Author: Mike Gibbons

Categories
Childhood Family

Back in my day…

I remember the first time that I really saw how much smart phones were changing the world.

My wife and I had gotten iPhones in probably 2009 or so. My wife and I were heading back from a trip to Atlanta and we pulled off the interstate to get something to eat.

We saw an Arby’s, and my wife and I both said, “Let’s get that.” We pulled into the drive-through line. The backseat chorus chimed in. “What do they have!?!?!?!?” My wife whipped out her phone, hit a few keystrokes, and in no time had the Arby’s kids menu pulled up. She rattled off the kids menu choices, and by the time we were at the speaker to order, we had everyone’s selection. This … this changes how we live, my wife and I said. Immediacy. This is the future, and the future is awesome!

That said, I cannot let the technological advances of our day overshadow my parental obligation to harp to my kids about how their life is infinitely easier than our incredibly difficult childhoods.

I, of course, tell my children all the time what it was like in my day.

I use foreign phrases to them such as “card catalog” and “land line” and “1984 was one of the greatest years alive because Red Dawn — the only Red Dawn I recognize — came out.”

But I do have to remember to keep a few of the other ones in the reserve bin for when I need a good “Back in my day…” comment. Among those I have stockpiled:

Back in my day…

  • We only had to dial five numbers to make a phone call, which, oh, by the way, was on a rotary phone. My wife is from Atlanta, so she was all fancy and dialed all seven numbers in her day. City folk.
  • If you need an immediate answer now, it’s easy enough. Our Google? The set of encyclopedias sitting on the shelf, or our parents. Let’s say we had a paper due the next day on, say, Venezuela. We could grab the World Book (U-V edition), and look up what we wanted. Or we could ask our parents, and possibly then include in our term paper a fun made-up fact our dad thought was funny, such as stating that Venezuela got its name because they were big fans of Fernando Valenzuela, but didn’t want to be too obvious.
  • Our TV shows weren’t on demand, and the concept of “binge watching” was nonexistent. My daughter watched the entire run of “Friends” over an especially unproductive weekend. I told her it took her mother and me a full decade to watch “Friends,” and we did it because we liked it that way. Harumph.
  • We had to read maps. Made out of paper. And that could rarely be folded back into their original form. My father-in-law is a real estate appraiser, and my wife brags that she learned early on not only how to read maps, but how to fold them back like a champ. Kids today…
  • The phrase “Be Kind, Rewind” means something to us. Sure, you get your Redbox DVD or your iTunes download. But we used to have to do some heavy lifting in our day, and that required waiting patiently while your VHS copy of “Weekend at Bernie’s” wound all the way back to start, lest you get fined by your movie overlords at Blockbuster.
  • You kids today have your privacy on a phone call, because you have a cell phone and you can go anywhere to make your calls. Back when we had those wall-mounted phones, we had to get our privacy the old fashioned way — with a 20-foot cord that you added to the phone so you could go far away from everyone else to make your call. This was exceptionally challenging if you were one one of my three older sisters and, during that call with your friend, your little brother repeatedly opened and closed the sliding glass door on the cord, hoping he could introduce a little chaos into your life because, well, little brothers are awful. (Source: I am a little brother, and also the parent of a little brother.)

So the world has gotten better than when we were kids. But kids today need to remember that their parents endured some mighty struggles. And I am sure they, too, will one day be able to tell their kids about the hardships they endured, with non-Wifi hotspots and such. I wish them well, and hope they can convey to their kids the struggle they endured. In particular that terrible time when Redbox was out of their movie.

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

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Help is just a phone call away

I was heading down the interstate the other day, rocking it out the hardcore way I usually do, listening to a podcast.

Then, right in front of me, I saw a flash of red. I saw an SUV careening off to the left. I have driven on plenty of interstates, and I have found that we generally like to keep going in the same direction (forward), and that hard lefts are generally discouraged.

As smoke and debris began to fill the air, I saw the car go plummeting off the left side, down about a five-foot embankment. Pretty sure that wasn’t an exit ramp.

I pulled off onto the right side of the road in the emergency lane. I grabbed my phone and hit the shortcut number to South Carolina highway patrol. (BTW, it’s *HP. Learn it. Know it. Live it.)

I exited my car and saw several cars had pulled over on the left side, where the wreck had just happened. A guy who had stopped on the other side of the road yelled something at me. Because cars were traveling by at 70+ mph, I couldn’t hear him. A break in traffic came. “CALL THE POLICE!!!” he yelled. “I’M ON IT!!!” I yelled back, just as the dispatcher answered.

The team was forming.

I informed the dispatcher a wreck had just happened and told her where we were. She asked how many people were in the car and if they were injured. Another motorist who had stopped emerged to the top of the road. It’s like he was on the call with us. “TWO IN THE CAR!” he said holding up two fingers. “THEY”RE AWAKE!” he shouted to me. Teamwork, baby!

I relayed the information. She told me police and EMS were on the way. Because the traffic was so busy, I was kinda stuck on the other side of the interstate.

About that time, a man came running up to me on the shoulder. He had been driving a tractor trailer and the red car had smacked into him, which sent them off the road. He was visibly upset, and trying to cross the road. I told him it wasn’t safe, and asked if he was OK. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “ARE THEY OK!?!?!?” I told him they were awake and EMS was on the way. When a break in traffic happened, he sprinted across the interstate to check on them. Another member of the team.IMG_8100 (1)

I looked over at my teammates. There were four total. It was mid-morning, but already scorching hot. I had a bunch of bottled waters in my car from a recent outing. I went and retrieved them. One of my teammates saw me coming to the side of the road and help up a hand high in the air. The international sign for, “Throw it!” When there was a break in traffic, I pitched six water bottles his way, and he caught five of them. One MAY have gone a little high and hit the wrecked car, but let’s be honest, a water bottle ding was the least of their worries. I opted to stay on my side of the interstate and head back about a hundred yards past my car to try and slow down motorists. There I was, in a tie, standing on the side of an interstate waving my hands up and down as if I was doing the Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy” wave to traffic, trying to mouth “SLOW DOWN” as clearly as possible.

Most of the motorists slowed down, and several gave me a thumbs up as they drove past. Two people who came through when traffic was a bit lighter slowed and asked if we needed help.

The police arrived a short while later, and as traffic was blocked I made my way across the interstate. The folks in the car seemed to be OK, but obviously rather shaken. The officer asked me what I saw, and I told her. She said I was good to go. My teammates were all standing there. I said, “Well, I’m off to Columbia. Nice work, everybody!” We stood there awkwardly for a second. One guy extended a hand. “Nice working with you, man!” he said with a big smile. Another handshake. Another. Another. The driver of the truck, gave me a strong handshake and told me thanks. I said, “Nah, man, thank you. Safe travels, friend.”

And off I went.

Now, I tell you this story not as a humble brag. I’m not looking for kudos for pulling off the road and helping a fellow motorist. For one thing, it’s hardly heroic to make a phone call to the folks who come out and do the actual heroic things.

Anyone who knows me knows I live for that kind of stuff. I’ve been behind plenty of cars pushing them out of the roadway. I do it because I believe in helping my fellow man. And the reason I decided to make this week’s column about it is that I was so happy to see our team come together. We are, for the most part, and certainly in a crisis, a good people. On that day, a group of strangers came together and helped someone who none of us knew. We formed a team, and we did what we needed to do to get them through a far worse day any of us were having. And, dear readers, that’s what I like about you. I think any of you could have been on that team. Because at the end of the day, it’s pretty easy just to make a phone call when it can help someone out.

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

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Sensible legislation

As anyone who reads this column knows, I am exceptionally political and use this platform to further my political agenda at any time.

Ha! I kid. I would no sooner wade into politics here than I would religion, because I’ve visited the internet and I’ve seen how that goes.

That said, with a presidential election now a merciful few months away, I do think it’s time all Americans get behind a few common sense political mandates that should be accepted come election day. I know we are electing a ton of candidates, including, I’m told, president. But I’d like to call for an up/down vote on my suggestions of a few common sense legislation ideas that I think we can all agree will pass 100 percent-0:

  • When new construction begins on a site, a sign should have to be placed telling you a little more information than who the contractor is and what bank is financing it. They don’t have to totally spoil it for those driving by. Just a simple sign with either the number 1, 2 or 3. Number 1: Boring project you won’t care about, so quit wondering about it when you drive by. (Examples: Apartments; office space that will probably be mainly accountants and dentists; municipal offices you will never need to go to.) Number 2: It MAY interest you, but only start caring about it as it gets closer to completion. (Examples: Car dealership; office space that could be something cool, but we have yet to find tenants; veterinarian that specializes in big cats and exotic reptiles.) Number 3: Stay tuned, America! You’re gonna wanna see this! (Examples: Dave and Buster’s; brewery/archery range; veterinarian that specializes in big cats VS. exotic reptiles in the Euthanasia Dome.)
  • When a traffic light goes out, if you are unable to comprehend that it becomes a four-way stop at that point and just blast on through the intersection as if you have an extra big green light, you lose your license for a month. If you do it while a police officer is standing there in the rain directing traffic, you lose it for 40 years.
  • If you bring more than the stated allowed number of items to the self-checkout line, you are immediately placed behind the mom who is shopping for the month’s groceries, with her six kids in tow. For every produce item that has to be weighed and have its special number entered into the system, you have to let one grocer with at least a half-full cart go ahead of you.
  • If you stop and help a stranded motorist successfully and safely, you can claim that event as a child and deduct it from your taxes. Caveat: If you do it unsafely just for the tax credit, you have to give one of your kids away.
  • If your and your spouse are at a restaurant and your child starts crying, and you get up and take the child out of the restaurant, you get a free appetizer or dessert. Your choice. By my estimate, my wife and I would have scored about 43 billion appetizers/desserts over the last 16 years.
  • If you are caught stealing someone’s sandals from the beach, you are immediately sentenced to 800 hours of community service. That service? Attempting to resuscitate washed up horseshoe crabs and jellyfish. Enjoy finding the other mouth on that mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, you sandal thief.
  • If I Google “Insert Team Here vs. Insert Team There highlights” and the resulting video clip is a couple of dudes talking about the clip but never actually showing it, those dudes have to come to my house with a DVD of the clip and show it to me personally. In silence.

I think we can all agree these are simple measures that will make our country bigger, faster, stronger. Vote Yes! for this on election day. And if it’s not on your ballot, cry foul to your polling folks. Because this is what America is about. Having a voice. And getting excited about watching a tiger fight a Komodo dragon.

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

 

Categories
Adventures Childhood Family

They see me rollerin’

I am a survivor.

Six hours in a car. Ten hours at an amusement park. Four teenage girls.

Survive.

OK, so it wasn’t that bad. It was my daughter’s 16 birthday, and she wanted to go and ride roller coasters with some friends. So I piled the four of them in a car and set off toward our destination, three hours away, which means I spent the next three hours hearing songs from “Hamilton” being sung, occasionally breaking for a quick trip to “School of Rock” songs.

When we arrived at our destination, the energy in the car got even higher, as when you near the entrance to Carowinds, you see huge sprawling roller coasters dotting the horizon. Big ones. Fast one. Scary ones.

We entered the park and I did what a responsible father would: I told them all to stay within five feet of me the whole time, and make no eye contact with anyone.

Ha! Made that joke to my daughter. She just stared at me. I told the girls to head off and have fun, and I’ll see them a bit later. The best present a dad can give his daughter on her Sweet 16? Space, in particular if three friends are with her.

I met up with my wife and son. We traveled the park hitting various rides and questioning occasionally why we thought a theme park in August was a good idea, since clearly the earth had moved twice as close to the sun as normal.

I did make a few observations while strolling the park:

  • We are a confident nation. As I walked through the park, I saw quite a few folks and thought, “Wow, that person woke up, but on that ensemble, and said, ‘This is who I am gonna be today.’” Good for you, confident person! Own your look.
  • It’s a shame some people don’t understand how lines work. It appears some people don’t realize the purpose of a line is to have an orderly manner in which to proceed. Rather, it seems some people are under the misunderstanding that a line is a challenge in which they have to see how many people they can gradually slip past. Surely it’s that and not just people being rude.
  • I am not suggesting that people should sprint through a theme park. But the Mosey Off that some folks are participating in? Lawdy. Pick it up a smidge, please.
  • I love me a good roller coaster, and Carowinds has plenty, including their newest one, Fury 325, which goes nearly 100 mph. While those are awesome, there is something about a good old fashioned wooden roller coaster, and not just because you are thinking to yourself, “Doesn’t wood sometimes rot or catch fire?” thereby adding to the adrenaline rush.
  • I found out I can tie a shoe, sort of, with one hand. Just as the shoulder harness locked into place on the quite speedy Afterburn, I looked down and saw that my right shoe was untied. Since I was about to go do flips and spins upwards of 60 mph, I figured I probably wanted to correct that. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get both of my hands to my shoe because of the harness. I kicked my foot upward toward my right hand and, somehow, managed to fumble and fidget and cross the laces once, then twice, and pull them tight. It wasn’t pretty, but that bad boy was snug for the whole ride and, most importantly, on my foot when the ride ended.
  • I am not as bothered by selfies as some people. It really doesn’t affect me, so I feel no need to get my feathers in a bunch over what someone else does. That said, I was a bit surprised how many times I saw people trying to take them on roller coasters. Normally, this was on the ascent up the big hill. I have no idea what they were doing during the fast parts, because I was holding on for dear life. But I sure as heck wasn’t holding onto my phone. My phone was safely stowed in a backpack that was left in bins back at the beginning of the ride.

In all, it was a great, tiring day. Most importantly, my daughter said it was an awesome birthday. On the ride home, her friends all fell asleep in the car, so my daughter spent the bulk of the ride just chatting, which was a nice close to her Sweet 16.

She’s eager to go back to the park and ride the roller coasters again. I’m down for that. As soon as the earth moves back to the distance it’s supposed to be from the sun.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

Keeping him in stitches

My son was staying with a friend a couple of hours away recently. After his first night there, I received a call from, around 10 in the morning. Just checking in, I figured.

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Well, I’ve been better. Took a spill on my bike. Cut my knee. But I think it’s OK,” he said.

Well, who better to diagnose the severity of a cut than a 13-year-old. On with my day!

A short while later, my wife and I both received the same text, with a picture attached. It was from his friend’s mom. “Does this look like it needs stitches?” Attached was a picture of his knee.

Yep.

My wife was in Atlanta at the same time, so she was about seven hours away. I was two hours away. My wife said, “I’ll go.” Maternal nature is sweet. But that just wasn’t practical.

I hopped in my car and headed that way. His friend’s mom offered to meet me halfway, but I told her I’d just come on that way. For one thing, they have a friend who is a doctor and would be able to stitch him up. Our pediatrician doesn’t do stitches, so we would have to go to a clinic to get it done here. I’m sure that would have been fine, but a doctor they know and trust made me feel a little better.

I arrived at the clinic about the same time they did. My son was doing his best to be brave. When we went to see the doctor, it was not what you typically expect. The dude was huge, and very fit. He was exceptionally tan, with a shaved head and a sharp, short-trimmed white beard. He wore jeans and sandals and a henley shirt. He strode over to Parker exuding cool. He offered him a fist bump and told him he’d fix him up. My wife texted me to ask how it was going. I texted back, “This doctor is cool. I could start a bar fight, and I think he could finish it by himself.”

I don’t think that’s what my wife meant with her question.

Parker hopped up on the table, and the doctor told him he was going to give him a shot, and that it would hurt for about 10 seconds, and then it would be over. He was true to his word. Maybe 10 seconds of “YOWCH!!!!” from Parker, and then nothing. The doctor told him he could watch him stitch it up if he wanted to. With the leg numbed, Parker found the procedure to be fascinating.

Five quick stitches later, the cut was sealed up. The doctor fist bumped Parker and gave us a few quick and easy instructions for keeping it clean for the next 10 days.

Once done with the stitches, we set out to plan the rest of the week. Parker had planned to stay with his friend for a few more days. In the end, we decided the best move would be for him to come back with me and we’d let the boys pick up their adventure once his knee was healed.

The wound is healing nicely, and my normally grubby, nasty son (as pretty much all 13-year-old boys are) has been very diligent about tending to it, putting Neosporin on it and replacing his bandage as needed.

I hate that he got hurt and that his time with his friend got cut short. But I am glad he was in caring hands and that I was able to get there and be with him.

Plus, he’s going to have a dandy little scar, which will go nice with the umpty-six other scars he has on elbows, forehead, etc. As the old saying goes, “Scars are tattoos with better stories.”

But the biggest takeaway from the whole event? If I ever feel the need to start a bar fight, I know who I’m calling.

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

 

Categories
Adventures Childhood Family

Tired of shoe problems

As we established a couple of weeks ago, my sandals are important to me. (In case you missed it, my sandals were stolen from the beach, in one of the most egregious violations of beach etiquette mankind has ever known.)

My son? Not as tied to his footwear as I am. In fact, given the option, he’d not wear shoes anywhere.

During the summer months, he usually goes with bare feet, but keeps his trusty pair of flip flops with him for when we have to go into some place that has one of those pesky no-shoes, no service policies.

Recently, he and I were at a favorite fishing spot of ours, a bridge and pier overlooking Charleston Harbor. He brought his flip flops with him, as there is a small stretch we have to walk on asphalt, which during July in the south gets a smidge warm.

As we arrived at home from our fishing trip, he was gathering his stuff from the floorboard of the car. “Dad, I’ve only got one flip flop,” he said. “I hope it didn’t fall out of the car.” We searched the car thoroughly, and it was not there.

It was about 8:30 at night at this point, and I told him not to worry about it. We’ll head back in the morning and get it. “Nobody’s going to steal one shoe,” I said.

IMG_7693 (1)So the next morning I got up and headed out to the pier. Parker was still asleep, so I figured I would surprise him when he woke up. I arrived at the spot and found his shoe, securely wedged under the tire of a car. I tugged. I pulled. I tried a few very terse words. Nothing.

But surely this person wouldn’t be there long, I thought. I’ll run a few errands and head back in a bit. But I’d better leave a note, just to make sure. I found some scrap paper in my car, and scribbled this note: “Dear Driver, My son and I were out here last night, and his flip flop fell out of the car. It’s under your tire. We’ll be back in a bit to retrieve it. Hope you’re having a great day!”

I thought the last part was a nice touch. It then occurred to me that someone might question why I might insinuate that they would take his lone shoe. So I scribbled a post script. “P.S. Not that you would take one shoe. But just didn’t want you to think the shoe was trash and needed to be thrown away. We’ll be back! Take care.”

Kill ‘em with kindness.

Fast forward an hour. I went to the house and roused my son. I told him the shoe was probably free by now, and we could go and retrieve it. We headed to the spot. The car was still there. My son said, “It’s fine. I can get new shoes.” No. This is now about principle.

I decided I would walk the pier and see if I could find the car owner.

It was, of course, the people at the very end of the pier, which is probably a half mile walk. “Hey, do you guys have a light blue Honda Civic?” I asked.

One of the the guys turned and said, “Yeah, why?” It was a look that told me I should have phrased my intro differently.

“Nothing’s wrong!” I assured him. I explained my son’s flip flop predicament. He just stared at me. “So, I guess if you guys could give me an ETA of when you’ll be heading out, I’ll come back then and get it.”

“We’ll be leaving in 30 minutes,” he said, and turned and cast his line in the water.

“Good luck on the fishing, fellas!” I said. I’m a people person.

We were heading out of town for the night, so I went back to the house and packed the car and loaded up the dogs. All told, about an hour had passed. We went back. Car still there.

It was after 1:00 at this point so I suggested my son and I would gas up the car and come back.

Still there.

And then some lunch.

Still there.

At this point, I’m incredibly pleasant. It’s 8 billion degrees, I just want the shoe, and my original departure time has passed by about two hours.

“Should we go and ask them when they’re leaving?” my son said.

“No, it’s 8 billion degrees,” I said. And I popped the trunk.

I retrieved my tire iron. No, I did not exact justice on his windshield. Rather, I dug out under the sandal as much as I could. I had my son grab the shoe while I rocked the car back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until boom! Free flip flop.

My son hopped in the car, and I grabbed my note to the driver off the windshield. “Dad, don’t you think they’ll wonder about the shoe not being there when they get to the car?” he said.

“I hope so. Because someone who says they’re leaving in 30 minutes who hasn’t left three hours later needs some mental anguish in their life.”

But the important thing is we got the shoe. And I need to remind myself never, ever, ever to let any pair of shoes out of my sight again.

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

 

Categories
Adventures Family

Thou shalt not steal (and that includes my sandals)

I can say with 100 percent confidence that it was the first time I ever uttered this phrase to my wife: “I hope I have an undiagnosed foot fungus.”

No, I don’t have any nasty feet issues, and even if I did, I wouldn’t share them with you, because feet are gross.

I said it, rather, because I hope the filthy low-down swine who stole my sandals gets a fiery wrath on the soles of his feet as karmic payback for being a beach sandal bandit.

(Yes, I know I, too, would have said fiery wrath, but in my revenge scenario, it affects me much less.)

I live only a few minutes from the beach, and I go quite often. This day, my daughter and I took our dog to let him stretch his legs.

When we got to the end of the trail leading to the beach, we did what we normally do — we took off our shoes as we got on the sand, and pitched them to the side. And why do we do this? Because that’s what you do at the beach. It’s kinda understood that when you return your SHOES ARE STILL THERE.

After about 30 minutes, as we headed off the beach, we arrived at the spot where my shoes had been left. And they were not there. Because a horrible person stole them. And how do I know they’re horrible? Because remember the old saying: “Never criticize a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes.” Well, I’ve walked hundreds of miles in those shoes, so I feel plenty confident in criticizing the scourge of a human who violated one of the basic rules of beach etiquette.

We searched and searched. Nothing. I also found myself eyeing with suspicion everyone who walked by and staring at their shoes. I’m not sure what I would have done had I seen a pair like mine.

But, Mike, you may be asking, perhaps it was a case of mistaken shoe-dentity. No, it was not, because they were parked with my daughter’s cute little turquoise numbers. Also, there was not a similar looking pair of sandals anywhere in the vicinity. Had someone made a mistake, they would have left theirs.

And here’s the worst part: My sandals are one of the few products I actually splurge on. I’m a simple man with simple tastes. For the longest time, the sandals I wore were the El Cheapo models. I’d wear them, they’d break, I’d buy new cheap ones. And then a few years ago, I was given a pair of very nice Columbia sandals as a gift. I was hooked. It felt like wearing convertible tennis shoes. I didn’t realize that your feet didn’t have to hurt after wearing sandals. So I became a devotee. When my last pair finally died after several years of service, I got me a new pair. They were probably $50-$60, which may not sound like a whole lot, but that was about how much I had spent on my previous 20 pairs of cheap shoes, so it was a big leap for me to do it.

And these sandals were perfect. A good eight months out of the year, these are the shoes I slip on the minute I come in the door from work.

But, Mike, you may also be asking, what if it was someone who needed shoes? Well then he could have asked me for my shoes. “Brother, I have no shoes. Can you help me out?” I would have gladly given him my shoes and wished him well on his life’s journey. But you know who doesn’t spend time at a beach on an island? People in need of a shoe handout.

So I will go and buy a new pair, and I will never again leave my shoes at the entrance of the beach. It’s a shame that some people really do ruin things for everyone because they are awful. I hope the thief enjoys years of comfort given to him by my shoes. And agony from the fungus I hope I have.

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

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Breaking a habit

I am tremendous creature of habit. Once I find an item I like, I will use it as long as it is still functional, and long after if is far from fashionable.

Take, for example, my hairbrush. It is the only hairbrush I have ever owned. It is a fantastic brush. It’s rather, let’s just say worn. Back in college, one of my fraternity brothers saw me using it one morning as we were getting ready in the fraternity community bathroom. “Is that a dog brush?” he asked.

So it’s not pretty. But boy does it work. Best brush ever. My son is 13, so he really doesn’t have a need for a brush, as his hair just flops where it wants to, and he’s fine with that. Not the battle I’ll be picking. But my wife and daughter both have bunches of different brushes of different sizes, stashed throughout the house, cars, etc. Yet for some reason, I keep finding really long hairs on my brush. Hmm. You always come back to excellence.

I’m the same way with clothes and accessories, although admittedly I don’t have many accessories — my wedding ring, belt and a wallet.

My ring I’ve had for 18 years, and I certainly don’t plan on trading that in for a new one. My belt is starting to show some wear and tear, and I will soon approach my wife, hold up the belt and ask, “Is it time?” She will nod in a sympathetic manner and say, “Come on. I’ll take you belt shopping.”

And then there is my wallet. Worn and broken in, it slides in my pocket as if I just dipped it in melted butter (which is not recommended). The cards that rest inside it slide in and out with the greatest of ease. It is the perfect wallet, with years of seasoning from going in and out of my back pocket, and pressed and kneaded by years of sitting on it, pressing out all the newness and, with each sit, pressing a little more of that seasoning that makes it perfect.

I love my wallet.

So I was sorry to have to retire it unexpectedly. But sometimes, my love of habit can be topped.

My daughter recently returned from a trip to Italy with her high school chorus. It was an amazing 10-day trip of a lifetime. She’s 15, and a good and responsible kid, so we were, surprisingly to us, not worried about her. We knew she’d be OK on her first trip abroad.

We picked her up on a Friday night. She texted us when the bus from the the airport was a short way away: “Be there in 30 minutes. I’m hungry. But don’t want pizza or pasta.” Seems reasonable.

In short order, we had our gal back home, a complete family of four again. I told Allie that she could wait on unpacking and such, as she was as tired as a teen returning from Italy should be. She said she had gotten us a few things, and she did want to unpack those before she went to bed. She passed out her gifts to my wife and son. She said, “Dad, I saved yours for last, and it’s for Father’s Day, but can you go ahead and open it?” Father’s Day was a couple of days away, but I figured it would be fine.

I unwrapped the package and there it was — a hairbrush.

Ha! Kidding. Everyone knows the brush is untouchable. It was a wallet. A real, Italian leather wallet. Engraved with my initials.

I saw the look in her eyes. It was that, “Do you like it?” look. I love it.

I didn’t immediately switch to my new wallet. And not because I was stalling, but rather because, well, I had things to do. But one evening a few days later, my daughter noticed my wallet sitting on the table next to the new one. “Dad, want me to switch your stuff over?” Tough to say no to a doe-eyed kid who really wants to see her dad put his new gift into action.IMG_7357

So my new wallet is stiff and shiny. I have to wiggle the cards to get them out. But each day, it gets a little less stiff and the cards come out a little easier. I’m going to break this wallet in, and I’m going to break it in good. Because I want it to be the last wallet I ever have. Because it’s perfect.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

It doesn’t always take a village

I appreciate when folks are concerned about other people’s kids. As a parent, I’d like to think I do my part in helping keeping an eye out to make sure other parents’ kids aren’t in danger, especially during that split second every parent has at some point where their incredibly elusive child darts from the reach of safety.

That said, I try really hard not to parent other people’s kids. What I find acceptable or unacceptable in my house is my business, and I certainly don’t feel the need to exert my parenting style on others, in particular strangers.

And most of it is pretty cut and dried, especially with younger kids. See a get darting into traffic? OK to step up and parent and stop the kid. Don’t like the way a kid is talking to his parents? Yeah, not really your business.

But in particular as kids get older, there are those gray areas. And I find myself being on the receiving end of those gray areas a good bit.

My family and I spend a lot of time outdoors. One of our favorite places is a popular marsh spot near our house where we love to go crabbing and fishing. At low tide, there is a vast amount of mud flats that are easily accessible. Generally, anywhere from 25-50 percent of my family is up for venturing out onto the flats.

But it’s usually just my son out there. He’s 13, and certainly knows his away around the outdoors. At this particular spot, we have gotten to know the flats well, too. We know where we can walk and when, and we know how the tides behave in this spot. In short, we know what we’re doing.

There is one particular sandbar that my son likes to go fishing and cast netting on. At dead low tide, he can wade out to the sandbar and set up shop. He also knows, when the tide is coming back in, when it’s time to wade back, lest you have to try and swim the 20 feet or so, dragging all of your gear. He usually does this by marking a spot on the sandbar with a clam or oyster. When the water hits there, time to walk back to the mainland when the water is still just knee-deep. He’s a smart kid.

Whenever he’s out there on the sandbar, I leave and go knock out some errands. He’s fine.

Ha! Some bad parenting humor for you. I’m always right there, mainly because I want to see what he catches, but also because, you know, parenting.

I’ve chuckled at the times I’ve overheard concerned passersby comment on my son. “I think that boy is stuck” or “Why is that kid out there by himself?” are two responses I have heard.

I’m never confrontational. My response in the first comment: “Nah, water’s only a few inches deep to get out there. See that clam on the sandbar? When it hits that mark, he’ll come back in.”

To the second remark, I did the sensible and mature thing, which was to throw a handful of bait at them, leading to a seagull attack that would have made Tippy Hedren proud.

Ha! More bad parenting humor. Rather, I said, “He’s mine,” followed by the explanation that I gave to the prior comment.

After a few minutes of chatting about the marsh and what we find out there, most folks decide that I am not, in fact, an awful parent, and that my son is just out in nature doing what little boys do.

One time, as my son was out on one of the flats, an elderly woman walked up next to me as I leaned on the railing, watching him throw his cast net. “Is he yours?” she asked. Uh-oh, I thought. Lecture time.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She turned to me and smiled. “He’s living the life, isn’t he?” Yes, ma’am, he is.

I appreciate the concerns of the other parents, but I really appreciate the woman who surveyed the situation and realized that a teenage boy out communing with nature is, in fact, living the life.

That said, if he makes a break into traffic, any of you folks are welcome to grab him.

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

 

Categories
Home improvement

It’s a trap!

I’m not handy. And I know nothing about cars. So it’s pretty much a guaranteed GREAT start to a vacation when I have a plumbing leak and a flat tire right before we are about to head out on a trip.

The tire was not my fault, but rather the fault of a nail. The leak? All my fault.

My wife and I had seen fruit flies near our sink. We had this problem years ago, and we took to the internet to solve it. After numerous attempted solutions (many of which involved vinegar), we found one that suggested you remove and clean the P-trap under the sink.

This seemed to be a relatively simple procedure, even if I still couldn’t understand why it was called a “P-trap” and not a “U-pipe-thingee.” I’m sure there is a reason, but I’m too lazy to find it out.

The last time this happened, this was indeed the problem, and we found the nastiest concoction of gross embedded in the P-trap. I opted to set fire to it and go buy a whole new one. Or I cleaned it out. Can’t totally remember. Either way, the problem was solved.

So as we were getting ready to head out, my wife mentioned the fruit flies. “Probably the P-trap,” I said, pretending like I knew what in the world I was talking about.

I opened up the cabinet beneath the sink and removed the standard things that are under a sink: dishwasher detergent, steam cleaner chemicals, a can of Comet and that pack of light bulbs I had spent the last month looking for, occasionally grilling my kids on where exactly they had put it. (Apparently, they were innocent of light bulb theft, and I just can’t remember where I put things.)

With a few spins of the washers, I removed the P-trap. Fun fact — when you remove a P-trap, water that has been just hanging around under your sink comes gushing out! Yay!

Once the water decided it was done (and I screamed, “JENN, I NEED A TOWEL!!!!”) I pulled the P-trap out. It was as clean as the day it was installed.

So what did genius home repair Mike do? How about give it a quick rinse just for good measure.

“JENN, I NEED ANOTHER TOWEL!!!”

So once I cleaned up my new mess, I went to put the P-trap back. I put it in place and tightened the washers. I cut the sink on to make sure everything was in working order. And cue the water spewing. Fortunately, my wife had thought ahead and bought me some backup towels.

I took the P-trap off again and tried to attach it once more. I turned on the water. More leaking.

At this point, I had no choice but to direct blame to the person who was most responsible for this: “Why did you let me attempt home repair right before we go on vacation?” My wife did not respond. Based on her look, I can guess what her response might have been. And it was not going to be, “You’re right. My bad.”

I decided to leave well enough alone for now and fix it post-vacation, most likely with assistance from a neighbor who is in the plumbing business and probably knows about 8 billion more things about plumbing than I do.

When we went out to the car and saw the flat tire, my wife said, “Why don’t we take a different car.” I’m not saying that was an admission of her guilt in letting me attempt home repair. But she did agree that car repair was probably something that could wait a few days.

We left the broken pipe and the flat tire and had an enjoyable vacation, one in which I didn’t bother thinking about either problem even once. We’re back now, and I have gotten the tire fixed. I still need to fix the P-trap, but that will come in due time. If I need to find something to occupy my time with before I get around to it, I can always go replace light bulbs that are out.

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