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Month: September 2020

Life in the Wobbly Cart

Life in the Wobbly Cart

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On a trip earlier in the week to the grocery store I got to the checkout and transferred my cart to the checker.  It was in one of those stores where the checker pulls your cart on his/her side.  When all was done I inserted my debit card and paid the bill as he pushed the cart around for me, handed me the receipt, and said:

“Hey, it looks like you got the wobbly cart.”

The “wobbly cart.”

You know, the one where at least one wheel wants to do everything but what you want it to do.

The one that makes the “rrraaattt tat ta tat’ sound all around the store as you push it with one arm or the other acting in overtime to compensate for the pull as you try to act all casual while you know everyone you pass in the store is thinking:

“Look at that poor guy, he got the wobbly cart.”

 

So on this day when the guy says “Hey, it looks like you got the wobbly cart,” I just laughed and said back,

“Yeah the wobbly cart, that’s the story of my life.”

So then he says “that sounds like a good title for a book, “Life in the Wobbly Cart.”

I thought to myself, man if he only knew the half of it.

 

I understand, in my family, we call it the Christiansen Curse.

Kim reminded me this morning that tomorrow starts Yom Kippur.

My Jewish friends and family might relate with the expression,

“Ma nishtana!”

This Hebrew saying according to the Urban Dictionary is used to express utter lack of surprise at a supposed piece of news. It’s a way of saying “Tell me something I don’t know” or “What else is new?” with a snarky urban Jewish twist.

 

 

Friday was a bad day for me.

I went in early on Friday to get a head start on cutting church grass which is pretty much an all day job.

Immediately I ran into an IT problem that is normally not a big deal but on this day it took extra time to resolve.

 

Once I got that issue squared away, now having lost an hour, I went out to start working on the property only to find my left rear tire on my lawn mower was flat.

So I went for my air pump but couldn’t find a charged battery or the charger to charge the battery.

After some more lost time I got the flat tire squared away and got to work.

 

But before I did I texted my wife “Christiansen curse day.”

 

Then to top it all off while I was mowing, I stepped in dog shhhh…..poo.

Dog Poo.

And I didn’t only just step in it I literally slid through it for about a foot.

“That’s just perfect,” I thought to myself.

 

Next, I get a text message from Alexa that said “Christian says he is sad because he misses you.”

Christian, the kid who once, while visiting him in Hollywood, Florida said, “Pop Pop I haven’t seen you in years and years,” can really put the screws to you.

Another sad reminder of the times.

 

Finally, as my day was winding down, my wife texted me to ask if I wanted to go to Carrabba’s for dinner.

I was tired and I had such a crummy day the thought of going out and relaxing with my wife sounded awesome.

I wasn’t hungry since I had eaten twice that day and of course, it had to have been leftover spaghetti and meatballs,  but hey I thought,  I will just have a bowl of soup.  And since Carrabba’s gives you that awesome bread and olive oil with spices to dip it in, I would be good.

Yeah okay, I admit it, I am one of those guys who will order a bowl of soup, get the bread, and be happy.

Because I am cheap.

Ry Cooder sings a song written a long time ago by Josh White called One Meatball.

It’s a song about a guy who only has fifteen cents to eat with so he searches restaurants and menus until he finds a place where he can purchase something to eat for fifteen cents, one meatball.

Everyone in the restaurant is aghast as the waiter calls out the order for one meatball and then proceeds to remind him:

“You gets no bread with one meatball.”

With the day I was having as I sheepishly ordered my one bowl of soup, I was half expecting the server to call out loudly:

“You gets no bread with one bowl of soup.”

 

Finally now relaxing and enjoying my bowl of soup and my bread, I open up my Facebook to find my three daughters, my three little chickens, putting me out on social media for not remembering them on “National Daughters Day.”

My final kick for the day.

Oh well.

“Ma nishtana.”

“You gets no bread with one meatball.”

That’s life in the wobbly cart.

 

 

Okay, now maybe I can get back to that book now.

“Life in the Wobbly Cart.”

Chapter One.

Let’s see, how should I start…?

 

 

Post Script:

After having basically finished this I dipped out to Lowe’s to pick up a couple of things.  I entered the store then realized I might need a cart.  I went back out and there, right next to the sterilizing station, was one cart.

I wiped it down and started my shopping.

And guess what kind of cart it was.

Yup.

“That’s just perfect,” I thought.

 

Happy National Daughters Day to Savannah, Hayley, and Alexa.

I still love you more than meatballs.

 

Yom Tov.

See You in September

See You in September

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An elderly couple decided to go out for breakfast recently at their local diner in Cambridge Maryland.

Though disease had infiltrated his body and mind limiting the activities that energized him and that he once enjoyed in life, going out to eat was still a treat thankfully now that the covid restrictions had been eased.  But even the once easy decision to drop into a restaurant, though still enjoyable and special, was now complicated and not just on account of the virus.

Slowly and unsteadily, relying on the aluminum frame and wheels of the walker he has to use now, he navigated his way to the table and backed into the chair to sit.

As is the routine she, his wife, body bent and looking frail but still strong in mind and determination, gets him situated in his chair and inched up to the table.

This is the ritual, whether it’s in a public restaurant or at home, that goes on day after day, multiple times a day.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and coffee breaks all take on significant importance, but all require a similar concern, attention, and patience.

 

On this day the breakfast itself went uneventful.

But when she went to pay the bill something very unexpected and never-before experienced happened.

She wasn’t able to pay the bill.

Not because she couldn’t afford it.

But because there was no bill for her to pay.

Someone had paid their bill already.

 

 

In these days of virtual church, Kim and I have discovered another Eastern Shore connection in Father Bill Ortt, the Rector of Christ Church in Easton, Maryland.

In a recent awesome sermon, he referred to these verses in Chapter 12 of Romans.

9 Love must be sincere.  Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.  10 Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.  Honor one another above yourselves… 12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. 13 Share with God’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.

 

Not a bad reminder for us these days.

In his message, Father Ortt presented a good illustration of how the daily stresses we face as individuals   can affect us.  His sermon included a personal story of how he witnessed a young mother having a bad start to her day in a Starbucks in Ocean City and sharing her unhappiness quite vocally with all of those around her.

Though it sounded like this person’s behavior was inappropriate for that venue or any venue, I am sure we have all been close to losing it lately.

 

It’s tough to be a parent right now.

It’s tough to be a kid.

It’s tough to be a grandparent.

And it’s tough to be a great grandparent.

 

Labor Day Kim and I were driving home.  The next day was the first day of school for our area which meant Cameron would be starting the fifth grade and Hayley her thirteenth year of teaching at Broad Run High School.  Christian, one of my little guys in Florida had already started his first year of school by starting Kindergarten virtually, a couple of weeks earlier.

On that ride home I thought about my first days of school and particularly my grammar (elementary school) years and me in my fifth grade.  Fifth grade was one of my favorite years in school.

And so, as is often the case with me, I started singing a song.

“See You in September” was released by the Happenings in 1966, the year I started the fifth grade.

And while I drove and relived in my mind the memories of my childhood, I sang it over and over again.

At some point on the road trip my wife who had been quietly working on her iPad, looked at me and asked, “are you seriously going to sing that song all day?”

“Sorry” I said.

But I never really answered the question because unfortunately for Kim the answer was…

“Yes!”

But to the best of my ability, at least for the rest of that car ride I tried to sing just to myself as I reminisced about the excitement and that feeling of being reunited with  friends and classmates for another school year in 1966.

This year Cameron and Christian and a lot of other kids are not getting to experience the excitement that I remembered about returning to school in September.

And Hayley as a teacher can’t foster mentoring relationships that are so important to the student and the teacher.

And the parents of these students are juggling jobs from offices and homes as they also assume the role of teaching assistant.

And sometimes…they kirk out at Starbucks.

 

And Kim and I have to weigh the risks against the needs as we struggle to make our decisions to social distance with some of the younger members of the family yet continue to work out ways to provide support to our aging parents.

 

But thankfully our parents, limited now not just from the virus but by their own physical abilities, can still enjoy a time out having a meal while respecting the necessary social distancing requirements.

 

And at least on one occasion anyway, experiencing that love still exists in some hearts.  Even in the hearts of strangers.

 

 

My mother literally sobbed on the phone as she told us the story of her and my father having breakfast at the Cambridge Diner one morning this past week when someone paid their breakfast bill.

 

Maybe he or she good Samaritan saw that even after all those years, love can still be sincere and patient.

Maybe he or she was sick of the hate that we have to experience on our televisions and social media and wanted to reach back to a better time when we treated others with brotherly love and honored others above ourselves.  And through an act of hospitality, spread joy to those who may be afflicted and in need.  Even if that need might just be to have a little hope and share in a little joy while having breakfast.

Maybe this person heard Pastor Ortt’s message.

 

It was a nice gesture.

One that my mom and my dad will never forget.

And me too.

 

And so whoever you are out there who treated my parents to breakfast recently, I thank you.

And may God bless you.

 

Bye-bye, so long, farewell…

Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above

See you in September
See you when the summer’s through*

 

Our summer is through.

Hate what is evil.

Cling to what is good.

Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.

 

And hang in there.

 

 

Post Script:

The photos above are of Christian on his first day of school, Cameron on his first day of school, Hayley on her first day of school, and me in the fifth grade.

*Lyrics from See You in September written by Sid Wayne and Sherman Edwards.

Reminders (Revisited)

Reminders (Revisited)

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“IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SEPTEMBER MORNING WITH A BLUE SKY…JUST A NORMAL DAY.”

Joy Knepp, Teacher, Shanksville –Stoneycreek School from the display at the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center

On an early New England morning in 1775, on the common green in Lexington Massachusetts, a small group of patriots prepared to square off against a large invading British force of about 700 troops. Moments later a shot was fired, and the first battle of the war to establish our nation’s freedom had begun.

Two hundred and twenty six years later, on “a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…just a normal day” over the green mountains and hills of western Pennsylvania, another small group of brave Patriots waged the first battle of a new war to protect those freedoms fought so hard for many years ago.

“…a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…”

Much like today I thought,  as I left the Flight 93 Visitor Center and began the walk down the tree lined path to the impact site below.   Though the morning was cool, the now mid to late afternoon sun caused me to remove my Harley Davidson of Somerset PA sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.  Kim did the same with her Steelers sweatshirt.  The occasional large dark cloud loomed almost symbolically right over the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center, so low it looked like you could almost reach up and touch it.  I guess something in the sky had to be there to remind us of the darkness of that day, joining the reminders on the grounds around me.  Though it was a beautiful day, this day, September 11th would never again be just a normal one.

 

Needing to decompress a little, Kim and I decided to make a trip up to see the family on the farm in Markleton, Pennsylvania in Somerset County. It was a weekend of reminders.

By early Saturday morning we were in Western Pennsylvania. I have been to Somerset County many times over the last almost 20 years and thought I was fairly well versed in the farm community life and history.  I got my eyes opened on Saturday by attending the New Centerville Volunteer Fire Company Farmer’s and Threshermens Jubilee.  Another reminder for me, this time of the hard work and sacrifice it took our forefathers to build and feed this great country of ours.

Sunday was church at the Geiger Church of the Brethren. The Sunday school message that morning was about death; how do we prepare? Are we ready?  What in our lives can complicate that preparation? And another reminder…we don’t always get the opportunity to prepare.

After church we had lunch with Kim’s parents at the Eat’n Park Restaurant in Somerset and decided we would just jump on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to go home. As I was waiting to leave the manager at the Eat’n Park asked if I had come from the Flight 93 Memorial.  I explained we were here visiting family. The restaurant is next to the Harley-Davidson of Somerset motorcycle shop.  I told her about the photo my sister had sent me a few weeks earlier of that same spot as she and my brother-in-law participated in the 2016 America’s 9/11 Motorcycle Ride.

“Oh yeah” she said, “the motorcycles.”

She then expressed her disappointment that this year’s ride was to be the last.

“They donated an ambulance you know.”

Now in the truck ready to go home, the idea of visiting the Flight 93 Memorial on this day in particular seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I had never been there.  We were directed to park in an overflow parking lot since the visitors were many and walked the paths up to the Memorial Visitor Center.  All around the grounds you could see what remained of the ceremonies that took place that morning or the evening before; the wreaths, the tents, the temporary bleachers, and stacks of chairs.

We waited in line almost an hour to enter the Visitor Center. Once inside it didn’t take long to be transported back to that day with a rush of emotion.  I lifted the “phone” receiver and listened to their voices, those final calls and goodbyes; I viewed their names and faces on the wall and read the stories as the video of the World Trade Center attacks played over and over.  Everyone was quiet and solemn.

We walked down to the site of the impact. The large hemlock gate to the path where the boulder marks the impact site was open today. Only open once a year on this day according to the Park Ranger stationed at the gate.

We stood at The Wall of Names where fresh wreaths, flowers, and notes lay at the base of each stone panel honoring those that perished.

“Thank you for your sacrifice, God Bless You” read one note.

“Your sacrifice saved hundreds, Thank You!” read another.

I read the names again. The names of those patriots, who maybe with make-shift weapons of boiling water, a fire extinguisher, and who knows what else; made the ultimate sacrifice in what was the first battle of the new war threatening our freedoms.

They left their homes and their loved ones and boarded a jet not knowing how complicated their lives would be in a short while. How complicated their deaths would be.  They soon knew they were going to die; they had no time to prepare.

But they acted.

And they acted on our behalf.

And I was reminded once more.

And I will remember.

We should all remember.

 

“Are you guys ready? Let’s roll.” (Flight 93 passenger and patriot Todd Beamer)

Items left for flight attendant Sandy Bradshaw at the Wall of Names