“Defibrillator!” I yelled. “Someone run inside and get a defibrillator! It’s just too beautiful out here.” My family scrambled, searching for something that would help. My wife finally rushed outside with a turkey baster and an electric mixer. “We don’t have a defibrillator,” she cried. “How about a 9-volt battery?” In a fit of panic, she wrapped her arms around my waist and gave me the Heimlich. It was just enough to snap me back to my senses. To help me survive the gorgeous fall morning that had been a shock to my unprepared Florida system. I had walked outside that early morning to get the newspaper. Immediately I knew something was wrong. “What’s happening?!?” I asked myself. “No sweat dripping off my forehead. No 400 percent humidity. Toes tingling! Goose bumps up and down my arms! Drunken smile across my face!
Writing home from a wildnerness retreat
Brian Thompson traveled with his wife and daughter on a two-day retreat to a cabin on a lake with Memorial Presbyterian this past weekend. He wrote this letter home to his mother, which we will now print in its entirety: Dear mom, How are you? I am fine. Homesick, but I have clean sheets, I change my underwear daily and I have not been horribly mauled by a bear. (As they say in Hollywood, the night is still young and I smell like chicken and roasted marshmallows. Hopefully I will survive the night.) It is very pretty here. The lake is very warm, and as far as I can tell, it is not filled with brain-eating amoeba. I am very concerned about brain-eating amoeba. So concerned, in fact, that I have yet to take a shower. Or drink water. Or brush my teeth. For some reason, whenever I walk up to some people and begin a conversation, their noses twitch and they take two giant steps backward. Must be some kind of camp tradition. The mosquitoes are the size of pterodactyls, and they don’t just bite you. They approach you with a blood donation bag and ask which arm has the largest veins. It’s very disconcerting. I chose the left arm. There are also great swarms of mating lovebugs. It is like some kind of lovebug hippie commune. They stay up all night mating and partying and dancing in the moonlight. Several tried to get into bed with me, but […]
The biggest of birthday lies
I wouldn’t normally do this, but I feel I have to use this space to clear up some horrible misinformation. If you happened to drive by my house this week, you noticed flamingo yard signs and a message with a blatant lie. It said “Happy Birthday” to my wife. That wasn’t a lie. No, but the sign COMPLETELY got her age wrong. I shall not repeat the lie. I will not inflict that unbearable pain again. Family members did this. Their hearts were in the right place. I’m not disputing that. It was sweet to walk out and see a yard filled with flamingoes. My dog thought we had been transported to another universe. She didn’t know where the heck we were.
Unclehood and becoming ‘Uncle Bri Bri Big Britches’
The onesies with monkeys. The tiny wash cloths. The toys with pieces so large, a starving camel couldn’t swallow them. The miniature socks meant for mice feet. It was my sister-in-law’s baby shower at work. I was one of the only men. Since we work in the same place and I’m family, I was contractually obligated to attend. She’s due in about a month. It’s all becoming real. Monkey onesies will do that. My brother is taking it well. I saw him last weekend after he returned from a baby-shopping trip to Pottery Barn Kids. He did great. He only threw up once! At the shower, happy people kept turning to me and saying, “You’re going to be an uncle! Aren’t you excited? Are you ready?” “Excited? Sure,” I answered. “But ‘ready?’ I don’t need to be ready! This is my brother’s gig. I’m here to point and laugh when he shows up in a BabyBjorn.” But it got me wondering: What does it mean to be an uncle? You know, what it entails and all. Whether I’m “ready.” Whether I need to be. Whether there are certain responsibilities I have to take on.
Who is this Mumford, and what’s the story with his sons?
It seems our little city of St. Augustine, FL, has been turned upside down by Mumford and Sons and their Gentleman of the Road tour, which stops in this weekend. Yet, many of you Nation’s Oldest City locals asking, “Just who is this Mumford guy and why are his sons going to jam up all the downtown streets?” So I put together some answers to frequently asked questions, along with tips to surviving the two-day Mumford and Sons concert. • Which one is Mumford? And how does he stand touring with his children? My kids would drive me crazy! — Marcus Mumford is the English lead singer of the band, and he also plays several instruments, including the triangle. (Keep an ear out for a smokin’ triangle solo!) But the rest of the band are NOT his sons. In fact, I don’t even think they’re cousins. It’s just kind of a catchy band name. You know, like how The Beatles weren’t really … say … what the heck is a “beatle?”
What a homeless shelter can teach you about taking nothing for granted
I left the dime in the rental car. I went through the arm rest and wadded up the napkins. I grabbed the empty coffee cups. I took the half empty bottle of Purell and even checked to see if anything was left in the trunk. I threw it all away. But I left the dime in the cupholder. I had considered grabbing it. Stopped to think about taking it with me. Ten cents? Nah, I told myself. I’m not a rich man, but I can afford to leave a dime. It’s too much trouble. I don’t want it rattling around in my pocket with keys. What am I going to do with a dime anyway? So I left it behind. I couldn’t throw it away. And I’m feeling awfully guilty now about even thinking that way.
Back to school nervousness, excitement … and forgetting of names
“Are you excited or nervous?” I asked my daughter. Of course it was a dumb question. Dads are legendary for dumb questions. Obvious ones. And no matter how many blank stares we get. No matter how many burning laser beams we get, we keep asking them. It was the first day of school. Second grade. The BIG time! On a whole new hall. In a big kid classroom. The seats are taller. When I sit in them, my back doesn’t creak and my knee caps don’t burst out of my legs. We were walking up the sidewalk to school. Parents all around smiled and said, “Welcome back! Just in time, huh? One more day of summer and I was selling little Johnnie to the gypsies!” You know, good stuff like that.
Signs that the end of summer is growing near
You can feel it slamming shut. Not the heat. Oh, no. Certainly not the heat. It keeps coming. Rolling up on you. Getting under your clothes. Taunting you — “Shrivel like a raisin, wimpy boy!” I’m talking about the end of the summer. It’s coming. The intense heat of August is one of the signs — that the slow days and the easy times are just about over. School is about to start. Holidays are on the horizon. The good life is about to pick up the chairs and put out the “Closed ‘til next season” sign. Have you noticed them? The signs? Here are a few I’ve been seeing: • My summer to-do list now stretches to two pages — Nothing says the end of summer like an unfinished to-do list. Mine is yellowed with this written across the top: “Complete before June … OR HEAT WILL KILL YOU!!!”
A final goodbye to my geriatric paper maps
I threw away car maps the other day. Maps! Threw them away. It took great strength and effort to do it. But they’re gone. They were buried deep down in the glove compartment. I had been searching for an air pressure gauge. Instead I found a year’s supply of fast food straws. Enough crumpled napkins to sop up Lake Erie. And maps. Lots of maps. Maps of St. Augustine. Maps of Florida. Maps of the southeast. Maps of the Civil War and of the Lewis and Clark expeditions. Maps of Kenya and the original map Columbus used on his way to the New World. It had a doodle of a sinking ship and a seagull with this note: “Hoping this wasn’t bad idea. Pickup milk on the way home.” Frustrated when I didn’t find the air gauge, I started stuffing everything back in. Including the faded, crumpled maps. Then I paused.
‘Teen Beach Movie’ and a little daddy endurance
So, I have seen the regular version. And I have seen the sing-along version. And I have seen the dance-along version. And if there was a smell-along or a 3-D interactive video game with hip-degrading properties, I’d probably have seen that, too. I have the songs stuck in my head. I have talked about my favorite characters. Hair styles. Outfits. Surfers vs. bikers. How makeup could stay on perfectly in summer humidity.