As I plunge ever deeper into curmudgeonhood, one of my more nagging gripes is the diminishing number of “markers” that lie ahead. Looking back, there were always events that helped me measure forward movement … things like the close of school, the beginning of summer romance, getting my first car, graduation and, of course, turning a manhood-affirming twenty-one. After that there was getting my first job, taking a wife, buying a home, taking another wife, raising some kids, changing careers and … retirement? Well, you know what I mean. Each event was a mile post along life’s highway, but as the miles faded more rapidly into the rear view mirror there were fewer posts … now, I have to look for them. Sometimes I have to look pretty hard.

In Fiddler On The Roof, Tevia held “Tradition!” in the highest regard. Suddenly I know what he meant. On one hand, traditions are lasting markers … things that let you see the shore, even when your boat may be adrift. On the other hand, as those markers zip by along with the rest of the scenery, original meanings behind many of our traditions seem to blur. People even talk about “starting a new tradition”, which by its very definition is impossible.

Memorial Day is one of those blurred casualties. Originally called Decoration Day, it was celebrated on May 30th, until 1971 when it was changed to every last Monday in May so people could have a three day weekend. You hardly even see a parade anymore. To most people, it has become just an extra day off or a good excuse to crank up the ol’ barbie and burn a few burgers. If you’re in retail it means holding a special sale. For mirror watchers it’s starting a diet to look better at the beach.

To me it was always the beginning of summer … that is once I was out of school and started looking for new markers. It was Memorial Day that heralded the beginning of summer and Labor Day that closed the door at the end.  Never mind what he calendar said. Then three things happened: I bought a flagpole and began reading about flag protocol, certain politicians began to demonize the brave men and women who defend our freedom, and I renewed a friendship with an old CB buddy who happens to be a military historian. I served my country but never in combat and for the first time I really listened to Bill’s accounts of valor and personal sacrifice. They were chronicled from men he was privileged to know … and others that could only be researched.

These three events were my perfect storm. I became acutely aware that, while I was complaining about the number of markers in my life, there were untold thousands of chosen patriots who had preserved my right to grouse about such things, yet now had only a single marker of their own … the one above their heads. These were ordinary people who did extraordinary things. They expected to die old men and women, griping about mile posts back in their home towns. Instead, they were given a small piece of peaceful real estate for their deeds and one special day each year to be honored.

It is these dedicated heroes and their families that define Memorial Day, not vacations and weenie-roasts or even the beginning of summer madness. Oh I’m not saying these things should stop, nor will they. But is it asking too much to take time out from the celebration and remember those who made it all possible … to make sure our kids know about them?

Every morning when I raise my flag, I snap them a proud salute and say, “Thank you fellas!” You know what? That’s a marker I can count on for as long as I’m around to worry about such things. Maybe it’ll catch on!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

It doesn’t happen often but, sometimes, I actually wake up before Vigi. This morning was one of those times. The sun was doing a psychedelic little dance with the leaves as it filtered through the window and the only sound in the room was a soft snuffle from the furry brown bump we call Jake, sleeping soundly at the foot of our bed.

I propped on one elbow and studied the dreaming lady at my side. I could tell she was dreaming from the gentle flutter of her closed eyelids. I enjoy watching her sleep. After all these years, she still looks like the girl in the white sandals who sat down next to me at the piano bar. A stray wisp of hair fluttered with each breath … it did that sometimes. How did she manage to look so terrific? I can only imagine the specter I present when I’m asleep. Dopey is the first description that leaps to mind … mouth open, as usual, sawing wood at the rate of several cords per minute and, judging from my aching back most mornings, probably twisted into some kind of jumbo pretzel!

As she took a deep breath and stirred slightly, it occurred to me that one of the greatest acts of trust one person can bestow upon another is to sleep with them. I’m not talking about sex but actual sleep. There is no other circumstance I can think of when someone is more vulnerable or so defenseless. The faith Vigi places in me, to be able to enjoy such peaceful slumber in my presence, is an act of overwhelming confidence. Of course, that’s also true back around the other way, from the standpoint of the ‘jumbo pretzel’ and even the dog!

I couldn’t help but think how the words we uttered at the altar take on greater significance with the passing years, as the best and worst in each of us is revealed in all its widescreen splendor … whether through the strain of serious illness, a three day growth of beard on a somewhat crinkled face or in the petals of a single rose. If these are tests I’m grateful that we seem to be passing with well above average grades. Maybe that’s why I felt like such a dunce on my recent excursion to buy a Mother’s Day card.

Instead of just grabbing something that looked like a ’10′ on the Hallmark scale, I read through rack after rack of cards with the intensity of Elmer Fudd “on da twack of dat wittle gway wabbit,” looking for something that expressed just the right sentiment. Most messages centered around things the sender was either thoughtless about or rarely had time to say. To both my relief and frustration, nothing applied! There are times when I may be a pair of white socks in a world of tuxedos, but I tell Veege everyday how special she is and how much I love her [my Mom, too for that matter]. After all, isn’t waiting all year for a special occasion to tell someone you care a little like waiting all week for church to talk with God?

As I watched the familiar face beside me and wondered what secrets were swirling through her mind, I remembered reading about a website that caters to people who are looking for extra-marital affairs. In fact, their advertising actually encourages infidelity with phrases like, “Life is too short … have an affair!” My first reaction was one of judgmental rage, then sadness, then … she opened her eyes, smiled and said, “How long have you been awake?” At that moment I realized, to my sudden amazement, I was having an affair. So far it had lasted nearly 32 years!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

I never thought it could happen to me. I’ve read about such things but always figured they were reserved for high-falutin’ places like New York City or Beverly Hills C-A, not small towns in semi-rural America. After miles of mountainous meandering through the Carolina countryside, I was looking forward to leaving “deep fried” and “smothered with gravy” in the rear view mirror, as we pulled into the parking lot of the atmospheric little eatery.

We chose to eat indoors, although alfresco was an option, and I enjoyed a tasty meal including a diminutive 8 ounce prime rib sporting just a hint of au jus. That was my fault. I should have ordered the 16 or 22 ouncer, as long as some unsuspecting bovine had already given itself up for my culinary pleasure.

As is customary, no matter how friendly the hospitality or fine the service, the meal ended and our check arrived. Everything seemed in order, i.e. I hadn’t been charged for the guy’s meal at the table next to us. I added the recently elevated 20% tip and was about to hand my plastic payment to Server Sara, when a more observant member of our party noticed the fine print:  ”A 20% gratuity has already been included in your total.” Whoa! That raises the bar just a tad over-the-top at 40% … I’ll put in a job app myself for those wages! I quickly crossed out my excessive donation and signed only for the preprinted total … but my arm still ached from the pecuniary hammerlock.

I remember when an acceptable gratuity was 10% … then it eased up to 15% … now it has bolted to 20% and they serve it to you right along with your carrots and peas! To me a tip is usually something like, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” On the other hand, a gratuity is defined as:

gra·tu·i·ty   [gruh-too-i-tee, -tyoo-]
–noun,plural-ties.
1. A gift of money, over and above payment due for service, as to a waiter or bellhop; tip.
2. Something given without claim or demand.

Tip, gratuity or whatever, notice the use of words like gift and without claim or demand. I’d like to know exactly who determines what is and isn’t acceptable in the first place. My feeling is the people performing the service should make that determination … by how well they perform.  I’ve left as much as five dollars on a fifty cent cup of coffee and as little as three cents on a two hundred dollar check. I don’t ever leave nothing or they’re liable to think I simply forgot.

It seems to me, the amount contributed should be a comment about service beyond what is normally expected. The idea is to further motivate the ‘waitperson’ who is already receiving a wage for doing the job. Don’t like the wage? Nobody is twisting anyone’s arm to work there … but don’t start twisting mine! Technically, if the server’s performance is only as expected you shouldn’t feel compelled to leave anything, although I get hoodwinked into forking over extra gratitude like everyone else. The better the service, the bigger the tip; sloppy service and I break out the ol’ change purse!

Now that’s my modus operandi, I’m not saying it should be yours, but this business of automatically adding a predetermined gratuity to the bill is unconscionable. How easily we lose sight of original intent. That particular evening Veege and I were with new friends and didn’t know how they might react to my natural instincts to color outside the lines, so I left my Crayolas in the drawer. In a different social setting my solution to such a stickup might have been more creative.

There were several possibilities … remember that I didn’t OWE this additional money.  One solution would have been to simply scratch out the gratuity, pay only for the meal and leave a tip of my choosing on the table. Another, to adjust the percentage and fill in an appropriate amount right on the bill. The tackiest option would involve deducting the gratuity,  paying only for the food, inadvertently penalizing the poor shlub who only waited on us and never had anything to do with formulating the policy in the first place. With the last technique, I would have been surprised to eat there again without discovering something unexpected my food.

Repeated acceptance of the built in 20% would clearly indicate the intake of pudding for dessert which traveled directly to the spine.  Life experience tells me that the spinal pudding approach, whenever this practice occurs, will either lead to increased future demands or eventual expectation of a tip on top of the predetermined amount. You know, like taxes!

The James Gang wears many faces; it’s important to be able to identify which one is Jesse and remember he’s the one you need to deep fry and smother, not the smiling serving wench or the innocent chicken back at the local Squat ‘n Gobble.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.