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"Clean white paper waiting under a pen is a gift beyond history and hurt and heaven." --John Ciardi "The Gift"
I love Christmas! The decorations set the mood, and I always look for events that feature plenty of Christmas music. One enjoyable thing is going to the malls after I've finished my shopping. Watching people provides hours of entertainment, especially when a bit of anxiety rises as they try to find presents for everyone on the lists. Despite the good parts of the holidays, I sympathize with the financial burden that people heap upon themselves during this season. Most of all, I hurt for them as they use credit cards.
The most infuriating commercials on television are those produced by the major credit card companies. Those ads show life going along splendidly. Customers merrily purchase items and pay for them by swiping their credit cards through the machine. Then, without warning, an individual dares to pull out a checkbook or, more offensively, cash to pay for a purchase. Things come to a grinding halt. The joy and smiles of all are replaced with looks of disgust and disapproval. The next person in line uses his credit card, and life returns to all things good.
Personally, those commercials offend me. I especially resent the message that is sent to the public. The idea that cash is evil is absurd. More ridiculous is the assertion that life moves along smoothly and all is well as long as people use credit cards.
What is a truer representation of life might come with the nightly news and reports of foreclosures on thousands of families who bought with credit more than they could repay. This nation is drowning in a sea of debt. At one time, the defining characteristic of the middle class was their ability to delay gratification until a later time, a time when they could pay for purchases. Credit cards have erased that trait and replaced it with a "buy now-pay later" one. We've become a society that wants thing now. So, we take those items from the store and borrow money to pay for them. Notice that I didn't say "buy" because we don't own those items; the finance institutions do. We probably will call them ours after we've made payments for several years.
Folks, credit can become an evil taskmaster in lives. Sure, most of us must purchase homes and vehicles with credit. However, we need to stop our endless buying of items with a plastic card. Waiting until we can pay for a new pair of shoes or a blouse until we have cash won't kill us. To the contrary, we'll feel doubly happy if we begin this practice. First, when we purchase something with cash, it immediately becomes ours; we don't have to pay on it for months or years before we can take sole possession. Second, not being afraid to open a monthly credit card statement that tells us we're in over our heads makes each day brighter.
These credit cards have taken possession of the modern world. When I was a boy, Mother and Daddy struggled over the decision to get cards from two department stores. They eventually got them, but they used them sparingly. In Daddy's early years, he'd filed bankruptcy, a fact that ate at him for years. He and Mother didn't rest until every cent of the original debt was repaid. My parents knew what the consequences of overwhelming debt were. Even though the debts occurred before he and Mother married, they worked as a couple to make things right. The end result was that my parents were frugal with the modest income that they had, and they sure didn't want to fall victim to the powerful lure of a charge card.
Today, folks whip out credit cards to pay for ridiculous items. I can't get used to someone handing a cashier a card to pay for a Big Mac, order of fries, and a Coke. College students deposit money in an account and then insert plastic cards into machines to buy cokes and snacks. The younger generation is being trained to use credit instead of cash. They think an endless supply of money is at hand; the shock is devastating when they've spent themselves in a deep financial hole.
Christmas this year will be more enjoyable if we all try to make it totally "green." Without the red of debt, January will mark the bright beginnings of a new year instead of the despair of credit card payments.
Christmas season is fast approaching. Of course, we need to get past Thanksgiving first, but close on the heels of "turkey day" is the biggest holiday for many Americans. I dread this time of year because it requires the uncovering of boxes of decorations for the Christmas tree. Also placed on every nook and cranny are some cute little holiday figurines. As I recall, however, some of my worst times during the season of cheer have come when I decorated the outside of our house.
Adults know that most of our decorating is done for our children. We probably would have a tree and a few ornaments, but nothing like the extravaganza that we lay out for the little ones. When Lacey and Dallas were little, I broke out my skill saw, jigsaw, and drill to make some outdoor decorations. I drew up elaborate plans for the things to be constructed, but when the time came to construct those items, I was in trouble. After spending the better part of two days in intensive labor, the end products turned out to be nothing more than lollipops and candy canes. I nailed stakes to their backs and stuck them in the ground in the front yard. For two years those things were out during the holidays. Then I realized how ridiculous they looked and put them on the burn pile. My children weren't at all upset that Daddy's creations disappeared.
Along with those suckers and candy canes, I used to string lights across the front of the house and carport. We first used the small lights, but later graduated to those icicle-looking ones. The last couple of years, I hung lights with huge bulbs colored blue, red, green, and orange because they reminded me of Christmas when I was a kid.
Running strands of lights along the gutters is a job that takes patience, skill, and ingenuity, three things of which I am void. The first couple of hours I always spent untangling all the runs. Yes, I neatly put them away at the end of each year, but some gremlin must have broken into the storage building to tie knots in the lines. The front of the house is seventy-five feet across, and the separated carport is another twenty-five feet, so numerous strings of lights were needed.
The next bit of frustration comes when a set of lights wouldn't work. Discovering if a fuse had blown or which bulb in the circuit needed to be replaced always ended in the loss of my temper. The words I uttered weren't at all in keeping with the spirit of the season, and more than once I ran my children and neighbors indoors with my rants. After searching for what seemed and eternity, I deposited the old lights in the trash and drove through horrendous traffic to the local Wal-Mart to purchase new sets. It was better to spend the money on new lights than on an ambulance when I dropped from a stress-induced heart attack.
Actually attaching the strands of lights to the gutters was a dangerous feat. I'd climb the ladder and secure hangers to the aluminum troughs. As I worked my way down the front, the yard sloped severely and became uneven. That not only meant that I had to extend the ladder to reach the gutter perched some twenty feet off the ground but I also had to level the legs of the ladder. At one point, I had two two-by-four blocks and a brick under one leg to keep the thing level. I said my prayers the entire time and offered thanks when the job was done.
The last problem I always had was making the strands look neat when I joined them end-to-end. I'd tape bare sections of wire that had plug parts. When that task was finished, I next had to figure how to connect the lights to extension cords. The yard, driveway, and garage all became hazardous with cords running in every direction.
I haven't hung lights in several years, but that's changing. Our new porch makes putting them up much easier, and plenty of outlets reduce the need for so many cords. Besides, Lacey and Nick are expecting, and I need a trial run to see how to get things right before next year when a little one is around for Christmas. Prayers that I can complete the job without injuring or killing myself are much appreciated.
Fellow teacher Bill Shinn and I were talking in the mailroom recently, and he mentioned that his daughter was pregnant and expecting the baby in June. I told him that Lacey was expecting in May. His daughter Becky and my daughter Lacey were in the same graduating class at Karns, and we both shook our heads at the fact that our daughters were soon to become moms. Next Bill and I shifted our conversation to the "wonders" of grandparenthood. Neither of us quite "get it," a fact of enormous comfort to me. When he discussion turned toward grandparent names, we both rolled our eyes at the absurdity in coming up with one.
My grandparents were working class folks who had little time for foolishness. I doubt that they much cared if their grandchildren called them anything. They were from a generation that believed that "children should be seen and not heard." That meant they didn't much care what names were used for them; they didn't want to hear little voices yapping all the time.
We called both grandfathers "Papaw" and both grandmothers "Mamaw." To distinguish which one, we used the last names "Rector" and "Balch." That was it. Amy is from Cookeville and never heard those to tags for grandparents until she came to East Tennessee. (It's hard to educate outsiders to the "right" ways things are done, the East Tennessee ways.)
Our kids called my mother Mamaw, but a different one came out for my Amy's mom. I don't know what adults were trying to teach Lacey and Dallas, but what came out was "Nini." That sounds a bit strange, doesn't it?
That's my point. Adults have grand plans for teaching little ones names, but those toddlers have ways of screwing everything up. In the end the names that come out are terrible. One woman wanted to be called "GiGi." It was a name that cracked up some people in the other side of the family because they once owned a dog by that name. A granddad was called "P-P;" I consider that name an excellent choice because it brings up something to which small children and old men think about much of the time.
Amy has already stated that she IS NOT a Mamaw. I'm not privy to the list of names she prefers, I have no doubt that they are elegant ones that fit the elegant woman that my wife is. She needs to be careful, however. Too many times, slick names are mispronounced so that they become ridiculous-sounding words. Some grandparents begin to answer to sounds that more resemble grunts than names. All the while, they are smiling and talking about how wonderful their grandchildren are.
I'll admit that I have a hard time with any grandfatherly name. I viewed my grandparents as old. They didn't have much of a sense of humor either. The idea that a new name might be associated with being old and grumpy doesn't appeal to me in the least. Becoming a grandparent seems to be another one of those steps toward the finality of life, and I just naturally resist that, no matter how futile the struggle might be.
So, in about six months I'll be a grandparent. It would be all right with me if we taught this coming child to call me "Joe." I've also compiled a list of other names from other languages: Yeh-Yeh (Chinese), Nonno (Italian), Tito (Spanish), Farfar (Swedish), and Daadaa (Urdu/India). Isn't it amazing how each of these sounds as if the person is a bit off kilter? Come to think of it, all those names sound as if they were first uttered by a child who was just beginning to speak. I'll let you know what new name is assigned. Send me some suggestions that I can try to teach this new person.
When my daughter was in college, one song summed up her life better than any other. The Dixie Chicks sang "Wide Open Spaces," and each line echoed the events of our family. I still can't listen to the lyrics without tearing up, and I appreciate that group for giving the public such a song.
Since that time, I've been a fan of the Dixie Chicks, but not everyone has remained that loyal. Natalie Maine spoke out against President Bush and the war in Iraq in 2003. Immediately, she was vilified by those with political axes to grind. Fans unceremoniously dumped the Dixie Chicks. Radio stations refused to play their music, and right wing organizations took the opportunity to aim their sights at the musical group and to publicly excoriate them.
The citizenry was no better. Many protested and made signs with hateful comments. They dumped Dixie Chick cd's in trash cans or in fires built to "cleanse" communities of so-called "godless, unpatriotic actions."
The Dixie Chicks suffered mightily for Maine's comments. The group went from being one of the most popular country music groups to pariahs. Sales of their music plunged. Concert ticket sales slumped, and many who bought tickets attended in order to boo and otherwise harass the singers. Even the residents of their own communities turned their backs on the three.
I have to admit that I was none too pleased with Natalie's comments. No, I've never been a big supporter of the president, but at that time, I wanted my pound of flesh for the wrongs that were done to the innocent victims of September 11th. I hoped that our country would present a united front as our soldiers fought in Iraq. I never bought the connection between 9/11 and Saddam Hussein, but I figured our military surely wouldn't wage war without adequate intelligence about the former thug-dictator's complicity in the mess.
I should have known better. George W. wanted to avenge his dad. He meant to end the war that his father began several years ago. His boys, including the vice president and a gaggle of advisors and aides, went along with the plan and passed along incendiary information that raised the ire of our nation. That the information was a conglomeration of half-truths and outright lies was of little consequence. This president and his crew decided somewhere along the line that it knew best what the citizens should be told. It looks as if lies were told to keep the agenda on track.
So, here our country sits in 2007. We're mired in another war that we can't win. Moreover, the citizens of the country being defended hate and sometimes attack our soldiers. As of October, 3,838 military personnel have been killed in Iraq. Newscasts tell us that the future costs of the war will exceed $1.4 trillion. Our presence in the region is assured for the next several years.
All the while, the Chicks continue to make music. They've written off the country music industry that turned its back on them. Still, their record sales are growing, as is their popularity. They are blazing new trails without compromise. The Dixie Chicks refused to bow down and beg forgiveness for what was said, and they shouldn't have to. Our leaders claim to be fighting for democracy in Iraq. Isn't it strange that we fight for freedoms for another country and squawk when someone practices freedom of speech at home?
What stings many who attacked the Dixie Chicks is the fact that they were right. The nation is tired of this conflict, and citizens are ticked off that the president and his administration lied to us. "Weapons of mass destruction" are words that boil the blood of Americans. George Bush's approval rating is close to flat-lining. Many of the staunchest supporters of the president's policy in 2003 are now speaking out about its failure.
How wrong was Natalie Maine for speaking out? Maybe she merely said four years early what the majority of Americans are saying now. The Dixie Chicks have withstood verbal assaults about their families, their beliefs, and their rights to live in this country. Shame on us! These women took a stand and refused to shrink from it. They should never have received the meanness that was thrown their way. Today, they don't thumb their noses at the rest of us or tell us "we told you so." What they deserve from us now is an apology. It's long overdue.
A Good Time Of Year
In the 1960's we kids had been back in school about a month. Our lives had shifted gears from playing outside all day, staying up late, and sleeping in. Now, mothers called us in the morning, and we stumbled to the breakfast table to eat something as unappealing as oatmeal or as lumpy as cream of wheat. Then we put on our school clothes which were still stiff with newness. That stiffness made jeans especially uncomfortable.
When we arrived home at the end of the day, our first order of business was to change into our old clothes and to hang up our school apparel. Some kids had to finish homework before they could do anything else. Others might watch cartoon such as "Popeye," "Yogi Bear," or they might tune in the "Early Show" hosted by Rex Rainey. We boys always headed for some kind of sports competition and played whatever was in season. By October, most of the baseballs, gloves, and bats had been stowed away and the football was brought out. Our games were rough ones. No one wore a set of pads or a mouth piece, but we played tackle football anyway. Lips and noses quite often dripped with blood, and most every game ended with a fight between two boys. The time to quit playing came when the sun set, the ground became damp, and the temperatures dramatically cooled. Lots of time the call of "Supper" from our mothers served as the final whistle to the game.
October brings with it the scents of a new season. The perfumes from flowers are replaced with the pungent aroma of dying leaves. Pine needles and sap leave their signatures in the wind as well. Our gang spent time playing in the woods. Lean-to's made from the limbs of pine trees were erected to serve as the centerpiece of our play area, and from that spot many ventures began as wars between cowboys and Indians or G.I.'s and Germans broke out. Crawling along the ground brought the smells of the vegetation to our cold, runny noses. Times were so good then.
Halloween was a much bigger celebration than it is today. Of course, then folks didn't worry about whether their children would be poisoned by the treats they were given. Neither was the traffic so heavy that just walking down the street was a danger. Halloween meant bags filled with things that we didn't have stockpiled at the house. Occasionally, someone would dump apples in our bags, but we said "thank you" and chucked them in an open field as we continued our journey. The best treats were homemade popcorn balls and those pieces of peanut butter candy enveloped in black and orange wrappers. We walked three of four miles to claim a modest amount of candy on Halloween. Subdivisions where parents dumped van-loads of kids until treat bags split open from the treats were anywhere to be found.
The cooler evening meant fogged up car windows for teens during the weekend. Yep, couples that parked and sparked steamed up every piece of glass in the vehicle. Roads where new housing developments were being constructed were crowded with parked cars as teens spent just a few minutes "talking things over."
During my senior year in college October became an especially memorable time. My wife Amy and I had known each other for a year before we ever dated. By the time October arrived, we'd been out a couple of times. The temperatures that year were cool in Cookeville. I can't give the exact date, but sometime in that month, Amy and I walk along the intramural fields and ROTC marching fields. It was during that walk that I knew for sure that this was the woman I'd waited for. Only after dating about a month, we both realized that our lives were meant to be spent together.
October holidays include Columbus Day, which offers a day off to only a few, and Halloween. The rest of the month is left for us to make what we will of it. I have over the span of my life. October has become a favorite of mine because it has given me so many positive memories. This year is brought news of the coming in May of our first grandchild. I look forward to what else the month's thirty-one days offer.
I walked out to get the paper half asleep the other morning, plopped down in the chair to eat a bowl of oatmeal, and scanned the news. An obituary notice knocked me from a half comatose state and shook my world. It also started my thinking about doing things.
I met Jim Pinkston during the spring of 2007. He and his wife Kathy raised mules, and I was fortunate enough to write a story on two of them named Pat and Pearl. All tolled, I probably spent no more than an hour and a half with the couple, but it only took that short time for me to like the man as well as anyone I'd ever met. Jim had a dry, quick wit. Although we'd never met, he began to tease me and give me plenty of grief from the outset. Then, Jim would grin from through that cowboy mustache to let me know that he was having a wonderful time at my expense.
At the beginning of summer Jim and Kathy nursed twin mules that had been born prematurely. In fact, they turned the farmhouse into a pre-natal ICU for the newborns. I'd gone to visit one Saturday with my wife, mother-in-law, and aunt in tow, but we missed the Pinkston's. For the last couple of weeks, I'd planned to stop by to write up a story on the twins and the makeshift hospital facilities.
What shook me so violently that morning was Jim Pinkston's picture in the paper. It was followed by his obituary. From what I could gather, Jim had suffered a heart attack and died suddenly. I sat stunned as I read in disbelief. Then I felt like the biggest jerk that had ever drawn breath.
I had allowed the opportunity to write another story about a unique character and good man slip by. What bothered me most is that my procrastination had deprived me of ever having time with a person whom I truly enjoyed. Sure, I had been busy with the start of the school year and other things that required my attention. Still, I could have scheduled the visit. In fact, the Saturday before Jim died I had told my wife I was going to call and take her with me to visit. I SHOULD HAVE done that. Instead, I put things off for another day. Plenty of other days would be available to go by the Pinkston farm and spend time. Now, I'm sitting here in a state of shock over the man's passing. At the same time I am beating myself up for not having taken the time to do the things I SHOULD HAVE done.
This is another lesson for me along the trail. Each of us takes life for granted. We assume that there's always plenty of time to do things with and for those about whom we truly care. Life sometimes gets in the way of what is really important. We think that visit to a parent or that call to a friend can wait. However, when unexpected things happen, we catch ourselves midst the grieving saying things that begin with "I SHOULD HAVE."
I have few regrets for the time I've spent with family members who have passed. I made my peace with them long before they left. When my parents and brother died, I knew that I had been there throughout their illnesses; I hadn't neglected to see them. Jim Pinkston isn't family member, but he was someone I assumed I would have plenty of time to get to know and befriend. His sudden death leaves me filled with regret and guilt. Most of all, Jim's passing once again opens my eyes to the things that are truly important in this world.
I plan to spend more time with family and friends. I want to make myself available to those folks who are so important in my life. Maybe that means making more trips to Nashville and Chattanooga to see the kids. It includes driving a hundred miles to Cookeville to see my 85 year-old mothers-in-law. That even means driving just a couple miles to see my brother and his family.
I can't use the excuse that life's too busy or that there will be plenty of time later to do those things. I don't want to again say, "I SHOULD HAVE." From now on, I need to say "I'VE DONE."
The duty isn't hard. It entails having boys sign a log before they enter the restroom. Since this procedure began, smoking in the bathroom has almost stopped during lunch periods. That means that other students can go in without choking to death or without smelling like a dirty ashtray when they exit. I volunteered for the duty, mostly because I don't have to do bus duty in the morning or tardy duty during my planning period. The job is easy, and I get to talk to kids whom I otherwise would never meet.
On this first day one student decided to play "twenty questions." He wanted to know why students had to sign in to use the restroom. I assumed he was new to the school and told him that doing so had lessened the number of smokers. He sneered and asked if I thought that kids would stop just because they signed a piece of paper. I assured him that it had worked so far, and he asked another question which I answered. Then he made the statement that caused my blood pressure to rise: "This is stupid!" At that I told him to just sign the sheet if he planned to use the restroom. He left in a huff; I was aggravated at having to verbally joust with a kid no more than fifteen.
Toward the end of the period, things heated up again. One student strolled passed me, and I called him back to sign the log. While he did, I noticed hanging from a belt loop a large key ring. On it were several items, all of them considered violations of the dress code. Chains and spikes that are popular with some of the students can be turned into weapons, and the key ring items fell under that category.
I instructed the boy to take the items off and put them into his pocket. He immediately became hostile and wanted to know why. I told him about the dress code and told him to take them off, but he said "No." I told him to follow me to the principal at the other end of the cafeteria, and he began to curse me. I put my hand on his backpack to direct him in the right direction. The boy bowed up, cursed me and then came out with, "I know you want to hit me, and if you do, I'll sue you, you @$(#&$*(#!"
Now I was miffed. Other staff members who saw the incident later stated that they were sure the boy was about to hit me. I told the kid that if he hit me that I would own him, a retort that I admit wasn't especially appropriate for a teacher. However, sometimes a person can only take so much. By then, we'd arrived at the principal's table.
I explained the situation, and the principal instructed the student to give her the key ring. He blurted out "Why," to which the principal said "because I asked you to!" Then this student cursed at the principal, and at that moment, only one word was crossed my mind: GONE!
For the previous two or three weeks, I've struggled with this being my last year. I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out why I've planned on retiring this year. Heck, I will only be 56 when I retire and must find a new job to make a living for the next six years, at least until social security kicks in. Teaching school is a noble profession; everyone tells me that while government officials still refuse to pay us in the classroom a wage commiserate with our education and with the importance our jobs. Just the same, I like to interact with kids and to watch them mature and learn.
Then I think of incidents like the ones that occurred today. I vividly recall the disdain that the boy felt for me, and I could see how much he wanted to knock me senseless. No, I wasn't scared, nor have I ever been afraid when I've encountered a student who wanted to fight. In fact, I appreciate this angry boy and his acts. I had wondered why I was retiring before I met him, but now I remember!!
The other night I watched on the Discovery Channel a program about one particular gang that is spreading like a virus across this country and even to other countries. On the news I've seen too many reports on how teenagers are out of control. Heck, I viewed about ten minutes of "The Nanny" last night, just enough time to watch an eight year old and a ten year old defy their mother and treated her like "garbage." All I know is, my mother wouldn't have approved.
Throughout my childhood the groundwork was laid for what was acceptable and unacceptable behavior. I learned most of those lessons quickly; a whack on the backside usually made a big impression. Other lessons required review. I spent plenty of days during my high school years at home under the penalty of grounding for things like poor grades or curfew violations. Some might say they'd sneak out after mother went to bed. First, my mother slept fitfully. She might be up two or three times a night, and I'd surely come home during one of her "awake" times. Second, I wouldn't do that because Mother wouldn't approve. That reason is what has kept me from doing plenty of things during my early years.
I was fortunate to date some girls in high school. In the old days, part of the date was parking along some abandoned road or newly developed subdivision street. "Necking" was an accepted practice, and sometimes, teens got a bit carried away. In the heat of passion, teens don't think clearly, nor do they much want to. On occasion I found myself in that kind of situation. It would have been so easy to have carried the passions of young love further, but I was lucky to have a guardian angel—of sorts. For some reason, I always gained enough lucidity to think of what might happen as the result of a heated session with a gorgeous young girl. Then, I would realize that "Mother wouldn't approve." That meant that she would be disappointed that I had made such a stupid mistake. No evangelist could have ever turned me from the slippery slopes of possible parenthood so quickly.
I am a chilled of the 60's and 70's and often relate events to my English students as a means of comparing their lives to mine and to a piece of literature that we might be studying. Today's teens know the stories of my generation, especially the sordid ones. They asked what it was like to be around so many people who dropped acid and smoked dope. I tell them that nothing is much more repulsive than a person who is in an altered state. Then they asked me about my exploits. When I tell them that I have never smoked marijuana, they sneer in disbelief. It's true, however. Sure, I sat around with friends in high school and college as they passed a joint, but I never touched the stuff. The reason was I always thought of how disappointed Mother would be if I were to have been caught and arrested for using the stuff. Even when she was a hundred miles from my college home, she had a grip on my conscience and controlled my actions.
During my adult years, I've had plenty of opportunities to do things that would advance my cause while I did in another person. I couldn't do it because Mother had drilled into my head what was and wasn't the right thing to do. So, I have lived a rather law abiding life and haven't overstepped the line of what is doing to others as I would have them do to me.I don't want to give the impression that I am a saint. I've done plenty of things of which I'm not proud. However, things could have been much worse. Daddy died when I was thirteen, and I could have pulled the line that too many kids use today—"I didn't have a parental figure to help me." It would just be a lie. Mother struggled to teach three teenaged boys what the right things were. Evidently, she succeeded to a large degree. The three of us grew into manhood gauging what we should do by determining whether or not Mother would or wouldn't approve.
TIckle Boxes Turned Upside Down
Until we left home for college, my twin brother and I shared a bedroom. As little guys, we play hard, fought constantly, and laughed often. Most of the giggles came at the wrong time. On one occasion, we came to the supper table to full of energy. Our family began our meals with a blessing that we boys recited. Jim and I began, but only a line or so into the prayer, we were overcome with the giggles, and snickers came before we burst into guffaws. Our laughter was ended in tears are we received a well-deserved spanking.
On some nights, bed time brought out fits of laughing. Our parents would hear us and call from the kitchen or the den with demands that we get quiet. The next warning came from the doorway as one adult stood there with the warning, "Don't make me come back in here!" Asking little boys to hold back their floods of laughter is the same as demanding they stop the waters from a burst dam. Oh, we tried to hide the noise. I'd stuff my pillow in my mouth and Jim would chew on his blanket until we both feared that we'd smother ourselves. On some occasions, the urge momentarily subsided, but then the laughter would spill from our mouths and fill the room. Even as one of the enforcers stomped through the house to our room, we laughed. Another spanking was administered, and even with sore bottoms, we were grateful for the fun.
We boys dreaded attending church. In those days, no children's church was offered, and we were stuck in the sanctuary for the hour-long service. Jim and I sat together at the beginning, but in no time one of us had been roughly seized and plunked on the other side of our parents. Still, we could see each other, and it was as if twins possessed a telepathic gift. We could imagine what the other was thinking, and that led to an almost smile, a grin, a snicker, and then an all-out laugh. We swallowed them, but not before Daddy had promised us some attention when we arrived home. Too many Sunday afternoons began with punishment for inappropriate behaviors by Jim and me.
Some teens apparently have death wishes. They manage in some way to violate a parental rule. Of course, it's no big deal to the teen; to the parent, it's a different story. At times like these, lectures are standard fare. The adult starts on a tirade, and the longer it goes on, the more ridiculous it becomes. Out of the blue, a mom or dad says something absolutely ridiculous, and the comment becomes a heat-seeking missile that is targeted for the teen's laughter zone. It finds the target, and as it explodes, a roar of laughter gushes from the teen. What might have been a relatively minor offense has now escalated into a serious adolescent felony. The parent is incensed and being throwing excessively harsh punishments at his child. Life as the teen has known it won't exist any time soon.
Even adults laugh at inappropriate times. At funerals I've thought of things the deceased has said and must hold in the laughs. Mistakes by young performers at band and choral concerts can start a flood of giggles as well. Just recently I attend a graduation ceremony. One of the speakers put on a show. Cracked jokes weren't funny, overly expressive voice was annoying, and "pie-in-the-sky" comments about what lay ahead were absurd. Taken together, this speech was a failure, but the speaker was sure it was an award-winning presentation. The looks on those around me said it all, and I worked hard to stifle the laughs that tried to escape.
Laughing eases stress. It relaxes otherwise tense situations. However, when it occurs at the wrong time, it can lead to punishment, hurt feeling, and occasionally, physical pain. Still, we can't do too much to avoid those times when our tickle boxes are turned over. A force outside ourselves is in control at during those moments. We can only attempt to hold it back.
A Thundering Velvet Hand
I'll begin by saying that my mother was the enforcer for most of the punishment meted out to my two brothers and me. She was a short woman at 5'2", but she could wield a paddle, belt, or switch as well as any giant of a man. She was a teacher, so many other children experienced her prowess with the "board of education." We boys dreaded hearing her footsteps hit heavy on the wood floor of our home because we knew that she "had had enough!"
Still, it was Dal Rector who truly struck fear in the hearts of his three sons. Daddy was a no nonsense type of person. He worked hard at Southern Extract, a paper mill located in Lonsdale. Split shifts cut into his sleeping, and poor pay and constant worry added to his bad mood. My twin brother is much like Daddy, and his friends, children, and extended family refer to him as a sometimes hateful old bear. That tag fit our dad as well.
No, Daddy didn't administer too many spankings. Only a couple remain in my memory. One was the result of misbehaving at the supper table. On that summer evening, the family had sat down for the meal. We always began with "God is great, God is good, and we thank Him for our food." On this night Jim and I made it only that far when we burst out in laughter, the result of having the giggles and bringing them to the supper table. Our irreverence infuriated Daddy. He scooted his chair from the table, walked to the hallway, retrieved a razor strap that hung from one of the coat racks, and returned to the kitchen. He then tanned both our hides. Weeping and gnashing of teeth ensued, and Daddy realized that his anger had gotten the best of him. He'd used a strap that he considered was much too large for punishment. His actions tormented him, and he left the house, got in the car, and sped away. Jim and I stood in the driveway and cried over the spanking and whether or not our dad would ever come home again.
The next incident came when Daddy caught us smoking. Jim and I were probably in third grade, and our older brother Dal was in the seventh. Daddy was addicted to cigarettes but wasn't about to have his sons pick up the habit. He asked us about missing cigarettes from his pack, and when we lied, he began the spanking. Our bottoms were sore, but our consciences hurt more because we'd lied to him.
That was the thing about Daddy. He rarely spanked us. Yet, he could easily have us crying with "the look." His expressive green eyes seemed to look into our very souls, and they showed the hurt and disappointment that we had caused. That was especially true when it came to education. Daddy had made it only through the sixth grade. Then he dropped out to help at home. For the rest of his life, he felt inferior to others, even though he had wisdom far beyond what most educated people had.
If we boys did poorly in school, he sat us down at the kitchen table and asked what the problem was. He listened and then told us that we better not bring in a bad grade again. Daddy never raised his voice, but we shook with fear that we would disappoint him. If a misconduct note came home or if we received anything less than perfect comments on behavior, the man was livid. He told us that we might not always be able to make perfect grades, but we knew how to behave and we had better do so.
My dad died in 1965. Forty-two years later, I remember the times that he disciplined us. As Dan Fogelberg sings in the "Leader of the Band," Daddy disciplined with a "thundering velvet hand." I wish he'd been around longer so that I could have learned more about that kind of discipline for my own kids.
Blue Hair
My mother wore a little rouge, she powdered her nose, and she used lipstick on her lips. Her routine was a simple one, so when I began to date in high school, waiting on a girl to finish getting ready made no sense to me. Yes, they had more hair than I did, but drying the stuff didn't take two hours. I remember when Amy and I began to date. She had long hair that was impossibly thick. She'd have her hair wrapped around giant rollers that gave her appearance another world look. Mother rolled her hair when we were young. She used "spoolies" and bobby pins to make tight little curls. Occasionally, she would have a permanent done by a friend or family member. The stench from those ingredients cleared the house for several hours, and the resulting hair-do was one that resembled Little Orphan Annie. I remember how women during my early years kept their hair pinned up all Saturday so that it would be just right for church.
Later, Mother visited a salon weekly to have a professional fix her hair. Her coiffure was the result of excessive hair teasing held into place with a half can of lacquer (hair spray). Some women still make that trip each week. My mother-in-law is one. Before bed each night she slips a head cover on that keeps her hair from mussing. All that is required the following day is a bit of straightening with a pick. What bothered me most was the fact that women who had their hair fixed each week couldn't wash the stuff for an entire week. Is a perfect "do" worth all the trouble?
My mother had beautiful hair. It was white. As a teen she contract typhoid fever, and her hair fell out. She swore that it grew back more white than brown. On one occasion she decided that a change was needed. Maybe she wanted a more youthful appearance. Daddy had died when Jim and I were thirteen, and perhaps Mother was trying to be attractive to other men. At any rate, she came home from the beauty salon one afternoon with her hair a light reddish-brown color. Jim and I hooted as she walked through the door. Yes, it was insensitive, but all we'd ever known was our mother's white hair. Mother was mad at first, but then she was hurt, a fact I wish I could change. She allowed the color to grow out and never attempted another change.
Eventually, Mother grew content with her hair, almost. She kept the natural color, or lack of color. She sometimes visited the salon, but by then, her preference was to have a permanent or a pageboy haircut. Her only other grooming technique was to use a special rinse. Like so many other women, she didn't want her white hair to have yellow streaks caused either by the sun or her body's chemical make-up. To combat this yellowing she applied a blue rinse when she shampooed. Mother became one of "the little ol' lady troops" with the application of this product. Her hair had the same color quality as a white shirt exposed to a black light.
In her last years, mother opted for minimal care of her hair. She kept it cut short and curled in defense against hot summers at Dollywood, where she worked for several years as Miss Carrie. It was still thick, but during the last days of her life, Mother cared nothing about how perfectly fixed her hair was.
My hair is racing to turn gray or turn loose. Sadly, turning loose is winning. These days, my only attention to hair consists of cleaning it from the shower drain. What I have is gray, but I won't ever have need of the blue rinse to keep it looking nice. Using the product would permanently turn my scalp blue.
As a kid, I NEVER fell asleep in classes. I was afraid of teachers. In the old days, a teacher wouldn't hesitate to take a sleeping pupil to the hall, and with a swift, powerful, stinging swat bring him to full consciousness. The burning from the backside always kept eyes opened, even if they were flooded with tears. By the way, no child ever suffered a loss of self-esteem when he was paddled. He did, however, stay awake and learn.
As a teenager, the last thing I ever would do was fall asleep in a class. The teacher might embarrass a slumbering child. More often, so-called friends would do terrible things to the comatose adolescent. Shoe laces were tied together so that sleepy heads would trip when they left at the end of the period. Sometimes dozens of foreign objects were thrown into the hair of that sleeping person. Some guys had a more sadistic turn. They'd wait for the person in front of them to fall asleep. Then they would take out their Zippo lighter, strike them, and place the flame close to the person's backside. Eventually, the heat would grow so intense that the sleeper would awaken and jump from his seat as if he were on fire. Then the sleeping kid was in trouble for disturbing class.
In the earlier years of my teaching career, I used to wake up students who were in my class. When I saw one, I would take my paddle and quietly walk behind his desk. The ensuing "smack" of a paddle hitting the top of the next desk proved to be an effective alarm clock. The system took away the paddle, so I had to rely on different things to wake students. Classrooms usually have floors with concrete slabs covered by tile. When I encountered a sleeping teen, I retrieved the metal trash can, walked to the side of the student's desk, and dropped it. The bang was enough to give everyone a headache. Sometimes a frightened teen jumped when the can crashed, and he nearly killed himself as he tried to escape his desk. I suppose I should have regretted my actions, but I didn't.
Kids these days aren't bashful about laying their heads upon the desks and sleeping throughout class. Heck, a one and a half hour class period is just the right length for a nice nap. They aren't too concerned about the things they do during a visit to dreamland. Some students drool in their sleep. When they do awaken, a pool of saliva covers the desktop. I ask them to mop up before they leave. Another student might have breathing problems, maybe a sinus infection or deviated septum. This physical ailment becomes apparent as soon as he drops into deep sleep because it is at this time that he begins to snore. Yes, he saws logs in front of God, classmates, and the teacher!
These sleeping children usually have an excuse for their tiredness. Some complain that they worked the late shift at one of our fine fast-food establishments. I ask them if they plan to make a career of asking people, "Do you want fries with that?" They sneer and let me know they have no intention of doing that for a living, at which point I suggest that they might well do so if they continue to sleep in class and fail English. Others say they sleep in class because they are sick. I ask them if they have come to school so that they can infect every other student and teacher. They answer "no," and I tell them to stay home until they are healed.
Folks might want to know why I don't wake them up. Have you ever heard of the saying, "Let sleeping dogs lie?" I'm not about to rouse someone who doesn't want to be here in the first place. He needs rest for attending summer school and making up the credit they've slept away.
Each day I spend the first lunch period from 11:30-12:00 at the door of the boys' restroom. My job is to make sure all males sign in before going into the facility. That sounds absurd to most people; however, the fact is that smoking has been stopped during these lunch periods proves the importance of such sentry duty.
On the day after I was accosted by female students during the faculty-student basketball game, I was sitting at my post. My mood was sour, and I wanted as little to do with students as possible. Usually, I work the crossword puzzle and word jumble in the daily paper. The noise level often reaches one equivalent to a rock concert. Part of the reason is that too many students are crammed into the small space. The other reason is that too many students lack enough self-control to keep from screaming at friends who are across the room.
My attention was drawn to a table filled with girls. They were unusually loud, and one side seemed to be in heated conversation with the other. At the table behind them, a boy yelled toward in an effort to stir things up. I looked at him and gave him the "cold teacher stare." He calmed down for the moment, but in only a short period, he was encouraging the girls to fight, and he yelled loudly enough to be heard throughout the cafeteria. I stood and walked toward him to instruct him to be quiet.
At the same moment that I reached this boy's seat, two of the girls stood at their seats across from each other. Great! These girls were squaring off for combat, and I was the only staff member close. I walked to the girl on my side of the table and told her to stop. She however, was leaning across the table as if she were lunging for her opponent. I grabbed this girl around the waist to restrain her, but by then she was in full attack mode.
The next couple of minutes turned into a tug of war with this teen. She wouldn't settle down, and her squirming caused my arms to move from her waist all the way up to her head. By the time other staff members arrived, my arms were around this child's neck, but I wasn't about to let go. If she were freed, the fight would be on.
Another teacher detained this girl and I let go. She then spun around and began cursing me and telling me, "You have no right to touch me. You can't hold me around the neck like that!" At the moment my adrenaline was pumping, and I was perturbed, to say the least. I let her know that I had the right to do what was necessary to break up a fight, and that her attempts to escape me were the cause for my arms to be around her head. She continued the tirade as I walked away. Of course, four hundred students were watching by now, and catcalls rained down as I walked through the commons area.
I was thoroughly disgusted. This was the second consecutive day that I had been in altercations with female students. On both occasions, I'd tried to enforce rules of the school, but they meant nothing to these disruptive children. They wanted what they wanted and cared nothing for what was appropriate. In the office I wrote my report, and then I spoke to the assistant principal. I let him know that I had grown too old to break up fights, and I just didn't much care for having my name, lineage, and species type call into question. On days such as these, retirement seems to be a paradise. I am certain that at home my dog Snoop won't defy me to the point that he curses me or actually attacks. If he did so, I'd punt him across the house. Retirement, like that popular bubble bath of a few years ago, will "take me away." At least I won't have referee a main event in the ring.
The first episode occurred during an assembly. One of the school organizations arranged a faculty-student basketball game. For a couple of bucks students could watch a game and escape class. Most every student attended the event, and the stands were packed with our overflowing enrollment of 2000 kids.
I later regretted my decision of supervising the commons area instead of going into the gym and being a spectator. For some reason, maybe the result of being "old school" in my way of thinking, I believed that I could help the administration by standing guard and deflecting students as they attempted to sneak out of the gym.
At first, things ran smoothly, and I walked across the commons area and chatted with the cafeteria workers as they ate. Before long, however, a dribble of girls came through the doors and turned toward the restroom. The dribble soon became a flood as groups exited the gym. I stood up and used my "teacher voice" (that's the one that sounds like the most hateful ogre on the planet) and instructed the females to return to the gym.
I need to explain something about teens and the restroom. Not that many young people have to use the facility ten minutes after a class or function begins. Our experiences as teachers have been that these adolescents want to enter the bathroom to do two things: smoke or use cell phones. The school policy also states that students should stay in class and only for emergencies be allowed to go to the bathroom. I guarantee all that probably 98% of these girls had no emergency. They simply wanted to leave a supervised area and to loiter in an unsupervised one.
One group of girls became quite hostile. They bowed their necks and tried to defy me, but even though I am old, I'm still pretty tough in some situations. One girl tried on three occasions to leave. During one attempt, I had to block her at the restroom entrance. The last time she came at me, she held out a cell phone and said, "My mom wants to talk to you!" I told her that 1) cell phones aren't to be used at school, 2) I had nothing to say to her mother, and 3) she was to go back into the gym. I can't repeat the names she called me or the profanities she spat at me during the heated conflict.
Another female came out and was as ill-tempered as the other girl. She informed that she wasn't going to "piss her pants." However, I told her to find a principal to escort her, and she disappeared back into the gym. Another girl indicated that she had a true emergency, and I asked her to get a principal to okay her visit. Apparently, the girl's emergency wasn't nearly as serious as she let on. In fact, her desperate situation was probably fictitious.
I walked to the boy's restroom to stop the few males that were in need of a smoke break, and while I was there, the most insistent girl exited again, and when a female staff member told her to return to the gym, the child pushed the woman and went into the restroom.
By the time the basketball game ended, I was exhausted. I wasn't in the mood to return to class. My blood pressure was high enough that I expected to suffer from a stroke at any moment. What made things worse was the fact that I had a half hour of bathroom duty to complete. I'd been cursed, abused, and chided by teenage girls who wanted their ways over what the school policy was. I wondered if the mouths from which they spewed such venomous things were the same ones with which they kissed their mothers. I sat there and stewed as one horrific day came to an end.
I've taught at Karns High School for more than twenty years. The school is two miles from my house; that's one reason I've stayed so long. I tend to find a place a roost: that's the second reason. For most of my tenure at Karns, my home was Room 110. I moved in for the first time on November 5, 1985. Over the years, I taught thousands of kids. I remember many of them, and a few I've tried to forget. I'm equally sure that several of them have tried to put any memories of me out of their minds as well.
At any rate, Room 110 became my home for a long time. A student named Aaron cut into a wooden plague "Mr. Rector's Neighborhood" during that first year. I hung it over the threshold of the door and also draped a pair of toddler tennis shoes and a toddler blue cardigan sweater that belonged to daughter Lacey across the edges of that plague. Occasionally, I would play the theme song from "Mr. Rogers" when new classes entered the room for the first day. Some thought it was humorous, but more thought the whole thing was wierd.
I performed many roles in Room 110. Sometimes, I would act the fool. That meant I dressed in strange garb during the week of homecoming. I've worn hillbilly clothing, hippie clothing, backward clothing, all in the name of school spirit. At times classes, usually senior ones, made me furious with their stunts or lack of effort. In those early years, I did things for effect, things that would wake up students and have them worry whether or not I was mentally unstable. I threw a piece of chalk against the back wall. Another time, I tipped over the metal podium so that it crashed to the floor and scared everyone. My greatest performance came when I rose from a coffin placed in front of the darkened room. I held a set of Macbeth test papers on which the class had performed miserably. The message was clear: get busy or the possibilities of your graduating are all but dead. The stunt proved effective. In fact, I met a woman in a store not long ago who recalled the stunt; her daughter was in that class.
Room 110 has been a place of comfort over the years. It was a familiar place to which I returned after neck and back surgery. It was a room where students could go when the life of one of their friends had been snuffed out from a tragic accident. That room is where Lacey and Dallas came at the end of each day when they were in elementary school. Room 110 welcomed me back after my mother and my older brother Dal died. Its familiarity helped me through those painful days.
In 2003 this room became my writing sanctuary. Before and after school, I spent plenty of time cranking out the first of hundreds of columns, stories, poems, etc. I sat down and wrote my first piece there; it was a column for the church newsletter about a retreat the congregation had taken to Crossville. Room 110 gave me my start in the writing business.
Things have changed in the building. The new rooms extended the hallway where my old classroom was located. The administration re-numbered them, and now Room 110 is Room 129. The custodian and I managed to save my name plate and the number plate from that room. I have them both at home. The room is now inhabited by another who is making his own history. I doubt that he'll stay for twenty years. Regardless of the number on the door, to me that place will always be Room 110. They've erased the number, but no one can erase the memories that I made there.
I feel sorry for our kids in the area because they rarely experience snow. I figure that's because we've managed to poison the planet enough to warm our temperatures and to end those days of blankets of white. Knoxville is more like Huntsville, Alabama, or Chattanooga now in the way that we receive so little snow. We who are older remember when at least one good snowfall each winter was a sure thing.
In the early 60's, Knoxville experienced a six-inch snow in April. It was a beautiful site that lasted only a little while. We kids got outside as soon as possible to play in the snow before the sun and seasonal temperatures melted it.
I remember plenty of snows during my high school years. Several times, we were dismissed from school early, and we left in cars, on buses, or on foot. Parents weren't lined up in front of the school to pick up children; we made our ways home by traditional methods. Teens were sure to go home, lest a swift tanning of the behind occur if they worried parents with their absences. In those times, snows seemed to hang around longer. A teenager can only take so much sledding, snowball fighting, and snowman building before he's bored out of his mind. When cabin fever set in, we put on our shoes and struck out for a friend's house, or if we were lucky, our path led to girlfriends' front doors. No, their parents didn't necessarily want boys hanging around their houses, but we did keep their daughters from driving them crazy with complaints.
I remember the first years of my teaching career. In the early 70's I taught at Doyle High School. Knoxville was belted with several heavy snows during those years. In fact, we missed so many days that school days were lengthened, and we even put in some Saturdays to make up the time.
I was a young, flexible man then. Our house was a mile or so from the high school then, and several of my students lived in the same subdivision. They came calling one night, and we rode inner tubes down a steep and winding hill. On one occasion I made the ride. Unable to negotiate a maneuver, I wound up with half my body under a car parked next to the curb about two-thirds of the way down the course. Luckily, I didn't kill myself or break any bones.
When my children were small, we got some good snows. I spent hours tugging on a handle as Lacey and Dallas sat in the metal scoop of an old coal shovel. I can still hear their giggles as I whipped them around the driveway and street. Sometimes the family hopped in the Pathfinder, and I locked the hubs into 4-wheel drive. The tire treads crunched the snow as we made our way to the grocery store for nothing in particular. We used the trip as an excuse to get away from the house for a bit.
Some snows weren't so pleasant. One storm was accompanied with artic-like temperatures. Knoxville recorded minus 24 one day, and my car sat with the tires frozen to the driveway. I remember another snow the first year I taught at Karns High School. It caught everyone off guard, and I was stuck with a school filled with students until about 10:00 p.m. Still, another snowstorm turned into an ice storm and trapped me on UT's campus until 3:00 p.m. the following day. The last "good" snow Knoxville in came with the blizzard in the early 1990's. Things came to a standstill for several days.
These days, about all we get are snow flurries. The school years have some days built in for inclement weather, but in recent years, we've used more of them for rain than for snow. Who can blame the kids for their excitement when they see those white flakes being whipped around by gusts of winter wind?
Sitting in my office to write today, I suffer from another sinus infection that began during my trip to Cookeville over the weekend to spend New Year's. I am just short of miserable, but my health is of little importance when it's compared to the things that happened at the beginning of that holiday time.
Amy and I planned to leave Knoxville on Friday after she arrived home from work. We packed the car with our belongings and dog Snoop. I loaded my laptop into the car so that I could complete some writing, as well as some lesson plans and syllabi for the new semester's classes. I also took a couple of books to read in case nothing entertaining was on television. Amy had purchased a gas grill to take to her mother's new house. It didn't have a gas tank, but I knew we could always get one later. I securely strapped the thing in with a set of bungee cords. Clothes, groceries, and other necessities loaded into a huge plastic container in the bed of the truck, we were ready for the one hundred mile journey.
Interstate 40 was busy, as we expected, but the traffic wasn't heavy enough to cause me to maneuver constantly between lanes. Amy and I enjoyed the ride and conversation, and before I realized, we were nearly to Crab Orchard, one of the marking points I've used since my college days at Tennessee Tech in the 70's. On a stretch of road between the Westel Road and Crab Orchard exit, I heard a commotion in the bed of the truck. I peered into to rearview mirror in time to witness the unmanned launching of our new grillear. It rattled for a couple of seconds, and then the bungee cords must have loosened. The grill scooted a short distance and then flew from the truck bed. A car behind us successfully swerved to miss this black missile.
As soon as I could, I pulled to the inside grass of the median. At the same time a semi-truck pulled to a stop on the outer shoulder of the road. I walked in the darkness along the inside lane of the interstate to see if I could remove what was left of the grill from the highway. Another truck sped down the road with sparks shooting from under its trailer; this driver evidently found another large piece of our newer cooker. I arrived at the launch site, but all I could see by the lights of streaking car lights were small strips of plastic and metal along the lanes. With a steady stream of vehicles passing, I realized that cleaning up the mess was impossible and turned to make my way back to the truck. Once safely in the cab, Amy and I said a prayer of thanks that the rocket shot from our vehicle injured that no one.
Shaken but undeterred, we continued on our trip. Upon arriving at the house, we noticed that two short, sharp beeps shot through the house approximately every ninety seconds. The new carbon monoxide alarm was at it again. I unloaded the car, and then dragged a stool to the unit. I saw a button that had two words: test and hush. I pushed this button, and as you might have guessed, I set off the alarm. It nearly deafened me, and poor Snoop took off running in search of a place to escape the painful noise. We finally stopped the alarm, but not quickly enough. The security company called, and although Amy assured them all was well, they were unable to prevent the fire department from coming. I was embarrassed for having caused the situation, so I hopped in the car and drove to a fast food restaurant to pick up our supper. However, the firemen were still at the house when I returned.
By the time they left, I was a nervous wreck. We ate our food, turned on the television for background noise as we read our books, and retired rather early that Friday evening. I awoke with my nasal passages and throat sore and my head congested. Over the next couple of days my ears stopped up as well. How could I complain? This temporary illness fit well with the rest of the events of a hellish weekend.
I am glad to be safe at home in my office. I don't plan to travel to Cookeville for a while, at least not until I'm well. Most important, I won't haul any more grills.


text:
The conversation began innocently enough.
It was casual chatter on the front porch of Buckley's Tavern with a couple I hadn't seen in a while. As we talked, the traffic streaming past in both directions was disruptive, and the conversation segued to the riskiness of crossing the street in front of this popular Centreville watering hole.
Unwittingly, I mentioned that as a cyclist I was keenly aware of the hazard this location presents. It was then that the conversation veered sidewise, like a bike tire that had just hit a patch of gravel.
"Oh, you're one of those guys," she said, dismissively.
"One of what guys?" I responded, already annoyed.
"One of those guys all decked out in Spandex that thinks he's in the Tour de France," she fired. "They're all over the place out here…holding up traffic. It's dangerous. They belong on bike paths, not on the roads with cars. Don't you think it's dangerous?"
Well, ah, yes…to the cyclist. And mostly because of people like you, I thought to myself. But I'll come back to that.
First, yes, I am a cyclist. No, I do not think I'm in the Tour de France. The reason for the tight-fitting outfit? Practicality.
I'll be the first to admit that when I began riding about 15 years ago I was not a fan of wearing bike shorts. And the chuckles from my wife and kids didn't persuade me otherwise. But after a couple of rides where I flapped around like a flag on a breezy day, I recognized the prudence in eliminating things that create wind resistance while riding a bike. Trust me, few middle-age men are choosing to wear bike shorts as a style statement.
But a lot of us are choosing to ride bikes. Women, too. And for many good reasons. Let me list a few:
• You can ride when your schedule permits
• You don't need to be on a team or find a partner
• You don't have to rent time
• You dictate the pace, the distance, the time
• It's a great cardio workout without punishing your feet or knees
• After the initial investment in a bike and gear, it's basically free
• It's actually great stress relief, except for the more-often-than-reasonable buzzing by a car
Bear in mind, the points above are strictly benefits from the recreational side. I didn't even touch upon bicycling as an environmentally-friendly, alternative mode of transportation in this age of climate change. Not to mention the positive economic impact enjoyed by towns, cities and even countries that are bike friendly.
Did you know that more than two million people ride a bike once a week in Great Britain? And that nearly 50 million people in the U.S. went for at least one bike ride last year? I am not talking about outlier behavior here.
But back to my conversation at Buckley's. I am sorry for the seconds of inconvenience my cycling may cause motorists. Please get over it. I have every right to ride my bike on the road. When there are bike paths, I use them. When there are not, I stay as far to the right as I can.
However, riding my bike on the road is legal. Coming within three feet of me in a car is not.
It's not my rule, it's Delaware law (in Pennsylvania, the legal distance is four feet). For the record, here is that law:
The driver of a motor vehicle, when approaching a bicyclist traveling in the same direction, shall ensure the safety and protection of the bicyclist by:
a. Proceeding with caution and yielding the right-of-way by making a lane change into a lane not adjacent to that of the bicyclist, if possible, with due regard to safety and traffic conditions, if on a roadway having at least 4 lanes with not less than 2 lanes proceeding in the same direction as the approaching vehicle; or,
b. Proceeding with caution and reducing the speed of the vehicle to a safe speed and leaving a reasonable and prudent distance by providing a minimum of 3 feet of clearance while passing such bicyclist, if changing lanes would be impossible or unsafe.
For some eye-opening statistics on the societal benefits of bicycling, visit PeopleForBikes.com. For some personal benefits, hop on a bike.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
I'm not a tidy person. If I know I'm having company come over it takes me awhile to prepare because everything has to be cleaned from top to bottom. I'm not a pig, I'm just not tidy. The t.v. show "How Clean is Your House?" makes me feel confident that I am not that bad of a housekeeper. It's the little things that are reassuring. It does annoy me however when I go to friends' houses and they say "Sorry for the mess." and I look around and see nothing wrong. "What mess?" "I didn't vacuum." Uhm. Okay. My vacuum is currently a coat rack.
It doesn't, however, take much to gross me out. Friday as I ventured into the coldest effing washroom I've been in since Banff's Hard Rock Cafe, I gazed around and felt my (totally inadequate–hello I said no banana peppers not more) bbq chicken quesadilla rising back up. The tiles and grout were covered in grunge not mud from winter boots but grunge because I looked and said grunge was crawling along the plumbing to the toilet. I emerged, looked at my mom and said, "I'm never eating here again."
That being said, my lack of cleanliness/order did get me into trouble awhile back. I have piss poor wiring in my condo. I don't know if they were drunk or what, but the wire isn't fully connected to the screws inside my wall. Hello fire hazard. I know this. I am on a mission to clean out my second bedroom (started a couple of months ago) to call in my electrician to have him check every outlet in my condo as my bedroom has had 3 blackouts because of this wiring snafu. So I did a quick clean (ie. everything gets thrown into a laundry basket and tossed in the spare room hence the monumental task of cleaning out said second room) and the bedroom was hastily cleaned. In walked the electrician and he wandered into my room to check out the outlets. I stood there and I looked over at my night stand. Heat immediately crawled up my cheeks as I reached over and slid the newly spotted item under my pillow.
I think I need to go to Ikea.
pig pen little blue pill sharing way tmi dontcha think?
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A short post in which we shamelessly promote our friends and/or beg one of our favorite bloggers to let us to join the ranks of Honorary Pez Dispenser — even as we strive to maintain our kick-ass standing on Humor-blogs.com.
Dear TAN LUCY PEZ,
WE love you. We really really do. Truth be told, we think every single little thing about you is nothing short of s'peztacular… including — but not limited to — your Three Amazing Daughters. Those girls…
THAT said, how long before you "invite" us to join the ranks of "Pez dispenser"? Lampsha is quite certain she'd look lovely perched atop something chic 'n sleek, Teh Penguin says her moniker was made for Pez Plastic Infamy, and, despite the fact the Little Blue Pill already comes in delightful packaging, she's ready to forgo her's for the sake of crunchy-fruit-flavored goodness. In addition, the delightful Miz BoheMia may have briefly lost herself in all things San Francisco, but she, too, shows promise as a future Dispensór de la Péz. As for Snuppy? Poor pathetic thing… is she not shameless enough? How many different ways need she declare her love and affection for all things Pez?
NEEDLESS to say, we can't (and/or won't) speak for the likes of Diesel and/or Crummy(not)Joel — those boys will have to come up with their own devices for garnering your trust and/or acceptance, our hands are full taking care of ourselves and/or our own selfish needs. But screw them, they've each recently published Very Funny Books, and fans will surely follow them wherever they go, Shirley. Naturally, the polls are still out on Harmonica Man — he certainly seems like a nice enough guy, but is he Pez-worthy? Alas, 'tis too soon to tell.
IN an effort to further endear you to ourselves and/or sway future Pez-related (heh) decisions, we decided to feature a happy video for your benefit and/or amusement. Suffice to say THIS POST of yours inspired our need to share the story of The Deer who Would Not Be Killed come Hell and/or Speeding Cop. Sadly, while it made us happy to see a beautiful buck hop over a Sheriff's cruiser, we also got bored, because, really, how many times do we need to see him do it? We get it… the magnificent creature avoided being killed by jumping outta the way at the last possible minute. Yeesh. What can we say, we're nothing if not crippled by incredibly short attention spans. Which is why we've instead elected to share the following disturbing-yet-darn-hilarious video, dedicated to the concept that (some) Deer Hunters are (truly) Stoopid.
FYI: the above deer sketch was done by The Whitest Kids U Know.
PS: You allowed Our Favorite Curmudgeon to join your ranks years ago, when can we expect the same? Our Pezzy Status (or lack, thereof) notwithstanding, we do think your gang o' spunky Pez Pals did a right fine job coming up with a perfect dispenser for your "adopted son". Honestly? We think it suits him to a Cranky "T".
PPS: laughter is dispezned 24/7 on Humor-blogs.com.
PPEZ: candy is dispensed from 9-5 TLPST near Humor-blogs.com.
PPPS: that was a lie from the Pits of Pezzy Hell. Bring your own damn candy, then choke on it while laughing at Humor-blogs.com.
Filed under: ponderings, Teh Penguin
University lectures officially finished today…and I am embracing three weeks of final exams and pencil chewing ahead of me. But before I dive into my books without a life boat or compas for safe return, I thought it was only right I got a little seasonal. No, it's not that time of month…I mean that time of year.
I love the Christmas season and it starts for me when I feel the smell of oranges and clementines. Yesterday Mom went shopping and brought home a basket full of oranges and so Christmas season started this year on a Monday, around tea time.
The reason I love this smell so much goes all the way back to East Germany. No, it was not a country known for its unlimited growth of various citrus fruits. I am not sure what we were known for, if anything…maybe communism and a passion for unfortunate haircuts.
East Germany was rather poor, from hindsight of course. As a kid I didn't think I lacked anything, simply because I did not have a frame of reference to anything else but the neighbours kids, who wore the same kind of boots and Auntie Agnes did cut their hair too.
Christmas was special even back then. I always knew the Season approached when an envelop with a fancy stamp arrived. In that rather unassuming envelope was a white sheet of paper; on it was a date, some other numbers and little tickets, usually green. The date mentioned when a special delivery would arrive to our local store and the green tickets (special Christmas food stamps) showed how much had been alotted to our particular family that year.
Christmas was all about that day. The entire village would get ready early in the morning and stand in line of the still closed store. Konsum, we used to call it. The doors opened and people moved along; nobody skipping in line, we are German after all. When our family got to the front, my Mom used to give our green stamps to the lady at the counter. She would turn around and I'd see the world's most beautiful thing: the pile of oranges. So many of them and the lady would count the appropriate amount into my Mom's bag. I always counted feverishly with her, hoping she'd make a mistake in our favor. Never happened and to this day I can still count all the way up to 5 without much effort.
Usually there was one orange per person. The centerpiece of the Christmas table. I used to roll mine over my arms because I loved how they felt and smelled. And when I finally had eaten mine, I put the rind on top of the massive stone-oven and a smell would fill the air of the room that today has come to mean that the Season is upon me! That, and the darn Coca Cola song of wanting to buy the world a coat…
So what triggers your senses, what is an absolute must for you to feel Christmassy or just how much of a Grinch are you? Anything goes…share!
~Penguin Out!
ONE of the (many) things we love about our friends, is that they (sometimes) send us hilarious stuff via e-mail. In a sea of spam, it's a genuine treat to find such flotsam and/or jetsam, especially when we're at a loss for something to write. Not that that's the case today, mind you, for we have Many Interesting Topics from which to plumb a good post. Still, we couldn't help but chuckle when we saw the header REAL NEWSPAPER ADS, in a note we got from a lovely pal with a true passion for dogs (she has 3) as well as for silliness (something we've been accused of, ourselves) and we found it difficult NOT to share. Hopefully you'll find the following listings as amusing as we did. If not, kindly keep your opinions to yourselves — we suffer under the delusion we know good humor when we see it (witness JEFF'S hilarious debut Snark post, yesterday) — no point bursting our laugh bubbles just because you wouldn't know a good joke if it was served up on a hot plate with a side of fried potatoes, right?
REAL (really) NEWSPAPER ADS
8 years old. Hateful little dog. Bites.
1/2 Cocker Spaniel, 1/2 sneaky neighbor's dog.
Mother, AKC German Shepherd
Father, Super Dog…able to leap tall fences in a single bound.
Looks like a rat… Been out a while.
Better be a reward.
Also 1 gay bull for sale.
Moving along to a few other "interesting" items…
$300 hardly used, call Chubby.
California grown — 89 cents lb.
Must sell washer and dryer $300.
Call Stephanie.
And, finally…
Complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica
45 volumes, Excellent Condition
$1000 or best offer
No longer needed, Got Married last month
Wife knows everything.
OKAY, so maybe we're the only ones who think these are funny. But guess what? We're the only ones writing this post. So, you know, neener neener neener. If you don't like it, feel free to take that damn platter of cold fries and… go sit at someone else's blog. (sorry, we get testy when we're hungry and/or making an effort to make you laugh)
Free to good home: Humor-blogs.com.
*Speaking of crummy ads and/or Humor-blogs.com (and we were) — be sure to check out CRUMMY(not)JOEL's crummy (SO not) book about Crummy Church Signs. There's still time to pick up a copy (or 12) before the Holiday Rush depletes his supply and/or — despite the bargain price — renders he and his lovely wife so wealthy they move to Bermuda in order to live in a diamond house next door to Michael Douglas and his wife, Catherine Alpha-Beta-Zeta-Jones, Inc. Just sayin'… we got finally our own copies yesterday (yeah, he sent ours out last, and what's up with that?), and were
shocked surprised delighted to note the book is not just "good", it's really really good — maybe even brillaint. (what can we say, we loveloveloved it, and are reasonably certain you kids will, too)
Also, we're of a mind to believe he'll return to the Snark fold once the newness of publishing a book begins to wane. Of course, that's what we thought would happen after DIESEL published his speclaughlar book, and you see how well that's worked out.
Filed under: Cloudman, guest who?
LOOK who we found hiding behind that cloud hanging over our heads — you guessed it, our good and very tall friend, HARMONICA MAN. Okay, so maybe it wasn't so much a cloud over our heads as in our brains, but that's beside the point. The point, which tried to rain on our thought parade, is this: after stressing over just how to follow BOBO's brilliant Fill-in Spin, we developed a world-class headache. Enter Jeff (aka Harmonica Man), a blogger we've been trying to get on the Snark team for quite some time. Finally, after much whining and/or offers to put his kids through college (assuming we can do that for about $3.50), he
caved agreed to help us out. Yay for Jeff. And yay for you, too, 'cuz this guy's not only tall enough to view the world from behind a cloud, he's also flat out funny. ~snuppy
PS: Leaving happy comments may help convince young Jeff to come back again, sometime soon. Otherwise we might resort to trolling on Humor-blogs.com for help the next time our brain clouds up.
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True story…
So there I was sound asleep at 1:00 in the morning last Sunday when suddenly I felt something land on my chest. Startled awake, I sat straight up in my bed only to see a mouse running across my blankets and down over the side. Needless to say I was FREAKED!
Or so I thought.
Needed to say was that I was only dreaming that a mouse had landed on my chest, which caused me to sit up and think I was seeing it skitter away. But to me it was all too real and just about gave me a heart attack.
Eventually I calmed down and went back to sleep. But only until 4:00 when I dreamed once again that mice were dropping through a hole in my ceiling and filling up a box that was suspended over my bed. BUT – since the box had gotten full, the damn thing was overflowing with mice which were spilling out and falling on me while I slept. Nice.
Ok, before you call the "special police", I'm pretty sure I have an explanation for these recurring nightmares…
That's right. Billed as the "most humane" way to catch mice, this live trap allows several mice to be captured at once. Which is true. Because I used it. And it works.
You see a few weeks ago we found evidence of mice running around in our garage and decided they needed to be "relocated." We chose this live trap because it seemed like the perfect solution. You simply gather them up in this nice little box, take them out to the woods and let them go. No more spring traps full of mice with broken necks and brains coming out of their mouths (which I've seen unfortunately).
Sure enough I wound up the neat live trap and put it on my workbench and the next morning there he was, one cute little mouse standing on his back legs and looking out of the plastic window. "Bingo! This thing works great!" I thought. But still I wanted to get a few more before I took the time to convert our city mice into country mice.
And then… the next morning we had another one! I was thrilled. At this rate we would have the whole McMouse family in a few days. And so I let it sit another night.
But the next morning something went horribly wrong. One of the mice had died overnight (or had been murdered) and the other one was on top of him and gnawing on his back. It was disgusting and I couldn't bear to look at it for more than a second, so I just left him there to deal with later – except that "later" just happened to end up being about a week, at which point the only thing left in the box was one dead cannibal rodent from Hell and another dried up mouse-pelt rug. Oh yeah, this trap was a GREAT idea.
Needless to say, I won't be quite so compassionate next time. After this it's mouse brains all the way. Go ahead, call PETA – I don't give a shit. This guy needs to get some sleep!
~Jeff (aka Harmonica Man)
Mickey Mouse left a juicy "surprise" for Jeff at Humor-blogs.com.
Filed under: music music
WE thought it might be nice to give our beloved DJ LAMPSHA another week off from doing one of her Legendary Saturday Spins, if only to have an extra moment or two to herself, in order to recover from a difficult couple of weeks. Ah, but what to do in her stead? Indeed, that was the question. Thank goodness we knew the answer, which came to us in the form of a certain someone with a true gift for scoping out great new artists (he may not be in the same league as Lampsha, but trust us, this person's ear is still better than most). And so, without further adieu, we are pleased to provide a Bit o' Saturday Spinnin', courtesy of THE BOBO:
**** ***** ****
Happy Saturday one and all. It is truly an honor to, once again, be sub-spinning for the one, the only DJ Lampsha. This week's spin features a couple of indie music acts that are not yet household names. They are just two of the many "new" faces of music that have taken full advantage of the internet, specifically sites like MySpace, to get their music to the public without the benefit of a major record label.
The first group hails from Boston, Mass and combines funk, rock, hip-hop, jazz, and R&B – yep, they've covered just about all the bases – to create a very original sound not easily categorized. They're called Eclectic Collective and the video below comes to us courtesy ThePalestra.com and features a song called "Ocean of Tears", filmed in front of the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio. To see the video, just click on the pic.
I would encourage you to venture on over to their MySpace page and check out the song "Beautiful Mess," my personal fav.
Today's second act is living proof that all that comes out of Nashville is not by way of the Grand Ole Opry. These guys call themselves AutoVaughn, and their music has been described by some as a cross between Tears For Fears and The Killers. The video is, once again, courtesy of ThePalestra.com and features a song called "Rock Your Body". Don't be thrown by the short intro that includes a scruffy looking lad on what appears to be a hotel or apartment balcony. Ladies and gentlemen… AutoVaughn (again, just click on the pic below).
If you're so inclined, venture over to the band's MySpace page for more of their music and an entertaining video of what life on the road is like for a group of young musicians trying to make it the hard way. It's proof positive that the life of a budding rock star is less about glamor & groupies… and more about driving a van and late nights at McDonalds.
Enjoy! Have a great weekend. ~BoBo
Listen to the music of laughter on Humor-blogs.com.
Filed under: funny...
WHEN we're feeling especially blue, pathetic, and/or unlovable (like today, after gorging ourselves with all the trappings of an especially tasty Thanksgiving feast), we look around for a few good reasons to smile. Sometimes we do that by watching a totally stupid-yet-absurd program on TV ("CSI: Miami" works well for this purpose). Sometimes we make faces at ourselves in the mirror and think "yeah, we probably could pull off that Marlena Dietrich faux face lift" (tho' we're guessing Botox would be easier than pulling up all our "excess" skin then tacking it onto the top of our head with hat pins). Sometimes we amuse ourselves by telling our son he has to do his own damn laundry, which has been piling up in the corner of his room for the past 3 months (the smell alone is enough to keep us out of there in the first place). And sometimes, we find we can make do by simply basking in the glow of our HUMOR-BLOGS.COM rating, which, at the moment, is 37. That may not sound like much to you kids, but, aside from the
six eight nine blogs currently ranked higher than us, all we can say is: neener neener neener (as opposed to the nyuk nyuk nyuk we just heard from the blogs who managed to knock us down 2 3 more notches…).
Not to be confused with HUMMER-BLOGS, something we made the mistake of doing last week. We won't go into details here, but suffice to say it was NOT a blog dedicated to Arnold Schwarzenegger's favorite mode of transportation. Not that there's anything wrong with that (the over-sized/over-priced vehicle and/or the overly-anticipated by every guy we know activity). Some of you might be tempted to explore the contents of HAMMER-BLOGS, but be warned, it's not very interesting. That is, unless you find tales of pounding nails, an obscure 80's funk star in baggy pants, and/or tossing back a few cold ones "interesting". And don't get us started on the crushing disappointment we felt after perusing the pages of HUMOR-BAGS dot com. Rubberized farts are SO last century.
Where funny blogs go to get read and/or where our blog goes to bask in the fleeting glow of slipped ratings. (okay, so maybe we need to work on the actual "humor" part of our postings, but still, we don't care what you losers say, "37" rocks.)
OH YEAH — as long as we're bragging (and goodness knows we are) please-oh-please-oh-PLEASE vote for us in this week's CAPTION CONTEST. We're not proud of ripping off an Uncle Miltie anecdote, but from what we've heard and/or know, the man known as
King Cock of Hollywood Mr. Television had a sizable (heh) stash of quips to spare — so we're fairly confident he wouldn't mind in the least. The fact that the "contest" is over is beside the point, by the way. The point, which was hiding under the last slice of pumpkin pie, is that we're looking for attention, validation, and/or a little bloggy "love".
PS: HUMOR-DOGS is moderately funny, but only if you don't mind a bunch of jokes about chasing squirrels, cheating your dog-buddies at poker, and/or trying to seduce a fetching Poodle (although now that we look again, that picture is humor-blogs-worthy and/or puppilarious).
In case you couldn't tell, this post-Thanksgivng Day post was brought to you by a post-Thanksgiving stupor, on behalf of HUMOR-BLOGS.COM.


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Catechism Question 20April 1, 2015 at 2:39 pm | Posted in Children's Bible Catechism, II Corinthians | 2 Comments
Tags: 2 Corinthians 5, Acts 10, Bible catechism, Catechism, death of Christ, God's motivation, Isaiah 1, John 3:16, Salvation, the atonement
Question 14: What has God done for you so you can have eternal life?
Answer: He sent his Son.
Prove it.
John 3:16
Question 15: What did Jesus do while He was here on earth?
Answer: He lived a perfect, sinless life.
Prove it.
John 8:29
Question 16: How was Jesus treated here on earth?
Answer: He was hated, rejected, and falsely accused.
Prove it.
Isaiah 53:3
Question 17: How did Jesus die?
Answer: He was crucified.
Prove it.
John 19:18
Question 18: What happened to Jesus after He died?
Answer: He was buried and then rose again on the third day.
Prove it.
Acts 10:40
Question 19: Where is Jesus now?
Answer: He is in Heaven with God the Father.
Prove it.
Hebrews 10:12
Question 20: Why did Jesus do these things?
Answer: So God can forgive me for my sins.
Prove it.
For he hath made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin; that we might be made the righteousness of God in him.
II Corinthians 5:21
The motivation for Christ's willingness to pay the price of forgiveness for the sins of His people has been touched on previously in John 3:16, which was the proof of the answer to Question 14. A child is more likely to identify with the simple, albeit amazing, truth that God loved us enough to send His Son to die in our place, and that the Son loved us enough to do so.
However, depending upon the age and comprehension of your child, you may also want to discuss the facets of the doctrine of justification which deal with the sinless sacrifice of the second person of the Deity Himself as the only means by which God could satisfy His justice, while still showing off His miraculous love, amazing grace, unending mercy, and glorious holiness.
In another, more limited, sense, God accomplished the salvation of His people in the Cross of Christ in order to fulfill His prophecies and to show His faithfulness and sovereignty and power by keeping His Word.
Other verses to consider:
To him give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth in him shall receive remission of sins.
Acts 10:43
Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.
Isaiah 1:18


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Wedding Catering Strathpine QLD
8 Insider Tips For Choosing the Right Catering Service In Strathpine
When it concerns the things that can make or break an event, couple of are as important as the quality, taste and look of the food and drinks you serve. A lot is riding on your choice which catering service to hire, and if you believe this choice actually isn't that essential, take a look at it in this manner, fantastic catering can rescue an occasion that's on the rocks, however bad catering will generally send guests to the doors.
In addition, since catering is typically the # 1 or # 2 line-item expense for a lot of occasions, the catering service you select is also a considerable financial choice and can affect how much money you have actually left over to invest in other areas depending upon food costs and quantities.
Add in that catering services can differ dramatically in their pricing and the kinds of meals and services they provide, and the process of picking a caterer can figuratively and actually seem like you are comparing apples to oranges.
# 1 Responsiveness And Individual Interest In Your Needs
Of all the event and catering professionals we talked with, this showed up over and over and over again, primarily since how responsive and interested a catering service is throughout your preliminary discussions is a sign of how they will perform throughout the length of their contract with you (and more on agreements later on).
A prospective catering service must be learning as much as they can about you in your very first few discussions with them, so you should expect them to be talking and asking concerns about 20% of the time and you offering answers and outlining your requirements about 80% of the time.
# 2 Ability To Manage Your Specific Type of Occasion In Strathpine 4500
Not every catering service is perfect or every type of event, and lots of catering services themselves honestly admit this.
So when interviewing your Strathpine catering services (and you must talk with at least 3 catering services for any occasion with an affordable spending plan), you need to be specific about the kind of occasion you are preparing and the type of food and/or presentation you are expecting. Otherwise, you might wind up picking a catering service who simply isn't a good fit for the type or style of your occasion.
Practically every catering service has a basic menu or menus to choose from, and many do supply some level of built-in flexibility to adjust these menus to your specific needs by replacing particular items and/or personalizing others.
However, the standout caterers will surpass standardized menu alternatives and want to produce fantastic fare that matches a lot more specific style and dietary needs.
# 3 Willingness To Provide Tastings
How will you ever understand exactly what a caterer can do unless you sample their goods? And more specifically, how will you know what the menu items you are considering will taste like unless you particularly try them?
Some people avoid asking to sample the particular items they desire for their occasion because it seems like a trouble for the catering service, however it is standard to request for a tasting of exactly what you are meaning to order before you sign on the dotted line.
In addition, you can ask for wine parings for these tastings if they are appropriate for your event (once again, be prepared to pay a cost, it's a small price to pay to ensure you pick the right caterer). And when you are tasting the food, also take care of how it exists, as any caterer who takes the time to properly display a sample will probably be more likely to make that sort of effort on your occasion day.
Are you an event supervisor who needs to handle catering information, budgets and projects?
Or are you a catering service who has to track propositions, invoices, meal selections, inventory and other customer information?
# 4 Familiarity With The Venue
You might remain in for a surprise if you employ a BARBEQUE take-out joint to cater a formal ballroom charity event. Or if you select a high-end business event caterer to serve a barn wedding. Why? Due to the fact that these caterers may not be accustomed to preparing and serving food in such a setting.
This can get even more particular depending upon constraints of the venue itself, like in the case of museums and historical sites.
Even more traditional places can likewise have restrictions that caterers should follow, like certain setup standards or disposal limitations for waste food and water, so having a catering service that recognizes with a location's guidelines can possibly save you great deals of trouble on event day.
# 5 Complete Explanation Of Services/Goods Promised In The Contract
The caterer's contract should clearly spell out exactly what food, beverages and services the catering service will be offering on the designated day( s). Additionally, it needs to safeguard you from non-performance as much as it safeguards the catering service from non-payment/default, so you may wish to consider having a lawyer} take a look at it before you sign it.
Every detail ought to be included in the contract, consisted of chosen menus, variety of portions and/or people to be served, beverage/bar service information (if suitable) and all pricing and extra services.
No catering service in Strathpine with a shred of self-respect and scruples participates in a contract with plans to bail at the last minute, however you need to make sure there is a cancellation clause in your agreement just in case your caterer has to cancel.
You do not want to be left without recourse with only days or hours before your occasion, so simply ensure cancellation procedures and charges are in place so you do have a backup plan.
# 6 Recommendations You Can Call and Talk To
Naturally you will need to look into the catering services you are considering, and it's always great to start online and check out sites.
Nevertheless, don't stop there, as online reviews are not constantly trustworthy (or even genuine); for instance, a great catering service might have had a couple of nightmare/hater clients who skew their ratings, while a truly average catering service might have padded their online reviews. So see if you can track down some previous customers of the catering services you are thinking about and reach out to them.
# 7 Insurance
Every catering service we talked with called insurance coverage "an offered" for catering services, and you definitely don't want to legally be on the hook for some oversight or mishap that was the fault of your caterer.
# 8 A Knowledgeable Chef and Kitchen Area Staff
Remarkably, how long a catering business in Strathpine has been in business may not be as vital in choosing a terrific caterer as you might believe.
So ensure to ask about the chef's bona fides and CV due to the fact that he/she will probably be the one most responsible for the outcome of the meal and whether your guests enjoy it or not.
Call Us Now Of Fill In The Form To The Right For All Private Catering, Wedding Events, Birthdays And Barbeque's.