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Dents in the Van

Dents in the Van

I used to deliver flowers. It was a great job for someone who needed some extra money but can’t work all day. After school I would run by the flower shop to pick up the deliveries, and after thinking about the best route, I would be paid to drive around the city, listen to the radio and have happy people greet me when I showed up with flowers.

It really is a cool thing to have people thank you for doing your job. It’s like I sent them the flowers, and everyone is so excited when they get them. It’s not like I paid for them – I’m just the messenger. I guess the saying about don’t shoot the messenger also works in reverse. Why do they thank the messenger?

In this state, people really don’t tip well. I don’t know why we are so cheap, but this is a complaint I often hear from those who are paid poorly, using the excuse of tips to pay someone way below minimum wage. Waiters, waitresses, or do you call them waitpersons, delivery people like the pizza man, and yes, the flower delivery person are usually short-changed around here. I delivered thousands of beautiful bouquets, and I got tipped once. What was the grand tip? A quarter.

I understand being parsimonious, but a quarter? It was really an insult, and the contradiction here is I think I would rather have not received a tip. I often feel this way about being paid poorly; sometimes I would rather be volunteering my time than receiving a ridiculously low payment for something. Again, it doesn’t seem to make much sense, but that’s the way I feel.

The scariest delivery ever was at a really nice house. This may have been where I got the quarter. I was a little distracted though, since the owners had a Doberman pincer. This dog was very interested in protecting the property, but I usually get along well with dogs. I can proudly say I have never been bit by a strange dog – just my own pets. This dog barked fiercely as I approached the door, and as I rang the doorbell, the Doberman began trying to bit my leg. Two things saved me here; I was wearing incredibly tight jeans, and the dog was trying to bite my thigh. Luckily his teeth just kept slipping off the tight denim, and the owner answered before blood was drawn.

I liked delivering flowers so much during my high school years that I applied for the same job when I went to college. Again it really worked well with my schedule. The only problem with this job is the little old lady who owned the flower shop also liked her grandkids to help out. So when I get the job of washing and vacuuming out the van, guess who gets to come along and help?

The twelve-year old grandson thought it would be great to help clean the van, but I wasn’t very excited to be baby-sitting. There really wasn’t anything he could do to help, which gave him a little time to hatch a plan. While he watched me wash the outside, he decided it would be a really good idea to let him pull the van up to the vacuums.

When I finished the wash, I opened the door and saw him sitting in the driver’s seat. He begged me to let him pull the van up to the vacuums. So here’s the choice; I tell him no, and he complains to his grandma, or I let him drive 15 feet and make him ecstatic.

I should have remembered something that happened to me when I was a junior in high school. At a summer workshop, I ran out of gas, and had my girlfriend drive the car as we pushed the truck up to the pumps. We were going pretty fast when we got to the station, and she was pulling on the wrong side of the pump. So as I gave her directions, she ended up plowing right into the gas pump. We were lucky there wasn’t a giant fire – it just knocked the pump off the foundation. Whose insurance jumped the next quarter, even though he wasn’t driving at the time of the accident? You guessed it.

But I guess I chose to forget this earlier lesson, and I let him drive up to the vacuums. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he pulled too close to the vacuums, which were on the passenger side. He didn’t slow down, and he didn’t stop when the crunching started.

One giant gash in the side door later, I had another choice.

I told the old lady I did it.

The kid never blinked an eyelash.

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Craft Services

Craft Services

I’ve acted in over 30 commercial and about 20 films. Most of the parts aren’t huge, so I get to spend a lot of time at craft services. If you watch you’ll see craft services listed as the credit roll in most movies, and I want to tell you how important a part they play. It has to do with the long hours shooting commercials or movies, and the tendency of actors to wander.

Let’s talk about the hours. A regular contract day is twelve hours. This means you work for about five or six hours before eating lunch, and dinner is usually about four hours later. If you end up working longer than twelve hours, then everyone starts getting overtime pay, which is time and a half.

The longest shooting day I’ve ever done was 18 hours. We showed up for a combined episode of “Touched by an Angel” and “Promised Land”. This means all of the stars have to be filmed and released earliest since they get twelve hours before they can be called to the set again. So after I showed up and got my cop costume, my fake ID badge and had my face powdered and hair approved, I sat with the other extras for twelve hours.

That’s right. We were ready, but they weren’t ready for us, and we are the least well paid actors on the set. I had lunch and dinner before shooting one scene. Since I had shown up at eight a.m., I started getting overtime at eight p.m. I finally finished my last scene at two in the morning, and the worst news of all is I don’t think any of the scenes I was in was used. It doesn’t matter; I still got paid.

But more important, I got to spend most of the day at the craft services table. As actors, we aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, and we tend to think of ourselves as the most important person on the set. So when we get hungry or thirsty, we start to wander, looking for something to eat or drink. We may wander off just because we are bored.

Enter craft services. Think of all the different kinds of food you may want to snack on. Add a variety of delicious drinks. The best part? Everything at craft services is FREE! That’s right. Lunch and dinner are free, too, but here is a collection of incredibly delicious snacks and you can have as much as you want of anything. Don’t tell the directors, but I would act in some parts just for the craft services.

Sometimes the people who are providing the craft services get a little creative. They try to serve healthy foods. I don’t like that as well. When a free chocolate donut is staring me in the face, who wants some hummus? But don’t get me wrong. I haven’t preserved my girlish figure by passing up free food. If all there is available is hummus, I’ll be eating all the free hummus I can get.

Now let me tell you about the best food I have ever had on a movie set. Henry Winkler and Ricky Schroeder were starring in a movie being shot at the old Jordan High School. I was playing the vice-principal, and again, I don’t think my scenes got used. Again, it’s okay. I still got paid.

But the best news is we were in the final days of shooting. When a film is done it’s called “a wrap”, and the food on the day a film is wrapped is amazing. Here are actors who have been working together for weeks on a film, and as it ends, a real celebration is necessary. The bad news is extras eat last. The crew eats first, so they can be back at the camera first. The stars eat next, so they can be ready for their close-ups. Extras are last, but on this very important wrap day, I had heard a rumor about what was being served. Again, this is free food, because no one wants actors wandering off to Wendy’s.

When lunch was called, I made sure I was at the front of the end of the line. That is, I was the first extra in line. We were being served the largest lobster tails I have ever seen. I can still taste how delicious it was. It may surprise you to hear that the caterers at these events are very, very good. I always look forward to the food at lunch, and if we are lucky, dinner.

Surprisingly, after getting used to the free food available at craft services and from the caterers, I have started to cut back.

After all, there are fewer parts available for hefty actors.

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Evil Banker Audition

Evil Banker Audition

I have a commercial running on television right now, and I have been in several local and national commercials. It sounds like it would be a glamorous thing to do, but being an actor is anything but glamorous. The pay is poor, the hours are terrible, and usually it really doesn’t matter if you have any talent.

Since I act in a “right to work” state, minimum wage is usually the standard for acting work. Actually, you can end up getting paid less than minimum if you agree to the terms, and sometimes I have taken terrible pay for the chance to do some work. Here’s an example. I was asked to be the teacher for an ITT technical college ad about 15 years ago. Apparently the director and the cinematographer were from Cuba, and were a father and son combination. The dad didn’t speak any English, and my one line was “Now I want you to evaluate the network”, or something like that. I heard later that most of the film shot that day was useless, and the ad agency ended up using whatever wasn’t horrible. I worked about 12 hours that day and earned one hundred dollars. That’s a bit more than minimum wage, but this was a commercial which ran nationwide for at least a couple of years.

Again, since we do things differently here, I didn’t receive residuals no matter how many times they used it. They could still use it today. This is called a buyout. You get one payment and never see another cent.

Sometimes the contract is negotiated a little better. But no one I know in our state makes a living working as an actor in television, film or commercials. But again, this is one of the reasons people like to shoot here. We have very good quality here. So we are inexpensive – but not cheap.

I’ve played a Jerry Springer look-alike in a weight-loss commercial which was shot here and shown in Bakersfield, California. I went to Elko one day and shot a gambling commercial which is only shown there. The best I’ve ever been paid was to be one of the telegraph pole sitters in an MTI commercial which was only shown in three cities, and at the stockholders meeting. Go figure.

You really don’t need talent to do most of this work. I don’t get everything I audition for, and that’s okay. I still go audition, and sometimes I get the part. I’ve tried to sell Kevin Eubank a white jacket, and been the boss wearing a cheese hat in a diamond commercial. I’ll talk about the strange hours in another episode. Don’t get me started now.

But the strangest audition I ever did was for a part I call “evil banker”. Since most agencies are an hour away, I drive up, audition and drive back. Sometimes I only say a sentence or two. But for this part all I had to do was make a motion like I was directing a crane to put a big sign on a wall. So delving into my vast crane direction experience, I moved my hands up and down, and maybe a little sideways.

I got the part, and I was excited. I must have been brilliant. But the real news is this commercial was shot for the state credit unions. The point of the commercial was that banks go in and out of business while the credit union stays put. So my part was to direct the changing signs while the credit union guy shook his head at all the change.

I was even more deflated when I learned there would be no close-ups. Think of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, where she says, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. De Mille.” It’s an actor’s favorite part, since everyone and anyone will be able to recognize them. The camera would be set up down the street on a scaffold, and only get long shots of the credit union guy and me. The changing signs were the most important part of the ad.

To add insult to injury, I was taking a day off work to do the commercial and only being paid one hundred dollars, so I was probably losing money. To help save money, actors are sometimes asked to bring their own clothes for costumes. Think about it. They fit, and if I bring four or five different things for the costume person to choose, they don’t have to buy clothes.

So let’s summarize this commercial. I didn’t speak; I got the part because I gestured well; I lost money and I wouldn’t be seen. Even when I told people I was the guy in the commercial, they looked at with skepticism.

Who says acting isn’t glamorous?

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Jerry Springer Hair

Jerry Springer Commercial

I like acting in cheesy commercials. There seems to be a demand for this kind of acting here. One time I was cast in a commercial because the back of my head looked like Jerry Springer’s. It’s not very exciting to know you have been cast because the hair on the back of your head looks like someone else’s. I don’t even know what the hair on the back of my head looks like. It could be a mess.

So this is another bargain basement commercial and I’m getting one hundred dollars since I don’t have any lines. I have taken another day off work; so basically, I’m probably not making any money. But shooting a commercial can be fun, so I take my chances and show up as Jerry Springer’s hair.

This was a weight loss commercial where two huge women are fighting over a skinny man. I will never understand what all that means, but that’s what the client wanted. There was the typical Jerry crowd, boisterous and ill-mannered. The set looked great, and guess what happened when I showed up?

I was given some lines. Now this may sound like something to be excited about, but I have been hired not to say lines. It’s not that I don’t want lines, but when an actor speaks, the pay is supposed to go up. Like four times as much.

So here’s what I think happened. They didn’t want to spend a lot on the commercial, so the bait and switch is to get me there thinking I won’t have to learn lines, and then tell me when I show up to start studying.

Trying to make the best of a bad situation, I start memorizing the few lines I’ve been given.

The commercial was really convincing. If I was an overweight woman fighting another overweight woman over a skinny guy, I would take the product. They even had a “Jerry Cam” shot where the two women fought on the floor while the camera shot the scene from above. The crowd was great, but I stunk.

No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get the few words out in the correct order. I think it may have been a mental block. After all, how could I give a great performance on poor pay? The only good news from the day is the shooting didn’t take a full 12 hours, but I still got paid for twelve. I even had enough time that afternoon to go complain to my agent. They know the rules and they were upset, or excited to get a bigger commission. Nothing ever happened.

This brings me to why I like to be positive about stuff like this. Sure I’m complaining, but I wasn’t really upset since I know these things tend to work out in the wash. I could spend time worrying about the money I missed, or go on a be positive about the next chance I get to act. It really does work for me, since there have been some really lucrative parts mixed in with the small change.

It reminds me of the time I was a marketing director for a private company. I helped write copy and coordinated printing, which my boss could have done without me. But since he wanted to work on other stuff, I did a great job if I do say so myself. We made a grundle of money, and I was set to get a bonus. I was excited, and wondered what it would be like to get a bonus. As a school teacher I never got a bonus.

The company had made hundreds of thousands of dollars, and my boss made a good profit for himself on another project. I got a $1000 bonus.

I was furious and quit the next week. Looking back, it seems like a strange thing to do since I am a school teacher again, I don’t get bonuses. I never will get more than a ham or turkey at the end of the year.

So what did my temper tantrum accomplish? Who knows? I might have made much more money later, but it really doesn’t matter. It made me understand sometimes it’s not about the money, and throwing a tantrum didn’t help.

So when I get cheated now, I try to keep a good perspective on the outcome. I know there will be other times I’ll be ahead. So when I take a deep breath and get on with life, I know being positive is helping me balance out the highs and lows in life.

It seems kind of silly now. I was showing up to play Jerry Springer’s hair, and I got to say some lines!

Asking an actor to perform – what a terrible thing!

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They're Not Mad At Us

They’re Not Mad At Us

We were vacationing in Washington D.C. with our children, who were probably eight and eleven at the time. They were pretty young to be being dragged around all of the National Galleries, but my wife was determined to see all she could since we were there.

I was at meetings most of the time, and besides not being able to help her convince two small children the Rembrandt’s in the next room really were interesting, I tried to save some money by putting them up outside of town.

They were riding the subway into town, seeing the sights and then going back to the hotel, which wasn’t in the most upscale part of town. I, of course, had a rental car so I could get about town, and eventually my meetings were over and we were able to spend some time together as a family.

I enjoyed seeing the national monuments, but I think in our minds they are always more grand than they appear in real life. For some reason, I had imagined the Lincoln Memorial to be much larger than it is, so when we walked up the steps and saw President Lincoln, I was kind of underwhelmed. Don’t get me wrong; I was impressed with the grandeur of our nation’s capital, but I’m just a poor country boy from Utah, and I guess I expected more.

The collection of things to see in Washington D.C. is really endless. I could spend a month in the various Smithsonian museums, and though my wife is more of an art lover than I, we did get to see some great works of art. We went to the Kennedy Center and watched a show called “Once on This Island”. I liked it so much I directed it at my high school a few years later.

I enjoy seeing all the tourist souvenirs available when I travel, and D.C. was no different. My favorite was the Washington D.C. Polo club shirts. They may have had a polo club, but I doubted it, and I thought the satire was fun. Some of the area really is blighted, and you would think there would be a better economic plan to stimulate D.C., but I don’t think a polo club would really help much.

There were lots of fun things to do and see, but a small family has a pretty regular feeding schedule. Most of our vacations are planned around where we will be when we want to eat, and both of our daughters were very picky eaters. They weren’t the regular McDonald’s kids who wanted a Happy Meal for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We would go to Wendy’s and they would order the baked potato. They liked soup when we went to a fancy restaurant. So finding places in our nation’s capital which they would like turned into a scavenger hunt.

I had heard there was a very good Chinese restaurant a few blocks from where we were doing our tourist stuff one morning. Again, this restaurant wasn’t in the nicest part of town, but that seems to be the case with many great restaurants. As we pulled our two girls along with us, we noticed a small crowd was on the street just ahead.

For those who haven’t had the chance to visit the inner city of one of our major metropolitan areas, let me describe the scene. There is trash strewn about, and a general lack of care about yards and business buildings. There was lots of graffiti, but you get used to that after a while. But the sight ahead of us was not one my small town Utah wife had seen very often.

A large group of African-Americans were gathered around three people who were about to have a fight. There were two large women who were fighting over a skinny man. The rest of the people were either there for moral support, or just to watch the fight. As we crossed the street, only half a block from the restaurant, the shouting had reached maximum decibels, and the fight would be starting any second.

My wife hesitated and said she thought maybe we should go somewhere else to eat. I was determined, and we were only yards away from the restaurant and had already built up some good momentum as we walked.

“They’re not mad at us”, I assured her. And it was true. The agitated crowd ignored the four of us as we went in and had a great lunch.

When we came back out, the streets were empty.

I turned to my wife and smugly said, “I told you they weren’t mad at us.”

She gave me the “you are lucky this turned out all right” look.

She’s right. I am a lucky guy.

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Blithe Skip

Blithe Skip

One of the dangers of live stage performance is you really never know what is going to happen. My favorite story about skipping around in the text of a play is from “Blithe Spirit”. If you’re not familiar with the show, there are movies available, and this is a play which is produced in local theatres frequently.

The basic story is about a man who is haunted by his first wife while his second wife can’t hear what is going on. Mix in a séance, a mystic, an older couple and a maid, and you have the plot. As the haunting goes on, there are mix-ups and some really hilarious dialogue, especially when the husband is talking to the first wife while the second wife thinks he is talking to her.

Usually in a play, there is plenty of exposition at the beginning to get everyone on the same page. I’ve even noticed that in most plays there is a significant part of the beginning which is really unnecessary. Even Shakespeare begins his plays with some throw-away scenes and characters. Why would this be?

I have a theory. I don’t think the audiences in Shakespeare’s day were all that different than today’s audiences. One common problem with audiences in every theatre I’ve acted in is latecomers. I’ve probably acted in 20 or 30 different venues, and every show there are five or ten people who are late.

So what does a playwright do? Make the beginning unnecessary for the rest of the show. Think about Hamlet. There is a scene with the Ghost of Hamlet’s father and a couple of guards. They decide to tell Hamlet, and a couple of scenes later, we are back with the ghost.

It’s the same with Blithe Spirit. My character and the girl playing my wife ask a bunch of questions which the husband answers. We are to discuss what is coming up later in the show and give the background about the two wives and the husband.

I was standing on stage with the male lead and the girl playing my wife. She looks at me and has that “deer in the headlights” kind of look, and skips seven pages of the script. I knew what had just happened, and the woman who was to make the next entrance, which wasn’t supposed to happen for seven more pages, heard her cue. She was galloping to her entrance from the back corner backstage, and since the actress who usually plays this part is, how can I say this diplomatically, supposed to be a larger actress. I could hear her running as fast as her short legs could carry her. The audience was treated to a ferocious pounding backstage, but had no clue why.

I had the most stage experience of the three of us, and both of the other actors on stage looked at me with a strange helpless look that told me I was now in charge. They really had no clue what to do, so I did my best to get us back to the details we had just skipped.

Of course the audience had no idea what had just happened. But it made it look like I had just forgotten my lines. I struggled to get the other actors back on track. Every minute or so, I had to initiate another section to remind them where we were going.

So after a torturous 10 minutes or so which seemed like an hour, we arrived back at the point where we had begun. The proper cue was given, and the entrance was made at the right time. I think this is one of the great benefits of being an actor, and doing live theatre.

Think about it this way. If you can deal with this kind of pressure on a stage with hundreds of people watching you, do you really think someone can walk up and surprise you? I have students who try their best to catch me off guard with some strange statement, and all it makes me do is quickly respond with the perfect comeback. Most of my students know not to challenge my superiority in the quick response which turns the table. I have actually accused some people of being the best foil or “straight man” I could ever want, since most of what they say seems like a set up for a joke. Here’s a lame example.

“Did you get a haircut?”

“Nope, I got them all cut. It’s more economical.”

I know it’s not clever. It’s what my daughter calls “Dad humor”. Here’s a better one.

When someone asks me if they “can” go to the bathroom, I tell them, “I don’t know. Go find out.”

They usually can, but I don’t want to know about it.

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Toy Gremlins

Toy Gremlins

I like being a father. It’s a really fun job most of the time, but even when you are in the middle of hard times, you are still glad to be a dad. The old saying is true, “Children are a poor man’s wealth.” I would argue you don’t have to be poor to appreciate the riches children can bring.

I’m not the world’s best dad. When we first had children, I was more interested in playing video games than bringing home formula for the baby. It’s a true story, and it doesn’t make me very proud, but I have tried to be a better father since then. My wife and I are truly blessed to be school teachers, especially since we had the same vacation days as our children. It meant we could spend not only some quality time with each other, but we could find some quantity time as well.

I have a sense of humor, which sometimes is at the expense of the kids. They like my “dad humor”, even though it usually is something stupid. For example, to keep myself entertained while driving, I like to reinterpret the road signs. If the sign says “Shoulder Work”, I usually rotate my shoulder around and say out loud to no one in particular, “Yes”. As in, “Yes, my shoulder is working fine, and I appreciate the state being interested in my health.” I take it personally when I am driving down the road and I see the sign that says “Dip”. I feel sorry for the person standing at the side of the road after I see the sign, “Dip Ahead”.

When I see the sign “Slow - Children Playing” I regard it as a cruel statement about someone’s kids, and I especially feel bad when the kids learn to read and have to be confronted with that sign the rest of their lives.

After a sample of my humor, the following story will make more sense. If you remember the movie “Gremlins”, there is a character in the show called “Stripe”. This movie is basically about how gremlins can wreck havoc on a town. The cute gremlin is “Gizmo”, but if you violate the rules about giving him water, food after midnight, or exposing him to bright light, then “Gizmo” multiplies into mischievous and dangerous gremlins, including the vicious “Stripe”.

I highly recommend this show if you haven’t seen it. Of course, my oldest daughter saw this show with us when she was three years old, and soon the toy shelves were crowded with little stuffed gremlins for parent to shower on their over-indulged children.

I was in my twenties, and not the richest dad in town, and there was no way I was going to buy one of these over-priced items for my kids. But that didn’t stop me from playing with it at the store. I did remember how frightened my daughter had been when she watched “Gremlins”, especially of the wicked gremlin called “Stripe”. I bet you can almost see where this is going.

So there we are shopping in the toy store, filled with thousands of items no kid ever really needs but can somehow convince you they can’t live without. Usually a tantrum or two is thrown in the store, which boosts sales and makes the clerks happy. But when I looked at the price tag for “Stripe”, I knew there was no way this stuffed animal was going home with us. But that doesn’t mean I can’t create a permanently scarring memory for my daughter.

She is just around the corner from me and hasn’t seen the stuffed gremlins yet. This is the daughter who complained when she got the “Snuggles” bear from the fabric softener commercial. She looked at that stuffed animal and said, “It doesn’t talk.” So let’s just say she is still in the age bracket where toys should be alive.

I grab “Stripe” by the back of his neck and get ready for the surprise. She looks trustingly up at her loving father, and what does he do? I jabbed “Stripe” in her face, and I’m sure I growled or did some stupid thing like that.

Of course she begins to scream, and continues screaming as she turns and runs right out of the store. Luckily my wife is standing nearby, and after she gives me a dirty look, she runs after our firstborn and catches up with her halfway across the mall.

What am I doing? I am paralyzed with laughter. I put Stripe back and continue to pay for this moment of idiocy even today. I reminded my wife of the story and she called me a “jerk”.

I like being a father. Even though sometimes I am a jerk.

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Lost Toenail

Lost Toenail

It was the sixties. I was probably nine or ten, and liked being a daredevil. As kids we used to climb way up in trees to make tree houses out of scavenged pieces of wood. We were in an area where new houses were being built, and stray lumber was all over the neighborhood. They were never really completed, but it was fun to see if you could carry a big piece of wood up the tree and not fall. It’s amazing none of us ever fell and broke our necks.

I’m speaking about a time 40 years ago when kids got to run around the neighborhood without a parent hovering close by. We would play baseball for hours and never see a parent. My friend Sonny Carter and I would wander the fields turning over old pieces of wood to catch mice with our bare hands. If you want to try this highly satisfying adventure, remember to push your knuckles over their neck so they can’t bite your fingers. We never hurt the mice, but it was fun to see if we could catch them.

I also remember catching drones with our bare hands. Drones don’t have stingers, since their job is to keep the hive cool by beating their wings. There was a camper parked in Mark Tuttle’s driveway and we decided it would be a good idea to catch the drones, roll the window to the camper open a bit and trap the bees behind the glass and between the screen. For some reason, this was fun, and amazingly, no one got stung.

I was also one of the first adopters of the new skateboard technologies of the sixties. How I never got a broken arm is another miracle. We’re not talking neoprene wheels like the boards have today. The wheels were seriously Fred Flintstone rock-like wheels. When you hit a small pebble with these rock wheels, the board stopped immediately and you went flying. We thought it was fun.

I played Little League, so when we weren’t playing a game with another team or making our own game in the neighborhood, we practiced in the back yard. Unfortunately, little brothers like to hang around their older brothers, and Patrick Tuttle was behind me one time when I was taking a heroic swing with a baseball bat. I broke his nose. I felt terrible, but nobody blamed me for the injury, even though it was my fault. We were boys, and this was what boys did back in the sixties.

We even thought it was cool when a giant rat was found in one of the garages in the neighborhood. None of us had ever seen a real live rat – sure we had seen mice, but this was a rat! I don’t really remember seeing it, but we spent an afternoon waiting for the adult who was trying to kill it with a bat to bring us out the evidence. I think they let us watch as the dead rat was carried to the garbage.

A side note will give you an idea how suspect boys with imagination can be. I had been practicing magic tricks in my front yard, waving my magic wand mysteriously as Debbie Radmall rode by on her bicycle. Evil boys from the sixties obviously have magic powers, because as she rode by her back tire popped with a loud bang. She glared at me, looked at her flat tire, gave me another dirty look and walked her bike home without a word. I know she thought I had given her a flat tire, but I knew I hadn’t. There was no way to convince her otherwise, so I didn’t try.

So when another chance to impress the ladies of the neighborhood came along, it was hard to resist. I was riding my stylish stingray bicycle, but I had forgotten to wear my shoes. It’s easy to ride without shoes, since the pokey ten speed pedals were a couple of years in my future. But the road doesn’t care if you aren’t wearing shoes, because as I sped up to an impressive speed and zoomed by the local females, I put my foot a little bit too low on the pedal. A sickening scrape and immediate pain told me this was not to be a day of astounding bicycle gymnastics. I put on my best game face and road back to the house grimacing.

The toe pounded furiously, and after a couple of days, blood was building up behind the toenail and my dad thought a good way to relieve the pain would be to heat a needle and push it through the toenail. The blood did come rushing out and it did relieve the pain.

The toenail fell off a week later.

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Forgetting My Anniversary

Forgetting My Anniversary

I’ve been married more than three decades. I remember our first anniversary, and I was so clueless I took my wife to Park City. There are lots of upscale shops there in case you’ve never been, and I thought I was being creative. I told my lovely bride to take the checkbook and buy anything she wanted. She cried, but not for joy. She wanted a well-thought out present; one that I had put some time and thought into. I can’t remember what happened after that, but I guess the good news is that the fiasco didn’t end in divorce.

Fast forward a few years, and my wife tells me now if I did the same thing she would be off and spending like the roadrunner. Of course I have a few more years under my belt now, and there is no way I would ever make that offer again. Spending years together can teach you lots of stuff.

Recently we were about to celebrate our 32^nd anniversary. I had even put some thought into what to do, and we had both discussed the fact we should probably buy a combined gift. That’s as far as the discussion ever got, but we both remembered our anniversary was fast approaching.

I was going to be busy with two different things going on at school, and we are both very involved people. Suffice it say we sometimes get so busy we neglect remembering certain things. Like anniversaries.

On October 14^th, 2009, we both got up to get ready for school. This is the day of our anniversary, and neither of us said a word about it as we spent about an hour together before going to work. So far so good. If neither of us remembers, then there is no one to blame.

As my day rolls along, one of the students in my first class asks me the date so he can write it on his assignment. “I think it’s October…14^th,” I said. Then to no one in particular I also said “Why does that sound so familiar?” My voice trailed off, and while I knew it must be something important, I went on to the business at hand.

My wife is at her school and remembers our anniversary at lunch, sending me a text message wishing me a happy anniversary. Unfortunately, I had neglected to take my phone to work. The message arrived at home, and I was still clueless.

After lunch I am asked the same question by another student. “What is the date?” This time I didn’t hesitate and succinctly said “October 14^th…” followed by the words, “Oh, crap.” The students look up at me and ask what’s wrong.

“It’s my anniversary,” I sheepishly said to the class. Of course they asked me if I remembered to do anything, and I had to say no. But then I also remembered I was teaching a workshop my wife would be attending. My wife had volunteered me to teach the class, and she would be one of the students. I had about 3 hours to get something, and my class suggested I get some roses on the way. I followed their suggestion, and had a dozen roses on the way.

We were meeting at a different school, so I prayed I would arrive first. As luck would have it, I did get there first, and was able to give her flowers as she arrived. She was pleasantly surprised, and insisted she had remembered first, which her text would prove.

I don’t think it was really enough, since she ignored what I was teaching to the other people. She was checking her e-mail, not following directions and ignoring me. Teachers really do make the worst students, and when the teacher forgets an anniversary the student may be justified in misbehaving. But if you think about it, she really didn’t need to pay attention in class. She knows I will show her what we learned sometime in the future when she wants to learn it.

We were both dumfounded that we had completely spaced our anniversary. I think it may have had something to do with the fact we couldn’t celebrate until the weekend since I was also teaching public speaking later that same night. And the next night. So maybe the pressure was off.

But later in the week we went to one of our favorite restaurants and had some good company and some good food. It makes me wonder if there are marriages out there which have ended because one or the other partner forgot the anniversary.

What is the end result when both people forget? Now you know the answer. Both people sheepishly admit they forgot and they have dinner later.

I hope I don’t forget again.

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Two Thanksgiving Gentlemen by O. Henry

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NOTE: in this audio version I've cut the first three paragraphs and went straight to the Stuffy Pete part of the story.  Click here for a version which includes the introduction:

Two Thanksgiving Gentlemen

by O. Henry / William Sydney Porter

(There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations. The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American. And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-up and enterprise.) Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side. But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals. Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt. The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle. After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel. For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets. The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America. The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle. As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work. "Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental." That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind. Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution. But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations. Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance. "Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir." The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend--a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin. The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized. "Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving." The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay. No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane. In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter. They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north. Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse. When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel. And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill. But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases. "That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."

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