If Only I Were A Poet

Watering the bare patches of lawn, dug up by dogs or withered by neglect, a hummingbird drops by.

If only I were a poet, I could describe the feeling, the sense.

Old, busted nozzle, constantly turned to ON, barely useful years ago. Spraying water every which way, some even onto the intended grass.

The main arc — the most relevant stream — attracts a large flapping bug. First glances deceive; it’s a feisty Rufous bird, if my color vision isn’t fooling me like always.

Oh if only.

Several sorties, in and out, back and fro. He She It even comes to inspect me. The water stream, though, is far more interesting than a middle aged suburban man on the brink of awareness.

There’s learning to be had, epiphanies to be shocked with. Why a hummingbird? Why me?

“Shut up,” it hums, “I’m just thirsty.”

If only I were a hummingbird.

Subway Subterfuge And Other Fast Food Falsehoods

When the injustices pile up so high that you can’t see over them, it’s time to act. If you’ve been wronged again and again, to stay silent and not speak is untenable. Where others have fallen, you must stand up and march forth.

I’m referring, of course, to Pizza Hut.

Pizza Hut and its tyrannical brothers Subway and Little Caesars. Oh the challenges that we in the suburbs in our middle ages must endure.

It all comes down to marketing. And I am man enough to admit I fell into their heinous trap. The first time was when I saw the commercial from Pizza Hut saying, “Any Pizza, Any Size, Any Crust, Any Topping for only $10.”

Naturally, being a wide-eyed, unsuspecting consumer, I ordered a large, one-topping, stuffed crust pizza and drove my smug self down Livernois to my local red roofed establishment. What could be better? Life was grand. This is why America rules the Universe.

“That’ll be $12.72,” said the sullen cashier.

“Oh no, no, no. You must be mistaken,” I said. “Everything is ten dollars. I could purchase one of those naugahyde banquettes in the dining room and maybe that autographed copy of Champ Summers hanging on the wall and still only owe a measly ten spot.”

“That’ll be $12.72,” said the sullen cashier.

“But, the commercial… the promotion,” I stammered.

“Certain pizzas don’t count. Stuffed crust is extra. That’ll be $12.72,” said the sullen cashier.

Not being one to storm out of a restaurant in a tirade and — this is key — being hungry, I shelled out the extra couple bucks. But boy did I let them have it. I’m not proud of my outburst, but as I was leaving, I shook my head a few times and let a noticeable grimace cross my face. Man, they’ll be talking about that display for years to come.

I thought the malfeasance was an aberration (my English Concentration at Alma College helped me with that last sentence). But lo and behold, during a long distance drive to the wilds of Kentucky I stumbled onto yet another example of wanton corporate abuse, Subway.

We’ve all heard the Five Dollar Foot Long jingle. Actually, to call it a jingle is an insult to Christmas songs everywhere. It’s more of a two note Gregorian Chant without all the excitement normally associated with such. They extended their promotion to include any sandwich at any time during certain months. Hopefully the advertising geniuses who came up with ANYtober or FebruANY were sent to the bread lines (but with a choice of wheat, parmesan or honey oat.)

Yes, I fell victim once again to their lying lies. When I walked my tired, aching traveller’s butt into the store and ordered a sub, I was asked to pay seven something. But wait, any, any, any, right?

“That’ll be seven something,” said the sullen cashier.

I knew better than to start something I couldn’t finish in Kentucky. So it was with great politeness and a ya’ll or two that I inquired about the price. I was informed with perfect diction and eloquent speech that my particular sub didn’t qualify as “any.” All cashiers at every Kentucky restaurant are models of decency and charm (and that officially ends my probationary period, handed down by the judge just outside of Big Bone Lick State Park).

Yes, it’s a real place. No, I didn’t run afoul of the law. It’s comedy, kidz!

I thought my travails would have ended there. What could be worse than getting stiffed at Big Bone Lick? (sorry Judge). But last night I slammed headfirst into a hometown hot-n-ready heartbreaker.

Watching the Tigers game, I was lured by advertising once again. Little Caesars told us (again and again and again) that they have Hot-N-Ready pizzas available all the time. One lovely young girl explained that her father hates to waste time, so life is much better in her household now that dear old domineering dad doesn’t have to wait five extra minutes to pick up his pizza. “I like pizza,” I said to the couch “and I don’t like waiting around,” I explained to my remote.

So off I drove off to our nearby Little Seizures. I ran into Gary from next door along the way and asked if he wanted anything. Heck, I’d pick up pizzas for the whole neighborhood if they were hot and they were “n-ready.”

Gary knew the story. “Are you going to get one of those 3 Meat Treats?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “What could be better?”

I can’t over-emphasize how great life felt at that point. My neighbor and I singing the praises of a locally owned pizza chain, driving with the top down in a car that wasn’t even a convertible and the Tigers coming from behind in late innings.

Then I screeched to a halt.

When I placed my order, ready to dance out of the store like they do on television, the sullen clerk said, “We don’t have any of those.”

“Wait … but … your sign says ‘All Day, Every Day’ are they not hot and not ready?”

“We don’t have any of those,” said the sullen clerk.

I felt like somebody had taken my precious, kitten-like emotions, toyed diabolically with them and then dumped ucky, cold tomato sauce all over me. I was Carrie at the prom. I was Mark Wahlberg drowning at the end of The Perfect Storm. I was the other kid in Sophie’s Choice.

It was then and there that I resolved to never fall prey to seductive, misleading ad campaigns again, at least until something else really cool sounding comes along. I waited my five minutes, just like the older French lady in line behind me and we had a good little discussion about Sarkozy, the Euro Zone and 3 Meat Treat pizzas (that’s totally true).

If French ex-pats are eating our pizza, who am I to get all hot-n-sweaty by false advertising? Still, I can’t help but wonder, If those of us on the front lines don’t stand up to tyranny, who will?

Mayor McCheese?

There's An App For That

This photo of Rodney’s arm was taken by a doctor who wishes to remain anonymous, even though he did a smart thing with a smart phone.When I reluctantly arrived at the Emergency Room over the weekend, I was convinced my stay would last forever and cost thousands of dollars. I grumbled as I drove down to the ER across from Costco; these visits have cost me so much in the past — time and money.

And it was for a ridiculous reason. When they swap out your bone marrow for someone else’s, you have to get all your newborn baby shots again. Damn, those babies have it rough. The inoculations hurt and can leave you with flu-like symptoms for days. And they can swell your arm up something fierce.

I was fine with just letting nature take its course, but when my bicep got bigger without me pumping iron, my doctors told me to go have it checked out. Ergh, grumble, moan … okay.

It turns out, I was the only patient they had and I drew a funny, laid back doc. He said I was fine and let me know it was a natural reaction. After spending a few minutes chatting he said, “Let me get some pictures.”

Okay, a few X-rays and maybe some antihistamines, right? No. Instead, he grabbed my iPhone and snapped some photos using the camera app.

He said, “I’m probably not supposed to do that, but if your arm gets any worse, at least you’ll have a record of how it looked before.”

I thought that was really smart. A few more questions, a check of my pulse and temperature and I was outta there quicker than a Costco excursion across the street.

I chuckled all the way home. Much more fun than grumbling.

These Moments

I want to remember these moments. These subtle, daily moments that have come to represent my not-totally-healed self. I fear forgetting them on my onward march toward wholeness.

Being shy of my baldness, the myriad stacks of caps that sprout around the house serve as my one consolation to suburban sprawl. When my wife or daughters leave things out and about in the common areas of the house I’m offended. When I do, it’s purpose-driven. Of all the things I hope to remember, I’d like to forget that double standard.

I’d like to remember my pill pile that I visit every morning and evening. Several of them I take because I’m taking several others of them.

I met the lovely Hope yesterday and realized I need to be thankful for littler things. The lovely young Amal (“Hope” in Arabic) hasn’t found a bone marrow match and fears the return of her cancer, which it’s done once already. Her hijab is a constant companion, just like my baseball hats.

I understood, vaguely and briefly, that I am sometimes too busy rushing toward my ideal self and avoiding the inevitable learning curve that comes from being slowed down by illness beyond my control. Just like losing my job or all the ridiculous things that have jumped in front of me, I want to learn and grow and change from having dealt with them. But in so many ways, I feel like I’m the same old crusty Rodney.

On good days I tell myself that that Rodney guy was pretty cool and ask why I’d want to change him. At bad times I wonder how I’ve gone through so much without so much as an upward tick on my self actualization meter. In pushing toward finding a new career and total health, I sometimes seem to forget the now. And now is loaded with learning.

Moments form steps. One step at a time.

Um, Yah, Yah!

Not only did our daughter Skye fall in love with St. Olaf, but they fell for her too. photo by Rodney CurtisOur dear, darling daughter has finally made her collegiate decision, but it was not without fits and starts. We visited colleges from sea to shining sea over the past few years. Who knew she’d end up on top of a remote hill, in the middle of rural Minnesota?

Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of St. Olaf. Most of her friends haven’t either. They say, “Skye? …. Saint? We never would’ve thought you’d attend a school whose first name is Saint.”

It’s not like our daughter’s a rampant sinner or diametrically opposed to anything religious. On the contrary, she’s very spiritual. It’s just people make certain assumptions about things based on names alone. For instance, you wouldn’t expect Conservatives to be conservationists.

During our college visits, we’ve seen a lot of campuses and taken a whole bunch of tours. No Admissions Department was as incredible as the one at St. Olaf. They’re known for courting the whole family; I realized this as I munched on duck empanadas at the president’s shindig for prospective parents.

Another dad I met there mentioned this was his fifth event so far. He told the story of being wined and dined with other Chicago-area parents at a lavish affair on the Magnificent Mile. They then all strolled down the street to an enormous cathedral and were ushered into the front pews of a standing-room-only performance of the St. Olaf choir. He contrasted that with a meeting he had at another college where a harried Admissions officer met him at a back table of a crowded Panera and he had to pay for his own coffee.

As other colleges showed varying degrees of interest in our daughter, St. Olaf phoned and wrote and offered scholarships. They even revised their awards upward after hearing about our financial concerns. In separate meetings on campus, everybody seemed to know Skye already. Kathy Ruby, the Financial Aid guru laughed and quoted one of our daughter’s notes verbatim. And Brian Burgemeister (yes, his name is one letter shy of that guy in Santa Claus Is Coming To Town) deserves a medallion for dealing with Marci and I.

Skye loves them and they love Skye. There’s nothing more important.

It’s a very incongruous college. The tiny town of Northfield, Minnesota hosts two incredible schools of higher learning. On opposing hills, flanking their main drag, Carleton College sits to the East and St. Olaf to the West. Thus, Northfield’s motto, emblazoned on their official town signs is “Cows, Colleges, and Contentment.”

Any small town, though, that has a great Indian restaurant, has my vote. Cows, Colleges, and Curry for me. Not to mention Malt-O-Meal, but I’ll get to that.

A student named Bjorn (what else would you expect at a college named after a Norwegian King?) told us if you don’t like reading a lot, then discussing what you’ve read, don’t come to St. Olaf. Skye was hooked. She immediately applied for and was accepted into their Great Conversations course, which meets for two years. Basically, you live with a bunch of other students who love to read, read, read then talk about what they’ve just read, read, read.

Voted amongst the top ten nationwide for college cuisine (see duck empanadas above) I know my kid’s going to eat well during those cold Minnesota winters. I realize I’m sounding like a brochure for the school; can you tell I’m trying to sell myself on her being so far away?

I did my research though. I was worried about a lot of different things. Some rational (is it really a dry campus in the middle of a cornfield?), others totally irrational (yes, in fact they keep a thick file on ghost sightings in the cool, fun olde tyme buildings). So in my quest to ease “your” minds about the college in the middle of nowhere, I compiled this list of extremely pertinent facts.

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #1: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby dropped out of St. Olaf after only two weeks because he could not bear the janitorial job with which he was paying his tuition.

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #2: Betty White’s character on The Golden Girls came from St. Olaf.

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #3: That honey badger narrator is a graduate of St. Olaf. The internet meme has been viewed more than 43 million times.

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #4: Their fight song, Um Yah Yah, is the only college fight song in the U.S. that’s a waltz. They also chant “Um Yah Yah” fourteen times in the song, which is fourteen times more than any other school in the world. Click on the link if you want to sing along. (The tipping point for Marci were their amazing Um Yum Yum cookies).

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #5: An enormous wind turbine that dominates their “skyline” saves the school a quarter million dollars in electricity costs every year. They were the first liberal arts college in the nation to construct one for the sole purpose of providing energy to the campus.

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #6: They make Malt-o-Meal, the delicious warm breakfast cereal, about twenty steps from campus. The smells waft over Carleton or St. Olaf, depending on the prevailing winds. (subfact: this blogging software can be horrible with lining up graphic elements, depending on the prevailing winds).

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #7: Their national-award-winning Rube Goldberg team has more girls on it than any of the other national Rube Goldberg teams. They made this fun ad for Target.

FUN ST. OLAF FACT #8: And last but certainly not least, there is a long history between Garrison Keillor and the school, including this past fall when he broadcast Prairie Home Companion from their Skoglund Center Auditorium.

My mentor, Bill Palmer of Alma College, has helped me come to terms with actually sending my kids away to college instead of keeping them locked under the stairs. He says St. Olaf has a wonderful reputation among educators so I’m loosening my clutches, albeit hesitantly. Even stranger yet, I found out during our conversation that Bill thinks I would make a good spokesman or Admissions guy for a college I believed in.

Maybe I can get a job there and move the whole family to join Skye. Are you listening Mr. Burgemeister?

Um Yah Yah!