Month: November 2017

Sweet little lies

Years ago, a co-worker was debating whether or not his new daughter would be introduced to Santa Claus.

His conundrum was whether or not he was lying to this child, and if that was a precedent he wanted to set. At that time, I already had two kids, and we were full on into the “Of course you lie to them” mode, so I explained that lying to your children was probably one of the few things that would get you through parenting relatively sane.

Now, I’m not talking about big, impactful, harmful lies. I am talking about lies of extreme convenience. Maybe, just maybe, all McDonald’s weren’t actually closed for the day. Maybe, just maybe, the store wasn’t actually out of candy. Or maybe, just maybe, failure to eat your vegetables will not, in fact, result in all ponies being eradicated from the earth. But they didn’t need to know any of that at the time, and we had to sidestep some issues.

But Santa is certainly in the harmless camp, and can even be justified as not technically a lie, but a little necessary misdirection. (Quick aside: I read a comment on the web a while back that, when the Santa mythology was being formed, we should have all gone with the narrative that Santa actually leaves all of the kids’ presents with the parents, but not until kids are asleep. That solves bedtime and when a kid wakes up and walks into the den as you are cursing the fact that you are starting to assemble an indoor play fort at 11:00 and have just realized the directions are only in Mandarin.)

During this discussion with the co-worker, another chimed in with this two-word response: “10 years.” When pressed for what exactly that meant, she explained that kids have 10 years of their life when they are aware enough of the world to actually understand it but also not have (hopefully) a care in the world. A 10-year block when your parents are perfect and the world is still magical. There is plenty of time later in life for soul-crushing reality. Give ‘em some Santa for that blissful decade.

My kids are beyond that decade. They now know the full realities of the world: McDonald’s are open but I’m not stopping because I would like to get to Atlanta before next Monday. The store had plenty of candy but I’m not your personal candy dealer. And eat your vegetables, don’t eat your vegetables. I don’t really care, but rest assured when you get hungry later you’re on your own.

But there is always a little bit of Santa magic left in everyone (I hope). Santa still delivers gifts in my house. Granted, the way the kids write their Christmas wish lists are a little different these days. My kids used to love getting a toy catalogue and circling everything they wanted, or going to the store and sharing with my wife and me the various things they REALLY hoped Santa would bring them.

Our son is 14, and really into fishing. His main way of sharing his Christmas list: Rattling off a long line of fishing equipment he wants, with names that I will never remember so I end up saying, “Yeah, can you text me those?”

Our daughter is 17, so her Christmas list is really simple. “Cash. And ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ on vinyl.”

All that said, come Christmas morning, Santa will have come to visit, and he will every year for the foreseeable future. By now, it’s a collective lie that we are all a part of of, and we are all OK with. Because sometimes these things aren’t so much lies, but rather the spirit that lets us grab back a little of that decade where everything was perfect.

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

Thanks, Thanksgiving

Dear Thanksgiving,

I just wanted to tell you that you are not forgotten.

I know you see when the Christmas decorations start appearing in stores around August.

And I know it makes you sad. But you don’t complain, because that’s the kind of holiday you are. Stoic to the end. That’s you, Thanksgiving.

Sure, you feel a little bit better when people lament such early appearances. Sure, you get a little solace when you see people posting on Facebook that they don’t want to hear “Deck the Halls” on the store radio when Halloween decorations are still out. But never a word from you, Thanksgiving. You are strong, T’Giv.

Let me tell you something, Thanksgiving. Despite the fact the stores’ halls have been decked with holly for months, you hold your head high. You know why? Because you matter, my friend.

You may not be a holiday with a lot of marketing oomph behind it. Even if we have been buying Christmas wreaths before we’ve even set our clocks back, you’re still on our minds. You, Thanksgiving, are a humble holiday. And we dig that.

I don’t care how many inflatable Christmas Snoopy dog houses are on sale before Veterans Day, we are still not bailing on you, Thanksgiving.

This past weekend, we were all planning for your big day. Some of us have started shopping. Some of us have thought really long and hard about planning to start shopping at some point. But you rest assured, noble holiday, we are thinking about you.

On Thursday, we will gather around tables with families and friends and celebrate your big day. We will feast until we are full, and then feast a little more. We will relish the background noise of NFL football (even if it’s almost always the Lions). And we will oh so love your gracious gift of a turkey sandwich the next day. You, Thanksgiving, are the holiday that keeps on giving.

For me personally, your day is a day of some of my most wonderful family memories. When I was a kid, we would have dozens of people at our house for your big day. Our home was always the place for anyone who needed a family for the day, and we always became a great big family on your day. Thanksgiving, you brought me some of the fondest memories of my childhood. I remember football in the front yard with tons of people, including one time when one of the players was an awesome giant sheep dog someone had brought to the celebration. I remember my dad’s annual tradition of calling out, “Who wants to carve the turkey?” to which we all respond in unison, “I don’t!” (I have no idea of the origins of that, but I am pretty sure a Gibbons Thanksgiving cannot legally commence until that has been done.) I remember watching my mom deftly add card tables and folding chairs to the sprawling, growing array of tables that she started with, happily accommodating surprise (and very welcome) guests to our home. The more the merrier. (See what I did there, Thanksgiving? I took merry and used it for YOU.)

Unfortunately, Thanksgiving, I won’t be able to go to my parents’ this year to celebrate you. But I know the rooms will be full of friends and family and fellowship, and that warms my heart. But as is your tradition, you continue to make sure that people are together on your big day. A neighbor has invited us to join them on Thursday, an opportunity we embrace.

So keep being you, Thanksgiving. You may not get the retail love of other holidays. But that’s OK. That’s not your style.

Uncategorized

My new focus

After a couple of recent incidents, I have retired from being the guy who tries to make other drivers be courteous.

I have done this for two reasons: (1) It doesn’t seem like it’s really making a difference and (2) my wife politely asked that I not get shot in traffic.

Now before I tell you of the incidents, I have to say that I am not a road rage person. I don’t scream and yell at other drivers. But I have been known to maybe offer a kind word of suggestion to my fellow motorists, in the nicest ways possible.

Of these last two, the first was when I was heading into work the other day. I was driving along on a big highway, with traffic moving at a pretty good clip. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a truck barreling toward me. He swerved to the other lane just as he neared me, almost clipping my bumper. My window was down, and I instinctively threw my arm up in the air, palm open, giving the international sign for, “Dude, really?”

And he instinctively threw his arm out the window giving the international salute that comes with a single finger. And of course at the next traffic light we were right next to each other. He turned and said something to me. I rolled my window down so I could hear what he was saying, which was surely just something along the lines of, “How’s your day going, good sir?”

Nope.

Turns out he asked what my problem was, although he added a an adjective before “problem” that is unfit for family newspapers.

I responded, “My problem is that you’re driving like an idiot. Slow down and stop weaving in and out of lanes before you cause an accident.” The light turned green, he again saluted me, and we parted ways.

The second incident occurred in a parking garage. I park in garages a lot, and one of the biggest peeves of my life is people who cannot park between the lines. Topping that? Great big ol’ vehicles who think they fit in a compact spot.

I was behind a truck that tried to park in a compact spot. After about five tries, he still could not get it. Traffic was backing up behind me as this guy kept at it. Eventually, he backed out and started to pull forward. Finally, I thought. Some sense.

Nope.

He put his truck in reverse and began trying to back in. To a spot clearly labeled Compact. I rolled down my window and said, “That space is for compacts.”

He responded to me, “Guess I’m a compact now!”

And about nine tries later got his giant truck in the spot, thereby also making it difficult for the two compacts on either side to access their vehicles.

When I was relaying these stories to my wife, she pretty much said, yeah, I should stop doing that. And she’s right. These two individuals live their lives in a selfish manner, and no amount of lecturing from me is going to change that.

So this column is not for them. It is for you, good reader. The decent, kind souls who I know are out there. The ones who don’t need to drive like maniacs when traffic is already thick. The ones who make sure they don’t park where they inconvenience others. The ones who have a full shopping cart and let the person with a single bag of dog food go ahead of them at the grocery store. The ones who pick up their dog’s mess. The ones who tell a manager when their server has been fantastic. And, of course, the ones who return their shopping carts.

You, good people, are the ones we need to make this world a better place. And I know you’re out there.

Home improvement

Dishing the dirt

Now, I am no dishwasher expert, but I am fairly certain that when you run your dishwasher, the dishes at the end of a cycle should be clean, and not covered in a disgusting film.

I made this lovely discovery the other night when the dishwasher finished and I opened it up. I took out the first mug and thought, “Hmm. That’s gross. I don’t think I’d want to drink coffee out of that.” And I put it back in the sink, assuming it was an anomaly.

After about the fourth glass, that part of my brain that sometimes falls asleep woke up and said, “Uh, Mike. There’s kind of a pattern here…”

This is a fairly new dishwasher, and to this point had been fairly good at cleaning the dishes and not coating them in a gnarly caked-on funk.

Once I removed all the dishes and piled them in my sink (and, when that was full, all around the countertops, making my kitchen look something that the health department should shut down), I began to assess the situation.

And the situation was gross.

Next, I did probably the worst thing I could do: I hit Google. What I found were plenty of helpful videos on how to fix a dishwasher that was not cleaning the dishes. The reason this is a bad idea? The people who make those videos are competent home improvement people. I am not.

After about 10 minutes, having disassembled various parts of the dishwasher and spreading them out on the kitchen floor, that part of my brain woke up again. “What are you doing? Why didn’t you text Michael?” it said.

Michael is my neighbor across the street. He is in the plumbing business, and knows how to fix things, two very important things I lack in this situation.

I texted him, and he was over in a few minutes. Good neighbors are good.

He began assessing the situation and running a few tests. He began peering into the garbage disposal as he ran the washer, which right there told me I was a moron, as I had no idea those two were connected. I just assumed they were just kitchen neighbors.

Turns out, there is a drain at the bottom of the dishwasher that sends stuff to its neighbor. That had become clogged with what I think was a piece of glass. After some poking and prodding with a screwdriver, the piece was dislodged. A few more tests, and things started flowing the proper way.

For what it’s worth, my wife was out of town at the time. Because I’m a fun guy, I did take a picture of Michael checking things out under the sink with just the text, “Everything’s fine…” She sighs a lot.

I ran a few cycles with the dishwasher empty, and it appeared to have cleaned everything out and was again working like a champ.

I will say that I have often relied on the dishwasher to do a lot of the heavy lifting when it comes to cleaning. I would like to be able to pull a full dish of lasagna in and having it come out shiny clean. However, I will acknowledge that in the future, I should try to be more diligent to ensure the dishes get a rinsed a wee bit better before they go in, should a foreign object clog it again.

That said, I kinda know me, and I kinda know that I will back to the old me in due time. And then, the next time I have this problem, I hope my brain wakes up a little sooner and says, “Stop. Call Michael.”

Animals Family Uncategorized

Rest easy, Murphy

My house is now a little less exciting. We have said our final goodbye to Murphy the Excitable Dachshund, a good boy whose body betrayed him at the end.

The decision to set him free was not an easy one, but it was one that was necessary. Our Murphy had left, and the only thing that remained was a shell of the dog who had brought so much joy to our world for more than a decade.

I don’t want to remember the final days. Rather, I want to remember the days when he was the vibrant scoundrel who was playful, energetic and spirited.

We never planned for Murphy. I had a co-worker years ago who tragically passed away. He had two dogs, and his brother didn’t know what to do with them. I told him I would take the dogs and try and find them good homes. The first dog was an adorable puppy. Found him a home in about 10 minutes. Murphy? For some reason, he wasn’t on anyone’s must-have list. We had a friend take him for a test drive for a night, but it was not meant to be. So he ended up back at our house. My wife and I were sitting out one evening, our orphan pup sitting between us, when my wife said, “He really is a sweet dog…” Sold.

And thus Murphy became ours. (Or we became his, depending on how you see it.)

Murphy the Excitable Dachshund was was an amazing escape artist, who would routinely venture out from our yard to go find new adventures. I never saw that as him leaving us, but rather him saying, “What are you guys doing inside? There are people to go and meet!”

Because of his wandering tendencies, we had a tag with our phone number on his collar. I routinely got calls from folks who had made Murphy’s acquaintance.

We lived on a polo field a few years ago, and Murphy loved to go and greet the polo matches that were out there. I remember one time when some nice folks called us with the news that they had Murphy. I told them I would go out on the field and get him, and they responded, “Actually we’re at a different field now. He was having so much fun with us we kept him with us for a while.” So Murphy was the kind of dog that you would want to kind of dognap for a short time.

One kind soul picked him up one day, and tracked me down at work. I offered to go pick him up, and she said that she could bring him to me in about an hour. “I was making me a steak for lunch, so I’ve made him one, too. Can I bring him up after that?” Murphy was a most talented grifter.

In his prime, he was also an expert critter hunter. If a critter came into our yard, he would find it, and he would bark relentlessly. He especially loved cornering possums. Under Murphy’s watch, we had exactly zero possum attacks thanks to his vigilance.

On his final day, I took Murphy to our vet. My wife was meeting me there. I checked in with the vet office, Murphy in my arms, swaddled in a blanket. I told the tech I was waiting on my wife, and I was going to sit out on a bench outside in front of the office and wait for her. As Murphy and I sat on the bench, enjoying our last few minutes of sunlight together, a woman emerged from a store a few doors down. She walked towards me and said, “Is he OK?”

“No,” I said. “This is his last vet visit.”

And she did something that makes the world a better place. She came over and gave me a big hug, and said, “I’m so sorry.” She sat down on the bench with me, and talked with Murphy and told him that he was a good boy, which he was, mostly. About a minute later, my wife arrived. The woman stood up and gave my wife a big hug, and said, “I’m so sorry.” She then said, “I’ll let you be alone,” patted Murphy and told him again he was a good dog. And then she walked off. I am fairly certain she disappeared in a sparkly tornado of fairy dust as she walked away.

We went in a few minutes later, and the vet’s office let Murphy go into his eternal slumber with dignity. He sat in my lap, as my wife patted his head, and went to a place where he no longer hurt.

Later that night, I stepped out back. I heard a rustling in a tree. I went back inside and grabbed a flashlight. After a short search, I found a possum nestled a good 40 feet up. While I know how the world works and the realities therein, I sometimes choose to ignore those. And I ignore those now. Because it makes me feel better. Murphy had let us know about one more possum. Rest easy, old pal.