kenlassblog

I got something in the mail recently that rocked my world. It was an invitation to my 50th high school class reunion. My 50th! That’s a half century! That length of time is so hard for me to process because the memories are still so vivid, so clear.

What is it about your high school years that burn them into your heart so deeply? I remember little from elementary school, not much from college, almost nothing from my first few jobs. But high school….I can recall almost all of my teachers, my buddies, my crushes, high peaks and low valleys.

Most 50th reunions are held in places with names like the Cahaba Grand Ballroom, or the Sheraton Perimeter Parkway. My 50th is being held at a place called Jug’s Hitching Post. And that pretty much tells you all you need to know about my high school.

I went to a small, rural school, about 400 students in four grades. I arrived my first day of freshman year with a flat top haircut and thick, black rim glasses. Yes, I was the kid who always took a dodge ball shot right in the nose, and whose glasses would then explode into a million pieces. My mom kept a large roll of white tape handy to wrap around my nose bridge and hold my frames together. You get the picture.

It didn’t take long to understand there were four distinct groups and cultures in the building, and by default you fit into one of them instantly.

There was, of course, the popular kids. They were the best looking, the most athletic, and the envy of all other groups. Your prom, homecoming court, and student council would come from this bunch. Also your sports teams, cheerleaders and yearbook staff. This explains why the yearbook was saturated with pictures of the cool kids doing cool stuff while the rest of us scrambled through the pages hoping to see one shot of ourselves randomly lurking in the background.

Then there were, for lack of a better name, the greasers. These were the troublemakers, the kids who filled the detention hall, defiant in the classroom. They would constantly brag about their under-aged beer parties and were constantly ready to brawl. I remember playing basketball in a P.E. class one time and aggressively going after a loose ball with a greaser kid who was about my size. He unnecessarily threw an elbow into my ribs and shoved me to the floor. When I got up and shot him my best dirty look, he immediately raised his fists in boxing position and shouted “Let’s go Lass!” I backed down like a scared rabbit. I had never been in a fight and didn’t know how, and I valued my face being in one piece.

I hated the greasers. I dismissed them as morons and losers. Although a small part of me secretly admired their independent spirit, and was stunned by their advanced sexual activity. Every now and then one of the greaser girls would stop coming to school, never to return. We would later learn she had gotten pregnant and was home raising her baby. I remember thinking to myself “Wow! That’s really going on?” Hard to believe for a shy kid whose throat dried up when he even tried to speak to a pretty girl.

Then there were the Ag kids. These were by and large the farm kids of whom there were many in my school. They excelled in shop class but seldom went out for sports or other activities. I always assumed they were needed on the farm and just didn’t have time. You didn’t mess with the Ag boys. They were a hard scrabble bunch and didn’t take any guff. The greasers always tried to bully other students but they did not mess with the Aggies. I made it a point to get along with them. Beneficial allies to have on your side.

Which brings us to my group…..the nerds. We were ‘tweeners, not good looking or athletic enough to be popular, not rebellious enough to be greasers, too sophisticated, we thought, to be Aggies. We got the highest grades, took most of the advanced classes, settled for band, chorus, theater, and debate….all of which solidified our nerd status.

Most of us desperately tried to escape to popular land. I dumped the black rim glasses and switched to contact lenses. Grew my hair out (almost over the top of my ears!) I joined a garage band and went out for track, the only sport for which my small stature was not a disadvantage. Alas, my invitation to Prom Court never came.

In the 50 years that have since passed, I try to convince myself that eventually I broke the chains of nerdhood. I went on to a 43 year on-air career in television and radio. Occasionally I would hear someone refer to me as “a local celebrity”. That always made me smile….not out of pride, but because I was profoundly aware that deep down inside still beat the heart of a nerd.

I’m okay with it now. I’ve even gone back to the black rim glasses….I’m pretty sure my dodge ball days are over.

Key West, Florida….Land of history, palm trees, adventure, seafood and Jimmy Buffett. So when Sharon and I got an invitation to vacation there with my brother Bob and sister-in-law Debbie we said “yes please”!

We left by car from Port St. Lucie where they live. Debbie pulled out a map of the keys and the first thing I learned is how many there actually are. Okay, geography has never been my strong suit but I could have sworn there were only, like, six or seven. I was stunned to find there are over 1,700! Fortunately you don’t have to drive through all of them to get to the southern most point, Key West itself.

We decided to stay one day at Key Largo. I knew exactly two things about this place: The 1948 Humphrey Bogart movie of the same name, and the song from the early 80’s. (Bonus points if you can name the guy who sang the song. I had no idea until I googled it.) We stayed at a small coastal villa called The Seafarer. You quickly learn that nothing in the Keys is cheap. We paid well over $200 for a room just big enough to hold two suitcases and a can of sun block.(travel size) The proprietor, who actually bared a resemblance to Jimmy Buffett (in fact if you don’t resemble Buffett they don’t let you live there) pointed out the small TV mounted on the wall adding “I hope you never have to turn it on”. It was his way of saying spend your time on their private beach, which really was quite charming with a breath taking view of the bay, crystal clear water, free beach chairs, umbrellas and kayaks, and a gaggle of pelicans who may or may not enjoy your company. I never could tell.

The next morning, after a complimentary breakfast of egg frittatas,(did I spell that right?) we forged the trail back onto U.S Highway One for the two hour journey to Key West. We crossed countless bridges, one of which spanned 6.8 miles. They call it Seven Mile Bridge, probably because Six Point Eight Mile Bridge just doesn’t sound as impressive. With the Atlantic Ocean on one side, and the Gulf on the other, the water views were spectacular. Some of the bridges had parallel pedestrian bridges for jogging, fishing, biking and picture taking. Just don’t lean too far over the railing to frame that perfect camera shot.

Arriving on Key West, we settled into our condo and mapped out our strategy. We found a narrated trolley tour of the island that runs all day. The tour makes 13 stops. For $37 you can hop on and off all you like. The smart move is to begin by staying on through all 13 stops, seeing what’s out there, and then deciding where to jump off on the second cycle. The drivers/narrators will regale you with interesting stories and information about the island, although later research revealed some of their impressive statistics were of questionable accuracy. But why ruin a good story with facts, right?
By the way, don’t get too loud on the trolley with your own conversations. On one of our rides two ladies were conversing and giggling to the point it was getting hard to hear the narrator.
Suddenly the driver broke his congenial tone and uttered gruffly “Excuse me ladies. Would you like to take over the narration?” The ladies cowered down into their seats like two school girls caught chewing gum in the classroom. Not another peep out of them. Whereupon the driver shifted back into his smiling tour host mode and resumed his speech. Note to self: Don’t mess with the tour guide.

Among other things, we learned that the word “conch” as in conch shell, is pronounced “conk”. If you say “conch” with a “ch” sound, the locals will laugh and point at you, and serve you weak sweet tea.

We wound up getting off the trolley to see the aquarium, the shipwreck museum, and Duval Street, which is the main drag, home of endless bars, restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, bars and bike rentals. All were unique and charming in their own way. But unless you have access to Jimmy Buffett’s checking account, you probably can’t afford to see everything. So we passed by things like Hemingway’s mansion, the Tennessee Williams exhibit, the turtle museum, the Railway museum…..you get the idea…lots of museums. Key West is very big on museums.

We also passed on the various cruises, snorkeling and diving expeditions of which there are many. Although while spending one day at the beach, I did swim out to one of the reefs and parked myself on a large rock to enjoy the scenery. When I glanced up, I noticed a huge pelican (they seem more sinister at close range) about five feet above me staring down with a look as if to say “You wouldn’t by chance be here to steal any of my fish would you?” I decided getting into a staring contest would not be in my best interest, so I swam back to shore. When we were leaving the beach, I noticed a large sign for snorkelers with pictures on it titled “Things you may see”. On it were pictures of sharks, sting rays and moray eels! Don’t guess I’ll be revisiting that reef. The pelican’s fish are safe from me.

Along the way we ate at places like the Bayside Cafe (sunset view that looks more like a painting), the Conch Republic (I made sure I pronounced it right), and the Banana Cafe where they serve a flourless chocolate cake with ice cream to die for. This is also where a friendly waitress with a heavy French accent took a look at my brother and me and exclaimed “I can tell you are father and son.” We are still debating over which one she thought was the father.

We sat at a table on the pier at a place called “The Stoned Crab”. Someone a few tables away ordered lobster. Little did we know the live lobster tank was submerged right next to us. The chef came out with a long pole having a loop on the end and began trying to scoop the largest lobster I had ever seen. But this crustacean had no intention of being on somebody’s dinner plate and escaped the loop time after time. As we watched with great interest I found myself pulling for the lobster…alas we all know how this story ends.

The funniest (or saddest) event of the trip happened when we decided to stand in a long line to get the one obligatory photo that everyone visiting Key West must get. That of course is the landmark indicating you are at the southernmost point in the contiguous United States. Our photo appears at the top of this post. It doesn’t matter when you get there, there is always a crowd. Under the hot setting sun, we inched our way up toward the famous monument surrounded by a throng of like-minded tourists equally annoyed at the long wait. After an hour we were about ten people away when a young couple arrived at the marker. Suddenly the man dropped to his knees, produced an engagement ring, and proposed to the girl.

Now normally this would result in a collective “Awww” from observers followed by applause and congratulations. Not this time. There was nothing but uncomfortable silence, toe tapping and restless impatience. At perhaps the biggest moment of their young lives, the two lovers obviously felt the tension, quickly took their photo, and slinked off. Tough crowd. So much for romance.

After three restful and entertaining days on the island we headed home. If you haven’t been there, Key West should be on your bucket list. Don’t go there pinching pennies. Expect to spend a good bit. But experiencing the culture and history is worth the spree.

Even if you don’t look like Jimmy Buffett.

 

(Note to readers:  The following post is directed mainly toward folks who live in or near Trussville, Alabama.  Otherwise the references will not mean much to you.  Please indulge me this bit of local nostalgia.)

It was finally happening.  I saw it while driving through downtown Trussville recently.  I had been reading for over a year that the old Braden’s Furniture store would be torn down.  I wondered if it would ever actually come to pass.  Now it has.  On this day the familiar structure lay in pieces on the ground.

One day, I will tell my grandkids there used to be a big furniture store here, and they will give me that look that says “Wow Gramps, you are really old!”

Indeed I have only lived in Trussville for 30 years but I already feel like an old timer because of how much has already changed in our city since I arrived.  When I moved my young family here in 1989 I would ask neighbors for directions to some local destination.  Often, they would reply “You go to the light, and turn left”.

Yep, 30 years ago I remember just one stoplight in Trussville, at the corner of Highway 11 and Chalkville Mountain Road.  Hey….if you’re feeling a little nostalgic, let’s play a little game of Do You Remember concerning Trussville’s recent history.

Do you remember Herb’s Hardware?  Do you remember when what is now the Pinnacle shopping mall was a golf driving range?  Do you remember the Dairy Cone?  When Moe’s Barbecue was an Arby’s?  When the YMCA was Sportsfirst?  When your kids went to elementary school on top of the hill on Cherokee Drive?  The little bowling alley on Linden Street?  When the Huskies played football at Jack Wood Stadium?   You may know that the property which is now Edgar’s Bakery used to be Sticks ‘N Stuff, but do you recall prior to that when it was briefly an indoor carpet golf and recreation area?

I could go on and on and I know some of you could reflect on much more.  It’s not hard to remember  when Trussville had no Walmart, no movie theater, no skating rink, no sports park, no shopping mall,  very few restaurants and no Deerfoot Parkway…..also no traffic jams.  The progress has been swift and a bit mind boggling.  Back in ’89 I would have never dreamed our town would become the shopping hub of the Northeast Birmingham region, and now it looks like it may become the family fun hub as well as the entertainment district begins to take form along Highway 11.  It’s an exciting time to be a Trussvillian.

So farewell to the Braden’s Furniture building.  I will remember you fondly.  As for you,  if you are able to recall some of the things I recounted here, or even  more, you too are worthy of the title “Old Timer”.

It’s not so bad.  You’ll get used to it.

I’m entering my 4th year of grandfatherhood.   It is what I would call an exhausting blessing.  We now have a three year old, a two year old, and a seven month old.  We visit and babysit them frequently.   Somehow it is simultaneously the joy of my life and the possible end of it.

How did I ever keep up this pace when my own children were little?  We transition without rest from hide and seek, to race cars, to floor wrestling, pillow fights, to backyard swing set, to book reading, to wagon ride, to playground visit, to community swimming pool…..and that’s just before lunch!  Thank goodness for naps! (mine, not the kids)

(A footnote here:  As much as I do with the grands, my wife Sharon does three times as much.  Remind me to check what this woman puts in her cereal.)

Through it all, the smiles, the giggles, the hugs and the occasional “I love you K-pa” (that’s my grandpa  name) are the light of my life.  Even a return to the dreaded changing of the diapers is somehow okay.  There’s something  magical about staring into the eyes of an infant, wondering what they’re thinking,  doing something silly to make them burble as they lay on their backs on the changing table.  I have also rediscovered the ability  to breath while completely shutting off my sense of smell, a necessary skill during this unpredictable process.

So what’s not to love about being a grandparent right?…..right?……well, there is one thing.  The mood drastically changes when I hear one of them utter those fearful words:  “K-pa, let’s get out the Play-Doh!”

Now, I don’t know who invented this stuff, but I’m fairly sure it was someone with a sick sense of humor who also hates grandparents.   For those who don’t know, Play-Doh is a strangely amorphous substance that feels squishy and, using various cutters of different design, can be shaped into basically anything.  It can then be re-squished,  and formed into something else.  It comes in three different colors, red, green and blue.  It’s been around since I was a kid.  Sounds harmless enough right?

Oh sure.  That’s what they’d like you to believe.  But it’s only a matter of time before the kiddos start:  (1) Putting it in their mouths (2) Putting it in somebody else’s mouth (3) Dropping it on the floor (4) Stepping on it after dropping it on the floor (5) Getting it all over their clothes (6) Sticking it in little brother’s ears (7) mixing the colors (8) Throwing it at frazzled grandparents (9) Fighting over who has the most (10) and generating billions of tiny Play-Doh specks that show up on silverware, food, and furniture for weeks to come.  I swear these little globs have learned to reproduce.

The average Play-Doh session ends with meticulous clean-up of entire rooms including sweeping, mopping, vacuuming and, when desperate, licking your finger tip and trying to swipe a morsel out of the crack in your hardwood floor panel.  (Oh, like you wouldn’t do it.)

You can try hiding it somewhere but grandkids have been endowed with a mystical 6th sense that enables them to determine the location of Play-Doh from a distance of at least ten meters.  Once within range, there is an autonomic system in their little bodies that prepares to launch an ear-splitting crying reaction if you try to deny the Play-Doh is near.  The only solution is to drive the substance several miles away and destroy it by fire.  Even then you’re only safe until the next birthday when a well meaning relative will present them with the gift of another batch.

Oh well, maybe it’s worth it to see the delight on their faces as they present you with a Play-Doh hot dog that they have fashioned, expecting you to actually eat it.

Come to think of it, that may be the only way you get rid of it.

 

 

 

Continue reading THE NIGHT WE WENT OFFLINE

You have to understand two things about me.

Number one, I am a huge fan of the Green Bay Packers.  I’m a shareholder of the team.  I live and die with their games each weekend.

Number two, Paul McCartney is my personal hero.  From the time I was 13 years old, watching the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show on our one little black and white TV, I have idolized Paul.  He was the reason I saved up my allowance and bought a guitar and taught myself to play, the reason I joined a little garage band in high school, the reason I questioned my faith in God because he didn’t make me left-handed like Paul so I could play the bass guitar like him, plucking the strings with his index and middle fingers while gently rocking up and down on the balls of his feet, cocking his head from side to side as he sang.  You get the idea.

So the other day when I received an email headlined “Paul McCartney to play at Lambeau Field”, it was the perfect convergence of circumstance.  A chance to see my favorite artist at my favorite place.  When Sharon told me she’d also like to see him in concert, I circled the date on my calendar when tickets went on sale via the internet.  Little did I know the adventure that awaited.

The day finally  arrived.  I breathlessly punched to the website where I encountered a digital countdown clock informing me tickets were going on sale to the public in 15 minutes 46 seconds…45 seconds…44…..43.  My fingers perched on the laptop keyboard waiting for zero hour.  Five seconds…4…3…2…1…………a message pops up saying “Tickets to the Paul McCartney concert at Lambeau Field are now on sale.”  Below it was a button reading “Get In Line”.  I mashed the button with my heart pounding!

In large letters another message comes up saying “Please wait.  There are more than 2,000 people ahead of you.”  How that many people got in front of me in the course of about three seconds I’ll never know.  Below that was a little animated stick man walking across a time bar.   Apparently this was meant to give me an idea of how long the wait would be.  The stick man’s legs were constantly moving, but he wasn’t making much progress across the time line.  I watched him for about 15 minutes, imagining it was Paul McCartney himself walking over to greet me.

Alas, even someone as easily entertained as me grows bored at this.  It was evident I had some time before my turn came up.  Time to do the dishes, put in a load of laundry, watch a few TV shows, go out for lunch, take a correspondence course, cruise the Bahamas, etc.

When the stick man was about two thirds of the way across the time line a message popped up saying “Due to high demand ticket availability is extremely limited.”  I’m not exactly sure what they were trying to tell me, other than I will never get these past few hours of my life back.  Finally, the stick man made it to the end of the time bar.  We had become very close friends by this time.  I was sad to see him disappear.  In his place was the seating chart for the stadium lit up in different colors indicating where there were still seats available.  I was delighted to see quality seats remaining all over the facility.

But I am now convinced that whoever designs the color scheme for these displays is a sadistic monster……because  I would spend the next hour frantically clicking on one pair of seats after another, only to be told that “another customer has beaten you to those tickets.  Please try again”.  At one point, I actually did get through!  The system took me to the payment page, where I was informed the cost of my two tickets totaled $1,785.00!  Either I had somehow ordered the entire front row, or I had gotten seats in Paul’s dressing room.  In any event, I love Paul….but not that much!  And that’s when I made the fatal mistake of my life.

Yes, I did it.  I declined the tickets and clicked on “Return To Seating Chart”.  Sigh……I would never get to the payment page again.  Eventually the system must have felt sorry for me and wanted to put me out of my misery, because I started getting a message saying “We’re sorry, but we can’t process your request at this time”.

It took awhile but I’m over it now.  Farewell Paul.  I will continue to admire you from afar.  For what it’s worth, I forgive you.  Now, do you think you could get me the email address of that stick man?

 

 

Have you noticed there is a distinct culture difference between Facebook and Twitter?  At least that’s the case in my social media universe.

For the most part Facebook is sweetly benign.  The great majority of posts consist of proud Moms and Grandmoms spotlighting their kids, folks showing off their travels, spouses professing their love for each other, prayer requests and praises for the result of them.

Oh, to be sure, there are political rants and family squabbles, but they are usually confined to a handful in the big picture.

Not so on Twitter.  This is a younger, sarcastic crowd that often is looking for a fight.  Perhaps the President and those who oppose him set the tone for this, or maybe it was this smart-alecky even before the election.

I encountered a perfect example of this recently.  I was trying to enjoy  some of my favorite daytime TV shows when I found myself bombarded with those repetitive, clowny lawyer commercials.  Over and over and over again, every break…same ads.  Annoyed, I picked up my phone and tweeted the following:

“When I rule the world, there will be no more Alexander Shunnarah or Alabama Hammer commercials!”

I’m pretty sure I meant the tweet to be whimsical and humorous, a poke at the quantity of the ads more so than the content.  Indeed, it spawned several likes and supportive replies.  But even though I have only 658 followers (Beyonce has 13.7 million), evidently the post wound its way around the twittersphere until it reached the attention of one Mr. Mike Slocumb.  Yes, the self-proclaimed Alabama Hammer himself.

Mr. Slocumb saw neither the whimsy nor the humor, and shot back this tweet, which included a repost of one of his own supporters:

“I bring relevant content to ppl. (sic)   This person signed up for my content, not some lame news broadcast with an old out of touch newsman….”

Apparently Mr. Slocumb is not aware that I have been retired for nearly three years.  Talk about out of touch.

Yet his tweet is fair.  If I’m going to take shots, whimsical or not, I’d better be ready to receive some.  I confess my first inclination was to fire back with something equally personal and insulting,  which no doubt would have resulted in a string of back and forth venom.   But in a rare moment of introspection I backed off.  After all, he’s just a guy trying to promote his business with a saturation ad campaign.  If I am annoyed by his commercials, I should just choose not to watch them.  (Ironically, this is the same advice I used to give viewers when they would complain about the news.)

But make no mistake…his was a shot across the bow, a clear signal that the Twitter fight was on if I wanted it.  Sadly, for many this is what Twitter has become…a dispenser for miniature rants and hostile debates.

I’ve read of something called Facebook depression, where people actually become clinically depressed because their lives don’t measure up to what they read on the social platform.  If that’s true, there should also be something called Twitter Anger.  It appears I caught a mild dose of it.  I write this to caution you fellow tweeters not to fall prey to it..

I don’t want you to get Hammered.

 

As the saying goes, you get but one chance to make a good first impression.  I have always found that one way to impress people with your knowledge and eloquence is to use a few big words in your conversation.   But be careful…when you do this you must be sure to use them correctly.  Otherwise you may be exposed as a fraud….which, I guess, you actually would be….hmmmmm….

Anyway, in my continuing efforts to help you enhance your life, I present ten of my favorite impressive words, followed by a brief definition, and use in a sentence.  They never fail to leave my audience wide-eyed and scratching their heads in amazement:

UBIQUITOUS:  Being a part of choosing a team, as in “He picks for the other side, but ubiquitous.”

LOQUACIOUS:  The act of being aware of your surroundings.  “My sister was hit by a bus because she didn’t loquacious going.”

INCONGRUOUS:  A branch of the federal government.  “Our senators and representatives serve incongruous in Washington DC.”

IRASCIBLE:  Easily removed.  “Don’t worry about spilling that paint.  It’s irascible.”

TYMPANIC:  The tendency of certain individuals to become unsettled.  “I told Tim to be calm, but Tympanic.”

UMBELLATE:  A prediction that one will be behind schedule.  “I’m trying to get there on time but with all this traffic, umbellate.”

VILIFY:  Putting forth one’s best effort.  “I’m not sure I can pay you back but I vilify can.”

SOPHISTIC:  A  kind of battered seafood.  “I don’t have any fresh fish, sophistic will have to do.”

GRANULITE:  A complimentary term to your grandmother.  ” You used to be overweight, but after your diet granulite.”

BEMUSE:  Getting comfortable with a new situation.  “I used to be afraid of flying, but now I bemuse to it.”

I could go on forever, but this should get you started on the road to a broader vocabulary.  You may not like them now, but jewel later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So apparently the other day my wife Sharon and her co-workers get into some random discussion about height.  One friend insists that the old adage that people shrink as they get older is true.  Others are skeptical.    Inevitably  this leads to everybody getting measured.  Sharon, who has been five foot six her entire adult life, is shocked to learn that she now measures  five foot three!

Incredulous, she arrives home and immediately sidles up directly in front of me, eye to eye, making a serious invasion of my personal space.  “What’s up?” I ask….nervously.  “I’ve always been about one inch shorter than you, right?” she replies.

Yes, that is true.  At five foot seven, I’ve always  been just a tad taller.  Sweet lady has chosen never to wear heels when we are together so that she doesn’t tower over me.  So I try to calm her by assuring  that she is still just a smidge shorter than me, that the measurement she received at work is obviously a mistake.

Then came my mistake, as I heard myself foolishly say “And just to prove it  I’ll measure you myself.”  I retrieve our trusty tape measure,  usher Sharon to the nearest wall, instruct her to stand perfectly erect, and spread the tape out carefully head to toe.

Hmmmm…….sixty three and one half inches…five foot three and a half.  Can’t be right.  Let’s try it again……yep…..five-three and a half.  She is crestfallen.  She has shrunk two and a half inches!

Like the loving, thoughtful, considerate husband that I am, I console her and tell her she is still as beautiful as ever.  However, along with all that loving, thoughtfulness and consideration comes a very slow brain reaction.  It was not until several minutes later that the synapses started to piece together.

Let’s see now……

A. Sharon has shrunk.

B.  Sharon is still almost as tall as me.

Therefore:

C……no wait, this can’t be true!  Sharon, measure me immediately!

I plaster myself against the wall, fighting with all that is inside of me the urge to brace up on my tiptoes.  Sharon stretches the tape…..65 inches.  Five foot five!

No way!  I grab the tape and endeavor to measure myself….stepping on the leading edge and pulling it up across my face.  Using this highly questionable method, I come up with another half inch.  Still, I face the horrible truth.  I have shrunk!

I’m really not sure why this is so depressing.  It really hasn’t changed our lives in any way.  Heck, we didn’t even know it.  I guess it goes to show the disproportionate value we humans place on height.  Especially us men.

I’ll just put it out there.  Life is better for a man if he is tall.  It’s true.  Studies show that tall men get better jobs, more girls, and just generally more respect.

When a tall man walks into a room, everyone notices.   Clothes are made for tall men.  The racks are full of sizes Large, Extra Large, Extra Extra Large, and Step Aside Little Man.  Those of us searching for size small are fortunate to find one or two at the end of the rack, usually marked with a sign saying “Really?”  Or “For more selections please see the children’s department”.

After all, the classic saying is “Tall, dark and handsome”, as if the latter two are impossible without the first.  Who came up with that expression anyway?  Have they never heard of Tom Jones?  Sylvester Stallone? Mickey Rooney?  (If you’re under the age of 40, I can hear you saying “Who?”)

I  learn from the internet (so it must be true) that it has something to do with the muscles and stuff in your spine compressing and flattening out as you age.

So if you are a fellow senior citizen, pull out your driver license, look at the listing for height, and give it a sentimental kiss, because the reality is it’s probably just a wonderful memory.

As for me, my ego remains fragile.  So if you see me on the street, resist the urge to call me Shorty or Pee Wee.

That is…..if you notice me at all.

 

 

It  was still there.  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was still there.  Sharon and I still feel drawn to the local Friday night high school football game.

This despite the fact we have had no children in the local schools for well over a decade.  No kids in the color guard, dance line, football team, school play, pageants, nothing.  The small but consistent group of other parents/friends we hung out with at all the games has long since disbanded and gone separate ways in pursuit of grand kids and other pastimes.  Many years since we’ve had any significant connection of any kind to the local schools.

But yet the attraction won’t go away.  Some sort of magnetic force  that  seems to compel us to attend at least one game per season.  So on a recent Friday evening, we wiped the spider webs and blew the dust off our portable stadium seat backs, threw them in the trunk and set out for the game.  It was something to do….something I felt we needed to do.

For some reason inexplicable,  I think I began to figure out the compulsion.  It began with our arrival at the entrance to the parking lot.  Standing side by side at the gate was a white man and a black woman, both smiling warmly.  The man handed me our parking ticket while the woman took my money and chirped “Thank you for supporting girls basketball.”

Actually, I had no idea I was supporting girls basketball.  I was just looking for a place to park.  But hey, whatever works.  Glad to help.

We entered the stadium, and I made my pilgrimage to the concession stand.  We always buy our dinner at the game.  We are duty bound to support the band in this way.  And there are fond memories of the time when it was us in that booth asking if you want regular Coke or diet.  As I approached the window, I couldn’t help but notice a black man and a white woman side by side.  The man took my order and money while the woman delivered my food almost as fast as I ordered it.  Smiles and courtesy all around.

Sharon and I are not members of the booster club, so we can’t sit in the reserved full seated areas overlooking the middle of the field.  So we headed toward the end zone, stopping about even with the 20 yard line.  I reasoned if we were going to sit that far down, we’d better get high to get a good view of the game, so we trooped up the steps to about 4 rows from the top.  I’m not sure the great view was worth the effort to get up there, considering I was panting like a dog that had just been on a long walk on a hot summer day, but we made it!  Didn’t even spill the Coke (diet).

A couple we hadn’t seen in a long time wandered up and sat behind us (also panting).  We got caught up on their lives.  It didn’t take long, however, to realize we had sat too close to the aisle.  Throughout the night there was a parade of little kids, oblivious to the game, who were playing around the railing.  I noticed there was a little white girl explaining to a little black girl how to straddle the lower bar of the railing and transform it into a slide.  They grabbed hold and slid down one behind the other, and having reached the bottom they giggled and hugged each other with unmitigated glee.  This exercise would be repeated countless times.

On the field, the band assembled for the national anthem, black trumpet player alongside white bass drummer.  Cheerleaders, dance team, color guard, white and black, standing at attention.  Once the game began, I found myself taking note that our white quarterback was handing the ball off to our black running back who ran behind a white blocker, getting helped up after being tackled by a black teammate.  Everybody cheering for everybody.

Wait a minute….. I might be on to something.  Could this be it?  Is this where the irresistible attraction is coming from?

I’ve come to suspect the Friday night game is an escape hatch.  In a culture strongly divided by politics, race, and religion, it’s an event where none of those things seem to be able to separate people.  We’re all one.  The goal is common.  We all want the same thing.  Why is this so easily accomplished at a sports event, but yet so elusive in society?

After the game, we got in the car, pulled out and waited forever for someone to let us in line toward the exit.  Finally, a good Samaritan stopped short, creating an opening.  Under the glowing street lamp I could see the driver waving us in ahead of him.  He was a black man.

By the way, our team won.

I think we all did.