Keep Your Tundra!

by Thomas M. Pender

Being raised in Michigan, and having lived in the Chicago suburbs for a few years before dropping down to the Deep South, I remember winter.  Real winter!  I’m now in the midst of my 13th “Southern winter,” and I have to admit, I still love being out of the snow.  I’m surrounded by folks who, born and raised in the South, covet snow.  They get all giddy when there is a 0.3% chance of snow, and they salivate whenever they see snowmen in TV commercials.  But I have been there, and I don’t wish to return.

Not only is it tougher to drive in the North in the winter, but you have to deal with shoveling pathways and driveways, re-shoveling driveways when the snowplows come through ten minutes after you’ve gotten out of your driveway-shoveling gear, and my old arch-nemesis: static electricity.

This isn’t the cute static electricity, where you rub a balloon against your hair and it sticks to the wall.  Oh, no!  This is the nerve-wracking static electricity, where each and every time you reach for a light switch, you receive a tiny preview of the electric chair.  At some point every late fall-into-early winter, Yankees are reminded of this winter hazard when the simple act of turning on or off a light jolts the tender pads of their fingertips, and gets them hopping and cursing.  For the remainder of the winter, our Northern friends either accept and make peace with the shocks, or they must go to extremes to avoid them.  Some may carry novels throughout the house, and touch their light switches with only the books’ spines.  Personally, I would turn lights on and off with the back of my hand, or the knuckles, where the shock is much lighter.  On occasion, I would simply swat the switch with my fingertips to eject the electricity, then flick it up or down normally.  In any case, it’s a headache which requires forethought and tactics to avoid.

Then there is the dryness.  When the outside world is white and snowy, and your house is heated to your comfort level, everything and everyone inside it gets dry.  Your skin cracks (and if not moisturized, bleeds), your nostrils become barren wastelands where the simplest blowing into Kleenex is a tiny blood-letting, and your lips join in the crack-and-bleed parade unless another moisturizer is purchased.

Wearers of eyeglasses know what happens whenever you step from the cold to the warm, too.  You fog up.  As a member of this club for over twenty years, here was an additional mini-migraine to the day.

Roads ice over.  Power goes out.  Slip-and-fall hazards become a daily occurrence.  And what happens when the spring is rumored to be around the corner?  Slush.  My birthday is in mid-March, but while the lion is morphing into the lamb, it is not a pretty sight.  Ice-edged snow patches join slush, slop and mud on the roads and driveways.  Every car is a moving mess of road salt, mud and ice, unless the driver chooses to expend even more winter cash on car washes.  Not until the birds are heard and the grass is at least a hint of green does the world become attractive or pleasant again.

What gets me wondering are the people who live in such places by choice.  I still have many friends up in that climate, dressing in layers and getting into intersection bumper-thumpers.  I don’t get it.  What I really don’t get is the ultimate insanity: ice fishing.  Imagine putting on numerous layers of clothing, plodding out into the wind chill and snow to walk out on a frozen lake, sit in an uninsulated tin shack, drink cold beer for the love of God, and stare at a hole in the ice waiting for nibbles.  These must be some severely unhappy husbands to go to such extremes to escape warm houses and experience such ridiculous conditions!

I stick with my annual mantra, repeated whenever I hear a Southerner moan for flurries:  “Yes.  Snow is beautiful.  That’s why God made postcards.  You can look at it, you can marvel at it, but you don’t have to shovel it and you don’t have to drive in it.”  In fact, the great thing about living on the Dixon side of the line is that you can visit snow!  If you really and truly hanker to make a snow angel, you can pack up the kids, drive straight north until you see snow banks, stop the car, get out, roll around in it, throw it, take pictures of your snowy happiness, get back in the car, and drive home.  This is the ultimate winter in my book.  “Woohoo, snowball!” . . . click . . . “Okay, kids, let’s go home. “  All the joy, none of the hassle.

I love you, Northern friends.  I just don’t understand you.

The Dawn of Psychology, In My First Grade Class

by Thomas M. Pender

I’m not sure how or when it started, this ability to involuntarily study my fellow human beings as I go about my business.  Since a time I can’t recall (and perhaps, I suppose, since birth), I have watched the actions and reactions of people around me, and compiled patterns of behavior.  It only occurred to me in my late teens or early twenties that I could say or do specific things in order to get specific reactions from specific people.  When this did occur to me, I became very curious about the origin of this skill/talent/curse.  I still have no answers as to the beginning of this phenomenon, but I recently recalled at least a very early anecdotal sign that I was learning how to use it to my advantage.

The game was called “Seven-Up.”  I was six.

The rules were fairly simple.  Our teacher would pick seven students, who went up to stand at the chalkboard.  The rest of the class would then put their heads down and close their eyes.  The chosen seven would wander out into the columns of desks, and each would touch one student on the head or arm, then return to the front of the class.  Those who were touched would stick their thumbs up in the air.  When the teacher counted seven thumbs and the original set of chosen students were back up in front of the class, she would give the okay.  The students would then sit up and open their eyes, and the seven who were touched would stand.  One by one, each would guess who touched them.  If the student guessed right, they would replace that person at the front.  If they guessed wrong, they would sit back down.  After all seven guesses, the heads went back down for another round.

At an indistinct point in my first grade career, I became an expert at this game.  Not only could I easily pick out which student touched my arm, but I could arrange to be the least likely chosen by the students I tapped.  I slowly and subtly noticed that the other six- and seven-year-olds had tendencies to stand against the board at the head of the same row they picked someone, and to look anxiously at their target while he or she was deciding.  Once this mystically occurred to me, it was a piece of cake to determine who touched me.  Once up at the board and a player, I altered my behavior very simply: I would pick a student on one extreme end of the class, but stand at the opposite extreme end of the board; and while my target was trying to find me, I would casually look away from them and look bored, as if his or her choice didn’t concern me.

I can’t say I was never chosen, but I bet for the rest of that year and the following few years we played the game in class, I wasn’t found out more than one or two times a year.  At the time, I had no idea that I was delving into the complex field of psychology.  I was just playing the game to the best of my ability.  Only decades later did I realize that I had, in fact, studied a set group of subjects, notated patterns of behavior, developed theories of behavior based on these notes, then tested my theories within the study group, to be rewarded with the predicted behaviors.

I’m not even a man of science, but I think this certainly warrants at least a Master’s in Psychology.  I’d even take one that was written out by a six-year-old in Crayon!

You Say You Want A Resolution

by Thomas M. Pender

Coming up on the dawn of 2012 as we are, many people’s minds turn to thoughts of New Year’s resolutions.  Such optimistic folks decide on what they will accomplish in the coming calendar year, or what they will change about their lives that they do not like, or how they will improve themselves.  It’s a very admirable practice, this promising oneself to become a better person.

Making good on these promises, however, seems to be a bit of a challenge.

Statistically, the most popular resolution is weight loss and/or exercise.  From the stories I’ve heard, both from folks I know and strangers in various media, January will start off full of positive energy and dedication to the resolution, but within a few weeks, peters completely out of steam.  It seems like only the strongest can even make it to February!

I’m only speaking from an observer’s point-of-view here.  I have never made a New Year’s resolution, simply because I know myself very well.  I know I have issues with focus and diligence on non-essential long-term projects.  (Witness my barely started novel, conceived over 23 years ago!)  I don’t feel the need to purposely add pressure onto myself to accomplish feats that I procrastinate on while under no pressure whatsoever.  In fact, whenever someone asks during the holiday season if I’ve made any New Year resolutions, I usually respond, “Every year, I resolve not to make myself promises about my future behavior.”  Simplified, I don’t make New Year resolutions.

I suspect that tag-team resolutionists have a much better chance to accomplish their goals.  At least, to go the furthest in reaching their goals before giving up.  I think that a healthy environment of coaxing and partnering will add a great deal of success potential to any achievement, be it as small as organizing one’s closets or as large as quitting cigarettes.  I do feel that with a loving partner-in-resolution, I would achieve much more than I ever would have on my own.  But that’s just me.

As I do any positive, constructive goal seekers, I applaud the resolutionists, and wish them only the best.  To be completely honest, though, a date on a calendar isn’t going to spark much progress in my personal goals.  A change of calendar can’t inspire a change in mindset all on its own.

While I work on improving myself – year-‘round, mind you! – I wish everyone a happy and positive New Year!

The Well-Pressed Cowboy, And Tattling On The Mountain

by Thomas M. Pender

I’ve been a music lover since I was a toddler.  Regardless of talent, I loved singing with the television commercials, radio, records, you name it.  Unfortunately, knowing the lyrics to a song doesn’t always equal understanding the lyrics, particularly when you are very young.

My sister and I used to sing songs with our Grandpa Mac, who played the saw and the ukulele.  Since he was a Sunday school teacher, some of the first songs we ever sang were kid-level church songs.  I understood “Jesus Loves The Little Children.”  I understood “Jesus Loves Me.”  I even got the gist of “The Old Rugged Cross,” which I heard in church and, despite its somber topic, was a favorite of mine at five years old.  One song that tended to confound me, however, was “Go Tell It On The Mountain.”

English is a very delicate language, in which a single comma, letter or two-letter word can change the entire meaning of a word or sentence.  Here, the word in question is “It.”  This word sort of breezed by me in my singing.  To me, the song was about a naughty mountain that I was being instructed to turn in to the authorities.  In other words, “Go Tell On The Mountain”!  I understood that the song was (also) about the birth of Jesus, but for some unknown reason . . . and to my memory, I never actually asked . . . some mountain had done something its parents would be very upset about, and they were supposed to be informed immediately.

Don’t worry.  As I got older, I absorbed the meaning and importance of the “It.”

The other non-intentially-humorous song that made me laugh as a child was a Western song by Marty Robbins.  My dad was a big fan of his music, and he would play Robbins' album Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs a lot.  In these lyrics, cowboys, sheriffs, bandits and ranchers painted a picture of the rough and beautiful Old West.  I liked listening to the songs of the good guys and the bad guys, but the hero of one song struck me as fairly ridiculous.

In the song “Big Iron,” a Texas Ranger comes into town looking for a mean and nasty outlaw.  Everyone in town fears this outlaw, but the Ranger is bold and (spoiler alert!) guns down the criminal in the end.  How he ever succeeded in doing this was a mystery to me as a child, however, since he, as the song relates, “had a big iron on his hip”!  I had watched Mom iron.  It was a useful tool, indeed, and even a bit dangerous, due to the heat exhausted from the bottom.  Still, picturing the scene as I sang, I could never figure out how a guy with a heavy appliance designed for smoothing out clothes – and which fired no projectiles at all, unless you count steam! – on his hip was going to defeat a bandit with an actual gun.  Perhaps the lightning-fast champion got close enough to the bad guy to burn his shooting hand before he could fire?

Again, it wasn’t until I was much older that I caught the slang-ness of the title.  Part of maturing is learning where you went wrong in your younger interpretations of the world, and correcting them.  In doing so, the sad attachment is that we lose the wonder of a child’s view on Life.  Somewhere, there is a fantasy land where cowboys smooth out ruffians and mountains break rules, only to be ratted out.  It doesn’t exactly sound like a bad place to be, but perhaps a bit sillier than our world.

Such dreamers of silly things and singers of silly lyrics have even been known to immortalize such fantastic images in online columns!

Modern Commode Phone Etiquette Tips

by Thomas M. Pender

With the advent of the cellular telephone, some astounding freedoms with our communications have emerged, such as texting, storing rather than memorizing phone numbers, and the ability to converse whilst utilizing the lavatorial facilities.  Such wondrous gifts of technology come with tremendous responsibilities, however.

The home bathroom is, by definition, a private facility.  A utilizer (one hesitates to use the term “consumer”!) of such a facility is free to express him- or herself in pretty much any way he or she chooses.  This includes the choice to use, and how to express oneself on, the cell phone at the time of commodal utilization.

Yes, love it or hate it, humans are now free to talk with their bosses, significant others, clergy and in-laws whilst in the process of “dropping the kids off at the pool.”  In the privacy of your own bathroom, this leaves you free to do as you please . . . but be considerate of the fellow human you are chatting with, please.  Unless both the call of the phone and the call of Nature are dire emergencies, try not to pause in the middle of a sentence or word in order to strain.  If both the call and the call of Nature are dire emergencies, at least explain this pre-strain.  You might also want to apologize in advance.

When the caller/evacuator is in a public restroom, however, the etiquette becomes much more detailed, because you are now dealing with total strangers in your mist . . . uh, midst.  Here, you are sheltered in a small area which, while you are seated and your head is positioned in its natural position, you cannot see out of.  Do not, however, let this fool you into thinking that you are alone and free to do as much as you please at home!

For example, when you are aware that another person is in the facility while you push the SEND button, be a little more specific in your greeting.  Don’t just say “Hi,” as this may earn you a suspicious response from the other side of the wall!  “Hey, Clarence” or “Hi, Mom” will simultaneously greet your callee, and let your new neighbor know that you are not an arrest-worthy pervert.  In this vein, also never begin a public restroom phone conversation with the line “Hey, whatcha doin?”

Ew.

Do also remember the non-strain rule while in public.  Now you have a potential band of people to disgust with your midword pushings.  Under this umbrella rule, also never hold conference calls of any corporate nature whilst unloading.  Your credibility and respect levels may also find themselves . . . dropping.

In short, keep in mind that by its very definition, a restroom is an impolite place.  The phone is an instrument which (one hopes) requires an understood modicum of politeness.  Therefore, never the twain should meet.

Assless in America

by Thomas M. Pender

I have a birth defect, which is rarely discussed in public.  It’s apparently genetic, as my father before me had the same defect.  It’s been the cause of pain and heartache, as well as shame and embarrassment.

I have no butt.

I used to have one, back when I was thin as a rail.  In fact, back then a butt was all I had physique-wise!  A bump halfway up the broom, if you will.  As I started to gain normal weight, however, the distribution of the added poundage was not exactly even.  Plenty of people complain that too much weight ends up on their posterior, but mine was the opposite problem: thighs fatter, check; love handles visible, check; stomach bigger, CHECK!  Everywhere in the derriere neighborhood was getting “pound-ed,” but apparently my behind was not invited to the calorie-fest.  Soon, with the expansion of fat above and beneath it, it simply went away.

There are some actual problems associated with this lack-o’-tushy syndrome, too.  With nothing underneath to cushion a sitting position, I can’t be comfortable sitting anywhere with little or no padding.  This has been an issue every time I’ve been in a church with only non-padded wooden pews, and also public events that feature metal folding chairs.  When I was younger and thinner, you could actually hear the bones collide with the harder surfaces if I sat down hard!  I was also known to sit on Mom’s lap throughout my teens, and teasingly say that she used to let me sit there, but the joke never lasted long, as Mom would say that my hip bones were digging into her skin.

Here was one reason I could actually look forward to gaining some normal-range weight.  But noooo!  I got the bod curse handed down from Dad.  I remember Mom following Dad up the stairs once, and Mom grabbed a handful of Levi’s denim where his body should have been.  “Look!  There’s no butt!” she announced, and the household erupted in laughter.  You just gotta love silly parents.  Nowadays, however, it’s not so much humorous as irritating . . . and I get mocked on occasion, too.  The prime-time cartoon series King of the Hill did an entire (and, admittedly, hilarious) episode dedicated to the fact that central character Hank Hill had no behind.  He ended up having to wear a kind of backward-silicone-implant thingy in order to sit comfortably.  This was shown for entertainment value, but it just may come to that one day.  Horrors!

As far as I can tell so far, my boys have not carried the assless gene.  Still, I suppose I’ll have to wait until they hit their twenties to really find out.  In the meantime, please pray for my sons’ butts.  Thanks.