I'm not an early bird. I work nights, so something has to be pretty important to get me out of bed and out of the house on a cold morning.
But Saturday morning, I woke up and walked the mile or so from my house downtown. I had a job to do. Walking a dog. Not MY dog, like I do every other morning. Today, I was going to help walk the News & Record’s dog ... a giant helium-filled pup with a rolled up newspaper in its mouth... in the Greensboro holiday parade.
This is my second year walking in the parade, and I continue to be impressed by how it boosts my holiday spirit.
I've been to plenty of parades in my life, but I don't remember crowds being so animated. When I was a kid, my primary goal was to be able to see over the crowd and to snag a few pieces of candy. In high school, we went to Charlotte's parade to see my good friend, who was a Carousel queen. When I lived up north, I dragged my husband to New York about 7 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving and stood with a zillion other people, packed so tightly you couldn't turn around, to witness the Macy's parade.
As many times as I've been a spectator, I don't ever remember cheering or clapping or wishing the participants a Merry Christmas.
But the people of Greensboro do all those things. I could feel them hold their breath as we threaded our balloon through traffic lights overhead. When we'd spin our news hound around the street, the crowd erupted in applause and cheers. And I can't count the number of happy folks who wished us a "Merry Christmas" or shouted, "Happy Holidays."
So, to all those who lined the streets for the parade, I just wanted to say, "Thank you."
Got home late on Friday. Sat down to eat a sandwich and flipped on the television. My Night at the Grammys was on. It was a show in which they presented the top 25 Grammy performances as chosen by fans, they say.
Hey, I'm not proud of it.
But what kept me watching was Aretha Franklin, filling in for a sick Luciano Pavarotti singing "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's "Tarandot." Breathtaking.
When those American Idol judges tell contestants they need to make the song their own, this is the example I'd point to.
While Jennifer and other brave News & Record staffers carried "Scoop" down the parade route, I sat with my kids and some friends on the corner of Greene St. and Friendly enjoying the sun and sights. As always, we came equipped with plastic bags -- to collect candy, of course.
The candy throwing started off slowly, and it was heavy on the mints. I could tell the kids were worried. Then it happened -- a Christmas miracle. A kid with a big bucket of fruit chewies spilled the whole thing right in front of us! Candy all over the street! They dashed out and grabbed a handful, then scampered back behind the rope.
By the time Santa arrived, their bags were full and we headed home happy. I think they enjoyed the parade, too.
Amid all the downtown holiday fanfare this past weekend, the Greensboro Cultural Center alone showed the local arts scene's high level of activity.
On Saturday night, hundreds of arts supporters filled the Green Hill Center for North Carolina Art for Collector's Choice, the fund-raising opener for its annual Winter Show. More than 100 artists displayed paintings, sculpture, ceramics, photography, jewelry, wood and fiber work.
The CVA hosted its holiday invitational show of members' works. And Tanya Beckerdite will take home something special: She won the drawing for the CVA's Instant Art Collection of more than 20 original works.
On the lower level, the Eastern Music Festival hosted a standing-room-only concert by Eric and Jeff Silver, with special guest Victor Wooten of Bela Fleck and the Flecktones. Proceeds went to EMF's Silver/Mayer Scholarship Fund.
Then on Sunday afternoon, the African American Atelier auctioned works from several local artists. Proceeds will benefit the 21st annual African American Arts Festival (Jan. 13-March 31) and the Atelier Around the World Youth Program.
If you didn't get to the cultural center this weekend, there's still plenty of opportunity to see the art shows in the 200 N. Davie St. center.
Although galleries are closed on Mondays, they're open the rest of the week. And the Winter Show at Green Hill and the CVA's Holiday Invitational will be up through the holidays.
Scene: the Target on Bridford Parkway, Sunday afternoon
An adorable little girl, about 2 years old, was shopping with her family. In her hands, she clutched a new "toy" -- a full size, plastic-wrapped mop. She dragged it along the store's dusty floors with a bright smile and obvious glee on her face.
I wish I could fast forward a dozen years to see if she greets the mop with such joy as a teenager.
So I spent a good chunk of the past weekend with my electric-powered leaf blower. My wife was like, are you going to get some clear plastic bags for 'em? Nah. Figured as long as I put that nice long pile of leaves at the edge of the yard but not on the curb per the city's request (yes, I'm paying attention), I've done my civic duty.
Last check my beautiful leaf pile was scattered across my yard and into part of the street. My neighbors are even getting a little slice of my leaf action (sorry neighbors).
Oh well. Fool me once...Time to break out the bags this time.
Perhaps you've seen my polka-dotted car around town. It is the only one, to my knowledge. Saturday evening I left my apartment and was looking and looking for my car in the lot...funny I only saw this very plain and normal Toyota staring sadly back at me.
Shockingly, after roughly four years of polka-dotted bliss, someone stole all the polka dot magnets off my car; every last one. I was mad and heartbroken. However, my self expression can be cracked, but refuses to be broken! No one has ever driven to Party City with such a fury.
I purchased an arsenal of car window paint, a huge blue bow, strings of blue beads, a blue beach ball and balloons as attempted replacements for my beloved blue dots. My self-expression will not be stopped, and if the body of my car can't have exquisite hand-cut dot magnets (as they'll surely be taken off again if replaced), then my windows will have blue painted polka dots.
However, I thought I'd better snap some pictures before Mother Nature -- or the perps -- clean the newly painted dots from my naked, less-dotted car. I just thought I'd share this semi-tragedy and subsequent attempt at self expression-redemption with any dot-car (or polka dot) fans out there. Oh, and if you see any blue or white polka dots around town, call the (dot)cops or contact me.
Carving your initials into a tree, preferably with a loved ones' and a heart around it, is a time-honored tradition in literature, movies and Saturday morning cartoons. But does anyone actually do it? I never have, despite spending a large part of my adolescence camping in the woods.
I got my answer at the Greensboro Arboretum. Dozens of beech trees show the distinct signs of knife-wielding graffiti artists. Virtually all are initials and dates. One dates back to 1944; I'm guessing it is legit because it is wide, which is how carvings grow over the years.
I'm sure arborists are dismayed by it, and I would never promote it, but walking through the woods looking at all the "love" written on the trees was nice.
It was my daughter's turn Monday to bring morning snacks to class, which is to say it was my turn to run to Target and get something appropriate (no chocolate, no peanut) and delivered to class on time. Arms loaded with juice boxes and granola bars, I walked to my truck and slung them inside, not noticing that my wallet slipped out of my hands in the process.
Snack goodies delivered, I drove home, walked into the house, tossed down my keys on the table and then wondered why I hadn't also tossed down my wallet. I went back out to the truck to fetch it. Not there. You can imagine the next couple of hours: frantic searches, retracing of steps, curse words, followed by calls to various banks to begin credit-card cancellation.
I had just canceled my third card when I got a call from "Verizon Rob" on my cell phone. He's the guy who sold me our phones a few months back. Great, I think, he's trying to sell me on a new plan.
John, he says, "I'm calling to let you know that Miller Vison across from the Target on Lawndale has your wallet." Then the phone, already on low battery, goes dead.
So off I go to Miller Vision to figure this out. I walk in. "You look familiar," says the receptionist of a business I've never stepped into. "You look like your driver's license." How unkind. And yet, how joyous to be reunited with my 9-year-old wallet, fully intact.
Apparently, she says, a UPS driver found the wallet blowing across the Target parking lot (remember how windy it was Monday) and took it to his next stop: Miller Vision. Together, they found the one local phone number in the wallet: Verizon Rob.
So, to Verizon Rob and the unnamed UPS driver, thank you for your effort and honesty.
Anyone who knows me at all will tell you I love presents. Big or small, cheap or pricey, for occasions or no reason at all, I don't care; I just love presents. I often feel greedy about this, and as a seminarian, I feel like greed is a less-than-ministerial quality I should try to rid from my life as much as possible. (Greed is, after all, no. 3 on ye olde list of seven deadly sins.)
Before I lay eyes on a gift, I grill the giver: Bigger than a breadbox? Smaller? Is it alive? Have I shown it to you in a store? When I invariably get nowhere with my questioning, I examine the wrapped presents. I turn them over carefully, shake them to hear if anything moves, sniff them to see if there's a telltale odor. Again, I always strike out. But that's fun: To me, it isn't about greed, about having that one more thing; It's about the fun of anticipation, wondering what will be there when I tear off that paper.
The other day as I was wrapping presents, and again today as I was doing more shopping, I was reminded of something important: I don't just love getting presents; I love giving them, too, almost as much as I love getting them.
Giving presents is great because you pick out something special for someone you care about, and you get to anticipate their delight at receiving it; that's why I rail against the pervasiveness of registries for every bloody occasion these days. If you're buying for charity, you wrap the gift knowing that you're providing a present to someone who might not have many -- or any -- others.
For me, there's something fun about simply wrapping gifts, whether in the comics section (save the planet!) or by reusing a froofy gift bag I've gotten something in previously. And, of course, there's the joy of what my husband's family refers to as "rip-and-shred": the Christmas-morning orgy of present-opening to reveal what lies beneath the pretty paper and bows.
So, next time you're standing in line to check out and everyone around you is grumpy, and you aren't in such great emotional shape, either, I say stop feeling crabby about spending money and instead think of the joy that getting gifts brings -- and know that you give the gift of joy with every present you buy.
I was jogging on Saturday morning on my regular course, which takes me through a path in the woods by a creek. Because of my work schedule I normally go out in the dark and return in the dark. This being the weekend, I got a late start and the sun was nearly up. I ran right past the yellow sign nailed to a tree.
But something on it caught my eye and caused me to turn around.
"A fox has been seen nearby. Be cautious."
Hmmm. They're noctural animals, too. And occasionally rabid. I don't know how long the sign has been there. The information did make me run faster, though.
They looked so cute at Cafe Carolina & Bakery in their matching Grimsley sweatshirts. He pushed aside the history and algebra textbooks and reached across the table to hold her hands. She never took her eyes off him, laughing at everything he said.
Then came the food and the awkward, messy lesson for both: Never EVER order French Onion soup on a first date.
During his 30 years in Greensboro, Rose became known for his passion for painting and his unflappable will to live life and take risks.
A self-taught artist, Rose left the corporate world as a chemist at age 55 to paint full-time. His watercolors sold, and he showed his work in galleries across the state. And he became a mentor and teacher in Greensboro's art community.
But in 2004, his eyesight failing, Rose sold his paintings and moved with his wife, Betsy, to the Charlotte area, to be closer to his son and daughter-in-law.
"I think the last 30 years have been the richest, most meaningful part of my life," Rose told News & Record staff writer Jeri Rowe for an article at the time.
A memorial service will be held Saturday in Matthews. A celebration of his life and his art is being planned in Greensboro, sometime in January.
When I heard about the highly successful book "The Secret" from my wife, who had seen Oprah sing its praises after its release last year, I wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
Granted, critics have rightfully described the book's premise that the universe responds to your positive thoughts - literally - as far-fetched.
But after listening to the audio version of the book in the car during a road trip, I decided, what the hey, give the book's instructions about harnessing positive thinking a shot. Instead of throwing the Secret out with the bathwater, maybe you can get something out of it after all.
The results surprised me - not that positive thinking works, but how it works.
I am so glad N&R photographer Jerry Wolford took this photo that's on the front of the Local section of today's paper.
Here's what he says about them:
A flock of birds swirls over downtown Greensboro Tuesday. The swirling pattern appeared as they were darting back and forth at dusk preparing to roost in the bamboo trees along Blandwood Avenue. They were photographed with a 1/15 of a second exposure. This captures the hovering birds in the center of the flock as sharp images while the faster flying birds on the perimeter of the flock are seen only as blurs.
Not only is it a cool photo, but it helps alleviate my fears. I've seen this birds act crazy at dusk as I'm headed in and out of the Bryan YMCA.
Admittedly, I'm not exactly a country girl. When I first saw these birds I thought they were bats and nearly did not get out of my car. Then I realized they were birds. That made me breath a little easier.
And while they were mesmerizing to watch from the comfort of my car, it reminded me a little too much of that old Hitchcock movie.
On Monday the dang birds were at it again and swooping really low. As I hustled across the parking lot, I thought about that movie and I kept watch on the birds flocking to the trees.
"You need to get a grip," I thought to myself. "They are just birds."
But then I saw others standing and watching the birds. Maybe I wasn't being weird about it. And then a teenage voice spoke up with my vindication.
It took a few moments this morning before I realized that I didn't need to worry about whether Guilford County schools was on a two-hour delay like Forsyth and Davidson schools.
After 12 years of worrying about when to get the kids up, how to provide daycare in a two-income home and getting them to school in the mid-morning, that realization brightened my morning.
We were eating at Lucky 32 the other night, and I ordered a glass of wine -- a Malbec -- and the server asked: "Three-ounce, 6-ounce or 9-ounce?"
What? I'd never been asked about the size of the beverage outside of a fast-food restaurant. (Well, that's not completely true; I have been asked if I want to order an entire bottle of wine, but I think you get my point.)
In this day of Super Size Me, what a delightful innovation: Asking the diner what size serving he wants! Imagine the happy customers, ordering the amount of food they want, rather than ordering the standard more-food-than-even-a-teenage-football-player-could-eat plate. It's a bit more customer-focused than most restaurants I've been in, but they can learn.
This can also be titled: The Return of the Missing Wallet.
I recently learned more about how the wallet I had lost in the Target parking lot on Lawndale Drive came to be returned to me in its wholeness.
First, I have since learned the name of the UPS driver who found the wallet in the parking lot and took it across the street to Miller Vision. The staff at Miller tells me his name is Joel. So Joel, if you're reading, "thank you" is inadequate, but it's a start.
In my overwhelming joy at getting my wallet back, I stupidly displayed an astounding case of myopia. I failed to see -- and ask about -- the broader picture of the effort some of the staff there at Miller Vision went to.
In the words of Tammy at Miller Vision: "Donna H. and I were the ones that actually found a way to contact you... I called the police station to inquire about turning in the wallet. We also looked in the phone book, but the address on your license did not match any in the phone book. We reluctantly searched your wallet (we didn't want to snoop) but we felt it was important in this situation. Donna called Verizon, on the off chance that they could help. What a relief for us when he was able to contact you!"
Neither of them wants to toot their horn, but it's important that we all know their honesty and goodness. Part of the reason why I didn't stay that day and talk to them more was because of how busy they were; everyone was doing something with or for a patient. Only now do I realize that, as busy as they were, they took the time to return that wallet to me.
To the ladies there, like Joel at UPS, let me start with "thank you."
Since I don't wear glasses or contacts, I don't regularly have my vision tested. Perhaps it's time; maybe then I won't have to rely so much on hindsight.
So, you won't believe what I saw people doing today. Raking. Pretty crazy, huh?
I've been pretty sad this fall because I've seen oodles of people blowing leaves everywhere. I haven't seen a soul raking until today, when I saw TWO people doing it.
I realize leaf blowers are faster. They're even kind of fun to use: strap a big pack on your back and watch everything in your path shiver and quake.
But they're so loud. And some could argue they create pollution and make global warming worse. Not to mention how much it costs to fill them up with gas.
But that's not why I've been upset.
I'm scared the rake is destined to end up in museums or antiques stores. No one seems to use them anymore, and that's just a shame.
There's something wonderful and Robert Frost-like about raking. It's just one of those deeply embedded images of autumn.
And compared to leaf blowers, it's a serene activity. It's not adding to the hole in the ozone. It's free (unless you pay the neighbor's kid to do it). It's good exercise. And it's fun. Especially if you have a warm spot and a hot beverage waiting for you inside.
I love driving down Ridgeway in the evening at this time of year. More and more lighted balls are up in the trees, giving you the sense of driving through an enchanted holiday tunnel.
But it has spoiled me. Now when I see the two or three balls in a tree and no other decorations or anything nearby, it looks sort of, well, lame.
The woman in the combat boots and soiled sweater walked down Elm Street on Monday dutifully checking each trash can until the display window at Schiffman's caught her eye. She stood there for several minutes, looking at all the sparkling wonders inside.
And I thought to myself:
Is she reminiscing of good times gone by or dreaming of better ones ahead?
I don't always get to the house chores right away. Dirty dishes sometimes linger a couple days. Clothes aren’t always folded and put away immediately. When you live alone, that's how it goes.
So there was no obvious rush to clean up the potted plant that a gust of wind knocked over on my porch the other week.
But when I pulled into my driveway last Monday after watching a football game with friends, my headlights caught plant's root ball.
"Tonight’s the night," it seemed to say, "to throw me out."
I grabbed the wad of dirt and stems. The pot wasn't nearby, but I guessed that it rolled under a chair and I'd find it the next morning. It had to be somewhere. On the second stair down from the porch to the trash can I jammed my right shoe in the plastic pot, which cracked and slid out from underfoot. I hit my left hip and shoulder on the corner of the house, spun around, and hung my right thigh on a wrought-iron rail designed to keep people from flying off the stairs. I was just falling down them.
I avoided a total wipe-out by chucking the plant and grabbing the rail.
Looks like I found the pot.
Back inside my duplex, I was sure that I ripped my pants and would need stitches on an area that I usually sit upon. That check turned out OK, thankfully. Lesson learned: While it's good to do your chores, it's best to do them in a well-lit area
The warm weather has brought the squirrels back out. We have some potted flowers on the steps of our porch. Something in them attracts squirrels, who come up and dig in the dirt and sample the flowers. They only have a bite or two and apparently don't like the taste because they toss the remnants onto the step.
It irritates my wife in that way that only squirrels can. She treat the dirt with red pepper and that kept them away for awhile, but when she watered them, it washed the pepper out of the way and they returned. More pepper. Then more water. Then more squirrels.
Then more steam coming from my wife's ears.
Me, I've written down "BB gun" on my wife's Christmas list.
It's that time of year when our little hyperactive mixed-breed goes bonkers in the backyard whenever she hears or smells nearby deer in the woods.
We've been a little worried that she'll succeed in hopping over the fence. Then what? I can imagine one of those deer, if it felt threatened or cornered, could intentionally or accidentally injure her or worse.
Yet, despite all the bravado, I take this very same dog for a run through our neighborhood the other day and she gets frightened by an inflatable holiday decoration.
I was jogging by a house with one of those inflatable Christmas trees and I almost tripped over Anna as she jerked my leash and bolted toward the middle of the road after being startled by it.
So John isn't impressed when he sees a few lone treeballs in someone's yard? Well, he's obviously never hung one, has he?
I put up a few modest ones in the trees in my front yard recently, and with all the cords and the coordination needed, it was no small feat. The kids loved them, and were even more excited when, a few days later, a couple neighbors got inspired and hung their own. Now it's a treat to drive home at night.
My wife and I were at a party talking with a friend. He was telling the story of his experience at the Spivey's Corner National Hollerin' Contest in 1979. It seems as if the guy he went with thought he was in line for the restroom when he was actually queued up for the Whistlin' Contest.
Yes, his friend wet his whistle and ended up being crowned national whistlin' champion.
As our friend was telling the story, he mentioned the guy's name. My wife said, what? He repeated it.
Wife: "He's a lawyer? In Raleigh?"
Friend: "He is a lawyer. He was getting his JD in Chapel Hill when I was getting my MBA. He was one of my best friends. But I don't know where he is now. We lost touch 10 or 15 years ago. I do think he grew up in Wake County, though."
Wife: "We know him. He's the father of one of our daughter's best friends. At Chapel Hill."
The next day, my wife called the guy:
Wife: "I have one question for you: Were you the Spivey's Corner Whistlin' Champion in 1979?"
Guy: "It's 'National Whistlin' Champion,' and yes, I was."
Small world...but not large enough when you hear this:
0ne of my favorite pursuits during the lazy, hazy days of summer is to visit my family's property along a Chesapeake Bay tributary in Virginia and fish.
Usually I reel in croaker. If I'm lucky and the bounty is plentiful, my aunt will fry 'em up, then serve them with cornbread and her homemade cole slaw on their gazebo overlooking the water.
This video I shot a few years year ago reminds me I'm not the only one out there fishing. That's my brother, by the way, taking practice shots.
Look at them sitting there sipping their $4 coffees, tickling their laptops for the next answer. Is this anyway for high school kids to do their homework? Relaxing on an overstuffed couch at Caribou Coffee?
Where's the rock-hard chair and table? Where are the shelves crammed with books that smell like your grandmother's den? Where's Old Lady Walkowiak shushing you every 10 minutes?
I bet they wouldn't know a Dewey Decimal System if it bit them on the ... Wait a minute! Is that what I think it is? A...a scone?
I was driving down Spring Garden a couple nights ago about 9 p.m. It was pretty dark, but UNCG's campus was lit up by luminarias. I was thinking how pretty it looked as I came to a stop behind a car already at a red light. Suddenly, both doors on the car flung open and two college-age women jumped out. I thought for a second they were going to dash around the car and switch places. Instead, they just did a little wiggly dance, hopped back in the car as the light turned green and drove off. And then it made sense: Hurrah for the end of exams!
Riley, my 6-year-old son, joined Boy Scouts this year. Last night he received his first ranking (Bobcat). Admitttedly, he did not have to skin a deer or survive a weekend in the Bog Garden with only tree bark and his wits to pull him through.
Instead he had to learn the Cub Scout Promise, which deals with honesty, integrity and trustworthiness -- traits I hope he carries with him long after Boy Scouts.
Still, I wouldn't mind if he skinned something other than his knee. Maybe learn a few knots. Perhaps then he'd get the proper respect at home.
On the night of his first Den meeting, his mother urged him to go upstairs and put on his costume.
I gently corrected her: "It's not a costume, honey, it's a uniform."
It didn't help mattters when we were stopped outside by our neighbor's 5-year-old daughter, who saw Riley decked out in his uniform.
"Oh, Riley," she gushed. "I love your scarf!"
"This is not a scarf," he told her. "Right, dad?"
I nodded and told him I wasn't sure what it was called. But scarf? No way.
Is there a badge for fathers who don't have the heart to tell their sons that the scarf they're wearing is really a neckerchief?
My 4-year-old's Christmas list includes a dog that can live in the desert and eat scorpions. If anyone can point me to the best breed, or a Triad area scorpion breeder, you'd make at least one of us happy.
Seeing all the empty seats at the Panthers game in Bank of America Stadium today, do you get the idea that the marketing efforts to get people to sign up for the Dish Network by telling them that's the only way they can watch the Panthers-Cowboys game Dec. 22 has backfired?
Is it just me or is the world of printers and ink cartridges evil?
I spent a good hour at Staples yesterday trying to identify the correct Dell ink cartridge for my printer. This is after having gone to Office Depot a few weeks ago ("we don't carry Dell") and then to Ink Restore, who managed to lose my cartridges ("sorry, call the manager.") But finally the book report had to be printed, so we went to Staples, which for some reason is the only place you can buy Dell cartridges.
But which one? No, it couldn't be as simple as reading the package. It's top secret information, apparently. A similiarly befuddled woman and I stood there staring at the display, trying to figure out which would work in our 924 printer. We had some choice words for Dell about this time. We waited some more and had some choice words for Staples. Finally, the nice store manager looked it up for us and we got our cartridges. We're Series 5, as it turns out.
So feeling very proud of myself, I went to install the cartridge and triumphantly print out my daughter's book report. It seemed to fit, but I can't say for sure because the printer decided to stop working. I tried a variety of fixes, including turning it off and on and jiggling it, to no avail. I was on the verge of throwing it across the room when my daughters stopped me. After all, we had the cartridges now!
Interesting debate on a Triad radio talk show this morning about giving money to street beggars.
The gist of the exchange between the radio personalities and callers boiled down to this: are those people you see on the side of the road or near shopping centers and malls carrying signs and asking for money really in need or are they swindlers?
It reminded me of some weird close encounters I've had in Greensboro.
One time a few years ago I was waiting for the light to turn green on Battleground Avenue when a disheveled, thin man in his 40s and waving a gas can approached my car. I rolled down the window, and he asked if I could drive him somewhere downtown so he could get some gas for his car and, oh, if I had a few bucks to spare.
It was one of those split-second decisions because the light just changed to green, so I said hop in. So I dropped him off at his old, beat-up car somewhere on East Market Street if I recall and handed him a few bucks. He was very appreciative and that was the end of it.
Another time happened here in the News & Record parking lot facing Market Street. As I was walking to my car, a man approached me, explaining he just got out of prison and was trying to get back on his feet.
I was a little leery, but then I'm thinking, if this is a smooth-talking swindler, couldn't he come up with something a little more endearing than I just got out of prison? Maybe your house caught on fire and you and your family are homeless, something like that.
Anyway, long story short, I gave him a few bucks. Maybe what I did was stupid. Or maybe it was the right call. Who knows?
Last Thursday, I drove home to pick up my daughter from the school around the corner from us. As I entered the neighborhood, I saw the city leaf-collection crew coming down the street. Since I was planning to take the following day off to blow leaves, I had a few choice words for my ill-adjusted timing.
But as I drove down the street and passed our house, I slammed on the brakes. There, in front of my house was a huge mound of leaves at the curb. The entire front yard had been picked clean and shunted to the street.
I continued on to the school (since I was late, anyway) but began a mental inventory of what possibly could have happened. Had my wife paid someone to do the work as a surprise? No. Had someone owed me a favor and repaid me? No. Would a neighbor have done that for no good reason? Surely not.
When I got home, I went across the street to talk to a neighbor who had been home that day. "I think I saw Jay out there with his backpack blower, yeh," said she, fingering my neighbor to the left.
I spotted Jay in his backyard and asked what he knew about the leaves that, now, were getting sucked up by the leaf crew. His growing smile belied his denial. Truth be told, he said, yeah, he did it.
Turns out his old backpack blower blew up, so he went that day and bought himself a new one. He did his backyard so fast, he wasn't satisfied with having seen enough. "I looked at your yard and wondered how it would do with all those little oak leaves."
40 minutes later, he said, the leaves were at the curb.
Was he repaying me for 10 years of listening to his Led Zepplin basement tribute band and not calling the cops? For all the times his pneumatic tools punctured a quiet Saturday? Or was he just being a guy playing with a new toy and helping out his time-starved neighbor along the way?
I'm not sure that I have been, but I hope in the future to be that kind of neighbor too.
You won't see it in Paul Robinson's obituary; he wasn't big on bragging. But Mr. Paul, as he was known by many, was a hero, a gentle soul who served his country, his God and his family. He's the kind of person who gives strength to a community, and his passing takes a little of that strength away.
The Robinsons live around the corner from us. For almost 30 years, they have opened their home on Monday night to lead Bible study lessons for children. The kids come from their church, Parkway Baptist, but also from the surrounding neighborhoods. It didn't matter to Miss Evelyn and Mr. Paul what church your parents went to; as long as you were three years old, you were welcome. Every child got a warm hug coming and going. Every child, every time.
The kids would gather in the small front living room and sing songs at the upright piano, listen to Bible stories, work on crafts and get an ample helping of love and kindness. Whenever one of the kids had a birthday that week, their name would go up on the mirror in big red letters. They were that week's celebrity. Mothers took turns bringing snacks.
Mr. Paul was the quiet one of the couple. He'd gently nudge the children along, sing with them, pray with them, share with them his love of Jesus in a way that kids understood.
I only knew Mr. Paul in his latter years, when life's many tolls had stooped his tall frame and left him frail. I think of the sacrifices he made as a young Marine in the Pacific during World War II, the 39 years he worked for Southern Railway. But I think of him most as the kind neighbor with the easy smile, open arms and a love of God so strong he devoted almost 30 years welcoming children into his home to share that love with them.
That tradition is going to go on; Miss Eveylyn proclaimed it so last night during the visitation. She's going to take a few weeks off, and then she'll be back.
As our 6-year-old daughter stood looking at Mr. Paul at rest, Ms. Evelyn bent over and said, "He's in a much better place now, dear. He's with Jesus." And our daughter agreed.
God bless you, please Mr. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who pray.
A few months ago I quit my membership at the downtown YMCA. Even with the discount I got for being under 25 I felt I was just paying too much for what I was actually using -- which was essentially the track, some free weights and the sauna. I didn't go swimming or use the basketball courts, didn’t take Yoga classes -- in the end I felt like the guy who orders the salad but ends up splitting the check with a bunch of people who had filet mignon.
A friend in the office told me I should check out Planet Fitness -- a (then) new gym on West Market Street that was stripped down, low key and (most important) much cheaper. At $10 a month with no contract the price was certainly right and I told myself I’d join. Right after I vegged out on the couch chasing giant fat burgers and fries with brown liquor and double-thick milkshakes for a few months.
This week I finally got around to joining -- but I got more than I bargained for.
As I walked into the giant, brightly lit room full of cardio equipment, weight machines and banks of televisions, I noticed one phrase over and over, on pamphlets and handouts, painted on the very walls: "NO JUDGMENT."
Like a lot of gyms these days, Planet Fitness markets itself to people who most need to go to the gym -- people who aren't athletes, weight lifters or bodybuilders. People who, like me, sort of put any real dedication to their physical fitness aside some time ago and have grudgingly realized that they really ought to do something about that before they're forced to begin sewing their own clothing out of bed sheets and floor-length curtains. I had a lot in common with Planet Fitness' existing members -- years of sloth, a proclivity for greasy bags of fried fast food, the sneaking suspicion that someone shrunk these pants -- and those, too. And this shirt.
But if the gym's rhetoric was any indication, its members had something I did not: a near crippling fear of working out with or around people who are in good shape. The thinking, it seemed, was that people who are in great shape have a tendency to show off, to preen and strut, and (worst of all, it seemed) to judge people who aren't in such great shape.
On one wall a crude, insulting cartoon of a bodybuilder breaking all of the gym's clothing rules hung from one wall. On another there was a large light labeled "LUNK ALARM."
"Um...what's a lunk alarm?" I asked the friendly young woman processing my membership.
"Oh," she said. "I was ... going to explain that. You see -- we don't cater to bodybuilders or weight lifters....”
The way she said it, the edge in her voice, would have suited a conversation about rapists and child molesters. I'd known plenty of weight lifters and bodybuilders in my life -- and most of them were perfectly decent guys. A little self involved -- and who wouldn't be with a hobby that required that much time thinking about the shape of your pectoral muscles and measuring your own neck? But certainly not evil.
"So, in order to sort of keep out those types, we have the Lunk Alarm," she said. "A Lunk is anybody who drops weights loudly, who grunts while working out or who judges other people."
"Well, we don't want that," I said.
"No, we don't," she agreed. "So, if someone does those things, that light goes off and there's an alarm and we go over and..."
"And you publicly mock and shame them?" I asked.
"Well...yes," she said. "I guess."
"Here in the 'judgment free zone?'" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. "I guess it is ironic."
I thought about the last period in my life in which I'd actually gone to the gym regularly. When I'd started working out I'd been 125 lbs. -- the three dimensional version of the skinny little guys who got sand kicked in their faces in old Charles Atlas comic book ads. This was pre Emo, so I didn't even look cool. An old girlfriend once complained that whenever we embraced my hip bones jabbed into her.
Beginning from there and working out next to guys who could bench press a Buick had occasionally made me feel a little self conscious, sure -- but it also made me work harder. And if I needed to learn something (and I often did) those guys were there to give me a hand. I never felt judged by them -- but then, I'd never judged them either.
A question to the woman in the silver, Porsche 911 Carrera convertible who zipped by me on Battleground Avenue late this afternon with the top down: aren't you, like, cold or something?
Maybe a little? It's 46 freakin' degrees out!
So, yes, I was staring at you. But only in amazement.
The Scene: A jam-packed post office at Friendly Center earlier this week.
The Players: Postal employee Ralph Collins and a self-absorbed shopper (that would be me).
Collins: Good morning, sir, how's it going?
Me: Pretty good, thanks, how about you?
Collins: I'm fine as well, sir, but really I was talking about your package. How's it going? Next day? First class?
It used to be you'd go to a concert and see dozens of flickering lighters.
Ah, those days are long gone my friend.
Case in point was a concert we attended at the Greensboro Coliseum last night.
The cell phone has replaced the lighter at concerts. Dozens of people were holding up them up, but not as a form of salute, but to take pictures, apparently ignoring this clearly stated message.
It wasn't enforced, although you'd have to be blind not to seem them, what with their lit-up screens being raised in the air to grab that perfect shot of the stage.
Then again, I can't imagine concert security dragging some middle-age man out of the concert because he was - the horror! - taking poor quality photos from a cell phone camera at a concert that's about joy and peace and all that good stuff.
We were lining up in the pew at our church's Christmas Eve candlelight service when a friend motioned us up to sit with his family. We hesitated because we were just about in place and the sanctuary was filling rapidly. My wife and I exchanged looks and we -- me, my wife and our two daughters -- moved to sit next to our friends. We exchanged quick greetings and settled in for the service.
I reached for the hymnal and found the first hymn, "Good Christian Friends Rejoice." It wasn't until after we sang the hymn and I remarked to my eldest daughter that this was the politically correct version of the original, that I looked at the front of the hymnal. Inscribed in gold on the cover was our eldest daughter's name. I did a double-take, in a split second considering and discounting the possibilities that she brought it or that our friends had planted it for us to find. I scanned the two other hymnals within reach to see if they had inscriptions; they didn't.
I silently showed it to her and her face registered surprise, then burst into a huge smile. She looked at me quizzically, and I shrugged. All I could think was that someone had gifted the hymnal in her name at her confirmation several years earlier. But neither my wife nor I could remember any notice of that.
This is a large church with many members and many hymnals. That we would sit at that pew at that time...well, its not a Christmas miracle, but it was a wonderful Christmas coincidence that made the service even more special.
Update: After reading this item in the newspaper, I received a note from the choir director: I read your story in the N&R about finding the hymnal at a Christmas Eve Service! If it had her name printed on the front in gold, then it is actually her hymnal! We present them to the children when they are in 6th grade if they have been in Choristers before they move on to Youth Choir, so that is what that is. She must have either left it at the church or perhaps never received it, but if you can find it again, you should take it home because it belongs to her!
On Saturday, I wheeled to the curb a broken down lawnmower that we had stored outside for a year, thinking we were going to fix it. It was rusty, one of the wheels wobbled and was scarred with what appeared to be bite marks from some wild animal. Oh, and it wouldn't start. Trash pickup is Monday, but I knew it wouldn't last that long.
It didn't. Virtually anything not in one of the city's trash or recycling containers gets picked up by someone in a roving band of scavengers. (And I mean that in the kindest way.) Yesterday's rain didn't deter the Sunday sweep through the neighborhood. The lawnmower vanished last night.
I have had broken tables, chairs missing a leg, weed-eaters with the electrical cord yanked out, and even bags of leaves picked up. What I presume to be the resourcefulness of these folks impresses me. And if it spares one thing from filling the landfill, more's the better.
200 E. Market Street,
Greensboro,
NC27401(336) 373-7000(800) 553-68801813 N. Main Street,
High Point,
NC27262(336) 883-4422203 E. Harris Place,
Eden,
NC27288(336) 627-17814213 S. Church Street,
Burlington,
NC27215(336) 449-7064
