Blog #418                                March 13, 2025

 

I was alone for three days last week as my wife was visiting with friends in Florida.  Wait, I wasn’t exactly alone.  I had Shakespeare, my little buddy.  Sorry, Shakes, I didn’t mean to insult you.  Still, it was a rough three days.

 

When that which you love goes to roam

To Florida, Paris or Nome

When they’re gone, you are sad

When they come home, you’re glad

I’m so happy my hair-dryer’s home.

 

Oops!  Now I’ve insulted my wife too.  Hi there and welcome back.  Let’s see if I can insult all the rest of you.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Let’s get the news out of the way.  First, in the category of Catholic news. it is Lent, a period of prayer and fasting during which Catholics prepare for Easter.  It’s a shame my wife isn’t Catholic.  I guarantee she could fast faster than anyone.  Plus, sure’n Begorrah, if it isn’t St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow!  A Happy Shamrock to you all and may the Blarney Stone kiss you right back.

 

Then Sunday, March 16^th marks the date, eight years ago, that the first Limerick Oyster was published.  People keep asking me how I come up with this stuff every week.  It’s very simple – I haven’t a clue.

 

The 16^th will also be the 5^th anniversary of when we adopted Shakespeare.  Such a good boy!  People ask me why we got a three-legged cat.  Well, here’s the story.  I know you love my stories.  We were at the shelter looking for a cat -- March 16, 2020.  That was right before the world shut down for Covid.  They had shown me three or four cats, and I wasn’t smitten (which rhymes with kitten).  Then the lady came back, holding another candidate, and asked me if I would adopt a tripod.  I asked what that was.  She said a tripod was a three-legged cat.  I immediately said no, and she said, “Ok, just hold this one while I look for another.”  She put the cat in my arms.  The little cat looked at me and I looked at the poor little thing and that was that. As John Galsworthy said in The Man of Property, I have “a heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of tiny, helpless things.”  I told her I wanted the tripod, and the rest is five years of happy history.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Society is no comfort, to one not sociable (Cymbeline).  I remember that day.  The minute they put me in his arms, I knew he was the one.  He looked so dumb and easy to control.  I could tell by the way his wife had him trained.  And I’m glad he took me.  I have him trained pretty well by now.  And what’s that dog poop about his being alone when Carol was gone?

Alone?  How can he say he was alone?  I was all over him like a cheap suit for three days and never left his side.  Alone, indeed!  Purr.

 

This week, I was driving home at night when a deer ran in front of my car.  I somehow missed hitting him, but it shook me up.  Isn’t it frightening how random and chaotic the world can be?  You just never know when you’ll collide with a deer or be struck by a meteorite or be fired by Elon Musk.

 

Last week, Judy, a friend and loyal reader of L. Oyster, gave me a suggestion.  She thought it would be nice if I volunteered to go to “senior centers” or “nursing homes” or whatever we’re calling them these days.  I had a friend in a very pricy, upscale such place.  He called it The Penitentiary.  Anyway, Judy suggested I could entertain the people there by telling them stories like those I tell you.  I’m going to pass on that suggestion.  I’m afraid if I go in there, they won’t let me leave.

 

I have eight grandchildren in all, and they each seem to have their own special name for me.  They call me Poppy, Pop, Pops, Popcorn, Popsadoodle, Papa and my youngest, when she sees me on Facetime, just says, “Turn him off!”  Well, they can call me anything they want; I love it.  But there is one thing I hate being called.  It was bad enough when I got to my 50s and 60s and the young men would hold the door for me and say, “After you, Sir.”  Sir!  But now it’s worse.  I now have men in their 50s and 60s holding that same door and saying, “After you, young man.”  They think I’m so old that it’s clever to call me “young man”.  It’s like calling a really tall person “Shorty” or a fat person “Slim”.  I’d rather they called me Pops.

 

A few weeks ago, I had a CT scan.  They used to call it a CAT scan, but somewhere the “A” got lost or erased or sent to Siberia, and now it’s just CT.  Does that make sense?  CAT is one syllable.  CT is two.  We seem to have lengthened the word by losing a letter.  In any case, my North Carolina son-in-law, David, is a fancy kind of radiologist and he wanted to see the CT films, so I went to the hospital to grab a copy.  I was directed to a door, above which was a sign that read “Film Library”.  The door was a half-door kind of thing with the top half open, and, upon seeing me, a kid in a white coat came up and said, “Can I help you?” I said, “I’d like a copy of Gone with the Wind.”  Well, it said “Film Library”, and I thought that was kind of funny.   The attendant, however, did not smile, giggle or smirk.  Nothing!  You see, I made my mistake in thinking this impertinent jackanapes had ever heard of Gone with the Wind.  I should have said Power Rangers.

 

That was mean – I admit it.  I’m ashamed of myself and I’m sending myself to my room.  Don’t worry; I’ll be out in time for next week’s blog.  Stay well and count your blessings.  Wait, I bet you want to know what jackanapes means.  It’s our Weekly Word, and it means a rascal or whippersnapper.  I have one more Weekly Word – bye.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com