All you need is love at high volume

After all these years I had no idea that the Beatles John Lennon and Paul McCartney could help me get through a stop light.

The day was absolutely beautiful as I pulled up to a major intersection with my windows down taking in the smells and warmth of a spring day.

All at once I heard the “wump, thud, wump, thud” sound of musical bass from the car beside me. The driver had his windows down and his sound system was playing music which consisted of words with no melody all playing loud enough to shatter concrete. Imagine kicking over a trash can and screaming, that sounds better than what I heard. My pick up truck began to shake and I thought I could feel the tartar falling off of my teeth.

I am bothered by those who play their music so loud that the rest of the world is forced to listen to it. It reminds me of my age!

I looked at the small car with its patchy paint job and then to the driver who was slumped way down in the seat wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. I started to say something to this rude child but then I had an idea.

I could challenge him on his own turf! We could have a musical shootout right here. Both of us may go away hearing-impaired but my manly man indignation was riled. Ladies, it’s just the way men are made and we can’t help it. It’s a guy thing.

I quickly checked my console to see what kind of heat I was packing. I saw some classical Vivaldi “Spring”, “Tom T. Hall’s Greatest Hits”, “Jimmy Buffet Live in Concert” and, AHA!, the “Beatles Greatest Hits!”

I put the Beatle CD into my player and programmed it for “She Loves You! Yea, Yea, Yea” and spun my volume control like a roulette wheel. Ringo’s opening drum roll from high drums to the low bass drum came out loud and strong. My hair was blown back; paper and trash on the floor of the truck bounced into the air and the speaker grills rattled in the doors. I looked over at Ballcap Guy but he showed no signs of being aware I existed. Perhaps brain dead?

I turned the volume up even higher, probably interfering with NASA’s attempt to contact aliens and then Mr. Ballcap sat up. He turned his head towards me and stared, dark sunglasses under the brim of a hat. He lowered his volume just as Paul and John were singing “With a love like that, you know you should be glaaaad!”

I started moving my hands about, shaking my shoulders and rolling my head back and forth as if I was in music ecstasy or maybe had sat on a nail.

I looked at him and pointed my thumb at my chest as if to say “This is my music, got a problem?” He sat up and grinned and gave me a thumbs-up while nodding his head in approval. I yelled at him “The Beatles!” He gave me a slow nod, another thumbs-up and mouthed “Nice.” He was no longer an inconsiderate jerk; he was actually a lost musical soul in need of guidance.

The light changed and he went on his way leaving me bewildered at his reaction. Who knows, next time he pulls up beside me he may be playing “All You Need is Love!”

As for me I’ll stop judging, keep a clean truck and play a little music.

Lennon and McCartney would be so proud.

Things getting to you, put on a stew

February and March are a mischievous months---times of climatic mood swings—a sharp reminder that winter is not yet over. And I’m glad.

In a society as complicated as ours, I embrace the simplification winter brings us. Winter shows you that the essentials of life are heat, food, shelter and a good decongestant. Everything else is fluff.

Weather bound inside our homes and with nothing much to do we listen to the media tell us that homelessness is up, terrorists are at the back door, big corporations have no heart, the jobless rate will only increase, private businesses will fail and there is no hope for next year. Everyone gets stressed out, their blood pressure rises--- they go into a frenzy.

Not me, I cook.

Winter stews are a favorite of mine because they require hands-on attention. You can’t handle an AK-47 automatic and blow away 20 people at the mall if you’re home peeling potatoes---simple logistics. So you stay home and pull out the big pot that is kept out in the garage on top of the outdoor refrigerator and head back into the kitchen.

There is nothing more peaceful than preparing the ingredients for a stew. You’ve instantly taken your mind off of yourself and spend time with things gentle and quiet like celery, onions and some quality Russets. You rummage in the pantry and find two cans of tomatoes, thaw out a chuck roast and you’re ready to go. The neat part is you get to handle a 12 inch meat cleaver. People coming through the kitchen take care not to rattle you as you bring the cleaver down and whack off a six –inch chunk of raw red meat while grinning like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining”.

Family members passing through the kitchen maintain distance and say things like, “Whoa! (hands go up in the air) Sorry to bother you, Dad. On second thought-- I don’t need any money. I’ll pay for college myself. Bye.” and “Honey! Sorry about using all the hot water. I’m headed to my hair appointment---love your shirt.” She never takes her eyes off you as she backs out the door. They know that right now, you’re very fragile.

Cutting up the ingredients brings calm. You use a chef knife and your hands work together as you chop celery, dice garlic and remember that the onions have to be sliced a certain way. You have to pay attention, focus—you want to get the seasonings just right.

You assemble a wonderful assortment of items that will soon blend under heat and send hearty aromas into all parts of the house. You stand quietly before the stove and stir the pot. You realize you have a home, you have food and shelter. You realize you have a lot to be thankful for.

The fact of the matter is we are all in over our heads and we know it. Our tax refunds come courtesy of the Chinese, people who hate us control our gasoline, politicians run our lives from dawn until dusk and our current Chief Executive, a politician, wants to manage private corporations. God help us--and so far He has.

We can’t do anything about the weather, or make greedy men honest or figure out that mess in the Middle East. The Bible tells us to leave all that up to God-- He doesn’t vote or negotiate. He has been known to burn things.

But you can prepare a good stew for those you love-- gather your family around the table and as the winds outside howl, give thanks. That, you can do.

Life is good, sing loud and write a letter

I recently wrote a friend a letter--- not email. I wrote a real letter that involves paper with words on it that you have to sit down with a pen, organize your thoughts and write in complete sentences. That is the same method that was used to write the US Constitution, the Bill of Rights and the instruction book for your toaster.

My friend was feeling blue so I pointed out to him that our lives consist of ordinary moments, not big events, so smile, your life is not so bad. Get perspective.

Mr. Pharaoh gives you more mud and demands better bricks but doesn’t give you anymore straw. At five o’clock you are on the interstate where there are hundreds of people fleeing their task masters. You turn on the radio and some talking mouth says the president is getting shafted by his own party and Tiger Woods just stepped out of a sex rehabilitation clinic. Smile. Your life is not so bad.

You take your wife out to a good restaurant, the Le Snob, to put your marriage on the lift and get an estimate for repairs. She says there was a time you took her out for no reason at all. You say yes and that was before she helped you acquire a mortgage and before the kids orthodontist became a draft on your bank account.

Kids. Now is a good time to shift all blame to the children.

After some discussion you both agree it was the kids—teenagers that gave you that nervous tick in your right eye. Then after more discussion you assure each other that you are both great and loving parents. You exhale and motion for the check. The Valet brings your truck around.

Trucks are a bright spot in life. A man needs a truck with a nice cab to carry his CD collection and a box full of nuts and bolts that can never be thrown away and probably will never be used. A truck is a man’s holy sanctuary; he and God can kick back, curse Pharaoh and listen to CD’s.

A truck is better than a shed for a man. A shed is attached to the property of the house and lawyers know that women actually own the house and the land.

The truck lets you put distance between you and chores. While in a truck you always sing perfect harmony with the Beatles or Johnny River’s “Midnight Special”. You belt out the words “LET THE MIDNIGHT SPECIAL---SHINE A EVERLOVIN’ LIGHT ON MEEE!” and no one says, “Please, use your Inside Voice. Thank you.”

There is no better balm for the soul than singing—be it Amazing Grace or Mustang Sally. You know that all you need is love, old dogs, children and watermelon wine. Music tells us that it is ok to be singing in the rain and it’s great to take your Chevy to the levy and cross a bridge over troubled water and see Winchester Cathedral and find Rocky Raccoon in his room reading Gideon’s bible--- it’s all happy trails to you! See? You feel better already.

Keys lying in a candy dish by the door, the feel of a dog brushing against your leg as you go to leave the house are all part of the journey of life. Distance is not what it’s about.

So look up, Champ-- see the positive and the Red Sea will part, you will leave Egypt behind and there will be no rehab fees.

Someone you know needs a lift? Write them a letter---on paper. Go on, you can do it.

For all the waiting people of the world

I spent part of a rainy Saturday afternoon in Groucho’s Deli on Center and East Broad waiting for a friend. I sat by a window at one of those tables with the chairs higher than normal so you want to watch out and not be clumsy and fall and splat yourself on the floor. While I sat I drank hot coffee and watched the rain fall on the sidewalk as people walked by trying to avoid the small puddles that had started to form.

I didn’t think about much else except where my friend was at and I hoped nothing bad had happened to him. Then I realized I should not worry too much. People today do not take time seriously and as a result a lot of other peoples time is wasted---mine to be exact.

I sit in many meetings at church, school, work, committees and a homeowners association and I wait on a lot of people that are late. I always do the calculations while I sit. If there are 20 people in a room waiting on you and you show up 3 minutes late you just wasted 60 minutes of human life---and we don’t get it back ThankYouVeryMuch. What gives you the right to waste peoples’ lives? And no, you’re not that important. You knew you were supposed to be somewhere so grow up and shake a leg.

I stifle heavy sighs when the late party enters the room and acts as though they’ve just had to talk a Boeing 747 down from the sky and now they are trying to focus on the task at hand with the last of their remaining strength. A 7:00 meeting now starts at 7:15 and I miss “Survivor” on television.

If you’re one of those that show up late and it’s not your meeting and you interrupt 20 people you are not important—you’re an Interruption. “Had to take an important phone call” you announce and lucky us, we get to see your new Brooks Brothers suit or Prada blouse and skirt as you fumble for a seat. The meeting was booked five days ago. Puhleeze!

Late Comers get a break the rest of us do not get---we’ve done a lot of the heavy waiting so they don’t have to. Apologies are rarely forthcoming. It’s like; if you do not apologize it means you’re important. Your mother taught you that is just plain inconsiderate.

These days even friends do not bother to apologize for being late.

“Hi, I’ve been waiting for 10 minutes-- was worried about you.”

“Oh, I was answering an email and got distracted by a comment about fruit co-ops in Brazil. What’re you drinking---diet?”

I think there should be a rule. If you can’t haul your sweet self to a meeting at the appointed time, you pay for everybody’s lunch the next day but first you have to find everybody because like a covey of spooked quail—we’ve flown.

We’re at Groucho’s swinging from the chandeliers, dancing on table tops with roses in our mouths and singing old sailor songs. Fifty-three people have formed a conga line that goes out the door and onto the street. Police sirens are wailing and someone’s singing “Jenny Jenny”. Sweaters and ties are hanging on the overhead ceiling fans. We’re laughing and having a ball because we’re not waiting for a narcissistic personality to make a grand entrance. We, the Waiting People, have taken our lives back. Don’t like it? We don’t care. Turn up the music!