Out with the old, in with the new; selling and buying vehicles
“’59 Cadillac, ’57 Chevrolet.”
David Allen Coe sang about his favorite cars and motorcycles as did many musicians.
Bruce Springsten, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Dwight Yoakam also sang about Cadillacs and the blues man K. C. Douglas was “Crazy ‘bout a Murcury” back in ’49.
The bottom line is that everyone loves their cars and they will obviously sing it from the mountain tops.
I think all of us have that special car we loved to drive at some point in our life, usually a first car, or the vehicle you and your friends would drive around in ’til all hours of the night meeting up with all of your other friends.
For me, one of my favorite modes of transportation was a ’76 metallic green Ford van.
The “Green Van” as everyone called it was empty on the inside but loaded with fun.
At one point, I played bus driver. There were a lot of my friends that hated riding the school bus and paid good money to arrive at the front doors of Thomas Stone high school in style. Well, maybe not in style but at least not on the bus.
I was able to cram about ten of my closest friends in the van and make a good chunk of money at the end of the week.
Then one day, my father told me that it was time to sell the “Green Van.”
My heart stopped for a split second and I think a tear emerged from the corner of my eye.
The end of an era.
Recently, I sold a Jeep that Leigh and I have had for about eight years.
While I was cleaning all of our personal items out of the truck, I started to get a little bit of an empty spot inside of me.
This truck drove us back and forth to Boston for many years. When we moved to Maryland, it comfortably delivered us on either end of our weekend trips to North Carolina.
The Jeep trailered loads of furniture, motorcycles, and bicycles all over the east coast. I even raced another SUV around the DC beltway at one in the morning. Not a proud moment.
This truck saw two newlyweds turn into homeowners and then into parents.
That’s a lot of stories tucked into the crevices of that truck.
We are now searching for a replacement vehicle that is a little bigger to help haul our expanding family around comfortably. Although giving up a vehicle can be a somewhat sad event, the excitement of a new truck can overcome that feeling.
Our life gets to make a slight upgrade. Trucks eight years ago pale in comparison to those of today.
The children might have the opportunity to have some built in entertainment which will provide Leigh and me with a bit of quiet time on a long trip.
I am sure there will be many family memories that will be made in whatever we buy. Weekend road trips, football tailgating in the fall and trips to the beach in the summer.
When my son is old enough to take care of the new truck and change the oil, he will have his own vehicle to haul all of his friends around in, stay out all night and shed a tear when I sell it.
Bryan Pinkey can be found searching for his old “Green Van” or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
8-27-09
Home is where the heart is, if renovations haven’t sucked the life out first
My wife and I fancy ourselves as closet designers and house flipping geniuses.
We watch a lot of HGTV. In an attempt to protect my manliness, Leigh turns it on and I somehow get sucked in, if that makes a difference.
In Boston and Maryland, Leigh and I were addicted to working on our property. We didn’t have very much money to work with so the game was simple. We maxed ourselves out, working with what we had, doing as much as we could by ourselves and then sell for as much profit as possible.
We did this a couple of times and had a lot of fun and learned a whole lot more.
We didn’t have children at that time so Leigh and I were able to focus all of our time and energy toward details.
The first place in Boston was a nightmare.
At first glance, this condo was beautiful. About 80 years ago, the nine foot walls were constructed and the seven foot wood wainscot was installed. All of the wood doors were solid and the floors were the same.
This place was love at first sight. The only problem was that the kitchen and bathroom had to be gutted.
Sounds like the start to a good HGTV show.
Unfortunately, we weren’t being filmed or paid for our adventure. It would have been a great show if it was.
When we raised the sledge hammer in the air and let it slam into the tile on the bathroom floor, the floor dropped about three inches around the toilet. We had a toilet that looked like it was floating above the busted floor.
We had just opened the proverbial can-of-worms except ours smelled like a sewer and cash.
There was only one thing to do. Out with the porcelain convenience, out with the sink and out with the tub.
The beams below were exposed and we found a window in the wall at the shower that had been boarded and tiled over and only latched shut. This hidden window had been leaking and allowing water to run down the wall for who-knows how many years.
The beams rotted where they joined the wall and had “slipped” past the brick ledge that had been holding them in their place since the 1920s.
It took us three months from the day we bought the place until we were brushing our teeth and taking showers to finish the project. We didn’t even think of starting the kitchen for another year.
Today, we are living in our house that we built with our own two hands. It is ours and I made sure all of the beams were secured and I didn’t install any “hidden” windows in the bathrooms.
One day we might decide to tackle another fixer-upper and maybe even try to turn it for a profit, but for now Leigh and I will be content watching HGTV shows that exploit other homeowners in dealing with their pitfalls and money traps.
We now catch ourselves coaching the unsuspecting owners on the TV shows like armchair quarterbacks on Sunday afternoon.
“Don’t buy that house, that hill in the back yard is going to cause drainage problems in your crawl space.”
“Inspect that wall behind the stove, there is a reason the drywall has a big crack in it.”
We know it all now, we are experienced-professionals, homeowner extraordinaires. With our wisdom, there is nothing that can stop us from being ace renovators.
One important thing we learned is not to jump into that arena again without reviewing the “tape” for many, many years to come.
Bryan Pinkey can be found charging his drill... and putting it back in the case or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
My wife and I fancy ourselves as closet designers and house flipping geniuses.
We watch a lot of HGTV. In an attempt to protect my manliness, Leigh turns it on and I somehow get sucked in, if that makes a difference.
In Boston and Maryland, Leigh and I were addicted to working on our property. We didn’t have very much money to work with so the game was simple. We maxed ourselves out, working with what we had, doing as much as we could by ourselves and then sell for as much profit as possible.
We did this a couple of times and had a lot of fun and learned a whole lot more.
We didn’t have children at that time so Leigh and I were able to focus all of our time and energy toward details.
The first place in Boston was a nightmare.
At first glance, this condo was beautiful. About 80 years ago, the nine foot walls were constructed and the seven foot wood wainscot was installed. All of the wood doors were solid and the floors were the same.
This place was love at first sight. The only problem was that the kitchen and bathroom had to be gutted.
Sounds like the start to a good HGTV show.
Unfortunately, we weren’t being filmed or paid for our adventure. It would have been a great show if it was.
When we raised the sledge hammer in the air and let it slam into the tile on the bathroom floor, the floor dropped about three inches around the toilet. We had a toilet that looked like it was floating above the busted floor.
We had just opened the proverbial can-of-worms except ours smelled like a sewer and cash.
There was only one thing to do. Out with the porcelain convenience, out with the sink and out with the tub.
The beams below were exposed and we found a window in the wall at the shower that had been boarded and tiled over and only latched shut. This hidden window had been leaking and allowing water to run down the wall for who-knows how many years.
The beams rotted where they joined the wall and had “slipped” past the brick ledge that had been holding them in their place since the 1920s.
It took us three months from the day we bought the place until we were brushing our teeth and taking showers to finish the project. We didn’t even think of starting the kitchen for another year.
Today, we are living in our house that we built with our own two hands. It is ours and I made sure all of the beams were secured and I didn’t install any “hidden” windows in the bathrooms.
One day we might decide to tackle another fixer-upper and maybe even try to turn it for a profit, but for now Leigh and I will be content watching HGTV shows that exploit other homeowners in dealing with their pitfalls and money traps.
We now catch ourselves coaching the unsuspecting owners on the TV shows like armchair quarterbacks on Sunday afternoon.
“Don’t buy that house, that hill in the back yard is going to cause drainage problems in your crawl space.”
“Inspect that wall behind the stove, there is a reason the drywall has a big crack in it.”
We know it all now, we are experienced-professionals, homeowner extraordinaires. With our wisdom, there is nothing that can stop us from being ace renovators.
One important thing we learned is not to jump into that arena again without reviewing the “tape” for many, many years to come.
Bryan Pinkey can be found charging his drill... and putting it back in the case or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Friday, August 14, 2009
8-13-09
The downside of going to ‘Big School’ is a shock to all in earshot
It seems that over the past few months, my family and I have been in doctors’ offices every week.
For one reason or another, everyone has taken a turn, some of us more than others.
Personally, I never care one way or the other if I have to go. Sitting in the waiting room means I have time to read, check e-mail and maybe play on Facebook for a few minutes.
My children don’t feel the same way but I am sure once they get to the age that they have a handheld device in their possession, it will change.
Nash isn’t that bad when we go. She still doesn’t know what’s coming until the nurse comes in with a tray of needles that somewhat resembles a cigarette girl from days gone by. She quickly remembers her last visit and starts into shriek.
“DaaaaaAAAAAdeeeeeEEEE!”
Ethan has never looked forward to going to the doctor. He has kicked and screamed from day one. I always had to take him when he was a baby because Leigh couldn’t stand listening to him scream and cry.
I remember one time that he had to have a couple of vials of blood drawn. He was putting up such a fight that the nurse put us in a chair, had me hold him and still strapped BOTH of us down.
Ethan was mad at me for about three days after that.
This year has been a bit of a turning point for Ethan.
This year marks his leap into the N.C. educational arena.
He is going to “Big School.”
No more naps, no more snack time, no more all day recess, no more fun.
Ethan is excited.
We have noticed that he likes to help out setting the table, getting things for his little sister and even cleaning his room.
I asked him why all of a sudden he has decided to do these things.
“That’s what big kids do,” he informed me.
Two weeks ago, a little hesitation surfaced when he found out that he needed to take one more trip to the doctor to receive a few “School Shots.”
The little scholar took it with stride and said, “Well, that’s what big kids do.”
Last Wednesday Leigh and Ethan walked through the double doors to the Children’s Center and that’s where the fun stopped.
“MOmeEEEEE!”
“I DON’T WANT SHOTS. I hate shots.”
Leigh and the nurse tried to calm him down and must have done a good job because no one got strapped down.
The nurse began the shots and Ethan began to yell again.
“STOP.”
“It hurts, your hurting me.”
More nurses came in as the first shot was completed.
They then tried to explain that the next would be quick and wouldn’t hurt.
“I don’t want it,” Ethan yelled.
“Hold still,” said the nurse.
Ethan replied with, “I HATE NURSES. I HATE THIS PLACE.”
Leigh tried to rationalize with him by telling him that Ms. Amie (our neighbor who is a nurse and our family doctor during weekend emergencies) is a nurse and that she is nice.
“I like Ms. Amie, but I hate THESE nurses!”
By this time the shots were done, half the nursing staff was laughing and looking in.
He made it through the shots once again and is now ready for “Big School.”
I am sure that in the years to come, he will get better at going to the doctor and dealing with procedures that he doesn’t want to have done... I sure hope so. Could you imagine him at age forty five getting a colonoscopy?
Bryan Pinkey can be found apologizing to nurses or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
It seems that over the past few months, my family and I have been in doctors’ offices every week.
For one reason or another, everyone has taken a turn, some of us more than others.
Personally, I never care one way or the other if I have to go. Sitting in the waiting room means I have time to read, check e-mail and maybe play on Facebook for a few minutes.
My children don’t feel the same way but I am sure once they get to the age that they have a handheld device in their possession, it will change.
Nash isn’t that bad when we go. She still doesn’t know what’s coming until the nurse comes in with a tray of needles that somewhat resembles a cigarette girl from days gone by. She quickly remembers her last visit and starts into shriek.
“DaaaaaAAAAAdeeeeeEEEE!”
Ethan has never looked forward to going to the doctor. He has kicked and screamed from day one. I always had to take him when he was a baby because Leigh couldn’t stand listening to him scream and cry.
I remember one time that he had to have a couple of vials of blood drawn. He was putting up such a fight that the nurse put us in a chair, had me hold him and still strapped BOTH of us down.
Ethan was mad at me for about three days after that.
This year has been a bit of a turning point for Ethan.
This year marks his leap into the N.C. educational arena.
He is going to “Big School.”
No more naps, no more snack time, no more all day recess, no more fun.
Ethan is excited.
We have noticed that he likes to help out setting the table, getting things for his little sister and even cleaning his room.
I asked him why all of a sudden he has decided to do these things.
“That’s what big kids do,” he informed me.
Two weeks ago, a little hesitation surfaced when he found out that he needed to take one more trip to the doctor to receive a few “School Shots.”
The little scholar took it with stride and said, “Well, that’s what big kids do.”
Last Wednesday Leigh and Ethan walked through the double doors to the Children’s Center and that’s where the fun stopped.
“MOmeEEEEE!”
“I DON’T WANT SHOTS. I hate shots.”
Leigh and the nurse tried to calm him down and must have done a good job because no one got strapped down.
The nurse began the shots and Ethan began to yell again.
“STOP.”
“It hurts, your hurting me.”
More nurses came in as the first shot was completed.
They then tried to explain that the next would be quick and wouldn’t hurt.
“I don’t want it,” Ethan yelled.
“Hold still,” said the nurse.
Ethan replied with, “I HATE NURSES. I HATE THIS PLACE.”
Leigh tried to rationalize with him by telling him that Ms. Amie (our neighbor who is a nurse and our family doctor during weekend emergencies) is a nurse and that she is nice.
“I like Ms. Amie, but I hate THESE nurses!”
By this time the shots were done, half the nursing staff was laughing and looking in.
He made it through the shots once again and is now ready for “Big School.”
I am sure that in the years to come, he will get better at going to the doctor and dealing with procedures that he doesn’t want to have done... I sure hope so. Could you imagine him at age forty five getting a colonoscopy?
Bryan Pinkey can be found apologizing to nurses or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
7-23-09
Summer nights are for friends, fire flies, and flashlights
It is officially summer time.
Now, I love the cold weather but I also love the hot evenings as well. What makes me feel all warm and fuzzy is seeing the sun tuck itself behind the trees, turning the sky a calming pink-blue-gray color and the clouds slightly darker than the sky behind them.
Around this time of the evening there are a few things that I like to do. One of them is that I like to sit outside in the quiet. When I get the time to sit on the porch with a cold drink and a cigar and watch the dragonflies hunt gnats, watch the fireflies light up the wooded area around the pond and watch the sky turn from its pinkish blue to a dark purplish black, I find myself at complete peace.
When I was growing up, around the age of twelve or so, I lived outside during the summer. Really, my parents wouldn’t let me in the house at night.
No, the neighborhood kids and I would have to be dragged in or threatened with not going out the next night in order to get us inside at the end of the day... or night.
I lived in a neighborhood that had, let me count, about fifteen rug-rats plus me, my brother and sister. We all ran Woodglen Drive like a gang in the Bronx back in the ’20s
After dinner and dishes, our parents would let us out for round two.
Prior to all of us having to go in for supper, we would talk and plan phase two of our summer day.
Flashlight Tag.
The sport of kings.
This was a game that required great skill, a cunning sence of strategy, and physical stamina that would rival that of a Roman gladiator.
Flashlight Tag was based on the rules of regular hide-n-seek. The only differences were that you played outside, at night, in a pitch-black yard and used a flashlight to “tag” the person. You had to call their name when you spotted them.
As soon as the fire flies started to illuminate the dark air that held the trees in their place, we would start the game.
The first person “it” was determined by a tried and true round of paper, rock, and scissors.
Everyone would then decide on a “base” and we would set the boundaries of where we could hide. The latter was a rule that no one ever seemed to abide by.
We took this game seriously. Actually, at twelve years old, we didn’t have anything else in our lives that was serious and that was the beauty of it, there was nothing serious in our lives... no cares.
When the counting started, we scattered like cockroaches in a quickly light room. Some darted for a bush, others sought refuge under a car that was parked near the woods and there were always a few weak players that would just hide close to base so that they could run and be safe as soon as the “it” person turned their back.
Not me. I would climb trees, shimmy into drainage ditches and my favorite thing to do was to scale the back of a van and then leap from the roof of the van to the roof of the garage that it was parked close to. This would allow me to quietly go from one side of the peak of the roof to the other and watch the entire game unfold without being seen.
Sometimes a friend and I would switch shirts and hats so that when the person doing the “tagging” would shine the light on us and call our name, they would have the wrong person and we would be safe.
... Sigh.
What a carefree time. I miss it.
It was a great time of my childhood. I felt so alive then.
Now when I sit on my porch and smell fresh cut grass and watch the fire flies do their illuminated dance around the pond, I often find myself looking around the yard for the best hiding spots.
As soon as Ethan and Nash are old enough, I plan on introducing them to the game that their old man was once the king of.
Although now, I doubt, you will find me climbing into the drainage ditch in the pitch black or leaping around like Spiderman, but I will know the best places to find them.
Bryan Pinkey can be found hiding close to base or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
It is officially summer time.
Now, I love the cold weather but I also love the hot evenings as well. What makes me feel all warm and fuzzy is seeing the sun tuck itself behind the trees, turning the sky a calming pink-blue-gray color and the clouds slightly darker than the sky behind them.
Around this time of the evening there are a few things that I like to do. One of them is that I like to sit outside in the quiet. When I get the time to sit on the porch with a cold drink and a cigar and watch the dragonflies hunt gnats, watch the fireflies light up the wooded area around the pond and watch the sky turn from its pinkish blue to a dark purplish black, I find myself at complete peace.
When I was growing up, around the age of twelve or so, I lived outside during the summer. Really, my parents wouldn’t let me in the house at night.
No, the neighborhood kids and I would have to be dragged in or threatened with not going out the next night in order to get us inside at the end of the day... or night.
I lived in a neighborhood that had, let me count, about fifteen rug-rats plus me, my brother and sister. We all ran Woodglen Drive like a gang in the Bronx back in the ’20s
After dinner and dishes, our parents would let us out for round two.
Prior to all of us having to go in for supper, we would talk and plan phase two of our summer day.
Flashlight Tag.
The sport of kings.
This was a game that required great skill, a cunning sence of strategy, and physical stamina that would rival that of a Roman gladiator.
Flashlight Tag was based on the rules of regular hide-n-seek. The only differences were that you played outside, at night, in a pitch-black yard and used a flashlight to “tag” the person. You had to call their name when you spotted them.
As soon as the fire flies started to illuminate the dark air that held the trees in their place, we would start the game.
The first person “it” was determined by a tried and true round of paper, rock, and scissors.
Everyone would then decide on a “base” and we would set the boundaries of where we could hide. The latter was a rule that no one ever seemed to abide by.
We took this game seriously. Actually, at twelve years old, we didn’t have anything else in our lives that was serious and that was the beauty of it, there was nothing serious in our lives... no cares.
When the counting started, we scattered like cockroaches in a quickly light room. Some darted for a bush, others sought refuge under a car that was parked near the woods and there were always a few weak players that would just hide close to base so that they could run and be safe as soon as the “it” person turned their back.
Not me. I would climb trees, shimmy into drainage ditches and my favorite thing to do was to scale the back of a van and then leap from the roof of the van to the roof of the garage that it was parked close to. This would allow me to quietly go from one side of the peak of the roof to the other and watch the entire game unfold without being seen.
Sometimes a friend and I would switch shirts and hats so that when the person doing the “tagging” would shine the light on us and call our name, they would have the wrong person and we would be safe.
... Sigh.
What a carefree time. I miss it.
It was a great time of my childhood. I felt so alive then.
Now when I sit on my porch and smell fresh cut grass and watch the fire flies do their illuminated dance around the pond, I often find myself looking around the yard for the best hiding spots.
As soon as Ethan and Nash are old enough, I plan on introducing them to the game that their old man was once the king of.
Although now, I doubt, you will find me climbing into the drainage ditch in the pitch black or leaping around like Spiderman, but I will know the best places to find them.
Bryan Pinkey can be found hiding close to base or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
7-16-09
Free strikes again: Giving a dog a home comes with a price
Free has struck again. This time, with a vengeance. I think it heard me talking about it last week.
We have a new dog. A “free” one.
I do need to back track a little bit.
We had a real pretty, all white, bird dog my son named Susie. She would run around the yard and hunt dragonflies and crickets all day long. When I was painting motorcycles, she would sit in the shop with me and curl up in the open storage space in the bottom of my rolling tool box.
Although she liked to eat my airbrush hose as I painted, I still liked her.
One day, in the old cemetary across from our house, a funeral was held. That evening, she was gone. Yes, I am blaming someone for taking Susie.
My son was heartbroken. We all were.
Last year, after a year had already gone by since Susie left our family, Ethan asked me, “When is Susie going to come back?”
Do you know how hard it is to tell a four-year-old that his dog is never going to come back?
Well, Leigh and I knew that we were going to have to find another dog.
Fast forward to about two months ago. An opportunity came along for us to adopt a German Shorthaired Pointer.
A young man who had good intentions of hunting a young dog found himself going off to college.
Good for him, good for us. I didn’t want to pay the premium for a bird dog and I prefer to “rescue” a dog anyhow.
After a few phone conversations, a delivery date was set and a rendezvous point was picked, The Pinkey family found itself with a new four-legged member of the family.
Ethan kept telling us that when we got a new dog, he was going to name it Susie. I asked him what its name would be if we got a boy dog.
With a little bit of thought and then a look as if to say, “Dad, there is a tree growing out of your head,” Ethan said, “Susie.”
But When the dog came to live with us, he already had a name. So for now, “Jack” is our dog and Ethan seems to like the name.
I forgot that even “free” dogs come with a price.
We had a hard time keeping Susie in our yard when she was with us... obviously... she is gone. This time around we decided to be proactive about the situation. A hidden fence system was purchased.
I had the honors of installing the system. After laying out the wire and realizing that we needed twice the amount, another trip to the hardware store was in order. While there, small wire nuts, more electrical tape and a new jug of small engine oil for mixing with gas to run the borrowed trenching equipment.
The “free” dog required a bag of food, a collar and, of course, dog bones.
Free. I forgot about the fine print.
I got the wire laid out around the yard, installed batteries in the collar and connected the power source. Everything was working.
After I attached the leash to Jack’s collar, I walked him around the yard and then toward the white flags that indicated the boundary of the “fence.”
I pointed to the flags as we got close and let him hear the beep that the collar was emitting.
Zapp! It shocked him when he walked to the edge.
After a couple of times of this he got the idea that the flags were not a good thing to get close to.
I let him off of the leash and he stayed. Not once did he go to the edge of the yard. I wouldn’t either if I had an electric shock device hooked to my neck!
So our free dog is loving life. He eats his food, hunts dragonflies and sleeps outside of his doghouse.
I do need to read the fine print a little better because I also missed the part about the “free” services that he offers back to us.
Jake has decided to clean up around the outside of the house by getting rid of shoes, forgotten toys and scratching old paint off of the side of the car when he greets us as we come home.
It’s OK, I guess. I needed new shoes and Nash was outgrowing the big wheel anyhow. I think I understand why we didn’t pick the dog up at the owner’s house though. There is a No Return policy on free.
Bryan Pinkey can be found buying rubbing compound, shoes and replacement toys or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Free has struck again. This time, with a vengeance. I think it heard me talking about it last week.
We have a new dog. A “free” one.
I do need to back track a little bit.
We had a real pretty, all white, bird dog my son named Susie. She would run around the yard and hunt dragonflies and crickets all day long. When I was painting motorcycles, she would sit in the shop with me and curl up in the open storage space in the bottom of my rolling tool box.
Although she liked to eat my airbrush hose as I painted, I still liked her.
One day, in the old cemetary across from our house, a funeral was held. That evening, she was gone. Yes, I am blaming someone for taking Susie.
My son was heartbroken. We all were.
Last year, after a year had already gone by since Susie left our family, Ethan asked me, “When is Susie going to come back?”
Do you know how hard it is to tell a four-year-old that his dog is never going to come back?
Well, Leigh and I knew that we were going to have to find another dog.
Fast forward to about two months ago. An opportunity came along for us to adopt a German Shorthaired Pointer.
A young man who had good intentions of hunting a young dog found himself going off to college.
Good for him, good for us. I didn’t want to pay the premium for a bird dog and I prefer to “rescue” a dog anyhow.
After a few phone conversations, a delivery date was set and a rendezvous point was picked, The Pinkey family found itself with a new four-legged member of the family.
Ethan kept telling us that when we got a new dog, he was going to name it Susie. I asked him what its name would be if we got a boy dog.
With a little bit of thought and then a look as if to say, “Dad, there is a tree growing out of your head,” Ethan said, “Susie.”
But When the dog came to live with us, he already had a name. So for now, “Jack” is our dog and Ethan seems to like the name.
I forgot that even “free” dogs come with a price.
We had a hard time keeping Susie in our yard when she was with us... obviously... she is gone. This time around we decided to be proactive about the situation. A hidden fence system was purchased.
I had the honors of installing the system. After laying out the wire and realizing that we needed twice the amount, another trip to the hardware store was in order. While there, small wire nuts, more electrical tape and a new jug of small engine oil for mixing with gas to run the borrowed trenching equipment.
The “free” dog required a bag of food, a collar and, of course, dog bones.
Free. I forgot about the fine print.
I got the wire laid out around the yard, installed batteries in the collar and connected the power source. Everything was working.
After I attached the leash to Jack’s collar, I walked him around the yard and then toward the white flags that indicated the boundary of the “fence.”
I pointed to the flags as we got close and let him hear the beep that the collar was emitting.
Zapp! It shocked him when he walked to the edge.
After a couple of times of this he got the idea that the flags were not a good thing to get close to.
I let him off of the leash and he stayed. Not once did he go to the edge of the yard. I wouldn’t either if I had an electric shock device hooked to my neck!
So our free dog is loving life. He eats his food, hunts dragonflies and sleeps outside of his doghouse.
I do need to read the fine print a little better because I also missed the part about the “free” services that he offers back to us.
Jake has decided to clean up around the outside of the house by getting rid of shoes, forgotten toys and scratching old paint off of the side of the car when he greets us as we come home.
It’s OK, I guess. I needed new shoes and Nash was outgrowing the big wheel anyhow. I think I understand why we didn’t pick the dog up at the owner’s house though. There is a No Return policy on free.
Bryan Pinkey can be found buying rubbing compound, shoes and replacement toys or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
7-9-09
My new dirty, four letter word that starts with F is FREE
I love free swag as much and maybe even more than the next guy. I was trained well.
I grew up watching my old man go out of his way to acquire free items. If he heard that you could get free blood from a rock he would walk away with a full pint.
Sam’s Club is the mecca for free samples. My dad and I would go there on a Saturday and walk the aisles. We would visit all of the ladies at the end of each aisle and snack on the free samples they were handing out. The two of us ate everything from shrimp, crackers, trail mix, tuna fish... you name it, we ate it.
The one thing that I quickly started to see is that free comes with a caveat. Free tends to cost you money.
When we would leave Sam’s Club, there was normally a cart full of items that we never really needed. The free food turned into about $150 worth of junk.
Once, when I was in high school, a friend of mine gave me a stereo receiver that he couldn’t get to work. First of all, I am a stereo junkie, second, I am a “free” junkie.
I took the thing apart and checked connections. I couldn’t do anything to get it to work, so I took it to Circuit City. Eighty dollars later it was working.
Now, I can justify the $80 by saying that I saved because the stereo would have cost me about $250 brand new.
My uncle Al made a comment once about lottery tickets that has always stuck with me. When asked if he played the lottery he said, “No. I don’t. I save a dollar every day that I don’t play.”
Such wisdom. It holds true to taking free stuff. If I didn’t take the free items, I would save my money. This pearl didn’t seem to stick for me in this scenario.
Recently a new friend of mine offered me an old pick-up that was junking up his back yard. I am in need of an old truck for the dump and utilitarian needs around the house and ponds.
This nineteen seventy-something Dodge with a police Interceptor engine (that is a real big engine) has the cab redone and runs decent. Buuuut it needs body work, needs to pass inspection, needs insurance, and a new battery and some fresh wiring.
So, once again, here I stand at the proverbial crossroads. Do I take the gift or save my money.
I can’t wait to mash the gas on that old truck!
Something I never gave much thought about in this arena is children. Technically, they are free but, man, do they come with a price tag!
First you have to pay to bring them safely into the world. Diapers, clothing and toys follow. Add in a little bit of day care, school pictures and snack money.
You would think that as they got older that maybe they would get cheaper to maintain. Wrong. They break more stuff. Now you are maintaining children and broken toys.
One thing I have found out is that children like to play with stereo equipment. They also like to pull the knobs off of free stereo equipment.
My old trusty free stereo might end up costing me some more money in new repairs but as long as it doesn’t go over $250, I am still saving, right? Maybe I’ll even save enough to afford a free truck.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com and an archive at jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
I love free swag as much and maybe even more than the next guy. I was trained well.
I grew up watching my old man go out of his way to acquire free items. If he heard that you could get free blood from a rock he would walk away with a full pint.
Sam’s Club is the mecca for free samples. My dad and I would go there on a Saturday and walk the aisles. We would visit all of the ladies at the end of each aisle and snack on the free samples they were handing out. The two of us ate everything from shrimp, crackers, trail mix, tuna fish... you name it, we ate it.
The one thing that I quickly started to see is that free comes with a caveat. Free tends to cost you money.
When we would leave Sam’s Club, there was normally a cart full of items that we never really needed. The free food turned into about $150 worth of junk.
Once, when I was in high school, a friend of mine gave me a stereo receiver that he couldn’t get to work. First of all, I am a stereo junkie, second, I am a “free” junkie.
I took the thing apart and checked connections. I couldn’t do anything to get it to work, so I took it to Circuit City. Eighty dollars later it was working.
Now, I can justify the $80 by saying that I saved because the stereo would have cost me about $250 brand new.
My uncle Al made a comment once about lottery tickets that has always stuck with me. When asked if he played the lottery he said, “No. I don’t. I save a dollar every day that I don’t play.”
Such wisdom. It holds true to taking free stuff. If I didn’t take the free items, I would save my money. This pearl didn’t seem to stick for me in this scenario.
Recently a new friend of mine offered me an old pick-up that was junking up his back yard. I am in need of an old truck for the dump and utilitarian needs around the house and ponds.
This nineteen seventy-something Dodge with a police Interceptor engine (that is a real big engine) has the cab redone and runs decent. Buuuut it needs body work, needs to pass inspection, needs insurance, and a new battery and some fresh wiring.
So, once again, here I stand at the proverbial crossroads. Do I take the gift or save my money.
I can’t wait to mash the gas on that old truck!
Something I never gave much thought about in this arena is children. Technically, they are free but, man, do they come with a price tag!
First you have to pay to bring them safely into the world. Diapers, clothing and toys follow. Add in a little bit of day care, school pictures and snack money.
You would think that as they got older that maybe they would get cheaper to maintain. Wrong. They break more stuff. Now you are maintaining children and broken toys.
One thing I have found out is that children like to play with stereo equipment. They also like to pull the knobs off of free stereo equipment.
My old trusty free stereo might end up costing me some more money in new repairs but as long as it doesn’t go over $250, I am still saving, right? Maybe I’ll even save enough to afford a free truck.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com and an archive at jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
7-2-09
The master of audio / video equipment almost meets his match
I’m a pretty smart guy. I know when to get out of the way of an oncoming car, I know when to come in from the rain and my wife has helped me learn how to shut my mouth at just the right moment. I also have a fairly good aptitude for figuring out how things work.
TV and stereo equipment have been a closet fetish of mine for a very long time. I have this uncanny ability to just look at the stuff and be able to follow input and output paths, read speaker impedance labels and I can also figure out how to set flashing clocks on VCRs.
Once in awhile my father would come home with a new TV, VCR or some other piece of audio/video equipment. Normally, he would just leave it in the box and wait until I came home. “Think you can hook this up?” Dad would ask.
“Wow, a new stereo... with 5 channel output and Dolby Pro Logic!” I would shout.
With a clueless look on his face, he would tell me to hook it up after dinner.
I haven’t changed at all to this day.
The somewhat new technology of being able to program and record shows and entire seasons on a video recorder that comes standard from Direct TV was a great addition to my collection of A/V equipment. This piece of equipment, however, has given me a little bit of trouble.
Maybe it is just a learning curve or maybe my skills are being phased out and I am slowly becoming one of those people who just can’t keep up with technology.
I think it is the learning curve.
Leigh and I have a few shows recorded and some have been programmed to record for the whole season. We haven’t watched them yet.
Not too long ago, we realized that there were some strange shows on our list that neither of us would ever watch.
I chalked it up to a mishap until Leigh and I were sitting down together one evening to watch a recorded program. She turned and looked at me and said, “When did you start recording cage fighting?”
“Uhhhhh, never.” I replied.
“And when did you start watching Days of Our Lives?”
My reply was the same.
We deleted them and watched the desired show.
Over a few weeks, we noticed more of the same thing happening. Strange shows at strange times showing up on our recorder. I also noticed the bright orange recorder light on while we were at home.
I would turn it off and thought either we had a ghost or a malfunctioning recorder.
One night, after the unit’s memory was full, I sat down and began to delete and reprogram.
The next morning was a Saturday and we were all relaxing and cartoons were on. The children were watching TV Leigh and I were enjoying the calm.
Leigh and I left the room for a moment and came back in. The recorder’s bright orange light was on again. A little bit angry at my time wasted the night before, I walked back to the room to tell Leigh that the recorder was still acting up and I was going to throw it out the window.
She laughed and I walked back out to the living room.
When I rounded the corner I quickly realized what was causing my dilemma.
A 22-month-old girl was laying on the book case in front of the A/V equipment pushing a bright orange button on and off.
Quickly, I leaned back and yelled down the hall to Leigh, “The recorder is fixed. I got it all figured out!”
I knew I could fix it.
Bryan Pinkey can be found reading his owner’s manual over and over while his daughter giggles or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
I’m a pretty smart guy. I know when to get out of the way of an oncoming car, I know when to come in from the rain and my wife has helped me learn how to shut my mouth at just the right moment. I also have a fairly good aptitude for figuring out how things work.
TV and stereo equipment have been a closet fetish of mine for a very long time. I have this uncanny ability to just look at the stuff and be able to follow input and output paths, read speaker impedance labels and I can also figure out how to set flashing clocks on VCRs.
Once in awhile my father would come home with a new TV, VCR or some other piece of audio/video equipment. Normally, he would just leave it in the box and wait until I came home. “Think you can hook this up?” Dad would ask.
“Wow, a new stereo... with 5 channel output and Dolby Pro Logic!” I would shout.
With a clueless look on his face, he would tell me to hook it up after dinner.
I haven’t changed at all to this day.
The somewhat new technology of being able to program and record shows and entire seasons on a video recorder that comes standard from Direct TV was a great addition to my collection of A/V equipment. This piece of equipment, however, has given me a little bit of trouble.
Maybe it is just a learning curve or maybe my skills are being phased out and I am slowly becoming one of those people who just can’t keep up with technology.
I think it is the learning curve.
Leigh and I have a few shows recorded and some have been programmed to record for the whole season. We haven’t watched them yet.
Not too long ago, we realized that there were some strange shows on our list that neither of us would ever watch.
I chalked it up to a mishap until Leigh and I were sitting down together one evening to watch a recorded program. She turned and looked at me and said, “When did you start recording cage fighting?”
“Uhhhhh, never.” I replied.
“And when did you start watching Days of Our Lives?”
My reply was the same.
We deleted them and watched the desired show.
Over a few weeks, we noticed more of the same thing happening. Strange shows at strange times showing up on our recorder. I also noticed the bright orange recorder light on while we were at home.
I would turn it off and thought either we had a ghost or a malfunctioning recorder.
One night, after the unit’s memory was full, I sat down and began to delete and reprogram.
The next morning was a Saturday and we were all relaxing and cartoons were on. The children were watching TV Leigh and I were enjoying the calm.
Leigh and I left the room for a moment and came back in. The recorder’s bright orange light was on again. A little bit angry at my time wasted the night before, I walked back to the room to tell Leigh that the recorder was still acting up and I was going to throw it out the window.
She laughed and I walked back out to the living room.
When I rounded the corner I quickly realized what was causing my dilemma.
A 22-month-old girl was laying on the book case in front of the A/V equipment pushing a bright orange button on and off.
Quickly, I leaned back and yelled down the hall to Leigh, “The recorder is fixed. I got it all figured out!”
I knew I could fix it.
Bryan Pinkey can be found reading his owner’s manual over and over while his daughter giggles or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
6-18-09
A schedule-free Father’s Day weekend is trumped by the honey-do list
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day were always special times in my family when I was growing up.
This was a time that my brother, sister and I would make cards for our parents, do chores to help them out, try our hardest not to argue and do our best to be on our best behavior.
I remember one year my father was asked, “What do you want for Father’s Day?” With a little bit of deep thought, he answered, “Good kids.” With a look of bewilderment and a brief pause I asked, “No. Seriously, something we can buy.”
That would have been a tall order, more fitting for his birthday or Christmas.
Now that I am a father, I completely understand. To have one full day of “good” kids, that would be awesome. A day of no running through the house, no fighting, no tattling, and “yes sirs” all day long.
Last year, Will and I planned a local horseback riding trip. When we do these trips we stay out all day and tend to come home worn out and tired. Early bedtime is soon to follow and a slow morning the next day.
With Leigh’s infinite wisdom, she decided to take the children to the beach for the Father’s Day weekend. I was going to be gone and worn out anyhow. We both figured that if they came back on Sunday morning, then we would have the same amount of family time as if they stayed home.
This year, Will and I planned another trip but wanted to head out to the mountains. We were going to leave on Thursday and come back Saturday night or Sunday afternoon.
Once again, Leigh planned her own trip. She and Will’s wife decided to take all of the children to D.C. for a long weekend. Hit the museums, take a tour of the Capitol and take in one of the best zoos in the nation.
Well, I found out recently that I will need surgery on my neck and my doctor told me to, “Go to work, come home, go to bed. Quit trying to be Evil Knievel for a few months.”
My horseback riding trip in the mountains was quickly shelved.
Leigh and the kids are still going to D.C. I would like to go but they are leaving on Thursday and I now need to save up my time off for recovery time.
Turning lemons into lemonade, I looked at the situation a little differently.
I have a weekend to myself. I can watch the History Channel and the Science Channel all weekend long. I can hop on my bike for the day and not feel guilty about leaving the family behind. I can sleep in late. I can eat junk food for dinner. This isn’t going to be so bad after all.
Having time alone might just be a great Father’s Day present after all.
Leigh asked me the other day, “I feel bad that you are going to be alone on Father’s Day weekend. Do you want us to stay home?”
I told her not to worry about it at all. I would be just fine and I then explained to her all of the benefits that I just mentioned.
“Well, if you are going to have time undisturbed, why don’t you fix the sink in the hall bathroom. Oh, and do you think you could take a look at the dryer vent in the laundry room. Maybe you could measure the wall, while you are in there, for some new shelves. You should also have a nice weekend to trim around the pond... If you want to.
It looks as though my plans have been changed for the weekend. It seems that I will be too tired in the evening to watch the History Channel.
For Father’s Day next year, I think I will just ask for good kids.
Bryan Pinkey can be found finishing his honey-do list or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day were always special times in my family when I was growing up.
This was a time that my brother, sister and I would make cards for our parents, do chores to help them out, try our hardest not to argue and do our best to be on our best behavior.
I remember one year my father was asked, “What do you want for Father’s Day?” With a little bit of deep thought, he answered, “Good kids.” With a look of bewilderment and a brief pause I asked, “No. Seriously, something we can buy.”
That would have been a tall order, more fitting for his birthday or Christmas.
Now that I am a father, I completely understand. To have one full day of “good” kids, that would be awesome. A day of no running through the house, no fighting, no tattling, and “yes sirs” all day long.
Last year, Will and I planned a local horseback riding trip. When we do these trips we stay out all day and tend to come home worn out and tired. Early bedtime is soon to follow and a slow morning the next day.
With Leigh’s infinite wisdom, she decided to take the children to the beach for the Father’s Day weekend. I was going to be gone and worn out anyhow. We both figured that if they came back on Sunday morning, then we would have the same amount of family time as if they stayed home.
This year, Will and I planned another trip but wanted to head out to the mountains. We were going to leave on Thursday and come back Saturday night or Sunday afternoon.
Once again, Leigh planned her own trip. She and Will’s wife decided to take all of the children to D.C. for a long weekend. Hit the museums, take a tour of the Capitol and take in one of the best zoos in the nation.
Well, I found out recently that I will need surgery on my neck and my doctor told me to, “Go to work, come home, go to bed. Quit trying to be Evil Knievel for a few months.”
My horseback riding trip in the mountains was quickly shelved.
Leigh and the kids are still going to D.C. I would like to go but they are leaving on Thursday and I now need to save up my time off for recovery time.
Turning lemons into lemonade, I looked at the situation a little differently.
I have a weekend to myself. I can watch the History Channel and the Science Channel all weekend long. I can hop on my bike for the day and not feel guilty about leaving the family behind. I can sleep in late. I can eat junk food for dinner. This isn’t going to be so bad after all.
Having time alone might just be a great Father’s Day present after all.
Leigh asked me the other day, “I feel bad that you are going to be alone on Father’s Day weekend. Do you want us to stay home?”
I told her not to worry about it at all. I would be just fine and I then explained to her all of the benefits that I just mentioned.
“Well, if you are going to have time undisturbed, why don’t you fix the sink in the hall bathroom. Oh, and do you think you could take a look at the dryer vent in the laundry room. Maybe you could measure the wall, while you are in there, for some new shelves. You should also have a nice weekend to trim around the pond... If you want to.
It looks as though my plans have been changed for the weekend. It seems that I will be too tired in the evening to watch the History Channel.
For Father’s Day next year, I think I will just ask for good kids.
Bryan Pinkey can be found finishing his honey-do list or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
6-11-09
The call of my biggest fan can be heard from afar, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
How many people can say that they hold rock star status. Not too many, but I can.
I have heard people say that the relationship between a baby girl and her daddy is something unique and special. On the radio, not too long ago, I heard the hosts talking about how excited one of their daughters got when he came through the door in the evening. He said that it was almost like he had been gone for a month the way she got so excited.
In the past, when I came home, it was a very lack-luster event. A “Hello, how was your day?” from my wife. Ethan, while staring at cartoons on the TV, would mumble a robotic “Hey.”
Now that my daughter is here, my greetings have escalated to pure enthusiasm. It is more along the lines of when a child knows that someone is bringing a present over to them.
The funny thing is that no matter where I go or how long I have been away, she is thoroughly excited when I come back in the room.
There are times that I leave for the afternoon on a Saturday and come back to the house a few hours later. As soon as I open the front door and head up the stairs, I can hear her little feet running through the house and making her way to the gate at the top of the stairs. All the while yelling, “Haaaaay Daa-de!” in a muffled speech with her pacifier dangling out of her mouth.
No matter how long I am out of her sight, the reaction is always the same.
If I take the trash out and come back in, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
If I go to get something out of my car and come back in, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
If I walk down the hall to go to the bathroom and come back in the room, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
Slowly I have realized that Nash is a true daddy’s girl. She will sit on my lap in the evening and watch the History Channel with me when no one else will. She sits there spinning her pacifier around, switching it out only for a sippy-cup full of milk. She will stop, look up at me, and smile.
When I ask her, “Who loves their daddy?” She responds, “Meeeeeeee” or, “Mine do.”
As time goes by I know this rock star status will fade away and she is going to be interested in everything else but her daddy. For now I will take it all in. I love being the person that makes her so excited. I just hope I can live up to it when she gets older and realizes that I am just a dad and not a star.
I have a sticker on my motorcycle helmet that says, “Lord, let me be the person that my dog thinks I am.”
I think of her every time I read it, not that she reminds me of a dog, it just reminds me that I need all the help I can get in order to live up to her image of me.
A lot of time has passed since I was actually living like a rock star. The days of going to clubs all night to see bands play are a thing of the past. I miss them from time to time but things are different now.
A new corner in my life has been rounded. My whirlwind, rock star weekends consist of playing dolls, coloring, and watching Nemo.
Nash wouldn’t have it any other way and neither would I. After all, who wants to see a thirty-six year old try to act like a rock star... except Nash, of course
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com.
How many people can say that they hold rock star status. Not too many, but I can.
I have heard people say that the relationship between a baby girl and her daddy is something unique and special. On the radio, not too long ago, I heard the hosts talking about how excited one of their daughters got when he came through the door in the evening. He said that it was almost like he had been gone for a month the way she got so excited.
In the past, when I came home, it was a very lack-luster event. A “Hello, how was your day?” from my wife. Ethan, while staring at cartoons on the TV, would mumble a robotic “Hey.”
Now that my daughter is here, my greetings have escalated to pure enthusiasm. It is more along the lines of when a child knows that someone is bringing a present over to them.
The funny thing is that no matter where I go or how long I have been away, she is thoroughly excited when I come back in the room.
There are times that I leave for the afternoon on a Saturday and come back to the house a few hours later. As soon as I open the front door and head up the stairs, I can hear her little feet running through the house and making her way to the gate at the top of the stairs. All the while yelling, “Haaaaay Daa-de!” in a muffled speech with her pacifier dangling out of her mouth.
No matter how long I am out of her sight, the reaction is always the same.
If I take the trash out and come back in, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
If I go to get something out of my car and come back in, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
If I walk down the hall to go to the bathroom and come back in the room, “Haaaaay Daa-de!”
Slowly I have realized that Nash is a true daddy’s girl. She will sit on my lap in the evening and watch the History Channel with me when no one else will. She sits there spinning her pacifier around, switching it out only for a sippy-cup full of milk. She will stop, look up at me, and smile.
When I ask her, “Who loves their daddy?” She responds, “Meeeeeeee” or, “Mine do.”
As time goes by I know this rock star status will fade away and she is going to be interested in everything else but her daddy. For now I will take it all in. I love being the person that makes her so excited. I just hope I can live up to it when she gets older and realizes that I am just a dad and not a star.
I have a sticker on my motorcycle helmet that says, “Lord, let me be the person that my dog thinks I am.”
I think of her every time I read it, not that she reminds me of a dog, it just reminds me that I need all the help I can get in order to live up to her image of me.
A lot of time has passed since I was actually living like a rock star. The days of going to clubs all night to see bands play are a thing of the past. I miss them from time to time but things are different now.
A new corner in my life has been rounded. My whirlwind, rock star weekends consist of playing dolls, coloring, and watching Nemo.
Nash wouldn’t have it any other way and neither would I. After all, who wants to see a thirty-six year old try to act like a rock star... except Nash, of course
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
6-4-09
A good dose of History Channel and ‘Jeopardy’ are cure for a noisy house
UREKA!
After all of these years. I have finally figured out the ingredients to a long sought after repellent. As soon as I get a pitch man, I am selling it.
Ever since my brother, sister and I were old enough to all want to watch something different on the television at the same time, there has been a constant struggle for viewing time and the remote control... well... control.
Now that I am married and have children of my own, it hasn’t changed.
Allow me to explain.
Nobody wants to watch what I want to watch, ever. My dad will, and sometimes my brother will but if you throw my mom, sister, and definitely my wife in the same room when I am sitting down and choosing the TV show to watch, well, let’s just say there is usually a mutiny at hand.
I had always been the black sheep in the family, until my sister came along. I was the one who got bad grades in school, didn’t like studying and always seemed to be getting sat down to have a “talk” with my dad.
The funny thing is that I was the one always watching National Geographic, Discovery Channel and that loved to watch Public Television.
My dad and I always found a common ground on this topic. No matter what we were up to, we could always find a comfortable spot in the den and get sucked into a show about the hunting and survival tactics of the South African prairie dog or some intriguing show of that sort.
As time has passed me by, probably from watching too much TV, I have come to realize that only the male species seems to get sucked into these types of shows - like a Star Trek tractor beam.
Whenever I flip the channel over from the news to let’s say, the History Channel, I notice that my family lets out a huge unified sigh and they all walk away.
For the longest time, I have tried to get them to understand that watching these shows broadens their horizons, allows them to interact in higher conversation and, most of all, allows them to answer more questions on Jeopardy.
These reasons haven’t moved them to sit on the couch with me.
They don’t like learning, I guess.
The other day I found myself turning on the National Geographic Channel to watch Planet Earth. I was looking forward to seeing this episode on the world’s deepest places. An hour devoted to exploring some of the deepest caves on the planet. How could you not want to see this?
Two minutes into the show, my family was nowhere to be found. Leigh was doing dishes, Nash was doing a wooden puzzle and Ethan had run to his room to draw a picture at his drafting table.
UREKA!
I figured it out. The first female-, child-, and lots of questions-repellent.
I was alone and watching my show. Enjoying it. It was quiet
I did it. I am selling my secret formula for $19.95 and if you act now I will throw in a 6 oz. bottle of my “Can I get you something while you watch your show” spray and a sample of my famous “yes, Daddy, I will take out the trash for you” balm while supplies last.
Try it, you’re sure to be satisfied.
Bryan Pinkey can be found in History Channel bliss or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
UREKA!
After all of these years. I have finally figured out the ingredients to a long sought after repellent. As soon as I get a pitch man, I am selling it.
Ever since my brother, sister and I were old enough to all want to watch something different on the television at the same time, there has been a constant struggle for viewing time and the remote control... well... control.
Now that I am married and have children of my own, it hasn’t changed.
Allow me to explain.
Nobody wants to watch what I want to watch, ever. My dad will, and sometimes my brother will but if you throw my mom, sister, and definitely my wife in the same room when I am sitting down and choosing the TV show to watch, well, let’s just say there is usually a mutiny at hand.
I had always been the black sheep in the family, until my sister came along. I was the one who got bad grades in school, didn’t like studying and always seemed to be getting sat down to have a “talk” with my dad.
The funny thing is that I was the one always watching National Geographic, Discovery Channel and that loved to watch Public Television.
My dad and I always found a common ground on this topic. No matter what we were up to, we could always find a comfortable spot in the den and get sucked into a show about the hunting and survival tactics of the South African prairie dog or some intriguing show of that sort.
As time has passed me by, probably from watching too much TV, I have come to realize that only the male species seems to get sucked into these types of shows - like a Star Trek tractor beam.
Whenever I flip the channel over from the news to let’s say, the History Channel, I notice that my family lets out a huge unified sigh and they all walk away.
For the longest time, I have tried to get them to understand that watching these shows broadens their horizons, allows them to interact in higher conversation and, most of all, allows them to answer more questions on Jeopardy.
These reasons haven’t moved them to sit on the couch with me.
They don’t like learning, I guess.
The other day I found myself turning on the National Geographic Channel to watch Planet Earth. I was looking forward to seeing this episode on the world’s deepest places. An hour devoted to exploring some of the deepest caves on the planet. How could you not want to see this?
Two minutes into the show, my family was nowhere to be found. Leigh was doing dishes, Nash was doing a wooden puzzle and Ethan had run to his room to draw a picture at his drafting table.
UREKA!
I figured it out. The first female-, child-, and lots of questions-repellent.
I was alone and watching my show. Enjoying it. It was quiet
I did it. I am selling my secret formula for $19.95 and if you act now I will throw in a 6 oz. bottle of my “Can I get you something while you watch your show” spray and a sample of my famous “yes, Daddy, I will take out the trash for you” balm while supplies last.
Try it, you’re sure to be satisfied.
Bryan Pinkey can be found in History Channel bliss or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
5-28-09
When you think of crabs, do you think Red Lobster?
Have I ever mentioned that I am originally from southern Maryland? Oh, that’s right. About a million times.
Yes, I am proud to be a Maryland boy. Born and raised, I bleed yellow and black. I actually know my state flower and bird; Black-Eyed-Susan and the Baltimore Oriole. Go O’s.
Now, before I get a horde of neighbors outside of my front door holding pitchforks and torches, let me say that I do love my new home in N.C.
If it wasn’t for the fact that Maryland houses the Chesapeake Bay, I wouldn’t be so married to my home state. You might ask, “What is it about Maryland and The Bay that keep you talking about it and boring us to death about it?”
Maryland blue crabs.
That’s it.
Crabs.
If you haven’t sat around a newspaper-covered picnic table on the Fourth of July with a bowl of drawn butter, Old Bay, a pile of steaming Silver Queen corn and your favorite beverage in a can or bottle, then you haven’t had the TRUE blue crab experience.
When I talk to others about eating crabs, they tell me, “ I love crabs. I could eat crab legs at Red Lobster all night long.”
I get a quick shiver down my spine and find myself trying to explain the difference between “eating crabs” and eating crab legs at Red Lobster.
Have you ever eaten a really tough and fatty piece of steak? Have you ever savored a perfectly cooked filet mignon?
Yes, they are that good.
Growing up in the Del-Mar-Va area, you grow up eating crabs. It is just a way of life.
As a child you sit at the “kid’s table” and eat the legs that the adults don’t want, corn drenched in butter and black pepper, make little sculptures with all of the discarded crab shells and make “potions” with all the different types of sauces, liquids and any other ingredient to make a stomach-turning concoction.
As you get older, you are allowed to take on a crab all by yourself. This only happens under the close watchful eye of an adult and experienced peeler. Usually a family member directs you down the path of proper crab peeling techniques.
Nothing is wasted and every part of the succulent bottom feeder is cracked open and mined of its tender meat.
In North Carolina, you have pig pickin’s. In Del-Mar-Va, we have crab feasts. They are so very similar in their order of operations and boyh strive toward the same goal.
Start preparing early, at least a week or two in advance. An order for the main course is called in and reserved. Friends and family are invited and the calendar is marked.
During the day of the event, there is usually a small group that just can’t wait. These are the ones that get together early to start preparing. They set up tables and chairs, pre-heat the grills and find the perfect spot for the horseshoe pit.
As family arrive, some gather around the grill and there are usually a handful of “pros” that instruct you and let you in on their “secret, award-winning, best way” to cook the pig or crabs.
It’s all part of the fun.
This is where the two events take different paths.
When the pig is done people line up, dress their plate and get a serving or two of their favorite cut of pork. The meal is finished, some dessert is ingested and then we push away from the table to make room for our stuffed bellies.
A crab feast, on the other hand goes a little like this.
Everyone gets a comfortable seat around the newspaper-covered table. The cook dumps a large stock pot full of steaming crabs into the middle of the table and those in front of the pile pass out crabs to the left and right of them.
A hush usually falls upon the table and is followed a few minutes later by a round of “oh-man” and “Mmmmmm” as the first taste of backfin meat graces the crowd’s mouths.
This process is repeated for about four hours. I am not kidding. Three to four hours is an average length of time set aside to eat crabs. I’m not talking about cooking and then visiting afterwords. I mean just eating.
It is very important to keep your cooler next to your seat, a personal roll of paper towels in front of you and try to position yourself at the table so that it is difficult for you to get up. This is a strategy I employ to keep everyone from asking me to get them this or that.
This is why it is so important to be around good friends and family, have plenty of time on hand and have activities for the youngsters to do so that the adults can enjoy the feast to it’s fullest.
I am not knocking the pig pickin’ at all. I enjoy attending and cooking all the same. I just love my blue crab tradition. When summertime comes around, I tend to think about nothing else but crabs until I finally get to a table of ‘em piled high. I don’t even care if I have to sit at the “kids table.” I’m just ready for crabs.
Bryan Pinkey can be found pacing the docks impatiently waiting for the crab boats or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Have I ever mentioned that I am originally from southern Maryland? Oh, that’s right. About a million times.
Yes, I am proud to be a Maryland boy. Born and raised, I bleed yellow and black. I actually know my state flower and bird; Black-Eyed-Susan and the Baltimore Oriole. Go O’s.
Now, before I get a horde of neighbors outside of my front door holding pitchforks and torches, let me say that I do love my new home in N.C.
If it wasn’t for the fact that Maryland houses the Chesapeake Bay, I wouldn’t be so married to my home state. You might ask, “What is it about Maryland and The Bay that keep you talking about it and boring us to death about it?”
Maryland blue crabs.
That’s it.
Crabs.
If you haven’t sat around a newspaper-covered picnic table on the Fourth of July with a bowl of drawn butter, Old Bay, a pile of steaming Silver Queen corn and your favorite beverage in a can or bottle, then you haven’t had the TRUE blue crab experience.
When I talk to others about eating crabs, they tell me, “ I love crabs. I could eat crab legs at Red Lobster all night long.”
I get a quick shiver down my spine and find myself trying to explain the difference between “eating crabs” and eating crab legs at Red Lobster.
Have you ever eaten a really tough and fatty piece of steak? Have you ever savored a perfectly cooked filet mignon?
Yes, they are that good.
Growing up in the Del-Mar-Va area, you grow up eating crabs. It is just a way of life.
As a child you sit at the “kid’s table” and eat the legs that the adults don’t want, corn drenched in butter and black pepper, make little sculptures with all of the discarded crab shells and make “potions” with all the different types of sauces, liquids and any other ingredient to make a stomach-turning concoction.
As you get older, you are allowed to take on a crab all by yourself. This only happens under the close watchful eye of an adult and experienced peeler. Usually a family member directs you down the path of proper crab peeling techniques.
Nothing is wasted and every part of the succulent bottom feeder is cracked open and mined of its tender meat.
In North Carolina, you have pig pickin’s. In Del-Mar-Va, we have crab feasts. They are so very similar in their order of operations and boyh strive toward the same goal.
Start preparing early, at least a week or two in advance. An order for the main course is called in and reserved. Friends and family are invited and the calendar is marked.
During the day of the event, there is usually a small group that just can’t wait. These are the ones that get together early to start preparing. They set up tables and chairs, pre-heat the grills and find the perfect spot for the horseshoe pit.
As family arrive, some gather around the grill and there are usually a handful of “pros” that instruct you and let you in on their “secret, award-winning, best way” to cook the pig or crabs.
It’s all part of the fun.
This is where the two events take different paths.
When the pig is done people line up, dress their plate and get a serving or two of their favorite cut of pork. The meal is finished, some dessert is ingested and then we push away from the table to make room for our stuffed bellies.
A crab feast, on the other hand goes a little like this.
Everyone gets a comfortable seat around the newspaper-covered table. The cook dumps a large stock pot full of steaming crabs into the middle of the table and those in front of the pile pass out crabs to the left and right of them.
A hush usually falls upon the table and is followed a few minutes later by a round of “oh-man” and “Mmmmmm” as the first taste of backfin meat graces the crowd’s mouths.
This process is repeated for about four hours. I am not kidding. Three to four hours is an average length of time set aside to eat crabs. I’m not talking about cooking and then visiting afterwords. I mean just eating.
It is very important to keep your cooler next to your seat, a personal roll of paper towels in front of you and try to position yourself at the table so that it is difficult for you to get up. This is a strategy I employ to keep everyone from asking me to get them this or that.
This is why it is so important to be around good friends and family, have plenty of time on hand and have activities for the youngsters to do so that the adults can enjoy the feast to it’s fullest.
I am not knocking the pig pickin’ at all. I enjoy attending and cooking all the same. I just love my blue crab tradition. When summertime comes around, I tend to think about nothing else but crabs until I finally get to a table of ‘em piled high. I don’t even care if I have to sit at the “kids table.” I’m just ready for crabs.
Bryan Pinkey can be found pacing the docks impatiently waiting for the crab boats or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
5-21-09
Summer road trip adventures are just around the corner, just add 1 large car
Summer is coming, it’s just around the corner. How do I know this? It says so up top.
This is the time that the outside air smells the best. Fresh cut grass can be smelled all over. Flowering trees permeate the air, and during the first five minutes of a summer rain, the pavement expels a distinct aroma that makes me think of driving long distances.
Yes, folks, it’s road trip season.
About this time every year, I start to think about the joys of hopping into a large vehicle and hitting the highway.
There is something soothing about the sound of the road when you know that you have nine hundred miles and two days ahead of you. Add in all of the truck stop drink and bathroom breaks and the “scenic route” detour that adds 2 hours to the trip and a lifetime of memories and stories to tell.
When I was in first grade, I went on my first memorable road trip. For five weeks or more, dad, mom my sister, Jess (who was about 1 1/2 years old at the time) and myself, drove from our home in Maryland and ended up in San Diego, California.
My father was in the Navy at the time and had active duty in Gulf Port, Mississippi. This was going to be our midway destination and our home for two weeks where we stayed with my grandparents.
I remember being young and thinking that it was strange but exciting to be temporarily living in a different house for two weeks. I went grocery shopping in different stores, went out to eat in different restaurants, went to different parks, flew a kite with my dad and uncle on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico and even made it to New Orleans for the day and kicked pigeons and wandered into a strip club when my parents weren’t looking. Don’t worry, the bouncer shooed me back out the door laughing before I could see anything bad, or good.
When Dad was done with his “Ac-Dutra”, we continued west. From Mississippi we traveled to my father’s uncle’s house in Oklahoma. We only stayed the night, there but I vividly remember wearing an authentic Indian Chief’s head dress that he had hanging beside his fireplace.
We then visited the Grand Canyon. I ended up back there three more times on three different road trips after this trip. It’s that amazing.
There are pictures of me, somewhere, running with a Navajo Indian boy that was the same age as me. Mom said that I told everyone that “I played with a ‘Hobo’ Indian.”
Close enough.
His mother was selling turquoise jewelry on the side of the road at a scenic pull off. We didn’t speak the same language but we both knew how to play and laugh.
San Diego. We made it. Dry, beautiful weather and a huge beautiful zoo.
Aunt Nora took us in for I can’t remember how long. What I do remember is that we were sitting in a hot tub one night and hearing that a blizzard hit the DC area with four feet of snow. My parents thought it was great to be in the warmth of California while everyone back home was freezing and running out of power. I, on the other hand, was mad. All of my friends were at home playing in an unimaginable amount of white powder.
I have now turned a short story into a long one. I think what I am trying to say is that this is the time to pack the family up, pick a destination and hop in the truck.
Smell the smells of different states. Buy groceries in a different store. Collect rubber magnets that are in the shape of each state that you pass through. Eat lunch at roadside diners in the middle of nowhere... and get someone to take a picture of you all standing out front.
Make it an adventure. The memories that can be made from even a three-day weekend will live with you for a lifetime.
Believe me, I still look through my photo album of the time that I bought a ‘78 Caddy and drove across country by myself when I was 22. My family and I still look at the slides from our San Diego trip on a large projector screen when the mood hits us. My friend Steve and I still talk about driving from Arizona back to Maryland in two days. Leigh and I talk about all of our trips from Boston to Maryland and North Carolina.
A lifetime of memories, I tell you. A lifetime.
Bryan Pinkey can be found mapping out his next trip and searching for that next Caddy or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Summer is coming, it’s just around the corner. How do I know this? It says so up top.
This is the time that the outside air smells the best. Fresh cut grass can be smelled all over. Flowering trees permeate the air, and during the first five minutes of a summer rain, the pavement expels a distinct aroma that makes me think of driving long distances.
Yes, folks, it’s road trip season.
About this time every year, I start to think about the joys of hopping into a large vehicle and hitting the highway.
There is something soothing about the sound of the road when you know that you have nine hundred miles and two days ahead of you. Add in all of the truck stop drink and bathroom breaks and the “scenic route” detour that adds 2 hours to the trip and a lifetime of memories and stories to tell.
When I was in first grade, I went on my first memorable road trip. For five weeks or more, dad, mom my sister, Jess (who was about 1 1/2 years old at the time) and myself, drove from our home in Maryland and ended up in San Diego, California.
My father was in the Navy at the time and had active duty in Gulf Port, Mississippi. This was going to be our midway destination and our home for two weeks where we stayed with my grandparents.
I remember being young and thinking that it was strange but exciting to be temporarily living in a different house for two weeks. I went grocery shopping in different stores, went out to eat in different restaurants, went to different parks, flew a kite with my dad and uncle on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico and even made it to New Orleans for the day and kicked pigeons and wandered into a strip club when my parents weren’t looking. Don’t worry, the bouncer shooed me back out the door laughing before I could see anything bad, or good.
When Dad was done with his “Ac-Dutra”, we continued west. From Mississippi we traveled to my father’s uncle’s house in Oklahoma. We only stayed the night, there but I vividly remember wearing an authentic Indian Chief’s head dress that he had hanging beside his fireplace.
We then visited the Grand Canyon. I ended up back there three more times on three different road trips after this trip. It’s that amazing.
There are pictures of me, somewhere, running with a Navajo Indian boy that was the same age as me. Mom said that I told everyone that “I played with a ‘Hobo’ Indian.”
Close enough.
His mother was selling turquoise jewelry on the side of the road at a scenic pull off. We didn’t speak the same language but we both knew how to play and laugh.
San Diego. We made it. Dry, beautiful weather and a huge beautiful zoo.
Aunt Nora took us in for I can’t remember how long. What I do remember is that we were sitting in a hot tub one night and hearing that a blizzard hit the DC area with four feet of snow. My parents thought it was great to be in the warmth of California while everyone back home was freezing and running out of power. I, on the other hand, was mad. All of my friends were at home playing in an unimaginable amount of white powder.
I have now turned a short story into a long one. I think what I am trying to say is that this is the time to pack the family up, pick a destination and hop in the truck.
Smell the smells of different states. Buy groceries in a different store. Collect rubber magnets that are in the shape of each state that you pass through. Eat lunch at roadside diners in the middle of nowhere... and get someone to take a picture of you all standing out front.
Make it an adventure. The memories that can be made from even a three-day weekend will live with you for a lifetime.
Believe me, I still look through my photo album of the time that I bought a ‘78 Caddy and drove across country by myself when I was 22. My family and I still look at the slides from our San Diego trip on a large projector screen when the mood hits us. My friend Steve and I still talk about driving from Arizona back to Maryland in two days. Leigh and I talk about all of our trips from Boston to Maryland and North Carolina.
A lifetime of memories, I tell you. A lifetime.
Bryan Pinkey can be found mapping out his next trip and searching for that next Caddy or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
5-14-09
Hitchcock and Jimmy Stewart were ahead of their time
I recently logged into Facebook. I swear that these social networking sites are going to be the downfall of mankind.
People don’t write letters to each other anymore. There are less phone calls and more e-mails than probably should be allowed. Personal contact is at an all-time low.
A year or so, ago, my friend Steve and I were talking about friends of ours that were on Myspace and Facebook and how it is a huge waste of time, impersonal and generally stupid.
We are very cynical and “holier-than-thou” like that when we get together. Don’t judge.
I have a couple of good friends that I have lost touch with over the years and have tried everything except hiring a Bogie style private eye to track them down.
One day, a light bulb turned on. Everyone seems to be on Facebook, Maybe they are, I will see if I can find them there.
I signed my soul over to the site and never told Steve.
Quickly, I found one of my friends. “That was easy.” I thought to myself. One down, two to go.
During my endeavor to find these friends, I found other friends with which I also had lost contact.
One thing I noticed while I perused the Facebook site and “talked” with my friends is that people talk about anything and everything. The other thing that I noticed is that you can keep up with your “friends” and know what they are up to without even talking to them.
Talk about no personal contact.
I have learned more about fellow high school students, friends, and friends of those friends than I ever thought I would know.
One evening while I was having a bout of insomnia, I was thinking about all of these people that I had not talked with in over 15 years. We have all lived our lives, found careers, had families and are trying to grab a little bit of the good ol’ days through the process.
The other thing that I thought about was that it sort of reminded me of a movie I once saw.
Alfred Hitchcock wrote a little story about a man who broke his leg and spent his time looking out of his apartment’s rear window.
L. B. Jeffries, who was played by Jimmy Stewart, would watch his neighbors in the apartment complex behind his building by looking into their back windows.
The neighboring building was about the same size as his and he could see what everyone was doing in their own apartments.
Intrigued, L. B. spent his days watching the daily activities unfold. He would catch a glimpse of someone and could piece together stories of their lives through the short spurts of visual contact that he had with them. It was almost like he was watching multiple TV dramas unfold in every window.
He witnessed what he thinks is a murder, which is where the suspense comes in, but that is irrelevant right now.
You might be asking yourself, “Where is he going with this?”
While logged into Facebook, you can see the conversations that your friends are having and not even have to talk to anyone.
Now, this is sort of nice in the sence that you can “check in” on your friends and be up to speed as to how their day is going, if they had a bad day at work or what they are eating for dinner.
This site allows you to “look in” on each friend whenever you want and, as long as they feel like sharing their thoughts, you can peek into their “window,” just like Jimmy Stewart did.
There is a big voyeuristic pleasure in “checking in” on your friends. I know what they are doing and I can chime in when I feel like it and I can let them look into my “window” whenever I want.
Now yes, we are all in contact with each other. We are doing it in an impersonal fashion but staying in contact none the less.
I don’t think that the website will ever take the place of a good old fashioned phone call or a letter, but it is fun to keep up this way. Staying in touch with friends is nice anyway you slice it.
So, I guess I can live with myself for signing onto Facebook. After all, I’m still looking for my lost friends. If I happen to look in on some friends to see what they are up to, who could it hurt?
It’s not like anyone will get killed.
Bryan Pinkey can be found peeking in on his friends lives or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
I recently logged into Facebook. I swear that these social networking sites are going to be the downfall of mankind.
People don’t write letters to each other anymore. There are less phone calls and more e-mails than probably should be allowed. Personal contact is at an all-time low.
A year or so, ago, my friend Steve and I were talking about friends of ours that were on Myspace and Facebook and how it is a huge waste of time, impersonal and generally stupid.
We are very cynical and “holier-than-thou” like that when we get together. Don’t judge.
I have a couple of good friends that I have lost touch with over the years and have tried everything except hiring a Bogie style private eye to track them down.
One day, a light bulb turned on. Everyone seems to be on Facebook, Maybe they are, I will see if I can find them there.
I signed my soul over to the site and never told Steve.
Quickly, I found one of my friends. “That was easy.” I thought to myself. One down, two to go.
During my endeavor to find these friends, I found other friends with which I also had lost contact.
One thing I noticed while I perused the Facebook site and “talked” with my friends is that people talk about anything and everything. The other thing that I noticed is that you can keep up with your “friends” and know what they are up to without even talking to them.
Talk about no personal contact.
I have learned more about fellow high school students, friends, and friends of those friends than I ever thought I would know.
One evening while I was having a bout of insomnia, I was thinking about all of these people that I had not talked with in over 15 years. We have all lived our lives, found careers, had families and are trying to grab a little bit of the good ol’ days through the process.
The other thing that I thought about was that it sort of reminded me of a movie I once saw.
Alfred Hitchcock wrote a little story about a man who broke his leg and spent his time looking out of his apartment’s rear window.
L. B. Jeffries, who was played by Jimmy Stewart, would watch his neighbors in the apartment complex behind his building by looking into their back windows.
The neighboring building was about the same size as his and he could see what everyone was doing in their own apartments.
Intrigued, L. B. spent his days watching the daily activities unfold. He would catch a glimpse of someone and could piece together stories of their lives through the short spurts of visual contact that he had with them. It was almost like he was watching multiple TV dramas unfold in every window.
He witnessed what he thinks is a murder, which is where the suspense comes in, but that is irrelevant right now.
You might be asking yourself, “Where is he going with this?”
While logged into Facebook, you can see the conversations that your friends are having and not even have to talk to anyone.
Now, this is sort of nice in the sence that you can “check in” on your friends and be up to speed as to how their day is going, if they had a bad day at work or what they are eating for dinner.
This site allows you to “look in” on each friend whenever you want and, as long as they feel like sharing their thoughts, you can peek into their “window,” just like Jimmy Stewart did.
There is a big voyeuristic pleasure in “checking in” on your friends. I know what they are doing and I can chime in when I feel like it and I can let them look into my “window” whenever I want.
Now yes, we are all in contact with each other. We are doing it in an impersonal fashion but staying in contact none the less.
I don’t think that the website will ever take the place of a good old fashioned phone call or a letter, but it is fun to keep up this way. Staying in touch with friends is nice anyway you slice it.
So, I guess I can live with myself for signing onto Facebook. After all, I’m still looking for my lost friends. If I happen to look in on some friends to see what they are up to, who could it hurt?
It’s not like anyone will get killed.
Bryan Pinkey can be found peeking in on his friends lives or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
4-16-09
A quick trip to the doctor’s office; how to get in and out STAT
I recently told you about my long overdue, run-in with pink eye. It lasted about a week and was a pretty bad case. I had to see my family doctor to get a prescription for some eye drops that would knock out the infection.
I waited until 8:30 a.m. before I called my doctor’s office. Calling first thing in the morning would assure me the first open slot that they might have free.
Fran, at the front desk, answered the phone and told me, “Your doctor is off today. I can get you in to see another one at 10:45.”
“I’ll take it,” I quickly responded and made a mental note of the time knowing that I would forget and have to call back about an hour and a half later to confirm.
Now for the record, I love my doctor. Not in the run off and elope kind of way, I just mean that she is a great person who I feel comfortable talking to and not only trust, but also value her opinions and suggestions.
So, I didn’t really want to see another doctor, but this was something that was textbook so I didn’t care too much.
While I was waiting for the “new” doctor to come into my room, I thought this would be a great time to catch up on some rest. My eyes were sore and felt like they would enjoy being shut for ten or fifteen minutes.
Reclining back onto the crinkly white paper that covered my exam bed and airline style pillow, I quickly found myself drifting off into a nice little nap.
Some time must have passed because I was awakened by another patient opening his exam room door and calling down the hallway. “Mam, how much longer is it going to be until the doctor comes in?”
A nurse answered back, ”Sir, when was your appointment?”
“11:30,” The male patient quickly barked.
What the what? I shook the cobwebs out of my head and I realized that I had been waiting for at least 45 minutes! Now, I might be from out of town, but that seems a little long.
There wasn’t much that I could do. I had to get my eye drops and they did squeeze me in. All I could do is sit and wait... and think up funny scenarios about people waiting for their doctor to see them.
Imagine this. Doctor comes in the door, “How are you doing, Mr. Pinkey?”
“Good, but something doesn’t taste right with those marshmellows over there in the jar on your counter.”
I thought about running out of my door and screaming that I used my cell phone and it caused a pacemaker explosion in the exam room next to me.... Get the doctor here STAT.
How about this, Simply call the front desk and ask them if they have forgot about you. I am sure they would find that real funny.
I was thinking about ripping off a piece of the crinkly white paper from the table that I was resting on and writing out a bill for the doctor for every fifteen minutes that I had been waiting past my appointment time. After all, I did take off from work.
Now I know my doctor is reading this right now and picking up her cell phone to call the head doctor. “Tomorrow, can I drop Mr. Pinkey as my patient?”
So, in all fairness, the “new” doctor did apologize and told me that they were trying some new set-up or something and that he appreciated my patience.
Doesn’t mean that I can’t think up great ways to laugh about the situation.
Next time you find yourself waiting for a long time, try this.
Lean your head out the door and loudly ask “The bottle of pills and the morphine drip bag in here, are they free samples?” I bet that “The doctor will be right in.”
Bryan Pinkey can be found picking his medical file up off of the ground outside of his doctor’s office or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
I recently told you about my long overdue, run-in with pink eye. It lasted about a week and was a pretty bad case. I had to see my family doctor to get a prescription for some eye drops that would knock out the infection.
I waited until 8:30 a.m. before I called my doctor’s office. Calling first thing in the morning would assure me the first open slot that they might have free.
Fran, at the front desk, answered the phone and told me, “Your doctor is off today. I can get you in to see another one at 10:45.”
“I’ll take it,” I quickly responded and made a mental note of the time knowing that I would forget and have to call back about an hour and a half later to confirm.
Now for the record, I love my doctor. Not in the run off and elope kind of way, I just mean that she is a great person who I feel comfortable talking to and not only trust, but also value her opinions and suggestions.
So, I didn’t really want to see another doctor, but this was something that was textbook so I didn’t care too much.
While I was waiting for the “new” doctor to come into my room, I thought this would be a great time to catch up on some rest. My eyes were sore and felt like they would enjoy being shut for ten or fifteen minutes.
Reclining back onto the crinkly white paper that covered my exam bed and airline style pillow, I quickly found myself drifting off into a nice little nap.
Some time must have passed because I was awakened by another patient opening his exam room door and calling down the hallway. “Mam, how much longer is it going to be until the doctor comes in?”
A nurse answered back, ”Sir, when was your appointment?”
“11:30,” The male patient quickly barked.
What the what? I shook the cobwebs out of my head and I realized that I had been waiting for at least 45 minutes! Now, I might be from out of town, but that seems a little long.
There wasn’t much that I could do. I had to get my eye drops and they did squeeze me in. All I could do is sit and wait... and think up funny scenarios about people waiting for their doctor to see them.
Imagine this. Doctor comes in the door, “How are you doing, Mr. Pinkey?”
“Good, but something doesn’t taste right with those marshmellows over there in the jar on your counter.”
I thought about running out of my door and screaming that I used my cell phone and it caused a pacemaker explosion in the exam room next to me.... Get the doctor here STAT.
How about this, Simply call the front desk and ask them if they have forgot about you. I am sure they would find that real funny.
I was thinking about ripping off a piece of the crinkly white paper from the table that I was resting on and writing out a bill for the doctor for every fifteen minutes that I had been waiting past my appointment time. After all, I did take off from work.
Now I know my doctor is reading this right now and picking up her cell phone to call the head doctor. “Tomorrow, can I drop Mr. Pinkey as my patient?”
So, in all fairness, the “new” doctor did apologize and told me that they were trying some new set-up or something and that he appreciated my patience.
Doesn’t mean that I can’t think up great ways to laugh about the situation.
Next time you find yourself waiting for a long time, try this.
Lean your head out the door and loudly ask “The bottle of pills and the morphine drip bag in here, are they free samples?” I bet that “The doctor will be right in.”
Bryan Pinkey can be found picking his medical file up off of the ground outside of his doctor’s office or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Monday, April 6, 2009
4-9-09
A house of pink-eyed Pinkeys, Wal-Mart and daycare provide family fun
I joke around with my wife about the fact that she brings home all kinds of germs from teaching all of her elementary school kids. I like to call them a bunch of germ-carrying window lickers.
I owe this in part to the fact that one of my memories of elementary school consists of kids riding the school bus with their heads resting on the glass of the windows and their tongues slowly cleaning the grime off of the bottom pane of glass.
Window Licker.
Now that I have children of my own and can actually watch my daughter rest her head on the front window of our den and run her tongue across the glass, I have the authority to use the said title.
I am digressing a bit.
About a week ago, my daughter came home from day care not only with a bag of soiled clothing and empty sippy cups, she came home covered in an invisible layer of pink eye covering her cute little outfit, hands and face.
We have had numerous run-ins with pink eye. It seems like every time we come home from Wal-Mart, one of our kids wakes up the next morning with crusty red eyes.
I truly think that Wal-Mart is just a 30,000 square foot petri dish. If you want to catch something that will put you out of commission for a few days, take a quick stroll down the toy aisle with your hand out, gently brushing against a few colorful boxed items as you walk. If you want to make sure you walk out of there with something extra, just touch a few shopping carts and door handles.
Throughout all of the cases, I have never come down with it. I don’t think that I have had pink eye since I was a child. Leigh gets mad because she thinks I have some sort of immunity to the infection.
Not this time.
Wednesday morning at about three a.m., I woke to Nash crying and my eyes were crusted shut.
Son of a ....gun!
I finally got it.
When we all got up at six thirty, I told Leigh, “I got it. My eyes are slam shut.”
“It’s about time, but I’m sorry,” she said with a little bit of reassurance because now she knew she wasn’t crazy.
As soon as the doctor’s office opened, I made an appointment. I got my eye drops from our family pharmacy
By the end of the day, both eyes were red and burning. Leigh, who has lots of experience with getting the infection, stepped back when I walked into the house from being at work all day.
“Whoa, you got it bad. You caught up for never getting it in the past. DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
It has now been a solid week. I have had this annoying infection for seven days. I have avoided the public and coworkers as much as possible and have been washing my hands about every ten minutes.
Everyone in the house came down with the infection throughout the course of the week. Everyone’s hands are as dry and cracked as can be from washing and the house smells of bleach thanks to a germ-a-phobic wife.
Leigh had the bathtub filled with bleach water and all of the children’s toys that could handle drowning in the toxic bath. At first glance, I thought a Toys-R-Us tanker ship had been T-boned by a torpedo in the kids’ bathtub.
I think that we have officially eradicated the Wal-Mart /daycare / window licking infection from our house. It was just in time, too. I saw a C.D.C. truck driving by our house a few days ago. Our house is no longer a petri dish and my hands can start to mend.
I think that the next time we go to Wal-Mart, I will disburse rubber gloves and some respirators that I have stored down in my shop. I might even consider installing a contamination bath for the kids to walk through when they get home from daycare.
If I don’t get that infection for another thirty years, it will still be too soon.
Bryan Pinkey can be found coating his hands in Neosporin or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
I joke around with my wife about the fact that she brings home all kinds of germs from teaching all of her elementary school kids. I like to call them a bunch of germ-carrying window lickers.
I owe this in part to the fact that one of my memories of elementary school consists of kids riding the school bus with their heads resting on the glass of the windows and their tongues slowly cleaning the grime off of the bottom pane of glass.
Window Licker.
Now that I have children of my own and can actually watch my daughter rest her head on the front window of our den and run her tongue across the glass, I have the authority to use the said title.
I am digressing a bit.
About a week ago, my daughter came home from day care not only with a bag of soiled clothing and empty sippy cups, she came home covered in an invisible layer of pink eye covering her cute little outfit, hands and face.
We have had numerous run-ins with pink eye. It seems like every time we come home from Wal-Mart, one of our kids wakes up the next morning with crusty red eyes.
I truly think that Wal-Mart is just a 30,000 square foot petri dish. If you want to catch something that will put you out of commission for a few days, take a quick stroll down the toy aisle with your hand out, gently brushing against a few colorful boxed items as you walk. If you want to make sure you walk out of there with something extra, just touch a few shopping carts and door handles.
Throughout all of the cases, I have never come down with it. I don’t think that I have had pink eye since I was a child. Leigh gets mad because she thinks I have some sort of immunity to the infection.
Not this time.
Wednesday morning at about three a.m., I woke to Nash crying and my eyes were crusted shut.
Son of a ....gun!
I finally got it.
When we all got up at six thirty, I told Leigh, “I got it. My eyes are slam shut.”
“It’s about time, but I’m sorry,” she said with a little bit of reassurance because now she knew she wasn’t crazy.
As soon as the doctor’s office opened, I made an appointment. I got my eye drops from our family pharmacy
By the end of the day, both eyes were red and burning. Leigh, who has lots of experience with getting the infection, stepped back when I walked into the house from being at work all day.
“Whoa, you got it bad. You caught up for never getting it in the past. DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
It has now been a solid week. I have had this annoying infection for seven days. I have avoided the public and coworkers as much as possible and have been washing my hands about every ten minutes.
Everyone in the house came down with the infection throughout the course of the week. Everyone’s hands are as dry and cracked as can be from washing and the house smells of bleach thanks to a germ-a-phobic wife.
Leigh had the bathtub filled with bleach water and all of the children’s toys that could handle drowning in the toxic bath. At first glance, I thought a Toys-R-Us tanker ship had been T-boned by a torpedo in the kids’ bathtub.
I think that we have officially eradicated the Wal-Mart /daycare / window licking infection from our house. It was just in time, too. I saw a C.D.C. truck driving by our house a few days ago. Our house is no longer a petri dish and my hands can start to mend.
I think that the next time we go to Wal-Mart, I will disburse rubber gloves and some respirators that I have stored down in my shop. I might even consider installing a contamination bath for the kids to walk through when they get home from daycare.
If I don’t get that infection for another thirty years, it will still be too soon.
Bryan Pinkey can be found coating his hands in Neosporin or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
4-2-09
Stock broker, dinner guest, and taxi driver; the best Boston friend around
I have used so much of Cox Communication ink to print stories about my hardships, good times and family life. We all know each other well enough for me to tell you some stories of my unusual friends.
I would not be the man (most would still say I’m a kid) that I am if it wasn’t for my friends. Combined, they have taught me so much and have helped to mold me into the strange and politically incorrect person I am today.
Robert Nagel is in the top five of my list of best friends. An odd person that part of me wishes I could be, he reminds me of a cross between Seth Myers from Saturday Night Live and, sadly, was a spitting image of Daniel Pearl, the journalist that was killed overseas by terrorists in February ‘02.
Anyhow.
Robert, Leigh and I all lived in the same pink-painted building on Michelangelo St. in Boston’s historic North End. The first time I met him was at 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday. I stomped down a flight of stairs to the “New Guy’s” apartment who thought it was appropriate to blast the Red Hot Chili Peppers after coming home from an evening out with his friends. With a tight fist, I tried to bang a hole through his apartment door. The volume on the radio went down and he opened the door.
“What the h*!!’s wrong with you, I’m trying to sleep up there,” I yelled and pointed towards my apartment door. I could tell right away that he was upset that he had upset a fellow neighbor and responded, “I am so sorry, we just got back from a party and had a bit too much to drink. I am so sorry, I’ll turn it down. Sorry.”
I turned and walked away without saying another word. I laid back down in my bed and felt bad now because I just yelled at a very nice, polite neighbor.
I’m unsure of how the next few weeks unfolded, but somehow we ended up spending a lot of time together on the roof of our six story apartment building. We would sit up there drinking beer, talking, and watching the lights of Boston. We just hit it off famously.
Robert was a stock broker by day and worked in the financial district in town. He loved making money. Robert was good at it. All day long he would be on the phone with clients, trading information, stocks and a ton of money. Funny thing is, he couldn’t do it for himself. He lived off of commission. Some weeks he was living high on the hog, dropping by with Chinese food for all of us and other times he would poke his head in our door and ask what WE were having for dinner. Leigh and I didn’t mind, he had turned into the best friend anyone could ask for.
When the 9/11 stuff happened, he was having a hard time making money during the day, so he decided to find another way to make ends meet. Robert had a friend that owned a cab company and said the he would give Robert a route if he got his license.
He did and got his route.
Now, Robert wasn’t happy with just making the normal fares like every other cabbie. He decided that there was more money working the late night / early morning shift. Robert would catch the “T” (Boston’s subway) to the cab station, get his car and drive to the “packie” (package store, liquor store). Robert filled his trunk with beer and liquor.
He would drive by all of the high end clubs and hang outs around closing time to find his fares. When driving them to their end-of-the-night destination he would remind them that all of the beer stores were closed. Once he hooked them, Robert told them that he could get them whatever they wanted. Pulling over in the next parking lot, he would open his trunk and sell them whatever they wanted to drink to finish off their evening at an inflated cost. Supply and demand. A man after my own heart.
One of the advantages of having Robert as a friend was that we had a free cab ride anytime, anywhere during the weekend. Leigh and I would call him on his cell and he would answer on the first ring. “Where you at?” I would give him my location and in about fifteen minutes he was screeching to a halt in front of us.
When Leigh and I left Boston, Robert was the only friend that showed up to help us load the moving truck. Jessica, my sister, did fly up to help us and I need to say that or else she would hit me next time I saw her.
Robert drove his cab to our house at eight in the morning after driving all night long. He made sure we were all set, loaded up, hugged us good bye and drove his cab back to the shop.
That was the last time I saw him.
I have exhausted every avenue that I can think of to find him. Google, Facebook, calling mutual friends, I can’t find the man anywhere.
During one of our late night conversations on the roof overlooking the “Old North Church,” (the tower that Paul Revere hung his lanterns in at the beginning of the Revolutionary War) he told me about his sister who was married to a man in Mexico that owned a copper mine. He said that the living was good down there and the copper industry was lucrative.
After all of these years of looking for him, I think that Mexico may be the last stop in my quest for contact with Robert Nagel. The only problem with this is that I don’t plan on heading down there anytime soon.
I don’t do the “Spring Break” stuff anymore, I don’t surf and I refuse to travel farther than Food Lion for a good price on alcohol.
The only way, I think, that you will find me driving fast across the border into Mexico is if I am running from the law in a ‘62 Caddy, and I don’t plan on doing that... anytime soon.
Bryan Pinkey can always be found searching for a ‘62 Caddy or at bpinkey@nccox.com. You can also read an archive of his past articles at www.jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
I have used so much of Cox Communication ink to print stories about my hardships, good times and family life. We all know each other well enough for me to tell you some stories of my unusual friends.
I would not be the man (most would still say I’m a kid) that I am if it wasn’t for my friends. Combined, they have taught me so much and have helped to mold me into the strange and politically incorrect person I am today.
Robert Nagel is in the top five of my list of best friends. An odd person that part of me wishes I could be, he reminds me of a cross between Seth Myers from Saturday Night Live and, sadly, was a spitting image of Daniel Pearl, the journalist that was killed overseas by terrorists in February ‘02.
Anyhow.
Robert, Leigh and I all lived in the same pink-painted building on Michelangelo St. in Boston’s historic North End. The first time I met him was at 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday. I stomped down a flight of stairs to the “New Guy’s” apartment who thought it was appropriate to blast the Red Hot Chili Peppers after coming home from an evening out with his friends. With a tight fist, I tried to bang a hole through his apartment door. The volume on the radio went down and he opened the door.
“What the h*!!’s wrong with you, I’m trying to sleep up there,” I yelled and pointed towards my apartment door. I could tell right away that he was upset that he had upset a fellow neighbor and responded, “I am so sorry, we just got back from a party and had a bit too much to drink. I am so sorry, I’ll turn it down. Sorry.”
I turned and walked away without saying another word. I laid back down in my bed and felt bad now because I just yelled at a very nice, polite neighbor.
I’m unsure of how the next few weeks unfolded, but somehow we ended up spending a lot of time together on the roof of our six story apartment building. We would sit up there drinking beer, talking, and watching the lights of Boston. We just hit it off famously.
Robert was a stock broker by day and worked in the financial district in town. He loved making money. Robert was good at it. All day long he would be on the phone with clients, trading information, stocks and a ton of money. Funny thing is, he couldn’t do it for himself. He lived off of commission. Some weeks he was living high on the hog, dropping by with Chinese food for all of us and other times he would poke his head in our door and ask what WE were having for dinner. Leigh and I didn’t mind, he had turned into the best friend anyone could ask for.
When the 9/11 stuff happened, he was having a hard time making money during the day, so he decided to find another way to make ends meet. Robert had a friend that owned a cab company and said the he would give Robert a route if he got his license.
He did and got his route.
Now, Robert wasn’t happy with just making the normal fares like every other cabbie. He decided that there was more money working the late night / early morning shift. Robert would catch the “T” (Boston’s subway) to the cab station, get his car and drive to the “packie” (package store, liquor store). Robert filled his trunk with beer and liquor.
He would drive by all of the high end clubs and hang outs around closing time to find his fares. When driving them to their end-of-the-night destination he would remind them that all of the beer stores were closed. Once he hooked them, Robert told them that he could get them whatever they wanted. Pulling over in the next parking lot, he would open his trunk and sell them whatever they wanted to drink to finish off their evening at an inflated cost. Supply and demand. A man after my own heart.
One of the advantages of having Robert as a friend was that we had a free cab ride anytime, anywhere during the weekend. Leigh and I would call him on his cell and he would answer on the first ring. “Where you at?” I would give him my location and in about fifteen minutes he was screeching to a halt in front of us.
When Leigh and I left Boston, Robert was the only friend that showed up to help us load the moving truck. Jessica, my sister, did fly up to help us and I need to say that or else she would hit me next time I saw her.
Robert drove his cab to our house at eight in the morning after driving all night long. He made sure we were all set, loaded up, hugged us good bye and drove his cab back to the shop.
That was the last time I saw him.
I have exhausted every avenue that I can think of to find him. Google, Facebook, calling mutual friends, I can’t find the man anywhere.
During one of our late night conversations on the roof overlooking the “Old North Church,” (the tower that Paul Revere hung his lanterns in at the beginning of the Revolutionary War) he told me about his sister who was married to a man in Mexico that owned a copper mine. He said that the living was good down there and the copper industry was lucrative.
After all of these years of looking for him, I think that Mexico may be the last stop in my quest for contact with Robert Nagel. The only problem with this is that I don’t plan on heading down there anytime soon.
I don’t do the “Spring Break” stuff anymore, I don’t surf and I refuse to travel farther than Food Lion for a good price on alcohol.
The only way, I think, that you will find me driving fast across the border into Mexico is if I am running from the law in a ‘62 Caddy, and I don’t plan on doing that... anytime soon.
Bryan Pinkey can always be found searching for a ‘62 Caddy or at bpinkey@nccox.com. You can also read an archive of his past articles at www.jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
Monday, March 23, 2009
3-26-09
What a wonderful world we live in, I just can’t seem to see it on TV
Not to long ago, people didn’t have running water or electricity in their houses. Personally, I would go absolutely crazy.
Not too long ago, we didn’t have telephones, much less cell phones that fit into the small right side pocket of our jeans. I could do without the phone, but it’s important and most everyone couldn’t live without theirs.
We all know how our vehicles have evolved over the past 106 years since the day that Henry Ford rolled the first black, hand-cranked car out of his shop. I don’t know a person that wouldn’t want a car.
The world has launched numerous astronauts into space and actually had them return to earth. THAT is amazing.
We have thousands of satellites that circle the earth at thousands of miles per hour that help us watch our TVs, make our calls, and help us direct our cars in the right direction when we are traveling or lost and refuse to ask for directions.
America, alone, is full of technology and promise. When you add all of the other countries in the world that are contributing to our global progression, one would think that there is nothing we can’t accomplish.
Then how is that after my kids get hold of my remote control, I can’t find it?
Days will pass until I can change the channel on my TV while sitting on my couch.
Military missiles have laser tracking built in so that you can see where they are going and remotely steer them to their target. Why then doesn’t my remote have some sort of locating device? Something that at least beeps. How hard would that be?
I have tried to place them in areas of the living room that I can easily get to them, but the kids can’t. They somehow always find them and want to use them.
Nash, my one-and-a-half year old, likes to get her hands on it and run around the house pointing it at everything that has a little power light. She has stood in front of the TV pushing buttons and has recorded shows and almost signed us up for some unwanted channels.
I’m not sure what it would take to change a remote’s design in order to have a device in there that will allow us to find it when it is “lost.”
It can’t be that hard. There are devices that allow a person to walk into a room, clap their hands, and watch their lights turn on. Let me do that with my remote.
Maybe I just want it all or maybe I just hate getting off of the couch when I have to change the station.
I think that one of these guys that can figure the trajectory of a space probe that is going to travel halfway across the galaxy and land on a planet that has the opposite rotation than the earth and also account for daylight savings time and leap year should be able to devise something for a remote on his lunch break.
Ultimately, I think it is up to me to just find a better hiding place. After all, I would probably also need a key fob that I would have to find and push a button to make my lost remote “beep.”
On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, my daughter can figure it all out, well, after she is done ordering all of the movie channels on Direct TV.
Bryan Pinkey can be found searching through toy boxes and under beds for his remote or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Not to long ago, people didn’t have running water or electricity in their houses. Personally, I would go absolutely crazy.
Not too long ago, we didn’t have telephones, much less cell phones that fit into the small right side pocket of our jeans. I could do without the phone, but it’s important and most everyone couldn’t live without theirs.
We all know how our vehicles have evolved over the past 106 years since the day that Henry Ford rolled the first black, hand-cranked car out of his shop. I don’t know a person that wouldn’t want a car.
The world has launched numerous astronauts into space and actually had them return to earth. THAT is amazing.
We have thousands of satellites that circle the earth at thousands of miles per hour that help us watch our TVs, make our calls, and help us direct our cars in the right direction when we are traveling or lost and refuse to ask for directions.
America, alone, is full of technology and promise. When you add all of the other countries in the world that are contributing to our global progression, one would think that there is nothing we can’t accomplish.
Then how is that after my kids get hold of my remote control, I can’t find it?
Days will pass until I can change the channel on my TV while sitting on my couch.
Military missiles have laser tracking built in so that you can see where they are going and remotely steer them to their target. Why then doesn’t my remote have some sort of locating device? Something that at least beeps. How hard would that be?
I have tried to place them in areas of the living room that I can easily get to them, but the kids can’t. They somehow always find them and want to use them.
Nash, my one-and-a-half year old, likes to get her hands on it and run around the house pointing it at everything that has a little power light. She has stood in front of the TV pushing buttons and has recorded shows and almost signed us up for some unwanted channels.
I’m not sure what it would take to change a remote’s design in order to have a device in there that will allow us to find it when it is “lost.”
It can’t be that hard. There are devices that allow a person to walk into a room, clap their hands, and watch their lights turn on. Let me do that with my remote.
Maybe I just want it all or maybe I just hate getting off of the couch when I have to change the station.
I think that one of these guys that can figure the trajectory of a space probe that is going to travel halfway across the galaxy and land on a planet that has the opposite rotation than the earth and also account for daylight savings time and leap year should be able to devise something for a remote on his lunch break.
Ultimately, I think it is up to me to just find a better hiding place. After all, I would probably also need a key fob that I would have to find and push a button to make my lost remote “beep.”
On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, my daughter can figure it all out, well, after she is done ordering all of the movie channels on Direct TV.
Bryan Pinkey can be found searching through toy boxes and under beds for his remote or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Monday, March 16, 2009
3-19-09
Leave me alone, or I‘ll sic my little sister on you
Jessica Pinkey has been my sister and personal bodyguard for the last 30 years. I have never paid her and have never been asked to.
I was taught at a young age to never pick a fight, never hit girls and unless your life depends upon it, walk away. The latter was always easier said than done.
When my sister came along, I think my young frame of mind changed. I was told to always take care of and watch out for my sister.
I didn’t ask for her. Why was I responsible for her well-being? Didn’t she have parents?
As we grew up, I learned to care for her, keep her safe and make her get me things that I was too lazy to get for myself.
My mother and father say that I let her get away with anything. She would hit me, climb on me, take my stuff and generally treat me like a human trampoline.
I guess as I got older, I learned to let things roll off my back a lot easier. Friends would argue with me and it didn’t bother me. Neighborhood kids would want to play with something of mine, take it, and I would usually let it slide.
It just wasn’t worth it to get into a fight over something dumb and I knew that if I got into a fight with a girl, my tail would be lit. As I said, Dad had made it clear to me that there was no excuse for hitting girls.
One day, the relationship between my sister and me changed. It was a change that would be a turning point for the both of us for the rest of our lives.
Lisa Fowler was a tiny, short, super small, little girl that lived next door to us in Clinton, Maryland. I think I was about eight or so and had a group of about seven friends, including Lisa, that I ran with non-stop. We did everything and there always seemed to be one or two of us fighting on any given day.
One day, Lisa was mad at me. I’m sure I did something to start the fight, as this is still a curse that has been cast upon me to this day. I made her mad but I think her mom didn’t have the “don’t hit boys” talk with her.
Lisa found the biggest pieces of driveway blue-stone that would fit in her tiny, little fists.
I began dodging rocks as my tail went between my legs and I made a bee-line for my front door as I yelled for my mom.
Mom asked what was wrong and I told her about the events and how they unfolded. I am sure I spun it in my favor but that didn’t matter.
Jessica was standing there and was listening intently. The next thing I remember and Mom says she remembers is that Jess went storming out of the glass and galvanized metal storm door with a letter “P” in the middle. (Don’t ask how I remember that)
By the time we got outside and found Jess, she was ringing the doorbell on Lisa’s house. By the time we made it halfway across the front lawn, Lisa had opened her front door. By the time Mom and I made it to the edge of Lisa’s lawn, Jess had her hands on Lisa and was dragging her from the front door and had laid her out with a few swift punches to the face and trunk.
Did I mention that Jessica was only about five years old and Lisa was seven?
Now, I don’t condone fighting, but I am all for sticking up for someone, especially family. Jessica showed her true colors that day like a gangster with her first “job.” This loyalty has been a binder between my sister and I to this day.
When Jess met Leigh for the first time, the three of us were out for lunch. When I left to visit the rest-room, Jess put her drink down and calmly asked Leigh, “What are your intentions with my brother?”
Leigh couldn’t wait for me to get back.
Jess is getting married this summer. She has a family of her own now and takes great care of her fiance and her son Justin. Note: She loves me so much that she named her son after me; my first name is Justin.
Jessica, to this day still looks after me and my brother Josh. She has always been there for us and stuck up for us. She has interrogated all of our girlfriends and tried to hit on all of our “cute” friends.
Now that we are older and don’t get into many fights, we just reminisce about the past when we get together.
Jess reminds me of beating up Lisa and she reminds Josh of the time that she beat the school bus bully that was tormenting him and his friend on a daily basis. She waited at his bus stop and when the bus driver opened the double hinged yellow doors, she went running on. The person she was after knew it and took off out the back fire escape door. I won’t bore you with what happened after that.
We owe her big and she makes sure that we know it. She can take both my brother and I in arm wrestling and has pinned us down during all-out wrestling matches that seem to take place around Christmas time late in the evening after a few to many cups of eggnog.
Things like this have a way of repeating themselves.
Now that I have a little boy and he now has a little sister, I try to teach him the same lessons that I was taught at his age. Don’t pick fights, never hit girls and walk away when it isn’t important.
Nash climbs all over Ethan, pushes him off of toys and chairs, hits him and snatches stuff left and right. He takes it on the chin and continues to look after her and love on her whenever she lets him.
He makes me proud but I know that one day he may get a “fist-full of rocks” thrown at him but I am sure he will be quickly vindicated by his little sister, Just like I was.
Jessica Pinkey has been my sister and personal bodyguard for the last 30 years. I have never paid her and have never been asked to.
I was taught at a young age to never pick a fight, never hit girls and unless your life depends upon it, walk away. The latter was always easier said than done.
When my sister came along, I think my young frame of mind changed. I was told to always take care of and watch out for my sister.
I didn’t ask for her. Why was I responsible for her well-being? Didn’t she have parents?
As we grew up, I learned to care for her, keep her safe and make her get me things that I was too lazy to get for myself.
My mother and father say that I let her get away with anything. She would hit me, climb on me, take my stuff and generally treat me like a human trampoline.
I guess as I got older, I learned to let things roll off my back a lot easier. Friends would argue with me and it didn’t bother me. Neighborhood kids would want to play with something of mine, take it, and I would usually let it slide.
It just wasn’t worth it to get into a fight over something dumb and I knew that if I got into a fight with a girl, my tail would be lit. As I said, Dad had made it clear to me that there was no excuse for hitting girls.
One day, the relationship between my sister and me changed. It was a change that would be a turning point for the both of us for the rest of our lives.
Lisa Fowler was a tiny, short, super small, little girl that lived next door to us in Clinton, Maryland. I think I was about eight or so and had a group of about seven friends, including Lisa, that I ran with non-stop. We did everything and there always seemed to be one or two of us fighting on any given day.
One day, Lisa was mad at me. I’m sure I did something to start the fight, as this is still a curse that has been cast upon me to this day. I made her mad but I think her mom didn’t have the “don’t hit boys” talk with her.
Lisa found the biggest pieces of driveway blue-stone that would fit in her tiny, little fists.
I began dodging rocks as my tail went between my legs and I made a bee-line for my front door as I yelled for my mom.
Mom asked what was wrong and I told her about the events and how they unfolded. I am sure I spun it in my favor but that didn’t matter.
Jessica was standing there and was listening intently. The next thing I remember and Mom says she remembers is that Jess went storming out of the glass and galvanized metal storm door with a letter “P” in the middle. (Don’t ask how I remember that)
By the time we got outside and found Jess, she was ringing the doorbell on Lisa’s house. By the time we made it halfway across the front lawn, Lisa had opened her front door. By the time Mom and I made it to the edge of Lisa’s lawn, Jess had her hands on Lisa and was dragging her from the front door and had laid her out with a few swift punches to the face and trunk.
Did I mention that Jessica was only about five years old and Lisa was seven?
Now, I don’t condone fighting, but I am all for sticking up for someone, especially family. Jessica showed her true colors that day like a gangster with her first “job.” This loyalty has been a binder between my sister and I to this day.
When Jess met Leigh for the first time, the three of us were out for lunch. When I left to visit the rest-room, Jess put her drink down and calmly asked Leigh, “What are your intentions with my brother?”
Leigh couldn’t wait for me to get back.
Jess is getting married this summer. She has a family of her own now and takes great care of her fiance and her son Justin. Note: She loves me so much that she named her son after me; my first name is Justin.
Jessica, to this day still looks after me and my brother Josh. She has always been there for us and stuck up for us. She has interrogated all of our girlfriends and tried to hit on all of our “cute” friends.
Now that we are older and don’t get into many fights, we just reminisce about the past when we get together.
Jess reminds me of beating up Lisa and she reminds Josh of the time that she beat the school bus bully that was tormenting him and his friend on a daily basis. She waited at his bus stop and when the bus driver opened the double hinged yellow doors, she went running on. The person she was after knew it and took off out the back fire escape door. I won’t bore you with what happened after that.
We owe her big and she makes sure that we know it. She can take both my brother and I in arm wrestling and has pinned us down during all-out wrestling matches that seem to take place around Christmas time late in the evening after a few to many cups of eggnog.
Things like this have a way of repeating themselves.
Now that I have a little boy and he now has a little sister, I try to teach him the same lessons that I was taught at his age. Don’t pick fights, never hit girls and walk away when it isn’t important.
Nash climbs all over Ethan, pushes him off of toys and chairs, hits him and snatches stuff left and right. He takes it on the chin and continues to look after her and love on her whenever she lets him.
He makes me proud but I know that one day he may get a “fist-full of rocks” thrown at him but I am sure he will be quickly vindicated by his little sister, Just like I was.
Monday, March 9, 2009
3-12-09
My wife is doing dishes, the recession is officially here
Money is tighter than ever, now. We have been in a recession ever since Leigh and I moved to North Carolina.
I have talked about our life in Maryland before, and how we sold our house there right before the housing bubble burst and quickly switched to a buyer’s market.
We were building our house over the course of a year and a half. During this time, the recession kept creeping up on us and everyone else in America.
So far, we have made it through, but things are always tight. We have always tried to save and make things stretch as far as we can.
Eating out has been put on the back burner as well as taking trips up to Maryland to visit with our friends. Lights get turned off behind me by Leigh sometimes before I even make it out of the room I am leaving.
I give her a hard time, all in good fun, but she and I both know that she is the major reason that we are able to save money. This isn’t because I waste money, she just has a knack for making sure every dollar works as hard as it can.
A good example of this was when she heard about turning off items in the house that consume needless power. I think it was from an episode of a morning talk show or something. We tried to unplug all the appliances in the house that used power even while they were not in use. The TVs, DVD player, and home stereo. During that two month period, we were even turning off the hot water heater at night and during the day while we were at work.
After two months, we reviewed our electric bills, there was no savings that we could find.
We now live like normal people once again. We can just walk into the room and hit “Power” on the remote and see a show instantly instead of plugging in hard to reach cords and bringing our house back onto the Duplin County power grid.
Recently, I have been feeling like we had things under control in our household. We just make it through each month but we are not going hungry and every once in a while, we can squeeze in a family dinner out. I even get to have my “midnight snack” on the weekends.
My “snacking” consists of frozen food. I have a soft spot for frozen burritos, seasoned french fries, or chicken patties. Anything frozen, pre-cooked and has the potential to raise my cholesterol level, I love it.
A normal Saturday night for me, consists of me covering my trusty baking sheet with a layer of tin foil, throw a few snacks on for a 12 to 18 minute baking session. I, then, get my plate, fork and seat ready and tune the TV in for Saturday Night Live or the History Channel.
The great thing about frozen food, baking sheet and tin foil is that you can eat with your hands and when you are done, you just throw away the mess. There is nothing to clean.
A few nights ago, I was on my Saturday night auto pilot mode and Leigh told me to “Stop.”
“Just use the baking pan. Save the tin foil.” She instructed.
I quickly told her that “I don’t want to clean dishes. This is why I have always used tin foil.”
“We need to start saving a little more money,” Leigh informed.
“It is just a small piece of tin foil,” I interjected.
“But it adds up.”
“Not that much.”
“Yes it will.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I will do the dishes.” Leigh finished and I am sure mentally stomped her foot. “Just cut back on the tin foil.”
I now sound like I’m struggling with a junk food addiction and need an intervention. Maybe I do, but that’s for a later story.
A side note: When Leigh and I first started dating, I went to visit her in Boston for the first time. I remember her having a mound of something under a kitchen towel in the extra small sink in her extra small North End apartment. Tucked in, was a pile of dishes that were supposed to be hidden so well that I would not notice that she absolutely hated doing dishes.
“Deal.” I agreed.
As I said, Leigh hates doing dishes. She hates doing dishes like I hate a broken arm. If she says that she will do dishes, then I can’t say anything to cutting back on foil. I don’t see where a Sam’s Club size box of tin foil that costs $11.98 and lasts us about... oh.... a year, will make that much difference.
I think this cutting back will do a lot of good, probably as much as taking our house off of the power grid, but part of me is wondering if our water bill will increase more than $11.98 over the course of... oh... a year?
Money is tighter than ever, now. We have been in a recession ever since Leigh and I moved to North Carolina.
I have talked about our life in Maryland before, and how we sold our house there right before the housing bubble burst and quickly switched to a buyer’s market.
We were building our house over the course of a year and a half. During this time, the recession kept creeping up on us and everyone else in America.
So far, we have made it through, but things are always tight. We have always tried to save and make things stretch as far as we can.
Eating out has been put on the back burner as well as taking trips up to Maryland to visit with our friends. Lights get turned off behind me by Leigh sometimes before I even make it out of the room I am leaving.
I give her a hard time, all in good fun, but she and I both know that she is the major reason that we are able to save money. This isn’t because I waste money, she just has a knack for making sure every dollar works as hard as it can.
A good example of this was when she heard about turning off items in the house that consume needless power. I think it was from an episode of a morning talk show or something. We tried to unplug all the appliances in the house that used power even while they were not in use. The TVs, DVD player, and home stereo. During that two month period, we were even turning off the hot water heater at night and during the day while we were at work.
After two months, we reviewed our electric bills, there was no savings that we could find.
We now live like normal people once again. We can just walk into the room and hit “Power” on the remote and see a show instantly instead of plugging in hard to reach cords and bringing our house back onto the Duplin County power grid.
Recently, I have been feeling like we had things under control in our household. We just make it through each month but we are not going hungry and every once in a while, we can squeeze in a family dinner out. I even get to have my “midnight snack” on the weekends.
My “snacking” consists of frozen food. I have a soft spot for frozen burritos, seasoned french fries, or chicken patties. Anything frozen, pre-cooked and has the potential to raise my cholesterol level, I love it.
A normal Saturday night for me, consists of me covering my trusty baking sheet with a layer of tin foil, throw a few snacks on for a 12 to 18 minute baking session. I, then, get my plate, fork and seat ready and tune the TV in for Saturday Night Live or the History Channel.
The great thing about frozen food, baking sheet and tin foil is that you can eat with your hands and when you are done, you just throw away the mess. There is nothing to clean.
A few nights ago, I was on my Saturday night auto pilot mode and Leigh told me to “Stop.”
“Just use the baking pan. Save the tin foil.” She instructed.
I quickly told her that “I don’t want to clean dishes. This is why I have always used tin foil.”
“We need to start saving a little more money,” Leigh informed.
“It is just a small piece of tin foil,” I interjected.
“But it adds up.”
“Not that much.”
“Yes it will.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I will do the dishes.” Leigh finished and I am sure mentally stomped her foot. “Just cut back on the tin foil.”
I now sound like I’m struggling with a junk food addiction and need an intervention. Maybe I do, but that’s for a later story.
A side note: When Leigh and I first started dating, I went to visit her in Boston for the first time. I remember her having a mound of something under a kitchen towel in the extra small sink in her extra small North End apartment. Tucked in, was a pile of dishes that were supposed to be hidden so well that I would not notice that she absolutely hated doing dishes.
“Deal.” I agreed.
As I said, Leigh hates doing dishes. She hates doing dishes like I hate a broken arm. If she says that she will do dishes, then I can’t say anything to cutting back on foil. I don’t see where a Sam’s Club size box of tin foil that costs $11.98 and lasts us about... oh.... a year, will make that much difference.
I think this cutting back will do a lot of good, probably as much as taking our house off of the power grid, but part of me is wondering if our water bill will increase more than $11.98 over the course of... oh... a year?
Monday, February 23, 2009
2-26-09
Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes; mine is a triangle
I had a column for the paper all worked out in my head about this past weekend.
Friday night, after work, I left for a weekend with my longtime friend Matt Brozey who lives in Myrtle Beach.
This was a weekend that had been in the making for about 2 months. We had a full weekend planned out to utilize every hour to its fullest.
We were to shoot pool on Friday night, ride motorcycles and four-wheelers at an ATV park all day Saturday and see a live boxing match Saturday night.
Sunday, I was served a great blueberry pancake breakfast, packed my bags, and started back home.
That story was trumped by a surprise from my son.
On the way out of North Myrtle Beach, I stopped at a large gift shop to find a little surprise for my two children.
Whenever I travel somewhere I try to bring home a gift for them. I bribe my son into being a good boy for Mommy by telling him that, “If you take care of Nash and Mommy and go to bed on time, I will bring home something special for you.”
This seems to work and every time I call home to check on the family, Ethan asks, “Whad’ja get me, Daddy?”
As always, he was a wonderful boy for Leigh and helped out with turning out the lights at night and reminding Mommy to turn on the alarm before they went to bed.
So I got him a present. I was going to get him one anyway.
As I pulled under the carport, I was getting excited to open the door and hear the kids yell, “DADDY.”
I love that.
I asked Ethan to give me a report on the weekend and quizzed him on whether he did his “man-of-the-house” duties like I asked.
He informed my that he did everything and even ate all of his dinner and played with his sister.
“Good job son, I am proud of you,” I commended him.
“Whad’ja get me, Daddy?” Ethan quickly asked.
I gave him his surprises and he was excited and proud that he had done a good job.
All of the sudden he dropped everything and looked at me and smiled.
“I have a surprise for you, Daddy. I made you something.”
He ran back to his room and after some shuffling of papers and moving of some toys, he came running back down the hallway yelling, “Close your eyes, Daddy.”
I closed them and held out my hands.
Something that was heaver than one piece of paper was in my hands.
“Open them.” Ethan shouted while doing a quick jump in the air from the balls of his feet.
In my hands was a triangular shaped piece of tan construction paper. Crayon-drawn shapes were adorning the front and they were all meticulously laid out and colored in the lines.
“Why thank you, Bud. This is a great picture.”
“It’s a hat, Daddy. It’s a Creativity Hat. Put it on.”
Opening up the triangle-shaped construction paper “hat”, he continued, “When you have a hard time thinking of something to draw or color, you can put the hat on and it helps you think. You can take it to work and wear it.”
I wore the hat all night. We played video games and he kept telling me that the hat was making me think better and that is why we were winning.
I am going to take it to work. When ever I have a hard time designing an ad or laying out the paper, I am going to put it on. It might even help me come up with a subject for a column.
After all, it helped us win at Mario Kart.
Bryan Pinkey can be found under the “Hat of Creativity” or at bpinkey@nccox.com and now all of his stories are archived at jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
I had a column for the paper all worked out in my head about this past weekend.
Friday night, after work, I left for a weekend with my longtime friend Matt Brozey who lives in Myrtle Beach.
This was a weekend that had been in the making for about 2 months. We had a full weekend planned out to utilize every hour to its fullest.
We were to shoot pool on Friday night, ride motorcycles and four-wheelers at an ATV park all day Saturday and see a live boxing match Saturday night.
Sunday, I was served a great blueberry pancake breakfast, packed my bags, and started back home.
That story was trumped by a surprise from my son.
On the way out of North Myrtle Beach, I stopped at a large gift shop to find a little surprise for my two children.
Whenever I travel somewhere I try to bring home a gift for them. I bribe my son into being a good boy for Mommy by telling him that, “If you take care of Nash and Mommy and go to bed on time, I will bring home something special for you.”
This seems to work and every time I call home to check on the family, Ethan asks, “Whad’ja get me, Daddy?”
As always, he was a wonderful boy for Leigh and helped out with turning out the lights at night and reminding Mommy to turn on the alarm before they went to bed.
So I got him a present. I was going to get him one anyway.
As I pulled under the carport, I was getting excited to open the door and hear the kids yell, “DADDY.”
I love that.
I asked Ethan to give me a report on the weekend and quizzed him on whether he did his “man-of-the-house” duties like I asked.
He informed my that he did everything and even ate all of his dinner and played with his sister.
“Good job son, I am proud of you,” I commended him.
“Whad’ja get me, Daddy?” Ethan quickly asked.
I gave him his surprises and he was excited and proud that he had done a good job.
All of the sudden he dropped everything and looked at me and smiled.
“I have a surprise for you, Daddy. I made you something.”
He ran back to his room and after some shuffling of papers and moving of some toys, he came running back down the hallway yelling, “Close your eyes, Daddy.”
I closed them and held out my hands.
Something that was heaver than one piece of paper was in my hands.
“Open them.” Ethan shouted while doing a quick jump in the air from the balls of his feet.
In my hands was a triangular shaped piece of tan construction paper. Crayon-drawn shapes were adorning the front and they were all meticulously laid out and colored in the lines.
“Why thank you, Bud. This is a great picture.”
“It’s a hat, Daddy. It’s a Creativity Hat. Put it on.”
Opening up the triangle-shaped construction paper “hat”, he continued, “When you have a hard time thinking of something to draw or color, you can put the hat on and it helps you think. You can take it to work and wear it.”
I wore the hat all night. We played video games and he kept telling me that the hat was making me think better and that is why we were winning.
I am going to take it to work. When ever I have a hard time designing an ad or laying out the paper, I am going to put it on. It might even help me come up with a subject for a column.
After all, it helped us win at Mario Kart.
Bryan Pinkey can be found under the “Hat of Creativity” or at bpinkey@nccox.com and now all of his stories are archived at jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
2-19-09
A sweet lesson in middle school economics
With all of the talk about the economy and greed on Wall Street lately, it got me thinking about a time when I was on top of my game and was loaded with money. Maybe I have a weak spot for money, but for some reason, I find myself relating. Let me explain.
I remember sitting a few seats up from the back of the school bus when I started sixth grade. Sitting in the back was a privilege for the kids that were cool, knew someone, or were in the eighth grade. I just happened to get on the bus early in the morning.
There was a tall and lanky guy that wore a light gray Members Only jacket on his back and a black “unbreakable” comb in his back pocket. He seemed to have a lot of friends on the bus.
I remember his name well. Sean O’Riley.
I soon found out that if you wanted a pack of gum or a sucker, or anything sweet, for that matter, he was the guy to go to.
He sold candy on the bus during the morning and afternoon rides. He was the only eighth grader that sat in the middle of the bus. I found out that this was so that everyone could get to him easier. Smart.
I studied his movements and procedures for about a month or so until I caught on.
While buying a pack of gum and a few Blow Pops from him one morning, we had a little talk. I asked him if we could work something out so that I, too, could sell candy on the bus so that I could make a little money for myself.
Sean didn’t have a problem with it, so that night I asked my dad if he would let me borrow $20 and drive me to 7-Eleven (a D.C. equivalent to Circle K).
“What in the world for, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to buy candy to sell on the school bus,” I said as if this was a normal request of every level-headed sixth grader.
We went back and forth trading the points of saving money and making dumb decisions.
“Dad, trust me. I can sell candy on the bus and make money. I will be able to pay you back the money I borrow and I shouldn’t have to borrow any money again.” I finally pleaded.
“I am going to do this just to teach you how quick your money can be lost and how it is important to save. If you don’t make the money to pay me back, then you will have to work it off,” Dad retorted with a bit of defeat.
Off we went.
After “shopping” for the type and brands of candy that I had learned would sell, I laid out my investment on the well-worn melamine counter. The clerk looked down at me and then at my dad as if to say, “What the heck kind of parent are you?”
Blow Pops, Hershey bars, Nerds, Sour Patch Kids, Atomic Fire Balls, Bazooka gum, Pixi-Stix, if it was popular and demanded a price, I bought it.
The next morning, I walked through the yellow double-hinged doors of the school bus like a man in Vegas that new his opponents tell.
It was on.
That night, I sat down at the dinner table and Dad asked me, “Well, how did the candy sale go?”
I told him, “Good.”
I think he was expecting to hear a sob story and give me a pick-me-up talk
“How much did you sell?” Dad asked.
“All of it,” I responded while shoveling in another fork-full of mashed potatoes.
“By the eleventh bus stop!” I finished.
There was a pause.
“How much did you make?”
“$45.25, not counting what I ate,” I updated.
From that day on Dad took me to 7-Eleven every Sunday and Wednesday.
Over the course of the three middle school years, I rose from “kid in the back of the bus” to a full-blown “Tony Montana.”
I began taking special orders and buying in bulk. Sam’s Club helped with my profit margin.
I bought a larger book bag to carry ALL of my books in so that my locker could be turned into a makeshift candy store.
Between classes I would sell from my locker.
Yes, my teachers knew. But I kept my grades up and there was no reason for alarm.
We always went to Ocean City for our family vacation. During those years I always had my own spending money.
Candy, baby. I was in the big time. That summer I bought the best skateboard that every kid wanted and I paid in cash.
Vision Gator skateboard, red Chuck Taylors, parachute pants. I bought them all myself.
By my last year of middle school, I realized that I wasn’t reaching my entire market. I was now in eighth grade and lost touch with my people. There were sixth graders going around without sweets.
I reined in my friends and began to make boxes of candy to sell. I would sell a box of $3.50 for $6.00 to my friends and explain how they could sell it for $12.00.
Why not? We were all winning and I was still on top.
Making money hand over fist, it was time for me to graduate to the ninth grade.
The next year I quickly realized that I was back on the bottom and candy wasn’t in demand. High school kids could drive to the store and get whatever, whenever. I had to find a new “career.”
So I guess with all of the economy troubles going on now, I have to be careful with my money. Although, if I were to lose my job, I think I would try my hand at being a bus driver.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com or now all of his stories are archived at jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
With all of the talk about the economy and greed on Wall Street lately, it got me thinking about a time when I was on top of my game and was loaded with money. Maybe I have a weak spot for money, but for some reason, I find myself relating. Let me explain.
I remember sitting a few seats up from the back of the school bus when I started sixth grade. Sitting in the back was a privilege for the kids that were cool, knew someone, or were in the eighth grade. I just happened to get on the bus early in the morning.
There was a tall and lanky guy that wore a light gray Members Only jacket on his back and a black “unbreakable” comb in his back pocket. He seemed to have a lot of friends on the bus.
I remember his name well. Sean O’Riley.
I soon found out that if you wanted a pack of gum or a sucker, or anything sweet, for that matter, he was the guy to go to.
He sold candy on the bus during the morning and afternoon rides. He was the only eighth grader that sat in the middle of the bus. I found out that this was so that everyone could get to him easier. Smart.
I studied his movements and procedures for about a month or so until I caught on.
While buying a pack of gum and a few Blow Pops from him one morning, we had a little talk. I asked him if we could work something out so that I, too, could sell candy on the bus so that I could make a little money for myself.
Sean didn’t have a problem with it, so that night I asked my dad if he would let me borrow $20 and drive me to 7-Eleven (a D.C. equivalent to Circle K).
“What in the world for, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to buy candy to sell on the school bus,” I said as if this was a normal request of every level-headed sixth grader.
We went back and forth trading the points of saving money and making dumb decisions.
“Dad, trust me. I can sell candy on the bus and make money. I will be able to pay you back the money I borrow and I shouldn’t have to borrow any money again.” I finally pleaded.
“I am going to do this just to teach you how quick your money can be lost and how it is important to save. If you don’t make the money to pay me back, then you will have to work it off,” Dad retorted with a bit of defeat.
Off we went.
After “shopping” for the type and brands of candy that I had learned would sell, I laid out my investment on the well-worn melamine counter. The clerk looked down at me and then at my dad as if to say, “What the heck kind of parent are you?”
Blow Pops, Hershey bars, Nerds, Sour Patch Kids, Atomic Fire Balls, Bazooka gum, Pixi-Stix, if it was popular and demanded a price, I bought it.
The next morning, I walked through the yellow double-hinged doors of the school bus like a man in Vegas that new his opponents tell.
It was on.
That night, I sat down at the dinner table and Dad asked me, “Well, how did the candy sale go?”
I told him, “Good.”
I think he was expecting to hear a sob story and give me a pick-me-up talk
“How much did you sell?” Dad asked.
“All of it,” I responded while shoveling in another fork-full of mashed potatoes.
“By the eleventh bus stop!” I finished.
There was a pause.
“How much did you make?”
“$45.25, not counting what I ate,” I updated.
From that day on Dad took me to 7-Eleven every Sunday and Wednesday.
Over the course of the three middle school years, I rose from “kid in the back of the bus” to a full-blown “Tony Montana.”
I began taking special orders and buying in bulk. Sam’s Club helped with my profit margin.
I bought a larger book bag to carry ALL of my books in so that my locker could be turned into a makeshift candy store.
Between classes I would sell from my locker.
Yes, my teachers knew. But I kept my grades up and there was no reason for alarm.
We always went to Ocean City for our family vacation. During those years I always had my own spending money.
Candy, baby. I was in the big time. That summer I bought the best skateboard that every kid wanted and I paid in cash.
Vision Gator skateboard, red Chuck Taylors, parachute pants. I bought them all myself.
By my last year of middle school, I realized that I wasn’t reaching my entire market. I was now in eighth grade and lost touch with my people. There were sixth graders going around without sweets.
I reined in my friends and began to make boxes of candy to sell. I would sell a box of $3.50 for $6.00 to my friends and explain how they could sell it for $12.00.
Why not? We were all winning and I was still on top.
Making money hand over fist, it was time for me to graduate to the ninth grade.
The next year I quickly realized that I was back on the bottom and candy wasn’t in demand. High school kids could drive to the store and get whatever, whenever. I had to find a new “career.”
So I guess with all of the economy troubles going on now, I have to be careful with my money. Although, if I were to lose my job, I think I would try my hand at being a bus driver.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com or now all of his stories are archived at jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
2-12-09
A crafty family shopping trip ends with a Valentine ‘Secret’
This past Saturday, my family and I went down to Wilmington for the day. We did a little bit of running around, mixed in some visiting with family, and a little bit of playing.
The Children’s Museum was our first stop. This was a place that none of us have ever been. After a surprising $32 to get in, we ran behind Ethan as he quickly visited every station in the building for a fifteen second preview.
“Wow, look at this!” “Hey, Daddy, a cannon!” “Whoa, can I have this?”
Needless to say, he was excited.
Ethan is a very creative little boy and loves to make things and color. When he came to the room that housed a sixteen foot craft table covered in brown paper piled high with colored pencils, glue, glitter, markers and miscellaneous pieces of fabric, he stood at the doorway like a deer in headlights.
He stayed in that room for a solid two hours, he and Mommy made Valentine’s cards for every person in our family.
Ethan missed half of what the museum had, but he didn’t care.
After the craft fun, we ended up at Mayfair shopping center for a late lunch, or what I like to call an early dinner. We all had a great meal, mostly because we had a large table away from the rest of the crowd. This allowed us to let the kids play a little. What also helped was the fact that they were allowed to color on the table.
After our dinner, we walked around to do a little window shopping. One thing on our agenda was for Ethan and me to find Valentine’s presents for Mommy and Nash.
Ethan told me that while he was with Grahm and Pop-Pop (my mom and dad) the week before, they came to the same place and that he saw a stuffed dog at a store that he wanted to buy for Mommy.
He couldn’t remember the name of the store but he told me that “It was a pink and white store and there were “statues” and it was “girly.”
We ducked in and out of every clothing and gift store that I could find. I would ask, “Is it this one?” “Not this one,” he would respond.
Finally, I called my mom. “Where did you and Dad take Ethan that they were selling stuffed dogs?”
I can’t remember,” Mom answered. She listed off the places that she took him into and we tried a few of those.
I told Mom that we would just keep looking and thanked her for helping.
At that second Ethan blurted out, “Here it is! This is where Pop-Pop and I went”
We were standing at the festively decorated entryway into Victoria’s Secret.
Thanks, Dad.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com
This past Saturday, my family and I went down to Wilmington for the day. We did a little bit of running around, mixed in some visiting with family, and a little bit of playing.
The Children’s Museum was our first stop. This was a place that none of us have ever been. After a surprising $32 to get in, we ran behind Ethan as he quickly visited every station in the building for a fifteen second preview.
“Wow, look at this!” “Hey, Daddy, a cannon!” “Whoa, can I have this?”
Needless to say, he was excited.
Ethan is a very creative little boy and loves to make things and color. When he came to the room that housed a sixteen foot craft table covered in brown paper piled high with colored pencils, glue, glitter, markers and miscellaneous pieces of fabric, he stood at the doorway like a deer in headlights.
He stayed in that room for a solid two hours, he and Mommy made Valentine’s cards for every person in our family.
Ethan missed half of what the museum had, but he didn’t care.
After the craft fun, we ended up at Mayfair shopping center for a late lunch, or what I like to call an early dinner. We all had a great meal, mostly because we had a large table away from the rest of the crowd. This allowed us to let the kids play a little. What also helped was the fact that they were allowed to color on the table.
After our dinner, we walked around to do a little window shopping. One thing on our agenda was for Ethan and me to find Valentine’s presents for Mommy and Nash.
Ethan told me that while he was with Grahm and Pop-Pop (my mom and dad) the week before, they came to the same place and that he saw a stuffed dog at a store that he wanted to buy for Mommy.
He couldn’t remember the name of the store but he told me that “It was a pink and white store and there were “statues” and it was “girly.”
We ducked in and out of every clothing and gift store that I could find. I would ask, “Is it this one?” “Not this one,” he would respond.
Finally, I called my mom. “Where did you and Dad take Ethan that they were selling stuffed dogs?”
I can’t remember,” Mom answered. She listed off the places that she took him into and we tried a few of those.
I told Mom that we would just keep looking and thanked her for helping.
At that second Ethan blurted out, “Here it is! This is where Pop-Pop and I went”
We were standing at the festively decorated entryway into Victoria’s Secret.
Thanks, Dad.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com
Friday, February 6, 2009
2-5-09
My son and I argued all the time. Now, Wii get along just fine
I have included my son, Ethan, in many of the stories of my trials and tribulations that I have written about.
My wife says that we are just alike. Stubborn, set in our ways, have a temper and are the angriest SOB’s when we are hungry.
We, Ethen and I, have been known to argue ‘til we are both blue in the face... over very simple things.
I hold strong to not talking back, please and thank you, no hitting, and treating Mommy with respect. If I can get him to do just one of these during the course of a week, I feel like I have won the battle. The only problem is that I am fighting a war.
There was a time that I was taking Ethan to day care before I went into work. Leigh was going to school to finish her teaching degree. She was commuting to ECU from Kenansville everyday and having to leave at 5 a.m. Ethan’s day care wasn’t even open at that time.
I would go in his room to wake him up and he would start to cuss me from the start. I would struggle to get him dressed, socks on, teeth brushed and set him in front of the TV so that he would stay still so that I could quickly get myself ready and maybe shave.
Most of the time, I would get ready and walk back out to the den and not see him anywhere. He had taken his clothes off and gone back to bed.
Son of a ....Gun!
I found out quick that he was not a morning person, just like his old man.
Apple trees make apples!
We would battle from the time I tried to drag him out of bed to the time I pushed him through the door at his day care. By this time, I was usually running about 20 minutes late for the start of my day. Those ladies at his day care must have known what a struggle I just had because there were a few times that they said, “Mr. Pinkey, why don’t you sit down for a minute.” Or “We made sausage for the children and have some left over, why don’t you get yourself a bite before you go to work.”
Was it that obvious?
Yup.
My boss knew! At least once a week he caught me on my way in and pulled me aside to let me know that he understood my situation with Ethan in the morning, “But could you please try to make it into work only fifteen minutes late... please?”
It was a tough time.
Everything is better now. Leigh takes him to school in the morning.
Ethan and I have been getting along a lot better these days. I like to think that it is because he is older and all of my lessons and lectures have sunk in or my patience has become stronger. But I am just fooling myself.
We just bought a Wii.
For those of you who don’t know what a Wii is, it is a video game system. Unlike the older systems that use a joystick, this one works off of motion. If you ar playing a bowling game, you have to hold the controller and move your arm in the same way you would if you were rolling a real bowling ball.
The rule is, Ethan can’t play until he takes a bath, eats his dinner, picks up his toys and his sister is in bed.
What a change. He comes home and takes his clothes off, jumps into the bathtub and washes off. He then gets his PJs on and gets to the dinner table to shovel in his food. After dinner, he asks if it is time for Nash to go to bed. “No, son, it is only 6 p.m.” He usually lets out a long, “Awwww Maaann.”
As soon as I come out of Nash’s room from putting her down, he knows it’s on. It’s time to battle in the world of Mario Kart, a race car game that makes us laugh, stomp our feet, and makes Mommy shush us and say, ”If you boys don’t quiet down, I’m going to turn it off.”
We giggle and keep on racing!
I’m going to soak this up as long as it lasts. I know that as soon as the game system gets old to him, we will be back to the same old routine.
My feeling is that as long as he remembers this brief moment of Ethan and Daddy laughing and stomping our feet, it’s OK with me. I will just wait for the next great bonding hobby between father and son.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com or now all of my stories are archived at www.jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
I have included my son, Ethan, in many of the stories of my trials and tribulations that I have written about.
My wife says that we are just alike. Stubborn, set in our ways, have a temper and are the angriest SOB’s when we are hungry.
We, Ethen and I, have been known to argue ‘til we are both blue in the face... over very simple things.
I hold strong to not talking back, please and thank you, no hitting, and treating Mommy with respect. If I can get him to do just one of these during the course of a week, I feel like I have won the battle. The only problem is that I am fighting a war.
There was a time that I was taking Ethan to day care before I went into work. Leigh was going to school to finish her teaching degree. She was commuting to ECU from Kenansville everyday and having to leave at 5 a.m. Ethan’s day care wasn’t even open at that time.
I would go in his room to wake him up and he would start to cuss me from the start. I would struggle to get him dressed, socks on, teeth brushed and set him in front of the TV so that he would stay still so that I could quickly get myself ready and maybe shave.
Most of the time, I would get ready and walk back out to the den and not see him anywhere. He had taken his clothes off and gone back to bed.
Son of a ....Gun!
I found out quick that he was not a morning person, just like his old man.
Apple trees make apples!
We would battle from the time I tried to drag him out of bed to the time I pushed him through the door at his day care. By this time, I was usually running about 20 minutes late for the start of my day. Those ladies at his day care must have known what a struggle I just had because there were a few times that they said, “Mr. Pinkey, why don’t you sit down for a minute.” Or “We made sausage for the children and have some left over, why don’t you get yourself a bite before you go to work.”
Was it that obvious?
Yup.
My boss knew! At least once a week he caught me on my way in and pulled me aside to let me know that he understood my situation with Ethan in the morning, “But could you please try to make it into work only fifteen minutes late... please?”
It was a tough time.
Everything is better now. Leigh takes him to school in the morning.
Ethan and I have been getting along a lot better these days. I like to think that it is because he is older and all of my lessons and lectures have sunk in or my patience has become stronger. But I am just fooling myself.
We just bought a Wii.
For those of you who don’t know what a Wii is, it is a video game system. Unlike the older systems that use a joystick, this one works off of motion. If you ar playing a bowling game, you have to hold the controller and move your arm in the same way you would if you were rolling a real bowling ball.
The rule is, Ethan can’t play until he takes a bath, eats his dinner, picks up his toys and his sister is in bed.
What a change. He comes home and takes his clothes off, jumps into the bathtub and washes off. He then gets his PJs on and gets to the dinner table to shovel in his food. After dinner, he asks if it is time for Nash to go to bed. “No, son, it is only 6 p.m.” He usually lets out a long, “Awwww Maaann.”
As soon as I come out of Nash’s room from putting her down, he knows it’s on. It’s time to battle in the world of Mario Kart, a race car game that makes us laugh, stomp our feet, and makes Mommy shush us and say, ”If you boys don’t quiet down, I’m going to turn it off.”
We giggle and keep on racing!
I’m going to soak this up as long as it lasts. I know that as soon as the game system gets old to him, we will be back to the same old routine.
My feeling is that as long as he remembers this brief moment of Ethan and Daddy laughing and stomping our feet, it’s OK with me. I will just wait for the next great bonding hobby between father and son.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached at bpinkey@nccox.com or now all of my stories are archived at www.jbryanpinkey.blogspot.com.
1-29-09
It’s a tough job holding the title as ‘Favorite Grandchild’
My father’s mother is quite a woman. I regard her as a strong and determined person.
I remember learning a lot of history about and from her when I had a project that involved interviewing a family member for a college class in which I was enrolled in.
Shirley Pinkey was a homemaker and mother of four children when her husband, who was a Navy Seal, was killed in a helicopter crash.
Widowed with four young children, my grandmother dug in and did whatever it took to care for her children and herself.
She remarried and is now the mother of nine children, grandmother to eighteen and has four great-grandchildren. There is probably a partridge in a pear tree in there somewhere, too.
I am the oldest grandchild and have always held the self-proclaimed title of “Favorite Grandchild”
My cousins might disagree as Grandma Smith, her remarried last name, might have told them, in secret, that they were her favorite. If so, I know that she was just saying that to make them happy.
When I was 18, I had the opportunity to see Luciano Pavarotti. A good friend of mine had sky suite tickets to the Capital Center in Landover, Md. He happened to have two extra tickets that would just go unused if no one came. I told him that I definitely wanted to go but didn’t know anyone else who would want to go.
When I told my parents of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and the tickt dilemma, Dad said, “Your grandmother would probably like to go, why don’t you invite her.”
I called her that evening and she was taken aback. For one, to have the chance to see Pavarotti and two, that her grandson would think of taking her. She, of course, said yes
We got dressed up and went on our “date.” We had a great time and to this day she always talks about the time her Favorite Grandson took her to see Pavarotti. She cherishes the memory and so do I. I’m so proud to have been able to provide her the experience.
This really helped me hold onto my title.
A few weekends ago I called my aunt in Wilmington to see about getting a haircut on the upcoming Saturday.
“Sure,” Susan, said. “While you’re down here, I could use a hand.”
“Not a problem, what do you have going on?”
“David and I are hanging your grandparent’s kitchen cabinets.”
That’s not “giving a hand.” Hanging cabinets is something you plan weeks in advance and check your calendar.
I had to take one for the team, so to say. I never mind helping family and especially my grandparents. I was probably due for a little extra work to help with my long-held title, anyhow.
Saturday, late morning, I arrived with tools in hand, ready to work all day if needed.
To my surprise, there were only three cabinets and a tall pantry next to the fridge that needed to be set and hung.
This was great news because I had to make my way back home to work on some frozen water pipes in my pump house as quickly as possible.
After some measuring, leveling, and moving the refrigerator in and out a few times, the cabinets were up and we were done.
I really got out pretty easy. I feltsort of bad chalking that work up as title-holding work but I’ll take it.
Now, I know that I don’t have to do work or favors for my grandmother. She loves me and tells me I’m her favorite grandchild all the time.
I sure feel sorry for my cousins. Favorite Grandchild is a great place to be. Did I mention that I am also my mother’s favorite child? I remind my brother and sister all the time.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached sucking-up to family members or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
My father’s mother is quite a woman. I regard her as a strong and determined person.
I remember learning a lot of history about and from her when I had a project that involved interviewing a family member for a college class in which I was enrolled in.
Shirley Pinkey was a homemaker and mother of four children when her husband, who was a Navy Seal, was killed in a helicopter crash.
Widowed with four young children, my grandmother dug in and did whatever it took to care for her children and herself.
She remarried and is now the mother of nine children, grandmother to eighteen and has four great-grandchildren. There is probably a partridge in a pear tree in there somewhere, too.
I am the oldest grandchild and have always held the self-proclaimed title of “Favorite Grandchild”
My cousins might disagree as Grandma Smith, her remarried last name, might have told them, in secret, that they were her favorite. If so, I know that she was just saying that to make them happy.
When I was 18, I had the opportunity to see Luciano Pavarotti. A good friend of mine had sky suite tickets to the Capital Center in Landover, Md. He happened to have two extra tickets that would just go unused if no one came. I told him that I definitely wanted to go but didn’t know anyone else who would want to go.
When I told my parents of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and the tickt dilemma, Dad said, “Your grandmother would probably like to go, why don’t you invite her.”
I called her that evening and she was taken aback. For one, to have the chance to see Pavarotti and two, that her grandson would think of taking her. She, of course, said yes
We got dressed up and went on our “date.” We had a great time and to this day she always talks about the time her Favorite Grandson took her to see Pavarotti. She cherishes the memory and so do I. I’m so proud to have been able to provide her the experience.
This really helped me hold onto my title.
A few weekends ago I called my aunt in Wilmington to see about getting a haircut on the upcoming Saturday.
“Sure,” Susan, said. “While you’re down here, I could use a hand.”
“Not a problem, what do you have going on?”
“David and I are hanging your grandparent’s kitchen cabinets.”
That’s not “giving a hand.” Hanging cabinets is something you plan weeks in advance and check your calendar.
I had to take one for the team, so to say. I never mind helping family and especially my grandparents. I was probably due for a little extra work to help with my long-held title, anyhow.
Saturday, late morning, I arrived with tools in hand, ready to work all day if needed.
To my surprise, there were only three cabinets and a tall pantry next to the fridge that needed to be set and hung.
This was great news because I had to make my way back home to work on some frozen water pipes in my pump house as quickly as possible.
After some measuring, leveling, and moving the refrigerator in and out a few times, the cabinets were up and we were done.
I really got out pretty easy. I feltsort of bad chalking that work up as title-holding work but I’ll take it.
Now, I know that I don’t have to do work or favors for my grandmother. She loves me and tells me I’m her favorite grandchild all the time.
I sure feel sorry for my cousins. Favorite Grandchild is a great place to be. Did I mention that I am also my mother’s favorite child? I remind my brother and sister all the time.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached sucking-up to family members or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
1-22-09
Childhood memories bring out the fears of new fathers
A few weekends ago, my good friend and neighbor Will and I were welcoming in the first part of a Saturday morning which started on a Friday night.
At some point in the evening, we started talking about our childhood and traded stories of getting hurt and times that we should have been in a hospital or worse.
We then realized that we both had sons that would soon be doing the same things that we once did. Talk about a sobering realization.
“What are you gonna do?” Will said with a look of somewhat clarity in his eyes. “The heck if I know.” I said throwing my hands up and reaching into the garage refrigerator.
My son already loves motorcycles and Will’s boy loves his horses. Chances are, between the two of them, there will be a day that comes when one of their mothers will look out of a kitchen window and see them strapping a ramp to the back of a horse while the other is revving up a mini bike waiting for the “Go!”
When I was seven years old, my father had two motorcycles. I wanted one, too. He told me that if I learned to ride without the training wheels on my spray painted brown yard sale bike that I could get a motorcycle.
It didn’t take too long for me to ride a straight line down the driveway.
I thought I was going to see an “Easyrider” style chopper in my front yard the next day.
Boy was I mistaken. A few weeks later my dad showed up with a bright yellow Suzuki Jr. 50.
Not quite Dennis Hopper, but it would do.
Dad started it up, explained the throttle, hand brake and foot brake. He set me on the elongated black naugahide seat and before he could talk me through the “ease the throttle back” part, I had pulled all the way back and went flying across the back yard. Luckily, our neighbors had a tall chain-link fence.
I ran full speed ahead into the fence and somehow, like a 1930’s board track racer, I ran up the fence, to the left, and back down onto the flat ground.
To my surprise, and my parents and probably the neighbors at this point, I was still rolling.
Good thing was that I was still right side up. Bad thing was that a full bloomed, large Forsythia bush was now in my flight path.
I wasn’t sure if the bush was placed there to help aid as part of my seven-year-old driver’s test or just a cruel joke by the motorcycle gods.
I had no choice... and no experience with these types of obstacles. So, like an Evil Knievel who forgot to pull up, I plowed right into the unsuspecting yellow flowered bush.
I, to this day, still remember flying over the little handle bars and landing in the bush as my new chopper idled and ate up Wisteria limbs in its little chain.
So, will my son get a motorcycle when he shows that he has the skills to ride without training wheels? Sure.
We don’t have a chain link fence in sight of our property and I, to this day, and in the future will never have a Forsynthia bush in my yard.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached picking yellow petals out of his teeth or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
A few weekends ago, my good friend and neighbor Will and I were welcoming in the first part of a Saturday morning which started on a Friday night.
At some point in the evening, we started talking about our childhood and traded stories of getting hurt and times that we should have been in a hospital or worse.
We then realized that we both had sons that would soon be doing the same things that we once did. Talk about a sobering realization.
“What are you gonna do?” Will said with a look of somewhat clarity in his eyes. “The heck if I know.” I said throwing my hands up and reaching into the garage refrigerator.
My son already loves motorcycles and Will’s boy loves his horses. Chances are, between the two of them, there will be a day that comes when one of their mothers will look out of a kitchen window and see them strapping a ramp to the back of a horse while the other is revving up a mini bike waiting for the “Go!”
When I was seven years old, my father had two motorcycles. I wanted one, too. He told me that if I learned to ride without the training wheels on my spray painted brown yard sale bike that I could get a motorcycle.
It didn’t take too long for me to ride a straight line down the driveway.
I thought I was going to see an “Easyrider” style chopper in my front yard the next day.
Boy was I mistaken. A few weeks later my dad showed up with a bright yellow Suzuki Jr. 50.
Not quite Dennis Hopper, but it would do.
Dad started it up, explained the throttle, hand brake and foot brake. He set me on the elongated black naugahide seat and before he could talk me through the “ease the throttle back” part, I had pulled all the way back and went flying across the back yard. Luckily, our neighbors had a tall chain-link fence.
I ran full speed ahead into the fence and somehow, like a 1930’s board track racer, I ran up the fence, to the left, and back down onto the flat ground.
To my surprise, and my parents and probably the neighbors at this point, I was still rolling.
Good thing was that I was still right side up. Bad thing was that a full bloomed, large Forsythia bush was now in my flight path.
I wasn’t sure if the bush was placed there to help aid as part of my seven-year-old driver’s test or just a cruel joke by the motorcycle gods.
I had no choice... and no experience with these types of obstacles. So, like an Evil Knievel who forgot to pull up, I plowed right into the unsuspecting yellow flowered bush.
I, to this day, still remember flying over the little handle bars and landing in the bush as my new chopper idled and ate up Wisteria limbs in its little chain.
So, will my son get a motorcycle when he shows that he has the skills to ride without training wheels? Sure.
We don’t have a chain link fence in sight of our property and I, to this day, and in the future will never have a Forsynthia bush in my yard.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached picking yellow petals out of his teeth or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Monday, February 2, 2009
1-8-09
Back in the saddle again; high speed and chicken wings a go
Six years ago, I bought a Heritage Springer. It’s the only one of Harley’s bikes that looks like the original wartime bikes. I love the old styling of those bikes. The only thing that would make my bike better is if I could find a leather scabbard to strap on the side that would hold a Henry lever action .44 magnum rifle.
I’m digressing already.
Two weeks ago I got a few hours to jump on the homemade saddle that adorns the area between my gas tank and rear fender.
It was a Sunday afternoon. Carolina was playing the Saints and I was waiting for the Dallas / Eagles game to be aired.
My wife and kids were gone for the day and weren’t expected home until about 7 p.m. It was also 70 degrees and sunny.
A perfect day for riding.
The bike hadn’t been started for about two months. This is blasphemy to some people and in some clubs you would be shot and then kicked out right before your patches were confiscated.
Luckily I’m not affiliated with a club and the only patches I wear are sewn into the knees of my jeans.
I opened the garage door, moved a bunch of toys and bicycles that were creating a barricade around the sleeping dragon. I backed the bike out and tried to kick it over.
The green Springer took a minute to start as it almost drained the last bit of life out of the 12 volt battery.
The lights were dimming and the starter was working extra hard to turn over the 88 cubic inch V-Twin engine.
Right before the battery gave out, the flywheel received just enough juice to create combustion that then exited through the exhaust with a cracking roar.
A smile found it’s way to my face as I listened to the rhythm of the pistons exploding the air and fuel mixture inside of the chromed heads.
I strapped on my half helmet, slipped my hands into the fingerless leather gloves and clad my back with a well-worn in black leather jacket that I have had since the eleventh grade.
Straddling the fiberglass and cloth seat and reaching for the grips on the ape hangers, I throttled my way down my dirt driveway.
I was off and free.
All of my worries from the week were slowly being blown away as I motored my way to the awaiting road.
Reaching the edge of N. Williams Road, I creeped out to the double yellow line and brought myself parallel with them.
The engine had been brought to a good temperature so I figured it was safe to twist the throttle back and dump the clutch.
The half-bald rear wheel spun as the bike stayed still. The back end of the bike slid to the right as it started to grab the heated pavement.
If I had a tachometer, I know that it would have been close to red line before I started to move forward.
Second gear was kicked down and quickly behind the third cog in line was engaged. I was moving out and everyone around me knew about it.
Ride it like you stole it !
Jacksonville was my destination. I wanted to take a little ride and then watch the Dallas/Eagles game while eating some quality chicken wings and blue cheese.
I rode for about thirty minutes before I reached Marine Blvd. Traffic was thick with people returning and exchanging Christmas gifts. My stomach was in a hurry to get some greasy bar food.
My bike and I split lanes and worked our way to the front of every red light so that I could be the first off the line.
I decided to roll into Texas Roadhouse. This place has the coldest beer and best wings. Much better than Hooters.
My destination had been found, I made it in time for the game and had a few hours to kill before needing to head back home. However, after an hour and a half, I wanted to get back on the bike and hit the road.
I paid my tab and tipped my green-eyed barmaid. I headed out the door.
The Springer was calling. I had to get back on. As Pee Wee Herman said, “The old highways a call’n.”
This kind of day is why I bought my motorcycle. The freedom of the open road, a wallet chained to my belt with a few dollars in it for a drink and time to myself to wash away any trouble that has perched itself on my shoulders during the past week.
Life is good on the top side of true American iron.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached on the side of the road, probably getting a ticket or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Six years ago, I bought a Heritage Springer. It’s the only one of Harley’s bikes that looks like the original wartime bikes. I love the old styling of those bikes. The only thing that would make my bike better is if I could find a leather scabbard to strap on the side that would hold a Henry lever action .44 magnum rifle.
I’m digressing already.
Two weeks ago I got a few hours to jump on the homemade saddle that adorns the area between my gas tank and rear fender.
It was a Sunday afternoon. Carolina was playing the Saints and I was waiting for the Dallas / Eagles game to be aired.
My wife and kids were gone for the day and weren’t expected home until about 7 p.m. It was also 70 degrees and sunny.
A perfect day for riding.
The bike hadn’t been started for about two months. This is blasphemy to some people and in some clubs you would be shot and then kicked out right before your patches were confiscated.
Luckily I’m not affiliated with a club and the only patches I wear are sewn into the knees of my jeans.
I opened the garage door, moved a bunch of toys and bicycles that were creating a barricade around the sleeping dragon. I backed the bike out and tried to kick it over.
The green Springer took a minute to start as it almost drained the last bit of life out of the 12 volt battery.
The lights were dimming and the starter was working extra hard to turn over the 88 cubic inch V-Twin engine.
Right before the battery gave out, the flywheel received just enough juice to create combustion that then exited through the exhaust with a cracking roar.
A smile found it’s way to my face as I listened to the rhythm of the pistons exploding the air and fuel mixture inside of the chromed heads.
I strapped on my half helmet, slipped my hands into the fingerless leather gloves and clad my back with a well-worn in black leather jacket that I have had since the eleventh grade.
Straddling the fiberglass and cloth seat and reaching for the grips on the ape hangers, I throttled my way down my dirt driveway.
I was off and free.
All of my worries from the week were slowly being blown away as I motored my way to the awaiting road.
Reaching the edge of N. Williams Road, I creeped out to the double yellow line and brought myself parallel with them.
The engine had been brought to a good temperature so I figured it was safe to twist the throttle back and dump the clutch.
The half-bald rear wheel spun as the bike stayed still. The back end of the bike slid to the right as it started to grab the heated pavement.
If I had a tachometer, I know that it would have been close to red line before I started to move forward.
Second gear was kicked down and quickly behind the third cog in line was engaged. I was moving out and everyone around me knew about it.
Ride it like you stole it !
Jacksonville was my destination. I wanted to take a little ride and then watch the Dallas/Eagles game while eating some quality chicken wings and blue cheese.
I rode for about thirty minutes before I reached Marine Blvd. Traffic was thick with people returning and exchanging Christmas gifts. My stomach was in a hurry to get some greasy bar food.
My bike and I split lanes and worked our way to the front of every red light so that I could be the first off the line.
I decided to roll into Texas Roadhouse. This place has the coldest beer and best wings. Much better than Hooters.
My destination had been found, I made it in time for the game and had a few hours to kill before needing to head back home. However, after an hour and a half, I wanted to get back on the bike and hit the road.
I paid my tab and tipped my green-eyed barmaid. I headed out the door.
The Springer was calling. I had to get back on. As Pee Wee Herman said, “The old highways a call’n.”
This kind of day is why I bought my motorcycle. The freedom of the open road, a wallet chained to my belt with a few dollars in it for a drink and time to myself to wash away any trouble that has perched itself on my shoulders during the past week.
Life is good on the top side of true American iron.
Bryan Pinkey can be reached on the side of the road, probably getting a ticket or at bpinkey@nccox.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
