I'M BACK

Yes, just when you thought the internet was safe to surf, I’m back!  

I took an 8-year, 3-month and 1 day coffee break and simply got lost on my way back from the kitchen.

 

On May 1, 2024, I retired.  I DO have a rather lengthy “to-do” list on my whiteboard, but I’ve got time to get some of it done and the rest……..   Well, it’ll have to “breath” for a while.

 

I sent an email to a good friend yesterday, after having a discussion with Donna about what I want to be doing in retirement.  (Yes, we’ve been discussing it for a couple of years, but this was one of those “What do you like to do and where are your gifts and passions?”)

We really didn’t get very far in our discussion, because I had to take a nap.

 

My friend responded to my email with the following: 

“This is hilarious and well-written.  In your, so called "retirement" you really should write more.”  He has some skepticism on whether I’m really going to retire….

 

I figure my blog will be a great creative outlet and a way for me to muddy up my digital footprint.  For those of you who have anxiously clicked on my blog every day for the past 8-years, 3-months and 1-day.  STAY TUNED!!  (Oh, and get a life!)

SMALL PRINT DISCLAIMER:

ALL THE CONTENT IS MY OWN, SO DON'T BLAME DONNA.  I'M SURE IF IT GETS OUT OF HAND, SHE'LL TAKE MY LAPTOP AWAY.

Legacy

Over the years, especially the last 20, I've been compared to my dad - a lot.  Most of the time, the comparison has something to do with looks or behavior.  It's usually one of those habits or behaviors your parents have that drive you nuts, but nobody else really knows or cares about......

To some degree, it's part of a legacy.

Donna and I were visiting my brother's family in Knoxville last weekend.  Over breakfast with my brother, Andy, I saw expressions that were pure "Pop" - the label we gave my dad in his old age.  We talked a little about how much we are growing to look like my dad as we age.  It's part of a legacy.

Later that day, I started really considering the legacy we are gifted with as children, then parents and now grand parents.  My dad left a greater legacy to his two boys than just stunning good looks.

I have two frames on my office bookshelf that have keepsakes from my dad.  Both frames contain pages from a Bible he carried through battles in World War II.  When we found the Bible, after my dad died, it was beyond repair.  I was able to salvage these pages that are now preserved in glass frames along with a snapshot. 

One of the pages records, in sequence, the places he fought in the South Pacific as a World War II Marine.  The locations include the Marshall Islands, Saipan, and Okinawa.  I don't know why he kept this record.  It may be that he thought the recording would end before the war was over and it would help his family understand where he had been, what he had seen and what he had been part of.  More likely, as a Christian, it was a constant reminder of God's protection and grace.  Again, it's part of his legacy.

After the war, my dad went to Moody Bible Institute in Chicago where he received his theological education and met my mom.  They graduated, were married and went to Venezuela as missionaries, where the snapshot was taken.

The snapshot is a picture of my dad, somewhere out in the wilds of Venezuela, standing with two other men.  They are wearing dress slacks, shirts and ties and have their Bibles in hand.  It's obvious that they were out there doing evangelism - what he was trained for and gifted in.  Pop was never at a loss to speak to anyone about God or his relationship with God's Son, Jesus.  More legacy.

After my parents returned from Venezuela, they had a full life of pastoral ministry at five churches in Wisconsin, Indiana, South Carolina, Michigan and California.  They retired in the mid-1980's to Greenville, SC where he took a part-time job at a small Presbyterian church helping the Sr. Pastor by teaching, preaching, and visiting the parishioners.

Donna and I moved to Greenville, in 1991.  We had lots of good reasons to move to Greenville, but two of the primary reasons were to be near my mom and dad as they aged and to have our kids close to their grandparents.  I don't think we had the word "legacy" in mind at the time, but we had a strong desire for their influence on our kids.

We began attending a large Presbyterian church and after a short time, my dad decided they should attend there too.  You had to know my dad, he had no patience for people who "church hopped," but he gave himself an exception to be near his grandchildren.

It wasn't long before he was fully involved in ministry again, visiting the sick, shut-ins, Sr. citizens and teaching Sunday School.  He continued to minister actively until he was nearly 85 and could no longer drive.  Hardly a week goes by without someone at church telling me how much they appreciated him visiting them in the hospital or their home and encouraging them in some way.

My point is simple - He had a full and fruitful life and ministry.  He had lots of friends and a "flock" that he faithfully shepherded.  He was building a legacy.  I doubt he ever really thought in those terms, but this legacy was an unavoidable byproduct of his life.

Last Sunday I got a look, not a glimpse, but a panoramic view of that legacy.

We were in Knoxville, TN to see some missionaries "commissioned" (church-speak for "formally sent") by a church to the foreign mission field.  These are vocational, full-time foreign missionaries.  They are all three brothers, Andrew, Alex and Aaron Halbert.  Andrew already working in Costa Rica, Alex headed to South Africa and Aaron to Honduras.  You could say it's the family business - they are the three sons of my brother & sister in law, Andy & Renee Halbert, who were missionaries in Honduras and the grandsons of Paul & Dorothy Halbert who were missionaries in Venezuela.

On the way home I was considering the statistical probability of that event taking place on the same day with those three brothers, none of whom live in Knoxville.  I'm sure it's astronomical.

Two remarks from the morning service keep bouncing around in my head.  The first was from the Senior Pastor, who stated that it was an unprecedented event to see three boys in the same family headed out simultaneously to foreign missions.  It is becoming rare to see anyone in our culture making this choice, let alone three brothers completing their educations, raising support and being approved to leave at the same time.

The second remark was meant to be humorous but screamed "legacy!"  The church's resident missionary said, "If Andy and Renee had a few more children they could have fulfilled the great commission on their own."

For those of you unfamiliar with it,  "the great commission" was direction by Jesus Christ to His followers.  It's recorded in the Bible in a biography of Jesus written by one of His disciples, a guy named Matthew.  Matthew was present when Jesus said it and it was important enough for him to write it down because the direction was to all of Jesus' followers.  You could call it inspired writing.

Jesus said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.  Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.  And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."

This is the legacy of a faithful man, a battle hardened Marine, who God called out of battle and sent to do ministry.  These young men and their families are obeying the "Great Commission" because their dad obeyed.  Their dad saw it modeled by their Grandfather, because his Heavenly Father chose him and called him to ministry.

I'm not someone who believes people in heaven get to look down and observe the rest of us as we live our daily lives.  But if my dad has that privilege, I know he would enjoy the view.

Legacy!

Recycling the Middle Aged Man

I originally posted this blog on December 22, 2013.  Almost 3 year later (10/2/16) I have some updates that are in italics below:

On November 5, 2003, I purchased my first serious road bike (the kind you pedal).  I had been an avid runner since college, but, after 2 back surgeries, my doctor and my back convinced me that I needed to find a different road to fitness.  Since that date, I’ve logged over 27,000 cycling miles, I’ve owned 5 road bikes and 2 single speed track bikes.  Needless to say, I like riding.

Like running, riding comes with its own unique culture.  Riding culture revolves around equipment, distance, speed and location.  Riders use terms like “carbon fiber” or “steel” to describe the construction of their bike frame.  We have cleats on our shoes, egg beater pedals, 700X23C tires, cork wrapped handle bars, campy components, cranksets, cassettes, cogs and it goes on and on.

I live in a cycle-centric community.  We have a resident cycling professional who I occasionally pass (going the opposite direction) on the road.  On any given day, I may see as few as 2 and as many as 50 riders on my regular 20-mile trek.  The great thing about riding is the number of men “my age” that participate.  For context, the age category is over 50 and under 70.

Anyone associated with cycling will notice that the male cycling population breaks into two categories, young guys (under 30) and old guys (over 30).  The “old guy” demographic is broken into two subgroups, malnourished cadaverous fellows who are made up primarily of legs and lungs (I’ve labeled them “skinny boys”), and guys with age-appropriate builds (I’ve labeled them “fat boys”).  This article celebrates “fat boys.”

Fat boys are guys who own bikes and actually ride them in order to avoid taking the final step from being reasonably overweight to obesity or death.  A regular disciplined riding regimen is our blood pressure medication and I’m living proof that it works.  Fat boys make up the largest demographic of serious male road cyclists.  Fat boys have regular jobs that keep them from riding 2,000 miles every week.  A significant accomplishment on a daily bike ride for a fat boy is to arrive back home alive.  A really significant accomplishment is to be able to reach the down tubes (lowest point) on our handlebars to steer the bike, it means we were able to extend our arms past the farthest reach of our bellies.

“Skinny boys” are guys who own bikes and spend a lot of time riding.  They have regular jobs like the fat boys, but they are skinny because they spend all of their money on expensive equipment like BMC carbon fiber road frame bikes with Selle Italia SLR Superflow titanium railed saddles and Campy Super Record crank and gear sets.  They simply have nothing left over for food, so they subsist on protein bars, lettuce and energy drinks.  In their defense, they do look good going down the road.

There are a variety of differences in cycling philosophies between fat boys and skinny boys.  Fat boys will wave and acknowledge you when you pass or get passed by them.  This wave is a sign of camaraderie and respect.  The act of removing your hand from the bar and waving at a fellow rider requires the rider to stop pedaling or reduce his cadence.  This offers a welcome rest from pedaling keeping him from going into cardiac arrest.  So the simple act of waving has both cultural and fitness benefits.

Skinny boys just ignore us.  They are younger, faster, stronger and typically possess a level of cycling arrogance that keeps them from acknowledging lesser riders.  Yeah, I’ve got baggage.

So much for context……. 

There are a number of mental and physical obstacles to riding.  For example, as you become more serious about riding, you will feel compelled to buy riding shoes and clipless pedals.  Riding shoes are one of the most important equipment decisions a cyclist makes.  Since you don’t walk in them, they simply don’t wear out.  Riding shoes are designed to be used with clipless pedals.  An added advantage is that most incorporate a Velcro closing system, just like your dress shoes.  Clipless pedals use a device which allows you to “clip in” to your pedal.  Once clipped in, it’s nearly impossible to get your foot off the pedal without a specific non-anatomically natural movement.  The purpose of the clip is to allow the rider to pull up on the pedal simultaneously with the down stroke maximizing the energy transfer from the legs to the pedals to propel the bicycle forward into your first cycling accident.

I know what you're thinking…..  If you have to “clip in” to clipless pedals, what genius named them clipless.  I don’t know, but I'm voting for a skinny boy. 

However, I do know that during your first couple of rides with clipless pedals, you will likely find yourself slowing to a point where your brain sends a message to your foot to remove itself from the pedal and step to the ground so you won’t fall over when you come to a complete stop.  When the message is delivered to your foot it’s usually delivered without the essential instruction to twist your foot outward before lifting since your foot has never needed this instruction in the past.  The clipless pedal is designed to take an enormous amount of upward physical force without releasing the foot, in order to transfer the maximum amount of energy to the pedal and wheels.  As the speed of the bicycle continues to slow from 1 MPH to 0 MPH the message from your brain to your foot becomes significantly more desperate while the foot struggles against a device whose sole purpose is to keep it from executing the instruction.

Bottom line……. You fall over.  Special note….. You usually fall over in front of people who wonder what a guy your age is doing on a bicycle with only two wheels.

On to appropriate attire for road cycling.   Appropriate being an oxymoron when combined with age and build.  Enter Spandex.  Spandex is Latin for “humility.”

Spandex is a synthetic fabric designed to stretch 6 times its natural size in any direction.  It makes a perfect form fitting cover for anything with an unusual shape, for example, a middle-aged male bike rider.  The core objective is to go faster without your clothes flapping in the wind or, even worse, filling with air and acting as a parachute.  For a rider, spandex offers compression to help muscular performance and reduce wind drag it also aids in the process of sucking your gut in when you are passed by a group of younger female riders.

Unfortunately, the form fitting aspect of spandex also accentuates any and all unsightly physical “anomalies” that make up the natural shape of most middle-aged men.   In other words, it’s one step up from riding without clothes.  The problem with cycling clothes is that the manufacturers are just beginning to realize that the target market for their overpriced painted on clothes are guys who may appreciate a “full cut” style, leaving a few of their anatomical “anomalies” to the imagination.

There is a sizing protocol for cycling clothes that works something like this….  If you wear an XL shirt, you will need a 6X to 7X riding jersey – and that’s simply to be able to wrestle the ends of the zipper together, there’s no guarantee you will be able to zip it up.  If you want to get from your bedroom to the bike in your garage without sending your wife into a fit of uncontrollable laughter or permanently scaring your children, I suggest the 10X – it’s really not that much material and it will give your fragile male ego a fighting chance.  As for the shorts, the sizing rules are the same, but the shorts, mercifully, come with a sewn in adult diaper.

There is a special sizing vocabulary for comfortable cycling wear.  Look for words like “Club Cut.”  Like the words “relaxed” in blue jeans or “husky” when you were a kid, it means that a garment labeled as a 36” waist is really a 42” waist in disguise.  This sizing vocabulary allows you to select and purchase the garment while retaining a minimal amount of dignity when the checkout girl announces the sizing over the store PA while getting a price check.

Post Script:

Since many of my articles are published on Boomer-livingplus.com I’m including a list of my favorite cycling gadgets and equipment.  I’m not being paid to promote any of these products (the manufacturers can feel free to rectify that at their own discretion).  These are simply items I’ve purchased and found to be particularly useful for riding:

RokForm Apple Phone Bike Mount:  I used the Quadlock for several years, but the cases would crack from being taken on and off the bike.  This is a great little bike case and has a magnet in it so you can stick you phone on anything metal from your refrigerator to your car.  Great for working in the garage.  I use the universal mount because the Pro Mount won't work on my head set.

SRAM 1X Drive Train:  I retired my Shimano Ultegra almost two years ago and opted to be an early adopter of the 1X drive train.  The 1X series has a single front ring (no front derailer) and an 11 X 36 on the back.  It simplifies riding without giving up the climbing gear. I have 4989 miles on it as of today.  I replaced the cassette @ 4,900 miles and the free hub about the same time.  Not bad.  However, my left thumb is out of shape!

Bi.cycle app for your smart phone:  There are lots of apps out there and this GPS based app is excellent.  I have used it for several years and over 18,000 cycling miles and it’s worth every penny.  It's a cyclometer that gives a readout on real time speed, average speed, top speed (for the ambulance driver), calories burned and vertical climb along with a map of your route when you’re done.  If you plan to rob a gas station when you're riding, I suggest you leave this app at home.  I purchased this app on 4/22/10.  It keeps a cumulative total of calories burned.  On 9/18/16 (6 years and 5 months) I broke 1 million calories, over 26,956 miles.  I weigh more than when I bought it ......  Go Figure.

Glympse app for your smart phone:  This is a great safety app.  It sends an e-mail to whomever you invite and they can activate a link and see your position real time on a map.  I never leave home on a solo ride without sending a “Glympse” to my wife. 

Blackburn Flea 2.0 tail light:  This LED tail light is very small and very bright.  Recharges on your USB.  I’m a minimalist and this is a great bright minimalist light.

Bontrager Flare R tail light:  I purchased this tail light about 6 months ago.  It's smaller, but brighter than the Planed Bike Superflash.  I put my Blackburn on my single speed.  This is a great rechargeable light.

Planet Bike Superflash rear bike lite:  While I’m a fan of the Blackburn Flea for a precise clean minimalist design, the Planet Bike Superflash rear bike lite is one of the brightest tail lights I’ve seen.  I’m pretty sure you can be spotted form outer space.  This is the light I put on my wife’s bike… 

Topeak under the seat wedge bag.  Small, easy to move from bike to bike and clever design.  I like just about everything this company sells.  Topeak products are thoughtfully designed and robust.

Road ID (roadid.com):  It’s simple.  There are two kinds of cyclists, those that have had a wreck and those that are going to.  Road ID can give life saving information to emergency personnel when you can’t.

I know I’m missing a bazillion great products; these are just a few of my favorites.

I can't come to work today, I sprained my tooth.

On Monday morning at 8 AM I went for my regularly scheduled dental checkup and cleaning. My thinking is that if you go to the dentist first thing on Monday morning the rest of the week can only get better.  So twice a year, I get to test my premise.  

Frankly, spending the first hour of a work week with two or three relative strangers simultaneously putting both hands up to their elbows into your mouth while wielding sharp instruments gives you a clearer perspective on the problems that may face you at work.

So this past Monday, I marched myself down to my dentist's office, watched the news in his waiting room with the clear understanding that every bad thing the newscasters reported would pale in comparison to the next hour of paid misery.

There are a couple important rules about what takes place in the dentist's office during a checkup.  

First and foremost, admit nothing, and I mean NOTHING!!!  When the dental assistant asks if you've been flossing, the answer is an unequivocal YES.  You don't need to tell her that your flossing regimen began and ended 15 minutes before your appointment.  By the way, the assistant will respond with the same guttural grunt and disbelieving look if you've faithfully flossed 4 times a day since your last appointment or you started the day of your appointment.  

The second question to avoid at all cost is; "Are any of your teeth bothering you?"  Of course they are..... every last one of them.  But if you offer up even a single suspect tooth to examine, they are going to find a use for those sharp instruments they’ve been wielding and more than that tooth is going to be bothering you.  It's sort of like answering the question "Do you mind if I pick that scab?"  Of course I mind!!!  But please go ahead and use that shiny pointy thing in your hand to increase the pain from slightly noticeable to excruciating!!!!!

This fine Monday found me with a conundrum.  My back left lower molar had been bothering me for a couple of months.  It was sensitive to pressure (like chewing) and anything cold could launch me from my chair with the speed and force of a Scud missile.  In order to figure out what was wrong, I was going to have to violate my second rule.

Being a manly man, I decided to "bite the bullet" and admit that the doc should take a look at that puppy and make a decision on what kind of ski boat he wanted to buy next year.  In my mind the admission of a "problem" tooth that happened to be at the farthest from my lips generated a number of scenarios, none of them positive.

First, no matter how bad the problem turned out to be, it was going to be painfully uncomfortable to address since the distance from my lips to that molar was going to require a 30 foot extension ladder to diagnose and make repairs.

Second, it’s a really big tooth, which will require a really big solution.  

A bigger tooth means a bigger crown.  A bigger crown means more dental fixit material, more expensive labor and more helpers to haul out the demolition debris and make the crane lifts to get the new materials in place.  More strangers with their hands in my mouth and a higher pitch whine from the dental drill as it turns the massive molar auger to "prepare the surface" for the new crown.  In other words it had “new ski boat” for the dentist written all over it.

As things turned out, I manned up and told the dental assistant about the molar.  After all, it hurt and the cold sensitivity was having an adverse effect on Ben & Jerry’s 2013 revenue.  As predicted, she dug around a bit, took an extra x-ray and scribbled on the tooth diagram that you can't see from the exam chair unless you’re Linda Blair.  I knew she was making those red marks that meant lifetime employment for the drill operator.

The dentist came in, a little more cheerful than he should have been for a Monday morning.  He greeted me and we talked about the weather while he rolled up the Ski Nautique 200 competition ski boat brochure and put it in his back pocket.  As predicted, he got his pointy hooked dental tools out and poked, prodded and scrapped until he knew exactly where the pain was centered.  He then tuned it in to one or two single motions which made sweat beads pop out on my forehead.  Did I wince?  Did I moan? Did I jump and shout???  I wasn't going to give him the pleasure.  I simply and calmly expressed my pain in succinct and lucid vocabulary as I spit three of his fingers out of my mouth.

One of my favorite quotes, often attributed to Mark Twain, is;  "Most of my worries never happen."  This past Monday was a good day.  The dentist tweaked my existing crown and then proceeded to explain how the tooth was attached by a ligamental (my word) nerve strap, which holds it in place.  He described my problem as a "sprained tooth."  I'm really not kidding.  I'm sure it was layman's terms for some multi syllabic technical dental term to help me understand the cause of my problem.

I half expected him to tell me to wrap it in an Ace bandage and give it a rest.  Like most men my age, I carry a bit of extra weight and I certainly enjoy eating.  But I simply cannot remember an eating related injury.

I calmly left the office, went home and called work.  I explained that I could not work today since I had a sprained tooth.  

Carpe Dentum!!!!

Time is of the Essence

Granddaughter Sophie’s 3^rd birthday is coming in just a few weeks.  Last week I asked her what kind of birthday party she wanted and she immediately responded that she did not want a birthday party.

This was an alarming response since I knew that regardless the source of her reason, I was going to be blamed.  In an effort to extricate myself from something I did not do, I began the cross examination.

Me:                  “Why don’t you want to have a birthday party?”

Sophie:            “Because I’ll be 3 and I won’t be able to play anymore.”

Sophie’s logic:

Three year olds can’t play.

If I don’t have a birthday party, I didn’t have a birthday.

If I don’t have a birthday I’m still two years old.

If I’m two, I can continue to play.

While Sophie’s logic was flawless, her premises were faulty.  In an effort to reduce her stress over the effects of aging, I continued to ask questions.

The first thing I needed to know was who told Sophie that three year olds don’t get to play?  Frankly, if I could correct this premise I was home free; we could throw a birthday party and eat cupcakes.  All good debates and cross examinations should end in eating cupcakes.

Me:                  “Who told you that three year olds can’t play?”

Sophie:            “Puppy”

The problem had now taken an unexpected turn.  Sophie has had “puppy” (a small white stuffed animal with pink polka dots) since birth.  Puppy is Sophie’s most trusted confidant and adviser. 

Sophie’s mom, Michelle, purchased two puppies to have a spare in the event that one was lost or damaged beyond repair.  While purchasing two puppies was good thinking, somewhere along the line Sophie figured out there were two puppies and started to refer to the original as “old puppy.”  Now I had to figure out which one of these little rascals was the culprit.

Me:                  “Which puppy told you that?”
Sophie:            “Old puppy.”

Now we were getting somewhere.  I was instantly disappointed in old puppy, since I had expected a higher level of intellect and wisdom to be demonstrated by Sophie’s oldest and best friend.  But, alas, he had failed us and I simply did not have time to spend questioning him as to the source of his comment.  I can tell you this, he will be 3 at roughly the same time Sophie will turn three and I doubt seriously that he will stop playing.

The mystery was solved by my good friend Phil.  I explained the situation and he patiently listened (even though he’s secretly wishing I’d quit boring him with grandpa stories – he still has 3 kids at home).  After I explained it he simply said “dog years” – old puppy is turning 21.  Sophie is turning 3 and puppy is officially an adult (no more play).

All’s well that ends well.  Yesterday Donna asked Sophie about her birthday and she said she wanted a “Snow White” party.  She wants us all to dress up as characters – that’s right – there will be two 6 foot dwarfs at the party.

She was specific about which of the dwarfs each family member would have to become.  I think I got the best character, Happy.  When asked who was going to be Grumpy, she selected Puppy. 

What goes around comes around.

Grammy Cam

Man I love my gadgets.  The past 20 years have been outstanding for gadget lovers.  We’ve gone from cars with embedded phones to cars that park themselves.  Wireless technologies have brought us multiple iterations of smart phones to the point that our brains are literally carried in our pockets.  As long as we have a data plan and a signal, we can answer almost any question without any native knowledge, while our heads are solidly resident in “the cloud.”

The newest addition to our personal array of intrusive technology is a baby monitor. 

If your kids are between 15 and 30, you probably had one of the early baby monitors.  The old monitor was a simple audio device that allowed you to hear what was happening in the baby’s room.  These monitors required you to actually apply some thought and imagination to the sounds emanating from the speaker and decide how fast you needed to run to the room to intervene, interfere, referee or evacuate.

As grandparents to a 3 year old and a 3 month old, we decided to invest in a baby monitor for our home.  We discovered that in the past 15 years, these devices have become a little more Orwellian.  You can leave your brain and imagination in your pocket (there will be plenty of room created by the vacuum your money left) and just watch the tiny little monitor.  Or, you can buy a 10₵ cord for $12, plug it and watch the little gymnast in real time on your 60-Inch 1080p, 240HZ, 3D LED Home Theatre.  I recommend the small screen – makes the flying animals and campfire look less intimidating.

We had not fully grasped this technology until our granddaughter told us about her talking night light.  She’s almost 3 and has a lot of imagination, so there could be a talking “anything” in her room.  However, it turns out that my son and daughter-in-law purchased a baby monitor that has a speaker embedded in the camera, so you can talk to your kids and correct behavior without getting out of your Barca-lounger.  I’m all for it, but you need to put yourself in your kids booties.

On Monday, the day before the technology was installed in her room; our granddaughter could play, talk, sing, build a campfire or disassemble a ’46 Chevy with a certain degree of impunity.  If the noise level was kept below a certain decibel level and nobody smelled smoke – everything was fine at nap and bed time.

On Tuesday, at nap time, she was in her room engaging in the same behavior as the day before when suddenly a voice, which sounded a lot like her mom, told her to quit swinging from the curtain rods and get back into bed. The voice came from the general direction of the night-light…… So, being a bright kid, she realized she had a talking night-light.  Not only that, but it apparently has some level of authority.

I’m all for home safety and making sure the little tykes get the right amount of shut eye.  However, in the process we are teaching them a life lesson.  In not too many years, they will be managing the geriatric facility in which I may be housed and they may put the shoe on my foot.  I’ll be too old and frail to figure out how to shut off the camera and regain some privacy.  They, on the other hand, will define “privacy” differently than I, based on their early childhood experience of just a desire to get even.

The good news is that they will be able to rewind the video for the ER physician so he will know exactly how I fell off my recliner.  The bad news is that they will be able to rewind the video and post it on You Tube.

You get the picture (or video).  The future isn’t fully upon us but it’s creeping up fast.  While I’m waiting, I think I’ll work on a talking night light.

"It Comes In An 8"

I’m a “car guy.”  I like cars.  I’m not one of those gear-headed, busted knuckle, build it from the frame up kind of car guys.  I’m the kind who understands and appreciates good and great cars for the value of the engineering, performance and aesthetics of a car.  I roll the window down in traffic when I’m next to a Mustang GT just to hear the visceral sound of the exhaust.  I do a double take when I pass a vintage Pontiac GTO or Camaro SS.  I also like convertibles – A LOT.

I can describe, in excruciatingly boring detail, every car I’ve owned.  My first car was a 1963 Pontiac Lemans.  The predecessor of the GTO – it was white with a red interior and a floor shifter with a large white knob on top.  I had it for almost 30 days.  It would burn rubber for a solid block, but wouldn’t go over 50 MPH.  Turns out the little old lady who owned it before me had a singular automotive strategy for petroleum products.  When she was low on gas, she added gas.  When she was low on oil, she added oil.  Unfortunately, she never changed the oil. 

My second car was a 1966 Impala convertible.  It’s the car that caused me to fall in love with convertibles.  I paid $625 for that car.  I lived in Michigan at the time and any time the temperature soared above 40 degrees, the top came down.  I recall having a lot of head colds while I owned that car.  From that point, there has been a steady stream of cars, a VW bug with a crank open sunroof, a couple of Chevelle Malibu’s, mini-vans and the beat goes on.

My wife, though the progeny of two GM employees, does not fully share my love for the automobile.  Yes, she will turn her head when I point out or comment on a car, but I rarely sense that her pulse rate has quickened at the site of a Porsche Cayman passing or vintage Austin Healy in the rear view mirror.  She’s not wrong, just different – or is it the other way? 

Because of this difference, I typically make the initial selection when replacing cars.  I have sound opinions and desires based on solid emotional evidence. 

That said, when we no longer needed a minivan, Donna and I agreed that we would buy her something I wanted.  A convertible.  The picture in my head was the two of us driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains on a sunny Saturday with the wind blowing through what was left of our hair – smiling in abject abandonment.  I was driving.

In my typical car buying style I began the process of elimination and settled on the Toyota Solara (two door Camry with a convertible top).  My reasoning in this selection was flawless.  The Solara is a Toyota, therefore reliable.  It is feature rich (meaning lots of gadgets for me to play with when I’m a passenger), had a back seat large enough for us to take two other Sr. adults on one of our idyllic hair blowing mountain rides and it was in our price range.

I did all of the core shopping and selection, showed Donna pictures and brochures and had her convinced that this was the car.  I drove to the local Toyota dealer, scoped out several good candidates, went on a solo test drive to assure she was getting what I wanted.  Then I made an appointment for Donna and me to test drive it together.  I even suggested that the salesman shine up the pretty red one and park it out front so it would be the first convertible she saw when we drove onto the lot.  The fix was in!!!

The test drive came and went on a Wednesday afternoon.  Donna enjoyed the drive and agreed that the Solara would be a fine choice.  However, I did not perceive an increase in her pulse rate during the discussion.  Her comments were dispassionate to the point that we could have been shopping for a blow dryer (come to think of it we were).  On the drive home we passed the Ford dealer.  You gearheads will understand the following conversation that took place as we were passing.

Donna:    “I’ve always wanted a Mustang.”

Tim:         “I’m not going to have a 6 cylinder Ford.”

Donna:    “It comes in an 8.”

The 2007 Mustang did come in an 8 cylinder model.  The only 8 cylinder model available in 2007 was the Ford Mustang GT.  It boasted a 4.6L V8 with 300 Horsepower @ 5750 RPM.  Zero-to-60 in 5.1 seconds with a quarter mile time of 13.8 seconds at 103 MPH.  YEAH, “it comes in an 8.”

Turns out that the “Fix” was in – just a different fix.  There had been some undisclosed research completed on the part of my bride prior to the car shopping trip. 

We made a U-turn and a couple of days later a Red Fire Metallic Mustang GT convertible named “Sally” was parked in the garage. 

For nearly 4 years that car became an extension of Donna’s identity.  She enjoyed it like no other car she ever owned.  One day she was parking at the local grocery store with my 90 year old mother in the passenger seat.  As she exited the car, a teenager in the parking spot next to her, observing a middle-aged woman getting out of a high performance car with a 90 year old woman, started to laugh.  Donna knocked on the window and asked if he was laughing at her.  His simple response was “Lady, that’s just wrong!!”

My friends, nothing was ever more right!!!!