Payment Station

A few years ago, Leigh and I took the kids to Indian Boundary Campground down off the Cherohala Skyway to camp, kayak, hike and swim for the weekend.  For those not familiar with this area of the Cherokee National Forest, it’s as beautiful as the Great Smoky Mountains, maybe a bit better-kept, and far less crowded even during holiday weekends.  It’s also one of the few areas where you can throw up a tent next to a beautiful lake, tie your kayak or canoe out and take three steps from your tent to your kayak before taking a nice trip around the lake to watch the sun come up.

The Cherohala Skyway is about an hour from our home (about the same as the entrances to the Smokies).  Other than the (sometimes) obnoxious motorcyclists, it’s just about the perfect place for Knoxville families to have fun in the outdoors without fighting hours of tourist traffic.

Indian Boundary Campground has a beach and swimming area near the lake where people who aren’t camping there can still come and play.  While campers pay the normal camp site fees, those who just want to swim and play in the lake can pay a day rate (I think it’s $5 per car).  Like many park and campgrounds, payment at Indian Boundary is on the honor system.  A small pay station or “fee box” is located at the entrance with a sign telling you what the day-use fee is.  No one monitors the collection box.

While walking through the parking lot, I watched as an elderly couple – probably in their 70s – fetched their towels, coolers and beach blankets from the trunk of their car.  They must have been a bit hard of hearing because they were speaking VERY LOUD.

Their conversation went like this:

Elderly Woman – “Honey, you need to go and put $5 in that box over there.”

Elderly Man – “I’m not putting $5 in anything.”

Elderly Woman – “But it says we have to pay $5 to swim here.”

Elderly Man – “They like you to pay $5, but you don’t have to pay $5.”

I wish I could tell you this story took place many years ago when my brothers and I were just children.  The truth is that all three of the Laney boys were full-grown adults when we almost set our dad on fire.

At a family gathering in Ohio a few years back, my dad fell asleep on the couch (as he is known to do after a large family meal, or a small family meal, or after just about anything).  We were all in the family room watching a ballgame or something on television when my middle brother, Ryan, started playing around with the lighter that was used to start my parents’ gas-log fireplace.  You know the kind of lighter I’m talking about – the one with a little trigger and 6- or 8-inch neck that allows you to light something without burning your hands.

Ryan discovered that when he pulled the trigger back just far enough, he could release the Butane without actually igniting a flame.  The tip of the lighter made a hissing sound when Ryan did this.

Dad Laney

In an attempt to aggravate our father, Ryan held the tip of the lighter down next to my dad’s ear and made the hissing sound by pulling back on the trigger.  It didn’t wake our father, who could sleep through a hurricane coming through Neyland Stadium during the Florida game.  Not getting the desired result, Ryan did this repeatedly, pulling the trigger back just far enough to release Butane without sparking a flame – each time he placed the tip of the lighter a little closer to dad’s ear.

Finally, after about three or four attempts, Ryan put the tip of the lighter so close that it appeared to actually be going INTO our dad’s ear.  He released butane repeatedly in an attempt to wake our dad.  Then, he pulled back just a little too far on the trigger.

A bright flame, about a foot high, erupted from our father’s ear – who immediately woke up and, for a second or two, appeared to be levitating about three feet above the couch.  Dad was not amused … but Ryan, John and I laughed hysterically for about the next three days.  Every time we thought about the look on dad’s face, and the look on Ryan’s face, when my dad’s ear momentarily became a flame-thrower, it would start all over again.  We laughed until we cried.

I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with our family, but we do know how to entertain ourselves.   I’m also pretty sure my dad still hides the fireplace lighter.

For the past 25 years, I have been on a never-ending quest.  Long before the terms “man-purse” and “murse” became popular, I carried bags.  Even though they were never standard briefcases, I always called them “briefcases” or “bags,” but they were clearly my equivalent of a purse.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I always thought that if I could find the “right” bag, my life would immediately be orderly and controllable.  The proper combination of cell phone holders, pen pockets, laptop protection, room for my water bottles, maybe a camera on occasion, a New York Yankees baseball hat, a few notebooks and whatever book I was reading at the time, a padded shoulder strap AND (very important) a well-made handle, and – like magic – I would be good-to-go in any situation.  My life would be complete.  A place for everything and everything in its place.

Ryan Reynolds and "the" bag

To tell you how out of control my obsession is, I spent weeks (literally) on Google trying to figure out what kind of bag Ryan Reynolds carried in the movie “The Proposal” with Sandra Bullock.  I can’t remember much about that movie (except the scene where Sandra Bullock dances in the woods with Betty White to “Get Low”), but I can tell you all about the leather and green canvas messenger bag Ryan Reynolds carried in about three scenes.

As a disclaimer, I spent the first twenty years of my career traveling about 70 to 75 percent of the time by air.  At least three or four days every week, I lived out of bags.  If it wasn’t in my suitcase or briefcase, I simply didn’t have it.  I say this as a feeble attempt to justify my obsession and the amount of money I have spent on bags.

Now, let’s talk about bags.   The criteria I used to justify the bags I purchased included; (a) it had to LOOK awesome and manly, (b) it had to have POCKETS and places for everything, and, (c) it had to be the right size for my 5’ 7” body.  As I searched for the perfect bag, I became a connoisseur all things man purse.  An expert in all things simultaneously manly and purse-ly.  You would be hard-pressed to name a bag that I can’t give you the dimensions for, how much it weighs, and tell you the complete history of the company that manufactures it.

Now let me drop some knowledge on you.  Here are the best-of-the-best.  Bags I have owned and bags I still drool over but have never actually shelled out a week’s salary for.  If you love me, feel free to use this as my Christmas and/or birthday list, I will gladly provide you with a shipping address if you’re feeling generous.

The J. Peterman Gladstone Bag (No. 1006) – This was the FIRST awesome bag I ever purchased and may, to this day, be the best guy-bag ever created.  It was from the J. Peterman catalog and I was a complete victim of the way they wrote their catalog.  The catalog said, Try looking in the attic first.  You don’t have one?   Then it’s time maybe to go to the secret barn. Somewhere there is one.  And it’s filled with everything.  Look … there under that huge pile of saddles and hats … You trip on something. What is it? A leather suitcase of some kind.  You lift it by its handles. It has old European hotel stickers on it. You grab it and practically run…you’ll come back to the barn some other time…

In broad daylight you examine it. A beautiful, mellow old leather Gladstone. (That’s what they used to call them.) Rather defiantly and ruggedly old-fashioned looking. Strong enough to go down the Nile, across the Alps, through the Canal, over the oceans, but still small enough to carry aboard a plane. A thing like this would cost a fortune these days…”

For a mere $385, it was mine (today it sells for $598).  Other than my family, I may love this bag more than anything else in my life.

Mulholland Brothers Angler’s Bag After purchasing the J. Peterman Gladstone bag, I found that it was actually made for J. Peterman by a San Francisco-based company called Mulholland Brothers.  All of the Mulholland Brothers’ products are hand-made (literally).  And, much to my surprise (and my wife’s dismay), they also made OTHER bags !!  While I was on a business trip to San Francisco in the 1990s, I looked them up, tracked them down, and approached their doorway as if I were entering a holy site (I still think that their operation is a holy site).  I believe it should be required that one remove his shoes before walking into Mulholland Brothers.   I walked out with the Mulholland Brothers Angler’s Bag in “stout” leather.  Like the Gladstone bag, it was made of saddle leather (the kind that will last about 1,000 years and still look awesome).  For the next decade, I could rarely be found without this bag hanging from my shoulder.  It racked up approximately 1.5 million air miles – for real – with United and US Airways and still looked like new.  It was the perfect size and was about as important to me as my right arm.  They still make this bag for $495.

Timbuk2 Messenger Bags – For the past few years, I have been using a Timbuk2 Messenger bag (I have two of them).  They make high-quality, sporty bags that hold up very well, but (in my opinion) they will never compare to other bags I have known.  I love them, but I am not IN love with them.

Which brings us to my next bag.  There are three companies I am currently considering to build my next “perfect” bag.  They are:

Saddleback Leather Company – This company makes an awesome bag in a variety of sizes and colors.  All of them are manly, durable and unbelievably beautiful.  I’m extremely partial to the large satchel in “chestnut” leather.

Roots – Although Roots is a Canadian company, I can still say this bag was made in the U.S. since Canada is really just a big suburb of America.  They make nice, high-quality stuff and their prices are better than most of the bags I fall for.  Their “Old School” bag and “Cargo Messenger” are on my list of possibilities.

Col. Littleton Satchel

Col. Littleton – The real object of my lust right now is actually made right here in Tennessee.  Just south of Nashville, there is a company called Col. Littleton that produces some of the most unbelievable leather goods I have ever seen (and I’ve seen most … if not all of them).  You need to check out their web site.  Read about the Colonel (his office is a Civil War tent that still has bullet holes in it).  Look at their bags.  Wipe the slobber off of your keyboard … and then order the No. 37 Satchel for me.  Please.

The last thing I will say about my very real problem with bags is that part of the reason I like these things is that they will long out-live me (or anyone else who carries one).  In today’s world – with email, throw-away pens, cheaply-made clothing, and electronic equipment that is designed to be obsolete within a few years – there is something comforting about owning an item that your grandkids can fight over years from now.  Does anyone actually have anything nowadays that could truly be called an heirloom?  If so, consider yourself lucky.

A few weeks ago I had an opportunity to work with a National Geographic Television crew.  They are doing a five-part special series about the Titanic.  The crew, based in London, flew in to document the new Titanic Museum Attraction and focus on the continuing fascination people have with the world’s most famous ocean liner.  One of the five one-hour specials will feature the museum.

Brendan Walker

Brendan Walker, who is hosting the documentary, was hilarious.  His background is in aeronautical engineering, but he has applied his vast knowledge to building roller coasters, thrill rides and creating amusements throughout the world — and hosting a variety of television shows in England (including many for the BBC).  He wears eyeglasses that belonged to his grandfather.

Unlike the news crews I usually work with, these guys came with a crew and a truckload of equipment (I wouldn’t have wanted to be responsible for their “additional luggage” fees at the airport).  Where news folks come in to get a story, shoot their video, do their interviews and hit the road, this was television — not news.  I think we shot every interview and every scene at least four times (most of them five or six times).  They had lighting guys, a sound man, a producer, an associate producer and two videographers.  I doubt they were familiar with the term “backpack journalist.”

Part of the National Geographic crew

The National Geographic Channel was launched in 1997 in the UK.  It started airing in the United States in 2001.  Today, the channel is available in over 143 countries, seen in more than 160 million homes and in broadcast in 25 languages.  Based in Washington, D.C., the National Geographic Society‘s historical mission is “to increase and diffuse geographic knowledge while promoting the conservation of the world’s cultural, historical, and natural resources.”

It was fun simply because it was so far removed from the television work I am usually involved with.  Beth Haynes of WBIR followed them around while they were shooting at the Titanic Museum Attraction and did a wonderful story for Live at Five at Four (you can watch Beth Hayne’s report by clicking the logo to the right).  I’m pretty sure Beth finished her story, went back to Knoxville, edited her piece and had it on the air before I finished shooting with the crew that day in Pigeon Forge.

The five-part special (each segment one hour long) is tentatively scheduled to air on the National Geographic Channel in the United States and UK this fall.  Once I know more details, I’ll pass them along.

LeBron James

For the record, I was born and raised in Akron, Ohio.  I love LeBron James.   I followed his high school career and was absolutely thrilled that he gave our hometown Cleveland Cavaliers seven great years (seven of their best years).  I completely understand the outrage people in Northeastern Ohio have over his departure.  But (and it’s a big but – not the kind Sir Mix-A-Lot sings about) I do not think he made a bad decision by “taking his talents to South Beach” as he announced he would do on Thursday evening.  I think he made the right decision for all of the right reasons.  It’s hard to say it’s “all about the money” when LeBron left more than $30 million on the table to go play in Miami — and don’t we all expect our greatest athletes to want to win championships?

Even after “The Fumble,” and “The Drive,” and – now – “The Decision,” burning players jerseys in the street is simply uncool.  Cleveland has had a tough go of it with professional sports, and frustration and let-down have always been part of being a Cleveland fan.  I know first-hand having grown up cheering desperately for the Browns (during the Brian Sipe and Bernie Kosar years) and the Cavs and the Indians.  Although I still root for Cleveland in pro sports, I have to admit that the Tennessee Volunteers, now my hometown team,  provide far less frustration and let-down in spite of their shortcomings (plus, Neyland Stadium is FAR warmer in October and November than Lakefront Stadium ever was in the 80s and early 90s).

If there was humor to be found in the fiasco surrounding LeBron’s departure, it was in Cleveland Cavalier’s owner Dan Gilbert’s open letter to the world on the Cav’s website posted the night of LeBron’s announcement.  As he belittled LeBron, called him names, and tried (unsuccessfully in my opinion) to reassure Cleveland fans that the Cavaliers are so much more than a single now-former superstar, he did so in a font that is typically associated with letters from grandma and 50-word book reports by third-graders that usually end with “I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really liked this book.”

Here is a screen capture from Gilbert’s letter, written in a nice dusty-blue, Comic Sans font.  You decide if this screams, “I am mad as HELL and I am coming back to DESTROY all other teams in the NBA next year.”

It feels to me like it it could have used a little smiley face at the end … maybe one with its tongue sticking out.

Jul 082010

(Written a few years ago on July 8.)

My sister died on July 8 when I was a child.  She was two years younger than me and we spent every waking hour together.  Our family was our world.  My universe consisted of four people:  Mom, Dad, Becky Ann and myself.  I was young – four-years old at the time of her death – but old enough to know something significant had taken place in our family.

Becky Ann and me

I remember her.  I remember specific trivial events like listening to songs on our record player (“Yesterday” by the Beatles), playing in the upstairs attic (dusty, hot, wood smell, one small window and a closet), walking up the sidewalk with mom to the library (where they had a Reading Club and would cut out construction paper and put your name on the wall if you read enough books) and sitting on the couch together watching “The Monkey’s” on television (“Hey, hey we’re the Monkey’s, and people say we monkey around, but we’re too busy singin’ to put anybody down”).  I remember when she got sick, and how everyone prayed she would get better.

I remember the hospital corridor outside her room in Montreal, the smell of the hallway and the noises the metal heating radiator made when I smacked toys against it.  I remember my grandpa letting me blow out his cigarette lighter for my birthday while we were in the car making the long trip to see her in the hospital.  I remember my mom and dad being gone – and when they weren’t gone, they were sad.  I remember sitting under the dining room table at my grandma’s house in Ohio (while mom, dad and Becky Ann were in Canada) listening to my record player for what seemed like months but was really just weeks.

I remember distinctly the July day she died.  I remember a bunch of people I didn’t know coming to (my grandmother) Nan’s house.  I remember seeing all of my relatives crying and I remember not really knowing what was happening, but wanting to desperately.

Dad had a dream about her in heaven just after she died.  Someone, well-meaning I’m sure, told me God wanted her in heaven with him – and I didn’t like Him for taking her there for years, maybe until recently.  I asked myself what I was doing at the age of four that made God not want me there with him.  Whenever I loved someone, I immediately assumed they were going to die.  I was terrified that people – myself included – would disappear because I already knew it could happen.  I saw it happen.  It happens.

I’ve known people in my life who lost brothers or sisters at an early age.  I always look at them carefully.  Do they act like me?  Is their outlook dark like mine?  Do they hold on tightly and never take anything for granted?  Do they think everyone is going to die, right now?  For the most part, unfortunately, I think they do.

When you are in the market for a used car or a house, you look at all of the things it has been through.  Was it wrecked or did it survive a flood?  Was there a fire, an earthquake, did they have the oil changed regularly or did they regularly have it inspected and serviced?  All of these things – some of them mundane, some of them dramatic – shape what it is and what it will become.  Sometimes events ruin things and sometimes they make them better and stronger.  Sometimes it takes a long time to figure out which one it was.

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