Observations

Toad-a-palooza

Fall is in the air, and toads are making frequent appearances in my life–many of them as some form of carbon-based pancake along the paths where my life leads.

  • Baby toad at front door squashed by my son coming home from work.  Oh, those steel-toed shoes
  • Road crunchings- These are far more frequent then I care to reveal.  I don’t know if the toads get extra tubby this time of year as they prepare for hibernation.  It seems a primary place for the pancakes is right along the curb.  Could it be their failure to clear the curb leads to their ultimate demise?
  • Walk/bike path splattering.  Unfortunately, it looked like some of the toads met their demise as an intentional effort of an angry bicyclist.  If not a bicyclist, possibly a pedestrian like myself with a lack of compassion for one of his fellow vertebrates.
  • One along the path I nudged into the grass with the hope he vacated the area before the mower came through the next day
  • One who chose to swim a couple of laps in our pool.  Guessing salt water pools are better than chlorine pools.  My daughter nearly fell in trying to fish him out with the net.  He seemed content to do laps back and forth to avoid the net and lure her every closer to the point of tipping in.

Toad-sympathy is probably just a by-product of the window wells at my house growing up.  A house in the woods, by definition, is likely to having many leaves in the fall.  Our house was no exception.  In the winter, many of these leaves decomposed in varying degrees in this slightly warmer part of an otherwise cold world.  In the spring and summer, we would handle the toads and refer to them as pets.  We never took it personally when they had the need to relieve their bladders.  We expected it and usually had their posteriors pointed away from us.

Some people probably like the more conventional “pets” of cats and dogs.  While we had those growing up too, there is something about a toad that makes them more interesting.  Whether it is the hibernating or the whole amphibious life cycle, I can’t help but look at a toad (or frog or salamander) without smiling.  God plays a part in all of us making it to adulthood.  To me it just seems more miraculous when one of our warty friends overcomes life’s obstacles and does the same.

Fall Is In The Air…

As the first week of fall arrives in north Texas (technically, has been fall for a couple of weeks), a few things happen to affirm its arrival:

  • The skimmers start getting full more quickly from leaves in the swimming pool
  • The windows can stay open while the air conditioners get a much needed rest
  • The desire to move plants around in the flower beds (or create new flower beds) comes into complete fruition, AND
  • The tire gauge light lights up on the dashboard….

I suppose it is just part of the chemistry of molecules becoming more compressed as they cool, but it affects my Saturday morning in a very real way.  As I planned my landscaping errand, I made sure I would pass a gas station with a functioning air tank.  Fortunately, DFW is full of many such gas stations.  With my route barely altered, I came up on my gas station and pump to find out someone else had beaten me there.  I pulled up next to the curb to place my car next in line.  Then, I parked myself at the pump with a finger ready to press the button at the moment the pump shut off.  With the help of a couple of my finger taps AND help unrolling the hose from the reel more efficiently, my predecessor was able to get on his way more quickly.  He may have also grunted a couple of “thank yous” and agreed with me how we were men of action to attack this low pressure issue so immediately.

My “filling of the tires” went pretty well.  I had no hose/button guy.  Despite this delay and the yanking off of the hubcaps (they seem to fit too snugly to allow the hose to properly access the tire nozzle), I was able to accomplish my task.  (I have bought an extra set of hubcaps on eBay.  I have lost a couple because I felt I could properly snug them on while at the gas station.  Deciding to not risk the frustration with myself, I threw them in the back of the van.  They were pounded back on the tires when I got back from the plant store.)  As I was finishing the last tire and reattaching the screw-on nozzle covers, another car got in line behind the other car that was waiting.  (When the car behind me showed up, I used sign language to let him know I was next.  Based on this evolving hierarchy, I believed the new seeker-of-the-air would also play by our established rules.)  As I backed out to “hand off the hose”, I swung the car around in such a way the “new” arrival would be screened out from jumping ahead of the other guy.  I just believed it was right and felt no guilt in it.

Now, with the tires filled, I again parked and sought my “black mango tea” companion for the drive to the nursery.  With the tea pot empty and a wait of 2+ minutes ahead of me, I resolved to not volunteer to pay for a tea I had to wait for.  (There policy is, “If it is not ready, you don’t pay for it.”)  With my cup full of tea and no room for negotiation on my face, I easily convinced the checkout clerk of my need for a free drink.

With my companion in the car drink holder and my dash now free of the annoying light (I am discounting the now present oil change light while writing this), I went on to purchase heavily discounted plants for heavily shaded areas of my backyard.  The goal, of course, to create a small sanctuary from the world for every season AND to give the writer something to do outside of the house so he doesn’t have his family members ask him to go on a walk.

Acorn Woman

In our neighborhood, we have the usual mix of characters.  We have the dog walkers, and we have the “I don’t care if he goes in your yard I am not cleaning it up.” dog people.  We have the exercise club and those who don’t seem to be very mobile-they sit on their back porch and watch the longhorns grazing in the field behind their house.  We have the night before trash bags and the “Isn’t there another trash day later in the week, so what if the trash bags sit out their a couple of extra day” bags.  We have those who insist on using the yard waste bags even though it is not required, and we have those who seem to be replacing everything in their house except the kitchen sink every week–they always have 5+ bags for the trash guys to haul off.

And, then we have the acorn lady….  She is friendly.  She is very committed to her task.  The question is what truly is her task.  Some days she will walk with a focus on completing her walk.  While other days, I have seen her stopped along the sidewalk loading up her pockets with borrowed squirrel food.  (If our yard is any indication, she seemed to have no shortage of acorns to “borrow” this past year–our yard is still overpopulated with LOTS of trees-in-waiting.)  One recent morning, she was seen slowly meandering down the sidewalk with frequent sideways glances into the flower beds along the sidewalk.  I was not close enough to see what drew her attention, but I know she was not moving quickly enough to pick up stray lizards wandering in the yard.

Our most popular theory is she has some form of dementia.   One day we saw her 3 different times during the course of the day.  Our dementia theory has her taking her daily walk until her dementia gives her a moment of clarity and she remembers where she lives.  While our first encounter of the day may have her constantly looking downward for those little oak-child fascinations, our later encounter may find us greeted by a glowing smile. Rarely will you see a person with a more enthusiastic smile.  She is not a good one to ask about her t-shirt or her appearance. However, if you want someone to look like they are really glad to see you, she is someone to place on your list.

I don’t know where my mind will go in my golden years.  Wherever it goes, I hope the worst place it goes is to a happy place—-a place where smiles are easy and the things I collect are always abundantly available.

High Velocity Ketchup

I think the mother was doing a great job!!  She had her 3 children following her and the tray of Happy Meals to their seat.  The twin girls and brother (they could have been triplets….they were all that close in age) sat at the circular table waiting for their specific Happy Meals to be placed in front of their smiling, happy faces.  The first delivery hit a snag when a cheeseburger appeared where a plain hamburger was expected.

With the rest of the Happy Meals being passed out without any problems, “mom” prepared the kids to sit still while she went and exchanged the faulty hamburger.  (I was prepared to jump in, but people with kids are wary of strangers volunteering to help them with their precious kids…)  Before mom got to far into her “be good for just a minute” speech, the male member of the party decided to go for some attention.

Twin#1:  Waaaa!

Mom:  What is it?  What happened?

Twin#1:  He got ketchup in my eye.

Mom: Looking at son, “You don’t even like ketchup.  What were you doing playing with the ketchup?  Gimme that ketchup.”  Looking at daughter, “It was just ketchup.  It is not worth getting that upset about.”

After she returned with the hamburger defrocked of its cheese, my fellow Mickey D-ites pretty much kept to themselves….almost.  As I was preparing to put my laptop back in its case, I noticed a ketchup looking substance on the top of the case.  And, the table top by my case had a few splotches of ketchup as well.  They were easily dabbed up with a napkin.  But, their presence set me to wondering…

The table with the triplets (or twins plus one) was probably 8-10 feet from me.  For the little ketchup packet to spit out its contents with enough velocity to reach my table, it would likely have stung someone pretty well if it hit them in the face with the rest of the “spit” heading to my table.  Obviously, I felt a little more sympathy for the ketchup-welted daughter.  And, mom gets some sympathy, too.  A son doesn’t stand a chance when he has two sisters right near his age.  He likely made a habit of dispensing some creative justice as he attempted to get some attention–any type of attention.   Likely, one or both of the girls were also very good at making sure he got away with little—aren’t family dynamics fun?

 

Old People Sunday School

After foregoing Sunday School (aka Adult Bible Class) for over a year, we finally decided to try and get in the habit again.  My daughters get “credit” for attending both church and Sunday School as part of their Christian School education, so rather than play hooky while the other mature adults gathered in their weekly groups, we decided to test the waters and join them.

As we wandered the halls seeking guidance and direction for which class to attend, we stumbled across a man who gave us some clarity.  The “portable Adult Bible Class Information desk” informed us, “This class is 30’s to 50’s.  The other class is 30’s on up.”  For some reason, we felt in an “on up” mood, so we chose to walk through the doors of this classroom.

My immediate reaction was not positive.  As my eyes did a first sweep of the crowd, I believe gray dominated every head of hair in the audience.  Additional sweeps found exceptions, but there were not many.  As we found our seats and avoided the walkers and canes, members of the class were giving their prayer requests.  In our past life, prayer requests were about aging parents and wayward children.  Most of today’s prayer requests were about hip replacements and grandchildren on mission trips.  Certainly, all prayer requests are valid.  None of the prayer requests allowed my eyes to filter out any of the gray they had already seen.

As the time to teach began, I was prepared to have the theme repeat itself.  I was ready to see old, tired people stand up front and give an obligatory lesson with a much less than inspiring message.  Fortunately, I was very disappointed.  The first person stood behind the lectern and attached his headset.  He immediately introduced his “team teacher” for the day.  The next 45 or so minutes was an interactive dialogue with good comments from the crowd.  The team teachers took enough shots at eat other to keep both the crowd interested and God happy.  

As my wife and I left, we had a nice conversation with an older couple.  (It was really all that was available.)  They let us know this was a “normal” week.  When we walked out the door, I let the primary teacher know I enjoyed it.  

Maybe we will or maybe we won’t attend this class again next week.  If we don’t, it is only because we are curious what the other classes do.  It has nothing to do with the age demographic or the amount of gray hair in the audience.  Bible Class is about studying the Bible.  If  you want to hang out with people your own age, you can go to your job or the rec center.  If you want to appreciate the book that your faith is based upon, older people are likely wiser than you and if there hearing aid is turned up, you can have a conversation! 😉

Sagging Tattoos

Disclaimer:  I do NOT have tattoos.  I have no regrets for never having a tattoo.  I am fine with others having tattoos.  I fight the stereotypes that clutter my mind as I try to filter out the tattoos and see the person and NOT just them as a canvas with a desire to flaunt their tattoos and acquire more tattoos.

On my walk today, I passed a woman in a short sleeve shirt in her early 70’s walking her dog.  Until I passed her, I was merely working on staying out of the way of her dog.  As I passed her, I realized both arms were tattooed.  As bright and vibrant as the tattoos may have looked when they were brought to life, they now sat on a canvas not pulled quite as tightly as it once was.  As the walk progressed, I continued to ponder the idea of tattoo counseling.

Should those who get tattoos be reminded they are not of the henna variety?  (Maybe they are given more counseling than reality TV makes me aware of.) The needle pricks and the injection of ink (whatever that feels like) should be a strong indication of the permanence of the decision.  The likely attire, tattooedness, and piercings of the person sitting next to them with a book of tattoo ideas might also be a clue.

As with all life decisions, some are easier to forget and appear innocent.  Others, as in the case of tattoos, are going to follow you through life UNLESS you choose to have them removed at an additional cost.  My advice: Save your money and buy a few books.  It takes awhile longer to read a book then to get a tattoo, but when it is done you can know secretly you are a wiser, and probably richer (unless they are professional athletes), person than those whose can measure their tattoos by the square foot.

Old Man Rush

As I was driving home after picking my daughters up from a end of summer party, I was feeling pretty good about what I accomplished today.  I noticed some interesting license plates and complimenting myself on my good driving.  (My daughters were busy reading so somebody had to.)  When we got to within a couple traffic lights of the house, the right lane was merger over.  And, this is where the contrast between “old man” and young, aggressive driver became clear.

As I projected onto the driver behind me and how I would my handle the situation, I anticipated the driver doing the necessary mental calculations and deciding his best path was easing his car into the middle lane (my lane) before the merger took place.  So much for projecting!  As the road sign screamed “MERGE” and the cones echoed merger, the car to my right kept speeding up.  Knowing the speed limit, I knew I could bump up my speed a little more to teach this young whipper-snapper a lesson.  As the cones began to squeeze the driver into the center lane, the trickle of “I-must-conquer-juice” in my system was completely exhausted.  I had to be content blowing on my horn for what seemed like a really long time (likely just a second or so).  No birds flew, and based on the other driver’s lack of hesitation when he had to decide on pushing the accelerator, he probably didn’t even use a small portion of his available testosterone.

All parties survived without any scratches being administered.  This incident only confirmed what many previous events implied–I am not meant to play chicken.  It may be fun to pretend how you would handle “chicken” should you agree to participate, but when it is thrust upon you, I will choose the horn over the accelerator any time.

The Family Reunion

At the very beginning of our 5 weeks vacationing out of our present home state of Texas, we had a family reunion.  I am sure my family reunion is just like everyone else family reunion:

  • There was the cousin recovering from cancer.  (He had no hair, but his smile was still familiar.)
  • There was the token cousin from each family of cousins who graduated from college.  (Some families maybe have a higher concentration here.  In our family, the farmers and assorted other blue collar workers outnumber the graduates.  And, if you throw in Bachelor+ degrees, the numbers dwindle even more.)
  • There was the beloved family who lost an adult son a few years ago.  You know they hurt even still.  There smiles, however, don’t give them away.
  • The kids of cousins (are those second cousins?) who are way taller than they were when I saw them 5 years ago.
  • The young cousin/2nd-cousin with a health condition.  His health condition gives us a more accepting attitude of his behavior.
  • A large sheet cake is brought out in celebration of a birthday, anniversary, or some other milestone of significance.
  • The mix of German and other ethnic food for the potluck.  Many of the dishes brought currently are usually much better for you, much more colorful, and capable of generating extending conversations about how it was made or what potluck it was taken to last OR how it resembles something that used to be a potluck staple.
  • The cousin who runs his mouth without thinking hoping he doesn’t completely inhale his foot and develop a full gag reflex. (Me.)

After doing a little “visiting” with old friends at the church I grew up in, my family arrived late at the converted parsonage where the reunion was taking place.  (It used to be for the pastor and family to live, but now it is just a place with LOTS of first floor rooms and a kitchen.  It must be rent-able pretty inexpensively.)  One of the first people I encountered was a cousin a couple of years older than me.  We reminisced briefly.  Did a little update, and got in line for “firsts” before the earlier diners got seconds.

I continued to wander from groups to individuals for the rest of the afternoon – attempting to avoid the least favorite (or attempting to have an excuse built in before the conversation started to virtually guarantee its brevity.) and orchestrating the conversations with others so I could enjoy their wit or possibly their sage-wisdom for the last time.  I visited my father’s grave at the church cemetery and refrained from planking on his tombstone.

As the pictures (my branch of the family one for most in attendance) wound down and the farmers needed to get back for “milking”, the cars cleared from the parking lot.  As I went into the house to gather our cooler and potluck item (Since we flew in, I think our dish may have been more like a “bag or two”.), I bumped into the cousin I chatted with earlier.  This conversation went something like this….

Me:  Everybody is leaving and we really didn’t get to talk that much.

Cousin:  We did get to talk when you first came in.

Me:  You talk so slow, we really didn’t get to say much.

Cousins wife:  (Gives me dirty look.)

My wife:  (Says some random thing to change the subject)

Me: Well, some things never change.  My mouth is still trying to lead my brain.

Although there was nearly five weeks of traveling that followed this reunion, the next couple of days I was feeling the guilt.  This cousin is so laid back, while I am the type of person who often finishes sentences for people and talks over them.  I am barely house trained let alone capable of navigating the many pitfalls that occur every time I open my mouth.  When the apple fell from the tree, I must have been crawling underneath it while a whole bushel fell on top of me.

So, if you were the cousin in this conversation (or one of the other cousins or friends or coworkers or people I entered into a discussion with while at an amusement park or while checking out at a grocery store), please accept my sincere apology.

…And For Your Dog?

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While have a little lunch date with my wife yesterday (it was a Saturday and all of the kids were either working or at the mall), we has an unusual experience.  We walked up to the host, and he seated us like he always does.  After we were seated, we started taking in our surroundings.  Since the Mexican restaurant was not very crowded, it did not take us long to identify our canine companion.  He was sitting nicely by his mistress in their booth.  (The husband was sitting across from her….she didn’t embark on this little adventure by herself.)

My mind was not very interested in the happenings in our shared lives, so the dog did help us to occupy the lulls in our conversations:

“What would the health inspector do if he saw that.”

“She probably does not get out that much.  She sees nothing wrong with it.”

“Maybe she is such a hoarder the dog has no where to sit down at their house.”

“What if he has fleas or something?” (After they left, we were tempted to tell the 4 Hispanic laborers who next sat in the booth.)

“Does nobody else notice?  Does every one notice but are pretending they don’t?”

“Before we leave I am going to say something to the manager!”  (While this embarrassed me a bit when she said it, it did seem like the right thing to do.)

After the dog and his accomplishes left, my wife did ask to see the manager.  I felt badly for the server.  He did oblige.  The manager was at our table quickly.

She started, “Did you know the dog was in here?  Certainly that is not a normal thing!”

Sheepishly, the manager replied, “We were just talking about that.  We have never had to put a sign at the door about dogs.  I guess we will need too.  When they came in, the host told me he did not see a dog.  They must have brought the dog in inside her bag.  Then when they sat down, they got it out of the bag.”

Reaching a bit, but still giving him an excuse to comp our meal if he wanted, “Good thing the health inspector did not come in today.”

He apologized again while not responded to my nightmare possibility.

As the pictures shows, the boldness in carrying the dog out as she did when leaving seemed to be flaunting her sin.  She seemed to be completely comfortable carrying her dog out of a dining area he will never see again.  (I am saying this assuming the manager follows thru and installs the sign he said he would.)  If I were more a dog person, I could easily accept the theory, “It is just like a kid to her.  She meant nothing wrong.”  Short of mental illness, civilized society knows pets don’t eat where other people do.  Should she choose carryout every day of the week and dine with her faithful canine by her side, I would have no problems.  Short of going to a picnic outside, I choose not share my air or table scraps with anything commonly found on a leash.  Dine hardy, but leave your pets at home.

Breaking in the New Neighbor

(Guest blogger – written by our new neighbor that just moved in a little over a month ago.)

It is great to have our own place again after living in an apartment waiting for the right house to come along.  After we found the right house, the 4 months to get the financing lined up was a little excessive.  Despite that, we are in the house now and it is great!

My mother finally has the room she needs.  There is a covered back patio and a covered area to the left of the front door.  It is a perfect area for her to smoke.  Since they are covered, I don’t feel as badly making her smoke outside.  I realize we have one neighbor to our north who may have smoke blow into their yard and patio.  With the fence between us, at most it is 5th or 6th hand smoke.  And, they haven’t complained, so it must not be bothering them.

It is also great to have the pool out back.  It has not been warm enough to use the hot tub.  This is unfortunate.  We still like to be outside whenever we can.  The neighbor to the north is pretty quiet, so we consider it our responsibility to bring a little life to this end of the street.  Since I work out of the house and my mother is there with me, we enjoy being in the back yard and talking loudly and freely.  We can talk about guns in our purses and the impact of age on our bodies as if we are in a confessional–no one but those on our side of the fence to worry about.

My mom’s dog is a little deaf, but his nose still works fine. The walking path that runs behind the house keeps his sniffer working pretty hard–as long as it is not raining.  As he has gotten older, he seems to like other dogs even less.  He barks at nearly every dog and owner walking along the path.  Usually, my dog joins in and gets every dog within a 100 yards excited as well.  The neighbors to the north are usually so quiet.  I don’t even think they are around to hear all of the noise we have added to this corner of the subdivision.

Overall, the new place is working out.  It was worth the wait.  I am afraid to ask the next door neighbor if we are louder than the previous owner of the house.  They wave nicely and seem to be fine.  But, if I ask the  question, I don’t know them well enough to know how honest they might be.  We do like to talk, and we prefer loudly.  So, I will probably just continue with the wave and pleasant “Hellos”.  Anything more than that, and I might get more than I bargained for.  At least I don’t have a neighbor on the other side.  I am only at risk of raising the decibel level for one immediate neighbor.  I bought the house, so a family has to live!