Another lazy morning at the auto repair shop

Let me share with you just how much I love spending all day at a mechanic’s garage waiting for my car to be fixed:

To begin with, you might think I’d rather spend the early morning hours gathering up my fishing gear and then heading to the nearest bait shop to pick up a container of the plumpest worms a fish could ever hope to dine upon, but you’d be flatly wrong. I much prefer starting up my car and having the engine fight back as if it were a monster alligator gar intent on devouring my left leg, right up to the hip joint. And those kind of fights – man vs car/gar – are the legends stories are made of.

Sure, I could be puttering around Lake Bob Sandlin in a small flat-bottom fishing boat with a thermos filled with hot coffee, an ice chest close at hand, and a nice breeze to keep away the mosquitoes. But do you know what I’d miss? My sweaty palms holding a death grip on the steering wheel of my sputtering car, with me hoping beyond hope that it will make it to the mechanic’s garage before it passes out from heat exhaustion and the angels usher it along to that big auto junkyard in the sky.

Oh, the sounds of fish jumping for their morning flies, seeing the shy beaver as it makes its way along the shoreline, the turtles climbing up on exposed logs waiting for the sun to rise, or the random crane floating down to a perfect three-point landing can’t compare with the sounds of a perfectly-thorough mechanic pronouncing the much-needed repair for my pert near terminal car 

will cost much more than I have in my checking account.

The repair job will take four hours? Shoot, that’s nothing like having to sit on the lake, willing for something fishy to swim along and take notice of a juicy worm dangling below a bobber while I wait, feasting on a turkey sandwich I made just this morning, and washing it down with something cool to drink. What’s for desert? A piece of homemade apple pie my loving wife baked for me the night before.

“I’m sorry Mr. Farr, but we’re going to have to order the parts we need. It will only take a few more hours. Do you want to wait?” is heaven to my ears compared to turning off the boat’s engine and listening to silence; letting the wind and current take me where it may; and leaning back to peek up at the blue sky and wonder if those passing clouds look more like a family of monarch butterflies looking for a luscious patch of milkweed to snack on, or maybe a family of dragons looking for a luscious mountain village to sack.

And I know I snore. My wife knows it, too. But who would ever complain about it out on the lake? Certainly not the fish. I could float around for hours, oblivious of the world and all its troubles. My boat might even ground itself under a shade tree, giving me hours of peaceful, undisturbed slumber without being punched in the eye and told to roll over. 

But none of that malarkey at a mechanic’s shop. A good mechanic knows how to stop that “sawing of logs” with a sharp jab of the elbow, followed by a handwritten bill that doesn’t quite explain why the repair job now costs 20 percent more than previously stated.

“I might’ve bought a new boat for that amount,” I say, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. The mechanic swipes my debit card and replies, “Lucky for you, now you don’t have to. Sign here, please.”

Cats waiting patiently for breakfast

I was dreaming of maybe getting a new motorcycle, not the first signs of Parkinson's

When I was younger, I never gave a passing thought about what I might have to endure when I grew old. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Cancer. Kidney disease. Nope, not on MY radar. I’m going to die an old man in my bed reading a good book, or a not quite so old man riding a motorcycle down the backroads, never seeing the deer that walked out in front of me.

But my perspective changed one night after I had fallen out of bed.

MESSAGE TO MY WIFE: “Do you remember about a month ago, you heard some kind of sound in the middle of the night which woke you up and it made you curious enough to grab a flashlight and aim it at the bathroom door, trying to see which cat was playing hockey in the bathtub? Well, I was awake. I had just fallen out of bed. I had gotten back in bed by the time you turned on the flashlight, and I pretended to be asleep because I was embarrassed.”

I had been having a dream. I was sitting on stage with a bunch of students. I don’t know why we were there, but a student beside me started playing around on the floor. I reached out my left foot to hopefully nudge him back to his chair — and the fall woke me up. I wasn’t hurt. Just shocked.

The next morning, I started an "acting out my dreams" journal.

• I reached out during a dream to swat at something (can’t remember what), and I hit my bedside table. It woke me up.
• I dreamed I nodded my head answering a question, and woke up nodding my head.
• I dreamed some kind of animal was charging me. I waved my hands and yelled to scare it away. I woke up yelling out (more of a grunt, really)
• I dreamed I was pointing my hand at someone and woke up pointing my hand.
• I woke up swatting at a giant dream spider that was walking across my bed.

All of this led me to start asking questions about acting out your dreams instead of your body being immobilized, like it should be. The deep dive into the subject wasn’t reassuring. 

What I found out is that I MAY have an REM sleep behavior disorder (RBD) which can be one of the first symptoms of Parkinson’s, occurring years before a diagnosis.” I got that info from the Michael J. Fox Foundation website. Even worse is that “RBD may be associated with other neurological conditions, such as Dementia with Lewy Bodies.” I got that from the Mayo Clinic.

(Dementia with Lewy Bodies is what caused Robin Williams to…well, you know.)

MESSAGE TO MY WIFE: “I don’t want you to be worried about it, I’m worried enough for the both of us, but I want you to know that I think I’m following the right procedures by keeping a dream journal, and I have a doctor’s appointment scheduled for November. 

“No, I don’t have any tremors or limb stiffness or trouble with balance. I’m not hallucinating, don’t have delusions, anxiety or depression. But I am thinking about buying that motorcycle. Best to buy it now while I’m not all shaky-shaky, and get some good riding in before I am.”

So. That’s my story. I imagine I’ll have to go in for a sleep study, and I’m hoping they’ll find everything hunky-dory and that I more than likely drink too much coffee. Either way, I’m eyeing a 2026 Kawasaki W-800, or a Triumph Bonneville T-120. I just can’t make up my mind — which is perfectly normal for me.

Thirty days hath September

Nobody Wants to Listen to Someone With a Weird Idea

I try not to talk unless I’m asked a question. Even then, I try to stick with parroting back what has been said.

“Good morning.”

Good morning.

“Seems to be a little chilly this morning.”

Absolutely chilly.

“The newspaper says Artificial Intelligence will one day destroy the world.”

AI will do that to ya.

“Are you going to the store before that happens? We’re all out of avocados.”

Yep. Going to the store. Avocados.

There really isn’t any need for me to say things like “Nope, lousy morning. Can’t we turn up the heat a bit? Yes, I’ll go, but I’m starting to feel uncomfortable thinking about having to make my way through crowds of angry shoppers looking for the perfect AI-generated avocado. I think maybe we’ll eat toast today. If we have any bread.”

Nobody wants to listen to a complainer. Or someone with a weird idea. Or someone who feels the need to recall a dream they had the night before:

ME: I pulled up to a gas station, stepped out of my car, and noticed a tote bag sitting on top of the trunk. It wasn’t mine. I had no idea where it came from. So I went inside the gas station to tell the attendant, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Kept singing along with a song that was playing on the radio. So I went outside to talk to the mechanics, but they ignored me because they were singing along with the SAME song on THEIR radio. That’s when I noticed my car was stolen. So I went into the sheriff’s office (which so happened to be attached to the gas station), and he wouldn’t give me the time of day because HE was singing along with the SAME song on HIS radio. What do you think that means?

THEM: You know, I had a dream the other night that I was on a boat and…

Nope. Didn’t even listen. Started thinking about THEIR dream, not giving MY dream the time of day. So I try not to tell people my dreams anymore. And when they tell me THEIRS, I say stuff like, “Oh really? Yep, that’s a weird dream.” Unless it’s funny, then I say, “Oh really? Yep, that’s a funny dream.”

I will admit there are times when I’m not a good listener myself (ME: Did you just say you bought a terrifying Komodo Dragon? THEM: Nope. I was wondering how long this terrible traffic jam was going to drag on), but it’s possible I may be getting hard of hearing.

Communication. Verbal communicating. I’m starting to think I should stop talking altogether. Nod my head every now and then. Shoo my hand for go away. High-pitched grunts to represent understanding. Low-pitched grunts for “you need to leave me alone.”

In the TV show “Pluribus,” Earth is taken over by aliens who turn the humans into a peaceful and contented “hive mind” race. Everybody knows everybody else’s thoughts, dreams, and skill sets. No real need for talking. Need to fly a commercial jet to Munich but you’re a post office worker in El Paso? No problem. Robby in Cincinnati flies 747s. Just hack into his mind and away you go.

Although, I bet it would be kinda awkward when you have the memories of your parents as they are creating a little you. I know I wouldn’t want to see that.

The flip side would be if that alien invasion had been by creatures with a hive mind which assimilated everybody into a hostile and aggressive collective like the Borg from “Star Trek.” See the planet, assimilate the planet, resistance is futile, everybody back to their cubicles, and off we pop to the next inhabited solar system. Yeehaw!

The Borg costume is very iconic, but would you really be okay with having your left hand amputated and replaced with a DeWalt Atomic 20V Max cordless angle grinder? Hmmmm. Now that I’m thinking about it….

I wonder if birds ever get tired of hearing other birds tweeting away, nonstop? For fish, is screaming just a matter of letting out a lot more bubbles? I’ve never heard a peep out of a deer. I’m guessing they’re telepathic. Do you think the trees took a vow of silence at the rising of humankind out of Africa?

I’d ask someone, but that comes under the heading of “Nobody Wants to Listen to Someone With a Weird Idea.” So I guess I’ll be like a tree and keep it all to myself. 

 

It doesn't take much to surprise a Kiwi

Last Tuesday, I was making what I considered a darn good fruit salad filled with papaya, pineapple, mango, and watermelon, when I sliced through a Kiwi who was more surprised to see ME than I HER. 

I felt like I had just accidentally walked into a women's bathroom. 

I covered my eyes, apologized, then slowly backed myself out of the situation. But really, can you ever UN-see a surprised Kiwi? I know I can't.

Keeping a weather eye open for signs of fall

I love watching hummingbirds in the early morning. Millions of them swarming around newly-filled feeders. Well, maybe not millions, but certainly a swarm. Maybe 15 to 26 making a pitstop at my little Hummingbird Buc-ee’s before continuing on their yearly migration to the Gulf of Mexico and then to all points south.

Mexico City. An unbelievable 63 degrees this morning. If I was a hummingbird, I’d pack my bags just at the thought of drinking my fill of fruity agua fresca and feeling a cool breeze under my wings.

The cats on the porch don’t seem to mind the visitors. Hummingbirds are a quick snack they know they’ll never catch. But they are watching intently the blue jays and cardinals over at their bird feeder (an old tree stump standing in the front yard with a wooden platform sprinkled with bird seed). I imagine the cats are wondering if they should go on safari before it gets too hot. 

A fox walks through the front yard looking for any missed table scraps from the night before. Cabbage chunks, potato peelings, fruit rinds. Anything will do. But the midnight shift was thorough, eating everything off their plates, leaving in their wake just a pile of dirty dishes. 

The cats decide to hold off on their safari. Maybe it won’t be so hot this afternoon. Or maybe tomorrow.

How about this weather? One day it’s hot. The next day is even hotter. And then the next day might not be as hot, but it feels like it is because the wind isn’t blowing and that high pressure dome is parked right on top of us, feeling like a prison sentence with no chance of parole.

I check the weather every morning hoping today will be the day we’ll drop into the 60s. But it isn’t. Will it rain today? Probably not. Humid and 100? More than likely. Should we expect more of the same until Christmas? I wouldn’t be surprised, but we have no business complaining. 

I remember the summers of 2011 and 12 (this is Old Man Me talking) just like they were yesterday. Weeks and weeks of more than 100-degree days; rain so scarce and the lakes so low that the neighbors were mowing the grass under their boat docks; suffering through two weeks of no AC because we were having a new unit installed which, we found out, takes more time to do than just having something patched; and me daydreaming about vacationing in upstate New York and enjoying the cool northern breeze as it comes off of Lake Ontario.

As I was standing at the kitchen sink, thinking of the past and future while washing dirty bowls and watching our wild kingdom in full display, a Sikorsky S-61 Sea King helicopter with a water bucket dangling below it passed over our house. It scooped up some Lake Bob Sandlin water then headed east, no doubt looking to assist in one of the hundreds of wildfires that Mother Nature needs help in fighting.

Mr. Fred Rogers: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”

We had some rain yesterday. I watched dark clouds heading our direction from the north. I sat out on the front steps hoping to feel the rain on my face. One drop hit my nose, then the sun came out. More than likely there was a good drenching somewhere, just not here. But I have no doubt cooler weather and good amounts of rain are coming. Just in their own time. We only need to be patient.

Remembering the Two Towers

 

How To Become A Writer in Five Easy Steps

I had a thought the other day. It wasn't a very big one, but I did have one. And the thought was this: People say they want to be writers -- write columns, essays, books that make them rich and famous -- but they get bogged down in the day-to-day chore of living and never actually do anything about it.

Maybe they (and I'm really talking to YOU), maybe you think it takes up too much time, and there's not enough time in the day to get started. Maybe you think ideas come from outer space, and your space suit is always out of commission whenever you really need it. Or maybe you just need my "How To Become A Writer in Five Easy Steps" essay to jumpstart a surge of creativity that will get you started and last a lifetime.

Well, here it is, my "How To Become A Writer in Five Easy Steps" essay. I hope it works for you!

1. Get An Idea. Ideas don't come from outer space. They come from your backyard. They come from your overflowing toilet. They come from the leftovers in the back of the refrigerator that look like they're about to start breathing. They come from Wal-Mart. They come from dirty dishes. They come from work. They come from your children. They come from someone else's children. They come from everywhere -- okay, even outer space. If you can't find an idea, then you're just not paying attention.

2. Choose Your Weapon. Want to write with pad and pencil? That's your choice. Want to write on a computer? Go for it. Want to write on a napkin at your favorite bar -- the one where you always complain to the bartender how you want to be a writer, but you can't find the time, and then get miserably drunk and pass out on the floor? It's up to you. Just make a choice and stick with it.

3. Sit Your Butt Down And Begin. This may be a little confusing, so let me break it down for you: Sit! Sit Down! Sit Down On Your Butt! Once You're On Your Butt, Begin! Begin is another word for Start. It doesn't matter if you have five hours or five minutes. Just Begin.

4. Revise Everything Until It's Not Crap. Everything you write down first is CRAP! Nothing comes out great the first time. That's why you Edit. Revise. Copy. Paste. Destroy. Give Mouth to Mouth. Slap. Jab. Throw Down. Pick Up. Edit again. Realise it's still CRAP and start all over. Keep doing that until it's NOT CRAP! How will you know when it's NOT CRAP? I don't know. I'm still working on that part.

5. Let Someone Read It. People say they only want to write for themselves, for their own enjoyment. Well, that's a bunch of goat poop. People write stuff because they want people to read it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime. So, when you're finished writing what it is you've written, let someone read it. 

And then...

Find yourself another idea! Choose your weapon. Sit your butt down and begin. Revise everything until it's NOT CRAP. Let someone read it. Then Start All Over Again!

If you can do all that -- whether you become famous or not -- then you can proudly call yourself a writer.

Congratulations! I knew you could do it!

Try to surround yourself with optimistic eggs

I prefer brown eggs. Buying them makes me feel like I could’ve gathered them myself out on the farm, if only I had a farm. Those clone-like logo-stamped white eggs don’t give me the same feeling. Are they cheaper? Yes. But they’re probably manufactured by robot chickens in a solar-powered, air-conditioned warehouse somewhere off in Nevada’s Mohave Desert. I don’t mind paying a premium price for eggs that remind me of grassy meadows, windmills and simpler times. 

Of course it’s just a marketing scheme. But it’s a good one. Buying brown eggs makes me feel like I’m supporting small farms run by large families that gather dozens of eggs before the sun comes up. It’s organic. Green. Healthier. And each egg is unique, reminding me of old friends and absent family — Grandma, Papa Dutch, Uncle Bobby, Mom and Dad.

No, I’ve never gathered eggs or milked cows or called in the goats or mucked out the stables. For a city boy, that’s a foreign world. Something you read about in stories. But there they are: brown eggs in the dairy section, supposedly fresh off the farm — which makes me curious about those families, and whether or not their children are still walking five miles to get to school, up a steep hill both there and back again, barefooted, come rain or blizzard.

That homegrown illusion got elevated even more last Saturday when I went shopping for eggs and found a small newspaper-like clipping tucked inside the carton. It had a recipe on it, a cartoon, a “Bird of the Month” photo (a Majestic Maria), and a mini story and photo about egg farmers Matt and Sarah.

After reading the story, I of course wanted more information on Matt and Sarah and their six kids. So I sent an email to the egg company asking if they could get me in touch with the family. But so far, I haven’t heard anything back. Maybe I should give it more time. Maybe they have poor cell reception, or prefer getting real letters stamped and delivered through the post office.

In the meantime, I did an internet search for “Matt and Sarah,” “egg farmer,” “six children,” and “Matt and Sarah’s Dutch Puff Pancakes.” That was the recipe I mentioned. I had high hopes my internet search would provide me with egg-sactly (sorry) the information I was looking for. But of course, it didn’t.

I found information on a Matt and Angela who live on a small working farm with their one son and two dogs and who are more into boarding horses and baking macarons than gathering brown eggs and making pancakes. No doubt I found the wrong Matt. But then again, what if there isn’t a “right” Matt?

What if Matt and Sarah are the AI-generated parents of an AI-generated family that some large egg conglomerate created just to increase profits? I’m so hoping that’s not the case because that would be stooping lower than a snake trying to scratch a belly itch on a worn-out piece of used sandpaper. But that’s where we are — living in unwanted pessimistic times when all we really want is to meet real people doing good things for others just because they can. 

Enter Reese and Danyele.

Rease and Danyele don’t have a farm. They have one daughter, two dogs, and a pen full of chickens. I saw the chickens with my own eyes. They produce a lot of brown eggs. Too many for a family of three to ever use. So, Rease and Danyele gave me a couple dozen. Each egg different. Unique. Just like people. Good eggs that help us remember that our glass is always half full, if only we have eyes to see it that way.