Month: March 2018

Categories
Family

Technically speaking

Well, technically, my team lost.

The event we lost was a scavenger hunt. Now it may have been a while since you took part in a scavenger hunt, but I assure you, if the competitive gene is strong in you, I highly recommend you take part the next time the opportunity presents itself. Or, even create one yourself. It’s worth it.

We were out at my folks’ cabin to celebrate my son’s 15th birthday. The cabin is nestled on 100 acres of woods and swampland, and is a favorite rallying place for my family. My son decided it would be fun to do a nature scavenger hunt. Hey, your birthday. Let’s do it.

He developed a list of things we would hunt. Among the items:

  • Five pine cones bigger than a fist
  • A feather
  • Picture of a salamander
  • Video of a team member climbing a tree at least 10 feet high
  • Animal track
  • A bone
  • Something shaped like the letter “E”
  • And about a dozen other things

My son said he and his cousin, Nick, would be team captains and would hold a draft. My son had the first pick in the draft. So naturally his first pick was … not me? What? He picked his cousin Sam. Surely I would be Nick’s first pick. Nope. Aunt Laura. Well, time to join Parker’s team. Nope. Uncle Ron. Oh, so this is how it is? I was picked last by Nick, setting the two teams.

Before we started on our quest, I made a pronouncement: My mom would be the judge of whether things would be accepted (as no one can overrule Judge Grandma), and we were enacting the “Well, Technically” Doctrine.

That is a piece of international law that states when, in taking part in things intended to be fun, you cannot skate on technicalities. We are going with the spirit of the law, and you can’t bring back a footprint you just made and call that an animal track. Judge Grandma would rule those out.

And off we set. Ron, Sam and Parker set off in one direction, and we set off in another. Laura, Nick and I were gradually adding an item here or there, and spending a good chunk our time being wiseguys and seeing how we could test the limits of “Well, technically.”

Soon, we arrived at a large tree that was tilted up at about a 45-degree angle. I stood under the tree, and estimated it to go up at least 10 feet high. “Hey, Nick, climb that tree and I’ll video it,” I said.

I turned to Laura, my oldest sister. I said to her, “It’s probably a good thing Susan (Nick’s mom) isn’t on our team, or one of us would be climbing the tree.” Upon seeing the video a while later, Susan confirmed that was the case.

We continued to mosey about being our funny selves, slowly adding to our collection. And then we arrived at a spot where we could see a big, open field. And we saw Ron, Parker and Sam sprinting across the field, stopping only briefly to check off items on their list. And that’s when the Gibbons competitive gene kicked in. The three of us began sprinting back toward the cabin. “E! Find something that looks like an E! And where are the pine cones!?!?!?”

Both teams arrived back at the cabin after the 30-minute time limit mark. The whole family gathered to check off the items that Judge Grandma ruled as admissible. Admittedly, we were amazed that, after some deliberation, she allowed the lettering on a Home Depot bucket to count as something shaped like an “E.”

Alas, at the final tally, my team fell short, 13-12. Begrudgingly, I acknowledge that Sam, Parker and Ron won the scavenger hunt. Well, technically.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

Categories
Animals Family

Fowl play

I was leaving the grocery store recently when my wife called. I answered and she said, “YOU NEED TO COME HOME. NOW.”

Based on this tone, this was not something I had done. I knew this, because that tone was not the one someone would use had I, say, left the toilet seat up. That’s the tone for someone who has just been caught replacing the dining room furniture with a video game arcade. And I knew I had not committed any egregious acts, so it had to be something I had not done, but needed to take care of.

“What’s wrong?”

“There is a BIRD in the house.”

Uh-oh. Now, my wife is a very patient woman, and very understanding that we are a family of animal lovers. She has evolved immensely over the years as snakes and lizards and possums and such have made their way into our house. But she draws the line at birds. They are welcome at the feeders. They can nest in the boxes. But they better stay outside. And this one had not.

I told her I would head that way. I asked her what kind of bird it was and where it was. “I don’t know because I’m outside,” was her very direct response. She then said, “My computer bag is inside and I have a work call in 15 minutes. You need to COME HOME NOW.”

The grocery store is just across the street, so normally this wouldn’t be a problem. However, I had just dropped our son off to go fishing a few blocks away. If I went home for a bird rescue without him, he would be devastated. “I need to get Parker first,” I said. She reminded me that the clock was ticking and that there was a BIRD IN THE HOUSE!

I drove to where Parker was fishing and rolled down the window. “There’s a bird in the house.”

As if we had rehearsed this 100 times, Parker quickly packed up his fishing gear and sprinted to the car.

As we were pulling into the neighborhood, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It read “Parker’s phone.”

I looked at Parker and showed it to him. He put his hands in both pockets and said, “Where’s my phone!?!?!”

I answered the call. A voice on the other end said, “Hi, I found this phone on the road…”

I swung around and turned back toward the fishing spot. I called my wife. She skipped the usual “hello” and answered with, “WHERE ARE YOU!?!?”

I responded, “I need you to not freak out…” I told her that Parker had dropped his phone and we would be there as soon as possible. Her silence was not one of a pleased person. Tick-tock. Tick-tock

We arrived at the fishing spot and a nice young man was waiting for us with the phone. We gave a very quick, “Thank you thank you thank you!” and then made our way back to the neighborhood a second time.

We pulled into the driveway and my wife was sitting on the front porch She was wearing sunglasses, which meant I could not see the daggers she was no doubt shooting into me.

We sprinted inside to confront our avian invader. Nothing. Not a thing. Just a backdoor that I had left wide open earlier during the very pleasant day. We checked the house twice. Disappointed, we went outside. “It’s gone,” I said.

“Go check again.”

We did. Nothing. Later that night, as my wife was planning to head upstairs for bed, she turned to me and said, “If I get upstairs and find a bird…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but my guess is she would have been less mad had she gone upstairs and found I had replaced our bedroom furniture with a video game arcade.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

Categories
Childhood Family

Permit me to be terrified

Disclaimer: This column is not about guns or gun laws. Yes, it starts with a mention of the gun debate as a jumping off point, but please don’t stop reading just because you see the word gun. I don’t do politics in this column, and never have. The most controversial subject I have tackled was the grand debate raging through our home on the proper way to eat corn on the cob. (The correct answer is typewriter style, not the barbaric way of corn cob rotation that my wife continues to try and indoctrinate our poor children with.) Now, to the column:

One of the talking points that comes up in gun discussions is raising the age of purchase to 21. A common rebuttal is, “Should we raise the driving age to 21, too?”

To which I immediately think, “YES! At least 21. How about 30? Can we do 30?”

I realize this is my knee-jerk reaction because, in less than two weeks, my son will be eligible for a learner’s permit. You know, that thing that means you are legally allowed to operate a car. An actual car. Yes, the state of South Carolina is going to be a-ok with that, assuming he can pass a written test.

This is the person who often cannot find his shoes, and when he does, they are often not in the same room, and have even been on entirely different properties.

This is the person who recently asked me if he could hide in the attic and sit above his sister’s room until she and her friends got there so he could pretend the house was haunted. (Answer: No, because your mother is home.)

And now this is the person who will be able to drive a car? Oh, lawdy.

In all fairness to him, I believe he does understand the big responsibility of being in charge of a car. And he is surprisingly risk averse when it comes to speed. Roller coasters? No thank you, for him. I am hoping that applies to when he is behind the wheel as well.

Initially, he was rather indifferent about nearing the legal age to drive. That is quite the opposite of his sister, who was there when the DMV opened the first morning she was eligible to take the test. Same with when it came time to get her actual license.

But he was kind of meh about the whole thing. We weren’t going to push it, because if he wanted to kick that can down the road, fine by us (and our insurance premium).

But the other day, we were driving along and he said, “Dad, want to hear something terrifying?”

My answer, of course, was, “What have you done?”

He said, “No, nothing. I think. But this is terrifying: In two weeks, I can get my permit.”

Terrifying indeed.

My guess? It occurred to him that, with a driver’s license, he has vastly expanded his potential fishing holes. He’s nothing if not pragmatic.

So this week I will go to the DMV and get him the study guide to take his test. When I told him that, he was thrilled that he was going to have to actually study for it. “Do you think I could just take it without studying?” I considered saying yes for a second, guaranteeing he wouldn’t pass that way. But that would be wrong for multiple reasons, so I said, “Trust me. You need to study the guide to pass the test.”

So fairly soon, I will take our freshly minted 15-year-old to take his learner’s permit test. But I’m OK if wants to hold off. I can take him when he’s a bit older. Say, 30.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Dear Mr. Bud Light man…

My son and I were heading down a dirt road to one of our favorite hiking spots when he asked me a question.

“Dad, why do people shoot signs?”

He was referring to a road sign that was scarred up from gunshot. My answer, “I have no idea.”

I should have answered, “Because Mr. Bud Light man doesn’t care about things.”

Stay with me here.

A short while later, we encountered a post on the side of the road. On top of the post was a tall Bud Light can, with an orange flag sticking out of the top. A sign was nailed to the post. It read:

“Dear Mr. Bud Light man and others who dump their trash here… Please stop trashing our National Forest.” It goes on to point out a nearby recycling center that is a mere three minutes away, and shares was it the penalties for littering in the forest. It concludes by saying, “Thank you for your understanding and please help us protect and preserve this incredible resource.”

While the sign made us chuckle, I’m unfortunately pretty sure Mr. Bud Light man won’t read it, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. He’s the same guy who shoots a sign. He doesn’t care. He lives his life how he wants to, and he doesn’t give a lick about how it might affect others.

Basically, Mr. Bud Light man is embodiment of “This is why we can’t have nice things.” We have laws because people consistently do things they shouldn’t. A threat of a fine or imprisonment for illegal dumping and littering really has zero impact on me, as I personally would never consider doing such a thing. And it boggles the mind that someone would. But sure enough, it not only has happened, but happens enough we have to actually have laws saying, in essence, “Yeah, if you could not leave your beer cans out in the woods that would be swell.”

And it’s not just laws that this creates. It also ruins really good things in life we all could enjoy, but Mr. Bud Light man likes to ruin them.

Case in point: The awesome L.L. Bean return policy. They used to have a lifetime satisfaction policy. I was the beneficiary of said policy. I have a pair of duck boots I got in the late 80s. About a decade later, one of the soles began to come apart from the shoe. I sent them to L.L. Bean, and they fixed them. I still have those boots to this day. But Mr. Bud Light man decided to take advantage of this policy, and began buying L.L. Bean products from thrift shops and garage sales, returning them to be fixed, and then selling them. They were essentially flipping duck boots, for crying out loud.

And so L.L. Bean said enough. Now, it’s a one-year return policy, and you have to have the receipt. Thanks, Mr. Bud Light man!

It’s unfortunate we live amongst people who really don’t care about anything, or the consequences of their actions, in particular on others. I personally would not want to live that way, as I feel certain it eats away at your very core to be that kind of person. (Fun fact that I guarantee is 100 percent true: Mr. Bud Light man has never returned a grocery cart to a corral in his life.)

But maybe there is some hope. Maybe there are more of us than him. Maybe the person who put up that sign is one of many, and Mr. Bud Light man is the exception. If we all commit to taking care of the things in our life and not just trashing the world (figuratively and literally) we can stem the tide of all of the Mr. Bud Light men. In the meantime, let’s all just hope my duck boots keep on trucking.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.