One More Car Before I Die

Retirement is about discovery. It is a slow-paced, shuffle-stepped, hunch-shouldered plod to the realization of what you are, in reality, too old to do … whether you believe it or not. Soon we will purchase the last vehicles that we will ever own. We am not counting power scooters for we will go through several of them and probably will wreck one or two on the highway where they should not be. Naturally, we will be indignant and say we pay taxes and that the roads are just as much ours as those little speed-freak shits. We will defy the world sitting on our butts with  little triangular flags waving over our heads.

We rented a car while we were visiting Charleston. I know now that I should have flown down a day earlier. We should have spent the first day of our trip figuring out how to drive a different car.

We are not “with it”.

We are not in “SYNC”.

I started by carefully examining the outside of the rental for scratches that the company would try to blame on me later. I finally found one and demanded they make a note of it on the rental agreement. When they looked away, I snapped a quick picture of it … just in case. They described the scratch as normal wear and tear. SURE THING!

I initialed the rental agreement in four places to verify that I had rejected the four levels of add-on insurance coverage being offered in print too small for old eyes to read … in a language that has no country … so voluminous that I did not have sufficient years to read it all. I had called my insurance company prior to the trip, but I think secretly they are in on it. I had called two credit card companies. Everyone says “Don’t buy it, we got you covered”.  I know this is not really true, but it is what I want to believe. Somewhere in the fine print, written in the secret language, it will say it. If we are lucky, we will be more damaged than the car and will never know about the damage charges.

I did not realize that we had rented a 747 … compact of course … until I sat down to drive away.  I looked around the cockpit and the hundreds of dial and buttons, none of which seemed to have anything to do with driving a car, stared back at me. My mouth dropped open. I recognized one familiar sight and slid the key in it.  Immediately, bells sounded and light flashed and blinked. Messages scrolled across a marque too rapid for me to catch. From deep within the cockpit dashboard, a voice thundered, “Voice activated. Speak command.” I never discovered the source of the voices (maybe they were in my head all along), but I did verify that “Shut up” was not the command they were seeking.  In desperation, I cranked and shifted into reverse to back out. Bells chimed and the marquee verified that the backup assistance was indeed activated.  With some effort, I found a dial that seemed to control the lights. There were five settings, none of which said “Off”, or “On”.  It was a crapshoot. Later that night, I would discover that my choice was one that did not allow me to turn on the high beams. We read an interesting story in the manual about how the car decides when high beams are needed and takes care of that for you. Obviously, whoever wrote the manual does not have old eyes and does not realize that the reason we eat dinner at 5:30PM is that we cannot see to drive home at 6:30PM.

We muddled through with some success by driving a la carte and ignoring the menus. That is, until we decided to listen to the radio. We pressed the radio button and all hell broke through on the dashboard. Lights were flashing, text was scrolling, our hidden passenger was mumbling … but the radio was not playing. We broke out the manual from the glove compartment and enrolled in a 3-credit college course on Computer Programming and Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. After an hour of intense study and no music, we agreed to converse instead, which means we fumed and fussed about the damn radio. We realized that only people with blue teeth could listen to music in this vehicle. We pressed the SYNC button anyway just in case it was disco the disco music station, but it didn’t seem to be.

By the time, we pulled into the driveway that night, we had decided that automobiles had left us standing in the dust. We opened the doors to get out and just to assure us that we had made the right decision, none of the interior lights came on in the car. We soon gave up on finding them.

One more car should take us to the grave. 

And it will be a used one.

Clowning Around at Mass MOCA - North Adams MA

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Visions of a Baker's Dozen - King Arthur Flour Grand Opening

It was like setting out a basket of apples at the front desk just prior to the arrival of the senior citizen tour bus. The announcement came in the mail ... Grand Opening at the New Facilities of King Arthur Flour. The neon lights flickered red inside my head ...  FREE ... FREE ... FREE.  We don't bake ... not pies ... not cakes ... not cookies ... not bread. But, we ARE senior citizens. And, it IS a Grand Opening. And, there would be FREEBIES. It wasn't about choice.

King arthur Flour is located in the Norwich area and it took us about an hour to drive there. From the outside, the new facilities appeared spacious and impressive. We walked in and got started right away. Just inside the entry door was the raffle drawing area. We wasted no time in filling out two or three entry forms apiece and then started looking around for the free samples. Standing at the ready were perky, enthusiastic employees guarding the shopping carts full of gifts. We feined reluctance, but gave in oh so quickly and accepted the candied lemon and orange peel gift boxes (2 of each for each of us) and the handful of recipe cards for items we would never bake.

It is Vermont! 

Beware of Frost Heaves! 

We faced our first bump in the road ... our first major decision. Straight ahead was the cafeteria area with food and beverages galore. To the left, was the gift shop/product area where we knew free samples would be found. To right was the demonstration and educational area. The odor of fresh baked bread simultaneously taunted and beckoned us.  Like English setters winding a covey of quail, we raced, noses high and heads thrown back guided by the exquisite scent. We headed into the gift area and commenced to chow down on the four varieties of freshly baked breads. The specialty chocolates whispered in our ears and we listened. The scones demanded our full attention and perused them well. We were the perfect guests. We attended with equal zeal to each and every summons.

With reluctance, we abandoned the free samples headed to the demonstration area. On the menu, I mean agenda, for today were cookies, braided bread, and mini-pizzas. Surprisingly enough, Anne and I were the only adults in the area ... except for the parents of all of the kids there. At first, I was a little concerned that we would have to wait our turn, or let the kids go first, or stuff like that. I shouldn't have worried. The staff there were demonstrators, not teachers. It was not their job to be fair, or nice, or appropriate. They were there for the dog and pony show.  And we knew it.

I realized immediately that most of the children and their parents would be intimidated by my size. Those that weren't ... well, I was confident that I could easily shove them out of my way. That said, I was able to move to the front of the line and to decorate my cookie with a really great "B" resulting only one little teary-eyed kid and glaring parent.

That kid crying was such a downer ... so we stepped over to the next demo area and pushed our way into line to learn how to braid bread. We got to take our projects home with us to bake later. My loaf was unquestionably braided tighter ... more professionally than Anne's. Her inexperience prevented her from seeing the difference in quality of work.

The pizza area was another good example of the benefit of being an adult. The instructor talked a lot, but we really didn't have to listen to participate. We just stood there, and every time a new batch of pizzas came out of the oven, we started grabbing. The funny thing is  I didn't even have to push to the front. The kids were so short that I was able to reach right over their heads to get the first pieces of pizza from each new batch.






King Arthur Flour was a great start to our adventure. On the way out, I filled out one more raffle form. Several weeks later, I received the telephone call informing me that I was a winner and soon received a gift basket of about $100 worth of merchandise.

Just across the Connecticut River was Dartmouth University. Our plan was to visit the Hood Art Museum there and to check out the new facilities for the Dartmouth art programs. Overall, we were not that impressed with  the Hood. However, we loved the current exhibit of contemporary Australian aboriginal art. Symbolic representations of everyday activities of the aborigine culture were painted in recurring patterns by the artists to create their artwork. I loved how the boldness of color combined with the tiling effect of the symbols drew me to the pieces. 

While we were there, we decided to check out the renovations to the Black Family Visual Arts Center and our neighbor's new digs. (He teaches a sculpture class there).  The exterior was pretty blah, but we really liked the public areas inside. 

Our curiosity sated and the back seat full of freebies, it was time to head for home. The fragrance of bread dough rising in the warmth of the back seat reminded us that we had bread to bake ... and that is exactly what we did!

Even if I didn't get thirteen of anything.

On the Brink of Disaster - Dinosaur Hunt in Simpsonville.

It was a sleepy Southern town ... but it had a secret ... and it was Rex. As we headed out, we asked two locals, "Have you seen any dinosaurs?" You could tell by their eyes that they were scared ... but they pointed towards the forest.










Jungle-like and impenetrable, the forest stood before us. Fearlessly, my partner plunged into the forest on the trail of Rex.












Instead, it was disaster we found. My partner desperately tried to resuscitate the injured ... but it was too late.The Dinosaur, known as Rex, had had his way.











Dinosaur's love to run through hanging briars ... and we love to chase them. 













Soon, we were hot on the trail ... when suddenly my partner was attacked by the man-eating kudzu vine. 


















This time we were certain ... it was Rex ... we found a pile of dinosaur poop.




We were close ... we found tracks along the dried river bed ... raccoon, beaver, AND DINOSAUR! 


















Only the greatest hunters know this trick ... drill a hole in the track and you can tell how old it is by how long it takes to fill with water. It certainly beats tasting poop! 















It burst through the thicket without warning ... it was Rex alright, it came straight for my throat.






And so did my partner, his spear found Rex's throat.

















Yeah, we were wounded ... but the town was safe and that is what matters.


















It was a harrowing experience ... we both needed a sip of the local squeezens to calm our nerves.

















But, it is not in the cards for hunters like us to relax. Dinosaurs weren't the only varmits round them parts. Piece of cake though after dealing with Rex.

















We headed for home. I heard rustling in the bushes. My partner spotted a turkey in the tree and we nearly got it with our spears. We would be hungry tonight. 


Whatever! Doing good for mankind was all the nourishment we would need.