My life in three minutes - 2/15/2011

A friend created this for me. Fifty-eight years in 3 minutes. You will have to pause my playlist for maximum enjoyment.

The Dixie Classic Fair - 10/13/09

This weekend I attended the Dixie Classic Fair in Winston-Salem with my daughter, Carly, son, Rick, his wife, Jennifer, and my three grandchildren. It is an amazing fair and we had a great day. I had no idea we would endure the intensity of a melanoma growing sun in Winston-Salem in the middle of October. I got quite a bit more sun than my dermatologist would recommend…..which is none.

One of my favorite things about a fair is the variety of food available that I would not, could not, order anywhere else. I love a real carnival corn dog and funnel cakes, washed down with fresh squeezed lemonade. I abandon any concern for hygiene standards. Don’t ask don’t tell. One joint even fashioned their funnel cakes into French fries, making it easier to eat while walking the fairgrounds. Novel idea.

Something they do here in the south that may not be a big hit in the health-conscious Pacific Northwest, is that they deep fat fry everything. Healthy food like broccoli and string beans. Fry ‘em. Candy bars, Oreos, and Twinkies. Not unhealthy enough. Let’s fry ‘em. One place even advertised fried butter. I am not a health nut, but WTF? Who thought of that?


I am in a place in my life where I have become an observer of life rather than a participant. The fair is the absolute best place to people watch. If you ever lack in self-confidence or have image problems, just go the fair. You will feel like Brangelina with a touch of Einstein. Note to woman weighing 4 bills: There is no place on your body that a piercing enhances your look. Please do not show them to me. I just ate a corn dog.

I am certain that every person who has ever punched out a relative on Jerry Springer was present at this fair. And I am certain that the people running the rides that we entrust our children to have all done hard time or were acquitted on a technicality.

Mountain people, who only come to town once a year, come to the fair. There is a booth there where the carny offers to guess a rube’s weight, age, or birth month (Like in The Jerk). Judging from the people I saw, it would be more interesting to guess their number of extra chromosomes, number of teeth, or which is higher, their IQ or the temperature. If they really wanted to make the game challenging, they would have the yokel guess who their daddy is. Kind of a Maury Povich twist on the game.

After I had put in the appropriate amount of grandpa time and the obligatory waving like a moron at the kids on carnival rides, I followed the sound of music to the stage where various bands played all day. I heard two really good local bands: Doug Davis and the Solid Citizens and Kavish. Both were very enjoyable. I left before the Pranksters took the stage. They were a Grateful Dead tribute band and since I would not cross the street to see the actual Dead, a fake version did not interest me at all. Of course the advantage of playing a 2 hour Grateful Dead set is that you only need to learn one song. They tend to go on forever. The Grateful Dead have given me a very graphic description. When I want to portray a very foul odor I say "smelled like Jerry Garcia's beard."

Adding to the excitement of the fair was the fact that Wake Forest was playing Maryland at the adjacent football field. It was homecoming for Wake, so they had scheduled one of the worst teams in the Atlantic Coast Conference to assure a victory. Is it me, or does the Wake Forest mascot look suspiciously like Ebenezer Scrooge? They call him the Demon Deacon. I have no idea what that is, but when he comes onto the field he is riding a motorcycle. Wake Forest is an amazing school. It is very small but very competitive against the huge schools on its ACC schedule. They have a beautiful football stadium.


This fair is by far the largest I have ever been to. But I knew I was out of my element when I realized there are people that can tell goats apart. There was a tractor pull that drew more of a crowd than several major league baseball teams. But the coup de grace was that there was a line to get into the vegetable displays. I will stand in a line for a funnel cake but not to look at a turnip. Even a prize winning one.

My grandson Carson - Carrying the Wainright Mantle - 4/13/09

The vast majority of people that share my family name spell it Wainwright. My clan does not include the second ”W". I have been told by a reliable source that the second "W" indicates wholesale inbreeding. I get annoyed when people insert it automatically. Even when I spell it out carefully to them, they throw in that infernal “W’. My name has been misspelled so often that I am certain I have an AKA on file with the authorities. I recently noticed that my mother’s name is spelled wrong on her death certificate. You would have thought they could have taken the time to get that right.
I tell you that to tell you this. There is only one person charged with continuing my particular Wainright family line. I have a half-brother, Chris Wainright, who has only daughters. My oldest son, Rick, has only daughters. My other son, Josh, has no children, though he desperately wanted kids. But the more he and his wife, Tia, are subjected to children of friends and family, the less desperate they are to procreate. That leaves my grandson Carson, the son of my daughter Carly, with the awesome responsibility of insuring a Wainright branch on our family tree. I remain optimistic. What do you think? Should I bring my swimmers out of retirement?

Wordless Wednesday - Splash Mountain - 4/8/09

My grandson, Carson, reevaluating his decision to go on Splash Mountain.

Three Word Wednesday - Glimmer, Passion, Wish - 12/31/08

I haven't played Three Word Wednesday for a long time. The words haven't inspired me. They didn't this time either, but I thought I should write something before the year ends tonight. I have been very lazy, which is my homeostatic condition, but have been encouraged by others to write. This is for you. You know who you are.

I am spending the holidays caring for my 4 year-old grandson, Carson. His school is closed and my daughter, Carly, has to work. I don’t care how demanding or difficult you think your job is, it is a piece of cake compared to that of a single mother.

I don’t mean a single mom that has grandma next door to provide assistance or an extended family of aunts and uncles nearby. I am talking about a single mother who’s support system (what little there is) is located several interstates away.

If I had a wish, it would be for Carly to have an easier life, but that is not the case. So, even though I am not much of a nurturer, I volunteered for a couple of weeks of childcare. If I had to submit a resume for this position, I would not have had a glimmer of hope for an interview. But Carly was desperate, so Skooter and I loaded up and drove the 200 miles to spend a couple of weeks with Carson.

Most kids have more than one set of grandparents, so that they have to develop names to distinguish each: gramps, grampy, granddad, pawpaw, etc. This is particularly true, here, in the south. I have a friend that’s husband is called “Big” by his grandsons. I am glad not to have that moniker. That is very “Cat On a Hot Tin Roofy”. That is not the case with Carson. I am the only one he has. His sperm-donor (biological father) and his family are not in the picture. He elected absence over multiple ass-kickings administered by the three Wainright men. This prick is another story altogether.
Carson and I are somewhat similar. We are both only children, which results in developing a great imagination, independence, and self-reliance, but very little social skills and cooperation. We are both loose cannons. Carson attends a special school that tries to funnel his bright mind into activities that do not endanger others. He has been labeled as having behavioral issues. Had there been such a school when I was four, I am certain I would have been valedictorian. He is a carbon copy of his uncle Josh, who owns his own very successful company, is happily married, and drives a BMW. Had this type of diagnosis been available when he was four, he would have been sedated for much of his youth.

I mention that Carson and I are alike to illustrate that we probably butted heads during our confinement together. We are both very stubborn. I have kept him before, but it was summer in Myrtle Beach. There were so many activities to keep us occupied that there was little downtime for us to actually have to communicate and co-exist in a normal environment. However, this time it is winter in Clemmons, North Carolina. You have not heard of it. There is a reason. So, we had no beach, no amusement park, and no boats to watch. It was just him and me, sometimes him or me.
This visit contained the obligatory trip to Chuckee Freaking Cheese. There we met up with my son Rick and my beautiful granddaughter Maris. Luckily Maris is afraid of Chuckee (as am I) and we didn't stay very long.


Carson behaves pretty well when it is just the two of us. He harbors a bit of fear of grandpa, which is not a bad thing. While his mother is new age: time out, time away, and such. She tends to give in, while, as I mentioned, grandpa is a match for Carson at being stubborn. Grandpa is old school. Grandpa will spank your butt if it needs it. To Carson, Grandpa is a huge man with a baritone voice. (Carson once told a classmate that his grandpa is a giant) All he normally hears is his mother’s alto. When grandpa bellows, Carson takes notice. Carson is also not totally certain that someday grandpa won’t totally lose it and put him in a wood chipper. Grandpa might have let it slip that he once did hard time in Wyoming for just such a thing. A little fear is a good thing.

But, because Carson and grandpa are so much alike, they have a common passion for music and movies. Carson loves to listen to classic rock. He is a big fan of AC/DC and Joan Jett. I am sure that the counselors at his school would not approve. So we go for rides and listen to grandpa’s music. I respect Carly’s wishes that Carson not be allowed to watch anything on television or movies that contain bad language or any adult situation. As a result, I have viewed more children’s programming than any other man since Fred Rogers. I know most of the songs from Barney, Scooby-Doo, and the Wiggles. I fear that some of it is stuck in my head forever.

As you can see by some of the photos, Carson is a bit of a daredevil. That is where we differ significantly. The most dangerous thing I do these days is fry bacon without a shirt on.



Carson is also very fond of Skooter. Skooter does not totally share that affection, or at least not admit to it. Skooter is a gentle soul except where Carson is concerned. Carson flits around a bit too fast for Skooter's taste. Then when I tell him to move slower, he goes into creepy, zombie, slow, which drives Skooter even more insane. Skooter is very comfortable with Carson when he is asleep (as we all are).

But when awake and active, Skooter loves to chase Carson throughout the apartment, barking and snarling at him, much as he does a squirrel or rabbit. Of course, Carson loves the attention and constantly antagonizes Skooter. As a result, my day is filled with the bay of an energized Beagle and the maniacal laughter of a child. I will miss that when we go home tomorrow.