Getting Things Off My Chest

First: while driving, if I’m passing you on your right, YOU’RE IN THE WRONG LANE! Now that that’s done let’s move on to some other things.

Note to self: before motorcycling again in wet weather BUY SOME RAIN GEAR! During the raining season here in Florida, just because the weatherman says there’s only a 30% chance of rain doesn’t mean it’s smart to play the odds, unless you have RAIN GEAR!

It amazes me the names manufacturers will give a product to entice consumers to buy it. At work we have a bottle of liquid hand soap the manufacturer of which has labeled Tropical Breeze. Tropical Breeze? It’s hand soap for crying out loud not an exotic vacation package. When washing my hands after using the commode (by the way, why is it OK to use a bathroom but not someone of the opposite sex? Just wondering), what I want to read on a bottle of a hand sanitizing product is something like, Big, Bad, All Germ Killer! Not some fluffy, foo, foo name like Tropical Breeze.

Since we’re on the general subject of disinfectants, I know I’ve mentioned this before but I continue to see the ads and read the label for this one particular air freshener. The manufacturer states that it kills 99.9% of germs. That’s pretty darn good, but what scares me, and it ought to scare everybody, is that 1/10th of a percent of germs that it doesn’t kill! They’ve got to be some pretty tough hombres and are the ones we should be worried about not the other 99.9%. You want to make me happy manufacture an air freshener that kills 100% of all germs.

During this great political season, as always, we get promises from the candidates about all the good things they’re going to do for us but really never see their plan on how they’re going accomplish these tasks. I think if I ran for office my platform would be simple and honest: my fellow Americans, I’m not going to make any promises to you that I both know I can’t fulfill. I can only promise I’ll do my best to do right by the American people.” That might even entice me to vote for myself.

Have you ever wondered where certain sayings come from? One that I’ve always wondered about is “butt load.” I’m sure we’ve all heard someone say, or have said it ourselves, “I got a butt load of work to do,” or “I got a butt load of studying to do tonight before finals.” Just what constitutes a “butt load” of anything? Check that, maybe I don’t really want to know, being how I suffer from I.B.S. (Irritable Bowl Syndrome) and all.

Staying on the subject of derrieres, aren’t you glad we don’t identify each other in the same manner dogs do? Hey, I’ve put some thought into this subject. Look, if we can’t stand each other’s halitosis, how in the world could we stand sniffing one another’s rumps?

And then to complicate matters we have scented toilet paper. Think about this scenario, you see someone you think you know, maybe a relative. You walk over to sniff that person’s hind quarters but that person has been using scented toilet paper. You don’t recognize the scent and you think to yourself, “I could’ve sworn that was Uncle John,” and you walk away, missing the chance to say hello to your favorite uncle.

There are pluses and minuses to this of course. If there are people you want to hide from all you have to do is make your rear-end smell like a Carolina pine forest.

On the other hand (there’s always another hand, isn’t there?) there is a downside to this that’s worse than missing the opportunity to greet your favorite uncle.

Say you’re feeling a bit romantic one night and you put the moves on your wife but have forgotten you’ve used scented toilet paper earlier in the evening. You could find yourself arrested and thrown in jail all because you threw your scent off and your wife didn’t recognize you.

Well, I don’t know about you but I certainly feel better for getting these things off my chest. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a butt load of company here and I have to, well, go sniff some.

Hunting Houses

The government requires a license to deer hunt. It requires a license to hunt geese and ducks. The government requires a license for hunting bear, moose, and elk. It requires a license to hunt just about anything. It’s my opinion that house hunting should require a license as well. And just like you have to take hunter safety classes to learn how to safely hunt animals, you’d have to take hunter safety classes to learn how to safely hunt houses.

You see, recently, Sweetie and I were house hunting. She found this one particular yellow house on the internet that seemed like it might be perfect for us. It was a lease-to-own, 2,100 square foot, four-bedroom-home. From the photos posted on the website the house looked magnificent and we were very anxious to see it.

Our plan was to first drive by the home. If we liked what we saw from the street and if the neighborhood checked out, we’d stop and peek through the windows to see what we could. If still interested after that, we’d call to make an appointment to actually go inside the home for a closer look. But plans don’t always come together, do they?

According to a local map the street the house was on (Groveland Farms Road) was only about six miles down the highway from our home. We had a little time before we had to be somewhere else so we hopped in the car and took off. We drove up and down the highway but the street was no where to be found. Oh well, we’d try later, after I looked up the exact location of the street on the internet, where I could get an actual satellite photo of the area. This would give me landmarks as well as exact mileage from our house to the one we were hunting.

A few days later, off we were again hunting for the house. But even with land marks (lakes, orchards, a restaurant, etc.) and exact mileage, we couldn’t find the road. You could plainly see the road on the satellite photo, but in person its entrance was invisible to the naked eye. Where the street should’ve been it wasn’t, just a dirt driveway to a home. So, back home we went for more satellite viewing.

“How about we try entering the subdivision from the opposite direction?” I asked sweetie.

“Sounds good to me,” she said.

I cranked up the computer and started searching a way into the subdivision from the east side. I found it and the first chance we got, off we went again to look for the elusive Groveland Farms Road.

Searching for land marks and street signs, we found that east entrance without much difficulty. We made a right turn onto Groveland Farms Road and started searching for the house. For the next few minutes the conversation in the car consisted of, “No,” “Uh,uh,” “Not,” or, “Nope.” It sounded more like a bunch of foreigners learning English at a Just Say No group therapy session than a family looking for a house.

Soon, the street went from asphalt to a hard, sandy, rough, washboard of a road. Sensing sweetie’s nervousness about this I assured her there was nothing to worry about. The road was maintained by the county and was safe to drive on.

But another mile or so of driving and I noticed the scenery was getting more rural and a bit swampy (think gators, folks). And that bumpy, sandy road was narrowing . . . and narrowing . . . and narrowing. Just after it narrowed to less then one lane, the hard-packed sand became soft and the road became rutty. It was then that I noticed the sign, “End Of County Maintenance.” That should’ve also been a sign for me to back up to where I could turn around and get the heck out of there. But I’m a guy. Guys rarely read signs let alone contemplate their meaning.

Finally, the ruts got so deep that if I tried to stay in them I’d high-center the car. So I did what any guy would do; I ignored that little voice in my head, the one that tells you not to do something because you’ll regret it later. The machismo in me, as it often does, drowned out that little voice. The machismo said, “You can make it. Don’t wimp out. Show your wife what a stud you are.”

I gunned the car and drove over the ruts, driver side wheels on the very edge of the road, passenger side wheels on the high center of the road. It was a good plan except for one problem; I was driving on soft sand! The weight of the car pushed the sand under the tires right down into the deep ruts and the undercarriage of the car was buried in the sand up to the engine block. We were stuck, stuck in the late hot afternoon Florida June sun in a rural area with prime swampy gator and snake habitat very near both sides of the road.

To make an already long story short, I called eldest son, gave him directions to where we were, and he and daughter-in-law--along with little Jayden, the cutest little grandbaby in the world—pulled us out of our predicament with their S.UV.

Later, after chatting with the owner of the house, we learned that there are TWO Groveland Farms Roads in Groveland. Two roads in the same town with the same name, are you kidding me? And of course, we were on the wrong Grovland Farms Road! As it turned out, once we finally found the house we didn’t like the house anyway.

Yes, there definitely should be a law requiring a license for house hunting. But then again, if the authorities learned of my latest fiasco in hunting houses, my application for a license would probably be denied.

Moved In

Moved to new home last weekend and am now finally hooked up to internet. Funny post on house hunting coming Monday. Thanks for your kind words about my Father's Day post.
Doug

A Thought for Father's Day

It’s a sad fact, but often it’s not until we nearly lose a loved one that we realize just how much that person means to us. We take for granted that he or she will always be around. This lesson was brought to light in my life just a few years ago.

One morning, while living in Branson, Missouri, I received a phone call from Orlando, Florida. The call was from my older brother who informed me that my dad had just been taken by ambulance to a hospital. It appeared dad had suffered a heart attack. At that time, the only other information my brother had was that dad was stabilized and being transferred to another hospital that specialized in treating heart patients.

A few hours later the phone rang again. This time it was my oldest brother, who lived out west, on the line. Mom called and asked him to relay additional information.

Dad had indeed suffered a heart attack. The doctors found that one of his coronary arteries was 99% blocked. Another was 50% blocked. Dad’s heart had only been getting 60% of its normal blood flow, so the doctors were going to perform an angioplasty to try and break up the blockage.

That afternoon I received a third call concerning my father’s status. This time, the call was from my mother. Even though each call concerning my father brought news that was worse than the previous call, I was still dumbfounded by mom’s update.

Dad didn’t just have a heart attack. He’d had a major coronary. How much damage his heart had sustained was yet to be determined, and although the angioplasty was a success, the doctors had to use the “electric paddles” three times to shock dad’s heart back into a steady rhythm. The next 48 hours would be the most critical for him. All we could do now was pray and hope he’d pull through.

I went into a numbing shock. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel, just blank inside.

Dad had always been there for us. He had always been the steady, strong one, the one everybody leaned on, the foundation of our family (even now, as I’m closing in on the 50th year of my life, from time to time I find myself seeking dad’s wisdom and council on important issues). The mere thought of dad not being around anymore was incomprehensible.

So much of who I am, the kind of man I am, I owe to my father. By word and by example he taught me many important things, things like honesty, integrity, and to seek God’s guidance in all my endeavors.

Dad also taught me the meaning of love and sacrificing for your loved ones when, during years of financial strain, I saw him go without many necessities so he could afford shoes for my brothers and me or buy food for us to eat.

As I witnessed my father conquer many of his weaknesses, I learned that it’s never too late, you’re never too old to improve yourself.

I owed him so much. I had so many unsaid “thanks,” “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” that his time on earth just couldn’t be through.

You see, when I reached my teenage years my dad and I had some heated disagreements. I was hotheaded, strong willed, and stubborn. I was very disrespectful.

Yes, the thoughtlessness of youth convinced me that dad knew little concerning life, especially a teenager’s life. But time and the experience of parenthood taught me just how wrong I was.

I found myself more than ever regretting the times I mistreated dad. I just had to have one more chance to tell dad that I loved him, that I respected and honored him, and that I was so very sorry for giving him such a rough time when I was younger.

Then shame filled my soul. I felt so sad that it took a tragedy like a major coronary to make me realize how much I took dad for granted. And as I thought about having never really expressed to him what he’s meant to me all of my life, and that I may never get the chance to tell him, I felt a heavy weight upon my own heart.

Thankfully, I was given the opportunity to express my love to my father. He recovered, albeit with quite a bit of damage, from his heart attack.

But what about those people who aren’t so blessed to have another chance to tell and show their loved ones how they feel about them? How do they cope with knowing that because they took for granted, as we all do, that their loved ones would always be around, they passed on opportunities to express their love for them?

And therein, my dear readers, lies the lesson; don’t wait to tell the people you care about what they mean to you. Who knows, the next chance you get might be your last.