kenlassblog

I will never forget the Christmas of 1985. I will explain why, but a little backstory is necessary.

My wife Sharon and I were married in 1975. We were both so broke at the time, we couldn’t afford to go on a honeymoon. Our dream was to save up enough money to one day travel to Hawaii. The islands always seemed like a magical place to us.

After about eight years of working and relocating for better jobs, we grew tired of the grind, and longed to settle down and raise a family. Our son Brett was born in 1984. At the time, I was the sports director/anchor at channel 13 in Birmingham. As you might expect, my busiest time was in the fall when I was busy covering Alabama and Auburn home and away football games every weekend. Fortunately, most of the road games were within same day driving distance, so I could get back to maximize the time with my wife and little boy.

In the spring of 1985 we found out, much to our delight, that we were expecting again. Child number two was due around the first of the new year. By late fall, the Alabama football team was winding down the end of their season with a win over arch rival Auburn, finishing with a record of 8-2-1. Shortly afterward, the school announced it had accepted an invitation to play in….. of all places ….. Hawaii in the Aloha Bowl. The game was to be played on December 28. The team would be there for the entire week of Christmas.

It would be expected, of course, that each TV station in town would send its sports director to cover the team. A week in Hawaii. Expenses paid by the station. My first reaction was complete joy! My dream trip. Our dream trip. It was a no-brainer. I would just pay the extra expenses for Sharon to come along and we would finally get our honeymoon, ten years overdue.

Turns out, it wasn’t quite that uncomplicated. First, there was our two year old son. Take him along? He was way too active to stay under control during nine or ten hours on an airplane. Plus, Sharon would have to entertain him by herself in a hotel room while I was working. Not exactly our idea of a honeymoon type experience. There were no grandparents within 800 miles of us. And we were too new in the community to have any close enough friends we could ask to take him for a week.

Then, there was Sharon herself, now nine months pregnant. The prospect of hiking around the Hawaiian Islands with all that extra baggage she was carrying was not appealing. And what if the baby decided to come? She did not want to have a child thousands of miles from home. No, it was clear that my wife and son would not be making this trip.

All of which left me with the biggest Christmas decision of my life. Do I focus on my job, make the journey to Hawaii and take part in one of the most enjoyable work assignments of my career, while leaving my pregnant wife at home by herself for Christmas, with a two year old? Or do I give the assignment to one of my more-than-willing co-workers, any of whom would drool at the opportunity, and stay home to support my family? After much thought and consultation, I did what any thoughtful, considerate, loving husband would do.

I went on the trip.

From the start, it was clear karma was against me. On the plane ride there, I started to feel feverish and ill. By the time my videographer Greg and I arrived, I was full blown sick. We checked into the hotel room where I promptly upchucked everything inside of me. I then crawled into bed where I basically stayed for about three days, void of energy. Greg had to cover all the team events and practices by himself. I also missed the various fun activities planned for the covering media. I finally felt well enough to cover the actual game, which Alabama won. I staggered back on to the plane and stayed close to the bathroom all the way home. I saw virtually nothing of Hawaii except the hotel and the stadium.

As it turned out, our daughter Brittany wasn’t born until January. But I’ve always regretted not staying home for that Christmas. Family should always come first.

P.S. Sharon and I made it to Hawaii for our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I stayed healthy for the whole trip.

(Ken Lass is a former Birmingham news and sports anchor, and a resident of Trussville since 1989.)

Take hold of a tennis ball, or any small object. Hold it up and out, over the front of your body. Now ask yourself, when I release this object, which direction will it travel? Will it go up or down, left or right?

Silly, you say. Of course, it will drop straight down.

Really? How can you be so sure? Because of gravity, you say. Gravity will pull it down to the floor.

Gravity? What is gravity? Well, you say, it’s this force that pulls objects together. It’s what makes everything want to go down. It’s what keeps the Earth revolving around the sun.

Okay. That’s what gravity does. But what exactly is it? What does it look like? What color is it? Is it solid, liquid or gas? Animal, mineral or vegetable? Is it thick and pliable, or sheer and transparent? Can I smell it?

I don’t know, you reply. It’s just a……um…..it’s a force.

A force? What is a force?

Well…er…a force is…….Oh, just forget it! you respond in frustration. Why all these weird questions?

Just trying to make a point. If you have trouble trying to describe what gravity is, you’re not alone. Even the greatest scientific minds in the world have pondered that question for centuries. They can tell you what gravity does, but they can’t tell you exactly what it is.

Yet all of us have absolutely no difficulty accepting and believing implicitly that gravity is real, that it exists, and that it is always there. We have complete trust in this because we see numerous times each day what it does.

In fact, there are many things we accept and believe without being able to see, hear, feel or touch them. God is one of those. Or at least, He should be.

What is God? A spirit? A ghost? An alien? A cloud of light? A superhero in human form? Is He tall or short? What color are His eyes? His hair? The Bible tells us we are made in His image. But we can’t be sure if that means human form. We are told He is all powerful, all knowing and eternal. That He loves us and will never abandon us. How can this be? How can we trust that it’s true?

The same way we trust in gravity. Though we can’t accurately describe precisely what God is, we can trust He exists based on what He does. Look around you. The birth of an infant. The perfect order of the universe. The irrational concept of unconditional love. The beginning of all things. The beginning of life. Denying that these are functions of God is about as logical as denying the existence of gravity.

It’s not just the great mysteries of the cosmos. If you focus on it, and if you are honest with yourself, you can see Him all over the path of your own life. The experiences you’ve had, the adversity you’ve endured, the joys you have been granted, the incredible coincidences and serendipity of your journey that have led you to where you are today, even to reading this blog post.

He’s there. Always there. You may not be able to describe Him, but you don’t have to. He’s still there.

Now drop that tennis ball. See? Your instincts and trust were right all along.

Want to know whether you are still hip? Here are two things that I have learned. First of all, when I tell my kids that I am still hip, they tell me “Dad, we know you’re not hip because you still use the word ‘hip’.

So, if you find yourself still using the word “hip”, rest assured that you are not.

The other thing is, you know you are no longer……in, groovy, with it….whatever, if you cannot accurately answer the question: What are the hottest Christmas toys this season?

So, in my continuing effort to be down with it, bad, way cool and rad to the max, I make it a point to peruse the internet every December to ascertain what’s hot and what’s not in the world of Christmas toys for kids. And what I have discovered is that we have come a long way from G.I. Joe’s and Etch-A-Sketches.

Apparently, the item in highest demand for girls is Gabby’s Dollhouse. Gabby is a cat and its abode is promoted as “the purrfect dollhouse”. With a price tag of $102.99, it better be purrfect enough for me to sleep in it in a pinch.

What do little boys love more than miniature race cars and dinosaurs? Nothing of course. So why not combine the two into one super awesome toy? Allow me to introduce you to the Hot Wheels Robo T-Rex Ultimate Garage. It’s a series of tracks winding around and down a couple of parking towers. As the mini race cars speed around the course, a toothy dinosaur slides down the center trying to gobble them up. My grandkids actually have this toy. Sadly, they are often disappointed, as the action requires a fairly complex series of coordinated movements, which seldom come off correctly. At $99.00, I want my T-Rex dropping and eating cars, not getting stuck to its platform.

For $298.00, your child/grandchild can be the proud owner of a GoTrax Electric Scooter. The ad says it will go up to 15.5 miles per hour, which means you can go faster than the traffic on highway eleven. The Snackin’ Sam Animatronic Brontosaurus will eat plastic popsicles for $49.99. Remember when kids used Legos to build houses and cars? It’s a little more sophisticated now. For $169.92, you can surprise your little one with a Legos Avengers Helicarrier. If you’re lucky, you might figure out how to assemble it by next Christmas. And once you do, you may ponder exactly what it is. It may be a ship, or a highway transport vehicle, or a fast food restaurant. I’m not sure. Just put a helicopter on it and don’t ask questions.

But by far, the toy that most intrigues me, is the Ms. Monopoly board game. I quote from the promotional ad:

“In this version of Monopoly, women actually get a higher payout at the start of the game and more money for passing go (taking the gender pay gap into an alternate reality where men actually make less). And, what’s even cooler, is that instead of buying properties, players will buy innovative inventions by women. So, you’re not buying Boardwalk and Park Place, you’re buying Chocolate Chip Cookies and Stem-Cell Isolation!”

Now there’s a gift you can give to your young ones this Christmas that will truly make you look hip.

Oops. Sorry.

Scripture – Matthew 1:21

She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because He will save His people from their sins.

I woke up one recent, beautiful, late autumn morning, cleaned up, and trudged into my closet, looking for something to wear. My personal calendar hangs down from my closet shelf. I hang it there so that it stares me right in the face first thing. Can’t miss it. That way, if I’ve got something important to do that day, I’m sure to see it.

At first glance on this particular morning, I noticed it happened to be December First. Ah, the Christmas season. Joy to the world, and all that stuff. But after I selected one of my many pairs of well-worn blue jeans and headed out to face the world, one thing became abundantly clear.

Christmas, at least my concept of it, was missing. I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t feel it.

Where could it be? I looked for it on television, but all I saw were commercials for toys and tools and clothes and food and……..lawyers. I looked for it in front yards, but all I found were Santas and reindeer and penguins and toy soldiers and all manner of bright and colorful lights.

I listened for it on the radio, but all I heard were songs about rockin’ around the Christmas tree, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, partridges in pear trees and grandmas who got run over by a reindeer. I looked for it on social media, but folks seemed too busy posting about politics and enquiring as to whether anybody knew of a plumber who would work cheap. I looked for it in my mailbox, but all I found were pamphlets from Joe Namath and Jimmie Walker and William Shatner trying to sell me a Medicare Advantage plan.

I looked for it on the internet, but instead I got emails from a nice fellow who wrote that he just inherited six million dollars and is willing to split it with me, if I will just send him a few thousand for legal expenses. I looked for it in the movie theater, but there were only films about super heroes, crazed serial killers and animated animals.

Yes, Christmas was missing. It had been hijacked by the marketers. But then, one day, I went to church and I heard the preacher tell me where to find it. He said it’s right there in the Bible. Always has been. It’s not missing at all. It’s just that we got too distracted to remember where it was. Where it’s always been.

Sure enough. It’s right there. In the Gospel of John it says “The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us. We have seen His glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”

Ah, now that sounds more like it to me. Welcome back, Christmas. I will try never to lose track of you again.

(For the Trussville Tribune)

I have always thought that Thanksgiving does not get the respect it deserves. Most of us don’t even really know much about the event upon which it is based. We know Christmas is the birth of Jesus. Easter is His resurrection. Memorial Day honors our brave soldiers. The Fourth of July is America’s birthday. Heck, even Labor Day has its distinction, as the sort of unofficial transition from summer to fall.

But Thanksgiving? All we have is some fuzzy recollection of Pilgrims and Native Americans agreeing to a shaky truce and nervously carbo loading on turkey, maize, dressing (or is it stuffing?) and beer. Halloween, which isn’t even a holiday, has passed up Thanksgiving in popularity. People love to engage by decorating their houses and property with ghosts and bats and witches and skeletons and giant spider webs.

Once Halloween has passed, do you see folks putting out large inflatables of Squanto and Myles Standish? Nope. Do they hold off on the Nativity scene and, instead, put up a small recreation of the Mayflower, complete with seasick Quakers onboard? Not a chance. A Plymouth Rock that lights up in the dark and spells out “There’s No Place Like Home” with hidden speakers blaring I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy? Yeah, don’t hold your breath.

No, instead everyone will be in a hurry to put out their Santas and reindeer and penguins and toy soldiers and assorted characters from “Frozen”. Radio stations will start playing full time Christmas music. Burl Ives, Perry Como and Bing Crosby never sang timeless songs about Puritans showing the Native Americans how to make Big Macs and waffle cut french fries.

Oh sure, we’ll be happy to take a few days off, watch football on TV, and attack the stores on Black Friday. But will we take the time to be truly thankful for our blessings? Family, friends and good health of course. But how about some appreciation for things less obvious? I’m thankful that God made weeds green, so when I mow my lawn they look the same as real grass. I’m thankful for left turn arrows on stoplights. I’m thankful I happen to live on the side of the Trussville railroad tracks that is NOT affected when the trains park and sit for hours. I’m thankful for Facebook users who resist the temptation to post pictures of their elaborate lunches, so I can feel better about the Lean Cuisine I’m about to slide into the microwave.

I’m thankful for thoughtful drivers who stop and allow me to actually turn out of my subdivision on to Highway 11. I’m thankful for drivers who won’t stop to let anybody else in after me, because this could take all day and I’m in a hurry. I’m thankful I can watch college football for an entire Saturday morning, afternoon and evening, instead of spending my time doing yardwork, home repair….or acknowledging my family. I’m thankful Nick Saban chooses to continue to coach football instead of acting in TV commercials. I’m thankful to whomever came up with baby pacifiers and swings that rock themselves with the push of a button. No doubt they were invented by a weary grandparent.

So this year, maybe try to hold off on the snow globe with the strobe light, and take a moment to focus on Thanksgiving. After all, the only ones that should not be excited about this holiday are the turkeys.

Day One

A few days after learning that we have been in close contact with persons who had since tested positive for Covid, both Sharon and I begin to experience symptoms. She has a cough and fatigue, I’m beginning to feel a sore throat coming on. Both of us have been fully vaccinated, but we go to a local urgent care facility to get tested just to be sure. We have plans to spend time with our young grandchildren the next day so we want to know.

It seems like the nurse shoves the swab so far up my nose that surely you can see the tip protruding from my scalp. We are told the results will come in 24 hours and will be sent to us via text message. We go home and start to ponder several things. Was getting vaccinated worthwhile? If the test comes back positive, who do we need to inform? What do we need to cancel? And most importantly, can I still go to a drive up and get a cheeseburger?

Day Two

We sleep very little overnight. Too much to think about. 24 hours passes and no text message. Sharon tells me to relax and be patient. So naturally, I immediately get on my phone and call the urgent care place to ask what the heck is holding up the results. I am told they are running behind because of the high volume of tests coming in, but that we will be informed by the end of the day.

About four hours later, my text arrives. I am positive for Covid. Sharon gets the same news minutes later. So it’s real now. The message says we must quarantine for ten days from the date of our test if our symptoms have been resolved, fourteen days if they have not.

For a moment I am in disbelief. Sixteen months of being careful, wearing a mask, keeping my distance, getting the shots. And yet I wind up getting the virus anyway. Doesn’t seem fair. People are out there who never got the shot, who threw caution to the wind, and they haven’t gotten it.

After an hour of feeling sorry for myself, I shake it off and start looking at my calendar. I spend the rest of the day contacting folks, postponing appointments, and generally clearing my schedule. Our house will be our world for at least the next ten days.

Day Three

I am bored to death already. Our symptoms, mild up to now, are getting more pronounced. I begin sneezing and blowing my nose incessantly. So far, just feels like a classic cold. Sharon is sitting in the living room eating a popsicle, when she informs me that she has lost her sense of smell and taste. She is having to imagine what the popsicle tastes like. She is coughing a lot and has little energy.

A thoughtful friend brings us home cooked dinner and leaves it on our doorstep. Several others call or text to offer prayers and help. Word gets around fast. One of our church ministers calls to check on us. We are struck at how blessed we are to live in a community that cares about us.

I am popping two Tylenols every six hours and still whining. Sharon is taking nothing and yet utters not a complaint, even though I know she is not feeling well. Where do women get this capacity to endure pain?

Day Four

Our sweet daughter and son-in-law drop off groceries and treats on the front porch. In one of the bags are cards written to us by our young grandkids. They all wait in their van in the driveway as we open the door to pick up the supplies. We briefly shout greetings back and forth. The grands are excited just to see us and it breaks our hearts to see them drive off.

By afternoon, I can’t take it anymore. Cold symptoms or not, I decide to go out and mow the grass in the front yard. The heat is sweltering. I am exhausted when finished, and veg out in my recliner until evening. I get on the internet and start ordering things I don’t really need on Amazon. I wonder how much money I will spend doing this before quarantine is over. Sharon feels well enough to do some vacuuming and water her flowers. Our symptoms haven’t gotten any worse, but they haven’t gotten any better either.

Day Five

It may just be the Tylenol talking, but I seem to feel a bit better today. At least I stopped sneezing every five minutes. Sharon also seems a tad more chipper. I have actually started reading a book. That’s something for me because I have never been a reader. I wish I was. There are so many incredible books out there. I just never had the patience to get through them. The shelf in my closet is stuffed with books that have a bookmark about fifty pages in where I lost interest. Ironically, I love to write. Usually writers are readers. Somehow I missed the gene.

Sharon keeps a beautifully clean house, but it is understood that the downstairs man cave is my responsibility. Therefore it doesn’t get cleaned nearly as often or as well. But it did today. Dusted, vacuumed, picked up, and bathroom cleaned. Why not? What else have I got to do? Tomorrow is garbage pick up day. I never thought I would look forward to rolling our garbage cans out to the road, just to get outside for a bit.

Accidentally looked in the mirror today and realized I hadn’t shaved in five days. Facial hair doesn’t work for me. I look like somebody who got lost in the woods. Meh, maybe I’ll shave tomorrow. I’ll just avoid looking in the mirror until then.

Day Six

Sharon and I decide to just get in the car and go for a drive. No destination. Just get out and see if the real world still exists. We head out into the country. About fifteen minutes into the ride, we are overtaken by an intense thunderstorm. Is God punishing us for leaving the house? Thankfully the storm is short-lived, and we just cruise around enjoying the scenery for about an hour and a half.

I am convinced that there are only about five different commercials on daytime TV that run over and over again. If I hear Tom Selleck tell me about reverse mortgages one more time I’m going to scream. And I don’t understand why lawyer ads all have that disclaimer that basically says “No representation is made that the quality of legal services is any better than anybody else”, when in their ad, that’s exactly what they ARE saying!

Oh, and I did shave today. That should hold me for about a week.

Day Seven

Definitely think my energy level picked up a bit today. Actually felt good enough to go downstairs and work out with my free weights. We’ve now gone a week without eating restaurant food. You know those people who said eventually you will stop craving it? They lied. I’d sell my car for a burger and fries. Surely I’m well enough to go to a drive up window, right? Humor me and just nod.

Why do they make all those TV game show contestants act so artificially excited? It comes off just phony and contrived. That’s why I prefer shows like Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, where the participants don’t have to jump around and do cartwheels every time something breaks their way. Also, when you watch the same game show every day, doesn’t it seem like you’re watching the exact same show each time? The host and the players say the precise same things every show every day. Sigh. Where is that book I started reading?

Day Eight

Okay, I might have overdone it yesterday a bit. Felt pretty tired and weak today. One thing I am learning about this Covid thing is that you have to pace yourself when you start to come back. So hard to do because of the prolonged inactivity. You start to feel a little better and you want to jump back into your exercise and activity routine. My body is telling me to dial it back.

Early in my quarantine I ordered an Amazon Fire Stick for my living room TV. It came today. I hooked it up and began drooling over all of the movies and cool content I can now stream. Most all of it is subscription based. They all want to give you a free trial. I feel like the fly being lured into the spider’s web. Am I really going to want to watch enough television once I get up and running again to make the fees worthwhile?

Day Nine

With our symptoms all but resolved, we decide it’s okay to get in the car and journey to a drive up window. Ahhh…….junk food. How I’ve missed you. We brought it home and I must have spent an hour just slowly enjoying every salty, greasy bite. Felt sorry for Sharon. She didn’t get the sauce that she ordered put in the bag. But then she remembered, she wouldn’t be able to taste it anyway. Her taste seems to be the last thing to return.

Today was our best day by far. We both felt much better. So well in fact, that we begin to negotiate with our consciences as to whether to end our quarantine a day early. After all, we rationalize, shouldn’t we count the ten days from the time we started having symptoms? Let’s recheck the instructions from the lab……

(Sigh) They clearly state it’s ten days from the date of the test.

When we first tested positive, we tried to make ourselves feel better about it by thinking about all the projects we would get done around the house during our quarantine. Now, looking around, we are kind of disappointed that we really didn’t get much done at all. Guess we were just not feeling up to it. Makes me wonder if we’ll ever get around to these tasks.

Day Ten

So I guess we’re supposed to have antibodies now? I don’t really know what that means. Does that mean we can’t get Covid again? At least for awhile? I don’t trust antibodies to keep me healthy. We’re going to be careful. After cases went way down early this summer and all the mask requirements expired, Sharon and I pretty much went back to life as usual without regard to Covid. Especially after completing our vaccinations. In retrospect, that was hasty.

We’re not going to be hermits, but I think we’ll look a little more critically at all of our social activity. I’m putting the mask back on around crowds of people. I don’t care if I’m the only one. I’d rather be the oddball in the group than go through another quarantine. We’ll go to restaurants, but we’ll shoot for times that are not busy when we can sit apart from folks. We’ll go back to church but be mindful of our distancing.

Can’t wait to see our grandkids again. To spend time with our friends and church family again. Mostly we feel blessed and thankful that our symptoms were relatively mild. Have to think our vaccinations had something to do with that. I get why some have their doubts about the Covid shot. It doesn’t keep you from getting infected. We are proof of that. But it does seem to stack the odds in favor of milder symptoms, and anything that helps me stay away from lying on a hospital bed hooked up to a ventilator is okay with me.

Time to resume the new normal. Things will never quite be the same.

P.S. Sharon was eating pudding today and suddenly exclaimed “I think I can taste this!!” Life is good.

For several years now I’ve been watching my toddler grandkids play with their modern toys. They have been provided a steady flow of soft or semi-plastic items, mostly modeled after characters and vehicles they watch on their cartoon shows.

As with all toddlers, ours give these toys a real workout, throwing them around, stomping on them, and sometimes using them as weapons of combat. The vehicles especially take a beating. Within weeks there are routinely wheels missing, roofs crinkled, and holes punched. When the toy reaches a certain level of punishment, the children lose interest and move on to the next batch.

Today’s toys are brilliantly designed to be clever, entertaining and educational all at the same time. They are also safe……very safe……painfully safe. No sharp edges, no hard surfaces, nothing that could pinch or squeeze or cut or scrape.

All well and good. Except in order to make toys this safe, you can’t make them to last. The soft materials just can’t hold up to a three year old stepping on it and kicking it across the room.

One day as I was observing the daily demolition, I thought back to the toys of my childhood. And then I remembered. Somewhere, stashed away decades ago in the deep recesses of the attic, are two of my favorite childhood playthings, toys which, for some mystical reason, I was compelled to stow away. I had to go find them.

Or rather, I had to do what all married men do when they want to find something in the house. I asked my wife Sharon to find them. Women have this uncanny ability to know where things are, no matter how long the items have been in obscurity. It’s probably because they are the ones who wound up putting them away when the men neglected to.

It was a good thing I went to her right away, because she promptly informed me the ancient toys were not in the attic at all, but rested behind decades of odds and ends in the closet of our spare bedroom. I would have never, in a million years, thought to look there.

After rummaging through the debris for several minutes, Sharon emerged holding my two precious keepsakes. They were spectacular. A dump truck and a bulldozer (I guess today they call it an excavator). My first impression was of how huge they were, compared to the smaller toys of today. These suckers were made of solid cast iron. Each one weighed about twelve pounds. They came from the hardware store my Dad used to own and operate back in the 1950’s.

The ‘dozer had an adjustable plow on the front that lifted up for traveling down the road, and then dropped when you wanted to move something. The plow was complete with sharp, pointed edges and corners. The dump truck had a lever connected to the bed, and when pushed down, the lever caused the bed to lurch free, and then slowly, hydraulically, lift up and dump its load. It was, and still is, the coolest thing ever. Plenty of ways small fingers could get pinched and scraped. After I triggered the truck bed upward a few times, it started leaking some sort of old lubrication fluid out of the hydraulic pipe. And, unlike modern toys, neither one talked, buzzed, rang, played music, or attempted to teach multiplication.

Golly, I thought. These two toys probably violate every safety standard in today’s book. They are injuries waiting to happen. And yet, I clearly remember spending much of my childhood playing with them in our backyard sandbox, and I don’t recall ever hurting myself.

What would happen, I dared to think, if I presented them to my grandkids? Would they immediately be rejected as being too big, too heavy and too solid? I couldn’t resist. After getting permission from my daughter (their mother), I gave the two relics to my two grandsons, aged four and almost three. Much to my surprise, they were instantly big hits! The boys couldn’t stop plowing and loading and dumping everything they could find. Making them even more gleeful was the fact they could rough house the toys to their hearts’ content and yet nothing could dent, crush or scratch them. The wheels were inseparable and the moving parts beyond incapacitation. Every time they come over, they rush to the old toys and fight over who gets which one.

Before you ask, nope. Not a single injury or mishap. I guess I’m probably a terrible Grandpop for exposing my little loved ones to these archaic but so realistic toys, but the joy I see on their faces takes me back to my days in that sandbox, and I guess I wish I could go back there. So, at least for now, the dump truck and bulldozer will remain out of the closet.

Just please don’t report me to the Consumer Product Safety Division.

I am constantly seeing people introduced on TV and social platforms as “Influencers”. I have to confess, until a few months ago, I had no idea what an “influencer” was. I had to ask my daughter, who couldn’t help but smile at my lack of pop culture currency. She explained to me that influencers are people who blog or post consistently about various products or services or causes in an attempt to “influence” public opinion. This is usually done with the ulterior motive of selling something.

My daughter further tells me that people are making a ton of money and becoming national celebrities doing this sort of thing. Apparently all they do is sit by their laptops and type opinions. Companies pay them money to express favorable opinions.

Really? Gee. I could do that. I spend a lot of time sitting by my laptop and typing opinions, but so far nobody has offered me a cent. Guess I just don’t influence anybody.

Let’s see, if I wanted to become an influencer, what exactly would I want to influence people to do? Buy clothing? I don’t know clothing. I’ve had the same three pairs of blue jeans for ten years. When I hang them up they curl into a sitting position in the shape of my posterior on the hanger.

Review restaurants? My idea of a big night out is ordering the combo instead of just the burger. I’m not what you would call a connoisseur. I couldn’t even spell connoisseur. Had to look it up.

Evaluate TV and movies? All we watch these days is Andy Griffith, game shows, football and local news. I can’t make it through the sexual saturation, graphic violence, and profane language of most everything else.

Books? Never been much of a fan. I read a lot of child stories to my grandkids. Maybe I could blog about what’s really going on between Winnie the Pooh and Tigger.

Home improvement? Yeah, right. The biggest home improvement project I’ve ever undertaken is picking up toys after grandkids have scattered them everywhere.

Fitness? Please. I’m in such bad shape my mirror refuses to reflect my image.

(Sigh) Guess I just don’t have any strong enough opinions to be an influencer. At least not strong enough that somebody would pay me to express them. I’d love to influence people to keep those Bernie Sanders memes coming. Can’t get enough of those. I love chocolate brownies, old insulated slippers, Tom Hanks, dachshunds, two person porch swings, cashews, and daffodils.

Anybody want to pay me for influencing about any of those?

Didn’t think so.

In 1989 Sharon and I moved our family from the Birmingham, Alabama city limits to the northeastern suburb of Trussville, about 20 miles away. At the time, our new home was about two miles from the heart of this scenic little town, borderline “out in the country”. It sat on a fairly big lot, in a cul de sac, with a half acre backyard and a full basement in a peaceful subdivision sparsely dotted with similar homes.

We built a screened in porch off the back, and finished the basement, which, at differing times, would become living quarters for both of my adult children when they moved back home. When they eventually went off and got married, it became my man cave, gloriously repainted in the colors of my beloved Green Bay Packers.

Progress being what it is, much has changed in the last 31 years. The town pretty much sprawled out to us. Where once we were on the periphery of civilization, now we find ourselves right in the middle of it. The town built its beautiful sports and recreation park next door. Two of the finest elementary schools are on either side. Access to the interstate is just up the street. Shopping and restaurants have sprung up all around us. Our subdivision has expanded into four phases, most all of which are completely built out and lived in.

Combine this with everything that is happening today in the housing market. Interest rates are incredibly low, and new houses on large lots with full basements are hard to find, especially in central locations such as ours.

All of which is to say our humble little burg is suddenly in very high demand. Because of the interest rates, young couples with small children are able to pay top dollar for homes like ours. Many of my neighbors, seeing the ridiculously high prices they can now get for their abodes, have not been able to resist the temptation to put them up for sale, and they usually sell instantly.

People are constantly telling us its time to do the same. That we’re crazy if we don’t capitalize on the current housing climate. My own daughter is among the loudest voices, repeatedly reminding us of the money we could make on the deal (of course, with the ulterior motive of having us move next door to her for purposes of instant child sitting). Apparently we are fools if we don’t sell.

Here’s the thing. I love our place. Everything about it. Walking my dog in the backyard as he investigates the trees that I planted three decades ago, working crossword puzzles sitting in my porch, cheering on my team in my man cave, taking walks along the creek that winds around the sports park.

We’re content as two pearls in a clam, and I refuse to feel anxious about it just because there is money to be made.

I suppose home ownership for many is simply viewed as an investment. You buy it, make the trendy renovations, and when the time is right, you sell at a nice profit and restart the cycle somewhere else. Not the case for me. To me, a home is a place in which to grow roots and to seek refuge when the world gets too crazy, as it has during this Covid-19 madness. My kids were raised here. Now they bring their kids here. The walls witnessed the twisting trail of my middle-aged life, and ushered me into the senior stage. I know every inch of it, cleaned it, painted it, treated it with tender loving care for all these years. All of my victories were celebrated here, all of my defeats consoled.

Likely, there will come a day when all of our familiar and treasured neighbors will be gone, and we’ll be surrounded by young folks who will form their own social relationships, uncomfortable with including old fogeys like us. A day when I will no longer enjoy the smell of freshly mown grass when I cruise the backyard on my rider, a day when the increasing traffic around us will be too busy to bear. A day when we will eventually sell this place.

By that time, the housing bubble will probably have burst. Any profit we might make will be minimal or non-existent, and we’ll wonder if we were foolish for waiting so long.

In the mean time, if you need me, I’ll be on the two person rocking chair on my porch, listening to the blackbirds and mourning doves chirp me into taking a nap.

Well, I’m about to have one of those landmark birthdays. In a few days I will turn 70 years old and, quite honestly, I’m not handling it well. It’s got me a bit depressed.

I have no justification for being down. I feel great. By the grace of God I have no physical limitations. Just finished my annual physical exam whereupon my doctor pronounced me fit as a fiddle. I have an incredible wife, loving family, wonderful friends. I lack for nothing.

Yet, there’s something about that number. Why is it that 70 sounds so much older than 69? I was okay with 30, 40, 50, and even 60. But 70? Ugh.

I made the mistake of taking out my phone and asking Siri what the average life expectancy of a male in the United States is. She came back with an answer of 76.3 years. Gulp. That rocked my world.

So there you have it. In your 70’s you have to start seriously contemplating the big finale, the end of the road, the home stretch. I’ve reached the stage where, whenever I learn of the passing of an acquaintance or a celebrity, the first words out of my mouth are “Gee, how old was he?” All too often the reply comes back “Oh, he was seventy- ______”.

I have made absolutely no arrangements or plan for my final resting place. I’ve never wanted to think about it. Do I want to be buried or cremated? Who wants to ponder that? How do you even make that decision? On one hand, it would be kind of nice to have a grave with a nice headstone, a place where my kids and grandkids could occasionally visit, a cute epitaph like “I told you I was sick”.

But families travel their own path and one day mine may move on and leave me to the worms and the erosion of the wind.

Cremation seems cheaper and less hassle for all involved. Maybe my ashes could be split and lie in separate urns on the mantels of my son and daughter. Until the cat knocks it down and spills me all over the living room carpet, at which point I wind up getting sucked into a vacuum cleaner and deposited into the trash.

Maybe Michael Jackson had the right idea. I could be frozen in a hyperbolic chamber and reawakened when they find a cure for what killed me.

Nah, that won’t work. I get the chills when someone turns on a ceiling fan.

(Deep sigh) All this thinking about one’s demise can make you feel forlorn. Dang 70’s. It’s your fault.

Wait a minute….I just found another article on life expectancy. It says because of medical advances, the chances of a man reaching 80 are now about 62 percent. And the chances of reaching 90 have doubled from 50 years ago. Says here one of every seven Americans is over the age of 80!

Wow. That’s more like it. Looks like there’s a whole new chapter yet to be written. I feel much better. Guess I’ll put away that phone number for the cemetery office for awhile.

Happy Birthday to me! Anybody want to go jogging?