Author: William Douthwaite

Posted in Food, Stories

“Does this taste right to you?”

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Yasmine Duchesne on Unsplash

Last week after swimming with the dolphins for my wife’s birthday, we stopped for lunch at one of our favorite beachside restaurants. It was a gorgeous, sunny, gentle breezy, not-too-humid day, so we sat outside in the shade. Wahoo was the catch of the day, so I had that grilled in a sandwich. My wife chose the ceviche.

My food was excellent. But my wife pushed her plate over towards me and asked, “Does this taste right to you?” I took a bite and knew exactly why she asked. The shrimp had a very strange consistency. It wasn’t overcooked and rubbery. It wasn’t undercooked and translucent. It was kind of tasteless, with the consistency of tofu. I Answered, “No, I don’t think you should eat that.” We put it aside and I gave her half of my sandwich.

When the waiter came by to check on us, he noticed we were sharing the fish and asked if everything was tasting OK. We looked at each other and said that we were our meals. I don’t know why, but we were reluctant to say anything. We never, ever send food back at a restaurant. We felt awkward and embarrassed to complain about the food.

Towards the end of our meal, one of the floor managers came over to make sure everything was good, as they typically do at this restaurant. Again, I hesitated, but said, “I hate to complain, but I think there’s something wrong with this shrimp. It just doesn’t taste right.” He didn’t taste it, but thanked me, said he would take it off our bill, and let the chef know, too. He said, “We count on your feedback for quality control. Thank you for saying something.”

Thinking back over that moment, I wonder why we’re so reluctant to speak up about something like that. We both had a little work experience in food service, so maybe we just didn’t want to be one of those who are demanding, hard to please and quick to complain. We know how hard restaurant staff works and didn’t want to be the cause of a bad day for them.

I like to eat and there’s not much I don’t like, so this was a rare day in my life. Maybe that’s why it was uncomfortable. This was unknown territory.

Posted in Stories

Today’s attendance: zero

Posted on by William Douthwaite

The first two weeks were great. Five high schoolers came for week one when we tried to smash coconuts. The bible lesson was about Deborah, and Jael who drove a tent spike through the enemy general’s head in the book of Judges. It wasn’t so easy to drive a spike through a coconut, so we simply smashed it with a sladgehammer.

Seven middle and high schoolers came on week two for feats of strength and airing grievances. We talked about Samson and wise vs. foolish choices. The discussion kind of lagged until we talked about the Festivus custom of airing grievances. The room came to life. That they wanted to do. Just lay it all out.

I was stoked for week three. This was going way better than I imagined. I am trying to revive youth bible class at church, which has lay dormant for the past eighteen Covid months. Emails, texts, letters, postcards. And then, they showed up.It was worth the effort. This could be done.

Week three came and I was confident. This would be a great year. There was just one problem. No one showed up. Zip. Zero. Nada. An empty room. Not one student showed up.

OK. Time to stop and think about the current situation. Joint custody means many can only come every other week. Jobs mean some have to work on Sunday mornings. Covid means some will not be feeling well or will be quarantining. Weekends means some will be traveling. Some are spending the night with friends. Others are dancing competitively in far away places.

I believe the empty room was the perfect storm of all of the above. The attendance of one week is no predictor of the next. The fun of one week does not translate into the enthusiasm of the next. The classroom of today says nothing about the future.

The only thing you have is now.

If they are there, in the room, you have a moment to listen, question, teach and pray. If they are not there you have a moment to pray, listen, plan and trust. You are not the only influence in their lives. But by grace, you will be an influence.

So, week four comes. One youth is there. We wait. And we wait. OK, no one else is coming, you can go home. Ten minutes later the text comes, “Was I late, or did you cancel class?” Oh, me of little faith. If I had just waited a few more minutes!

I should know. On mission trips, I learned about island time. The clock is not so important. The people are. Their presence determines the time. It’s not the when, but the who that counts.

Lesson learned. Zero attendance doesn’t mean no one is coming. An empty room doesn’t mean class is cancelled. Wait just a few more moments.

Posted in flash fiction

Welcome to the neighborhood

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“What’s that monitor for?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “The old lady just left it here. I don’t even know if it works.”

I reached behind the twenty-three inch screen and pressed the power button. The screen immediately lit up with a dozen little views of the outside world. I looked at them for a moment, and then I stepped outside. I hadn’t noticed them before but there were security cameras at each corner of the house, one aimed at each door, and others covering the yard. When I went back inside, I realized I could see anyone approaching from any direction any time of the day.

When we looked at the house and drove around the neighborhood, we felt like a very safe place to life. None of the neighbors we talked to mentioned any problems with break-ins. Why had the previous owners invested in such a high tech system?

“Look, I can tap here and fill up the whole screen with one camera view. Oh, and look, I can zoom in and out, too. And pan across the yard. This is crazy. Wait a minute, that looks like some kind of night vision mode. And what’s this?”

Tapping the icon brought up a whole bunch of file folder icons. Each of them was filled with footage from each of the cameras. Whoa! Years and years of security footage from every imaginable angle.

I tapped on an icon and saw the backyard. I watched the grass grow for a few moments. A rain shower flooded the side yard. Squirrels chased each other on top of the fence.

I tapped a third and watched people and traffic passing by the front of the house. You know, the usual. Kid on a scooter. Ice cream truck. A cat. Mom with a stroller. Amazon truck. Pretty boring.

“Now that’s interesting…” A camera panned back and forth, zoomed in and out trying to find the focus. Suddenly, there it was, two people shouting and pushing each other inside the house right across the street. I couldn’t look away. She pummeled him. He tried to cover up. Spit and blood flew everywhere. They shifted out of sight for just a moment. When they came back he had his hands on her neck!

The video cut out. I just stared at the blank screen. When was that? How do I bring up a time stamp. Did anyone call the police? Should I call someone?

Bring-bring-bring. I think that’s my doorbell. The screen switched to the front door camera.

It was them.

Her hair was a mess. His eye was swollen shut. Blood dripped out of his nose! Her blouse was ripped. And they looked pissed.

Bring-bring-bring. They weren’t leaving. Thy stared at the camera. They knew. They knew I was watching.

What do I do? Grab a bat? Call 911? Here goes nothing. I took a deep breath and slowly turned the deadlock. They stood back as I cracked the door.

“Yes?”

“Hi. We saw you moving in the other day. We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. We brought you some cookies.” Tupperware. Figures.

“Uh, ok. Thanks. Can you just leave them there? I’m not feeling very well.”

“Hey, no problem. Let us know if you need anything.”

I bolted the door and watched the video of them walking hand-in-hand back across the street.

I flipped on the camera, popped open a beer and sat down.

A door slammed. Something flew across the room.

Round two.

Posted in camping, Travel

It’s just for one night

Posted on by William Douthwaite

We were on our way back home after camping for a week at Lake Tawanoki State Park, just a bit west of Dallas, TX. I decided I wanted to try and drive a little longer on day one. After doing a little online research, I made a reservation at Askew’s Landing Campground near Edwards, Mississippi. It had mostly positive reviews and the woman who answered the phone was very nice, so I thought it would be fine for an overnight.

About half-an-hour west of Monroe, Louisiana, I got a call from the campground. The power company had been at work all week, and they didn’t know when power would be back on. If it were a little cooler, I would have considered a stay there. No AC in the boiling hot midsummer was not an option. I told her we would find another RV park.

On the way out we stayed at Ouachita RV park in Monroe. In expensive, pull-though sites, pretty clean and fine for an overnight stay. So I called them. Three calls all went to voice mail. So I checked of my Dyrt and Campendium phone apps. There aren’t a whole lot of RV parks out across I-20 in Louisiana and Mississippi. But I came across Pecanland RV park in Monroe. When I called them, they had a couple of pull-through, full-hookup sites available that night, so I made a reservation. Not many reviews online, but it was only $28, and it was just for the night.

Well, the sign was nice. The park was as plain vanilla as could be. Row after row of empty concrete pads. Further back were rows of well-lived in trailer homes. Two sites available? More like forty-two. I only saw one other rig parked. As my daughter would call it, sketchy. But the grass wasn’t too long, there was a tree near our site, and it was just for one night. I pulled in, hooked up, and everything worked just fine. Maybe all the other spots would be occupied later that night.

Actually, only one other person pulled in that night. They were driving a 26-foot UHaul truck pulling a thirty-foot trailer. After they pulled in, though, they left in their car and I never saw them again.

Our site was pretty close to a road that got very busy with truck traffic very early the next morning. Hey, I’m usually up early anyway. We unhooked, packed up and we were on our way.

Can you really say you’ve been Rv-ing if you haven’t stayed at a sketchy RV park?

Posted in flash fiction

The flamingo

Posted on by William Douthwaite

As he pulled into the driveway, beads of sweat began to run down the side of his face. His stomach knotted. It was right there, in front of his house, was the upside down flamingo. They knew. They knew everything.

He had been so careful. He never used his real name. All the money was offshore. He never used the same burner phone twice. Every communication went through at least a dozen servers all over the world, each with different encryptions. Long hair, crewcut, mustache, goatee, clean shaven – he changed his look every month.

How did they know? How did they find out? How did they find out where he lived?

It didn’t matter. His whole world just turned upside down. He just kept on driving. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t call his family. Or a friend.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few folder bills. Thirty-seven dollars. He wouldn’t get far with that. But he couldn’t go to the ATM. He couldn’t cash a check. He dared not use a credit card. If he drove his car, some camera would pick up his license plate. He just had to keep moving. He had to keep out of sight.

There was only one option. He jabbed at the unused burner phone to get a taxi. He had just enough for a ride to the zoo. Flashing a fake membership card, he went from the turnstile right to the flamingo pond. Leaning on the rail, watching the wary birds, a quiet voice said, “That didn’t take long.”

“What do you want? Just leave my family alone.”

“You know what we want.”

He took the popcorn box, not surprised at how heavy it felt. It was the usual Glock. The clip was full, but he would only need one shot. He slowly walked towards the exit.

He vowed this would be the last time.

Just like last time.

Posted in Stories

My mind has left the building

Posted on by William Douthwaite

At the beginning of a vacation, it usually takes me two to three days to transition from thinking about work stuff to not thinking about work stuff. I’ve discovered a shortcut to decompression. This trip to Dallas, we are pulling our camper trailer. My mind has immediately left work behind because I am not consumed with our travel.

RV park reservations, hookups, food, fuel stops, set ups, and wondering “will everything work?” Then there is Wifi, hotspot, laptops and extra monitors for my wife, propane, water tanks, tire pressures, beer for the fridge. If you’ve camped or glamped, you know the list goes on and on. Which is a good thing. I’m focused on that and not on the day to day activities of work.

I know how to pull the plug on the internet. I’m learning how to pull the plug on my mind.

Posted in noticing

Invisible

Posted on by William Douthwaite

How long does something have to be in plain view before it becomes invisible?

We had to string a power cable for the camera over the front door. Obvious, unsightly, necessary and ugly. But I have to admit, when I paused to look at it today, I realized I don’t even notice it anymore. In just a matter of months it has become invisible.

So I wonder, what else becomes invisible with familiarity? What do we no longer notice or see going on around us because we see it every single day?

Could you describe all the pictures hanging on the walls of your home? Do you know which light bulbs aren’t working? What brand of TV do you own? What color is your front door? (Hey, don’t we all mostly go in and out of the garage?) What’s on that billboard you drive by every day?

More importantly, who do you no longer notice? At my son’s church, a police officer is stationed at the door every Sunday. I wonder how many people no longer notice him. He’s just part of the Sunday morning routine.

I’ve sat in enough choirs to know that some vocalists get so focused on their music that the director might as well be invisible!

Sometimes when I’m speaking, someone is looking off into the distance, as if I wasn’t even there.

I know what’s it’s like to be invisible.

Posted in Stories

The wrong color

Posted on by William Douthwaite

A watermelon that has a red rind, green inside with white seeds to spit out.

A white Oreo cookie with dark chocolate cream filling.

Coffee that is light, and the half-and-half is a deep ebony hue.

White chocolate ice cream with dark vanilla sauce drizzled on top.

Black popcorn.

A green hotdog.

A light hamburger with a very dark bun.

Dark brown whipped cream.

Blue gold.

A stoplight where green means stop, red means go.

A black sun.

A green carrot.

Black instead of the “whites of your eyes.”

Recipes that call for egg blacks.

A blue tomato.

Orange lettuce.

A white clerical shirt with a black insert.

Yellow blueberries.

A whole mouth of black teeth.

A green orange.

Posted in memories

Do you remember melting crayons?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I’m really not sure why this memory recently came back to me. It might have been while thinking about how we entertained ourselves as kids. No phones, internet, Netflix, TikTok, or game systems. How about this: melting crayons.

So I had this Tensor high intensity lamp my parents bought me for the desk in my bedroom. I did plenty of homework under that lamp. Let me tell you, the descriptor high intensity was appropriate. It got hot under that lamp. It was perfect for melting crayons.

I’m not entirely sure when I had that revelation. It might have been after making stained glass windows by ironing crayon shavings between pieces of waxed paper in Sunday School. Or the wax you melted on a letter and impressed your initial into it kit that was popular back then. I was fascinate to hold a crayon as close as you possibly could to the bulb of a high intensity lamb, without touching it, of course, and watching the wax melt.

I began dripping melted wax onto a piece of ruled note book paper and slowly but surely creating a volcanic mountain. Then I would drip enough crayon for the bottom of the mountain and then drip a gold, silver or copper crayon (they were in the coveted Crayola 64 pack, remember?) into the middle. You could then cover the precious metal crayons with browns and greens. Now you had a vein of ore running through the mountain, which you could mine with the pointy end of your compass you bought to draw circles with at school. You could also bore through your wax mountain with a beam of light focused through a magnifying glass. If I got too close and touched the lamp bulb to the crayon, a gentle wisp of smoke floated into the room, with the smell of burnt wax.

I have no idea why this was so much fun and so time consuming. But these moments vividly resurface anytime I sit down to color with my grandchildren. And then I took them to the Crayola Experience in Dallas, TX. I watched as they melted crayons to make small toys to take home. I believe I enjoyed it more than they did!

Am I the only one who ever did this?