John Swinburn

There’s a lot to be angry about today. Rage courses through my veins in place of blood. But if I let that venomous fluid take hold, the day and the world will lay in ruins in a matter of hours.

So, instead, I’ll celebrate. Today, the first Friday in June, is National Doughnut Day. This day celebrates the doughnut and honors the Salvation Army Lassies, women who served doughnuts to soldiers during World War I. The trick to celebrating National Doughnut Day is eating a (or several) doughnut(s). Inasmuch as my favorite wife is usually not inclined to indulge in doughnuts, I suspect I’ll be unable to celebrate with an actual doughnut. But for anyone who wishes to celebrate on my behalf, please have a doughnut in my name.  Through my extensive contacts with doughnut aficionados throughout the land, I have learned that participating Krispy Kreme locations will give away one free doughnut today, no purchase necessary. And Dunkin Donuts will give away a free classic doughnut with the purchase of a drink, while supplies last. From 5:00 a.m. until noon, Shipley Do-Nuts will offer a free glazed doughnut to guests who buy something else. I have no idea whether any of these shops have locations in or near Hot Springs, but if they do, I expect they will be crowded with people seeking free food.

Inasmuch as it’s unlikely I’ll have a doughnut today, I’ll also celebrate the number sixty-three. Sixty-three has a long and storied past, littered with glorious successes and deeply depressing failures. Despite that ragged history of ups and downs, sixty-three has maintained its stiff upper lip, neither overly prideful in its accomplishments nor depressed and pessimistic in its failures. Sixty-three is the model of stability, never wavering even a little. You’ll never find sixty-three behaving as sixty-two or sixty-four; sixty-three is steadfast in its numeric station. Let’s all celebrate sixty-three and raise our cups of coffee in heartfelt admiration!

I spent the morning writing, then editing, then writing chapter one of the book I’ve been contemplating for a while. I should not edit at this stage, but I had to, because I’ve not settled precisely on the sequence of events (or even the events themselves) that trigger the drama I envision taking place as I write the remaining chapters.  Between bouts of writing, I conducted more research, which led to still more research, and on and on. I know more about domestic and international nuclear agencies (until I forget) than I ever wanted to know. And I know bits and pieces about the White Flint Metro station in North Bethesda, Maryland, though I’ve not been there. I can describe some of the surrounding buildings, though, and I can give a reliable estimate of the time it would take via metro to get there from the Grosvenor-Strathmore station.

Eventually, I abandoned my writing for more pleasurable pursuits: lunch, an hour plus drive around Hot Springs Village, a stop at the post office, a stop at a grocery store, and other such trivialities. On occasion, I peered at news sites online, a mistake of epic proportions. I learned that the chief idiotic occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is hinting, strongly, that he will pull the U.S. out of the Paris Agreement, putting the U.S. in the rare company of Syria and Nicaragua, countries that opted not to sign the climate change accord. If I had magical powers, I would cause changes to the occupant, changes that would improve this country in many ways. Speaking of the occupant, I watched an episode of House of Cards last night. The occupant in that program reminded me of the real one, except the fictional character is dramatically smarter and far more articulate than the rectal pustule (or should I say anal abscess?) who stalks the halls of the White House. But I digress.

I’ve set an objective for myself that, under usual conditions, I should have been able to meet days ago: ten pages of my novel, ready to edit. But these must not be normal conditions. I keep dripping bits of my novel out of my fingers, leaving other writing to receive the fire hose version, with page after page after page of drivel. That will pass. I have confidence I’ll reach eighty thousand words in no time. After the Arkansas Writers’ Conference and after our friends visit next week/weekend.

I’ve decided to repurchase an old truck I sold a few years ago. How about that? I need a truck if I’m going to do around the house what I intend to do. It’s that simple. I’d actually rather have a 2017 long-bed, hyper-comfortable, all-electric, GPS-equipped model, but I’m a little short of ready cash; about $60,000 short. So, I’ll do the next best thing. This assumes everything works out the way it should.

Oh, the deck needs to be replaced. Did I mention that? I’m still waiting on bids. If the bidders are as prompt doing the work as they are preparing the bids, the new deck should be ready for a party in the waning months of the anal abscess presidency.

Tonight, for dinner, I made an Indian/Pakistani version of arroz con pollo. My wife went out to a girls night out party, complete with food, so I was able to experiment to my heart’s content. I think I may have hit on something special. At least I really liked it; it might be a tad too hot/spicy for some folks, but for me it was delightful. I could have eaten two more servings, if only I’d made enough for two more servings.

I’ve done enough to waste time for the evening. Time to return to PBS Newshour. What? I left it early and, apparently, let it run out completely before I returned. Bad. Bad. Bad.

A series of posts on a Facebook group (Hot Springs Restaurant Reviews) during the past few days offer two very different perspectives on what constitutes acceptable levels of service. The original conversations began when a few people complained about experiences at local restaurants. I’m thinking of two, in particular. One is a pizza place in Hot Springs Village, where a guest complained of being ignored for seating and then, once seating, ignored by wait staff. She left after being ignored longer than she was willing to wait; as she left, she took a photo of two employees in front of the restaurant smoking cigarettes. The other conversation began when a guest complained, again, about waiting to be served and then walking out when patience ran out.

In both cases, the owner and/or manager responded online with a defensive apology of sorts. But in neither case did the apology seem, to me, heartfelt. Instead, I read them as excuses, with the respondents saying essentially (and I’ll paraphrase), “I work as hard as I can to deliver good food and good service, but sometimes I cannot because you just can’t get reliable staff these days.” One of them also said, in effect, “my food is as good as it gets and, even if you have to wait, it’s worth it.” In neither case did the complainant suggest that the owner/ manager on-site offered anything to address their concerns. Even afterward, when apologies came, they seemed to me to be begrudging; insincere is almost too soft a term.

I’ve never run a restaurant, but I’ve run service businesses. I’ve had my share of staff no-shows, interactions with guests by surly staff members, and the like. But, with one exception that I can recall, did I defend inadequate service by saying “we’re overworked or understaffed.” When necessary, I stepped in and took charge of the interaction or provided the customer service necessary to ensure a good experience for the customer/client. Even with that one exception, I took the customer aside and, out of public view, explained that my staff had done the right thing and the customer was in the wrong.

An example of a restaurant that, from my perspective as a customer, seems to be well-run is one just outside the west gate of Hot Springs Village. It’s almost always crowded, there’s sometime a wait, and the food—while not always my favorite—is always good and presented well. It’s a place I think has consistently good customer service; it’s called Home Plate. The owners of the place seem to be there the majority of the time, circulating among guests and asking if all’s well. They serve, bus tables, and keep an eye on the door and the wait line. Many of the staff I see in the place have been there for a while. All of them are amiable, friendly, and seem always to be in a rush, but not too busy to address guests’ needs. I attribute the atmosphere in the restaurant and the focus on customer service to the managers/owners setting expectations and modeling the behaviors they want to see from staff. I realize some other places may do more “from scratch” cooking than Home Plate (though I don’t know with certainty that’s the case); regardless, the operators of the restaurant seem to have gotten the formula down for consistently good service and good food.

I have no idea if the operators of Home Plate pay their servers and kitchen staff any better than others. Perhaps they do, perhaps they do not. But I know they model good customer service behavior, thereby increasing the likelihood that other staff will deliver the same.

I’ve watched other local restaurants and eateries fold after I had very poor customer service experiences with them: Linda’s Diner, JJ’s Chill Grill, Diamond D’s, Elan, etc.  Judging from the customer traffic of another couple close by where I’ve had less than stellar experiences, I’d say a few more will go by the wayside in the not-too-distant future. While none of the places I expect to be gone soon have food I’d consider extraordinary in any way, even if they did, I would be unwilling to give them my business because they seem to care more about their own convenience than the customer’s experience. The very best food, by the most exceptional chef, will not overcome the negativity of bad service.

It occurs to me that the local restaurant and hospitality community might serve itself well by organizing and operating a hospitality customer service training program that prospective employees would have to complete before being brought in for restaurant-specific training. The hospitality community would have to fund the program (I don’t think you can expect servers and wait staff to pay for it), but I think it might be a good investment. In Hot Springs, especially, with its influx of tourists, good experiences are crucial to returning and repeat businesses. Even businesses like the museums, Duck boat tours, etc. might find it valuable. If I were engaged in the hospitality community in Hot Springs, I’d be on board with it and would even head it up. But I’m retired. 😉

Clarvan Strang looked older than his forty years. Too many seasons in the sun had robbed his skin of youth. Knotted brown leather with wrinkled rivers of gathered hide covered every square inch of skin that shirts and pants and overalls hadn’t covered over the years. Crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes were as deep as canyons, the result of a perpetual squint that no longer served only to protect him in the sun but followed him indoors.  Rare passers-by, sitting in horse-drawn buggies on the worn path to town in the distance nodded at the man with the scythe, mistaking the swinging motions of his arms cutting wheat as waves. His cabin, cobbled together from scrap lumber, mud, straw, and tin, could barely be called a house. It sheltered him from the worst of the winter storms, but it was far from comfortable. It provided a place out of the weather, though, were he could sit on a wooden stool in front of the fire or the open door and sharpen the blade of his scythe. The scythe was the only tool he owned that merited such rapt attention. He spent every evening sharpening and polishing the blade, sharper after twelve years than the day it was made. Strang had replaced the snath and the handle twice in those twelve years. The grain cradle attached to it was the fourth or fifth in the same time frame, as the pieces of the cradle tended to break with heavy use. Strang repaired the cradle until the repairs would no longer hold the tines in place and then would build a new one.

Forty years old wasn’t old, but it wasn’t young. In the harsh middle of Kansas, forty could be either. Age and arthritis and too many seasons in the sun caught up with him. He could no longer gather wheat, so he would no longer be able to look after himself. Strang made a choice.  Strang sharpened his scythe blade one last time, putting the finest edge on the blade he’d ever done. The next morning, he attached the blade to the door frame of his cabin, the sharp edge of the blade extending from the frame outward, the wide part of the blade parallel to the ground, about five feet from the ground. He fiddled with the blade until it was as firmly fixed as it could be, then stepped back from it, some twenty paces. He ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, toward the blade, lifting his chin slightly just as he reached it. The blade severed his head as cleanly as it ever cut a stand of wheat.

Last night, we attended our fourth (is that right?) Wines of the World dinner at Coronado Center. The theme country for the night was Portugal. After beginning with a far-too-sweet-for-my-taste port, the wines ramped up in interest and quality. Two vinho verde wines, both inexpensive, were very nice; dry, crisp, and clean. The first, Salvador Lago Vibrant & Aromatic Vinho Verde, was cheapest, at $8.50, but quite good. The next, only around $10 or $11, was Portal da Calçada Reserva Vinho Verde 2015; while I probably couldn’t tell them apart in a blind taste test, I think I allowed myself to like the latter wine a tad better, perhaps because of the price. The next red wine was Prazo de Roriz Douro, 2013. It was quite good, but also considerably more expensive (by my standards, not by the standards of people who can better differentiate and appreciate wines).

The food served as an excuse to drink the wine were interesting. We started with an amuse bouche of a bacon-wrapped date, accompanied by two olives. Then, we had an interesting and quite flavorful potato soup (accompanied by garlic bread), followed by an interesting Cornish game hen served with more potatoes. We finished with an interesting dessert cake, which was best when the last port of the evening was poured over it.

During dinner, I talked with a guy who, I learned, is a writer and intends to join the Village Writers’ Club. He’s an interesting guy, a retired architect, who spent eleven years, off and on, in Japan. He’s interested in writing short fiction for his own amusement and has done a bit of writing. He said he attended L’Audible Art and claimed to have appreciated my reading. Inasmuch as something I’m writing includes an important Japanese connection, I asked him if he’d be willing to read some of it when it’s far enough along, with the objective of determining whether my writing captures (or, conversely, tortures) the culture appropriately. He said he’d be glad to. We didn’t talk politics, but I’m guessing the guy may be fairly progressive. He mentioned having felt, at some point during an exchange while in Japan, embarrassed at being an American, due to the American motivations for entering and staying involved in the Vietnam War. I learned that he studied under E. Fay Jones, the famous Arkansas architect whose work is visible in and around Hot Springs Village, Hot Springs, Eureka Springs, and so on. And he mentioned having intended to have built a house in Hot Springs Village (in a more modern style) until he learned the cost of new construction versus existing homes. I, too, had hoped to build here (a modernist style home), until I discovered the costs.

So, all in all, I’d say the evening was a great success. I was reasonably happy with the wine and food and was glad to have engaged in conversation with a fellow writer who, perhaps, might become part of the entourage of writers I’ve been hoping would develop here.  As that entourage stands, Maddie and Myra and Millie form the core, with Judy and JoAnne being good prospects; and, now, it’s possible that Paul might one day join the crowd.

It’s almost midnight. I should be in bed, but I’m not. Instead, I’m reflecting on the day just ending, stunned that the frenetic pace led to something so smooth. The morning started with coffee with friends who happen to be writers. Then, a flurry of activities concerning a function for which I volunteered but later regretted taking on the task. My regret has subsided a bit, though it remains alive and kicking.  Then, I had an unexpectedly positive experience at an event in Hot Springs. My wife and a friend and I drove to town to participate in an educational program about the history of Hot Springs and, specifically, the Hot Springs National Park. Frankly, I was expecting to be moderately bored. Instead, I was spell-bound! The information was intriguing and presented in a way that made me want to learn more. I discovered so many things about Hot Springs I had not known heretofore…incredible history, both on the human scale and the geological scale. And, if that wasn’t enough, we enjoyed a delightful evening participating in our “dinner for eight” group. Our hosts’ home on a small lake was welcoming, the food (made by all participants, with the entrees and some main sides provided by the hosts) was excellent, and the conversation was truly fascinating. We learned a bit more about our fellow diners and they learned a bit about us. The evening was absolutely outstanding; I could do it once a week!

As I think back on the day just ended, I appreciate how incredibly fortunate I am to live in this time, in this place, and alongside the people with whom I share my life. Too many people on the globe do not have ready access to all the luxuries, both substantive and intellectual, available to me. That’s a terrible fact that I think all of us ought to take action to correct. Where’s the line, though? At what point do I sufficiently diminish my luxuries to ensure the availability of necessities to others? It’s a philosophical and moral question; I can’t answer it with any consistency. I bounce between wanting to be an ascetic, giving my worldly goods away to people in need, and wanting to joyously accept the bounty of my good fortune. Somewhere in between, I would like to believe, there’s a morally defensible point at which I do not have to suffer unnecessarily, but neither do people who might benefit from my willingness to replace my gluttony with comfort.

God, I’ve done it again. I wanted to be joyous in my good fortune, but instead I’ve wallowed in a pit of self-blame that still smells of greed. Ach! If I could snap my fingers and make the world a better place, in which people willingly toiled for their good fortune and willingly shared with those for whom good fortune has given way to bad fortune, I would do it. I really do want every human being to be fed, clothed, sheltered, loved, and free of hatred. And I’d rather like the same for the creatures that share our planet. What a pipe-dream. No wonder people sneer and laugh at dreamers. But wouldn’t it be great if we could somehow turn the world into a utopian wonderland? Well, we could. But only if you join me on the quest. I’ll call you Sancho Panza. You can call me Al.

Back to today, though. This evening was the closest I’ve come to thinking, “you know, even though the idea of ‘church’ is anathema, I might be able to get over it if this is what I might get out of it.” I’m too set in my ways, though, to come to that conclusion so quickly. No. I’ll stay a friend for awhile…or forever…before I stumble into a role I might not want.

A rancid, acidic stew is coursing through our nation’s veins, sickening the heart and gut of the country that once offered the world promise and served as an imperfect, but hopeful, model for humanity. Today, that ugly slurry—a foul mixture of hatred, lies, hunger for power, and naked greed—pours from open wounds, spilling onto an international stage whose audience looks on in stunned horror, as if witnessing a once-loving parent swallow poison and attempt to slash, with jagged pieces of her own broken bones, the womb from which her grateful children emerged. The body politic, infested with rabid, disease-ridden vermin, struggles to rid itself of a cancer so invasive that death beckons. Rainbows and unicorns are powerless against this beast that resides in the recesses of our collective brain. The only cure is a cleansing transfusion of new conviction and steadfast insistence on nurturing the wounded cells that gave birth to the nation so they will divide and multiply, filling the empty veins with resolve.

I just watched a YouTube video in which Emmanuel Macron, the newly-elected President of France, invited U.S. climate scientists, engineers, and entrepreneurs to come to France to pursue their work on climate change. In my opinion, the invitation was a stroke of genius. It also made me wish I were a climate scientist. Recent skepticism about science in all its forms, fueled by what I believe is conservative and religious idiocy and ignorance, is sweeping across the U.S. and is growing in many other places. Countries with intelligent leaders (e.g., France, Canada, Germany) are countering that dangerous ideology by embracing the idea that we who have put the world in danger can save it; I hope they are right. It’s a shame that the United States, once the undisputed leader in science, technology, and pure research, is on track to lose some of its most precious resources and, in the process, its preeminence as a champion of the pursuit of knowledge. Much of the rest of the world is actively encouraging pure research, knowing it offers opportunities for both environment improvement and economic growth. Those lead to happier, more productive societies. There’s an entire world “out there,” calling on decent, forward-thinking people to join in the pursuit of decency. That, alone, is reason to consider traveling the globe.