A Senior Moment kind of Day

I’ve been taking pictures of Lake Gaston since 1982 when Mom and Dad purchased a small lake-house. Through the years I have built up relationships with a few vendors who sell my pictures and posters and paintings and greeting cards and postcards. (I will never get rich but I enjoy the work and the occasional infusion of pocket change.) During those same years I witnessed the inevitable trend of people switching to email over all other forms of preferred communication methods; in no time purchases of my postcards and greeting cards dropped to ZERO. I am now considering wallpapering my basement with the 23,000 some-odd unmarketable postcards I have in storage.

No wonder the U.S. Postal Service is going bankrupt.

While chatting with one of my vendor/owners yesterday, it was suggested that I do something special for Lake Gaston’s upcoming milestone birthday. So I tinkered and twiddled for hours with the above 8 1/2 x 11 inch Photoshop image, eventually printing 10 of them on exceptional acid-free paper and painstakingly inserting them into modest picture frames. (Nothing fancy, but the pictures will certainly outlive me.)

Framing photographs or artwork is a nightmare. Little speck-thingies and other sorts of fingerprint-thingies that weren’t there moments before, mysteriously show up under the glass as if you had performed the framing dance while sitting in a dandelion field on a windy spring day. When the pictures were nestled cleanly under glass, I was off to sell my wares.

My first visit was to some friends of mine who own a local Mom & Pop sign shop, for whom I do occasional freelance graphic artist work. I showed them one of my framed Lake Gaston Birthday photographs — was that a little speck-thingy hiding in the corner? — and asked, “Do you think they will sell?”

“Yes, they will sell nicely.” A strange kind of silence followed. “Fifty years from now…”

I lost interest in the speck-thingies and drove home. Lake Gaston was celebrating its 50 year birthday, not its 100th. Sigh.  Just another senior moment kind of day.

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It was a Cold and Rainy

Morning.

As I sat in my vehicle at 7:30 AM letting the engine warm up, my hands began to freeze on the steering wheel. Little by little, the defroster overcame the frozen patches of frost on the windshield; my seat warmer began to heat my butt up to driving temperature. It was December 14 and I was beginning my Lamb Quest.

Flaps down. Vehicle trim. Power on. Move from “P“ark to “D“rive.

“Ensign Crusher — engage!“

And there I was, walking into my grocery store, eyes straight ahead, la-la-lalling down the coffee aisle, headed straight for the meat coolers where all those day-before-expiration-date-price-reduced legs of lambs were waiting. Man, oh, man, I was psyched. Five of them! I grabbed the first one.

The red REDUCED FOR QUICK SALE price label was missing! I pushed up my trifocals, focusing on the label. The leg of lamb was so close to my face I could smell sheep lanolin and hear the bleating, “Bahhhh, bahhhh, BAH.” But it was not a lamb bleating I heard. It was a MOAN coming from — me. “Last sale Date: December 15.”

I was a day early.

Miserable and dejected, I clutched the steering wheel and began to drive home. The rain changed to snow.

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Insomnia

Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, my brain begins to think rather than falling back to sleep. Like last night, when I woke up puzzling over a Dean Koontz novel I had been reading immediately before nodding off. Reading often puts me to sleep. No offense, Dean. One of the characters had just died of a heart attack.  A sputter here, a synapse there, and — bingo!  I began wondering where the story would go next.

Too late. I was wide awake.

At times like these I have often found that taking a very, very hot shower helps prepare me for a re-visit by the Sandman. Something about the influx of heat and the sound of the shower striking my skull is what does it. My master shower happens to have one of those shower-chairs (with armrests and a back) sitting in the bathtub, which makes taking a shower a lazy and comfortable experience.

“Pssssssst”, went the hot water. INnnnn went the heat. Pitter-Patterrrr went the friendly little water-sounds on my naked scalp. So pleasant. So nice. “AHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I awoke about an hour later, screaming — eyes wide open — within a very cold, 50-degree rush of well water. I had fallen asleep in the shower chair.

Man, oh man, I was so totally AWAKE even Dean Koontz couldn’t help.

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First Mow

(from a former life in Maryland)

Last week I decided to mow my lawn for the first time this year. Normally, this takes about ten minutes.

Let me digress.

Since I mowed hundreds and hundreds of lawns as a teenager, I now hate mowing lawns, especially my own. It’s that simple. So a couple of years ago I bought a very large, over-powered riding lawn tractor even though I have an incredibly small yard. Tim the Tool Man has nothing on me.

RARrfff! RARrfff! RARrfff!

It was with this 52-inch-wide cut lawn tractor in mind that I landscaped my lawn with gentle contours and vast areas of mulch suitable for a one shot (ten minute) lawn mowing operation. I installed a gimbal-mounted sailboat cup holder on the dashboard of the mower which allows me to sip a favorite brew while skimming very quickly across the terrified blades of grass. There’s only time to drink ONE of them. If you hurry.

The lawn tractor’s battery was dead, however. To be expected. I hooked up a charger and pulled a few weeds. Three hours later the mower cranked up smoothly. Then — ran out of gas.

The gas can was empty. When I returned from the gas station and filled the tank, I noticed the flat tire. I jacked up the mower and removed the flat tire, again visiting the same gas station, where I filled the tire to the optimal pressure…

At long last the lawn tractor was ready to tackle my yard. Thoughtfully, I decided to check the oil level, which was low. Very low. Like, as in empty, because I had drained the oil at the onset of winter. I remembered doing that. A third trip to the gas station to buy a couple quarts of oil. Finally — with a cold beer nestled in the sailboat cup holder — I plopped down in the captain-chair seat, adjusted my amber ski glasses just so, and attempted to start the engine.

The battery was dead all over again. The charger hadn’t helped. Screw that. This time, a trip to Sears, where I bought a new one.

It was almost dark when I finished mowing my ten minute lawn. But that’s okay. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have noticed the burned-out headlight. But that could wait until next week.

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Night Pricks

(circa 2000)

Several years ago I became worried I had contracted some weird skin disease. Every morning when I looked in the mirror, the face of the guy that stared back at me was covered with red specks. For a while I jokingly referred to them as “Morning Pox”. Then one day the red specks escalated to the top of my bald head.

“Mr. Lee?” the doctor began, delivering one of the most frighteningly common yet worthless diagnoses ever: “We can find absolutely NOTHING wrong with you. You’re as healthy as a young bull!“

That same week I visited Mom in Florida, spending 14 days in the sunshine, blue skies, and resulting bliss, during which time symptoms of the dreaded Morning Pox disappeared completely. Dapper, tanned, and blemish-free, I returned home to where, the very next day Morning Pox resurfaced.

Thus began a progressive obsession of analyzing my lifestyle. Absolutely nothing was overlooked. I came up with — nothing. And then, one day, I discovered itsy-bitsy microscopic quill tips poking through the backing of my feather pillow cases. Could this be the source of the Morning Pox scourge?

Indeed it was.

I traced the onset of my affliction to the very day I had purchased several feather pillows ON SALE at Montgomery Wards. Seems like those CHEAP quills were incessantly piercing holes in my cherub-like complexion, night after night, while I tossed and turned in the shadowland of sleep.

Morning Pox went away the moment I threw out those cheap pillows and purchased a set of top-quality (and very expensive) goose down pillows from an over-priced, yet reputable dealer. It was worth the price.

The lesson I learned?(see link’s “# 1″) Don’t skimp on something you use every day for a full one-third of your life.

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In the Beginning

My vehicle was packed and ready to go one day before a trip to Florida to visit Mom. The next morning at precisely 5 AM, I stepped onto the front deck and locked the door behind me. It was 25 degrees and much too cold to think about anything else other than cranking up the Ford Explorer and turning on the heater.

But had I shut off the coffee pot? And where was my faithful morning cup of coffee? Back inside again, where a full cup steeped beside a coffee pot that — yes, had been turned off.

Anything else?

Outside, a second time. Locked the door. As the screen slammed shut I remembered the kitchen’s full trash bag. Certainly did NOT want to leave THAT festering for several weeks while I played in Florida. I set the steaming coffee cup on the hand rail and once again unlocked the door. Quickly now, I yanked the handle-tied trash bag out of the trash bin. Halfway across the kitchen I noticed dark goop dripping on the floor from a torn corner of the bag. Gravity always seems to do that to the yuckiest contents of a trash bag. Smelled like canned sardine juice and Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce. I grabbed a second trash bag and my all-in-one mop. Then I sealed the old bag in the new one with a loose knot and speed-mopped the floor.

I locked the front door for a third time and retrieved my coffee cup from the hand rail. It was stone cold. Okay, I thought. Settle down. I was getting nowhere. I set the trash bag-inabag down and unlocked the door, carefully carrying the coffee cup across the wet floor. I nuked the coffee in the microwave on high for 1 minute.

Outside once again, locking the door behind me. I actually made it to my Ford Explorer with the trash bag and very hot cup of coffee, managing to open the door without spilling anything. In the predawn, the driver side door light was comforting as I tossed the trash bag on the roof and climbed in. I placed the coffee cup in a travel cup holder.

Chug, chug, chug, RRRRRrrrrrrr. The engine started.

Ah, there’s nothing quite like a responsive vehicle in sub-freezing weather an hour before sunrise. But — had I forgotten to turn on the dishwasher?  I already knew the answer. I turned off the ignition.

Back inside again. A couple of pushed buttons later, the dishwasher surged to life for a second or two before I yanked open the door and stuck in the coffee pot and basket as an afterthought. Good thinking. Clean dishes would await me when I returned home from my vacation.

All was right with the world. No matter what else. I locked the front door for the final time. Look out Florida, here I come!

In the driver’s seat again. The engine started immediately, purring like the Cheshire Cat sucking on its hookah. I slipped the transmission into drive and cruised slowly up the gravel driveway, sipping my first cup of coffee. It was ice cold. Again. No matter. Still tasted good. I parked next to the trash cans at the top of the hill and stepped out of the cab, reaching towards the roof rack. The kitchen trash bag was gone, having fallen off the roof somewhere along the private gravel drive. For the second time I steered the Ford down the pitch black driveway. Dimly at first, the 13-gallon white trash bag took shape in my headlights. Out of the truck. Into the truck, this time placing the trash bag in the passenger seat. Started around the circular driveway near the front door porch ramp. Why the hell not? I turned off the engine, grabbed the keys and my cold coffee, rushed back inside and nuked it for another minute. Heading back out again up the gravel driveway. The digital dash clock read 6:02 AM.

One hour into my trip and I hadn’t even cleared my driveway!

I laughed, tossing the trash in a garbage can at the top of the hill just as the first wash of dawn silhouetted an eastern stand of shivering pines. I climbed back in the truck and quietly sipped my hot coffee. Look out Florida, here I come — AGAIN! One hundred miles south I wondered if I had turned off my computer. Didn’t matter. And what was that nasty odor?

Geeze — canned sardine juice and Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce.

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Knock, Knock. Who’s There?

“Hello, I’m Tim— your friendly pots and pan salesman!”

One of my first jobs was as a salesman for a fly-by-night company whose ad I answered from a Norfolk, Virginia newspaper. After two weeks of pumped up sales training (and a non-refundable entry fee of fifty dollars), I was cast out into a cold world not particularly fond of door-to-door salesmen. For two more weeks I honed my selling expertise at the expense of unsuspecting housewives who actually opened the door, which eventually led to my first sale!

Unfortunately, the woman was not interested in my expensive “waterless cookware” package at all. Instead, all she wanted to buy was the electric skillet we gave away as a “free” gift upon purchasing the complete kitchenware system. After placing a call to the office to determine a fair price, I sold her the skillet for nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents, plus $hipping and handling. A steal at any price.

I received my $.97 (five percent) sales commission check one week later!

Two weeks after that, the woman called me back after receiving her free $19.95 “gift”. She was irate at the inferior quality of the electric skillet, and demand her money back. Not only did I have to repay my company the shipping and handling charges, but I also had to give them back their ninety-seven cent commission check, which, I had not yet bothered to cash.

Thus ended my first professional career. And everywhere across the city, housewives sighed in relief.

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Bow & Arrow

Tim says: I received a request the other day to rerun this past Simply Tim. Since the event mentioned here does not represent one of my finer moments, I’ve been rather hesitant. However, through the years, I have come to greatly appreciate Dad’s parenting abilities while under fire…

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Toy Bow & Arrow

One day Dad bought me a toy bow and arrow. It was the kind that had a blue and white pinstriped bowstring and several “safety” arrows capped with pink rubber suction cups. Yeah, right. It took me all of five minutes to remove the tips and sharpen the arrows on a rough patch of concrete. For hours I played with my new toy. By the end of the day there wasn’t a target in sight that didn’t have a hole or two punched in it.

The following morning, Dad was standing on our quarter’s back door fire escape, talking to a fellow Army officer. “Hey, Dad!” I pestered, over and over again. “Lookit ME!”

Well, Dad ignored me. To this day I don’t know why, but I shot my dad in the leg with my tiny, toy bow and arrow.

Hey, Dad -- lookit ME!

Dad looked down at his leg. “Excuse me,” he said to his friend, politely, pausing in mid conversation. “I have to go discipline my son.” Then, with the toy arrow sticking out of his calf, he walked down the iron steps, grabbed me by the nape of the neck, and snapped my bow in two. “Now, Tim, pull out the arrow!“

The arrow made a sickening squishing sound that I will NEVER forget.

“Now, Tim, break the arrow in half!“

Needless to say my bow and arrow days were over.

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Pigeon Poopers Minus One

There goes the neighborhood.

A number of years ago my neighbors decided to raise pigeons in a coop that was located very close to my driveway. (We’re talking a poorly-zoned suburban setting here.) On hot summer days the coop wafted really nasty pigeon poop smells into my yard and worse if my screen doors and windows were open. From time to time, these good folks would cull their pigeon flock in a gruesome backyard event by butchering and freezing the tiny birds, a practice with which I have no problem if you happen to be living on a farm or in the country. The pigeon flock was frequently freed from the coop in an effort to enforce the homing instinct, or, I suppose, to exercise the flesh before committing to the freezer.

Unfortunately, the pigeons always seemed to find their way home, much to the dismay of the entire neighborhood.

Pigeons from Hell.

On one such day, I neglected to close my vehicle’s windows, which resulted in a flurry of mysterious white droppings and pigeon feathers scattered all over my back seat, and hours of cleanup effort. Seems like one of those damned pigeons made a shortcut visit before returning to the coop. About two weeks later I began to notice a very unpleasant odor whenever using the vehicle. I searched everywhere, but discovered nothing. The odor soon subsided.

A year passed. That’s when I discovered a tiny, mummified pigeon carcass stuffed underneath the front passenger seat.

So much for shortcut visits before returning to the coop.

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FFT: Horny Rabbit Prints

FRIDAY FOOD THING

(circa 2003)

Fingerprints from Hell

It was one of the most amazing feats I’ve ever witnessed: an over-the-range microwave installation in less than an hour. Done by the book from beginning to end with absolutely everything going right the first time. My friend, Rich cut the appropriate mounting templates with a pair of scissors while I read the instructions out loud. Then he read the instructions out loud while I drilled holes into wall studs and Sheetrock. Things only got tense for a moment, when we couldn’t decide how to remove the back plate mounting bracket from the assembled microwave. For several minutes we adjusted our trifocals and bifocals and attempted to read the fine print, of which there wasn’t any, but all of which looked like it. We were like “The Odd Couple” working on a quantum physics project. Rich tweaked this and I tweaked that and, by golly, the plate eventually slipped off in our hands as if by magic.

“Did you do that?” I asked.

“No,” said Rich. “I thought you did that.”

We didn’t care. I screwed the mounting plate firmly against the wall. The pre-drilled holes were perfectly aligned. We were really looking good. We raised the unit up to the wall with a minimum of effort. Then, with two distinct CLICKS, the microwave oven slipped onto the brackets. Sweet. Rich supported the unit while I slipped two bolts through the pre-drilled holes in the overhanging cabinet. Both fit smoothly into the top of the microwave. No fudging, no jiggling; they tightened down with precision.  Man, were we GOOD or what? Rich stepped back from the wall.

Everything was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I looked at Rich. Rich looked at me. “That was too easy,” we said in unison.

While I set the microwave’s clock (the most difficult step of the installation!), Rich popped open a couple of celebratory beers. A few hours later we roasted a chicken, the very first item cooked in the new, super-duper, titanium, glass-topped digital, nuclear powered oven that sat under the PERFECTLY installed microwave. Rich made a tasty sauce using the stovetop’s laser-guided heating elements. Everything turned out okay.

Most importantly, the microwave was still clinging to the wall the next morning before Rich drove home.

Now — a day later — it’s just me and the black glass fingerprints. I’ve tried special paste, soft sponges, and dish towels. Even while I spray Windex onto the new oven and new (perfectly mounted!) microwave’s glossy, black surfaces, OTHER fingerprints appear from nowhere. Ghostly smudges from hell. Fingerprints that smear and multiply like bacteria feasting in an agar culture. Where do they come from? For a while, I began using paper towels. Bad choice, too expensive. Right now, as I write this story, there is less than half a roll left, dangling (top-town just like my toilet paper!) from the paper towel dispenser. The fingerprints are still there, hiding in splashy, patio door reflections, while they are begetting –  like horny rabbits — even MORE fingerprints.

After a while — after HOURS of wiping and re-wiping the shiny black surfaces — I finally got it PERFECT: all the horny rabbit prints were gone! Yes, absolutely perfect.

Well, almost perfect. I flicked off a sole remaining dust speck with a dishtowel. Big mistake. The microwave picked up the towel’s ever-so-slightly soiled flipping marks and transformed them into an unthinkable meeting of mirrors and Vaseline-type finger painting. Worse than Coppertone fingerprints on sunglasses or olive oil on latex. Well, you know what I mean.

SEARS KENMORE, if you are out there listening… why does it have to be this way?

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