STILL NOT DEAD AGAIN

Every so often I think about Andy Rooney; passed away a dozen years ago at 92. He was spontaneous and irreverent on the CBS show, 60 Minutes. I’ll not eulogize him here, it’s enough now to just remember and imagine what he would say about our civilized, self-inflicted folly. Thank you Andy for the good times.

I use my smartphone as an alarm clock, set it to go off at 6:00 a.m. and again every five minutes until 6:20. The first alarm confirms that it is a new day, that I have survived the night and get another go-‘round. My body moves without permission and I get my bearings sitting up, my feet hanging over the side, eyes open but not seeing so well just yet. More often than not I frame an unspoken, unaddressed “I’m so thankful” and send it off into the universe: like Willie Nelson singing, “I woke up still not dead again today.” 

This morning at the 2nd or 3rd alarm I was remembering a misadventure from the day before at Walmart. I needed fresh vegetables and juice but this time of summer it’s hard to resist fresh corn. Two women were inspecting ears of corn, peeling back layers of husk and tossing the half scalped roasting ear back onto the pile. I may have condescended in my tone but I wasn’t being judgmental, just curious, “Why are you doing that?” The lady gave me a cold stare and said she was looking for fresh corn. I asked, “How will you know the fresh from the stale?” She was upset that I had challenged her and maybe didn’t know just why she was doing what she was doing. “What is it about one ear that makes it OK and the next one not OK?” Before she could tell me to go to hell I shared with her that nature has packaged corn perfectly. The husks keep it fresh and protect it so it can take bumps and thumps. Wormy corn may happen in your garden but farmers have resistant varieties and chemicals to deal with worms. Peeling back the husk and returning it to the bin is like trying on clothes in the fitting room and tearing off a pocket before returning it to the rack.         

With corn in the husk, 2-3 minutes in the microwave, no hot kitchen, no dirty dishes. The silk comes off easy, just peel, butter and eat; use the peeled back husk and stem for a handle as it may be too hot for your fingers. I didn’t share that good news, she was not in the mood. I didn’t wait for her reaction but I wondered if Andy might have given me a thumbs-up. 

Moving on I noticed a lady with two little kids (one in the cart and  one following on a leash). Her tattoo came down, hanging out from under her shorts, around her thigh and fizzled out on her calf. If it had been vines and flowers I would have ‘gotten it’ but her idea of body-art left me in a quandary. It was a bunch of straight and crooked lines and a few words too small to read. In the peace-time army of the early 1960’s there was none of that ‘thank you for your service’ stuff and parents called their daughters inside when we came around. 

Drunks returning to the barracks after a late night drinking session were often met with an insult; “Hey dude, you look like you’ve been shot at and missed but sh*t at and hit.” There would be some cursing, the drunks pass out fully dressed on their beds and it’s quiet again. Every time I notice an unrecognizable Walmart tattoo, the “Shot at and missed” phrase comes to mind. I have nothing against body art. My dad had an eagle on his chest and both arms full but I never thought more of it than of his mustache or curly hair. In my impulsive youth I kept still long enough to get inked but the image is small and strategically located so nobody sees it. By now the ink is so old, the flesh tone is all gone and it has blurred beyond recognition. I could get away with saying it is a birthmark. 

I wake up thinking about other things too. I was on the road last winter needing an oil change. In Albuquerque I scheduled an appointment at a local Dodge dealership. As I was turning my keys over to the service rep. I asked, “What exactly will I be charged for?” First he mentioned a diagnostic analysis and went into the long list of filters, sensors and switches. “Wait a minute.” I said, “I didn’t come here for a diagnostic exam. How much does that cost?” He didn’t look up, “Ninety two dollars.” What would Andy Rooney say? “I don’t think so, not me, not here today.” He explained: “That is how we do it, to guarantee nothing else needs repair.” I said, “Maybe; but that’s not how I do it.” The man behind the counter was not impressed, “That is our policy and I cannot add to or delete from the package.” I didn’t have to be prompted; “Then I will take my chances when I get to Amarillo.” and picked my keys up off the counter. Waking up is always an adventure; with a little luck I’ll wake up still not dead again tomorrow.