Not Yet !

What is it about packing that makes my blood run cold? We are set to leave for our next vacation Sunday morning, just two days from now. Truthfully, I should currently be packing, but I have chosen to write about why I’m not packing instead. My wife and travel mate, Deb, was packed a full two weeks ago, but I just can’t seem to start. It’s not that I am not looking forward to the trip, I am in fact really excited to get away. But none the less, my habit of packing procrastination is on high alert, sort of def con 3.

I have created an entire handbook full of reasons for not packing ahead of time. What if before we leave, I need one of the pieces of clothing I packed? What will the weather be where we are going? God knows you can’t trust a forecast more than a day out. What am I going to do with those last minute items? I would have to unpack just to get them in the ideal position within my suitcase. And what if TSA makes a new requirement I will have to pass? My list is limitless and the bottom line is that there is always tomorrow.

My m. o. has always been to pack about one hour before we leave. Much to my wife’s chagrin, she has been repeatedly unsuccessful in trying to change me. Even so, she has never had to leave without me, close calls a few times, but I’ve always come through. There was that one time. We had a 6:00 am flight to catch which meant pickup by our Uber driver at 4:00 am. My wife likes to have a full hour getting ready in the morning, so our wake up alarm was set for 2:45 am. Plenty of time for me to dress AND to pack. Everything should have worked except for one tiny hitch, daylight savings time began that morning. The result, a record setting run for both of us. My wife showered and dressed while I literally threw everything into my suitcase all in 15 minutes. This experience should have been a wake up call, no pun intended, but instead, became my new benchmark.

The art of packing is just that, an art. Some, like my wife, view it as a planning activity. Others a means of extending their vacation anticipation period. I view it as a track meet. Sort of a 100 yard dash at most. It’s not just a question of can I finish the race, but how fast can I do it. I have been looking forward to this trip ever since we laid the initial plans, but the packing, that’s another thing.

Fear not. We leave at 7:00 am Sunday morning, plenty of time to pack that suitcase. Though I will for sure be seeing the sun rise that morning, I promised Deb, my suitcase will be in the car by the deadline. Am I packed? ……………. Not yet.

If Only I Were a Car

As a guy, I have always been prone to getting attached to my cars. Before you question that statement, just consider that men approach cars so differently than women. We give them feminine names. We care for them as if they were are pets. We even speak of them in sexual connotations, just don’t ask me to get into specifics on that one. Men know what I mean. But even with all this said, I have always espoused to a set belief when it came to cars. I would date my car for two to three years, five years tops if I was really in love with her, and then I would trade her in for a slightly newer model with fewer miles and that shiny sexier frame and then start up a new love affair.

If only I were a car. If that were true, I could trade myself in for a newer model with a few less years on it, hell, maybe a lot fewer years on it. As I approach my next birthday, a birthday as yet not named, my body is showing signs of the well driven years I have put on her. Oh, she still tries to have that new car smell and sure, she shines up real nice when we are going out on the town, but truth be told, she lacks some of that get up and go she had when I first started driving her. She’s a little slower out of the gate in the morning and her tires are looking worn. Don’t get me wrong, I suspect she still has some good years left in her, but you know, if only I could trade her in.

When I posed this idea to my wife, she immediately wanted to know how many models I was planning on stepping up and just how low a number of years was I considering? I assured her I was intending to be reasonable, maybe a couple of model years up and oh maybe somewhere between thirty-five to forty years on her. Not too surprisingly, after visualizing the new me, she was all in.

Now, if only I were a car,

What’s it like when your daughters get married?

Kathryn is getting married this weekend. She is my youngest daughter and the second to get married. Family and friends are gathering, some for the first time in a long time. Preparations are in order and we are trying to enter the let go of the stress period. It seems the question I have been asked the most is how am I feeling as my daughter gets married? Given the number of times it has been asked, I thought I would try to answer it here.

Bailey and Kathryn have been on their own, living away from us ever since the day they left for college. They have grown into beautiful, successful, independent, and I might add, brilliant women. So why is it that it is such an emotional rollercoaster ride when eventually they get married?

As a father, you become the go to person in their life. When they have that question about how things work, dad’s the one they ask. When things don’t work, dad’s the one they ask why. They may take their broken heart to mom, but it’s dad that’s asked to fix it. In short, dad is the real man in their life. This might be the place for me to chastise the fathers that are absent dads. How could you fail to fill that important role in your child’s life? What was more important?

When your daughter gets married, you are about to be replaced. There is suddenly a new man in their life and rightfully so. They have chosen the man they will spend their life with. The man they have fallen in love with. The man they might one day start a family with. As much as you respect the man they have chosen and trust him to take care of your little girl, it is hard to step down from the position you held for all those years. But as the understanding, caring dad you are, you accept your new position with grace. In short you get over it.

And then there is the flip side of this ride. Your position may be diminished, but you have, provided they chose wisely, gained a son. A son you can now spend time with learning new ways to do things, getting your computer to work better, and a needed resource for those tasks you were never really great at like grilling anything better or properly preparing the Thanksgiving turkey. Never underestimate the knowledge and skill of the younger generation or the youthful energy they bring to a project you needed a strong back to get finished.

Still, the most important, pleasing result of watching your daughters get married, is the incredible sense of pride you experience as they slide their arm through yours and walk down the aisle with you at their side for at least one more time. You have succeeded. They are fully grown, independent, and ready to start this new phase in their life. They have survived middle school, high school, first dates and last dates, college life, and cruel professors, often with your advice in their ear telling them you can do this. You realize at that moment that you aren’t being replaced, just added to the partnership as that second opinion. After all, they told him that he would be expected to ask dad first for their hand in marriage. As you walk them down the aisle, you come to know the incredible depth of the love you hold for them and that in your heart they will always remain your precious little girl. 

Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks

For over sixty years, friends, relatives and even strangers have tried to teach me how to fish. I have been taken out in countless boats only to be taken back to shore and dropped off for distracting them with my excessive pacing on their too small for that boat. I was simply too impatient with the process. Though my impatience has certainly been part of the issue, my general attitude was the greater problem. Why would I want to spend a good portion of my vacation throwing a line at fish who never showed much interest in biting what I was offering. There were so many other things I could do that seemed more productive. Even chasing a golf ball around the course seemed more entertaining and much more likely to offer the greater exercise.

Don’t get me wrong. Over the history of my near fishing career, I have managed to catch the occasional fish that others told me they could use as bait. I even managed to “suck” a fish out of my dad’s pond with a cane pole but telling that story will have to be a blog of its own. The bottom line is that I never came close to qualifying as a fisherman, let alone to own or deserve my own pole.

All that changed last year. My seven-year-old grandson, Jackson, wanted to fish. Unfortunately, I was the only one available to teach him. Reluctantly, I decided to try. I started by digging out my daughter’s old pole, she had lost interest almost as fast as I had with the only difference being that she at least made it to the owning a pole level. Next stop, the bait shop and a dozen Canadian Crawlers, hopeful this was the way to go. And then, poorly outfitted, I took him down to the end of our dock. What happened next was magic. He caught a fish on his second cast, and he was hooked. By the end of the summer, he was asking how he could catch the really big fish, you know, the kind you have to carry one of those heavy-duty nets and a baseball bat to defend yourself. I started to hear walleye, northern, and muskie being bandied about with regularity. I could only hope taking him to local sports bars to show him monster mounted muskies and northerns would dissuade him in his dangerous quest. It didn’t. Other seasoned fisherman would slide by in their boats and Jackson would engage them in fish conversations. “What have you caught?”, “I just caught a smallmouth bass, but I got a largemouth yesterday.” Until we started these lessons, I didn’t know mouth size was such a big deal. My wife asked him if he had caught a loudmouth bass and I didn’t even catch her faux pas. As the conversation between these fishermen carried on, I dreaded being asked my role for fear that I would have to admit I was only his bait caddy.

It is now year two of these so-called fishing lessons and the strangest thing is happening, I am finding myself liking this fishing gig. Not only has Jackson made me appreciate the art of fishing, but he has also hooked me on the sport, yes, I just called it a sport. He started me out small, a couple of crappies here, a bluegill there and then it happened, I caught a smallmouth bass. I was ready to have it mounted for display in one of those sportsman’s bars right next to the 52-inch Muskie, but I quickly came back down to earth as I heard Jackson casually say, “Nice job Opa, you caught a smallmouth.”

Today, Jackson and I spent an hour in a bait shop staring at the countless lures and fishing gear as if it were a candy store, and tonight, while everyone was finishing dinner, I caught myself wandering down to the dock and casting a line. To my sheer delight, I caught two nice smallmouth bass. I reveled in the fight and beamed with pride as I pulled each one to the surface. Later, as we all sat around the campfire, I found myself drawn once again back to the dock. As I cast my line out unto the lake’s surface, softly shadowed in the twilight glow of a northern Wisconsin evening, I came to the realization that I was in, hook, line, and sinker. I guess now I’ll have to buy myself a pole.

All I can say Jackson ….. you really did teach this old dog a new trick.

And it Came Back

Today’s toys are loaded with technology. They simulate real settings in game modes, they move the puzzle pieces with a click of button, I can even feel like I’m out on the course playing golf. I am far from complaining either for what you have or for what I didn’t. Toys have always been meant to amuse and to inspire imagination. As technology advanced so did the toys and their effect and affect.

But what did I play with when I was young? The truth is there were countless toys and I had my share, but the question is which ones left the biggest impression on my memory? I have decided that the best way to do this is to think of it by types. I have chosen five categories and a toy for each category that I remember better than others.

My first category is Creativity and the toy is my mechanics bay and gas station garage.  Besides the fact that it had to be completely assembled metal tab by metal tab, it provided hours of imagination as my miniature cars would enter and exit the gas station and its upper level reached by the cool car elevator. This toy inspired me to learn how to assemble things, to fix things, and I guess, to travel. Unfortunately, it never taught me to stop at a gas station and ask for directions. I do feel obligated to give honorable mention to Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and my Erector Set. Each provided hours of creativity in design, but that darn metal fabricated play gas station just had so many special memories tied to it.

My next category is Finance and the obvious choice here is Monopoly. We would play monopoly and the game would go on for long spells as anyone who has played the game will attest to. The game really was the beginning of my interest in finances. Though I never bought a rental property and certainly never built a hotel, it gave me an appreciation for banking. I would very often agree to be the banker in the game and later in my teaching career I made that banking part of my math curriculum. Honorable mention should be given here to the games of Life and Risk, but I think monopoly is my fondest memory.

For my third category, I am going with Curiosity and the toy, a weather balloon. In high school, my best friend and I decided to follow the invitation on the back of a cereal box and send away for a genuine, US Weather Balloon. I might add, we also sent some hard earned cash because we were pretty sure no parent was intending to finance us. The day the balloon arrived we were raring to go. For some unknown reason, we decided we should inflate it right there in my bedroom. As we filled it and watched the envelope expand, we failed to notice the vast number of sharp furniture corners in the room. Nearing four feet in diameter, the inevitable happened. Who knew the explosion could be that loud and more importantly, that the balloon was lined with talcum powder. Upon the arrival of my worried mother, the sight that greeted her appeared as a small blizzard throughout the room and two young lads who appeared to have spent a day in a bakery. We never did get another weather balloon and thus never sampled the weather above our farm, but certain aspects of our curiosity had certainly been satisfied.

My next category is one of Utility and the toy / weapon was my very own slingshot. Now this was not a store bought slingshot but rather a home grown version. With my dad’s guidance and his keen eye for just the right ash tree branch, my slingshot was crafted and honed to perfection. First target, tin cans. From there I stepped up to moving targets such as gophers, who conveniently carried a ten cent bounty on their tails. Unfortunately, my last target, which I intended only to show how close I could get, was the tail light of my sister’s car and eventual incarceration of my slingshot. As short lived as my slingshot days were, I still value the collaboration with my dad on the project.

My final category and the inspiration for this question will be titled Travel and the toy, my first and until today only, boomerang. Not just any boomerang, but an honest to goodness Australian Outback beauty. I grew up a National Geographic junkie. I would look at the far away lands and dream of one day being a traveling explorer. When I saw Australia and read about the Aborigines and their hunting weapon, the boomerang, I just had to have one. There in the magazine was my chance to own one. I don’t remember how much of my allowance went into the purchase, but it was worth every dime. Hours of throw and fetch eventually gave way to throw and duck and with dedicated practice, one day it not only threw, it returned and I caught it. Success was as sweet as you are imagining. The irony of this last choice of toys, is that life has come full circle. Over the weekend, my wife had bought our grandson, Jackson, a plastic sort of replica boomerang. With little success, compounded by his left handedness, Jackson and my wife were giving up. Insert a little known fact here, who knew a boomerang could be left handed but isn’t generally. This next weekend, Jackson will receive a genuine, signed Australian left handed throwing boomerang. Let the throw and fetch begin but I have faith that with practice, there will come success.

I started off with a comparison of my toys versus the current generation’s toys. What is important to understand is that I am not any worse off for not having the high tech toys nor is Jackson’s ability to enjoy all five categories any less decreased by having them. Toys are toys. They create their own aura and should almost all, one day find their way to their own Hall of Fame. My boomerang is there.

Story of a Fighter

Every now and then I just write in this blog for the enjoyment of telling a story. This is the story of a chicken named Jerome.

Jerome came to be as part of an experiment in my high school sophomore biology class. The experiment involved injecting growth hormones into several fertilized chicken eggs. One egg, Jerome’s, hatched out early that spring. What emerged was more or less this super chicken. Within a very short time, Jerome began to strut, crow, and gain weight. He soon surpassed any of the non-injected eggs hatchlings and was becoming a handful for the biology lab. Eventually fearing that he would break out of the lab and terrorize the rest of my high school, the biology teacher suggested that someone needed to take him home or he would have to be dealt with. Being the farm kid in the class and part of the team that had created this problem, I was soon tasked with finding Jerome his new home.

Within a week or so of getting him placed in our hen house on the farm, he was quite literally ruling the roost. His flock of hens cowered in the corner every time he began his strut. It became apparent that he would need his own coop and so he was relegated to an old chicken coop with an outside penned area for him to strut his stuff. This is when he determined that he could fly and soon flew the coop. We found him the next day, firmly re-entrenched in the hen house, ruling his ladies from the roost. This was now time for desperate measures. Jerome’s wings would be clipped.

Our first attempt proved fruitless and he again flew the coop and returned to the hen house. After two more clippings he was finally grounded, or at least flightless. So how was it that we found him the next morning back in the hen house? We would need to become spies. Within minutes of him believing we had left, he made his escape, not by flying but rather by literally using his beak and claws to scale the chicken wire of his coop. It was at this point that my dad threw up his hands and said “we tried, he won.” Jerome was a free bird, truly a range free chicken well before his time.

Jerome soon became infamous. He not only ruled the hen house by night, but he ruled the entire farm by day. Exaggeration at this point would be, well, pointless. Jerome so scared the locals, that the mailman, if he had to drop off a package, would honk the horn for us to come get the mail. There was no way he was going to leave the safety of his vehicle while Jerome strutted back and forth on the hood, stopping occasionally to beat on the windshield with his stubby wings. We would race out, wrangle Jerome off the vehicle and then and only then would the driver step out. At one point, while having a new TV antennae installed on our second story farmhouse, the installer very nearly fell off the roof when to his sheer horror Jerome stood inches away from him beating his wing threateningly on the roof line ridge. It was discovered later, that Jerome had found the installer’s ladder and leveraged himself up to the rooftop. The farm and surrounding buildings were his turf and he would beat back any attempt at a siege by his imagined attackers. If you couldn’t stand up to him, you were at his mercy.

And so it went around our farm that summer. But there was one person not willing to bow to his authority. My grandmother lived with us in the farmhouse and each morning, after breakfast had been cleared, she would take the table scraps out to the barnyard where they would be disposed of. This required a long walk across the front lawn and driveway and then out to the barnyard. What ensued each and every time was a battle royale between my grandma and Jerome. Jerome would meet her at the door and block her way by menacing her with the now famous wing beating technique he had mastered. She would eventually give him a kick and he would swing around and re-engage. Eventually, my grandmother would take her cane, tiring of this constant parrying, and use it like a golf club. Jerome would be knocked sideways rolling across the ground only to get back up and rejoin the fight. This sparring would go on all the way out and all the way back. None of us were sure if either one of them had won, but it was obvious that both persevered. In Jerome’s view, this was a battle to the death. Every day offered a new chance to finally settle this turf dispute.

(This is a picture of the actual cane my grandma would use in her defense against Jerome. Note the missing chunk in the handle, evidence of the battle.)

Fortunately for our family, my grandma outlived Jerome by a great many years. Jerome would meet his end in battle, but not on my grandma’s battlefield. Each evening, Jerome would return to the hen house where unbeknownst to us, he was now standing guard over his ladies. One morning, late that fall, we arrived at the hen house to collect the eggs, only to find a weasel lying in the doorframe. It was clear that he had been in a battle for his life that it had not ended well for him. Alarmed at what destruction we might find inside, we were surprised to see all of our hens alive and well. It was only on closer inspection that we saw him. He had retired to the back of the chicken house where he had apparently succumbed to his injuries, but not before saving his wards. Jerome, the terrorizer of so many, had died a hero.

Before you mourn his passing, understand that as I think back on this tough old bird, I can think of no better way for him to go than in the fight of his life. I can only imagine how into the battle he must have been. He had finally found, other than my grandma, someone who offered him a challenge. Jerome was a fighter, and to go out in a blaze of glory has made his story worth telling, and that story has been told and retold within our family so many times over the years. Had he just withered away of old age, where would be his fame? Jerome was a chicken who was never chicken. Jerome was a fighter, persistent is his right to rule and defiant to anyone who thought he was wrong. When the cause is worth the fight, may we all be so willing to stand our ground. Just be prepared if you take on a Jerome.

Groundhog’s Day

One of my favorite movies is Groundhog’s Day. I think it is the idea that if you could have a day over now and then, you could maybe make everything right. Bill Murray’s problem was that it took so many repeats for him to finally get it right. Still, the premise is tempting.

Covid-19 has been like Groundhog’s Day. We started out with the false perception that it would be a little sacrifice for maybe three or four weeks and then everything would return to normal. Now approaching a full year of not normal, every day being another day dancing with the virus, we are nearing the end. Well, at least closer to a return to life without a pandemic.

I have spent my year working on improving many things. For starters, I have been taught how to fish by my grandson, Jackson. I never had the patience it required but ironically, an energetic, inquisitive, on the go six-year old, showed me the way to patience and the art of catching fish. And then there was the walking. Prior to the pandemic and its isolation demands, I would only walk to get somewhere. Now, thanks to my wife, I walk several times a day, aimlessly around our neighborhood circuits. I find it strange that the answer to “where are you going”, is home no matter where I am on the walk. Good thing home is where the heart is.

During this Covid-19 journey, I have put more effort into everything I do. My volunteer work has benefited from renewed vigor and a lot of Zoom. I finally rebuilt my deck after years of putting it off. My garage has been organized and reorganized, and, after years of drawing and redrawing it, my wife now has her Little Library complete with a dedication ceremony and neighborhood library cards for the children.

But there begs one more activity to be visited here. Several years ago, I procured a pool table from a very dear friend. With all this in home time in lieu of our travel plans, I have worn the felt thin on that table with several games a day. My wife, a reasonable pool shark, will play the occasional game but for the most part, I am left playing my imaginary opponent. As I am a slightly competitive type, I tend to take these games, even tournaments, quite serious. We ironically have very similar game strategies and styles. Skill wise we are very evenly matched. So lately I have become quite frustrated with my inability to beat him. I will miss an easy kill shot only to have him follow up with a seemingly impossible rail shot or combination. I checked the records recently and I believe that he is beating me at a ratio of two to one. What is his secret to success? What makes him such a confident shot. Why am I getting angry at his obvious luck, wishing he would blow the next shot …… flat out cheering against him? The irony here is that I’m the one taking ALL the shots. This is apparently what the pandemic and isolation has reduced me too. I’ve lost my mind and I’m not even bothering to mount a search party.

Seriously, the pandemic has been a journey. We have been given the chance to truly appreciate the things we have by making us put them on hold. We have become more resilient, more hopeful than expectant, more appreciative of the little things, and definitely more creative. In my case, I have created an imaginary pool player to while away my free time.

The end of all this is in sight. If we are patient and persevering, we will make it to the finish line. We will leave some of our new found ways behind and trade them for our old normal. At the same time, we have adopted new habits and attitudes that we should definitely take forward with us. Good can always come from adversity if we recognize it.

But it’s getting late and my pool playing buddy has the balls racked and is calling me over. I plan on mixing his drink extra strong tonight and with a few good shots, I think I can beat him. Wish me luck.

It seemed like a good idea at the time….II

We have the pleasure, or should I say the obligation of an above ground swimming pool in our backyard. It is in version three of it’s thirty-three seasons. The deck surrounding it has been there in part all thirty-three years along with alot of cobbling along the way. Last fall, as we were getting ready to close it for the winter, a vote was taken as to whether it was going to continue to be this monument in our backyard. My vote was for its retirement. After all of those seasons serving as cabana boy, constantly monitoring the chemical balance, keeping the water levels right and often biweekly vacuumings, I was ready for retirement myself. Considering the fact that I seldom vacuum inside the house and only grudgingly, I was instead vacuuming a tank of water. Of course I was out voted five to one when my wife recruited my two daughters and both grandchildren to swing the vote.
Deck 8

And so I conceded the vote and prepared for closing. After struggling with a way too old structure, it became obvious that the deck, at the least, needed to be resurfaced. After a bit of investigation, it was further decided, by a one sided vote, that the rails and stairs would have to go as well. This was now a major job. Time for negotiations. It was decided, after a family meeting, that the rebuild would be done in the spring prior to opening the pool. My crew was recruited and now consisted of my two friends and neighbors as well as my son-in-law and soon to be other son-in-law. All four had been vetted and were skilled enough to make this a doable job.

Like all plans laid out too far in advance and dependent on multiple variables, we crossed our fingers and set April 16th as our start date and a wrap up by May 1st. What could go wrong? Why Coronavirus pandemic and social distancing of course. As April 1st approached, it was clear there was going to be no crew working on my deck.

Now a sane man would have thrown in the towel. If it lasted thirty-three years, why couldn’t it last another one. That is what a sane man would have done, but after a month and a half of isolation, that’s what I wasn’t. I was itching for something on which to focus all of that pent up energy. And so the decision was made. The May 1st date was no longer an issue as this virus thing had shut all plans down and my May plans were now gone. That gave me a month and a half to get it done. The materials were ordered and demolition began on April 8th, in some strange snow squalls they called grafel.
Deck 6

Demolition took the better part of four days as the old deck and rails were not really ready to come off easily. Eventually, the old deck was gone, the underpinnings trimmed back to the original frame and the rails were dismantled and removed. They now formed a big pile of debris on my lower deck, where I would continue to stumble over them time and time again as I prepared to rebuild. At this point, quarantine and social distancing was a good thing as far fewer people were subjected to the all too frequent colorful metaphors emanating from my job site.
Deck 5

The first of four truck loads of materials arrived on day five just as I was ready to start phase two, rebuild. After what seemed like four hundred trips from the driveway down the side hill to the deck area, I had managed to get the framing materials and most of the decking down to my one man construction site. I think this would be the appropriate place to remind my readers that I am, by AARP standards, old. I was clearly not in the shape I was in my twenties when I did my construction stint. Four hour shifts was the plan and on those days when I reached six or seven hour runs, my body reminded me of my misplaced confidence.

But I shouldered on. When attempting to do framing alone, one has to be creative on how to cut, hold and attach eight to ten foot long 2 x 8 planks. Without bragging, I used every technique I could and actually developed some very ingenious ways to accomplish the task. Day 6,7 and 8 saw the new frame come back up and take shape. Decking was next. Day 9,10 and 11 was used to get the majority of the deck boards laid and secured. All that now remained was the rail system.
Deck 4

As I am writing this, I have completed day 14. Except for the stairs and gate, still waiting for delivery, the deck is pretty much complete. At the beginning of this project, I was concerned that I might not even survive. Ironically, I would have avoided COVID-19 and then succumbed to my quarantine project. Now, each time I view the finished deck, I can’t help but soak in this sense of pride for the accomplishment. Not bad for an old guy.
Deck 2

Now, if only this quarantine would be lifted, we could actually have guests over and use the pool and its grand deck. Unfortunately, until that day, it remains a piece of art. An impressive piece of art but still, an empty deck begging for a post coronavirus party.
Good news, just for reading this, you are entitled to an invite to the party.

Should Have Been my First Warning

If you have been following me and read my last blog, “It Can be Fixed”, you know that I just finished the Adela chair project. Now it’s on to the next project, framed U.S. wood maps from Marking Maps. (
Inspired by my “everything wood” mentor, Larry, I decided I needed some shop supplies. With that in mind, I was off to a local large box hardware retailer, which I will leave unnamed.

First a little background. I am not one to be allowed to wander aimlessly about large stores, just ask my wife. I have a notorious record in grocery stores, see “Adventures in Grocery Shopping”. Now I was walking into another large box store with aisles that seemed to stretch to infinity and beyond, stacked floor to ceiling with merchandise, and all I needed was a few screws and some wood glue.

Never the less, I started my quest. Within a few minutes I knew I was in trouble and without a Sherpa or at least a floor guide, I might be doomed to finding the housewares department and setting up residence. After wandering several aisles with no luck in finding the hardware aisle, I stumbled into or should I say, the floor guide found me. I had run into a helpful woman who asked me what I was looking for. I think she actually asked “have you found EVERYTHING you were looking for?” My response was that I hadn’t found ANYTHING I was looking for and thus the only thing in my hand was the scrap of paper with my meager list of the prey I was hunting.

Looking at my list, she steered me to the first item, wood screws. Miraculously, I seemed I was a mere ten feet from the right aisle, actually two entire aisles of screws. Sheet metal, wood, Phillips head, flat head, star bit, brass, galvanized and of course, lengths from 1/2″ to 5″ and weight sizes from 6 to 12. I impressed my Sherpa by actually knowing the type, length and weight size I was searching for and settled on a box of galvanized, 1″, 10 weight, Phillips head wood screws. I was now ready for item two, wood glue. She looked at me and said with a smile, that would be in aisle 100. Aisle 100, seriously! Looking up at the aisle I was standing in revealed that it was numbered 367. Any chance you offer a store Garmin I asked? For my younger readers, Garmin was my generation’s breakthrough GPS tool back in the dark ages before Navigator. I managed to get solid directions from my Sherpa and headed deeper into the nether reaches of the store, wondering as I ventured, if I should be dropping random screws from my newly procured package in order to find my way back.

Lest this diatribe goes on forever, I am happy to say I eventually found aisle 100 AND my wood glue. After following my trail of screws, I found my way back to the checkout area and somehow picking up at least half a dozen impulse items along the way, paid for my prizes and headed out to the parking lot. Now if only I could remember what aisle I parked in?

Where’s the parking lot Sherpa when you need one?

How to Bank Points

I just returned from a movie, a blockbuster to be sure. I am sure you think I am talking about the latest Star Wars or maybe Uncut Gems or Ford vs. Ferrari. Oh I wish it were so. Let the man shaming begin. It was Little Women and yes I was the only male in the place except maybe for the older gentleman asleep several rows behind me. I had offered my wife a movie date, somehow thinking she would be so excited about the simple gesture that I would get to pick the flick. Sorry guys, as you are probably shaking your head in disbelief, you know that’s not how it works.

So there I was, buying two tickets for Little Women with the cashier clearly rolling his eyes. First question, “Are either of you seniors?” Is that a respect for your elders thing or do they just figure that when you’re old you’re also poor? Next question, “Where would you like to sit?” I desperately wanted to say as far back in the shadows as possible, but I demurred to my date who chose two perfectly placed prominent seats front and center. Proceed to my “thriller”.

At this point, I need to say that things began to improve. Turns out we were in the theater that serves food and more importantly, mixed drinks! This might ease the pain for a movie junkie who thrives on speed, mayhem and science fiction. Cue the movie, authentic historic costuming and historic period set in the Civil War. Maybe, seeing as I am a history minor and enamored with the Civil War Era, I should give this a chance. Cue the leading character Josephine March, aka Louisa May Alcott, and I am immediately identifying with her love for the art of writing as story telling. I hate to say this, but I was starting to ignore the chick flick phobia I was having about this movie.

So, I am ready to say, two hours later I found myself admitting that this was a great film and, deep breath here, glad of the choice my date had made. But here’s the kicker, I think I may have added some bonus points to my oft nearly depleted Love Bank. If there is a moral to this story, it might be worth the time and effort to actually make a bonafide date. She picks the movie,the place or the activity. She gets her hand held and the door opened. And, you say all the appropriate things at all the appropriate times. Okay, good luck with the last one because we men have never been good at that move. So men, follow these steps and know that you will have earned points for the bank and don’t pretend for a moment that you can ever have enough points in that institution.

So that’s it. I wanted Star Wars but I got Little Women and I am a big enough man to admit, it wasn’t half bad. A great Margarita, a comfortable seat and a good movie. Excuse me now, but I have some points I’d like to cash in.