I wrote earlier about finally taking the plunge to check out my ancestry.
My long-suffering wife and I enjoy watching British murder mysteries. In fact, we reserve Sunday evening specifically for their viewing. Netflix, Hulu, and other sources provide a smorgasbord of great stories. However, I must admit a couple of things. One is that we watch for different reasons while agreeing that the story's the thing. But my wife likes to point out the gardens while I'm saying, "Look, there's a body over there!"
We have also come to the conclusion that there are only 47 actors in the UK. We'll be watching an exciting episode and simultaneously say, "Oh, she was also in The Midsomer Murders," or "That guy was the killer in Broadchurch!"
Have you ever noticed the "before" photos that show up in the endless diet program advertisements on TV? Have you ever notice that, with the exception of Marie (who lost 50 pounds!), nearly every one of those people were smiling, look happy, and exude contentment in their "before" photos? I didn't think so. I didn't until it occurred to me that those people appeared to be quite happy regardless of their size. Got me to thinking.
Why should they spend time and money and incur frustration when they were happy just being themselves before being persuaded by body shaming advertising to chase after some societal "norm" of what should be their ideal size? The word "jolly" comes to mind, a word now associated only with Santa Claus, the right jolly old elf. I mean, if Santa is jolly regardless of his girth, or maybe because of his girth, shouldn't we be like Santa? Obviously, being his size hasn't affected his life span. Maybe it has extended his life span. The Bible says that a merry heart maketh like a medicine, right?
Next time you see one of those diet ads, and they are ubiquitous, take a look at the "before" pictures of those tricked into spending money to lose weight. A happy face is the best advertising for not going on those pricey diets. And with that, I rest my case.
I believe in diversity and I believe in tolerance, and I can prove it. I have friends who are Cubs fans and I have friends who are Cardinals fans and I still accept them. They are welcome in our home and they know it, showing up for our First Friday gatherings, as well as other times, with regularity, making those times more fun. I am okay with their wearing their teams' paraphernalia and keeping me up to date with their teams' successes and failures. They are intelligent fans who know the game, appreciate the history of their teams, and are aware of the thousands of statistics that only major league baseball can generate (right-handed hitting Ernie Forbles' batting average the day after a night game on the road in June when the sun is shining and lefty reliever Portnoy Rackowitz is pitching with a 2-1 count).
My friendship and expansive tolerance is partly based on sympathy because, with the Cubs every century or so with a World Series championship notwithstanding, their teams are, well, inferior. Inferior to what, you might ask. Inferior to my team, for 62 years now, the Boston Red Sox. We have better fans, history, ballpark, city, players, management, and more nuns in the stands.
But tolerance and welcoming diversity only go so far, and they do not include embracing fans of the Forces of Evil, the New York Yankees. A pox on their houses
I am now a Son of the South. I do not hunt. I do not fish. I do not even play golf. I am an English professor for Pete's sake which means that I fit a certain stereotype. I like to read a lot. I write novels. I have weird neckties that I sometimes wear. None of these things qualifies me to consider myself now a bona fide, yet transplanted, Son of the South. So what does qualify me? This: I have an old pickup truck on blocks! My Lord, I feel so accepted now, after decades of living in Dixie, I have come of age. It didn't take a dog fight, moonshine (no comment), or even my own special road kill barbecue recipe.
It was having that truck up on blocks.
I came out one morning and the truck was leaning a tad to port, so took a look and there it was - a flat tire. I needed to fix it, but the jack I had to use was for our Altima, and it didn't lift the truck high enough for me to take off the tire. So, I got a big block of wood and put the jack on top of that and jacked that old pickup higher and higher until I could remove the tire. then I took the tire in and picked it up two days later and put it back on the truck.
My old pickup was up on the block only a couple of days, but I'm counting it, even though it wasn't on cinderblocks, or even in the front yard. Son of the South? That's me!
I picked up a flat tire on the way to Newberry College a few days ago. In the dark. On the Interstate. It began with a funny little sound coming from the back of the car, along with a little vibration. Of course, I assumed nothing was wrong. Prayed nothing was wrong. I did not like the idea of being stranded on the Interstate in the pre-dawn darkness. There be monsters about at that time of the night. So I ignored it. With regard to my health, I have always ignored little signals of malfunctions in my physiognomy and the problems always disappeared, unless there was breakage. And sometimes even then. The funny little sound grew louder.
Pretty soon it was really, really hard to ignore the deafening "whop-whop-whop" sound of my right rear tire disintegrating and the colorful array of warning lights all over my dash. I slowed down a bit. It got louder until I couldn't hear myself ignoring it. Fortunately, an exit was looming up so I was able to ease off the Interstate and onto a two-lane blacktop that led into a small town where we used to live. But it was still a few miles to civilization. So I nursed the car on three good tires and a sturdy rim to a parking lot on the outskirts of town.
I opened the truck and noticed that I had one of those dinky little spare tires, which was good. What I didn't have was a jack. I have no idea where it was, but for sure it wasn't in the trunk of my car. So I walked a few short miles in the cold dark and into town, believing nothing would be open for a couple of hours, but I did find a repair shop that was open, but that did not do tires. The man there gave me tow numbers to call for help, so I thanked him and walked back to my crippled transportation and called the first number, found a nice lady on the phone, and gave her my tire size and location.
An hour later I was back on the road and only $167 poorer. I plan to find that jack when I get around to it. Might come in handy someday, but I rarely get flat tires, so I might just ignore it.
Yesterday, dawn began with Dawn. Dawn is my hygienist and I had an early appointment with her at my dentist's practice. She gave me a good report and said she'd see me in September. This did not surprise me, but still, it was a relief that nothing needed to be scraped, filled, bridged, removed, or reconfigured. Then I headed to the mall with my computer, which, for some reason, had basically quit on me. I did not have an appointment at the Apple store, so I was resigned to waiting there all day to be helped. The Apple store in the Mall (I hate going to the Mall) didn't open until 10, so I waited, dreading spending the rest of the daylight hours waiting for a helper to minister to my techno-frustration.
But a helper-person came out of the Apple store with a little device in her hand and began scheduling appointments for those of us waiting for the store to open. I couldn't believe it. She took down my information and said, "We'll send you a text when your appointment is ready." I said, "I don't text." She said, "Oh, well, just come on in about fifteen minutes from now." I did. Another young woman, named "Sunny," ran a bunch of tests and we figured out the problem was me. I'm not going into that. Suffice it to say that my morning appointments' timing corresponded with the names of the people with whom I would be dealing. I'm just glad I didn't have a lunch reservation somewhere only to find out the waitstaff's name was "Nooner."
The rest of the day was fine and dandy. I met my long-suffering wife at a local soccer match because some of her 9th graders were playing another group of 9th graders nearby. After watching a flotilla of teenage boys kicking each other in the shins, wandering around aimlessly, and bonking the ball with their heads, I remain unpersuaded about the efficacy of soccer as a sport. Waiting for something exciting to happen in a soccer match is like waiting for a politician to tell the truth. So, after the game, I went from the ridiculous to the sublime; that is, a dinner date with my long-suffering wife.
A fine and glorious day, all in all. A blessing every which way.