Optimistic Beacon

Who’s smarter, a sparrow or me? Obviously a sparrow. Who’s smarter, mourning doves or me? No trick questions, it’s the mourning doves. Who’s smarter, hummingbirds or me? Again, I come out on the short end of the stick. I could keep this quiz up for a half dozen more species, but the answers are all the same.

Did the Federal government fund this study? It is obviously important. If birds are smarter than a guy with a doctorate, the defense department may consider them to pilot jets or guide drones. Imagine a pigeon doing clandestine work for the CIA. You can’t? Think of a grackle sitting at the IRS reviewing taxes. Costs go way down. Think of a blue jay heading up border security. We won’t need a wall. What about hummingbirds carrying encrypted messages in their long bills. WikiLeaks is finished. The possibilities are endless.

Do I hear a question: “Ray, what did you have to drink before you wrote this blog?”

I confess I added freshly squeezed lemon juice to my filtered water. Maybe it was almonds I put on my salad. Or, the flaxseeds I added to my Greek yogurt. There has to be a simple explanation for my birdbrain rationalization.

Here is my reasoning why birds are more intelligent than me.

1. I buy them food.
2. I put the food in four different bird feeders if you count the hummingbird feeder as one of the feeders.
3. I make sure they have enough food to eat every day.
4. I’m thinking of having an app designed so they can order ahead and pick up their seed at the to-go window.

What do I get out this arrangement? They wake me up at 5:30 a.m. It doesn’t matter if I want to sleep a bit longer. They turn up the volume letting the entire neighborhood know it’s breakfast. Perhaps I’ve discovered a reason my neighbors are adopting cats from the shelter.

I watch the birds fly in and out of the feeders (I really, really, really need to reexamine the direction of my life). They invite their friends to the feeding fiesta. Now I know how workers at an all night burger joint feel.

As foolish as it sounds, I like feeding the birds. I am grateful for their visits. I get much more out of their company than I give to them. I can’t help myself, I am a nature lover and believe every species is sacred.

Question: What is more dangerous than being tossed into a locked, fenced pen with six hungry, mean looking, drooling, barking pit bulls?

You in the last row. What’s that, Piranha? Cold, cold, cold.

I see you, stop waving your hand as you have an electric circuit running wild. “Walking down a gang-infested street with $100 dollar bills pinned to your clothes? Cold, cold, cold.

I see you didn’t read your assignment. I loaded the PDF online. What’s a PDF? What’s online? You want to run for Congress when you grow up? It appears you’re ready now.

You by the window with the smirk on your face, I did. You sure? I apologize class. I loaded the wrong PDF online. The one with the answers to the final. Close your computers. Shut off your tablets and iPad. Okay, everyone gets an A.

The answer to the question: Being forced to attend a university committee faculty meeting. I attended a meeting and barely survived. Do you know what it is like to sit with six egos so big they make you feel claustrophobic? I was gasping for air.

I decided to watch the dynamics. The first item on the agenda was the approval of minutes. They fought, they banged on the table. They demanded words be changed. They said I didn’t say that when everyone knows they did. I started to write out a power of attorney. They looked violent. When one professor stood up and placed his two hands on the table and bent toward a colleague and screamed, “You are an imbecile. No wonder I can’t stand you,” I began composing a living will.

I started to write out a power of attorney. They looked violent. When one professor stood up and placed his two hands on the table and bent toward a colleague and screamed, “You are an imbecile. No wonder I can’t stand you,” I began composing a living will.

When one professor stood up and placed his two hands on the table and bent toward a colleague and screamed, “You are an imbecile. No wonder I can’t stand you,” I began composing a living will.

Forty minutes to figure out if the minutes were okay, forty minutes. The chair said, “New business.” A committee member blurted, “What do you mean ‘none of my business.’ The chair said, “I said new business.” “Why didn’t you say so the first time?” snarled the committee member.

My preset chime went off. I looked at the group, “I apologize. I have another meeting on the far side of campus. I’ll read the minutes. Great meeting. A wave. A deep breath. I escaped.

Yes, I did have another meeting. Yes, it was on the far side of the campus. It was with the elliptical machine.

Listening and trying to understand is a big part working well with anyone. Some are born with the skill, most of us have to practice and practice and practice. It’s worth the effort.

My name is Ray, and I’m not on Facebook. It’s humbling to admit. Everyone I know is on Facebook. The barista, the old woman down the street on a walker. The skateboarder who zips by and waves while jumping the curb. Even my lawn guy who said, “No estas en Facebook, estas loco (you’re not on Facebook, you’re crazy).  Even Lady Lucy’s on Facebook.

My neighbors held an intervention. When that didn’t work they brought in an exorcist. When that failed, they asked a free-spirited couple to chant and channel light energy to me. Why do I bring this up? Keep reading.

It’s 2:15 p.m. The wedding begins a 4 p.m. I charged my iPhone. I ask Siri, “Get me directions to 320 Artist Drive. How difficult is that for Siri? Not very. She’s back in a jiffy, “Proceed to the route,” she said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Like she has to tell me to proceed to the route. If Siri doesn’t tell me, am I about to sit in the lot waiting for further instructions? Give me some credit, I made honor roll once in second grade, or was it fourth. No, it wasn’t fourth, I barely escaped.

I follow Siri to 320 Artist Drive. It can’t be right. I’m staring at a condo. The condo supposed to be a lodge that handles parties, weddings, wingdings, soiree’s, and the annual Facebook Anonymous Convention (FAC for short). I circle around the condos. No sign of a lodge. Lots of pickup trucks,  satellite dishes, pizza boxes sticking out of a dumpster. I caught a glimpse of a scrawny looking guy, arms like overcooked angel hair spaghetti, a bit of facial hair covering a receding chin, and a T-shirt with a peace sign that looks as old as Woodstock (if you remember that). I estimate his age anywhere from twenty-two to seventy-one. I roll my window down, “Excuse me, do you know how to get to Hyde Park Lodge?”  He tucks his right arm behind his back to hide something he was smoking. He says, “Lockman? No

He tucks his right arm behind his back to hide something he was smoking. He says, “That where they’re having the smoke in?”

“I don’t know about a smoke in, I’m going to a wedding.”

“Wedding man? Cool. Who are you marrying?”

“I’m not getting married, it’s …”

He interrupts me, “Does she know that? That’s bad karma dude.”

I change my strategy. “I’m looking for the lodge. Do you know how to get to the lodge?”

“Locks? Don’t worry about locks. Break in, take what you want, leave a nice note, you’re only borrowing.”

“No, a lodge,” I repeat.

 

“Hey man, don’t freak out. Everything’s cool. There’s a logging camp about thirty miles from here.”

“Thanks, man. Peace.”

“He scratches his head with his free hand, and says, “I’m searching for it, dude.”

Hw either promoted or demoted me from man to dude. I’m sure this isn’t the lodge. Although I see a stream of people going in and out of a first-floor condo and coming out with plastic to go baggies.

I check my iPhotos where I have a pic of the invitation. Maybe I got the address wrong. No, I got the address right. It’s being held at Hyde Park Lodge. I stop a man and woman, I ask them for directions. He’s talking at her. She’s talking at him. No one’s listening. It must be the U.S. Congress. I’m confused. They start arguing. “Jill, you’re thinking of the Hide Park Lodge.”

“No, Don. I’m thinking of the Hyde Park Ledge.”

“I interrupt. All I need is the direction to Hyde Park Lodge. Hyde with a Y.”to Hyde Park Lodge. Hyde with a Y.”

“Oh, Hyde with a Y Park Lodge,” they say in unison. They look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. In unison, “Sorry, can’t help you.”

I leave and head for the center of town. I park, go into the first tourist trap I find. “Can I help you?” says a guy who looks like he’s a retired CPA.

“Yes, how do I get to Hyde Park Lodge? There’s a Hyde Park up on the Hudson. Hell of a drive from here. Has a great sushi place. Used to go there all the time. I miss it. You like sushi? I just moved here from New York. Would you like to see some of our postcards?”

“Raincheck on the postcards, por favor. I’m going to a wedding. It starts in less than an hour. I have no clue where I’m going.”

He says, “You came to Sante Fe with no clue as to where you’re going? Martha, Martha, red alert.”

“It’s a metaphor for my life. No need for a red alert,” I answer.

He turns, “Downgrade it to an orange alert, Martha.”

His eye stops twitching. I buy two postcards and leave.

I’m a proud man, but I’m a desperate man. I have no choice. I call my daughters for help. It’s humiliating, humbling, I’m already generating a list of excuses. I call Pru, no answer. I call the bride’s sister, Monica, a granddaughter, no answer. I call Cathy, the bride’s mother, no answer. I know they’re at the Lodge. I’m feeling paranoid. I always thought I was the life of the party. I try Googling Hyde Park Lodge. All I get is the Hyde Park Ranger station. Close enough. I call and a Ranger answers. That’s good. It’s a recording, that’s bad. The recording tells me to call 911 if it’s an emergency. I consider the advice. I have thirty minutes and two postcards.

I start driving toward 320 Artist Drive again. Why? It’s a guy thing. If it doesn’t work the first ten times, it’s got to work the eleventh time. It’s written in the Real Man’s Guide to the Universe. I arrive again at 320 Artist Way. The condo is still standing. My toking friend waves. I wave back. He hollers, “I found it.”

I holler back, “Found what.”

He waves his joint, “Peace, man. Peace.”

I flash the peace sign and head up the road away from town towards the mountains. I call Angie, another daughter. She and her family pull off the road somewhere in Michigan. She tells me the address is wrong. It was changed on Facebook (now you understand). I ask for help finding the lodge. She asks me where I am. The answer is easy, 320 Artist way.

“I’m Googling. Which direction are you facing?” she asks.

“Straight ahead,” I answer.

She’s a professor. She’s good under pressure. “That’s good Dad. Where is the sun?”

“In the sky.”

“I’m getting a sense of where you are,” she says.

“I have 15 minutes until the wedding starts,” panic creeps into my voice.

“No worries. I’ll get you there. Head in the direction of where there are the fewest houses and keep on going until ….”

“I hear until and then I lose the signal. What choice do I have with only 15 minutes? I keep going. The road goes into the mountains. It narrows. A large dropoff appears to one side. I keep watching the road. It’s all winding and up, up, and up. I’m fearful my nose will begin to bleed. Does my rental have an oxygen mask that will drop out of the roof in case of an emergency?

A motorcycle passes on a double yellow, blind curve. I’m hoping whoever is driving doesn’t become bug splatter. Maybe they’re late for the wedding too. They squeeze in a second before a jeep comes in the opposite direction.

Ten miles later at 3:55 I see something that looks like a lodge. It is a lodge. I pull in. Pru and Cathy are staring at the road. I blast the horn. I wonder if I disturbed the wedding  (I wonder if the daughters think, you can’t bring dad anywhere). We hug and they tell me there is no cell service).  The wedding hasn’t started. I breathe a sigh of relief. All the guests crowd four deep around a table. I inquire as to what is going on. Cathy says, “Open bar.”

I muscle my way to the front of the crowd and get the bartender’s attention, “Do you have Perrier?”

“Perry who?”

I need a service dog. Where’s Lady Lucy?

I made it through my misadventures. The wedding was a success. Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson couldn’t find the Lodge. I heard they joined the dude at 320 Artist Way.

I had a great time. Lots of laughs. Lots of love. Lots of celebration. Not a sad face in the crowd. It’s what weddings are meant to be. I decide everyone needs a bit of wedding in their day.

My granddaughter and me at the wedding. It was worth the adventure. Don’t miss out on the big things. They come by once. Grab hold and hold on tight.

My Wedding Adventure

My granddaughter, Mary, is getting married in Sante Fe this afternoon. In the next few blogs, I will describe my adventures and misadventures on attending the wedding.

It all started out innocently enough when I packed for my flight to Albuquerque (Hey, I spelled it correctly, first try – wish Miss Sleeper or Miss Sleepy as I called her behind her back in fourth grade could see it). I placed my suitcase on the bed. I neatly folded my blue blazer and white shirt and placed them in the suitcase (so far, so good). My right brain directed me to load up my one-quart plastic baggie with a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and my razor (my chest is swelling with pride), I’m hoping the TSA tells me I’m their poster boy for the year. I polished my shoes, put them in a plastic bag and placed them in the suitcase.

I closed the suitcase, put the suitcase where I won’t forget it when I leave (right in front of the door leading to the garage) and got ready for bed (my flight departs at 6 a.m.). I woke up with a start at 10 p.m. OMG – I didn’t pack pants or my boxers. I’m out of the bed, the suitcase is back on the bed, my pants and boxers go in (pants neatly, boxers, not so neatly).

It takes me a half-hour to get back to sleep after that near miss. I finally and gratefully doze off. It’s 1:30 a.m. I’m sitting straight up in bed. Can you imagine being all dressed up for the wedding but not having stockings? Major faux pax. I take care of it. I now have it covered. I toss and turn. I look for the cold side of the pillow. Nothing helps. I go through a packing checklist – a voice in my mind screams at me, “Hold on Ray. Where is the tie?” Where is the tie? I know where the tie is, it’s on the tie rack and not in the suitcase. I’m getting aerobic exercise carrying my suitcase back and forth to the bed for packing.

I did not go back to sleep. That’s the bad news. The good news – I got to the airport on time. The bad news – the flight was delayed. The good -news. I slept for the two hours on the flight to Phoenix. Wait a minute, I thought you were going to Albuquerque (spelled it correctly again, Miss Sleepy, oops, Miss Sleeper). Phoenix is where the brilliant minds at American Airlines decided I have to go to get to Albuquerque. So, we fly over the entire state of New Mexico. Change planes and come back to New Mexico.

It was all good because in Phoenix I met Richard and David from Hawaii. One seat between them. I asked if the seat was open, Richard said yes, David shrugged. I said to David, “Will you accept a 2-1 vote?” “Ho k,” he said. I said to Richard and David, “If you guys haven’t had coffee, let me know, I’ll get a different seat.” David looks past me at Richard and says, “We let him stay. Where you going, man?” I said, “It’s Ray, what’s your name amigo.” I turned down an offer from David when we boarded the plane to learn the gang signals. When I boarded the plane, Jim and Lady Lucy were sitting in my seat. Lady Lucy a cute service dog with big brown eyes. My apologies, Lady Lucy, your eyes almost got me. But you do have my seat.”

Tomorrow: The wedding.