Monday, October 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Motown Forever
Money, that’s what I want! Barry Gordy sure earned his fair share of it over a music career that marks 50 years of the Motown Sound this year. “Money” was the first hit released on one of the myriad record labels that eventually dominated the Pop and R&B Billboard charts in the 60’s and ‘70’s. Berry wrote the song with friend and associate Janie Bradford.
Even in 1959 Gordy wasn’t new to the music industry, as he had written the ’57 hit “Lonely Teardrops” by “Mr. Excitement” Jackie Wilson who appeared on the Brunswick label. Wilson’s cousin became a Motown heavy-weight in his own right. Ever heard the name Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops?
Originally released in 1959 on the Anna label, named for his sister, “Money” was reissued on Tamla Records, a name that originated from the ‘57 #1 hit “Tammy” by Debbie Reynolds, that soon afterward signed up such top-liners as Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and The Marvelettes. From there Gordy set up a string of successful record labels with other artists that also became household names.
In the fall of 1965, when I checked the Sunday newspaper (The Detroit Free Press) for the weekly Billboard Top Ten songs, I kept seeing this Motown group on the charts that I'd never heard of with songs I wasn't familiar. Well, unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the same group that had topped the charts in the early 60's with "Shop Around" and "Mickey's Monkey" and "You've Really Got A Hold On Me". The Miracles had become Smokey Robinson & The Miracles! From then on I never lost out on any of their successes.
It seemed overnight that "The 12 Year Old Genius" Little Stevie Wonder was tranformed into a hit after hit music machine. His first song "Fingertips, Pt 2" went #1 in 1963. After "Castles in the Sand" was released in early 1964, he became Stevie Wonder and the heights of his successes were phenominal. When he released "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" in 1973 and became his third #1 song, I thought it was one of those old standard songs. Come to find out, he had penned the tune himself, afterwhich it truly became a standard and performed by dozens of artists. It was sandwiched between the release of "Superstition" (#1) and "Higher Ground" (#4). Wow! The guy oozed talent from the very beginning of his career. Totally awesome!
Motown Records itself was established in 1960 with The Supremes and The Four Tops and later with The Jackson 5, The Commodores and David Ruffin who went solo from The Temptations. Diana Ross. The label was dubbed ‘The Sound of Young America’.
With or without the Supremes, Diana Ross holds the Number 1 spot on my list of divas. Although nominated for 12 Grammy Awards, but never won.
No way Lisa Minelli should have won the 1972 Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret. The 1972 Oscar for Best Actress should have gone to Diana for her exquisite and breathtaking performance that chronicled the life of Billie Holiday in Lady Sings the Blues. But Diana had no chance of winning. For one thing it, was her film debut.
Instead, Liza Minnelli won Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret for multiple reasons. Liza was to become the only child of two previous Oscar winners (Judy Garland and Viicente Minelli) to win an Oscar. Liza, a Hollywood insider, had the clout. No doubt she was, and still is, an extremely talented entertainer but the dimensions of Diana Ross' acting and singing were unequaled.
By 1964, Soul Records (Jr. Walker & the All-Stars, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Jimmy Ruffin) and V.I.P. Records (The Spinners, The Elgins, The Velvettes) joined the foray of Gordy’s successes.
And don’t forget the all the Motor City groups that sang in rhythm and danced with perfectly choreographed moves, thanks to a guy named Charles “Cholly” Atkins.
Barry Gordy seldom signed on white artists but the one I remember is The Ones that appeared on the Motown label with the song “You Won’t See My Love”. Of course, the group was flavored with soul but it never made the Billboard Hot 100.
I wouldn’t have heard the song if weren’t for spending time searching for stations on a transistor radio not much larger, but much heavier, than a pack of cigarettes that dangled from the handle bar of my bike. I’d forever be opening the back to tweak the two screws that adjusted the antennae for better reception across the broadcast spectrum.
It seemed like a mine of gold records when I happened on CKLW, an AM station just across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. It played Motown all day, every day.
One of the last successful labels of the Motown Record Corporation was Rare Earth, established in 1969 and named on behalf of the rock group Rare Earth whose first songs were Top Ten covers of The Temptations’ songs “Get Ready” and “(I Know) I’m Losing You”.
Talking about cover songs within the Motown circle of artists, I loved Gladys Knight & the Pips original hit “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” but Marvin Gaye’s version released a year later, in ‘68, is still among my most favorite songs of all time. The string of hits he had with Tammy Terrell (“Your Precious Love”, “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing”, “You’re All I Need To Get By”) are of some the best duet songs ever.
When “The Prince of Motown” came out with “What’s Goin’ On” (1971) and “Let’s Get It On” (1973) it brought a whole new dimension to the world of music. Marvin Gaye brought about a social awareness through music more influential than the protest songs a half decade earlier. The Temptations started the trend in 1970 with “Psychedelic Shack” (remember the flashes of lights and colors on the Ed Sullivan Show?) and “Ball of Confusion” but Marvin took the gender of songs to a new level.
Motown cover songs? The numbers are unbelievable. Marvin Gaye sang “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) in ’65, Jr. Walker & the All-Stars in ’66 then, in ’75, ‘Sweet Baby James’ Taylor gave the tune a mellow tone.
Linda Ronstadt and Johnny Rivers each had their versions of “Tracks of My Tears”. Ronstadt did another Smokey Robinson song “Ooh Baby” and Johnny Rivers, “The Tracks of My Tears”. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, did “Money, That’s What I Want” but the group that charted highest was the Kingsmen.
Every Motown singer performed his/her/their own versions of every other Motown hit.
Perhaps the most enjoyable cover song was of the Marvelette’s #1 song “Please, Mr. Postman” as performed with the sweet-as-honey voice of Karen Carpenter when she did a bouncy rendition in 1974 and made it the Carpenters’ third #1 hit.
The Motown Sound isn't nostalgic. The Motown Sound is forever.
Even in 1959 Gordy wasn’t new to the music industry, as he had written the ’57 hit “Lonely Teardrops” by “Mr. Excitement” Jackie Wilson who appeared on the Brunswick label. Wilson’s cousin became a Motown heavy-weight in his own right. Ever heard the name Levi Stubbs of the Four Tops?
Originally released in 1959 on the Anna label, named for his sister, “Money” was reissued on Tamla Records, a name that originated from the ‘57 #1 hit “Tammy” by Debbie Reynolds, that soon afterward signed up such top-liners as Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and The Marvelettes. From there Gordy set up a string of successful record labels with other artists that also became household names.
In the fall of 1965, when I checked the Sunday newspaper (The Detroit Free Press) for the weekly Billboard Top Ten songs, I kept seeing this Motown group on the charts that I'd never heard of with songs I wasn't familiar. Well, unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the same group that had topped the charts in the early 60's with "Shop Around" and "Mickey's Monkey" and "You've Really Got A Hold On Me". The Miracles had become Smokey Robinson & The Miracles! From then on I never lost out on any of their successes.
It seemed overnight that "The 12 Year Old Genius" Little Stevie Wonder was tranformed into a hit after hit music machine. His first song "Fingertips, Pt 2" went #1 in 1963. After "Castles in the Sand" was released in early 1964, he became Stevie Wonder and the heights of his successes were phenominal. When he released "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" in 1973 and became his third #1 song, I thought it was one of those old standard songs. Come to find out, he had penned the tune himself, afterwhich it truly became a standard and performed by dozens of artists. It was sandwiched between the release of "Superstition" (#1) and "Higher Ground" (#4). Wow! The guy oozed talent from the very beginning of his career. Totally awesome!
Motown Records itself was established in 1960 with The Supremes and The Four Tops and later with The Jackson 5, The Commodores and David Ruffin who went solo from The Temptations. Diana Ross. The label was dubbed ‘The Sound of Young America’.
With or without the Supremes, Diana Ross holds the Number 1 spot on my list of divas. Although nominated for 12 Grammy Awards, but never won.
No way Lisa Minelli should have won the 1972 Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret. The 1972 Oscar for Best Actress should have gone to Diana for her exquisite and breathtaking performance that chronicled the life of Billie Holiday in Lady Sings the Blues. But Diana had no chance of winning. For one thing it, was her film debut.
Instead, Liza Minnelli won Best Actress for her performance in Cabaret for multiple reasons. Liza was to become the only child of two previous Oscar winners (Judy Garland and Viicente Minelli) to win an Oscar. Liza, a Hollywood insider, had the clout. No doubt she was, and still is, an extremely talented entertainer but the dimensions of Diana Ross' acting and singing were unequaled.
In 1962, Gordy Records competed against Gordy’s other labels and touted ‘It’s What’s In The Grooves That Counts’ with the likes of The Temptations, Martha & The Vandellas” and Edwin Starr.
By 1964, Soul Records (Jr. Walker & the All-Stars, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Jimmy Ruffin) and V.I.P. Records (The Spinners, The Elgins, The Velvettes) joined the foray of Gordy’s successes.
And don’t forget the all the Motor City groups that sang in rhythm and danced with perfectly choreographed moves, thanks to a guy named Charles “Cholly” Atkins.
Barry Gordy seldom signed on white artists but the one I remember is The Ones that appeared on the Motown label with the song “You Won’t See My Love”. Of course, the group was flavored with soul but it never made the Billboard Hot 100.
I wouldn’t have heard the song if weren’t for spending time searching for stations on a transistor radio not much larger, but much heavier, than a pack of cigarettes that dangled from the handle bar of my bike. I’d forever be opening the back to tweak the two screws that adjusted the antennae for better reception across the broadcast spectrum.
It seemed like a mine of gold records when I happened on CKLW, an AM station just across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. It played Motown all day, every day.
One of the last successful labels of the Motown Record Corporation was Rare Earth, established in 1969 and named on behalf of the rock group Rare Earth whose first songs were Top Ten covers of The Temptations’ songs “Get Ready” and “(I Know) I’m Losing You”.
Talking about cover songs within the Motown circle of artists, I loved Gladys Knight & the Pips original hit “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” but Marvin Gaye’s version released a year later, in ‘68, is still among my most favorite songs of all time. The string of hits he had with Tammy Terrell (“Your Precious Love”, “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing”, “You’re All I Need To Get By”) are of some the best duet songs ever.
When “The Prince of Motown” came out with “What’s Goin’ On” (1971) and “Let’s Get It On” (1973) it brought a whole new dimension to the world of music. Marvin Gaye brought about a social awareness through music more influential than the protest songs a half decade earlier. The Temptations started the trend in 1970 with “Psychedelic Shack” (remember the flashes of lights and colors on the Ed Sullivan Show?) and “Ball of Confusion” but Marvin took the gender of songs to a new level.
Motown cover songs? The numbers are unbelievable. Marvin Gaye sang “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) in ’65, Jr. Walker & the All-Stars in ’66 then, in ’75, ‘Sweet Baby James’ Taylor gave the tune a mellow tone.
Linda Ronstadt and Johnny Rivers each had their versions of “Tracks of My Tears”. Ronstadt did another Smokey Robinson song “Ooh Baby” and Johnny Rivers, “The Tracks of My Tears”. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, did “Money, That’s What I Want” but the group that charted highest was the Kingsmen.
Every Motown singer performed his/her/their own versions of every other Motown hit.
Perhaps the most enjoyable cover song was of the Marvelette’s #1 song “Please, Mr. Postman” as performed with the sweet-as-honey voice of Karen Carpenter when she did a bouncy rendition in 1974 and made it the Carpenters’ third #1 hit.
The Motown Sound isn't nostalgic. The Motown Sound is forever.
Monday, September 7, 2009
A Little Awkie, A Little Big Man
What’s a “Little Awkie”? What about “Little Big Man”? Actually, they’re “who” questions. Both were nicknames given to me at one time or another. In both instances it took me years to figure out what the heck they meant.
Although they might sound like Indian names, they are not.
Dubbed Little Awkie by dad, it seemed quaint when I was a kid. Fortunately, it was only used in the presence of the immediate family. But I had never questioned or really thought about its importance until later in life.
The affectionate nicknames dad gave my two younger sisters were apparent. Susie was “Susie Q”. The baby of the family, Sally, was “Brat” because she was “always there” in your face chatter-talking. By the age of five, the four of us other kids had so often told her to “Shut up!” that she developed an ulcer. Imagine that! A family full of brats.
Other of my siblings had their own nicknames, all of which came from dad. “Brat” became the affectionate name for the baby in the family, Sally. The name fit perfectly. Born seven years after the next youngest family member, her presence became an annoyance to the rest of us four kids.
Sally was "always there”, chatter-talking, always wanting attention . She usually got her way because there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. It became so bad that at some point we started telling her to “shut up”, and yet she was the most loved member of the family and got plenty of attention without her intruding on our privacy for what seemed every moment of our days.
Although we reminisce about it now as a fond (?) memory and joke (?!?!) about it, Sally developed an ulcer, and I say this with guilt, at the age of five years old. Imagine that! A family of brats! Needless to say, we effectively became respectful to the needs of the Brat as dictated by mom - we had to "grin and bear it". An amount of annoyance was still there; we just didn’t yell at her anymore.
Although Susie, the closest in age to myself, was called “Susie Q”. Since Dale Hawkins had made the song of the same name in 1957, when Susie was five years old, it wasn’t entirely unique. There was also an affectionate expression that whenever Susie fell asleep with a child’s exhaustion after a long day of activities was a takeoff of another 1957 song by the Everly Brothers, “Wake up little Susie, it’s time to go to bed.” Then she’d be swept up in dad's arms and carried off to bed with hardly a stir of awareness to what was happening.
I don’t remember my older sister, Nancy, of having a nickname but as she became a young adult and brought one of her boyfriends, Roger, to family gatherings dad would refer to him as the “big dummy”. The name fit so perfectly but never used in his presence. I don’t remember dad ever calling the man by his Christian name.
Since he had a good tinge of red hair, my older and only brother, Russell, was simply called Rusty when he was little and Russ as he approached adulthood except for mom who never gave up using his given name.
It wasn’t until after dad passed away that I pondered the significance of being Little Awkie. As I thought back to when I was but a little runt, I had a tendency to be “awkward”!
The single incident I vividly remember was when, ignoring mom’s oft-said directive, “Don’t run in the house!”, I whacked my head on the wooden base of what seemed a monster of a living room chair. Now barely noticeable, a one-inch scar on my forehead is a reminder of that summer afternoon when I bawled. Even then I hadn’t learned my lesson as I went running to mom for comfort. She tended to the gash as she scolded, “I told you not to…..”
There’s another scar at the base of my chin from falling off my bike and scraping a few layers of skin onto the sidewalk. Doctor Pauley said I’d never be able to use a straight razor. Many years later, I proved him wrong when I tempted fate. I didn’t bleed to death.
What does “Little Big Man” portend? When living in Orlando, Paul, my next-door neighbor’s son, gave a friendly wave from his dad’s driveway when he name-called me those words.
Having spoken to Paul on various occasions, although he had a full head of dreadlocks, which might imply social profiling on my part, he spoke as a more intelligent communicator and a better educated professional than myself. So the labeling confused me, thinking “little” was somehow derogatory. A few years later, when I was lifting this and hefting that while landscaping the front and back yards of my home here in Spring Hill, it dawned on me how I was always doing some pretty strenuous yard work.
On one occasion Lenny, Paul’s dad, saw me struggling to uproot a monstrous, sickly, ugly ligustrum bush. Lenny came over welding a machete to help, leaving me to finish the job on my own. I accomplished the task without being a Little Awkie about it. So, although small in stature, I constantly tackle jobs that others might consider too big to handle, saving themselves time but at a cost. Well, I’d rather do it myself! Another mystery solved.
Although neither Little Awkie or Little Big Man are Indian names, there’s still a bit of American Indian in my views on life and death.
Some twenty years ago I had wisely set up a living will with instructions that in the event of being in a coma, or some other life threatening condition where I’m left unconscious, rather than pulling the plug, don’t plug in the contraptions to begin with. No going “totally tubular” for me.
Indian names or not, I’ve long envisioned myself following the American Indian tradition whereby, as I grow weak in body but still sound of mind, I should walk with nature through the wilderness along a path of Mother Earth toward oneness with the universe to rejoin the Great Spirit, or My Maker, the center of all being.
Okay, I admit the scenario might only be a fanciful myth scripted by writers for the big screen. But, to me, the idea has a certain attraction.
No last minute decisions, no end-of-life consultation, no pointless hospital charges that would take away from leaving my beneficiaries whatever life-side possessions I may have accumulated. In other words, no going “totally tubular” for me. Becoming a natural part of the food chain seems right.
I should have no regrets. There should be few tears from anyone, save in the event of an untimely, accidental death. Just remember the good times. As mom used to philosophize, “When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go”. My dear mother was kept alive on life support until I arrived to take part in the pulling-of-the-plug ceremony. Pointless. She was already gone.
Although they might sound like Indian names, they are not.
Dubbed Little Awkie by dad, it seemed quaint when I was a kid. Fortunately, it was only used in the presence of the immediate family. But I had never questioned or really thought about its importance until later in life.
The affectionate nicknames dad gave my two younger sisters were apparent. Susie was “Susie Q”. The baby of the family, Sally, was “Brat” because she was “always there” in your face chatter-talking. By the age of five, the four of us other kids had so often told her to “Shut up!” that she developed an ulcer. Imagine that! A family full of brats.
Other of my siblings had their own nicknames, all of which came from dad. “Brat” became the affectionate name for the baby in the family, Sally. The name fit perfectly. Born seven years after the next youngest family member, her presence became an annoyance to the rest of us four kids.
Sally was "always there”, chatter-talking, always wanting attention . She usually got her way because there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. It became so bad that at some point we started telling her to “shut up”, and yet she was the most loved member of the family and got plenty of attention without her intruding on our privacy for what seemed every moment of our days.
Although we reminisce about it now as a fond (?) memory and joke (?!?!) about it, Sally developed an ulcer, and I say this with guilt, at the age of five years old. Imagine that! A family of brats! Needless to say, we effectively became respectful to the needs of the Brat as dictated by mom - we had to "grin and bear it". An amount of annoyance was still there; we just didn’t yell at her anymore.
Although Susie, the closest in age to myself, was called “Susie Q”. Since Dale Hawkins had made the song of the same name in 1957, when Susie was five years old, it wasn’t entirely unique. There was also an affectionate expression that whenever Susie fell asleep with a child’s exhaustion after a long day of activities was a takeoff of another 1957 song by the Everly Brothers, “Wake up little Susie, it’s time to go to bed.” Then she’d be swept up in dad's arms and carried off to bed with hardly a stir of awareness to what was happening.
I don’t remember my older sister, Nancy, of having a nickname but as she became a young adult and brought one of her boyfriends, Roger, to family gatherings dad would refer to him as the “big dummy”. The name fit so perfectly but never used in his presence. I don’t remember dad ever calling the man by his Christian name.
Since he had a good tinge of red hair, my older and only brother, Russell, was simply called Rusty when he was little and Russ as he approached adulthood except for mom who never gave up using his given name.
It wasn’t until after dad passed away that I pondered the significance of being Little Awkie. As I thought back to when I was but a little runt, I had a tendency to be “awkward”!
The single incident I vividly remember was when, ignoring mom’s oft-said directive, “Don’t run in the house!”, I whacked my head on the wooden base of what seemed a monster of a living room chair. Now barely noticeable, a one-inch scar on my forehead is a reminder of that summer afternoon when I bawled. Even then I hadn’t learned my lesson as I went running to mom for comfort. She tended to the gash as she scolded, “I told you not to…..”
There’s another scar at the base of my chin from falling off my bike and scraping a few layers of skin onto the sidewalk. Doctor Pauley said I’d never be able to use a straight razor. Many years later, I proved him wrong when I tempted fate. I didn’t bleed to death.
What does “Little Big Man” portend? When living in Orlando, Paul, my next-door neighbor’s son, gave a friendly wave from his dad’s driveway when he name-called me those words.
Having spoken to Paul on various occasions, although he had a full head of dreadlocks, which might imply social profiling on my part, he spoke as a more intelligent communicator and a better educated professional than myself. So the labeling confused me, thinking “little” was somehow derogatory. A few years later, when I was lifting this and hefting that while landscaping the front and back yards of my home here in Spring Hill, it dawned on me how I was always doing some pretty strenuous yard work.
On one occasion Lenny, Paul’s dad, saw me struggling to uproot a monstrous, sickly, ugly ligustrum bush. Lenny came over welding a machete to help, leaving me to finish the job on my own. I accomplished the task without being a Little Awkie about it. So, although small in stature, I constantly tackle jobs that others might consider too big to handle, saving themselves time but at a cost. Well, I’d rather do it myself! Another mystery solved.
Although neither Little Awkie or Little Big Man are Indian names, there’s still a bit of American Indian in my views on life and death.
Some twenty years ago I had wisely set up a living will with instructions that in the event of being in a coma, or some other life threatening condition where I’m left unconscious, rather than pulling the plug, don’t plug in the contraptions to begin with. No going “totally tubular” for me.
Indian names or not, I’ve long envisioned myself following the American Indian tradition whereby, as I grow weak in body but still sound of mind, I should walk with nature through the wilderness along a path of Mother Earth toward oneness with the universe to rejoin the Great Spirit, or My Maker, the center of all being.
Okay, I admit the scenario might only be a fanciful myth scripted by writers for the big screen. But, to me, the idea has a certain attraction.
No last minute decisions, no end-of-life consultation, no pointless hospital charges that would take away from leaving my beneficiaries whatever life-side possessions I may have accumulated. In other words, no going “totally tubular” for me. Becoming a natural part of the food chain seems right.
I should have no regrets. There should be few tears from anyone, save in the event of an untimely, accidental death. Just remember the good times. As mom used to philosophize, “When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go”. My dear mother was kept alive on life support until I arrived to take part in the pulling-of-the-plug ceremony. Pointless. She was already gone.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
A Wanted Man
Wanted: Whereabouts of a college student from Estonia who spent the summer in Spring Hill peddling for dollars to help pay tuition costs.
In the previous blog, ‘Pedestrians, Peddlers and Other People", I related an incident that occurred while driving in an adjoining neighborhood to where I live in Spring Hill.
On the way to Lowes to pick up various plants in an effort to beautify the blandness of the front yard, I came upon an emergency-flashing Jeep driven somewhat erratically, followed the rule of the road and came to a complete halt at a stop sign, concerned that a young man riding a bicycle going around the Jeep may be in danger of a pedestrian-motor vehicle collision.
The man came within about ten feet of the front bumper of my truck. Since he proceeded with a steady pedal, I assume he felt no present danger. Still, the look on his face could have been to judge my next action. Once he was securely beyond the intersection, while still eying the Jeep that had by then come to a complete stop on the side of the road and the coast was clear, I went on my way.
As explained in the previous blog, I came to believe our eye-to-eye contact was one of recognition – he of me, not me of him.
When the encounter happened between the Jeep, the bike rider and my truck, I had no thoughts of our previous meeting. But on the way down Mariner to the intersection of Elgin, my mind came to wonder if there wasn’t something about the rider that I should have noticed. Ah, the bag strapped from the right shoulder to a secure position under the left arm should have signaled a moment of acknowledgement.
We had casually conversed on July 1st or 2nd when he had visited my home offering educational assistance programs to parents whose children may need assistance in righting some shortcomings in learning so they would successfully graduate with a high school diploma.
What I remember of our brief exchange of words centered on his age: 20 years old. Since he had a pleasant demeanor and his accent was presumably of Slavic origin, I joked, “You talk funny – where ya from?” His answer was “Estonia.” As if to challenge my knowledge of world geography, he questioned if I knew where it was. Giving a nod of awareness, my mind searched for a definitive answer. I knew it had been a satellite country under the iron-fisted control of the now defunct Soviet Union, so I gave a simple, “Yes.” I’m sure he picked up on my uncertainty but he let the subject drop without further comment.
I asked his name to which I didn’t understand so I found myself asking, not once, but twice to repeat. Even then I still couldn’t get it – isn’t that the way of us Americans who are less than worldly and seem to have this attitude that they should learn our language and not question our economic and military dominance in the world?
Since I don’t know his name, let me call him “Will” as in the movie “Good Will Hunting”. Unlike the character portrayed by Matt Damon, I’m sure his path toward higher education will prove him a successful intellectual.
Will said he’d be spending the summer in Spring Hill to help his mom with tuition fees. Not only was I a losing proposition for his product, I advised him that my immediate neighbors would be of no better source for the sale of his product.
He suggested I give him a wave of recognition if our paths should cross over the remaining weeks that he’d be in the area. Wishing him good luck, he was on his way to whatever fate had in store. Out of sight, out of mind, I proceeded with my life with no further thought of him.
If I had recognized him, a conversation would have led to a whole slew of questions of sincere interest.
Have you been successful at reaching your goal? For what age group was your material directed? Your perception of Spring Hill and its people? What of the number of vacant homes, overgrown lawns and For Sale signs? Any confrontations? Made any friends? Any thoughts on Obama? What of Toomas Hendrick, President of Estonia, and his 20% approval rating? Where will you attend college? For sure, many more questions.
It would be helpful, too, to once again ask his name and get it right.
__________________
[I'm rather bent out of shape for not having been astitute enough to grasp ahold on a personal encounter that would have given me the opportunity to write about something other than all the droleful current events that every other buff writer has an opinion about.]
In the previous blog, ‘Pedestrians, Peddlers and Other People", I related an incident that occurred while driving in an adjoining neighborhood to where I live in Spring Hill.
On the way to Lowes to pick up various plants in an effort to beautify the blandness of the front yard, I came upon an emergency-flashing Jeep driven somewhat erratically, followed the rule of the road and came to a complete halt at a stop sign, concerned that a young man riding a bicycle going around the Jeep may be in danger of a pedestrian-motor vehicle collision.
The man came within about ten feet of the front bumper of my truck. Since he proceeded with a steady pedal, I assume he felt no present danger. Still, the look on his face could have been to judge my next action. Once he was securely beyond the intersection, while still eying the Jeep that had by then come to a complete stop on the side of the road and the coast was clear, I went on my way.
As explained in the previous blog, I came to believe our eye-to-eye contact was one of recognition – he of me, not me of him.
When the encounter happened between the Jeep, the bike rider and my truck, I had no thoughts of our previous meeting. But on the way down Mariner to the intersection of Elgin, my mind came to wonder if there wasn’t something about the rider that I should have noticed. Ah, the bag strapped from the right shoulder to a secure position under the left arm should have signaled a moment of acknowledgement.
We had casually conversed on July 1st or 2nd when he had visited my home offering educational assistance programs to parents whose children may need assistance in righting some shortcomings in learning so they would successfully graduate with a high school diploma.
What I remember of our brief exchange of words centered on his age: 20 years old. Since he had a pleasant demeanor and his accent was presumably of Slavic origin, I joked, “You talk funny – where ya from?” His answer was “Estonia.” As if to challenge my knowledge of world geography, he questioned if I knew where it was. Giving a nod of awareness, my mind searched for a definitive answer. I knew it had been a satellite country under the iron-fisted control of the now defunct Soviet Union, so I gave a simple, “Yes.” I’m sure he picked up on my uncertainty but he let the subject drop without further comment.
I asked his name to which I didn’t understand so I found myself asking, not once, but twice to repeat. Even then I still couldn’t get it – isn’t that the way of us Americans who are less than worldly and seem to have this attitude that they should learn our language and not question our economic and military dominance in the world?
Since I don’t know his name, let me call him “Will” as in the movie “Good Will Hunting”. Unlike the character portrayed by Matt Damon, I’m sure his path toward higher education will prove him a successful intellectual.
Will said he’d be spending the summer in Spring Hill to help his mom with tuition fees. Not only was I a losing proposition for his product, I advised him that my immediate neighbors would be of no better source for the sale of his product.
He suggested I give him a wave of recognition if our paths should cross over the remaining weeks that he’d be in the area. Wishing him good luck, he was on his way to whatever fate had in store. Out of sight, out of mind, I proceeded with my life with no further thought of him.
If I had recognized him, a conversation would have led to a whole slew of questions of sincere interest.
Have you been successful at reaching your goal? For what age group was your material directed? Your perception of Spring Hill and its people? What of the number of vacant homes, overgrown lawns and For Sale signs? Any confrontations? Made any friends? Any thoughts on Obama? What of Toomas Hendrick, President of Estonia, and his 20% approval rating? Where will you attend college? For sure, many more questions.
It would be helpful, too, to once again ask his name and get it right.
__________________
[I'm rather bent out of shape for not having been astitute enough to grasp ahold on a personal encounter that would have given me the opportunity to write about something other than all the droleful current events that every other buff writer has an opinion about.]
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Pedestirians, Pedalers and Other People
Since I don’t twitter, does that make me less of a twit? Not necessarily. Since I don’t use a cell phone while driving, does that make me less of a danger to others on the road? You can bet everyone’s life on it.
When people talk of traffic most often it’s about tailgaters, speeders and drivers whose sense of maintaining a constant speed is elusive, including those traveling too far below the posted limit.
Since my radio antennae is out of commission, cds are played on repeat or, as backup, the tape player is primed to waft some illegally copied tunes to provide a preferred variety of favorites. There’s over two hours of listening pleasure that keep me entertained as I sing out of harmony with talented artists.
To some, just listening to music while driving might be considered a distraction of sorts but, believe me, contemplating my next column would pose more of a hazard. I know my priorities behind the wheel.
A group of roadies that deserve extra caution from operators of a machine that poses a death threat to anyone meandering residential streets are pedestrians and bike riders.
Many residential areas are void of sidewalks so when I see an adult pushing a baby stroller, or walking with children tagging alongside and taking up a full lane of the road, it’s extremely disturbing. I don’t just slow down, I come to a complete stop until I feel assured a little tyke won’t jut out from the side of the road. There must be no regrets.
My next-door neighbor’s 16-year old son, Randy, with a future career in engineering, frequently skateboards with his friends with a makeshift ramp. In my opinion, they’re not very good but at least they keep a watchful eye out for traffic and immediately moves to the side. Not all kids are as respectful as some do a stare-dare out of insolence to the driver. An alternate route is safest.
The neighbor on the other side has three young children, the oldest of which is 7 years old, who also play in street. I was really impressed when little David demonstrated the creative maneuvers he can make with his skateboard that swivels in the middle, called The Wave. He’s pretty cool squatting down on it as he shows off, but I make sure to mention the precautions he must take to keep him and his siblings from getting hurt. Fortunately, I’ve seen him looking out for cars, always moving out of danger.
Recently, I remained motionless at a stop sign. The erratic behavior of a Jeep with emergency lights flashing was a concern, but the bike rider going around it was altogether too scary. The rider looked me straight in the eyes, for what was an assumed precaution to make sure I wouldn’t send him sprawling on the pavement.
Later, I realized the look was of recognition from when the young man had stopped at the house to sell enhanced educational services for kids. He probably thought me rude for not waving as he had requested since he’d be pedal-pushing his wares in Spring Hill the summer to assist mom with college tuition.
Imagine the determination of the young man to pump those pedals all day long, for what must have been days on end with the sun beating down on him in this land of heat and humidity?
Although a truly needed service, with high unemployment in Hernando County the rationale of sending someone to this deprived area fails my understanding. I doubt he achieved his goals. If only he had taken the initiative to offer a greeting of some nature, it may have led to an exchange of words between us that would have told me tales of his travels. For sure, he deserves no blame.
Alas, being from Estonia, a unique opportunity was missed for a conversation that would surely have provided myself, thus the reader, a unique perspective of a foreigner in this land of strange Americans. Hopefully, he had no ‘incidents’.
Still, an experienced bike rider such as he is no less subject to the failings of a driver. When I see anyone on a bike, of which there appear to be few, I fear for their safety. Untrusting of all drivers, I haven’t ridden a bike on a road in decades.
I’m also oblivious to recognize or even acknowledge a friend who later wonders why I didn’t wave as we traveled along the same street. Keeping my eyes on traffic doesn’t allow for socializing while driving.
Two happy-go-lucky amputees who traverse neighborhood streets brighten the road with a hearty wave and an exchange of smiles. Having had conversations with each while exercise-walking, their joy of having motorized mobility enhances their lives immeasurably. I worry for their safety, too.
Cautious me, when I turn off Mariner onto the street where I live, on more than one occasion there may have been a fender bender because the corner house is ‘right there’ and the poor souls who have lived there (it’s changed owners at least three times in the past three years) have no choice but brave backing out of the driveway
My scariest road encounter was when, after using the turn signal, I rounded the curb off Mariner onto the street where I live at 10 mph, an action that kept two young girls walking on the side of the road from being sent to an emergency room with broken bones, or worse. At fault or not, guilt would have been at my side. For life.
Vehicle-to-vehicle fender benders are less apt to cause serious injury. Vehicle-to-person encounters can be killers.
When people talk of traffic most often it’s about tailgaters, speeders and drivers whose sense of maintaining a constant speed is elusive, including those traveling too far below the posted limit.
Since my radio antennae is out of commission, cds are played on repeat or, as backup, the tape player is primed to waft some illegally copied tunes to provide a preferred variety of favorites. There’s over two hours of listening pleasure that keep me entertained as I sing out of harmony with talented artists.
To some, just listening to music while driving might be considered a distraction of sorts but, believe me, contemplating my next column would pose more of a hazard. I know my priorities behind the wheel.
A group of roadies that deserve extra caution from operators of a machine that poses a death threat to anyone meandering residential streets are pedestrians and bike riders.
Many residential areas are void of sidewalks so when I see an adult pushing a baby stroller, or walking with children tagging alongside and taking up a full lane of the road, it’s extremely disturbing. I don’t just slow down, I come to a complete stop until I feel assured a little tyke won’t jut out from the side of the road. There must be no regrets.
My next-door neighbor’s 16-year old son, Randy, with a future career in engineering, frequently skateboards with his friends with a makeshift ramp. In my opinion, they’re not very good but at least they keep a watchful eye out for traffic and immediately moves to the side. Not all kids are as respectful as some do a stare-dare out of insolence to the driver. An alternate route is safest.
The neighbor on the other side has three young children, the oldest of which is 7 years old, who also play in street. I was really impressed when little David demonstrated the creative maneuvers he can make with his skateboard that swivels in the middle, called The Wave. He’s pretty cool squatting down on it as he shows off, but I make sure to mention the precautions he must take to keep him and his siblings from getting hurt. Fortunately, I’ve seen him looking out for cars, always moving out of danger.
Recently, I remained motionless at a stop sign. The erratic behavior of a Jeep with emergency lights flashing was a concern, but the bike rider going around it was altogether too scary. The rider looked me straight in the eyes, for what was an assumed precaution to make sure I wouldn’t send him sprawling on the pavement.
Later, I realized the look was of recognition from when the young man had stopped at the house to sell enhanced educational services for kids. He probably thought me rude for not waving as he had requested since he’d be pedal-pushing his wares in Spring Hill the summer to assist mom with college tuition.
Imagine the determination of the young man to pump those pedals all day long, for what must have been days on end with the sun beating down on him in this land of heat and humidity?
Although a truly needed service, with high unemployment in Hernando County the rationale of sending someone to this deprived area fails my understanding. I doubt he achieved his goals. If only he had taken the initiative to offer a greeting of some nature, it may have led to an exchange of words between us that would have told me tales of his travels. For sure, he deserves no blame.
Alas, being from Estonia, a unique opportunity was missed for a conversation that would surely have provided myself, thus the reader, a unique perspective of a foreigner in this land of strange Americans. Hopefully, he had no ‘incidents’.
Still, an experienced bike rider such as he is no less subject to the failings of a driver. When I see anyone on a bike, of which there appear to be few, I fear for their safety. Untrusting of all drivers, I haven’t ridden a bike on a road in decades.
I’m also oblivious to recognize or even acknowledge a friend who later wonders why I didn’t wave as we traveled along the same street. Keeping my eyes on traffic doesn’t allow for socializing while driving.
Two happy-go-lucky amputees who traverse neighborhood streets brighten the road with a hearty wave and an exchange of smiles. Having had conversations with each while exercise-walking, their joy of having motorized mobility enhances their lives immeasurably. I worry for their safety, too.
Cautious me, when I turn off Mariner onto the street where I live, on more than one occasion there may have been a fender bender because the corner house is ‘right there’ and the poor souls who have lived there (it’s changed owners at least three times in the past three years) have no choice but brave backing out of the driveway
My scariest road encounter was when, after using the turn signal, I rounded the curb off Mariner onto the street where I live at 10 mph, an action that kept two young girls walking on the side of the road from being sent to an emergency room with broken bones, or worse. At fault or not, guilt would have been at my side. For life.
Vehicle-to-vehicle fender benders are less apt to cause serious injury. Vehicle-to-person encounters can be killers.
Paying Out Cash For My Clunker
A month ago, when entering the TIA short-term parking garage my truck stalled. It restarted okay but the temperature gauge was pinned. Two weeks later at a cost of over $5,000 it was back on the road.
Never having required anything other than regular maintenance, without hesitation I authorized my trusted mechanic to begin work immediately. After 14 years of being a reliable source of transportation, it remains the most trusted of the five vehicles I’ve owned over the past four decades.
The goal of a vehicle taking me over 100K miles through life has finally been met. The ’69 Gremlin didn’t make it. Neither did the ’76 Mustang, my favorite. Each had less than 90K miles. The interior of the Gremlin was simply worn out and didn’t have air. The Mustang had transmission and cooling system problems.
I really liked the dealer-used ’81 Mazda 626 but the manual shift was too annoying in the stop-n-go traffic in Los Angeles. Still, I would have kept it indefinitely but for an accident that totaled the car. The other driver went through a stop sign, barely hit the rear passenger side of my car and put me in a slow motion rollover that ended with the car upside down and sliding into two parked cars before coming to a halt.
I was out of work for a few months, an unpleasant healthcare fiasco.
I then bought a fully automatic ’86 Mazda 626, U-Hauled it cross-country to Florida on a flat-bed trailer in ’88 and kept it until ’95 when electrical problems at 98K miles led to the purchase of the Toyota 4Runner.
So, on July 1, AAA towing service delivered the truck to Brooksville to be rehabilitated by the masterful mechanics at ToyoDoc.
A Toyota Camry is the traveling car so the truck has never been outside Florida, primarily used to get to and from work and numerous jaunts to Daytona Beach when I lived in Orlando. A minor rear-end nudge pinned the bumper to the back tires. No other accidents.
As a homeowner, it’s been indispensable not only to myself but also to friends when needed. Only two other people have driven it, when I was a little tipsy. I’ve taken very good care of it. Some exterior scratches and dings, barely noticeable, and a few interior scrapes and digs, most of which I caused while hauling things. It’s a truck. The antenna remains broken. The speakers need replacing. Other minor concerns, all cosmetic. My faith in the quality of Toyota products assures me it’ll see me through another decade or more, if I should live that long. Que sera, sera.
Actually, my disinterest in new cars might appear insulting to others but I’m not a car person. It might look nice and pretty but how much per month?, for how many years? and at what increase in auto insurance? are thoughts not actually verbalized. People have different values.
I cringe when a new car owner starts talking about dealer problems. Or when they say there are so many fancy options that it would take a year to read the manual (respectful laughter, please, for the bland sense of humor), and the inevitable whining about parking lot door dings and bumper scratches. It happens and other car owners don’t care.
Then there’s the “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.” “Wows!” and “That’s unbelievable!” are said out of obligation. Consumer driven technology is truly amazing – can’t live without it, right? Just get me from point A to point B with air or heat as needed. Most everything else is fluff and something else that can go wrong. Okay, I like electric windows and door locks.
The ‘cash for clunkers’ scheme was never an option for me. Before the July 24 kick-off, my truck had already been resurrected. It’s not a ‘junker’. It had a boo-boo that may have been avoided if it had been checked out when I first noticed an odd noise. I still saved thousands of dollars and years of car payments that wouldn’t fit into my budget anyway. When The Big One hits, it’ll safely transport my cats, a few emergency essentials and myself to Tennessee, if not for some other life-changing mission.
The 250,000 new cars sold under the plan are mainly foreign made, replacing American brands. They get an average increase of nearly 10 mpg, reducing nationwide gasoline use, thus greenhouse gas emissions, by a paltry .04 percent. Annual savings are about $600 at $2.70/gallon if driven the same number of miles. The debt to trade-in ratio isn’t an enticement.
The plan may temporarily keep a number of employees from becoming the latest victims of the recession but six months down the road the streamers and balloons will be gone as will many of the dealerships.
Never having required anything other than regular maintenance, without hesitation I authorized my trusted mechanic to begin work immediately. After 14 years of being a reliable source of transportation, it remains the most trusted of the five vehicles I’ve owned over the past four decades.
The goal of a vehicle taking me over 100K miles through life has finally been met. The ’69 Gremlin didn’t make it. Neither did the ’76 Mustang, my favorite. Each had less than 90K miles. The interior of the Gremlin was simply worn out and didn’t have air. The Mustang had transmission and cooling system problems.
I really liked the dealer-used ’81 Mazda 626 but the manual shift was too annoying in the stop-n-go traffic in Los Angeles. Still, I would have kept it indefinitely but for an accident that totaled the car. The other driver went through a stop sign, barely hit the rear passenger side of my car and put me in a slow motion rollover that ended with the car upside down and sliding into two parked cars before coming to a halt.
I was out of work for a few months, an unpleasant healthcare fiasco.
I then bought a fully automatic ’86 Mazda 626, U-Hauled it cross-country to Florida on a flat-bed trailer in ’88 and kept it until ’95 when electrical problems at 98K miles led to the purchase of the Toyota 4Runner.
So, on July 1, AAA towing service delivered the truck to Brooksville to be rehabilitated by the masterful mechanics at ToyoDoc.
A Toyota Camry is the traveling car so the truck has never been outside Florida, primarily used to get to and from work and numerous jaunts to Daytona Beach when I lived in Orlando. A minor rear-end nudge pinned the bumper to the back tires. No other accidents.
As a homeowner, it’s been indispensable not only to myself but also to friends when needed. Only two other people have driven it, when I was a little tipsy. I’ve taken very good care of it. Some exterior scratches and dings, barely noticeable, and a few interior scrapes and digs, most of which I caused while hauling things. It’s a truck. The antenna remains broken. The speakers need replacing. Other minor concerns, all cosmetic. My faith in the quality of Toyota products assures me it’ll see me through another decade or more, if I should live that long. Que sera, sera.
Actually, my disinterest in new cars might appear insulting to others but I’m not a car person. It might look nice and pretty but how much per month?, for how many years? and at what increase in auto insurance? are thoughts not actually verbalized. People have different values.
I cringe when a new car owner starts talking about dealer problems. Or when they say there are so many fancy options that it would take a year to read the manual (respectful laughter, please, for the bland sense of humor), and the inevitable whining about parking lot door dings and bumper scratches. It happens and other car owners don’t care.
Then there’s the “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.” “Wows!” and “That’s unbelievable!” are said out of obligation. Consumer driven technology is truly amazing – can’t live without it, right? Just get me from point A to point B with air or heat as needed. Most everything else is fluff and something else that can go wrong. Okay, I like electric windows and door locks.
The ‘cash for clunkers’ scheme was never an option for me. Before the July 24 kick-off, my truck had already been resurrected. It’s not a ‘junker’. It had a boo-boo that may have been avoided if it had been checked out when I first noticed an odd noise. I still saved thousands of dollars and years of car payments that wouldn’t fit into my budget anyway. When The Big One hits, it’ll safely transport my cats, a few emergency essentials and myself to Tennessee, if not for some other life-changing mission.
The 250,000 new cars sold under the plan are mainly foreign made, replacing American brands. They get an average increase of nearly 10 mpg, reducing nationwide gasoline use, thus greenhouse gas emissions, by a paltry .04 percent. Annual savings are about $600 at $2.70/gallon if driven the same number of miles. The debt to trade-in ratio isn’t an enticement.
The plan may temporarily keep a number of employees from becoming the latest victims of the recession but six months down the road the streamers and balloons will be gone as will many of the dealerships.
I Don't Go Out Much
I don’t go out much any more. Call it summertime hibernation. The blackout, block-out drapes are drawn to a close. The horizontal and vertical blinds too.
Candles lit at night aren’t for the esthetics. Night lights shed a soft glow so as not to step on Elvis, my Burmese buddy in black, or from tripping over Sassy, a Siamese pretty boy with the bluest of eyes reminiscent of those of Paul Newman.
The 82 degree thermostat setting suits a person with hypothyroidism. For the rest of us, a few moments in the blistering heat and stifling humidity makes the indoor temperature feel like a touch of cool springtime air.
Try as I may, for too long words have been ignored that the air movement from an overhead fan are only affective when you’re in the room, otherwise it’s wasteful electricity. As is too often the case, not until someone else makes the same claim that there’s a miraculous moment of understanding. Pointing out the fact that it’s been said many times before is as pointless as saying, I told you so. I empathize with Rodney Dangerfield.
There are no shade trees to shelter the house from the heat of the sun. The three trees that the builder is supposed to leave on the property were jokable. Two scrub bushes and a sickly, barely rooted sand hill pine tree didn’t make for an umbrella effect. The saplings from the Arbor Day Foundation for a token contribution may take years to grow hip-high, so rainy or cloudy days are needed to keep the electric bill down.
A moment of respite from this self-imposed isolation might come with dinner. A buy one, get the second half off is a good deal but the occasional two for the price of one is the best. Still, I’d rather cook the meal myself, preferably on the grill. No overhead costs, no head counts garnering wages or tips and no feeling of being short-changed in quality, freshness or service. The best experiences are at family-owned restaurants where faces, if not names, are always recognized.
These days of isolation aren’t to be considered antisocial. As I quizzed a friend, What do you do whenever you step out of the house? After a pause, I suggested he think about it a moment longer to which he responded, You spend money? Teacher turned carpenter, he nailed it.
From the moment the garage door opener does it’s thing to the ignition of the vehicle, and hence the trip from, to and back, there are costs incurred, however slight, that tally up and creep deep into the pocket book.
However un-American it sounds, if it can’t be paid in cash or by debit, spending is to be avoided at all cost. Is it a need or a want? Sometimes a good-feeling purchase brings a little joy but those little purchases add up and might be better put toward paying down debt or, more immediate, to pay a utility bill. No added debt, no regret.
Making the best of an outside venture is a priority. For instance, a cashier looked so grumpy I thought of seeking a different register but I stuck it out for the few items in the basket – only what was truly needed. Somewhat surprisingly, the lady greeted as she had been trained. I offered a conciliatory comment that she appeared to be having a very bad day. She admitted so. Days of sinus headaches make for a protracted period of discomfort, thus the look of despair. But she perked up a bit, saying she had but a few minutes before her shift was to end. It was fifteen minutes before the hour so relief was indeed on its way. Pleasantries ended our meeting with the feeling that a simple exchange of words was of some value to both of us.
A trip to the airport and the ensuing wait was annoying. The plane was delayed a few times until two hours had passed. Regrets for failing to bring the newspaper or a couple of magazines to which I still subscribe were momentarily forgotten when a mother was heard telling her daughter, about four years old, that a sign on the wall read ‘No crying allowed’ and if the little darling couldn’t hold back the tears, she’d have to ‘go over there’ and wait. There was no such sign! It was a glass-encased fire extinguisher! Not a peep from the girl but chuckles came and went a number of times – from me. I was in awe of a mother’s creative, if not wise, means of parenting. Cheap and priceless entertainment, thank you so very much.
Hopefully these days of penny-pinching will become addictive. I don’t want to become a hermit, but for now I don’t get out much anymore.
Candles lit at night aren’t for the esthetics. Night lights shed a soft glow so as not to step on Elvis, my Burmese buddy in black, or from tripping over Sassy, a Siamese pretty boy with the bluest of eyes reminiscent of those of Paul Newman.
The 82 degree thermostat setting suits a person with hypothyroidism. For the rest of us, a few moments in the blistering heat and stifling humidity makes the indoor temperature feel like a touch of cool springtime air.
Try as I may, for too long words have been ignored that the air movement from an overhead fan are only affective when you’re in the room, otherwise it’s wasteful electricity. As is too often the case, not until someone else makes the same claim that there’s a miraculous moment of understanding. Pointing out the fact that it’s been said many times before is as pointless as saying, I told you so. I empathize with Rodney Dangerfield.
There are no shade trees to shelter the house from the heat of the sun. The three trees that the builder is supposed to leave on the property were jokable. Two scrub bushes and a sickly, barely rooted sand hill pine tree didn’t make for an umbrella effect. The saplings from the Arbor Day Foundation for a token contribution may take years to grow hip-high, so rainy or cloudy days are needed to keep the electric bill down.
A moment of respite from this self-imposed isolation might come with dinner. A buy one, get the second half off is a good deal but the occasional two for the price of one is the best. Still, I’d rather cook the meal myself, preferably on the grill. No overhead costs, no head counts garnering wages or tips and no feeling of being short-changed in quality, freshness or service. The best experiences are at family-owned restaurants where faces, if not names, are always recognized.
These days of isolation aren’t to be considered antisocial. As I quizzed a friend, What do you do whenever you step out of the house? After a pause, I suggested he think about it a moment longer to which he responded, You spend money? Teacher turned carpenter, he nailed it.
From the moment the garage door opener does it’s thing to the ignition of the vehicle, and hence the trip from, to and back, there are costs incurred, however slight, that tally up and creep deep into the pocket book.
However un-American it sounds, if it can’t be paid in cash or by debit, spending is to be avoided at all cost. Is it a need or a want? Sometimes a good-feeling purchase brings a little joy but those little purchases add up and might be better put toward paying down debt or, more immediate, to pay a utility bill. No added debt, no regret.
Making the best of an outside venture is a priority. For instance, a cashier looked so grumpy I thought of seeking a different register but I stuck it out for the few items in the basket – only what was truly needed. Somewhat surprisingly, the lady greeted as she had been trained. I offered a conciliatory comment that she appeared to be having a very bad day. She admitted so. Days of sinus headaches make for a protracted period of discomfort, thus the look of despair. But she perked up a bit, saying she had but a few minutes before her shift was to end. It was fifteen minutes before the hour so relief was indeed on its way. Pleasantries ended our meeting with the feeling that a simple exchange of words was of some value to both of us.
A trip to the airport and the ensuing wait was annoying. The plane was delayed a few times until two hours had passed. Regrets for failing to bring the newspaper or a couple of magazines to which I still subscribe were momentarily forgotten when a mother was heard telling her daughter, about four years old, that a sign on the wall read ‘No crying allowed’ and if the little darling couldn’t hold back the tears, she’d have to ‘go over there’ and wait. There was no such sign! It was a glass-encased fire extinguisher! Not a peep from the girl but chuckles came and went a number of times – from me. I was in awe of a mother’s creative, if not wise, means of parenting. Cheap and priceless entertainment, thank you so very much.
Hopefully these days of penny-pinching will become addictive. I don’t want to become a hermit, but for now I don’t get out much anymore.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)