Brother John's signature on his family's birthday card to me. Our man of relatively few written words outside of business:
"Wow! 40 sis! Really!
We're gettin' old.
You're an excellent human!!"
********************
November 19th, 2009
Penned in the calligraphy-style handwriting he reserves for his 'special' letters to me, mom, and the kids.
Gloria,
In my prayers for you, the vast countless thoughts of our Father descend upon you as a gentle calming mist settles upon the petals of a mountain wild flower. He causes you to bloom with His soft and gentle light. Your anxieties and heartaches flow from you in a stream of living cleansing water.
In my prayers for you, He reveals the true desires of your heart by giving them to you. Your eyes are lifted toward the awesome warmth that emanates from Him through His Holy Spirit. Your heart bursts with a peace that knows no bounds, nor can it be extinguished by the cares of this world.
In my prayers for you, the patience you've exercised, the hope, faith and love you harbor for your little brother is come to fruition and healing is done at last.
In my prayers for you, God opens your eyes and heart so you can see and feel what my love and gratitude, loyalty and humble devotion to seeing YOUR peace and joy fulfilled really is. Only a broken spirit such as mine, one that has been nurtured, loved, cared for, and believed in by one such as you, can know the futility of searching for words to describe the endless thanks I feel.
I love you. Happy Birthday Sis. Love, -ME (Gary for those who can't guess.) XOXO infinity
****************
Folks, hang on to your brothers. Make it work. They are worth the effort and occasional forehead slap. When they're not around, appreciate those friends and neighbors who temporarily fill in for them! As the magnet on my fridge extols, IF IT AIN'T ONE THING, IT'S YOUR BROTHER!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Forty Words for Forty Years
Ah, the 40th birthday. The big ship sailing in. Or, away . . . depending on your take concerning the milestone matter. Me - I rode a sleekly rigged and tightly outfitted schooner right up to the dock. Let someone else sink out at sea with their Titanic. From the onset of this year, I've viewed my 40th birthday as nothing less than a stopping point for reflection, realignment, rejoicing and NO, count 'em, NO regrets. (Those nasty little boogers accompanied me all along the way before I hoisted them over the side and into the waiting mouths of ravenous sharks!) I even managed to kick off the year of change with a frigid dip into the icy waters of the local swimming pool -- ye olde annual Polar Bear Plunge. (Disclaimer: the waters were not as chilly as expected due to unseasonably warm temps, but I promise you it halted the proper function of my lungs and exacted two-tiered goose pimples!)
Among the embarrassment of riches I received by making a huge fuss over my fourth decade of life, were several generous gifts from my husband, including the food-laden bell-ringing party. The iPhone arrived pre-birthday and is well exercised. The laptop in all her pink glory revealed her identity late in the festivities; she assists in aiding my 'speech' on this blog at present. The riding boots made their well-heeled debut during the second half of the shindig. Our gift bag laden coffee table doubled as a generous portion of the evening's entertainment.
About one-third of the way through the unwrapping, I begin to feel rather uncomfortable with the seemingly unending pile of goodies, bearing contents both large and small, amusing and serious, sweet and tart! My daughter conspired Secret-ly with Victoria to bestow a lovely pajama set; my neighbor and her husband set themselves in good stead with the most clever present(s) of the night. Two sisters sent two gifts which arrived two days in a row to my surprise and delight! (Clarify: sisters one to the other and NOT my own siblings.) There were cards and well-wishes and candies and books with a few gift cards thrown in. Not a bad haul but not at all the reason for the party.
I wanted the people. All of my people, or as many of them as we could gather, together for a few hours under the same roof for my viewing and hearing pleasure. I hoped to observe them as they interacted one with the other. I looked forward to the epicurean pleasure they would undoubtedly experience when they partook of the tables upon tables of victuals, from smoked wings to cake and ice cream to chips and fruit to veggies and dips to nuts and candies to wines and deli meats to gourmet cheeses. Phew! You're full by this point, no? As they dined without limitations, I would feast with my eyes upon my human smorgasbord of folks, grateful for their friendship, companionship, blood history, the entire gamut. People, people, people. MY people, if I may be so bold.
Because it is the people for whom my birthday bell tolls, their sentiment and sacrifice, their wit and verve, it should come as no surprise that I zeroed in on one particular birthday card. Cards from the right people exude such personality and personal feeling -- the succinct and often clever epitome of the giver's impressions of the recipient. I absolutely love them and believe Hallmark answered a holy calling! While there was not one bad apple in the bunch, the card of honorable mention contained perhaps the most perfect of presents for a gal such as myself: words. (A charming pair of earrings also accompanied this card which I mistook initially for a fashionably wrapped teabag!) Words straight up. No mixer. No chaser. No supplemental adverbs or adjectives. Just a collection of forty words for forty years.
They read as follows:
Strong, articulate, smart, kind, motherly, awesome, hot, stylish, funny, entertaining, kind-hearted, beautiful, fit, culinary, artist, horticulturist, faithful, loving, spiritual, photographer, patient, forgiving, author, intelligent, philosophical, passionate, well-rounded, natural, dedicated, courageous, profound, sensible, striking, dancer, honest, virtuous, frugal, brilliant, astute . . . and (yes, she has said it before now) weird.
Now, I am head-over-heels for my iPhone - who I named 'Girlfriend'; please note I called it a her - and the laptop, boots, gift cards, and all the rest are nothing to frown at. I haven't and I won't. It's just that those forty words say in a most direct fashion what one single gift cannot encompass with such wide scope. There may lie within the perfection of this gift the makings of a tradition to be passed from person to person, friend to friend, occasion to occasion.
I propose each reader try this approach to writing with someone on the other end of their pen. It would do away with the fear most people feel when attempting to come across as witty and unique in the signing of their cards. I have several wonderfully supportive and expressive friends who refuse to send me cards or letters of any kind on the excuse that they can't come up with anything as good as my sentiment for them. Such a wounding . . . we writers enjoy being written to - dangling prepositions and all! If we wanted to read our own words, we'd simply write to ourselves. This clean march of words, one quality, one description, one right after the other with merely a comma for accompaniment, eliminates the guesswork and pressure to perform. And, aside from assigning it as the subject for this blog entry, I can not begin to express the sheer pleasure I derived from the reading and absorption of those fabulous forty words.
So, hunker down and give 'em forty!
Among the embarrassment of riches I received by making a huge fuss over my fourth decade of life, were several generous gifts from my husband, including the food-laden bell-ringing party. The iPhone arrived pre-birthday and is well exercised. The laptop in all her pink glory revealed her identity late in the festivities; she assists in aiding my 'speech' on this blog at present. The riding boots made their well-heeled debut during the second half of the shindig. Our gift bag laden coffee table doubled as a generous portion of the evening's entertainment.
About one-third of the way through the unwrapping, I begin to feel rather uncomfortable with the seemingly unending pile of goodies, bearing contents both large and small, amusing and serious, sweet and tart! My daughter conspired Secret-ly with Victoria to bestow a lovely pajama set; my neighbor and her husband set themselves in good stead with the most clever present(s) of the night. Two sisters sent two gifts which arrived two days in a row to my surprise and delight! (Clarify: sisters one to the other and NOT my own siblings.) There were cards and well-wishes and candies and books with a few gift cards thrown in. Not a bad haul but not at all the reason for the party.
I wanted the people. All of my people, or as many of them as we could gather, together for a few hours under the same roof for my viewing and hearing pleasure. I hoped to observe them as they interacted one with the other. I looked forward to the epicurean pleasure they would undoubtedly experience when they partook of the tables upon tables of victuals, from smoked wings to cake and ice cream to chips and fruit to veggies and dips to nuts and candies to wines and deli meats to gourmet cheeses. Phew! You're full by this point, no? As they dined without limitations, I would feast with my eyes upon my human smorgasbord of folks, grateful for their friendship, companionship, blood history, the entire gamut. People, people, people. MY people, if I may be so bold.
Because it is the people for whom my birthday bell tolls, their sentiment and sacrifice, their wit and verve, it should come as no surprise that I zeroed in on one particular birthday card. Cards from the right people exude such personality and personal feeling -- the succinct and often clever epitome of the giver's impressions of the recipient. I absolutely love them and believe Hallmark answered a holy calling! While there was not one bad apple in the bunch, the card of honorable mention contained perhaps the most perfect of presents for a gal such as myself: words. (A charming pair of earrings also accompanied this card which I mistook initially for a fashionably wrapped teabag!) Words straight up. No mixer. No chaser. No supplemental adverbs or adjectives. Just a collection of forty words for forty years.
They read as follows:
Strong, articulate, smart, kind, motherly, awesome, hot, stylish, funny, entertaining, kind-hearted, beautiful, fit, culinary, artist, horticulturist, faithful, loving, spiritual, photographer, patient, forgiving, author, intelligent, philosophical, passionate, well-rounded, natural, dedicated, courageous, profound, sensible, striking, dancer, honest, virtuous, frugal, brilliant, astute . . . and (yes, she has said it before now) weird.
Now, I am head-over-heels for my iPhone - who I named 'Girlfriend'; please note I called it a her - and the laptop, boots, gift cards, and all the rest are nothing to frown at. I haven't and I won't. It's just that those forty words say in a most direct fashion what one single gift cannot encompass with such wide scope. There may lie within the perfection of this gift the makings of a tradition to be passed from person to person, friend to friend, occasion to occasion.
I propose each reader try this approach to writing with someone on the other end of their pen. It would do away with the fear most people feel when attempting to come across as witty and unique in the signing of their cards. I have several wonderfully supportive and expressive friends who refuse to send me cards or letters of any kind on the excuse that they can't come up with anything as good as my sentiment for them. Such a wounding . . . we writers enjoy being written to - dangling prepositions and all! If we wanted to read our own words, we'd simply write to ourselves. This clean march of words, one quality, one description, one right after the other with merely a comma for accompaniment, eliminates the guesswork and pressure to perform. And, aside from assigning it as the subject for this blog entry, I can not begin to express the sheer pleasure I derived from the reading and absorption of those fabulous forty words.
So, hunker down and give 'em forty!
Byte Bite
Amended definition for PAIN:
'stabbing one's raw cold sore with the stiff bristles of one's toothbrush with inadvertant swift motion.'
Can I get an 'ouch-ouch?'
'stabbing one's raw cold sore with the stiff bristles of one's toothbrush with inadvertant swift motion.'
Can I get an 'ouch-ouch?'
Friday, November 27, 2009
Magnanimous
Though I awoke from an uncomfortable night of sleep - having dozed off in the reclining chair while attempting Scrabble on my iPhone as numerous episodes of Thanksgiving gorge converged and diverged within my swollen-with-'food-baby'-belly - my mind was at rest. A most calm and joyful state of rest, I might add. A mental and emotional rest which completely transcended the still tumultuous state of my stomach AND the newly-developed lower back pain from my awkward evening of slumber in the Easy Boy.
It seemed that in whatever direction I chose to look, appreciation abounded. The warm light filling my bedroom, bathing every surface in a golden wash of enhanced color, was succor to my eye. Later in the day, that same light fingering its way across the bowl of deep orange clementines on the kitchen table actually stole my breath for a second. Piles of folded towels and sheets yet to be stowed in the linen closet reminded me of the comforts my family enjoys each and every day; running up the stairs to put them away, I marveled in the relative comfort of movement I exercised in the small climb to the second level of our home. The panoramic sweep of our suburban back yard, viewed through handsome windows with blinds in need of desperate repair, told me that to have one's own chunk of earth on this spinning planet was a very good thing even if it wasn't the farm for which my heart yearns.
Each thought to enter my mind delivered satisfaction. Wandering over the memory landscape of yesterday's Thanksgiving adventure at the new home of my brother-in-law and his wife, I once more toured their gorgeously appointed formal dining room. Generally speaking, I see little use for these spaces in modern homes, but today in my brain's viewfinder, I admired the handsome circular table they are not quite ready to use with its perfectly selected and utterly unique chairs. I touched on the tall marble-topped credenza, recalling how well it showcased the fine selection of holiday pies. With its high windows and curved archways and the round rich rug echoing these lines, I saw a space which would provide years of excellent fellowship over equally fantastic meals. It pleased me to realize that I would, one day soon - I hope, be a member of one such episode of fellowship.
Every feeling to cross my heart elicited gratitude. There is a woman, roughly my age, for whom my emotions have been guarded due to my history with a somewhat similar woman from my past in the area of friendship and family. My personal interaction with her was limited to only a few meetings -- all of which were pleasant from my perspective. But, other individuals with whom I share a longstanding bond of history and love, voiced strong objections based on circumstances to which I was not privy. Circumstances I heard soley from their point of view. A conversation with a relative who often speaks in brief excerpts of profound reason caused me to reexamine my reactions to this woman. This morning, I felt a need to appreciate her for the life she had to live and for the life she is trying to live. I felt the need to give her a voice of her own where the familiar cadences of friend's past did not interject. On the heels of this realization rushed a flood of thankfulness which I readily welcomed.
There was none of the usual 'reality check' amendments to the moments . . . not even a one. The standard upon-waking list of to-do's, followed by the even more standard grouping of chunks-of-time on the clock, rounded out by the swift realization that my day was spent before it had ever begun, failed to present themselves for my inspection. (The sun, presently low in the western sky, alerts me that I have yet to see these familiar denizens of my mind and in all likelihood will NOT see them today!) Because I know the rarity of such days, even with a heart and mind as open to goodwill as mine, I felt an urgency to record this particular collection of hours before they spent themselves well, good and with finality. Thus far, it has been a most magnanimous day. And, with a prescience I trust today, I forecast more of the same to the end.
MAGNANIMOUS:
free from petty resentfulness; high-minded, noble; proceeding from or revealing generosity or nobility of mind, character, etc.
It seemed that in whatever direction I chose to look, appreciation abounded. The warm light filling my bedroom, bathing every surface in a golden wash of enhanced color, was succor to my eye. Later in the day, that same light fingering its way across the bowl of deep orange clementines on the kitchen table actually stole my breath for a second. Piles of folded towels and sheets yet to be stowed in the linen closet reminded me of the comforts my family enjoys each and every day; running up the stairs to put them away, I marveled in the relative comfort of movement I exercised in the small climb to the second level of our home. The panoramic sweep of our suburban back yard, viewed through handsome windows with blinds in need of desperate repair, told me that to have one's own chunk of earth on this spinning planet was a very good thing even if it wasn't the farm for which my heart yearns.
Each thought to enter my mind delivered satisfaction. Wandering over the memory landscape of yesterday's Thanksgiving adventure at the new home of my brother-in-law and his wife, I once more toured their gorgeously appointed formal dining room. Generally speaking, I see little use for these spaces in modern homes, but today in my brain's viewfinder, I admired the handsome circular table they are not quite ready to use with its perfectly selected and utterly unique chairs. I touched on the tall marble-topped credenza, recalling how well it showcased the fine selection of holiday pies. With its high windows and curved archways and the round rich rug echoing these lines, I saw a space which would provide years of excellent fellowship over equally fantastic meals. It pleased me to realize that I would, one day soon - I hope, be a member of one such episode of fellowship.
Every feeling to cross my heart elicited gratitude. There is a woman, roughly my age, for whom my emotions have been guarded due to my history with a somewhat similar woman from my past in the area of friendship and family. My personal interaction with her was limited to only a few meetings -- all of which were pleasant from my perspective. But, other individuals with whom I share a longstanding bond of history and love, voiced strong objections based on circumstances to which I was not privy. Circumstances I heard soley from their point of view. A conversation with a relative who often speaks in brief excerpts of profound reason caused me to reexamine my reactions to this woman. This morning, I felt a need to appreciate her for the life she had to live and for the life she is trying to live. I felt the need to give her a voice of her own where the familiar cadences of friend's past did not interject. On the heels of this realization rushed a flood of thankfulness which I readily welcomed.
There was none of the usual 'reality check' amendments to the moments . . . not even a one. The standard upon-waking list of to-do's, followed by the even more standard grouping of chunks-of-time on the clock, rounded out by the swift realization that my day was spent before it had ever begun, failed to present themselves for my inspection. (The sun, presently low in the western sky, alerts me that I have yet to see these familiar denizens of my mind and in all likelihood will NOT see them today!) Because I know the rarity of such days, even with a heart and mind as open to goodwill as mine, I felt an urgency to record this particular collection of hours before they spent themselves well, good and with finality. Thus far, it has been a most magnanimous day. And, with a prescience I trust today, I forecast more of the same to the end.
MAGNANIMOUS:
free from petty resentfulness; high-minded, noble; proceeding from or revealing generosity or nobility of mind, character, etc.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Cat-tharsis
My neighbor doesn't like my cat. No, that isn't quite true. What she actually said was that though it was a strong word to use, she 'hated' my cat. I believe the actions 'get rid of' and 'kill' were coolly laid out before me, and the other women at our neighborhood function within earshot that night, during the course of her short dissertation on the lackluster feelings she has toward my freewheeling feline. In the most honest and perfunctory of tones, she went on to say she dislikes animals in general, pets in specific, dogs and cats in the finite. Her ailing father's manic mutt irritates her to no end and almost cost her a tailbone on the basement stairs a not too long ago.
It aggravates her that she must keep her garage closed against possible molestation of her car's cloth top by my offending handsome pet. It annoys her when she escapes to the haven of her lovely back porch to recline in her comfortable chairs, any one of the four, only to return to reality with a hair coat spread across her ample behind courtesy of my wandering orange kitty. She is vexed by her husband's continuing friendliness towards my boundary-retarded stalker of bird and bunny. I wonder if she would be disturbed if her hubby kicked or shot at him instead? Mmm, probably not.
But what can I do? What should I do? Where does my responsibility for this animal begin and end? Cats simply are NOT like dogs. They can't be kept on leads or trained to remain behind fences or kept from causing chaos at the bird feeder. He is an indoor-outdoor pet who showed up on our doorstep two years ago just weeks before Thanksgiving as a scrappy, scrawny critter with an unending appetite and a penchant for belly rubs from strangers. Unlike the previous strays, he did not depart, choosing, instead, to adopt us as his family, his home base. My son took an intense liking to him as did my daughter. I surrendered to their desires and before long, I, too, fell under his masculine charm. At nine months of age, his wanderlust was ingrained and well-exercised. Who was I to strip him of that freedom? Who was I to pull out his nails, one by one, and restrain him behind glass and wall for the rest of his life? He was destined to the lifestyle he was leading when he came to us, and we resolved to allow him that right despite the dangers he might face. Better he be happy in death then to devolve into a frustrated tomcat confined to 2,900 square feet of living space with plenty of spots for spraying out of feline vengeance.
From block to block, home to home, there are fans to be found. He is admired and watched, crooned over and petted, fed and watered -- so much so that his collar now prominently displays a purple tag with the admonition "Please Don't Feed Me" -- to such a degree that his already highly developed ego took on a luster never before seen in such an animal. Fabio, as he was named by a neighborhood boy who sincerely believed all cats are Italian (NOT my son but his friend), has a substantial body of believers dedicated to his spoiling and he spreads himself around with gusto on a daily basis. During my morning walks, I've even come across him in the neighborhood BEHIND ours! That is covering some distance. I often wonder if most folks know from whence he comes. Sometimes, I think even HE forgets, except at mealtimes and naptimes! My pantry door, my ankles, my daughter's bed: these he recalls with deep fondness. But, our need to rub up against his fur the way he rubs up against us around mealtime, is NOT held in high regard. Now that he has staked us out as territory, we are mere markers in his big-game-hunt existence. Sometimes I feel a bit taken advantage of, but the trade-off has been worth it. He's not needy. His independence and orneriness are quite appealing. I am NOT an animal hater. I find there to be great value in pet ownership. Dogs and cats and the rest of the menagerie.
So, I will do what I can do for my neighbor. I CAN bestow upon her a peace offering in the form of a basket of goodies. Let's see . . . one of those sticky roller brushes for collecting hair and lint from clothing. A spray bottle like the one we use at home; even if she just displays it near a chair and shakes it once in awhile, he'll get the message. A container of cat-repellent from PetSmart which can be applied around the perimeter of her back patio and porch. I can have my son make a boldface sign to remind her nice husband NOT to pet the animals! I'll include a gift card to her favorite local Mexican restaurant, stressing the Margarita's in the note card which will be thoughtfully positioned next to one of those wee picture books from the store with endearing photos of animals. I can promise her his pelt upon his demise or advise her to keep it if she transgresses against him in a weakened moment. As I want to keep the peace and do like this woman as a person, overall, I will sign it, "From One Christian Sister To Another . . . Sorry 'Bout The Cat!"
What else can I do?
It aggravates her that she must keep her garage closed against possible molestation of her car's cloth top by my offending handsome pet. It annoys her when she escapes to the haven of her lovely back porch to recline in her comfortable chairs, any one of the four, only to return to reality with a hair coat spread across her ample behind courtesy of my wandering orange kitty. She is vexed by her husband's continuing friendliness towards my boundary-retarded stalker of bird and bunny. I wonder if she would be disturbed if her hubby kicked or shot at him instead? Mmm, probably not.
But what can I do? What should I do? Where does my responsibility for this animal begin and end? Cats simply are NOT like dogs. They can't be kept on leads or trained to remain behind fences or kept from causing chaos at the bird feeder. He is an indoor-outdoor pet who showed up on our doorstep two years ago just weeks before Thanksgiving as a scrappy, scrawny critter with an unending appetite and a penchant for belly rubs from strangers. Unlike the previous strays, he did not depart, choosing, instead, to adopt us as his family, his home base. My son took an intense liking to him as did my daughter. I surrendered to their desires and before long, I, too, fell under his masculine charm. At nine months of age, his wanderlust was ingrained and well-exercised. Who was I to strip him of that freedom? Who was I to pull out his nails, one by one, and restrain him behind glass and wall for the rest of his life? He was destined to the lifestyle he was leading when he came to us, and we resolved to allow him that right despite the dangers he might face. Better he be happy in death then to devolve into a frustrated tomcat confined to 2,900 square feet of living space with plenty of spots for spraying out of feline vengeance.
From block to block, home to home, there are fans to be found. He is admired and watched, crooned over and petted, fed and watered -- so much so that his collar now prominently displays a purple tag with the admonition "Please Don't Feed Me" -- to such a degree that his already highly developed ego took on a luster never before seen in such an animal. Fabio, as he was named by a neighborhood boy who sincerely believed all cats are Italian (NOT my son but his friend), has a substantial body of believers dedicated to his spoiling and he spreads himself around with gusto on a daily basis. During my morning walks, I've even come across him in the neighborhood BEHIND ours! That is covering some distance. I often wonder if most folks know from whence he comes. Sometimes, I think even HE forgets, except at mealtimes and naptimes! My pantry door, my ankles, my daughter's bed: these he recalls with deep fondness. But, our need to rub up against his fur the way he rubs up against us around mealtime, is NOT held in high regard. Now that he has staked us out as territory, we are mere markers in his big-game-hunt existence. Sometimes I feel a bit taken advantage of, but the trade-off has been worth it. He's not needy. His independence and orneriness are quite appealing. I am NOT an animal hater. I find there to be great value in pet ownership. Dogs and cats and the rest of the menagerie.
So, I will do what I can do for my neighbor. I CAN bestow upon her a peace offering in the form of a basket of goodies. Let's see . . . one of those sticky roller brushes for collecting hair and lint from clothing. A spray bottle like the one we use at home; even if she just displays it near a chair and shakes it once in awhile, he'll get the message. A container of cat-repellent from PetSmart which can be applied around the perimeter of her back patio and porch. I can have my son make a boldface sign to remind her nice husband NOT to pet the animals! I'll include a gift card to her favorite local Mexican restaurant, stressing the Margarita's in the note card which will be thoughtfully positioned next to one of those wee picture books from the store with endearing photos of animals. I can promise her his pelt upon his demise or advise her to keep it if she transgresses against him in a weakened moment. As I want to keep the peace and do like this woman as a person, overall, I will sign it, "From One Christian Sister To Another . . . Sorry 'Bout The Cat!"
What else can I do?
Monday, November 2, 2009
I Text You Not!
I was almost the cause of a traffic accident today. Yup, most certainly almost was. Right there on Memorial Boulevard in front of McDonald's just past the Northfield light. And, as humiliating as it is to report, it was text-related. I know! I know! It is illegal. It is beyond ignorant. I have children who drive and have received countless orders from me geared toward the appropriate use of cell phones . . . not to mention accompanying threats if I discover they have veered from the approved course in the matter.
So, WHY, then, did this happen with me at the helm?! Well, let me clarify: yes, it did involve texting; and, yes, it did involve my vehicle executing a sudden braking when I whipped my head up and caught the flashing red of the tail lights on the vehicle in front of my maroon Chevy Silverado double-cab truck. But, I was not glancing furtively at my shiny purple flip-top Sony Ericsson cell phone in a foolish attempt to peruse a random message which, while most assuredly not relaying anything of a life-or-death manner, could cause a life-or-death matter to abruptly and violently occur. No, no, most assiduously no, I say.
Before my neck pivoted my vision back to the windshield where it should have remained the entirely of this little incident, it was the woman in the next lane, seated in the navy 4-door sedan of indeterminate make and model upon whom my high-powered gaze was fixed. Before the intersection light changed from 'stop' to 'go,' I caught her quick little fingers moving over the keys of her cell phone. As the flow of traffic propelled us forward into the next long business block, it ticked me off to no end to realize she was continuing her Class C misdemeanor offense communication. Yes, folks, I almost crashed and created a minor traffic drama in the middle of a manic Monday because I was angrily foaming at the mouth over the texting habits of someone else! Oh, the cruel irony . . .
On July 1st of this year, a law was passed in this here state of Tennessee. I know it was. I heard it on the news. I read it in the newspaper. I praised the gents in their suits and high places for gifting their constituents with this rather speedy decision under Senate Bill 393. I discussed it with my family. However, the stiff fine for this offense concerned me then. And, per the multitudes of drivers behind the wheel in cars next to mine or those of my friends and family and fellow Tennesseans, who still engage in this cellular roulette, the $50 slap-on-the-wrist-holding-the-phone yet concerns me.
Um, folks, a citizen littering in our lovely state is fined $50. That fee rises as the amount of litter-per-litterer rises. While the clean-up of said litter does cost us $11,000,000 just to pick up litter in unincorporated areas of the state (a little known fact, astounding in its own right), its impact is decidedly less than that of a multi-car pile-up on the highway resulting in countless deaths and injuries which then reverberate in a ripple effect of exponential strength and pain (loss, suffering, insurance, funerals, emergency personnel response, and on and on) all stemming from one ignorant person's need to glimpse one more inane 'LOL' on the LCD panel of their Blackberry or IPhone.
Yes, I text. Yes, I understand its appeal, especially with the kids of this thoroughly technological age, though I will always prefer a phone call, letter or e-mail, myself. But, I don't, don't, do not text while I am behind the wheel and engaged with other vehicles on the streets and highways and biways anywhere. There is no equal trade-off in value here: hmmm, discovering your friend is 'OMG, so bored' for the fifth time that day versus taking the lives of a family of five in the minivan just up ahead. That is no exaggeration. THAT is the reality here. And, let's face it, I shy away from the illegal aspects of any activity. Call me silly! I've told my own children that if I hear of them texting and driving, or receive news that they've been spotted by another in the practice, their ability to drive the car or truck under the name of their parents will be revoked on the spot. .
Now, I realize my rule may be considered a bit of a severe imposition on drivers in general, but should not the punishment for the reflex-impairing behavior be a bit more, shall we say, attention grabbing? Perhaps the text-offense merits a larger monetary remuneration for the state's coffers -- slap on another zero to that $50. Or, say, the loss of the offending bit of technology for a month? Next time, a year? Third time, no cell phone for life. Sound familiar? Well, check out a the stats for text-related accidents versus drunk-driving accidents in the past year or two. You may be well surprised. Or, perhaps like me, you won't.
Grrr.
Be responsible. Be smart. Don't text and drive. As they say, the life you save may be your own . . . at the very least.
So, WHY, then, did this happen with me at the helm?! Well, let me clarify: yes, it did involve texting; and, yes, it did involve my vehicle executing a sudden braking when I whipped my head up and caught the flashing red of the tail lights on the vehicle in front of my maroon Chevy Silverado double-cab truck. But, I was not glancing furtively at my shiny purple flip-top Sony Ericsson cell phone in a foolish attempt to peruse a random message which, while most assuredly not relaying anything of a life-or-death manner, could cause a life-or-death matter to abruptly and violently occur. No, no, most assiduously no, I say.
Before my neck pivoted my vision back to the windshield where it should have remained the entirely of this little incident, it was the woman in the next lane, seated in the navy 4-door sedan of indeterminate make and model upon whom my high-powered gaze was fixed. Before the intersection light changed from 'stop' to 'go,' I caught her quick little fingers moving over the keys of her cell phone. As the flow of traffic propelled us forward into the next long business block, it ticked me off to no end to realize she was continuing her Class C misdemeanor offense communication. Yes, folks, I almost crashed and created a minor traffic drama in the middle of a manic Monday because I was angrily foaming at the mouth over the texting habits of someone else! Oh, the cruel irony . . .
On July 1st of this year, a law was passed in this here state of Tennessee. I know it was. I heard it on the news. I read it in the newspaper. I praised the gents in their suits and high places for gifting their constituents with this rather speedy decision under Senate Bill 393. I discussed it with my family. However, the stiff fine for this offense concerned me then. And, per the multitudes of drivers behind the wheel in cars next to mine or those of my friends and family and fellow Tennesseans, who still engage in this cellular roulette, the $50 slap-on-the-wrist-holding-the-phone yet concerns me.
Um, folks, a citizen littering in our lovely state is fined $50. That fee rises as the amount of litter-per-litterer rises. While the clean-up of said litter does cost us $11,000,000 just to pick up litter in unincorporated areas of the state (a little known fact, astounding in its own right), its impact is decidedly less than that of a multi-car pile-up on the highway resulting in countless deaths and injuries which then reverberate in a ripple effect of exponential strength and pain (loss, suffering, insurance, funerals, emergency personnel response, and on and on) all stemming from one ignorant person's need to glimpse one more inane 'LOL' on the LCD panel of their Blackberry or IPhone.
Yes, I text. Yes, I understand its appeal, especially with the kids of this thoroughly technological age, though I will always prefer a phone call, letter or e-mail, myself. But, I don't, don't, do not text while I am behind the wheel and engaged with other vehicles on the streets and highways and biways anywhere. There is no equal trade-off in value here: hmmm, discovering your friend is 'OMG, so bored' for the fifth time that day versus taking the lives of a family of five in the minivan just up ahead. That is no exaggeration. THAT is the reality here. And, let's face it, I shy away from the illegal aspects of any activity. Call me silly! I've told my own children that if I hear of them texting and driving, or receive news that they've been spotted by another in the practice, their ability to drive the car or truck under the name of their parents will be revoked on the spot. .
Now, I realize my rule may be considered a bit of a severe imposition on drivers in general, but should not the punishment for the reflex-impairing behavior be a bit more, shall we say, attention grabbing? Perhaps the text-offense merits a larger monetary remuneration for the state's coffers -- slap on another zero to that $50. Or, say, the loss of the offending bit of technology for a month? Next time, a year? Third time, no cell phone for life. Sound familiar? Well, check out a the stats for text-related accidents versus drunk-driving accidents in the past year or two. You may be well surprised. Or, perhaps like me, you won't.
Grrr.
Be responsible. Be smart. Don't text and drive. As they say, the life you save may be your own . . . at the very least.
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