A Far-Fetched Proposal, But Why Not?

Tired of long flights?  Tired of being cramped on a 737 for three, four, or five hours or beyond?  Fed up with long treks to the last gate at the end of the concourse–Gate C-9—only to learn that the “Departures/Arrivals” monitor says your flight has been delayed and will now depart from Gate R-8,576 where anyone who is not in a bad mood is nearly impossible to find?  All you have to do is walk the half mile to the Express Tram, and be patient as it stops at Gates D,E,F,G,H,I,J,K,L,M,N,O,P, and Q, until it finally lets you off at R where you get to walk to the end of the terminal and discover that not only is there no available seating, but electrical outlets were few and far between.  You’ve been screaming at the airline all day, and now your phone has only 4% battery life remaining. Of course, you’re tired of that.  Who wouldn’t be?

It’s time for drastic measures, and I have an idea, a proposal: I say we break this country down to just two airports to reduce flying time, and put an end to airport mayhem. Let’s split the entire U.S. population in two. One half will live in Denver, the other half in Colorado Springs. Yes, I realize there’s lots to figure out regarding airport expansion, extending sewage lines, relocating skyscrapers, 31 NFL teams, and Dollywood, but all of those issues can be ironed out. After all, this is the country that created Bacon Flavored Toothpaste, Waxed Bacon Flavored Dental Floss, and Flavored Lickable Wallpaper. That alone should be proof enough that we have the ingenuity, and the know-how to conquer the impossible.  Flying these days is a mess—migraines are a dime a dozen, anxiety is on the rise, and tempers are flaring like dry brush fires. It’s time to make things happen!

But why Colorado?  Because a quick flight on SkyWest Airlines opened my eyes to just how efficient flying can really be. The Colorado Springs and Denver airports are here to save the day!  I’m referring specifically to the flights that go between the two cities.

Yesterday, at Colorado Springs, I boarded a SkyWest jet bound for Denver. SkyWest, by the way, operates for United, which means United has its act together, because SkyWest simply knows how to get it done. To prove my point, here are the exact words from the SkyWest captain: “Our flying time today will be fourteen to fifteen minutes.”

HUH??  SAY WHA’??  THIS BE COMEDY CENTRAL??

Fourteen to fifteen minutes?? I can barely eat my first plate of Thanksgiving dinner in that amount of time. Hell, I can’t even tie a necktie in under fifteen minutes without looking like I did it during a sneezing attack.

So, I was thinking, once this plane leveled off at peak altitude, our flight attendant was going to have about 25 seconds to serve our complimentary drinks. And you know what? I wasn’t too far off…

The official in-flight transcript pretty much went like this…

“Hello, this is Evan, your SkyWest flight attendant. Please put on your seat belts. If there’s a sudden loss of cabin pressure, make sure you—whoops!! Gotta go! We’re cleared for takeoff now! Good, we’ve leveled off! Want a beverage?  It’s Sprite or nothing! Ok, now chug it like your life depends on it! Here, throw it in the trash and stow your tables! Ok, we’ve begun or descent and been cleared for landing! We’ve arrived!  Welcome to Denver! Unbuckle! Get off! Buh-bye! Yeah, baby!!! 13:56!!”

There aren’t many airports that do it like Colorado Springs and Denver do it. You’ve got spectacular mountain views and beautiful snowfall (by the way, have you ever noticed how weather delays are all relative to flight durations.  So, a typical real pain-in-the-rear delay for SkyWest is about 3-4 minutes). Also, the short flight is perfect for people who are on diets as there’s no time to eat. Bring one fat-free, low-calorie cookie, as it’s about all you’ll have time for. Don’t bring a book. Bring a short poem. Want to watch a movie? Ha! Good luck with that! You’ll be much better off watching film trailers on YouTube. Of course, by the time you figure out your phone’s WiFi settings, you’ll be feeling that all-too-common floor vibration of the plane’s landing gear being lowered.

Fast, swift, get-er-done flying. Fifteen minutes tops and you’re where you need to be! Hundreds upon hundreds of departures per hour is how I see the future. All that needs to be done is pave about fifty additional runways to accommodate and life will be golden! If we can make bacon flavored toothpaste, then we can do this!!

Sounds far-fetched? Well, it is far-fetched. But nothing ever got accomplished without dreaming big. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go. I’m on the return flight back to Colorado Springs, and I have about 4.7 seconds to chug this can of Sprite!

Safe travels, y’all!!

 

Copyright Ros Hill, 2019

Just In Time For Christmas!

It’s here! It’s ready! Order it! Read it! Share it with family, friends, and enemies in need of a truce!

My new book, Taking Out The Trash, is now officially published. Yes, it’s been centuries in the making, but I’ll spare you the drama and just move on with the excitement of it now being the real deal.

I’ve been working on other projects which have consumed much of my time, but now my short stories will soon be appearing again.

That’s all I got. So, click on over to your nearest Amazon or Barnes & Noble store and order a book.  I guarantee you’ll be glad you did!

https://www.amazon.com/Taking-Trash-Everyday-Stories-Life-Laughter/dp/1596875275/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1544113059&sr=8-11&keywords=ros+hill

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/taking-out-the-trash-everyday-stories-of-life-loss-and-laughter-ros-hill/1129944509?ean=9781596875272

 

21 Years

Perhaps it was when the boy stole the ball from you during your first soccer game, and you stopped in your tracks and cried. I wondered if you had any fire in you—the fire to chase down that boy and reclaim the ball that was previously yours.  I wondered if this soft behavior of yours was there to stay—forever imprinted in your DNA. So athletically gifted, but incomplete.

Such thoughts actually did pass through my mind. You were only four years old, and yet how easily I found myself concerned for you. There you were, the one player who dominated in practice. The one player whose skill came so naturally, as if you never needed to be taught the game, because the game seemed innately wired within you.

But when the boy took the ball and dribbled downfield to score for his team, you found it to be so unfair. It had never happened to you in practice. So, as you stood on the field and cried, I stood on the sidelines, feeling sympathetic, but also wondering if you were going to be one of those kids who lacked aggression to fight back—a pure athlete, but unable to dig deep.

That was 17 years ago, and to this day I still shake my head when I think about the concern I had for you.  I was worried about your lack of tenacity, as if some strange virus had stricken you, and the antidote to cure it was never to be found.

Luckily for me, though, I came to my senses, and my irrational concern for you soon evaporated.  And the reason for that?

I threw you up in the air as high as I could…and let you fall.

*                   *                      *

I let you fall and did nothing to soften your landing.  I just stood there and let the forces of gravity prove that escaping the earth unassisted is no easy task. But the environment was safe–a swimming pool. As you hit the water’s surface, I remember thinking what an incredible place and time it was to be with you.  You showed no inhibitions, but simply kept urging me to throw you higher and higher with each successive launch.  I’d grab you by the armpits and say, “Ready?…One…two…three!!” Your eyes would widen like your smile, and up you’d soar, as high as my tiring arms could possibly throw you.

You were truly fearless.  I began to sense that the day would come—however long it might take—that you would trust in yourself and discover your fire. Aggression can be demonstrated, but the drive to be aggressive must come from within.

And so, here you are, on your 21st birthday, and you must be wondering: Just what does all of this aggression talk have to do with my 21st birthday?

It has everything to do with it. It illustrates just how important it is to understand someone and not make knee-jerk reactions. A boy stole your soccer ball.  You didn’t go after him.  I worried you wouldn’t discover your fire.  I was missing the bigger picture of you—the magic of you. I had to give you a chance, embrace your character, marvel at your wonders, and then let you grow.

So, welcome to the relationship part of this story which is truly what I’m writing about.  It just took a little off-road path to get here. And I can’t think of a better place to illustrate how we relate, than the time you were wearing a hospital gown.

*                    *                    *

You were prepped, all ready for surgery to repair your torn meniscus.  The nurse told me it was time to give you a kiss on the forehead and tell you that I love you.

We looked at each other with the same expression, as if we had just witnessed something horribly disgusting.  That unmistakable look of “Ewwwww!!”

A forehead kiss?? I love you?? Seriously?? Did this nurse have any clue whatsoever of just who we were?  Apparently not!

We related to each other homie-style.  “Wha’ dup dog!…Wha dit b?” I gave you a three-part hand shake as if it came straight off the street. It ended with an exploding fist-bump before I gave you my parting words: “Peace out.”

“We’re different,” you told the nurse, “Not your typical father-daughter relationship, but it’s how we roll.”

And it truly was how we rolled.  In fact, we rolled like that for years.  It was just something that evolved and stuck.  We were very comfortable with it being our way to express a tight relationship.  And, quite honestly, it worked.  It fit us perfectly. It was easy, as it blended in with your friends who came over to the house. It was, without a doubt, free-form, never uncomfortable, and cool.

Yes, for years we rolled like that, but then something began to change:  You entered college and became more mature, confident, responsible, and insightful.  By this time, you had easily acquired the competitive fire within you.  Chasing down a player who might steal the basketball was no longer an issue.  Fighting for a loose ball on the floor was now second nature.  You were complete.  You had arrived.  But, as a parent, there was one thing that was lacking.  And it took a third-party to open my eyes.

*                    *                    *

“You never hug her, do you?” A client of mine once asked.  She was well aware of you, as she had followed your four years of high school basketball.

“Oh, we hug once in a while,” I said.

“Once in a while? Are you serious?  That hardly qualifies as hugging”

“Ok, so we’re not huggers.  Our relationship just never grew that way.  We’ve always just kind of hung out.  You know…fist bumps and stuff.”

I’ll never forget that day. I had been training her in the gym when she suddenly stopped her exercise, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Let me tell you something. The last thing you ever want is regret.  It’s the last thing.  And the day something tragic happens to that girl…and I mean tragic…that’ll be the most regretful day of your life, and you’ll have to wake up every day thereafter, knowing you missed out.  Knowing that you never hugged her.”

“But,” I said, “how we interact is our way of hugging.”

She paused and looked at me hard in the eyes, “Trust me, Ros, you’ll regret it.”

How many times have I caught myself reflecting on her words of warning?  How many times have I been going about my day and couldn’t avoid acknowledging the truth in her wisdom?  And the more I thought about it, and observed it, the more I began to notice the closer connection that existed between a parent and his or her child, all because of a hug.  It does speak volumes.

When I look back on the chronology of how we’ve connected, I don’t have any regrets that a comfortable hug took nearly 18 years to arrive.  I hugged you as a younger child plenty of times, nearly every day.  But as you got older, and for whatever reason, the way that we showed appreciation or connection evolved into fist bumps, high fives, and two-finger peace signs.  And let’s face it, even flipping each other the bird wasn’t an unusual hello or goodbye, as we always got a laugh understanding the spontaneous and subtle humor.

*                      *                       *

You’re 21 years old today, and how proud and privileged I am to say that you’re my daughter. Of course, you’ll always have the attributes that I cherish most: a sick sense of humor, million dollar dares, the ability to cuss like a sailor, a damn fine three-point shooter, a love for homemade milkshakes, and a sneaky way of talking me into writing a college essay or two (you must’ve learned that one from your sister).

And then there’s the hug after a basketball game, or when you leave to head back to school. It completes everything. It keeps things connected like never before. It’s the glue that keeps on binding.

Of course, I’m not about to part ways with old customs. With that said….

I love you & peace out,

 

Dad

 

Copyright Ros Hill, 2018

Scars

She had her 6-year-old daughter by the forearm. Tugged on her in the produce section, then hurriedly pulled her into a vacant aisle.  Like an eagle—-even with piercing eagle eyes—-her talons clenched onto that arm as if she were truly preparing to take flight. As if she were willing to do whatever it would take to bust through the ceiling of the grocery store, then upward, exploding through the roof, breaking into daylight, and taking her prey far, far away.

“Stop acting like a child!!” She snapped at her as discretely as possible, while restraining her voice. “Stop touching everything you see!! Can’t you just act normal!?”

“But, Mom…I…”

“STOP IT!!!!”

And that was it.  That was where the beratement ended, just before those talons clenched her arm one last time to leave a final impression of the mother’s anger.

I watched the entire scene. I wanted to intervene, but kept my distance. Probably because I hadn’t witnessed the daughter’s supposed unruly behavior that warranted such a stern scolding. On the other hand, the mother might have been the type of person who was upset by the slightest infraction. Maybe her daughter had simply picked up an orange to innocently study its texture. Perhaps, before they entered the store, something had happened causing the mother to lose her last bit of patience. I hadn’t a clue of the scene’s history, so I stayed quiet.

*           *          *

A week later at the store, I met a man in the checkout line whose hand was badly scarred. He’d obviously had reconstructive surgery. The scene I had witnessed between the mother and daughter had stayed with me. When I saw his hand, I began to think about the mother’s fierce grip on her daughter, and wondered if her talons might have pierced her skin—deep enough to make a scar. I thought about how our lives are full of scars. Some are physically visible, while others have penetrated deep within our memories and will remain there until we die. And some scars have pasts that, over time, have clouded and become hard to recall, their details muted.

But there was something about the man that compelled my curiosity. It was one of those feelings where things just felt safe. Perhaps I’ve trained myself to feel comfortable asking people about things that others might deem as intrusive or stepping over their boundaries. But I don’t see it that way. I simply go with my gut. I go with my radar of reading people’s character. It’s something I’ve done all my adult life, and, honestly, sometimes I can get that read in just a matter of seconds. Such as the man in line with me. Unlike the angry mother, he had a kind expression—-he was approachable.

“Excuse me, sir” I said. “But I have a question.”

“Okay,” he replied. “What is it?”

“Your hand…what happened?”

“What happened? Well that, my friend, is a story.”

“I don’t mean to pry. I—“

“It’s quite alright. I’ll be happy to tell you.”

*           *          *

Whenever there is a threat to our survival, we instinctively use our flight or fight response to protect ourselves…or someone else.

That’s why he defended his grandson during an evening walk. There was no concern that the pit bull might turn on him. He had found himself caught in the line of duty—-a place he couldn’t avoid, He would be cursed forever knowing he had failed to protect. But he was a good man, and the thought that he would opt for self-preservation was utterly absurd.

The pit bull charged at the boy with primal and deadly intent. The dog’s chain leash slapped at the concrete sidewalk and whipped itself in the air as it gained speed, having broken free from its owner’s hands. Just seconds from reaching the boy, the grandfather positioned himself between the two, and took the hit with an outstretched arm.

He remembers the pain as being horridly torturous. He recalls his hand being trapped in the dog’s iron jaws, and how it was shredded as it shook its head side to side.  And yet, as quickly as it attacked, it suddenly chose to run away.  He referred to the dog’s retreat as being part of a divine intervention, that it was more than just happenstance.

“I often wonder,” he said.  “If my scars were sort of meant to be. I know this sounds crazy, but I wonder if they’re intended to remind me of just how much I love my grandson. And if it happened again, I’d lose all my fingers if I had to. Anything to protect that boy’s life.”

His grandson will never forget how fortunate he was to be able to walk away without a single tooth mark, completely unscathed. Not one single scar.

As for the 6-year-old girl who was vehemently yelled at by her mother, maybe her day took a turn for the better. Who knows what her mother may have come to realize when she tucked her into bed that night. Who knows the depth of her sorrow that finally bubbled to the surface.  This was her only child, and she knew she had frightened her.  She knew she had lost her patience and wound up going in a direction she never intended to.

“Sweetie, mommy’s really sorry about what happened at the store today. Please understand that. You’re all I’ve got. I love you.”

“It’s okay, mommy.  But my arm does kinda hurt.”

The mother’s eyes welled up as she leaned in and hugged her daughter. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I must have come across as a monster.  I’m so sorry.”

“No, mommy.  Monsters only live under my bed.  You’re not a monster.  You’re my mommy.”

The mother lifted her head up with tear-filled eyes and a smile, and then tenderly kissed her daughter on the forehead. And that’s when the scars began to fade away, as the mother stayed in her room and slept with her through the night.

Copyright Ros Hill 2018

 

I Never Knew He Drank

If it had happened on white carpet, it would have been far more difficult to clean. The dark red carpet made it ideal for hiding the blood.

He was a friend of mine who had fallen late one night while walking through his bedroom. His feet dragged over the carpet as he made his way to the bathroom. The heavy friction caused his knees to buckle, and down he went, lacerating his arm and back along the edges of a countertop and wooden chair as he fell.

It’s what happens when you’re 80 and you’ve had one too many highballs.

*           *           *

It was 12:30AM when I received the call from a fireman. He told me he was at the house of a friend of mine named Walter, who had asked I be notified of his accident.  He said that paramedics were tending to him.

“Is he okay?” I asked. “What happened?”

“He took a little spill in his bedroom. Caught his foot on the carpet. Said he had to crawl across the room to call 911. There’s a fair amount of blood, so they’re assessing whether or not to take him to the ER. Can I call you back when they make a decision? Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Yes, please do.”

I was pretty much the only person to call. There was no one left in his ancestry. He was the lone survivor. He had a few friends, but none he felt comfortable asking to make a late-night trip to the ER.

Walter did, however, have a habit of sorts attributed to his recurrence of making 911 calls. This was one of several that he’d made in the past few months for falling as well. I’m sure the first responders were quite familiar with his address, and, for that matter, him. While he thrived on medical attention, there seemed to be more to it than that. Being that he lived alone, I often wondered if his emergency calls were also intended to mitigate loneliness.

He was a daily walking billboard of bandages and gauze wraps that partially circled his arms and legs like a shabbily wrapped mummy.  He was covered with an array of bruises, cuts, and indentations. They were conversation pieces, and he was always up for sharing their origins.  His favorite was the brown recluse spider bite that left a divot in his calf, as if he had endured a small spill of hot battery acid. The spider’s venom is notorious for causing severe necrosis.

The fireman called me back and said that the paramedics were going to take Walter to the hospital. Their decision was based on a high pulse rate which they felt needed the attention of a cardiologist. “Nothing to be alarmed by,” he said. “Just a precautionary measure.”  Walter, I’m sure, wasn’t about to pass up an ambulance ride. No matter the cost, it would enhance any story that might come from his fall.

I called the ER about an hour later, and was able to speak with a nurse assigned to Walter. She told me he was doing fine, and that he was going to be admitted to the hospital since a cardiologist wouldn’t be available until the morning. She said I was welcome to come visit him in the ER, but to understand that his condition was not critical.

I told her thank you, and that I’d stop by the hospital in the morning.

*        *        *

Have you ever walked into a situation where you felt like you knew what was going on, then found out that you knew nothing of what was going on?  Perhaps you had a friend named Walter who was 80 years old. Perhaps you knew that his mother had suffered from dementia in the last two years of her life, and that there was no escaping its crippling grasp.  And perhaps, judging by occasional episodes of disorientation, you figured he was entering an initial phase of the disease.

Or perhaps you were just flat out wrong.

“Hello, are you Ros?” Asked a nurse, working on a computer outside Walter’s room.

“Yes,” I said. I had just arrived at the hospital the following morning.

“Walter said you might be coming. Said he talked to you from the ER last night.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Well, you know…bruised, sore, and hungover.”

I looked at her with inquisitive eyes. “Hungover?”

“Oh, yeah. It was all over his breath when he arrived. Slurred speech, disoriented, and couldn’t stop talking about some kind of spider bite.”

I chuckled. “A brown recluse, I’m sure.”

The nurse nodded and smiled as she gave a thumbs up. “He’s quite the story teller.”

“Oh, trust me,” I said. “I’ve heard them all. I know the guy inside and out.”

Or did I? Hungover? Walter? How could I have missed this?  I’d known the guy for decades, and not once did I ever suspect that he drank in excess. Not that it mattered, but, still, how had I been so clueless to never notice? His slurred speech in the evenings, paired with disoriented thoughts. I had reduced this to dementia? Who had I been kidding this entire time? Only myself.

The nurse led me into the room. “Walter, you’ve got a visitor. I think you might know this guy.”  She checked his IV bag, made note of some readings on a small monitor, then turned to leave.  “I’ll let you two be. Just holler if you need anything. I’m just outside your room.”

He was sitting on the edge of his bed with his head down.  His hospital gown hung crooked on his shoulders and was split open in the back, exposing bandages covering cuts from his fall. There was an air of exhaustion about him.

“I’m a mess,” he said.

I made my way to the side of his bed and sat next to him. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah. Get a cardiologist in here so they can see that nothing’s wrong, and then discharge me.”

He looked like he hadn’t slept all night. His eyes were puffy, and his hair ruffled.  I suggested he get back into bed and try to get some sleep.

“Sleep?” he said. “With this headache? Not happenin’.”

“Then at least try to give your eyes a rest.”

He agreed to try.  I closed the window blinds to cut out the morning light, which was nothing more than a rainy gray that had pushed its way into the room.  The overcast skies had added nothing but gloom to Walter’s despondent mood.

A cafeteria worker brought by a breakfast tray, which Walter shook his head to.

I took a seat in a bedside chair, and quietly looked at him.  For over thirty years I had known Walter, and had never seen him intoxicated. He’d have an occasional beer or glass of wine at dinner when he invited me over, but I never had suspected an overindulgence.

*        *        *

And this is where my story takes a turn. This is where I come forward to profess that it’s no wonder I never connected his slurred speech or disorientation to alcohol. After all, I don’t drink.

I found myself unable to offer anything more than superficial questions: “Can I turn your light off?” or “Do you want me to get some magazines from the lobby?”  Thoughtful, but mundane. I wanted to pry into the history of his drinking. I wanted to tell him it sucks having a bad headache the morning after. I wanted to tell him to watch his limit.

There was so much I wanted to say, but so very little that I could. I had no voice of experience. I had no testimonies of intoxication. I was simply not privy to any hard nights that I could share.  But I was concerned for my friend. His trip to the hospital was completely preventable. In my mind, all he had to do was abstain. Yes, in my mind—a mind that couldn’t relate.  I was, without question, out of the loop.

Laying there in bed with his eyes shut, Walter broke the room’s silence and said, “You never knew, did you?”

“I never knew what?”

“Don’t kid yourself. You know what I’m talking about.”

I paused, then said, “Yes, I know exactly.”

He opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling.  “If there’s one thing I truly love, it would have to be clarity. Because even in the worst of times, you’re aware of what’s happening. Nothing is traveling through your bloodstream delivering conflicting messages of lies and confusion. It may not be a happy situation, but you can at least make rational decisions, or clearly admit to mistakes. My blood is soiled in the red carpet in my bedroom. I get to go home and get on my hands and knees and scrub it clean. And the entire time I won’t be able to escape the grim reminder that I chose to be this creature of habit. No one but me is responsible.” Walter then lowered his eyes to me and said smiling, “Now, how’s that for a good morning devotional?”

I smiled back, happy to see the Walter I knew. “Well,” I said, “at least you’ll be scrubbing with clarity.”

And there he laid, smiling a little wider, and said, “Open up those window blinds please. I want to watch the rain.”

 

Copyright Ros Hill 2018

Dear Readers (a.k.a. Really Cool People):

Just a heads up…

My book is nearing completion.  Still some kinks and pages to smooth out and rearrange, but it’ll soon be available on Amazon.  I wanted to include a piece of Bazooka bubble gum for each person to enjoy while reading, but my publisher axed the idea and suggested I get an MRI to have my brain scanned.

“Ros,” he said, “Do you realize how difficult it would be to put even a small block of gum inside a book?”

“Tootsie Roll?”

“You’re killing me, Ros.”

“Twinkie?”

That’s when I heard the phone line disconnect.

Guess I’m glad he spoke up. I cancelled my order of 35,000 pieces of gum from Bazooka International.  Been a real stressful week.

That’s probably a lot more information than you ever needed to hear.  Anyhooo, I’ll keep you posted as the book’s completion date nears.

Have a great day everyone!

Ros

 

Copyright Ros Hill 2018