This is a season for living
Sometimes life throws us curve balls. My mom landed one a couple of weeks ago. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Our family has rallied around her. We have tried to make sense of what to do. There have been sleepless nights and concern for her comfort, endless prayers on her behalf for God to intervene with some seriously good news.
While her doctors decide the best course of action, we cling to the hope offered by cancer survivors who have graciously extended the kind of encouragement that only a cancer veteran can. We have suddenly become inexplicably tuned into both the fragility of human life and the amazing strength born of adversity. In the wake of her frightening diagnosis, my mother has shown a determination to fight and a will to live that has bolstered the rest of us. And it is this courage that has convinced me that whatever lies ahead, she will face it with a renewed appreciation for the simple joys in life.
It is funny, in a bittersweet way, how times like this make us reconsider the direction of our lives. Isn’t it strange how the seemingly insurmountable frustrations of yesterday pale to insignificance when today emerges as an endangered gift of time? I spend my days and nights thinking differently about those things I yearned as essential to my happiness. How odd it is to look at them in terms of what my mother now faces. They are so completely inconsequential and frivolous, microscopic now on a horizon full of monstrous unknowns.
So, while we all handle unhappy news with our own methods of defense, I want to remind my mom and anyone who will listen that life is not measured in minutes or hours or days or years. Life is measured most accurately in how we use the time.
Since my mom learned she has cancer, I have seen my dad exhibit amazing fortitude and boundless love. The limitations of his Parkinson’s have somehow given way to a freedom of hope and the call to duty. She has noticed, with deepest gratitude. Together, they make a formidable pair, a couple of seasoned adventurers forging ahead on uncharted waters. I am stunned by the grace and commitment of their bond. One morning, as my mom and I headed to the clinic for tests, my dad waved to us from the front porch like a madman. She blew him a kiss. And I discovered a new sense of resolve, forever reminded of how love conquers all.
My parents, who prefer matters of a sensitive nature to remain private, may chafe at this public proclamation of their current struggles. But, it wouldn’t be the first time they wished their daughter would shove a sock in her mouth. It is from them that I learned early and well that the power of prayer and the perseverance of the human spirit can accomplish great and wonderful things. I am asking anyone who reads this and feels the same to add my mom to their list of those in need of God’s healing wisdom.
To those who have suffered the brunt of cancer, I want you to understand how fervently I hope and pray for your peace and recovery and that researchers find the answers they need to unlock this disease’s dark mystery. I will continue to find solace and hope in the hands of physicians who amaze us with their abilities and talents and in the sincerity of kindness and invaluable skills of those who work in medicine. From the mouths of pastors and the deeply spiritual come words that supply their own healing salve.
Meanwhile, I will remind my mom that there is a season for all things, that the verses from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 tell us that while there are times we break down, weep and mourn, there also are these: a time to love, a time to laugh, a time to dance and a time to heal. This is a season of difficulty, worry and pain, I know, but it is also a season of living with better days to come.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Because It's Still Home (One Year After Katrina)
Because It's Still Home:
One Year After Katrina
When I turned five in August 1969, we Gulf Coast folks had just suffered the fury of Hurricane Camille two days prior.
When I turned 41 in August 2005, we had no inkling of the onslaught Hurricane Katrina would unleash ten days later. Had I known what was coming, I would have celebrated my birthday differently. I would have gone home.
I would have taken hundreds of photos. I would have tried to capture the essence of where I grew up. Somehow, I would have tried to chronicle those special places before they ended up the scarred and ransacked leftovers of a catastrophic storm. I should have known it would happen. Living inland for so many years as an adult lulled me into a false sense that those photographic opportunities would be there forever.
Growing up in coastal Mississippi, I knew that everything I treasured could be lost in the matter of hours. August and September always meant that the Gulf of Mexico could deliver another Camille, a killer that showed no mercy for the sensibilities of humans.
Now I rely on photos taken by strangers to remind me of how things used to be. It is a deeply disturbing fact that many of these newcomers never heard of Camille until Katrina arrived. For thirty-six years, the people of the Gulf Coast rebuilt their lives and restored what Camille devoured. And now, on the one-year anniversary of Katrina, they persevere. Heroic volunteers have bonded with the natives as friends. Some of the visitors have decided to stay. And together they wield a powerful weapon in the face of ongoing recovery. They call it community, a place that feels safe and hopeful, a place to bravely call home.
No matter how long I am away, I feel the pull of that salt air and the vibrant warmth of the people. While we all have the usual daily struggles, these south coast folks have dealt with all that plus the thick, suffocating layer of loss that remains. On a recent trip to Gulfport with my mother, we didn’t feel so well. She has been very sick, and I have been very worried. When we arrived at Highway 90 that stretches along the beach, a familiar lump of disbelief rose in my throat.
Clumps of broken concrete still dot the sites along the seawall, but mostly an open landscape gapes at the southern horizon. Ghosts of familiar buildings haunted me as I tried to get my bearings. I missed the turn for Memorial Hospital on Broad Avenue, a road I have taken a hundred thousand times. It’s a sobering experience, to see the ragged remnants, unable to recall exactly what was lost. There is no way to fathom it.
But, the signs of rebirth bolstered a hope that new homes and businesses will indeed rise on those empty lots. Here and there, construction has begun. From condos to raised cottages to homes fortified with concrete and steel, the new face of the Mississippi coast is emerging, slowly but surely. Battered and broken, the coastal live oaks stand vigilant. They remind everyone of the strength and beauty that endures in spite of Mother Nature’s assault.
As the sun lowered itself behind the outstretched arms of those oak tree sentries, the clouds broke into an artist’s dream, a panorama of ruby reds and glittering golds atop the shifting waters of the Gulf. It was the kind of sunset that I remember from my youth when I strolled the beach at low tide in fervent anticipation of the promising years ahead. What does the future hold? I wondered. I suppose it is a question that never leaves us, one that is particularly poignant when your past has washed away.
I pray for the people there. I hope they can look into those brilliant sunsets and recall the unique and fortifying pleasures that are found in a sense of place. To truly appreciate those pleasures is to comprehend the reason these survivors continue to love the very waters that nurtured a savage storm. It is where they belong. It is a place like no other. It is home.
One Year After Katrina
When I turned five in August 1969, we Gulf Coast folks had just suffered the fury of Hurricane Camille two days prior.
When I turned 41 in August 2005, we had no inkling of the onslaught Hurricane Katrina would unleash ten days later. Had I known what was coming, I would have celebrated my birthday differently. I would have gone home.
I would have taken hundreds of photos. I would have tried to capture the essence of where I grew up. Somehow, I would have tried to chronicle those special places before they ended up the scarred and ransacked leftovers of a catastrophic storm. I should have known it would happen. Living inland for so many years as an adult lulled me into a false sense that those photographic opportunities would be there forever.
Growing up in coastal Mississippi, I knew that everything I treasured could be lost in the matter of hours. August and September always meant that the Gulf of Mexico could deliver another Camille, a killer that showed no mercy for the sensibilities of humans.
Now I rely on photos taken by strangers to remind me of how things used to be. It is a deeply disturbing fact that many of these newcomers never heard of Camille until Katrina arrived. For thirty-six years, the people of the Gulf Coast rebuilt their lives and restored what Camille devoured. And now, on the one-year anniversary of Katrina, they persevere. Heroic volunteers have bonded with the natives as friends. Some of the visitors have decided to stay. And together they wield a powerful weapon in the face of ongoing recovery. They call it community, a place that feels safe and hopeful, a place to bravely call home.
No matter how long I am away, I feel the pull of that salt air and the vibrant warmth of the people. While we all have the usual daily struggles, these south coast folks have dealt with all that plus the thick, suffocating layer of loss that remains. On a recent trip to Gulfport with my mother, we didn’t feel so well. She has been very sick, and I have been very worried. When we arrived at Highway 90 that stretches along the beach, a familiar lump of disbelief rose in my throat.
Clumps of broken concrete still dot the sites along the seawall, but mostly an open landscape gapes at the southern horizon. Ghosts of familiar buildings haunted me as I tried to get my bearings. I missed the turn for Memorial Hospital on Broad Avenue, a road I have taken a hundred thousand times. It’s a sobering experience, to see the ragged remnants, unable to recall exactly what was lost. There is no way to fathom it.
But, the signs of rebirth bolstered a hope that new homes and businesses will indeed rise on those empty lots. Here and there, construction has begun. From condos to raised cottages to homes fortified with concrete and steel, the new face of the Mississippi coast is emerging, slowly but surely. Battered and broken, the coastal live oaks stand vigilant. They remind everyone of the strength and beauty that endures in spite of Mother Nature’s assault.
As the sun lowered itself behind the outstretched arms of those oak tree sentries, the clouds broke into an artist’s dream, a panorama of ruby reds and glittering golds atop the shifting waters of the Gulf. It was the kind of sunset that I remember from my youth when I strolled the beach at low tide in fervent anticipation of the promising years ahead. What does the future hold? I wondered. I suppose it is a question that never leaves us, one that is particularly poignant when your past has washed away.
I pray for the people there. I hope they can look into those brilliant sunsets and recall the unique and fortifying pleasures that are found in a sense of place. To truly appreciate those pleasures is to comprehend the reason these survivors continue to love the very waters that nurtured a savage storm. It is where they belong. It is a place like no other. It is home.
Dog Whisperer Shares Power of the Pack
Dog Whisperer Shares Power of the Pack
The Dog Whisperer can do amazing things with any naughty dog, from Pit Bulls to Pekingese. Cesar Millan is the Dog Whisperer whose show airs Monday nights on the National Geographic channel. (Comcast Channel 109 for this area). He is the “Super Nanny” of canines, the enforcer of discipline and acceptable behavior among dogs.
When I caught my first episode of the Dog Whisperer, he was attempting to rehabilitate a service dog from attacking other dogs. The woman who handled the dog suffered a severe form of panic anxiety. Are we surprised? Obviously, a dog that lunges and snarls viciously at others does little for calming nerves and fears. The Dog Whisperer worked his magic, and by the end of the show, the dog performed flawlessly for a service evaluation. What proved most remarkable was how the woman had changed, from cringing wallflower, to assertive, commanding leader.
The Dog Whisperer’s “Power of the Pack” premise showcases how dogs look to their pack leader for guidance and discipline. We humans, if things work as they were intended for domesticated animals, are the supreme commander. But, too often, the little pistol of a Chihuahua will run the household, snapping at ankles and attacking beneath the bedcovers. In one episode, the Dog Whisperer trains two tiny Yorkshire terriers to mind their leader, who just happens to be a policeman. “They’re so little,” said the officer as the Yorkies attacked the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance. “I guess I was afraid of hurting them.”
We have experienced some distasteful behaviors on the part of our four poodles, mainly Honey’s unprovoked barking and Beignet’s pitiful wailing at the back door. Both have since been zapped with the Dog Whisperer’s approach. We nudge them firmly with feet or fingers and make a sound that mimics that of a hissing cobra or a testy mother-in-law. We assume a stance of “calm assertion” that the Dog Whisperer uses when hanging out with his 30-plus pack of dogs. Amazingly, it has helped. Honey now hides from us when she has to bark, and Beignet simply cusses under his breath.
On a recent trip to the veterinarian, we learned that our cat was “morbidly obese.” Actually, we were well aware of the fact that he easily outweighs a toddler. His name is Puffin, but as my dad observed, he now appears to be fully puffed. He and Matilda are a perfect example of how genetics affect weight. We had the cat food in a self-feeder. They shared the same opportunity to eat, the same diet. Matilda, who is older than Puffin, has remained a fit and svelte kitty. Puffin looks like he swallowed a turkey. The vet instructed us to restrict the amount of food available by removing the self-feeder. In the weeks since, Puffin has picketed in the kitchen, demanding the veterinarian’s head on a plate, with a heaping side of tuna.
We love our pets, and it is easy to fall into habits that indulge bad behavior. But, if we truly love them, we will provide them a proper diet, exercise and a safe place to thrive. Our cattle dog, Spottie, is the oldest. He, like Puffin, could stand to lose more than a few pounds. He is getting arthritis and loves to lie down at the food bowl. I want to be a better role model for them, but like Honey hiding while she barks, eating ice cream in the closet isn’t really the best approach.
The message I get from the Dog Whisperer is that we should model the behaviors we want to see in our pets. Healthy actions help us to have healthy bodies, minds and attitudes. It encouraged me to see that even the Dog Whisperer understands that we all need a little scratch on the head or tummy rub, a little positive reinforcement for resisting the call of the wild or that self-feeder we call a refrigerator. Poor Puffin thinks we’ve all gone to the dogs.
“Scratch what you like, I want food!” he spits. Is it any wonder there is no Cat Whisperer?
The Dog Whisperer can do amazing things with any naughty dog, from Pit Bulls to Pekingese. Cesar Millan is the Dog Whisperer whose show airs Monday nights on the National Geographic channel. (Comcast Channel 109 for this area). He is the “Super Nanny” of canines, the enforcer of discipline and acceptable behavior among dogs.
When I caught my first episode of the Dog Whisperer, he was attempting to rehabilitate a service dog from attacking other dogs. The woman who handled the dog suffered a severe form of panic anxiety. Are we surprised? Obviously, a dog that lunges and snarls viciously at others does little for calming nerves and fears. The Dog Whisperer worked his magic, and by the end of the show, the dog performed flawlessly for a service evaluation. What proved most remarkable was how the woman had changed, from cringing wallflower, to assertive, commanding leader.
The Dog Whisperer’s “Power of the Pack” premise showcases how dogs look to their pack leader for guidance and discipline. We humans, if things work as they were intended for domesticated animals, are the supreme commander. But, too often, the little pistol of a Chihuahua will run the household, snapping at ankles and attacking beneath the bedcovers. In one episode, the Dog Whisperer trains two tiny Yorkshire terriers to mind their leader, who just happens to be a policeman. “They’re so little,” said the officer as the Yorkies attacked the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance. “I guess I was afraid of hurting them.”
We have experienced some distasteful behaviors on the part of our four poodles, mainly Honey’s unprovoked barking and Beignet’s pitiful wailing at the back door. Both have since been zapped with the Dog Whisperer’s approach. We nudge them firmly with feet or fingers and make a sound that mimics that of a hissing cobra or a testy mother-in-law. We assume a stance of “calm assertion” that the Dog Whisperer uses when hanging out with his 30-plus pack of dogs. Amazingly, it has helped. Honey now hides from us when she has to bark, and Beignet simply cusses under his breath.
On a recent trip to the veterinarian, we learned that our cat was “morbidly obese.” Actually, we were well aware of the fact that he easily outweighs a toddler. His name is Puffin, but as my dad observed, he now appears to be fully puffed. He and Matilda are a perfect example of how genetics affect weight. We had the cat food in a self-feeder. They shared the same opportunity to eat, the same diet. Matilda, who is older than Puffin, has remained a fit and svelte kitty. Puffin looks like he swallowed a turkey. The vet instructed us to restrict the amount of food available by removing the self-feeder. In the weeks since, Puffin has picketed in the kitchen, demanding the veterinarian’s head on a plate, with a heaping side of tuna.
We love our pets, and it is easy to fall into habits that indulge bad behavior. But, if we truly love them, we will provide them a proper diet, exercise and a safe place to thrive. Our cattle dog, Spottie, is the oldest. He, like Puffin, could stand to lose more than a few pounds. He is getting arthritis and loves to lie down at the food bowl. I want to be a better role model for them, but like Honey hiding while she barks, eating ice cream in the closet isn’t really the best approach.
The message I get from the Dog Whisperer is that we should model the behaviors we want to see in our pets. Healthy actions help us to have healthy bodies, minds and attitudes. It encouraged me to see that even the Dog Whisperer understands that we all need a little scratch on the head or tummy rub, a little positive reinforcement for resisting the call of the wild or that self-feeder we call a refrigerator. Poor Puffin thinks we’ve all gone to the dogs.
“Scratch what you like, I want food!” he spits. Is it any wonder there is no Cat Whisperer?
Jerry Sutton Had Courage to Be Kind
Jerry Sutton Had Courage to be Kind
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. It’s not that I purposefully conjure his image. I see my kids join yet another set of classmates and teachers, some familiar and some not, and I immediately hope for the kindness of strangers. That is what makes me think of Jerry.
When I was in Mrs. Moran’s fourth grade class, Jerry sat two rows over from me, near the front. He was shorter than most boys his age. He was funnier than all of them. Jerry had the kind of charisma that landed him lots of friends and a solid spot as teacher’s pet. We didn’t mind. We all loved Jerry.
Mrs. Moran began each day with a writing and art assignment that I loathed. We had to copy a poem from the chalkboard, in cursive. Worse, we had to transcribe it very neatly. I struggled with handwriting. Mine resembled the garbled combination of English and poorly done hieroglyphics and ranged in size from microscopic letters to huge words better suited for a billboard.
Beneath the poem, we were to illustrate the meaning of the verse with crayons. Most of the time, I would end up wearing a hole through my paper, trying to erase my attempts at drawing a plausible likeness to a human or a dog or a tree. I hated every last one of those insufferable poems.
One particularly challenging assignment nearly had me in tears. The poem was long, the visuals were many, and I didn’t feel so well. Somehow, as I commenced with the transcription, I flipped the pencil point up from the page and impaled the lead deep within my right palm. Stunned and horrified, I watched as the yellow Number 2 pencil dangled from the center of my hand. Then, I threw up.
When you have taught as long as Mrs. Moran had, things like vomit tend to lose their shock value. She stepped into the hall, called to the janitor and calmed the masses all while insisting that everyone continue working. Meanwhile, I slowly raised my head from my injury-induced stupor.
Few things alienate you from your classmates faster than upchucking on your desktop. I never did care much for the girl who sat in front of me. She always cut in line, spread gossip and insisted that God never intended for women to have careers. So, the fact that I had splattered the back of her head with something unspeakably disgusting didn’t disturb me much. But, I dreaded the backlash from everyone else: the finger-pointing, the relegation to alien status as “the girl who threw up.” Fearing the worst, I lifted my eyes to gauge the reaction of my peers. And there was Jerry Sutton.
Jerry was looking at me like he would a lost puppy. His face was full of concern and compassion. As the janitor arrived to clean up the mess and I headed to the bathroom, he mouthed to me, “It’s O.K! It’s O.K.!”
And, it was. I went home and returned the next morning feeling fine. Not one word was said of the events from the previous day. As I slaved over the next exercise in penmanship and creativity, I glanced up at Jerry Sutton. He had drawn a beautiful landscape of golden sun and globular green trees dotted with huge red apples. He looked up and smiled at me.
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. I like to believe that there are still plenty of Jerry’s out there, offering comfort instead of ridicule, kindness instead of rejection. I don’t recall the names of classmates from fourth grade who were most popular or best dressed, but I do recall with great reverence the boy who reassured me when others might have mocked me. It’s a lesson I am grateful to have learned early about the indelible mark left by special souls who have the courage to be kind.
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. It’s not that I purposefully conjure his image. I see my kids join yet another set of classmates and teachers, some familiar and some not, and I immediately hope for the kindness of strangers. That is what makes me think of Jerry.
When I was in Mrs. Moran’s fourth grade class, Jerry sat two rows over from me, near the front. He was shorter than most boys his age. He was funnier than all of them. Jerry had the kind of charisma that landed him lots of friends and a solid spot as teacher’s pet. We didn’t mind. We all loved Jerry.
Mrs. Moran began each day with a writing and art assignment that I loathed. We had to copy a poem from the chalkboard, in cursive. Worse, we had to transcribe it very neatly. I struggled with handwriting. Mine resembled the garbled combination of English and poorly done hieroglyphics and ranged in size from microscopic letters to huge words better suited for a billboard.
Beneath the poem, we were to illustrate the meaning of the verse with crayons. Most of the time, I would end up wearing a hole through my paper, trying to erase my attempts at drawing a plausible likeness to a human or a dog or a tree. I hated every last one of those insufferable poems.
One particularly challenging assignment nearly had me in tears. The poem was long, the visuals were many, and I didn’t feel so well. Somehow, as I commenced with the transcription, I flipped the pencil point up from the page and impaled the lead deep within my right palm. Stunned and horrified, I watched as the yellow Number 2 pencil dangled from the center of my hand. Then, I threw up.
When you have taught as long as Mrs. Moran had, things like vomit tend to lose their shock value. She stepped into the hall, called to the janitor and calmed the masses all while insisting that everyone continue working. Meanwhile, I slowly raised my head from my injury-induced stupor.
Few things alienate you from your classmates faster than upchucking on your desktop. I never did care much for the girl who sat in front of me. She always cut in line, spread gossip and insisted that God never intended for women to have careers. So, the fact that I had splattered the back of her head with something unspeakably disgusting didn’t disturb me much. But, I dreaded the backlash from everyone else: the finger-pointing, the relegation to alien status as “the girl who threw up.” Fearing the worst, I lifted my eyes to gauge the reaction of my peers. And there was Jerry Sutton.
Jerry was looking at me like he would a lost puppy. His face was full of concern and compassion. As the janitor arrived to clean up the mess and I headed to the bathroom, he mouthed to me, “It’s O.K! It’s O.K.!”
And, it was. I went home and returned the next morning feeling fine. Not one word was said of the events from the previous day. As I slaved over the next exercise in penmanship and creativity, I glanced up at Jerry Sutton. He had drawn a beautiful landscape of golden sun and globular green trees dotted with huge red apples. He looked up and smiled at me.
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. I like to believe that there are still plenty of Jerry’s out there, offering comfort instead of ridicule, kindness instead of rejection. I don’t recall the names of classmates from fourth grade who were most popular or best dressed, but I do recall with great reverence the boy who reassured me when others might have mocked me. It’s a lesson I am grateful to have learned early about the indelible mark left by special souls who have the courage to be kind.
Monday, August 07, 2006
They Could Call It Snipe and Swiff
They Could Call It Snipe and Swiff
Sometimes what I want to say and what I do say are two completely different things. Like years ago when I worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, I would often refer to a dog’s “flick and tea” problem.
Or, there was the time in the genetics lab when one of the technologists said “lymph noids” instead of lymph nodes. I have since been annoyed with the habit of saying “noids.” And once I asked the receptionist at the doctor’s office for the “stubber ramp.” It was shameful how we laughed hysterically in front of all those snifflers and sneezers.
As is customary this time of year, I shopped for my children’ school clothes. I stood in line at the mall with an armload of tops and bottoms and remembered the sales ad that mentioned a promotional gimmick.
“And how are you, ma’am,” said the clerk.
“Oh, I’m good. How are you?”
“I’m great. Is all this stuff yours?”
“Unfortunately, yes. By the way, do you have any of those ‘Scratch and Sniff’ cards featured in the newspaper?”
The young man looked at me like I had sprouted wings and tap shoes.
“Uh, well, we have these cards where we scratch them to see what extra discount you will receive on your purchase, but I’m not sure about the sniffing part.”
Of course, as soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had committed yet another of my bumbling blunders. And then the laughter ensued.
“Ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee, oh, man!” I chortled. “Yes, of course, no sniffing required.”
Then the clerk, who apparently was long overdue a break, joined me.
“Heh, heh, heh, ha, ha, ha, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he snorted. “Let’s see. Maybe we ARE supposed to smell them.” He lifted the card to his quivering nose. “Yep, smells like money! Hahahahahahaha!”
By this time, I expected the people waiting in line behind me to be less than amused with our giggle fest. But, the three women had joined us, tickled to the point of laughing out loud.
“I really think you’re onto something,” said the clerk.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “It could be the next great promotional tool. If your card smells like strawberries, you get 50 percent off your next purchase!”
“No, no, not strawberries,” corrected the clerk. “Too many people think strawberries and raspberries smell the same. It would have to be something like…”
The woman behind me cleared her throat. I think she had finally recovered and was eager to finish her shopping.
“Like peanut butter?” I proposed. The women behind me were still with us, because they nodded in agreement.
“You know, my roommate in college didn’t smell very good,” said the clerk.
Of course, what he meant to say was that he didn’t smell well. I envisioned both a stinking dorm room and a student with impaired olfactory abilities.
“He could smell spicy things, though. He was from New Orleans.”
My mind reeled with smell versus taste. How does one smell spicy?
“Anyway, those scratch and sniff cards. If you made them smell like hot sauce, they just might work.”
Much to the relief of the captive audience behind me, the clerk loaded my bag and asked if I would like him to call for the forklift.
“No, I can get it, but thanks,” I said. “By the way, how much of a discount did I get with that card?”
He dragged the small piece of cardstock beneath his nostrils.
“Smells like 10 percent,” he said.
“I expect you to call corporate office with our brilliant new concept,” I told him.
He had moved on to the next customer, saying something about “smelling nutty.”
When I joined my husband in the parking lot, I shared our “Scratch and Sniff’ discount card idea. He tried to listen but was deeply distracted by the overpowering smell of burning plastic. Which gave me another great idea:
Credit card companies should consider a “Swipe and Sniff” feature, a strong but gentle reminder of what that bill smells like a month later.
Perhaps they could call it “Snipe and Swiff.”
Sometimes what I want to say and what I do say are two completely different things. Like years ago when I worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, I would often refer to a dog’s “flick and tea” problem.
Or, there was the time in the genetics lab when one of the technologists said “lymph noids” instead of lymph nodes. I have since been annoyed with the habit of saying “noids.” And once I asked the receptionist at the doctor’s office for the “stubber ramp.” It was shameful how we laughed hysterically in front of all those snifflers and sneezers.
As is customary this time of year, I shopped for my children’ school clothes. I stood in line at the mall with an armload of tops and bottoms and remembered the sales ad that mentioned a promotional gimmick.
“And how are you, ma’am,” said the clerk.
“Oh, I’m good. How are you?”
“I’m great. Is all this stuff yours?”
“Unfortunately, yes. By the way, do you have any of those ‘Scratch and Sniff’ cards featured in the newspaper?”
The young man looked at me like I had sprouted wings and tap shoes.
“Uh, well, we have these cards where we scratch them to see what extra discount you will receive on your purchase, but I’m not sure about the sniffing part.”
Of course, as soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had committed yet another of my bumbling blunders. And then the laughter ensued.
“Ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee, oh, man!” I chortled. “Yes, of course, no sniffing required.”
Then the clerk, who apparently was long overdue a break, joined me.
“Heh, heh, heh, ha, ha, ha, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he snorted. “Let’s see. Maybe we ARE supposed to smell them.” He lifted the card to his quivering nose. “Yep, smells like money! Hahahahahahaha!”
By this time, I expected the people waiting in line behind me to be less than amused with our giggle fest. But, the three women had joined us, tickled to the point of laughing out loud.
“I really think you’re onto something,” said the clerk.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “It could be the next great promotional tool. If your card smells like strawberries, you get 50 percent off your next purchase!”
“No, no, not strawberries,” corrected the clerk. “Too many people think strawberries and raspberries smell the same. It would have to be something like…”
The woman behind me cleared her throat. I think she had finally recovered and was eager to finish her shopping.
“Like peanut butter?” I proposed. The women behind me were still with us, because they nodded in agreement.
“You know, my roommate in college didn’t smell very good,” said the clerk.
Of course, what he meant to say was that he didn’t smell well. I envisioned both a stinking dorm room and a student with impaired olfactory abilities.
“He could smell spicy things, though. He was from New Orleans.”
My mind reeled with smell versus taste. How does one smell spicy?
“Anyway, those scratch and sniff cards. If you made them smell like hot sauce, they just might work.”
Much to the relief of the captive audience behind me, the clerk loaded my bag and asked if I would like him to call for the forklift.
“No, I can get it, but thanks,” I said. “By the way, how much of a discount did I get with that card?”
He dragged the small piece of cardstock beneath his nostrils.
“Smells like 10 percent,” he said.
“I expect you to call corporate office with our brilliant new concept,” I told him.
He had moved on to the next customer, saying something about “smelling nutty.”
When I joined my husband in the parking lot, I shared our “Scratch and Sniff’ discount card idea. He tried to listen but was deeply distracted by the overpowering smell of burning plastic. Which gave me another great idea:
Credit card companies should consider a “Swipe and Sniff” feature, a strong but gentle reminder of what that bill smells like a month later.
Perhaps they could call it “Snipe and Swiff.”
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
On the Road to Kentucky
On the Road to Kentucky
Last week I drove to Ewing, KY to visit family with my aunt and daughter. It is a drive of about 700 miles. Now that I’m back, I would like to state for the record that we did not get a speeding ticket, did not wreck and did not get lost. Well, except for that accidental detour through the heart of downtown Lexington.
Before we embarked on our adventure, there was some debate over whether to take the interstate or travel the scenic byways. My husband insisted we stick to the safety and efficiency of the interstate. My aunt recalled fond memories of driving in full view of the lush countryside and the local markets boasting fresh corn and peanuts. Both my aunt and husband reminded me of how often I have managed to get lost on even familiar roadways. I secretly gave them a very special driver’s salute and tried to memorize the map.
We compromised. We hit the interstate until the overpowering presence of eighteen-wheelers induced a desire to exit six lanes of roaring traffic and ease onto quieter, more scenic routes. We lasted about 30 minutes. Where Mom-and-Pop cafés and fruit stands once offered periodic invitations to stop and browse, national retail stores and outlet malls stretched from one town to the next. Traffic clogged the narrow arteries where tired, solitary pickups once chugged alongside the fertile farmland. The stop-and-go of multiple signals and speed zones set at “crawl” had us trudging back to the rush and relief of the 70 mph limit on I-65.
I could tell Aunt Ora, or “Wee Wee” as we call her, trusted my driving implicitly. She stomped her right foot on the floorboard frequently, obviously in agreement with my flawless braking capabilities. She signaled feverishly, clearly filled with enthusiasm for my ability to careen across numerous lanes of swerving traffic, just in time to make the exit ramp. She seemed completely captivated with our van’s speedometer and cruise control capabilities. The sight of a highway patrol car nestled in the median elicited the kind of explosive excitement I’ve witnessed only at births and beauty pageants.
Just before the trip, we purchased a portable DVD player so my daughter could watch movies on the road. It is undoubtedly the best $149 we have ever spent. While she watched the first three seasons of “The Andy Griffith Show,” my aunt and I enjoyed a peace I never thought possible with a pre-teen girl in tow.
During those hours on the road, I found the view to be deeply moving. The rocky terraces and green foothills of Tennessee were beautiful, as were the long, sloping pastures and horse farms of northeast Kentucky. Even more than the expansive pastoral scenes of Mississippi and Alabama, the view I enjoyed most was from the mental images gleaned from the stories Wee Wee told as we sailed toward Kentucky.
She shared childhood tales of dressing a calf in a black raincoat and bell that left her mom and Aunt Katie certain it was the devil himself who galloped crazily across the back forty. She described the time her friend Tommie shot a raccoon and prepared it with vegetables for their dinner. After waiting several starving hours for the meat to stew, Wee Wee announced, “I don’t believe I care for coon.” Neither of them ventured a bite.
When we finally arrived in Ewing, my Aunt Eddie Lee announced that they wore the window out looking for us. Through that window is an enticing view of the signature green of picturesque Kentucky, a vibrant vision of the comforting cycle of bountiful growth and harvest.
I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with an earnest attempt to file away memories of family we rarely get to see. My Aunt Eddie Lee, Uncle Brownie and cousin Iris gave the window a rest, and we all enjoyed the view of familiar faces over a home-cooked meal. It is in those moments, however few and far between, that distance matters little and minutes matter a lot. Regardless of how you get there, the embrace of loved ones seldom seen always makes the trip more than worthwhile.
Last week I drove to Ewing, KY to visit family with my aunt and daughter. It is a drive of about 700 miles. Now that I’m back, I would like to state for the record that we did not get a speeding ticket, did not wreck and did not get lost. Well, except for that accidental detour through the heart of downtown Lexington.
Before we embarked on our adventure, there was some debate over whether to take the interstate or travel the scenic byways. My husband insisted we stick to the safety and efficiency of the interstate. My aunt recalled fond memories of driving in full view of the lush countryside and the local markets boasting fresh corn and peanuts. Both my aunt and husband reminded me of how often I have managed to get lost on even familiar roadways. I secretly gave them a very special driver’s salute and tried to memorize the map.
We compromised. We hit the interstate until the overpowering presence of eighteen-wheelers induced a desire to exit six lanes of roaring traffic and ease onto quieter, more scenic routes. We lasted about 30 minutes. Where Mom-and-Pop cafés and fruit stands once offered periodic invitations to stop and browse, national retail stores and outlet malls stretched from one town to the next. Traffic clogged the narrow arteries where tired, solitary pickups once chugged alongside the fertile farmland. The stop-and-go of multiple signals and speed zones set at “crawl” had us trudging back to the rush and relief of the 70 mph limit on I-65.
I could tell Aunt Ora, or “Wee Wee” as we call her, trusted my driving implicitly. She stomped her right foot on the floorboard frequently, obviously in agreement with my flawless braking capabilities. She signaled feverishly, clearly filled with enthusiasm for my ability to careen across numerous lanes of swerving traffic, just in time to make the exit ramp. She seemed completely captivated with our van’s speedometer and cruise control capabilities. The sight of a highway patrol car nestled in the median elicited the kind of explosive excitement I’ve witnessed only at births and beauty pageants.
Just before the trip, we purchased a portable DVD player so my daughter could watch movies on the road. It is undoubtedly the best $149 we have ever spent. While she watched the first three seasons of “The Andy Griffith Show,” my aunt and I enjoyed a peace I never thought possible with a pre-teen girl in tow.
During those hours on the road, I found the view to be deeply moving. The rocky terraces and green foothills of Tennessee were beautiful, as were the long, sloping pastures and horse farms of northeast Kentucky. Even more than the expansive pastoral scenes of Mississippi and Alabama, the view I enjoyed most was from the mental images gleaned from the stories Wee Wee told as we sailed toward Kentucky.
She shared childhood tales of dressing a calf in a black raincoat and bell that left her mom and Aunt Katie certain it was the devil himself who galloped crazily across the back forty. She described the time her friend Tommie shot a raccoon and prepared it with vegetables for their dinner. After waiting several starving hours for the meat to stew, Wee Wee announced, “I don’t believe I care for coon.” Neither of them ventured a bite.
When we finally arrived in Ewing, my Aunt Eddie Lee announced that they wore the window out looking for us. Through that window is an enticing view of the signature green of picturesque Kentucky, a vibrant vision of the comforting cycle of bountiful growth and harvest.
I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with an earnest attempt to file away memories of family we rarely get to see. My Aunt Eddie Lee, Uncle Brownie and cousin Iris gave the window a rest, and we all enjoyed the view of familiar faces over a home-cooked meal. It is in those moments, however few and far between, that distance matters little and minutes matter a lot. Regardless of how you get there, the embrace of loved ones seldom seen always makes the trip more than worthwhile.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Real Winners Claim a Prize Called Character
Real Winners Claim a Prize Called Character
Have you ever won anything from the code inside a cereal box? Has yours ever been the winning selection from a million paper slip entries? Do you know of anyone who has scored a major prize from a soda cap, candy bar wrapper, Web site or telemarketer’s survey? Yeah, neither have I.
Believe it or not, there are people who have won large sums of money in lotteries and never claimed the cash. A quick Internet search of unclaimed prizes shows that awards in excess of $200,000 still wait on the winners for pay out. Sometimes lottery companies hold the money for a few months, sometimes for a year. Then, the funds go back into state coffers or to special accounts, like the Court Appointed Special Advocate Program, which provides assistance to abused, abandoned and neglected children.
Somehow, I am pretty sure that if I were the official winner of major bucks, I would go to the trouble to claim the prize. In fact, if I were to win so much as a pair of movie tickets, I would likely celebrate like a showboating running back with both feet in the end zone. The only contest I have ever won on luck alone was at a shoe store. You had to name the company mascot. I came up with “Chauncey.” I received one pair of running shoes that made a deeply disturbing noise when I walked. My one and only time to win, I was still a loser.
Winning on luck and winning on skill are two different things, of course. I have entered writing contests. The few times I have done well, it felt great. When I have lost, which is often, it felt like someone dropped a ton of bricks on my ego and crushed the remnants of my self-esteem into the ground with their evil, dream-killing boots. At least when all you have at stake is a box top and a postage stamp, losing isn’t such a big deal.
As a parent, I try to help my kids understand that winning isn’t really what life is all about, even though it sure can feel that way much of the time. The world loves a winner, a grand prize, a trophy engraved with “First Place.” We hail our champions and forget second place, even if only a millisecond or a hundredth of a point separates them. Those are the winners hailed on TV and in the press. I like to think about the ones I see in less conspicuous places. They are the ones I hope my children remember, too.
Every day, someone you know will cross an unseen finish line. They will complete chemotherapy. They will read their first book. They will learn to walk again. They will claim 30 days, clean and sober. They will get up, every day, and tend to a dying loved one. They will serve their country. They will smile at a stranger simply because they recall how good it felt when someone smiled at them. They will win, again and again, in the silent obscurity of everyday heroes.
I know plenty of people who reach lofty places through deception and less than honorable means. Lots of folks see them as winners. This is one of the hardest lessons to teach my children, that just because you claim the prize doesn’t necessarily make you top notch. In the contests that truly matter, character always wins. Contrary to what society often promotes, it isn’t where you finish, but how you run the race.
“You can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket,” they say. I’ll buy that. I have never known a cereal box winner, never ridden in a car with the magic key, and never claimed so much as a consolation prize from a scratch-and-win card. But I have known real winners. They purchase their tickets with hearts of gold and never fail to claim a prize called honor. No matter what the scoreboard says, they always come out on top.
Have you ever won anything from the code inside a cereal box? Has yours ever been the winning selection from a million paper slip entries? Do you know of anyone who has scored a major prize from a soda cap, candy bar wrapper, Web site or telemarketer’s survey? Yeah, neither have I.
Believe it or not, there are people who have won large sums of money in lotteries and never claimed the cash. A quick Internet search of unclaimed prizes shows that awards in excess of $200,000 still wait on the winners for pay out. Sometimes lottery companies hold the money for a few months, sometimes for a year. Then, the funds go back into state coffers or to special accounts, like the Court Appointed Special Advocate Program, which provides assistance to abused, abandoned and neglected children.
Somehow, I am pretty sure that if I were the official winner of major bucks, I would go to the trouble to claim the prize. In fact, if I were to win so much as a pair of movie tickets, I would likely celebrate like a showboating running back with both feet in the end zone. The only contest I have ever won on luck alone was at a shoe store. You had to name the company mascot. I came up with “Chauncey.” I received one pair of running shoes that made a deeply disturbing noise when I walked. My one and only time to win, I was still a loser.
Winning on luck and winning on skill are two different things, of course. I have entered writing contests. The few times I have done well, it felt great. When I have lost, which is often, it felt like someone dropped a ton of bricks on my ego and crushed the remnants of my self-esteem into the ground with their evil, dream-killing boots. At least when all you have at stake is a box top and a postage stamp, losing isn’t such a big deal.
As a parent, I try to help my kids understand that winning isn’t really what life is all about, even though it sure can feel that way much of the time. The world loves a winner, a grand prize, a trophy engraved with “First Place.” We hail our champions and forget second place, even if only a millisecond or a hundredth of a point separates them. Those are the winners hailed on TV and in the press. I like to think about the ones I see in less conspicuous places. They are the ones I hope my children remember, too.
Every day, someone you know will cross an unseen finish line. They will complete chemotherapy. They will read their first book. They will learn to walk again. They will claim 30 days, clean and sober. They will get up, every day, and tend to a dying loved one. They will serve their country. They will smile at a stranger simply because they recall how good it felt when someone smiled at them. They will win, again and again, in the silent obscurity of everyday heroes.
I know plenty of people who reach lofty places through deception and less than honorable means. Lots of folks see them as winners. This is one of the hardest lessons to teach my children, that just because you claim the prize doesn’t necessarily make you top notch. In the contests that truly matter, character always wins. Contrary to what society often promotes, it isn’t where you finish, but how you run the race.
“You can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket,” they say. I’ll buy that. I have never known a cereal box winner, never ridden in a car with the magic key, and never claimed so much as a consolation prize from a scratch-and-win card. But I have known real winners. They purchase their tickets with hearts of gold and never fail to claim a prize called honor. No matter what the scoreboard says, they always come out on top.
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