Category: Life

Posted in Life

Ref on the phone

Posted on by William Douthwaite

In between whistles, this ref had a lot of texting to do.

My seven-year old grandson is playing his first season of basketball at the YMCA. I’ve enjoyed going to his games and watching him and lots of other six and seven-year olds run up and down the court, occasionally dribbling, sometimes shooting, and once-in-a-while making a basket. At this level there’s no stealing the ball, you’re not out of bounds if you’re not really out of bounds, and the referees don’t call traveling.

At this week’s game, the ref was preoccupied with something or someone on his phone. Even though he had a whistle in his mouth and was standing right in the middle of the court, he didn’t get to see much of the game. He was texting someone on his phone the whole time.

I know, I know, the whole world is on the phone all the time. Even with laws prohibiting it, most of the drivers I see are on their phones. Everyone in the store is talking to someone on the phone. Worshipers in church are texting referring to their bible apps. The guys and gals in the gym, grunting to finish a set of flys, are on their phones in between sets. Who’s not on their phone in a restaurant?

I thought to myself, “I wonder if he’s supposed to do that? Will he be in trouble if someone from the Y sees him?” When I mentioned it to my daughter, she said, “He’s the director of the program.” I guess he won’t get in trouble.

To be fair, he probably had a good reason he needed to be on the phone. Maybe someone in his family was sick. He’d be off to the hospital right after the game. Maybe he needed to line up refs for the next few games. It’s part of his job. Maybe he was on hold waiting to talk to a real person at the bank (like that ever happens). Maybe he was consulting an online rulebook to be sure he called the game correctly. I probably don’t know the whole story.

Hey, he probably isn’t making much money running this program and reffing the game. He might even be a volunteer. So I’m just going to be thankful that the kids can have fun learning to play the sport.

But what about the hat? I don’t know. That’s a story for another day.

Posted in Life

Catch

Posted on by William Douthwaite

My two grandsons brought all their baseball equipment to my house on Monday. Baseball and t-ball were starting soon, and they needed to practice. They had two bags full of bats, gloves, hats, and balls. “We have to practice!

We started out playing catch. Then we switched to hitting whiffle balls. The windows were too close for hitting real baseballs. Yes, we hit some windows and fouled a few balls over the fence. Both boys – ages 7 and 4 – did really well.

That morning brought back memories of playing catch with my dad in our back yard. He still had his old glove from college, one barely bigger than his hand. Mine was newer, larger, and much easier to catch with. Dad always claimed that his was fine, as long as you caught with both hands. I knew I’d never be happy using a glove like his.

The memories of playing catch with dad are as vivid as ever. It’s such a simple activity, yet it bonds father and son in a special way. You’ve got dad’s undivided attention. You can talk about all kinds of things when you’re playing catch. You sharpen your skills. Once in a while you show off how hard you can throw.

As I got older, I played lots of catch with my brother and neighborhood friends. We played a lot of pitcher catcher, run the bases, and shagging fly balls out in the field beyond my back yard. But it was never as much fun as playing catch with dad.

Posted in Life, music

I love the sound of the birds

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Sreenivas on Unsplash

I hear their singing before the sky begins to lighten. The birds are awake, welcoming the dawn. I love to hear their voices.

Their song is joyful. Some people hate the morning. But obviously the birds love it. It’s like they couldn’t wait for the faintest brightness on the horizon to start singing.

I feel joy when I hear their song. Maybe that’s part of the reason I love the morning so much. I don’t know why they are singing. I don’t know what they are singing about. I don’t recognize the tune. But they sing it over and over again, and each time they do, it makes me feel good. It reaches a place in my head that releases some kind of happiness into my soul.

Some of the songs are so simple. A single note, over and over again. Some songs are choruses repeated again and again. Some melodies are complex. When I’m out on a walk, I’ll sometimes whistle to imitate a bird song. I’m not very good at it. But as we go back and forth, their joy becomes mine. Whether it’s true or not, I like to think we’ve got a little conversation going. I know, they are probably thinking, “You’re not a bird.” Just like the cows I moo at who chuckle in their heads, “Does he think he sounds like a cow?” If the owls haven’t yet gone to bed, I’ll hear them talking from one stand of trees to another. I’ll add my “hoo-hoo-hoo-hooo” to the conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever fooled them, though.

Their song is hopeful. Most bird song sounds optimistic to me. Somehow their song says, “It’s going to be a great day!” Even the doves, whose “whoo” sounds mournful, do it in a positive way. It’s a new day. It’s filled with possibilities. The birds just can’t help but sing about it.

From their vantage point, either up in a tree or flying in the air, they probably see the first rays of the rising sun before I do. Their song announces another chance to both live and love. No matter what happened yesterday, I’ve got another chance today. I’ve got a chance to do it better or a chance to keep up the good work.

Their song is alive. Creation was pretty quiet until God spoke and birds filled the sky. Suddenly, there were sounds above the trees and seas. Hawks screamed as they glided overhead. Crows cawed. The staccato brraattt of a woodpecker working on a tree filled the air. Ducks and geese added their quacks and honks. The creative voice of God made this world a noisy place!

That last paragraph reminded me of all the words we’ve created to describe the sounds of the birds. Tweet. Chirp. Squawk. Peep. Cock-a-doodle-doo. The land, water, and air are alive with the songs and sounds of birds, and I’m alive, too.

Posted in Life

No trespassing!

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Two new threatening signs were just posted on a corner lot just up the road from my house. I estimate these signs to be about 9×12 inches, and were nailed to the tree about ten feet up from the ground. Some of the print is on the small side, so I had to walk on to the property to read and take a picture of the posting.  I quickly found out I was not welcome to do so!

In the past, a simple “No Trespassing” sign was attached to one tree. Even before that, there was a smaller sign indicating that the property was protected by a Colt 45.

Now this is an undeveloped corner lot in our neighborhood. Much of the underbrush has been cleared leaving only a sparse stand of tell scrub pine trees. I walk my dog past this lot twice a day and sometimes at night. I have never, ever seen a person on this property. Once in a while I pick up a stray can or drink cup, so no one is dumping trash there. The briars and brush that have regrown beneath the trees makes it harder to cut the corner rather than just walking on the street. It is also a school bus stop. Once in a while the kids will play hide and seek while waiting for the bus, but their are parents waiting there, too, keeping an eye on them.

So why the threatening sign? Why invoke Florida law and the sheriff to secure this empty corner lot? I wonder if the sheriff even knows his name is even on this sign. Anyone could make a sign like that and nail it to a tree. The posted phone number belongs to the homeowner on the adjacent corner lot. What is he worried about? Or pissed off about? What’s really going on back there in the woods?

Years ago, when there were more vacant lots than homes, the neighborhood children would run and play in the woods, building forts and creating bicycle trails. There aren’t too many wooded lots left and there aren’t too many unsupervised kids running around, either. I’m thankful that the folks in our neighborhood know each other and keep a close eye on each others’ homes. Surely the sheriff and deputies have more important things to do than keep this empty lot…empty.

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.