Tag Archives: travel

I Thought It Was a Little Mistake

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I forgot to tell the doctor that my wife was low on two of her medications. No big deal. We went back today, and he wrote the prescriptions for them. We then headed to Walgreens. As I was entering the store, I saw a well-displayed sign: their pharmacy was closed.

There ought to be a linguistic term for this peculiar incongruity—something akin to an oxymoron, but manifested through actions rather than language. Consider the irony: a pharmacy store chain store without a pharmacy seems as absurd as a McDonald’s with no burger inventory. The dissonance is palpable, a logical disconnect between expectation and reality.

I glanced down at my watch, a sudden urgency washing over me. While numerous Walgreens dotted the local landscape, only one remained open around the clock. Given her critical medication shortage, I knew I couldn’t risk waiting. The catch? This particular pharmacy was located in Memphis—a city I habitually steered clear of—yet tonight, it seemed to be our sole lifeline.

We embarked on our journey, my apprehension stemming not just from navigating Whitehaven, the Memphis neighborhood notorious for its frequent media appearances, but also from the anticipation of a prolonged wait at the sole open pharmacy—a scenario all too familiar from past experiences.

Navigating the congested highway, I felt the weight of my earlier error intensifying with each passing moment. The surrounding vehicles seemed poised to exploit my vulnerability, their drivers laser-focused on potential opportunities to alter my trajectory. In this unforgiving urban landscape, lane discipline had become a forgotten art, with each motorist operating as if turn signals and careful observation were mere suggestions rather than essential safety protocols.

My trip to the store was uneventful, a fact for which I am grateful. The wait time passed quickly, and during our browsing, one detail stood out dramatically: the heightened security measures. Compared to my usual Walgreens, this store seemed to take precautions more seriously, with numerous items securely locked away. Despite being less than 10 miles from the store I usually visit and crossing a state line, the difference in security protocols were striking, suggesting they might experience more significant theft challenges than my familiar shopping environment.

On the positive side, the folks at the store seemed friendlier and more professional than where I usually visit. Didn’t expect that.

Gambling & Way Back When

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I can’t remember precisely. I can only approximate it as it occurred near the time Bill Clinton began his campaign for president, in the early 1990s, perhaps a year or two earlier. Suddenly, a number of people decided we, here in DeSoto County, needed to have a casino or three.

The media’s sudden shift was unmistakable. News broadcasts and radio programs flooded the airwaves with glowing narratives about the potential casino development. Their enthusiastic messaging painted a picture of transformative benefits, promising enhanced educational infrastructure, improved roadways, and a tourism renaissance. While the specific architects behind this narrative remained unclear, the coordinated messaging was impossible to ignore.

In general, I could tell that those behind it all were from north of the state line. It immediately brought to question to me, why don’t they stop trying to run our county? What business is it of theirs whether we have or don’t have casinos.

A grassroots resistance swiftly emerged, primarily mobilized through religious institutions. While avoiding direct electoral guidance, these groups plainly conveyed the potential consequences of their ideological stance.

In the contentious debate over casino development, local churches warned that out-of-state businesses would exploit local economic potential, siphoning profits away from the economy. Casino proponents initially promised local investment and economic revitalization. However, the churches’ predictions proved prophetic. Tunica County permitted it and today, every casino in the county is owned by eway outside corporate interests, rendering the original assurances hollow and leaving the local economy largely unbenefited by the gambling industry’s presence.

In a resounding display of community resolve, Desoto County residents decisively rejected the proposed initiative, voting against it down twice with overwhelming majorities. Faced with such resounding opposition, the proponents ultimately redirected their efforts south to Tunica.

Over the years, the expansive business venture appeared to flourish, with grand casinos emerging and thriving, until recent challenges began to surface and test their previous success.

The other day, I heard that one of the casinos is closing its doors and the rest are having problems. There are not nearly the TV ads from Tunica casinos. My best guess is that the gambling crowd has decided to go to the casino in West Memphis, Arkansas, which is closer. If the pattern continues, the city of Tunica will be smaller than when it first started.

There is one advantage for me and the folks here in DeSoto County. We don’t have to put up with Memphis drivers as much. They’ll be crossing the bridges across the Mississippi instead.

Encouraging Waste

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If I want a large drink, why am I encouraged to order over twice the fries I want? Then, of course, I toss half the fries.

It is a mindset that is difficult, nearly impossible to overcome. I have tried many ways. I order them separately, with a small fry and large drink, and the response is, “Would you like the meal…?” I have even tried to tell them to charge me for the large combo and give me the small fries. Some agree and give me the huge fries instead. Then of course, half of them end up in the trash. I must admit, they are determined.

Tonight, I decided on a new strategy. I ordered one large meal, one sandwich, and a large drink. My logic was to share my fries with my wife. There would still be more than enough.

Not just once, not just twice, but the employee suggested the meal three times seemed indignant that I would actually want my food my way.

Communication often proves challenging, especially when nuanced preferences seem to conflict with standard procedures. Despite my repeated attempts to clarify my specific order—emphasizing that I want a large drink but not large fries—I encounter consistent misunderstandings. The service staff appears bewildered by my non-standard request, wearing expressions of confusion and handling my order with apparent reluctance. It feels as though my deviation from expected patterns disrupts their typical workflow, making what should be a simple transaction unexpectedly complicated.

From now on, I’ll confidently state my order with clarity and conviction. “I want large drinks and regular fries. This is straightforward, and I expect to be understood immediately.” If asked to repeat myself, I’ll simply walk away.

Will the US Ever Become CA?

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At first glance, this scenario appears improbable, even unthinkable. Yet, a careful examination of California’s historical trajectory over the past several decades reveals an underlying inevitability that cannot be easily dismissed.

In my early childhood, my family relocated to California, initially settling near San Jose before moving to Garden Grove, a modest city south of Los Angeles. At that time, the population was barely fifty thousand, and Garden Grove High School stood alone as the sole secondary educational institution. As I approached my high school years, the city’s growth became evident, with four high schools emerging. Today, Garden Grove has expanded to a vibrant community of 172 thousand residents, reflecting the dynamic transformation of this Southern California suburb.

During my teenage years, a popular sentiment circulated: families would visit California for a vacation and ultimately choose to make it their permanent home. This notion wasn’t merely a baseless rumor; I personally witnessed numerous acquaintances who, after experiencing the state’s allure, decided to relocate and embrace the California lifestyle.

Its reputation speaks volumes, rendering further explanation unnecessary. A brief encounter would swiftly illuminate the circumstances, and I’ve already delved into the underlying details previously.

However, lately, people have started going the other way, rapidly, to the point they lost a U.S. representative. There was no way I could have imagined that just 5 years ago. I should have. I left the Golden State over 40 years ago. Although there is much I miss there, I have never regretted leaving the crowds and later, the political climate.

As I consider all I’ve observed, I am starting to see many parallels between CA and the US. Right now people come here and then stay. If not for immigration laws, there would be far more here. And eventually, it too would become crowded. It would lose many of those things that draw people here. Conceivably, all those who decided stay, might decide to leave as have those from California.

I mean, who wants to live in a country that is run by tyrants who call themselves communist? I don’t think I will live to see it. However, I am beginning to think my sons will. I’m beginning to think my generation will be the first generation to leave a worse country than we received. And, by the way, a worse and more dangerous world.

The Theory of Rain

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During my military service, I was assigned to Naval Air Station Memphis, located in Millington, Tennessee, a suburb north of Memphis. The region was notorious for its generally predictable weather patterns, particularly its tendency to rain at the most inconvenient times. My fellow service members and I frequently discussed the frustrating meteorological phenomenon where clear, sunny skies would suddenly give way to intermittent rainfall starting Friday afternoon and persisting through the weekend.

As a sergeant, my crisp class C dress uniform demanded immaculate presentation. That day, which had begun with brilliant sunshine, transformed into heavy rain just prior to time to secure. Approaching the exit, I paused, studying the rain through the window with a mixture of resignation and frustration. Experience had taught me the harsh reality of local weather patterns – this downpour would persist with stubborn determination.until I was in my car.

An attractive lance corporal approached from behind, her footsteps light and purposeful. She halted, a wry smile playing across her lips. “Don’t worry, sergeant,” she quipped, her tone laced with playful reassurance, “you aren’t made of sugar and you won’t melt.”

I gazed back at her, taken aback by her unexpected comment. With a hint of irritation, I responded, “My priority isn’t personal comfort. I’m focused on preserving the integrity of my uniform.”

The rain cascaded around her as she burst into laughter, stepping into the downpour with carefree abandon. Her practical work attire, unlike the dress uniforms, meant she cared little about the water’s impact on her clothing. An instant later, I abandoned the shelter of the building, stepping into the deluge. Within seconds, my clothes were drenched, clinging to my skin. Predictably, the rain ceased its assault the moment I settled into my car.

Actually, rain almost anywhere does seem to arrive at some of the most inconvenient times. This particular uniform was hardly the only one that was soaked, just maybe the more frustrating.

Nonetheless, over the years, I did come up with a theory about rain—one that held true even during the hard rains in Vietnam. You can only get so wet. After that, the excess simply falls off. As uncomfortable as it may be, it cannot cause real harm.

While I appreciate staying dry, I’m not alone in my sentiment. Recently, I learned the Marines have updated their regulations, now permitting personnel to carry umbrellas while in uniform. Such a practical change would have been welcome decades earlier, offering us marines much-needed protection from the elements during outdoor duties.

Did it Ever

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During my time repairing computers, chance put me in the city of Detroit, about 1980 plus or minus. I suspect the city is not what it was then. The Dems have driven a lot of jobs out of the city since then. It is the sort of thing they like to do.

Anyway, I had never been to Canada and decided to go across the river just to be able to say I had been there. I entered Canada via the Ambassador Bridge and returned through a tunnel.

For the short time I was there, I parked in a lot under the bridge and looked back at Detroit. As I did, I received quite an education. I met a Canadian who filled me in on some history my teachers never told me.

The Canadian city of Windsor stood as a pristine Canadian gem, worlds apart from its neighboring Detroit. The city exuded an almost cinematic charm, with immaculate homes and meticulously maintained streets that seemed too perfect to be real. Unlike the gritty urban landscape across the border, this tranquil locale appeared carefully curated, as if designed by a meticulous set director rather than emerging organically from urban development.

The Detroit River, a remarkable waterway spanning approximately 30 miles, connects Lake St. Clair to Lake Erie. This international boundary between the United States and Canada is surprisingly compact, narrowing to just over a quarter-mile at its most constricted point. During the harsh winter months, the river’s surface transforms into a solid sheet of ice, creating a stunning and dramatic landscape that showcases the region’s extreme seasonal changes..

While this topic might seem mundane at first glance, history enthusiasts may find the upcoming details surprisingly compelling and engaging.

During the Prohibition era, both Canada and the United States banned the consumption of alcoholic beverages. However, Canada distinguished itself by allowing the production and sale of alcohol, creating a lucrative opportunity for cross-border trade. The strategic decision was likely motivated by economic potential and the desire to capitalize on the United States’ restrictive policies.

Ambitious Canadian winemakers faced a significant challenge: transporting their carefully crafted wines across the international border, with the imposing river presenting a formidable logistical obstacle to their cross-border business aspirations.

How-some-ever, given the profit and given the lack of morality, they would and did find a way. During the warm weather, all it took was row boat, a pair of oars and the courage to run the gauntlet of the law at night. During the winter, it was easier. They put treads on pickups and just simply drove across the ice, lights off.

Now, everyone knows that if guns were made illegal in both Canada and the US, guns would go away—until making them became legal in Canada again.

Do you suppose someone, anyone might want to make them and sell them to American criminals? Then, of course, only the police and criminals would be armed.

That is… until the Dems decide to take the guns from the police, too.

Improbable, you say. May I remind you, they once wanted to do away with the police?

As for me, if this were to happen, I just might decide to go to Detroit and invest in a rowboat. I suspect I would have some company. There just might be a few gun shops set up business close the the worlds shortest river.

and not so much as one of the guns would be serialized.

So Why Did I Settle in the Mid-South?

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Rarely do my readers contemplate this nuanced inquiry. The essence of the matter lies in the delicate interplay of timing, misguided decisions, and a subtle lack of understanding.

During my military deployment in Japan, tragedy struck when I learned of my brother’s sudden death. Typically, such news guarantees emergency leave, but I faced several unexpected challenges. A significant strike had shut down the gates at Kadena Air Force Base, creating logistical hurdles for arranging transportation. Resolute in my commitment to my family, I was adamant getting their own flight.

While the Marines covered my ticket to San Francisco, I had to pay my way from San Francisco, CA to Fort Smith. I was also responsible for all my family’s transportation costs, which significantly depleted our savings. Reflecting on the situation, remaining in Japan for the duration of my service would have been financially prudent. Completing my term there would have resulted in discharge at MCAS El Toro, near Disneyland, and presented numerous advantages. Had I followed this path, I would have saved considerable money, returned to familiar territory, been surrounded by family, and quickly secured an electronics job, leveraging my years of experience in the field.

Once in Fort Smith, I applied and received permission to get out about a month and a half early, rather than have them send me back to Japan or elsewhere. I went to Memphis, where I had been stationed for a few months of training. It wasn’t my home stomping grounds, but it was the next best thing. There, after a short time, I received my discharge.

At that time, in the mid-1970s, Memphis thrived under Republican leadership, boasting a vibrant urban landscape and a robust technological sector. Four prominent computer companies maintained substantial offices in the city, creating a dynamic professional environment. During my job search, a pivotal moment in pop culture history unfolded—the unexpected passing of Elvis Presley. I collected several newspapers documenting the momentous event, a potential treasure trove of memorabilia that, if preserved, might have yielded significant financial value today.

After joining the company, a disturbing incident occurred when someone threatened my son with a knife on the school bus. Concerned for our family’s safety, we quickly decided to purchase a home in Desoto County. However, we soon realized we should have chosen a location even further from the urban center. The neighborhood’s character seemed to be rapidly changing, mirroring the challenges of nearby Memphis. Our sense of security was further shaken when an intruder broke into our home while we were present, brandishing a .45 caliber weapon – a scenario unimaginable just decades earlier.

Relocating to the pollen capital of the United States proved to be a significant misstep, given my severe allergies. Prior to Dr. WW Taylor’s comprehensive patch test, I was unaware of the extent of my allergic reactions. During the twenty-minute examination, I rapidly failed the test, prompting the doctor to remark that he had never encountered such an extreme case of allergies in his extensive medical career. My ignorance of my own health condition led me to make this ill-advised move, which would ultimately have substantial consequences for my well-being.

Hours after the medical examination, a chilling realization struck me: had the Marine Corps known the full extent of my severe allergies, my entire life trajectory would have dramatically shifted. I would have been disqualified from service, sparing me from deployment to Vietnam. Instead, I might have remained in California, living a completely different existence. Such thoughts of alternate destinies can consume one’s mind, spinning elaborate scenarios of what might have been.

Aren’t you relieved that some mysteries remain unspoken?

It’s The Premise, Stupid

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In the political landscape of 1992, James Carville coined the memorable phrase “It’s the economy, stupid,” which became a pivotal campaign slogan. Inspired by his linguistic prowess, I aspire to craft an equally impactful statement in 2025, though the odds of achieving such widespread recognition may be slim. Nevertheless, hope springs eternal in the realm of memorable catchphrases.

Let me share an illustration I previously used, which remains relevant and insightful. While some time has passed since its initial presentation, the core message continues to resonate. Even if you’ve encountered this example before, a refresher can often reveal new perspectives or nuances that might have been overlooked.

On the cusp of legal adulthood, a 21-year-old embarks on a predictable rite of passage, venturing into a local bar with curiosity and youthful naivety. Eager to explore the newfound freedom of being able to legally consume alcohol, he decides to experience the atmosphere and get drunk, just to see what it’s like.

After several Scotch and sodas, he collapses, and his friend is tasked with escorting him home. A familiar scenario for many, he awakens the next morning, suffering from a pounding headache and overwhelming nausea – the dreaded consequences of excessive drinking.

Now when I heard this story, the teller really drew it out. I’ll save you the repetition. I’ll simply say that he gets drunk again on the following two evenings. However, he decides he does not like the hangover thing. So, each time he changes what he mixes with the soda.

After three days of heavy drinking, he realized the allure of intoxication was overshadowed by the brutal aftermath. Determined to solve this dilemma, he made a decisive choice to remove the source of his morning misery. Ergo, he decided to eliminate the common element.

Initially, I found the statement amusing, but upon deeper reflection, I recognized it as a poignant critique of political dysfunction. In modern urban landscapes, citizens repeatedly cycle through elected officials, believing each new leader will miraculously resolve complex systemic challenges.

The fundamental issue lies not with individual politicians, but with the shared ideological framework that underpins their collective approach. The prevailing political narrative fails to deliver meaningful solutions, instead creating a cycle of diminishing returns and increasing societal frustration. Each successive political iteration seems to compound the ineffectiveness of its predecessors, resulting in a progressively more dysfunctional system.

As urban centers continue to decline, a pattern emerges reminiscent of an individual’s struggle with addiction: recognizing the problem only when circumstances become dire. The ongoing exodus from major metropolitan areas signals a potential watershed moment for political understanding and urban transformation, challenging the long-established trajectory of population concentration that defined the industrial era.

Do You Have 20 Minutes?

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The reason I ask that is it is how long it took me to buy a stamp.

I no longer do much business with the USPS. I have little reason to. Well, I was somewhat compelled to use their services. It was either get the stamp and let Medicare pay the bill or not get the stamp and pay a thousand-dollar bill myself.

I will not keep you in suspense. I did get the stamp and I did mail the letter, eventually.

In the past, purchasing stamps was a swift and straightforward process: you could enter a post office, approach a vending machine, and quickly obtain your stamps, typically within a minute or two, even with mobility challenges.

I anticipated this outcome, but the lack of vending machines surprised me. A single, multipurpose machine handling everything from letters to packages stood before me, with a line of five people waiting to use it.

The crowded service counter buzzed with tension, four employees working amid a serpentine queue of six impatient customers. I stood at the threshold, recognizing instantly that any choice I made would lead to an unsatisfactory outcome.

As I waited in line for the machine, I couldn’t help but notice the adjacent queue seemed to inch forward slightly quicker. Torn between impatience and commitment, I weighed my options: abandon my current spot after investing ten minutes or maintain my position with stubborn determination.

I stood there, staring at the complex contraption before me, its cryptic instructions mocking my attempts to understand its operation. In that moment, I realized my odds of successfully navigating this machine were slimmer than my chances of becoming the next lunar explorer.

I gazed at the postal queue, contemplating whether personally delivering the document would be more efficient. The line had dwindled to three customers, with an equal number of postal workers behind the counter. At least the self-service machine stood mercifully unoccupied.

The line dwindled until only I remained, with two clerks still stationed behind the counter. A growing unease settled over me as the possibility of leaving unstamped became increasingly likely, my anxiety mounting with each passing moment.

I stood at the counter, patience wearing thin as the line crawled forward. Two employees worked behind the register, but the crowd seemed to move at a glacial pace. A glimmer of hope sparked when one customer departed, only to be extinguished as a staff member simultaneously vanished from view. Sensing my mounting frustration, a nearby worker offered a placating smile and assured me someone would assist me momentarily. I couldn’t help but sardonically wonder about the legal implications of such a vague promise, knowing full well that her casual reassurance carried no binding weight.

Then, as I said before, I did get my stamp and it was mailed. Next time, I will bring my tent and camping equipment. I suggest you do the same.

Horses as Pets

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I enjoy writing on a diverse range of topics. Since I haven’t encountered a prompt about horses before, I decided to explore the subject independently.

In the early 20th century, horses were the primary mode of transportation for most people, while only the affluent could afford automobiles. This was a stark contrast to the modern era, where cars have become ubiquitous and accessible to a wider range of the population.

Keeping horses has become a luxury that only the affluent can afford. For the majority of us, driving cars has become the more practical and accessible mode of transportation. However, some individuals may still need to rely on walking to get around.

In the future, if the environmental movement continues to gain momentum, the majority of people may have to rely on walking or using non-motorized forms of transportation, such as horses. Only the wealthiest individuals will likely have access to motorized vehicles.

I have never owned any horses, nor have I ridden any. The closest I’ve come was riding a motorcycle, though that is not very close to the experience of riding a horse.

Over the years, I have developed a strong interest in owning a small herd of horses, perhaps around six. This desire is not driven by any intention to race them or use them for practical purposes, but rather a personal fascination and appreciation for these majestic animals. The idea of caring for and interacting with horses on a regular basis holds a certain appeal, as I believe it could provide a sense of tranquility and connection with nature. While the responsibility of owning and maintaining a small stable of horses would be significant, the potential rewards in terms of personal fulfillment and enjoyment make it an enticing prospect that I have considered pursuing.

I would care for them regularly to ensure their well-being and provide them with a sense of purpose. Although they would be considered pets, I would shower them with affection and attention, treating them as beloved companions.

I adore horses and watching them gallop fills me with joy. I’ve had the pleasure of petting them before, and it seems they enjoy the interaction as much as I do.

While the idea of owning horses may seem appealing, the practical realities of providing for their needs on a limited income can present significant challenges. Maintaining a horse requires substantial financial resources to cover expenses such as food, shelter, veterinary care, and other necessities. Given the constraints of living on Social Security, it may be prudent to explore more feasible hobbies or activities that align with your current financial situation and lifestyle.

Maybe when I get to heaven, God will let me have a few horses. I think that would be nice.