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.

BMI (Body Mass Insanity) By Charlie Melton

Epiphany: A sudden realization, an intellectual breakthrough. Figuring something out after a long time of not trying to figure it out.

I had an epiphany. I have them pretty often now that I’m in full-on Geezer mode. I frequently have inspirational thoughts while eating pie when the flaky crust and sugary filling piques my blood sugar, which would make it a “pi-epiphany”. I have a theory that I’m most creative when my AIC is over 6.8, but more about that later.

Here’s my brainstorm: I have been on a diet pretty much all of my life. Scientist would say that I have a BMI (Body Mass Index) that’s too large. My Grandma would say I’m healthy. I’m so healthy I can’t see my toes. Over my lifetime I’ve probably lost a ton of fat and hair, or more.

Here’s the thing; I’m still fat. If I hadn’t dieted I’d be fat. Maybe I’d be so fat I’d be dead, but then I wouldn’t be here to talk about it.

When I was about 13 and discovered girls (they’d been unknown to science before then) I decided I wasn’t good enough at my current weight so I lost pounds. As I recall, I lost weight by cutting down on the bacon and Captain Crunch cereal. I lost the weight but I still wasn’t good enough for the girls, so in retrospect my efforts were wasted. I was effectively planning a party nobody was going to attend, so to speak.

As a teen I didn’t have to lose weight to get in the military because I had a “job” that consumed calories via “forced labor”. I entered the Air Force slim and gave that up pretty quickly. When I discovered SOS and never-ending donuts, bacon and sausage I forgot about losing weight. Then the Air Force leadership decided to lead.

Some sadist decided that Air Force mechanics had to maintain weight and fitness standards. It was all part of the “fly-fight-win” junk the ne’er-do-well officers came up with. Anyone with half a Twinkie knows the real mission was “eat, nap, repeat”. Anyway, due to the officers meddling in grown-ups business, we had to start weighing in. The standards were ridiculous. I spent a full week before each weigh-in preparing. I went to the base gym for my special workout. Each BMI reduction cycle was 15 minutes on the stair stepper, 15 minutes in the sauna, and 15 minutes watching the ladies aerobics class. The I repeated each cycle until the gym closed. I could lose 15 pounds in a week.

We were also allowed a 3 pound deduction for our uniforms. I whittled my uniform down to 2 pounds by cutting my pockets out, wearing thin socks, and leaving the t-shirt, belt, and lunch box at home. It was all very scientific. It only took 2 days, 3 visits to the chow hall, and a gallon of sweet tea to gain it all back. I figure over the span of my career I lost the equivalent of a larger person or three.

Speaking of losing larger persons, take my ex-wives. Please. Part of my fitness scheme reflected my marital status. When I thought the relationship was going well, I gained weight well. When the relationship was going poorly, I gained weight poorly. After every divorce, of which there were several, I lost about 50 pounds. I didn’t really plan that weight loss, it just happened. Now that I think about it, maybe it was subconscious. I spent a lot of money on lawyers, so maybe I subconsciously compensated by not buying food. Yeah, that’s it. As a matter of fact, I bet that my current Body Mass Index reflects that I’m secure in my marriage. Because I’m secure in my marriage I don’t have to pay a lawyer and I can buy the good vittles.

Maybe I’m off base there (pun intended). Each time I retire, which currently totals 3 times, my income goes down but my weight goes up. Now I’m really confused. It’s almost like my activity level influences my weight, even though that can’t be true. I recently lost 75 pounds of which I recovered about 30 pounds, so far. During that flux, I’ve stayed active. I still brew my coffee and work the remote control with abandon. I still walk all of the way to the truck when I go to the diner. It just doesn’t make sense.

Perhaps I have one of those weird metabolisms that convert unused food energy to fat. I bet my genome is set to “astronomically high BMI” so that I can survive worldwide famines and messy divorces. Maybe, just maybe, I’m like I’m supposed to be. I’m “working as advertized”.

Now I feel better and can end this Body Mass Insanity. I can concentrate on more important things, like pie and Netflix.

Fini.

Catch Charlie daily wherever fine pies are sold. Stayed tuned for his upcoming Podcast, “The life of pie”, or “My most unforgettable cobbler”.

Phone Stupid By Charlie Melton

I feel like I’ve told you this before, and in a way I have. It’s the same sort of stuff over and over. A while back I told you how my Grandson “accidently” punched his TV because he was mad. The truth came out that he really punched to see if he could break it, and he could. I wrote about the multiple days, multiple miles, and multiple nerve pills it took to get the TV replaced with the “Easy, No Risk, Breakage Warranty”. I swore I wasn’t going through that again. The kid thought I was stupid for being upset about it. After all, I have no purpose in life than to clean up after him.

I just went through that and more, but this time it was with a phone. I’m upset because, I’m stupid.

A couple of years ago we got the boy a phone. While it was an iPhone, it was the cheapest Apple device ever made. I think it was the coal powered steam-punk phone. He survived and successfully followed the “US Grandparents Code of Phone Rules” He did well except for when he used it on Facechat and offered green cards to random Russian women. I think the term for that is “Catfishing” but I can’t be sure, because, once again, stupid.

Since he did well and ICE never called us, we upgraded him to an iPhone X. That’s a fancy moniker for $780 we’ll never see again, but hey, I live to serve him. We bought him an expensive high-dollar impact-resistance phone case. The rule was that the phone never, ever, under any circumstances, came out of the case. As added insurance we bought the “added insurance”. All of these add-ons brought us up to around $1,000, or a month’s pie allowance. I was happy to get it for him, because, I’m stupid.

So about a minute into the new phone, we inexplicably removed the phone from the case. We showed our friends the phone out of the case and pretended to throw it. Then, we dropped it and broke it

After my blood pressure went below the danger zone I started the process of getting it replaced by the added insurance. Question #1 was “Is the front glass broken?” I answered yes, and found that was a $39 fee to get it replaced. I was angry and told the boy he was paying it out of his allowance. Question #2 was “Is the back glass broken?” I didn’t even know a phone has a back glass, but I looked and it does, and it was shattered. When I answered yes the fee went up to $200. I had to take a long peaceful walk because, I’m stupid.

Two days later, and $200 poorer, we got the replacement iPhone. After completing his remedial phone training we were good again, or so I thought. Then again, I’m stupid.

A few days later the Grand-kid decided to put his phone up early in the evening. I should have been suspicious. When he didn’t grab it the first thing in the morning I knew something was wrong. Even though I’m stupid, I got him to admit that he dropped the phone in the warm, soapy tub and it stopped working.

After cooling my temper with an even longer walk and significant time in the Bible, I started working on the phone. The company says that it’s waterproof but nobody told the phone. Two days with the phone in dry rice didn’t repair it. I contacted the “added insurance” company and they sent us a new phone, no charge.

We got phone number 3, which worked. My head still throbbed a bit, but things were OK. I followed return instructions and put the bad phone in the pre-paid mailer. It said to put it in a mailbox, and I did because, I’m stupid. Luckily I took a picture of the tracking number on the package.

A week later I got a reminder call that I had to return the broken phone. I’d done that, but checked the tracking number to see where the phone was. It was nowhere. It didn’t exist in the mail universe. I called the post office, but they couldn’t help me. Days came and went as I checked the tracking number almost constantly waiting for it to pop up. It didn’t for weeks.

I called the “added insurance” overlords who only knew that I owed them a phone or $780. I appealed to their sense of humanity but I don’t think they have any. I hoped for the best because I’m stupid.

Eventually I did a lost-mail inquiry. A week later it came back that I had to supply more information, which was the stupid color of the stupid phone. I guess they have lots of phones in limbo and they want to make sure they get the correct one. I provided the color and waited for a response.

The lost mail report hasn’t been resolved but somehow the post office in Memphis scanned my package. How it got to Tennessee without leaving Illinois I’ll never know. Three days later the packaged phone was delivered to Nashville, which is like 7 inches from Memphis.

None of this makes sense to me. I don’t know why a teen even needs an expensive phone. I don’t know why a teen won’t guard it like it’s the Holy Grail. I have no idea why packages disappear, only to surface in weird places. I have no idea why it takes a package weeks to go a couple hundred miles. I mean, if I’d walked it to Nashville I could have gotten there and back with time left to get shot and robbed in Memphis.

I don’t understand any of this because I’m stupid.

Incidentally, I’m still waiting on a release from the insurance. This story may never end.

Fini.