Once Around the Bend

    We are not a canoeing family.  While I like to think that we are, nothing could be further from the truth.  My children have not properly been exposed to manually operated watercraft other than the deluxe inflatable pool lounge with cup holder that floats about our pool.  There's a reason for this and has nothing to do with the fear of open waterways.  My husband and I have different visions of floating down a river.  Mine involves a leisurely four hour float to a tastefully decorated cabin where steaks are sizzling on the grill.  My husband's plan for a water adventure involves entering the river where normal people take out, a 23 mile trek through a canyon with no cell phone signal and catching, cleaning, and preparing our own food along the way.  If I have to strap a knife to my leg to ensure an outing is successful, I tend to avoid it. So, for eighteen years, we've been unable to merge our visions of floating down the rivers of the South and stick to watercraft with engines where we can putter around the lake with ease.

    During a recent road-trip with my children, I made a surprise detour to Devil's Den State Park so I could take my kids canoeing in the upper lake above the dam.  We had been there years earlier and I have fond memories of floating on the lake with my toddlers properly and safely secured in the canoe.  We sailed around the tiny island with ease and my children squealed with delight each time we spotted a turtle, a hawk and even one snake.  It was a marvelous outing, once upon a time.

    This time, upon arrival to the lake, my children did not jump from the car to run to the canoe with wild abandon.  Instead, my daughter roamed the parking lot desperately attempting to find the last shreds of cell phone signal that may have drifted down into the hollow for she had been in mid-conversation with friends from home and now she was suddenly unreachable. My son sized up the situation and carefully removed electronic devices and expensive sunglasses, properly safeguarding them in the trunk of the car.  After giving up on modern conveniences, they joined me at the water's edge where I paid $5 for a 30 minute canoe adventure.  Three more dollars would have bought me an hour, but I knew this wasn't going to last long.  In the searing afternoon heat, we grabbed our paddles and life jackets and began the walk to our boat of choice.  Certain we looked like Larry, Curly and Mo, as we tripped over our paddles and stepped on the life jacket cords, we somehow made it to the dock without injury.

    Allie immediately stepped into the canoe like she was stepping onto a yacht and discovered that balance is key in a canoe.  I caught her by the arm and explained the new rules of canoeing. The first problem we encountered was the fact that the canoe had two seats and we had three people.  I assumed Allie would sit in the middle, on the bottom of the canoe.  That lasted until my son stepped in and the dirty water from the back of the canoe came racing down to soak the person sitting in the middle.  Terrified of germs that could possibly be from prior canoe people, Allie jumped from the bottom of the boat to sit on the black plastic seat that had been baking in the hot Southern sun.  Having your skin bond to the seat was the lesser of two evils and she remained on her perch to avoid the germ infested waters that I suddenly realized I would surely be taking my place in.   I accidentally dropped our bottles of water into the canoe sludge and Allie announced, "I'm not drinking that," as if we thought she would.

    Before too long, we were all perfectly seated with me in the middle and we were ready to go.... until I realized that nobody had untied us from the pier.  This was not Six Flags where someone pushes you off on your adventure.  There was a group of small children with no parental supervision who were sitting on the dock, but I opted not to employ their help as one of them had already fallen in the water and had to be rescued by a stranger. Much like a balancing act of Cirque du Soleil, I pulled myself up from the bottom of the canoe and climbed back onto the dock to free us from our bonds.  As the canoe began to drift from the dock, my son extended me a paddle and I jumped back in to take my place in the middle.  We all began paddling in different directions and found that this was getting us nowhere.  As my daughter announced we were drifting towards the dam, we suddenly developed a plan and began paddling in the opposite direction.  Just as Joey and I worked up some momentum, Allie stuck her paddle in the water to poke a turtle, thus slowing us down and spinning us in the wrong direction.  It didn't take long to figure out that this wasn't working and I opted to get some pictures, instead.  Allie heard the words "Take Your Picture" and immediately stood up in the front of the boat to pose.  Joey and I yelled at her to sit down and somehow we avoiding tipping over.  Still certain of her balancing skills, she stood up again.  We held on tight and yelled a little louder.   We never actually made it around the bend towards the island, but we did all find our inner canoeist.  Joey's job was to row from the back and ensure we made it back to the dock. My job was to redirect the water freely flowing back and forth inside the canoe to avoid soaking my pants or touching Allie's feet.  Her job was to ride in the front like a Princess and whack the paddles in the water to drive turtles to the surface for her viewing pleasure.

    It was a short trip in our canoe and was less than successful if we actually had a goal of traveling from point A to Point B.  But it was great fun and we laughed all the way.   We embraced our lack of canoeing skills or ability to work as a team and somehow made our way back to the dock where a man with two small children was beginning their canoe adventure.  I thought to myself, "You'll make it around the bend on this trip, but give it fifteen years and it's a whole new experience."  Once around the bend had been good enough for me.

Spam Isn't Just for Breakfast Anymore

  I have developed an interesting new hobby that fills my time while I wait in doctor's offices or at airports with nothing to do.  I have discovered the fun that exists in my Spam folder.  I always knew it was there, filtering out the messages sure to deliver viruses, empty promises and mail order brides.  My friends in Spam are many.

  Andre Ouedraogo has written on multiple occasions and has been waiting for my response for weeks. While I don't want to be his business partner and receive $11.2 million dollars, I do have a strange desire to play Scrabble with this man of many vowels. Bento Desmond has some pictures he wants to share with me and unless they are digital images of my dog from the Wal-Mart photo department, I'm going to have to look the other way. Michael Osei, who suggests that we are dear friends, is a manager of a financial institution and needs me to care for an orphaned child from a country I'm not sure exists. In exchange for taking this child in and providing my banking information, I will receive several more million dollars.  Who would have thought the Spam folder held such opportunities? An individual named Mira Razak is sorry for invading my privacy, but has some important information for me.  If all of this wasn't good enough, I have several notices that I've won an iPhone, a cruise, and a Final Award Winning Prize that can only be identified and claimed once I share my banking info with the UK Economic Minister.

  My son and I have both received letters from Dr. Nabieh Khrastine who is running from fire on a mountain and yet, in his escape to safety, he is filled with good investment ideas that we might be interested in.  I'm curious how one gets internet on a burning mountain as I reside in the city and can't get a quality connection because I live at the end of the street.   Mrs. Amanda Johnson wrote me from her death bed and needs me to help her sort out her will.  A woman I've never met wants me to manage her finances.  Does she know me, I have to ask. It took me twenty years to figure out that credit cards were gifts from the devil himself.

  I have to wonder who replies to these open invitations to fortune, fame, and depleted bank accounts.   Sassy Sara and Gina Pena have recently begun writing and while their names are cute, I doubt they can be trusted. Amy Hacker is bold and while she promises a career in the movies, her clear objective is right there in her screen name.  Robert Muller writes every day and I have to admit that I thought he was the "Feed the Children" guy and almost moved him to regular mail. Then I discovered he was selling romantic mind control.  I admit, I'm as curious about this as I am about the fiery mountain for I'm just not sure what romantic mind control is. Does it give the ability to make others swoon in your presence or leave daisies at your door? I may have to flag that email for further review.

  Between the requests from the Ivory Coast for banking information, the promise of Russian brides and mail order meds, I could spend all day perusing my SPAM folder.   Of course, just as I get ready to send a scolding reply, my wait is over and I head off to the dental chair or exam room where I then spend an hour studying the anatomical charts on the walls and convince myself that I would have made a great doctor. Of course, I have an email in my Spam folder that can make that happen for $99 and a valid shipping address.   - Dr. B



Oh yes... You know you want to know why I have a bat icon on my phone.....

The Not So Easy Chair

  Archie Bunker had a chair.  It was a good chair that he came home to each night after a long day at work.  After a nice dinner, he relocated to his chair where he enjoyed watching television and rested until bed time.   As I headed to work yesterday,  I realized that I do not have a chair like his and wondered where our lives took different paths.   When I come home from work, I've already received numerous phone calls and text messages from my family demanding to know answers to important questions such as, "When is my eyebrow appointment" and "Where are my socks?"   Upon arrival to the house, the dog greets me only because she wants to make sure I don't know that she has been lounging on my couch or nosing through my pantry.  My husband is perched by the pool, donning a red bandanna, dripping in sweat, because he somehow chooses the hottest days of the year to split wood or relocate fencing, both things nobody does in the 104 degree heat. When I enter the house, I have no Edith greeting me with a tasty meal.  I step lightly to avoid a stray Nerf dart that may be flying down the hallway.  The kitchen is quiet and any hint of dinner can be found in the freezer waiting for me to create magic in thirty minutes or less.  The children are armed and ready with beach bags and cell phones ready to be transported to their friend's houses or the ball park.

  Several hours later, I have prepared dinner, done two loads of laundry, waved at my friends as I pass them on the road, traveled miles out of my way to retrieve a forgotten cell phone, dropped by the grocery store for fresh milk and finally returned home where the only chair in the living room is waiting on me with a pile of towels that need to be folded.  This is certainly not the kind of chair Mr. Bunker had and it is clear to me that we shop at different furniture stores.

  While I don't have an Archie Bunker chair, I'm certain that he did not have a band of children anxious to share with him their latest stunts, videos, songs, dances and more.  I doubt he ever walked in his kitchen at two a.m. to find teenagers with night vision goggles engaged in full scale Nerf Combat.  I doubt that he ever looked in his glove box, found a box of mints and said, "Hmmmm  - this looks like breakfast."  Our lives are in fast forward and there seems to be no sign of slowing down and relaxing.  Should I ever find a chair like Archie's, I can only hope that I have a lifetime full of memories to reflect on while I sink down in the comfort of my easy chair.  

On The Radio

The world grows smaller every day as youth around the world become friends through social media platforms such as Instagram and Twitter.  Friends are made across borders and oceans and a friend of a friend of a friend just may be somebody you want to talk to.  As my kids upload photos, videos and songs for the world to see, their virtual footprint expands across the globe.  Just yesterday, I was, oddly, not surprised by the message from my son that he was being played on Lebanese radio.  It made me stop what I was doing and smile.  I had to ask the obvious question, "How?"

It appears that one of his many Instagram followers has made a friend in Canada who is residing there while she is temporarily away from Lebanon.  I'm not sure what the means exactly, but the kids believe her to  be Lebanese royalty on the run.  (Da do ron ron)  She liked a song that my son has on Sound Cloud and shared it with her friend who is a Disc Jockey in Lebanon where he supposedly played it on Lebanon airways.  At first, I wondered how odd that must seem to have traditional Lebanese music playing and then suddenly hear the voice of western boy singing an English love song.  Little did I know how much American music is played world wide.  Perhaps my blonde headed boy can be the next Lebanese Justin Bieber. I remembered the Italian tour bus I was on years ago where they played non-stop American 50's music and wonder if perhaps my boy's voice did sound out in the Lebanese streets.  It's a thought that makes me smile.   I pulled up Kiss Lebanon FM radio and Albalad 106.5 Beirut on my laptop and while I did not hear my child, I did hear someone who was not Billy Ray Cyrus belting out the words to Achy Breaky Heart..."You can tell your Ma, I moved to Arkansas."  What a strange coincidence I thought!

As I perused the Lebanese radio websites, exploring their world and probably being watched by my own, I realized that their world is not how I see it in tiny CNN video clips of protests and war.  There is music and laughter and beauty.  Somewhere over there right now is another person, with similar likes as we, sitting behind their computer clicking on Instagram photos and uploading beautiful images of their world.  It's not just a small world.  It's one world where we're all connected.

Hitchhiker Beware

  After a particular challenging day at work, I was glad to escape to my car so I could head towards home where I could collapse on my couch under the cool breeze of a ceiling fan.   As I sat in my car that had baked to a nice 104 degrees in the middle of the asphalt parking lot, I rested with my head on the air-conditioner vents praying for cooler temperatures.  While certain it has nothing to do with age, I've recently begun experiencing sudden onset hot flashes. They come on quick, without warning, and according to my family, my mood changes instantly, as well.  In my defense, I would imagine anyone's mood would change when they are about to spontaneously combust.  I've seen those pictures of the tiny pile of ashes sitting on the pile of clothes where an unsuspecting victim once stood.  Of course, if I were to suddenly burst into flames, my ashes would be found sitting next to a pile of laundry waiting to be folded and nobody would ever notice.  They would shake the towels out and assume I was at work or out running errands and have no idea that I was now floating about the living room disguised as dust.   Hoping to avoid spontaneous combustion, I peeled myself off of the air vent, put the car in gear and headed home. 

  As my car approached forty miles per hour, I glanced over to see a bright green cricket attached to my window holding on for dear life.   He had the same look I had when attached to the air vent - a look of total despair.  I  noticed his little cricket feet grasping the window in a desperate attempt to hold on.  I empathized with the cricket and slowed my car down to thirty miles per hour to see if his hind legs would still flap in the wind or if he could secure a better grip.  Before long I was driving down the highway doing 20 miles per hour watching the changing disposition of the cricket as he continued to hold on to the last shreds of hope.   I passed many a grassy area where I could have stopped to release the cricket from this ride of terror, but I was determined to get us both home to the safety of my house. 

  I passed in and out of hot flashes and speed zones as the fearful cricket stayed with me clinging to the side of my car.  Of all the challenges I had faced that day, this was the challenge that consumed me...  Could I round the corner at thirty miles an hour and still keep Jimminy attached to the car?  It was like a video game with a real live player.  I realized the craziness of this as I slowed traffic behind me.  My daughter called and asked where I was and I was embarrassed to tell her I was three hours away from home because I was now traveling 5 miles per hour down the parkway in an attempt to secure the fate of a hitchhiking cricket.   

  You'll be relieved to know that the green bush cricket and I both made it home safely and he was gently placed on a leafy clematis plant where I'm certain he is still recovering from shock.   It concerns me that the summer heat wave and pre-menopausal behavior are having such affect on me and fear it may be a very long summer in these parts. 

Squeeze Bottom Road

                       

  When a container truck and a horse trailer collided on Interstate 40 near Cuba Landing, it shut down traffic in the East bound lane.  After three hours in the car, sitting in the same spot on the highway, it became apparent that some of my choices were probably not good ones.  For instance, providing the family with extra large caffeinated beverages and a sack of candy might have been a poor choice had I known there would be no bathroom available for hours and that we would all be stuck in a small space, wedged between semi trucks, for a prolonged period of time.  As we entered the fourth hour on the highway and the lady in front of us urinated in her car and poured it on the ground, I knew we were witnessing the loss of civility and decided it was time for drastic measures. Over the course of our wait on the highway, we would occasionally notice the adventurous law breaker who had broken from the ranks and was then driving down the side of the road in hopes of finding a better route.  I put the car in gear, placed my trust in our GPS system and headed off down the side of the highway, unknowing if we would drive into a roadblock or straight off the edge of the Earth.  We made it to the closest exit and began our journey into the back roads of the Tennessee hills.

  It's funny how little things suddenly become important.  I assured my family we were fine when the asphalt changed to gravel and I continued forward in search of the highway.  I was thankful for the rock road that led us away from the thousands of people still stranded on the interstate.  The GPS showed that we were entering Hellsneck road and I wondered if perhaps this was a huge mistake.   We snaked around the hollows and found we were soon on Squeeze Bottom Road.  I ran into a lost pack of SUVs around the time the gravel changed to dirt and I asked them if this was the way to the highway.  They had no idea.  I exclaimed that my GPS indicated that it was and the group rallied around and we headed out like a wagon train of weary travelers no longer able to sit idle on the highway.   I led the pack as we climbed hills and turned sharp dirt corners expecting to find hidden stills or drive into some Aryan Brotherhood Lodge.   The piled dirt on the edge of the road was indicative that someone had recently graded the path, so I assumed we hadn't driven too far away from civilization and continued forward.  We saw back woods that most have never seen and I was thankful for the adventure.  Suddenly we rounded a corned and were driving through expensive farmland.  We passed a man fishing on the side of the road and pretended that it was probably some famous country music star wondering why a caravan of SUVs was flying past his house intentionally located in the middle of nowhere.  It was great fun and we laughed all the way as the roads disappeared and we took a chance traveling into the unknown.  Before too long, we drove onto the asphalt road that led us to the Interstate.  We had successfully bi-passed the accident, and avoided the detour that was now carrying traffic 50 miles out of the way.  

  When we returned home a few days later, we passed the exit that we had taken to escape the traffic jam and I smiled knowing that I driven by there a hundred times before and never knew what adventure was just a few feet away. It's because we found the best in a bad situation that we can add one more fun memory to our list of things we did that were completely unplanned.  It seems the best times have been found in those moments.   That's the same way we discovered the blue bird factory, the giant gong in the woods, the spaceship chair and the bathroom that defied physics. My kids know what I'm talking about... and I know they are smiling when they read this. 

Gilbert's Journey

It is a small world, even to turtles.  On a lazy summer day in 2012, one Allie Brodnax found a box turtle and a discarded can of enamel paint.  She quickly painted her initials and date on the turtle’s shell and enjoyed his company for a short time.  We have a rule that no one is allowed to keep a lizard, turtle or other wild creature more than three days.  At that time, the visitor is returned to the wild.  Gilbert, as this highly decorated turtle was named, bid farewell and headed off towards the woods. 

A year later, on the other side of town, across two highways and several major intersections, Gilbert made his way into the yard of a young boy who discovered Gilbert’s faded message on his back.  A picture was taken and Gilbert made his debut on Instagram.  Four hours north of here in the land of Wal-Mart executives, a distant friend saw the post and recognized the letters “AB” on the back of Gilbert’s shell.  She quickly posted to all that the faded message said “AB 2012” for Allie Brodnax.  

It was a rainy, stormy day, when the young boy with the newfound turtle received a message from a my child that said, “Please Get Gilbert Out of the Rain.”     

I never knew a turtle could travel such a distance.  With algebra not being our strong suit, we attempted to do the math to figure out a comparable scale of how far the turtle traveled in turtle miles.  We think it was much like walking to Asia over the course of a year.  In that time, I’ve seen many turtles in the road and even stopped to pick up a few.  I hope Gilbert is released in three days and continues his journey.  Nothing would be more exciting than stopping to save the next turtle and discovering “AB 2012” on its back!