There comes a point in every boy's life when he comes to the realization that his parents aren't endless reservoirs of cash and that if he wants the new NBA Stars of Tomorrow Trapper Keeper, instead of the Lisa Frank one he picked up from the lost and found, he's gonna have to buy it himself. I came to that point in 6th grade and got a job.
It seems that every community/neighborhood has a little newspaper with some news about the community but it's basically just advertisements and coupons. It mainly just goes straight into people's trash containers. Ours was called the Good News paper and they needed someone to walk around the neighborhood, dropping the paper at people's doorsteps once a week. I was just the kid they were looking for.
The papers would be dropped off at our door and my job was to fold them, stuff them individually into plastic bags, and walk up and down two different streets, dropping them off on doorsteps. Seems pretty easy, right? I hated it. The whole process only took about 2.5 hours once a week but for those 2.5 hours, I was on somebody else's time, doing what they wanted me to do. Not even my bi-weekly check of $17 was enough to ease my hate. Battling the heat, cold, rain, and snow to deliver a paper that no one wanted was my own personal hell. But it did offer me a few life lessons. Here they are:
1. Never give more than just a passing glance into someone's window. One winter's evening, I was trudging along, earning my sweet paycheck when I stopped at a doorstep and noticed a guy walk by the front window. Naked. Full-on in the buff. He disappeared down a hallway while I stood there trying to discern if what I had just seen was real. I should have just kept walking, convincing myself that the cold was causing my rods and cones to misfire but I didn't move. Five seconds later he reversed course into my line of sight and sure enough, he was sans clothes. I got home and tried to lose myself in back-to-back episodes of Full House but the damage was done.
2. Always show dogs proper respect. I once saw a stray dog on the opposite side of the street and threw a snowball at it. I don't know why. I wasn't that kind of kid but for some reason that night, I thought it would be funny. I missed and continued on my route and forgetting my momentary lapse in judgement, made my way down the dog's side of the street. Unbeknownst to me, he had left a little "token of his appreciation" right on the sidewalk and covered it with snow, knowing I would be coming back that way. I stepped in it and knew immediately which dog had done it and that I deserved it. He's probably not still alive but if I ever see that dog again, I will give him a slight head nod that says "Well played, sir".
3. Never show your friends the $100 bill you found in a bush. This really happened. As I was walking up to a front door, something in the middle of a bush caught my eye. I reached in and pulled out a $100 bill. I couldn't believe it. It was as much as 3 months of my paychecks! I put it in my pocket and continued on my route. A few blocks down, I ran into a couple friends of mine playing basketball and excitedly showed them my windfall. Big mistake. My "friends" followed me along the remaining part of my route, hiding behind parked cars and getting closer by the minute. Luckily I made it home before they got me but to this day I am convinced they would have done me serious harm. $100 bucks split between two 12 year olds is enough incentive to get them to throw off all societal restraints to secure their small fortune.
4. Never lie to your parents and tell them you did your route unless you have a good hiding spot for your undelivered papers. I was invited to go to a friend's house one night but couldn't go until my route was done so I did what any "smart" middle schooler would do. I dumped all the papers in the garage behind my parents' car and stayed out there for about 20 minutes. I came in the house, pretending to be winded and asked my dad to drive me to my friend's house. "Did you really deliver your papers in 20 minutes?", my dad asked. "Yep. I ran the whole way, hence my obvious heavy breathing". My ruse lasted all of 30 seconds until my dad went to the garage. I didn't make it to my friend's house that night or any night for about a month. I think my dad felt slightly bad about grounding an imbecile but he did it nonetheless.
So take it from me. When your kids reach the age of being able to get a job, make them do it. They will learn all kinds of life lessons. I, for example, am not a peeping tom, a liar, or a boaster of money. And I'm kind to animals. Who knows what kind of weird life I'd be leading if it wasn't for that paper route.
Real Estate Note: Foreclosure inventory is down as the market recovers from the recession but they are still out there. If you're looking for a good investment, let me know and I can send you a list of foreclosed homes that match what you're looking for.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
Childhood Stories #1
A couple of weeks ago, Jamie was telling me about something that happened at work and it reminded me of a story from my childhood. I don't remember what the story was because it happens all the time but as usual, Jamie got quite a kick out of it. In her mind, my childhood looked exactly like a Norman Rockwell painting or The Sandlot. She may very well be right. I spent my summers running around barefoot, shooting pretend bad guys throughout the neighborhood, playing baseball with the local kids, and basically doing anything I could to make sure my bath water at the end of the day was as dark as possible. My winters had less variety but essentially mirrored my summers in that I would do anything to stay outside. After the day's sledding got boring I would sit in my snow fort for hours, planning how I was going to avoid talking to girls the next day at school.
So, at my wife's insistence, I'm starting a "Childhood Stories" series. These stories may not come across as well as they do in person but if nothing else, I'll have them written down and saved. That way, if my kids are ever wondering "Did dad ever think that spinning around 50 times and then trying to run across the yard, thereby running sideways into his friend's parents' fancy gazebo and breaking the railing was a good idea?", they can look back at this and see that yes, yes he did.
I grew up in the days when you could run around your neighborhood with fake weapons and not have the neighbors lock their doors, draw the shades, and call the cops. While other kids were inside playing F-Zero on their Super Nintendo, I was running shirtless from back yard to back yard, protecting the block from nebulous groups of pretend bad guys who for some reason wished us harm. My main instrument of defense was my trusty lever-action rifle. After watching my Davy Crockett tape, I would grab my rifle and head outside to bring what I had just seen to life. I was able to pick off bad guys hiding in trees from a long range. If the there was a greater number of bad guys than my single shot rifle could handle, my sub-machine gun was my tool of choice. I usually only used it near dusk because it was kind of a pinkish-purple color and no self-respecting defender of the people wants to be seen with that color of a gun. When the bad guys brought out the heavy machinery (usually disguised as cars passing in front of our house) I brought out my Desert Storm tripod-mounted machine gun. I called it "The Schwarzkopf" because I heard that name associated with the Gulf War all the time. I thought it was some weapon that was inflicting huge damage and helping us win the war. In reality, I guess I was right.
Now, my limited knowledge and imagination could only take me so far during these skirmishes. My enemies were usually faceless, nameless, and in retrospect, not very good at their job. I won every time. I was never even wounded and the bad guys were all eliminated in 15 minutes or so. It was when I started playing with my friend Grant that things started to get serious.
Grant had lots of guns. He could make the correct noises for each gun with his mouth. He had tactics and hand motions that we could use to communicate with each other on the battlefield. He even put a name to the nameless bad guys I had been fighting for so long on my own. Commies. We weren't totally sure who they were or what they were all about but we watched enough Chuck Norris movies to know that they needed to be dealt with, usually in sleeveless t-shirts and with a random strip of black cloth tied around our heads. We didn't win without struggle, either. Every half hour or so, one of us would take a bullet to the leg, go down, and need to be dragged back to the base (the garage). A kitchen towel tourniquet would be applied, strategy discussed, Capri Sun slammed, and then we'd be back at it because everybody knows that commies only take a break for vodka. And we didn't have any to offer.
As the years went by, sports eventually took the place of combat and it's a shame. If Uncle Sam is ever invaded and calls on me, how am I going to tell him that I let all of my combat skills atrophy? I mean, if the skills necessary to defeat the invaders is the ability to throw a ball into a hoop or throw a smaller ball over a white plate, I can definitely be a contributor to the defense of the motherland. But I doubt that will be the case. So consider this my apology. I should have never forsaken my training and duty for other activities just because girls like athletes. I pray we don't regret it.
Real Estate Note: I held an open house this weekend at one of my listings and there was a bottleneck at the door. Seriously. People were lined up outside waiting to get in. There are huge numbers of buyers out there and not enough homes for sale. If you're thinking about selling, now is a great time. I would love to help you out.
So, at my wife's insistence, I'm starting a "Childhood Stories" series. These stories may not come across as well as they do in person but if nothing else, I'll have them written down and saved. That way, if my kids are ever wondering "Did dad ever think that spinning around 50 times and then trying to run across the yard, thereby running sideways into his friend's parents' fancy gazebo and breaking the railing was a good idea?", they can look back at this and see that yes, yes he did.
I grew up in the days when you could run around your neighborhood with fake weapons and not have the neighbors lock their doors, draw the shades, and call the cops. While other kids were inside playing F-Zero on their Super Nintendo, I was running shirtless from back yard to back yard, protecting the block from nebulous groups of pretend bad guys who for some reason wished us harm. My main instrument of defense was my trusty lever-action rifle. After watching my Davy Crockett tape, I would grab my rifle and head outside to bring what I had just seen to life. I was able to pick off bad guys hiding in trees from a long range. If the there was a greater number of bad guys than my single shot rifle could handle, my sub-machine gun was my tool of choice. I usually only used it near dusk because it was kind of a pinkish-purple color and no self-respecting defender of the people wants to be seen with that color of a gun. When the bad guys brought out the heavy machinery (usually disguised as cars passing in front of our house) I brought out my Desert Storm tripod-mounted machine gun. I called it "The Schwarzkopf" because I heard that name associated with the Gulf War all the time. I thought it was some weapon that was inflicting huge damage and helping us win the war. In reality, I guess I was right.
Now, my limited knowledge and imagination could only take me so far during these skirmishes. My enemies were usually faceless, nameless, and in retrospect, not very good at their job. I won every time. I was never even wounded and the bad guys were all eliminated in 15 minutes or so. It was when I started playing with my friend Grant that things started to get serious.
Grant had lots of guns. He could make the correct noises for each gun with his mouth. He had tactics and hand motions that we could use to communicate with each other on the battlefield. He even put a name to the nameless bad guys I had been fighting for so long on my own. Commies. We weren't totally sure who they were or what they were all about but we watched enough Chuck Norris movies to know that they needed to be dealt with, usually in sleeveless t-shirts and with a random strip of black cloth tied around our heads. We didn't win without struggle, either. Every half hour or so, one of us would take a bullet to the leg, go down, and need to be dragged back to the base (the garage). A kitchen towel tourniquet would be applied, strategy discussed, Capri Sun slammed, and then we'd be back at it because everybody knows that commies only take a break for vodka. And we didn't have any to offer.
As the years went by, sports eventually took the place of combat and it's a shame. If Uncle Sam is ever invaded and calls on me, how am I going to tell him that I let all of my combat skills atrophy? I mean, if the skills necessary to defeat the invaders is the ability to throw a ball into a hoop or throw a smaller ball over a white plate, I can definitely be a contributor to the defense of the motherland. But I doubt that will be the case. So consider this my apology. I should have never forsaken my training and duty for other activities just because girls like athletes. I pray we don't regret it.
Real Estate Note: I held an open house this weekend at one of my listings and there was a bottleneck at the door. Seriously. People were lined up outside waiting to get in. There are huge numbers of buyers out there and not enough homes for sale. If you're thinking about selling, now is a great time. I would love to help you out.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
A Most Valuable Lesson
If memory serves me correctly, I've blogged before about various sicknesses I've had (it's tough to remember since I haven't written anything since early 2012). I'm about to do it again, which will definitely shed some doubt on my view that I have a really strong immune system. Be that as it may, this winter has hit me hard. Colds, a stomach virus, and influenza have been Kermit Washington to my Rudy Tomjanovich. All of this brought out a side to my wife that I had never seen before. Allow me to elaborate.
I, like most men, tend to vocalize often how awful I feel when I am sick. Jamie calls it complaining but my (self-serving) theory is that us men are used to being in such peak physical condition that when we are sick, we feel it much more than women. Again, this is just a theory. Another explanation is that the sickness affects our brain in such a way that we revert back to our childhood and subconsciously need a mother-figure to be sympathetic, tend to our every need, and basically baby us. It seems the female brain is not similarly affected. This is probably the more logical explanation but I like my theory much more.
I started off the winter with a nasty cold. A pretty common thing but it hit me hard and I as usual, consistently let Jamie know how I felt. She was gracious, compassionate, and generally took care of me (albeit with some eye-rolling, seeing as how she had the same cold). Then came the stomach virus. This was only a 24 hour bug but it was the kind that during those 24 hours you can't get warm. Then you can't cool off. Standing up only brings a near-menopausal heat wave and vomiting. The only relief is your face in the toilet followed by laying on the cool bathroom floor while you long for the sweet release of death. That may be a little dramatic but you get the idea. Again, Jamie was compassionate and caring.
As a side note, she had to go to work that day so I was in charge of taking care of 15 month old Savannah. Savannah basically took care of herself. All I did was change some diapers (one of which sent me and my face to the aforementioned toilet) and lay on the couch. She was totally fine all day, all by herself. At one point, she came to me with a banana. She can't even reach the bananas! I'll never know how she did it but I peeled it, sent her on her way, and laid back down. I'd bet that if anything ever happened to Jamie and myself, Savannah would go on just fine, finally emerging from the house at age 5 to catch the school bus for kindergarten.
Then came another cold, the presence of which I verbally made Jamie well aware. I believe this is where the cracks in her "compassion armor" started to form. One night during this cold, I started to get muscle aches so bad that I couldn't sleep. I felt my temperature rising and I developed a cough that could wake the residents of the hospital's coma ward. I stayed home from the office the next day and when Jamie got home I mentioned to her that I felt like I was getting another virus on top of my cold and that I didn't think that was possible. Apparently, neither did she.
"Just go to bed then! I don't want to hear any more complaining!"
I had finally broken her. She no longer believed me. I had made mountains out of molehills one too many times. No matter how sick I was, I was going to be getting nothing from her.
The next night, after I had to stay home during the day again, she brought me a thermometer to check my temp. I can only describe her countenance as she did this as "emotionless". There was nothing behind her eyes. No compassion. No sympathy. Not even anger. Nothing. Not even when the thermometer read 101. I had used up her generous allotment of loving care and I was on my own.
My weeks-long vocalization of sickness had pushed her over the edge of compassion, care, and sympathy into the realm of apathy and even near-mockery.For example, when I had to cancel a showing with some clients of mine (and good friends of mine and Jamie's) the wife mentioned to Jamie that she was sorry I was sick.
Jamie responded "Yeah right. Sick." with air quotes around the word "sick". One of the best parts of her wonderful nature was broken and it was all my fault. But it was soon to be made right. The solution? A diagnosis.
During day 4 of my couch-ridden ordeal, Jamie was visiting her sisters who are both nurses. She was telling them about what she was having to put up with at home and describing my "symptoms". Her sisters knew right away what it was. Influenza. They told Jamie in fairly strong terms that this year's strain is nasty and that people of all ages have been dying from it, not just the very young and the very old. The hospitals have been filled to capacity with people suffering from it. Jamie's broken sense of compassion was instantly made whole. She came home, immediately apologized, and said that she would try to make it up to me.
I was vindicated! I should have felt great about it but I didn't. Instead, I reflected on the 2 lessons I had learned. One for each gender. Here they are:
Women: If your man is sick, he will whine and constantly talk about how bad he feels. Let him. Take care of him. But when the time comes when it is just too much whining to handle, make sure he's not deathly ill. Then ignore him. Your compassionate nature will stay intact and he may learn to handle sickness better.
Men: When you're sick, SHUT UP AND DEAL WITH IT LIKE A WOMAN!
Real Estate Note: If you're looking to sell, now is a great time. Buyers are coming out like crazy and there just aren't a whole lot of homes on the market to choose from. I have quite a few buyers I've been working with who can't seem to find what they're looking for or the houses they like have been sold before they have a chance to act. With buyers competing for your home, now is a great time to get top dollar. Let me know if I can help you.
I, like most men, tend to vocalize often how awful I feel when I am sick. Jamie calls it complaining but my (self-serving) theory is that us men are used to being in such peak physical condition that when we are sick, we feel it much more than women. Again, this is just a theory. Another explanation is that the sickness affects our brain in such a way that we revert back to our childhood and subconsciously need a mother-figure to be sympathetic, tend to our every need, and basically baby us. It seems the female brain is not similarly affected. This is probably the more logical explanation but I like my theory much more.
I started off the winter with a nasty cold. A pretty common thing but it hit me hard and I as usual, consistently let Jamie know how I felt. She was gracious, compassionate, and generally took care of me (albeit with some eye-rolling, seeing as how she had the same cold). Then came the stomach virus. This was only a 24 hour bug but it was the kind that during those 24 hours you can't get warm. Then you can't cool off. Standing up only brings a near-menopausal heat wave and vomiting. The only relief is your face in the toilet followed by laying on the cool bathroom floor while you long for the sweet release of death. That may be a little dramatic but you get the idea. Again, Jamie was compassionate and caring.
As a side note, she had to go to work that day so I was in charge of taking care of 15 month old Savannah. Savannah basically took care of herself. All I did was change some diapers (one of which sent me and my face to the aforementioned toilet) and lay on the couch. She was totally fine all day, all by herself. At one point, she came to me with a banana. She can't even reach the bananas! I'll never know how she did it but I peeled it, sent her on her way, and laid back down. I'd bet that if anything ever happened to Jamie and myself, Savannah would go on just fine, finally emerging from the house at age 5 to catch the school bus for kindergarten.
Then came another cold, the presence of which I verbally made Jamie well aware. I believe this is where the cracks in her "compassion armor" started to form. One night during this cold, I started to get muscle aches so bad that I couldn't sleep. I felt my temperature rising and I developed a cough that could wake the residents of the hospital's coma ward. I stayed home from the office the next day and when Jamie got home I mentioned to her that I felt like I was getting another virus on top of my cold and that I didn't think that was possible. Apparently, neither did she.
"Just go to bed then! I don't want to hear any more complaining!"
I had finally broken her. She no longer believed me. I had made mountains out of molehills one too many times. No matter how sick I was, I was going to be getting nothing from her.
The next night, after I had to stay home during the day again, she brought me a thermometer to check my temp. I can only describe her countenance as she did this as "emotionless". There was nothing behind her eyes. No compassion. No sympathy. Not even anger. Nothing. Not even when the thermometer read 101. I had used up her generous allotment of loving care and I was on my own.
My weeks-long vocalization of sickness had pushed her over the edge of compassion, care, and sympathy into the realm of apathy and even near-mockery.For example, when I had to cancel a showing with some clients of mine (and good friends of mine and Jamie's) the wife mentioned to Jamie that she was sorry I was sick.
Jamie responded "Yeah right. Sick." with air quotes around the word "sick". One of the best parts of her wonderful nature was broken and it was all my fault. But it was soon to be made right. The solution? A diagnosis.
During day 4 of my couch-ridden ordeal, Jamie was visiting her sisters who are both nurses. She was telling them about what she was having to put up with at home and describing my "symptoms". Her sisters knew right away what it was. Influenza. They told Jamie in fairly strong terms that this year's strain is nasty and that people of all ages have been dying from it, not just the very young and the very old. The hospitals have been filled to capacity with people suffering from it. Jamie's broken sense of compassion was instantly made whole. She came home, immediately apologized, and said that she would try to make it up to me.
I was vindicated! I should have felt great about it but I didn't. Instead, I reflected on the 2 lessons I had learned. One for each gender. Here they are:
Women: If your man is sick, he will whine and constantly talk about how bad he feels. Let him. Take care of him. But when the time comes when it is just too much whining to handle, make sure he's not deathly ill. Then ignore him. Your compassionate nature will stay intact and he may learn to handle sickness better.
Men: When you're sick, SHUT UP AND DEAL WITH IT LIKE A WOMAN!
Real Estate Note: If you're looking to sell, now is a great time. Buyers are coming out like crazy and there just aren't a whole lot of homes on the market to choose from. I have quite a few buyers I've been working with who can't seem to find what they're looking for or the houses they like have been sold before they have a chance to act. With buyers competing for your home, now is a great time to get top dollar. Let me know if I can help you.
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