Exploring Venus

From time to time my sense of humor leaves a trail of misunderstandings and even bruised relationships when others do not see the hilarity that is so obvious to me. I have the awful habit of picking my fingers, leaving my cuticles ragged and often bloody. On more than one occasion I have commented to my spousal unit that I need a manicure.

On my most recent birthday, she presented me with a gift certificate to get a manicure and pedicure. The mere thought of going into an environment so saturated with estrogen was a little more than unnerving. I was caught between the emotions of, "No way in @#%#$! (insert epithet of your choice here)" and "You are not serious, are you?" She was.

I am serious about giving honor in relationships. To reject the gift dishonors the giver. I squirmed, sweat a little and said "Thank you very much." I had travel plans soon after the gift so I got a stay of execution for a couple of weeks. My reprieve ended today.

Walking into the salon like a man condemned, I was very aware of the eyes following me to the vibrating throne with a foot-bath below. I had forgotten to change my glasses when getting out of the car, so I sat with my dark aviators on, feet soaking in blue water feeling very conspicuous.
After about 10 minutes that seemed like hours, Holly arrived. Holly is from Viet Nam and speaks very little English. She holds up a menu with my options for treatment and I said in my best English spoken to someone who understands little English, "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I WANT". She looked over to her left like an NFL quarterback to where the spousal unit sat smirking and getting a manicure, and got the signal. "Number 4, hold the polish on 2--Break!"

Thus began the adventure of clipping, filing, rubbing and massaging that I have to admit felt really nice. I was too uncomfortable to talk to the other patrons and conversation with Holly did not seem to have potential so I did what I do best. I let my mind wander.

I looked around at the brown faces sitting at white feet giving service. My first thought was that this is not right. How unfair. Until I realized that when Holly was but a child her homeland was in ruins, her future dismal. For some reason, her people determined to offer service to those in our country who can pay. Because she is willing to wash feet, she has food, clothing and shelter in the most fascinating nation on the planet.

As she labored to lavish care on my feet, it was humbling to sit there and let her serve me. Granted this was an economic exchange, but the experience was challenging to my soul nonetheless. For my thoughts went to another who washed feet. His was not an economic exchange, but humbling just the same. I could understand why one would say, "You are not washing my feet!" I had those feelings today.

To wash ones feet, and do it well requires a focus and attention and prostration. I cannot imagine that it could be accomplished standing up. It is dirty work. She clipped and scraped dead skin and made a mess with her ointments and goo. As I watched her perform her duties my admiration and respect for her grew. She worked hard, she did good work. She was focused, focused on me, on my feet. Once again humbling.

When I entered the Venusian lair I was uncomfortable and out of place. I confess that when I was done I wasted no time getting out of there. I think now that the gift was much greater than the treatment received. Watching Holly go about her business, thinking about her life, her history and the world we live in stopped me cold. My life is narrow at times. I do what I do and in my own way serve people. Today I got to experience being served in a way that that was new. It took me to a place I would never have gone. Reminded me of one long ago who too served by washing feet, asking for nothing in return but to pass it on.

The Urge to Kill

March 29, 2011. I am a peaceful man. A tradition in our house is that on your birthday, you get to specify the menu and activities for the day. We sat down on our back patio to a platter of barbecue spare ribs, pinto beans, garlic mashed potatoes and cole slaw. It is hard to imagine a more perfect day with a more perfect companion and meal until we had an uninvited guest--Da, Da, Daaah!. THE FLY!

No ordinary fly this, but one that had impeccable timing, coordination and speed. I lift my fork--he lights on my cheek. I try the napkin slap he launches to the left. A worthy adversary, no doubt. I even tried the old towel pop technique, but as he swiftly dodged the damp missile I could almost hear his high pitched mocking snicker as he jetted around our feast while I fumed.

I did not let the pest ruin our birthday feast, but I did make a personal commitment to become a man of violence. That's right. I have declared war. The intruder has gone one step too far. The fly must die!

As in any military operation the build up of arms and personnel is critical to the ultimate success of the mission. On a shopping venture to Carefree we stopped at the local armory. Acres of goods from around the world at my disposal. I ask the clerk where I could find the necessary equipment to launch my offensive. She did not know. (I am convinced that if WalMart is the future of American retail it is no wonder we are floundering. But that is another blog for another day.)

Finally the commander of the armory(the manager)led me to the right location in a discrete location amidst the many shelves of chemical weapons, I found it. The ultimate weapon. In the words of the manufacturer, it "is the ultimate tool in your arsenal of bug killing weapons". Exactly the kind of power I need. Plus, this incredible advanced technology is green! "No chemicals, no odors, sheer power!"

Plus, if I ever break this incredible weapon, the manufacturer will replace it for free--guaranteed! I am sure that this will set me back financially. After all, whoever develops such environmentally advanced lethal technology must be a profiteering arms merchant. But no--this incredible device cost only 98 cents!

Behold The Black Flag Super Swatter! With MAXIMUM SNAP!


Should this operation receive media coverage and reports come from the front lines, be assured that this is a family blog and any disturbing images will be fully disclosed with adequate warning.

My New Convertible (sort of)

As you know we spend time during the winter months in Arizona. As I am sure is common among most people, we daydream and speculate about what we should do and other things that probably won't happen. Over the past few years we have been processing the thorny issue of transportation.

Last year we gave our trusty old Volvo to Josh with the intention of replacing it. As we evaluated our lives we asked the question, "Could we get by with one car?" Surprisingly enough the answer is yes. In fact we get by quite nicely. It requires planning and organization--Ginger does most of that--but it works. Sometimes when I tell friends that we have only one car, they look at me like I have a third eye or something. It just isn't normal,I guess, but I have always thought normal was overrated.

Anyway, during our fantasy period of thinking about what car to buy, we thought a convertible would be nice in New Hampshire in the summer and AZ in the winter. Sounds reasonable. But we didn't buy another car.

Enter plan B. We decided to get bikes. It was our Christmas present this year. It has been a lot of fun. As for performance, they get 1 mile per 15o-170 calories. Top speed so far is 23 MPH downhill. We have joined a bike club and are meeting some serious bike junkies. Also when we run errands here on our bikes, the $3.60 per gallon fuel in my trusty Murano stays in my Murano. Over all it is good.

More important, we are learning that we can write our own script. The beauty of life in this free country is that you can be creative in how you live it. Gotta go now. Bike club is going for a ride at 8 AM.

I'm not dead yet!

I suspect that if you were to poll a reasonable sample you would find that most would find my body type more akin to Orca than Michael Phelps. Be that as it may, I now have one thing in common with Mr. Phelps. Last weekend, for the first time in my 59 years and 11 months I swam in a competitive meet.

Mind you, this is not a life long ambition, nor a goal that I ever set for myself. It is the result of walking into the pool when my friend Robert Lord (with me in the pool on the right) was puzzling on how to fill the fourth leg in the freestyle relay. I met with a bellowing "DAVID, IT IS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU!!" Robert has an irresistible charm and before I knew it I was saying, "Sure I can swim 50 yards. Yes, I can swim 100 yards. Sure, I will swim with you." You have to understand, when the Lord asks it is difficult-if not impossible to say no.

Fast forward to Saturday, March 5. We drove with our team to the Sun City West Recreational facility and were joined by over 75 seasoned citizens, many of which would put younger athletes to shame. The brackets were in ten year intervals starting at age 45. We swam in the 55 and up 200 and 400 yard relay. I swam the 2nd position.

I had done some practice and was confident that the 50 would be fine but I had some real concerns about a 100 yard sprint. Each time I practiced the 100, I floundered in the last 25 yards. I needed pace. I went through the play list of songs in my head until I found one that would give me the pace I needed to have some gas left on the last half lap. (Incidentally, the song that worked was the recipient of the Granddadamy Award for Best Love Song, "I Will" by Alison Krause, which happens to be my child bride and my theme song.)

Standing at the edge of the pool, waiting for Robert to finish the first leg of the 200, my heart was already racing, adrenaline was kicking in, he touched, I dove, I swam and it was over. The 400 was even scarier, but the pace worked and I was able to finish without floundering. Check competitive swimming off the bucket list.

We finished third in both events. I now have Arizona Senior Olympic Bronze medals. The ladies team from our community got two Gold Medals for their performance. We had a great time and made some new friends.

2011 Granddad-amy Awards: Song and Lullaby

Welcome to the 2011 Grandad-amy awards. In this silly awards season where pretentious people give awards to other pretentious people, I have decided that I can be as pretentious as the next person so I am establishing my own award--The Granddad-amy Award.

There are no statues or cash prizes. The categories are totally discretionary and subject to whim of the judge. (There are no other judges for the Granddad-amy awards.) The criteria is totally subjective and the winners will likely not be notified, much to their relief.

The first two categories are for songs: The best love song, and the best lullaby. The criteria is stickiness. Does the song stick in your head and repeat itself in a non annoying way and cause you to think good thoughts toward people for whom you care.

The winner of the Love Song category is Alison Kraus, for I Will. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3989jHX3sMQ . (good timing for valentines day). For those who have someone for whom feelings struggle to find words, this is a masterful combination of tune and tome.

As Granddad to three fabulous grandpersons, I have been drawn to a lullaby that I heard before I met any of them. The winner of the lullaby category for 2011 is the Dixie Chicks, Godspeed. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85cdpJUWQ7Y&feature=fvwrel . Having had times when my work caused me to be away from my young children, this song touches places I have been. Although written for a son, it could be adapted.

More awards to come.

A HOMELESS MAN'S FUNERAL

(Thanks to Pam Sellers for this touching story)

A HOMELESS MAN'S FUNERAL

As a bagpiper, I play many gigs. Recently I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless man. He had no family or friends, so the service was to be at a pauper's cemetery in the Kentucky back country.

As I was not familiar with the backwoods, I got lost and, being a typical man, I didn't stop for directions. I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had evidently gone and the hearse was nowhere in sight.

There were only the diggers and crew left and they were eating lunch. I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late. I went to the side of the
grave and looked down and the vault lid was already in place. I didn't know what else to do, so I started to play.

The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around. I played out my heart and soul for this man with no family and friends. I played like
I've never played before for this homeless man. And as I played ' Amazing Grace ,' the workers began to weep. They wept, I wept, we all wept together.

When I finished I packed up my bagpipes and started for my car. Though my head hung low, my heart was full. As I opened the door to my car, I heard
one of the workers say, "I never seen nothin' like that before and I've been putting in septic tanks for twenty years."

Apparently I'm still lost...

Euphemisms and Bathroom Words

I was informed by my darling granddaughter Reese that some of the children in her pre-school class use bathroom words. Oh, the humanity! I am grateful for her sensitivity to social graces and I am inspired to take up the cause of euphemisms.

There are things that we humanoids have either the need or desire to discuss that without euphemisms will cause us to use “bathroom words”, and Reese obviously disapproves. We should honor her lead. Ben Franklin once wrote an impressive piece on flatulence. http://unclestinky.wordpress.com/2008/01/04/ben-franklin-on-flatulence/ The release of humanly generated methane is a social experience common to us all that is worthy of a good moniker. Mrs. Carr, my diminutive fourth grade teacher had the occupational challenge of about 35 children who every Friday’s were fed pinto beans and cornbread for lunch. The afternoons were often aromatic and often accompanied by bodily orchestration. Mrs. Carr would encourage her minions to try to control the “gas escapes”, clearly a superior choice to bathroom words.

My son-in-law and number two granddaughter, upon hearing the sound of organic thunder say, “Dragon” or “gragn” depending on the speaker, another excellent choice. The spousal unit, in her bible school days, informs me that “tiger” was the method of warning others of the dreaded “silent but deadly”—we all know that one and would appreciate the advance recon.

While these proclamations are useful, they do not pass the test of a euphemism for the act. They merely are reporting the occurrence. Proper society needs a noun sufficiently graceful to describe flatulation (with fewer syllables, of course) and yet fail the Reese test for bathroom words. So I implore you, dear readers (now there is a faith statement if I ever wrote one) to give me your best suggestions, or actual euphemisms in use for the word that will pass Reese’s muster without saying F*#t. It is a new decade and we could use an expressive new word, in my opinion. And as much as my base, shall we even say crude, inclinations prefer to use--bathroom words--I yield to the reality that the walls that surround me have big ears and long memories.