The Look – The Eyes Have It

Have you ventured out yet to a store while wearing a protective facemask? We’ve done it enough times to know that they’re far from comfortable, make it difficult to breath and can cause your eyeglasses to fog up. And then there’s…the look. 

You know the one. You’re obediently proceeding one way, and only one way, down the snack aisle at the grocery store when you approach another customer, one who’s not wearing a mask, confident in their biological Covid-resistant superiority. Or maybe one who is wearing a face covering, but who appears to be ticking off criteria on a mental list of mask specifications. The look you get when your own naked face is assessed differently, kind of like, you insolent predator, how dare you defy the rules? Their eyes hint at feelings of disdain, insult and disrespect.

If you happen to leave your cart and go back a few steps the wrong way down a one-way aisle, well, don’t even get me going on that look. It’s similar to the impatiently waiting glare worn by cart-pushers who struggle with the challenge of passing a slow moving shopper while still maintaining six feet of separation. Ah, angst in the age of social distancing.

If you have some sort of Niqab fetish, your time has arrived. We have all been suddenly thrust into the realm of Sharia Law when it comes to face covering. And it is ironic, given all the racism and anti Muslim discrimination in the time before the year 2020. Eyes peering out Salome-like from behind cloth-coverings hint seductively at hidden smiles and frowns. Which is it? Is that person angry or joking with me? Fortunately eyes tend to smile, crinkling up when laughing, and thankfully the haters with their flashing, piercing glances cannot demand our heads on a platter.

There are forty-three muscles in the human face. We are masking many of the ones most expressive of our emotions and reactions. We are quickly learning to communicate differently and will never again underestimate the power of a wink, a nod or the sweeping extension of a hand that can so graciously gesture, “No, please, after me.”

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Eat Your Feelings, But Not All of Them

I’ve been seeking moments of bliss in my pandemic lifestyle. My go-to seems to be a combination of sedentary behavior and comfort found in food. I’m not entirely sacrificing my health. I still exercise daily and eat the necessary fiber and protein. But I think the window of self-pity needs to slam shut.

We supposedly live in an era of acceptance and tolerance, in which body shaming is unacceptable. But we also have adipose baggage from times prior to Covid. I feel sorry for recently married college freshmen. They’re simultaneously dealing with the “Married 10,” the “Freshman 15,” and the “Covid 20.” My gosh, the potential for gaining 45 pounds is real and upon us. And by the end of this seemingly endless sequestration I may be right on target if I’m not careful, having summited the first two peaks years ago. I guess this is the point at which I correctly state, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” But there is.

Obesity is unhealthy. It is correlated with type 2 diabetes, coronary artery disease, hypertension, stroke, gallbladder disease, sleep apnea, mental illness, many types of cancer, osteoarthritis, body pain and shortened life span. Not listed here are poor self-image, fatigue and a plethora of other daily epiphanies, some of which arise in the “mirror of truth” installed in clothing store changing rooms everywhere.

A BMI (Body Mass Index) of 30 or more qualifies you as obese. A recent visit to the doctor brought this home for me when my doctor rather incautiously said that my perfect chemistry and lipid panel results were “Excellent. But you don’t see many FAT 90 year olds.” And he wasn’t concerned with appearance. Thanks Doc. I guess I either need to lose weight or grow taller. (You can calculate your BMI here.)

I actually appreciate my current doctor’s candor. Jerk. I’ve gone through my life with primary care physicians who routinely weighed and tested me at my annual physical exam without once suggesting I diet or reduce weight. “See you in a year! Would you like a statin?” And of course I realize I’m dodging accountability in blaming them.

This reminds me of some advice I imparted to a personal trainer at a local health club a few years ago. The trainer’s name was Don. That’s his real name. It doesn’t matter. A few of you knew him. He was ripped. He was young and attractive, and he knew it. One evening after a general toning class that was much too vigorous for a person in their late fifties I slunk into the locker room with my tail between my legs, a perspirational approximation of a potato in a sweat suit, only to find Don flexing in front of a full length mirror. I paused and couldn’t help but admire his physique. He looked better than I did almost forty years earlier, but not much.

            “How old are you, Don?” I asked.

He glanced away from the mirror, a bit irritated, as if he might miss something.

            “Twenty-four,” he replied.

I took a few slow steps for dramatic effect, so that he might possibly take in my full sweaty splendor behind his image in the mirror, then said,

            “One pound a year, Don. One pound a year, and you’re ME!”

It was hurtful, I know. But it was the truth, and I hope he took it to heart. The reality is, I can gain three pounds in a weekend! The fact that I have gained only one pound a year since I was Don-like is a testament to the GOOD behaviors I’ve demanded of myself over the decades. “This took work!” I like to say, when I search beyond my gut for my shoelaces.

So I briefly took Don on a ride down a dark street of dreams and left him standing at the corner of Revulsion and Horror. I didn’t charge him for the consultation. That’s more than I can say for him. Forty dollars per session? Be serious! I need that money for snacks!

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Morning Person

There are lots of ways to buy donuts. If you’re not an early riser you can even buy them at a grocery store’s bakery the day before and with any luck they won’t be stale the next morning. Last night I promised my family I would bring donuts home in the morning. Abbe’s donuts. And I vowed to get up early to ensure the best possible selection.

I arrive at the Port Charlotte location at 6am, the only car in the parking lot. Oh no! Could they be closed? I usually wander in around 9am, so this is undiscovered country for me. But not so for the hard working staff at Abbe’s. I can’t even imagine what time they need to start readying the day’s assortment of freshly prepared treats. But there they are. As I fight off the swarming Love Bugs (it’s May) at the front door, I encounter the store as I’ve never seen it before.

There before me is a display case filled to overflowing in every tray, every donut sized space occupied by the range of offerings that is usually full of gaps by my usual arrival time. But not today!

I normally have to adjust my order and the expectations of my family on the fly based on product availability. But to parody Chief Brody in Jaws, I simply say, “I’m gonna need a bigger box!”

Row upon row of cake and colored glazes glistens under fluorescent lighting, beckoning to be selected and given a home like puppies at a doggie orphanage. It’s what donuts live for. And once in a while, it’s what I live for. I love donuts!

There they are, crunchy peanut fragments sprinkled generously on a bed of chocolate frosting, and nearby a vanilla iced sister decorated similarly. Row upon row of long johns, filled to bursting with delectable yellow custard ready to escape at first bite, and slathered with brown or white frosting as desired. Pink frosted donuts, sprinkles issued forth from an extravagant rainbow, coffee rolls wound tight and large, a veritable discus of glazed pastry.

The selection threatens to confuse and overwhelm me, but I stick to the script I was handed hours earlier. To go rogue requires that I bring home a stack of boxes in a fit of madness for which I am financially ill equipped. The apple fritters call to me–they are on the list. Each drizzled sugary mountain of deep fried wonder contains a cinnamon apple surprise, fresh and flavorful, and undoubtedly healthy, yes they must be! I’ll take four please! And now, more chocolate!

At last there is but room for one more delight from this heavenly cakery, and the pot of coffee I left brewing at home demands that I satisfy a classic craving. The purist among donut aficionados understands the understated elegance of the simple, brown plain cake creation that lines rows of a single rack on the lowest shelf. One will do, but please make it two!

My hostess this morning calls me “Sweetie” as I pay. I leave my change and then some in the humble tip jar next to the cash register. Be sure you do likewise. These dear hearts work hard and long, much harder than I ever did in forty years behind a desk. Thank goodness Abbe’s appears to be surviving these challenging times. I’ll be back soon, and hope that you’ll visit too.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

In The Woods

I still cringe a bit when I recall my first trip to the Canadian Boundary Waters in August of 1987. I was thirty-two years old, recently married and eager to fit into my new extended family. In those days there was no Internet for research, photos to examine, or procedures to learn online that might allay my fears. As the novice in the family, asking a series of questions was beneath my dignity. It would expose me as a fraud, an unskilled indoor guy in the company of outdoorsmen. I headed into the adventure blind and minimally prepared, either mentally or physically.

My Cub Scout Memory

If you’re wondering how I could have entirely missed out on the almost universally enjoyed childhood experience of camping, allow me to provide a bit of background. When my mother eventually realized that I would not succumb to the deadly effects of seasonal allergies or anaphylactic death by mold-filled tent, and finally allowed me to join a local Cub Scout troop, my chance for adventure swiftly came to an end. It was just bad timing. I barely had a chance to do a simple craft and begin to know the other boys before finding out it was the den mother’s last meeting. There was no attempt to find another group or later enroll me in Boy Scouts. As a result I never got the chance to go camping, but I do recall the delicious chocolate cupcake we had as a snack.

And sure, I technically slept in a tent with college friends over a Spring Break weekend in Florida at John Pennekamp State Park, but that was in order to save money. And it was also the weekend I suddenly developed the worst case of influenza in my life. All I remember is lying in a tent with a near hallucinatory 104-degree fever, gazing up into the blue eyes of a friend’s angelic girlfriend as she wiped my forehead with a cool damp cloth. That weekend I learned about the dangers of camping and the kindness of strangers.

But the family trip recounted here included four of my wife’s siblings, one brother-in-law and my father-in-law. We headed to a place called Quetico that I’d never heard of. It was near Ely Minnesota, a state I’d never been through and a long car ride from the north side of Chicago. Any arrangements for permits or connections to the outfitter we used were handled by one of my wife’s brothers. They seemed to know what they were doing, which made it that much more anxiety provoking to be a complete novice. The outfitter equipped us with tents, food and four canoes. Oh yeah. It was a canoe trip. What could possibly go wrong?

We had the misfortune of scheduling our trip following several weeks of rain that left campgrounds soggy, lake levels high, mosquitoes dancing in the moonlight, and whatever you call those areas between campgrounds where you have to carry your canoe, under water. The word for that task I soon learned is “portage.” That’s pronounced poor-tahj. I think it’s important to at least say the word right.

The first paddle was quite pleasant. My bride and I balanced our backpack in the center of our canoe and glided across a small lake to the island where we would make our first camp. We quickly learned to synchronize our strokes and keep the splashing to a minimum. Now, camping dork that I am, I had proudly brought with me an early version of the multi-tool. It was a souvenir knife I bought in San Francisco over the protests of my mother when I was twelve. It had a knife, fork, spoon, can opener, well, you get it. It had a faux wood carved handle and weighed about two pounds. It had been in the garage for twenty years. I also recall packing a small collection of pulleys, carabiners and rope, you know, in case of bears. You can never be safe enough!

My Precious

So, we grounded the canoe on the shore with the scritching sound of sand and gravel under the metal hull and prepared to disembark. By this I mean my wife jumped out of the unbalanced vessel, catching me off guard and causing it to dump me into the drink, my knife sinking to the bottom of the lake. Granted, the bottom was a foot away, so my precious was quickly recovered. But I was soaking wet. This was great practice for the remainder of the trip. It was our driest day. It was also great marital practice, being newlyweds.

The first night of camping is a novelty. Locating high ground, setting up your damp tent for the first time, trying to ignite damp kindling, hanging out damp clothes, realizing that Mom is not along to do the cooking, and getting generally grumpy with a group of people where emotions need not be hidden for long. And the next day, you get to portage.

Did I mention mosquitoes? Boundary Waters mosquitoes? Honestly, I’m not sure why we needed to carry our canoes. They could have lofted them, being in sufficient numbers and of Jurassic proportions. For the record, OFF does not faze mosquitoes in the wild. You need concentrated napalm (DEET) that can’t be purchased at Dick’s sporting goods, no matter what they tell you. When you have an inverted canoe over your head, resting on your shoulders, and you’re trudging through thigh-deep mud, it’s hard to swat a bug. We were not in tears. Family rules require that you cry only when everyone else does.

Our First Campsite

I don’t recall when I first asked about the location of the bathrooms, but it got a good laugh. Pretty much everyone made an arm motion like half of the Y in the song YMCA in the direction of the forest. I had been peeing regularly without a problem, but at this point I asked, “Yeah, but what about the, um, other?”

That resulted in the other half of the Y that pointed to a shovel and toilet paper.

“No way. I’ll hold it,” I said.

“For a week?” someone responded.

For the record, I made it until Wednesday. I searched for an area private enough to be comforting but not so distant as to get lost. I noticed tufts of white toilet paper sticking out of the ground everywhere. Even at the time I knew that this was poor form by previous campers. It resembled the bleached bones of a thousand cattle on the Oregon Trail. And that’s when, relieved as I haven’t been since, I learned about another camping truism. Things roll down hill. Gravity requires that you park yourself on a slope to the rear or in a flat area, not on a scenic overlook facing the lake. Duh.

We had a map

Toward the end of our week, consumed by mosquitoes, wet and chilled to the bone, tired from lack of sleep and some fairly exhausting effort during the day, the sun came out. For several hours our clothes began to dry, our bodies warmed and it occurred to me that this was what camping was supposed to feel like. We lounged on large, smooth boulders overlooking the lake, breathed the tangy scent of pines, snacked in the sun and enjoyed pleasant familial fellowship for a while. That is when a vicious black bug flew straight at my left bicep and stung me in a particularly hostile manner. I had nothing in my toolkit to remedy this, but was rather impressed by the size of my reddened muscle after it swelled. Then the clouds rolled in, the wind picked up and my youngest sister-in-law and I formed an alliance, lobbying to end the trip a little early. This was all pre-Survivor days, but we wanted to vote ourselves off the island. Everyone else had thought it, but we dared to speak it. And it was a good thing too. Winds were the precursor to some fairly nasty weather, and our final paddle back was through challenging white-capped waves. Our pride in overcoming adversity was amplified by our feeling of gratitude for having survived that last leg of the journey.

Dad in the middle

I have camped many times since, with our kids, as a leader (imagine that) at my son's Boy Scout summer camp and with great friends on group sites. We have been evacuated due to midnight storms in the Wisconsin Dells, sweltered in hundred-degree heat under deafening nocturnal tree frogs in Hannibal, MO and ate more S'Mores than is probably healthy. But the Boundary Water trip in 1987 stands out because it was my first and most difficult. And it's also the kind of experience that makes for great family stories and unrivaled memories.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.