PostBlog from Scottsbluff – Pigging Out in the Panhandle

You might think it strange to take a 24 hour road trip to Scottsbluff, Nebraska with the primary goal of eating a lot of local food. Well, I never denied being strange. This is what my friend Brian and I did a couple weekends ago.

Highlights of the eat-fest included a Scotty’s cinnamon glacier - ice cream mixed with a slushee and flavored with cinnamon. It tasted like Christmas. It was totally worth the drive.

Of course when in Nebraska, one must have a Runza - seasoned beef and cabbage cooked inside delicious, doughy bread. We also sampled some of the delectable local Mexican cuisine, and had a delightful breakfast at a greasy diner.

We were pleased to be accompanied by my niece and sister-in-law who reside in the area. When it comes to eating, I can always depend on my family. Every event with my dad or my siblings centers around food. Every holiday, birthday, actually any gathering for any reason – we never miss a meal. Even when one of us is in the hospital, we don’t  forget to eat.

Wherever two or three Calkins are gathered, I always say, there is food also. Our obsession with food isn't limited to just consuming vast amounts of it. We use food to show love.

 After going through surgery a while back, before he was fully conscious, my dad sent me out to get him a chocolate malt from Cold Stone. I got one for myself as well so he wouldn’t have to eat alone. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

The afternoon of a different surgery he asked for two éclairs from Lamars - the kind with frosting filling, not pudding, per his exact specifications. The nurse said he wouldn't be hungry so soon after surgery. Clearly she didn't know who she was dealing with.

I've been more or less on Weight Watchers for the past year. I do weigh less than when I started and I look pretty good. When, after losing 30 pounds, I visited my dad, he said he was proud that I'd lost so much weight. He then proceeded to pull out cheese and crackers, chips and dips, olives, and beverages for us to consume before heading out for dinner.

It's not just my dad. It's all of us. On those rare occasions when my sister comes to visit me, the highlight is often a trip to Whole Foods where we buy little samples of cheese, some crackers, maybe some potsticker dumplings to snack on. One time we bought an entire cake (moist, with fresh berries in the whipped cream filling) for just the two of us. And let me tell you, it was good.

I have to admit that it's not just when I'm with family. I make food part of many routines in my life. For example, one of the locations of my gym just happens to be next door to Whole Foods. It seems only natural that after working out, I should head over to the store's deli for a specialty sandwich (turkey, fig jam, greens, and brie on a club roll). And while I'm there, how can I not go by the bakery and pick up a couple of those big, fresh chocolate chip cookies? I have just come from the gym, after all, so eating these treats won't make that much difference.

You see, while showing love to others with food, I've also learned love myself.

Smoke, Sexual Harassment, and No Seatbelts

It's a wonder we survived the 1960s. I’m not talking about the cold war, Viet Nam, or hippies.

I've just started watching Mad Med on Netflix - a show on A&E about an advertising firm in 1960.

In addition to the plot and characters such as the mysterious and troubled Don Draper, and in spite of being horrified by much of what I see, I'm fascinated by the 1960 styles and attitudes. Like a car accident, I can't look away.

It is a world made for straight, white, men. The only African Americans in Draper's life are the nearly invisible elevator operator and the guy who brings the sandwich cart around. Gay and lesbian people are either invisible or reviled, and live in constant fear of losing their jobs or worse. When a divorcee moves into the neighborhood, she is greeted with gossip and hostility, except for one of the neighborhood husbands who makes a pass at her.

They did things in 1960 that we wouldn't dream of doing now. For example, they smoked - in the office, in the kitchen, in bed, in the doctor's office, in the car... There is smoking in every scene. Pregnant women are smoking. And they drink: at the office, at lunch, everywhere. People drink mass quantities of wine and liquor. Sloshed, they get in the car and drive, and nobody says a word!

Also in the car, no one wears a seatbelt. Little kids climb from the front seat to the back seat and back again, as Mom speeds down the street.

I don't think Mad Men is exaggerating, except perhaps in the sexual harassment department. In Mad Men, if you're a secretary (and all secretaries are female), you should expect to be hit on by men in the office, multiple times, and you don't complain. Sometimes, you give in. This certainly happened in 1960, but surely not as much as Mad Men portrays. While my dad referred to his office staff as "the girls," I doubt very seriously if he sexually harassed them. On the other hand, without today's consequences, and with 1960 views of women in the workplace, I suppose sexual harassment could run amok.

 Don't be fooled by politicians who tell you things were better in the good old days. I'm not saying we don't have problems now. But at least there isn't second hand smoke in the office, gays and lesbians can usually find a safe place to be, and we work our own elevators.

Have a Nice Day

Some recent management handbook must say that the restaurant host, while seating you, should ask, "So how are you doing today?" I heard those exact words twice last week, first at the IHOP near my home and again at the Olive Garden in Fort Collins (hey, don't judge me – Olive Garden has great salad).

On the surface, it's a harmless question. You're supposed to answer, "Just fine, thanks." But my first instinct is to answer honestly. I doubt if the host wants to know about my sucky day; that my foot hurts and I just backed into another car. What if I just came from the doctor having learned I have a terminal disease?

Less intrusive but still annoying is the common wish people bestow upon strangers: "Have a nice day." At least with that one, there's no opening to discuss my sore foot.

A lot of people don't like "Have a nice day." It doesn't always ring sincere. I've been tempted to answer "Have a nice day" with, "Too late!" But I never have. When you think about it, even if it’s not sincere, the person saying it wouldn’t necessarily want you to have a bad day.

While sometimes irritating, I think I'd rather have these courtesies than the grunts of surly, snarly wait people and store clerks found, for example, in some east coast establishments. They don’t even say thank you, let alone "Have a nice day."

Given the choice I'll take false friendliness to open hostility.

A friendly thank you or even "Have a nice day" shows that a server at least has good manners. And good manners help to keep society civil, which judging from the House of Representatives (brought to you by the Tea Party), is not a bad thing.

So now that I’ve made a hostile comment about the Tea Party, I will sign off. But before I go, I really do hope you have a nice day.

You Know You’re from Scottsbluff If …

There is a big new trend on Facebook: hometown nostalgia pages. The one I'm interested in, You Know You're from Scottsbluff If ..., has become so popular I can't keep up with all the posts.

Not surprisingly, food figures prominently in the discussions. It's not for nothing that the Nebraska city was once named one of the fattest in the country. It seems people scattered around the world savor the memory of  Scotty's burgers and fries, rumbas, a rum flavored Coke beverage from the Dash In (Dash Out to the Dash In), and Taco Town.

Of course, non-food things are also remembered such as the elevator at Penneys when Penneys was downtown, stores staying open late every Thursday, the zoo being free, and a hair salon which used its phone number in a catchy radio jingle that remains entrenched in our minds four decades later (Six Three Two, Thirty-Two Ten, The Barber Den).

I only lived eight years in Scottsbluff, compared to 22 in Denver, which I consider my home town. But I have to admit that those eight years were formative, and since I was graduated from high school there, I suppose Sco-blo deserves at least honorary hometown status.

In the 70s (maybe still today), bluffers were a very proud people. We were different from, better than, the rest of Nebraska which was flat and humid and boring. Our town was built, along with twin city Gering, at the base of the magnificent bluff where trapper Hiram Scott was said to have died in the 1840s. Easterners (that is, people from Omaha and Lincoln) had no idea what a treasure existed way out in the panhandle.

 Scottsbluff wasn't huge but it had two TV stations (both now defunct, I think), an airport, traffic jams (when you had to wait for a long coal train at the crossing), movie theatres, a symphony, an art center, and lots of shopping which attracted those unfortunates who lived in smaller panhandle towns. Around 1980 when the mall opened we thought we were really big stuff.

Scottsbluff was a good place to be a kid. You could ride your bike everywhere including the zoo and the movie theatre. There were enough people there to make a lot of friends, but few enough that you always saw someone you knew when you were out.

Certainly there was no anonymity. Corporal Paul Manley of the Nebraska State Patrol (who had his  own radio spots – think the Shane Company but about driving safely) went to our church and reported to my mother that I'd run a stop sign. Yeesh. There was another time when I was goofing around in the street with a friend and a woman yelled out her front door, "Bill Calkins, does your mother know what you're doing?" I'm not going to say what it was. You'll have to guess.

Coming out as gay in Scottsbluff was very public regardless of whether I wanted it to be. Like all small communities, tongues wagged. Minds weren't always open and many of us fled at the first opportunity. I couldn’t wait to escape to the urban east, Lincoln, where indeed I did experience more diversity. I've since learned, however, that closed minds and gossip aren't limited to Scottsbluff or small towns in general. You can find ignorance everywhere.

I suppose we get nostalgic about hometowns because they help define who we are. The common experiences of a having shared a high school, dragging Broadway, and eating cabbage burgers at Bailey's Town and Country unites many of us who otherwise would have very little in common.

Bailey's and the Dash In no longer exist. But I understand Scotty's is just as good as ever. I feel a road trip coming on ...

Postblog from the Southwest: The Definition of Diversity

I get so offended when people from the west coast lump Colorado in with the Midwest – as if Ohio and the Centennial State have anything in common. Colorado is a land of cowboys, high plains, desert, and rugged mountains. Of course, if you live in California, it's just part of that great flyover which is of no consequence.

Please spare me the comments about how all Californians don’t think that way. I know that. I’m just using a little hyperbole to make a point.

Also, just to be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the Midwest. I think Ohio is beautiful. It’s just that I take offence when others dismiss the flyover as one vast homogeneous region where diversity is as foreign as the ocean tides.

In my travels around Colorado trying to visit every state park, I’ve seen a lot of variety. I have to grudgingly admit that the northeast, say Fort Morgan and Sterling, look kind of Midwestern, with corn and wheat fields and just that touch of humidity. Southeast Colorado is high plains hot and dry and though I’ve never been there, I imagine it resembles west Texas, which after all, is not that far away.

This week, I’m vacationing in the four corners part of the state which, in terms of U.S. regions, belongs solidly in the Southwest.

One need look no further than some of the pueblo architecture in these parts to be reminded that this used to be Spanish territory. Spanish names dot the map and descendents of the Spanish as well as the more indigenous people are everywhere, a reminder that these Americans’ roots go way deeper and further back than my own.

Visiting the ancient cliff dwellings of Mesa Verde remind me that though we think history in this hemisphere only started about 1800 or so, there have actually been prosperous people with complex social and technological constructs for many centuries before.

If you really want a taste of the Southwest, just visit the Four Corners Monument, a marker at the point where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah all meet. This interesting geographical occurrence, despite belonging to four states, is truly out in the middle of nowhere. This is desert with a capital D. To my eye it’s lifeless and barren, though the local Navajo selling food and jewelry at the monument would probably disagree. I seek the shade of a jewelry stand and buy a beautiful hematite necklace. I’m on the Arizona side of the marker, so I can say I bought this jewelry from a Navajo woman in Arizona. Don’t I sound well traveled?

Literally (sort of) burned out by the desert, I drive about 90 minutes and up several thousand feet into the green, lush pine and aspen forests of the San Juan range. This is more like what outsiders think Colorado looks like with its jagged peaks and breathtaking vistas. This year there’s been a lot of rain so everything is very green. Early in the morning, plumes of mist rise from the slopes like ghosts. At some points frustrated by the summer traffic, of course, I’m tempted to say that the San Juans look like the back of a camper and smell like diesel. But then I arrive in Silverton which is a truly historic town, preserved much as it was a hundred or more years ago. Unlike some other Colorado towns with their fake Victorian gingerbread looking facades, Silverton is the real thing. A piece of hot apple pie a la mode at the Brown Bear Cafe tops off the high drive in the mountains.

Those of us living on the Front Range are similar to my acquaintances on the west coast. We are at best ignorant and at worst dismissive of other parts of our state. There is a whole big Colorado out here which we should get to know. From the Southwest to the Midwest, Colorado is the very definition of diversity.

Nose Hair Signals That the End is Near

It's a delicate operation. One false move and it hurts. A lot. Using tweezers would be worse. I use little tiny scissors which don't take out the whole hair, root and all, but merely trim it down so I have to do it again in a few days. 

Lately, I've noticed something new. Some of the nostril hairs that I’m trimming are white. And that's just the tip of the ice berg. I have lots of white hair in other places.  Where did it all come from?  The hair in my ears is white. My beard has been white for a long time. My chest hair is turning white. The only place it's not white is on top of my head, and that's only because there really isn't much there.

It's not like I'm surprised to be getting older. True, I forget my exact age sometimes and have to subtract the year I was born from the current year. Really, objectively, I feel lucky to be getting old. By many measures, I shouldn't have survived this long. But here I am, saving for my retirement, wondering if universal health care will be a reality by the time I stop working.

I always told myself I'd age gracefully, without complaint, without regrets. Age is just a number, I always thought. I should welcome age and the wisdom it brings. Instead, I find myself continually surprised that the years are creeping up on me - and the decades are flying by.

Coming of age moments happen all the time.

For example, I occasionally go to the Village Inn near my office for breakfast. I've noticed that the same old guys are in there every morning. They talk with the servers like true pals, and say hello to each other by name. More often than not, the server doesn't even need to ask what they want to eat. She just brings it out. Kind of like how Betty knows to always bring me a coffee, no cream, and a large water. I kind of laughed at these old guys until it slowly dawned on me that I AM ONE OF THEM.

Face it: getting older is tough. Here are some of the frustrations I'm having as I age gracefully:

• Things I did to my body years ago are coming back to haunt me. I’ll spare you the details.
• I can't see.
• My memory isn’t exactly slipping, but I vividly recall a meal I had in 1987 - and I can’t remember anything about yesterday.
• I'm watching my friends age too. How can they look so much older while I still look the same?
• I'm working with people half my age who, for example, don't know the origination of the "cc" in email (if you're younger than 35, I should tell you that we used to type each letter by hand, using carbon paper to make carbon copies (hence the cc) because we couldn’t just print another document.
•  When predictions of a disastrous future are made, it is with guilty relief that I think to myself how great it is that I'll be dead before it happens.

Which brings me to the most startling thing about getting older. It is the thing that nobody talks about: the realization that you are going to die. With more than half your life behind you, time is limited. If you've always wanted to do something, now is the time to do it.

It's just a shame that I have to spend the rest of my life trimming unwanted hair from my facial orifices.

Machines Replacing People in Everyday Interactions

Every couple of months, I use this blog to spout off about technology. The occasion for this particular spout is that I just got a new GPS for my car. The Global Positioning System is a little gadget that plugs into the car's electric outlet (you know - the thing that used to be the cigarette lighter but isn't any more). A little screen shows me where I am and a voice tells me where I should be going.

It's one of those things we couldn't have imagined a few years ago and makes me think, as I often do, that we are living in the future.

The GPS speaks to me in a casual business-like female voice. I've started to call her Blanche. She really helps me out. Gone are the days when I have to mess around with a paper map and its complicated folds.

Of course, Blanche isn't perfect. In Vail with my sister recently, I decided to have Blanche direct us to a particular Mexican restaurant we were interested in. Blanch guided us to some empty lot on the frontage road which was clearly not a restaurant. My sister was not impressed with my gadget.

Blanche isn't the only new interaction I've been having with machines.

Since the classes I took earlier this year didn't work out, I'm attempting to learn Spanish from a computer program. If you pass by my place at just the right time, you'll hear me talking to simulated virtual people who only exist in software. They are Norman, Claudia, and Isabel. They always understand me in spite of my accent, and they are endlessly patient, allowing me to repeat each lesson as many times as I want.

Blanche and Isabel are not real people, of course, but sometimes I forget that. When Blanche reminds me just one too many times that I will need to turn right in a quarter mile, I sometimes call her a bad name. If I miss the turn, Blanche sounds just the slightest bit annoyed when she says, "Recalculating..." and attempts to get me back on track.

Technology pervades. Who goes anywhere without a cell phone? We use ATMs to interact with our bank and we check out our own groceries at the supermarket without even thinking about it. I can go all day without speaking to another human. And then there are the many times when my co-worker and I instant message each other though we sit only 10 feet apart.

I see where the Japanese are developing robots to take care of elderly people. Is this the companionship we have to look forward to in our old age? Yeah yeah, it's easy to complain about technology, but it really can help us. The Japanese robots, for example, will enable people to live more independently for a longer period of time.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I contribute to technological depersonalization. In my day job as an Instructional Designer, I write curriculum that can be accessed from any computer in the company. Web based training at your own desk at your own speed is more efficient and requires much less interaction with other people. Whether that's a good thing is debatable. Hey, I didn't start  the depersonalization of technology, I'm just making money off of it.