Step back from the internet and bake

I walked into my office recently and found a fresh made chocolate pound cake sitting on my desk. The cake was perched on top of papers, notebooks, reports, sticky notes and pencils (they do not have software problems) scattered across the desk.

I’ve always assumed my desk was made of wood but it would take big burly men with hard hats and bright yellow safety vests operating jack hammers to dig through so much paper and junk to strike wood. I am thankful the cake did not become lost amidst the clutter and be found centuries from now by archeologists on a TV documentary called “Food of the Ancients”.

The cake was wrapped in clear cellophane with a white envelope on top and when opened there was a hand written note wishing me a happy birthday. The cake was from a co-worker, Margaret, who had taken the time.

The cake meant that recently in a kitchen bowls were brought out from shelves, eggs were broken and flour was sifted and measured, spoons, spatulas and other tools were used and scattered about. The kitchen slowly became a mess.

Probably the phone rang while she worked and she had to answer it with her one clean hand and while pressing the phone to her ear with her shoulder she used both hands to measure vanilla extract as she told the caller what she was doing.

“…but that’s alright. Ok… I’ll talk to you later---uh huh… love you too. Bye.”

She poured the batter into a bunt cake pan, slid it into the oven and while the cake baked spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up flour, egg shells, utensils and drops of wet batter while planning supper for her husband.

Margaret and I are from a generation that was never divided and separated from each other by head phones, sealed cars and the internet. We grew up having to learn to talk to people directly and shake hands or hug one another and you covered your mouth when you coughed. Coming up like that teaches you that you are not alone in the world-- there are other people to be considered. Get off the internet and bake someone a cake.

The cake was handmade kindness to help ease the passing of time. At my age birthdays are timely warnings and I am more aware of decline and decrepitude. When someone tells me “You look great!” their eyes say “For a man your age”. As you age, forward motion is a sign of good health and hope---I try to keep enough momentum to reach the top of the next hill. Age also brings unease about any dark cloudy spots on your CT scans.

Laboring for another person makes for good health and peace of mind. The current generation thinks life is about tread mills, texting and blogs. But what we all want is a sense of worth and calling in life and if we slow down enough we may find it right in front of our noses. Labor can be its own reward.

Right now I am watching an electrician work on a fuse box in my house and it is obvious that he loves his work. So does my doctor. There is nothing like enthusiasm for what you do and there is no better satisfaction than to labor for another. Our Savior said that because He cares He has worked to prepare a place for us. Not for himself.

I would not be surprised if when I meet Him at that place and I am welcomed in, He smiles, and offers me a fresh baked pound cake.

A new laptop brings me in line

With one purchase and submission of my ID and password I have logged into the modern world. I recently bought a lap top computer! Even my 17 year old, who is willing to testify that I am alive but brain dead, believes that dad pulled one out of the hat this time. He handed me the highest compliment a kid can give a parent these days, “Dad, can I see that? Awesome!”

The lap top has a built in camera, a first class sound system with special er, uh , stuff that allows me to listen to radio stations and play CD’s for music and even handles DVD’s for movies. With the built in camera and video capabilities (webcam) I can look at people in real time while they look at me. My mother use to call that “staring”.

The laptop can probably open the garage door and comb my hair but I have not figured that out yet. There are no messy cables for a printer or the internet because (drum roll please) its wireless! I’m always connected to the world. My little “snookums” (it’s just so cute) is about the size of a notebook and fits into a black case with a shoulder strap that projects a very European look as I stroll through the Foodlion parking lot.

Oh yea, it will do computer stuff too.

Columbus sailed to the new world without email, laptop or an internet connection relying solely on his wits, hard tack biscuits and good eyesight. But now I can prop my laptop on a nearby grocery cart and quiz Google on the finer points of spotting a good cantaloupe in the produce department. I use to think myself better than people with laptops hanging from their shoulders and now I am one. Pride goeth before a fall.

We are obsessed with the internet and keeping enormous amounts of data at our fingertips. There was a time when being an engineer, textile worker or machinist was long-term professions but those people were let go and our ability to manufacture things (my lap top was made in China) was given away by liberals-- traitorous behavior later embraced by Texas conservatives and continued by the new administration of Blame and Arrogance.

We now spew out words by the gazillion. My column demands I be a wordsmith and I pass out-of-work engineers and carpenters on my way to the newspaper office so I can add to the already trillions of words out there in the world. When the Chinese versions of “Tiny” and “Muscles” come to collect our national debt they will find people that cannot make a light bulb but have fantastic communication devices and boat loads of data. We are a nation of electronic bytes—not steel.

Some days ago my thoughts turned dark about the future and I thought it would be nice to hurl myself in front of the Norfolk Southern Railways 9:47 but I had a 10:00 dental appointment and you know how those people are if you are a no show. So later I did a live chat with a good friend that was on-line. I lamented the loss of carburetors, Roy Roger’s plastic boot drinking cups, hoboes, good manners, neighborhood newsstands and drugstore chocolate Sundaes. By the time I was through chatting I felt better, took a deep breath and went to the refrigerator for a snack.

I am now ready to fall in line like baby ducks that follow their mother down to the pond, one little duckling after the other with me bringing up the rear-- a lap top hanging from my shoulder. Awesome.

I saw a real parent at Burger King

Years ago my son was born in the month of April-- right on schedule. Getting a kid to hatch in sync with future school enrollment periods takes work and planning. The man must be injected with an oyster-Viagra solution three times a day. The woman must eat lasagna and hang upside down for two hours during a full moon. She then has to stand on her right foot with her left leg slightly bent extending both arms outward from her sides at shoulder height—the Stork Position-- for 28.7 minutes. The man’s performance is paced by a clock and temperature readings.

The baby was born due to the labor of my wife with me in the background begging the doctor for a sedative. I was totally ignored through the entire birthing process and had to make do with a lint covered M&M I found in my pocket.

My son is athletic with a dry sense of humor which is a good thing. We Hudson’s are in need of a humor gene carrier and now we seem to have one. He embraces life with an iPod, has many friends and believes the sun comes up just for him. He is as healthy as a plow horse and at 17 believes fast food is best enjoyed without parents.

Moms and Dads work hard at building a kid. We lay a foundation to build on-- like Please and Thank You and why you flush the toilet after you use it. At 16 we lecture them about what time to come home---- and it is a lot earlier than you think young man.

Anything happening at midnight is bad and anything past 2:00 a.m. is probably illegal. After midnight the good adults are asleep and by 2:30 a.m. a person feels independent and may want to become a celebrity or a scuba diver-- right then. Parents never discuss how we know this.

I saw the essence of parenting recently while standing in line at a local Burger King. The place was packed and the line very long. After a ten minute wait a woman with a 12 year old son finally made it to the cashier. She tried to order a hamburger for herself and a hamburger and large fries for her son. Her son began to complain in a slurred voice. I then noticed he had Down syndrome. He thought he was going to get a hotdog which was unavailable and he stomped away from her and sat down at a nearby table. He did not understand.

He stared down at the floor, his small shoulders slumped. He was slowly deflating--- his head sinking lower into his shoulders. When you are different than everyone else and the world ignores you, you hope for small things and sometimes even those are kept from you.

The mother left the cashier and walked over to her son. She cupped his face in both her hands and said something to him. She kissed his nose, tickled his stomach and he giggled. She then stood up straight, walked again to the back of the line and with her hands I saw her wipe big wet tears from her eyes.

I was going to offer her my place but now her face was puffy, her mouth set hard by responsibility. I looked away. Sometimes parenting scrapes you raw and you need a moment.

When her husband comes home I hope he gives her a kiss and a surprise tickle so that she laughs, pulls away and playfully hits him on the shoulder. Her face will have a smile, her eyes will twinkle and for just a little while she will be a parent with no tears.

Man ponders mortality under a car

What I did I’ve done almost every day of my adult life—I stepped out of my car.

I wasn’t thinking much about traction and balance. The morning temperature was well below freezing and I forgot about black ice. If you had been watching me you would have thought some hidden monster grabbed my ankles and suddenly yanked me underneath my vehicle.

They say it’s not the destination but the journey that makes a trip. If that is true then I had an exciting trip. There was the sudden awareness that I was airborne looking up at blue skies and white clouds with my arms swinging in wide circles-- next I landed and slid on my back and hind end. I had enough take off momentum to have reached South Carolina.

Funny what crosses your mind at times like that. Say for instance Mr. Allendale, my high school physics teacher. I realized the old codger had been right all along-- there is gravity and there is mass and the two are eager to connect. I said ….a word… then hit the ground.

I had never been underneath my car until that morning. Small metal pipes, long pieces of steel rods here and there at odd angles and an oil pan I’ve never seen were all inches above my face. I stared dazed at tubing, the backside of my tires and at nuts and bolts screwed into the sides of things for seemingly no reason. Everything was colored muddy brown and smelled of earth and oil and seemed to say “You don’t belong here and you know it.”

But there is something about landing after a fall that requires you take a moment. You want to establish that you are alright so you take inventory of joints and bones—count the stars in your eyes and if everything is alright you tingle with thankfulness. I wanted to get up quickly as though this never happened.

But if you ever find yourself down like that and alone-- and if you have the time, I suggest you use some restraint and stay there a bit. All at once the fact that you are not paralyzed and will not need metal rods pushed into your spine to keep you upright brings a smile. It is an “aha!” moment—you realize your days are numbered and full of trouble, you are small potatoes in a big world and for once you’re glad that extra 10 pounds went to your rear end. From now on you intend to enjoy each day you are given and to stop being such a grouch. You wonder just how close the earth really has come to being hit by a huge asteroid but nobody knew about it and so you fell in love and bought the house and raised the kids and took that trip to the Grand Canyon all the while not knowing just how lucky you were. But now you know.

So you make a mental note to help out more around the house and to call your mother tonight “---’cause, I love you mama.” Appreciation, remorse and redemption all in one day. God sent Abraham to the mountain for that information, me He threw under a car.

Oddly enough the down side was-- not enough injury. I was hoping for some good deep dark bruises to get me out of work, maybe even some sympathy but no such luck. A few scrapes and a light yellow bruise on my jaw was all I had to work with. The best I could muster was three days of stiffness and moans whenever I got up out of my recliner. But then, that happens anyway so no one noticed.

Missing socks--they just want a life

There are a lot of unsettling moments in life. Like the time you first realized your parents had a life before you and suddenly there is awkwardness. Then there was the first time you saw the movie “Love Story” and Ali McGraw died. You sat there sobbing uncontrollably with tears streaming down your face and hugged anyone within 10 feet of you. But nothing quite unsettles you like standing in front of the laundry basket in your underwear 10 minutes before you have to leave for work and realize you are missing a sock.

You stand there holding one lonely sad sock. You both feel abandoned—incomplete. Did you say something wrong? Did a sock take offense? You might have mentioned you wished the length was ankle high when they were actually above-calf but you were just kidding---you meant nothing by it. No matter, a sock has gone AWOL, vamoosed---missing.

There should be a committee, perhaps the American Committee for the study of Escaping Socks (ACES) to address this issue. This type of behavior could be called “Provoked Sock Movement” or PSM. No doubt university sockologists would say there are reasons for PSM and they go deep.

Socks are forced into a life of drudgery. They are stretched and pulled over yellow gnarly toenails or feet ripe with athletes’ foot. Socks are forced over large bunions and toe jam that smells like bad mayonnaise. Sometimes a sock is crammed into shoes too small and forced to absorb sweat all day. Do we ever say “Thank you, Sock”? No, we assume they will be there when we need them. Being taken for granted can affect a relationship—just ask your spouse. Therefore we should not be surprised when one lone sock has had enough and calls it quits.

Remember those times at night when you thought you heard a bump or soft scampering? That is a sock making an escape. The next morning you walk by a clothes drawer that is partially open. You could have sworn you closed that very same drawer yesterday. If you look closely you’ll notice the drawer is open just enough for---yes--- a sock to squeeze through. The hair rises on the back of your neck and you wonder just how close it crawled by you last night on its way out. Be sure to count the kitchen knives.

Where do socks go?

Some socks leave to find religion or go into therapy or join cults. Many run out of steam in the escape and end up behind a washing machine or dryer. They were drawn there out of familiarity and could not make the climb up to the outside dryer vent. Months later you move the appliance for cleaning and the socks are found lying there flat, dust coated and shriveled.

Socks are basically kind hearted. They may look for people that need help, people who have had their socks knocked off. Socks want to feel needed.

Escaped socks sometimes die by roads and highways. Occasionally you will see one on the side of the road or lying on a traffic island by an interstate highway. Some look vaguely familiar --the “missing” brown Argyle? But the rains have pounded it flat and now its threads are left to be bleached by the sun. It’s not a pretty sight.

Socks that leave or “missing” are trying to be an individual and have a full life and when you think about it, that’s a lot like us. So as you start your day consider those that make your steps easier--- be they human or sock. Say “Thank you“, tread lightly and be nice.