Month: May 2024

The suitcases were packed and loaded into the car.  Bags of snacks and toiletries and sun block were stuffed into the backseat.  Sharon and I were set to leave for a little Orange Beach getaway.  We like to go before schools leave out and the rates go up and the massive crowds gather. 

One last check through the house to make sure electrical appliances are turned off, doors locked, faucets not running, security system enabled.  All was good.  We excitedly opened the door to the stairs leading down to the garage….and there it was, sitting about halfway up the steps, looking us square in the face.  

It was a chipmunk.  Our Trussville home is surrounded by them.  One of them must have wandered in through an open garage door.  They are as cute as can be, until they’re in your house.   

I’m not sure who was more shocked, us or the chipmunk.  Upon seeing us, it darted down the stairs and took a hard right into the finished basement room.  Not quite knowing what to do, we followed it in and closed the door.  Maybe we could trap it and take it back outside.  What followed must have resembled one of those old Keystone Cops chase scenes.  Sharon grabbed a soft bag which had contained toys we saved for when the grandkids came over.  I had a small open cardboard box.  For roughly the next hour we ridiculously ran after this little guy, bumping into each other and knocking each other down, as it scurried from under the sofa to under the love seat, to behind the tread mill, to behind the TV stand, and then back under the sofa. 

That little fur ball was lightning fast, able to shift direction at right angles, so it had no problem evading our pathetic efforts.  Clearly there was too much operating space.  So we figured if we could force it to flee into the small, connected bathroom it would be easier to corner.  It took a while, but we finally managed to herd it into the little restroom.  Now we’ve got him!  We closed the door and quickly had it trapped behind the toilet. 

When I poked at it, the creature shot into Sharon’s soft bag, which scared the Jesus out of her.  She screamed and lurched backward.  It looked like the squirrel scene from the “Christmas Vacation” movie.  Somehow the chipmunk managed to leap out of the bag, land on the vanity, knock over a bottle of hand soap, and jump back down to the floor.  The doorknob to that bathroom has never closed securely, and apparently one of us had accidentally bumped the door ajar in all the chaos, enabling the animal to escape back into the big room. 

Frustrated and exhausted, we trudged after it, resigned to starting the process all over again.  But now there was no sign of the little troublemaker.  We overturned every piece of furniture, shook every nook and cranny.  Nothing.  We remembered that the squirrels and chipmunks loved to feast on the birdseed dropped to the ground by the sloppy birds who dine at our feeder.  Sharon laid out birdseed in the middle of the room, hoping to attract the rodent out into the open.  Still nothing.  Was it gone?  Did it crawl inside the sofa and get trapped amongst the springs and cushions?  Might it have gotten through the small crack at the bottom of the door and left the room? 

By this time, we were hours late leaving for our trip.  There was no time to go to a store and find a trap of some sort, then wait for the animal to be captured.  That could take days, and there was no guarantee it would even work.  Eventually, we just gave up.  We decided to stuff blankets into the cracks under the doors to the upstairs and the finished room downstairs in an attempt to at least confine the little pest.   It was time to admit defeat.  Just go to the beach and hope for the best. 

But the drama wasn’t over yet.  As we entered the garage, Sharon saw the chipmunk scurry across the floor and under my car.  Given renewed hope, we immediately opened both garage doors, and went about shaking and rattling everything in the basement, trying to flush it outside.  We never actually saw it leave, but once again there was no trace of it anywhere.  As we got in the car and pulled out into the driveway, I chose to believe the unwanted visitor had gleefully sprinted out into the yard to rejoin his family.  Sharon was not so sure. 

The beach was beautiful and relaxing as always, but it was hard not to wonder if we would return to Trussville to find our home chewed and clawed into shambles.  After four days, we arrived back, pulled into the garage, and began to cautiously look around the basement.  So far, so good.  No apparent damage.  But when Sharon opened the door to the stairs, she let out a gasp. 

There, at the base of the steps on the floor, lay the chipmunk, stiff as a board.  Apparently, it had gotten back into the stairwell, but was trapped there and perished.  I disposed of it with a shovel, all the while feeling a curious mix of emotion.  I should have been overjoyed and relieved that we no longer had to worry about a chipmunk in the house.  But somehow, looking at his sad little eyes, his buck teeth, that cute little double black stripe down his back, I felt a strange sadness that one of God’s beautiful, small creatures had to meet with such an unpleasant end.   

I may never again be able to watch a Chip ‘n Dale cartoon without tearing up a little bit. 

There was that time when I desperately wanted the attention of my two older brothers, so I deliberately annoyed them until they chased me through the house with bad intentions.  I knew you were in the kitchen.  You always seemed to be in the kitchen.  So I ran and hid behind you.  You shielded me from a certain beatdown and scolded them for not being sweet to their little brother.  This was a scene that repeated itself daily. 

There was the time my big brothers grew up and left home and I had to go to bed all by myself in the cavernous upper floor of our old house.  I would shudder under the covers as the raw winter wind whistled through the window sills and the walls creaked and groaned like a crying ghost.  I was convinced there were all manner of monsters up there ready to pounce on me.  So I would take my pillow and sneak down the stairs into your bedroom and lay down on the soft rug at the foot of your bed.  Dad would be snoring so loudly he never even heard me come in.  But I knew that you knew I was there.  You never said anything because we both knew if Dad woke up, he would send me back to the tower of terror. 

There was the time you spent all day at my bedside when I was in the hospital for a hernia operation.  In those days they didn’t allow parents to stay with their children overnight.  When the nurse said it was time for you to leave I threw a fit, terrified of spending the night in a strange place with no family around.  I remember you pleading with her to allow you to stay, and finally she relented. 

There were the times I tagged along with you as you walked to your mother’s house a few doors down to bring her mail in to her, as you did every day.  Grandma loved to bake and she always had a big slice of whatever sweet, delicious treat she had whipped up ready for me.  Until the time we arrived to find her lying on the floor, dead of a heart attack.  It was the first time, maybe the only time, I ever saw you cry. 

There were the times I was bored and you entertained me by luring me into a game of Scrabble.  You would regularly beat me like a rented mule because you had such a sharp mind, and because you had the Scrabble dictionary memorized.  To this day I still don’t think “dweezle” is a real word.  Especially when you built it in to a triple word score. 

There was the time you forbade me from going out for football.  You thought I was too small and the bigger guys would crush me.  It broke my heart because the football players were the most popular kids in my high school, not to mention they dated all the prettiest girls.  Today I have countless friends who walk with permanent limp, or can’t raise their arms above their shoulders, or have recurring headaches, and attribute all of it to their football days. 

There was the time when I stunned you and Dad by announcing that I wanted to drop out of college after two years, both of which you paid for, and instead attend a radio/tv/film school you had never heard of, which I also asked you to pay for.  Dad was dead against it, and you had your doubts, but you recognized it was my dream and you talked Dad into allowing me to chase it. 

There was the time in 1983 when I told you that Sharon and I were moving far away to Alabama.  After Dad passed away you bravely navigated some of the hugest and busiest airports in the country alone and flew to visit us and spend time with your grandchildren.  I brought you to church and introduced you to my Sunday School class.  Of course, they all fell in love with you and asked about you for many years. 

There was the time when you turned one hundred years old and the family threw you a big birthday party.  You had always played the ukelele and everybody wanted to hear you play again.  You strummed one song, I believe it was “Toot toot tootsie”, and then you handed the uke to me, because you were always uncomfortable being the center of attention. 

Then there was the time you turned one hundred and three, and you wondered why God had not called you home.  Nine months later He did. 

There were those times and so many more.  Just wanted to say thanks, Mom, and happy Mother’s Day.  Say hi to Dad for me. 

Hello.  My name is Ken.  And I’m a sodaholic.  To be more precise, I’m a diet sodaholic.  For most of my adult life I have been hooked on Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, Diet Mountain Dew, Diet Sprite, you name it.  If you wrote the word “diet” on a bottle of dish washing liquid I would be tempted to drink it.  “But there’s no sugar!” I would proudly proclaim.  I convinced myself diet soda was healthier, despite the fact the list of ingredients resembles a recipe for motor oil. 

My family doctor tells me I should stop.  So does my neurologist, my urologist, my podiatrist, my dentist, my auto mechanic, and a guy at the gym named Gus who washes the towels.  So, God help me, I’m doing it.  I’m going cold turkey.  No more diet soda.  Instead I am determined to drink (ugh) water.  I don’t like tea.  Milk is for kids.  Alcohol is fattening.  So it’s water.  Just plain old water. 

Problem is, I hate water.  You can squeeze lemon into it, or drop a packet of Splenda into it, but it’s still boring old water.  I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to eating a bacon cheeseburger and french fries, and washing them down with…..water?  (ugh again)  Or enjoying a giant slice of pepperoni pizza topped off with a big gulp of….water?  How about a good ole southern barbecue plate with pulled pork, baked beans, cole slaw and…..water?  Yikes.  This is going to be hard. 

As I write this, I am in the first week of my new life.  I’m doing pretty well.  I haven’t had a diet soda all week.  Of course, it’s Monday morning but you have to start somewhere.  I think I’m going to be okay here at home.  But Sharon and I love to go out for lunch, and we can be regularly seen at Trussville area restaurants.  Our favorites include Edgar’s, Moe’s, Chicken Salad Chick, Full Moon and Zaxby’s.   

What do these establishments all have in common?  All of them allow you to draw your own drink after you order.  You learn a lot about yourself doing this.  Just how much will power do you have?  I give the nice lady behind the counter my food order, then I hesitate, struggling to get the next words out of my mouth.  After what seems like several minutes, I manage to groan in a low, pathetic voice “and I’ll just have water to drink.”  She gives me my cup and off I go to the drink machine.  This is the moment of truth.  It is hard enough to order water.  Unfair torture to have to tap it yourself.  

It would be so easy to push that Diet Coke button.  To savor that wonderful, carbonated mess flowing freely into my cup.  To slink away to my table and revel in my guilty pleasure.  But no, I won’t do it.  What kind of man would I be?  Surely I possess the inner strength and courage of my conviction to handle this moment.  So I do the only thing a real man would do.  I give my cup to Sharon and tell her to draw my drink, while I find a place for us to sit.  Hey, we’re not all cut out to be heroes.   

On the plus side, I have noticed that ordering water does have its financial rewards.  Most eating places are charging between two and four dollars for a drink, but nothing for water.  This can’t last forever.  A tightwad such as me (I prefer the word “frugal”) needs to take advantage of this policy.  It’s almost worth enduring the lack of taste.  Almost. 

Bottom line is, all of my doctors say switching to water will make you feel better, give you more energy, help you think more clearly.   

Well, it’s been nearly a whole day now.  I’m still waiting.