Happy Birthday

I had a birthday this month. There are the momentous birthdays, such as when you turn sixteen and can get a driver’s license or when you turn twenty-one and are officially considered an adult. I am well past that. There is little incentive to count the years now because none of them are milestones. I am still too young to be an example of longevity, but I am old enough to be considered a senior citizen. I would probably ignore the anniversaries of my birth if it were not for my friends and family. They always provide me with a special dinner, a cake, and birthday cards. It does not matter whether the cards are humorous or serious expressions of affection; they give me the cards to let me know they are glad that I am a part of their lives. That is rather nice. It is why we celebrate the birth of our loved ones.

I receive other cards on my birthday as well. I do not mind the ones from my insurance agent, my dentist, and others who have a commercial interest in me. Nor do I mind the sales letters from companies touting their supplements to Medicare. But there are some things that simply do not go together. Every time I pass a hospital that has a cemetery next to it I cannot help wondering if that is where they bury their mistakes. When I see a funeral parlor next to a rest home I think of vultures. Those are not pleasant thoughts. On a more humorous note, I also noticed that Al’s gun shop sits next to the offices of Dillinger’s insurance. John Dillinger needed the guns to rob banks. I suppose he also thought they provided him with some protection, but you can hardly call the guns insurance. In fact, they were the death of him. Similarly, we all need the time to do what we were meant to do, but that precious time will be the death of anyone who is fortunate enough to avoid an early demise. Death is a fact, but I do not think it is unreasonable for me to say that it is not what I want to think about on my birthday. I say this because one of the cards I received was from a company that specializes in cremation. It does not matter how sensitive they try to make their sales pitch or how artfully such a card is worded, a person receiving that card on his birthday will interpret it as follows:

Happy birthday, you old relic:
Father time marches on. As you slow down he speeds up. Your final reward is closer than you think. Don’t clutter up the place with your carcass. Think about your loved ones. Now is the time to provide for the disposal of your remains. Go green. With all those baby boomers nearing their end burial plots will come at a premium, and new cemeteries take up valuable land the living will need. One also has to wonder what the chemicals used in embalming are doing to our environment. Cremation is ecologically friendly. Your ashes will fit quite nicely in one of our beautiful urns. We’ll even scatter your ashes over the ocean if you want.

To the company that sent me this card: Up Yours! I agree that we should plan ahead, but birthdays are a celebration of life!

Life is what I am thinking about right now. One of the very few good things about being my age is that people do not expect me to be cool. I must say that the current fads and fashions make me grateful for that. I am a member of one of the many generations that knows CYA means cover your ass. I believe this is very sound advice. Most people must agree with me because a well established, thriving industry is still producing trousers that are designed to do it. Although a younger generation does not think that covering your ass is fashionable, it sure beats taking it in the ass. I am reminded of this on those rare occasions when the sun burns my butt crack. Hike and cover! It is not where you want to get skin cancer kids. And yes, it can happen to you.

In case you are wondering, I was susceptible to following the fads and fashions of my generation. And old photographs reveal just how absurd some of those fashions were. The difference is that my generation was able discard those fashions because we realized that graffiti belongs on bathroom walls rather than our bodies. If you think you laughed when you saw what your parents were wearing in those old photographs, just wait until your children are old enough to look at you critically. What seems cool now is very temporary. Your kids will have their own fads and fashions, and they will laugh mightily at the ones you followed. Do not be too surprised when they look at your tattoos and ask you what the hell you were thinking. That, however, is between you and your kids. The thing to remember is that each generation will try to break away from the past and establish its own identity. I am not here to judge you. You are the future, and I accept you as older generations accepted me.

Just because I am old enough and grumpy enough to give the fashion police the finger if they have the temerity to ask me whether I wear boxers or briefs, it does not mean that I am so old and grumpy that I do not have any fun. I am going to move away from my computer now. I think it is time to cease these ramblings and look for something fun to do. I will try to write another short story next week. Most of my inspiration comes from simply living and enjoying the company of the people around me. If you visit my blog next week, you will see whether those people inspired laughter or more serious thoughts about the human condition. I may not be a great writer, but I have fun doing it. This is true even when the thoughts I express are serious.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Jul. 16, 2009

Gina’s Roommate

Gina lived in a neat little house close to the campus. It had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living room. The house sat well back on the small plot of land. The back yard, if you can call it that, was barely large enough to hold the trash cans and perhaps a run for a very small dog. The front yard was larger than the back yard, and it featured a beautiful lawn. The owner had installed a sprinkler system with a timer to keep that lawn lush and green. The rent on the house was very reasonable, and Gina felt fortunate to be living there. Today, however, she received some bad news. Her roommate, Jan, had dropped out of school and was moving out. Gina was going to have to find another roommate before the next month’s rent was due.

She posted notices on the bulletin boards at the university. She did not place a notice in any of the newspapers because she was short on cash. Unfortunately for her, only two people responded to her notices. One respondent was a girl with a personality that was as abrasive as steel wool. The other person was Ron. In the brief letter Ron sent to her he said he was just starting his junior year at the college. This meant that he was at least one year younger than she was. She hoped he was not a man-child. She was not too keen on the idea of having a male roommate as it was. For one thing it meant that she could not run around the house in nothing but her underwear. Not that she was in the habit of running around in nothing but her underwear, but it was nice to be able to go to and from the bathroom without bothering to dress first. She was also in the habit of getting a cup of coffee she drank while dressing. A robe should solve that problem, but a male roommate could pose other problems as well. She looked at the calendar and sighed. Time was running out. She decided to call Ron and set up a meeting. She arranged to meet with him for coffee. It was always better to meet a strange man in a public place.

She saw him enter the coffee shop. She knew it was Ron because of the way he surveyed the room to find her. She could almost see him trying to remember her description of what she would be wearing. He stood about five feet ten inches tall, but he looked taller because he was so thin. He approached the table.

“Gina?”

“Yes, and you must be Ron.”

“I am.” He reached for the chair sitting across the table from her. “May I?”

Although asking her permission to sit down at the table might seem silly under the circumstances, it showed that he had manners. She was impressed.

“Please,” she answered.

He sat down. She began the interview by asking him why he was moving out of the place where he was presently living.

“The dorm’s okay as a transition from your parents, but you reach the point where you really want to be out on your own.”

“Not to mention getting away from the cafeteria food.”

“Fortunately, I get frequent breaks from that because I work at a Pizza place.”

So he was not a spoiled brat. He had a job. That was always a good sign.

“You realize there can’t be any parties, don’t you. In fact, I’m going to say no more than one or two guests at a time.”

He smiled. “If I wanted to party, I would’ve pledged a fraternity.”

This made her laugh, and that seemed to please him. But was he attracted to her? That could be a problem.

“I’m older than you, and there’s no possibility of any romance,” she said. “I’m not about to get involved with a roommate.”

“No problem. I can understand where you’re coming from about getting involved with a roommate.”

This could work. She liked him. “When do you want to see the place?”

“Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“Is now a good time?”

“Now would be terrific.”

“Follow me.”

She parked in the driveway. He parked in the street. She said hello to her neighbor, Mrs. Sanders.

“Prospective roommate?”

“It’s a two bedroom place.”

“I’m not making any judgments or jumping to any conclusions,” Mrs. Sanders said. “He is cute, though.”

“I haven’t noticed, but it’s all right if you do.”

The old lady laughed. “I’m glad I have your permission because noticing’s about all I’m capable of doing.”

“We wouldn’t want to spoil that.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

Ron walked over to the driveway to join them.

“Mrs. Sanders, this is Ron. Ron, this is Mrs. Sanders.”

“Pleased to meet you. I hope she rents the room to you.”

“Pleased to meet you. That was a very kind thing for you to say.”

Gina turned and started walking to the house. Ron followed her.

“And he has manners,” Mrs. Sanders said.

Gina giggled as she opened the door. Ron followed her inside. The décor in the living room was as simple as one would expect, but it was tasteful.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thank you. I want to keep it the way it is. None of the crap you find in the dorms.”

Ron smiled. “That crap is one of things I’m trying to get away from.”

She showed him the bedroom. “I insist on keeping the living room uncluttered, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to study in here.”

“This room gives me more space than the dorm did.”

“How much furniture do you have?”

“A double bed, a desk with a chair, and a small television with a stand.”

The TV’s okay, but if you’re up later than I am, watch mine in the living room. These walls are pretty thin.”

She then showed him the bathroom. “I hate to play landlord on you, but what happened with my last roommate taught me to cover my behind. I need you to pay rent for the first and the last month up front, before you move in.”

She had stated the rent in her bulletin. He quickly did the calculation in his mind. “I can cover that,” he told her.

They walked back into the living room. She did not need to show him the small kitchen because the only thing that separated it from the living room was a low counter.

“May I use the refrigerator?”

“Yes, but make sure you remove your food before any of it rots in there. Which brings up another subject. We each cook our own meals.”

“Oh, thank God! I was afraid you might want me to cook for you, and I’m not very good at it.”

This was the first time he had attempted to joke with her. She rewarded him with a polite smile. “Give it four days for your check to clear, then you can move in.”

“I guess I’d better write that check now.”

“Please.”

He wrote out the check and handed it to her. She smiled. His check should clear the day before she had to pay her rent. She shook hands with him.

Having a male roommate presented some problems she had not considered. Among the things she had to chide him about are: not cleaning his hair out of the combination tub/shower, not doing his dishes when he finished eating, and leaving an empty beer can in the living room. He also tended to let glasses and cups build up in his room. Then there was the night he brought a girl home from the pizza place, and Gina had to put up with the sound of them banging away all night. She had to put up with similar sounds when her previous roommate, Jan, had her boyfriend over. Gina knew that it would not have done any good to complain to Jan, and complaining about it to a man would be even more futile. She might as well ask the sun not to rise!

A few days later Gina discovered that the refrigerator was not keeping things quite as cold as it should. She already had the refrigerator at its coldest setting. She called up a refrigerator repairman recommended by Mrs. Sanders. Ron walked into the room in time to hear her say, “Mrs. Sanders, next door, will let you in.”

“What was that about?”

“The refrigerator is being fixed today.”

“I’ll pay part of the bill if you want.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

That evening she came home to find Ron on the phone. “I must say that it certainly keeps things cold now! Why don’t you come over and chew some milk with us?”

“Were you talking to the refrigerator repairman?”

“His answering machine. There are frozen chunks floating in my carton of milk.”

Gina walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. She reached inside and turned a knob. “All fixed,” she said.

“What did you do?”

“That knob inside isn’t just for decoration. It controls the temperature.”

“He still shouldn’t have set it so high.”

“I’ll leave a message telling him I adjusted it.”

The next morning Ron saw a notice from the water company. The notice was sitting on the kitchen counter. It was urging everyone to cut back on water usage. Leaving the notice on the counter was probably Gina’s way of telling him to shorten his showers. Then another thought struck him. The timer had the sprinklers running for a long time in the evening. He could probably cut back on the water usage by resetting the timer so that the sprinklers ran for a short time in the morning and a short time in the evening. Two short sprinkles should be as good as a long soaking.

That night Gina got out of bed and walked into the bathroom to pee. She did not bother to turn on the light. She simply backed up to the toilet, dropped drawers, and sat in the bowl. Ron had left the seat up again. She was going to yell at him about that, but he had already left for school by the time she got up. She leaned over the tub and turned on the water. The water hit her on the back of her head. Ron had left the switch turned so that the water came out of the shower head rather than the spigot for the tub. Now she was fuming. She was walking across the lawn toward the driveway when the sprinklers came on. He had forgotten to tell her that he had reset the timer on them.

When Ron came home that evening he was carrying a small pizza and a six-pack of beer. Gina had just started eating her dinner. Ron took a can out of the six-pack, opened it, and put the rest of the beer in the refrigerator. Gina waited until he sat across from her at the counter.
 
“Oh good! I see you’re well enough to eat,” she said.

“Did you think I was sick?”

“Well, it would explain why you did such a half assed job.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Today you made me soak my head, my feet, and my ass. You missed everything in between!”

Ron still did not know what she was talking about, but he laughed.

“It’s not funny, damn it!” She then launched into a tirade about what happened.

The next day was Friday. Ron was working. She had a date with a football player she had met at a party. Everyone said the football player would be drafted into the NFL, and that he was quite a catch. The date went well, except for the fact that he drank too much. She offered to drive. He refused to let her do it. The drive home was frightening. When they got there she unlocked the door and opened it. She was about to turn around and tell him good night. He prevented that by picking her up and carrying her across the threshold.

“Put me down!”

He slammed the door shut with his foot.

“Put me down!”

He ignored her protests. He carried her to the couch, threw her down on it, and dove on top of her. She tried to fight him off, but he was too heavy and strong. His hands were all over her. She dug her nails into the back of his thick neck and screamed. He ripped the top of her dress. The front door opened as he clamped his hand over her mouth. He cocked his right hand. He was going to punch her in the face, but Ron grabbed his arm.

“Get the hell out of here!” Ron shouted.

The big ox climbed off of Gina and gave Ron a powerful shove. “Maybe you’d like to make me, little man.”

“Let’s take this outside,” Ron said.

The giant smirked. “Come on!” he said. He turned and walked out the door.

Ron closed the door and locked the deadbolt rather than following the huge man outside. He then picked up the phone and called the police. The dumb ox pounded on the door and bellowed. “Come out here and fight like a man, you little, chicken shit, bastard!”

He could have broken down the door, but he was not that bright. He moved to a window and was trying to pry it open.

“I called the police!” Ron shouted.

The giant picked up a rock. “They won’t get here before I kick your ass!”

A siren went off nearby. He threw the rock through the window and ran to his car.

Ron looked at Gina. She was terrified. She sat up and leaned forward. She was weeping. The torn material of her dress fell down. She was not wearing a bra and one of her breasts was exposed. Ron tried not to stare at it. She watched him walk toward her. She was afraid he would try to console her by hugging her. The last thing she wanted at this point was to have anyone touch her. Ron seemed to know that. He sat on the other end of the couch from her. She noticed that her breast was exposed. She grabbed the torn material and covered it. The material fall down again when she reached for a facial tissue.

“What’s the use,” she sobbed. “He reduced me to a piece of meat anyhow!”

“The hell he did! Don’t give him that power. You’re still the bight, dignified lady you’ve always been.”

She blew her nose. She then reached down and pulled the material up to cover her breast. There was a loud banging at the door.

“Police, open up!”

Ron opened the door. Two police officers entered. One stood nose to nose with Ron, while the other walked over to Gina.

The officer asked Ron who he was. “I’m her roommate. I’m the one who called you.”

“Is that right? Miss, is he your roommate?”

“Yes, and he saved me!”

“A male roommate, eh?” The officer in front of Gina said.

Since the other officer was now questioning Ron about what happened Ron could only hear bits and pieces of Gina’s conversation with the officer questioning her. What he heard was not pretty. The officer said Gina was dressed provocatively and seemed to infer that she had brought it all on herself. At long last the son of a bitch asked her the perpetrators name. He wrote down what she told him.

“Hey, Jack. Are you through questioning him?”

“Yeah.”

“Here’s the perp’s name. Run it for wants and warrants while I finish up.”

Jack left the room.

“You know, Miss. This could get awfully rough in court.”

“What are you saying?”

“You might not want to put yourself through the ordeal of a trial. Particularly since he didn’t succeed.”

Jack entered the room smiling. “You’re not going to believe this. The perp’s being booked on a DUI right now.”

“Sounds like justice to me. Are you sure you want us to press charges for attempted rape or sexual assault?”

Ron nodded yes, but Gina said no.

“Then I’ll just write this up as a disturbance call.” He closed his notebook. Both officers left. Giving the officer the benefit of the doubt, Ron thought he might have been trying to prepare Gina for what she would face in court, but there had to be a better way to do it.

“What an asshole!” Gina said. “I sure as hell didn’t deserve this.” She let the torn material fall again.

Ron could see the fury in her eyes. He thought it was an improvement over her feelings of helplessness. “You damn sure didn’t!”

“I’ve got to go wash the slime off of me.”

He heard her turn on the shower a few minutes later. The pile of shit that tried to rape Gina was drunk enough to be uncoordinated. Ron probably could have defeated him in a boxing match, but this would have been a street fight. If that huge man had grabbed him… Ron was suddenly shaking. He tried to tell himself it was just the adrenaline wearing off. He pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and opened it, hoping the alcohol would calm him down. Gina entered the room. She sat down on the couch. She was wearing sweat clothes, and he could tell she was not wearing a bra. He sat on the other end of the couch. She got up and walked to a chair on the other side of the room.

“Sorry,” she said. “That bastard reeked of beer. It’s not a very pleasant smell right now.”

“I’ll pour it out.”

“No, you earned it. I wish you had kicked his ass.”

“If you stomp in shit, you get your shoes dirty.”

Gina smiled, but a frightening thought came to her mind. “He was big, huh.”

“He was huge.”

“Yet you raced right over to us and grabbed his arm. Thank God he didn’t hurt you too. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Roomies have to look out for each other. Do you want me to escort you around campus Monday?”

“No. I don’t want you missing any classes, and I have to find a way to work through this.”

Ron smiled. “Do you have any idea of how proud I am of you right now?”

“Do you have any idea of how grateful I am? I’ll try to be more patient with you form now on.”

“And I’ll try not to be such a pain in the ass.”

They both laughed. They found a comedy on the late, late show. She watched it form her chair. She was afraid she would have nightmares if she went to bed. Ron was sitting on the couch. She noticed that he was struggling to stay awake. She knew he would not go to bed and leave her sitting there alone.

“I’m going to bed,” she announced.

When he went to bed he tried to erase the image of her standing there with one of her breasts exposed. She was a beautiful woman even when she was hurt and angry, but there was no possibility of a romance. She was his roommate and now his friend. He would settle for that. A guy can never have too many friends.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Jul 8, 2009

Sharing A Rare Name

My surname, McKeand, is unusual. It is the “d” at the end that makes it rare. I have often wondered how the “d” got there. Perhaps it is the dour nature of Scottish Calvinism, but Scottish fathers and sons often have very contentious relationships with each other. It could very well be that a son added the “d” to spite his father. The son could have dropped the Mac, which means “son of,” but doing so would still leave him with his father’s name. Adding the d solves that problem. I can almost hear him saying: “Take that, you belligerent old fart!” The problem with this explanation is that it means the son would be denying his heritage and probably his clan. While that would account for the fact that I have never found McKeand listed among the surnames affiliated with any clan, I do not think a son would change his surname if it meant giving up any wealth. Maybe I should come up with another explanation.

It could be that someone who was recording the name added the d. So who records names? Tax collectors! Genealogists would like that explanation, but why would the tax collector add the d to the name of only a few McKeans? It could be that he had a reason for singling out a particular family of McKeans. Maybe he had a grudge against that family or he thought they were trying to cheat on their taxes. I like that explanation because it allows me to blame the English. After all, they were the ones who levied the most onerous taxes, and nobody likes being taxed. The English, of course, would have a different explanation. They would probably say the McKeands added the d. “They did so in an effort to make us think they were not part owners of the wealthier portions of the estate, thereby lowering the share of the taxes they should pay. Just like a Scotsman, don’t you know?”

Although the recorder explanation seems more plausible, we cannot rule out the spite hypothesis. If the d was added after the Highland Clearances, the spite explanation becomes more plausible. I say this because the highlanders were driven off the land, and this eliminates the inheritance factor. This would add a “what the hell!” to the son’s “in your face!” attitude. And the father’s likely reaction would hark back to the original interpretation of the expression, “You go, boy!”

Pick your hypothesis or ignore both of them. Since I make no pretense about doing any serious genealogical research I feel free to have some fun with the subject of how my surname came to be. Real genealogists do not have that luxury. They can probably find out when and where the name first appeared, but finding out why it took its present form is unlikely. The one thing I can say is that my speculation is bound to offend any McKeands, Scotsmen and Englishmen who find and read this blog. Sorry about that, but it leads to the real subject of this essay.

It is often said that you can choose your friends, but you cannot choose your family. Similarly, you can choose your name, but you cannot choose who shares that name with you. When I first created this blog I thought it would be easy for my friends to find it by searching on my name. Given the scarcity of people with my surname, I thought it was possible that I was the only Steve McKeand. It seemed even more likely that the one or two other Steve McKeands would not have a blog or that they would not be prolific writers if they did have a blog or a website. I could not have been more mistaken. One of the other Steve McKeands is a college Professor and an expert on trees and forests. He is also a prolific writer. A list of the articles and studies he has posted takes up many screens when you search for my name. My first reaction was one of disappointment. Why does one person who shares my very uncommon name have to be such a prolific writer?

Fortunately, the name I chose for my blog is reasonably unique. While this makes it unlikely that someone who does not know me will search on the name of my blog, it also makes it easy for my friends to find my blog. I have to admit that it is also unlikely that anyone who does not know me will search on my name. So my attitude about the professor’s long list of writings has changed. As NBA officials used to say, “no harm no foul.”

I do not mind sharing my name with Professor McKeand. It is not like sharing a name with Charles Manson or some other nefarious slug. In the unlikely event that people will mistake me for him I can always tell them I am not the one who does all that valuable research. Since someone who does such notable work has no reason to deny it they will believe me. If a miracle should happen and the general public discovers my blog, however, he might find himself in the position of having to deny that he is the Steve McKeand who writes stories about people farting and such. Obviously, I do not mind being known as the person who writes those stories. Offending people, particularly vociferous people, can have its benefits. The notoriety draws attention to your writing, and prospective publishers like that. I have not had any contact with the Professor Steve McKeand, but it is easy for me to believe that a respected professor in North Carolina has an entirely different opinion about offending people and the notoriety that results from doing it. Which is to say that sharing a name with me could be difficult for him. I may be contentious, but I am not unsympathetic. In my blog I have added my initials (SCM) to the end of my name to help people distinguish between us.

All I can say to the good professor is: Good luck, Steve! Keep up the good work, and I will keep writing the stories I want to write regardless of who might be offended by the language or content. The fact that we share such an uncommon name means we must be related to each other. I know my grandfather was the first of my branch of the family to arrive in America. I doubt that we can trace our common ancestry to anyone in this country, but who knows. We certainly share ancestors in Scotland. Maybe I will get serious about tracing the origins of the name someday, but I do not think that will happen anytime soon. If you read this, I hope you are amused rather than offended. In spite of the impression I might have created in the foregoing, I do write to entertain rather than offend.

First published in macsbackporch.blogspot.com on Jul. 1, 2009