…
… For better or worse, Hope and Faith were all I had left.
We burned a trainload of bad Karma in the past ten days. I will not boor you further with the detailed highs and lows. Let us say it was mostly lows, but we found high points when it counted. Last night, I heard Ben’s discharge from the hospital is pending. This morning, I learned it might be today. We all expect him home around New Year’s Day. That would be good.
When he arrives, we will light the Christmas trees, bring out the gifts and share a mighty feast. I will join in, but I already have my gift. I have my son. That is as close to happy as I need be.
Oh, we had a white Christmas in Dallas this year. According to the weather dude, it was the first since 1926. We are supposed to get more snow beginning this afternoon and lasting into tomorrow. Two white Christmases in a row seems as unlikely as anything that happened recently. I shall be gracious and accept it. The new ‘fridge is silently chilling my food and beverage stores. Now, the clothes washer has stopped washing. I am working on a conspiracy theory to explain the mutiny on the part of my appliances and I am smiling as I work.
For a Christmas like this, “Merry” does not even scratch the surface.
…
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Christmas in the Key of Eek!
...
My Christmas season began normally enough on the 17th. That was the day I noticed my trusty refrigerator was making a half-hearted effort of keeping my food cold. I threw out the moldy foods and called the repairman at first light Friday morning.
“They don’t make ‘m like that anymore,” he told me upon entering my kitchen. Then, he opened the freezer door and peered inside. In an instant, he closed the door and gave me the news. “This box is shot. Your best bet is to rush to Lowe’s and buy the Whirlpool they have on sale. It is as good as they make these days. Yours is beyond repair.”
I handed him some cash and he disappeared. His advice ran $10 per minute. “Forget being a doctor,” I thought to myself. Later that day, I made the journey to Lowe’s and went straight to the appliance department. I found the recommended fridge, bought it and arranged for delivery and installation the following afternoon. My last official act was to remove the surviving perishables from the old box and place them in ice chests. It would be hard to say goodbye to the appliance that kept my milk, beer, eggs, bacon and cheese cold over two decades. “All appliances are mortal,” I reminded myself. Ho, Ho, Ho.
Saturday morning arrived, cold and clear. In recent months, I have allowed my inner bum free reign on weekends. It was after eight when I slid from beneath the covers and schlepped downstairs for coffee. After the caffeine kicked in, I strolled into my office to check emails and organize my plan of action for the day. Receiving the new fridge was the only item of consequence on the list. That was destined to change.
I was at the height of reverie when my phone rang. “Hullo?”
“Good morning,” said the soft voice on the other end. “I just wanted to let you know Ben’s diverticulitis is acting up again and we’re at the hospital.” It was my daughter-in-law’s voice. Ben is my only son, of whom I am most proud. My blood pressure rose. “They did a CAT scan and it looks like his colon is perforated. We are waiting for the surgeon to review the scans. He’ll decide if emergency surgery is needed…” She promised to keep me informed and agreed it might be good if I came out there for moral support. Feelings of helplessness tried to drown me, but I went through the motions, anyway. I packed a bag, bought plane tickets, talked to my daughter, who determined to go with and generally wandered in random circles while trying to come to grips with the crisis.
Ben drove his wife and children to Las Cruces, New Mexico only a few days before to visit his wife’s family for the holidays. Since he started in Texas, he was now 700 miles from home and gravely ill. On Friday, the 18th, he played golf. His stomach was not right, so he ate little. As he progressed around the course, he began feeling ill. When he returned to his in-law’s house, he was in pain, pale and sweating profusely. He went to bed without supper.
My flight to El Paso departs at 3:30pm. I had five hours to stare at the clock and the telephone. It seemed cruel that I was pinned in place awaiting a phone call and a refrigerator. “How ridiculous,” I thought, “that anything so unlikely could happen.” The fact that fear and outrage filled my mind made everything around me slightly unreal. “God, don’t make me come up there…” I prayed. What my prayer lacked in humility, it might have made up for in sincerity. I have always relied on Providence to watch over my children when I could not. I consider it a binding contract.
The phone rang around 10:00am. I felt a little chill as I grabbed the phone. “Hello” I said, too sternly. It was the refrigerator. More properly, it was the refrigerator deliveryman. He was ahead of schedule and would arrive at my house by noon. I felt I was on a razor’s edge. I had to wait. There was no word from the surgeon. The early delivery was a good thing. I needed a calculator to count numbers greater than 3.
The delivery went off without a hitch, but the crew had difficulty with the icemaker connection. I called the repairman and asked if he could possibly drop by once more, and soon. He arrived in half an hour and completed the connection. His charges were reasonable. I guess he could tell he was dealing with a near-psychotic lunatic. Once again, he was gone in minutes. I contacted neighbors and asked them to keep an eye on the place and pick up the mail.
The telephone rang again. My daughter-in-law, Tam, told me they would take Ben into surgery as soon as possible. The surgery would require two to four hours. It was time to fly.
The ride to the airport, parking, security and arrival at the gate were surreal. Nothing really impinged upon my consciousness until I felt the plane push back from the gate. After a short taxi, we turned onto the runway and launched toward whatever would happen next. There in the sky, I knew my son was experiencing the awfulness of large scale, emergency surgery on his abdomen and there was nothing more I could do about it. For better or worse, Hope and Faith were all I had left.
...
My Christmas season began normally enough on the 17th. That was the day I noticed my trusty refrigerator was making a half-hearted effort of keeping my food cold. I threw out the moldy foods and called the repairman at first light Friday morning.
“They don’t make ‘m like that anymore,” he told me upon entering my kitchen. Then, he opened the freezer door and peered inside. In an instant, he closed the door and gave me the news. “This box is shot. Your best bet is to rush to Lowe’s and buy the Whirlpool they have on sale. It is as good as they make these days. Yours is beyond repair.”
I handed him some cash and he disappeared. His advice ran $10 per minute. “Forget being a doctor,” I thought to myself. Later that day, I made the journey to Lowe’s and went straight to the appliance department. I found the recommended fridge, bought it and arranged for delivery and installation the following afternoon. My last official act was to remove the surviving perishables from the old box and place them in ice chests. It would be hard to say goodbye to the appliance that kept my milk, beer, eggs, bacon and cheese cold over two decades. “All appliances are mortal,” I reminded myself. Ho, Ho, Ho.
Saturday morning arrived, cold and clear. In recent months, I have allowed my inner bum free reign on weekends. It was after eight when I slid from beneath the covers and schlepped downstairs for coffee. After the caffeine kicked in, I strolled into my office to check emails and organize my plan of action for the day. Receiving the new fridge was the only item of consequence on the list. That was destined to change.
I was at the height of reverie when my phone rang. “Hullo?”
“Good morning,” said the soft voice on the other end. “I just wanted to let you know Ben’s diverticulitis is acting up again and we’re at the hospital.” It was my daughter-in-law’s voice. Ben is my only son, of whom I am most proud. My blood pressure rose. “They did a CAT scan and it looks like his colon is perforated. We are waiting for the surgeon to review the scans. He’ll decide if emergency surgery is needed…” She promised to keep me informed and agreed it might be good if I came out there for moral support. Feelings of helplessness tried to drown me, but I went through the motions, anyway. I packed a bag, bought plane tickets, talked to my daughter, who determined to go with and generally wandered in random circles while trying to come to grips with the crisis.
Ben drove his wife and children to Las Cruces, New Mexico only a few days before to visit his wife’s family for the holidays. Since he started in Texas, he was now 700 miles from home and gravely ill. On Friday, the 18th, he played golf. His stomach was not right, so he ate little. As he progressed around the course, he began feeling ill. When he returned to his in-law’s house, he was in pain, pale and sweating profusely. He went to bed without supper.
My flight to El Paso departs at 3:30pm. I had five hours to stare at the clock and the telephone. It seemed cruel that I was pinned in place awaiting a phone call and a refrigerator. “How ridiculous,” I thought, “that anything so unlikely could happen.” The fact that fear and outrage filled my mind made everything around me slightly unreal. “God, don’t make me come up there…” I prayed. What my prayer lacked in humility, it might have made up for in sincerity. I have always relied on Providence to watch over my children when I could not. I consider it a binding contract.
The phone rang around 10:00am. I felt a little chill as I grabbed the phone. “Hello” I said, too sternly. It was the refrigerator. More properly, it was the refrigerator deliveryman. He was ahead of schedule and would arrive at my house by noon. I felt I was on a razor’s edge. I had to wait. There was no word from the surgeon. The early delivery was a good thing. I needed a calculator to count numbers greater than 3.
The delivery went off without a hitch, but the crew had difficulty with the icemaker connection. I called the repairman and asked if he could possibly drop by once more, and soon. He arrived in half an hour and completed the connection. His charges were reasonable. I guess he could tell he was dealing with a near-psychotic lunatic. Once again, he was gone in minutes. I contacted neighbors and asked them to keep an eye on the place and pick up the mail.
The telephone rang again. My daughter-in-law, Tam, told me they would take Ben into surgery as soon as possible. The surgery would require two to four hours. It was time to fly.
The ride to the airport, parking, security and arrival at the gate were surreal. Nothing really impinged upon my consciousness until I felt the plane push back from the gate. After a short taxi, we turned onto the runway and launched toward whatever would happen next. There in the sky, I knew my son was experiencing the awfulness of large scale, emergency surgery on his abdomen and there was nothing more I could do about it. For better or worse, Hope and Faith were all I had left.
...
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Supercharged Weekend Part Two
…
My sincere thanks go to Keri Wallace and Connie Buntrock of the Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council (CTFAC) for making this blog post possible. Ladies, my hat is off to you! Geraldine Roe of Roe Art in DeSoto, Texas provided custom frames and mats that made the prints look great. Thank you, Jerry!
There were few cars at the gallery when I arrived. “Good,” I thought. I brought a few more pictures and I now had time to install them without interruption. The CTFAC gallery never looked better. Tasteful Christmas decorations brightened every room. Accomplished artists and crafts people staffed displays of photographs, textiles, jewelry and more. I found them all impressive.
An a cappella choir provided cheery Christmas carols. The gallery also furnished cakes, cookies, punch and more delights than I can name for the snacking needs of guests and artists. Gee, I hope some of it was for artists. I dived in, carefully selecting treats that looked good on a white shirt. When the choir finished, a wonderful harpist began playing. I understand why pictures show angels with harps. The music was heavenly. It made everything right with the world.
Guests arrived in a more or less steady stream from 1:00 through the close at 5:00pm. Feeling a bit sheepish, I stood my ground in the room assigned to me. In no time, I began to meet friends and relatives who accepted my invitation to attend. I also met many new people. Most all of them were complimentary, even if they did not purchase. I found the many compliments reassuring. Better still, more than one guest paid actual money for my prints. I was ecstatic! What could be more complimentary to a starving artist than to open one’s pocketbook and buy the product of his labor? Let me answer that for you. Nothing. More than a few prints found new homes. I am particularly grateful to Charles and Gayle Ledbetter. They stocked-up. Thank you. I believe you chose wisely.
At the end of the day, I began the long chore of packing up. It was dark when I reached the highway leading toward home. The Hard Eight closed before I could get there and I was too tired to care. As misty rain cloaked the highway, I lit the fog lamps and poured gas to the engine. My trusty car whisked me swiftly and quietly homeward. I was “On display” most of the day. Now, I sat in the dark quiet of the car and felt warm, lucky and satisfied. It was a good beginning. The middle stripe ticked by in a blur.
When I awoke, I was surprised to learn it was still Monday, December 7, a day that lives in infamy. I remained near comatose until noon. I completed the day by doing nothing. It was all I could manage. I was beyond exhaustion. Who knew something so enjoyable could be so demanding?
You may recall I escaped the reunion party with just strength enough to crawl into bed. I slept the sleep of the just and was in fair working order when the alarm sounded on Sunday morning. This was to be my big day. Actually, it would be the third big one in a row. I kept my dawdling to a minimum and was dressed and on the road by half past 10. The open house and art show began at 1:00pm. I arrived on time. I did not make the mistake of dining at the Hard Eight Barbeque Restaurant before the event. Last time, I arrived looking like I finished second in a food fight. As delicious as it was, I did not want to wear the menu on my good shirt.
There were few cars at the gallery when I arrived. “Good,” I thought. I brought a few more pictures and I now had time to install them without interruption. The CTFAC gallery never looked better. Tasteful Christmas decorations brightened every room. Accomplished artists and crafts people staffed displays of photographs, textiles, jewelry and more. I found them all impressive. 
An a cappella choir provided cheery Christmas carols. The gallery also furnished cakes, cookies, punch and more delights than I can name for the snacking needs of guests and artists. Gee, I hope some of it was for artists. I dived in, carefully selecting treats that looked good on a white shirt. When the choir finished, a wonderful harpist began playing. I understand why pictures show angels with harps. The music was heavenly. It made everything right with the world. 
Guests arrived in a more or less steady stream from 1:00 through the close at 5:00pm. Feeling a bit sheepish, I stood my ground in the room assigned to me. In no time, I began to meet friends and relatives who accepted my invitation to attend. I also met many new people. Most all of them were complimentary, even if they did not purchase. I found the many compliments reassuring. Better still, more than one guest paid actual money for my prints. I was ecstatic! What could be more complimentary to a starving artist than to open one’s pocketbook and buy the product of his labor? Let me answer that for you. Nothing. More than a few prints found new homes. I am particularly grateful to Charles and Gayle Ledbetter. They stocked-up. Thank you. I believe you chose wisely.
At the end of the day, I began the long chore of packing up. It was dark when I reached the highway leading toward home. The Hard Eight closed before I could get there and I was too tired to care. As misty rain cloaked the highway, I lit the fog lamps and poured gas to the engine. My trusty car whisked me swiftly and quietly homeward. I was “On display” most of the day. Now, I sat in the dark quiet of the car and felt warm, lucky and satisfied. It was a good beginning. The middle stripe ticked by in a blur.Once home, I went straight to bed. Exhaustion claimed me.
When I awoke, I was surprised to learn it was still Monday, December 7, a day that lives in infamy. I remained near comatose until noon. I completed the day by doing nothing. It was all I could manage. I was beyond exhaustion. Who knew something so enjoyable could be so demanding? Today, I am fully recovered and a legend in my own mind. It is a small but important start.
Merry Christmas to you all!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Jose Curevo Christmas Cookies
...
My friend, Sandy, sent me this recipe, God bless her. I was reminded that the holidays should not be taken too seriously. While you are relaxing, the recipe that follows is just the thing to relieve those annoying holiday tensions and rekindle your holiday spirit. I plan to try it this afternoon!
Here ya go:
Ingredients:
Sample the Cuervo to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the Cuervo again, to be sure it is of the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.
Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.
Add one peastoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to make sure the Cuervo is still ok, try another
cup just in case.
Turn off the mixerer thingy.
Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.
Pick the frigging fruit off the floor.
Mix on the turner.
If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaters just pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the Cuervo to check for tonsisticity.
Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who geeves a sheet. Check the Jose Cuervo. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.
Add one table.
Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find.
Greash the oven.
Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over.
Don't forget to beat off the turner.
Finally, throw the bowl through the window, finish the Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the wishdasher.
Cherry Mistmas !
My friend, Sandy, sent me this recipe, God bless her. I was reminded that the holidays should not be taken too seriously. While you are relaxing, the recipe that follows is just the thing to relieve those annoying holiday tensions and rekindle your holiday spirit. I plan to try it this afternoon!
Here ya go:
Ingredients:
- 1 cup of water
- 1 tsp baking soda
- 1 cup of sugar
- 1 tsp salt
- 1 cup or brown sugar
- 4 large eggs
- 1 cup nuts
- 2 cups of dried fruit
- 1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila
Directions:
Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.
cup just in case.
Turn off the mixerer thingy.
Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.
Pick the frigging fruit off the floor.
Mix on the turner.
If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaters just pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the Cuervo to check for tonsisticity.
Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who geeves a sheet. Check the Jose Cuervo. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.
Add one table.
Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find.
Greash the oven.
Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over.
Don't forget to beat off the turner.
Finally, throw the bowl through the window, finish the Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the wishdasher.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Supercharged Weekend
...
The days surrounding this past weekend might not qualify as an adventure for anyone but me. I will report it. You be the judge.
On Friday last, my son, Ben, and I drove to Stephenville, Texas to install about two dozen art photos for the open house and show on Sunday. We got an early start, about 10:30 a.m., and worked through the day at either driving or tying fishing line to the photos for hanging. If we had not stopped at the Hard Eight Barbeque Restaurant in Stephenville for lunch, neither of us would have survived the experience. Who would have thought hanging a few pictures could use so much energy?
It was late afternoon when we returned to our homes. I do not know what son Ben did, but I crashed on the sofa, eventually rising to eat and retire for the night. After all, Saturday was going to be a huge day. Cleaning, shopping, cooking and fussing about the house filled the day. It was near dark when the first of twentyish guests arrived. The party was a reunion, mostly, for my classmates from the Class of 1960 [Eek] at St. Cecilia’s Catholic School. We were classmates through 8th grade there. When the first guest arrived, the tables were set with smoked brisket, baked ham, delicious potato salad, Cole slaw and trimmings. There was a small ocean of beer in the coolers, chilled for guests’ guzzling needs.
More food, wine and liquor arrived with each guest. Cheesecake, meatballs, wine, tamales, pecan pralines, wine, pasta salad, wine, brownies and yes, more wine flooded into the kitchen. Thank goodness, one guest thought to bring bourbon! (Thanks, John!) Thirsty guests drained it immediately. Go figure.
I was delighted to see my old ‘mates again. It was the first time I met Paul Awtry in fifty years. He looked great, just as I remembered him. The “girls” were all still cute. No, better make that cuter than I remember them. More than a few of them can really cook and I want to ingratiate myself, if possible. Over all, those who survived to attend this reunion were healthy, vigorous people. I am proud to report I heard not a single conversation about arthritis, surgical scars or even lumbago. Instead, conversations were often funny, touching accounts of life experiences. I felt proud to know every one of them.
Eventually, the party animals began drifting away, physically and mentally. By 10:00, the place was empty. I sat in front of the TV for a while after everyone left to see The University of Texas thrash Nebraska by one point. Whew! Then, I dragged off to bed and oblivion.
The days surrounding this past weekend might not qualify as an adventure for anyone but me. I will report it. You be the judge.
On Friday last, my son, Ben, and I drove to Stephenville, Texas to install about two dozen art photos for the open house and show on Sunday. We got an early start, about 10:30 a.m., and worked through the day at either driving or tying fishing line to the photos for hanging. If we had not stopped at the Hard Eight Barbeque Restaurant in Stephenville for lunch, neither of us would have survived the experience. Who would have thought hanging a few pictures could use so much energy?
It was late afternoon when we returned to our homes. I do not know what son Ben did, but I crashed on the sofa, eventually rising to eat and retire for the night. After all, Saturday was going to be a huge day. Cleaning, shopping, cooking and fussing about the house filled the day. It was near dark when the first of twentyish guests arrived. The party was a reunion, mostly, for my classmates from the Class of 1960 [Eek] at St. Cecilia’s Catholic School. We were classmates through 8th grade there. When the first guest arrived, the tables were set with smoked brisket, baked ham, delicious potato salad, Cole slaw and trimmings. There was a small ocean of beer in the coolers, chilled for guests’ guzzling needs.
More food, wine and liquor arrived with each guest. Cheesecake, meatballs, wine, tamales, pecan pralines, wine, pasta salad, wine, brownies and yes, more wine flooded into the kitchen. Thank goodness, one guest thought to bring bourbon! (Thanks, John!) Thirsty guests drained it immediately. Go figure. 
I was delighted to see my old ‘mates again. It was the first time I met Paul Awtry in fifty years. He looked great, just as I remembered him. The “girls” were all still cute. No, better make that cuter than I remember them. More than a few of them can really cook and I want to ingratiate myself, if possible. Over all, those who survived to attend this reunion were healthy, vigorous people. I am proud to report I heard not a single conversation about arthritis, surgical scars or even lumbago. Instead, conversations were often funny, touching accounts of life experiences. I felt proud to know every one of them.
Eventually, the party animals began drifting away, physically and mentally. By 10:00, the place was empty. I sat in front of the TV for a while after everyone left to see The University of Texas thrash Nebraska by one point. Whew! Then, I dragged off to bed and oblivion. There are more revealing photos to come in the next episode. If you worry about your photo, I accept hush money and most major credit cards. Heh, heh.
Sunday was going to be a very big day. I will tell you all about it next time.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Lie of the Tiger
[Thursday, December 3, 2009]
Here is a phrase I never thought I would write, “Poor Tiger.”
Before the women form an angry mob, let me add I do not condone Tiger's alleged transgression. I believe the Woods’ approached the problem in the traditional way before the press began feeding. Here are some scenarios that might explain everything.
The first possibility is Tiger and Elin were doing the normal billionaire thing at 2:00 a.m. last week. Tiger was driving to the store for milk and Elin was practicing 8-iron shots on the family driving range. Tiger hit the tree while trying to tune the radio to his favorite Country and Western station. Lucky for him, his bride was nearby. Elin freed Tiger from the wreck by smashing in the door of the vehicle with the golf club. From the looks of things, she may have used the entire bag of clubs to pulverize the front of the SUV. She was worried about her spouse. Then the media got wind of the incident. You know the rest.
The second possibility is Tiger’s alleged indiscretion came to Elin’s attention through channels unknown. She and Tiger had a calm, adult discussion of the situation in true billionaire fashion. Tiger took responsibility for his frailty and apologized in the most heartfelt way. Elin shed a womanly tear and forgave her husband, forthwith. They hugged, made-up and rededicated their lives to each other. After a passionate reconciliation, Tiger got in the car to get a pack of smokes. You know… Then, the crash and the rest happened.
The third possibility is the Woods’ household is pretty much like everyone else’s. Somebody ratted-out Tiger and Elin was chasing him down the driveway, eight-iron in hand and blood in her eye. The blood was probably Tiger’s. What is Swedish for “You Bastard!?” Panicked and in fear for his life, Tiger raced down the driveway and into the media grinder. He probably did not even hit the tree. The damage was likely from the golf club(s). Then the media got wind of the incident.
So there you have it. The TV fully informed me. This incident must be more important than the wars and global economic collapse combined. At least that is the perspective I get from the gut-wrenching reports. I cannot wait to learn what Tiger and Elin think.
Oh, wait. Yes, I can.
Here is a phrase I never thought I would write, “Poor Tiger.”
Before the women form an angry mob, let me add I do not condone Tiger's alleged transgression. I believe the Woods’ approached the problem in the traditional way before the press began feeding. Here are some scenarios that might explain everything.
The first possibility is Tiger and Elin were doing the normal billionaire thing at 2:00 a.m. last week. Tiger was driving to the store for milk and Elin was practicing 8-iron shots on the family driving range. Tiger hit the tree while trying to tune the radio to his favorite Country and Western station. Lucky for him, his bride was nearby. Elin freed Tiger from the wreck by smashing in the door of the vehicle with the golf club. From the looks of things, she may have used the entire bag of clubs to pulverize the front of the SUV. She was worried about her spouse. Then the media got wind of the incident. You know the rest.
The second possibility is Tiger’s alleged indiscretion came to Elin’s attention through channels unknown. She and Tiger had a calm, adult discussion of the situation in true billionaire fashion. Tiger took responsibility for his frailty and apologized in the most heartfelt way. Elin shed a womanly tear and forgave her husband, forthwith. They hugged, made-up and rededicated their lives to each other. After a passionate reconciliation, Tiger got in the car to get a pack of smokes. You know… Then, the crash and the rest happened.
The third possibility is the Woods’ household is pretty much like everyone else’s. Somebody ratted-out Tiger and Elin was chasing him down the driveway, eight-iron in hand and blood in her eye. The blood was probably Tiger’s. What is Swedish for “You Bastard!?” Panicked and in fear for his life, Tiger raced down the driveway and into the media grinder. He probably did not even hit the tree. The damage was likely from the golf club(s). Then the media got wind of the incident.
So there you have it. The TV fully informed me. This incident must be more important than the wars and global economic collapse combined. At least that is the perspective I get from the gut-wrenching reports. I cannot wait to learn what Tiger and Elin think.
Oh, wait. Yes, I can.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Starship Enterprise: Have you seen me?
I never dreamed I might live to see a day so dark. Starship Enterprise is gone. Beings unknown removed it from the back garden at Starfleet Headquarters. I suspect those evil Klingons had a hand in this. Perhaps you have seen it. The hull is black duranium steel. The warp engines extend aft and are made of exotic hardwood. A pneumatic disk forward provides directional stability and anti-gravity services. What’s that you say? You think I described a wheelbarrow? Well, the untrained eye might make that mistake. My grandchildren and I knew better. We shared many adventures aboard our Enterprise and visited every corner of the known universe. With a compliment of three and propelled by the warp engine, moi, we raced the space lanes, vaulted space curbs and maneuvered among the stars and comets of the galactic neighborhood. Now, our ship is gone. Our adventures? Ended.
Starship Enterprise
Have you seen me?
I am ashamed to admit I do not know exactly when the Big “E” vanished. I was preparing HQ for a diplomatic fete when I noticed her missing from space dock. I amassed a small mountain of space leaves and sought the starship to transport them to a remote part of the galaxy. Imagine my disappointment.
Worse, if word of the loss reaches the crew, they will be heartbroken. There is no cure for it except to issue NCC-1701A. (NCC = Naval Construction Contract) I am thinking the new Enterprise might be red. I am off to “Space Depot.” I shall not disappoint my intrepid explorers. Besides, we have a new recruit who, after weaning, might wish to take a turn around the galaxy in our star cruiser. Enterprise shall rise again.
Monday, November 30, 2009
H1N1: A Preview of Federal Healthcare Reform.
I will do my best to avoid being tiresome about this.
I fear the recent flap over the H1N1 virus provides an early sample of federal healthcare reform. Even though we have a new administration and a new majority in both houses of Congress, the H1N1 epidemic looks more like the aftermath of Katrina than an efficient response to a public health problem. Just check out the news reports showing frightened mothers standing in long lines only to be turned away at the end of the day.
We are lucky the virus was no more lethal than it was. The government response, as promoted by the national media, created widespread fear, shortages of vaccine and resulted in the disappointment of the entire population.
Now that the virus is in retreat, I am sure spin-doctors will claim success for their points-of-view. I believe there are many Americans who recognize the government’s role for what it was, a magnifier of fear and deliverer of despair.
The federal management of H1N1 provides one more reason to dread federal healthcare reform.
I fear the recent flap over the H1N1 virus provides an early sample of federal healthcare reform. Even though we have a new administration and a new majority in both houses of Congress, the H1N1 epidemic looks more like the aftermath of Katrina than an efficient response to a public health problem. Just check out the news reports showing frightened mothers standing in long lines only to be turned away at the end of the day.
We are lucky the virus was no more lethal than it was. The government response, as promoted by the national media, created widespread fear, shortages of vaccine and resulted in the disappointment of the entire population.
Now that the virus is in retreat, I am sure spin-doctors will claim success for their points-of-view. I believe there are many Americans who recognize the government’s role for what it was, a magnifier of fear and deliverer of despair.
The federal management of H1N1 provides one more reason to dread federal healthcare reform.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Weekend at Grandfather's
[Monday, Nov. 23, 2009] My lovely daughter and her husband just left with their two delightful children. Thank goodness. I watched over the two angels since last Friday afternoon and I am completely whipped.
A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”
It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.
When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.
When it was time for mom and dad to leave, all bets were off. The sense of adventure vanished and a sense of abandonment and terror set in. I have seldom heard such wailing and pleading in my life. Somehow, mom and dad bore up under the emotional assault and fled for a romantic escape to the snowy slopes of Utah. Me? I continued to wail and plead for some time after they drove away.
My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.
“That went well.” I lied.
Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.
When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.
Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.
Eva, how can I ever repay you?
A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”
It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.
When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.
My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.
“That went well.” I lied.
Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.
When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.
Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.
Eva, how can I ever repay you?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Political Rant #11: Corruption in Afganistan? Oh My!
Does it strike anyone out there as odd that our government has discovered "corruption" in Afghanistan? It seems like a long way to go for such a discovery. What's more, unless the Afghans clean up their act, we may not fight the Al Qaeda-sheltering Taliban any more. I do not know how this situation affects you, but I feel a sick headache coming on. A fist full of Valium washed down with a tumbler of good whiskey might help.
I am what they call "Too Small to Notice," but I believe a massive search might reveal a trace of corruption right here at home. Oh, wait. I got that backwards. Make that a "trace of a search" and "massive corruption." We are two elections away from Congressmen wearing price tags on their sleeves and we will not do business with Afghanistan because THEY are corrupt.
At least we have plenty of native experts in the subject on whom we may rely.
Hey, Sam. Pour me another!
I am what they call "Too Small to Notice," but I believe a massive search might reveal a trace of corruption right here at home. Oh, wait. I got that backwards. Make that a "trace of a search" and "massive corruption." We are two elections away from Congressmen wearing price tags on their sleeves and we will not do business with Afghanistan because THEY are corrupt.
At least we have plenty of native experts in the subject on whom we may rely.
Hey, Sam. Pour me another!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Ride Goeth Before A Fall
Devoted readers may recall my Sunday deer hunting adventure. I was almost as good as new on Monday morning. In fact, when I stepped outdoors the weather was perfect. Clear skies, balmy temperature and zero wind were too much to ignore. In moments, I was relishing life from the saddle of my trusty mountain bike.
I was at the top of my game, pedaling as fast as my exuberance would carry me. After weeks of flooding, the pavement was dry at last. Wind rushed through my hair, or at least what is left of it, and my MP3 player pumped my favorite Rock ‘n Roll tunes into my head. Sunshine lit my path and warmed my skin as I swooshed around curves and downhill.
In retrospect, that was the problem. I was enjoying the ride too much. I offended the bicycle and trail gods with my hubris. Retribution was at hand.
I sped down a particularly steep hill toward a curve. This curve was under water until recently. The water left a deposit of dust fine enough to lubricate a clock.
I entered the curve as master of all I surveyed. I exited it as a puzzled soul feeling the great weight of mortality. My concern stemmed from the fact I was seeing sky where pavement ought to be. My brain formed the thought “Uh…” WHAM! “Oh,” The brain finished. The full mass of planet Earth landed on me. I skidded to a stop, surprised and dazed. I lay inert for a time, contemplating various philosophical ideas like “If a cyclist gets creamed on the trail will help arrive before the vultures?” Seconds later, all my thoughts turned to the list of body parts filing damage reports. I began an inventory. Hands? Stinging. Head? Not functioning. Torso? Aching. Legs? One bleeding and the other afraid to move.
As I lay inert, feeling began to return to my parts. These were not good feelings, either. I tried to get up. Ugh. Nope. After a while, I discovered a way to get on my feet. I leaned on the bike and began shuffling toward the nearest trail exit. By the time I reached civilized pavement, more parts were working. I gingerly eased a leg over the bike and tried pedaling. It worked. Slowly, I rode toward home.
Today, I celebrated one week of recovery. I have only three bandages left and they are tiny compared to the gauze wraps I needed during the early days. I limp a bit, but I can use my hands to hold a fork without wincing. That is real progress.
In a few more days, I will be back in the saddle, only more cautious than before. No pictures this episode. Too gruesome for young eyes, like mine.
I was at the top of my game, pedaling as fast as my exuberance would carry me. After weeks of flooding, the pavement was dry at last. Wind rushed through my hair, or at least what is left of it, and my MP3 player pumped my favorite Rock ‘n Roll tunes into my head. Sunshine lit my path and warmed my skin as I swooshed around curves and downhill.
In retrospect, that was the problem. I was enjoying the ride too much. I offended the bicycle and trail gods with my hubris. Retribution was at hand.
I sped down a particularly steep hill toward a curve. This curve was under water until recently. The water left a deposit of dust fine enough to lubricate a clock.
I entered the curve as master of all I surveyed. I exited it as a puzzled soul feeling the great weight of mortality. My concern stemmed from the fact I was seeing sky where pavement ought to be. My brain formed the thought “Uh…” WHAM! “Oh,” The brain finished. The full mass of planet Earth landed on me. I skidded to a stop, surprised and dazed. I lay inert for a time, contemplating various philosophical ideas like “If a cyclist gets creamed on the trail will help arrive before the vultures?” Seconds later, all my thoughts turned to the list of body parts filing damage reports. I began an inventory. Hands? Stinging. Head? Not functioning. Torso? Aching. Legs? One bleeding and the other afraid to move.
As I lay inert, feeling began to return to my parts. These were not good feelings, either. I tried to get up. Ugh. Nope. After a while, I discovered a way to get on my feet. I leaned on the bike and began shuffling toward the nearest trail exit. By the time I reached civilized pavement, more parts were working. I gingerly eased a leg over the bike and tried pedaling. It worked. Slowly, I rode toward home.
Today, I celebrated one week of recovery. I have only three bandages left and they are tiny compared to the gauze wraps I needed during the early days. I limp a bit, but I can use my hands to hold a fork without wincing. That is real progress.
In a few more days, I will be back in the saddle, only more cautious than before. No pictures this episode. Too gruesome for young eyes, like mine.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Hunt
I would like to say at the outset, I do not suffer from blood lust, particularly when it comes to deer. In my youth, I hunted like the character Will Muny in the movie Unforgiven. I shot nearly everything that walked, crawled or flew. Now, I am all murdered out. The thought of killing a deer, or any game for that matter, immediately brings to mind the unmaking of the beast. Then, my conscience reminds me of the delicious and inexpensive meats available at my local Costco. Such thoughts can sap anyone’s enthusiasm for harvesting fresh meat.
We arose early Sunday morning. I cooked a hot breakfast to sustain us through the day. Had I known what was in store, I might have dipped into something a bit stronger, say crack cocaine. We made the drive to the ranch (In these parts, they say “Rainch.”), arriving an hour before dawn. (I took a photo of the Somervell County Courthouse at about 0530!) We silently donned rifles, binoculars, skinning knives, pistols, hats, grenades, MP3 players and other paraphernalia necessary for our primitive adventure. Then, dressed as Redneck insurgents, we trudged through the darkness toward our hunting stands. After six weeks of rain, the earth squished as we walked.
Climbing into a ten-foot tall, wobbly and leaning deer stand in the pitch darkness is no mean feat. If I fell, I would land in the center of a collection of sharp, explosive gear and on top of a cactus. No good could come of that. We reached our perches without incident and began the long wait for Bambi’s father.
As I waited, I discovered my stand was next to the tree home to fifty thousand starving mosquitoes. Batting at them took my mind off the fact that one leg of my stand was sinking into the earth a little faster than the other two. If the list increased, I would eventually topple onto that earth.
No deer were available for shooting. We decided to visit a few local sites, including an old (1886) Norwegian church, St. Olaf’s Kirk. We stretched our legs and I took a few photos. Once refreshed, we returned to the hunt. Still, there were no deer. Part of me was disappointed, maybe insulted, the deer did not show. The rest of me was glad I would not be field dressing a carcass in the mud. I could live with that.
When we had enough empty silence, we walked back to the truck. Deer hunting without deer is very boring and even a little stressful. I found myself thinking “C’mon, you. Show up!” At the truck, we disarmed, disrobed and disinfected ourselves back to civilian configuration. Now, all we needed to do was drive home to hot showers, warm meals and early-to-bed. It was going to be a perfect day, after all.
When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.
It turned out we were a tad short on fear. I nudged the Toyota toward the gate and the hard surface road just beyond. After a hundred feet, I felt a sinking sensation and the truck seemed to get closer to the earth. Much closer. We were stuck. We were within sight of safety and solid earth less than 100 feet away. Reflexively, I gunned the engine. No progress. I slammed the transmission into reverse and revved the engine. The truck moved inches. Then I slammed the shifter into second gear and crushed the accelerator to the floor. We gained inches. A nearby debris pile provided wood, which we stuffed under the tires.
Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.
After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.
When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.
Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.
After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth!
First, some important announcements:
On December 6, 2009, I shall exhibit a collection of amazing photographs here:
Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council
204 River North Boulevard
Stephenville, Texas 76401
(254) 965-6190
The open house will occur between 1:00 and 5:00 pm, CST. Mention my name, and admission is free. Do not be left out. There is still time to buy a cheap airline ticket, if needed. Stephenville is 80 miles south of Ft. Worth, Texas on U.S. Hwy 377. I am looking forward to seeing you there. (Bring your checkbook and an assortment of credit cards.)
The T-or-T took place in my daughter’s neighborhood. I was encouraged to see swarms of small children in every sort of costume covering the streets. Residents went all out, too. My favorite house offered an ice chest filled with frosty refreshments for the weary parent on the front lawn. Several adults in my party took full advantage of the hospitality. In fact, there was a considerable delay getting to the next house as I recall. Many homeowners set up shop on the porch (they have those in Ft. Worth, Texas) and doled out treats from there. Jack-o-Lanterns, scary spiders with webs, skeletons and witches decorated almost every home. What fun! My son costumed as “Old Ben” from Star Wars. His son, Augie, made a great Pad wan (Apprentice). William became a muscular Spiderman, his current greatest hero while his sister, Sophia, was a heartbreakingly sweet princess. Me? I got into the spirit of the evening as Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth. Wait, wasn’t that supposed to be Lord of the Sith? Oh well. Maybe next year.
Once we returned to my daughter’s house, I was able to sample some of the evening’s loot. It is just as good as I remember it. My son-in-law broke out a large flask of “back medicine,” passing it around among the list of casualties. Soon, the wounded were feeling chipper enough to return home, but not so chipper as to need a cab. We quit while we were ahead.
On December 6, 2009, I shall exhibit a collection of amazing photographs here:
Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council204 River North Boulevard
Stephenville, Texas 76401
(254) 965-6190
The open house will occur between 1:00 and 5:00 pm, CST. Mention my name, and admission is free. Do not be left out. There is still time to buy a cheap airline ticket, if needed. Stephenville is 80 miles south of Ft. Worth, Texas on U.S. Hwy 377. I am looking forward to seeing you there. (Bring your checkbook and an assortment of credit cards.)
As long as you are planning a trip to Stephenville, you might be interested in arriving early to enjoy THE MOSCOW BALLET’s performance on November 19. I can hardly believe it myself. General Admission Tickets are $20. I have long admired Stephenville, but I never expected this level of cultural achievement. I am impressed. If you attend, you will be impressed, too. You will also save a fortune in airfare not having to fly to Moscow to see the ballet, or to the Louvre to see my photographs!
Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth!
I had the good fortune to travel to Ft. Worth on Halloween for “Trick or Treating” with all four grandchildren. It was a blast. The eldest g’child is four, so trudging a block or two in costume was real work for all of them. Trudging that same distance while carrying one or two superheroes or princesses was more work than I remember, too. The weather cooperated. Temperatures were mild, there was no wind and the clear sky sported an enormous full moon. It was perfect for the task-at-hand.
The T-or-T took place in my daughter’s neighborhood. I was encouraged to see swarms of small children in every sort of costume covering the streets. Residents went all out, too. My favorite house offered an ice chest filled with frosty refreshments for the weary parent on the front lawn. Several adults in my party took full advantage of the hospitality. In fact, there was a considerable delay getting to the next house as I recall. Many homeowners set up shop on the porch (they have those in Ft. Worth, Texas) and doled out treats from there. Jack-o-Lanterns, scary spiders with webs, skeletons and witches decorated almost every home. What fun! My son costumed as “Old Ben” from Star Wars. His son, Augie, made a great Pad wan (Apprentice). William became a muscular Spiderman, his current greatest hero while his sister, Sophia, was a heartbreakingly sweet princess. Me? I got into the spirit of the evening as Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth. Wait, wasn’t that supposed to be Lord of the Sith? Oh well. Maybe next year.
Once we returned to my daughter’s house, I was able to sample some of the evening’s loot. It is just as good as I remember it. My son-in-law broke out a large flask of “back medicine,” passing it around among the list of casualties. Soon, the wounded were feeling chipper enough to return home, but not so chipper as to need a cab. We quit while we were ahead.
I can hardly wait for next year!
Monday, October 26, 2009
La Reunion
On Saturday morning, last, I drove to the bucolic village of Fairy, Texas to attend a family reunion. I rarely attend these festivals. I made an exception this time.
In my youth, such gatherings were a bewildering parade of old people who I never saw in my life. “That’s my great uncle Wilbur.” My father might say, pointing to a wizened old coot across the room. There were hundreds of strangers around the room. Then there were all those unfamiliar children. I knew some of them. The older ones delighted in torturing my contemporaries and me. The younger ones might leak bodily fluids on the unwary relative. It was my privilege to leak something all over my cousin Buddy when I was quite small. He has never recovered from the indignity. I saw my chance and I took it. (That's him, dozing in his chair.)
This reunion was different. My father had eight brothers and sisters. Dad is gone now and only his youngest and oldest sisters remain. Evelyn, the eldest, is past her mid nineties and headed for the century mark. “Baby sister,” Quata, is an attractive, cheerful and ageless woman. They are our family treasures. One tier back, my generation is now old coots. While the ravages of time have spared me, I am sorry to report my cousins are paunchy, gray bearded, rheumy-eyed old men. (It is my blog. If you have another opinion, get your own blog and publish it. :) )
There were several high points at this reunion. First, there were hundreds of attendees. I admit to feeling satisfaction when someone pointed in my direction and explained who I was to a youngster. (A youngster is almost anybody or anything under the age of 50. It is a sliding scale.) Meanwhile, the kid was undoubtedly eyeing an attractive stranger of the opposite sex, hoping they were unrelated and could not care less about the old coot across the room.
The second high point was enjoying the respect afforded to us codgers. A girl brought me a chair. Someone shuttled iced tea to my table without my asking. Another entertained me with conversation. It was a happy visit, but I wondered if she was working on a merit badge for Girl Scouts. Everyone under the age of 80 treated my generation with respect bordering on trepidation. Apparently, our reputations precede us.
The video recording of the newly ancient telling stories about growing up, being young, foolish, and rearing families of our own was the best. Each of us took a turn sitting in front of a video camera, babbling about our childhood adventures and life with our parents. It was touching and hilarious. Naturally, when my turn came, I went completely blank, except for claiming I was adopted. I might have gotten away with it if my aunts had not shouted their objections. On the drive home, stories flooded into my mind. Perhaps I will share a few of them here in coming weeks. As on tape, I shall clean them up a bit in the telling.
There were several high points at this reunion. First, there were hundreds of attendees. I admit to feeling satisfaction when someone pointed in my direction and explained who I was to a youngster. (A youngster is almost anybody or anything under the age of 50. It is a sliding scale.) Meanwhile, the kid was undoubtedly eyeing an attractive stranger of the opposite sex, hoping they were unrelated and could not care less about the old coot across the room.
The second high point was enjoying the respect afforded to us codgers. A girl brought me a chair. Someone shuttled iced tea to my table without my asking. Another entertained me with conversation. It was a happy visit, but I wondered if she was working on a merit badge for Girl Scouts. Everyone under the age of 80 treated my generation with respect bordering on trepidation. Apparently, our reputations precede us.
The video recording of the newly ancient telling stories about growing up, being young, foolish, and rearing families of our own was the best. Each of us took a turn sitting in front of a video camera, babbling about our childhood adventures and life with our parents. It was touching and hilarious. Naturally, when my turn came, I went completely blank, except for claiming I was adopted. I might have gotten away with it if my aunts had not shouted their objections. On the drive home, stories flooded into my mind. Perhaps I will share a few of them here in coming weeks. As on tape, I shall clean them up a bit in the telling. 
I will save a few for next year, too.
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