Loud Loft

Percussive therapy

I'm helping with a remodeling project over the holidays. Today was the first day which means demolition!!!

The way this plays out is I get to say one of my most favorite phrases "Cletus, fetch me the sledge". 

Actually I had to fetch the sledge myself - but I still said it because it just feel good as it trips off my tongue. With sledge in hand I ran thru the names of every person who was a &$@?! to me this past year and took a  swing at each name.  They were mighty John Henry/Paul Bunyan swings too. 

For those who's names I could not recall I nicked the "Tomb of the Unknown Soldier" idea and took a few swings for the unknown &$@?! who crossed my path. 

I'm home now and need to find one of those wacky mini whirlpool tubs that I see pitchers use after a game. I've got the big wrap on my elbow and shoulder and I've rubbed some bio-freeze all over my arm from my wrist to my neck. It's all worth it though.  

The Chief Engineer at the TV Production facility where I used to work was a big believer in percussive maintenance. That's when the piece of gear you are using isn't working properly and you call an Engineer for help.  He would come over and depending on the size of the item either pick it up and slam it on the counter or slap it upside it's head.  It's alway made me laugh, especially when it fixed the problem. 

Taking a five pound sledge and working thru a list of $&@?! is incredibly therapeutic, give it a try. I heartily recommend it.

 

Yep, that makes me a . . .

Are there times when what would be considered good, positive, profitable are actually not? Specifically I'm thinking about the directions that peoples lives take, even the direction the country takes. Yes, I'm pondering some of this due to the run up to the elections next year.

I hear from the conservative side of the aisle a desire to "take the country back". From the liberal side I hear . . . well, I'm not sure how to characterize their position. The natural "opposite" to taking something back would be to push something forward?

The definition of a conservative as found in the Merriam Webster dictionary is; an adherent or advocate of political conservatism; a member or supporter of a conservative political party; one who adheres to traditional methods or views; a cautious or discreet person.

Likewise, old Merriam and Webster calls a liberal; one who is open-minded or not strict in the observance of orthodox, traditional, or established forms or ways: a member or supporter of a liberal political party; an advocate of liberalism especially in individual rights.

M&W define a progressive as; one believing in moderate political change and especially social improvement by governmental action.

As for what defines a libertarian, the good folks at M&W go with: an advocate of the doctrine of free will; a person who upholds the principles of individual liberty, especially of thought and action.

Hmmm . . . I'm a cautious and discreet person, I'm open-minded and certainly not strict about hardly anything at all, I believe in social improvement by governmental action and I believe that free will is the determining factor that separates mankind from all the "other" animals and beasts of the world

So that makes me a conliberprogresterian . . . crap, what do I do with that?

There's not much that I've seen in this world in my 54 years, as it relates to this country, that I want to "take back". Times were good if you were a white male but if you fell into any other demographic you were rolling a big ball up hill. So that's certainly the liberal in me talking. When it comes to the observance of orthodox, traditional or established forms or ways, I have a great appreciation for many of those things (except the ones that I just mentioned in regards to race or gender) and I enjoy history as much as the next guy so there's the conservative voice in my head speaking. I believe that both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution paint a very clear picture that the government has a mandate to manifest the right of life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, to form a more perfect union, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare and secure the blessings of liberty so there's the progressive point of view. I'm a big fan of free will, but I understand that all choices have consequences so that covers my libertarian streak.

For most of my life that's made me an equal opportunity offender. I've never really fit in anywhere. Some call that the Rational Middle (there's even a very nice blog that goes by that name), so I guess I will stick with that.

Still, this political season I've not heard much from the conservative side of the aisle that I can get behind. I'm all for spending cuts. I think the government is obligated to  spend every dollar required to manifest it's role an responsibility as outlined in the Constitution and not one penny more. It's the definition of those roles and responsibilities where the conservative train jumps the tracks for me. But that's not a new discussion. Those definitions have been up for debate even before the ink was dry on the first printing of the Constitution and that's not going to change any time soon.

I think we've played far too loose with tax cuts over the last thirty years and those chickens have come home to roost. Likewise with the loosening of regulations in finance and banking. A profit motive is right up there with sex in the categories of "why people make bad choices". Neither are bad in and of themselves but great googly moogly folks, people will throw their mother under the bus if they let there desire for more money (or sex) become the determining and driving force in their life.

In today's climate, those two areas right there mark me a liberal democrat. I'm not crazy about the label. It does a disservice to hard core liberal democrats everywhere and I hope they don't get mad for me being put in their camp. 

Lots of folks feel that the exact opposite is the good, positive and profitable direction to take. Me? Not so much.

Woody Allen Interviews Billy Graham

An absolutely stunning interview between Woody Allen and Billy Graham from back in the late 60's or early 70's.

Part 1

Part 2

Here's the Washington Post article that references the interview

 

 

Don't Be A Big Baby

It was an interesting day today, Tuesday November 08, 2011. My buddy came by to go over some invoices that I had sent him. After we got that all sorted out he told me that the next invoice I send him would be the last one . . .

The recurring editing work that I've been able to do since the end of June is coming to an end. That's the nature of freelance work. I knew that going in. I'm very grateful for it and for the other gigs that have come my way over the last four months. I don't have anything to feel bad about. I have more in my life than two or three billion folks do. In fact, compared to the people that I know from my times in Sudan, Rwanda and Congo I'm a freaking bajillionaire. To them, I'm the one percenter. Like most things in life it's relative. It's a matter of perspective. It's the way the ball bounces.

Still, I'm sad to see this particular gig go away. It was actually interesting more often than not. It was something that was well within my editing ability so it was the perfect gig to have to get me back up to speed. Also, it was for a friend who is a really good friend and a good guy. For those reasons alone it was a very good thing to have come my way. Especially at this point in time. There is a possibility that it might continue on for a short period but only if it's picked up by one of the other players. As a result of this latest news, I did finally make my way over to the Texas Workforce Commission and begin the process of applying for unemployment benefits. That was interesting.

It wasn't as weird or as awkward as I thought it might be . . . but it was still an odd experience. After I completed all the paperwork and clicked on the submit button I made my way over to the workintexas.com website. Oh joy. Here's another new and interesting experience I can cross off my bucket list. By the way, one of the things on my bucket list is to go to Burning Man. Of course, the only way that will happen is if Lisa sheds this mortal coil before I do and I'm not too old and feeble to get myself to Black Rock. Yeah, it's a bunch of wacky folks who don't fit into the mainstream who gather together once a year and create their own mainstream. Sounds like my kind of folks. Don't worry Mom, if I go, I will be sure and wear lots of sunblock and keep myself hydrated.

So I browsed around the workintexas.com site and searched for suitable jobs. If I wasn't such a positive, happy-go-lucky, not-a-care-in-the-world type of guy I would find a way to end it all now in a way so that Lisa could still collect all the insurance money. Seriously, I have no intention of doing anything like that so calm down. It's just part of my hyperbolic character. I like to mix a little drama queen in with the happy-go-lucky stuff now and then just to keep things fresh.

Anyway, I will see how the whole Texas Workforce Commission thing goes. You can probably count on hearing about that in the future hear at the Loud Loft. In the meantime, I will continue to pursue "other opportunities" and keep myself busy. There are lots of things I can do. Some of them are around the house in a "honey-do list" kind of way. Some others are ways I can serve my friends and help out with a few things that are going on in their lives.

What was especially interesting today was that this morning I got a private message on Facebook from a friend who said that he was "just thinking about you and trusting you will have an encouraging day." I had to laugh because I didn't see the message until after my other friend had come by to give me the news about the end of the freelance gig. Timing is everything. I actually I think I appreciated it more seeing it later in the morning rather than first thing. It had a bit more impact that way.

God is funny that way. I've learned to appreciate his sense of humor even though he can be a big baby about things at times . . .

JK

It's The End Of The News As We Know It . . . And I don't Feel Fine

Sorry REM, I had to highjack your song. Once it got in my head there was no turning back.

I remember watching the TV in our little two bedroom apartment in East Ridge Tennessee. There was horribly ugly shag carpeting and whatever passed for basic appliances in the kitchen and bathroom. The air conditioning unit in the hall closet used to leak water and we would actually have mushrooms growing in the carpet in the adjacent bedroom closet. Nice.

It was a Magnavox Color TV (a sixteen inch screen as I recall) that my parents had bought me when I went off to college. It was hooked up to a cable box that had a rotary dial on the front, no remote of course. It was Sunday afternoon at 5:00PM on June the first, 1980. I had been working at the TV station for a little less than a year.

I "think" I was watching WTBS. It had been called WTCG until the summer before. In December of 1976 it became the first local TV station to uplink it's program feed to a satellite and enable nationwide deliver of what, until then, was a completly local process. I say "think" because I was watching the launch of CNN and I don't know if our cable system was carrying the actual CNN channel at that time. Either way, Ted Turner said a few words and then the husband and wife team of David Walker and Lois Hart anchored the first program . . . and the landscape of national news was changed forever.

There will be folks who read this who have much more experience in the news business than I.  Mine is limited to working for a couple of TV stations in mid-size markets for about ten years. I wasn't even in the News Department for that matter. I did all kinds of production work including Directing/Editing/Writing and what not for commercials and station promotions. Still, being on the outside looking in gave me, what I think is, a much better perspective than being right in the thick of things.

There are a three key things you have to know about the news business and it's the same whether it's local or national. First, the news programs reason for existence is to sell soap. The more eyeballs that they can deliver to the advertiser the better. Second, all communication (not just news) reflects the societal, cultural, sociological and environmental bias of the folks who do the communicating. There are efforts made to balance that bias  . . . but it's going to be there to some degree no matter what steps are taken to offset that bias. Third, all communication reflects the personality of the person(s) writing the checks.

If you accept and appreciate the implications of these three things it will make your perspective of what passes for news each day a bit more clear. In other words, it won't crawl up your ass like a big old bug.

Research groups from all perspectives annually generate gigabytes of data on which news organization is liberal, conservative, trusted, not trusted, favorable, unfavorable and collate that information based on the liberal/conservative/neither demographics of the folks providing the research.

I don't really care because I accept the three key things as stated above. Does Fox News Channel have a conservative point of view? Does MSNBC present a liberal perspective? Is CNN somewhere in the middle depending upon which way the wind is blowing? Yeah. Is it important? Only if you've decided that you're going to let a corporation, beholden to share holders and at the direction of Executives who's salary and bonuses are determined by ad revenue form your opinion.

I have folks who indulge my literary "jones" by reading this stuff who hail from across the political spectrum. I have liberals over here. Conservatives over there, a smattering of the Rational Middle and others who really don't care one way or the other. I have folks who really believe that there is an organized liberal media hell-bent on destroying the country by spreading lies. I have others who really believe that there is a conservative plot to strip all citizens of their rights under the constitution and sell them to the highest bidder.

I believe that the only conspiracy at hand is to bring up the numbers to sell more soap by identifying which demographic is most inclined to hear what they want to hear and then telling them exactly that.

This didn't begin on June 1st, 1980. However, up till then we only had to put up with it a few hours a day. First it was CNN, then CNN Headline News for those with ADD. Other variations came and went until Fox News and MSNBC came on the scene in 1996. That's when the tabloid format really began to take hold and "responsible" journalism (i.e the one's that even attempted to present itself without bias) hopped on that slippery slope to Hades.

I would be delighted if the earth opened up and swallowed the 24 hour news channels. They've become a beast with an insatiable appetite that has a love affair with the tabloid format, is in a serious relationship with stating the obvious over and over and over again and enjoys hooking up with whatever it takes to sell the soap, increase the ratings and meet the revenue goals.

I feel sad because as I watched Ted Turner launch CNN I was excited about the possibilities and opportunities it would bring. Now I tolerate it because the alternatives are such dreck.

Raising Sierra

A little over a year ago I went to an Artist Retreat at the Laity Lodge just south of Kerrville Texas. It was a great event and I would have liked to go back this year if my circumstances where different. One of the things that came out of the retreat was a re-kindling of my love for writing. I don't know that I'm particularly talented but I have my moments every now and then when I read something that I wrote and think it's pretty good. I have had a few other folks tell me I'm pretty good and I appreciate that a great deal.

One thing that I've rarely written is fiction. I don't have a real reason one way or the other why not . . . I just never did. 

One night after I got back from that retreat I had a dream about the story of a young girl, her parents and the rather unconventional life that they lead. I got up the next morning and wrote a short that I titled "The Party". It was very, very strange writing in the character of a female. The protagonist of the story is the young girl who is also the narrator and voice of the piece. I sat it aside for a couple of months while ideas percolated and bounced around my brain. 

Then, over the course of a long weekend at a friend's lake house it started to come together. It ended up being ten chapters worth of story but only about 8,700 words so, by most measures, it falls into the short story category. It's not close to being finished so it "might" hit the 50,000 word count - which is the minimum number to qualify in the National Novel Writing Month campaign that takes place every November. If you consider yourself a writer you should check it out. Of course, it's already the fourth day of November and you have to average over 1,600 words a day to hit that number.

The story begins on the day the girl turns sixteen. The rest of the story she recounts her life from earliest memory up to present day. At this point in her life she's married with a couple of kids and a husband who has no idea about her unusual life with her parents.

I've decided to go back and take a look at it all and I'm considering releasing a chapter at a time on my blog. I need to flesh out each of the ten (very short) chapters with more storyline . . . some of them are a little skimpy. Still, it was a prodigious amount of writing for me considering it's way more fiction than I've ever written.

Here's the very, very weird part. Like I said earlier, the main character is a girl. Actually it's a thirty-something women telling her story from childhood to present day. As you might have noticed . . . I am the proud bearer of the X chromosome. I have to rely on my imagination, my powers of observation and all that time leafing through those copies of Glamour, Allure, Mademoiselle and Vogue that Lisa left around the house to conjure up a female voice in my head. That I have to share the story of a teenage girl is, ummm, new for me. There is also the college and post college woman's voice that must be used. I'm REALLY in new territory here.

When pretty much all that you've ever written is non-fiction or spit flying rants, it makes getting in touch with your feminine side (as a writer anyway) a challenge. Luckily, the female character is such an unusual person that I think I'm able to get away with it. Even though it's a female voice, the character is very much in touch with her masculine side and no I don't need to put quotation marks around masculine side. All women have a masculine side just as all men have a feminine side. While gender is determined at conception we all sort of start with the same material and those wacky X and Y chromosomes determine our physical characteristics.

Anyway, it's really odd writing entirely from a female voice. I hope it doesn't sound false. There is the notion of the tough female with male attributes (I'm not talking physical here . . . get you mind out the gutter) all through out fiction. I give you Lara Croft, Tomb Raider or Alice from the Resident Evil series as modern examples. The woman in my story isn't quite in their league but she can still take care of herself without needing anyone to save her.

Look for these to start popping up one chapter at a time in a few weeks.

Oh yeah, her name is Sierra.

To be continued.

Permanent Marker

I remember the first time I ever heard the phrase "permanent marker". I was confused. I was just a little boy and confusion is a normal state of mind for children. Seriously, if you're learning that much every day you have to be constantly either confused or amazed by all that's going on around you. Well, that and anxious about when that next bowl of Fruit Loops was going to drop or where the next two slices of that pastry/jelly goodness known as Pop Tarts was coming from.

But seriously, "permanent marker?" How could that be? What wacky scientist at Dow Labs came up with an ink so intense that once applied it would be impossible to remove? I mean, I could see the need for such a thing but I wasn't clear on the concept of "permanent". All I could think of was "how permanent? Permanent permanent? Sort of permanent? Permanent until you scrubbed it with the anti-permanent solution?"

That I even pondered such a thing did not bode well for my future. I've always wanted to know "how". I don't really give a $#@% about the "why".

That pretty much sums up how I've looked at life (but not from both sides now . . . obscure 60's folk song reference. Actually, I tend to always look at things from at least two points of view so damn it, I guess I have looked at life from both sides now)

Anyway.

I've always wanted to know more about "things" . . . which is not limited to explaining a permanent marker to a six year old kid. I'm an inquisitive sort. I like to ask questions of people and find out what makes them tick. How did their choices affect their life? What was the their effect? I wanted to show off the proper use of affect vs. effect but who's kidding who here? Besides grammarians who really cares? I think I would have been a good journalist (if that had been the case then the editor would have cared) because I'm a good listener. I also talk a lot, but only when I know something about the topic on hand.

Still, the concept of a permanent marker is interesting. If you Google "what makes a permanent marker permanent" you will find out how what makes it a permanent marker along with which surfaces it is more permanent and which surfaces it is less permanent. How crushing. You mean there are levels of permanence? And there are ways to remove permanent markers? What the hell is this world coming too when you can't take things at face value!

Seriously, imagine trying to explain a permanent marker to a six year old. I'm thinking you leave the subtleties aside and just go with permanent being permanent. Later, after the kid has learned to process facts and make rational decisions . . . wait, based on what I read on the intertubes and see on TV that's not going to be a reliable yardstick.

So, I learned at a very young age that things were not always what they seemed. I also learned that my Mom was very capable of making the point that you don't use a permanent marker to write on the sofa. I guess that's two things I learned at a very young age. Which was basically when you do something wrong . . . even when you don't fully understand all the implications of what the "wrong" thing is, there can be/will be consequences. Well, there would be if you had parents like mine. They seemed to be real focused on educating their kids on what was wrong, what was right and that choices had consequences. Real consequences. No do-overs. No "everybody gets a trophy who tries".

When I find myself talking with what passes for young adults these days I often find myself saying "oh I get it, you must still think people other than your parents think you are special". It may just be the old man in me talking but it seems like I find myself saying that a lot.

At this point I could get all philosophical about how the level of permanence of our choices are dictated by the level of permanence of the consequences but I think I've "been there - done that" enough recently :)

PS My pen of choice is a .05mm Pilot G2. It's permanent enough for me these days. I don't have a sword of choice which is probably a good thing at this time of my life . . . what with it leaving more of a permanent mark.

Working For A Living

In an earlier post I talked about going to the movies with my Mother when I was a kid. I've always loved movies and am fascinated by the process of making movies. It's one of the reasons I decided I wanted to be a photographer while I was still in Jr. High. It's one of the reasons why I ended up shooting commercials and what not in the production side of "TV" for over thirty years.

It defined my career and determined where I went to college and what I studied when I was in college. It led to me getting a degree in Mass Communications (that's what it was called back then). It's why I went to work for TV station on July 29th of 1979 as a part time teleprompter operator making slightly above minimum wage. It's why I worked thirty days straight in that job before they saw that I was serious and gave me a full-time position in the production department doing "everything and anything"  . . . including sweeping the floor in the studio.

When the credits roll in a movie, very often they will list the key production members during the opening scenes. One time, sitting in a movie with my Mom, the credit for the Director of Photography came up. I nudged my Mom in the arm and said "that's what I want to be one day". I wasn't even really sure what a Director of Photography or a Cinematographer did . . . but that's what I wanted to be.

It never really happened.

But, I bought a 35mm SLR with my own money and started taking pictures. I even was the photographer for the annual in high school. I went to college, got that degree and went to work in TV. I did pretty good. I got promoted. I got more responsibility. I got more money. I moved from the first station to a production company then to another station and then moved to Dallas to work for a company that made "TV". I moved up the ladder. I got an office. I got a title. I went to meetings. I hired. I fired. I did budgets. I presented proposals. I solved problems. I took on projects. I left after eighteen years.

I took a job as "storyteller" for the church that Lisa and I attended. I had big dreams. I had nightmares too. It didn't end well and after three and a half years it was over.

For the first time in my life I didn't have a job. I did freelance editing work. I got a resume. I sent a few out. I chased leads. I made calls. I sent emails. I "networked".

I helped a friend who owned a printing company who needed help getting a big job out the door to meet a deadline. It was work. Real work. The kind of work that people do every day. But it was the first time where I did work in which I didn't have at least a part of myself invested. It was very odd. Satisfying in many ways. Humbling in many other ways.

One of my freelance jobs involves me riding the train to downtown Dallas. It was pretty neat at first. I like trains. I like doing new things. I like the concept of mass transit. What I didn't like was seeing all the buildings as the train made it's way downtown. Every building was full of people who had jobs. I'm certain that some of the people hated their job, some of them tolerated their job and some of them really liked their job. However, I didn't have that option to hate, tolerate or love a job and it was a very sad feeling. Eventually it changed from sad to mad. It wasn't a good mad . . . yet. It was just mad.

I wondered what had happened to that little boy on the cusp of his teenage years who saw the title of a job on a screen in a movie theatre and decided that's what he wanted to do? I hadn't even come close to making that decision a reality. I had danced around the edges and had enjoyed myself but I had left something unresolved. It feels like I had "settled" and it doesn't feel good.

I don't know what's in store for me in the years ahead. I would not be the first fifty-something to reinvent himself if I choose that route. I have the story for the rest of life waiting to write. I have to pick up the pen and start writing.

To be continued . . .

At the Rialto . . .

The lights dimmed and the movie started. I had come in after the previous showing had begun so I sat and waited in the still dimly lit theatre until the next showing came around. I was ten years old and at the movies by myself. Mom used to drop me off at the Rialto Theatre in the small town in Texas where we lived. Keep in mind this was 1967 so letting your child catch a movie by himself at the theatre wouldn't have been reason for alarm . . . or reason for a visit from Child Protective Services.

I don't recall the movie that day. I was a regular at the Rialto. Though the years may have fogged my memory it seems like they had a new movie every Wednesday. Occasionally, I'm sure a movie would be held over a week or so but more often than not it was a new one every week. Mom would drop me off on Main Street in front of the theatre with enough money for a ticket and a snack. At the time I wasn't the popcorn fiend that I am now. Back then I was a Milk Duds kid. I also remember that the Cokes seemed extra fizzy back then.

I wold buy a ticket, load up on snacks and find a seat. I ususally sat in the main section about half way down in the middle of the row. I don't recall there ever being a huge crowd. Probably because I was there in the daytime and the big crowds came in the evening on date night. Occasionally, I would sit in the balcony except when the bigger kids were up there. I wasn't up to speed on the whole "making out in the balcony" concept but I could sense that something was going on and that I wasn't part of that club.

After the lights dimmed a couple of previews would run and then the lights would dim some more, a few comic shorts would run and then main feature would start and I would watch until the part came up where I had come in. At this point I had a decision to make. Should I stay or should I go? Years later The Clash would ask that same question in song :)

Usually, I would stay. Was that prophetic some how of how I would view life when I grew up? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? Who cares, let's get back to the story. So, I would watch the rest of the movie till the end - or until my Mom came into the theatre, found me and dragged my ten year old butt to the car. I would be sitting in the dark, focused on the screen engrossed in the story and hear a hissing sound off to the side. I would ignore it the first few times until it got louder or until I heard "Billy, get over here. It's time to go home!"

The only time this didn't happen was when I road my bike to the movies. At that point I was the master of my own destiny and could leave when ever I damn well pleased. It was a heady feeling to have such control. I was the baby of the family and like most folks who find themselves in that genealogical position I had a lot more latitude than my older siblings. That I was nine years younger than the next youngest heightened my freedom. By that time in her matriarchal service all that my Mom cared about was that I didn't come home with a bone sticking out of my leg or in the back of police car. I never let her down.

These days I still like going to the movies by myself but it's different going to a theatre with thirty screens. I've pretty much broke myself of buying one ticket and then hopping from one auditorium to the other and catching three or four flicks in one day. I will go to the ticket dispenser and buy a new ticket for whatever I'm seeing next. I know that it would by much more fun to "stick it to the man" by theatre hopping but I'm pass that phase in life . . . for the most part. 

Up until about the age of thirteen or fourteen I used to go with my Mom to the theatre. Usually it was to see a western or some other "safe" sort of movie. Mom's eighty-nine now and lives with that sister who is nine years older than me. That nine year difference doesn't seem as big now as it did when I was ten and she was nineteen.

I don't know the last movie that Mom saw in a theatre. The thing is, she probably doesn't know either these days. There are big holes in her memory, but that's part of living that long I suppose.

I wonder if I will be able to remember going to the movies with her when I'm eighty-nine? 

I hope so.

Betty at the Walmart

I don’t mind grocery shopping at Walmart at all. After I did an item by item, apples to apples price comparison of the things I buy at the grocery store and found that they cost 30% less than what I was paying for them at the Kroger and Tom Thumb stores down the street it was a no-brainer for me to make Walmart my preferred provider of food stuff.

But this story isn’t about who has the best prices, it’s about Betty . . .

I had picked up everything I needed and made my way to the front of the store in search of the shortest check out line. It was about five o’clock  on a Sunday afternoon. The place was busy but not packed. Most of the folks who shop on Sunday had probably come and gone. The picked over selection in the vegetable section was pretty good proof. Checkout aisle #9 only had one other person in line and it looked like they were about to finish up. I pulled my cart up to the conveyor belt and unloaded my fruits and vegetables, my tuna fish, my low sugar grape jelly, my english muffins and all the rest of the healthy, good for me and good to eat things in my cart.

I noticed that Betty, the cashier was apologizing to the lady in front of me. The roll of paper in the register had run out and she had to take a minute and load up a new roll. Betty looked to be in her early sixties . . . or maybe her fifties if her life had been a hard one. I think it was the later. Betty had long greying hair that hadn’t been pampered. She wore glasses that were  ten years out of style. I’m pretty sure that Betty didn’t go to the gym or take Pilates classes.

Once Betty had the new roll loaded and completed the check out, the customer handed her three gift cards and asked that they be loaded with $25 each. Betty began the process but there seemed to be a problem, the card the customer was using to pay wouldn’t process. Betty apologized and attempted to run the card several time. No luck. Betty called over a Manager. Katherine was in her early 30’s with shoulder length dark hair. She was wearing the Walmart “management” shirt, khaki slacks and sensible shoes.
Nothing seemed to work. Katherine slapped keys on the keyboard. She swiped her management card. The customer swiped her card several times. Katherine took the customer’s card to a different register to see if it would read there and reported back that there must be something wrong with the card.

I noticed that Betty shook just a little. It wasn’t noticeable at first but her head had just the slightest “bob” up and down.

All of this took place over the course of about five minutes. But, like dog years, five minutes idling in a check out line at Walmart is like thirty five minutes in real time. Oddly enough, I rarely get exasperated during these situations. It’s sort of a zen thing for me. I just go to my happy place (i.e. pull out my iphone and either check Facebook, read Twitter or scan emails) and wait for it to finish.

Eventually, the card read/not read shenanigans ran their course. Betty and Katherine exchanged a glance, shrugged their shoulders and the lady left without the three gift cards. My turn now.

The conveyor belt with my food lurched forward and I shuffled up to the register.

Betty apologized for the wait. “No problem” I replied. Seriously, it was no problem. It was a Sunday afternoon. I had spent several hours watching the Italian Grand Prix that day so it was clear I didn’t have a busy schedule for the day.

Betty made some comment about the lady with cards along the lines of “I can’t say what I want to say sometimes or I will loose my job.” I replied without the smallest trace of wit “yep, that’s one of the problems with working with the public.” It wasn’t particularly clever but Betty must have sensed that I was some sort of Kindred spirit and smiled back. The next thing that Betty said was “just one more hour and I can go home . . .”

Betty turned out to be one of the slowest cashiers I’ve had the joy of experiencing. She had a lot of trouble with the plastic bags. You have to use your thumb and forefinger to grab one side and slide it open. This was not something that Betty seemed to have mastered. She even took out a small tin of moisturizer for her fingers and that didn’t seem to help much.

Amazingly, I was still the only person in Betty’s line.

Eventually,we  got into a rhythm. Betty would get a bag open, fill it up, spin the turntable towards me, I would take the bag off the rack, put it in my cart and before the turntable spun away I would open a bag.

This was working.

I lady joined us in Betty’s aisle. She had one item. She was less than five feet tall. She was also just a little less than three feet wide. She was wearing flip flops and had on a tank top and a “way too short for her build”  khaki skirt, both of which looked like they were at least two sizes too small. Like the rebels in Libya, her tank top and skirt looked like they were about to take matters into their own hands and liberate her physical body from the constraints imposed on them by these helpless clothes. Nice. This is why there is a People of Walmart site and a very funny People of Walmart song and video. It’s not because of her size, we come in all shapes and sizes, but clearly she had either lost a bet or there are no mirrors in her house.

Betty was working as hard as she could but the new lady didn’t know that. After a bit she said, “do you need some help back there?” But it wasn’t said with compassion if you get my drift. Betty replied “I’m working as fast as I can, I’m only human”. Betty was right on both counts. The lady mumbled something that I didn’t catch. Betty looked around and said, “I think number seven is open.”

By this time I only had three more items on the conveyor belt but the lady took her one item and walked over to number seven just as a woman with cart full of groceries arrived. I smiled. I smiled big. 

Betty finished up, I did my part on the keypad and the machine spat out the receipt. I looked at Betty and said, “hang in there, just one more hour and then you can go home and relax.” I didn’t know what was waiting for Betty when she got off her shift. I hoped she could get some peace. I hoped she could rest. I hoped that her emotional tank that had been drained by her shift as a cashier at Walmart on a Sunday afternoon would be replenished. I hoped that she had hope . . .

Betty looked at me with her greying hair, her tired eyes, her out of fashion glasses, smiled and said “have a nice day” and turned back to work.