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Yes Sir!

I’m amazed at the number of different meanings to some of the words and phrases we hear every day. The word "Sir" is officially a polite address for a man, yet there are several variations in usage that range from condescending to downright insulting.

"Hello Sir" from a recent acquaintance almost certainly means "I forgot your name." If used after a second meeting it can mean "You look familiar but you’re not important enough to have a name."

"Pardon me sir" unless followed by a request for information, probably means "Get out of my way" or you may have just said something offensive. Inflection and tone provide further clues to the intended meaning.

Those who have been in the military will remember the mandatory "Yes Sir – No Sir" responses that characterize military etiquette as well as the subtle inflections that render them noticeably insincere.

I particularly like the "Sir" salutations I get at the FamousMart. These are, of course, scripted by management but sound remarkably sincere, unless it’s near break time. You can tell if break time is approaching by the lack of eye contact and the mechanical tone of voice. The "good afternoon sir" usually means "Why do you have your lumpy butt in my lane?" and may be accompanied by glaring glances at the customer just behind you.

The parting gesture "Thank you sir and have a wonderful day" should by all rights be followed by the disclaimer: "the sentiments expressed by the preceding announcement are solely those of management and not necessarily my own."

Deficiency Motivation

       When was the last time you presented someone with a good idea, or a suggestion and received a response like “I don’t have a problem with that”?

You may consider that a positive response. To me, it’s about as positive as not throwing up. Such passive responses, which are neither an endorsement nor an outright rejection and, like political rhetoric, contribute little to any worthy purpose. A negative response might bring about some productive debate and a positive response would surely stimulate creativity. Either case would result in an improvement or at least, greater insight into the status quo. (Which, of course, is un politician like since he cannot claim credit).

If you frequently use the “I don’t have a problem with that” phrase, when  responding to the ideas expressed by others, you may be “Deficiency Motivated”. It’s a sure bet if you also use other tell-tale phrases like “If I’m wrong, I apologize”; which is really an assertion of being right disguised as an apology.

Being deficiency motivated reflects great arrogance combined with apathy and a bit of selfishness. It’s a way of actively not participating in achieving the possibilities for good in the community and the lives of others. People who are deficiency motivated don’t care what you do unless it somehow takes something away from them or allows you to get ahead. They need deficiency, adversity or at least some aggravation to stimulate their interest and prompt them to action. If you have examined these symptoms and find that you are “Deficiency Motivated” I certainly hope this little article aggravates you. 

Cheerful Obligations

I have many relatives in and around Batesville where I was born and raised. Some of us will get together in early June for an annual semi-traditional Potluck luncheon reunion. We will exchange detailed descriptions of our latest ailments, surgeries, and medications. There will be some praise for our doctors and a bit of bragging about the success of our offspring. We’ll discuss the wars, rumors of war, and a smattering of politics as well as the patriotism demonstrated by the servicemen of our clan who have gone off to foreign countries to protect our country’s freedom.

Those who have passed away since our last meeting will be memorialized without too much sadness. Their absence will be noted along with the inevitable comment that they are "better off and in a better place" this year. Although some might wonder about the truth of these statements, no doubts will be expressed. Our heart will tell our face to smile, our eyes to tear, and demand a laugh from time to time as we enjoy the warmth of fellowship and our shared heritage.

Our drive back home will be filled with the melancholy that tends to even out the joys of the event. We will lament over the physical conditions of some and hint at our opinions about different things we heard. We’ll probably worry that we bragged too much about our grandkids or that we were not attentive enough to someone precious.

Thank God that he wisely designed our human body so that we can neither pat our own backs nor kick ourselves too easily.

The Adventures of New Henry

I was careful not to startle him I didn’t want to scare him away. We had talked about how nice it would be to have a couple of ducks on the pond. I watched him until twilight approached. We figured that he would not stay around – that he was just passing by and invited himself to a brief rest and a relaxing swim. Later that evening I saw him on the bank from where I was feeding the fish… probably finding bread crumbs that I had dropped.

He was still there Wednesday – on Thursday we decided to walk to the other side of the pond and try to feed him some bread crumbs. I needed to mow the field and the pond bank; I was afraid that if he didn’t see any advantage to sticking around, the noise and commotion would drive him away. Except of a little tiff with Tiger, the neighbor’s cat, it went well. Mowing on Friday didn’t seem to bother him a bit.

 When I went out on Saturday, he swam over to greet me and get his ration of bread; same thing Sunday. We decided he had found a home and was there to stay.

 This morning Robbie paid a visit to the pond with no food for the fish or the duck (Henry). As she turned to return to the porch, Henry followed, making it across the creek before she noticed. I had just stepped outside when she hollered, “bring food for the duck.” I took some Cheerios; she fed him and the fish at the pond to discourage him from coming to the porch. Apparently he was satisfied, he didn’t follow us back.

 We have no idea where he came from but it’s really nice to have a duck in the pond. It reminds us of the first Henry (or Henrietta) – "The Duck that Thought he was a Dog." 

I Wonder if I Can Fly

When I was ten or twelve years old, I wanted to fly. Not in an airplane but with wings. I became intrigued with the villain warriors sweeping across the screen in the Saturday Serial playing at the local movie theater. I envied their ability to don man-made wings and sail from the cliffs and mountain tops in an effort to protect their malevolent king from his rightful demise.  I didn’t remember the lessons of good versus evil conveyed by the plot, but I memorized the details of the wings and other garb that enabled the majestic flight of these creatures week after week.

I daydreamed of flying as I and gazed down from my tree house and while watching birds and buzzards gliding above.  I pretended to fly while speeding down hills on my bicycle, feeling airborne with the wind in my face and the road moving swiftly below me.

I made wings with bits of cord and materials cut from brown cardboard boxes. With the wings strapped to my back, I would run through the field hoping that a gust of wind would catch me and lift me off the ground.

One day I put on my wings and climbed atop our rickety old garage to a perch perhaps twenty feet from the ground. I stood facing a breezy eastern sky, my outstretched arms holding the wings. With my breaths short and my heart pounding I surveyed the landscape below me; I was but a tiny leap from sailing down the driveway and around the yard; I was never more self-confident.

I stood there for a long time, occasionally lifting one foot then putting it back down; moving my arms slightly to check the breeze and over and over taking that final breath just before liftoff.

Liftoff never occurred. I didn’t take the tiny leap. Since that time more than fifty years ago, with every successful event in my life, my thoughts go back to that day and again, I wonder if I can fly.

© Copyright 2009 Charles Prier

Wrong Number Please...

          My cell phone number is just one digit different from that of a popular restaurant in town. When it first opened, I started receiving calls and became very annoyed. One lady, who I named Miss Piggy, began calling repeatedly. After a while, she would hang-up when I answered. I figured that she had programmed my number in her speed dial by accident and was too hungry to change it at the times she called.

          One day I returned her call right after she hung up. Her voice mail answered. I left a message suggesting that she had likely programmed my number by mistake into her speed dial and requested that she take a moment to change it. It would save us both trouble and mobile minutes.

           She called back immediately and with a vocabulary that would have made my sailor days proud, chewed my backside to hamburger.

           I decided right then and there to prove Miss Piggy wrong. I'm not all those bad things she called me. I made an oath to stop being annoyed when someone miscalled; instead I would be mister nice guy and be helpful not hateful. Besides, I reasoned, it is a fine restaurant and I should be proud to be associated with it, even though it's by someone's error.

         I discovered that being nice is a lot more fun than being rude. I can often detect a note of pleasant surprise when I give the misdialer the correct number and wish them a good day. The number of miscalls has decreased over the months but I plan to continue being friendly to each caller, except perhaps, to Miss Piggy.

© Copyright 2009 Charles Prier