I Won the Lottery

That title is just carefully worded trickery. Now that I have your attention, I did not win the state-run game of chance in Illinois. I never even came close. But when I did buy a ticket I was always filled with a level of apprehension that approached dread.

I did not want to win.

You may have heard stories about lottery winners, the majority of them, who have had their lives ruined subsequent to a major lottery windfall. It’s not hard to imagine why, because money doesn’t buy happiness, right?

Picture the newspaper article and photograph in which you’re holding up a six-foot long fake check made out to you, your name mentioned by a reporter and displayed as a matter of public record. Then imagine your mailbox overflowing with heart-wrenching requests for financial assistance, charitable causes, opportunities for investments, pitches by realtors and financial advisors with offers to “help” you deal with your newly found riches.

Next to arrive are the phone calls and emails. Those who have that information come first, but inevitably some clever hacker will locate you online (it’s not hard) and open the floodgates of Hell. You’ll need to change both addresses and possibly move. Friends and family will develop a barely discernable new relationship with you. The good ones won’t, but finding the bad actors will be painful, like randomly extracting teeth to get at the rotten one.

Something as simple as going out to dinner with another couple might accompany the expectation that you always pay for the meal. After all, you’re a multi-millionaire, right? The ones who offer to pay will be suspect of attempting to influence your undoubtedly generous tendencies, playing the long game, and taking you down a rabbit hole that leads to trust issues, especially if you’re already prone to them.

No, first you need to hire a contractor. Design and build a safe room on your existing house. In it, you will construct a throne, gilded in gold leaf, or perhaps of solid gold. But maybe save the large outlay of cash for the other throne where you’ll read copies of Fortune and Money. At your throne you will grant audiences with the groveling masses, weighing their wants versus needs and doling out small portions of your wealth on the second Tuesday of each month. Your man Jeeves will interview candidates and make appointments when he’s not waxing the Lamborghinis. In other words, live like Bill Gates. 

Stop! Do you see what’s happening? Lottery fantasies! Your road to perdition is being paved and you haven’t yet received your first payment. Note: monthly payouts are preferable to a single lump sum for tax reasons. Again, stop!

What many of us at any at any level of financial means sometimes lack is a concept of “enough.” I know that there are desperately poor people in our country. Did you know that 2 million people in the U.S. lack access to drinking water? Are you aware that 11.9 million children in the U.S. live in poverty? It’s sickening, and I would gladly pay any amount of taxes to make that go away. But then, accused of being a bleeding heart liberal I’m aware that half of Americans would not join me in that cause.

But this article is for my small group of Facebook friends. They all live in homes, have water, electricity, food, clothing, telephones, a computer and Internet access. Considering where we came from not that long ago, we live like kings.

I recently wrote about my realization that I won the Privilege Lottery. I was just born American, white and male in the Twentieth Century. I’m happy to debate that one on one, but based on the almost complete lack of feedback to my article, I entered uncomfortable geography. And of course we also earned what we have through long, hard work or lack thereof.

But it was at Disney World a few months ago, just before the world shut down, that a stranger made a comment that really stuck with me. I was washing my hands in the men’s room at the Yacht Club Resort, about to enjoy a delicious breakfast at Ale & Compass restaurant. Now, I’m fully aware that talking to someone in the bathroom is not cool, but a Black pastor stepped up to the sink beside me to wash his hands. Did it matter that he was Black? No. Did it matter that he was a pastor. I think it did.

            “Good morning,” I said.

            “Good morning,” he replied, “How are you?”

            “I’m great, how are you”

            “Better than I deserve,” he said.

“Better than I deserve.” How many of us can say that? How many of us should be saying that?

As I approached retirement I had another short conversation with a retired gentleman a few years older than me. He was consulting at our company. Oddly enough, we were returning from the bathroom, that catalyst of deep thinking, at least in my experience.

            “So, Tom, tell me about Social Security. Take it early or wait?” I asked.

            “Take it. A friend of mine waited and died before collecting a penny.”

The very sad outcome of this exchange is that Tom had terminal cancer, which he discovered within weeks. He died six months later. I know of numerous others who continued to work, stretching for that ever-moving goal of “enough” only to wind up disabled or dead before arriving.

My mother died at age fifty-five. My father died at fifty-nine. They never enjoyed a minute of retirement. So when my wife had brain surgery to correct an aneurysm, also at age fifty-five, any rumination we’d discussed about our future sharpened to crystal clarity. With some careful planning and a willingness to move cross-country, we felt we had enough to be very comfortable.

It is hard to be far from family and lifelong friends. It is challenging to share one car. But most things considered, I realize that we are lucky to enjoy each day, each other and a future for which we remain hopeful. Waking up in the morning is a good thing. I am thankful, grateful and often humbled as aging reminds me that I am not the man I used to be. But then again, if you ask me how I’m doing, I now reply, “Better than I deserve.”

😎

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.

 

 

 

Got Privilege?

In order to free ourselves from racial prejudice we first need to rise above our nature as tribal creatures. You think you’re not tribal? Look in the mirror. What do you see?

In my case, the reflection is a white, male, heterosexual, Baby Boomer, Lutheran, American of Swedish ancestry, and graduate of Maine South and the University of Illinois. This doesn’t account for political affiliation, employers, fraternity, sports team preference, or other organizations I’ve joined.

Which of your many tribes would you fight and die for? I know Green Bay Packers fans that would take up arms to defend their identity. I would fight for my country and my family, but I doubt very much that I would jump into a trench for the U of I or Sweden. But at some level, when push comes to shove, we need to feel superior to someone else. Sadly, it’s just the way humans are wired.

I now live in a place some continue to view as part of the former Confederacy. The news is currently filled with images of that reconciliation. I recently drove behind a truck that was plastered with emblems and flying an actual Confederate flag from the rear bumper, as if to say, “I continue to stand for the wrong-headed, traitorous movement that lost the Civil War.” But that’s judgmental. It’s their tribe, and as another flag they like to wave from an earlier war aggressively states, “Don’t Tread on Me!”

We also need to gain an understanding of the privileges many of us take for granted –white, male, or otherwise.

My only experience as a minority was during a month I spent volunteering for Earthwatch in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was considered a “Haole” (how-lee.) This is a term usually applied by native Hawaiians or Polynesians to Caucasians. It is not necessarily derogatory, depending on context, but it is often negative. It was an eye-opener that kept me on my guard. Living there permanently would mean adjusting to the notion of always being viewed as an outsider, with limitations on my rights and sidelong glances from those who dislike me without knowing me. But at the end of the month, I was able to simply fly back to my privileged place on the Mainland and resume where I’d left off. Even police can take off their uniforms at day’s end and get a break from scrutiny. But people of color cannot for a minute remove their skins.

I am surprised that the 1964 film  Black Like Me has not been pulled out of the archives and re-popularized. Based on a true story, actor James Whitmore plays reporter John Griffin, who went through treatments to darken his skin for a six-week tour of the southern United States in the 1950s. It is the ultimate blackface experiment and well worth watching.

I’ve encountered a wall of denial built around my white male friends. The suggestion that we have benefited from white privilege, particularly as males, sometimes triggers an angry, defensive response. One pointed to a life of hard work (earned privilege) and a less-than-privileged upbringing as a latchkey kid. The key to that latch on a door to a house owned by one or more parents undermines his claim.

Everyone I know lived in a home with one or more parents. That is privileged in itself. This generally leads to statements like, "Poverty is a choice," and how "those less fortunate need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps and stop living off of the welfare state funded by our taxes.”

            “But they might not have boots, or straps,” I say.

Speaking in metaphors is never a good way to advance a debate. And the failure of my friends to recognize that they benefit from an invisible collection of unearned social assets is not their fault. Privilege itself is not their fault. We have been conditioned to be oblivious to our advantages. But failing to acknowledge those privileges is definitely our fault.

I am fully aware that I benefited from being a white male early in my career and in life (unearned privilege). As a young man in my early twenties, I was able to stroll into a bank and secure a mortgage, having only recently graduated from college. The house I mortgaged was in an affluent north suburb of Chicago. I felt safe in my neighborhood and had pleasant neighbors. There was almost no crime. My high school class numbered around 1200 racially similar students. Our teachers looked like us. At the end of the day, we turned on the television and saw people that looked like us. Our entire world looked like us. We took it for granted.

I waltzed into college, able to afford the cost and without much in the way of scholastic credentials. Many of my friends had help from their parents. We were not the first in our families to pursue higher education. We were financially and intellectually privileged. I was raised by two parents, with a father who was present and a life free from generational poverty, substance abuse, and violence. Maybe I was just lucky.

I later applied for and was promoted within a large corporation without much effort. I worked hard, but hard work is entirely separate from the privilege that eased my journey.

And then came the day when my company rolled out an initiative that included hiring percentages for women and minorities. This was long before the acronym DEI became popular. The rug of privilege was suddenly seemingly pulled out from under me. The corporate ladder had a few new rungs upon which I was not allowed footing. I challenged what I considered “quotas” and in a meeting with a Black, female HR representative the new reality was firmly but politely made clear. I was handed a booklet on Affirmative Action and sent on my way. But before I left, that very nice young lady asked me:

            “Can you imagine what it’s like to feel that people assume I got my job because of my race or gender, or to have to work twice as hard as someone else to be considered for a job?”

I couldn’t imagine that. My latchkey friend says that this isn't true. Everything is already equal. But her comment spoke to the essence of being unprivileged.

Politicians as far back as Nixon have employed a “Southern Strategy” of focusing on racial issues to gain votes from a fearful white working class. It’s a real vote-getter, but as our national demographics evolve, the strategy is beginning to backfire. The assumption is that a gain in privilege by one race is part of an equation that results in a loss by another. Is that true? Is privilege a social currency that can neither be created nor destroyed – it just changes hands? Or can we learn to share?

Every so often our society lurches forward in a spasm that seems like a great awakening to those of us who were on autopilot. Changes come quickly, two steps forward, and are often met with eventual resistance when things get uncomfortable, three steps back. There can be collateral damage when boundaries extend into the marginal gray zones. The #MeToo movement tapped into a sweeping “cancel culture” that may have disproportionately held a few people overly accountable, but mostly not. This is a literal push coming to shove that bumps up against our tribal personal bubble.

            “They tore down which statue? Well, that’s not right.”

            “Al Franken resigned? But he was just joking!”

            “Change the name of the Redskins? Why? That seems silly.”

            “Aunt Jemima is a wonderful childhood memory. Gee whiz.”

            “Black lives matter.”

            “Blue lives matter.”

            “All lives matter.”

Silly perhaps to some, but not to others. After all, cultural appropriation is nothing new. European Whites demanded it of Native Americans. Speak our language. Adopt our traditions. This land is our land…now.

If you read any amount of honest history you’ll find that much of this is not at all new. The rich tribe has always needed the poor tribe to generate their wealth. The rich amass power, become leaders, draft legislation, and pass laws that benefit their position. Having become privileged they are not about to give it up. Those of us in the shrinking center enjoy our relative comfort and level of privilege. And we don’t want to lose it either. We’re part of a tribe called the Middle Class.

My latchkey friend told me that true history is not being taught. I assumed that he had been made aware that between 1885 and 1915 on average every third day a Black person was brutally, publicly murdered by white mobs. But my hope evaporated when he said that many slaves weren’t Black, and were well-treated indentured servants. As if that makes owning another human acceptable.

Darwin might say that tribalism carried with it genetic survival value. Competition between tribes over preferred resources, land, and mates undoubtedly resulted in a stronger tribe and possibly a more diverse and healthier gene pool. That's a short detour to a road called "Eugenics."

But just as we eventually evolved language, religion, a conscience, moral values, and laws, hasn’t the time come to eliminate the barriers that prevent us from viewing each other as members of a single human tribe? Perhaps not even very soon, but we can begin to lay the foundation and framework for a future when that hopefully comes to pass.

😎

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.

 

User Error

Those of us who worked at The Company still talk about the time when investors negotiated a takeover of our profitable enterprise. We didn’t know it at the time, but these unseen entities were not simply injecting cash for a share of profits in our booming business. This was an acquisition, and things were about to change.

It had all seemed too good to be true, and even the owners seemed dismayed and betrayed by the sudden onset of cost cutting and the rapid purge of amenities. They had spent years building the business and nurturing the loyal employees who helped make them successful and wealthy. They were emotionally invested, but only to a point.

How could we know that our decent pay, high morale and sunlit fourth floor office would soon be darkened by an attention to the bottom line worthy of Jacob Marley’s scrutiny? Gone would be the monthly birthday gatherings in the central conference room, festooned with colors, cake and congratulations. Our weekly chair massages were the first thing to go. The owners were next.

And then the layoffs began; a few at first, and then with greater frequency. The investors could spot a successful business but had no idea how to run one. Morale and relationships begot sales, which in turn begot profits. Once morale tanked and favorite employees began to jump ship, customers shifted accounts to firms more like the one we had once been.

Rumors of an eventual large layoff circulated for weeks in hushed tones around the office. Savvy staff had already moved on, leaving the less seasoned among us to hope for a reprieve, a delay or some good old-fashioned luck. But the ax had been used to sharpen pencils, and spreadsheets were constructed with exquisite detail for review and an imminent blood letting. Friday would be blackened, and it was already Thursday.

Early that afternoon, an email blast appeared throughout the office, here and there accompanied by subtle chimes. Whispers followed, and then scurrying footsteps as staff ran between cubicles to stare together in horror at an attached file that was being saved to local hard drives.

“SHUT DOWN THE SERVER!” came a scream from a Vice President’s office down the hall. But it was too late.

Everyone in the office was in possession of an organized spreadsheet accounting of the next day’s layoff. Column by column, row-by-row, staff was reduced to numbers that told the story of their demise. Salaries, severance and savings, totaled and sub totaled, tallied for the investors and laid out like so much beef in a butcher’s counter, complete with white paper and twine.

As the story unfolded, an email distribution group titled “All Company Management” was alphabetically arranged next to the distribution group more appropriate for company newsletters named “All Company.” The mistake was honest, inexcusable and part of company lore for years to come. One click of the mouse selected the distribution group. A second click sent it irretrievably to everyone at The Company. Lacking a final warning that said, “Are you sure you want to send a note to all staff?” the mistake was one of inattention to detail at a moment when caution was paramount. And the incident changed nothing. The cake had been baked, but was now frosted with a thick layer of shame and humiliation for one of the few who didn’t lose her job that day. She was allowed to stay.

😎

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 Hinges of Hell

My neighbor has a saying for everything. I’m a fan of fun sayings so I thought I’d start a collection. My favorite, spoken frequently by author and radio show host Garrison Keillor is, “The desire to perform is no indicator of talent.”

I’ve repeated that line so many times and in so many places I can no longer categorize its use. It’s a great one for school variety shows, amateur theater productions and chorales, church choirs, political debates and even sporting events. Put me in coach. No, you stay on the bench!

It’s another way of saying, “Just because your head is shaped like a hubcap doesn’t mean you’re a big wheel.” That one belongs to neighbor Jim. I look forward to capturing more of his folksy wisdom. Now that he knows I’m taking notes they’re flying fast and furious.

My grandmother had favorite phrases for lots of occasions. I only wish I’d written them down instead of relying on my memory.

One of hers was, “What falls to the floor comes to the door.” I guess saying this is a nice distraction for clumsy types to get observers thinking about something other than picking errant silverware off of the kitchen floor. Is a knife a man, a spoon a woman? How does that work? Does it ever work? I mean, “I was born at night, but not last night.” Don’t expect me to stand by the front door and await guests every time you lose your grip on a fork.

Another of Grandma’s favorites was, “Friday night dreams come true.” I’ve never tested this, but feel free to keep a notepad on your nightstand and tape your nocturnal imaginings to the refrigerator for future reference. How long does it take for these dreams to materialize? If I master lucid dreaming can I take advantage of this cause and effect?

I’ll be updating this from time to time. Summer is a good time for inside activities like this. To go outside is foolish when it’s “Hotter than the hinges of Hell.” One interesting note: Hell’s Hinges is a 1916 silent film featuring William S. Hart and Clara Williams. Now you know.

I’ll end with a classic line by my favorite humorist, Mark Twain. He said, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

With that, I will close my mouth and suppress my desire to perform further.

 

😎

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.

 

 

 

Packing for a Trip to the Third World

Drafted mentally at 3am on a sleepless night at the Hotel Bambu in Santiago, Guatemala. Completed in a traffic jam on a hill outside of Panajachel after a particularly bouncy boat ride.

I begin this essay with the observation that I’ve never known a rooster to crow exclusively at sunrise. At least three confused cocks interrupted my sleep with what can best be compared to “The Midnight Howl” from the movie 101 Dalmatians. Gallo Frito (fried rooster) is my dish of choice should I decide to hold them accountable.

Eight months of planning afforded this compulsive worrier plenty of time to prepare for the horrors of our descent into the heart of darkness. My Third World checklist resulted from ruminations of car-jackings, robberies, machete assaults, pick-pocketing, volcanoes, earthquakes, cliff-falls and other random surprises over which I have no control. That left me to focus on exchange rates, parasites and a variety of possible rashes. And, yes, I know that it’s never the things you expect or prepare for that deliver your undoing.

My packing list became quite specific. If I can catch jock-itch and athlete’s foot at a health club two blocks from my home, then the devilish Tinea twins can easily stage a third world Cincoanera in my nether regions without an ample supply of Tinactin and Lotrimin. Check.

Hydrocortisone seems an appropriate addition for a variety of potential skin eruptions, not the least of which might be the result of exotic plant scratches and insect stings. And speaking of eruptions, I think it only logical when surrounded by volcanoes and water borne parasites to have a well considered, shall we say, exit strategy.

Seriously, the metaphor of magma exiting my body, jet propelled by an assortment of unaccustomed foods, laced with picante, pico de gallo and hot peppers is a short stretch given my propensity to suffer digestively in travels to my only previous Third World destinations like Round Lake Beach and Peoria. Compounding this is a lifetime aversion to objects falling from my body that harkens back to my toilet training resistance as a child, continuing into middle age with a diet high in beef and output that more closely resembles an Arabian foal. Wet wipes and lidocaine cream applied as needed. Check.

All of this brings me to our painful ride on Lake Attitlan, a water filled collapsed caldera between three volcanoes, in a rustic flat bottom boat not meant for even light chop. Halfway through the slamming ordeal, tossed like our luggage and seat cushions I shouted “No mas testiculares” in a plea for mercy on my gonads and an attempt to sound Spanish. I fully expected to be hurled from a volcanic vent on a Mayan altar like James Mason and Pat Boone after their Journey to the Center of the Earth, but had no such luck. Where is Arne Saknussemm when you need him?

Respectfully submitted should the mosquito bite I suffered on the last day of the trip result in Dengue Fever or something equally awful and untreatable.

But of course it didn’t. Like most vacations, it was extremely enjoyable and utterly amazing – in hindsight.

😎

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.

 

Shaman Bob

 

Introduction:

 

 

Allow me to introduce a story that can best be characterized as imaginative nonfiction. As the first authorized biography to be written about its subject, much literary tuck-pointing was required to fill gaps in a previously unknown but amazing story. By agreement, no sources are cited, and any legal records that might support the legitimacy of the story have been expunged. But it is mostly the truth, and we leave it to you to decide where that gets in the way of fabrication.

Shaman Bob is a prophet among prophets. He is in human form while he traverses the world through place and time, but suspects himself to be of otherworldly origin. He is a blissful being with a personality too codependent to become angry or vengeful. His influence spans generations and continents. He is wise and all-knowing, though he remains humble and without pretense. In fact, his magniloquence has left others with the impression that he is somewhat obtuse. He claims to be God’s best friend.

Emerging from the ritual purification of Temazcal after consuming numerous Ginkgo-infused Long Island Ice Teas, Bob experienced a series of visions that led him to embrace his destiny as a Shaman. But more about that later. It is important for you only to understand that Shamanism is not a birthright, certification, or online degree from the University of Phoenix. It is a mindset and lifestyle choice adopted infrequently but consistently across human cultures and throughout history. Shaman Bob decided he was a Shaman and that was that.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying Natural Selections on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

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.

 

Worlds at War

The red planet burned in the evening sky and the in dreams of Edward Walter Maunder. He stood in the garden of his London home gazing skyward as he did frequently on clear and moonless summer evenings, mired in a debate over his opinion regarding the true nature of Martian canals. His obsession with the red orb, the most masculine of planets, tested the limits of his scientific knowledge, and he inevitably turned in frustration to the telescope in his greenhouse. It remained there, equilibrated to the outdoor temperature to reduce fogging of its highly polished lenses.

 

It was at one of the early meetings of the British Astronomical Association that Edward crossed paths with Herbert Wells, fifteen years his junior, but a decidedly deeper thinker and consummate debater. Wells and Maunder shared tea frequently over the course of several years as neighbors, developing a deep and intellectually satisfying friendship.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

😎

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.

 

Nothing Good

“Don’t ask,” grunts my contact as he swings open a chain link gate and motions me inside.

Of course, I never ask. To do so would be unprofessional, and if my fledgling business needs anything at this point, it’s a profound level of trust, and a track record that will get me other jobs by word of mouth.

The unsavory nature of my growing list of clientele speaks to my competence, both as a security analyst and as a tight-lipped confidant among night-dwellers in the underground economy. I am generally paid in cash. Hundreds only.

We’ll call my contact Vinnie. Yeah, Vinnie. He ushers me into the compound and promptly chains and locks the gate behind me. We head to the first of a series of storage sheds. Barn sized and windowless metal structures, allegedly protected by “Fang,” an ancient Doberman Pincer who looks up and woofs in our general direction, then licks his balls before lying back down in the dust near shed one. The Beware of Dog sign on the fence has done far more to guard the area than Fang for quite some time. I guess that’s why they need me.

Inside shed one, Vinnie flips on a series of incandescent hummers, caged steel contraptions that immediately attract moths and illuminate airborne dust. 

😎

To read the rest of this story and 50 others, 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 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.