Life in the Gravy

Published in The Ferndale Record, January 11, 2012

What is it about the bizarre, creepy, the all-but-unthinkable stories that makes us want to tell everyone we know? Why do we want to say it out loud? Do we want to see someone else squirm? Do we want them to tell us it’s a hoax perpetuated for use around water coolers everywhere? But it was in the news so it must be accurate, right?

One of my favorite co-workers sometimes hangs around my desk, and we talk—a lot. You know what I mean. We chat about family, work, life, love, weird things in the news, and snakes. That’s how we roll.

Not long ago our topic of conversation concerned a story out of India in which two brothers, feeling wronged by the government, delivered and set loose a couple of bags full of deadly snakes, including cobras, into a tax office. If the mere thought of this actually happening isn’t horrifying enough, someone in that room had the presence of mind to take a photograph of the incident and then share it with the rest of the world.

The reactions of people in the picture are what interest me most. Some of them are still seated, watching the snakes slither and wind up and around table legs. These folks look relaxed, almost nonchalant, like, “Hmm. Look at that. Snakes in the office.” Well, it was India. Perhaps snakes in a public place aren’t unusual over there. And it wouldn’t be the first time anyone had seen a viper in a tax office (insert rim shot here).

But others in the photo were clearly getting out of Dodge. My co-worker said if she’d been there, the shock would have been so great, she would have laid down and died—just simply passed away. I believe her.

Another terrible story out of the United Kingdom tells about a woman who literally coughed out one of her lungs through her ribs. Apparently, violent bouts of coughing can really do that. They can also cause eyeballs to pop out of their sockets, and ruptured spleens. The lesson here? Take a brutal cough to the doctor before you unintentionally become a bad party joke, or fodder for office chat.

My friend and I decided there was so much of this ghastly news in the world, in addition to some of our own unsavory personal experiences, that we could create a blog called “Icky Things We Know” and the number of hits we’d receive would be extraordinary because, well, as much as people say they can’t stand this stuff, they still want to read about it. Odd things happen everywhere, all the time, so our story base would be endless.

Uplifting and inspirational? Not so much—but engrossing in a twisted sort of way. Just last week I saw an article about celebrities who were born with extra body parts. Maybe sometimes these nightmarish accounts could even be called educational, right? Yeah, that’s probably a stretch.

And so, even though I still don’t know why telling unsettling stories is so satisfying, I suppose that’s what I just did.

And you know what? It felt great!

Published in The Ferndale Record, November 9, 2011

Wall Street occupants across the nation are tired of the one percent, and they’re not going to take it anymore. Protests, demonstrations, chants and signs are everywhere. Cities from Miami to Seattle are “occupied” with activists. Some participants don’t really know the facts, but enjoy a good rally. Others are well informed, even militant.

Personally, I like it when the people rise up, accept a call to action, however inconclusive or unlikely the cause may be. This is America and by darn, we’ll kick and scream and get the job done.

Or will we? What change has been effected? Maybe it’s too soon to call.

A few weeks ago, a story reported out of Colombia presented a creative solution to a pressing issue there, and within four months, the problem was solved.

The Associated Press reported that women of the small town of Barbacoas, about 35 miles from the provincial capital of Pasto, Colombia, had effectively demanded and achieved the beginning of building a paved road. The new construction from Barbacoas to Pasto will reduce travel time between the two cities by six hours.

How was it done? The female population of Barbacoas simply denied their partners sex until the Army Corps of Engineers began work on the road.

Brilliant. Complete genius.

The AP article admits, “It is not clear how many women took part, and compliance is impossible to prove.”  However, “Barbacoas Mayor Jose Arnulfo Preciado tells The Associated Press he’ll happily submit to a polygraph to prove the protest was honored. He says his wife slept in a separate room during the strike.”

Apparently, the women in this remote town of 35,000 announced their intention to withhold affection on June 22. By October 11, roadwork was underway and sexual favors were restored.

Maybe this is standard procedure in Latin countries, but I don’t think so. The whole scenario begs the question: Would this method work in the United States?

If American wives, mistresses, and other assorted partners withheld sex from bank presidents, CEOs, and politicians, demanding less big-business greed and more funds filtered to the masses, and they didn’t back down until they saw results, what would happen?

I don’t know the answer to this, but it certainly sounds simple enough. No flag waving and sign holding, no histrionics or public snarling. No taking it to the streets, just plain denial of a basic need to those holding the power.

Occupiers want to be heard. So did the women of Barbacoas. I’m not suggesting sweeping changes around our political process, the business industry, or the way things move in our country. And no, I don’t want to move to Colombia.

But really—just think about it.  Americans can be so full of our own virtue that we miss the point. We make it difficult when the hoped for outcome, in reality, doesn’t have to drag on forever.

Meanwhile, the town of Barbacoas, Colombia is back to connubial bliss and they all have a paved road to show for their efforts.

A simplification of the facts? Maybe. You decide.

Published in The Ferndale Record, October 12, 2011

Sometimes people ask me why this column is called “Gravy Days.” If they’ve never read it, it’s often assumed to be a collection of recipes or tips on how to make, well, gravy.

Recently I explained my rationale for the title to a group of people like this:

I always suspected if I could get past that “meat and potatoes” part of my life, you know what I mean—(the bearing and raising of small children, carving out a career, making a living, trying to be everybody’s everything and rarely succeeding, making sure everyone else’s life was taken care of)—that I might discover some nuggets of goodness as a result. After the hearty meal that was my young life, I might find bits of truth that could be scraped together, and with a dash of experience, and a handful of wisdom it might create rich, creamy gravy.

Someone raised a good point: Many of us are still in the middle of what we thought we’d be through with by now. Still raising children (or grandchildren), still worrying about money, still as engaged (albeit with different activities) as we were when younger.

Here’s where the wisdom part comes in. Very few of us are living the lives we once imagined. Personally, I don’t know anyone over 50 who’s living on a beach and sucking on sweet drinks all day. I know they’re out there—I’m just not acquainted with them.

What we do have is the benefit of years, experience, trial and error, faith and hope. We’ve learned a few things along the way, and it only makes life richer—usually figuratively, not literally.

We’ve discovered that change, even when it feels looming and monstrous, is not really the worst thing that can happen. That worse case scenario list gets shorter all the time. We’ve discovered we can make it through things we never thought, and then some, and thrive on the other side.

We’ve realized that money is important, but it doesn’t determine the worth of our lives. Really. And sometimes it shows up in unexpected ways, and when it doesn’t appear at all, we become more creative—and that’s not a bad thing.

In my gravy days I’ve found it a little harder to be brave, but increasingly necessary to try things that make me squirm, to push my limits. Not anything that requires leaving my conscience behind, but rather to stretch my soul. Being a little scared can raise a staid, dusty life to the surface again.

I’ve learned to rediscover the sense of wonder that’s often buried in jaded adults. Children posses it until cares of the world bear down on them. We can have it, too. We just have to find it, let it flourish, and not be afraid to share it—that’s the key, the sharing.

Letting go has new meaning. I can detach from physical items I thought I’d have forever—I can hold onto the memory instead. I can also let go of old forms of relationships that have been awkward or unfulfilling. They can be restructured and as a result be more luminous than ever.

In these seasoned days, we know that the words “tragedy” and “entitlement” are used too casually, and the word “gratitude” is often overlooked, but may be the most crucial word of all.

There’s no recipe for a holiday meal here, only the opinion that considerable perks, clarity, and joy, can and do accompany age.

Gravy, anyone?

Published in The Ferndale Record, July 13, 2011

Some of us know what it’s like to vacation in luxury. Some of us know what it’s like to travel that way. Others of us fall into a third category—the “maybe someday” group. And it’s really not a bad place to be, especially when you get to hear about what might be down the road.

One of my sons always preferred life’s finer things. He leans toward upscale clothes, cars, toys, and accommodations. When he was 19 years old, our family flew to Boston and on a fluke he was upgraded to first class. There, they referred to him as Mr. Crockett, gave him real food on an actual plate that he gobbled with a silver spoon. From this moment on, we called him a “first class kind of guy.”

He’s worked hard to pay for his education and get the kind of job he ultimately wants in the hospitality field. He graduated with a degree in business and spent years paying his dues working as a night auditor at hotels and ski resorts. Not without perks, of course—all the free snowboarding he could squeeze in was a pretty sweet deal.

Recently he started work at a swank resort in Arizona on the shores of Lake Powell. He says this place caters to a clientele that propels the term “rich” into another universe. As a concierge, his job is to make sure everyone is very, very happy—because guests pay a lot to ensure it.

My son mentioned a real estate developer from Manhattan who’d brought his wife to the resort for a week’s vacation. Each night’s stay is around $1000. Apparently there’s also a lot to do there: Helicopter rides over the Grand Canyon, Lake Powell boat tours, spa treatments. At check out, the gentleman’s tab came to $21,000. He wrote a check, said they had a great time, and that they’d be back.

Taking that check was memorable, he said, kind of like the time a raging, desert rainstorm leaked into a guest’s room, ruining her $250 Italian leather flip-flops. My boy was instructed to find the very same pair somewhere, use his boss’s credit card, and make it all right—which was exactly what he did.

People who pony up that kind of money for a vacation would consider the $150 per night at the beach I dream about, chump change, a diversion, almost free. And the $114.09 I spent on groceries at Haggen last night would be, well, one quarter of the dinner check.

I don’t envy the obscenely wealthy, except maybe for their ability to hire someone else to handle their own finances—a job I despise. But I find their expenditures fascinating.

Also interesting to me—people who travel around in giant motor homes. These vehicles are the size of Greyhound buses, and with tinted windows and custom paint, look like they’re carrying a rock band on tour. The exterior colors are deep and lush, and the names emblazoned on the side denote luxury, freedom, and adventure.

How about taking your leave in the Cougar, Crusader, Empress, Jamboree, or Embassy? Don’t forget the Discovery, or the Lexington. There’s something for everyone!

The trophy for Most Pretentiously Named Conveyance goes to “Dynasty Country Club Collection Monaco.” I promise I’m not making this up.

My teenager offered a perfect title for one of these vehicles: the Compensator.

If you’ve got the money, time, and desire, luxury travel and destinations, even in a poor economy, are everywhere.

And until I can talk my son’s employer into a complimentary stay at his resort, I’ll be plugging along the back roads in my 1995 Subaru, spending the night at a Super 8, anticipating my very own “someday.”