Blog #25

Last Thursday morning at 10:43, my blog-host sent out my blog by email.  The last line said “there is nothing better than a good friend, except a good friend with chocolate.”  At 11:30, I met my friend Paul for lunch, and there on the table was a big chocolate bar. I was almost teary.  What a nice, thoughtful, touching (and speedy) gesture that was.  I’m still touched by it.  Thank you, Paul.  That was special!

I hope you’re doing well.  Have you taken inventory yet this morning?  Each morning as I stand at the sink, I review my various aches, pains, traumas and conditions.  It passes the time.  Let’s see – my throat feels ok, my back’s a little worse, my eye still hurts, but that sore in my mouth is getting better. The pain in my knee is a 6 today; that’s not too bad.  I think I should take my blood-pressure.  This inventory process takes a few minutes, after which I have three choices:  go back to bed, call a doctor or carry on.

The last time I was feeling poorly, I visited Dr. Intern.  He said I was perfect.  Then I went to Dr. Heart.  He said I was perfect.  I tried Dr. Lung and he agreed – Perfect!  Where did these people go to medical school?  Don’t they know I’m sick?  On the other hand, when I’m feeling great, like today, they find something wrong.  Oh, your calcium is high or your blood count is low.  Your brain is too tight or your pants are too loose.  Let’s add two new pills and cut this pill in half.  It’s like cooking – we add some salt and only use half as many onions and see how it tastes.  Sometimes I think they treat my body like it’s a casserole.

If suddenly you’re feeling crummy

Put parsley and sage in your tummy

Rub salt on your glands

And thyme on your hands

You’ll die, but at least you’ll taste yummy.

If you are my age, or thereabouts, and have grandchildren, I’ll bet this happens to you.  We go to babysit for a few days while the parents go on a short vacation.  We get instructions – the school bus arrives at 7:38, put out the recyclables on Wednesday, Zoey has a piano practice Tuesday night, Austin has baseball games Saturday and Sunday, there’s baba ganoush in the fridge.  What?  I always thought baba ganoush was a weapon of mass destruction.  But, ok fine, we’ve got it.  Then they ask if we have any questions and we always have the same one: “How do you turn the television on?”  Am I right?  When did we lose control of the thing we used to call “television”?  Now it’s not even called that.  It’s cable or multi-media or smart-TV.  And not only are the TVs smart, but there are smart phones, smart cars, smart houses, even smart toilets.  Every time I get near something that’s “smart”, I feel dumb. When did the world pass me by?  And which clicker do I use to change the channel?

Are you challenged, like me, with all these smart devices designed to confuse anyone who still remembers Señor Wences?  I have Siri and Alexa, but what do they know?  I just picked up my iPhone and said, “Siri, S'aright?"  She replied, “I aim to please.”  She’s too young for me.

Tuesday was the event of the month, Senior Day at Walgreen’s.  It was a bright and festive gathering, with crowds of giddy seniors limping in the aisles and toasting their cardiologists with glasses of Ensure.  The special of the month was a weight-loss treatment called Bystrictin.  It is risk-free (they’re all risk-free) and proven (sure).  Trust me, my friends, if the product says it is “risk-free” and “proven”, stay away from it like it was sarin gas.  Believe it or not, you drink this Bystrictin, whereupon it expands to 50 times its volume in your stomach, taking up all the room so that you cannot eat as much.  Please tell me there is not a person so gullible as to buy some liquid that is going to explode in his or her stomach.  Oops, sorry!  I didn’t know you used it.  You look great. 

When we got home from Walgreen’s, my wife told me I wasn’t exercising enough and gave me her Fitbit to wear for a day.  Everybody has a Fitbit, apparently, and hustles every day to make it reach 10,000 steps.  The next morning I awoke and put it on.  I didn’t check it until about 8:30 that night.  It said 14, so I took it off and threw it in the clothes drier for about 90 minutes and gave it back to Carol.  She seemed pleased.

A mile has 5,280 feet.  My strides are not as long as they once were, and I estimate each step to be about two feet.  So, if my math is correct – hold it, my math is always correct.  I was a Math Major at Washington University in St. Louis and a math teacher at both the high-school and Junior College level.  Not to mention the County Prison.  So what’s with this “if my math is correct” business?  Anyway, 5,280 feet divided by two feet per step means I can walk a mile in 2,640 steps.  Round that to 2,500 steps in a mile and I need to walk four miles a day to get to my 10,000.  The problem is, if I do my four miles every day for a week, I’ll be 28 miles from home.  You were waiting for that one, weren’t you? 

Actually, last Sunday I strapped on my tennies and walked a mile on the main street near our house.  It felt good; my back held up just fine.  But I was appalled by all the trash and litter on the side of the road and in the bushes and trees.  It was horrible.  Each fast-food carton or beer can was an insult to nature and to me.  How can people litter like that?  So today I took the same walk, but this time I was prepared.  I had trash bags, plastic gloves and two grandchildren (ages 9 and 7).   We picked up every tin can and squashed water bottle, every straw and napkin.  Plus, we got in a nice walk and had a great time.  They want to do it again tomorrow.  You’ve heard of trash-talking?  Well this was trash-walking.  You should try it – your grandchildren will love it, and so will the environment.

Do you remember when Al Gore sold his cable network to Aljazeera America?  That was in 2013.  The Middle Eastern network didn’t do well in America and closed last year.  No wonder, if you look at the programs it offered:

Malcolm in the Middle East               Oil In The Family

America’s Got Taliban                       How I Bought Your Mother

Sonny and Sharia                               Jimmy Camel -- Live!

I knew you were just craving another goofy list, so I’ll leave you with that.

Come back next week and stay well.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #24

Were you in the PATH OF TOTALITY?  Sounds like something from Scientology, doesn’t it?  Or Alcoholics Anonymous.  But no, it’s just another one of those fancy phrases that Meteorologists invent to take your mind off the fact that they haven’t gotten a forecast right since Elvis died.  It’s like Wind-Chill Factor or Heat Index.  They just want to scare you by making cold weather sound colder and hot weather sound hotter.  Heat Index is some secret and mysterious combination of temperature and humidity that allows these weather experts to say silly things like “It’s 119^o in Phoenix, but it’s a dry heat.”  Have you ever been in Phoenix when it was 119^o?  I have.

The Southwestern heat will take care o’ you

It’ll sizzle and fry every hair o’ you

They tell you it’s dry

But you’re still gonna die.

You just won’t be moist when they bury you.

Speaking of burials, Carol and I were at a party recently.  She looked at me and asked, “Is that the suit you’re going to wear at my funeral?”  “Yes,” I replied. “Is that the outfit you’ll wear to mine?”  “No,” she said, “I just bought the one for your funeral.  It’ll be delivered Monday.”  And I’m not even sick!  I hope the outfit gets dropped off before I do.  I think the worst part of dying is that you don’t get to eat the dessert trays.

Which brings up the question -- do you have a plot?  I have one plot.  It’s in a cemetery that was not too far from the place I grew up.  My father and mother and brother are buried there and there’s one extra plot.  My sister was cremated and her ashes were used to fertilize a tree, but that’s a story for another day.  So that one little oblong of well-kept dirt is for me.  Of course, Carol and I don’t live near there anymore.  We’re at least fifteen miles away, and she has informed me that she has no intention of driving that far to visit some old dead husband.  This whole burial thing is disturbing.  I don’t know what to do.

Some dear friends were looking to buy some plots recently and were shown a nice shady spot that looked fine.  She asked the – what do you call a plot person?  A Cemeterian?  A Grave Maven?  An Elder Bury?  Digger?  I like Cemeterian.  So she asked the Cemeterian, “Who owns the plot next to these?” and when she heard the name she freaked out.  “I’m not spending eternity next to that bitch!”  Then there was my friend Tim who tested out his plot by lying on his back on the site.  He liked the view and bought the plot.

Maybe I should buy a plot in North Carolina.  Most of my daughter’s friends think I’m dead anyway.  That could be because I actually was kind of dead for a while in North Carolina.  You know the drill – heart stops, flat-line, Code Blue, shock treatments.  I have always heard people who claim to have had a near-death experience say they remember a bright light.  Of course there’s a bright light!  You’re lying on your back in the Emergency Room with that circular spotlight shining two feet from your nose.  That thing is bright enough to wake King Tut.  So now when Carol and I are in North Carolina and we meet one of my daughter’s friends, we often get this: “Jennifer, I can’t believe this young-looking woman is your mother.”  Then they turn to me: “And Mr. Fox, how nice.  I see you’re still alive.”

Years before that episode, after my first heart event, the doctors released me from the hospital with a list of restrictions.  I am not making this up!

·        Do not operate a vacuum cleaner.  I can live with that.

·        Do not play Craps in a casino.  Something to do with standing.

·        No sex with an “unfamiliar” partner.  I presume that included the vacuum cleaner.

·        Do not lift anything heavier than Moby Dick.  The book, not the whale.

It has now been twenty years since that attack, and I have followed those rules assiduously, although I do smile at the vacuum cleaner now and again.

Hi there and welcome back.  I assume you used your cute little eclipse glasses and that your eyes are still good enough to read all this.  Do you realize that most of you have now witnessed three unbelievably distant and momentous events?

·        Haley’s Comet (1986) – every 75 years

·        The Millennium – every 1,000 years

·        Total Eclipse – every 500 (??) years

If we can just make it till O.J. gets out of jail, we will have seen it all.

It’s my job to know all the answers at the Zoo.  Where’s the tiger?  I know that.  Where’s the bathroom?  I know that too.  Where can I rent a stroller?  Where can I breast-feed my baby?  I know all of those.  But sometimes I get a tricky one.  I was standing by the sea lions when a little girl saw my sash and asked this question:  How do you tell the males from the females?  I have never been accused of being slow-witted, so I bent down and looked the little girl in the eye.  “You want to know how you tell a female sea lion from a male sea lion?”  She nodded.  “You take it to Nordstrom’s,” I said.  “If it buys shoes, it’s a female.”  She liked it.  I liked it.  Her mother liked it.  And the sea lion laughed hysterically.  Aoh! Aoh! Aoh! Aoh!

I have actually had some experience with that form of question.  Last year, a young girl (why is it always the girls?) asked me what was the difference between male camels and female camels.  Again I answered quickly and with assurance: “The female has bigger closets.”   Well, you really don’t want me discussing an animal’s sexual paraphernalia with adolescent girls, do you?  Suddenly I would replace the polar bear as the Zoo’s #1 predator.

For a week now I have had all three daughters and seven of my eight grandchildren in town for a visit.  Three boys, four girls, ages from 14 to 4.  The noise!  The tumult!  The hectic and rambunctious screeching!  The meals!  The money!  I loved it all.  I’m not as agile and tireless a Poppy as I once was, but the older ones took up the slack and played with the youngsters.  It was all good.  And I even got on the trampoline.  Of course, when I get on, they call it a Grampoline and gather around me to make sure I don’t break anything.  A broken Poppy is not a good thing.

I think I’ll go now.  I hear my vacuum cleaner calling.  Thanks for joining our wanderings today, and remember, there is nothing better than a good friend, except a good friend with chocolate.  See you next week.  Stay well.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #23

I finally have a solution for this feeling old thing.  As soon as we reach Medicare, we should change our ages to Centigrade.    I’m serious now.  Listen up.  I am 71 years old, but in Centigrade (let’s see, subtract 32 and multiply by five ninths) -- that makes me 21.  Now doesn’t that sound better?  75 becomes 23; 80 becomes 26.   I bet you feel younger already.  Once I had a nurse tell me my temperature was 37, so why not my age?  I’m 21! 

Fritz and Pedro are out walking their dogs.  Fritz has a big, beautiful German Shepherd; Pedro a tiny Chihuahua.  It’s a warm day and Fritz says, “Let’s go into that bar and get a beer.”  Pedro replies, “The sign says NO PETS ALLOWED.”   Fritz says, “Watch this”, puts on dark sunglasses and saunters into the bar with the German Shepherd.  A few minutes later he comes out looking refreshed.  “Well?” asks Pedro.  “No sweat,” says Fritz, “with the dark glasses they thought I was blind and that Buster was my seeing-eye dog.  The beer was great.” 

So Pedro borrows the dark glasses and heads into the bar where he is immediately accosted by a burly bouncer.  “No dogs, Mister,” he barks.  Pedro responds with confidence, “Can’t you see I’m blind?  This animal is my seeing-eye dog.”  “No chance, Bozo,” growls the bouncer.  “That’s a Chihuahua.”  “What?” shrieks Pedro.  “They gave me a Chihuahua?”

Hi, there.  I hope that you are well and that you enjoyed that joke.  I decided to tell it to you because, well, I got up this morning with absolutely nothing to do. 

Each morning I wake with the sun

And spend the whole day on the run

I’ve found that it’s true

When you’ve nothing to do,

You don’t really know when you’re done.

I know one thing I’m not done with – this blog.  So let’s talk apples.  You don’t have anything else to do right now, so fasten your seatbelt. There are more than 7,500 varieties of apples.  And just among the varieties you can find in American grocery stores, they range from Arkansas Black to York York.  There are Earligolds and Liberty and Jazz, Keepsakes and Sundance.  There’s a Northern Spy and a Pink Lady and a Cox’s Orange Pippin.  So, there I am in Walmart when the phone rings.  “Pick up a couple of Fuji apples,” says the Apple of my Eye.  Sounds easy, doesn’t it?  Except that Walmart has chosen not to label their apples.  There was a bag marked Golden Delicious and a bag marked Granny Smith, but the loose apples had no label on the bin, and there were at least six or seven kinds.  Am I supposed to know what a Fuji looks like?  Even more pertinent, am I supposed to be able to find a Walmart employee?  I hear they have a million and a half of them, but finding one is harder than finding Whoopi Goldberg and Rush Limbaugh doing the tango.

Anyway, I picked up two dark red apples with a big crown and a narrow bottom.  That was wrong of course, but today the God of Useless Husbands must have been looking down on me because help arrived.  A daughter called.  I asked her if she knew what a Fuji looked like.  Well of course she did and led me right there.  Whew! 

Grocery shopping is not for the ill-informed.  Even if I am armed with written descriptions of the product, color photographs and Martha Stewart, I always get it wrong.   “I wanted Italian, not Creamy Italian.  And BBQ sauce without salt, but Soy Sauce with salt.  And you bought the cheap toilet paper!  Is that what you think of me?”   But then she tries to make me feel better.  “But you did really well on the potatoes.  I asked for two and you got two. Good job.”  I was always good at Math.

And so are my grandchildren.  They all have math smarts.  And at least one has street smarts.  Charley (age 9) was with me at Walmart today.  She did the self-checkout for me and the total was $39.27.  I gave her a $100 bill to insert and, before she did, I asked her how much change I would get.  I figured it was a good math exercise.  She looked at me with that street-smart face and said, “Why don’t we put the bill in and let the machine tell us how much change we get?”  How could I argue with that? 

Why is it that women are somehow born with the genes for identifying Fuji apples, sewing and picking out curtains whereas men are born with the genes for fishing, killing spiders and putting up curtains?  Actually, I can’t answer that because I am horrible at fishing, killing spiders and putting up curtains.  The last time I tried, I broke the window.

I heard a new radio ad this morning for a product called Stress-Block, a pill that purports to give instant calmness and relaxation from stress.  Plus, it comes in great-tasting chewables.  Actually, who cares what it tastes like?  If the thing will make me calm and relaxed, I wouldn’t care if it tasted like a rotted hippopotamus.  “I’ll take two bottles of the rotted hippo flavor, and three of the porpoise snot.  Oh, and throw in one bottle of the Brussels’ sprout flavor.”  Arugula!

By the way, I did something horribly stupid and dangerous recently and I’m going to share it with you so that you will never, ever commit the same stupidity.  I drove home from an appointment with Dr. Eye.  My eyes, of course, were dilated and I honestly could barely see.  I could have killed myself and half of St. Louis in the process.  I knew I was getting dilated and I should have had Carol take me and drive home.  I don’t care how young you are or how impervious to disaster you think you are, do not drive after having your eyes dilated.  You could kill yourself and, even worse, kill another one of my loyal readers.  I’m serious.

We used to have a dog named Alex.  Somehow his memory came up the other night, and I commented that Alex was a wonderful dog and that I missed him sleeping on my pillow.  Carol said, “That’s alright, you’ll see him in Doggy Heaven.”  Doggy Heaven?  First of all, I’m not even sick.  And second, is that where she thinks I’m going?  Doggy Heaven?  I guess I’m nothing more than an Alta-Cocker Spaniel to her.  Probably on our wedding night she thought to herself, “What! They gave me a Chihuahua?”  Well, alright Alex, wait up for me, Boy.  We can share a pillow for eternity.  Such a good boy!

Come back next week, I have something really funny to tell you.  And stay well.

Lassie                                      Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #22

Once upon a midnight dreary.   Those are the opening words of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.  You knew that, of course.  But did you know that I can recite the whole thing?  It has always been my favorite poem, and a few years ago I just decided to memorize it.  I might have been seeing a psychiatrist at the time, which makes some sense.  I started with the first line, and when I had repeated it hundreds of times and had it down pat, I moved to the second line.  It took me six or eight months to get all 108 lines memorized, and I keep the memory fresh by repeating the entire poem every Tuesday morning at 9:00.  Let me explain. 

It takes me about six minutes to recite the poem at the dramatic pace it deserves, but I can do it a little faster if I want.  Shortly after perfecting the memory stunt, I began to take light treatments from Dr. Skin.  It’s like a vertical suntan booth and gives me a timed dose of artificial sunlight that she says is good for my skin.  And the time of the dose?  You guessed it – five and a half minutes.   Thus, every Tuesday morning at nine, I stand there, getting my suntan and performing The Raven.  I know.  I know.  I’m weird!

Welcome back to my Wonderful World of Weirdness.  It’s an adventure, isn’t it?  I’m so glad you’re on board, so let’s travel to North Carolina.  My daughter, Jennifer, is an animal lover (three dogs, two cats and twelve chickens).  A few months ago, I was driving and she was in the back when I heard her say, “Oh-oh”.  I turned around and she pointed out a spider the size of a blueberry pie resting on the back of my seat.  I hate spiders. I hate spiders worse than Trump hates CNN.  Spiders and cement mixers, but that’s another story.  “Kill the damn thing,” I shrieked.  Well, Sister-Save-The-World wasn’t about to destroy a fellow creature, so she coaxed the puppy-sized monster out of the car and onto a nearby lawn. 

So last night Jennifer and I were chatting long distance while she was driving home.   She pulled into her driveway and said, “Oh, I can’t get in the garage; there’s a big frog in there.”  A frog big enough to keep her car from getting in the garage?  A Colossal Kermit?  A tremendous toad?  Let’s call Martin Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio.  Frogzilla!  I can see it now – the biggest film of the Christmas Season.  Or maybe It Came from Beneath the Lily Pad.  Or even Frog Day Afternoon or Revolutionary Toad.  No, it was just a little frog and Jen didn’t want to run it over.  I can just see her chasing the happy hopper around the garage until she gently scooped it up and released it in the woods.  That’s one of the reasons we love her.  Or maybe she fed it to the chickens.

Those chickens live in a coop that, if it was listed on Priceline would cost you $129.00 a night.  It has everything but cable TV.  I told Jen she should install cable and let the little cluckers watch some movies.  And what movies, you ask, would I recommend?  Well, Chick Flicks of course.  You know I like silly lists and I know you do too, so here are my Chick Flick titles. 

A Few Good Hens

The Maltese Chicken

A Flock-Work Orange

Some Like It Fried

Pulp Chicken

Don’t panic – I’m not going to make you vote.

When my little Austin was in pre-school, he was proudly showing off his alphabet skills to me.  He was perfect until he reached “P”.  Then he stopped; he couldn’t remember the rest.  “Poppy”, he said apologetically, “I only could get up to P”.  I told him it was ok.

He did all his letters just right

Then he stopped, but I said “That’s alright

“You got up to P

“And that’s OK by me

“I get up to P every night.”

I know that sounds contrived, but it is absolutely a true story, and the last three lines of the limerick were exactly what I said to him.

We went to The Muny Opera, a large local outdoor theater to see A Chorus Line.  It was a clear, cool evening and we loved the show.  About half-way through, Carol nudged closer to me, her right shoulder pressing firmly against my left, and she placed her hand in mine.  Couples who have been married fifty years don’t need overt demonstrations of affection to reinforce their love.  Nevertheless, it was a touching and emotional gesture, strengthening our bond and clearly meaning “I love you and forgive all your transgressions.”  At least I thought so until I realized in a clarifying revelation what the actual meaning of her action was – she was cold and would have snuggled up to a water buffalo if it had been next to her.  She was reaching out not for sentimental reasons, but for warmth.  Oh well, I’d rather be a water buffalo next to her than a bird of paradise away from her.  Did that even make sense?  It’s the thought that counts.

I have a new idea for a book, a steamy, sensual, scandal-filled exposé of a high-priced Texas accounting firm.  I’m calling it Debit Does Dallas.

Speaking of books, I went to the library to pick one up, a 900-page hardback called The Arms of Krupp.  Nine hundred pages!  I asked the librarian (do they still call them that?) if I could have the book longer than two weeks as I didn’t think I could finish the monster in that time.  You never know, she said, maybe you won’t be able to put it down.  Put it down? I said.  I can barely pick it up.

Women have this crazy yearning to invent what they call Thought Questions, like “Would you rather be unattractive and rich or gorgeous and poor?”  They always answer that they’d rather be rich and gorgeous, thereby avoiding the thought component of the exercise.  I was the target of one of those questions the other day: Had I been a better father or grandfather?  Well, I’d like to believe I am still a good father.  You don’t stop being a father just because you become a grandfather.  I love my daughters.  I hurt when they hurt and smile when they smile and am always excited to see them or talk to them.  Even the two ingrates who abandoned me and moved out of town.  So yes, I think I am a good Poppy, but I’m still a proud and devoted Daddy.

And please, if you happen to see me out in the real world, don’t ask me to recite The Raven.  It’s happened before and I start and then they get bored and make me stop.  That gets me Raven mad.  Nevermore!

Stay well; come back next week.

Edgar Allen                                       Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com                    

Blog #21

There is air pollution and carbon pollution and radon and ozone and all manner of sinister vapors that endanger our lives.  But I am at this moment suffering from an intense and troubling form of mental pollution that is challenging my sanity.  When my wife – God bless her; I love her to pieces – is home, every square foot of our humble abode is filled with non-stop little social talking programs.  They come from both televisions, sometimes two different programs at once.  Awards extravaganzas, game shows, talk shows 24 hours a day.  What does Kathie Lee think about Pippa’s wedding?  What does Hoda think about Beyoncé’s dress?  Who’s tweeting?  What’s viral?  Do I really care what Kanye names his children?  Or how Tom Brady is going to steal the next Super Bowl?  Is Steve Harvey on 24 hours a day?  And what is a Pippa anyway?  I just can’t take it anymore.

The country has unending passion

For royalty, scandal and fashion

For George and Amal

And a deflated ball

And every weird kook named Kardashian.

And these award shows!  I mean, who are these people?  Who is Jedediah Bila – is that a person or part of the Old Testament?  And I hate that ubiquitous red-carpet question: Who are you wearing? I’m too old to know who these people are.  They ought to have an award show for old people - The Golden Years Awards, hosted by Dick Clark.  He must still be alive somewhere.  They could give awards for the Oldest Tie or the Most Organized Pill Carrier or the Smart Phone with the Least Aps or the Longest Number of Days Without Losing Your Reading Glasses.  And “who” would all these famous oldies be wearing?  How about:

Oscar de la Yenta

Jimmy Choo Slowly

Donna Medi-karan                          

Diuretic Von Furstenberg

And then there’s Joy Behar.  I know you all love her, but every time I see her I tell my wife I’m moving to Mudville.  Why Mudville, she asks.  Because, I reply,  There is no Joy in Mudville.  And speaking of award shows, why is it that all the guy interviewers on the Red Carpet are 5’3” and all the girl interviewers are 6’3”?  Once I saw Ryan Seacrest interviewing Charlize; it looked like a squirrel trying to climb a giraffe.

I just found a great name for an architect – Joaquin Closet.  And speaking of closets, I don’t have any.  First of all, the woman takes the biggest closet.  My wife’s closet is so big it has a food court.  Then she takes the second biggest closet.  Then (you know I’m right) she takes the third biggest closet.  I have a drawer by the front door and a manila envelope under the couch.  Actually, I don’t care.  The less clothes I have, the less choices I have to make in the morning and the less chance of hearing, “If you’re going out dressed like that, I’m not going with you.”

 

Because who really looks at a man more than any other person?  That’s right, his wife.  But who looks at his wife more than any other person?  Well -- she does of course.  The bathroom wall is 100% mirror.  There are makeup mirrors and hand-held mirrors, magnifying suction mirrors and full-length mirrors.  Next to the front door is a “decorative” mirror.  Decorative my behind! It’s so she can get one last look before she goes out. Then to the car which is loaded with mirrors.  The only reason the rear-view mirror swivels is so she can look at herself while she’s driving.  The only time she ever looks in a man’s eyes is when he is wearing mirrored sunglasses.  With assorted sun-glazed store windows, polished countertops and backs of spoons, she is never too far from a mirror.  Too far from a mirror?  Horrors!

Carol and I don’t always see eye to eye.  That’s because I am 5’10” and she is her little 5’3”.  Ok, I lied -- I may no longer be 5’10”.  I’m getting shorter it seems.  I don’t feel it; I don’t see it, but the nurse measures me at an inch or two shorter than I thought I was.  I always thought my grandchildren were getting taller, but now I realize it was me getting shorter.  It’s inevitable, I suppose, when you spend a whole bunch of decades standing vertically and compressing your spine.  My wife has not shrunk a centimeter, so I reluctantly look forward to a time when we do, actually, see eye to eye.  I can just picture the future as I continue my vertical vanishing act and go from Munchkin-sized to Hobbit-sized until, eventually, I will qualify as a Happy Meal toy.  Or an interviewer on the Red Carpet.  Charlize, would you like fries with that?

I had to do some serious research for that last bit, trying to determine which was smaller, a Hobbit or a Munchkin.  In the Prologue to Lord of the Rings, Tolkien says the average Hobbit is 3’6”, whereas L. Frank Baum describes Munchkins as about the same height as Dorothy.  That makes Munchkins bigger.  Am I not weird?

At the Zoo I had a couple from Denmark.  “Ah,” I said, “I have been to Copenhagen and I thought it was a truly beautiful city.”  They looked at me as if I were as crazy as Anthony Scaramucci, then replied, “We live there”.  Of course, as a tourist, we saw only the old, charming port area with the multi-colored houses, the classic old boats and the wonderful outdoor restaurants.  But it’s a big city and they probably live in a row house by the train station and the 7-11.  Perspective can be everything.  A tourist to St. Louis sees the Arch, the Old Post Office and the Zoo and they come away thinking the town is magical.

Two weeks ago at the Zoo it was 100^o.  I worked for a couple of hours, then headed for the pool which was largely occupied by a small group of exercising women bobbing up and down like a six-pack of half-empty Michelob bottles in a heavy surf.  And the music coming from their boom box?  Donna Summer’s Greatest Hits of course.  The water was so pleasant that I didn’t mind.  And I like Donna.  She works hard for the money.

“Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it.  You may conquer the air but the birds will lose their wonder and the clouds will smell of gasoline."

That is a quote from the movie Inherit the Wind.  I am reminded of it often by the ever-growing pace of technological growth and the plethora of new gadgets and ways to download and upload and monopolize your time.  Sometimes it’s nice just to think about a quiet place where the birds are beautiful and the crickets hum and the clouds don’t smell of gasoline.  And you can grow older – and shorter – in peace.

Join me again next week and stay well.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com