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.

 

Kill Bill

Bill is dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. And with this paraphrase of Dickens’ opening line from A Christmas Carol, I will tell a tale for which it is important to understand how surprising, how unfortunate and how utterly predictable it may be that Bill died fourteen years ago. You see, at one time or another every one of his friends vowed to kill him. He never learned and he frequently took risks that got him in trouble.

Having said all of that, Bill was a friend. He was part of a group of college buddies that I joined later than the rest. But I was quickly included in escapades that included, among other things, several weekend trips to a lake house in Wisconsin not far from the Dells and its active bar scene. And it was there, fueled with alcohol, that Bill’s normally outgoing personality became energized and singularly focused to the exclusion of all else. But I’ll come back to that.

Bill was a good-looking guy. He had piercing blue eyes, a disarming smile and a personality that my grandmother labeled, “A worm.” Grandma saw right through the act he employed to disarm younger women. Bill could talk the bark off a tree, the bark being pants and trees being college aged girls. If you had a girlfriend you dared not turn your back, for there would go said girlfriend having forgotten from whence she came. If confronted about such a dalliance, Bill referred to his own ten commandments of girlfriendhood. These commandments often amounted to, “Yeah, but…”

Bill could also be playfully, aggravatingly combative. Another in our circle of friends once argued with him beyond exhaustion, finally issuing the ultimatum, “Bill, if you say one more word…”
Bill, grinned, shuffled his feet, glanced from side to side at those around him and said, “Word!” For that he was throttled, and undoubtedly his attacker yelled, “I’m gonna kill you!”

Another time I went to visit Bill at his dorm when he somehow got into medical school. Doctor Bill. That irked us. Now he didn’t have to talk women out of their clothes, he could just demand it. I washed my bright yellow Corvette that morning and drove it down Chicago’s South Lake Shore Drive to Hyde Park, locating it safely where I could see it from his window. When it came time to return home, I exited the elevator, crossed the lobby and walked toward my car. From far above me came a shout, “Bomb’s away!”

Leaning from his 18th-floor window, Bill tossed a moderately large red water balloon that tumbled end over end, arcing outward from the brick building toward the ground as I ran toward my car, unable to prevent whatever was about to happen. I swear, the missile whistled as it flew. As the projectile approached terminal velocity it became clear that it was not going to hit me or my car, but upon impact with the rain-soaked, mostly dead spring turf, it exploded in a shower of brown thatch and mud that left a shallow crater and covered the side of my pristine fiberglass. Had it landed on the hood it most likely would have splintered it into yellow toothpicks. Relief turned to anger as I looked up and shouted, “I’m gonna kill you!” This is not something you should normally shout in Hyde Park. Bill was laughing hysterically two hundred feet above.

To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

😎

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.

 

Dead Wake

Retiring to a property on a canal in Florida has paid off in an unexpected way. During the pandemic our few remaining diversions include kayaking and taking our pontoon boat out for a cruise. 

Now that it’s alligator mating season, a quarter inch thick plastic hull continues to offer resistance to water, but those beer bottle eyes that bend the water’s surface as they watch us paddle past lend haunted house apprehension to our journeys. So far the gators have been small, but we know of at least one Jurassic monster in our waterway that could flip us with a yawn and a snicker. As a general rule, the distance between an alligator’s eyes and the end of its snout, in inches, translates roughly to its length in feet. The animal we’ve seen measures perhaps ten inches. And with the aid of its powerful tail, the creature can swim up to twenty miles per hour. An Olympic swimmer can manage only about five. So you definitely want to stay in your kayak.

But such is not the case with a sunset cruise on our pontoon. During these tranquil outings our only predators are human, the ones for whom no speed is slow enough in no-wake zones.

As new boaters we continue to learn about the physics of propelling a populated platform through water and the etiquette associated with doing so in tight or heavily trafficked areas. A boat wake is the area of recirculating water behind a vessel under power. Depending on hull design, speed, weight, and power, a boat’s wake can range from a minimal flow of water and rippling chop to swelling waves of significant, potentially damaging size. Homeowner’s along canals that are perhaps ninety feet in width are justified in demanding that passing boats respect the “100 foot rule” used as a reference for determining if a given area falls under “no wake” jurisdiction. But if you’ve ever tried to go 15 miles per hour through a school zone in a car, you can imagine the crawling lack of progress experienced in a boat going five or less.

The issue is that significant or constant wakes can cause property damage. Yours is not the only boat motoring down the canal. Docked vessels, shoreline habitation, waterfront property, unpowered vessels (such as kayaks, canoes, sailboats, small fishing boats,) marine life, and swimmers are all affected by the sudden power and force of wakes.

I don’t like being yelled at. Does anyone? So it bothers me when we return from the harbor, reduce speed to minimum wake, and then innocently forget to reduce again once we’re in a residential no-wake canal. It seems like every time we go out lately, someone is standing on shore watching, reminding. They are usually polite but always perturbed. I quickly comply, often to the point at which we would need oars to prevent drift if taken any slower.

Of course, there are extreme examples, in boats and on shore. A rather direct homeowner nearby has a sign that says, “Slow Means No Wake Asshole.” That just makes me want to see how fast my boat can go. And perhaps that’s what motivated a recent bunch of yahoos to throttle up on their way home. They were going twice as fast as any boat we’ve ever seen on our canal. When our very nice British neighbor told them to slow down they simply yelled, “F*** You Old Man!” I apologized to him on behalf of America, and in particular, Florida.

One time I was given an arm gesture from a neck deep fellow in a swimming pool. It looked like he was challenging me to an arm wrestling contest or imitating a stapler. Then I realized that his palm moving toward the ground equaled pressing my foot on the brake. Of course, the analogy is incorrect. Backing off on the throttle should be gestured with a raising arm, but I eventually understood and began to crawl.

Last night, a splendidly mild, dry and bug-free evening, we wandered down a canal more off the beaten path. We were exploring. A woman with a fishing pole somewhat softly said, “You’re going kinda fast.” In fact, we weren’t. We were going 4 miles per hour. As luck would have it this canal was a dead end. We shortly had to turn around and pass her again, which we did at 3 miles per hour. This made our awkward moments passing her property take that much longer. In my subsequent fantasy I stare at her and sternly say, “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said!” And then, with a dramatic pause, “I’m sorry.”

😎

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.

 

Trumped

Kurt and Mary stood in a luxurious hotel lobby with two friends and four overnight bags. The building had large letters emblazoned on the side about half way up its 98 floors. It was 2014 and the name had not yet taken on new significance.

“Welcome to Trump Tower Mr. Lindwahl,” said the bellman. Should you require ANYTHING during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.” His emphasis on “anything” hinted at an endless list of possibilities. Tantalizing, or…

Well that’s creepy, Kurt thought, but said only,

“Anything?”

The bellman appeared utterly indifferent to Kurt’s question as he handed Kurt a wood-grained plastic card.

“Your key, sir,”

Kurt turned to Mary with a devilish smile as he noticed the clerk’s nametag. “Jethro.”

“Kurt, don’t,” said Mary. She knew the smile all too well.

“We’ve got the bags,” said Kurt as he quickly walked toward the elevators.

As the doors slid closed, Kurt faced the usual panel of round buttons along with some oblong ovals that represented special destinations. Kurt pushed the button for fourteen, but the light immediately went off. He pushed again. Someone at the back of the car said,

“You have to swipe your room card, then push the button.” And after a brief pause, “I’m not sure why, but it’s pretty cool.”

“That’s it, I feel like Jed Clampett, Kurt chuckled,  “Hold tight Ellie Mae!”

The elevator ride was swift and amazingly smooth. Popping in their ears was the only indication they had actually moved, unlike the coalmine ride at the museum that deliberately shakes and sways as it slowly descends 12 feet into a nearly “bottomless” shaft.

The Lindwahl’s room was beyond ostentatious. Slippers and robes, a yoga DVD and mat, Sharper Image dumbbells and heated aromatic eye pillows. Kurt stood in the bathroom puzzling over the presence of an unexplained remote control. He pointed it first at the shower, then at the toilet. No response. A darkened area in the mirror caught his eye. A TV came to life in the mirror’s glass.

“Well, doggies,” Kurt laughed. “Who in the world feels they deserve this?”

He picked up the room phone and called the front desk. Anything.

“Yes, can you tell me how to get to the Cement Pond?”

“Beg pardon sir?” It was Jethro.

“Swimmin’ pools, movie stars…” Mary rolled her eyes.

“The SPA is on the fifteenth floor sir.” That’s one floor up from fourteen.” He said with a slightly sarcastic edge. He had Kurt’s number.

“Thanks, buddy!”  Kurt said and turned to Mary. “Let’s go work out.”

They arranged to meet their friends at the fifteenth floor spa in five minutes. Mary suggested they walk up.

To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

😎

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.

 

Disney World Free!

The “No-Parks” Disney World Option

Or how I spent $750 without stepping foot in Disney World

Some might say that Disney World is just for kids, an artificial place in the middle of nowhere. They are correct, and they should stay away to reduce the crowds for the rest of us. But if you like to tap into your inner child, be catered to in one of the cleanest, safest places imaginable and you have the time to spend on pure enjoyment, then only one obstacle remains: it is not only the most Magical Place on Earth, it is one of the most expensive.

We are lucky to live only about two hours by car from this wonderland. In the 1970s it was carefully and discreetly carved out of Florida swampland in a place that is now an entertainment destination the size of San Francisco. The city of Orlando that blossomed around it is similarly and densely populated with other thematic parks that brazenly hopped onto the coattails of Disney’s success.

If you’re interested in the history of Disney World, the evolutionary leap made by Walt Disney following the success of California’s Disney Land, I highly recommend the six-part documentary called The Imagineers, available on the Disney+ streaming service. Strolling through these carefully conceived parks, it’s hard to imagine them once existing only as ideas sketched on paper. Entire engineering and creative disciplines emerged to support the elements necessary to bring the parks to fruition.

For some, a vacation in Disney World is a once in a lifetime occurrence. Several days at a Disney hotel within the property, with passes to several theme parks, transportation, meals and merchandise can cost many, many thousands of dollars. On a recent visit, we priced a room at the Polynesian Resort. Mind you, this is only a place to sleep and regroup after an exhausting day of activity. And this alone can set you back perhaps six hundred dollars per night. For many, this is unattainable, and if you’re bringing the kids, it is a week you definitely need to time properly. They should not be too young to remember the stay, nor old enough that they will only go along begrudgingly and fail to fully appreciate the investment.

But for those of us who live nearby, retired and with children who have made it through college, there is an option I’d like to describe that reduces the financial burden at a time when you may be on a fixed income. What I’m about to propose is that you visit Disney World without stepping foot in any of the theme parks. Gasp! What? No Space Mountain or Cinderella’s Castle? No Tower of Terror or Expedition Everest? What about Spaceship Earth and Na’vi River Journey, Star Wars and Toy Story?

No, you’ll avoid those entirely, and here’s how.

For two days in early December, a time in Florida when the weather can be perfect, cooler and drier than most of the year, and coinciding with the ever expanding Christmas season, we spent one night and two days at Disney World. It cost us nothing. I say that knowing full well that we spent a lot on food, but in usual terms, our visit cost very little. I will admit to a one-night stay at a nearby Airbnb, about $149, and whatever gas was consumed by a round trip totaling just over 300 miles. You may need to fly there.

We arrived at check-in time at our condo near Disney Springs, unloaded our bags and freshened up, then made the short drive to the “Orange” parking garage attached to the marketplace. Parking is free. We explored the expansive themed retail, dining and shopping concourse at our leisure and strolled through the Christmas Tree Trail that features dozens of Disney-decorated trees. It even “snowed” in a couple of spots. The trail is free, and decorations abound throughout the Springs from November 8th to January 5th. We later chose to have a drink outside while waiting for our table at the Steampunk style “Edison” restaurant. These were optional expenses over which we had full control.

The next morning we headed back to the free garage at Disney Springs and began our journey through all of Disney World. Our first stop was the hot air balloon ride (actually helium) that is tethered not far from the garage entrance. This short but spectacular ride cost $20 per person. Are you seeing the pattern here? Disney offers tons of free ways to get around in their World, certain that you’ll be unable to resist delicious food, that special Disney shirt or toy, or even a balloon ride.

From there we boarded a water taxi that took us on a leisurely free ride down a lovely canal surrounded by manicured lawns and stands of shady trees. The last stop was at the Port Orleans Resort - Riverside complex, a Louisiana Bayou setting with a down home appeal. Anytime we stopped at a resort we made sure to check out the fantastic Christmas decorations on display in their lobbies. At other times of the year the lobbies are still gorgeous but lacking in this seasonal splendor.

From Port Orleans we grabbed a free Disney bus. They go everywhere and have digitally displayed schedules at the stops. We never waited more than a few minutes for a ride. Next stop, Hollywood Studios to transfer onto the new Skyliner.

If you haven’t been to Disney World for a while, there is a new transportation option that’s as accessible, useful and exciting as the legendary Monorail. Like the Monorail, the Skyliner gondola lift system has specific destinations, five of them emanating from a central hub at the Caribbean Beach Resort, which we explored on foot and through lobbies.

Eventually we made our way from Epcot to the old standard, the Monorail, with its circular route through the Grand Floridian, Polynesian and Contemporary resorts. Of these the Floridian had the most spectacular Christmas display, complete with a life size gingerbread house that sells a variety of seasonal treats.

As do most experienced Disney travelers, we planned a short afternoon siesta that refreshed us for another session. But now it was Saturday evening and the Springs’ garages were all filled to capacity. Fortunately we had booked reservations at a Polynesian restaurant that put us on a guest list for free parking at the resort, so we drove to dinner.

Our final destination was the Wilderness Resort, reachable by free water taxi. Our trip was in the dark, with fireworks visible in the distance. Of the resorts we visited, this was possibly the most impressive. The experience is immersive and the attention to detail is beyond compare. Through the doors, you are transported instantly to a vast lodge the likes of Yellowstone at Christmas.

We have made a subsequent trip like this that proved equally enjoyable. The variety of food options and configurable transportation choices prevent repetition. But I must admit, the theme parks are tantalizingly close, and the old Disney fan in me can’t help but want to take another spin on the Mad Hatter's Teacups or sail through the Pirates of the Caribbean again. And nothing really compares with staying at a Disney Resort. 

If I’m sending mixed signals here, that’s by design. There’s no wrong choice to be made. I just feel sorry for the poor souls who may recently have had their dream trips canceled due to the unimaginable closure of Disney World for the next few weeks or months. We’re all going to need a trip to Fantasy Land when this is over, especially the kids!

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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.

 

I Wanna Be Sedated

A concert took place at Chicago’s iconic Park West music theater in May of 1980. It was unlike any other venue I’d experienced before, and possibly since. With a capacity of only about one thousand, it was intimate and had great acoustics. Not that quality sound was required for the band we went to see. The Ramones could overpower a nightclub, a stadium or anything in between.

Four of the original band members were there: Dee Dee, Joey, Marky and Johnny. All had taken the stage surname Ramone, though none were related. At that time they had released five albums with limited commercial success, but would be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of fame in 2002. As an early entry during 1974 from Queens in New York to the exploding Punk music genre, they had a loyal following that would develop into cult status over the following years. Perhaps you’ve seen their trademark black t-shirt emblazoned in white with a parody of the U.S. presidential seal surrounded by their names. In the center is an eagle holding a club in one talon. I bought one at the show in 1980. You can still pick one up online for $5.99.

The loud, intensely rapid electric thrumming sound of their songs, which average 2 minutes and 37 seconds, almost immediately causes a listener’s heart rate to ramp up to 165 beats per minute. There’s no sitting at a Ramones concert, which by virtue of the short song lengths is not all that long. The crowds were young, on their feet and dancing the entire time, specifically doing the Pogo. As the name implies, this is a frantic jumping up and down that my now 65 year-old knees would not endure for even one playing of Blitzkrieg Bop or Suzy is a Headbanger. But at that time we were young and we Pogo’d the night away.

This is all background information for a recent brief encounter I had outside a diner in Port Charlotte, Florida. There’s no punk rock in town, at least not among the predominantly geriatric crowd that flocks here during “season” to escape winter in the frozen north. As I stood outside waiting for a table to become available I noticed a disheveled younger man, waiting alone on a single red lacquered bench next to his bicycle. He wore a woolen knit cap, a beat up jacket and what appeared to be bicycle pants. It’s possible he was delivering for GrubHub or Postmates, but his unshaven face, toothless grin and rather uneasy expression was more characteristic of someone who is homeless, waiting for a handout of food. Indeed, the owner soon appeared with a plastic bag filled with carryout boxes. This is not a restaurant that typically offers this service, but the owners have a reputation for hard work and extreme kindness.

On the young man’s black hat, facing front and center in bold white letters was a single, memorable name. I smiled. Catching his eye, I gestured toward the hat and simply said, “Ramones!” For a second he looked startled, discovered, but then his own smile broke out, ear to ear.

            “That was one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to!” I said.

He proceeded to tell me about the times he’d seen them, a short story about a prom he skipped in order to make it to a show, and some general small talk about great music and good times. Over an otherwise insurmountable cultural and generational divide, we bonded.

My table became available, I wished him a great day, and we parted, friends for a moment, passing through life on very different and divergent highways.

A lingering warm feeling lasted through breakfast and into the morning. When I got home I called up a few of the old tunes on Spotify. It only takes about ten minutes to listen to their four biggest hits, but like the encounter earlier, the music ignited something deeper, powerful, and lasting. It gave me more energy than my morning coffee, and more importantly, it made me happy.

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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.

 

The Sitting Evil

Shortly before I retired, the saying, “sitting is the new smoking,” was popularized by Dr. James Levine, Director of the Mayo Clinic at Arizona State University. This catchy phrase is supported by recent research that shows a reduction in the risk of cancer, type 2 diabetes, cardiovascular disease and back pain with one simple lifestyle change: reduce the time you spend sitting. This is generally easier said than done.

Great. I had just about wrapped up the final twenty-seven years of my career, mostly desk-bound, and indeed experiencing weight gain and muscle stiffness that I battled when I got home during evenings and on weekends – if I wasn’t too tired.

My new Apple Watch has a function that gently reminds me to stand up once every fifty minutes and move around a bit. I could have used this to great benefit in the workplace on days other than those when donuts at the secretary’s desk similarly reminded that it was time to move. The watch uses an accelerometer to identify movement, so arm motion equivalent to changing from a seated to a standing position followed by a minute’s walk around with your arms swinging helps to register this. Come to think of it, fifteen feet to the donut box followed by a mouth salute with a Bavarian cream might not have passed muster.

And now here I sit in a new lifestyle replete with sedentary dangers, my little watch tickling my wrist every so often and visually rewarding me when I follow its advice. The challenge in the absence of work is not to succumb to a range of new sitting activities like the following:

1.   Breakfast. This is by far our favorite time of the day. Fresh out of bed, having slept until perhaps 9am, our need for the sweet, warm comfort of coffee frequently glues us to our backsides for up to two hours. No more choking down half a bagel and some fruit before walking the dog in the rain and driving to the office in heavy traffic knowing full well you’ll be late, but doing your best to compress time. No, now we can make an egg scramble, crack the seal on a package of pastries and enjoy multiple cycles of the Keurig, wondering if we’ll have time for lunch before dinnertime.


2.   Two Mid-Day Versions of Relaxation: I am fortunate to have retired to the Southwest Gulf of Florida. I am currently writing this Blog about sitting on my butt while sitting on my butt, outside early in March. It is 85 degrees, the sun is shining and a gentle breeze is rustling several palm trees along the canal behind our house. I could quite literally spend hours doing this, and problem #1 being combined with problem #2, have breakfasted on the “lanai” many, many times.

I realize that many folks choose to retire up north, and can enjoy watching a gentle snow falling outside windows facing the serenity of their backyards. A crackling fireplace adds to the ambiance, and I’m sure we would have become quite pleasantly stuck to our chairs during the winter months had we retired in place.

3.   Evening Television: That vast wasteland has been tapped. By about 8pm we are firmly committed to streaming any of a variety of programs from one of at least four sources. This is done with feet up – a modification to the sitting position – and with a favorite snack, for the rest of the day. This is an insanely unhealthy lifestyle choice, but one that we like immensely.
I do not propose solutions in this article. That would require a greater amount of time sitting and my watch is already nagging me. I routinely employ a variety of tactics including swimming, biking, kayaking and an exercise class called Body Pump at our local YMCA where my membership is free now that I’m on Medicare. No, this article is meant to be a warning to those of you sitting at work, dreaming about retirement, that comfort cannot be allowed to triumph over struggle at any age and in every circumstance. Quality of life requires effort whether you’re 35 or 65. I recommend starting early with weight training, yoga and sensible eating. Challenge your body and your brain. But that doesn’t mean you can’t occasionally sit with a good book or engage in a period of mindfulness on a comfy couch. But by all means, leave your Apple Watch in another room. 

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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.