Blog #99

What in me is dark, illumine.  What is low, raise and support.  That is the exhortation John Milton offered to the muse, Urania, to inspire him as he began writing Paradise Lost in 1658.  I went to school with John.  Only kidding – he was a year ahead of me.  Well, sometimes I feel that old.  You know you’re old if you tell your friend that you’re having an affair and the friend asks if you’re having it catered.  You know you’re old when you fill in your date of birth in some online application and the dropdown box hits the floor before it gets to your year.

Every writer needs an inspiration, a muse.  My muse is, of course, my wife.  Not only that, she’s most of my material, and as much as I pick on her every week, she’s pretty much a combination of Glenda the Good, Mother Theresa, Joan of Arc, Martha Stewart and Lee Remick in her prime.  Well, I may have exaggerated a bit with the Joan of Arc, although Carol does like to be warm.  Even so, she’s a jewel.   Some men have an old bag for a wife, I have a sleek and compact Judith Leiber – with extra rhinestones.  What a girl, what a whirl, what a wife!  Do you remember what TV theme song that line is from?  This blog is all about memory, and this is a test.  I’ll tell you later.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope your health is good and you’re staying warm.  Much of the country is suffering through an intense cold wave.  Here in St. Louis this morning, it was in the single digits.  That’s colder than the Trump-Pelosi relationship.  It’s colder than Walt Disney’s body.  It’s so cold, I saw a politician with his hands in his own pocket.  It’s so cold, I called Al Gore and asked for more Global Warming.  It’s so cold that mail delivery was actually cancelled in the Upper Midwest.  I would have said Upper U.S. but that sounds like an Italian flipping you the bird.

My wife says I have two faults – I don’t listen and something else.  I’m pretty sure I have more than two faults.  I am moody, stubborn, quick-tempered, forgetful, moody and often forgetful.  In my 73 years, I’ve crammed so much stuff into my brain cells that other stuff had to leak out to make room.  So I am often a font of cogent and titillating information but, just as often, lost.  I recently had somebody from Arthur Murray come and paint footprints on the carpeting so I could find the bathroom. 

I am good, however, at a couple of things – storytelling and teaching.  I think, actually, that storytelling and teaching are the same thing.  You have to start your listener at the beginning, lead him along a narrow path without getting lost, and deposit him, enlightened, at the end.  Grandchild #6 is Austin.  He’s eight years old and lives here in St. Louis.  He’s a wonderful, curious child and loves to learn new things.  “Poppy,” he says to me almost every day, “teach me something.”

One afternoon this week, I taught him the Number System in Base-2.  As Tom Lehrer would say, Base-2 is really the same as Base-10 – if you’re missing eight fingers.  Austin soaked it up like a dry sponge soaks up Kool-Aid, and we had lots of fun.  Later that evening I got a text from my daughter, his mother.  It said, AUSTIN’S TEACHING ME BASE-2.  That’s my boy!

And speaking of teaching, I got a holiday gift from one of my foreign students, a young lady from Korea.  It was a very lovely decorative fan to hang on the wall.  The card said, “I can’t thank you enough for teaching me.”  Awww!  I gave her a hug. I guess I should have bowed instead.  I’ll probably get fired.

And speaking of storytelling, Grandchild #1 (Zachary) used to love my stories.  He couldn’t get enough.  Once, I remember, we were on a vacation at an island off the coast of North Carolina.  We had been sunning and playing and swimming all day.  I was exhausted.  Poppy, tell me a story.  I was just too tired.

I’m tired as a beat-up jalopy

I’m sunburned and sleepy and sloppy

A story, my man?

I don’t think I can

I’m honestly too pooped to Poppy.

Please, Poppy, Zach said, tell us about the Vampire -- you know, the guy from Pennsylvania.  Zach is 17 now and applying to colleges.  I don’t tell him stories anymore.  He’s too mature now for silly things like dinosaurs or pirates or old grandfathers.  The only time I hear from him is when he’s writing an essay for his college application and wants my help.  I understand.  I can adapt.  But I miss the stories.

When Grandchild #4 (Tyler) was little, he loved my stories as well.  He called them once-upon-a-times.  He loved to crawl up on my lap and sweetly ask,  Poppy, say a onceuponatime.  He’s 13 now and getting too old for stories too. 

One night this week Austin (Grandchild #6) asked me to put him to bed.  At eight-years-old, he still likes stories, but he prefers science, so I taught him why Uranium is radioactive and why we can’t breathe carbon dioxide.  I had to use the Periodic Table that I had bought him and which hangs on the wall above his bed.  When I was about finished, the black cat hopped up on the bed and I told him a story.  Once upon a time there was a pussycat . . .  The cat enjoyed the scratching and looked like he was paying attention.  Austin giggled.

At least I have the cat to tell my stories to, and you too.  Thanks for listening.  Now I have to go, but first, I have to tell you the TV theme song – I married Joan – what a girl, what a whirl, what a wife!  Please stay well, count your blessings and be sure to come back next week.  If you do, I’ll say a onceuponatime, and  make you giggle.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com