Blog #396                                October 10, 2024

 

Tomorrow begins Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement where each Jew asks God to forgive his-or-her sins.  And God forgives us.  My question is – Can we forgive God?  Can we forgive God for the wholesale death and suffering in the Middle East, for the disastrous forest fires and hurricanes, for the pervasive hatred that has infected our society and threatens to destroy friendships and families.  Can we?  I’ll leave that question up to you.

 

Carol and I went to Rosh Hashanah services last week, and will go to Yom Kippur services tomorrow.  I’ve probably told you that when we got married, Carol and I made a pact.  I promised to go to services with her every year and she promised to go to the circus with me whenever it was in town.  I like circuses.  Well, we have been married 57 years now, and I have gone to the High Holy Day Services every year.  She has never once gone to the circus.  It doesn’t much matter anymore because there are no more circuses.  All the clowns have moved to Washington, D.C.

 

I actually enjoy the religious services.  They foster closeness, and a feeling of community.  And the music is wonderful.  Upton Sinclair wrote, “When you hear singing you may lie down in peace, because evil people have no songs.”

 

I don’t like, however, the way they have changed some of the liturgy.  Old people do not like change, of course, but I generally can adapt.  I object, however, to the changes in the 23^rd Psalm?  Now it reads, “The lord is my shepherd; I shall lack for nothing” and “My cup overflows.”  What happened to runneth?  That’s one of my favorite words.  Changing “my cup runneth over” to “my cup overflows” is like changing Genesis to read, And God said Flip the switch.  Or how about the following:

 

·        Friends, Romans, Countrymen – listen up.

·        One if by land and two if they’ve got a boat.

·        M-I-C see ya real soon, K-E-Y why? Because Walt tells us to.

·        Frankly, my dear, who cares.

 

Hi there and welcometh back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting ready to

celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day.  It’s next Monday.  You might have thought

that was Columbus Day, but Columbus, in today’s PC world, was a colonialist piece of ziti who opened up the New World to European exploitation and, as a result, has lost his eponymous day.  I have never understood why descendants of English, Irish, French, Italian, German, Russian, Polish and Swedish Europeans are called White Privileged Racists, but descendants of Spanish Europeans are called Hispanics.  Anyway, now we celebrate Native Americans, which is appropriate

 

My generation grew up thinking “Indians” were bad.  We watched Hopalong

Cassidy and John Wayne and played Cowboys and Indians and bought plastic Colt

45s.  We learned that the only good Indian was a dead Indian, except Tonto of

course.  They never told us that Kemosabe really meant Ridiculous-Looking

White Boy or that the Lone Ranger wore a mask because he had Covid.  We only got one side of the story, and that was mostly misinformation.

 

Message from Shakespeare: Made lame by fortune's dearest spite (Sonnet 37).  Hopalong?  That’s what Pops calls me because I only have three legs.  That’s ok; I still love him, but maybe I’ll start calling him Kemosabe.  He is pretty much a ridiculous-looking White boy.  Purr.

 

Last weekend, we went to a charity polo match sponsored by Old Newsboy Charities, a wonderful organization that helps children in the St. Louis area.  As we watched the polo players get ready for the first chukker, my friend Bill said, “These guys are riding 30 miles an hour on a 700-pound beast with an eight-foot- long stick and hitting a ball that’s rolling along the grass.  And I can’t even hit a golf ball that’s sitting motionless on a tee!”  I used to play polo, but I took my horse to play water-polo, and he drowned.  Ok, bad joke; I apologize.

 

Weekly Word:  A chukker is a 7½ minute period of a polo match.  That’s good to know, isn’t it?  I was going to write a limerick using chukker as my rhyme, but I decided it against it.

 

This past week marked the anniversary of the October 7^th attack on Israel.  We all pray for peace, but the circumstances do not look favorable.

 

In the lands of the sad Middle East

We pray that the fighting will cease

But although we may pray

That it all ends one day

It seems there will never be peace.

 

There was a prayer read in the holiday services last week that went:  Watch over us, we who go forth to life; watch over us, that we may come home in peace.  And we can all say amen.

 

On a lighter note, my granddaughter Charley dragged me down in her basement the other day to show me her video games.  All the kids love to play their games on the Wii or the X-Box or on their phones.  “Look Poppy,” she said, and showed me a new game character she had created.  It was called Poppy and wore a yellow shirt (my favorite color) and had gray hair.  It also had an impressive collection of wrinkles.  I turned to Charley and asked if all those wrinkles were necessary.  She examined my face closely, smiled and said, “Yes.”  That’s ok, a grandfather is someone with silver in his hair and gold in his heart.  I watched her play a game with the new character.  There he was, wrinkles and all, limping around the course and taking all the wrong exits.  Go, Poppy!

 

The grandkids, of course, don’t understand how frightening getting old is for us.  They are different; they want to get older. 

 

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to getting my driver’s license. 

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to losing my driver’s license.

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to moving into a home of my own.

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to moving into a home.

Kid:  Yay! I’m getting taller. 

Grandparent: Oy! I’m getting shorter.

Kid:  Yay! I’m growing up so fast.

Grandparent:  Oy! She’s growing up so fast.

 

Last week, I went to an antique show and someone bid on me.  Oh, well!  Stay well and counteth thy blessings.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Poppy                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #395                                October 3, 2024

 

Like every one of you, I wear many hats:

 

·        I am my wife’s protector, chauffer, errand-runner, on-line shopper and returner.  One day this week, for instance, I returned to Target three shirts she bought on Monday, returned to Whole Foods three shirts she bought on Amazon Tuesday and returned to CVS a blood-pressure cuff she bought on Wednesday, put gas in her car at Costco and did her grocery shopping at Walmart.

·        I am my daughters’ father.  I supply whatever love and support I can, and always an open pair of ears to listen.

·        I am my cat’s everything – father, mother, companion, provider and playmate.

·        I am my grandchildren’s Poppy.  I try.  They don’t need me much anymore, but I try to keep in touch and support them.  They always know they can find some love here.

·        I am a friend to -- well, my friends.

·        I am, to several hundred people in St. Louis and other places, their resident wordsmith.  Need a poem for an occasion, call Michael.  Need someone to speak at a funeral, call Michael.  Besides that, I deliver 1,000 words to my daughters every Sunday and 1,066 words of humor and opinion every Thursday to you.

·        I am an Ambassador at the St. Louis Zoo, helping visitors to enjoy the Zoo experience.

·        I am my household’s manager, accountant, bill-payer, records-keeper, light bulb installer, toilet paper replacer, supply chain manager, car servicer and maintenance supervisor.

·        I am my body’s overseer.  I feed it pills, drop drops into it, spread lotions on it, take it on walks, take it to doctors and generally supervise its constant maintenance.  I have to, don’t I?  I have all those other people (and a cat) counting on me.

 

It’s all a little overwhelming to a person who basically wants to be left alone.

 

I’m recently feeling that I’m

Just running around all the time

To the store, to the Zoo

And I write blogs to you

Make it quick, make it work, make it rhyme.

                            

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and feeling hungry.  Many of my Jewish friends are in the middle of celebrating the holiday of Rosh Hashanah and looking forward to some matzo-ball soup and brisket for dinner tonight.  I am.  I have a bunch of random thoughts for you today.  Let’s start with Martha Stewart.

 

I saw Martha Stewart last week.  She was on some TV show making cakes or something.  Every time I see her, I just can’t believe she was sent to prison.  I don’t even remember what she did.  What crime could you possible send this exemplary homemaker to prison for?  Drunk and orderly?  Driving while perfect?  Baking and entering?  Assault with a deadly spatula?  I’ll bet she was the only person who ever looked good in stripes.

 

On my walk today, I noticed a little, fuzzy caterpillar – rust-colored and black, about two inches long and fat.  He was crawling along the top of a concrete barrier about three feet tall.  I stopped, took a picture and went on my way.  I came to the end of my path, turned around, walked some more and came back to the caterpillar.  He had made some progress along the barrier, but was not going to reach any vegetation in the near future.  Wait, you’re not going to get all pronoun-frazzled about a caterpillar, are you?  No, I don’t know whether it was a he-pillar or a she-pillar, but I’ve chosen to treat him as masculine because the poor thing was obviously lost.

 

Men are so stubborn about asking directions.  I see it at the Zoo all the time.  Some guy is looking over a map while his companion (wife? girlfriend? parole officer?) watches.  I walk up and offer my services.  No, the man says, I have it figured out.  I then turn toward the distaff half and say, “Men never accept directions.  Come see me when you’re lost.”  C’mon, men, you know I’m right.  We never take directions. “Siri be damned, I know how to get there.”  Really?  You don’t know where your reading glasses are.  You barely know where the bathroom is.  And how many times have you lost your car in the parking lot?  We, as husbands, have learned how to say yes to everything.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake.  Except, “Let’s ask directions.”  We would sooner be spayed than ask directions.  I’m a man!  I know what I’m doing!  And what do we do when we finally and inevitably get lost?  We start yelling at our wives, as if they had anything to do with our galactic idiocy.  I’d better stop; my wife is calling.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake. 

 

Anyway, I picked up the lost little caterpillar and laid him in the grass.  As Martin Luther King said, “The time is always right to do what is right.”  Besides, I like little fuzzy things.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin (Troilus and Cressida).  I am very glad he likes little, fuzzy things because I’m little and fuzzy too.  Actually, I think he likes any creature that starts with C-A-T.  Purr.

 

It’s time to go now.  I have been obnoxiously loquacious enough for one Thursday.  Loquacious, our Weekly Word, means talking a great deal, and I certainly confess to that.  This week, I have talked about hats and caterpillars and Martha Stewart, probably a lot more interesting than shoes and ships and sealing wax. 

 

Actually, in continuance of my loquacity, the “shoes, ships, sealing wax” reference is from Alice in Wonderland:

 

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

      To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

      Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

      And whether pigs have wings.'

 

Alice also contains a caterpillar, a Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar actually, who instructs Alice how to use the mushroom: “One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.”  Wouldn’t that be a helpful little thing to carry in your pocket?  The Caterpillar also gives Alice advice: “Keep your temper”, he says.

 

Did you watch the Vice-Presidential Debate?  Here’s what I think.  We should get rid of Harris and Trump and let these two guys be Co-Presidents.  Alright, folks, now it’s really time to go.  I have to go return something Carol bought.  Stay well, count your blessings and keep your temper.  I’ll see you next week.

 

The Walrus                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com