Life's Perceptual Fraction

We have a management program at work based on conceptual models grouped into a series of themes. One of the models is called the Perceptual Fraction which posits the way an item is viewed depends on its relationship to other items. For example:

• Fork over $1,000 for a car stereo? No way. But include a $1,000 audio package as part of a new car purchase? Sure, OK. I'll finance it! 
• Pay eight bucks for a bottle of beer at the local grocery or liquor store? Hell no! But go to dinner and add a local microbrew high gravity stout to your tab? Hey, it's cool supporting the local brewers!
• Year 1 raise is 8 percent. Year 2 is only 4 percent. Uh oh. But what if average year 2 raise for everyone was 2 percent?

From a management perspective, the model says a manager should (1) understand if a change will even be noticed and (2) put the change in the right context when it will be noticed.

I recently notched a half-century and am not ashamed to say so. I am, however, reluctant to say I fully comprehend what it means. Am I half-way there, two-thirds of the way along, or living on borrowed time?

I know I react differently to things at 50 than I did at 18 ... or 25 ... or 40. Maybe my denominator has just grown larger so that my 'perceptual fraction' isn't as affected relatively as it once was. Impulsive reactions years ago seem to be replaced by more intentional, deliberate actions today. Well, some of the impulsiveness remains - just not as much.

Generally speaking, I'm not a big birthday guy. Every year, I just view the day as one day more than yesterday. But I'd be lying if I denied that this one has made me think a bit more than I did at 30 or 40.

Over the last few years, I've blogged about all sorts of stuff. Music, faith, travel, parenting, racing, beer, idiocy of others, home improvement - just to name a few subjects. I imbibe in all of the above and am average at best in most of them.

Several years ago, Tommy Womack wrote and recorded Going Nowhere (and was included by co-writer Jason Ringenberg on The Scorchers' Clear Impetuous Morning). The refrain is:

I'm going nowhere, just going nowhere
I can't see tomorrow, but I'm leaving here today
I'm going nowhere, but at least I know the way

Those few lines still make me laugh - but they also resonate with me perhaps more now than at any point of my life. I'm confused about many things, and I stumble about working on all of them these days. Yet I figure I'm still trying to keep life in a forward gear vs. reverse.

I've honestly tried to be a good pop. Perfect? Shooooot, there's no such thing as a perfect parent. But so far, so good in all material respects - without trying to be too prideful about it or overly optimistic about where things go from here. Regarding my son, I've blogged about such things as:

• Creative uses for duct tape
• Getting a cell phone
• Cutting the grass
• Getting his driver's license

Yet, its really hard to think how quickly time flew from this...

... to this 15 years later later ...


And now the boy ... err, young man will hit 20 this year. Twenty!

My daughter is killing it academically and has convinced me to shut my pie hole when she sets her mind about committing to something.

• Middle school: "You haven't taken tap or ballet, and we're not sure you'll make the dance team squad." "I'll practice." Boom, she makes it.
• Middle school: "You haven't gone to any sort of cheer or tumbling camp. You sure you want to try out for cheerleading?" "I'll watch YouTube." Boom, she makes it.
• Band: "You want to march with with the high schoolers as an eighth grader? It's awfully hot at band camp." "I can do it." Boom: done.
• High school: "You want to march in drum line?" "Yep." "Done, I have full confidence you can handle it."

A few other perspectives of late - things that ever entered my mind a quarter-century ago:

• My knees are shot, I'm overweight, and my doc now lectures me about my blood pressure. On the up side, I still have a full head of hair with only a smattering a gray around my temples. Take that, you younger, graying, balding dudes I see jogging regularly.
• Newspapers - I concede that like many I've bailed on the paper version - yet I regularly reference old ones through Google News Archive and my local library. Yet how will the news of today be archived for future researchers to study - from an availability perspective and without retrospective editing.
• A nervous I do and I will suddenly became half my life with a ring on my finger. Dang.
• Twitter has become a dark place. I'm grateful for the accounts I follow and that follow me. I've avoided being directly engaged with the ugliness and hostility that seems to permeate it but I see many others hit with it. It'll eventually strangle Twitter.
• I grew up listening to my parents' LPs. Some I liked - many I didn't. But I  remember the albums, and a lot of their preferences influenced the music I now enjoy. They also knew (and didn't like) my preferences of KISS, Boston, Rush, Frampton, Aerosmith, AC/DC, etc. As an adult and parent now, technology has altered the paradigm for my kids and me. I listen to most of my music on computer speakers, in the car, or through ear buds - away from others. My kids do the same. Result? Neither side knows much about what the other is listening to. Upside: They'll create their own interests. Downside: They'll have no memories of what their old man listened to in their childhood.
• I realize how naive - maybe even just plain dumb - I was as a teen. Over time, I became open-minded - then skeptical - then cynical. The last few years, I "peaked" at cynical and reverted back to a blend of skepticism and open-mindedness. I just hope I don't become a naive, vulnerable dope again in my later years, and I earnestly pray I never become a bitter curmudgeon.

All I know is that sometimes you have to be wary
 of a miracle too good to be true
All I know is that sometimes the truth is contrary
to everything in life you thought you knew
All I know is that sometimes you have to be wary
'cause sometimes the target is you

TMC

Limping into Year 4

December 20 historical events:

• 1803 - The Lousiana Purchase is completed.
• 1879 - Thomas Edison privately demonstrates the incandescent light bulb.
• 1945 - Original KISS drummer, Peter Criss, is born.
• 1957 - Elvis Presley was given his draft notice for the U.S. Army.
• 1996 - NeXT merges with Apple COmputer.
• 2008 - The Because Whit Happens blog goes live.

Really? Three years ago? Yep. And to be mentioned in same breath as those other events ... well, that's pretty lame.

After a reasonable number of posts the first couple of years, I slacked way off in year 3.

• I didn't attend as many live shows.
• New music? Almost non-existent for me this year.
  
• My racing-related blog, Bench Racing, got more attention than this one.
• Twitter has become my primary outlet for random thoughts. Where I once wrote several paragraphs about an opinion or happening, now I most often condense my observations into one or more 140-character tweets.

Yet, the blog is still here. And I hope I'll continue to post periodically. I'm under no illusion that many folks follow me here regularly, and that's OK. A great piece of guidance I got a few years ago was to blog things of interest to me and to blog them when and how I wanted. I've kept that advice front and center the last three years.

If you are reading this now and have read anything else I've posted the last three years, thank you.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

TMC

Memories One Year Later

One year ago this morning - June 3, 2010 - I was at my parents' house. Their suitcases were packed, and we were about to leave for the airport. I'd booked seats on Southwest to fly them to Jacksonville to visit my sick uncle, my mother's youngest brother.

As we finished a cup of coffee and finished loading the trunk of the car, the phone rang. Too late. The battle was lost. He had died in the early morning hours. Flights and hotels were canceled, and the bags were unloaded. That day sucked.

Its hard to believe a year has passed. I miss conversations and visits with him immensely - even though I know his absence to me pales in comparison to what it means to my aunt and my mother.

One habit I developed the last 2 or 3 years of his life was to call him as I grilled steaks. Every few weeks, it was just a neat opportunity to talk with him from my deck for 20 minutes or as I sipped a beer and waited for medium-well.

A memories have popped back in my head in recent months. I started a draft of this entry months ago when the first one hit, and I continued to add to it with a target publish date of today. Here are a few stories that still make me smile.

• In spring 1984, I needed to land a summer job between college quarters. My uncle said he could arrange a job in the accounts receivable department with his employer. Because I was an accounting major, this would be great practical experience - plus give me the chance to live in Florida for the summer. I quickly accepted and quit looking around Nashville. With about a week to go before the spring quarter ended, he called to say that because he was in sales, the company's nepotism and other control policies prevented me from working in receivables. Instead, he offered me the chance to work in the warehouse loading trucks in non-ventilated trailers. What could I do? So I went from having an air-conditioned desk job to working in trailers that seemed hotter than the seventh level of hell.
  

• July 4, 1984. My aunt's boss was retiring, and she was about to be promoted to his position. She and my uncle scheduled a retirement party/picnic for him and a ton of co-workers at their house. I offered to help - mow the grass, man the grill, refresh ice on the beer, whatever. A day or two later, my uncle admitted he'd had two tickets to the Firecracker 400 NASCAR race in Daytona. He knew he couldn't go because of the gathering, but he didn't tell me about them because he didn't know if I'd want to go alone. It turns out it was no ordinary race as my racing hero Richard Petty won his 200th career race. Instead of my being there, the tickets went unused on his night stand.

• My uncle, a long-time friend of his, a long-time friend of mine, and I went to a local beer joint in Jacksonville the night before the Daytona 500 in 1994. A table of girls had their eye on my uncle's friend and got him to dance. The others were okay from a distance - but we just kept our seats, drank our beer and continued our conversation. A few songs later, another one claimed my uncle and it was down to my buddy and me. As the two of us continued to talk, we kind of just forgot about the two of them. Let 'em have a good time. Whatever. But then suddenly, my uncle grabbed me by the neck and dragged me to the dance floor. He had recruited a midget - I'm telling you a MIDGET - to dance with me. Now I'll never be mistaken for an NBA player, but I'm hardly in the midget category. But he and his friend were doubled over in laughter while I had to figure a way to wrangle myself out of this awkward situation.

• One of the neatest phone calls I ever received was in summer of 2000. I answered and heard the following challenge: "Hey, guess where I went last night." Now how am I supposed to answer that? So I immediately gave up with "I dunno. Where?" He excitedly said "the Billy Graham Crusade!" He talked a lot that night and much more in the years to follow how his faith was strengthened beginning about that time. He eventually started a men's small group Bible study class on his screened-in porch. He told me they had a great core of guys who enjoyed wrestling with scripture and drinking beer as they discussed it.
  

• He was a huge sports nut. Lifelong Celtics fan - including sitting 2 rows behind the bench at the old Boston Garden as a 40th birthday gift to himself. Season ticket holder of USFL Jacksonville Bulls and NFL Jacksonville Jaguars for many years. Played fantasy baseball before it became the rage. He attended MLB, NFL, NBA, NASCAR, 'wrasslin', and just about everything else in professional sports - except hockey. I'm glad to say I took him to his one and only NHL game - the Tampa Bay Lightning vs. our Nashville Predators - about 5 or 6 years ago. Unfortunately, the Lightning mopped the floor with the Preds that night. But we had a great visit, shared a number of brews at the game and at a few of the lower Broadway honky-tonks after the game, and he crossed the NHL off his list of sports events to see.

TMC

A Mother's Day Pup

The first entry I posted to this blog not quite three years ago was about the loss of my dog. Its not as if his passing had just happened. He had been gone a few years - but I tried to convey how much I still missed the ol' hound.

A couple of months ago, I sent the link to a co-worker. She read it, paused and then said something to the effect of "well, that's the most depressing thing I've ever read" to which I replied "that's kinda what I was going for."

With that as background, I've been thinking about how to re-visit the subject but spin it to the positive. So let me give this a shot.

I got my pup on Mother's Day 1992. We were living in Chattanooga, TN at the time, and I went to Nashville for the weekend to visit with my folks, kiss my mother on the cheek and wheeze with red eyes as my dad filled the living room with smoke from his hand-rolled cigs. We'd hit that point of the visit where the three of us kind of just sat there in silence. My mother was likely pondering what to prepare for the next meal, my dad was gently rocking in his recliner and I was cruising through the Sunday Tennessean - including the want-ads.

Growing up, my sister had a dog. Daisy was a dachshund-beagle mix. I played with her, but she was definitely my sister's dog. Throughout junior high and high school, I took care of 'my' dogs by living vicariously through others. I took care of neighbors' dogs all around us as they took various weekend and vacation trips. Sometimes I was paid a little bit - sometimes not. But I didn't really care because I simply enjoyed time with the pooches.

When I finally got a house of my own, one of the first things I wanted was my own dog. As I flipped through the classifieds that Sunday morning, one posting jumped off the page: Labrador-golden retriever mix pups for $25. (I would've clipped the ad and kept it if I could've foreseen blogging back then.) I called the guy, he said the pups were still available, and off my brother and I went to get me a dog.

7 weeks old. 5 pounds. Slept on the front seat of my Toyota Corolla all the way back to Chattanooga.

To provide some context about size, here he is very much interested in my wife's dwarf rabbit.

Sleep was the name of the game in the beginning.

It didn't take long for that 5 pound pup to hit 35 pounds - and then 50 pounds - and then eventually around 80. As he rapidly gained weight, I'm pretty sure it was concentrated in his legs ... and his tongue. He often had the funniest facial expressions.

For a couple of years, I took him to have a Christmas picture made. The cost went towards a pet rescue organization or something like that. Like kids, it was damn near impossible to get him to look at the camera at just the right time. Fortunately, a quick treat was enough in this instance to freeze him for just the right snap. Both years, I took him and our neighbor's golden retriever. As a reward after the photo shoot, I fed them Krystal hamburgers in the parking lot as people drove by laughing.

For the first few nights we had him as a puppy, I tried to follow the advice of books I'd read. Put the puppy in a cardboard box, add some towels and a stuffed animal, and include a clock to simulate the mother's heartbeat. This will help ease any separation-anxiety the puppy may have. Baloney. Despite doing all that, Winston whined worse than my trying to beg out of my annual prostate exam.

• After only a night or two, he figured out how to jump high enough to crush the edge of the box to escape.
• So then he was moved to a half-bath - where he proceeded the claw the crap out of the sliver of carpet showing between the bonus room and the bathroom vinyl.
• Then he got booted to the garage on a pile of towels - that he destroyed within a matter of days. Not learning a lesson from this incident, my wife reasoned he might like having one of those fluffy cushions from L.L. Bean, Eddie Bauer, or whatever it was. "Umm, really?" I asked - "How much is it?" Just $50. *sigh* It lasted 90 minutes - long enough for us to put it down, go to dinner and return to a smiling pup sitting amongst shredded poly-fill and fabric.
• From there, he was incarcerated in a chain-link dog run in the backyard for overnight stays. He loved being there during the day so it only made sense he stay there at night too. Or so it seemed. After a few months, the remnants of a Gulf hurricane hit in the form of a bad thunderstorm. Winston went ape in his pen as the rain pounded and thunder boomed. I had barely cracked the gate open when he smacked it against me and made a bee-line for the garage - which is where he stayed pretty much at night for the next 5 to 6 years.
• As a last resort, I built a simple wood box and filled it with cedar shavings to hedge against fleas. Who woulda guessed it? After all that trial and error, this was the fix. Not only did he enjoy it, but the neighbor's Krystal-eating golden, Jazz, enjoyed it too. She ended up spending more nights in our garage than she did at their house for the rest of the time we lived there.

As a labrador, he did a pretty nice job of learning to retrieve. He excelled, however, at keep away. After getting whatever ball I threw for him, he'd go get it. But he enjoyed baiting me into taking it from him vs. quickly bringing it back for another round. The only exception to this was if I disappeared. If I threw the ball and quickly ran inside, hid behind a car, etc., it would drive him crazy trying to find me.

But one day, my attempts to outwit a mutt nearly put me on the disabled list. See the 4x4 post in the picture below? One spring afternoon, I zinged the ball out the garage, and he took off like a shot. To play my trick, I turned to head for the door to the house. Except...I misjudged where I was, turned, and ran full-force-face-first into that post. I remember laying on the floor with his licking my face - however, I don't remember getting to the floor. No blood and no double-vision. Just dog slobber on my face. So all things considered, I was very lucky. Dog 1, TMC Zero that day.

Some of the neighbors called me Maestro after I trained many of their dogs along with mine to sit orderly, shake and await their milk bone. I was like the neighborhood milk bone crack dealer. There are only 3 dogs in this picture, but there were three others who also knew where I kept my stash - and what it cost to get one. A paw shake without teeing off on another dog as they got it.

Once Winston was booted to the pen and garage, he was an outdoor lifer. He had those rare occasions, however, when he'd get a bath and be allowed for a brief time in the house. His ability to understand was uncanny. He used his "inside voice" and always acted as if he belonged there. I'm sure it was a lobbying effort on his part to make his stay full-time.

When our son was born (who turned 16 about 10 days ago. sigh...), I let Winston in briefly to see how he'd handle things. No growling, no barking, no biting and frankly very little sniffing. Instead, he instinctively bonded by laying down and enduring whatever tugs or drooling was to come his way.

He minded his manners inside and understood his life was outdoors. But his favorite time seemed to be those rare times in Tennessee when it snowed. The deeper the snow and colder the temps - the better he liked it.




In 1993, Chattanooga got a snow for the ages - about 2 feet. A day later, the temps plummeted. What started out as a fun time for sledding and such turned into a hmm, well this could get interesting experience. We lost power for 2 days and quickly burned through what little firewood we had left. But while we tried to conserve energy, think how we'd salvage frozen food, and wonder how cold it would be while we slept, Winston ran non-stop from sun-up to sun-down. With a 24" thick white blanket, it was easy to spot his black goat galloping from one yard to another.


He was such a wonderful pet. 13 years. Lots more memories that could be shared here. Maybe I'll blog another handful in the years to come each Mother's Day weekend.

Hopefully, this entry was more uplifting than the one I wrote a few years ago. I know I smiled a lot as I scanned the various photos and thought about so many fun times.

TMC

Fence cleaning mold killing iPod listening talking blues

Mea culpa: I started writing this entry last Tuesday, edited it a bit more Wednesday, and polished it today. As I edit/re-write it, I realize how shallow my story about cleaning a fence reads when so many folks got wiped off the map in Texas, Mississippi, Alabama, East Tennessee and other areas affected by this week's tornadoes. My deepest sympathies go to those folks and their communities as they figure out where to go from here.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally got my mower up and running for the 2011 Grass Cutting Championship Season. Its highly probable that will be my easiest 'honey do' list project of the year.

This week, I began one of the most time-consuming, brain-numbing projects. No - I'm not referring to the watching of the British royal wedding or an analysis of The One's birth certificate. The one home project I dread like no other is cleaning and sealing our cedar fence.

It takes me the better portion of 3 days to knock out just the cleaning part. Then I have to wait several days (or weeks) for it to dry fully so I can seal it. I've yet to find a simpler, more time-efficient process to get it done.

The project is not just time-consuming - its also dollar-consuming. Like a redneck at a poker machine, I throw good money after bad. Sure, I'll take yet another jug of cleanser. $16 per? Whatever. And sure, I'll take yet another 5-gallon barrel of sealer. $150 per? Hey, what's money when it comes to the protection of my natural wood fence, right?

The only time I can recall really looking forward to cleaning the fence was 10 years ago. How do I remember that far back? I had requested 'vacation' days from work and allocated them to fence duty. The dates? September 12-14, 2001. I didn't look forward to the project at all - until September 11. The project gave me three days away from the world to clean and mentally wrestle with just about every human emotion - many times over - wash, rinse, repeat.

To help balance the time and money required, I've started stretching the number of years between re-sealing. For a while, I was cleaning and sealing every other year. Since 2005, I've chosen to go three years between rounds. Its definitely cheaper this way. When that third year rolls around though, the fence really needs a good detox like Charlie Sheen after a Vegas bender.

'Best practices' suggest I shouldn't use a pressure washer to clean the wood because it'll harm the wood's grain. Even the cleaner bottle says water from a hose should be sufficient. But that approach just gets the fence wet - not clean. I blast away with the pressure washer, and our fence holds up fine. I compare my efforts to drying towels. Some of our towels we've had for 10+ years. Even though we may remove a pound of lint from the dryer trap, the towels remain as fluffy and absorbent as they ought to be. On the other hand, some of our cheap towels, well... Let's just say as many times as they've been dried with a Bounce sheet, its like trying to dry off with a sheet of waxed paper. But I digress...

Before cleaning...

CLOSE-UP! Ewww...

After cleaning...sealer yet to come.

Comparison of TMC's work on the left and our neighbors' fence on the right...

There is one thing I don't understand though. I sprayed all those mossy, mold spores with a commercial, bleach-laden, cleansing solution and allowed them to soak for about 30 minutes. Then I pounded the nastiness with a pressure washer - being careful not to make the mark of Zorro in the panels. Yet, even after poisoning the mold with chlorine bleach and who knows what other toxins AND giving it a direct shot from pressurized water, many spores still hung on to my fence boards. How do they do that? Its as if those Little Monsters had little mandibles and yelled to one another in support "Hold on boys!"

If your professional career title involves the letters 'ologist' or 'tist', perhaps you could help me better understand. I'd like to be generally informed because its pretty humbling to have your ass kicked by a mold spore.

One aspect of the cleaning sessions that made them bearable was all-day listening to my iPod. With a busy life, its rare to have an opportunity for an extended listening session. For whatever reason, I went to "S" music Tuesday. I played the following during Day 1 cleaning:

• The Silos
• Scott Miller & The Commonwealth
• Sidewinders
• Sand Rubies
• Son Volt
• Slaid Cleaves
• The Steeldrivers

For Friday and Saturday, I stayed in the same general vicinity since S's were so rewarding.

• The Rainmakers
• Rich Hopkins & The Luminaros
• Robert Earl Keen
• Rodney Crowell
• Todd Thibaud
• Tom Freund
• Tommy Emmanuel
• The Tragically Hip
• Walkenhorst & Porter
• Walter Salas-Humara

As an example, playing an hour or more of Hip tracks like Little Bones definitely keeps you moving. If you can't get into this level of rock-and-roll, you might want to have friends and family look for your name at Legacy.com.



When all is said and done in a few weeks, I hope my completed triennial project will be analogous to a recently-waxed car. I hope it'll be 'shiny, shiny'...


TMC

Lawnmower repair

About six weeks ago, I told toomuchtexting it was time. That time of the spring season when the first yard cutting was needed. I told him to get started on the front yard as I started some spring cleaning of the garage.

He primed the mower a couple of times and pulled the starter cord 2 or 3 times. Nothing. I watched him give it three or four efforts and thought it best to let him work through the first starting since last December. But he couldn't get it cranked. Finally, I bailed him out. I primed the bulb seven or eight times and then proceeded to pull the cord...a lot. Between the two of us, we simply couldn't get the thing to start.

I was a little bit bent because I'd taken the mower to a shop for repair last fall. They told me it was a gummed-up fuel system resulting from all the additives in today's ethanol-tainted gasoline. They hit me up for about $35, and it lasted me through the rest of the fall's cuttings.

So I wasn't happy the mower wouldn't start less than four months and no more than a half-dozen cuttings since it was last repaired. Bottom line though - it wouldn't start. I took it to a different repair place where they told me they'd likely be able to squeeze in the repair amongst all their riding mower jobs.

My definition of "squeeze in the repair" and theirs differed significantly. THREE weeks later, I got a call from the shop. It started awkwardly with my answering the phone to hear Randall on the other end. Because of his mechanic-ese diction, I have chosen instead to refer to him as Goober. The conversation went something like this.

TMC: Hello?
Goober: Dissis Randall
TMC: Wait. What? You must have the wrong number.

Goober: Dissis Randall. Jee leave a lahnmowah here?
TMC: Oh...yeah...lawnmower. OK, now I gotcha. I was beginning to wonder...

Goober: Yer coal's rurnt.
TMC: What?

Goober: Yer coal. Its rurnt. Yain't got no far.
TMC: Huh? Oh! My coil!

Goober: Yain't got no far.
TMC (now in a Goober Groove): Its not firing. Correct. That's right. That's the reason I brought it in to have y'all look at it. But I thought it was supposed to be a gummed-up fuel line.

Goober: Naw, thats good. Butcher coal ain't no count. Yain't got ...
TMC: ...no fire. Got it. So how much to fix it?

Goober: About a hunnerd. Sebbenty for da pahrt. Thirty to put it on.
TMC: Uh no. That mower isn't worth much more than that. I'll put a 'hunnerd' towards a new one.
Goober: Suit yerself. It'll be right chere. Come git it.

I had a Murray push mower for about 14 years. This Toro mower - that cost me twice what the Murray did - is only 5 or 6 years old. Yet, I was convinced I was now going to buy a new mower. But as I described my phone conversation with Goober to Ozzy Nelson, he started Googling 'mower coil'. Sure enough, we found the part on-line, and it didn't look like the effort to replace it would be that bad.

I visited site to site. Consistently, the part ran $25-30 plus S&H. Everywhere I searched, the part was significantly under Goober's sebbenty estimate - those crooks. On a what-the-hell search, I jumped to Amazon. There it was - $32 with free super saver shipping.

This morning, I launched ehow.com, double-checked what I was supposed to do, made the switch in about 15 minutes, and was ready to give it the start test.

However, I had no spark plug. In checking my coal, I reckon Ol' Goob done left out that thar spark plug. Ugh. So to the big box hardware store I went. With today's fuel prices, I likely burned $6 in gas to buy a $2 plug.

I installed the plug, fastened the plug wire, primed the bulb, yanked once and - voilà - it roared to life once again.

OK toomuchtexting - you are back in business. Wait. He's out of town this weekend. Crap. Oh well, considering I spent about $35 vs. $100 (or far more), mowing was a bit of a pleasure today.

TMC

28 Days

Before you even think it, no. This entry will not be a confessional about rehab. I'm no Erik Ainge or Charlie Sheen.

28 more days. Unbelievable. April 28, 1995 - my first young 'un was born. Sixteen years ago ... less 28 days. One of the milestone birthdays of life. I'm toomuchcountry, and I've nicknamed him toomuchtexting.

7 lbs, 11 oz. 21 inches long...16 years ago less 28 days.

The last 16 years are a bit of a blur as I look back on them. And I have no friggin clue what lays before me.

What I do know is that he will turn 16 in 28 days. Suddenly, I've aged to within four weeks of some questions that I've never really asked before:

• What kind of birthday soiree do you have for a sixteen year-old boy? I'm guessing its a big deal to turn 16 as a girl (cue Molly Ringwald/John Hughes movie). But for a son? I have zero memories of turning 16 myself. A big dinner with a bunch of friend? Just a normal dinner with family? Gifts? Or just a shoulder chuck with 'have a great day pal - and clean up your room when you get home'? 28 days...
  
• Is it that big a deal to get your driver's license on the day? Apparently, the answer is a resounding YES. I got my license during my 17th year (post 16th birthday); however, my mother and I were not in line on the day. But he has his mind set that is the one thing he really wants to get. 28 days...
  
• Am I prepared for how my insurance rates are going to skyrocket when he does get his license? My answer contrasts the previous bullet: a resounding NO. 28 days...
  
• When will he start digging girls - at least enough to make it known to us? I'm not stupid...at least not that stupid. He is 'friends' with several PYTs, but he hasn't dated or really even asked about it. For the most part, he is still just a geeky, teen boy. 28 days...
  
• How in the world will the two of us who brought him into this world avoid taking each other out of it over the idea of a car? My wife is scared to death to ride with him. He does fine - its just excessive nervousness on her part. On the other hand, I've got 40-50 hours of passenger time with him behind the wheel, and I think he has done remarkably well. Yet, she is the one who wants to give him a car for his birthday to drive solo whereas I'm the one saying "now wait just a damn minute". 28 days...
  
• Assuming we agree to get him a car (meaning she'll say "we're getting one whether you like it or not"), what shall we get? My vote: a high-mileage, reasonably maintained, 4-door, inexpensive car. Comfortably less than $5,000. Statistics say as a male teen he'll wad the thing up before he moves out from under my roof. I'm viewing any purchase as analogous to buying a blister pack, commodity item near a Wal-Mart register. Use it up, throw it away and start over should the actuaries' prediction prevail. Her suggestion: The precious boy needs a low-mileage, don't-leak-oil-on-my-driveway, current model so he can carefully drive it the next 6 or 8 years. Oh, and it needs to be a bit stylish too. And its gotta be a Toyota, Honda or Nissan because Consumer Reports says those are the best types of used cars. Huh? The kid's whole live is pretty much based on a 10-mile radius from his mattress. If he breaks down somewhere, he could walk home before a tow truck arrives or hypothermia sets in. He isn't a middle-aged, father-of-two who is under employed, struggling with the mortgage and high gas prices and needs a deeply discounted sedan to roundtrip a 30-mile commute from the 'burbs five days a week for the next decade. But I digress. 28 days...
• Have I come to grips that in a bit over 2 years from now he'll pretty much be gone? College, work, somewhere (hopefully not the pokey). Kinda. Even though I don't remember turning 16 during my sophomore year, I do remember turning 18 my senior year. I knew I just had to graduate that spring, work the summer and then move away to college. I love my folks, but I was ready to get gone. So if that's the mindset he's got too, I'm good with it. As a matter of fact, I'll probably struggle more if he does NOT leave. So help me if I have to change his nickname to 'toomuchleeching'. 28 days...
  

When he was born, I had no clue what to do. He peed, crapped, ate, puked, slept and drooled. From around age three until nine, he thought I had hung the moon. And I adored all the time we spent together. Years 10 to 15 were a bit weird - we didn't talk as much even though we spent time together. Now as he approaches 16, I'm trying to learn how to treat him more as a young man while still trying making him realize I'll bust him down to buck-private at the drop of a hat if circumstances dictate.

28 days.

TMC

Tiling Tunes

With apologies to Government Cheese and their song Fish Stick Day...

Friday's here
We're excited, we're delighted
Its Grout Tile Day, Grout Tile Day
I can't wait for Grout Tile Day
Run, run, run for the Home Depot. Yay!
Grout Tile Day, Grout Tile Day
G-R-O-U-T-T-I-L-E
Grout Tile Day

An understanding has evolved between my wife and me over the last few years. I make arrangements to go to a couple of NASCAR races annually as frugally as possible. Score free tickets, crash on a friend's couch where possible, ride with someone else to split gas costs, drink cheap beer, etc. In return she gets to buy some expensive purse or urn, or she sets me up with a big home improvement project. Sounds like a fair trade, right? Well it isn't, but that's the price to pay for me to have some fun nonetheless.

Friday, I finally got around to starting a project for one of my 2010 trips. I installed ceramic tile above the shower in our bathroom. In terms of mega-tile, "This Old House"-type jobs, this one ranks pretty low. Still, I wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

I've installed tile once before - about 10 years ago at our previous house. I wasn't exactly sure what I was doing then, and I'm not sure I was a whole lot better prepared this time. I'll do lawn care, change light bulbs, paint some here and there, and am competent at rudimentary handiwork. But tiling is for keeps. Once you apply a section of thin set and install your first tile, there really isn't any turning back.

But by cracky, I was gonna knock out this job for a few reasons.

1. I believed I could do it. My previous tiling experience, getting do-it-yourself tips on the web, discussing the project with big box hardware store employees and exchanging ideas (and tools) with co-worker/slum lord/fellow blogger and tweeter Ozzy Nelson convinced me so.
2. My wife expected it. I went to my race in 2010, had an...ahem...uh...large time, was gone for 4 days and returned pretty wrung out. This project was partly to enhance the bathroom and partly my come-uppance for having such a good time with my buds.
   
3. I'm too cheap. Even if I could have bought my way out of the project by hiring someone, I really didn't want to fork over the cash to have someone do a professional version of what this amateur hack could do adequately.

Friday: 90% of tile installed. Cuts of corner pieces await

The one thing an all-day (which morphed into a multi-day) project like this allowed me to do was queue up the iPod through external speakers. As I spread thin-set, back-buttered square tiles and cussed as my corner spacers kept falling out, I enjoyed several playlists leftover from events of the past. From there, I moved on to a few specific artists and bands.

When Friday was over, it dawned on me I could have built my own playlist before the project. Based on what I listened to during the project, I may compile Tiling Tunes for that next big project. (I have three races on deck for 2011, so I know big projects are headed my way.)

Here's some tunes that seem to make sense to add to my playlist.

Time To Start - Blue Man Group


Ain't Skeert - The Anomoanon (stream it here)

100% Pure Fool - The Derailers

If I Were A Carpenter - Allison Krauss & Dwight Yoakum


What Was I Thinking - Dierks Bentley

Courage - The Tragically Hip

Width of a Line - The Rainmakers


Go Faster - Black Crowes

If I Had $1,000,000 - Barenaked Ladies

Saturday: All tile installed. Grout, de-hazing, caulk and sealing yet to go.

Hard on Equipment - Corb Lund & The Hurtin Albertans


Far From Perfect > Mr. Dependability - A Duane Jarvis double

Small Miracles - Blue Rodeo

Maybe I Can Paint Over That - Guy Clark

Going The Distance - Cake


I'm pretty proud of myself. Waste of tile was kept to a minimum. Sharp tools or tile weren't dropped that could have gouged the floor, shower or bathtub. I didn't cuss too much - at least not loudly enough for the rest of the family to hear. And none of our cats ended up with a dollop of grout in their fur.

Sunday: Grouted baby!

All in all, a successful project gets logged in the book. Tiling Tunes certainly played a key role in keying me on point.

TMC

A Pack Rat's Redemption

I've been accused by two women in my life of being a pack rat. One is my mother, and the other is my wife. For the former, it takes one to know one. She embraced my keeping whatever I wanted. The latter loathes all things clutter, and my efforts to stay one step ahead of her purge plans are analogous to the efforts of Frank Abagnale in Catch Me If You Can.

I will admit to holding on to a few choice collectibles...and other stuff.


Most of my treasured mementos are tucked away in boxes in our attic, crawlspace or desk drawers. However, I'm not a candidate for Hoarders...yet.

For me, the biggest challenge of keeping stuff though is remembering where I put it. The challenge is getting tougher with age and the accumulation of more stuff. Over the last couple of weeks, I found an envelope of NASCAR-related patches collected as a kid. Suddenly I had a blog idea for Volunteer State Bench Racing. Scan the patches as images, and share them in a blog entry. Only one problem - I couldn't find at least 2 or 3 patches I knew I still had. Nights at home the last week or so have frustrated me because I simply could not find THE envelope with the remaining patches.

Tonight I had an a-ha moment. The attic! I hadn't checked the attic. Inside the second copy-paper box I opened was a shoebox. Off came the lid - and there were the patches! But what is this? More?

Here are a few other items I found tucked away.

• Ticket stubs for a Jacksonville Bulls USFL football game, a Milwaukee Brewers game at the old Milwaukee County Stadium, an Atlanta Braves game at the old Fulton County Stadium
  
• Ticket stubs for concerts by The Connells, R.E.M., Guadalcanal Diary with Treat Her Right and comedian Bob Goldthwait
  
• An "I Love Kmart" button - boy, that one is clearly obsolete
• Several buttons I conned waitresses into giving me. Was I that charming or just that annoying? Wait - don't answer that.
  
• A handwritten set list from the stage of a Fetchin Bones concert - with black duct tape still on each end
• A box of dominoes
• A set of clicker-clackers. Forget the cries of Halo and Grand Theft Auto video games being harmful to kids. Clicker-clackers had the potential to be a true killer - that and lawn darts.
  
• Two books of Lincoln pennies from early 1900s through mid 1970s with only a few missing years. I've got wheat and Lincoln Memorial versions as well as a couple of steel pennies made during World War II. My grandfather gave me the majority of them in an effort to have us share a hobby. I think he contributed 1909 to 1972 with my pitching in 1973-1977.
  
• A flowcharting template. I showed this one to my son who responded with a three-letter, monotone, drawn out, stunned word: Wwwowww. Yes folks - process mapping existed before Office clipart and Visio.
  
• Two baseballs
• Three snare drum instructional and solo books
• My high school class ring and diploma
• An ACE bandage
• A memo from the office administrator of my first professional employer
• A parody memo prepared by co-workers and me mocking said office administrator

All of this may sound like junk to you. But to a pack rat like me, re-discovering all this stuff was like the comfortable feeling of napping in a hammock on a nice, warm day.

Now dang it, where did I store that Kansas Dust In The Wind 8-Track?

TMC

Is it possible to be a really dumb idiot?

The world is full of dumb people, and the world has its share of idiots. But is it possible to be a really dumb idiot?

I've organized a boy scout trip to a university about 90 miles from home for the kids to earn a variety of merit badges. The trip is tomorrow (January 22).

• Six weeks ago, I arranged for drivers.
  
• A month ago, I reminded the scouts who signed up and their parents to mark the date on their calendar.
  
• A week ago, I e-mailed them all again with our specific travel logistics.
  
• A day ago, I e-mailed them a condensed recap of the same information. I provided my e-mail address and cell number in each message.
  

Appropriate level of communication, correct? Apparently not...

Middle Tennessee got a bit of snow last night. I knew it was on its way, and I told everyone I would e-mail, call, send smoke signals, or whatever else it took to communicate any changes in our travel plans. The snow wasn't a big deal, the roads are clear, and all systems are 'go'.

But then I got a call this morning from one of the scouts. Are we still going? Are we car pooling? What time are we meeting? What time are we getting back?

Huh? I told him all that information was sent in multiple e-mails and suggested he and his parents read it. He then gave the phone to his mother who asked me the same questions. So I told her the same thing.

Then I got this response. "Oh, we're over our data limit for our Verizon plan this month. So we're not getting any e-mails for now. That's not the best way to communicate with us." I responded with silence on my end.

She then said she also wanted to go on the trip to look around the campus and visit the engineering building to see if its a school where her kid might want to go. Noble goal I thought - let's see where this goes.

Her: Can I catch a ride there? You know, to look around the campus and all?
TMC: I don't mind your going. However, all seats are accounted for with the 3 drivers I've got. So you'll have to drive separately.

Her: Well, I'm not a snow driver.
TMC: The roads are fine. I was at the office by 7:30 this morning.

Her: But what about there?
TMC: I don't know. I'm not there. I'm here, but I'm certain they are fine - and will be even more so by tomorrow morning.

Her: Well, I really want to go to see if this is a university where my son might want to go.
TMC: As I said, you are welcome to go. I just don't have room for you in our vehicles.

Her: I'm not wanting to go just for fun. I want to go to help us make this important decision about college.
TMC: Time for me to go. I have a meeting to go to...uh, um...right now.

Her: OK. Well, let us know if there are more updates today. Just don't send them by e-mail since we don't have any internet access right now.
TMC: [Click]

Cue Antoine Dodson. She's so dumb. Really dumb. Furreal.

TMC

2010 My Many Blessings

Thanksgiving Day. Calories. Cowboys and Lions. Family. Travel. And for some, ready-set-GO for shopping.

I'll have generous helpings of all the above...except the shopping part. This year - as in prior years - I've had generous helpings of things and people in my life for which I'm genuinely thankful. Last year, I turned my thanks into a blog mini-series. The 2010 will be a single, get-it-and-go edition.

Here is a list of a few things of my life and observations for which I'm thankful ...

• The life of my Uncle Earl who passed away June 3, 2010. My uncle, mentor, and friend. Gone too soon, but he left me with a lifetime of memories, laughs, and counsel.
  
• My son's 80+ year-old scoutmaster who continues year after year to have an endless passion for helping shape boys into young men. His wise challenges to the boys and his smiling encouragement of them is very cool to watch.
• Nashville, TN's music scene. I could make an effort to drive or fly elsewhere to see several bands. But for the most part, I can just stay right chere and wait for them to come through town. I admit I take for granted the vibrant scene of local performers as well as traveling artists.
• The collective positive reaction and recovery efforts by middle Tennesseans following the May 2010 floods.
  
• A brotherhood of five friends with whom I meet each Tuesday morning for breakfast and an hour together to catch up on life.
• Schaefer beer

• Richard Petty's desire to stay involved in NASCAR. For the most part, I've covered my interest in racing in another blog. Yet, I'd be remiss if I didn't give a nod to one of my heroes here.
• The men and women who stand a post in the four corners of the globe doing all they can to defend the unmatched freedoms and liberty of this nation.
• Strawberries
• The gift and art of my daughter's piano playing
• Oatmeal Crisp Raisin cereal

• The homeless. I'm not thankful folks are homeless. But I'm thankful for the lives of people on the street who are too frequently discarded by society.
  
• Not having to contend with an airport during the Thanksgiving travel period
• Maple trees with vibrant red leaves in the fall

• Seeing kids ride bicycles without shoes, a helmet, wrist guards and knee or elbow pads
• My rejection of certain temptations
• Ceviche and a rita on the rocks at Garcia's Mexican restaurant in Franklin, TN
• Labrador retriever pups
  

Happy Thanksgiving if you are reading this.

TMC

Ah-CHOO! You got the new flu?

Once again, my employer is offering free flu shots. They are giving us plenty of opportunities to get the shot and pitching the benefits of getting it. Unlike other types of communications in our company, however, the repeated flu shot promotion is already beginning to hit fever pitch. My inbox is receiving at least 3 to 4 e-mails per week offering - emphasizing - stressing - cajoling each employee to get one.

I work at the corporate office of a healthcare organization. That's right - I'm simply an overhead cost with no patient interaction. So while there is little risk to my catching the flu and passing it to a patient, I suppose I do run the risk of making my co-workers sick or vice versa.

Yet, I'm declining the shot as I do each year. Whether I'm lucky or good, I haven't contracted the flu before. Call me superstitious, smart, or an idiot, but I'm still not planning to get it - the flu or the shot. Last year (and again this year), we were at least presented an alternative: (1) get the shot ya stinkin' conformist or (2) wear a mask if you leave the corporate office for any reason.

But I am curious what strain we'll have this year. Certainly, the U.S. will see its share of traditional flu cases - the Coke Classic if you will of the flu strain. In addition, however, the flu has gone a bit chic the last couple of years with a bonus flu.

Two years ago, we all heard rumors of the bird flu. I'm not sure it ever developed though a co-worker or two was quite certain they nearly died of the stuff at least a couple of times.

Last year, the flu everyone had to have was the Andy Warhollish, 15-minutes-of-fame Swine Flu. Remember this one? Perfectly good bacon sources were slaughtered all over the world once someone in a neighborhood caught the sniffles and bought a bottle of Tussin.

Because I've chosen not to get the flu shot, I feel a bit out of the loop. I readily admit I'm not as hip about this year's Critter Flu as folks around me flocking like lemmings to willingly get stuck. I haven't heard about FLU 2010. So I'm left wondering about what poor, helpless life form may shoulder the blame for this year's flu crisis. Will it be....

The Possum Flu - This type of flu likely hits you right about the time you cross a street at night on your way to the drug store for Tamiflu. You see the on-coming lights of a car while running a fever, and *boom* down you go. The upside of this strain is the symptoms disappear quickly. Once the car is gone, you can generally arise and continue on your merry way.

The Spider Flu - This strain has the potential to cause many folks to miss work repeatedly during the winter because the funk can settle into a pair of legs up to four times a season. Also, its rumored this strain spawns a reddish, hour-glass shaped rash on your abdomen.

The Praying Mantis Flu - If this one develops as expected, look out. This strain is slow to show its symptoms and normally only affects women. A woman harboring the PMF virus generally doesn't know she's contracted it. But after a sex session with a man, PMF becomes very apparent to her when she bites the head off her mate. Sadly, her man's final words are likely "dear, how long have you had that sniffle?"

The Ostrich Flu - A spin-off of the bird flu, this strain is a bit milder than the others. Two temporary but painful and unsightly symptoms are the elongation of the neck and rapid growth of a fat ass. Also, the stress brought on by the ostrich flu results in the patient mentally withdrawing from all reality around him or her - putting their "head in the sand" if you will.

Despite the risks of Flu 101 and Nouveau Flu, I remain committed to declining the shot. The decision about your getting one, however, can be made by only one person: YOU. Well technically if you work or are married to a woman, this isn't exactly true. Odds are against you as your wife or boss may force you to get one. But you understand the point I hope.

With apologies to John Lennon: I am the eggman. I am the walrus. Flu, flu, ah-choo!

TMC

Uneven Steven

Last Thursday, I worked the concession stand at a Nashville Predators pre-season hockey game as a fund raiser for my son's high school band. Individuals from non-profit organizations work the stands, and a cut of the night's revenue goes to support the organization's mission. In our case, the overall nightly take is allocated evenly to an account for each person working the event.

We don't yet have our final numbers for last Thursday; however, its estimated I likely earned about $55 for my son's account to use for band expenses.

On the way home about two miles away from the arena, a Nashville policeman decided he'd rather shoot radar from a dark parking lot rather than root out drug deals likely taking place 100 yards in any direction from where he was sitting in his patrol car.

He said I was going about 10 miles over the speed limit. I'm not sure if I was or not; however, I thought most cops gave you a bit of an overage buffer anyway.

Cost of the ticket he wrote me - whether I pay the fine or the costs of traffic school as an alternative? Fifty dollars.

That's right. When all is said and done, I'll likely net about a Lincoln for seven hours of serving hot dogs, nachos, and Labatt's Blue. I could likely have made more per hour working in a clothing factory in a third world country.

Que sara sara.

TMC

Poetry by my daughter

My daughter wrote this for her language arts class. I think I may go now. And weep a bit of joy. And hug my little girl. And smile.

I Am From Home

I am from dinner parties, filled with fun and friends.
From Mexican foods, steaming with mouthwatering goodness,
From a loving, caring family who makes sure to protect me.
I am from this and much more.

I am from a brick wall family.
I am the mortar between the bricks,
Holding everything together.
I keep us sturdy.

I am from a 2-story red brick house with a deck.
From “Fair is a bunch of rides and cotton candy”,
From a Blue’s Clues based childhood.
I am from my quiet and comfy bedroom.

I am from a cross inscribed with “Bless This Cat”.
From a cat-shaped candle on top of birthday cakes,
From taunting my brother by ‘hearing’ ghosts.
I am from a smart, logical family.

I am from a family with a brother who I admire.
One who is smart and nice to everyone.
A brother who is talented in many ways.
Someone I can trust.

TMC

Nashville's Floods: 100 days later

Has it really been 100 days? From May 1-3, 2010, over 13 inches of rain fell on Nashville, TN and neighboring communities. Once the rains stopped, then the trouble really began. Rainwater ran to the streams and rivers. Lakes had to be lowered through dams adding to the surging river waters.

Many homes and businesses were lost. Some have returned. Some were destroyed and will likely not return. The damage has been well documented - even if it wasn't well covered by media outside of Tennessee.

A friend of mine, Denny Rudolph, was inspired to write a song not only by the stunning events of the flood but more important by the amazing ways in which folks from the mid-state rallied to help one another.


Middle Tennessee has been my home for all but 9 years of my life. Its a spectacular place to call home with spectacular people to call family, friends, and neighbors.

TMC

A Woman Scorned

One of our company cafeteria cashiers is a middle-aged, southern, red-headed, and fiery yet pleasant woman named Rosie. She's nice to everyone that comes through her line.

Up until very recently, we had a self-serve salad and fruit bar. Take what you want, and pay by the ounce (kind of how drugs are sold in East Nashville). If you could guess the exact price of what you chose, you got it free. Not a penny over or under - no accounting for relative humidity or sytrofoam density variability.

I used to go 3 days a week to buy strawberries, blueberries, and cantaloupe for breakfast. While I enjoyed the food, I hated the game. Lots of employees loved the game. It was like their little prudish version of Vegas roulette. Me? I just wanted to get my breakfast, pay Rosie, and walk back to my desk for my first cup of morning coffee.

But sweet Rosie wouldn't have any of it. She'd beg me to play the game. Wanna guess? No ma'am. Aww, c'mon - just take a guess. So to humor her, I'd take a slug at it each time.

Monday: $2.57. No, sorry. Its $3.21.
Wednesday: $3.14. No, sorry. Its $2.87 today.
Thursday: $3.03. Oh so close. But its $3.07.

After a few weeks of this nonsense and zero wins, I thought I'd have some fun with it by bringing my own variable of nonsense.

Monday
Rosie: Got a guess today?
TMC: 18,000 dollars
Rosie: What? Laughs. No, really what's your guess.

Wednesday
Rosie: Got a guess today?
TMC: 17.76
Rosie: *Muffled dismissive chortle* No, $2.98.

Thursday
Rosie: And?
TMC: 21.12
Rosie: Silence. Glare. Takes my money.

Three days. That's all it took to destroy her niceness towards me. This whole exchange was about 18 months ago. Ever since - including today at lunch - she snubs me. Oh, she'll take my money. But its all professional with her now. She'll chitter-chatter with other customers. But with me, nada.

I didn't intend for it to go this direction. I was just trying to have a bit of cynical, playful fun. I'm not sure she even knows why she doesn't like me anymore. And now with this much time having passed, I don't know how to make amends. The cafeteria has since replaced the pay-by-the-ounce scheme with a checklist/fixed price menu. The days of guessing and winning free meals is over.

However, this is the cross I must now bear. I sheepishly go through her line and take my flogging of limited interactive communication.

Rosie, I'm sorry. If it'll make it all better, I guess $3.17.

TMC

Friday night comforts

After a tough week of funeral traveling, I was ready to put this week behind me. We were invited to dinner by our neighbors a couple of houses down. Their son and our son are best friends. We've visited often, gone out to dinner a handful of times, trade-off taking each other's kid to the pool, scouts, school activities, etc. But we've never really gotten to know them much beyond that.

We were invited along with a few other folks to sit on the deck, eat grilled ribs, that ambrosia fruit salad stuff, tomato and mozzarella salad, cheesecake, etc. Also margaritas, wine, and brew were provided. Ummm-hmmm.

After quaffing a couple of after-work Dos Perros from Nashville's Yazoo Brewing, I was willing to experiment with something different. I tried Pilsner Urquell from the Czech Republic for the first time. Good stuff.

One by one, the others left until it was just our two neighbors, my wife, and me. The night air was fantastic with a nice breeze, lightning bugs were plentiful, and beer remained. I was then offered an Italian beer, Birra Moretti. Mamma Mia, it was a good and tasty brew. Capiche?

The four of us don't have a whole lot in common beyond having sons as best friends and living on the same street. My wife stays at home and runs Mom's Taxi Service for our two. I work in a corporate office setting, roll pretty conservative, and dig NASCAR and Americana music. Our neighbors are both chemistry professors - one at a state university and the other at Vanderbilt. They list pretty significantly to the political left. Her van may be the only one in our subdivision sporting an Obama sticker. But hey - we all have to get along, right?

Because the evening was ultra low-key, I wore a pair of flip-flops, a pair of shorts, and my John Prine concert tee. Once other conversations ended, my neighbor said she didn't know I was a Prine fan and that she'd been a fan of his for years. We talked lyrics, his early job as a postman, his getting discovered by Kristofferson, her meeting him in a Nashville book store, the recent show at the Ryman, etc.

Her husband then asked me if I knew who Townes van Zandt was. I responded with an "absolutely!" He then told me a story of his meeting Townes and having a meal with him years ago via a friend. When he met him, Townes introduced himself simply as "Hi, I'm Townes." He said his friend whispered that it was THE Townes van Zandt. I laughed when my neighbor said he thought to himself at the time "So? Who the hell is Townes van Zandt?"

We then discussed how Townes really never promoted himself in his time. He's one of those artists whose fame seemingly came largely after death than during life. They didn't know Townes once lived in Franklin, TN for a while. I told them the story of Joe Ely picking up Townes as a Texas hitchhiker and getting one of his LPs from him (an armload of albums was the only possession he was carrying). We debated on how great a songwriter he was - as measured back in the day and as compared against today's songwriters. And we talked about his decline, hip surgery, and eventual death on New Year's Day 1997.

Talk about Townes and Prine then led rapid-fire to Dylan, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, and Luke the Drifter. Before we could go far with those discussions, my wife not-so-subtly gave me the throat-slash sign. Cut it off - its getting late - time to go.

But it was definitely an enjoyable Tennessee summer evening. Got to know the neighbors a bit better. Sampled two beers that were new to me. Agreed to share some TVZ boots with them. And my week ended on a far better chord than the minor one in which it began.

TMC

R.I.P. Uncle Earl

Well, its over. Just like that. The uncle I've blogged about a couple of times is no more. We got the call at my parents' house this morning about 6:30 AM. Apparently, he slipped away peacefully with his wife by his side.

I was at my parents' house to take them and another of my uncles to the Nashville airport for a two-day visit to Jacksonville, FL to visit with him. The news since my visit there a couple of weeks ago had all been positive. His stamina had improved, his dependence on heavy oxygen had decreased, his voice was stronger, and he had been enjoyed additional visitors.

My mother/his sister couldn't wait to get there to see him. She's been so anxious to make the journey. My dad, however, physically couldn't do it. He recently had hip replacement surgery, and he needed a good bit of rehab before making the trip.

Against his doctor's recommendation, my dad said "I'm going." So I booked them a flight on Southwest, and they were packed and raring to go this morning.

We were literally 5 minutes away from getting in the car and my driving them to the airport. Then the call came. Immediately both my parents became obviously distraught - both at his death and the fact they didn't make it there in time. The second part hurt me more so than the expected first part.

My dad started with a round of What Ifs. What if my mother had gone to Jax without him? What if they had flown 2 days ago? What if he had postponed the surgery another six months? I'll certainly never be mistaken for a grief counselor, but I tried to assure him the What Ifs weren't necessary. Things happen for a reason - and oftentimes for reasons we'll likely never understand while on this earth.

So now, its time for next steps. I've got to get funeral flights booked, pack a suit to wear in the Florida summer sun, and acting like an adult the next few days by being attuned to the needs of my mother and my aunt.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I went to the NASCAR races in Charlotte, NC. I was so grateful to my many friends for gathering for a Hey Earl! shout-out photo. I had hoped to get the picture to him to have a good laugh and let him know yet again how much we thought of him. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get the photo to him in time.

I've lost my uncle, my friend, my mentor, and my son's namesake. The world has lost a great man, and this nation has lost a great patriot. But heaven has gained a great soul.

R.I.P. Earl Taylor Leming: January 17, 1952 - June 3, 2010

TMC

A visit worth taking

I made an impromptu trip to Florida to visit my uncle a week ago. As I mentioned about a month ago, he has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. While we thought - including him - that he likely had several months to enjoy life a bit, he took a turn for the worse two Thursdays ago. A serious infection in his lungs other than the cancer sent him for a loop, a trip to the ER, a multi-day stay at the hospital, and then a trip back home the day before I arrived.

From what I understand, it was "this close" to my packing a black suit vs. a pair of jeans. I wanted to say good-bye if that's the way the conversation broke. If not, we'd talk about whatever else happened to come up.

As it turns out, he improved ever so slightly so I could enjoy a meaningful - albeit brief - visit with him. I was on the ground a tick over 24 hours, and I got to spend about 90 minutes with him - 90 fantastic minutes. Some highlights for me included:

• I drank a couple of stray beers found in his refrigerator. Because I'm using humor as a way to avoid the realities of his situation, I told him I'd take care of his brew since he was in no condition to drink it himself.
• Nestled amongst the diversity of single beers was a Corona Light. Knowing his disdain for Corona, I removed it from the refrigerator, held it a moment, slowly turned around, and looked at him with a puzzled look. Despite his frailty and weak voice, he managed to utter through his oxygen mask: "Not mine! Brother-in-law's!" I couldn't help but laugh at his distancing himself from it.
• With his current condition and dependence on a continual, heavy flow of oxygen, he can't smoke, have a beer, down a shot, or even sip a cup of coffee. His only vice allowed right now is Diet Dr. Pepper - and its even a struggle to drink it and keep it on his stomach. One of his goals is to rebound well enough to walk to the end of the driveway to get the newspaper and steal a smoke on the way back to the front door.
• By mid-afternoon the day of my arrival, his voice had faded to a barely a whisper. He pointed to an empty can of Dr. Pepper which was my cue to get a fresh one. He took a small sip. Sure enough - not good. A coughing fit hit him. My aunt quickly wanted to make sure he was OK. After the coughing stopped and he had regained his composure a bit, she asked him very directly but lovingly: "Are you okay? Do you need anything?" With a voice as resonant as the Who's Yop heard by Horton, he managed to pipe up one word: WHISKEY! I couldn't help it and just started laughing.
• During my stay, he felt well enough to be brought twice from the back of the house to the front living room. This was a big accomplishment for him considering his condition during his 4-day hospital stay. He didn't stay long either time, but I think it was rewarding to him to "live" in his living room vs. being confined to his bedroom.
• As we sat near one another during his first visit, I ran out of things to talk about. We covered the Celtics playoff hopes, the Nashville floods, the Gulf oil problem, my upcoming visit to the NASCAR race in Charlotte Memorial Day weekend, my parents' health, etc. Most of those 'conversations' were one-sided as I started a subject, and he either nodded or offered an occasional syllable or two for his viewpoint. I was done - out of subjects. But as we sat a moment in silence and I stared at the wall a moment wondering where to go next, he cleared his throat and started to speak. He finally addressed the elephant in the room...
• He told me in a quiet voice yet one clear enough for me to hear that he was ready. He doesn't want to go, but he is ready when it happens. While looking directly at me, he said he'd had a great life and that he'd be selfish if he asked for more of it. The last line dropped me.
• I felt my eyes fill with tears and my throat tighten. Now I really wasn't sure how to continue. All I could get out was that I understood his opinion about not wanting to be selfish. But I also said I was selfish enough to ask for more time for him to be with us. After that, no more was said for the moment.
• Thursday mid-day, I was able to spend a few more minutes with him before heading for the airport. We watched a bit of CNN and ESPN. Finally he said he wanted to take a nap and thanked me for visiting. This was the moment I had to leave. Once again, I didn't know what to say. Good-bye seemed both cheap and final. So I opted for "We'll see ya later. How about we visit again in Tennessee?" He smiled, shook my hand, and said "in a month". If those words end up being the final exchange we have in this world, I'm OK with it.
  

I'm really glad I had the opportunity to go, and I truly think it was meant for me to be there. I had no hassles from my VP about taking two days off with virtually no notice. My team didn't need to contact me much in the two days I was gone. Southwest did their part and got me there and back right on-time. And I was able to help my aunt a bit with a few menial tasks - taking the trash to the curb, helping home health folks get in the house, look in on him while she was on the phone, etc. The whole trip was smooth as silk.

Its been a week since I was there. The great news is his voice and stamina are continuing to return. He's getting to the front of the house with a walker now vs. being pushed in a wheelchair. Other relatives have booked short trips to visit with him about like I did. And he's enjoying them.

At some point, the cancer is going to kick his ass - hard. But for now, the healing of the infection is allowing him to again to enjoy some meaningful time with friends and family.

TMC