Apr 16

Three Principles to Fly By

Because we fly a lot, my husband Greg and I are sensitive to airplane etiquette. Recently, we were disturbed by a man who was clipping his fingernails two rows ahead of us on a plane. Now I know that clippers have advanced to the point that some can trap wayward debris in carefully designed, built-in cavities. I also know, firsthand, that they don’t work perfectly. Odds and ends always get away. It’s bad enough to have to brush off a seat full of cookie crumbs left by a previous passenger. But fingernails…really?

Dear Friends, let’s take a look at some of the ways we can be a little more courteous to our fellow passengers.

1. Take care of personal grooming in privacy.

As you prepare for travel, there are many things to consider. You may have to temporarily stop delivery of your mail or ask a neighbor to collect it while you are away. If you have pets or plants, you need to make arrangements for someone to care for them. Checking the weather forecast will help you determine the type of clothes to pack.

Before adding toiletries to your luggage, take a couple of minutes and put your nail clippers to use. If you just can’t squeeze in the time before your trip, place the coveted clippers next to its dreadful cousin—the nose hair trimmer—in your suitcase, where the two can keep each other company until arrival at your final destination. No one wants to see or hear either of those in action.

KellyDeadwood-2016-4April-binoculars

People are watching.

I’m pleased to say that I’ve never witnessed anyone onboard pulling out a razor to tend to a few missed spots. Personally, I have been tempted to paint my nails while en route, but I abide by the unspoken, yet commonly understood, rule that certain finishing touches aren’t spectator sports.

2. Pay attention to your boarding status.

Unfortunately, we are not all treated equally in the caste system of airline travel. At least that’s the case with Delta Airlines, upon which Greg and I frequently rely. Dare I say: polite discrimination is necessary in the boarding process?

On your boarding pass is the heading, Zone. Look beneath it to find a poorly disguised indication of your affluence. This is what determines when you may embark. Unseasoned travelers, or anti-establishment rebels, typically rise too soon from their seats, crowd together, and block the path of First Class and Premium passengers—the upper crust of airplane society who board before most everyone else. For the majority of us in other designated Zones, I suggest we step to the side and allow High Society to go more easily on their way. Additionally, let’s bow, ever so slightly, as they pass by. They have, after all, impressed us with the status they have achieved by either paying big bucks for their cushy seats or by manipulating airline miles and credit card spending to earn upgrades into the royal realm. They deserve our silent admiration, if only for a moment. Take solace in knowing that even they must yield to people needing assistance or to those traveling with children under two, with strollers or car seats.

Next to board are various levels of the working/middle class. These are my people. We own the Sky…Zone. We achieve higher and higher status—Silver to Gold to Platinum to Diamond Medallion—as we accrue more and more miles through air travel or as we rack up exorbitant credit card balances. We are frequent flyers, good spenders, and oftentimes, both.

The extent of snobbery in Sky Zone most recently cost me $19 extra to upgrade from basic, main cabin seating to Delta Comfort+. It was well worth a bite size Twix and mini banana, wine, extra leg room, and free SHOWTIME episodes of Penny Dreadful, Season 2. Is it not obvious that Sky Zone people are on our way towards magnificence and, like those who went before us, deserve a clear path to our assigned seats?

Zones 1, 2, and 3 are reserved for the have-nots. Because of their lowly position in the pecking order, they are last to be summoned forward and, once onboard, may struggle to find room in the overhead bins. Do not fret if you are assigned to one of these final categories. You are still classier than the other people waiting to board who sit in front of charging stations and don’t intend to share the extremely limited power. They roll their eyes and begrudgingly lean an inch to one side when someone approaches and asks to plug-in. If it were up to me, I would strip the classless of their coffee or tea, water or juice, peanuts, pretzels, or crumbly cookies. Make way! For cryin’ out loud.

Ahem. Air travel affords the perfect opportunity to practice getting along with other people.

3. Once on board, stow your belongings, sit back, relax, and control yourself.

Don’t:
• Kick the seat or tap too hard on the personal entertainment system in front of you.
• Monopolize the armrests or invade your seat-mate’s allotted space.
• Recline your own seat too quickly.
Do:
• Speak softly when carrying on conversations.
• Cover your mouth when sneezing or coughing.
• Say please and thank you to the stewards.

We can’t rely on rocket science alone to make airline travel more enjoyable. Let’s remember our manners.

(Farting is fine as long as you deliver silent ones. No one can really tell where those come from anyway.)

Apr 15

Jury Duty

 

 “Jury Summons Notice: You have been selected to serve as a Juror. Failure to report will be considered a criminal offense. Please report on your assigned date.” Receiving a jury notice from a federal court is an occasion for mixed feelings. I was never sure whether my first experience was typical, but it certainly was entertaining. I appeared at Michigan’s 3rd Judicial Circuit Court serving Wayne County and, by mid-morning, seven of us were sworn in to hear a civil suit. Since we weren’t allowed to take notes, we would need to recapture what happened afterward and agree to every detail of several days of testimony, no easy task. Plaintiff was a man in his late thirties suing Coca Cola and a truck driver for running a stop sign and smashing into his car. He hadn’t been injured at the time but, now, seven years later, was claiming his neck hurt and he was suffering from despondency as a result. He seemed listless, sitting with downcast eyes and pitiful expression.

Just as we were beginning to feel sorry for him, the defense revealed Mr. Despondent had since played several seasons of professional European football in the United Kingdom. Uh, oh. I could only wonder whether his neck hurt from soccer or he was despondent over a bad season. How can a professional soccer player complain of a sore neck from a seven-year-old automobile accident? But Coca-Cola’s attorneys didn’t have a compelling argument why their truck driver shouldn’t be held liable.

We were led to a jury room to begin deliberating, and a fellow-juror turned to me and said, “We’ve decided to elect you foreman, so tell us what to do.”

No one had said how a foreman was to get a jury to reach a consensus, so I pondered a minute. “All right, but the first thing we should do is to agree about what we heard. What I heard was the truck driver went through a stop sign and smashed the plaintiff’s car. Although he went to a hospital for examination, he wasn’t injured enough to prevent playing professional European football. Now his neck aches, and he’s despondent. Sorry, but I’m despondent even being here. But the defense didn’t give us a reason why they are not liable for the accident, right?

Since no one heard anything different, we voted on slips of paper and decided to find for Mr. Despondent’s seven-year-old bumps and bruises and his smashed car. But now we needed to decide what that meant. “We have to consider the cost of plaintiff’s car and hospital examination and, after that, his pain and suffering. My problem is I think this guy is faking his disabilities. If you agree, let’s cover his out of pocket costs and get him out of here. Maybe he’ll have a better soccer season next year if he plays for another team. Each of us should write a dollar number on a slip of paper so we can see what the maximum and minimum are we think he should receive.”

The least amount was $10,000, the most $2,000,000.  I went over the actual costs and took another poll before we decided $40,000 was an amount everyone could agree with. We trooped back into the courtroom and the judge thanked us for having decided appropriately. We later discovered Michigan law allows plaintiff’s attorneys up to 47% of awarded damages. I could only hope Mr. Despondent had enough money to buy a few soccer balls and a happier outlook on life. At least we saved Coca Cola two million dollars.

We returned to the waiting room and were called back to a courtroom to hear a criminal case. A young, tough-looking, black defendant in prison garb was charged with shooting a jewelry store owner after robbing him. He huddled with a court-appointed attorney while the charges were read and prospective jurors called to the jury box. Each was asked whether they could make a fair and impartial judgment after hearing the testimony. The defendant’s attorney asked one prospective juror whether she could remain unbiased if someone testified the defendant was seen in the vicinity of the crime. She was dismissed for having potential bias. Apparently, to prove his point, the attorney then asked the next potential juror, “On the basis the defendant is presumed innocent until proven guilty, could you remain unbiased even if testimony revealed he emerged from the jewelry store with a smoking gun in his hand?”

Before the startled juror could reply, a man seated with me in the rear of the courtroom mumbled in a voice loud enough that carried all the way to the judge’s bench, “Hell No.” The entire courtroom was deathly silent; everyone turning to stare at our suddenly-mute juror ranks.

The defense attorney turned to the judge, “Your Honor, I want the prospective juror who said that to identify himself and be removed from the courtroom.”

The judge commanded, “Whoever said that, please stand up.” After a moment of shuffling feet and embarrassment, a guy meekly rose to his feet.  “Prospective juror, you are excused.  Please return to the Juror’s Room on the first floor.” There was a sigh of relief that a moment of unpleasantness had passed and business resumed.

However, the man who had actually spoken the words was still seated beside me and we smiled at each other in mutual understanding. Seconds later, he was sworn in without difficulty. After the panel was filled, the rest of us were excused and I returned to the jury room. In this case, perhaps, sleeping dogs should be left alone.

Apr 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 10 – Italian

Rustic candles on wooden backgroundSaint drove up to Sienna’s country house and pulled into the drive. He sat staring, thinking for just a moment. He didn’t want to scare her when he went up to the door. Saint wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let her go, tell her that she would be safe, Danny would be safe. But, he didn’t think she would believe him.

Since the blowup with Danny two days ago, Sienna was the only thing on his mind. When she wouldn’t let him in yesterday, since she’d run away from him, from Danny, he’d panicked. When they say the eyes are the windows to the soul, Sienna’s soul was bleak. Her eyes were a vast ocean of pain, breaking waves cutting into the sand at shore, each slice digging deeper and deeper eroding the shore’s strength.

He closed his eyes and thought of Sienna when she was under him, how she had responded to him, how she had screamed for him in her pleasure. Saint would show her what they could have together, show her a future where he would cherish her heart.

He saw the front curtain move as he got out of his truck. Even if Saint couldn’t convince Sienna, at the moment, of what they were to each other, he knew she wanted him in her life. He took the porch stairs two at a time, and she opened the door before he reached it. A smile came to his face when he saw the skin tight dress she was wearing for him, but then he frowned when what greeted him appeared forced somehow.

“Hi,” Sienna said. She didn’t move so he walked into her personal space, grabbed and lifted her chin as he took her mouth with a gentle brush of his lips.

“Hey, baby.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” Sienna said in an abrupt whisper. She tried to pull away, but he pulled her closer.

“You need a distraction, so I’m taking you to dinner, the little Italian place off Main downtown. You promised.”

“Right,” she responded looking away, but he turned her face back to his.

“Mm, hmm.” He kissed her soundly. “Grab your purse.”

They didn’t say much on the ride to the restaurant, but he glanced at her often just to be sure she was okay. Saint kept his hand on her in some way, caressing her hair, drawing a finger down her cheek, or keeping a hand on her leg. Her dress had ridden up when she’d gotten in the truck exposing her legs. It was a difficult thing to keep his need for her in check. He’d almost decided to turn the truck around, take her back to her place, and show her how he could make her feel loved, with his mouth, his hands, and more. He let his eyes wander every few seconds, enjoying the sight of her.

He pulled up to the front of the restaurant all too quickly, got out, helped her down and walked her to the door. “I’ll be right back after I park my truck. She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but pull her in for another quick kiss that stirred his blood and made her eyes flare with heat. Her fingers dug into his biceps as he deepened the kiss one second longer. Then he made himself pull away.

“Mmm. That was nice,” Sienna said before Saint watched her eyes shutter. She looked away. He was getting to her, and it flustered her. He smiled to himself.

Once he had the truck parked he returned to Sienna. His eyes narrowed. Something was wrong, her body was stiff and her movements choppy. “Are you alright?”

Sienna whirled around. Saint caught her before she stumbled, grabbed her arms and held her close. Her hand went to his chest.

“You scared me.”

“What’s going on?” Saint wrapped his arm around her and stared into her eyes. She shook her head and didn’t answer.

“I thought I saw someone.” She tried to look away. “Never mind.”

He held her gaze with a finger on her chin. He finally nodded and gave her a little squeeze. “Come on. Let’s have dinner.” He moved her to the small hosting stand. Saint would address her scare later.

“Hey, Taz,” Saint said.

“Hey, Mr. Paulson. This way.”

Taz led them to the patio outside Sienna looked to him. He said, “Taz is an intern at Paulson’s.” He whispered in her ear. “He’s a good kid, starting out on scholarship this year through the local vocational school; a scholarship created in my sister’s name. It’s for kids who’ve overcome addiction.” He shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about his sister tonight.

“Just like you requested,” Taz said.

Sienna lifted an eyebrow when he helped her toward their table. “We have the whole patio to ourselves?” There weren’t any other place settings on the other tables.

The atmosphere was nice. Outdoor heaters staved off the chill brought on by late July in Michigan. He felt the goosebumps on her skin when they first stepped out of the warm restaurant. Nights below forty were more frequent than they had been just a few weeks ago. But, he could tell Sienna hadn’t expected all this. Good, he thought. Candles lit their area, the glow bounced their silhouettes off the stone walls, soft music played in the background, and the mood, he saw, captured her attention. He enjoyed the soft smile on her face as her shoulders relaxed. Taz smiled and set the menus on the table, and Saint pulled out her chair and kissed her neck below her ear. Just his nearness made her breaths come faster. He enjoyed her response more than he thought he could.

“I’ve noticed something about you,” Sienna said, tilting her head when she spoke the words.

“What’s that?” he asked as he sat down opposite her, but still close, intertwining his fingers with hers. Taz stopped back at the table with bread and a bottle of wine he preselected. She tried to pull away, but he held firm. She shook her head. He was determined to make this date special, and he hoped she believed it, believed in him. Saint wasn’t going to leave her.

“You have this habit, Saint, of helping people. A lot. Going out of your way. Don’t you worry people will take advantage?”

“Some people are worth it.” Saint brushed his lips across her knuckles. He watched her eyes widen in surprise and a shiver race across her body. Her eyes went heavy lidded. Saint would make her shiver much more, later.

They ordered another bottle of wine and entrees, and conversation flowed. The food was incredible. It was nice sharing a meal with her, letting her know how it could be. Trusting him, he hoped.

Saint listened to Sienna tell him about her jewelry designs and how Megan had convinced her that together they could make a go of Twisted Metal. Her face lit up and that made him smile. The joy there, and that she shared it with him, was special. She asked about the speedway and his classes. He didn’t bring up how he included Danny in his new class, but skirted around the fact it was him.

“A new kid started with the class today. Or rather, I signed him up myself.” He smiled thinking about the glee on Danny’s face.

“There’s something about this kid that just…” Saint stopped to gather his thought. “He’s intuitive when it comes to motorcycles. It’s like he can see what’s going to happen before it happens. When I showed videos about how to handle the bikes on blacktop, when I stopped the video, asked them questions about what might happen next, he knew the answers. The kids amazing. He reminds me a little of Chris when Chris and I first started riding.”

She frowned. “How old is the rider?”

“He’s thirteen.”

“Don’t you need a parent’s consent for him to be in your class?

He laughed and brushed off her concern. “I’ll get permission. Don’t worry. He comes around the track all the time.” Luckily she didn’t ask any more questions.

Throughout dinner, he made sure he touched her in some way, her hand, a brush of his leg against her, or the touch of his fingers on her cheek in a soft caress. He tried everything to make her more aware of him. He even insisted on feeding her dessert. With each bite of the crème brulee, she took, his cock grew harder.

“Mm,” she purred with the last spoonful of sweet custard. “Delicious.” She licked her lips and he almost groaned.

“Check!”

They walked out of the restaurant, he pulled her close and kissed her hard, their bodies aligning, his arousal pressing painfully for more room. He would take her to his bed tonight and show her that he loved her. And he knew it deep in his soul that he would never let her go. Sienna was his forever. Convincing her was the only obstacle.

“I’ll be right back.” He tapped her neck with a soft kiss and took off toward the truck.

Heading back toward the restaurant he saw Sienna stumble. A woman shoved her. Sienna hit the side of the building.

“What the hell!” Saint jumped out, and got to Sienna just as the woman’s fingers dug into Sienna’s skin.

“Mom, stop! You’re hurting me. Stop. Please, stop.” Sienna’s fear was a physical thing all but casting a net around the whole area, he could almost feel it. Saint grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her hard. The movement strong but controlled. He didn’t want to hurt the haggard woman. The old woman turned her glare onto him, Saint saw the dark inset eyes, the anger, the addiction that pulled her flesh tight to her bones, the decay, the holes in her skin. It was all too familiar.

“You have to get it for me, Sienna. I need it!” The woman screeched pointing a finger at her. “You owe me this!”

Sienna took a step toward her mother, to do what he didn’t know. He did know he wouldn’t let this person hurt Sienna. He pulled her back into his body turning her becoming a protective shield.

“You get it for me,” the woman yelled as she backed away. Her eyes looked everywhere and nowhere, her body twitched making her clumsy. “I’ll be waiting. Just like I told you.”

“Mom.” Sienna struggled in his arms to go after the woman.

“Mom?” Saint’s heart broke as she tried to move from his arms still.

When the woman was out of sight, Sienna crumbled. He lifted her and set her in the passenger seat, got himself in and pulled off the curb. “Your mother?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice so small he barely heard her.

“How long has she been addicted to drugs?”

“Since I…since, I was a kid.” The tears came now. “But she never tried to hurt me before.” He took her hand and didn’t let go. Her voice droned on now. “I’d see her with prescription bottles.” She paused. “She hurt herself at work. I don’t know exactly how, but it was bad. She needed the pills she said.” Wiping her eyes, she continued. “I noticed the orange bottles more and more. That’s when I started to go to Megan’s more. She’d started to blame me for everything. Dad started to…he started to hit her more.” She sucked in a breath, and it wavered as she let it out. “When she started not to come home sometimes, he blamed me like she blamed me for all their problems.” Saint gripped her hand harder and thought he knew where this was going. “When he didn’t have an outlet with my mother that’s when he started in on me. And then she didn’t come home at all.”

“Jesus.”

“She left me with him. I haven’t seen her until tonight.”

Sienna looked up at him and looked around. They had reached Paulson’s a few minutes ago, and hadn’t noticed. He got out and once again helped her out of the truck and took her up to the loft. He moved her with ease, drew her down on the sofa and onto his lap. And let his head fall against her neck snuggling where he knew she liked it best.

“What, what are you doing?” she asked him.

“I’m taking care of you.”

“But why? Why would you want to be with me after seeing what I came from? She didn’t think I was worth anything, why should you?”

Saint twisted her around, so she faced him. He didn’t give her time to pull away. Her dress inched upward and he pulled her in flush to his growing arousal. He kissed behind her ear, stroked her hair, wrapped it around his fingers drawing her head back to get better access to the bare skin near her collarbone. He bit her gently and then replaced his teeth with his tongue, to ease the sting. She whimpered.

“Why?” He kissed her quick and hard. Her eyes opened when he pulled gently on her hair, and she stared at him. “Because,” he said. “I love you.”

“No.” she gasped. “No,” she said again. “I’m not worth it.”

“You so are,” he said and dove back in to show her just how much he meant what he said.

Apr 08

Little Free Libraries Deliver the Goods

LFL1bblue LFLExpectations hinge on a hint of plot—a clever title, an eye-catching cover design or the hook of a story’s first sentence. I recently found three Little Free Libraries (LFL) with clear messages to prospective readers. Although my LFL discovery from last month, Twisted by Jeffery Deaver, makes me suspicious of every motive and surprise plot twist, Deaver delivers suspense from the beginning to the end. Today, however, everything is exactly as it appears.

Little Free Library #1 – Young  and Wild

After a brisk walk, I find LFL #1 in a small green space. In the spirit of modern art, this LFL’s exterior captures the human experience of bold strikes against nature. Artwork like this requires considerable skill to accomplish the appearance of such complete randomness. The book collection tumbles from the shelves. The library’s selection aims for a younger audience.

What’s this? Eric Carle? Pancakes?LFLc I’ve never read this book. I flip through the pages. It’s Carle collage magic. I want to read it, enjoy the hand-painted paper and deceptively clever plot. Should I take it? Instead of depriving a child of Carle’s artwork, I put the book back and find Czech Cookery. I love quirky cookbooks. I search the index for Kolaches. I’m converting to gluten free when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Did I mention I recruited my spouse to come along? He asks if I really want to find all the LFLs in less than one hour. I put the cookbook back, and we walk south for the long stretch to LFL #2.

The spouse is much better with time management, but he’s a magnet for ladies asking for directions. And as with most of our walks, a car with somebody’s mother pulls along side us when I’m in my aerobic pathway. Directions to Detroit? That will take at least ten minutes to explain. No, no, don’t pull out the phone. Not the GPS. I’m jogging in place when he gives me the “chill out” look that both my sons’ inherited. I fidget through his five minutes of instructions and inform him that we will have to walk faster and maybe have to cut through the horse carriage racing track, dodge horse trailers and off-track gamblers rushing to place the big bet of the day. The spouse holds a hand skyward. I feel it too—the occasional drop of rain.

20151213_154704Little Free Library #2 – Whimsical, Worldly and Wise

This LFL is in a parking lot beside the Chamber of Commerce and next to rarely traveled railroad tracks. Despite the setting, the box exudes a magical aura like the tickling of glass or the floating of a hovering hummingbird drawn to a flower. I’m attracted to this box and take a moment to organize the contents. I line up my final two choices of literary fiction, Graham Greene and Richard Brautigan. “Revenge of the Lawn” gets my vote. I tuck the paperback in my jacket to protect it from the rain.LFL2b

We walk west again and curve northward past the historical gristmill turned fitness club. I am a few steps toward the historical village, when I discover a Starbuck’s tractor beam latched on to the spouse luring him in the opposite direction. He says we don’t have time for the last box. It’s raining. He suggests we get a coffee instead. It’s a quest. We must go.

Little Free Library #3 – Meticulous and Meaningful

The last LFL is a tribute to Americana, little red schoolhouses, and all things learned and studious. The library is in a small park in a neighborhood nicknamed “cabbage patch” with playground equipment and benches. You can’t see it in the photo, but a steady rain falls on the fire-engine red sides with precision painted shingles and picket fence. This LFL replicates everything fiery about reading and learning. I find inside my fire, Flash Boys, by Michael Lewis, the book written by the same author as The Big Short. I take it. The spouse sighs and ambles to the new brew pub near Main.

LFL3My quest highlights the collaborative result of the Rotary Club, the Art House and the Public Library to place kitschy Little Free Libraries in the public and encourage reading. I have a bag of books sorted to go to each library for the appropriate audience. If you have a Little Free Library in your life, please feel free to share the art and contents of your box.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apr 06

Happy Anniversary, M & M’s®

mmm
There was complete silence in my classroom. All eyes were on me. The look of disappointment on the faces of the students was heartbreaking.

“I’m sorry, children,” I said. “The principal is in charge.”

The week before a planned party, our principal made an unexpected announcement over the PA system. “There will be no Christmas parties allowed in the classrooms. Every day is to be used for academics only. No exceptions.”

As a teacher, I had promised my adorable, well-behaved students a Christmas party. The children decided who would bring the treats, paper plates, cups, napkins, and pop and I promised to bring a treat for everyone.

To distract the students from the principal’s disappointing announcement, I prepared a week of activity-driven lessons on probability. The first lesson was predicting the probability of getting heads when tossing a coin 200 times. The other lessons included tossing two die and using a spinner, but my favorite lesson was the last one.

Reading about the 75th anniversary of M & M’s® this month reminded me of that day as well as other times with that tasty, colorful, popular chocolate treat. As a child, I chose that as my favorite candy. As a teacher, I used M & M’s® to help children with their colors. And passing out M & M’s® at Halloween never gets old.

On the last day of school before the holidays, I distributed a napkin and a sheet of paper to each student. I then posed three questions to the students. “Approximately how many pieces of candy are in this bag of M & M’s®?” I said as I held up a two-ounce bag. “Put your guesses at the top of the paper next to your name.”

“What are the colors in a bag of M & M’s®? Write your answers on the paper, one color per line.”

“How many of each color do you think are in the bag? Put your guesses next to the color you selected.”

Once students completed their choices, I passed out a bag of M & M’s® to each student and said, “Please open your bags, put the candy on your napkins, and count out the M & M’s® by color to see how close you came to your guesses. Write the actual count next to each guess.”

They enthusiastically worked on their assignment. Upon completion, one of the students said, “Teacher, now what do we do with the candy?”Before I could respond, one of the boys said, “Eat’em. Teacher’s giving us a party.”

Before I could respond, one of the boys said, “Eat’em. Teacher’s giving us a party.”

I collected the empty candy bags to confirm that I didn’t want the candy back. The students’ happy smiles were well worth my effort.