THAT'S IT! I'M A LAB!!

I’m sitting here at the moment, bathed in the light of a sudden revelation I just had. Maybe it was an epiphany! In any event, I believe a truth was revealed to me! I now know why I own and identify so deeply with my sweet Labrador retriever, August! It’s because we are exactly alike!

Like August, I’m friendly to everyone, treat everyone the same. Like August, I crave the love and attention of others. Like him, I would do just about anything to please and/or help anyone around me.  We are both far too trusting. Those we trust can easily take advantage of us.  We are easily led astray. We are LOYAL to a fault. We both perform for any little treat someone would throw our way. We both need hugs regularly. Neither of us has any real control of just about any situation.

Thus, we live our lives trying to please others, to be ‘good boys.’ We are naïve in so many ways.  Sadly, he’s way ahead of me in pleasing and hugs and treats.

ON THE DEATH OF ETHICS AND CONSIDERATION

 or Why Do I Play By the Rules?

I see it, or hear about it every day, all day long: students cheat; people steal; adults cheat on their taxes; friends stab other friends in the back; people in cars drive like they’re the only ones on the road; office co-workers take off half the day when they think no one is looking; I hold the door for someone and they walk through without so much as a smile, much less a thank you. What is happening, or what has happened to our so-called civilization that people think these kinds of behaviors are acceptable?  

I used to blame it on generational differences, since I observed in so many cases that it was younger people who seemed to be the frequent offenders. I do believe that, generally, discipline and what we call consequences for bad behaviors has been so diluted by parents these days. There are lots of reasons for it: messed up adult relationships vying for a child’s love and attention; neglect, when adults are too self-absorbed to pay the kind of attention that a child really needs; missing parents; societal threats of things like kidnapping, abuse, etc. And I’ll just throw in electronic absence, since it’s become so epidemic in so many children’s lives. I guess what I’m saying here is that I think there IS a generalized feeling of entitlement, of being the center of the universe, as it were, and of not having to be held accountable in any way for any actions that someone may unfortunately deem inappropriate, and there are probably lots of reasons and/or excuses for that generation.

But nowadays, there are so many more people my  age and older, who I happen to KNOW were brought up differently, whose parents would cringe if they saw the values and beliefs they’d worked so hard to instill in their children completely ignored. This lack of ethics and respect and consideration for others seems to run rampant in our experiences these days! I don’t know understand, either, how it is so hard just to treat others as you would have them treat you! Putting aside religion here, it’s still a simple formula for living together in harmony. There is great value in living in harmony!

Here are some personal examples: (Rant alert!)

I have neighbors who are very nice, for the most part. We speak when we’re out. We yell across the street to say hello, or inquire how things are going. Both our families have dogs. Granted, mine is a very large dog, but sweet as he can be, and of course, mine goes outside on a line because we have no fence, and I don’t want him running into other people’s yards or intimidating anyone with his size. Theirs is a small, yappy dog, who delights in coming over into our yard, NEVER tethered, and barking incessantly at us, while peeing and pooping on our lawn. Many times, the neighbors have stood there and WATCHED their dog do this while talking to us! No, I don’t yell, “Get your dog outta my yard!” because I have some couth and decorum. But why do I play by the rules?

I have some friends who needed me for help. It was a special situation, one that I felt very deeply compelled to help with. We talked about it several times. We communicated through text messages, emails, and face-to-face for some time.  I set aside time for this, over 24 straight hours, actually,  even though I don’t have a lot of time myself these days. It wasn’t clear, to be honest, if they were going to need me, but I agreed, being the nice guy that I am, that I would hold that time open. Well, as the time approached, I didn’t hear anything, and no mention of it from anyone, so I sent out a message to one of the folks to just inquire as to the status. I got a message back that no, they didn’t need me, and they would have notified me if they did. Really? So I would just sit home and wait until someone decided whether I needed to know? So, why do I play by the rules?

I have a friend who I often ask to do some activity with me…the kind of stuff friends might do, you know, hang out, hike, go into the country. I don’t have a lot of close friends, and I don’t have a lot of free time these days, as I mentioned earlier. The friend’s often very busy too, I realize, and I get lots of excuses most of the time. When I finally DO get the friend to agree to set aside time, and that time rolls around, I often just get completely blown off. No explanation most of the time, or I find out later that the friend has done something with some other friend who maybe had a better offer.  That really hurts. If I missed something where someone expected me, I would have called, apologized all over myself, offered some remuneration, compensation or a different date and time. So, why do I play by the rules?

A co-worker regularly slips out of the office early, even half a day, when the boss is gone. Early on, she said one day she’d like to leave a little early, and she was fairly new then, and I’m the old-timer here, so I said, “Sure, go ahead! Everybody needs a little break once in a while!” And I guess she’s figured I meant just any time she feels like it, she can take off. No, I’m not in charge of her, and no, I’m also not a tattle-tale! I sit there at work until 5 pm shows up on my computer every day, despite the fact that 3 or 4 days a week, I also eat and work at my desk for the entire hour that is supposed to be my lunch time. So, why do I play by the rules?

Every day when I pull onto the campus where I work, I drive to the BLUE parking lots, where people with BLUE stickers (like mine) on their cars are supposed to park. As I drive through the already-full parking lot, I count anywhere from 1 to 6 red parking stickers on any given day. Why do they park there? Because there are no consequences. Oh sure, once in a great while one of the security folks will go around an issue a ticket or two, but the red stickers belong to students, and our student population, as a rule, is a privileged bunch, many of whom would rather pay the occasional $25 than walk from a farther parking area. I guess I mean there are no consequences for them. The consequences are, most days, that the staff and faculty, many of whom are older and even handicappedd, are the ones who have to drive across campus to park, then walk back to the buildings in which they work every day. So, I ask you, why do I follow the rules?

Weekly, I’m asked for ways to prevent students from cheating. Instructors at the university where I work are often beside themselves trying to outwit what they tell me is a fairly large percentage of their classes to keep them from plagiarizing papers, looking off others’ papers or computers while testing, etc. One instructor who is teaching his students to use MS Word even told me today that his students are so dishonest, and yet clueless, that they just copy and paste from a classmate’s paper, complete with the same mistakes that the original contained. The university has already spent and continues to spend countless thousands of dollars on special testing platforms, anti-plagiarism programs, and so forth to try to stay ahead of the cheaters.  So, again….why do I follow the rules?

My mom is in a local nursing home. She's nearly 91, and she's declining, both physically and mentally.  But recently, my family and I began to notice some fairly dramatic changes in her mental status particularly, and it was intermittent. This was something that was, sadly, familiar to me, since a few years back, she'd had the same sort of reaction to opiates in the hospital. I began to investigate at the home, and lo and behold, the visiting doctor had my mom on so many meds, including these opiates, and some other things that, by the way, shouldn't even be GIVEN with opiates, and it was, in my opinion, like putting my mother in a speeding train toward her demise. We began to question everything and everyone. We managed to get them to take her off about 5 different meds, and began to notice an immediate change in her. But they kept asking us if they could put her back on the opiates, and when we refused to let them, they became rather threatening. Anyway, this culminated in not one, but two meetings with two different INTERIM directors of nursing, since the last one was let go. The second meeting we had was so full of errors and blunders on their part, I could write a book on that meeting alone! But during that meeting, the D.O.N. said to me, "You don't understand! If your mother is having pain, and is crying, and someone walks in here and hears her, we could get into trouble!" Yup. She said it just as seriously as she could too! Well, I followed the rules again, because I managed not to reach over and grab her by the neck and drag her ass across the table! Nope. I simply took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye, and I said, "Well, I CERTAINLY don't want you to get in trouble! That's really high on my priority list right now!" And then I took another breath. "I'd like to remind you that we're talking about patient care: your institution's responsibility is to CARE FOR its patients, and unfortunately, my 90 year-old mother is one of them. I want you, just for a moment, to put yourself in MY seat, looking across the table at the second interim director he's talked to in as many weeks, worried to death that the nurses and doctors in this facility are going to kill his mother way before her time. I want you to tell me, after all the history you've seen and heard here today, where do you think your comfort level would be right now? Where?" I was respectful. I followed the rules!
 

Why do I, for instance:

·      hold the door open and allow another to enter almost anytime I meet someone near a door?

·      look behind me as I enter a door, just to see if perhaps someone is behind me and I might need to hold the door for them also?

·      drive for a mile or two in the left lane behind someone who’s going very slowly, giving them a chance to move back to the right lane?

·      always thank people who have done something for me?

·      always let someone know if for some reason I cannot be where they expect me to be?

·      work 10 minutes over if I happened to have been out an extra 10 minutes at lunch?

·      bust my ass to be somewhere even a few minutes early when someone is expecting me?

·      follow up with my colleagues after I’ve referred them to someone else who I felt could help them more, just to make sure they got what help they needed?

·      get up from my desk to help direct someone to an unfamiliar place in the building, or on campus?

·      get online nearly every morning before work and night before I go to bed to see if anyone at work has sent an email requesting support?

·      allow the dog across the street to bark at me and take a dump in my yard without drop-kicking it into the next neighborhood?

·      do most of the legwork to find a resolution to a multi-departmental issue, just to keep from pushing it off on someone else?

I could go on and on. Why do I follow the rules? Why am I always the guy who takes the high road? Why do I always try to do the right thing? As futile as it seems sometimes, it’s hard for me to do otherwise. Interestingly, my son jokingly answered that question tonight with, “because you’re not a damn hooligan, and your mama raised you right!” Truer words were never spoken. Well, I can be a hooligan, but Gertrude, I should thank you again for raising me right!

THE COTTAGE ON THE CORNER

Got time for a short story?

I have a great group of Facebook friends who have organized themselves specifically into a FB group because of a common love of photography. It was a chance to share ideas and information and, of course, the pictures we are most proud of!

We recently began doing weekly 'challenges'....each one actually a succession of 5-7 days of posting our photos following a 'theme' of sorts. We've done trees, bodies of water, and birds, for instance, among other things.

This week, during our CEMETERIES AND STATUARY challenge, I posted a picture of a cottage in the Outer Banks; a cottage which has a couple of little statues in the front yard; a cottage which, every time I ride by, and I've ridden by a lot of times, has always made me want to write a scary story about the place. When I revealed this to the group in the post, my friend, Dawn challenged me to go ahead and write a story! So I thought, sure! Why not?!

THE COTTAGE ON THE CORNER

 

It was late evening, just at dusk…not dark, but not very bright either. As he turned down the lane, the wind seemed to begin to blow almost immediately, shaking the Spanish moss in the scrubby trees and drawing his attention toward the little white cottage. A sick feeling came over him suddenly….a deep fear; no...a terror...a soul-shaking terror. The cottage was immediately familiar. He’d been here before. But when? How? He had no recollection of even having been in this region, and yet, this familiarity was unmistakable and unrelenting.

He had to pull the car over to get control of himself.  He turned off the engine. He gripped the wheel and took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, then open, then shut, then open again.  He rolled down the passenger side window from his armrest and slowly turned to look at the house again, now directly to his right.  The porch; the concrete Chinese dog statues; the trees! His eyes darted back and forth across the lawn and the façade of the house as he grew more full of dread by the second. His head throbbed. How could he know this place?

His heart was pounding now as he was both trying to absorb and analyze what lay before him, and retrieve whatever deep dark mystery was hiding in the recesses of his mind.  At exactly the same moment his gaze landed on the concrete angel on the lawn, a skull-splitting pain hit him, a flash of light seemed to illuminate the lawn, a far-off scream could be heard, and a splash of red seemed to appear across the angel, as if someone had thrown paint on it intentionally.  He jumped, so startled and panic-stricken and then closed his eyes tightly, almost afraid to open them again! He had to look though, to figure this out, to understand. Slowly he opened his eyes. The wind had died almost completely. The Spanish moss was motionless. The angel statue had returned to its weathered gray…no trace of red. There was a profound silence. 

“Bob.”  A whisper. Vague, even nearly imperceptible.  He craned his head around, both directions. He quickly looked in his back seat. He looked back at the lawn, and at the angel. In the stillness, he heard it again, this time a little louder.

“Bob. Bob” It was still a whisper now, but much louder, and more urgent.  Still no one in sight in any direction.

He fumbled with the ignition as he tried desperately to start his car. It took longer than usual for it to turn over, and he was shaking now,  and pouring sweat, and pounding the steering wheel with one hand and cursing. Finally the car started, and he put it into gear and peeled away from the house, sending dust, gravel, and sand flying in all directions.  As he pulled away, he was also fumbling with his armrest to find the buttons to roll up the windows. When he reached the end of the street, he’d come to a cul-de-sac. There was no outlet. He was going to have to turn around and drive by the house again.  

He swung the car around but drove a little more slowly up the street toward the little cottage. As he approached, he couldn’t take his eyes off the angel. It beckoned him, taunted him as he got closer.  And just as he was about to reach the edge of the property, he suddenly accelerated very rapidly again, as if he was afraid something would reach out and grab him. His eyes were still on the angel, sadly, as he charged forward, and straight into the cross street at the intersection. It all happened so fast, he couldn’t have known what hit him. Timing was such that he was right in the middle of the intersection as a large tank truck struck him directly on the driver-side of the car, while a very large pickup truck hit the passenger-side fender area, effectively blowing apart the entire front two thirds of the car. 

Of course, he was killed, mercifully, instantly.  By some miracle, the tanker driver and pickup driver were both spared, but suffered at great length, both physically and spiritually. Emergency personnel who were on the scene say they are still haunted by the body fragments they found all around the scene, especially in the lawn of the little cottage.  If you can get them into a conversation about the accident, many will relate how, as they cleaned up the area and the lawn, they had to use special chemicals to get the blood off the angel statue.

It's the stuff of legends, the making of a campfire story. It's fodder for generations of emergency personnel to distort and romanticize. It's the power of suggestion; the power of the mind to drive us to do strange things. It's the bent of a house to draw in and destroy helpless victims. It's the remote possibility of a life lived before, of a visit in another body, another time. It's a timeless mystery.

Whatever Happened to Caring and Compassion?

It’s turning out to be another one of those days where I just shake my head in disgust with people’s lack of compassion, thoughtfulness, and common sense. Ordinarily, I’m a fairly positive person, and try to convey that positivity and optimism to those around me. There are, however, always assholes (yeah, I said it!) out there to shoot you down.

Part One: The Surgery

To begin, Ruth was told a few weeks ago by her regular dentist that she was going to need some periodontal surgery. She had a tooth that was being slowly exposed down to the bone, and they were going to need to remedy this soon in order to save that tooth. They made her an appointment with the periodontist and her worry began. Aside from the fact that she remembered my horrible experience from periodontal surgery a few years back, the thought of having surgery inside her mouth, having something cut and scraped from her palate and sewn to her gums around her teeth was very scary to her. She immediately began talking about being sedated.

When she finally went to this other doctor, she was very nervous. Sadly, he was not very compassionate or caring. She intimated to me after that visit that she was not crazy about him, but the primary reason she gave me then was that he said he would not give her any post-op pain medication…that she could just take ibuprofen. That was a red flag to her, and that one thing just began to eat away at her, I could tell.  She did finally convince the guy to give her a little something to take the edge off…2mg of diazepam (valium). So she took that this morning before we left for this guy’s office. When we’d pulled up at the office, she shared with me some of the other things this doctor had told her during her first visit: things like, “if you take that valium, and then talk very much or ask any questions about what I’m doing, we’ll have to ‘abort’ and just stop.”  and “we don’t give stuff like that (narcotics), you’ll just have to deal with it.” WTH?? I swear, if I’d known some of these other things, we would have looked for another periodontist!

So, in this last week or so leading up to her surgery, she has worried and worried about how it’s going to hurt during and after the surgery. Sure, worry can be irrational at times, but it should have been addressed instead of dismissed.  She was doing her best to face this thing head-on and get it done.  The least…the VERY least the doctor could have done is to explain to her why he may have felt her worrying was unfounded or unnecessary. Ruth finally called our family doctor to see if she would consider calling in a prescription for a couple of post-op pain pills. When our doctor’s assistant called Ruth back to say they were calling something in to the pharmacy, she said the doctor couldn’t believe that this guy would do oral surgery and not offer someone medication for pain post-op.  But having this couple of pills…just in case….alleviated a lot of worry for Ruth, and allowed her just a bit of respite from all anxiety.

So, appropriately (in my opinion) gorked out, she made her way from the car into this office this morning, with lots of help and support from me. It was nice to see and find out that an old friend of mine was the receptionist in the office, and the receptionist’s niece, whose mom is also a good friend, was the assistant who would be helping. They called Ruth in almost immediately, so I helped her out of her coat, and handed her her phone and earphones, onto which we’d loaded some soothing music for her to listen to during her procedure. They helped her into the procedure room, and I sat down with my phone and magazine, prepared to busy myself for the wait time.

My friend, the receptionist and I had time to catch up on each other’s families, friends, and events in our lives. She also very professionally reminded me we’d have to pay the $300 + dollar remainder that insurance did not cover, before we left the office.  In the time I had left, I checked and responded to work emails, looked at a few pages of my magazine, and went to the restroom. Finally, the doctor appeared behind my friend in the reception window, and said to me, “Do you want to come back?”

“Sure.” I replied and went around the corner and down the hallway into the room after him.

On the way, he says to me, “It would have gone a lot faster and easier if she’d kept her mouth open.” I thought about it, and had all kinds of snappy come-backs, but I held back. One: She was relaxed completely and nearly asleep because of the valium. DUH! Two: Has this guy EVER worked with a sedated patient?!?! Three: Has he ever heard of bite blocks or retractors??

Ruth was still obviously gorked out when we entered the room, the assistant was still there, keeping an eye on her. The doctor said to me again…as if I didn’t hear him the first time, “We would have been done a long time ago if she’d kept her mouth open!”  Deep breath. I looked at the assistant, and let it go again. I asked Ruth how she was feeling, but she just kind of grunted. In front of Ruth was a computer screen on a swing arm, with a picture of her gum where he’d stitched this new graft. “This is what we did, “ he began, pointing to the picture and explaining how he’d harvested  the tissue graft from her palate, and then stitched it to this area of gum where she didn’t have enough bone or soft tissue to fully support the root of this tooth. Since he hadn’t elicited any response from me the first two times he said it, (presumably) he said once again, “It took longer because she couldn’t keep her mouth open.”

OK…he wants a response of some sort from me, obviously, so I simply said,  “Yeah, I guess that’s not easy when you have a sedative on board.” That was obviously the response he was looking for.

“That’s why we don’t want people taking those drugs before they come in. It’s hard to work on them in that state.”

I unclenched my tongue from between my teeth and replied, “I’m sure she’s not the first patient who’s been nervous about surgery and needed medication.” I said it calmly, but firmly, looking him straight in the eye, and I think he got the message that I wasn’t going to discuss it further. He went on then to explain what he’d done, what to expect, and to ask me if I had any questions. I said I didn’t, when what I really WANTED to say was, ‘Yes, what makes you such an uncaring, uncompassionate asshole?” I really didn’t want to have a big confrontation since she’s still got to return to this guy to both have stitches removed, and supposedly to have another such surgery done.  He left the room, and the assistant completed the post-op instructions with me. We were going to need to stop by the pharmacy for two more meds…one antibiotic, and one steroid dosepack.  We managed to get Ruth up out of the chair, into the waiting room, and sat her in a chair so I could pay the bill, get her coat on her, and gather up all our stuff to leave. My friend asked if I’d like for her to call in the prescription so it would be ready when we got to the pharmacy, and of course, I said please and thank you! She did that as I was leading Ruth out the door and to the car. Still very unsteady on her feet and with very slurred speech, she was probably not going to remember any of this later!

Part Two: The Pharmacy

The pharmacy is about 20 minutes away, but on our way home. With Ruth still very incoherent, I wanted to stop and get her meds and then get her home and into bed to sleep it off. I pulled into the drive-thru at the pharmacy. I waited a minute or two, and since no one had appeared at the window, I pushed the call button. Soon, a young lady appeared at the window. She was just kind of looking at me, but didn’t really say anything, unless the mic hadn’t worked, or I just didn’t hear her. But I just told her I was picking up a prescription, and gave her the name, and told her the doctor’s office had just called it in a while ago. She disappeared for a few minutes, then passed the window again, on her way to the other side of the area. Then she came back to the window and said, “What’s her date of birth?” I gave it to her, and off she went again. In a few minutes, she came back to the window and said, “We don’t have anything for her.”

“I heard her calling it in,” I replied. “She was doing it when we left the office.”

“It’s not here.” she said. “They must not have gotten it here yet.”

So I asked, “How does that happen? I heard her calling it in about 20 minutes ago. We were in the office, and I heard her.”

Shrugging, she just said, “I don’t know, but we don’t have anything for her.” Not once, I might add, was the word ‘sorry’ used by this person. Just about this time, someone called from behind this girl, and she, in turn says to me, “It’s here now. We just got it.” So, magically, the prescription request has now appeared.

“OK,” I asked, “how long will it take to get it filled?” Motioning toward my gorked-out wife, I said, “She’s been sedated, you see, so I can’t just drop her off at home and come back, or whatever.”

She says to me, “If you park and come in the store, it will take about fifteen to twenty minutes. If you drive away, it will be an hour or more.” I was flummoxed.

“What?? How does that make sense?? I just told you, I have my wife here who is sedated, and can’t really be left alone…either in my car for 20 minutes, or at home, while I drive back down here. Do you understand what I’m working with?” I was really getting testy by now.

The young lady just said to me, “I’m just telling you how we do it.”

“I’m just telling you that kind of treatment isn’t right!” I said. “That’s just ridiculous! No one cares about customers or people anymore!” She continued to just look at me.

So, with no recourse, other than to act like a total ass myself, I just told her I’d have to figure something out and come back later.  Off I drove, wondering what makes people behave that way; wondering whether I’d be able to get back later and leave Ruth alone; wondering if I should have asked for a manager; wondering if they would like being treated that way if they were the customers; wondering if I should just let it go. Wondering.

After I got Ruth to bed, ice pack on her face, and the car unloaded, I fixed myself a little lunch and waited for about an hour-and-a-half. I checked on her again, and since she seemed to be sleeping soundly, I quickly jumped into the car and headed back to the pharmacy to get the medications. I convinced myself on the way to let it go, not make a scene, unless something else happened. It was more important to get the stuff and get back home before Ruth tried to get up or something.  I was a good boy, even though this same young lady waited on me this time. The meds were there, ready to be picked up, and I just continued to breath deeply and curb my tongue. Besides, she was working fast, I presume to get me out of there quickly and without another incident.

I smiled all over myself when I got home and began to empty the bag from the pharmacy, and I found the receipt that had that ‘Tell us about your service” text at the bottom. HMMMM….online survey, I thought! Why, yes. Yes! I believe I will!

The Death of Discretion

On my way home from work the other day, I decided to stop at the grocery store to pick up a few salad toppers for dinner. Traffic had been nightmarish, so I was happy to finally be off the interstate, and comfortably back in the small town where I live in northwest Virginia.

As I pulled into the parking space at the Food Lion strip center, I was suddenly accosted by that horrible thump, thump, thumping of someone’s overblown car stereo…you know…the kind of loud obnoxious noise that at once makes your chest feel as though someone’s beating on it, and makes you not even want to get out of the car!

I looked to my left and realized the din was coming from the car just next to me. Sitting in the passenger side of the car, in both the front and back seats, were two boys, dirty faces, approximately aged 8 to 10, who appeared to be brothers. Both of them were staring directly at me, mouths open, tongues almost protruding, as if they both suffered from swollen adenoids. One had fairly thick glasses. No one else was in the car with them.

I reached for my reusable shopping bags and my wallet, turned to exit my car, and these boys were still staring at me, sort of transfixed. I’m not sure they blinked! It was a little creepy! I reluctantly opened my door and got out, and I walked quickly, so as to get away from both the mouth-breathers’ stare and this horrible noise that was emanating from their car.

I obviously didn’t walk fast enough, because as I rounded the back of their car, the little rap ditty that they were blasting assaulted me once again…this time with language. Before I could walk out of earshot, and that means, basically, inside the store, I heard the words “f__K”, “motherf__ing”, “sh_t”, and “whore” all neatly fitted into the so-called lyrics in my short, but very brisk walk! Mind you, I’ve got a fairly pronounced hearing loss in one ear, so if I could hear it, I figure nearly everyone on the parking lot was hostage to the same pollution. 

I will say, for the record, that I don’t consider myself a prude. In fact, (completely guilty!) I have uttered quite a few ‘bad’ words in my life, and I’m not proud to say that I still do, almost daily. But I TRY to have discretion and to be considerate of others who may not necessarily want to hear those kinds of words. I have tried really hard to teach my children the same thing.

I fought with myself for some time about whether to go back to the car and give those boys a good talking-to. I have been known to yell at people at gas stations, etc. to turn the volume down when the stuff that was coming from their vehicles was so heinous. I have confronted players, coaches, and parents at sports events when their language was what I consider socially unacceptable. I have pulled a few kids aside in my adult life and shared with them the advice, “Hey, if you want to talk like that to your friends, fine, but not out loud, and not in a public place where everyone can hear you!” I called down a couple of thuggy kids in a department store at the mall one evening, and was subsequently threatened by one of them, about age 16 or so. One of the clerks heard what was going on and called mall security, so, luckily, they all took off. 

But in some cases, I just worry that my stepping in could be a mistake. Here were these two young kids sitting in a car, unsupervised, and I just felt like it would not be in MY best interest to approach their car as an adult male. I’m not proud of that decision, but I stand behind it.

Of course, my conscience and I wrestled all through my shopping. I even forgot a couple of things I needed because I was so preoccupied with this situation, and with thinking about these two kids, and what their lives might be like. I wondered if they have parents. I wondered if there were any positive role models in their lives. I wondered if whoever brought them here would maybe have been appalled if he/she/they walked out of the store and heard what I heard. I wondered if that/those person or persons would have appreciated my fussing at the kids and making them turn down the radio. I wondered if the kids would just have mouthed off at me, or even turned town the radio until I got in the store and then turned it back up.

I was still having this internal struggle when I made my way to the checkout counter.  Still lost in thought I began to unload my basketful of goodies out on the moving belt. Suddenly, I was shaken out of my stupor when I heard a very loud woman’s voice saying, “Yeah, the son-of-a-b__ch called me the other night and said he wanted my d__n car and my rings! I told him he could just forget that s__t!!” OH MY GOSH! She was about three checkouts away! She went on to tell the clerk who was checking her out that ‘he,’ the person of whom she spoke, was the reason she’d been ”in therapy for months and months!” It was then that it hit me. She looked just like those two boys in the car…or rather, they looked just like her! This had to be their mother!

At first, I almost laughed out loud, and then I realized how very sad it was that this was their role model.

This is the woman who will be in charge of raising these two boys, responsible for teaching them, protecting them, showing them right from wrong. This woman who was sharing a huge portion of her life story with the clerk and everyone else within 50 or 60 yards, and with such ‘colorful’ language, was about to gather up her Spaghetti-Os and her Count Chocula, and her children, and head home to who-knows-what, and

Groceries in hand, I moved past her and headed for the door. She was still filling in the clerk about her impending divorce and all the problems it was causing her. I looked at the clerk, who momentarily stared back at me with a kind of ‘help me’ look in her eyes. I kept moving. Now, I was on a mission…to get into my car and out of that parking lot without 1) hearing anymore of that music than was absolutely unavoidable and, 2) making eye contact with the ‘children of the corn.’

There was a lot of traffic out on Rt. 11, so when I got to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, there were several cars in front of me waiting to turn left also. It gave me just enough time to say a little prayer…a prayer that included thanks for parents who were pretty decent, and who raised us to be pretty decent; parents who taught us about discretion, and about shame; parents who instilled in us the concepts of appropriateness, and of consequences. And I prayed for that mother. I prayed that she will somehow come to some understanding of her responsibility to those children, and to society; that she will do her very best to give them the tools they need to become fine young adults; that she will help them understand how to absorb the good influences in life, and shun the bad; that she can teach them what’s right…and what’s wrong, and how to tell the difference. And I prayed for those children: that even if they don’t get the guidance, the influence, and the tools they will so desperately need from their mother, that those things come to them from another source, and that they recognize the value of those things, and use them to become healthy and successful adults.

I said, “Amen,” as I pulled out into traffic on 11, headed into town. Just then, a car, which was in the left turn lane WITH its left turn signal on, pulled RIGHT, into my lane, without any warning! I had to slam on the brakes to keep from rear-ending it! In the safety of my little ‘bubble,’ inside of my car, I said loudly, to no one in particular, “WOW! What a dumb_ss!”