Don't Dismiss the Seemingly Unimportant

By Patti Shene

I think most of us older folks enjoy helping our adult kids out when we can. Sometimes it’s a little financial support every now and again, watching the grandkids when parents need a week-end getaway, or simply offering to do a favor to make their lives a bit easier.

A few years ago, my daughter discovered a problem with her vehicle. Employed full-time and attending school as well, she was unable to get to the dealership in Pueblo, eighty miles away, before the warranty was due to run out. “I’ll take it in for you,” I gladly volunteered.  “It will give me an opportunity to visit my friend Andrea.”

My daughter dropped the Toyota off early on the appointed day on her way to work and left the key on the kitchen table. I embarked on my journey a couple of hours later, assuming most vehicles are similar. After all, I haven’t seen one yet that doesn’t have a motor, steering wheel, gas and brake pedals and four tires, just to mention the basics. Little did I know the monumental differences between a 2004 Ford pick-up and a 2007 Toyota Camry.

I was about five miles down the road when I noticed a light on the dashboard. Since I’m quite nearsighted, it appeared to me nothing more than a small illumination. It wasn’t red like a warning light, so I dismissed it as unimportant. 

The reason the vehicle needed to be taken in for repair was because the motor in the left rear power window had burned out. The cool temperature that cloudy morning had prompted me to keep the windows up, but as my journey progressed, the sun came out and the temperature climbed. When I reached a construction site that forced reduced speed, it was uncomfortably warm, so I opened my driver’s window.

Once I returned to regular speed, I wanted the window shut again. Several attempts to accomplish this were met with failure. Before I knew it, I had all three working windows open and couldn’t figure out how to shut any of them. By the time I figured it out, I had arrived at the dealership.

Andrea met me there and we enjoyed a nice lunch at our favorite restaurant, then killed a couple of hours at the mall. I had been told the project would take about three hours. When we returned to pick up the vehicle, I was informed the wrong part had been delivered and I would need to come back the next day.

I wasn’t happy about the thought of wasting another whole day, but I had committed to get this done for my daughter. When leaving the dealership, I took a closer look at that little light on the dashboard that had remained illuminated for the entire trip. Close scrutiny revealed it was in the shape of a tiny gas tank. I had traveled close to a hundred miles with a warning that I was about out of gas! That would never happen in my pick up that eats a gallon of gas every eighteen miles on a good day if the wind is right.

Finding the closest gas station, I pulled in and began the process of filling the tank. I was stopped short when I realized I didn’t know how to unlock the gas cap. I searched the dashboard, the glove compartment, and every other surface I could think of to try to locate a button, a lever, something that would release that cap. I even resorted to looking up the instructions in the book. I’m sure the information was there somewhere, but it eluded me.

Totally frustrated, I went inside the convenience store and asked for their phone book so I could look up the number of the Toyota dealership. I sheepishly called and explained that I needed instructions on how to open the gas tank. I learned there is a lever on the floor located just in front of the driver’s seat.

I returned the next day and faced the service department attendant with a very red face. He graciously waved my stupidity away.

“Come on,” I told him, “fess up. I know you guys had to take a coffee break to get your laughter under control after that call.”

The attendant smiled. “Actually,” he admitted, “that did provide our chuckle for the day.”

The next time I offer to drive someone else’s vehicle, I’ll be sure to learn the basics first, like how to feed the thing.

Patti Shene is a retired RN, formerly from Long Island, who has resided in Colorado for the past forty years. She serves as Division Manager for YA and Children’s Imprints with Written World Communications (WWC). She also edits Starsongs, a publication of WWC written for kids by kids. As a writer who has entered her senior years, Patti also enjoys supporting, promoting, and encouraging older writers.  Patti is published in two anthologies and local publications.

Visit Patti’s three blogs at her website, www.pattishene.com, and leave a comment to let her know you stopped by!

Connect with her on Twitter (https://twitter.com/PattiShene), Linkedin (http://www.linkedin.com/pub/patti-shene/34/1a2/a1a) and “like” her on Facebook’s Starsongs page (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Starsongs-Magazine/221863877893574?ref=hl)

DOING THE BUCKET LIST

By Ed Crumley

 

Before the movie "The Bucket List" came out, the term wasn't familiar to me. Oh, I knew what it meant to "kick the bucket", but I never recalled anyone making a list before. Simply put, a bucket list is a list of all the things you want to do before you get too old or die. In the movie, Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson deserted hospital beds to romp through a list of things they wanted to do before they . . . you know what.

I've been thinking a lot about my bucket list since using up my three score and ten. But the more I dwell on it, the more I believe I probably started working my list as a young man. We've all known folks who said, "I look forward to retirement so I can do this or that." It's a risky plan because no one knows their own longevity.

Fifty years ago, right out of college, I slaved at a lowly bank job in a small windowless room, phones ringing off the wall, everyone around (including me) smoking, and at a shamefully small salary. I wanted out of there big-time but not just because of the environment. Although I was a bank clerk on the surface, inside me dwelled an artist. I was doubly motivated.

Some would have bowed their heads and meekly succumbed to that high-stress, low-pay cubicle cell without a whimper, hoping that someday, somehow they might be paroled slightly upward to occupy a junior executive desk with a little more pay.

With a high dose of adrenaline, I dove into night college art classes and a correspondence course of commercial art lessons. Meanwhile, my radar sought out any and every commercial art job, no matter how small, I could latch onto.

Providentially, an employment agency sent me to a man who needed a trainee/assistant to help him in his business illustrating house renderings and floor plans for home builders' offices and brochures. When I arrived at his garage studio one late afternoon and saw his work, a fire ignited in my soul.

For me, a forty-four year career in architectural illustration was born. Instead of waiting till retirement for fulfillment, I spent the decades after escaping the bank prison in freedom doing what I loved. My clientele included architects, real estate developers, and major corporations in my city, state, and around the nation.

But what about retirement? In my case I wouldn't be in it if not pushed there by computers doing the illustrations now and the bad economy. Not to worry, though. I'm busier than ever writing fiction, songs, and poetry, oil painting, performing with a gospel band at churches and senior centers, and riding my Harley for fun and charity.

I advised my sons to find their God-given talents, make what they love to do into a career, be the best at it, and they'll be rewarded. They did and don't worry about bucket lists.

About the Author

Radically changing careers after receiving a BBA degree in business administration from Baylor University in 1961, Ed founded Ed Crumley/Architectural Arts in Dallas in 1969 and began a forty-three year career producing architectural illustrations and architectural models for architects, real estate developers, and corporations locally, across Texas and around the nation. Later he wrote, illustrated, and self-published a basic correspondence course on architectural illustration which he marketed through small ads in art publications.

He has also used his writing talents observing modern culture as a freelance movie critic for Preview, a publication of Movie Morality Ministries for which he has detailed the plots and both the redeeming and objectionable material in the latest motion pictures. He has also written human interest pieces for the Christian Pulse.

  Ed’s love of the outdoors has taken him and friends on many backpacking trips into wilderness areas of the Rocky Mountains.  These trips, his long involvement in the arts, his long interest in talk radio as a listener and caller, his study of Scripture, and his concern for people’s inability to find truth in the fog of today’s shallow popular culture, inspired him to began writing fiction as a way of providing readers discernment through entertaining and engrossing stories. 

After attending American Christian Writer’s conferences for several years where he attended many workshops on various phases of writing, Ed completed his first novel, a suspense/thriller, The Host, a novel of life and death on the high desert and has begun a sequel which features the same core characters, adds new ones, and deals with new issues.

 The Host is available from Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, and Trafford Publishing.

Read an excerpt from The Host at:

www.edcrumley.com

Ed Crumley may be contacted at:

edsart@sbcglobal.net

214-232-2318

Brain Damaged- And Loving It

"Did you get the cheese?"

I opened the bag and stared inside. Shook my head and gave her the 'deer in the headlights' look.

"But you wrote a list." That's my wife, always using logic on me.

"I forgot to look at it." Then I pull out my Free Pass. "Brain damage, darlin'." Oh, yeah. I've had two concussions, both with amnesia, from riding dirt bikes. The first time I was with my kids and... well, I don't remember what happened until I stood there asking questions like, " Where are we?" and "What are we doing here?" while my computer rebooted. The kids thought it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

The second time... well, I don't remember either but my friends thought it was a hoot. Insensitive friends. Reminds me of a dirt biker's t-shirt: 'It's funny until someone gets hurt. Then it's hilarious.'

Since those events, I have a built in excuse. My wife overhears me having a conversation with my sister about the grandkids going to the zoo. "Why didn't you tell me?" Brain damage.

But it gives her comfort, because if I didn't have brain damage, I would be an idiot, and she married me. She's off the hook!

I recommend Brain Damage for every man. Not women. Men and women are different. Honest! We men blow things up, set ourselves on fire, and cut ourselves, no big deal. A woman splits a fingernail and the world is going to collapse in on itself. For instance, my dad has never pruned shrubs in his yard without shedding blood. He comes inside and it's: "Hey Dad you cut yourself."

He looks at his arm.

"No. The other one. The one dripping blood on the tile."

"Oh, wow," he says, "I better get a band aid."

"No, you better get stitches. And a blood transfusion."

What I recommend to you men is this: If you haven't had head trauma, find a helmet- football, baseball, motorcycle, doesn't matter. Put it on. Now put your head down and run, full tilt, into the opposite wall, smashing your head into it.* Excellent. Now, you've got a reason for your mistakes. You bought yogurt, but not low fat? Brain damage. Didn't gas the car up when that's the reason you took the car to the gas station? Hey, you're not responsible, just damaged goods. If your spouse is sensitive at all, she'll say, "Oh, honey, I forgot about your condition. I'll go get the yogurt and fuel up the car. Here's the remote. You watch television."

She leaves and you could watch television. But you better put on the tool belt and fix that hole in the wall. 

*Do not run with your head into a wall without first consulting your doctor. Results may vary. Should you attempt to run headfirst into a wall, you may experience the following side effects: Dizziness, temporary or permanent amnesia, unconsciousness, headache, neck, spinal and back injuries, bruising to the head, a vegetative condition, anger and frustration from your wife, or laughter from your children. If you experience any of these side effects, cease running with your head into the wall immediately and see your doctor. Running with your head into the wall should not be taken with alcohol or any other drug. 

Kevin B Parsons is an entrepreneur, author, motivational speaker and avid motorcyclist. He’s started and operated nine businesses in six states, and purchased one business.  He’s written a Children’s book, Ken Johnson and Roxi the Rocker, available on Amazon. He’s co authored six anthologies and written numerous articles and stories.

This year he appeared on the cover of American Motorcyclist magazine, along with the feature story he wrote.

Kevin has ridden and raced motorcycles since age thirteen, and is two time Best In The Desert champion. Currently he and his wife Sherri have embarked on a '50 States in 50 Weeks' adventure, riding a motorcycle with a pop- top tent trailer. He blogs every day during his adventure at www.50statesin50weeks.com.  

The Nana Monster

By Dr. Jerri Fink

Tech was always my best friend. As the daughter of an electronic engineer, I had the first TV in the neighborhood. When desktops arrived in the 80s, I quickly climbed aboard. I was an author - I had to go digital. My first computer was a 1982 "portable" called Kaypro 2. It weighed a svelte 26 pounds - about the same as my 2-year old son. The  9-inch green phosphor screen only displayed text. If I used it for too long, I ended up with double vision and spidery green after images. I loved it anyway.

My Kaypro and I had some wicked battles in the beginning. I was convinced that it was possessed. Eventually, we made peace and I was officially a digital writer. As long as my kids kept their sticky fingers off the keyboard . . .

It wasn't long before I made friends with the internet. In those days, I had to use a "gender neutral" screen name because it was 96% male. The favorite sport of those early geeks was to harass women online. I called myself onbase in honor of the Mets and baseball. I still use the name - among five others.

The rest is history. Tech and my kids grew up with car phones, beepers, pocket PCs, and Palm Pilots. In those days, kids tortured their parents by refusing to eat dinner if it wasn't hamburgers or pizza. Not my kids. As soon as I left the house they would call my car phone to chat, knowing that every precious minute cost a fortune. That was long before smart phones and family plans.

When my kids went to bed, I pulled out my Rocket ebook - almost a decade before Kindle hit the shelves. It weighed 1-1/2 pounds and stored about ten books. I was in tech heaven. Eventually the first Kindle leaped into my hands in 2007, storing an unimaginable two hundred books. The new Kindle holds about four thousand titles - not including movies, magazines, and streaming video. Now I own a Kindle Fire and an IPad, with more books than I could finish in two or three lifetimes.

I took everything in stride until Facetime. By then, iPhones, iPods, and iPads were a way of life. I thought it was very cool at first. The first time we tried it my four-year old grandson ran away crying. We waited a year until he was five and his little brother was three. They loved it.

There was only one problem. Everyone under the age of twenty looks great on Facetime. Everyone older looks, well . . . awful. Forget the wrinkles, the jowls, and the colored hair. The face turns into a . . . monster.

As an author of both children and adult fiction, I was used to writing about monsters. I wasn't used to being one. What's a geezer to do?

I became The Nana Monster.

I growl, I roar, I send little kids screaming from the screen. They love every minute. No one knows the geezer beneath the bloody red glasses.

What's next? I'm concerned about holograms that project people "as-is" not twenty years younger and twenty pounds thinner. I've avoided video but now with the Bloggie and Playsport, a camcorder is easier to use than a smart phone. I'm doomed to technological distortion - somewhat reminiscent of "reality." It's clear that my once-best friend is on the warpath to make me look . . . old.

There's only one solution. Text the grandkids.

The author during a trip to Antarctica 

Dr. Jeri Fink is a proud geezer and the author of hundreds of articles and nineteen published books. Trees Cry For Rain, her latest book, is a gripping historical novel where the past crashes ruthlessly into the present. It can be purchased at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

Her new series, Broken, consists of five separate novels that follow dramatic, related paths from the Spanish Inquisition to modern times.

For more information about Jerri's books visit her website www.drjerifink.com or email her at drjeri@drjerifink.com