My weekly column in The St. Augustine Record won a second place award for humor writing in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ 2016 Column Contest. The awards were handed out at NSNC’s 40th annual conference in Los Angeles on June 25, and I had to be there … just to make sure it was for real. Because I didn’t believe it until I could see it for myself. BUT IT WAS REAL!!! The award was in the humor category for print newspapers under 50,000 circulation, and it’s the first national award I’ve received for my column. The NSNC gave out more than 25 awards at its 2016 conference, and also recognized Pulitzer Prize winning-columnist Leonard Pitts Jr. and “Dear Abby” author Jeanne Phillips. Dang! Talk about good company. Read more about it: http://www.columnists.com/2016/06/2016-column-contest-winners-announced-in-los-angeles/ Check out the three award-winning columns here (and yes, one of them is a letter to a cat!): • A letter to Little Joe, the cat • A TRUE Disney dream come true • Light bulb insanity
The taming of the yard
What does a fountain say about a yard? A fancy, sophisticated fountain. A big one, bubbling and gurgling with delight. There are few sounds better than that soft, flowing collision of water. It doesn’t take much — just a splatter or two — and it will transform a mood. Calm the senses. Make you say things like, “Nirvana!” (And I don’t even know what that means.) That’s what we just installed in our backyard — a fountain. Amidst some fresh pine needles. Where I tore up all the roots and vines. Where I just landscaped. The child’s fort and swings are down. The chicken — there’s only one now — is no longer allowed to dig her bomb craters and root around in the pine needles. The dog is banned from cutting ruts like tank tracks. Now the fountain is the coup de grace. (And I don’t know what that means, either.)
A summer in The Rockies
What’s a Floridian know about altitude? About elevation? About snow and moose? These were the questions I was pondering as we stopped the car along Rocky Mountain National Park’s Trail Ridge Road. Some 12,000 feet up in the air. Two miles above the sea level where I normally plant my feet. It was 46 degrees at midday, and there were wild critters running about — elk, bighorn sheep and mischievous-looking marmots. The marmots looked like they wanted me to hand over my car keys. Oh yeah, and there was a wall of snow taller than my car. A snow plow had carved through it just a few days before. (Nobody told Colorado it’s June — summer! — and it should be so hot outside that ice cubes spontaneously combust.) Y’all, we ain’t in Florida anymore.
Getting ready for tropical weather, Floridian-style
Clearly, we’ve got some work to do. I don’t mean to make light of a serious situation … it’s just what I do. But if there’s one thing that little puff of a Tropical Storm Colin taught us, it’s that we no longer know what we’re doing. We’re tropical turnips. We Floridians have gone far too long without serious weather threatening us. We’ve atrophied from battle-hardened, tropical troopers to sad, clueless chimps. (“So is a tropical storm when you crouch under your desk in fetal position or when you bring all the plants and cats in?!?”) I feel you, friends. And that’s why I think Colin was a great wake-up call — a reminder to be better prepared in case a far-worse storm comes. Here are some of the most important lessons I learned this week: • I don’t have a “mother” plan. This is not “what to do with my mother” — for the most part, she’s plenty capable of taking care of herself. What I’m referring to is a plan for how I DEAL with my mother. For instance, like the phone call I got at work on the day of the storm. It went something like this: Mom: “Brian, I need you to come over and move the silver to a higher location in case it floods.” Me: “Mom, it’s already in the attic!” Mom: “Yes, but I want you to take it up to a storage center in Charlotte, N.C., just to be safe.” Was NOT […]
Those summer beach things that we Floridians know
Every Memorial Day Weekend two things happen: I remember those who served and sacrificed for our country. It’s the meaning of the holiday. But then I inevitably traipse off to the beach with family in tow and am reminded of what it means to be a Floridian as summer sets in. It’s the weekend when we Floridians emerge from our cocoons and rediscover a world filled with sun, sand, waves and incredible tans that make us look like coconut-scented gods. And it’s all thanks to the time-honored tricks of the trade we’ve learned from living in a tropical paradise. As I sat on the beach this past weekend, I pondered the rules we know as residents of this sun-drenched state. • Rule #1 – Ice cream always dies a tragic death at the beach. On average, it only takes 3 seconds to wilt a Rocket Pop. Which is why the only time to eat it is at 9:30 in the morning. That’s what the smart Floridians do. It’s the only way to protect your expensive investment. “Dad, can I have an ice cream?” my daughter asked. “It’s 10 a.m.!” I replied. “Why’d you wait so long? You shouldn’t have wasted time brushing your teeth this morning.”
Flight of the dog paw sock
There is only one thing worse than an injured dog wearing a plastic cone around her neck: An injured dog wearing a baby sock on her foot. If you have ever had to do it, you know what I mean. It’s unnatural. It’s silly looking. And it’s more impossible than solving a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. My dog , Lily — who must have a think-tank constantly working on new ways to get sick or injured — somehow wounded the bottom of her front paw. She then proceeded to lick and chew it until it was raw, swollen and the color of a plum. That’s when the UPS man showed up. Now, if the Mongol Hordes come to the house, my dog will surely serve them tea. But the UPS man signals a declaration of war. Maybe she thinks he is leaving a box of cats. He causes her to fly into a rage of ferociousness, charging the door and slamming her outstretched front paws against the frame with such force that the house shudders. This is not usually a problem … unless one of those paws is licked raw, swollen and the color of a plum. Now you can add bleeding to the list.
The (kind of) complete mountain essentials guide
To buy a first aid kit, or not to buy a first aid kit? That is the question. The eternal question. I mean, what would it say about me? No longer will I be the kind of dad who when faced with a child sporting a bleeding wound tears off a sheet of paper and says, “Here! Hold this on it until the bleeding stops.” That’s fatherhood at its best right there. (Forget whether it’s hygienic.) But if I buy this travel first aid kit, I will suddenly be prepared and ready for all calamity in a smart, reasonable and remarkably mature way. Is that who I am? My family is heading to Colorado soon. The mountains! We plan to do a lot of hiking and outdoorsy stuff, which has me thinking about all the essentials to bring. The things I could potentially need. And the things I just want an excuse to buy: Like the knife that Indiana Jones had. Imagine explaining that one to airport security!
Mining for Minecraft Mods
Excuse me if I seem a little tired. I was up late again last night, desperately trying to load a new Mod into Minecraft. What’s a “Mod?” Well, I’m glad you asked … because I have no earthly idea. Could stand for “modification.” Possibly. Or “my obedient dad,” as in, “My obedient dad is going to stay up all night pulling his hair out while trying to load this thing onto my computer game.” It’s anyone’s guess. My daughter has become a maniac for Minecraft, that video game that lets players construct whole worlds and travel through them while whaw, whaw-whaw, whaw, whaw. (I don’t actually know what Minecraft is all about, as I tend to tune out when she explains it.) What I do know is that everything looks like it’s made of square blocks — the land, the people, the animals, the buildings. “Oh, look how cute,” my daughter will say. “It’s an ant!” I strain my pixel-challenged eyes and say: “No, it isn’t! It’s six black squares walking around. These graphics are terrible!”
Ye olde creaky bones
What are you trying to tell me universe? I’m not understanding the mixed signals. Because a little over a week ago I went out and ran 12 miles. Twelve miles! And it felt great. Like a young man. And then yesterday, unloading groceries at the store I bent over to pick up something and pinched a nerve down near my … ahem … buttocks. Nearly doubled over from the pain. Considered calling 911. Considered calling for one of those motorized scooters. Felt NOT like a young man. What’s the message here? I’m not getting it. Maybe it was just a fluke. I pushed my cart into an empty cashier aisle. I hate empty aisles. You feel so rushed — panicked even — to get your food out of the cart. You don’t want the cashier to stare at you like you’re the reason she can’t go on break or win the lottery or something that doesn’t involve waiting on you. I was throwing things on the fast-moving conveyor as fast as I could when I dropped one of my reusable shopping bags. To make matters worse, the shopping cart rolled over the bag and I had to lift it up to free it when … SHAZAM! A bolt of lightning bit me somewhere between my hip and the aforementioned buttock.
Thompson a finalist in NSNC Column Contest
I just learned my weekly column in The St. Augustine Record is one of three finalists in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ 2016 Column Contest. It is in the Humor Category for circulations under 50,000. Ain’t that sumthin’? I’ll learn what place I got in June. See kids: Writing really ridiculous stuff can pay off! Read the three award-winning columns here (boy, that sounded cool!): • A letter to Little Joe, the cat • A TRUE Disney dream come true • Light bulb insanity Learn more about the National Society of Newspaper Columnists at http://www.columnists.com/