A Beary Merry Christmas

I was five years old and my parents, even though hard working, still had not achieved middle class status. We lived in a rented house, and we never went hungry due to Mom’s creativity and thrift in the kitchen, but they had no concept of discretionary income.

With winter coming on, they wanted to buy my father a new pair of winter trousers and my very first pair of church-going pants. My brother could still wear his, so they were not ready for hand-me-down. On several Saturdays we rode the bus downtown and shopped in many different stores looking for the right, affordable trousers. One of the more upscale stores we visited had an amazing teddy bear in the Children’s Department. It was a big bear covered with glistening down-soft fur, and it smiled out at me through happy, glass eyes.

I climbed on a chair, pulled down that bear, and hugged it. I was love at first squeeze. On each successive shopping trip I insisted we return to that store so I could hug that bear. Then, as now, quality plush toys were expensive, so my pleas to buy the bear went unheeded. That also was the probable reason my bear always waited there for me .

Christmas was approaching, and I ask my folks to take me to the big department store to visit with Santa Clause. I had figured since my folks wouldn’t buy me the bear, I would ask Santa to bring it to me. After waiting through the line and sitting on Santa’s lap, Mom asked me what I had asked for.

“My bear,” I announced with pride. The look that shot between my parents puzzled me. Mom’s eyes glistened when she explained that sometimes Santa knows better what little children need.

The agony of Christmas Eve faded into a dream-filled night that exploded into the light of Christmas morning as I leaped from bed and ran into the living room. There under the tree sat a teddy bear. It was a bit smaller, the body and arms were sewn from pink patterned gingham with the ends of the chubby, round arms and legs closed with white flannel circles. The smiling white flannel head had chubby flannel ears and two bright, black button eyes.

I squealed with delight and grabbed that bear, hugging it as if it were Mom after an extended separation. I don’t remember one second’s disappointment that this was not the big beautiful white furry bear. I loved that bear.

About five years later, I had grown out of the teddy bear stage, even though he still sat in a position of prominence in my bedroom. Relatives came to visit who had a young toddler who loved to play with the bear. They decided to remove the two button eyes to keep the young one from pulling them off and strangling on them. I still remember the sadness I felt for weeks that Ted was now blind since Mom never got around to sewing them back in place.

Now, over sixty years later, I know exactly where Ted is, and I get a fuzzy glow inside appreciating that he is warm and comfortable and loved.

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A Major Discovery

I made a major discovery today. I learned how to turn off my electric toothbrush. I’ve had the toothbrush for almost three years. My two previous electric brushes had toggle switches; i.e., you push the button – they come on; push the same button – they turn off.

When I bought the current brush the “on” button would not turn it off. I discovered; however, that replacing the brush on the charger turned it off. Deciding there was a congenital design problem or a flaw in my particular brush, I lived with it. For almost three years I've put the toothpaste on the brush while it was running – no mean feat.

Today, the brush slipped in my hand, and it turned off when I caught it. Amazing! An examination of the brush showed a microscopic circle under which was the “off” switch. For three years I have struggled and wasted toothpaste because I assumed that the brush was flawed. It was simply different from those with which I was familiar.

Did I read the instructions? Are you kidding? I’m a graduate engineer. You think I’m going to read how to run an electric toothbrush?

As I thought on the irony of my great electric toothbrush discovery, life parallels could be drawn. Maybe we should not assume something or somebody is flawed/bad because they are different. Possibly when things aren’t working right, we should stop, step back, and discover why. And for God’s Sakes, when we are fortunate enough in life it get instructions, read ‘em and heed ‘em

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Rejections At That Speed Of Light

A New record was set today. From the time of sending an email agent query letter until the form letter rejection returned was 45 minutes flat—a new world record. Forget the old snail mail query and the weeks of waiting for your SASE to arrive with the post card rejection form enclosed.

It’s left me wondering which is better. I still remember the daily trips to the mailbox as a six-year old, and the utter desolation I felt when my Captain Midnight Decoder Ring was not there. When it finally arrived I ripped open the cardboard can and was less than dazzled by the ring. It came with a secret message directly from Captain Midnight. I was shaking with excitement as I worked the ring to decode my personal message. Finally it appeared D_R_I_N_K_O_V_A_L_T_I_N_E. “Drink Ovaltine?” That was my personal message? I then knew what “being had” felt like.

Anticipation is greater than realization most of the time. So maybe a case can be made for the old style rejection where we writers agonize for weeks waiting for a reply which we know is 99% of the time going to be a form letter rejection. At least we got that exciting sense of anticipation while we drift off into Walter Mitty-esq fantasy of getting an acceptance and the fame and fortune that is sure to follow.

But still, taking the immediate hit and getting it over with is really best.

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Ice Cycles on My Testicles

Que paso, Global Warmers? I’m freezing my nuts off down here in San Antonio, Texas. They’re talking about it snowing. Snowing? It hasn’t snowed here in 15 years. I need you Global Warmers to crank it up a few degrees. But now I learn there has been no global warming since 1995. What’s with that?

If I wanted cold weather, I’d live in North Dakota. But then I’d have to talk with a Scandinavian accent instead of a Texas Drawl. Wearing long sleeves is too cold for me. Give me heat. Something that makes me want to go skinny dipping and lie naked in the shade of a big pecan tree.

Now I learn that scientists believe the last big Ice age 16,500 years ago occurred in a matter of weeks or months, not years or decades. They predict this could possibly happen again in the near future. Not to worry though, that ice age only lasted 1,500 years. Of course we could forget about “Cap in Trade” and all those things we are doing to stop global warming and maybe we could heat up the old globe and reduce that 1,500 year thaw by a year or two.

As I see it, it’s time to look for real estate somewhere around the equator. It might not be ice age proof, but could make a cold natured guy like myself a little more comfy.

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“Spontaneity is the Soul of Joy”

I take full credit for creating the axiom, “Spontaneity is the Soul of Joy.” Until recently it’s been my mantra. Spontaneity in children is taken for granted, and often adults suffer its results. Then something happens. With maturity, spontaneity fades into consideration. Into concern. To caution. Thence to calculation, carefulness, and finally withers into stagnation and vegetation.

Money, health, and both social and political pressure can restrain spontaneity; however, credit cards were designed to solve the money problem. Health is direr, but many have spontaneously opted out of treatments to prolong life in favor of having a little fun before the end. If we let social and political correctness rule our lives, then we deserve the life we endure.

Recent events proved how easily spontaneity fades like mist in sunshine. My barista at the coffeehouse I frequent asked last week, “Why do you always order the same thing: Vente, skinny, half-caff, sugar free vanilla, latte.”
“That’s what I like.”
“Try something different. You might like it more.”
By this time she had finished my beverage of choice, and I was left to ponder her question while I sipped my drab old favorite.

Sometime later I visited an ice cream parlor for the first time in a decade. It featured two refrigerated marble slabs on which they folded various condiments into ice cream. Sixteen basic flavors of ice cream and thirty-two different jars held things with which one could defile vanilla ice cream. I ordered a two-dip waffle cone (they didn’t have a real cone).
“What flavor?’
“Vanilla, of course.”
“Both dips?”
“Why would I mix flavors?”
“What do you want in the vanilla?”
“Why, vanilla I suppose.”
“I mean condiments.” He gestured toward the jars.
“Why would I want to add something to vanilla ice cream?”
“To add excitement – to kick it up a notch.”

Serious reflection followed. The vague restlessness that plagues my waking hours came into focus. I realized I was about as spontaneous as a fence post. So that’s where the joy went?

Yesterday, I was sitting in a different coffeehouse, drinking a chai tea, wearing a beret and an ascot, when a beautiful woman entered. Even through all her fashion I could see a beauty of indefinable huggable femininity. The order line placed her next to my table. I couldn’t resist. I stood and hugged her saying, “Please excuse me, but I just have to do this.”

The designer of her fashionable purse felt that brass tabs on its corners would make it more lethal. After the blow, I was stunned and bleeding from a cut on my face. She immediately regretted her overreaction and pulled out a package of tissue from that bludgeon of a purse.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, swabbing my face. “You surprised me. Please, let me drive you to an emergency clinic so they can look at this cut.”

The episode hurt a little, but God it was fun. We’re meeting again today for a Chai, except I think I’ll try something different.

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Milk and Crunch Addiction
originally posted: October 2, 2009

Milk and Crunch Addiction

I was shattered to realize I had not one, but two addictions, milk and crunch. I had long felt that my one addition was milk. Don’t laugh; it is an addiction the equal of nicotine or heroin. I’ve tried to kick the habit over the years, but it still lurks there, always whispering to my consciousness, “Got milk?”

I mean, you’re talking to a guy whose lips have never touched a cigarette. Eternally overweight, my rationality prevailed on the use of drugs. If I can’t control milk and food, for crying out loud, how pathetic would I be on narcotics?

I went cold turkey on milk once, and it lasted a miserable month. I’ve even tried the step system like nicotine patches. From whole milk (3.25% Fat), to 2% Fat milk, to 1% Fat milk, to fat free skim milk (blue John). Although the flavor falls off faster than the fat content, I have subsisted on blue john for years for weight control. The problem is that even skim milk has 12 calories per ounce. A 12 oz. glass of blue john equals 144 calories, ouch!

Why do babies go to sleep so easily after their bottle of milk? There is tryptophan in milk that helps relax them into sleepiness. Try a turkey (its laced with tryptophan) sandwich with a big glass of milk, and see if you can stay awake. It must not just be the lactose in milk to which I’m addicted, but also the tryptophan.

I’ve always particularly enjoyed the combination of milk with breakfast cereal – crunchy breakfast cereal. I realized recently that I was not only addicted to milk, but also to crunch. Serve me a chewy cookie, and I want to slap you silly, particularly if you fail to offer a little milk with it. I’ve found that even chewy cookies can be crunchy if frozen. Chips, crackers, cookies, nuts, cereals, the crust on fried foods, peanut brittle, ice – you name it. I’m crazy for crunch.

It turns out that I’m not alone. I went on the Internet to check out crunch addiction. Bingo! There are hundreds of sites talking about ice crunching addiction. There are people plumb goofy about crunching ice, and there’s a reason. It seems crunching rattles loose some endorphins in the brain that make us feel happy.

So the next time you’re pissed off, go chew on something crunchy, rather than someone else’s ass. You’ll feel better. And while you’re at it, have a glass of milk and let that lactose and tryptophan smooth you out, have a good nap, and build strong teeth and bones all at once.

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Recovering the $50 Trillion Global Loss
originally posted: May 2, 2009

A recent report on the Internet placed the Global Financial Loss during the past year at over $50 Trillion dollars. My question is who lost it and where did it go?

All of the earth’s undeveloped real estate is still in place.
All of the developed real estate is still here.
Earth’s manufacturing facilities, capability, and inventory have not disappeared.
The agriculture industry/production potential has not decreased.
The global educational system still functions.
The entire infrastructure to support cities, states, and nations has not changed
Transportation in all forms stands ready as always.
Most financial institutions are still there.
All of the global raw materials are still in place.
The labor force remains the same and stands ready.
Personal property and assets may have changed ownership but are still somewhere.
Power production remains the same.

Nothing has evaporated into space, leaving us $50 Trillion dollars short. So what’s different, and where did the $50 Trillion go?

The only thing changed is our perception of the value of all these assets. Last year we thought they were worth $50 Trillion more than we think they are worth today.

Governments regularly revalue their currency when they feel it will solve a problem. Why can’t governments revalue assets as well? With the stroke of a pen, governments could recover the $50 Trillion.

Once the numbers are crunched to get the correct multiplier, the problem is solved. Say, a $1,000.00 asset would now be worth $1,766.56. Christ! I just made $766.56 overnight. I’m rolling in dough.

A bank that's struggling to stay in business because it's asset balance is down to say $1 billion, now has an asset balance of $1,766,560,000.00. Hurray, they're saved.

Wait a minute. My home I’m about to sell for $200,000.00 Is now worth $353,312.00. Ya! Hooo! Let’s go celebrate.

We just made our $50 Trillion bucks back.

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During the last twenty years Bill Stephens has written over 1,000 weekly columns and features on wine, food, travel, and outdoors for Murdoch, Harte Hanks, and Hearst newspapers. His features and contributions have appeared in national periodicals like Chef, Wine Spectator, Wine News, Wine Enthusiast, Field & Stream, and Food & Wine. He has published two short stories “The Decanter, A Christmas Story” and “Toby Tire and His Erratic Curve Ball”

At one point during his three-decade food service career, he concurrently owned and operated a leading white tablecloth restaurant, three airline in-flight kitchens, three employee feeding facilities, catered a dinner train, and his company was third largest full service off-premise caterer in South Texas.

Stephen’s catering clients included Texas governors, presidential candidates, the family of the King of Saudi Arabia, The Prince of Wales, Pope John Paul II, Tom Jones, Neal Diamond, Willie Nelson, and many other notables.