The Witness

The Witness

06-29-10 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 06-19-10

By Allison Adams

My husband and I are certain that some day our children will write a tell-all book about us. Not because we’re eccentric, but because we’re nincompoops.

As unsettling as that is, it doesn’t seem to stop us from unwittingly supplying them with ample material for their manuscript.

We recently took a five-day road trip covering a little over 1,500 unfamiliar miles. To the would-be tell-all book author, this is known as fodder.

As luck would have it, at the same time we planned our trip, our college-aged daughter, and prospective co-author of our memoirs, happened to have some time on her hands in-between summer assignments. Naturally, we seized the opportunity to spend some quality time with her, and bribed her to come along for the ride.

Reluctantly, she accepted.

She made a little nest in the backseat: pillow, blankie, iPod, book, cell phone, water bottle, and … steno pad.

We were so engaged in our road trip we forgot we had a witness along. An imbedded reporter, ear buds dangling and pencil poised.

She probably started by writing down what happened before we even got into the car — about my successful move to gain control of the steering wheel.

You see, it just makes more sense for me to do most of the driving. After 25 years of marriage, even my husband knows that. If I’m doing the driving, then I can’t be critical of the driver. You do the math.

Nonetheless, we always engage in a little “I’ll drive … No, I’ll drive!” banter, just for the sake of posterity. It’s a verbal tug-of war that drives our passengers crazy.

She probably noted that, after nauseating deliberation, we finally elected to drive the car that has the satellite radio, but never once turned it on.

She will probably explain that, by default, the non-driver becomes the designated navigator.

She’ll tell about the struggle we had learning to use our new “talking” GPS, and the fact that the designated navigator also insisted on referring to a 1977 Rand McNally Road Atlas, and over 30 pages of MapQuest printout.

Seems there have been a few major road changes in the 33 years since our Atlas was printed. And if there’s no satellite signal, there’s no “talking” GPS. And pages 13, 16 and 22 were missing from the MapQuest printout.

Frustration ensued when one of the three navigational tools did not read like the others — a frequent occurrence that made for some tense moments.

GPS: In .9 miles, take left onto US 375.

Navigator: Don't do it. That road's not on the atlas.

Driver: But I see it up ahead! Look at the sign!

Naviagor: It's a trap!

Driver: It's right THERE!

GPS: Recalculating ...

I hope she won’t disclose that, on more than one occasion, I lost my temper with our talking GPS and spoke to it using unladylike language using my UPPER CASE voice. I really hope she doesn’t tell about that, but she probably will.

She probably took note of our tangled mess of hand-held electronic devices that we can’t live without, or properly operate, and about their respective corded chargers that are never respectively attached. As an example, she’ll no doubt mention that for 200 miles we mistakenly thought we were charging the dead cellular phone, and how we would have been if we’d thought to plug in the business end of the correct charger.

I’m pretty sure she’ll tell about the time we pulled in to gas the car and stretch the legs, and when we were through with the latter, we almost drove off with the gas nozzle inserted in the car’s tank. I hope she’ll mention that we managed to avert the disaster … thanks to a last-minute warning that came from the back seat.

“Uhhhh, people? The gas nozzle is still in the tank. I’m just sayin’.”

Surely she will tell about silently standing by on numerous occasions while I tried to gain entrance into our hotel room by repeatedly inserting my key card in someone else’s hotel room door.

They all look alike.

She’ll probably mention the time we stopped at our favorite Interstate restaurant and country store, and ordered our favorite vegetable platter. I was incensed that they tried to pass off half of a smashed baked potato as a serving of country mashed potatoes.

She’ll surely tell that I threatened to send a message to the chef, letting him know that I was on to his short-order shortcuts, and I didn’t appreciate it AT ALL.

Things could’ve gotten really ugly in there, but my husband knows that all it takes is a roll of Necco Wafers purchased from the country store, and I’m putty in his hands.

Oh, yeah. It’ll be a best-seller.

The Basics

The Basics

By Allison Adams 06-11-10 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun 06-12-10

Once when our family was sitting in a restaurant, a boy walked by our table and he and my son exchanged a casual nod with one another.

“Who is that boy?” I asked my son.

“A guy who sat behind me in class last semester.” He replied.

“Oh! How nice! What’s his name?”

“I dunno.”

I remember wondering then how my son could sit in front of someone every day, for three and a half months, and not know his name.

A girl would be able to name everyone in her class. She’d also know who her classmates’ families were, and where they lived. She’d learn that basic information on the first day of class, within minutes of making eye contact.

Boys rarely make eye contact with another human being. They really aren’t social creatures. They really don’t care much about knowing the basic things like someone’s name, or where they live, which is why I didn’t hold out much hope for learning anything from my son when he came home after spending a week at camp.

Gaining the basic information from him would involve a slow, methodical process, which is sometimes as successful as getting the proverbial blood out of the proverbial turnip.

I knew I had to pace myself, and lower my expectations.

“Tell me about your roommate.”

“I had two.”

“Oh! How nice! What were their names?”

“Um. David. And, ummmm ... Joe.”

Um David, and Um Joe.

A girl would have known, and cheerfully volunteered her roommate’s first name, middle name, and surname. She’d have known her roommate’s nickname, and how her roommate came to be nicknamed. And, she’d have revealed the new nickname she’d given her roommate to take home with her, and shared all the fun the two of them had coming up with it.

“Oh! How nice! Where were they from?”

“Um. David was from … ummmm … somewhere in Iowa.”

Honestly – I was impressed he knew that David (if that was his real name) was from “somewhere in Iowa”. I was really expecting to hear something a little more global, like “North America”.

“Wait. Nope. Not Iowa. He was from somewhere in Ohio.”

A girl would have known exactly where her roommate lived and she’d have been able to recall it without hesitation. She’d have also known where her roommate was born, and where her siblings, her parents, and her grandparents were born …

“Oh! How nice! Ohio! Where in Ohio? Dayton? Akron? Cincinnati?”

“Nope.”

… and she’d have told me all about her roommate’s great-grandparents, and their adventures following their Ellis Island landing …

“Toledo? Columbus? Cleveland?”

“Yup. Cleveland. I think.”

… and she and her roommate would have fantasized about how exciting it would be to someday live in a foreign country. They would have shared with each other their dream to someday study, work, and live abroad. They would have talked about all the wonderful new people they would expect to meet.

“Oh! How nice! How about the other one?”

“Other one what?”

“The other roommate. Joe. Where was Joe from?”

“Ummmm. Lemme think.”

Girls make sure they know the basics about one another. By basics I mean name, address, phone number, favorite color, favorite song, favorite food, favorite TV show, favorite movie, and favorite place to shop. Basic information also includes details about boyfriends, best friends, hobbies, hairdos, and their dream wedding.

I didn’t expect a biography about these boys, but honestly – how can someone spend a week sharing a room with a person without wondering where that person will be headed when its time to go home?

“I think he was from Kansas.”

“Oh! How nice! Where in Kansas? Topeka? Wichita?”

“Ummmm. Nope, I don’t think so.”

I suspected that these boys would not become pen pals.

“Dodge City? Kansas City?

“Uhhh, that sounds right. Kansas City.”

“Oh! How nice!”

I didn’t believe for one minute that Joe (if that was his real name) was from Kansas City, but I still wanted to find out how the camp food was, and what kind of activities he engaged in.

I needed to save my strength.

Speechless

By Allison Adams 04-01-08, Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 04-01-08

All I can say is, it’s a good thing we were buckled-in.

The guy in the car ahead was bouncing up and down in his seat, giving a thumbs-up sign to somebody – I don’t know who. I glanced back to see that the pair in the car behind me was engaged in giddy conversation. My son and I sat silently in our car – just waiting for the green light.

Suddenly, without warning, we were thrust forward with a force I have never experienced. It was as if we’d been hit from behind by a speeding-jet-propelled-rocket ship-locomotive-bomb. Like we’d been fired from a cannon.

That’s it. Our car was a cannon ball.

My eyes slammed shut. I couldn’t breath.

By that, I mean – I couldn’t breath. I thought to myself, so this is what it feels like just before you die.

We were hurled ahead with so much velocity I think we had to be taking on some “G’s”. G-force – like the astronauts experience when they blast into orbit.

But I was no astronaut. I had a horrible feeling in my gut, and I really, really needed to breathe.

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably just a nanosecond – we came to a stop. Or at least a slow down.

And I breathed. Oh, thank the Lord! My eyes popped open and I peered ahead and tried to assess our situation. But before my brain was able to process any information I’d gathered in my split-second scan, I was pressed back into my seat and our car propelled forward with great speed and plunged into a black abyss.

Again – I couldn’t breathe.

I thought of all of you who have been through a similar situation, and lived to tell about it. I decided right then that I had to take control and tell my body what to do.

So, I shut my eyes tightly, and ordered my lungs to breathe. Hallelujah! It worked!

Then I made the mistake of peeking again. It was black as pitch all around; I could feel we were headed for a steep curve. I had no way of steering. I was completely enveloped in fear. My body was in shock. It quit responding to my generalized requests to breathe. I had to get more specific.

Inhale! I ordered. Now, exhale!

I knew I had to continue to command those two things, or I would die for sure. Inhale. Now, exhale. Inhale. Now, exhale.

I was sure we were hanging upside down.

Inhale. Now, exhale. Inhale. Now, exhale.

No. No. We were SIDEWAYS! (Oh, hello bagel and cream cheese from this morning!)

Inhale. Now, exhale. Inhale. Now, exhale.

I heard screaming. But I couldn’t tell if it was coming from the guy in the car ahead of me, or the pair in the car behind me, or me.

I felt another terrific jolt and I was sure our car was upside down again. I felt the sudden rush of air, and my hair slapped across my face. I couldn’t move my arms or legs – but I was breathing. Barely.

Inhale. Now, exhale. Inhale. Now, exhale.

“Momma! Are you okay?”

Oh! In the middle of this save-yourself-nightmarish event, my son was concerned for ME!

I didn’t want to frighten him. Didn’t want him to know that I was SCARED TO DEATH. But I was unable to even turn my head in his direction. And unable to open my eyes. And unable to move mouth and utter a sound because I could only concentrate on TWO THINGS.

Inhale. Now, exhale. Inhale. Now, exhale.

I felt several short jerks. I heard what sounded like the rush of air being released from a compression tank. Puhleeze, let it be oxygen!

Almost as suddenly as we exploded on this journey from H – E – double hockey sticks, our car came to an abrupt stop.

“Momma! Are you okay?”

I was finally able to turn my head and look at my son – who was laughing so hard he had to hold his gut.

“You looked horrified! That was awesome!”

Awesome? Not the word I’d use to describe that so-called “joy ride”. But I was so busy trying to control my spaghetti legs as I slithered out of the car and onto the platform, my scrambled-eggs-for-brains couldn’t come up with a come back.

Disney’s Rockin’ Roller Coaster had rendered me (among other things), speechless.

Ding

Ding

By Allison Adams 10-13-08, submitted to The Greeneville Sun 10-14-08

In 1990, Bill and I welcomed our second baby to our small world. Now four persons beneath our roof, my husband commemorated the occasion by buying a brand-new, stainless steel, four-slot, pop-up toaster. He thought it was important that everyone’s slice of bread have it’s own slot.

He thinks about stuff like that.

In 1992, we welcomed our third baby to our small world. When he realized there was no such thing as a five-slot toaster, Bill agreed to adjust and compromise.

He’s pretty good about stuff like that.

In 2007, our no-longer-new, not-so-stainless steel, four-slot, pop-up toaster gave up the ghost. And so one Saturday morning, I set out to find a suitable replacement toaster for the one I had just thrown away.

I like to conduct a thorough interview of any potential new appliance before making a purchase. You know – turn knobs and dials, press buttons, open and shut doors. If something can be slid, I like to slide it. If there are attachments, I like to attach and detach them.

Very early in the appliance interview process, I realized I would be replacing our former four-slot toaster with a toaster-oven. I loved the versatility of a toaster-oven. A toaster-oven would eliminate the need for me to surgically remove my beloved big bagel from a slender slice slot. It also opened up a whole new world I call “PPR” (Personal Portion Reheating).

Yes, a toaster-oven made perfect sense for our family.

I concluded my appliance interviews and made my selection in less than an hour. The winner: A basic, but efficient, Black and Decker toaster-oven.

Bill was glued to a football game on TV when I returned with our new toaster. I unpacked it, and made a public service announcement:

“Attention! We’ve got a new toaster!”

He managed a wave in my general direction, but he never took his eyes off the TV. I waited patiently for a commercial break, and eventually he wandered into the kitchen to take a look.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“What do mean, what’s that? Its our new toaster!”

He stood and stared at it for what seemed like forever before he turned to me and asked,

“Where is the slottage?”

“The wha…?”

“The slottage. Bread slots. Where are the bread slots? Where do I insert my slice of bread for toasting?”

Well. In no time I threw on an apron, channeled my inner Ron Popiel, and enthusiastically launched a full-scale infomercial demonstrating the versatility of our new toaster-oven. I explained the different, easy-to-use features that allowed one to adjust the setting to toast bread, bagels, or rolls. I introduced the “top brown” selection on the toaster dial, which made thing like heating cheese toast a breeze. I showed him the handy, slide-in tray one would use for things like heating a mini French baguette, or warming a piece of pizza, or baking a chicken pot pie.

“Imagine if you will,” I said, “the efficiency in heating just this small space for a chicken pot pie, instead of heating a whole, great big, conventional oven!”

“Looks very complicated.” he said. And then he just stood there and stared at the toaster-oven for what seemed like days, until finally he spoke again.

“Where does the bread slice pop-up?” he asked.

“Honey – it doesn’t pop-up, or out, because there’s no slot.” I explained.

“Then how do you know when its done?” he asked.

“The toaster-oven just automatically shuts itself off.”

“The bread doesn’t pop-up or out? Does the toaster ding?” he asked.

“No, dear. You just have to open the little glass door when its done toasting, and slide the bread out.”

“No ding?” he asked.

“No ding.” I confirmed.

With that, he heaved a huge sigh, and sulked back to his football game on TV.

Its been a year now, and I really think he’s beginning to come around.

Last Saturday morning I came downstairs to find him standing like a zombie in front of the toaster-oven. His arms were limply outstretched. In each hand, he dangled a slice of white bread, gingerly pinched between his thumb and forefinger. His head was cocked ever-so-slightly to one side.

I approached him cautiously, gently removed the bread from his pincers, slid the slices on the toaster rack, shut the door, and pressed the start button.

When the bread turned to toast, the appliance automatically shut-off, and I presented him with the finished product.

And because marriage is all about adjustments and compromise … I said, “Ding.”

The Question Mark

The Question Mark

By Allison Adams / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 05-16-10

Why is it so hard for a momma to get her teenaged son to tell her what’s going on in his life? Why does it seem like the more I ask, the less I know? Why can’t I ask a simple question and get a simple answer?

Me: Where have you been?

Him: Didn’t you know?

Me: Do you have any idea what time it is?

Him: Is it suppertime?

Me: Why are you late?

Him: Am I late?

Me: What have you been doing?

Him: Don’t you remember?

Me: If I remembered, why would I be asking?

Him: How should I know?

Me: You expect me to answer that?

Him: Is the Pope Catholic?

Me: What did you do at school today?

Him: What do I usually do at school every day?

Me: Why can’t you just answer the question?

Him: Why do you ask me that every day?

Me: Do you have any important things for me to read or sign?

Him: Can you be more specific?

Me: Do you have any notes from your teachers, or written announcements, or permission slips, or anything I need to read that might help me know what’s going on in your life?

Him: Do you expect me to know the answer to that off the top of my head?

Me: How are your grades?

Him: Don’t you want to be surprised?

Me: Would it be a good surprise?

Him: How do you define “good”?

Me: You know what your father and I expect of you, don’t you?

Him: Is that a rhetorical question?

Me: Is there anything I should know?

Him: Is that a trick question?

Me: Do you have a handle on your class work?

Him: Don’t I always?

Me: If I knew that, why would I ask?

Him: How should I know?

Me: Why are you so defensive?

Him: Why are you interrogating me?

Me: You call this an interrogation?

Him: Are you serious?

Me: Is there any other way to get information out of you?

Him: Is it necessary for you to always give me the third degree?

Me: Do I have any choice?

Him: Why can’t we just have a normal conversation?

Me: Will that ever be possible?

Him: Do you expect me to predict the future?

Me: Would you pass me some Tylenol?

Him: Do you have another headache?

Me: What was your first clue?

Him: Did you know 90% of all headaches are categorized as “stress headaches”?

Me: Where did you learn that?

Him: What do you think I do at school all day long?

Me: How am I supposed to know?

Am I alone?

Current Events

Current Events

By Allison Adams 04-19-10 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 04-19-10

Those of you with college-aged kids know that this time of year is their “Crunch Time”.

They are facing deadlines for research papers, class projects, and required convocation hours. As a result, they are sleep-deprived … even more than normal.

They are in the middle of strategic negotiations with next year’s prospective roommates for next year’s prospective housing.

They are using the barter system and living on pocket change because they’ve already spent every penny from this semester’s Campus Cash card.

Meanwhile, the ugly Final Exam Monster lays waiting for its next victims.

No pressure.

Last weekend, when I showed up at my daughter’s dorm room for a quick visit, I was not really surprised to discover that she was in dire straits.

When I asked if I could visit her restroom after my long drive, I learned that she and her roommate had run out of toilet paper days earlier, and were borrowing on an as-needed basis from the next-door neighbors (who were also running dangerously low).

Her printer cartridge was out of ink, so when she needed to print a document from her computer, she sent a few SOS text messages to friends, and then dashed all over campus to find a buddy who could print it for her.

The air conditioner in her car blew hot air. Her bicycle had a flat tire.

She offered me some peanut butter-on-a-spoon, and water from a Brita-filtered pitcher, which I was smart enough to politely decline.

She said she was too busy with schoolwork to take care of superfluous items like car repairs, and a flat bicycle tire, or shopping for food, printer ink, and toilet paper. She said she was living inside a bubble filled with school-induced stress and strife.

Woe was she.

“At least you’re not Polish.” I offered.

“Wha ….?”

“The Poles – well, actually the whole world – is mourning the loss of Poland’s president, his wife, and dozens of Poland’s top political and military leaders. They were among 96 passengers who died in an airplane crash. They were on their way from Poland to Smolensk, Russia, where they were to attend the first ceremony to honor the memory of 20,000 Polish who were massacred there 70 years ago. The irony in this tragedy is not lost, as this was the first time in history that the Russians had acknowledged this anniversary.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Yes, it is. And now there are world leaders who are trying to get to Poland to pay their respect for the lost, but many can’t get there because of the volcanic ash cloud.”

“Wha …?”

“There was a huge volcanic eruption in Iceland. Among other things, it produced a gigantic cloud of volcanic ash, which has invaded a good bit of the earth’s northern-most atmosphere, making air travel impossible in some areas.”

“No way!”

“Not since 9-11 has there been a larger air-traffic shut-down. Thousands of people are stranded in airports all over the world.”

“That’s awful!”

“Yes, it is. That natural disaster seems to have temporarily eclipsed the 6.9 magnitude earthquake that took place in China. There, thousands are dead and missing.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“And those poor mining communities in West Virginia are reeling from the worst mining disaster since 1970.”

“I’m afraid to ask. What happened?”

“A mine explosion killed 29 miners.”

“Oh no!”

“Yes. Sadness has also fallen upon the Cherokee Nation. Wilma Mankiller, the first female in modern history to become Chief of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, and the first female to lead a major Native American tribe, passed away earlier this month.”

“Oh, how sad!”

“Yes. It sort of makes the reaction to the whole tomato debacle seem silly – don’t you think?”

“Oh my gosh, what happened to the tomatoes?”

“About 80% of the tomato crop in Florida froze, leaving very little to supply the demand. What there is available now is substandard, and very expensive.”

“The tomatoes froze?”

“Yes, dear. I’m afraid they did.”

“Suddenly the fact that I’ve been living sleep-deprived inside a stress-filled bubble, without a few necessities, seems so trite.”

“Just try to keep it all in perspective.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Now, what do you say we get out of here and go buy you a brand new roll of toilet paper?”

“You just about had me.”

“I’ll throw in a new printer ink cartridge.”

“Deal.”

Forgiven

Forgiven

By Allison Adams 04-04-10 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 04-05-10

“I can explain everything.”

“Sure you can.”

“Well. To begin with it was Sunday morning. You know I don’t do Sunday mornings very well.”

“I am aware that you face certain challenges on Sunday mornings.”

“Challenges? I believe I could manage to land a man on the moon with less difficulty than it takes me to slide myself and my family into a pew.”

“Your family was in the pew on time.”

“Right. Well, technically I wasn’t late. I was just momentarily delayed.”

“Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

“I almost didn’t make it at all, you know.”

“I know.”

“When I woke up on Sunday – plenty early, I might add – I wasn’t feeling very well.”

“Yes – I know. I’m sorry about that.”

“No problem. So – anyway – I got to thinking about the plans for the morning, and became even more distressed. You know that since it was Easter Sunday, Mahmaw and Papaw had decided to make the 90 minute drive up here so they could join us at church, and then go out for lunch afterward. It was a chance for them to visit with their precious grandchildren and celebrate Easter, too. Easter’s a big day!”

“Yes – I know!”

“Of course you do. Anyway. Mahmaw and Papaw are getting up in years. Coping with change-in-general has become harder for them. Following detailed and sometimes complicated instructions, sticking to tight schedules, all the while managing to maintain a certain degree of flexibility, is more difficult for them than it once was. Add to that their need to navigate the Papawmobile through relatively unfamiliar territory, and you have a recipe for …”

“For an adventure?”

“Not exactly the word I would choose, but I’ll go with it. I was super stressed. Thank goodness my dear husband had taken the bull by the horns and hatched The Plan.”

“The Plan?”

“Yes! It was a covert operation. We didn’t want Mahmaw and Papaw to know that their visit required some strategizing. The Plan involved my husband and at least one of our young-adult children leaving home in advance of the church service. They would intercept Mahmaw and Papaw in the Papawmobile, beneath the church carport. My husband would take over parking the Papawmobile while the designated adult-child escorted Mamaw and Papaw into the sanctuary, using the most easily accessible route – which in our church is no small task, I’m telling you.”

“I am aware.”

“Its all uphill.”

“I know the place.”

“Of course you do. So. Anyway. My husband would meet everyone in the sanctuary after he had successfully parked the Papawmobile. After the worship service, my husband would reverse the plan, and then he would drive them, and any of their precious grandchildren who happened to be involved in the general grandparental herding process, to the next destination.”

“Out to lunch?”

“I know. It seems so, but we really do have our wits about us most of the time.”

“I was referring to the next destination.”

“Oh. Right. Anyway, on Saturday night we all huddled around and listened intently as my husband reviewed The Plan with us. He had thought of everything, including omitting me from having any tangible responsibility for anyone, except myself. Sunday’s aren’t my best day, as I touched on earlier.”

“Sounds rock solid.”

“Yes. It looked really good on paper, but I guess we were so focused on making sure we got our sometimes absentminded Mahmaw and Papaw where they needed to be without major incident, that we overlooked one thing.”

“Making sure you had all of your children present and accounted for?”

“Yes. That would be the thing.”

“How long did it take you to realize you’d left your son behind at church?”

“Oh, you know … not long. We knew it the minute Mahmaw and Papaw pointed out that he was missing.”

“Absentminded Mahmaw and Papaw?”

“Did I call them absentminded?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Sorry, Lord. My mind was absent.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“In hindsight, I guess we should have had vehicle assignments.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“I’m thankful that my son was such a good sport about it all. He called us to let us know he’d managed to hitch a ride from church with another family.”

“He’s very resourceful.”

“Let’s just say this wasn’t his first rodeo.”

“Everything turned out all right in the end, Amen?”

“Amen!”