30 Minutes Or Less

You know the joke about the guy who calls for road service to explain that he has locked his keys in the car.   I'm sure you've heard it.  When he hears that they can't come for an hour, he raises his voice and says, "Oh no!  Please hurry!  My wife and kids are locked inside!"

I'm pretty sure the person who that joke was written for, is who a local construction company is worried about.  There is a major project being built just three blocks from where I sit.  I have heard people say that they will be apartments.  I've heard some say that they will be shops with apartments on top.  I've also heard one person say that it would be a high security prison for the criminally insane/daycare nursery. (but I don't think that will happen)  The point is, there is construction going on...and it has been for quite some time.  I cannot tell you what the exact time has been.  That would take research... since I don't know, off the top of my head, how long it takes to build daycare prisons.  But I can tell you that the weather has changed from very warm and dry to very wet and cold since they started.  

We, here in the lovely city of Fremont, are no strangers to things taking a while.  It took the city council more than three hours to discuss which color the accent pieces on a building, sixty feet above the pavement, would be painted.  Just months before they tore it down.  It was riveting.  Don't think that it is strictly related to the government of the city.  We have a furniture store, on one of our main thoroughfares, that has been going out of business (according to the signs) for three decades!  Wouldn't it be great to get that kind of news from a doctor.  "I'm afraid your days are numbered...you only have thirty more years to live."  I'm not complaining.  I wouldn't want to be handed the keys to the city and told to lock up when I'm done.  I'm not mad.  Just observant.  Now where did I put my glasses?  Never-mind, they're on my nose.

In fact, the land that is being developed by the Alcatraz/Gerber construction company has been vacant for more than forty years.  It was one of the last pieces of property in central Fremont area that hadn't been turned into a building of some sort.  We Fremontinites (I'm not sure that is correct, but once again...research) had begun to assume that it would be vacant forever.  There used to be orchards all over and this, I'm sure, was no exception.  There was even a lone tree that had to, ahem, be convinced to move to another location to make room for this job.  That one sad, dormant, barren tree will probably lend its legacy to the structure.  I'm guessing Peach Wood Estates or Rolling Apricot Manor (I should really hire someone to do research for me).  

I told you all of that so I could tell you this.  There is an interesting sign at the construction site.  On the road next to the very large buildings is a sign that says, "Expect 30 minute delays."  Now my family and I have traveled all across this country.  We are no strangers to signs or delays.  There are helpful signs and strange signs.  There is even a place, in Oklahoma I believe, that had a sign stating, "Hair Cuts and Pizza!"  (we didn't stop)  During the nice weather of the summer road construction seems to be common.  The occasional sign telling us to expect delays is inevitable.  When traveling to Yosemite, here in California, there is an entrance that has been "altered" by a massive rock slide and the cars that come this route have to wait and be escorted into the park by a ranger.  There are delay signs there that tell us that we'll have to wait for up to 7 minutes.  If you've ever been to the Yosemite valley you'll know that the beauty there is worth much more than a seven minute wait.  Nothing against my fair city...but I'm thinking a 30 minute wait to get from A to B would be a little off-putting.

Again, that is not really the problem.  The problem, as I see it, is that the yellow motorized road construction sign that blinks "Expect 30 minute delays" is placed on a main thoroughfare which has about as many outlets as there are cars that travel it.  I counted six ways to leave this road starting at the sign...many more if you started planning ahead as soon as you could read the two-foot-tall letters!  Never mind that the amount of construction happening at this site is sporadic, to say the least.  The buildings are getting built...I just never see anyone there.  The fact that at any given time in your travel down this road could switch to the left or the right and only add 30 seconds to your travel time to avoid 30 minutes of delay.  In fact, the only person I can see getting stuck on this road for 30 minutes would be a myopic obsessive compulsive with clinically advanced tunnel vision.  (apologies all around if any of my readers have actually been caught in the delay.)

Perhaps I am not thinking about this correctly.  Maybe the city planners paid off this construction crew to play a psychological trick on all of us.  If we expect something bad...and then it doesn't happen...Huzzah!  It could be a tourist trick.  Who knows?  People could be thinking, "You know, whenever I travel in Fremont I get the feeling that I may be moderately inconvenienced.  And then it doesn't happen!  I will have to remember this when that company calls to ask me about which Bay Area town is the best!"  That is probably how Fremont recently got voted the best city at doing something-or-other for places that have that specific attribute that is pleasing for some reason...I really need to increase my research budget.

I'm French?!?

I'm not a huge fan of comedians who start jokes with, "Didja ever...?"  Since I am not a comedian, and this is not a joke...Didja ever see that commercial where the obviously clueless interviewee is rattling on about he is perfect for the company, all the while mispronouncing the name of the company...and the punchline is when the dignified and exasperated owner says, "It's pronounced Do MOSS." and then the camera shows his desk to show the nameplate, "Dumass".   What do you know!  A French guy!  I think that was a great commercial and, coincidentally, a word that I am familiar with.  

I don't pull it out and use it as often as the dad on That 70's Show does....but there are situations where describing someone (and their pointless and often dangerous antics) as an uneducated posterior is quite possibly the best choice.  When someone decides to try to ride a wheelie through a crowded parking lot on their motorcycle.  When someone berates an employee for a problem that was not in their control.  When someone wedges their car into a toll booth, and stops the morning commute, because they were trying to save ten seconds and cut in front of the first car in line...It just rolls off the tongue.   dumbass

I am normally not one for questionable language.  I think that people who swear are cheating themselves out of the wealth of words and nuances in the English language.  But there are times (perhaps too many) when I think this one particular exception is acceptable.  Heck!  There are times when I even think it should be a button right next to "like" on Facebook!

Having said that, and trying really hard not to offend any of my French speaking readers by mispronouncing a name in the interest of humor...allow me to tell you today's story.

When Sylvia and I bought our first house we did something that was really smart.  We negotiated.  We got the price down to what we thought was fair and then we said, "We want to keep the refrigerator."  The previous owners had already moved out, the place was empty, except for a penny on the closet shelf (yes I still have it) and a refrigerator.  We were just starting out and it looked nearly new (what do we know) so we asked for it to stay.  They agreed and we thought we had saved ourselves several hundred dollars since now we wouldn't have to go out and buy one.  Then, our awesome Realtor (not to be confused with our criminal Realtor that we had to fire...seriously) gave us a gift.

He said, as the deal was done, that he would be buying us our home warranty.  We didn't know what they were so he showed us the brochure.  It covered the pipes, the heater, the this and the that, and certain appliances.  The stove, covered.  The dishwasher, covered.  Everything else was out of luck.  We thanked him profusely and then asked why the refrigerator wouldn't be covered.  Only the built in appliances...but you can add it if you want.  The fridge looked new(ish) but why take a chance...we added it.

Right after everything was final we started to work.  We don't know what they were cooking but it took a solid week, and several solvents that had skulls and crossbones on them, to clean the cabinets.  We scrapped the hood over the stove in favor of a hood/microwave combination.  And we scoured our new refrigerator.  As I was cleaning it out I noticed that the ice maker wasn't working.  Then when Sylvia really cleaned (you have to pull it out and mop underneath...sheesh) I noticed that the icemaker wasn't working because it wasn't hooked up to a water source.  It still had the hose taped to its back, ready for some handy guy to come and hook it up.  Then I saw why they may have thought it was the problem.  The refrigerator was on the complete opposite wall from the faucet and the floor in between was a cement slab.  No water, no ice.  I'm a teacher, I know these things.  Perhaps what the people did not realize was that on the other side of the wall that held the fridge, was a bathroom...complete with running water!  (we spared no expense when we were looking for a house)

Since we never spoke to the former owners we have no way of knowing why they never thought of that.  Maybe they couldn't afford to do it.  Maybe they didn't know it was supposed to do that.  Maybe they thought that bathroom plumbing was not suitable for kitchen ice.  Maybe they just didn't like ice...Who knows!?  Me?  I like ice.  I like cold drinks.  I like to know that I can get ice whenever I need it.  And, as long as the water for the ice wasn't being taken from the bowl of the toilet, bathroom plumbing was just fine with me.  Enter Extra Ordinary Man!  Not extraordinary, extra ordinary.  I have ample supplies of ordinary-ness.

I turned off the plumbing.  Drilled a hole in the wall.  Bought all of the things I would need.  And with Sylvia's help (and roughly six trips to the hardware store) I had hooked up a filter under the sink in the bathroom that would feed the ice maker, and I was ready to turn on the water.  Slowly I turned...tested the faucet...it worked...tested the fridge...it made that satisfying shhhhhhhh sound that tells you it was pouring water into the automatic ice trays.  Success!  (sorry to disappoint you all and your expectations that I would take a shower right there in the kitchen)  We had ice!  (well in approximately three hours we did)  I am fairly certain that I mocked the previous owners of the un-used icemaker for their lack of vision...and lack of chilled beverages!  I may have even mentioned that word.  You know, the French guy.  There were no recordings.  You can't prove anything.

Then we jump ahead a few months to when Sylvia went to Germany...without me...and I stayed behind to go to college and work on the house.  I built shelves.  I painted.  I did this and that.  I missed Sylvia.  And then it happened.  In the middle of the night I heard something that sounded a ghost was being dragged through a meat grinder, while carrying a cat, who was being given a bath...by a dog...who was wearing a hideous Christmas sweater.  It was a high pitched moan, wail, scratch, pause, whine...kind of noise.    It was one of those noises that wakes you up from a dead sleep and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up! The good news, it wasn't coming from the closet.  The bad news, it was coming from our 'nearly new' refrigerator.

I opened the refrigerator door.  It was ghost, cat, dog, and sweater free, but the sound got louder.  I took out the meager contents and for some reason felt the back of the inside.  When I got to where I thought the sound was coming from I did what every red-blooded American male would do in a similar situation.  I punched it.  You have to forgive me.  I grew up watching Fonzie start a jukebox by hitting it.  I was going to try anything...in the middle of the night...when I should be asleep.  Funny thing is, it worked.  Silence, other than the hum of the motor.  I replaced everything, shut the door, and went back to bed while making a mental note that I had to activate the home warranty in the morning.

When the repair guy came out...I think his name was Ralph...he explained that the motor was beginning to fail and since it was so old, the warranty would just offer to replace it.  Excuse me?  Old?  How old exactly? Apparently it was much older than the house and the house was in its late teens.  I hereby take back, formally and in writing, everything I have previously said about the former owners...they sure knew how to take care of an appliance!  I called Sylvia and she, trusting soul that she is, told me that I could just go and pick one out.  I wisely refused.  (did I ever tell you about the time that it took us and hour to pick out the garbage can that would live under the sink?)  Then I told her that it was working and would stop working in the future.  Every time the ghost sound happened, I punched it, and the sound stopped.  Besides, if it did stop altogether, I am a camper.  I can live out of an ice chest for a few days until you get back.  She said I was silly but there wasn't a way to force me to buy one without her so I waited.

Sylvia came home and we got ready to go shopping for a fridge.

As an aside.  Let me give you this bit of advice.  When you are offering to demonstrate an unusual sound that you can turn off by punching the refrigerator, and the person you are trying to show says that they don't want to hear it...do not punch the refrigerator to make the sound happen, because that will be the one time that it does not just turn off with another punch.

We bought the biggest, ice-making-est fridge that would fit into our tiny house and even got the thing that would pee chilled water into your glass if you wanted (come on...the water was coming from the bathroom...you know I had to go there).  On the day they were going to deliver it we cleaned it out and wiped it down.  (there is no way we were going to send a dirty refrigerator to the dumps)  All of the food was out and I looked into the inside wall and noticed something that I had never seen before.  It was a little plastic do-dad that was attached near the hinge.  It looked like it might move up and down but why?  I pressed on it and I heard a sound.  Never heard that sound before.  Maybe it has to do with the auto-defrost or something.  I pressed it again.  Same sound, but different.  As I pressed it longer the sound got slightly higher pitched.  I pressed longer still...it got even higher pitched.  Keep pressing I thought, if you break it today it's no big deal!  It's leaving in an hour!

And then it hit me.  I got out a glass and held it under the plastic gadget.  I kept pressing until finally, water started pouring into the glass.  There was a reservoir inside this fridge that held water to be chilled and ready to drink whenever you wanted to press that button.  And so, after bad-mouthing the old owners, feeling so superior all these months, enjoying ice at a moments notice, it took until the last day that we owned the silly thing for me to discover...that I was part French.

Fifteen

When you see a title like "Fifteen" on a random bit of writing, you might be temped to think, "This is surely  a piece that delves deeply into the struggles of the American teenager."  Then you may double check to see that a guy is writing, and think, "It is surely about the confusion involved with being between being a boy and becoming a man.  There is probably a bit about the sorrow of surviving adolescence and the impending freedom implied with obtaining one's driver's license."  Then you might think that I would sum it up with an overall statement like, "The ever-present angst of the average male American teenager is tempered with a healthy dose of hope and promise."

Well, smartypants, I am not going to talk about teenagers at all!  No, today I am going to talk about something far more important!  I am going to talk about the fact that Bubba Gump's Shrimp Company does not serve Dr Pepper anymore!  Whew!  It feels good to get that off my chest.

Now before you (rightfully) call me petty, immature, ridiculous, and bizarre let me tell you that I have my reasons to be this worked up.  But first I need to set the ground rules.  Dr Pepper is the greatest soft drink to ever cross the lips of mere mortals...but that goes without saying.  One of my favorite vacation memories was when I traveled to Texas (the birthplace of Dr Pepper) and noticed that there were no vending machines for Coke or Pepsi...there were only Dr Pepper vending machines.  Ahhh...  These people understand me...  It was refreshing to be able to go into restaurants and just order Dr Pepper without having to ask if they had it. Of Course They Had It!  They even had it at the rodeo's we went to!  It was everywhere!  But I suspect, if Bubba Gump's was to open a restaurant, they would not have it.

Unfortunately, for this particular restaurant, I am also a movie guy.  It is my thinking that if you open a movie-themed restaurant, you should stay true to the movie.  For the most part, they do a pretty good job.  There is a bench out front with a suitcase and a box of chocolates on top.  There are even ceramic running shoes in front of the bench.  They are hollowed out so you can slip your shoes into the (I'm guessing) size 23 Nikes to take a picture.  Inside, they have memorabilia, props, reproductions, notes about location, sayings, nautical items galore, there is even part of a boat (named Jenny) built onto the ceiling.  There are license plates hanging at the table that say, "Run, Forrest, Run!" and "Stop, Forrest, Stop!" so you can signal whether or not you need something at your table.  I have to say I was fairly impressed.

We had eaten there before and the last time we were there I ordered a Dr Pepper like I was in the heart of Texas.  "I'm sorry.  We don't have Dr Pepper anymore."  What?!  Have you seen the movie!?  Look at that guy's shirt!  It says, "I Gotta Pee." Do you know why it says that?  He drank too many Dr Peppers!  They called the riot squad...I was sedated...the kids and Sylvia became very friendly with the people sitting next to us (and pretended they didn't know me)...and worst of all, I almost didn't get my fish and chips.  Ok, so maybe almost none of that happened, but I was shocked that this restaurant, who tried so hard on their memorabilia, let this one detail slip through the cracks.  I half-heartedly vowed (politicians do it all the time) to not eat there again unless they brought back Dr Pepper.  I was, of course, speaking as a drink/movie enthusiast.

I held my promise...for a number of visits to the Monterey Bay Aquarium (a block from the restaurant) but the family outvoted me this time.  We asked if they had brought back the Dr yet.  They slumped like they hear that a thousand times a day and said, "No."  On our way to the table they suggested that I speak to the manager about this and "give him a hard time" since they were tired of hearing it.  Then the waitress came over and started asking questions about the movie.  They are obviously geared toward the "I've seen the movie once" crowd.  She asked things like, "Here at BUBBA Gump's we want to know what was Forrest's friend's name?"  Bubba.
"What did Forrest name his boats?" then pointed up.  The Jenny.
"On what part of the body did Forrest get shot?"  The Buttocks.
"What war was Forrest in?"  Viet Nam.
She laughed at all the help I was giving the kids with the answers and was kind enough to not mention that this was all from a movie that was made when she was one.
We "won" her contest and said that our prize was all the toothpicks and mints that we wanted.

As a movie guy, I laughed at her easy questions.  And then I asked her a question.
"How many Dr Peppers does Forrest Drink?"
"FIFTEEN!
Which is fifteen more than I can get here because you don't serve them at all!"
(I'm sure I was her favorite customer all night)

Spots

I just looked through the writing I had done for my college creative writing class thinking I would be able to grab something that was written and then pass it off as new. (kidding)  Trouble is, it's a collection of assignments and the short stories and such are still out there in Neverland.  I can remember three stories vividly...and would love to get my hands on them to work them into a screenplay and make bazillions of dollars...but I don't know where they are.  What I did find, however, was a group of the teacher's comments on the writing I've done.  One of them turned out to be prophetic.  It said, "You do really well with things (subjects) that, to us, seem trivial."

Boy, if that doesn't sum up this blog in a sentence!  Trust me, I am not saying that I am doing really well at anything...but I do have a lot of fun talking about trivial things!  The time I hit the keys on the keyboard with my eyes shut, and wrote a post about that.  That time I spent eight paragraphs talking about some lady's tattoo.  How about when I talked about my superpower...the ability to make women have to pee from laughing.  If this isn't trivial...I don't know what is. Much like the beginning of Huck Finn...anyone trying to assign importance to this blog will be examined.  Anyone seeking deeper relevance will be sedated.  That's just really not what I am going for.  And unlike Mr. Twain...I mean it!  I did just recently have someone tell me that they didn't always agree with everything I wrote in the blog, but they enjoyed it.  Curious.  I don't think I have held too many positions that were open to anything but ridicule.  Oh well, it is also very possible that my memory is fading quickly...which is why I'd better get started on today's topic.  My teacher, and her guiding me toward subjects trivial, would be very proud of today...

I've never seen a family that didn't have them.  We all have one in our family.  Mine is fairly secure.  The kids' used to be open to variety but that time has passed.  Last but not least, fear not...Sylvia has one too.  Regular visitors have them when they come over.  My nieces just claimed theirs when they were here for Christmas.  It's funny though, even though they want them when they are here, no one has ever taken theirs home when they leave.

What on Earth am I talking about?  Spots.

This season, and the groups of people who come to the house, have me thinking about spots.  Not dalmatians, not dice, not the area on the rug visited by friends with plates of food and questionable balance or even puppies and their even more questionable bladders.  No, I am talking about places at the table.  When you read that you immediately thought of your spot.  I'm not judging.  Merely pointing out an observation.  We had quite a few people over for a meal this year and the one thing that happened, every time, when we were almost ready to sit down was for people to stand around the table and wonder where they were going to sit.

The conversation inevitably turned to "spots" and "where do you normally sit?"  At this time it is really difficult to be both OCD and polite at the same time.  Part of me wants people to feel comfortable so I always say, "Sit anywhere!  We're not formal."  Another, darker side of me needs to be restrained because it is mumbling, "Don't sit there. Don't sit there. Don't sit there."  That is when it is nice to have kids.  They always add the instructions for the music-less musical chairs.  Dad sits there.  Mom sits there.  We sit here and there.  Depending on how many people and how many sections are added to the table, the options for where to sit dwindle with each passing second.

There's always someone (me) who is ready to offer specific advice about where to sit.  Depending on who the guest is, I will offer my own brand of smart aleckness to answer the "where should I sit dilemma."  "On Your Bottom!" is a perennial favorite in my family.  I suppose the only time that would be helpful is if we had visitors from Ork (if you are old enough to remember the show then you hopefully will remember the unusual way that Mork sat down...I am nothing if not exceptionally current.  Hey!  Do you remember the episode of Three's Company where they had the misunderstanding about something!?  Funny)

OK, so I have a confession to make now.  I have been sitting (no pun intended...well maybe a little) on this particular piece of writing for a while.  I keep coming back to it and don't feel right to start another until this one is ended. (pun)  I don't want to leave a post behind. (pun)  This subject has been a pain in the...well you know what I mean.  I'm going to sign off.  Start a new topic and hopefully don't leave you sitting on the edge of your seat.

SPOTS!?!  It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

We Bought A Crib!

Some time ago, I wrote that I had found an old folder with a lot of my writing from various creative writing classes I had taken in college before Sylvia and I were married. I told you that I would read through it, pick certain ones, and re-write them here.  We were engaged when I wrote this one.  I hadn't looked at that folder in months/years, but today is the day.  I had said that I would re-print my writing in its entirety with no changes.  Well sue me...I can see that I was even less concerned with punctuation than ever and that my teacher was extremely patient and generous.  I didn't come across the first paper she commented on but that will be coming someday.  There were a few influences in my life that made me think people might want to hear the things I have to say.  This teacher was the first.  I cannot write about her yet, but, to honor her, I will someday...

I read this essay (that is what the teacher called all of our writing) and I seriously thought I was losing my mind.  The timing was wrong.  The details were wrong.  Did I use creative editing and fiction back then?  But I kept reading...Oh, I get it...Never mind...  I hope you enjoy my walk down dot-matrixed memory lane:

WE BOUGHT A CRIB!

It was pretty fun to do it!  We actually bought a crib. I should say that Sylvia actually bought it just because she made all the decisions.  I let her do that because she will most likely have to do most of the work when the little one arrives.  Sure I will help, but in all reality it will be she that gets the brunt of the work.  She did pick out a nice one though.  It's dark wood finished, a personal favorite of mine, and the bumpers are yellow with little bits of pink and blue.  The set of sheets that she bought match the bumpers.  I am sure that Consumer's Digest would approve of this purchase if it were only based on safety and reliability  but it also has a unique quality that gives it charm.  It's not too low so the average man has to bend halfway at the waist just to see in, but it's also not too tall to let the the average woman be able to get to it comfortably.

My sister has a crib that must have been designed be a rather short person who was upset at the world and wanted to bow the backs of every person who was taller than him.  I love seeing my niece, but I can't bring myself to get her out of that torture device my sister calls a crib.

Anyway, the salesperson was so helpful and polite.  She mentioned that Sylvia and I were being so smart buying it so early.  Then she commented on how Sylvia hadn't even started to show yet.  We just smiled.  We also smiled when Sylvia told her friend what we had bought.  All we told her was that we bought a new piece of furniture, then made her guess the rest.  Her guesses went from "chair?" to "table?" to "bed?" to "CRIB!?!" then to shrieks of joy and laughter!  That was fun making her guess.  We may do the same to my mother, but I don't want to cause a heart condition.  It may be a little too much for her to find out that way that we bought a crib.  Sylvia's mother was with us when we bought it so she missed out on the guessing game.  Too bad, I would have like to see the expression on her face when played this little game with her.

Back to the salesperson.  After she told Sylvia that she wasn't even showing, she asked when the little one was going to arrive.  We said, "December seventh on the four o'clock plane from Munich."  You see, Sylvia's cousin is coming from Germany and she is bringing her one-year-old son with her.  We bought the crib so she wouldn't have to drag one all over the world.  And besides that, it was cheaper to buy than to rent.  Why did you think we bought it?

Jeff Garrett

(Me again...blogger...this century)  Well how'd I do?  It was the first paper I read in the folder that didn't make me feel too embarrassed to print it.  I wanted to make a few comments and maybe clear up a thing or two.  I had forgotten about this story completely when I started reading it.  I knew that our crib was not dark, it was white.  I knew that we didn't need to buy a crib until well after we were married.  I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I would have never expected Sylvia to do most of the work with a baby (although she will tell you that I could sleep/snore through a train wreck...even if the train was hauling cymbals).  When this particular baby arrived Sylvia did do most of the work involved...not the baby stuff, Birgit took care of all of that, but Sylvia was busier than ever with preparations for the wedding and being a translator for her mono-lingual fiancee.

The teacher's comments?
"Clever!  I'm glad you didn't upset Mom.  Maybe let her read this, now that she knows."
Well Mom, here you go.

My Second Heart Attack

For the purposes of relieving my mother (the worrier), my sister (the nurse), my father, and several compassionate friends from church and beyond, I am going to state, for the record, that I have NEVER had an actual heart attack.  Not a first... not a second... none.  I will be talking about a time when there were a number of symptoms going on but it was most definitely not my heart.  I would like to say, before I begin, that I am not a doctor, I have not been trained to teach people about medicine or medical procedures, and that I am offering no advice except for this:  If you are in so much pain that your wife thinks you are having a heart attack, let her take your dumb ass to the doctor!  We now return to the regularly scheduled blog.

I would apologize for the title but the first thing they teach you in the Rich and Famous Blog Writing School is to have an opening that grabs people.  Of course there are some people out there who may have read the title and thought, "Yay!  Go for three!"  To you, I offer a loud and disrespectful raspberry.  (Sorry you all had to see that.)

Many years ago, when Kristiana was a toddler and Jake was still an infant, I was given one of the most stressful classrooms I have ever experienced.  The difficulties in the classroom are not important to the story, what is important is that, apparently, I hold onto my stress in my back.  With the challenges I was facing at work and various other stressers my back was a mess.  It was actually quite often that it would feel like someone was trying to sew my shoulder blades together with dull hot needles...and that was when it didn't feel like I had a linebacker balancing on his elbow in the center of my back.  Unfortunately, I was semi-used to being in pain back then. (no pun intended)  I had good days, not so good days, and bad days, but I always managed to make it to work.  My students were accustomed to my strange faces, wincing, and even walking with a cane.  I was used to explaining to people that I had just hurt my back...again.  No, not in a bar fight.  No, not lifting a burning bus off of nuns.  No, I was used to explaining that I had hurt by doing really manly things like, picking up a package of Kool-aid, getting out of the car, or standing up.  You know, manly activities that require strength and agility!

My story today actually begins on a good day.  In fact, I had been having such a string of good days that I forgotten (almost) about my troublesome body parts.  It was a normal morning of getting ready for work, making my lunch, and then I went out to get the paper.  I noticed that the light over the door was out so I reached up to unscrew it.  Something about standing on the balls of my feet, twisting slightly, and reaching for the light bulb made something pop in my back.  I was in instant excruciating pain!  I forgot the light and tried to inch my way down the hall to brush my teeth so I could go to work.  (Did I mention that I was used to this?)  I was about three quarters of the way down the hallway when Kristiana happened to run past me toward Mommy.  She was excited, she was three, she touched me ever so slightly on the hand as she went by.  That was enough to spin me a fraction of an inch, but it was an unanticipated fraction of an inch and that was the exact wrong thing that my back needed.

That slight movement amplified my pain times ten...at least!  In a span of about ten seconds I turned sideways, stopped breathing, clutched my chest (because I couldn't reach around and clutch my back), leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor.  I couldn't talk.  I couldn't take a breath.  I was as white as a ghost.  Kristiana was worried.  Sylvia was worried.  I finally managed to squeak out a feeble, "I hurt my back."  I stayed there reassuring Kristiana that Daddy just makes that sound sometimes.  It wasn't her fault.  I'll be OK.  I breathed haltingly through clenched teeth while I am sure Sylvia went to get the phone to call 911.  She stood over me saying, "I'm calling an ambulance.  You can't even breath."  Me, stupidly, "No.  It's just my back.  I'll be fine in a little while.  Just don't move me while I sit here for a second."  Sylvia was unconvinced but I told her that I had hurt my back trying to reach for a light bulb.  It was not my heart.  I would be fine.  The pain started subsiding, I managed to get up, I took some ibuprofen, and then I...wait for it...went to work.

Just so you all don't think that I am a complete moron, I did call the doctor and set up what was to be the first of many appointments that resulted in my seeing a physical terrorist (not a typo) who actually was a linebacker and, as it turns out, actually knew how to balance his entire body on his elbow while on the center of my back.  My apologies to all the other people in the hospital, next door at the pharmacy, and the bowling alley a mile and a half away, who had to listen to my screaming as he "worked out the knots."  I was given exercises to do, ways to stand, sit, and lay, and never had an episode as bad as the one in the hallway ever again.

Jump forward a number of years...as a special education teacher I was given several opportunities to go to workshops where they trained us in many areas.  I learned how to work with aggressive children.  I learned how to do paperwork in new and exciting ways.  And I learned how to do Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation.

On the day that we were trained in CPR the instructor was talking to us about the ways we could help people.  I went into the training thinking that things hadn't changed much since I started getting my certifications in junior high school.  As it turned out things had changed since the last time I took the class.  I listened more carefully.  Then she said that there were new symptoms for people having heart attacks.  Chest pain. Knew that.  Left arm pain.  Check.  Then she said that many people have had heart attacks and not even known it.  Wait, what?  She said there were signs that do not fit the classic symptoms.  One was back pain.  She now had my full attention.  She went on, shortness of breath.  Then she hit the jackpot...Denying to your wife that you are having a heart attack.  Uh oh.  I thought back to that day when I convinced Sylvia that I was not having a heart attack.  I went back in time and re-lived that morning as the instructor added cold sweat and lightheadedness.  I was sure I had that back then too.  In fact I think I felt a majority of those symptoms again right there in that room!  Dangit!  Was I having my second heart attack because I was learning about my first one?!

I actually got worried that I had had a mild attack but didn't realize it at the time.  Holy cow!  As I listened to her go on to the next subject I thought about how I should probably call the doctor to see if there was something to do now that I had this new knowledge.  How do I start that conversation?  Hello, I think I had a heart attack a few years ago and I think I am having another one while learning about the first!  I imagined that they would refer me to another department where they might, wisely, examine my head.  I decided to talk to the nurse who was giving the training during break time.

When everyone else went to lunch I walked up to this poor woman who had no idea what was coming and told her my tale of woe, starting with my symptoms.  She agreed that it sounded like I had, perhaps, suffered a minor heart attack based on what I had told her.  And then I said, "Yeah, and it all started out because I was changing a light bulb."
She said, "Wait a minute.  You did something to make it start, and you could do something to make it better?"
"Yes."
"You didn't have a heart attack.  They just happen and you cannot make them feel better by moving a certain way. Enjoy your lunch."

I took her assurance and ran with it...and forgot all about it until I opened a letter from my doctor stating that my routine chest x-ray was clear.  Good thing...I have to change a light bulb later!

Hope You All Enjoyed It

Thanksgiving is a time of tradition.  We have many Thanksgiving traditions in the Garrett family.  We gather.  We expend copious amounts of energy making the house look more organized than it typically is, and then say, "Excuse the mess" when others come over.  We feast.  We play games, talk, and laugh.  We take turns writing in the "Thanksgiving Journal."  There are literally dozens of traditions that we observe, consciously or unconsciously, each Thanksgiving. But the most rigid, the most sacred, the most religiously followed tradition is not known to be followed until the day after Thanksgiving.

Every year in preparation for the yearly feast, my family plans on gathering at the Garrett household for Thanksgiving.  We contact everyone and count the people who will be attending.   We carefully and thoughtfully review (and then reject) the subtle changes suggested for the menu each year.  No, the stuffing will not include nuts.  No, we will not be deep frying the turkey.  No, we will not be making yams simply because they add color to the table.  We assign roles, take stock in what we have, what we need, and then go out and purchase enough food to feed the 1st infantry...following three days of starvation training.  And yet, even this is not the tradition that is most adhered to.

This tradition has been passed on from generation to generation, family to family, from as long back as I can remember.  I remember hearing about observing this tradition the day after eating at my aunt and uncle's house when I was in elementary school.  It seems like only thirty years ago (it was more like forty) that we were sitting and watching the Wizard of Oz while waiting for dinner to be set out on the table.  There were two families of five so they took it easy on the food.  There was a ham, a turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams (with mini-marshmallows), gravy, green beans, rolls, jello, ambrosia salad, cream cheese stuffed celery sticks, and black olives for all the kids to stick on their fingers.  And every year my aunt would come out, look at the table, straining under the weight of more food than city ordinances would allow, with an appraising eye, and then head back into the kitchen while saying, "Hold on everyone...I'm going to make a green salad."  Green salad?  If we hadn't eaten in a week and invited everyone we'd ever met we wouldn't have been able to eat all the food on the table...and yet Aunt Pam wanted there to be a cushion of food just in case.  And this still isn't the tradition.

No, I discovered that we had honored this tradition this year when I looked in the refrigerator this morning to see if there were any leftovers that might be loosely considered breakfast worthy.  I looked past the gravy and the stuffing.  I considered the deviled eggs briefly.  I decided there was too much infrastructure that needed to be moved to get to the leftover turkey and then I saw them.  The artichoke jalapeno dip and several Pillsbury ready-to-bake crescent roll packages sat exactly where we placed them in preparation for last night's meal.  It seems that the tradition on our family is to plan to serve something, either as an appetizer or side dish,...and then don't.  

In no particular order, according to year, I have heard, "I hope everyone enjoyed the, rolls, jello salad, shrimp, oysters, fresh fruit, stuffed peppers, crackers and cheese, or pickled herring."  At some point in the planning, one of us (probably shopping while hungry) said, "Oh, that would be good.  Let's get that for Thanksgiving."  Only to have it sit 'snug as a crescent roll in a pressurized tube' well after the meal.  (I've always wanted to coin a phrase so if you will start using that crescent roll one, and give me credit, I would appreciate it.

As delicious as warmed artichoke and jalapeno dip is or fresh, hot crescent rolls are, I'm certain that we sent no people away feeling unfulfilled.  More likely we sent away people with that feeling of regret over having taken one too many helpings of whatever...only to "find room" for "just a taste" of two different kinds of pies as dessert.  I'm certain my great-great-great-great grandmother would be proud to know that the tradition of leaving something prepared and uneaten is still going strong.  Of course the times have changed and we no longer, like her, leave the squirrel casserole in the oven until long after the meal was finished...that was last year.