know some facts about the characters:  Andy didn’t typically carry a gun.  He only allowed Barney one bullet most of the time and he often took that one away from him.  Aunt Bee raised Andy and moved to Mayberry to help Andy raise Opie. We probably could imitate some of the buzz words or phrasing from the show like, “Shazam!” or “Golly”; “I reckon so.” And “Hold on a cotton-picking minute!” Only the true sitcom scholars will remember how many girlfriends Andy had through the years, that most, if not all, of the patrol cars were made by Ford, and that Deputy Fife and Sheriff Taylor were cousins.  Feel free to test you Mayberry trivia at 

https://www.metv.com/quiz/the-mayberry-trivia-challenge-how-well-do-you-know-andy-griffith-show-characters

 

Again, why?

The analogy:

Isn’t that how we are with the Bible?  I know the general tune, I know a lot of the characters by name, I have a list of phrases and quotables, and I definitely have my favorite scenes.  I don’t know the words as well or maybe well enough to sing them aloud.  Like I did with some of the fun facts above, sometimes I must google to find details of the Bible. 

The Woods Winery Adventure

The Woods Winery Adventure:

It’s not often that I am without a story to tell.  It is more often that I withhold a story because it seems to lack purpose beyond entertainment.  The story on my mind tonight is exactly that story.  It’s one I have told a few times with over animated arm motions and twisted facial expressions in pursuit of a laugh. It serves no purpose. It has no plot, no villain, no conflict, and no hero. 

Before I disappoint you with this story I must clear this up.  I do not know the dog’s name but I choose to call him Rugby. He was a short dog with spots. He was a beagle type dog which adds no real value to the story.  I do know the name of the winery but I choose not to call it by name. I will call it The Woods Winery.  It is my understanding that among those in the Texas wine community The Woods Winery has a reputation of providing a quality product and has received recognition in many product categories.  And lastly, it’s a story.  I no longer consume or promote the drinking of alcohol but I do not criticize those who do. At the time of this adventure I had romanticized the swirling of wine in cheap stemware at a sidewalk beach town bistro on a Sunday afternoon amongst the locals.  If at that time I had had a Facebook I likely would have checked in with a creative one liner promoting the one-dimensional value that converted a fifteen-minute outing into a click-like worthy lifestyle.

Once upon a time in the pursuit of adventure and lack of time restrictions we were steaming down the highway of East Texas.  Pine trees were thick and tall along the two-lane state highway.  The sun was bright through the cracked windshield of the 1995 motorhome.  My fuzzy little dog, Liberty Anne laid cozy on the dash in the sun as the motorhome rattled slowly up the long hills.  We had driven this road many times prior to this day and many times since but we had never stopped at the winery.  For whatever reason on this day we decided to turn the 32-foot motorhome from the highway onto a dirt path.  Understand that before deciding to detour from the main road the driver should know there will be a place to turn around or be prepared to back slowly out of the narrow path that you have since determined not to be passable in forward. 

The dirt path curved sharply to the left before crossing a railroad track packed with black asphalt.  Just beyond the tracks in a yard of knee deep Bahia grass was a wooden banner that read “The Woods Winery”.  Behind the sign and to the right was a doublewide trailer that appeared to be a residence.  Beyond the sign and to the left was a small tin building and an old yellow railroad car.  We had arrived at the tasting room we had set out to enjoy.   There was not a parking lot or even a defined parking area so we turned the motorhome into the tall grass hopeful we were going to be able to maneuver a turnaround. 

Let me pause here and say this.  If there had been a sign at the beginning of this dirt path indicating a garage sale we probably would have kept going.  However, if I had followed sale signage to this house and building configuration I probably would not have stopped to shop.  I am not saying it is right but sometimes I exercise my right to bypass a yard littered with treasures of others if certain conditions are present or if they have an excessive number of cats. 

The option to bypass in this case was hindered by the location and the vehicle we were driving.  You simply do not sneak out of someone’s driveway in a rattling old motorhome.  Other considerations: the boys, shook awake from the railroad crossing, were piled up in the windshield anxious to see the winery and Rugby had made a verbal announcement of our existence and now Liberty Anne was standing boldly like a hood ornament on the dash.  We had three choices.  We could stop to enjoy the tasting room and tour the facilities, awkwardly turn the coach around pretending we were not seen, or continue the dirt path across a cattle guard passing a hand painted sign that read “beyond here be banjos”. 

I turned to that guy I live with and said, “we are not buying anything here.” 

He put the motorhome in park and turned off the ignition as the boys piled out the side door.  The resident vintner seemed shocked to see us move enthusiastically toward the ramp that led in the box car.  Let’s call her Peggy.  She was not in charge of guest relations and tourism.  She looked like I look when you walk up in my yard when I am on my knees pulling weeds from the lantana flower beds.  She had a small amount of sweat on her forehead that she wiped away with the back of her wrist as I do when my hands are soiled. Her hair was hanging around her face which was smiling and questioning yet welcoming.  Peggy was not preened to receive company but without much conversation she eagerly invited us into the box car.  She made a couple of excuses for the condition of the yard and some visibly incomplete projects that we passed as we walked. 

The inside of the box car had potential and I could see her vision.  She quickly read the room and invited the boys for a root beer which she had on tap.  She pulled out two stemmed glasses with The Woods Winery logo etched on the side and glanced around for the bottle to pour from.  As she poured the first glass she mentioned the category of wine, the awards and accomplishments they had received, and availability of this variety in Texas.  It was a citrus wine.  Because I am not a winery connoisseur and I refuse to google the right terminology for this story I will only describe it as sweet.  It had a hint of orange favor like the ice that remains after you have finished a Fanta Orange Soda.  I liked it.  She pulled another bottle out and repeated the steps as she poured.  We were being won over by the pride she had in her products.  She stood behind the bar across from us and in contrast to the first moments in her yard, she proudly showed her wares.

She spoke confidently educated as she asked if we would like to see the work area.  I am by this time on the third ‘taste’ and agreed that I would indeed like to see the process.  She led us out the end of the box car as if we were jumping from railcar to railcar of a New York City Subway. We entered the tin building and an open area without obvious purpose before she shuffled us out the sliding tin doors and into another building.  It was there we met her husband and business partner.  We will call him Buddy. 

As I said before I am not a wine connoisseur.  I am just gathering facts that I can tweak slightly toward humor so that I can at any given opportunity steal the metaphoric microphone and make the crowd roll in laughter. 

There was Buddy.  He was sitting on a white 5-gallon bucket with his elbows on his knees.  It was hot and he too had beaded sweat on his forehead.  In his right hand he had a paring knife and in his left, he had a peach.  Peggy, in the background was making introductions and explaining the large stainless-steel vat in this building.  She noted the origin of the peaches and then gave a skinny explanation of the process of fermentation.  Periodically Buddy tossed the peach from his left hand into the vat and reached into a heap around his ankles to grab another.  

Again, let me stop here for a sidebar.  I know that traditionally the process of making wine has been pictorially represented with Lucy and Ethel stomping around a circular trough with their dresses pulled up, the fruit squishing between their toes, and Lucy distorting her face in disgust.  Also, I have read that the germs of the toes are beneficial to the process of fruit fermentation and that any pathogen on the human foot is not able to survive the winemaking process.  Other than staining the stomper’s toenails this is a completely sanitary practice.  It’s because I know this that I find it hard to poetically describe and retell this portion of the story.  I simply cannot say it any other way.  Buddy was barefoot.  His dirty toes were buried below bushels and bushels of overripe Texas grown peaches.  The peach juice seeped into puddles like sweat around his feet and splashed as he shuffled his feet and wiggled his toes.  It was too much.  Peggy talked but I failed to hear anything that she said.  I saw toes that walked unprotected in the sand to the mailbox earlier in the day.  I saw toes that stood in the bathroom only inches from the toilet periodically.  I saw toes that sweated in leather steal toe boots and tube socks while pushing a lawn mower or stomping a shovel into the dirt.  I glanced down to see Buddy’s toes next to Rugby’s toes all in the same pile of peaches.  All I saw were toes but the tour continued. 

Buddy continued his task as Peggy and Rugby led us back to the tin building to explain the corking station.  I refocused to see that each bottle was corked individually.  One bottle at a time was put in place and using a lever the wet cork was pushed into the bottle to form the necessary seal.  This is a slow process but I appreciated the amount of time the vintner had to inspect each bottle just before it was placed into a crate for distribution or storage.  It was at this point that Rugby, standing at eye level with the corking plunger, was a part of the process.  As Peggy placed a labeled bottle of sparkling citrus wine onto the target and pulled the lever, the cork squeezed into the neck of the bottle expelling just the slightest amount of liquid.  It rolled down the long bottle neck like a tear until wiped away by the spotted dog’s waiting tongue.

Winemaking is a lengthy process.  It takes a commitment to the process that not everyone can appreciate. That is why we climbed back into that motorhome and plowed back down that dirt path with two bottles labeled The Woods Winery both licked by Rugby the bottle high vintner.