Category: Life

Posted in dogs, Life

“Bike ride?”

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Our dog Samson is coming up on his thirteenth birthday. He’s a lot mellower than he was in his puppy days. I had forgotten some of those days until our daughter brought her golden retriever Rex over to play. At six months, Rex is a ball of hair and energy, ready and willing to chew on anything moving or inanimate.

Samson’s got some kind of retriever in him, along with some German shepherd and a little who-knows-what for good measure. The veterinarian called him a “Florida Brown Dog.” In his puppy days, I had to make sure he burned lots of energy outdoors. If he didn’t he’d burn lots of energy indoors.

Bike rides are a great way to do this. No, we didn’t teach Sam how to ride a bike. I was the one on the bike. At the mention of a “bike ride,” he was ready. His leash in hand, I hopped on the bike, and he took off like a shot. Seventy-five pounds of pure energy would sprint down the street, pulling me along on two wheels. I didn’t have to pedal at all, just hang on tight.

But not too tightly. In about a quarter of a mile, Sam would suddenly pause at the side of the road for a bathroom break. Those same seventy-five pounds could quickly pull down the bike. So I learned to hold his leash on the handlebars in a way that I could quickly release him when he stopped. I could then circle back, grab the lease, and we could continue our bike ride. Once we were about half a mile in, he settled down, and we completed our circuit around the block.

Before too long, my other daughter got a puppy, a Florida brown dog named Kennedy. Hair. Energy. The complete package. When Kennedy came to visit, I got out the bike. I leveled up to a two-engine craft when I took them both out for a bike ride. With a leash in each hand, I felt like Ben Hur riding a chariot around the coliseum. I had a couple of close calls, but no tumbles off the bike.

By the time we got home, both beasts were panting hard, long tongues hanging out, eager to slurp up water together, and collapse on the cool tile floor. Happy, tired dogs.

But not for long.

“Bike ride?”

Posted in Food, Life

I don’t think this is our food

Posted on by William Douthwaite

My wife and I stopped at Starbuck’s after church last Sunday, and since it was already after noon, we each ordered something to eat. She went with her usual egg bites and I decided on an egg and bacon muffin sandwich. The shop wasn’t too busy, but since there weren’t too many table to sit at, I figured most of the business was drive thru and mobile order pickups.

Our coffee was ready first. The food took a little longer. At some point in our conversation, I thought I heard my name, meaning that the food order was up. I went over and quickly looked at the bags and saw what looked like our orders. Upon returning to my table, I took a closer look and saw someone else’s name. The label also stated “mobile order.”

Oops. For a moment I thought that the label had been misprinted. Or maybe those folks had taken ours by mistake. But then I decided to put it back and wait a little longer for my actual order. I’m glad I hadn’t taken a bite before I glanced at the label.

I wonder if that ever happens or how often that happens. The baristas crank out coffee after coffee and out out pastry after pastry. They cannot monitor who picks up what. Mobile orders are ready and sitting out before those folks even get to the restaurant. It’s all based on the honor system. I believe most people are honorable. I’m one of them – you don’t have to worry about me grabbing your food. But I know that not everyone is. And not everyone is paying close attention, either.

How many customers come in only to wonder where their order is? How many customers pick up an order and discover that a bite or a sip is already missing? I’ll bet some of you think that is amazingly disgusting. Yet sometimes I don’t look in the bag. I pull out pieces of lemon cake or a scone, assuming the whole thing is there. I wouldn’t even know. I wouldn’t know if someone took a sip of my latte, realized it had no flavor, and put it back on the counter.

Ew, right?

Posted in Life

Long, long lines

Posted on by William Douthwaite

The lines were long at Home Depot. Lots of sales? Lots of people thinking “home improvement?” Lots of busy contractors?

Nope. No one to work the registers.

My Home Depot has six self-checkout registers. Three weren’t working. Station closed. The ten-person line snaked through aisles filled with displays of tools, batteries, plants, and eye protection. Every once in a while, a shopper who didn’t see the line walked right up to a checkout station. Sometimes an irritable person would point out, “The line starts over there!” But not always.

One employee watched over the self-checkout registers. So when an item didn’t scan correctly, or someone was buying a controlled substance like spray paint, the checkout process came to a halt until that one person noticed and came over to punch in their number. Self-checkout lanes are popular with shoppers who don’t seem to have ever used a self-checkout lane, so they wonder, “Now what do I do?” There are so many decisions. Like, do I want the extended service plan for a hammer? Do I need an emailed receipt? Which credit card do I want to use? If it’s a couple, they argue about what to do next.

Two checkout registers were staffed by live employees. One was for contractors only. No line there. That person was very good at getting the pros out the door. The other was operated by someone who must have been pretty new to the job. They summoned a manager for just about every purchase. That line of ten people moved very slowly.

So, while it was easy to find what I wanted, it was hard to find a human or machine that worked. I only had a can of paint. Others maneuvered carts full of long wood, small appliances, rolls of carpet, and sacks of sand through lines at the key-making kiosk, paint counter, and customer service desk. Either way, we were going to be there for a while.

Posted in Food, Life

That’s a lot of jalapeños

Posted on by William Douthwaite

As I grabbed a few green and red peppers in the produce aisle, a guy next to me had a big bag of jalapeño peppers. I mean big. He had all of them. There were none left on the shelf. There must have been at least sixty in his bag.

I should have asked, “What are you going to do with those?” But I didn’t, so I can only imagine what someone would do with that many jalapeño peppers.

  • He works at a Mexican restaurant and peppers were missing from most recent the food order. His manager sent him out to get as many as he could.
  • It was contest time. He and his friends argued loud and long about who could eat the most jalapeños. Now it was time to find out. Someone’s going to feel the burn. Twice.
  • Someone lost a bet. Their team lost. They lost at eight ball. They were late. Again. It’s time to pay up.
  • Party food time. Everyone’s coming over for a celebration. “You’ll make your jalapeño poppers, right?” Of course.
  • Salsa time? The pepper shelf was first. Next stop: tomatoes. Onions and cilantro, too.
  • What about resale? If there’s none at the grocery store, you create demand and jack up the price at your roadside stand.
  • Prank time. It’s fun to watch an unsuspecting victim bite into some food with a jalapeño hidden inside.

As I was starting my shift at Subway (a long time ago), my assistant manager was getting ready to head home. We got to take home a footlong after every shift. “Make me a BMT on white.” No problem. Just for fun, I lined up about twenty jalapeño slices between the cheese and the meat and veggies, sliced it in two, wrapped it up, and stuffed it in a bag. The next day, he asked, “Who put all those hot peppers in my sub? I almost died when I took a bite!” Very entertaining.

Much later I found creative ways to hide slices or bits of jalapeño in my youngest daughter’s food. Inside a hamburger patty. Hidden amongst the green beans. Between scoops of ice cream. It was hard to keep a straight face, waiting for the cry of “jalapeño!” Never gets old.

Posted in Life, Stories

Tell me the story

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by S O C I A L . C U T on Unsplash

So as I sat and listened to the story, I knew how it would end. I’ve already heard it four times. In fact, I know some of the details they’ve left out in this rendition. I don’t say anything. I try not to roll my eyes. I Io my best to listen, or at least appear to be listening. But in my mind I wonder, “When will I start telling the same story over and over? Do I already do that?”

Too many times, as soon as I recognize the story, my mind shuts off. I stop listening. I’ve already heard this.

To avoid being that guy, I’ll make sure I ask, “Have I told you about…?” Or I begin by saying, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.”

And yet, there are some stories we enjoy hearing over and over again. As children, we haul out the same book over and over again for mom or dad to read to us. Or we’ll say, “Tell me that story again.”

Every get tired of hearing the Christmas story?

There are some stories I wish I could hear.

  • I wish I could hear the story of how my mom’s mother and father met. She was a nanny who had immigrated from England. He was a Spanish-speaking machinist who grew up in Costa Rica. While I remember her well, I only vaguely remember him. As I look back at pictures, though, I cannot imagine who these two got together. But there is no one left in the family who can tell me that story.
  • I wish I could hear the story about the birth and death of my little brother Robert. He was born just eleven months after me but only lived three months. As far as I know, we only have a birth certificate, a picture of his tombstone, and a vague description of him as a “blue baby.” He was always remembered but never talked about.
  • I wish I could hear more of my dad’s stories from his travels in the South Pacific during World War II. He kept a careful record of every island and atoll he stopped at in 1944 and 45. But like many veterans, he didn’t often share details about those days. All we have are a few of his handwritten letters home.

The people who could tell me those stories have died. They’ve taken their stories with them.

So I remind myself that these are precious moments. I try to pay attention and listen. These voices are leaving stories behind for me to remember and retell.

Tell me the story.

Posted in Life

A private elevator

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Kind and Curious on Unsplash

Our small group was recently hosted in an exclusive, more-than-we-could-ever-afford, gated community. While the couple had previously lived in an ocean-front high-rise, they had recently moved into a townhouse a few blocks from the ocean. When I pulled into the driveway, the owner pointed me to a parking spot in front of one of three two-car garages beneath their unit. I wasn’t where the front door was, so I was glad I could follow him around the front and into the entrance.

Through the front doors, we went down a short hallway to an elevator. That’s when I realized this wasn’t like other townhomes I had been in. Once in the elevator, he pushed three, and in less than a minute the opposite door opened, and I stepped out into his living room. That’s right, he had his own private elevator up to his floor, or should I say, his home. Very nice.

At the end of the evening, members of the group climbed back into the elevator to make their way back to their cars. “Make sure you press ‘L’.” Okay. What happens if you press the ‘2’? You end up in someone else’s home, those who occupy the second floor.

Imagine going there for the first time and not paying attention, pressing ‘2’. When the doors opened, you wouldn’t know you were in the wrong home. So you walk in and make yourself at home. You grab a drink from the refrigerator, go over and look at the ocean, and then sit down to relax.

A stranger walks out of a back bedroom and says, “Oh, hi. Can I help you?”

As you introduce yourself, you suddenly realize they don’t know anything about a small group. They don’t know you and you don’t know them. You stumbled onto the wrong floor!

How nice to have your own personal elevator. Until it’s not working and you have to take the stairs. Or until a stranger makes himself at home on your sofa.

Posted in Life

“Where are the Christmas trees?”

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“I can help you here.”

As I stepped up the library window to check out my books, my check-out person asked another, “What was that all about?”

Hanging up the phone her co-worker explained, “She was incensed that she couldn’t come and look at the Christmas trees.”

Every year, organizations from the community fill the library with decorated Christmas trees that highlight their products, services, and people. Each one is unique and imaginative. Once I pause to look at one, I notice the next, am intrigued by another, and end up checking out most of them.

However, the upset woman had called the library on January 23. I handed my books to the worker and chuckled, “I guess she was a day late.”

Scanning my books the worker replied, “About twenty-two days late!” All the Christmas trees had been put away right after New Years.

Wait a minute. Doesn’t the Festival of Lights in St. Augustine run through January 28? When we rode the trolley around the city last weekend (January 22), people dressed like elves were still giving out cookies and hot cider. Several of my neighbors still plug in their outdoor Christmas lights three weeks into the new year.

The nerve. Christmas put away before February? So soon? Come on, the Christmas trees only went up at the library in November!

Posted in Life

I finally finished the game

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I just assume there are plenty of Boomers like me who played the license plate game while traveling as kids. With no phones, tablets, DVD players, or much else to do in the car except fight over window seats, mom made us play the game before my dad had to “turn the car around and go back home.” We hadn’t even gotten an hour down the road.

Since each state only had one license plate, with distinctive colors and design, they were easy to pick out at a distance. Home state was easy. Neighboring states were common. I grew up in the northeast, so plates from the west coast were really exciting.

We never expected to get to fifty. After all, who’s going to drive here from Hawaii?

The other day, I got to fifty. There in front of me, in Palm Coast, Florida, I saw a license plate from the Aloha State, Hawaii. How cool is that?

How many people transport their car from Hawaii to the mainland with the license plate intact? More than I thought. Today I learned that there are several companies that do just. Average price is a couple thousand dollars. Not too bad. It costs more to ship a car to Hawaii. According to websites, it’s probably cheaper to do that than sell there and buy here.

So I’d have a better chance of completing the license plate game in California than Florida. It only took me about 55 years to finish here on the east coast.

Posted in Life

Is the fire ready?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“Are we going to roast marshmallows?”

Absolutely. The weather was a little cooler, a perfect night to gather around a fire supper. In preparation, I crumbled up newspaper, covered it with small tree branches I had gathered up in the yard, and stood up a pyramid of firewood over the whole thing.

The sky was just beginning to darken as we finished up supper. I headed out to the fire pit and lit the paper. As the first flames flickered, a grandson with a marshmallow and a stick behind me asked, “Is the fire ready?”

For Christmas, we bought other grandchildren a rock tumbler. A great idea for aspiring rock hounds. Until my son read the instructions. Tumbling takes four weeks!

We certainly don’t like to wait, do we? Less than a second after the light turns green, the car behind me leans on the horn so I’ll get step on the grass. A fifteen minute wait for a restaurant table? No thanks, we’ll go somewhere else. Don’t you pick the shortest checkout line at the store?

Five minute oil change. One hour air conditioner repair. No wait emergency room. Instant potatoes. Now, that’s more like it.

Lol. It rarely works that way. An hour on hold to talk to a person at the bank. A minimum of three to four hours in the emergency room. A week for seeds to germinate in the garden. Seven to ten business days for the refund to show up in your bank account. Nine months for the baby to arrive. A lot longer for a doctor appointment.

Is there any benefit to waiting? Maybe. Pausing when the light changes to green avoids a collision with the guy running the red light. More time in wide comfortable airport seats before spending three hours in a cramped middle seat between two strangers. Coffee from a freshly brewed pot. Holding a newborn in your arms. Flames that light up and warm up a chilly night. The smell of freshly baked bread. A gooey marshmallow.