Red Wine

My largest client came to town yesterday. They sent a team of 5 executives from Los Angeles to spend 2 ½ days with me here in Nashville attending a series of meetings I set up with potential distribution partners. I work closely with one of them, and this trip was my chance to get to know others on the team better. The week was just as much about team development as finding a business partner for them.

I had planned for this week for sometime and wanted to make sure everything went well. We had made dinner reservations for Wed night after I picked them up from the airport. It was a chance to get to know each other better and plan for the upcoming 2 days of meetings.

We went to a restaurant in Nashville named The Trace. Everything was off to a wonderful start until a minor gaffe occurred. After buttering my bread with some sort of bright red roasted tomato butter, my butter knife slipped off my plate and painted a bright red blotch on the shirt of the most senior member of my client’s team. A very nice gent that I was sitting next to and trying to get to know better.

He graciously accepted my apology, assured me it would wash right out (I knew better), and we continued our conversation. I noticed the table we were sitting at had extensions that popped out from underneath, and my side of the table gently slopped downwards proving a slight angle that helped my knife slide right off the plate and hit the target. I took note of it and would be more careful the rest of the night.

Things were progressing well until one of the worst things that could happen at a dinner meeting did- and it involved red wine, a brand new blackberry, and cream colored corduroy jeans.

I am part Italian, and as such, I have no choice but to animatedly move my arms and hands about when I talk. It is in the blood. And blood is very closely color matched with a nice 1995 California Pinot Noir.

As my arms flailed about telling a story, my left arm clipped my full wine glass. Not much at all, but enough to send it on its way to the table surface on the sloped edge it sat upon. Everyting moved in slow motion. The screams of horror sounded several pitches lower than normal as they do when tape runs in slo-mo. The glass hit the table..the wine sloshed skyward, the nice man sitting next to me that could end or extend my consulting agreement made his move…and the wine landed. Right on his new blackberry, with shrapnel splashing onto his nice new light colored pants.






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15 Strikes And You’re Out

Our little R had a very rough time recently on her 5/6 year old girl’s softball team. The first several games of her little life were marked by some level of success. Several hits from pitched balls and a few good fielding plays.

At this age, the coaches pitch the girls 3 balls, and if they don’t get a hit, they pull out the T and tee up the ball for an easy smack that usually dribbles a few feet towards the pitcher. Off they run to first base and it all comes down to how strong the pitcher (who runs to pick up the ball and throw to first base) and the first basegirl (who on average catches the wild throw and makes the out about 7% of the time) are.

All of a sudden, for no reason at all, R lost her ability to swing the bat evenly and make a hit. She started having to use the T every time she was up. And then, again suddenly, she lost the ability to hit the ball off the T.

It happened last week. She got up, missed the three coach pitches, and then one by one, for a total of 15 swings (I estimated), her bat kept connecting with the rubber T about a foot below the ball. Each time a coach had to pick up the ball, reset it, step away, and wait for the new swing. The first couple of times it was cute. By number 10 or so it became unbearably painful for me- Dad.

I wanted to swoop in and fix everything for her. To encourage her, to take her away from the pressure and embarrassment she was feeling. I could see it on her face- she was close to tears. A few of the opposing team members starting playing in the dirt, and a couple sat down. It was horrible. The pressure was bubbling up inside me to make it all ok and fix the world crumbling around my little girl. I didn’t though. Mostly because I was the third base coach and there was a coach there with her trying to help. I toughed it out. And so did she.

She finally connected with the ball- a powerful hit straight to the short-stop. It was missed (of course), and rolled into the outfield. R got a nice double.

After the game I asked her how she was and if she had fun at the game. She said she did, but that she didn’t like what happened when she got up to bat (the second and third time she got up she has the same problem as the first, but with only 2-3 swings at the T instead of the 15). She said she was sad, and that all the people everywhere were staring at her. She was close to tears. I had a sudden flashback to K when she had the exact same problem when she was 5 (8 years ago). I told R about her sister K having the same problem, and now K is one of the best hitters in the league, regularly hitting doubles, triples and homeruns almost effortlessly. That seemed to help a bit.






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Trip To Los Angeles Part 1- Shut Down

Here’s a mildly interesting occurrence from my trip to LA on Monday/Tuesday. In line (lane B at Southwest) for my flight back from LA to Nashville I had the pleasure of listening to some wacky lady behind me drone on for an hour talking on her cell phone. It was one of those conversations you can’t help but hear- mainly because the person talking right behind you is talking so loud they might as well be in your head. If I could have got a gun through security I think I might have used it. If not on me, at least on her cell phone.

She talked about angel food cake, her car, what she was making for Easter dinner, her lawn, ants, roaches, the gum she just bought that lost its flavor within a few minutes, her sore leg, the weather, the shirt she bought while in LA, American Idol, and how her husband’s gums were bothering him.

After she finished her call, she droned on by picking on a couple in lane A next to her. Turns out they were moving from Orange County to Franklin TN with their two small children (near where I live in Leipers Fork), and were on their first fact finding trip to look at the area, homes, schools- the whole thing. The husband mentioned he had been to Franklin a couple times on business.

Crazy talking lady proceeded to give them 20 minutes of advice about where to live in the area, the best schools, things to do, places to eat, and more. All of it…I mean EVERY SINGLE BIT OF THE ADVICE she was giving was 100% wrong. I don’t know what rock this lady lives under in Franklin, but it must be big and mossy enough to totally shielded her from every thing good and holy. I bit my tongue for the first 10 minutes. At the 20 minute mark my head started to pop off.

“Excuse me…I heard you were moving to Franklin. I live in Franklin and am thrilled your family is moving there. It’s a great town and I can tell you about a few places online you can learn about everything Williamson County has to offer” I butted in and said.

Well…I was shut down. The husband said “Yes- thank you. I know all about Franklin. I’ve been there. Thanks again. Honey- I think we can get out of this line and go to the pre-board section since we have kids.” And they exited stage left.

I can only imagine what this man and his wife thought. “I think we’re making a big mistake. These Franklin people are kooks.”






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Born To Sing And Dance

Our 5 year old daughter R arrived on this planet on a hot sunny day in June 2001. Not long after, she started exhibiting the traits of a performer.

All of our kids, and if you have kids most likely all of yours as well, have a bit of performer in them. They like to get and keep your attention with shouts of “Watch me do this! Watch me do that!”

What stood out about R to us is that all of her performances, even at 2 years old, involved performing a loosely choreographed dance to a song on the CD player. She collected dance moves and strung them together into impromptu performances whenever she could convince us to play Jump5 or Hilary Duff. The golden moments for her were when we had friends or family over to our house. At a certain point in the evening, a moment she no doubt was waiting for like a cat watches a mouse choosing the exact moment to pounce, R would ask our guests if she could perform a number for them.

The music would play, and she would lip sync the song while dazzling the crowd with her latest dance moves. A few new ones sprinkled in with the re-tread moves her 3 older sisters had seen ad nausea.

One night she kind of freaked Michelle and I out. We had friends over- Chris and Brooke- and R insisted on performing for them. She chose “So Yesterday” by Hilary Duff- her specialty. Often times when she performs, we are sitting in the great room giving her tons of space to do her best work. This night we all happened to be standing around the kitchen island and R’s stage became the kitchen floor. I guess she decided to do some improvisation and use the props the kitchen provided her- about halfway through the song, amidst her familiar dance moves, she pulled out a move not seen in our house ever.

We have one of those big built-in stainless steel refrigerators, and the handles to the two side-by-side doors are long perfectly smooth poles that run the height of the refrigerator. They are relatively large and protrude a good 5 inches or so from the doors. This was key to R’s new dance move.

She sashayed over to the refrigerator during the chorus, and pulled out her big move. She grabbed onto the pole and did a 100% authentic hoochified sexy pole dance. She lifted her legs off the ground, and sort of spun on the pole all the way to the ground, threw her head and hair back, and gave us all her best glamour look. She was 4 years old.

Michelle and I were stunned. Chris and Brooke erupted in laughter. At the end of the dance move Michelle jumped in and said “ok, that’s all for tonight” while I went and turned off the music. We casually inquired of R where she learned that particular dance move, assuming she had seen it somewhere- perhaps on a music video on Disney, or who knows where else.

She insisted that she had made it up herself.






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Y2K And The Leipers Fork Chili Cook-Off

All this hoopla about a new mini-Y2K tomorrow night is hilarious. Apparently, since Congress has moved daylight savings time up a few weeks, our computers are supposed to freak out when they wake up Sunday morning and find they lost an hour from their system clock. Then, they will proceed to shut down the world.

I remember the craziness of Y2K very well- the endless stupid meetings at the office to talk through contingency plans, the insane dollars spent on back-up, back-up, back-up generators, data storage facilities, even some talk of turning our office building into a refuge for staff and family if things spun out of control and the order of law collapsed. I had friends, you probably did too, that spent large sums of money on emergency food, water, and even weapons. It was a bit too wacky to be funny.

I must admit that I got pulled along with them just a bit. I did buy one thing- a small propane stove to cook with if for some reason the power went out for a day or two. The package came via UPS and was promptly stored, unopened, on the top shelf of our garage storage unit. And unopened it stayed until the day my mom called with a strange request several years later.

On a Friday night mom rang me up and asked if I still had that propane stove I bought for Y2K- she wanted to borrow it to use for the Leipers Fork Chili Cook-Off she had entered. I guess I never pictured anyone from our family being a chili cook-off kind of person. Somehow those people just seem very different than most normal folk. I always picture them as men with massive barrel chests, giant handle-bar mustaches soaked in BBQ sauce, and chomping on a cigar while reaching into a giant cast-iron kettle to rustle up some fixins. The thought of mom going at it was a very funny image in my mind.

Yes mom- I still have it- somewhere- and you’re welcome to use it. The next question she asked- would I please help her cook the chili- was a bit harder to agree to, but I did. I just hoped no one I knew would roll-on up to the chili bar while I had my big chef hat on.

Saturday morning broke perfect- sunny, cool, breezy, with the smell of onions and beef detectable in the air even though our home is almost 2 miles from “downtown” Leipers Fork. Mom arrived on time (as in late) and I grabbed the dusty box containing the propane stove and threw it in my truck. Off we headed to our appointed spot along the main road in Leipers Fork. The road would be closed to traffic soon so the huge crowd that would show up could wander along and sample chili from the 30 or so booths.

We unloaded our boxes of ingredients, coolers of meat, and all the other items necessary to make my moms non-award (we hoped to change that) winning chili. My father unloaded and set up his 10x10 outdoor canopy and tables. As we were unloading our items I looked around at the other more professional looking contestants and noticed the tools of their trade. Massive iron cookers, huge outdoor stoves that made a sounds like jet-engines, and huge vats of steaming liquids. It was quite impressive.

As mom pulled out her giant stainless steel pan (probably 1 ½ feet wide and 2 ½ feet tall), I was glad we had at least ONE thing that would make it look like we belonged here. I then went for the propane stove and cracked open the box. Interesting. All I could see in the box were canisters of propane that looked like large cans of hairspray. I started taking them out…kept taking them out…at a certain point I thought there was no way there was actually a stove in here. Sure enough, it was there. At the bottom. A small white box tucked under all the hairspray cans, approximately 3 inches tall and 5 inches wide. Inside that little box was a giant massive propane stove, assuming mom was Barbie and I was Ken. My heart sank. We had a problem.

The large pan we had wouldn’t even balance on the mini-stove unless someone held it the entire time. It looked hilarious. Our chili cookin’ neighbors could barely contain their laughter. As I held the pan and mom threw in butter and onions and cilantro, dad rushed to his house to load up the only thing they had that could possibly help us cook the chili- their outdoor grill. He loaded it into the back of his truck, straped it on clumsily with bungee-cords, and rushed back. By the time he got back, about an hour later, we had just managed to melt the first pats of butter thrown in the pan using the propane ‘stove.’

We were a sight. One single giant pan. Doll house propane stove. Big broken rusty backyard barbeque grill. 3 goofballs rushing to get the chili done by the 11AM shotgun start. We barely made it.

The chili turned out surprisingly good. We had tons of positive comments from the hundreds of people passing by, and came close to winning the people’s choice award. Not bad. We won’t be doing it again.






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Vodka, Chili, Panties & The Glory Days

A few weeks ago my former employer, actually my former-former employer, was forced to layoff a large number of people due to the continuing changes in the industry. The music business is in turmoil and going through a painful metamorphosis that is taking a toll on many, many people.

A couple days ago I called a few of the people that were affected just to say hello and encourage them as they figure out what they want to do next. On one of those calls I learned that a small group of those folks were coming to Nashville for a wrap up meeting to hand off company materials, account relationship details and other things necessary to bridge the changes with customers. He mentioned that a group of former staff were gathering Thursday night for dinner and to hang- the sad fact is that it may be the last time several of them see each other. He invited me along.

We showed up at a local sports bar/restaurant- Jonathon’s Grill, but it was too loud to talk, so we decided to head to a nearby hotel restaurant. No one ever goes to those places for a good time, so we knew it would be quiet. It was.

It was great to see the guys- a couple remaining guys still at work in the industry, a few scheduled to end their position in a month, and a few more that had left a month ago and even one that left a couple years ago. It was a blast. A decent Absolute Gimlet, a bowl of horrific hotel chili, and great conversation. Its always fun to hang with friends and talk about the glory days- there is something comforting and supportive about a group dynamic that makes reminiscing fun instead of sad or pathetic.

All was going well until one gent begged me to tell my ancient story about Chris. I refused, assuring him and all the others that they had heard it at some point over the last 16 years and I wasn’t going to bore them with it again. Several spoke up insistent that they had never heard it, and I was implored to tell. And so I did. And I will tell it once more again here, and then I’m done with it.

It’s really not that funny unless you know/knew Chris, so you might as well stop reading here. Have a nice day.

Ok, for anyone left, here we go. Chris is a big guy. Bigger than me, and what someone would call lumbering. He has a heart as big as Texas, but his brain processes everything out in the open. Where most people filter out the thinking process when they go through ideas or options privately, spot the glaring errors or problems, and then decide on a course of action, Chris plods through this by speaking out loud so everyone can peak inside his brain. While he usually ended up making a decent choice or decision, he suffers much ridicule and teasing on the way. Hope that paints a good picture of him.

Many years ago, on one of many sales conferences that brought the far-flung sales reps together for meetings, I waited in the lobby of the hotel during check-in to see who I was to room with. I was told my roommate was Chris, and so headed upstairs to unpack and then head out to dinner. The sales team gathered for dinner that night, and afterwards we all headed back to our rooms- we had an early start the next morning- 7AM meeting start.

Chris and I walked to our room, and I immediately collapsed into my bed and turned the TV on. Chris, who had arrived late from Florida, started unpacking. He then headed to the bathroom, and when he came out and walked in front of the TV I caught a glimpse of him- he was committing a no-no when rooming with a co-worker. He was completely naked except for his undies.

And that’s when I saw them. Big, droopy, silky, ruffled panties. Way too big even for Chris’s massive frame. Things were hanging out that shouldn’t have been.

“Chris, what are you wearing?” I asked incredulously.

He then informed me, with absolutely no hesitation or embarrassment that he had run out of clean underwear right before the trip, and had no choice but to wear a pair of his wife’s panties. He said they rushed to get his clothes washed and packed, and fortunately had just enought time to pack his own clean underwear for the upcoming week although they were still a bit damp.

I suggested to Chris that next time, if this ever happened again, quietly and without commentary, slip a pair of your own clean underwear out of the drawer, head into the bathroom fully dressed, then change underwear, get dressed for bed (that would include some sort of pajamas or robe so as not to freak out your roommate), and never mention that you wore your wife’s panties. Chris said “Yeah- that probably would have been better.”






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What Is Your Tipping Point?

In the dictionary, next to the word ‘Petite,’ is a picture of our girl A. She is a lovely creature of 8 years that is delicate and has the appearance of a quiet and calm little girl. In kindergarten her teacher nicknamed her Mary Poppins (practically perfect in every way).

Anyone that meets our girls for the first time, besides remarketing on how respectful, kind and beautiful they are (I am in no way being biased here), also remark on how quiet A is. Her sisters have to stifle laughs.

A, once she is comfortable with her surroundings and the people around her, is a Tasmanian devil. She laughs like a crazy girl, tells jokes, plays pranks, and can be so loud as to pop eardrums.

A few months ago, she had a rather humiliating experience, funny though, that came about because of those nasty physical laws. Namely, those of ‘gravity’ (is in, center of) and ‘inertia.’

The mornings we don’t drive our girls to school, they take the bus. Since we are in a rather isolated area with a country road posting a speed limit of 45 that often has rednecks as well as the rural upper-crust doing 80-90MPH, we drive our girls out to the end of our driveway where the bus picks them up. They stay in the car until we see the bus pulling up.

Our driveway ends with a slope up to the road, and a ditch for water drainage that runs along our road frontage (about 500 feet or so), creating a 3 foot drop-off from the road all along it. One day not too long ago, as the bus came into view our van doors opened, and out jumped our girls.

A was out first, and was waiting for her older sisters to get out. She backed up from the van door, giving them room, but backed up just a bit too far.

The weight of her backpack, stuffed with books and folders, and riding high on her little frame, tipped her backwards. She was bending back like a tree in a heavy wind, swinging her arms wildly in a desperate attempt to balance, and shortly afterwards hit the tipping point. She fell backwards, down the ditch, rolling several times to the bottom while 40 kids in the bus watched every roll.

There was that pause, except for our oldest K, when you want to be sure the person that has encountered a mishap is not hurt before you bust out laughing.

A was ok- it was evident from her raucous laughter as she lay at the bottom of the ditch looking up.

FYI- I got her permission to write this. Also, if you're wondering, she can eat like a horse. On pizza night she can easily down 4-5 pieces along with plenty of Coke. I wish I had her metabolism.







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My Worst Presentation Ever: Part 3 of 3- Time's Up

The painful recounting of my worst presentation concludes...
Read Part 1 here
Read part 2 here
-----------------

I arrived back at Radio Disney, took a seat and waited for my meeting. I spent the time making some quick edits to the master copy of the presentation- trying to cut it down to fit into the shortened meeting, still tell the story and make sense, while also allowing time for open discussion.

The slightly cool air also helped me cool down a bit, though I didn’t have enough time to totally recover from my harrowing and highly heated morning.

A few minutes later the clock showed noon. Mrs. J arrived, with several shopping bags in hand (she apologized for moving and shortening the meeting, but she had to go to the doctors office, and then decided to get in some clothes shopping before leaving for vacation later in the day).

She escorted me to a meeting room, and told me she would be right back. As she headed out, she popped her head back in the room and mentioned off-handedly that we needed to wrap up by 12:30. Great. My 90 minute meeting, cut to an hour, was now cut again to 30 minutes. My head started throbbing.

The meeting room was a toasty 80 degrees. When Mrs. J returned to the meeting room with 10 other people in tow, the heat of the room and the stress caused by the meeting logistics spiraling out of control conspired to turn the reappearing sweat beads on my nose and forehead into Niagara Falls.

Over many years of meetings I had learned an important lesson. When making a presentation have materials for 50% more attendees than the number you have been informed will be in the meeting. 10 attendees? Bring 15 copies. 50? Bring 75.

What about one?

I now sat in front of 11 people with a grand total of 4 sets of materials. It was “sharing time” gone horribly wrong.

As I handed out the materials with one hand, wiping sweat with the other, my mind was racing trying to figure out how to edit the presentation on the fly to cover all the material in 10 minutes allowing at least 20 minutes to chat and try to close the deal. As I stumbled through the presentation, sounding like a blabbering idiot on speed, I got to the part where I played the music. With disc in hand I stood up and looked around the room.

Someone from the gallery said “We don’t have a sound-system in here. I’ll go get our portable player- it’ll just take a sec.” “No sound-system?” I blurted out with incredulity barely disguised.
A boom-box was hauled in, and the music sounded horrific on it. More sweat. Time was running out. More sweat. A very curious person kept asking goofy questions killing any remaining time. More sweat. 'Man, it must be 100 degrees in here' I thought. I kept hearing a distracting strange sound every couple of seconds. I realized it was sweat plopping loudly on my printed presentation. Lovely.

Times up. Mrs. J ended the meeting, thanked me for coming, and said we should follow-up on the phone when she got back from vacation in a few weeks. Goodbye.

I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you at this point that Mrs. J is a gracious and kind person. She always has been, and I was thankful for the chance I had at bat. The terrible morning and presentation was not her fault. I blew it. Me.

I picked up my stuff from the pool that had formed in front of me, thanked everyone lamely, and headed to the ground floor to have the receptionist call a cab- I had 2 hours before my departure time and figured I would make it with plenty of time to hang myself in the airport men’s room. I wondered if my iPod earphones cord would be strong enough.

As the elevator lowered me to my death, I realized I didn’t even remember what I had said during the last 30 minutes. It was a total blank. The worst presentation I had ever made.

The taxi company said they would be there in 10 minutes. 20 minutes later I had the receptionist call again. The cab company apologized and said they would be there in 10 minutes. Another 20 minutes passed and they called the receptionist asking for directions. They suggested I stand outside so the driver could spot me, and I could spot the cab.

After a burning hot 20 minutes standing in the sun, I noticed a taxi in the distance across the vast empty field I had walked through earlier, looping mindlessly around the parking lot. I began quickly walking through the lot towards the cab. The taxi looked to be giving up, and started to drive away. I broke into a run, braving deadly thorny shrubs, waving my free hand wildly. Finally I caught a break- the driver saw me in his rear view mirror as he was turning out onto the main road heading away from Radio Disney. He immediately pulled a U-turn to pick me up.

We sped to the airport, arriving 10 minutes before boarding. I got through security, ran to my gate, and collapsed in my seat looking and feeling like I had jumped into a swimming pool fully dressed.

I sat there on the flight home completely defeated and deflated. I drove home, and Michelle greeted me with a smile and excitedly asked me how the meeting went and if they liked the record. "No comment. I can't even talk about it until tomorrow. I need a glass of wine."

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My Worst Presentation Ever: Part 2 of 3- Roadkill

The painful recounting of my worst presentation continues...
Read Part 1 here
-----------------

When I arrived in Dallas at 10AM for my 11AM meeting, it was already a surprisingly hot and hazy day. I grabbed a cab, gave the driver the address, and started to review the presentation during the drive.

About 20 minutes later we pulled up to the address but the building had a sign letting us know that if we wanted kids music they couldn't help us, but they had plenty of building supplies if we were building a new house.

Turns out the cab driver had transposed the street number and had driven to the opposite side of the city. We turned around and headed in the right direction.

As we got close to the real address, he radioed his office for help- he couldn’t find the street number. I hoped he had a cell phone I could borrow, but no luck (a taxi driver without a cell phone? This was my lucky day). After a few minutes of confused conversation between the driver and his home base, while idling in a non-descript parking lot with 10 minutes before meeting time, I gave up. I paid the fare, and jumped out to navigate the area by foot.

I wandered from building to building, none with company names or signs to guide me. I saw a man getting into a car nearby and took a chance he knew where Radio Disney was and asked for help. Good news- he knew where it was, and pointed out the building to me. Bad news- it was some distance away across a huge weed-ridden empty lot. I could get there by going “around the block,” but Dallas must be a land of giants. A city block in Dallas is not like anywhere else in the world. I estimated it would take me 20 minutes to walk around, or 5 to walk through. Through it was.

Traipsing through the lot, in my business attire and briefcase in hand, I arrived at the front door of ABC Radio/Radio Disney 5 minutes later. After picking off the burrs and stickers from my pants, and wiping the voluminous sweat from my face, I rang the security button. The receptionist let me in, and after ringing Mrs. J’s office, informed me that the meeting was bumped back and hour because she wasn't feeling well and had to go to the doctor’s office. They called my cell earlier that morning and left a message- "you didn't get it?"

I was also informed that the meeting was cut to an hour since Mrs. J needed to get out of the office early as she was leaving for vacation that day.

As I mentioned earlier, I had some urgent E-mails to handle and so decided to use my newfound hour wisely and pulled out my laptop. Unfortunately Radio Disney didn't have an open wireless network for guests, and I asked the receptionist if there was a nearby Starbucks. “Yes- there’s one across the street. Go out to such and such street, turn right, take your next right, and its right there- it’ll take you 2 minutes.” She should have finished that sentence with “…if you have a car. If you walk you’re insane, and it will take you much longer, and there is a bunch of construction and no sidewalks, forcing you to walk on the edge of roads with cars driving by at 50MPH and you will likely die.”

But she didn’t.

I headed out the door reasoning, with good logic as men often do, that if Starbucks was down the long side street, with a right turn and another right turn, it should, again logically, be straight out the door and through another maze of buildings, parking lots and side roads. It wasn’t.

I got to Starbucks 15 minutes later, dripping with sweat again. I bought a giant cold frappuccino and sat down to hammer out a few urgent E-mails. I couldn’t log on. The friendly barista informed me that the wireless was down and should be back up again in a couple hours. Back I went, replacing the sheen of sweat I had wiped off in the Starbucks bathroom and risking the fate of many an armadillo in the great state of Texas- death by speeding car.

Continued...My Worst Presentation Ever: Part 3 of 3- Time's Up







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My Worst Presentation Ever: Part 1 of 3- The Omen

Almost exactly one year ago I started production on a new kids album called “Cool Tunes.” It was to be an extension to The Safe Side kids safety product line (if you want more background on The Safe Side you can read my post The Postman Always Passes Twice).

I had engaged a well-respected producer and writer to create the project, and given him and the other writers plenty of background content on the subject matter to be covered on the album- scripts, Hot Tips, and other material that would provide plenty of fodder for crafty clever lyrics. The idea was to create a fun kids record for 4-8 year olds. You know the kind, fun bouncy music that reeked of Wiggles and Doodle-bops. No Barney please.

Then something very interesting happened. A few days before the planning meeting with the producer to finalize the creative direction of the record, my wife and four girls settled down to our weekly Friday night Movie Night, complete with popcorn and drinks. Rental movies, our film library and pay-per-view sat idle that night- the girls said there was a new Disney movie that night and they wanted to watch it. So we settled in to watch High School Musical on the night it premiered Jan. 20th, 2006.

I was floored. Great music, fun lyrics, and I witnessed all four girls, 4 to 12 years old, totally and completely enraptured by the movie and the music. I take special note when kids content can keep the attention of kids across an age span of 9 or 10 years. It is not very common. I knew halfway through the movie that we were watching something special.

Monday morning I had my meeting with the producer. We jumped in to the matter at hand right away- “Chris, I want to totally change the direction of this record. Friday night I watched a great movie with the girls called…” I started. Chris chimed in “…High School Musical! Me too! I watched it with my girls (he has 3) and they loved it.” So we were in agreement, and we set out to do what everyone in the music business does- steal good ideas and concepts. Cool Tunes was finished 90 days later.

And so began my journey to the worst presentation I ever gave.

One of the key points of the marketing plan for Cool Tunes was to get Radio Disney to listen to the record and accept it for airplay or maybe for promotions, safety special features, interstitials, whatever we could land to increase exposure. I got the meeting set, and made plans for my trip to Dallas for the big day. I was fortunate to have landed a 90 minute meeting with Mrs. J, the head of programming. I had met her on a previous occasion while at my previous company.

As the day approached and I exchanged E-mails with her assistant regarding the meeting details, I was warned that the Radio Disney building was hard to find, and instead of giving detailed directions about navigating a maze of side streets and parking lots that had no street signs, I should call them when I was close and they would guide me in.

The day before the meeting I completed my fancy-shmancy PowerPoint presentation, gathered demo copies of the record, and practiced my presentation. It was important that I hit a homerun and landed this opportunity. The next morning I got up early, gathered everything I needed, and headed out to the airport for my in-and-out one day trip.

A harbinger of disaster made itself known as I sat in my seat for the flight to Dallas. I had forgot my Blackberry/cell phone in the car. Not good. A very bad omen indeed. I had dozens of urgent E-mails to handle, and I also needed it to call Radio Disney when I got near their building. I thought I would be ok- I had the address printed out, and my laptop with me for a wireless E-mail session when I got there. I settled down for the hour and a half flight.

Then the pilot announced we would be delayed due to a mechanical problem and sat at the gate for an hour. I wasn’t too worried- that still left me an hour to get to the meeting after we landed, figuring the taxi ride to Radio Disney would be well under that.

Continued...My Worst Presentation Ever: Part 2 of 3- Roadkill







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The Almost Great Leipers Fork Fire Part 2: "Two Person 500-Foot Fire Bucket Relays Rarely Work"

Yesterday I started out to write a brief funny story of how I almost burned down my new town shortly after moving in. As I got into it, and finished off my second giant mug of hyper-caffinated Starbucks French Roast, I let loose almost 1700 words.

My friend FMF (Free Money Finance) mentioned once on his blog that my posts are long, but at least I only post once a day. So, I figured I would cut this story into two 800+ word posts. I hope you enjoy the conclusion.

The Almost Great Leipers Fork Fire Part 2: "Two Person 500-Foot Fire Bucket Relays Rarely Work."

I looked down and to the side and noticed that the hot engine of my lawn tractor had ignited the dead grass being rolled into a giant cigar under the chassis, and flames were starting to lick up into the engine lighting the stray dead grass tucked into every nook and cranny on the mower. Then the dead grass around the front of the mower caught, and that is exactly when the panic kicked in.

I jumped off with one thought in my mind- “This mower is going to explode, and I will die.”

I ran several feet away and watched as the fire grew, engulfing the front of the mower and starting to spread in a surprisingly well-defined growing circle. Then another thought crossed my mind- “I paid $2000 for this stupid thing and I’m going to sit here and watch it burn up? No way!”

I ran back to the mower, grabbed the back-end (flames were shooting up from the ground in the cock-pit area, and sitting on the mower was not an option), and with all my strength pulled it backwards. Adrenaline kicked in, and the performance was almost super-human, though the effects of the feat were not all good. I succeeded in accomplishing two things: I pulled the mower to relative safety, and I also spread flames over another 10 feet of dead grass. I grabbed my full water bottle and half-empty beer bottle and doused the fire burning under the mower, and the now burning and melting front wheels.

The fire in the field continued to burn, and started accelerating. I screamed to my wife and kids that were in the backyard playing in our blow-up pool- “Fire! Fire!”

Looking back now, I’m not sure that was productive. I panicked Michelle, and the girls all started crying as they looked up and saw daddy awkwardly running towards them navigating foot high dead grass in flip-flops, high-stepping, and wearing a sweat-soaked Hawaiian shirt and holding an empty beer can and water bottle, set to the back drop of a smoke and fire grass inferno.

Michelle and I scrambled for ideas. She suggested we call the fire department to keep from burning down all of Leipers Fork and wouldn’t that be lovely for the new neighbors to do. I considered it for a moment, and couldn’t imagine suffering the embarrassment and humiliation of having several fire trucks in our yard with Michael, Sally, other neighbors, and the constant flow of Sunday cyclist that navigate our road stopping to watch the action. Especially after the stuck-in-the-mud fiasco.

Michelle and I grabbed anything that could hold water, dipped it into the pool, and together jogged the 500 feet to the fire site. Remember the party game where you run with a spoon full of water to see who fills up the cup first, and you spill half of it getting there? This was just like that, only with a feeling of panic and the fear of perishing in a dramatic explosion replacing fun.

After a couple of rounds of this we realized we needed something bigger. The fire was growing, now to a circle roughly 30 feet in diameter with no signs of slowing. There was enough fuel in the form of dead mounds of grass spread out over 11 acres to provide the start of another Great Chicago Fire. I grabbed a plastic storage bin and filled it with water from the pool, and then on the next round tried to lift the whole stupid pool. I had lost my mind and imagined I could somehow lift 100 gallons of water in a flexible blow-up pool.

Finally, at a point of desperation, standing on the outside of the circle trying to stomp out the fire in flip-flops, Michelle said “Do you think I should get the fire extinguisher from the kitchen?”

“OH MY GOSH YES!!!” I said, just then recalling we had bought one and placed it under the kitchen cabinet. Michelle ran to the house and fetched it while I continued to fruitlessly shuttle storage bins of water back and forth from the house. Michelle returned with the fire extinguisher, I popped the safety tab and got to work. The fire was out in another minute, leaving a black smoking circle probably visible from space.

The next few weeks kept me busy- replacing the burnt front tires, slowly and painstakingly mowing the yard with a fire-extinguisher bungee-corded to the mower, and shopping for a new mower that could handle our 11 acres without burning down our town or causing a life-long battle with hemorrhoids.







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The Almost Great Leipers Fork Fire Part 1: "Smoke Between Your Legs"

In my post last week about “The Burning Of The Christmas Tree” I mentioned that a fire-extinguisher is now required for most outdoor activities around our house. I said I would tell the story of why at a later date. That day has arrived. It’s a long story, so I will post half the story today, and the other half tomorrow.

The Almost Great Leipers Fork Fire Part 1: "Smoke Between My Legs"

Shortly after moving into our new home in Leipers Fork Tennessee in May of 2003, we made the decision to keep our 11 acres cleanly mowed. This decision was based mostly on the mess we caused the first time we had it hedge-hogged the week we moved in. At the time the grass had reached chest high and brought life to the old lyric “amber waves of grain.”

We weren’t quite sure what hedge-hogging the grass entailed, but we did know that we had an offer to do it for $200, while a lawn care company quoted $800 to mow it. Bring on the hogs. The next day a tractor was towed onto our spread and it proceeded to slice down all the grass and hay, allowing it to fall to the ground in neat rows about a foot high. While it did “cut” the grass, what it left behind was a foot high grass carpet that looked worse. We needed a better solution.

I decided we would invest in a lawn tractor- the biggest I could find- and so searched Home Depot and Lowe’s. I found one at Lowe’s with a 54” mowing deck, the largest they had. It was delivered the next day and I planned my first big mow the following day, Friday.

By this time the grass had managed to grow again to about 2-3 feet in most places. As I started out on my brand new Toro Lawn Tractor (sounds much better than riding mower) I quickly realized I wasn’t going to be able to cut the grass very short. My solution was to set the deck at the highest setting, cut it roughly in half, and then go back and mow the whole yard again to get it to the desired height.

Have you ever driven past a freight train and stared at it wondering if it was moving or not? I’m sure that’s what I looked like from our road while I was sitting on my lawn tractor amidst a sea of 3 foot grass, moving at about 2mph.

I finished round one 6 hours later. My neighbors across the street, Michael and Sally, came out to say hi and mentioned with a grin on their face that my cool new mower sure was slow. These are the neighbors I had just recently met when I got my truck stuck in several feet of mud and they tried to help me get it out with their tractor (see my post: Our Family’s Off-Road Adventure).

As I started to embark on round 2 I was disheartened. I couldn’t imagine, and my rear-end couldn’t take, another 6 hour stretch. As it turned out, it didn’t matter. Trying to mow 18 inches of standing grass layered with another 18 inches of fresh cut grass is not well ingested by a residential lawn tractor.

My speed was cut in half and I gave up. I reasoned that if I waited a couple of days for the cut grass to dry up, round 2 would go much better. I waited until Sunday afternoon, and then ventured out to complete my mission. A fateful decision.

I love mowing grass. It is an escape. With my earplugs in place it is surprisingly quiet. It is a time of solitude, reflection, peace, cigars and beer. The smells while mowing are one other part of the task I enjoy greatly- the smell of fresh cut grass, of trees and the creek, and cigar smoke. Those are the good smells. The right and proper ones. The smell of grass burning is not one of them.

When there is a foot or more of dead dried grass on the ground most mowers have a difficult time choking down the mess while also struggling with the new grass to be mowed. Mowers deal with this in different ways. Some constantly clog up and spit out huge mounds of grass that look like hair-balls from some prehistoric 10 foot house cat. Some act like bull dozers paving a path through the grass with a constantly shifting wall in front, and high walls to the side leaving a wake resembling the parted Red Sea.

My new mower’s trick was to act like a Havana cigar maker carefully rolling tight cylinders of grass under the front wheels that became increasingly compact and required me to stop the mower, get out, and pull the four foot grass cigars out from the side before continuing.

It was about an hour after I started on round 2 that Sunday, and I was about as far away from my house as possible on our land, that my peaceful thoughts and reflections were shattered by a not-right smell.

These were my thoughts: “Hmm… I smell something burning. It smells sort of like burning grass. That’s weird. Hey, there’s smoke coming up from between my legs. That can’t be good.”

Next- The Almost Great Leipers Fork Fire Part 2: "Two Person 500-Foot Fire Bucket Relays Rarely Work"







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London Wallets Falling Down

My first visit to the UK, that turned out to be just to London, was many years ago (BK- before kids). I had planned everything out- Fly to London, stay several nights in a quaint B&B in Russell Square and see the sights, and then rail it up north to hit Liverpool to do the whole Beatles pilgrimage thing, and then take trains to wherever we wanted on the island, whenever we wanted- Scotland, Dover, anywhere.

The Beatles pilgrimage part sticks out like a sore thumb in the itinerary, but as a Beatles freak it was required.

Michelle and I didn’t have much money. We saved for some time, and had just enough for our core expenses (airfare, accommodations, food, BritRail passes) and a tad more for discretionary spending (Beatles stuff, gifts for family and friends, more Beatles stuff).

Shortly after we arrived- I think it was the second day- we rode a double-decker bus on a tour of London. I took my wallet out to check something, and then tucked it under my leg instead of putting in back in my pocket. Why, I don’t know. When we got to our destination we got up, walked off the bus, and left my wallet on the seat. Amazingly I did see it again.

Inside the wallet was £200 (almost all of our discretionary money) and the BritRail passes. Our planned trip to Liverpool and the rest of the island was shot. Fortunately the B&B in London was able to extend our stay.

A week later, back in the US, I took a small package out of the mailbox. Inside was my wallet, with a note from a semi-nice stranger that said they had found my wallet and thought I might want it back to save the hassle of replacing drivers license, credit cards, miscellaneous other ID and membership cards. The note mentioned the money was taken, as well as the BritRail passes- “sorry about that.”

The incident made an impact on Michelle far greater than me. To this day, when we leave a restaurant, theater and especially a bus, she often asks loudly “do you have your wallet?” Just a little embarrassing, but deserved.

Despite many visits to the UK since, I have yet to make it to Liverpool or the northwest coast. Someday.






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Officer Birdhunter

A few weeks ago my 5th grader, L, took a much anticipated field trip with her classmates to a place called Exchange City, where each day, young students experience the responsibilities and opportunities of citizenship in a free enterprise system. It helps young people discover, investigate and become productive citizens in a life-size replica of a real city. The students operate the stores, bank, post office, radio station, snack shop, newspaper office and city hall-all outfitted with modern office equipment and business supplies. During the Exchange City experience, students learn first-hand what it takes to create a business, run a newspaper, supervise employees and hold elected office, as well as personally earn and manage money.

All that is well and good, but first the students need to actually GET to Exchange City to start their adventure. On the day my daughter’s school was to visit they had some difficulty getting there on time.

The day started as students piled into a couple buses headed for Nashville, excited about their assignments at the City. There were newly elected mayors, judges, policemen, shop owners, newspaper writers and more. L was so excited and nervous she could barely sleep the night before.

The bus pulled out of the school, and started the 45 minute journey to Exchange City. Not much later, the caravan came to a sudden and unexpected stop.

I remember many years ago being invited to go with a friend and his family out for the day, and experiencing darkened car windows for the first time. Do you remember when they first came out? If you were a kid then, you probably remember the fun it used to be making silly faces or waving at people walking or driving by knowing they couldn’t see you, and laughing your butt off. No? So maybe my friends and I were just goofballs.

The school buses used on this day to transport the precious and innocent children, 5th and 6th graders all, to Exchange City had SLIGHTLY tinted windows. Just enough to make the more adventurous kids feel safe to taunt and tease traffic, while not quite hiding their antics from below. It seems a small group of 6th grade boys in the lead bus thought it would be fun to practice their shadow puppet versions of birds at other drivers. The bad kind of birds. When they saw an approaching police car, two boys dared another to send a bird-message to the policeman. The “brave” boy took them up on the dare.

Inside the police cruiser, coming up alongside the bus on the highway, was an officer trained to keep one eye on the road, and another inspecting his surroundings. He looked up at the students in the back of the bus, saw the unconventional wave, and then turned on the lights and siren.

The policeman pulled the bus over, and after it and the second bus following it stopped, he jumped out of his car and boarded the bus. The driver and teachers on board were surprised and confused, having no idea why they were pulled over. The policeman said two words as he boarded the bus and stomped his way to the rear- “excuse me.”

The driver, teachers, and innocent front-of-the-bus students watched with great interest and bewilderment as officer Bird Hunter, with hands on hips, arrived at the very back of the bus and shouted with great gusto “I know you flipped me off" pointing at one of the boys, "I want to know right now which of you other boys were involved. Tell me right now.”

Any bravery or bravado the group of boys in the last row might have had never had a chance to shine. The identified transgressor broke down crying and confessed, pointing a more appropriate finger at his accomplices. The officer returned to the front of the bus and chatted with the group of teachers seated there, insisting that the boys be returned to school and suspended. The principal was called, and after the officer was assured the boys would be picked up from Exchange City shortly after arriving, he left without another word and pulled away.

The school's vice principal personally drove to Exchange City to pick up the three boys. The somber and lecture-filled trip back must have been loads of fun.

L and her other classmates completed the fun day, returning home to relay the details of the trip to Michelle and I. A friend of ours that was a chaperone on the trip filled in the many details a 5th grader would naturally miss- like about 80% of the story.

At dinner I asked L what she learned from the incident, expecting a mature and thought-filled response about kindness to, and respect for others, proper behavior, etc, etc. Her initial response was not quite on the mark- “I guess if you’re gonna do something like those boys did, make sure there aren’t any policeman around.”






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What Is My Hobby Today?

About this time a couple years ago I was browsing the internet and found an interesting article about woodworking. Since I am a somewhat obsessive person (I like to find new things to read, do, create and then dive in, not surfacing for air for weeks on end), and I had an opening for something new, I decided right then to take it up. I read a few more articles, jumped in my truck, and headed for Home Depot.

To be honest, this, like most other things I decided to take up, was prompted by something that happened to me. A week or so prior I had my mower taken in for service. The driver that came to pick it up asked me for some scrap wood so he could rig a simple ramp for the mower.

Scrap wood? Why exactly would I have scrap wood lying around? The driver seemed astonished, and the look he gave me when I said I had none communicated “pardon me, I thought you were a man. Men have scrap wood. Its as simple as that.”

So, the only way to have scrap wood is to build something, and have leftover wood that is collected and saved for just such occasions.

I walked into Home Depot and told the first employee I saw what I wanted to do. He escorted me to the tool section, and I left shortly after with a table saw, jig saw, sander, planer, chisels, a Woodworking for Dummies book, and other assorted tools. Wow, I thought, this was expensive. I only forgot one thing. Wood.

I found a cool looking piece of furniture in the Sundance Catalog that was $299, and looked simple enough to build. It was a two-piece pine storage unit with bins that looked like old chicken coops. I studied the picture, drew out a plan, and commenced building. It turned out pretty good, and now sits in our guest bathroom faithfully holding extra toilet paper rolls and other assorted items. And including the wood and tools, only cost me $600 to make!

This week I built my first picture frame (I would give myself a D+ on it), and also a stand for our laser printer (B-). Next up, a replacement doll house for the girls (the one Santa gave them a couple years ago has collapsed. Elves nowadays need Woodworking for Dummies too), a cat condo and a crèche (Michelle asked for this one- its some sort of a backdrop for her nativity characters).

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How Much Farter To Dallas?

I am sure you have heard about this story already- it's all over the news. A Dallas-bound American Airlines plane, flight 1053 defarting from Washington D.C. was forced to make an emergency landing right here in grand ole Nashville, Tennessee, after a seated woman passenger attempted to conceal her escaped vapors by lighting matches.

The pilot made the emergency landing after passengers complained of smelling the burned matches and he believed it was not safe to continue the flight.

If you haven't read it, here is the link: http://www.wsmv.com/travelgetaways/10466832/detail.html

I feel for this lady. My hope is that the media protects her identity. Can you imagine? If she is identified, she will never live it down.

I want to help in some way. I thought it might be a good idea to offer her, and other frequent flyers, some ideas on how to manage this type of problem. I took a few minutes to brainstorm these ideas, and while I have not personally tested them, they seem like they might work:

1. When you fly, bring along those fragrant bath oils that are in those little gelatin-like spheres. They have intense smell, are small and easy to place in your purse or pocket, and are well under the 4 ounce FAA limit. As soon as the wind escapes you, pop a couple of them and smear the oil all over the head-rest in front of you, your head-rest, and both your arm-rests.


2. If you have advance notice of the impending problem, order a cocktail that typically comes with an onion garnish, and ask for extra onions. Drain the drink, leaving the onions, and bring the cup into the bathroom. Crush the onions with your fingers, pour a few ounces of warm water in the cup, and covering it with your hand, shake vigorously to release the onionness throughout the water. Pour liberally about the bathroom floor and then let 'er rip.


3. Choose a strategic release time if you are able. I call this the "Oh My Gosh!" trick- or at least I do now. Keep your eyes open to see when another passenger is heading for the bathroom (if possible look for a large man or elderly person). Once you spot someone entering, get up and wait by the bathroom door. When the current occupant leaves, and is a few feet away, start to walk in and then pinch your nose and say very loudly "Oh…My…Gosh!" while waving your other hand in front of your face and securing eye contact with as many passengers as you can. When you get out, they will assume you are a brave and strong person to have withstood the odor from the previous passenger all that time, that even now still lingers.
   

I hope through this small contribution I may help this poor lady from American Airlines flight 1053. If not her, maybe some other traveler. If through this post I impact just one person, all of the work would have been worth it.






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Our Family's Off-Road Adventure

I live in a relatively rural area, full of horse farms and rolling hills. We moved here three years ago from a large development about ten miles away. Living in Leipers Fork has been a dream of ours since we came to Nashville in 1994. Shortly before we moved into our new home I thought it would be a good idea to get a truck as I imagined having to haul manly things around since I would soon become a gentleman farmer (we don’t really grow much here on our land except for lawn grass and the occasional wild flower)- things like planks of wood, chain saws, stuff like that.

I’m not really a pick-up truck kind of guy, so I went with a hybrid (not the environmental kind- more of a mix between a rural truck and the kind of ride Tony Soprano drives- a black tricked out Chevy Suburban). When I bought it I instantly felt a bit of country bloom in me. Just the idea of pushing the button on the dash board and transforming my Suburban into a 4x4 was appealing. This lead to my demise, and taught me 3 things:

1. My wife’s concerns and worries can sometimes come true
2. Humility
3. A Chevy Suburban is neither a sports utility vehicle or a 4x4

Our eleven acres is flanked on one side by a 15 acre lot and a 60 acre lot on the other. Shortly after we moved in I secured permission from the land owner with the 60 acres for our family to use his land for taking walks and exploring. He lives in downtown Nashville and plans on building his dream home on the land when he retires in a few years. I got his name and number from my realtor. I didn’t specifically ask if I could go 4x4’ing on his land- I sort of put that under the “exploring” classification.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and for some reason I can not recall, our family took 2 cars on an outing. I think it was because I had to pick something up in my truck and bring it home, while my wife was going to stay out shopping, meeting up with her sister. After lunch, and after picking up whatever it was I had to pick up, I headed home with my two oldest daughters.

We turned into our driveway, and as we headed towards the house I made a fateful decision. “Girls- you want to take the truck out onto the land next door and do some off-roading?” The word “yes” rang loud and clear, and so I veered left, and made for the opening in the woods that took us “next-door.” We went through the clearing, down a small hill, and crossed the small creek in my new 4x4. Great so far. It was awesome bouncing and splashing over the creek like I was in a Land Rover commercial.

We spent the next 10 minutes bounding over hills and through sparse woods exploring the land, and it got real exciting when I told the girls we were going to speed up and shoot across the clearing up ahead- hoping to catch a few bumps and jumps that would cause some epic bouncing. As I accelerated and sped forward a strange sensation came over me. It almost seemed like the truck was on an elevator going down, and the horizon line seemed to unnaturally rise around me. The truck started to slide sideways, and then we came to a sudden stop. I noticed that if I reached out my hand from the window, it wouldn’t take much to touch the tall grass. We were stuck in mud.

If anyone tells you that the best way to get your car or truck out of stuck mud or snow is to slowly rock in back and forth, alternating between drive and reverse, don’t believe it. Especially if you are already in about 3 feet of mud. The result of doing that is to sink to about 4 feet of mud.

I decided to get out and take a look, and when I opened the door I had to push hard to get it open far enough to step out- and when I did the bottom of my door scraped about six inches of mud off the top of the ground. Big trouble. Bad. Very bad. The words my wife spoke to me only a half hour before were ringing in my ears- the words she said as a response to my mentioning that I might do exactly what I ended up doing…”Rich- don’t do it. I’m telling you something will go wrong- you’ll get stuck or break something, and it will cost a ton of money to get it fixed. You might even ruin your truck. Don’t do it.”

I had left my cell phone at home that day- of course- and so, took my shoes off, jumped into the mud (I sunk up to my thighs), and carried each girl, one by one, to the safety of the shoreline. The “field” I thought we would trek through was actually a large swamp that collected the rain from the surrounding hills. It was deep in the back part of our neighbors land, and I could not see any homes or roads from where we were. We walked home, I changed clothes, and set about fixing the situation- hopefully before Michelle got home.

Earlier that week I had seen my neighbor across the road working in his field with a tractor, and though I had not met him before this, I walked to his house and knocked on the door. You can imagine the conversation…”Hi my name is Rich- we live across the street…nice to meet you…you have kids?...so do we…its a nice day, isn’t it?...can I use your tractor to try to get my vehicle out of 4 feet of mud way back in the field behind my house?”

He agreed to help. He drove the tractor while I jumped on the side and held on, and we made our way to my car where we promptly got the tractor stuck.

I called a tow truck. The trucker got within 100 feet and started to sink fast. He was able to back out to safety, and informed me he couldn’t help me and drove away- charging me $50 to tell me so. I went back home and sat at the kitchen table trying to figure out what to do. I looked in the yellow pages under towing and learned there was a specialist in the towing field that was an expert at off-road/extreme vehicle recovery. That was the one. I called and they were out to our place in about an hour- right after Michelle pulled in and I gave her the update. That was fun and humbling.

The recovery team had a truck with 2 wenches- and seemed to know the drill perfectly. They purposely drove their truck full speed into the mud, sliding to a stop as close to my truck as possible sinking to the full four feet. They attached one wench to my truck, and the other to a tree behind the tow truck about 150 feet away. They pulled my truck to within 3 feet of theirs, and then turned on the other wench and pulled both of the trucks out of the muck while almost pulling the tree out of the ground. Success. 10 minutes. $250.

I have not, and will not again, take my 4 wheel drive off the road, I listen to my wife’s cautions (even though I don’t always indicate to her that I do), and I am content to stick to the excitement of navigating the pot holes in our 500 foot gravel driveway.