He was half in and half out of the dumpster, and yelling for help. I ignored the stench, a fellow human and all that. I wasn’t sure if the odor filling my nostrils was coming from the dumpster, or from the man, or a combination of both, but it was like standing next to a giant cat box that had never been emptied. I unhooked his belt from where it was caught and yanked. The combination of gravity and my tug righted him. He turned and faced me, an empty Bud can in each hand. I didn’t ask. “I’m an environmentalist,” he said, “and a recycler.” I was startled by his job description, and said nothing. “Ah, so later,” he said, “and thanks.” He turned and walked away.
Archive for the ‘Moments’ Category
The Environmentalist
Tuesday, March 13th, 2007The Customer
Friday, March 9th, 2007The speaker crackled, a voice, an impatient voice said thank you for shopping at Harmons. We will be closing soon, please bring your purchases to the front of the store.
“The store is closing,” he said, “can I help you find something?”
“Why yes,” I said, “I’m looking for saltine crackers.”
I expected him to give me the aisle number, but instead he signaled that I should follow him. He got a better start than I did and quickly had a half an aisle lead on me, and when he reached the end of the aisle he disappeared. I wasn’t sure if he had turned right or left.
I reached the end of the aisle and turned left, but the next aisle was empty. I was ready to turn around when a voice said, over here. I turned, but he was gone again. I retraced my steps, pass the aisle where I’d started and on to the next. There he was mid-aisle, crackers in hand. He was wearing his you’re-the-customer smile, a smile that was forced and fading. I took the crackers, while he deftly moved to the middle of the aisle assuring that my only exit was to the front of the store.
Twenty minutes later I made it through the checkout, and there he was again, no longer blocking my path, but pointing the way out of the store.
Waste Not, Want Not
Friday, February 2nd, 2007Tom Brokaw calls it the Greatest Generation. I call it the clean-plate generation. One thing is certain–the experience of growing up during the depression is still with them. Waste not, want not is now part of their DNA.
Waste not, want not moments are a regular part of our annual trips to Yuma to visit Gail’s Dad. I don’t know whether things go better with Coke, but I do know our family drinks its share and wastes a fair amount in the process.
Pauline discovered a nearly full can of Diet Coke with no apparent owner, and put it in the refrigerator. Immediate action was needed if we were to avoid a nasty situation. No one wants to drink a flat, half-full Coke, but with Pauline on the prowl there would soon be a six-pack of them in the fridge. We all knew what we had to do, and started working to lessen the damage. We secreted flat, half-full drinks into the sink, emptied them, and carefully placed the cans in the recycling bin.
But, it wasn’t long before Earl joined in Pauline’s effort not to waste a single drop. He came through the living room in inspection mode, and quickly spotted several unattended cans. He scowled, raised his arm, and pointed to each can in turn as though he expected the can to identify its owner. I think he was ready to suggest name-tags for the cans. Tim did the next best thing when he immediately claimed ownership of the can nearest him, and when Earl pointed to another at his right, he said he was watching it for his brother. The can across the room belonged to Gerald, who was in the bathroom, and when Earl pointed to a fourth can Tim found an owner for that as well. Earl continued to scan the room, and Tim who had run out of potential owners was more than a little relieved when he didn’t find any. I entered the room ready to claim a can, and Earl gave me his your-son-is-a-bullshitter smirk. I responded with a whatever-do-you-mean smile.
I don’t know if there is a moral to the story, but it was Gail’s Sunday morning chat with her dad that brought it to mind. Earl had told her that he needed new tires for his car; his code for there is a new car in my future. Earl may be frugal, a certified member of the Greatest Generation, but he also has a thing about cars. A couple of Sundays later Gail passed along the news that her dad had a new car. “Wait till Norm finds out,” he had said. I’m not sure how to respond, hey Earl my tires are looking pretty worn, or waste not want not. They say that Coke adds life, but it’s the Greatest Generation that keeps it interesting.
Chloe’s Business Trip
Tuesday, January 16th, 2007There is nothing like the smell of dog shit in the morning especially if it is squishing between your toes. My wife’s dog Chloe, a Maltese, is ‘trained’. She scratches at my shin and barks, Chloe is asking to go out. Is she scratching because she has business to do, or is she scratching because her business is already done? Will I find evidence of her business at one her regular drop-off locations? Is she going to do her business, or is she going outside, in the cold, to make amends for business she’s already done?
I open the door, the question, will she stay or will she go now? There is no certainty, the odds no better than fifty-fifty that she’ll do the right thing. She goes. I watch her through the French doors looking for a place to make the deposit. She zeroes in on a prospective site, she circles, the circle getting tighter and tighter, but no, this is not the spot and she moves on. Another location, and the ritual begins again. Is she serious, or is she waiting for me to turn away and then to pretend that it is ‘mission accomplished’.
Her search reminds me that I have business of my own to do. I’m no sooner seated than I realize that the deposit she is pretending to make outside is in the room with me. Yuk. She’s a bad dog, and I tell her so but she can’t hear me, she’s still outside play acting. I finish my business, clean up her business, and return to let her in. She wants praise for her recent ‘business trip’. The fact that she did no business doesn’t seem to concern her. I ignore her calls for praise, she gets none, and no frequent pooper miles for this trip.
Lightning
Friday, June 16th, 2006The subject was philosophy. Nietzsche, a philosopher well known for his dislike of Christianity and famous for his statement that ‘god is dead’, was the topic. Professor Hagen was lecturing and outside a thunderstorm was raging. It was a good one. Flashes of lighting were followed closely by ominous claps of thunder. Every time the professor would describe one of Nietzsche’s anti-christian views the thunder seemingly echoed his remarks. At the high-point of the lecture a bolt of lightning struck the ground near the classroom followed by a deafening clap of thunder. The professor, unconcerned, walked to the window opened it and starting jabbing at the sky with his umbrella. He yelled, you senile son of a bitch, your aim is getting worse.
Suffice it to say that some students were offended by his irreverent remark and brought it to the attention of the Department Head. The Department Head in turn took it to the Dean of Humanities who called the professor in for a meeting. The Dean reminded the professor that the students pay a lot of tuition and that he shouldn’t unnecessarily insult their beliefs. Oh, says the professor, and what beliefs are those? Well, you know the Dean says, most students attending this University are Christians. We can’t have you blaspheming during class. Surely says the professor, the merciful God of Christianity wouldn’t throw lightning bolts. It’s Zeus who throws lightning bolts.
Later the Dean spoke with the Department Head, and said, “the next time you have a problem with that professor you handle it, and let him make an ass out of you instead.”
