My Heart is On Fire!

My sister Devra and I had been estranged for more than a year. No visits, no emails, no phone calls, nothing. I also hadn't had any contact with my niece Ellis, who was four years old the last time I saw her.

One day, out of the blue, I received the following email from my sister:

Date: Tue, 9 Feb 2010 16:37:52 -0800 (PST)
To: John Langford john@johnlangford.com
Subject: conversation with ellis

John,
Here's a conversation I had with Ellis while I was driving her to school this morning:

Ellis: Mom. I want you to get married

Me: OK. Me too

Ellis: Can I come to the wedding?

Me: Of course

Ellis: Are you gonna dance at your wedding?

Me: Yep

Ellis: Can I dance too?

Me: Of course. Do you want to dance with me?

Ellis: No, I want my own dance

Me: Who would you like to dance with?

Ellis: Uncle John

About three months and many emails later, Devra needed to come to Austin for a sales meeting, so she and Ellis stayed for the weekend. Devra and I talked until the wee hours, and when I woke up the next morning and walked into the kitchen to fire up the coffee pot, Ellis emerged from the guest room while her mom got a little more shut-eye.

I wasn't quite awake yet, and unprepared for the barrage of questions that are part of a well-rested five year old's morning routine. As I attempted to lubricate my synapses with caffeine, her eyes turned to the woodblock print hanging above my fireplace.

"What's that a picture of Uncle John?" she inquired.

Rather than spoon-feeding her a "grown up" answer, I wanted to see what would happen if I answered her question with a question.

"What do you think it's a picture of Ellis?" I replied

"It looks like a heart and some thorns."

"That's what it looks like to me too."

"Why is the heart on fire?"

"Why do you think it's on fire?"

"I don't know."

"Well, to me, the fire stands for all the good feelings in life, like happiness and joy and love...like the way I love you."

"And what about the thorns?"

"What do you think they mean?"

"I don't know."

"Well, those might mean all the feelings like sadness, or being angry or lonely or afraid."

"I'm afraid of the dark."

"Yeah...I was too when I was your age. But you'll grow out of it."Just then her mom emerged from the bedroom, desperately in need of coffee, so my conversation with Ellis ended.

Later that afternoon, Devra left Ellis in my care while she went to her meeting. I took Ellis to a crawfish boil where I knew there would be lots of other kids there and a trampoline, and mountains of food.

There was a Cajun band playing, and Ellis was fascinated by the accordion, so I asked her if she wanted to dance. She and I have a tradition of turning up the stereo really loud and jumping around like a couple of lunatics, but that's only because I know she won't make fun of me. I'm ultra self-conscious when it comes to dancing in public, especially when I'm the only one dancing and it's broad daylight. But I picked Ellis up and held her hand as if we were waltzing, and we started swaying to the music.

When the song ended and I set her down, she made a bee-line for the trampoline, and pretty soon she was assigning time slots to the other, much older kids. I wandered over to where a group of my friends was chatting and joined the conversation.

Some time passed, and then I heard Ellis hollering in the background. I turned to face her, but I couldn't understand what she was saying as she jumped up and down with a big grin on her face.

"What?" I said.

She continued to shout in her raspy voice, but I still couldn't decipher what she was saying.

Walking closer, I said "What?"

Again, I couldn't understand her reply.

I walked to the edge of the trampoline and finally I heard her clearly....

"Uncle John! My heart is on fire!"

Many thanks and much love to my friend Irene Perez Omer for creating the print entitled "Communion"...a word which has additional meaning to me now. You can see more of her work at www.iconarts.com

An Army of One

Sometimes you gotta face the fact that you're just outnumbered. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Or the Spartans at Thermopylae.

Any time someone uses the phrase "That's our policy" as a smoke screen for laziness, or obstinance or just plain meanness, I imagine myself drawing the razor-sharp, white-hot sword of righteous indignation from its scabbard (schwing!) and lopping off heads like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Especially when the policy is clearly the antithesis of common sense. Which it usually is.

The other day I needed to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch to Lowe's. "Why so much mulch?" you might well ask. Despite my meticulous calculations as to how much mulch would be needed to fill three flower beds, I was off by a quarter ton. But let's not get side-tracked. Needless to say nine 50 lb. bags weigh...well...a lot! So I pulled my vehicle right up next to the pallet where they keep the mulch, so all they had to do was lift the bags directly from my truck onto the pallet. Easy.

I darted inside the garden center, and handed my receipt to the cashier.

"We don't do returns here...you'll need to go to the customer service desk."

If you've ever been to Lowe's, you know that Customer Service is about a quarter mile from the Garden Center. So off I trotted. Walking at a brisk pace the journey took about 3 minutes. I presented my receipt.

"I'd like to return some mulch, please."

"You'll need to bring the mulch inside so we can count the bags" droned the obviously bored and under-worked customer service representative, not even looking up at me.

That's what I'd call about 450 lbs. of unhelpfulness. Are you effing kidding me? These thoughts scrolled across my forehead in 6 foot tall red neon letters.

"Um...isn't one of your employees gonna have to accompany me to my vehicle to unload the mulch?"

"Yes sir...This is Brandon. He'll help you."

"How 'bout this idea? I'm parked right next to the pallet of mulch. To make it easier for everyone, how 'bout we go ahead and handle the return now, and then Brandon can verify the number of bags. If I miscounted, then I'll come back and we'll square up."

"I'm sorry sir...that's our policy."

It occured to me that I might have a stroke right there at the customer service counter. How's that for about a quarter ton of irony?

"May I speak to the manager please?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing heavily, she dialed the phone and explained the situation to the manager in an exasperated tone, then hung up and monotoned "The manager says that's our policy."

Am I insane? Is this really happening? Have I unwittingly stepped through a hidden portal into Crazy World?

"May I SPEAK to the manager please?" By now the other employees nearby were starting to take notice. Meanwhile Brandon had wandered off to download the new "Complete Waste of Time" app on his iPhone. Or maybe was he "tweeting" about the Mad Man at the counter who thought he was William Wallace waging war against the English.

She dialed the phone again and handed me the receiver....

"Hi...my name's John Langford. How are you this evening? I need to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch and I was wondering if...."

"I'm on my way."

The manager arrived and I shook his hand warmly. Assuming there had been some misunderstanding, I described the situation in calm detail, to which he responded "Oh yeah...we can handle that...no problem."

Turning to the cashier and trying to conceal my expression of glee, I handed her my receipt.

"Sir...we'll need to see the bags of mulch before we can process the return" the manager said.

I couldn't believe my ears! I WAS in Crazy World!! I was speaking English, but they only understood "Red Tape." No wait...I'd been here before. This was one of those "Am I gonna just laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of it all...or am I gonna lose my cool (too late!)" moments. Why didn't I realize it sooner?!

"Let's go..." I said.

As we hiked to my truck, I told the manager not to take it as a personal attack, but that I'd like to respectfully register my protest against their policy in the strongest terms possible, and that I thought it was completely ridiculous.

By the time we completed our cross-country trek, we were chatting amiably about his kids, how long he had lived in Austin and so on. Sure enough there were nine bags of mulch in my truck. Be still my tongue.

A quarter mile later we were back at the cash register, where he confirmed that I had indeed returned nine bags of mulch. The cashier issued a return, and I strolled the now familiar route back to my car. It was like deja vu all over again.

At least I got some exercise. And a 450 lb. reminder that when I least expect it, I'll find myself in yet another episode of Cosmic Candid Camera.