No Returns

Yesterday, we tore open the boxes to find a surprise and act like we loved it to make the gift giver believe they had made the right decision. If it is an ugly sweater, we pull it on and wear it all day, but don’t lose the box. If it is an appliance or tool or item not immediately used, shove it back under the tree. Be sure to keep the receipt in the box, not only show the giver’s wealth and appreciation toward the effort to please the receiver, but just in case there needs to be a returned.

Today, you stumble pass the leftover eggnog, picking up empty bottles of spirits for the recycle bin and starting the coffee in hopes that it will clear the fog. The sound of the rug rats, who have constant energy hyped up on sugar, run around playing with their new toys until some adult sits them down in front of a screen to hypnotize them on whatever they can scroll through. After the morning greetings of the visitors who are already packing up to leave, you shift through the loot under the tree and repackage items in self-appointed stacks for each individual while separating the wrapping paper from bows that maybe used again next year. Let the dogs out as you fill the super cans with overpriced gaudy paper to make the journey to the landfill.

I’ve never returned an item, either by delivery or purchased at a brick-and-mortar establishment, so I’m not sure how it works. If the ‘gift’ comes from a delivery service, does it get sent back and an account credited for the cost (even though someone else bought it)? If you physically go back to the retail establishment, do they exchange the item for another choice or pay you the purchase price?

I guess when a person is ‘laid off’ it is a ‘return’. The skills and value of this worker is no longer profitable, so the contract of employment becomes null and void.

I’ve also never worked retail so I can only imagine the pain-in-the-tush this process must be. Does the item go back on the self to be resold or appear tampered with and discarded? How does that register on the inventory? Plus, the emotional encounter with some pimpled faced hourly worker who at this point is the representative of your company and brand, trying to keep the customer satisfied for a possible return and another purchase.

Is it simpler to give a ‘gift card’ or an envelope of cash? It doesn’t show any affection for the gift, but who won’t spend cash? What would happen if the kids came running to the tree on Christmas morning and found a pile of dollars?

I’ve tried to think of my ‘best’ gift at Christmas and can’t. There were some outstanding gifts in my family at Christmas, but I don’t remember one that stood out with my name on the card. One year my mother got a fur coat. That was sort of over the top, but it hit-the-spot. One year, after all the boxes had been opened under the tree, my father brought the family outside and gave the keys to a car to my brother. That was pretty impressive. I think that year I got a doll (Yes, dad, I get the hint). My most memorable gift was probably a baritone ukulele. That started me down the trail of playing music.

I have, through the years, regifted items I thought someone else might appreciate more than me or I just couldn’t think of anything else. I’ve donated tons of books to new readers and got a tax write off benefit for my philanthropy. I’ve given to others appliances and items they might enjoy and use. I call it clutter at some point and have no deep personal attachment for it. Some items I’ve put next to the trash cans and they disappear by wandering scavengers. I’ve sold vinyl records for a penance of the cost to free up space due to change in musical taste. Once an item is gone, it’s history is only a memory.

Divorce is a ‘return’.

You have been attracted to a person (for whatever reason) and made a commitment to love, honor, obey or whatever the vows say. You paid your fee and signed you John Henry on a contract to be registered by the state and acknowledge to all under the eyes of God to be in an eternal partnership.

Well, we are human, and humans make mistakes. Sometimes things don’t work out (for various reasons established by acceptable laws of the land) and one (or both) file for a ‘return’.

Emotional events, like marriages and divorces, cannot be forgotten because they carry more luggage than that goofy sweater given by Auntie Ann as a holiday gift.

I guess the same is for children? If little Timmy or Sally misbehave or become obnoxious or you didn’t get the version you expected, there are No Returns. Children are not pets. They cannot be returned to the kennel and traded for another one.

So, on this cloudy, quiet day listening to the last of the guitar Christmas songs, doing a load of laundry and finding a treasure in my memories of a friend long gone, I write this. It is not meant to be maudlin, but a reflection on the season on consumption. The surprise apple pie gift to the fire station has been delivered to smiling faces. The neighbor’s champagne and doggie treats has been hung on her fence with handwritten messages since my printer decided it was taking off for Christmas (a New Year’s problem). Al, Petie, the Bun-Buns have an open buffet and will entertain me through the window as the furnace heats my toes and the lap blanket is a constant companion.

Tomorrow, I’ll plan another mission for the day. Will I venture out to the convenience store to reload my bullets and give the cute girl in the Eagles cap another $30 tip? Will I venture further to pay off the credit card bill so I can start ordering more delivery?

If I open my eyes in the morning and there is light, then I get another chance for life has no returns.

Tummy Temple Turmoil

 

‘Tis the season’ for the seasonal turmoil at the Tummy Temple. I love the panic before the holiday arrives. I enjoy watching the clueless expressions on their faces as they venture through the aisles looking for that special ingredient that you were sent to retrieve and the family gathering meal cannot be accomplished without it. I see more folks needing to check their phones when selecting between the organic or premium item. Price comparison goes out the window when the holidays arrive. People can complain about that later, but this is the day that Uncle Jack and the family are coming over to celebrate and the presentation of the meal is supposed to impress him. Does anyone order take-out pizza for Christmas? Probably a better idea for the rug rats who won’t eat the green beans sprinkled with fried French onions or touch the ambrosia. Are their enough snack foods on the list for all the movies, sports and just munching while emptying the bar? Is there enough toilet paper? What if someone gets sick? Is your medicine cabinet prepared for an emergency? Will you need to do laundry while visitors are here? Are there enough trash bags?

As I swing into the parking lot, I can see it is overcrowded and the mobile machines are circling hoping to find a vacant spot to slip into. My special lockup spot (the stop sign at the door) is vacant and I find my key while avoiding the rushing carts whizzing by. The panic seems full blown.

My plan was to get a couple of sub sandwich at the ‘which wich’ sandwich shop before joining in the mayhem of the Tummy Temple. Holding back from delivery until I get the credit card budget back, I figured I’d tool over and pay cash for the next couple of day’s lunch. They always seemed pleasant and the subs were tasty, but not today. They were closed. Gone. Locked up. I didn’t get the memo. There was a sign on the window that said this would be the future location for ‘Jersey Mike’s’ sub shop. Don’t understand the restaurant business for a sub shop to replace a sub shop, but I move on.

Many of the carts are gone, either clogging the aisles or in the parking lot waiting to be retrieved. I find a big basket that doesn’t have locked wheels and join the fray. I have a list (for a Christmas dinner for one) and have the time to wander and enjoy watching the confusion. There are couples discussing what size turkey will accommodate the starving masses waiting at home, there are family groups trying to find the ‘just right’ brand while the kids run about bored with the entire adventure, there are the ones who are in a rush and ones who are busy talking on their phones rather than pulling products off the shelves. People move down an aisle only to turn around and wander back bewildered by the signage of a food warehouse.

I love it. This is a pure example of our current culture. These are not the hunter and gathers, but the shoppers who have to put on a coat and climb into a pre-running car that is warming up the leather seats to weave in and out of traffic burning fossil fuel and polluting the air to struggle to park without a scrap then get overheated looking for dip for chips and settling for an unfamiliar brand due to what was available on the shelf. Now and again, I stop just to allow the traffic go by until someone ask, “Are you in line?” Excuse me, I don’t want to get in the way. In all this commotion I pity the poor cashiers who have to deal with all this frantic behavior. In two days, things will be back to normal and a brief conversation can be had with the few peeps I talk to, trying to make a joke and get a smile from an oppressing, yet essential job. When is an apron a uniform?

Overwhelming my cart with all the items on my list, I move into the Scan-And-Go area and find a spot and scan each item (or most of them) until the alcohol (which requires a verification from the attendant in a apron). Hillary comes by with her ‘magic card’ and plugs in a date when the VABC used to require the scanning of an official ID, but this is not my first rodeo. She seems stressed by the cacophony of the Tummy Temple congregation, so I don’t pause for a chuckle but part wishing all within earshot, “Happy Holiday” and free the spot for the next.

I notice the security gates at the sliding doors are now working. I’ve attended the Tummy Temple (with various names) for about 40 years. I’ve seen many managers come and go. I’ve seen the restricting of the placement of items as a ‘hide-and-seek’ game. I’ve seen the renovations and restructuring of layout and staff. I noticed the ones who are moving slow or just going through the motions and a few who had the ‘Charlie hustle’ mentality. I’ve witness (and participated) in the technology of lighting, frozen food doors and security.

Back in the day of Ukrop’s or A&P or Safeway or Layfette Market, people were expected to adhere to the responsibility of ‘pay as you go’. I’m not saying that I’ve come home with an item that was not on my recipe, but that is why Santa is bringing me coal for Christmas. I’ve seen staff selling drugs. I’ve seen members of the congregation walking out with purchases not paid for. I’ve seen security personnel searching the aisles for someone who has been caught on the plethora of cameras overhead watching every motion hoping someone is watching when I wave going by. On a few occasions there have been what appears to be authoritarian guards who may, like TSA, ask to check your paper bag for items that match your check-out recipe. Once there was a officer of the law standing at the door. Seems governor was inside giving a presentation. I was sure that my avocado was secure. I’ve even seen the local police hauling out someone in cuffs for unknown reason and pause before entering to whatever had happened. When I hear patrons start to fuss and notice the red vest rushing to calm the situation, I just go down a different direction. All of the ever-changing congregation are strangers and no one knows who is packing.

So, the new security gates are meant to solve the problem of patrons walking out with a cart full of sodas and frozen pizzas causing the prices to rise for the rest of us fine outstanding customers who will pay whatever the merchant post as a reasonable cost. Once, back in the 2020’s when the BLM movement was tearing down confederate statues and there was some looting and protest, there were actual armed guards standing in front of those gigantic windows that we were told to avoid during a hurricane. Don’t know if it is worth to purchase a six-pack in a fire fight?

With overflowing loaded packs and a constant parade of unusable driving methods, I decide to walk my pony cautiously out of the chaos to the path of content. Rather than add my weight to the recently pumped-up tires, I decide to just walk pulling my holiday haul. Stopping occasionally for traffic of baby strollers or dog walkers to pass, I enjoy the beautiful day of friendly faces opposed to the panic shoppers I’d just attended. I watched a couple talking to a dog and waited until they finished before continuing only to hear, “I thought you were supposed to ride them?” I stopped with a smile. He was a scraggly looking guy in a Redskins cap walking an alert and calm beagle on a rope leash. We had a brief talk while his pup sniffed my hand. Instead of the usual blah-blah of complaints and such, our conversation got into Christmas music and Handle’s ‘Messiah’ and chord structure that was fascinating. You just never know.

I bid adieu to the mystery person and was wiser for the encounter. A few more pauses and smiles and kind words of the season from those who also venture outdoors, perhaps because of my red hoodie and white beard and hoping that Santa will bring them treasures?

Once back in the woods I unload my haul for the next day’s victuals and feed my furry neighbors who seem appreciative. Let other families cause disruptive actions that will spoil the holiday season.

Now is the time to prepare a holiday bag for a neighbor with a few surprises. Tomorrow, station #18 will be delivered an apple pie by an unknown neighbor and the season will be over for me.

Might listen to some ‘Christmas’ music on the day… or not.

Let’s see what’s on The Menu

 

Recently, I’ve started using  to have food delivered to my door.

 

DISCLAIMER: My father was the manager

to an exclusive private gentlemen's club, so I’m somewhat aware of

the hospitality industry of

preparing and presentation of food.

 

 

With that said, I had a history of ordering double-cheese pizzas from Julian’s (now closed) and mozzarella sticks, onion rings and all kinds of whatever was on the delivery menu before. This was the period when the stove was removed from the kitchen (don’t ask).

Growing up, our family would go out-to-eat at least once a week. Sometimes it was a dress up formal dinner or a country club affair. Other times, it was the local steak house or fried chicken place. They were always a get in the car and go to a brick-and-mortar building and wait to be shown to a table for four. We’d be handed a menu, but always ordered the same thing. Meat and potatoes. No one ate out for the salad or green beans. Don’t know if dad just wanted to get out of the house or visit another restaurateur to see what the clientele were ordering so he could adjust his menu at the club? I never saw a check delivered to the table. We’d just get up and leave. Not sure how that worked.

Now and then, we’d go to a cafeteria where we had to grab a tray and walk down a line of open steaming food and point out what we wanted to fill the tray. At the end of the line was a cashier. Us kids would just go find a table while dad settled the tab. The cafeteria at school wasn’t as appealing but it was cheap. Even so, I started bringing my lunch in a Roy Roger’s lunch box with a leaky thermos. A peanut butter sandwich, a handful of chips and what milk was left. The apple was thrown away. In high school I’d always bring a brown bag lunch. Freshman year in college, would have lunch at Robert’s every day. Two hamburgers, lettuce, tomato and mayo, fries and a coke. Sophomore year, I had an apartment (with a kitchenette) and a job working for a vending machine company, so I fed myself out of tiny cans and the best of the wrapped sandwiches. By the time I got married, my parents would supply us with gigantic cans of additional club stores or they were close enough to have us to dinner.

In high school, fast food joints appeared on every corner. Get a burger, fries and a coke for a buck and a half, so food was affordable. Luckily, we were not snackers or heavy drinkers at the time, so the paycheck could pay for rent and records.

My wife and I did much walking and would stop at familiar food providers along the way to refresh and recharge. Some became regular stops and comfortable to invite others to attend a meal. Again, we never ventured into unusual palates from different cultures. Learned that from my wife experimenting from television cooking shows.

For years, I’ve used the excuse to get exercise by a daily ride to the Tummy Temple, buy what one person can eat for the day, then ride home and consume. Recently, these trips are taking longer and the hills are higher and the heat is hotter and the wind is… well, you get the idea.

So, I’ve decided to try out this  thing and see how that works. If I can get food delivered, then I don’t have to go out into the wind, cold and rain or plan ahead for the next few days of bad weather or laziness.

Be patient, I’m getting to the menu.

I open up the  site, give them my address and credit card number and they present ALL the restaurants in my area that can be ordered from.

I spend an hour scrolling through the choices and see what they have to offer in color photos to appear appetizing. Monochromatic images do not look like something you want to put in your gut.

What I found of interest are the similarities of the selections. Breaking down food groups to categories, Greek food had Greek food, Sub shops had submarine sandwiches and pizza places had pizzas. (Note: you don’t go to a chicken place and order a steak or a pizza place and order a hamburger or a Chinese place and order a pizza.) Relying only on a photo and a brief description of ingredients, you can ‘add to cart’ and it will be delivered to your doorstep lickety-split.

Each of these fine dining establishments have the usual hospitality credo of ‘get the patron in, served and out’ for the next customer to take their table on the grub assembly line. The kitchen, if run correctly, waste no time in preparation and can deliver to the table (or in this case) the  piping hot and delicious.

This new method of having substance to fill my gullet, seems as easy as Amazon delivering item the next day or Lowe’s forklift delivering items too big for most trucks.  seems to have a good messaging method to accept the request, estimate the arrival time and notification w/photo of placement on delivery.

While I will miss the ambiance of fine indoor dining and the flirting with the cute waitresses who are at your beckoned call, this  may save the wear-and-tear on these old bones. At the end of the month, I’ll get one bill for all the meals, no matter where they came from.

I’ve checked the prices and they seem about the same of if I attended at the countertop. The ‘food’ taxes are estimated, the delivery charge seems reasonable so this might work out, being the only decision of the day.

“What about the other items needed from the Tummy Temple”, you ask. “What about dish detergent and soap and t-paper and toothpaste?”

Well, since they are not on the  menu, I’ve tried . It is basically the same process, but I was curious about alcohol.

The same ‘add to cart’ and they deliver, but you have to be there so they can scan your ID to prove you is old enough to pass the VABC requirements. I think both services do this, but I’ve separated them to ‘grub’ to ‘other stuff’ request. This could be dangerous, for they will deliver many cans for consumption through the week, but… if it is in the house?

So far, I’ve order Mexican burritos, Subway sandwiches and Wendy’s burgers. All have been satisfactory (except for leftovers) and filling with fried grease. All the other selections seem to be fast food, but I’ve not ordered any platters? I suppose this is a good way to sample different sauces and packaging techniques of various dining establishments?

What could go wrong?

If the meal isn’t prepared to your satisfaction, you can send it back to the kitchen. There is a review survey, but you can’t compliment the chef.

I keep a pretty tight miser budget and record every penny (oops, they don’t make those anymore) so I’m tracking the fees to see if that will fit in my 2026 budget.

Then I go to place an order and WHAM! REJECTED. Seems the credit card I’ve been using for Amazon, Intracart and now DoorDash hit its limit. Lesson learned. This is too easy.

I check the credit card site and sure enough. I’ve been ordering like I had a back-of-the-room staff preparing my meals. No problem. Wait for the bill in the mail, send in a check and wait until the balance is back.

Being the best weather for a couple of days and having to pay my property tax (gulp) I pull out my pony, pump up the tire (but probably let out more air than I put in) and road to the mailbox. Since I was close, I parked at the Tummy Temple to pick up a few items I would have had delivered (including alcohol) and ventured back home with a reminder of why I’m considering this delivery option.

I made it home, panting and puffing, then lay down for I could go no further.

‘Tis the Season

 

…as they say, the end of the year is the season for celebration, giving and reflection. All the pictures representing the season of joy and goodwill show happy people decorating trees and garland and tables full of steaming hot food. Smiles surrounded by songs and plenty for all.

It is also a distraction from reality.

Whatever your reason for joining in, whether it be faith based or commercial shopping or just traditional habit, we try to end the year on happiness and hopes for a new year of positive adventures and experiences. What of the people living under the overpass in below freezing weather down the block?

On December 25, the churches will have the feast of mac and cheese and processed meat slices provided for those who not have a home to go to all for a price of a sermon. As soon as clean-up is done, they separate back to unwrap presents, light candles and vast in the warmth of friends and family or bundle up against the winter’s chill in hope that tomorrow will bring sunlight.

No matter what the reason is for closing down the entire world, life goes on. There is still crime and petulance and births and deaths and disasters (natural or not) for the news to report on while we gorge. An excuse to wear silly costumes, over indulge and drink beyond our limits only to pay the piper as just rewards. In the calm of the holiday, there are still those who thankfully attend to our emergencies, for even on a holiday ‘stuff happens’. Try and find a plumber when the pipes break on Christmas day.

The hospitals still have beds full of people who cannot be let out yet and must be attended to, even on a day when everyone else is at home. The security patrols our streets hoping for fewer calls of mayhem and disturbance of celebrations getting out-of-hand. A bucket brigade will be immediately on-call if your yule log gets out of hand, no matter the weather or road conditions. Those keeping the giant data centers powered and cooled to provide you will the opportunity to share your holiday wishes will be having lunch in the rec room while their families wait.

There is still a week to stress about finding that last minute stocking stuffer or making sure the sheets are all folded for the overnight guest who are really related to you. Bundle up and travel about, in and out of brick-and-mortar buildings with heat adjusted as best to accommodate crowds of layered customers running in and out of the cold and bringing their sneezes and coughs with them.

With all the kids running amuck and the sweltering kitchen and the constant gabber, there’s that tickle in the back of your throat. It sucks to be sick on Christmas. Close enough to hear the revelry but quarantined to protect the others. If the illness is worse than a band-aid can cover and a box truck with flashing lights has to be called to haul you off to a professional to mend, the entire schedule is wrecked and the food is getting cold and the dogs still need to be walked and the kids are getting bored and it is snowing again. While it may bring down the spirit of the holiday, it will be one to remember and be retold to future generations.

Happy Holidays to one and all and hope everyone stays safe and sound.

Experiment

 

Life is an experiment. No matter who you came from, when you arrive, there is no instruction manual.

We all arrive as a blank slate. Some may show up with physical or mental disadvantages, but that is the luck of the draw. Some may be born into a bleak environment that was not of our choosing, but again we had no say so before arriving. Some may be born with a silver spoon in their mouth (as they say).

From the moment you take a breath to your last has an unknown timeline. What happens between those two moments is the experiment.

Each of are exposed to the air, sounds, surrounding influences and teachings to form our own destination. Some may have demands on them to follow a certain path and some will find their own way.

Libraries, music, museums, live performances, construction, gardens, nature, cooking, dancing, singing is available to all to partake or ignore. Associations between others can be requirements of conformity or can be open and learning and often forgotten along the way.

Physical temptations offer pleasures or attention, but each decides when and how far to follow. There are laws and moral judgements on our decisions.

Mental adjustments may be tasted and sampled or seemingly required to handle however our direction affects us. Cultural peer pressure offers us salvation from our pains.

Some don’t make all the birthdays and some may last too long. During the new calendars bring changes, prepared for or unaware of. There are lessons along the way we can learn from and pass on or forget until it is too late.

The ones who survive until old age can sit back and reflect on their journey to get here.

Critics will be the obituary.

Anthropomorphism

 

By anthropomorphizing objects, we attribute human characteristics to them, making them easier to relate to. It's a concept that can bring profound comfort, especially in times of distress. Naming objects can make the world seem less intimidating, creating a sense of companionship and reducing feelings of isolation.

We all do it.

Everything has a name. Otherwise, we’d never be able to tell a story or define a map without a “tree” or a “bird” or a “dog” or a “cat”. When we discover something new or create something never before seen, we have to give it a name. Think of your children.

If we didn’t identify ourselves by our names, we would need nametags at conventions. Some of us are named after relatives and have an obligation to honor the name. Others can change a name in marriage or self-identity or just on a whim Be sure to tell all the authorities who need you name to put on your gravestone.

This is about naming inanimate objects. Some people name their cars to give them personality, like painting details. They talk to their cars with love when showing them off during a wash or have someone to cuss to when they won’t start. Some don’t name their kitchen appliances, but will talk to them when opening the refrigerator and not remembering what you were looking for.

Many musicians name their instruments, like Eric Clapton’s “Blackie” or George Harrison’s “Rocky”, for they depend on them as friends they hold close to. We name our pets, whether a dog or a horse and talk to them with a ‘baby talk’ voice while they stare at us having no idea what we are saying. They hear a certain sound and relate it to being fed. Maybe our children can relate to that too?

I haven’t named my bikes, but have named my yard crewe. Rather than calling the ‘squirrels’ to opening the buffet to cocktail peanuts, I call them all “Petie”. The reason is logical. A neighbor brought my wife a baby squirrel that had fallen out of a tree. She took it in and found a place in the bathroom for her. The squirrel was named “Petie”. Petie was left go in the yard and being familiar with us and her ‘name’ would come down the trees to be hand-fed. The name just spread to cover all the fuzzy tail tree monkeys. The little brown motor scooters are named “Beau-Beau” for a similar reason. There are “Bun-Bun’s” and “Rocky” and “Posse”. “Mr. and Mrs. C.” for our commonwealth’s feathered symbol. Blue Jays are “Blue Jays” and “Mister Hawk” is just that. “Al” the owl, is the leader of the pack while “Bike Buddy” wren is the Yard Boss.

Why not?

As you put on your favorite jammies tonight and crawl under the covers, pull close “Mister Winky”. That wore and torn ragged stuffed toy will give you comfort on a winter night.

CiRcAdIaN RHYTHM

 

Your circadian rhythm is your body’s natural 24-hour clock. It keeps your body operating on a healthy wake-sleep cycle. Your circadian rhythm affects many other systems throughout your body. Most people’s circadian rhythms are automatic, but certain factors like light can have an effect on them.

When there are schedules to follow, waking up at a certain time to give to bath, dress, eat then go to the destination that must be followed. When that clock is over, you can reverse procedure and return to sleep for your body rhythm to rest and revive for the next alarm. This is your circadian rhythm. This is your daily routine.

Daylight Savings Time, season changes, traveling through different time zones will confuse our circadian rhythm. Staying up pass your bedtime can make the next day groggy until you get back to your normal cadence. Your innards are also affected by the change in mealtimes to know when to process the chocolate choo-choo.

When retired, beyond an eternal vacation there is only one deadline. There are no clocks in retirement. Whenever the eyes open and your brain realizes this is not a dream, but another day, and the internal clock starts. Without a deadline to meet, moving about can wait until the sun comes out or the rain stops or your body starts thinking about food. The mission of the day is when to shove a consumable down the gullet and when to return to the covers.

Without a doctor’s appointment or giving a ride to a grandchild, the day is yours to decide. Wake and make a big breakfast or just a couple of cups of java to get the motor started? Get dressed or stay in the jammies? What will the mission be for the day?

The electronic distractions can fill time until you settle into a hobby or a phone call or (dare I say it) a book. Soft music can be relaxing or crank it up to motivate on a dreary day.

I find weather effects the circadian rhythm. When the sun rises and it is warm and the birds are singing, the invitation to come join the critters outside is addictive. When the sky is cloudy and the temperature is cold and moving about requires many layers while getting under the covers is more appealing to taking a jog in your underwear or take the dog out to relieve themselves, the circadian rhythm adjust.

Does lunch happen at noon, as it is scheduled at work, or does munching on the couch fill the gut with more than needed applying a doze switch to nap? After all the ‘relaxing’ does sleeping become an adventure of constant tossing and turning, shifting the covers, trying to find the right spot while your brain is mulling over the mental wonders until you finally fall into a sleep full of strange adventures called dreams.

When we were young and had energy to expel until exhaustion wore our little bodies down and we crashed. Big people had to force us into refueling and tucked us in at night. This became our circadian rhythm.

As we grew more in control of our schedules, some became day people while others tended toward the night hours for our productive focus. Throw a night owl into a daytime accepted corroborative routine can be disruptive to the circadian rhythm. Many of the creative personalities prefer the night hours, when the masses are asleep and the visions and sounds can be made undisturbed.

Tonight, I’ll toss and turn. Yank the covers and then pull them away. The radio will continuously announce the news of the hour and many podcast I would not have ventured to hear. Like clockwork, I’ll stand and scratch and stretch and walk down the hall to empty whatever has accumulated, then stare at the clock awaiting another hour to pass and the morning sunrise. No matter how much exercise I do during the day or numbers of bullets I put away, this is my rhythm. About dawn, I’ll drift off into bazaar visions with some familiar faces and strange adventures of old buildings and problem solving. They only last for an hour and I’m up again trying to remember details but in too much of a fog to try again.

The eyes will eventually open and stare at the wall while listening to the news that announced the hour of the day. It is time.

Those people

 

I hate to get into politics, particularly with the current administration, but this recent phrase causes my ire.

And I quote: “Those people,” Fred Trump said his uncle told him, “The shape they’re in, all the expenses, maybe those kinds of people should just die.”

This came from the Commander-in-Chief, the CEO of the US of the A, the so-called Leader of the Free World, the self-proclaimed King of the Planet.

This demeaning rhetoric was not about the criminal rapist and murders invading our borders to pick our crops, build our houses, cut our grass and clean our hotel rooms. This was not aimed at those who do not agree with his imperial political ramblings. This was not in response to a female reporter. This was not about intellectual librarians handing out books full of perceived disgust and filth to our children. This was not about congressional values or rights to free will or speech. This was not directed to those who’s gender identity does not match his perverted behavior. This was not an off-hand statement about diversity or monetary inequality or the color of your skin.

This quote was about Fred’s child who has a disability.

Fred's 26-year-old son, William, was born with a KCNQ2 mutation, "a genetic misfire that the doctors called a potassium channel deletion." He is nonverbal and uses a wheelchair.

I believe when we arrive on this planet, we know nothing. We are just a blob of bloody delivered from some creatures who grew you until you were fermented and ready to be a part of a ‘family’.

This family are the familiar of us. We all look alike. We all think alike (because that is what we are taught). We are comfortable with each other because it is all we know. Even an extended family of intermingling, we are somewhat suspicious of cousins and aunts and uncles for they live somewhere else and could sound different or even have another faith than our core.

Suddenly, our ‘family’ meets another ‘family’. They come from another place. They don’t look like us. They don’t sound like us. They don’t act like us. They are ‘those people’.

Some cross-breed and the blended family is accepted as us, but there are still others who are ‘those’ people. We, the familiar, look at ‘them’ with curiosity but are afraid of the difference.

The fear can be taught and increased with bias lessons of good vs bad depending on what your faith believes in.

Living on a planet where all migrated from somewhere else, some assembled into countries with borders and cultures and languages and customs different than their neighbors. If one felt disadvantaged from their neighbors, armies were formed by their political leaders directed by faith and taught that ‘those people’ were bad and had to be transformed to our acceptable beliefs to invade and conquer to pillage the wealth and reform ‘those’ to a new way of living.

Empires came and went and borders were redrawn until rational people decided the bloodshed wasn’t worth the results. Still, we stand ready to pick up arms over the threat of ‘those people’. This is our history.

Our current administration, fairly elected by our democratic process, has decided to purge (deport) ‘those people’ for the betterment of the country and with the support of the military, are detaining citizens (legal or not) and placing them onto a concentration camp until they can be processed shipped somewhere else. The processing, while minimal vetting due to the reduction in governmental staff, may find some criminals (why don’t they check the jails?) the chaos increases the confusion, fear and anger in the general population. 

If Powhatan and the indigenous tribes hadn’t been curious to welcome the aliens from afar and the original settlements were not worthy of agriculture, accepted the invasion without every viewing “The War of the Worlds” or “Independence Day” to understand ‘those people’ were here conquer and not assimilate.

Without finding riches, tea or spices, the settlers shipped back a rare crop of tobacco that caught the motherlands desire for more. The imperial desire of the Ole World leaders wanting to expand their influence and wealth, went about funding additional ventures into what would become the colonies.

When you move into a neighborhood, you are ‘those people’. You bring your children and your furniture and are viewed by the established settlers as strangers. You might fit in to the current culture and become friends or just avoid any interaction so the neighborhood waits for the sale of the house for a next batch. As this suspicion of outsiders grows, fences go up surround protected property with security. We continue to fear the unknown.

When you travel overseas or even in a different neighborhood, you are ‘those people’. The locals may view you as tourist to be exploited or assumed a threat to be followed by the uniformed authorities. If you’ve ever walked into an area, you are not welcomed and are uncomfortable, you have become ‘those people’.

At the end of the year, our species, wherever they live on this blue ball spinning in a vast darkness of space, come together to dress up and celebrate with music and food and give gifts of thankfulness.

Someday, we may realize we are the only inhabitants and should learn to get along with one another. Probably not in my lifetime, so good luck to future generations.

Dirty Dishes

Travel, family, cooking, parades, turkey, deserts, naps, football. The one day a year we gather to be thankful or show gratitude to family and friends. Is this just a good excuse to get out of work, eat a bunch of food and get ready for an extended weekend of shopping?

After attending your choice of religious service (you do attend?) and giving thanks to mysterious omnibus head of heaven and earth, pack the car with the kiddies and head to the agreed upon gathering spot where the festivities have already begun.

Note: Don’t forget to put a can of beans in the offering plate was passed around for tithing. The food bank will thank you.

Every family have their own traditions and process. I can just relate on my family as an example.

As soon as the cereal bowls are put away, the cooking begins. The kitchen was my mother’s office and an apron was her uniform. While my grandmother taught me how to break snaps and separate into paper bags, the preparation of the Thanksgiving meal was left to the ladies. Unlike the normal dinners with the leftover Downtown Club plates, the good China and silver were brought out to indicate some prestige to visitors. There was never any alcohol with the meal.

My mother was not a good cook. With all the appliances and utensils, the meat would be burnt, the potatoes dry, the bean bland and the deserts avoidable. Brought up in a time when the housewife was to rule the kitchen, she played the part but was not interested. Even toward the end, she would sit in the kitchen in apron watching a television, with a coffee urn and an ashtray.

In my family, we had the privilege to have the Thanksgiving meal prepared by the club. Turkey, Virginia Ham and Roast Beef were pre-sliced and wrapped in aluminum foil easy to reheat and serve on a silver platter. Creamy mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, stuffing and pecan pie came wrapped and ready to put in one of our burnt pans to keep warm until placed between the silver candelabras in silver bowls and serving platters. There were even gherkin pickles.

The appetizer was shrimp cocktail (after the prayer for the meal presented by my father at the head of the table). My father would have raw oysters. The rest of the family thought they were gross without knowing they were fueling future amorous behavior. Sometimes the four of us would hold hands around the small table during the prayer, but the two boys were ready to split as soon as possible. Then, we’d all go back to our rooms (my mom to the kitchen and a pile of dirty dishes, my dad to a nap in front of a football game, and my brother and I would do whatever we could to avoid any other interaction with the family.

In larger houses, with more family and longer tables, another family would have similar rituals. The ladies (moms and aunties and grandmothers) would attend to the kitchen duties while the gentlemen retired to the leisure room to discuss news and business trends while smoking pipes or cigars and drinking brandy awaiting the call to the table for the prepared feast. There was no television, but the kids could entertain with charades or piano tunes.

Seating at a long table were assigned. We stood until everyone was there to be seated. This was where we exhibited our etiquette manners. At the head of the table was my uncle, the preacher. He’d stand and praises the thankfulness for this meal while we all bowed our heads in silent.

Then, the process of dissecting the bird (who had not been pardoned). My uncle would always ask my father if he would like to do the duty and my father would always cowling recline. Plates would be passed around the table to be served with the ingredients to indigestion. No one ate until all the plates had finished their rotation. A lightweight conversation was had as we all gorged ourselves on the abundance until my uncle stood and asked, “What are you thankful for?”. No one could leave the table until the question was answered by each and every participant to the holiday event. A short sermon finished the meal and before we bolted in all directions, we were asked to take our plates into the kitchen. Somehow in the confusion, the ladies had beat us to the kitchen to direct the placement of the piles of dirty dishes with the pots and pans. Everyone volunteered meekly to assist with the clean-up but were always shoed out of the way while the kitchen was returned to its proper pristine proportions with plenty of take-home leftovers wrapped as going away remembrance presents and to get rid of the trash. The gentlemen would retire to the parlor to read the newspaper or have a sip of sherry until the snoring started signaling the party was over.

As the yoots got older and could move up to the adult’s table, alcohol appeared. The volume and demeanor would change. One auntie would bring up how the food was not prepared right while shoveling down the free meal. An uncle, who should have been cut off before seating, would bring up politics or sports or something to irritate and start an argument. This is when we air our dirty laundry without considering our dirty dishes. Family gatherings can break down, but those are the stories remembered.

Some families appreciated the volunteers in the kitchen and would form an assembly line to clean, wipe, dry and put away the dirty dishes to make a chore into a laughing song feast and a lesson learned on sharing participation and gratification.

Then, I heard there was a machine called a ‘dishwasher’ that did all the messy work. I’d forgotten I even bought one of them in my old house. The kitchen there was tiny so this box rolled on wheels and had a hose that hooked up to the sink to work. It was always in the way and not big enough to handle large amounts, so multiple loads would require more work than hand washing.

Washing dirty dishes isn’t a difficult or physically straining chore. It can be a bit gross depending on how long the dish has sat with food bits rotting on it, but a quick splash of water can bring the brightness back. Sponges of all shapes and sizes and liquid lotions can be combined to quickly wipe off the remainder of dinner and placed in a rack to drip dry. Some may need to be soaked in the sink, the way you do in the bathtub, to soften the grunge to be scraped off until the next meal. The process is just a necessary if you wish to entertain. Don’t get me started about polishing the silver.

Being the day of giving thanks, I woke up this morning to the sunshine with no aches or pains. Thanks. I had my morning breakfast with no surprises or construction noise. Thanks. The studio is warm enough to enjoy the news of the world without expecting unexpected guest to arrive and disrupt the peace and quiet. Thanks. The critter crewe got plenty of grub (no turkey) and frolicked with wild abandon entertaining without a charge. Thanks. The one-person feast was sliced turkey, wild rice and gravy (couldn’t find cranberry sauce?) and while not as appetizing as I remember, it will fill the need for nutrition. Thanks. All served, devoured and disposed of on paper plates. Thanks.

There is lots to be ‘thankful’ for, but not for everyone. I’m thankful I’m not them (yet).