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I’m always amazed when I read about the future of employment opportunities in this country. The economic oracles are always forecasting that most of the world’s jobs will be in the service sector. I think it’s high time someone cues in the younger generation about the importance of good service. I’ve been told there was a time when you paid for, and could expect exemplary service. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few decent employees out there who do get it, but for the most part what I witness is really disappointing and frustrating.

Once upon a time my wife worked in the service sector as a server and did quite well doing so because she understood what good service meant. She greeted customers with a smile and worked hard to make sure their dining experience was the best it could be. Even if things happened that were out of her control she did everything she could to make it better. The tips proved this time and again. I’ve always taken her word for it that good service is hard work!

As a customer she is rightfully very critical about any service position and actually goes out of her way to be a gracious customer. I’ve actually witnessed her greeting the local grocery check-out with a smile and a cheerful “how are you today?” only to be acknowledged with a grunt and an eye roll. This type of behavior to me is unacceptable and makes me want to jump out of my skin! I’d like to take these apathetic youngsters by their shirt collars and shake some sensitivity into them!

I mean, really? This is your job! You aren’t owed this position. Make the most of it! EARN your wage. Yes, I’m sorry you aren’t making the $50,000 salary you think you deserve and are instead forced to scan UPCs and punch keys on a computerized till (that even makes change for you) but if I were you I’d be fearful of losing that job! After all, there are some retail stores that have Self Check Outs. That’s right. Even the customer can do the job you’re doing! So what’s left? How about making the customer feel like no one else can do the job as well as you? Stand out from the crowd. That means being an exceptional human being when someone’s kind to you! And, even if they’re not kind to you, you should still be kind to them! Why? Because it’s your job! Your employer expects you to contribute to the customer’s overall satisfaction with their establishment so that they feel happy about their visit and are eager to return. That’s what a service position is all about! The customer’s satisfaction, not yours!

Of course, I can only vent here because I lack what probably needs to happen in order to change the service industry for the better – the assertiveness, courage and honesty to tell someone when they’re failing at their job! Instead I just shake my head in disbelief and wonder if it will ever improve.

We try to read to the boys in the evenings and encourage them to read on their own, but summer has been a little lax, so last night we started in on a novel. We’ve done the first four Harry Potter books (and abated only because we felt the themes were getting a little too intense for their age) so this time we thought we’d try a classic: “The Swiss Family Robinson” by Johann David Wyss.

After reading just two chapters last night I can tell that it’s going to be a bit thicker than what we’re used to. I realize the guy was Swiss but the translation into English has proven to rival the most lofty merchant ivory dialogue. My wife is a true Jane Austen warrior, so she’s been silently relishing my descent into the sludgy sentences. It’s been difficult not to affect a staunch British accent while narrating the words aloud.

After every few paragraphs I ask the boys what they think is happening. Surprisingly they’ve been following along and grasping the story quite well. They may not know what every word means, but repeated over in context with words they do know helps tremendously. We’ll see how this goes. Let’s see, only fifty-nine chapters to go. After a month of this, they should be ready for Masterpiece Theater.

I must be pretty hard on my socks. I’ve had at least three go AWOL in the past month. It’s like they wait all year balled up in my top dresser drawer planning their escape. Summer makes the most sense since I wear them so seldom (sorry socks, but you don’t look good in sandals). I can about imagine that conversation:

“It must be summer, Fruits, ” Loomer reasoned with his partner. “We haven’t seen the sun for so long. I don’t know about you, but I’m going CRAZY! I have to get out! I have to!! We’re moving towards the front of this drawer and if we do get out again, I’m never comin’ back. No sir! No more static winters and dark summers for me!…”

“Shut yer foot-hole, Tube Sock! How do you think I feel?!” interjected Long John.

“If you and Fruits do make it out, Loomer, please look for my mate,” pleaded Haney. “Ever since she left me, I’ve been stuck alone in this drawer, waiting to be paired again.”

Loomer reassured his lonely friend. “Will do, Haney. Will do!” Suddenly the drawer lurched open…

Hey, it’s America’s birthday! Get out there and celebrate the fact that you live in the greatest country on the planet… freely, safely and happily!

The passage of time may happen subtly, but reunions certainly reveal how long it’s truly been. This weekend I had the opportunity to celebrate 20 years with some of my high school classmates. Most of us came back a little thicker (in the middle) and a little thinner (on top), but aside from the obvious signs of age, were all easily recognized (okay, Facebook certainly helps). It’s probably cliche to say it, but it was a surreal experience to see everyone again. The four years we spent together in high school seemed like an eternity at the time, but relatively speaking, the same amount of time now seems like a drop in the pail. The saying, you’re only as old as you feel is very true. To those near and far that made the trip back, ‘thanks’ and ‘safe travels home’!

One of my favorite holidays growing up was Independence Day (you know, July 4th?). It wasn’t because I was insanely patriotic or overly excited to be celebrating America’s birthday. It was because of gunpowder. At no other time of year could you expect to see young children gleefully playing with matches, lighters and highly combustible compounds.

Going to a fireworks stand was like going to a candy store. All the brightly colored packaging, Chinese characters, and dramatic names for tightly rolled paper, sticks and fuses. Ladyfingers. Missile Batteries. Bottle Rockets. Smoke Grenades. It was a boyhood dream come true. The idea was to build an arsenal that would be sure to shock and awe the neighbors.

Being young boys, my brother and I didn’t quite practice the safe and proper use of fireworks and soon learned to deny such pavement pleasures like Jumping Jacks and Snakes for something more ‘long range’ like the bottle rocket. In those days surrounding the fourth we recruited scores of neighborhood boys to line up for short range skirmishes. Looking back now, it was miraculous that none of us were seriously hurt. The worst I got was a bottle rocket to my face and, thankfully, no scars.

Now that I have two boys of my own there’s a bit of an understanding when it comes to fireworks. It is no longer legal to shoot bottle rockets (probably for the best) so we only purchase the ‘S’ class variety – sparklers, snaps, smoke balls and snakes. I guess these could still be considered ‘gateway fireworks’ to the more destructive variety, but the worst we can expect now is a few unsightly scorch marks on the pavement rather than exploded or burned fingers. Knowing that they’re wired to pursue more creative ways to use explosives as they get older I make it a point to never talk to them about ‘the war’ and my near brush with danger.

Everybody loves a parade. Well, at least the kids look forward to the candy. It’s been a tradition for years to attend the parade in my hometown over the Fourth and every year I wonder what constitutes a parade float. I don’t know if the standards were ever set too high, but lately it seems all you need to do is slap a magnetic sign on the side of your sports car, wave a flag and toss candy. Aside from the occasional marching band, or color guard, it’s more like a slow moving traffic commercial that only gets longer during the political season. I realize it takes time, effort and money to decorate and construct a float, and I’m not expecting the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but maybe a little more effort would make it worth going to. I can buy a bag of tootsie rolls and plant my lawn chair on the curb to watch slow-moving traffic any day.

It’s so hot out there the trees are whistling for dogs! I know some people love it when it gets this hot because to them that’s what summer should be. I’d just as soon take the milder 70s and 80s. I figure I can always throw on a layer if I get too cold. Admittedly, days like this make the subzero days of mid-January seem far, far away.

Who says summer television has to be crappy? When ‘Wipeout’ aired two seasons ago as fodder for the traditionally vacant summer months, we were there to take it like a boxing glove to the groin. Admittedly, it has become one of our family’s guilty pleasures. If you’ve never sat through this hour-long comedic game show, it’s a bit like ‘American Gladiators’ meets ‘Takeshi’s Castle’. Contestants make their way through some zany obstacles to advance to the final round where, if they complete the ‘Wipeout Zone’ in the time alotted, they will walk – or limp – away with $50,000.

Part of what makes this simple formula work is the constant puns and ribbing done by the hosts John Anderson (ESPN’s straight man anchor) and comedian John Henson (of ‘Talk Soup’ beginnings). The contestants that sign up to endure the pugilistic punishment of this show are usually interesting enough in their own special way (think Wal-Mart people-watching) which makes their uncoordinated, tendon-snapping, whiplash-inducing acrobatics all the more humorous to watch. Like Roman citizens at the Coliseum we are entertained by the physical misfortunes of these hapless victims. Of course, having the Johns voice-over sophomoric innuendos with the phrase ‘Big Balls’ certainly helps.

Four years ago I built a treehouse for my boys in the crook of our backyard apple tree. Well, it was more the size of a treestand because I was aiming to build it cheaply using only scraps that I found in my garage. Considering the small size of the project it didn’t take long to build and almost immediately the boys relished the novelty that was: having a secluded platform six feet off the ground. It didn’t take long for them to literally outgrow that tiny porch in the branches and I became increasingly disheartened about their lack of interest in it. About two years ago, hoping to rejuvenate their interest, I mentioned adding on to it to make it bigger. Well, they didn’t let me forget those words and, after years of talking about it, we began the expansion on Sunday. It’s about triple the size and, when complete, will have a hidden door in the floor to keep unwanted visitors out.

I can’t help but get a little excited about working on projects like this because I can remember what it’s like to be a boy. Growing up, us neighbor kids built a number of treehouses together in the expanse of forested land bordering the street we grew up on. Needless to say our distance from these ‘forts’ almost guaranteed that some neighborhood ‘big kids’ (aka bullies) would be sure to tear them down (usually by morning). To think that a half dozen construction efforts in my childhood were destroyed because some dinks got their jollies from it, is maddening. I guess in some small way, my getting charged about doing this treehouse for my own boys is for all the ones we ‘lost’ when I was a kid. I can only hope they will appreciate it as much as I do.