Let Me Out

Fidelity Bank

From time to time I like to post my appreciation for good businesses.  It is not (for me) of any commercial benefit.  Rather, at a time when so many people complain about bad customer service, it is good to note that there are some really nice people out there.  They are not pretending to be nice so that they can get your business (even though this may be the case with others).  They are quite simply nice.   With this in mind I want to say a word about my new bank.

I find going to the bank is generally not my favorite activity.  I am not sure exactly where I would place it in comparison with others.  I know I prefer going to the bank more than going to the dentist.  I also think I prefer it to taking out the trash, or at least emptying the cat litter.  And it is tons better than mowing the lawn.  On the other hand, I like going out to eat better than going to the bank.  I also prefer reading a good book.  However, it is hard to know how it compares with getting an allergy shot, getting the oil changed, or bringing in the groceries.

There is, though, a bank which is a lot of fun.  I had opened an account at Fidelity last February, since I could get interest and also free checking there.  I even got one of those low fat grill machines as a gift.  However, I needed to go over there again, this time with my wife, so that she could be added to the account.  We saw the same lovely lady as I had seen when I opened my account.  Her name is Dana Myrick.  Dana is an Assistant Branch Manager.  Dana is so friendly it makes one almost want to go and open a second account just to chat with her.  She remembered me, she remembered my diet (said I was doing great) and my church (wanted to know how it was going), and wanted to know about our kids and grandkids.  Dana also told us about her kid going to school for the first time.

I must admit that I still find banking itself rather boring.  It is not my cup of tea.  I am glad, though, that there are dedicated people who love banking and work in the industry.  And, I am glad that some of these people, such as Dana, are a true delight to do business with.

At a time when many banks have been bought out by bigger banks, it is good to see a local Atlanta bank still going strong.  I am sure that Dana and people like her are one of the reasons.  Pop into her branch at 10920 Crabapple Rd., Roswell, and ask to see her.

Claudius, 2000-2011

Claudius, one of my two cats, slipped peacefully away right before our eyes this past week.  He began the day hardly able to walk, and crying in pain.  He had weighed over 20 lbs.  Now he weighed nine.  We took him to the vet wrapped, like a little baby, in a blanket.  On the way home we were both crying.  Cats do not just take up residence in your home.  They get inside your heart in a wonderful way.

I wrote this poem today in memory of many happy times over the past decade.

FLY AWAY

Fly away my little friend;
With purrs you warmed my heart.
You snuggled soft upon my lap,
But now we have to part.

Fly away my little friend,
A friend I loved so dear.
You never spoke, you never talked,
Yet your voice I still do hear.

Little darling, little friend,
I am grateful for the days
You shared my home and touched my heart,
In soft mysterious ways.

Patrick A Rose
Feb. 1, 2011.

Beware of the Wine

I have not written anything on this blog in the past year.  I have written a lot, but not here.  This evening I felt moved to note something about the wine industry that they need to work on -- viz. the descriptions found on wine labels.  Not only are these labels a blatant example of cliché hell, but they tend to leave one scratching one's bald spot.  The bottle I opened tonight was a prime example of this.

I do need to emphasize that this is by no means a criticism of the wine itself.  It was a lovely pinot grigio, and went perfectly with the chipotle salmon I had prepared (i.e. thrown in the oven) from the freezer.  Neither do I with to condemn all wine labels; it can be interesting to try to taste the hint of plum, or orange, or liquorice, or whatever hint the wine is supposed to be hinting at.  I draw the line, though, at the word "approachable."  "An approachable wine."  It was on this evening's wine.  I have seen this word "appoachable" applied to a wine several times in recent months.

How can a wine be approachable?  How can it be unapproachable?  Can a bottle of wine snarl at you?  attack you?  look aloof at you?  I don't really have much of a bald spot, but tonight it got a little bigger from being scratched.

¡Salud!

Betty the Bird Brain

Once upon a time there was a Canada goose.  She was a magnificent fowl, as fowls generally are.  She was covered with feathers and had a beak.  Her name was Betty.

Betty looked like a typical magnificent Canada goose.  Deep down inside her birdish soul, though, she had a yearning, a yearning to reach out beyond the limited social realm of bird-dom.  Even though she was not merely a bird, but a goose, she was growing tired of the soul-destroying shallowness of a life spend flying around making honking noises, landing on ponds, and generally fouling their banks.  Betty wanted more.

One day, purely by chance, as she was flying from one pond to another -- alone, because she happened to be in a grumpy solitary mood that day-- she looked down at the front lawn of a house she was passing over.  There in the middle of the lawn was a bright shiny red something.   Whatever it was, it looked powerful.  It looked strong.  It looked so ... mmmmmmm masculine.  Betty's heart started to go plippety plop -- the palpitations of love.

She adjusted her wing feathers -- the bird equivalent of flaps -- and slowed her airspeed.  She banked.  She banked some more.  She was dizzy with love.  And even though she was a bird, she was about to make herself airsick.

Finally she plopped down, clumsily, on the bright green lawn, in front of the bright red shiny masculine machine.

How does a bird that is bored of bird-dom but is nevertheless still cursed with a bird brain, reach out romantically to a machine?  Inevitably, she did so in a stupid way; and it was beyond stupid, for the only word to describe the consequences is "tragic."

Those of the human ilk find much of nature to be savage.  Hence the use of the word "savage" to describe animals, I suppose.  And indeed it can be savage.  Think of the poor male spider who gives it his all, and then is eaten by his mate.  Think of cats -- tom cats -- who get all torn and scratched fighting for the right to mate with that cute little sweetie with wide brown eyes and with whiskers to die for.  Think of germs, which reproduce by splitting in half!!   'Tis a very brutal world.

No ending was so tragic, though, no love so destructive, no affection so misplaced, as the attraction which Betty had for this machine.

Perhaps Betty imagined, in her bird brain, that the machine had feelings, and perhaps even a name.  She might well have honked, in the language of Canada geese, the words, "I adore you, my love, my love whom I have lovingly named Larry."  Perhaps she did think of him as Larry.  We have no way of knowing, of course.  What we do know, though, is that -- and this is not simply tragic but also horrifying -- "Larry" was not a being with feelings, but was, rather, a machine with blades, big and very fast blades.  "Larry" was a lawn mower.  He was one of those wonderful new remote-controlled lawn mowers.

In his living room, a human called Bud had just replaced the batteries in the remote control for his bright red new remote-controlled lawn mower.  He pushed a button, at the very moment that Betty the shameless was trying to place a kiss on Larry's shining metallic surface.

It would not be appropriate to describe all the heart-rending details of Betty's demise.  Phrases such as "blood mixed with feathers," and "severed webbed feet" come to mind, but will not be elaborated upon here, in this public forum.

Bud is still cleaning up his new lawn mower.  Poor Bud.

And poor Betty.

Free Patches

This week, on both Monday and Tuesday, I received a free patch.  Amazing synchronicity!  Even though a free patch might sound a small thing, both lifted the spirit.  After all, most of life is made up of small things.

The first free patch involved a tire.  To be precise it was a rear passenger tire that needed more air, but proved to have a nail stuck in it.  I drove it to the local Discount Tire.  They happened to be busy, so I decided to leave the car there and walk 3/4 mile or so to my next stop, the gym.  After all, a good walk sounded like a good prelude to the gym. Before I even made it back to the tire place, the manager phoned and told me it was ready -- ahead of time.  After I got there he handed me my key and as I was about to leave I wondered why there was no charge.  Maybe I had paid before leaving the car, and had forgotten.  The manager,though, told me there was no charge for a tire patch, and in payment all he asked is that I give his card to three different people.  I suggested I put it up on the web instead, which I do here.

It is easy to be cynical -- just a marketing ploy perhaps.  I choose to take another viewpoint.  I think it is just plain nice.  Let me add, I have been to this tire place before, and the manager is a real neat fellow, and that time too I came away just feeling more cheerful than when I arrived -- they put on some new tires quickly, efficiently and with a genuine smile.  The little things we do for other people can brighten their days.  So too the little things that people do for us.

Thank you Discount Tire.

My second experience with a free patch was at the Roswell office of  Allergy & Asthma Consultants.  I went there for my regular allergy shots.  This time, though, I was bleeding before they stabbed me.  My elbow had a scrape on it, and was leaking, and there was blood on my arm.  No problem.  They cleaned me up, put a dressing on it, and once again I heard those magic words, "No charge!"  By the way, this also is a place of cheer, a place that exudes a happy spirit.

People may grumble about this world.  I say that there are many smiles to be had, and many wonderful people with which to interact.

Updating Records at the Doc's

I suppose there is a reason why periodically patients are asked to update their personal information when they visit the doctor's office.  I suppose things can change and the office does want a person's latest address and phone number on file.   It would be nice if one could be given a printout of information on file, with places to make changes if necessary.  However, it is quite likely, I suppose, that many offices are "software impaired" and so unable to provide such printouts.  But some information rarely needs to be updated.  A case in point -- earlier this month one of the pieces of updated information I was expected to supply was my date of birth.  Since when does a person's date of birth change?  Silly doctor's office.  Very silly.

Piano Practice

There is something to learn from learning the piano as an adult.  It is most likely too late in life to become good enough for Carnegie Hall.  And it is certainly a time of life where hours and hours of practice are simply not possible.  In fact, once one takes into account a very busy work schedule and that undeniable sense of fatigue at the end of the day, it is amazing I practice at all.  Actually, for my last piano lesson I didn't -- practice at all, that is.  Except for the few odd minutes at the keyboard while waiting for a meal to cook.  So... while driving to my lesson, I did what most men are particularly talented at.  I searched for some excuses.  Not just one excuse, but excuses.

The first excuse was easy.  I had been traveling.  Not only had I been traveling, but I had been to Arizona and New Mexico before heading back to Atlanta.  I was thinking of throwing in a related excuse and mentioning that I had gotten some desert dust in my eyes in New Mexico, but decided against it.  It is never good to appear too pathetic.

The second excuse suddenly hit me -- fortunately only in a metaphorical sense, since I was driving.  The mot du jour would be "dabble."  Not only does the word have a certain breezy sound to it -- try saying it quickly five times in a row -- but it was the TRUTH!

Oh yes, I have been taking piano lessons for about ten years now.  But I have not been practicing that much for those lessons.  I have learned a fair amount, for sure.  But I could have learned so much more if I had not dabbled.  I dabble at learning the piano.  But -- and here was the sudden insight that metaphorically hit me while driving -- it is not necessarily bad to dabble.

We cannot excel at everything.  We do not have the time to excel at everything.  And it is just as well, because we would than fail to excel at being humble.  Adult piano lessons are not about excelling.  They are about adding something of balance to one's life.  They help one understand music better, enjoy music better.  They enrich the mind.  They lend cultural depth in an electronic instant world.

I was set.  I sat down at the piano, and explained to my teacher that I had been traveling, so had not had a chance to practice.  Then, after a subtle but calculated pause, I added that what what I was really doing was dabbling at the piano.  I mentioned the way it added a certain balance to my life. 

She nodded wisely and agreed wholeheartedly.

I have a terrific teacher, don't I?

Two Wet Rats

Tonight was the fortieth anniversary event at Dixie Speedway.  Brian, a buddy of mine, was going with me to enjoy a grand night of racing.  I am not really much into sports, apart from Wimbledon, some boxing, and stock car racing, but I am fortunate enough to live in the same town as a great little dirt track speedway.  It is a great track.  An evening there is a lot of fun, and very affordable.  It was only $15 to get in, and with a Coca Cola bottle top, they were giving a $2 discount.

Alas, it was not meant to be.  Before the actual races themselves began, a warning sprinkle was followed by a deluge.  The announcer did a brave job trying to convince people and most of all himself that it was only a passing shower, but to no avail.  There were some amazing sights to be seen as people struggled to find shelter ...  I had never ever before seen a row of Porta-Potties with each one crammed full with four or more people.

We headed home, drenched.  Brian commented that we looked like a couple of wet rats.  With his cell phone he took pics of both of us for the record, and I post them here.

 

For the record, my shirt -- on the left -- is a relatively light blue when it is dry.  Here it is soaked.  I believe the expression on Brian's face -- on the right -- may be because he was soaked too, and I had the a/c on full blast to try to dry us out.  It is, I believe, a pre-frostbite grimmace.

The Word Without a Plural

Recently I wrote an appreciative blog post about my local Publix supermarket.  Since one of the comments to that post raised the question of what was the plural of "Publix," I decided to write to Publix, mentioning the post on my blog, and asking if they knew what the plural of "Publix" was.  Someone at Publix, with the very nice name of Leslie, emailed me and gave me the definitive answer:

    "The appropriate plural of 'Publix' would be 'two Publix stores', or 'many Publix stores'."

Thank you Leslie, and thank you Publix, for providing good food and good grammatical advice.

Next time I find that I cannot get something at one Publix store, and have to stop at a second one, I will be sure to remember to tell people I stopped at two Publix stores.

By way of an afterthought, I would bet that if I wrote to Walmart and asked them what was the plural of "Walmart," they would, if they wrote back, most likely say that it is "Walmarts."  But, it has always been easier with words ending in "t" than it has with words ending in "x."

Why Two Nostrils?

I believe that today I figured out the answer to that question we all wonder about.  Why do we have two nostrils?  It might well be, it suddenly occurred to me, that we are asking the wrong question.  We are perhaps imposing our own view on the world, or, to be more precise, on our noses.  It is possible, you see, that we do not have two nostrils but one.  Perhaps it is really, in essence, one nostril, but with a divider down the middle to give firmness and a sense of pride to one's proboscis.

So, may I suggest that we call this combination of two nostrils the nost (without the diminutive suffix, "ril").  Your nost, then, is divided into two compartments by the septum, so that, when someone pushes on your nose with a finger, it does not flatten out completely, but springs back.

We could, I suppose, rephrase the ancient question, and ask, why a septum?  And the answer is, to give your nose resilience when pushed by a finger.