Couch potato

My wife informed me the other day that she intended to buy a new sofa.

“But we already have a sofa,” I said.

She glared at me and said she didn’t want something that was old, worn out, dirty, out-of-style, and needed to be replaced in her house anymore. At least I THINK she was talking about the sofa.

She showed me the one she was getting and, after I was revived from passing out when I saw the price tag, I allowed that it was a nice sofa, and should make for some pleasant, comfortable afternoon naps.

“Oh, no,” she said. “You can’t lie on this sofa.”

Now hold on just a cotton-pickin’ minute here. I’m ok with the fact that we have entire cabinets full of dishes and china that I’m not allowed to use. I made peace with the fact that I’m not supposed to dry my hands (or anything else, apparently) on the perfectly usable hand towels in the downstairs bathroom. I’ve accepted that cutting my toenails in bed is not conducive to a harmonious household – though in my defense, I only did it on MY side of the bed.

Anyway, my point is, there are certain concessions and compromises you have to make in life. But what good is a sofa you can’t lie on?

I am not going to give up lying on the couch and watching sports on my ridiculously large TV. It’s one of my hobbies.

I’m kidding. It’s my ONLY hobby.

I made this point and my wife said that we could move the old sofa upstairs to the bonus room, and I could lie on it there. Well, there are a couple of problems with that. For one, our bonus room looks like a highway underpass where homeless people live, minus the homeless people. And more importantly, there is no TV in there.

Well, she says, we can “fix it up.” Get a new TV to go in there. Clear out my prized record album collection, to which I am very attached even though I haven’t had a working turntable since before the Berlin Wall fell.

I don’t think this bonus room thing is going to happen, and I think I’m going to be reduced to taking naps on the floor, next to the dog, who is flatulent and snores violently. This is not working out well for me – I’ve been tricked.

At least I got to approve the sofa purchase. You have to watch women or they’ll sneak stuff in on you when you’re not looking. I just happened to notice what appeared to be some new pictures hanging on the wall of the bathroom the other day, so I asked about them.

“Yes,” my wife said. “I bought new pictures.”

“But what was wrong with the pictures we had in there before?”

“They were old,” she said.

Uh, hello – have you ever been to a museum? EVERY picture in there is old. It’s what makes them good. Do you think they’re going to go and replace the Mona Lisa because somebody saw a cute picture of an Amish family having a picnic in Kirkland’s? If it’s good enough for The Louvre, it’s good enough for my loo.

Did cavemen go through this? I picture the following happening after a Neanderthal walks into his cave one day and looks around:

Man: “Honey, what happened to the picture I drew on the wall of me hunting a bison?”

Woman: “Oh, I got rid of that. I didn’t like it.”

Man: “OK, but do you realize that was, like, the first attempt at language in the history of man, and that one day historians and archaeologists can use it to learn how we lived?”

Woman: “It was old. Oh, and by the way, they’re delivering a new rock to the cave tomorrow. You can’t lie on it. We’re moving your old rock to the bonus cave.”

Hopefully he at least had a TV in there.

The old man and the garden

So it was time to plant the garden again. I planted butterbeans and squash and green beans and cucumbers and watermelons and I look forward to spending the next few weeks tending it carefully and boring people to death telling them about it.

I guess this is some sort of mid-life crisis thing, taking up gardening just before the age of 50. But hey, some guys get Corvettes, some guys run off with strippers. In comparison, my new vegetable obsession doesn’t seem so bad.

I learned some lessons last year, my first a full-time gardener. One was that deer love to eat peas, well before they are ready to be picked. Those SOBs ate every last plant, which is why I support hunting them to extinction.

I also learned that you need to study the seed packets carefully before planting. I grew some watermelons and they got to be about the size of a cantaloupe in a few weeks, and I thought mmmm, these are going to be good.

Then, for weeks after that, they remained the size of a cantaloupe, and finally I realized I had planted some variety of “dwarf” watermelons, and they weren’t going to get any bigger. Why is there even such a thing as a “dwarf” watermelon? Who eats these, Snow White?

I plant the garden on a patch of land out in Lamar County where my dad lives. He’s almost 86 and last year he assured me that he was done with gardening, and he was not going to plant anything this year. Month by month, his commitment to retiring from gardening began to erode. “Well, maybe a few tomatoes” became “I might plant some squash” then “I’m thinking about rowing some peppers” and so on. When I finally went to plant my portion, he had already plowed and planted enough to feed the population of Turkmenistan.

On the day of the planting, I took him to a follow-up doctor’s visit. While it is kind of cool to take advantage of the handicapped parking sticker on his car, these trips cab be a little discouraging. That’s when he seems older, a little more feeble every time, walking a little slower.

But out there in the garden, that all goes away. He’s out there manhandling the tiller up and down the rows to turn the ground and hardly breaking a sweat. Out there in his element, he doesn’t look like an old man at all. He looks like my daddy. Meanwhile, I used that tiller for about an hour and it made me so sore I needed help combing my hair for the next two days.

As I prepared to re-till the ground for planting, I asked my dad if he had any gloves. He looked at me kind of funny and said, “No. Why?” I said well, I just thought I’d use some, because last time I did this I got blisters.  He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face pretty much communicated “You’re a sissy.” Hey, I have delicate hands. Does that make me a sissy?

Don’t answer that.

Anyway, the seeds are in the ground, the anticipation has begun, and it won’t be long before I’ll be complaining about all the work this stupid garden has created and how much my back hurts and wondering why I can’t just be satisfied with eating green beans from a can. And I’ll be loving every minute of it.

Being neighborly

We had some new neighbors move in last week, a couple that appears to be about our age. I’ve met them both and they seem like perfectly nice people, but I’m going to reserve judgment because they could turn out to be something terrifying, like serial killers or swingers or Tennessee fans. They were wearing shoes and I didn’t need Honey Boo Boo-type subtitles to understand them when they talked, so I can probably eliminate the Tennessee angle.

It should be a nice change, because that house has been a nightmare next door for several years. First there was a couple that apparently suffered from agoraphobia, and neglected the front lawn until it became nothing but weeds and rocks. There’s more grass in Willie Nelson’s pocket than there is in that yard. After they moved out they started renting the house to a succession of rednecks who would move in, live for a while, and then escape under the cover of darkness.

There are some nice neighbors around me, on the other side and across the street, and although I like them and talk to them frequently, I couldn’t tell you any of their last names at gunpoint. These new folks have already worked on the lawn and spread pine straw and pressure-washed the house, so I think we might get along. But while it is nice to have neighbors who view their front yard as something other than a place to park their cars, I realize I’m going to have to adjust my behaviors.

For example, in the warmer months, I have been known to walk outside in only my boxer shorts after dark to get something out of the car or throw something in the trash can. My wife really wishes I wouldn’t do this – not because she’s afraid someone will see me half-naked, but because she doesn’t want people to know I wear Sponge-Bob Squarepants underwear.

I may also have to curtail my anti-squirrel crusade in the back yard. I like to sit out back on the patio when I’m grilling something, drink a nice cold beverage, and shoot at these despicable varmints with a .BB gun. It’s not powerful enough to do them any harm, but it is fun to watch them jump up in the air in surprise when I score a direct hit. Anyway, I can imagine how this will probably look to the neighbors.

Then there is my annual late winter-early spring backyard fire, which is also harmless and quite probably illegal.  I basically gather all of the sticks and limbs and leaves that have accumulated over the past year and put them in a pile, and then I pull up a nice lawn chair, get some lighter fluid and matches, and let the fun begin.

The highlight always comes when I toss the Christmas tree on top. Let me tell you, a Leyland Cypress that’s been lying in the yard, drying out for three months, lights up like a Saturn rocket when it’s tossed into the flames. The last time I did it, a legion of warriors from Gondor rode up and offered to help me in battle (that one was just for you Lord of the Rings fans).

I think I’m going to go ahead and have my fire this year and just see what happens. I may get some marshmallows and graham crackers and Hershey bars and keep them on hand, so if the cops show up I can say I was just making S’mores for me and Lucky.

I guess I’ll try to act decent for a while and not scare these poor people away. Maybe at some point, I’ll ever learn their last names.

Daddy Day care

I am at that age where the tables of life are turned and I am, along with my brother, becoming the caregiver for my daddy.

He’s doing pretty well, actually, to be 85, but he’s needed some help recently because of medical issues. This helps consists mostly of driving him to doctor’s appointments in Atlanta. He still drives, and would probably drive up there by himself if we would let him, but I would not feel comfortable with him driving on the interstate unless they closed the whole thing down first, like they do for the president, and installed bumper guards on the guardrails. 

He has officially entered cute old man stage. Women love cute old men and flirt with them shamelessly. He of course plays into this by flirting back and saying pretty much anything that pops into his head, to anybody, at any time. Nurses and waitresses and office workers just laugh and smile at him. Part of the charm seems to be that he wears suspenders. Us average-looking middle-aged men get no attention at all when a cute old man is around.

I took him to the hospital recently for a procedure. He was talking to a woman who was checking him in, and somehow it came out that her grandmother and he grew up in the same town. She wondered if maybe my dad knew her grandmother. I don’t know to politely say this, but in a small south Georgia town in the 1930s – well, it’s just not likely that daddy and this woman’s grandmother hung out much, you know?

But then the nice lady says “Here, I’ll show you a picture,” and hands a photo to my daddy. I held my breath, waiting to see what he would say.

He perused the photo and said, “She’s a nice-looking woman.”

Phew.

Then as he handed it back to the lady he said, “She was a big woman, just like you.”

Oh Lord.

The nice lady just laughed and said, “Oh, Mr. Williams, you’re just too much!”

She seemed to not mind that he had just called her fat. I guess it was the suspenders.

These long car rides to the doctor’s offices are not so bad. It gives us some time to talk. He had a great interest in the price of gasoline despite the fact he probably only has to fill his tank up once a month, as little as he drives now. We talk about the Braves and the weather and our respective dogs, etc. When I’m taking him back home, he’ll point out where I need to turn to get to his house, which is helpful, because I only lived there for about TEN YEARS and I might have forgotten.

I am hopeful that my kids will help me out one day when I need them, though they’re still at that cute age where you pretty much have to pull a gun on them to get them to turn on the dishwasher or bring in groceries from the car. I imagine they’ll be nice to me until they figure out their inheritance is going to work out to about $17.50 apiece.

Well, here’s hoping I have a good, long time left to take Daddy to the doctor or to the Cracker Barrel or wherever he needs to go, and that someday, when I start wearing suspenders of my own, I’ll have somebody to take me.

Emptying the nest

I dropped my youngest child off at college this week. I had been denying to myself for about 18 years that this day would ever come, but time marches on – or rather, rolls over you like a Panzer division - and there I was.

While my wife had been a sobbing mess for the previous week, I had decided to be a man and be strong and not cry like some sort of blubbering fool. I mean, this was a good thing – the boy was embarking on a new adventure, going out to seize the world, and I was going to be able to pour milk on my cereal without worrying how much of his slobber was going to land on my Corn Flakes (never could stop him from drinking directly from the carton).

I held up pretty well throughout the day, cracking jokes and complaining about how much stuff he brought. Just before we left him, he unpacked his Bible and put it by his bed, because he reads from it every night after spending about eight hours of shooting people on his X-box (a slight contradiction, but who am I to question?). Well, that got to me a little bit, but I just pretended I was coming down with a cold, slipped him some cash, hugged him and headed out.

I was still ok when I got home, but later that night, a little bit before it was time for bed, the damn stupid dog did me in. For a long time Lucky has slept in the room with David every night, curling up on her doggie bed and lying still for so long we’ve come close to burying her twice. But this night, she was just lying there outside his door, waiting for him, and when I walked by she gave me the “shelter face” and I could almost hear a Sarah McClachlan song in the background, and, well, it was all too much.

I remember my mother crying when I went off to college, and I remember humoring her but thinking it was ridiculous that she should cry over that. I imagine she was looking down on me from Heaven laughing at my fool self that night.

Why is this so sad? I don’t know. I suppose I’ll get over it soon – I felt the same way when Allie went off for the first time, but eventually got used to it. I’m not sure poor Lucky is going to recover for quite some time, however.

I was at the track the other night and I saw a man with his younger daughter, pushing her on the swings, and I resisted the urge to go tell him, “Don’t get too attached to her. She’s gonna move out and break your heart someday.”

Well, all you can do is try hard to raise them right and make sure they grow up to be good human beings who won’t try to put you in a nursing home the first time you twist your ankle. I take solace in knowing that both my kids are much better people than I was at their age.

It does seem like yesterday – you’ll have to forgive me for my use of clichés – that I would come home from work and be met at the front door by a little fella holding a plastic baseball bat or a NERF football, waiting patiently for me to get changed so we could go out to the front yard and enjoy the rest of the remaining daylight. One day my wife told me that some boys had come and tried to get him to go play with them, but he told them no, he didn’t want to, he was waiting for his dad to come home and he’d rather play with him.

(I will pause here for a moment so you can wipe your eyes. I’ll do the same).

I can tell you that I never minded or turned down those play sessions. Even though I’m gonna need rotator cuff surgery eventually for all the deep passes I threw, it was worth it. I raised a fine young man, and some day he’ll have kids of his own (not too soon, son, if you’re reading this), and I can just about guarantee you he won’t say no when he’s asked to go play catch.

Don't be an a-hole!

I am now frighteningly close to 50 years old, and that has caused me to undergo some serious self-examination.

No, I don’t mean looking for new places from where hair is now sprouting. (Seriously, what’s up with that? I think if men could live to be 200 years old, we’d be covered in hair like an ape. I bet Methuselah resembled a Tibetan yak when he finally kicked the bucket).

I’m talking about the need to examine the type of person I’ve become, or person that I was all along, and am just now really realizing it. Let me give you an example:

The other day, I was running on the trail at a nearby elementary school, when I see this guy with a big dog. I immediately got agitated, because dogs aren’t allowed at this park, and there are signs posted everywhere to that effect, but this guy apparently just ignored it. But I decided to let it go, figuring he didn’t know any better.

Then I came around the corner and his dog –a big one, probably around 70 pounds – was running around without a leash. I came close to saying something but was still going to remain quiet, until the dog made a couple of kamikaze runs at my legs and knocked me off balance. I snatched out my earbuds, turned around and yelled at the guy “Hey, there’s no dogs allowed here. There are signs all over the place.”

The man said, “Really? I used to be able to bring my dog here.”

“Well, you can’t now,” I said. “And especially not on a leash. You can’t let a dog run anywhere in the county without a leash, dude.” Yes, I called him “dude”. And having told this fella what’s what, I haughtily snapped my earbuds back in place and did another lap.

When I came back around, I noticed he was sitting on a bench, and his dog was nowhere to be found. Well, this was ridiculous, I thought. He’s just going to ignore me and the signs and let his dog run around and terrorize people. So I walked over to have a word.

As I got closer, I noticed this man was pretty old – probably at least 75. He was sweating profusely, and as I got close he looked at me with a very sad expression.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I haven’t been here in 7 years and I didn’t’ know they had banned dogs from the park.” I said OK, no problem, then he said, “I can’t get him to come back. I just adopted him from the shelter a few weeks ago and he doesn’t mind me yet. I’m afraid I’m too old to go chase him.”

Well, now I was feeling lower than a frog’s ankle. I saw the dog a few feet away, near a creek, and I was able to go over and grab him and hold him while the man came over. He thanked me profusely and apologized again, and I nodded and ran off before he had a chance to tell me that his wife had just died or his other dog had gotten run over or something else that would make me feel even worse.

So I got to thinking as I continued my run, and a very troubling question popped into my brain and it wouldn’t go away, even when I put Van Halen on my iPod and turned the volume up to 11, and the question was this: Am I an a-hole?

I think it’s quite possible. I certainly acted like one toward that old man. And it’s not the first time I’ve done that.

There was a woman who worked downstairs in the cafeteria in my office building. She would dip the vegetables, and she was frighteningly slow and confused most of the time. You asked for squash, she’d give you corn. You asked for butterbeans, you might get cabbage. You get the picture.

I would get very frustrated with this woman, roll my eyes, say things under my breath, and generally act like – well, an a-hole. I remember once I actually muttered, “Is it really that hard?” I must have said it louder than I thought, cause I looked around at the other people in the line, and they were all staring at me like I’d just stepped on a kitten.

So one day, I was going through the checkout line, and there was a framed photo of the woman by the cash register, and I heard the cashier telling the customer in front of me that the lady had died the previous weekend. Feeling a bit abashed, I asked the cashier what had happened.

“Oh, she had Lou Gehrig’s Disease,” she said. “Poor thing, she just didn’t want to be stuck at home, so she kept working for as long as she could. We sure do miss her. She was the sweetest thing.”

Holy Crap. Lou Gehrig’s Disease? What kind of an a-hole would fuss at a woman fighting Lou Gehrig’s Disease? (In my defense, I didn’t KNOW she had that – but still).

So maybe I really am just an a-hole. I don’t have a reason to be. I complain about my job, but I know some folks who have been out of work for a long time and are desperate to find a job. I get frustrated because my back and stomach have hurt every day for 3 ½ years, but I have some friends who are fighting cancer, and they aren’t letting it get them down at all.

I actually got angry the other day when the DVR messed up and I missed about 15 minutes of the golf tournament I was watching. Think about that – I’m sitting in an air-conditioned house, watching a TV screen the size of a billboard, a bag of chips on my lap, and I’m able to hit the pause button so I can leave the room and never miss a second of what I’m watching – and it made me angry that I had to miss 15 minutes of millionaires hitting balls around a big green pasture.

There are other instances. There are probably drive-through windows all over metro Atlanta with my photo on the wall and the words “Be on the lookout for this impatient a-hole” underneath. There quite likely are photos taken by traffic cams that could be used against me in a political campaign because of the gestures I used. And God help me if any of the other drivers are lip-readers.

Now, again in my defense, there have been some a-holes through history who accomplished some great things. These include:

• King Herod, who allegedly killed a lot of babies, but also built some really cool things in Jerusalem.
• Gen. George Patton, who slapped a shell-shocked soldier in the face, but killed a lot of Nazis.
• Musicians such as John Lennon, Neil Young and Elvis Costello, who often weren’t much fun to be around but who made some of the greatest albums of all time.

Of course, I haven’t accomplished anything, so maybe I really need to just stop being an a-hole altogether. I have no excuse. I might some day get cancer or Lou Gehrig’s disease or a big dog I can’t control – wait, I already have that one – and the last thing I’ll want to deal with if any of that happens is some a-hole.

How does my garden grow?

When I was growing up, my dad always planted a big vegetable garden. Being a stupid teenager (I know – redundant), I thought this was pure folly. After all, you could get pretty much any vegetable you wanted at the grocery store. All you needed was a can opener.

But he’d come home from his job at the General Motors assembly plant and get out there and plow up rows and plant seeds and hoe out the weeds. He’d grow butterbeans and peas and squash and cucumbers and okra, none of which I liked to eat. I pretty much lived off of Burger King. Had he planted Whoppers and french fries, I might have been interested.

The few times I’d actually pull myself away from watching Gilligan’s Island and look out there, it almost appeared that he was enjoying himself. I thought he must be insane.

However, the good part was, he pretty much left me out of it – until, that is, the vegetables were actually picked. Then HIS hobby became MY hobby, because all those beans and peas had to be shelled. Maybe I didn’t have the inclination – or sense – to get out and actually help in the garden, but I had two working thumbs, so I was expected to participate in the shelling process.

It was really kind of a social thing. We’d go visit people sometimes, and my late mother would grab a bucket and start shelling butterbeans while they talked. I shelled while watching Braves’ games or just sitting on the back porch talking to mom, shelled until my thumbs bled and my fingernails turned green. It was just part of life.

I grew out of my teenage years, so my brain became fully-formed and I realized that I actually enjoy eating vegetables, and that they’re so much better when they’re fresh. If I went to Burger King now I’d need to order a defibrillator as a side dish.

And this year, at the age of don’t-worry-about-it, I decided to plant a garden of my own – peas, squash, cucumbers, okra, and watermelon. My garden is planted right alongside that of my dad’s, on his land down in Lamar County. One half is mine.

I was going to plant pole beans, but dad informed me that you had to plant those next to a pole, so they’ll grow. Well, who knew THAT was why they called them pole beans? I just thought they were discovered in Poland or something.

I decided this would be a fun thing to do with my father. He’s 84 now, and I thought it would be a way to spend some quality time together. It’s hard to talk to him in the house, because he keeps the TV set at roughly the decibel level of a Black Sabbath concert. I’m going to have to learn sign language to communicate with him before long.

I had great plans to do a lot of stress-relieving, out-in-the-open work in this garden of mine – till the ground, put up some posts and wire and hang some things to keep the deer out, etc. I researched this thoroughly, meaning I Googled “Best way to grow vegetables in Georgia.” I was ready.

I went down to my garden spot to discover my father had already tilled the ground, put up posts, strung some wire, and hung some soap to keep the deer away. Then he proceeded to show me how to plant seeds - break up the ground, put in some fertilizer, mix it in, open the ground back up, put in the seeds, cover it up. Well, duh. What am I, a moron? Who didn’t know that? I DO have access to the Internet, you know.

I started working on my row, and then I looked up and my dad was at the other end of the row, opening up the ground with some sort of garden tool. It was 80 degrees and the sun was beating down and he was sweating – and did I mention he’s 84 YEARS OLD? – and I told him to stop, I would handle it, I knew how to do it.

Why was he giving me so much help? Well, half because he wanted to be helpful, and half because he suspects I’m an idiot who can’t do anything. He thinks this, in part, because he knew me when I was a teenager and a young adult, when I was an idiot who couldn’t do anything. And also, that’s sort of the default position for a father when he thinks of his son.

So I put out my fertilizer, and dropping my seeds on the ground when he looked at me and said, “Did you open the ground back up?” Well, no, matter of fact, I had not. “What are you, a moron?” he said.

Well anyway, I got the suckers planted, and when I went down to check on the garden a couple of weeks later, there were little green sprouts coming out of the ground. Dad is watering them for me, and I’m assuming that at some point they’ll get taller and I’ll have peas to shell and watermelons to cut and squash to – well, I don’t really know what you do to squash, but I can Google it.

Then I can get me a pan, fill it full of peas, turn on the Braves’ game and start working my thumbs while wishing my mom was there for me to talk to. I can hardly wait.