Regular Life

She looked me right in the eye, and then gave me the milk for free.

I sit typing as my wife guides the minivan south on I-30 west. I know, I know. Don’t ask. If you’re that concerned, then look at a map, just south of Denny’s in Texarkana.

It’s pretty hard to think right now, with Garth Brooks and my wife belting out “Santa Looked a Lot Like Daddy.” Here’s our Christmas weekend wrap-up. I’ll try to cut out the boring parts.

No Spectacle Through These Spectacles

Christmas with my side of the family went smoother than usual. I don’t mean to imply we have high drama — far from it. Our family is more the type to let things seep through the communication lines slowly, so that everybody learns news through diffusion. No, I do not mean osmosis. That only happens with water, but don’t get me started on the mis-use of that word. My family is a great group of people I’d be glad to know. Wait, that didn’t sound quite right. I meant, I’m glad to know them.

We tried something new to us, a “Dirty Santa” gift exchange. Usually I hate those, because inevitably some of the items are joke gifts that nobody wants. Nobody went that route this time, though, so it was a lot of fun.

A Cunning Hat

Back at My Folks’ house, my dad and I took Ben for a walk. Ben wore a Christmas gift that stirred the nerd in me. Ugh. Stirred the nerd. Stirred the nerd. Sounds funny and oddly demonic. The hat went all the way to his neck in the back, and stopped right at his brow in the front. My favorite features were the flaps that covered his ears and met under his chin.

Calling the Hogs

Back at my folks’ house, as Ben sat on a bed watching us pack to leave, he said, “That’s a Razorback pig.”

My wife and I looked in the direction of his gaze to see a pen-and-ink drawing of a wild boar. This particular boar was in a field, opposite a basketball goal, in celebration of the Arkansas Razorbacks’1994 NCAA championship.

Wanting our son to know the cheer we no doubt learned close to his age, my wife and I said, “Ben, can you say, ‘Wooo, pig, sooooieeeee!?’”

A look of disapproval swept over Ben’s face. “No, not a woo pig sooie. A Razorback pig,” he said.

Honestly, I’ve always been a bit embarrassed to do that cheer in public, but I’ll be danged if it isn’t impossible to join in when 10’s of thousands of fans start calling the Hogs. If you’ve never heard it, then know that there’s no way to appreciate it by asking for a demonstration. A solo hog call sounds silly, unless you’re on a hog farm and there’s a muddy pig you need to move toward you. Then it’s pure gold. Listen here for a sample of it, then imagine it echoing throughout a sold-out stadium or arena.

That’s My Lady

One of my gifts was a tiny camera Christmas ornament. My wife looked down at it, where it sat on the console between the two front seats, its “lens” nestled into the space where my camera’s lens attaches to the body. “Oh, look, it’s still nursing,” she said.

Later, with one hand on the steering wheel, Shannon reached toward the driver’s-side floorboard. Her voice got lost somewhere under the dashboard as she spoke.

“Oh, onion rings,” she said.
“What about onion rings?” I asked.
“I said, ‘My bunion hurts.’”
“Oh.”

Giving

I was surprised how many places in the Bible Belt are open on Christmas Day. Ben was sleeping as we arrived, hungry, in Texarkana. I went into Denny’s to order some food to go, and sat at the breakfast bar to wait. As two of the servers refilled soft drinks, they burst into a rendition of “Stayin’ Alive,” an old Bee-Gee’s tune.

“That’s pretty bad,” I said. “That’s the worst Bee-Gee’s impression I’ve ever heard.”

They just laughed and said, “Well, we tried.”

Once we had our food, we realized I had forgot to get milk for Ben. When I went back in, the same lady who rang me up before asked somebody to get a child’s milk for me. A dishwasher stacking racks of clean glasses got everyone’s attention when he sent shards all over the floor. The guy pouring Ben’s milk went to help.

Oh, no, this could take a while

He was gone for only a minute, then handed me the milk. When I walked to the very busy cash register and laid down my $5 bill, the woman just waved me off and said, “Merry Christmas.”

Shannon told me when I got back in the van that she had seen a homeless man wandering around between the restaurant and a gas station. I wondered if he would manage a free glass of milk. I’m not saying I felt guilty for getting the milk for nothing. I earned that $5 I placed on that counter, and it was that woman’s choice to refuse it. I’m not insensitive to the homeless man’s situation; my late uncle had a home only because his father and my father were willing and able to help him. I know there are many who have no family support system, and that few would choose to live on the streets, much less in a place that has winter.

On that note, um, I hope everybody had a Merry Christmas.

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