The call came late on Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving. I suspected the news was not good when the message was just, “Please call my office as soon as possible.”
Those kind of calls are never to tell you that you’ve won a sweepstakes. Maybe it’s the somber tone in the person’s voice, but instinctively you just know that something is amiss.
The problem isn’t an easier when you’ve come to know someone who can give such serious information on a first-name basis.
“Hi Bob, returning your call.”
“I hate to tell you this right before the holiday, but it’s not good news.”
“Miss Peggy? Bad?”
“Yeah. Once we had her opened up, I realized that there’s no hope. We just closed her back up and are making her comfortable. She can come home whenever you’d like to spend whatever time is left with you and the family.”
I was stunned. It wasn’t expected at all. I mean, we knew she was getting up in years and had those little quirks that the elderly tend to get – they move a bit slower on cold mornings, sometimes hesitate before heading out to do errands, and it just takes more time to get ready to do about anything.
But to say things were hopeless was something of a shock.
“Damn.”
“Yeah, I know. But I knew you wanted it straight, so I haven’t tried to sugar-coat it for you.”
“Yeah, I appreciate that. Thanks, Bob.”
The holiday was not to be delayed, Almost 20 people were scheduled to appear the next day and expected to be fed. After that, we’d obligated ourselves to go to a celebration at our friend’s house so there was little time for grieving or planning. Others simply wouldn’t understand the feelings that we were experiencing over the news.
So we did as so many others have done and swallowed our emotions, putting on a cheerful front so as to not adversely impact the celebrations of others.
Between the tryptophan from the turkey on Thursday, the wine and utter exhaustion, sleep came readily on Thursday night but Friday was another story. Miss Peggy was home and comfortable, but the inevitable would soon be upon us. Plans had to be made, contingencies anticipated and put into place, and options for immediate resolution addressed. Unlike the others anticipating the Black Friday sales, we were on the internet early, shopping and evaluating the various possibilities on how to deal not with Christmas presents, but with a vacancy in our family that would soon arrive.
Thus was the position we found ourselves after Miss Peggy, our 1993 Cadillac Eldorado had been given Extreme Unction by her auto physician. There was no hope, the cost of fixing a leaky sunroof potentially exceeded the value of the car (at least according to Kelly Blue Book), not to mention the coolant leak and other problems that plagued her.
Bob, our trusted mechanic, had promised that he’d tell us when it was time to pull the plug. That time had arrived and our obligation was to accept the diagnosis with dignity.
Thus Miss Peggy found herself parked on the curb with magnetic “For Sale” signs attached to three sides.
Even worse than the crisis of having to replace a vehicle, the timing of the news meant that we had to venture out into the post-Thanksgiving crowds to car shop.
We had previously narrowed the possibilities down. After a bit of internet shopping, CarMAX is now our new friend. Two test drives and it’s narrowed down by model and year, and a few minutes inside to figure out if one was available in the color and options available and we were on our way. The replacement will be here by Noon on Saturday.
Thus Miss Peggy finds herself on the curb, not up to CarMAX standards and looking for a new home where someone will forgive her age and infirmities in hopes that she can provide a few more years of service. She served us well, but economic realities cannot be denied.
Besides, there’s the bittersweet excitement of the new relationship to anticipate.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving
It’s the day before Thanksgiving, which means that there are two types of things written about, either humorous food disasters or things that we’re thankful for. I’m not sure which category this is going to fall in.
This time of year, I always think about my friend Skeet Malone, who I met when I lived in Carnegie, Oklahoma. Skeet, who passed away a few years ago, was a fascinating guy for a couple of reasons.
First, he had a permanent trachestomy tube that would pop out suddenly if he coughed or laughed. The first few times it was really startling to see that plastic plug shoot out at you like the cork from a champagne bottle, but once you realized it was tethered to him and wouldn’t hit you it just became another aspect of his character.
Especially when you found out how he got it.
Skeet was a very young man who was at the invasion of Normandy Beach. He married his wife Jeanne just two days before deployment. While he was there, he took a strafe of machine gun fire across his chest and toward his right arm.
At the time, he was given up for dead and was stacked up with the other bodies for disposition, much like cordwood waiting for a cold winter day. Someone heard him gurgle as the blood seeped into his lungs, yelled, “This one’s alive” and they pulled him from the stack.
As a result of his injuries, his right hand was curled and paralyzed much like that of a stroke victim. It didn’t slow him down from becoming a school teacher and later high school principal, from following several different business paths after retirement or from becoming a very skilled stained glass artisan.
Skeet was also a master storyteller, and one of his favorites centered around growing up during the Great Depression. I can’t recount the tale with his panache (or without his glass of scotch), but those who knew him will recognize it immediately.
It seems that there was a family near his who had about a dozen children. The mom had died in childbirth and the dad had quickly remarried a much younger woman who was expected to become the mother of these children.
To say that they were “dirt poor” was a vast understatement. They lived in a tiny two room house without electricity or running water. The step-mom, who was in her early 20’s, was charged with the care of all the children who ranged from about 14 down to infancy. Because it was the depth of the Great Depression, money was almost non-existent and the family occasionally received “Relief”, the precursor to food stamps.
As with lots of government programs, there were occasionally glitches in the system.
One time, they got ten pounds of lard. Nothing else. Just lard.
Useful, I suppose, but hardly sustenance for a family of 14.
Occasionally, though, especially around the holidays, the delivery was a bonanza of treats that were otherwise unknown in western Oklahoma. In the year that Skeet liked to talk about, the delivery included a 25 pound bag of California Grapefruit.
Remember that this was prior to the days of supermarkets. Food tended to be locally grown and seasonal or home canned. Besides, they had no money to go to the store to buy food. Most of what they ate was grown in a garden out back of their little house.
Skeet himself said he’d never tasted a grapefruit himself until he was in the army, and that while growing up he generally got an orange once a year – from the Santa who came to the First United Methodist Church Christmas party.
A bag of such bounty was an absolute goldmine to anyone then, much less a family with such meager resources.
The day after the relief food was delivered, though, the young stepmom walked about half a mile down the road in tears to talk with Skeet’s mother, who had become something of a mentor to her.
“I don’t know what to do with these things,” she said. “I’ve tried to boil them, to fry them and to bake them, and the kids just won’t eat them. How do you cook them?”
We have much for which to be thankful. Food, for the most part, is abundant and as close as the corner grocery store without regard to the season. Most of us have the resources to feed (and overfeed) ourselves. The internet provides information about how to fry your grapefruit, although I haven’t tried it yet.
I’m thankful also for all the men and women who have and are currently serving in the armed forces, but especially for three young men – Ither D. “Skeet” Malone, Robert Weidenmaier and Gene Sawyer – all from Caddo County, Oklahoma, who, in 1942 answered the call of their country and then returned to continue to serve their communities and influence others in ways that they probably never realized.
This time of year, I always think about my friend Skeet Malone, who I met when I lived in Carnegie, Oklahoma. Skeet, who passed away a few years ago, was a fascinating guy for a couple of reasons.
First, he had a permanent trachestomy tube that would pop out suddenly if he coughed or laughed. The first few times it was really startling to see that plastic plug shoot out at you like the cork from a champagne bottle, but once you realized it was tethered to him and wouldn’t hit you it just became another aspect of his character.
Especially when you found out how he got it.
Skeet was a very young man who was at the invasion of Normandy Beach. He married his wife Jeanne just two days before deployment. While he was there, he took a strafe of machine gun fire across his chest and toward his right arm.
At the time, he was given up for dead and was stacked up with the other bodies for disposition, much like cordwood waiting for a cold winter day. Someone heard him gurgle as the blood seeped into his lungs, yelled, “This one’s alive” and they pulled him from the stack.
As a result of his injuries, his right hand was curled and paralyzed much like that of a stroke victim. It didn’t slow him down from becoming a school teacher and later high school principal, from following several different business paths after retirement or from becoming a very skilled stained glass artisan.
Skeet was also a master storyteller, and one of his favorites centered around growing up during the Great Depression. I can’t recount the tale with his panache (or without his glass of scotch), but those who knew him will recognize it immediately.
It seems that there was a family near his who had about a dozen children. The mom had died in childbirth and the dad had quickly remarried a much younger woman who was expected to become the mother of these children.
To say that they were “dirt poor” was a vast understatement. They lived in a tiny two room house without electricity or running water. The step-mom, who was in her early 20’s, was charged with the care of all the children who ranged from about 14 down to infancy. Because it was the depth of the Great Depression, money was almost non-existent and the family occasionally received “Relief”, the precursor to food stamps.
As with lots of government programs, there were occasionally glitches in the system.
One time, they got ten pounds of lard. Nothing else. Just lard.
Useful, I suppose, but hardly sustenance for a family of 14.
Occasionally, though, especially around the holidays, the delivery was a bonanza of treats that were otherwise unknown in western Oklahoma. In the year that Skeet liked to talk about, the delivery included a 25 pound bag of California Grapefruit.
Remember that this was prior to the days of supermarkets. Food tended to be locally grown and seasonal or home canned. Besides, they had no money to go to the store to buy food. Most of what they ate was grown in a garden out back of their little house.
Skeet himself said he’d never tasted a grapefruit himself until he was in the army, and that while growing up he generally got an orange once a year – from the Santa who came to the First United Methodist Church Christmas party.
A bag of such bounty was an absolute goldmine to anyone then, much less a family with such meager resources.
The day after the relief food was delivered, though, the young stepmom walked about half a mile down the road in tears to talk with Skeet’s mother, who had become something of a mentor to her.
“I don’t know what to do with these things,” she said. “I’ve tried to boil them, to fry them and to bake them, and the kids just won’t eat them. How do you cook them?”
We have much for which to be thankful. Food, for the most part, is abundant and as close as the corner grocery store without regard to the season. Most of us have the resources to feed (and overfeed) ourselves. The internet provides information about how to fry your grapefruit, although I haven’t tried it yet.
I’m thankful also for all the men and women who have and are currently serving in the armed forces, but especially for three young men – Ither D. “Skeet” Malone, Robert Weidenmaier and Gene Sawyer – all from Caddo County, Oklahoma, who, in 1942 answered the call of their country and then returned to continue to serve their communities and influence others in ways that they probably never realized.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Breast Cancer Awareness - a fun video
The following is from the blog http://runningahospital.blogspot.com/. It's a fun video to watch, and as he indicates, will result in a donation to a worthy cause. Although the link in his post won't copy, you can find the video at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEdVfyt-mLw
Emily Somers created, directed and choreographed this video in Portland last week for her Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness. This was all her idea to help promote their new pink gloves. I don't know how she got so many employees, doctors and patients to participate, but it started to really catch on and they all had a lot of fun doing it.
When the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community. Please check it out. It's an easy and great way to donate to a wonderful cause, and who hasn't been touched by breast cancer?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEdVfyt-mLw
Emily Somers created, directed and choreographed this video in Portland last week for her Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness. This was all her idea to help promote their new pink gloves. I don't know how she got so many employees, doctors and patients to participate, but it started to really catch on and they all had a lot of fun doing it.
When the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community. Please check it out. It's an easy and great way to donate to a wonderful cause, and who hasn't been touched by breast cancer?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
International Communication
Ever sit in an international airport or train station and listen to the conversations around you? It really doesn’t matter whether you speak the language or not, when you watch others you realize that some things are universal.
You also recognize that lots of words don’t necessarily mean communication, whereas few words sometimes communicate a wealth of information.
Recently I found myself in a lounge full of individuals from all over the world. We were all waiting for various groups to leave from the common point of congregation, and everyone had their “stuff” for the day with them.
First, there were the moms. They are impervious to children tugging on their sleeves going “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama,” ad naseum, although after about 30 seconds everyone else within a 30 foot radius would gladly have held the little spawn underwater until the bubbles stopped. Apparently something about giving birth affects a woman’s hearing in certain ranges, just as football games on televisions can cause many husbands to stop hearing tones within the range of their wife’s voice.
Let the child truly be in trouble, though, and squawk just the slightest bit differently and the mother immediately turns her attention to the offspring to determine that there’s no true danger.
The corollary to that, of course, is the Dad. He’s sitting there fidgeting with something new – a camera, snorkel, cell phone – trying to figure it out so that he can explain it to everyone else. I’ve watched this in my own dad a lot – with three little boys, he knew that every new piece of equipment, no matter what it was, would need to be explained at least 9 times or more. He’s got to understand all the nuances so that he can not only undo whatever stupidity the others do when they don’t wait for his instructions, but also to be able to then lead them down the right path to make the thingamajig work before frustration sets in.
Usually without actually reading the directions.
There are fighting couples. Usually, they’re easiest to observe because there are no words going between them, or if there are, one will offer something and get “the look” from the other, usually followed by curt answers or stony silence.
They are at the opposite end of the spectrum from the “first daters”, who are nervously talking about themselves, interspersed with questions with each other and revealing the picture that they would have the other see, at least until they decide if there’s going to be a second date.
There is the tired resignation on the face of someone who has gotten trapped by a chatty-Cathy who has decided that they are now new best friends, Cathy being the only one talking. The victim of that case is hoping that someone has dropped a nail file on the floor so that they can gouge their eyes out and therefore have an excuse to leave without being rude.
There are grandparents who are along for the ride, having had little input in the planning and probably preferring half the activities and twice the nap they’re going to be allowed. The grandfather is concerned about how much things are costing, being unable to truly enjoy a $10.00 hamburger and wanting to pay his part despite the obvious ability of the kids to treat, and the grandmother taking in all the things that need correcting were she in charge – that baby needs a sweater; that girl needs a safety pin for her top, she’s showing waaayyy too much cleavage for a teenager; that woman over there needs to quit reading that trashy novel and either pay attention to or smack her husband for looking at that other woman who’s grandmother obviously never explained to her the proper use of a safety pin, and now it’s too late and she’s learned to enjoy the attention brought about by a low cut blouse – again, some things are universal.
Mind you, all of these things were happening in at least five languages that I could distinguish. I don’t speak enough of anything but English to be able to do more than ask the location of the toilet and how much something costs. It was easy enough to get a pretty good grasp of what was happening in the crowd, though, regardless of the words actually used.
So maybe we’re not as different as we think we are.
You also recognize that lots of words don’t necessarily mean communication, whereas few words sometimes communicate a wealth of information.
Recently I found myself in a lounge full of individuals from all over the world. We were all waiting for various groups to leave from the common point of congregation, and everyone had their “stuff” for the day with them.
First, there were the moms. They are impervious to children tugging on their sleeves going “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama,” ad naseum, although after about 30 seconds everyone else within a 30 foot radius would gladly have held the little spawn underwater until the bubbles stopped. Apparently something about giving birth affects a woman’s hearing in certain ranges, just as football games on televisions can cause many husbands to stop hearing tones within the range of their wife’s voice.
Let the child truly be in trouble, though, and squawk just the slightest bit differently and the mother immediately turns her attention to the offspring to determine that there’s no true danger.
The corollary to that, of course, is the Dad. He’s sitting there fidgeting with something new – a camera, snorkel, cell phone – trying to figure it out so that he can explain it to everyone else. I’ve watched this in my own dad a lot – with three little boys, he knew that every new piece of equipment, no matter what it was, would need to be explained at least 9 times or more. He’s got to understand all the nuances so that he can not only undo whatever stupidity the others do when they don’t wait for his instructions, but also to be able to then lead them down the right path to make the thingamajig work before frustration sets in.
Usually without actually reading the directions.
There are fighting couples. Usually, they’re easiest to observe because there are no words going between them, or if there are, one will offer something and get “the look” from the other, usually followed by curt answers or stony silence.
They are at the opposite end of the spectrum from the “first daters”, who are nervously talking about themselves, interspersed with questions with each other and revealing the picture that they would have the other see, at least until they decide if there’s going to be a second date.
There is the tired resignation on the face of someone who has gotten trapped by a chatty-Cathy who has decided that they are now new best friends, Cathy being the only one talking. The victim of that case is hoping that someone has dropped a nail file on the floor so that they can gouge their eyes out and therefore have an excuse to leave without being rude.
There are grandparents who are along for the ride, having had little input in the planning and probably preferring half the activities and twice the nap they’re going to be allowed. The grandfather is concerned about how much things are costing, being unable to truly enjoy a $10.00 hamburger and wanting to pay his part despite the obvious ability of the kids to treat, and the grandmother taking in all the things that need correcting were she in charge – that baby needs a sweater; that girl needs a safety pin for her top, she’s showing waaayyy too much cleavage for a teenager; that woman over there needs to quit reading that trashy novel and either pay attention to or smack her husband for looking at that other woman who’s grandmother obviously never explained to her the proper use of a safety pin, and now it’s too late and she’s learned to enjoy the attention brought about by a low cut blouse – again, some things are universal.
Mind you, all of these things were happening in at least five languages that I could distinguish. I don’t speak enough of anything but English to be able to do more than ask the location of the toilet and how much something costs. It was easy enough to get a pretty good grasp of what was happening in the crowd, though, regardless of the words actually used.
So maybe we’re not as different as we think we are.
Cell Phone Replacement
It’s time to get a new cell phone. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the Blackberry that I’ve carried for two years, but the honeymoon is over and it’s time to ship it off to a box in the technology closet, an elephant’s graveyard in my office where unattached chargers, dead or dying laptops and obsolete MP3 players go to languish and die.
I have a hard time shipping those things off to the thrift store because I think that there’s still useful life in them. What if I lose my new phone, or my iPod won’t sink?\
Besides, good money was paid for those and they still work. Why should they be simply thrown out??
The reality, of course, is that they go into the closet. This is the same closet that holds the box where all the black, unmarked chargers with wall warts migrate, interbreeding to increase their mass and procreate little indeterminate electronic parts that might go to any one of three or four different appliances but which will never be matched up to anything specific again.
Until, of course, the week after they are thrown out, at which point their use will immediately become apparent, as will the fact that they can no longer be procured from the manufacturer.
Part of the need to save these gizmos comes from the fact that I remember how much they cost when they were new. Like the $200 electronic “Pong” game that dad got us for Christmas about 1977, or the subsequent Atari, the fun may be gone after a while but nothing which cost that much is going to be thrown away unless it’s absolutely broken and cannot be fixed or repaired.
Adjust for 1977 dollars, and you’ll understand why that could be an issue.
Cell phones, for the most part, are disposable. Sure, you may plop down some portion of the purchase price, but if you’ll sign up for another couple of years they will happily give you a new gizmo fix to feed your habit.
So why keep the old ones?
A couple are “backups”. When my current Blackberry quit functioning a couple of months after I got it, Verizon was happy to replace it. I just sent the old one back to them via Fed Ex and in a few short days my new one arrived.
Now, we’ve seen on television the extent that crack addicts will go to keep a supply of drugs for their habits. Is it realistic to think that an electronic junkie is going to go any length of time on the PROMISE that a telephone company is going to send a new phone? Who believes anything that the phone company or the cable company tells them, anyhow?? Besides, since we cut the land line, this is the primary form of communication.
It ain’t happenin’. The old Palm came out of the box and was pressed back into service.
Occasionally one of the kids will mangle / lose their phone, so having a couple of spares even makes more sense.
The reality, though, is that the old one is being kept in case I’m not bright enough to learn how to use the new one. While the newest features touted by the advertisers are enticing – after all, the new phone is going to organize my life, provide constant internet access and take photographs to record even the most mundane of activities to share with my friends via Facebook – but the problem is I still have to figure out how to use the darned thing to make it work.
Lots of these things are no longer intuitive for me. I have to study and practice them out methodically over time. Sometimes this takes a couple of years, and then, of course, it’s time for a new phone.
The problem is compounded by the fact that devices now re-arrange themselves to make things more “useful,” thus slowing my learning curve even more. I may not always do things in the most efficient manner because that’s the way I’ve learned to do them. Like typing on a QWERTY keyboard, my fingers know what to do without a lot of intention on my part. You go changing things around, and I’m going to have to learn all over again.
Lately, my decisions regarding cell phones haven’t been based as much on the applications and neat things it will do, but rather on how big the type will get and how easy it is to read the buttons. Blackberry is a dismal failure on the latter – multi-function buttons, labeled in black against a silver background means that anything viewed without my reading glasses is but a miniscule blur.
Verizon, my carrier, has introduced the new Droid just this week – flat screen, no visible keyboard unless you slide it open and then it’s got the full thing in the order I’m used to, and it looks to have nice big print so I can actually see what the heck is going on.
Of course, I’ll have to keep the old one just in case.
I have a hard time shipping those things off to the thrift store because I think that there’s still useful life in them. What if I lose my new phone, or my iPod won’t sink?\
Besides, good money was paid for those and they still work. Why should they be simply thrown out??
The reality, of course, is that they go into the closet. This is the same closet that holds the box where all the black, unmarked chargers with wall warts migrate, interbreeding to increase their mass and procreate little indeterminate electronic parts that might go to any one of three or four different appliances but which will never be matched up to anything specific again.
Until, of course, the week after they are thrown out, at which point their use will immediately become apparent, as will the fact that they can no longer be procured from the manufacturer.
Part of the need to save these gizmos comes from the fact that I remember how much they cost when they were new. Like the $200 electronic “Pong” game that dad got us for Christmas about 1977, or the subsequent Atari, the fun may be gone after a while but nothing which cost that much is going to be thrown away unless it’s absolutely broken and cannot be fixed or repaired.
Adjust for 1977 dollars, and you’ll understand why that could be an issue.
Cell phones, for the most part, are disposable. Sure, you may plop down some portion of the purchase price, but if you’ll sign up for another couple of years they will happily give you a new gizmo fix to feed your habit.
So why keep the old ones?
A couple are “backups”. When my current Blackberry quit functioning a couple of months after I got it, Verizon was happy to replace it. I just sent the old one back to them via Fed Ex and in a few short days my new one arrived.
Now, we’ve seen on television the extent that crack addicts will go to keep a supply of drugs for their habits. Is it realistic to think that an electronic junkie is going to go any length of time on the PROMISE that a telephone company is going to send a new phone? Who believes anything that the phone company or the cable company tells them, anyhow?? Besides, since we cut the land line, this is the primary form of communication.
It ain’t happenin’. The old Palm came out of the box and was pressed back into service.
Occasionally one of the kids will mangle / lose their phone, so having a couple of spares even makes more sense.
The reality, though, is that the old one is being kept in case I’m not bright enough to learn how to use the new one. While the newest features touted by the advertisers are enticing – after all, the new phone is going to organize my life, provide constant internet access and take photographs to record even the most mundane of activities to share with my friends via Facebook – but the problem is I still have to figure out how to use the darned thing to make it work.
Lots of these things are no longer intuitive for me. I have to study and practice them out methodically over time. Sometimes this takes a couple of years, and then, of course, it’s time for a new phone.
The problem is compounded by the fact that devices now re-arrange themselves to make things more “useful,” thus slowing my learning curve even more. I may not always do things in the most efficient manner because that’s the way I’ve learned to do them. Like typing on a QWERTY keyboard, my fingers know what to do without a lot of intention on my part. You go changing things around, and I’m going to have to learn all over again.
Lately, my decisions regarding cell phones haven’t been based as much on the applications and neat things it will do, but rather on how big the type will get and how easy it is to read the buttons. Blackberry is a dismal failure on the latter – multi-function buttons, labeled in black against a silver background means that anything viewed without my reading glasses is but a miniscule blur.
Verizon, my carrier, has introduced the new Droid just this week – flat screen, no visible keyboard unless you slide it open and then it’s got the full thing in the order I’m used to, and it looks to have nice big print so I can actually see what the heck is going on.
Of course, I’ll have to keep the old one just in case.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Restroom Habits
The other day I was watching a show on History or Discovery or one of those other “educational” channels that’s not quite so PBS as to require being subsidized by an annual fund drive, but which has more informational content than, say, FOX News. I forget which one it was, as they tend to run together. They’re about all that gets watched, though, since we’ve gotten off of the TRU TV kick of collections of police chases and home video of people doing stupid things and yet remaining alive afterwards.
There is some truth to the old joke that the last words uttered by many individuals, is, “Hey, Y’all, watch this!” You can only watch so many car crashes, traffic stops or attempts to jump a car / motorcycle / motor home / tractor over a quantity of cars / motorcycles / motor homes/ tractors / cheerleaders before it starts to get repetitive.
I’m amazed, though, at how some of the shows on these educational channels take the most mundane and are able to stretch it into 23 minutes of programming which advertisers will support and at least enough people like me will sit and watch to make it worth producing.
The particular show I was watching was about plumbing, and it caused me to think about how cultural and different bathroom habits are, even within our cultures.
Did you know that there were public toilets in ancient Rome? Apparently, like many other aspects of Roman life, toilets were just as much a social gathering place as the baths or, say, the vomitorium.
There didn’t seem to be any privacy related to bodily functions there, either. Facilities consisted of long benches with holes cut in them. Waterworks below carried the waste products away.
I’ve long thought that people in Public Utilities, especially wastewater treatment facilities, are the unsung heroes of our society. After all, if the busses or trains don’t run, people are inconvenienced, but you can always walk as a last resort. If there’s nobody working in the Mayor or City Manager’s office – and many would legitimately argue that society would be better off without some of those folks – life goes on for a few days, anyhow. Police and firemen, while essential and doing heroic tasks, also work somewhat intermittently in that they're waiting to be called out. Waste departments are on call 24/7, without regard to when one might need to use the wastewater facilities.
Take away the ability to flush, though, and things get pretty dire pretty quickly. In houses with lots of children, maybe even as little as a few hours.
These people deal with nasty, smelly, and sometimes disgusting byproducts of humanity. It’s easy to overlook their contribution, but I submit that they are some of the most important people in local government today.
The show, of course, was about their mastery of waterworks to carry the waste products away, but what struck me was the social aspects of using the restroom. People arranged meetings, both to transact business and for more furtive assignations, to occur in the toilets. Sitting on a bench with your goodies hanging out was apparently a great equalizer – there was little class distinction, and by simply looking around you could recognize that all men truly are created equal.
That’s very different than public restroom culture in the US today. That was made very clear recently when travelling through the New Orleans airport. We headed off of our plane and, as most people did, immediately went to the toilet.
Face it, it’s impossible to be either efficient or effective in an airplane lavatory. Regardless of whether you went on the plane or not, you probably need to go when you get off, especially since heaven knows how long it will take your luggage to arrive.
Men who go into a public restroom usually approach it with the same reverential whispers that one uses in church or a library.
As a result, you could see guys physically flinch when an airport employee who was sitting on a bar stool near the sinks bellowed out to every entrant, “GOOD MORNING, SIR, AND WELCOME TO THE MEN’S ROOM.”
More than one dropped the handle on their roller bag, and one guy with three little boys in tow, not sure of what was happening in the hubbub did and immediate about-face with the boys and herded them back the other direction.
As we get older, there are some things that simply cannot be delayed. Anyone who’s topped 40 knows that the urge to go to the bathroom means that you HAVE to go to the bathroom, and RIGHT NOW. Besides, the place was packed with other guys, so figuring what could really happen and being urged on biologically, we proceeded to the urinals.
It soon was obvious that the restroom attendant was mentally challenged, and was undoubtedly following the directions that he’d been given. He was performing other functions of a men’s room attendant, wiping down the sinks and refreshing the supplies, etc. He was also doing a great job at keeping the place clean and tidy, and it was refreshing and heartwarming to see someone with challenges employed and contributing to society.
But his greeting was much more exuberant than normally encountered in a public men’s room.
When you go in, even if you’re with your friends, your voice drops to a quieter tone, conversations are suspended, and you deal with the business at hand. I have no idea what goes on in women’s restrooms, but based on the anecdotal information, I gather that they can be much more social institutions than on the guy’s side of the building.
Seldom do you make idle conversation with the guy next to you unless you’re a Republican Congressman. I’m not sure whether that’s because of the fear of a police sting or you’re worried that you’ll be approached to help fund some pork barrel project in a nearby district, but either way the results could be bad.
If you do have to talk to someone you don’t know there, there are rules.
Preferably, you wait until they are finished and washing their hands. Otherwise, you look them straight in the eye, speak clearly (lest a mumbled inquiry be misinterpreted) and get straight to the point.
Topics, similarly, are limited. The immediate weather, such as the blizzard / tornado warning that was issued just moments ago. Escaped gunmen in the area who may have infiltrated the building. Sports figures who have been arrested (if, as in some places, there are current newspapers posted over the urinals and the article happens to be visible). Performance of new car models (but only in October when the new models just come out).
Discussions about shoes, no matter how cool they may be, are off limits, as are those about wait gain or loss (even among the closest of friends), relationships or anything vaguely associated with “feelings”.
After all, even though it may not make the participants in the conversation feel awkward, it could be uncomfortable for the other occupants.
It's a far cry from a business meeting in an ancient Roman toilet, that's for sure.
Gotta run; I see there’s a program about how Dihydrous Monoxide impacts our daily lives coming on shortly. Wouldn’t want to miss that!’
There is some truth to the old joke that the last words uttered by many individuals, is, “Hey, Y’all, watch this!” You can only watch so many car crashes, traffic stops or attempts to jump a car / motorcycle / motor home / tractor over a quantity of cars / motorcycles / motor homes/ tractors / cheerleaders before it starts to get repetitive.
I’m amazed, though, at how some of the shows on these educational channels take the most mundane and are able to stretch it into 23 minutes of programming which advertisers will support and at least enough people like me will sit and watch to make it worth producing.
The particular show I was watching was about plumbing, and it caused me to think about how cultural and different bathroom habits are, even within our cultures.
Did you know that there were public toilets in ancient Rome? Apparently, like many other aspects of Roman life, toilets were just as much a social gathering place as the baths or, say, the vomitorium.
There didn’t seem to be any privacy related to bodily functions there, either. Facilities consisted of long benches with holes cut in them. Waterworks below carried the waste products away.
I’ve long thought that people in Public Utilities, especially wastewater treatment facilities, are the unsung heroes of our society. After all, if the busses or trains don’t run, people are inconvenienced, but you can always walk as a last resort. If there’s nobody working in the Mayor or City Manager’s office – and many would legitimately argue that society would be better off without some of those folks – life goes on for a few days, anyhow. Police and firemen, while essential and doing heroic tasks, also work somewhat intermittently in that they're waiting to be called out. Waste departments are on call 24/7, without regard to when one might need to use the wastewater facilities.
Take away the ability to flush, though, and things get pretty dire pretty quickly. In houses with lots of children, maybe even as little as a few hours.
These people deal with nasty, smelly, and sometimes disgusting byproducts of humanity. It’s easy to overlook their contribution, but I submit that they are some of the most important people in local government today.
The show, of course, was about their mastery of waterworks to carry the waste products away, but what struck me was the social aspects of using the restroom. People arranged meetings, both to transact business and for more furtive assignations, to occur in the toilets. Sitting on a bench with your goodies hanging out was apparently a great equalizer – there was little class distinction, and by simply looking around you could recognize that all men truly are created equal.
That’s very different than public restroom culture in the US today. That was made very clear recently when travelling through the New Orleans airport. We headed off of our plane and, as most people did, immediately went to the toilet.
Face it, it’s impossible to be either efficient or effective in an airplane lavatory. Regardless of whether you went on the plane or not, you probably need to go when you get off, especially since heaven knows how long it will take your luggage to arrive.
Men who go into a public restroom usually approach it with the same reverential whispers that one uses in church or a library.
As a result, you could see guys physically flinch when an airport employee who was sitting on a bar stool near the sinks bellowed out to every entrant, “GOOD MORNING, SIR, AND WELCOME TO THE MEN’S ROOM.”
More than one dropped the handle on their roller bag, and one guy with three little boys in tow, not sure of what was happening in the hubbub did and immediate about-face with the boys and herded them back the other direction.
As we get older, there are some things that simply cannot be delayed. Anyone who’s topped 40 knows that the urge to go to the bathroom means that you HAVE to go to the bathroom, and RIGHT NOW. Besides, the place was packed with other guys, so figuring what could really happen and being urged on biologically, we proceeded to the urinals.
It soon was obvious that the restroom attendant was mentally challenged, and was undoubtedly following the directions that he’d been given. He was performing other functions of a men’s room attendant, wiping down the sinks and refreshing the supplies, etc. He was also doing a great job at keeping the place clean and tidy, and it was refreshing and heartwarming to see someone with challenges employed and contributing to society.
But his greeting was much more exuberant than normally encountered in a public men’s room.
When you go in, even if you’re with your friends, your voice drops to a quieter tone, conversations are suspended, and you deal with the business at hand. I have no idea what goes on in women’s restrooms, but based on the anecdotal information, I gather that they can be much more social institutions than on the guy’s side of the building.
Seldom do you make idle conversation with the guy next to you unless you’re a Republican Congressman. I’m not sure whether that’s because of the fear of a police sting or you’re worried that you’ll be approached to help fund some pork barrel project in a nearby district, but either way the results could be bad.
If you do have to talk to someone you don’t know there, there are rules.
Preferably, you wait until they are finished and washing their hands. Otherwise, you look them straight in the eye, speak clearly (lest a mumbled inquiry be misinterpreted) and get straight to the point.
Topics, similarly, are limited. The immediate weather, such as the blizzard / tornado warning that was issued just moments ago. Escaped gunmen in the area who may have infiltrated the building. Sports figures who have been arrested (if, as in some places, there are current newspapers posted over the urinals and the article happens to be visible). Performance of new car models (but only in October when the new models just come out).
Discussions about shoes, no matter how cool they may be, are off limits, as are those about wait gain or loss (even among the closest of friends), relationships or anything vaguely associated with “feelings”.
After all, even though it may not make the participants in the conversation feel awkward, it could be uncomfortable for the other occupants.
It's a far cry from a business meeting in an ancient Roman toilet, that's for sure.
Gotta run; I see there’s a program about how Dihydrous Monoxide impacts our daily lives coming on shortly. Wouldn’t want to miss that!’
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Happy Feet
There was a time, back when Wally and the Beav were kids, that gentlemen went to the barber shop for a haircut. Sometimes, a shave with a straight razor was involved, too, and if you were going all out, the trip included a shoe shine as well.
Since I graduated beyond the home-haircuts of Mom and my Grandma, about the same time I started driving, I’ve tended to go to a “stylist”, the traditional barbershops having gone the way of the General Store and hitching posts on main street. Once in a while you find a true old-fashioned barbershop, and it’s an experience when you come across it, but you have to really look for them.
On a trip to New York last summer, a friend and I were killing time walking around Greenwich Village while waiting for the others in our group to finish their tasks. We both needed haircuts, and he chose where we were going.
I honestly didn’t think that there was such a thing as a straight (as in….not gay) hair stylist in the Village in NYC, but we apparently stumbled into the only such facility there. Four barbers – no stylists there – sports on the television and the invitation, “What can I do for youse guys?”
It was an interesting experience, finding Sports Illustrated, Field and Stream and Playboy to peruse rather than Southern Living, Better Homes and Gardens or those gawdawful hair magazines that you usually encounter.
The one thing they didn’t offer, though, was a shoeshine stand.
In the past, I’ve tended to shine my own shoes, giving them a quick swipe with bottled dye and calling it good if the color is relatively even. It was not a shine, for example, that Dad would have been proud of because he was taught to shine shoes in the army.
Apparently this was a life-skill deemed necessary in the 1950’s, because they spent a great deal of time doing it. Even now, more than 50 years after he completed basic training he will regularly pull out the same kit he had then with it’s myriad of sponges, brushes and polishing clothes (some of which have surely been replaced, although the brush still sports his Army Serial Number on the wooden handle) and make his dress shoes gleam for whatever event happens to be upcoming.
Since retirement, he’s slacked off a bit and discovered the joys of hush puppies rather than wingtips for daily wear.
In adolescence, he apparently sensed that a military career wasn’t in my future – probably because of my propensity to question directives rather than follow them – so he taught me the right way to shine shoes.
It’s a pain. It’s time consuming since I don’t tend to think about it while watching television some evening, but instead let it cross my mind after I’ve got on a white long sleeved dress shirt and a short deadline. The result usually comes from one of those little pre-filled sponges with the polish built in. I can usually get the scuff marks covered without having to change clothes again.
Only guys who used to be in the military would probably notice that it’s not a Grade-A shine job.
So the other day, I found myself killing time in the airport and happened across a shoe-shine stand and decided to splurge on an indulgence. There is an event coming up which will require that I be squoze into my tuxedo for the first time in several years, and I was hoping that nice shiny shoes would put enough of a reflection up that people wouldn’t notice that I need to move up a size because my jacket no longer buttons and the cummerbund is at the extreme limits of physical tolerance.
Besides, the cost of the shine would more than likely be offset by the savings for the ruined tuxedo shirt when I got polish on the sleeves.
I climbed up on one of the four thrones in the nook at the airport, designed apparently to make you feel like royalty as you survey the minions below while being serviced. The young lady welcomed me (an innovation you probably wouldn’t have seen in Floyd’s Barber Shop in downtown Mayberry!), rolled up my pant legs and put little guards around my ankles.
This obviously was going to be more involved than the vague swipes that I usually made while sitting on the side of the bathtub.
First, she actually washed the shoes with a little brush and some type of soapy-looking water. Whoda thunk you need to remove dirt before you smear on the shine?
Then she began applying her assorted pastes and poultices, the rubber gloves she wore looking like purple based palamino hide with the remnants of earlier endeavors.
The first thing I noticed was that the foot massage you got, even through the leather of the shoes, was wonderfully relaxing. There was a reason that you sat up on the throne, because this is how I imagine royalty is treated! Every time I thought she was surely about done, she’d grab another container from the drawer, smear on another layer and go at it again.
I was neither out of breath, nor did my stomach hurt from trying to bend over to become reacquainted with my feet, both events becoming more common of late. My throne-mates and I were also entertained by the banter from the man who seemed to be in charge of the stand, a slim African-American gentleman of indeterminate age and enough grey in his hair that one would suspect that he may have learned his craft as a result of the military draft earlier.
Today’s topic was numismatic trivia, and he posed questions about American coins. In an interesting paradox, he revealed that he goes online every evening after work to determine the following day’s questions. Then when there was a dispute among us regarding the answer to a question, an airport security guard on the next throne whipped out his cell phone, logged onto the internet and resolved the issue.
All too soon, about the time that I was ready to doze off, my sommelier of footwear was snapping a cloth across my toes, removing the guards and indicated that I was all done.
The total price of the indulgence? $5.00, plus tip. I had no idea you could buy luxury that cheaply.
Or that I could get my shoes looking so good without breaking a sweat.
Since I graduated beyond the home-haircuts of Mom and my Grandma, about the same time I started driving, I’ve tended to go to a “stylist”, the traditional barbershops having gone the way of the General Store and hitching posts on main street. Once in a while you find a true old-fashioned barbershop, and it’s an experience when you come across it, but you have to really look for them.
On a trip to New York last summer, a friend and I were killing time walking around Greenwich Village while waiting for the others in our group to finish their tasks. We both needed haircuts, and he chose where we were going.
I honestly didn’t think that there was such a thing as a straight (as in….not gay) hair stylist in the Village in NYC, but we apparently stumbled into the only such facility there. Four barbers – no stylists there – sports on the television and the invitation, “What can I do for youse guys?”
It was an interesting experience, finding Sports Illustrated, Field and Stream and Playboy to peruse rather than Southern Living, Better Homes and Gardens or those gawdawful hair magazines that you usually encounter.
The one thing they didn’t offer, though, was a shoeshine stand.
In the past, I’ve tended to shine my own shoes, giving them a quick swipe with bottled dye and calling it good if the color is relatively even. It was not a shine, for example, that Dad would have been proud of because he was taught to shine shoes in the army.
Apparently this was a life-skill deemed necessary in the 1950’s, because they spent a great deal of time doing it. Even now, more than 50 years after he completed basic training he will regularly pull out the same kit he had then with it’s myriad of sponges, brushes and polishing clothes (some of which have surely been replaced, although the brush still sports his Army Serial Number on the wooden handle) and make his dress shoes gleam for whatever event happens to be upcoming.
Since retirement, he’s slacked off a bit and discovered the joys of hush puppies rather than wingtips for daily wear.
In adolescence, he apparently sensed that a military career wasn’t in my future – probably because of my propensity to question directives rather than follow them – so he taught me the right way to shine shoes.
It’s a pain. It’s time consuming since I don’t tend to think about it while watching television some evening, but instead let it cross my mind after I’ve got on a white long sleeved dress shirt and a short deadline. The result usually comes from one of those little pre-filled sponges with the polish built in. I can usually get the scuff marks covered without having to change clothes again.
Only guys who used to be in the military would probably notice that it’s not a Grade-A shine job.
So the other day, I found myself killing time in the airport and happened across a shoe-shine stand and decided to splurge on an indulgence. There is an event coming up which will require that I be squoze into my tuxedo for the first time in several years, and I was hoping that nice shiny shoes would put enough of a reflection up that people wouldn’t notice that I need to move up a size because my jacket no longer buttons and the cummerbund is at the extreme limits of physical tolerance.
Besides, the cost of the shine would more than likely be offset by the savings for the ruined tuxedo shirt when I got polish on the sleeves.
I climbed up on one of the four thrones in the nook at the airport, designed apparently to make you feel like royalty as you survey the minions below while being serviced. The young lady welcomed me (an innovation you probably wouldn’t have seen in Floyd’s Barber Shop in downtown Mayberry!), rolled up my pant legs and put little guards around my ankles.
This obviously was going to be more involved than the vague swipes that I usually made while sitting on the side of the bathtub.
First, she actually washed the shoes with a little brush and some type of soapy-looking water. Whoda thunk you need to remove dirt before you smear on the shine?
Then she began applying her assorted pastes and poultices, the rubber gloves she wore looking like purple based palamino hide with the remnants of earlier endeavors.
The first thing I noticed was that the foot massage you got, even through the leather of the shoes, was wonderfully relaxing. There was a reason that you sat up on the throne, because this is how I imagine royalty is treated! Every time I thought she was surely about done, she’d grab another container from the drawer, smear on another layer and go at it again.
I was neither out of breath, nor did my stomach hurt from trying to bend over to become reacquainted with my feet, both events becoming more common of late. My throne-mates and I were also entertained by the banter from the man who seemed to be in charge of the stand, a slim African-American gentleman of indeterminate age and enough grey in his hair that one would suspect that he may have learned his craft as a result of the military draft earlier.
Today’s topic was numismatic trivia, and he posed questions about American coins. In an interesting paradox, he revealed that he goes online every evening after work to determine the following day’s questions. Then when there was a dispute among us regarding the answer to a question, an airport security guard on the next throne whipped out his cell phone, logged onto the internet and resolved the issue.
All too soon, about the time that I was ready to doze off, my sommelier of footwear was snapping a cloth across my toes, removing the guards and indicated that I was all done.
The total price of the indulgence? $5.00, plus tip. I had no idea you could buy luxury that cheaply.
Or that I could get my shoes looking so good without breaking a sweat.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The World of Facebook
I have a profile on Facebook.
That’s really not surprising, because as best I can tell, most people with some type of computer access have filled out the papers and become assimilated into the Facebook congregation.
At first, it was kind of fun. You learn that your old high school crush is now a grandmother in Amarillo. Your 8th grade band teacher, now well into his 70’s, is still kicking around and, amazingly enough, has a Facebook profile as well. You can finally answer the question, “Whatever happened to __________” sometimes, although information overload can be problematic even if you’re looking for a relatively uncommon name.
After you’ve spent a month looking up all of the people from your past, you start to realize that there’s a downside to this.
Some of these people were edited out of your Rolodex for a reason. You’ve forgotten that the good-by hug and backslap at graduation was in many respects a celebration of relief that you could have some distance away from that person. No longer would you have to put up with the fact that they drink milk straight from the carton or hog all the Cheetos after they’ve been out partying.
When you renew the contact, you find that despite the fact that 30+ years have gone by, your old college roommate still expects you to be the designated driver AND buy the beer.
Or that the girl who all but stalked you now lives with 17 cats – and has the time to write you 4 times a day as well as forward many of the approximately 3,000 humorous emails she gets each week AND share current photos of all the kitties.
The obnoxious jerk that had the cubicle next to you at your first job after college still engages in the ritual of topping whatever achievement you’ve made because he's a legend in his own mind, but hey, that's his reality.
There’s a reason that we didn’t keep in contact with these people, but unfortunately some of them are now searching you out as well. After all, it’s really not that hard if you’ve filled in much of the demographic information at all.
Because most everyone has a profile on Facebook.
I tend to accept the “friend” invitation from just about anyone and then simply hide those I really don’t want to follow so I don’t see them every day. This usually includes those people who post their every move and thought for their friends to follow.
I’m sorry, but I don’t need to know what you had for lunch most of the time.
If they get too obnoxious – usually those who spout hate speech from one end of the spectrum or the other – I quietly delete them. I find that a lot of those people have hundreds of friends, if not thousands, so they seldom realize that one has dropped off the list. Rather than building relationships electronically, they seem to be looking for followers of their particular ideology.
Which leads us to another query – as I approach my 5th decade of life, I have fewer than a dozen people with whom I want to maintain that close of contact and it’s taken several months to acquire those. How is it that our 14 year old son has 387 “friends” within 48 hours of opening a profile? Friends who, if his page is to be believed, communicate on a fairly regular basis and recognize him in the real world when they come into contact with each other.
There is a dark side to Facebook, too.
Sometimes you find things out about people that you really are happier not knowing. I’m not talking about the end of relationships or illness or things like that. Those events may be unfortunate, but it usually is good to know it about people with whom you are in contact.
After all, asking a casual acquaintance how his wife Cindy is doing when, had you checked out his Facebook page you’d know that he’s now with his life partner Javier, can occasionally lead to awkward lulls in the conversation.
Sometimes though, like people-watching in a mall, you can learn about the true character of a person by what they post on their profile.
It’s somewhat irksome, for example, when the client who won’t pay his bill claiming that the poor economy has wrecked his business and he has no money posts photos of his trip to the beach along with comments about the boat chartered to take the group deep sea fishing.
Or the one who skips an appointment claiming illness and then posts pics of the concert she attended that same evening.
Some of the most curious ones are the elected officials who list other places as their home towns. I can understand if you left it blank, because there is an element of risk associated with putting your location out there – after all, your college buddies might show up on your front steps unexpectedly – but if you’re asking voters to pick you to run their City, shouldn’t you have at least enough pride in the location to list it as your home?
When computers were first introduced into the workplace, employers were worried that too much time was wasted playing solitaire. That’s got nothing on all the little games on Facebook that suck you in by requiring that you feed your fish, milk your cows, or wack someone who’s trying to move in on your turf.
Sorry, but I just ignore all those invitations. I have a hard enough time watering the three houseplants and feeding the fish that actually exist in my universe much less creating imaginary ones that need constant daily attention.
It’s hard enough to maintain relationships with all of my imaginary friends on Facebook.
That’s really not surprising, because as best I can tell, most people with some type of computer access have filled out the papers and become assimilated into the Facebook congregation.
At first, it was kind of fun. You learn that your old high school crush is now a grandmother in Amarillo. Your 8th grade band teacher, now well into his 70’s, is still kicking around and, amazingly enough, has a Facebook profile as well. You can finally answer the question, “Whatever happened to __________” sometimes, although information overload can be problematic even if you’re looking for a relatively uncommon name.
After you’ve spent a month looking up all of the people from your past, you start to realize that there’s a downside to this.
Some of these people were edited out of your Rolodex for a reason. You’ve forgotten that the good-by hug and backslap at graduation was in many respects a celebration of relief that you could have some distance away from that person. No longer would you have to put up with the fact that they drink milk straight from the carton or hog all the Cheetos after they’ve been out partying.
When you renew the contact, you find that despite the fact that 30+ years have gone by, your old college roommate still expects you to be the designated driver AND buy the beer.
Or that the girl who all but stalked you now lives with 17 cats – and has the time to write you 4 times a day as well as forward many of the approximately 3,000 humorous emails she gets each week AND share current photos of all the kitties.
The obnoxious jerk that had the cubicle next to you at your first job after college still engages in the ritual of topping whatever achievement you’ve made because he's a legend in his own mind, but hey, that's his reality.
There’s a reason that we didn’t keep in contact with these people, but unfortunately some of them are now searching you out as well. After all, it’s really not that hard if you’ve filled in much of the demographic information at all.
Because most everyone has a profile on Facebook.
I tend to accept the “friend” invitation from just about anyone and then simply hide those I really don’t want to follow so I don’t see them every day. This usually includes those people who post their every move and thought for their friends to follow.
I’m sorry, but I don’t need to know what you had for lunch most of the time.
If they get too obnoxious – usually those who spout hate speech from one end of the spectrum or the other – I quietly delete them. I find that a lot of those people have hundreds of friends, if not thousands, so they seldom realize that one has dropped off the list. Rather than building relationships electronically, they seem to be looking for followers of their particular ideology.
Which leads us to another query – as I approach my 5th decade of life, I have fewer than a dozen people with whom I want to maintain that close of contact and it’s taken several months to acquire those. How is it that our 14 year old son has 387 “friends” within 48 hours of opening a profile? Friends who, if his page is to be believed, communicate on a fairly regular basis and recognize him in the real world when they come into contact with each other.
There is a dark side to Facebook, too.
Sometimes you find things out about people that you really are happier not knowing. I’m not talking about the end of relationships or illness or things like that. Those events may be unfortunate, but it usually is good to know it about people with whom you are in contact.
After all, asking a casual acquaintance how his wife Cindy is doing when, had you checked out his Facebook page you’d know that he’s now with his life partner Javier, can occasionally lead to awkward lulls in the conversation.
Sometimes though, like people-watching in a mall, you can learn about the true character of a person by what they post on their profile.
It’s somewhat irksome, for example, when the client who won’t pay his bill claiming that the poor economy has wrecked his business and he has no money posts photos of his trip to the beach along with comments about the boat chartered to take the group deep sea fishing.
Or the one who skips an appointment claiming illness and then posts pics of the concert she attended that same evening.
Some of the most curious ones are the elected officials who list other places as their home towns. I can understand if you left it blank, because there is an element of risk associated with putting your location out there – after all, your college buddies might show up on your front steps unexpectedly – but if you’re asking voters to pick you to run their City, shouldn’t you have at least enough pride in the location to list it as your home?
When computers were first introduced into the workplace, employers were worried that too much time was wasted playing solitaire. That’s got nothing on all the little games on Facebook that suck you in by requiring that you feed your fish, milk your cows, or wack someone who’s trying to move in on your turf.
Sorry, but I just ignore all those invitations. I have a hard enough time watering the three houseplants and feeding the fish that actually exist in my universe much less creating imaginary ones that need constant daily attention.
It’s hard enough to maintain relationships with all of my imaginary friends on Facebook.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
A Visit from Friends
Does anything make a person’s heart sing like meeting up with friends you haven’t seen in a while? This weekend, our friends from San Antonio, TX have come to visit. Immediately the rapport that we established during the conference we all attended was renewed and refreshed. 10 minutes after the pickup at the airport and once again we fell into the groove of banter that has defined our friendship since we met.
The only thing that would have made it better is if the 5th member of our quintet had been able to make it. Actually, that was the plan. During the planning stages for the visit, we encouraged him to join us from his home in NYC. At first he talked about making it but a work conference came up and it wasn’t going to happen.
Little did we know that the guys from afar were working together to pull a fast one on us. The “meeting in DC” that had come up was actually code talk for sneaking to North Carolina to try and surprise us. An airline ticket was booked that would have dropped him in the Charlotte airport 30 minutes before the others arrived, he was going to come up and tap me on the shoulder.
Yeah, I would have been stunned beyond words.
Unfortunately, it’s sometimes possible to move mountains and lose to bugs.
In this case, the bug is called H1N1, and Mr. New York not only came down with it a couple of weeks ago, but it’s turned into pneumonia.
He still was firm about coming as late as Thursday, although he was so weak that he was unable to even finish taking a shower without being exhausted.
So on the way to dinner last night, a call was made to our friend and the gig was revealed.
It still would have been nice for him to have joined us, making our group complete, but it was best that he stay home, in bed, and take care of himself.
And now we're off with our friends to explore North Carolina.
The only thing that would have made it better is if the 5th member of our quintet had been able to make it. Actually, that was the plan. During the planning stages for the visit, we encouraged him to join us from his home in NYC. At first he talked about making it but a work conference came up and it wasn’t going to happen.
Little did we know that the guys from afar were working together to pull a fast one on us. The “meeting in DC” that had come up was actually code talk for sneaking to North Carolina to try and surprise us. An airline ticket was booked that would have dropped him in the Charlotte airport 30 minutes before the others arrived, he was going to come up and tap me on the shoulder.
Yeah, I would have been stunned beyond words.
Unfortunately, it’s sometimes possible to move mountains and lose to bugs.
In this case, the bug is called H1N1, and Mr. New York not only came down with it a couple of weeks ago, but it’s turned into pneumonia.
He still was firm about coming as late as Thursday, although he was so weak that he was unable to even finish taking a shower without being exhausted.
So on the way to dinner last night, a call was made to our friend and the gig was revealed.
It still would have been nice for him to have joined us, making our group complete, but it was best that he stay home, in bed, and take care of himself.
And now we're off with our friends to explore North Carolina.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Journey Across Continents
It’s a bittersweet day for us. Our good friend and neighbor is returning to South America for the first time in eight years to visit his family.
When he left in 2001, it was in the dark of night, escaping from the Mafia who had threatened to kill him because he refused to participate in drug transport schemes. His story is fascinating, but it is his and I won’t recount it here other than to say that those of us in America have no idea how truly blessed we are that we usually do not have to worry about these types of threats.
The threat that he faces now, though, is from the US Government and its bureaucracy.
I’ve helped him fight through the Department of Homeland Security’s oppressive regulations to enable him to become a permanent resident here. That just happened a few months ago, after more than two years of red tape.
I learned that anyone who wants to do that type of work needs to do it full time. You cannot “dabble” in immigration, any more than you can in Social Security or tax law. You have to devote your mind and soul to knowing how to work the system and which button to push at which time.
I have a high tolerance for government forms; after all, I spent years writing a good number of them but I found myself numbed at the instruction sheets most of the time, much less attempting to compile the information. I don’t see how anyone who holds English as their second language could begin to muddle through.
The rules say that he can travel up to six months on his Permanent Citizen card without needing any other forms or permits. I’ve confirmed that with immigration attorneys who say that’s the rule, but sometimes the staff at the border decide to use a different standard. There’s no way to foresee whether there will be problems or not.
I know what a parent feels like when their child takes off, though. He is our friend, and has become a member of our family, joining us at birthdays, holidays and “just because” dinners for several years now. I feel very responsible, and hope that no border agent decides that he should be singled out for some reason. I have seen it happen when we’ve been returning to the US from abroad, and know how intimidating it can be, and it worries me.
But I can’t make the journey with him, nor do I know that I could do anything to help get through the system even if I were there. In the past, we’ve followed the rules, made appointments and then driven an hour to Charlotte only to be turned away because the appointment was cancelled just minutes before it was to occur.
No, there was no supervisor to talk with. We were not even allowed to enter the building, told we should try again another day.
Things have changed for him since he left his native country. His mother has died, other family members have aged, grown, married, and had children. There are easily as many toys for the babies in his luggage as clothes. He is, however, excited to see his family again. He suggests that it will provide closure, and that he will probably not make the journey again in his life.
I only hope that he is able to return to us, to rejoin our family of choice, and to continue his life here.
When he left in 2001, it was in the dark of night, escaping from the Mafia who had threatened to kill him because he refused to participate in drug transport schemes. His story is fascinating, but it is his and I won’t recount it here other than to say that those of us in America have no idea how truly blessed we are that we usually do not have to worry about these types of threats.
The threat that he faces now, though, is from the US Government and its bureaucracy.
I’ve helped him fight through the Department of Homeland Security’s oppressive regulations to enable him to become a permanent resident here. That just happened a few months ago, after more than two years of red tape.
I learned that anyone who wants to do that type of work needs to do it full time. You cannot “dabble” in immigration, any more than you can in Social Security or tax law. You have to devote your mind and soul to knowing how to work the system and which button to push at which time.
I have a high tolerance for government forms; after all, I spent years writing a good number of them but I found myself numbed at the instruction sheets most of the time, much less attempting to compile the information. I don’t see how anyone who holds English as their second language could begin to muddle through.
The rules say that he can travel up to six months on his Permanent Citizen card without needing any other forms or permits. I’ve confirmed that with immigration attorneys who say that’s the rule, but sometimes the staff at the border decide to use a different standard. There’s no way to foresee whether there will be problems or not.
I know what a parent feels like when their child takes off, though. He is our friend, and has become a member of our family, joining us at birthdays, holidays and “just because” dinners for several years now. I feel very responsible, and hope that no border agent decides that he should be singled out for some reason. I have seen it happen when we’ve been returning to the US from abroad, and know how intimidating it can be, and it worries me.
But I can’t make the journey with him, nor do I know that I could do anything to help get through the system even if I were there. In the past, we’ve followed the rules, made appointments and then driven an hour to Charlotte only to be turned away because the appointment was cancelled just minutes before it was to occur.
No, there was no supervisor to talk with. We were not even allowed to enter the building, told we should try again another day.
Things have changed for him since he left his native country. His mother has died, other family members have aged, grown, married, and had children. There are easily as many toys for the babies in his luggage as clothes. He is, however, excited to see his family again. He suggests that it will provide closure, and that he will probably not make the journey again in his life.
I only hope that he is able to return to us, to rejoin our family of choice, and to continue his life here.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Perfect Sheet
We have guests coming in from out of town this week, so it’s been a cleaning frenzy at our house.
I decided that we needed new sheets for the guest room. I think a person really feels welcome as a guest when they stay at someone’s house and the room has nice, crisp high-end sheets that snap when you climb in between them. If that room has the hand-me-down floral prints from 15 years ago that got retired from the master bedroom, it can be a bit of a let-down.
You’d expect the old 1980’s patterns if a hide-a-bed in the den were folded out for your stay; after all, they’re going to get snagged and ripped on that mechanism that’s designed to rip off your toes when you slam into them in the middle of the night anyhow. Besides, hide-a-beds are designed to guarantee that no guest feels so welcome that they aren't ready to leave after a couple of days.
But a guest room needs to be a bit fresher than that.
The problem is, this isn’t the right time of year to be getting a deal on high thread-count sheets. I learned when I worked at Montgomery Wards that there are seasons for these things. Linen sales happen in January, for some reason. Think about it – you never hear “November White Sale” – it’s always “January White Sale”.
I suspect it has to do with the fact that the thought of an extra blanket crosses more than one person’s mind in January, and you may as well get new sheets and towels when you purchase a new fluffy blanket.
The problem is balancing the cost of those nice thick sheets against the actual usage they’ll have in the guest room. Since the kids rarely stay overnight any more, ours gets used maybe 4 or 5 times a year. Put a set of $150.00 sheets on there, and even if they last several years before the pattern becomes dated, that’s a pretty high cost-per-sleep.
They become about as un-economical as that new suit for a funeral.
I thought I’d found a deal on one of those “all-in-one” sets. New comforter, pillowcases and sheets and it was on sale. Unfortunately, the labels on those things are harder to read than the ingredient list on a can of soup (especially without your glasses, which is another story), so when I got it home and unpacked I realized that these sheets were about a 25 thread count.
Honestly, you could see through them and no amount of fabric softener is going to make them feel luxurious. They’re going to get folded up into the hide-a-bed, and the Aztec prints from 1976 can finally be retired to the basement as dropcloths.
So today's errands still involve finding sheets to go in the guest room, which is about like trying to buy a swimsuit in December. Choices are few, cost is high.
But it's worth it when your guests feel like they're in a fabric softener commercial and are special and you're glad they've decided to come and visit you.
I decided that we needed new sheets for the guest room. I think a person really feels welcome as a guest when they stay at someone’s house and the room has nice, crisp high-end sheets that snap when you climb in between them. If that room has the hand-me-down floral prints from 15 years ago that got retired from the master bedroom, it can be a bit of a let-down.
You’d expect the old 1980’s patterns if a hide-a-bed in the den were folded out for your stay; after all, they’re going to get snagged and ripped on that mechanism that’s designed to rip off your toes when you slam into them in the middle of the night anyhow. Besides, hide-a-beds are designed to guarantee that no guest feels so welcome that they aren't ready to leave after a couple of days.
But a guest room needs to be a bit fresher than that.
The problem is, this isn’t the right time of year to be getting a deal on high thread-count sheets. I learned when I worked at Montgomery Wards that there are seasons for these things. Linen sales happen in January, for some reason. Think about it – you never hear “November White Sale” – it’s always “January White Sale”.
I suspect it has to do with the fact that the thought of an extra blanket crosses more than one person’s mind in January, and you may as well get new sheets and towels when you purchase a new fluffy blanket.
The problem is balancing the cost of those nice thick sheets against the actual usage they’ll have in the guest room. Since the kids rarely stay overnight any more, ours gets used maybe 4 or 5 times a year. Put a set of $150.00 sheets on there, and even if they last several years before the pattern becomes dated, that’s a pretty high cost-per-sleep.
They become about as un-economical as that new suit for a funeral.
I thought I’d found a deal on one of those “all-in-one” sets. New comforter, pillowcases and sheets and it was on sale. Unfortunately, the labels on those things are harder to read than the ingredient list on a can of soup (especially without your glasses, which is another story), so when I got it home and unpacked I realized that these sheets were about a 25 thread count.
Honestly, you could see through them and no amount of fabric softener is going to make them feel luxurious. They’re going to get folded up into the hide-a-bed, and the Aztec prints from 1976 can finally be retired to the basement as dropcloths.
So today's errands still involve finding sheets to go in the guest room, which is about like trying to buy a swimsuit in December. Choices are few, cost is high.
But it's worth it when your guests feel like they're in a fabric softener commercial and are special and you're glad they've decided to come and visit you.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Other Restaurant - A Different Experience
Yesterday, I wrote about a new place downtown and our experience there. I’m not trying to become a food critic or anything, but the comparison between that restaurant and the experience we had last Sunday at another new restaurant in town is telling.
For reasons that will soon become apparent, I will not be naming the other restaurant.
We heard about another place just up the street that was also offering brunch. This one is on a major thoroughfare in town and has what should be an excellent location.
Location, however, does not a good restaurant make.
What’s interesting is that the quality of the food was just as good. It’s obvious that someone designing the menu there has initiative and imagination, and they’ve got cooks who can execute the recipes well.
What was lacking was any semblance of calm or organization, and it showed through in the service provided. The experience was closer to that of the concession line at a ball game staffed by volunteer band parents than a nice, sit-down place to eat with tablecloths and everything.
Despite the fact that the restaurant was less than half full, the three waitresses working the room were obviously frazzled a mere 20 minutes after opening. They had no clearly assigned areas or tables, so we stood by our designated location while two of them had a discussion about, “You want to take ‘em, or you want me to?”
It felt a lot like being kids foisted off on the grandparents, neither of whom wanted to take them because it was Bingo night and kids would cramp Grandma’s style. It was more the antithesis of being welcomed into the restaurant as a guest. We were, however, eventually seated.
Then we waited.
Not all that long, but long enough that it was apparent that nobody was thinking about taking a drink order.
Let me pause a moment to suggest that drinks are an essential part of any meal. They give you something to do while you’re waiting, they promote conviviality among the tablemates, and they take the edge off of your hunger.
One way for a server to cast a shadow over any dining experience is by being slow in bringing and refreshing the drinks. We weren’t ordering anything unexpected --Coffee, water, orange juice, sweet tea, so there should have been no surprises back in the kitchen.
‘What? They want Coffee? At 10:00 in the morning and with breakfast? Who ever heard of such a thing?!?!?
For the uninitiated, I also point out that this is the South, and sweet tea is an acceptable breakfast drink. No, I don’t really understand it either.
When the drinks finally arrived, one of the coffees was omitted. We had to remind a passing waitress about it and, when then having the audacity to ask for cream to go in the coffee we got an audible sigh of exasperation.
Cream for coffee, preferably already on the table at breakfast, really isn’t too much to ask in my opinion. She snagged one of those little metal pitchers that had cream in it from a service station and set it on the table. It obviously had been served elsewhere, as there was about a teaspoon full in the bottom. This was offered for three people drinking coffee.
We had to ask again. Twice. Finally one of our group went over to try to get it from the service area without success. When it finally came, most of us had gone ahead and started on the coffee, so by then the cups were about empty.
At our house, no day starts without coffee. It is the lubricating fluid of cognitive thought. And without cream, it’s bitter and some of us become irritable. Or maybe it’s irritating and some of us become bitter. Either way, it’s not a pleasant experience. Without a doubt, a cup of coffee is the best $2.00 spent every day.
Rather than refilling the coffee cups when she brought the cream, this waitress explained that they’d run out of coffee, but a fresh pot would be available in just a few minutes. She was true to her word, and it was delivered not long thereafter. Complete with little floaty things that are probably includable as a part of my fiber intake for the day.
The point is it’s somewhat inexcusable for a restaurant that is not completely slam-packed full to run out of coffee during a breakfast brunch. It shouldn’t be any type of revelation to them that people want coffee with their meal. The other thing that surprises me is that they don’t recognize how important this point is.
Didn’t they ever see the old commercials on television that talk about how bad coffee can sink a restaurant? Didn’t they ever see the one with Mrs. Olsen’s advice to the newlywed wife about keeping her man happy?
Another local restaurant used to host a huge corporate Christmas party every year. For the first two years, they brought the coffee out long after desert was finished and people were starting to wander off. The third year, the hostess gave but one mandate to the restaurant for the entire evening – serve the coffee WITH the desert, not afterwards. In part, I suspect this was because the bar closed during the meal and the host and hostess were concerned that there needed to be incentive for some folks who had imbibed to hang around for a bit of detox time.
The request fell on deaf ears and coffee came out as usual, as people were leaving. The following year, the party moved.
We’re not talking a small event here – easily, there were 250 guests and the bill for that party was $30,000.00. It was a significant revenue producer, lost for the price of a cup of coffee.
The poor drink service was only the first annoyance at Sunday’s brunch. The second was that the meals did not come out at the same time.
I’ve always thought that the ability to make varied meals appear a the same time, all hot and ready to go, was part of the magic of a restaurant. It’s one of the reasons that one person can have fish, one chicken and one steak and still eat together. To do that at home, we’re all having the same thing. The closest I’m going to come to cookin’ three different meals is if one person wants a ham sandwich, one wants chicken salad and one wants PBJ. They might hit the table at the same time, or they might not. But my kitchen ain’t a restaurant.
Instead of arriving together, the meals trickled out in twos and threes. By the time the last two came out, the first ones were starting to get cold. I understand that in some countries this is how meals are served; they come out as they are finished by the kitchen, and the culture says that you begin eating when your meal arrives.
We ain’t there. Our Mommas taught us that you wait until everyone at the table has their food before you begin eating.
Not even a French fry or a biscuit or a cracker. If you’re old enough to be out of a high chair, you wait.
So my dill biscuits with ham and eggs on top, covered with a dill hollandaise were kind of lukewarm by the time I finally got to eat. They were still very good, but I bet they would have been exceptional with a bit of heat. The omelets that came out first were similarly tepid.
It takes a lot away from the meal when everyone’s food doesn’t come out at once. Especially if you’re bitter over being out of coffee.
I don’t think this restaurant is going to make it, which is unfortunate. The people who’ve put the concept together have had a couple of other ventures that appeared to have been successful. They’ve bet big on this expansion, but have apparently moved out of their league.
I regret this, because we could use a more non-chain restaurants that offer something fresh and innovative. I don’t necessarily want to contribute to that downfall, which is one reason that I haven’t named the restaurant here. Besides, if you live in Hickory, you’ll figure it out soon enough. If you don’t live here, well, you don’t really care anyhow, do you?
Maybe the owners can grab a cup of coffee somewhere while contemplating what to do next.
For reasons that will soon become apparent, I will not be naming the other restaurant.
We heard about another place just up the street that was also offering brunch. This one is on a major thoroughfare in town and has what should be an excellent location.
Location, however, does not a good restaurant make.
What’s interesting is that the quality of the food was just as good. It’s obvious that someone designing the menu there has initiative and imagination, and they’ve got cooks who can execute the recipes well.
What was lacking was any semblance of calm or organization, and it showed through in the service provided. The experience was closer to that of the concession line at a ball game staffed by volunteer band parents than a nice, sit-down place to eat with tablecloths and everything.
Despite the fact that the restaurant was less than half full, the three waitresses working the room were obviously frazzled a mere 20 minutes after opening. They had no clearly assigned areas or tables, so we stood by our designated location while two of them had a discussion about, “You want to take ‘em, or you want me to?”
It felt a lot like being kids foisted off on the grandparents, neither of whom wanted to take them because it was Bingo night and kids would cramp Grandma’s style. It was more the antithesis of being welcomed into the restaurant as a guest. We were, however, eventually seated.
Then we waited.
Not all that long, but long enough that it was apparent that nobody was thinking about taking a drink order.
Let me pause a moment to suggest that drinks are an essential part of any meal. They give you something to do while you’re waiting, they promote conviviality among the tablemates, and they take the edge off of your hunger.
One way for a server to cast a shadow over any dining experience is by being slow in bringing and refreshing the drinks. We weren’t ordering anything unexpected --Coffee, water, orange juice, sweet tea, so there should have been no surprises back in the kitchen.
‘What? They want Coffee? At 10:00 in the morning and with breakfast? Who ever heard of such a thing?!?!?
For the uninitiated, I also point out that this is the South, and sweet tea is an acceptable breakfast drink. No, I don’t really understand it either.
When the drinks finally arrived, one of the coffees was omitted. We had to remind a passing waitress about it and, when then having the audacity to ask for cream to go in the coffee we got an audible sigh of exasperation.
Cream for coffee, preferably already on the table at breakfast, really isn’t too much to ask in my opinion. She snagged one of those little metal pitchers that had cream in it from a service station and set it on the table. It obviously had been served elsewhere, as there was about a teaspoon full in the bottom. This was offered for three people drinking coffee.
We had to ask again. Twice. Finally one of our group went over to try to get it from the service area without success. When it finally came, most of us had gone ahead and started on the coffee, so by then the cups were about empty.
At our house, no day starts without coffee. It is the lubricating fluid of cognitive thought. And without cream, it’s bitter and some of us become irritable. Or maybe it’s irritating and some of us become bitter. Either way, it’s not a pleasant experience. Without a doubt, a cup of coffee is the best $2.00 spent every day.
Rather than refilling the coffee cups when she brought the cream, this waitress explained that they’d run out of coffee, but a fresh pot would be available in just a few minutes. She was true to her word, and it was delivered not long thereafter. Complete with little floaty things that are probably includable as a part of my fiber intake for the day.
The point is it’s somewhat inexcusable for a restaurant that is not completely slam-packed full to run out of coffee during a breakfast brunch. It shouldn’t be any type of revelation to them that people want coffee with their meal. The other thing that surprises me is that they don’t recognize how important this point is.
Didn’t they ever see the old commercials on television that talk about how bad coffee can sink a restaurant? Didn’t they ever see the one with Mrs. Olsen’s advice to the newlywed wife about keeping her man happy?
Another local restaurant used to host a huge corporate Christmas party every year. For the first two years, they brought the coffee out long after desert was finished and people were starting to wander off. The third year, the hostess gave but one mandate to the restaurant for the entire evening – serve the coffee WITH the desert, not afterwards. In part, I suspect this was because the bar closed during the meal and the host and hostess were concerned that there needed to be incentive for some folks who had imbibed to hang around for a bit of detox time.
The request fell on deaf ears and coffee came out as usual, as people were leaving. The following year, the party moved.
We’re not talking a small event here – easily, there were 250 guests and the bill for that party was $30,000.00. It was a significant revenue producer, lost for the price of a cup of coffee.
The poor drink service was only the first annoyance at Sunday’s brunch. The second was that the meals did not come out at the same time.
I’ve always thought that the ability to make varied meals appear a the same time, all hot and ready to go, was part of the magic of a restaurant. It’s one of the reasons that one person can have fish, one chicken and one steak and still eat together. To do that at home, we’re all having the same thing. The closest I’m going to come to cookin’ three different meals is if one person wants a ham sandwich, one wants chicken salad and one wants PBJ. They might hit the table at the same time, or they might not. But my kitchen ain’t a restaurant.
Instead of arriving together, the meals trickled out in twos and threes. By the time the last two came out, the first ones were starting to get cold. I understand that in some countries this is how meals are served; they come out as they are finished by the kitchen, and the culture says that you begin eating when your meal arrives.
We ain’t there. Our Mommas taught us that you wait until everyone at the table has their food before you begin eating.
Not even a French fry or a biscuit or a cracker. If you’re old enough to be out of a high chair, you wait.
So my dill biscuits with ham and eggs on top, covered with a dill hollandaise were kind of lukewarm by the time I finally got to eat. They were still very good, but I bet they would have been exceptional with a bit of heat. The omelets that came out first were similarly tepid.
It takes a lot away from the meal when everyone’s food doesn’t come out at once. Especially if you’re bitter over being out of coffee.
I don’t think this restaurant is going to make it, which is unfortunate. The people who’ve put the concept together have had a couple of other ventures that appeared to have been successful. They’ve bet big on this expansion, but have apparently moved out of their league.
I regret this, because we could use a more non-chain restaurants that offer something fresh and innovative. I don’t necessarily want to contribute to that downfall, which is one reason that I haven’t named the restaurant here. Besides, if you live in Hickory, you’ll figure it out soon enough. If you don’t live here, well, you don’t really care anyhow, do you?
Maybe the owners can grab a cup of coffee somewhere while contemplating what to do next.
Monday, November 2, 2009
What Makes a Restaurant Work?
Restaurants seem to be a type of bellwether as to the economy. They’re one of the first new things to open and one of the first new things to close. They tend to be a leading indicator of how things are going locally. The fact that a couple of new ones that aren’t a part of a chain have opened in Hickory is a good thing.
I’m not sure why restaurants tend to be so responsive to business cycles. Other than my very first “real” job at Kentucky Fried Chicken, I’ve never worked in food service. That job lasted for two of the longest weeks of my life, and it didn’t take long to figure out that I needed more than $2.05 an hour to keep continually frying the tips of my fingers, even in 1977.
One new restaurant locally is on the square downtown called Josh’s on Union Square. Locating a restaurant on the square is, in itself, an act of faith given the lack of anything else to draw people there. Other than two or three restaurants, most everything downtown closes up about 5:30. Several restaurants have tried to make a go of it over the last few years, and this one is even in the place of a failed restaurant, but has been sufficiently remodeled and changed so that you don’t look at it and go, “Oh, that’s an old Pizza Hut turned Japanese restaurant.”
This one I predict will make it. The food was very good for the price, but more importantly the service was excellent. The hostess meets everyone at the door and greets you pleasantly, and wait staff are attentive and pleasant. They’re chatty, but not intrusive. I especially like the fact that the owner’s father was going through the dining room greeting people and making sure that everything was acceptable.
One night when we ate dinner there, our meals seemed to take an exceptionally long time to come. We were engaged in conversation with friends, so it wasn’t a big deal, but soon the waitress came over with a tray of drinks that we hadn’t ordered. She explained that there’d been a slight mishap in the kitchen (probably explained by a loud crash that we’d heard earlier), offered apologies and a round of drinks on the house and said our food would be there shortly.
That is a classy way to deal with a delay. It wasn’t necessarily the drinks, although that certainly brightened the conversation – it was more important that we received communication that explained the situation. After all, things happen – that’s forgivable. But we weren’t left like airline passengers sitting on the runway wondering both what was going on and when we might expect a change in conditions.
They were also offering a new weekend brunch option, so we decided to try that with the family the next weekend.
Wow. A prix fix menu (something that only people with teenagers can truly appreciate almost as much as the words, “all you can eat”) with an appetizer, an entrée and a desert.
The selections were varied enough that you could decide if the meal was going to be more breakfast or lunch (such as an omelet versus chicken and pasta in an Alfredo sauce). Above all, though, the service was again excellent with our waiter assisted by two others who had primary responsibility for other tables but were obviously assigned to backup for our group of seven.
This restaurant, I think, will make it despite a tough location unless something terrible happens. The experience was enjoyable enough that it’s worth going back downtown. Unlike many other restaurants locally, every time we’ve been there they’ve been busy, and they’ve been open long enough that it’s not just the “new place” buzz.
Josh’s is a nice place. The prices are reasonable, the bartender talented and the ambiance is nice. Most importantly, though, the service is excellent and you truly feel as though they are glad to see you walk through the door.
It’s worth a trip downtown, even after dark.
I’m not sure why restaurants tend to be so responsive to business cycles. Other than my very first “real” job at Kentucky Fried Chicken, I’ve never worked in food service. That job lasted for two of the longest weeks of my life, and it didn’t take long to figure out that I needed more than $2.05 an hour to keep continually frying the tips of my fingers, even in 1977.
One new restaurant locally is on the square downtown called Josh’s on Union Square. Locating a restaurant on the square is, in itself, an act of faith given the lack of anything else to draw people there. Other than two or three restaurants, most everything downtown closes up about 5:30. Several restaurants have tried to make a go of it over the last few years, and this one is even in the place of a failed restaurant, but has been sufficiently remodeled and changed so that you don’t look at it and go, “Oh, that’s an old Pizza Hut turned Japanese restaurant.”
This one I predict will make it. The food was very good for the price, but more importantly the service was excellent. The hostess meets everyone at the door and greets you pleasantly, and wait staff are attentive and pleasant. They’re chatty, but not intrusive. I especially like the fact that the owner’s father was going through the dining room greeting people and making sure that everything was acceptable.
One night when we ate dinner there, our meals seemed to take an exceptionally long time to come. We were engaged in conversation with friends, so it wasn’t a big deal, but soon the waitress came over with a tray of drinks that we hadn’t ordered. She explained that there’d been a slight mishap in the kitchen (probably explained by a loud crash that we’d heard earlier), offered apologies and a round of drinks on the house and said our food would be there shortly.
That is a classy way to deal with a delay. It wasn’t necessarily the drinks, although that certainly brightened the conversation – it was more important that we received communication that explained the situation. After all, things happen – that’s forgivable. But we weren’t left like airline passengers sitting on the runway wondering both what was going on and when we might expect a change in conditions.
They were also offering a new weekend brunch option, so we decided to try that with the family the next weekend.
Wow. A prix fix menu (something that only people with teenagers can truly appreciate almost as much as the words, “all you can eat”) with an appetizer, an entrée and a desert.
The selections were varied enough that you could decide if the meal was going to be more breakfast or lunch (such as an omelet versus chicken and pasta in an Alfredo sauce). Above all, though, the service was again excellent with our waiter assisted by two others who had primary responsibility for other tables but were obviously assigned to backup for our group of seven.
This restaurant, I think, will make it despite a tough location unless something terrible happens. The experience was enjoyable enough that it’s worth going back downtown. Unlike many other restaurants locally, every time we’ve been there they’ve been busy, and they’ve been open long enough that it’s not just the “new place” buzz.
Josh’s is a nice place. The prices are reasonable, the bartender talented and the ambiance is nice. Most importantly, though, the service is excellent and you truly feel as though they are glad to see you walk through the door.
It’s worth a trip downtown, even after dark.
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