Get In Line, Please

I consider myself a regular at the coffeeshop by work.  They still give me the opportunity to order something new but, if I pause at all, they usually suggest my standard order.  Today I noticed that even though the barrista waited for me to tell her what I wanted, she had already rung it up on the register.

But, even if I wasn't a regular, I don't think I'd have much trouble with the logistics of waiting in line and ordering a cup of coffee.  With some shops this can be tricky - they have special places marked for ordering and others for picking up your drink.  If they need special signs for these things, it's usually an indication that their placement isn't as intuitive as it should be.  My shop has no such signs.  When you walk through the front door the rug on the floor will guide you along the way.  Before you know it, you'll be in line along a display case of cookies and such, working your way from right to left to the register on a counter at the far end.  There, you can place your order and, in my case, receive my drink.  If you order something that takes longer, simply step to the left and wait, there's a little open space there just to accomodate folks.  Utterly simple, impossible to screw up.  Or so I thought.

A couple of days ago, I entered the coffeeshop and made my way naturally into line.  There were a couple of guys standing slightly behind the person ordering.  I assumed they were waiting for their drinks.  As the person ordering finished paying and stepped aside, the boy ahead of me in line began to slide in front of the register.  At this point, one of these men from the back stepped forward, proclaiming that they were in line first.  The guy ahead of me stepped back and all of us in the true line shuffled to our previous locations.

I must admit, I didn't really care for these fellows even before this.  They were engaged in conversation, using their loud, important voices, no doubt discussing serious, important things.  I liked them even less as they stood at the register, still having their discussion while the barrista (and all of us in line) waited.  Finally, they ordered - a couple no-fat, extra-carmel something-or-other lattes.  I had the sense that even if the drinks were prepared perfectly, this pair would find fault with them.

After ordering, the natural, intuitive thing for them to do would have been to step to the left, away from the register and the rest of the folks in line.  The left, the same place the person before them had stepped while waiting for her order.  No, I think they were too focused on their conversation to notice such things.  They stepped to the right, squeezing between those of us in line and the display case.  It made the whole queueing process awkward.  Their drinks were placed on the counter near where they should have been standing.  The barrista called out the order a couple of times.  The conversationalists didn't notice, they were busy talking.

When they finally noticed their drinks, they made a point of commenting to the rest of us that this shop didn't seem to have its act together. After all, getting the drink to the customer should be one of their primary objectives.  If they were looking for a sympathetic ear, I doubt they found one.  As they left, I couldn't help thinking they were the reason places have "Order Here" and "Pickup Here" signs.

Walking Music

I listen to music when I walk at lunch.  This is something I just started doing, within the last month or so.  I began bringing my iPod with me because it had Wi-Fi.  I would walk with my destination being a coffee shop.  There, I would connect to their Wi-Fi and peruse email, update my Facebook status ("At the coffee shop").  I felt very much a part of the modern age, very hip, very cool, oh so with it.  Unless, I forgot my reading glasses.  Then I felt very unhip.  I knew that my expression, as I squinted at the tiny display, could easily be mistakenly read as confusion - "Look at that poor old guy, trying to work his newfangled gadget.  Why does he even try?".  The iPod-coffee shop sessions soon lost their appeal.

But, as long as I had my iPod with me, I might as well listen to music.  So now I walk for most of my lunch break and I listen to music.  I don't have a ton of music loaded on it - most of our music is on CDs and I find moving it onto the computer to be a tedious task.  I can't do more than a couple at one sitting.  I have found that iTunes often offers free music.  I almost always download it.  What I end up with on my iPod is an eclectic blend of old and new.

I used to spend far too much time contemplating what to listen to when I walked.  I tried putting together a playlist of good "walking music".  It sort of worked but after a few days I grew tired of hearing the same songs.  Now, I just let the iPod play anything it can find in the library.  Sometimes, I intervene and skip a song if it just isn't working for me.  I love the soundtrack to "Schindler's List" but it's a bit melancholy when you're cutting through a college campus, dodging kids playing frisbee.  I'll save that one for an overcast day in late fall.

Sometimes one of my new, free tunes will play.  I find them a welcome addition, something new mixed in with the old familiar, comfort music.  Like sprinkling feta cheese on a hamburger hotdish, they give the old a new perspective.  When these tunes come on, I sometimes turn up the volume a bit, hoping some of the sound will bleed out to the young folks I'm walking next to - let them know I'm cool and young at heart.  For similar reasons, I tend to turn down James Taylor - these kids don't know "Fire and Rain".

Oh yum, chenopods for dinner

As I've mentioned in previous posts, our youngest son is a vegetarian.  It's been about a year now since he made the decision to go meatless.  Initially, I thought it was a fad that wouldn't last more than a month or two but I was clearly wrong.  A consequence of his decision is that our whole family eats less meat.  We haven't cut meat out completely, some meals he has to do his own thing with peanut butter or tofu, but we try to find dishes that work for all of us.  The reduction in meat has not gone unnoticed by our oldest boy, who happens to like meat very much.  On more than one occassion, he's looked down at his plate and then shot a glance of resentment his brother's way.

Recently, my wife found a recipe using Quinoa.  Quinoa is grain-like but not quite a grain.  It's actually a chenopod, which means little to me but I offer it here in case you are versed in such things.  It is very rich in protein and other healthy stuff.  We're always looking for ways to get protein into our little vegetarian so she decided to try this recipe.  The dish was billed as sort of a taco salad.  The Quinoa was mixed with some other vegetables and spices to make a taco filling.  This filling was to be served atop a bed of fresh spinach.  All very healthy.

As we sat down for dinner, I watched my wife put some spinach on my oldest son's plate and then scoop the Quinoa taco filling onto it.  The look on his face was one of utter disbelief.  When he wondered aloud if this was really dinner, my wife assured him that there was more.  The recipe also suggested topping the whole works with cilantro, feta cheese and avocado.  She offered these items but he declined.  He stared back at his plate briefly before glaring at his brother across the table.  "This is your fault", he muttered.

Neither boy ate very much dinner that night.  The vegetarian preferred just eating spinach and feta cheese.  In fact, that's what he brought to school for lunch the next day.  My wife and I enjoyed the salad, which was a good thing since there was plenty of it.  I wouldn't mind having it again but I doubt that's going to happen anytime soon.

Bikes and Bosons

Yesterday, I went for a short bike ride with B.  Riding with either of my sons invariably means having a conversation.  Something about pedaling seems to get their brains and mouths running.  I usually wait for them to start the banter - just to see what topic is on their mind.  The discussion is typically one-sided, with me providing mostly grunts now and then to show I'm listening.  Yesterday, B wanted to talk about Higgs bosons (doesn't everyone?).  He'd overheard me telling N about the Large Hadron Collider a couple of weeks ago.  At the time, B was in another room doing homework.  Apparently, he'd been listening in, picking up bits and pieces of information.  Now, he wanted some blanks filled in.  I tried my best to repeat what I'd discussed with Noah.  Most of it B already knew or assumed, he just wanted confirmation from me.  Soon he was theorizing about bosons and black holes and white holes and worm holes.  I was riding ahead of him and if I happened to get too far away, he would just start shouting without missing a beat.  I hope the neighborhood enjoyed the physics lecture.

I love listening to B theorize about things like this.  To him, the possibilities are endless.  If it's theoretically possible then it could happen.  And if it could happen, well, how cool would that be?  What if we could open a wormhole between here and Mars and fly there as easily as going to the moon?  Or what if we could go way back in time (his example was 1996)?  Cool.  I hope he's able to retain this outlook as he gets older - I know so much of reality will be there saying "it can't be done".  But throughout history that's been said about a lot of things that we now can do.  It just takes people who are not willing to accept our current limitations as the best we can be.

Ax-Man

Over the past couple of weeks, my youngest son has been mentioning that he'd really like to do some shopping at the Ax-Man store.  The store he is referring to is Ax-Man Surplus (http://www.ax-man.com) and it's easy to understand why he might want to go there - the place is a treasure trove for anyone with an imagination.  I've taken the boys there a couple of times and we've always had a good time.  We don't typically go there looking for anything specific, we just browse and inevitably find a few things we absolutely need.

This time however, N does have specific items he hopes to pick up.  A few weeks ago, we were at a friend's house and their son had a rubber chicken.  A year ago, we saw rubber chickens at Ax-Man and N was torn about whether he should get one.  In the end, he didn't get the chicken and now he regrets that decision.  The talk about returning to Ax-Man started soon after the encounter with his friend's chicken.

This morning I told him that we might be able to squeeze in a quick trip to Ax-Man tomorrow.  I cautioned him that there was no guarantee there would still be rubber chickens.  He didn't seem all that concerned.  The chicken is only one of the things he hopes to find.  As I tried to leave for work, he followed me about, explaining another project (marshmallow monsters) that involved styrofoam cylinders, googly eyes and a host of other items he remembered from the store.

It sounds like a typical trip to Ax-Man.

Playing and praying

Recently, my oldest son, B, asked me if I would teach him how to play the guitar.  We sat down and I showed him a single chord.  I watched as he struggled to form the chord.  I remember learning to play the guitar.  I recall how unnatural it felt to coax the fingers on my left hand to form a D chord.  The thud, thud, thud of the strings indicating I was not pressing down firmly enough.  I remember how it hurt the tips of my fingers when I pressed harder.  When I finally got everything positioned and pressed such that it sounded sort of okay, I was loathe to change it.  Switching to another chord meant redoing the ordeal from the start.  Learning to play the guitar was a tedious process.

You can't really play a song when each chord change involves a lengthy pause.  It's like going for a walk and having to wait for the light at every intersection.  It can be an exhausting and frustrating experience.  Still, that time between the pauses gave me hope.  For a brief moment, with my fingers clamped in place, I could enjoy the song.

Eventually, I learned the chords and trained my fingers so that I could play without thinking about the mechanics.  The strings don't hurt my fingertips anymore, the callouses take care of that.  I still sometimes come across a chord that's unfamiliar.  When this happens, I take the time to practice and learn the chord (or I play a different song).  I can't enjoy the music if my focus is on the mechanics.  That's one of the reasons I practice - so I won't get tripped up so much.

Sometimes I think about faith and prayer in this light.  My wife and I attend church regularly with our sons.  My youngest son spends most of the time drawing pictures.  I'm not particularly distressed about this.  His older brother used to do the same thing but now participates in the service.  Both are still learning some of the fundamental mechanics related to how we express our faith.  Just being there, in the pew, is good enough for now.

Praying has always been a little difficult for me.  I tend to overthink it.  One minute I'm praying and the next I'm thinking about how I'm praying, or wondering if I'm praying or just thinking, or wondering if there's a difference between thinking and praying.  It's an indication that I'm still learning the mechanics, I guess.  Instead of playing the song, I'm thinking about how to make the chords.  Thankfully, prayer is a conversation and not a performance.  I am not acting alone.  God is there, anticipating my actions, knowing what's in my heart even when I can't form it in my mind.

Please, Don't Wake Me

I'm pretty sure I'm not dreaming.

I remember waking up that first morning after my father died.  Lying in bed, I hoped and prayed that everything that had happened the night before had just been a terrible nightmare.  It was hard to tell at first.  My bed seemed the same as always.  My brother, sleeping next to me, seemed normal too.  In my heart I knew that it wasn't just a nightmare but still, it was the only sliver of hope I could find.

Over the days and weeks and months that followed I would occasionally stop and wonder if I was really living this life or just caught in an extended dream.  Over time, I thought about it less, accepting that this was my reality.  My father was gone.  We no longer lived on a farm.  Mom worked in a nursing home.  Our family had been transformed, almost overnight, from one thing to another.  It seemed weird enough that it could have been a dream.

I recall being in college and thinking about this.  What if I am dreaming?  What if the last seven years of my life haven't yet happened?  Maybe what seems like years in this dream have only been a long night.  Perhaps I'll wake up, thirteen again and back on the farm.  Maybe I have this dream every night but I just don't remember it when I wake up.

At first it was easy to wish and hope that the dream would end and I'd get my life back.  But each new experience and friendship made it more difficult.  If my life is a dream, then waking up means sacrificing so many things I hold dear.  True, it would mean they are all just figments of my imagination, but still, I'd hate to lose them.  I love my figments.  Somewhere along the way I went from wishing I was dreaming to fearing I was dreaming.

I don't seriously think I'm dreaming.  Probably.  I recognize this was merely a coping mechanism for a boy trying to make sense of his father's unexpected death.  Yes, I'm fairly certain I am fully awake and aware.  After all, I would hope that if I were dreaming I would have given myself some sort of superpower by this point.  Now, if I step outside at lunch and I can suddenly fly, then I'll know I'm dreaming.