Val Muller

This week, 7-11 gave out a free small Slurpee to all customers. Then, Chick-Fil-A celebrated the next day with “dress like a cow” day. All customers who dressed “cow-like” were given a free entrée.

Without trying to be too political for a Fantastic Friday post, I wanted to celebrate the wonders of capitalism. I know that sometimes our system of “crony capitalism” rubs people the wrong way (as it should, when certain businesses are given favors by corrupt government officials and politicians). But while I was on a road trip the other day, I listened to an NPR story about what’s happening in Venezuela, about how the instability in the country is forcing talented young folks to leave if they are able. Their socialist economy has collapsed, and people cannot secure even basic essentials. In some cases, people are so desperate for food that they wait in line even while witnessing a murder—because they cannot afford to lose their place in line.

Juxtapose that with two businesses in the course of a week vying for customer business by giving away goods. Here’s a picture of the small 7-11 parking lot, which is never crowded. This time, I had to park in a lot next door because there were no spaces left.

Are all the customers who received a free drink or a free entrée going to return and patronize those businesses? Probably not. But you can bet a good deal of them will (I’ll be one of them, but I love Chick-Fil-A’s lemonade and sweet tea so much that sometimes I dream about them!).

I’m building a gate in my back yard, and it’s amazing that I can go to Home Depot and secure a handful of various-sized screws and bolts (not sure which I’ll actually need) for a relatively inexpensive cost, along with a bag of pea gravel, a square, various sizes of wood, and several other odd but available items. All there for me at a moment’s notice. And on the way home, if I get hot or thirsty, I can stop at any convenience store or drive-thru and purchase a beverage for a dollar or two and a minute of my time.

It strikes me that capitalism—pure, unadulterated, free market capitalism—is the most hopeful type of economy. It puts faith in human beings who want to serve others the best they can and rewards them—monetarily—for doing so.

The employees at Chick-Fil-A were all friendly and seemed happy to be there, enjoying looking at customers’ strange cow costumes. And the customers were all happy, even despite a line that wove to the end of the restaurant. When we saw how long the line was, my family and I could have easily gone down the street to McDonald’s or KFC, but everyone in line was friendly, and the employees succeeded in moving the line along in record speed—even though most of the items being ordered were free. In exchange, customers gladly spent extra money to add items to their free entrees.

I believe it was John Stossel who mentioned on one of his shows that a capitalist economy is the only one where you will have both customer and vendor say “thank you” to each other—because in free market capitalism, it is truly a system that works to the mutual benefit of both parties.

When humans are left alone, they strive to please each other to mutual benefit and mutual pleasure. And that’s something to celebrate.

Summertime has always been my bliss. As a kid, I counted down the days until I could go barefoot in June. I loved (and still love) when the local ice cream shop opens for the warm months. I love the sounds of crickets and peepers and birds. There’s nothing more magical to me than the point in the evening when stars and fireflies converge so that the horizon no longer exists, and everything is made of stars and possibility.

Two winters ago, I realized what my favorite sound in the world is. I was standing in my yard in the bitter cold, trying to get my dogs to do their business. Not a car was on the road. Not an animal was in the yard, save two miserable dogs who wished they were curled up inside. It was then that I heard it. No plane, no car, no person, no animal. Even the wind had died. For a moment, I checked my phone, wondering if perhaps the apocalypse had slipped in and silently wiped out everyone but me. It was complete silence, and it was dreadful.

I stood and listened to the silence, and the goosebumps on my arm did not come from the cold. There was something disconcerting about that silence. It was the complete absence of life. I realized then, in that unsettling moment, what it is I missed most in the winter.

It’s the sound of wind swooshing through leafy trees. When the winds passes through the lush green leaves of summer, it’s a much different sound than the colored and drying leaves of fall or the crackling branches of winter. The sound is soft and comforting. It’s the sound of life. The sound of possibility. Thinking about how much I missed that sound, there in the bitter stillness of winter-death, I almost cried.

As a kid, I marked the start of summer by waiting for the day when I could go barefoot. Now, each year, I look forward to the day when I recognize the sound of wind passing through mature green leaves. As an added bonus, I love the way the sunlight filters through the leaves, creating dancing patterns on the ground. There are some summer mornings when it’s not too humid yet and not too chilly, mornings when a shorts and tee shirt feel perfect. I captured this picture on just such a morning. A morning when the sunlight was just the right angle, the humidity was perfect to give the dew an almost magical quality. A morning when the sun became a spotlight for one of nature’s masterpieces. It’s moments like that which remind me how great it is—following the observation of Ray Bradbury—to realize you’re alive!

Happy Friday 🙂

My publisher, Barking Rain Press, is running a summer reading special. Now through July 10, you can buy any book for just $1.99, including my young adult novel The Scarred Letter, a reboot of Hawthorne’s original, examining bullying, individuality, and truth in a modern setting. You can find it for Kindle or any other ebook format at the publisher (use code SUMMERDZ)

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A month or so back, I was contacted by Emma Powers of Turo, a peer-to-peer car rental company, asking if I would participate in an “auto”biography blog post about a car I own or used to own. Cars definitely seem like family sometimes, so I thought I’d give it a “go” (sorry, pun intended!).

I think most people have a special attachment for their first car. This was the case with my first. It was a silver (okay, it was listed as “gray,” but I insist it was silver!) Toyota Camry sedan. It had been my dad’s car, and he bought it new. It was the “no kids allowed” car, meaning my sister and I spilled all the fruit punch and cereal in my mom’s station wagon instead. Which was perfect for me because when I inherited the sedan, it looked like new (instead of a decade old, as it was).

Without trying to date myself too much, I had this car before the age of cell phones and digital cameras, so I don’t have that many pictures, and the ones I do have are stored in boxes that are—well, who knows where? So for the most part, I’ll have to use words to paint a picture of my car and all it meant to me.

In high school, I had the useless talent of changing from gym clothes to street clothes (and vice versa) quickly and inconspicuously. In the locker room, friends would glance down to tie their shoes, glance

The old clunker my dad used to commute to the train station, which allowed me unfettered access to the Houdinimobile!

back up, and startle at the fact that I had changed for gym in a flash. Thus, I earned the nickname “Houdini.” Naturally, my car became known as the “Houdinimobile.” It was a simple car, but I took pride in it. It had everything a high school kid could want: wheels, a steering wheel, and a cassette player. I even decked it out with a device that allowed me to hook up my portable disc player to the tape deck so that I could play CDs in my car (back then, this was BIG!).

I was first given the car when my dad got a “new” (older, clunkier) car to drive to the train station for work. (His business provided it, so there was no complaining to be done). The first amazing thing about having my own car was getting to school on time and not having to reply on a grumpy parent to get me there. By the end of the second week, I had my route so well-timed that I could make it through all the lights without stopping if I left at just the right instant.

But after the thrill of getting to school on time subsided, I realized there were more impressive things to be done with a car. As a high school student, there was nothing more freeing than driving to the beach to feel the breeze on my face, or stopping at the local ice shop and eating while sitting on the car’s trunk, feet resting on the rubbery bumper. (Yes, I remember when bumpers came out that matched the paint of the car—I took special pride in the fact that I still had a black, rubbery bumper). I especially enjoyed having the car after cross country practice. Driving home various members of the team after a grueling run, we would frequently stop at Taco Bell, where (back in the day) we could buy tacos for much less than a dollar, which we would happily scarf down just minutes before returning home for dinner.

In a word, having a car meant freedom.

Perhaps my favorite memory of my car involves the hood. Before I “inherited” the car, my dad had a

The “Starfleet Academy” window sticker may offer a clue about my personality 🙂

strange accident in it. Some horrible person had decided to throw chunks of concrete off of a highway overpass. One landed on the hood of the car as my dad was driving (thankfully it wasn’t the windshield, and thankfully it didn’t actually cause an accident). But the hood had to be replaced. As luck would have it (where is the sarcasm font?), the window of time in which my dad had the hood replaced was the same window of time during which a defective type of paint was used, and by the time I came to possess the car, the hood was peeling (while the rest of the car looked brand new).

I didn’t want the hood to rust out, so I traveled to various auto shops, purchasing items and soliciting advice about how to go about repairing the hood. I was met with raised eyebrows from the men behind the counter. “You are going to fix your hood?”

And I did. I sanded down the defective paint job using good old-fashioned elbow grease, used putty to fill in the surface until it was smooth, and used auto spray paint to apply a top coat. Of course it didn’t

The alien hanging from the mirror was my good-luck charm; it moved to the car I bought after the Houdinimobile, and it’s still there today!

look perfect, but it was much better than the defective peeling paint. After that, my car and I were bonded.

In fact, the car never actually “died,” as I thought it would: I used to swear I would keep it until it could no longer run. But because the car did not have an airbag, I decided to sell it. (Anyone who lives near I-64 in Virginia during the summer time, as I did at the time will understand the desire for airbags!). When I sold it, right before I watched it drive off, I took one last breath of pride as the buyer told me, “I can tell the car had one family as the owner. It looks brand new!” It was a decade and a half old.

A decade and a half. It had served my family well for fifteen years, had given me my first taste of independence and allowed me to demonstrate my first bout of responsibility. Fifteen years. That’s a lot of miles.

And a lot of memories.