Tag Archives: family

The Helped

I find myself spending too much time thinking about the world I will leave to my 13 year-old, Rachel. There seems to be a whole lot of bad news some days. Recently, the attacks in Belgium just seem to be latest senseless act of a growing set of desperate people who feel they are not being heard. The mayhem always has the violence porn industry in tow. I wonder if there is an antidote to the hopelessness, fear and impending doom Rachel sees every day.

Then I remember Fred.

Fred Rogers, that’s Mister Rogers to you and me, seemed to be the world’s ambassador to children. He delicately explained the world to us in all it’s wonder and all it’s chaos. He seemed to instinctively know what we needed. That sweater and those sneakers were our symbols of certainty, sanity and safety before we even knew what those words meant. He spoke our language in a steady voice which never stooped to condescension. I guess Mister Rogers learned well the story of Job in seminary because his patience seemed to be unlimited.

Do you remember how he told us we could think about a disaster?

He told us the story of his mom’s advice about how he could think about disaster and violence porn. She told him simply, “look for the helpers.” In our language, he told us faith and hope would be found in the “helpers.” He felt so strongly about his mom’s helper concept that he urged the violence porn industry not to edit those helpers from their porn.

Did you watch Mister Roger’s Neighborhood as a child?

I look for the helpers today. I find great solace in them today. I think Jesus would have been a helper. In spite of personal danger, these people run toward the fire. Many have no skills to bring to bear once they make it to the breach. They might be bricklayers, garbage men and window washers but, they try to help anyway. Knowing their only contribution might be human kindness, they are willing to give it. Their split-second decision is to love.

Do you know people like this?

In my recent spiritual spring cleaning, I have made a decision to look for the helpers. I have made a conscious decision to reduce the influence in my life of people who seem to take pleasure in violence porn. I want to replace those people with helpers as influences in my life. This is an endeavor for me and not a transformation. I have however found peace in the journey. It is not my nature to run toward the fires of this life but, there is peace there. I have to be honest here. It is not my nature to serve those I don’t feel worthy. I feel that there are people in my life who build fires in their’s every day. My nature is not to run toward those self-made fires.

Have you had your feet washed in a figurative or literal sense lately.

I think back to all those who washed my feet. There were times I did not deserve it. There were times I would not have washed my own feet. Helpers have been everywhere in my life. Those helpers came exactly when I needed them. Fortunately for me, they didn’t ask questions. Perhaps some of them once had the same done for them. Perhaps they washed out of gratitude. Perhaps they washed out of a longing for peace. Regardless, the affect on my life has been profound and lasting. I am grateful for the helpers, the foot-washers. They are the perfect antidote for the darkness which visits all of us. I pray that there are lots of helpers in Brussels. I pray that the children of Belgium get to see plenty of those helpers in action.

Picture Credit

Pigpen is Blown Away

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I seem to be in a little funk lately. My real job is not perfect. My daughter is beginning to be a teenager. I need an outbuilding for my yard tools and lawnmower. It will have to be a brick monstrosity worthy of my new subdivision. The Taj Mahal of garden sheds complete with bricks and windows. My cat uses plants instead of a litter box. I have a best friend I haven’t seen in six years. I need to see my sister more. I need to visit my mom and dad more. At some point, I become aware of my problem.

I am so grateful to have a mom and dad to go see.

So what if I am not getting the respect I desire at work. I have a great job practicing civil engineering. A job, incidentally, I believe God made me to do. Otherwise why would he have planted the seed so early in the sand box? Why would I have been in such awe of a simple bulldozer? Now, I have a hobby I love as much.

By the way, thank you Mr. or Mrs. Reader!

I see people griping about cars parked in the road or trash cans left an extra day in my neighborhood. I see people griping about the Hispanics who mow their grass and build their houses. I see people griping about their taxes. I see people griping about their kids. I see people griping about their doctor or hospital. I see people go on for days about their spouse. I see people run down teachers. I see people who refuse to see anything good about our country. I see people who believe the world is an awful place.

Are you like me? do you find yourself joining the Pig Pens of the world occasionally?

You know those people. They drive a great car, live in a great neighborhood, have a great job, pretty good kids… They have had a big pile of breaks in their lives. They went to a great school. They got a chance to go to college. They had a great support structure with public roads, churches, bridges, parks, schools, families, friends…but, somehow, they did it all by themselves. Their work entitles them to a cloud of anger, fear and some kind of weird fantasy of a perfect life in the past. The cloud follows them around like Pig Pen. Sometimes people run the other way.

Do you feel like you have borrowed Pig Pen’s cloud sometimes? I know I do.

When I see a cloud forming I know how to blow it away. The question always becomes; how long will I indulge myself with the pity party. When I am done, it is as simple as dropping the Gratitude Bomb. A little gratitude will fix most delusions in my head. When I feel victimized at work…I get thankful I have a job. When I feel like someone is getting over on society…I remember the kind souls in my life who gave me something I probably didn’t deserve. When I feel, I know I should first feel thankful.

Do you know people who write gratitude lists?

It is not a bad practice but, I like to say my gratitude list. I think there is a great listener. I have also found gratitude a powerful teaching tool for a thirteen year-old. Sometimes gratitude even helps blow away the cloud for other Pig Pens in my life. After all, what does it cost to be grateful? What could it hurt for me to try? I am pretty sure my misery can always be refunded.

Pigpen picture courtesy: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/412783122075777259/

Our Better Angels

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Maybe I should change the Sunday Morning Sermon to the Late Sunday,,,err,,,Mondayish Sermon.

Antonin Gregory Scalia died yesterday. He leaves his wife, Maureen and nine children. He leaves many friends including Ruth Ginsburg and others. He was a man I can imagine wearing his house slippers and sitting in his recliner. I can imagine he was a granddad, doting and bouncing the grandbabies on his knee. With his rich intellect, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall as he read or told stories to his grandbabies. Today, someone is explaining to those grandbabies how he won’t be around to read those stories anymore. I don’t know his pet name around the house but, I bet that name will be uttered with a tinge of pain today.

I bet you have memories of a jolly old grandpa.

I also bet you are hearing less about grandpa and more about “but” today. The but you have been hearing is the dehumanizing but. But, Senator McConnell won’t confirm the President’s appointee…But, liberals will now run the court…But, Citizens United will be surely struck down…But, this presidential candidate said this and that presidential candidate said that.

I am not sure if he was Jesus or a monster but, the way people are talking, he surely wasn’t a granddaddy who would be missed.

We seem to have reached a point where we won’t even wait till the body is cold. We especially can’t wait when it comes to politics. First, we dehumanize those who disagree with us. They are insane, unpatriotic, evil and my favorite, a Fascist. In case you have been sleeping for the last 60 years, Fascist is code for Nazis and Hitler. That code, I believe, is used today as nonchalantly as we empty the litter box. We compare those unspeakable acts 60 years ago to, well, anything we can’t like. I can tell you for sure, the people who are capable of that kind of unspeakable act do not have grandbabies and will never be missed.

Have you ever dehumanized someone you disagree with? I know I have.

Antonin did everything society asked of him and when called to serve, he obliged. To be sure, I disagreed with him on almost everything. Instead of hating his sin however, I should hate my own. I should hate the sin which allows me to justify any means to his marginalized end. At his end, he was a public servant who did the best job he could. His decisions were informed by a life experience which is not mine to validate. His character, family or legacy should never have to suffer assassination for his supposed transgressions. This good man, grandpa and public servant’s memory should only be met with my gratitude.

How many people wont serve us because we can’t agreeably disagree?

It is long past time we quit listening to those drunk with power who appeal to our lesser angels. We know when the ends justify the means, we only really lose ourselves. The man or woman demonized, dehumanized in this political parlor game is in the mirror. I should deny those lesser angels because they are mine. When I subscribe to the us and them culture it may be immediately gratifying but, it is not working. Good people with a heart for public service are suffering. In my silence, they suffer at my hands. I, we, are better than that.

By Supreme_Court_US_2009.jpg: Steve Petteway, 
Staff Photographer of the Supreme Court 
(evidence that he took it is here 
(LinkedIn profile here U.S. Federal Government. 
Supreme Court archivist's office confirms 
that this is photo number 2009-03882 and that a 
permanent catalog number will be assigned.derivative work: 
Wehwalt (talk) - Supreme_Court_US_2009.jpg, 
Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9771037

An Afternoon at the Dealership

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My apologies as SMS turns into the Sunday Evening Sermon.

The day before yesterday Jennifer’s car had a flat. I dutifully checked the tire like my father had taught me touching and caressing the tread looking for metal invader to no avail. I came to the realization that I needed professional help diagnosing the tire’s specific ailment.

Where did you carry your last flat?

Well, for me, I guess I have fully subscribed to the one-stop world of the car dealer. Yup, you can buy a car, get an oil change, fix a flat, buy running boards, get a car wash and while you are doing all those things you can even get a hamburger at the café. The hamburgers are to die for by the way. They grill them on a real grill with Dale’s sauce…

If you are into guilty pleasures, I would highly recommend the car wash and a hamburger.

I swapped cars with my wife in her work parking lot. Well, I swapped her a truck for a car but, that is another story. Soon I was in the queue at the Quick Lube at the dealership. A modern invention, the Quick Lube, allows you to get many services while minimizing human interaction. Instead of a waiting room you get to… no, you are required to sit in your car. You know, there are insurance regulations.

Have you ever seen the insurance inspector shewing people out of a shop?

It was a normal winter day in the south. Our winters could usually pass for spring anywhere else. It was funny though, you would have thought we were on Mars and there were precious life-sustaining atmospheres in each vehicle which might escape. People were only cracking their windows long enough to tell the attendant their malfunction. Once closed, they went about looking at their lap again. I reached the front of the line and when the attendant arrived with his clipboard, I asked him how his day was going. The attendants are called “service advisors” and you can tell them apart because they dress like Tiger Woods and have a conspicuous lack of oil staining. He was a young guy whose grimace turned into a half-smile to say, “man I am great.” His mouth said great and his face said… well, not great. I wanted to chat some more but, he quickly barked, “sir, can you give me your mileage.” After a few minutes, you guessed it, nothing wrong was found with the tire.

Is there some kind of force field around mechanics which temporarily fixes the brokenness in cars?

I decided to reverse my bad tire Karma by getting Jennifer’s car cleaned for her. The people in that line also had had something important going on in their lap. After my turn in the tunnel, I was greeted by the interior washer. I asked the young man how he was doing too. Unlike the service advisor, he apparently actually did the dirty work of cleaning cars. He was a little shocked by actual conversation but, quickly recovered. “I love pretty days, we are so busy, the day goes by really fast,” he said adjusting his toboggan with his blue hands. The day was pretty but, cool. I chatted with the nice young man for a few minutes then left the car for the waiting room. As I walked down the hall to the waiting room it sounded like a lively place. I could hear a conversation about college football and other little side conversations. I picked a chair next to a man in a suit and began to assess my surroundings for the best weather or football small talk. Sadly, the football conversation was on the Paul Finebalm show on TV. I was really looking foreword to discussing the finer points of the Clemson defense with an Alabama Fan. Then I noticed the all the chit-chat I heard down the hall was with people not in the room.

Does it strike you as strange that of a dozen or so people, none of them were talking to each other?

I sat there watching Paul next to the tall guy in the suit. I learned that he believed gas would be less than a dollar a gallon unless there was a war. From the attractive lady in scrubs, I learned what Kim really needed was a reality check. From the lady with big hair, I learned that dogs wouldn’t walk themselves. Others were feverishly taping out texts. I tried to read what the young boy with the oversized North Face jacket in the black four-wheel drive was texting but, he turned his phone away when he saw me watching him. After ten or so minutes of being alone in a sea of people, I gave up and went outside. Some guy was griping to the nice blue-handed toboggan guy about unclean cup holders, crappy service and something about hard-earned money. I stood in another cluster of waiters and complemented a young man on his white Mustang. Before he could reply he had to take a call. Blue-hands waved me over. I complemented him on his thorough interior cleaning abilities and we chatted for a minute. Before I drove away he handed me a card to go online and fill out a survey. He said he got a bonus for each good survey. I took his card and drove away.

How many texters do you pass in the slow lane?

On the way home I passed quite a few. Somehow, I think texters feel safer in the passing lane. I guess they don’t have to worry as much about rear-ending other slower cars. For the life of me, I have no idea what text would be so important to risk something soooooo dangerous. Believe me, I have seen the accidents and they are my least favorite part of being a transportation engineer.

Does the world seem a little more self-centered and alone to you?

I admit, I have been a little self-involved this week. It was a pretty tough week at work but, my outlook always changes when I can do or say something nice. Service for me is the antidote for the blues. Sometimes, in this world we have made, it seems a kind word can’t be shoved in edgewise. A wave or smile at a traffic signal is well, out of the question. We have made a world where it is easier to talk to your old friend in that town in Egypt than a new one at the car wash. My spiritual medicine for the blues seems to be in short supply. I can’t like that one bit.

I Guess My Affair is Over

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We have been together for some time. Jennifer, my wife, introduced me to her a few years back. That might be a little strange but, Jen could see we had so much in common. Her brother Joe is a big Clemson fan like me. Like me, she over-visits the upstate of South Carolina. Recharging her batteries involves a cabin on a lake somewhere up there. I can see myself doing the same thing. I have an idea which lake but, I will keep her secret. Our affair is based on mutual admiration, respect and similar history. We are similar in all the things that really matter. Well, mutual to the extent she wouldn’t know me from Adam’s housecat at the grocery store.

Do you think it is kinda weird that I think my wife loves her too? I guess it doesn’t matter. It is over anyway.

I was introduced one morning when Jennifer and I were reading the paper. With my supernatural powers of intuition, I noticed she was sniffling. “I will never read Sharon Randall again. Just read it,” she said sticking a rolled up section of paper in my face like I hadn’t gone outside to do my business. I don’t really read the “Life” section of the Times Daily but, I humored her. I don’t remember the story but, I remember the lump in my throat. It was big as a softball. It was probably a column about her first husband. I remember how Sharon would stop with a sort of literary device to ask me a question. That’s exactly how it felt. She wanted to stop her story a minute to see if I was ok… you know, paying attention.

I have stolen Sharon’s device and I am not giving it back. You can’t make me.

Reading her columns, I always feel like I am listening to a story over her breakfast table. I know the characters of her stories. Joe, her brother, is blind and is a BIG Clemson fan. I know her boss turned second husband. I have heard all of the grand babies’, Wiley, Randy and Henry…

I wish you could have been there the day Jennifer learned I was reading Sharon’s columns on-line, ON THURSDAY.

Jennifer is black-fingered newspaper reader from way back. Without Dead trees and Diet Mountain Dews, I don’t think we would ever make it to church. That morning I grinned, handed her the paper and told her she would probably like Sharon that morning. “How do you know?” I surprised even myself by keeping that secret until Sunday. “Because, I read it online Thursday,” I said without even the slightest hint of guilt.

Ok, maybe I felt a little guilty.

We both have a connection to Sharon’s work that is hard to describe. She seems to have been there. Her accounts of her first husband were a huge solace after my daddy-in-law died. I have no idea why. If someday in my writing I can connect in some small way as she has, it will have been a good day.

I guess you have read by now that Sharon won’t be in the paper Sunday.

I will miss our visits. I will miss our little chats. I will miss her family. Now they like the cousins we never see. I don’t know about syndication. I am not sure Sharon will ever grace the pages of the Times Daily again. If it turns out Sharon isn’t coming back, I know more than a few people will be sad.

I know two people whose Sunday morning will never be the same.

Sharon Randall says she is looking into self-syndication. You can read her archived columns and the status of her syndication here.

Catching Up

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I have been on a little sabbatical for a few months.

Since we visited last, my clan moved from the Half Acre Wood. Our little world is a little more sterile and severe today. Don’t get me wrong, suburbia has its advantages. Those pesky Dandelions are a distant memory after the scorched earth of new construction. The new sod stands in formation ready to beat back nature. We traded our easily traversed Leyland Cypress and Razzledazzle bushes for a six-foot privacy fence. For our trouble, we have met precisely two of our new neighbors. One of those meetings was about, you guessed it, our fence.

To be sure, however, a few of our neighbors have not yet been built.

Our little cul-de-sac only really has two houses with families installed. Our Saturday and Sunday mornings are still filled with hammer blows, mixing and sawing. We are a work in progress. We had a little note from the Homeowners Association in our mailbox one day but, no one has come by to welcome us. Jennifer tells me there will be more people moving around in the summer.

I am looking forward to summer.

After being invited for left-overs at my mother-in-laws last night, we drove by the Half Acre Wood. See, Leslie’s left-overs are better than most first-cooked meals. Fried Okra, Limas, Roast… well, I bet you can taste my picture. Being two blocks away from your Mother-In-Law has its advantages. Being six miles away is, well, slimming. We had taken Jennifer’s car so she forced me to ride by the Half Acre Wood. It was my first time since I saw it in the rear view mirror of the U-Haul. I saw the double four-foot Oaks with Rach’s tree house first. The tree house was still in-tact but, the new owner, a single guy, had taken down the swings. I saw the Cedar with the dog grave yard next. Then the garden shed came into view.

I miss the Half Acre Wood.

I guess new adventures are on the way. I think our new abode needs a name. I will work on that. Home is such a loaded word. Home is where Rach’s height and date is written on the pantry door. Home is where the coffee pot has stained the counter. Home is where a piece of hardwood creaks and should be avoided before everybody wakes. Home is where the best dog ever, period, … is buried, until the next best dog is.

The Art of Winding Weed-Eater String

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There comes a time in sprinter when the mornings are still crisp enough for an old flannel shirt when we all must wake the mechanical bee hibernating in our sheds. Some of our wives have made a feeble attempt at this job with the new electric varieties but, all in all, weed-eating is still man’s work, especially in the south. Unless you have a yard man, this job does not discriminate. We must all do battle with dandelion and wild onions soon after the Bradfords are painted white. There are two scientific certainties. A yard will not look mowed with a big Dandelion growing next to the house. No lawn mower, no matter the turn radius or cost, will remove that Dandelion. I incidentally, have wondered on many occasions who pays whom to maintain this status quo. I cannot bear to believe this area of horticultural purgatory is simply the failure of imagination and engineering.

Have you heard of those cities which write you a ticket for unmowed grass?

With my flannel shirt on, I walk down to the little house. This structure should not be confused with the main house for you southern planters or the big house for all you ex-cons out there. The term little house was passed to me as casually as the suffix on my name. Just like the other things indiscriminately passed my way, both natural and learned, they are now parts of my soul. My daughter AND wife are now carriers. Maybe that is what the term soul mate really means.

The little house, home for lawn implements which were way to expensive, might tell you more about me than you wanted to know. I, I mean it, has tried to hang on, change and evolve and has the scars to prove it. The gutters are dirty little secrets covered in ivy and deep red wild roses. They allow the spring rains to play havoc with the foundation but, pulling the beautiful roses and green ivy away to repair them is just too painful. Thorns grown long ago lie in wait to bring blood. There are snakes in the ivy which are so dangerous they must be left alone. There is new corrugated aluminum where the door was replaced for yet another bigger, badder lawnmower. This aluminum stands out like a sore thumb against its dignified and peeling antique green painted cousins. The new door boasts it will not take paint to the world. With a suspect foundation, stubborn door and old gutters which do not work anymore the little house seems to still weather the occasional tree limb or spring wind pretty well.

…And who among us doesn’t have a little house of some kind?

The little house has a combination lock my father-in-law gave me. Women think they have the corner on the “something borrowed” market but, are sadly mistaken. The lock still has my in-laws’ anniversary as a combination. Since they have been married for over a half-century, the combination reminds me longevity and loyalty have not been thrown on the trash heap of history. The lock constantly needs oiling and cleaning so you can see and work the numbers. It is work that never seems convenient. In the rush for the well-manicured lawn, taking time to care for this relic from the Master Lock Company seems to get in the way of life at times. Somehow however, I cannot imagine lawn care without it. A lock like this, my friend for years, seems to always demand attention when time is shortest. I have found a little work along, is just easier. I have come to find joy in the work over the years.

Doesn’t our to-do list say as much about us as our accomplishments?

The contents of the little house are a study in capitalistic excess. There is a new John Deere which dubiously justifies itself. The Craftsman worked fine. A necessary lawn spreader which has worn the nail on which it hangs waits patiently for its charge. Pieces of wood with all manner of good intentions form the attic. Their projects sit quietly waiting for a rainy day which may never come. Then, there is the Husqvarna weed eater. It also replaced a Craftsman which is still in service at my father-in-law’s hunting camp. A necessity required for the proper grooming of a respectable lawn, the Husky could mow down all the rice patties in Korea in a single bound. These implements come with illustrations captioned with a Rosetta Stone of languages which are never read until the thing stops working. These implements almost all operate on my Waterloo of personal questions, “how hard could it be.” Knowing everything about the world is a lonely job but, someone has to do it. In desperation only, I seek guidance and strength from the maker from the Rosetta Stone.

Does your testosterone prevent you from reading instructions too?

The Rosetta Stone was never consulted when I developed the art of winding the weed eater string. I went about the task on my own. I am not sure why. Consulting the engineers at Husqvarna through their instructions would have been so much easier. Even a call to their hotline is in order when the directions are not so clear. Instead, I have developed a procedure which gets the job done. The string comes out of the roll kinked and screaming for attention. This unorganized mess must be attended. The way I handle this is to circle on of the black metal posts which the previous owner of my home left me. I call the previous owner, Mr. Sparkman’s Ghost. Mr. Sparkman fancied grapes because they would give him an excuse to ferment their juice. The grape-vine post makes a great place to loop unruly weed eater string. Once straightened, the string can be wound quite easily. All of the mistakes of winding however must be reproduced until the appropriate emotion in sufficient quantity is produced. With a fresh spool of string, I am ready to attack the Dandelion.

You are always invited to sit on the rabbit bench while I wind the string.

A freshly mowed yard is its own reward. There are smells of freshly cut grass mixed perfectly with aromatic hydrocarbons. With entropy beaten back in the form of a smooth uniform cut, order is brought to the little slice of earth we own. There was a time when I, in my sweat soaked shirt, plop on a lawn chair with fermented yeast, malt and hops to enjoy my control of the universe. All those things, I have found today to be fleeting and temporary. Control is an illusion. The joy of labor is eternal.

Another Brick in the School Show

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I may have gone to one of my last “Summer Camp” shows tonight and I can’t help but, to be a little sad. Summer Camp in this context is a little misleading. There were no cottages, camp fires or cots at this camp. Depending on where you are, I have heard these programs called a number of things, Extended Day, After Care, Working Family programs, Beyond the Bell and my favorite, Hobby Hour. I have visions of Bob Villa and Tim Taylor instead of the usual college kid trying to get a jump on their fellow education majors. Whatever you call them, these programs are a modern answer to latch-key kids.

I wish you could have seen the show.

I was trying to smell the roses, I guess. So I spent some time watching the parents. First I looked for the parents who were traveling with us. A few of them seemed to be a little like me, maybe more alert. Some were still checking their email and producing the requisite golf clap at the end of each number. Like the rest of us, they were still in their scrubs, ties and greasy work uniforms. With the schedule busted due to the program, some were wondering what from the freezer could be possibly cooked and served in ten or fifteen minutes or if they could still mow the grass. Some were wondering if those pizza coupons were still in the car.

It seems like yesterday when my wife and I sat in the kindergarten auditorium.

I wish you could have been there that day. Our new principal, Dr. Morgan, apparently still feeling the sting of sending his youngest son to college, told us something I didn’t really understand at the time. He said to have fun, smell the roses and above all, DON’T BLINK. He went on to say these would be the fastest passing thirteen years of our lives.

With most of my daughter’s Extended Day Summer Camps in the rear view mirror I have some advice for you.

Never miss an opportunity to see the joy. I wish you could have seen the faces of the children whose parents were checking their email. The highlight of a second graders month is apparently being able to lip-sink a Taylor Swift song in front of all the camp parents. Even the jaded, unamused and sophisticated kids my daughter’s age had a hard time containing the smile from time to time. Look for the joy in the real teachers. You can tell a good teacher a hundred miles away. They smile, tap their feet and laugh frequently. They can’t help themselves. They love and dote on THEIR kids.

But, there is one of those college kids that I am really sorry you missed.

This was the one just off stage showing the first graders the dance moves. Her face, well, it was raw joy. It betrayed more than I ever could on this written page. It was full of hope, promise and the realization of an avocation well selected. Her hair bounced and she displayed a kind of unrelenting smile that made MY face hurt. After the number was over and her kids were getting their requisite golf-clap, she hugged them all. Her affection held up the show because her kids were taking too long to get off the stage. It may have bugged everyone who worried about dinner, schedules, weed-eater string, cleaning gutters, email, a raise… It didn’t bug me at all.

The Mind of an Engineer

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My brain is in a state of constant conflict. The war is between my creative side and my inner engineer. I seem, at times, to be able to negotiate a truce between these forces, so I have become the self-appointed ambassador for my brethren. It is an ugly war that usually ends up with hurt feelings and bewilderment. You may have a similar response as you deal with my kind. We are creatures who really have your best interest at heart but, our amazing lack of people-skills, tendency for recreational problem solving and general alien approach to life make our interactions sometimes, well, unsatisfying. In the spirit of harmony, I offer this insight into the brain of an engineer. If you are willing to step over a few Legos and old Erector Set parts, I will be happy to show you around.

You’ve got a problem-I have questions

Ok, so you have asked an engineer about your problem. Let the inquisition begin! Just know, the number of questions will be proportional to our comfort with the subject. I must stop here to explain the lingo. To us, life is an equation. We love words like proportional, exponential, variable, relationship… Those words help us bring order to our scary world. Anyway, we will question you on every conceivable facet of your problem. Be warned, our questions may be seemingly unrelated, arcane and sometimes personal with no regard to your dignity or discretion. While you answer our questions, many times we make notes and draw pictures. Doing this is not a sign of disrespect or a lack of engagement, it helps us focus on your problem. Sometimes, after you are totally exhausted, we will feel we have accumulated enough data

I love data

Engineers feel that with enough data we could solve world hunger, answer the questions of human mortality and cause world peace. Data, we feel, is a gift from God. It should be shared freely and given with glee. We love to manipulate it, organize it, order it and arrange it. We make bar-charts, graphs and histograms from data. We formulate equations and create solutions from data. We love data.

I never have enough napkin drawings and lists

Once our data has been organized and we have properly stabbed entropy in the eye, the real fun begins. We get out our green graph paper or fire up the Excel spreadsheet. This decision is primarily dictated by the age of the engineer. Come back later for an in-depth discussion on that topic. We live for this phase of the problem-solution flow-chart. At this point, if one graph is good, three are better. A sketch or list of the pertinent facts will be produced to scale. We draw, edit and re-edit beautiful flow charts, decision matrices and back them up with solid charts and graphs. Those charts and graphs should describe the exact nature of the uncertainty and the relationship of all the variables in a potential solution.

Off to Engineer Mountain

Once we have checked-off items one through three we then must retreat to engineer mountain to ponder the results. This is a solitary affair and you are not invited. Engineer Mountain is really not a place but, a state of mind. Sometimes this physical place could be a Hacky Sac on the lawn or an office or the conference room. During this phase of problem solving, human interaction is not welcomed nor is it necessary. If human interaction becomes necessary, like some warning of impending doom, you know, fire, earthquake, tornado and alike, the process must be started again. We feel the process is most like building a pyramid. Blocks must be placed sequentially with the details of the solution confronted and overcome one at a time. These parts of the solution must be tested independently in a sort of thought experiment. Cause and effect are very interesting even entertaining. We like this process to build on itself to an apex of complete and orgasmic; clear-cut and final; breathtaking and brilliant, solution. Any disruption to this process will cause us to begin the process again. Should we be disturbed, you should expect a mix of anger, incredulousness and confusion on our part. We may not react well. It also may take an exceptional effort to gain our attention while we are on Engineer Mountain.

When I deliver your solution

Once we have properly studied your problem, sometimes days or weeks later, we will show up, many times unannounced and without an appointment, with our solution to your problem. If you have forgotten all about it and don’t even remember your question, just play along. This might require your whole repertoire or expressions, body language and listening words. Words like brilliant, inspired and grateful are always welcomed.

I hope this has helped. We are also able to answer questions on our feet, however, we always reserve the right to go through this process anyway. We love thought experiments of all kinds and usually can’t resist redundant and unwanted analysis. If you have moved on and find one of us presenting you with this kind of solution, simply refer to item five. We may resist immediate answers but, many times you will find our solutions in this scenario just as useful.

Broken Cadillac

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I hope you can excuse me while I depart from my normal faire. I am having a crisis of, well, usefulness. Today I was confronted with people who cannot admit my chosen avocation is anything other than an unaffordable, silly, even criminal waste of resources. I find myself looking at their logic and trying to understand why I cannot see or understand their point of view. I find myself questioning my job, belief system and even my connection to my understanding of what God wants for me in my life.

This is a little longer than usual but, maybe it is a conversation we need to have.

It started as a pretty good day. I was able to do what I do best with a large part of the day. My favorite and most productive time at work is in the recon. No, not a camouflaged romp on a moonless night. This kind of romp allows me to bring my near twenty years of transportation engineering experience, those late nights of study at Clemson and some common sense to your service. Well, your service if you drive. In these romps my tools are a vehicle, a steno pad and my brain, well, my brain attached to my eyes. I ride a state route, look for defects and decide who should fix the problem, when the problem should be fixed and how the problem should be fixed. The when is very important because, as you probably know, we are in a perpetual state of underfunding at the DOT.

Underfunding you say? I heard you clear your throat, look away and wonder if those left-over steak tips in the refrigerator were still edible. Let me stop and tell you a story.

Your gramps was sittin around with grammy a few decades ago and decided his widget business might take off if he could drive a car instead of ridin Daisy, the horse, to the people buying his widgets. He might even sell a few over in Anywhereville and Podunk. It was a few days ride to those places and he might have a real advantage over his competition with some kind of automobile. He also though that he and grammy might even be able to put some of her fried pies in a basket and drive over to the levee for a picnic from time to time.

So grampaw went downtown and bought a Cadillac. Grammy had to dig pretty deep in the cookie jar to pay for the Caddy. She had to dig even further for the oil changes, tune ups and tires which followed. Well, after a while, grampaw had made so much selling his widgets to his new customers in Podunk that he and grammy were able to go to the beach for the first time since he stormed one in Normandy. Before long your daddy came along and he too used the Caddy. He used it to go over to Backwater University and get his BS degree in stuff and things. Your daddy’s degree was another first in your family’s history. He made a good living with that Caddy. He spent his hard-earned money to take care of your grampaw’s gift and was also able to take you to the beach when you were a kid.

A few years ago, he gave you the Caddy. It needed some work on the transmission but, you said the cost was too high. You justified this decision because you had seen the transmission mechanics taking coffee breaks that were too long. You didn’t change the oil because someone on TV told you it wasn’t necessary. They told you that you could save money on oil by using some kind of a fairy dust. You knew your dad and grampaw had conscientiously bought and changed the oil for years but, you liked the idea of something for nothing. Anyway, you had heard those oil change mechanics were sorry, lazy, overpriced. One morning you woke up and needed the Caddy to get to a work meeting over in Podunk. The Caddy smoked and missed. It quit half-way to Podunk. You got fired.

Did some of the story ring true for you? If it did, you are not a bad person. You are really like everybody else when it comes to roads and funding. As long as your road seems to work then you are ok. You don’t think too hard about roads and bridges. Because, after all, some people on the TV have told you road prices are somehow different from milk prices. Yes, I compared roads to milk. Ok, try this little thought experiment with me. If you were to walk into Wal-Mart and demand milk for 1992 prices what would happen? By the way, 1992 was the last time the gas tax was increased. Do you think Wal-Mart would call people who would take you away in a straight-jacket for a nice relaxing night in a rubber room for making that demand?

But, back to my day in the life…

I ate lunch at a fast food establishment known for taking perfectly healthy fish, adding batter and deep-frying anything approaching healthy out of it. By this time, I had four pages of road defects. Unfortunately, some of the defects will have to wait. The trick, art and science of it is which ones? That’s when you really need me. Which defects are the true “widow makers” like a four-inch pavement drop off and which are inconveniences. I guess I should add one more category. Which defects will cost you the most money in the long run if I don’t fix it today?

It was now time for a meeting about a kinda dangerous set intersections next to the interstate. Two nearby truck stops and series of increasingly busy intersecting roads had boogered the exit to the point the witches brew of trucks and cars had begun to boil over. The best way to fix it was to eliminate some of the crossing roads and combine those crossing roads into one with a traffic signal. I was meeting with the local mayor and some county officials. The big question on everyone’s mind was not if a series of very bad truck versus car accidents was about to happen, it was how we would pay for the improvements. I won’t bore you with the details but, we halved the baby.

I must tell you, I worry that the metaphor turns into a real live thing.

After a few more hours and a few more pages, I met with a DOT neighbor about a driveway. He wanted to build a set of storage buildings where an old set was removed by a tornado four or five years back. I wonder how many storage buildings… who could possibly rent all these things? Anyway, this citizen was upset that his driveway must be permitted and built to today’s rules. After explaining that we engineers were an odd sort and when we figured out building something a certain way killed people, we had a strange way of asking people not to build things that way anymore. I went on to explain the people of the great state of Alabama had spoken and they really felt their gas taxes shouldn’t pay for his new driveway which would kill fewer people. My logic apparently escaped him.

Did my logic make any sense to you? Should I make myself a tin-foil hat?

After a few minutes of the citizen snorting and flinging profanities about government bureaucracy, waste and inefficiency, I noticed he had an identity badge for a local utility. Trying another tack, I asked him if his utility, also a monopoly, didn’t have rules about attaching to their services. I then asked if they didn’t learn lessons and change rules from time to time. He conceded both points but, was unmoved by my logic. Somehow a utility was different from a state DOT. I tell you, the only difference I saw was that his pay and benefits were better. Of course he also had better equipment. He also got paid for his overtime… My utility bill has seen numerous increases since 1992 and sure my neighbors and I gripe for a day or two but, that griping doesn’t morph into some kind of philosophical almost religious vendetta against utility companies.

Just tell me, why is a utility rate hike any different from a gas tax increase?

Finally, on my way home, I got the call all transportation workers dread. There had been a fatality on one of my roads. I use the personal pronoun on purpose. When there are accidents, they are accidents on MY roads. I arrived on the scene to take my pictures and do my investigation just as they were removing the victim from the vehicle. Many times there are next of kin there to identify the body. Today was no exception. There is an emotional gravity placed on your shoulders as a transportation professional at these scenes which defies my written explanation.

The fairy dust didn’t work for this victim. The fairy dust didn’t work for more than 100 others today. I am tired of fairy dust. I want my concrete, asphalt, rocks and steel back. I want a group of dedicated professionals, operators and technicians who aren’t treated as pariahs to use those materials to take care of the Cadillac your grandfather gave you.