Had I known of any other accommodations or thought we could get away with sleeping under the stars, I would have pulled out of the parking lot as soon as we pulled into it. There was a strip of about six rooms encased in cinder block walls and a house across the way, a.k.a. lodge, hanging on from the 1930’s, or so it seemed.
When I walked up to the “office” inside the old house, I was relieved the manager’s name wasn’t Norman Bates. I walked down a dim and eerily quiet hallway, drawn to a light like a bug. The light was emitting from a makeshift office. The live-in lady manager said she didn’t think I was going to make it. It was getting late to check-in.
She kindly escorted me outside and over to the non-descript cinder block and motel room. I noticed she had an old metal, square, floor fan tucked under her arm. That was our “air conditioning.” Inside were three beds, old carpet, cinder block walls and a bathroom occupied by a huge spider. The back window was unlocked. I promptly locked it. Later, I set a booby trap consisting of things that would fall over and make lots of noise if anyone came through it.
“Can you help me with your son’s cot?” the nice lady asked.
I followed her to a nearby shed to retrieve a cot. This was after she offered the alternative, a mattress on the floor.
Had everything not appeared to be clean inside, we would have slept in the car for sure. But it was a long adventurous day and a bed was a bed …or cot. On the other hand, there was no television or radio and no room key if you can believe that!
I mean, where ya gonna go, right?
Finally, after tucking the kids into “bed,” I went outside with a plastic desk chair to sit on the concrete slab. I noticed that the door had eight holes that had been filled in. They looked to be about the size of bullet holes. Then, I tipped back on the chair and broke up the dead – and I mean DEAD – silence humming Hotel California by the Eagles.
Sports Parents
I have been both a youth sports coach and a parent of youths in sports. There are different coaching styles, different levels of skill and different parents.
My wife and I were watching our grade school son play in a flag football league. The year before, he had done well, standing out with some of his play. This year, he was getting lost in the pack. Only a few more games to go and the season would be over. The coach and assistant coach were buddies. Most of the plays went to the assistant coach’s son. He was very good. My philosophy when I coached at this young level was to develop the kids by giving each some meaningful exposure to each position. Call it a difference in coaching philosophy. That said, I understood weighting things to tilt the outcome of games with winning in mind. It is fun to play but it’s really fun to win. I got that.
My wife, Becky, is a very kind, patient, calm and understanding person. As we sat on the sideline she was talking under her breath about the obvious. I was content in riding things out and just accepting life is unfair, sometimes, but you move on. Then, my son was wide-open in the end-zone.
Another father grumbled, “Why didn’t they throw it to him, he can catch.”
Series after series, the plays mainly rotated with the assistant coach’s son. He was good but others were good, too. On the sideline, I could hear more parents voicing their displeasure in watching a team live and die with one player. Becky’s uncharacteristic grumbling raised the ante.
The action on the field was down by the far end zone. This was elementary school flag football so I didn’t think it was a big deal to curve around the edge of the opposite end zone to bring a water bottle to my son, sitting out, while the line of lawn chair parents focused their attention in the other direction. When I got next to the assistant coach, I made a quiet but stern remark to him that it would be nice to rotate more meaningful touches of the ball to the other kids. He said he was in charge of rotations and it was fair. This insulted my intelligence because I knew the scheme they had going. Yes, each kid was put in each position and rotated around but the play-calling rotated with his son, mostly. If it was a pass, he was either the quarterback or primary receiver. If it was a run play, he was the running back. If he was anywhere else, he became the go-to receiver …most of the time.
I added words to the effect that, “No scouts are here. This should be about developing all of the kids for the next level, where at that point, it would be appropriate to feature the star player. But at this level, you are keeping potential other stars buried.”
After huffing silently back to my lawn chair, I asked Becky if she could hear us. She said no and that besides, nobody was looking that way anyway.
We lost again!
That night I got an “earful” from the head coach in an e-mail about my bush-league behavior calling out his assistant coach in the middle of the game. I apologized for my timing but doubled-down on my point.
At the next game, I approached both men and said I was wrong to go about things the way I had and extended a handshake. This loosened things up and we chatted, chuckled and buried the hatchet with the consensus it was a learning experience for all and that good points were absorbed.
The next season, by the luck of the draw, we got the same coaching duo and “star” player. I didn’t ask to switch teams and just went with it. At the first practice, we treated each other like old friends. It was a new start.
At the practice before the first game, the head coach said he would not be at the first game, neither would the assistant coach. They asked one father to be the fill-in head coach and gave him the playbook. They asked me to be his assistant. I agreed. They assured me I didn’t need to prepare or do anything except show up and send kids in and out of the game.
I showed up but the fill-in head coach did not. It was a rude awakening. I was Johnny-on-the-spot. Conspiracy theories raced through my mind. I panicked and then, 15-minutes before kickoff, I grabbed the boys and took control. Fortunately, I had coached before, albeit baseball.
I need to give credit where credit is due; these boys were well coached and knew the plays.
Everything I called, worked wonderfully. The best part is I gave everyone a shot at being the featured running back and the featured receiver. Smiles were off the charts.
The assistant coach’s son told me I wasn’t doing things the way he was used to having them done. He also said he was used to getting the ball more. I knew it was a tough adjustment for him so I said the next two plays would be his.
We easily won. Parents lined up to say kind things to me because they knew it was a baptism by fire. I told parents and the assistant coach’s wife that it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the kids and how well the real coaches prepared them.
I never got thanks from the real coaches for filling in as head coach in a pinch. Nor did I mind. I didn’t want them to feel I showed them up so I became mister volunteer parent for anything they needed for the rest of the season.
Before the last game, I had to fade back and handle a business cell phone call. The assistant coach had called me over with a shout and arm wave and I held a finger to say in a minute, phone in my other hand held to my ear. I had no responsibilities that game and plenty of other parents were there, plus the head coach, to give any needed assistance. Just before kickoff, I found the assistant coach’s wife and handed her a donation for the coaches’ gifts. I sat back, enjoyed the game and afterward, joined the team and parents in a pavilion for the end of season pizza party.
I shook the head coach’s hand and congratulated him on doing a fine job and then extended my hand across the picnic table to the assistant coach offering the same. He didn’t accept. All eyes were watching. I tried again. He said maybe later, his hands were dirty.
Attack of the Blood Thirsty Black Flies
Most of us couldn’t stomach the ferry ride to Pelee Island. It was nighttime and Lake Erie was white capping. Grandma regretted her sugary snack and cup of coffee. Her eyes fixated at the bottom of a bag. The contents of her stomach followed. The boys returned from the bow, soaked head to toe
.
The next day, we awoke at our beachfront rental to sunny skies and waves that were still pretty big. We swam, diving into the breaking waves all morning. Then, we noticed swimming companions peeking out from the water, shooting from waves, doing wild wrapping rituals on the beach. They were Lake Erie Water Snakes; an endangered species but you wouldn’t have known that from looking around. Pelee Island was a haven for them. That ended my swimming for the day, but the kids were having too much fun to care.
Pelee Island was perfect for bicycle riding an afternoon away so that’s what we decided to do. Our destination was to be an old lighthouse built in 1834. Before we set out, we all took turns spraying each other with bug repellent.
“I swear they’re biting me more after I put the repellent on than before,” I complained to my wife, Becky. She said it was my imagination. Maybe it was.
It was time to go and Grandma, my mom, zoomed ahead. She lives life like she’s forever 12.
“Why doesn’t Grandma have to wear a bicycle helmet?” asked my 12-year-old daughter.
“Just ride,” several of us sighed.
My niece was not very good at riding a bicycle, especially compared to her daredevil little brother. So, the pack broke in two. I kept pace with my daughter, son and nephew. My mom stayed back – much as she loved riding fast with a huge grin and wild eyes – with my niece, wife, sister and sister's boyfriend. About every quarter-mile, my niece wiped out. But the fractured pack kept moving down the road to an end of the island where we would eventually pick up a trailhead to a beach and finally the lighthouse.
I kept getting bit by black flies. No one else seemed to notice, so I gutted it out and continued. I really had no choice. It was more of a nuisance than anything else. Nearly two miles into the ride, there was a considerable gap between my group of kids and my niece’s group of adults. I nearly jackknifed my bike I was bit so damn hard by a black fly. It hurt but that pain was quickly eclipsed by another, and another and another.
I was miserable.
It turned out that I was no longer the only one. My daughter and nephew were ahead of my son and me. They slowed down because the black flies grew thicker and thicker. The four of us pressed on a little bit further, hoping we’d blow through the swarm. By the time we reached the end of the road and the beginning of the trailhead, we were engulfed in a cloud of black flies. My daughter was hurting out loud, my son had no filter as he shrieked from the constant biting, and my little nephew suffered in silence. I yelled at the flies. It was all I could do before we turned around and tried to flee. My daughter was the fastest out of there. I hung back with the two young boys. They needed to keep both hands on their handlebars and that kept them from swatting at the meat-eating flies. The swarm was so thick, and the bites so ferocious, my son was bleeding. I considered maybe it was my scent since I had attracted them long before anyone else even noticed. I told the boys to ride ahead and follow my daughter.
Once they were well ahead of me, I rode like the wind in my effort to escape the misery. But misery was glued to me. As it turned out, the flies never left the boys, either, nor my daughter for that matter. When the four of us flew past the slower-paced riders, headed in the opposite direction, the kids were screaming in pain – except for my silent nephew – from the constant biting. As the slower group described to us later, when we flew past them our white shirts looked black, and we resembled a bad Pig-Pen scene from the Peanuts comic strip. As for me, they reported that I looked just like a bee-keeper blanketed in bees. The black cloud stuck to me no matter where I went. As I rode past the slower group, I yelled to turn around but it was too late. The flies swarmed them, too, unbeknownst to me because I had the boys to worry about. My daughter was too far ahead for me to have any immediate concern.
It was sheer terror for about two miles. At some point, my wife left her slower group and caught up to us, typical of a mother needing to protect her young.
I had to make the painful decision to have the boys stop their bicycles a couple of times to shake and swat the flies away.
After a while, I said, “Just ride! The only way this is going to stop is getting back to the house.”
It was awful not being able to help them. Both boys were downright scared. My son yelled out loud. My nephew had horror in his eyes but never said a peep. They both rode and rode because there was no alternative. They looked to me for help but there was nothing I could do except emphasize that the only way to make it stop was to get back so ride-ride-ride!
Finally, we got back, shook the flies off and ran inside to safety. I went back outside to look down the road to see how far back the others were. That’s when my sister skid across the lawn, jumped from her bike before it stopped and sped off in her car. It happened in a blur.
Because my niece couldn’t ride a bike far under normal conditions, she was being eaten alive along with everyone in her group. She was in hysterics by the time the rescue vehicle brought her back.
An hour later, small amounts of blood were wiped from the fair-skinned youngsters. Tears dried and medicine applied, we sat around the room overlooking the beach and lake, completely drained from the experience.
My niece joined us. She was washed up and wrapped in a towel for comfort.
Since I wasn’t with her on the ride, I said, “Tell me about your awesome bike ride.”
Her bottom lip puffed out as she softly replied, “I fell down a hill, got scraped and got eaten by flies.”
“So it was fun,” I teased.
“No,” she said sheepishly.
“Was it kind of fun?” Grandma asked.
She looked through sad eyes with that puffy lip expression and faintly said, “Yes.”
The room erupted in laughter because we all knew this was an incredible experience we’d not soon forget.
Dead Bolt
I was exhausted as I stepped onto the elevator to go to the second floor. Elevator to the second floor, ridiculous, I know.
The doors opened. The convenience of seeing my room right off the elevator lobby made me crack a smile just as an elderly woman passed with a bucket of ice. Her smile back made me uncomfortable.
Sliding my keycard to get the green light to enter, I fumbled everything. Three hands were needed. The little light turned red just as I cranked the locked handle up – only it didn’t go up. On my second try it worked so I quickly used my butt to wedge the door open enough to transfer my baggage from inches outside of the room to inches inside it.
Once on the inside, I kicked my stuff to the side just enough to close the door. I flipped the deadbolt but it froze just shy of locking. I was too tired to complain. I swung the chain lock over and leaned an ironing board against the door to sound an alarm …just in case. I was out like a light.
My eyes snapped open from a sound sleep as I sprang from the bed. The door had been breached. The penetrating sound of the ruptured chain lock combined with the crashing ironing board shot an overdose of alarm through my previously comatose body.
I gustily yelled some intimidating “stuff” – Oh yah, I have pipes – at the scoundrel breaking into my room.
Then, I flung open the door – thinking maybe I should have stopped at the peep hole – to catch a glimpse of the burglar bolting through the door leading to the staircase beyond the elevator.
I called the front desk only to find out, according to the clerk, that this dude was a regular and always got this room so she absent-mindedly gave him a key.
Unbelievable!
But I believed her incompetency excuse. There was fear in her voice of losing a much needed job as she rattled off the name and number of her manager and next of kin.
I’m not the snitching type so I forgave her and said, “No worries.”
The clerk’s ramblings described this dude as being more than freaked out by the encounter.
As I sat down, I laughed my ass off at what had just happened, thinking of the buzz kill I must have served the guy looking to crash in my room.
It could have been worse. What if I awoke to him sliding in bed with me? Now, that would have been a “dead bolt!”
Vanity
I hadn’t been to a high school reunion since the tenth. But I planned to go to my 25th. And as it approached, I got ready.
Teeth whitening – check!
Lose weight – check!
Sun tan – check!
Haircut – check!
New clothes – check!
“You’re worse than a woman,” said my wife, Becky – easy coming from someone who wakes up looking great.
In my “makeover” for the class reunion, I stopped using my tooth whitener from the dentist. It was making my gums hurt. Well, one more treatment for good measure, despite the deep sharp pain. Then, I was done. My workout routine went from grueling to tilt! On the last day before we traveled, I biked, ran and rowed the whole day away. Then, I went to the pool and swam. I remember that my system was experiencing some sort of shock. After all, my internal temperature was at an all-time high, it was a very hot and humid afternoon and that water was ice cold. I swam, laid in the hot sun, swam some more, opening my eyes underwater. That night, my body temperature was still boiling so I put the fan on high and positioned it right at me.
Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief Page 21
