Thursday, April 26, 2012

Driving Distracted

When my brothers and sisters and I were young we used to play games in the car to help keep us entertained and distracted on long car rides. For his part my dad used to tell a story about a man named “Falling Rock.” A long time ago Falling Rock went on a long journey and never returned. Although he was not seen again his people never gave up looking for him. Once in a while you will still see a road sign that reminds us to watch for him.

In addition to watching for Falling Rock our mom led us through the alphabet by reading passing billboards. We also looked for license plates from the other states (especially the elusive Hawaii plate). Sometimes we would split up into two teams and count cows on each side of the highway, and whenever a cemetery appeared on your side of the car you had to “bury” all of your cows and start over.

The cow game usually went pretty well unless Grandma O’Meara was along for the ride. Then horses became cows and excessive exaggerations were passed off as conservative estimates.

We didn’t have phones, smart or otherwise, no portable DVD players, and the only music in the car came from the AM radio that Dad controlled. The only distraction Dad ever had to his driving came from the back seat and it was easily corrected by pulling over to the side of the road.

Other than the minor disturbances within the car I can’t imagine Dad’s attention ever wavered from the road, but we live in a different age now and the police are cracking down on distracted driving. From what I read in the papers texting and talking on the phone are considered the biggest causes of inattentive driving.

While I avoid those (most of the time) there are so many other possible diversions that adding a couple more seems unnecessary. It’s easy enough for me to get caught up in the conversations of passengers, the radio, my own thoughts, and all that stuff passing by the window.

Auto manufacturers are playing both sides of the game. In addition to the regular instrument panel which shows speed, oil pressure, etc., they give us even more to do with a 5-inch touch screen. It can display maps, dozens of radio stations, song titles (and lyrics), gas prices, movie listings, weather radar, and a bunch of other stuff. Then on top of that they provide a way for others to monitor your driving habits remotely.

Tattletale technology, such as GM’s On Star and Ford’s Sync, while giving drivers in distress a quick and easy way to get help, also makes it easy for others to keep an eye on us.

If you give them an inch they’ll take your miles. At first it will start out as monitoring distances driven, but once they get their foot in the door of your car there’s no telling when they’ll apply the brakes. I believe that if we willingly let others keep track of our driving habits, sooner or later they’ll tell us not only how far we are allowed to drive, but when and where as well. Distracted driving can take many forms.

That’s why we all need to keep our eyes on the road. Driving is a privilege and gives us a great deal of freedom. It should have our full attention; it should not be taken lightly or for granted, otherwise the sign may someday read, “Road Closed – Unauthorized Vehicles Prohibited.”

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Questions for God

A couple nights ago I was getting ready to go to bed when a fly started to buzz around the bedroom. It was one of those stupid slow flies that bump into walls and the insides of lampshades. Nobody likes that. It was obvious that he (or she, I don’t care) was going to keep me annoyed and awake as I obsessed about its presence.

I grabbed a fly-swatter and an old t-shirt as I began my quest to vanquish the beast. I seem to have better luck with a shirt than a swatter with this type of fly that never seems to land. Whenever Dad saw me miss hitting a fly with the swatter he would say, “Don’t scare him to death.”

After a few minutes of patient waiting I knocked him (or her, again I don’t care) out of the air. I then finished the job with a generous amount of toilet paper (two-ply I think). I don’t like flies or mosquitoes, but I guess everything has a purpose, even that which I don’t understand.

One-hundred years ago today (April 15) more than 1,500 people died when the Titanic went to the bottom of the Atlantic. One-hundred years ago is a long time, and yet we are still fascinated by it. We know what happened and how, but we don’t know why.

Why would God allow such a thing to happen? On a cold November day in 1975 the Edmund Fitzgerald sank on Lake Superior taking 29 lives with it. Of that tragedy, Gordon Lightfoot wrote, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?”

As a man who believes in God and in God’s sovereignty, I try not to question His wisdom when bad things happen. But the closer the stab is to the heart, the more I wonder why.

It seems to me that when a father or a mother loses a child the agony would be unbearable and nightmarish. I have experienced the ache of losing my father and mother, whose passing was perhaps easier to expect and accept in the grand scheme of things because of their age. Still, I miss them.

Of the many strange and silly things I do, one is to put out a chair for Dad when I am barbequing. Whenever there was a fire burning Dad and I were drawn to it. When I was a kid and Dad had the grill going I would go out and watch him and the fire work together. In my head I can still hear the ing-ing-ing-ing-ing of the rotisserie motor.

When I became a father the responsibility of cooking meat in the outdoors fell to me. When Mom and Dad were over visiting he would join me outside. We would sit side- by-side on our chairs and talk about whether the coals were “ready,” the state of the country, old dogs, and the right time to flip the burgers.

He’s been gone for several years, but I still put out a chair for him. I pretend he’s sitting next to me, and I imagine what we would talk about. I would tell him about plans I’ve made and those I’ve changed. I think he would approve (which is still important to me).

Buddy the dog hangs around the grill waiting for a handout. I look at Buddy’s grey whiskers and wonder why God didn’t let dogs live longer. It seems a dog’s life span matches the time from when parents believe their child is old enough to take care of a puppy to when the child is old enough to live on their own. It’s a shame because an old dog knows everything there is to know about being a dog.

In dog years I am 7 ½ , and the things I don’t understand scare me to death. I don’t presume to know God’s will, so I will just have to trust and obey.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Grocery Store Waltz

I was shopping with my wife the other day. We were in one of those “big-box,” stores where you can buy shoes, cereal and siding. She was looking for a kitchen sink, I for everything but. One of the things I saw had me wanting a broom to sweep the aisle.

There was an older couple, handsomely dressed, looking at sinks, I guess. Nothing unusual about that, except the man kept dipping his hand into his coat pocket. While his wife was fixated in front of plumbing fixtures he would crack the peanut shells, toss the peanuts into his mouth, and let the shells fall to the floor. He repeated this eating exercise as the couple strolled throughout the store.

I don’t know if this practice of throwing peanut shells on the floor of a store is acceptable, or if it is something new. I don’t remember anyone doing anything like that in any of the stores in Belle Plaine. Other than inside the bars, it simply wasn’t done.

There were many stores in town, but one in particular seemed to have it all. Hahn’s had groceries, clothing and those old standards: notions, domestics and dry goods. The store occupied a building on a downtown corner. It was almost like two stores under the same name; through the north door one got their groceries; everything else was purchased through the east door, and somewhere inside these two retail lines converged.

Sometime in the 70’s the store changed hands, name, and location. It became known as Beck’s, with just five letters and one syllable the name was similar to Hahn’s. I suppose somewhere in the world there is a gentleman named Hans Beck, but that has nothing to do with this story.

One day in response to my dad’s strong suggestion, I hopped on my bike and went to Beck’s to apply for a job. I was hired. Tim Brown, a guy about my age, was hired at the same time for the same type of work, and that summer he and I would spend our days together.

Our duties included sweeping, waxing and mopping floors. We also stocked shelves, bagged groceries and carried them to station wagons and four-door sedans. We also tried to shake out rugs.

Every morning Tim and I would arrive at the store a few minutes before seven and wait for Mr. Beck to unlock the doors. We would then grab one of the two large rugs from the entrance way. I can’t be sure but I believe each rug was about 5 feet wide and 10 feet long. They were thick and heavy with a rubber backing on one side and coarse fabric on the other.

With Tim on one end and me on the other we tried to dislodge the dust and dirt, but the rugs were just too big and clumsy for us to get the job done. Although Mr. Beck was usually patient with us, he could not stand idly by and watch two boys goof up what he considered an easy task.

“Don’t waltz with it,” he said once as he grabbed my end of the rug. Then, with passion normally reserved for hand-to-hand combat, he assaulted the rug until it and Tim were visibly shaken.

When Mr. Beck was satisfied with the rug detail Tim and I swept the grocery section of the store before it opened. One day after we told Mr. Beck we had finished sweeping he said, “Tim, Jerry, come here.” We followed him to an aisle where he proceeded to kick a rock the size of a large walnut from underneath a shelf.

“Boys, I put that rock there to see if you were doing a good job.”

We tried to convince him that we had found the rock earlier but decided to leave it as we figured he must have put it there for a reason. I don’t think he believed us but he let it go.

I wonder what Mr. Beck would have said if he saw a man dropping peanut shells all over his store.

“Tim, Jerry, clean that up and waltz that guy out of here.”

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Planting and Picking

Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest, and while writing and playing the banjo (not at the same time and not that well) certainly couldn’t be called work, I seem to find many ways to avoid doing either one. But, I need to do both because tomorrow is Monday. My column/story/article/essay/mess is due to the editor by noon, and I have my banjo lessons on Monday afternoon.

With that kind of pressure those pastimes feel more like work than pleasure, and I am always looking for a distraction or reason to interrupt the work flow. So to while away the hours today I played basketball, read the papers, played some Scrabble and fixed the fence so the chickens would at least have to fly over instead of strolling through the fence (this should help insure that I get a good night’s sleep).

Before I started the fencing project my wife, Rhonda, sensed that I needed something else to do. She had heard about a way to grow vegetables in pallets and she wanted to try it for her strawberries.

She has been frustrated by some stubborn grass that takes over her strawberry beds, so the pallet idea seemed worth a try. The plants are confined within the slats and the bottom of the pallet has a garden cloth stapled to it that allows water to seep out but keeps weeds from coming through.

Thinking that pallets is more my department, she asked if we had any. I was pretty sure we had some somewhere around the place, and without too much searching I located three in the barn. I took the two best-looking ones and relocated them to the garden.

Of course, the two I chose were wrong – too narrow between the slats. I made some modifications on one (removed every other board) and went back to the barn for the one I had left behind. One of the boards was cracked but the spacing seemed just right for growing strawberries. I replaced the board (even I possess the skill set to do that) and carried it over to the garden.

So after I pulled apart pallets and fixed the fence, I went back inside the house to practice the banjo. I need to get quicker with the foggy mountain roll, which is a three-finger movement created by Earl Scruggs.

Earl Scruggs, “The” banjo player, died this last week. Joe Edwards of The Associated Press described his influence.

“The North Carolina native's use of three fingers — instead of the limited clawhammer style that was once prevalent — elevated the banjo from a part of the rhythm section to a lead instrument that was as versatile as the guitar and far more flashy. He is credited with helping create modern country music with a string-bending style of playing.”

His playing technique is known as “Scruggs-Style Picking.” There is some disagreement on whether he was the first – but he’s the one that made it work. So whether it’s planting in a pallet, or using three fingers instead of just two – don’t be afraid to try something new.