Author: Dave

Five hundred posts would suggest I have something to say… This blog was born from a desire to elevate the English language, highlighting eloquent words from days gone by. The stories I share are snippets of life itself, and each comes with a bonus: a dusted-off word I hope you’ll go on to use more often. Read “Deutschland-ish Improvements” to learn about my backyard European wish list. Try “Slush Fun” for the throwback years of the 7-Eleven convenience store. Or drink in "Iced Coffee" to discover the plight of the rural French cafe. On the lighter side, read "Late Night Racquet Sports" for my adventures with our latest moth invasion. As Walt Whitman said, “That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” Here then, my verse. Welcome to Life In A Word.

Winning the Big One

U.S. News & World Report just ranked Denver and Colorado Springs high on its list of “best places to live” in America. Apparently the job market, cost of living, and quality of life in the Rocky Mountains leaves little to be desired. To add to the accolades, the Broncos just won the Super Bowl.

Before you say “Honey – pack up the kids! We’re moving to Colorado!”, you must pause if you’re a sports fan. Sure, that Lombardi Trophy is shiny and new and will feed Denver’s ego for the rest of the year. But it sure is lacking for company. If the State of Colorado had a trophy case for professional sports, the Lombardi would almost find itself in solitary confinement. Sequestered. You might even feel bad for it.

Denver wasn’t even supposed to win this Super Bowl. Fans from North Carolina (and frankly, anywhere outside of Colorado) never gave us a chance. But we’re used to it out here. Denver and Colorado are perpetual underdogs when it comes to sports championships.

The Super Bowl win got me curious, so I spent a few hours researching Colorado’s professional sports franchises (Wikipedia is my new best friend). I desperately wanted to use the phrase “a list of championships a mile high“. Far from it. To be honest I had to dig deep to find any noteworthy performances.

To spin it positive, Colorado might earn your envy for being one of only thirteen states where the four major professional sports are represented. whoop-dee-doo. The last time the Broncos won the Super Bowl was last century. The one and only time the Avalanche (hockey) won the Stanley Cup was 2001. The last time the Rockies (baseball) won the World Series was never. But at least the Rockies made it to the World Series . The Nuggets (basketball) started play in 1967 and fifty years later we’re still waiting for a spot in the Finals, let alone an NBA Championship.

To add a miserable exclamation point to Colorado’s track record, the Nuggets will once again miss the playoffs this year (it’s a tradition), the Avalanche are battling a half-dozen teams for the very last playoff slot in the Western Conference, and the Rockies… well, the Rockies haven’t even begun the new season yet they’re projected to finish in last place in the National League. Go COLORADO!

My Wikipedia search – ever more desperate – moved on to college championships. Colorado’s six D1 schools have accounted for a grand total of one football championship in their entire un-storied histories (Univ. of Colorado, 1990). None of these schools have come anywhere close to tasting college basketball or baseball glory. But then, mercifully, we have hockey. On the college ice the Centennial State shines. Denver University and Colorado College have combined for nine hockey championships; the most recent in 2005. I need to become a better fan of the puck.

If you’re reading from California, Massachusetts, Texas, or Florida, you feel none of my pain. Each of you can account for five, ten, even twenty professional or college sports championships in the last fifteen years alone. But if you’re reading from Georgia or Washington D.C., you’re pitching the proverbial championship shutout. You have my sympathies.

On the heels (hooves?) of the Broncos’ Super Bowl victory, Peyton Manning hung up his cleats for good – a justified decision. But Peyton’s backup just signed with the Houston Texans. In fact, several marquee Broncos have already left the state for other (better?) teams and higher salaries. Sigh. Back up the truck boys; the Lombardi Trophy is heading to another state soon. Let Colorado’s next sports championship drought commence.

So go ahead sports fans – move to Colorado. But I suggest you follow soccer. The Colorado Rapids have only been kicking for twenty years and they’ve already made the finals twice and won the whole thing once. Go RAPIDS!

You’ll Find This Alarming!

They came for me quickly, in the deep of the night when my defenses were completely down. A coordinated attack as I slumbered. Theirs was no slow, stealth-like movement of sentries, but a full-on guns-a-blazin’ ear-splitting blitzkrieg. Who was this ruthless after-hours enemy, you ask?

My smoke alarms, of course.

Smoke alarms sit quietly on the ceilings of your bedrooms and hallways. They rest there upside-down like giant aspirins, waiting for a reason to blow their horns. They smugly advertise themselves as safety mechanisms (“you need us, pal”) but don’t be fooled. Even as I type they’re plotting another one of their coordinated onslaughts.

I have ten of these little monsters in my house: three upstairs, three on the main level, and four in the basement. In the dozen years we’ve lived here our smoke alarms have never – not once – alerted us to actual smoke or fire. Sometimes they chirp their once-a-minute beeps, demanding their failing batteries be replaced. Other times they sound off in pain as the static electricity of nearby lightning fills the air.

Lately it’s gotten worse. Now they’re making unreasonable demands, exploding in unison for no reason whatsoever. It always starts with one and then the others join in quickly. It’s downright deafening. A symphony of sirens more ear-splitting than the cannon fire of the 1812 Overture.

Their latest invasion came last Friday, in the wee hours of the morning. As usual they attacked without warning. The general (oh yes, I know which one he is) commanded one of his basement infantrymen to sound off, and per design as soon as one opened his mouth the other nine joined in with obnoxious harmony.

The net effect of this audio jolt was a magic trick. I levitated off the bed at least a foot – still horizontal, still under the covers (my wife missed an opportunity to wave her hands with a flourish and say “ta-dah!”) But shortly after returning to earth my brain kicked in to fully 5% of capacity and I was on the move. Alarms screaming, dogs barking, feet pounding, and no smoke or fire anywhere to be seen, I clapped my hands over my ears and dashed to the garage to grab a ladder. Then I climbed to the nearest little devil and ripped his battery out. Then to the next one. And the next. Hurrah, I was winning the battle! Or so I thought.

After dismantling four of these buggers it occurred to me the batteries-down approach was having no effect. All alarms continued their gleeful shrieks, and no amount of screaming obscenities would shut them up. Then it dawned on me: batteries or not, my alarms were still feasting off the house current. I dashed back to the garage, threw open the breaker box door, and triumphantly killed the circuit. Better. But six of ten still wailed away on battery life.

The remainder of my counterattack was the beginning of the merciful end. Each time I yanked out a battery, the siren would weaken to a pathetic moan and finally die away. I’m not saying it was music to my ears but you get the idea. After I dismembered Number Nine the sirens stopped entirely. And thank goodness for that. Number Ten – the general – sits seriously high up in the two-story stratosphere of our family room. It takes the full height of my extension ladder and tippy-toes to bring him to his knees. So I left the general with his battery, but fully detached from his regiment. He all but waved the white flag.

The following morning, as I surveyed the carnage hanging from my ceilings, I wondered how I could bring this war to an end once and for all. I decided to take down one of the dead bodies and have a closer look. Just as I was about to crack open the plastic cylinder for the autopsy I noticed the following words, printed in raised lettering around the edge:

“REPLACE THIS DEVICE BY YEAR 2012 TO AVOID MALFUNCTION”.

Seriously? Smoke alarms have a shelf life? Apparently the joke’s been on me for the past four years.

The general’s still up there and I swear I hear him laughing.

Go On, Take the Money and Run

If you buy e-books through Amazon, you’re familiar with the option “send a free sample”. Rather than buying the book up front, Amazon sends the first 5% to your e-reader as a teaser. The sample cuts off abruptly (sometimes mid-sentence), but you get enough of a taste to decide whether you want to commit to the purchase or simply walk away.

Free samples are a genius sales tactics (think Costco), but I say free samples are saving graces for an often mediocre world.

Mediocre. It means you experienced something run-of-the-mill or commonplace. Think about the last food item you purchased. Would you say it was delicious? Like nothing you’ve ever tasted before? Would you rush back and buy another one? Probably not. Yet you ate the whole thing even though the first bite screamed “meh”. Why did you do that?

Here’s a better example. How often are you at the movies and twenty minutes into the film you start to wonder if it’s going to get any better. You become more interested in your surroundings than what’s up on the screen. For me, the first red flag is when I suddenly double-check my pockets for my wallet and car keys.

Sometimes you see people get up and leave in the middle of a movie – the bold ones. Do you leave? Chances are you don’t. You finish out the show, turn to the person you came with and say, “ah, it was just okay”. Again, why did you do that? You could’ve been gone almost two hours ago and salvaged the evening by doing something better!

I think we should apply Amazon’s “first 5%” to more of life’s experiences. At the movies, why don’t they flash a little question mark in the corner of the screen fifteen minutes in. If you’re not into the film you get up and leave at that moment, and the theater refunds you 20% of the ticket price. Sure they might have to charge a little more to offset the loss, but guess what? Movie producers would track the “leave” statistics and make better films.

The other night I saw the Harlem Globetrotters, an act I hadn’t seen since childhood. They’re not as entertaining as they used to be. The basketball is still impressive, but the slapstick comedy is dated, and the focus seems to be as much about their charity and the products they’re selling as it is about the show itself. Again, the “first 5%” rule says you decide within the first fifteen minutes whether to stay or go, and you get a 20% refund on your ticket. And, that ticket could be handed off to another line of patrons, who would then watch your remaining 80% for free (and probably buy enough concessions and products to offset the refund).

We’re in an election year. You may consider your choices for President mediocre. No problem. The “first 5%” rule says the winner has 75 days to make good on those “when I get in office” promises. If he/she comes up short, the Vice-President (or even more interesting, the runner-up) takes over and also gets a 75-days shot. Sure, I’m making the early months in office more demanding and the election process more complicated. But at least the VP would no longer be a figurehead. And you the voter would no longer feel like your “purchase” of the next four years demands a refund.

Old-World Charming

One of my favorite musicals is “Brigadoon”. The original production dates a long way back; to 1947. Brigadoon tells the tale of two Americans traveling in the Scottish Highlands. A town quietly appears to them through the fog: charming, simple and untouched by time. It is idyllic. To protect itself from the changing outside world, “Brigadoon” only appears to outsiders one day every hundred years. So when one of these travelers falls in love with a Scottish lass from the town, he only has a few hours to decide if that love means remaining in Brigadoon and disappearing into the fog forever. The ending is fitting (and not so predictable). I won’t give it away here.

My own Brigadoon appears to me, once a year for only a week or two. Just north of San Diego lies the little coastal town of Del Mar. It is a quiet village by the sea, with pretty little shops and restaurants, a prominent hotel, and a train that whistles its way along the nearby cliffs several times a day. You can stroll leisurely from the beach to the center of town in a matter of minutes. You can sit in the park on the bluffs and lose yourself in the horizon. The flip-flop pace is slow and the carefree inhabitants always seem relaxed and happy. Like Brigadoon, Del Mar is simple, romantic, and idyllic.

I keep returning to Del Mar, just as I did when I was a boy. Growing up in the bustle of Los Angeles, Del Mar was only a two-hour drive south by car or an effortless journey by train; yet always seemed a world away. My family spent the summers at our house on the beach, including countless hours in the sand and surf. In those days – a half-century ago or more (gulp) – Del Mar was as modest a burg as you can imagine. The beachhouses were drab single-story wood-sided bungalows. A walk on the shore encountered a lot of seaweed and rocks and only an occasional shell. The town was unremarkable; more practical than boutique. My child’s eye recalls the 7-Eleven as a highlight; the only place a kid cared about thanks to its Slurpees and pinball machines. Del Mar’s drugstore was almost forgettable, except you could buy chocolate malt tablets (meant for indigestion but candy to us kids). The park contained a snack shack where you couldn’t get much more than a grilled cheese and a Coke. And my friends and I used to sneak under the highway through a culvert, giving us a back door entrance to the nearby horse-racing grounds. I can still picture the jockeys, exercising their thoroughbreds in the ocean waves.

Del Mar is a wholly different animal today. The draw of the coast, the consistently good weather, and the summer horse-racing season has transformed a modest locale into quite the tony address. The beach is groomed daily and the sand is marked into areas for swimming and other areas for games and still other areas for dogs. The hotel commands a nightly rate of $350. The park on the bluffs is all spruced up – no more snack bar – and used for concerts and festivals. A sunset wedding/reception sets you back $4k just for the use of the park. The local Starbucks sells enough coffee and tea to rank among the most successful locations in the country. The racetrack patrons hit the town in their Sunday best the first day of the season (think Kentucky Derby). And most notably, a house on the beach – with a very narrow slot of property abutting the ocean – cannot be had for less than $10 million. Yes, Del Mar is all dressed up these days and hardly simple.

But it’s still my Brigadoon.

My family and I make our annual pilgrimage to Del Mar every July. We leave behind landlocked Colorado for yet another taste of the sun and surf and salty air. And as soon as I arrive, the little town I remember reveals itself to me from the fog that has enveloped it over the years. The fancy shops, restaurants, and patrons step aside in favor of the simpler and more idyllic memories of the Del Mar I first fell in love with. If it were possible, I might just choose to take a leap – forever – into the Brigadoon of my yesteryear.

Left, Left, Left-Right-Left

I’ve never been a baseball fan, but I do like the nostalgic origin of the term “southpaw”. Baseball claims the word because early ballparks oriented their fields with the batter facing east (to avoid the setting sun). That put the pitcher facing west, and in the case of a lefty, his pitching “paw” to the south.

I am a southpaw myself. The more formal term for me and my left-handed brethren is sinistral. We are the ten percent of the world’s population who curse as we ladle from the punch bowl, write in our spiral-bound notebooks, or cut that not-so-straight line with our scissors. We are the annoying person to your right at dinner parties; the one who bumps your elbow every time we lift our fork.

Handedness is often determined in the womb but almost always by the age of two. Handedness suggests a tendency towards the opposite side of the brain (that is, left-handed people are more “right-brain” and vice-versa). But it is also believed that left-handed people have the hemispheres of the brain reversed, so that their right-brain skills actually reside in their left hemisphere. Confusing, no?

Whether left or right, the connotations go beyond the body itself. Left-brain people favor analysis, logic, and facts, while right-brains favor creativity, imagination, and feelings. I generally behave left-brain (which would confirm that reversed-hemisphere notion), but just to be sure I took the following 30-second test: http://braintest.sommer-sommer.com/en/ . Try it yourself. It tells me I am 59% right-brain. Huh? Then again – to squash this approach completely – logic tells me a right-brain person would not even subscribe to the idea that a test can determine these distinctions.

When we lived in San Francisco there was a small shop in Fisherman’s Wharf called “The Left-Hand Store”. Among its more popular products: watches that could be set from the left, measuring cups that could be read when held in the left hand, and notebooks spiral-bound on the right. They also sold an impressive selection of scissors and cutlery with the cutting edge on the -ahem – correct side. Finally, they sold a “Super Power” hoodie proclaiming “Left is Right”, which is really just a desperate plea for sympathy from all you righties.

We lefties may need super power to overcome the perception that we are out of favor in a right-handed world. After all, “right” connotes “correct” and “proper”, while sinistral connotes “unlucky” and “clumsy”. The English derived “sinister” from sinistral, while the French termed “gauche” for “left”, but also for “awkward”. Black magic is sometimes referred to as the “left-hand path”. Many cultures seek to convert their left-handed children to the right. Why is it never vice-versa? Hence the perception.

Admittedly, some tasks remain nightmarish when performed from the left. I will never again take chalk to board (as most ends up on my hand). My spiral notebooks will always be bound from the top, to avoid the indent of metal wire on the edges of my palm. My writing will forever be illegible since my hand curves awkwardly around the words I write, (to avoid smearing). And if I ever wish to play the guitar – or the accordion – I need to play them upside-down for the benefit of my more dexterous hand. At least Sir Paul McCartney feels my pain.

Here’s an interesting premise. It is said that more left-handed drivers die in accidents than right-handed drivers. Why? Because in the effort to avoid that head-on collision, we southpaws instinctively pull the wheel down to the left… which takes our car into oncoming traffic. At least in America. Perhaps I should move to England.

From the Facebook community That’s One Awesome Mommy, we read “Left-handers are wired into the artistic half of the brain, which makes them imaginative, creative, surprising, ambiguous, exasperating, stubborn, emotional, witty, obsessive, infuriating, delightful, original, but never, never dull.” Whoa. Now that’s what I’d call a left-handed compliment!

Can We Talk?

We lost a good friend last month. Wisdom Tea House, one of our local cafes, closed its doors for good after eight years of business (and a little snow). And that’s just sad.

Why am I sad? Let’s start with a quick tour of the house itself. You walk in the front door to the roomy foyer, commanded by a large hutch with dozens of tea cups – choose your own – and a welcoming kitchen where you place your order. If the scrumptious lunch items don’t tempt you, the fresh-baked goods on display certainly will. Then choose from any room in the house and pull up a chair. Perhaps the living room with the small fireplace. Or one of the upstairs sitting rooms with their small couches and comfy chairs. Your tea and cakes will be delivered no matter where you sit. This could just as easily be your grandmother’s house.

Here’s what I’ll really miss about Wisdom. You won’t see people talking on their cell phones or working away on their laptops. You won’t plop down next to a large, loud group of people gathering after work for a drink. Wisdom’s music is quiet and instrumental. The tea and coffee are served in their simplest forms (no Oprah Cinnamon Chai Tea Latte here). In sum, they created a gathering place for requiescence – a bit of rest to escape the bustle of the world beyond the windows.

As I reminisce on Wisdom, I’m sitting at Starbucks. I typically appreciate the convenience of the drive-thru, but today I’m on the inside, observing Starbuck’s brand of “gathering place”. Open floor plan. Hard surfaces. Rock music. A few high tables for two and one large low table for many. Stools at a counter facing the windows with no view to speak of. The handful of patrons I observe are to themselves, engrossed in all forms of personal electronics. The few engaged in conversation raise their voices above the music and the baristas just to be heard. It’s all just so “un-Wisdom”. But that’s Starbucks – and it works. It’s grab-n-go coffee, especially with that drive-thru lane (churning out cars so much faster than people passing through the front door). Having your coffee inside a Starbucks almost feels wrong.

A few years ago my wife and I visited Ireland for the first time.. If you’re ever in Dublin, find your way along the cobblestones to Wicklow Street (just off the wonderful Grafton Street shops), and stop into a little cafe called Gibson’s. Gibson’s is akin to Wisdom Tea House. Order at the counter (the pear tarts are a must) and choose from one of the dozen small tables just beyond. Take in the gentle ambiance and soft decor, and breathe deep. The Irish come to Gibson’s to meet and to chat; to catch a break from the fervor that is downtown Dublin. We stopped in several times during our trip and it was always the same: happy patrons engaged in quiet conversation with – at least for the moment – no cares in the world. I can still picture one particularly well-dressed gentleman a few tables over from ours, sitting alone with his coffee and reading a book. The very picture of requiescence.

Perhaps you have a Wisdom Tea House in your town. A place the locals seek out to unplug, and to spend a quiet moment or two with each other. If you are so fortunate, be regular patrons and keep your little gathering place in business. Without Wisdom, our little town has precious few places to rest. We might as well just head home instead.

The Meal of Champions

Last weekend my family and I had breakfast at a small place in downtown Denver called “Syrup”. Syrup’s menu includes breakfast and lunch, but make no mistake; breakfast is king here. I chose the Eggs Benedict with corned beef hash, and all of us shared the Cinnamon Roll Waffle flight – a delight to the senses. It was a breakfast to savor.

Breakfast has always been my favorite meal, or should I say breakfast “out”. People always say “really?”, but I never hear them go on to say whether lunch or dinner is their favorite. Lunch is the neglected and oft overlooked meal of the three – perhaps a topic of its own for a future blog. Dinner represents 95% of what people mean when they recommend a restaurant. Maybe that’s what makes breakfast so endearing to me. It’s the most compact of the meals. Breakfast has its essentials and therefore creativity can only go so far. Dinner has no boundaries, but breakfast can go very wrong if you stray from the expected.

I’ve sampled several of the more exotic approaches to breakfast. I’ve been to the Cafe du Monde in New Orleans for the famous coffee au lait and French-style beignets (fried dough topped with enough powdered sugar to sneeze at). I’ve been to the little Danish town of Solvang, California for aebleskivers (pancake balls with fruit in the middle). I’ve even toured the Kellogg’s factory in Michigan, and to this day I still can resurrect the smell of cooked corn flakes. Put all that aside though, because breakfast for me comes down to just a few essentials on the plate. Eggs any style. Bacon or sausage (the requisite “protein”). And toast or some other form of carb load. At breakfast “out” the eggs may become an omelet or a skillet or a scramble. The bacon may be applewood-smoked and the sausage will have a hint of sage. The toast usually runs a distant second to a freshly-made waffle or fruit-topped pancake. But dress it down and the plate looks pretty much the same as what I prepare for myself at home.

I like breakfast because I’m a morning person (though not one of those restless souls who make it to 5am yoga). I also like breakfast because virtually everything on the menu appeals to me. Except bananas. If I ever opened a breakfast place you’d have to bring your own bananas.

Sunday brunch is not only a favorite meal but a favorite activity. I associate Sunday brunch with family and with special occasions like Easter and Mother’s Day. I love dressing up for church and going to brunch after the service. I love the serve-yourself aspect of brunch – the more options to savor the better. But the “unch” in brunch gets no love from me. As my family will attest to, my plate is always 100% breakfast.

I never understood the term “American breakfast” until college, when I spent a year abroad in Rome. I love the Italians and their “dolce vita” way of life. They perfected the coffee bar concept long before it became a staple in America. But they never gave breakfast it’s proper due. Indeed, “breakfast” in Italy is a small cup of espresso and a hard, barely-sweet roll, downed hastily at the counter before rushing off to wherever it is one is going. No eggs or bacon or pancakes. What’s the fun in that?

In Ireland breakfast essentials include tomatoes and blood sausage. I can’t come to terms with vegetables for breakfast, and blood sausage shouldn’t even be mentioned in a post about breakfast. Again, no fun on that plate.

Here’s an example of breakfast fun. In the classic movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang my favorite scene is with the breakfast machine. Dick Van Dyke’s character creates the magical car of course, but he also creates a contraption that cooks and distributes eggs, sausage, and toast, all while the breakfast plate moves along a heated track, eventually rolling down to the table ready to eat. Genius.

Breakfast places – at least in Colorado – are a born-again trend these days. Rather than Denny’s or Waffle House we now choose from “Over Easy” or “Snooze” or “The Egg & I”. And in the ultimate nod to my favorite meal, McDonald’s recently changed their menu to include All Day Breakfast. I think McDonald’s gets my drift. Breakfast is not just “the most important meal of the day”. It’s the one that should be on the menu morning, noon, and night.

Practice-Makes-Perfect Memories

Classical music has been one of my constant companions since childhood. Piano lessons initially mandated by my parents (but ultimately demanded by me) cemented a love for the timeless sonatas and symphonies of the master composers. I built up a stock of memorized pieces – my very own repertoire. I was “hooked on classics” at an early age.

In 1947, a children’s audio story was created for Capitol Records called “Sparky’s Magic Piano”. Sparky was a little boy who hated to practice the piano but benefited from an active imagination. One day Sparky’s piano starts talking to him, and declares if he simply runs his hands across the keyboard he will make beautiful music. Instantly Sparky is playing with the accomplished skills of a concert pianist, effortlessly churning out Rimsky-Korsakov’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee”, Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”, and Mendelssohn’s “The Spinning Song”. Sparky’s piano teacher and parents want to show the world this wonder, so they book a series of concerts across the country. But in one of those performances, Sparky suddenly loses his abilities and can’t play a single note. He demands the music from his magic piano but nothing comes. He looks out to his waiting audience in horror… and wakes up from a dream.

Virtually the entire story of “Sparky’s Magic Piano” is in his imagination, but the moral-of-the-story ending has Sparky practicing with renewed focus and hopes of some day becoming a great pianist. Also, the story aged well, as I first heard it twenty-five years after it was created and still loved it.

“Sparky’s Magic Piano” resonates for several reasons. It inspired me with wonderful piano compositions at an age when I wanted to play outside instead of practice. My piano teacher helped me learn “The Spinning Song” and the first movement of the “Moonlight Sonata” (alas, the “Bumblebee” is reserved for only the most accomplished of pianists. Watch this performance as proof: http://www.wimp.com/fastgirl/ )

Also, whenever I hear the classical music from Sparky’s story I’m instantly transported back in time to my grandparents’ house. Besides the children’s stories and toys (enjoyed decades earlier by my own father), my grandparents owned a few audio stories. Their copy of “Sparky’s Magic Piano” was on “45’s”: those 7-inch records that contained a single song on each side. Sparky’s story required six or seven 45’s (both sides), which meant you had to flip or change the discs every 3-4 minutes to hear the entire story.

Thanks to Sparky I will always remember childhood time with my grandparents. I can picture myself sitting cross-legged on their floor in front of the living-room “hi-fi” (the size of a small refrigerator back then), listening to Sparky’s story with a focus broken only by the need to flip the discs. Fittingly, that living room also contained an old, out-of-tune, upright piano, which I was allowed to play every now and then.

Remarkably, “Sparky’s Magic Piano” is still available today. You can buy a copy for a couple dollars on Amazon Music or iTunes. Have a listen to a story that was created almost seventy years ago. Thanks to your iPod you won’t even have to get up to change the discs. And if you can endure the corny dialogue, you may find yourself captivated by the repertoire of wonderful piano music – truly “classical”.

gratuity

Last week as I was buying lottery tickets, it occurred to me that very few transactions require payment by cash these days. Perhaps you still buy your newspaper at the street corner box. Or you feed the parking meter with coins, even though most meters now take credit. Maybe you still throw coins into the bridge toll basket just because it’s fun.

My family and I were in New York City this past weekend and I was quickly reminded that cash is a necessity in the big city. Specifically, I’m talking about tips. “Tip” is a word that supposedly originated in the 17th century, and somewhere along the way it was more elegantly referred to as a gratuity. But sometimes I question how elegant the practice of tipping really is.

When my family and I arrived at our mid-town Manhattan hotel last Friday, I found myself tipping three people inside of fifteen minutes. The cabbie, the curbside bellman, and the valet (who helped us with our bags and refused to step aside until I “greased his palm”). In my book, a gratuity is a gesture of recognition for a job well done; a service that went above and beyond what you had in mind. Nowadays however, tipping has reduced itself to more of an expectation.

Case in point. That New York City cab ride was nothing more than a lift from Point A (airport) to Point B (hotel). The cabbie did not say a word the entire time, when in fact he could’ve joined in the family conversation or at least pointed out the city sights as we passed them. When we arrived at the hotel, the cab’s credit card machine allowed me the gratuity options of 20%, 25%, and 30% (nothing lower), and the cabbie actually complained about my choice of 20% for a large party. I suppose you could decline all of those options and hand over less cash instead (which is what the cabbie’s sour attitude deserved). Regardless I felt manipulated, as if the tip was mandatory instead of voluntary.

Americans would be surprised to learn that tipping is not a common practice outside of this country. Canada and a few locales in Europe promote the practice, but otherwise the world’s countries don’t expect tipping and in some cases discourage it. I find it interesting that tipping in the U.S. supposedly started in the Prohibition Era, when business owners reluctantly promoted tipping as a means of supplementing their employees’ wages at a time of lost revenue. But again, the spirit of tipping in those days was for recognition; not as an expectation.

When I was in sixth grade, gratuity showed up on the weekly list of spelling words. A few days after, a friend and I found ourselves at a local snack bar; the kind where you order at the counter and take your tray to a dining area. After finishing our food we realized we could be “cool” and use one of our spelling words. We left a $10 gratuity (virtually the same amount we spent on our snacks), then went to the corner of the dining area where we could watch the person who clears the trays. I remember that person looking around as if someone had forgotten their cash. I also remember the lecture from my friend’s mother a few hours later. That verbal smack-down – fully deserved – included something along the lines of not understanding the meaning of our spelling words, and clearly not understanding how long it took our fathers to earn $10. Whoops.

Here’s a little tip for you – ha. The next time you dine at a restaurant or have your hair done, or receive some other service that asks for a little recognition, ask yourself the following: Was the experience beyond expectation? Did the person go out of their way to make the meal or the service a little more meaningful? If yes, then the inevitable gratuity will be given in the spirit it was intended for all those years ago.

abeyance

Imagine what it’s like to get knocked out cold. You’re in the boxing ring, or you slip on the ice, or you faint, and WHAM! – you’re out for the count. You never see it coming. Your very next memory is waking up as if it never happened at all. To be fair, you can’t imagine what it’s like to get knocked out cold. Your brain doesn’t register the experience; or if it does, it stores the memory in a place you’ll never be able to access. It’s as if you’ve took a break from your conscious world. This temporary inactivity of the mind – a kind of suspended animation – is known as abeyance.

Recently I had a tooth extracted. Since I have a strong jaw my dentist suggested I should be fully knocked out instead of hitting the laughing gas. So there I went, from “counting backwards from ten” to waking up post-op, as if the hour the procedure required was a split second.

After a tooth extraction, the dentist talks to you to make sure you feel okay, and more importantly to give you instructions for self-care for the next several hours. And here’s where it gets interesting. In the time frame of those several hours your brain is awake but not fully awake. My wife was in the room when I received my self-care instructions, and she said I was coherent and having a perfectly normal conversation with the doctor. But one day later I had no knowledge of that conversation – and I never have since.

That little amnesia experience got me to thinking: what if I could capture the “half-awake” brain in writing? Wouldn’t it be interesting to see what I write about in my semi-comatose stage, knowing that after the fact I’ll have no recollection of writing a single word?

I completed this experiment last month, when I went back to the dentist to have a post inserted (for a future crown). It was the same drill as before (ha). I was knocked out and woke up an hour later with no memory of the surgery. But when I was at home later in the day to recover, I wrote a quick story before my brain fully restored itself. The following day, and now a month later, I have no memory of writing that story.

To conclude, I am sharing that story with you below. I’ve read it several times and have zero recollection of ever writing it. Isn’t that amazing? Don’t ask me for the hidden meaning because I don’t think there is any, and needless to say, the story is unfinished. But I do think it’s remarkable this story was created – and stored – in a part of my brain I’ll never have access to. Here then – my moment of abeyance.

Todd was a gentle man, who worked an apple farm near the west coast of Central Washington. Each morning he’d get up with the dawn, climb on his John Deere tractor, and plow the rows between the trees, keeping the orchard nice and neat. The trees produced a variety of apples: Macintosh, Gala, Red Delicious, Granny Smith, and so on. It was not the sort of orchard that required a lot of labor or equipment. A typical harvest yielded 100 bushels or so, which were largely sold to the small organic markets in the region. Todd’s apples boasted a quality product year-in and year-out over several years.

One harvest season, Todd discovered that many of his apples were bigger and heavier than in previous years. They even shone brighter with their reds, yellows, and greens. Thinking nothing of it, Todd continued the harvest as usual, bringing home the first day’s bushels to prepare for market. As was always his custom, Todd brought several samples of each variety into the house, to give them a closer inspection and taste. Again, as he looked at an especially ripe Macintosh, he noticed the brightness: an almost glittery look to the skin. The fruit was probably an inch or so larger in diameter than any he had seen from his trees in previous years. The bite was crisp and delicious, the flesh firm and consistent.

After a couple of bites, Todd took a sharp knife and cut the fruit to the core. Imagine his surprise when his knife hit a solid core; the consistency of a peach pit instead of small seeds. Carefully, Todd cut the apple into vertical slices, revealing a one-inch solid core in the middle of the fruit. This was most unusual, as an apple typically has a hardened fruit core with seeds distributed throughout.

Todd took the pit to the sink and washed it carefully under mildly hot water. The surface was the woody gnarled look you would expect from most fruits, but it was as if a peach pit had found its way into an apple. Looking closer, Todd saw small bits of light emanating from between the gnarls. Taking up the knife once again, Todd began to scrape the outer surface of the core. Suddenly the core divided neatly into four sections, and fell away easily, to reveal… the most beautiful diamond Todd had ever seen. It was egg-shaped, with countless pentagonal facets, and it shone so brightly it was almost a brilliant blue.

Holding it up to the light, Todd thought he could see yet another core within the diamond, but it was difficult to make out with the layers of faceted diamond on top of it. The diamond felt solid and heavy; almost 10 ounces by his amateur guess.

With no small amount of anticipation, Todd returned to the fruit basket, picked a Granny Smith, and carefully cut the fruit into several slices.. While he discovered the same “peach pit” core, this time the core revealed a spectacular center cut emerald. Again, the core of the emerald was darker than the surface, suggesting something different inside of it. Otherwise, Todd was looking at two large gems, apparently the product of two fruits from his orchard.

Just what had happened here? How does a fruit generate a gemstone at its core?