Smart Car. Smart Wife.

We were on our way back home after picking up the Grandmas from the Detroit airport, driving through the suburbs, when we came upon a Smart Car dealership. Rosalie had been researching this little bug of a car on the internet and was really taken with the responsibly "green" aspects of owning a car that could drive loops around our little town on just a sip of gas. It doesn't hurt that it's so cute, too. Not practical. Cute. (Although the fact that this little thing can haul two bodies plus a weeks worth if groceries around the city at 40 mpg does put a few checkmarks in the practicality column).

With a squeal of delite, she had me perform a rapid u-turn manuever and go back to the dealership where we found about 20 of these little hobbits parked in a circle outside, and another half dozen inside on the showroom floor and lining the display window. A lot to choose from, or so I thought. As it turned out every single car had been pre-sold and there was an 18 month waiting list to get one of these. Heck, I wouldn't wait 18 months to get a whole car much less a little 2-seater half-car. But since we were there anyway, we thought we'd just take some time to test drive one and learn more about them. Rosalie jumped into a Love-Bug wanna-be version, then headed down the road with a salesperson at her side.

Returning after about 20 minutes, she proclaimed her love for the car, and stated we needed to get one. The salesperson, having gone inside to check on something, came back out with an enormous smile on her face and announced that someone had cancelled an order and that a car had become available. She led us over to a little white convertible dubbed the Smart fortwo Passion Cabriolet. Rosalie immediately shook her head and said she didn't like white cars. No problem said the salesperson, "We'll just change the body panels to whatever color you want. Just takes a couple of hours". So, you guessed it. About 2 hours later, and less one personal check, Rosalie pulled out in a brand new silver Cabriolet with every optional bell and whistle available. She was happy. And since we bought the car just a couple of days before our 31st anniversary, we used that as an excuse to indulge ourselves. Who needs Hawai'i?

Driving around town we've become something of celebrities; people wave, shout from moving cars, laugh and smile, give us thumbs up, and come over to talk, almost as if they recognize us. My Porsche and BMW have become ugly step sisters relegated to staying in the dark garage while we tool about at 40 plus mpg. In a bigger picture this car, and cars like it, will become the rule rather than the exception. It's a different world we live in today than when I started driving in the early 1970's and 21 cents per gallon gasoline. Gas guzzling cars (less than 20 mpg) will become not only ugly step sisters, but dinosaurs. U-joints and ball joints, massive herds of carbon-combustion horse power sinking deeper into an energy black hole succumbing to entropy as all things inevitably do.

"Grandpa, what happened to the dinosaurs?"

"Well, sweetie, let me tell you about them. I lived through it..."

A Very Happy Day

One of the happiest days of my life just occurred. The birth of Mayumi Aziza, our first grandchild, took place in Washington, D.C. on May 24, 2008. At 3:01 pm, our lives changed forever. Her birth is a continuation of all who have come before in our family, and the beginning of many others who have yet to arrive. Contrary to what one might think, I do not feel older; I feel younger. Her birth reminds me of the feelings I had the on the days each of our five children were born. I was younger then, but I am young still. Now comes a flood of happiness and joy, and anticipation of all that can be dreamed of. A first step, a first word, a first everything in a long procession of ‘firsts’ that will be added, linked one to another, as in a delicate chain. Each link eagerly awaited and equally cherished. A clean, new page in the book of life to be written upon by all who will know Mayumi, and by Mayumi herself. I am young again waiting for the moment I will first meet her and anxious to see all that she will do and all that she will become.

There will be birthday parties and bedtime stories, skinned knees and monsters in the closet. I see a tricycle with a basket, a baby doll, or perhaps, a baseball glove and bat. It’s all good. Then there will be boys. Having gone through this with my own daughters, and having been one myself (i.e. a boy), I feel somewhat qualified to advise her father in the matter of boys. He should engage each caller in polite conversation. I particularly enjoyed word games with my daughters’ boyfriends, like, “What is the first thing that comes to your mind when I say, ‘Glock’?” Or, another favorite was, “I’ll name three things and you tell me which one doesn’t belong. 1) web strike, 2)groin kick, or 3)brachial plexus stun.” “Oh, you’re right, they do all seem to belong together”. Trick question, I guess. Smart boy. There are others, more direct, that hopefully won’t ever need to be employed. But they’re available.

Of course, I’m way ahead of myself. My main purpose in her life will be to explain why she can have all the ice cream she wants when she’s with me, but not with her parents. Other more weighty matters are best left to the watchful eyes and loving judgment of her parents. But, I hope she will know that grandpa will always be performing reconnaissance and running black ops in the background, keeping the monsters out of the closets. Sleep tight, Mayumi. I love you.

This Ain't No Dairy Queen Blizzard!

A couple of Wednesdays ago we awoke to a morning blizzard that saw winds whipping the snow around at gusts up to 70 mph. It would have been a good day to stay home as the visibility was near zero, wind chill was measured far into the negatives, snow drifts were 6 feet tall, and every tiny gap in our otherwise air-tight house moaned with a low whistle every time a gust ripped by. Every elementary, secondary, high school, and university in the area was closed, along with many businesses. Night crews at grocery stores and Wal-Mart had to stay over because the morning workers couldn't make it in. But we've truely become "Yoopers" (UP'ers), and it was Wednesday and we weren't going to let a little frostbite keep us from our regular, and somewhat "religious" routine of attending Taco Bell for lunch. For almost 16 years members of our church have been attending an unofficial, secular Taco Bell Branch meeting every Wednesday starting at noon, MST (Mormon Standard Time, 11:30-12:15). But I guess this was a blizzard to test the strength of even the most faithful, for when we arrived Taco Bell was empty. Not only had the heretofore faithful members not attended at our regularly scheduled time, but not even the gentiles ventured out. No, we were the only attendees on that blustery Wednesday (was that a little too 'Winnie the Pooh-ish'? I don't think I've ever said blustery before). But, you should have seen the faces of the Taco Bell skeleton crew light up as we entered. We placed our orders, and the employees showed their appreciation with a little extra cheese here, a few extra beans there, and an extra scoop of meat in our tacos (drinks always come with free refills, or I'm sure they would have offered to let us drink gallons). We sat in our usual places and watched out the window as birds performed tumbling airborne acrobatics, and played "name that piece" as we identified pieces of larger wholes (roof shingles, siding, parts of chimney flues, etc) that went flying by in low visibility, all the time wondering what all the fuss was about. The realization that we've become adopted "cousin-marryin, tooth-missin, ice-fishin Yoopers" both scared us and made us feel a little unique, if not a little proud. "Ya, I noticed dar's a little bite to dah wind, eh? How about a refill of yer diet Pepsi, dar-eh?"