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.

Dogged love breeds friends for life

    I think one of the hardest things in life to find is a true friend. I suspect that’s why dogs exist. If you can’t find a human friend, just get a dog.

    My mother named her dog Dodger. Since my name is Roger, I think it was for the purposes of messing with me. In conversations, she would occasionally refer to me as Dodger, apologize, and then do it again. “Dodger, please pass the Mayo. Oh, I’m sorry Rog, I meant Roger, really.” Then she would laugh uncontrollably.

   When Dodger died she was cremated and her ashes were secretly placed in the family grave, where Mom is buried. Her husband, her third, survived her, and was left with the responsibility of placing the names on the gravestone, including his own. For kicks, he got the funeral people to put Dodger’s name on the stone, only the poor man’s spelling was so bad the stone now reads “Doger.” When I saw it I was caught between crying and laughing. In any case, the deed was done, and now that Mom’s husband also passed some time ago, all three names are on the stone, and all three urns are underground sharing a nice windswept view.

    Mom loved that dog. I would go to her house for lunch and the next thing I knew the dog was up on the table sniffing my liverwurst sandwich. I warned Mom many times that if that dog touched my grub I would bite the dog. I also complained about hygiene. Dogs on the table? C’mon Ma!

   It goes without saying she loved the dog more than my idea of lunch etiquette and I was forced to dine with a mutt sitting next to my plate. Pretty weird. But, in truth, I understood.

   Our animals are loved dearly. I come across people who prefer their animal over their spouse, or so they say. Dogs are not judgmental, to say the least, and they won’t hog the TV channel changer, and they would never take the last cup of coffee or forget to replace the toilet tissue roll.  

    Having an animal around the house beats heavy drinking. An animal is therapy. You can have the worst day of your life at work and when you arrive home, there’s the dog panting at you like a lost lover.  

    I once heard a dog trainer say dogs should only receive commands in German, which I thought was a strange idea. What if you don’t speak the lingo? In fact, dogs seem to understand every language since they all receive love in the language of the land in which they live. So dogs in France hear French, and dogs in Spain hear Spanish. These mutts are truly adaptable even without having taken foreign language courses in high school.

     Dogs are more tolerant than virtually any creature on the planet. Hitler had dogs, so I rest my case.

    Our family once consisted of two cats and a dog. The group got along famously once the dog realized she was not in charge. That job belonged to the black cat, Eliza, while her smaller buddy, a long-haired varmint named Scully, spent her time rubbing against the dog. Both cats are now buried in Texas.

    The dog used to jump into our big pool. One day she must have jumped in 15 times. In and out, in and out. It was quite entertaining. Her pool jumping declined with the passing years.

     The dog used to wait until I got home from work and there she was every day, rain or shine, ready to greet and meet. Dogs are diplomatic that way, although I believe it’s just a ruse to get extra food.

    The dog and I went to obedience class long ago and neither of us did well, although until she went deaf, she sat, stayed and responded when called.

     Dogs get into our bones and become members of our families. At big family gatherings, the dog is somewhere. Someone is always messing with the dog, especially kids and the older the dog gets the more you have to monitor things so the dog isn’t harassed. That’s your job as the dog’s buddy and the dog understands this.

   Someone in the family always claims ownership of the dog. “Pepper is Bob’s boy,” a wife might say, although Pepper just has Bob wrapped around his finger. Dogs are tricksters. Dogs are lovable, but they are also devious. They would make better politicians than the current crop we’ve got running the show. The dog is all things to all members of the family and that’s that. Ask the dog who “owns” him and he’ll just smile as if you are out of your mind.

    Our dog spends evenings chasing popcorn I give her when we make a batch. This is why our rugs crunch when visitors come by. I’ve seen the dog spend a while reaching under the couch for a kernel that is just out of reach as though she’s starving. She’s hardly starving. She eats better than I do and more regularly. She pulls this under-the- couch gesture so I feel sorry for her. She knows I will relent and lift the couch so she can munch anew. It’s like a buffet under that couch. 

   Dogs sense things and humans have a way of communicating tension and worry and all the rest of the things that haunt us. The dog has come over to me many times unbidden just when my personal world seemed to be spinning out of control. You worry over money, about the future, about putting food on the table and keeping a roof over our heads and yet the dog shows up as though her arrival is like some Hollywood production, the cavalry arriving just in time to save the day. Animals just know when we are beside ourselves. They ground us with grace, with a rub of a nose against our knee.

     After a brief illness, the dog collapsed Sunday on the kitchen floor. Her labored breathing told me everything I needed to know. All I could do was rub her back and I rubbed it until her breathing stopped. And then I rubbed her some more as though I could collect her love and put it in a bank to use some other time. Her life was over and she had left me. Even with family, I felt stunningly alone.

    I called the vet to make arrangements and when I heard that the dog would be placed in a freezer for five days until picked up by the cremation folks, I realized I could not let that happen to my friend. I understand why these things are required, and vets are the best resource in these circumstances, but I wasn’t going to leave her to strangers.

     I haven’t cried like that in my lifetime. I did not take the dog to the vet. I made my own arrangements. I wanted her close to me. She was my friend. I loved her very much. I will always miss her because she loved me and she went out of her way to let me know. That is a heavenly achievement. You can be alone on this planet, but if you have an animal who loves you, I believe you can get by. I see homeless people with animals.  The dogs don’t seem unhappy.

    My dog’s name is Emma, after Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz. She is a brown Lab with a bit of German shepherd in her, a big dog and she lived for 14 years. Although I was mad at her for getting old, she always took care of me. She always loved me. She warmed my heart. Today, the cold world is a bit colder.  I know she would not want to see me troubled by her passing, so I am determined. I’ll just think of her forever sleeping peacefully in the next room. That way she will remain a part of me—a friend for all time.