The office visit

You can usually trust a family business in Knoxville. Good neighbors and the golden rule. I needed an office visit with my local Small Engine repair shop. “The Chainsaw Doctor will see you in a moment”. A one room shack with oil stained benches and tools strewn about. A Briggs and Stratton hospital ward with non-combusting 2 and 4 cycle engines. Instead of farm wagons -now SUV's zoom along the once rural country road.
Most homeowners have had to come to terms with their yard- be it ¼ acre in another 100 piece jigsaw puzzle neighborhood or one of few with lots 1 to 6 acres. Only the small minority hire out all yard maintenance. The rest of us are often in competition with the encroaching woods.
Freud said everyone needs an enemy- mine include scrubby white pines that sprout overnight and spread pollen like glaze on Krispy Kremes. I am also not a bit fond of tulip poplars, the least woody hardwood. My Stihl chainsaw failed me one Saturday when the sprocket drive froze up solid like a rusty push lawn mower left in the rain.
“You needed a new drive clutch so I replaced it with one I had on hand". Only $114 including tax and sharpening the chain. There was no biopsy specimen. “I tossed it in the pile of broken parts”. Like some people trying to decipher the secret bird language of doctors I was unable to ask for proof or do anything but write the check and walk away, seething.
I am over it now. Dissapation of anger is easier with age. The saw worked fine until…it happened again, frozen solid. As I stood in line at a different engine shop way out Clinton Highway I saw hopeful signs. When my turn came to give the symptoms I found myself talking not to a guy in coveralls but a plus sized Motorcycle Mama perched high on a barstool behind the counter. She waited out my serious recitation of the history of present illness, gave a grin, and with a lightning strike gave the chain brake on top of the saw a swat with her open hand like she was beating a dusty carpet . The drive spun freely. “No charge! Come again, sir.” I am sure I will. When you talk to a new doctor you know when it feels right. --James www.flight-of-ideas.com

I didn’t hit the Powerball

Legend has it two unemployed but well-born progeny were overheard lamenting in some upscale bistro around Charlottesville, ”the 3rd generation trust fund money just doesn’t go as far as it used to.”
What would it be like to have means without a care? I admit I have lusted in my heart for some of the vehicles driven around Knoxville or parked in certain lots at any hospital. Gleaming, chromed, and waxed. I try to deny the feeling of derision I feel for someone I do not even know as I imagine the driver is an investment banker, plaintiffs’ attorney, drug wholesaler, or trophy wife. In residency we read a paper entitled, “Envy, The Most Painful Affect.”
Tennessee has a Lottery. Assuming the virtually impossible did happen would I be happy? I have heard of a lot of lottery winners are miserable (though I never met one). Would I still work in the field I enjoy? That would all have to end. Would I still take pictures and spend hours on editing and post-production? I bet I’d be paranoid that I would attract the wrong kind of attention. And full of bad luck. Or get brain mush. All that I hold dear would be demoted by the new surreality. There is joy in simple pleasures earned with one’s own effort. Peg says that is just sour grapes. I say little victories hard won are their own reward. I am glad I didn’t hit the Powerball... I guess I could give most of it away...after I got the new ride. --James www.flight-of-ideas.com

The once pristine view

There is a finger of land that juts out into the middle of Cove Lake. A local historian says that a Cherokee Indian altar once existed under the spreading branches of the oak tree at the tip of the phalanx. Behind this peninsula there is a curtain of mountains surrounding on 2 sides like nature’s amphitheatre. Autumn leaves ablaze for weeks glorify the pending completion of each episode of the life cycle. In the winter the peaks are frosted most mornings. Not a billboard in sight- at least to the northern view. Defenseless, the denuded trees were traumatized this winter with the erection of a pole worthy of power lines. Only in this case the State Park Public Servant put one of those bird house hotels on top. As if the birds couldn’t find suitable natural lodging amongst the 20 mature hardwoods spread evenly across the narrow strip. To a photographer it is like a Motel 6 has been erected in St Peter’s Square. A visual screech on the black board. --James
www.flight-of-ideas.com