The model of car that my Wife drives is considered sporty.
At least, that's what the manufacturer labeled it. And by bolting on some aero body kits parts, front air dam, a rear spoiler and a few well placed and colorful badges, the car company was able to jack up the price in an attempt to capture both the youth market as well as the buyers who wanted an econo import sedan that didn't look so much like an Avis rental.
My Wife bought this car off the lot when we needed to replace our old family truckster that met it's demise at the hands of a 16-year old on Easter Sunday a few years back.
She's been giggly over the 42-mpg (highway) mileage she gets on her 100 mile-a-day commute, with her only complaint being the increasing number of people who almost daily ask her if she was interested in selling her car.
When gas prices started climbing in earnest a year or two ago, we even started seeing a few more of these sporty little sedans around our small town. The elementary school principal's wife bought one (California transplants, like us). The mother of PK's 4th grade reader/mentor at her school bought one (again, California transplants). Recently, another one showed up in the parking lot of the church 2 blocks down and around the corner from us...with Washington state plates on it.
Three years ago when we moved to our small town, I could count on my fingers and toes the number of small, econo boxes that I'd see buzzing around town...most of which were either Dodge Neons, Chevy Cavaliers or Pontiac Grand Am (2-doors). Trucks and SUV's outnumbered the small sedans by such a significant margin that it wasn't even worth mentioning.
That has slowly begun to change and I'm wondering what, oh what pray tell, could be the cause of such a transition.
Just this morning, an acquaintance of ours that works at one of the large Toyota dealerships in the city was telling us in confidence (so of course, I blog about it), that the local mandate from Toyota corporate has stated in no uncertain terms, that they are not, repeat, NOT to take in any domestic SUVs or Trucks as trade-ins.
Which may explain why we're seeing a lot more Trucks and SUVs with "For Sale" signs on them, parked in the "Off-Off-Broadway Used Car Lot" that is our now abandoned old school WalMart.
Heck, I even saw a couple Prius' motoring down Main Street...very quietly.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Tale of a mouse's tail
It was the night before we were to leave for what looked to be one of the most physically arduous and psychologically challenging weeks in my wife's recent memory.
We had dropped the girl's off at my in-laws and were flourishing the final checks on a myriad of leaving-for-a-week-and-camping-out-on-the-road check lists (house, garden, garage, car, camp stuff, cycling, video equipment, etc.)
A few ticks after the witching hour we felt confident enough in our trip preparation schematics and execution to retire, knowing we had an early morning drive followed by S doing a short 38-mile Day 0 ride from the start town (Marrieta, OK) to the Texas border and back -- see, it wouldn't be a true Texas to Kansas bike ride unless you actually started in Texas).
Enter the mouse's tail.
For some reason around wheat harvest time, the neighborhood cats are either overwhelmed by the sheer number of field mice running around town, or succumb to the heat and humidity in the atmosphere, as we always manage to shelter one or two mice during the running of the combines.
Past experience with what I've labeled, the "Cut Wheat Ralph Run" - named sympathetically for the infamous Mouse on a Motorcycle, Ralph S. Mouse has forced me to maintain vigil over a few traps set around the house, baited with peanut butter and cheese.
In the past three years, my varmint mini-WMD's have netted approximately 3 scores in the X column.
However, while we blissfully slept that pre-FreeWheel night, my snores drowning out the glass shattering winds buffeting our bedroom window while S dreamt of long downhills, 15 mph southeasterly tailwinds and endless water bottles filled with beef jerky flavored Gatorade (her two favorite road energy snacks), a fateful transaction was taking place at a mouse hole nearby.
The snap of the trap springing was barely enough to stir us from rem sleep. Nay, fear not for it was the systematic click-click-clatter-clatter sound that was organically motoring from one point to the next along the hardwood bedroom floor that finally aroused the sleeping giants from within.
When the unmistakable sound of the wooden and metal mouse trap being dragged along the floor finally ceased, only to be replaced by a periodic thunk --- thunk --- thunk --- thunk, that repeated with the regularity of a hard drives actuator arm stuck on a back disc sector, I knew our little visitor was stuck for good and ready to meet the master.
While S cowered under the covers...um, I mean fell back asleep to the soothing sounds of her husband politely evicting an unwanted tenant, it took me no time at all to find the subject of this weeks Ralph Run -- or at least I found the mouse trap being futilely pulled through a small hole beneath our bedroom's westerly pocket door.
Think large square peg in a small round hole. In this case, the square peg had snagged the middle of a mouse's tail.
As much as the girls would have loved to have kept this particular Ralph as a pet, I felt a more naturalistic demonstration of disposal to be appropriate, to which I donned my flip flops, carried trap and mouse outside, and promptly released the late night visitor in the tall grassy field at the end of the alley -- where the neighborhood feral cat gang regularly conduct their nightly furrapalooza.
Back in bed and looking at an alarm clock set to buzz a mere 20 minutes from that moment, I pondered the cruel hand of fate dealt to the field mouse, chased from the safety of the wheat fields and forced to seek shelter in the walls of my 113-year old house, only to find his favorite appendage snagged in the jaws of a spring loaded wooden and metal wonder, then released in the turf of his most rivaled gang.
I gave him 1 in 100.
Post-mortem of sorts, none of the traps we rigged were tripped upon our return from FreeWheel, so perhaps we've seen the end of this years "Cut Wheat Ralph Run." I am ever vigil.
We had dropped the girl's off at my in-laws and were flourishing the final checks on a myriad of leaving-for-a-week-and-camping-out-on-the-road check lists (house, garden, garage, car, camp stuff, cycling, video equipment, etc.)
A few ticks after the witching hour we felt confident enough in our trip preparation schematics and execution to retire, knowing we had an early morning drive followed by S doing a short 38-mile Day 0 ride from the start town (Marrieta, OK) to the Texas border and back -- see, it wouldn't be a true Texas to Kansas bike ride unless you actually started in Texas).
Enter the mouse's tail.
For some reason around wheat harvest time, the neighborhood cats are either overwhelmed by the sheer number of field mice running around town, or succumb to the heat and humidity in the atmosphere, as we always manage to shelter one or two mice during the running of the combines.
Past experience with what I've labeled, the "Cut Wheat Ralph Run" - named sympathetically for the infamous Mouse on a Motorcycle, Ralph S. Mouse has forced me to maintain vigil over a few traps set around the house, baited with peanut butter and cheese.
In the past three years, my varmint mini-WMD's have netted approximately 3 scores in the X column.
However, while we blissfully slept that pre-FreeWheel night, my snores drowning out the glass shattering winds buffeting our bedroom window while S dreamt of long downhills, 15 mph southeasterly tailwinds and endless water bottles filled with beef jerky flavored Gatorade (her two favorite road energy snacks), a fateful transaction was taking place at a mouse hole nearby.
The snap of the trap springing was barely enough to stir us from rem sleep. Nay, fear not for it was the systematic click-click-clatter-clatter sound that was organically motoring from one point to the next along the hardwood bedroom floor that finally aroused the sleeping giants from within.
When the unmistakable sound of the wooden and metal mouse trap being dragged along the floor finally ceased, only to be replaced by a periodic thunk --- thunk --- thunk --- thunk, that repeated with the regularity of a hard drives actuator arm stuck on a back disc sector, I knew our little visitor was stuck for good and ready to meet the master.
While S cowered under the covers...um, I mean fell back asleep to the soothing sounds of her husband politely evicting an unwanted tenant, it took me no time at all to find the subject of this weeks Ralph Run -- or at least I found the mouse trap being futilely pulled through a small hole beneath our bedroom's westerly pocket door.
Think large square peg in a small round hole. In this case, the square peg had snagged the middle of a mouse's tail.
As much as the girls would have loved to have kept this particular Ralph as a pet, I felt a more naturalistic demonstration of disposal to be appropriate, to which I donned my flip flops, carried trap and mouse outside, and promptly released the late night visitor in the tall grassy field at the end of the alley -- where the neighborhood feral cat gang regularly conduct their nightly furrapalooza.
Back in bed and looking at an alarm clock set to buzz a mere 20 minutes from that moment, I pondered the cruel hand of fate dealt to the field mouse, chased from the safety of the wheat fields and forced to seek shelter in the walls of my 113-year old house, only to find his favorite appendage snagged in the jaws of a spring loaded wooden and metal wonder, then released in the turf of his most rivaled gang.
I gave him 1 in 100.
Post-mortem of sorts, none of the traps we rigged were tripped upon our return from FreeWheel, so perhaps we've seen the end of this years "Cut Wheat Ralph Run." I am ever vigil.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
"20 bucks on pump #2 and a maguro roll to go..."
Spotted on a rare trip to downtown OKC, to have lunch with Wifey.
Even I was not brave enough to follow the tempting red helvetica font letters of this sign into the Downtown Plaza Shell C-stop (in the shadow of some gold domed building) to sample their fresh, daily made sushi.
But who knows, someday, I just may be desperate enough.
Going back to my small town now, where such temptation is non-existent.
Even I was not brave enough to follow the tempting red helvetica font letters of this sign into the Downtown Plaza Shell C-stop (in the shadow of some gold domed building) to sample their fresh, daily made sushi.
But who knows, someday, I just may be desperate enough.
Going back to my small town now, where such temptation is non-existent.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The road leads home...even on two wheels.
Oklahoma FreeWheel '08 is done.
Rather than go into a weekly, day-to-day, hour-by-hour breakdown of our week on the road (me in the 42 mpg import, chasing S down with a video camera on her LeMond road bike) I'm just going to adduce some observations and reflections.
Oklahoma is not flat, nor dry, dusty and barren.
If you think your town is a small town, hear me now, there are many, many towns that are much smaller than yours.
If all TV News Weather persons were cyclists, they may be a little less sensational with their forecasts.
Cyclists come in all shapes, sizes, skill levels, and sensibilities. You know that nearing-retirement guy standing behind you in line at the C-stop (cyclist speak for gas station/convenience store) with the truckers cap, a hard and solid beer gut, long beard and grubby stained dungarees? Well, picture him in spandex cycling shorts, a brightly colored jersey, streamline helmet, sunglasses and holding a sport bottle up to his mouth in-between pedal strokes and you've just met roughly a quarter of the male participants in OK FreeWheel.
Grandparents who looked more appropriate to be in line at the geriatric doctor's office than in biker's shorts and jerseys took up a good portion of the rides retinue, as did youngsters no older than my own two girls, family pets, and a good representation of father-daughter/father-son/mother-daughter/mother-son sets on tandems.
Basically, take the entire staff of the tv show, "The Office," (this includes Stanley, Bryan, and Phyllis) put them in cycling shorts and jerseys and you have the 800+ population of the Oklahoma FreeWheel in a nutshell...quirky personalities included.
S had several "moments of truth" moments while on the ride, the first one occurring during the day long 64-mile lightning and thunderstorm ride from Sulphur to Seminole (she rode the entire day).
Another screamed from within her while navigating the 10 and 12 percent graded hills on the 70-mile ride from Henryetta to Drumright (not once did she dismount and walk up a hill).
The most emotionally poignant moment came in the faces of the two young girls who were murdered in the small town of Weleetka (one of the rides final rest stops on Day 3) and in the faces of family and friends of the girls who were selling cookies and water to raise money for their funerals.
On a lighter note, my new can't-sleep-without-it tent camping item - my battery powered fan.
S' can't-go-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night item - her noggin mounted headlight.
Finally, the can't-do-without item for anyone who camped next to our tent and couldn't deal with my snoring the way my wife can - foam earplugs.
There are several listings in the blogosphere with detailed accounts of the entire ride from Texas to Kansas, this being a decent one if you are at all interested (pics included). My take on laying out some heavy duty retrospection of the event is that it's one of those "you had to have been there," gigs.
Heck, I was there as a coat tailer myself with not a second of cycle seat time, so who am I to espouse "freewheelisms" so freely.
As a outsider observing the event through the lens of my video cameras and the filter that was my non-cyclist status, for me it was about the lives I was inventing for the people I would see on the journey or meet in the camp after the days long ride was over.
Like the young girl who we dubbed "Single-Speed April", that cruised along through life as she cruised through FreeWheel, on her own schedule, at her own pace -- seemingly always skirting the edge of deadlines but always making them none-the-less. A butterfly on the wind that managed to land on the right flower, not all that concerned with what flower it was, as long as she was out of harms way and near those who shared her interest in cycling.
There was the fella we all called "Forrest, Forrest Gump," the barely there, socially schitzophrenic, and borderline autistic savant character that pedaled his ancient, cobbled together Franken-cycle to the finish line every day, mumbled to himself for company, and cradled his new Camelbak water-filled backpack (presented to him by a king-hearted fellow cyclist) with the passion of a mother with her newborn.
We ran into "Lawton Jerry" several times on the road, at the rest stops and in camp, who had better luck with his cycles than he did with wife selection (4th wife, 2nd cycle). We bonded with "Prince Charming Barry" and his 14-year old daughter, "Princess Extremely Charming Lauren" from Phoenix, who were sharing a daddy/daughter bonding week on their Cannondale tandem cycle.
There were dozens more S cycle-bonded with on the road, dozens more we camp-bonded with at the end of the daily journey, and still dozens more we exchanged emails with in that final mile of the final day.
On the drive home from Kansas back to our small town, the LeMond happily secured to the trunk rack and the last of my stash of Cliff bars and G2 Gatorade being consumed by S and I, our thoughts and conversation soon left behind the talk of ordinary people doing extraordinary things and onto the weeks ahead filled with work assignments for her and girls of summer tasks for me.
Not quite willing to let go of this great thing that my mid-life wife had just done and the pride I was feeling for her completion of it, I asked her if she wanted to do it again next year, to which she replied, "It's kinda like pregnancy...ask me again in a month or so when I've forgotten how much of a pain it was to go through."
Meanwhile I'll be spending my Father's Day logging and digitizing 5 hours of miniDV footage and transferring 4, 16-gig SDHC memory cards worth of 1080i video - basically reliving the entire week all over again.
Rather than go into a weekly, day-to-day, hour-by-hour breakdown of our week on the road (me in the 42 mpg import, chasing S down with a video camera on her LeMond road bike) I'm just going to adduce some observations and reflections.
Oklahoma is not flat, nor dry, dusty and barren.
If you think your town is a small town, hear me now, there are many, many towns that are much smaller than yours.
If all TV News Weather persons were cyclists, they may be a little less sensational with their forecasts.
Cyclists come in all shapes, sizes, skill levels, and sensibilities. You know that nearing-retirement guy standing behind you in line at the C-stop (cyclist speak for gas station/convenience store) with the truckers cap, a hard and solid beer gut, long beard and grubby stained dungarees? Well, picture him in spandex cycling shorts, a brightly colored jersey, streamline helmet, sunglasses and holding a sport bottle up to his mouth in-between pedal strokes and you've just met roughly a quarter of the male participants in OK FreeWheel.
Grandparents who looked more appropriate to be in line at the geriatric doctor's office than in biker's shorts and jerseys took up a good portion of the rides retinue, as did youngsters no older than my own two girls, family pets, and a good representation of father-daughter/father-son/mother-daughter/mother-son sets on tandems.
Basically, take the entire staff of the tv show, "The Office," (this includes Stanley, Bryan, and Phyllis) put them in cycling shorts and jerseys and you have the 800+ population of the Oklahoma FreeWheel in a nutshell...quirky personalities included.
S had several "moments of truth" moments while on the ride, the first one occurring during the day long 64-mile lightning and thunderstorm ride from Sulphur to Seminole (she rode the entire day).
Another screamed from within her while navigating the 10 and 12 percent graded hills on the 70-mile ride from Henryetta to Drumright (not once did she dismount and walk up a hill).
The most emotionally poignant moment came in the faces of the two young girls who were murdered in the small town of Weleetka (one of the rides final rest stops on Day 3) and in the faces of family and friends of the girls who were selling cookies and water to raise money for their funerals.
On a lighter note, my new can't-sleep-without-it tent camping item - my battery powered fan.
S' can't-go-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night item - her noggin mounted headlight.
Finally, the can't-do-without item for anyone who camped next to our tent and couldn't deal with my snoring the way my wife can - foam earplugs.
There are several listings in the blogosphere with detailed accounts of the entire ride from Texas to Kansas, this being a decent one if you are at all interested (pics included). My take on laying out some heavy duty retrospection of the event is that it's one of those "you had to have been there," gigs.
Heck, I was there as a coat tailer myself with not a second of cycle seat time, so who am I to espouse "freewheelisms" so freely.
As a outsider observing the event through the lens of my video cameras and the filter that was my non-cyclist status, for me it was about the lives I was inventing for the people I would see on the journey or meet in the camp after the days long ride was over.
Like the young girl who we dubbed "Single-Speed April", that cruised along through life as she cruised through FreeWheel, on her own schedule, at her own pace -- seemingly always skirting the edge of deadlines but always making them none-the-less. A butterfly on the wind that managed to land on the right flower, not all that concerned with what flower it was, as long as she was out of harms way and near those who shared her interest in cycling.
There was the fella we all called "Forrest, Forrest Gump," the barely there, socially schitzophrenic, and borderline autistic savant character that pedaled his ancient, cobbled together Franken-cycle to the finish line every day, mumbled to himself for company, and cradled his new Camelbak water-filled backpack (presented to him by a king-hearted fellow cyclist) with the passion of a mother with her newborn.
We ran into "Lawton Jerry" several times on the road, at the rest stops and in camp, who had better luck with his cycles than he did with wife selection (4th wife, 2nd cycle). We bonded with "Prince Charming Barry" and his 14-year old daughter, "Princess Extremely Charming Lauren" from Phoenix, who were sharing a daddy/daughter bonding week on their Cannondale tandem cycle.
There were dozens more S cycle-bonded with on the road, dozens more we camp-bonded with at the end of the daily journey, and still dozens more we exchanged emails with in that final mile of the final day.
On the drive home from Kansas back to our small town, the LeMond happily secured to the trunk rack and the last of my stash of Cliff bars and G2 Gatorade being consumed by S and I, our thoughts and conversation soon left behind the talk of ordinary people doing extraordinary things and onto the weeks ahead filled with work assignments for her and girls of summer tasks for me.
Not quite willing to let go of this great thing that my mid-life wife had just done and the pride I was feeling for her completion of it, I asked her if she wanted to do it again next year, to which she replied, "It's kinda like pregnancy...ask me again in a month or so when I've forgotten how much of a pain it was to go through."
Meanwhile I'll be spending my Father's Day logging and digitizing 5 hours of miniDV footage and transferring 4, 16-gig SDHC memory cards worth of 1080i video - basically reliving the entire week all over again.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Report from the Oklahoma FreeWheel road
Hot, humid, got rained on for an entire day (lightning, thunder, headwind), spent one night on the floor at a Methodist Church in Seminole, OK., but OK FreeWheel is rockin' and S is a pedaling fool.
Longest day of riding was today (72 miles), but the southerly tail winds helped her along -- the 90+ degree heat didn't.
Partying in Drumright, OK tonight. More from the road if I can find a library that's open late in the next 3 towns on our tour.
And I haven't run over any bikers...yet.
Longest day of riding was today (72 miles), but the southerly tail winds helped her along -- the 90+ degree heat didn't.
Partying in Drumright, OK tonight. More from the road if I can find a library that's open late in the next 3 towns on our tour.
And I haven't run over any bikers...yet.
Friday, June 06, 2008
We're OKFreeWheel bound
OKFreeWheel is a cross state week long mass bike ride from the Texas to Kansas border in the heat and humidity of the Oklahoma summer.
Nutso x 1000...I'm right there with you.
Even more nutso when my lovely 40-something wife announced that she was considering doing it, was using her birthday check present from my Mom to get a road bike, and wanted me to document the entire process on video for her, from bike purchase to final collapse at the Kansas border.
That was a mere 6 months ago. Since then, she's trained and rode and shopped (oops, I mean, "outfitted herself in the appropriate biking attire") and agonized and fought against the Oklahoma wind and shopped ("acquired the required biking gear,") and changed a flat and shopped (ibid) and attended most of the FreeWheel seminars and shopped and bitched about how fast the start day was approaching and sweat and shopped and well...shopped.
So here we are, on the eve of the start date. Her mind, body, and spirit may not be fully prepared for the onslaught of physical tediousness and tension, but her wardrobe is ready, her outfits are set, and she has every doohickey, tool, gadget, bag and bottle that she'll ever need, ever, ever again.
Macgyver should be so well prepared.
Her duffel bags are not packed, the tent has not been seam sealed, her bike has yet to be picked up from the shop where it is being tuned up, and the laundry room is running in overtime since we also have to pack the girls up for their 9 night stay at Club Grandparent.
But somehow we'll be ready. Somewhere we'll be set. And sometime she'll hopefully come to her senses.
Six months later, it still seems like a nutso x 1000 thing to do.
But do it she will, struggle she might, and following her in my car I'll be, documenting her journey with my 3-chip video camera, a wireless lavalier mic hanging on her lapel, and a custom mounted Sanyo HD micro video camera riding shotgun on her handlebars.
Needless to say, I won't be blogging during our journey, but I'm sure I'll have more small town moments to report on, as we travel through some of the smallest towns in the state, in a most unusual (at least for these parts) mode of transportation.
Nutso x 1000...I'm right there with you.
Even more nutso when my lovely 40-something wife announced that she was considering doing it, was using her birthday check present from my Mom to get a road bike, and wanted me to document the entire process on video for her, from bike purchase to final collapse at the Kansas border.
That was a mere 6 months ago. Since then, she's trained and rode and shopped (oops, I mean, "outfitted herself in the appropriate biking attire") and agonized and fought against the Oklahoma wind and shopped ("acquired the required biking gear,") and changed a flat and shopped (ibid) and attended most of the FreeWheel seminars and shopped and bitched about how fast the start day was approaching and sweat and shopped and well...shopped.
So here we are, on the eve of the start date. Her mind, body, and spirit may not be fully prepared for the onslaught of physical tediousness and tension, but her wardrobe is ready, her outfits are set, and she has every doohickey, tool, gadget, bag and bottle that she'll ever need, ever, ever again.
Macgyver should be so well prepared.
Her duffel bags are not packed, the tent has not been seam sealed, her bike has yet to be picked up from the shop where it is being tuned up, and the laundry room is running in overtime since we also have to pack the girls up for their 9 night stay at Club Grandparent.
But somehow we'll be ready. Somewhere we'll be set. And sometime she'll hopefully come to her senses.
Six months later, it still seems like a nutso x 1000 thing to do.
But do it she will, struggle she might, and following her in my car I'll be, documenting her journey with my 3-chip video camera, a wireless lavalier mic hanging on her lapel, and a custom mounted Sanyo HD micro video camera riding shotgun on her handlebars.
Needless to say, I won't be blogging during our journey, but I'm sure I'll have more small town moments to report on, as we travel through some of the smallest towns in the state, in a most unusual (at least for these parts) mode of transportation.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Gennie on standby
This time of the year in my small town (at least on the section of the locally owned and operated electrical grid where my house resides) is what we've coined the "bright-boom-dark-room" time of the year.
Seems that the utility pole that serves the 4 house block we live on is the favorite target of any and all lightning strikes that make their way down to terra firma Oklahoma.
That's right. Almost without fail, if there is a lightning storm within a 25 mile radius, our power goes out. I'm not saying our power grid is old and utterly vulnerable to the ravages of our weather, but at times it seems all it'd take to kill our power would be for an 18-wheeler on the highway to flash it's highbeams at us.
After the tenth or so instance of flash-boom-bang during our first spring/summer here, we're totally prepared with our flashlight/candle and matches routine.
Once the candles are glowing and the flickering of flames transports our 19th century home back into the days from whence it was originally built, I'll normally step out on the front porch, peer uptown and see if our historic downtown is powerless as well.
When it is, I rejoice knowing that the powerful powers that be that power and repair the power lines in our town will be powerfully motivated to get on the ball and up the power poles if more than one block (my block) is being affected by the "bright-boom-dark-room" event.
ETA for power restoration is about 20 minutes in this instance.
If, however, my porch view survey reveals that just our block is down, then I settle in for a good 45-60 minute wait.
Seeing as how the NOAA just announced Tornado Watch #462 (that's for 2008, thus far), I went out to the garage to test fire up my trusty old 5000 watt generator, run an extension cord from the generator to the house, and wait for the lights to go out.
Which in a wonky, roundabout way, brings me to the actual topic of this post.
For reasons I'm choosing not to reveal at this time (future post perhaps) I acquired a 5000 watt gas powered generator back in my grad school days. Gennie and I were quite popular and in-demand with the crowd I was running with at the time and she enjoyed many hours of use and abuse.
When I made the move out to the middle of the Oklahoma prairie, Gennie came with me -- even though it had literally been years since I had checked her oil, drained her gas tank, or fired her up. She however made the trip without complaint, being the trooper she was, and sat quietly in a corner of my garage for the 3 years since our arrival.
After the last several rounds of bright-boom-dark-room took out our power for the third night in a row, I decided to renew my past relationship with Gennie and see if she would see fit to service my electrical needs again, in times of power line failure and windless sorrow.
At first inspection, she wasn't a very pretty lady. The gas left in her tank and lines had turned to varnish. The needle valve in her carb was disintegrated, the float frozen in gunk and time, and the starter pull cord was frayed beyond repair.
She needed surgery, STAT.
Luckily, I live in the state of Oklahoma grace -- aka the lawn mowing lap of luxury, and found a crusty old dude sitting in a crusty old chair, repairing yet another crusty old lawn mower in the rear of the crusty old lawn mower repair shop.
Having spent a goodly amount of time and money in engine supply houses, I knew better than to question the total surety with which the shop owner plopped my needed parts on the counter, and the utter lack of hesitation with which he told me that the parts he gave me weren't for the Tecumseh powerplant at the heart of Gennie, but would work fine, "just the same."
Had he taken the time to look up the part numbers in a book, online database, or parts manual, I imagine my confidence might have been a little shaken. But in the time I've been around old dudes who have spent their lives working on things of a mechanical nature, I've only been burned once when handed a part that wasn't the exact part I needed and told it would work just fine.
True to my gut instincts and the Lawn Mower Shop dude, the parts worked fine, the carb rebuild went swimmingly, I flushed out the gunk, filled her up with some fresh ethanol free 87-octane,and got her fired up on the third pull of her brand new starter pull cord.
Gennie nows sits idly by, sporting a sexy blue nylon tarp secured by bungie cords of complimentary colors, waiting for the day when our power goes out for more than the requisite hour, and a few quick pulls brings extension corded light to our darkened abode on the prairie.
Seems that the utility pole that serves the 4 house block we live on is the favorite target of any and all lightning strikes that make their way down to terra firma Oklahoma.
That's right. Almost without fail, if there is a lightning storm within a 25 mile radius, our power goes out. I'm not saying our power grid is old and utterly vulnerable to the ravages of our weather, but at times it seems all it'd take to kill our power would be for an 18-wheeler on the highway to flash it's highbeams at us.
After the tenth or so instance of flash-boom-bang during our first spring/summer here, we're totally prepared with our flashlight/candle and matches routine.
Once the candles are glowing and the flickering of flames transports our 19th century home back into the days from whence it was originally built, I'll normally step out on the front porch, peer uptown and see if our historic downtown is powerless as well.
When it is, I rejoice knowing that the powerful powers that be that power and repair the power lines in our town will be powerfully motivated to get on the ball and up the power poles if more than one block (my block) is being affected by the "bright-boom-dark-room" event.
ETA for power restoration is about 20 minutes in this instance.
If, however, my porch view survey reveals that just our block is down, then I settle in for a good 45-60 minute wait.
Seeing as how the NOAA just announced Tornado Watch #462 (that's for 2008, thus far), I went out to the garage to test fire up my trusty old 5000 watt generator, run an extension cord from the generator to the house, and wait for the lights to go out.
Which in a wonky, roundabout way, brings me to the actual topic of this post.
For reasons I'm choosing not to reveal at this time (future post perhaps) I acquired a 5000 watt gas powered generator back in my grad school days. Gennie and I were quite popular and in-demand with the crowd I was running with at the time and she enjoyed many hours of use and abuse.
When I made the move out to the middle of the Oklahoma prairie, Gennie came with me -- even though it had literally been years since I had checked her oil, drained her gas tank, or fired her up. She however made the trip without complaint, being the trooper she was, and sat quietly in a corner of my garage for the 3 years since our arrival.
After the last several rounds of bright-boom-dark-room took out our power for the third night in a row, I decided to renew my past relationship with Gennie and see if she would see fit to service my electrical needs again, in times of power line failure and windless sorrow.
At first inspection, she wasn't a very pretty lady. The gas left in her tank and lines had turned to varnish. The needle valve in her carb was disintegrated, the float frozen in gunk and time, and the starter pull cord was frayed beyond repair.
She needed surgery, STAT.
Luckily, I live in the state of Oklahoma grace -- aka the lawn mowing lap of luxury, and found a crusty old dude sitting in a crusty old chair, repairing yet another crusty old lawn mower in the rear of the crusty old lawn mower repair shop.
Having spent a goodly amount of time and money in engine supply houses, I knew better than to question the total surety with which the shop owner plopped my needed parts on the counter, and the utter lack of hesitation with which he told me that the parts he gave me weren't for the Tecumseh powerplant at the heart of Gennie, but would work fine, "just the same."
Had he taken the time to look up the part numbers in a book, online database, or parts manual, I imagine my confidence might have been a little shaken. But in the time I've been around old dudes who have spent their lives working on things of a mechanical nature, I've only been burned once when handed a part that wasn't the exact part I needed and told it would work just fine.
True to my gut instincts and the Lawn Mower Shop dude, the parts worked fine, the carb rebuild went swimmingly, I flushed out the gunk, filled her up with some fresh ethanol free 87-octane,and got her fired up on the third pull of her brand new starter pull cord.
Gennie nows sits idly by, sporting a sexy blue nylon tarp secured by bungie cords of complimentary colors, waiting for the day when our power goes out for more than the requisite hour, and a few quick pulls brings extension corded light to our darkened abode on the prairie.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Sgt. Schultz was right...Deutsch Lebensmittel ist wunderbar!
On our way home from our recent harvest sojourn, we passed through the bustling town of Lawton, Oklahoma (population 93,000) - pretty huge and culturally diverse city by OK standards.
What this meant to my immediate situation was a chance for my family and I to dine on food of a more international menu -- something we took for granted back in our LA days, but look back on now with fondness and gastronomical desire.
As much as my wife and I were tempted to tempt fate and tempt our taste sensations with the tantalizing temptations awaiting us at any one of the dozen Korean Buffet Restaurants, our ever widening search parameters (and the handy dandy State of Oklahoma's Tourism Department travel guide) brought us to the front door of a little wonder called, The German Quick Stop Restaurant.
The little greasy spoon didn't offer much in the quaintness department from the outside. In fact, my slightly nearsighted eyes detected a KFC facade circa 1970's hiding beneath the eggshell white paint and red and white gingham tablecloths.
But the wafting smell of freshly prepared food that wasn't a grilled hamburger, chicken fried steak, or combination enchilada plate was both welcoming and gratifying, in a "I'll be leaving this place in an hour or so with a well earned smile of gluttonous satisfaction on my face," kind of way.
Stay with me now...while the girls opted to share a small wurstsalat with a cup of potato soup and cup of goulash between the two of them, wifey and I went for the platter of plenty known as the Grill Teller for Two.
I'm not sure in what dimension this impressive menu item we ordered would feed two people, but wherever it is, my stomach and I want to retire there. This teller for deux could easily fill the gullets of a family of four hungry homo sapiens, and in that family I'm including the most ravenous group of Oklahoman's and Hawaiian's (the biggest eaters I've ever witnessed) on the planet.
Needless to say, it was plenty of food.
On a layered 1" thick bed of German potato salad rested a large-diameter 160 gram frisbee-sized wiener schnitzel.
Joining the delicately thin, crispy and tender breaded patty was a huge bratwurst (bursting out of it's crispy grilled skin), an even girthier pair of knackwursts, several robust wienerles (Dodger Dogs only smaller and grilled), several huge slices of leberkaese (think Spam only meatier and the size of a softball glove), a wurstbroetchen (some sort of sausage wrapped in puff pastry -- help me), accompanied by ridiculously generous family-style portions of al dente spaetzles, sassy sauerkraut with caraway seeds and enormous capers, and a sublimely spicy red cabbage salad, that effectively rounded out the meal and put the final touches on our perfect international meal.
The only disappointing moment in our meal came at the end when the pleasant waitress with the calves more muscular than mine asked us which type of strudel we'd like to try,"...apple, apple and cheese, blueberry, blueberry and cheese, cherry, cherry and cheese, mixed berry, mixed berry and cheese, or just plain honey...or honey and cheese."
Alas, we had left not a smidgen of stomach space for dessert. Double-dog-drat.
Our doggie bags were so full of food that any casual observer spotting us exiting the joint would have to assume that we had ordered take-out and were carting the food home to feed a small harvesting convention of combine operators and their families.
The bill was uber-reasonable, especially considering we had several full "leftover" meals from the styrofoam lunch wagon.
When in Lawton, I say go dutch. Or Deutsch rather.
What this meant to my immediate situation was a chance for my family and I to dine on food of a more international menu -- something we took for granted back in our LA days, but look back on now with fondness and gastronomical desire.
As much as my wife and I were tempted to tempt fate and tempt our taste sensations with the tantalizing temptations awaiting us at any one of the dozen Korean Buffet Restaurants, our ever widening search parameters (and the handy dandy State of Oklahoma's Tourism Department travel guide) brought us to the front door of a little wonder called, The German Quick Stop Restaurant.
The little greasy spoon didn't offer much in the quaintness department from the outside. In fact, my slightly nearsighted eyes detected a KFC facade circa 1970's hiding beneath the eggshell white paint and red and white gingham tablecloths.
But the wafting smell of freshly prepared food that wasn't a grilled hamburger, chicken fried steak, or combination enchilada plate was both welcoming and gratifying, in a "I'll be leaving this place in an hour or so with a well earned smile of gluttonous satisfaction on my face," kind of way.
Stay with me now...while the girls opted to share a small wurstsalat with a cup of potato soup and cup of goulash between the two of them, wifey and I went for the platter of plenty known as the Grill Teller for Two.
I'm not sure in what dimension this impressive menu item we ordered would feed two people, but wherever it is, my stomach and I want to retire there. This teller for deux could easily fill the gullets of a family of four hungry homo sapiens, and in that family I'm including the most ravenous group of Oklahoman's and Hawaiian's (the biggest eaters I've ever witnessed) on the planet.
Needless to say, it was plenty of food.
On a layered 1" thick bed of German potato salad rested a large-diameter 160 gram frisbee-sized wiener schnitzel.
Joining the delicately thin, crispy and tender breaded patty was a huge bratwurst (bursting out of it's crispy grilled skin), an even girthier pair of knackwursts, several robust wienerles (Dodger Dogs only smaller and grilled), several huge slices of leberkaese (think Spam only meatier and the size of a softball glove), a wurstbroetchen (some sort of sausage wrapped in puff pastry -- help me), accompanied by ridiculously generous family-style portions of al dente spaetzles, sassy sauerkraut with caraway seeds and enormous capers, and a sublimely spicy red cabbage salad, that effectively rounded out the meal and put the final touches on our perfect international meal.
The only disappointing moment in our meal came at the end when the pleasant waitress with the calves more muscular than mine asked us which type of strudel we'd like to try,"...apple, apple and cheese, blueberry, blueberry and cheese, cherry, cherry and cheese, mixed berry, mixed berry and cheese, or just plain honey...or honey and cheese."
Alas, we had left not a smidgen of stomach space for dessert. Double-dog-drat.
Our doggie bags were so full of food that any casual observer spotting us exiting the joint would have to assume that we had ordered take-out and were carting the food home to feed a small harvesting convention of combine operators and their families.
The bill was uber-reasonable, especially considering we had several full "leftover" meals from the styrofoam lunch wagon.
When in Lawton, I say go dutch. Or Deutsch rather.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Distance you'd drive for a clean bathroom experience
Something wrings fishy about this latest caper to be perpetrated in my small town involving a $1,500 pooch, an arranged meeting at a local gas/beer/snack station, and one woman's belief that the quest for a clean bathroom is indeed a sincere quest.
I've heard of biker's getting ripped off when selling their hogs to a non-returning test rider, but this is the first time I've gotten wind of a broad daylight dog-napping.
Oh and yes, as far as I know, the Domino Fuel Stop has both male and female restroom facilities. And though I lack any personal experience with either of them, perhaps they fail in comparison to those made available to WalMart shoppers.
I've heard of biker's getting ripped off when selling their hogs to a non-returning test rider, but this is the first time I've gotten wind of a broad daylight dog-napping.
Oh and yes, as far as I know, the Domino Fuel Stop has both male and female restroom facilities. And though I lack any personal experience with either of them, perhaps they fail in comparison to those made available to WalMart shoppers.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Warning - Grain Dust is Explosive
My wife's job takes her all over the panhandle state we live in, and on occasion she'll get to bring the family along for the adventure.
Just yesterday we returned from a few days of work-related R&R centered on the states burgeoning Agritourism industry.
Turns out the wheat harvest for the entire mid-section of the nation begins at or around Frederick, Oklahoma (a mere 17 miles north of the Texas/OK border). History and tradition dictates that the millions of acres of winter planted wheat matures in the southern most section of the nation's wheat belt first.
And since most farmers don't bother spending the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to buy combines and grain trucks, a great number of independent harvesters ("Custom Cutters") descend upon the farmers and their ripening wheat in a race to make the best and most amount of harvesting deals.
Think, "Deadliest Catch," only instead of crab boats on the Bering Sea, you have trailers and converted busloads of harvesters from all over the country (North Dakota, Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, Kansas) and around the globe (Saskatchewan, Toronto, South Africa, New Zealand, etc.) with their monstrous combines and 40-foot wide headers in tow.
These groups of nomadic harvesters slowly migrate their way up the nation's mid-section, making deals, cutting the wheat, and delivering the seed to grain elevators, following the ripening wheat from it's southern environs to the northern fields of the Dakota's.
High dollar deals are sealed with handshakes (no kidding), and I've learned that there are so many things that can go wrong with every stage of the wheat harvest, it's amazing to me that even my small town's grocery store has bags of flour for sale and loaves of bread on the aisle.
As luck would have it I was egged into taking a ride up a rickety 60-year old one-man lift to the top of a grain elevator where I pondered the sign on the wall warning against smoking due to the explosive properties of "grain dust."
The day ended in grand style for my family and I as we were invited to climb aboard and plop our citified butts down in the jump seats of two of these monsters, a Case IH Axial-Flow 8010 combine harvester with a 405 hp (@2100 rpm) electronically governed, 10.3 liter 6-cylinder motor with air-to-air aftercooled turbocharger and a 36' header.
Oh, baby.
It was like being in a Robotech (Macross) battloid in Guardian Mode.
Seriously, it was that cool. The operator cab with it's huge windows and plush seats came fully equipped with a powerful A/C, killer amped up stereo system, weather radio, multi-channel communication system, GPS, and a cup holder contraption that Bentley should take note of. Even my 8-year old that was digging the ride from the discomfort of my lap was awe struck and itching to get her hands on the wheel, F-15 fighter like joystick (only with more buttons), and LCD monitor controller interface.
Wifey and PK were grain drag racing us in another identical model a mere wheat row or so over.
When it came time to send out the auger arm to dump our load, the combined skills of our 19-year old harvester operator and accompanying grain truck driver to synchronize their mega-ton rolling beasts for a moving transfer of the precious wheat seed, was truly inspiring - especially for a guy that has trouble parallel parking his 12-foot long import rice runner.
I cut together some clips of our combine ride to make a 15 meg quicktime flick here. It starts out with PK demonstrating by hand what a combine actually does to the wheat once it's cut and collected and is underscored by really cheeseball with a capital "C" music. But if it irritates you just turn the sound down and make loud, rumbly, 10.3 liter diesel motor noises while you watch the vid.
I have to say, after spending the day learning about all things wheat, I may have to relegate rice as second fiddle in the grain hierarchy of my gluttonous mind.
And okay, roaming the country cutting wheat and driving a Transformer-like combine may not be my ideal job description, but then again, there wasn't a pointed-headed boss or florescent light in sight.
Just yesterday we returned from a few days of work-related R&R centered on the states burgeoning Agritourism industry.
Turns out the wheat harvest for the entire mid-section of the nation begins at or around Frederick, Oklahoma (a mere 17 miles north of the Texas/OK border). History and tradition dictates that the millions of acres of winter planted wheat matures in the southern most section of the nation's wheat belt first.
And since most farmers don't bother spending the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to buy combines and grain trucks, a great number of independent harvesters ("Custom Cutters") descend upon the farmers and their ripening wheat in a race to make the best and most amount of harvesting deals.
Think, "Deadliest Catch," only instead of crab boats on the Bering Sea, you have trailers and converted busloads of harvesters from all over the country (North Dakota, Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, Kansas) and around the globe (Saskatchewan, Toronto, South Africa, New Zealand, etc.) with their monstrous combines and 40-foot wide headers in tow.
These groups of nomadic harvesters slowly migrate their way up the nation's mid-section, making deals, cutting the wheat, and delivering the seed to grain elevators, following the ripening wheat from it's southern environs to the northern fields of the Dakota's.
High dollar deals are sealed with handshakes (no kidding), and I've learned that there are so many things that can go wrong with every stage of the wheat harvest, it's amazing to me that even my small town's grocery store has bags of flour for sale and loaves of bread on the aisle.
As luck would have it I was egged into taking a ride up a rickety 60-year old one-man lift to the top of a grain elevator where I pondered the sign on the wall warning against smoking due to the explosive properties of "grain dust."
The day ended in grand style for my family and I as we were invited to climb aboard and plop our citified butts down in the jump seats of two of these monsters, a Case IH Axial-Flow 8010 combine harvester with a 405 hp (@2100 rpm) electronically governed, 10.3 liter 6-cylinder motor with air-to-air aftercooled turbocharger and a 36' header.
Oh, baby.
It was like being in a Robotech (Macross) battloid in Guardian Mode.
Seriously, it was that cool. The operator cab with it's huge windows and plush seats came fully equipped with a powerful A/C, killer amped up stereo system, weather radio, multi-channel communication system, GPS, and a cup holder contraption that Bentley should take note of. Even my 8-year old that was digging the ride from the discomfort of my lap was awe struck and itching to get her hands on the wheel, F-15 fighter like joystick (only with more buttons), and LCD monitor controller interface.
Wifey and PK were grain drag racing us in another identical model a mere wheat row or so over.
When it came time to send out the auger arm to dump our load, the combined skills of our 19-year old harvester operator and accompanying grain truck driver to synchronize their mega-ton rolling beasts for a moving transfer of the precious wheat seed, was truly inspiring - especially for a guy that has trouble parallel parking his 12-foot long import rice runner.
I cut together some clips of our combine ride to make a 15 meg quicktime flick here. It starts out with PK demonstrating by hand what a combine actually does to the wheat once it's cut and collected and is underscored by really cheeseball with a capital "C" music. But if it irritates you just turn the sound down and make loud, rumbly, 10.3 liter diesel motor noises while you watch the vid.
I have to say, after spending the day learning about all things wheat, I may have to relegate rice as second fiddle in the grain hierarchy of my gluttonous mind.
And okay, roaming the country cutting wheat and driving a Transformer-like combine may not be my ideal job description, but then again, there wasn't a pointed-headed boss or florescent light in sight.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Yo-yo...a license to print money
Before C's school let out for the summer break, a motivational speaker showed up to put on a show for the kids as a special en-o'-the-year treat.
It was NED.
How it works is, this guy makes a deal with the school. For $1,500 up front, you get the yo-yo show and each student gets a $6 NED yoyo. For $1K up front you get the yo-yo show, a bunch of NED stuff and 30 yo-yos to hand out as incentive prizes.
Our little small town school opted for the "Free" package wherein we received the yo-yo show at no charge, but in exchange our office staff had to sell NED merchandise for 5 days following the yo-yo show.
Either way, this company made a pretty good nut for a 40-minute show and traveling expenses.
At our school they made a killing, as post yo-yo show sales were brisk for the entire 5-days and as of day three they had already sold over $1,500 worth of the spinning orbs, replacement strings, holsters, instructional dvds, and assorted NED merchandise.
Not a bad gig.
With the resulting yo-yo mania that had spread throughout the school between the highly successful NED show and Super Kids Day, it's no wonder that one of the activities slated for SKD was the American Yo-yo challenge.
After C showed some promise in the yo-yo challenge arena, I broke down and contributed to NED's bottom line for our school and bought C a boomerang model (twin ball-bearings for lighting fast auto return) in magenta.
She received her yo-yo on a Friday afternoon. After some instruction by yours truly, a few daddy-daughter arguments about proper technique, and several string shortening sessions, by Saturday afternoon she had the basics down and was imploring me to move her up to some string-based tricks.
Click here to check out her current technique.
It was NED.
How it works is, this guy makes a deal with the school. For $1,500 up front, you get the yo-yo show and each student gets a $6 NED yoyo. For $1K up front you get the yo-yo show, a bunch of NED stuff and 30 yo-yos to hand out as incentive prizes.
Our little small town school opted for the "Free" package wherein we received the yo-yo show at no charge, but in exchange our office staff had to sell NED merchandise for 5 days following the yo-yo show.
Either way, this company made a pretty good nut for a 40-minute show and traveling expenses.
At our school they made a killing, as post yo-yo show sales were brisk for the entire 5-days and as of day three they had already sold over $1,500 worth of the spinning orbs, replacement strings, holsters, instructional dvds, and assorted NED merchandise.
Not a bad gig.
With the resulting yo-yo mania that had spread throughout the school between the highly successful NED show and Super Kids Day, it's no wonder that one of the activities slated for SKD was the American Yo-yo challenge.
After C showed some promise in the yo-yo challenge arena, I broke down and contributed to NED's bottom line for our school and bought C a boomerang model (twin ball-bearings for lighting fast auto return) in magenta.
She received her yo-yo on a Friday afternoon. After some instruction by yours truly, a few daddy-daughter arguments about proper technique, and several string shortening sessions, by Saturday afternoon she had the basics down and was imploring me to move her up to some string-based tricks.
Click here to check out her current technique.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Yo! Yo-Yo Guy.
The week before C's last day of second grade, her P.E. Teacher (yep, singular) hosts a school wide physical achievement field day of sorts called, "Super Kids Day."
As before, kids from Kindergarten to 4th grade are paired up and sent out onto campus to compete in a number of competitively challenging events of the physical nature.
The event relies squarely on the support and participation of what seems like a zillion or so parent volunteers, who must show up at the crack of dawn, collect their assignments and head out into the unknown vastness of the elementary school to find their Super Kid Day station for their 2-hour shift.
The last two years I've been around, I drew free-throw basketball and 200-yard dash.
This year, due to what I believe was a rare ability to demonstrate a modicum of proficiency at the particular Kid Station I was assigned to supervise, I manned the American Yo-Yo station.
Surprised? The deuce you say. Any ex-Tech Support Call Center Agent worth his/or her salt is more than a little practiced at the skills of the up-and-down-twisted-stringed orb.
What, you thought when you called in to have a tech support agent help fix your computer over the phone that he/she was actually sitting at a computer screen, reading incredibly detailed walk-throughs and interactive web-based guides on how to delete your Registry keys, or reset your Preferences?
Harv, mop bucket clean-up on aisle 9.
Most of the basic fixes were tattooed into our frontal lobes from week one of training, and the rest, well, the rest of our complicated twelve-step fixes were usually need or experience based guesses.
Guesses, btw, all made and passed onto the delicate creatures known as "our customers" while we TS Agents whiled away the hours, bouncing yo-yos, playing with our Silly Putty, or doing the prairie dog peep-up among the half-height cube farm walls.
Back on point, when it came time to find a parent to staff the American Yo-Yo station this year, I was apparently the only ex-TS Call Center Agent to step forward, grasp the invitingly familiar twin donut shaped orbs into my hands, and prove my worthiness with a quick series of flip-downs, walk-the-dogs, rock-the-cradles, and round-the-worlds.
My entire yo-yo repetoire. But it was enough to get the gig.
And I have to say, after an entire morning of coaxing, coaching, demonstrating, and goading elementary school kids in the art and noise of head-to-head American Yo-Yo competition, there wasn't a single Tech Support Call Center Agent veteran on the elementary call center floor.
But there were a few hopefuls...at least in the yo-yoing skills category My 8-year old daughter being one of them.
But why they even had a yo-yo category for Super Kids Day this year, and how my daughter has quickly become a better yo-yo-ist than yours truly, is yet another future YASTM blog entry.
As before, kids from Kindergarten to 4th grade are paired up and sent out onto campus to compete in a number of competitively challenging events of the physical nature.
The event relies squarely on the support and participation of what seems like a zillion or so parent volunteers, who must show up at the crack of dawn, collect their assignments and head out into the unknown vastness of the elementary school to find their Super Kid Day station for their 2-hour shift.
The last two years I've been around, I drew free-throw basketball and 200-yard dash.
This year, due to what I believe was a rare ability to demonstrate a modicum of proficiency at the particular Kid Station I was assigned to supervise, I manned the American Yo-Yo station.
Surprised? The deuce you say. Any ex-Tech Support Call Center Agent worth his/or her salt is more than a little practiced at the skills of the up-and-down-twisted-stringed orb.
What, you thought when you called in to have a tech support agent help fix your computer over the phone that he/she was actually sitting at a computer screen, reading incredibly detailed walk-throughs and interactive web-based guides on how to delete your Registry keys, or reset your Preferences?
Harv, mop bucket clean-up on aisle 9.
Most of the basic fixes were tattooed into our frontal lobes from week one of training, and the rest, well, the rest of our complicated twelve-step fixes were usually need or experience based guesses.
Guesses, btw, all made and passed onto the delicate creatures known as "our customers" while we TS Agents whiled away the hours, bouncing yo-yos, playing with our Silly Putty, or doing the prairie dog peep-up among the half-height cube farm walls.
Back on point, when it came time to find a parent to staff the American Yo-Yo station this year, I was apparently the only ex-TS Call Center Agent to step forward, grasp the invitingly familiar twin donut shaped orbs into my hands, and prove my worthiness with a quick series of flip-downs, walk-the-dogs, rock-the-cradles, and round-the-worlds.
My entire yo-yo repetoire. But it was enough to get the gig.
And I have to say, after an entire morning of coaxing, coaching, demonstrating, and goading elementary school kids in the art and noise of head-to-head American Yo-Yo competition, there wasn't a single Tech Support Call Center Agent veteran on the elementary call center floor.
But there were a few hopefuls...at least in the yo-yoing skills category My 8-year old daughter being one of them.
But why they even had a yo-yo category for Super Kids Day this year, and how my daughter has quickly become a better yo-yo-ist than yours truly, is yet another future YASTM blog entry.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Donning Red's hat while singing Tiny Bubbles
Now that we know who "Red" Burpo was and how his family was intending to part out the remnants of his worldly belongings, we can delve into the tale of how I came into possession of one of Red's hats.
This one in particular.
I know, pretty dramatic picture huh. We have some wonderful skies here in Okie land. but I digress.
What I really came to the auction to look at were Red's old cars. Naturally.
He had a 1956 Chevrolet BelAir 4-door that was pretty complete and a good candidate for restoration. It went for $800, which was about $300 more than I was willing to give for it, but considering all I was thinking of doing with it once I had it cruising, shifting, braking, and turning was slamming it to the ground with some air bags and giving it a nice coat of shiny, flat hot rod black primer, it's probably better and more respectful that it went to a bowtie fanatic that was going to use it for parts to restore his own '56 project.
There was a 1953 Chevrolet 4-door as well, but without a drive train, major rust in the quarters and trunk, and too-far-gone-to-restore interior, the little sedan brought a generous $125. Probably cost more in gas to haul it away.
Red's 1952 pickup (pictured in the auction flyer here) was a true runner and brought in $3,700, which was a steal considering it will probably be flipped and sold on eBay in a week or two for two to three grand more.
His '69 shop truck went for just over $1,200 (great buy), and his assorted tools, parts, shop equipment, and hardware all went for some bargain basement prices. True to Red's rep, his stuff was well worn, well used, and bore the scars of a lifetime of service to Red and his customers.
Surprisingly, the only items I ended up bidding on -- and winning, were several boxes of old Christmas decorations (a mandate from my wife to all the members of her auction attending family is to never pass up on boxes of vintage Christmas decorations -- one of her many collectible passions. Oh the stories I could tell you...), and this item...
It's a Korean made, brand new in the wrapper, Samick ukulele. Online eBay price, about $40.
Now ukulele purists would scoff at such an instrument, but to a person who spent the summer of his 10th year in Oahu, learning to play the uke under the loving tutelage of his long deceased Grandmother, and has been jonesing to pick it up again to teach to his own kids during the coming summer months, this little ukulele was solid gold.
And for the back-and-forth bidding price of $10, it came home with me.
Along with Red's hat, complete with cigarette burn on the front, and size 10 1/2 head bowl. Why the uke and the hat were oddly paired up together for bidding is a mysterious quirk of the auction spirits better left unquestioned. Even higher up in the query list for me is why Red had a ukulele in the first place.
Regardless, picture if you will, my efforts to tune the little uke (Pineapple Pete's Uke School website has come in handy), the sheer will it's going to take to relearn the chords and lyrics to some of Don Ho's greatest hits, and all the memories that will inevitably start flooding into my heart and head with each plink, plank, and plunk on this little treasure, all compliments of "Red" Burpo.
Who knows, maybe I'll even don his hat for an impromptu concert for the girls.
Tiny bubbles, in the wine...make me happy, make me feel fine.
This one in particular.
I know, pretty dramatic picture huh. We have some wonderful skies here in Okie land. but I digress.
What I really came to the auction to look at were Red's old cars. Naturally.
He had a 1956 Chevrolet BelAir 4-door that was pretty complete and a good candidate for restoration. It went for $800, which was about $300 more than I was willing to give for it, but considering all I was thinking of doing with it once I had it cruising, shifting, braking, and turning was slamming it to the ground with some air bags and giving it a nice coat of shiny, flat hot rod black primer, it's probably better and more respectful that it went to a bowtie fanatic that was going to use it for parts to restore his own '56 project.
There was a 1953 Chevrolet 4-door as well, but without a drive train, major rust in the quarters and trunk, and too-far-gone-to-restore interior, the little sedan brought a generous $125. Probably cost more in gas to haul it away.
Red's 1952 pickup (pictured in the auction flyer here) was a true runner and brought in $3,700, which was a steal considering it will probably be flipped and sold on eBay in a week or two for two to three grand more.
His '69 shop truck went for just over $1,200 (great buy), and his assorted tools, parts, shop equipment, and hardware all went for some bargain basement prices. True to Red's rep, his stuff was well worn, well used, and bore the scars of a lifetime of service to Red and his customers.
Surprisingly, the only items I ended up bidding on -- and winning, were several boxes of old Christmas decorations (a mandate from my wife to all the members of her auction attending family is to never pass up on boxes of vintage Christmas decorations -- one of her many collectible passions. Oh the stories I could tell you...), and this item...
It's a Korean made, brand new in the wrapper, Samick ukulele. Online eBay price, about $40.
Now ukulele purists would scoff at such an instrument, but to a person who spent the summer of his 10th year in Oahu, learning to play the uke under the loving tutelage of his long deceased Grandmother, and has been jonesing to pick it up again to teach to his own kids during the coming summer months, this little ukulele was solid gold.
And for the back-and-forth bidding price of $10, it came home with me.
Along with Red's hat, complete with cigarette burn on the front, and size 10 1/2 head bowl. Why the uke and the hat were oddly paired up together for bidding is a mysterious quirk of the auction spirits better left unquestioned. Even higher up in the query list for me is why Red had a ukulele in the first place.
Regardless, picture if you will, my efforts to tune the little uke (Pineapple Pete's Uke School website has come in handy), the sheer will it's going to take to relearn the chords and lyrics to some of Don Ho's greatest hits, and all the memories that will inevitably start flooding into my heart and head with each plink, plank, and plunk on this little treasure, all compliments of "Red" Burpo.
Who knows, maybe I'll even don his hat for an impromptu concert for the girls.
Tiny bubbles, in the wine...make me happy, make me feel fine.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Who was "Red" Burpo anyhow?
He was just that old dude in a truckers cap, sitting in a beaten down barcalounger in front of that auto shop garage downtown that's still standing but no longer open for paying customers.
Every small town in the world must have one of these guys...long ago retired from the rat race of small business, the old motorhead now spends the salad days of his winding down life clock watching the world drive by, anticipating a stray customer or acquaintance of old to drop by at anytime to shoot the breeze, share a stick of Clark's Teaberry or perhaps even seeking advice of an auto maintenance matter.
His face is ruddy, pocked marked and scarred from a lifetime of hard wrenching beneath the hoods and undercarriages of cars that bore the mark of the bowtie, the blue oval, and the Mopar M.
However, when cars started having more computers and silicon chips behind the dash than NASA had for Apollo 13's launch, he saw the writing on the wall and the ASE Certified Automotive Technician patches on the young mechanics at the dealership and knew his days of carburetor rebuilding and cylinder head porting were over.
The old gear grinder's kids were all grown and succeeding somewhat at becoming respectable members of society. His beloved wife was buried a few short years ago in a plot of ground next to what will someday be the final garage bay for his own vintage chassis.
So there he sat, the long ago polished crankshafts hanging serenely behind him on the makeshift rack, making a sort of chrome steel backdrop for the throne on which he rests.
And watches nothing in particular.
And waits for no one in particular.
Then one day out of the blue, a younger fella walks up, with guarded smiles and sincere nods. He's not from around here, but tells the wizened welder of old that he's just moved here from California and was admiring some of what he deemed, "vintage gearhead wall art," scattered around the shop.
He was especially fond of the crankshaft/camshaft wall-of-fame/shame and seems particularly interested in the cars of old, as opposed to the cars of new -- even though he motors up in one of them import jobbers the size and shape of a really streamline egg.
The two get to talking as certified car guys will, and before they know it an hour has passed, a few cans of Dr. Pepper have been drained, and the young fella heads out to pick up his daughters from school and get on with his afternoon chores.
In the near future, a few more of these conversations would occur, almost always dealing with the same topic - cars - and always ending with a warm handshake and a sincere, "come on back anytime, enjoyed the visit," uttered by the older of the two gearheads.
From time to time an old third generation El Camino will cruise by the shop, the waving driver resembling the young buck who stops in to visit, but the aged eyes of the old man deny him the clarity to verify his hunch. Still, he waves back and hopes the driver can keep the old car/truck on the road since they are about as rare as a ten cent cup of coffee these days.
One day the old guy finishes his day of watching and waiting at the shop and pulls shut the chain-driven 15-foot door for the afternoon, piles into his weathered Chevy half-ton and heads home for some soup out of a can and maybe a Miracle Whip sandwich, not realizing that the shop would never again open it's doors for business, or casual car-talk visits.
And somewhere within the confines of the small town's city limits, the young fella is opening the local newspaper and reading about the death of yet another old timer in a town filled with old timers, and mourns his passing with a late night melancholy cruise downtown in a classic El Camino.
Next up, how the young fella finds "Red's" hat.
Every small town in the world must have one of these guys...long ago retired from the rat race of small business, the old motorhead now spends the salad days of his winding down life clock watching the world drive by, anticipating a stray customer or acquaintance of old to drop by at anytime to shoot the breeze, share a stick of Clark's Teaberry or perhaps even seeking advice of an auto maintenance matter.
His face is ruddy, pocked marked and scarred from a lifetime of hard wrenching beneath the hoods and undercarriages of cars that bore the mark of the bowtie, the blue oval, and the Mopar M.
However, when cars started having more computers and silicon chips behind the dash than NASA had for Apollo 13's launch, he saw the writing on the wall and the ASE Certified Automotive Technician patches on the young mechanics at the dealership and knew his days of carburetor rebuilding and cylinder head porting were over.
The old gear grinder's kids were all grown and succeeding somewhat at becoming respectable members of society. His beloved wife was buried a few short years ago in a plot of ground next to what will someday be the final garage bay for his own vintage chassis.
So there he sat, the long ago polished crankshafts hanging serenely behind him on the makeshift rack, making a sort of chrome steel backdrop for the throne on which he rests.
And watches nothing in particular.
And waits for no one in particular.
Then one day out of the blue, a younger fella walks up, with guarded smiles and sincere nods. He's not from around here, but tells the wizened welder of old that he's just moved here from California and was admiring some of what he deemed, "vintage gearhead wall art," scattered around the shop.
He was especially fond of the crankshaft/camshaft wall-of-fame/shame and seems particularly interested in the cars of old, as opposed to the cars of new -- even though he motors up in one of them import jobbers the size and shape of a really streamline egg.
The two get to talking as certified car guys will, and before they know it an hour has passed, a few cans of Dr. Pepper have been drained, and the young fella heads out to pick up his daughters from school and get on with his afternoon chores.
In the near future, a few more of these conversations would occur, almost always dealing with the same topic - cars - and always ending with a warm handshake and a sincere, "come on back anytime, enjoyed the visit," uttered by the older of the two gearheads.
From time to time an old third generation El Camino will cruise by the shop, the waving driver resembling the young buck who stops in to visit, but the aged eyes of the old man deny him the clarity to verify his hunch. Still, he waves back and hopes the driver can keep the old car/truck on the road since they are about as rare as a ten cent cup of coffee these days.
One day the old guy finishes his day of watching and waiting at the shop and pulls shut the chain-driven 15-foot door for the afternoon, piles into his weathered Chevy half-ton and heads home for some soup out of a can and maybe a Miracle Whip sandwich, not realizing that the shop would never again open it's doors for business, or casual car-talk visits.
And somewhere within the confines of the small town's city limits, the young fella is opening the local newspaper and reading about the death of yet another old timer in a town filled with old timers, and mourns his passing with a late night melancholy cruise downtown in a classic El Camino.
Next up, how the young fella finds "Red's" hat.
Friday, May 16, 2008
My quest for Red Burpo's hat
In my small town a curious mourning ritual occurs after the death of an elderly family member.
It's called....the auction.
When a family member passes on and their collection of their life's belongings have been scattered to the wind blowing through the closets of the surviving family, the remaining items are separated, sorted, boxed up and set out on tables by an auction house hired by the executors of the deceased persons estate.
In some cases it may be the Tax Man who initiates the auctioning off of goods, in others a distant relative, or as the case was in the most recent instance of my auction attendance, the surviving children.
This particular auction ritual could only take place in the environment that is Oklahoma. While the jaded, pessimist in me assumes there must be some incidences of petty theft and thievery occurring within the unguarded boxes of auction items, I couldn't begin the imagine the mayhem, theft, confrontation, and ultimate chaos that would erupt at such an event in any other place but the small town environs of mid-America.
Basically, it goes something like this...
You get wind of an auction by flyer, newspaper clipping, word of mouth, or you happen upon a metal sign stuck out on some county road advertising the upcoming auction event.
Show up the day of the auction early (to peruse the goods), step up to a 5th wheel acting as a mobile auction office on wheels, get a number card (just like at Christy's), show them some ID and wait for the bidding to start.
Boxes of stuff usually start at a dollar and can go as high as the bidders will tolerate. Often boxes are combined with other items when no bids are given.
Vehicles usually go about noon, furniture earlier than that, and if a house or mobile home is being sold, it'll usually be last or next to last to go.
The other day this auction flyer came in the daily mail to our home...
Front
Back
"Red" Burpo's life was over, and now his stuff was being sold off to the highest bidder.
I am so there.
Next up, who was "Red" Burpo and why was I destined to attend his auction.
It's called....the auction.
When a family member passes on and their collection of their life's belongings have been scattered to the wind blowing through the closets of the surviving family, the remaining items are separated, sorted, boxed up and set out on tables by an auction house hired by the executors of the deceased persons estate.
In some cases it may be the Tax Man who initiates the auctioning off of goods, in others a distant relative, or as the case was in the most recent instance of my auction attendance, the surviving children.
This particular auction ritual could only take place in the environment that is Oklahoma. While the jaded, pessimist in me assumes there must be some incidences of petty theft and thievery occurring within the unguarded boxes of auction items, I couldn't begin the imagine the mayhem, theft, confrontation, and ultimate chaos that would erupt at such an event in any other place but the small town environs of mid-America.
Basically, it goes something like this...
You get wind of an auction by flyer, newspaper clipping, word of mouth, or you happen upon a metal sign stuck out on some county road advertising the upcoming auction event.
Show up the day of the auction early (to peruse the goods), step up to a 5th wheel acting as a mobile auction office on wheels, get a number card (just like at Christy's), show them some ID and wait for the bidding to start.
Boxes of stuff usually start at a dollar and can go as high as the bidders will tolerate. Often boxes are combined with other items when no bids are given.
Vehicles usually go about noon, furniture earlier than that, and if a house or mobile home is being sold, it'll usually be last or next to last to go.
The other day this auction flyer came in the daily mail to our home...
"Red" Burpo's life was over, and now his stuff was being sold off to the highest bidder.
I am so there.
Next up, who was "Red" Burpo and why was I destined to attend his auction.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
What photocopiers were made for
What the report didn't state was that along with the photocopied greenbacks, the arresting Officer also found xeroxes of the boy's smashed face, obscenely gesturing hands, and his pressed ham backside, which according to this article, results in many a broken photocopier machines.
In a later article, we would find out that young Mr. Photocopier Counterfeiter would be slapped with a serious charge by the county DA and may be facing some prison time.
Don't mess with the dead presidents in my small town.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Living the life of a Doctor's Wife
She had to be just shy of 20, rail thin, hair pulled back in a tight bun, bright eyes with wholesome good looks that most men would be proud to introduce as their daughter.
Her fingers were deft and sure as they flew across the keypad of the cash register at the combination gas station/beer cave/munchies stop/Subway Sandwich establishment in the smaller town a few miles south of my small town.
In front of me in line was a slightly graying gentleman, maybe 8-10 years my senior who was buying a bottle of water and a newspaper. After he made his purchase and skedaddled away from the counter allowing me to place C's turkey and cheese minisub on the ring-up spot, the young waif uttered the following phrase..."I sure wish I was his daughter...or married to him." Observant enough to notice my upturned easterly eyebrow, she clarified her seemingly nonsensical statement by nodding knowingly and telling me that the HE in question was a doctor.
To which the fully liberated son of a working Mom mindset within my noggin replied, "why don't YOU become a doctor."
I saw the incomprehension creep across her facial muscles immediately, and found myself looking straight into the eyes of a person to which higher education and lofty goals which included something more than her small town had to offer was as foreign as the fuel injected powerplant sitting in my Canadian-made Japanese car.
I'll not bore you with how the rest of the brief conversation went, but suffice it to say, there was no way a middle-aged man, paying for his daughter's minisub with a debit card, was going to convince her that indeed, she too could become a doctor, a lawyer, a software engineer, a librarian, a teacher, an astronaut, or NASCAR mechanic.
And I can't help wondering at what point along the way in her short life thus far, had she convinced herself that any or all of these options were beyond her scope of reality.
Seems I've never really given much gray matter processor time to the old adage, "we can't all be brain surgeons," and how it may dictate the lives of so many people.
Enough for now. Gotta go online and look for a kiddie brain surgeon summer camp for the girl's to attend next month.
Her fingers were deft and sure as they flew across the keypad of the cash register at the combination gas station/beer cave/munchies stop/Subway Sandwich establishment in the smaller town a few miles south of my small town.
In front of me in line was a slightly graying gentleman, maybe 8-10 years my senior who was buying a bottle of water and a newspaper. After he made his purchase and skedaddled away from the counter allowing me to place C's turkey and cheese minisub on the ring-up spot, the young waif uttered the following phrase...
To which the fully liberated son of a working Mom mindset within my noggin replied, "why don't YOU become a doctor."
I saw the incomprehension creep across her facial muscles immediately, and found myself looking straight into the eyes of a person to which higher education and lofty goals which included something more than her small town had to offer was as foreign as the fuel injected powerplant sitting in my Canadian-made Japanese car.
I'll not bore you with how the rest of the brief conversation went, but suffice it to say, there was no way a middle-aged man, paying for his daughter's minisub with a debit card, was going to convince her that indeed, she too could become a doctor, a lawyer, a software engineer, a librarian, a teacher, an astronaut, or NASCAR mechanic.
And I can't help wondering at what point along the way in her short life thus far, had she convinced herself that any or all of these options were beyond her scope of reality.
Seems I've never really given much gray matter processor time to the old adage, "we can't all be brain surgeons," and how it may dictate the lives of so many people.
Enough for now. Gotta go online and look for a kiddie brain surgeon summer camp for the girl's to attend next month.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Fast food for thought
Some recent controversy has arisen over my small town's one and only Sonic.
Several weeks ago the letterboard marquee warned the local towns folk and drive through environs of the impending closure due to a restaurant retrofit on the grandest, mega-corporate scale.
On the one hand, it was nice to know that the Oklahoma-based entity, (NASDAQ: SONC) thought enough of our town's franchise to invest the time and money for the upgrade.
On the other hand, from a drive-in, drive-up, drive-through anthropological point of view, experiencing the pangs of cherry-limeade and #1 Sonic burger withdrawals with the citizenry of my small town may prove to be an interesting endeavor.
And a healthier one as well, dietetically speaking.
Perhaps, anticipating the perceived severe impact the temporary closure of the drive-by caloric shooting entity would have, the management purposely ignored the built in spell-check that Microsoft includes with all of it's roadside sign boards, giving us the following sight of deciphered sadness...
On a related tanged, overheard recently in the school lobby while waiting to pick up my 2nd grader...
Don't you just get so angry at people who order food at the drive-up line at Sonic! Drinks only in the drive-through people, puh-leeez!"
Apparently the rules of drive-through fast-food engagement are changing in my small town as lives get busier and the quest for fast-faster-fastest-food becomes a priority.
Several weeks ago the letterboard marquee warned the local towns folk and drive through environs of the impending closure due to a restaurant retrofit on the grandest, mega-corporate scale.
On the one hand, it was nice to know that the Oklahoma-based entity, (NASDAQ: SONC) thought enough of our town's franchise to invest the time and money for the upgrade.
On the other hand, from a drive-in, drive-up, drive-through anthropological point of view, experiencing the pangs of cherry-limeade and #1 Sonic burger withdrawals with the citizenry of my small town may prove to be an interesting endeavor.
And a healthier one as well, dietetically speaking.
Perhaps, anticipating the perceived severe impact the temporary closure of the drive-by caloric shooting entity would have, the management purposely ignored the built in spell-check that Microsoft includes with all of it's roadside sign boards, giving us the following sight of deciphered sadness...
On a related tanged, overheard recently in the school lobby while waiting to pick up my 2nd grader...
Don't you just get so angry at people who order food at the drive-up line at Sonic! Drinks only in the drive-through people, puh-leeez!"
Apparently the rules of drive-through fast-food engagement are changing in my small town as lives get busier and the quest for fast-faster-fastest-food becomes a priority.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Want a snack, check your weapons at the door
The field trip permission slip for my youngest boldly announced that we were once again going to be making the trek to the city to take in the fine sites and living splendor of the always wonderful Oklahoma City Zoo.
Strange how I now know this zoo better than I have ever known the venerable zoo of my youth, the LA Zoo, but that's what having two kidkins of the zoo visiting age will do to even the most hard boiled Los Angeleno native.
Still, after all my dozen or so trips around the displays, into the bathrooms, in-and-out the playgrounds, and round and round the Endangered Species Merry-Go-Round, I had never come across this sign, or any others like it at the zoo...
As the girl's contentedly consumed their four buck containers of Dippin' Dots which we purchased at the cafe where this sign was posted, I did some hard core brain musing about just what this sign was about.
Are the zoo staff normally armed against invading field-trippin' toddlers bent on destruction of the native animal habitats?
Do they open up the zoo once a year to big game hunters in an effort to save on their animal kibble budget by periodically thinning the herd? And if so, why aren't they allowed to partake of dippin' dots and Dr. Pepper slushies?
Did zoo officials post these signs prematurely, in anticipation of this legislation being passed into law and eventually spreading its influence onto state owned amusement venues?
Good thing I left my Sig Sauer in the car.
Strange how I now know this zoo better than I have ever known the venerable zoo of my youth, the LA Zoo, but that's what having two kidkins of the zoo visiting age will do to even the most hard boiled Los Angeleno native.
Still, after all my dozen or so trips around the displays, into the bathrooms, in-and-out the playgrounds, and round and round the Endangered Species Merry-Go-Round, I had never come across this sign, or any others like it at the zoo...
As the girl's contentedly consumed their four buck containers of Dippin' Dots which we purchased at the cafe where this sign was posted, I did some hard core brain musing about just what this sign was about.
Are the zoo staff normally armed against invading field-trippin' toddlers bent on destruction of the native animal habitats?
Do they open up the zoo once a year to big game hunters in an effort to save on their animal kibble budget by periodically thinning the herd? And if so, why aren't they allowed to partake of dippin' dots and Dr. Pepper slushies?
Did zoo officials post these signs prematurely, in anticipation of this legislation being passed into law and eventually spreading its influence onto state owned amusement venues?
Good thing I left my Sig Sauer in the car.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Yawning through the melodies
For the past 61 years a dedicated group of educators gather together to put on a county wide arts festival for the elementary grade level kids.
Included in the school-year end event are contests in fine art and poetry readings as well as a graded singing competition between the various schools in the 112-year old county.
The rivalry, if it exists at all, is usually manifested in minimal amounts by the parents of the neighboring schools, as the kids don't seem to hold any inkling of animosity toward their fellow elementarian brethren.
Naturally, they are curious about their peers from other nearby schools, but for them, it's a chance to sing a few songs in a gym that isn't theirs, ride a bus with their classmates, and not be stuck in a classroom for several precious hours.
Sadly, kids don't build walls until we teach them how to do it.
Other than some truly unobjectionable moments of "this is what life is about" as my wife, my in-laws and myself enjoyed C and the entire 2nd grade of her school perform two rousing numbers complete with hand gestures complicated enough to qualify as a parapara dance, the concert went without a hitch and her class received top marks for their performance.
I, however, caught myself yawning on a more than semi-regular basis through the entire mornings concertina - through no fault of my own, I might add.
Let me explain.
Open your mouth wide open right this very instant. Hold it open for a few seconds and tell me you didn't have to stifle the urge to let out a big ol' honking yawn.
Now, multiple that reflex by about 400 kids (about half of which seem to be afflicted by the yawning effect brought on by the opening of their mouths to belt out their well rehearsed musical ditties), and you'll understand why I too found my trap opened and lung capacity being expelled an inordinate amount of times.
I don't know. Maybe it was the dwindling amount of oxygen in the old gymnasium we were sitting in. Or perhaps the stress of performance was taking it's toll on the American Idol's in training.
Or, like the rest of the world, we were all just going on a little too little amount of zzz's from the night before.
Included in the school-year end event are contests in fine art and poetry readings as well as a graded singing competition between the various schools in the 112-year old county.
The rivalry, if it exists at all, is usually manifested in minimal amounts by the parents of the neighboring schools, as the kids don't seem to hold any inkling of animosity toward their fellow elementarian brethren.
Naturally, they are curious about their peers from other nearby schools, but for them, it's a chance to sing a few songs in a gym that isn't theirs, ride a bus with their classmates, and not be stuck in a classroom for several precious hours.
Sadly, kids don't build walls until we teach them how to do it.
Other than some truly unobjectionable moments of "this is what life is about" as my wife, my in-laws and myself enjoyed C and the entire 2nd grade of her school perform two rousing numbers complete with hand gestures complicated enough to qualify as a parapara dance, the concert went without a hitch and her class received top marks for their performance.
I, however, caught myself yawning on a more than semi-regular basis through the entire mornings concertina - through no fault of my own, I might add.
Let me explain.
Open your mouth wide open right this very instant. Hold it open for a few seconds and tell me you didn't have to stifle the urge to let out a big ol' honking yawn.
Now, multiple that reflex by about 400 kids (about half of which seem to be afflicted by the yawning effect brought on by the opening of their mouths to belt out their well rehearsed musical ditties), and you'll understand why I too found my trap opened and lung capacity being expelled an inordinate amount of times.
I don't know. Maybe it was the dwindling amount of oxygen in the old gymnasium we were sitting in. Or perhaps the stress of performance was taking it's toll on the American Idol's in training.
Or, like the rest of the world, we were all just going on a little too little amount of zzz's from the night before.
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