The Hunt for Red Tomato

It wasn’t that long ago that men hunted and gathered. Now we shop. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be in air conditioning in summer or a heated space on cold days. We used to sit outside, in all types of weather, waiting for some animal to wander by. We’d ponder what we wanted for dinner as the rain soaked us, but it actually didn’t matter. Food is food and eating is a good thing so any preoccupied animal that didn’t notice us, hiding behind a log with our green-and-brown-painted face, was going to have a bad day. Ah, when men were men.

So, it’s a sunny Friday afternoon as I head to the grocery store with my wife-directed shopping list on my phone. In the parking lot, a luxury sedan zooms by and slams on the brakes just short of an older man in the entrance crosswalk. Wow. That was close. She almost dropped her phone. The man doesn’t even turn his head. I nod. He’s a courageous, experienced shopper.

She parks in the front of the store next to the curb, blocking traffic, and hops out. The sour-lemon face gives her away. She’s a VIP. None of us matter. I suspect she forgot something on her last trip here. I turn right, down an aisle, watching out for other old men.

Crap. A Camry with a turn signal blinking is stopped in front of me. It’s waiting. The bumper sticker says, “I Love (some of) My Grandchildren.” It’s a retired person and this is probably their daily outing. I start tapping the steering wheel. In the rear-view mirror, I see two cars waiting behind me. They can’t get around the waiting car either because of a crew-cab, long-bed truck parked on the left that didn’t pull in far enough. This is going to get ugly.

Ahead of the Camry a woman is pushing an overflowing cart while one little girl holds her hand and takes slow, baby steps. Another little girl walks ten feet behind reading a book. As the mom walks, the Camry slowly stalks forward to keep up. If the mom walks too far, her space will not be considered a “prime” space and the Camry may give up, but no such luck. The woman stops and opens the hatch of her minivan. She glances toward the line of waiting cars expressing no concern or sense of urgency. After all, she’s just been shopping and is stressed out. The valium is wearing off. It takes her several minutes to load the groceries into her van. She does it with one hand as she holds the little girl’s hand with the other and consoles her. The Camry waits. We wait.

Fully unloaded, mom takes the cart to the cart stand with the little girl in tow. Her neck is bent severely left to hold her cell phone while she walks. She wanders back to the minivan, straps in both kids, starts the car, and sits with the brake lights on, unmoving. It must be a really important call. In the meantime, a car backs out of a space to my left and squeezes by the protruding truck. The Camry’s white backup lights come on but it can’t back up. I’m in the way. Ha. The space is mine.

I drift back a foot and swing into the open slot. As I get out of the car, I glance at the Camry’s driver. She is giving me the eat-waste-matter look. Her anger will persist. The other people waiting are also angry. The only happy people are the mom and me. This sets the stage for a normal shopping experience. Half the people are angry, almost half want to be somewhere else, and me.

The automatic swinging door opens and to the right are the shopping carts. I turn toward them, and a person cuts me off and takes a cart. As she leaves, she glances at me with no expression. I’m an object, just like a tree next to the interstate.

Deciding to maintain my upbeat mood, I say to me, “I’m glad I let her get go first. She’s probably in a hurry, with a lot of things on her mind.” My calm ends when another person, male, blocks me and takes a cart. He leaves and I scan the area. No one else is around to be rude.

Cart in hand, I go into the store. One wheel has something caught in it. It’s not turning and is pulling itself to the left. I don’t care. I’m moving forward. If I go back to the carts, I may hurt someone.

Checking my phone list, I note “lunch meat and cheese” and head for the deli section. There are two people waiting at the counter as the store folks are slicing something on what I call the meat table saws. Without a number system it’s every person for themselves. One store employee hands some sliced turkey to one of the customers and stupidly asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” The elderly customer says, “Well, let me see…”

The second customer gets his sliced cheese and says, “I wanted this to be sandwich thickness. This is obviously thinner,” and he hands it back. A woman walks up to the other end of the counter as a third employee enters the area. He asks her what she would like today. I turn my cart around and head for the fruit. I’ll just tell my wife they were out of lunch meat.

As I approach the apples, a man performs a “block.” It’s the same principle as blocking in football, but you have a cart and can impede more area. He parks his in front of half the apples. Of course, they are the ones I want to buy. I pull in front of him and wait with a snarky smile. He doesn’t even look at me. He’s really experienced at this.

He inspects over twenty or thirty Fujis, trying to find the most perfect apple since Adam and Eve. I wait. Finally holding two superior selections, he walks back to the plastic bag dispenser where, after fiddling with a bag for about a minute, throws it on the floor. Everyone knows you can’t open them with one hand and sometimes two. He is obviously new at this. My opinion of his shopping prowess is diminished.

Taking another, he manages to open it on the first try and we’re almost home, but then seeing some Golden Delicious, he starts to examine alternatives. I move his cart out of the way.

He glares at me for a second, then smiles. “I’m sorry. Let me move this.” I’m not stupid. He’s not sorry. It was intentional. A woman approaches, so I hurry to position my cart to block the Fujis and Honeycrisps. As I snicker inside, she passes by. That was awful. Why did I do that? I reprimand myself using words and phrases I learned from my high school coaches.

Broccoli is on my list. I get to the bin and the same guy is blocking it. He must have prematurely abandoned the Golden Delicious. Standing there, peeling leaves from a purple cabbage and dropping them in the broccoli bin, he smirks. I suspect he saw my shopping list. I move past as if I have no interest. That’s right, rude man, I don’t need broccoli. I’ll just tell my wife they were out of broccoli.

The next list item is tomatoes. The tomato aisle has no customers or carts. I can’t believe it. I sprint toward the aisle. The rapid pace causes my stuck cart-wheel to squeak loudly. People are noticing. Just before I get there, a store employee pushes a dolly filled with boxes in front of the tomato bin and blocks them. Now, with tomatoes inaccessible, he walks back through the doors to nowhere, the double metal doors for employees only. They don’t want us to see what’s behind them. I think of Charlton Heston and soylent green. I move on to the packaged products areas.

The non-fresh areas are much friendlier turf. Things are boxed and labeled, and products are sought by name. There are no quality concerns other than ensuring the boxes are not crushed or severely wounded by box cutters. The downside is people reading labels. Those folks always seem to park their carts in the middle of the aisle. Only by stopping and glaring will they move. They probably read all the documents when buying a house or car. Lawyers love them since they bill hourly.

My wife always tells me to search for sales – the special signs where the prices are displayed, sometimes even below the correct product. Instead, I find gaps on the shelves and hope there are items left. Gaps are easier to detect. However, that doesn’t work during a pandemic for toilet paper and bleach, but for other things it works quite well. There are no sales of anything I might want, but I do pick up a couple of things because you just never know.

All done, I go to the checkout line. Left and right, I notice only two of the eight lines are open, several people waiting at each. It’s like the doctor’s office where they make you wait on purpose. It’s part of putting you in your place, letting you know where you stand. There are four or five employees wandering around, but we are not their concern.

I slowly advance to next in line. An employee walks up the adjacent aisle and tells the person behind me to come over. He is opening up a new checkout lane. What am I? Chopped liver? Two people behind me move into the new line. The customer in front of me is still unloading their cart and will be for a while.

I have time so review my list. Of the twenty items, I have nine in my cart plus two sale items I don’ t need, one more than the ten-item express lane permits. I consider going there anyway, but I don’t want to endure the other customers’ condemnation.

The person in front of me has struck up a conversation with the checkout lady. Seems they have children at the same school. Now she’s leaning on the cash register and laughing. I think, “I don’t have to live like this.” I look at my list again. The one critical item was a tomato. What do I do? What do I do? I would have to wait in line again but decided to go back to the vegetables or my mission would be a failure.

Six people are sorting through the just-put-out, fresh, gloriously red tomatoes. The area is totally blocked with carts and people. I take a deep breath and spot a small gap in the herd. I squeeze between the carts, reach in, and grab a large one. As my arm retracts, the lady next to me watches the tomato pass by with an envious stare. I got a good one, maybe the best one. I decisively walk away, trophy in hand. Throwing protocol to the wind, I go to different, empty aisle and get a plastic bag. I am proud of myself.

Back at home, I pledge no shopping for at least two days. Recovery time is important. The tomato is isolated on the counter, much like a trophy. I study it and feel a hunger pang. “That would be good on a sandwich.” I open the refrigerator. No lunchmeat. No cheese. I close the door and exhale. Time to start a new shopping list.

Golf

I went golfing today. My friend Dave (not the communist Dave in the Debates topic) loves to golf and invites me, so I go. There are things in life you love, and some things you hate. For me, golf is both. If I had a car that wouldn’t start half the time, I’d get rid of it. I miss my golf shots half the time, but I keep going back. I’ve been raised to believe men don’t give up, so I won’t, dammit.

I once read that golf is primordial. Men like to do it because men, for eons, hit things with clubs to eat, or drive others with clubs away from the cave or village. Hitting something with a club is built into our DNA. Just like the cave-dweller, we derive some sadistic pleasure when hitting a ball and/or the Earth. Golf is a better outlet because these actions don’t normally result in a lawsuit.

When I was twelve, my dad had me caddie for him. He felt it was important for me to learn the game. Now being older, I ask myself why he would think a twelve-year-old boy would want to carry a twenty-five-pound golf bag in ninety-five-degree, sunny, humid heat for five hours. While it was good training for the military, I didn’t like it then. Today I golf to spend time with my friends. To be honest, I’d be just as happy to spend time in an air-conditioned establishment serving libations, but then we couldn’t swing clubs and hit things. Another life tradeoff.

When I was thirteen, my dad bought me a set of clubs. They were a “starter set” which means they were cheap. I tried to blame my horrible game on them, but no one listened. They always told me it was “operator error.” I still have significant operator errors when I play even though I have upgraded my clubs several times.

During a golf etiquette lesson, my dad taught me not to throw clubs, especially toward other players, but in the fury of a moment, I sometimes forget. If you have never played golf, you probably wonder why people throw clubs. You won’t see it on the PGA tour. There are some regulations against it even if you don’t hit somebody, but I see the look in a PGA player’s eyes once in a while. It usually happens when they just blew a three-shot lead, but then it’s understandable. There are hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake, not to mention all the people watching and snickering.

Now that I’m older, and in better control of my anger, I only throw clubs four or five times a year and always yell “fore” if someone is in the way. My mind cannot fathom why my body doesn’t do what I want. How hard can it be? Why is my ball in the woods again?

For people unfamiliar with golf, or for review if you are, it’s time for some golf terminology . . .

Yelling “fore” is a golf custom. In addition to throwing clubs, you use it when you hit a ball at somebody, usually not on purpose, but it depends on how slow the guys in front of you are playing. It is a warning to duck and cover because a very-hard, spherical object is coming toward the person at a high rate of speed. Some golfers turn and try to see the approaching ball. Very stupid. By the time they see it, they are likely to get a significant bruise. If ever hit yourself, it may be an opportunity to use your club to retaliate, but only if you are still able to walk. There’s that DNA again.

“Tee time” is the time you start playing. There is a trade-off with tee times. I’m talking about summertime when it’s over ninety degrees before noon. You can get a really early tee time and be done before it’s hot, or sleep in and endure the relentless heat of the day. It mostly depends on when you drink beer. Some people will drink beer at 9:00 a.m. so it doesn’t matter. I have a personal beer start time of noon. Either way, most of us play worse once we start drinking, but we don’t care.

“Handicap” is a golf term. I always thought, before golf, a handicap was a bad thing. You know, crippled, missing a limb, blind, those sorts of things. In golf, a big handicap is a good thing. A big handicap means you can screw up more shots than the other guy with a lower handicap and still win. It’s supposed to make things more competitive. The lousy players have a better chance. For some reason, they seldom win anyway. Just the thought of beating someone better than you causes you to play a lot worse.

Some guys are proud of their low handicap because it means they are good golfers, to be respected and admired by others. They won’t tell you about it. That is distasteful, but the guy they brought with them will. It typically goes like this: “Hey pal, you know Joe is a seven handicap.” Me, “No I didn’t. I’m a twenty-five.” End of conversation.

Another bad handicap thing requires the golf definition of “foursome” which means four people playing together. It’s the normal group size. I don’t know why it’s called a foursome, or who picked that number as the standard, but it’s fun to know the jargon and feel like a real player.

When you play in tournaments, the foursome you’re assigned normally has an A player, B player, C player, and D player. The A player has the lowest handicap, probably because he grew up next to a golf course. He is normally the captain of the team, unless you’re playing with people from work. In that case, the captain is whoever is highest on the org chart.

I’m always happy being the D player, but some people seek leadership and power, and the low handicap, or the org chart, facilitates that. Usually, they only decide who goes first when hitting shots, but I did have one captain who decided to help my game. About the fourth time he was telling me how to stand and how to hold the club and how to swing I asked him, “Are we married?” He was quiet the rest of the round.

Pairings. Pairings might be fine at a dance or figuring out what wine to drink, but in golf, it means you couldn’t find three other guys to play with. The people at the golf course will make you play with others who you don’t know anything about except they are playing golf that day. There are a couple of things to work out when these others are forced upon you.

First, is there a clergy in the group? This can really constrain behavior. It’s worse than dinner with the in-laws. I do know some preachers who will say hell or damn, but that’s about it. Most of the jokes you were going to tell have to stay packed in your bag. The problem for me is I’ll forget them before the next round.

Second, most people you get paired with have played before but there’s no evidence of it. A lot of people should play tennis instead, but they’re still trying golf because their spouse thought it was a good idea or their dad bought them clubs when they were thirteen.

Third, if you get stuck with low handicap players, you’re the lead-weight in the group. There will be tremendous pressure to do better than you can. Expect one of the worst games of your life. When the round is over, they will shake your hand and say, “Enjoyed it,” which is a complete lie.

Fourth, I’ve been chauvinistic thus far by not mentioning women golfers. Twice I was paired with women and both times they beat me by over ten strokes. Enough said.

That’s enough. I’m going to the golf range for a while. Writing about this has pumped me up. I’ve got to practice before it’s too hot outside. Always remember that the theoretical best golf score anybody could ever have is eighteen. Eighteen holes-in-one, but the average golfer scores 100 or more. Heck, the best pros shoot in the sixties so don’t feel bad. We’re all awful at this. Maybe I just need some new clubs?

Debates

I just watched the first presidential debate of the 2020 election. I estimate that I heard about sixty percent of what was said. That was probably enough to get the idea of where the candidates stand on the real and fabricated issues. The other forty percent was a non-harmonious mix of voices from the two debaters and the moderator. I forgot to turn on closed captioning. Wonder how they handled that? Notice that I’m not mentioning who was debating or moderating. You know who they are. The names are at the end of this for clarity.

Back in college, and I was there before computers, cell phones, and delivered meal kits, I took a debating class. We were given a contentious topic and asked to defend one side of it. My big project was the then-being-developed Super Sonic Transport (SST). Since I was the only short-haired, Air Force ROTC person hoping to be a jet pilot someday, I was assigned the proponent view. Another student, obviously a liberal communist named Dave, was the clueless con man.

Dave’s argument was that the SST flew in the stratosphere and any exhaust fumes and particles would remain there forever, blocking sunlight reaching the earth and turning the planet into a big ball of ice. Looking back, I wish he was right since it might be counteracting global warming, but that’s another topic. I’m thinking that Pluto probably had SSTs flying around which caused its icing problem. Distance from the sun may have been a factor too, but hey, I’m not a space guy.

Anyway, another con argument was that the SST breaking the sound barrier would cause damage to people’s hearing and could damage buildings. Since the planes were only meant to fly supersonic over the ocean, that was easy to counter. The commie, Dave, said that he was thinking of the area around the airport where the plane would land. I gently suggested, with minimal profanity, that planes have to slow down to land. He said, “Oh.”

The debate was short, and I had full confidence that I had won, but when the other students voted, I lost. Turns out my fellow students were anti-military, anti-Vietnam War, and anti-logic. I had no chance, but, like me, presidential debaters always think they won, and that their election has been cemented. This time they both lost. As always, the debates are usually a small factor in elections because over ninety percent of voters know who they’re voting for already, but debates can be entertaining so they watch.

About halfway through the presidential debate I remembered a few things. The first is that politicians never really grow up. Words, as opposed to sticks and stones, are still weapons that evoke visceral response. It doesn’t matter if you’re the leader of the free world assigning juvenile nicknames to people you don’t like, or a retired senator dumb enough to stick your tongue on a freezing metal post.

Second, the audience is very stupid. At least that’s what a presidential debater thinks. Only words learned by kindergarten should be spoken otherwise the audience will not know what you’re saying. Not knowing is not the problem, but the fact that a word was used that the audience doesn’t understand makes them dislike the debater because they are an effete intellectual snob.

The third thing is that it really doesn’t matter what they say. They’re supposed to be liked and look good. That’s it. For both debaters last night, one out of two isn’t bad. Some voters don’t understand the issues, let alone the remedies, and, even more likely, they don’t care. People that are unemployed or barely make enough money to eat can’t relate to 401k’s or corporate allocation of free cash due to lower taxes. At any rate, looking good and dressing right is much more important than what comes out of their mouth. Both debaters last night obviously have good tailors.

“So why debate?” you ask. I’m not sure, but I think it’s a combination of tradition and TV ratings. People love to watch them. They are participating in the democratic process, and, like a NASCAR event, waiting for the opposing candidate (the one you hate) to smash into the guardrail and explode in flames. Neither candidate did that this time, although something was smoldering on stage right from the start. Maybe it was the moderator?

You can read old debate transcripts from years past and see that the people today are not much better or worse than the past. Name-calling and lies are prevalent, but only half are detected or offensive. Lies and name-calling coming from the other candidate, not yours, are offensive, but remember words don’t matter.

I talked to my sister who lives in Pennsylvania. My being in Georgia provides us a diverse perspective. She said she turned off the debate because it was so irritating. This proves two things: some people don’t tolerate nonsense (my sister,) and others are addicted and don’t recognize nonsense (me.) I asked her if it helped her decide who she would vote for. She said yes. She had previously told me that she was leaning toward Biden because she really didn’t like Trump. The debate deepened her dislike. Trump might lose Pennsylvania anyway since Biden claims to be from there, but he only lived there for a few years after birth. I know that’s true because I read it on the Internet. I responded that I was going with Trump because I thought he had a much nicer tie.

Retired Life

I could start by saying that my alarm went off this morning, but it didn’t. My wife gets up at 5:45 a.m. every workday and hates the fact that I don’t have to. I don’t set an alarm.

It takes an hour and a half for her to get ready for work. I call this activity The Process. It can be very noisy: open and close doors, shower door, hairdryer, hair curler (not so noisy), walk from bathroom to closet, pull plastic shoebox off the shelf, drop lid on floor, take out hard-soled shoes, drop on floor, walk on tile like she was on the Parris Island parade grounds – heel, toe, heel, toe. You get the idea – not conducive to sleeping. There’s also some hanger rattling as she selects her wardrobe, but I don’t want to get picky.

Within five nanoseconds after waking, her brain has already retrieved all the tasks and events in her day from her memory bank. Some of them are not pleasant, and most do not help her reach self-actualization. Her Pissed Meter is already in the red.

The days I do get up with her, she usually asks me what I’m doing that day. If my response doesn’t include my assigned significant tasks, then she will suggest additional things for me to do. I’m retired. I don’t need anything to do. The things she usually mentions are on an old list that I call my Never List. As with colonoscopies, I am hoping to never do them again: painting, making something out of wood, going to Home Depot, etc. Actually, I do like going to Home Depot, but that “like” is offset by the resulting work that has to be done.

Then she leaves. I’m alone. Okay, I admit there’s a moment of loneliness and sadness, but that ends when I remember it’s time for breakfast. The foods I select are those she doesn’t know I’m eating. She is the food police. When gone, I can eat whatever I want. Ha.

Here come the eggs, toast (two pieces with jelly), and sausage. I get everything on the counter, ready to cook. Then I go to the pantry.

Crap. There it is — the high fiber cereal. It’s staring at me and wagging its finger. The guilt pours over me like Log Cabin syrup, which is banned in the house by the way.

Dammit. I put the eggs, sausage, bread, jelly, and butter away, pour a bowl of sawdust, get some blueberries and milk, and grudgingly eat what I’m supposed to. I suspect that she checks the level of the cereal box daily, so I weigh eating the stuff against the potential verbal reprimand. The cereal always wins. To get through eating it, I imagine I’m a POW and am thankful for anything to eat that is not a rodent.

With breakfast over, I move on to my first task. I usually watch one of the business channels until the stock market opens. I don’t own very much stock, but it helps me feel wealthy. I lose that feeling anytime a major appliance breaks. Once I learn the current events that will either tank the market or make it rise to new highs I move on to my next task. (Both views of the market are presented to assure that the business channel is never wrong since they told you so.)

I make my way to my computer, in my ten by ten “office.” I turn on the computer and, since it takes fifteen minutes to be usable, I practice putting on a six-foot-long chunk of fake grass – my birthday present from 2006. I would putt better, but I keep glancing at the computer to see the percentage complete of the daily update. Today it’s taking quite a while. Every day it takes quite a while, but that’s good. It’s always good to practice golf when I’m pissed because I’m usually pissed after two holes. Simulate conditions whenever possible. 

I knock three balls into the hole of the fake-grass mat, then turn around. Yay. The login screen is showing. I sit, login, then get up and putt a few more. I’m not sure what the computer does after login, but it also takes about fifteen more minutes. My stepson says it’s loading things from the internet and my internet is too slow. Since I’m also slow, I don’t care. Hey, just sank six in a row.

Now, with my cyberspace access device fully operational, I pull up my latest writing attempt. I always wanted to write stuff. It used to be so easy, the words just flowed out of me, but I joined a writing critique group. They are so picky about spelling, punctuation, and believable scenes. It’s very constraining.

I scroll the Word document. Do I edit the old or write the new? The pesky software has red-underlined about ten words and green-underlined at least five phrases. I ponder and ponder. I click the browser to check email. It’s 9:00 a.m.
My best friend has sent me a video link. I click it, YouTube pops up and another thirty-five-year-old super-model is presenting the threat of an ongoing conspiracy to overthrow the United States. I shake my head. I have told him a dozen times that he should watch the home improvement channel. He won’t change. 

I watch half of it but notice there’s a video on the right column about the F-22. I click it and watch an airplane do what is impossible. Airplanes are supposed to move forward or die. There’s another video in the column about Russia’s newest generation-five fighter. I click it and watch. The F-22 would surely kick this thing’s ass.

I lose track of time watching mind-numbing videos for two hours. I go back to email and pull up the second one. The lingering Word doc window is just barely showing behind the browser window. It haunts me. Maybe I can write something else today, something new. There ought to be some creativity left in my shriveled brain. I open a new document.

It’s so stark. There’s nothing there. Just blank white space. I ponder again, then I go to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. When the Keurig is done spitting it out, I go to the couch and turn on a news channel.

Same old stuff. Oh, wow, it’s going to be ninety-two degrees in Atlanta today, thirty percent chance of rain. That’s different. NOT. Same daily forecast for three months now. Why couldn’t I live in Alabama – daily tornadoes with brief periods of Sahara dust? Something exciting for a change.

I put my hands together and pray: Dear God, please disregard my last thought. Just flush that thing away, like I never thought it. Ninety-two and rain are just fine. Thank you.

What an idiot I am, thinking something like that. Time for lunch.

Now in the fridge, I move the lettuce and carrots aside and get out the salami and swiss cheese. You get the idea. I was good for breakfast. Lunch is open-season on fat and carbs. I make my sandwich and go back to the fridge for mustard. None. It’s got to be hidden. Nope. No mustard. Life is nothing but torment. I eat the dry, tasteless sandwich anyway. The half bag of Fritos makes it tolerable.

I walk back to my computer and sit. There it is again – the blank white box in the window. Maybe, if I read, it will generate some ideas. I look behind me to my books. There are a few I haven’t read. I pick one and take it to the living room. Laying down on the couch I open it and start reading – “Call me Ishmael.”

The door to the garage slams and wakes me up. I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 6:02 p.m. I remember that I was born at that time. I might die at that time. I lift the book lying on my chest. “Call me Ishmael” mocks me. She walks into the room.

She’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw. I get a rush of happiness and hug her before she can rifle through the mail she brought in. I’m so lucky to have her. She hugs back and says, “What’s for dinner?”

Getting Old

You know you’re getting old when . . .

  • You can identify a 1969 Mach I and Dodge R/T by the sound.
  • You remember people who liked Sanka and thought it taste good.
  • Girls who wore skirts above the knees were sluts.
  • Somebody used to clean your windshield and check the oil when you got gas.
  • You could put air in your tires for free.
  • Breakfast was either shredded wheat or corn flakes.
  • Everybody supported the President.
  • Socialism was a bad thing.
  • Congress was respected.
  • You had to go to two stores to get gas and bread.
  • The worst thing to have was cooties.
  • Stores were closed on Sundays.
  • Nobody watched the NFL and players got $50 per game (only if they played).
  • You remember your mother shoveling coal into the furnace before bed.
  • Your parents didn’t have to pay anything for you to play football.
  • The electric bill was over three dollars and your dad freaked out.
  • You would giggle when anyone said the word “sex”.
  • Your mom was afraid of the washing machine rollers.
  • You wore a coat and tie on an airliner.
  • Stores had an honor system that would allow you to put things on credit.
  • You always shined your shoes after wearing them.
  • Stuff made in Japan was junk.
  • Kissing a girl was a big deal.
  • Actors acted and weren’t political experts.
  • Mainline churches followed the Bible.
  • You remember guys you went to school with who died in Vietnam.

More recent things . . .

  • A double date meant two couples, not seeing two girls the same night.
  • Friends with benefits meant they had health insurance.
  • Girls only slid down poles in dark, back alley bars, not at the Super Bowl.

Writing “The Wind”

All earthly things have a starting point. Mine goes way back to sixth grade, but for brevity’s sake, lets jump forward to my sixties. (Yes, I’m old.)

 I always had an interest in writing but never had (i.e., took) the time to pursue it. I dabbled, but let’s face it, it’s a lot of work and I was always already working enough (i.e., lazy.)

Then a lady at church, let’s call her Alice, invited me to a writing group she was starting. I thought, “Gee, this could be fun,” so I joined. At that group, thanks to, well, let’s call them Peggy, Steve, Regina, and some others, I got the silly notion that I could someday write a book.

(As I would learn, writing a book is a lot like climbing a mountain, but climbing a mountain takes a lot less time.)

So at that point, I had motivation and a lot of false confidence, then opportunity knocked. His name was Arnold.

Arnold’s story was written down in true German, technical fashion. He had told his story for his children – born in Nazi Germany, served in the army, yadda, yadda. When he let me read it, I thought it was a great story and people should know it. He didn’t think so initially, but he allowed me to go pursue my fantasy. We started this in 2012.

Over the years, I would write a chapter and send it to him. (He was living with his daughter’s family in Maryland. I live near Atlanta.) Within a week, he would review and send back his comments. He was always concerned with factual information. He also told me he wrote like a newspaper journalist, but I had the idea to use his life events in a fictional (mostly) story. His wish was to remain anonymous and so he wanted his character in the book to be named Arnald. (A very small beard to be sure.)

At some point I joined the Atlanta Writers Club. It was just what I needed. Monthly meetings of writers telling their horror story of finding agents, getting published, the hundreds of edits, and how little money they made were all helpful in downsizing my expectations.

I then joined a writing critique group near my home and quickly learned what a hack I really was. (It was kind of like some of those people on American Idol who think they can sing.) The people in the critique group were real writers, published, making money, or “wanna bes” like me. Over the years, I think I improved because the extra ink on my weekly five pages of story diminished significantly.

I need to mention the book title. It comes from John 3:8. In Greek, the word for Wind is also for Breath and Spirit. With Arnold, his life, in retrospect, seemed to have a path. He had no doubt that his purpose was set and would be fulfilled but the path was influenced, if not guided, by his God.

Back to Arnold. He, besides being exceptionally likeable, was a humble man despite his intelligence, deep knowledge, and Harvard education. We became great friends. He passed away in December of 2016. The book was finished in March 2020, three months after I retired. I wish he could have seen the finished product, but that is on me. I hope you enjoy it.

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