My daughter is pretty handy around the house. It is a talent I did not expect to see in her and I am glad she has discovered and is developing such a useful ability. I have to say though, I am not certain where she found this talent. I suspect it is a hand me down skill passed on from her Mom’s (i.e.my wife’s) family. Save to say that the handyman gene on my side is somewhat underdeveloped.
She called me the other day. She had come upon a plumbing problem and wanted to see if I could offer any solution to this wet dilemma. As I do anytime I am faced with a question I do not have an answer for, I told her I would have to think about it (to get an answer, I would later avail myself of the many repair videos on You Tube). The conversation ended with her decision to go to the hardware store.
When she got back, she called to tell me she had found a solution at the hardware store and proceeded to explain what she had done. The repair had been a success and she was elated at her victory. I asked how she figured it out. She said she had gone to the local hardware store, looked for, and found, “the old guy.”
Of course! The old guy. Every hardware store has one or two of these all-knowing fountains of the doctrine of home repair. You’ve seen him. He’s older than dirt, knows where every screw and bolt and who knows what else is in the store and is the very origin of the wisdom of the handyman. He knows all, tells all, and can fix dang near anything one could conjure up. He has a quiet confidence developed from years of fixing stuff all over the house.
Implementing the old guy’s wisdom respecting her situation, the repair was a resounding success. Of course it was! Had not the “old guy” pronounced the solution?
The old guy is never wrong. Ever.
One would never expect to find unbridled joy at a burger joint. Oh, I suppose it is possible to witness the occasional jubilant patron gushing over a good burger. I myself have been known to express plain old fashioned giddiness whilst consuming an onion and cheese festooned hamburger (and NO tomatoes!).
No, the unbridled elation that I refer to was witnessed by yours truly just the other day at a South side White Castle™. I had an early morning meeting to attend so decided that I would stop by the local White Castle for coffee and a sausage biscuit. White Castle, by the way, is known to have one of the better cups of coffee in town and their sausage and egg biscuits are among the best you’d find anywhere. That’s a given at any White Castle upon whom you would care to render your custom.
What made this visit exceptional, though, was Tanya. I think that’s her name. I had to go back later that morning to ask. I think I have it right. Anyway….She will tell me if I don’t.
I deduced that Tanya was the manager in charge at that hour of the morning when most folk are still waking up and coherency is often challenging. The first thing I noticed about her was that she had a contagious grin and everybody, from customer to employee, was addressed as either baby or honey. There may have been the occasional sweetie tossed in as well. Further, she went about her task of tending to her patrons and encouraging fellow employees with more joy than I have seen as of late anywhere. It is not common to see that kind of effervescence at that hour of the day. In a burger joint no less! I must confess, I was taken aback by it.
I had to hang around the front counter whilst Tanya constructed my breakfast. She went about her task with the smile and joy that I bet made everybody’s day. I had never, before this moment, seen anybody cook up a sausage and egg biscuit with the joy I saw in Tanya.
I wanted to ask her the source of her joy. She was far too busy engaging her world and putting truth to the old adage, “In all labor there is profit.” Tanya is rich beyond words.
This week, I want to share a story from my childhood in the Texas Panhandle that fits right in with the “Snowmaggedon” that we’ve had here in the Midwest.
Sometime in the late sixty’s, we had a terrible snow storm in Amarillo, Texas where I grew up. Amarillo does not get snow like we do here (least wise not as much). Anyway, a snowstorm came in with lots of wind, the result being a fair amount of drifting. School was called off for the day so it was just me, Mom, and our dog, Brutus. Brutus was a thoroughbred St. Bernard. We had a good sized fenced in the backyard and Brutus spent most of his time out there, weather permitting.
The day after the storm I let Brutus out the back door so he could do his business. After about ten minutes or so, the front doorbell rang. It was early in the morning and we were surprised that somebody would be out in this lousy weather. Mom answered the door to discover it was Brutus. He waltzed in the house like he owned the joint. I went to the backyard as I thought the back gate was open which would explain how Brutus showed up on our front porch. It was, in fact, closed. I figured the wind had slammed it shut and gave no more thought to it. By and by, Brutus announced his desire to go outside again. I let him go without a second thought but, within the span of ten minutes, he announced himself at the front door.
He pulled this same stunt twice more. Mom and I were at a loss to explain how Brutus could get out of the fenced-in back yard, go to the front door AND, ring the durn doorbell. I went outside again to make sure the back gate was shut and it was. There were no tracks in the snow by the gate either. I was flummoxed as to his trick until I turned around. There at the point where the house and fence joined was a large drifted pile of snow that had frozen. On that drifted snow was paw prints. The snow had drifted up on both sides of the fence allowing Brutus’ escape.
To this day, I do not know how he figured out how to ring the door bell.
I have to get organized. Course, I say that every year and repeat it at least once a week. I do manage to drag myself through the years without missing too much but it’s getting harder.
As of this writing, I am in the possession of, or have exclusive access to, two desktop computers, a laptop, a tablet, smart phone, and a paper planner. I have a business card scanner and an app on my smart phone for the same purpose. In short, I have every possible tool that could or would make my personal and professional life the envy of my neighborhood. The end result of this state of organizational copiousness is nothing works.
The two desktops have different versions of the same time and task management software. Neither one of them will talk to my cell phone though they will talk to each other if they are in the mood. The laptop is old and works when it feels like it. Because it was the workhorse of the bunch until a few days ago, much of my history is on it. I can get it switched to a desktop when the beast is up to working. It’s just plain ornery in its old age. The tablet is so conceited it won’t talk to anybody. The smart phone tries to get along but it’s tough when nobody will talk to anybody. Oh, I failed to mention that I have a twelve-plus year old customer relationship management software that will talk to nobody but itself.
I bought a business card scanner and its attendant smart phone app in the hopes that I could, at long last, get this crowd of braniacs to talk to one another and help me get my act together. The end result is I have to load each card twice. Once into the desktop scanner and again into the cell phone with no advantage at all to me.
The only “system” I am not having problems with is the paper planner. It never crashes, does not NEED to talk to anybody but me, and does not require any weird stuff or tools. It’s also cheap. Its sole downfall is the entry clerk. “He” can’t write worth a hoot.
Toby the cat met his maker last Monday at a little after 10:00AM. I think he was somewhere around sixteen years old. I was with him at the moment of his passing. You will be comforted to know that his passing was peaceful.
Toby is survived by his keepers, namely, the wife and I. He did not, so far as I know, have any siblings and I never did meet his parents. His house, two cars, and remainder of his worldly goods have been left in our care until such time as another cat takes up residence. Toby was insistent that the heir to his fortune be an orange short hair such as he was.
Toby liked eating, sleeping, and otherwise ordering his keepers about. He was devoted to his cat nip mouse, the likes of which remain in the house until the new owner arrives. There is also an assigned spot on the front room couch that he instructed not to be set upon by any human at any time. It is reserved in his memory and for the sole use of his heir.
He and I had a conversation not long before he passed. He was angry with me, as I recall, because neither I nor my wife had given him any food, as of late, that he considered worthy of his pallet. I tried to explain to him that he had diabetes and this new food was meant to treat that. Cats, as you may know, have zero knowledge of medicine so he took instant and violent opposition to my claim. He had the temerity to accuse me of changing his food to save money. When I defended myself he excused me from the room. I spent the rest of that day in my bedroom.
On the day of his passing, we had our last discussion, during which he dismissed my claim that he was sick in the strongest of terms. I made the observation that he had gone from a very healthy sixteen pounds to just over eight in a few weeks’ time. He responded that his weight loss had been the direct result of the lousy food we had given him. His final comment to me was to pee on my jacket.
Toby was a special part of our lives. We will miss him. Rest well, little buddy.
When I was a young’un on the south side of Amarillo, Texas I could not tell the truth with a gun to my head. I was, arguably, the most accomplished liar there was in our neighborhood. I could lie myself into, or out of, pretty much anything. Now, I did realize at some point in my early adulthood that a career based on lying would get me nothing more than a cot in the county jail. So it was a life of “the gospel truth” for me. Until last Friday night
I heard tell that every year at the Indiana State Fair, they hold a Liar’s Contest and I decided that I wanted to go see this “legal lying” for myself. On the way up, I tossed a story or two around in my head but figured my “lying ways” were so stale that I would not be able to compete anymore. The wife and I got there about a half hour before they would be starting. The lady running the show asked me if I was a “competitive liar.” I asked her if I looked like one and she said yes. There was a fellow named Oliver standing nearby who added his own opinion that I did, in fact, have the appearance of an accomplished teller of tall tales. I told Oliver I was a retired prognosticator of falsehoods to which he replied that I should, for the benefit and amusement of all, resurrect my former ways. So it was that I entered the 2013 Indiana State Fair Liar’s Contest.
Space precludes me from recounting my lie in this column save to say it involved an ever lengthening water moccasin, my momma, and the toughest woman that ever lived. The event was filmed so I imagine it will come back to haunt me sooner or later. You can see the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jo4uw6ml8qg
There were, as I recall, some fifteen or so liars of various levels of believability and I happened to be the last one to speak. For reasons unknown to me, the judges decided that I was the most convincing liar among the adult speakers. Much to my surprise, I won First Place and the Blue Ribbon for The Indiana State Fair Fifth Annual Liar’s Contest.
I will hold that dubious title until the 2014 Fair in which I will, Lord willing, defend my title. Maybe.
I can state with complete confidence that I will never make the grade on any of those cooking shows one sees on the television. No, I am sure the Almighty did not intend for me to make my living cooking for somebody else.
Up to now, I have been fortunate enough that my three children are pretty handy in the kitchen and so I have been able to escape any and all culinary duties. My eldest son is considered close to a master with the outdoor grill. When he is here, I can rest assured that I will have no cooking duties foisted on me. His younger brother is on his way to equal the older sibling in skill and mastery of the outdoor grill. An added plus.
Both of my sons and my daughter are grown and gone now so I am, more often than not, left on my own to do any grilling that may be required. I can get out of it once in a while with a suggestion geared towards one of our fine Southside restaurants. This day was not one of those days.
I was assigned the job to fire up the grill and b-b-q some salmon that my bride had bought. That would be all well and good if the grill had cooperated. Try as I might, I was unable to get a fire of sufficient heat going. Lucky for me, my younger son was in residence as was my brother-in-law who is currently visiting from Seattle. I was able to delegate my grilling duties to them and assume my customary duties as a host of the evening. It is a task I excel at and would consider the duties as a professional host as an absolute specialty except it does not pay enough to evade the poor house.
As I write, my younger son and brother in law are hard at it preparing the salmon for dinner. Once the actual cooking began, I excused myself from the proceedings on the grounds that I have to write this column.
Time to eat! Dang, I’m good!