Love Is

"If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet. (John 13:14, KJV)" "There are supposedly several kinds of love. I’m not talking about the youthful infatuation love or the sexual attraction, hormonal love. I’m talking about a more mature, lasting love. The love I’m talking about doesn’t end when the next hot girl walks by or when the new sexy phone comes out.""It all started when the little lap-dog died and my wife freaked out. While I found it sad, she was really mourning. She really loved the animal, and millions of people have the same sentiment. According to her the reason is that the dog loved her unconditionally. Lots of people say the same thing. That doesn’t make sense. What the world sees as a dog's unconditional love I see as laying around and demanding stuff, like food and walks." "In the months since the pet demise, I’ve concluded that she grew to love the dog because she took care of it. A dog or cat or baby is completely dependent on you. Nobody brings a cat home and immediately loves it. I think the constant care it requires causes the caregiver to love it. To me, nothing else makes sense." "My experience at a nursing home reinforces my theory. The nurse aids, the nurses, the cooks, and housekeepers, loved the residents. They typically don't have “professional detachment”. When a resident was sick or passed away the caregivers were deeply hurt and mourned. Caregivers didn’t love them before they checked in, but grew to love them. By caring for someone, you grow to love them." "It’s like in “Fiddler On the Roof”. Tevye, the main character, had an arranged marriage to his wife,Golde. The first time they met was on their wedding day, so there was no love at the beginning. In the play Tevye asks Golde if she loves him. Eventually, she supposes that after taking care of him for 25 years she loves him. I think that growth into love is almost always true." "In the above passage from the Bible, Jesus cares for his disciples. He commands his followers to do the same for each other. I think this is so they’ll each grow to love the other disciples. He repeatedly tells us to love one another. He also repeatedly tells Peter to feed and tend his sheep. If gather that this is so Peter and remaining apostles will love others." "If I’m right, then love doesn’t have to be reciprocal. My wife loves her dog even if it doesn’t, or can’t love her. Golde can love Tevye, even if he doesn’t reciprocate.If I'm correct, then Jesus can, and does love us in spite of us not loving. By his caring for us even though it caused him intense pain, it proves his eternal love. If we serve others we’ll grow to love them. That’s a powerful love." "Fini."

Pride Goeth Before a Fall By Charlie Melton

I was strutting, as I usually do, until I found myself face-down on the sidewalk. It was a dose of reality that bruised my knee, scraped my ego, and sent my phone sliding down Broadway.

I entered an online giveaway. I won 4 tickets, so I took a couple of the grandkids and stepson Jerry to the Monster Jam in St Louis. Thankfully, Jerry couldn’t imagine riding with me in the city and he drove. We parked at the Roof of the World and hoofed it to the Dome.

We walked down from 88th floor of the Mount Everest Parking Garage and ran into a million freezing pedestrians. I tried to merge but my feet got confused and I face-planted on the nasty sidewalk. Embarrassed, I tried to pop up but my knees wouldn’t let me. After decades of abuse and obesity, they went on strike. Jerry had to help me up, just like young people help old people every day. This was the first time I was the “old people”. I wanted to slink away and lick my wounds, but pride got in the way and I went on to the Dome of Death.

Do you remember watching TV wildlife shows where a wolf stalks and kills the injured Caribou that can’t keep up with the herd? I looked back and the real-life, wolfish, un-welcome-wagon man was following us. After he stayed on my heels through a couple of turns I turned and stared him down. He spotted a person with a fancier watch and went after new prey. We moved on with the herd and into the Dome. I briefly wondered if his new prey got away.

The free tickets ended up being for seats on the moon. Even though the steep stairs took my breath and what was left of my dignity, I made it thousands of steps to my miniature chair, which was next to Baby Huey. I squeezed into the little plastic vise #4 of row MM, which made me way too cozy with my neighbor.

To the tune of overbuilt engines, I sat as well as can be expected. My sitting muscles went numb. My knee throbbed. My ego throbbed. My neighbor grinned at me. I got up and moved to an empty seat 2 rows away.

As I sat in my misery I noticed a pretty young mother running up the stairs while carrying a largish child. Five minutes later she went back down the stairs, which were steep enough to qualify as a ladder. Minutes later she ran back up. She repeated the regimen for hours. She must have seen my fear and pain moving up the steps. Maybe she saw me fall earlier and was taunting me. As she skipped up the endless stairs, I started to despise her and her flexible knees.

Far below, on the field, a monster truck flipped and threw flames and engine parts across the dome. Unlike me, it could be repaired easily. I sulked. We completed the event and made it down and out without consequence. I took more than the recommended dosage of Ibuprofen and went home.

I’m not sure what to do with my new self image. I’m the old guy that needs a “Lifecall” because he’s fallen and can’t get up. Maybe this goes with being near my expiration date. It’s really not fair because I never signed an agreement to be old and infirm.

Now that I’m home in the loving embrace of my recliner, I have time to wrap my mind around my circumstances. I should accept my lot in life and stay off the stairs. I should understand that I can’t do the things that the young wolfs do and embrace being a crippled caribou that can’t keep up with herd. I can ignore the young Mom running the stairs.

But, I’m not going to do that. I fell, but it won’t happen again. I’m off to the gym. The next time I won’t be weak. I’ll keep my footing and run the stairs. The wolf can look for other prey.

Or, maybe not.

Fini.

Vote True

You all know me. I’m the little round guy with an appetite for pie and sarcasm. I try to be as funny as I can as often as I can. Humor and sarcasm are the tools I use to cope with stressful situations. In spite of being a jester I have an intense love for our way of life and our rural, Christian culture. Part of that reverence for our society is why I vote every time I get a chance.

We have to start revering our values and our culture. With voter turnout in our elections normally 50% or less, citizens just don’t care that much about our way of life. When we do care a little, we usually don’t do our due diligence on issues and how the candidates stand on them. We have to change that.

Society is changing at breakneck speed. Everything we have known or thought or felt has become challenged. The institution of the family is on the brink of destruction. The churches are increasingly marginalized. Now is the time to take a stand. Now is the time to define who we are and what we believe. Now is our time to be true to ourselves.

When I was not true to myself society left me. I’ve allowed the near destruction of everything I took for granted. I served in this country’s military for 20 years and I served it blindly. In the 70s when the media successfully branded all military members fascists and baby-killers, I hid my status and pretended to be a civilian. When the pro-choice movement said I didn’t know that a baby was alive, I went along to get along. When the Clinton Cartel ran the White House, I allowed them to insult and slight me, and all of our brothers and sisters in uniform. When Obama called us names, I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. I kept quiet, but things just got worse. Now every aspect of life is sexualized in the most perverted ways possible and every virtue is condemned as hateful. If I raise any concerns I’m branded as racist, or a Nazi, or a half wit.

When it’s all boiled down, the attacks on our society are like a cancer that infiltrates every cell of our world. The lies we’ve been fed are malignancies in our lives. Being true to ourselves is like chemo against the radical cancer that is killing us. The only cure is to be true to ourselves. We have to believe our way of life is true and we have to act on that belief. We have to fight for ourselves and our next best battle is March 17th at the primary. We have to be true to our values. Our families deserve that we to be true to them.

There is a cure. We don’t vote red. We don’t vote blue. We vote true.

Fini.

Santa Weeps By Charlie Melton

I sit down in the makeshift office. I rarely stop here; I usually pass through while on my way to other parts of the house. Tonight I’m exhausted and sink into the chair. I stare blindly, thinking of nothing except my lethargy. I feel heavy and fluid, as if I might sink to the floor and spread like so much oil. I reach into my shirt pocket to remove my pens and throw them on the desk. My index finger grazes a piece of paper. I pull it out and unfold it. I read and fall into anguish. Playing at Santa tonight should be joyful but a great sadness encompasses me.

The little girl reminded me of my own daughters. She’d given me the letter a few hours earlier. It’s printed in pink and purple marker. The printing is the neatest a first grader can muster. It’s simple and direct. She thinks I’m Santa and it’s her Christmas letter. She gave me the letter in silence, and I read it as if it were her Magnum Opus.

I read the letter again and stare off into the room. I think about my own daughters. I remember them in the first grade. My blank gaze focuses on displayed tokens on the bookshelf. The tokens remind me, and I understand my darkness. The pieces fall into place like the tumblers of a lock.

I remember and I weep. The epiphany is too awful to will it away. I don’t want to see but I can’t look away.

On top of the bookcase lurks a presentation for meritorious service. The citation glows with praise for going beyond the call of duty. It glows with praise for exceptional results from my efforts. As I look at it I realize the real message. It’d be more accurate if it praised me for putting my career before my family. It’d be more accurate if it stated the award was for missing school plays and gymnastics meets and scout meetings.

Another certificate is a letter of promotion. It’s for forsaking dinners at home and bedtime stories to get promoted ahead of my peers. It came with a larger chevron, a modest raise, and a missed birthday.

That’s why I weep. The innocent little girl represents my lost daughters. The innocent little girl reminds me of the tens, and scores, and then hundreds of little things I missed. She reminds me I traded time with my children to build a fleeting career.

In the book this would be the moment that I wake up and find my daughters in their pajamas and snuggled under the Strawberry Shortcake comforter. Every minute I’ve experienced since their 5th Christmas would be erased. I’d make them waffles and listen to silly little stories. I’d see the error of my ways and cherish every moment with the little princesses.

But this isn’t a movie. I bear the guilt for what has been missed. I can rationalize that I raised good girls. I can take the credit for them. I’d be wrong. The truth is they are decent and good in spite of my absence. They succeed in life from their own efforts, not from mine.

My memory of the children that are now grown is full of holes, and now I know it’s not from my old and addled mind. My memory is full of holes because the past is full of holes and voids. Perhaps my epitaph should read only “Not Available”.

I get up from my chair and feel old and weak. I remove the meritorious service award and replace it with the letter to Santa. It replaces the less important papers. The letter takes its rightful place. It’s a Magnum Opus.

Fini.

(Photo credit to originator)

Case of the Purloined Pie By Charlie Melton

I was making a chain of paper clips when she walked into my life. She had fiery red hair and wore dangerous shoes. Shoes that could sprain a girls’ ankle and sprain a guys’ soul. Shoes that made good girls go bad. I leaned back in the chair and put my feet on the desk. She strolled in the office and looked me in the eye. “Why are you in my office? Get to work.” she growled.
I stood up and eased past her. “The kitchen is missing a blackberry pie. It’s for a fundraiser. Do you know anything about it?” she breathed.

“A missing pie, eh? I’ll take your case. I get $100 a day plus expenses.” She slammed the door. That dame was playing it hard. I’d find her pie. I’d find her pie and finish the paper clip chain. The case would be solved by me, Charlie Melton, Dessert Detective.

I pulled my cap low over my eyes to fight the glare of the dining room lights. Making sure I wasn’t being followed, I strolled over to the nurses’ station. I took a seat next to the brunette bombshell writing secret nurse words in an official looking book. Maybe she knew something. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she had cookies.

“What about the pie, sugar cakes? Have you seen a missing pie?”

She turned and looked at me with big brown eyes; eyes that were like pools of hot fudge waiting for a bowl of ice cream. “I’m charting”, she said. “I don’t have time.” She seemed scared and really irritated at being interrupted. This case was getting deep.

I gave her my card and instructions to call when she could talk. I glanced at my watch and saw it was time. It was time to go to lunch and take a quick nap. I strolled through the door and out of her life forever, or maybe an hour.

I came back in with a full belly and red eyes from a sleep haunted by images of disappearing pies and irate nurses. I strolled into paradise gone wrong. I strolled into a room full of guilt.

The room was full. Everyone sat at tables and looked down in shame. They knew something, and they were ashamed- or maybe afraid. One guilt ridden pie purloining suspect was standing. I marched over and turned on the drill sergeant voice. “Where’s the pie? You know something.” She couldn’t even look me in the eye. “B-11”, she said. “B-11” It was some kind of nefarious code. What did it mean? “N-42”, she said. I faded back to think. I wasn’t getting anything out of this crowd. They were too afraid, or ashamed. Maybe they were bored, I don’t know.

I walked around, thinking. I thought about who had motive to steal a pie. Who had opportunity? Who had change for a five so I could get a soda?

I went to the maintenance shop to search for change and there it was. It was the gold at the end of the rainbow. It was the payday. On the desk was a empty pie plate with crumbs and a partial blackberry. Then I remembered. I ate it. I thought they brought it for me. Darn this senior forgetfulness. Darn it to heck.

I quickly cheered up. I solved my case. I got my man, even if it was me. I earned my fee. I was still good, very good.
Tune in next time for;”Dessert Detective, The Great Cake Caper.”

Fini.

Twinkies and Tube Socks By Charlie Melton

We were at “Early Bird” the other day. Our friends were discussing what they’re going to buy the Grandkids for Christmas, which is also known as the “Max Credit Season”. They were throwing out the idea of an iPhone 77xrT or a Sony Play-depot. I had to put the skids on that crazy talk right away.

The “Generous Grandparent” shtick is wrong for several reasons. Let’s see if I can get through them before my nap time.
Firstly, if you spend a bunch on the Grandkids then your adult children will see that you have money. They’re keeping score. Mark my words, if you buy a big-ticket item for Christmas, by Easter your kid is going to be moving in. You may say, “that’s not that bad”, but you’re wrong. Anytime an adult returns home, they bring their problems but not their money. Let the adult child move in and you’re putting a posting a big sign saying, “Crazy ex-spouses, bill collectors, and parole officers, come on over”. I’m telling you, let them move back in and they’ll use up your patience as fast as they use up your toilet paper and your Denny’s coupons. It’ll all be because you overspent on the little kids.

Spending big on the Grandkids will cause them to expect the same or better in the future. I bought my Grandson a bike tire one year. Not an entire bike, just a really good tire. In February he called and talked me into giving him a dollar for every “A” on his report card. That semester I ended up having to shell out like $4. The next semester it went up to $6 because he aced everything. This went on forever. His expectations about broke me. Thankfully, he dropped out of college before I ended up in the poor house. I was terrified I’d have to choose between him and the Pie-of-the Month Club.

Spending big on the Grandkids takes from more important things. If you buy an expensive Christmas gift you won’t get to take the Valentine’s Day Bingo Bus to Tunica. You may miss the big Star Trek Cruise out of New Orleans because you blew all your money on Air Jordan’s. The senior citizen economy will suffer. You may usher in TEOTWAWKI (The end of the world as we know it). Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Another bad effect of overspending on the Grandkids is that it puts undue pressure on the parents. Okay, you’ve got me. That’s a good reason to overspend on the Grandkids. It’ll make them think that you’re much better than the parents. Every time they get mad at home they’ll tell your half-witted son-in-law “Grandpa doesn’t even have to work and he’s better at everything than you!” That’s a wonderful thought. Even though this reasoning is tempting, don’t spend big.

So, if we can’t spend a bunch on the Grandkids what can we spend? One word: Dollar Tree. That’s a store near almost every Wal-Mart in the Galaxy. It’s a good store, even though they can’t seem to get their merchandise priced. You can go in and get a cartful of toys and “may work for a minute” electronic accessories for less than a Chocolate Silk pie. I call that a win.

You can also go “old school” for Christmas. Go to the store and get a big pack of “one size fits all” tube socks. Break them down and give each kid a pair. They’ll love it and in turn, love you for thinking of it. You’re welcome.

Don’t adapt this to packs of underwear because that’s just weird. I guess you could apply this to Twinkies but not packs of hot dogs.

Speaking of dogs, don’t go to a shelter and get a dog for the children. Even though it’ll make you look like a saint while it tortures the parents, it’s a bad idea. Rescuing a dog can cost you over $29. Get them a cat. Cat’s are everywhere and they’re pretty much free. You’ll be a hero with the little ones and won’t be out much money at all.

Remember, don’t throw good money after good Grandkids. Don’t give your grown-up kids a chance to eradicate you and your meager toilet paper rations. Sometimes less is more. After all, who doesn’t like Twinkies and tube socks?

Fini.

Conan the Senator from Illinois by Charlie Melton

Wonder dog and consummate actor, Rin Tin Tin, the German Shepherd Dog, had 16 hit movies by the year 1927. The dog is credited with single handedly (pawedly?) saving Warner Studios from bankruptcy. Rin Tin Tin was the odds-on favorite to win the first “Best Actor” Academy Award. The Academy changed the rules so only a human could win and stiffed the best actor in the town of Hollyweird. As a result of this injustice, dogs have taken a back seat to less talented humans for over 90 years now. I say “that stops here and now”.

We’re getting ready to elect a new US Senator to replace Dick Durbin. I think he’s been wholly inadequate. I won’t say he’s not smart, but it seems he doesn’t have a good grasp on, anything. He needs to go.

We can vote a person in but congress and the press may override us and try to force the elected to run away crying. A candidate would have to have great stamina, and be strong, smart, and loyal, which is the opposite of DD. A senator has to be “dogged”.
Who would be more dogged than a real dog? Nobody would. I nominate the dog-of-the-hour, Conan.

Conan isn’t a barbarian. Reports are mixed as to whether Conan is a male or female. Everyone agrees that Conan, who is reportedly named after one of the most annoying talk show hosts on the planet, is a Belgian Malinois dog. We used to call that breed a Belgian Shepherd.

The Belgian Malinois, Conan, is credited with chasing an ISIS warlord down a tunnel from which the warlord went everywhere.

The Belgian Malinois was featured in the movie, “John Wick 3”. The character Sofia had a pair of them that were ruthless Kung Fu hounds. If you see this movie you will be impressed, then astounded, and then terrified of these dogs.

I can vouch for that breed, because I had one. While I was in Germany a fellow GI talked me into adopting his dog, this one named “Helga”. Helga was a dog among dogs, and would make an excellent US Senator from Illinois. Frankly, a salamander would be up to par for congress or the senate but I’m done with the slimy factor, no offense.

Helga was the poster-girl for stamina. She was high-energy and needed a lot of exercise. The only safe place for her to run on base was the tennis court. I’d tie the gates closed and take her off-lead. She’d run around and around, ever faster and faster. I remember thinking she was like the tigers in the banned children’s book, “Little Black Sambo”. The tigers in the book ran so fast they turned into butter, and Helga seemed to become fluid-like too. Her expression would turn wolfish and some primal sense of danger would erupt in me. We both knew she could take me out anytime she wished. She ran so wildly she’d turn into a blur that occasionally would jump and grab my soda or hat as she ran by. Eventually she’d calm down enough to go back on the lead and we’d go home to water for her and a nerve pill for me. I want that in a senator. That senator could grab the most tender parts of the fake press, or cull the congressional herd to the benefit of our country.

Helga was smart and strong. When we got tired of the nightly runs at the tennis court we changed venues. One of us, I’m not sure which, thought it’d be a good idea to climb the fence and go off-base into the hilly, dark forest. I didn’t even try to keep up with her as she dug in with muscular shoulders to race up the hills and bound over rocks and logs. I’d listen for her, and try to catch sight of her but she was gone. Just when I’d give up, Helga would appear out of nowhere and laugh as she stole my hat along with a significant amount of my hair. I want a senator that can accelerate uphill in Washington and bound over legislative obstacles like Helga did, even if it costs someone a hat or some hair.

Our last trip to the woods changed everything. We followed our script of Helga disappearing and me being confused, but then I heard her barking and growling viciously. I found my way to her and she’d treed a big ugly Infantryman and wouldn’t let him go. He tried to outsmart Helga, but she anticipated his every move. I never saw her bite him but there was a tell-tale thread of Army green hanging from her fang. When I led her away, she kept staring back at the soldier, psyching him, and me out.

I decided Helga wouldn’t run for reelection. I asked around and a young naïve family came to meet her. She took up with them immediately and merely nodded at me as they walked out of my life. I guess she failed at the loyalty factor, but nobody is perfect. I don’t think that attribute won’t be a deal-breaker for the senate.

In closing, I know the breed and the character of Conan. I also know the breed and character of our senator. I choose Conan. He or she will bound right into Washington, tree the problems, and maybe take some hats and sodas.

To summarize, dump Durbin. Vote for stamina, strength, smarts, and loyalty. Vote “Conan” for US Senator from Illinois. Well, maybe not loyalty, but I bet she can get save us from bankruptcy, just like Rin Tin Tin did.

Fini.

You can contact Charlie via email at geezer.rocker@gmail.com or by mail at PO Box 378, Norris City, Il 62869. He’ll answer if he’s not treed.