Blog #125

Have you been to a Pharmacy lately?  I still call them drugstores.  We used to have Kranson’s and Glazer’s and Gallant’s Drug Store -- small and friendly with maybe a soda fountain.  Now we have Walgreen's and CVS – big and unfriendly and loaded with security cameras.  To get a package of razor blades, you have to move a plastic cover device that triggers a camera.  Cigarettes are behind the counter because they have to check your ID.  That’s also where the cold medicines are because they can be used to make meth.  And over-the-counter eye drops are not over the counter anymore.  They are locked up as well to avoid those friendly neighborhood shoplifters.  At Kranson’s Drug Store, back in the Day, the only thing behind the counter were condoms.  Now that’s the only thing that’s not locked up.  What a miserable world we live in, full of shoplifters and drug addicts and people who throw buckets of water on police officers. 

Hi there and welcome back. I hope you are feeling safe and well.  Sorry about that hate fest above.  I really don’t hate everything.  There are lots of things I love – or used to anyway.  I loved smoking – gave it up in 1995.  I loved wine – gave that up in 2007.  Then there was popcorn at the movies – not since 2009.  Chocolate – 2018.  Ice cream – 2019.  What’s left to love?

Well, I love my wife and my family.  I love to read.  I love to write.  I love the sunshine and the Zoo.  I love to teach.  I love all you loyal readers out there and I love to be with my friends.  You see, it’s not individual people that I dislike; it’s the accumulated mass of humanity.  I mean, there are terrorists and people trying to steal my credit card and mass shooters and car-jackers and spammers and I hate them all!  Oops, sorry.  I’m going to start trying to love everybody.  Can’t we all just get along?

Friday night we went to services at a Jewish temple.  The service was 90% singing and a few announcements.  There was a four-piece band on stage plus the young Rabbi with his guitar.  They brought everybody on stage who had a birthday in July and a few people with anniversaries.  Then more songs.  It was like the Grand Ole Opry without Minnie Pearl.  But I kind of liked it.  To me, it was more like a big family gathering than a ritualized religious routine.  And they had bagels.  See, I’m trying to get along.

They have an activity at the temple called Men’s Club or something, where men with free time get together and split up into groups that have the same interests.  My interest is being by myself.  I wonder if there’s a group of men who get together to be alone.  Must be called the Hermit’s Club.

It’s August.  My how the time flies!  I wonder who first said that.  Shakespeare -- remember him?  He’s the one who said "When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?  Or was that The Squad?  I forget.  Anyway, Shakespeare, in a 1609 Sonnet entitled Lover’s Complaint, wrote the swiftest hours, as they flew.  Alexander Pope wrote swift fly the years in a 1712 Christmas hymn called Messiah.  Do you even care about any of this?  I didn’t think so.

Whoever wrote it must have been an old person.  It seems to us that twenty, forty, fifty years have just gone by in a snap.  I remember the first time I saw my wife.  It was 56 years ago in the High School cafeteria.  Fifty-six years, but I can still see her standing there and still remember the love at first sight feeling.  I wonder who said that first.  Probably Kim Kardashian the first time she saw a camera.  Or Donald Trump the first time he learned how to tweet.  Or my wife the first time she looked in a mirror.

One thing that makes the time fly is a movie date with your grandson.  Grandchild #4 (Tyler-13) called.  Hey Pops, come over and watch a movie.  If you’re going to ask someone over to watch a movie, I’m the perfect choice.  I showed up with soda, popcorn and candy.  Don’t tell his mother.  It seems that when my grandkids and I are together, we inhabit, for a while, a warm and idyllic place called Poppyland, where the kids don’t have to go to sleep, where sugar is good for you, where you live right next door to the Zoo and where my hip never hurts.  We settled in, Tyler loaded up Star Wars Episode VIII and we munched and cheered for three hours.  But I do have a few questions.

First, why the Roman Numerals?  Were there Romans in any Star Wars episode?  Was there a Darth Caesar or a Nero the Hut?   Next, why are the episodes out of order?  The Episodes (I’ll use more familiar numbering) were released in the order 4-5-6-1-2-3-7-8.  Who numbered these episodes that way?  Probably the guy who did Donald Trump’s tax returns.  It’s crazy!  Maybe that’s just the way it was back in the days of Jedis and Lightsabers.

The numbers come out the wrong way

It just doesn’t make sense today

But perhaps it was so

If you are not a Star Wars fan, then you have no idea what that was all about.  Trust me, it was cute.  More trivia –John Williams won an Oscar for Best Musical Score for the original Star Wars, and Chewbacca won Wookie of the Year.  Still haven’t heard of Star Wars?  What eggplant have you been living under for the past 40 years?  But am I unhappy?  Am I aggravated?  Am I in any way dislodged from my love-fest with the Human Race?  Not me, Sunshine.  I am Happy Personified.

Tell the truth, didn’t you like it better when I was a miserable curmudgeon?  I’ll get back to normal next week and pick on somebody.  Probably Carol.  Don’t miss it.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and May the Force Be With You.

Yoda                              Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

(Star Wars Episode IX comes out in December.  I’ll bring the popcorn.)

Blog #124

Austin, my 9-year-old Grandchild #6, loves science.  We have just started reading Origin of Species.  You know -- Darwin?  Evolution?  You remember Evolution, don’t you?  That’s what Creationists don’t believe in.  They’re still waiting for Noah to show up with the two unicorns he forgot. Actually, their latest reason to reject Darwin is pretty convincing.

Now here’s our conclusion in sum:

The monkeys are not where we’re from

‘Cause we’ve read the positions

Of our politicians

And monkeys could not be that dumb.

Maybe the Creationists are right.  Maybe all of us haven’t fully evolved from the chimpanzees.  I’m talking about myself here.  I’m very knowledgeable about evolution and physics and chemistry.  I have an undergraduate degree in Mathematics and a Law degree.  I’ve taught High School Math and Jail House Math and English.  And yet, today at the grocery store, I had to ask for help to open the cellophane produce bag for my tomato.  No, not Carol, a real tomato.  Now that doesn’t sound right.  My wife is a real “tomato”, but . . . oh, you know what I mean.  The bag – not Carol, the cellophane bag -- even has an arrow on one end so you know that’s the place to pull or push or rub or – well, I couldn’t do it.  So I asked a nice young woman who was stacking Ambrosia apples if she could help me.  Was I embarrassed?  Not in the slightest.  You see, age gives you a plausible excuse for not being able to do things like downloading an app or Facetiming or changing a light bulb.  Or opening the simplest little cellophane bag.  The young woman smiled, opened it on the first try and said “magic”.

Did you know there are 7,500 different varieties of apples and that 100 varieties are grown commercially in the United States?  Now you do.

Ok, back to Origin of Species.  Austin reads some of each page and I read the rest and we stop for questions and explanations.  It will take us years, but how lucky are the two of us?  He will always remember his Poppy teaching him Evolution.  He’s very lucky.  But I am also profoundly lucky that at my age I have a loving, curious, happy and smart little boy who actually wants to listen to this old man rant on about science.  It’s wonderful!  I hope he doesn’t want to know how to open a cellophane bag.  At lunch the other day, he said, “You know, Poppy, when I think of all the best times of my life, you’re in almost all of them.”  C’mon now.  Can I cry?

I’m actually thinking about writing a science book about the variety and effects of laxatives.  I’m calling it The Origin of Feces.  You should read it; it’s got all the latest poop.  Sorry about that!

And speaking of the latest poop, I just heard that Melania Trump has come up with a great solution to the border crisis.  “Let them eat kale,” she reportedly said to the President, who immediately dispatched trainloads of the popular vegetable to feed the detainees at the border.  Latest videos show the detainees climbing back over the wall into Mexico before the trains arrive.  Such a simple solution.

I’m back now.  I was vacuuming.  (I know that’s how you spell it, but it just looks wrong.)  After my heart attack in 1997, Dr. Heart gave me just three restrictions -- do not play craps, do not vacuum, do not have sex with an unfamiliar partner.  Seriously!  I have not played craps or vacuumed since.  But now, the person who comes to clean, doesn’t come to clean, so Carol has been cleaning, and I volunteered to vacuum until we can find a replacement.

It’s not the vacuuming itself that’s so hard, it’s the cord.  It’s always in front when it should be behind (like my wife) or on the left when it should be on the right (like my Liberal friends).  Sometimes it’s wrapped around my leg or my ear.  And, of course, the plug is behind the bed.  I don’t think Dr. Heart talked about moving the bed.  I’m still working on the “unfamiliar partner” thing.  I wonder if he meant the vacuum cleaner.

My middle daughter lives just outside of Berkeley, California.  Berkeley made the news recently by re-writing it’s City Code to eliminate gender-specific words.  For instance, the word manhole can no longer be found in the Code and has been replaced with the term maintenance hole.  And the term pregnant woman has been replaced with pregnant person.  Someone’s going to have to explain that one to me.  There are lots of other changes.  You can find them all in the Berkeley City Person-ual.

Unfortunately, these adjustments have caused the Berkeley Repertory Theater to change its brochure announcing the upcoming season, which now will consist of the following shows -- Person of La Mancha, The Music Person, Funny Young Person, The Book of Morperson, The Lion Ruler, Parent Mia, Unmarried Person Saigon, Jersey Young People, The Ruler and I, My Fair Person, Waitperson, Mean Young People and of course People and People.  Are you having trouble with that last one?  It’s the show with the song, Luck Be a Person Tonight.

One of my closest friends died this week.  Rest in peace, Lenny.  The author Douglas Pagels said, “A friend is one of the nicest things you can have, and one of the best things you can be.”

I spoke at the funeral, injected a little levity, and I must have done an okay job because I have since had 25 people ask me to speak at their funerals plus one proposal of marriage.  I’m considering the proposal, but am rejecting the rest.  I do not want to talk about any more of my friends’ funerals.

Lenny was a good friend, a fan of my blog and always made me laugh.  I hope I’ve made you smile a little today.  A little humor can help sometimes.  Stay well, count your blessings and be sure to be here next week for another warped and wicked, sick and sinful edition of L.O.  I’m sure I’ll find something to say.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #123

Different times of my day are devoted to different things.  This morning was Honey-Time, that’s the time I devote to doing the little things for my wife that make her life easier and allow her more time to play canasta and look in the mirror.  This morning she had a routine medical test and I drove her there, waited, and drove her home.  Now don’t get the idea that I’m a saint or anything like that.  I actually enjoy doing nice things for my wife. 

Then there was Poppy-Time.  As I am writing, it is July 11^th – 7/11 – free Slurpees at 7-Eleven.  Did you miss it?  So off I went with my grandchildren to 7-Eleven for the free yummies.  Poppy-Time, you see, is the time I devote to my grandchildren.  We wound up going to lunch, then back for more free Slurpees.  I love being with them. 

After all that was over, it was Michael-Time, my alone time, when I can write my letter to my daughters, read my book, pay the bills, try to find my cellphone which I know I left on the table but it’s not there -- and, of course, write to you.  Hi there and welcome back.  I have a lot to tell you, but I’ve wasted so much time already.  I’ll talk fast.

I hope you feel loved and appreciated today.  There are many days when I do not feel that way at all.  Why?  Because I am a Jewish American White Male.  That makes me less popular than cholera.  First of all, 90% of the world’s inhabitants hate me because I’m Jewish.  50% of the them hate me because I’m American.  Another 50% hate me because I’m male.  And another 75% of people worldwide hate me because I’m white.  My math being as impeccable as it always is, that makes 265% of the world’s people who hate me, or, to be simpler, everyone on the planet hates me for two or more reasons.  And that’s not counting the people who hate my blog!

Wouldn’t that depress you?  Well, it’s messed up my strange brain a whole lot.  I used to think I was bi-polar.  I think we all are to some extent.  But lately, I’m convinced I am octi-polar.  That’s a condition where at some point during each day you behave like every one of Snow White’s dwarfs.  Yes, I know octi means eight and there are only seven dwarfs, but Carol decided that, in the state I’m in, I should add another Grumpy.

The only consolation is that there exists one creature even more universally loathed than me – the Canada Goose.  I once lived in a community whose houses surrounded a lake, a nice lake, whose only fault was that it hosted several dozen geese.  They are beautiful creatures, but that doesn’t compensate for the fact that they are loud, filthy and threatening.  Did I mention filthy?

We hired a dog to bark at the geese and scare them away.  The geese chuckled and flew to the other side of the lake.  Next, we placed blinking lights in the lake that supposedly would keep the geese from sleeping.  The geese slept like goslings, but the lights kept the rest of us up all night.  Then we sprayed the grass with a chemical that makes the geese sick when they eat it.  Now instead of just goose shit covering the grass, we had goose shit and goose vomit.  Then we tried fox decoys (I am not making any of this up).  The decoys are Styrofoam signs painted to look like foxes and stuck in the ground.  The geese were unimpressed, but a near-sighted lady two doors down from me called the police to report a wolf in her yard.  The uniformed policeman arrived and, without hesitation, approached the ersatz wolf with weapon drawn.  (I promise you, I am not making this up.)  Well, the geese were hysterical, watching the show and munching on the poisoned grass.  So I finally came up with a plan:

There really is just no excuse

Allowing those birds to run loose

Our mission is plain

We’ll start a new chain

And call it Kentucky Fried Goose

Finger lickin’ good!

I just got back from the grocery store.  More Honey-Time with my wife.  I love grocery carts, don’t you?  They’re light and they have a zero turning radius.  You can swirl those little puppies around in no space at all.  And they’re nice to lean on when your hip hurts.  You can always find me at the grocery store about ¾ of an aisle behind the Princess of Usain Bolt, leaning on my cart and trying to keep up.  To avoid the aggravation of waiting for me, she has developed a very accurate grocery-toss and can flip a box of cereal or a bag of marshmallows a good 25 feet with 100% accuracy.  She’s a little cautious with canned goods, but can flip a bag of arugula better than Steph Curry.  Nothing but net!

In Aisle 1 today, I ran into a friend and loyal reader.  She was pushing her own cart.  We talked for a bit, then I looked twenty or thirty feet behind her and located her husband trying to figure out the difference between a rutabaga and a turnip.  Root vegetables confuse me too.

You know what else confuses me?  Now don’t make the list too long; I’m not that goofy.   What confuses me is buying movie tickets on-line.  I can do amazon.  Buying stuff on amazon is as easy as finding a Democrat who thinks Trump is an idiot.  But buying movie tickets on some on-line sites is harder than finding a STARBUCKS that allows policemen.  I’d rather have shingles!

Oh-oh, I hear a voice.  It must be Honey-Time again.  Gotta go.  I know where my priorities lie.  Maybe I am a saint after all.  Keep yourself well, enjoy the warm weather and count your blessings.  I’ll be back next week.  “Yes, Honey, I’m coming.”  Gotta go.

Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, Bashful, Sneezy – and Grumpy    

               Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #122

What are you good at?  I’m having trouble answering that question.  I cannot go anywhere without getting lost.  I cannot fix a toilet or anything else for that matter.  I don’t know how to use FaceBook or shop or grow plants.  I could go on forever about the things that I’m bad at, but I’m bad at remembering them all.  I’m not strong like Superman or handsome like George Clooney, or humble like Donald Trump, and I often feel about as useful as a typewriter repairman.  No, I’m not Mr. Right.  But I am not completely useless.  I am pretty good at writing little poems, essays, speeches and songs.  Not a bad talent, mostly frivolous, but handy to have at times.  No, I’m not Mr. Right, but I’m close.

If you’re looking for some Mr. Right

Get a handsome and chivalrous Knight,

But for poems or a song

Then you cannot go wrong

If you come straight to me – Mr. Write.

Mr. Write, that’s me.  I actually enjoy writing.  It’s “the most intimate, solitary pleasure that one can imagine” says Gabriel García Márquez, so let’s see what I can write for you today.  First of all, hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling happy in this hot month of July.  “People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy,” said Anton Chekhov, and he was surely a happy and upbeat guy.

I actually have some happy and upbeat news for you.  No more whining and complaining about my limping around, because in September I’m having a hip replacement.  I’m actually excited.  One day in the hospital, two weeks on a walker, two weeks on a cane, good as new!  That is, if you could possibly imagine looking at what I see in the mirror and calling it new.  I’ll tell you all about it as the process moves forward.

I don’t know why I go to so many doctors when all of my friends seem to have acquired comprehensive medical knowledge far superior to any physician.  Just announcing the hip replacement thing elicited all manner of “knowing” advice.  For instance:

·        Do it from the front, not the back.  That’s the best way.

·        Get three opinions.  You never know.

·        Do it on a Monday.  The doctors are fresher on Mondays.

·        Make sure the surgeon has a G in his name.

·        Make sure the surgeon didn’t vote for Trump.

Thank you to all my well-meaning friends for your compassionate advice.  Seriously!  I know it’s just human nature to share medical folklore, but to be honest, I think I’ll stick with the guy who has a real medical degree.

Once I get my new hip, I’ll be pretty much perfect.  The most recent report from Doctor Doctor says my HDL, LDL, PSA, QVC, ESPN AND MTV are all exemplary.  My medical complaints to you throughout the years have, of course, been tongue in cheek. That tongue-in-cheek syndrome can be very painful, you know.  After the hip surgery, I’ll have an artificial joint in my right hip, a pacemaker in my chest and a female cornea transplant in my left eye.  I’ll have more replacement parts than an ’87 Chevy and will be recognizable only by my fingerprints.  But you can always find me – just look for the guy walking ten paces behind the Princess of Lickety Split.

And with a new hip, I’ll probably sleep like a baby.  Isn’t that a strange expression – sleep like a baby?  Babies wake up every two hours, crying and spitting.  Who would want to sleep like a baby?  Another strange expression is -- she’s like a sister to me.  Do you all really have wonderful, loving and considerate sisters?  My sister was like an erratic, psychotic cuckoo clock to me.  So next time I say, “You’re like a sister to me,” don’t make the mistake of taking it as a compliment.

And my brother, by the way, was an eccentric, bizarre Dickens character who saved cardboard toilet-paper rolls, so it should not be a surprise to you what a weird and unstable mass of tissue is my brain.  You seem to like it enough to come back every week, so let’s move on.

At dinner the other night, Carol asked our three local grandchildren one of her famous questions.  Actually, she asked two.  The first was, “What do you like best about me?”  Do you know what chutzpa is?  Now you do.  Her second question was a little less Carol-centric.  She asked the three kids, “If you could pick going anywhere with anybody, where and who would it be?”  Here are their answers, word for word.  I swear.

13-year-old boy:  I want to go to the Bahamas with the cutest girl in my class.

9-year-old boy:  I want to go to the Galapagos with Poppy.  He’s my little scientist.

11-year-old Princess:  I want to go to the Mall with Poppy’s credit card.  She takes after Carol.

Congratulations to the USA Women’s Soccer Team for winning the World Cup.  My favorite player, the fabulous Megan Rapinoe, was a big disappointment to me and should be an embarrassment to the team.  Not because of her feet – because of her mouth!  She will never put her hand over her heart during the National Anthem; she will never sing the National Anthem; she will never visit the “f***ing White House”.  These are all things she has said, and has every right to say in this country.  Here’s what I want to know, why is someone who refuses to respect the USA flag, refuses to sing the USA National Anthem, hates the USA President and hates the USA iconic home of government – why is such a person playing for the USA?  There are enough people in Europe who hate Americans.  We don’t need to compete in Europe with an American player ragging on her flag, her anthem and her President while wearing USA on her shirt. 

Ok, sorry for the patriotic rant.  And for the quotes from Márquez and Chekhov.  I guess you’re ready for me to stop.  Three strikes and I’m out, right?  So stay well, count your blessings and please come back next week.  You’re like sisters and brothers to me.

Mr. Write                                           Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog # 121

Happy Fourth of July to everyone.  It was in 1776 that our Founding Fathers, “preferring hard liberty before the easy yoke of servile pomp” decided to declare independence from England.  We wanted our own government, our own laws, and our own version of American Idol.  Yet we reserved the right to go absolutely bonkers every time one of their royalty gets married or has a baby.  The quote about “preferring hard liberty” is from John Milton’s Paradise Lost, a tough read, but worth it in spades!  I get my kicks above the waistline, Sunshine.

Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling just plummy on this National Holiday.  Plummy is like peachy, only juicier.  Anyway, on this Independence Day, you will see a lot of American Flags.  Most of them, sadly, will be in Iran.  Every video we see from Iran these days shows our lovely Persian friends burning our flag.  Here’s what I want to know – where do they get all these American flags?  If they hate us so much, how come every Iranian has our flag in his pocket?  Is there a factory in Iran that makes American flags?  Where do they all come from?  I think I know.  I think Donald Trump has made a deal to send shiploads of flags, suitable for burning, to the Ayatollahs in exchange for crude oil.  He even sent a Tweet about it:

As long as you’re so filled with hate

We’ll send you our flags by the crate

The more that you burn

The more we will earn

To help KEEP AMERICA GREAT.

I don’t know about Trump’s new campaign slogan – Keep America Great.  At least Make America Great Again could be shortened into something rhythmic – “MAGA Hats”.  But are they going to make KAG Hats?  That has no rhythm, no appeal.  I have a modest suggestion for a new slogan – Forever Loving America’s Greatness.  That will shorten to FLAG and, of course, FLAG Hats, cute little red, white and blue numbers that will sell like earplugs at a Joy Behar speech.  And even if he loses the election, he can sell the leftover hats to Iran and still make a bundle.

Maybe Nike can ship Iran all the Betsy Ross flag shoes they’ve decided not to sell.  You know, those Betsy Ross flags contain 13 stars in a circle, strangely resembling a zero, the exact number of NFL teams that want Colin Kaepernick.  Perhaps Colin can go over there and lead the Anti-American rally, maybe light the first pair.  And as for Nike -- Swoosh this!

We spent last week on Bald Head Island, a spectacular North Carolina barrier island with no bridges, no cars, no hotels, no movie theaters.  We rented a house with two golf carts – wife, children, sons-in-law, grandkids.  Fifteen of us and two dogs – 38 feet which all seemed to stomp past my room at 7:30 each morning.

Everything was fabulous.  But I have one disturbing episode to share with you.  While walking the beach, I came upon a group of men fishing from the shore.  One of them reeled in a shark, 4 to 4½ feet.   They dragged it out, took a bunch of selfies, cut the fishing line, leaving the hook embedded in the shark’s mouth, then dragged it back to the shore where it swam away.  I have lots of friends who fish.  They are good people whom I like and respect, and if you are one of them, please don’t read the next paragraph.

If you eat the fish, great.  We have to eat.  But to torture an animal just to have a fleeting moment of superiority and a selfie, count me out.  I have never caught a fish or shot a gun.  It’s not me.

Ok, you fisher-people can come back now.  I’m through preaching.  We drove back from Bald Head (oceans, sand dunes, beaches, spectacular untrampled wilderness) to St. Louis where the closest we get to an ocean is Captain D’s.  During all the hours in the car, the three grandkids had their screens and their headphones.  It just makes me think you could drive the young generation through a magical landscape full of mythical creatures like unicorns, leprechauns, mermaids, sprites, satyrs, honest politicians, and the whole time, the only thing the kids would see would be MINECRAFT or YouTube.  What a pity.

ITEM:  It is so hot in France that the Mona Lisa has stopped smiling.  

ITEM:  Presidential hopeful, Marianne Williamson, made such a negative impression during the Democrat Debates that Republicans are actually donating to her campaign so that the public can see more of her goofy and irrational opinions.  That sounds pretty goofy and irrational to me.

ITEM:  It is so hot in France that the last remaining descendant of Marie Antoinette was quoted as saying, “Let them eat ice-cream.” 

ITEM:  President Trump’s gesture of stepping foot on North Korean soil has received unanimous worldwide acclaim.  World leaders everywhere have expressed joy in seeing that the President has found someplace to put his foot other than in his mouth.

ITEM:  The last citizen of France that was this hot was Joan of Arc.

ITEM:  The new trend in musical concerts is the Silent Concert.  The only audio from the stage is wireless and broadcast to headphones worn by each member of the audience.  I’m serious.  Everyone gets perfect reception and the neighbors don’t hear a thing.  As my favorite Wicked Witch once said, What a world!  What a world!  And, no, I did not mean Carol.  Shame on you.

Which reminds me, I haven’t mentioned her name at all this week, but last Tuesday was a very special day for my dear wife.  It’s the day she’d been waiting for with unbridled anticipation, a day of fun and wondrous gifts, a day to laugh and celebrate – that’s right, it was Senior Day at Walgreen’s.  Oh, it was also her birthday.  Happy Birthday, Honey.

It’s getting late, time to go.  Enjoy your holiday weekend, stay well, count your blessings and come back to me next week.  I’m not sure what I’d do without you. 

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com