Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 45
March 21, 2019
Sometimes You're Just a Foot From Trouble
(Note: This was written before I pulled a back muscle at the beginning of a recent vacation week, leading to several days curled on the couch in a fetal position. That and my annual winter sickness are all unrelated, unless you count them toward proof that, at some point, I unknowingly broke a mirror.
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All I wanted to do was pee.
When you get to be middle aged, that kind of thing becomes very important. Some people wake up at night thinking, "Did I leave the oven on?" or "Will my career ever take off?" or "Did I hear a clown in the closet?" Men over fifty wake up thinking, "Great, my bladder is full. Again."
This can be dangerous, especially if you're in that deep sleep mode. Luckily I've worked third shift for years, and gained experience in ... well, let's call it "sleep-pee". Sleep-pee people can do what I've done hundreds of times: Get out of bed, navigate the stairs, go to the bathroom, climb back up, and get into bed again, all without really waking up. It's ingrained, like a kidney stone.
But sometimes mindless habit can get you into trouble.
I was particularly sleep-pee this time, but somehow managed to make it downstairs. Yes, I hit the toilet: Despite my incompetence at sports, this is one area where I have good aim. I made it back up the stairs, or so I assume, since I really don't remember--but chances are I didn't climb up the side of the house and go through a window.
Now, my bed has been in the same spot for over twenty years. It's an air mattress, but it's set inside a frame made to hold the weight of a waterbed. The side board is very, very solid.
Sometimes I forget that.
What happened next, I'll never know for sure. Maybe my balance was effected by the sinus medication I'd been taking. Maybe I was just more asleep then usual, even for me. Maybe the dog was on the floor, and I unconsciously tried to maneuver around him. He does that.
Whatever it was, I didn't just climb into bed. Instead I drew back my right foot and slammed it forward, like Charlie Brown trying to kick that elusive football. My sleep-pee brain apparently thought I was two feet further from the bed than I was.
This, incidentally, was my right foot. Arthritis showed up there a few years ago, and my right big toe is already in pain more often than not.
This new pain was not addition: It was multiplication.
The kind of pain that comes from an attempted karate kick by someone with no knowledge of martial arts.
And my toenail ... well, you don't need to know all the details.
Emily was sound asleep, having not developed a middle-aged bladder. As I crumpled over onto the bed, I heard her murmur, "That sounds like it hurt--are you okay?"
I tried to answer, but from face down on the pillow could only make a high, wheezing sound. After about twenty minutes I was able to roll over, by which time she'd gone right back to sleep and only vaguely remembered hearing a noise.
The dog came to check on me, but didn't volunteer to help.
The next day, after seeing the black and blueness of my sleep-pee slip, I did an inventory. In addition to my foot, I'd put my hip out and pulled my lower back muscles. (Say--come to think of it, maybe there was a delayed relation.) My left shoulder and upper arm ached, probably because of windmilling on my way down. I could walk, kind of, while making a little whining sound, but I didn't really want to.
And then I healed. Okay, I'm fast forwarding, but there was some prescription pain medicine in the cabinet and, as a result, I don't remember some of the healing process.
All because my bladder was full. Again.
I know you're looking for some kind of moral to this story, but all I have is "get a bedroom on the same floor as the bathroom"--and even that didn't help me here. I suppose I could also advise you not to be middle aged.
But it beats the alternative.
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All I wanted to do was pee.
When you get to be middle aged, that kind of thing becomes very important. Some people wake up at night thinking, "Did I leave the oven on?" or "Will my career ever take off?" or "Did I hear a clown in the closet?" Men over fifty wake up thinking, "Great, my bladder is full. Again."
This can be dangerous, especially if you're in that deep sleep mode. Luckily I've worked third shift for years, and gained experience in ... well, let's call it "sleep-pee". Sleep-pee people can do what I've done hundreds of times: Get out of bed, navigate the stairs, go to the bathroom, climb back up, and get into bed again, all without really waking up. It's ingrained, like a kidney stone.
But sometimes mindless habit can get you into trouble.
I was particularly sleep-pee this time, but somehow managed to make it downstairs. Yes, I hit the toilet: Despite my incompetence at sports, this is one area where I have good aim. I made it back up the stairs, or so I assume, since I really don't remember--but chances are I didn't climb up the side of the house and go through a window.
Now, my bed has been in the same spot for over twenty years. It's an air mattress, but it's set inside a frame made to hold the weight of a waterbed. The side board is very, very solid.
Sometimes I forget that.
What happened next, I'll never know for sure. Maybe my balance was effected by the sinus medication I'd been taking. Maybe I was just more asleep then usual, even for me. Maybe the dog was on the floor, and I unconsciously tried to maneuver around him. He does that.
Whatever it was, I didn't just climb into bed. Instead I drew back my right foot and slammed it forward, like Charlie Brown trying to kick that elusive football. My sleep-pee brain apparently thought I was two feet further from the bed than I was.
This, incidentally, was my right foot. Arthritis showed up there a few years ago, and my right big toe is already in pain more often than not.
This new pain was not addition: It was multiplication.
The kind of pain that comes from an attempted karate kick by someone with no knowledge of martial arts.
And my toenail ... well, you don't need to know all the details.
Emily was sound asleep, having not developed a middle-aged bladder. As I crumpled over onto the bed, I heard her murmur, "That sounds like it hurt--are you okay?"
I tried to answer, but from face down on the pillow could only make a high, wheezing sound. After about twenty minutes I was able to roll over, by which time she'd gone right back to sleep and only vaguely remembered hearing a noise.
The dog came to check on me, but didn't volunteer to help.
The next day, after seeing the black and blueness of my sleep-pee slip, I did an inventory. In addition to my foot, I'd put my hip out and pulled my lower back muscles. (Say--come to think of it, maybe there was a delayed relation.) My left shoulder and upper arm ached, probably because of windmilling on my way down. I could walk, kind of, while making a little whining sound, but I didn't really want to.
And then I healed. Okay, I'm fast forwarding, but there was some prescription pain medicine in the cabinet and, as a result, I don't remember some of the healing process.
All because my bladder was full. Again.
I know you're looking for some kind of moral to this story, but all I have is "get a bedroom on the same floor as the bathroom"--and even that didn't help me here. I suppose I could also advise you not to be middle aged.
But it beats the alternative.
March 9, 2019
Chapter One of Coming Attractions
Ever since we got Coming Attractions up on the website (www.markrhunter.com), I've been meaning to share the entire first chapter, which introduces both main characters and, I think, gives a taste of what's to come. You can also see chapter one on various booksellers' websites, but I thought it was worthwhile to have it right here, where people can check it out if they choose. This is exactly as it appears in print, including the opening materials.
After this I plan to go back to a semi-regular post about writing, such as creating characters, inspiration, setting, and such, starting with how they relate to the creation of Coming Attractions itself. Hey, I was bored. (Kidding! I've got a lot of issues, but boredom is not one of them.)
Remember, whenever you don't read a first chapter, the second chapter doesn't get its pages. (I think that's the line from It's a Wonderful Life. Something like that.)
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Coming Attractions
Mark R. Hunter
Other titles by Mark R. Hunter
Non-fiction:
Images of America: Albion and Noble County
Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights: A Century or So With the Albion Fire Department
Slightly Off the Mark
Hoosier Hysterical: How the West Became the Midwest Without Moving At All
Fiction:
Storm Chaser
Storm Chaser Shorts
The Notorious Ian Grant
The No-Campfire Girls
Radio Red
Copyright © 2018 Mark R. Hunter
All rights reserved.
Edited by Emily Hunter
Cover by Emily Hunter
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and events in this book are either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No popcorn was harmed in the making of this novel.
For book extras and additional books by the author, please visit: www.MarkRHunter.com
In loving memory of
Linda Taylor
Jean Coonts Stroud
Special thanks to the Auburn-Garrett Drive-In;
The drive-in movie theaters still upholding the tradition;
And all the drive-ins of our youth: especially, for me, the High-Vue of Kendallville, Indiana
Coming Attractions
Mark R. Hunter
CHAPTER ONE
Maddie saw trouble ahead as soon as she stepped off the company airplane.
The kid standing in the terminal held a slab of cardboard before him like a shield, with her name plastered in red across its surface. Maybe he was attempting to hide the fact that, beneath the wrinkled black suit coat, he wore a white T-shirt that should have been washed at least two meals ago. More likely he feared missing her, since a quick study of the shaggy haired young man told her he held little stock in appearances.
"Madison McKinley?" He gave her an equally appraising scan.
Stopping before him, she deliberately looked right and left. The closest other people stood at least two hundred feet away, gathered around the airport's gift shop. "Maddie."
Taking that as encouragement, he smiled. "Tupper. Welcome to Fort Wayne!" He still held the sign up.
"Tupper?"
"That's my name—well, my middle name, and that's what I go by. My mother sold Tupperware, and she's pretty hardcore. I don’t know if they still hold Tupperware parties, but if you want her to set one up—"
"I doubt I'll be here that long." Maddie tried not to judge people by appearances, but Tupper looked for all the world like Shaggy from the Scooby Doo cartoon series—without the goatee. Under other circumstances she might have been tempted to smile. "Tupper, were you expecting a company plane?"
"Oh, sure. I've been with the company over a week now."
"And did anyone get off the plane besides me?"
His brow knitted in concentration. "Nope."
"Then do you really believe the sign is necessary?"
Face reddening, Tupper dropped the cardboard. "Sorry."
“Trash can, Tupper—let's keep our planet clean." She blushed a little, herself—it wasn’t fair to take her mood out on him.
When Tupper turned to throw the sign away, Maddie realized he wore a fairly nice pair of navy slacks—and white sneakers. "Are you, by chance, related to one of the partners?"
"I'm Mr. Quincy's great-nephew—how did you know?"
"Family resemblance." Maddie despised lying, but saw no reason to hurt someone's feelings. Nepotism could be a powerful force—why else would this kid be hired by the stuffiest law firm in Boston? "You were to bring a car?"
"This way." Tupper turned, paused, then whirled around. "Did you have luggage?"
"I'm a woman, Tupper." This time she did smile.
He frowned.
"That means yes. Two bags."
After retrieving her luggage, Tupper led the way into the warmth of a sunny June midafternoon. "You'll love Fort Wayne. They have an orchestra, a zoo, a mall, three rivers ..." He trailed off, thinking.
"It seemed a bit small from the air." The poor guy might hurt himself if his brain doesn’t cool down.
"Well, it's the second largest city in Indiana."
As they walked across the crowded parking lot a breeze swirled the folds of Maddie's skirt and blew blonde strands of hair across her face. "Large by Indiana standards? Not a telling argument."
"But you come from Boston. Indiana's a lot bigger than Massachusetts."
"In square miles, maybe," Maddie murmured under her breath. She almost ran into Tupper when he skidded to a halt. "Where's the car?"
"Right here." He pointed to a deep purple Chrysler van.
She stared, trying to fend off a wave of nostalgia for her Porsche. "I asked for a sedan."
"Yeah, you traded up—isn't that great?" He produced a key ring from his pocket and pushed the unlock button. "It's got a digital audio system, sliding doors on both sides, an environmental readout, and you gotta love the color. It's a real love machine."
Such a statement could only come from a member of the Scooby Gang. Maddie stared at him, hands on hips, but held her temper—after all, her temper got her here to begin with. "I realize you've been by yourself here, but since you arrived with just two jobs—to get me a hotel room and a car—could it be that difficult?"
"I didn't actually arrive—I grew up west of here, in New Haven." He noticed her expression, and stumbled backward. "Um, there's a car show at the Memorial Coliseum—by the way, we have a Memorial Coliseum—and Jay Leno's going to be there and all the rental cars were taken and this is the only—"
"Tupper, Calm down." Maddie took him by the shoulder, which made the younger man flinch. "Maybe this is for the best. Don't people going to drive-in movies often take vans?"
He blinked at her. "Yeah, sure. I like to back my truck in, when I'm not working. Why?"
Oh, dear—He didn't know why she'd been sent. "Because I've never visited one, and I might have some free time while I'm here."
Tupper brightened instantly. "The best one in Indiana is about an hour north of Fort Wayne—you'll love it."
She very much doubted that. "Tupper, do you know why I'm here?"
"Um—" He paused, trying to focus. "To expand the agency's influence into business dealings in the Midwest."
"Which means?"
"Got me." He shrugged. "This is my first assignment since I visited Uncle Quincy, but he said it was real important, so I figure I'm on the fast track."
Uncle Quincy? What an image—like Luciano Pavarotti breakdancing. "You are, indeed." Maddie decided she liked the kid, after all. She couldn't help thinking of him as a kid, although he couldn't be more than five years younger than her, and he seemed sincere in his desire to help. Besides, in his own way he was exiled here, just like her. "Do you have transportation?"
“My truck—oh, you mean here?” He gestured to a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked beside the van. Inside, a girl with spiked green hair waved, then went back to studying her eyebrow ring in the rear view mirror. How entirely appropriate.
"Tupper, you've obviously been working hard. Why don't you take a day or two off? Visit with your family, take a short break, and contact me at the hotel later."
"Really? Wow, thanks! I needed to take off for my part time job soon, anyway." He started to hop into the Beetle, but paused when she called his name.
"It might be helpful to have the information packet your great-uncle promised me. Not to mention the van keys."
"Oh!" Tupper handed her the keys and gestured toward the van. "There's a folder on the passenger seat with maps, directions, your reservation, and a really big book about John Adams. He's my ancestor, you know. I think he was governor, or something."
"Possibly the genes have thinned out since then." Ignoring his puzzled expression, she climbed into the van.
"Well, if you like to go to the drive-in you'll probably see me there. Take it easy!" The Bug roared away.
After a moment Maddie got back out, opened the rear door, and threw in the luggage Tupper had abandoned on the pavement. Sincere he may be, competent he may not.
Maddie spent some time reading the directions and comparing them to the maps. Smiling despite herself, she also leafed through the biography of John Adams. Inside the front cover she found a short inscription: "John Adams called himself obnoxious and unpopular—but he got the job done. Quincy."
Adam Quincy had been named for the second President, and according to rumor was a distant relative. Maddie considered John Adams a role model for his courage and perseverance, but that, and their occupation, was all she and Quincy had in common. Leave it to the law firm's founder to turn a gift into a subtle reminder of who was in charge.
She spotted some brochures in the folder. Tupper apparently thought her job involved sightseeing: He’d enclosed something about every tourist destination in northeast Indiana, from zoos and state parks to an Old Jail Museum. And a drive-in movie theater.
The colorful advertisement declared this to be the 50th anniversary of the High View Drive-In. Two features for the whole family every night, all summer long, plus weekend showings in the spring and fall. Photos showed happy families who munched on popcorn and other snacks while watching the latest flick from the comfort of their automobiles.
Maddie studied every detail, every letter, and then determined the hotel would not, after all, be her next destination. It was getting close to dusk. She had a van, and other than being a bit overdressed for the movies she should go unnoticed.
Yes, a visit to the drive-in was clearly in order. After all, she well remembered one of the first rules from law school: Know your enemy.
Despite her black mood on the airplane, the weather and the masses of greenery Maddie passed during her drive north cheered her a bit. She’d believed as a child that a field was a dirt lot for baseball, and the biggest patch of plant life no more than a Boston city park. Her preteen mind couldn’t have imagined these expanses of woods, or unlimited stretches of young corn and wheat.
It was cool enough to shut down the air conditioner and crack the windows, an act that would horrify her hairstylist. Considering the obscene amounts of money she paid the man, by now he should have come up with a wave that would last through a tornado.
She missed him. She missed her Porsche mechanic, her personal assistant, the doorman, and all the partners with their custom tailored suits, ten dollar cigars, and condescending attitudes. No matter how important this assignment, everyone knew it was punishment. She must prove herself all over again if she ever expected a corner office and her pick of cases.
A few miles after turning onto a two lane highway she spotted the sign, a gaudy red and yellow monstrosity guaranteed to attract attention. The top formed an arrow pointing toward the metal framework of the movie screen, and below the arrow stood a sign advertising a Pixar animated movie and a teen comedy.
To Maddie's surprise half a dozen cars already lined the drive. A van similar to hers waited first behind the closed gate to the ticket booth, with the adult occupants of the other vehicles gathered around it. They looked like they were having a conference, or maybe a tailgate party. A dozen young people, from teens to toddlers, played in a grassy area between the drive and a red fence that surrounded the property.
Maddie stopped behind the last vehicle, wincing at the crunch of gravel beneath her wheels. Clearly, Indiana needed to invest in more asphalt. After the dust cleared, she opened her windows all the way to admit the scent of freshly mowed grass and a far off barbecue, then shut off the engine. Country music played from the pickup in front of her, but it was the sound of kids screaming that made her stiffen.
She scanned around the lawn until certain they were screams of glee, not pain. Why didn’t these parents pay closer attention to their children? Wouldn't it be safer to keep them in their cars, instead of wandering around where they could get hit, or fall, or be bitten by snakes or rabid bunnies or something? Not to mention all the strangers.
Well, she must be the only stranger here, considering everyone else still gathered around the one vehicle. The scene would make someone nostalgic, if that someone held memories of going to the movies. Maddie remembered only a few trips to a more traditional theater.
She’d been led to believe little local support remained for the drive-in, making a buyout easy. Except for one lonely old house along the drive-in property, the surrounding land consisted of farm fields and small tracts of woods, most optioned by the development company her firm represented.
The drive-in's owner remained the holdout, and by bad luck his property made up the bull’s-eye in the tract of land the developer needed. The better his business, the harder her job—and here people already waited, on a weeknight, no less.
Perhaps this made up the hardcore locals with nothing better to do. You couldn't make profit margin with six customers a day.
That optimistic thought faded when an old station wagon pulled up behind her van, pumping rock and roll into the air, as a full house gyrated inside.
With a sigh, Maddie examined the customers. Their dress consisted of shorts or blue jeans, and tank tops or printed tees. She glanced down at her silk print dress, and determined not to leave the van under any circumstances. The average person might not know the difference between her expensive outfit and something from an outlet store, but she would still stand out.
Soon adults began to saunter back toward their own vehicles, while the kids ran, jumping and shouting, to join them. She held her breath until she was sure none of the children would trip or get hit by a car door, then turned to see a woman move the gate aside and climb into the ticket booth. Maddie switched the engine on and wondered if kid movies had changed much since "The Little Mermaid".
Soon Maddie caught sight of the ticket price, painted on the whitewashed side of the ticket booth, and took a sharp breath. It was a third of what she’d expect to pay in downtown Boston. How in the world could this man stay in business, with prices so low? The popcorn must be a dollar a kernel.
The ticket taker held an animated conversation with everyone in line, but managed to keep customers moving until Maddie stopped before her. Then the woman, who wore a white T-shirt proclaiming "The High View—50 years and counting,” did a double take and leaned in for a closer look.
"You're a little overdressed for the movies, ain't ya, hon?"
"The philharmonic was sold out." Maddie gritted her teeth, although she’d expected this reaction.
Now the woman leaned closer, to take in the clean, empty interior of the van. "Just you?"
"Is that all right?"
The woman arched an eyebrow. "Okay by me, just kinda unusual. Why go see a movie by yourself?"
"My boyfriend plays in the philharmonic."
"Well ..." With a shake of her head, the woman handed Maddie a ticket stub, then rattled off an FM radio frequency. "Enjoy the show. Oh! I almost forgot." She gave Maddie a bumper sticker.
Beneath a red, white and blue drawing of the movie screen, colorful letters spelled out: "Save the High View! Half a Century and Counting."
The woman leaned forward and hissed, "Some big company out east wants to turn it into an airport!"
"Oh, my."
"Don't worry, we'll fight 'em and win. You have a good time now, hon."
"Thank you," Maddie answered automatically. As she drove through the lot, she saw similar stickers on all the parked vehicles. The other van, she noted, differed from hers in only two ways: It was black instead of deep purple, and sported stickers on the back and side windows. As she passed it she saw a pair of bright hazel eyes regard her curiously through the rear view mirror, and wondered whether it was because of the twin transportation, or because she drove the only auto in the lot without a show of support pasted on every surface.
Where to park? In the middle of the lot sat a low concrete block structure painted white, with two doors on each side: one for a restroom and another for an entrance to the snack area. Maddie had no intention of abandoning her nutrition plan. Still, she could imagine a need for the restroom if, for some reason, she decided to stay through both movies.
Of course she would stay. She needed to know as much as possible about this business, in order to get it shut down. The best place for her would be at the corner closest to the women's restroom, but, ironically, the other purple van had already staked it out. Maddie settled for a spot at the other front corner.
All the old concrete speaker posts stood empty. Didn’t the ticket taker say something about a radio frequency? Dialing it in produced a crooning Norah Jones, but Maddie assumed she had the right place, left it on, and began watching the incoming traffic.
She made some quick calculations, based on the ticket price, the average number of people per car, and the cost of electricity, payroll, and other overhead. She factored in snacks, then cut food profit in half when she noticed many of the moviegoers brought their own. Despite that, by the time the sun disappeared behind a low, distant cloud bank, the place had already broken even. When the first preview for upcoming movies appeared, it was turning a profit.
On a weeknight. Not good at all.
Maddie sat back, paying little attention to the ads. She leaned forward again when a group of teens walked by, loaded down with nachos, popcorn, and soda. Her stomach began a low, rumbling litany of complaints. When did she last eat? Not dinner. Not lunch, come to think of it, except for a bag of peanuts on the plane.
So much for staying in the car. So much for her diet, unless the snack bar featured something no one she saw had purchased. But it was now too dark for anyone to notice her style of dress, and this could be the perfect opportunity to investigate the operation further. After all, she was here on a job, and if she wanted to erase her black marks with the company she needed to perform it well.
That determination lasted until she reached the door to the snack bar, and realized her miscalculation. Of course it was too dark to see her dress, and the expensive style of her blonde tresses, and the opal necklace and charm bracelet—outside. Inside, fluorescent light made it bright as day.
But with the movie starting, nobody stood before the long counter with its popcorn machine, soda fountain, and snack rack. At least, nobody until she came in one way while, at the same moment, a man burst through the opposite door.
They both froze, regarding each other. She recognized the twinkling hazel eyes and the sandy, disheveled hair at once, although he looked taller when out from behind the wheel. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt with the all too familiar drive-in logo on it, along with the words "Drive-Ins are for Cars, not Planes". Admirably muscled arms clutched an empty popcorn bucket.
The man smiled, flashing teeth so perfect it brought back memories of the thousands of dollars Maddie sunk into her orthodonture, and walked toward her. Of their own volition Maddie's legs also moved, until they met in front of the cash register.
"Are you lost?" His baritone voice sent a jolt up her spine, and suddenly exile in Indiana didn't seem so bad.
"I'm ... um ..." She glanced around to remind herself where she was. "I’m looking for healthy food."
"You are lost." He smiled again. "I meant you don't look like the drive-in type."
If you're the drive-in type, Maddie thought, get me a season ticket. "It was spur of the moment." True enough.
"I've been there." He held a hand out. "Logan. Logan Chandler."
She felt her hand enveloped in his warmth. His touch, firm but gentle, made her catch her breath. She tried to stutter out her name, and found she couldn't remember.
"Maddie!" someone else called.
The idea of anyone in Indiana knowing her came as such a shock that Maddie pulled her hand away and turned, almost backing into the wall. Behind the counter, swathed in an apron that didn't completely cover the drive-in emblem on his white T-shirt, a wild haired young man grinned at her.
"Tupper?"
"I told you we'd meet again if you came to the drive-in. This is my part time job."
Uh oh. Maddie glanced at Logan, who turned from her to Tupper with a raised eyebrow. While Tupper didn't know everything about her mission, it would be easy to put two and two together.
"I guess I assumed you’re not from around here at all," Logan said, eyeing her dress.
"Tupper and I just met today." Good, the truth. But Maddie couldn't grasp where to go from there. "It's a long story, and the movie's started."
"But you know each other?"
"Absolutely." Again, true enough.
Tupper pitched in, "We're like old friends, dude."
"Okay." Smiling again, Logan grandly gestured Maddie forward. "I just need to replace some spilled popcorn. After you."
What? Oh. She turned to Tupper, determined to get out of there before he gave her away. Logan might be a lost Greek god, but she couldn't afford to get involved with him, especially after the last fiasco in her love life. "Perrier?"
"Huh?" Tupper stared at her, open mouthed. "I don't know Spanish."
Behind her, Logan chuckled, making her even more aware of his presence.
"Do you serve any bottled water?" In truth, Maddie craved some decent coffee, but she had a feeling her definition of “decent” wouldn’t fit here.
"Oh!" Tupper grabbed a bottle of water with a brand name she didn't recognize. "This is local. It comes out of a spring well right by a church."
"And a cemetery," Logan offered. She looked back to find him grinning wickedly. "Imagine that."
She did, but took the bottle anyway. "Is there anything to eat that doesn't involve large amounts of sugar or carbohydrates?"
"Uh—" Tupper glanced around wildly. "No."
"Get her some of the world famous popcorn, Tupper," Logan said. "On me."
"Popcorn on you." For some reason Tupper found that amusing, and chuckled as he scooped the white kernels up.
“No salt or butter, please." Maddie felt a touch on her arm, and turned to see Logan smiling yet again.
"No salt or butter? That's cardboard."
Could she make herself look any more out of place? "I'm twenty-nine years old.” When he gave her a questioning look, she added, “I can’t eat whatever I want, not anymore." As if she ever could.
He raked his gaze over Maddie, making her gulp and shiver. "You don't have an ounce of fat on you."
That was a compliment, she assumed. Maddie didn’t have an ounce of fat, not even on her chest—or at least, that had been her ex-fiancé’s biting comment. "I plan to keep it that way. How do you—" Now it was her turn to look him over, from broad chest to white Reeboks, and she gulped again. "—um, stay in such good shape?"
"Hey, I don't eat this way all the time—it's a treat. If you don't treat yourself, how do you know what you're missing?"
"A look at the nutrition label tells me what I'm missing." Desperate to get away—she was much too attracted to this man, no doubt a rebound effect—she grabbed a bag of chocolate covered peanuts from the rack and slapped it down next to the water. "There. Four hundred calories."
"I'm humbled," Logan told her. "You might try sprinkling them on the popcorn."
"Thank you." She shoved a fifty into Tupper's hands and told him to keep the change, which made his eyes pop. "I'll remember you on my next trip to the scales."
"Wait—" Logan held his hand out, but became distracted when Tupper called his name.
"Say, that's a great idea. Chocolate covered popcorn, M&M popcorn, popcorn with nougats—it could be the next taste sensation."
Logan held out his empty popcorn tub. "Remember that one time when I told you to use your imagination? I take it back."
Maddie took the opportunity to sneak out the door, and hurried into the blackness before Logan could catch her. If he said anything remotely connected to getting to know her better, she would melt like the hot butter he kept talking about, and the whole nightmare of dating someone connected to her work would start all over again.
Shivering, she dropped the water and candy into her purse. Balancing the popcorn in one hand, she pulled open the van's door. What a relief to be away from that man—she'd never been so instantly affected by the opposite sex before, not even her ex-fiancé. With considerable relief, she sank into the driver's seat.
Or, more accurately, she sank onto the small body that occupied the driver's seat.
Two high voices shrieked. Maddie also gave a yell and leaped out, ready to run as her imagination conjured Munchkin muggers. But her purse caught on the empty speaker post, and she managed only to spin around.
In the hazy darkness, broken by the flickering reflection from the big screen, Maddie made out two small, round sets of eyes peering at her from inside the van. In the instant that followed, she realized this was not her van and that somehow, miraculously, she still held the popcorn without a single kernel spilled.
Then a much larger body plowed into her. She slammed down onto the hard turf, while someone else fell heavily on top of her.
In addition to the website, there's a list of where our books are available here:
https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2018...
After this I plan to go back to a semi-regular post about writing, such as creating characters, inspiration, setting, and such, starting with how they relate to the creation of Coming Attractions itself. Hey, I was bored. (Kidding! I've got a lot of issues, but boredom is not one of them.)
Remember, whenever you don't read a first chapter, the second chapter doesn't get its pages. (I think that's the line from It's a Wonderful Life. Something like that.)
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Coming Attractions
Mark R. Hunter
Other titles by Mark R. Hunter
Non-fiction:
Images of America: Albion and Noble County
Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights: A Century or So With the Albion Fire Department
Slightly Off the Mark
Hoosier Hysterical: How the West Became the Midwest Without Moving At All
Fiction:
Storm Chaser
Storm Chaser Shorts
The Notorious Ian Grant
The No-Campfire Girls
Radio Red
Copyright © 2018 Mark R. Hunter
All rights reserved.
Edited by Emily Hunter
Cover by Emily Hunter
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and events in this book are either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No popcorn was harmed in the making of this novel.
For book extras and additional books by the author, please visit: www.MarkRHunter.com
In loving memory of
Linda Taylor
Jean Coonts Stroud
Special thanks to the Auburn-Garrett Drive-In;
The drive-in movie theaters still upholding the tradition;
And all the drive-ins of our youth: especially, for me, the High-Vue of Kendallville, Indiana
Coming Attractions
Mark R. Hunter
CHAPTER ONE
Maddie saw trouble ahead as soon as she stepped off the company airplane.
The kid standing in the terminal held a slab of cardboard before him like a shield, with her name plastered in red across its surface. Maybe he was attempting to hide the fact that, beneath the wrinkled black suit coat, he wore a white T-shirt that should have been washed at least two meals ago. More likely he feared missing her, since a quick study of the shaggy haired young man told her he held little stock in appearances.
"Madison McKinley?" He gave her an equally appraising scan.
Stopping before him, she deliberately looked right and left. The closest other people stood at least two hundred feet away, gathered around the airport's gift shop. "Maddie."
Taking that as encouragement, he smiled. "Tupper. Welcome to Fort Wayne!" He still held the sign up.
"Tupper?"
"That's my name—well, my middle name, and that's what I go by. My mother sold Tupperware, and she's pretty hardcore. I don’t know if they still hold Tupperware parties, but if you want her to set one up—"
"I doubt I'll be here that long." Maddie tried not to judge people by appearances, but Tupper looked for all the world like Shaggy from the Scooby Doo cartoon series—without the goatee. Under other circumstances she might have been tempted to smile. "Tupper, were you expecting a company plane?"
"Oh, sure. I've been with the company over a week now."
"And did anyone get off the plane besides me?"
His brow knitted in concentration. "Nope."
"Then do you really believe the sign is necessary?"
Face reddening, Tupper dropped the cardboard. "Sorry."
“Trash can, Tupper—let's keep our planet clean." She blushed a little, herself—it wasn’t fair to take her mood out on him.
When Tupper turned to throw the sign away, Maddie realized he wore a fairly nice pair of navy slacks—and white sneakers. "Are you, by chance, related to one of the partners?"
"I'm Mr. Quincy's great-nephew—how did you know?"
"Family resemblance." Maddie despised lying, but saw no reason to hurt someone's feelings. Nepotism could be a powerful force—why else would this kid be hired by the stuffiest law firm in Boston? "You were to bring a car?"
"This way." Tupper turned, paused, then whirled around. "Did you have luggage?"
"I'm a woman, Tupper." This time she did smile.
He frowned.
"That means yes. Two bags."
After retrieving her luggage, Tupper led the way into the warmth of a sunny June midafternoon. "You'll love Fort Wayne. They have an orchestra, a zoo, a mall, three rivers ..." He trailed off, thinking.
"It seemed a bit small from the air." The poor guy might hurt himself if his brain doesn’t cool down.
"Well, it's the second largest city in Indiana."
As they walked across the crowded parking lot a breeze swirled the folds of Maddie's skirt and blew blonde strands of hair across her face. "Large by Indiana standards? Not a telling argument."
"But you come from Boston. Indiana's a lot bigger than Massachusetts."
"In square miles, maybe," Maddie murmured under her breath. She almost ran into Tupper when he skidded to a halt. "Where's the car?"
"Right here." He pointed to a deep purple Chrysler van.
She stared, trying to fend off a wave of nostalgia for her Porsche. "I asked for a sedan."
"Yeah, you traded up—isn't that great?" He produced a key ring from his pocket and pushed the unlock button. "It's got a digital audio system, sliding doors on both sides, an environmental readout, and you gotta love the color. It's a real love machine."
Such a statement could only come from a member of the Scooby Gang. Maddie stared at him, hands on hips, but held her temper—after all, her temper got her here to begin with. "I realize you've been by yourself here, but since you arrived with just two jobs—to get me a hotel room and a car—could it be that difficult?"
"I didn't actually arrive—I grew up west of here, in New Haven." He noticed her expression, and stumbled backward. "Um, there's a car show at the Memorial Coliseum—by the way, we have a Memorial Coliseum—and Jay Leno's going to be there and all the rental cars were taken and this is the only—"
"Tupper, Calm down." Maddie took him by the shoulder, which made the younger man flinch. "Maybe this is for the best. Don't people going to drive-in movies often take vans?"
He blinked at her. "Yeah, sure. I like to back my truck in, when I'm not working. Why?"
Oh, dear—He didn't know why she'd been sent. "Because I've never visited one, and I might have some free time while I'm here."
Tupper brightened instantly. "The best one in Indiana is about an hour north of Fort Wayne—you'll love it."
She very much doubted that. "Tupper, do you know why I'm here?"
"Um—" He paused, trying to focus. "To expand the agency's influence into business dealings in the Midwest."
"Which means?"
"Got me." He shrugged. "This is my first assignment since I visited Uncle Quincy, but he said it was real important, so I figure I'm on the fast track."
Uncle Quincy? What an image—like Luciano Pavarotti breakdancing. "You are, indeed." Maddie decided she liked the kid, after all. She couldn't help thinking of him as a kid, although he couldn't be more than five years younger than her, and he seemed sincere in his desire to help. Besides, in his own way he was exiled here, just like her. "Do you have transportation?"
“My truck—oh, you mean here?” He gestured to a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked beside the van. Inside, a girl with spiked green hair waved, then went back to studying her eyebrow ring in the rear view mirror. How entirely appropriate.
"Tupper, you've obviously been working hard. Why don't you take a day or two off? Visit with your family, take a short break, and contact me at the hotel later."
"Really? Wow, thanks! I needed to take off for my part time job soon, anyway." He started to hop into the Beetle, but paused when she called his name.
"It might be helpful to have the information packet your great-uncle promised me. Not to mention the van keys."
"Oh!" Tupper handed her the keys and gestured toward the van. "There's a folder on the passenger seat with maps, directions, your reservation, and a really big book about John Adams. He's my ancestor, you know. I think he was governor, or something."
"Possibly the genes have thinned out since then." Ignoring his puzzled expression, she climbed into the van.
"Well, if you like to go to the drive-in you'll probably see me there. Take it easy!" The Bug roared away.
After a moment Maddie got back out, opened the rear door, and threw in the luggage Tupper had abandoned on the pavement. Sincere he may be, competent he may not.
Maddie spent some time reading the directions and comparing them to the maps. Smiling despite herself, she also leafed through the biography of John Adams. Inside the front cover she found a short inscription: "John Adams called himself obnoxious and unpopular—but he got the job done. Quincy."
Adam Quincy had been named for the second President, and according to rumor was a distant relative. Maddie considered John Adams a role model for his courage and perseverance, but that, and their occupation, was all she and Quincy had in common. Leave it to the law firm's founder to turn a gift into a subtle reminder of who was in charge.
She spotted some brochures in the folder. Tupper apparently thought her job involved sightseeing: He’d enclosed something about every tourist destination in northeast Indiana, from zoos and state parks to an Old Jail Museum. And a drive-in movie theater.
The colorful advertisement declared this to be the 50th anniversary of the High View Drive-In. Two features for the whole family every night, all summer long, plus weekend showings in the spring and fall. Photos showed happy families who munched on popcorn and other snacks while watching the latest flick from the comfort of their automobiles.
Maddie studied every detail, every letter, and then determined the hotel would not, after all, be her next destination. It was getting close to dusk. She had a van, and other than being a bit overdressed for the movies she should go unnoticed.
Yes, a visit to the drive-in was clearly in order. After all, she well remembered one of the first rules from law school: Know your enemy.
Despite her black mood on the airplane, the weather and the masses of greenery Maddie passed during her drive north cheered her a bit. She’d believed as a child that a field was a dirt lot for baseball, and the biggest patch of plant life no more than a Boston city park. Her preteen mind couldn’t have imagined these expanses of woods, or unlimited stretches of young corn and wheat.
It was cool enough to shut down the air conditioner and crack the windows, an act that would horrify her hairstylist. Considering the obscene amounts of money she paid the man, by now he should have come up with a wave that would last through a tornado.
She missed him. She missed her Porsche mechanic, her personal assistant, the doorman, and all the partners with their custom tailored suits, ten dollar cigars, and condescending attitudes. No matter how important this assignment, everyone knew it was punishment. She must prove herself all over again if she ever expected a corner office and her pick of cases.
A few miles after turning onto a two lane highway she spotted the sign, a gaudy red and yellow monstrosity guaranteed to attract attention. The top formed an arrow pointing toward the metal framework of the movie screen, and below the arrow stood a sign advertising a Pixar animated movie and a teen comedy.
To Maddie's surprise half a dozen cars already lined the drive. A van similar to hers waited first behind the closed gate to the ticket booth, with the adult occupants of the other vehicles gathered around it. They looked like they were having a conference, or maybe a tailgate party. A dozen young people, from teens to toddlers, played in a grassy area between the drive and a red fence that surrounded the property.
Maddie stopped behind the last vehicle, wincing at the crunch of gravel beneath her wheels. Clearly, Indiana needed to invest in more asphalt. After the dust cleared, she opened her windows all the way to admit the scent of freshly mowed grass and a far off barbecue, then shut off the engine. Country music played from the pickup in front of her, but it was the sound of kids screaming that made her stiffen.
She scanned around the lawn until certain they were screams of glee, not pain. Why didn’t these parents pay closer attention to their children? Wouldn't it be safer to keep them in their cars, instead of wandering around where they could get hit, or fall, or be bitten by snakes or rabid bunnies or something? Not to mention all the strangers.
Well, she must be the only stranger here, considering everyone else still gathered around the one vehicle. The scene would make someone nostalgic, if that someone held memories of going to the movies. Maddie remembered only a few trips to a more traditional theater.
She’d been led to believe little local support remained for the drive-in, making a buyout easy. Except for one lonely old house along the drive-in property, the surrounding land consisted of farm fields and small tracts of woods, most optioned by the development company her firm represented.
The drive-in's owner remained the holdout, and by bad luck his property made up the bull’s-eye in the tract of land the developer needed. The better his business, the harder her job—and here people already waited, on a weeknight, no less.
Perhaps this made up the hardcore locals with nothing better to do. You couldn't make profit margin with six customers a day.
That optimistic thought faded when an old station wagon pulled up behind her van, pumping rock and roll into the air, as a full house gyrated inside.
With a sigh, Maddie examined the customers. Their dress consisted of shorts or blue jeans, and tank tops or printed tees. She glanced down at her silk print dress, and determined not to leave the van under any circumstances. The average person might not know the difference between her expensive outfit and something from an outlet store, but she would still stand out.
Soon adults began to saunter back toward their own vehicles, while the kids ran, jumping and shouting, to join them. She held her breath until she was sure none of the children would trip or get hit by a car door, then turned to see a woman move the gate aside and climb into the ticket booth. Maddie switched the engine on and wondered if kid movies had changed much since "The Little Mermaid".
Soon Maddie caught sight of the ticket price, painted on the whitewashed side of the ticket booth, and took a sharp breath. It was a third of what she’d expect to pay in downtown Boston. How in the world could this man stay in business, with prices so low? The popcorn must be a dollar a kernel.
The ticket taker held an animated conversation with everyone in line, but managed to keep customers moving until Maddie stopped before her. Then the woman, who wore a white T-shirt proclaiming "The High View—50 years and counting,” did a double take and leaned in for a closer look.
"You're a little overdressed for the movies, ain't ya, hon?"
"The philharmonic was sold out." Maddie gritted her teeth, although she’d expected this reaction.
Now the woman leaned closer, to take in the clean, empty interior of the van. "Just you?"
"Is that all right?"
The woman arched an eyebrow. "Okay by me, just kinda unusual. Why go see a movie by yourself?"
"My boyfriend plays in the philharmonic."
"Well ..." With a shake of her head, the woman handed Maddie a ticket stub, then rattled off an FM radio frequency. "Enjoy the show. Oh! I almost forgot." She gave Maddie a bumper sticker.
Beneath a red, white and blue drawing of the movie screen, colorful letters spelled out: "Save the High View! Half a Century and Counting."
The woman leaned forward and hissed, "Some big company out east wants to turn it into an airport!"
"Oh, my."
"Don't worry, we'll fight 'em and win. You have a good time now, hon."
"Thank you," Maddie answered automatically. As she drove through the lot, she saw similar stickers on all the parked vehicles. The other van, she noted, differed from hers in only two ways: It was black instead of deep purple, and sported stickers on the back and side windows. As she passed it she saw a pair of bright hazel eyes regard her curiously through the rear view mirror, and wondered whether it was because of the twin transportation, or because she drove the only auto in the lot without a show of support pasted on every surface.
Where to park? In the middle of the lot sat a low concrete block structure painted white, with two doors on each side: one for a restroom and another for an entrance to the snack area. Maddie had no intention of abandoning her nutrition plan. Still, she could imagine a need for the restroom if, for some reason, she decided to stay through both movies.
Of course she would stay. She needed to know as much as possible about this business, in order to get it shut down. The best place for her would be at the corner closest to the women's restroom, but, ironically, the other purple van had already staked it out. Maddie settled for a spot at the other front corner.
All the old concrete speaker posts stood empty. Didn’t the ticket taker say something about a radio frequency? Dialing it in produced a crooning Norah Jones, but Maddie assumed she had the right place, left it on, and began watching the incoming traffic.
She made some quick calculations, based on the ticket price, the average number of people per car, and the cost of electricity, payroll, and other overhead. She factored in snacks, then cut food profit in half when she noticed many of the moviegoers brought their own. Despite that, by the time the sun disappeared behind a low, distant cloud bank, the place had already broken even. When the first preview for upcoming movies appeared, it was turning a profit.
On a weeknight. Not good at all.
Maddie sat back, paying little attention to the ads. She leaned forward again when a group of teens walked by, loaded down with nachos, popcorn, and soda. Her stomach began a low, rumbling litany of complaints. When did she last eat? Not dinner. Not lunch, come to think of it, except for a bag of peanuts on the plane.
So much for staying in the car. So much for her diet, unless the snack bar featured something no one she saw had purchased. But it was now too dark for anyone to notice her style of dress, and this could be the perfect opportunity to investigate the operation further. After all, she was here on a job, and if she wanted to erase her black marks with the company she needed to perform it well.
That determination lasted until she reached the door to the snack bar, and realized her miscalculation. Of course it was too dark to see her dress, and the expensive style of her blonde tresses, and the opal necklace and charm bracelet—outside. Inside, fluorescent light made it bright as day.
But with the movie starting, nobody stood before the long counter with its popcorn machine, soda fountain, and snack rack. At least, nobody until she came in one way while, at the same moment, a man burst through the opposite door.
They both froze, regarding each other. She recognized the twinkling hazel eyes and the sandy, disheveled hair at once, although he looked taller when out from behind the wheel. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt with the all too familiar drive-in logo on it, along with the words "Drive-Ins are for Cars, not Planes". Admirably muscled arms clutched an empty popcorn bucket.
The man smiled, flashing teeth so perfect it brought back memories of the thousands of dollars Maddie sunk into her orthodonture, and walked toward her. Of their own volition Maddie's legs also moved, until they met in front of the cash register.
"Are you lost?" His baritone voice sent a jolt up her spine, and suddenly exile in Indiana didn't seem so bad.
"I'm ... um ..." She glanced around to remind herself where she was. "I’m looking for healthy food."
"You are lost." He smiled again. "I meant you don't look like the drive-in type."
If you're the drive-in type, Maddie thought, get me a season ticket. "It was spur of the moment." True enough.
"I've been there." He held a hand out. "Logan. Logan Chandler."
She felt her hand enveloped in his warmth. His touch, firm but gentle, made her catch her breath. She tried to stutter out her name, and found she couldn't remember.
"Maddie!" someone else called.
The idea of anyone in Indiana knowing her came as such a shock that Maddie pulled her hand away and turned, almost backing into the wall. Behind the counter, swathed in an apron that didn't completely cover the drive-in emblem on his white T-shirt, a wild haired young man grinned at her.
"Tupper?"
"I told you we'd meet again if you came to the drive-in. This is my part time job."
Uh oh. Maddie glanced at Logan, who turned from her to Tupper with a raised eyebrow. While Tupper didn't know everything about her mission, it would be easy to put two and two together.
"I guess I assumed you’re not from around here at all," Logan said, eyeing her dress.
"Tupper and I just met today." Good, the truth. But Maddie couldn't grasp where to go from there. "It's a long story, and the movie's started."
"But you know each other?"
"Absolutely." Again, true enough.
Tupper pitched in, "We're like old friends, dude."
"Okay." Smiling again, Logan grandly gestured Maddie forward. "I just need to replace some spilled popcorn. After you."
What? Oh. She turned to Tupper, determined to get out of there before he gave her away. Logan might be a lost Greek god, but she couldn't afford to get involved with him, especially after the last fiasco in her love life. "Perrier?"
"Huh?" Tupper stared at her, open mouthed. "I don't know Spanish."
Behind her, Logan chuckled, making her even more aware of his presence.
"Do you serve any bottled water?" In truth, Maddie craved some decent coffee, but she had a feeling her definition of “decent” wouldn’t fit here.
"Oh!" Tupper grabbed a bottle of water with a brand name she didn't recognize. "This is local. It comes out of a spring well right by a church."
"And a cemetery," Logan offered. She looked back to find him grinning wickedly. "Imagine that."
She did, but took the bottle anyway. "Is there anything to eat that doesn't involve large amounts of sugar or carbohydrates?"
"Uh—" Tupper glanced around wildly. "No."
"Get her some of the world famous popcorn, Tupper," Logan said. "On me."
"Popcorn on you." For some reason Tupper found that amusing, and chuckled as he scooped the white kernels up.
“No salt or butter, please." Maddie felt a touch on her arm, and turned to see Logan smiling yet again.
"No salt or butter? That's cardboard."
Could she make herself look any more out of place? "I'm twenty-nine years old.” When he gave her a questioning look, she added, “I can’t eat whatever I want, not anymore." As if she ever could.
He raked his gaze over Maddie, making her gulp and shiver. "You don't have an ounce of fat on you."
That was a compliment, she assumed. Maddie didn’t have an ounce of fat, not even on her chest—or at least, that had been her ex-fiancé’s biting comment. "I plan to keep it that way. How do you—" Now it was her turn to look him over, from broad chest to white Reeboks, and she gulped again. "—um, stay in such good shape?"
"Hey, I don't eat this way all the time—it's a treat. If you don't treat yourself, how do you know what you're missing?"
"A look at the nutrition label tells me what I'm missing." Desperate to get away—she was much too attracted to this man, no doubt a rebound effect—she grabbed a bag of chocolate covered peanuts from the rack and slapped it down next to the water. "There. Four hundred calories."
"I'm humbled," Logan told her. "You might try sprinkling them on the popcorn."
"Thank you." She shoved a fifty into Tupper's hands and told him to keep the change, which made his eyes pop. "I'll remember you on my next trip to the scales."
"Wait—" Logan held his hand out, but became distracted when Tupper called his name.
"Say, that's a great idea. Chocolate covered popcorn, M&M popcorn, popcorn with nougats—it could be the next taste sensation."
Logan held out his empty popcorn tub. "Remember that one time when I told you to use your imagination? I take it back."
Maddie took the opportunity to sneak out the door, and hurried into the blackness before Logan could catch her. If he said anything remotely connected to getting to know her better, she would melt like the hot butter he kept talking about, and the whole nightmare of dating someone connected to her work would start all over again.
Shivering, she dropped the water and candy into her purse. Balancing the popcorn in one hand, she pulled open the van's door. What a relief to be away from that man—she'd never been so instantly affected by the opposite sex before, not even her ex-fiancé. With considerable relief, she sank into the driver's seat.
Or, more accurately, she sank onto the small body that occupied the driver's seat.
Two high voices shrieked. Maddie also gave a yell and leaped out, ready to run as her imagination conjured Munchkin muggers. But her purse caught on the empty speaker post, and she managed only to spin around.
In the hazy darkness, broken by the flickering reflection from the big screen, Maddie made out two small, round sets of eyes peering at her from inside the van. In the instant that followed, she realized this was not her van and that somehow, miraculously, she still held the popcorn without a single kernel spilled.
Then a much larger body plowed into her. She slammed down onto the hard turf, while someone else fell heavily on top of her.
In addition to the website, there's a list of where our books are available here:
https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2018...
March 3, 2019
February Sucked, and other whinings
Hi, can I complain for a second?
I try to only complain once every few months or so except in my humor columns, where my misfortunes are supposed to be humorous. Nobody likes a complainer. In fact, don't read this. Just stop right there and head on over to some video of cute horses toying with much smaller humans.
Good, now I can write this just for me, which takes a lot of the pressure off. It's a private diary entry that happens to be available to billions of people. Anyway, basically I'm just here because February sucked.
Some people don't like the word "sucked" in this context, seeing it as a naughty word of sorts. I get that; I'm not really a fan of bad language. But in this case I feel I'm justified, because February did suck, and the only other words that might describe it are way worse.
I was sick for all of February, first with a cold and then my annual sinus infection; my wife was sick for only half that time, although with the same thing. (Which, yes, means it was my fault.) In this we were in good company: 90% of all the people in Indiana, and 75% of all the people in the world, also got sick in February. What else is there to do? It's February.
Of course, February sucks every year. It's maybe a little better than January but worse than December, and way worse than March--although March has its moments. I understand these are actually good months if you live in Key West, South Africa, or New Zealand. But New Zealand keeps getting overrun by Hobbits, so there's that.
I think maybe what triggered this is a combination of Seasonal Affected Disorder and Facebook. SAD is only depressing during winter, and is a condition in which sane people feel bad because they recognize how much winter sucks. Facebook is depressing all year round. But this particular February, it seemed like every time I looked at Facebook someone had died, either locally or celebrity-wise.
The celebrity part isn't important, and functions mostly to remind me I'm getting older. But locally, the population of my home town dropped 10% this February.
And then, on the last day of the month, my father's sister and my mother's brother both passed away. It happened in different states, and was completely coincidental. And yet, I couldn't help thinking that it was February's last, parting middle finger of suckiness.
I wanted to touch on that, so I could end on a less negative note. Almost anything is less negative than that.
There were other, little things, too. I tried my best to shatter my foot (yes, I wrote a blog about it--be patient); our book sales, like February, sucked, but from what I've heard the same thing happened to all my writer friends. (I assume book sales would have been bad for non-writers, if they'd had any.) Then there was the weather, which was very February-like.
But now it's March. Meteorological spring, a time of longer days and, hopefully, the first green shoots of a new season. Time to pull ourselves up by our boot straps, which as a firefighter I've literally done, and accentuate the positive.
The positive being that it's not February. Which sucked.
I try to only complain once every few months or so except in my humor columns, where my misfortunes are supposed to be humorous. Nobody likes a complainer. In fact, don't read this. Just stop right there and head on over to some video of cute horses toying with much smaller humans.
Good, now I can write this just for me, which takes a lot of the pressure off. It's a private diary entry that happens to be available to billions of people. Anyway, basically I'm just here because February sucked.
Some people don't like the word "sucked" in this context, seeing it as a naughty word of sorts. I get that; I'm not really a fan of bad language. But in this case I feel I'm justified, because February did suck, and the only other words that might describe it are way worse.
I was sick for all of February, first with a cold and then my annual sinus infection; my wife was sick for only half that time, although with the same thing. (Which, yes, means it was my fault.) In this we were in good company: 90% of all the people in Indiana, and 75% of all the people in the world, also got sick in February. What else is there to do? It's February.
Of course, February sucks every year. It's maybe a little better than January but worse than December, and way worse than March--although March has its moments. I understand these are actually good months if you live in Key West, South Africa, or New Zealand. But New Zealand keeps getting overrun by Hobbits, so there's that.
I think maybe what triggered this is a combination of Seasonal Affected Disorder and Facebook. SAD is only depressing during winter, and is a condition in which sane people feel bad because they recognize how much winter sucks. Facebook is depressing all year round. But this particular February, it seemed like every time I looked at Facebook someone had died, either locally or celebrity-wise.
The celebrity part isn't important, and functions mostly to remind me I'm getting older. But locally, the population of my home town dropped 10% this February.
And then, on the last day of the month, my father's sister and my mother's brother both passed away. It happened in different states, and was completely coincidental. And yet, I couldn't help thinking that it was February's last, parting middle finger of suckiness.
I wanted to touch on that, so I could end on a less negative note. Almost anything is less negative than that.
There were other, little things, too. I tried my best to shatter my foot (yes, I wrote a blog about it--be patient); our book sales, like February, sucked, but from what I've heard the same thing happened to all my writer friends. (I assume book sales would have been bad for non-writers, if they'd had any.) Then there was the weather, which was very February-like.
But now it's March. Meteorological spring, a time of longer days and, hopefully, the first green shoots of a new season. Time to pull ourselves up by our boot straps, which as a firefighter I've literally done, and accentuate the positive.
The positive being that it's not February. Which sucked.
February 24, 2019
Sinus Sickness Sucks, or: Noxious Nose Needs Neti
So I recently got my annual sinus infection, which is kind of like that annoying relative who shows up once a year, gives you a headache, and doesn't seem all that eager to leave, and I'm not talking about you, Uncle Sid.
(I totally am. Don't tell.)
My sinus infections are kind of like Godzilla tromping around in my Tokyo head, causing chaos, completely impervious to over the counter tanks and rockets. Only a Mothra-sized dose of antibiotics can drive it out, and ... well, you Japanese monster movie fans, you get it.
But this time I decided to try something a little different. Since sinus infections can be cause by either bacteria or a virus, I figured there was a good chance antibiotics wouldn't work. Since the antibiotics themselves make me feel crappy, why not just treat myself? It's not quite the same as treating myself to chocolate, but what is?
I used hot compresses, which was nice because it's winter, and something called a neti pot, which is never nice, ever, in any season, under any circumstances. The proper name is sinus irrigation, which sounds so much nicer than it is.
I took extra vitamin C, tried to sleep more and sometimes succeeded, increased my fluid intake, and increased my waking-up-for-fluid-outflow, which seemed to defeat the sleeping thing. There was also the need to humidify the house, which is hard to do during winter. This was accomplished by sending the dog out to do his thing whenever it snowed, which this year has been often, then letting him shake all over the living room. It resulted in a nicely humid house that smelled like wet dog, but luckily I'd lost my sense of smell, so only my wife had to suffer. And she was already suffering, anyway.
The result? Instead of suffering for two weeks and then calling the doctor, I suffered for two months and then called the doctor. I'm nothing if not stubburn, except for when I'm nothing if not stupid.
After an examination my doctor said, "It's like your head is Tokyo, and Godzilla is tromping around in it". She gets me.
So now I'm taking the antibiotics, and they make me feel awful, and pretty much nothing changed from the last fourteen times. As we speak my main goal is to keep a proverbial stiff upper lip and not make everyone else suffer with me.
It turns out allergies are a common contributor to sinus infections, so it seems to be all in my genes. Thanks, Dad. My advice is this: If you get sick, just go to the doctor.
If nothing else, maybe you won't have to use a neti pot as much.
(I totally am. Don't tell.)
My sinus infections are kind of like Godzilla tromping around in my Tokyo head, causing chaos, completely impervious to over the counter tanks and rockets. Only a Mothra-sized dose of antibiotics can drive it out, and ... well, you Japanese monster movie fans, you get it.
But this time I decided to try something a little different. Since sinus infections can be cause by either bacteria or a virus, I figured there was a good chance antibiotics wouldn't work. Since the antibiotics themselves make me feel crappy, why not just treat myself? It's not quite the same as treating myself to chocolate, but what is?
I used hot compresses, which was nice because it's winter, and something called a neti pot, which is never nice, ever, in any season, under any circumstances. The proper name is sinus irrigation, which sounds so much nicer than it is.
I took extra vitamin C, tried to sleep more and sometimes succeeded, increased my fluid intake, and increased my waking-up-for-fluid-outflow, which seemed to defeat the sleeping thing. There was also the need to humidify the house, which is hard to do during winter. This was accomplished by sending the dog out to do his thing whenever it snowed, which this year has been often, then letting him shake all over the living room. It resulted in a nicely humid house that smelled like wet dog, but luckily I'd lost my sense of smell, so only my wife had to suffer. And she was already suffering, anyway.
The result? Instead of suffering for two weeks and then calling the doctor, I suffered for two months and then called the doctor. I'm nothing if not stubburn, except for when I'm nothing if not stupid.
After an examination my doctor said, "It's like your head is Tokyo, and Godzilla is tromping around in it". She gets me.
So now I'm taking the antibiotics, and they make me feel awful, and pretty much nothing changed from the last fourteen times. As we speak my main goal is to keep a proverbial stiff upper lip and not make everyone else suffer with me.
It turns out allergies are a common contributor to sinus infections, so it seems to be all in my genes. Thanks, Dad. My advice is this: If you get sick, just go to the doctor.
If nothing else, maybe you won't have to use a neti pot as much.
February 19, 2019
Is it long winded, or long typed?
You know that photo book about the Albion Fire Department, and how it was going to be easy for me because there wouldn't be many words in it?
Well, I just finished the framing document for it. I wrote 12,000 words. It's possible I need to ponder the term "long winded".
When it comes to writing non-fiction, "easy" has never really worked out well for me.
Well, I just finished the framing document for it. I wrote 12,000 words. It's possible I need to ponder the term "long winded".
When it comes to writing non-fiction, "easy" has never really worked out well for me.
February 13, 2019
Valentine's Day, or: Epic Fail
Unfortunately for me, Valentine’s Day comes during a time of year in which I don’t do well. I’ve said before that the only good thing about February is that it isn’t January, but let’s face it: they’re not all that different.
The best way to describe most men on this dedicated-to-love holiday is: epic fail. This is two steps beyond complete fail, which is itself three steps below just fail. As a result, any store that’s open the morning of Valentine’s Day is sure to see an influx of desperate, rather dazed looking men, searching for flowers or chocolate. If they can’t find a place open with Valentine chocolate, there’s always the corner convenience store.
“Let’s see … what’s more romantic, Baby Ruth or Milky Way? Say, do you have any wrapping paper here? No? I’ll just use the real estate listings, they’re a little colorful.”
My wife is not a fan of flowers, and is allergic to milk chocolate. She also doesn’t like to go out to eat, citing the expense and the crowds on a holiday. At first glance that seems like a great thing. But it takes away all the emergency “I’m in trouble” backups.
Now, you may be thinking, “But Mark, what does she get you for Valentine’s Day?”
If you’re thinking that, you’re a man.
Valentine’s Day, like weddings, is for the woman. The man’s job is to show up, look fairly nice, and make her the center of the day. With weddings men can usually focus just well enough to handle that for a day, having been around the planning stuff for months beforehand. With Valentine’s Day, the word “planning” puts them on life support.
I love my wife. I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t love her. The idea of marriage for convenience ignores the fact that making a successful marriage isn’t convenient at all. And yet, as each holiday approaches, I utterly freeze up. I stink at shopping. I stink at picking out cards. And—this coming from a man who actually writes romantic comedies—I stink at being romantic.
The fact that most men have the same affliction is in no way an excuse.
At least, that’s what I assume my wife would say, if I was dumb enough to ask her.
My conclusion—and guys, you can all benefit from my hard-won wisdom—is this:
Being a man is no excuse. Suck it up, fellas. If, like me, you can’t seem to function during winter, try this: Go out in the summer and buy a bunch of generic presents. It’s your job to find out what your wife likes, I can’t help you with that. Figure it out, buy a bunch of them, and hide them away somewhere. When you hit that inevitable panic point—and you will—and realize the holiday happens to fall on a Sunday and there’s no store close enough for you to sneak out to, don’t gift her a zippo lighter from the Sunoco station. No, break into your horde of presents, and—surprise!—you’re a hero.
That’s what I’m going to do. Next year. This year, wish me luck.
"Yes, I promise to try to remember ... what was I supposed to remember?"
The best way to describe most men on this dedicated-to-love holiday is: epic fail. This is two steps beyond complete fail, which is itself three steps below just fail. As a result, any store that’s open the morning of Valentine’s Day is sure to see an influx of desperate, rather dazed looking men, searching for flowers or chocolate. If they can’t find a place open with Valentine chocolate, there’s always the corner convenience store.
“Let’s see … what’s more romantic, Baby Ruth or Milky Way? Say, do you have any wrapping paper here? No? I’ll just use the real estate listings, they’re a little colorful.”
My wife is not a fan of flowers, and is allergic to milk chocolate. She also doesn’t like to go out to eat, citing the expense and the crowds on a holiday. At first glance that seems like a great thing. But it takes away all the emergency “I’m in trouble” backups.
Now, you may be thinking, “But Mark, what does she get you for Valentine’s Day?”
If you’re thinking that, you’re a man.
Valentine’s Day, like weddings, is for the woman. The man’s job is to show up, look fairly nice, and make her the center of the day. With weddings men can usually focus just well enough to handle that for a day, having been around the planning stuff for months beforehand. With Valentine’s Day, the word “planning” puts them on life support.
I love my wife. I wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t love her. The idea of marriage for convenience ignores the fact that making a successful marriage isn’t convenient at all. And yet, as each holiday approaches, I utterly freeze up. I stink at shopping. I stink at picking out cards. And—this coming from a man who actually writes romantic comedies—I stink at being romantic.
The fact that most men have the same affliction is in no way an excuse.
At least, that’s what I assume my wife would say, if I was dumb enough to ask her.
My conclusion—and guys, you can all benefit from my hard-won wisdom—is this:
Being a man is no excuse. Suck it up, fellas. If, like me, you can’t seem to function during winter, try this: Go out in the summer and buy a bunch of generic presents. It’s your job to find out what your wife likes, I can’t help you with that. Figure it out, buy a bunch of them, and hide them away somewhere. When you hit that inevitable panic point—and you will—and realize the holiday happens to fall on a Sunday and there’s no store close enough for you to sneak out to, don’t gift her a zippo lighter from the Sunoco station. No, break into your horde of presents, and—surprise!—you’re a hero.
That’s what I’m going to do. Next year. This year, wish me luck.
"Yes, I promise to try to remember ... what was I supposed to remember?"
February 10, 2019
Book Review: Odd Thomas, By Dean Koontz
Odd Thomas sees dead people. Walking around like regular people. They only see what they want to see. They don't know they're dead.
Wait, I thought the kid's name was Cole. The Sixth Sense, right?
But no, this is a novel by Dean Koontz, and also a great example of how there are no new ideas: Just new, unique, and fun ways of examining old ones. Odd Thomas does indeed see dead people, but that's one of the more normal aspects of Odd, and of Koontz's amazing novel.
My adventure came when my wife brought home a stack of used Koontz novels. I've seldom read his books, and had no real opinion about them, one way or another. The first I liked; the second I didn't much care for. Then came Odd Thomas, which kept me enraptured in a "do I really need to sleep? Do I have sick days available at work?" kind of way.
I was late to the party: There are six Odd Thomas books and a movie version of this one, dating back fifteen years. To demonstrate whether I liked it: I've already finished the first sequel, Forever Odd.
In the best "strange characters in a small town" fashion, Odd is surrounded by the unique occupants of Pico Mundo, California. Koontz's idea of a small town is a population of forty thousand, which really small town people like me regard with amusement, but never mind. Also in the best entertainment fashion, Pico Mundo seems to have a very high percentage of murders and other violence--where's Jessica Fletcher when you need her? As the story opens Odd encounters a little girl, who seems perfectly normal except that she can't speak.
In Odd's world, the dead don't talk. By the end of the first chapter he's used his psychic powers to identify the girl's killer, and the chase is on.
Despite his talents Odd is a short order cook. Because of his powers, really, because he's an unusually aware twenty-year old and knows that without order and routine, his ability would overwhelm him. He's madly in love with his childhood sweetheart, Stormy Llewellyn, he's the helpful sort you'd dream of having as a neighbor, and he's known around town as a great--but strange--young man. Only a few people, including the Police Chief, know of his psychic talents.
But in the course of one day his life is disrupted even beyond his own experiences. Odd finds himself chasing after a suspicious newcomer, and it leads him to supernatural madness, murder, and the knowledge that in less than a day something horrible is going to happen to the town he reluctantly protects.
I just realized how impossible it is to actually describe Odd Thomas. You have to experience it. To a large extent it's all about the style, in a book written as an after-the-fact account by Odd himself.
Odd Thomas is a weird and wonderful mix of action, thriller, and humor, the kind of well-crafted work that reminds one of Terry Pratchett or Neil Gaiman. It makes fiction writers like me insanely jealous. It's the kind of book that only established writers can get away with, especially when Koontz fills in backstory by having Odd just tell you what the backstory is. Yeah, he gets away with it, and also with that kind of colorful description that's gone away a little too much in today's literature. But what he gets away with is awe-inspiring.
No, I have no idea if the movie is any good ... but I'll probably watch it, anyway.
Wait, I thought the kid's name was Cole. The Sixth Sense, right?
But no, this is a novel by Dean Koontz, and also a great example of how there are no new ideas: Just new, unique, and fun ways of examining old ones. Odd Thomas does indeed see dead people, but that's one of the more normal aspects of Odd, and of Koontz's amazing novel.
My adventure came when my wife brought home a stack of used Koontz novels. I've seldom read his books, and had no real opinion about them, one way or another. The first I liked; the second I didn't much care for. Then came Odd Thomas, which kept me enraptured in a "do I really need to sleep? Do I have sick days available at work?" kind of way.
I was late to the party: There are six Odd Thomas books and a movie version of this one, dating back fifteen years. To demonstrate whether I liked it: I've already finished the first sequel, Forever Odd.
In the best "strange characters in a small town" fashion, Odd is surrounded by the unique occupants of Pico Mundo, California. Koontz's idea of a small town is a population of forty thousand, which really small town people like me regard with amusement, but never mind. Also in the best entertainment fashion, Pico Mundo seems to have a very high percentage of murders and other violence--where's Jessica Fletcher when you need her? As the story opens Odd encounters a little girl, who seems perfectly normal except that she can't speak.
In Odd's world, the dead don't talk. By the end of the first chapter he's used his psychic powers to identify the girl's killer, and the chase is on.
Despite his talents Odd is a short order cook. Because of his powers, really, because he's an unusually aware twenty-year old and knows that without order and routine, his ability would overwhelm him. He's madly in love with his childhood sweetheart, Stormy Llewellyn, he's the helpful sort you'd dream of having as a neighbor, and he's known around town as a great--but strange--young man. Only a few people, including the Police Chief, know of his psychic talents.
But in the course of one day his life is disrupted even beyond his own experiences. Odd finds himself chasing after a suspicious newcomer, and it leads him to supernatural madness, murder, and the knowledge that in less than a day something horrible is going to happen to the town he reluctantly protects.
I just realized how impossible it is to actually describe Odd Thomas. You have to experience it. To a large extent it's all about the style, in a book written as an after-the-fact account by Odd himself.
Odd Thomas is a weird and wonderful mix of action, thriller, and humor, the kind of well-crafted work that reminds one of Terry Pratchett or Neil Gaiman. It makes fiction writers like me insanely jealous. It's the kind of book that only established writers can get away with, especially when Koontz fills in backstory by having Odd just tell you what the backstory is. Yeah, he gets away with it, and also with that kind of colorful description that's gone away a little too much in today's literature. But what he gets away with is awe-inspiring.
No, I have no idea if the movie is any good ... but I'll probably watch it, anyway.
February 6, 2019
My Funny Valentine
Let me run this scenario past you. Your significant other says, "You never use your imagination when you get me gifts!"
So Instead of flowers or chocolate, this year you give her flower-shaped chocolate.
Let me know how sleeping on the couch works out.
Or, you can get them a book about Valentine's Day! Now that I think about it, maybe you should have it delivered with flowers ... just in case.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/193...
A bunch of us got together a few years ago to write this humor anthology, and it could save your romantic life ... unless you got a copy last year, too. In that case--unless you have a different significant other--you might want to consider lingerie. Or, um ... chocolate flavored lingerie in a flower print.
Or you could gift them one of my romantic comedy novels. But a book that actually has a Valentine on the cover is pretty appropriate.
So Instead of flowers or chocolate, this year you give her flower-shaped chocolate.
Let me know how sleeping on the couch works out.
Or, you can get them a book about Valentine's Day! Now that I think about it, maybe you should have it delivered with flowers ... just in case.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/193...
A bunch of us got together a few years ago to write this humor anthology, and it could save your romantic life ... unless you got a copy last year, too. In that case--unless you have a different significant other--you might want to consider lingerie. Or, um ... chocolate flavored lingerie in a flower print.
Or you could gift them one of my romantic comedy novels. But a book that actually has a Valentine on the cover is pretty appropriate.
February 4, 2019
Website updates, and print books available!
Emily has updated the website and yes, Coming Attractions is up and ready to order in both print and e-book versions. Check it out and read a sample here:
http://markrhunter.com/
(You know, after all this time I still have trouble getting used to the idea of a website with my name on it.)
She sent in a print order, and there's a form you can use on the website to order one straight from us, signed or unsigned. ('Cause do you really want graffiti in your brand new book?) And hey, just let us know if you want her to sign it! You can pay with PayPal, or a credit card, or a debit card ... but my scheme to take payment in large blocks of milk chocolate didn't work out.
Of course, you could just knock on the front door and ask for a copy, when they arrive in a week or so--but I'd suggest calling ahead, so the dog doesn't get too upset.
Don't forget to review! Authors survive on three things: Sales, reviews, and caffeine. One can build on the others.
As I've mentioned before, here's the post that mentions all the places you can order Coming Attractions and most of our other books:
https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2018...
And remember: Every time you buy a book, the winter gets just a bit warmer. Help us out of the snowdrifts.
http://markrhunter.com/
(You know, after all this time I still have trouble getting used to the idea of a website with my name on it.)
She sent in a print order, and there's a form you can use on the website to order one straight from us, signed or unsigned. ('Cause do you really want graffiti in your brand new book?) And hey, just let us know if you want her to sign it! You can pay with PayPal, or a credit card, or a debit card ... but my scheme to take payment in large blocks of milk chocolate didn't work out.
Of course, you could just knock on the front door and ask for a copy, when they arrive in a week or so--but I'd suggest calling ahead, so the dog doesn't get too upset.
Don't forget to review! Authors survive on three things: Sales, reviews, and caffeine. One can build on the others.
As I've mentioned before, here's the post that mentions all the places you can order Coming Attractions and most of our other books:
https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2018...
And remember: Every time you buy a book, the winter gets just a bit warmer. Help us out of the snowdrifts.
February 1, 2019
Whining About Cold Injuries, Or: Why I laid on the couch for three days
Hey, can I whine, for just a second?
Usually when I write about some problem I'm going through, I try to do it with humor. I figure, why bring people down? Better to leave them with a laugh, or a smile, even if they're smiling at your misfortune--better to make life a wee bit better.
Especially now, when, honestly, it got so bad last week. We had a young police officer and his wife killed in a car crash, several bad fires in the region, and general misery for just about everyone, thanks to weather conditions so bad polar bears have been checking local real estate prices.
And that last is partially why I decided to whine. (The cold, not the polar bears.) I want to do a little public service announcement, which I'm naming after a guy I saw the other day wearing shorts. It was snowing, and three degrees. I call my PSA "If you freeze because of doing something stupid, it's stupid".
The title's a work in progress.
When I was about sixteen or so, I went out with a group of kids to play in the snow. Even back then I hated cold; but I had a lousy home life, so maybe I just wanted to get out of the house for awhile. As I recall I had a nice coat, but otherwise it was jeans and maybe some light gloves that quickly got saturated from all that snow-playing.
The thawing out process was excruciating.
So here's my first PSA: Frostbite often sneaks up on you, especially if you're sledding or, say, throwing snowballs at other sledders. And here's my second: The damage can be permanent. (Thinking back on it now, I also had a nice case of hypothermia going on.)
Afterward, once the temperature dropped below forty-five or so I had to wear gloves, or keep my hands in my pockets. Once it got down into the teens it was hard for me to use my hands even with gloves on, and I had the same problem with my toes. My cheeks and ears would burn, and any kind of breeze would give me an earache. Whether that was connected to my sinuses' sensitivity to weather changes, I couldn't say. Basically this body was meant for the desert, as a desert rat writer friend of mine often points out.
What the heck. I got used to it. Or at least, I got used to bundling up.
But wait--it gets better.
As last week's cold snap arrived, my hands and feet stiffened, hurt, and even burned a little. My ears and cheeks got sore. Inside the house ... with the heat on. That pain and increasing sinus pressure sent me into a headache that lasted three days and devolved into one of my few migraines. The good news is that I was on days off (I hate using sick days), and didn't have to go anywhere; the bad news is that I missed some fire calls, and in minus teens temperatures they could have used the help.
Yes, I know I wouldn't have lasted long in those temperatures, but who can?
Okay, enough whining, here's my point: Frostbite damage can not only be lifelong, it can get worse with age. Guess whose hands tingle and burn (and sweat, which I recently learned was a thing after frostbite)? Guess who gets that pain sooner and faster? Guess who has signs of arthritis that might be connected?
No, stop guessing, it's me. Pay attention.
So my PSA: Protect yourself. Learn how to prevent all those things that begin with "frost". Because even if you don't lose body parts (or die), you could be in for long term, and very annoying, problems.
Also, my wife wants you to yell at me if you see me outside without a hat and gloves on. She didn't say anything about pants, but maybe that's a given.
Usually when I write about some problem I'm going through, I try to do it with humor. I figure, why bring people down? Better to leave them with a laugh, or a smile, even if they're smiling at your misfortune--better to make life a wee bit better.
Especially now, when, honestly, it got so bad last week. We had a young police officer and his wife killed in a car crash, several bad fires in the region, and general misery for just about everyone, thanks to weather conditions so bad polar bears have been checking local real estate prices.
And that last is partially why I decided to whine. (The cold, not the polar bears.) I want to do a little public service announcement, which I'm naming after a guy I saw the other day wearing shorts. It was snowing, and three degrees. I call my PSA "If you freeze because of doing something stupid, it's stupid".
The title's a work in progress.
When I was about sixteen or so, I went out with a group of kids to play in the snow. Even back then I hated cold; but I had a lousy home life, so maybe I just wanted to get out of the house for awhile. As I recall I had a nice coat, but otherwise it was jeans and maybe some light gloves that quickly got saturated from all that snow-playing.
The thawing out process was excruciating.
So here's my first PSA: Frostbite often sneaks up on you, especially if you're sledding or, say, throwing snowballs at other sledders. And here's my second: The damage can be permanent. (Thinking back on it now, I also had a nice case of hypothermia going on.)
Afterward, once the temperature dropped below forty-five or so I had to wear gloves, or keep my hands in my pockets. Once it got down into the teens it was hard for me to use my hands even with gloves on, and I had the same problem with my toes. My cheeks and ears would burn, and any kind of breeze would give me an earache. Whether that was connected to my sinuses' sensitivity to weather changes, I couldn't say. Basically this body was meant for the desert, as a desert rat writer friend of mine often points out.
What the heck. I got used to it. Or at least, I got used to bundling up.
But wait--it gets better.
As last week's cold snap arrived, my hands and feet stiffened, hurt, and even burned a little. My ears and cheeks got sore. Inside the house ... with the heat on. That pain and increasing sinus pressure sent me into a headache that lasted three days and devolved into one of my few migraines. The good news is that I was on days off (I hate using sick days), and didn't have to go anywhere; the bad news is that I missed some fire calls, and in minus teens temperatures they could have used the help.
Yes, I know I wouldn't have lasted long in those temperatures, but who can?
Okay, enough whining, here's my point: Frostbite damage can not only be lifelong, it can get worse with age. Guess whose hands tingle and burn (and sweat, which I recently learned was a thing after frostbite)? Guess who gets that pain sooner and faster? Guess who has signs of arthritis that might be connected?
No, stop guessing, it's me. Pay attention.
So my PSA: Protect yourself. Learn how to prevent all those things that begin with "frost". Because even if you don't lose body parts (or die), you could be in for long term, and very annoying, problems.
Also, my wife wants you to yell at me if you see me outside without a hat and gloves on. She didn't say anything about pants, but maybe that's a given.
