Category Archives: Life

Would It Kill You To Call Every Once In A While?

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The other night, my wife got a call from a relative that she hadn’t spoken to in quite a while.  The woman called during dinner, of course.  Why people capable of calculating compound interest on their mortgage while separating two warring children armed with steak knives  and making dinner for a family of six can’t manage to wrap their heads around the entire concept of time zones is beyond me, but she was happy to hear from her.   When she hung up, my wife said, “I really should call her more often.”  Meaning, ever.northernlights_enl

This got  me to thinking about all the people I know and care about that I just don’t seem to hear from anymore.  Dinner was being reheated anyway, so I had some time to think about this.  It occurred to me that I really hadn’t had a good conversation with my Dad, for instance, in a very long time.  I love my Dad, and I remember when we used to talk pretty much every day.  My wife gave me a strange look when I brought this up with her, however, pointing out that my Dad had died almost twenty years ago.  Like this was a good excuse.

[Brief Aside:  One of my Dad’s favorite sayings was, “Man who trip over same rock twice, deserve to break his neck.”  He’d often admonish me with this gem told in a solemn fake Confucius  accent, in way of educating me about some mistake I’d made for the sixth or seventh time.  The frequency with which he used this aphorism prompted me to write a very short story in fifth grade about a dashing young knight who tripped over a rock in the road.  He was stuck, turtle fashion, by the weight of his brilliant armor, but helped back to his feet by a passing Good Samaritan.  The next day, however, when the incautious knight tripped over the very same rock, resulting in the same predicament, the next passer-by was a robber who killed the knight by breaking his neck and stole his money.  As I recall, Mr. Barno, my fifth grade teacher with breath so bad two students dropped out of school that year to pursue a life of crime, wrote in his comments something to the effect that I should seriously consider pursuing a career in accounting.  Thanks for that, Mr. Barno–hope you’re resting peacefully.]

There are dozens of good friends and beloved relatives with whom I’ve lost contact.  It’s inevitable, I guess, as we get older and get busy with our own, hectic lives, and these other folks just keep moving away or dying.  It makes it tough to keep in touch.  It’s probably my fault, to be honest.  I mean, I’m one of those folks that’s pitifully inattentive to maintaining contact with old friends and relatives.  I don’t think I’ve made a long distance call or attended a seance in a really long time.  And while I hate to admit it, there has been more than one occasion when I’ve returned from a long, tough day at work and looked at that little flashing red light on the answering machine and said, “No way.”  Then I just delete those suckers without even listening.  It’s true.  So it’s entirely possible that my Dad left some kind of message, just touching base, and I erased it.  It bothers me, now that I think of it, because if he left a call back number and I just deleted the thing, no wonder he’s so ticked off that he never called back.

On the other hand, it’s at least as likely that’s it’s their fault.  I know how tough it can be to pick up the phone.  My wife and I were recently traveling in Ireland, and we kept trying to use the cellphone to call back to a friend of hers here in the States.  But who can figure out whether to put the one in front of the number or not, do you include the 01 country code, and all that other jazz that makes it just about impossible if you’re over fifty to make these things work?  (Which is why we almost always travel with a child, just in case we have some technical issue.)  Most of these people are really, really old now.  A lot of them passed away before we even had cellphones or Skype.  What do we expect?

I like to think that they’re probably too busy to call, anyway.  Most of my parents’ friends are dead, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re so busy yelling at one another over how their partner screwed up the bidding for their great bridge hand that the subject of how the kids are doing just hardly ever comes up.  Or Samba lessons, or something.  Time just gets away from you, I know.  Dad’s probably still upset I moved so far away that’s he’s waiting till I move back into his neighborhood to stop by.  He hated that drive from Michigan to Long Island, no way he’s coming all the way back from the dead unless someone gives him a damn good reason.

Or maybe it’s just because they’re dead.  I don’t know.  Wouldn’t kill you to call, though.

“Overcourteous Assholes” Like Me

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~first posted 12 Feb 13

You may have heard that we had a bit of snow recently here on the Eastern seaboard. IMG_0324Where I live, on the north shore of Long Island, our little New England hamlet got thirty inches of the stuff, with fifty mile per hour winds raising drifts over six feet. If snow can be biblical, this was getting close, at least for those of us who don’t live in North Dakota. We were literally “snowed in” by drifts halfway up the doors and windows. So you can surmise how happy and thrilled we all were to finally be plowed out at the wee hours of this morning. Free at last! None too soon, either, as I’ve had to remove all the knives from the kitchen and throw them out a second story window–the wife and I were getting a little “stir crazy.”

Today is a beautiful, blue sky day in the mid-forties, with bright sunshine sparkling off the still pristine whiteness blanketing everything. You’d think that everyone would be kind, and happy, and pleasant, just thrilled to be alive. You’d be wrong.

So, just now I was driving merrily along our recently plowed streets, doing one of the many things I couldn’t do because I was “snowed in.” The roads are still very narrow, with huge banks of snow on each side. We’re all driving around at about thirty miles per hour, even on the main streets. So there I was, approaching an intersection with a red light, several cars already stopped to wait for the signal. I notice a car inching out of a side street just ahead, trying to see around the huge drift. Being the guy I am (we’ll get to that), I stop and wave him in. As he waves back and moves in, the guy in the car behind me leans on his horn. Really. Not a toot. A real extended blare. Twice.

Now, I know that this has happened to you. It has happened to me lots of times, not to mention all those times the jerk in the Mustang behind you honks if you don’t jackrabbit off the line within 3 milliseconds of the light turning green. When I was (much) younger, and in a time when not everyone was packing a pistol in their glove compartment, I remember responding once by sticking the car into park and walking back to the asshole. When I knocked on the window and he rolled it down, I asked if I knew him. No, he stammered, and started swearing. Well, I said, I’m sorry, but when he honked I looked in the mirror and he looked kinda familiar and I figured he honked because he was Billy who I hadn’t seen in, oh, must be almost six years now, but you’re right, you’re not Billy, really don’t look much like him at all now that I can see you up close, so I’ll just be going then. I got back in my car and timed it just right so the light was yellow again, allowing me to give the guy one of those “ain’t life funny” shrugs that I like to give guys like that as we sit through another cycle of life/traffic light together. Try that now and the dude will shoot you in the eye.

On this occasion, we’re sitting in a line of stopped cars waiting for a red light. On what basis does one deserve a honk for that? But I’m in luck, as the light cycles but Mr. Honker and I don’t make it through, ending up side by side. I couldn’t resist (again, don’t try this if you live in Arizona), so I rolled down my window. I was genuinely curious to learn why the guy had honked at me. He was pretty old, very late sixties or early seventies, and looked to be a reasonably pleasant person on the surface. Maybe he was rushing because his great-great grand daughter was in labor and he was afraid that I would make him miss the delivery. I didn’t know. Never going to know, either.

Elderly Mr. Honknose rolls down his passenger window and turns beet-red, yelling that “It’s over-courteous assholes like you (meaning me) that are going to get me (meaning him) killed.” He embellishes this with the standard set of NY resident traffic epithets that one must memorize to pass the driver’s license exam in this state. Then the light changes and he spews snow/ice/salt/phlegm onto nearby pedestrians by flooring it and roaring through the intersection. Never got a word in.

I was offended. I think that I’m a good driver. I know that this is subjective, and others describe my driving differently. My wife, for instance. She describes my driving style as “old womanly.” Please note that my wife is devoutly opposed to any use of the brake for any reason and at any time. I describe her style of driving as “bat out of Hell.” Today, however, marks the first occasion when I have been called an “overcourteous asshole.” I have marked the calendar. I wish to formally announce that I am licensing for my own use the phrase “overcourteous asshole” and even the word “overcourteous,” now and forever. I will be releasing a line of hats, shirts, and bumper stickers featuring such catchy phrases as “Warning: Overcourteous Asshole at the Wheel” and “I Brake for Overcourteous Assholes!” As for the old geezer who actually came up with the phrase, he can suck wind. He’s not overcourteous.