The following entries are based upon true events, sometimes mingled with a "little" fiction.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Holiday giving or holiday robbery?


As I swiped my debit card at the grocery store the cashier asked, “Do you want to help feed a hungry family?”

I didn’t know if he was just trying to make conversation or if he was expecting a dinner invitation.

“What was that?” I responded.

He clarified and asked again more loudly so others in the check out line could hear, “Would you like to donate a few dollars to help a needy family?”

I bowed my head and quietly replied, “Not at this time.”

“What was that?” the checker was getting more forceful.

“I can’t at this time,” I said sheepishly.

“I can’t believe you don’t want to give a few dollars to those who’ll have no dinner tonight because of you!”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head in disdain as he picked up the microphone and boomed throughout the store, “Cheap cad on aisle 8.”

I felt doomed and humiliated, my pride ripped to shreds as I slunk out the store.


“Tis the season” the saying goes… “tis the season” to be harassed by those who want my money. We get phone calls, post cards in the mail, plastic bags put on our doorstep by Boy Scouts, bags in our mail box from post men asking us to fill them with canned food. We even get a paper bag inserted into our newspaper that we’re asked to fill and return to a food bank. I am ashamed to admit I've thought (actually, this a a great idea) to go around the neighborhood with my wheel barrow and take a few items from each bag waiting for pick up, and fill my own bag that I’d proudly sit out, my chest swelling with emotion because of my generous, charitable heart.


These requests seem to come earlier each year. I won’t be surprised if next Labor Day I see a guy with a Santa hat ringing a bell and collecting change that’s dropped into his red painted barbeque.


Sometimes circumstances force giving. The most extreme act of asking for donations occurs during the summer, usually in small towns. As I pull up to a stop light, sometimes the only one in town, I see firemen “passing the boot” to each car. The idea is to put your money in the boot for a good cause. As you sit captive by the stop light the firemen ask for contributions.


A few summers ago I was stuck in one of these donation traps. I rolled up the windows even though the air conditioning was out, turned up the radio and tried to look invisible.

I heard some sharp raps to my window and turned to see a bearded fireman. I tried to look surprised to see him there.

“Hey, do you want to donate to Jerry’s kids?”

He shoved the boot through the window. I caught a whiff of something dead.

I thought it was a little strange that this boot looked more like a worn tennis shoe. The fireman’s clothes also looked ragged.

Feeling guilty, I deposit a few coins into the shoe. Thanking me, the fireman heads to another car.

Finally, the light turns green and as I pull through the intersection I see the “fireman” I’d donated to running down the sidewalk, jump over a cement barrier and disappear into dense trees.


If I don’t tighten the charity strings, I’ll soon be standing on a corner holding a cardboard sign with these words scrawled in charcoal: “Please help, I’ve helped the helpless and now I am one…”

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Grateful for Thanksgiving

I’ve always liked Thanksgiving- a celebration supposedly to honor English refugees. There’re no gifts to give, no cards to send, all you do is eat. I’m not sure how this pays homage to the pilgrims. Maybe we just like rubbing their starving faces in all our gluttony. The holiday is also a day we’re supposed to express gratitude and thanks. I don’t know when that actually happens. I doubt if many even think about it. So, I want to express my gratitude for all who read the Michael Park Bark by sharing some holiday thoughts.


The following quote is from Mark Twain. I don’t know when he said or wrote this but it does sound sort of Twainie. I always pictured Mark Twain to sound like Andy Rooney on 60 minutes.


“Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for -- annually, not oftener -- if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man's side, consequently on the Lord's side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments.”

The following is not from Mark Twain. I know this because it mentions frozen turkeys. The only frozen turkeys in Mr. Twain’s day were ones that were left outside during harsh winters.

Then there's the time a lady was picking through the frozen turkeys at the grocery store, but couldn't find one big enough for her family. She asked a stock boy, "Do these turkeys get any bigger?" The stock boy replied, "No ma'am, they're dead."

Lastly, I wanted to pay homage to the glories of Thanksgiving so I’ve written a little poem that will help to remember what this holiday is all about.


Thanksgiving Dinner


The food is on the table,

most is smellin’ really good

but the turkey seems unstable,

it’s not looking as it should.


I turn to my old grammy

and ask her “what’s with this?”

She couldn’t stand to whammy

A bird she liked to kiss.


If the bird had not been plated

I wondered what was that?

My hunger was deflated;

‘cause the turkey was the cat.


I said “I don’t eat felines

that used to mew and purr”

Grammy said “it’s great with Heinz,

don’t choke upon the fur.”


I started with the tail,

the thought had made me sicken;

but Grammy made a sale

‘cause the cat tastes just like chicken.


So Thanksgiving wasn’t wasted,

The cat I didn’t pity.

T’was the best I’d ever tasted,

Here kitty, kitty, kitty!


Have a great Thanksgiving!

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Things I learned on our trip to Las Vegas and San Diego

Gary and Jackie (for those who don’t know Jackie is Jan’s twin sister and Gary is the brother in law/my cousin) invited us to go with them to San Diego to see BYU play San Diego State. On Friday Jan and I flew to Las Vegas where Gary and Jackie picked us up in their shiny new truck and drove to San Diego. After the weekend we flew back to Medford on Monday.


Allegiant Air flies very cheap flights out of Medford to Las Vegas. Part of this is to encourage flyers to stay at the casinos and lose their money. Allegiant cuts on expense waste by having the counter people also load baggage on the planes. The fares were cheap but I kept wondering if the counter people/baggage handlers were also the flight crew. I was a little scared wondering if the pilots were working for minimum wage.


We stayed on the fourteenth floor at the Omni in downtown San Diego next to the bay. A few blocks prior to getting to the hotel Friday evening we heard loud bass bumpity bump music and noticed girls walking around in little black dresses. We figured out that these were “clubbing” dresses. The short black dress must be mandatory. Seemed like guys could wear whatever they wanted. This should bring a feminist outrage. When we got into our room we looked out the window and noticed the club was on top of the Marriott a few blocks away. I wanted to join the rooftop party but Jan wouldn’t let me put on my little black dress.


I’ve always avoided valet parking. I didn’t know what was expected with the tipping ritual. I figured the joy of parking my ‘96 Corolla would be tip enough for any valet. There wasn’t much choice but to use the “tip takers.” We never did figure out where the cars were parked. Could’ve been at a McDonalds.


We had a great view of downtown San Diego from our hotel window. The room was comfortable but there were a few notable things about the hotel. San Diego must be the bottled water capitol. I believe some water company intentionally clouded the city water so all would need to drink bottled water. The shower would alternately give you hot water then quickly change to cold. This caused various screams and other utterances.


We were excited to see the room had a little snack bar with candy bars and drinks, alcoholic (we weren’t excited about that) and sodas. The snacks however were in a vending machine the size of a hotel room refrigerator. The vending machine was locked like a safe and I think special passwords and chants were needed to open. After reading the little hotel brochure we found why the machine was locked. Candy bars were $3.50 each, water bottles $3.00 and pop similarly expensive. This stuff had to be gold lined with diamonds replacing the nuts.


One more thing about the hotel: the bathroom had an opaque glass sliding door that, when closed, still had about an inch of openness on either side. We made secret pledges not to go to that portion of the room when someone was using the shower or for any other reason not to be mentioned here.


The hotel was located just across the street from PetCo Park. No, this wasn’t a huge dog park, but the stadium where the San Diego Padres play. No, not a Catholic mission. The Padres is the baseball team. As we walked around the stadium we came upon a formation of tourists on Segways, looking very much like a small flock of baby ducks closely following their mother. They were taking a tour of the bay front. I’ve always wanted to ride a Segway. When I’m old and can’t move, instead of a walker strap me onto one of those and I can zip around the nursing home with my one hair flapping in the air stream.



The USS Midway, an aircraft carrier, is parked in the harbor. The tour was interesting. Sailors lived in very cramped, hot, noisy, claustrophobic quarters. I imagined the air would also have been filled with cigarette smoke. I had more admiration for the sailors.


Next to the Midway is a 25 foot tall statue from a famous photo of a sailor kissing a young nurse in Times Square in August 1945. Couples stand beneath the behemoth statue and try to recreate the same pose while friends or relatives captured the moment on camera. I asked Gary if he wanted to try it. He looked at me funny and declined. I meant try it with our wives.




Along the wharf we ran into many visitors donning BYU paraphernalia, shirts, hats, tattoos. I was excited to see them at such a remote place. As we passed them I’d tip my Cougar cap and say, “Hey Cougar fan.” Most just grumbled and looked like I was an annoyance. I almost resorted to trading in Cougar Cap for a San Diego State lid.


We missed the opening kick off because our twin wives insisted on seeing one more room off the deck on the Midway. Jackie and Jan will do just fine in the next life because time seems to not exist in their world when together.


As we walked toward the stadium low flying jets roared overhead. I hoped this was part of the pregame activities and that the stadium was not on the air base landing approach. As the jets flew over, the sonic blast caused car alarms all over the lot to start honking in tribute.


Backpacks or other carry on items were allowed in the stadium if the packs fit with in the box by the entry. Gary’s back pack was rejected, even though it seemed to fit. We told Gary we’d get seated as he ran the pack back to his truck. Moments later we were surprised to see Gary standing next to us.

“How’d you get back here so fast?”

“I just tried a different gate and they thought the pack was fine.”

I learned an important lesson from Gary about trying all your options before giving up in defeat and taking the long walk back to the truck.


Whenever Gary and I get together we discuss the similarities of our wives. We feel better when we find out Jan and Jackie could be the same person split in two. Jan and Jackie always walk together in front of Gary and I. We’ve accepted that as part of the deal. It’s interesting to watch people’s reaction to the identicals. Older twins usually aren’t seen together, sort of like seeing a snow leopard in its natural Himalayan environment.


The San Diego temple is beautiful. With it’s spires scraping the sky, many believe this temple reminds them of Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland. Although closed Sunday afternoons there were several groups or families walking around the grounds. Grandparents reading a child’s point of view book about the temple to a grandson, a group of people from Europe strolling through the gardens and a crying infant who’d had enough. There were also families taking photos of each other with the temple in the background along with the customary young couple with spires in their eyes, holding hands and occasionally pausing to look at the temple then at each other.


After visiting the San Diego Temple we got back on the road heading to Las Vegas. Once back, the first thing Crime Scene Investigator Gary did was scan the newspaper. Most of us look for the comics, but Gary scans the pages to see what murders took place during his absence. He’d find a story and say, “Sure glad I missed that one.”


So, there’s a quick wrap up. Those were good days.