On a typical drive, if you head north from our area in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex towards Oklahoma, you hit the border in approximately an hour.  You can push it like a wild man and maybe save five minutes.  You can go exactly the speed limit and it may take an hour and four minutes.

Regardless, you aren’t going to get there much faster unless you strap jet-propelled rockets to the car roof, and you probably aren’t falling too far behind if you slow down, unless there is a major traffic jam.  In the case of a blockage, you are stuck.

A couple of weeks ago, I headed up I-35 along this track to our dad’s house in Topeka, Kansas.  I started the journey in a peaceful state-of-mind, ready for seven hours of solitude, contemplation and M&M’s.

In less than an hour, I had flipped someone the bird, cursed three times, purposefully blocked someone from passing me, and laughed to myself at another driver’s outrageous behavior.  All this happened before hitting the border.

The first situation occurred north of Denton.   I was in the right lane, and looked in the rearview mirror.  There were several cars in the left-hand passing lane, so I turned my blinker on and waited.

One car passed, then two and a third and fourth.  I continued looking in the mirror and saw a large gap coming up and prepared to shift lanes.   A white Dodge Challenger decided this was not acceptable.  He stomped on the gas, floored it to close the opening, and blocked me from shifting over.  I think he’s the one who got the finger.

The next nut case was more amusing than anything.  Highway signs let us know we were coming up on road construction and must merge to the right.   For anyone who lives in an urban megalopolis, you know this incites many individuals to drive as fast as they can to get as close to the merge arrow as possible, rather than gently and immediately beginning the merge process in a sane way. 

A pickup truck decided this was his next step – to see how far he could get before having to merge.  A semi decided otherwise.  The semi-truck driver, bless his heart, took up both lanes to block the pickup. 

Comically, the pickup accelerated and decelerated to tailgate the semi, I guess under the presumption that he could get the semi to move faster.  That was not going to happen.  This continued for a mile until there was only one lane left as an option.  I smiled to myself as I pulled in behind them.

The third crazy person just so happened to be another pickup truck driver, which really surprised me.  His goal was to see if he could get off on the shoulder and shoot by everyone, then bring his vehicle back onto the two highway lanes.


Again, another semi-truck blocked his efforts.  He swung his rig in and out of the right lane and the shoulder every time the pickup tried to move around him.  It was a dance.

Pickup move to the right, semi would anticipate and head to the right to slow him down.  Pickup move to the left, and the semi would shift over to prevent that attempt.  After a mile or so of this, no options were left, and again, both merged into one lane.

Car traffic psychosis astounds me.  What did the drivers think they would gain by their antics?  Gain 14 seconds on their trip? 

It took less than an hour to experience three major nut cases.  Thankfully, as the road opened up, the psychosis appeared to dissipate with it.  I think there’s a lesson in that.

Like so many other things when it comes to idiots like me, car clocks are set in such a way to drive the owner batty.  They can’t make it simple.

Before digital timing, we would wind old alarm clocks or watches, set the minute and hour hands by turning a ridged knob, then click it back into place.  Then twist it a few times to ensure the clock was wound up and ready to run.  That was it.  Done.

Some alarm clocks, watches and car clocks still operate under this mode of simplicity.  Their makers are smart because they understand most of us:  1) Don’t want to read directions to be able to set a clock.  2) Won’t read the directions regardless of how confused we get.  3) Can’t remember where the directions have been stored (Glove compartment?  Bedside table?).

No matter which of these three (or more) reasons apply, the point is we don’t like to spend time figuring out how to operate a clock.  We should be able to “get it” without directions.

Car manufacturers disagree, as do many alarm clock equipment companies.  They figure the more complicated they can make the settings, the better their sales will be or the fewer customer complaints they’ll have.  Quite frankly, I think greater complexity drives sales down and complaints up, but that’s just me.

My car, a Hyundai Accent, recently died on a hot Texas summer afternoon.  It had hesitated a couple of times the past few weeks, so its death was not a complete surprise.  We got it jumped and running, and I took it into the WalMart car center the next day to avoid any future trouble.  The battery was close to zero percent in terms of its charge, so this was a good decision to get it replaced. 

Driving off, everything seemed great, except my clock wasn’t set properly.  That was five days ago.  I still haven’t fixed it.

There are several reasons for this:  1) I don’t really care if my car clock is accurate.  2) I’m lazy.  3) I don’t want to pull out the directions and read them.  4) Every time we’ve reset the clock in the past, it’s taken advice from Albert Einstein to get it running accurately again.

So I leave it the way it is.  At some point, inertia, motivation or Feng Shui Bagua will take over, and my intelligence and drive will over-power the complications inherent in getting it back online and synced to the rest of the world’s clocks.

That day could be soon.  Last week, I drove to meet a colleague for coffee.  I parked early for an 8:30 a.m. appointment and checked some emails on my smart phone because the clock said it was 23 minutes after the hour.  I didn’t look to see what hour it was nor whether 23 minutes-after was the correct number.  Looking at my smart phone, it suddenly became 8:34.  OOOPS.

So much for being on time.  I got out, loped in, and had a great conversation started about the complications in changing the time on the car clock display and how I’ve screwed it up repeatedly in the past, making me hesitant to take on the task again.  This drew a laugh, and our conversation began.

Procrastination might be a good tactic in terms of fixing the time on your car clock.  It helps jump-start conversations.  You can poke fun at yourself.  Others will chuckle in alignment with your difficulties.

This builds a connection to others, and maybe they will share their secret on fixing their own car clock. If not, you always have the written directions to pore over, if you can just interpret them properly. 

Does anyone play the piano anymore?  Of course they do.  Sometimes it doesn’t seem like it though.

Our neighbor down the block has a piano on his driveway.  The sign in front says, “Free.”  Come pick it up.  All you have to do is truck back to your place and begin tinkling the ivories.

It’s sad that the piano can’t be sold for at least a few bucks.  What has happened to all those people who used to play musical instruments?  Have they disappeared?  Or is it only the piano players who seem to have disappeared?

I have no idea how long our neighbor spent trying to sell his piano.  It could have been time to get rid of it, and they didn’t want the hassle of using eBay or Craig’s List, and said, “What the heck, let’s put it out front and see who takes it.”

Or they might have been trying for months to find a buyer, slowly reducing the price to the point where it finally got so low that attempting to get anything at all seemed pointless.  Regardless, it’s now waiting to be picked up free by a scavenger.

We tried to sell our piano twice.  There was hope that one of our kids would go the musical route, but none did.  My wife tinkered with it from time to time.  Mostly, it sat there.  Occasionally a friend would be over at our house, and take a few moment to pound the keys, livening the atmosphere for the evening, but that was a rare moment.

I forget what happened the first time we decided to try and sell it, except that we couldn’t find a buyer and we weren’t ready to part with the near-antique piano and get nothing in return.  Last year, things had changed, and after a brief exploration of options, we were able to pass it onto someone for free.  I pictured a YouTube video as it was pushed down the street, someone jogging while plunking away at a tune – “The Runaway Piano.”  J

We didn’t video its deportation, and now the piano rests in someone else’s home, hopefully making them happy and/or helping the next generation learn how to play.  Either option sounds good to me.

Recently I visited a long-term good friend of mine at his place in Marquette, MI.  In our early- to mid-20’s, I spent many hours listening to him play the piano, creating tunes from scratch, pounding away, my mind fascinated by his ability to feel music and share its beauty with others.  It is great to have a friend like that.

During this recent trip, I was out back reading when I heard the light tinkle of the piano.  It was like the pied piper.  I put down my book, sat and listened, admiring his skill, wishing for his ability, but knowing it was enough to appreciate the talent he shared with others.  His back door was open, the music coming out through the screen.

Old songs surfaced.  Certain keys tugged at memories.  The melodies were fluid.  I hummed.  He raised the tempo.

After many minutes of just enjoying the sounds, I strolled to the back deck and stood there, breathing in the crisp Michigan air, letting the music envelope me.  When he finished, I poked my head inside and remarked on some of his songs from the past, hoping to get him to revive them.

Sadly, it’s hard for a musician to go that far back and remember all the keys to play, so it was enough listening to him improvise.  That’s just as good.

Anybody want to buy a piano?  They’re worth the price.

A number of weeks ago, my wife, our younger daughter and I went out to dinner.  A woman with a young son sat next to us.  She spoke with him, looked him in the eye, smiled, engaged his attention.

They bantered back and forth.  The boy was clearly happy.  The mother came across the same way.  It made me pause and reflect back on the awesome days when our kids were younger and you got to goof around and get them laughing.

Human interaction is so important.  You could see the bonding of mother and son, who appeared to be around 4-years-old.

Their conversation and play lasted 15 minutes or so.  Then the father arrived.

He kissed his wife, said hi to his son, then quickly it was off to the bathroom.  The mother pulled out her smart phone.  She typed away the entire time the two males were gone.

After their return, she put the phone down briefly and a husband-wife discussion ensued.  The boy sat politely quiet.  When the adults finished up after about five minutes, they pulled out their phones and started surfing.

The boy had no device.  As the parents tapped away silently, no one talked to each other, took in the weather (we were sitting outside), or interacted face-to-face.  They were electronically isolated.  The boy looked around, fidgeted, and pushed his napkin around the table.

Most of us can relate to work sometimes infringing after hours. Sometimes you have to catch up.  Still, parents should be setting an example by setting aside time to “be” with their child, not just assume the position of an inanimate object.  

Kids crave attention.  They want to hear from their parents.  They love playing word games, verbalizing what they see and seeking answers from their parents to all the weird little questions swirling around their heads.

“Mom, why is that flower purple?”

Fifteen years ago, the mother would have given a long answer, possibly invented, about how plants and flowers became colorful.  But at least it was a response.

Now, when a question is posed by the child, he is met with silence or the badgered incessant tapping on the smart phone.  If the 4-year-old could only learn to write more quickly, he could jump right into the work world and start messaging away AND communicating with his parents without talking.

You have to give these two parents credit for not putting an electronic device in their young boy’s hands.  That is at least a bit of a moral victory, as the boy could look around at what was going on in the restaurant, watch bugs flying around, or feel the breeze blow through his hair.

He won’t remember much.  When he’s 20, he may think back on a silent childhood spent living inside his head, creating fantasies, wondering why his parents didn’t hear him when he asked a question.

“Dad, I remember this time we went out to eat at Cheesecake Factory and you took me inside to look at all the choices for dessert.  Do you remember that?”

“I, uh, ahem, ummmm, no son.  Is there something you want to tell me?”

It’s right now actually, while the three are sitting down to dinner at a restaurant, that the son wants to talk and interact with his father and mother, but he’s losing out on that experience, as are his parents.  So much is lost by both.

The smart phone provides connection value.  But it also disconnects us, often from the ones we love.  Be wary.

As the floods of North Texas continue to recede under the relentless white blare of the summer sun, the remnants of society emerge.  It’s one of those visual statements made by dramatic weather events.

Things get ripped up in hurricanes, hurled for hundreds of yards by tornadoes and washed miles and miles away by water walls during floods.  You find tires in the next county after a tornado leaves its signature.  Oklahoma City Thunder plastic cups pop up in rivers surrounding Dallas after 8 inches of rain sends every piece of street debris into the sewers with final destination unknown.  When debris catches a ride from a storm, it can land anywhere because the water flows and flows until it gets to the ocean and dumps the garbage in that big body of water to sink or choke sea life.

We live near Lake Grapevine, which about six weeks ago experienced the worst high surge of water in approximately 25 years.  Roads flooded, streets closed, the lake was shut down.  Many parts of this were nice:  It’s quieter because no power boats are buzzing around the lake.  We were able to walk across the street with our kayak and paddle among the trees.  Our dogs could swim in the park.

There were also inconveniences:  The main road to town was closed, so we had to drive out to the highway and circle back for even the smallest of errands that took us downtown.  We couldn’t use the bike/jogging path, instead finding side streets for our exercise instead of the lush woods.  The gawkers clogged our surrounding streets, wanting to check out how far the water crept into our neighborhood.

We’ve survived, and now the lake recedes.  The muck smells.  Many trees and bushes died.  The leftovers of society lay exposed.

Last week, walking the dogs, two friends brought a plastic bag to start the clean up.  They do this often. They are good Samaritans, not thanked by others.  Only the clean shores of the bank reflect their efforts.

It’s not a big job, but they do it often, picking up garbage from local knuckleheads who start fires in the woods and leave behind beer cans, firecrackers, graham crackers, plastic bags and marshmallows.  Then it’s a trek back to deposit the trash in an appropriate container, a task they take on repeatedly.

On this day last week, they dug into the ring of receding debris left by the high water.  A Mountain Dew glass bottle, cap intact, nestled in the sticks.  Imagine its age based on the container being glass.  When’s the last time you saw a glass soft drink bottle? There’s no telling how long that had been at the bottom of the lake.

Then a blackened spray can, rusted and pitted, emerged from the black gunk.  It could have been even older than the Mountain Dew bottle if you decided to carbon-date it.

There were, of course, multiple plastic bottles, bags and styrofoam cups (big surprise there), along with fishing lures, bobbers, line and poles.  We found power bar wrappers, cardboard and tackle boxes.  Society left behind.

Over the course of a few days, we had a corner of the land cleared.  It was nice.  I kayaked out that Friday night and looking back on the shore, things appeared pristine.   I sighed, wishing it was as pretty up close as it was farther out where I paddled.

I knew it wasn’t, but also knew it would be if everyone put garbage where it belongs and stopped turning the outdoors into our personal garbage dumps.  I don’t think it’s too much to ask.  We just need to get the storms to cooperate, too.