Sit down to eat, drink and travel

I don’t like to travel. Never have. That’s why they invented the Travel Channel. For me, traveling is like going to Colorado. Once you’ve seen one mountain you’ve essentially seen them all. That’s about a ten-minute experience and a life-long memory.

    I know people love to travel and good for them. Travel is a huge business world-wide. It just doesn’t interest everyone. I get worked up if I have to drive over to Yoder.

   I remember going to Colorado with lots of film one summer and when we returned I had rolls and rolls of film developed and when the prints came out it looked as if we had photographed the same mountain over and over. I was not amused.

   My rich sister just got back from Mexico. She told me she saw something earth-shaking and unique while avoiding drug cartels and serial murderers. She visited a salon where people in search of pedicures placed their feet in a bowl full of tiny fish. The fish are employed to bite the dead skin off feet. I realized this is one of the many reasons I am not rich. This sort of exercise is lost on me, so why have a bunch of cash to waste just for the opportunity to feed fish with my feet. Just consider the mind it required to come up with that practice. Somebody certainly has a lot of time on his hands. It’s no wonder Mexico is a homicidal wasteland.

    According to the Central Intelligence Agency, “Since 2007, Mexico's powerful drug-trafficking organizations have engaged in bloody feuding, resulting in tens of thousands of drug-related homicides.”

    That’s just the place I’d like to go. Bring your friends. Better yet, bring your enemies. If you ever wanted to bump someone off, what better way to do it? Invite your really aggravating neighbors to come along on your trip and once there invite them down for a pedicure and then let the fish and the cartels do your dirty work for you.

   I recently traveled to Chicago. I had no choice. My daughter ordered me to go up there. All I learned after four days was that Chicago taxis list a bunch of fees and fines on a little plastic list on the backseat for the passenger. The most interesting item was “Cab vomit cleanup fee $50.” I immediately wondered if I were traveling in one of Chicago’s premier vomit cabs. I would have asked the driver but he was listening to loud foreign music and talking on his cell phone and no doubt texting as well, by the haphazard way he was driving.

     While I was in Chicago I had the best hamburger on the planet at the Rosebud Restaurant, which is just up the street from The Drake Hotel. The Drake, by the way, has some old-fashioned stuff. In their Palm Court every afternoon they hold a Ladies Tea, and any day of the week women show up in their Sunday best to hang out with one another, drink tea and gobble pastries. I attended and seated myself at the back of the well-appointed room.

    Suddenly I was listening to “Somewhere over the Rainbow” played by a harpist in a sultry black gown who was performing in front of an enormous running fountain.  This was better than therapy or liquor. It was the sort of momentary escape that soothes the soul, except I remembered I was in Chicago, a city that breeds gangsters like rabbits. The thought made me glad I had picked a seat against a wall in the corner so as to observe any funny business. After all, to date Chicago has reported 2,361 people who have been shot, 408 of them killed.  Funny how none of the travel ads note such mind-numbing numbers.

    I’ve considered traveling to exotic places: the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids, the former Berlin Wall, and the Amazon. But the hassles always outweigh the rewards.   

    Anyway, anyone who travels these days carries a phone around just to show off their last trip. Like it or not, once the subject comes up, the person with the phone has your attention and shows you photo after photo of a desert: fine, beautiful, endless white sands, hundreds of photos that sure look a lot alike. And then once you’ve experienced every detail of their last trip, for dessert they want to show you cute cat photos they found on the internet (always an in-depth entertainment), or photos of their grandkids. Here’s where I get into lots of trouble. Show me a grandkid on your phone and I’ll usually provide a reaction. “Holy mackerel,” I might say, “Honestly, that kid’s actually uglier than the last one.” This is why I have few friends.

    I’m usually very adept at interrupting my visitors and getting out of there but I’ve not mastered a good smooth excuse to remove myself without being rude while enduring an endless display of travel photos. I’ve considered keeling over while screaming “call 911!”, but I know the ambulance folks have better things to do.

    The worst trip I ever had was aboard a Greyhound Bus. I worked in the baggage department of Greyhound, so my trips were discounted. I traveled to Newport, Rhode Island, to attend the famous jazz festival there. Since I sat at the back of the bus, I sucked in fumes all the way from New York to the festival, which gave me the worst headache of my life. After an hour or so, I returned to the bus depot to await the morning bus. I sat most of the night observing a prostitute and a sailor making eyes at one another. That proved to be better entertainment than the festival. Returning home, I swore off bus travel.

    There are really only two things I’d like to see. One is an oozing volcano rich in running lava; the other is the icebergs of the Antarctic. I would need to travel to see either one of them, but it’s not like either one is a cab ride away. They both require some heavy- duty travel; then there’s the passport, the reservations, the packing, the planning, the calling of everyone on the planet to help with last minute chores, parking the cat, getting cash, buying a camera phone, learning how to use it; and then, of course, there is the planning for the return. Many people make the mistake of coming back on the Sunday before they return to work. That’s bad business. You need wind-down time during which you can arrange your lava photos or pix of icebergs to stir the imaginations of your friends.

    Humans need a vacation after their vacation and most of us don’t have the time for that. We can’t wait to get back to work to wow our colleagues with photos or get to the family reunion to show off pictures of our latest adventure.

    I say stay home and avoid the hassles. Get a library card and check out a picture book and camp out in your easy chair. Chances are you won’t get arrested or shot. You might get a headache, but the trip is worth the price of admission. Anyway, that’s one of the many sacrifices you make when you travel. 

Are experts smarter than you are?

I have decided to pursue a new career as a TV expert.

    You might have noticed that television talk shows have now adopted a five-person forum for any and all subjects. There is the host and four experts who comment on the news of the day. These folks are so smart it doesn’t matter whether the conversation is about the Ebola outbreak in the world or how to remove stains from silky shirts. These folks are the ones to call.

    Some folks seem to have their own place in the TV expert world. I’ve seen Sen. John McCain on so many programs, I have wondered from time to time if he isn’t really the president while that Barack guy is merely a placeholder. McCain will answer any question put to him.

    Being a TV expert would offer a number of adventures. Surely they will gain huge amounts of weight since many of these shows now offer a table full of pastries no one seems to eat. I would not only eat the pastries between my talking ditties, I’d bring an extra bag to take the leftovers home. These are tough times and pastries should never be wasted. A country that wastes pastries is a country on the decline. Take it from me. The Expert.

   I am struck mostly by the range of information and opinions these TV experts seem to possess. I’m an honors graduate of a small college (so small we could not afford school colors!), and I know a lot (if I say so myself), enough to convince some people I know more than I really do, which makes me, according to Webster’s Dictionary, a blowhard, which is the best definition I’ve found of a newspaper columnist. And yet it’s a little difficult to be an expert in national politics, while also being a competent observer of military maneuvers in Botswana, understanding the range of reality shows starring little people, as well as race relations in Boston, knowing who is the best Scrabble player on the U.S. Supreme Court, being able to quote oil prices nationwide, and have an in-depth knowledge of the better brands of mustard.

    I don’t know how much these so-called experts earn per show, but I suspect they are paid by the number of words they speak, since everyone speaks at the same time.

    We don’t really know these TV people’s true expertise because they are introduced swiftly and innocuously, meaning in a manner that is uninteresting, not stimulating, nor significant.

    For example, the host will say, “I’d like to welcome Dr. Martin Leatherbrain from Louisiana State University’s Legal and Ethics Department, whose recent efforts resulted in the release from prison of two men who spent the last twenty years on death row. He will be talking today about the high price of produce, especially oranges.

     “Also, welcome to Ian Everwhite, whose background in race relations is so extensive he changed his name to represent his expertise. He is here today to discuss the national debt and the decline of film parts starring Richard Gere. Mr. Everwhite once met a former girlfriend of Mr. Gere’s and actually met the actor himself at a cocktail party.”

    The host continues, “I would also like to welcome our longtime colleague Amy Wormwood, a political strategist whose new book, “Where Am I and Why Am I Here?” hits the bookshelves Monday.

    “Finally, a very special welcome to Senator John McCain, who is here on short notice since our scheduled guest, Racebaiter Johnson, was apparently arrested by federal authorities as he crossed the state line en route to our studio this morning. I don’t know what charges Racebaiter faces, but I have scheduled an appearance by him next week, which should make for an exciting show.”

    The host generally is as mysterious as the guests. There is no bio of these people. They could all be residents of the Witness Protection Program, for all we know, but they are always ready to explore any subject on the face of the earth.     

   The last humans able to discuss any and all subjects were folks like Socrates and Aristotle and Donald Trump, although I meant they were able to discuss things intelligently, so knock off that last name. And yet, even smart experts like Aristotle would not do well on modern television, which operates according to the clock. I can imagine the chatty host addressing Aristotle: “OK, Ari, before we go to break. What exactly is the meaning of life? We have twenty seconds.”

    The only expert whose qualifications are readily understandable and somewhat believable are the guests who show up in jungle hats and goofy shorts from zoos around the country. They appear with huge snakes across their necks or holding a mongoose or tiny bears. We assume they know something about animals because they are dressed for the part and they’ve not been killed even though a lethal animal is hugging their leg.

    Most other TV experts all have the same dress code. The men show up in suits as if they are about to attend a job interview and the women look like they are off to church once they have finished yapping in the studio. Oddly enough, you might see the same experts on various shows on the same day, which only means they are sending their children to fancy schools and need the extra cash.

    I don’t begrudge anyone a job. But these so-called experts have had their time and have made little difference in the national discourse. They don’t process information. They more or less mumble facts that don’t make any sense whatsoever and rarely present a cogent argument pro or con. In fact, these talking heads on all sides have accomplished nothing but mucking up the gears of democracy so deeply, the country is split down the middle. It’s time to change the formats.

     If you’re not going to employ experts, then employ regular people. They’re entitled to have an opinion and since expertise is really beside the point, then open up the show so the rest of us can shoot off our mouths.  I realize this is what the Internet offers. But it’s always nice to match a face with an opinion.

    Regular people have as much a right as anyone to sound silly and look stupid on television. You don’t have to be an expert.

   Obviously, I need to buy some new ties.

Rest your eyes, save America!

There are two ways to improve America’s economy.

The first way is to establish the nap in the workplace. I know, I know. Herbert, your co-worker snores. Or Sabetha, the cute one, drools. Or Oscar, the fat one, talks in his sleep and since he’s Serbian no one can understand the words. You have learned these incredibly interesting facts over the years by listening to people at lunch or being around them when they unofficially napped while the boss was gone.

    Let’s face it. You nap anyway. There’s no human on earth who has never nodded off at a meeting, in front of a computer, or even while awaiting a lucrative sale in front of the ladies shoe counter while Mrs. Highbottom decides which of the twenty boxes on the floor she intends to take home.

    And by the way, when Mrs. Highbottom hits the road with her new shoes, believe me, she’s heading home for a quick nap.

    If Americans want to beat the Russkies or the Chinese at world economic domination, more work isn’t the answer. Better work is the answer.

   I would begin by asking job candidates at their interview whether they sleep at work. If one of them says yes, either that candidate’s a dunce or an incredibly thoughtful person who simply cannot tell a lie. Hire the dude or dudette immediately.

   A nap is a quick 20-minute to a half-hour escape from work. You rest your brain.

    Installing naps into your company’s list of perks also offers a new way to honor good workers. Instead of giving them cheap watches that fall apart in a month, you can give them new firm pillows to use at work. The pillowcase is optional unless you want to put the company logo on it, that way the employee can be further programmed about the company even during sleep.

    Do you really think those Kansas State Troopers are watching you speed down the highway when they are parked in the median of the road? Please. They are taking a snooze. And good for them. Shooting bad guys requires an alert lawman. Take a nap there, Sheriff Bubba, and rest up for the real big events. I approve.

   Like many workers, State Troopers carry a significant burden. They are loaded up with guns, ammo, pepper spray, vest, clubs, lip gloss, nail clippers, jellybeans, hand mirror, and that silly hat, which all add up to big-time weight. Try to carry all that stuff around every day and you’ll need a snooze most afternoons.

    Anyway, a nap would do wonders for your boss, especially if he or she is one of those maniacal power brokers who spend their days trying to make your life more miserable than it need be. Even if a nap only takes a little bestiality out of the boss, then the time used is not wasted.

    And since you’ve napped as well, you’re strong enough to continue taking the boss’s awful abuse.

    By the way, wouldn’t it be great if there were a public shame spot on the internet where all bad bosses could be exposed for what rotten bums they are? Why should you spend half your life being abused when a little exposure on line could alert other higher-ups in your company about how cruel and small some supervisors are? Power does corrupt, you see, and many of us simply don’t know how to use the authority we suddenly receive.

    The second way to help America’s economy is by adopting official mental health days into your company’s list of perks. Say three days per year. This gives you permission to call up the boss, tell him/her exactly what you think of him/her—screaming is optional—and informing the company that you are taking a mental health day tomorrow and if they don’t like it they can lump it. This action provides two things: it proves beyond measure that you are a bit of a wacko in the mental department, which gives you official cover for your outburst, and secondly, allows you to do openly what you do secretly—get tired of working and staying home by calling in sick. Official Mental Health Days relieve workers and relieve co-workers of having to be around a person who is burning out or burning up. People who are rested and happy rarely purchase oversized firearms and bring them to work. They would rather bring in a pillow to rest their weary head during naptime.

    Work naps will help unemployment as well. Companies will have to hire sleep monitors who can read workers to sleep, using nursery tales, Biblical verses, or better yet, have them read the boss’s pointless memos. That ought to accelerate naps big time.

   For example, consider this boss’s note: Happy Holidays. We have changed the holiday turkey give-away. Instead of picking up a turkey and seeing me dressed up in the company’s bird outfit, employees will now receive a coupon for a free turkey in their mailboxes. You will have to show identification to the mailroom before your coupon is released and please sign the form provided. Please pick up the coupons Friday between 2:27 pm and 3:34 pm, so as not to interrupt the workday anymore than is necessary.  If you have any objections—religious, political or social—to turkeys, please see Miss Wescott in HR. I believe she has some chicken coupons as substitutes. She will be leaving early Friday for a convention, so please let her know ASAP, or, as soon as possible. I would like to thank the members of the Turkey Committee for their hard work in establishing this year’s turkey give-away. You know who you are.

     I would humbly suggest cutting this column from your paper and secretly place it on your boss’s desk, or under his or her windshield wiper. Put a Hershey’s Kiss next to it. Next time you come in contact with your boss, just yawn and excuse yourself. Before you leave, say something inappropriate, but say it as if it were a mistake, like a twitch or an involuntary outburst—like you’re a little nuts. It will get the boss thinking, which, in my experience, is progress. 

    Since I am unemployed, I get a mental health day every day, as well as a nap. Yet, hitting all these keys on my keyboard is just exhausting. I’m going to take a nap now. Later I’m getting my monthly pedicure and manicure. I need to rest up for that. I’ll need to go through the mail later, which is tedious and dangerous since the letter opener is a sharp object and then there are the possibilities of papers cuts, which can be very dirty and toxic. Afterwards, someone might want to come over for tea or coffee, which takes tolerance and good judgment on my part. Then I have to entertain them and I probably don’t like them in the first place. Just thinking about all this is exhausting. Maybe I need to find a job.  I wonder if the State Troopers take old guys. Just a thought.

Peaches: One more war story

 

Note: Happy Veterans Day to you all, especially to families of veterans who have a special challenge in worrying about loved ones away from home and whose support is so dearly needed and appreciated.  For them—as it is with many of us—every day is Veteran’s Day.

 Willie was a weasel.

    He was one of five soldiers in my small unit. We operated a 105-mm artillery Howitzer.  Imagine a 50-pound bullet about a foot-and-a-half long That’s what the gun could shoot. It could go a maximum of seven miles or shorter depending on the situation. The shells were high-explosive, white phosphorus (liquid fire), bee hive (filled with lethal fish hooks that were meant to kill in a large circle), and others. All the rounds came in wooden boxes, two to a box, for which we found many uses.

    There was me, Tony, Sammy, Joe, and the Weasel. Tony was laid back, never said much. Joe was always talking about home and drove us crazy. Sammy was constantly in search of more food. He could eat more than any of us. I was the handsome one. (This is my story.) Then there was the Weasel.

    This was 1969, in Vietnam. We were one of six guns that made up an artillery battery. We would be dropped into a jungle clearing, where we’d set up the Howitzers and get to work killing Commies and supporting infantry units operating beyond the barbed wire that surrounded us.  That was, after all, the point.

   The left-over boxes from artillery shells could serve as protection by filling them with dirt and building a sandbag and box parapet. We made them into benches, shelves, boxes for mementoes or they could be made into a cooler. This tale concerns the cooler.

   You could make a cooler by nailing the Styrofoam packaging to the inside of busted up ammo boxes. If you were lucky, you could get big blocks of ice from nearby villages.

The ice blocks always came with rice or wheat bits in them. I don’t know why and frankly I don’t care.

   When we received boxed rations, the thing I liked most was canned peaches. All of us did. I liked them so much, I always put them in the cooler to get them nice and cold before I partook. Problem was that the peaches were not in everyone’s food packets so if you got a can of peaches it was a treasure. One day my peaches disappeared. And there was only one suspect.

    Keep in mind that all these guys including me had weapons, knives, access to grenades and other lethal weapons including high-powered machine guns. If you ticked off someone in your unit, a dispute could always be settled by beating one another to a pulp. Or, you’d keep in mind that there were lethal weapons around and acted accordingly. All these actions could put you in LBJ, or as it was called, Long Bihn Jail, followed, no doubt, by Leavenworth.

    Here’s the thing: Willie was built like a brick. He was shorter than the rest of us but he had square shoulders and a thick muscular chest covered in black hair. He rarely put a shirt on and was always lurking.  His chest and face always seemed to have the residue of food on them, as though he had just finished somebody’s meal and had the crumbs to prove it.

    Willie’s job was to make sure a round went into the gun the second the last one was fired. In essence, he kept the gun loaded. In this he was unbelievably quick, keeping up with all of us so the rounds could be delivered efficiently and lethally. Hundreds of rounds might go out in a day, and all of them were needed now, not later. So the missions were critical.

    We were busy, so it was hard to keep an eye on each other, although each of us had the other’s back, even the Weasel’s. In fact, the faith you put in the other guys was undisputed. When a fire mission was announced, we were on the gun in an instant, and got a shot off immediately to center the entire battery. Our role was called center-piece, which meant our aim was used to adjust the firing and once adjusted the whole battery was ordered to shoot.

     Some missions went on for hours. Some occurred in the hot sun, during a monsoon rain, or deep into the night where the hot day left behind a shivering cold.  Of course, we were shot at by the enemy and sometimes by our own guys. Mistakes happened. Our own mortar rounds from our own guys might stall in the air over our battery and then drop and explode wherever they landed.  Artillery rounds could remain stuck in the Howitzer until removed unexploded. These were lethal times. So peaches in calm moments took on a special importance. They provided a healthy break from insanity.

     I went to the cooler after a mission—prepared to savor the ripe sweetness of peaches. I would trade any medal you offered for that can. This was a can that didn’t hold much, mind you, but enough. A few tasty bites. Life had, at that moment, been reduced to one need…peaches, in thick sweet sauce, cool and delicious. Save your stinking promotions; give me peaches.

    The cooler was not full. Hardly. A few bottles of this and that, a few cans of really crappy food from home only Sammy would eat. But no peaches.

    To say I went crazy is probably an over simplification. I knew in my heart, Willie the Weasel had struck and that was that. I looked around and there he was sitting on a box smiling. He was always smiling, but smiling like a funeral director smiles, in the knowledge that one day you’re going to be paying for one of his caskets.

    Willie had that ‘I just enjoyed a can of peaches smile,’ when I went up to confront him.

     Before I said some bad language, Willie the Weasel said: “Not me, I didn’t take anything.”  This was before I even asked. I began a bad language tirade and Willie just sat there as though he’d been through many a scene like it before, which was true—being a weasel. Nothing really fazed this guy, which made him a good soldier. He just did the work and lurked around. When he was nearby, pens disappeared, books, spare change, whatever was out and unlocked.

    I suspect the enemy had weasels too. But I’d take our weasels over theirs any day. Weasels invade civilian life as well as military life. You’ve probably got weasels working in your office or at the factory or somewhere within your family. Look at all the weasels that just ran for political office. Some of them were even elected.

     But when the chips are down even weasels, the American soldier versions anyway, rise to the occasion. So for the first time since it occurred, I want to publicly forgive Willie the Weasel for stealing my peaches. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you or leave you tied up in the jungle some night to deal with whatever might be slithering out there, man or beast.

    Consider this ordeal over with. You can stop looking over your shoulder despite my threat to follow you to Florida and take care of you properly. I’ve never been to Florida and don’t have any urge to go. There are plenty of peaches in Florida, you weasel, so have at it. You’re history to me. And by the way. Thank you for your service.

Dark and stormy nights…

   Everyone has a scary story to tell around this time as Halloween approaches.

   We get in the mood to scare and be scared.

   Our new 110-year-old house moves at night, ghostly moans, speaks, mutters, and sighs. There are spirits here, no doubt. No home of this age can long go without some semblance of things lurking behind the scenes.

    I realize most people would not admit they believe in spirits, but I know better. Many people do. The truth is you have to shoot straight with spirits. They know your every move. You can’t fool them. They know what you’ve been up to so there’s no point in trying to disguise your bad behavior. Of course, the “badder” we are, the worse the spirits haunt us. Hence, the spirits find me boring and leave me be. I’ve thought about acting up, but I don’t want to be hounded by the spirits.

    I spoke to the house when we first got here. Down in the basement all by my lonesome, I intended to get off on the right foot with whatever ghosts might be around.

   “Listen,” I said, “I intend to be here for quite some time and you are welcome to stay, but if there any shenanigans, out you go. I’m not afraid of spirits good or bad so if you act up I’ll be down here with garlic, an exorcist, stakes and hammers and all sorts of incense and other mumbo jumbo. I’ll play rap music all night. I’m ready to sacrifice a chicken down here just to get rid of bad spirits.”

    I received no answer, so I assumed we had an understanding. So far, so good.

    One late night I was in my study, clicking keys on the computer. The front doorbell doesn’t work, but I heard someone pounding. I went downstairs and no one was there. I went back to my room and the same thing happened. Big bang on the front door but no one there.  I got the flashlight and went outside to patrol the grounds. I considered arming myself with my oversized rubber bat. One smack with that and you will be out for the count. Instead, I tried to walk like John Wayne did, just to scare the neighbors. I heard the bang again. Looking up, a second story gutter was loose and flopping against the house in the wind. Case closed. Good thing too, because I was afraid I was going to have to run, which is impossible with my busted hip.

    I believe in ghosts and such. When I was a little boy I was sitting on my grandmother’s bed a few days after she died. I happened to look into a mirror in her room and there in the reflection was Grandma looking at me. I jumped so high I may have touched the ceiling. Later, I realized that if Grandma had actually visited me it was a good thing not a bad one. Grandmother was Irish, born and raised in the Old Country, but she was a force to reckon with so I figured if anyone could or would come back from the great beyond, she’d be a perfect candidate.

    Her three children, my mother and her two siblings, were so fearful of Grandma they responded to her as she cracked the whip until her dying day. These three were married by then, all had children, but were terrified of Nana’s Irish rage.  Yes, the Irish can have rage. They are not all poets, you know. As for me, I always thought I was Nana’s favorite, so I never got crossways with her and she’s not around haunting my life. On the contrary, I see some of Nana’s good parts in my daughter, which is probably payback to me for being one heck of a darling kid.

    I’m rarely frightened anymore. But I can recall reading a story in a newspaper that has remained with me for many years because it raised the hairs on my skin. The news story was about a missing man and how the man’s daughter went looking for him. They lived on a farm and as the girl checked the outhouse with the flashlight, the story said, “She looked into the hole and saw her father’s face.” This image gave me the heebie-jeebies, which is why I’ll never use your outhouse, thank you very much.

    In our house we have set aside the creepy room. This is a very large L-shaped walk-in closet that we cannot access because a dresser in the bedroom can only fit right in front of the creepy room’s door. Hence we have not been in the empty closet much. Since we don’t go in there, our imaginations go into overdrive about what may be happening behind the closed door. It doesn’t help that there is a leftover elevator apparatus in there that was once used by the wheelchair-bound son of a prior owner. The elevator was removed and is now the creepy room, but the remaining mechanism gadget looks more like a torture device than an elevator.

    There is something creepy about having a room in our house that no one visits. Does someone live up in there? Are there snakes, bugs? Whenever the TV reports a hunt for some escaped desperado I simply assume he’s hiding up in the creepy room where the spirits will give him what for and the authorities will never hear from him again. This is my kind of justice, scaring the stuffing out of bad guys.

   I worry about angering spirits. I had an aunt, for example, who was always mad about something. I tried hard not to aggravate her, but she was always mad at the world, including me. I figured when she kicked the bucket, she would hang around as a spirit and ruin everyone’s day. Never happened. But I know she’s somewhere expending ghostly energy.  

    Every now and then I smell oil, which is my father hanging around. He drove an oil truck and when he came home his clothes smelled of the stuff.

    Lately, I’ve been hearing the sound a dog makes when she awakens and shakes her head. That is my dearly departed Emma, the Lab who just passed recently.

    Also, I’ve been concerned about my mother. I told her when she was alive that I was going to burn the portrait of herself she brought back from New Orleans. I didn’t mean it, but it was fun harassing her since my sister made it clear she was not going to take the portrait. Mother swore that if I did anything to that painting, she would haunt me until the end of my days.

   For years, I hanged her picture in the closet of my writing room, which sounds terrible, although I had a straight view of her each time I sat down to write since the closet door remained open.

     I feel a bit scared these days because Mother has not been placed on a wall in our home because the walls are already too full. From time to time I come across the painting when I go through stored goods and when she looks at me I know she’s a bit riled.

    I have to hang Mother and do so quickly. All she ever said was to make sure she was hanging somewhere. So I’ve decided to put her up in the creepy room. If I survive until after Halloween, I’ll know she’s happy there scaring the wits out of all those escaped cons and bad guys I imagine living up there. Otherwise, you’ll be reading about me in the ambulance reports muttering and shrieking something about mothers, spirits, and all those other things that go bump in the night.   

Shoveling a poorhouse path

I liked the way things were before electronic banking came into vogue. People kept their money safe in unconventional ways.

     I heard about one guy who left dozens of large coffee cans full of old silver half -dollars and dollars on the floor behind the air-conditioning vent of the house. After he passed, the kids accidentally came across the cans, which turned out to be a small fortune.

    I’ve heard about people who leave money in books so you have to go through all their volumes to find your inheritance.  

    Money is an interesting subject. For instance, you look around the liars’ table at the local coffee shop and there are six elderly grungy farmers all in ball caps and overalls. Anywhere else, they might look like a homeless lot. But the truth is three of those guys are millionaires. I love that notion.

    Since I’m something like 140 years old, I’ve had lots of experience with financial institutions of all sorts, especially the big, international banks. Some of the experiences have been great like when interest is provided into an account. Otherwise, many experiences have been disasters, which is why I advocate other ways to hang onto your money. After all, famous bank robber Willie Sutton said he robbed banks “because that's where the money is.” This is true. But I would amend that. Banks are where YOUR money is. (English instructors please forgive!)

   The big banks don’t own your money; they just act like they do.

   I have solutions to the problems of protecting your money in an age of electronic banking at large international institutions. Here are some scenarios and possible solutions:

  Problem:  You have decided to get in shape and plan to buy some exercise equipment. You’ll feel better about yourself. You are about to leave the house for your Saturday shopping spree with your favorite credit card. Coincidentally, the bank calls to ask if you recently purchased $1,000 in electronic equipment. Not yet, you say. They report that someone has unlawfully used your card and consequently you will get a new one in the mail. The bank says do not use your current card. They have cancelled it. Your Saturday is ruined and you are still fat. You never had a chance.

Solution: Save one thousand clams and put them in your socks in the sock drawer. If you have more than a thousand clams, buy more socks. You’ll be ready next time you plan to shape up.

 Problem: It’s a Sunday. You need $500 to buy pots and pans from a guy that showed up in the neighborhood claiming that he has brand new pots and pans to sell you that “fell off a truck”  and into his lap. These would be perfect gifts for Christmas and would get you out of the doghouse you’ve been in with your spouse. You go to the ATM. The ATM won’t let you get more than $200. Later you learn you signed an agreement with the bank about this daily limitation. A lot of good that does you on Sunday. You can’t get your money so instead of pots and pans, your spouse gets cheap pearls for Christmas. You remain in the doghouse.

Solution: Take your money out of the bank. Take the metal cookie tin and put your money in it and bury it in the backyard near the oak tree all the male dogs use as they pass through. Keep a shovel in your truck. Next time a deal comes into the neighborhood you’ll be ready.

Problem: Your mother-in-law surprises you and comes over for Sunday dinner. This was not part of your weekend plan what with baseball and football games on TV and interesting news on QVC which is selling neat can openers for virtually nothing. Your mother-in-law hints that she sure could use the money she loaned you ten years ago when you married her daughter and needed cash for that stylish honeymoon in Salina. You can’t get to the ATM because the car won’t start and you haven’t fixed it since you lost your job and then you got into that fight with your ex-boss and busted his nose, which means you have a court appearance pending Monday. You don’t wish to share any of this with said mother-in-law since she already thinks you are a lowdown loser and her daughter’s biggest mistake.

Solution: Take your money out of the bank. In the future, fold your cash and put it into one of those plastic baggies and place it in the freezer underneath the box of frozen cauliflower that’s been there since 1998. No one will touch that stuff, so your dough is safe and won’t burn up in the event of a fire. Even if you can’t pay off your mother-in-law completely, she’ll appreciate the appearance of any greenbacks and your reputation as a lowdown loser is neither better nor worse.

Problem: You awaken at four in the morning because you remember the date and why it seemed so familiar. It’s your anniversary and you haven’t bought a gift. You have shared your ATM card with your spouse and despite an hour of searching the house in the dark, you can’t find it. If you had some cash, you could stealthily drive over to the all-night drugstore and purchase a plastic rose, some M&Ms, and because you are a big spender, a paperback romance novel. But you have no cash and you remain awake the rest of the night worrying about your fate when you confront your Missus in the morning empty-handed.

Solution: Take your money out of the bank. Keep your cash under the bed inside a loose floorboard. You can’t put the cash under the pillow. There’s no room. That’s where you already keep your sidearm and your shotgun, your social security card, all the passwords you need to get to all your electronic accounts, and your old girl friends’ letters you can’t seem to part with.

   The solution to lack of access to your cash is quite simple. In order to insure your fortune, spend all your dough. Have a good time. Save nothing. Spend every stinking penny. Your family will put you into one of those rehab centers under an alias to be treated for your nerves. You will be safe. Someone else will make your bed. And since you are broke, people will ignore you. Especially Internet creeps. You can bank on it.

    Or go down to your local small town bank. Visit with a banker. During the conversation break down into tears. Tell the banker you are terrified that your savings account of $128.56 is going to be stolen by Internet banditos and you have decided to take your fortune out of the bank and bury it in the backyard in order to preserve it. Cry a lot. Then listen. Let the banker talk sense into you. The banker will tell you not to read newspaper columns or watch TV about money. What do those idiots know? They are the last places to get financial information. Take the advice. Just to make you feel better, the banker will offer you a free umbrella or the bank’s ball cap. Take the cap. Wear it out of the bank. Join the old farmers at the liars’ table at your local coffee shop. Get some overalls. Keep everyone guessing. Have a nice day.

 

 

 

Elect me, please, please, please!

Seeing as it is the political season, it’s time for me to share with you my platform for election. In a turnabout that should please you, after reading my platform you have the choice of electing me to any position you deem appropriate.

   If elected, I will urge Tyson Foods not to provide political funding to any candidate. Instead, give out free chickens, thereby finally making true Herbert Hoover’s pledge in 1928 that if elected, there will be a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage. After he was elected, the stock market crashed. So much for lies.

    I would urge General Motors to make the same gesture and give everyone a car, but we’ve already bailed them out once.

     If elected, I will not lie. I may fib, exaggerate, and or, fantasize. I will not lie, but I urge you to keep an eye on me. Telling you you’re not fat is a statement for your own good. It’s not technically a lie. Just think like a politician. Say one thing and either say nothing at all, or mean the opposite of what you say. I may make such statements without penalty. But I will not lie. I promise.

    By the way, have you lost weight? I also like your hair. I swear.

    I pledge that there is nothing in my background that will keep me from serving, no lap dances, no naughty girl friends, no bribes, and no influence peddling. In other words, you don’t have to investigate my background since I’m telling you straight I’ve been a good boy. Don’t have to check. Please don’t. Please.

    Pretty please.

    Oh, that bit in Great Bend in 1985? It was nothing. Trust me. Way overblown. Anyway, I’m sure that sheriff is way dead by now.

    And those women from New Jersey whose car stalled in Hutchinson in 1978? Don’t listen to a word they say. It wasn’t like they claim, especially the blonde one with the purple streak. What was her name Monica, Mary Lou, Magdalena, something like that. Big old liar, pants on fire! Please, you can’t believe women from New Jersey, for crying out loud. It’s New Jersey!

    If elected, everyone gets their lawn mowed. How? See those guys sitting around the jail playing Scrabble and buffing their nails. No way. Once in office, nobody gets a free ride. You go to jail, it will be just like going to work. Once mowing season is over, snow removal. No cocoa for these characters either. Don’t be soft on them. You want to see tough, elect me.

    I will urge Congress to have a national Crock Pot day every October 1. Labor Day is over, which means the swimming season is complete. By Oct. 1, we’re getting a bit restless. In a bid to decrease crime, put a roast in a Crock Pot. Then go to your neighbor’s house, introduce yourself and leave the food. If they don’t need it, invite yourself to dinner and share a meal with them. Don’t talk religion or politics, although saying grace is fine and saying stuff like God Bless America is OK under all circumstances. Get to know them. They’re your neighbors. Quit hiding out watching talking heads on the tube. We are more than our political tags.

     If elected, all dogs will be adopted. Cats too. Everyone will be required to raise a varmint. You will be forced by law to go to the pound and adopt a critter. Sounds bad now, but once you get these critters home they will grow on you. They also contribute to your mental health. Trust me.

   If elected, I will work to provide you free medical care and college tuition.  There are two requirements. In order to get free medical care you can’t go around eating deep fried Twinkies and such. In order to get free college, you have to maintain a C+, which a recent president achieved and look where it got him.

    Everyone will pay taxes, say 10 percent across the board. If you make $15,000 per year, you pay $1,500. If you make $150,000 per year you pay $15,000. If you don’t like that, lump it. Vote for somebody else. I chose 10 percent because the math is easy and I only do easy math.

    If elected, I will outlaw political commercials. In fact, the entire election cycle will be changed. Every candidate will have to participate in three debates with no one to monitor events. It’s just you and your opponent up there and one televised hour. This will require diplomacy and compromise. If you can’t run a debate properly on your own, you won’t do well in office. If you want to act like a horse’s backside, go ahead. Let the people see the real you.

   Everyone under 21 will be required to get a library card. If you don’t read by the age of 21, you are a lost cause.

   If elected, I will outlaw the color yellow.

   If elected, I would urge all citizens to serve in national service for a minimum of two years by the age of 25. You will learn how to make a bed, fold socks and how to spit shine your shoes. These are skills that are useful throughout life.

   If elected, I will outlaw gifts to politicians. All gifts. Not a nickel. Not a penny. You don’t need gifts when you are representing the people. You can eat constituent cake, that’s it. Pound cake. A little lemon glaze on top will be OK. Spongy. No other gifts are allowed. Maybe apple pie. And cherry. But that’s all . No gifts. I mean it!

    If elected, I will encourage Wheaties to drop athletes from their cereal boxes and replace them with pictures and stories of great teachers or inspiring moms or dads. I will also encourage them to pay teachers or moms and dads who appear on their boxes as they do their athletes.

   If elected, I will encourage outlawing ties, Hawaiian shirts and the letter Q. We have K, therefore we can do without Q.

   If elected, I will insist that all electronic products come with free lessons at the store of purchase. There’s no point in buying cameras, I-pads, smart phones, or laptops without proper lessons. Additionally, cable companies will be compelled, by law, not to leave a customer’s house without setting up the TV, the DVD player, and yes, the VCR, and instruct the customer on uses for each. The instruction will take as long as it takes.

   If elected, I will pass legislation to ban all overseas call centers. No longer can American-based companies hire foreigners to answer inquiries from Americans. These operators jibber-jabber as though they are high on heroin. They speak horrible English.

    Speaking of communication, I will pass legislation that says when calling a business, you begin receiving cash for every minute you spend waiting on the phone. After three minutes of silence, you begin to receive $1.25 per minute. Think of the phone the way a Taxi cab meter goes on and on. If they are going to disrespect you and waste your time, they might as well pay for it.

   If elected, I will outlaw suede, velvet paintings, and all highway billboards. It’s enough we have to endure commercials on television. We shouldn’t have to be besieged by the stuff along the roads and highways.

   If elected, teachers and first responders could receive retirement benefits at 55. They know why.

   If elected, I will pass legislation limiting my tenure to no more than four years, with the option of cancelling this law in the third year. (That will be in the fine print you never read.)

    My name is Roger Verdon and I approve these messages. Most of them, anyway.

Awesome power of the finger

 

Drive down any road in Kansas and you are bound to be finger-winked.

Living in another state for some years, I have missed this uniquely civil act. It is not practiced in large cities, aboard ships or planes, or in outer space. Finger-winking is mostly a rural practice and is especially well done by Kansans.

    I would drive down a road and expertly leave the heel of my hand on the wheel while offering a five-finger-wink to a total stranger passing by in another car, a message that all is safe, hello, how are ya?, yeah you can borrow a quarter if you need one, or get help with your flat and I would share lunch with you if I had some.   

   I have finger-winked elsewhere but few people in other states finger-wink back, so it is good to return to finger-winking country, where a simple finger-wink can make your day.

    Finger-winking comes in all forms. There is the lazy wink, a one-fingered lift off the steering wheel that simply indicates that I see you and all is well here. It is also an admission that I’m far too lazy to help you in the event you need assistance, though I may call AAA for you or your creepy brother-in-law if you eventually ask nicely.

    The two-fingered-wink is a little bit more assertive and indicates I’d probably loan you a buck if you needed one, but don’t ask twice. The two-finger-wink uses the same fingers as the peace sign or the Victory sign, so it is good to attempt in all strange cities and roads the world over, especially in places like Brooklyn or Lawrence, but it probably won’t get you anywhere in those strange places.

    The three-fingered-wink is difficult to accomplish since it’s hard to keep the hand on the wheel while saluting with three fingers. Try it. (I told you so.) The three-fingered- wink requires much dexterity and practice. In fact, the three-fingered-wink is so complex to perform I caution finger-winkers to forgo the three-some. First of all, I can’t imagine what a three-fingered-wink could mean, except “I speak foreign languages;” since it is so difficult a maneuver I suspect it may be illegal in some counties. I’d check with a Kansas State Trooper before trying this.

    The four-fingered-wink is probably the easiest since the thumb can remain on the steering wheel while all four fingers can be lifted at the same time while keeping control of the wheel. The four-fingered-wink means a multitude of things, in my view: Hi, I like you so much I’m inviting you to Christmas brunch; and, sure you can borrow this car if you don’t mind driving a piece of junk; of course, I’ll take your dog over Spring Break (but no, not your kids); and yes, I will help in the event your piece of junk breaks down.

    And then there is the full five-fingered-wink. This is the all-out bells and whistles version of hello, how are ya? I am a happy camper and hope you are too, good morning, good day,

    The thing about finger-winking is that women don’t seem to participate. I can’t recall a single incident of female finger-winking.  I suspect many won’t participate because they interpret finger-winking as a form of flirting and since they don’t carry pepper spray in their car they can’t be bothered. Women who pack heat, on the other hand, say a .357 Magnum or an AK-47 machine gun, wouldn’t worry about participating in winking. I don’t necessarily advocate more guns on the road, but if that’s what it would take to get more women to participate, let’s do it. The more finger-winkers the better. Also, teen finger-winkers are few and far between. The only excuse for teens not finger-winking is their tiny brains. In fact, I’m not sure at what age finger-winking becomes part of one’s lifestyle. I think it happens gradually as you get finger-winked so many times on the road that you eventually feel obliged to participate.

    Now some folks don’t have all their fingers or they are missing digits. My brother-in-law, for instance, is missing a few digits and not just on his fingers, if you get my drift.  Anyway, his digit is missing on what I recall is the bad, bad middle finger, the one known internationally in all languages and will get you in Dutch at church if you use the thing too much. He lost it years ago at a McPherson factory.

    There is some use for such digit-deficit fingers. Instead of whole numbered finger-winks, a missing digit offers the user a modification, sort of how the minus or plus is used in the grading system.  So driving down the road, my brother-in-law might send you a two-and-a-half digit wink, which means I look OK, I seem alright, but I’m really not; I may be a politician or a door-to-door salesman or both. Beware! Caution! Do not Approach!

   Whatever you do, always finger-wink law enforcement, but be careful. If your finger somehow slips and you send the wrong message you may find yourself up against your car being searched, cuffed and spending the night in a musty jail eating dry cheese sandwiches and greenish jello.

    I don’t know if it’s a legal violation to shoot law enforcement the bird, but there’s no way to explain it once the deed is done.  

    In fact, bird flipping is not an approved part of finger-winking. The manual states that quite clearly. It also states one is never to finger-wink while drinking or when extremely tired. Finger-winking is only for sober, mentally alert drivers.

    You should practice all the winking signs that are clearly displayed in the rear of the finger-winking manual. Remember, practice makes perfect. Be patient. You want to master these signs before trying them out for real. I would suggest calling in sick and spending the day finger-winking in a mirror. It certainly beats work and you’ve probably got more sick days then you can count. Invite a friend over, offer him or her skimmed milk and cookies, and practice together until these signs are mastered. Then apply for your National Finger-winking Certificate using the form in the rear of the manual. Get a nice frame and post it on your wall.

    In the meantime, good luck, and—see you on the road.

Don't move; stay there

    Moving is bad.

    Moving is like picking your teeth with an ax.

    I don’t care if you have a lousy job, bad neighbors and an ugly house. Don’t move.

    Aside from removing your own gall bladder with a tree branch, moving is among the worst experiences in life and I’ve done it about five times. I can tell you this last one was the last one. I will be buried in my recliner where it sits. I’m not moving an inch. A hundred years from now they’ll find me stale and dusty in my chair with the TV still stuck on QVC with all those pretty earrings.

    Even if one of those Oklahoma earthquakes finds its way to my house, I’m sitting tight. Anyway, I paid 65 bucks to the home insurance guy, so earthquakes are covered. I suspect volcanic activity, war and pestilence were other options I could buy, but he didn’t say and I didn’t ask.

   I left the entertaining state of the handsome and indictable Rick Perry two months ago. He was quite an act and friends wondered why I would exchange the all-star highlights of a Texas governor for the hijinks of a Kansas governor, who may be even more entertaining. The only difference between the two is that the Texas guy has better hair. Unfortunately, since he now claims that his back hurts he no longer wears boots, not a good thing in the Big Cowboy State, so Sam Brownback’s ahead since he continues to wear studly, manly boots while Perry has probably gone to those penny loafer type footwear, difficult gear to wear stepping through so much of that stuff state legislators produce.

    But the move wasn’t about the governors. It was about returning to Kansas, where Dorothy said there’s no place like home. I’d lived here before for well over 20 years married to a born and bred Lindsborg girl (Graduated Bethany College—Go Swedes!), and our daughter was born here (and graduated K-State—Go Wildcats!).

   After ten years of living in the Lone Star State, the Lindsborg girl said she didn’t want to die in Texas, to which I instantly replied that I didn’t want to live in Texas. I can tell you it was an unrehearsed, instant reply, something I hadn’t even thought much about. Anyway, unemployed as I am (which the Lindsborg girl calls retired), I figured getting involved with a moving project would otherwise keep me out of trouble. It was also a good excuse not to look for a job.

    We gave up a 1976 ranch-type home with a pool on a quarter acre and bought a 1600-square foot two-story 1910 bungalow in Lindsborg with a half acre. With so much land I haven’t figured out whether I’m a rancher or a farmer. I have one critter, an old lab, which might qualify me as a rancher, although I irrigate and plant all over the property, which makes me think I could be a farmer. Can you tell I’m shopping for subsidies?

    If I got one ugly goat and a big-butt mower the size of a small tractor, maybe I could qualify as both. Unfortunately, subsidies never seem to get down to the little guy. Anyway, you have to have a PhD to read and follow all the government subsidy hoops, and frankly, I’m simply not that bright.

   Truth is farming and ranching are both much too hard for me, a city boy who spent most of his working life sitting behind a computer. You can tell this by the way my eyes bulge out on my face and the way I can flex my finger muscles when I want to impress a crowd. I know how hard it is to work outdoors. I baled hay for a few years and thought I was going to croak out there behind the trailer. The only reason I went was the family promised a free breakfast. It was a good breakfast, don’t get me wrong, but I nearly died earning it.

   After the mover examined our house and gave us an estimate, I told the guy I would box up all the books for a reduction in price. It turned out that the savings I received was exactly what I paid for boxes. If you move, let them pack. Save your mind, not to mention your back.

    The realtor told us to remove all that “stuff” from the walls, meaning all the family’s pictures, including the photo of the great, great grandfather everyone seems to think is handsome, while I feel he looks more like a serial killer you might find on a billboard in the post office. There was also art, plenty of it, including Hutchinson artist Jack Stout paintings, prints by Lindsborg artists Lester Raymer and Birger Sandzen, and John Blake Bergers, to name a few. I wondered what Sandzen would say hearing his print referred to as “stuff.” He’d probably stammer some select French words, which is probably the most cuss words those nice Swedes can come up with.

   We took the realtor’s advice and then had to live in a house that echoed. This went on well over a month. Clean the pool, clean it again after the storm, get the lawn mowed, clean up this, clean up that, move that chair. After a while our home looked more like an old used up museum.

   Fortunately, the house sold in one day once it went on the hot Texas real estate market. That was the only saving grace of the move preparations since we spent one day walking around a park so prospective home buyers could privately inspect our house and fondle our stuff.  After that experience, I decided I wouldn’t last another day sitting on park benches trying to entertain the Lindsborg girl and the mutt. Thankfully, I didn’t have to.

    On moving day, three guys showed up. Their operation took two days, one to pack boxes another to fill the truck.

    Once in Lindsborg, only two of the three movers showed up. Two guys to empty a huge truck. But these guys were amazing. They were quick, energetic, powerful and efficient. Nevertheless, they weren’t out of there until 9 pm. I was dazzled and told them so. Later, I figured they were so familiar with hard, overwhelming work they must have been raised on a farm or a ranch.

     Thereafter, we faced about two months of opening boxes and trying to figure out where we put the sheets. We labeled everything, but you’re still going to lose things in all those boxes. I have to figure out how to hang all our “stuff” on plaster and lathe walls. I’ve gotten lots of advice about this and all the advice contradicts one another, so I am going alone.

    But we don’t care now. Unemployed, I have plenty of time not to look for a job. We are finally home. Best of all, no need to move. Ever. Again. Period.

    

Forgetting to forget

      Minding my own business, the clerk at the medical facility asked me a question.

   “Social?” she said, as in what is your Social Security number?

    I have had a Social Security number for as long as the Earth has been rotating, which is a long time.  I have answered the question as many times as Kim Kardashian  has been on magazine covers and then some.  So it came as a surprise that when I thought I was firing up the neurons in my memory bank, there was a complete shutdown. I drew a blank. It was as though the brain crashed like a cheap computer.

    “Social?” the woman repeated.

    I gave her my telephone number just to stall her and gain some time. She scowled. I panicked. How is it one can forget something so intimately known as a Social Security number? It’s like forgetting which hand is right or which one is left, or the name of your spouse or significant other.

    (Marital tip: If you ever call your wife by another’s name, say some old girlfriend she knows about, immediately keel over into your corn flakes as though you had a stroke. There is no other way to survive this mishap.)

    I recall waking one morning and before breakfast was over I had put the juice on the stove and the coffee pot in the refrigerator.

    (No one was around to see that so please keep it under your hat.)

    I eventually recalled my Social Security number, but I was not pleased. The experience caused a dark pall to drape the day. My three-pound brain was obviously rusting up like some tricycle left out in the rain.

   Later in the day I went to a grocery store and leaving the store I ran into an elderly woman pointing her car keys in the direction of the parking lot. Oddly, she had that Zombie vibe about her, eyes glazed, a stumbling walk. The only thing missing was the blood, the torn clothes, the growling and a TV contract. I mean she wasn’t really a Zombie, after all. She was a nice blue-haired old lady.

    We made eye contact and I suddenly wondered if Zombies always bite their prey. I worried about this because I was out in the open without a crossbow or a machete and my shirt collar was unbuttoned at the neck. I wondered why Zombies bite normal, healthy people, anyway. What’s up with that? Then it occurred to me that misery does like company, so Zombies must be so depressed they can’t stand for other people to be normal.

    The Zombie woman said: “I can’t find my car,” as she frantically pressed her key waiting for that annoying tweaky sound car doors make when they are opened electronically. For some reason her dilemma pleased me to no end. It gave me a way to redeem myself for my earlier mental slip concerning my Social Security number.

    I looked at the woman carefully and decided whether she was a Ford or a Chevy or whatever. These associations take years of practice, so don’t try this without training. She was obviously a Buick type and when I noticed a Buick I suggested she point her gadget that way and sure enough the tweaky noise gurgled and the woman appeared refreshed and no longer a Zombie.

     I have seen old people numerous times lose their cars in parking lots. It’s a national disgrace. Every day across this country old Zombies are stumbling across parking lots looking for their lost cars. In their minds, some of them believe someone has actually moved their car, which makes them feel important.

    People lose track of things all the time. Forgetfulness and distraction are a major part of our lives, young or old. I’ve heard of a woman finally finding the carrots she needed to cook for dinner in the dirty laundry basket and another woman finally locating her full cup of coffee inside one of the kitchen cabinets after looking for the coffee all over the house.

   I’ll deny this ever happened but traveling to night school in Wichita one evening, I was so distracted I was at the toll booths heading into Oklahoma before I woke up as to where I was.  It was like the car had a mind of its own and I was merely along for the ride.

   I think some people practice forgetfulness. Politicians, for instance. Doesn’t seem to matter how many times they are crushed in an election, some of them keep coming back again and again, as though the past never happened. In truth, these folks ought to go out and get a real job, but I suspect it’s easier to live off campaign contributions as opposed to hourly wages. These politicos have an advantage over the rest of us. They can easily dismiss the drubbing they received in the last election, then turn around and start campaigning all over again. They act like mindless penicillin that keeps chasing hard-to-kill bacteria, bobbing and weaving all over the place.

    Forgetfulness is not all bad. It gets a bum rap, but it’s a skill we all need, since being able to wipe the slate clean can be a real advantage.

    Imagine if you could forget all the bad stuff you’ve had to endure? All those bad jobs, those heartbreaking relationships, rotten vacations, creepy neighbors, all that over ripe fruit, not to mention your first six marriages, your dumb-as-a-boot brother-in-law and those debts that never seem to go away?

     My mother used to say “you’d forget your head if it weren’t attached to your neck,” as, I suspect, many mothers do.

    I am reminded of forgetfulness all the time. I get a phone call from the daughter and she says something like “wish me luck,” and I say “for what?” and then she goes into this long-suffering Shakespearian speech, with all the associated drama and amped up volume, about, “I told you, this was the most important thing in my life. How could you forget? What is wrong with you, Dad?”

    “Well,” I reply, “perhaps you never told me about this in the first place.”

    “I did, I did, remember?”

    “No, I don’t remember. Maybe you told it to your other twelve Dads.”

     “No, I didn’t, you’re my only Dad, and I told you.”

     “Maybe it was a boyfriend with a name that sounds like Dad. Thad, perhaps, or Brad, or even Vlad. Are you dating a guy named Vlad?”

     “No,” she blurts out. “I can’t believe you forgot after I told you.”

    This exchange happens at least once a week and I am aware that the daughter speaks with hundreds, if not thousands, of folks per week and can easily lose her father amid the hubbub of a busy life. So I forgive and move on.

    Forgetting is not a disease. It is simply an act of life like losing socks or the small spoons from the silverware drawer. Someday I expect to enter a room and find all the lost socks and missing spoons aimlessly dancing as though they hadn’t expected me to return home in the middle of the day.

   Rather than worrying about forgetting, I will take a day off soon and recite my name, my address, my phone number and Social Security number over and over like war prisoners in movies do, giving only minimal information to the enemy.

    If you follow my lead, make sure you practice in front of a mirror, otherwise you may forget what you are doing and why and wander out of the house and into a parking lot. Then you’ll wake up and wonder how you got there.

    If this happens to you, beware of blue-haired old ladies. Button your shirt. They may not be who they appear to be.