Folks often ask me about my writing schedule. Well, not “often.” More like “occasionally.” Once or twice a year for sure.

This is what they say, “Since writing’s not a real job, I guess you can write whenever you want, right?”

Not a real job?

“Wrongo,” I say.

Thoughtful people know that writing requires great discipline.  I write every morning—except Saturdays and Sundays, of course. I take holidays off, and maybe a couple of days either side of a holiday. I tend to follow the national banking holiday schedule since bankers work about as hard as I do. (As you might imagine, we require a bit more time off than regular folks.)

Otherwise, I write every day—unless something important comes up, like a fishing trip or the grand opening of a new coffee shop.

On writing days, I sit down promptly at eight…for sure by ten…unless I get off track.

I’m afraid this morning was one of those mornings. You know what I mean?

I got up a little late. I’m normally up at six but I woke up in the middle of the night with some heartburn—probably the strawberry ice cream I ate before I went to bed.

I know I’m not supposed to eat ice cream before bed—at least that’s what my doctor says—but Irene from down the road made this fabulous homemade strawberry ice cream yesterday with Klickers berries she froze last summer. She brought us a quart. Annie hid it in the freezer in the barn. She didn’t tell me about it until we got into bed last night.

I lay there thinking about that ice cream for a while before I got out of bed and wandered out to the barn in my bathrobe and pulled that quart of scrumptious ice cream from the freezer, figuring I’d have a little taste. Well it was darn good. I left the empty container in the sink and went back to bed.

About three o’clock this morning I woke up with terrible heartburn and took a handful of antacids. (I particularly like the tropical fruit kind. The orange ones are the best.) It took a while before my stomach calmed down enough that I could go back to bed, and then I lay there tossing and turning till almost five, so I lost a couple hours sleep.

I’m the kind of person who needs his sleep. So I slept later than normal and got up at nine.

Knowing I was off schedule, I hurried to take my shower and, wouldn’t you know, I got a whole earful of water that I couldn’t get out no matter how hard shook my head.

I gave myself a heck of a headache, still had an earful of water, and was getting kind of dizzy, so I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a cotton swab.

Annie says that was my big mistake because everybody knows you’re not supposed to stick a cotton swab in your ear. But I said that never stopped anybody I know from sticking a cotton swab in his ear and I’d been doing it for almost 50 years without incident—until today when I went a little too deep with the swab trying to get the water out and hit my eardrum and suffered pain worse than childbirth.

Annie says that’s overstating things somewhat since there is no pain like childbirth. But I said that couldn’t be so, because if childbirth were more painful than ramming a cotton swab into your eardrum, there wouldn’t be any human beings on this earth to debate the subject.

I had to lie down for a bit until the pain receded. There was still water in my ear. Annie said here, let me pour a little alcohol in your ear, it’ll float the water right out. Well, she did and it did—get the water out, that is—but I darn near broke my foot as I came off my bed. Turns out alcohol sloshed onto a damaged eardrum hurts worse than ramming your eardrum with a cotton swab—way worse than childbirth.

I thought I’d broken my foot. It swelled up like nobody’s business, but it was only sprained. I put ice on it for a good hour and then took forever getting that foot into a shoe. I had to wear the clunky white sneakers Annie hates.

So, long story short, I didn’t get here to my office until a few minutes ago. And it’s just dawned on me that I haven’t had any breakfast and it’s nearly lunchtime, so I need to get something to eat and maybe a cup of coffee and settle down some before I try to write anything.

It is impossible to write in an agitated state.

Heck, maybe I’ll just wait till tomorrow and start fresh.

Like most, I have a few pet peeves—just a few.

Whatever you do, don’t get me started on people who chew gum with their mouths open. (I don’t want to see it. Or hear it. Or even talk about it.)

And please don’t get me started on the self-centered so-and-so’s who talk on cell phones in restaurants and coffee shops.

“Hi Judy. It’s me, Melvin—the center of the universe. Wanna meet for coffee? While you sit twiddling your thumbs across the table from me, I’ll yell into my cell phone loud enough to be heard in Pullman. It’ll be fun.”

And please—oh, please—don’t get me started on the “customer service” provided by credit card companies, phone companies, and our nation’s wonderful airlines.

Oops! Bad move. You got me started…

Last week, I flew to Atlanta for a meeting. (In case you’re wondering, the meeting went well.) The next morning, I got up early to fly to New York. Atlanta weather was “deteriorating.”

When I arrived at the airport, the big-screen TV showed that my flight had been cancelled. A friendly guy in a red coat pointed me to the end of a long line of people. “Lots of flights cancelled, sir. Just get in that line. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Like a good boy, I went to the end of a line of 74 people. (I had plenty of time to count.)

The airline—one of our nation’s finest—had three agents manning its 20 or so “customer service” counters. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Nine other agents milled about, chatting with one another, laughing periodically, dusting dandruff off their red coats. They all had great senses of humor, but problems with eye contact.

“Why don’t they help us?” the teenage girl in front of me wanted to know. Her name was Debbie. Her flight had been cancelled. Her aunt was waiting for her in Pittsburgh and Debbie had no way of getting in touch with her.

“Want to use my cell phone?” I asked. “You’ll have to step outside to call. I have a thing about people who talk on cell phones in public spaces. But you can use my phone if that’ll help. You don’t chew gum with your mouth open, do you?”

“I don’t have my aunt’s number and it’s unlisted,” Debbie said. “Not too smart, huh?”

“Let’s see if we can get you some help,” I said.

I waved frantically at the nine agents milling about. After a few minutes, one of them waved back. “Just a minute,” he chirped, then continued the amusing conversation he was having with one of his co-workers.

Finally, he sauntered over. His name was Harold. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” I said, in my most courteous voice. “This young lady needs some attention.”

Debbie explained her predicament.

“Let me see what I can do,” the agent said. He walked to the counter, laughed some more with his co-workers, and strolled back.

“You’re in the right line,” he said and wandered away.

A half-hour later, Debbie reached the counter. Ten minutes after that, I did too. My cheery agent was named Audrey.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Audrey said, smiling. “Your flight’s been cancelled.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yes, but you’re in luck. We’ve got you scheduled on another flight that leaves at 9pm tonight—just 13 short hours from now.”

“Can I ask a question before you book that?”

“Of course, sir,” Audrey said.

“There seem to be hourly flights to New York. Is there a chance you could get me on an earlier one?”

“Let’s see,” she said, plunking away on her computer. “I can get you on a 7pm flight,” she said, smiling again like she’d just done some great service to mankind.

“Is that the earliest flight you can get me on?”

“Let’s take another look,” she said.

“Great idea,” I said.

She typed on her computer some more. “I could get you on the 5pm flight, if you’d prefer.”

“Let’s see,” I said. “Yes. After thinking about it, I guess I would prefer to go on the 5pm flight. Is that the earliest flight you can get me on?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“I can check again if you’d like, sir.” She seemed a little put out with me.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s check again.”

She typed some more. “There’s one seat left on the noon flight. Would you prefer that?”

“I believe I would,” I said.

She handed me a boarding pass and checked my bag.

“This boarding pass doesn’t show my seat assignment,” I said.

“The seat will be assigned at the gate, sir.”

“I thought you said there’s only one seat left.”

“I did, sir.”

“Then wouldn’t it make sense to assign me that seat now?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Could you do that for me?”

“No, sir.”

The noon flight departed Atlanta at 4pm.

“Sorry for the short delay,” the pilot said. “Thank you for your patience.”

I arrived in New York and hustled to meet some folks for dinner. (In case you’re wondering, the food was pretty good.) After dinner, I checked into my hotel and went to bed.

The next morning, I received an email from my new favorite airline. “Good morning!” it started cheerfully. Then went on to say that my flight—the flight I was supposed to be on the day before—had been cancelled.

“Imagine that,” I said.

“They’re not changing anything are they?”

“Don’t know.”

“I can’t see what they’re doing in there with all that brown paper in the windows. Why are they hiding what they’re doing in there? Must be changing things.  I’m not going in there if they change anything.”

“Guess they don’t want our advice.”

“Shoot, I been in there every day for the past 20 years. You’d think they’d want to know what I think. I’d tell ‘em if they asked. Yes, sir. I’d tell ‘em not to change a thing. This place is an institution. Can’t just go changing everything, you know.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, they could update the bathrooms. Those need some work.”

“That’s all?”

“And some light upstairs. Can’t see a thing up there. And the awning. It’s seen better days. And I’d keep a good baker in there. I like the cinnamon rolls. You don’t think they’ll get rid of the cinnamon rolls, do you?”

“Don’t know…”

“And they could do some repainting. And it’d be nice if they got rid of the yelling—that ‘Jack of Spades’ stuff. Hurts my ears. And menus would be good. They better keep spaghetti night. I’m not going in there if they get rid of spaghetti night.”

“I heard they’re not doing spaghetti.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. They’re gonna change everything and ruin the place. There ought to be a law or something.”

Don wandered off down the sidewalk, shaking his fist in the air and muttering to himself.  Sylvie stopped to talk.

“What’s his problem?” she asked.

“Don’s worried they gonna change this place.”

“What’s going on in there?”

“Don’t know. Can’t see through the brown paper.”

“What’s it gonna be? Another coffee shop? Or a wine place?”

“Don’t know.”

“Lord knows we don’t need another coffee shop around here. How much coffee can one town drink? Silliness if you ask me. I drink my Folger’s every morning. Make a cup in the microwave. It’s good. And it doesn’t cost $20.00 a cup. Don’t know what folks are thinking, might as well drive down the street throwing their money out the window.  And wine? Gracious sakes. I’m telling you, wine is taking this place over. I liked this town way better before wine.”

“I heard a lot of downtown was boarded up before wine got going.”

“Well, sure it was, but you never had any trouble parking. Can’t find a parking spot anywhere in this town now. Had to park three blocks up the street this morning. Walked all the way down here. Didn’t used to have to walk.”

“Guess we have to roll with the punches,” I said. “Things change. No way to stop it. I read that in a book.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Guess not.”

I walked back to my office. Going up the stairs, I dodged a bunch of paint buckets and ladders.

“What’s going on?” I asked the painter when I got to the top of the stairs.

“Repainting the walls.”

“That color? What’s wrong with the old color?”

“Don’t know. Guess the boss wanted to change it.”

“Change it? Why in the world would he change it? I liked it the way it was.”