Blog #290                                September 29,2022

 

I never eat breakfast.  I’ll pause now so you can all express the accepted knowledge that breakfast is the most important meal.  Are you finished?  Good.  I like breakfast food – eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, waffles.  I love it all, just not in the morning.  I’m not hungry in the morning.  But on Sunday, Carol makes me pancakes for lunch.  She makes great pancakes and it is always a treat.

 

Can you picture a mother and a little boy?  The mother asks, “Want me to make some pancakes, Boy?”  The son answers, “Course I do.  Ain’tcha my Ma?”

Ain’tcha my Ma.  Say it fast three times and it becomes Aunt Jemima.  My brain is spectacularly bizarre, isn’t it?

 

I remember one morning on Bald Head Island with the entire family, sixteen of us.  Somehow, after all eight grandchildren had eaten breakfast, Carol and I were alone in the kitchen.  I asked her to make me pancakes.  A quiet meal of delicious pancakes all by myself!  I was electric with anticipation.  But no sooner had those hot steamy flapjacks flapped upon my plate than the room began to shake, and a stampede of little urchins invaded the kitchen screaming for pancakes.  “I want the biggest!”  “I want the one on the bottom!”  “Where’s the syrup?”  “Move that old man out of the way.”  I got none of the first stack.  I guess they all figured if they had my genes, they could have my pancakes.  They inhaled the second stack, annihilated the third stack, devoured the fourth stack.  Carol was moving faster than the third zebra trying to get on the Ark.  Then, abruptly, my little vultures, sated and happy, left me like a used and discarded call girl.  All they left was one, lonely, cold, torn pancake.  And the syrup bottle was gone.  I think they ate it.  I love being a grandfather!

 

This blog finds us between the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and if you celebrate those holidays, I wish you a happy and healthy New Year.  On the Jewish calendar, the year is 5783.  That’s about how old I feel.  As for all you Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Taoists, Confucians, Jains, Druze, Shintoists, Zoroastrians, Baha’is, agnostics and atheists out there – shalom and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.

 

An atheist, by the way, doesn’t believe in God and an agnostic thinks it’s impossible to know for sure.  And then there’s Mark Twain, who said, “Faith is believing what you know ain’t so.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king (Hamlet).  There must be a God, because He put me and Pops together.  Pops didn’t count my legs; he just looked in my face and smiled.  And then I bit him.  It was love at first bite.  Purr.

 

How about some news?  The chess world is aghast with the scandalous story of an up-and-coming player who cheated by getting moves electronically sent to him by co-conspirators.  The signals caused vibrations in a device the challenger had shoved up his behind.  But he got caught in the end (so to speak). 

 

He was getting instruction, alas,

From a buzzer he shoved up his ass

But his fatal mistake

Was that each move he’d make,

The buzzer would start passing gas.

 

The news is entirely true, and I just could not pass (so to speak) it up.

 

How about a story? You like my stories, and you have nothing else to do.  Your bridge game doesn’t start for hours.  This story is also completely true. We went to a movie, you-know-who and I.  I dropped her at the entrance.  Every morning she crawls, climbs and stomps around the house doing yoga-esque contortions and smiling like Richard Simmons on speed.  Then she hops on the treadmill for multiple miles.  But it is apparently too much of an effort for her to walk from the parking lot to the entrance.  So I dropped her.  Prince Charming! 

 

She bought two tickets, and when I entered, she handed me one and went to the ladies’ room.  I showed the attendant the ticket that said Film A, and was directed to Theater 4.  I went in.  No Carol.  I picked a seat and waited.  No Carol.  I watched the coming trailers, all 827 of them, at which point Carol entered and, in a voice loud enough to be heard in Istanbul, said, “You’re in the wrong theater!”  The patrons began to chuckle mercilessly as I slinked sheepishly out to follow my wife to a different theater.  And how, I hear you snicker, had I wound up in the wrong theater when my ticket clearly said the movie that was playing there?  Well, she asked for Film B, but they printed Film A tickets by mistake.  No big deal; she just went to the theater showing Film B.  EXCEPT SHE FAILED TO TELL HER POOR DUMB HUSBAND.   And now everyone in the County is talking about the ignorant bozo who couldn’t find the right theater and his skinny wife who had to come rescue him.  I think tonight I’ll just wear a sign that says USELESS SLOB.  Best to warn everybody up front.  The movie was copacetic. 

 

I don’t really understand why she didn’t tell me where to go.  She does it all the time.  In fact, she and all her buttinsky ancestors have been telling men where to go, what to say and how to live their lives all throughout history.  For instance,

 

·        No, Chris, don’t pick the first New World you see.  Let’s keep looking.  Maybe we’ll find one on sale.

·        No, Abe, you don’t need to waste time shopping now.  Let’s go see a play.  And wear that tall hat.

·        Forget it, Arthur, see if they have a round table.

·        Adam, put down that candy bar – too much fat.  Have an apple instead.

·        Sorry, Attila, I need more room.  Go conquer Asia; you can keep your clothes there.  Thanks, Hun.

·        What did God offer you, Moses, eight commandments?  Let me talk to him.  I’ll get Him up to ten.

 

The Weekly Word, copacetic, means barely satisfactory.  I hope this blog was better than that.  Happy New Year again, and have a great week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Useless Slob                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #289                                September 22, 2022

 

I had an appointment with Dr. Hand this week to give me a shot for trigger finger.  I had a shot two years ago, and it has worked this long, so that’s good.  But getting a painful shot is not appealing, so I found some Diazepam in my drug stash.  We all have a drug stash, don’t we?  We never throw anything away.  If the laxative worked twenty years ago, it should work now, right?  If we were prescribed 30 pain relief pills and only used 5, the other 25 will sit in the cabinet forever.  They’re expensive.  You can’t just throw them away.  It would be a shonde.  I have stool softeners from the Nixon Administration.

 

The Diazepam is an anti-anxiety pill, like Valium.  The instructions on the label read, Take one hour before you are going to behave like a whiny, little baby.  I do have a history of that.  Dr. Hand’s office is at St. Louis’ big hospital complex downtown.  Here’s how it went:

 

·        Decided not to take the pill.  What a brave little boy!

·        Drive time – 20 minutes

·        Finding a parking place in the huge garage – 20 minutes

·        Doctor visit – 10 minutes

·        Shot – 6 seconds.  It hurt, but six seconds goes by quickly.

·        Finding my car – 11 minutes.  Well, I forgot whether it was left or right.

·        Finding my way out of the garage – 35 minutes.

 

Plus, my furnace has a leak and the maintenance guy said I had to have someone wash the evaporator, replace some tubes and clean out a pipe.  Sounds exactly like what they did to my heart thirteen years ago.  Everything is about health at my age.  Last month a doctor checked me out and said I was going to live to be 120.  I’m not sure I want to live that long.  You’ll be a bunch of old people by then and I won’t know how to deal with you.  So, while you’re still young, let’s talk.

 

Hi there.  Thanks for coming back.  I hope you are feeling young and wonderful and can help me understand how my wife’s brain works.  Just the other day she called me.  “Fred and Ethel are going to a movie at 4:45.”  No, she didn’t use those names, but everything else I’m about to tell you is true.  She continued, “I really don’t care one bit about this movie, but if you want, we can go with them or just meet them for dinner.”  I asked her the name of the movie and she told me, adding, “I couldn’t care less.  I have no interest in that movie.”  I said ok, let’s just meet them for dinner.  And she said, “Or maybe I’ll just go to the movie with them and you can meet us later.”

 

Now you tell me, is this woman making any sense?  It’s like being married to Yogi Berra.  Yogi was famous for his strange sayings.  Like you can observe a lot by watching and if they don’t want to come, you can’t stop them and of course I didn’t really say everything I said.  My own little Yogi is famous for some of her sayings as well.  The grandkids call them Nonnie-isms.  One goes like this: if the Queen had balls, she would be the King.  The kids love that.

 

I was at the Zoo this week, doing my thing, answering anything Zooish.  Wait, Zooish?  Did I just create that word? 

 

They ask me for everything Zooish

Are the cockatoos greenish or bluish?

How tall’s the giraffe?

Do the hyenas laugh?

And whether the elephant’s Jewish.

 

Well, they do have big noses.  And they never forget.  Carol can remember what she wore to a dinner party eight years ago.  She just remembered the exact date of an operation my father had in 1981.  Wait, did I just compare my wife to an elephant?  Oh, my God!  No, no, that’s not what I meant.  Oy, am I in trouble!  I’m such a Dumbo!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream (Henry IV, Part 1).  I’m glad Pops likes animals.  I guess that’s why he adopted me.  And by the way, I don’t have balls either, and I’m not the Queen or the King.  I’m just the Cat.  Purr.

 

The most challenging question I ever received at the Zoo was in front of the zebra exhibit.  It was from a seven-year-old girl, holding her mother’s hand and looking straight into my eyes.  “How do you tell the male zebra from the female zebra,” she asked?  I looked at the mother who gave me an amused smirk, then turned to the little girl with my answer.  The female zebras have bigger closets.

 

 

 

 

At McDonald’s today, the indoor service was closed – not enough help –so I went to the nearest other McDonald’s.  They had help.  Let me be kind.  I’m sure that the young man at the register was a wonderful human being, loved his mother, had a puppy, recycled, but he was unqualified to communicate with other Homo sapiens or make change.  I made the mistake of giving him $1.29 in exact change for my Diet Coke.  It took him fully two minutes to place each of the 12 coins on the counter individually, count them (twice), scoop them into his hand and transfer each coin from his hand into the register one at a time.  Eventually, despite his maddening insouciance, he gave me the cup.

 

Are you finished figuring out what 12 coins you need to make $1.29?  I knew you could do it.  They’re hiring at McDonald’s.

 

A recent study showed that 30% of dogs respond to their name.  A collateral study has revealed that 26% of my friends respond to their names.  Maybe I should start calling them Rover.  No, only kidding.  My friends are all wonderful human beings, loved their mothers, recycled – and pretty smart too.  Wow, I compared my wife to an elephant and said my friends couldn’t respond to their names.  I’m really batting zero this week.

 

Weekly Word:  Insouciance is a casual lack of concern, indifference.  And with that bit of information, I think we should stop.  As Yogi Berra said, it’s not over till it’s over.  But you know what?  It’s over!  See you next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #288                                September 15, 2022

 

The Queen is dead.  Long live the King.  When George VI died in 1952 and his daughter became Elizabeth II, they all shouted, “Long live the Queen.”  I wonder if they ever dreamed it would be that long.  She ruled 70 years, the second-longest ruling monarch in history behind Louis XIV of France who ruled for 72 years.  Elizabeth always carried a purse, even around the palace.  In fact, the chairs she used all had hooks specially made for hanging her purse.  I guess that’s called “hanging around the palace”.  There was always some conjecture as to what she carried in the purse, and the best I could determine was this – some tissue, a lipstick and a five-pound note for the collection plate at Church.  I’m pretty certain she didn’t have a cell-phone.  Can you even imagine the Queen making a call?

 

Hello, it’s we, the Queen … What do you mean, what Queen? It’s Queen Elizabeth … Of England … That’s right, the one with the purse.

 

I liked Liz and always followed her news and watched all the films about her, but she is only my second-favorite Queen.  My favorite Queen just told me we were going out to dinner on Friday.  I asked where we were going and she replied, “We’re going to Tucker’s; be ready at 6:30.  Wear the khaki pants and the pink shirt.  You’re getting the chef salad with no green peppers and no onions. And don’t slow down for any yellow lights.”  I’m wondering -- why exactly does she need me to go?  I bet if I dressed a mannequin in the khaki pants and the pink shirt, she wouldn’t even know the difference.  She’d probably just ask why I was so quiet.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well on this lovely Thursday.  Many of you send me comments from time to time, and I honestly love getting them, but I have noticed a trend lately.  Here’s a typical comment: Love your blog, keep talking about Carol, she’s just like me. Or sometimes I get: Love your blog, quit picking on Carol, you drive too slow.  I spend ten hours writing and re-writing and editing each one of these blogs, strain and suffer with anxiety over what to say and how to say it, and after all that – my wife gets all the fan mail.  Well, she is the Queen.

 

I’d like to be the King for a little while.  The first thing I’d do would be to ban car-alarms, Dr. Pepper and computer viruses.  Carol’s computer was infected once, and I called up my computer guru:

 

Me:  My wife’s computer has a virus.  Fix it.

Guru:  First, unplug the computer.  Then go buy a disk of Norton Anti-Virus, load it, download it, upload it and install it.  Then yappadee yappadee floppity poop.

Me:  Of all the things you just said, the only one I can do is unplug the computer.  Maybe.  I want you to come over and fix it.

Guru:  Do you know how much I charge?

Me:  Do you know my wife?

Guru:  I’ll be right over.

 

That’s why I have him.  He’s smart.  Plus, he has a great business card:

 

If computer stuff gives you a fit

And you don’t know a bite from a bit

Well you may have a virus

So you’d better hire us

It’s obvious you don’t know shit.

 

Did you hear that some Disney employees were arrested in Florida in connection with a human-trafficking syndicate?  It does not surprise me one bit.  I have always thought the whole Disney portfolio to be rife with drug-use and sexual innuendo.  First, there’s the pervert who dresses up like an old lady with a wand and entices little girls into his van by disguising it as a pumpkin and promising them expensive shoes.  Today, you’d do twenty years for that!  Then there’s Wonderland where caterpillars smoke pot and Alice takes pills to make her bigger (uppers) or smaller (downers).  Or Geppetto the Carpenter making little boy-dolls with extendible appendages?  Seriously? And don’t get me started about Snow White and her Male Prostitutes.

 

Weekly Word:  Innuendo means an oblique remark that hints or suggests some impropriety.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  A harmless necessary cat (The Merchant of Venice).  That’s what I am, a harmless, necessary cat, and I’ve seen some of that Disney stuff.  There are a lot of cats in there – The Cheshire Cat, Figaro, Oliver.  My favorite is the Lion King.  ROAR!  Sorry, I meant purr.  And I always thought innuendo was the place they put rectal thermometers.

 

Our 60^th High School Reunion is coming up next year.  I say our because Carol and I were in the same class.  Yes, high school sweethearts, isn’t that cute and so on.  Reunions are always interesting.  At the 50^th, I remember being stunned at how many old people there were.  There were a lot of beards and a lot of baldness – and that was just the women!  I’m joking, the women looked pretty good – a little shorter maybe, a little blonder.  Most of the men were getting grayer and fatter and everybody’s posture was taking a hit.  How did all this happen to us?

 

And at our age, we spend a lot of time and effort on medical issues.  Doctors and stress tests and medications!  It’s a lot of work being a senior.  But we all adapt and come to terms with it as best we can.  The other evening, we went to dinner with friends and one of the guys at the table asked the waiter to recommend a wine that goes well with Lipitor.  Maybe we should just eat dinner at the Emergency Room.  They have a new restaurant there called Broken Bonefish Grill. 

 

Back to the reunion story, one of the first people I saw was a female classmate.  She hugged me and said, “You were so funny in High School.”  Carol looked her straight in the eye and said, “I think you have the wrong person.”  True story.  But you don’t have the wrong person.  This is me and I’ll be back with you next week.  Be there.

 

This week we all remembered September 11, 2001 in our own way.  I won’t intrude upon that.  Have a peaceful week, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #287                      September 8, 2022

 

Almost every week, I say something like I hope I brightened your Thursdays or I hope I made you laugh.  That’s a pretty slimy way of begging for a compliment, isn’t it?  It is gratifying to learn that none of you would fall for a cheap trick like that.

 

You men know what begging for a compliment is.  It’s when your wife says, “Honey, do you think this dress makes me look fat?”  A husband must either know how to respond to that properly or have a good orthopedic surgeon.

 

Actually, I do receive a few responses that say, “Yes, you do brighten my day,” and that’s very gratifying.  I wonder if my wife is upset that I talk to so many of my limerick girlfriends via email.  Just to be safe, let’s keep it among ourselves.  If she got mad and stopped picking out my clothes, that would be a bad thing. I’d leave the house half the time looking like Clarabell.  And if you remember Clarabell, you’re my kind of people.  And if you don’t, Google it.  I just love Google.  The entire knowledge of Mankind is on Google.  Or should that be Womankind?  Personkind? Himandherkind?  Oh, who gives a rat’s Google?

 

Hi there, my people, and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and starting to plan your vacations for next summer.  I’m thinking about Canada.  We went there many years ago and the scenery was glorious, the weather spectacular and the accommodations Victorian.  But traveling to our northern neighbor can be bewildering if you haven’t practiced your math.  First of all, the speed limits are measured in kilometers per hour.  A kilometer is about five-eighths of a mile, so divide by eight and multiply by five.  The temperature is in Celsius, so divide by five, multiply by nine and add 32.  And the exchange rate is one Canadian Dollar to 75ȼ US, so divide by four and multiply by three.  They have a 7-Eleven in Canada, but they call it the 8½-12¾.  It’s mind-boggling, even for me who has a college degree in Mathematics. 

 

Now Canada is a great nation

To go for a lovely vacation

But prepare for disaster

Unless you can master

Division and multiplication.

 

My California grandson just turned eleven.  In Canada he would be thirteen.  I asked him what he was doing to celebrate.  He said they were going to a Tibetan restaurant for dinner.  California has everything.  I wonder what the name of the Tibetan restaurant is, Yak in the Box?  Nacho Lama?  Yeti Crocker’s?  Okay, that’s all the Tibet jokes I have. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit (Twelfth Night).  I have never been to a restaurant, but I’m sure you could guess which one I’d pick.  Since I only have three legs, my favorite place would be IHOP.  Purr.

 

Carol spoke to our grandson on his birthday, but I warned her not to tell him any stories.  One time, I caught her telling the story of Cinderella, but she left out any reference to glass slippers.  I asked her why she left out the slipper part, and she replied, “Nobody wears glass slippers.”  Hard to argue with that, I suppose.  She always seems to forget the facts.  Like when she told them a Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t go with brown boots.  Or that The Tortoise and the Hare was about a couple named Michael and Carol.  Or that Beauty and the Beast was about a Princess named Melania. 

 

My current side book is a 1200-page Yugoslavian travelogue that I’ve already read once before.  Don’t ask, I know I’m nuts.  In this book, the author, Rebecca West, says the Western world thinks the way to make life better is to take bad things away, whereas, in the East, the way to make life better is to add more good things to it.  I hope Limerick Oyster is one of those good things you add to your life.  There it is, another unabashed example of pleading for a compliment.  Just ignore me; I’m incorrigible.

 

My cell-phone just rang.  The display read Int’l Hearing Aids.  I picked up the phone and said hello.  “Is this Mr. Fox?” a young man said.  Of course, I said WHAT?  The voice retorted, “I’m looking for Michael.”  I immediately replied, no, young man, I don’t need a bicycle.  Then I hung up.  I told you I was incorrigible

 

 

 

I had an issue last week that caused me to visit an Urgent Care.  I’m not going to share because you don’t want to hear my medical crap any more than I want to hear yours.  I think those Urgent Cares are really a big improvement over hospital emergency rooms.  There’s always one close-by and you normally get treated more quickly than at a hospital.  But they do tend to be a bit ponderous.  While Carol waited in the appropriately-named Waiting Room, they took my vitals, my history and my insurance card.  I saw a PA, an RN, two IBMs and an AWOL.  I must have seen eight different people, none of whom was a DR, but they did solve my problem and I was ready to go.  Oops, wait, they needed a little more paperwork.  Well, Carol, who knew I was cured, was anxious to leave and this paperwork folderol was not happening quickly enough for my little Princess.  What could?  So she grabbed a sheet of paper and a magic marker and wrote a sign which she taped to her shirt.  It said:

 

I am currently in PRE-BITCH mode.  You do NOT want to be here when I upgrade.

 

It worked, and Mr. Patient and Mrs. Im-Patient were discharged instantly.  When my speedy little woman is in a hurry, the rest of the world had better move its ass.  And I’d better move mine now.  It’s already 9:30, which in Canadian is 48:20, or is that the temperature?  I’m so confused.

 

Oh, I forgot the Weekly Word which is ponderous.  It means slow and clumsy, like your service at the License Bureau.  Like rush-hour traffic.  Like the Emergency Room.  Like this paragraph.  I’ll stop.

 

But I won’t stop writing to you every Thursday, so until next week, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #286                                September 1, 2022

 

In case you think my life’s a bore

I took a nap from three to four

Woke up and put on comfy shoes

Then had a bite and watched the news

I read a little, fed the cat

Then brushed my teeth and that was that

My goodness, how the day just flew

Tomorrow will be busy too.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  We’d best get started; I know you also have a busy day.  I hope you all are feeling well and have some time left over to spend with me.  This thing is called Limerick Oyster, and I know the above poem is not a limerick, but you’ll have to adapt.  It’s just a little something I came up with.  Here are some other little somethings.

 

Do you read the obituaries every morning?  Most of my friends do.  Not me.  I’ll learn the bad news soon enough.  My good friend Deb in North Carolina says the obituaries are beginning to look like her address book.  That’s the price we pay for aging, so we’re all working hard to stay healthy.  Laughter is good for your health, they say, so I’ll try to make you laugh.

 

Donald Trump was flying on his private jet.  He gazed out the window at the wide expanse of America.  “You know,” he said, “I could drop a yuuuge bunch of hundred-dollar bills out the window and make a thousand people happy.  At which point the pilot turned his head and said, “Sure, but I could drop you out the window and make half the world ecstatic.”

 

There, I made you laugh!

 

Carol, once again, went out to dinner with a group of her girlfriends.  I think she’s practicing for being a widow.  It’s beginning to unnerve me.  Maybe I should read those obituaries.  Since she was going out, I decided to go to the grocery store and buy some stuff for dinner.  Nothing appealed to me, and I thought that if nothing turned me on, I might as well eat something healthy, so I bought a package of zero fat, zero cholesterol veggie hot dogs.  I got home and put them on broil, and while they were so engaged, I sliced up a pickle and splashed a dollop of mustard on a plate.  My faux frankfurters began to sizzle and I turned them over.  I poured some tea and set up my dish and silverware all ready for a delicious hotdog dinner.  Then I let my little gardenwurst burn a bit and accumulate a black crust.  I have learned an important lesson in life and this is something you should remember.  A burnt carrot tastes the same as a burnt pig.  So I ate my overcooked veggie wieners with pickles and mustard and they were just fine.

 

Speaking of obituaries, I was at a funeral some months ago.  Dozens of cars were guided into the cemetery grounds by the funeral home employees and efficiently lined up in a tight parking queue.  As I turned my engine off, one of these employees walked up to the car and I lowered the window whereupon the funeral person asked me what I considered to be a patently unnecessary question.  He said, “Are you here for the funeral?”  There I was, with fifty other cars parked in an immovable line in the middle of a cemetery.  “No,” I calmly replied, “I was wondering when the Annette Funicello movie started.  And hold the butter on the popcorn.”

 

As I stood at the service, I glanced at the headstones around me.  I noticed one that memorialized Dr. Joe Schmo.  Not Joe Schmo, but Dr. Joe Schmo. Seriously?  I thought death was the Grand Equalizer.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  I guess now it’s dust to Dr. Dust.  If doctors can be that arrogant, why can’t I?  I want a limerick on my headstone.  I already have it written -- you probably guessed that – but I’m not going to share it with you.  You’ll just have to visit.  I’ll be next to Dr. Schmo.

 

My favorite doctor is Dr. David, my son-in-law in North Carolina.  Not only is he a radiologist, but he has his own rock n’ roll band.  He’s got some goofy name for the band that I don’t like, so I gave him a list of names I felt were appropriate for a radiologist’s band.  Here they are:

 

·        The Rolling Bones

·         X-Ray Charles

·         Cat Scan Stevens

·         The Mammograms and the Papagrams

·         Donnie & MRI

·         Pelvis Presley.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Music oft hath such a charm to make bad good (Measure for Measure).  I’m going a get a few of my three-legged friends and start a band.  We’ll call it Three Cat Leg, or maybe The Limping Stones.  Purr.

 

I am reading a Larry McMurtry book in which one of the characters says, “Old age is a worthless damn thing.”  I can’t agree.  I believe my senior years are filled with great opportunities to add and contribute.  And I don’t mean reading more books or going to classes or visiting places I’ve never seen.  Whatever I might gain from those things will be gone when I’m gone.  No, I mean the opportunities to leave behind some of yourself in the things you teach, in the care you take of others, even in the entertainment you might provide.  “It’s not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived.”  Helen Walton said that, and Helen should know.  Being the wife of Sam Walton, and the richest woman in America at one time, she gathered and scattered more than most.  Helen is also famous for another quote:  Marriage is a relationship where one is always right and the other is always the husband.

 

If a man speaks in a forest and there’s no-one there, is he still wrong?  I usually am, but I can’t be wrong in wishing you a Happy Labor Day and hoping you stay well.

 

The Weekly Word is faux, which rhymes with Joe, or should I say Dr. Joe, and means fake or false, not genuine.  I am none of those.  I am the real thing.  What you see is what you get, and if you want more of it, come back next week.  I’ll be waiting.  Oh, and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com