Cell Phones

Used to be that owning a cell phone held a certain status. Of course, that was when they first came out and were called car phones. Mostly because that’s where most of them were. But even when the first portable phones came out, the size of shoe box, to own one set you apart.
I remember when someone would get a call in a public place, especially a restaurant; they would politely walk outside to continue their conversation. Out of courtesy and respect for others. That’s what I thought until my buddy Steve suggested that maybe they were really going outside for better reception. Steve has always had a way of showing me another perspective. But I like my version much better.
Then cell phones were no longer car phones having gotten smaller, pocket sized. And cheaper as well. But not so cheap that everyone had one. But still, there was a certain protocol in talking to someone in public. Hushed tones, going outside, or some convenient corner; or better yet, asking if you could call them back later. Yikes, what a concept.
I’ve owned my share of cell phones, from the Motorola Razor to a HP handheld computer that was jarred loose on a bicycle ride and run over by a passing motorist. Even had one so compact that it was “loosing small.” It had a tiny joy stick to maneuver through the menu. That one lasted about three months before I got a more manly replacement.
These days almost everyone has a cell phone. Even saw a homeless guy pushing his shopping cart while talking on a cell phone, dog in tow. Lots of people that seemingly have no transportation except maybe a bicycle and no visible means of support, have a cell phone. Unfortunately the glut of cell phones has brought along a glut of poor manners.
The other day while sipping my Starbucks (yeah, I know) some guy, possibly the manager, came from around the counter talking on his cell phone in the requisite loud voice. Bad enough, but he then proceeded to pace next to my table. I looked at him and said “hey, Dude, take it outside, we don’t need to hear your conversation.” He apologized and walked outside.
It’s amazing how people think that their conversation is so important that we should all hear it. For crying out loud, show some respect and either leave your precious phone in the car, or just walk outside. And no, it doesn’t matter if it’s raining. Don’t be that person. Do your friends and family proud.

Customer Nonservice

Was doing a favor for a neighbor by picking up some patio furniture she had purchased at the local CVS Drug Store. When we arrived, we walked up to the nearest counter as it had an employee behind it. Unfortunately, some guy, an obvious friend of the female employee beat us there. They were having a pretty good conversation. We, paying customers, were completely ignored. Not an acknowledgement that we even existed.
Customer service in this country has sunk to a very low level. But it’s our own fault. We accept poor service at every level. It’s OK by us for a cashier to answer the phone and answer questions to a potential customer while we stand waiting. Merchandise in one hand and cash in the other. But it makes it all OK if they turn to you and say “thank you for waiting.”
While in London a couple of years ago, I walked into this small shop of English sports memorabilia. Stuff like old cricket bats and balls and other stuff I had no clue about. The lone clerk, a young girl, was on the phone having an obvious personal conversation. As our eyes met, we instantly knew something about each other. She knew I wasn’t going to buy anything and I knew she wasn’t going to get off the phone. Plus, she certainly didn’t care.
I was buying a new saddle bag for my bike and the cashier seemed a bit preoccupied, disturbed or maybe just plain angry. She was a bit curt while helping me and taking my money. But to her, all was well when she thanked me for my purchase. Yeah, that made it all OK.
Well, here’s how those three scenarios ended, where I drew the line in the sand. As the young man at CVS was walking back to the store, I asked him for the woman’s name behind the counter. The one that had ignored us. He told me and then asked if there had been a problem, since that’s why people usually ask about names. I told him what had happened. He replied that it would be mentioned to the manager.
The girl in London didn’t know one more thing about me. I was going to make her get off that phone. I looked intently at stuff in the cases and then asked if I could see something. I don’t even remember what it was. With a roll of the eyes, perfected by young girls everywhere, she told her friend something, put the phone down and came over. I thanked her politely and then moved onto the next case waiting for her to start up her conversation. Then once again, I asked to see something. She hung up the phone and I turned to the door and with a smile, thanked her just the same.
After cashier finished answering questions to the customer on the phone and thanked me for waiting, I politely said that other than leaving, I really had no choice. Then I asked if the phone had a “Hold” button and suggested that maybe it would be better to have a customer that she didn’t even know would be purchasing something be put on hold rather than someone standing there cash in hand. All with a big smile on my face.
The girl in the bike shop, poor thing, was having a crisis. I simply asked her if she was having a bad day. She replied that it was almost time for her to go home. I mentioned that she just looked a little out of sorts. She just looked at me. I hoped that it wasn’t anything serious, sweetness and concern oozing out my every pore. She ran my card through the machine. I hoped that her day would be much, much better, grabbed my stuff and left.
To quote that old movie: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” Won’t you join me? Come on, strike a blow for mistreated, unappreciated and ignored customers everywhere. Be sure to kill them with kindness and then smile all the way home.

Out With the Old

I don’t consider myself a pack rat, much less a hoarder. OK, I still do keep scraps of wood leftover from jobs and/or projects from around the house. And there are a few tools from my career as a Handyman that have been tough for me to get rid of. But at least I can get both my vehicles in the garage. And still have plenty of room to walk around. Well, maybe the fact that we have a three car garage might help.
We’ll be having community wide garage sale next month and the wife and I have already started gathering stuff to get sell. You know the stuff I’m talking about. The clothes that haven’t been worn since Clinton was in office; the “had to have” pasta maker and all those CD’s that are now on my iPod. Outta here. See ya later. Hope they find a nice home.
Then there’s the stuff that was put where I could find it when I needed it. Then that spot was quickly forgotten which meant a trip to Home Depot (usually) for a replacement. Then, as usually happens, the lost item pops up. Well, that stuff in now in the Garage Sale box.
Of course, some stuff is hard to get rid of. When we moved to our current home, we decided to sell some of our antiques. Things that looked good and were good ideas at the time, but we just don’t use. But, we thought maybe a phone call to our son David might be appropriate. Give him first refusal privileges. How did that turn out? Well, turns out, he wants us to keep all the pieces. Somehow, each and every one holds special memories for him. Sheesh.
But we’re forging ahead with other stuff and adding to it on a regular basis. Just this morning I walked out the side door of the garage and accidently bumped some deep sea fishing rods, which by the way, haven’t been used in at least a dozen years. But it’s more stuff David wants. Anyway, that bump caused the poles to fall over, hitting the metal detector which then hit some long clamps, which fell to the floor. Oh, that’s where those clamps are.
We do have a different philosophy when it comes to yard sales, though. Everything is priced cheap. Old shovel, a buck. CD’s, a buck. Clothes, twenty five cents each or all you can carry for a buck. My thinking is that I’d rather have some money, no matter the amount, in my pocket rather than haul that stuff back into my garage. It’s a win/win situation.
Oh, oh, gotta get going, the wife is starting to go through some of my drawers and boxes. Can’t let her do that. That’s all the good junk.

Not So Up to Date

There’s lots of stuff going on around the world. Almost too much. Well, in terms of trying to keep up, that is. But do we really care?
The Middle East with all its revolutions has a staggering amount of information coming out on an almost hourly basis. Who can keep up with this stuff? Do we really need to? I’m your typical American when it comes to these things. Shamefully and yet blissfully ignorant of worldwide events. I fall into the “how does that affect me personally” category. The kind that doesn’t know one Middle Eastern leader from another. Or cares. But ask me about the latest with Charlie Sheen, and oh boy, better grab a beer and have a seat.
How about the latest on the death of Bin Laden? Although it was gratifying, I’m proud to say I didn’t hoot and holler or throw a party over that(I consider all human life sacred). What’s the latest regarding the tsunami in Japan? Well, better give me a few minutes to Google that. But I can tell you the absolute latest about TV’s Modern Family comedy series. Probably just as you can tell me who’s been kicked off American Idol and/or Dancing With the Stars. But can you tell me, just who is the Prime Minister of England? Or how about your state representative? Join the club.
We are egocentric when it comes to news. It’s all about us. I don’t know what actually causes higher gas prices. Well, other than greed, but I’m sure glad I own some oil company stock. But I’m too lazy to do anything effective about gas prices. But, ask me to sign a Face Book petition and I’m there. Boycott buying gas for a day, you got it. Of course, forget the fact that I’m still waiting for the oil companies to come crawling to us in the form of lower prices for the last time I didn’t buy gas on a particular day. Well, maybe the fact that I filled up the gas tank the day before might have something to do with it. You think? Hey, a guy only do so much and still not get too involved. I’ll leave it in the capable hands of my neighbors and unknown elected representatives at all levels of government, from city to county to state and up to the feds. Ain’t it grand?

Faded Photographs

Had the occasion to go through some old photos. I mean old photos. The black and white variety with the scalloped edges. Didn’t know who most of those people were and debated about keeping them for another fifty years or just tossing them.
As a society, we used to keep old photographs, because we knew their value. Not just the value of having a picture of Uncle Bob and Aunt Lois, but the value in terms of the process. Back then, we had a camera. One camera. A Kodak probably. The kind that was held about waist level as you looked through the lens trying to locate the people, things or places who you wanted in the picture. Wasn’t an easy task; called for a steady hand, a good eye and perfect lighting. Even then, it was no guarantee that the picture would come out to your satisfaction.
Once that process was repeated until the entire roll was exposed, the camera was opened and the film was taken to the drug store for developing. Or if you were lucky, to the local camera shop. “It’ll be ready in about a week” was the usual response from the clerk or pharmacist. The one hour photo had not yet been invented.
A week or so later, and back to pick up the pictures. Time to see just how good your photographic skills were; the moment of truth. Then when you got home, it was time to sit around the table and pass the pictures around, one by one. Sounds of delight or moans of disappointment over an opportunity missed.
Any pictures worthy of sharing with relatives were sent via US Mail, with words of caution to the mailman; Do Not Bend, Photos Enclosed. Sometimes negatives were taken back to the shop or drug store for extra prints, but usually the originals were sent for sharing. To new owners, to be put into albums or boxes. To be opened and pondered over years later by other generations. Generations that can take a picture and send it to a recipient across the street, country or world in less than a minute. Then to be saved to a computer file, or just deleted.
So I took another step forward into this technological age. A very reluctant step. I no longer saw the value of those pictures, the value of the effort. So I deleted them 21st Century style and into the trash they went.

Amen already

Haven’t been to a church potluck in years. Lots of years; but I do remember them. Ours were usually held in the multi-purpose room of the local elementary school. The multi-purpose room was used mostly as a cafeteria although there might have been other uses such as dances and graduations.
The church had a small congregation, but with potlucks, the numbers grew. Seems the prospect of feeding your entire family cheaply had its appeal. One family in particular rarely attended church, but come time for potlucks they were almost always there. Four of them with sometimes one or two guests in tow. They always brought a small dish of scalded potatoes. If that’s the correct name. In return for bringing that small dish; the six of them would gorge themselves with free food. Praise the lord and pass the forks.
For some reason, the food was always very slow in being served. If we showed up at four in the afternoon, it seemed as if we rarely ate before six. Seemed that way, but memory being what it is… It seemed to have taken a long time for this hungry boy. We weren’t allowed to use any of the playground equipment, so we kids just sat around hungry and bored. About the time we had reached our limit of waiting one of us usually suggested we sing our hungry song.
I can still remember the words to that song. That infamous song was meant to annoy the adults in charge and prod them into bringing out the grub so we could satisfy our hunger. We would gather up and break out into chorus:
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness. Birds in the wilderness.
Here we sit like birds in the wilderness, WAITING TO BE FED.
It rarely had the desired of effect of getting the food to the tables, but I like to think that it was at the very least, annoying. Either way, it was fun and broke up the monotony. Eventually the food was placed on the serving tables and we non adults of course, were relegated to the back of the line.
But first, of course, came Grace. My family always said what can loosely be referred to as Grace before dinner at home; “bless this food and make it nourishing to our bodies.” Short, direct and to the point. Mostly short. But Grace performed by a minister with a captive audience, oh lord, was worthy of being quoted in the scriptures.
It started out simple enough, thanking the Lord for the food and guests, then launched into a dissertation of thankfulness that included the weather, the school board for allowing us use of the room, to automobile and tire manufacturers for their part in getting everyone there. After what seemed a half an hour, we would start to glance around and make eye contact. Yikes. We tried to control ourselves, but to no avail. Stifling laughter can be difficult at best. Faces turning red, shoulders shuddering uncontrollably. Mercifully, the grace would finally come to a conclusion.
Then it was time to dig in. The food always outstanding and plentiful. The desserts decadent and loaded with sugar. Almost worth the wait for us birds in the wilderness.

Gun and US

We love our guns. They hold a fascination for us. Guns are part of what defines us as a nation. From the Revolutionary War to every war we’ve been in; all the way back to the Old West to modern day drive by shootings. Guns and America. Despite what the fear mongers might be saying, the two are inseparable. No matter who might be President.
Our constitution guarantees our right to bear arms. I have no quarrel with that concept. I don’t spend any time pondering what the founding fathers had in mind or wondering about the presence of the famous comma. But gun ownership is a lot like owning and using a car. With both comes the enormous burden of responsible use. Cars used irresponsibly can cause damage, injury and even death. Just like guns. Of course with a car you sometimes have a chance to hit the brakes and/or swerve to avoid an accident. But once a bullet has left the barrel, there are no brakes or swerving to be done. It stops when it hits something. Or someone.
Over the course of the last few months I’ve attended several Carry Concealed Weapons (CCW) classes. A friend is the instructor and asked if I’d care to join other students. Probably because he wanted to give me a different perspective on gun ownership. I’m glad he did. The class was informative, well taught and quite an eye opener. He covered the effectiveness of the different firearms, in relation to self defense, from rifles, shotguns to pistols. He discussed the stopping power and the practical and legal use of those firearms. I won’t go into detail as to his recommendations, that’s for another day.
What struck me about the students, gun owners, was the utter lack of knowledge of the four basic gun safety rules. The mentality that because someone has been shooting for years that they are competent enough to own and safely operate a gun. The “I learned how to shoot from my Uncle” thinking. Equally disturbing, it appeared that many of the guns hadn’t been cleaned in years and I’m guessing that the majority of the students wouldn’t even know how. Yet, they can and do legally own as many guns as they can afford. It’s their constitutional right.
I don’t have a quarrel with the Second Amendment. So be it. But if you own a gun, for crying out loud, get to a gun safety class. And take everyone in your family, especially your children and grandchildren. Forget about what you think you know about shooting; forget about what some friend or family member taught you. Go learn about that gun, rifle, shotgun or whatever firearm you may possess. Take a gun safety class, preferably one that includes practice on a firing range. Don’t worry about the cost. What is preventing a fatal accident worth? And learn about proper maintenance. You won’t be sorry.