I'm going off the rails on a crazy train...

Most days, I love my commute to and from work. It's sort of a respite from the rest of the overly interactive world, so drive time becomes me time.

While most days I sail along listening to the local contemporary Christian music station or the local sports talk station, occasionally...just ever so often... I revert to my old ways and push that preset that takes me back to a time when music was...well... music. Back to when bands consisted of at least two guitar players, a bass player and A DRUMMER. A real drummer too. Not some digitally produced facsimile of one. Ah yes. I'm talking about...

Classic Rock!

Wholesome? Absolutely not. Virtuous? Please. Spiritual? Well now...that one is certainly debatable.  I'm on probation with the wife on songs I can teach the two youngest girls due to more than a few stories afoot about the teenager in her younger days belting out AC/DC lyrics at the most inopportune moments. Apparently dirty deeds done dirt cheap and honky tonk women are completely inappropriate verbiage for a first grader...who knew?

As I drove and listened this morning to the sweet sounds vibrating from the cones of paper making up my no-name brand speakers, something came over me that I never recall happening before today. For whatever reason, I found myself not focused at all on the driving beats and rhythmic patterns but rather on the lyrics.

What?

I'm as surprised as you friends! All these years and I've never realized just how ridiculously stupid some classic rock song lyrics can actually be....(gulp)...apparently, another tell-tale sign I'm...(no! don't say it!)...getting old.


Let's examine the line up from my morning commute:

Bang a Gong (Get It On)- Sweet...the classic retitled T-Rex anthem from 1971 that truly epitomized the sex, drugs and rock-n-roll culture of the era. Timeless guitar rifts with a bass line that sticks to memory. Even this old drummer was never fooled into thinking the title was a percussion reference. Nope. Just to accentuate that point...the mid-song sound effect of lighter flicking and gurgling noises. So...that should actually be gang a bong?

Get it on, bang a gong, get it on. Deep stuff? Don't think so...but fun to sing even if there's not an actual gong in the song to bang or you're ignorant of the drug culture...like me.

Stuck in the Middle-  Nice! Gerry Rafferty with Stealers Wheel (who?) pre-solo and of Baker Street fame. That's K-Tel classic folks! My, oh my... makes me remember my very first boy/girl party where matching party hats and napkins weren't involved but a spinning bottle...oops! Sorry. Better not relive that moment...at least here.

Clowns to left of me, jokers to the right...The very words directly apply to my given situation as I sit in my office and write them. Just saying.

All Right Now- One of the very songs that gave me reason to start playing an electric guitar. Wow! The powerful vocals behind Paul Rodgers' whoa, whoa, whoa are nearly lost to the perfect blending of Paul Kosoff's lead guitar, Andy Fraser's thumping bassline and Simon Kirke's simple but perfect time keeping and fills. Thank goodness my local classic rock radio station plays the full 5:29 version with the leading guitar intro and not that hacked up 4:13 version most stations play these days!  I saw Rodgers and Kirke do this song live with Bad Company in the late 90's and consider it one of the greatest moments of my existence...

Slow, slow, don't go so fast. Don't you think that love can last?   Sadly, I must admit I've used that cheesy line...but it was a VERY LONG time ago!

China Grove- Does the very name of the group, The Doobie Brothers, not say enough? Well actually, the reference to a Chinatown located in the real China Grove in Texas is completely fictional...not to mention the reference to samurai in the song, who are in fact, from Japan. Smoke it up some more boys and let those lyrics keep rolling along. Nobody will ever notice!

We're talking about, talking about China Grove. Wo oh oh. China Grove. Brilliant. Just stinkin' brilliant. Who says drug use can't be a positive social influence...




Fat Bottom Girls and Black Betty- I'm lumping these last two together for obvious reasons. Honestly...I love both songs, but I'm a little confused on whether I should actually admit that publicly or not in the present day climate of uber political correctness. Neither of these songs come close to PC acceptable verbiage. I guess liberals just don't understand that using African American Betty would have seriously messed up the meter in the song. Just get rid of the bam-a-lam? Are you crazy! That's the song!

In the same era that gave us Short People...ladies of ...ahem...size can just deal with it in my book.

She's from Birmingham (bam-a lam), way down in Alabam' (bam-a lam).  A dude from England (William Bartlett) referring to my southeastern neighbor state as Alabam' is about as lame as a couple of white guys calling each other 'homey'. Just please stop.


Maybe I just need to stop listening so close and enjoy those classic melodies and jams. Then again...maybe I should have listened more closely all those many years ago. Not sure it would have mattered though...I still would have hated country music.

I always preferred the taste of Dove over Dial as a kid...

Okay. I'll admit it. Come completely clean. Confession is good for the soul...or is it heartburn...no wait that's charcoal. Anyway, here it goes...

I'm a grade-Nazi.

A what?! ...you may ask. But alas it is I, in mine own household, that holdeth dearest to the true value of one's education.

So why are you talking like you're quoting from the King James Version?

A question most assuredly springing to mind in my beloved to be followed closely by a sudden realization of jiltedess by my Shakespearean banter.

Okay. Enough of that crap. Bottom line...school grades count for something at our house. Period.

While I've blogged pretty extensively about my views on education, the reality is my spoken/written feelings are actually put into practice constantly with the girls. Well...two of them anyway. Bulldog is still at that point she's fascinated with the fact she has toes.

But things will take a drastic turn when she graduates turns 2! Just wait!

From daily checks of the teenager's grades via an online parent portal with real time updates (thank God that wasn't around when I was in high school) to daily quizzing of the Crazy Tomato on addition and subtraction problems along with blended letter combination, the two oldest girls are constantly submerged in an atmosphere of learning.

* Disclaimer: Mrs Tony C does not, nor has she ever, participated in mind-numbing, rote memorization drills that may or may not result in the withholding of daily extra-nutritional treats for incorrect or incomplete answers.

Happy?

So I ask a lot of questions? Big deal. Last I recall...

We were sitting in a restaurant waiting to order. The Bulldog was hard at work turning her developing brain to goo by re-watching the same episode of the Bubble Guppies on the Kindle Fire for the...oh...say 600th time. At least she was quite. Mrs. Tony C was doing her usually octopus act of multitasking. A juggling act of picking up a sippy-cup off the floor, trying to read the menu for her and both girls, all while employing a delaying tactic that will usually temporarily stifle the Crazy Tomato's obsession with public restrooms.

Tony C: (helplessly entranced Homer-style) Wow...they have a big menu.

Crazy Tomato: Mom. I have to go to the bathroom really bad.

Mrs. Tony C: Honey, wait until after we order. How do you spell 'on'?

Crazy Tomato: Aaaa aaaa nnn nnnn...O and...nnn nnnn....N.

Mrs. Tony C: How do you spell 'off'?

Tony C: (completely to myself): Those ribs look good, but so does that roast beef sandwich. Wings! Wow look at all the wing choices...

Crazy Tomato: Aaaa  aaaa fffff fffff...O and...ffff fffff...F. OF?

Mrs. Tony C: Close. Very close. It has two Fs. OFF.

Tony C: OMG Burger? That suckers got four pieces of bacon! Real bacon...

Crazy Tomato: Two Fs? fffff...ffffff...F ...like in FU**.

(CUE LOUD RECORD SCRATCHING SOUND)

Tony C: (looking over my menu) What did you just say?

Crazy Tomato: F daddy...like in FU**.

A quick glance over at Mrs. Tony C, and I find her locked up tighter that the hard drive on my last laptop. I wasn't completely sure she was actually breathing. Just staring straight ahead as if time had actually frozen in that very instance.

Tony C: Where did you hear that word? Where?!

Crazy Tomato: I don't know daddy. Why? It starts with F doesn't it? Is it a word?

A defining moment in the dynamic of this delicate daddy/daughter relationship was about to unfold. Try to remain calm.

Tony C: Sweetheart. That is a very, very bad word. Don't ever say it.

The weight of the moment (and my apparent demeanor) dropped onto the little rascal like an anchor. She immediately curled up into a ball of sobbing withdrawal.

Mr. Tony C: (snapping back into the moment) It's okay honey. You didn't know it was a bad word. You're not in trouble sweetheart. Where did you hear that word?

The response was just a series of mumbles and sniffles.

Mrs. Tony C: Sweetheart. Daddy's (evil eye + head snap in my direction) not mad at you. You're not in trouble.

Tony C: Hey kiddo. I'm not mad at you at all...

In an effort to marginalize the moment and not damage the learning exchanges (aka drills), the wife and I decided not to make a big deal out of an assuming innocent enough occurrence. For her use of another word earlier in the year we deemed unacceptable, the Crazy Tomato now has a bar of soap stored in a clear plastic baggy with her name on it in the bathroom. She sees it twice a day when she gets her toothpaste out of the medicine cabinet. A not-so-subtle reminder of the consequence should she decide to repeat offend....and expand her vocabulary.

We figured there are at least a few places the CT could have picked up the mother-of-all dirty words, with the likelihood falling on school. Imagine that. I was hoping for Robert Frost, and instead she can quote Eddie Murphy. Nice.

I worked so hard at not overreacting that day, that I ended up ordering fish tacos. Fish tacos?! I've never ordered fish tacos in my life! What...the ...

All the way home, Mrs. Tony C drilled the Crazy Tomato with words starting in F. She has a harder time letting things go.

Hey to Goober...one last time.

Very few television characters have a lasting presence in pop culture. Goober Pyle, however, makes that exclusive list...


I was deeply saddened to read this morning that George Lindsey, aka Goober, died yesterday in Nashville at the age of 83. Unlike so many other actors, George never tried to detach himself from the role that made him famous on a world stage. He was Pee-Wee Herman/Paul Rueben or Mr. Bean/Rowan Atkinson before those personas were ever imagined.

George Lindsey was the lovable buffoon Goober Pyle.

He had originally auditioned for the role that eventually went to Jim Nabors. The two men  grew up in  Alabama practically real neighbors until the latter moved to Southern California. Jim Nabors is 81 and lives in Hawaii today. The two men will be linked forever as the cousins from Mayberry that both worked at Wally's Filling Station.

Goober Pyle: Yo.

From 1964 until 1992, George played Goober on The Andy Griffith Show and later on the long running Hee Haw. I've always loved the first and have grown to love the latter, but after years of loathing the standard response when meeting people and saying I was from Tennessee...Oh, like Hee Haw?

(eye roll)

We sorely miss genuine characters like Goober on television today. Simpleton in the most innocent of terms. Living life with a sense of wonder and almost childlike. That fact is personified in pop culture slang whenever you call someone a goober. While maybe not fair to the purity of the role, Lindsey's character is a direct result of the slang label. On the other hand, I'm not sure of the origin when using the word in referring to a part of the male anatomy. But I digress...

Much like Elvis Presley, Jughead Jones or even Bugs Bunny, Goober Pyle will live on as a recognizable character for many, many years to comes. Maybe, just maybe, not only because he continues to entertain most all of us with his lovable shenanigans in syndication...but because most everyone has at one time or another had a Goober moment or two themselves.

Lord knows I've had plenty...

You're only as old as you look...feel...I mean believe, yes believe!

It all started so innocent enough. A little gray hair, weight not coming off so easily, a few cracking joints in the morning, etc...

Then came phase two. A case of gout. What the heck is that? Doesn't that effect only old people. Next came the need for a prescribed 'fluid pill' due to excess fluid build up. Dear Lord. I'm a 'nerve pill' prescription away from being my grandmother...and she'll be 98 next month!

Today, I enter a completely new phase of sun-setting life...today I became...a mall watcher.

gasp

Not a 'mall walker' mind you. Oh no. I skipped that level completely and went straight to going to the mall, parking on a bench all by myself, and watching people go by while making mental observation all to myself. What next? A Hoveround. Oh the humanity!


My written confession might lead to open weeping. I'm glad my dear readers can't see me right now. Shameful.

No. I can't explain why. I thought the Crocs, the ZUMBA, the Just for Men were all great tools to help me fight off that plummet into the old person abyss of condo-living in Florida and Bingo on Tuesday and Friday nights. Apparently not.

The sad part about the whole affair is I didn't even realize I was doing it...mall watch that is...until the task was well under way. It all happened so fast! I went to the mall to get the teenager a pair of shoes, a bite of lunch and then...wham, bam, Son of Sam...I'm anchoring down one end of a bench with a tag team partner on the other end obviously well into his 70s.

Warm weather we're having for the first week of May.

Yes sir. After that nonexistent winter, we might be in for a scorcher this summer.

The weather?! I'm sitting on a bench in the mall talking to an old man about the weather?! Why does my ankle hurt? On no...not gout. Not gout again...

This weather sure messes with joints. Knees hurt so bad I can't sleep at night.

Weather. Knee pain. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's not gout after all. Maybe, just maybe, it's barometric pressure related rheumatoid...arthritis...oh sweet fancy Moses...please be gout! What's happening to me? I need to lie down...no!...I don't need to lie down! I perfectly okay! I'll do ZUMBA tonight, a little bow-chicka-wow-wow later tonight. Yes! I will be just fine...

These young people and their phones. Walking around texting not watching where they're going. Why aren't they in school in the middle of the day?!

Oh look at the time! I'd better be getting back to work myself. Hope you have a good rest of the day sir.

Work? Oh yeah. Good talking to you.

I'm officially avoiding the mall for the rest of the summer. I'm too young to be old! That's right...you're too young to be old Tony C. You're to young to be old. You're too young to be old.

I missed ZUMBA tonight because my stinking ankle is killing me...dang this gout stuff hurts.

Misery loves company...wealth draws it like a magnet.

This morning when I got in my car to head to work, the radio station was set to a local country music station. Stinkin' teenager. Now, I'm by no means a country music fan (shocking, I know) and couldn't even begin to render a guess at who was singing the song violating my ears before changing back to my preset.

Garth Brooks?

Is he still in the business? I just don't know. The incident did, however, take me back to my college days when I was running around the Mecca of country music...Nashville, Tennessee.

Country music made a resounding boom in the early '80s, and the town was completely saturated with the extraordinary influx of higher per capita income. Of course, I was a broke college student working his way through a higher education with a part-time at the local Mickie D's. This particular  McDonald's was located in Green Hills, which at the time, was one of the more affluent parts of town.

Yep. Even rich people eat Big Macs.

This morning, I recalled on my way to work a particular evening of handing white bags out the drive-thru window...a story that has stuck with me through the years. It wasn't uncommon (by any stretch of means) to run into a country music star of the time just doing their normal routines. As a matter of fact, a few years after this particular story I'm about to share, I actually put shoes on Emmylou Harris without a clue who she was and why people I worked with were making a big deal about her. She did have a nice bod, but...

Yep. I worked in a retail shoe department too. Stop laughing.

Back to McDonald's. With all the new found wealth filling the city, seeing a Ferrari 308 was as common and seeing the infamously flammable Ford Pinto of the day. Made popular by Mangum, PI, the iconic red sports cars were buzzing around everywhere.  I got to see one up close on this evening as I passed a bag of food and drink carefully out to a rather pompous acting recipient who had the same look on his face most parents do the first time they catch the toddler drinking Kool-Aid from an open container on the sofa.

Don't worry jerk. I'm a professional, and your Diet Coke is in good hands.

As closing time approached, a late buzz of the drive-thru bell signalled either the most die hard of golden arch fans or a local co-ed with the munchies. Hmmm.

I'd like an order of Chicken McNoogets and a large orange drink please.

The slow southern draw and mispronunciations of McDonald's newest food craze provoked a giggle from everyone working this pre-headphone evening as it came across the box. I was anxious to interact with this character.

Pull around please.

From the box: Hey partner. Make sure I get some of that honey-mustard sauce if you would.

Please pull to the window.

I went to put the order together, and we all had another laugh in the late hour. What a hoot. Chicken McNoogets. Walking back to the drive-thru station, I watched the Ford Van circa 1978 or so pull up to the window. It was one of the popular vans from the '70s with the teardrop window on the rear upper corner, but this one was also sporting an advertising paint scheme:

 
My eyes trailed from the side of the van up to the driver as I walked closer. Now... I'm standing face to face with none other than Porter Wagoner himself. Wow!

Growing up, The Porter Wagoner Show was regular viewing at our home. I heard not only Dolly Parton, but also stuttering Mel Tillis for the first time on his show. Here was the Wagon Master himself in one of his famous rhinestone jackets with a ring on most every finger! He must be coming from a gig!

He had to turn the van off because the exhaust system was both loud and in need of obvious repair.

Partner. Don't forget that honey-mustard sauce.  (wink)

No sir Mr. Wagoner. I'll put in a few extra.

I appreciate that cowboy.

There is a certain unwritten etiquette when dealing with stars in public. After all, they're just people too and like their privacy. I was pumping gas one day across from none other than Randy Owen of Alabama fame and just coolly nodded a confirmation of recognition and left it at that. There was a certain degree of personal satisfaction on my part for not doting and appreciation conveyed for that fact on his part. Of course, that moment was completely shattered when a vehicle came whipping onto the lot, and a screeching lady with both breast nearly out of containment went running over to him for an unsolicited bear hug.

But this was Porter Wagoner... a Grand Ole Opry staple!

Fighting back the urge to strike up meaningless conversation, I focused on getting him on his way with sauce in tow.

I'm surprised a young fellow like you recognized and old washed up singer like me... 

Okay. Now I'm seriously fighting back my innate sarcastic mechanism that wanted to point out his name was plastered on the side of his van like a mobile billboard. Not to mention, the lift in the front of his hair was peaking somewhere around 8 inches...his signature trademark.

As he fired back up his van and pulled away, I thought about the Ferrari from a few hours earlier. Without a doubt, that jack-wagon had made a ton of money in the country music industry on the foundation built on the back of this falling star who was driving a near dilapidated vehicle.

Both sad and pathetic.

Of course, I found out years later that Wagoner was just notoriously cheap and filthy rich from his early music career and syndicated television show. He also had a serious hankering for honey-mustard sauce...but then, maybe I'm  the only one holding that telling information.

I don't know who these generic, pop-called-country music stars of today are...but they're no Porter Wagoner for sure. He is and always will be an original character of the genre.


* Porter died in 2007 at the age of 80. Misery Loves Company was one of several #1 hits for the singer from 1962.

“We can evade reality, but we cannot evade the consequences of evading reality” Ayn Rand, Russian-born writer

After comments from several of you about my last post on doing the work, I must admit I came under a great deal of conviction...


Now let me state right up front I've never been a lazy person. That doesn't, however, exclude the fact that on past occasions I've found easier paths to get to a desired result. While my personal creed has most assuredly flopped Mitt Romney-style from the end justifies the means to do the right thing no matter what,  I still tote some baggage that apparently some of you remember quite well from days of old. Ancient history.

Yes. I'm talking specifically about cheating...in school...that is. The other type of cheating is a completely different post/issue.

Not long ago, I received a text message from my teenager while I was at work, and she was supposed to be at school.

What is the Ring of Fire?

Thinking she was goofing off in class with some of her classmates, I quickly responded:

The after-effects of the new hot chalupa at Taco Bell... 
...or the title of an old Johnny Cash song I used to have on an 8 track.

Dad! I'm serious!

So, now I'm thinking she's using me like ChaCha to look smart in front of her friends.

A group of active volcanoes in the Pacific rim that goes along Eastern Asia around to Western North and South America. Why? (True. A better question would be why in the world do I know that?)

Are you sure?

Wait. Are you cheating on a test?!

Dad? Are you sure?

Yes! But I'm not answering anymore questions! Not good young lady...

I'm wondering why a teacher would let students have phones...smart phones at that...out during a test? Is that education today?

The conversation with the teenager had a bit of a tainted feel to it later that day as I lectured on the values of actually learning a school subject (in this case geography) and the attributes of integrity as a foundational cornerstone to one's character.

Ouch. As I remember these recent events and recalled (with some of your help, thanks) my own antics from school...yep...the conviction starts pouring over me in buckets. Granted, I have used one of my former 'creative escapades' to illustrate the importance of doing your own work in school while talking with young people today. The story goes like this:

My very first semester of classes in college included the foreign language of Spanish. In my very first class of said subject, I quickly noted that the professor, along with everyone else in the class, spoke exclusively Spanish the entire class. I was completely lost not to mention embarrassed more than once by my feeble attempts to start adding to my class participation grade.

At the conclusion of class, I immediately went to the professor:

Tony C: I'm sorry. I must be in the wrong class. Is this an advanced Spanish class?

Professor: Hola. Senor Antonio, did you have Espanol in high school?

Tony C: Yes ma'am. Two semesters.

Professor: Did you make an A in those classes?

Tony C: Yes ma'am. Both semester.

Professor: Then Senor Antonio you are in the right class. Bienvenido.

Now the truth of the matter about my high school Spanish grade is that while my transcript shows an A grade in both semesters...Pam H actually made those A's...not yours truly.

A quick trip to the Registrar's Office and a drop/add slip took care of the problem. Well, except now 'Я говорю по-русски...плохо'.

But, I'm not even sure if that's the correct phrase in Russian to be quite honest.  Kids...just do the work! Believe me, you're much better off in the long run...and a much better person to boot.

"Opportunity is missed by most because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." Thomas Edison

There are a few television shows that get recorded to the DVR for my benefit each week. Aside from my weekday regiment of the PBS NewHour, Tim Allen's new sitcom called Last Man Standing is a weekly watch for both me and Mrs. Tony C.

The premise revolves around a middle-aged father of three girls struggling to relate his old school way of thinking to their more modernized, sophisicated approach to life. His wife becomes the ultimate mediator between 'manly-man' father and daughters due in large part to the fact she is obviously smarter and much more refined than her husband.

Ahem...sounds very familiar. Too familiar actually if you just add Crocs.


The wife recognizes Tim Allen's character has a great heart and always the best intentions with his often hilarious shennaigans. Sort of a remake of Allen's first sitcom character, Tim Taylor, on Home Improvement.

During a recent episode, Allen's character (Mike Baxter) is listening to his middle daughter whine about forgetting her lines during a school play (which he happened to miss) when she finally admits to the fact she didn't really put forth effort to actually memorize them.

What's wrong with you!?  You know you've got to do the work! That's what we do in this family. We do the work!

Over and over that  phrase has since buzzed in my head. Do the work! How completely and simplistically profound.

There are a number of positive attributes I get from my mom without a doubt. But, the one dominate principle I learned from my dad is to never be afraid of hard work. A lesson by example from a man who in 35 plus years never missed a day of work for sickness. Not one.

Where has this principle of  do the work been lost?  I'm constantly riding my teenager about her responsibilities around our house. Granted they're not great task but are put in place to help her better understand everyone plays an important role in making up the family. She will have her own some day, and only then will she truly realize the amount of effort required just to get through a single day of living in modern society.



But that fact hasn't really changed in thousands of years.

Sure. Our culture has become less physical with technological advances, but the garbage still has to be taken out! Meals still have to be prepared and cleaned up. No. We don't have to spend a tremendous part of our day working to hunt, kill and cook the food we eat, but we do spend a large portion of each day at a job that pays us so we can purchase the food we need to live.

I work for a relatively small Department of Defense contracting company. The model keeps the number of employees to a minimum in order to maximize the compensation for all of us who work there. To a person, everyone seems to loves it.  But there's a mutual understanding that due to our lean composition, it is vital each employee do his/her job with maximum effort and be willing to pitch in when the occasional overload shows up. That's not my job is not only an unacceptable attitude...it's practically nonexistent.

Unfortunately, I don't see the same demeanor at my church where the typical (to churches) 10% of members do 90% of the task necesary for the church to thrive and function. Such a shame too. In a congregation of over 300 people, so much could be done for God's glory if everyone would do the work  He needs us to do.

What I find most baffling is this lassez faire attitude in today's church bridges each and every generation...even to the surviving members of the Greatest Generation. Christians can't blame just young people for the stagnant state of the American church. We've become increasingly lazy as a whole in our society and as a subset in our places of worship.

A daunting subject matter that undoubtedly will require more addressing in future post. I'm going to leave you today, however, with a thought and hopefully a chuckle.

The thought is this: The next time you're walking down your street, in your office building, around your church or anwhere else for that matter...and you come across a piece of trash on the ground/floor...pick it up and put it in a trash can. Do the work necessary regardless of blame or due credit and don't leave it for someone else to do.

Now here's the chuckle. It's a little disturbing watching this knowing I'm in complete agreement with what Tim Allen is saying for the sake of comedy...but that's a blog post for Mrs. Tony C to write I suppose.

Be kind whenever possible...and remember it's always possible.

A couple of phrases/concepts I've recently heard via television or radio have managed to capture my attention and ultimately have worked into my muses.


Just yesterday while out for lunch, I was sitting at a red light listening to a radio commercial about retirement I'd already heard several times. What caught my attention was the premise being made that until that first day of  a person's retirement, we each face deadlines near constantly. That fact is actually the underlining principle behind students being assigned homework in school.  Learning to meet deadlines while producing quality work is the actual goal of homework...hmmmm.


POW!

As I pulled through the the red light, my right, front tire finally gave up the ghost. Granted, I had been pushing it for quite some time, and that green stuff called Slime you shoot into your tire for a slow leak problem can only go so far. Such is life, no big deal.

Limping into the closest parking lot for the required pit stop, I noticed a female sitting on a bench outside of this particular Walgreens. Duly noted to self. Surveying my surroundings is an old habit from years gone past. Old habits die hard but sometimes prove useful. I found a nice spot in the rear parking lot of Walgreens in the shade.

I opened my trunk and prepared to retract my spare for the task at hand. I'm thinking 10 minutes...tops.

Hey! I can change that tire for a few extra dollars!

From around the corner comes the aforementioned female on said bench, and it is immediately apparent to me what profession the aforementioned female is currently listing on her nonexistent resume. Great. Just great. Rear parking lot of Walgreens with a pro. This kind of stuff ends up news even in the most innocent of circumstances.

Aside from...ahem...services rendered on a personal level, she also boasted of mechanical skills and immediately started digging around in my truck trying to retrieve the jack.

I'll have you on your way in no time Sugar.

Tony C: Ma'am, that's okay. I can do this pretty quick.

Let me just get this jack out and we'll...

Her phone rings.

Hello. Waiting for you. You're late this week. Helping this guy change a flat tire. No! I'm really helping him change his flat tire. Okay. I'll be right here.

By this time, I had managed to fish a $10 bill from my wallet. Yes. A risky exchange, but...

Tony C: Okay look. Here's $10. Just go back to the bench and wait for your...friend. I'll take care of this.

For nothing? You don't have to do that.

Tony C: Yes. I know. I just need to change this tire and get back to work. Besides, what kind of gentleman would I be letting a lady change my tire. No offense meant of course.

Well God bless you mister. I can buy me some cigarettes now. God bless you.

Tony C: God bless you too ma'am, and I mean that with all sincerity. He blesses me all the time even though I don't deserve it.

(Smacking me on the arm) Yep, me too! Ain't that the truth Sugar!

My heart sank just a bit as I watched her walk away and then climb into the truck for her...ahem...appointment. An overwhelming sense of anguish fell over me as I reflected on the fact she was some body's daughter, maybe even a mother.

I'm sure she is well known to the other people around that parking lot for what she is..no, what she does... but I don't begrudge a single second giving her that $10 in front of them. Sure. I just wanted her to go away, so I could change my flat in peace and be on my way. But after the fact and upon reflecting on the brief exchange, I find comfort in knowing that regardless of her circumstances and choices, she still acknowledged an understanding that God blesses us. 

The radio commercial I was listening to when my tire blew out was trying to convey that responsibilities end at retirement, but we all face a last ultimate deadline even in retirement. We can't afford to rest, even in old age, on our responsibilities to God until that final retirement comes. That's true planning for the future.

My next post will look at the other phrase/concept I've recently picked up from...of all things...a sitcom. 

 

Best of TCT- Just listen for hooters to know it's really Spring...

From April 2009

Snow on the blooming redbud tree is not that uncommon in the Southeast.





The air was filled with the sounds of yard work this weekend in my neighborhood. I even noticed one of the neighbors planting annuals around her mailbox...a task she most assuredly will repeat next month. Like many others this weekend, she fell victim to the Calender Spring/Actual Spring trick bag. What? That's right...the Calender Spring/Actual Spring trick bag. Trust me, it got me one year too.

The calender tells people the vernal equinox (aka Spring) happens most years on March 20, as it did this year. Days and nights are of relatively equal length as the sun travels around our planet's equator. Despite the mystical sooth sayings of a certain pudgy rodent in upstate Pennsylvania six weeks earlier, the exit of cold weather is much more orderly, predictable. Everyone in the South knows cold weather hasn't officially ceased until each of the 'mini-winters' have run course because there is a big difference between the season called Winter ending and cold weather ending.

There are three distinct phases, generally speaking, that precedes the departure of cold weather in the Southeast. Granted, this isn't new stuff...Farmers' Almanac has been printing it since 1818 with far more accuracy than that witchcrafty groundhog in PA...and farmers use the phases to determine when certain crops should be planted. The indicator for the arrival of each phase is the blooming of certain plants.

We are currently experiencing Redbud winter here. Although it was a nice toasty 74 degrees on Saturday, the blooming of the Eastern Redbud tree has brought with it a cold snap that calls for a chance of snow just a mere 4 days removed from warmer temperatures. After another brief warming spell, dogwood trees will bloom and with that another cold snap usually around 3 or 4 days long. Last to arrive will be blackberry winter...somewhere around the first of May. The distinct brier can be seen blooming all along Southeastern roadways with promises of fruit for cobblers and pies by July 4th...making the last of the cold spells a little more bearable.

Now when I was but a young lad in the times before central air conditioning (at least at our house), I knew when I heard the hoot of the Hoot Owl outside my window after sunset it would soon be time to raise the windows at night and take off the white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt during the day.

Of course, I now know that scientifically speaking there are no Hoot Owls, just the native Barred and Common Barn Owls, and the louder hoots are timed to their mating cycles. Still, even though Spring officially started March 20, for me cold weather isn't truly gone until the owls have made their presence known...a happier time for us all.

So for this boy from the Southeast, forget the lessons in horticulture related weather...warm temperatures and hooters go hand in hand for me.

Take it for what it's worth.

True love will always find a way...

Today, Candice and I celebrate our 8th Wedding Anniversary, and I'm genuinely most thankful...

In all honestly, I think it would be safe to say most people didn't give us much of a chance to make it past 2 years, but I do understand where they might have been coming from with such a pessimistic forecast. Candice was just short of 20 years old, and I almost doubled that. Aside from that facts of time, no other reason for our marriage not working would have fallen with her. If only I could have said the same...

I will also confess that despite the relative few trips she had completed around the sun, Candice was far more mature in most areas of life than I was at near twice her age. I don't say that very easily either. There's a great deal of shame and humiliation that comes with that confession, but as I stated earlier, there's also a great deal of appreciation that offsets the former.

Looking back over the past 8 years, I know I've grown up quite a bit. While I might have been well into needed changes when I married the love of my life in 2004, God was still working on me in a number of spiritual areas. I was hungry and anxious to serve Him but boy was I unrefined and green. He knew exactly what I needed to help keep me on His intended path...just like He knew what Adam needed in the garden so long ago.

I know this might be coming across as syrupy or even melodramatic, but I believe in my heart that Candice saved my very life and in a number of ways. My path was on a fast-track to self-destruction. Also, I'm not sure I had the intestinal fortitude to endure the scare of cancer and a few other extreme trials encountered as she came into the picture. Cowardice is never an easy thing to admit and can often be found disguised as a seeming noble gesture or graceful exit. It's still cowardice even under those window dressings.

There is an enormous amount of gratitude in that last paragraph accompanied by a certain degree of remorse. She didn't ask for (or cause) any of the trials we endured early in our relationship and could have easily walked away.  There were nights I prayed she would to make it easier for me. I told you I've grown up a lot.

My wife committed to her words 'for better or worse' in front of God Almighty. She locked her answer in, and He knew she was strong enough through her faith in Him to weather the early storms. I praise and thank God for Candice daily. She is the soul of our family. The anchor in matters of both virtue and serenity. The model mother to all three of my daughters...even the one she didn't birth.

My love for her is second only to my love for God, and she helped teach me that's the way He designed it to be. My trust in her is complete and unlike any other person I've known or ever will know. At times in my life, I've jokingly spewed the line love you so much it hurts...she makes that statement real for me. Not hurt as a matter of pain. I just never want to be separated from her and hold to the belief that God made marriage a divine institution because He gives us the opportunity to make our betrothal an eternal union.

Even that doesn't seem long enough.

Happy Anniversary my love...forever and for always I will be in love with you.