kenlassblog

Recently I went to meet a friend for lunch at a local restaurant. We made plans to get there early to beat the noon hour crunch. Upon arriving I scan the dining area and am pleased to see the place is still mostly empty, only two or three tables are occupied. My friend and I approach the hostess desk. I hold up two fingers and say “booth for two please”. The hostess glances down at her computer screen. There is a short pause. Then she says “there will be about a twenty minute wait, is that okay?”

I’m puzzled. A twenty minute wait? There’s hardly anybody here. Irritated, I try my best to stay polite as I inquire as to why the delay. The hostess flashes a look of frustration and empathy as she explains they don’t have enough servers to seat everyone right away. She says she’s sorry. It almost looks like she’s bracing herself for a complaint, maybe even a scene. I sense she’s been taking a lot of flack from impatient customers.

We tell her it’s all good and we take a seat in the lobby. As we wait, we talk about this universal shortage of restaurant workers. Everywhere you go it’s the same thing. Help Wanted signs out front. Line chefs, managers, servers, all positions, all shifts. What happened to all the folks who used to need these jobs, we wonder. What are they doing to make a living? Are they just sitting around collecting unemployment?

For some reason, the topic stuck with me after lunch, and I decided to do some research. What I found gave me an updated perspective on my dining out experiences. Of course, the crisis began with the Covid pandemic of 2020. Everybody stopped eating out. Restaurants either had to close or let nearly all of their workers go. Apparently this was not often done with a lot of concern for their welfare. I read many quotes from former food service workers who said they were “put out like yesterday’s trash”.

I found many accounts of what restaurant work was like. Long hours on your feet, nights, weekends, holidays, low pay, and high pressure. The jobs are also widely viewed as dead end. No ladder to climb. And then there is dealing with the customers. Most diners are polite, but one survey said over sixty percent of servers reported dealing with abusive patrons. More than fifteen percent said they endured sexual abuse.

It made me recall a time when Sharon and I were seated at a local establishment, and as we sat down we heard a commotion a few tables down. A man was clearly upset about something and was loudly giving his server an earful. We couldn’t make out exactly what the problem was. He and his party then stomped out the door carrying takeout boxes. We happened to be sitting at a spot where I could partially see into the kitchen. The server was back there in tears, explaining the incident to a woman who looked like she could be a manager.

From what I gather, when the Covid restrictions were lifted and people began eating out again, a large chunk of the workers simply decided not to return to the restaurant business because of the lifestyle. It is true that many were able to compensate for the loss of income by receiving the increased government unemployment funds. But the idea that they used the money to sit around and watch TV is a myth. In reality, many used the funds to train themselves for other lines of work which they deemed higher paying with more promotional potential. They transitioned to low level health care positions, some went into education, some into information technology.

The pandemic also created the work-from-home explosion. There is a whole new catalog of employment that can be done on a laptop on your kitchen table. “Influencers” are making good money simply acquiring products or services and blogging about them.

None of this bodes well for restaurant owners in their quest to restaff to pre-pandemic levels. So, I thought, what does this mean for the future? What is to become of the local eating place? Based on projections from industry observers, it seems likely the glut of people seeking food service jobs is never coming back. There will be some, of course, but the surplus of applications that managers used to find in their desk drawers is probably gone forever. Restaurants will look for ways to maintain quality of service with less people.

Many may go to automated systems that allow you to order from a screen on your table. The ability to pay your bill on a kiosk is already widespread. One rapidly expanding trend is to bring the restaurant to you instead of the other way around. Home delivery is no longer just for pizzas and subs. You can enjoy almost everybody’s cuisine driven to your front door either by an independent service or the restaurant itself.

After reading extensive material about the situation, my appreciation of those who do come to my table and serve me has certainly increased. The other day I told my server “you did a great job. I really appreciate your efforts”. At first she looked at me like I was an alien from another solar system. She clearly was not used to hearing something like that. Then she quickly smiled and said thank-you.

I don’t think people will ever stop eating out. It’s just therapy to get out of the house and enjoy a good meal now and then. A great way to socialize with friends and family. But I suspect you will see fewer and fewer humans working there, and more and more machines. So be kind to the humans that remain. Maybe they’ll stick around for a while.

It seems we are living through difficult times. We have seen a pandemic, political division, rampant gun violence, and a general decline of moral values. But I suspect the things we are dealing with pale in comparison to what the generation of the early 20th century went through.

This was brought home to me in a very personal way after the passing of my mother in the summer of 2020. Among her personal effects was a tattered notebook. Apparently she took a writing course during her junior year of high school, and one of her assignments was to keep a journal of her entire school year. The pages cover the 1932-’33 school year, during which Mom would have turned sixteen years old.

At the time America was deep in the throes of the Great Depression which caused massive unemployment and poverty. It was also during Prohibition which forbid the sale of alcohol, resulting in a heavy increase in organized crime activity, bootlegging, and a sharp drop in tax revenue, which made the economy even worse.

Mom’s journal is largely an account of how her family of seven made it through a brutal midwestern winter with little income and limited basic necessities. The first entry is dated September 10, 1932. She describes herself as “shy” and adds:

“I think the journal will be great fun when I look at it in years to come”.

I’m sure she never dreamed that, 91 years later, her septuagenarian son would be reading her words with wonder and admiration.

It is clear the poverty of the era affected her school life:

“October 3, 1932 — This afternoon our class had a meeting at which we discussed the getting of class rings. Mr. McLane suggested that we postpone it until we are seniors on account of the scarcity of money.”

These were desperate times. Some folks, with nothing to lose, and aided by the underworld, turned to crime, even in Mom’s small town of West Bend:

“November 2, 1932 — The First National Bank of West Bend was robbed yesterday morning by three bandits armed with machine guns and pistols. They escaped with about $15,000….no one has been identified as yet.”

Republicans were in office at this time, but with all of the upheaval, evidently voters were ready for a change:

“November 9, 1932 — Well, the elections are over….the Democratic party made a clean sweep….President Hoover carried only six states. Governor Roosevelt’s election is considered the greatest landslide ever made by a political party in American history.”

Money for food was not plentiful. Fortunately, Mom’s father was an avid hunter and fisherman:

“December 5, 1932 — Dad and Walter (Mom’s younger brother) came home late Saturday night with forty-four rabbits. We ought to have a few meals out of that.”

“January 5, 1933 — Before classes this afternoon Mr. McLane announced that ex-President Coolidge was found dead in bed this morning. This was indeed a surprise to everyone.”

“February 18, 1933 — There has been quite a bit of excitement lately in connection with a milk strike…several dairies refused to comply with it…In today’s paper there was an account of a large milk truck being stopped and all the milk poured into the snow….Also on Tuesday an attempt was made to assassinate Franklin D. Roosevelt in Florida by an Italian. This caused a great deal of excitement as he is not yet in office. He escaped injury.”

“March 3, 1933 — This morning all the banks in the state closed up for an indefinite number of days. This was quite a blow to many people as they had received their checks due the beginning of the month and had not had them cashed.”

On March 21, 1933 President Roosevelt signed into law the Cullen-Harrison Act which legalized the sale of beer and ended Prohibition. Mom’s family operated a lake resort which included a restaurant and bar. The legislation may well have saved their livelihood:

“April 8, 1933 — Many hailed the return of beer at midnight on Thursday with an all night celebration….Dad had a little party and was up until four o’clock in the morning”.

There didn’t appear to be any money for gym decorations for her junior prom so they made do with colored paper:

“April 22, 1933 — We are collecting branches and twisting pieces of pink paper on them to make them look like cherry blossoms, as the gym is to represent a Japanese cherry garden.”

Mom writes that she didn’t attend the prom. I wonder if she couldn’t afford a dress. The journal ends after an entry on May 25 describing how the family is working hard to get the resort ready for the tourist season, and praying for a good turnout.

These were not the only uncertain times Mom endured. Eight years after writing this account, she went through World War Two, wondering each day if her husband would return alive from the battlefields of Europe. By the grace of God, he did, else I would not be here.

Mom went on to live a long and mostly happy life of humility and service to others. She left this earth at the ripe old age of 103. She survived all of the hard times, and I expect we will too. By the way, in the margin of the final page of the journal, her teacher wrote down her grade. She got an A.

As a writer, and as a person, she is a hard act to follow.

It was January 28, 2014. The weather forecast called for temperatures to dip into the teens with a light dusting of snow. I had driven my own car to meet the rest of the Daytime Alabama team at the Pelham Civic Center where we were doing a light hearted TV feature on the hockey team and the incredibly cumbersome gear a goalie has to wear. (The irony of doing an ice skating piece on this day would strike me later.) When I entered the rink facility about 10am the wind was cold, the sky was cloudy, but there was no precipitation. It was a brisk, sleepy Tuesday morning.

When I emerged from the building about three hours later, the world had changed. Suddenly there was a coating of snow on the ground, people seemed to be scurrying about with a sense of urgency, and traffic on the streets was unusually heavy. Still clueless as to what was going on, I worked my way to the I-459 bypass. As I approached the Highway 31 exit ramp, traffic came to a hard stop, backed up as far as I could see. After several minutes I shifted into Park, set the emergency brake and turned on the radio.

It was only then that I learned that the snow had unexpectedly frozen on the streets and freeways. Schools, caught by surprise, quickly decided to let out early, causing thousands of panicked parents to get on the roads at the same time in an attempt to pick up their kids. The result was the equivalent of a carnival bumper car ride on the highways. Not only were passenger cars stacked up all over the interstates, but big rigs were jack-knifed and spread out horizontally across multiple lanes. I-459 in front of me had become a parking lot. The day would later become known as the Snowpocalypse.

I noticed several drivers around me abandoning their cars and heading out on foot. I decided to stay in my car for the time being. Surely they would get traffic moving eventually I thought. Besides, it’s freezing out there, and I was dressed only in a sport coat with an open shirt. With the car idling and the heater on, I chose to sit tight. A decision I would come to regret.

An hour went by. Two hours. Three. The radio reports indicated the situation was only getting worse, not better. With the gas gauge getting low I finally began to realize I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I called the TV station to see if they had vehicles on the road that could come and pick me up. The newsroom assignment editor told me all units were out covering the situation, and they would come get me when there was a lull. I had worked in television newsrooms long enough to know that, during a big weather story such as this, there is no lull. Coverage is continuous. They weren’t coming to rescue me. I knew I was forgotten the moment they hung up the phone.

Reluctantly, I buttoned up the top button on my shirt, pulled up my collar around my neck, and got out of the car. It was surreal. Hundreds of empty cars around me at a standstill. People walking in droves along a four lane interstate as though it was a pedestrian mall. It was like a scene out of one of those nuclear war aftermath movies.

The Highway 31 ramp was just a few hundred feet away. Even the ramp was blocked by collided cars. There was a gas station/convenience store at the base. I tramped down the icy exit into the business, which was packed wall to wall with folks just trying to get warm. My cell phone was almost dead. My only connection to the people who might help me was about to go dark. I approached a frazzled employee, who was overwhelmed by the sudden flood of distraught visitors. I apologetically inquired if there was anywhere I might plug in my phone, fully expecting to be laughed out of the building. Much to my surprise, he flashed a sympathetic smile, came out from behind the counter, and pushed the freezer containing the popsicles and ice cream bars slightly out from the wall, revealing an outlet with an available socket. He invited me to plug in.

That would be the first of an amazing series of kindnesses extended to me by people I did not know. And I needed them. I needed them because, as the sun began to set, I realized that, for the first time in my life, at the age of 63, I was going to spend a night homeless. And it was terrifying.

I remembered there was a hotel about half a mile down the street, but of course, they were completely booked up. Employees were hauling out blankets and pillows for stranded stragglers and allowing them to sleep on the lobby furniture and the floor for free. Several unselfishly offered to give their blanket to me, but they needed it more.

After more wandering around, I wound up at a nearby Subway Deli with a handful of other frightened fugitives. It was one of the few places still open. Rather than boot us out at closing time, the owner graciously told us we could stay there overnight. I spent the evening in one of their wooden booths. Didn’t sleep much but at least I was warm. There’s a lot to be said for just being warm. I will never take it for granted again. At sunrise, I headed back out into the cold, figuring I would try to walk back to the TV station. A mile down the road, I was offered a ride by a friendly couple passing by.

Now, normally, I would never recommend getting into a car with strangers, but these were desperate times. They turned out to be sweet people who felt sorry for me because I looked so cold. They drove out of their way to drop me off at the TV station. I was safe, thanks to the kindness of others.

There is so much more to write about that day. Like how my wife and her fellow teachers spent the night at the county school for special needs children where she worked, foregoing sleep to take of the kids and keeping them calm because the buses couldn’t run. Or the chivalrous policeman who braved blocked roads and icy bridges to drive them home the next day.

I would come to learn that the kindness shown to us was typical of the entire region, as people pitched in everywhere to help those in need. Unselfish love. Service to others. What a concept.

It takes the worst of times to bring out the best in us.

Easter egg hunts are a tradition of the season. Few things are more exciting to children than vaulting into the back yard and searching the premises for those plastic ovoids, especially when there is the promise of a treat inside. My grandkids beg me to hide the eggs over and over again, never mind that they tend to be in the same locations every time. It’s the thrill of the discovery, the challenge to get the most.

However, when the hunt is conducted on a community-wide scale, those same motivators can often change the landscape. It occurs to me that watching a large Easter egg hunt is akin to observing all of the facets of human nature, playing out right there in front of your eyes on the field. There is passion, aggression, greed, joy, disappointment, ambition, generosity, sympathy and determination.

And that’s just the adults.

I was struck by the report of an egg hunt in Ohio, where shopping mall proprietors had to apologize for the behavior of adults, some of whom were seen literally blocking children out of the way, knocking them down to facilitate their own kids’ success. Despite several warnings and admonishments to the grown-ups to stop picking up the prizes themselves, they continued to “assist” their own offspring by gathering up eggs for them. The result was many children winding up with few or no rewards at all.

Distasteful as that may be, it’s hard for me to judge the adults too harshly. More than sheer greed, they were likely driven by an out-of-control desire to provide the maximum possible joy for their own kids. It’s love gone radical. It’s a blinders approach to a purpose in a vacuum. And it’s become the mantra for our culture today.

Far too often we are all about ourselves, our families, our circle of friends. Our own political beliefs, our own moral convictions, our own definitions of normal. Our own basket of Easter eggs. How ironic that so many of these self-centered human foibles are on display at an Easter egg hunt, during a season which commemorates the ultimate act of unselfishness.

Are we doomed to a future of self-absorption and loss of empathy? Maybe not. I recently saw video of an egg hunt where children aged preschool through fifth grade were instructed to search for eggs by color. Younger kids were to pick up certain colors, older kids to collect those of other colors. Nice concept. Difficult to control. And the result was predictable. The older kids, faster and stronger than the young, mostly disregarded the color structure and filled their bags with whatever they could find. It wasn’t long before anarchy prevailed and it was every kid for himself, regardless of color.

But through the chaos there were signs of hope. A few of the older tots, recognizing that the young had little chance of success, were seen not only helping the toddlers fill their bags, but actually taking eggs out of their own container and giving them away. That kind of altruism seldom occurs naturally. It is a result of having it modeled to them. Modeled by parents and siblings who have not bought into the us-first mentality.

Patience, courtesy, humility, respect and reverence are still out there. A little harder to find perhaps, but still there. I find that those who practice them are almost always inspired by a relationship with God. By the example of sacrifice for others modeled by Jesus on the cross, the seminal event of the Easter season.

It’s never a mistake to put all your eggs in that basket.

Of course we’ve heard about him. Everybody’s heard about him, this carpenter from Nazareth who claimed to be the son of God. He’s been around some of our nearby towns preaching this Christianity religion. We heard he even performed what some are calling miracles, but others just say it was some sort of magic trick. We thought about going to hear him speak, but we’ve been so busy working our crops and repairing our home and stable, tending our livestock. Who’s got time for that?

One thing’s for sure. The guy had guts. He stuck to his story even when he knew the people who ran our synagogues got really mad and ganged up against him. I thought maybe he just enjoyed the attention, but good gracious, they convinced the government to beat him and kill him. Kill him in the most heinous way, the treatment reserved for only the worst of criminals. You’d have to be crazy to take your radical talk that far. Unless…..

Unless you were telling the truth. Apparently he didn’t sound crazy to his audiences. I heard he had amassed thousands of believers. Guess that’s why the Sanhedrin folks got so upset.

I have to admit it struck me as a little conceited when he claimed he had to die to atone for the sins of the world. And it got really bizarre when he predicted he would rise after his death and ascend to heaven! No wonder they killed him. They must have thought he was some sort of lunatic. Somebody who was just after their money and prestige.

Except that, three days later, our whole town started buzzing. Word is the tomb where he was laid is empty! The body is missing! How could that happen? The army even had guards in front of it. Some say his followers must have organized and stole the body. That doesn’t make sense. What would they have to gain? They weren’t getting rich off of his teaching. He preached selflessness and giving away what you had. Why would they want to stage his raising from the dead and ascension to perpetuate a lie? A lie that did not profit them?

There are whispers the Sanhedrin or the government are behind it. That makes even less sense. They would just be helping his cause by giving credence to his prediction. Then there are even those who say he never really died. Oh, right. So he bled out on the cross, laid in the tomb three days, recovered on his own, single handedly removed the huge boulder from the entrance and then subdued all of the guards and escaped. That’s the craziest of all the theories.

His followers profess that they have seen him. Alive. Talked to him. Even watched him literally do just as he said he would, physically rise to the sky and ascend to heaven. Furthermore, his disciples say he is the only way for us to go there as well. We must believe in him and follow his ways. Guess we’ll never get to ask him for ourselves. He’s nowhere to be found any more. You must take it by faith, they say.

Was he the son of God? For now it remains a great mystery. What do we do with that? I have a feeling they will be telling his story for centuries to come. Who is he? I guess everyone will have to answer the question for themselves.

When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?”  They replied, “Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” “But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?” (Matthew 16:13-15)

“I know you. You’re Ken Lass!” the lady exclaimed upon our random meeting. “I used to watch you do the weather every night. You were my favorite weather man.” She went on about how impressed she was with my knowledge of meteorology, and thanked me for all those years of helping to keep people safe in times of severe weather.

I politely expressed appreciation for the kind words and told her what a pleasure it was to meet her. As we parted ways, I was thinking such an encounter should be justifiable reason to swell up with pride and self admiration.

And it would have been, except for the fact that I’ve never been a weather man. I don’t know anything about weather. Those folks have to know fancy words like stratocumulus and vortex signature. To me, vortex signature just seems like a really awesome name for a rock band.

I was a sports anchor in Birmingham for seventeen years and then a news anchor for another fourteen years, but never did weather. All of that lady’s sweet remarks were meant for someone she had mistaken me for. Must have been a great guy, whoever it was. Oh well, it was a nice little ego trip for a few moments, even if it was fraudulent.

Ever notice that, any time you feel the temptation to become full of yourself, life has a way of bringing you crashing back down to earth? Certainly true in my case. Back in 1984 our pro football team, the Birmingham Stallions, had pulled off a big coup by signing quarterback Cliff Stoudt away from the prestigious NFL Pittsburgh Steelers. The Stallions threw a big public welcome party for Stoudt and picked me to emcee the event.

Cliff was tall, dark and handsome and all the girls were ga-ga. Prior to the start of the program, I took him aside to take down some notes as to what he wanted me to say when I introduced him. As we were talking, I noticed a moony-eyed teenage girl slowly approaching us. She was clutching something to her chest. I recognized it was an autograph book.

Having obviously been raised as a well-mannered southern girl, she waited patiently for our conversation to end. When Cliff left to take his seat at the head table, much to my surprise, the pretty young thing did not go to him. She came up to me instead. “Mr. Lass?” she said, her voice quivering, her eyes in a wide open gaze, the way one looks when awed by meeting someone they have idolized. Wow, I thought. Perhaps the real celebrity in the room is me.

Whereupon she breathlessly uttered “I would be so grateful if I could please borrow your pen so that I can get Cliff Stoudt’s autograph.”

The rest of the event is kind of a blur.

For several years I anchored the weeknight sportscasts on Channel 13. The weekend sports anchor during part of that stretch was good-looking and talented Matt Coulter. I have a fond memory of the time Matt was on vacation and I covered the weekend for him. On Saturday night, the phone in the sports office rang. It was a viewer who told me he was a diehard Atlanta Braves fan, but he had been out with his family all afternoon and couldn’t find the score of that day’s game. He was most appreciative when I told him the Braves had won.

“Thanks so much” he gushed. “By the way, you are my favorite sportscaster.” As I reveled in his compliment, he went on to say “Yeah, I like you so much better than that Ken Lass.”

I chose not to tell him I was not Matt. I didn’t want to embarrass him. I never told Matt either. Humbled as I was, in some twisted way, I still enjoyed stealing Matt’s compliment.

When we covered the races at Talladega, our crew often had the benefit of avoiding the infamous traffic crunch gridlocking the roads leading to the track. We flew our monogrammed helicopter right down into the infield. Prior to landing, the pilot would cruise the aircraft slowly across the bleacher area so that all the fans would take notice of the huge “Sky 13” logo on the side. Nothing like free publicity.

Thousands of race fans went wild waving and cheering at the chopper. In fact, we were so close, I could have sworn many of them recognized me sitting on the passenger side and were shouting my name. Upon landing, I decided to bounce out, run to the inside edge of the track, and give a big wave to all of “my people”.

This was a blisteringly hot July day. And all those fans? Turns out they were not waving at all. They were fanning themselves, desperately trying to cool down. The cheering? That was for the drivers behind me who were climbing into their cars.

There were many more instances like these throughout a 44 year career in broadcasting, but I’ll stop there because I feel my self-esteem dropping even as I type this. The moral of the story is, don’t ever let yourself get to the point where you think you are, in the words of Will Farrell in the movie Anchor Man, “kind of a big deal”. Because life will quickly bring you back down to humbling reality.

Take it from a former TV weather man. (Not)

I love old, corny sci-fi movies. One of my favorites is a 1970 film titled “Colossus: The Forbin Project”. Scientist Forbin has developed a giant computer system named Colossus that is so smart, the United States government decides to trust it with control of its nuclear defense system. But the plan backfires when Colossus learns of a similar system in Russia, and unites with it to take over the world. The human race must obey its commands or the unified machines will wipe out humanity by launching its nuclear missiles. The computers keep folks under control by ordering the installation of monitors which watch and keep track of every move every person makes.

In real life, we’re not quite there yet, but I couldn’t help recalling that old movie as I was watching TV in my den the other night. We were in the middle of another rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond. It’s one of our favorite TV shows ever. We’ve seen every episode countless times but we keep coming back to them, mainly because the great majority of new programming is not targeted to us and therefore of no interest. When the show went to a commercial break, a small link appeared in the upper left hand corner of the screen. It read “Ad Info”.

I’d seen it many times before and just ignored it, figuring it was just a strategy to sell me something. For some reason, on this night, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to click on it. The most interesting text then appeared on the screen. It was an explanation of why this particular commercial was on my TV. It seems Google, the company that runs my streaming service, has been watching me as I watch my TV. It’s also been tracking everything I’ve ever googled, which is a lot. I google any number of things every day.

The message informed me that this ad was “personalized” for me based on my interests, my searches, my activity while signed in, and my “general location or the general locations where you have been”. Apparently, I was to regard this as a good thing, because the post said it made commercials “more useful to me”. I confess, however, that it gave me a bit of a chill. Not only did I not want my TV to decide which commercials I should watch, but I found it a little unsettling that Google had some sort of portfolio of my interests and locations.

Of course I was aware, on some subconscious level, that this was nothing new. Internet providers have been tracking everything we do on our laptops and desktops and phones for decades. It’s the source of all those annoying pop-up ads we encounter as we surf for important information, such as whether Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez have really gotten back together. Some sites just go right ahead and tell you up front they are watching you. They tell you they use “cookies”, which are basically recordings of what you are doing. Sadly, in this day and age, you have to expect it from your laptop or phone. You go on the internet, you take your chances.

But my TV? Somehow that struck me as being a little more personal and invasive. Besides, Google might get the wrong idea. My program choices can be pretty random. Sometimes I want to watch an educational documentary on PBS about World War Two. Other times I might want to watch the Three Stooges hitting each other in the face with a pie. What if my grandkids are here watching Mickey Mouse Playhouse, or Blues Clues? Can Google figure out it’s not me? Or am I doomed to seeing commercials for Barbie’s dollhouse every day?

I suppose it’s all part of the gradual surrender of American culture to this nebulous thing we call the internet. Maybe the Forbin Project movie was just ahead of its time. What if Google eventually decides to punish me if I don’t watch the shows they favor? They could do something drastic, like force me to watch lawyer commercials. I think I might actually prefer nuclear destruction over that.

Deep in my heart of hearts, I know the ultimate answer is obvious. We should try going back in time, before we even knew what an internet was. Turn the TV off. Close the lid on the laptop. Put your phone on silent. Read a book. Work a crossword puzzle. Write someone a thoughtful greeting card. Volunteer for something. Play with your kids or grandkids. Mow the lawn. Paint your guest room. Take a walk.

Or just buy an antenna.

Forty-seven years of marriage. That’s forty-seven Valentine Days. A lot of times to think of creative ways to express your love for that special person. I started running out of ideas about year twenty. Gradually, our Valentine celebrations got more and more casual. Dinner at a fancy restaurant evolved into the quarter pounder combo meal at McDonald’s. Don’t judge me. I did throw in a hot apple pie for dessert. She’s worth it.

It’s not even clear who this romantic day is named after. There are murky accounts of three different men named Valentine, all of whom were storied to have been martyred by the Romans back in the third century, and later canonized by the Catholic church as saints. You can pick your favorite legend. There’s several of them out there. The one I like best has Valentine being a priest who was forbidden by the military to perform marriages. The idea being that single men would make better soldiers. However, being a hopeless romantic, Valentine continued to perform weddings in secret, uniting countless love-struck couples. When he was found out, Valentine was executed.

Makes a good story. No telling if it’s true. Anyway, the Valentine’s Day tradition really exploded when the Hallmark company popularized the greeting card in 1913. Ah, but true love, and mass commercialism, soon rendered a mere greeting card inadequate. The occasion became an opportunity, some think even an obligation, for lovers (read men) to display their sincere affection with some sort of unique gift or experience.

This quickly became problematic for me, not being the most creative or romantic person in the world. My idea of changing things up is to switch to a dozen tulips instead of roses. Candy? Who needs that? We’re always watching our weight and sugar intake. My taste in stuff like jewelry or clothing is a non-starter. If I were to buy her a sweater, she would flash me a big smile, a heart felt thank-you, and a peck on the cheek. Whereupon the sweater would be hung up in the deepest and darkest recesses of her bedroom closet, never to be seen again, until enough time went by for her to dispose of it discreetly.

Around year thirty-two or so, I decided it was time to truly surprise her with something unexpected, although I had no clue what that might be. At the time, I was doing the morning drive radio show on WDJC, and I decided to go on the air and solicit suggestions for a Valentine gesture that was out of the ordinary. The audience was very forthcoming. Some of the ideas were pretty off the wall, like take her parachute jumping. I don’t even like to step on a stool to check the smoke detector.

But one idea that recurred was the ancient tradition of washing feet. Several women callers chimed in to say their husbands would get down on the floor with a basin of warm water, a wash rag, and a tube of oil. They washed the feet of their bride, and then massaged in the oil. All of the women said they regarded this as exceptionally romantic.

I was intrigued enough to do a little research. I found that the washing of feet was a common practice in both the secular and religious communities back in the day. It was considered a polite and humble way to greet guests and honor them. And of course, there are several references in the Bible. For example, John 13 states ” Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.”

Well, if it was good enough for Jesus, it was certainly good enough for me.  So that year, on Valentine’s Day, after our dinner at Sneaky Pete’s, (no apple pie), I told Sharon to have a seat on the sofa. I disappeared momentarily into the hall bathroom, and reappeared with my basin, rag, oil and towel. She looked at me quizzically. I think she thought I was going to give the dog a bath in the living room. I carefully removed her shoes and told her I was going to wash her feet as an expression of my love.

She went along with it, trying her best not to giggle when I tried to work around her toes and ankle bone. No doubt her favorite part was the oil massage. She sat back and smiled. She clearly enjoyed the gesture and that made me happy. When I finished, not only was she pleased, but her feet looked and smelled great! In fact, I was reluctant to put her shoes back on. I wanted to admire my work for a bit. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty neat moment. I recommend it to any husband in search of a new Valentine’s Day idea.

Afterward, as we huddled warmly next to each other on the sofa, I remembered that some of those radio callers remarked that it’s even better if you and your spouse wash each other’s feet. I chose not to suggest that. No sense pushing my luck.

She was born and raised in Georgia. Motivated by a strong desire for service and ministry, she pursued a career in nursing. She married a man whose job took them on several relocations, all over the country.

At one point, they landed far away from home in Michigan. She hated it there. She cried almost every day, missing her family and roots, now the breadth of a nation away. This felt like foreign territory. Folks there were obsessed with her southern accent, asking her to say certain words, then giggling when they came out different from the way they spoke. She felt like entertainment and novelty to them. She said northerners would equate her dialect to ignorance, gullibility and lack of sophistication. It got so bad, she lamented, that she chose to become very quiet and withdrawn, for fear of inviting mockery and condescension.

Her story struck a sympathetic chord with her listener, whose experience was similar, though geographically running in the opposite direction. Having spent the first twenty-seven years of his life growing up in Wisconsin, he also chose a transient path, moving frequently, eventually finding himself in the south, knowing not a soul, far, far from home. He would encounter steady teasing about being a “Yankee”. Though no one ever said it, he often took it as a subtle implication he was not welcome. This caught him by surprise. He had never thought of himself as a Yankee. Yankees were people who lived along the eastern seaboard. He had always thought of himself as a Midwesterner, and thus, kindred to the people of the south in culture and values.

Nor had he ever thought of southerners as backward or slow. To the contrary, he envied them. His image of Dixie was what he observed on television, a land of good looking, tanned people who frolicked on the beach, enjoyed incredible cooking, and excelled at southern hospitality. As a child, he sat spellbound in front of a black and white TV, watching Bear Bryant and the Alabama Crimson Tide dominate college football, and admiring the way the fans passionately supported their teams. He and his family would religiously watch the Miss America pageant each year, and note that the final ten always seemed to be dominated by smart, poised and beautiful southern women.

Yet upon his arrival, he found himself often stereotyped as impolite and impersonal. Southern folks seemed surprised when he routinely addressed them as “Sir” and Ma’am”, as he had been raised to do. Some were not expecting him to work hard at blending into their traditions and customs.

He could relate to what this woman was telling him. But now, with the benefit of three or four decades of hindsight, they reflected on what they had learned. She moved back to the south. He sensed perhaps a trace of regret in her voice, as she told him, given the chance to do it over again, she wouldn’t let the inquisitive fawning of her northern acquaintances keep her from getting to know them better, and experiencing the love and kindness that is an integral part of the midwestern way of life.

He never migrated back to his northern roots, having fallen in love with the people of the south, who had proven not only to be welcoming, but deeply loving, loyal and inclusive. He would stay for forty years and counting, raise a family there, and feel every bit as much at home as he did amidst the love and security of his native Midwest.

Both of them agreed the major takeaway is that people are just people, no matter where you go. What a shame we let so many things divide us. Trivial things like speech accents, or larger things such as politics, race and income levels. We are so much stronger together. Though it is sometimes hard to recognize, we truly do have much more that unites us than divides us.

We are different, yet so much the same.

How can you tell it’s January? Just drive past any of the gyms in the Trussville area. You’ll find the parking lots are packed. It’s the busiest time of the year for them. January is the month of new beginnings, which very often involve resolutions to lose weight and get into better condition. We start out excited and motivated to work out. We set our goals and prepare to sweat it out. This time, it’s on for real. We might even splurge and buy a treadmill or a stationary bike for our home. Or map out a walking route around the neighborhood. We begin our exercise regimen with energy and intensity.

Ah, but after a few days, muscles begin to ache, joints are sore, back is throbbing, and you’re just plain tired. All the time. It gets hard. Too hard. Oh, you press on for a few weeks, but eventually you start to invent excuses to take a few days off. You have a doctor’s appointment. You have to babysit the grandkids. The dog needs a bath. Your favorite episode of Gunsmoke is on TV. Gradually, you get more and more creative with the excuses, you work out less and less, and by sometime around mid-February, the gym has become a distant memory, and that new treadmill has become handy for hanging wet clothes so they can air dry.

Our Christian walk can be like that. We experience a great spiritual renewal at church over the Christmas season. We are pumped up for Jesus. We leap headlong into the new year determined to get closer to God, to pray more, to get more deeply involved in church activities, to reconnect with folks in your life that might need a little ministry. This is the year!

But we rediscover that it takes time and effort. It usually involves coming out of your comfort zone, and it often doesn’t yield the kind of immediate, satisfying results you envisioned. You try to press on, but slowly you begin to let yourself off the hook. So many others are praying for this person, they don’t need my prayer time. I’ve done all I can to minister to that person, but it doesn’t seem to be making a difference. I can’t make time for this ministry, I’m too busy. I’m just not cut out for that kind of service. I don’t know what to say.

Did you ever decide to go on a diet, and hear people say “the first few weeks are the hardest, but eventually you’ll lose your desire for sweets and fatty foods. You won’t even want them anymore.” Well, maybe you’ve had that experience, but it never happened for me. I’ve gone on restrictive diets for six months at a time, and guess what? I still craved those french fries and that hot fudge sundae more than ever. And they still tasted every bit as glorious.

Temptation is not going away. The devil is real, and he will not relent in his effort to lure you into sin and lazy worship. He will have excuses ready for you if you want them. Here’s one thing I have tried, and it has worked. When I got hungry and was enticed to break my diet, I picked up my Bible and started reading. It doesn’t matter where you are in the Good Book, eventually you get into the Word and get your mind off eating. Even better, you will find that praying and studying the Bible is going to help you stay the course in your Christian walk as well.

So get back on that treadmill. Find your path back to the gym. Head out the door for that walk. Open your Bible. Read and pray. And every once in a while, go ahead and order the french fries. Just maybe share them with someone. That counts as ministry, right?