Just Flip the Dog

Sunday’s Column – We Can’t Please Everyone

winjaw — Sun, 19 May 2013 23:49:42 +0000

I recently had quite a pleasant email exchange with a spry and delightful young 81-year-old.

At first, she was not happy and let me and former reporter and columnist Alex McRae know it.

As Miss “J” said to Alex, with a copy to me, “I heard from a reliable source that you will no longer have regular columns in the Times-Herald, just “guest columns.” Consequently, when my subscription expires May 16, 2013, I will not now or ever be a subscriber again. The only reason I EVER subscribed was because I loved and looked forward to your column most every day. When it began to appear just on Sunday, I was more than a little disappointed. Now, if what I hear is true, I have had it with this rag.”

The start of a beautiful relationship. And so I had to respond. And here it is in part:

“I have worked with Alex since I have been here and consider him a great reporter and even better columnist.

“Alex has decided to retire. He will be missed. But he’s an old fart who constantly complains about his creaking knees and having to walk up the stairs. And when it was suggested he use the elevator, he starts ranting about how many people die in two-story elevator accidents and the thing is too slow anyway and somehow Obama is involved.

“I will miss giving him the myriad of prescriptions he has to take every day and constantly forgets. We do get worried at times when he starts talking to the newspaper or wanders off. He does not know, but we put a monitoring bracelet on him. He thinks it’s a new watch.

“Alex will continue to write his Sunday column, which he has done since I’ve been here and I understand started about the time Moses got the Ten Commandments.

“I’m glad you enjoy the rag. It is very good for windows. You can also wrap fish, roll it up and train your dog, cover you bird cage or use it to protect your floors when you paint. If you have no pets and hate to paint, you can also make a cool hat.

“Things are changing. Give us a chance.”

Things went better after that.

And speaking of things, things are changing here at your newspaper.

Starting Wednesday, we will launch a redesign of the newspaper. Don’t panic. Change, especially in this case, is good.

The staff has worked long and hard to create a new look that is more eye-catching and easier to read. Consider it a fresh coat of paint.

We are making other changes as well based on the recent reader survey that more than 450 participated in. We don’t pretend to have all the answers or know what you, our readers, want. And that’s why we did the survey. We can guess or we can rely on you.

And no, not everyone is going to like everything we do. We are going to get rid of the stock page. The vast majority of readers said they don’t even look at it. The same goes for the TV guide, although that will be down the road. Again, a huge majority said they have never looked at it, and with the online TV guides available now, we can’t even offer everything anyway. Instead, we will be offering a prime time lineup for all the days of the week. That change will occur in a few weeks.

We are going to focus more attention on local entertainment and feature stories on businesses and local residents — far and away what most readers want more of. And we are going to continue to tweak and pinch and ponder and rework the newspaper as we move forward. Change is an ever changing thing, and we will continue to work as hard as possible to provide you with the best newspaper we can.

As to Miss J, turns out she likes my columns too. So she’s promised to continue getting the Sunday paper at least to read Alex’s and my columns. Although she wants a bigger type size.

So do I. But bigger type size means less news, sports and features. Like I said, we can’t please everyone on every thing.

Wise Words No. 88 (The Impossible)

winjaw — Wed, 15 May 2013 22:30:01 +0000

It’s kind of fun to do the impossible

Walt Disney

Sunday’s Column – Find The Time

winjaw — Sun, 12 May 2013 18:15:51 +0000

It is said one never realizes what they have until they lose it.

That realization can haunt one forever. Yet every now and then, grace shows up. Sometimes, you get another chance.

I am lucky. Yet it has taken me more than 30 years. I had excuses — too far away, in the middle of a major project or new book coming out. Always something. The something was the wrong answer. And so I made amends.

There were — and still are — sixteen of us. The fact we are all still alive after 32 years beats statistical averages. Yet we are not immune from those statistics. There are a few divorces, a remarriage or two. No one cares. We are human. The wives, the second wives, the new girlfriends, all are welcome in this circle.

It is but a small part of why I have always loved these guys. No one cared who you were those decades ago; none care who you are now. Just that you are you, and you are here. You are part of the Brotherhood.

The Phi Delts of Washington and Lee’s Class of ‘85 are together again. And that is all that matters. Two are missing. One is helping his wife with recent battles against cancer. The second sent a photo from a beach in another country, celebrating his 25th anniversary with his wife. Both excused. Both missed.

Thirty-two years ago we pledged a fraternity. Some of us knew a fellow pledge or two from high school. Others of us were in the dark. Yet we bonded together through the hells of being a pledge. Try drinking a yard of beer within a time limit and still stand.

Eating peanut butter out of the armpit of another human other than your wife, passing a single egg without breaking the yolk mouth to mouth creates, I don’t know, some weird bond.

And so we bonded and did stupid things only a bunch of 18-year-olds can come up with. Our decision to revolt and kidnap our “pledge trainers,” strip them, cover them with molasses and feathers and tie them to a tree in front of one of the area’s women’s colleges is such an example. We paid for that. Our pledge masters probably had a better night.

Traditions were started with our class. The Nude Phi, where some crazy pledges decided to run down the stairs stark naked after being granted entrance to our sacred fraternity, is one. I will never reveal those names and honestly, only heard about it after the fact. Swear. And there was the dictionary written on the bathroom walls …

It was hard. What were 16 guys attending an all-male school supposed to do surrounded by five women’s colleges?

And so we gathered these many years later. A weekend in New Orleans, eating at two of the best restaurants in town. We had our own private room at each, just the guys and the ladies. And the stories were told, and retold.

To the Little Black Dress’s credit, she only raised her eyebrows once or twice. I was always honest about my past to her, but hearing it from another’s perspective is always quite enlightening. The stories had new elements as well, stories on a myriad of kids. Our legacy. Photos were shared, check-ins with children made by text. Truly a new age.

The first night the Oracle recited “I Am The Nation,” as he did many years ago at our spaghetti dinners. We are not sure how that really started, but he found some poster with the words and it just became a tradition. We have a lot of those traditions. Cherished ones. The next day the ladies, all in festive hats, went to lunch on their own. The male species of us hit an oyster bar and more stories were retold.

The second night Oracle gave the invocation. He said what needed to be said. He thanked God we are here. We are alive. To remember what we had. To remember what we have. He spoke for all of us, as he always does.

It was an incredible weekend. One so remarkable that, at times, it felt we just woke up and it was yet another day at the fraternity house. Yet we were older; most were finally getting a hairline to match mine of decades ago. There were the offspring back at home.

It is rare to have such friends. It is an honor to call them that. Too often we let what we have slip away. Don’t be that fool. Make the call. Find the time. Live life as if today is it. It may be.

And so to my fellow brethren, I end with the famous quote of The Fat Poet, “I was still …” The rest remains to them.

To Bill, Darby, Dan, Marshall, Matt, Tom, Cole, Charlie, Clayton, Reynolds, Billy, Charlie, Lee, Peter and Gil:

YITB

Sunday’s Column – Wise Words On Camping

winjaw — Mon, 06 May 2013 22:55:23 +0000

We recently had our annual spring campout with the Mighty Men of Pack 47.

Bittersweet in a way. Youngest SON of Thunder will be moving up to Troop 47 this fall. So the last official campout with the younger titans.

There are rather large differences between what is known as “car camping” and backpacking. That’s mainly in the stuff one totes. Backpacking, by its very name, suggests everything you bring is carried on your back. The old adage that ounces equals pounds and pounds equals pain holds true when it’s on your back.

Car camping means there are no weight limits. And for some reason, it takes twice as long to pack for an overnight car camping trip than it does for a three-day backpacking one. Go figure.

It’s all about weight; or not at all. The SONs’ backpacking tents weigh about two pounds. Our car camping tent, which can house a small village, requires a forklift to move. The Little Black Dress calls it the condo. I’ve stayed in beach houses smaller than the condo.

There are two key advantages to car camping: a plethora of ice, as much as you want. And when nature calls, you don’t have to be one with nature, but can actually use something that flushes.

It is not until you can’t have something that you realize how much you need it. Or at least appreciate it. Ice is a wonder. So is sitting down when needed. Let’s celebrate the small stuff.

I think there need to be certain rules. For example, if you are camping — regardless of the type of said camping — I think you should camp.

And so, after observing both kids and adults, a few final thoughts on car camping. You will probably figure out which are for the older generation.

1. You may not bring a generator. End of discussion.

2. You may not go get into your car at 4 a.m. and run your heater because you are cold. Be prepared, as the Scouts say. Bring warm clothes. And since everyone else is trying to sleep, a nearby running car does not help.

3. If you have to lift off a 30-pound Dutch oven and a bag of groceries off the ice chest to get a drink, let me assure you that is not part of the “community chest.” Bring your own.

4. Bringing one of those guest-type air mattresses that require an electric pump, or a large foot pump at minimum, does not fall under the category of camping. Nor do designer sheets.

5. Bringing your microwave, BOSE surround sound stereo, hair dryer and other accoutrements is not camping. See No. 1 above.

6. You are more than welcome to sit in my camp chair. If I am around, at least ask. When I come back and say I’d like to sit in my chair, don’t say “I had it first.”

7. You are also free to try out my hammock. But it’s also where I sleep so please ask first. And no, you may not “keep-borrow” it. I want it back.

8. If you are coming to camp, please stay to camp. The only exception is an actual tornado. Said tornado must be within throwing distance. I say this because someone decided to take down their condo about 4 in the morning. This was followed by dragging all their ice coolers filled with ice, sloshing around. I thought it was a freaking tornado.

9. You are in the wilderness. That bear in camp will eventually leave. The only worry about bears is to be sure there is at least one person slower than you.

10. When you are asked to bring your own plates, water bottles, utensils, etc. — do it. I am not the kitchen. Re-read that whole “Be Prepared” thing. Someone went to the trouble of making a list of who is doing what and what to bring. Read it. Obey it.

11. You are more than welcome to borrow my phone to call your mother. Do not return in an hour and tell me my phone is dead.

12. Do not poke me in the eye with that stick you just sharpened.

13. Do not throw things in the fire that won’t burn easily. Do not throw things in the fire that will explode.

14. I will be more than happy to help you set up your tent. The emphasis is on “help.” You don’t get to walk away to eat a hotdog.

15. Say thank you when someone cooks your dinner or yanks that tick off of you.

16. The White Monkey always goes camping with me. You are free to say hi to him. Please do not touch him — he bites. And no, you may not sleep with him because you forgot your own special blanket/stuffed animal/whatever. I get scared at night too. He keeps me safe.

17. Tell ghost stories at your own risk. Just don’t keep me up all night with all the lights on because you are now scared. That goes for the kids too.

18. You are outdoors. Enjoy it. Do not rush. Relax and have fun.

Sunday’s Column – The Little Black Dress Is Our Guest Columnist

winjaw — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 18:22:56 +0000

The Little Black Dress is our guest columnist this week. Enjoy!

Recently, I was told I was in the middle of midlife. I am sure I appeared shocked. I suppose in some world 29 is midlife, but not in mine, I thought to myself.

Then reality hit. Okay so maybe the old calendar indicates I am in the middle of midlife, and maybe I’m a little past 29, but don’t tell Winters or anyone else for that matter.

No midlife for me. I am in the midst of puberty, spelling bees, musicals and mini meltdowns from The SONs of Thunder.

Some days I hardly recognize The SONs or the world we live in.

Many times I ask, “Am I on another planet?” and “Are these my SONs or simply alien impostors?” Yes, that is it! Aliens have embodied my darling, charming, delightful SONs of Thunder.

Winters and I have definitely found ourselves on Planet Puberty. And we have every intention of surviving.

So in retaliation for this invasion, I went on strike. That was effective for a very short time — until I realized the SONs did not really understand the true meaning of “a strike” and unfortunately, I crossed my own picket line a few times. But the word “grounded,” now that they understood. However, they had rarely experienced being grounded until the world as we know it changed with the invasion of pubescent teens.

Now Winters and I are willing to try just about anything. We are back to writing out goals, objectives and setting plans in motion. Lack of electronic access is a never-ending discussion, so much so that I simply say, “Do not speak. Don’t say another word.” Yet this bothers The SONs, who think we have a “tone.” They prefer more harmonious discipline on Planet Puberty.

Oh my, have I become my mother? I ponder … Well, she would be a hard one to top.

Once my brother and I drove her so crazy she threw spaghetti at us and then beat the pots and pans together. When we were adults and recounted the story to her, she simply smiled and said, “It was macaroni noodles not spaghetti.” My only retort was “Mom REALLY, it was pasta!” I adored my mother and I figure every great woman deserves a breakdown once in a while.

I am pretty sure she was menopausal. And my dear friends, menopause and puberty simply do not mix! So far I have managed to outrun that one.

As for me, I have never beat pots and pans together except to make music with The SONs and I have only served them pasta on a plate.

However, I did nearly have a nervous breakdown trying potty training with The SONs. I used to wear evening gowns and sing on stages to hundreds of people. I have a master’s degree in counseling for heaven’s sake. And I can’t teach one tiny little child to poop in the potty!

What is up with that? I am pretty sure I shed some tears over potty training three SONs and it never got easier. Now thank God I can laugh about it. I will blame the tears on postpartum depression at the time and I am sticking to that story.

Sometimes life is just hard. It doesn’t matter if you’re potty training your child, your SONs are trying to come into their own, or you are burying a beloved parent.

Life is full of moments that seem insurmountable.

We have friends on the same planet. We can relate — and laugh — about our common experiences. Growing up isn’t all that bad either on Puberty Planet. We have food, water and air. Well, as far as the air is concerned, I have air so long as it hasn’t been sucked out of me over some great debate that the invaders need more computer time, games, toys, electronics.

We are still in charge on the new planet, although sometimes it appears there may be a revolt any minute. So we say words like “strike,” “grounded” and the best, “I love you” — and then give them a big hug! Oh and we say a lot prayers on this planet, trust me on that one.

How can you make it? Pray a lot, listen to them, find a good church and seek wisdom from those who have taken the journey. More importantly, remember the aliens will leave and your sons or daughters will return.

Finally, savor the moment. Life is short, even on Planet Puberty!

………………….

(check out corbywinters.com to follow the adventures of the LBD)

Wise Words No. 87 (Opposition)

winjaw — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 00:02:38 +0000

You are closest to your victory when you face the greatest opposition.

Joel Osteen

Sunday’s Column – Breaking The Habitual Habit

winjaw — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 19:43:55 +0000

Habits, by their very nature, die hard.

They are positive or negative, depending on one’s viewpoint. Those who get up early in the morning to run a few miles before work have developed a good habit. Those who get up early in the morning to run a few miles before work have developed a very bad habit. It makes the rest of us tired thinking about it.

Each of us has habits. And they define who we are and will become. So we must focus on improving the good ones and getting rid of the bad ones. It is not easy. I know. I have tried to quit smoking more times than I can count.

Cold turkey is great. I like making sandwiches with a little mayonnaise, fresh cracked pepper and cranberry. I digress. When I tried that with smoking, after a couple of days it was strongly suggested by co-workers and family that I light up — quickly.

I tried the patch. It worked just fine and I had no problem smoking with one or two on. Then the Little Black Dress read some dire warning that smoking and the patch equals heart attack and death. Then there’s Chantix. A wonderful drug that reduced my urges from about a pack a day to about five a day, all within 48 hours. The warning label on Chantix is a novella and you’d better believe what they say. The Dress, during one phone call while she was in Oklahoma taking care of her parents, told me to stay away from the bathtub and she would be on the next plane.

Let’s just say it’s quite the mood changer.

I am trying another route. It’s more for the SONs of Thunder and The Dress than for me. The former repeatedly come home after every DARE presentation by the sheriff’s office and give me the earful. Sheriff Yeager — you have good people in that program. Trust me.

Anyway, we’re now trying electric or e-cigarettes. The more astute will point out they are still cigarettes. Correct, but instead of inhaling everything from carbon monoxide to rat poison to 50 other things I can’t pronounce, I’m only inhaling about five unknown things. And honestly, after my previous failures, I’m all about baby steps.

Advantages — they don’t stink. Which means I don’t stink. They let out a water mist or something. And I don’t have to deal with dumping the butts. I don’t nearly burn down the house because I dropped a cigarette in a flower bed covered in pine straw and it hadn’t rained for weeks, which goes to show that dried things light up fast.

So my kit comes in the mail the other day. First off, they look like cigarettes. The longer part (where tobacco is in a regular cigarette) is actually the battery. I am given two — long and short. I am given a USB charger that I can plug into any USB outlet — like a computer — and charge away. I have a car charger and a wall charger. And if you are really, really desperate and both batteries have died, they have another battery attached to a cable and you simply plug the other end into a USB cable and puff away. The cord is like eight feet long.

The nicotine comes in a variety of flavors — apple, chocolate (which cannot be sold in California) and other Starbucks-related smells. I went with tobacco. Said nicotine and the other four things I can’t pronounce are in what is known as the Flavormax Cartomizer. These guys have thought of everything. The Flavor thingy looks like the filter end of a regular cigarette and you simple screw the two pieces together.

But the best deal about my kit is the green card. Credit card-sized, it lets others know I’m now in the Green Smoke Club and am accorded certain privileges. The card informs the concerned other party that I omit no offensive odors nor produce any ash and therefore am not subject to many state and federal no-smoking laws.

“Please allow this club member to continue using their Green Smoke unit in your establishment or transport vehicle,” it plainly states. And if there are any questions, they have provided a helpful number to answer opponents’ questions.

I am so pumped to blow this in some airline pilot or TSA agent’s face and just watch their reaction when I pull out my card.

Am I still smoking? Yes. Am I where I want to be? No. But I realize a bad habit and am doing the best I can to change. And in the end, that’s all anyone can do.

“Your beliefs become your thoughts; your thoughts become your words; your words become your actions; your actions become your habits; your habits become your values; your values become your destiny.” (Mahatma Gandhi)

Wise Words No. 86 (The Most Important Days)

winjaw — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 23:49:19 +0000

“The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”

Mark Twain

Sunday’s Column – One Man’s Treasures …

winjaw — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 18:44:15 +0000

People collect stuff.

And those collections are important to those who build them up over the years. They are cherished, shown off to friends. Trips to trade shows and conventions focusing on one’s favored hobby are planned months in advance. Life revolves around collecting more for the collection.

Coins, baseball cards, train sets, stamps, comic books, beer cans and so forth. One guy I knew collected toy John Deere tractors. A great friend of mine collected old fishing lures, but only from 1920-1940.

To each his own. There’s probably some government study out there that can tell one’s personality by the hobby one keeps. I should be careful with that word “hobby,” because for some, it is a lifestyle.

The Little Black Dress is not immune.

She has three collections: shoes, magazines and pillows.

Let us start with the shoes. Her collection is so vast she could wear something different for months. Note I did not say “days.” She has photos of said shoes on each box, to quickly find them I guess. She has been known to talk to her shoes. She usually does that when she has taken about all she can from the SONs of Thunder for the time being. It must be some kind of refuge or something.

One does not mess with her shoes. Once, the dog who thinks she can fly, in a moment of complete mental breakdown, gnarled on one of the LBD’s most sacred pairs of shoes. The fact said dog still lives is a testament to the LBD’s grace. Although I do recall her saying “you are dead to me” to the animal.

I have carted her magazine collections, all with titles including “decor,” “living,” “coastal,” “southern” and whatnot across the country. We do not have stacks of these magazines in various places throughout the house, we have small libraries.

I have tried more than once to convince her it would be much easier — and lighter — to simply tear out the designs/homes/ideas she likes and put them all in one big scrapbook. This comment results in the words “blasphemer” and “sacrilegious” being spewed in my direction.

In another column, I wrote about the pillows. Pillows that seem to multiply and have babies. In another town, the local Hobby Lobby store displayed that column proudly at the cash register for everyone to see. An incentive to buy more, I presume.

To me, a bed is made for sleeping. A couch and chair are made for sitting. This rarely happens at our house. For the bed, it takes me a good five minutes to get the pillows off — and that’s just on my side — so I can do what I thought a bed was for, namely, to sleep.

The Dress points out, incorrectly I might add, that I also have collections.

“Is this a new knife?” she’ll ask sweetly. She’s sweet because she’s already imagining a new pair of shoes.

Let us be clear. The SONs and I backpack and camp a lot. Knives are a necessity of survival. I am not talking about those ghastly Rambo-type knives, but rather bushcraft/survival knives. And yes, I have a small collection. It is imperative to have the right tool for the mission. I’ll always carry a small folder in my back pocket, a nice four-inch or so on my belt. The latter may be a hollow point, a scandi grind or even a convex blade. It depends. And I might, rarely, need a machete or golock or kukri.

The Dress might also try and point out my backpacks, of which I have a couple. Sometimes it’s a short half-day hike; maybe a full-day hike; an overnighter; a weekend jaunt; or even multiple days.

Again, one must be prepared. There is no comparing knives, a necessity, and her shoe store.

As I said earlier, you could probably tell a lot about a person’s character by the collections they maintain.

Some collect friends, others enemies. Some collect forgiveness, others, unforgiveness.

So what’s your collection?

Wise Words No. 85 (Facing Death)

winjaw — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 21:28:17 +0000

“Near certainty of death … little chance of success … what are we waiting for?”

The Lord of the Rings – The Return of the King