MONEY FOR NOTHING

Political blogs are so boring. Some right or left wing nutcase rants about an issue for a few hundred words making absolutely no difference in the course of events. Sometimes the writer makes sense, sometimes not. So I don’t want you to look at this as a political article. I want you to look at this as a little examination of your common sense. It’s not right wing. It’s not left wing. It’s common freaking sense.

“Cash for Clunkers”. That sounds like a noble and catchy idea. The new administration, backed by the Congress, decided that it would be a good idea to get some “bad” cars off the road and at the same time stimulate the auto industry. Bring your old, low miles per gallon car into a participating dealership. Get $3500 to $4500 dollars in free cash money from the government. The car dealer gets a sale thus helping the auto industry. The customer gets a new “greener” car thus helping the environment. The banks get an opportunity for a car loan with a little bit of equity in the vehicle. So the catchy noble idea is funded with a billion dollars of taxpayer money and a handy little bureaucracy is set up to administer the program creating a few new jobs. The funding should have lasted, based on highly educated guesses, about three months.

After less than one week the program is so successful that it is out of money. Imagine that. Free money was offered and people swarmed the dealerships to get it. Who would have thought that would happen? So Congress is going to add a couple billion more to the program and increase the size of the bureaucracy to cut down on the waiting time for this wonderful boon to mankind. How can any person with a lick of common sense think that this is a good idea?

I could understand a credit against my income taxes for buying a more fuel efficient car. At least that is a more equitable way of rewarding a person and also stimulating the economy. In that way I keep my own money and still buy a new car. But to take huge amounts of taxpayer money and give it to only the people who are driving outdated gas guzzlers is the worst kind of income redistribution. It seems so inherently wrong that I can’t even believe that there are so called intelligent people in favor of the idea. The whole concept seems somehow crooked.

It gives me a stomach-ache. I suppose by electing this current administration and gang of thieves that populate the Congress we are giving our approval for this nonsense. We are daily observing the proposal and enactment of laws creating massive spending programs. The projected tax increases are going to financially cripple small businesses and private individuals. Anyone questioning or opposing these programs is considered a right wing radical who doesn’t have compassion or common sense. And I stand so accused.

The concept of redistribution of wealth is certainly not new. It is after all the basis of our system of taxation. But there has never been in our history, not in the era of FDR or the time of LBJ, such a concerted effort to push this socialist agenda. My liberal friends claim that I am exaggerating. This is not socialism but a new way of looking at democracy, they say. Okay, let’s concede on their definition of what this movement is being called. The ideology behind it is that government, bigger and more complex, is the best way to improve social conditions in our country. Government, run by caring and compassionate people, will do what is best for everyone. Government, in the right hands, can be the nurturing, supportive entity that will take care of health, wealth, comfort and safety of all citizens. And this “Cars for Clunkers” program is just one perfect example of that ideal world.

Look carefully at the new “Czars” appointed by the administration. Look carefully at the new bureaucracies being set up every single day. Look carefully at who is supporting all of this and how the money is being shifted around. To me it’s more than a little scary. To my liberal friends it’s just the way it should be. In a way I hope my paranoia is unfounded. But I’m not seeing any good signs on the horizon.

Have a fine day.

THE HAIRCUT

I got my haircut last Friday. To most of you that won’t seem like such a big deal. But those of you who know me a little better will probably be amazed that it happened and more amazed that I’d be telling anyone about it. I haven’t had an actual haircut in two and a half years. I had the occasional trim where my wife or I would cut some small pieces of my flowing locks so as to clear my vision or keep the food going into my mouth hair free. But my hair was long and a particular part of a large set of personal vanities.

What prompted this rash action, you may ask? And if you won’t ask I’ll ask for you. (That’s what’s known as a rhetorical device, for all you fledgling writers.) The answer is heat and bugs. For several weeks we have had some hot and muggy weather. When I would go out on my daily walk or when I would be outside doing yard work, like most people, I would sweat. Sometimes I would wear a sweat band thing around my head. But long hair, at least in my case, made the sweat pour on down. Back of my neck would get dirty and gritty. (Name that tune) And it seemed that the more sweat on and around my head the more those pesky little bugs would be attracted to me. Going outside became a real ordeal.

Now I’m a clean guy. My grandkids often say to complete strangers, “He may be old but he’s very clean.” And they’ll say it with an authentic English accent. (Name that movie) So having a sweaty head and swarms of bugs following me around was disturbing. After long and really annoying (for her) discussions with my wife about where to get a haircut, and how much of a haircut to get, I made a decision. My wife agreed even though it was at her suggestion all those years ago that I started growing long hair. So I headed over to a local barber shop called “House of Hair”. There were three barbers all sitting around waiting for customers. When I entered the shop a little polite discussion started. “You take him” the first barber said to the female barber. “No, you take him” the female barber said to the youngest barber. “No, it’s your turn” the young guy said to the old barber. I was starting to think that all this inter-barber courtesy was really some sort of indication that no one wanted to cut my hair. But they finally settled on the young guy by drawing straws and I was seated in his barber chair.

As is customary, the barber asked me how I wanted my hair cut. So I took out a picture of Mel Gibson and handed it to the young fellow. He told me that my hair really didn’t have the right texture for that kind of cut. So then I reached into another pocket and took out a picture of Regis Philbin. The barber said I didn’t have enough money for a haircut like that. Finally I told the barber to just shorten it up a bit all around, but I didn’t want to end up looking like my two brothers. He asked if I had a picture of them and of course I did. So the haircut, which took almost two hours, turned out pretty well. Somehow the tonsorial artist managed to cut out all the dark brown hair leaving only the gray. I paid him an amount nearly equivalent to my social security check and I went on my way.

My wife came home from work and was ready to dial 911 to report a break-in until she realized that it was her newly shorn husband cooking her dinner. She looked my head over carefully and pronounced it good. Other family members seemed thankful that I had given up my hippie like hairstyle of the past couple of years. The bugs are kind of disappointed. But last night just before bedtime, my wife said “Maybe you could let your hair grow again. Only this time do a mullet thing like those country singers from the eighties.” Sometimes I think she’s just using me to enhance her fantasy life.

Have a fine day.

MY LIFE WITH WOMEN

The first woman in my life was my mother. She fed me, bathed me and calmed my anxious mind. As I grew her involvement in my life faded. I fed myself, bathed myself and found other ways to assuage my anxieties. But our bond was strong, or so I thought. Shortly after my seventeenth birthday she (and my father) urged me to leave home. They left brochures where I could easily see them about colleges and military branches. My mother talked incessantly about the “future” and “independence”. So after months of constant prodding, on the day after I graduated from high school, I was virtually forced to leave home and board a train for basic training. My mother had put aside all that we had together and sent me, a naïve seventeen year old boy, out into the cruel world to face the biggest “mother” of them all, my drill sergeant.

Although my mother was the first woman in my young life, she wasn’t the only one. I also have a younger sister. When my sister was just four or five years old she took on the role of dominating supervisor and sneaky informer. Using her wily feminine instincts she brought me, and my three brothers, under her imperious command. No minor breach of family law would be missed nor go unreported. No brotherly jest would be allowed to go unpunished. To this day my sister, by a glance and the simple phrase “you’d better do what I ask or I’ll tell Mom that you’re a bum” can get me and my brothers to do her bidding.

But there was another woman in my life in my last couple of years of high school. She was my one true love. At least she was my one true love at that time. My high school sweetheart stole my heart. We were inseparable and deeply in lust, I mean love. We talked of our life together after I had established myself at a permanent base in the Air Force. We talked of children and home and enduring faithfulness. Two weeks after leaving home I got a letter from her. She talked of “space”, “moving on”, “seeing other people” and “Calvin”. Calvin was her new true love.

After an appropriate five or six weeks of deep mourning for my severe loss I made up my mind to move on and make the best of life. Basic training was over and I was assigned to a base in Florida. So I started a life of work and attempted debauchery. The more women I could meet the more debauchery I could indulge in. And I met a lot of girls and a woman or two. Unfortunately debauchery wasn’t on their minds as much as it was on mine. In fact, after a while I had to settle for a couple of nice girl friends who insisted that I meet their families and join them for dinner on the weekend. I gained weight but very little worldly experience.

Four years later I was a civilian again. It was then that I knew that I should settle down and lead a civilized life. I dated a few young ladies. “Dating” in those days meant taking a girl out to dinner and a movie or maybe a hockey game. “Dating” nowadays means something entirely different. On that scale of difference dating today is doing what married folks learned to do after four or five years back then. Anyway, I found a girl I particularly liked. We started seeing each other and love blossomed. Engagement and a wedding followed as naturally as life allows. And now forty years later we are still in love, still married and occasionally speaking to each other. I’m just kidding about that last bit. We speak to each other most of the time; she speaks, I say “yes dear’.

But just because I’ve been a happily married man for all this time doesn’t mean that there haven’t been other women in my life. Why, immediately upon getting married I was trapped in a relationship with another woman. It was sort of a hate, hate relationship. My mother-in-law (May she rest in peace) came into my life and stayed there a long, long time. She never lived with us, but her presence was never far from my mind. I tried to like her and get along with her. But for some reason she never liked me. Her animosity towards me may have started on the day that her precious evil cat attacked my leg and I kicked it across the room and into her china cabinet. The cat never recovered from that incident and neither did the relationship between my mother-in-law and me.

Two other very important women came into my life seven years apart. A little over a year after our marriage a young girl took up residence in our home. She stayed for twenty some years. Seven years after she moved in another girl came along. She only stayed about eighteen years. My wife got along very well with these two interlopers. As a matter of fact, over time, she got along with them better than I did, although I’ve always maintained a special relationship with both of our daughters.

Of course there have been other women I have known. Sisters-in-law, cousins, aunts and others have played their roles in how I view women. As a modern man I guess you can say I like and appreciate women. I don’t understand them of course. I’m not that modern. But as life moves along and I slip into my dotage I hope to continue to have relationships with the feminine gender. After all, they’re much more interesting and are usually better smelling than men.

Have a fine day.

WRITING FOR FUN AND PROFIT

Writing is much harder than people think. Ideas come with difficulty. Putting the idea into some interesting and useful type of story, poem, book or article takes a great deal of thought and work. The writer has to pay attention to the rules of grammar and syntax. If he’s writing fiction then he needs to use dialogue. A conflict of some sort must be created. “No conflict, no story” as some teacher or editor told me long ago. Refining, rewriting and refining again are all part of the arduous process.

When I started writing as a hobby I would just bang out a bunch of thoughts on the keyboard, refine them a little bit and then post them on one of my blog sites. Those were the good old days. Then I joined a writer’s help group on the internet. For $49.95 a year this site claims that it will help a person improve as a writer and maybe even help to get stuff published. Members read and critique other members’ material posted on the site. For a member to post writing he or she must read and review postings, building up points for the stuff reviewed. Then, when enough points are accumulated in a kind of virtual bank account, an article, poem or chapter of a novel can be posted for review. Points are based on word count and site participation. The writer then gets to read the reviews which usually are kind and helpful. However, that is not always the case. Some reviewers take great pride in being extremely critical and abusive. They’re known as shredders.

Since joining this site a few months ago I have posted a few short stories and several poems. Contests with cash or publishing prizes are also part of the package offered by this forum. I haven’t won any prizes and my writing hobby has kind of moved to a phase that I’m not sure I like. The criticism and helpful suggestions are fine. I don’t even mind being shredded once in a while. But the competition aspect has made me look at those pieces of writing that win prizes with an analytical eye. Then I try to write using the same elements of style and substance that the winners used. My own creative voice is somehow being lost.

When I was banging out a few blogs a week I found it easy to get a light, sometimes even humorous, tone into my writing. Now that tone is elusive. Under the influence of the reviewers on the writer’s help site I have been trying to do serious writing with “meaning”. I worry about putting conflict and proper dialogue in my little stories. My poetry needs to fit certain forms having the proper meter with deeper, more soulful imagery. At first I liked the challenge. Now it’s not so much fun.

But I’m going to stick with it for a while. After all I did pay $49.95 for the thing. I’m going to stick with it because I have gotten some good advice. There has been a slight improvement in the quality of my writing, bringing it from an eighth grade level up to maybe tenth grade. But I’d like to win one of those little contests so that I can cover the cost of my membership fee. Then I’ll quit.

Have a fine day

CHILDBEARING AND GRANDPARENTING

BABIES AND SUCH July 14, 2009

You all knew I would write something about babies after the birth of our latest grandchild yesterday morning, didn’t you? Our youngest daughter and her husband-to-be welcomed a little girl into the world and my wife and I were there at the hospital to join in the festivities. If, for some strange reason, men could suddenly be the child bearing gender I would take a pass on the honor. If, for that same reason, I had no choice in the matter then I would be the first to ask for the pain killing drugs or the scalpel to yank the little bundle of joy out of its resting place. Everyone says it’s so natural and wonderful to carry the kid around inside for nine months, and then go through hour after hour of pain that builds in intensity culminating in a short burst of extreme discomfort. I disagree and, as I said, I’ll pass. God gave the job to the stronger sex for a good reason.

Back in Victorian days women were labeled as the weaker sex. In those days men obviously weren’t around when babies were delivered. They were probably down at the tavern talking about what a great kid they produced while the little woman was home doing the producing. Women are tough and it’s just one of the reasons I admire them so much. They’ll display all that toughness in labor and childbirth then within moments of delivery handle the baby with the most incredible tenderness. A man would be so angry at the source of the pain that he would probably drop kick the kid across the room.

Our daughter and granddaughter were at the Virginia Hospital Center in Arlington. It’s not a huge hospital but it was pretty good as far as I could see. The medical staff was caring, competent and kind. The non-medical staff wasn’t too bureaucratically crippled. The patient’s food, believe it or not, was decent. The parking was cheap. My only complaint about the place was the cost of the food in the cafeteria. They actually call it a food court. Almost six bucks for a mediocre ham sandwich is too much so we only bought one meal there.

Everything went well. The baby got birthed, our daughter is fine and her man didn’t faint at the sight of all that messiness. They’re home and starting on the job of being a nice little family.

GRANDPARENTING

Now I have three grandchildren. My two grandsons, ages eight and three, are good little guys. The three year old was living up to the notion of the “terrible two’s” for a while. He seems to be mellowing out more now and we have some interesting little conversations. Yesterday while he was eating his lunch I was badgering him with some silly questions which he wasn’t answering. When I bugged him one more time he said “Grandpa I’m concentrating on eating right now.” So that settled that. Later he was playing in the back of my pick-up truck, which is something he likes to do on a regular basis. He was messing around with some clamps that hold the rails for the bed cover. He said to himself, out loud, “This little boy better not take these off because Grandpa will not be a happy man.” I didn’t make this stuff up.

My eight year old grandson is a bright little fellow. He has a tendency to come across a field of interest and then become extremely involved in it for a long period of time. Last fall he was really interested in the Periodic Table of Elements. He read about it, learned how it was devised, memorizing all the elements and some of the numbers and generally became a minor expert on the subject. Now he’s taken an interest in birds and bird watching. He carries a field guide around, watches for unusual species and draws pictures of birds that he likes. In a few weeks he’ll be going into fourth grade in a program for more advanced learners. We’re pretty sure the other kids will be able to keep up with him.

Now we’ve got a granddaughter. I’m looking forward to seeing this little one develop into a person. The infancy stage is okay, and the cute little bundles of joy are fun in a limited way. But it’s during those stages when their minds start to expand, as they acquire language, which interest me the most. Being part of their lives as they figure out how the world works is the most fun of all. Grand-parenting is good.

Have a fine day.

ENGLISH CLASS

As he entered the classroom for the last period on the first day of his freshman year in high school, Carl was really dragging his butt. He had suffered through the day meeting new teachers, getting new text books and learning about the daunting tasks that faced him this year. He was a good student. Last year he had made the honor roll every single marking period. But this high school stuff was serious.

This morning when he left home he had been eager and full of nervous but hopeful anticipation. With his new schedule taped to the inside of his notebook he had found his way to his first class; Algebra I, room 204. The shriveled little woman standing in front of the room didn’t smile. She spoke in a barely audible monotone. After a perfunctory roll call books were passed out. Then for the next forty minutes the teacher wrote incomprehensible formulas on the blackboard and droned on in the very foreign language of higher mathematics. It was torture.

After finally being released from the gulag of Algebra I, Carl rushed to his second class. He liked history and hoped that this period would give a lift to the day. The history teacher, Mr. Harris, seemed like a nice enough guy as he introduced himself, took roll and passed out the thick, new smelling “Introduction to World History” book. Then he passed out seven mimeographed work sheets, sat down and unfolded a newspaper.

“Work on these pages.” Mr. Harris said. “The answers are in chapter one of your text. Hand them in tomorrow. Work quietly or I’ll throw you out of class.”

Then he buried his face in the newspaper and didn’t say another word for the rest of the class.

Third period was an elective class. Carl had never had an elective and he felt he had attained some new level of maturity when he chose “Art Appreciation for Americans” during his session with the guidance counselor at the end of eighth grade. The counselor called the schedule-making sessions “Life Planning” and made it seem like a very serious business.

She told Carl “It’s really important to take the core courses and electives that will best prepare you for your chosen career.”

Carl replied “But I’m only in eighth grade. I don’t have any idea what I want to do with my life yet. How can I know what to pick?”

“Well, just kind of make an informed guess” Miss Dixon said earnestly. She said most everything either earnestly or sometimes even passionately.

“Carl said “Okey-dokey” and picked the art course and for the second semester, “Introduction to Woodworking”.

“Art Appreciation for Americans” looked promising as Carl found a seat at one of the round tables in the classroom. The teacher looked very young and very pretty. She introduced herself as Mrs. Butler and then had the twenty or so students each introduce themselves and say a little something about their interest in art.

When it was his turn Carl mumbled “I’m Carl. A couple years ago I went to an art gallery and it was cool. They had mostly pictures of A-bomb explosions. So that’s why I signed up for this class.”

The little introductions took most of the class so Carl couldn’t really tell how it would play out in the long run of a whole semester. The bell rang and it was time to find his way to Biology, in room 237. Finding the class involved pushing through crowds of students, quickly climbing up two flights of stairs and rushing down a long hallway. When he reached room 237 he was out of breath and just barely on time.

Mr. Wright, the teacher was checking off names as Carl entered, directing each student to an assigned desk with a textbook already in place. When everyone had been settled Mr. Wright began a lecture about being organized and orderly. He told the class that, in science, orderliness was a key component of learning and discovery.

“In our laboratory work we will always be organized, orderly and methodical. Lab sessions are going to take place during fifth period three days a week. You must follow instructions exactly. Safety will be a top priority. If you disrupt the class with disorderly conduct or poor organization I will make life very difficult for you.” Mr. Wright preached.

Carl was amused at how stiff and formal the teacher appeared. He reminded Carl of a Presbyterian minister that preached at a church the family attended until the minister had a full blown nervous breakdown during a Sunday service. The minister, a major control nut, completely lost it when he discovered that the bookmarks in his Bible were mixed up, the hymn numbers on the sign board were transposed and all the flower arrangements had been shifted to the left about a foot each. Two male members of the children’s choir had been questioned after they were observed laughing hysterically as the minister fell to pieces, but they denied any responsibility even offering to swear on a Bible to avow their innocence. Carl’s family had switched to the more relaxed Unitarian congregation after that incident.

Biology class ended as Carl’s daydream faded. Lunch was next on the schedule followed by Biology Lab in room 238. Carl headed for the cafeteria hoping that high school lunch would prove to be better than junior high. He was once again disappointed. He shoveled a serving of some mysterious meat and mashed potatoes covered by gelatinous brown gravy with a side order of gravel like peas into his mouth out of desperate hunger. Even the dessert, tepid orange Jell-O with chunks of pineapple, was barely edible. Carl followed the tray depositing procedure and headed up to his Biology Lab.

Lab turned out to be an only slightly more interesting class than Mr. Wright’s earlier session. The first “experiment” in the workbook involved looking at and identifying the parts of a plant. Carl was assigned a lab partner, a sophomore girl named Edna, to share the supplies and microscope at their table. Edna was a pretty girl and extremely shy with a vocabulary limited to “yes”, “no” and “ewww”. But Carl liked her and if Mr. Wright hadn’t been marching around the room like some goose-stepping Nazi the class wouldn’t have been half-bad.

Physical Education was next on Carl’s schedule. He got to the gym where he was instructed to sit on the floor with thirty other ninth grade boys. Coach Talbot, a stooped over, chain smoking man with a voice like a meat grinder gave the same lecture he had been giving for nearly thirty-six years.

“You must dress for Physical Education in the proper clothing. Proper clothing is regulation shorts, white t-shirt, athletic socks, sneakers and athletic supporter. You will shower after every gym class even if you ain’t broke a sweat. You can bring your own towel or rent towels from the school. Everyone participates. I’ll be looking at you guys for new members of all the high school sports teams. No grab-ass in the locker rooms or shower. That’s it. Study or somethin’. Next class be prepared to participate.”

Carl thought that the coach had a simple philosophy and it wouldn’t too hard to survive the class; wear the right stuff, stay clean and, above all, participate.

Carl was feeling drained. The first day of high school had been filled with disappointments and challenges that he hadn’t anticipated. His final class of the day was coming and it was a subject he had always hated. Carl liked to read. He even liked writing a little bit. But all the other parts of English classes were despised drudgery. Grammar, sentence diagramming and spelling drills gave him a headache. In seventh and eighth grade English class seemed to be all about those boring chores. As he worked his way to the far end of the school for the final class of the day he was filled with an exhausted dread. English I in room 250 was waiting there to devour his now withered brain.

When he got to the classroom there was no teacher in view. The other twenty five or so students were finding seats and chattering the way barely adolescent kids will. Suddenly a short, thin man with a crew cut and wearing a rumpled brown suit and a bright yellow bow tie burst through the door. His energy was almost visible. He circled the entire room one time walking like a demented Groucho Marx and then stopped at the blackboard and scrawled ENGLISH I – MR. WARREN in huge letters, scraping the chalk on the boards surface, creating the sound that raises the hair on the backs of most everyone’s neck. He turned to face the class. Then from a standing position he leapt up onto the teacher’s desk and bellowed.

“I LOVE ENGLISH!”

“You will love English too, by the end of this school year!”

Mr. Warren went on to proclaim the virtues of the language and its literature. He quoted Mark Twain, William Shakespeare, James Dickey and Dr. Seuss. Reading and writing would be the focus of the class, he said. Mr. Warren insisted that the class would be fun, “SO HELP ME GOD!” All of this was delivered from the desk top with histrionics and theatrical gestures. When the teacher jumped down from the desk everyone applauded wildly.

Carl sat thoughtfully and said to himself “maybe high school will be alright after all”. The bell rang and the first day was over.

BODIES OF ART

I’m thinking about getting a tattoo. Or maybe I’ll get something pierced. It seems to be quite the fashionable thing to do these days. Tattoos and piercings are everywhere. Yesterday I happened to be in the mall and, as a diversion to the boredom I sometimes experience while walking around in circles, I started counting bodies adorned with various types of art. On the first lap I counted women and girls with tattoos. Then I counted men with tattoos. Then I counted both genders that had some sort of piercing.

It was amazing. Since it is summer and there is a lot more exposed body surface at this time of year, that first lap was a real eye opener. Legs, arms, necks, shoulders and on through the anatomical check list I observed art. From the tiny little butterfly on an ankle to the intricate gothic design descending into the back of a young lady’s shorts I noticed all types of body accessorising. I had to be careful in my observations for fear of being accused of public lechery or something. Science and investigative journalism have their hazards. In the food court I saw a group of women, it looked like a family of middle aged and younger girls, all wearing rather low cut tops and shorts that were generally a size or two too small. There were bare and bulging bellies, buttocks and bosoms. Every one of those surfaces had tattoos. Some had five or six elaborate decorations. As I was watching them (discretely) about five men joined their group. All of those men had a myriad of body art showing on their arms, legs and necks. These folks didn’t look terribly prosperous and I wondered how they could afford to pay for those high quality designs that must take many sessions to complete.

On the next lap I counted men with tattoos. That’s probably even more dangerous than looking at the ladies. I got a couple of threatening glares as I ambled around my circuit. After that lap I concluded that about seventy percent of the men in the mall at that time had at least one piece of art. Now I know why our little town has ten places to get tattooed. It’s a big business. My oldest grandson draws pretty well so I’m going to encourage him to pursue a career in body art. It probably pays better than most other artistic pursuits.

On my final circuit of the mall I counted piercings. It’s harder to do that because I’m sure a lot of body piercing is not available to public view. I did see some girls who had evidence of one or two particular pieces of body jewelry showing beneath their extremely tight shirts. Little dumbbell shaped things seem to be the favorites there. Pierced ears were evident across all age and economic groups. Some people had more metal than flesh showing around the edge of their ears. Lips, eyebrows and noses also had a lot of holiness. There was a little clutch of teenage girls eating ice cream cones with some difficulty because the studs in their tongues were freezing up and causing them to drool. I would say about thirty to forty percent of the people in the mall had a piercing. The number could have been higher if everyone there was walking around naked, but I’m only guessing.

I had thought that body art was starting to fade as a fad but I guess I’m wrong. At least the people who hang out at the mall on a workday seem to be bucking any trend away from those art forms. Maybe if I went someplace where people were actually working I’d find a different result. Maybe not. I have decided that piercing is out for me. Skewering yourself with little metal appliances doesn’t actually qualify as art in my book. Expressing your artistic nature by stabbing yourself in the belly button or lower lip just seems weird. Some of my extended family members will disagree, I’m sure, but I’m old and that’s how I feel. Tattoos however are a little more thoughtful and artistic, especially if they’re done well and placed in an interesting location. So maybe I’ll get one of those. I’ll do that just as soon as I convince my dear wife to get a cute little butterfly on her… well, on her body somewhere. That’s about as likely as Obama lowering taxes. So I guess my body will be an art free zone. Although I think those little rub on tattoos still come in some boxes of Cracker Jack. Maybe I’ll try one of those, just to see how it looks.

Have a fine day.

NATURAL WONDER

NATURAL WONDERS July 7, 2009

Yesterday I was driving in town and came up to one of the interminably slow traffic lights that plague Dover. Ahead of me were several cars, the closest being a dark blue Ford Expedition. As I was waiting for the light to change I noticed a small crow land on the luggage rack of that SUV. It was kind of hanging on there and occasionally flapping its wings. The light changed and we all started moving forward and making our turns or proceeding straight through the intersection. I noticed the crow lifting off in a kind of tentative way and held my turn back a little bit. I lost sight of the bird and as I was nearing the end of my left turn I suddenly saw a black shape drop and smack into my windshield. The bird slid up and once again I lost sight of its feathery form.

As I proceeded down the highway I looked in the rearviews to try and see what the fate of the poor creature had been. At first I didn’t see any sign of the bird. Then I noticed some movement in my pick-up truck bed. There it was, kind of staggering and dazed, but definitely alive. Thinking that the crow would fly out of the truck as I drove along or when I stopped at another traffic light I continued on my way. But it stayed right where it was. As I got a chance to observe the bird I noticed that it was most likely a fledgling just out of the nest and learning to fly. When I would stop the bird would look expectantly towards the sky as if searching for some sort of guidance. Since I’m not sure if crows have any concept of a Supreme Being I made the assumption that it was looking for a parent bird.

When I pulled into my driveway that young crow was still sitting in the back of the truck. I cautiously walked to the tailgate (I’ve seen that movie “The Birds” and I know the kind of damage a crow can do) and lowered it so the bird could more easily escape. But it just sat there. I went in to the house and went about my usual business occasionally looking out the window to see if the crow was still there. It was.

My wife got home from work around six and she noticed that the bird was moving around in the truck bed. A little while later it was flapping its wings and kind of flying and jumping to the roof of the truck then back down again. At one point it flew up to an air conditioner unit that sticks through a wall in the carport and hung on there, flapping its wings vigorously. Just before dark I looked out and the crow was no longer in the truck or the carport. But I heard a high pitched cawing and going around to the back yard saw the bird hanging out near one of my wife’s flower beds.

A more sensitive guy would have thought of the dangers that the baby crow was facing from the deadly cats that roam our neighborhood who spend their time routinely killing and eating birds, squirrels and bunny rabbits. I guess I did think about that but I figured if the little beggar was going to make it in this world he’d have to do it without me preparing a protective shelter and feeding it whatever crows might eat. So I went to bed.

This morning the crow was hiding out in the hedges along the side of our backyard. It seemed in no worse shape than last night but it had increased its noise output quite a bit. It would caw incessantly for ten minutes or so, take a two minute break and then start the ten minute routine again. Birds, especially crows, can really annoy me. I decided that I would give the thing until lunch time. If it hadn’t moved on I would trap it and transport it to a different location, probably the yard of someone that I’m not on the best of terms with. But when I went out to the yard a little while ago I couldn’t find the little crow. I scoured the yard for a sign of feathers and blood but there was nothing. So I’m assuming the little guy got his wings working and took off to find his kinfolk. Although, considering how quickly birds grow up, he (or maybe she) might be out looking for a mate. I’m just glad it’s gone.

Now I have to go clean up a mess of bird poop from the roof and bed of my pick-up truck. Dirty birds.

Have a fine day.

PERSONAL STUFF

We got home from a brief trip to Rockville, Maryland a little while ago. Our extremely pregnant daughter needed my truck to pick up a dresser for the baby’s bedroom. Of course she also wanted to see us; she didn’t just need us for the vehicle. My dear wife helped with preparation of all the baby stuff which is now filling all the drawers, baskets and shelves in that nursery room. They also did some decorating and curtain hanging. I was called upon to use my manly talents putting up curtain rods and in assembling a port-a-crib device. That crib thing was a complicated piece of equipment and I actually had to read the directions and then ask my daughter for an interpretation. It got done but not without some sweat and a few choice epithets. So now their place is pretty well set for the imminent arrival of baby Elizabeth (no middle name yet).

Thinking about the arrival of babies sent my mind on a little journey back to the early days of our marriage, nearly forty years ago. I remembered going to a Grant’s department store up in the Rochester area and getting some baby stuff, a wooden cradle and a changing table, for our first born daughter. Those were exciting times. Seven years later, after we had given all our baby things away, we had do go out and do it all again when our second daughter was born. I think she got better stuff because we were a little better off at that point in our lives. Also by that time we had forgotten all those new baby skills we once had. It’s a good thing our seven year old had a knack for childcare having played with dolls for a few years. She was a big help, and I’m not kidding about that.

Forty years is a pretty long time to stay married nowadays. At this point it seems like my wife knows exactly what I’m thinking all the time. I asked her how she does that and she said that she always asks the questions and then gives me the correct answers, which gives an illusion of being all knowing. I can’t do that same thing to her. Whenever I think I know what she’ll say or do she ends up somewhere else. That also adds to the mystique of her being several steps ahead of me and also of being extremely intuitive. Some people might say that she’s just illogical and disorganized, but I know better and I would never say that.

My wife and I have developed a kind of shorthand way of conversing over the years. I don’t notice younger couples doing that very much. We can convey more information and emotional content in six to ten words than most folks can in six hours in a marriage counselors office. We rarely misunderstand each other. I understand that she’s almost always right so things get settled quickly. And if she happens to be wrong she readily admits that I’m an idiot for that rare misunderstanding. We then get on with life in our happy dysfunctional way.

I kind of wanted to do some bragging about another aspect of our personal life but I’m afraid that if my wife (who is also my editor-in-chief) saw that she would not be too happy. Even though everything I had in mind to write about would have been highly complimentary towards her she still wouldn’t allow it to be seen under my readers’ lamplight. So I’ll just say that she really likes my cooking and we’ll leave it at that.

As a parting gift to all you couples out there who haven’t yet had the experience or time in service that I have I’m going to offer a little free advice about marriage. Or if you’re not married but you’re a couple then you can still use the advice, but it really works better if you have the required paperwork completed. Okay, here’s the advice: communicate on a level deeper than a TV commercial. That sounds easy, doesn’t it? But it’s really hard and it takes a lot of practice. Some people might say that women are better at communicating but I disagree. Women are better at talking but they still have a hard time listening to what their guy is really saying. Men are not always so good at talking but we do pretty good at listening because we practice that a lot. The trick is for both of you to say things that mean something and listen in a way that means you’re really hearing. If you need counseling in this area I’ve got a cousin who gets paid good money for that out in California. He does phone appointments at a discount rate.

Have a fine day.