Things I fear — right now! — as you read this. Because I’m stepping on an airplane with two college students. We’re venturing off to Birmingham, Ala., for a Society of Professional Journalists Conference. They’re not professionals yet, but they’re the co-editors of the college newspaper I advise. They’re also up for a couple of awards — nice, important ones — and we’re going to collect them. But that means traveling together. Journeying afar. Getting on a plane, riding in a taxi, staying in a hotel, eating food, spending quality time together, etc., etc., etc.
Fat raccoons and memories of getting married
Maybe it was coincidence. That fat raccoon out by the street, sifting through the recycling bin. He stopped when he caught me peering at him before scooting off into the night. Fat little fella’. I haven’t seen a raccoon in ages. Not since my wife almost ran one over on her bike. But that’s been a while, and here this one turned up on a special night — my wedding anniversary.
No tigers here. We just love to run
There really is only one reason to run: A poorly fed tiger is in pursuit of your hindquarters. That right there is a damn good reason. Also, maybe a flood. Or if you’re on fire (although it’s actually better to stop, drop and roll, unless, of course, the tiger is behind you. In which case, just keep running!) But truth be told, I can think of very few reasons — logical, good, rational reasons — to go out and pound the pavement. To wear those short running shorts. To get blisters. To hear endless people shout out their car windows, “Run, Forrest, Run!” To put one foot in front of the other for hundreds, if not thousands, of steps so you can get from point A to point B. And I say all of this as a runner myself. As someone who loves — yes, loves — to run. But someone who also can’t quite figure out why in the world he does it.
The wiggle of the little kid tooth
The “wiggle” has arrived at my house. You know … the wiggle. The toothquake. The shimmy-shimmy in the mouth. The flapping, shaking, waving dance of the first tooth about to sprout wings and fly. My daughter, 5 years old, has her first loose tooth. It’s flapping about like a little rocking chair, and I’m quaking a bit myself. It was quite a discovery. She mentioned it while climbing into bed one night. My wife, dubious, had to investigate. It seemed perfectly outrageous and entirely impossible. Not our child. Not this soon. Not a chance. No way. And then … “AHHHHHH!”
The ‘Turning 38’ list: Oh, the things I still need to do
I just turned 38 years old. In my mind, it’s a big age — a whopper! It’s one of those “gettin’ up there” ages, and pretty darn close to 40. Not to mention, it’s a big kid age. A milestone of sorts — one that signals I’m truly an adult (there’s really no point in denying it anymore). As such, I feel like there are certain things I should have accomplished by now, so the other night I made a list. So here it is … Things I should have done by 38 (but haven’t): • Written a perfectly awful novel that has no hope of ever being published — I thought for sure I would have two stinkers collecting dust by now, but it seems I’ve failed at failing this one. Which is a shame because I have some really terrible story ideas just waiting to never bore anyone to pieces. One would be titled, “Bacon fat and onion gravy” … it’s the story of a young Canadian whose only dream in life is to come to the South and learn how to cook in a greasy spoon diner. That’s the whole story right there.
Hack! Hack! Wheez! Wheez! Oh, to be sick
Oh, it sure took me back. All the hacking and wheezing. The cracking coughs that sounded like out-of-balance cement trucks tumbling blocks of granite. The heavy feeling in my chest like somebody was standing on my rib cage. No, like someone had taken up residence in my lungs. Maybe moths. Maybe squirrels. Clogging up my bronchial tubes, fluttering about, making me cough horrible, painful coughs. Good memories of childhood, it was. My daughter has bronchitis, and after two weeks of sounding like Barry White and beginning conversations with, “My darling I … HACK! HACK! WHEEZ! WHEEZ! (pound on chest),” I decided to go see the doctor myself. I hate admitting defeat, and that I can’t cure a cold with OJ and sheer willpower.
‘Great Recession’?!? How about ‘WeBePoor’ instead
I’ve been reading a lot of news stories lately that keep referring to our economic doldrums as, “The Great Recession.” “The Washington Post reports today on a new study highlighting the effects of the ‘Great Recession’ on marriage,” read one such piece, and still another told us, “How to throw the perfect ‘Great Recession’ party with only a few cabbage stalks, a half-used candle and a dusty bottle of peppermint schnapps.” (Or something to that effect.) The more I see it, the more it bugs me that such a tremendous, devastating, unrelenting period in our nation’s (and the world’s) history has such an anemic and pitiful name. “The Great Recession.” Phooey, I say. What kind of name is that? If you want people to stand up and notice — to really shake in their boots and then go trembling into the world ready to do something about it — we need a name that will make the hair on a fat man’s back standup straight. Something that strikes the right balance of fear, trepidation and doom. Like “The Great Morass.” Or “Crappyville.”
What foulness seeps from the kitchen? Ah … homemade dog food!
“It’s the most beautiful day outside,” my wife said this past weekend. The windows to the house were open and she was on the porch eating ice cream and doing things Floridians love to do in January when the rest of the country is shoveling snow. No wonder people hate us. “You can even start to smell spring,” she continued, “which is why I feel especially bad that we’re stinking up the street with the stench of that dog food.” Homemade dog food, thank you. “Can you really smell it outside?” I asked, standing over my special concoction, a clothespin pinching off my nostrils. “Well, I could right before I passed out. Some of the trees have started wilting.”
Smartphones and over-connected crocodiles
Comes this story from the Ukraine that I just couldn’t pass up: “Croc gulps phone, starts ringing.” That’s how the headline read. A woman taking a photo with her cell phone at a zoo leaned over the crocodile pen — always a wise thing to do, lean over a crocodile pen! — and dropped it. Mistaking it for a dead chicken, and not realizing he would have to assume the 2-year cell phone contract with additional data and text charges, the croc swallowed it. Zookeepers didn’t believe the woman’s story until the croc started ringing, and checking his stocks, and tweeting that the zoo food made a wombat puke purple for a week.
Brother bonding under power lines and the roar of a chain saw
As the giant mulberry branch crashed to earth, nearly crushing me to death, all that ran through my mind was this: “Man, I sure do love these projects with my brother.” When I say “giant,” I mean the kind of branch that brushes the fuselage of airliners. They never seem so big when you’re standing there pondering the angle of the cut, how it will fall or why if there’s beer in the fridge you’re out here in the first place. But the minute it starts to go — the minute it starts coming for YOU! — the full scope, scale and size become crystal clear. RUN!