Leave 'em Wanting

(Note: This piece is full of dialect. Down here we -- most of us, anyway -- know it's not Standard English. We just like to talk this way sometimes.)

Down here in the South we're just eat up with couth. That's why The Department took us all out to The Upscale today for our Holiday Luncheon.

For those of you who might not have heard tell of it, Upscale is one of the high class joints in Greenville. You can tell because it's right next to the TJMaxx and just down Haywood Road from the Mall. Also it has little lights along the floor inside so you can see where you're supposed to walk.

Don't get me wrong. I got no complaints about the ambience, or even the decor. Upscale is a classy joint, and I've eaten in some of the classiest. And this ain't no franchise, either. There's only one Upscale.

Anyways, we straggled in about 11:30 and were immediately directed to the big banquet room. And it was big: big enough for about forty folks, even if we did have to play like we liked each other, we had to sit so close. Each place setting had a little saucer (what the high-toned might call a bread plate), two forks, a knife, and a cloth napkin, folded up real neat-like. (The napkin was black: another sign of class.) Oh, and a goblet with ice water. There was a single page menu, photocopied, and it didn't have prices, because The Department was paying.

I ordered the Seafood Thermidor, which is lobster, crab, and shrimp in a white-wine cream sauce, covered with melted cheese. The menu said it was en casserole, which means it was served in a little round dish right out of the oven. The server (what we would normally call a waiter, but we was in high-class society) told us we were also going to have a salad with house dressing, garlic mashed potatoes, and French-style green beans. Very nice.

And the salad was very nice. They were a little bit skimpy on the vinagrette, but they cut the tomato up into little squares. There was something with roots on it, but I didn't want to look uncouth, so I ate it anyway. I sipped on my water, waiting for the sweet iced tea, but it wasn’t showing up, so I figured it was coming with the entrée.

Finally, my en casserole came out. It was very nice, but there wasn’t much of it. It was about two inches across. I could have covered it with my green beans. Now I’m sure that some folks would eat a meal like that and say, “Good lord, I don’t think I can move for the rest of the afternoon!” I don’t know any of those people. Well, that might not be entirely true. I know a couple artsy types who wear black turtlenecks in July and weigh about nine pounds. But you know what I mean.

I ate it. All of it. It was delicious. It was one of the best things I have ever eaten. And then it was gone. Just like that. It’s taken you longer to read this story than it took me to eat that Thermidore.

I looked sadly at the little white bowl. I still had some roll left, so I tore some off and wiped up the leftover sauce and ate it. I looked up just in time to see the server successfully cover his horror. So I used the rest of my bread to finish it up. I reached for my tea, and it still wasn’t there. Maybe they’ll bring it with dessert.

The speeches started. They were nice. My stomach rumbled through them, waiting for dessert. There was no dessert. There was no tea. There was no coffee.

The last speech was made, and we all went back to the office.

I stopped on the way back and got a pack of peanuts and a Coke.

On the way back I realized how good these guys were at marketing. The food was outstanding, the service was impeccable, and the portions were small. It made me want to go back and finish my meal.

Because it really is true what they say: “Always leave ’em wanting more.”

A Time to Mourn

I got the call yesterday morning about 9:30. It was Heidi, who used to be my manager before she transferred out to another department. Heidi rightly has a reputation as a tough customer who took no guff from anybody. I have seen her angry, and I've seen her upset, and once I saw her cry. But I had never before heard her voice shake.

"I didn't want to disturb you," she said, "but I thought you'd better hear this from one of us. Karla was killed in a motorcycle accident last night in Greenville...."

I worked with Karla for five years before she got out of the IS department for a lower-stress position. She was quiet and reserved, but she had a way of getting under my skin. I often thought she had an attitude problem. Sometimes I thought she was basically unhappy. She was without doubt intelligent: she had devised several processes we still use today. But she had trouble communicating with her co-workers, and even when she talked her voice was quiet, almost unintelligible if there was any extraneous noise at all.

We butted heads often and got on each other's nerves. And I was really ticked towards the end of her IS days, because she had retreated into herself to the point where she might as well not have been there, and it was a relief to the whole department when she jumped ship. The last time I saw her she was relaxed and happy. I knew this because she was taunting us with the fact that when she didn't have to fix computers anymore.

But on Saturday afternoon she was at a toys for Tots biker rally. It was her favorite charity. On her way home from the rally an SUV pulled out in front of her.

Last month she led a team in the local Race for the Cure. Every week she was at the Toastmasters. Weekends she biked around the Upstate.

Last night they finally found her family (a father and brother) in Tennessee, because she had her work ID on her at the time of the accident, and our HR folks had the information on file. As of quitting time today no word was available on arrangements.

Karla Hensley was 44. She wasn't married, and left no children....

Reading by Moonlight

I started a new moonlighting gig tonight. After my regular day drudgery dealing with computer issues, I raced back down the state highway I use to avoid the interstate, honking my horn as I passed the house, and pulled into the parking lot of a major national bookseller to begin my orientation.

Yes. A bookseller.

A couple years ago I worked as a cart-pusher for a major nation department store. It was grueling, nasty work, and I hated it. But they were willing to work me thirty hours a week, and I lasted at that job four months before my wife convinced me that it wasn't worth our marriage to pick up a few extra bucks.

This is different. This is books. The fact that it's inside work, and I'm only taking twenty hours a week, and it's only for the holidays, is beside the point. It's books. This is the kind of job I should have had when I was twenty-five. Sure, there's heavy lifting, and I'll be on my feet for eight hours, but I'll be lifting books. And the customers I'll be dealing with are readers, not those yahoos who want me to stuff their new 42" TV in the back seat of an '82 Honda. With two carseats. So they can take their new toy back to the trailer park.

No, these customers are looking for things to read, and someday they may reading something with my name on it. Which could, of course, be considered cool in some circles.

So how does the wife feel about this job?

All I had to do was bring up the thirty percent discount on books. And fifty percent in the internationally-recognized brandname coffee shop. Where they have desserts and frothy pink drinks.

I think we'll be OK....

The Truth

When I was very young, a lady who lived on our street was walking my grandmother and me home after an evening at their big old house. I believe her name was Harrelson, though I wouldn't swear to it. It was a clear winter night, and a small town, so the stars were bright and sharp.

Miss Harrelson asked me if I knew any constellations, and I said I didn't, so we stopped in the middle of Cooper Street and she pointed upwards. "That's the Big Dipper. You can see the cup and the handle." And I could see it.

She showed me the Little Dipper, too, and Cassiopeia, and explained that they were in the sky all year round. Then she pointed out three big stars lower in the sky, and the two at right angles to them.

"That's Orion the Hunter. He only comes out in the Winter. He's always chasing the Bull (see the stars in a V right there?), and he's got a sword in one hand and a shield in the other."

I didn't understand a lot of what she said, but I always noticed Orion in the Winter, and eventually I started looking for him in the Fall, and mourning when I lost him in the Spring. I reckoned he had other places to visit. It was like seasons. When Winter left it went south to make room for Summer....

I figured out the truth in my thirties. (It took me that long to actually think about it.) The truth is that Orion is in the sky all year long; but for half the year he's out in the daytime, when I can't see him. He has no other places to visit, no other people see. He's overhead at some point in every twenty four hours.

That's an important truth. Just because you can't see a thing (or a person), doesn't mean it's not there.

Autumnal Rhapsody

We're in deepest Autumn here
In the Northern Hemisphere
The lawns are brown, the maples red
A brand-new quilt is on the bed

There's a chill upon the air
I begin to miss my hair
At least I have a nice warm hat
Though I've forgotten where it's at

I hear that things are warm and green
That right now Springtime reigns supreme
Or sooner will or maybe later
Somewhere south of the Equator.

Sorry...

Once again I have to apologize for adversely affecting the weather. This weekend I bought a new rain hat. Therefore the drought will continue. and most probably worsen, causing untold personal and economic devastation.

I know I'm responsible because I have a history of doing just that.

My wife bought me a really nice trench coat some years back. Soon I learned that, no matter what the weather's doing in the morning, if I put it on before leaving for work, by the time I get to the office twenty minutes later, the clouds will be breaking and the sun will be peeking through them. The weathermen will be scratching their heads and muttering about unusual Jet Stream patterns that cropped up overnight.

Of course, it only affects precipitation. Cold is cold no matter what I wear.

And now that I'm getting older, and my once-luxurious head cranial forest has become more of a meadow, I find hats (which I've always loved) have become a necessity. The last few years I've worn a beautiful soft brown felt fedora. Unfortunately, it got wet that winter and ended up in my trunk, where it was growing at least one lost colony of some indescribable microbe; so it went the way of all millenary, and left me hatless.

So when the wife and I played hooky last Friday and headed up to Hendersonville, NC, she happened upon a really cool oilcloth fedora. It has a flannel interior to keep my poor noggin warm, but the oilcloth makes it waterproof, so it doubles as a highly effective rainhat.

Now here in the Upstate we've had almost a week of rainy weather: not enough to break the worst drought in decades, but enough to give us a little hope.

Now I've ruined it.

Friday morning was cool and damp, with forecasts for rain through the weekend. When we entered the store in Hendersonville, the clouds were lowering, and the air heavy with the promise of more showers.

We exited the store with my new hat and watched the clouds dissipate into the most beautiful blue October mountain sky you could ever hope for.

The forecast is for sunny skies and dry weather for the foreseeable future. The only use I can see for my new hat is to keep the dew off.

I apologize for any inconvenience my ill-considered fashion choice may cause.

A Dalmador Labmation of Carolina

Two Halloweens ago my wife and I were sitting at a local diner talking about what to do about the dog next door. The neighbor had brought him home and didn't really want him. He was being fed whatever scraps were left in the TV dinners got tossed out the door. That morning I had wandered over to check on this dog, and found him with a tie wrap around his neck for a collar, and tied to an old bicycle by a seven-foot length of cable.

Clearly this could not go on, but we had a dog (a dachshund mix), three cats, and two teenagers, all crammed in a house way too small for the crowd we already had. Also this dog was a puppy, half Lab, half Dalmation, and if he actually grew into those feet....

The neighbor had already offered him to me, and I had turned him down. But the beast kept coming over to our house (when he could get loose, which seemed to be pretty much anytime he wanted) and calling me Poppa.

So after lunch I went over and asked if I could have the dog. The man didn't even blink.

Now Bo is a 96-pound behemoth, consisting of feet, a mouth, and an enormous heart. As I write this he's napping on his love seat, because he had two walks today, and it was raining, and Mom dried his face for him (he dearly loves getting his face dried).

Just a big old black dawg.

One stranger we met on a walk pointed out that because of his Lab heritage, he'll be a puppy for three or four years; and the Dalmation part means he'll be a puppy for about fifteen.

And that works for me.

It's All About Words

I have to admit to a life-long fascination with words. As a kid I'd take down the biggest dictionary I could find and pick a page and read the words and definitions. They seeped into my mind until, sometimes, I could feel them floating around in my mind like the music that's always there. (Yes. I have a mental soundtrack. It doesn't necessarily have anything to do with what's going on, but it's there. Right now I'm mentally humming "Never My Love." Sometimes I annoy myself.)

Sending me to look up a word or spelling has always been an adventure. I once spent two hours looking up ten vocabulary words for a homework assignment. OK, next word is ablative. A's, an, ag, ae.... Ooo! Aeolian! Aeropause!

When I read I find myself pausing over a rich, perfect word, or phrase. Even reading silently I pronounce each word in my head, and I stumble over the awkward phrase like a verbal cat that's wandered in front of me. And I'll stare at the blunder and try to figure out what the writer was trying to do, and how I could fix it.

It's a curse, yes. But at the same time I get true joy out of the delightful, subtle twist of meaning a really good poet can put on a sentence.

So it's a blessing, too.