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I know I have harped in the past about grocery store etiquette. And lest you think that will stop me from doing it again…

I was at the store recently and I was standing in line with a few items at the self check-out line recently. And before you say, “But self check-out lines take jobs away from people!” let me remind you that stores aren’t in the business of providing jobs. I know that sounds counter-intuitive. But they aren’t. They are in the business of making a profit. And they are only going to hire the minimum number of people they need to maximize that profit. It doesn’t matter whether you or I like it. But it’s the rules of the game we play. They’ve realized they can outsource that job to the shoppers, and we will happily do it out of convenience.

That said, I do think anyone using the self check-out should have to first be certified as a qualified self-checker. And I know what you are thinking. What, Mike, are you the only one qualified to determine who can and can’t use the self check-out? And to that I say, sure. I’ll do it. Hire me. I’ll design the test and set the guidelines. I appreciate your faith in me.

The line at this particular store was moving along at its usual pace. As I was the next up, I noticed that the line had started to grow, as the four shoppers at the available check-outs were moving awfully slow. Three had very full carts, which pre-pandemic would have bothered me a lot more, but these days I get why you might want to be the only one touching your groceries. No biggee. I can evolve.

But the fourth? She would have had her permit canceled immediately under my rules.She was letting her child, who was maybe five, scan all the items. Now, you may think, Mike, why would you be such a grinch about a child helping checking out? And to that I say, wow, aren’t you judgy? I had no problem with that. When my kids were little they loved helping me scan out items. So I am all for that, and I await your apology. No, my problem was that she was on a phone call and was bagging one-handed. And bagging very slowly. 

And because she was exceptionally loud, I could hear her side of the conversation, and I could hear that she was not exactly giving instructions to someone who was conducting an emergency surgery. 

At one point, she stopped bagging entirely to engage on what was apparently a very important part of the phone call, one which could not possibly have had the knee-slapping laughs done post check-out.

The kid kept scanning items, but eventually ran out of places to put things. After a solid minute of her being on her phone call – as the line behind me both grew and grew restless – her child tugged at her shirt. “Mommy, I don’t have a place to put things…”

Begrudgingly, she resumed her one-handed bagging. After a couple more minutes, the gentleman next to her finished up with his large cart order as expeditiously as he could, paid for his order, grabbed his receipt and moved on. I took that slot, scanned my milk and potato chips, paid and moved on.

I walked past the woman who had been on the phone and saw her digging through her purse looking for her bank card, all the while still on the phone, as if she was surprised at the fact that pulling out a bank car would be part of this transaction.

Now I know you think I sound like an old crank here, but I assure you I offer this column as simply a general suggestion to everyone to maybe take a moment and think about how your actions might affect those around you. And maybe a little consideration for your fellow shopper can be a good thing that can send ripple effects of kindness through the world. Heck, it may even be enough to inspire someone to return their shopping cart to the corral.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

On October 1, I went to a nearby home improvement store. I was going there to find new lights for a new fan we had installed. The lights that came with were a smidge too bright, and so we figured we could get a lower wattage rather than get a sunburn every time we turned on our den light.

It was during this trip I had two very different revelations. First, I had the revelation that I have every time I go to buy light bulbs, in which I channel someone much, much older than I feel and begin complaining about how there are too many light bulb choices, and that it is too hard to tell how bright some of them are.

Why, I remember a simpler time when you got a tiny appliance bulb for the fridge, a 40, 60 or 75 watt white bulb for most of the lights, and a couple of gigantor lights to go in the flood lights outside. Now I don’t know if that time actually did exist, but in my mind it was a very simple and easy time, one when we all carried briefcases and men wore fancy hats and it may have actually been in black and white.

Now, there are aisles of bulbs. There are smart bulbs, which you can change the color of with a voice command. There are bulbs with funky attachment thingees that deviate far from the plain ol’ screw in type that gave us light AND the old “How many X does it take to screw in a light bulb” joke template.

And there are way more ways of measuring the brightness, and I really don’t get a lot of them. The old 40, 60 and 75 watt seemed plenty for me. It was the small, medium and large of light output. 

Eventually, I did what I usually do. I found someone who works there, handed them my current bulb, and said, “Do you have this but in … dimmer?”

In short order I had the dimmer light, which then brings me to my second revelation. As I entered this particular store – remember it was Oct. 1 – I was greeted with a big ol’ winter wonderland. Christmas trees fully lit. Snowmen. A big red mailbox for letters to Santa. A towering polar bear wearing a festive red scarf. Christmas season has kicked off in retail land.

And my revelation – it didn’t bother me. I used to be a purist about the holidays. I love me some Christmas, but I used to be a firm believer that Christmas stuff stays on hold until the day after Thanksgiving. And while I am kinda in that camp loosely for myself, last year was my first time I broke the rule. Not sure if you remember, but 2020 was kind of a long year. So I put up my Christmas lights about a week before Thanksgiving. And it brought me joy. So if others find happiness in it, I say you go be you. 

Personally, I am in Halloween mode for this month. My wife put out our decorations the other day and I love seeing them around the house. And although our kids are now grown, I loved seeing neighborhood kids trick or treating and giving them candy. I also will be putting out my outdoor light that shines on the house with rotating Halloween images that are quite simply just fun.

And when November rolls around, I will up the Halloween decorations, and maybe dip a casual toe in some Christmas here and there. I won’t go all in until Thanksgiving, but I’m also not going not going to begrudge anyone else who does. And if retail outlets find that putting out Christmas stuff early gets ‘em moving off the shelves, hey isn’t that what their whole deal is all about for stores?

I’m just not going to let early Christmas stuff being out be something that bothers me. I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like how to tell how bright a light bulb is. 

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

In 1998, my wife and I took a cruise for our honeymoon. As we were getting ready for dinner one night, I was flipping through our very limited television selections available to us. I am not sure of what the dynamics were of 1998 cruise ship television reception, but I do recall it was very limited and very spotty. On this particular night, one of the few stations available to us was a San Diego NBC affiliate. Unsure of the time it was (we were on cruise time, and although we knew dinner was approaching, the greater acceptance of time is an abstract concept on a cruise), we noticed that a new episode of Seinfled was about to air.

Back home, we often watched Thursday night TV with our friends, watching Friends, the underappreciated Just Shoot Me, Seinfeld, and whatever forgettable show such as Veronica’s Closet that filled out that two-hour block.

We decided we would go ahead and watch Seinfeld before dinner, a bit of a tribute to our crew back home. Turns out, we were the only ones of the crew watching. When we got home a week later, we found out a storm had knocked power out of most of the area, and none of our friends saw the show. And this being pre-internet, there was no way to see it until it came out on VHS many months later. (Kids, ask your parents what this VHS thing is.)

Obviously, things have changed now with how we consume television. But one thing has started to creep back in, and my wife and I have both decided we absolutely love it. We love the weekly drop of a show that many are doing now. I first got experience with it with the Marvel and Star Wars universes, universes my wife is perfectly fine with existing, but has no interest in being a part of.

But when The Mandalorian, Loki, Wandavision and Captain America and the Winter Soldier rolled out, it was pretty amazing to have to wait until Friday to see the next episode. My kids expressed frustration at first, but then started to get on board with the excitement of the build up and the anticipation. We would talk about the show the week prior and give our guesses at what would happen, and then love trading texts and phone calls when the new episode finally dropped.

Lest you think we are purists, my wife and I have both binge watched shows. And we greedily consumed them all at once, sidling up to the trough and just gulping down episodes of Peaky Binders or Marvelous Miss Maisel or the first season of Bosch. 

But we all kept coming back to the fact that there is something about waiting, about consuming at the same time (essentially), and not having to avoid social media for a week to avoid spoilers.

Currently, we have two shows that we are loving watching as they release episodes weekly. We are fully on board with Ted Lasso, like everyone else on the planet, and can’t wait until every Friday to see a new one. Our second go-to show is Only Murders in the Building, starring Martin Short, Steve Martin and Selena Gomez, and that checks our Tuesday night viewing schedule off perfectly.

(Confession time: We also have a Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday weekly show we watch, but it’s our guilty pleasure Big Brother, which will soon end, and we will replace it with Survivor. We’re not proud of it. Don’t judge us.)

It’s nice to have a few regularly scheduled retreats on each night we can spend together doing what we enjoy – kicking back and enjoying some escapism together. Also, important to note, this is about all of the television we watch. We also do other things that involve things such as the outdoors and other people.

So my point (I think there’s one!?!?!) is that I am glad the pendulum is swinging back to shows not releasing all the episodes at once, and instead bringing us along for the season-long ride. And what technology has done is ensure that a single thunderstorm doesn’t completely eliminate your chance to watch at all. And if that’s not a crowning achievement of technology after 23 years, I don’t know what is.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

I think it’s safe to say my daughter’s 21st birthday was magical.

People celebrate 21st birthdays in myriad ways. Often, that involves heading out to adult establishments and embracing their newfound 21-year-oldness. And a hangover the next day.

My daughter, however, has for years said she wanted to do her 21st birthday at Disney, with us.

We are fortunate that we have been able to go to Disney quite a few times over my kids’ lives. We used to take vacations down there, with cousins and grandparents and such, and it became a staple of their childhood.

And it has been her most magical place on the planet. We were thankful that our daughter (a) wanted to celebrate her birthday there and (b) wanted to celebrate it with us. So we were happy to oblige. (Side note: Disney is kinda the favorite place of my wife and me, so the obligation was a pretty easy sell.)

We arrived at Disney a day prior to her birthday. This gave us some time to game up for the big 2-1 day we would celebrate. We went to Downtown Springs for dinner. Disney Springs is an outdoor shopping and dining area that has some really cool stuff to see. We milled about at the stores down there, mainly window shopping. Side note – there is a Levi’s store in Disney Springs. I am not sure why you would go to Disney and say, “You know what I need? Some new Levi’s.” But what do I know?

On her birthday, we got up bright and early – and I mean, really, early, and sorta bright – for the day she had carved out for her 21st. Our plans: Hit Epcot. Start the day with the Frozen ride. Go to the Mexico Pavilion for margaritas so she could get carded for the first time. Ride Soarin’. And Test Track. And on and on and on.

I learned this during this trip: Disney parks don’t actually open when they say they open. We arrived at the parks each day about 45 minutes before the park officially opened. Thanks to my daughter’s keen planning and intel, we were near the front of the entrance when they started letting people in before opening time. We targeted the rides we wanted to make sure we did, and we beelined it to those first, usually walking right on before the lines got above an hour.

We were at Epcot plenty early, and probably 15 people deep in a big line of folks. By the time they let us in, there were WAY more people behind us. Off to Frozen.

We pretty much walked on the Frozen ride, and it’s hard to convey what a special feeling it is to see your 21-year-old daughter become a kid again, beaming from ear to ear at every step. When we left Frozen, we followed the agenda and headed to Mexico. We walked into the tequila bar, and ordered our drinks. The bartender asked for my daughter’s ID. When he looked at it, he looked back at her, handed it back, and announced to the entire bar that it was her 21st birthday. The rather crowded bar cheered and toasted her, which, yeah, was kinda fun.

Over the course of our visit, we hit all the parks – Epcot, Animal Kingdom, Hollywood Studios and, of course, Magic Kingdom. We walked more than 50 miles. We braved a few rainstorms, as is the Orlando summer way. We rode every ride we could have wanted to, some twice. But most of all, we had a great time as a family.

When we went to the parks when the kids were younger, it was a lot tougher. We had to deal with kids in strollers. With naptimes. With hungry kids needing snacks. 

It was kinda awesome going with my kids now that they are adults. Disney was always a magical place when they were little. But it’s pretty cool to realize that magic lives on. Happy birthday, Allie.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

A neighbor contacted me recently about some bees she had in her yard. They had taken up in a bird box right outside of her back door. When she took her dog out in the mornings, the dog, a delightfully adorable pup named Scarlet, would try and catch the bees. The bees would also harass my neighbor, as if she was invading their home. My neighbor has lived here longer than I have, which is pushing eight years. And Google tells me bees live about a month, so safe to say she was there first.

My son and I came over to check out the situation and see how we could help. She had already determined they were not honeybees, so there was not a lot of interest from beekeepers in relocating, which is understandable. My dad took up beekeeping a few years ago, and I can fairly safely assure you that if I showed up with a hive of bumble bees and said, “You want these?” he would say, “You know I have honey bees, right?”

 The bees were coming and going from the hole of a wooden bird box mounted on a post. We assessed the situation, and decided this was an easy solution.

1. I would plug a funnel we have at the house, and jam it in the hole.
2. Parker would lift the bird house off of the post. 
3. We would walk the bees to some nearby woods and set the box on the ground. 
4. I would remove the funnel. 
5. We would run. Fast.

Step one went off perfect. I jammed the funnel in the hole. The bees inside got loud and angry, which was to be suspected. On to step 2. As my son approached the bird bos, he said, “DAD! There’s a hole on the back, too!”

The very angry bees began streaming out of the birdhouse. My neighbor wisely retreated inside her screened-in porch. Parker and I fast forwarded to step five. We ran. Fast. In retrospect, we probably should have followed her lead and gone into the porch. But we were trying to stick to the plan.

We decided we needed to come back at night after the bees had chilled out a bit. Slight problem: My wingman had plans to go out into the woods with some friends and look for critters. No problem, I told him. “Just leave me your snorkel mask.” 

My son had just returned from a snorkeling trip, and had a new mask and snorkel. I figured I could cobble together a secure outfit, and cover my face as well. Ideally, I would have gotten one of my dad’s beekeeping suits, but that was 2.5 hours away, so not really a huge help.

I geared up. In the middle of a South Carolina summer setting record heat indices, I donned blue jeans, thick socks, boots, a sweatshirt, a floppy hat, and, as the cherry on top, a mask. The snorkel was also still attached, because I could not get it out of the plastic connector. I opted not to use the snorkel, as the last thing I needed was an angry bee taking a direct tube into my mouth.

I decided the best bet would be to get a big trash bag, sneak up on them, and throw the bag over the bird box. I could then lift the bird box off the post and relocate them to the woods. Then I could fast forward to step 5, and run. Fast.

It all went to plan. I covered the box and lifted it off the post, clasping it tightly to keep the bees contained. As I walked down the street to the nearby woods, a big black trash bag buzzing with anger, I thought to myself, I really hope no neighbors see me. And I REALLY hope no potential neighbors are making an evening drive through the neighborhood to see what it looks like at night. Because I can assure you it is not usually a guy dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and snorkel gear while also carrying a bag of buzzing, angry bees.

I was able to set the bird box down and get it free of the bag (and run, of course). I came back the next day, and they had abandoned the box, hopefully to find a new home, albeit one away from folks’ homes.

I’m glad I was able to get them out of her yard so that she and Scarlet can enjoy it again. And I am hopeful these bees go off and do their bee things elsewhere and live long and prosperous bee lives. Even if it is only for a month.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

I think it’s time to admit that we are collectively in denial. I don’t want to shame anyone here, but the bottom line is we have to be honest with ourselves about our sizes. We are simply not as small as we think we are.

I am talking, of course, about vehicles, and the need for the owners of said vehicles to park in spots in parking garages marked for compact cars, which they certainly are not driving.

I made this recent observation when my wife and I went out. We were heading into a parking garage, and I did the most sensible thing, which was to stop and let her off at the ticket booth before entering. To anyone on the outside, it probably looked like we were having a fight and she was done with me. In actuality, my wife gets exceptionally car sick, in particular when going in circles in a parking garage, and I was actually doing her a big favor. 

She knew full well that I was going to be driving to most likely the top floor of the garage to park my car. I drive to the top because I drive what is somewhere in the range of a compact and a full-sized sedan. But I also know that the first few floors of the garage will not have any spaces anymore, for a couple of reasons.

The first is that, duh, they fill up first. And we were there at 2:30 in the afternoon. The second is that people often park their cars in spots that are too small, often designated by signs that say “Compact cars only.”

Side note: In writing this column, I learned that the classification for a compact car is one that has between 100 and 109 cubic feet of combined passenger and cargo volume. That means absolutely nothing to me, so I checked out width and length. Turns out that according to government standards, the maximum width is 70.5 inches, and the maximum length is 175.3 inches. Now I don’t know about you, but I have no clue the length and width of my car, much less the cubic feet of volume. Turns out I am over in two of the three.

But even if my car is on the line, it’s pretty clear that my car will have to snug up pretty tight to my car neighbors to park in those spots. So up to the top I head, where I can find a nice, easy spot to pull into. Maybe I’ll take a moment to enjoy the view, and then celebrate getting some steps in on my descent down. (Elevator back up, though. I’m not crazy.)

But, hoo boy, do some folks simply not care that their cars are not designed to fit in those spaces. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say cars. My car could probably fit in plenty of them, were they open. I’m talking about vans, SUVs and trucks. 

They are most certainly not within the government guidelines. And I get that some folks might say that they don’t need guidelines to tell them where they can park their vehicle. And I would agree with you most times. Except…

If you walk through any parking garage, you will see a lot of people who not only deny the direction of the guidelines, they straight up deny the geometry of what they are dealing with.

The vehicles simply don’t fit in the spots. Folks just pull on in, completely cool with the fact that they have essentially taken up two – and sometimes with even bigger vehicles, three – spots to park their ride.

I really don’t want to chalk this up to people being selfish and awful, so I consider today’s column a gentle friendly reminder to perhaps check and see when you see a spot that says “Compact cars only.” It’s not a challenge. And it’s not a disrespect to you. It just means the spot is a little smaller than your big, fine ride is suited for. Come on up to the top with me. You’ll get your steps in. And the view is great.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

To me, a freshly cleaned car is a great feeling. I spent a lot of time in my car, and I love having a nicely tidied up ride. That said, I often tromp out in the woods or go to the beach and I tend to not exactly stay on the beaten bath, so my car often gets a little of nature coming with it.

Every so often, I run my car up to the car wash to give it a nice bath and then a good cleaning on the inside to purge the dirt and sand, and bag up the things I need to bring in to the house to find homes for, which often includes bones and such, because, well, my son finds a lot of those.

On my recent trip to the wash, I ran my car through, and then pulled in to vacuum it. Side note – the emergence of the car wash with vacuum at the end is one of mankind’s greatest accomplishments. Also, the removal of the spray cleaners and wipe cloths because someone kept stealing them is one of mankind’s greatest indictments.

I finished vacuuming my car (but not wiping it down, because thanks, people!). I went to start it and my car did something really weird. The dash lit up and started clicking with every single light it seemed to have. The one thing it did not do is start. I noticed one blinking light I had never seen – a blinking green key light.

I did what any mechanic of my stature would do, and Googled “Honda blinking green key light.” I quickly learned that the car no longer recognized my key fob. I clicked on the first video that was going to tell me what to do. This video was WAY longer than it needed to be, as the first four minutes of the six minute video were a guy telling me that he had the same problem and he was going to tell me how to fix it. And then telling me that watching the video would tell me how to fix it. And then reminding me that at the end I would know how to fix it. I fast forwarded a bit here and there and got to the end of the video. His solution? Put the key in the ignition, turn it and hold for five seconds, and the key fob would reset itself. 

Slight problem. I don’t have a key ignition slot thingee. I have just a fob, and my car starts when I push a button. Except, you know, this time.

I Googled a few more things, as any master mechanic like me would do. One suggestion I found was that my key fob battery might have died. That’s as plausible as anything else, I suppose. I called my son and asked him to bring my spare fob up to the car wash. About 10 minutes later, new fob in hand, same result.

I called my Honda dealership, as I had just spoken to them about an hour prior to set up a regular service appointment a few days from now. Fortunately, I got the same person on the phone I had gotten an hour earlier. “Hey, I just talked to you a bit ago about an appointment Wednesday morning. Wondering if you might be able to help me a little sooner…” She remembered me (I’m unforgettable), and transferred me to a service tech. I told him what was going on. He told me the worst case was I was going to have to get my car towed in. But he said probably my battery was just shot. “Have you tried jump starting it?” Being the expert mechanic I am, I said, “Um, no. Should I?” He said, “Yeah, I’d try that first.”

I hooked my jumper cables up to my son’s car, and, first try, it started. Whew.

There was an auto parts store right next door, so I drove my car over there, and they confirmed that, in fact, my battery was pretty darn dead. Twenty minutes later, I had a new battery, and all my fobs were magically working again. Way better deal than a tow to the dealership.

I’m happy it ended fairly easily, and I’m also glad my car is now a nice clean ride to scoot around in. Just wish I’d been able to wipe it down inside.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Two things happened this week that really made me feel my age, and surprisingly neither involved my back hurting.

That’s because my back always hurts now, so I can’t really count this as a new thing. It’s just a thing that happens when you start to close in on 50. It’s just part of the deal, like worrying about how my lawn looks and wondering if I should get my cholesterol checked.

No, I am referring to, as you probably guess, cryptocurrency and Roomba replacement parts.

What, that wasn’t your guess?

So first on cryptocurrency. I have to admit that I simply do not understand it, and I am OK with that. I have a neighbor who is much younger than me and is a computer programmer. He has tried his best to explain it to me, but I think it’s akin to if I were to try to explain trigonometry to my dog. No matter how much Maddux the Stoic wants to know about cosine, he’s just never going to get it.

And don’t get wrong. I’m not one of these Luddites who resists change as it sweeps upon us. I’m not sitting in my horse buggy refusing to drive a car. I’ve just decided that this thing is either going to happen or not, and if it does, it will sweep me up and I will be assimilated accordingly. It was the same thing with smartphones. I was never for or against them when the talk about iPhones came out. I just decided that when it was something I had no choice but to part of, I’d shrug and just get on board.

But I can’t wrap my head around the whole bitcoin thing. Plus, once new wave things such as this start to become a mainstream media story, I figure there is no point in my trying to get in on the game as an early win. The early win was long gone by the time I learned about it. It was similar to the GameStop craziness that happened a while back. If you are getting in on the action because you learned about it from Lester Holt on NBC Nightly News, you’re too late to the game.

And that brings us to my ridiculous excitement over receiving replacement Roomba parts. Our Roomba, named Sallie, needed a few brush replacements. Sallie had been shelved for a few weeks because she needed these parts to be her best Roomba self. (Apparently, stray fishing line on the living room floor does a number on a Roomba’s hardware.)

When the package arrived, I opened it while I was the only human in the house. I saw the replacement brushes and said, out loud,, “YAY! THE BRUSHES ARE HERE! MADDUX!!!! SALLIE!!!!!”

I am confident Maddux and Sallie were both as excited as I was.  

In installed the new brush, and set Sallie off to do her thing in the kitchen. I am pleased to report that she cleaned like a champ, and, I am pretty sure, even gave me a little wink and nod as she was cruising the floor with her new brushes.

So that’s where I am in life. Confused by technology, and excited about a replacement part for a cleaning device. I am sure 20-year-old me would have shaken his head at who I have become. But I’m OK with it. I’m just going to go with it. I will celebrate my new Roomba parts. And I will let the younger, smarter folks figure out cryptocurrency. Who knows. Maybe one day, I will be fully assimilated, and buy my next Roomba replacement parts with some bitcoin.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

I am not normally one to suffer kitchen injuries.

Now, for those of you are not regular cooks, you may be asking yourself, “And what exactly is a kitchen injury?” Well, just google “Avocado injury” and you will see that the kitchen is a minefield that has to be navigated carefully.

I am a big fan of avocados, and I have never suffered the avocado injury that many have. Thus, clearly I am a pro.

The main kitchen injury I have endured over the years is when I am doing a skillet dish in which you sear your meat of choice on the stovetop, and then bake it in the oven. After about 20 minutes, you bring the skillet out of the oven. And I have on occasion, after having brought the skillet from the oven, grabbed the still-hot skillet by the handle. Fun fact – When you pull a metal skillet out of a 400-degree oven, the handle stays kinda hot for a while.

But for the most part I have remained unscathed. Until the other night. I was preparing some squash, zucchini and radishes for pickling, as my wife and I have gotten into pickling most anything we can find and keeping them in jars in the fridge for tasty snacks.

When we first started pickling things, we did some onions and cucumbers. After the first batch, we decided that we had cut the cucumbers too thick. Easy solution to that, we thought: We’ll use our mandolin slicer and get some super thin pieces that would be just delectable treats.

So I sliced up the latest batch of veggies and put them in their pickling jars. Success! Only thing now was for clean up. 

Now I normally take on clean-up in the kitchen, as that’s kind of my zen time. Put on a movie, put on some music, put on some game show I like and just kinda robotically clean. 

We were getting ready to head to a neighbors’ house for a cookout, and I told my wife to head on over to their house, and I would clean everything up and be there shortly.

She was just about out the door when I called out to her, “Hey, Jenn, can you come back? I think I cut my finger off…”

If there is one thing I know about my wife, she is Usain Bolt-fast when it comes to things such as this. In no time, she was in the kitchen. She said, “How bad is it!?!?!?”  I assured her that I had not, in fact, cut my finger off, but that I had dropped the mandolin while I was cleaning it and it had fallen and taken off some of my pinky. She asked me how much. I held up a paper towel wrapped hand. I said, “I’m not sure but…” She looked around at the spray of blood that was all around the kitchen and said, “Lemme see it. You may need stitches.”

At this point, we were at an inflection point. Yes, I may have cut the end of my finger off. But we were also heading over to a cookout in which a neighbor was cooking fresh fish that was caught earlier in the day. Decisions had to be made. “Never mind,” I said. “I’m fine.” I do love fresh fish.

But she was having none of it. She made me take the paper towels off. It … wasn’t pretty. She said, “You need to go to the doctor.” I said, “Fish.” Not the best rebuttal.

I assured her that the wound, while gross and really bleeding, was one that a repair would merely be cosmetic. I’d be fine. She went into nurse mode and bandaged me up with dressing that a field medic would have been proud of. The next day, we assessed the damage. It’s not pretty, but it seems to be healing fine now. Yeah, I probably could have gone for a few stitches. But I would have missed the fresh fish. 

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

I’ve often seen people post things on social media when their child reaches a milestone, and they state that they can’t believe it’s happened. And while I understand that it can be surreal to see your kid get a driver’s license or graduate high school and head off to college, my wife and I have always taken a bit of a different approach.

This milestone was the best option we could arrive at, hands down.

I get that parents lament the passing of their children’s youth. But we have always maintained two pretty steady beliefs when it comes to parenting: (1) We are trying to prepare our kids for the next step in life and (2) Time only goes one way.

So when our kids reach milestones, rather than lament the passing of time, I look at it more like, “Hooray! I helped get a human across the finish line of a particular life goal!”

And such is my feeling with our daughter, Allie, graduating from college. On Saturday, she walked the stage in Columbia and turned the tassel, becoming an official graduate of the University of South Carolina.

I’ve been to Williams-Brice Stadium a few times over the years, but I have to say this is the first time I have been and not enjoyed a few beers and some wings prior to entering the stadium. Her ceremony was at 9:30 a.m., so that probably would have been a bad idea for myriad reasons.

When her name was announced and she crossed the stage, we had an immense sense of pride and happiness. But not a moment of sadness.

I do not look at this like, “Where has the time gone!?!?!” But rather, “Wow, another finish line crossed. We are CRUSHING this parenting thing! Or at least staying enough out of their way where they can succeed on their own.”

But she is the one who deserves all the credit. Obviously. I didn’t attend any of her classes. I didn’t endure a year of remote learning thanks to a pandemic. The main impact I had on her in college was to suggest that, during parents’ weekend – which happened to be the Bama-USC game – she NOT wear a Bama shirt to the game, where she sat in the USC student section. She’s a Gamecock through and through, but it’s tough to take Bama out of your football spirit when you’re born into the family.

We are very proud of her, obviously. She graduated in three years, with a degree in psychology, and will be attending graduate school at The Citadel in the fall. She wants to be a school psychologist, which I think is about as noble of a calling as you can get. I have always told my kids that they should pursue what they love, and if they don’t find it right away, not to worry about it. It will present itself. I also told my kids – both lefties – that if either could muster up a 95 mph slider, I would highly recommend they pursue a love of a middle reliever’s contract in the majors. Alas, neither of my kids were blessed with lightning bolts for left arms. So school it is!

The next three years of grad school will be a fun and challenging time for her. I am glad she will be near us, so we can see her on a regular basis. And I feel certain that when she gets that graduate degree, she will go and find a job where she makes a difference in a lot of young people’s lives. It’s pretty clear that was what she was destined to do. That said, if her slider does develop in the next few years, I’m going to suggest she keep that option open.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.