Life

Who You Waving At?

Where I grew up, anyone who drove by on the the small country road I lived on was a neighbor. And, if they are neighbors, you wave at them. Whether I was riding my bike to the covered bridge or mowing the front yard of the 7 acres we lived on, I waved whenever a car drove past. Most times, they also waved back. It is how I grew up. Although I knew most everyone I waved at, waving was one of those things you did 30+ years ago to give a greater feeling of community.

In my DFW neighborhood, some of that still remains, but not so much. When I first arrived here, about 5 years ago, I was much more likely to wave at a car passing by. If I was doing yard work, I considered it an obligation to give a friendly gesture to any passersby-whether they walked or they drove. As my months in Texas have elapsed, the likelihood of a returned wave seems all but reserved for neighbors who are standing in their yards. Nearly all cars driving by might get suspicious looks. The cars are either hired help for one of the neighbors OR they are guys in beater pickup trucks driving around on trash day looking for bargains in the “free” pilfering piles.

When I leave the neighborhood, there are a couple of neighbors who are still likely to extend a hand of friendship. In many cases, their waves are quicker then mine. One of those neighbors is also responsible for the neighborhood “fat camps”. Outside her garage, she has a heavy-duty kicking/punching bag. And, when she is able to draw in the “fatties” or “near-fatties” from the neighborhood, she takes her enrollees through her proven (?) routine. (She is fairly slender, so she does have some credibility.) My wife and I have seen her working 5-10 women in her driveway/garage or within a few blocks of her house. We have tried not to stare during the workouts. She doesn’t seem like she cuts corners for any of her victims.

With this background information, I now take you to us leaving church last Sunday. Not only do many churches have greeters, they also have people holding the door for you as you leave. Our neighborhood exercise junkie was manning (womaning?) the doors on that day. Not wanting to wait for the narrowing created by having only one door open (their were two doors), I went ahead and opened the other door and worked my way out. We had a brief conversation. I confirmed she was the “exercise lady”, and I mentioned to her how we have waved at each other a number of times. She didn’t deny it. But, she seems to be “old school” like I used to be. While my philosophy has deteriorated to the point of “only waving if recognized”, she still takes the much friendlier stance of, “wave and let God sort them out”.

I hope I can reboot my waving. Regardless of if someone knows me or not, I want people to see my smiling face and easy wave. (When I take my walks, I will often “dip” my head as an acknowledgement, but waving is almost unheard of.) I want them to see me and think, “What is different about him?” I have plenty of time to be stiff after I am dead. As long as I have the ability to move and engage in friendly gestures, I feel obligated to put forth a minimum effort of kindness. It doesn’t have to be as gregarious as a hug. It is a small effort to shrink the city down so it is more hospitable. For that moment when the gesture is exchanged, a community of two is just fine.

The Manly Panera

As I paid my weekly visit to a Panera, I turned my observational skills up to the highest level. I was nosier in my observing of the crowd than I normally am. From the start, it was quite clear this Panera was much more “man-centric” than the other ones I had visited. The tables of (mostly) men went something like this:

One gentlemen was a Kurt Vonnegut look alike (he looked like he was much more focused then me). He was focused on his computer. I think he was trying to make an Amazon purchase. No new novels seem likely….
One gentlemen seemed capable of studying (pastor) much more deeply than me-I saw him look up twice as his food was delivered and as an acquaintance said “hello”. As he stood up to leave, he probably played football/basketball in high school. Maybe he was a coach?
Two booths over two men were talking something spiritual (I heard “Holy Spirit”). As I focused all of my nosy skills into my hearing, I would guess one of them was very involved administratively with the Catholic or Episcopal church. As with most priest, they look like one of their spiritual gifts was accepting other people’s hospitality.
A VERY retired couple with walker and cane (he had a US Army hat on. I would guess WWII vet, but he told me Korea and Vietnam) enjoyed each other’s company. The husband was more mobile so he placed the orders, got the coffee refills, and still smiled as he awaited for every word his bride could offer. After I thanked him for his service, he did not hesitate to tell me what a great wife he had. How she held the family together while he was away. Brief words exchanged with her revealed she had a German (I think) accent.
There was a table of four guys (it seemed to be a rather fluid group. It was as large as 7 and as small as 2) who looked like all early retirees or soon-to-be with their newspapers and a constant hum of sports and current events. As the conversations warmed up and the wannabes left the table, the core group sounded more like a support group as they discussed work issues, including some problems with younger fellow employees.
Behind me a couple of tables, was a couple of guys who didn’t give me much to work with. As the one gentlemen picked his food up, he seemed to give me a rather stern look. Was I in his normal booth? Did he not like my t-shirt declaring myself as a visitor to the Grand Canyon?
The last table was the most interesting to me–a group of definite male retirees all listening intently to one another. Every corner of the table was filled! The only one who faced me directly was wearing an orange crocheted hat. (Kind of like a hybrid of the above.)

I considering discreetly (or indiscreetly) snapping a picture of the hat., but I could not image how the conversation would go if I felt compelled to ask. I didn’t want to pull him from his friends, and even though I did chat with him briefly, the “would you pose for a picture?” question never came up.

As I went for a refill, my muse also needed his coffee refilled as well.

Me: While backing away from the decaf coffee, “Sorry about that. Go ahead and jump in. I have what I need.”

Orange: “No problem. Whenever you are done is fine.”

Me: “Quite a hat you have there! Did your wife make it for you?”

Orange: “No, my daughter did.”

Me: “That looks like something my wife or daughter might make for me. It looks good on you.”

Orange: While failing to extricate his coffee cup from the dispenser and spilling coffee on the counter and the floor, “Whoops. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Me: “As long as it is your eyes. I was afraid when I got older I would lose the ability to pour coffee and talk at the same time.” I laughed a little and Orange joined in. (I figured a person wearing a hat like he was wearing MUST have a sense of humor!)

As I gathered napkins to clean up his mess, he wandered back to his seat. I let the management know about the mess while heading back to my booth.

The hats I found on-line are only a taste of what I really had the pleasure of seeing. While his hat had a brim, it was not a rigid brim. The brim seemed to droop slightly toward his nose. The rest of the hat could not properly hold a firmness usually associated with a hat. Due to yarns inability to effectively combat gravity, the hat seemed to sag in numerous places. The yarn, however, was quite adequate to provide a very attractive ball for the top. A different color of yarn may have given the hat a little more flair, but it was clear, the man wore it with pride.

While I admired his hat as I looked at it through the eyes of the women in my life, I now had an explanation why he could wear the hat with pride and no reservations. He loved the hands and the heart of the person who made the hat for him. And, his diminishing eye sight allowed him to spend over an hour at Panera confident he was the most stylish dresser there.

As I spoke to my daughter last night while we discussed an issue of incredible importance in her young mind, I made a similar comment of how age greatly fades the way we view people’s opinions. She is a mess about a few things, and I tried to convince her how 20-30 years from now the things she is all worked up about will not even be a second thought. She didn’t seem convinced. After seeing my orange-hatted friend, I believe I still have some additional learning to do. Maybe if I am really practicing what I preach, I will schedule the unveiling of my original orange hat for a special event sometime before retirement. Unless my family also embraces an attitude of “Who cares?”, this special event will have to be a solo one…

Blue Bow Mystery

As we began the final mile of our walk, we prepared to leave the established sidewalk and move into the less specific paths of the parking lot and park that would eventually lead us home. The final house to our right was adorned with two bows. It was not completely clear what their purpose was or why the mailbox and the light attached to the right of the front door needed one. The bow appeared to be made out of blue netting. At this point in observing, we were trying to mentally unknot the bundles lightweight material with the hope of developing a theory. Our first conjecture was a new baby had arrived for the family that lived there. (Blue was a pretty strong clue.) A secondary, although remote theory, involved their support for some cause I was not immediately aware of. Was there an edict out of Austin/Washington encouraging household to put blue ribbon-like knots in front yard to support the IRS or the EPA or Texas Independence? As we put the house further in our figurative rear view mirrors, our discussion wandered more towards the weekend and what would be on our plates at dinner time.

The next time I walked by, the same knotted loops were still there. The wind had ruffled them a little more, making there resemblance to bows less obvious. The city workers continued their construction on the updated flood drainage system. I cursed their construction equipment for temporarily excavating the area around my sidewalk and forcing me to detour through this part of the neighborhood. The wind-altered bows were nearly forgotten….

The other morning, as I approached the final stretch of the sidewalk and prepared to emerge out of the neighborhood, I came up on the house again. This time, a car was slowly heading toward the end of the street with no other destination available but the House of the Blue Knots. As they slowly turned into the driveway, I slowed my pace. (I am the type of person that assembles the entire contents of the shopping cart from Walmart of the person in front of me. After processing all of the information, I make a determination what the next 4 hours of their life might look like. What are they eating for dinner? Are they having a party? etc. Often I put a humorous twist on the basket just to make sure my kids/wife are listening.) As the elderly couple slowly got out of the car, I opted for slowing my pace rather than walking backwards while facing them. As the back door to the car opened, a medium wrapped gift filled the assumed grandparent hands. And, unless I have completely lost my grasp of the realities of being a parent, it was likely a couple of outfits that would either be worn only a couple of times because they were too dressy and too hard to put on OR an outfit that was destined to provide a supporting role to an overfilled diaper.

Should I have chosen to assume immediately the blue bow was performing its normal function, I probably would have been home a couple minutes earlier on that day. I would have thought about some “interesting” subject common to the mind of an adult. (If I had a normal mind, I might have more insight into what “normal” is like. I suppose it involves a mind that likes playing by the rules and accepting whatever role it is cast into. On the outside, I may accept this stereotype. Inside, I am searching for extra storage space to give my brain extra processing power without allowing my head to swell to substantially.) But, I rather fill my mind with how life is a mystery rather than how it is so mundane.

She Answered In French

As our exchange students move into the second half of their school year with us, I continue to be amazed! They may hop off of an international Skype call talking to their parents/friends, and be able to immediately switch to English to talk to us mono-lingual Americans. In my single language brain, I daily suffer from a bit of jealousy for those who can so easily slip between languages with barely a breath or pause. In my brain, all foreign phrases are tied to their American equivalent phrase. (The “How are you?” gate must be passed prior to me getting to “Como estas?”) As I watch our exchange students easily converse in both languages, I realize this is not a very effective filing system.

Of course, having two exchange students does give the opportunity to assess their individual language switching dexterity. While our Chinese exchange student truly does make the transition between English and Chinese seem nearly seamless, our Korean student has been known to have a slightly blank stare or give a generic, “That is an interesting thought.” when her brain does not effectively switch linguistic gears. Earlier this week, both of our exchange students [they share a room] failed to hear their alarm. As they got up late, their minds locked into the language of their dreams [I can only assume you dream in your native tongue.], and I was told both of them spoke excitedly in Chinese and Korean, respectively. (I am guessing things like, “Oh, my gosh! We are going to be late.” were uttered in the appropriate language.)

It is these events that lead to me recent mindset as I called a customer up today. I knew the customer was in Montreal, so I knew to expect a French accent. However, when I was greeted in French, my whole grasp of other languages seem to change. I believe I have grown callous (sort of) to easy switching between English and an Asian tongue. (Without regular contact with any other bilingual people, I kind of “forgot” some people are fluent in English and other European languages, too.) When I said, “I will be speaking in English.”, she quickly switched to English. As my language jealousies were rekindled, I tried to communicate effectively to her in English. Our exchange students have programmed me to speak more slowly when I hear an accent. And, I believe I was probably choosing words that I believed were on the elementary level rather than any more difficult words. Due to her role at this company, despite her accent, her English skills were likely immensely better than her accent would lend me to believe. I can only assume I didn’t score any points for Team USA by forcing her to listen to my pathetic attempts to communicate with someone who is practically genetically bi-lingual.

I wish I could say living with exchange students and talking to those with superior language skills has made me want to learn another language. Truth be told, I would like to learn another language–it is the work to acquire the new skill that seems to leave me committed to being a mono-lingual. When they come up with the USB drive that can plug into my skull OR if they can do a language download through hypnosis or something (the TV show “Chuck” on Netflix gives a view of this), I think I will be able to justify the work to go to bi-lingual and beyond. Until then, I will be the American who thinks he is communicating effectively by slowing pronouncing English words and throwing in a few hand motions when I believe they will add translation value.

Keeping The Shotgun Awake

It was a pleasant drive yesterday morning (This was originally written a couple days after Christmas.) as we headed out to Florida. (Pleasant assumes you believe good things can happen before 4:00.) After fighting the kids into the car, turning down the thermostats, and going back to the house for the inevitable “I forgot to go to the bathroom.” or “I forgot my contact solution.” etc, we were off. Once we cleared the worst of the vehicular stairsteps (i.e. north/south and east/west roads) to get the luggage-carrier enhanced van heading east on US 20, I slipped in and out of brief micro-naps until we hit the Louisiana border. (somewhere near 3 hours. It was somewhere between 7-8 at this point.) And, this is really where our adventure begins…

Just over the border (or border plus 20 miles), the dashboard trifecta occurred. I was awakened by an “Oh, no.” and us getting off the exit of a perfectly good road to find out our dashboard was lit up with 3 extra dashboard lights (engine light, VSC, & Trac-off). As my normally calm wife calmed down, I searched by phone for “sienna engine light on” and “sienna VSC light on”. The answers were not completely satisfying, (it could have been an o2 sensor OR it could have been as simple as the gas cap not being on tightly enough.) but having just taken the van in for a 100,000 mile physical at the dealership, I felt somewhat reassured that the van was not about to turn into a huge pile of scrap metal. Regardless, after a breakfast stop, I did earn the driver’s seat for what I anticipated to be just a couple of hours.

The dashboard “lights of doom” continued to stare back at me as the miles ticked by. As my “shotgun” (aka “wife”) fed me occasional directions, I just kept plowing on. I would sometimes hit the rumble strips on the side of the road as I was constantly checking all 3 mirrors for visibility. (Driving in the mini-van with our 4 bios and 2 exchange students made us a family of 8. There were no options to leave the rear-view mirror with clear visibility. Thus, all 3 mirrors were critical as my eyes were constantly checking one of hem..) And, when the windshield got too dirty or misted over, I would turn on the wipers. (The wipers never seemed to have enough moisture–they kept squeaking.) When I was thirsty and my navigator was not available, I would yell to the back to get me a water. And, when I saw hunter’s dragging a deer from the woods to their car, I had to tell someone what I saw. (I was informed later how hard all of my actions made it to sleep.)

As the first tank headed toward fumes, we found a much needed gas station, but we filled up and emptied the end of our digestive tracks on the eastern side of Mississippi. We got all of our packed lunch items (my daughter made me an excellent sandwich of ham, cheese, lettuce and cilantro the night before.) out and I settled in for another period of unknown length in the driver seat. The unexciting “Welcome to Alabama” sign greeted us as we dreaded any extended driving on a 2-lane road. (It is hard to believe driving from Texas to Disney involves driving 20+ miles on 2 lane roads and quite a bit of small town and city driving. Maybe Disney ought to pay for road improvements on all of the many roads leading to their Magic Kingdom.)[On the way back, we went a different set of roads where it was almost entirely 4 lane or more. Despite these improvements, the deep south is not racing to become “super” accessible.]

After crossing the long bridge south of Mobile, I (yes, I am still driving. And, yes, the dashboard lights are still bright. At one point, I mentioned to my wife maybe she should find a Toyota dealership near our condo in Orlando. I could try and take the car first thing in the morning to get the lights tested and see if it was a ghost or a REAL problem. Somehow she never got to far with this project. She took a picture of me driving and posted it on Facebook[see above] and she opened about every app on my phone while she was playing.) the Florida panhandle awaited. If one is not aware, it is nearly 275 miles from the beginning of the panhandle to I-75. I set goals of driving 50 miles, then 100, then 200 miles of this distance. The distance kept increasing because the cities were not coming up anywhere near the desired mileage goals.

As I completed my second tank of gas behind the wheel, we confirmed the next exit would bring a gas station and a couple of candidates for dinner. (I have called Mickey D’s “Yech-donalds” for years.) As we settled in after the fill-up and after the obligatory evening meal demanding by all growing children was purchased, I hopped in the passenger seat to rest my weary body. My wife hopped behind the wheel and got us back heading to US-75.

We hadn’t driven too many miles before I realized all of the lights that had been on the WHOLE time I was driving were now out. Either the gas cap miraculously tightened itself, the car used a seldom used “self heal” feature OR the van was ready again for a woman’s touch. Whatever the cause of our now “perfect” looking dash, I was grateful for the van seemingly affirming my driving time was “up”.

Not A Morning Person

As I awoke today to a recently absent sun (I did get up before sunrise, but all indications were it was coming), I was thrilled to see the blue near-cloudless sky. It made it easy to believe the weatherman was succumbing to the pressure of those in DFW not familiar with multiple back-to-back cloudy days. His forecast seemed to be anticipating the reality that would be my day–SUN!!

I fired up the school “bus” and dropped the girls off to school. Even though the temperature was still in the 30’s the blue skies and the emerging sun seemed to add at least 10 degrees to the temperature. As the sun continued his ascension, I needed to run a mid-morning errand. It was hard not to wear a smile and bask in the gift of the temperature-rising orb that finally accepted our daily invitation to visit. My final errand was going to Sprout’s for a couple of bulk items and vegetables.

As I was preparing to check out, the register operator seemed less than enthusiastic to be there. She had a stud on her upper lip, and her whole body hinted (actually, it screamed), “I am not a morning person.” We maintained a simple dialogue.

She asked, “Did you find everything?”
I replied, trying to contrast her rather low volume, low interest voice, “When the sun came out today, everything else was a bonus!”
“Your total is $12.76.”, she said as she continued to replay the mental script all good cashiers are trained on.
“The card is swiped. Not enough to sign for. Looks like I am all set.”, I continued with a slightly upbeat tone. I didn’t want my tone to be too glaringly cheerful and hurt her apparently overwhelmed head.
She forced a smile as she handed me my receipt. “Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“I will. You enjoy yours, too.”, I replied as I anticipated seeing the sun and feeling the sunlight again in a few moments.

Maybe I am too old to be so cheered by the sun. And, maybe I just need to do the self-checkout so I don’t force anyone to engage in dialogue with a “happy” person. If the purpose of some of my errands is to pull a small smile from a slightly bored employee, I am okay with that. And, if I encounter a cashier who is a morning person, then the “good feelings” from the conversation can be banked for the next time I find someone who is not a morning person….sometimes I am not one either.

820 Express Joy Ride

After coming off of almost 4 years of construction (ever since we moved to Texas), it would seem almost “whiny” to find fault with the “school taxi” route being reduced by 5-10 minutes both ways. Of course, categorizing this as an observation clears my conscience and allows me to do the retelling…

The closest highway to our house is due south. It is “820”. It is an outerbelt to Fort Worth. Just to the east to southeast of us are a couple of more well-traveled highways. And, to the west, there is US 35. (US 35 is a slightly messed up highway. It “splits” north of DFW and reunites south of DFW north of Waco. This allows directions containing “Go north on 35W off of 820W”) The story I heard is when “the really smart highway engineers” realized all of these highways were generating more traffic than could reasonably be handled by the existing structure, somebody came up with a rather unique plan. Since we have quite a few toll roads in Texas-even though some of them are lightly used, “the really smart cheapskates who make decisions on how to pay for highways” decided they would allow someone (enter a rich guy from the Middle East-remember, I am not researching this-it is what I was told) to pay for the construction of this new road. Fortunately, due to the incredible volume of traffic, “the people in Austin who have a conscience” would not allow the road to become a toll road with no alternatives. They chose to split the difference. They created a “normal” chunk of 820 (speed limit 60 mph), and they created a chunk of 820 (and points slightly east) where there is a toll with a speed limit of 70 mph. (Having a toll card makes the pain minimal.) “The people who sucked in an investor to this unique project” did give him/her (“the person/company who needed to spend lots of money on a project where they may never get a return on their money”) a concession. Not only did “the greedy investor” get a toll road, but they got a road with varying tolls. I have seen the tolls as low as $0.25 and as high as $3.25. It varies on time of day and how thick the traffic is at that particular moment.

My adventure occurred yesterday morning. It was a thick foggy day with visibility of less than 1/2 a mile. After dropping off the girls at school, I began the normal 7:30ish route home. Due to the visibility or the novelty of fog or the arrogance of some over-zealous Texas driver, my normal, non-toll route was WAY backed up. I detoured to the access road (This is also a phenomenon in Texas. I was not aware of “access roads” in Ohio. Essentially, it is a road that runs parallel to many of the highways. It allows a driver to get on the highway from the access road without having to enter an entrance ramp from a complete stop. It also allows many addresses to incorporate the names of the highways. An address like, “8200 820E” might be a completely valid address.) to avoid sitting in traffic for any extended time. At the next intersection, I could make a turn to the left or right OR I could go straight before choosing to take the left or right fork – one to the “normal” 820 and one to the “toll” 820. Unfortunately, I chose left. (I should have known left was the toll because on the highway the toll road is situated inside of the normal road.) I endured a near traffic free journey to the next exit. (This exit was past my normal exit. The “express” did not allow me to get off where I wanted, but it was close…) The rest of my journey home was uneventful.

As I dropped off the girls today, there was minimum fog and light traffic on the normal route home. When I drove by the sign where my toll would have been displayed yesterday, the same “detour” today would have cost me $1.40. I have convinced myself I would have sat in traffic for a considerable amount of time if I did not take my “joy ride”, so it is obviously money well spent!

Leaf Swishing Memories

It was rather a cold day yesterday for yet another one of “our” walks together. The construction along the normal path forced us to take our “old” normal walk, but we were both fine with that. It gave us the chance to walk side-by-side and get caught up on the “House of the Month” and the day. (Spouses are supposed to do that.)

The cold weekend had made most of the trees decide the leaves were optional attire. Many of the oaks were still maintaining some modesty. As winter progressed they would also shed their old clothing in anticipation of the new clothes awaiting them in the spring. And, it was these old clothes covering many of the sidewalks that gave my wife and I much pleasure.

One of the earliest dates I can remember was a walk through my wife’s neighborhood. It was just after a brief rain. Because I was still more boy than man (I likely still fit that description in most categories), I found humor in grabbing the trees lower branches and shaking them as we passed under the low hanging limbs. Granted, I may have gotten a little wet as well, but my future wife did take the brunt of the trees premature shedding of the accumulated rain.

Today’s walking date had leaves that were not going to be holding any rain for young lovers to shake onto each other’s heads. The leaves were mostly all spread out on the sidewalk. They were content to sit idly by awaiting any slight breeze. Or, they were content to lay their all snug with their kindred who had enjoyed a season together enjoying the blue Texas sky. As we walked through the older congregants of St Oak, the leaves swished together to remind us they were there. In our wake, they whispered their concerns until the motion of our footsteps was a memory.

As we walked through more seasoned piles of leaves, we enjoyed the special earthy smell reserved for dampened leaves. Some of the leaves decided to rustle together, appearing to have slightly more disagreement about the their present roles. If they were to far gone to rustle or less trusting of the pedestrians determined to disrupt their retirement, the leaves may have yielded an occasional crunch as a secret stash of acorns was revealed.

As we neared the end of the walking route, we knew it was not the leaves or the breeze or the mistletoe (Yes, we are not too old to notice) growing in many of the trees that took us out on this post-dinner walk. It was time to enjoy each others company without having to share each other with those we had left at home to clean up the dishes. It was time to realize and remember the commitments made and the life shared. And, it was time to burn a few of the extra carbs eaten during dinner….

Walking Disaster

Both my wife and I were working from home today. Her day is usually filled with meetings, but sometimes, as in today, she gets an hour or so gap. Today, she had a 1 1/2 hour gap between meetings, so we knew we could take on virtually anything our construction-laden walk might throw at us. Our confusion with a solar powered sign announcing “Expect Delays” over the past week led to our downfall…..

Our normal (this is normal since about 3 -4 weeks ago) walk takes us on the new paths completed by our city, through a couple of neighborhood, beside a couple of softball fields as we wind through a park, along a well-shaded train track and down a non-sidewalked road with fairly low traffic. We were aware the beginning part of our path might have an obstacle, so we were not surprised when within the first 10 minutes we had to backtrack. As we navigated some unfamiliar streets to get to the main road, we chose to go toward a possible rendezvous point with our “normal walk” at a point south of the construction zone.

Me: You certainly do appreciate sidewalks when you don’t have them.
Wife: I knew there was no sidewalks here. The traffic is much louder off of the main road.
Me: All of the noise saves you from engaging in frivolous conversations with your husband. (I have to say this while turning my head because of the extreme noise coming off of the cars speeding by.)
Wife: You are not frivolous. You are the most serious walker I know.

After enduring the noise and near conversation vacuum, we made a right to pick up our “normal trail”. We cursed our luck as we could nearly see the northern point of the path closure. (Throwing gravel at the southern point seemed juvenile. It was only this fact that prevented me from acting on my whim.) As we rejoined our path, we checked our time. We both felt confident my wife could still make her conference call. Due to familiarity, our legs went into auto-pilot. Our conversation was sparse but consistent until we came to the point where we left the railroad tracks behind and headed north. I suppose we were grateful the “Road Closed” sign and related paraphernalia was visible from the tracks. However, the “returning home in time for the conference call” issue was now seriously in question. My wife chose to continue west rather than bungying back home.

Knowing we needed to push ourselves, I became the pace mule. Conversation was more scant than before as we seldom walked side by side. I continued to try and maintain a good pace whether we were within talking-range or a few yards apart. As the sidewalk ended and we began heading north again, we rapidly passed businesses and woods while sidewalk were available, but mostly optional. (The recently expired fox was a slight distraction.) Eventually, we were able to go briefly east and catch a side road that also went north. The sidewalk were consistent and we were close enough together to comment on some of the “over the top” Christmas light displays. As we neared a “branch” that would allow us to reattach to our “normal path”, the clock became an even bigger enemy.

My wife cut all corners possible. The neighborhood did not allow for much “corner-cutting”. She saved all of the cutting for the park. She hopped guard rails and ignored barriers that would have previously limited our path on normal days. (We had to go cross country at the park because of another construction zone. Our desired path was right on the other side of equipment and a large pile of broken concrete, dirt, and recently sacrificed flora.) As we rounded a corner and came upon the playground area, a young couple who were walking their dog parted after apparently having their innocent kiss now classifed as “PDA” due to our appearaance.

As we again were able to place our feet on our elusive “normal” path, we noted how my wife would be about 10 minutes late for her meeting. Her 10 minute delay was not wasted. All of our winding and pushing and navigating resulted in a walk totaling 5 – 6 miles. It was not the first time we had taken a walk of this length. Fortunately, it was a rather cool day, or the walking disaster would also have been a dehydration nightmare!

Maturity Regression

After my youngest son graduated from high school in the spring, he had a great summer of semi-transitioning into adulthood. He worked many hours at Chick-Fil-A, and he was a responsible social creature. He did stay up too late more nights than not, but he did seem to be on a declining video game schedule.

When he started at college in the fall (really not even late summer), he seemed to find his college stride. He only visited home a couple of times. He complained about the food in the cafeteria almost every chance he could. He had a couple of missteps with his assignments and with the colleges curfew policy, but despite his frustration, he worked to resolve the problems in a mature way with only enough pain to remind him not to do it the next time. He got involved in extracurricular activities which limited his opportunity to make bad decisions. In summary, he spared us the challenge of helping him solve problems from 3 1/2 hours away.

Unfortunately, while he was home for Thanksgiving, I realized there was still quite a bit of boy in there. Two days before he was coming home, he called me asking if I would transfer money from his saving to his checking account. He wanted to pull money out of an ATM to buy someone’s lightly used Nintendo DS (newest model I think). Since he had been good this quarter, I agreed. After he got home, he seemed to spend a good bit of his time with his computer. He was playing RuneScape. (He did do other social things, but I rapidly was becoming convinced he was not letting the influence of the other students in the honor dorm break him of all of his habits.) Lastly, him and his brother went out and did some “Black Thanksgiving” shopping Thursday night. He did buy some Christmas gifts for others, but he also purchased himself a new game. And, he went to GameStop on Black Friday and bought even more stuff.

As I look back, I can’t help but believe this bit of regression is rather normal. After taking almost exclusive responsibility for himself AND his laundry for a few months, it is so easy to fall into your old behaviors. Although we would likely still recognize his more mature self, it is comforting to see him regress just a little bit. And, as much as I would like to see the mature young man who calls us about once a week from school, all regressing is acceptable….as long as the report card confirms he is as mature as we think!

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy