This is true. Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton and George W Bush were each asked what they felt was the most notable accomplishment of their respective presidential terms. Jimmy Carter said "The Camp David accords." Bill Clinton said "Achieving peace in the Balkans." President Bush said his most notable accomplishment was "Catching a seven and a half pound perch in my lake."
He's likely right.
One of the less salubrious aspects of advancing age is the discovery that many of the tenets you've held onto forever are wrong. Example 1: "What you see is what you get" - now there's all this Dark Matter and Dark Energy that nobody can see; Ex 2: "Bigger is better" - now comes Miss Pamela Anderson; Ex 3: "All Conservatives are stupid" - now there's - - - there was somebody, and it wasn't that long ago, I don't remember exactly - - - but I think that one could be wrong, too (though John Stuart Mill was on the money when he said that while not all conservatives are stupid people, all stupid people are conservatives).
Anyway, I've always held that it's virtuallly impossible to spoil any child, and that it's absolutely impossible to spoil your grandchildren. At least not my grandchildren. But compelling evidence to the contrary arose this past Christmas Eve, when the seats-down capacities of a Durango and a Suburban were required to haul the loot home from Nanagrampa's. And this was after a preemptory Suburban delivery two days earlier! There was not even enough room but that a separate vehicle was required to bring home the son-in-law and both headphone-clad dvd watching grandchildren.
To put a gilded frame around the picture: as the grandkids wearily wended their way wading hip-deep through shredded wrapping paper and boxes and ribbons toward the front door that beckoned them homeward, my beloved gap toothed grandson paused before me, looked up, and without a hint of irony queried, "That all you got?"
Full Disclosure Paragraph: Grampa was pretty spoiled too, with a wonderous Bose surround sound system and the Woodstock director's cut.
Honestly, how many times have you attended a ballgame or concert or church service and thought to yourself, “Seven bucks for a draft?” or “Wow, this line goes on forever” or “Hosanna in the highest, my hairy backside! What I need right now is 80 ounces of beer”?
Thanks to the good people at Underdevelopment of Reno, Nev., creators of the Beerbelly, things are looking up. The Beerbelly is an elegantly simple invention consisting of a neoprene sling that wraps around your neck and waist, much like a baby Snugli, and a puncture-resistant polyurethane bladder that rests inside the Snugli and can hold more than a six-pack of beer. When the whole thing is worn under a large shirt or jacket (or, as the Beerbelly Web site specifically recommends for the ladies, a pair of overalls), you look no different from any fun-loving American fending off morbid obesity — albeit one with a tube emerging from beneath your clothes, from which you are furtively sucking gulps of concealed alcohol. (For less obtrusive use, the creators recommend lowering your zipper and running the tube down and out through your pants, in order to dispense your beer into a cup.)
Whichever method you choose, Underdevelopment’s claim that you can now drink “what you want, when you want, where you want” is undeniable. And while it stands to reason that the guy who’s eager to walk around with 80 ounces of beer under his Spuds MacKenzie sweatshirt might not be so finicky about the temperature at which he enjoys his beverage, the company also sells a Beerbelly Ice Pack Pleasure Extender, which keeps the bladder cold for an additional three hours. So rejoice, people who yearn to drink beer every waking moment of your lives! The days of getting gouged for stadium drafts and waiting with suckers in the slow lines and suffering through a solid hour of nonalcoholic worship are over.
At least that's what it was for Ernie who has ridden more than 1245 miles in 24 hours, just to get his "Iron Butt - World's Toughest Riders" plates.
Hadn't been on a bike since I sold mine last spring, and I was jonesing, and E has two, so we decided to do something with our Monday rather than wasting it working. Got to his place round about nine and he says "You're driving the new one." That's the 'Wing with just under 39 grand on it, versus the one with 244 large on it. The "new" one is an especially swell ride. 1300cc, more than 100 hp with ABS, 6-speaker sound - more like sitting in an easy chair with the window open on a breezy day than motorcycling.
Headed out from his garage a bit after nine, northbound. Took the 60 to the 10 to the 51 to the 17 to Happy Valley Road, turned west past Lake Pleasant, all the way to Wickenburg.
North out of Wickenburg, up the twistys of Yarnell Hill and eventually into Prescott where we had lunch, the temperature now at 48f. North out of Prescott, up and over Mingus Mountain where, at somewhere above 7000 feet the temp dropped to 39 when last I checked it. Hands cold, nose numb. Down through Jerome, then Cottonwood, Verde Valley - God I love this state - hooked back up with the 17, got into the diamond lane and were back at the barn a little after four.
364 miles have rolled by. I thank Der Ernstermeir and climb into the 'Burb and call the missus; tell her I know what I want for Christmas: something to go with my GoldWing jacket. Just like her, she pauses for about seven milliseconds, then says, "That's fine sweetie, what color are you thinking of? Not yellow! And remember! We have to have matching helmets!"
Ahhhhhhhh My Life
I was mortified. I dislike gross-out movies. I haven't seen Dumb & Dumber and don't intend to. I am so far and away above all that. But She thought the movie might be "cute" so we nuked a bag of popcorn, grabbed a couple of sodas from the reefer, dumped it all into her big purse and headed off to our second-favorite kind of matinee.
Ok, the movie. Geez. This guy is really dedicated to his "craft." He sets himself up to get real beaten more than once, and in the case of Miss Pamela Anderson, he could have (should have?) been shot. There sure as hell won't be a Borat II. There sure as hell have to be some red faces amongst the penticostals whose transmogrification he crashed, especially one US Representative in full glossolalian rapture.
My favorite line was at the end of his Georgian, I think, etiquette lesson. After insulting the good parson's wife and returning to the table with a baggie of - well, I don't want to give everything away. But as he and his "guest" are being excused from the premises the line is, as near as I can recall, "Why police? Half retard escape?"
Oh, and another hint: the closing credits, if you last that long, include an attribution for "Feces provided by . . .".
But like I said, I am so above that kind of stuff.
Ahhhh, Pastor Haggard.
"Brokeback Baptist Church"?
There will be some doozies coming from the various joke writers. Last night Leno suggested that the good pastor using church funds to pay for his gay sex trysts was "Robbing Paul to pay for Peter."
After ousting the former paragon today, a church elder predicted that "It's probably going to be a tough couple of weeks around here." You think?
Waiting at the red light, westbound at the 48th St intersection in Nana's IS350.
Gorgeous yellow Vette convertible rumbles up to my right, stereo blasting, burly bushy blonde bad boy glances over. I smile, raise my eyebrows, implying the question. Reach my thumb down to the dash and flip the toggle that powers the ECT/POWER dash light. (I don't know, ectoplasm maybe?)
The light changes, the game is on, the jig is up. Neither of us breaks traction, neither gets ahead of the other before we back off about six seconds later, him first, of course. We get all those ponies reined in tight by the next light and sit there grinning at each other. "Holy damn! I didn't know those things were that fast!!" he shakes his head, ruing this day.
I give him the V sign, turn left and trundle on down Ranch Circle, thinking about sunny days, fair breezes, and again about maybe the Cardinals training camp; not a thought at all about the Frys discount.
Ten thousand five hundred. 10,500. If that was how many shares of Class A Berkshire Hathaway you owned, that would be a really big number. But it's the number of days my oldest daughter has been around. Little miracle baby now caring for at-risk kids at Children's Hospital. Mighty proud of her.
Another really big number, and a dreadful, somber one is 2,814. That's the number,as of yesterday, November 2nd, of American deaths confirmed in the war begun by this disastrous Bush administration. Almost 20,000 Americans maimed; hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and Afghanis dead. Can anyone seriously put forward one single thing that has improved as a result of this ignorant, lazy, incompetent pitiful-excuse-for-a-president's actions? Record profits for big oil and Halliburton, I guess.
Note that there were a total of 2943 confirmed deaths as a result of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. Chances are that this horrific total of American citizens slaughtered will be exceeded at the hands of this administration before the end of this calendar year. And for what? Who's the bigger threat to our national well being? The "My Pet Goat" reader who sat inert for seven minutes after being told "America is under attack." Here's hoping Tuesday is the beginning of a much needed regime change.
My note to the boys:
Three Lime Rickeys To Go, Or, more accurately, Casting My Pearls Before Swine
Young G gots all A's save for one B+.
That's OK, little man. Grampa once got a B+ himself.
What You Realize When Cancer Comes
You will not live forever—No
you will not, for a ceiling of clouds
hovers in the sky.
You are not as brave
as you once thought.
Sounds of death
echo in your chest.
You feel the bite of pain,
the taste of it running
through you.
Following the telling to friends
comes a silence of
felt goodbyes. You come to know
the welling of tears.
Your children are stronger
than you thought and
closer to your skin.
The beauty of animals
birds on telephone lines,
dogs who look into your eyes,
all bring you peace.
You want no more confusion
than what already rises
in your head and heart.
You watch television less,
will never read all those books,
much less the ones
you have.
Songs can move you now, so that
you want to hold onto the words
like the hands of children.
Your own hands look good to you.
old and familiar
as water.
You read your lover's skin
like a road map
into yourself.
All touch is precious now.
There are echoes
in the words thrown
before you.
When they take your picture now
you wet your lips, swallow once
and truly smile.
Talk of your lost parents
pulls you out, and
brings you home again.
You are in a river
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.
You can survive.
A river is flowing
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.
by Larry Smith
and no, everything is fine, thanks for asking.
The scene: Green Bay at Philadelphia.
Her: Look at that! Bret Favre has grey in his beard! Guys with grey hair shouldn't still be playing football.
Me: What are you talking about?! Lots of greybeards still play. What about that Morton Anderson guy, the kicker, he's like in his forties, huh?!!
Her: So what?
Me: So, that's not that far from me. I could still play you know. I still got it.
Her: Uh Huh.
Me: Hey! I'm kinda thinking about heading into training camp this fall. God knows the Cards could use me, and I'm feeling like I got game!!
Her: That reminds me. If we buy groceries at Frys on Wednesdays, we get ten percent off for being seniors.
The bar to which we repair after Friday golf has a shaded, misted patio that subjects its inhabitants to about ninety percent less cigarette smoke than being indoors. We played Thursday and Friday this week, but Thursday, afterwards, went for our repast of an adult beverage and some hot wings, and for me, at least, to again regale the others over my spectacular shot making skills, which sometimes even result in the ball staying inbounds.
As we came through the doors to the patio we were met with the specter of pink balloons bobbing above each table, pink flowers in vases on the tables and little bowls of pink Hershey kisses on the tables. Something wasn't right. Lots of wimmens in T shirts that said "Every step makes a difference". A sallow complected yoot with an acoustic guitar, frowning in the corner. A table with pink teddy bears. I know we weren't expected until tomorrow, but what the hey? This is our bar and there be wimmens at our table. Like any heterosexual men in the same situation, we turned to beat a hasty retreat.
"Wait!! Don't go!" Three, maybe four of them, I don't know, I was frightened as they swarmed at us, waving pink bras that had been ingeniously sewn into little - a couple of them not so little - purses. "This is for people who have breasts, who used to have breasts, who know people who have breasts, and for people who like people with breasts! Don't you guys fall into one of those categories?"
We confessed that we were, in fact, big fans.
"Well come on in, join the raffle, sponsor me (no, me! no, me!!!) in the big walkathon!!" What else could we do? G's sister-in-law had just the week earlier had a double mastectomy, and that's not usually elective surgery. So we sat, had a couple laughs, sponsored a few miles, and left, glad for people like these, and for the people we get to go home to.
Bear with me I
want to tell you
something about
happiness
it's hard to get at
but the thing is
I wasn't looking
I was looking
somewhere else
when my son found it
in the fruit section
and came running
holding it out
in his small hands
asking me what
it was and could we
keep it it only
cost 99 cents
hairy and brown
hard as a rock
and something swishing
around inside
and what on earth
and where on earth
and this was happiness
this little ball
of interest beating
inside his chest
this interestedness
beaming out
from his face pleading
happiness
and because I wasn't
happy I said
to put it back
because I didn't want it
because we didn't need it
and because he was happy
he started to cry
right there in aisle
five so when we
got home we
put it in the middle
of the kitchen table
and sat on either
side of it and began
to consider how
to get inside of it
-Paul Hostovsky
Youngest daughter's former boss at her former employer moved into the 'hood a few months ago. She invited him over for one of our famous pool parties and he fit right in with our particular brand of craziness.
E's passion is his sand rail or dune buggy, whatever you want to call it. His great passion. This thing ("Baby") is wider than an H1 Hummer, with a Porsche 280 horsepower rear-mounted engine and 35 " wheels. It's a monster.
A couple times he'd driven this beast over for me to ogle, but when he came by this morning he announced that it was now street legal and he had just gotten the skid plate attached and didn't I think I ought to get a hat on before strapping myself into the full body harness? I did, clawed my way through the rollbars and into the cage, and I got the harness right on the second try. It's an elaborate congregation of webbing that comes up from below a surprisingly comfortable seat, between your legs, two more over both shoulders, one from each side at your waist, and they all latch together at your lower abdomen. Then you cinch down the straps and baby you ain't falling out of that chair regardless.
We're just two miles from the rez, so we headed down there and for about an hour and a half aired that baby out. Never got all four off the ground at one time, but got close. Got high centered once and had to rock and heave and push, but that big devil can fly. With such a wide stance and the enormous shocks on the enormous wheels, and all that power, he'd head right for a three or four foot ditch and boom, we're over it. What fun.
We have two land lines to the house. We have caller id and distinctive ring tones for long distance and faxes coming in.
Two or three times each week for the past month, at least, either of the lines rings with the long distance cadence. The caller id screen says "Out of Area." If I just pick up the phone and say nothing, nothing seems to happen. But as soon as I say "Hello" the exact same male voice says the exact same thing the exact same way: "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number." Then the line goes dead.
It's obviously a recording, but why does it keep happening over and over? Is it some form of automated phishing for fax numbers? If so, why doesn't it default out when it gets a voice? What business model keeps calling the same number and gets the same result, over and over and over?
This wouldn't have anything to do my my occasional good natured ribbing of a moronic incompetent former Governor of Texas, would it?
Between the two of us we have five business accounts, plus our personal checking, savings and home equity with Bank of America. I am no stranger, then, to any of the bank's employees, even though they turn some of them over pretty quick. I have my favorites, Tara, Rajneesh, Lindsey, women that you can tell have something going on in there - the eyes are the windows to the soul.
But B of A has this really annoying campaign to "personalize" the banking experience. This means that even if you've been in the line earlier in the day, the newbies introduce themselves, all sparkly, perky, as if they had such an effervescent personality they just are unable to keep it pent up any longer. and if that's not enough, they feel they have to inquire as to your general gemutlichkeit of the day, how it's going, your opinion of the weather (as if we have weather) and occasionally, what your future portends.
Yesterday I was in no mood. My tellers were busy, and I didn't want to wait, I allowed myself to be shunted to a rookie. I was wearing my Suns ball cap, so Jamey, "Hi!! I'm Jamey! How may I assist you today?!" seemingly at the very top of her game, asks "So! Do you watch the Suns a lot?!!" "yeah" "Did you see that Steve Nash cut all his hair off?!!" "yeah" Then came the one I was waiting for: "So!! Any big plans for the weekend?!!"
Now I'm all smiles: "Nothing I can't change. What did you have in mind?"
Have you seen on the Nature programs how an octopus can change its color and shading like twenty times a second? This poor young thang was about to sprout tentacles. The molten color just erupted like lava up her shapely neck past her comely chin, till her cheekbones were awash. She took half a step backwards, blinking furiously, and then Tara leaned over from the adjacent window. "That's Lyle" she said.
If I get one wish today, it's that Isabella not be able to pronounce her L's nor her R's until she's well into her twenties.
I picket the Maggots up yesterday, from The School That Makes Little Kids Stand Out In The Direct Sun Until Their Parents Come For Them. Gabe got another SmileyFace from his teacher, tacit and tactile approval of his classroom conduct, and was eager to get home, get his homework done and jump on that new LegoLand video game (Homework Assignment: "Write seven funny sentences using today's spelling words" One of the words is Patriot:
"Patriot missles supplied by the US have killed many thousands in the mid-east." LET HIM MAKE UP HIS OWN SENTENCES FROM NOW ON, GRAMPA!!!
Bella is concerned about recent familial developments. "Gampa, is Nana still sick in huh tummy?" Not nearly so bad today, sweetie, in fact she's meeting us over at your house. "Is she still bowfing?" Not even once today, honey, just yesterday and during the night. "Well, if she half to bowf at ow house, you tell huh it okay to bowf in the toiwet, but she shouldn't bowf in the popcohn bowl like mommy did."
Me: Here's how I see it: Wednesday, Sept 27th, between 8 and 9 we head west on the 10 to the sorry burg yclept Blythe, where there is a surprisingly nice golf course. I kick everyone's butt for eighteen straight holes after which we drive up river to Parker to while away the evening at the dollar blackjack tables at the Blue Water Resort & Casino, where there is also a dandy little restaurant. Thursday morning we play <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Emerald Canyon<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
where my domination continues unabated. We're done by early afternoon, back on the freeway and your sorry butts and now feather-light wallets are back in your sweeties' arms by four pm. (This has the additional benefit of Mohr being able to still get his eight hours in at the office on Thursday.) Who's in?
LM: I am in but I forecast a considerably different result
Me: The foursome is set, the quibbling as to who will do what to whom has only just begun. I will try to refrain from fueling that particular fire for the purpose of clarity in this missive. We'll head west from Thistle Landing twixt 8:15 and 8:30 on the 18th, play the Blythe Country Club early afternoonish. Afterwards, we'll tradfat north along the California side of the Colorado river, checking in to the Blue Water Resort & Casino for rest, repast and (tribal) remuneration. Tuesday morning, an earlyish 18 at Emerald Canyon where my total domination continues unabated (- sorry, just couldn't help it).
EP: I'm in for most of that stuff but I'm definitely not committing to "Tradfatting" north until you tell me what that means. You may continue your domination of whatever event, person, or scenario which you might conjure as long as you bring a very large sack of that funny money to pay what will surely be an enormous debt. Looking forward to stacking and rolling those Sacagaweas and Susan B. Anthonys. How about you taking my black Wing, Larry his Fat Boy, and I ride my sparkley new Gold Wing and Gregg follows as best he can with the clubs?
Me: If you and Mohr want to two-wheel it, I think that's great and will facilitate it in every way. I absolutely appreciate the offer to let me use your ancient-yet-serviceable, almost-three hundred-grand-on-it bike, but I'm going to plant my ample ass in the Suburban, or, if you guys ride, Gregg and I will take the Lexus. I think you've met Gregg - maybe long ago when we played poker at my place? Regardless, you'll like him. He's almost as cynical and patently offensive as you and Mohr. As Mohr, anyway.
To be of use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
-Marge Piercy
When you fly as often as I do you learn to mind your own business as soon as you take your seat. But that wasn’t possible once I saw the military honor guard boarding US Airways’ 1:45 p.m. flight from Boston to Washington earlier this week.
I was heading through the gate when I first noticed Senator Ted Kennedy, walking down the concourse and arriving fashionably late, not an uncommon sight on this route. I stepped aside and followed him down the ramp.
As we got to the arched entrance of the plane, the members of a Marine honor guard in their dress blues were coming up that outside staircase usually used for stowing strollers and allowing mechanics on board. The marine in charge held in both hands a flag that had been folded into a triangle as if it had been previously draping a coffin, which it had.
Senator Kennedy extended his hand to the marine and said, “Thank you for your service.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the marine.
“Are you escorting remains?” asked Senator Kennedy.
“Yes, sir, a marine.”
“And the funeral is at Arlington Cemetery?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“Thank you, I’ll try to get out there.”
The marine went back to sit in coach, but a man in the last row of the first-class cabin went over to him, shook hands and offered his seat. The marine reluctantly accepted. Half the passengers broke into applause.
The rest of the flight was uneventful, though quieter than usual. When we landed, the marine took his white gloves from where he’d stowed them inside his hat, put them on, and again gripped with both hands the precious cargo of the folded flag.
Then he went over to two people quietly sitting in first class — the parents of the fallen marine. None of us had known they were there.
He escorted them off the plane and into the terminal. Because of the afternoon’s oppressive heat and humidity, he had persuaded them to wait inside instead of on the tarmac.
The father looked as if he might have once been a marine himself, a handsome man of perfect posture, with bristly silver hair, dressed smartly in a blue blazer and gray slacks. The mother, blond, wore light-colored pants and an orange jacket. Her glasses made her eyes seem bigger than they were. They both looked calm, if a little lost, and gave off an aura of deep quiet. As she walked by me she noticed that a tie had fallen as I was removing something from my carry-on bag andshe stopped and pointed. “I think you dropped something,” she said softly.
They stood at the window between Gates 43 and 45 and watched as a full Marine honor guard marched up the tarmac, coming to attention between the plane and a silver military hearse. The unloading of their son’s coffin from the cargo hold was very slow, and every time someone inside the terminal noticed and stopped to stare, someone else noticed and did the same, and this kept happening until about 20 people stood in silence watching out the window.
The mom leaned her elbows on the window ledge, supporting her chin and cheeks with both hands. She remained perfectly still. She stared for 10 or 15 long minutes and never moved. The father stood nearby, rocking from foot to foot and pacing a bit. They did not touch; they did not say a word to each other. Neither wore a wedding band. Perhaps they were divorced, or simply isolated in their pain.
Standing nearby was a man wearing the T-shirt of a suburban fire and rescue department that he may have earned 20 years and 35 pounds ago. He went over to the parents to chat, not knowing who they were, just one curious spectator to another.
But whatever he said to the mother caused her to turn and look at him in disbelief. Her lips didn’t move, which only encouraged him to repeat it. Her eyes widened and her chin tilted upward like a boxer who had taken a blow. She stared at him and then looked back outside toward her son. Down on the tarmac the white gloves of eight marines snapped their final salute as the doors of the hearse closed.
The P.A. system announced flights for Atlanta and Chicago. Travelers rushed to business meetings or summer vacations. The line for Auntie Anne’s pretzels was as long as ever.
Except for a handful of us standing frozen at a respectful distance from the window, the war and its carnage might as well have been on another planet. The disconnect between those who serve and those of us who are beneficiaries of their service has always felt great to me, but never greater than at that moment.
The mom and dad stepped away from the man in the T-shirt and to another window, still not touching, their movement synchronized by grief. They waited until the marine in charge came back up from the runway to escort them to a government vehicle. I went to my car and drove to work with no ambition for the day other than to be worthy.
I relearned that the woman's side of a conversation is not age-dependent. Given a set of circumstances, any woman will react as every woman would.
Witness: After a morning at tumbling class, and then a few hours in the pool being dunked repeatedly by her grandfather, Granddaughter was balled up in my lap in my blue chair in front of the tv. She's as tough and resilient as a four-year old can be, but after a full day of strenuous physical exertion she assumes the dimensions of a basketball and the tactile consistency of a cat who wants her hair and back stroked. Not surprisingly, I was happily complying when a thought occured to me and I giggled.
Her: What's funny?
Me: Oh, nothing really, just something I remembered.
Her: What was it?
Me: It's nothing really, just something that happened to a friend of mine the other day.
Her: Tell me.
Me: It's kind of a long story, and I don't think you'd get it.
Her: Tell me!
Me: Ok, well, we were playing golf, and he was losing, and he didn't mean to say it out loud but he accidentally said in this tiny little pitiful voice, "Oh man, I'm down ten dollars."
Her: That's not funny.
Me: Well, if you knew Ernie, you'd think it was hilarious.
Her: (Climbing down off my lap and heading to the kitchen) No I wouldn't. That's not funny.
Now I'm beginning to worry whether she'll like the Three Stooges if her mother ever lets me watch them with her.
First week of junior high, Kel wised off to her
same as he'd done to the one all year before.
I can still see it. Her so short, the uppercut put
all her weight under the whack of her pudgy fist
against the V of his chin. Kel arching a back-dive, landing
legs up, desks dominoing halfway up the row.
Sweet Jesus, she was tough, but bless her the first one
who liked boys best and didn't carry a grudge.
But she sure as hell wasn't one of the almost pretty nuns
you could almost imagine out there in the world.
Picture pie-faced Lou from Abbott and Costello,
lumpy-looking in any duds but now add a thick black
floor-length habit with dozens of folds, hidden pockets.
Around her waist rosary beads big as marbles
dangling to where knees would be.
Hair, ears, and neck under a stiff white wimple,
she waddled the aisles like a wooly toad.
One week she dragged us into the gym
and the alien world of square dancing—and girls.
Shedding blazers, ties, and shoes, we were cornered.
In sweat socks and knee socks, we shuffled like prisoners,
allemande left and dosido stranger than dominus vobiscum.
Robert Claire stood on a chair trying to clap rhythm
into our dumb feet, sometimes leaping down, landing
light as a blackbird. She'd skip and twirl among us
arm over arm until her habit billowed like a gown,
face aglow, God's clumsy children urged toward lessons
of possibility and romance she brought from a life before.
Reluctantly, we learned to move together, touch, let go.
- Michael Cleary
OK, ok already; I apologize in advance - - - -
A 3-legged dog walks into an old west saloon, slides up to the bar and announces, "I'm looking for the man who shot my paw."
Did you hear about the Buddhist who went to the dentist and refused to take Novocaine? He wanted to transcend dental medication.
A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel, and met in the lobby where they enthusiastically discussed their recent victories in chess tournaments. The hotel manager came out of the office after an hour and asked them to disperse. He couldn't stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer.
A woman has twins, gives them up for adoption. One goes to an Egyptian family and is named "Ahmal". The other is sent to a Spanish family that names him "Juan". Years later, Juan sends his birth mother a picture of himself. Upon receiving the picture, she tells her husband she wishes she had a picture of Ahmal, too. He replies, "They're twins for Pete's sake!! If you've seen Juan, you've seen Ahmal!!"
A group of friars opened a florist shop to help with their belfry payments. Everyone liked to buy flowers from the self proclaimed Men of God, so their business flourished. A rival florist became upset that his business was suffering because people felt compelled to buy from the Friars, so he asked the Friars to cut back hours or close down. The Friars refused. So the florist then hired Hugh McTaggert, the biggest meanest thug in townto reason with the men of god in alanguage they could understand. He went to the Friars' shop, beat them up, destroyed their flowers, trashed their shop, and said that if they didn't close, he'd be back. Terrified, the Friars closed up shop and hid in their rooms. This proved that Hugh, and only Hugh, can prevent florist friars.
And last, and almost certainly leastest:
Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot his whole life, which created an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him frail, and with his odd diet, he suffered from very bad breath. This made him a super-callused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.
Today is a holiday that we celebrate because of a woman named Sonora Smart Dodd. One Sunday morning in May of 1909, Dodd was sitting in church in Spokane, Washington, listing to a Mother's Day sermon. She thought there ought to be a holiday to celebrate fathers as well so she went on a crusade to celebrate fathers, and the tradition of observing Father's Day caught on.
When Charles Bukowski was a teenager, his father stumbled across some of his short stories and read them. Bukowski came home that day to find his clothes, his typewriter, and all the stories he had written lying on the lawn outside his front door.
John Cheever's father was a hard-drinking shoe salesman and an unpredictable man. One night Cheever's mother casually mentioned that she and his father had gotten into a fight, and his father had decided to drown himself at the local beach. Though he didn't have a driver's license, Cheever jumped in the family car and drove to the beach as fast as he could. He found his father drunk, riding a roller coaster, and had to coax him down and bring him home.
When Franz Kafka was a young boy, he once shouted for a glass of water in the middle of the night, and his father pulled him out of bed, put him on the courtyard balcony, and locked him out of the house. He later wrote, "For years thereafter, I kept being haunted by fantasies of this giant of a man, my father, the ultimate judge, coming to get me in the middle of the night."
The poet Hart Crane's father was the wealthy owner of a candy company, who couldn't understand why Hart Crane wanted to be a poet. His father constantly threatened to disown Hart Crane unless he got a real job.
Stephen King's father was a merchant seaman who deserted the family when Stephen was two. He has no memories of the man, but one day he found a boxful of his father's science fiction and fantasy paperbacks, including an anthology of stories by horror author H. P. Lovecraft. That box of his father's books inspired him to start writing horror stories.
or, How A Good Sunday Can Go Bad
1) When you're working outside in 110 degree weather, either wear gloves or put your tools in the shade when not using them.
2) When disassembling a structure bigger and taller than yourself, don't stand directly underneath it.
You're welcome.
Scientific American reports on a $2.4 million dollar study sponsored by the John Templeton Foundation that looked at the effect of third party prayer on patient outcomes.
In a three-year study of 1,800 patients undergoing heart bypass surgery, on the eve of their operation, church groups began two weeks of prayers for one set of patients. A control group of patients were not prayed for. Each recipient had a prayer contingent of about 70, none of whom knew the patient personally.
The study found no differences in survival or complication rates compared to those who did not receive prayers.
The only statistically significant blip appeared in a subgroup of patients who were prayed for and knew it. They experienced a higher rate of post-surgical heart arrhythmias (59% vs 52%) than unaware subjects.
Every few years, from now on, I'm flipping that chair over and vaccuming away the accumulation there.
If I increase the purging frequency like that, chances are I won't be met by the horrific petri dish of life forms that burst into their first sunlight when I toppled the beast yesterday.
To the ever expanding list of ignominies Life has seen fit to build into my entertainments, add a scabrous throat infection. I picked it up nine days ago while overnighting on the rez and it's beginning to make me cranky. I'm plagued with a relentless sore throat and a cough that hurts. Can't sleep (longest stretch was last night from 11 til 2:30), have tried all the drugs they'll sell me, all to Noah Vale.
Herself, off ministering to the sugar diabetics of the Cree Nation the land that has no phone service, offers up non-stop suggestions by email. "See a doctor" "Get some antibiotics" "Gargle with salt water" Like I'm supposed to be able to assemble and cook salt water by myself?
For the past few days I've mostly sat, glowering, in my Ancient Blue Chair, fending off the advances of cats and - oh yes! something new! - marauding kamikazes of tiny black flying things. Haven't gotten a close enough look yet to determine whether they're miniature flying monkeys, but with the levels of aceteminiphen in my system, anything is possible. They've designed their sorties to where they zip by really close to my face, so when I swing wildly at them there's a 50/50 chance I'll either whack myself on the side of the head or at least knock my glasses over to the side.
And she worries that I'll be bored and won't be entertained when she's gone.
A lovely, still, warmish evening out on the deck. We're in our chairs, leaning back in repose, watching another beautiful Arizona sunset across the Estrellas. The grandkids have gone home, the pool area has been picked up, the cats are cautiously reappearing. We're into our second glass of a piquant merlot as planets and then stars appear in the firmament.
"Oh! I can see - what do you call it, that line of stars!" she points high into the southwest. "That's Orion's Belt" I intone helpfully. "Ahhhh" she says with as much feigned interest as a second glass of wine allows.
"Do you see that bright star there, lower and to the left?" I inquire in my most socratic professorial manner. "MmmmHmmm" she affirms.
"That's Sirus, in mythology it's Orion the Hunter's dog. Like a dog, Sirius follows Orion across the sky and is the brightest star visible from Earth" I continue, warming now to the subject.
"Oh, Sirius! Isn't that where we're getting all our music from now?" she cheerily responds.
I almost damage the ligaments in my neck, snapping my head around in sudden and horrified dismay.
"Heh heh heh Gotcha" she murmurs through her little Mona Lisa smile.
Jupiter, now the brightest object in the night sky after the moon, is growing a new red spot. It's been visible to astronomers for a couple months now, but is growing rapidly right along side, and is already as bright as the original red spot which has been visible since telescopes were first turned toward it 400 years ago. Why is that? What forces and conditions caused the original and what is creating this new one? Just for reference, Jupiter is as big as all the other planets put together. The original red spot is so big several Earths could fit inside it.
And another thing. It was a thousand years ago this week that the brightest star ever visible from our planet showed up deep in the southern skies. We now know it was a supernova, but imagine the talk around the dinner tables back then when an object as bright as the moon suddenly appeared. It was so bright it was visible in the daytime, and at night it was bright enough to read by, for those few who could read back then.
Seems like a lot of people can read now, but don't. But there I go again.
At Summerford's Nursing Home
Like plants in pots, they sit along the wall,
Breached at odd angles, wheelchairs locked,
Or drift in tortoise-calm ahead of doting sons:
Some are still continent and wink at others
Who seem to float in and out of being here,
And one has balked beside the check-in desk—
A jaunty shred of carrot glowing on one lip,
He fumbles a scared hug from each little girl
Among the carolers from the Methodist church
Until two nurses shush him and move him on.
There is a snatch of sermon from the lounge,
And then my fourth-grade teacher washes up,
And someone else—who is it?—nodding the pale
Varicose bloom of his skull: the bald postman,
The butcher from our single grocery store?
Or is that me, graft on another forty years?
Will I become that lump, attached to tubes
That pump in mush and drain the family money?
Or will I be the one who stops it with a gun,
Or, more insensibly, with pills and alcohol?
And would it be so wrong to liberate this one
Who stretches toward me from his bed and moans
Above the constant chlorine of cleaning up
When from farther down the hall I hear the first
Transmogrifying groans: the bestial O and O
Repeating like a mantra that travels long
Roads of nerves to move a sound that comes
And comes but won't come finally up to words,
Not the oldest ones that made the stories go,
Not even love, or help, or hurt, but goodbye
And hello, grandfather, the rest of your life
Coiled around you like a rope, while one by
One, we strange relatives lean to be recognized.
by Rodney Jones from Salvation Blues: One Hundred Poems, 1985-2005
Been a problem for almost forty years, now. In high school it started coming out in clumps every morning in the shower, skeins of it.
Of late have tried shaving the whole head and succeeded only in frightening my grandson. Tried shaving just the pate but the glare caused casual passersby to shield their eyes and reel off to the side.
Since November past Herself has been saying "Just give it a couple more weeks. C'mon! It's so close to being, uh, manageable" It's pitiful.
I'd have to call it a Don King Starter Kit on the top; Pauley Walnuts flourishes on the sides.
I hear anybody say something about a Bad Hair Day, fur's gonna fly.
Let's get right to it. Cold, blustery wet weather is way overrated, when it's rated at all.
We got to our hotel just about sunset and learned that there was only one restaurant within walking distance, but "It's the most famous pizza in Boston!" Goody
A four block walk uphill into a stiff bitter breeze and we were greeted at the stormdoorway of what looked like a World War I vintage clapboard house by a surly, heavily acned young man in jeans, a t-shirt and apron. "Two?" we nodded, pleased that this one can at least count. He turned on his heel and plunged into the bowels of what might be called a fixerupper. Almost paralyzed with underwhelmsion and a bit startled, Herself summoned up her courage and asked a bearded gent slouched against the jamb "Should we follow him?" "I would" he grunts.
We catch up and are led over undulating floors back to the dusky nether regions to a wood paneled linoleum floored twenty foot square room with flickering flourescent lights. Other diners/inmates don't look up, hunched over their meals, pawing through them like dogs guarding their bowls. "WHAT'S TO DRINK?!" bellows the scullary wench from the door. "YA KNOWS WHAT YOUSE WANTS?" Mmm could we see a couple menus? "WHA!!!??? VIRGINS!!!"
Well, no, actually, though I often am mistaken as such, but - - "NO NO! YOUSE MEANS YOUSE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORES?" So sorry! If we've offended we can show ourselves out. NO NO!! LOOK EVERBODY!! VIRGINS!!!
Great! Love a lot of attention at meal time.
"Try the lamb sausage - they make it right here, themselves" volunteers a crusty old scab of a man out of the side of a mouthful of what certainly could have been lamb sausage. I guess. I'm thinking of the "lamb" I've seen prepared at the Soprano's Satriale's Meat Market. Hearing the EEEEEEOOOOOOOO as Christopher runs another piece of "lamb" through the bandsaw.
"Golly, not VERY big on lamb, but we'll try the CHEESE pizza, and as big a flagon of grog as you're allowed to sell. Right away, if you please, with the grog."
Day 2 when our narrative continues:
The word "Easter" comes from an ancient pagan goddess worshipped by Anglo Saxons named Eostre. According to legend, Eostre once saved a bird whose wings had frozen during the winter by turning the bird into a rabbit. Because the rabbit had once been a bird, it could still lay eggs, and that rabbit became our Easter Bunny.
Fetch the notary. This afternoon, 3:50 of the post meridian, we're watching "How It's Made" on the Science Channel. A segment comes on as to how they shape and polish diamonds. Creaky fingered little men with funny round hats. A lot of close-up work. Abruptly, her spangledness arises from her chair as if to leave the room.
"Honey! It's on diamonds! Don't you want to see this? Should'nt I pause it?"
"Oh Genie, I don't need any more diamonds."
GASP It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. I was being swallowed by a vortex. Dizzy, I rush to the keyboard to record the event. Oh hallelujah, if only a hymn were playing, I'd wave my arm to the heavens.
The Raisin - by Donald Hall
I drank cool water from the fountain
in the undertaker's parlor
near the body of a ninety-two-year-old man.
Harry loved horses and work.
He curried the flanks of his Morgan;
he loaded crates twelve hours—to fill in
when his foreman got drunk—
never kicking a horse,
never kind to a son.
He sobbed on the sofa ten years ago,
when Sally died.
We heard of him dancing with
widows in Florida, cheek
to cheek, and of scented
letters that came to Connecticut
all summer.
When he was old he made up for the weeping
he failed to do earlier:
grandchildren, zinnias,
Morgans, great-grandchildren.
He wept over everything. His only
advice: "Keep your health."
He told old stories, laughing slowly.
He sang old songs.
Forty years ago his son
who was parked making love in the country
noticed Harry parked making love
in a car up ahead.
When he was ninety he wanted to die.
He couldn't ride or grow flowers
or dance
or tend the plots in the graveyard
that he had kept up
faithfully, since Sally died.
This morning I looked into the pale
raisin of Harry's face.
The Reverend Palmer Ervin Swenson, a longtime leader in Omaha’s religious community, died Friday at the age of 87. Rev. Swenson was born in 1919, the seventh of ten children to Jens and Marie (Pedersen) Swenson, a first generation Minnesota farming family. In 1938 he traveled to Chicago for studies at Northern Baptist Theological Seminary, and met Helen Bates, a home missionary he courted for four years and then married in June 1942. Pastor Swenson was ordained in 1944, and served churches in Winnebago and Albert Lea Minnesota, and Huron South Dakota before being called to Omaha’s Sunset Hills Baptist Church in January 1962, where he served until 1972 when he moved to pastor in Worland Wyoming. Rev. Swenson returned to Omaha in 1983, serving as interim pastor over the years for 10 Nebraska churches until his failing health kept him close to home. Recently, his attentions have turned to fund raising projects for Camp Moses Merrill in Nebraska and the University of Sioux Falls in South Dakota. Helen, his wife of 57 years, preceded him in death in 1999. He is survived by two sons: Lyle of Phoenix and Kent of Omaha, daughter Jewel Cooper of Cedar Rapids Iowa, three grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and his best and closest friend, Floretta Ward of Omaha.
After an excrutiatingly long inexorable decline my brother checked our dad into hospice last week. Dad hasn't taken any food for four days now, and isn't responsive. An unsubstantiated report has him opening his eyes wide this morning, throwing his arms into the air above his bed and exclaiming "What's next?!" then lapsing back into semi-conciousness.
One of dad's favorite stories was how, at the age of two, he contracted nephritis, and all that could be done was to tie his ever ballooning girth down to the bed with belts. The doctor was so certain that his death was imminent that the church choir was practicing hymns for the funeral.
He felt called to "the Lord's work" at an early age, and delivered his first sermon in the Artichoke church when he was twelve. He said he practiced it for days, but when he got up in front of the little Minnesota congregation, he said all he could think of to say in a little under five minutes. The more than ten years that I collected splinters in the front pulpit side pew, aisle seat, convinced me that brevity was a very temporary challenge for him.
At the end of each Sunday service he'd always move away from the pulpit to the center of the dais for the final hymn, at which time those who felt called would come forward to "give their life to the Lord" and receive the "Right Hand of Fellowship." That moment occasionally provided some suspense and drama, but typically the call went unheeded. During the last verse of that last hymn dad would start down the center aisle, always handing his hymnal to me with the same swift twist of the wrist, always the same way, so that it was face-up when it came into my hands.
What a terrific bit of serendipity -
On the day that the most entertaining basketball player ever is going into the NBA Hall of Fame, youngest daughter hooks me up with a new band. Wait for it:
Gnarls Barkley
Give a listen to "Crazy" at http://myspace.com/gnarlsbarkley you'll likely have to use an external browser
A placid Monday morning in our respective home offices until -
An unearthly screeeech from the downstairs pierces the calm. SnapDog, probably the world's second largest orange cat, leaps straight up into the air and tears out of my office and down the stairs. Another shriek, this time one more familiar "What was THAT?!?!" cries the missus.
Now there is thumping and banging and flapping - I come out into the hallway to the top of the stairs to see a large black bird fly headlong into the living room window, from the inside. I also see said cat leaping and writhing, then he flies into the window, too.
Apparently this poor winged sojourner has tumbled down the chimbly and emerged into the house. It seems to want out.
The missus encourages me in unambiguous language to bring the situation to an early conclusion. I point out that this is the highlight of SnapDog's year, fershur, and it would be a damn shame to waste free entertainment, and that her language would embarass a pirate, but alas, this logic goes wasted. She retreats behind a closed door, mightily imploring me therefrom to, for God's sake, DO SOMETHING.
Armed with a bath towel, I approach the bird's position, now behind the curtain, while Mr Fuzzbutt considers his next attack. I gently peel the raven (?) from the curtain and call to the Queen of Cowardice to come! See! and open the door. Tippy-toeing and whimpering, she descends, holds the front door open. "Hurry up! Come on, get it out of here!!" okokokok, I'm going.
After almost 35 years, she had to know what was going happen next. There's something about a girl flinching, jumping and squealing that just never gets old.
And some people wonder if animals think or have emotions:
The dog's diary:
7 am - Oh boy! A walk! My favorite!
8 am - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!
9 am - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!
Noon - Oh boy! The yard! My favorite!
2 pm - Oh boy! A car ride! My favorite!
3 pm - Oh boy! The kids! My favorite!
4 pm - Oh boy! Playing ball! My favorite!
6 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Mom! My favorite!
7 pm - Oh boy! Welcome home Dad! My favorite!
8 pm - Oh boy! Dog food! My favorite!
9 pm - Oh boy! Tummy rubs on the couch! My favorite!
11 pm - Oh boy! Sleeping in my people's bed! My favorite!
The cat's diary:
Day 1833 of my captivity... My captors continued to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from clawing the furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another house plant. Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded - must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair - must try this on their bed, (or car.....) Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear in their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little kitty I am. Hmmm, not working according to plan. There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More important, I overheard that my confinement was due to my powers of inducing "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use
it to my advantage. I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird, on the other hand, has got to be an informant and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured. But I can wait; it is only a matter of time.
" . . . it is the continued unwillingness of most scientists to confront irrational religious claims that threatens both political and educational progress, particularly in the United States.
Science may never be able to answer all questions, but it is healthier to leave some questions unanswered than to fill the voids with nonsense."
-Raymond D Gastil in the Times
The grandkids' Tia Molly arrives manana for an all-too-brief visit. Gabe & Bella are planning every last second of her time. They've decided, mini-Solomons-like to split her time right down the middle.
Reviewing with its object the split-second timing required to accomplish his many and varied stops, Gabe paused, then allowed as how "You should probably spend the first day with Bella, 'cause she's only four and it isn't very easy for her to wait."
Took my grandson and his father to see the widely acclaimed IMAX presentation of "Roving Mars" yesterday. What a disappointment. The colors and clarity were terrific, as always, but the narration made no differentiation of what was actual Mars footage and what was clever animation. It would be obvious to anyone with half a brain that movies of the Rovers on Mars could only be made by another Rover, but face it, based on GWBush's still having any showing at all in the popularity polls, how many of our fellow Amurkins have even half a brain?
E'en worse was the animation of the trip to Mars. Here's this incredibly loud rocket launch, and it stays loud well into outer space. Each booster separation was accompanied by a thunderclap explosion. The two tethers which eventually extend to slow the spacecraft's rotation make a "swish swish swish" sound - in the movie at least. Gentle reader, of course there is no sound transmitted in outer space as there is no air to conduct the sound waves. Flick was nothing but eye candy. And ear candy, I guess. Blah.
The good movie was the re-viewing of Tarantino's "Jackie Brown" eight years after its release. After Pulp Fiction, his best movie no doubt. Mr Jackson is terrific and Ms Grier is amazing. The long, long steadycam shots, the Quentinisms (the VW bus stalls leaving the mall lot, the excessive use of that despicable Nappellation), the implied but never shown violence, and not being able to predict anything, ever. Loved it.
Herself and I traveled to suburban DC to help our youngest move into her new condomaximum in Falls Church. The weather was blustery -"bracing" as one of her new building-mates put it. It's just the place a dad wants for his little girl, roomy yet cozy with a good sized deck; three floors above ground so the risk of break-in is virtually nil. The building is a ten-year-old brick construction with nice wide hallways and well manicured grounds. She has secured, monitored parking. Really a nice place.
First assignment was to repaint the larger of the two bathrooms. I was tasked with applying both coats of primer and painting the ceiling while them two took off for a fun day of whatever wimmens does when they say they're "shopping." We had dinner at a strict Muslim restaurant that night, and the cuisine and service were regrettable. Luckily we had Molly's pal along to supply some much-needed charm at that point in the day.
The drunken salivating oafs who moved some but not all of M's stuff were really the only bad part of the trip. Two disgusting degenerates who harrassed M for her phone number, for a date, for who knows what she didn't tell me before she got them out of her apartment. They ended up breaking at least two pieces of her furniture before we were rid of them.
One of the stranger phase changes of the trip was the night M was bringing us back to our hotel, and she and her mother were at each other just like the old days. Each thrust parried expertly with a stilleto-like rejoinder. I wisely kept mine own company, huddled in the miniscule back seat of the Civic. The picking, sniping and bickering lasted up the stairs and down the hallway to our rooms, where, once we were ensconced, M calmly, professionally and expertly got on the phone and internet and directed an international phone conference with the people on her "team" in India. The women in my life are amazing.
My grandchildren's mother was taking them to school yesterday. (I was tasked with picking them up from school and entertaining them until their Nana finished her matinee with the Blue Cross/Blue Shield peeps.)
So the grandkids are discussing the upcoming afternoon with yours truly: Granddaughter says to Grandson, "Maybe you should stay for the after school program. Just me'll go home with grampa. That'll be good! You can stay, and I'll go with grampa. How about that idea?!"
Grandson objects, "No way! And me miss an afternoon with my best bud?!"
I picked 'em up. Baskin Robbins'ed 'em, took em to the bank for a sucker, past the Walgreen's drive thru, then we went to the park and jumped and swang and screeched and limped around (one of us) until Nana called and said she was on her way home.
We played "Roll the windows up! Grampa!!" and "Roll the windows down Grampa" and "Not that one, the other one Grampa!"
Nana eventually came home, after taking her sweet time, and found the three of us playing Go Fish. She was pleased; grampa was well rewarded.
Grampa one happy guy.
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