The Summer Job of Personal Growth

As far back as I can remember, I had a summer job as a kid. And no, in spite of what my own kids think – those jobs didn’t involve helping Fred Flinstone wash his brontosaurus or Herr Gutenberg print Bibles.

Having a summer job was just an expected part of growing up around our house. Other than the seemingly endless list of chores and projects that my Dad would have for my brothers and me, however, I don’t remember what the actual jobs might have been.  

Maybe my memory has simply protected me from the adolescent anguish of having to perform backbreaking work at slave wages from sunup to sundown while “all of my friends” got to ride their bikes all day or enjoy the beach or go on exotic vacations with loving parents and best-friends-forever-siblings. I just remember that’s often what it seemed like from my side of the summer.

My Dad would leave detailed lists of “things to do” before we were allowed to play or go anywhere. If these tasks weren’t completed to his liking, we did ‘em over. And over. Until they met his standards. Eventually, we learned to take the time necessary to do something the right way (or at least Dad’s way) the first time. Or we’d just wind up spending even more of our precious summer vacation time doing the task over.

For several weeks one memorably miserable summer, one of my jobs was to sort through dozens of shelves filled with coffee cans which in turn were filled with all manner of fasteners and loose hardware.  My dad (by trade an engineer, of course) had painted each of the metal coffee cans (am I the only one who remembers when coffee came in a can instead of a bag?) a uniform, flat white color. Then using a black marker he labeled each can with what was supposed to go into it; machine screws, wood screws, sheet metal screws, lag bolts, carriage bolts, metric screws, standard screws, pan head screws, flat washers, lock washers, castle nuts, cup washers, star washers, cotter pins, brads, wire staples, brass screws, Phillips head screws, slotted head screws, Allen head screws, galvanized nails, roofing nails, finish nails, 16-penny nails, box nails, duplex nails, concrete nails and welcome to my teenage nightmare.

Every day after summer school I would sit for hours in our sweltering garage on Harmony Place – just a few houses away from the beckoning basketball courts, cool grassy slopes and glorious, lazy freedom of Two-Strike Park – separating machine screws from the sheet metal screws (yes, there is a difference), roofing nails from finishing nails and flat washers from star washers. Hour after stifling hour. Then, Dad would come home from work and casually scrutinize the results of my afternoon’s labor. All too often it take mere seconds until he discovered a rogue flat washer hiding among the lock washers and pronounce, “You’re not being careful enough!” Then he’d say the three little words that could darken even the brightest summer sun. “Do it over.” 

Now, please understand; this was a time before iPods or iPads and streaming video. Even cassette tapes and Walkmans were a few years away. To ice this crummy cake, our neighborhood was in a virtual black hole for radio reception, so my little 9-volt transistor radio was of no use while I worked. Feel sorry for me yet? Please don’t. I learned invaluable, lifetime lessons at the feet of my taskmaster Dad. At the same time, he also taught me about auto mechanics, roofing a house, plumbing, electrical wiring, how to slurry a driveway and build a fence and dig a leach line and – most importantly – the value of a job well done.

I got to thinking about my past summer jobs while driving to Hume Lake with my wife this past weekend to visit our youngest son. He has a summer job as a counselor at Hume Lake Christian Camps deep in the cool forests of the Sequoia National Park. I’ll write more about what he’s doing and how it’s changing his life next week. For now, I’ll just say that it beats sitting in a hot garage counting nuts and bolts.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a longer version of my column first published yesterday, 7.28.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Speaking Up For Service Clubs

Last week I had the unique pleasure of being the guest speaker at the Tuesday night meeting of the Jewel City Kiwanis Club (I’m not sure why, but “Jewel City” is the nickname of Glendale, CA).

I have to admit, for all my many years on the planet, my knowledge of what happens at a Kiwanis meeting was almost nil. Sure, I have been aware of the Kiwanis name – you can’t drive into town anywhere in this great land without seeing a little Kiwanis plaque on that ubiquitous “Welcome to …” sign at the town line of almost every berg in America.

As the assembled Kiwanis members quickly discovered, I’m a writer, not a public speaker. Thankfully, proper decorum ruled the evening and no food was thrown.

I had been asked to speak on any topic that I chose, so long as it wasn’t awkwardly political in nature (Unfortunately, ANY political discussion amongst today’s highly polarized public quickly turns awkward) and – because several of the members present were regular readers of my newspaper column – I spoke to the group about the writing life. (Cue the crickets sound effect.)  

Hopefully, I was able to give this exceptionally welcoming bunch some insight into the life of a freelance writer and specifically, how I write this column each week, where I get my subject matter (out of thin air, mostly) and other mildly interesting topics.

Whatever knowledge I was able to impart to the gathering at Clancy’s Crab Broiler last Tuesday evening was more than overshadowed by what I learned about the Jewel City Kiwanis themselves. This group of local business people is as diverse as it is friendly. They get together once a week to have a good time, certainly, but most importantly, to provide various kinds of help for others in our community.

Waiting for my turn at the lectern, I got to thinking about the many good things service clubs like the Kiwanis have done over the years. Through its numerous fundraising events (not the least of which is the almost nonstop gleaning of dollar bills, fives and even a few twenties from each others’ wallets during the meeting) the club raises money to help support local groups including the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, YMCA, YWCA, CV ROTC, CVHS Cheerleaders, the Glendale Little League and many others. I’ve been told that the Kiwanis’ customized cooking/BBQ trailer is a familiar site at Glendale’s popular Cruise Nights and other local events.

Unfortunately, as one Kiwanis member explained to me during the evening, their club – like so many others across the country – is experiencing a “graying” of its membership. As older members leave town (or the planet, for that matter), there are fewer and fewer younger people waiting to take their place. I’m afraid that’s more a reflection on our changing cultural attitudes than it is on the value of service clubs.

In his groundbreaking book, “Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community” (Simon & Schuster), Harvard Professor Robert D. Putnam distills data drawn from almost 500,000 interviews conducted over 25 years that points to how our society has become increasingly disconnected from family, friends and neighbors. Changes in work, family structure, suburban life, television watching, internet use and other factors have contributed to this disconnection.

Among other disruptive societal trends, Putnam uncovered a 58% drop in attendance of club meetings. That’s too bad, because Putnam also cites research that indicates joining and participating in just one group can slash the odds of a person dying within the next year by 50 percent. Hmmm. I wonder if my horror & fantasy book club membership would count towards a longer life? Probably not.

My thanks once again to the members of the Jewel City Kiwanis for inviting me (it took a few times but I finally accepted!) to speak at their weekly meeting and for being such gracious and welcoming hosts. Oh, and thanks to Clancy’s for making an excellent bowl of clam chowder.

Meeting adjourned. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a slightly edited version of my column first published yesterday, 7.21.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Bye Bye, You Old Bag

So, do you miss them? As of July 1, plastic grocery bags have been officially banned for use where I live in unincorporated Los Angeles County. They join jobs, legal immigration, a prosperous economy and rising home values as things of our once proud past.

Bye bye “paper or plastic” at the checkout. Then again, I can’t remember the last time I was actually offered a choice. Not long after the nation’s two largest grocery chains, Kroger and Safeway, began offering plastic bags to shoppers back in 1982, if shoppers wanted paper bags, you had to ask.

Plastic has been the bag of choice for almost every grocery store I’ve shopped at for the past many years (with the notable exception being Trader Joes.) I suppose the bags cost retailers less to provide. Unfortunately, the environmental costs were high because it turned out that the bags don’t decompose in landfills and will most likely be the only thing left to entertain all the lonely cockroaches when everything else disappears from the planet. Whoops.

That said, plastic grocery bags also cost consumers untold amounts of frustration, spilled groceries and nearly-amputated-fingers. Personally, I’m not the least bit sorry to see the demise of the bags. On the contrary, I celebrate this new development. But not for the environmental reasons typically given. No, I’ve long been against the use of plastic bags simply because – as carriers of groceries – they stink.

Sure, the bags have some positives. Um … well … they make good trash can liners. So they’ve got that going for them.

Oh, and their large plastic handles make it possible to hang them from each of the five fingers on both hands, dangle them from my forearms and even hang one from my lower jaw. And yet, the capacity of a plastic bag was never enough for me. Even waddling from the car into the house with bags hanging from me head-to-toe like bizarre Christmas ornaments – the amount of groceries I could carry would easily fit into only two or three of the classic paper bags.

And, more often than not, a bag will be loaded with too much weight (e.g. three cans of beans instead of two!) and split open just as you lift it from the shopping cart. Or on the rare occasion that one is fully loaded and doesn’t burst like an overripe melon, the weight turns the plastic handles into knife-edged guillotines that slice into the joints of your fingers turning the journey from garage to kitchen into a mini-Bataan Death March.

And another thing: plastic trash bags make lousy book covers. I mean, who didn’t cut up a nice brown paper shopping bag to cover your schoolbook with way back when? Not only did paper bags make great (and free!) protective covers, you could easily write on the brown paper, take notes, draw goofy pictures as the teacher droned on and on and on. The blank brown palette was just begging to be doodled on. Try doing that with a thin plastic bag. Can’t be done. Then again, students today are likely to be too busy texting to waste time, er … stimulate their creative minds by drawing on book covers.

There’s another even bigger problem with plastic bags. I’ve lost count of how many times a bag or two or three will shift on the ride home from the grocery store and, upon opening up the door to the backseat, a can of soup or cottage cheese carton or fragile fruit will fall out and begin rolling down our steep driveway. “We’ve got a leaper!” my wife will yell as we chase down the escaping dairy products before they make it all the way into the neighbor’s backyard. Yes, you really haven’t lived until you catch an airborne seedless watermelon milliseconds before it hits the garage floor. Good times with groceries.

At one point long before it was environmentally responsible, we bought several large, reusable vinyl and cloth bags from Costco. The bags are not just big, they’re huge. They have cloth handles and even a shoulder strap to help carry larger loads. I loved using them. A week’s worth of groceries that might have used up 20 or more plastic bags can be put into just one or two of our Costco bags at most. Heck, you could carry several small children and the family dog in one of the things. I think the bags are convenient. But whenever we take them to our local grocery store, the clerks look at our big bags with poorly hidden disgust – like we had just backed my pickup truck up to the checkout stand or something equally as bizarre. I may as well be asking them to deposit my just-purchased items into an open-pit outhouse. Well, excuse me. 

In reality, the new ban on plastic grocery bags in Southern California is nothing more than a tempest in a landfill. With our town being divided down its middle by one North/South street  that separates the City of Glendale (which still allows plastic bags) and unincorporated Los Angeles County (which now bans them), if the grocery store you frequent no longer offers plastic bags, simply drive a few blocks East and you can find one that does. So what’s the point, other than making it possible for stores to now charge customers 10-cents each for paper bags (which used to be free). The new ban seems to be another example of a government mandate that sounds good, makes politicians and activists feel good, but really doesn’t do much to solve any problem. In fact, the good it accomplishes could fit into a bag. A plastic one at that.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

A shorter, edited version of this post was published originally on 7.14.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (www.cvweekly.com).   

Bombs Bursting In Airheads

Now that the smoke has cleared from the sky, the backyard BBQs have cooled and the cobs have been de-corned, what do you remember most about this past Monday’s celebration of our country’s birth? The food? The fireworks? The sales? Or simply a day off work? Personally, I won’t forget the cacophony of car alarms triggered with every loud burst from the fireworks high above CVHS. Really, people?

With each 4^th of July observance, I can’t help but be reminded of Jay Leno’s ‘Jaywalking’ segments on the Tonight Show where he interviews random people on the street about various topics. A few times over the years his interviews have posed questions to average Joes about the meaning of our nation’s 4^th of July holiday. “Why do we celebrate the holiday?” he’ll ask, or “Who was George Washington?” Or even “What does Independence Day mean?” Believe it or not, many who walk among us don’t have the slightest idea that the 4^th of July and Independence Day are one and the same. I’ve watched with my mouth agape as Leno asks his subjects what or who we declared our independence from some 235 years ago, only to get blank stares in return. At first it’s funny. Then sad. Finally, it’s frightening.

I’ve seen Leno quiz college students, recent high school grads, parents, young adults, even some people who claim to be public school teachers. Granted, only the most dense and clueless make the show, but the fact that our society seems to be turning out increasing numbers of historically illiterate mouth-breathers is cause for alarm.

The truly despicable thing (in my opinion, at least) is that – as a direct and purposeful result of our left-leaning, multicultural-focused education system – more American students today could likely tell you what Cinco de Mayo is all about then could explain the importance of the Fourth of July. What have we done?

We’ve created a culture that is increasingly blasé and in many cases, apologetically embarrassed about the bright, shining uniqueness of this exceptional country. Even our current President, when asked if he believed in American exceptionalism said yes, he does, “… just as I suspect that the Brits believe in British exceptionalism and the Greeks believe in Greek exceptionalism …” In other words, America is no big deal. Ho hum. When’s my next tee time?

What can we do to reverse this dangerously deliberate dumbing down of our citizenry? I’m so glad you asked.

One of the wisest men alive today, Dennis Prager, is a Southern California resident, prolific author and talk show host with an impressive national radio audience (heard in my media market on KRLA 870AM ). This past week, Prager introduced what may turn out to be a the easiest, most effective way to teach the next generation some of the most important aspects of America’s founding. After years of stressing the importance of ritual and tradition not only in family life, but in the life of our country, Prager has created what he calls a 4^th of July Declaration.

This important new ceremony was patterned after the world’s best known commemoration of a historical event– the Jewish Passover meal, which has been instrumental in keeping alive the memory of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt for over 3000 years. To participate (and appreciate!) this ceremony, one doesn’t have to be Jewish, Christian or any faith at all. You just have to be an American willing to dedicate less than ten minutes of your holiday to the cause of American community.

Predictably, the ceremony (and its author, for that matter) has been blasted by the left as trite, jingoistic, unnecessary, childish, corny and much worse. Then again, consider the source. A unhappier, more bitter and antagonistic lot has never has so much to say nor so many ways to say it than the left has in today’s digitally supported iComplain culture. 

And yet, the need for just such a ritualistic remembrance is great. As Prager states on his Prager University web site,  “As Americans … we need to rediscover the meaning of our country’s creation. And we need to do it every year. That is the reason for ritual – to enable us to remember. Without ritual, memory fades. And without memory, life – whether of the individual or of a nation – loses meaning.” Amen, sir.

Independence Day 2011 is already history. But I urge you to take a look at what Mr. Prager has created and see if it wouldn’t make next year’s holiday more meaningful, more memorable, and most importantly – more significant than any your family has experienced to date.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a slightly modified version of my column first published yesterday, 7.7.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

A Superhero Afraid of His Own Name

When is a superhero not a superhero? Apparently, when he hails from the United States. At least, Marvel Studios thinks so. The studio is about to release the new Captain America: The First Avenger summer action film and brave Marvel execs are concerned that the name won’t travel well when it reaches foreign shores. Already, Marvel has announced that in Russia, the Ukraine and South Korea to name a few, the film’s name will be shortened to simply, The First Avenger – ostensibly to placate the hyper-anti-American sensitivities of overseas elites.

But, but … I thought our world-citizen, leader-for-all-mankind, über-President was going to fix all that.

Hey Marvel, why not go one politically correct step further and re-title the flick for each of the countries it plays in? For example, in Berlin theaters the film could be called “General German.” In Guadalajara it could be “Major Mexico.” Movie goers further south could buy tickets for “Corporal Chili,” “Admiral Argentina,” “Private Peru” (that one almost sounds scandalous, doesn’t it?) and so on and so on.  

I wonder how they’ll apologize to moviegoers for the protagonist’s unapologetically patriotic red, white and blue costume? Maybe they could digitally render the garish suit into a neutrally non-offensive Swiss Coffee sort of color and hand out glasses with the appropriate colors of each different country on the lenses. What's next, remaking Superman into "Super-gender-neutral-person"?

Hooray for Hollywood.

My Mugs Runneth Over

As I was reaching in the cabinet to get a coffee mug to begin my morning intake of steamy dark goodness when something occurred to me. Namely, that one of the consequences of parenting four smart, ambitious and capable kids is that – ultimately – they will likely attend a college or university. (The fact that the public school system shills for higher education from the first day of kindergarten on probably has something to do with it, but I’ll save that topic for another day. Anybody remember trade schools?) 

You might be asking; what in the wide-world-of-Dunkin Donuts does my morning brew have to do with sending kids to college? Two words: coffee mugs.   

Let me explain. Two of my wife’s and my four “kids” are well into their adult lives and graduated with their respective degrees in hand some years ago – one from the Master’s College and the other from Azusa Pacific University, both Southern California institutions. Our two younger kids, however, are currently in the middle of their own adventures in higher education – one at the University of Montana in Missoula, the other at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego.

If you’re keeping score, that’s four kids and four different colleges or universities. And yes, we do eat a lot of ramen noodles and mac n’ cheese these days.

So, what does reaching into the cupboard to get a coffee mug have to do with kids and college? Glad you asked. This morning, as I was confronted with a large and very odd assortment of mugs stacked on the shelves, I realized that as a result of the outrageously expensive rite of passage, my kids get a degree and at least four years of life-changing personal growth and professional training (please, dear God, let it be so!). But other than decades of loan payments, all their mom and I get out of this are coffee mugs.

It’s true. We have a cupboard full of coffee mugs with “(name of college) DAD”  or “(name of college) MOM” silk screened onto them – a veritable hall of fame of colleges our kids have attended – and not much else to show for all the money, anguish and effort poured into sending four kids to college. No, wait. In all honesty, we also have those little decals with the school logos on the back of our car windows. I feel so much better now.

I wonder if this is a uniquely American thing, or are parents in other countries cajoled into spending even more of their there-it-goes-out-the-window retirement money on overpriced ceramic mugs from the colleges their offspring attend? I mean, wouldn’t you think that – upon investing tens-of-thousands-of-dollars every year to have your son or daughter live 24/7 on your campus, eat your food, sit in your classes for hours upon hours, etc. – that the least you could do is to pony up a couple of free mugs in a swag bag of goodies and chotchkies as a “thank you” to the parents and/or grandparents who helped to make it all possible? But nooooo. At best, bled-dry parents get a subscription to the school’s over-produced, glossy-stock, full-color alumni magazine and a never ending river of appeals for donations to said college. Sigh. 

And it doesn’t end with mugs and decals. Why do we parents feel so compelled to spend even more of our dwindling cash on college-branded bumper stickers, those stupid flappy flag thingies to clip over your car window, keychains, sweatshirts, hats, baby onesies, football jerseys (like any of us parents ever played college ball!) seat cushions for when you buy outrageously priced tickets to a college game and even warm fuzzy blankets with your kid’s college logo printed on them to help keep you warm when you’re sitting at home watching TV in a freezing house because there’s no money left to pay the heating bill.

I really should have t-shirts made up that say, “My kid went to college and all I got was a lousy coffee mug.” Unfortunately, my dresser drawers are already jammed with too many t-shirts that have – you guessed it – college logos on them.

Sigh. I’ll see you ‘round town. 

Note: This is a slightly modified version of my column first published yesterday, 6.30.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.