Blog #211

 

Here I am in North Carolina, just in time for tornado season.  The last time we were in North Carolina, in August, we survived a direct hit by Hurricane Francis and a tornado.  But we are not deterred because North Carolina is the home of my daughter, son-in-law, three grandchildren, three dogs, two cats and 13 chickens.  We are currently under a tornado-warning for the rest of the evening and all our friends are calling us, worried about the chickens.  They don’t care if we humans are swept away by the storm and dumped on the Yellow Brick Road, but they’re worried about the poultry.  Nice.

 

Actually, one of my grandchildren, Zachary, is not here.  He is a sophomore at Duke and currently under Covid quarantine as is the entire campus.  We have tried to call him, but talking to him is harder than getting a National Security Clearance.  He is always too busy.  My daughter wheedled and cajoled and finally convinced him to Facetime us.  There he was, sporting a bad Bob Dylan hairdo and a bad Cat Stevens beard.  Apparently, he is also too busy to shave or get a haircut.  Carol thought he looked like a terrorist.  I thought he looked like a hostage.  He’s such a good boy.

 

I meant to talk to you last week about St. Patrick’s Day, but I guess I was too busy.  Actually, my Irish cousin Seamus sent me a greeting.  Here’s what he said:

 

Faith n’ Begorrah, if it isn’t St. Patrick’s Day!  Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Lads and Lassies, and the rest of the day as well.  It’s your old Leprechaun Seamus O’Fox from County Limerick.  Yes, and sure’n there is a County Limerick in Ireland.  You can trust old Seamus on that.  St. Patrick, you know, kicked all the snakes out of Ireland.  Then he came back with the potato famine and kicked nearly all of the Irish out as well.  But we celebrate him just as certain, and we do it with grand old Irish Whisky.  How else would a good Irishman celebrate?

 

Yes I am the Leprechaun Seamus

In Ireland sure’n I’m famous

And if you should think

That I can’t hold my drink

Then faith, you’re a damned ignoramus.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  And you girls, when I called you Lassies back there, don’t get insulted.  I didn’t mean that you looked like a dog.  I had a girlfriend once who was very melancholy.  She had a body like a melon and a face like a collie.  Bada-bing, bada-boom.

 

There has been a lot of talk about Dr. Seuss being offensive to Asians or Aunt Jemima being offensive to African-Americans.  No-one should tolerate insulting, abusive or offensive behavior.  But who gets the most frequent and vicious abuse?  Old people.  Every day I receive cartoons on the internet depicting old men and women with distended paunches, sagging breasts, drooping jowls and vanishing hair.  None of my friends looks like these exaggerated cartoon characters.  Well, maybe one or two.  And what are these characters doing?  Forgetting things, losing things, unable to walk or speak.  And what do we old people do?  We laugh.  The cartoons are funny.  We can take it; we can laugh at ourselves.  Keep laughing at yourselves, My People.  The world’s too serious as it is.

 

Besides, we have the Olympics to worry about.  Specifically, the Old-lympics, the games specially created for us oldies and goodies.  They have Pickle-Ball this year and Synchronized Napping and a new event called Sprint-Sprint.  Contestants start in a sitting position with their cellphones on their laps.  The winner is the first to reach his or her internet provider and speak to a live person.  The World Record is currently 47 minutes.  My wife is entering the Pentathlon where contestants must read a book, watch Netflix, play bridge online, talk on the phone and exercise at the same time.  She’s a shoo-in.

 

From North Carolina, we slid down to Florida to visit my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, very nice people.  Hospitality is the art of making guests feel like they’re at home when you wish they were.  But we stay anyway and they treat us wonderfully.  The weather in Florida is much better -- no tornadoes, no hurricanes yet, very nice.  Florida, fondly known as God’s Waiting Room, has a large population of senior citizens, and why not?  We like high temperatures and low taxes.  This time of year, it is also packed with Gen Z-ers, the generation under 24-years-old.  These are the people who, for 51 weeks a year, without mercy or respect, lecture their grandparents about following science and wearing masks, protecting the environment and spreading love and acceptance.  For the other week, they are down in Miami Beach getting drunk, smoking pot, spreading Covid, beating each other up and polluting the beaches with beer bottles and condoms.  Thank you, Gen Z, for all your advice.

 

I guess all this activism by our grandchildren is a sign of progress. “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.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  My soul is full of sorrow (As You Like It).  I am not a Gen Z-er.  I’m a Gen-Cat, and this Gen-Cat is going to bite somebody’s ugly behind if he doesn’t get home soon.  I miss him.  Purr.

 

Cajole, our Weekly Word, means to persuade by sustained coaxing or flattery.  Just like what I do to you every week to convince you to come back next week.  You’d better!  Keep well and keep counting your blessings.  See you next week.  And Shakespeare, if you’re reading this (imagine that!), I’ll be home tonight.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com