Typing Out Loud

It screamed green. An odd sort of green that was almost kinda-sorta close to the color of the aluminum siding on the house. The outbuilding was a simple structure that could be described as a barn, garage, shed or, for us, the Shop.

The Shop was dad’s refuge to tinker, putter, listen to the radio, make questionable repairs and otherwise make a mess. (Dad’s favorite repair method was two-part epoxy – which got everywhere and had a distinct something’s-dying odor). Dad generally could be found either in the kitchen or the Shop.

The Shop was also my place. I did my share of tinkering, puttering, listening to the radio and, more often than not, breaking rather than repairing. It was also where I bared my soul to my pets, and occasionally threw a tantrum after being ill-treated by the school bully of the day. It was where I first started fiddling around with wood, tearing down old furniture, electronics and otherwise learning how things worked. Or didn’t after I’d had my way with them.

Dad enjoyed refinishing furniture and I loved hanging out with, and occasionally actually helping, him do the work. Tearing down furniture for refinishing is not only fun, but a learning experience to see how it all works together. National Geographic sure missed out on many amazing photo ops while dad and I practiced our amateur archaeology on bookcases, desks, trunks, boxes and other furniture. Somewhere out there, someone has an old icebox with my small thumbprint in the polyurethane finish – not admissible in court, mind you.

Poorly constructed by any standard, after just a couple of years the Shop started to slouch, sag and sigh on its concrete block foundation. It had a poured concrete floor, but the walls rested on a couple of courses of blocks on grade.

An attic was accessed through a hole in the ceiling. Dad had fashioned a clever rope-and-pully system that would raise and lower a ladder to provide access. The attic was an absolute oven in the summer, and was stashed with “stuff.” Even during my all-too-brief period as a waif child, walking up there could send the entire structure into vibrations, and not those of the Beach Boys variety.

Most of the stuff was absolute junk that long ago should have been converted to cinders and smoke in the burn barrel. But some of it was a great source of diversion for me.

Chief among the attic treasures was dad’s collection of Popular Mechanics magazines. Hundreds of copies from the 1930s through 1960s gave me an accidental education in the history of inventions and technology. To this day I have an appreciation from those issues for how many things we think are “new” really aren’t.

I spent hours in the attic, sitting on the dusty floor that was carpeted with cardboard, reading about competing correspondence schools from the early 20th century that would teach you how to build a radio, tame electricity or work on automobiles. High wages were all but guaranteed if you trained with this correspondence school or the other.

The magazines included inventions of all types, but also plans for building and creating – what we today refer to as Making. 

The attic had a westward-facing window that looked out on what dad referred to as our Back 40. We had a total of five acres, but surrounded by farmland there were far more than 40 acres to view – just not under our ownership. At the back of our property was a marsh and forest. From a spot by the window, I could spy on the natural world, the neighboring farmers and their stock, all the while crafting adventures in my head. Most such adventures lead to me grabbing my Daisy Model 99 and heading out to tame the wilds.

For my first few years as a small human person, my parents raised ducks. Part of the Shop was their out-of-the-weather habitat, complete with a little trap door and ramp to allow them to come and go at their pleasure. The Shop also provided sanctuary for our Alaskan Malamute, Iglo. For a while we had a rabbit (very originally named Bugs) who had his own apartment there as well.

Dad puttered with a lot of things, but there always seemed to be some fresh-cut pine from the odd 2×4 giving the place a fantastic aroma. That was combined with odors from the heating stove, the pile of coal, smoke from one of the dozens of Benson & Hedges cigarettes dad would puff through each day, smoldering solder flux and animal essence. 

The heating stove remains somewhat of a mystery. I suspect it came from a house – one of those that would lurk in a dirt-and-stone basement, providing gravity heat to the house above. There was no plaque to indicate its maker nor age – but to this little kid, it was certainly first lit up by a T-Rex. It was built like a tank, and we burned coal, wood, scraps of this, that and everything else that got under foot. In the most angry of winters, we easily kept the Shop cozy. 

One of my childhood sins was a fascination with fire. I often had free, unsupervised control of the Shop, where I could spray lighter fluid, gasoline or turpentine into the raging fire. And let me tell you, a can of spray paint exploding in the firebox was quite the entertainment for a nine-year-old! I learned a lot of practical lessons about fire, safety and combustibles by risking my life, the Shop and my eyebrows through my experiments.

Winter was my favorite time to spend hours in the Shop. A large window allowed me to see storms raging outside while I was cozy in my cabin of fantasy. I would pretend I was having an adventure in a remote, woodland cabin, living off the land, fighting off wild creatures and even wilder outlaws. Whether leaning back in a chair with a stack of old magazines, giving that 99 Champion a good cleaning or inserting a bunch of holes in some tin cans, my dog and I in the shed was my small Heaven.

You might think that some eating and drinking took place in the Shop, but no, not really. The one exception was dad’s not-so-secret stash of Brach’s square caramel candies. The candies were kept in a fancy glass jar with a tight-fitting lid. The jar was on the highest shelf possible, hugging the ceiling, along with tools, doodads, fittings and ephemera that were rarely used. Even at six feet tall, dad needed to stand on something to grab a caramel. When I was on my own, I’d have to climb up onto the workbench and then employ the tippy-toe method to get a square.

In the summer they would soften and occasionally become a gooey mess – requiring us to scoop out chunks of caramel and eat them, just to clean up the jar. We just had to do it – there was no other way. In the winter they froze into jaw-testing square boulders. I only remember one time when the jar went empty. When dad took that last candy, whatever his agenda was for the day, it got changed on the spot! We hopped in the truck and headed to the grocery to the Brach’s Pick-A-Mix contraption to fill a bag to bursting with a fresh supply. We of course would each test one in the store, to make sure there had not been a quality-control lapse at Brach’s Caramel Central. Then, on the 2-½-mile trek back home, we’d need to have a couple more caramels to keep up our strength.

Hanging on the wall by the sliding entry door was a telephone, an extension from the house. With a unique sequence of numbers, we could actually dial into the house: “Mom, can we get pizza for dinner tonight?” In addition, being on a party line, the Shop provided a youthful spy-in-training the perfect covert location from which to listen in on the conversations of our neighbors. I still can’t believe that Merris planted her carrots in the same field as last year’s beefsteaks.

A couple of shelves below the Brach’s jar sat a radio. An early 1950s Admiral AM radio with clock, it often would be playing in the background. Filthy beyond recognition, filled with sawdust and other detritus, the radio nonetheless pulled in WKZO 590 from nearby Kalamazoo, as well as WBBM and WMAQ from across Lake Michigan in Chicago. 

Neither dad nor I were sports fans, but I remember listening to the Detroit Tigers and Chicago teams having their games called on that radio. 

Being a tube set, those tubes could get blazing hot, at which point the radio would stop working. The sudden silence made the space feel creepy and lonely. Today, all cleaned up, the radio still works. Though, like me most mornings, it needs some time to warm up.

Through every stage of my adult life, I’ve longed for an outbuilding of some sort for my woodworking hobby. A place not connected to the house where I can create my own cozy, pine-scented, varnish-vapor memories. But those memories from long ago – time spent with my dad and time spent chasing my own imaginations – remain with me, one of the many elements of my own foundation, hopefully a little more stable than a couple of courses of concrete blocks.

What follows is an embellished version of actual real events.

Last evening whilst watching the Crawley’s deal with one of Season 3’s many dramas, I heard a package drop on the front porch.

“Splat-a-splat-plop.”

That stirred me mildly as it was expected that a purveyor of pet happiness was to make a plop at our address. Upon investigation, however, I saw a box in the wrong shape for what was expected. I hefted the box to the interior of the property, observing that it had quite a bit of mass about it. 

I briefly pondered what the contents could be. It’s not out of the bounds of belief that I could have ordered something fun and interesting and forgotten about it. But just as I was bringing my Swiss Army blade to a taped edge, I looked closely at the address label. The recipient was a fellah named Abbot. 

I am not Abbot.

I know who Abbot is, having conversed with him several times while taking the odd neighborhood walkabout. He is about a half block up the street.

Okay, I pondered to myself. This happens. Packages get delivered to the wrong address. As it was late and nearing the time of pillows and blankets, I determined to take the package to Abbot the following morn.

Rant: One of my peeves is when recipients of misdirected mailpieces throw words into online spheres to cry that they’ve received something in error rather than delivering it themselves or notifying the intended recipient directly. Poor form, I say.

The next morning, after making an online appearance at the money-creating place and disappearing my first cup of hot bean water, I headed out to take the package to Abbot (uphill). 

As I mentioned some words ago, the package was somewhat heavy, but I figured propped up on my shoulder, a brief walk would be okay. That was until the first blast of cold hit me. 

I drove.

Though I kept my hybrid locomotion device in all-electric mode. SAVE THE TREES!

Abbot has a doorbell, whose button I depressed. I heard the clang of imitation bells, after which I stepped aside, ready to be greeted.

I waited.

The cold, aided by swiftly moving air, undefeated by my light hoodie, caused me to crave warmth and comfort.

As I stood by, I could hear voices (emanating from the house, the ones in my head were frozen into silence). I lingered.

After an adequate number of minutes had ticked by, I gave up and left the package by the door and hustled back to my conveyance.

I had just opened the door when Abbot popped outside and exclaimed “Ahoy!”

Yes, a chocolate chip cookie would have, at that moment, gone down quite well.

I figured he might just say a quick “Thank you” and that would be it. But no…he casually made his way out onto the sidewalk. I might add that he was attired in very light, casual in-the-climate-controlled-house clothing. He was decidedly not in appropriate garb for the weather conditions. He was not deterred.

Abbot had a phone to his skull area. 

“I’m on hold with PlopEx right now! They are arguing that they delivered it last night – I’m telling them I didn’t get it. They say ‘See the delivery confirmation image.’”

Abbot showed me the image. His phone displayed an image of the very same box I just released from my possession, lying on a piece of concrete. Presumably MY concrete (since that’s where I found the box), but it could have been ANY concrete. 

Or is it cement?

Abbot: “No siding, no house number in the picture. I don’t know where they put it!!”

PlopEx returned to the line.

Abbot, using elevated vocal intensity: “My neighbor just showed up – doing your job – thank you very much!”

If he could, Abbot would have slammed down the receiver. (Kids, the receiver is the part of old telephones that…oh, you don’t care).

That should have been the end of the encounter. You might think that. I sure did. We’re both wrong.

Abbot went on to tell me that PlopEx hires contractors who in turn hire OTHER contractors. These sub-contractor persons then rent a van and affix a PlopEx sticker on the door and go about trying to plop boxes at addresses. 

He continued to explain that they don’t get to use the official PlopEx delivery software so they’re on their own to navigate. Apparently, they get paid $7 for each delivery. They have to deliver everything they’ve been given that day by a set time. Failure to deliver everything by that time and they don’t get paid anything for the day. So as long as they toss a box and take a picture, they get paid.

Seven bucks a plop.

I don’t know. I think I’m a tad dubious on the complete factual nature of those statements.

Abbot got his thingamewatzit and I returned to my second cup of hot brown water. 

Surprising though this may be, life went on.

Online meeting, teleconference, videoconference, Webex, Teams, Google Meet, BlueJeans. There are, and have been, way too many methods to do it, but having a screen-share and collaborating remotely is now the norm.

Did you ever get any training on how to conduct yourself in said meetings? I sure didn’t, and I doubt you did, either. Your cube farm lords probably gave you a link to the tool-of-the-week, and off you went.

I’ve had years of experience using a variety of these tools – I likely spend 50% of my working life looking into the teeny portals of colleagues in their homes, coffee lounges, car shops, veterinarians, libraries or airport restrooms. Being the helpful fellow that I try to be, and to help you have more successful meetings, I’ve assembled a few points to help you along the way. I assure you, abide by these and you’ll be a success!

• Never join a meeting on time. Especially if you’re the host. Be a good several minutes late. This allows everyone else time to chill, relax and engage in forced-friendly banter about nothing at all. Your colleagues will respond with warmth and support when you draw attention to yourself by your fashionable arrival.

• Whatever microphone device you use, make sure it is broken, dirty and far away from your face. Otherwise, attendees will hear you clearly and won’t be able to ask you to repeat yourself or completely misunderstand what you just uttered. It’s so much more useful when folks hear “You can spend up to $5,000” when what you really said was “I have to let the dog out.”

• Prior to starting the video on your call, ensure that your camera is pointed anywhere but squarely at your face. The floor is an excellent choice. The ceiling isn’t a bad option, either. Wait until you’re broadcasting your camera hither and yon before you yank, twist, shake, wobble and vibrate the device to get yourself in frame. You know how you see news readers on TV, squarely set in the frame, their entire face visible? Never do that. Zoom in on your nose, an ear or chin. People don’t need to be seeing your nonverbals. The collar view is always a winner.

• The workday can be awfully mundane and grey. You can improve the mood by adding just the right audio to uplift the day. Ask your significant other to vacuum up Bobby Joe’s LEGOS during your session. Or tune the radio to your favorite AM-talk frequency. Of course, any random television program, audible in the background, also is a fine choice.

• Need to step away to answer the door, or a call of nature? You might think it’s a good idea to mute your audio and stop your camera, but you’d be in an incorrect position there, my friend. No, it’s much better to distract everyone by getting up, making squeaky-chair noises, displaying the backside of those cute Underdog stretch-pants you got for your birthday, as you waddle away. Your team needs to know that you’re departing, and you’ll do some important team building by sharing your wardrobe choices for the day.

• You’re busy, you’re working on a lot of projects. This is your opportunity to muddle the details of all of your work together when you’re in an online meeting. Just because the agenda is about choosing a new color to paint the breakroom, that’s no reason you can’t talk about next quarter’s sales projections, how accounting mucked up your travel reimbursement or how you’re having a hard time getting Edgar in sales to give you the updated pricing you need. Cast a wide net – you never know when your random thought will be just the nugget of information someone else needs. Squirrel!

• When it comes time to share your screen, the first thing you must do is open at least seven windows. More if you have the time to do so. Whatever window you want others to see should not be opened. It’s far better to let the team see you hunt through your Amazon shopping cart, the Slack message where you are venting to your friend about the odors coming from the next cubicle and the Excel document where you’ve broken every cell reference, than to go directly to the pertinent document. No, the key here is to let everyone know how disorganized and scattered you are. They’ll sympathize more with you and be even more appreciative when you realize you don’t have the required file open at all and must go folder-diving for it. Let’s see, is that on my local drive or on the network…?

• Once you’ve got that document on-screen, you want to force people to really focus and pay attention – so keep that window small. Whatever you do, don’t scare them by making it full screen. If you drag that window to a small size, the others will have to lean in, adjust their lenses, and really commit in order to see that PowerPoint, complete with runaway animations, mis-matched fonts and totally random spacing.

• While you’re presenting, you want to do all you can to prevent the screensaver from kicking in. Imagine your embarrassment if that were to happen! So, move that mouse! Make that pointer hit as many pixels as you can. Add variety to the movements by scrolling up and down in your document. Scroll left and right if the format allows! Randomly switch to your shopping list, email and then back to the key document. Highlight something, navigate away from the document altogether, minimize it all — show your messy desktop! Movement is what makes for a stimulating and engaging session.

• You know you’re the bee’s knees – folks cherish their time with you! Don’t deny them more time with your cool self! Whether you’re running the meeting, or just a participant, the end time on the invite is a mere fiction. Keep talking, bring up the most unrelated, already-covered and nonsense points you can think of. The goal is to keep the meeting going. The longer the meeting goes on, the more your name will be remembered within the organization, and solidify your reputation as a solid performer.

I hope these points will help you be a winner in your next online meeting. And if all else fails, simply pretend to have missed the invite, and skip the meeting altogether — your absence will make them miss you all the more.

Carol: “Is this the Computer Robotics and Automation Programmingdepartment?”

Mike: “Yes, this is CRAP.”

Carol: “Oh good! I need a thing!”

Mike: “Um, can you be more specific, what kind of thing do you need?”

Carol: “Oh yes, it’s that thing that Alice has over in the Business Underwriting and Resource Planning division.

Mike: “I’m very familiar with BURP, but can you tell me what thing you’re talking about?”

Carol: “Oh yes, it’s a very great thing. And we in the Business Accounting and Resource Focus division have the very same issues they have in BURP, so we need the same thing.”

Mike: “Right. But BURP has a lot of things. What is the thing you are referring to?”

Carol: “Alice, over in BURP, can tell you. She said it fixed everything. I need everything fixed, too. Once my management hears that Alice fixed everything with the thing, they’ll ask me why BARF doesn’t have it, too!”

Mike: “Okay, we’ll set up a meeting with Alice and see if we can get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, I’ll need you to complete the online intake form.”

Carol: “There’s really no need for that. This must get this done, and fast. I am leaving the country for three years tomorrow, so there’s no time to complete the form.”

Mike: “Well, in CRAP, we prioritize requests based on the Level of Effort or LOE and the Return on Investment, or ROI. We need to know those things before we can proceed.”

Carol: “I can tell you this has all the ROI and no LOE. This just needs be done immediately. I can go to the CEO if you need me to, but I’m leaving the country in a few minutes so there’s no time. You just get the thing and let my assistant, Greg, know when it’s done.”

Mike: “That’s not the way it works. We have hundreds of requests and projects underway. Unless you’ll be funding it yourself, from your own budget, we need the intake done and then we’ll evaluate your request against all the others.”

Carol: “I have all the money, so yes, it will come from my budget. Greg will give you the money. I have all the money. Money is no object. This must get done immediately. It is the HIGHEST priority for the company — even the CEO doesn’t know about it.”

Mike: “Well, if you’ll be funding it, then I will assign a project manager, a business analyst, a robotics developer, an automation developer and a legal representative to get started.”

Carol: “That’s great news. You talk with Alice and Greg. It would be great if all of BARF could have the thing tomorrow. Bye for now.”

---

Mike: “Hi, Marcia. We’ve got a TOP PRIORITY request from BARF. I need you to set up a meeting with Alice from BURP. She has a thing that Carol wants in BARF.”

Marcia: “Sure thing, Mike. What is the thing?”

Mike: “Alice will tell you everything. Greg, in BARF, also knows the full story. This is your TOP PRIORITY. Assemble a full project team immediately. Carol is funding this and it has the CEO’s attention.

---

Marcia: “Hi, Chachi, this is Marcia in BURP. Are you familiar with the thing they have over in BARF?”

Chachi: “What thing, there are many things?”

Marcia: “Oh, right, the thing that fixed everything. We need to replicate that thing for BARF. This is the board’s top priority – you’re authorized to drop everything to help with this initiative.”

Chachi: “I’m not familiar with the thing. Do you know who wrote it?”

Marcia: “I don’t think anyone wrote it, it just works. Let’s set up a meeting with Alice – she is in the loop.”

---

Marcia: “Hi, Alice. Thank you so much for hopping on this call last-minute. We need the thing for Carol in BURP.”

Alice: “Marcia, which thing are you referring to?”

Marcia: “The one that has all of the ROI and fixes everything.”

Alice: “Oh, right. Yes, we stopped using the thing in 2018 because it didn’t work. It was very expensive and broke everything. The Objective Obtainment Program Section, OOPS, was disbanded as a result. The thing is bad.”

---

Marcia: “Hello, Carol. We’ve determined that the thing is no good.”

Carol: “Oh, yes, totally bad. Not quite sure why you’re looking at the Thing in the first place. Probably not a good use of your time. You may want to re-evaluate your CRAP priorities.”

My maternal grandma wasn’t a great cook.

Grandma often would beckon guests, whether it be a Saturday afternoon lunch, a Christmas dinner or everyday breakfast with: “Come get a bite to eat.” It didn’t matter how large or small, simple or complex the meal, it was “a bite to eat.”  I never saw folks running to her table, though. A solid saunter was about all most could muster.

I’m sure I’ve just committed some type of familial blasphemy. Surely the concept of grandma as a mediocre cook violates some law of nature. You have gravity, the sun rising in the East and grandmas being highly accomplished in the kitchen. Alas, grandma didn’t let anyone starve, but she did not fit the mold of one who turned every raw ingredient into a memorable crave-worthy dish.

My dad dreaded ever having to go to my grandparent’s house to eat. We would cruelly joke while driving to their house for a meal that we would eat as little as possible to be polite and then we’d hit McDonalds on the way home. We never carried through with that plan, but without question, we knew dad was going to be sick after eating grandma’s cooking.

My grandparents were simple country folks. They started their lives together as dairy farmers, but when the farm failed in the late 1950s, they switched to factory and clerical work. Their kitchen was far from clean and almost no sanitary procedures were employed.

A bounty of great vegetables was harvested from their acres of gardens but were compromised by being prepared in unclean conditions, fried in pools of butter that had been lounging, uncovered, hosting flies for months on end. Or cooked with bacon drippings and other animal fats that had been collected over the course of years.

They kept the farmland and during my lifetime the acreage had become hundreds of acres of natural forest. Only two family friends were allowed to hunt on the land and grandpa had one rule for those friends: if you harvest a deer, we want some venison — whatever you think is fair. As a result, the many chest freezers that crowded their breezeway were packed tight with freezer-burned chunks of animal parts. The gamey meat would be butchered in the kitchen, on top of piles of hoarded bread bags and Sunday flyers from the newspaper. It would be served up with floury, fatty, scorched gravy. It was an experience for all the senses.

There were a few winners that slipped through grandma’s kitchen, however. One was what she called chili sauce. I’ve had many chili sauces, and nothing has been a corollary to hers. Grandma’s was rich in tomatoes, not spicy, not sweet, had onions and green bell peppers in it — diced very fine. As with most cooks and an appreciated recipe, she was coy about how the sauce was prepared. Deceptive and evil, even.

One of my cousins in fact was beside herself thrilled when she thought grandma had spilled the beans on that sauce. She soon learned that, when followed, the recipe yielded something more akin to brake fluid than our beloved chili sauce.

One of the simple meals routinely served on the farm was boiled white beans with chili sauce on top. Simple though it was, the big flavors made it a favorite of mine. I never got sick from a meal of beans and chili sauce. I think the tomatoes killed any bugs, crawly or microbial, that may have been present.

For breakfast there often was oatmeal from the “oatmeal pot.” This was a large cast iron dutch oven that hastily would be rinsed between uses but God help anyone who suggested that it actually be cleaned. Breakfasts had been cooked up in that pot since the mid-1930s without it being threatened by soap or a scrubbing pad.

In addition to the aromatics lent by that well-seasoned vessel, grandma would slow-cook the oats with heavy cream, brown sugar, a bit of molasses and raisins. I watched her make it numerous times and I think I make a decent oatmeal, but nothing comes close to my memories. It was just the right consistency (I like my oatmeal on the dry side), chunky and sweet. With some over-buttered toast, it was a great way to get going in the too-early morning hours they kept to. One would have done well to not look inside the pot, however.

Grandma also made a lot of carrot bread. Carrots (and several other crops) grew very well, and they sold them to grocery stores. Her carrot breads were always a little bit burned and tasted more or less okay. But what makes the memory for me is that around the holidays when she’d bake quantities of them, she’d make me my own full-size loaf —without nuts.

She usually loaded the loaves up with walnuts. As a kid I despised nuts of all kinds, so grandma made a special loaf just for me, wrapped in a “recycled” bread bag. She’d put a strip of masking tape on the bag and write “For Aaron” on it so there would be no mistake.

Someone’s cooking, and meals with important people in our lives or around special occasions, certainly can be taken up a level by amazing kitchen execution. But it’s the love, warmth, care, togetherness and thoughtfulness that make a shared meal important and worthy of memories.

Grandma’s cooking was always more than just “a bite to eat.”

“Those windshield wipers slappin’ out a tempo 
Keepin’ perfect rhythm with the song on the radio” 

—Drivin’ My Life Away by Eddie Rabbitt 

Lying in the back seat of our Volkswagen Squareback, fading in and out of sleep, I listened to the “wee-wee-wee” of the windshield wiper motor, working to clear the rain. The motor sound was loud in that tinny car. Most were back in the day, before motors perhaps were made quieter and cars got better sound insulation.  

I’ve always liked rainy, stormy weather, and listening to the wiper motor was calming. It seems that whenever we returned from a visit to my grandparents, 90 minutes away, it rained as we headed home late at night. 

Less calming was the staticky noise coming from the AM radio (it would be years before we got a car with FM). Every time we drove under an overpass, the radio would cut out as the signal was interrupted. 

One late night in particular we were once again heading home from my grandparent’s and it was storming. Something was not right with the car and dad had switched off the radio to listen better. I woke and sat up, knowing something was not right. I was too young to know what was going on, but I could sense the concern from my parents and my apprehension grew. 

Finally, the car quit, and we coasted to the shoulder, rain pelting the car, the click, click, click of the hazard flashers going and my parents wondering what to do on that dark, remote stretch of U.S. 131. 

Not long after moving to the shoulder, the sky was lit by the rotating red beacon of a Michigan State Trooper, pulling up behind us. The Trooper came up and talked with dad for a few seconds and then had us all move into his car while he used his radio to get us help. 

Sitting in the back of his patrol car I was met with all kinds of new sounds: the whirring of the spinning red light on top of his car, his own wipers fighting off the rain and the cackling of his two-way radio while he made arrangements for a tow truck and a cab to come from Kalamazoo. 

I also remember being cold in the back seat and the Trooper cranking the fan to get more heat. 

I fell asleep again in the big Checker cab that drove us home that night – a cavernous beast compared to that tiny VW! 

I’ve always been interested in switches and knobs and similar controls. Today we have very complicated stalks on our steering columns that control very sophisticated wiper systems. We have multiple speeds, intermittent swipes, rain-sensing activation – all at the tip of our fingers. I think it’s a good system, but I also miss the dash-mounted controls of earlier autos that required a long reach into the dark abyss to work them. 

The first vehicle I can call “mine” was a 1977 Chevrolet Blazer. It had a novel windshield wiper control that I just loved to fiddle with. It was comprised of a single vertical bar: push in for washer fluid, slide left for slow swipes, right for fast ones. As an early driver I often would apply the squirts just so I could run the wipers.  

I’ve always been easily amused. 

My first solo drive was from our home on the outskirts of the tiny village of Gobles, Michigan to the new McDonalds in neighboring Paw Paw. A friend of mine, Susan, had just gotten a job there, and I needed her to hook me up with a Quarter Pounder With Cheese to celebrate my new driver’s license! 

I remember two things about my first solo drive. One, when I got to the four-way-stop at Armstrong Corners, with nobody around, I floored it – the first time I was able to burn a little rubber and feel super cool.  

That was quickly followed by a sense of terror in the pit of my stomach as I realized I left a small puff of smoke in the air and was a little scared to be going so fast! 

The second thing, after my burnout, was playing with the wipers! Not the radio (which had FM!), not the other knobs, not weaving side-to-side, not going fast. No, the wipers. I squirted fluid on the windshield and ran the wipers. There was no rain. The glass was perfectly clean. But I wanted to feel that switch in my fingers and hear the comforting sound of MY wipers wee-wee-weeing across the glass. 

These days windshield wipers are far less entertaining. They are almost silent. The noise we hear is from the rubber scraping, sliding, skidding across glass. It’s certainly not the calming rhythm that can lull a small boy to sleep in the back seat, with a belly full of grandma’s cooking. 

(The following true tale may include hyperbole and drama not contained in the actual events).

I was a difficult convert to the cult of Costco. I resisted for years. It wasn’t until a good friend of mine, I’ll call him Mark, gave me a gift membership, that I embraced the goodness that is Costco.

Once I actually shopped there, and had a few samples and of course a hot dog, I was a convert.

As a good Costco member, I have oft-questioned the receipt-examination procedure one must go through to exit the facility with one’s 300-pack of AAA batteries and lifetime supply of Nutella (there’s no such thing, by the way). But I’ve questioned lightly, not wishing to anger the Costco gods. But really – what is the point?

For years I have successfully exited Costco facilities in various states without a fuss. Routinely I exchange a friendly salutation and a weather-related comment with the Sharpie-wielding clerk and am on my way to the parking lot to begin the “Where did I park…?” seek-and-find adventure.

My most recent visit was this past Sunday. It had been many months since my last trip to worship at the house of Costco and I felt rusty. It took me several harried moments to remember that I had to flash my Costco Membership Card to gain entry to the hallowed grounds. The embarassment! I felt like a lowly newbie.

Every trip to Costco is a social experiment about to go off the rails. This trip was no different. The entire state of North Carolina and a large part of nearby Virginia were shopping. It was packed wall to rafter with humans of all descriptions.

We had our list and proceeded to work it. It wasn’t a long list, but it contained some items that we prefer to get at Costco. There of course is the thirty-dollar bag of chicken breasts, plump and in their own little freezer-friendly cocoons. Then the mixed nuts with sea salt, a happenstance purchase of a bottle of red wine from Portugal, a couple of bags of snack items to test and finally allergy and indigestion pills.

As I’ve already hinted, the joint was hoppin’! The pharmacy area was the last we visited which is near the checkout lanes. An examination revealed that the lines went all the way back into the store, to the camping tents, grills and tofu samples.

There were many lines.

Many lines of carts overflowing with goodness.

Many lines that were not moving.

A mass of humanity that looked weary, tired and close to tears.

But then I noticed the new self-checkout lanes – and they had essentially no lines! Perhaps I was saved!

In general, I avoid the self-checkout option. While I fully admit my lack of skill may be at fault for these machines routinely failing to scan my goods, it nonetheless makes me self-scan averse.

And let’s not forget the $4 bottle of red juice from Portugal – that would throw a wrench into the do-it-yourself works.

However, I bravely filed a change of flight plan and started the tedious process of redirecting my cart through rivers of folks: tall, short, wide and narrow, clued and clueless, so that I could align with one of the self-check lanes.

Once I was queued, the air was filled with various Costco clerks singing out: “Scan your membership card first! Scan your membership card FIRST!”

I was ahead of them! I assumed that’s how the process would begin, and I was ready! I had my card in hand and was poised to scan.

That’s when the confusion started. This machine beeped and talked a lot. It’s as if it had spent a year in solitary confinement and was finally released into the world and had things to say. My, did it have things to say!

“Scan your first item. Item in bagging area. BEEP! Lift your right foot, step behind the line, take off your hat. BEEP!”

I scanned my first item.

“Beep!”

“Place item in the bagging area. Beep! Did you know Costco has great prices on tires?”

“Beep!”

I scanned the next item.

“Beep!”

But I saw no item recognized on the screen. Do I scan again and risk a duplicate? I waited. I sensed anger building from others waiting for my machine. I tried to read messages on the screen, which was cluttered with ads, instructions, unnecessarily truncated text and issued forth beeps of different pitches and volumes.

I scanned my fowl breasts once again. This time the “Beep!” was followed by proof that my item had been scanned.

“Put your item in the bagging area and be sure to visit our commissary for some cooling frozen yogurt!”

I scanned some more and again was berated for not putting my item in the bagging area fast enough. We sort of learned that we had to place the item and let it rest before adding it to our bag (yes, THIS time, we remembered to bring our own bag!).

As you are a wise reader, you know the wine was next.

Scan….

“Beep, beep, beep! Age-restricted item in self-checkout lane four! Beep! Beep! Adult Beverage Violation Code Four!”

Lights now appeared on a pole attached to the whining machine. Fortunately, a Costco clerk was not long in coming and overriding the message (she didn’t even ask for my I.D. – rude!).

As I said, our list was short, just eight items (remember that number – it will become ever so important).

While preparing my payment card for action, a Costco clerk stopped in to say that “These machines require that you place all items in the bagging area and leave them there until all items are scanned and you touch the ‘Pay Now’ button.”

Well, okay. We were done at that point…but I quickly had the question about when someone has more than will fit in the “Bagging Area.” I wanted to ask – to further my knowledge for future Costco escapades, but the herd of people on my six was growing ever less patient.

As that day’s luck would have it, the touchless method of card payment failed me. I waved, I tapped, I parried my card – it would not be read. I resorted to the barbaric, ancient method of inserting my card into the reader.

Thousands looked on, basking in my embarrassment.

But the worse was to come!

Our transaction complete, we pedaled our way toward the exit, which had two Costco Receipt Evaluation And Sharpie Engineers on duty.

Being left-handed, I stuck to the left lane.

“Good afternoon, did you find everything you were looking for?” Gwendolyn queried.

“Yes, we did. Looks like rain. We could use it.” I answered.

Gwendolyn, swiping her Sharpie across my receipt, said “Have a nice day.”

But before I could take one step, “Hold on, you have eight items in that bag, not six.” Gwendolyn stated.

In a tone.

She must be confused, of course she is. Everything’s stuffed in the bag, she can’t see everything, she’ll paw through the bag and let us go.

But no – her highly-trained eagle-eyes did in fact correctly spot a discrepancy. You see, our receipt indicated SIX items paid for and she pulled EIGHT items from our bag.

“Step aside, step aside, right here. I’ll have to get a supervisor to evaluate your issue.” Gwendolyn said in not a quiet voice, which no longer seemed to care if we’d found everything we wanted.

She continued to get on the public address system to announce “I need a Front Line Supervisor to the Receipt Check Area for an incorrect item count investigation. Security, please secure the exits.”

I had that sick feeling in my stomach. My legs went weak. AAA still has free bail coverage with their road service, plan, right?

Everyone entering and those trying to exit stared at us.

“I AM NOT A CROOK! No, seriously! Yes, Nixon was a little bit dodgy, but I AM NOT A CROOK!”

After many minutes in the purgatory that was the “aside” area, the Front Line Supervisor arrived.

She took the receipt from my hand and started removing items from our bag.

“Oh, I see you didn’t want to pay for the Prilosec and Allegra – the most expensive items in your cart today. You do realize that you must pay for EVERYTHING, not just some things, right? This isn’t your pantry – this is Costco!”

Her hands on hips and her head set to a jaunty angle, I lamely tried to defend myself.

“I’m sorry, I was sure I scanned everything. I must have missed them.”

“It sure looks that way, doesn’t it?” Samantha the Supervisor declared.

“Give me your membership card and a credit card – I will extract your payment for these items.” Samantha ordered.

I meekly handed her my cards and she disappeared.

Was she going to shred my membership card? Would I be banned?

Were those sirens the sheriff or an ambulance?

Samantha returned with my cards and yet another receipt for the two items from my ATTEMPTED ROBBERY.

“Be more careful in the future. Make sure each item is reflected on-screen before going on to the next one. We’re watching. You won’t get away with this.” Samantha advised.

“Is it okay for us to go now?” I asked, still trembling.

Samantha: “Yes, though it looks like rain.”

But then Gwendolyn returned to the scene: “Samantha, don’t forget to Sharpie the secondary receipt to close the investigative loop!”

“Oh, yes, thanks Gwen.”

Samantha grabbed back the receipts soaking up the sweat in my palm and squiggled black ink around.

“Thank you for shopping at Costco. We sure could use the rain.”

The Kindle Adventure – A Preamble

Historically, because he’s both a curmudgeon and lover of the printed word, Uncle Aaron has read his books the way J. Gutenberg intended: printed on paper.

Being somewhat of a techie, the electronic versions of books were also appealing. For some time, he lived with toes in both streams.

At long last some years ago he purged all printed matter save that which had some emotional import. At that time, the reading of words in book form switched to the world of the Kindle. Now mind you, with many devices already in inventory, he didn’t want to add yet another, so the Kindle application was used on tablet and mobile phone. Occasionally the Kindle web reader was called to service when required.

It was a good life. The birds sang. The flowers grew. The band was together and making beautiful music.

But as does happen in life, things change. And our hero took to a different point of view. Lying in bed to read from the Kindle app running on his tablet fatigued his portly arm sticks. Reports from his word-inclined associates raved about the improved experience to be found by reading on a true Kindle device.

Uncle wasn’t sure if he’d like or use a dedicated Kindle device, so he didn’t want to spend much money to give it a virtual page-turn or five. Normally he goes for the top-of-the-line, newest model where tech is concerned. Not for bragging rights, mind you, but to have the longest practical life and best performance available. But on this occasion, spending hundreds of dollars on something that may quickly become a coaster was not appealing.

Those facts in pocket, our boy bought the oldest Kindle kit available: the 2010 version of the Kindle Paperwhite. This device got great reviews, though it only works on 2G Wi-Fi networks, has limited (by current standards) memory and processing speed. But at $87-ish dollars, it was a price that was tolerable for a testing-of-the-waters.

Once the device arrived, Aaron was really quite pleased. The device was small and light and easily handled. It held a charge for long periods of time and, as his associates had advised, the reading experience on the purpose-built display was superior.

The reading-of-words life continued to prosper, books were checked out from the local library, books where purchased, books were shared, words were consumed. Team Kindle for the win!

Uncounted words later, and after many months, Uncle Aaron one evening picked up said device from the charging area only to notice the warm display showed the icon of a battery with an exclamation mark in it. This gave significant pause – surely this was not a good portent.

With millions of unread words locked away behind that icon, screaming to be ciphered, Uncle Aaron started the investigations, troubleshooting and other machinations oft-associated with bringing computational devices to heel.

Because it was an older-model device and because it had been in use for a number of months, Amazon happily informed Uncle that there was no warranty coverage for the battery. But alas, they were willing to sell him any of the new Kindle models available. In fact, it seemed that it would bring them great joy to do so!

On a careless whim, he also checked on the feasibility of replacing the battery all by his lonesome. A replacement battery was found for a mere $16. Several YouTube videos demonstrated the replacement procedure. While said procedure would not be summarized as “easy” nor “simple” – they were not too scary. So, willing to gamble $16, and with encouragement from Mrs. Uncle Aaron (the undisputed brains of this operation), the battery was ordered.

Mr. Aaron resumed word consumption on his iPad, which reinforced his affection for his favored device from the land of Kindle. The battery arrival could not come too soon….

The Kindle Adventure: our hero is challenged

You may remember from the first installment above that Mr. Aaron did much research on the replacement of the battery in his Kindle. During that research it is important to note that the only marking he was able to find on his Kindle was the following text on the back: Kindle Paperwhite 10th Generation. No date. No serial number. No part number. No model number. And he used a magnifying glass.

When he searched for a replacement battery online, he used the search phrase “Kindle Paperwhite 10th Generation” which returned many legit-looking results.

As an aside, Mr. Aaron also watched at least five YouTube videos detailing the process for replacing the battery. In all of those videos the only identification used was Kindle Paperwhite 10th Generation. And in all of the videos, the device shown matched Mr. Aaron’s…seemingly in an exact way.

Can you see where this is going? Mr. Aaron’s audience is a wise and intuitive one…this author has faith in your Sherlockian powers.

The replacement battery was ordered from an Amazon seller with many good reviews. The cost, including all taxes and fees was $16. But before pulling the trigger, just for fun, Uncle confirmed that Amazon still had approximately 1,500 of these Kindle models in stock and listed them for pennies under $80. So, $16 was perhaps a good gamble to repair the device.

The battery eventually arrived at Mr. Aaron’s domicile. There were no instructions whatsoever just a plastic box and the battery. Upon first inspection, there was surprise at the size and shape of the battery. It looked very small compared to what he’d seen on the YouTube videos. Looks can be confusing, no? And the manufacturer claimed that this replacement battery was of an improved, more efficient design and offers “…up to nearly twoce (sic) the power life…” of the original. So, an apparent difference in size was perhaps understandable.

In all of the YouTube videos, those demonstrating the replacement were “professionals” with a proper set of disassembly tools. Even with those tools they all cautioned that one should make small, careful movements because it is very easy to crack the case or the screen. They all mentioned that the slightest bit of “torquing” could render the unit beyond repair.

Not having such tools and not wanting to buy yet another set of single-use tools, Mr. Aaron elected to use old plastic credit cards and his innate raw skill.

This observer is happy to report that after a mere 20 minutes of tedious and admirable work, the Kindle was dismantled without even the slightest bit of concern. No crack, no twist, no breakage, no uttering of oaths. It wasn’t easy, and all of the lessons from the videos were accurate and useful.

But in the end, joy was not to prevail on this occasion. The sadness was not the result of disassembly woes. No, reader, that was not the cause!

The first order of business was to remove, with tweezers, a blob of silicone that sealed the battery connection to the main board. This was a fairly fussy procedure, but was done successfully. That’s when it became clear that the new battery was not, in fact, a replacement for the old. The connector of the existing battery bore nearly no resemblance to that of the new. Imagine trying to swap out the plug to your toaster with a hose nozzle. One is not like the other.

At this point in the adventure, minor oaths were in fact uttered and a cloud of frustration rose in the kitchen.

Mr. Aaron was ready to call it quits. A fair and valiant attempt had been made, but it didn’t work. End of game.

But Mrs. Aaron cheered him on: “The hardest part is done! You got the Kindle opened without breaking it! See if you can return the old battery and order the right one! Keep going!”

One part of Mrs. Aaron’s argument held this wisdom: with the device opened, he could get the exact model and serial number from the existing battery – hopefully allowing for the ordering of the exact item required.

The First Order of Business was to see about a return of the incorrect battery. A couple of Amazon communiques with the supplier authorized a return. Normally they don’t take a return at all once the battery tab is removed, but they took heart and agreed to refund his monies. However, the shipping would be at his expense. They emailed a return label, RMA, etc. with instructions to take it to a UPS Store for packaging and shipment.

The Second Order of Business was to order the correct battery. Allow me to remind the reader that the first battery was a mere $16. The more correct battery, including taxes, fees, bribes and other inducements, was $35. Still less than the cheapest Kindle replacement, so he pressed on and ordered up the new juice box.

Alas, this new part will arrive sometime within the next 4-12 weeks. Clearly it is being hand-crafted by electronics wizards just for Uncle and his reading pleasure.

In the meanwhile, in reference to the First Order of Business, the Aaron family, with a fresh UPS label printed and battery in hand, visited their friendly not-so-nearby UPS Store.

The store manager tended to the transaction personally. She said the battery needed to be put into a special vacuum-sealed plastic battery shipment pouch. So, she went to the back room to pull off that bit of preparation. Then she did some data-entry work, procured a box to put everything in, added some foam peanuts for good measure, taped it all up nice and tidy. She then informed our boy that such batteries cannot go in flying machines, so it had to be sent via Peterbilt or Kenworth –more expensive, but the law is the law.

After much punching and whirring, the final bill from UPS was $37.

To return a $16 battery.

The Kindle Adventure: you won’t believe this…

This journey surely does continue, but not without a twist, a turn or, dare I say it, a pivot!

Some days after Battery Number Two (I’ll call him El-Shocko) was ordered, an email fluttered into Uncle Aaron’s Inbox. Along with the official Amazon logo there were words that indicated that El-Shocko was, after all, out of stock! The minions at Amazon were quite red-faced over this and assured our hero that his monies would be refunded and that he could order again “…at your pleasure in the future.”

The End.

But wait! That is not the end of the story!

The next day Uncle Aaron was sitting in his recliner and pondering his next action when yet another missive from Amazon arrived. This one said that the earlier message about El-Shocko being unavailable was in fact an error. Be assured, it said, that El-Shocko is on some American interstate, rocking and rolling his way toward delivery!

And you know what happened the very next day? Again, you’re ahead of me, aren’t you! But you’re correct – El-Shocko made a personal appearance in Uncle’s mailbox!

Once again Uncle set up at the kitchen island and arrayed all of the pieces and parts called for. But this time the battery appeared to be a perfect match for the dead older brother of El-Shocko. The connector was the same in fact. Success, it could be tasted!

There was a sense of joyous wonder in the air, albeit muted joy. As you may recall, a similar path had recently been trod, with unhappy results.

After some work to remove the dead, but glued-in, battery, El-Shocko took up residence in his new environs. The battery cable was attached to the main board. The power switch was activated. A moment passed. Then three. Then five. Then – the Kindle logo appeared! The startup sequence was observed. Uncle’s library appeared.

There were words! Words, millions and millions of words! Small, lightweight, easily-read, economical, brilliant, gripping words!

To finalize the process the cover was re-attached and words were read. Together, Uncle and El-Shocko read and read and read.

The good life returned. The birds resumed their song. The flowers bloomed. The band was together and making beautiful music.

Oh, and the Butler did it with a fire extinguisher!

Hi, Tom.

It is perhaps rudely familiar of me to address you by your first name. Those of us who are not actors tend to feel like we “know” those of you who perform for our amusement and distraction. This of course is absurd.

I’ve seen you take on the cloak of many people, and I shan’t pick a favorite, but I’m always impressed by the variety of the work you do. I suppose this has led me to feel a familiarity, as well as heartfelt respect.

On the other hand, we are Facebook friends, after all. I’ve liked several of your “found-glove” posts, while you’ve yet to react to a single one of my snarky posts or semi-macro photos of fire hydrants. But that’s okay. I know you’re busy: travelling, learning lines, answering the same question from the press for the bazillionth time, choosing future roles and the like.

I have seen in the media over the past few months that you’ve been shedding some stuff. The Airstream and some cars being among them.

And of course, there are numerous reports over the past few years of you gifting typewriters from your collection to individuals. Such gifts touch the heart and how can I argue against your generosity?

But those reports have gotten me to wondering, worrying to be honest, about the typewriters.

What jeopardy might they face in years to come?

Will they be dispersed?

Like you, I have a fondness for typewriters. This affinity has been with me for as long as I can remember. As a small person I watched my mom type on her Smith Corona portable electric that she had used in college.

The first thing I remember from that machine is the fragrance. Like a new Volkswagen of the ‘70s, it had (and continues to emit) a wonderful aroma. It generates a unique olfactory sensation that I cannot describe. It’s not metal, it’s not lubricant, it’s not ink from the ribbon. No, I feel it must be the vapor of the love that went into crafting the machine in some now-defunct factory of the late 1950s.

My grandmother also had a Smith Corona electric that she often typed letters on. As her arthritis worsened, she typed more and more.

When I was starting high school, my mom strongly encouraged me to take a typing class. Apart from having horrible penmanship, she argued that if I could master the keyboard, I’d always have a job.

Another family member recommended that if I had the choice, I should learn on a manual typewriter. Much like driving a stick-shift, it would be a skill that would serve me well.

I followed all of the advice and took up a seat behind a Royal manual typewriter in my high school’s typing class. We trained using the Century 21 method. It was hard work. My mind often went numb while doing the drills. But I persevered.

As my skills improved, I got pleasure from my ability to turn out crisp, clean, elegant copy.

I continue to be in awe of the typewriter. The mechanical complexity of even the most basic machine, especially considering the times some of these gems were created, is stunning.

Consider that when we type, we’re in close, almost intimate, contact with a hard piece of machinery: keys, springs, wires, cogs, wheels, motors. And yet when you get your hands on a good home row, it feels like you’ve put on a perfectly-fitting pair of socks, fresh from the dryer.

My wife and I still have our typewriters of old. I have my mom’s Smith Corona 210 that she used in college, as did I. My wife, who is from Romania, has her Bulgarian-made Maritsa 30. I’m drawn to them and appreciate them for their mechanical power, complexity and beauty.

You, to my knowledge, have perhaps the largest collection of typewriters in one place. Not because you have fame or relative fortune, but simply because you have the collection, I ask that you protect it.

You owe me nor the world nothing, of course. But I appreciate that however you’ve amassed the collection, that assemblage of hardware is important: as historical artifacts and as art that should be appreciated and preserved.

I can only imagine the space they must take up and I fear that as you re-asses the “things” in your life, you might consider breaking up the band, so to speak.

Please do not do that! Not for me, not for yourself, not for your children, but for the world. Please save the typewriters. Keep them together.

Maybe set aside an endowment for their care. Or bequeath them at the end of your earthly stay to a university of design or engineering, a museum – someplace that will love them. Somehow, please, I beg you, keep them all together and protected. Don’t disperse them.

If and when the time comes when they are no longer your children, please adopt them out as the family that they are – for the benefit of all.

Thank you for everything, Tom. Both for the entertainment that you’ve given us and for the very fact that you have brought attention to typewriters as the important players they are in our past and future.

Please follow these links for more about Tom Hanks’ love of typewriters.

Tom Hanks Gave His Corona Typewriter to a Kid Bullied Over Having the Name Corona: https://time.com/5826972/tom-hanks-typewriter-letter/

Many happy returns: Tom Hanks gives typewriter to Massachusetts family: https://www.cnn.com/2017/12/19/entertainment/tom-hanks-gives-typewriter-to-massachusetts-family/index.html

Tom Hanks gifted this Wellesley family a vintage typewriter: https://www.boston.com/news/local-news/2017/12/18/tom-hanks-gifted-this-wellesley-family-a-vintage-typewriter/

Artist receives thoughtful gift from Tom Hanks: https://abc7news.com/tom-hanks-gives-a-gift-typewriter-bay-area/1622726/

Tom Hanks Changes the Ribbon on a Typewriter: https://www.vanityfair.com/video/watch/tom-hanks-changes-the-ribbon-on-a-typewriter

What you are about to read is totally true and accurate. You likely will be bewildered and experience stunned disbelief. However, except where I have embellished, lied, amplified or mis-remembered, this is all true!

My wife and I have just completed our first real vacation in years. And I mean that literally. YEARS! We’ve taken a few long weekends away from home-sweet-home, but this adventure was nine days on the road to see something other than our own walls and carpets.

If I didn’t hate people before this trip, and have a short fuse (which I do), those conditions worsened on this trip.

We drove over 2,000 miles passing through North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario (Toronto), New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia and back home to North Carolina.

We saw some of the most awful roads on our trip. In fact in Pennsylvania I had just, in the dark, entered a curving exit ramp, when the left wheels went through the deepest of all craters. Five cars were on the shoulder after having hit it ahead of us – those cars appeared to be broken and disabled: blown tires and bent-up undercarriages. Drivers were assessing their damage by the light cast from their Angry Birds devices, the look of stunned disbelief quite evident. Our sinuses and spinal cords ached from the impact, but we had no (visible) damage. But we hit it hard! Mr. Toyota: you make a strong Corolla!

We left on a Friday around noon, having worked the morning half of the day. We spent the first night in Parkersburg, West Virginia.

Apparently West Virginia peoples don’t believe in masks, the plague, protecting themselves or their tourists. Our hotel was very busy with a 50^th high-school reunion going on – complete with coughing and hacking old smokers all over.

It was about 7 p.m. when we arrived and we wanted a good meal and an adult beverage or eight. But we were tired. It was dark and rainy. So we dumped our bags in the room and drove to the nearby McDonalds. Not the type of gastro fare I wanted for my vacation to be sure. I wanted steak, baked spuds, beer and some crazy-tall concoction of cake, ice cream or both, for dessert.

A Quarter Pounder and Filet-O-Fish were to be our first vacation meal delight.

It took us a couple of hours to figure out how to enter the parking lot of said McDonalds. We were shaking with hunger and could smell the fries in the air, but we couldn’t figure out how to get into the joint! Once I finally navigated into the lot, I realized I’d just driven some distance down a one-way street – of course going in the suicide direction. Lucky for us there was no traffic and local law enforcement was busy keeping the peace at a nearby high school football game where the fireworks were blasting off in full force. Or maybe it was squirrel season, I don’t know.

We took our food back to the room, ate and fell asleep.

The next morn I went to the free breakfast to get some food to take back to the room while my wife readied herself for the day’s journey.

Why would people take grandkids to a class reunion? I don’t get it. I was presented with a crowd of 68-year-olds, puffing away on their Winstons, ignoring their pre-teens running about drinking straight from the chocolate milk fountain and running their sticky paws through the bread and bagel basket. I have so far failed to make sense of this.

The only thing I felt safe eating were bananas. And even those were slippery. Bananas should not be slippery.

We ate the tropical yellows in our room and then began our escape.

Next up, I needed my morning addiction: coffee.

I had spied a Starbucks on our way in to town. I knew just how to get there. Or so I thought. In my mind it was only inches away and on our way out of town. I tooled around a bit, both of us anxious to be on our damn way when I said “Forget it, I’ll get gas station coffee!” “No, we’re getting you a Starbucks. I’ll map us.” my loving wife stated.

She did so which took us a couple of miles in the wrong direction but surprise of shocks, it was a nearly-new Starbucks and was one of the nicest ones I’ve ever been in, regardless of state or country!

They all have that Starbucks vibe, but the people were so nice. And they were masked but I swear to you, I think they had all their teeth! Really! I think they had full sets of chompers behind those masks. They were clean, friendly, used full and proper sentences and handed over a venti blonde roast with haste and vigor. I only saw one tattoo and I think it was of a bunny. Well done, Parkersburg Starbucks!

Then we were on the road again (cue Willie).

The first of many ways the world stood on my sciatic nerve was on the West Virginia Turnpike which…get this…only takes CASH! Who carries cash!? Well, I do, but that’s not the point.

I was the subject of several harsh rebukes bellowed by Toll Collector Betty. I’m sure she said “We only accept cash, fine sir” but it took about 17 attempts for us to understand her message. If she’d had just one tooth in the front, she may have been able to enunciate clearly. But no. To be fair, I was distracted by wiping from my glasses the chewing tobacco she was spewing.

These days, having been gone for over 22 years, I can only get around the very major landmarks in my old stomping grounds of Kalamazoo, Michigan. It has changed so much. I mean, they had running water and ‘lectricity when I left, but now they like, you know, have paved roads, Costcos and WalMarts and most of the people wear shoes!

It has become a joke that every time I visit mom, my first chore is to replace light bulbs. And in her house she has can lights everywhere. The only place where there isn’t a can light is over the dining table. She had a few lights burned out so I replaced them with bulbs she’d purchased. Well, the new bulbs were white LEDs and dang – they gave off a great light! The old bulbs were of the Edison variety with bona-fide burning filaments in the bulbs. She was so enamored with the great light from the replacements she said: “Let’s go to Menard’s (the Michigan version of Lowe’s or Home Depot and one superior thing about Michigan that has nothing to do with Lake Superior) and load up the cart and replace every light in the house!?” She was so excited!

A few hours and 37 bulbs later, she had fresh and modern illumination throughout the estate. She informed us that she plans to die when she’s 85 so she suspects these bulbs will last her.

Oy.

While we were at Menard’s to get bulbs (we literally had a cart full of them), it was very busy. Three lanes open with decent lines in each. It’s almost our turn and mom said “Do you recognize the cashier?” I had paid her no notice until then but when I gave her a solid review I instantly knew it was Meredith – a girl I’d grown up with! Well, I haven’t seen her since the 10^th grade but she was easily recognized. But I knew she wouldn’t know me – I look more than a little different. She’d of course recognize mom – she sorta stands out in a crowd of bears and trout.

Mind you, we’re in a long line of gun-toting Michiganders who are slightly toasted now that pot is fully legal there, and mom decided to have a reunion with Meredith! Egads!

“How’s your mom? Where are you living? Are you married?  Kids? Coke or Pepsi?”

Those people behind us were seething! Mom insisted on paying so there was no way for me to hurry our exit. Meredith did her best to be friendly, but kept glancing to the angered farm boys who were sharpening their blades behind us – trying her best to send my mom a CLUE to move it! Mom’s retired and entitled to her own timeline, so what the hell. If I make it to retirement, I’ll do the same.

We finally got out of there with our skins, though one Bubba burned rubber right next to us in the parking lot – he was either trying to flirt with my wife, or run us over, I’m not sure which. (TRANSLATION: Michigan boys think making a big burnout is a major turn-on to the ladies).

We also went to the lakeside resort area of South Haven, on the shores of Lake Michigan. But it was too blasted cold to do much. We walked around, took a few shots and hunted for coffee. South Haven has three independent coffee joints…all of which close at 1 p.m. After that, Michiganders switch to microbrews and hard liquor.

Mom: “But my car has heated seats! Turn on your heated seats and you won’t need coffee!”

Me: “I hate heated seats. They make my butt sweat.”

Wife: “I don’t like heated seats…they make me too hot.”

Mom: “But they’re FANCY! I paid for ‘em, you might as well use ‘em!”

Several miles towards home we came upon a Biggby Coffee location. Desperation called for a stop. I really do not like the juice that comes from Biggby Coffee. But it was hot and warming, and maybe created only a small ulcer.

Next, we were on to Toronto, Canada to visit with family and see some sights.

In order to enter Canada, you have to install an app on your phone, create an account, and enter Passport information, immunization records and the results of a Covid test no more than 24 hours old and a 20-page essay extolling the virtues of the confirming interrogative “eh!”

The day before our departure toward maple-land, we went to a local testing facility to have our nasals probed, in order to satisfy the requirement to cross the border.

We were so impressed with how well organized the place was. All drive-up. In 10 minutes the whole thing was over. They promised that an email with the results (good for international travel) would appear the next morning. We planned to be on the road at 10 a.m. that next morning in order to get to our Toronto hotel before dark.

Morning came and a quick breakfast of muffins and coffee was had, but nothing appeared in our email inboxes. Well, apparently we have an issue with our car warranty, but that would be handled upon our return home.

We began to get nervous. Without those results, we couldn’t cross the border.

Hotel rooms were bought and paid for.

Venue reservations had been made.

The horror!

My wife called the testing place.

They didn’t know who we were.

We had been given no “paperwork” from the nose-voyeurs so all we could give them was names, birthdates, etc.

After she was on the phone for many dozens of nervous minutes it turned out that the clerk had mis-typed our names, email addresses and phone numbers. I’m sure our handwriting had nothing to do with the fat-fingering as we both exhibit enviable script when filling out papers on our knees while seated in our car during a blizzard. Anything is possible.

The fine Michigan lady told us we passed the tests, but that it could take a couple of hours for our certificates to be generated.

And don’t forget to check your Spam folder.

At long last we got our certificates and completed registering on the ArriveCAN app and we hit the road.

Hugs and goodbyes and we were away!

Once on Michigan main ruts, er, roads, it rained. It blew. It fogged. We couldn’t even see the capitol dome in Lansing as we passed by. No impressive photos were had. And the traffic was awful. I can’t tell you how many close calls we had due to the traffic and weather.

We finally made it to Port Huron, Michigan where we could take the Blue Water Bridge to cross into foreign lands.

“Hello, bonjour! Said the nice border security lady. Passports, ArriveCAN code, bribe, fishing license and vaccination cards.”

I handed them over.

I’m always nervous at border crossings.

She was wearing a Glock G22, with two spare magazines. She was ready to not take crap from some fat and bald American. Or me.

When I was a kid, we went to Canada a lot and back then smuggling cigarettes was a big thing. Eight-year-old me was traumatized by seeing a families’ car torn apart by Canadian Mounties looking for smokes, while little Timmy and his doggie watched in terror. The painful memory lingers.

Agent: “Why do you want to come to Canada?”

Me: “To visit the CN Tower and the ROM (Royal Ontario Museum).”

Agent: “You’re coming into Canada to do that on a WEDNESDAY? Who does that?”

Me: “Well, it’s when we got time off work.”

Agent: “What do you both do?”

Me: “I’m a computer programmer, she (pointing to my wife) is a technical writer.”

Agent: “Neat.”

Agent: “How much alcohol do you have in that trunk?”

No “DO you have alcohol?” She ASSUMED alcohol! Is it written on our faces?

Oh, yeah, we were entering from Michigan, so yeah. But she didn’t ask about Mary Jane. She didn’t care about Mary Jane at all.

But we were PREPARED!

Me: “We have about six cans of beer.”

Agent: “How many liters is that?”

Me: “Um, I think they’re each about 12 ounces.”

Agent: “Canada is on the metric system you dolt. How many LITERS are you bringing in?”

Fortunately, Romania is metric and my wife hailing from that land quickly calculated and gave the woman a number.

Agent: “And you’re going to drink that in the CN Tower?”

Me: “No, we’ll drink it in our room.”

Agent: “Because Canada doesn’t have beer?”

Me: “No, but we brought beers we like.”

Agent: “You wouldn’t want to try Canadian beer? Just your own?”

Me: Hunting for my next words, eyes locked on that Glock….

Agent: “Tell me about the weapons you have on-board. Keeping in mind that pocket knives and mace and mean words are considered weapons.”

Me: “All we have is my Swiss Army Knife.”

The Agent gave me a disgusted look, apparently not a fan of the Swiss. She tapped away on her computer while we sweated in the frigid Canadian wind.

Finally, she handed our documents back to us.

But she wasn’t finished with our shivering and apprehensive personages.

Agent: “You’ve been selected for a random Covid screening.”

She handed us two blue boxes.

Agent: “There’s a box for each of you. You’ll drive ahead towards that Red Cross flag over there. Park by the cones. Open each of your boxes and follow the instructions inside. Do not open your windows or doors. Stay in your car. This is a secure area. We will shoot. We’re cold and we can warm our fingers on our hot gun barrels. It’s up to you. Now drive to the flag very slowly.”

I drove to the flag and we opened our boxes. Inside was a form to fill out with the usual identifying informations.

Finally, a Jamaican dude appeared in front of us. How he can exist in such a frozen clime, I do not know. The man did a stilted mime that seemed to indicate that we were to drive ahead through a maze of cones and concrete barriers only wide enough for a Trek to trek. I finally made it through the course with side-view mirrors still attached.

Then we were in the hands of nice Red Cross peoples. I tried to call my friend Mark who is a highly-placed volunteer official with the American Red Cross to see if he could get us out of it, but he didn’t answer. I suspect our call was blocked by the Canadian Air Force, the air being thick with geese on maneuvers.

The Red Crossers swabbed our nostrils.

Deep.

And they made each of us create a Red Cross Canada account on our phones.

They waited while we did this.

They continued to wait.

Our eyes teared after having been poked from below and assaulted by the strong wind off Lake Huron. Filling out lengthy forms on an iPhone whilst crying is not a scenario that lends itself to speedy completion.

More waiting ensued during which the Red Crossers danced to unheard tunes in an attempt to not be frozen to the tarmac.

Our windows were open so the Reds could talk to us. We were lodged between trailers, barriers and assault rifles. And bears, probably. There was no early escape to be enjoyed. Oh, and that moose. He looked to be asleep, but I think he had one eye open, clearly focused on us.

The app registration complete, they told us that it would allow them to contact-trace in the event our tests came back with bad results.

We were finally released and allowed to continue our Canadian trek, where the maximum speed limit is 55 mph – or 88 kmh – THEY’RE METRIC! I had frequent flashbacks to Jimmy Carter – not the best kind of distraction whilst one is on vacation.

It was several miles through gorgeous countryside before we came upon a gas station. That was fortunate because I needed to change my undies and get a bottled Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino to re-engergize.

Now for a word about the details of the Canadian visit.

We visited Toronto sites, we walked hundreds of miles in the windy, cold Toronto downtown, we ate too much, we drank too much, we shared stories and laughs with family who had met us there. But alas, after a couple of days, it was time to return to the land of angry people (Canadians truly are over-the-top in the friendly department).

I was feeling a little nervous about re-entering the United States of A, given our nasal challenges entering Canada.

We got to the border crossing and because at that time it was closed to all but returning citizens, there was nobody there. One lane open. Nobody ahead of us. Nobody behind us. I think I spied a few clowns to the left, maybe a joker on the right.

The agent glanced at our passports and opened the gate. He didn’t make any utterance. And just like that, we were at Niagara Falls, New York.

Other than that, the trip was uneventful.

Except for that crevasse in Pennsylvania. My lumbar region will always remember you.

I need a vacation.