Blog #494                                August 27, 2026

 

Do you remember the movie called THEM ?  That was the one about the giant ants starring James Arness, James Whitmore and Santa Clause.  Well, North Carolina has mosquitos that size.  And the last time I was there, I had to suffer the umbrage of a few of them big enough to carry luggage.  And the luggage had stickers on them, not for the places they’d visited, but for the names of the people they’d eaten – Marge, Fred, old man with the pacemaker. 

 

And speaking of dangerous flying things, there’s a warning sign near the airport that says Low Flying Aircraft.  Just how exactly do they want you to react to this information?  Are you supposed to duck?  They might as well put up a sign that says Watch Out for Falling Space Debris.  I mean if a door from the Space Station happens to fall on you accelerating 32 feet per second per second, well, it’s going to be a bad day.  There’s not much to be done about it.  And if an American Airlines 727 clips your Lexus with its landing gear, well, you’ll be shuffling off this mortal coil.  A little Shakespeare there.  We should never let a day go by without a little Shakespeare.

 

And speaking of a little Shakespeare, here’s a Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me from mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom (The Tempest).  I’m only little because everyone else in the house is bigger than me.  But I think I’m the purr-fect size, exactly the size of my Pops’ lap, where I go whenever he’s reading one of his books.  They must be boring books, because, after I sniff them, I fall asleep every time.  Purr.

 

And speaking of Carolina trips, I remember one trip that included our whole family – sixteen of us.  Somehow, one morning, after all eight grandchildren had eaten breakfast, Carol and I were alone in the kitchen.  I asked her to make me pancakes.  She makes great pancakes.  A quiet breakfast of delicious pancakes all by myself!  I was ecstatic with anticipation.  But no sooner did those hot steamy flapjacks flap onto 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 breakfast.  They inhaled the second stack, annihilated the third stack, devoured the fourth stack.  Carol was moving faster than the third zebra trying to reach Noah’s Ark.  Then, abruptly, the vultures, sated and happy, left me like a used and discarded call girl.  They didn’t even leave any money on the kitchen counter.  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!

 

Umbrage is the Weekly Word.  It means offense or annoyance.

 

Carol and I have been vacillating between buying some cemetery plots or doing the cremation thing.  There is a plot for me next to my parents and I’m pretty sure Carol has one next to her parents, but it just seems like we should be buried next to each other, doesn’t it?

 

You know, of course, that Carol and I have been married for 59 years.  I’ve told you that, haven’t I?  Fifty-nine years is a long, long time.  I'm a little fatter now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she’s still the same weight.  I'm shorter now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she’s still the same height.  I'm much older-looking now than I was fifty-nine years ago, but she still looks the same.  Fifty-nine years ago I loved her with all my heart.  Well, some things never change.

 

Anyway, it just seems right somehow that after sleeping next to each other for 50 or 60 or 70 years, we should be buried next to each other.  I don’t know, maybe not.  Maybe she can just use her plot and put a little footnote on the headstone for me.  Just a little note in the lower corner that says, “Oh, and there’s him.  He didn’t get a closet, so why should he get a plot?”

 

And, of course, there’s the cremation option.  There’s a company called Celestis Memorial Spaceflights that, for a few thousand dollars, will take your ashes into space on a rocket and let them fall to Earth, burning in an atmospheric fireworks display.  It’s absolutely true! Now the phrase for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return could actually mean interstellar dust.

 

I don’t think the cremation fireworks idea has caught on yet.  In fact, it’s been about as popular as iceberg lettuce from Mexico.  But that’s because the company just hasn’t come up with the right flair, the right panache.  I’m thinking about going for it -- if they can do it the way I want.

 

I’ll pay you a few thousand cash

To light my remains with a flash

But when it’s my turn

For a re-entry burn

I want it to spell KISS MY ASH?

 

And I think I’ll ask them to throw in a quarter-pound of bacon when they fry me up.  I’d like my remains to smell like bacon.  Wouldn’t it be galactically spectacular if my atoms could be recycled into new plants and viruses and violin players and cabbages and kings?  Just a thought.  It probably won’t happen – too expensive.  So my second choice is to scatter my ashes in the Petite section of Nordstrom’s.  That way I’ll get to see my wife once in a while, but I’ll probably have to leave the bacon smell out.

 

By the way, if you ever think that I have died but you’re not 100% sure, just place my body in front of a TV playing Dancing with the Stars and if there’s any life in me at all, I will get up and walk out.  I’d rather be water-boarded.

 

I’m finished and you are too.  Stay well and count your blessings and I’ll be back next week, if the mosquitos don’t get me first.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com