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So, are you worried that the ongoing Hollywood writers and actors strike will affect your favorite TV programs in the fall?

Yeah, me neither.

Most of the new shows out there are agenda-driven tripe anyway. And it’s hard to feel empathy for the Hollywood crowd. I know the great majority of them are just aspiring folk struggling to make a living, but my admittedly stereotypical vision of them pictures a hedonistic culture full of excess, addiction and immorality.

There is one facet of the strike that does grab my attention. A key item among the demands is for limits and controls on the use of artificial intelligence, commonly known as AI. It’s been riveting to me to learn of how far the technology has come. I read, for example, that AI was used to make Harrison Ford look younger in the most recent Indiana Jones movie. In fact, the innovation is now capable of cloning an entire performer and assimilating his voice. Actors are legitimately concerned that they can, and ultimately will be replaced.

AI is equally a threat to the writers. Apparently, if you were to take all the existing scripts for a popular show, say Law and Order for instance, and feed them into the system, AI can learn how the show is written, and can create new scripts for new episodes without human help. The writers want assurances that TV producers will never let this happen.

I confess I am a bit puzzled about the union strategy. Seems to me the best way to make sure computers don’t take your job is to stay on the job and continue to do it well. Wouldn’t going on strike force your employer to use the very technology you are trying to squelch? Guess I don’t understand show biz.

Anyway, it’s their problem, right? AI is not a threat to you and me…..he wrote nervously.

In truth, most of us have little awareness of how much it already affects (controls?) our lives. Those ladies with the sultry voices inside our smart phones, Siri and Alexa, set alarms, look up information, and send text messages for us. Maybe you’re scrolling through your Facebook wall and come upon an ad for a Doobie Brothers concert coming to Oak Mountain Amphitheater. You click on it just out of curiosity to see what the tickets might cost. Then, as you resume scrolling, your newsfeed suddenly is cluttered with ads for concerts of all types. Somebody, or more accurately some thing, has tracked your activity.

You turn on your TV and the screen immediately suggests the shows it thinks you want to watch. It also customizes the commercials you will see. Automated customer service machines help you solve your tech problems without speaking to a human. Your smart phone activates by recognizing your face. You can watch live video of someone at your front door, even if you are a thousand miles from home. You can put it in control of your thermostat and refrigerator. You can use it to start your car when you are not in it. Soon it will drive the car.

All of this is super great, so long as we continue to be the ones deciding how to use it. But what if, one day, we get into our self-driving car and tell it to take us to the farmers market. It knows what sort of items you usually buy there, and has calculated you can get them cheaper at the grocery store, so it decides to take you there instead. “But I don’t want to go to the grocery store!” you shout to it. “I want to go to the farmers market!” No matter. The vehicle has already decided what is best for you, and off to Publix you go.

You turn on your TV and, on a whim, decide to watch the latest episode of The Bachelor, a show you haven’t watched in years. But your TV decides this is not a program that you have been interested in, and redirects you to a rerun of Andy Griffith. You scream at your television and hurl the remote across the living room, but Andy and Barney remain on the screen.

Sound like the stuff of a corny, old sci-fi movie? Maybe, but the technology already exists to do both of those things, and more. It also occurs to me that I could feed several of my past blogs into an AI computer, and the machine could start writing my columns without me. This won’t be hard for you to discern.

If my blogs suddenly become much more clever, insightful and smart, you’ll know I didn’t write them.

It finally happened. I knew it was just a matter of time, and I’ve been dreading it. I was shopping at one of Trussville’s big box stores and, after I had gathered my purchases, I strolled over to the checkout area searching for a cashier.

There were none.

There was only a bank of self-checkout machines, accompanied by a couple of watchful employees. So, we’ve finally gotten there. The time when checkers have been all but eliminated and we have to check ourselves out. I try not to be one of those people that hates change. But I don’t think I’m going to handle this well.

For starters, can we not standardize these these things so they all handle the same stuff? One machine takes cash only. One takes credit cards only. One takes cash and credit cards. One only takes cards from Southern Baptists. Another is for Capricorns.

Then there’s the search for the bar code. I’m convinced the packagers are entertaining themselves by deliberately trying to make them as hard to find as possible. Kind of like playing a game of Where’s Waldo. After rotating my can of paint for ten minutes in a futile attempt to find the code, I am rescued by the employee monitor, who seems annoyed at my incompetence. She points out the tiny code, which is located on the bottom of the back label, partially obscured by a sticker telling me this product is helping to save the environment. I’m not certain, but I could swear I saw the employee roll her eyes at me as she walked away.

The robotic female voice in the machine tells me to remove my items from the platform and bag them, unsympathetic to the fact the bags are too small to hold anything larger than a cantaloupe. “Take your receipt” she says. Glad to. Where is it? I have this uncanny ability to choose the machine that has run out of paper.

All the while I feel the heavy gaze of the monitors, watching me intently, the way a mother watches her toddler after telling him to stay away from the wet paint on the kitchen doorway. I have this fear of accidentally forgetting to scan one of my items, and immediately being led out of the store in handcuffs. You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you.

I blame Piggly Wiggly. Back in the early 1900’s, when grocery stores and supermarkets began to proliferate, the customers would give their shopping lists to the clerk, who would then gather your groceries, and bring them to you. But around 1916, the first Piggly Wiggly opened in Memphis, Tennessee, pioneering a radically new concept. They let the customers actually roam the aisles by themselves, gather their own items, and bring them to the checkout. It was the genesis of a nefarious plot to make the customers do more of the work, while the employees do less, making them more expendable. The experiment was so successful that in 1937 the company introduced the next step, the shopping cart. Now, not only did you have to pick out your own stuff, but you had to tote it to your car and load it.

As you can see, it was inevitable that, ultimately, the process would become complete when the customer would also have to check himself out. And here we are.

It’s not a total revolution just yet. Most stores still keep a checker or two available so that you have the option. Folks who choose to do self-checkout usually do so because they don’t want to stand in line. They feel they are saving time by doing it themselves. Want to know a secret? Studies have shown that most shoppers who have multiple items don’t get out of the store any faster using self-checkout than they do by waiting it out in the cashier line. It just seems faster because you are busy doing something.

I’m going to miss the cashiers once they’re gone for good. That friendly lady asking me if I’m having a good day, or how I like that new brand of toothpaste, or offering me a choice between paper and plastic. I’ll miss placing that wooden divider stick on the moving belt, protecting me from paying for the broccoli the lady behind me tried to sneak into my items. Little did she know I hate broccoli. It won’t be the same without arm wrestling my cart away from the aggressive bag boy, who insists on pushing it to the car, desperate to look busy so that he doesn’t get laid off.

Alas, no matter. The self-checkout is here to stay. I expect I’ll get used to it. Guess I’ll see you at the store. I’ll be the one down on my hands and knees trying to find the slot where the receipt comes out.

The Bible teaches us to love all people, and to love others as we love ourselves. But this can be very challenging, especially when it comes to those who are not like the rest of us.

I’m speaking, of course, about left-handed people.

Yes, lefties. You know who you are. The eight percent of human beings who need their own special scissors, golf clubs and spiral notebooks. The ones whose hands are always dirty because they drag them along the paper as they write something. The ones who complain that doors and refrigerators don’t open in the correct direction. In school they struggled because the desks were connected to the chairs on the wrong side.

They are different. They require certain adjustments to your lifestyle. I know this because I married a lefty. We learned, for example, that when Sharon and I go to a restaurant and sit on the same side of the table, I can never be to her left. Otherwise, by the time our meal has ended, our elbows and arms will be black and blue from banging into each other. I failed miserably at trying to show her how to swing a tennis racket or a golf club because everything is reversed.

Life hasn’t been easy for Sharon. When she was a child there was no such thing as a left-handed scissors, or at least they were very rare. She had to teach herself to cut with her opposite hand. Her grandmother insisted she hold her spoon in her right hand. Grandma’s generation thought of lefties as being defective, even handicapped. Some went so far as to believe they were possessed by an evil spirit. I’ll bet you didn’t know that the word “sinister”, which connotes evil or darkness, comes from a Latin word that literally translates to “on the left side”.

The entire English lexicon has been unkind to southpaws. If you come up with an idea that is crazy or stupid, it is said to be coming “out of left field”. If you insult someone but phrase it in a nice way, it is “a left-handed compliment”. One who is clumsy and uncoordinated might be considered to have “two left feet”.

I have found it helpful to think of lefties as being, not so much different, but “special”. There’s actually some evidence of this. Lefties are considered to be more creative. Leonardo Da Vinci and Helen Keller were left handed. So were Michelangelo and Aristotle. Left-handers tend to excel in the fine arts, such as music (Mozart, Paul McCartney, Jimi Hendrix, Lady Gaga) or theater (Julia Roberts, Keanu Reaves, Morgan Freeman, Judy Garland, Charlie Chaplain).

Some of them are smart and enterprising too. Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey, Madame Curie and Julius Caeser were all left-handed. Prince William as well. I read somewhere that, whenever William and Kate are side-by-side in front of a crowd, William will always be to Kate’s left, so that he can wave to the masses with his dominant hand.

Left-handed athletes are considered to have an advantage. Babe Ruth and LeBron James are good examples. Two of Alabama’s most famous quarterbacks, Kenny Stabler and Tua Tagovailoa, threw with the wrong hand.

Lefties even have their own special day. In fact it is coming up shortly, on August 13.

Still, despite my best efforts, I find myself subconsciously biased against these unfortunate folks. I hand a ball to my two year old grandson and encourage him to throw it back. I always put the ball in his right hand. Sometimes he tosses it back, other times he transfers the ball to his left and chucks it. Guess he hasn’t decided yet. Scientists still don’t know exactly why we choose one hand over the other. Statistics seem to indicate that genetics play a role. Another theory is that it has to do with how the baby is positioned in the womb. Others think the mother watched too many Three Stooges movies while pregnant.

I just figure God intended for everybody to be right-handed. After all, when you take an oath to tell the truth in court, “so help you God”, you are told to raise your right hand, not your left. Soldiers are told to salute with the right hand. During the pledge of allegiance, “one nation, under God”, we are told to place our right hand over our hearts.

But not to worry, lefties. God still loves you. And so do the rest of us. We’ll just try our best not to notice while you put your belt on backwards.

Let me apologize in advance if this column seems a bit incoherent. I just woke up from a nap. Which is weird. Because I didn’t plan to take a nap. It just sort of happened. I was sitting there in the living room watching TV, and I nodded off. I think I was out about thirty minutes.

This seems to be a growing trend. For the great majority of my life, the only place I’ve ever been able to sleep is in the comfort of my own bed, at night. I’ve never been able to nap during the day. I’ve always been envious of people who can sleep at will, any time, anywhere.

My dad was great at that. He would come home from work, eat dinner, sit down in his recliner, and within five minutes he was out, mouth wide open, in full snore mode, sound asleep. When he took me to the barber shop for a haircut, which took about fifteen minutes (it doesn’t take long to get a flat top), Dad would spend that time zonked out on a chair in the waiting area. If he had thirty minutes to wait before dinner was ready, he would announce he was going to use the time for a power nap. And he did, conking out almost immediately. In church he got many a jab in the ribs from mom, who would catch him drifting off.

I’ve had friends with the same ability. They could nap on demand, just by closing their eyes and leaning back on something, anything. The other day I was leading a Bible study and, halfway through it, two members of the group had fallen asleep. Some leaders may have been annoyed. I was actually more jealous than anything else. I could never sleep in the middle of a gathering of any kind.

I never slept well in hotels, could never drop off in airports or in a car. I always want to be the driver on long family journeys, because it’s so boring being a passenger, and not being able to sleep. You can only read so many billboards, or watch so many farm fields rolling by, hoping to spot a cow or a horse, or a disgruntled farmer frowning at you because you are in an air conditioned car, and he is not.

But now, as I navigate through my septuagenarian years, all of that seems to be changing. I find myself dozing off all over the place. Watching TV in the living room, reading a book, working a crossword puzzle, or brainstorming a column. It’s so strange. Kind of like losing time off your life. One minute I’m sitting there watching Pat Sajak and Vanna White come out at the opening of Wheel of Fortune. The next thing I know, they’re congratulating the winner of the bonus round and the closing credits are rolling. What happened? Thirty minutes of my existence passed and I can’t account for it.

What makes my unscheduled siestas embarrassing is that, when I do fall asleep, I become my father’s son. Just like him, my jaw automatically drops like a broken drawbridge and my yap is wide open. The result is a snore that, I am told, rivals the roar of any train bustling through Trussville. It is loud enough that our little dachshund jumps up on my chest and licks my face just to make it stop.

The ironic part about these unintentional snoozes is that I feel groggier when I wake up than I did before. Which makes me wonder, are frequent naps a good or a bad thing? Naturally, I consulted that unimpeachable source of credibility, the internet. Of course, immediately, I found two completely conflicting answers. One article stated napping restores energy level, makes you more alert, and may even improve your memory. The next article revealed napping can be a sign of diabetes, heart disease and depression. (deep sigh)

Well, I’ve decided I’m not going to worry about it. I’m going to think of it as just part of the natural process of growing older. My sweet mother lived to be 103. She was sharp as a tack until the final few years, and she napped every day. Sometimes all day.

It turns out there is a real art form to napping. Researchers say you should nap in the early afternoon, between one and three pm. Try to relax some place where it’s dark and quiet. Turn off your electronics. Avoid caffeine and alcohol. They also say you should keep your naps very short. Fifteen minutes or less. Set an alarm if you have to. They claim even just five minutes is helpful.

Really? Five minutes? Hardly seems worth the effort. My snoring hasn’t even had a chance to build up to wind tunnel volume in five minutes.

This would mean that, in the time you took to read this column, you could have instead taken a nap, woke up, and felt refreshed and more energetic.

I probably shouldn’t have told you that.

(You can read more from Ken at kenlassblog.net)

The elderly man worked his way up to the third floor of the church building where his Sunday morning bible study class takes place. As he enters the room, he is greeted warmly. Everyone is excited to see him because he’s been absent the past two months after having knee replacement surgery.

It also happens to be his birthday. One couple brought donuts for the class to celebrate the occasion. He is ninety years young on this morning. Once the group is called to order, the man’s presence is acknowledged, and he receives a round of applause. He is, by far, the oldest member of the gathering, and one lady asks him if he has anything he wants to say.

He thinks for a moment, searching for words. “I guess all I want to say is, I wonder why I’m still here. God must have a purpose for me, but I don’t know what it is. I just wonder why I’m still here.”

Now there’s a question. And you don’t have to be ninety years old to ask it. In fact, it might serve all of us well to ask it of ourselves.

All too often, it seems we’re just here to get through the day. Just to get done with all the tasks, appointments and commitments on our calendar. Our mission is to finish the day’s work so we can have a little fun in the evening, or just relax.

We learn to put aside that discomforting fundamental question early on. As younger adults, our long term goals are commonly financial. Got to work hard to earn enough money to acquire the lifestyle that we desire for our family and ourselves. By middle age we begin to achieve that lifestyle and try our best to make time to enjoy it. It’s also time to lay the groundwork for the senior years. At retirement age, we focus on health and family and the rising cost of staying alive.

It can be joyous, worrisome, exhausting and time consuming, all at the same time. But does any of it have anything to do with why we’re here? Or is there even an overriding purpose for existing? (I know, we’re getting heavy and deep now. Indulge me for a moment.)

Of course, there is the school of thought that the answer is no. There is no ultimate purpose to life. All of existence is random. The universe is just a series of chemical and biological reactions unraveling with no control. History is merely unfolding organically.

It’s comfortable and easy to accept this. It lets us off the hook for not making the effort to meet any kind of moral standard. It gives us permission to make our lives self-centered. We exist to make ourselves happy. Anything we do to provide for others makes them happy, which in turn, makes us happy. It’s ultimately about us.

Yet somehow, if we are honest, we intuitively sense this is wrong. Ultimate satisfaction, if there is such a thing, remains elusive. Call it peace if you like. We observe the physical world around us and the obvious conclusion is, there must be more. Achieving all the material goals seems only to create an appetite for more of them. We read daily about the rich and famous, folks who have acquired all the material treasures we can only fantasize about. Still, their lives are riddled with addiction, divorce, perversion and, often, mental illness. They achieved what they thought their purpose was, and it proved inadequate.

So then why are we here? If not for personal gratification, then what?Could you state an answer in a simple sentence? It’s not easy to do. Even a ninety year old man, with all the wisdom of his age, still has to ask the question. But in doing so, keep in mind, he added “I know God has a purpose for me”.

He didn’t realize it, but those eight words were the most profound thing he could possibly say. They encapsulated his witness. His testimony. Knowing and trusting the source of your existence, is a great step toward defining it.

I think he just did.

Another Father’s Day is almost upon us. I’m having trouble comprehending that it’s been thirty-three years since Dad died of cancer back in 1990. I remember everything about him so vividly, the sound of his voice, his favorite shirt, the little sayings he loved to quote.

To understand my dad is to understand the family model of his generation. He was the undisputed, unquestioned king of his castle. The leader and authority figure of the family. All other members, including my mom, were subservient. Which is not to say he didn’t love us or take good care of us. He did. He was a hard working, excellent provider. He loved my mom with all his heart and soul. He didn’t spend a great deal of time with his three boys, but we knew we could count on him when the chips were down.

Yet we all understood that this family was a monarchy, not a democracy. He was the decision maker, the final word. Nothing of any consequence could take place without his knowledge and approval. He was also in charge of enforcement and punishment. He was not a “send-you-to-your-room” guy. His discipline was physical and swift. A hard spanking, and then it was over. As the youngest, I received fewer than my older siblings, but what I did get certainly got the point across.

Dad was a salesman, on his feet pretty much all day. When he got home from work, he was usually exhausted. Mom would have dinner ready. We ate on his schedule.

Like many dads, perhaps like yours, he had his chair in the living room. His chair. His place of refuge. After dinner, he would collapse into his brown recliner, grab the TV remote control, and turn on the news. Within five minutes, he was sound asleep, snoring loudly. Amazingly, somehow, some way, even in deep slumber, he had the ability to notice when one of us kids tried to change the channel to cartoons. Immediately he would open his eyes and yell in a stern voice “Turn that back! I was watching that!” With the news back on, he would quickly resume his nap.

Most nights, he almost never rose up out of that chair. He was a major league TV watcher. He loved westerns, variety shows and war movies. Especially war movies. As a World War Two Army veteran, he would scan those films intensely, looking for things that weren’t accurately portrayed. “Look at that gun he’s holding” he would say, pointing at the TV. “Those things weren’t even built until the 1950’s”. He had great delight in spotting an example of Hollywood taking dramatic license.

He’d watch the late news, the late night talk shows, and the late, late night talk shows. In those days, TV stations would sign off a little after midnight, usually with a devotional of some sort, followed by the national anthem. Dad would be there til the screen went to static.

The rest of us watched what he watched. Only rich folks had multiple TV’s in the house. Like most families, we had just the one, a Motorola console in a brown cabinet, with cables running up through the ceiling to the roof antenna. In the morning Mom would get to watch her soap operas, her “stories”. After school we would get to put on Woody Woodpecker and Huckleberry Hound. But once Dad got home, the set was his domain, no questions asked.

Restaurants were strictly a weekend treat for us and Dad picked the place, usually the local fish fry on Friday night. Sometimes he would bring home a bucket of fried chicken. He would set it down in front of himself at the table, open it up, pick out the two best pieces of white meat in the container, then pass it on. Nobody complained.

If the family was in the car together, Dad did all the driving, even when my older brothers were old enough to drive. He mowed the lawn and washed the car, but never, ever helped in the kitchen. That was women’s work. I idolized him. He was my hero, my role model.

The American family dynamic has evolved a lot since then. Husbands are no longer dominant in most families. Wives are working full time outside the home and are, at the very least, considered equal partners in the household, if not the leading influence. Spanking children is now commonly frowned upon. Many men not only help in the kitchen, but do the majority of the cooking. Have the changes been positive for our culture? I suppose it depends on your point of view.

I do know that Dad would have had a difficult time adjusting to it. But he would have, because, deep down, he loved us more than he did his place of authority.

And that’s the thing I will most remember every Father’s Day.

I arise out of bed around 6:30 in the morning. After washing up and getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen and approach the closed laundry room door. As I push the white door open, for the first time in fourteen years, our little brown, short-haired mini-dachshund Oscar does not come bolting out.

His bed is still there. His water and food dish are empty and stacked on top of each other. A half filled bag of dog food remains on the floor next to the dryer. On top of the dryer are two cans of soft dog food. We tried everything to get him to eat and gain weight toward the end. Sharon even made boiled chicken and rice for him. Nothing seemed to replenish his energy or put meat on his bones.

We sit down at the table in the kitchen. I have made scrambled eggs and bacon for Sharon and me for breakfast. Oscar should be standing on the floor beneath us, his large brown eyes giving us his best sympathetic beg for food look. If none is forthcoming, he might actually jump up on our lap at the table. Sometimes he would lose his balance in the effort and tumble backwards to the floor, then spring up as if to say “I meant to do that”. He wasn’t hurt and we would laugh hysterically.

After breakfast we go out for our morning exercise stroll down the local river walk. Several friendly faces come by the opposite way with their dogs on a leash. Just the way we used to walk Oscar down this path virtually every morning. We would get annoyed at his frequent stops to sniff a leaf or a pine cone. He loved these walks. People came to know him and greet him by name at the park.

We sit in the living room to relax, perhaps watch a little TV, or read, or peruse social media. Sharon and I have side-by-side rocker recliners. As soon as we sat down, Oscar would pick one of us, usually Sharon, jump up on her chair, and snuggle into her hip, gradually dropping off into a contented nap. If Sharon has to get up out of the chair to go do something, Oscar immediately comes to the other chair and nestles in with me. He disliked being alone. He relished human contact. As he got older he couldn’t manage jumping up on to the chairs any more. We bought him a set of dog steps so that he could climb up to us.

Today we are both sitting there in our chairs. Even though we are right next to each other, we can’t help feeling a bit lonely. Our little buddy is not there to snuggle.

We decide to go out for lunch. It is automatic that any time we leave the house together, we must first take the dog out. It is branded into our brains. I find myself going to get his leash. It takes a moment to realize there’s no need. We open the kitchen door leading down the steps to the garage to get in the car. We have always had to remember to close that door behind us, otherwise Oscar will come down and roam the basement. It occurs to me that it no longer matters. Door open, door closed, there’s no one to escape.

Oscar had the uncanny ability to know when it was 5pm. That was his feeding time. He would confront us and bark at us, letting us know what time it was. His tummy was as reliable a clock as a sun dial.

Evening has come. It’s time to hit the bed. There’s no need to tell Oscar what time it is. When we turn the TV off, he immediately jumps down and heads into his laundry room bed, anticipating his good-night snack. But on this night I grab the remote and push the power button. The screen goes black, but there is no thump as he hits the floor. No pitter patter of little paws tapping on the kitchen tile and fading into the laundry room. No snack to hand out.

It’s hard to comprehend how much Oscar was a part of our daily life routine. The decision to put him down was one of the toughest we have ever had to make. The veterinarian assured us it was the right thing to do, before he entered the suffering stage. Oscar drifted off to his final sleep in our arms, peacefully enjoying our caresses.

I find myself in emotional gridlock. I want another dog, another companion. But I don’t think I can handle this kind of heartbreak again. We’ve said good-bye to other pets in the past, and it just keeps getting harder. Maybe it’s because we are getting older and approaching our own mortality. I guess I wrote this blog as a kind of self therapy. I apologize if it brought you down. Oscar brought us a lot of joy and I’m sure eventually we will remember only the good times. We gave him a good life and he returned the favor.

Pets give us something we seldom find in fellow humans: Unconditional love. Oscar gave us fourteen years of it.

Turns out it wasn’t enough.

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.