After I dropped off my dog at the groomer, I drove by my favorite Starbucks to see if they had re-opened. The store had been closed for remodeling, and the half-full parking lot was a welcome sight. With journal and pen in hand, I looked forward to an hour of coffee, eavesdropping, observation, thinking up story ideas, and doodling.
I actually had two journals with me. The one was just about full with just two blank pages left. The other was freshly unwrapped without a single mark on the pages. I love new journal day! I remember my mom telling me how much she loved cracking open a new notebook, feeling the smooth pages, and anticipating the words and images that would soon fill them. I know exactly how she felt.
Anyway, when I stepped into the redone coffee shop, I noticed a lack of seats. Half of the store was set aside for the baristas. The mobile order pickup area was expansive. One long table with chairs on each side filled the coffee-drinkers’ side. At each end was a table surrounded by a few chairs. A few scattered customers essentially filled the room. There was no place to sit, unless I was comfortable sitting side-by-side with purple-haired macchiato-drinking woman chatting on her phone.
I found a spot to sit outside at one of the ten patio tables. While there, I wondered, “Why did they get rid of so much indoor seating?” I put on my franchise-owner’s hat and came up with a few ideas.
Since it was right off the interstate, a lot of this location’s business was drive-thru and mobile orders. More room for more baristas will keep up with demand.
Every time I’ve been there, homeless were camped out, nursing a tall coffee for hours. Students occupied tables with laptops and textbooks for hours. Interviewers met with job applicant after job applicant. Fewer seats moves more customers through the store.
It was a corporate decision. This is what we want our stores to look like. We’ve never been to your store, but the data says this is the way to go. Live with it.
We want people to moan and groan about the change. There is no bad publicity, right? Let’s give the bloggers something to rant about. You have a problem with this? Let’s talk about it over coffee.
By the time I left, the parking lot was full, the mobile order counter was full, and the drive thru line was out to the street. Someone knows what they are doing.
At the beginning of my online bible study group, the leader reminded us of an email he had sent out a few days before, telling us that we would have to cover two lessons to stay on schedule. However, we would not have time to discuss two entire lessons in our one-hour time slot. So he sent out some highlight questions from each of the two lessons.
One group member entered the Zoom room about five minutes late, and was surprised at how far along we were. The leader explained that we were fast-tracking each of the two lessons, as outlined in his email. This member replied, “Oh, well, I’m only on my email once every couple of weeks, so I didn’t see that.”
That comment got my attention. He only checks his email once every two weeks? I check mine at least twice a day. I’ll bet many check it more often than that.
So I’ve been wondering if it’s better to check it more often or less. I can think of pros and cons for both.
If I check my email more than twice a day, I end up spending a lot more time online than I want to. A few newsletters bring me up to date on current events. Merchants I’ve purchased from send along coupons and discount codes so I’ll return to their sites to shop for more. I get weekly updates about activities at church and in the community. I receive notifications about recent purchases and upcoming deliveries. I get appointment reminders. All of these beg for my attention, tempt me to click and read more, eating away at my day one little bite at a time.
But if I go more than a day without checking my email, I’ll have over fifty unread emails. If I skip a week, my inbox will be filled with hundreds of emails. And that doesn’t include all that go immediately into the spam folder. When the list of unread email is more than several pages, I’m sure to miss something I need to know or communication from someone close to me.
On the other hand, I don’t get much email from those close to me. Most of my personal communication comes via text message. Family photos are mostly shared on social media. Important official correspondence comes in the mail.
But I depend on email to find out about local events. I get receipts from recent purchases and updates on travel arrangements. One Sunday morning, I was alerted to a detour I’d have to take to get to church. The library sends me a list of books I’ve checked out by email, too.
I remember when email was a new experience. We were all thrilled to read, “You’ve got mail.” Once, someone called me to ask, “Did you get my email?” Lol. You could have just called me. Twenty years later, the shine has worn off. Too much spam. Too many promotions. Too much junk.
Twice a day should be plenty. Productivity experts say don’t check email till 11 am and never after 8 pm. I can do that. But once every two weeks is a bit much for me.
I decided to wear my navy blazer on the plane rather than packing it. I knew that I would one day be making this trip up to dad’s. It was time to move him out of the house he had lived in for the last forty-eight years.
How do you do that? How do you convince your ninety-year-old father that he can’t take care of the house all by himself? How do you say he shouldn’t be living alone? How do you get him to agree to moving in with my brother’s family? My dad was never disagreeable to the idea. But every time we brought it up, he said it would happen “someday,” “later,” or “soon.” Just not right now.
But when my brother went up to visit dad, he could see it was time. Dad hadn’t shaved for a week. Dad, who went to the barber every two weeks, hadn’t been in months. He wasn’t eating the meals stored up for him in the freezer. The lawn needed cutting. Dust-covered surfaces insisted, “Clean me!” It was time.
We put it on his calendar. Months before, we highlighted Saturday, November 9 on the refrigerator calendar. We wrote “Moving day” in the big, bold letters. For my dad, the calendar was reality. It announced birthdays, appointments, and holidays. And moving day. If he questioned us (my brother, sister, or I), we simply showed him, “It’s on the calendar, dad,” and the discussion was over.
The night before we loaded up a rental truck to move his belongings, we gathered for supper at Aronimink Country Club in Newtown Square, just outside of Philadelphia. My cousin Jack the lawyer was a member there and invited our family for a last meal together where my dad had lived his entire life. My brother, sister, and I were joined by Jack’s wife, Rita, and Jack’s youngest sister Rene with her husband Bill. We hadn’t gathered with this part of our extended family since my mom’s funeral eight years before.
Aronimink is an exclusive club. Membership is by invitation only. Men are required to wear a sport coat in the dining room. No cell phones allowed. No photography, either, so I have no snapshots of that evening.
It is by far the nicest place I’ve ever dined at. The valet parked my sister’s car. As we walked in, we were expected and warmly welcomed. A fire blazed in the hearth as we found our seats around a large round table. When a waiter puts the napkin in your lap, you know you’re in a fancy place. The menus were printed for that night only. No prices were printed on the menu, just choices for appetizers, entrees, sides, and dessert.
The selections included the usual beef, fowl, pork, and vegetarian options. We could choose shrimp, bruschetta, mushrooms, or cheese for appetizers. Sides were seasonal vegetables and potatoes. The desserts included cheesecake, mousse, and ice cream.
I had a medium-rare sirloin steak and a Guinness that night. According to my journal, it was the first red meat I had eaten in a while. My dad ordered a 20 ounce porterhouse steak. That is a big piece of beef, especially on top of a salad and baked potato. He enjoyed every bite but didn’t even finish half the meal. Put the rest in a take-home box? No one was brave enough to ask.
My dad was the youngest of seven children, the only one still living on this day. He was the patriarch of the family and commanded respect. My cousin Rene remembered how she always thought her Uncle Bill was so cool, with a young wife (mom was ten years younger than him) and a great car (a light blue 1956 Mercury Montclair). After this night and this move, I would have minimal family connection to what I call my hometown, Philadelphia.
Dad would never return to this house, just a half mile from where he was born. My brother gave away his car, so he would no longer be driving. Dad didn’t mind, as long as he had a set of keys. He would be leaving the church where he worshiped and served for nearly fifty years. Dad didn’t mind, because he would go to the church my brother pastored. Dad left behind a big flower and vegetable gardens, a basement woodworking shop filled with tools and hardware, and the area he had called home for ninety years. He didn’t mind, since his interest in those pursuits had waned in the past few years.
For the move, we took Dad’s bed, dresser, desk, television, and favorite recliner. His world shrank to a room with a few pieces of furniture. My brother’s home had a suite where the garage used to be. Dad would have a new place of his own, without a two-story house, quarter-acre yard to take care of, and long driveway to blow snow off in the winter.
This would be the beginning of a new chapter in Dad’s life. It would be a significant change for all of us children. How many times did we go “home” from college or for holiday celebrations? I still tell people I’m grew up in Philadelphia. I still root for the Phillies, Eagles, Flyers, and Sixers. When I see Tastykakes in the stores, “Philly” cheesesteaks on menus, and order a soft pretzel at a brewery, I think of home and dad.
After a few years at my brother’s house, we had to move dad into assisted living, where for three years he would be well cared for. When I went to visit him, he showed me a handwritten account of all the islands and atolls he had been to in the south Pacific during World War two. My dad’s life had taken him from the other side of the globe to a small room in northern Virginia.
That last supper was a good one, a vivid memory from ten years ago.
The sights, sounds, and experiences of Disney World’s Magic Kingdom are even more amazing and entertaining at Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas celebration. But last night I was impressed by the well-trained cast who made the fun available to the physically challenged. I witnessed three examples and know there were many more.
As we stood in a not-too-long line for the Haunted Mansion, a woman in a wheel chair was right behind me. At a certain point, a cast member asked, “We’ll stop the ride and help you if you are able to stand and get into one of the ride cars.” The woman smiled and assured her, “Yes, I’ve done this a few times.” When the ride stopped a couple of times, I knew exactly what was happening. She was getting on and off the ride.
A little later, we watched our boat approach for the Jingle Cruise (renamed for the the holidays). It stopped about twenty-five feet short of the loading area, and a lift in the boat raised a man in an electric scooter just high enough to disembark onto the dock. Once the special seat retracted, the boat pulled up and we got on board.
The last ride of the night was the Tomorrowland Speedway. As we waited for my two grandsons to start driving around the course, we watched a woman in a wheelchair scoot up close to a car. A cast member brought out a specially made ramp that enabled the woman, who just had one leg, to transfer into a car and speed off into the night.
In each of those cases, the cast never missed a beat. They knew exactly what to do, made each person feel welcome, and made the experience possible. While they did their job just like any other day, I noticed and appreciated their efforts.
I hope I remember these moments in the future, when I may not be as able to negotiate travel, amusement parks, and other activities as well as I can today. If those folks, with what I thought were limitations, can enjoy themselves, then so can I. A lot of caring people have figured out how to make life accessible for everyone, and then they make it happen.
I remember hearing someone say, “Everyone has a disability. Some you can see. Others you can’t.” Some can’t see. Others can’t speak in public. Some have trouble walking. Others have trouble remembering things. Some have lost a limb. Others can’t deal with heights.
I pray I’ll always be thankful for the blessing of someone in the airport, or on the cruise ship, or at the theme park who’s there to say, “Here, let me help you.”
“Did you look in the back bedroom closet? What about up in the attic?”
“I looked everywhere I can think of. Are you sure we didn’t give them away?”
We were cleaning and sorting the grandkids’ toys on the back porch. Somehow, a little bit of everything ends up everywhere. A plastic hotdog is in with the dinosaurs. A plastic dinosaur is in the Candyland box. Pokemon characters are tucked into every nook and cranny. Parts of the play ice cream cones are out and around.
When we got it all arranged – Legos, puzzles, games, dinosaurs, play food, Pokemon and Minecraft figures, cars, dolls, hundreds of Minnie’s Bow-tique pieces, and Magnatiles, I wondered, “Where are the Tinkertoys?”
We had purchased a used box of Tinkertoys on eBay a few years ago. While our childhood Tinkertoys were wooden, the contemporary edition is plastic. They are made of the kind of plastic that dogs love to chew on, so we try to keep them in the box and out of reach.
Tinkertoys are as much fun as ever. We’ve built long fishing poles, robots, swords and light sabres, telescopes, windmills, monsters, cars, shark cages, and rocket ships. The possibilities are endless. We don’t play with them every time the grandkids are with us, but often enough that we wouldn’t get rid of them.
I looked everywhere. Under beds. In closets. I went through all the bins in the attic twice. In drawers. In the back of the toy cabinet.
Nothing. They had somehow disappeared.
What did we do? We bought more. We found another set on eBay and in a few days we were back in business. All was right in our toy world again.
Before we left for a birthday party yesterday, I loaded a bunch of tables and folding chairs into the back of our car. As I grabbed the last two folding chairs from the back of the back bedroom closet, something caught my eye. I went back and saw them. “There they are!” The Tinkertoys. Right where we had left them at some time in the past.
For a guy who is good at finding lost things, this was a rush. And best of all, we have even more Tinkertoys than ever! (Guess who else likes to play with Tinkertoys?)
It didn’t take long before we forgot. Over the course of one summer we forgot a cardinal kitchen rule: don’t leave food near the edge of the counter.
It a dog thing. Years of Labrador retrievers hammered that statute home. The most retold story was from the Gabriel archives when we lived in Baltimore, almost forty years ago. My wife decided to make homemade noodles from an old family recipe. She mixed them up, rolled them out, sliced them up, and laid them out on towels to dry. We had to go out that night and upon our return, the noodles were missing. They were gone. Every single one of them. Yes, Gabe helped himself and like a lot of delicious foods, once you start, you just can’t stop.
Lesson learned. From that point on we pushed any kind of food to the back of the kitchen counter or placed it on a higher shelf, out of reach. Our most recent large dog, Samson, wasn’t really a counter surfer, but we still didn’t leave anything in reach.
With a smaller dog at home now – my readers will know him as Winston the West Highlands White Terrier – it’s not an issue. At less that one foot high, he’s no threat to food on the counter. However, one of his best friends, my daughter’s one-year-old Golden Retriever Rex is.
I had several pans of meatballs ready to go into the oven. I walked over to the refrigerator to grab something, and by the time I turned back, Rex had eaten one row of uncooked meatballs. If I had not caught him, it would have been a pizza delivery night.
Then, just the other night, my wife baked a loaf of cranberry bread. After it had cooled on the counter she sliced it in two to freeze half and eat the other. Winston and Rex were outside chasing each other around the yard and the family sat around the fire pit getting ready to roast marshmallows for s’mores. My two grandsons ran in and out of the house as they usually do, one time letting the dogs inside. When my wife went inside to get a drink, she discovered half of a half a loaf was missing. Teeth marks betrayed the culprit, Rex. With that goofy dog smile on his face, I’m sure he thought, “If you didn’t want me to try it, you shouldn’t have left it on the counter.”
Yes, we should have known better. In fact, there’s no guarantee a short dog won’t find his way up on the table. Winston has gotten up on the dining room table when a bench wasn’t pushed in all the way. Sharp eyes caught him before he got any food.
And then there is the legend of Sable our basset hound from a decade or so ago. With a vertical leap of about 2 inches, we never thought she would be a threat to a kitchen counter. However, we did pull into the driveway one day, and saw her up on the kitchen table looking out the window. Somehow she got up on a chair and from there up onto the table. No food was consumed and from that perch, she was able to effectively watch the house while we were gone.
We’ve learned to be safe rather than sorry. Keep all food out of reach.
All we wanted to do was sell a piece of used exercise equipment, a spin bike. We had gotten good use out of it, but it was still in good shape. It was too big and heavy to ship, so we would decided to sell it locally. It would be a great bargain for someone.
As soon as we put it out on social media, the creepers came out. First, someone wanted to know if we would accept payment via Venmo. Absolutely not. That request reeks of scam. Cash only, at a safe site like the sheriff’s department. No, you can’t come to our house. Our no to Vemno was met with, “How about Cashapp?”
Forget it. We’ll just keep it. After a few weeks, we decided to try eBay and specify local pick up only. A third party would give the transaction a layer of security, right?
A guy from Kentucky inquires, “Can you ship it to me?” So, what part of “local pickup only” did you not understand? The thing weighs over a hundred pounds. We just didn’t want to mess with a shipping company. Forget it.
A guy from North Carolina makes a lowball offer and says, “We’ll be in town on this date to pick it up.” We counter and he comes up a little bit, but not enough to make us comfortable. The he explains that he and his wife aren’t that well and are working around various doctor’s appointments. He doesn’t sound like someone who would be doing much spin biking. Forget this. Our last message to him was, “We’ve taken it off the market.”
I’ve had decent success selling stuff on eBay. But all my sales were books and toys I could easily ship once the money was in my bank account. But the ordeal of an in-person transaction was too much for us.
My early morning and late afternoon walks with Winston (our West Highland White Terrier) take us around all the eleven streets of our neighborhood.
We know all the kids at the bus stops. The younger ones always want to pet the dog. Winston’s tail begins wagging four times a second when we’re still fifty yards away, so happy to see his friends. Keep in mind, he thinks everyone is his best friend. He enthusiastically wriggles, hops, spins, rolls over, and thoroughly enjoys their attention.
We know most of the dogs in the neighborhood, too. There’s Bailey the Shih Zhu, Blue the Golden Retriever, Ramona the Rat Terrier, Sadie the some-kind-of-terrier, Sophie the black miniature Poodle, Winston the Maltese (a miniature version of Winston), Gunnar the Brittney Spaniel, Franco the Rottwiler, Natchez, a mixed breed, Teddy a nervous little terrier, and an assortment of Labs, Shepherds, Terriers, and Chihuahuas. As I write this, I realize there are a lot of dogs around here. Sometimes they are out with their owners, sometimes they bark at us from a window. I always ask Winston, “What are they saying?” He refuse to tell me. Must be some kind of honor code among canines.
We watch all the new houses being built and get to meet a lot of the new neighbors moving in. They are, of course, all best friends.
We know where all the bunnies are going to be, too. They are so funny. The bunnies think that if they sit real still by the edge of the road, no one will notice them. Winston sees them long before I do. His excitement builds as he thinks, “I think I can catch him today!” Of course, he never does. The bunny is much faster and scoots off into the woods, leaving nothing but a scent behind. Winston doesn’t dwell on it. I am sure he thinks, “I’ll get him next time!”
Early this morning, an SUV began to back out of a driveway when Winston and I were about ten yards away. I don’t take any chances. I stopped and Winston immediately sat, just like he supposed to do. Once the man had backed out I said, “Heel,” and we were on our way. He rolled down his window and said, “Thank you!” I though that was really nice. Most people don’t even notice us and roar away. That little moment made my day.
“In this corner, at one year of age, hailing from Palm Coast, ladies and gentlemen put your hand together for Win-stonnnnn!”
“And in the other corner, a three-year old veteran from Ormond Beach, let’s hear it for Bro-deeee!”
Last year, my in-laws brought their West Highland White Terrier, Brodie, to our house to meet our Westie, Winston. The tale of the tape: they were pretty much the same size. We figured they would love each other. Brodie had played with plenty of other Westies at daycare. Winston believed every one, man or beast, was his best friend. We knew they would chase each other around and wear each other out and everyone would be happy.
That’s not exactly how the encounter went. Winston was on his home court and still very much a puppy. Brodie was having a “Who’s the annoying kid?” kind of day. They snarled and snapped and yapped and didn’t get along at all. We didn’t expect that. “Alright, break it up!”
Then the old man wandered out. Samson, the thirteen-year old shepherd-lab-whatever brown dog came out to see what all the commotion was. He wasn’t really interested in either of the other dogs, but the little guys settled down immediately. Samson commanded respect and was an instant calming presence in the pack of dogs in our backyard. This was his house, and both of the terriers knew it.
We don’t have Samson anymore, and Winston has grown up (a little). When he and Brodie had a rematch a month ago, they got along better. They ran around some, but decided they liked each other better from a distance. I’ll bet they do even better the next time they get together.
When I was a pastor, I noticed that people tended to behave a little better when I was around. Not always good, but better. They would clean up their language and keep the funny but questionable jokes to themselves. Many times I really wasn’t interested in other people’s squabbles, but I’m glad I could get people to calm down a little.
Waite for it... 