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Today, from a distance the parked Mercedes appeared to have "Just Married!" painted on the rear window in large colorful letters with lots of filigree; however, as it came into focus it really said, "Just Divorced!"

Good bye Christie

When I ordered at Panera's yesterday, I asked Nicole if she had heard anything from Christie. Excitedly, she told me, "Her water broke overnight." Great news, I thought—as the petite 22-year-old had grown uncomfortably pregnant, working till last Saturday—just one week before her due date. Everyone just wanted it to be over.

 

When I walked into Panera's early last Saturday morning, Christie had already prepared my regular order (as well as that of Tom the student who had walked in with me), rung up our sales, and from memory keyed in our phone numbers to credit our Panera cards. We asked how she was doing, and she told us she hadn't slept well last night and spent the night eating pineapple—old wives' advice she had heard which would induce delivery.

 

As Tom and I ate our bagels, we were joined by Jeff the Manager and together we lamented the loss of Christie. Jeff told us what we already knew: Christie is a gem of an employee who takes on added responsibility and is always an ambassador for the restaurant. She will not return after her baby is born, because she just graduated with an assistant veterinarian degree and will return home to Springfield, Missouri. Jeff said it will be very difficult to find a replacement with her skills, work ethic and attitude.

 

I just heard that Christie had baby Conner yesterday afternoon. So, on Saturday she ate labor inducing pineapple and came in to work her last day. Sunday night she started labor and gave birth on Monday. That is just what I would expect of Christie.

Long Hair

The woman waiting at the pharmacy held her handsome toddler son somewhat like a sack of potatoes. He had beautiful skin with pink cheeks, an impish grin and very long curly and unruly black hair. I smiled saying, "Now that's some hair."

"Yeah--he's not getting a haircut till his dad comes home."

"Home?"

"In four months he'll be back from Afghanistan."

Promethian Effect

A friend Jeff told me his son Jason was a good bowler; Jason's high school bowling team recently placed fifth in the state meet.

Father and son bowled together last week, and whenever Jason got three spares and/or strikes in a row, he would predict, "Watch this, after three in a row, my next frame is usually open [no spare or strike]."

To combat such a self-fulfilling prophesy, Jeff told his son that for continuous strikes or spares, he would pay a penny for the first frame, t...wo pennies for the next, four for the next, doubling the amount each frame; however, an open frame would earn nothing and reset the next successful frame to a penny. When winnings double down each frame, they increase slowly at first, then grow quickly: If Jason bowled a perfect game of twelve strikes he would receive $45.95.

With that incentive, Jason bowled 269—his highest game ever—with ten strikes, one spare and one open frame. Jeff said the game cost him 46 cents.

When rewards, no matter how small, are added to a game (even the game of life), attitudes change.

The Ugly Hat

At Panera's I stood behind an older woman (about my age) who was placing her order. She wore a knit animal-head ski hat. Colored turquoise and fuchsia, it had protruding baby-bear ears with large chartreuse and black eyes over her forehead. At her ears it morphed into two long scarfs which knotted under her chin and ended in fringes below her waist… "Why would anyone wear such a silly and ugly hat?"

Later, I ran into her at the coffee refill place and inquired, "Hey, that's some hat."

"Thanks. I bought it for the special needs kid I care for. He doesn't like it on his head, but loves it on me. That's why I wear it."

Rocky Mountain High

For friends interested in visiting Colorado for a "Rocky Mountain High," the conflicts between local, Colorado and Federal laws are slowly being resolved.
---You won't be able to buy pot in Colorado Springs or El Paso County--except for two approved stores in Manitou Springs.
--- If you fly out of Colorado Springs, you can't bring pot into the airport. If you happen to forget this law when you enter the airport, your options are: 1) take it back to your car, 2) deposit it in an "Amnesty Box," or 3) carry it through security and past snarling, TSA-trained, dope-sniffing dogs--to be arrested on Federal drug-smuggling charges.
---Finally, if you plan to stay with us, we continue to run a no-smoking facility.

Customer Service

I had called up to cancel my subscription, and the clerk said with scripted cadence: "And how are you doing on this fine Wednesday morning sir?"

"Fine." 

"That's great sir. We always enjoy talking to happy clients on a fine Wednesday morning."

Mysterious Footprints

When I walked in this morning, there were white footprints the length of the restaurant's green carpet into the main room. What kind of person would leave such a mess?

An hour later as I left the restaurant, I passed the new sports bar they are constructing next door, just as a sheet rocker walked out to his truck.

Friendly Help

At Panera's, two third grade boys sat next to me in an overstuffed chair. The grandparents of one of the boys had brought him and his best friend. They shared with me the best of third grader jokes. Then I told them that my grandson would be six next week and asked what they thought were the best toys.

They said they liked playing the computer game Minecraft. The grandmother suggested they recommend a "real toy" that one could touch. They suggested a few toys--including a Hula Hoop. Eventually they all left the restaurant.

Several minutes later, the boys came back in the restaurant to tell me they had forgotten to tell me about Lego toy kits.

Slide Show

Tonight we were shown a couple of thousand pictures of a trip to Peru and the Galapagos Islands--including at least fifty takes of Blue Footed Boobies and fifty of Frigate Birds. It was a long trip; nice to be home.

Father/Daughter

This morning the sight of a father sitting with his daughter of seven or eight for a breakfast of tea and toasted bagels and cream cheese at a table for two by the restaurant window triggered nostalgia of similar early morning talks long ago with my young daughters--and now young granddaughters.

As I left I overheard him say, "I could hire a consultant who could give you some fashion tips."

Happy Birthday, Darrel

Our friend of some forty years, Darrel, celebrated his birthday yesterday. His wife Marilyn requested that we and other friends send cards with our pictures, and she would bring them to him at his new home: The Aspen House, an Alzheimer care center. She reports he has adapted to the heart wrenching change: He thinks he works there and loves his job.
 
    

We may have faded from your memory, Darrel, but you have not faded from ours--Happy Birthday.

Doctor to Patient

Most every morning, Tom, a university grad student, studies for medical school over coffee and a bagel in the booth next to me. This morning, before he morphed to full study mode, he told me of his "Communicating with Patients" class. The biggest challenge for most of the students is learning how to speak to patients without using vulgar language—habitual words of their youth which heavily color their everyday lingo.

The North Wind

The two entrances to Panera's face north; a big deal this morning as a cold front blows from the north with a chill factor of zero degrees. The door to the main entrance has a two door airlock. The door to the fireplace room where I sit has a single door.

A woman strains against the north wind to pry open the fireplace room door and is blown in with the cold blast. Papers fly from tables and booths.

People with a chill reach for their papers and coats; she walks to the main room to order.

Sundance

Lois and I walk in the parking lot toward the Y as the cold front blows in. We hear two "kee-eeeee-arrs," then see two hawks at fifty feet doing an aerial dance. We pause, enjoy their show, then continue to the Y—but on the way I stop to talk to a guy sporting a kaki shirt with an AK-47 on the front, his eyes focus on the hawks. "What are they doing?" I ask.

"Red-tailed hawks are considered sacred by my people. They are my spirit guides."

"Spirit Guides?"

"For my people spirit guides are like angels and connect me to the Great Spirit. They have already shown me two signs."

"That's cool."

"I am a Native American, Marine, bodyguard and caretaker"—pointing toward a white amblicab with the driver door left open.

"What tribe?

"Choctaw, Cherokee and Norseman It's a bit crazy."

"What tribe was that last one? Norsewhat?"

"From Scandinavia, got Norwegian blood in me."

"Then we are brothers—my grandmother was 100% Norwegian."

"I was raised on the reservation near the northern Georgia border. There I was taught the way of the Red-tailed hawk. I learned how to coax 'em down to the ground right in front of me—I have it on tape."

We watch the hawks in the high winds, backlit by low steel gray clouds, spaced several feet apart and frozen in space. Their large wings point up in a high V dumping large amounts of the uplifting air. Their legs and talons hang straight down braking them like spoilers on a fighter jet. They remain stationary for a while, then leave to soar in arcs of a few hundred yards—one to the right and one to the left—let out spine-tingling "kee-eeeee-arrs" and return to the same spot without the flap of a wing.

"That has to be a sign," I say.

"When the female flies in the large circle, she looks agitated—she looks very angry."

"What does that mean?"

With furled brow, squinting eyes, jutting jaw and pursed lips, he imperceptibly shakes his head, and grunts a low ominous "mmmmmmmm;" following with: "Not good; not good at all.

"I'm glad my client saw 'em from the van. I'm his caretaker, er ah ah assistant caretaker, Native American, Marine and bodyguard."

"Hey, I hear my client in there; gotta go."

"I'm Sundance. Friends call me Sunny."

"Glad to meet ya, Sundance."

Pikes Peak Highway

As I drive on the steep winding road to the top of Pikes Peak, just past Glen Cove at 11,500 feet, I can finally pass the Kansas Flatlander I have trailed for five miles. As I finish passing—"Oh-Oh"—a ranger walks to the center of the road with upraised hand. I stop. "Sir, please don't pass on a double line."

"Sorry. I didn't see it," holding back my indignation—after all—I had learned to drive on Montana mountain roads where the only driving guideline was Reasonable and Prudent.

"I'm here with this herd of mountain sheep," she said, looking toward the herd and group of people holding binoculars....

"Thank you," I said—and continued to the top to meet my cousins arriving via the cog railway.

After my cousins depart down the mountain, I begin my journey down the highway; this is the main reason I drove up—to test my car brakes on the way down. Years ago at Glen Cove, where rangers do a brake check, our Caravan hubcaps measured 450 degrees, and our family and van were fortunately quarantined for half an hour.

I drive our 2010 Camry with a hybrid engine. The hybrid is the unknown; how well will it do in the descent? It features dynamic braking: The electric engine morphs into a generator pumping energy back into the huge battery—slowing down the car. Depressing the brake pedal seldom activates the real brakes; rather, it pumps energy into the battery—at least on flat land. I set the shift lever to "B" for "Engine Braking."

As I approach Glen Cove—"Oh-Oh"—I see the ranger I met on the way up is going to check my brakes on the way down. I stop. From her hip, she aims a laser/infrared gun at my wheel, double checks her reading, and says, "Wow, 125 degrees. That's just from your tires warming. You are welcome back anytime."

"I'm the double yellow line guy."

"Yah, I know."

With no one behind me, we discuss my dynamic braking, how poorly she says the Prius-hybrid braking performs, mountain sheep…and more…until a car approaches from behind.

Warning Sign

As I drive north on I-25 behind a semi-trailer stacked to the sky with crushed cars, I can't read its 18" x 18" sign until I get within 20 feet:

CAUTION!
DO NOT FOLLOW CLOSER THAN 300 FEET.
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR BROKEN WINDSHIELDS.

Jimmy John's

Today, Friday at noon, I stalled in Garden of the Gods Boulevard gridlock--fifteen minutes to inch by two blocks. The beat up car ahead of me sported a suction-cup sign on the roof: JIMMY JOHN'S SANDWICHES--FREAKY FAST DELIVERY.

Old Technology

This morning as the old man (about my age) walked by our house, a talk show blared from the 1950's salmon-colored Bakelite-plastic five-transistor radio he held--with its antenna fully extended.

The Minister

Promptly at 7:30 every Saturday morning, at the long table near the fireplace in Panera's, a minister leads five to ten men in a lively Bible study.

When I arrived yesterday for coffee at 6:45, the minister had claimed the table—adding smaller tables at each end. While waiting, he distributed handouts and reviewed his heavily tabbed and marked up Bible.

When 7:30 arrived, the minister sat alone. Twenty minutes later, he picked up his Bible and materials, put the borrowed tables back where he had found them, and left.