Mick Wright.net

My brother and me, Christmas 2003

For whatever reason, one of the Christmas stocking stuffers we had growing up was a kiwi. One explanation I remember hearing was that kiwis are in season at that time of year; if that’s true or not, I have no idea. I’m sure kiwis are also fairly easy to slip into stockings, allowing St. Nick to make a quick getaway, upon finishing his milk and cookies. And, of course, kiwis fall in line with the traditional Christmas gifts of oranges and other citrus fruit (and our family often got a special box of those to share).

With all of the changes our family went through over the years, all the places we lived, the different family members and other people we lived with, my parents’ divorce and their second (and third) marriages, kiwis were just about the only constant, the only real tradition that remained.

So kiwis, besides being delicious, always make me happy and nostalgic, and I always insist that we have them during the Christmas holiday.

—Sidebar—

I remember being told that kiwis were a man-made hybrid fruit produced by combining the DNA of strawberries and bananas. Those dirty liars. Unless the Wikipedia entry on kiwifruit is wrong, that would appear not to be the case. Then again, perhaps someone told me it was “the combination of strawberries and bananas,” meaning taste-wise, and I just took it to mean production-wise. As the Wikipedia entry says, “The texture of the fruit is soft and the flavour is sometimes described as a mix of strawberry, banana, and pineapple.” So there you have it.

—End Sidebar—

My wife’s wonderful parents have taken to buying me kiwis just about every time we visit them. I’m not used to eating kiwifruit at other times of the year, but it’s growing on me. And until recently, I had always considered actually eating kiwifruit somewhat of a chore.

Mom would always peel away the fuzzy skin, then cut them into thin slices and sprinkle a little sugar on top. It tastes great that way, but it takes some time to prepare, not to mention plenty of skill (kiwis happen to be quite slippery without the fuzzy exterior).

If you only eat them once a year, it’s not hard to be patient; but if you’re eating kiwi more regularly, that method can grow tiresome.

Last year, I offered a kiwi to a friend of ours named Mike, and he introduced me to a different way of eating kiwifruit; he simply cuts off one end, then takes a spoon and digs into the fruit, using it like a bowl. The peel is thick enough to remain intact, as long as you’re careful and don’t stab it too hard with your spoon.

Then just a few weeks ago, we were visiting the in-laws again, and they had purchased some kiwis that were already chopped in half. I decided to try eating them Mike’s way, only in halves rather than as a whole. It worked beautifully.

So when I saw that my company had supplied its employees with some kiwifruit this week, I felt I should share my special new, efficient way of eating them. Assuming Youtube starts working again, my video is below the fold. It was created using a Flip Video and Windows Movie Maker. Bon Appétit. (more…)

The first time I saw him, I was at Burger King waiting on my brother and two nieces to arrive. Burger King is a regular treat for the girls, as it is one of only a few local restaurants with a play room that allows them to climb and shriek and slide around in their socks, in between the occasional French fry or chicken nugget.

While I waited, I noticed him sitting huddled in a booth, a hulking stranger who obviously didn’t belong. Not wanting to stare, all I got was the sense of a grizzled traveler, dressed in dark layers too warm for the summer heat. I imagined him as a potential threat to the children, and felt myself being slightly annoyed that he was even there, perhaps waiting to pounce on the next person who passed by. He was probably just looking for a handout, or worse.

Weeks went by, and I had put him completely out of my mind. Then one morning Alison caught a glimpse of a man sleeping in the small, woodsy area surrounded by the I-40 on-ramp. Day after day, she would see him there, camping out under the trees, hidden from view unless you knew where to look. We talked about him, how long we had been seeing him there, and what his story might be. Finally I realized that he must be the same man I noticed at the Burger King. After talking about him with some friends from church, I resolved that if we saw him again, we would stop and talk to him, and see if there was anything we could do to help him out.

That weekend it had been raining relentlessly. It was Sunday morning, and I was up uncharacteristically early. Since I was already dressed and ready for church, I decided to prepare some chocolate pancakes for breakfast, while Alison showered. She finished getting ready just in time to wolf down a few pancakes and jump in the car. I decided to pack up the leftovers and take them with us to Bible class; maybe someone would be hungry there, since our class had stopped ordering donuts. And, for once, we would actually be on time.

As we circled onto I-40, we looked to see if he was in his usual spot, though he had been gone the last several days. Sure enough, he was there, laying in the wet grass as the rain continued to drizzle. We decided to take the next exit, double back, and approach him.

We realized we could give him the pancakes, thinking perhaps a warm meal would feel nice on a nasty morning like this, though it would not be a particularly healthy breakfast, obviously.

Alison had us stop at the gas station to get some coffee to go with it, as well as withdraw some cash from the ATM in case he could use some financial help. We called a member of class to let them know we would be late, at best. Alison warned me to be prepared for anything — to be willing to give him a ride, to offer him a place to stay, a warm shower, or whatever he might need. I agreed.

We drove back to his wooded cove and pulled over. Somewhat nervous, I got out of the car carrying the coffee, along with some sweetener, creme and a spoon. I walked slowly, forcing as warm a smile as I could muster, trying to look non-threatening, and searching for something meaningful to say.

Everything that came to mind seemed empty, but I had to say something, so I came out with something like: “Hi. I thought you might enjoy some warm coffee. How are you doing? My name is Mick, what’s yours?”

I was afraid he might start yelling at me for invading his turf, or rush at me, or do something crazy. Instead, he meekly accepted the coffee and in the softest voice possible said his name was Scott.

He didn’t even get up. He continued to recline on the plastic bags behind him, full of what looked like garbage but were probably the entirety of his earthly possessions.

When I asked if he would like some homemade pancakes, for some reason I worried that he might think they were poisoned or that we were up to no good, but he just said yeah and looked away. I walked back to the car and grabbed the tupperware container full of pancakes to bring back to him.

“Here are the pancakes. Some of them have chocolate chips, and some don’t. You can keep the container,” I said.

If he said anything at all, it was a simple “OK.”

I looked at him, noticed his filthy layers of clothing, his dreadlocked hair and thick white beard contrasted against his light blue eyes, one of them hazy and pointing off in another direction. On his head, he wore something like a stretched-out skull cap. I wondered if he was sick, or unable to walk.

NOTE: The photo above is not a picture of Scott; that is just a stock image of a man who resembles him in several ways.

I asked him how long he had been staying there. He misunderstood, perhaps deliberately, and said he was from California. I didn’t push the question. I asked if there was anything I could do to help him. No, he said. Could I give him a ride somewhere? No. Did he need anything? No.

He didn’t ask for money. And though he was calm and coherent, he didn’t seem at all interested in talking to me or telling me his story. He didn’t say thank you for the coffee or pancakes. He just responded quickly and succinctly until I ran out of questions and was forced to leave him there to sit in the rain, alone.

I returned to the car, somewhat relieved, somewhat troubled. I was glad that we had stopped, and to know his name. I was glad that we at least offered him help, even if he didn’t take it. But I was worried about him, and I wondered if he had refused further help out of shame. If I had asked differently, or if I had said something better, would he have accepted?

Over the next few weeks, I spent most of the cash I had taken from the machine. I felt a twinge of guilt each time I used it for myself, having already appropriated it in my mind to help someone else.

A couple weeks went by, and I thought I might never see him again.

Then this morning, I saw him standing still on the corner of a busy intersection, wearing the same clothes. I decided to pull into a nearby parking lot and say hello.

I greeted him by name. He cautiously returned a greeting. I asked him what he was up to. “Traveling,” he said. At his feet were a half-dozen small white plastic bags, stuffed full with his possessions, as before. I asked if I could help him with anything, or help him get anywhere. “No,” his quick reply. Then I asked if he could use some money, and this time he said yes, again in one of the softest, most unassuming voices I have ever heard.

I handed him a bill, the last of the cash I had already taken out for him several weeks ago. He didn’t say thank you, he just took it, and looked away. I had nothing left to ask him, nothing else I could think to say, so I wished him a blessed day, and walked back to my car.

I left puzzled by the fact that he was not panhandling like all of the others. He didn’t have a cardboard sign. He wasn’t asking for money. He wasn’t asking for help. And he had never tried to take advantage of me or anyone else who happened by.

As I drove away, he just kept standing there in the heat, wearing his multiple layers, gazing into the intersection, or at the other side of the street, or beyond.

From time to time, I post items verbatim as a community service. This time, I’m posting an e-mail not so much as a community service, but as a favor to someone who asked kindly and is providing a new service that I find unique and helpful. And I’m doing so in spite of the fact that the evil Memphis Flyer also posted something about them.

Greetings,
My name is Derek Whitlock. My wife and I have just opened a grocery delivery service, The Memphis Shopping Bag, covering the Downtown and East Memphis areas. Though we have already started to generate business, I would greatly appreciate your input and observations of our site and service. As well as any assistance you could provide in informing the community about our business. Thank you for your time and efforts,
Derek Whitlock

Grocery Shopping and Delivery Service

The Shopping Bag offers a shopping and delivery service to apartments, houses, and condos in the downtown and East Memphis area as well as other select areas. We provide this helpful friendly service at a reasonable cost with no sign up fees and no commitment contracts! The shopping bag service is fast and easy! We use your shopping list. We shop at the store of your choice. We choose the best in quality and price those stores have to offer. And, we deliver them right to your door, on time,when we say we will- its that simple!

The shopping bag makes ordering as easy as 1-2-3!

1. Order your groceries, online, by e-mail, fax, or phone.
2. We will call to confirm your order and to arrange your time of delivery.
3. Groceries are delivered to your door.

It is our goal at the shopping bag to simplify your life in a fast paced, hectic world . We can free up your valuable time, whether it be for a busy professional, a stay at home mom, an elderly parent, or simply someone that hates to fight traffic, crowds, and long lines.

We are a family owned business and we will shop for you as if we were shopping for our own family. We are bonded licensed and insured . We do not sell groceries we sell a personalized customer service.

phone- 901-484-4054 www.memphisshoppingbag.com

My best wishes to Derek Whitlock and his company.

I was recently reminiscing about some of the nicknames I’ve acquired over the years. I love the idea of nicknames, and some of these really make me laugh.

Mickey – Not sure how it started, but it’s the first name I remember using, through maybe 3rd grade. My grandma continued to call me this until she died.

Mackey – My uncle Patrick’s version, starting perhaps as a parody of how I said my name as a child.

Biggy – What my mom began calling me after I informed her that I was too big to be called “my little guy” any longer, a variation on “my big guy.”

Cavity – What my brother started calling me after we visited the dentist.

Walter – A nickname I obtained at Bible camp, after performing a parody of a song called “Water and Blood” by A.V.B., which we had heard at a church youth rally (A friend started calling himself Blood, followed by another who decided he should be called And).

Mike – This creation was used unfailingly by various high school gym teachers, for whatever reason.

Micolas – One of my favorite nicknames, as used by a good friend.

Mr. Response – Another friend’s name for me, after I helped form a post-college email circle named “Semi-Automated Response.”

Fishkite – After my old website, named for an obnoxious poem I wrote.

Dear – The only pet name that Alison and I could agree upon, after rejecting more sappy nicknames such as Baby, Honey, Sweety, etc. Our mutual name has evolved into “Deary-poo.”

Michael – My nickname at work, which conveniently also appears on my driver’s license. Around the time I started there, I was experimenting with using it because of its religious meaning. But it took me several weeks until I remembered that I was supposed to respond when my boss called it out.

Your turn to spill; what are some of your nicknames?