Blog #390                                         August 29, 2024

 

Last night, Carol and I had this actual conversation. 

 

M:   Honey, I want to ask you something.  Tell me if I’m wrong.

C:   You’re wrong. 

M:  You’re probably right.

 

And that was the end of the conversation.  Nothing more.  My wife would make a great Parole Officer.  She never lets anyone finish a sentence.

 

My oldest daughter, Jennifer, recently asked me to read an article by the humorist Dave Barry, so I pulled up the Miami Herald article on-line.  For me, reading an article on-line is like teaching a fish to play canasta.  First, there’s a white box in the upper left corner that says – The Miami Herald would like to track your location, search your house and take your temperature – rectally.  Plus, they want to do something with my cookies.  I hate when people mess with my cookies, so I clicked NO!  Immediately, an ominous black square covered the screen with the question – Would you like to subscribe to the Miami Herald?  The options were not Yes and No.  The options were Yes and Ask Me Later.  I clicked the latter, knowing full well I would have to deal with them for the rest of my life, but at least I finally got to the article.  As I attempted to read, videos popped up in each of the four corners and in the center of the page, all trying at once to sell me everything from cat litter to a subscription to the Kale Recipe of the Month Club.  It was like trying to sleep with four spiders crawling on your face.  And even if you could force yourself to concentrate on the article, every second or two the line you were reading would suddenly jump up or down a few spaces on the page.  Did they actually want me to read this article?  Maybe they just wanted me to have something funny to tell you.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  I am now in Week Three of the torpid dreariness of Pneumonia.  It doesn’t seem to be any better than Week Two.  Let’s move on to other things.  Like Labor Day.  When I was a kid, I remember Labor Day meant back to school and the Jerry Lewis Telethon.  Jerry Lewis is gone now and schools start much earlier, but Labor Day still means one thing – no more Summer clothes.

 

Those tangerine shorts just won’t make it

No white – it’s the law and don’t break it

And if you wear linen

You’re certainly sinnin’

You might as well just go out naked.

 

I’ve decided the naked option is out, so I’ve just resigned to letting Carol pick out my clothes.  It saves so much time.

 

And speaking of cookies, I do not like computer cookies (whatever they are), but I am partial to Oreos.  Yes, my daughters all tell me how bad they are for you, but   Oreos are not even close to the most poisonous cookies.  There are cookies you can buy that have more than twice the calories and twice the fat of an Oreo, and they are marketed by a very famous and ubiquitous agency.  And who, you might ask, is this monstrous, malign and maniacal megalith that is proliferating these preposterous, poisonous pastries?  You guessed it – the Girl Scouts.  Sinister?  Yes, but also superb, satisfying and spectacularly scrumptious!  As Oliver Twist remarked, Please, Sir, may I have S’mores?

 

Do you use eBay?  I recently sold some stuff on eBay and they gave me, as a promotion, a $50 certificate that I had to spend in three days. Well, what should I buy?  I mean, it’s the World of eBay!!  Every possible item made or conceived or saved or dug up by the human race since the dawn of civilization is on eBay.  I have my choice from vast and unlimited selections of electronics, art, fashion, household items, sporting goods, vacations, automotive, jewelry, collectibles, investments, antiques.  You can buy Twinkies, false teeth, rubber bands, ANYTHING!  So, what did Mr. Exciting decide to buy from this unbounded emporium of riches, this cyclopean cornucopia of wonders, this magnificent market of marvels?  A year’s supply of fiber pills.  It is a sad and curious life, isn’t it?  Fiber pills!

 

Boy, there were a lot of big words in that last paragraph, but I’ve chosen torpid as our Weekly Word.  It means inactive, sluggish, lethargic or slow.  But while I’m struggling through this torpid malaise, I am not idle.  I am very busy administering pills, lozenges, capsules, salves, creams, syrups and drops into and onto various parts of my body.  Yesterday I took so many pills, when I walked down the hall I sounded like a Yahtzee game.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Therein the patient must minister to himself (Macbeth).  Pops is sleeping in the guest room so he won’t keep Carol up with his coughing, and I am sleeping right on top trying to keep him warm and safe.  I’ll make sure he’s ok.  I got this.  Purr.

 

Even besides the pneumonia, I had a bad day yesterday.  Every decision I made turned out to be wrong at best and stupid more often than not.    I won’t go into details, but my spirits were low.  I drove by the place where my Low Self-Esteem Support Group meets, but a sign said – Please Use the Back Door.

 

So I went to my wife for support.  “You have other fine qualities,” she said.  I asked her to name one.  “You’re easy.”  I was looking for handsome or talented or maybe even smart.  At the least I deserved efficient.  Hell, even my high school yearbook said I was punctual.  But no, all I got was easy.  She said I was easy to handle.  She makes dinner – I like it.  She makes a reservation – I don’t care where we eat.  She makes a date – whoever, I don’t care.  So, from now on you can call me Mr. Easy.  Stupid and Lost and Easy.  What an epitaph:  Here Lies Michael; He Was Easy.

 

Well, easy come, easy go and it’s time for this easy guy to get the hell out of Dodge.   Come back to me next week.  I need the company.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and take your fiber pills.  Oh, and have a fun Labor Day.

 

Mr. Easy                                  Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #389                                August 22, 2024

 

My grandson Tyler left this week for college at Mizzou, the University of Missouri in Columbia.  Tyler is a great kid, good student, smart, personable.  College will be a big step for Tyler, his first time away from home.

 

I was like Tyler.  I never wanted to leave my home, never went to summer camps, only did Cub Scouts for a little while, never joined sports teams or clubs in high-school.  My parents didn’t push me, and I guess I just had too much anxiety.  I had friends, but I never did much.  The only good things I did in high-school were to make good grades and meet Carol Brin.  When it came time for college, there was no way I could wrap my anxiety around leaving home.  I applied to Washington University in St. Louis and got in.  I didn’t know anybody there.  Carol was going away to Indiana University.  That summer, I got a phone call.  It was actually from a guy who is now a reader of this blog.  He introduced himself and told me there was going to be a pickup softball game on Saturday with a few guys who were Sammies (Sigma Alpha Mu fraternity) at Washington U. and a bunch of local guys who were going to be Freshmen.  I was being rushed, I guess.  I went.  There were a lot of people I didn’t know.  I was nervous, anxious.  They asked me where I wanted to play.  I said shortstop.  So I played.  It’s funny, sixty-one summers later, I can still picture the three great plays I made at shortstop.  I can picture them like they were this morning.  I’ll bet you have old memories like that.

 

I became a Sammy.  They told me to do this and that; I did this and that.  I’m very good at following directions.  Just ask Carol.  They got me into sports.  I played shortstop on the intra-mural softball team and volleyball and tennis.  They got me into campus politics, into entertainment with Bearskin Follies and Thurteen Carnival.  I guess I just needed that push, that “utz”.  From a nerdy high-school kid with no activities, I became a Big Man on Campus with all kinds of awards – and fun.  That’s what Tyler needs – that “utz”.  Just a little shove.  The right guy, the right girl, the right group to get him started on that new, successful career. 

 

Mine got started by that phone call in the summer of ’63.  And then, of course, Carol took over.  My wife is not just a social butterfly; she is a social bird-of paradise.  I coaxed her back to Washington University and made her the Sweetheart of Sigma Alpha Mu and she took over my life.  Best thing that ever happened to me.  I still have tendencies to be a stay-at-home nerd, but she keeps me going.

 

Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling fine and not bored by that long story.  This pneumonia just makes me want to sit around and do nothing, which, I guess is my natural state anyway.  Medical Alert:  I am not contagious, so it is safe to read this blog.  However, this blog may cause drowsiness or intermittent giggles.  Thank you for all the warm messages, concerns and wishes you sent me.  They warmed the cockles of my heart.  Wait, do I still have cockles?  Didn’t they take those out when they were installing my pacemaker?  Who can remember?  In any event, they warmed my pacemaker.  Thanks.

 

I did get one thing done this week, something I’ve been promising to get done for a long time.  A bought a TUIT.  I bought the round kind; they’re the best actually.  For years, I’ve been telling Carol I was going to get a Round Tuit, and I finally did.

 

Ok, so it’s not really important that you get my humor every single time.  If you did, I’d be very frightened for you.  Weirdness has its own signature, and if yours were the same as mine – well, I’ll see you in the van.

 

My doctor didn’t trust the Urgent Care pneumonia diagnosis, so I went to his office.  I love my Dr. Doctor.  So I met with him and we talked, then he sent me down the hall to the lab for blood-work, then into the main hospital to register for a chest x-ray.  The entire process – consultation, lab, x-ray – took about 35 minutes.  He sent me home with this note:

 

When I get back the tests, I will phone ya

To tell you if you have pneumonia

But if you get worse

I’m sending this verse

To say that I’m glad to have known ya.

 

With all my time at home recovering, I’ve had occasion to look at the internet.  Did you know there’s a new trend out there called sologamy (rhymes with monogamy)?  Sologamy, our Weekly Word, is the practice of choosing yourself as a spouse.  That’s right, you’d be married to yourself.  I am very pleased and totally proud to say I don’t get it.  All I know is that if I had told my mother I was getting married to myself, she would have said, “That’s nice, Dear.  At least you’re marrying someone Jewish.”  What kind of gift do you give at a sologamous wedding?  A mirror?  Towels marked Mine and Mine?  Batteries?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee (All’s Well That Ends Well).  I don’t get this marriage thing.  Is marriage just when you live together and schnoogle and love each other?  Does that mean Pops and I are married?  Do I need to buy towels?  His and Purrs?

 

The Democratic National Convention has been on all week.  I don’t know who’s going to win, but they sure take a lot of polls, don’t they?   I just read one that claims Democrats are leading among White Suburban Women who have a loving husband and a three-legged cat named Shakespeare.  I’m rambling.  But rambling is what you pay me for, isn’t it?  Wait, are you paying me?  I’m rambling again.  It should be time to go now, take a nap, get back my strength so that next week I can thank you again for being such nice readers.  See you then.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #388                                August 15, 2024

 

Here I am again, another chance for all my friends and enemies, devotees and critics to bathe me with unctuous flattery.  But not today, please.  I’m sick.  I’ll tell you about that later.

 

Weekly Word: Unctuous means excessively flattering.

 

Two weeks ago, I mentioned that if I were to be reincarnated, I would choose to come back as my wife.  But I think I’ve changed my mind.  I want to come back as one of my daughter’s chickens.  First of all, they live in a coop that in Haiti would be a Ritz Carlton.  Or a Holiday Hen.  Their coop has automatic sensors that raise the door when the sun rises and can be closed or opened by remote control.  They have a resident medical expert (my daughter Jennifer), a resident nutritional guru (ditto) and no Borgia Pope ever had better meals

 

When we were in North Carolina last week, we went to lunch at a lovely old Southern inn.  I had a burger and fries, but my appetite wasn’t great so I had some of the burger and half my fries left over.  I asked Jen if we should pack up the leftovers for the hens.  I got a box, put the burger in, then Jen stopped me, “Don’t pack the fries; they’re terrible for the chickens.”  What?  You didn’t bother to warn your one and only father not to partake in the apparently preposterous poisonous potatoes.  “Those fries are horrible for man or beast.  Let Dad eat them.”  Ok, I know where I stand in the pecking order (an apt term).  But hey, “A healthy chicken is a happy chicken.”  A famous poet said that.  I think it was Emily Chickenson.  Or maybe it was Rudyard Chickling.

 

A few years ago, I was sitting in Jennifer’s kitchen, probably working on a fabulous and entertaining blog for you, when I saw her heading toward the backyard carrying a casserole of leftover lasagna from last night’s dinner.  “Oh good, “I said, “there’s enough left for lunch.”  “No,” she replied, “I’m taking it to the chickens.”  Pecking order.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Did you enjoy the Olympics?  There was a lot I enjoyed, and some I didn’t understand like the Breaking event.  I was so excited to hear they gave a medal for Breaking, that I spent a whole day filling out an application to compete in the Los Angeles games.  After all, in a single day last month, I broke a toaster oven, two light bulbs, a flower pot, a printer and my neighbor’s finger.  That should be worth a bronze at least.

 

I was just picking on Jennifer for fun.  She is a loving and wonderful child, and she would never, ever, want me to eat bad food.  She is my nutritional expert.  That doesn’t mean she is free from the weirdness streak that gallops in my family.  When she and David moved to North Carolina, they had a cat named Zach, a big beautiful black cat.  Well, time went by and the birds and the bees and all that, and all of a sudden I had my first grandson.  Jennifer named him Zachary, the same name as the cat.  This is totally true.  Several weeks later, I called Jennifer and asked what Zach was doing.  She said he was sunning himself on the barbecue pit.  Something had to change, so they renamed her cat, and for the rest of his long life, he was known as Zach the Cat.  All true.

 

The next year she got a few more chicks and I suggested she name one Zach the Chicken, but I think she was Zached out by then.  But I heard about a woman who liked her daughter’s name so much that she used it for everything.

 

An Arkansas woman named Pearl

Said “Lulu’s the name of my girl

And also my dog

My horse and my hog

A rooster, two cats and a squirrel.”

 

The night after we returned from North Carolina, we went to a Cardinals’ baseball game.  Some lovely and special friends invited us to share some seats they had acquired.  But these weren’t just seats.  Queen Elizabeth on her best day couldn’t get theses seats!  The Pope and Taylor Swift couldn’t get these seats.  First of all, they were four rows behind the batter and the tickets came with free parking.  Free parking at a Cardinal game is like winning the lottery.  And the parking lot was across the street from the stadium.  And there was a buffet in a dining room near the seats.  Roast beef, lamb stew, salads, desserts – everything, and all of it was free.  And I’m not finished yet.  Once we planted our very satisfied tushies into our seats, a waitress arrived with a menu and proceeded to bring us everything we wanted for two hours, all free!  Unbelievable!  And what was the score of the game?  It was two hotdogs, one cheeseburger, three diet cokes, one popcorn and two cookies.  What a game.

 

And then I got sick.  By Sunday morning, I was at an Urgent Care being diagnosed with pneumonia.  I had pneumonia eight years ago, and let me tell you something – this pneumonia is just as bad as the old-monia.  But I am supremely lucky.  I have my wife and my three daughters who took control of my diet and medication regimen.  I now have more pills than an old sweater.  And of course my local grandkids did some errands.  And there is someone else nursing me to health. 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse (Henry IV Part 2).  Poor old man, coughing and shivering.  And who is right there all day and all night keeping him warm and schnoogling on him?  That’s right, his favorite three-legged friend.  He needs to get better so we can play ball in the hall.  I think I’ll go warm him up some more.  Purr. 

 

The doctor does not want me to go to the hospital – too much Covid, so that means I’ll send this out on Thursday, as usual.  I was prepared to send it out Tuesday or Wednesday, but that probably would have confused you.  I’ll be back next week, so count your blessings and stay well.  I’m certainly going to try.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog #387                                August 8, 2024

 

Well, NASA has not changed the names of the planets as I warned a few weeks ago.   Not yet, anyway, but they have changed the name of the Eskimo Nebula.  A nebula, as you all know, is a cloud of gas and dust in Outer Space.  In any event, no more Eskimo Nebula.  That was somehow deemed offensive, so now it’s called NGC 2392.  Catchy, don’t you think?  I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want an object in space named after your people.  My people have one.  It’s called Jew-piter, which is a huge ball of gas.  I think they named it after my Uncle Harry.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are all feeling well and staying safe and being kind to each other and to animals.  I have a lot of animal stuff to talk about today.  First, we went to Lone Elk Park.  Lone Elk is one of those drive-through nature preserves where, from the comfort of your car, you can view bison, the occasional elk and packs of raccoons begging for food scraps.  Now, my wife is a very smart woman.  She’s math smart and book smart and street smart and people smart, but when it comes to animals, she’s a couple of lionesses short of a pride.  She asked me if there was a chance the bison would eat us.  And she doesn’t like raccoons.  I can understand that.  Bison and elk are regal and impressive and non-threatening.  Raccoons are evil little thieves who would sell their mothers for a French fry.  But they are truly adorable.

 

But that’s the way of the world, isn’t it?  You can tip over trash cans, nest in people’s attics and carry rabies, but if you’re a cute raccoon, people will still throw you food.  Or you can lie to the entire country, cheat on your wife, seduce young girls in the White House and get disbarred, and still be revered and remembered as a wonderful man.

 

Aren’t you glad you have memories?  If you didn’t have memories:

 

          You wouldn’t know where your toothbrush was

          You wouldn’t know who wrote this blog

          Or what a “blog” is

          Or what “is” is

          Or who Bill Clinton (who didn’t know what “is” is) was

 

I have noticed lately that, when having lunch with a friend, I seem to repeat stories I have told them before.  I really don’t think it’s a problem.

 

Should I tell him the story or not?

I’ve told it before quite a lot

Doesn’t much matter when,

I’ll just tell him again

Cause by now, I am sure he forgot.

 

Besides, there isn’t that much to say over the course of 90 minutes that is new.  Here’s something new.  Traffic Report:  A slowdown east of Imperial, Missouri was caused by cattle on the highway.  Well, that’s something you don’t hear about every day, but it is an actual news report.  I wonder what kind of cars the cattle were driving.  Probably a Cattle-Ac.  Or maybe a B-M-Double-Moo or a Toyudder or a Cowdi.

 

I’m writing you now from North Carolina.  Talk about animals!  My daughter has three Australian Shepherds, two cats and twelve chickens.  It’s like Noah’s Ark with air-conditioning.  As I’m writing, there’s a big black cat watching me.  That makes me miss my Shakespeare even more.  Shakey is at home in St. Louis, guarding the house and waiting for me to come home.

 

Cats are so smart.  Last week, it was time to take Shakey to Dr. Cat to get his nails clipped – at a discount of course because he’s missing a leg.  I hadn’t even taken the cat-carrier out of the closet, but somehow he knew.  He was fine all morning, ate his breakfast, friendly, everything – until I went to pick him up.  I pick him up a thousand times.  He likes it.  This time he ran faster than a Jew at a Hamas rally and hid under a bed.  No dulcet pleadings could get him out, but eventually, with a broom and Carol’s help, we made it.  As soon as he gets into the carrier, he’s calm and behaves fine at the vet.  Who knows.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Ignorance is the curse of God (Henry VI Pt 2.) I know everything.  I can always read Pops’ mind.  It’s mostly empty anyway, but I can tell when he’s planning to shove me into a little tote bag and carry me out into the frightening world.  He got me this time, but next time I bet he won’t.  Purr.

 

Weekly Word:  Dulcet means pleasant to hear, like the sweet voice my wife uses when she tells me I am a bi-polar, dysfunctional moron who doesn’t know his foot from a pastrami sandwich.  I never liked pastrami.  Too peppery.

 

I had dinner last Sunday at Abby’s house.  Abby is my youngest daughter.  She lives seven minutes from our house (four if Carol’s driving) and invites us over every Sunday for dinner.  What a joy!  It’s always great food and fun with the kids.  Last week, after dinner, a neighbor came over to tell us there was a big, injured snake in the road, so the kids and I went to check it out.  I guess you could say that an injured snake has reptile dysfunction.  It was a slender, black, reticulated snake about two and a half feet long.  I looked it up when I got home.  It’s a Black Rat Snake; eats birds’ eggs, frogs, rodents; is preyed upon by hawks and other snakes and raccoons.  The poor thing was bleeding but still alive.  Most likely, it had been run over by a car.  The kids and the neighbors wanted to leave it alone, but I didn’t want it to die there in the street.  It was moving very slowly so I just picked it up (one hand on the throat and one on the body) and laid it in the grass while all the spectators cringed.  I checked an hour later and the snake was gone.  Maybe it recovered or slithered away to die or maybe it was eaten by a hawk.  But at least it didn’t die in the street.  Don’t let me die in the street.

 

And don’t miss next week’s blog.  It might be a good one.  Stay well and count those blessings.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #386                                         August 1, 2024

 

I have been working at the Zoo for ten years, and I love it.  I get to meet all kinds of people, answer all their questions and help them have a great experience.  Over those ten years, I have met thousands of people - all ages, sizes, colors.  A diverse and variegated amalgam of humanity!  But this week, I saw something unique and quite strange.  Two guys were walking toward me.  One was wearing a black shirt, black pants, unruly hair, overweight.  His companion had black shirt, black hat, black mid-length skirt, beard, carrying a pineapple.  The all-black look put him into the Not-Going-To-Be-My-Bestie category.  The combination of skirt and beard put him into the Well-Who-Am-I-To-Judge category.  But the pineapple?  Beam me up, Scotty.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Are you watching the Olympics?  Nothing is the way it used to be.  Have you seen the list of Olympic events this year?  There is Artistic Swimming – never heard of that.  There is Flag Football.  Seriously?  And Break Dancing.  The Olympic Motto used to be Faster, Higher, Stronger.  Now I think the motto is The Best, the Worst and the Weirdest.  Thank you, Zip Rzeppa.  Oh, and Hoda Kotb just won a Gold Medal for saying “I just love her” 742 times in one day.  To me, she’s like an Egyptian cuckoo clock that keeps repeating the same things.

 

Then there’s the event where two guys on bicycles go as slowly as they can for two laps, then as fast as they can for one lap.  I’d rather watch fish die.  I mean, if they aren’t strong enough to pedal hard for three laps, they shouldn’t get a medal anyway.  I’m getting ready for the 2028 Olympics in the USA.  I’m entering the Chewing Gum While Reciting the Raven event.  I think I have a chance for a medal.

 

If you had the opportunity to come back as someone else in your next life, would you choose to come back as a sensational Olympic athlete?  A beautiful movie star?  Kristi Noem’s campaign manager?  To me, it’s an easy choice.

 

Reincarnation?  Well, gee

It’s obvious who I would be

For my second life

I’d come back as my wife

Then I could be married to me.

 

Trump and I have the same humility coach.

 

I certainly wouldn’t want to come back as a politician.  I am sitting here, looking at a 5” by 10” glossy piece of thick paper printed in color on both sides and mailed to me in an attempt to convince me to vote for the candidate whose picture appears thereon.  Wow, I can be awfully wordy, can’t I?  This glossy ad tells me that So-and-So will protect my family, secure the border, reduce my taxes, defeat China, lower the price of groceries and give me free Taylor Swift tickets.  I must have gotten a hundred of these things in the past few weeks.  What a waste of trees!  They ought to take all those useful idiots and make them plant more trees to make up for the junk mail.

 

Weekly Word:  Useful idiots is used to describe someone who thinks he is supporting and working for some worthwhile goal, but is actually being manipulated. 

 

I looked up that term (on the advice of my friend Don) while I was sitting on my favorite chair, my sweet Shakespeare purring on my lap.  It has always filled me with a sense of awe to be able to tame a wild creature.  Over the years I have tamed many – three children, eight grandchildren, dogs, cats, even a pet rat.  They’re all the same.  All creatures are selfish and want the same things:  feed me, make me warm, keep me safe, make me giggle, get me Taylor Swift tickets.  Cats do giggle; we call it purring.  Whether it’s child or pet, when they curl up on you and close their eyes and schnoogle their head on your chest, you know you have their ultimate trust.  It’s awesome!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none (All’s Well That Ends Well).  Now what’s that wordy old fool talking about?  I think he’s a use-LESS idiot.  He can make the simplest thing into a whole book-load full of big words.  I’m a cat, he’s my human, we get along fine.  Ten words, pretty simple.  I don’t know why you all come back every week.  I guess you’re as foolish as he is.  Purr.

 

Well, Shakespeare may be able to say things in just a few words, but I cannot.  I am wordy.  I admit it.  I’ll share something with you.  I shouldn’t, because it makes me look childish, stubborn, silly and obsessive, which I am, so here it is.  When I started to write these blogs 386 weeks ago, I quickly came to the decision that a good length would be between 900 and 1100 words.  I reasoned it would be a mistake to have a short blog one week and a long one the next.  Besides, you have to stop somewhere.  My computer tells me how many words are in a document, so I would check that number each week and make sure to end up in the 900-1100 range.  One week, sometime in the first year or so, I checked the word count and saw it was 1,066 words.  That rang a bell, so I checked the blog from the previous week and noticed it was also 1,066 words.  Strange coincidence.  The next week, just for fun, I deleted or added whatever I needed to make it exactly 1,066 words too, and since then, every blog has been that magical 1,066 words.  A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.  I guess Ralph Waldo Emerson was thinking of me when he wrote that. 

 

And it’s time now for this little mind to say goodbye.  Whatever age you were when you started to read this blog, you’re now a few minutes older.  I hope you spent some of that time laughing.  Fredrik Backman said, “All grownups are angry; it’s just children and old people who laugh.”  Which one are you, a child or an old person?  Maybe you’re both.  I like to think I am.  Stay well, count your blessings and thanks for putting up with me.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com