Somewhere In Time

Surprisingly, I awakened in the early morning hours yesterday morning with the thought that I was rested. Unfortunately, when I looked at the clock I knew my feeling wasn’t commensurate with reality. I had fallen asleep around 10:30 p.m. I know that only because when I moved my iPhone from the desk to the bedside table and set the alarm, I inadvertently telephoned Craig. When he answered the phone, I asked: “Did you call me or did I call you?” I honestly didn’t know. He was not nearly as confused. He assured me that he had not initiated the call.

 

I remember looking at the clock following that call. I don’t recall the specific time to the minute, but it was near 10:30 p.m. I fell asleep a short time later and I subsequently awakened feeling rested and ready for the day. Unfortunately, the illuminated numbers on the clock display read “1:35”. Three hours sleep is significantly short of enough to result in truthfully being rested.

 

Was it the room temperature? That might have been a factor. It was hot. I remember that it felt hot in the room, so I threw off the covers. I might have immediately fallen back to sleep, but after throwing off the covers it soon felt too cool. Consequently, I alternated between throwing the cover off and pulling it up for the next two hours. At one point in the midst of frustration, I turned on the light to look at the dimly illuminated number on the thermostat. It was set on 72 degrees. Obviously, room temperature was not a problem. That is near a perfect reading.

 

So, temperature really wasn’t the issue. Was it the level of light in the room? I had left the blackout drapes and the interior-sheer pleated drapes open in hopes of being awakened by the morning sunlight. Actually, I don’t know from where that thought came. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am always up before the sun. Besides that, light filtered into what could have been the darkened sky from the streetlights that illuminated the sidewalk outside the hotel and from across the busy street. It wasn’t dark enough to be dark and it wasn’ta light enough to really help. What I’m saying is true. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?

 

If you won’t tell anyone, I’ll let you in on a secret. “I left the curtains open because I am afraid of the dark”. Seriously, at my age, I seldom sleep in a pitch-black room if I can help it. I really am afraid of the dark. I am not making this up. It really has become a cause for concern. My fear isn’t a holdover from early childhood with a monster lurking around the corner. No, my fears are more real than that.

 

My fears are the things that go bump in the dark. My visual acuity for avoiding a misplaced piece of furniture or something seemingly out of place is beyond belief. I live a portion of my life in unfamiliar hotel rooms and a misplaced suitcase can be the catalyst that lands me on my face. Trust me on this one. I know what a darkened room in an unfamiliar setting can do. It doesn’t always work in the occupant’s best interest.

 

It is awkward when you walk into a wall just because you didn’t remember that it was there. How about turning to walk through and open door only to fine that it is actually two feet from where you turned. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! That can hurt.

 

Okay, so it was 1: 35 a.m. and it seemed like I was awake for the long hall. What did I think about? Maybe it was the power of suggestion, but thoughts of the Magic Time Machine in my morning blog reminded me of the first house we purchased when we moved to Austin. Initially we rented a two-bedroom duplex for six months in South Austin while we took the time to find permanent housing. Both Treva and I had jobs with the State and we both worked near the intersection of Riverside and S. Congress. My office was on Congress Avenue and her’s was on Riverside.

 

As far as amenities go, my office was better. For one thing, my office had a wall of windows. The office was on the third or fourth floor. On the first floor of the building or maybe it really was the basement, there was a gym available for use by anyone who had an office in the building. Across from the gym there was a bar/sandwich shop that was readily available for a quick lunch or snack after work. I always ate mine, but there were a host of folks who drank there’s. Even though the gym and “Dew Drop In” (I made up that name) was in the basement, there was an outside entrance that opened into a covered parking lot.

 

When we started looking for a home to purchase, we looked from extreme South Austin to Round Rock. South Austin won out since Craig was in daycare/kindergarten on Manchaca Road near William Canon. Why not maintain the routine for him and stay close enough that he didn’t have to change daycare?

 

The first home that we purchased was out-of-the-box nice for us. Of course, if you’re moving from a small two-bedroom duplex anything could feel nice. The home was in the Castlewood sub-division that featured large lots, manicured lawns and nice homes. The neighborhood was also secluded from other neighborhoods and surrounded by undeveloped land on two sides. In fact, the home we purchased backed up to a large track of land that would reportedly never be built on because it was family owned and they weren’t selling.

 

We bought the house from a lady who was probably my parent’s age. She lived alone and her tastes were pretty stuffy. I say that now, but at the time we thought we had arrived. The windows were all covered with custom draperies. The back of the house included the dining room, kitchen and a breakfast area. Those three rooms included large windows that looked out onto a very manicured lawn at the back of the house. I guess you could say that the owner had definitely put her stamp on the home. She was selling the house to move back to Kansas to be near her family.

 

The kitchen and dining room were decorated with a cheerful yellow-and-white wallpaper pattern. It was so seventies, but then again it was the latest thing. We were living the American dream. The house featured a side-entry double garage. One of the things we found stored in the attic above the garage was several hatboxes filled with ladies hats. Apparently, the previous owner had forgotten to move them or purposefully left them behind.

 

The living area was about six inches lower than the rest of the house. There was a rounded brick fireplace in one of the corners. For the record, I’d never buy a home today with an anything other than level flooring. The six-inch drop could have been a trip hazard, but we never tripped. We were young people living in a home that seemed out-of-sync for our ages. I even bought a full-size Oldsmobile to park in the garage. I traded in the 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass that I wish we still owned for four- door full-size Oldsmobile. It had “middle aged and married” written all over it.

 

I guess you could say we were old before our time. As it turned out, we only lived in the house for about a year and a half and sold it to buy a new home about three blocks way so we could start from scratch and put our stamp on it. It was a two- story home and it was our first time to landscape from scratch. It turned out really good.

 

Okay, so now you know what I was thinking about in the very morning hours of yesterday.

 

All My Best!

Don

 

It Was An MG Roadster

The kinds of things that can trigger a memory are often happenstance and free thought.  How many times have I driven by the Catfish Palace on East Ben White (aka Hwy 71) on my way to Houston or to the airport or to anywhere on that side of town?  Too many times to count would be my best guess.

In rush hour traffic on Tuesday, I noticed the barnlike structure of the restaurant and the signage on the side of the building.  I had the immediate thought, “That place has been there since we first moved to Austin in the mid-1970s”.  It obviously is pretty popular judging by the number of cars that were crowded in the parking lot as I drove past.  Though I don’t know how many times I’ve driven by the location, I do know how many times I’ve eaten there. Did I mention that catfish is one of my favorite foods?

I made a mental note that we needed to eat there. It isn’t the first time I’ve had that thought over the past forty years.  Sometimes or perhaps most times, when I drive by that location, I am lost in thought and the signage doesn’t garner my attention or impact my psyche in an effort to draw me in.  Sometimes it does.  Regardless of the draw, we haven’t yet opted to eat there.

It isn’t that I’m opposed to eating in a barn or rustic setting.  For that matter, the ambience of the Salt Lick in Driftwood is a popular venue of choice for many tourist that come to Austin. In fact, I went there for dinner with a group from work before we ever moved to Austin.  Consequently, that venue like the Catfish Palace, predated our being locals.

In the past year, I’ve even sat at a picnic table outside the Salt Lick in the heat of the summer waiting for the privilege of setting at another nondescript table inside the restaurant. Did I mention that we waited for two hours?  Actually, the wait came as no surprise.  We were provided fair warning by the guy who took the name of our group and handed us an electronic device to know when our inside table was available.   I can’t remember, but his name could have been Bubba for all I know. The two-hour wait wasn’t bad.  “Family Time” is how my daughter described it.  She actually is the one who immediately said that we had no objection to waiting for two hours.

I don’t always get it right.  If I had been the one asked if a two-hour wait is acceptable, I’d have probably opted to say: “Thanks but no thanks.” However, as it turned out my memory of the experience is very favorable.  Craig and his family were also part of the group and the kids had room to run and play while we were seated outside.  Two hours can go by quickly in the midst of pleasant family conversation.  Some people might be tempted to say, “If you’re in church, two hours can seem like an eternity”. I guess it all depends on the venue.

Given a choice between fried catfish and barbeque, I suspect I would favor the fried catfish more than barbeque. For that matter, BBQ places in Austin and the surrounding area are everywhere.  A place for really good fried catfish is few and far between.

For that matter, BBQ and fine dining are an oxymoron.  What about Coopers in Llano?  I like the privilege of standing next to the grill and pointing out the inch thick pork chop I want. Throw in a Styrofoam cup full of potato salad and a Styrofoam cup of red beans with an added layer of chopped onion, and I am good to go.  I will even bus my own table and throw away the butcher paper provided to serve as a plate.

At any rate, the visual image of the Catfish Palace reminded me of another Austin restaurant from the 1970s with a very different and delightful kind ambience.  It is no longer an Austin venue and actually it’s origin did not predate our arrival or our introduction to being locals. Do you remember the Magic Time Machine on Riverside Drive?

I can promise you that nobody named “Bubba” greeted you at the door.  It may have been Cinderella or Peter Pan. In fact, pick any childhood storybook and you could probably find a waiter or waitress who was dressed for the part.  Trust me, the magic time machine would never be presumptuous enough to think any of their patrons would find butcher paper acceptable for food service.

The salad bar section was probably my favorite because I’m remembering the display of food selections were displayed and available in a portion of a sleek sports car.  I don’t remember the make of car, but the color red comes to mind. Actually for that matter, an MG comes to mind, but I could be wrong. No, on second thought, I’m sure it was an MG roadster.

The fun part of the dining experience was the interaction with the storybook characters. Both young and old found the experience delightful.  We didn’t go there often, but we never went there that we didn’t find it an enjoyable experience.

Did I mention that the General isn’t as fond of fried anything the way I am. Consequently, maybe I do know one of the variables that have kept us an arms length away from the Catfish Palace.

All My Best!

Don

 

Better Late Than Never? – Not Always

As I was driving home from Houston yesterday, my mind was filled with a myriad of thoughts. I was tired. Dog tired might be an overstatement, but I sensed that the privilege to sleep until I was good and late for work would almost be worth the effort.

 

On the other hand, I was almost late for work Monday morning. The very thought put me in a semi-panic attack. Okay, you caught me on that one. There was no “semi” associated to my panic attack. It was real and it was a full-blown panic attack. It wasn’t that I overslept. I actually had gotten up at 4:00 a.m.

 

On mornings when I’ve not devoted any time to my blog before bedtime the evening before, I am always up at 4:00. For me and the two people that read my blog daily, I have some sense of obligation to keep the nonsense flowing and timely. For one thing, almost everywhere you look people are too serious. My mantra is anything but serious. After all, I figure I’m good for a laugh and that certainly is preferable to being good for nothing. Say what you want, but at least I’ve got that going for me.

 

A statewide professional group of child-care administrators were meeting at the Capitol on Monday morning. We each would have opportunity to register for attendance at a public hearing before the House Health and Human Services Committee and indicate our support or disapproval of one of the bills filed in our behalf. Hopefully everyone in our membership opted to support the bill. Otherwise, the side of my brain contaminated with Jeff Foxworthy might break out into: “Here’s Your Sign”. In addition to an opportunity to register as supporting the legislation, five of us were providing verbal testimony. As luck would have it, I was one of the five.

 

I guess you could say I took my sweet time leaving the house on Monday morning. After all, I only had about a 30 to 33 mile commute. Why leave at the crack of dawn? After all, if I got there early I’d probably just opt to sit in the State parking garage and go through my testimony over and over and over one more time just to ensure I had it right. It is always awkward when people see you talking to yourself.  Why take the chance?

 

Last night when I got home from Houston, the General asked, “Did you forget you name?” “I beg your pardon I responded”. She repeated, “Did you forget you name?” Apparently the blank confused stare on my face said all that needed to be said. She articulated the question once more and added on Monday morning. “Did you forget your name on Monday morning? You certainly repeated: ‘For the record, my name is Don Forrester’ enough times Sunday night that I thought surely you had it down”.

 

Getting back to being late for work, members of our organization had been requested by our two lobbyists to meet in the rotunda of the State Capitol at 8:00 a.m. We’d then go together to the room where the hearing was scheduled to take place. At 7:20 a.m., the one thing I knew for certain is that I was not going to make it to the State Capitol in time to get parked and make it through security to the rotunda by 8:00 a.m. The realization that I was going to be late was the impetus for the panic attack. I’d rather not arrive than be late in arriving. In addition one of our lobbyist comes across as a strict constructionist. He is really a bright and personable guy, but if he said: “8:00 a.m.”, he didn’t mean 8:05. You know the type? Trust me, the two people that read my blog daily know the type. I live with  someone who has that same persona. For the record, there is nothing wrong with always being right, just because I haven’t gotten there doesn’t mean it isn’t still on my bucket list.

 

At 7:30 a.m. a colleague from Waco telephoned to ask: “Where are you? The only two people in the rotunda are your boss and me along with a janitor.” So my boss was already there. Why not step-up the panic attack another notch? I didn’t need to know that. No only was I going to be late, but my boss was going to know that I was late. It was absolutely unacceptable, but there wasn’t anything I could do to alter it.

 

In the course of the next ten minutes, two other people sent me text messages asking, “Where are you? We thought you’d be here.” Truthfully, I could have left the house at 6:00 a.m. or even 6:15 and saved myself a little stress. Why I didn’t, I can’t tell you, but on Monday morning I was wishing I had.

 

As it turned out, I wasn’t late. I actually parked my car and as I hurriedly walked/sprinted in the direction of the Capitol, I had the thought: “Did I leave my car running?” I hoped to God that I remembered to turn the engine off. I don’t have any experience of leaving it running, but folks dealing with a stress overdose do crazy things. Surely I did. Okay, so hopefully I did. I didn’t have time to go back and check. It wasn’t until I cleared security that I calmed down.

 

I had the thought as I walked the next fifteen seconds down the hall into the rotunda, “Why do people think they are late if they are not thirty minutes early?” I wasn’t late. I actually arrived in the rotunda at the Capitol and 7:50 a.m. That gave me a full ten minutes before I’d have been considered late.

 

I guess you could say that my DNA couldn’t handle the thought of risking the possibility of showing up on time on a regular basis. I have a friend who on more than one occasion has been the last person to board a flight. From his perspective, the only thing that really matters is that he gets on the plane. Not me, I want to get there early enough to join the flight attendant in greeting the other passengers.

 

Of course, the closet thing to greeting strangers boarding a flight is that I’ll occasionally nod and smile in someone’s direction if I think they are a suitable candid to sit next to me. Forgive for saying this, but size matters on an airplane. It is never a good sign when some asks, “Is this seat taken” and before you have time to answer they are raising up the armrest to negate it serving as a barrier to confine their space to their side of the armrest. With the armrest gone, Guess what? You’re right. “That is never, never a good sign”.

 

By the time the two people who regularly read my morning blog are reading this, I will be on a plane bound for the Nation’s Capitol. Consequently, I didn’t sleep in this morning. If you’re reading this, it was posted very early.  As a second thought, I may not be on a plane at all.  “One Story Night” by the Mystic Moods Orchestra was either playing on the sound system all night for the past several hours and we had a whale of a storm.  Rumor has it that whales like water and I am very concerned about the low water crossing I have to cross to get to the airport.  Consequently, depending on depth and flow, I may or may not be on a plane.  If not, you can bet I am going to be very late.

 

All My Best!

Don

Play Ball

Sunday night the General told me about a telephone conversation with our son earlier in the day. She had asked him for some information about a friend who has been ill. Instead of answering her question, he replied: “I am my father’s son. All I know is enough to be concerned. I don’t have any of the details.” Of course, when the General told me about their conversation, I waited for her to add the magic tagline. How does it go? “You’ve got your father to thank for all of your problems.” She had shared something similar with our daughter.
Of course, in the General’s defense, she was making reference to Andrea’s health rather than character when she made that comment. I probably should have clarified that earlier since I’ve referenced the allegation in one of my blogs, but sometimes full disclosure of all the facts can get in the way of a perfectly good story. On the other hand, it may have been my daughter who failed to fully disclose why her mother had said what she said without providing me the benefit of the full story. That, too, might be said to further substantiate that she is her father’s daughter.
I spent last night at my son’s home. During our conversation after dinner, he shared with me another story that clearly highlights the fact that, he too, is a chip off the old block. Of course, I doubt that he recognized the similarities when he was sharing his experience. He really is his father’s son. Before I share the example he provided, let me say in my opinion Craig is an incredible parent. He is never to busy to give priority to investing his time in any and every activity involving his children. That is one of the characteristics that both he and Becky provide their children.
He shared with me that the previous weekend something happened at Jake’s baseball game that he found really upsetting. It was so upsetting for him that he had difficulty sleeping that night. As background, he told me that Jake runs really fast. He said, “Dad you won’t believe it, but he runs like the wind. Most kids don’t, he does.”
At any rate, Jake had hit the ball past second base into left field. As he made his way past first base, the centerfielder had advanced toward second base and was standing near with the ball in hand. Perhaps he was mostly lost in thought with what to do with it. Jake tagged second base and ran past almost as if running was second nature to him. He obviously then had the thought, “What I’m I doing?  I should have stopped at second.” He immediately backtracked, the centerfielder threw the ball to second baseman and Jake was tagged out with the second baseman’s glove to Jake’s chest.
Jake started crying. So was he crying because he was tagged too hard in the chest or was it the disappointment that he was tagged out?  Perhaps it was a combination. Craig immediately made his way to the field to check on Jake. His words were the customary words that most father’s come up with because they’re not thinking. “You’re alright. That doesn’t hurt.” Actually, I’m not sure what he initially said, but I’m trying to flesh out this story.
Actually, Craig did comfort and reassure Jake that it would be okay. Craig also suspected that the tears were mostly from the disappointment of being tagged out. Did I mention that Jake comes from a family where “winner takes all” is the philosophy of competitive sports. Competitive anything for that matter is the game of the day. Okay, so I’m probably overstating the case, but winning is important.
Craig provided Jake wise counsel, “If you find that you’ve overrun second base, keep running . Force the other team to make a play”. Craig said to me, “Dad, Jake runs really fast. Besides that, the ability to throw the ball from one base to the other isn’t the skill set of every player. It could be worth the effort.”
At some point before the game was over or before they left to the ballpark, a man initiated a conversation with Craig that left him horrified. The other man wanted to know, “Did I hear you say you’d make your son run if he overran second base again?” Almost without pausing, the man indicated any kind of negative sanction toward a player was out of line.
Of course, Craig couldn’t have agreed more. He thanked the man for initiating the conversation. He said, “No, what I told him was the next time he overran a base was for him to keep running rather than go back. Make the other team have to make a play.”
Craig said, “Dad, I was horrified that anyone would think I’d provide any kind of punishment for one of my kids for a glitch in their performance while playing a sport . He said, “ I recognize that there is always ‘one of those parents’, but I am not that parent. Sports are supposed to be fun and I do my best to encourage that atmosphere with my own kids. From day one all I’ve asked of my kids is that they have fun and that they play hard and in that order.
He said, “I was so upset that anyone thought I was capable of rendering out punishment to my son for his performance on the ballfield that I had difficultly sleeping that night. It wasn’t true, but what if someone else had overheard my conversation and drawn the same conclusion as the man who confronted me?  I found it very disturbing.
Like I said, “Craig is his father’s son”. I would have had the same reaction and on more than one occasion my sleeplessness is associated to similar kinds of “what would people think” thoughts. At any rate, because it bothered him, Craig sent the baseball coach an email the following day explaining what had happened and what he really had verbalized to Jake.
The coach had not overheard the conversation and assumed that no one else had found it bothersome either. He did affirm for Craig that his advice was sound. “Yes, tell him to keep running. I would agree with your strategy, if you over run it, just keep going because Jake is going to win 100% of foot races with a guy wearing a glove”.
Did I mention that I am proud that Craig is his father’s son?
All My Best!
Don

And The Beat Goes On

How important is your heart rate? I guess from my perspective, Sony and Cher captured the concept most important to me in the lyrics to their song: “And The Beat Goes On”. Do you remember the sound? “The beat goes on, the beat goes on – Drums keep pounding – A rhythm to the brain -La de da de de, la de da de da”. There is a lot more to the song; well maybe not a whole lot more, but you get the rhythm (I mean the concept). When the drum beat stops one’s day is done this side of eternity.

 

Most of you would probably agree with me that there is a lot more that you hope to accomplish. Regardless of our age, don’t we generally want at least one more river to cross, one more mountain to climb and one more valley to go through? That is part of our self-proclaimed resolve or hope that the beat goes on.

 

Last night I went outside to check the water level in the pond. For whatever reasons the projectile of the water being pumped to aerate the water was falling mostly outside the pond rather than back into the pool of water. Easy fix? “Sure, all I needed to do was adjust the sprayer”. “Easier said than done” pretty well summed up my experience.

 

Of course, I was trying to stay out of the water and negotiate repositioning the water spray without getting wet. That meant that I had one foot on one side of the pond and the other foot elsewhere. I really should have filmed the impromptu choreography that resulted. My goal was to stay upright and out of the pond. I managed the later, but didn’t do so well with the “staying upright”.

 

So what do you do when you know your falling? I tried the Texas Two Step in order to figuratively dodge the bullet, but gravity has a way of taking one down. Did I mention the General’s decorative river rock that now surrounds the pond doesn’t provide for the softest landing spot? Throw in a decorative bolder or two and “rough landing” pretty well sums up my plight.

 

The silver lining is that my head didn’t hit a hard surface. The parts of my body that look scratched and bruised will go unnoticed. I am grateful that the beat goes on. Of course, I’m walking a little funny today, but I can mumble something about “sleeping wrong” and camouflage the fact that I needed a softer place to land.

 

Getting back to my heart rate, my resting heart rate is generally 106. By happenstance, the same is true for my daughter. That information surfaced in conversation on Saturday. She explains the similarity this way: “Well dad, I guess you could say we are both high strung.” So is that a compliment or a character flaw? I guess the answer truthfully is, “It depends.”

 

According to Google, “A high-strung (or ‘Type-A’) personality is one marked by the traits of perfectionism, competitiveness and urgency. Individuals with high-strung personalities may be praised for their ambitious or goal-centered nature, or else criticized for their lack of patience and elevated stress levels.

 

Wasn’t the term “stress” originally an engineering term to affix the level of wear and tear and weight that could be supported by a bridge?  I think most of us would easily agree that we don’t associate the word stress with a bridge unless it is the bridge over troubled water. I can now hear the sound of Simon and Garfunkel in my head.  The year was 1970, but that is another story.

 

Sometimes when I’m in the midst of a stress response, I automatically take deeper breaths and try to relax. Even the sound of running water in a pond can be a source of help unless of course, the pond is the reason for the stress. Music can also provide a sense of calm; however, I’m not sure Sony and Cher’s: “And The Beat Goes On” will do it for you. The Pachelbel Canon in D is a much better selection.

 

So what does a person’s heart rate generally represent? Having no idea of a correct answer, I’d wager the guess that it is one tool to determine what is normal for you. Does it bother me that my resting heart rate is 106? “Not on your life” is my answer. Okay, that is a strange answer. I will give you that. I figure as long as the ticker keeps ticking, I’m good. For as long as I can remember, I am a “106 kind” of guy.

 

The General would prefer that I was a “409 kind” of guy, but she’s a neatness guru (that has a better connotation than “neat freak”) and Formula 409 can minimize some of the things that cause her stress. In case your wondering, Formula 409® didn’t get it’s name for the area code where the formula was first created. “Formula 409® name is actually a tribute to the tenacity of two young Detroit scientists hell-bent on formulating the greatest grease-cutting, dirt-destroying, bacteria cutting cleaner on the planet. Thing is, creating the ultimate cleaner doesn’t just happen on the first try. And it didn’t happen on the 101^st or the 301^st either. It wasn’t until batch number 409 that they were finally satisfied. And so the name stuck. Formula 409®. True story.”

 

That gets me back to the concept where I started: “The Beat Goes On”. What were the lyrics: “The beat goes on, the beat goes on – Drums keep pounding – A rhythm to the brain -La de da de de, la de da de da”. Don’t give up on your dreams. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Crossing the finish line is one of the best ways to minimize and manage stress.

 

All My Best!

Don

What Are Your Three Things?

My daughter looked at me like I was delusional. I said something about, “Old dogs and children and watermelon wine.”  When I responded that it was a Tom T. Hall song, she remarked: “I have never heard of Tom T. Hall and I’ve never heard that song”.  For that matter, neither had her husband. 

 

I guess you could say the song identifies three things of importance for “the old gray black gentleman” that was cleaning up the lounge.  He expressed it to the lone occupant still in the lounge this way: ““Ain’t but three things in this world that’s worth a solitary dime, but old dogs and children and watermelon wine.”

 

Can’t you envision a conversation like that taking place?  I can almost see it in the resources of my mind.  I also like the concept that the old man could articulate three things he valued for himself.  I’m not really a dog person, but old dogs tug at my heartstrings. They move ever so slowly and you get the sense that life is hard and far more difficult for them than what they previously experienced.  Even I can have empathy with that. Secondly, I easily understand the kid thing. I don’t know that I have a favorite age when it comes to children. I like kids of all ages.  Last week I was holding a six month old and someone remarked, “that I have always been a child whisperer”.  That was music to my heart. I like kids.  Watermelon wine isn’t anything for which I have a frame of reference, but I often associate watermelon with my paternal grandfather.  When I was a kid growing up, he and Granny lived next door.  He often brought watermelons home during the summer to share with his grandkids. That too was a feel good memory for me.

 

Getting back to old dogs and those not so old, I had actually gotten on my hands and knees to retrieve a tennis ball from under an end table to return it to one of Andrea’s labs.  While I was on all fours, the dog for whom I was retrieving the ball licked me squarely in the face.  How’s that’s for a “thank you” while I was attempting to do him a favor?  It was gross!

 

Of course, it was the younger dog.  Who else?  Both dogs, young and old, think the world of granddad.  Why wouldn’t they? I know full well that if my daughter had a hint that I’d been anything other than amazingly kind to either of her dogs, she make the General look like she needed assertiveness training.  If you’ve been reading my blogs for any period of time, you intuitively know the General is emotionally healthier than that and could teach a master’s level course in pleasantly expressing oneself, making her needs known and being confident that every expectation would always be met to the letter of the law. 

 

Actually, I’m still struggling to figure out how she does that. “How did the ad for E.F. Hutton go?”  “Yes, I remember.  Thank you for asking.” It goes: “When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen”.  The same is true of the General. 

 

The General’s ability and wherewithal to engage in an open and honest conversation about what she thinks, feels and expects is not an unmet need on her part.  Actually, I think of it as a virtue (okay, at times and annoying virtue) but at least I don’t have to wonder what she’s thinking. Would I want it any other way?  “Depends of the circumstance” is my best answer. “Lucky me”, you say.  I agree. Most folks think she should have shot me by now. Of course, I think they are dead wrong.

 

Just for the record, “It was the younger dog that licked me in the face. The older dog would never invade my space by doing that.  The younger dog???  “Well, let’s just say that he has boundary issues”.  He is all over the place.  

 

Think what you will, but a dog’s slobber on you cheek is wet and sticky and serves no useful purpose.  As I wiped the slobber from my cheek, I had the thought: “It could have been worse”.   Earlier, I had observed the younger dog giving Andrea a kiss on the mouth.  I would still be on the verge of having a gag reflex if that had happened to me.  “Oh, yuck! He could have kissed me on the mouth”.  The very thought is unnerving.  The experience of the wet kiss on the cheek was not a feel good moment. I can’t imagine the mouth.

 

The concept of “Old dogs and children and watermelon wine” immediately came to mind. The old dog was respectful of boundaries.  He didn’t get in my way or opt to lick me in the face. It was the younger dog.  Can I endearingly say: “The younger dog is a loveable mess?”  Actually, in dog talk, he makes Marley look like St. Theresa. The older dog understands and respects my limits.  Not so much for the younger dog.

 

Andrea and Kevin had been to the “home and garden show” at Palmer Auditorium in Austin. It was a work related venue for them. Reportedly, Andrew and Holly, the hosts of the “Tidy Tech” show on HGTV were present.  Andrea thought we had met them before.  Maybe it is because they live in Buda and are local.  Somehow Andrea thought that maybe our paths had intersected at one of  previous home and garden shows.  You may be thinking that perhaps the General may have procured their services to deal with me. Trust me, she doesn’t need outside help.  She’s got everything under control.

 

“I am not” a hoarder. Just for the record, let me say that again. “I am not a hoarder.”   I am not emotionally attached to a lot of stuff and nothing makes me feel better than taking the trash out to the street on Wednesday evening for Thursday morning’s trash pick up.  If I were a hoarder, I’d have a problem with that.

 

Apparently, when it comes to hoarding, there are five different levels.  From Andrea’s perspective, we don’t yet classify for even the lowest level hoarder. Just for the record, there is a big difference between being a collector and being a hoarder.  However, she does think we have too much stuff.

 

I’ve known people who fall into the Class 5 (severe) category of hoarding.  They have boxes and boxes of opened or unopened stuff sitting in their house to eventually unpack and make some kind of decision regarding the need to keep or to throw away.  In the interim, the boxes which may have represented one’s inheritance from family members long gone continue to occupy space and represent clutter on top of clutter.  I absolutely could not live that way.  Fortunately, neither could the general.

 

For that matter, our garage is less than stellar, but at least two vehicles fit inside.  I know folks who have never parked their vehicles in their garages because the garage if filled with keepsakes or throwaways that haven’t yet been determined.

 

If you look around and find that your place might qualify for the description of a mess, you might want to reach out to Andrew and Holly at Tidy Tech.  They will therapeutically help you part with your stuff or at least get it organized.  If you just want the stuff gone, you might check with the General. She doesn’t have the reputation for being particularly therapeutic, but she knows how to clear a room.

 

All My Best!

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Don

Whose To Blame?

“I don’t have time for this”. Have you ever had that thought? Whenever I have an opportunity to speak in public, whether it is for thirty minutes or two, I want a carefully crafted road map. Call it a security blanket if you want. I never read a verbal presentation to an audience. That seems inauthentic and lacks spontaneity. However, in a perfect world, I never open my mouth if I have a verbal presentation that I’m expected to make without first carefully crafting every word.

 

If I am in an audience and the speaker fails to make eye contact and be engaging because he is carefully reading a prepared text, just count me out. You’ve already lost my attention. I was in a church once where the pastor read all of his sermons to the congregation. Maybe it was just me, but it didn’t come across as authentic or heart felt. Besides that, his sermons were always too long. Actually, they were way too long. I wanted to scream, “Just give me the script, I can read faster than you can talk.”

 

I’m not sure where all of that came from, but it highlights my point. The only folks who enjoy being read to are small children who want to hear the same bedtime story over and over again. By adulthood, most of us have moved way beyond that.

 

Craig called at the end of the workday yesterday and wanted to know what I was doing. I answered, “I am at home, but I am at work. I’ve been asked to provide testimony at a legislative hearing on Monday morning and I need to get my speaking points to the two lobbyist who are representing our group before the end of the workday. I’m almost finished, but I have time to talk.”

 

I actually was almost finished and I felt pretty good about the flow of my presentation. It was only three pages long, but three pages with a number #14 font was all the time afforded me. That was another reason to carefully craft my thoughts. At any rate, the conversation Craig was sharing would have been of interest to his Mother, so I summoned her from outside where she was playing with Andrea and Kevin’s dogs. I put my phone on speaker and the three of us engaged in conversation.

 

Okay, it was “my bad”, but the conversation moved from interesting to small talk mostly generated by the General who was doing all of the talking and so I half listened as I attempted to finish the last paragraph of my presentation. I honestly don’t know what happened, but the entire script disappeared from the computer screen. It was gone, vanished, lost; how could that be? At this point I was no longer half listening to the conversation.

 

Of course with the maturity level of a three-year-old who had just spilled an entire package of M&Ms in the mud because he wasn’t paying attention and wanted someone to blame, I was put-out with the General and Craig for the disappearing act of my document on the screen. I recognize that they clearly had absolutely no involvement in my circumstances, but with the maturity level of a three year old I needed someone to blame.

 

Who knows, maybe the document would be retrievable? It wasn’t. Oh, I found the document, but the document I found didn’t include any anything but two paragraphs that I had written at 11:47 a.m. Did I mention I found that despicably unacceptable? I turned the computer off and restarted it. Do you ever pray for something knowing full well it is magical thinking or a wasted effort? Okay, so I selfishly prayer rather than being led to pray. Either way, the result didn’t get me anything other than the two small paragraphs written at 11:47 yesterday morning. “I don’t have time for this” was my first, second and final thoughts before I started again on the missing third and subsequent paragraphs.

 

The General was amazingly kind. She knew I was miffed at her and Craig for no reason, but she was compassionate. Even the “When are your ever going to learn” speech she provided was bathed with an undertone of compassion rather than, “How stupid can you be?” She kindly dispensed or refrained from using the line, “How many times do I have to tell you.”

 

I really am a slow learner. By the way, reference to the “How many times do I have to tell you” phrase reminded me that I haven’t yet saved this document. It may be mostly nonsense, but it is my nonsense and without saving it, it too could join the ranks of yesterday’s missing document.

 

Yesterday evening I received a text message from a friend who’d read on Facebook that my niece’s home was destroyed by fire and is months away from being anywhere close to habitable again. She kindly wanted to help and asked for my niece’s mailing address. She also offered the opportunity for me to simply stop by and she’d provide me a check to take to her. What an amazingly kind gesture.

 

I felt guilty declining to stop by her home. The previously promised visit with she and her husband is long over due, but this isn’t the week. I will be sitting in front of this computer screen for much of the weekend preparing work related documents for next week which includes the hearing at the Capitol on Monday and by being in Houston and Washington, D.C. for the rest of the week.

 

“I don’t have time for this” is like being between a rock and a hard place, but it won’t last forever. The General would be the first to suggest that eliminating my daily blog would buy me some time, but you can only bend so far without breaking and I’m not willing to go that far.

 

All My Best!

Don

The Voice Of Experience

They say, “You live and you learn”. Of course, some would think that I am an exception to that rule. Whenever the General alludes to the fact that if I just did it her way, it would serve me well, I mostly ignore her wise counsel. After all, isn’t the ability to be confident and chart one’s own course a sign of independence and stamina?

 

I am seventy years old. I’m not sure I’ve ever said that out loud before. For one thing, I’m not sure it is really true. I don’t know what seventy is supposed to feel like, but I don’t feel any differently than I did last year or the year before that. I operate on the notion that: “If it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t work.” How’s that for putting a positive spin on the reality that age and experience matter for something? I may have been around the block a time or two, but the experience has taught me to steer clear of walking on the side of the street where the barking dog has his nose pressed against the fence and wants a piece of my leg. I may be a slow learner, but I still have the ability to learn?

 

Abraham Lincoln began the Gettysburg Address by making reference to time and experience. You know the line. You’ve heard it before. It will forever be remembered in the resources of this great nation: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure…”

 

So my question for you is: “What is a score?” Obviously it is a measure of time, but what length of time? Okay, if you don’t know. A score is the equivalent of two decades. A score is equal to twenty years. President Lincoln was referencing 87 years ago – 1776, when the Declaration of Independence was signed.

 

Yesterday morning as I made my way to work, I opted to take a different course of action than I did the last time I had the same experience. I offer that to substantiate that I do live and learn.  I have to confess that the gages on the dashboard of my car don’t mean much to me unless there is a yellow or red light associated to the gauges. Seriously, this past Monday the light associated with the need for an oil change came on in my car and I ensured that issue was addressed before I left town on Tuesday. I don’t ignore the warning lights. Yesterday morning the yellow light on my dashboard illuminated the need for fuel.

 

Fuel is one of those four letter words that can get you into lots of trouble if you don’t heed the warning. “Been there, done that” is my best characterization that I know what I’m talking about. If you are on the MoPac Expressway and need fuel, it is best not to ignore the yellow warning light. I say that with the experience of knowing that previously on a bitterly cold winter day, I thought I could make it to the service station on the other end of MoPac and didn’t quite get there.

There are some things you just aren’t willing to do twice. Running out of fuel (there’s that four letter word ago) is one of those things. So what did I do you ask? I checked with my personal assistant and asked Siri for the recommendation of a service station.

 

Obviously, the forces were with me. There was a service station 1.2 miles away. All I had to do was exit MoPac, circle under the expressway and start back in the direction I had just traveled. I then had to weave my way through a neighborhood and 3 miles later I was there. I’m not sure how the 1.2 miles became 3, but I am sure that was the experience and experience counts for something.  In the process of filling the tank with fuel, I eliminated a truckload of stress associated to the humiliation and inconvenience of running out of fuel.

 

I express with confidence that when it comes to lots of things, “This isn’t my first rodeo.” I do live and I do learn even if I don’t always process the information in the manner the General thinks is in my best interest. She would never wait for the appearance of a yellow light to signal the need for fuel. She fills up when the gague reads half a tank. Wierd isn’t it?

 

I spent yesterday afternoon at the Capitol in a meeting listening to a lot of “young whippersnappers who were out to save the world”. They were expressing to me and a couple of colleagues who age-wise are also part of silver hair brigade that we are clueless to understanding the definition of a family-like setting.

 

One young woman said “thank you for your service” in a very patronizing way to the three of us. But even that was more appropriate and respectful than the young woman who talked incessantly about Federal Law and it’s prohibition from our taking the course of action we hoped to take with the legislative bill we were supporting.

 

Trust me, the experience was more stressful (or perhaps hopeless) than running on empty with the yellow light telling me I needed fuel. At some point, another man joined our group and sat in a chair in the back. I had no idea who he was, but his ability or patience to listen to the young woman talking incessantly about how there was simply a misunderstanding on our part because Federal law prohibits…was more than he could take.

 

With the charisma of a bull in a china closet, he stood up and with a booming voice announced: “This meeting is over. I’m not doing this. This is a bunch of …”

 

I think I remember what he said it was a bunch of, but I’m not quite sure. I’ll let you decide. However, by the end of the day I think his assessment skill was pretty close to accurate.

 

I value and am often encouraged by young whippersnappers who are out to save the world. Day before yesterday, I was one of them. But there are a lot of lessons that can be learned from experience and frankly, summarily dismissing two score and seven years worth of mine seemed more than patronizing. I was probably working child protective services cases before some of their parents were even born. I don’t need them to tell me I don’t have it right.

 

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

 

All My Best!

Don

Why Not Take A Right Turn?

I had just gotten home from work last night and was in the process of fulfilling my obligatory responsibilities of putting the trash can out for trash pickup for today.  My telephone rang. Answering the phone, I discovered it was a neighbor who simply asked: “How was your day?”  For a brief moment we engaged in small talk.

I didn’t realize it until I was in the midst of talking about nothingness, but it seemed really strange. I had the thought, “I don’t generally telephone anyone without a reason. I wonder what he wants?” Generally, I have a purpose in mind when I initiate a telephone call.  Certainly that is true of my neighbor as well.  My word, the man’s a doctor. He leads a full life.  He, too, doesn’t initiate contact without some kind of purpose.  Why would he care about my day?

So I asked, “What are you doing right now?”  He responded, “I’m on your driveway watching you.”  What?  How could that be?  It takes about twenty seconds to move the trash can from behind the gate to the roadway and empty the container of trash from the back of my car.  How could he be on my driveway without my having seen him?

I turned around to look and didn’t immediately see anything out of the norm.  That was because I was looking too high.  He was sitting Indian style in the middle of my driveway less than a hundred yards in front of me.  I laughingly said, “I hope I don’t run over you.”  At any rate, we had a nice visit and it was purposeful visit.  He did have a reason for the call.

I’m still a little perplexed. How did I manage to initially drive past him without seeing him in my peripheral vision?  He had to have been within yards of my driveway when I passed him on the way to my gate.  Was it tunnel vision?  Was I oblivious to my surroundings and thinking about and focused on only one thing? 

I had also had an interesting experience on Tuesday.  I had driven to Houston for a mid-afternoon meeting and was staying over for another meeting yesterday morning.  You know me, I’m the “nice hotel – cheap price” guy.  Through Priceline I negotiated a 4 ½ star hotel in downtown Houston for $82.  Seriously the price was right.  As it turned out I had previously stayed at that hotel many times.  I’m not sure when the rating changed for 4-stars to 4 ½, but it is a very nice hotel.

At any rate, I was on my way to downtown Houston at the end of the workday on Tuesday.  Traffic was mostly not moving.  I remember something someone had said in the earlier meeting. He mentioned that he tries to drive the back-roads and stay off the freeway except that Houston no longer feels like it has back roads.

So I had a thought, “Why not call Siri and ask for directions?”  Initially, I thought that was a stupid idea.  After all, how many times have I traveled to downtown Houston?  Back in the 1980s I supervised staff when I worked for the State.  Their offices were located in downtown Houston.  I didn’t need a map to find my way.  For that matter, I have stayed at this same hotel many times. I didn’t need to know how to find it. I knew exactly where it was located.

What did I have to lose?  Okay, so I played the game. I provided Siri the name of the hotel and heard the customary: “Okay, I’ve found it. Do you want me to call or do you want directions”.  I asked for the directions.

I was shocked. The directions that popped up on the screen were suggesting a departure from the freeway. I was supposed to turn right in less than a mile. Could that really be right?  My first thought was, “This has to be an error.” You don’t get to where I’m going by taking a right turn in less than a mile.”

Once before I had followed directions in Fort Worth and subsequently found myself on the outskirts of town about twenty-five miles from where I needed to be. No, “I’m not falling for that” was my immediate thought.

Fortunately, I had a second thought: “Why not?”  After all, what did I have to lose?   I wasn’t going anyway fast anyway.  So following the map Siri provided and the audio instructions, I took the next exist with the intent of turning right on Heights Street.  No sooner had I turned right on Heights than I realized it was a bad mistake.  It was a bad mistake because the next slight right turn was to go east on Memorial.  So I was headed south on Heights and east on memorial would have been to my left, not my right.  This was a wild goose chase, so why go with it?  As it turned out, the slight right had signage for “East Memorial”. The street looped around to the other direction.

So what did I learn? I learned for the past thirty-five years I’ve been doing it all wrong. There was a faster way to downtown Houston than the route I had always taken. Besides that, there was no stop-and-go traffic.  I felt like a kid in the candy store. All it took to discover the new route was one right turn.

I had the thought: “Are there other areas of my life that could be improved if I had an openness to do it differently?  Whose to say?  However, I’m soon to find out.  I wasn’t already awake when my alarm went off at 4:00 a.m. this morning.  Consequently, it was without a lot of guilt that I turned off the alarm and opted not to get out of bed.  An hour and a half later, I knew I had overslept, but it felt right for a change.

Okay, so I’m still mostly a creature of habit, but who’s to say that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? I’m still going to make it to work by 8:00 a.m. and my blog for today is shorter than I generally write. Perhaps, that too is okay.

I’ve got to go.  It is time to hurriedly get ready for work and get out the door. By the way, I got over 7 hours sleep last night.  That might be a good pattern to begin following?  Maybe you don’t have to go with the flow?  Why not take a “right” turn and do it differently?

All My Best.

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Don

DID YOU KNOW?

My son telephoned me on Monday evening to say he was calling to brag on one of his children. I asked: “Which one?” He said, “It is Jenna. Tomorrow Becky has doctor’s appointments lined out of the kids. Jenna took it upon herself to notify her teachers that she’d be out and asked for the class assignments in advance. I am amazed. In all of my years of schooling I never opted to do anything like that.”

 

I guess I hadn’t given it much thought before, but Craig has a few of his father’s characteristics. His professional background in logistics may equip him with the knowledge that you have to plan ahead and have all your ducks lined up in a row, but he, too, can rely confidently on the last minute to get it done.

 

I haven’t asked him, but I’d bet you dollars to donuts that his wife prepares their income tax returns or that they outsource it. I can almost promise you that Craig doesn’t have that responsibility.  Consequently it was probably ready for filing by the first week in February. I’ve gotten as far along as buying turbo tax for 2016. I haven’t yet downloaded it in my computer. Already, the warning light (AKA – The General) in my house has been going off. She takes a subtle approach? “So when is your ski trip?” I don’t always pay attention to my calendar or to the details. I responded: “I think it is the second weekend in April. No, on second thought, I think it is the third. I don’t really remember. I will fly out on Wednesday and return on Saturday.”

 

The next thing I know she is standing next to me with her calendar in hand. The calendar is turned to the month of April. She points out the four square blocks on her calendar that represent the days she thought I’d just articulated that I’d been gone. Okay I get it. “Seeing is believing”.  I responded: “Yes, those are the four days.” Actually, I had wanted to go skiing the week before, but work related commitments have a way of getting in the way.

 

Somehow it was clear to me that our conversation was not over. She was invading my space with her open calendar, but she wasn’t budging. “Did you know?” are the three magic words that always indicate she believes that I didn’t know, but that I should have known. I could have predicted those three words as easily as suggesting to you the sun will rise this morning from the East. “So what was the big deal?” I wanted to ask, but thought I’d wait it out. Whatever it was, I could rest assured that the message would be communicated in short order.

 

I was wrong. She wasn’t through with the questioning process. “So, are you flying home on Saturday?” was her next question. The General was on a roll. I didn’t know where she was going with this conversation, but I was certain full disclosure was imminent. I had already told her that I was flying home on Saturday.  Somehow I had the sense that I had messed up, but I still wasn’t sure how. That, too, would be highlighted with her next question. Truthfully, I didn’t see her next question coming.

 

“Did you realize that the Sunday following your arriving back home on Saturday is Easter?” “Are you kidding me?” was my next thought, but I didn’t verbalize the question. Instead, I responded. “Great, I’m grateful I’ll be back in time for Easter. That wouldn’t have worked well had I planned otherwise.” How’s that for expressing the “I’m on top of my game” confidence that I didn’t really feel?

Without any intentional disrespect on my part, I may have even suggested that,
“Good Friday would be doubly good this year because I’d be on the ski slopes”. On the other hand, maybe I just thought that? Other wise I might have gotten boxed in the ears and there would still be ringing inside my head.

 

“So tell me again what day you are you flying home?” Obviously, I am not the sharpest Crayola in the box. I was missing something that should have been abundantly clear to me, but for whatever reason I was clueless. What was the point she was driving?

 

I guess you could say I am a visual learner. With the calendar still in her hand, she was pointing to the square box on the calendar that represented Saturday. After all, that was the day I was flying home. The numerical date of the month was the fifteenth. I was flying home on April 15^th (AKA – Income tax day). So now she had my full attention! What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t, but I was grateful for the heads-up.

 

My, “I had no idea” response didn’t fly particularly well. She mumbled something under her breath about my need to pay attention.  “All it would take for anyone with have a ounce of sense was to look at the calendar”.  That’s not what she verbalized, but I read her mind.  Didn’t Jesus say to think it is the equivalent of doing it?  Gratefully, the “April 15th thing” was good information for me to know. Obviously, I’ve got to make some almost immediate adjustments in how I used my time over the next several days.

 

Did I mention that I’m in Washington D.C. for the majority of the next week and back in Houston at least one or two days the following? How do you hit the pause button and slow things down? Uncle Sam waits for no man. “April 15 is April 15”.   Just writing it down made me feel brilliant. Actually, since the 15^th falls on a Saturday, I bet we don’t have to have the return posted before the 17^th, but I could be wrong.

 

However, if I’m counting on that, I could be dead wrong because the General hasn’t verbalized it, but I’m fairly certain that she anticipates I will have the check in the mail to good ole Uncle Sam before I get on my plane to Denver.

 

So if my speculation is correct that my son probably doesn’t have to worry about income tax returns because his wife has it all under control, how did he orchestrate that? I’ve been wanting to pass that over to the General for years, but she adamantly refuses.

 

For about two months in our beginning marriage years, I balanced the checkbook. I thought that was a guy thing. My dad always did that when I was growing up. Two months was about the length of time needed for the General to figure out that I don’t figure well. Consequently, almost by default, she took it over and I haven’t had to worry about it for the last forever.

 

I really do lead a charmed life, adventurously dependent on last minute venues and the confidence that, “If you wait until the last minute, it only takes a minute.”  I borrowed that line from my son. However, I’ve shared it more than once. Consequently, I could say: “Like I’ve always said, ‘If you wait until the last minute, it only takes a minute’.”

 

All My Best!

Don