One of my most loyal readers (let's call her M) recently asked me why I haven't posted any fiction lately. Here's a short story, just for her.
Turkey Dinner Special
Larry pushed the mashed potatoes around his plate. Usually, the turkey dinner special at Donna's Cafe brightened his mood. Today was different. Larry couldn't concentrate on the wonderfully sticky smoothness of the potatoes or the extreme saltiness of the gravy. All he could think about was SooAnn.
Larry remembered the first time he'd brought SooAnn to Donna's. Even though he'd urged her to order the turkey dinner, she'd opted for a Caesar salad. Larry had been coming to Donna's for years and had never tried a salad. Right then he knew SooAnn was different than the other women he'd dated. She was sophisticated and smart.
They had been inseparable. She'd even invited him along when she went to visit her parents. He was nervous; worried they would think him unworthy of their daughter's attention. He needn't had worried, her parents loved him. He had planned to ask them about the unusual spelling of SooAnn's name. He thought it might make for a good story if the conversation stalled. But, after meeting her parents, he realized that they were idiots and had simply spelled her name as best they could. Sometimes two wrongs make a right and sometimes two idiots make a genius. Her parents were smart enough to realize SooAnn was something special. They'd urged her to go away to school even though they missed her dearly. Their sacrifice and pain were not lost on SooAnn. She did her best to call regularly and visit as often as she could. Larry enjoyed his visit with her parents. He genuinely enjoyed their simple nature and had even dared to imagine what it might be like to be a permanent member of the family. He decided it would be good.
Things had been going so well, but now they were ruined, thanks to Thad. Larry couldn't remember the first time he met Thad. It was soon after he and SooAnn returned from visiting her parents that Thad started showing up. Every movie, every dinner, Thad was there, insinuating himself into the evening. At first, Larry was ambivalent about Thad. SooAnn knew him from school or something and seemed to feel sorry for him. Larry tried to feel sorry for him as well but found he couldn't. So, instead he just tried to ignore him. But it's hard to ignore someone you see every day and soon attempted ignorance turned into very real annoyance. Everything about Thad irritated Larry. He didn't like the way Thad dressed. He didn't like the way Thad spoke. He didn't even like Thad's name. In his mind, Larry pretended that Thad's parents suffered from speech impediments and had actually meant to name their son Chad. He always regarded Thad as annoying but harmless. Now, he realized Thad was deceitful, sneaky, evil even. If Larry hadn't seen Thad and SooAnn walking hand in hand, he wouldn't have believed it. The look on her face when she noticed him staring told him everything he needed to know.
The thoughts of Thad darkened Larry's mood. He tried to focus on SooAnn. He put his fork down and picked up a spoon instead. Using the back of the spoon, he pushed the potatoes into an oval mound. He spent the next twenty minutes sculpting with spoon and fork. Slowly, carefully a face began to emerge from the mound. First, a nose, followed by a mouth and eyes. Larry already had in mind that he would use gravy for hair - the color was perfect for SooAnn. But first, he needed to get the face right. It looked familiar, but there was something not quite SooAnn about it. It was the nose, he decided, too flat, not perky enough. But why did that nose seem so familiar? Larry stared at his plate. He felt a chill run up his spine as he realized what he'd sculpted. The nose wasn't SooAnn's, it was Thad's. The single eyebrow was decidedly Thad-like as well - he berated himself for not noticing that one sooner. Larry had inadvertently sculpted a combination of SooAnn and Thad, their mashed potato love child.
Feeling nauseous, Larry left the cafe. That would be his last turkey dinner special at Donna's.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Old Cool Technology
My mind was wandering yesterday and it meandered into the land of obsolete and forgotten technology. I was typing at the time, at a computer keyboard, of course. I tried to remember the last time I used a typewriter. I'm sure I didn't realize it would be my last time. I used a typewriter so infrequently and I knew that computers were beginning to take its business, so I should have probably realized it. The typewriter disappeared from my life. Like an older distant relative who I rarely visited, I'm not surprised that it's gone but I wish I could remember our last encounter.
I remember sitting on the bleachers in my school gymnasium. I was probably ten or eleven years old. It's a weird memory. I can't recall what the event was, probably a basketball game but it could just as easily have been a band concert. I can't remember who I was sitting with, maybe friends, maybe family. So much of the memory is vague or lost but one piece stands out crystal clear. A couple of rows in front of me there were some high school guys. I thought these guys were very cool. Thinking back, there was one guy who was truly cool and a bunch of his friends who were hoping to be cool by association. The friends were there first but I didn't notice them until Mr. Cool showed up. His arrival caused enough of a commotion to draw attention. His friends shifted and shuffled, making room for him in the center of their group. I watched in awe as he held court. I still remember the gist of their conversation:
That was the moment I knew that to be truly cool I would someday need to own an 8-track tape player. And now I can't even remember the last time I used one.
I remember sitting on the bleachers in my school gymnasium. I was probably ten or eleven years old. It's a weird memory. I can't recall what the event was, probably a basketball game but it could just as easily have been a band concert. I can't remember who I was sitting with, maybe friends, maybe family. So much of the memory is vague or lost but one piece stands out crystal clear. A couple of rows in front of me there were some high school guys. I thought these guys were very cool. Thinking back, there was one guy who was truly cool and a bunch of his friends who were hoping to be cool by association. The friends were there first but I didn't notice them until Mr. Cool showed up. His arrival caused enough of a commotion to draw attention. His friends shifted and shuffled, making room for him in the center of their group. I watched in awe as he held court. I still remember the gist of their conversation:
Friend: "Hey man, you're late."
Mr. Cool: "Yeah, I know. I was busy with my car."
Friend: "Oh man, did you do it? Did you get a tape deck?"
Mr. Cool: "Yep."
Friends nod approvingly, his coolness once again confirmed.
Friend: "So, what kind did you get? Cassette or 8-track?"
Mr. Cool (with a look that said "How could ask such a dumb question?"): "8-track, of course"
That was the moment I knew that to be truly cool I would someday need to own an 8-track tape player. And now I can't even remember the last time I used one.
Friday, May 21, 2010
People Watching
A couple of days ago, the weather was absolutely stunning and I decided to have my lunch outside. I found a nice spot with dappled shade in front of the building where I work. A wonderful spot, with a clear vista of sidewalks and parking lots - perfect for people watching. I ate my sandwich and I watched the people.
Most of the people passing by appeared to be college students. They seemed about the right age, carried backpacks, and many were dressed like they had just rolled out of bed. Intermixed with these youngsters were people like me, people who happen to work in the neighborhood. Some of these folks looked young enough to be in college. Others looked old enough to have grandchildren in college. They're mostly identifiable by how they dressed and the occasional I.D. badge.
At lunch there is plenty of foot traffic. I don't typically focus on any particular person, I just kind of take in the scene in its entirety. Perhaps, I'm actually more of a crowd watcher. This day, however, two fellows drew my attention. They were probably in their thirties and sporting office casual wardrobes. They emerged from the building I work in, although I don't recall ever seeing them before. There are many suites in the building, so this isn't that unusual. There was nothing particularly distinctive or memorable about their appearance. In fact, thinking back, I can't really recall exactly what they looked like. So why did I notice them? It was the way they walked.
The two were walking side by side, engaged in conversation. As they passed by, I noticed the guy nearest me first. What a weird walk, I thought. Then, I noticed that the other guy was walking the same way. They both had their hands in their pockets. With each step, they would stick their foot out and point their toe, just a little. It was sort of like the motion you might make if you were about to dip your toe into a swimming pool to check the temperature. Everything about it seemed very deliberate, yet the two men seemed more intent on their conversation. Their gait was very jerky and, to me, somewhat ostrich-like. I wondered if perhaps they were wearing ill-fitting shoes (or underwear). Maybe they worked for a shoe company and were compelled to wear their product, even if it meant walking oddly.
Whatever the reason, I was pleased they passed by. It made lunch that much more enjoyable and reminded me of the "Ministry of Silly Walks" Monty Python skit.
Most of the people passing by appeared to be college students. They seemed about the right age, carried backpacks, and many were dressed like they had just rolled out of bed. Intermixed with these youngsters were people like me, people who happen to work in the neighborhood. Some of these folks looked young enough to be in college. Others looked old enough to have grandchildren in college. They're mostly identifiable by how they dressed and the occasional I.D. badge.
At lunch there is plenty of foot traffic. I don't typically focus on any particular person, I just kind of take in the scene in its entirety. Perhaps, I'm actually more of a crowd watcher. This day, however, two fellows drew my attention. They were probably in their thirties and sporting office casual wardrobes. They emerged from the building I work in, although I don't recall ever seeing them before. There are many suites in the building, so this isn't that unusual. There was nothing particularly distinctive or memorable about their appearance. In fact, thinking back, I can't really recall exactly what they looked like. So why did I notice them? It was the way they walked.
The two were walking side by side, engaged in conversation. As they passed by, I noticed the guy nearest me first. What a weird walk, I thought. Then, I noticed that the other guy was walking the same way. They both had their hands in their pockets. With each step, they would stick their foot out and point their toe, just a little. It was sort of like the motion you might make if you were about to dip your toe into a swimming pool to check the temperature. Everything about it seemed very deliberate, yet the two men seemed more intent on their conversation. Their gait was very jerky and, to me, somewhat ostrich-like. I wondered if perhaps they were wearing ill-fitting shoes (or underwear). Maybe they worked for a shoe company and were compelled to wear their product, even if it meant walking oddly.
Whatever the reason, I was pleased they passed by. It made lunch that much more enjoyable and reminded me of the "Ministry of Silly Walks" Monty Python skit.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Taking Pictures
Our boys like to take pictures. Lots of pictures. They have their own digital camera, bought after I became frustrated that my camera always had a full memory card and a dead battery. Giving them their own camera has worked out nicely, my camera is almost always ready for whatever occasion pops up. Their camera cost about a fourth of what mine did, but because their's is new and mine is old, their's takes nicer pictures and has a host of features mine does not. I supppose I could have given them my camera and taken the new one for myself but I didn't. I'm happy enough with my camera and there is one thing about it I like over the new camera: I know how to use it.
The boys take a lot of pictures but they seldom bother to move them off the camera. They have a big memory card so it takes some effort to fill it. When that happens, they usually turn to me to save everything so thay can start again. The last time I transferred pictures from their camera there must have been over a thousand pictures of Lego. Shot after shot of almost identical plastic creations. It seemed pointless unless you knew to view them as a rapid slideshow. Then you would find that the individual shots were actually part of a stop motion movie. Some of the scenes were rather clever, with characters growing up out of the floor and doing battle.
I remember the time one of my sons used a film camera. It was a cheap disposable one, with maybe twelve shots on it. He used up all the shots in less than thirty seconds and was astonished to learn that there was no way to back up and redo any of them. When I told him it only took twelve shots he assumed I meant it could only hold twelve total, but that he could erase some of the old ones and take new ones if need be. He was even less impressed when he learned that he couldn't view the pictures right away and that it would actually cost money to get the film developed.
I like our digital cameras. It used to be that every project the boys undertook, every monument of cardboard and paper created, needed to be preserved undisturbed forever. Of course, this never happened. Inevitably, someone or something would bump the exhibit, upsetting both the art and the artist. Now, we simply take a picture, logging the completed item in all its splendor. It's much easier to let go of the actual object knowing this evidence exists. We also use the cameras liberally to photograph each other. There dosen't have to be a special occasion, we capture the ordinary as well. In some ways, our photos are the closest thing we have to a family journal. We were recently trying to figure out how old one of our cats was. I remembered that she was four months old when we got her. After a little searching, I found a picture of her that was taken the day we brought her home. The date of the picture file provided us the last bit of information we needed.
As much as I like the ease and simplicity of our digital camera, I do miss the feeling of anticipation that came with getting back the packet of developed prints. That was the moment of truth, when you found out if you took the picture you thought you did. My wife and I always went through the packet together. Sometimes it was disappointing, sometimes we were pleasantly surprised. Always, it was an opportunity to recall the occasion or reason why we'd taken the picture. We don't think about our digital pictures like that. Often, the reason why a digital shot is taken is that it is easy and cheap to do. We take the picture because there is little reason not to.
The boys take a lot of pictures but they seldom bother to move them off the camera. They have a big memory card so it takes some effort to fill it. When that happens, they usually turn to me to save everything so thay can start again. The last time I transferred pictures from their camera there must have been over a thousand pictures of Lego. Shot after shot of almost identical plastic creations. It seemed pointless unless you knew to view them as a rapid slideshow. Then you would find that the individual shots were actually part of a stop motion movie. Some of the scenes were rather clever, with characters growing up out of the floor and doing battle.
I remember the time one of my sons used a film camera. It was a cheap disposable one, with maybe twelve shots on it. He used up all the shots in less than thirty seconds and was astonished to learn that there was no way to back up and redo any of them. When I told him it only took twelve shots he assumed I meant it could only hold twelve total, but that he could erase some of the old ones and take new ones if need be. He was even less impressed when he learned that he couldn't view the pictures right away and that it would actually cost money to get the film developed.
I like our digital cameras. It used to be that every project the boys undertook, every monument of cardboard and paper created, needed to be preserved undisturbed forever. Of course, this never happened. Inevitably, someone or something would bump the exhibit, upsetting both the art and the artist. Now, we simply take a picture, logging the completed item in all its splendor. It's much easier to let go of the actual object knowing this evidence exists. We also use the cameras liberally to photograph each other. There dosen't have to be a special occasion, we capture the ordinary as well. In some ways, our photos are the closest thing we have to a family journal. We were recently trying to figure out how old one of our cats was. I remembered that she was four months old when we got her. After a little searching, I found a picture of her that was taken the day we brought her home. The date of the picture file provided us the last bit of information we needed.
As much as I like the ease and simplicity of our digital camera, I do miss the feeling of anticipation that came with getting back the packet of developed prints. That was the moment of truth, when you found out if you took the picture you thought you did. My wife and I always went through the packet together. Sometimes it was disappointing, sometimes we were pleasantly surprised. Always, it was an opportunity to recall the occasion or reason why we'd taken the picture. We don't think about our digital pictures like that. Often, the reason why a digital shot is taken is that it is easy and cheap to do. We take the picture because there is little reason not to.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Fairness
Fairness and equality are of utmost importance to our boys. At least, this is true if one of them feels his sibling has gotten better treatment from me or my wife. Their demand for fairness and equality is inconsistent, since they never seem to complain when the scales are tipped in their favor. Of course, the slighted brother is likely already voicing an objection anyway. It doesn't matter if it's the size of a slice of cake, the number of minutes of computer time, anything and everything is fair game. Being the youngest, N particularly is always watching for instances where B is granted something extra. He has had to learn that with age comes added privileges. B is allowed to do some things that N is not. This has been a hard lesson at times. In N's mind, they are equals and should be treated as such. We've tried to point out that age also brings added responsibilities, but N still feels wronged.
I think this imbalance has caused N to be all the more vigilant about things that he feels should be equal. We were having cake for dinner one night and he felt that B had been given a larger slice. It's true that B's piece was maybe a little bigger, but not by much. Still, N went on and on about how unfair it was. I told him life wasn't always fair and that maybe next time his would be the bigger piece. He ate the cake grudgingly, all the while staring at his brother across the table. B, for his part, enjoyed every last savory morsel of his slice, commenting about how full the large slice had made him feel.
Last night, I was poking around on YouTube and found a clip I knew the boys would enjoy. B was in the other room doing homework, so I showed the clip to N. As expected, he enjoyed it. After he watched it, he went upstairs to get ready for bed. B eventually emerged from his homework. He looked tired and a little down. I decided to share the video with him as well, to try to lift his spirits. He enjoyed it as well. We talked for awhile, his spirits improved. I came across another clip and we watched that one as well. We talked some more and then he went up to bed.
I was just getting dressed this morning when I heard someone in the kitchen. N usually joins me each morning, but this was forty-five minutes earlier than his normal time. Still, I entered the kitchen and found him, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a stool. I could see that he was sleepy, he could barely open his eyes.
"Good morning," I said.
"You showed B two videos but you only showed me one," he replied.
I think this imbalance has caused N to be all the more vigilant about things that he feels should be equal. We were having cake for dinner one night and he felt that B had been given a larger slice. It's true that B's piece was maybe a little bigger, but not by much. Still, N went on and on about how unfair it was. I told him life wasn't always fair and that maybe next time his would be the bigger piece. He ate the cake grudgingly, all the while staring at his brother across the table. B, for his part, enjoyed every last savory morsel of his slice, commenting about how full the large slice had made him feel.
Last night, I was poking around on YouTube and found a clip I knew the boys would enjoy. B was in the other room doing homework, so I showed the clip to N. As expected, he enjoyed it. After he watched it, he went upstairs to get ready for bed. B eventually emerged from his homework. He looked tired and a little down. I decided to share the video with him as well, to try to lift his spirits. He enjoyed it as well. We talked for awhile, his spirits improved. I came across another clip and we watched that one as well. We talked some more and then he went up to bed.
I was just getting dressed this morning when I heard someone in the kitchen. N usually joins me each morning, but this was forty-five minutes earlier than his normal time. Still, I entered the kitchen and found him, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a stool. I could see that he was sleepy, he could barely open his eyes.
"Good morning," I said.
"You showed B two videos but you only showed me one," he replied.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Clubhouse
A number of weeks ago, N expressed a desire to turn the space beneath the swingset tower into a clubhouse. He'd recently visited a friend who has a clubhouse. Until then, the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Until then, he hadn't realized that there was yet another thing that he could not live without. And so, the clubhouse discussions began.
I have to give N credit. He could have just asked that we build a new structure. If he had, it would have been easy for me to explain to him that our yard doesn't have room for anything else. Instead, he proposed converting the space beneath the tower. There's a sandbox under there now, so he already considers it "kid space". His approach had merit. No one really played in the sandbox anymore. I'd been looking for a reason to get rid of it since the sand seems to find its way all over the yard. I decided this clubhouse thing had the potential to be a "win-win" situation.
I found that I was kind of fired up about the prospect of doing some "building". At work, I create embedded software that runs on a microprocessor. It is satisfying work but the thing I produce is not really tangible. The chance to build something I could touch and see was appealing. I spent some time taking measurements, sketching ideas. I had an open weekend coming up and I was getting ready.
When Saturday morning rolled around, I approached N about getting started on "our" project. He was swinging at the time and seemed less than enthused about doing anything else. I took a cue from him and found other things to do. Slowly, the day slipped away. It was a fine day, just not one filled with construction.
Days passed and then weeks. I lost the sketches I made. The weather got nice and then turned cold and wet. I assumed N had changed his mind about the clubhouse, and so, I moved on. School was winding down, bringing a host of concerts and open houses to mark its end. Spring and summer activities were already beginning to emerge, like the perennials in our garden. In this blur, I forgot about the clubhouse.
Then, last Wednesday, after weeks of no mention, N asked me, "Dad, when are you ever going to build the clubhouse?" I guess he didn't forget. After briefly upsetting him by mentioning that I didn't think he wanted a clubhouse anymore, I assured him I would make it a priority. That was Wednesday night. Thursday evening, at dinner, he began to question me about my progress. I felt like I was back at work, trying to explain my project status to my boss. I half-expected him to give me some milestones to shoot for, just to make sure I stayed on track. I tried to explain to him that, since we last talked, I'd been either asleep or at work. I hadn't really had any time to work on the clubhouse. He wasn't crazy about my "excuses".
So, now as I look forward to the weekend, I realize I'd better accomplish something tomorrow. No excuses.
I have to give N credit. He could have just asked that we build a new structure. If he had, it would have been easy for me to explain to him that our yard doesn't have room for anything else. Instead, he proposed converting the space beneath the tower. There's a sandbox under there now, so he already considers it "kid space". His approach had merit. No one really played in the sandbox anymore. I'd been looking for a reason to get rid of it since the sand seems to find its way all over the yard. I decided this clubhouse thing had the potential to be a "win-win" situation.
I found that I was kind of fired up about the prospect of doing some "building". At work, I create embedded software that runs on a microprocessor. It is satisfying work but the thing I produce is not really tangible. The chance to build something I could touch and see was appealing. I spent some time taking measurements, sketching ideas. I had an open weekend coming up and I was getting ready.
When Saturday morning rolled around, I approached N about getting started on "our" project. He was swinging at the time and seemed less than enthused about doing anything else. I took a cue from him and found other things to do. Slowly, the day slipped away. It was a fine day, just not one filled with construction.
Days passed and then weeks. I lost the sketches I made. The weather got nice and then turned cold and wet. I assumed N had changed his mind about the clubhouse, and so, I moved on. School was winding down, bringing a host of concerts and open houses to mark its end. Spring and summer activities were already beginning to emerge, like the perennials in our garden. In this blur, I forgot about the clubhouse.
Then, last Wednesday, after weeks of no mention, N asked me, "Dad, when are you ever going to build the clubhouse?" I guess he didn't forget. After briefly upsetting him by mentioning that I didn't think he wanted a clubhouse anymore, I assured him I would make it a priority. That was Wednesday night. Thursday evening, at dinner, he began to question me about my progress. I felt like I was back at work, trying to explain my project status to my boss. I half-expected him to give me some milestones to shoot for, just to make sure I stayed on track. I tried to explain to him that, since we last talked, I'd been either asleep or at work. I hadn't really had any time to work on the clubhouse. He wasn't crazy about my "excuses".
So, now as I look forward to the weekend, I realize I'd better accomplish something tomorrow. No excuses.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Mom
A few weeks ago, I was upstairs tucking the boys in for the night. N wasn't feeling well so I sat down next to him and rubbed his back until he fell asleep.
I felt fairly certain there was nothing seriously wrong with N. Still, when I got downstairs, I mentioned his complaints to my wife. Together, we quickly assessed that, indeed, he had nothing more than the normal run-of-the-mill sort of ailment that kids get.
Even though I already knew this, I felt better after getting confirmation from my wife. So many decisions and concerns are easier when they're shared with someone you trust and love. Sometimes, we all need a sounding board It's one of the great gifts of marriage, knowing you are never completely alone.
When I think about these things, I can't help but think about my mother. When my dad died, she lost that partner. In the same instant, she was thrown into a situation where she needed advice more than ever. She had six kids, the youngest an infant, the oldest in college. She had spent her adult life being a farmer's wife. But now, with the farmer gone, she was forced to reinvent herself.
I can't imagine how alone and scared and sad she must have been. I was too young and too in shock to consider this at the time. Instead, we kids turned to her to keep our world from spinning completely out of control. And somehow, some way, she managed to do just that. We moved off the farm and she found work. And we began to find our way as a new single-parent family.
Our family did not fall apart. We were held together by the strength and courage of a woman unwilling to let that happen. The longer I am a parent the more amazed I am at what my mother accomplished. She is an extrordinary woman.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.
I felt fairly certain there was nothing seriously wrong with N. Still, when I got downstairs, I mentioned his complaints to my wife. Together, we quickly assessed that, indeed, he had nothing more than the normal run-of-the-mill sort of ailment that kids get.
Even though I already knew this, I felt better after getting confirmation from my wife. So many decisions and concerns are easier when they're shared with someone you trust and love. Sometimes, we all need a sounding board It's one of the great gifts of marriage, knowing you are never completely alone.
When I think about these things, I can't help but think about my mother. When my dad died, she lost that partner. In the same instant, she was thrown into a situation where she needed advice more than ever. She had six kids, the youngest an infant, the oldest in college. She had spent her adult life being a farmer's wife. But now, with the farmer gone, she was forced to reinvent herself.
I can't imagine how alone and scared and sad she must have been. I was too young and too in shock to consider this at the time. Instead, we kids turned to her to keep our world from spinning completely out of control. And somehow, some way, she managed to do just that. We moved off the farm and she found work. And we began to find our way as a new single-parent family.
Our family did not fall apart. We were held together by the strength and courage of a woman unwilling to let that happen. The longer I am a parent the more amazed I am at what my mother accomplished. She is an extrordinary woman.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.
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