Regular Life

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on. – Robert Frost

Browsing Posts published in October, 2007

Note: For a wonderful story to fit this spooky day, please read the well-written and imaginative “Piper and the Gren” by our very own Moksha Gren.

For a shorter read, see my own “Talk With a Killer,” a thriller that some here have read already.

One Bad Halloween

Whatever you do tonight, do not get into a biscuit dough and raw egg fight in a church parking lot across from the Mayor’s house. The Mayor, and subsequently the police who work for him, will not like this.

In one of the ensuing years after Trick-or-Treat had become uncool for my age, I walked around town with a group of kids armed with toilet paper, cans of uncooked biscuits, and raw eggs. Like some kind of war correspondent, I watched while they chucked eggs at homes of people doing nothing to celebrate the evening. There was an unwritten code of honor that kept anyone from aiming for windows.

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Road trip.

What was the first thing that popped into your head when you read those two words up there? Excited anticipation? Abject fear? Convenience store restrooms to rival the loo in Trainspotting?

What if you are driving eight hours to see a rock band comprised (mostly) of 50-something men attempting to recapture something they last shared 23 years ago? Or, depending on your outlook, hoping to score some cash one last time before they’re completely washed up?

Does that change your outlook?

Our tickets secured by my brother about 10 days prior, Alvis and I left Thursday evening for a stop on the latest Van Halen tour, which puts David Lee Roth back at the lead vocal post. We overnighted in Tulsa and then made the rest of the trip Friday.

Charles (aforementioned brother) and his friend met us at an Olathe, Kansas motel, where we quickly lugged our things to our rooms and then headed out to find food before the show. I left behind my point-and-shoot digital camera, figuring I’d never get in the concert with it. I never considered the miniature Swiss Army knife on my key ring.

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Local donut shop could work on its name a bit.
(click any pic to enlarge and sharpen)

They finally did it.

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How can one very small person instill such joy and frustration in the same moment?

Our son Benjamin is four years old, plus some change. Only slightly larger than the average child his age, in his nearly 40-pound frame he packs an emotional punch that can elicit amazement, bewilderment, consternation, and every emotion between, without warning or provocation.

As parents we try to keep our wits about us at all times, and that includes keeping those emotions in check. There is no schedule for solving problems. They come up when least expected, and demand immediate action. Sometimes the choice is to decide later, and we hope that in itself is doing something.

Enough with the flowery introduction? Fine. Here are examples.

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RU R2?

11 comments

Click the continue reading link below to see it.

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“Hey, could you grab a Wal-Mart bag for me? I need something to put our shoes in for the trip.”

“Look at that Wal-Mart bag caught in that tree over there.”

These or similar phrases are not uncommon in our area. Whether or not you frequent Wal-Mart, I’m sure a clear image of that type of bag formed in your head, and you no doubt have seen them clinging to fences like a litterbug’s windsock. Similar to the way “Coke” has become synonymous for “soda,” or “pop,” the phrase “Wal-Mart bag” means any plastic grocery bag with handles.

It does in the American south, anyway.

Like me, perhaps you have tried to get everything in one trip by grabbing upwards of six bags with each hand, the bread bearing the brunt of your misguided machismo (or feminismo, as the case may be). Once you’ve managed your feat and emptied the bags, what do you do with them? Craft fair vendors have created tubular fabric bags, with an elastic-lined top, for storing the wispy, wad-able wonders. We have one that we have stuffed to bulging with “Wal-Mart bags” from a variety of stores including Super Target, Tom Thumb, and Albertson’s. A valuable tool for bagging poopy diapers earlier in our parental era, they still play a role in our home.

Perhaps those of you shaking your heads answer “paper,” on the rare occasion that a cashier asks your bagging preference. I’ve never seen studies on which is worse, cutting down trees for paper bags, or producing more trash with plastic bags. I know most brown paper bags are made at least partially from recycled paper, but ultimately a tree was involved. Because plastic manufacture includes petroleum products, plastic bags carry their own drawbacks besides just the litter and landfill factors. (A fascinating book I just finished, set several centuries in the future, sees mankind no longer burning petroleum for fuel, but still using it to make plastic.)

Wal-Mart, retail leader of the free world, announced recently that it will begin selling a “a recycled, reusable, washable shopping sack” for $1. It will hold at least twice the amount of today’s common plastic bag, and customers may return it to the store for recycling once it has worn too thin for use.*

If the store you frequent offered these bags, would you purchase and use them? Is this another Wal-Mart ploy to earn brownie points with those who would love to see the company shrivel and fade away?

* Source: An October 10 story in the Morning News of Northwest Arkansas.

The meaning of the term “date night” morphs into something wholly different than back before we had a child. Spontaneity takes on new meaning, too.

In our pre-kid (PK) days, these nights were random in nature. Sure, if we had big plans, we generally held them on an evening when neither of us worked the next day. Exceptions to that, however, could be completely spontaneous. Other friends without children wanted to go out on a Tuesday night? Sure, no problem — as long as our budget could support it. Times were a bit financially grim in our wedlock’s early years. (”Wedlock” is a funny word, because it’s the result of two people’s promise to stay wed. Following that rationale, religious factions in the middle east must be in “warlock.” Religious factions in the middle ear, however, just get stuck in the wax.)

Getting back on track here…

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Benjamin and friends aboard the barrel train.
(Click to overload on the cuteness.)

You ever stand downwind of a billy goat? They soak their beards in their own urine to mark themselves. I understand why there’s no goat overpopulation problem.

What’s with the popularity of pumpkin farms recently? It seems every town has one nearby, usually hawking pumpkins and showing off common farm animals as if they’re exotics.

Brief sidenote: The one neareast us happens to be owned and operated by the Bill Bates Cowboy Ranch. Bates was a fan favorite as a Dallas Cowboys player his entire 15-year NFL career. Although he now coaches high school in Florida, it’s easy to see how owning a ranch north of Dallas might be lucrative.

But this isn’t a sports blog. No, this one covers hard-hitting topics like oversized squash.

The two years previous, Big Orange Pumpkin Farm (ingenious name, eh?) had a few obligatory rows of plants with small pumpkins alongside them. They weren’t attached to each other, so I figured they just cut them for convenience. Kids see the ones they like and can just grab and go (to the counter to pay). Simple system.

I was fooling myself, and on our most recent visit it took only a quick conversation with the concession stand lady to get the scoop.

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(Note: If you haven’t read Make Mine Fire Engine Red, then you might want to do that now to know what’s happening)

A thin man about six feet tall with sandy blond hair and matching mustache carefully released the clamps on a paint shaker and lifted a gallon can onto the counter with a thump. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said.

“Hey, Benjamin, let’s look over here for what color you want to paint your fire truck,” I said.

“OK, Daddy.”

We found Disney’s own line of paints, available only at The Home Depot. I pointed to several red samples in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head. “Do you like one of these?”

“That one,” he said, pointing to the one called, “Code Red.” (It was related to one of Buzz Lightyear’s favorite sayings.)

“That looks just right,” I said. “Take it up to the counter and ask the man for that color.”

(click any pic to enlarge and sharpen)

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Click any pic to enlarge it.

Cassie-ing a Spell         Socket Baby

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