Sleepless Nights . . . Pondering

The great mysteries of life keep me awake at night.

Hot dogs come in packages of ten.  Hot dog buns come in packages of eight.  Doesn’t seem quite congruent.  What’s a person supposed to do with the extra two hot dogs?  Growing up we didn’t always have hot dog buns in the house.  The solution for hot dogs was Wonder Bread . . . the hot dog was laid from corner to corner diagonally with the bread then folded to make a triangle, and there you had a poor person’s hot dog bun.  A temporary solution for an age-old problem.  I ate a lot of hot dogs like that growing up.  Ten hot dogs . . . eight buns.

 

Why!

 

I recently stumbled upon the issues creating this dilemma.  It comes down to industry standards and “that’s the way we have always done it”.  Prior to pre-packaging meat, people had to go to the butcher to get hot dogs.  A person would tell the butcher how many hot dogs were needed.  They were weighed and sold by the pound.  That was back in the good ol’ days.  Today, hot dogs are pre-packaged.  A typical hot dog weighs 1.6 ounces.  It takes ten hot dogs to make a pound.  Meat is still sold by the pound thus hot dogs come in ten count, one-pound packages.

 

That explains the hot dogs, but what about the buns?  Why eight?  Because bakeries are systematic and designed to be efficient.  At some point buns were made in clusters of four in pans designed to produce eight rolls a piece.  It has always been that way, and it costs too much to change it.  They aren’t going to change it now . . . costs too much and is a pain to change.  Eight is what you get.

 

Well, at least in the United States of America.  In Canada producers or hot dogs and hot dog buns have decided to solve the problem.  They have brokered a deal to produce ten-packs of buns . . . a bun for every hot dog!   At least in Canada life makes sense.  In the meantime, the bigger issue is for us Americans to figure out what to do with those extra hot dogs.  Or we can wait for the president to annex Canada as the 51^st state and write an executive order declaring eight buns to a pack!

 

Just when I thought I’d finally get a good night’s sleep, my mind has shifted to those extra two hot dogs.  I guess there’s always “beans and weenies”.  I hate “beans and weenies” . . . makes me flatulent.  People already say I am too full of “hot air".  Thank goodness there is Wonder Bread!

 

The President and I: Dozing

Though I don’t like to admit it, I am well into being “old”.  There is no universal age that defines when one is “old” as it is subjective.  Generally, 60 or 65 years old is often used as the threshold.  The United Nations defines “older” people as those 60 years or older.  In the good ol’ U.S. of A., the Social Security Administration considers anyone 65 or older to be elderly.  The Older Americans Act (1965 and then reauthorized in 2024) defines older adults as 60 years and older.  Under these parameters I am well into being “old”.  In two weeks, I turn 67 or as my children and grandchildren say, “Old!”

Of course, age is a matter of perception.  Perceptions change all the time.  I would say that much of the time, I do not feel “old”.  Far from it.  I may be a little wonky in my opinion as I like to imagine myself as an older Brad Pitt.  I may be off in my perception, but it gets me through the day.  Despite what I might think about my age, the truth is that my body has a whole bunch to say about that reality.  My body tells it like it is and mine keeps reminding me that I’m “old”.  So do my children who are always telling the grandkids to remember, “Papa is old, so take it easy on him.”  They are not the only ones . . . considerate strangers who offer to open the door for me because I’m “old”.  Senior discounts.  Young people call me sir.  They are all reminding me that I am old.

 

But there are other “signs” that I am getting “old”.  One of the biggest and most obvious is “nodding off’ and catching myself dozing throughout the day.  It happens more often than I like to admit.  If I sit in my recliner too long, I am soon sawing logs.  Numerous times throughout the day while at my work desk I nod off.  Put me in front of a television and LaLa Land beckons me to come and take a romp.  I used to zip through books, but now it takes me forever as reading is a trigger for dozing.  I can’t deny the ageism of “nodding off” because the evidence is overwhelming stacked against me.

 

And . . . it makes me sad.

 

The other day someone posted a meme on social media of our “wannabe king” in various stages of public “nodding off”.  You see, our president is “old” and soon to be 79 years old.  I have noticed that more and more pictures and video are showing up of the “great orange one” dozing in public.  It seems his dozing knows no boundaries as he falls to sleep seemingly everywhere.  He dozes at Cabinet meetings.  In meetings with world leaders.  When he is being tried and convicted in court.  Even at the Republican National Convention.  I was shocked in watching footage of him dozing in the front row of Pope Francis’ funeral on international television for the whole world to see.  Trump is “old” and he cannot deny the evidence—its on film—he’s a dozer!  And to think he has the audacity to call the former president and thorn in his side “Sleepy Joe”.

 

Witnessing all of this made me sad.  Sad to realize that I, too, had this “old age trait”—I nod off.  Making me even sadder was the realization that I had something in common with Donal Trump.  Eww!  Yuck!  Yuck!  Yuck!  I do not like Donald Trump.  I can’t stand Donald Trump.  The guy represents and is everything reprehensible in humanity and what I believe in.  Any connection with this individual makes my skin crawl.  Yuck!  Yuck!  Yuck!

 

The thing is that we are both “old”—Donald “the would be king” Trump and me.  Our proclivity to “nodding off” and “dozing” is a thin thread that binds us together.  But I’m not the only one.  There are lots of others in the boat with Donnie and me.  If you are over the age of 60 and catch yourself “nodding off” throughout the day . . . welcome to the club.  Unfortunately, we can’t always pick who we want to get “old” with . . . “the Donald” is one of the members of the club no matter how much it makes our skin crawl.

 

This sudden understanding made me pause . . . why have I been picking on one of “ours”—the elderly?  He is old.  I am old.  We are all going to experience old.  Thankfully I did not “pause” in the revelation for too long and came back to my senses.  The one who dreams of kingship . . . or authoritarian rule . . . and thinks only of himself—he is not one of “us”.  No, he is far from being one of “us”.  His words betray him.  His actions condemn him.  Despite the thread that stitch us to him—he is not one of “us”.  He never will be.  The facts and records show this over and over again.

 

I do have a suggestion for him . . . and, maybe for all of us.  “Nodding off” and “dozing” is notorious in religious worship and services.  People do it all the time.  Forty years in the active ministry serving congregations—big and small—people fell asleep.  At the start of my ministry, I thought I was connected with the congregation as their heads bobbed up and down . . . then someone snored.  It was at that point I admitted defeat and resigned to myself that people slept through my sermons.  Granted, I would probably be sleeping too . . . I was not the best preacher.  Besides that is why I went into the ministry . . . to keep awake. People slept through my sermons.  Besides, they probably needed the sleep more than my sermonizing.  At every church I served, I told the people that it was okay to “nod off” or “doze” but to remember that in that moment of sudden awakening to utter loudly, “Amen!”  In the uttering of “amen” everyone assumes the sleeper was praying.  It gave off the “air” of piousness . . . of holiness.  It’s less embarrassing than being caught sleeping.  I heard a lot of “amens” in 40 years of preaching.  Witnessed a lot of praying.

 

A simple “amen”.  That is all it takes.  The evangelicals would love it as they point to the evidence of the president’s depth of faith.  They would be ecstatic if Trump displayed any depth of religious faith.  Journalist would proclaim that the president was deep in prayer and contemplation as he nods off . . . that he is even speaking is some sort of “tongues” and he saws away on those logs.

 

Nah . . . the “Great Orange One” doesn’t have an ounce of religious faith.  We all know that it is what it is . . . nodding off” . . . “dozing”.  Whatever the case, for those of us who are “old” . . . for those of us who will become “old” . . . it sucks!  Sucks to have any sort of connection with someone we cannot respect.

 

Excuse me . . . all this hooping and hollering has made me tired.  I hear my recliner beckoning me . . . calling me by name.  I’m starting to nod . . . I feel prayer coming on.  Ah, the joys of growing “old”.  Amen!!

 

Sanctuary: The Barbershop

For many years, as a child, my father gave me haircuts.  At least that is what he called it.  It was more of shearing than an actual haircut.  A “buzz cut”.  I wasn’t a big fan of the buzz cut and would avoid it for as long as I could . . . or for as long as he would tolerate an unkempt son.  That was my standard haircut for many for many years—quick and simple.  Being a pale, skinny kid I always looked like something out of a Russian Gulag.

It was probably around sixth grade that my father tired of his barber duties, my constant whining, and the hassle of trying to shear a wiggly kid that he finally threw in the towel.  Around that time, he agreed to allow me to grow my hair out and have a “real” haircut . . . as long as I got myself to the barber on my own.  Living on the Air Force Academy at that time this meant that I either had to take the base bus or hike a mile up the bluff to the base barbershop.  This was a task I gladly accepted to avoid being a Gulag poster child.  Of course, being a military base, the specialty was buzz and crew cuts.

 

No, I did not hike the two-mile round trip to get a buzz or crew cut.  I got a real haircut to fit my father’s specifications . . . over the ears and off the collar.  That was short-lived because these were the late 1960s and early 1970s.  By junior high school I let my “freak flag” fly much to the disappointment and disapproval of my father.  After that first real haircut, I never again came close to a buzz or crew cut.

 

The irony of the whole haircut journey is that it has almost come full circle.  In my balding state of old age, I am contemplating getting a buzz cut.  Thinking of shearing it all off . . . and I even own my own shears.  So far, I have resisted it but come my final retirement . . . buzz!  It is gone.

 

Haircuts have always been an adventure . . . a hassle.  For a long time, it wasn’t a problem.  I just looked for the red-white-blue barber pole.  Seeing that pole I knew I could get a haircut by a barber.  I felt safe . . . and besides, if the barber screwed it up it would grow back in a couple of weeks, or I could wear a hat.  Then the times changed.  Barbers became a dying breed—at least in the bigger communities where I lived.  They were replaced by cosmetologists, beauticians, and hairstylists . . . and they all proclaimed to cut hair.  But they weren’t the same.  I didn’t need to learn about the cosmos while having my hair cut.  Shoot! When you think of yourself as looking like Brad Pitt . . . who needs to be beautified.  And I certainly didn’t need style for my hair.  I just wanted a haircut!

 

Since moving to Montana over sixteen years ago, my journey has taken me to a variety of places to have my hair cut.  They have run the full gamut.  I’ve had my hair cut by cosmetologists . . . beauticians have attempted to but my hair between the dye jobs and perms in an attempt to keep me beautiful . . . and stylists have attempted to give me style.  Being in a rural community makes getting a haircut tough.

 

There is a shop in our town.  It is a combination of all three . . . cosmetologist, beautician, and hairstylist.  They are whatever you need them to be.  The problem is that they are never open when I need a haircut.  Also, I feel bad that all I want is a simple haircut when they do so much more.  I could get my nails done while having whatever hair I still have left.  My granddaughters would think that was cool and that I actually have style.  I could get a perm, but I really don’t picture Brad Pitt with a perm . . . it would be more like Bob Ross than Brad Pitt.  Plus, they are expensive, and I am cheap.  For their prices they should also remove all the hair that migrated south from my head to other parts of my body—like my chest, back, and ears!  I do know that they do waxing . . . ouch!

 

As I said, it has been an adventure.  I have done it all from the cosmetologist to those franchised haircutting factories like Cost Cutters.  I rarely walked away satisfied.  Then I discovered Bob’s Barbershop down the road in a nearby town.  Bob’s Barbershop even has the red-white-blue pole announcing to the community that it is a bonified barbershop providing haircuts from its humble abode—plus he is open on Saturdays.

 

It is a classic barbershop.  Several chairs in the entrance, the ancient barber chair in front of a mirror, hair clippings on the floor.  Several days of newspapers lying around.  He uses clippers and occasionally scissors.  Wraps your neck with tissue paper.  Shaves your neck when done cutting.  Even has a pool table to kill time while waiting.  A television is cued to hunting and fishing channels.  Music playing that switch between classic country or classic rock—there is no Taylor Swift.  I hate to say it, but his is a “man’s” space.  The testosterone drips and oozes from the place.  And did I say it . . . a real barber pole!

 

Barbershops are disappearing from our landscape.  It’s a shame.  Barbershops have been around since at least 5000 BC.  The first barbering services were performed by Egyptians.  They were respected in their communities.  Barbering can be found throughout history and cultures.  In the Middle Ages barbers did more than just cut hair.  They also performed surgeries, did bloodletting and leeching, fire cupping, enemas, and the extraction of teeth.  It was a “one stop shop” . . . I mean, think about it, who wouldn’t want an enema or tooth pulled while getting a haircut.

 

From the beginning, the barbershop was also a place for social interaction and gathering.  They have always been a place where men could gather, talk, shoot the breeze, tell tall tales, and gossip.  Yes, men gossip. It has always been a place for men to hang out and bullshit.

 

Bob’s Barbershop is such a place.

 

I got a haircut yesterday.  I sat in the chair as customers—men of all ages—shot the breeze (there is no limit on the number of breezes that can be shot), gossiped, and debated the world’s current events.  I’ve witnessed some lively debates (actually arguments) take place while getting my hair cut.  I hear it all—politics, weather, sports, the local ski hill, critter sightings . . . it is all there.  It is a safe place where masculinity can exert itself away from the world of females—especially spouses.  It is utter BS at its finest and you better wear boots.

 

It felt good to get a haircut yesterday.  I talked to a young man who had lived in parts of Nebraska where I had lived.  Spoke to an eighteen-year-old who is graduating in about a month and his dreams of becoming a mining engineer.  Another spoke about the weather.  Bob and I spoke about the Orange One’s actions towards Canada and making it the 51^st state and how it would affect his business.  Apparently, a lot of Canadian like to get their hair cut during the tourist season.  Just sitting there, the clippers humming, I felt safe.  I felt I belonged.

 

Upon completion, Bob asked what my plans were for the rest of the day.  I explained that the wife had ordered furniture for the deck that she wanted me to assemble—rocking chairs and a table.  It was a “honey do” task.  I shared that assembling furniture was not something I enjoyed doing.  He offered me the opportunity to stay in the shop all day if I wanted.  I have never heard that in a beauty shop or hair salon.  As much as I appreciated the invitation, I knew better.  What hair was still on my head would be scalped if I did.  I declined.

 

As I walked out the door, I turned and wished everyone a “good day!”  The choral response was “you too!”  It was a holy moment . . . sacred.  A benediction of sorts . . . “peace be with you” . . . and in sacred response, “And also with you.”  It is an eternal rite of blessing still occurring today.  You can only find it in a barbershop . . . one with a pole.  A pole that marks sanctuary.

 

Yup, it felt good . . . its been a long journey.