“Honey, you’ve never done this before, have you?”
This was more of a statement than a question, and it was uttered the day before Thanksgiving by a Wal-Mart greeter in response to my wife’s questions about shopping strategies for the big sales on Friday morning. We have never shopped on the Friday after Thanksgiving before, and I suppose I have always felt a little bit of pride about that.
We were researching. Marcy had found some Black Friday ads, and we were checking out the stores, looking at the products, and noting their locations inside the acres of textiles. From the way the Wal-Mart greeter told it, customers would arrive during the night and patrol the store like unblinking sharks waiting for 5:00am to roll around. If we waited until 5:00 to show up, there would be nothing but desolation left.
Friday morning, I got up at 4:00. Neither my wife nor I were wildly revved up about this, but we had seen some good deals. If we scored, it would be nice. If not, we would be no worse for the wear. At least we hoped. While Marcy stayed home with the sleeping children, I ventured to the stores. Feeling fairly certain I would not be able to get my hands on anything from our list, I decided my primary objective would be to observe the people and a situation that was entirely new to me.
We had planned our strategy together: Best Buy first at 5:00, followed by Wal-Mart immediately after, Target at 6:00, and Wal-Greens on the way home. I pulled into Best Buy at 4:20, cup of coffee in hand. The line was about 5 people wide and extended from Best Buy’s front door past Clumpies, past Petsmart, past the several other shops along the sidewalk, and on around the corner. I sauntered up to the line sipping my coffee and ready to observe American culture in action. I was hoping not to see the stereotype drawn by the Wal-Mart greeter. Certainly there would be good and decent people in line. It wouldn’t be pure animal behavior, would it? After all, I was here, right?
I was by turns pleasantly surprised and undeniably disgusted throughout the morning. At the front of the line a scaled-down high-school football team of five strapping boys sat in nylon camp chairs watching portable DVD players, eating snacks, and quaffing hot drinks. As I approached, two mini-vans pulled up with sliding doors opening; mom’s poured out refilling drinks and snacks, taking chairs and electronics as the boys prepared for the impending consumerism. Someone arriving behind me laughed and asked when the boys had arrived. 11:00 last night, they said. It was clearly an adventure, maybe even a tradition. The latecomers trekked on towards the end of the line with well-wishes from the frontlines. After estimating that there were easily over 1,000 people standing in line, I decided to abandon the initial strategy and head to Wal-Mart first.
Two things struck me immediately as the automatic doors whooshed open. First was the absolute silence. Second was the absence of all carts. During the night, Wal-Mart employees had wheeled out pallets of goods; the pallets were pre-wrapped in brown paper. Customers had torn little holes in the paper in order to see what was where before they staked their claim. According to Wednesday’s greeter, Wal-Mart employees would rip off the paper at 5:00. The aisles were jam-packed with empty carts and silent customers. There was no room to move. One of the employees asked his manager, “How are we going to get in there and pull the paper off?”
“You’ll just have to work your way in,” the manager shrugged.
“You really think that’ll work?” the employee returned.
It turned out to be a moot point. At precisely 4:54 I heard the sound of ripping paper. An employee began waving his arms and trying to weave through the carts. “Step away from the pallets!” he yelled. Customers were digging in. The middle-aged women looked up from their prey like lions over a zebra to assess the potential threat. Did he have a gun? Could he even get to them? A furtive glance was all the assurance they needed before they returned to their task. It was as if someone shouted, “GO!” Paper went flying in shreds. Managers could barely be heard on the PA system yelling for customers step away from the pallets. It was havoc; it was spectacle; it was animal. It reminded me of a soda that had been shook and then opened by an unsuspecting victim.
There were collisions. There were tears. There were different strategies in play. One pair of women had obviously arrived early in the morning and camped near pallets. One grabbed two TVs while at the opposite end her partner grabbed two DVD players. They passed for a minute, congratulating each other on the attainments before continuing the feeding frenzy. A minute later, I saw the woman with the DVD players yelling at her partner. Apparently, she had left her cart for a second and someone else snatched the TVs. Although I had scored a cart just before the paper shredding, I felt comfortable leaving it here and there as I was not out for big purchases. The coolest thing I was shopping for today was a toaster oven. Not exactly a hot item it seems.
By 5:11 I was checking out and by 5:19 I was back at Best Buy. Best Buy was calmer. Everyone waited outside. Every time eight customers left the store, they let eight more in. The conversation was amicable and light-hearted in line. Everyone seemed convinced they would not get what they were shopping for. The elderly couple behind me kept saying, “Well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.” They must have concluded two-dozen paragraphs with that preemptive consolation. “I wonder where in the store we’ll find the DVD players? I wonder if there are any left. Oh well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.”
“Why do they call it Black Friday?” someone asked. I had been wondering the same thing. Was it an oblique and symbolic acknowledgment of our own excessive culture? Was it because everyone had been up well before the crack of dawn?
“It’s when businesses go back in the black,” a woman answered. “Didn’t you know that?” Well, we're all just here doing our civic duty then.
Best Buy employees began walking down the line at 5:47. “What are you shopping for?" they’d ask. The answer was almost always laptops, computers, or LCD TVs. When they came to me I replied, “A TV.” Ours has no picture, and it has been that way for months. Literally no picture. It projects a black screen with an intensely bright white line crossing its midsection. And the sound is going, too.
"What kind of TV?” asked the employee.
“20-inch Insignia for $54,” I quoted the ad.
“You can go in,” the employee said. Apparently not a hot item either.
The couple in front of me congratulated me on my access. “Thank you,” I said. “See you soon,” I added. We had already exchanged Thanksgiving stories and brief family histories. I felt like I knew them.
The last 40 yards to the doors held more surprises. On the sidewalk lay abandoned sleeping bags, discarded playing card decks, a scattered UNO game, banana peels, bananas, hundreds of coffee cups, some spilled coffee, hand-warmer packs, pop-tarts, oatmeal packets, a thermos, plastic spoons, Styrofoam bowls, batteries (I assumed dead), a broken CD, and local news reporters.
As I walked into the store, I made room for a team of employees aiding a happy customer with his purchases: a box measuring approximately six feet long, four feet high, and about a foot deep containing a wall-mount plasma television. The successful bargain hunter and the workers wrestled his massive kill into the back of his $60,000 pick-up truck with other big purchases: a desktop computer, monitor, scanner-printer, a desk for it all, and big speakers. With his trophies strapped down, the urban hunter headed off into the predawn morning.
Before I walked in, I glanced down at Target. Another huge crowd waited for the doors that would be open in 13 minutes.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
What? No Warranty?
When each of our children were born, the hospital gave us a booklet titled, “Caring for Your Newborn”. It was about the same size, shape, and weight as our car manual. The chapters were similar, too. The car manual has a section on fluids and amounts, so does the baby manual. The car manual has a section on its sound system; the baby manual details what infants should be able to hear at different developmental levels and how they should be responding to noises. They both have a maintenance schedule included.
It reminds me of a congratulations card I received from one of my students. On the front it says, “Congratulations on your baby boy!” and on the inside it reads, “What are you going to do with it?” When I read that to my dad, he wryly replied, “Good question.” That, of course, reminded me of the Sunday School series we attended a while ago about raising boys to have an identity in Christ, to be masculine, to treat women well, and to be holy.
The baby manual didn’t address any of that.
One thing I try to teach my third graders is to have a healthy others-esteem. I started this several years ago after learning that the strongest self-esteems in history belonged to Hitler, Stalin, and the like. When you think about it, it makes sense. I stress to my students the importance of valuing and respecting other people. So I have two class rules. The first is “Respect”. The second is “Remember Rule Number 1.” Of course we spend hours throughout the year talking about what respect looks like, feels like, and sounds like. We parse the littlest situations with respect lenses.
When I taught at a Christian school, I had two rules posted. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”
I like this version better. It is easy for us to love God with our heart and soul, but I think we sometimes forget to love God with our mind. Also, loving your neighbor as yourself implies that you have a healthy (if not overly strong) self-respect.
It all boils down to humility and grace, really. If your definitions on those two are a little rusty, let me offer you these. Grace is basically treating other people better than they deserve. Think about exercising grace in the grocery store or on the freeway. Humility is not thinking poorly of yourself. It’s not being falsely bashful when given compliments. Humility is simply not thinking of yourself, but thinking of others first.
Some people think being gracious with humility means being a doormat. That’s not true. It’s a way of treating people and a way of behaving. It’s an imitation of Christ. It’s easier to do if you know Christ personally and then know who you are in Christ.
So, my wife and I will do our best to change the baby every 3 hours, log the developmental benchmarks, make the appropriate doctor visits, teach literacy skills, feed them healthy food, and give them the right kind of milk. But, I hope to teach through daily example how to live with grace and humility and respect.
Jer. 9:23-24
This is what the LORD says:
"Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom
or the strong man boast of his strength
or the rich man boast of his riches,
but let him who boasts boast about this:
that he understands and knows me,
that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness,
justice and righteousness on earth,
for in these I delight,"
declares the LORD.
It reminds me of a congratulations card I received from one of my students. On the front it says, “Congratulations on your baby boy!” and on the inside it reads, “What are you going to do with it?” When I read that to my dad, he wryly replied, “Good question.” That, of course, reminded me of the Sunday School series we attended a while ago about raising boys to have an identity in Christ, to be masculine, to treat women well, and to be holy.
The baby manual didn’t address any of that.
One thing I try to teach my third graders is to have a healthy others-esteem. I started this several years ago after learning that the strongest self-esteems in history belonged to Hitler, Stalin, and the like. When you think about it, it makes sense. I stress to my students the importance of valuing and respecting other people. So I have two class rules. The first is “Respect”. The second is “Remember Rule Number 1.” Of course we spend hours throughout the year talking about what respect looks like, feels like, and sounds like. We parse the littlest situations with respect lenses.
When I taught at a Christian school, I had two rules posted. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”
I like this version better. It is easy for us to love God with our heart and soul, but I think we sometimes forget to love God with our mind. Also, loving your neighbor as yourself implies that you have a healthy (if not overly strong) self-respect.
It all boils down to humility and grace, really. If your definitions on those two are a little rusty, let me offer you these. Grace is basically treating other people better than they deserve. Think about exercising grace in the grocery store or on the freeway. Humility is not thinking poorly of yourself. It’s not being falsely bashful when given compliments. Humility is simply not thinking of yourself, but thinking of others first.
Some people think being gracious with humility means being a doormat. That’s not true. It’s a way of treating people and a way of behaving. It’s an imitation of Christ. It’s easier to do if you know Christ personally and then know who you are in Christ.
So, my wife and I will do our best to change the baby every 3 hours, log the developmental benchmarks, make the appropriate doctor visits, teach literacy skills, feed them healthy food, and give them the right kind of milk. But, I hope to teach through daily example how to live with grace and humility and respect.
Jer. 9:23-24
This is what the LORD says:
"Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom
or the strong man boast of his strength
or the rich man boast of his riches,
but let him who boasts boast about this:
that he understands and knows me,
that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness,
justice and righteousness on earth,
for in these I delight,"
declares the LORD.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Catapulted
The pilot seemed to enjoy himself on takeoff. There was a little more thrust involved than I remember from this past summer’s flights. I feel like I am being catapulted from Chattanooga to Cincinnati in a giant arc. I suppose it’s not much different from being catapulted, except that someone is steering the load.
Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)
As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.
I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.
But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.
I really wish I were there.
It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.
I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.
I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.
I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.
Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.
Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.
Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.
It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.
I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.
Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.
I will call her then.
Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)
As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.
I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.
But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.
I really wish I were there.
It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.
I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.
I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.
I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.
Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.
Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.
Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.
It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.
I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.
Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.
I will call her then.
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