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Another Driving Story.
This is another story about an adventure in a car. So to speak.
I'm a what I consider a really cool dad. A liberal father. I like to help my kid experience everything this world can offer. I live to show her the world!
All of that being said, sometimes I screw up.
We have friends (Jeff and Janice) who have a family farm in south Georgia. It's a beautiful place. The homestead is a 140+ year old log cabin, with a couple of barns, several fields, creeks, and streams. This is no little chunk of land. This place has over 2500 acres of southern dirt. There's more land to play on there than most decent size towns. I can't stress enough how really neat this place is.
Well when there is that much land to play on sometimes rules can get sort of lax.
Case in point, we were at the farm when my ten year old daughter got the notion she wanted to learn to drive. I didn't mind, as a matter of fact I thought it'd be a great thing for her, you know making memories and shit. So I said "Sure! Lets go". Well, Jeff offered up "Rusty" the old circa 1973 Jeep Pickup for Rene Zellweger (a.k.a. "RZ") to learn with.
Rusty was a sled. That old Jeep has a manual transmission with the gears on the stearing wheel. Not an easy "ride" to train on even if you've had driving experience. Much tougher if the only vehicle you've ever been in control of had pedals.
After putting forth more than her fair share of effort RZ was driving the Jeep within an hour. She was doing quite well for someone who had never been behind a wheel before. Actually, "well" is relative since there were no roads, stop signs, traffic and the only road hazards she faced were trees in the distance and a few quail. All in all she was truly having the time of her life.
She and I were in that Jeep for a couple of hours. She'd hit every ditch she could find just to see my head hit the roof. After a while she became very proficient at shifting gears. Every now and then she'd slip up and catch the wrong gear and "Rusty" would let her know by squeezing off a backfire.
Everytime there was a backfire RZ would look at me with wide eyes like she had just shot the Pope. I'd reassure her that all was fine. I told her that a backfire was basically a car's fart and that is was nothing to worry about. We continued driving around the farm up until around lunchtime when we headed back to the cabin to grab a sandwich.
While we were outside eating and talking, Janice got up and walked over to look over at one of the fields we had been through a few minutes earlier. She came back over, sat back down and started eating and then almost as a second thought she said.
"The field's on fire." then she snags another bite out of her ham sandwich.
There isn't just a fire. There are several fires. Little did I realize that everytime "Rusty" would "fart" he was farting fire!
We ran over to take a look and sure enough, we've got an all out blaze on our hands. Smokey the Bear would've been losing it!!!
Jeff and I run over to the barn to get.... to get...... Hell, I don't know what we're supposed to get, it's not like I'm a fireman or anything. Jeff grabs a shovel and throws me a "Boy Scout shovel". I call it a Boy Scout shovel cause basically the damned thing was a toy. It was one of those collapsable shovels and to top it all off the neck was broken on it. When I started swinging it to try and put out the fire it was like I was swinging an overcooked pasta noodle.
It didn't do much.
Fighting fire is tough work. Fighting fire without the proper equipment or training is an exercise in futility. Here we are trying to stomp out the fire (useless), slap out the fire with a shovel (waste of time). By now we have acres and acres of fire and two shovels. The wind starts picking up and now we truly have a shitstorm on our hands. Jeff decides to go and get the tractor and try and cut a fire break. As he runs past me he yells "don't let the fire get the cabin, whatever you do save the cabin!". Sure Jeff, no problem. I'll just "stop, drop and roll" and the cabin will be fine. It may have been my psychic abilities, or maybe it was just a guy's intuition, but I kinda figured the cabin would've been high on the priority list.
The wind is blowing the fire toward the cabin, the fire is getting more intense. I'm slapping the burning ground with the broken-neck-boy-scout-shovel/weapon with every ounce of strength I have. I'm useless. The fire is within 10 yards of the cabin. By now, Leslie is over slapping and stomping too. The fire is getting closer and closer. All of a sudden, Leslie (who is not very religious) resorts to a prayer that would've made Jerry Falwell stand up and shout an Amen! "God, please help us! God if you can hear me please help us!".
Spooky thing is it worked.
As soon as she got it out of her mouth the fire died down, the wind shifted direction and within a minute the cabin was in the clear.
I'm not saying it was necessarily divine intervention or anything, but let's just say I go out of my way now not to piss off the wife... She may have connections.
We continued to fight the fires for another hour or so until the Schley County Volunteer Fire Department (Here I am to save the day!) showed up and gave us relief. I can honestly say that fighting fire is a hell of a lot harder work than I EVER imagined, hats off to the guys (and ladies) who choose that for a living. Frankly, I was worn out for the rest of the week.
I'm a wuss.
Here are some pictures before, during and after the fire.
Update:
I almost forgot, I spoke with Jeff the other day. He said that Rusty's leaky exhaust manifold had been fixed, and the name has been changed to "Sparkie".
10/29/2003 12:06:00 AM
Never Ever Do This
Note to self: Never Do This Again!
What the fuck was I thinking?!? I must've been out of my damned mind.
When I was single and had the world by the balls, disposable income as well as disposable time I would take road-trips for my sanity breaks. I'd hop in my car and scoot. I'd go to the mountains, to the coast, the swamp, just about anywhere. I'd usually just take off by myself and my dog of course along with a total buttload of music to keep my head clear while I was driving. By the time I'd get back I was as relaxed as if I'd had a week off.
One long July 4th weekend after work me and a buddy (Joe) from work was at the pub having a few beers when I started detailling the roadtrips that I had taken. After several beers each we shared an epiphany, "It's Friday night. It's a three day weekend. We need to road-load, NOW! RIGHT NOW!!!". We leave the bar in my 1986 Mazda RX-7, go by the local BP buy a case of beer and fill-up the tank.
"Which way?" Joe ask. "Let's go west." I say, so we crank-up and head on our merry way.
Keep in mind that we start our magical journey in Georgia.
It's 11:45pm Friday night. We don't have to be back at work until Tuesday morning at 8 am. We can take a BIG roadtrip!
Georgia + West = Alabama. We drive non-stop 'til we're almost passing out around 5:30 Saturday morning. We stop on a pier overlooking the Gulf of Mexico down around Mobile, Alabama. We sit in stunned silence for about a half an hour, we regroup then decide to continue on to New Orleans. We get to New Orleans early, like 7'ish I'd say. I'd been to the Big Easy before and had eaten at Cafe Dumond. I thought it'd be kind of cool to eat beignets, tank up on coffee, sober up and then spend the rest of the weekend partying in N.O.
Joe had a "better idea".
"Why don't we make a marathon out of this, somethin' to tell our grandkids about. Why don't we see how far we can go?". I think about it for about 6 seconds and realize this is the most incredible idea I've ever heard! Joe is a genius, or at least inspired. So we finish up our french doughnuts and coffee and decide to go north " 'cause, I've always wanted to go over that long fucking bridge." For those of you who suck at geography lake Pontchartrain is north of New Orleans and the lake Pontchartrain bridge is 20 something miles long. It truly is a "long fucking bridge". We get across the bridge and decide to keep our course north. We go back into Mississippi, through Jackson. Then onward to Memphis Tennessee. Remember we've only stopped a couple of times so far, on the pier in Mobile, in New Orleans for coffee and umpteen dozen pee breaks. We get into Memphis. We stop to stretch our legs and look around the town. It's mid-to-late Saturday afternoon by now. We're out of the car about 30 minutes when we decide we want to see that arch. After all the miles we've been so far that arch doesn't seem that far away. It's in St. Louis. Missouri. In retrospect, we were out of our minds. We had gone from central Georgia, southwest to New Orleans and Now were heading north for St. Lou.
We get into St. Louis around 9-10pm on Saturday night. We've got that "been on the road too long buzz" ringing in our heads.
We're tired. We stink. And guess what, we gave no thought when we left to:
a. A change of clothes.
b. A change of underwear.
c. Hygeine tools (aka toothbrush, hairbrush, deo).
We figured (in our drunken stupor the night before) when we get to a place we want to stay, we'll just buy what we need then. What we didn't count on was... we would never get to where we were going.
Back to St. Louis, we're layed out on the grass under the arch like a couple of homeless guys. We fall asleep for a couple of minutes, then get our "second wind".
It's roughly 11 pm on Saturday night. Our brilliant minds decide to head to Chicago.
We get to Bloomington, Illinois and pass out in a rest stop. I'm not sure if you've ever had the opportunity to try and sleep in an RX-7. Basically, you don't. The best analogy I can give is what I imagine trying to sleep in a Cambodian prison camp would be like.
We tried to snooze for a couple of hours without much luck.
Sunday Morning roughly 6am: On the road again. We're off to Chicago. We hit Chicago, scratch that, we breeze through Chicago's South Side around 9:30 - 10am. Onward, we go through Indiana, into Michigan. On Sunday afternoon/early evening we realize that not only do we smell, but we S.M.E.L.L.. Somewhere west of Detroit we came across a KOA campground that had a lake. We turned into that place, stripped down to our underwear and took a bath in that lake. God that was a cold lake!
After the lake bath, we load back up and off we go to Detroit.
We go through Detroit, heading east into Ontario, Canada. We continue east. Through Canada. We get over to the Canadian Side of Niagra Falls and do 45 minutes of site seeing.
Then we're off again, south. Here we come Buffalo, New York. We go through Buffalo late. By this time it's in the wee hours of Monday morning. We hit another rest area and sleep.
We don't really sleep, but experience deep unconscienceness. I'm not sure if I can relate to you how wasted tired I am. We come to around 7:30 am Monday. Keep in mind we have to be at work Tuesday morning at 8am.
I'm going to try and make the rest of this story short. Try and keep up.
Buffalo => Pittsburgh
Pittsburgh => West Virginia
West Virginia => Virginia
Virginia => North Carolina
<<<< We get lost in North Carolina for a couple of hours >>>>
North Carolina => South Carolina
South Carolina => Atlanta
Atlanta => Warner Robins
Warner Robins (to drop off Joe) => Macon (home)
It's now 7:15 am Tuesday Morning.
I've got to be at work in 45 minutes.
No call ins, no sick days allowed.
Why? Because (at the time) I worked for UPS.
<<<< IRONY ALERT>>>>
I have to drive a fucking truck 200 miles that day.
10/25/2003 01:02:32 AM
Ho-Lee-CRAP!!!
Ho-Lee-CRAP!!!
That's all I can say. Ho-Lee-CRAPPPPP!!! Just back from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Oh, Ho-Lee-CRAP! I've seen some pretty rough movies before, but nothing like this. I don't usually freak at movies (ok maybe once, I almost lost it when "Satine" died in Moulin Rouge, but...I'm TEASIN'!). Anyway, like I said I don't normally come unglued at movies, but damn if this show didn't mess with my psyche just a bit. I was expecting gore. I was expecting blood and guts. I was even expecting an evisceration or two. But Ho-Lee-CRAP, I wasn't expecting to see the depths of agony that I witnessed.
I need a bath. And therapy.
I'm also considering life as a vegetarian.
Here's the skinny on the show:
Five college-aged students are in south Texas. Get mixed with some bad folks and before you know it they're up a tree without a paddle (nothing like mixing your metaphors). Terror, pain, agony, shock and death ensues. The folks who are perpetrating all of this nastiness are your run of the mill inbred sideshow freak types. I think each one is the other one's father and uncle.
My review on the movie, you ask?
two thumbs-up and 3 Ho-Lee-CRAPS!
~warning~ UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD THIS FILM BE VIEWED BY ANYONE ON ACID OR ANYONE WITH COLLEGE AGED KIDS WHO LISTEN TO LYNYRD SKYNYRD AND DRIVE THROUGH SOUTH TEXAS IN A 1970's SOMETHING SCOOBY-DOO VAN OR ANYONE WITH AN UNUSUAL AFFINITY FOR CHAINSAWS, KNIVES, MEAT CLEVERS OR HOOKS! ~warning~
After this I'm going to apply for a non-profit organization status.... Please donate to my charity: P.E.T.M.G. "People for the Ethical Treatment of Movie Goers" PayPal gladly accepted.
PS- Note to guys... Not a good "first date movie".
10/22/2003 12:07:03 AM
Funnies
Funnies
Finally, now that I've gotten through the Ghost Story I can get back to simple, general ponderings.
Mike Luckovich with the Atlanta Journal Constitution is my favorite political cartoonist. Here's one of his latest.
Also speaking of cartoons, Opus is back November 23rd! Just one more bit of proof that there is a God.
10/20/2003 09:12:50 AM
Ghost Story (Final Edition)
Ghost Story (Final Edition)
The problem I have with telling ghost stories is that generally from the start if people are expecting a ghost story they're automatically trying to work out the physics in their heads, or they're jumping to conclusions that it's a bunch of fictional bullshit. I am here to tell you the story you are about to read is true. I was present at the time this particular incident happened.
First of all let me give you a bit of background to give you a better understanding of my surroundings. I live in a rather old city in Georgia. The city has a extended history that stretches back thousands of years to the "Mound Builder" Indians. We also share a strong revolutionary war and civil war heritage. Now more than anything my hometown is known more for it's music history. James Brown, Otis Redding, The Allman Brothers, Lena Horne, Ray Charles, B-52's, REM, Indigo Girls and many others have called this area home at one point or another in their respective careers. It's been rumored that The Police penned "Roxanne" while they were here back in the late '70s. Anyway, this story is about one well known musician, or should I say the deceased father of this musician. The musician? Well Good-Golly, Miss Molly....it's Little Richard.
My office is located in a small building in the historic district of our downtown. The building is anywhere from a hundred and fifteen to a hundred and twenty-five years old. The building has been everything from a brothel, a liquor store, a bar, an apartment and now a professional office. When the place was a bar it had it's most notorious moments. From everything I've heard and read it was a rather rough "juke-joint". As a point of unusual personal history, I was talking to my grandmother a few months ago and she told me that her sister (who died long before I was born) actually worked (as she put it) as a "Bar-maid" there. She even married the bartender/owner of the place and lived upstairs over the bar. I digress, back to the story; Like I was saying the bar was not the kind of place you'd want to find yourself at late Friday or Saturday night. To my findings: stabbings, gunshots and the occasional murder were rather common there.
One death in particular, has given the address an added bit of notoriety. The murder of Richard Penniman Sr. Who is Richard Penniman Sr.? Mr. Penniman Sr. is Little Richard's father.
I'm the creative director for my company. With the title comes a lot of late nights. One of those late nights happened to occur on November 17th, 2001. I know this sounds like crap but, that particular night will go down as absolutely the most terrifying few hours of my life. Nothing could've prepared me for what was going to happen. Even now, I'm having a hard time writing this post.
Back to that night. I was deadlining a project that was due within a couple of days, the project amounted to about 30% of our net business for the next year and for some reason I had sat on it until the very last minute. "Procrastination breeds creativity I always say", waiting to the last minute is pathological for me. My partner and I were elbow and knee-cap deep in work at 8 o'clock p.m. when the last receptionist said her good-bye and locked us in for the night. We went to the office fridge, got us a Coke then went back to work. We worked pretty tirelessly until around 11:15 when things started getting weird.
To be continued... (Sorry but it's a long story and I haven't had much time to write lately. I'll finish the story this weekend.)
Ok, I'm back to finish.
Like I said, it's 11:15 and things were getting weird. In order to be more factual, this is how it happened: it went from 0 to 100 on the freak meter within a second. There wasn't any ramping up or anything, one second we're working, then the next second all hell breaks loose simultaneously. It was like somebody flicked on the "you-need-to-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-now-! switch" or something.
There were computer monitors flicking on and off. Desk lamps were flicking on and off. Pictures, a calendar and a couple corkboards (we had nailed on the walls) started dropping to the floor by themselves... One at a time! A few ceiling tiles and one flourescent bulb dislodged and hit the floor. A swivel desk chair was spinning by itself. I had one of those "magnetic art timewaster thingies" on my desk and it was spinning like a fan. I noticed this foul stinch in the air (which we now jokingly refer to it as the 'Satan fart'). There was a really loud, yet constant crackling noise. The water in the bathroom sink automatically started running. We had a box of brochures that toppled off of a low shelf and sprawled all over the floor. Doors were opening and slamming. I'm talking about off-the-scale pandemonium.
Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.
I was scared. Bryan was scared. We couldn't believe what had just happened. I think we were stunned into not being able move. It felt like one of those dreams where you get so scared, so worked up that you can't scream, all you want to do is pass-out or wake-up. We tried to say something to each other, but all we could do was stare. We stood motionless for what seemed like an hour. From the moment that everything died down, time seemed to slow, almost to a stop. I remember saying to myself to "grab your stuff and run... just run!!!", but I couldn't.
A minute or two pass, and we're starting to get a grip on our collective selves when an old black man walks into our office. Our building has one way in and one way out and for the life of me I knew that the door was locked. He's walked into our building through two other rooms to get to our office. Now, here we have this old black man staring at us, and us at him. I'm thinking to myself "after all we've just been through we've got a homeless guy in our office about to panhandle me for a fucking quarter?!?!?".
There we are in this quietly deadlocked gaze, you could've heard a roach burp, then he breaks down into this laugh. Not a scary laugh, or an evil laugh, just a true honest to God something-has-tickled-my-funny-bone laugh. He was laughing to the point he couldn't catch his breath. Neither Bryan nor I saw the humor in the situation. Actually, we were pretty both much about to lose it and go for total meltdown.
Anyway, the old man began to regain composure, just as he was about to say something he started snickering again and at this point he was he's laughing so hard he was crying and stomping his feet (he reminded me of Grady from Sanford and Son). Needless to say, we starting to get a little light-hearted 'cause we're thinking someone's played one killer practical joke.
Once again the old man begins to settle down and he starts to speak with a really strong dialect,
"Boys, thuh twos-a-you look'n as if ya duhn see a banshee."
We nod our heads.
"You-uhns jus' dee-uhd." he says through his snickering.
Then he ask us if we know who Little Richard is. Once again, we nod our heads in wide-eyed unison.
The he says, "I'm Lil' Richahd's daddy, Big Richahd. But all the ladies call me Big Dick!" he starts laughing so hard now he's drooling. Then, he turns towards our office door, throws up his hand, waves, laughing even harder now as he walks out of the door.
Before the door closes behind him we hear him say to himself through his giggles "Big Dick, gotta remember that one!".
10/20/2003 12:07:34 AM
I know I said I would have a ghost story ready for you on the next post.
But this, this takes precedence! This is life changing. This is awe inspiring. This will make you sing old-time gospel tunes, even if you're an atheist!
This will MAKE your favorite sports team win (wink. wink.)!
The inspiration for which I speak.... The most incredible dip/chili/soup ever to grace the lips of humankind! This recipe will feed a family of 20 (what are you Mormon?), and it's cheap!
Here goes:
- 2 pounds of ground beef
- 1 large can of Hunt's diced tomatos
- 1 can each of:
- Pinto Beans
- Kidney Beans
- Black Beans
- 2 cans of white shoepeg corn
- 1 can of Rotel diced tomatos and peppers
- 1 bag of frozen, diced onions
- 2 packs of taco seasonings
- 2 packs of Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing
Mix it all together in the crock pot, when it's hot enough for you, serve with:
- Frito Scoops
- Shredded Cheese
- Sour Cream
- Guacamole
- Beer of Choice.
Enjoy!
Mark
PS- I'll listen out for gut-rumbles and air grenades this weekend.
10/10/2003 07:31:40 PM
"Nothing has a stronger influence...on...children, than the unlived life of the parent."
-Carl Jung
My dad.
My dad is the oldest known human being ever to have lived. He'll tell you so. He's been too old to do ____________ (fill in the blank) since he was 40. I can remember back to conversations we would have where he was so full of regret. Regret for getting married when he was nineteen. Regret for not going to college. That was a biggy! Regret for not traveling. Regret for not sticking his neck, even just a little. My dad is now 68, and now he truly is getting to old to do some of the things he wanted to do back then, but didn't, and that fills him with regret.
All of this has taught me to live really hard, and really good and my way. Not selfishly or anything, but truly I'm living MY WAY. I didn't finish college either. That was my choice and I realize that. I bailed because I had no direction, I left because I didn't want a degree in Business. Thanks to my pop's sorrow/regret, I can consider my self successful. I'm not necessarily wealthy, but I do well and I truly love more aspects of my life than not.
Here's a hoot, even though I didn't finish college, I was an adjunct professor a few years ago at the one of our local colleges. Granted the school was pretty hard up for help and I was freelancing at the time so I was pretty hard up for food. I taught a design class 3 days a week for a semester. I think, my dad was more proud of that than my brother's Master of Theology. I guess it was validation he needed. I guess I'm telling you about it 'cause... it's validation for me too.
I hope this post doesn't give you the impression that the old man is a loser. On the contrary, he's done well. His peers consider him successful. Too bad for him he doesn't realize it.
My dad got old too fast.
I on the other hand, may need to grow up a bit more.
Exhibit A:
On a summer trip with guys (it's dubbed "The Annual Mantrip"...scared? ...say scared.) a year or so ago up in the mountains we came across a flowing stream that had a beautiful cascade of water over a bunch of rocks. Absolutely picturesque. Do we fish? No. Do we gaze at God's wonder? No. Do we take lovely pictures of the beautiful fauna? No. IT'S FLOWING WATER, OVER ROCKS... Fuck it...WE DIVE IN!!!
Well the water is not obeying the natural laws of physics because it's 208 degrees below zero! It's liquid fucking nitrogen!!! Does that stop us? What you think we are pussies?!? Hell no, we just drink warmer beer! It was almost fun. We were on the rocks sliding down into the chilled waters of north Georgia stream. We are men! HEAR US SNORE! Anyway, back to the story, I've always been the adventurous one of the bunch (read "stupid when liquored up") so I figure sitting on my ass on the rock then scooching down until you picked up speed was for little men. I decide, no, I postulated that getting a good running start and diving on the rock belly first would enhance the fun. When I came to, I was back at the cabin, neatly tucked in my sleeping bag. Seems I had drifted off and lost a few hours of my conscienceness.
Exhibit B:
I am a kite freak! I love flying kites, although I now know that it's best done when there's at least a slight breeze.
Last March on what seemed to be a rather breezy day, I break out my $100 super-dooper, "who's the guy with the bad-ass kite" kite. I get it all "lined up" and start trying to get it off the ground. Normally, I'd just give it a quick tug and it'd be airborne. Not this time, this time I'm in front of a crowd. This time I'm on asphalt. This time I do that really stupid looking backwards run, yanking like a son-of-a-bitch trying to get the dead albatross to fly. Well as you can well imagine, I don't jog backwards very well. Especially when I'm trailing "the bad-ass kite" kite. So my legs get twisted up and I wind up on my butt. Not just on my butt though, but actually on my spine. I compress my spine.
I used to be over six feet tall. Now, I'm pushing 5' 10.75". I shrunk over and inch and a quarter thanks to this slip of sanity.
Exhibit C:
A couple of Christmases ago, we had gotten my kid a Razor scooter. You know the skateboard that has the steering column on it. On Christmas morning I'm out in front my house on the scooter, you know just making sure it's "safe". Who am I kidding, I wanted to ride the damned thing all day! Anyway, I'm up on it for maybe all of six seconds when I roll over a pebble that gets stuck in the front wheel... I'm over the handlebars on my face in the middle of the cul-de-sac. The scooter IS safe, just not for me. Fun yes, graceful no.
Exhibit D:
I am a demigod at SSX, and SSX Tricky on Playstation II.
Exhibit E:
There is no better holiday than Halloween. I like to dress up. I like scaring the shit out of kids, I'm talking "therapy-required scared". I like haunted houses/trails.
A few years ago I dressed up like Holandra, the Russian Gymnast. I wore full-length sports tights, a bikini top, an Olympic number and a blonde wig with pigtails. Keep in mind I'm totally hetero, so the hairy chest and the deep FM kind of voice made for a great juxtaposition.
Since it is getting close to Halloween, I'll be telling THE ghost story next post.
10/9/2003 11:58:42 PM
Families?
I saw a quote one time that really summed things up. It went something like this..."Thanks to my dysfunctional childhood, I'm ready to kick some adult ass." Given my last few hours I figured that quote would make for an excellent thesis for this post.
My parent's taught me that unless you're:
- A. Bleeding.
- B. Convulsing from fever.
- C. Or have lost a major limb (fingers or toes don't count).
You're not sick. You're not gonna get sympathy from them. To illustrate this point my mom had a stroke a few months ago and she still swears it was just a "bit of a headache". She was in the hospital for 9 days 'cause of that "little headache." She slurs her speech, but she's back at work selling kids used clothes. Headache!?!
Anyway, my parent's moms (aka my grandmothers) have had every known illness known to mankind, from the flu to ebola to mad cow disease to scurvy. They've had every surgery that can be performed, performed. Their health or lack of it is the only thing they have left to contribute. They'll get into "scar wars" given an open moment in a conversation. I swear I thought I overheard my dad's mom say one time that she had "prostate surgery". Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you have to have testicles and all the other male paraphernalia to have a prostate? I never thought of my grandmother as a dude. It kind freaked me out.
Well, you can pretty well guess how well this goes over with my mom and dad. It irritates the hell out of them. To the point that they have very little tolerance of or compassion for their respective mothers, sisters, brother, etc.
All of that being said, I get a call tonight that my aunt (my dad's sister) is on her "death bed". On the way to pick up my grandmother and take her to the hospital I figured it'd be a good idea to let my folks in on the fact that Aunt "A" is in trouble. To break the news to them I had to be subtle, here's how the conversation went.
MOM: Hellooo (multi-syllabic, remember we're from the South).
ME: Hey Patty (we're on a first name basis), I'm heading to the hospital, looks like Aunt "A" is taking the Deep Train #6. (The Deep Train #6 is just one of hundreds of euphamism we have for dieing/death. Anyway back to the phone call.)
MOM: Ah shit, what is it this time?
ME: 'not sure. Got a call from "T" a little while ago. Come to find out she had another surgery a couple of days ago. He said her kidneys are shot and now they've stuck her in ICU.
MOM: Do you think we have to come down?
ME: Beats me. Let me get a read on the situation. If I call to let you know the nurses are taking bet's on her "going cold" (another euphamism) before the morning, then you'll know it's time to.
MOM: Well don't tell them you talked to me.
ME: Sure. Gotta go.
MOM: I love you.
ME: Yeah, me too.
So after that compassionate call, I go and pick up my grandmother and take her to the hospital to see her "only child left". I don't think she really considers my dad hers anymore, they just don't share the same zest for life.
When we get to the hospital there's about a dozen people in the waiting room. I walk in pushing my grandmother in a wheelchair. the whole room goes silent. All the men in the room do that thing with their eyes, that same thing that happens when someone farts in an elevator. You know kind of an eye roll, kind of a eyebrow lift thing. It's non-verbal for I should be home watching the fucking game, instead I'm here. Like the good guy that I am.
Once we get into the room and say our hellos the conversation din picks back up. The guys are talking about work, screwing the nurse that just walked through, sports, hunting, you know... general guy stuff. The old ladies are saying things like: "She looked so good... just last week", "It's truly sad, what will "K" (her husband) do without her?". I'm privy to all these extraneous conversations 'cause I get to be the "fly on the wall". I'm the spawn from the black sheep remember.
Anyway, back to the aunt. Yes, she's in ICU. Yes, she's ill. Yes, I'm concerned about her. But is she about to die? NOOOO! I push my grandmother into her room in ICU and she starts crying. My aunt wakes up, she's semi-conscious. The conversation goes something like this:
AUNT: ~in a breathy drug induced stupor~ "Todd...Todd is that you?" (my name is Mark)
ME: No Aunt "A" It's me, Mark.
AUNT:~soberly~ Oh.
GRANDMOTHER: sobbing
AUNT:~back to the breathy drug induced stupor~ Thank you from brangin'(sic) momma down. (It's a southern thang)
ME: Glad too.
GRANDMOTHER: sobbing
AUNT: ~sleepy talking, I can't seem to make it out~ Then she says "you almost lost your aunt today".
ME: uh huh. (What am I supposed to say? "Ah shucks?" or "So you want to hackey-sack or what?")
AUNT: ~passes out~
GRANDMOTHER: starts praying.
At this time I'm standing around with my hands in my pockets. Stuck not knowing what to do or say. My grandmother is wailing and praying. So I started praying silently, it went something like this:
ME: Hey GOD.
GOD:
ME: I've got a good life.
ME: Oh and I've got my health.
ME: And I almost forgot, you made me smart.
ME: GOD? GOD? Anyway, Thanks.
GOD:
I don't pray much. I used too. But whenever I do I realize things'll be ok. I'm fine with that.
About this time my grandmother started to dry up. So I wheeled her back into the waiting room to be with all of the old ladies. The old ladies who seem to appreciate a good sick or a good death more than good health. I went back to being a "fly on the wall", with a slight grin. I realized then with all of the dysfunction around me, I'm kicking some adult ass!
I'll call my mom tomorrow and let her know that Aunt "A" is still 98.6.
The nurse? The nurse that the other guy's were talking about "drilling", she came over to talk with me later. We're old friends. It pays to be the black sheep.
10/9/2003 01:04:02 AM
What is it about dogs?
Cats don't have it, birds don't have it, even kids don't have it. Dogs have that inate ability to get "into you". Become a part of you, make you forget all the dirty stuff that makes us human. Dogs are cool. No doubt about it.
The image above is an illustration of of one of my dogs. Her name is Holestein or "Holy" as she is more affectionately known. Holy is a good dog. She's friendly, loyal, quirky, not too smart, doesn't do any tricks, eats to much and gives the neighbor dog hell. We love her, and she loves back. To her nothing else matters but keeping us happy. Isn't that what relationships ought to be about?
The best friend I ever had was my dog "Specht". I got Specht from the pound when he was around three years old. I was around 22 years old then and figured it'd be cool to have a pooch. Specht had been abused by his previous monster, I mean owner. He was so gun-shy that when I would take off my shoes and toss them on the floor he would, in a single bound, jump over my couch. Needless to say the little guy found a place in my heart quick. Once he got to know me, trust me and realize that I kept him out of the gas chamber we really clicked. We went everywhere together. One of the funniest memories I have is, one Saturday morning we were in the car running errands, he had his head hanging out of the window as usual when I took a hard left he went flying out the window, flipped a couple of times, hit the asphalt. I thought he was smushed, I looked in the rearview and saw him get up, shake it off and came running to catch up with me. I opened the door, he jumped in and got on his side of the car, sneezed, and gave me a look that said "huh, is that the best you got?"
I had Specht for over ten years. When old age started setting in he slowed down alot, but I still knew he loved me way deep in his soul and tried to keep up as best he could. Specht knew his time. One August day, with the temperature around 100 degrees he wandered off into the woods and laid down and passed away. I've got a million other memories of Specht. Hopefully, I'll get the opportunity to share others with you as the days go by. Knowing him made me a better person.
Here's my bud.
10/2/2003 09:23:02 PM
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