Standing in Massachusetts with a Dollar in My Hand

I'm standing in Massachusetts with a cup of coffee in one hand and a dollar bill in the other.

I've stopped off at this particular gas station because the trip home is long, the hour is late and the need for coffee is urgent.

The sign for a ninety-nine cent cup of coffee persuaded me to pull in to this particular establishment because it just so happens that a dollar is what I have in the cup holder in the front of my mini-van, and after a day of swimming and barbecuing my wallet is somewhere in a bag in the back of the vehicle, directly under my sleeping children.

So I grabbed the dollar bill, hoping against hope that there is enough change left in there to pay the one toll on the way home.

I carefully selected the ninety-nine cent "small" sized cup and fill it to the brim with sweet hazelnut coffee, forgetting as always to leave a modicum of space for cream and sugar.

And now here I stand in line, ready to make my purchase and resume my life behind the wheel as "driving dad."

When the time comes I jovially set the cup of coffee on the counter and plunk down my dollar like a kid who's buying the latest version of his favorite comic book. (Something I know a little something about.)

But then a freezing chill comes over me as I hear the buttons on the cash register being pushed and a little blue set of digits appear on the readout that is facing towards me.

$1.07

Oh, yes I suddenly remember, sales tax!

Now, perhaps it's because I've spent too much time in the winds and waves today and I'm a little punch drunk from all that outside time, (I am after all a writer who's natural habitat is a dark coffee shop) but all of a sudden this seemingly simple transaction has taken on an epic air; the simple tired traveler versus the faceless corporation, a mere citizen versus big government run amok.

When I was a kid growing up in a certain other state, I could figure out sales tax like it was no one's business, computing numbers in my head on the fly when purchasing that coveted candy bar or comic book.

Because back then computation was an urgent skill needed because money was hard to come by and having exact change was as necessary to small town life (with one general store selling the required candy bars and Spider Man comic books) as knowing how to swim is to a Hawaiian.

Woe to the child who tried to buy a Snickers bar and came up five cents short.

You could either bike back home to get the nickel from your dad's change jar, or you could wait around on the general store porch and wait for someone you knew to lend you the sought after five cent piece.

I could knock out 7% sales tax like it was a frog on a lily pad and I was a kid with a B.B. gun.

I had to. Spider Man was calling.

But on this particular day I realize that living in the great State Of New Hampshire has made me soft in a couple of ways.

I have quite forgotten that the rest of the world has sales tax, and I'm not sure I could do the percentage math anymore if it was required of me.

And as all these thoughts fly through my head in a millisecond, I steal a quick, hopeful glance at the "take a penny, leave a penny" tray and realize with mounting dread that there isn't one.

Chalk it up as another piece of Americana lost to the technological age we find ourselves in. Debit cards are no doubt used in this establishment ninety percent of the time, and the spare change tray was deemed no longer necessary and was replaced with a display of small bottles of energy boosting liquids.

My options suddenly become clear, I can either depend on the good will of the young man behind the counter, (Phil, as his name tag says) explain to him my particular funny predicament ("honestly Phil, where I live the coffee really would be ninety-nine cents") and depend on his understanding and generous spirit, or I can trudge back out to the car and desperately search the seats for seven cents and run the risk of waking up the sleeping kids in the back.

In the end, Phil the cashier is generous and waves me along, and I breath a sigh of relief as I exit the convenience store with my steaming cup of brew in my hands; thankful to be returning to the land where coffee is the price that it is advertised to be.

The state of Massachusetts roads (poor)

Well, as the flat-as-a-board tire on my minivan can attest to, the state of Massachusetts did it to me again.

I've had only one accident and a few fender-benders in my adult driving life (I don't think that the first few months after you get your driver's license should count) and they have all been in the state of Massachusetts. Add to those accidents and fender-benders a series of flat tires (almost always during the holidays; "Merry Christmas and pass that tire iron") and the sum total of my road woes have come within the confines of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, a place where I do not live and only occasionally visit.

I have driven in such diverse places as China, Egypt and Israel and Ireland, yet I never feared for my life the way I do when that "Welcome To Massachusetts" sign appears on the horizon.

It's telling that this welcome sign does not have a tagline like other state signs do, such as Maine's "A Nice Place To Live", Vermont's "A Community Place" or New Jersey's "Prepare To Hold Your Breath."

The Massachusetts welcome sign should read, "Welcome To Massachusetts, We're Really Sorry For What's About To Happen To You."

You can feel the anger surge as you cross the border.

It's almost as if the drivers around me on the highway are werewolves and the state line is a full moon.

All of a sudden people are honking angrily, passing on the right at 95 miles an hour and simultaneously texting, drinking coffee and doing their makeup at the wheel.

Until this past visit I had never experienced the driving technique of passing multiple cars on the right on a two-lane road by driving on grass and sidewalks for 200 yards.

And the pot holes, oh my, the pot holes. (What's up with the term "pot hole"? There are no pots or pans out there, it's just a hole. And it's big enough to fit a family of bears in it for the winter.)

Now, all states have bad roads and bad drivers (except maybe Connecticut where folks are courteous and are so rich that the tollbooth attendant hands you money when you drive through), but it just feels like Massachusetts has made surviving a trip to the grocery store an art form.

Perhaps it's all a conspiracy pulled off by the state's auto body industry.

These folks must make a killing.

When I had my one bad accident back in 2002, I took my beloved, totaled Saab to a shop in Andover, Mass., and the grizzled technician took one look at the heap of metal that once had been the rear end of my car and, like a calm surgeon on the battlefield, said, "I've seen worse; I can have it back to you next week."

The state's auto body industry should advertise out of state. ("Is your car totaled? Send it to Massachusetts for repair; we've seen it all!")

Here is my solution.

If they can make a "Big Dig" that can let you traverse the city of Boston underground, then I propose and even "Bigger Dig" that lets you cross the state completely underground, with stops only at Fenway Park and the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield.

And to my family, friends and other assorted loved ones that call Massachusetts home, may all your road trips be incident-free, and please, please come see us next time.

Ode To A Cup Coffee

Where would we be without coffee?

Coffee, you elixir of life, you lifter of spirits, you happiness in a mug, you cup of sunshine; we owe you so much.

Coffee has had a pretty good run the last twenty years or so.

Once upon a time coffee was just one more breakfast option, right there with prune juice and an English Muffin.

But sometime in the mid-eighties late-night TV became all the rage, (thank you David Letterman and Saturday Night Live) and the need to stay awake during the work day became a pivotal challenge of the go-go times we found ourselves in.

Coffee should send late-night television a big "thank you" bouquet of flowers.

And once upon a time tea (the hot drink favored by the Red Coats in colonial days) was the big kid on the block.

Tea enjoyed a run of about five hundred years of popularity thanks to the British Empire and their co-opting of everything cool within their borders. (Which famously, the sun never set on.)

Coffee is like tea's little brother who somehow became massively successful due to simply being in the right place at the right time.

There are about three million cool ways to consume coffee to two ways for tea; traditionally in hot water or in the "iced" version. (I'm sure the British could enlighten me to a few more.)

Perhaps that's why we Americans favor one hot beverage over the other, it's "our" drink. (I guess we forgot about a couple of thousand years of Arabic culture where coffee was a central feature of a proper table.)

Have you ever tried to get a "proper" cup of coffee in a foreign country?

In Spain they favor the tiny, thimble sized, cup of "café" which we know over here as an espresso.

This miniature morning jolt may do its job, but if you are looking to nurse a cup of coffee, Spain is no country for you. ("Thank you for this darling, child's tea party sized cup of coffee Francisco, now run along and get the adult sized cup will you?")

On my first visit there two years ago I was jonesing for a traditional cup of American style coffee one morning to help me shake off the effects of jet lag and to sip pensively as the Spanish countryside passed by the windows of my train car. (Didn't Hemingway sit for hours in Spanish cafes' in all those short stories I read in college? Did he have thousands of those tiny cups littering his table as he typed away?)

In the fine, capital city of Madrid there exists exactly one Starbucks, and it opens promptly at 10 am. This is because the average Spaniard gets up at 9:30 am. (I'm not sure how this county gets anything done; perhaps they should drink bigger cups of coffee.)

The trouble with the Starbucks opening at 10 am is that my morning train left at 9 am and I had woken up in the hotel this particular morning from a dream where I was enjoying a whole pot of coffee.

The kindly Spanish baristas, who were sitting inside drinking coffee from large cups and enjoying their morning, took pity on this tired American as I pressed my face to the window like an orphan in a Charles Dickens novel, and opened early for me.

I tried not to moan out loud when I had my first sip, and I did my best to hide the beverage as long as I could from my contentious, Spanish-culture-loving wife.

Where would I be without coffee? It's a writer's best friend.

So here is a toast to coffee: "To coffee, your teeth staining tendencies are but a small price to pay for staying awake behind the wheel, good conversation...and a regular bowel movement."

And adios to you, small cup of "café."

Oh, and a special thank you goes out to my lovely wife Julie, who got me the best gift a "coffee dog" can get for Christmas, a Kerig, single serving coffee machine.

Asking for money is harder than you think

It's Christmastime out there, and it's got me thinking about money.

Money is a funny thing, mostly how we go about trying to earn it, save it, spend it and keep track of it.

Also asking for it is a funny and daunting process.

Asking for money is cute when a Girl Scout does it or that child with the lemonaid stand does it in the form of selling you something that you don't really need, like diabetes-inducing confections or over-sweetened liquid. I have two adorable little girls who will surely be a boon to the local Girl Scout troop when the time comes. They might see their best quarter ever when the Caldwell girls sign up for the year.

And asking for money can be noble, like those Salvation Army bellringers that brave the cold every Christmas time, raising funds for those in need. These folks deserve your time and whatever you can spare for the effort they put in. I am particularly fond of them when they sing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs and wear Santa hats. These folks deserve a special place in heaven for their efforts.

Asking for money can be a reputable, responsible thing, too. I have worked before as a professional fundraiser with a development organization (the real kind, not a telemarketing firm) and I enjoyed every minute of it because I really believed in the good the organization was doing, and the money raising was done in a measured, respectable way. It was not at all like selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door, which I did for a brief week in college. That was just strange. (Shampoo your rug, Ma'am?)

But asking for money can also be a fairly awkward thing, as well, like asking your dad for a thousand bucks to see you through the rest of the semester, or borrowing a few quarters from the in-laws' change bucket to pay for the tolls on the way back home. (A big overdue thank-you goes out to both Mom and Dad and the in-laws, Mimi and Pop, for their monetary assistance time and again.)

What's funny about this is that my two wonderful daughters, as young as they are, have started asking to "borrow" a few coins for the gum machine at the supermarket or to go get chicken nuggets or to buy their friends a birthday present. I'm not so sure I'm going to see that money again, because the earning potential of a two-year-old and a four-year-old is fairly limited. (It mostly consists right now of a chore chart on the wall and the occasional dollar from a relative in the birthday card bit.)

So why all this talk about asking for money, you say?

Well, aside from my lucrative and prestigious life as a humorous columnist and award-winning talking head (that was me on that new public access show, New Hampshire's Funniest Home Videos), I'm also writing a book, which I am raising funds to help with the self-publishing costs.

But I'm not going to ask you for your money.

Oh no.

I'm going to get the money the old-fashioned way, by massively overcharging.

If you have ever laughed at something I have written, I would like to formally charge you ten dollars for that laugh.

This might seem a bit steep, but I assure you, it is much less than they charged for the laughs on old episodes of Seinfeld.

But who can really put a price on laughter, anyway? It's invaluable. Where would you be without it, and as one of the vehicles of that laughter, I know you will understand this new "laughter compensation" system.

Thanks for your time and for your money. You can settle up your bill here.(Also, you can see a great little film I put together to plug the book featuring my afore mentioned daughters)

I heard that laugh!

Chicken Tenders For The Soul

In my own personal Garden Of Eden narrative, the forbidden tree that I would be tempted with would have chicken tenders hanging from the branches.

These savory, crispy little balls of fried death have no nutritional value, save for perhaps the ten percent that is chicken, yet they have a hold on me that I can't shake.

I am the luckiest guy around, and I love my life, (my wife, my kids, my extended family, my friends, the place I call home) so I have no business shortening it by eating fried food.

But brown food is the best.

When I am having a particularly long day, and I find myself out on the road somewhere, far from home, the desire for fried chicken morsels sometimes sweeps over me, and I am forced to confront the central theme of my life, immediate gratification versus seeing my daughters grow up into young ladies.

The following is a true temptation story, told with the caveat that my wife wishes I would not ever tell this tale. (Objection noted honey, but I'm working on a temptation theme here, and this story is too perfect to leave out.)

I once found myself at a movie theatre near where I live that serves food during the film, and I, desiring to both eat healthy and not spend any more money, brought a granola bar inside with me to snack on.

But the problems with eating a granola bar while others all around you are partaking in "pub fare" are numerous.

The first is the smell.

It's not fair that you can smell fried food for miles around, and most healthier options (say a salad or tofu) emit little to no smell at all.

I need to keep a strict tab on the air currents where I live, so as to avoid the wafting smell of a fryolator. (Or as I like to call it, the "see-you-later")

Those same scientists who gave us the seedless watermelon and the baby carrot need to work on making a Caesar salad smell like a chicken tender.

So while sitting in that theatre, desperately trying to hold on to my resolve to eat healthy, a basket of steaming chicken tenders (dubbed the "Love Me Tenders" on the menu) was placed directly in my line of sight.

They were for the group sitting right in front of me, and they somehow went untouched for the entire length of the movie.

This group had lots of food delivered, and somehow they didn't seem to want this particular basket of vitals that was placed at the end of a row of orders.

This basket of tenders was so close to me that I could practically read the ingredients on the packet of honey mustard sauce.

And so, there, for the course of an entire movie, I was face to face with my nemesis, the freshly fried chicken tender, with only a thin layer of civility separating us.

It was my George Costanza moment.

As the movie ended, (near the dinner hour) and the group in front of me filed out of the theatre, the basket of tenders (on a golden bed of crispy fries) remained unmoved and completely untouched.

I am not proud of what happened next.

I made one of those deals with myself that says "If you go to the restroom and return to the theatre and see the basket still there (untouched by the cleaning crew, who was just then filing in) then it was meant to be.

It was meant to be. And they were delicious.

With the new year fast approaching, and my love of fried food not abating any time soon, I know some drastic steps need to be taken. (Hypnotherapy, olfactory nerve removal, etc.)

So keep me in your thoughts as I attempt to eat more oatmeal and granola and less of the "other stuff."

And please, for goodness sake, eat all your fried food when it comes to your table.

That guy in the booth next to you, who is drooling like a toddler, will thank you.

Of Dungeons, Dragons and Dentists

There are many scary places in this world, graveyards, haunted houses, MTV, my sock draw; and I believe that the dentist office ranks right up there with all of them.

Much has been said by comedians on the subject of dentists, and all of it warranted. But I believe a few more things could be added, and with Halloween fast approaching this seems to be an ideal moment to spend discussing just how scary a routine visit to your local dentist office can be.

It all starts with the music.

There is some music that seems to lend itself to being played in super markets and dentist's offices, and any music made in the 1980's seems to qualify.

You could have gone to the dentist in the 70's and they would have been playing 80's music.

As I settled into the chair on my last visit, the familiar sound of Hall and Oat's opus, Man Eater, wafted through the air and it just seemed right somehow.

After a few more 80's nuggets, (Jesse's Girl, Holiday, Sunglasses at Night) I casually asked my very friendly dental tech if she was an 80's music fan.

"Not especially" she replied.

I then had to ask "Did you choose this music?"

"Well, I typed "rock" into the music playing program on the computer and this is the mix it chose for me."

Aha! The computer was smart enough to know that this is a dentist office and it chose accordingly. (They are going to take over some day you know)

The next scary scene you encounter is that rack of sharp and pointy instruments located just to the side of the chair. They really should keep these things out of sight until you are properly anesthetized.

In fact, with the chair and the sharp tools and the motivational kitten posters, the whole scene takes on the air of an Inquisition torture chamber. Upon sitting down and seeing that rack of tools I immediately started confessing to heresy and practicing the dark arts.

And then came the scariest moment of all.

"Mr. Caldwell," the tech said, "you seem to have a little bit of gum recession (to which I replied "but I floss every week!") and we might have to send you to a periodontist to have some tissue grafts."

"Tissue grafts?" I said, hesitatingly.

"Yes, they can do it either with some of your own tissue or some from a cadaver."

"Cadaver?"

"Yes, from the harvested tissue of a donor."

"You mean from somebody who donated their body to science?"

"Yes, or an organ donor."

I can't help but think that this is perhaps not the place where this noble organ donor thought that he would end up.

Perhaps he thought that somehow his precious organs and tissue would have a place in curing cancer or other deadly diseases, not going to a guy who was a little slipshod in his flossing.

And, as I leaned back into my chair and considered the ramifications of having someone else as part of me for eternity, I had to wonder "I wonder if they need the whole body for that, or just the head."

After my surreal, scary hour in the chair was up I made my way to the front desk and was given one last fright.

They handed me the bill.

Leafing It All Behind

Working in the newspaper industry, I hear and read many stories of wayward youth stealing or vandalizing this or that; stories of misspent younger years and such.

Upon hearing such stories I immediately think "they must not have had good trees to climb." For I believe that if a young person (boys especially, but girls as well) has a tree or two to conquer, then the seeming adventure and lure of a life of crime pales in comparison to the thrill of summiting a two-hundred-year-old oak tree and facing death on every branch.

My family saved me from a life in the "big house" by moving into a fantastic (tree speaking) house when I was seven-years-old and gave me the best gift a boy could get by allowing me to climb to my heart's content on the four stately oaks lining our property.

Those oak trees, Big Jim, Little Jim, Beaufort and Old Glory, took me and the other neighborhood kids (another great gift, a neighborhood) a few years and some considerable scrapes and bruises to conquer, but all those hours filled the longing for death-defying feats and adventure.

Also, the fallen leaves from these four beauties could easily fill the Roman Coliseum.

We would pile up the leaves to a second-story height and jump from Little Jim's branches directly into the pile. (These piles somehow always managed to have a small amount of dog poop hidden somewhere in them; another facet of a neighborhood, I guess, lots of dogs.)

I was reminded of these childhood leaf Olympics last week as I tumbled in a glorious pile of leaves with my two young daughters.

Our wonderful old farmhouse has many wonderful, verdant trees lining the property, but somehow the prevailing wind patterns sweep all the leaves far from our yard. This makes for easy lawn maintenance, but it is work to find a good leaf pile.

But it's worth it to run 50 yards down the hill at breakneck speed and long jump into a freshly raked pile of crisp, colorful leaves.

It is a sound and smell that cannot be manufactured or store-bought.

This is the best part of being a parent, in my humble opinion: getting to "play" again.

If you were to see a person my age (34, but with the maturity of a much younger man and the hairline of a much older man) frolicking in the leaves, you might be persuaded to call the police or mental health services, but the moment you see children in the picture it all makes sense.

This is why I'm hoping for grandchildren while I'm still mobile, because it would be sad for Grandpa to fall in the leaves and not be able to get back up again.

Also, they tend to take you away a little quicker at this age.

But I think that would not be a bad way to go out of this world, rolling in the leaves, feeling seven-years-old again.

Does anyone else smell dog poop?