High Point's Hidden Wonders

Every time I turn around, I discover something new, unusual, or unique about my home town of High Point. It seems you just have to keep your eyes open to see these things.

Some are pretty obvious, like the giant comma, masquerading as a round-a-bout. For those of us who live near it, the comma offers up a bit of fun as we watch the traffic navigate it. Scary, but quite entertaining!

Some are not as obvious, like the million square feet of business space in our downtown that's only used four to six months out of every year. Hmmm...

And of course we harbor the worlds largest chest of drawers here in High Point. I think we advertise that in our brochures about our fair city. I'm pretty sure we have brochures... I'll check into that one.

A little less known is the giant, unused mall that resides within the confines of our city. The idea "if you build it, they will come" apparently does not pertain to shopping malls.

Meanwhile, High Point University, which used to be not much larger than a postage stamp, has grown to immense proportions. Word through the High Point grapevine says that HPU may be converting that mall into something more useful.

Now I've discovered an alligator farm across the street from the little elementary school where I work! Will wonders never cease!

I walked across the street to get a better look at it this past Friday. I did not see a farm. Nor did I see any alligators. I did, however, spot a sign of hope!

NC Governor Surprises Fourth Grade Field Trip

"That was the governor that just walked over your heads," I told some of our fourth-graders during our Raleigh field trip yesterday. We were touring the Capitol Building as an important meeting finished up.

"Huh?" was one response. Another said, "what?" and one student said, "who?"

"The North Carolina Governor," I said. "You know, Pat McCrory! The guy the lady in the legislative building mentioned just a little earlier?"

I got even more puzzled looks from my fourth-graders. A brusque, but polite voice immediately behind me asked me to move myself and the children to one side.

I did as I was told. I straightened up. I turned around and stood face-to-face with the 74th Governor of North Carolina, Patrick Lloyd "Pat" McCrory.

This may be a good time to tell you about this funny quirk in my personality. I attribute it to my ADD. Basically, when something takes me totally by surprise, I have a tendency to blurt out something from the deep, dark recesses of my brain.

I shook his hand. I looked him in the eye (like a deer caught in headlights!). I even shared some words with Governor McCrory! Words of encouragement, I'm sure.

I puffed up with pride. I went on with the remainder of my field trip with a newfound swagger in my step and my chin held high. After all, I just shook hands with our state's governor!

It wasn't until we were all safely on the bus heading home when it hit me. For the life of me, I simply couldn't recall my words to the governor as I exuberantly shook his hand.

So, Pat, if you're reading this, feel free to leave a comment on Fuzzy, Black Dogs telling me what I said. I can't handle another sleepless night wondering!

The Case of the Missing Chocolate Cake

I go on mad baking binges sometimes. Every now and again, for some unknown reason, I just feel the need to create something. To bake something. Last night was one of those times, so I made a cake.

It wasn't just any cake. It was a gluten free chocolate cake made from a King Arthur brand cake mix.  (Yummy!). The chocolate icing was one of my own recipes, made from scratch and absolutely delicious!

I took two small pieces out of the cake last night -- one for me and one for my wife. Otherwise, it was a completely undisturbed, happy cake on the counter. Or so I thought.

I awoke this morning with one thing on my mind. Chocolate cake! We all know cake is the ultimate breakfast food and I don't feel the need to delve into the details on that one. It is obvious, right?

So I went through my usual morning routine and then made my way downstairs. As I came to the kitchen, the crime scene came into full view.

The cake was missing. In its place was a nearly empty cling wrap container. I put my sleuthing skills to the test and began making observations. The details, as I saw them, were that there were no dogs to be found and no broken glass, so the dogs didn't eat it. Another detail was that my son is 17, and, while possible, it's not really feasible that he could have eaten an entire chocolate cake in one evening. Right?

It is possible that a 17 year old can actually put something up. I've seen it happen. I checked the refrigerator. I checked the microwave. I checked on top of the refrigerator. I checked the pantry. I checked the refrigerator again. Then I checked the 17 year old's room.

I woke him and kindly interrogated him, using his sleepy state to my advantage. Another dead end!

Then I remembered my wife telling me she needed a snack for her classroom. Though I fixed popcorn for her little second-graders, the clues were all pointing to my wife! Gasp!

An entire chocolate cake for snack time? Second-graders? A healthy breakfast does not a healthy second grade snack make!

I got to school and texted her. While I have yet to hear from her, I fully intend to extract a confession from the guilty party when she gets home from school today.

Case closed. I think.

Lawn Mower Comes Down with the Flu

I love this time of year! Warm weather. Shorts and flip-flops. Pools opening. Leaves finally returning to the trees. Flowers blooming. Grass growing...

Well, you can nix that last one for one simple reason -- lawn mowing season! Anyone that knows me knows that I am not a yard maintenance kind of guy.

"I hope your mower works," my wife said helpfully as I went to break out my lawn mower for the season.  "You know, you never got it winterized. And I don't know if you ever covered it properly for the winter."

The ailing, evil grass cutting machine.

I love my wife, but she says the silliest things! I walked with confidence to where I stored my lawn mower for the winter. Somehow, the cover had come off the self-induced torture device.

I pulled it out anyway. I brushed it off. I checked the oil. Check. I eyeballed the gas tank. Hmm. I topped it off. Check. Concluding my mechanical knowledge, I cranked it on up. Perfect.

And then it cut off. Hmm. Maybe I should have winterized it. I jiggled it to mix the old gas with the new gas. I cranked it up. Perfect. And then it cut off again!

I told my wife I was heading to the gas station to get some orange juice for the mower. "It has the flu, honey," I said, explaining that I was really getting fresh gas.

"Check the filter before you do anything else," she replied. There she goes acting like she knows machines again! Silly!

I decided to humor her and checked the filter. It was a little gummed up. Only a little, though. I cleaned it out and started the infernal machine.

Strange. It actually ran a little better. I managed to mow a majority of the yard with it cutting off in three to five minute intervals.

I managed to cut the grass, as well as the cursing and curses to a minimum as the mower's brief running intervals hummed happily longer. And then, it reached the end of its rope, so to speak.

I was planning to get a white candle to light on the mower while I perform a healing dance. My wife, however, suggested a lawn mower mechanic.

She's been lucky so far. I may just follow her advice.

The Fuzzy, Black Dogs' Taste Test

I fairly recently had a birthday. In fact, I turned 47, thank you very much. So far so good, right? Reflecting upon that vast amount of time, I realized that, while I enjoy playing in the kitchen, I haven't always been the avid, amazing chef that I am today.

While my poor wife and son put up with a lot of my craziness, at least they don't have to suffer my cooking. I can make an excellent chicken tetrazzini. My sister-in-law particularly liked my spinach stuffed manicotti I made once. My father-in-law likes my cakes and most everyone likes my manic, mad cookie baking binges!

While I am enjoying tooting my own horn, I must admit that not everything I make is a masterpiece.

There have been some gluten free bread loaves that would make great door stops. Cardboard tastes better than some of my gluten free saltine crackers. I've made some gluten free pizza crusts that failed two out of three fuzzy, black dogs' taste test (Bob eats anything!).

And my latest cooking venture? It was simply titled Meatza Pepperoni Pizza. It's been several days since I attempted that creation -- I just can't call it a meal.

Instead of a typical bread crust, it uses ground beef in place of the crust. That's right. No bread, just meat. My recipe didn't call for anything that could be misconstrued as healthy. Instead, it called for sauce, cheese and pepperoni. Each of these ingredients simply go on top of the meat crust.

"Good gosh, Dad," my son exclaimed. "Are you trying to kill us?! What is this? Cholesterol spiking, heart attack in a cookie sheet?!"

Needless to say, I won't be going into details on the "four star" recipe we printed off the internet. I won't even bother with some of the other comments that were made, except to say that it did pass the fuzzy, black dogs' taste test.

I will say, though, that it sure looked a lot better in the picture than it did in my house!

To Pirate, or not to Pirate...

I have a 17 year-old son. Funny thing about 17 year-olds is that they typically aren't known as stellar conversationalists! While my son can be a very well spoken young man, he is no exception.

"Hey Dad," he said to me one morning. "If you were a pirate, what would your pirate name be? What would be the name of your ship? What animal would you have? What appendage would you lose and how would you replace it?"

Being the awesome father I am, I indulged his 17 year-old nuttiness. That's where I went wrong.

My original pirate name was simply Arrrrrrr! After he pointed out that I would be called Captain Constipation, I changed my name to Captain Blackheart because I felt it sounded intimidating.

While I don't remember my ship's name, I do remember my pirate animal being a parrot that would say, "Blackheart's gonna kill ya dead! Squawk!"

After some ridicule from the 17 year-old contingency in my household, I changed my pirate animal to a lemur. A really creepy lemur with big, haunting eyes.

We started talking at length about our crews. My crew, I pointed out to him, would be a deadly force of confident pirates since I would teach them to read, write and fend for themselves out in the world! I explained that originally, pirates were probably at-risk youth who needed to make a way for themselves. I would provide them that way.

The appendage I would choose to lose would be a pinky. Why? Simply because my guns would have to be custom made and no one who had pinkies would be able to accurately shoot them. If someone got my guns, I would have a good chance of survival!

"What the heck, dad," my son said, laughing. "You would be Captain Constipation! Your ship's name would be the Redundancy! Your pirate animal is nocturnal! You're getting specialty guns knowing you're going to lose them in battle and be shot at! And, worst of all, you're an outreach program for wayward youth!

"Then what? Are you going to get them matching t-shirts? Going to have bonding campfire moments with them?"

After his not-so-brief laughter, he proceeded to tell me what a horrible pirate I would be.

"By the way, dad," he said. "I'm out of gas. Can I have $20?"

Car Dream -- Denied!

"Oh, honey, look," I exclaimed excitedly to my wife in the car. "It's a little red VW Rabbit convertible! There's no tags on it... Hmmm... I wonder if it's for sale?!"

"Doesn't matter if it is," she responded cooly. "They wouldn't sell it to you. They can't."

I paused a moment. I pondered her words, wondering what she meant. Obviously, I wouldn't be purchasing any car over $20 any time soon, but that was beside the point.

"I hear your gears grinding," she continued. Wives are amazing that way. "You can quit thinking about it. I've put you on the list. It's called the National Registry of People with Stupid Addictions."

She explained to me that some people have real addictions, such as gambling, alcohol, drugs, and other substances that people invariably overuse. Then there are people, like me, she said, who have stupid addictions, like Volkswagens.

"So I've added your name to the NRPSA (I've given it an acronym for simplicity sake). It's distributed widely and no one will sell you a VW. You have bad luck with them so you need to get over your love affair with them. They're just cars, honey!"

Just cars?! While I may not be the manliest man in the world, I do love cars! Especially VW's! Such blasphemy!

Maybe she was referring the the VW Dasher deisel my family once owned. According to my mother, that car spent more time in the shop than it did on the road. Or maybe the Jetta. The Jetta leaked every time it rained and eight mechanics couldn't figure out the where, why or how it leaked. It was eco-friendly, though. I actually had a plant growing from the back floormat.

While those were before her time, she personally became acquainted with the Scirocco I owned. I loved that car. She hated it. It had a tendency to shake when it idled, but only a little bit. There were derogatory comments made about our newborn, my car and shaken baby syndrome, so I got rid of it.

Then there was the VW Beetle. I paid $300 for that 1970 vehicle in 2004. It had a few problems, like standard size doors on a Super Beetle body. There were some mix and matched engine parts. The brakes sometimes worked. And, as my father once noticed, you could see the road go past by simply looking down. Silliness!

Of course, I convinced my wife I needed a Cabrio when my Volvo was totalled. You know, the convertible top opened and closed just like it should on that car. I sure liked opening and closing the top on that car. It was fun.

Regardless, I'm questioning this NRPSA thing. Of course I trust my wife, but I'm tempted to Google it anyway. That couldn't possibly be real, could it?