Kitchen Renovation… Part I

Today will be different. My job today is to remove everything from all of our kitchen cabinets and somehow store it all in an “organized fashion” in our dining room, whereby we will still have access to “vital everyday items.” These instructions come from my wife who has handed this assignment to me with much fear and trembling. I am not necessarily known for my acute attention to detail, and I’m sure she is worried that when she gets home today our dining room will resemble a Turkish bizarre, but I intend to surprise her with uncharacteristic organizational flair. Thoughts and prayers would be appreciated.

Tuesday morning, the kitchen renovation company we have hired has promised to show up and begin the demolition of our existing kitchen. Frankly, I will believe it when I see it. So far they have been a monument to poor communication, inept follow up and clueless customer service. On the other hand, they were lightening fast when it came to cashing my deposit check. They are currently running the risk of receiving the most acidic, sarcastic and mean-spirited Yelp review in the history of social media, one that will be studied by future generations as the quintessential example of a “toxic customer review that bankrupted a company.” This is what happens when you piss off a writer.

But, it is early. These guys still have the opportunity to right this ship. I wish them well.

The Year I Went to the Masters

It was 2004, on a Saturday. I arrived in a Jeep Cherokee driven by a member of Augusta National whom I had never met. He was the connection through which I had secured this one day pass, a bonus gratuity from the giant insurance company which owned the Broker-Dealer I worked for at the time. The Cherokee pulled onto the lush grass just behind Butler cabin at the stroke of 8:00 in the morning and I felt like a Greek god as I walked on the most beautiful lawn in America, around Butler cabin and past the sign informing patrons of Bobby Jones’ rules for watching the Masters. There would be no running, no cell phones or cameras, and most importantly—no cheering allowed for bad shots…absolutely no heckling would be tolerated!

Like most American men I had spent a lifetime watching The Masters on television. The place was an enchanting mix of history and beauty and I could scarcely believe my good fortune. What was I even doing at a place this beautiful? For the week leading up to this day I could hardly sleep. During all of that tossing and turning I had come up with a plan for the day. My first appointment would be at the pro shop which was close to Butler cabin. I figured I would go through there and buy souvenirs and whatnot, then drop them off in the Cherokee before heading out on the course. It was a reasonable plan. 

As I entered the pro shop along with hundreds of other equally dumbstruck visitors I was shocked at how inexpensive everything was. I grabbed a green basket and began throwing stuff in—“wow…that shirt is only 20 bucks? What??” The bad news arrived when I went to check out and the clerk said, “that will be $585.” No way I was going to part with any of my treasures so I happily paid. Then it was time to execute the remainder of my well thought out strategic plan for making the absolute most of my one and only day at Augusta National.

My plan was simple. I would begin by walking the entire course, moving along with the pace of play, not following any particular golfer. I just wanted to see every hole for myself. It took me nearly two hours and by the time I trudged up 18 my legs felt like I had run a marathon with a forty pound backpack. Words cannot adequately describe just how monstrously hilly the place is. It’s strange the specific details I remember—and the ones I don’t. For example, on the first tee box as I began my trek I remember the first guy I watched tee-off. Retief Goosen. But for the life of me I can’t remember his playing partner. I remember watching Tiger Woods hit his approach shot to the 9th green and almost throw his club in anger even though the ball landed twenty feet from the pin! When he got to the green I understood his disappointment. The putt ended up being a 60 foot monster which he damn near made. Such are the devilish undulations of the greens at Augusta.

After walking the course I was hungry. There was a green building nestled in the woods on the course which sold sandwiches and drinks. My pimento cheese sandwich came in a green wrapper, my beer in a green cup. I handed the guy a five dollar bill and he gave me two quarters in change. Unbelievable. I stood in the gallery around Amen Corner and watched a couple groups come through. Then I latched on to Phil Mickelson and followed him the rest of his round. He would win the Masters that year, his first of three wins at Augusta. On the 18th I was on the edge of the rope that held back the gallery around the green—exactly where Phil’s approach shot landed a mere ten feet from me! I looked at the delicate chip shot he faced as he made his way up the fairway. I told the buddy I was with that if I dropped 10 balls at that spot and hit all ten I didn’t think I could get a single one within 10 feet of that slippery pin placement. 

Phil walks up, flicks a delicate wedge to within 2 feet and tapped in for his par. Crazy.

If you’ve watched the Masters perhaps you’ve noticed the worn area across the 9th fairway. It’s the designated area for patrons to cross. I was walking with a large crowd across it at one point and heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. Everybody sort of gasped because of Bobby Jones’ warning. Then I see this idiot fifteen feet ahead of me reach into his pocket and answer the call!!! Suddenly, as if by magic, this security guy in a bright yellow windbreaker appears out of nowhere, taps the idiot on the shoulder and firmly escorted the guy off the premises—to the polite applause of several patrons closest to him. At the Masters, you do it their way or you hit the highway.

So, yes, I’ll be tuned in this weekend. It will be stunningly beautiful. But, nowhere near as beautiful as it was 21 years ago when I was right there in the middle of heaven.

My New Least Favorite Word

I have a new least favorite word—sciatica. First of all, what is that first “c” doing in there…taking up space and making no sound? All it does it make the word hard to pronounce. Stupid. I would like to file a formal complaint with whichever ancestor of ours came up with that spelling, for all the good that’s gonna do. I shouldn’t be taking out my frustrations on the word, I suppose, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.

This morning begins Day 11 of this nonsense. There has been improvement…gradual, grudging improvement, but the pain is still with me. Since I first shared the word “sciatica” with you all in this space 7 days ago— the algorithm from hell that plagues us all—has been bombarding me with advice. Illustrations have popped up all over social media showing healthy looking adults performing various stretching exercises, all with radiant smiles on their cheerful faces—a dead giveaway that they are mere actors who wouldn’t  know what sciatica pain felt like if their very lives depended on it. Even my sister sent me one such illustration with the hopeful claim, “relieve sciatica in seconds with this stretch!” But then she added this troublesome comment—“I try to do this every day. I think it really helps.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But, it didn’t matter anyway. That particular exercise is one of 5 different stretching exercises I have been doing daily for several months now with nebulous and unquantifiable results. So, my reaction to each new stretch suggestion has been…Stretch this!!

Even my neighbor offered advice. His Dad had a bad bout of sciatica pain and found relief with some orthopedic doctor down in Scott’s Addition whose technique involves getting your body in childlike poses or some such thing. I was in pain when he was relaying this information to me so I may have heard incorrectly. He sent me the link.

Meanwhile, I am treating this with a combination of ice packs, heating pads, copious amounts of Tylenol, lidocaine patches, voltaren cream, and a steadily dwindling supply of muscle relaxers, along with the aforementioned stretching regimen. In addition I have been alternating 15 minute sessions in the steam room with 5 minutes in the pool at AMFAM which actually does offer relief—for about 45 minutes.

All is not gloom and doom. I no longer am walking with a limp and I can now walk up steps like a normal person. I am also mostly sleeping through the night. But I am not on board with any sciatica pain as part of my future status quo. I want to put this behind me and get back to the days of my regular aches and pains, the ones which come with age and don’t require medications and gymnastic levels of bodily contortions to rectify.

And if I see another add like this on my facebook feed I think I might throw something…

Abundance, Poverty, and Home

I was driving home from Pawley’s Island a couple days ago, in that circuitous way that one must drive away from any South Carolina beach if you live in Short Pump, Virginia…that is to say, from gaudy abundance, through ugly poverty, then finally to the comfort and familiarity of home.

The gaudy abundance was provided by the grand strand of Myrtle Beach. Staying in the quiet serenity of elegance which is Pawley’s Island spoils you. You are surrounded by gorgeous homes with tree-lined streets connecting them with each other. Every tree seems laden with Spanish moss. Azalea bushes bloom on every corner. Wisteria fills the air with the smell of springtime on your short walk to the beach. But when you begin your drive north you must first get through Myrtle Beach, then North Myrtle Beach. That’s when you realize just how homogenized America has become. At each of the 15-20 stoplights on the 17 bypass there are the same gas stations, the same fast food, the same banks. In what used to be empty fields of hay and scrub pines, now there are Home Depot, Lowe’s and Hobby Lobby. In the distance there are Ferris wheels and high rise hotels side by side like LEGO towers. Millions of people travel here every summer when its hot as hell for their 12 square feet of sand at the base of these towers, then wait in line at Olive Garden for an hour every night for dinner.

But finally you clear out from all the excess and begin a slow meander on the only roads away from here—the back roads of rural South and North Carolina—which brings us to the the ugly, grinding poverty part of the journey home. We had just crossed the state line between the Carolinas when we happened to drive through the town of Chadbourn, North Carolina, population 1,564. There was a bumpy railroad crossing in the middle of town, on either side of which was evidence of what was once old tobacco warehouses. Now they are abandoned and overgrown with weeds. On either side of the long, dusty Maine Street we found one dilapidated house after another, some without roofs, others without doors or windows. Many of the worst houses were still inhabited by human beings, who set on barely serviceable porches looking out at their yards covered with old furniture, and old cars half shrouded by azaleas. By the time we got to the center of town we saw the husks of old brick buildings that probably once held drug stores, barber shops and hardware stores, now empty except for a thrift store and a tattoo parlor. The one fresh and thriving building held the seat of government for Chadbourn, the police station and the mayor’s office. Everywhere we looked in this sad little town we found the one thing that nearly every piece of real estate had in common. Trash. Mountains of it strewn this way and that in every direction. Just outside of town on the far side of an empty field we saw a long line of old beat up cars and washing machines at least the length of a football field. Driving through a town like this at 35 miles per hour does something to you. It’s the kind of experience that makes you Google the town when you get home to find an answer to the question, “what the hell happened to this place?” I didn’t find an answer except for the fact that 50 years ago Chadbourn was a growing town, busy and prosperous, a place where tobacco farmers sold and shipped their crops in the big train cars that stopped there. Ever since the 1990 Census, the town’s population has been declining. It’s a living ghost town.

Eventually, we made it back to Short Pump. We too have the same gas stations, same fast food and same banks. No trash though. The nicest buildings here don’t hold the government. I think the Henrico County Government Center was built in the late 1970’s. 

But I wonder what will become of Short Pump fifty years from now when I’m long gone. Will the businesses that built this place be gone by then? Will new businesses have taken their places or will Short Pump be filled with run down houses, tattoo parlors and thrift stores?

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Today is April Fool’s Day. This year is the first time in forever that everyone at my office could relax because I’m retired and out of town. Everyone else who has known me for any length of time will be suspicious of any blog post written on this day. But I can assure you that I have nothing up my sleeve this year. I have been introduced to a new enemy since early Friday morning and it has gotten and completely dominated my attention. Sciatica pain is no joke. After hobbling around on one leg all weekend at Kaitlin’s house, now I’m hobbling around at the beach in Pawley’s Island, unable to do much of anything. My best friends are Tylenol, ice packs and heating pads. Although I have been effectively sidelined, one thing remains true and steadfast…

Last night I was up probably 4-5 times from the discomfort. Each time, this girl followed me down the hall to the bathroom. Each time I walked into the kitchen to take some medicine, she followed me. Instead of sleeping on the soft sofa with her trusty blankets, she slept on the hard floor beside the bed. Now, while I sit on this loveseat with an ice pack on my hamstring, she hopped up next to me and immediately fell asleep.

We will head out for breakfast later, and this afternoon try to make it to the beach. It’s supposed to be sunny and 70 after lunch. But, we will probably cut this trip short and head back home. It will be far easier hobbling around at home in familiar surroundings. You win some and you lose some. I feel bad for Pam since this is her spring break. I’ll have to make it up to her when I’m well.

Billboards, Diapers, and Hamstrings

I have learned three things this weekend. Columbia, South Carolina is the trial lawyer billboard capital of the world. There is such a thing as a luxury diaper, and pulling a hamstring is not how to start off your Spring Break vacation.

This morning, as I drove the 5.7 miles between my daughter’s house and the Urgent Care, I counted a total of seven very large billboards, each extolling the virtues of various members of the trial lawyers profession, one of which featured the tacit approval of a NASCAR driver…

I am left with two conclusions by this phenomenon, either the residents of the city are especially accident-prone, or this is one helluva litigious town. But more perplexing is the existence of ginormous billboards in the middle of a random intersection, no interstate for miles. I try to imagine the firestorm that would erupt from a billboard being erected anywhere in Short Pump, especially one featuring a NASCAR driver! Home owner associations would raise such holy hell, the billboard company would be the ones needing a lawyer!

The occasion that brought us to Columbia this weekend was my daughter’s first baby shower. She received a ton of wonderful gifts from her many friends down here. One of them caught my eye…

It has been a long time since Pam and I were bringing life into the world. I am learning just how little I know about the baby business anymore. But nothing could have prepared me for the existence of something called Millie Moon Luxury Diapers. Apparently these things are the bomb. I am still unsure what exactly makes these diapers—luxury, but it is a new day. Says right there on the box that they are “beautifully crafted”, which seems a shame considered what will ultimately be deposited within its “feather softness”, although I am encouraged by the fact that these diapers have 0% lotions, fragrances or latex, not to mention the fact that these babies are “unisex”, which will certainly come in handy in this day and age!

Lastly, Friday morning at 4 am I was rudely awakened by a troublesome pain in the area between my left hip and my left hamstring down to behind my left kneecap. I had done nothing the previous day that I could think of that could possibly have produced such an outcome. I took a hot shower, drank some strong  coffee and downed three 500 mg’s tablets of Tylenol. When I got in the car to make the drive to Columbia and put the heated seat on high and hoped for the best. A day and a half later it is killing me and now I’m limping like an old man. Wait…hold on. Now that I think about it, I have been injured. Maybe this Morgan and Morgan outfit can be of service. I mean, if they’re good enough for Kyle Busch, they’re good enough for me!

Busy Week

Busy week ahead.

Tonight I will be speaking to the Ashland Women’s Club about my book, A Life of Dreams. I will be interviewed by an old friend from high school. I won’t be nervous until ten minutes before it starts.

Tuesday, Pam and I meet with the people who will be doing our kitchen re-do to determine a start date for the de-construction to begin. I wrote them a check to begin this process over six weeks ago and nothing has happened, a confounding frustration that has not been adequately explained to my satisfaction. Nevertheless, I have maintained my composure with them so far, sparing my wife the embarrassment of my sometimes bad manners when dealing with poor customer service. I will attempt to continue my remarkable restraint.

I will be opening the Cafe Wednesday and Friday morning this week.

I will be giving Miss Lucy a much needed bath in preparation for our trip to Columbia to attend a baby shower for Kaitlin. Lucy will be making the trip with us, because on Monday morning we will be heading to Pawley’s Island for the week of Pam’s Spring Break. She is going to love the beach and the ocean. The last time she went she was a puppy. Pictures will follow.

Two friends lost loved ones this past week. I will need to find a way to do something or send something to them to let them know that they are loved.

There will be four workouts thrown into the mix over the next five days, four sessions in the steam room, at least one trip to the dump, and one final massage for my troublesome back before we hit the road mid-morning on Friday.

Also…today is the first day of squirrel season in my backyard. The Daisy Powerline 35 is fully loaded and lubed. The free rein that the tree rats have been given all winter will be coming to an end beginning today. May God have mercy on their souls.