Category: Uncategorized

Just wanted to reach out from the other coast and offer all of you understandably hurt Chargers fans a possible path back to professional football. As the recently self-appointed fan spokesperson for the Atlanta Falcons, I invite all scorned Chargers fans to Rise Up and hop on the Falcons bandwagon. We don’t have much history — only 10 games against each other ever. So we don’t have a rocky past. You know there’s no way you could possibly shift to the Chiefs or Broncos or Raiders. Too much history. We’re a lovely fanbase with a brand spanking new stadium starting next year. And Samuel L. Jackson is in our hype video. What’s not to love? So come on Charger, fans. Become Falcons fans. It’s only about a four-hour flight, which is probably about the same amount of time you’d spend in LA traffic. Look forward to seeing y’all.

We have floors again.

Well, we’ve had floors all along. It’s not like we ever lived on the edge of a bottomless pit. But we recently had new flooring put in, and I am pleased that (a) it is over and (b) my wife is happy with the results.

We have lived in our house for more than two years. But we leased for the first two, and just recently purchased it from the previous owner. Since we were leasing, we hadn’t done a lot of interior work because, let’s face it, not many folks remodel other people’s homes.

We had carpets in most of the downstairs, along with tile in the kitchen and hardwood in a hallway. My wife wanted a hardwood laminate throughout the downstairs. Works for me.

I’ll spare you the details of the task of picking out the flooring, mainly because it was me letting my wife pick out what she wanted. And that’s not because she doesn’t want my input. It’s because I don’t really care what the flooring is. You could cover my floors in gym mats and I probably wouldn’t notice.

My wife and I went into the flooring place to set up the installation schedule. Jeff, our salesman, said he could do it the following Wednesday. “You mean the Wednesday before Christmas?” I asked. He assured me that was no problem whatsoever, and they’d be in and out before Christmas.

I wasn’t totally sold on the possibility of having our Christmas morning be amidst construction debris, but Jeff assured us it was fine.

Deep breath.

The night before the installers were to arrive, my wife and I set about prepping the house. We moved anything that was not needed downstairs upstairs. Which means we moved 439 pairs of my daughter’s shoes up to her room.

My wife then said, “We need to vacuum before they get here.”

I responded, “You know they are tearing up all of this carpet and hauling it away tomorrow, right?”

My wife looked at me. With one of those looks. I went and got the vacuum.

Our next move was to relocate our small dog’s bed upstairs. Our dogs are exceptionally helpful when workers are around, to the point that they will often maintain physical contact with, say, someone trying to install our cable. Thus, when workers are over, we move them up to our room.

Maddux the Stoic is a boxer with a great big crate he sleeps in at night, but he’s also fine without it. We can just move him upstairs sans bed and he’s fine sleeping at the foot of our bed. Murphy the Excitable Dachshund, however, when moved upstairs, just wanders our room looking for something of familiarity. To your bed, sir.

The workers arrived around 8:30 the next morning. By about 9, it looked as if my house had been simultaneously ransacked and hit with a grenade. All of the furniture was stacked together in a small pile on one side of the house. Our kitchen floor was now just a collection of pried up broken tile pieces. This is fine, I said. This will all work out before Christmas, I said. My wife had gone into the office by then. She texted me and asked me how it was going. I sent her a picture of the kitchen. “This will all work out before Christmas,” I said.

They then began cutting up and removing the carpet. They did not tell me how nice it looked being freshly vacuumed, but I am sure they noticed.

I decided I would do what contractors most appreciate and get out of their way for a while.

I came back a few hours later to see how they were coming with the undoing of my house. I walked in the door and there was … a new floor. On like half the house. I sent a picture to my wife. I am not sure she believed it.

They finished that evening with all but the den left. They wrapped that up the next morning in a few hours. Job done, start to finish, in just over a day. Jeff was right. Never doubt Jeff.

The floors look great, and my wife is over the moon with how it looks. The only negative comments we have received are from the dogs, who have made it very clear that this new ice-like surface we have installed means they must seek refuge on couches or in their beds. They would have really preferred we had gone with gym mats.

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.

 

My wife and I are both 44 years old. We have been fortunate to have six wonderful parents in our lives since we first met more than 20 years ago.

Now, we have five.

My father-in-law, Ron, passed away after a noble and valiant battle with cancer. I will not say that he lost his battle. It was a tie. When he died, the cancer died, too. He fought too hard to be considered a loser in this scrum, and I refuse to give cancer a win. This was his fourth bout with cancer, so you know what? I’m calling Ron the series winner in this. 3-0-1 in my book.

In case you are wondering, we have six parents because my wife’s parents remarried some 30 years ago. But my wife did not get step parents. She always referred to them as bonus parents, because she was fortunate enough to have two new equally awesome people enter her life and love and care for her just as her parents did. And I am fortunate to have been given the gift of four additional parents when we were married.

Ron Heckman was a great father, a great husband, a great grandfather, and just a great man. The world is a little less great without him here.

We knew he was declining rapidly, and my family went to visit him over Thanksgiving. My wife had been spending much of the previous month in Atlanta with her dad, as she should have. We hoped and prayed for many more Thanksgivings together, but we saw the writing on the wall, and we wanted to ensure the kids were able to spend one last moment with Pop.

He was frail and weak, and it was obvious the toll that was being taken on his body. But the smile that came across his face when his grandkids were there was something cancer could not suppress. They brought him joy that could not be defeated.

My daughter was his first grandchild, and I am fairly certain that he went to his final resting place knowing the only reason the moon was in the sky was because she hung it there. He loved her singing more than anything, and he used to embarrass her to no end with his love of her voice. Ron never met a stranger in his life, and he could be in line at the grocery store and strike up a conversation with the person next to him. If Allie was there, he would begin telling them what a beautiful singer she was. You don’t know how many times he put her on the spot, asking her to sing in the middle of Kroger for some random stranger. I always chuckled at how proud he was of her, and how he wanted to share it with everyone he met. During his last few weeks, he spent a good amount of time in the hospital. And he played videos of Allie singing to every nurse and doctor who came in the room. Pop had to share his granddaughter’s gift with everyone.

He loved the fact that my son loved sports, and he loved taking him to ball games. We all went to a Falcons game on my birthday, Oct. 2. In retrospect, it is one of the greatest birthday gifts I have ever had. He loved playing catch with him or watching YouTube clips of awesome sports plays that Parker wanted to show him. He was a diehard Georgia Tech and Georgia State fan, but knew how much Parker loved Alabama football, and would text him or call him during Bama games when something awesome happened for the Tide. I’m not sure how many Bama games he watched 10 years ago, but I know that when his grandson became a diehard fan, glued to every Bama game, so was Pop. The last thing he said to my son, holding his hand tightly, as we were preparing to head back home after Thanksgiving, was, “I love you, boy. Roll Tide.”

Most of all, he loved his daughter. I am the luckiest man on the planet to have the wife I do, and I remind myself of that every day. And there is now a void in her life that will never be filled. I’ve rehearsed a thousand comforting things to tell my wife, but I know there is nothing I can ever say that will make the pain of her dad no longer being here go away. They were as close as a father and daughter can be. They talked every day. They talked at any hour she needed him. When our daughter was a baby, she decided she would sleep roughly never. As my wife and I were finding out that being parents of a colicky baby was no fun, I remember plenty of nights at 3 or 4 in the morning when she would call her dad. Because she needed him. And he was always there. I would like to say I will fill that void, but the truth is, try as I might, I can never do that. No one can fill Ron’s shoes.

Ron’s funeral will be held at Eastminster Presbyterian Church, the church where my wife and I were married. On May 2, 1998, he walked his daughter down the aisle, the proverbial “giving away” of his daughter. As my wife and I took our vows, I know he was letting a piece of his daughter away, as dads have to do. I made a promise that day. And I will keep it, Ron. I promise. Rest easy. You’ve earned it. And you won.

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.

I was heading out the door for work the other morning, and I found myself missing one tiny little thing that was kinda critical to getting to work: The key to my car.

Now, most people would just grab their spare key and head on from there. Unfortunately, my spare key decided to head out on its own several years ago to a destination unknown, so I have been operating with a single key for quite some time. My wife and I looked all over the house, and could not find my car key. And a meeting was fast approaching.

Being the forward thinking guy I am, I told my wife, “I’ve got to take your car.” She reminded me that she, too, was about to go to work, so we found ourselves in a fun game of “Whose Next Meeting is More Important?” There are no winners in this game.

My wife, being the quick thinking problem solver she is, called a co-worker who agreed to pick her up.

Not having my key led to another obstacle, however. My wallet was in my car. As were my work keys. (Yes, they are on separate key rings. I don’t need a lecture. Again.)

I went into work for the meeting, and headed straight back home afterwards. I am a creature of habit, and I always pitch my keys in the same spot. But perhaps I deviated from my usual routine. Perhaps it was in my pocket and I pulled out something else, flinging it to the ground. Perhaps it fell into a grocery bag and got pitched in the trash. Perhaps one of my kids saw the key and said, “Hey, you know what you would be fun? Throwing Dad’s key on top of the cabinet and making him sweat it for a while.”

Guess where my key wasn’t? The trash, the cabinet, and 83,000 other places where I could have possibly passed by the night before (and that includes the dryer, the clothes hamper, and several drawers I may or may not have opened). I searched my car as best I could from the outside, but could not see every nook and cranny, so there was still hope that it was inside the locked car.

I called the dealership and explained my predicament. I asked if I could come in and get a new key. No problem, they said. Just bring the car up there and they would get a new one programmed. I had this conversation:

ME: Wait, you need the care there?

THEM: Yes. We have to program it here.

ME: But I don’t have a key.

THEM: Hmmm. Guess you’ll have to have it towed. And we will need your ID.

ME: But that’s locked in the car.

THEM: Hmm.

ME: Can you make a key that will at least open the car?

THEM: Sure! It will unlock the car, but you won’t be able to drive it. Just make sure you bring some ID.

ME: Sigh.

Knowing I could not bring my driver’s licence (let’s just overlook the fact that I was having to drive without one for the better part of a day, OK?), I gathered up as much information as I could to prove who I was. I brought my birth certificate, a copy of my car tax bill, a newspaper column with my name and picture on it, and a badge from a conference I attended a few months back. Because no one can dispute a statewide arts conference badge.

When I arrived at the dealership, I shared my story and presented my proof of who I was. He glanced momentarily at the pile and said, “Do you have the VIN?” Apparently, he didn’t think I was someone who needed intense vetting to prove who I was. And I guess most seasoned car thieves don’t bring reams of paperwork to a dealership to get a key that won’t actually start the car. I handed him my car tax bill, and about two minutes later, he returned with a metal key that would, in fact, open my car.

Alas, when I opened it, no key. When my wife got home from work, she began the search for the key and started looking in all the places I had already looked. No key.

I needed to remove myself from the search, as I was becoming just a smidge testy, and had resigned myself to getting my car towed and buying a new key. “Well, you’re not going to have it towed there tonight,” my wife said. “Just relax.” I hate it when she’s right.

I headed out to the store, and about two minutes later got a text from her. “Found it.”

My key had fallen snugly in a chair, resting against the cushion and some slats. My wife was able to find it because she has the patience of Job and the detective skills of Columbo. I, meanwhile, have the patience of a puppy and the detective skills of Inspector Clouseau.

Fortunately, the key is back now, in its usual spot. I think I will go and get a spare made at some point so I can have that backup should the need arise. Most likely, I will do this just in time to lose my original key.

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.

There are a lot of places I don’t go in life. Some of those are because I have good sense and know to avoid them. Others, however, are because I just don’t really have occasion to go there. For example, jewelry stores. (I know, my lucky wife.)

I identified another locale I am vastly unfamiliar with recently. For only the second time in 25 years I visited a laundromat. They are fine places that offer a valuable service, and I’m glad they are here for anyone and everyone. It’s just that, much like jewelry stores, I’ve not been to many.

The last time was about 10 years ago. We were fortunate enough to have a horrid flea infestation, and in order to eradicate them we had to wash every bit of clothing and bedding we had. (I would have burned everything in a large bonfire in the yard, but local ordinances wouldn’t allow that.)

The time prior to that was when I was in college and I had to go to a nearby laundromat and explain to them that (a) I had not been to the laundromat and that (b) that check that just got returned had handwriting surprisingly similar to my roommate’s.

Unfortunately, our dryer was damaged recently, and its repair would not be complete for a few days. I took a quick poll of the house. “Can everyone make it through the next few days without washing clothes?” No, was the general consensus. For what it’s worth, I found that amazing, as if you saw their closets and dressers, you would feel pretty confident they would have enough clothes until roughly 2034.

So I told everyone to gather up the bare basics of what they would need to get them through a few days. And I gave very strict rules: It must be dirty or stinky, and it must be worn next week. I don’t care if you have to put a pair of shorts over those newly cleaned jeans. If I wash it, it’s getting worn.

So a few observations from the laundromat:

• I came in with about $3 in quarters in my pocket. I am a fool. A wash load costs $8.75, which, by my estimate, is more than $3. Also, that is for a 20-minute wash. Thus, washing machines make $26.25/hour, which translates to around $54K a year in salary. Feel free to compare yourself accordingly to a washing machine.
• I had no idea what I was doing. As I fumbled around trying to figure out how to start the washer, it occurred to me that I was not totally certain I was at a washer. I turned around and noticed several folks staring at me. I looked toward an older woman and said sheepishly, “This is the washer, right?” She smiled and nodded, with a bit of a “you poor thing” look.
• Once I confirmed that is was the washer and loaded my clothes, I went to close the washer door. It bounced back at me. Slammed it again. Bounce. “Turn the handle,” the older woman said. Good call. Sure enough, there was a handle on the door that, when turned, very much prevented it from bouncing back.
• You cannot use just the dryers there. You wanna use the dryers? Oh, you are going to use that $8.75/load washer first.
• I believe a federal law should immediately be implemented in which every laundromat should have wifi available. Or require there to be a Pizza Hut with free wifi next door, as this one has. Thanks, Pizza Hut!
• I do not know laundromat etiquette, so I just sat there quietly. Case in point — a woman was removing things from a dryer and an article of clothing fell on the floor. My first thought was to say, “Ma’am…” But then I stopped. What if it was some unwritten code of the laundromat, in particular for a man letting a woman know a pair of her underwear was on the floor. I figured silence and a focus on my computer screen was the best option. The woman next to me did say, “Ma’am,” caught her attention and pointed at the floor. But I still don’t know if it was OK for me to do so.
• I do, however, know personal space etiquette. And you know who violated it? The little girl who was watching YouTube videos on her phone and repeatedly drifted over about three inches from me, leaning very much into my personal space, craning her neck at my screen.
• You know how at a restaurant, if a baby starts crying, there will inevitably be a few people rather annoyed at that? Yeah, not at the laundromat. A baby started crying and the laundromat turned into maternal central. There were moms and grandmothers converging on the child, cooing and tickling and offering colorful magazines and singing and what not. It was actually quite sweet. Almost made me regret loudly stating, “Would someone please quiet that baby down. I’m trying to launder.”

So I successfully navigated the waters of the laundromat. I am glad that, should I need to visit one again soon, I will be well prepared for it. But I’m still not ready for the jewelry store.

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.

 

After two years of living on the coast, we have experienced our first named tropical system to directly impact us in the form of our good friend Hermine.

Fortunately, we just got lots of wind and rain, and only lost power for a few hours. But I learned a few things over the course of the storm:

• I already knew many people can’t drive. They can’t drive even more during storms. And the main way they become infinitely worse drivers occurs when traffic lights go out. Folks, it’s simple: If the intersection you are approaching has actual traffic lights, but the traffic lights are not on, it becomes a four-way stop. Simple as that. And even if you choose to ignore that fairly basic rule, could you at least slow down a little when you barrel through the unregulated traffic intersection?
• The beach is as fun as you would expect. During one break in the storm, I told my wife that I was going to run down to the beach with my son and one of the dogs to see what the ocean looked like. She had that look on her face that she has a lot. The break in the storm lasted far less than I thought, and as we were walking up to the beach, the rains started again. And this was a blinding, stinging rain. “Daddy, it hurts!” said my son. “That means it’s working!” I said. When we got right up to the beach access, the swirling winds were picking up sand and whipping it at us, giving us a lovely sand blasting. My dog is still not speaking to me. And my car smells like wet, angry dog.
• I have found my wife’s tolerance for tropical weather, and it’s right at whatever level Hermine was at when it rolled over Charleston. During one point in the day, as the winds were swirling and the rain was going sideways and the trees were whipping back and forth, she said to me, “You know, this is just a tropical depression. The moment someone says the word ‘hurricane’ I’m hitting the road.” I noticed she didn’t say “we” were hitting the road. I think she is allowing for the real possibility I say, “Eh, let’s go have a look at the beach first.” And she’ll give me that look. And then promptly evacuate.
• Speaking of those swaying trees, I am not sure why I (and probably you) have a fascination with watching the trees sway back and forth in heavy winds. At one point, I was standing in our front yard, watching trees go back and forth, and I said to myself, “What exactly am I doing this for?”
• Kids getting a weather day off from school? Awesome! Kids cooped up at home on a weather day? Not awesome. When my daughter said she wanted to go to a friend’s house, my wife said, “Allie, you are not driving over there.” Being the quick thinking problem solver I am, I said, “But I’ll drive you over there.” My wife gave me her other look, the one that says, “Maybe he’s got a couple of brain cells still functioning.”
• A power outage is a good reason to try a new restaurant. We opted for an Irish pub near our house. My son ordered what he thought was burgers and mashed potatoes. It was bangers and mash, which is slightly different. When it arrived, he saw the sausage piled on top of the mashed potatoes, and he said, “Um, where is the burger?” I said, “You ordered bangers and…” My wife cut me off. She did a masterful mom misdirection and started describing the fantastic Irish offering he had been served and did some kind of voodoo sleight of hand only moms can do. In no time, his plate was cleaned.
• I had to run into work to take care of something, and I am reminded how much fun it is driving in high winds, in particular on tall bridges. I cross the Ravenel Bridge to get to work, which is roughly 83 miles up in the air. Local news estimated the winds at 40+ mph. If that’s the case, I am fairly certain that 50 mph can pick up a Honda Civic up and carry it away Wizard of Oz style.

So we have literally weathered the storm, and hopefully things will be back to normal in no time. I’m sure there will be another tropical storm event in our future. I just hope I get a chance to check out the ocean before I have to catch up with my wife’s evacuation.

 

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.

 

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.

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.

 

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.

 

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.

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.