There is no shortage of ways to remind oneself to do things. One of the most ridiculous symbols of remembering is the infamous image of a finger with a string tied around it. I wonder if anyone ever used that technique. It seems like it would take a lot of work and dexterity to tie a small string on one of your fingers. I guess if you are able to do that, remembering what it is that you shouldn’t forget should be relatively simple.
I always thought the adage “watch your P’s and Q’s” had everything to do with letters. In the early days of printing the fact that the lowercase ‘q’ and ‘p’ were mirror images of each other would create mass confusion with early foundry type setters – or so I assumed. Turns out, supposedly, that the admonition was a phrase that originated in the world of beer. Rumor has it that brew pubs had to remind gluttonous patrons to keep track of their mead consumption. To assist in the task a chalkboard marking a customer’s ‘pints’ and ‘quarts’ drank was utilized. Interesting. I wonder which is the actual truth.
Nothing quite beats the prize for sadism like the 9 volt battery test. Certainly you recall this simple procedure. If you ever doubted that your (insert 9 volt battery-powered device here) wasn’t working you could always pull the battery out and use the good ol’ tongue gauge to test it.
The ‘9 volt jolt’ ranked right below ‘peeling off band-aids’ on the pain index but the anticipation of whether or not you’d ‘get it’ was like Russian roulette. How many devices in your world would you risk personal discomfort to check to see that they’re in working order? (“Yep, that blade is sharp all right!”)
The stupid part is, until they came out with the built-in battery testers on the packaging, I half dreaded opening any battery-powered device to find that it was 9 volt powered. It’s almost like you had to conduct the tongue test. If it was a AAA or AA battery there was a private sigh of relief. I mean c’mon! It’s not like you can toss one of those in your mouth to find out if they had any juice left in them.
I never suffered allergies as a youngster but every year of my adult life I seem to develop more sensitivity to airborne allergens. At least that’s what I thought it was. What started out as a scratchy throat on Sunday turned into a full blown localized bacterial infection. I was convinced it had to be allergies because I never developed any other symptoms of a full-on head cold – sinus headaches, running nose, etc.
By Tuesday my throat was so sore I experienced a bit of laryngitis which, if you’re a teacher who needs to lecture, is a bad thing. The worst part is I agreed to speak at a high school career opportunities day on Wednesday only to awake that morning sounding like a goose being strangled. The most comfortable speech pattern my throat could tolerate was a hushed whisper. Thankfully my colleague agreed to fill in for me (Tom, you’re the man!).
I thought the best thing to do was visit the walk-in clinic to make sure it wasn’t strep throat, which by all accounts it certainly felt like. Turns out it wasn’t but I’m still popping the antibiotics for the remainder of this week. I still don’t have much of a voice (which my students don’t seem to mind) but hope to recover soon. I’ve never been much of a chatterbox and am usually a pretty quiet and introspective guy, but I have to admit it really stinks when you can’t talk when you want to.
The smell of freshly cut grass always takes me back to the summers of my childhood. My younger brother and I shared the responsibility of mowing an elderly widow’s yard every summer, a kind woman who we all had come to know very well. We spent time visiting her and her late husband when we were younger, so it really wasn’t much of a chore but an honorable duty. We called her ‘grandma’, though I think she privately despised it.
Whenever her grass began looking unkempt we hauled down dad’s old side-bagger Briggs and Stratton and spent what seemed like a whole day mowing. Not only was her lawn expansive, but very intricately landscaped. The backyard was a very quaint and shady respite with lots of shrubbery and herringbones of railroad ties, so maneuvering the old mower became a matter of efficient geometry. I’m pretty sure this is where I developed my mowing technique. I would trace the perimeter of the area of what I was going to mow by ‘cutting in’ and then, very meticulously, I would strive to make the straightest mowing lines possible. Even trees that fell in the path of my ‘lines’ I would carefully swerve around, back up, and continue on my ‘line’ as if the tree were not there.
After the task was complete, I’d report to the front door, ring the doorbell and await the wrought iron storm door to open. Some days she would invite me in for a short visit, which on hot summer days I appreciated very much because she had a window ac unit to keep it cool. Pay day was either by cash or check – you could expect four crisp Washingtons and a Kennedy half dollar or a beautifully printed check. Having been a perfectionist school teacher, her penmanship was incredible (to this day, my printed signature is inspired by the late Alma Schwartz).
I realize now probably more than I did then how important it is to respect and care for the elderly. I appreciated the payment for doing the work, but I think she cherished the time to visit with someone who took an interest in what she had to share – and I guess I did too. The saddest part of all those summers, is one day we didn’t do the mowing anymore. I don’t remember why exactly, whether another young neighbor had assumed the duties as we grew older, but the year Grandma Schwartz passed away I felt incredibly sad that I hadn’t visited her for so many years. It’s funny how something like mowing the lawn can teach you so much.
I always enjoyed the game of pool. I think a lot of that had to do with the fact that we never had a table growing up. It was always something we wanted – especially after visiting any friends or cousins who did. It didn’t occur to me until I was much older that there was actually some skill involved in playing the game. Turned out it was actually more than just hitting the cue ball as hard as you could. Suddenly physics, geometry and even ‘English’ had new meaning.
In college I played nearly every day after classes. For Christmas I got a pool cue. By all standards I was ‘into’ the game. At least I thought I was. I entered an eight-ball tournament in college and soon learned differently. Apparently there were people out there that were more ‘into it’ than I was. In one game I actually beat myself before my opponent had the chance by scratching on the break. Yeah, I was not a pool shark.
I was fortunate that I grew up in a town that made it mandatory for every kid to learn how to swim. Seriously! As eighth graders we were all shipped off to the local indoor pool and evaluated to see where we were on the swimming skills ‘food chain’. I think I landed somewhere between shipwreck and anchor. I wasn’t even an accomplished doggy-paddler based on the fact that I was placed in the beginner’s class. I was a splash above drowning. So, for a whole semester I learned how to swim, dive and even snorkel. By the time I completed my freshmen swim class I was asked to consider the swim team (I had been promoted to driftwood).
Knowing what I had to go through to learn how to swim, it’s easier to encourage my boys to learn this skill when they are young. While our oldest is a level four, I don’t think our youngest has made it past level two. Neither one of them will drown if they are in the water, but there’s a certain comfort level knowing that your kids are accomplished swimmers. We tend to keep a closer eye on them both when they’re in the pool, but I’m proud to say that my youngest is a much better doggy-paddler than I was at his age.
One of my friends recently sent me a link to the latest Will Ferrell comedy, The Other Guys. The marketing for the motion poster is brilliant… and funny. After watching the trailer, I think the flick has a chance to be one of Ferrell’s better films. I can’t say that I am a die-hard Will Ferrell fan, but the guy can sure play the part of the everyman boob quite well. I still think one of his greatest feats as an actor was his interesting dramatic turn in Stranger Than Fiction.
If I see another schematic on how to assemble something, it will be too soon. I spent most of today assembling patio furniture and installing new door knobs in the house. Most would assume that those projects wouldn’t take all day, but then they’ve never thoroughly consulted the manufacturer’s assembly instructions.
I think the individual designers responsible for drafting the illustrations for assembly instructions must have some sort of score to settle with mankind. The stuff may be manufactured cheaply in China, but some American is responsible for the design of it – why can’t the instructions be illustrated well enough to understand easily? I know a lot of guys refer to the ‘instructions’ as ‘suggestions’ and prefer to figure it out on their own, but I fall into the minority that does things to the letter. Yes, I am told quite often that I can make any simple project take more time. I guess I just have a gift.
Lately our eldest has been fascinated with basketball. Last fall I transformed a barren section of our shaded backyard into a sizable brick paver patio. One of our neighbors donated his portable basketball hoop to us when we completed the project last fall and we’ve yet to purchase any patio furniture so lately its full-time use has been a makeshift basketball court.
My son’s favorite thing to do is lower the basket from ten feet down to seven feet so he can do dunks. It was an older hoop and now after repeated abuse that’s the only height it can be. There was a part of me that silently rejoiced at this development thinking that this would make it unusable by his standards and we could reclaim our patio, but I digress. Last night we purchased a new one so we can keep his hoop dreams alive. Knowing he’ll be a kid living with us for such a short time, I figure I could compromise. On the flip side, we did find a patio set we liked. But when we asked the sales associate how the table and furniture would hold up to a basketball repeatedly hitting it she gave us a puzzled look. I don’t think she got it.