Category Archives: Uncategorized

Fried Chicken Amen

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*I was hesitant to post this. People tend to jump over subtlety and substance by unforgivingly bringing their own observations to things unsaid.

On a recent Wednesday, in a town which can be found in several states across the South, I entered a local eatery to pass a bit of the time away from the blistering reach of the summer sun. I gladly surrendered in the fight against it. I could tell that the little place was a hub for all manner of necessary human activity: gas, small groceries, food, and tobacco. The place was packed with smiling faces, each focused on satisfying their hunger.

I went inside, ordered a bit of deliciousness, and sat down at one of the dozen rectangular white tables scattered on one side of the convenience store. It wasn’t my intention to get another bite to eat. I’d already had lunch across the street. Overcoming the scent of the food filling in the air, however, was impossible for a man of my age and girth. Bacon and butter are my beloved enemies.

I casually watched through the glass as a young mom ignored her little daughter as she strained to reach over into the ice cream case. Her short arm stretched, and her fingers moved like scurrying spiders in their attempt to reach the unattainable buckets of ice cream. Her brother watched from the opposite end of the case, undoubtedly anticipating that she’d either reach the ice cream or fall into it. They were all behind the ice cream case on the employee’s side. The mom looked up and noticed my gaze. Without hesitation, she turned and struck the little girl forcefully on the back. It seemed like an instinctive reaction to her guilt at being observed. The girl shrieked in a small voice, and the mom grabbed her by the nape of the neck. The scream died. I could tell it was a long-rehearsed dance between them. The young mom then looked to her right, toward a stern older woman with a scream of a ponytail at the other register. It turns out that the young mom was an off-duty employee of the store, there to feed her four children. The old lady with the austere ponytail was undoubtedly the young mom’s boss. I later observed the family huddled around one of the tables, each devouring their pieces of chicken as their fingers became increasingly greasy. Watching little kids lick their fingers in deep appreciation is one of the minor joys in life. The little girl didn’t seem to recall being hit like an approaching tennis ball. I silently hoped that the hits weren’t frequent. I could easily see how much the daughter loved her mom. I hoped she could maintain that love as she grew.

Atop the ice cream case was a placard, one of those telling the world that the owners love their god and country, stand for the flag, and for anyone who felt otherwise, they should use the door as quickly as possible. I had a feeling that many visitors of different customs or appearance had seen the placard through the years and winced, many of them understanding that they weren’t welcomed there and were simply tolerated for the purpose of commerce. There’s no nuance in such signs, even if the owners believe there is. It’s the equivalent of a harsh, angry shout; this world needs more whispers and gentle examples of encouragement.

It wasn’t until I noticed the placard that I questioned much of the content of my experience there. My eyes wandered around the store, finding confederate flags in more than one place. Such flags are not a guarantee of other sinister inclinations; their presence, though, tends to accompany such attitudes. People can fly confederate flags and be good people. I’ve learned that the combination seldom proves the exception, leaving those without prejudice to be lumped in and suffer with those who use the symbols as shortcuts for unforgiving opinions. It’s unfortunate and unfair for all of us. Each of us in our own private lives tends to embrace ambiguity and understand that people are a spectrum of conflicting ideas.

Inside the store, the air was thick with the scent of biscuits, gravy, and fried chicken. While I was inside, there was a constant, impatient line, slowly shuffling forward, and the tables were filled with people, each bubbling with a conversation. Unlike my adopted hometown, there were no faces of other color or snippets of foreign languages. There was no rainbow there and no spectrum of humanity. Once noticed, such absences are hard to unsee. There should have been other faces, though, because despite the small-town population, there were industries and occupations which were comprised of a majority of minorities. I was curious to know where those people enjoyed their lunch. I would describe the mood of everyone as happy and concentrated on their own bit of life.

Because of the recent tragedies, many of the conversations were about guns and violence. I could hear two distinct conversations ridiculing those who wanted things to change. The conversations merged into one, with the participant’s voices rising in volume. We all became involuntary listeners.

At the furthest table, a man in overalls and a plaid shirt leaned back and cocked his head toward the bulk of the tables and said, “Ain’t no one here going to disagree. Not in this town. We love our guns and those who don’t can leave.” Even though I was in a distant place, I laughed, the kind of raucous, loud laugh that makes my wife cringe sometimes. The speaker looked toward me with surprise, probably in an attempt to gauge my allegiance. Externally, I looked like them. Maybe my bright purple laptop case signaled a departure. Nothing else about me raised suspicion that I might differ strikingly from most of them.

The loud-voiced man’s false bravado revealed his temperament, one not accustomed to nuance or differing opinion. It’s a common affliction in places where the realm is small, and the courage to speak up is often swallowed to keep the peace. I doubt he was actually as harsh as the situation implied.

“You think they should take our guns away?” He challenged me. Several people turned their heads to look in my direction. I could see the owner standing next to the food counter, waiting to hear what foolishness would jump from my mouth.

All I could think to say was, “If you drink and can’t stop yourself from driving, you should lose the privilege of driving. But I don’t know who ‘they’ are.”

An older woman wearing a bright red shirt seated with two very young kids said, “That’s right!” as if she were in church and reciting a well-worn and enthusiastic “Amen.”

The original speaker abruptly leaned forward again in his chair as the conversations in the room went momentarily quiet. He wasn’t expecting a response to his oration, especially to encounter disagreement among his own tribe. Each table resumed speaking in subdued voices. I’m confident that several people were wondering how a traitor like me had entered their eating-place without being noticed. Truthfully, it gladdened me a little bit. I couldn’t get the smile of satisfaction off my face. The old lady who had invoked the informal amen smiled back at me and nodded.

Regardless of our individual opinions, each of us continued to eat our delicious food. Differences over guns seldom distract those with fried chicken on their plates.

A little later, I listened as the owner pulled up a chair and sat at a table nearby with one of his customers. He smiled and exuded friendliness. After a few seconds of listening to his conversation, I realized that the smile was a little forced. He had a lot to say about guns and the attitudes recently expressed in his eatery. I tuned him out. It’s unwise to strive to overhear words that you know will only serve to bait you toward a base response. We all vent, sometimes to the point of letting our mouths outrun our honest hearts. I’m afflicted with the tendency too. It would be unwise for me to paint him in a situation where one’s self-defense mechanism might override his ability to express himself honestly.

Not all the signs and symbols for these places are visible. That ideas and differences weren’t welcome somehow pervaded the room, though. The divisive placard on the ice cream case didn’t help much. Each of us loves our lives, our friends, and our families. Most of us appreciate our community. We don’t need code words or exclusion to feel like our lives are full. When I departed the store, I noted vehicles with confederate flags and harsh bumper stickers with rigid, us-vs.-them messages. Strangely, people don’t stop to think that at a certain level, we are all ‘them’ to other people.

The smell of fried chicken and gravy should be a sign of welcome for all those who appreciate a full stomach. Such a thing is a unifier, drawing us to places where each of us brings our differences and yet somehow joins in the spectacle of community.

If I could, I would ask the owners to remove their placard and relics of the confederacy. I’d ask them to instead let their smiles and kind words serve as both example and proof of their living creator flowing through them. The placard and things like it can only serve as whistles of perceived prejudices. Armed with love and fried chicken, it’s difficult to imagine a divided world. We preach our best sermons by example. I think that so many people feel cornered into a defensive position when the world stops seeing that everything is intertwined and complex. Except for love, few ideas worth fighting for can be encapsulated on a bumper sticker, placard, or t-shirt.

It is possible to love your religion and customs while also openly loving other people’s opportunity to do the same. Acknowledging their choices in no way denigrates your ability to live a good life in the way that you see fit. Only when we demand allegiance to our choices does our society suffer.

Let the chicken and gravy be sufficient to unite us.

We live in the United States of America, a place where all of us have an equal voice to be as proud or as ignorant as our own hearts require. There’s room for ignorance and intellect on all sides in this crowded room of togetherness. Let the best argument always prevail, though. Losing respect for the best ideas leads us all away from the truth and fried chicken.

All those in agreement say either “Amen,” or “Fried chicken and gravy.” They both come from the purest of hearts.
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Walgreens: I’m a Suspect

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Sometimes, there are advantages of having a stupid name like X.

TLDR: Walgreens gave me someone else’s prescription and then told the other account holder that I’d somehow obtained their private information and gave it to Walgreens in order to get their prescription right before they came to pick it up.

Here’s an example of something that’s not ‘the world is on fire,’ but weirdly informative. I have a few Walgreens stories that I’ve not posted.

This time, it was her prescription that caused me the grief.

Dawn had another prescription ready, costing $4. After work, I drove by and waited in a long line of vehicles. When it was my turn, I pulled up, and the clerk asked me for a name. I said, “Last name T-E-R-I, first name, Dawn.” The clerk didn’t ask me for a DOB or an address. She was looking at her POS screen with all the information on it and said, “Found it.” She didn’t identify the prescription like is customarily done. Despite it being an ironclad requirement, they sometimes don’t. Sometimes they recognize us, sometimes they’re busy, and sometimes, they simply forget. It’s easy to spot a new employee because of their tendency to interrogate you like a German prisoner. Today, the clerk said, “$3.89 is the total.” Close enough. I pushed my debit card through and she processed it.

Because the store was busy, I put the prescription in the passenger seat and drove the short drive home.  I made us a great lunch. Afterward, Dawn ripped open the Walgreens bag and said, “What’s this?” They had given me someone else’s prescription. The names were similar in the sense that if you were drunk, they might sound the same if you’d never heard the English language before. Because I had this happen before, I dropped everything and went back up to the store, in case the woman in question somehow went to fill her prescription before I went back. I went inside and asked for the store manager instead of going to the pharmacy. I’ve learned to only explain myself once in these situations. I’ve also learned that not all techs appreciate an error being brought up, no matter how nicely it’s done. The woman who I thought was the manager told me that the woman whose prescription I had been erroneously given had, in fact, come to the store right after I left.  She told me that the clerk who gave me another person’s prescription thought she had verified the information with me. I wondered what the real conversation between the store staff and the other customer was really like.

We went to the back and I watched the purported store manager say something to the clerk who’d made the error. She turned to look at me. It felt like eye darts were coming out of her face to hit me in the forehead. I was polite because mistakes happen. I didn’t even care about a refund.  I knew that, for once, I had done nothing wrong. In a twist, the clerk made a dramatic and overt attempt to confirm my address and information this time. The irony didn’t escape me.

Arriving back home, Dawn agreed with me that I should call the other person whose prescription I had initially picked up. I googled her name and left a voicemail on what I thought was her answering machine. A little bit later, the woman’s husband called. It was a very interesting conversation. I told the husband a bit of backstory and what had happened at Walgreens. What he told me surprised me.

Walgreens had told them that immediately before they had come to pick up the wife’s prescription, that a man had driven up to the window and given them all of his wife’s information, including her full name, address, and date of birth. The couple left thinking that their information had been intercepted, hacked, or stolen. Walgreens staff further said that there would be an investigation and that the cameras would be reviewed!

It’s essential to keep in mind that when I had entered the store to bring back the wrong prescription, the person who I spoke with, the one who said she was the manager, had already talked to the couple whose medicine I had picked up.

Why Walgreens told the couple such a story is subject to interpretation. Likely, they didn’t want to initially admit that they had violated all their own rules. They could have said anything but chose to go that far out on a limb.

The husband and I spoke for several minutes. He and his wife had been very concerned about their information being taken. I allayed all his concerns in that regard. We compared notes and stories. He wasn’t happy about the possibility of people getting the wrong medications and couldn’t understand why Walgreens had told him the story about someone driving up to the window and giving all his wife’s information, especially since it was utterly untrue. For my part, it was a little disconcerting hearing someone tell me that Walgreens staff had slandered me instead of merely addressing the issue directly.

I’m happy I called the other prescription holder. I think he was, too. He knew Walgreens wasn’t making sense but didn’t know how to figure it out. Until I called.

After that call, I called the store to speak to the manager. Surprisingly, a man identified himself as the manager, saying he’d been in a meeting. I went over the story with him and told him that I had been understanding and kind about the entire incident. I emphatically told him that I had spelled my wife’s name but that the clerk did not ask for any more data points or do the diligence required of her. I let him know that I had allayed the other account holder’s privacy fears. I did tell him that I was a little bent out of shape about his staff telling other customers that I had driven up and given another person’s identifying information and implying that I had fraudulently bypassed Walgreen’s protocols. Even though I didn’t need to say it, I let him know that some customers would cry “Slander” and cause a literal uproar about it.

He was apologetic and said he’d look into it. I reminded him that in addition to looking into it, he might advise staff to limit their commentary to things they knew to be true. No, lightning did not strike me, in case you’re wondering.

 

I Deserve An Award

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Social media has its moments.

I laughed until I almost cried when I noticed an acquaintance had posted one of those mind-numbing memes mocking parents who forget their children are in the back seat of their vehicles.

One afternoon long ago, my acquaintance got in her van and drove away. Her child was in a carrier on the hood of the van. (Yes, in front of her.)

I’d like a moment of silence to commemorate my ability to control my urge to post a seriously snarky comment on her meme.

You Can’t Slap a Bucket of Mud

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Note: I originally posted this on another social media website.

 

To preface my commentary, I’d like to say that I enjoy reading the political discourse of the person I’ve referenced. He should have his own dedicated media. He’s smart, well-versed, and interested in many things. For a private citizen, his opinion carries far and wide in the United States. His presence on the internet is a net benefit to everyone.

Unfortunately for us all, it’s considered bad form to level any criticism against the things or people we enjoy. The person in question recently got it a little bit wrong, though.

A popular political commentator posted an incident in which he became outraged regarding a personal attack on one of his social media posts. I didn’t read it before it was deleted. Evidently, it was a targeted personal attack with outright untruth in it. He says he came within an inch of deleting his social media account. He mentioned that it’s essential that we remember that real people are behind the posts and that reputation is worth defending. He felt personally attacked and demeaned – and also that he’s sued people and corporations for such behavior.

He’s right, of course.

He’s also wrong, in a way that he would never give an ear to.

Some people spend an excessive amount of time tearing at public figures, politicians, and celebrities on social media. It’s true that some of this is customary and expected, especially when your public presence is part of your job. (Doubly so when you’re being paid by the public.)

You have to look at your own hypocrisy, though. Whether you hate Donald Trump, evangelical ministers, Democrats, or Catholicism, you have to realize that you are torturing real people. While it’s true that they often deserve harshness for behavior or opinion, it’s equally true that you’re guilty of tearing down another human being.

That we justify such tearing is a dark path. We can become forgetful of the fact that a person is on the receiving end of our ire, anger, and hatred. It’s how such sentiment can amplify and result in actual harm as we fail to disengage in the relentless accusations and anger. Over time, we become so distanced from interpersonal interaction that we always step over the line of acceptable human behavior. People observing us lose sight of the norms that keep us as we ratchet up the volume and insults. Soon enough, we’re all shouting, instead of focusing on the best idea.

Politics is a realm of trolls and anger. When we dive into the subject for our own entertainment, education, or benefit, we become part of the culture of hate that we supposedly despise.

If you delve into the quicksand of politics, you must be willing to subject yourself to the same mistruth, innuendo, and scorn that you might heap onto a (deserving) subject. Words written on the internet are just words, after all. They have no power except that which is granted to them. Whether people believe such content is beyond your control. I’m no better at immediately suppressing my anger at untruth directed my way; in my defense, I’m only a visitor to the political stage as I comment. For those who own their own platform, they can simply delete and block the offenders as they step forward.

In Trump’s case, he deserves a mountain of scrutiny. Most politicians do. If I were to become an elected or appointed official, I would deserve scrutiny and criticism for misbehavior.

But if you’re going to use Trump as a focal point of mockery and ridicule, you have to cede the point that he’s human, with human family and friends. Yes, he, of course, signed up for criticism.

On the other hand, so did everyone who uses him as subject matter for their social media and political fodder.

It’s hypocritical to devote much of your day to ridiculing public figures of choice and then recoil when someone takes liberty with your life.

In case you missed it, I’m guilty of the same behavior.

I think most of us are, even as we find discomfort in our ability to creatively interact without resorting to personal attacks.

If we attack human beings in the public eye, it’s hypocritical for us to become angry when others do the same to us. It’s a tough lesson. Most of us are simply lucky enough to avoid such scrutiny as we go about our day.

I don’t have a satisfying conclusion or a neat bow for this post.

I assume it’s okay to share imperfect ideas, worded imperfectly.

P.S. I still do not like Tom Cotton.

This Is The World’s Best Post

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“The World’s Best” anything is nonsensical.

If you look closely, you’ll see that the woman in the picture is eating raw meat. On the table, she has a cut tomato, black licorice, and maynnaise. On the further counter, there’s a fruitcake and plate of sushi. Chances are, one of those things gives you the urge to hurl your lunch.

It seems like a good cliché for a headline or when used as an easy marketing hook. When I see it, though, I wince. In the past, I was blasted by a critic who screamed at me for using the cliché, as well the one comparing anything to crack. I pointed out that criticizing me was acknowledging that my opinion held value. (Because who goes out of their way to attack a meaningless opinion?)

Tastes vary wildly. One man’s poison is another man’s passion. Perversely, some people love eating or ingesting actual poison – and I’m not referring to people who enjoy eating at Hardee’s.

Whether it’s raisins, black licorice, mayonnaise, fruitcake, whiskey, celery, beets, meats cooked rare, meats cooked well-done, eggs over easy, or dried crickets, there is no universal standard for food.

When I was growing up, a lot of Southerners would foolishly say, “You don’t know what’s good!” They’d smack their lips in condemnation at my refusal to eat some of the things they identified as ‘food.’ Some of these same people loved eating raw hamburger meat, spoonfuls of Crisco or lard, and half-cooked chicken gizzards, usually as they cooked over their stoves with a cigarette dangling from their lips. They also invariably had a tub of warm mayonnaise always open and sitting on the counter.

“The World’s Best” is a meaningless title, much in the same way all awards based on subjective taste are without foundation.

I like bitter, smoky coffee. My wife hates it. I like burned, dry food of all kinds, unlike literally everyone else. Hash browns? Burned. (But I do love standard hash browns too.) Some people hate shaved parmesan because it smells like foot odor. A ripe tomato is like a mouthful of phlegm for some and a delicacy for others. Milk, which is literally nutrition for only baby cows, gives many people the urge to vomit.

The two words, “I like,” are the critical component. If you like it, it’s good.

X’s Food Opinion Edict states: “All food is opinion.”

We can overlap on taste, of course, but it’s a rarity to find any two people whose opinion regarding taste is congruent.

Stop pretending that a universal standard for taste exists.

Like Buddy the Elf, he thought he’d found the world’s best cup of coffee, simply because the sign outside said so.

On the other hand, this is the world’s best post, right?

The Punctuality Reciprocity Observation

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The Punctuality Reciprocity Observation: The obligation for honoring one’s appointments is reciprocal between customer and business. An individual’s time is worth as much as that of a business or business owner.

It’s a struggle to see posts about “no-shows” in a profession. It’s a common theme in social media, especially with family and friends as they deal with smaller businesses.

I tend to want to write on the posts and gently say, “Move on to another business,” as everyone involved is participating voluntarily and the world is full of other opportunities. This is doubly true when I see friends and family squabbling over ongoing discourtesy with appointments and obligations.

Although our opinions vary regarding the importance of punctuality, we all can agree that where business is concerned, it is discourteous to have a track record of being late, forgetful, or inattentive.

It’s true that a person’s livelihood depends on reliability from the customer.

The obligation is reciprocal, however.

Any customer is likely to have a busy schedule, too, perhaps with a business of their own. It’s incredibly short-sighted for business owners to complain that they shouldn’t be held accountable for punctuality. Their customers are in the same boat, rowing through life with a multitude of obligations and responsibilities. In your role as a business owner, it is entirely on you to design your life, business, and tools in a such a way as to eliminate the chance that a customer will be relegated to the ‘lesser’ priority.

As a customer, it is your responsibility to honor your commitments to the business – and willingly pay the penalty for not holding up your end of the agreement.

I practice what I preach.

Small business owners are people, too, of course. This means that while they tend to judge themselves through the lens of good intentions, they also tend to assume worse motivations for other people, especially customers, as they arrive late, forget appointments, don’t tip as expected, etc.

We forgive ourselves and blame others to a varying degree.

If you are doing business with a friend, it’s more important than ever to proceed cautiously. You have to decide whether the friendship is worth the risk of becoming frustrated with someone who seemingly doesn’t appreciate one’s time or loyalty.

To be clear, I’m not referring to one-off instances of letting someone down. Most of us understand that there is a difference between sustained discourteousness and a one-time problem. We can overlook any excuse, reason or craziness once, twice, and sometimes three times – and probably laugh about it later. Each situation is different, however, and even this general exception can be ignored in some circumstances.

I once gave up and sold a house after countless upgrades and renovations: windows, siding, doors, electrical, plumbing, and trees. I simply couldn’t get a contractor to return, even if we agreed to exorbitant pricing. We had already been the victims of contractor fraud – for several thousand dollars and had multiple instances of people simply not showing up, calling, or following up.

For my part, I work hard to have a “default” position. If I agree to an appointment, I have no problem paying a penalty if I no-show. This is especially true if the business is unable to replace my absence with another customer. In my case, I see the necessity of it. My wife laughs at me about this sometimes. That’s okay. When I do have a problem I like to think it gives me a slight advantage. If I’m willing to pay for being late for forgetting a business appointment, I can more easily expect the same from a business. I often overtip for the same reason, even if the service was atrocious. As with lateness, I can almost always laugh it off. Sometimes, though, it is beyond vexing and in those instances, I want the ability to freely criticize.
There are too many modern conveniences to help us manage our calendars and obligations. A business owner has no valid reason to excuse away a customer’s needs. Things happen to all of us. A business owner has an extra level of required diligence, however, as she or she is the one advertising to others that outside responsibilities and negligence won’t affect the product or service they provide.

In my experience, I’ve learned that a business which forgets or ignores an appointment even once is a red flag. It’s easy to forgive and forget most nuisances regarding a business or person failing to show up or waste your time. As these instances accumulate, however, you learn that it’s better to move on to someone with an untried record. It’s true that the next choice might be no better, but at least hard feelings won’t pile up beyond those involved.

I think most of us will agree that people who are late or no-shows tend to continue to exhibit the same behavior; the only thing which changes is our accumulated frustration with it.

For small business owners: release customers if they aren’t reliable with appointments or payment, even if they are friends or family.

For customers, reward attentiveness with your presence and money. In lieu of resentment, though, move on to another business, one which needs and values your time and dollars.

If you do business with a friend, try to separate your connection from the necessity of moving along before your connection becomes strained by resentment.

The truth is that most people avoid confrontation at any cost. They simply walk away without explanation. It’s awkward for everyone involved.

“I Might Need It One Day”

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I recently purged a mass of digital craziness from my life. Much of it was a collection of things which reached across the span of years, some of it revolving around angry emails, voicemails, and snippets of unresolved anger. I deleted over three dozen family trees I’d done for people. (I still retain a few dozen others, though.) I have a new computer and a newly-discovered commitment to use a dumping system that allows me to toss it in a virtual closet if I don’t delete it outright.

Gone were mountains of mp3 audio and snippets from my mom and a couple of other family members. I’ve learned not to accumulate many emails either, but even so, I cleaned the drains in this respect too. It’s strange to read “I’ll slit your throat” in an email, knowing that the person was so angry that he or she didn’t stop to consider consequences. That kind of anger is buried so deeply inside a person that almost nothing can reach it. Being forged in a household requiring blood sacrifice, I can understand it. Echoes of its payment still echo in me at rare moments. It’s impossible for me to explain to some of those whose lives overlapped with my younger years that I look at that sort of behavior with a much different perspective than they do. In every case in which the person is still simmering in hate, he or she has only flourished when those around them allow it, excuse it, or fail to recognize it. I see the stain spreading around them; that sort of hate is a seeping poison which pays dividends for at least two generations.  Keeping a distance from its contamination is sometimes the only means to remain uninfected.

Having a digital history of anger somehow ensures that the infection isn’t entirely gone.

Note: it is likely that someone who was poisoned with the venom of anger when younger never left it behind. Instead, he or she learned the social trappings of concealment. Beware that you don’t wander into the invisible net.

Indeed, you might not know when you’d need such reminders from your past at some unknown future date. ‘Need’ might not the exact word, but it serves its purpose here. Why I might not need an email chain detailing a family member threatening to kill me and my rational response to it is for anyone to guess. It was, nevertheless, difficult to discard. Part of me wanted to keep it just in case similar circumstances flared up again. I could point to it and say, “See? I’m not making this stuff up.” The truth, though, is that having it won’t pull the wool off anyone’s eyes in the future, either, no more than it did having it the first time. Just as facts so often fail to matter, neither does evidence for your apparently unjustified beliefs about other people.

Part of being a minimalist is the attitude of less. If it doesn’t add to your life, subtract it and move on. Over the years I accumulated a folder of work-related detritus, too. Some of it was quite important – and probably still is. But it’s gone now as if a hurricane rolled in from the coastline and ripped it free.

Update: the draft of this post existed since at least three years ago. I didn’t publish it because I didn’t want to sanitize it. I’m publishing it now because some of the things I deleted would be useful now. It’s the excuse of every hoarder: “I might need it.” I did sanitize it, though. Very few of us are free enough to say what we want without regard to content.

A Surprise Ending!

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Last week, we went to spend the after-holiday weekend north of Eureka and Holiday Island. Due to the throngs of tourists, the horse-drawn carriages were operating, despite the heat.

As we went up the scenic loop before leaving town to go to the cabin, we passed a carriage with 10 or 11 middle-aged women enjoying the ride. They were laughing and rocking the carriage with glee. They were dressed identically and were drawing onlooker’s gazes. The driver was keeping a close eye on them, as a couple of the ladies were holding poorly concealed drinks.

A block up the loop, a water main was leaking, and traffic was backed up. I turned around in a narrow driveway and headed back down.

As I took the next corner, my wife gasped in surprise. Ahead of us, we could see that the carriage had overturned, tossing the ladies out. Several were on the grass. The driver was standing next to the carriage, obviously crying a little and upset.

I pulled up next to him and put down my window.

“Hey, there’s no need to cry, sir!” I told him.

My wife looked at me with horror.

“Why not? This could have been fatal,” he said.

“Maybe. But everyone knows there’s no use crying over spilled milf.”