Posted by
William D. Dannenmaier on Saturday, January 30, 2010 8:40:17 AM
I hate to destroy the hopes of any reader with young children, but some things don’t change with the age of the “child.” It was nine degrees out this morning, which left me with no interest in riding the four-wheeler to the dumpster, slightly more than the length of a baseball field from the house. Consequently, I asked Stephen, who was getting ready to drive to the university in Clarksville, to take the trash to the dumpster on his way. “Sure Dad,” he replied and moved the large sack of trash to the front door. Then Megaera telephoned from Dickson. She had to meet her advisor at the university and her car would start, but not continue running. She needed a ride. Andrew, who planned to go with Stephen, agreed to go get her. To double the probability of dumping the trash, I asked her to take it. “Sure Dad.” Later, walking to the study, the door opened and Andrew breezed in to pick up something he had forgotten. Standing over the trash, I asked, “Where’s Megaera?” “She’s gone.” “Where’s Stephen?” “He’s in the car. We had to come back for something I forgot.” “How about taking the trash to the dumpster?” “Sure Dad.” “I’ll watch.”
On the same subject. Listening to Megaera’s description of her car problems, I thought she might have water in the gas tank. I suggested she stop at the automotive stop she passed in Clarksville on her way to the university and purchase anti-freeze to put in the gas tank. “Good idea, Dad.” When she and Sheila returned home I asked about the alcohol. She had forgotten, but said she could go out to Wal-Mart to buy some. “You don’t have to go that far, there is a large automotive store a few blocks from your house in Dickson.” “Oh, I don’t know where it is.” “It is next door to Dickson Donuts.” “Oh, yes.” For the uneducated: the automotive shop in Dickson occupies most of a city block. Next to it is a tiny building housing Dickson Donuts, whose serving room is smaller than any room in my house except the bathroom. Dickson Donuts makes their donuts fresh every day, beginning at three in the morning. They’ve won the “Best Donuts” award for the area four years in a row. That tiny shop my daughter knew. The massive auto supply whose parking lot she drives through to reach Dickson Donuts, she didn’t know. Some things don’t change with age.
Recently, we needed some cash. It was eighteen degrees outside and I considered what I would have to do to obtain the cash at the bank. It meant fumbling in my wallet for the bank card, then punching it in and, finally, having received the money, continued standing in the cold while fumbling to put away the card and my share of the cash in my wallet. Certainly, easier and more efficiently, Sheila could have her card ready while I was driving, then I would simply leap from the car, put the card in the machine, punch in the numbers, retrieve the card, cash and receipt and then return to the warm car and continue driving while Sheila did the sorting and putting away. More efficient in every sense, reducing cold time and getting to the hospital faster. I proposed the new system and my bride agreed. Now meet reality. I leapt from the car, put Sheila’s card in the machine and typed in her numbers. After a short wait, her card came back with a receipt – no cash. I waited. I waited some more. I looked at the receipt – wrong number. Returning to the car I opened the car to that warm interior and mentioned the problem to Sheila. She admitted she might have given me the wrong number, but that she was certain she would think of it in a few minutes. Fingers stiffening, I told her not to bother, fumbled for my wallet, fumbled for my own card, did the transaction, returned card and my share of the money to my wallet and, finally, got back in the car. Sometimes efficiency should be forgotten, especially at home if married to an artist.
Driving to the Cardiac Club the other morning we spotted a man walking by the side of the road talking to himself. Sheila said he was on the telephone, one of those that plug into the ear like a hearing aid and leave your hands free. Forty years ago, in my working days as a psychologist, I would have assumed he was schizophrenic and needed hospitalization. How times have changed! But have they? Sheila and I find the world a marvelous place, incredibly wealthy in sights and sounds – and interesting people. Every day, every place, all people are different. These telephone addicts, and you see them everywhere, are shutting all of this wealth out of their lives. Is this so different from the schizophrenic who creates an imaginary world to avoid the real world? Is the difference a sad matter of degree?