A Dream Ride

Surprise! Today’s my birthday . . . my fortieth, but to me it was just another day.

It was a busy week, like most, but my boss let me off early for my birthday. That was a shock, but the real surprise came when I arrived home. 

I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I could see by the decorations on the garage my wife did. A big red ribbon with a bow dressed the door. 

As I flung open the garage door, my wife stood dangling a set of keys – taunting me.  Behind her was a candy apple red sports car. “Let’s go for a ride.”

My mouth hung open, and the words came slowly. "Are you kidding me?"

“It’s all yours.“ She smiled and jingle jangled the keys. “I rented it for the day.” 

A day was more than I expected and all that I needed. Not a new model with all the latest electronic options but a classic 1963 Austin Healey convertible roadster. Twenty-four hours was all the time I had with this beauty.

I didn’t bother to eat or change clothes. I couldn’t wait to experience the ride of a lifetime. We jumped in the car, and I cranked over the engine. It had a full throaty rumble when the engine fired up.

To some renting a classic sports car may sound frivolous, just a waste of money. We all have different hobbies that make life exciting, and this was mine. 

“Where do you want to go?” 

I responded without hesitation. “Let’s ride out toward Augusta in wine country and grab dinner.”

“Excellent idea! The winding roads were like a dragon’s tail . . . perfect for this car.”

I pulled out of the driveway then glanced at my wife sitting next to me. “Roads beware,” I said with a grin.

The chromed spoke wheels glistened in the sunlight as we cruised down the highway, music blaring, no worries just a day of fun. Birds gliding effortlessly on thermals were a beautiful sight. They swooped up and down twisting and turning through the blue skies, flying to a low altitude overhead, then . . . splat–splat–splat, like machine gun fire. Instantly, my head was covered with bird poop, dripping on my glasses. 

“What the hell?” I yelled.

My wife put her hand in front of her face, unable to control her laughter.

"It's not funny," I said.

She handed me a Kleenex. “It is from where I’m sitting.” 

“What am I supposed to do with this perfumed tissue? I’m going to need a bath towel.”

“They say it’s a sign of luck.”

“Lucky for you sitting in the passenger seat. You don’t have a speck of bird poop on you.” 

Pointing to the left my, wife said. “Pull into that gas station, so we can clean you up.”

I wheeled the shiny candy apple red sports car into the Shell station. Classic sport cars get attention everywhere, especially when the driver is splattered with bird poop. 

As I pulled into a parking spot, a guy getting into his truck turned and said. “Nice car . . . might want to put the top up, lots of birds out today.” He laughed heartily as he climbed into his pickup.

After I faked a laugh at all the lame jokes from the unemployed comedians at the gas station, I cleaned up, then we headed back down the road. Getting some driving time in the Austin was important to me, so we passed a few of the closer wineries and drove over to Montelle Winery. They have a nice deck with magnificent scenery, and the food wasexcellent.

“I guess I’m pretty lucky after all,” I quipped.

Raising her glass of white wine in a toast. "Yes, I would say so. Happy Birthday, dear."

Just then an announcement came over the P.A. “Will the owner of the Austin Healey please come to the tasting room?”

I looked at my wife. “Is this another birthday surprise?”

“Nothing I know about. They probably just want to get a few pictures of you and your classic car, you know, to post on the wall.”

“That’s true. They do have a lot of cool photos they put on Facebook.”

I jumped up and headed toward the tasting room excited as a three year-old getting a prize from a kid’s meal.

As I walked into the room, I held up my hand and said. "You were looking for the owner of the Austin Healey?” Puffing my chest out. “ That's me."

“We wanted to let you know you have a flat tire.”

“What?” My shoulders drooped, deflated just like the tire. “Are you kidding me?”

“No sir, it’s the right rear. We can call AAA if you like?”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that. Let me know when they get here?” Bird poop! Sign of luck?. . . bad luck. I walked to the parking lot, not because I didn't believe, but I needed to see for myself. It was just as he said. I bent over to get a closer look and put my hand on the tire looking for a visible hole. Why I thought this important is beyond me. When I stood up, I scraped the back of my hand on the inside of the fender. Blood droplets started to form around the cut. Fabulous. What's next?

As I re-entered the winery, the owner noticed my injury and stopped to assist. He had an employee bring some bandages and gauze and helped me wrap my hand. I thanked him and went back to check on my wife. 

“Where have you been? They brought the sandwiches about ten minutes ago. Yours is getting cold.”

“Perfect. It’s a long story.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“I cut it on the fender. Let me eat first, then I’ll tell you how lucky I am.”

After I finished my slightly cold sandwich, I briefed my wife on what transpired. She giggled but not in a supportive way. The waiter approached the table and told us AAA had arrived. 

My wife got up to go with the waiter. "Sit and relax. I'll take care of this."

I waved as she walked away, “Thanks, Sweetie, you’re the best.”

***

About twenty minutes later my wife came back to the table. “AAA fixed the tire. It cost forty-five dollars. It was a roofing nail. See.” She opened her hand and displayed a two-inch nail with an orange washer.

“Yep, that’s a roofing nail . . . not lucky.”

“Do you want to keep it?” she taunted.

“No! Why would I keep it?”

“Souvenir?”

“No thanks, funny lady.” I shook my head. “It’ll be dark in a half hour, let’s pay and head back. We still have time to stop by my brother’s house. I want to show him my birthday present.”

Sunset driving was the best especially in a classic convertible. The air was cool and crisp, and the sun painted colorful orange designs on the muted clouds. Despite a few minor complications, this had been a great day. 

Tooling down the winding roads was exhilarating. The tires hugged the road like a cougar climbs a tree. Nothing could ruin this moment. Boom! Crack! Rumble!

My wife looked over at me as she put her hood up. “Looks like it might rain. . . pop up thunderstorm. Don’t you love this St. Louis weather?” 

Before she finished her last word, the skies opened up and it poured. We were a mile or so from the nearest gas station. When we finally pulled in to the Shell station, I was soaked. My wife was damp. She had a hooded jacket. She always had a jacket. I was never prepared like she.

It seemed pointless to put the top up now, since I was drenched from head to toe, but I did it anyway. As I pulled the top from the boot, the puddled water cascaded on to me like Niagara Falls. Just when I thought I’d been through it all.

We drove home in silence. My wife picked up her phone to listen to messages. I tried to ignore everything and enjoy the last few minutes of our drive home.

As we pulled into the driveway, I looked at my wife with a somewhat disappointed look, knowing the car was going back to tomorrow, “What time do we have to return the Austin?”

She turned to me, her lip pursed in a frown, which changed to a bright cheery smile. “The rental agency left a message on my phone. They have a problem.”

I grumbled. “Really, what now?”

“They had a small fire at the garage and can’t take the car back until Monday morning. They asked us to keep it until then . . . no extra charge.”

A Defining Moment

I was sitting in the living room relaxing when I heard a knock on the door. My wife reached the door before me and opened it. A young man in his late twenties, thirty at the most stood there with a card in his hand. He asked for me.

“Jim, it’s for you.”

I got up to greet the visitor. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“You already have.” He stuck his hand out and gave me the card he was holding.

I took it, but it puzzled me why this young man would be handing me a greeting card. “What’s this?”

“My name’s Tom, you may not remember me but twenty years ago . . . “

* * * 

It was a warm summer day, and I was in a great mood driving down the street in my new Chrysler Sebring. My new car was only a week old. I loved driving a new car, no nicks or scratches to be found, but that would soon change. As I approached my house, I heard a thump and saw three kids running. I knew immediately what happened and came to screeching halt on the side of the road. I jumped out of the car and ran after the kids. They didn't expect this as they darted down the street into a neighbor's backyard. I followed them through the yard in hot pursuit, another unexpected move. I reached the one kid, the slowest, as he attempted to climb the fence and grabbed him by his collar. He was scared, and I was mad.

“Where do you live?” I demanded to know.

He pointed to the house down the street. “Over there.” 

“What did you throw at my car?”

Trembling he said. “An egg.” 

It was true he had hit my car with an egg, but not a chicken egg, a plastic Easter egg filled with rocks. It still lay on the ground next to my car. The fender had a dent the size of a grapefruit. I pick up the plastic egg as we continued our march back to his house, still holding him by his shirt collar.

When we reached his house, I rang the doorbell. His father answered. "What's going on?"

"Your son threw a rock at my new car. It dented the fender." I pointed at my Sebring sitting a few doors down. "I'll show you."

We walked over to the car. He bent down to see the damage. "I see the dent, but if he had thrown a rock, there would be scratches as well." He looked at me for an explanation. 

I handed him the broken plastic egg, then looked over at the kid. 

“Tommy, did you do this?” It was apparent the father was in disbelief. 

He started to cry. “Yes, I’m sorry . . . I put rocks in the egg.”

The father turned to me. “Bring me the repair bill, he’ll pay the damages.”

I got the dent fixed, took the receipt to Tommy’s house and left it with his mother. The repair cost was $76.50 from the Dent Magician. I wasn’t sure if I would ever get paid, but I felt the young boy learned a lesson, and I was okay with that.

* * *

About three months after the egg incident the doorbell rang. I answered it. Tommy stood there with a check in his hand. His father stood a few steps behind. He handed me the check and said, “I’m sorry.”

I reached out, shook his hand then said. “I appreciate your honesty. Your Dad did the right thing.”

They left, and I closed the door. I felt good, but not because I received the money. It was for how Tommy's parents handled the situation. They didn’t write me a check at the time to get him off the hook. They made him take responsibility for his actions. He worked for the money by doing chores, but also he was the one that had to hand me the check. I’m sure that wasn’t easy for this little boy, but it was a valuable lesson. 

I’ve thought about this over the years and realize this could never happen in the same way now, as it did then. I would be hauled off to jail without question. Back when this happened when there was still a thread of belief that it was acceptable to correct the next door neighbors kid if you caught him doing something wrong.

* * *

“ . . . twenty years ago . . .” 

I held up my hand and said. “Wait, come inside and tell me your story.”

As I opened the card, he went on to explain how his life had changed when he was eight years old because of the egg incident. The card simply stated thank you for not letting get away with a stupid childish act. He called it his defining moment. He had just completed medical school and was starting his internship in a week.

“Thanks, I appreciate the card, but I think the defining moment in your life started with your father. He taught you a valuable lesson when he made you work to repay your debt. So, thank your dad, he’s the one that guided you in the right direction.”

He left to go back to his house for a graduation party they were having for him. I got in my car and drove to the store. I picked up one graduation card and one thank you card. 

I found a small box to put my gift in, addressed the cards and took them down the street to Tom’s graduation party. When Tom's father answered the door, I gave him the thank you card and said. "That's for you. This graduation card and the gift is for Tom."

 He asked me to come in, but I declined and offered my congratulations on his son's graduation. 

* * * 

The party was attended by many friends and relatives. It was actually a dual celebration, a graduation and engagement. Tom was recently engaged. His dad told Tom to open the presents before the guests started leaving. His dad, Tom Sr, had opened my card which said. “Be Proud, your son is a good egg.”

Tom Sr. asked Tom to open the small one from the neighbor first, the gift I left. 

He opened the card first. It read. ”Congratulations you have and Eggcellent Future.”

Then he opened the gift. He was pleasantly surprised when he found a plastic Easter egg in the box. His fiancé didn't understand. He said. "I'll explain later." He opened the egg and found a check for $76.50. His fiancé scrunched her face and said that's an odd figure.

Tom looked at her and smiled. "No. Actually, it's the perfect amount."

A Fat Hummingbird

Stories are written in different genres such as mystery, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, etc. My post today leans more toward a nonsense genre.

                                                 * * *

In the morning as I drink coffee, I watch the birds in the backyard. There is an abundance of cardinals lately and a few yellow finch, but today I saw a hummingbird. I’ve spotted them before in our yard but not often. This one had a greenish-yellow belly. Its wings were a blur and it flitted quickly from one flower to another, then it flew up to the sliding door giving us a good view.
     My wife said. “Wow, they move fast.”
     “Yes,” I responded. “They eat a lot of sugar or what we like to call high fructose corn syrup, but I’ve never seen a fat hummingbird.”
     Mimi laughed. “Try moving your arms that fast and you’d be thin too.”
     “Yes, but wouldn’t that be annoying.”
     “You mean like this conversation.”
     “Point taken.”
     There are many things I haven’t seen, a fat hummingbird being one, but I still have time. I wonder, if hummingbirds rest, you know take a break from all that flapping. Well, it turns out they do but only at night when they sleep. The hummingbird's heart beats over 1200 beats per minute while it flaps through life and a short life it is only 3 to 5 years. That is all the useful knowledge you will get from this post.
     I had a friend, Charlie, once told me he doesn’t exercise because we are only given a certain amount of heartbeats during our life. So, based on Charlie’s philosophy increasing your heartbeat during exercise shortens your life.
     Charlie is over 70 and the hummingbirds die at age 5. So . . . maybe it’s time for the hummingbirds to relax. “Just Saying . . . “

No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service

We are all subject to restrictions in our life. Many stores have signs on the door, No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service. I can only guess the reason, but I assume some customers walked in without shoes or shirts. It seems to be reasonable to assume that if you had a restaurant or business on the beach it might be acceptable to enter without shoes or shirts, but not in other locations.
     I have never seen anyone complain or argue with the business about this restriction. Why? Because it’s a reasonable. Yet in these times people are getting ugly about wearing a mask even though some stores require it. The irate customer will claim they have the right to shop without wearing a face mask. These same people will wear shoes and shirts but not a mask.
     This logic escapes me. What harm is there if you where a mask? None. Will it benefit someone else? Yes, very likely. People working in the stores and businesses that cater to customers see many people over the course of the day. A customer walks in to buy a product and encounters only a few people. The more people you deal with daily, the higher risk you have, so you can help protect others. That seems like a good reason to wear a mask. Even if you don’t agree with my analogy, wearing a mask can at the minimum eliminate conflict with the store and their employees.
     What I’ve learned in my 71 years on this earth is that some people will argue about anything and with anyone. They are never satisfied, never happy and never reasonable. I doubt this post will change anyone that falls in that category, but I hope it makes others think about when it’s appropriate to take a stand. It’s simple, wear the mask and make life easier. It’s not that hard. “Just Saying . . . “

English Pub Crawl

I was lucky to have a few business trips to England. The last one I took was to the town of Beverley in Yorkshire, which is in northern England about 30 miles from Scotland.
     On this trip, I traveled alone and stayed at the Beverley Arms Hotel. I spent my days working at British Aerospace (BAe) and the evenings meandering around the streets of Beverley. Most nights I would eat at a local pub, the town had many. The food was always good and the patrons were friendly.
     I had acquired the nickname, Half-pint on a prior trip, due to my always ordering a half-pint of ale or lager. Most customers would say "Give me a pint" but, not me. So the nickname was appropriate, plus my short stature, 5 foot 5 . .  .  err, almost.
    After a week of wandering around town and eating at various pubs, I felt at home. A pub is short for public house, which seems to be much more than a drinking establishment like a bar in the US. Beverley is a small town with a population of just over 20,000 with only a few American visitors. On this trip, I didn't come in contact with any other Americans so maybe I was flying solo in Beverley. I do know that whenever I entered a pub and requested a half-pint they knew I was from the states and they also unknowingly knew my nickname, but I never said anything about that. I sat alone, but only for a short time since there was always a Brit that came over to talk.
     I enjoyed the casual conversations and friendly atmosphere. I even had a guy show me his restored Jaguar that he drove to the pub. The trips to England were good memories. I like to talk with people who have accents. I've never thought of myself as having an accent, it was always the other person that had one. The truth everyone has an accent but it's only noticeable when your not in your hometown. I feel more international now that I know I also have an accent.
     Mark, my BAe counterpart along with another invited me to a pub crawl on my last night. It sounded like a fun English experience, so I accepted without hesitation. They met me at my hotel and we walked not crawled to the first pub. The pubs were old, very old with ornate and gnarly wood bars. The wood floors were warped but added to the character of the establishment. I ordered a half-pint of bitters, which I learned over the course of the week is what many drank. They had a ample selection of lagers and ales, but very few of the US brands. And why would they, who comes to England and orders a Budweiser? Nobody I knew.
     We walked from one pub to another and each one was unique in its own way. The last pub we stopped by was the oldest in Beverley. Old has a different meaning in England than it does in the US. This pub was established over 450 years ago. That is literally the definition of old. I recently had the Apple tech guy tell me my MacBook Air was not just old, but ancient. I bought the laptop in 2011.
     This pub named, The Sun Inn was the last of seven pubs we went to that night and the most interesting because of its age. The  floors were so warped that it felt like you were walking on waves. They had a chocolate-flavored ale. I was intrigued but not enough to order as glass. A bartender in England is called a barman. He was kind enough to let me have a taste. It was different, but not in a good way.
     The pub crawl was a great experience, something I will never have an opportunity to do again especially with two guys from England. I've thought about a lot of things during this pandemic and for me, experiences are the most important. They far outweigh material possessions. I’m sure there are many that will agree. Not all experiences are good but all have value.
       One other thought I had was the similarities and contrast between societies. England has pub crawls and the US has bar hopping and although I have limited experience I have neither seen anyone crawl or hop from one drinking establishment to another. While I will admit it's not out of the realm of possibility. "Just Saying . . ."

What I’ve learned during the Stay at Home Order

I feel lucky about the things I have but also missing some things. I have a nice home and money to buy what I need. I have a backyard to enjoy the outdoors without fear. I don’t live in a highly congested apartment building or an over populated city. My family and friends live nearby even though the pandemic has kept us apart, it’s still a comforting feeling knowing they’re close by.
     I have medical insurance, a car to get around, clean clothes to wear, food and most of all a supportive wife who listens to my lame jokes and rants.
     There are things I miss that have no monetary value but they seem more important now than ever. I’m a people watcher. I can be in a crowd of people and be entertained by watching others. I’ve always been that way, so I miss that activity because we don’t got out much right now. In the past going to the store, any store was an adventure because of the people you interacted with. That’s not the case any longer. The only person I’m with is my wife, but she’s not all thrilled with my favorite hobby.
     “What are you doing?” She asked.
     “I’m watching you.” I commented. “It’s my thing.”
     “Well, stop it.” She insisted. “It’s annoying.”
     “I’m a people watcher and you’re the only people here.”
     She waves her hand. “Go do something . . . write a story just quit bugging me.”
     “Okay . . . but I notice a bit of tension in your voice.”
     She has no response, but shakes her head. So I decide to move on to a different activity, something safer, like this story. I mean after all it was her suggestion.
     Getting a haircut during the pandemic can be a problem, but luckily for me one the skills my wife has acquired is cutting hair. Long ago when we were first married she cut my hair because it was more economical, and over the years she has become pretty good at it. Mimi is my favorite barber, I tell her frequently, usually right before I need a haircut. Sometimes she refuses and tells me to go to a regular barber, but during the pandemic it’s been different.
     Because she’s doing me a favor I try to give her the true barber experience by discussing topics that you have with a regular barber. I ask her about baseball and the recent trade or her prediction of the season. Sometimes, I get a funny retort, but often I’m ignored.
     Occasionally, I request a special cut. “I’d like  a Brad Pitt or Ryan Reynolds style cut today.”
     “I’m just cutting hair not doing plastic surgery.”
     “Okay, then I’ll take that as a no.”
     She laughed. “You might be better suited to a Professor Irwin Cory cut.”
     “On second thought just go with my regular cut.”
     When she cut my hair recently, I questioned her about the pandemic. She was not fascinated by my questions. Oh! I was just trying to keep the conversation current.
     One other thing I noticed about the do’s and don’t s for the virus is the warning not to touch your face. Now in the past, I’ve never been aware that I touched my face, but now that I’ve been warned, touching my face seems to be super important.
     So the pandemic has taught me to appreciate what I have and be patient with the things I miss until they return. I try to follow the rules, but sometimes I may slip so be patient with me. Right now I’m touching my face, “Just Saying . . . “

Play in the Dirt

Stomp in a puddle, roll in the grass. Be like a kid and play in the dirt. Getting dirty was part of being a kid, a important life experience. My granddaughter likes to play in the dirt. It’s not like there aren’t any toys available, she has many. She prefers nature’s toys, but in truth she’s not unusual, all kids gravitate toward dirt, grass, tree bark and rocks. Oh! ants, worms and any wiggle creatures, they’re all interesting.
     Little kids constantly and unknowingly expose theirselves to germs. It’s the way they build their immune systems. It’s almost like it’s in their DNA to become one with germs. Later in life we learn to fear germs but for kids it’s all an adventure.
     I know fear is a valuable emotion if used properly, but debilitating if it over takes every aspect of our life.
     We are now living under an umbrella of fear with the Coronavirus. I don’t want to ignore the danger, but also don’t want to succumb to an unreasonable fear of germs or viruses. Even doctors and scientist have different views on the proper method to fight the virus.
      I am neither a doctor or scientist but my instincts tell me that hiding indoors indefinitely is not a reasonable answer. I think I need to have my granddaughter visit, so we can go outside and play in the dirt. “Just Saying . . . “