Grandson Repair and Reclamation

The other day I was complaining that my Grandson was disrespectful by getting damaged. He can’t do chores. I ended up having to do them because I’m not allowed to hire a live-in cheerleading mower assistant.

We took the boy to an orthopedic surgeon, which for the record does not work for free. They charge more than a plumber on a national holiday. They charge more than a lawyer with a condo in Aspen. We drove “up north” to the ortho-dude office in “Mount Carmel” even though I’ve never seen a mountain of any kind in this state. Maybe there used to be a mountain and it was sold to pay a surgeon.

We took the grand-malingerer to the clinic and filled out 57 pages of forms. We eventually got in an exam room. When the surgeon came in the room the female spousal entity lit up like a menorah on the last day of Hanukah. She was as happy as a squirrel in a bird feeder. She was smiling like Hillary when Bernie dropped out. The wife thought the doc was pretty but I don’t know why she’d think that. What’s so great about a rich man with muscles and a head full of hair? While she was all googly-eying the doc I actually listened to him. He determined the kid needed surgery. I’d said the same thing that morning, but nobody stared longingly at me. We scheduled for Friday because Doctor Hunk could get him in and fix him first, because, hey, he has great hair.

Friday came along and we checked in to the surgery center and coffeeteria. I think the hospital is Latin for “The Dreadful Center for Hopelessly Long Waiting Times”. It was 0700 hours because we were first. Boy got all prepped, gowned, pasteurized, and homogenized. He had to be ready because we were first.

Hospitals follow the book of Matthew when Jesus said “The first shall be last and the last shall be first.” A man went in because he was an emergency or was paying cash. We got bumped by a lady for mowing her foot off or something equally trivial. I’m pretty sure another man went in because he and the doc had a tee time. A local politician’s 2nd cousin’s wives plumbers’ neighbor got to go in and get something done to something. I made many trips to the complimentary coffee bar. I noticed that in the hall a couple of women were trying to break their own bones so they could visit Doctor Perfect Hair with the muscles.

About 1400 hours we were up. The kid went in for his one hour surgery that only took 2 ½ hours. By the time he came out of the OR he was malnourished, dehydrated, and as bored as a Senator without a pay-off.

We finally got released and headed home. I’d had enough coffee that I could have flown, but I trudged along on Highway 1. With the many miles to drive and my overly-caffeinated brain I thought up some alternatives to the way it went at the hospital.
Driving so far and waiting all day to get repaired is stupid. Why couldn’t we just stay at home and get a call when they’re ready for us? They could give us one of those pagers like at Olive Garden and we could drive on up when it goes off. Better yet, how about a RV with a surgical suite? They could plan a route just like FedEx and pull up, roll you in one door and out the other. They could partner with Dominos and deliver pizza at the same time. It would work.

Maybe set up operating rooms at the golf course. Doctors seem to end up there anyway. “Let’s see, a broken femur? You go to hole 3. Clavicles are on the first tee. Uninsured? You’re in the sand trap. Watch out, Osteopath playing through.” The malpractice lawyers can hang out in the clubhouse
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They could even schedule you like the cable company. “The surgeon will be at your location Monday between 8:00 AM and 12:00 PM to repair your hip and fix your internet. Please be washed up, gowned, and off of the Wifi”.

If all of that won’t work, maybe just improve the conditions at the hospital. Everyone is either bored or nervous, so give families something to do. Put exercise bikes connected to generators in the waiting rooms. People will get healthier and pass the time while generating 110 volts AC. You can even take the electricity generated off of the bill. “Mr. Smith, you generated 7 megawatts so we’ll be taking $42 off of your bill. Mrs. Jones, you had 14 family members pedaling like crazy. The surgery bill is paid and we owe you $873. Please come again.

Any of these can work better than the current system. Maybe he who is first can at least move up to the middle. Also, Dr. Dreamy needs to go somewhere, anywhere, else.
Fini.

My Proof of God

Bob, I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve always been proud to call you my friend.
You made the statement the other day that you’re an atheist. I recognize that you have the right to believe, or not believe whatever you want. It’s one of our most basic freedoms. I acknowledge that, but as your friend I have the right to tell you when you’re wrong.

Bob, you believe that there’s no God. You’re wrong.
I’ve heard a way to understand the existence of God. Draw a large circle. Imagine the circle represents the entire universe. Imagine all of the knowledge that can be absorbed in the universe. Imagine all of the knowledge of physics, and mathematics, and history, and everything else possible in the entire universe is represented in that circle. Now imagine all of the knowledge that you have. If all of the knowledge that exists everywhere is illustrated as a circle, then the knowledge we each possess is a mere pin prick in that circle. What we know is nearly insignificant when compared to what could be known. In all of that knowledge that we do not possess, is there room for God? Is there room for knowledge of God’s existence in all that we don’t possess? Yes, there is. It’s only logical that there is room for God in the universe of knowledge.

I think we all have a need for God. I think that people in all cultures have always sought God. I think it’s coded in our DNA. That means every cell of our body is seeking God. It’s a form of magnetism, just like iron seeks a magnet. We came from God, and we can’t truly rest until we reach God.

The way I think about it is like this. If I understand Newton he stated there is a gravitational force between objects. No matter how far apart you move them the force between them remains. If they have an attraction when next to each other, they will still have an attraction when one is moved to the other side of the universe. The force will be small, but it’s there. That’s the way it is between each person and God. We have a force between us that draws us.

Let me put it another way. All water flows to the sea. Any water anywhere will end up in the sea. It’s where it belongs. It will flow hundreds of mile to become part of the ocean. It always does this because the sea is where it belongs. Even if it evaporates it will condense to liquid and flow to the sea.

We belong with God and we move ever so slowly to Him. Our souls will never rest until they join God.
How can I make these assumptions? I can because of what we do. We seek. We always want more, and seek out “more”. You and I went in the service because we wanted “more”. We each had a need to find whatever is out there. None of us are ever truly content with where we are, or who we are. In some way all of us are always seeking. We marry to find more, and to be more fulfilled. We work to get more. We read to accrue more knowledge. We drink, or do drugs, or gamble in our quest for more of a thing: More peace, more acceptance, more love, more of something.

My point is that we spend out entire lives looking for more and we’re never satisfied. The only people I know that are truly satisfied are those that have found God. You can see a look of peace on the faces of those that have found God.

You know what I mean. You may think that they’re idiots and that they’re lying to themselves because of their inner peace. You may think their fulfillment is delusional. I propose to you that the rest of us are delusional and idiotic. We look for all the wrong things to fill an emptiness that we have from being apart from God. We deny where the invisible force, the magnetism, is drawing our souls.

Bob, you don’t believe in God but you must acknowledge the possibility of God. If you do that, then you know your belief can be wrong. That is the first step to God. It’s the first step to fulfillment. It’s what you’ve been seeking.
Fini.

Be Strong- Wear Plaid!

(Photo credit to originator)

Here is wisdom. A real man doesn’t worry how he appears to others. A man is emotionally and mentally strong. He does as he must, but he chooses his path and how he gets to his destination. His feelings, if “man-feelings” really exist, are his and his alone. He doesn’t care what you think.

I saw a guy the other day that is a brave, strong man. He didn’t have big muscles or a monster truck. He had the wardrobe of a warrior. I hope he’s reading this because he’s a great example to men everywhere. His clothing said, “I know who I am and I don’t care what you think. Bring me pie, then go away and leave me alone.” He wore a pith helmet, which was part of the Air Force tropical uniform that I never had occasion to wear. His clothing was an assortment of every color and texture ever to leave a textile mill. The clash of colors would make a designer’s head explode. It was awesome. He reminded me of times when men were macho and tough.

I watch a lot of old TV shows from the before-time when Hollyweird had a soul. I get to watch things like “Matlock” and “Diagnosis Murder” and “Leave It to Beaver”. In the evening I enjoy Carol Burnett and Johnny Carson and every Star Trek series ever produced.

Johnny Carson is particularly entertaining. The jokes and banter are dated and hearken back to a simpler time when you could hurt peoples’ feelers without remorse or legal action. A safe zone was unheard of in that era. Johnny told jokes that hurt feelings and he dressed like he defied anyone to laugh. He even wore a plaid sport coat when sitting with Don Rickles, the king of insults. Rickles insulted everything and everyone but never dared insult Johnny’s jacket.

Johnny wore a plaid sports coat because he could. It’s like my “Dupo Fire and Rescue” shirt. Sure, it’s got a few holes and a couple of bleach spots. I like it anyway. It understands me. That shirt really gets me. I don’t care what others think of it.

It’s like when I was a kid and had to wear a suit and tie to Stokes Chapel church. I’d rather be impaled on a pike than wear that get-up. I’d look across the congregation and see the men in bib overalls and brogans. I’d see the women’s disapproval and the male indifference to that disapproval. Sometimes a man would wear a white shirt and tie with the bibs, showing that he’d had to compromise with the wife. The other men would be sad he’d lost his manhood. It left an imprint on me.

Sure, it’s only clothing. It doesn’t mean anything. You can be a man and dress in a socially acceptable way. You can do that but eventually you’ll lose your manliness. First you wear a shirt with a collar because your spouse is quieter that way. Then, before you know it you’re carrying her purse and shopping for female hygiene stuff. Eventually you’ll be doing housework and crying for no particular reason. Your body will cease making male hormones and you’ll be a girlie-man.

I remember back when I used to be a man that didn’t care what others thought. I ended up at a posh resort on the Mediterranean. The place was full of society types and old European money. I’m proud to say I’m the only person on that fancy beach wearing cut-off fatigue pants and cowboy boots. They weren’t even the fancy boots; they were the clean-the-stalls, kick-dirt-clods boots. I didn’t get many looks from the women but the men envied me like I’d envied the guys at church.

So why care? I’m trying to save you, the young male. I’m trying to keep your “Y” chromosomes from mutating to girlie-man genes. I don’t want you to be reduced to caring what others think. If you start to dress well it won’t be long before you’re moisturizing and talking about feelings. Don’t think it’ll be easy. People everywhere will try to change you. The girlie-man conspiracy has even tried to eliminate ugly plaid jackets. Stand strong and wear what you want, not what they put in the magazines and on Wall-Mart racks. Dress like you want, and defy wives and others. Rock that pith helmet and plaid. Never, ever wear a tie with your bibs. That’ll be the end for you.

I choose to close now. I have to hide the tie my wife bought me.
Fini.

Saving is Losing

Save it for a rainy day. That’s the advice. The axiom is all about delaying gratification so that you’ll have the money or food available when you really need it. There’s even a fable about an ant and a grasshopper that illustrates the point. I’m here to tell you; don’t do it.

I subscribed to that philosophy, except for the money part. For money I follow the Federal Government rule. That rule states to make sure you spend every cent as quickly as possible so that you’ll get more because you need it. It also insures that you get a bigger budget next year. It works for me except for the more money part, I never get more money but I’m hoping that someday I will.

I have a few possessions that I’ve saved for a rainy day. I’m thinking that I made a mistake. I’ve pretty much cheated myself for years.

One of my cherished possessions was a gift from She-Who-Rules. One Christmas she bought me a really nice custom knife with an embossed leather sheath. It was really fancy and would’ve looked great on my belt back when I could see the belt below my gut. I got the knife out the other day and it had rusted. I’d saved it for a rainy day and would never get to enjoy it.

I also have this pair of boots that are pretty fancy. They’re made from an exotic species that may be extinct by now. I’ve had them for years but kept them put up for a special occasion. Back in the day they cost upward of $25 at Hart’s Kosher Shoes and Deli. Anyway, I put them on and they looked real good but the stitching started breaking when I walked. The exotic animal hide cracked. It seems I saved them for nothing. All those years ago I could have enjoyed the comfort of eradicating a cute little forest creature to have awesome footwear. The rainy day I was saving for must have come while I was napping.

It’s like when we went to an estate sale recently. The estate owners had passed away, and the kids hired one of those companies that get rid of things. The inventory included all kinds of collectables still in the boxes. There were ancient kids’ toys still new in the box and decorative plates that never decorated anything. The heirs even sold nice picture frames complete with the photos of the deceased. I’m thinking the benefactors wouldn’t be amused that their cherished knick-knacks went for $1.99. Saving stuff just didn’t pan out for them.

My friend Bud is a saving kind of guy and has all kinds of things put back for the apocalypse. He’s even kept everything his parents put back for their apocalypse which probably includes what their parents put back. It may go back generations. Some nephew is going to either get rich from all the brick-a-brac or fill a landfill somewhere. He’ll curse the junk left behind for a rainy day that hasn’t arrived for eons.

I went back and looked at Aesop’s Fable about the wisdom of saving. It has more than one interpretation. In some cases it’s the ant and the grasshopper, and in others it’s the ant and the cicada. I think the moral of that version is that bugs can be loud and annoying. There’s a version that portrays the ant as a selfish miser trying to make the other insects starve unless they pay severe markups or maybe subscribe to an overpriced service or something like that.

The point is, don’t think saving is always good. You can save that t-bone steak in the freezer forever and say “Man, that beef would have been really good if I’d have cooked it while I still had teeth” or you can enjoy the steak. I don’t want to be on my deathbed and think that I should have worn those boots more. I don’t want my nephew to sell my good knife for a Pokémon card.
Let’s all change our view of the ant and the grasshopper, or cicada, or whichever noisy insect we choose. I say don’t be a greedy ant, enjoy your stuff today. Don’t wait for rain that may never come. Be a cicada today and let the estate sale companies get their own stuff.

Put it another way. Don’t let your boots rot or your knife rust.
Fini.

MY GRANDSON IS BROKEN

Those of you that read my musings and incoherent rants know that I’m grooming a grandson to replace me as pie-consuming Geezer. That’s not as easy as it sounds. I have to proceed carefully or he may become obese or a diabetic. Knowing when to pie and when not to pie is critical and shouldn’t be undertaken by the layman. You’re better off to just bring me your pies, and we’ll take care of it.

I digress. There’s a lesson to be learned.

Mini-Me had a buddy stay over. While it’s a little frightening having two teens in the same zip code, these are partially domesticated and I figured they could mow and weed for their entertainment. Before we got to the fun stuff, they played some of what the hep-cats call “basketball.” They got the bicycles out of the barn and prepared to race. As I told Grandma afterward, I distinctly remember saying, “Charlie, no racing, because you may get hurt.” Really, I did. I warned him right before I said, “ready, set, go.” That should count for something. I’ve also told him a hundred times, “Don’t get hurt, or Grandma won’t let us play ever again.”

On “go,” the boys went. The buddy was in the lead so Charlie pushed hard on the pedals, and then off of the pedals. His foot hit the pavement and caused the bike to go into a quantum trans-warp yaw. He did a face plant on the blacktop. He had sufficient momentum to skid real good. Being a kind and caring guardian, I told him to hurry up and get up before the Grand-enforcer saw him. He didn’t, so I just figured he was being a girlieman. I helped him up by insulting his masculinity and he got up.

When on his uncoordinated feet, his torso looked a little twisted or out of focus. After warning him about what to tell G-ma I let him go in the house to be triaged. Grand-accuser determined he was broken. Since he’s out of warranty we took him to the ER to get him fixed. It appears that in going against my guidance, he broke his clavicle. I know that’s what the collar bone is called, because I learned it by watching the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner hour far away and long ago. He has to see an Orthopedist or Orthodontist, or whatever the bone doctor is called. His repair and convalescence may take months.

A broken grandson is problematic. Even though kids’ duties aren’t as extensive since they don’t have to change channels, they’re still useful. For example, the kid is hurt, so I had to mow. Mowing sucks. It’s not only noisy and painfully boring with the back and forth, back and forth. It’s hot out there cutting grass. Whoever thought up mowing in the summer is an idiot. It would be better to do it in the winter when it’s cold, and the heat from the mower would be welcome. Mower heat coupled with summer heat and humidity is just wrong. Add in geezer andropause, and mowing is the worst. Thanks, Grandson. Thanks a lot.

Now I also have to take out the trash. Once again, I’m not a fan. The can is smelly and needs taken out every five minutes or so. I can’t tell you how many times, as soon as I dose off in my chair, the wife yells, “You need to take the trash out.” I say “I did.” I think I did, but maybe I forgot. It’s a pain anyway.

For the foreseeable future, I can’t tell him to hop on his bike and go to Wonder Mart to get me a quart of meringue or box of heavy whipped coronary artery disease. I may have to shell out big bucks to get pie delivery since we have an errant errand-boy. While he may be able to get out of the truck to check mail, the whining “Ouch, my shoulder hurts” makes it not worth the effort.

I may not even get to sit in my recliner for any significant time. How does the laundry get back upstairs from the dryer? Who feeds the cat? What about if someone rings the doorbell? What about loading the dishwasher? That’s all me now. All this work, and I don’t even get an allowance. I had a thought. I bet by throwing in a few bucks,

I can trade him for a college cheerleading massage therapy coed. I guess that’s not allowed for some weird reason titled ‘not in Grandma’s house.’ I really thought it was a good idea. She could take on the kid’s duties and I’d get to relax while waiting for my massage. She could even mow while practicing her high kicks. That’d be incentive to take the trash out.

The lesson we learned? Don’t screw up. If you do, work a cheerleader into the fix. Also, pie helps everything.

Thank you, Grandson.

Fini.

Snow Daze

Society has stopped. Snow stopped it.

I’m in my recliner looking out at the snow. The glare off of the white blanketed lawn makes my bifocals darken a little but not enough to make it hard to see my episode of “Diagnosis: Murder”.

The grass reaches through the snow. The snow is about 2 inches deep with drifts bordering on nearly half a foot deep. The drifts are so deep that your feet would get cold it you tried to walk across the lawn in flip flops. Outside is just brutal. It’s not fit for man nor beast. I know this because my Grandson hasn’t been in school for over a week. I know this because church attendance is low and Netflix attendance is high. I know this because I only go out to get the mail and to attend the boot sale at Rural King.

I sit up and peer out at the devastation. I pull my attention away from the snow apocalypse just in time to save my feet from being crushed by a 13 year old on a hoverboard roaring through the very room he is not allowed to ride in. Did I mention there’s been no school for over a week? I took a deep relaxing breath as the cat screamed in pain and the hoverboard ca-thumped into the wall.

Times do change. Societies collapse. Communities lose their nerve. Children become sissies. We used to be tougher. Is that my opinion? That is fact, and I can prove it. Get on your phone thing or your phablet and look at Facebook. Check my timeline and you’ll see my proof.

The newspaper clippings are there. It was January 25th of 1978 in Indiana. Hulu and the Internet were just a dream in the mind of 29 year old Al Gore. Incidentally, Al also gave us the iconic saying, “A zebra doesn’t change its spots”. The barometer read 28.23’ Hg in Michigan, which is the lowest barometric pressure ever recorded on the central United States. That’s lower than an Illinois politician that’s fresh out of tax money to waste. That’s lower than a telemarketer without a call list at dinnertime. It’s really low.

The wind blew around 100 miles an hour. The wind chill was -60° F. It snowed around 40 inches in some places but drifts were literally up to the roof tops and the power lines. Lots of people lost power and water pipes froze. Cars were hopelessly buried and would stay that way for weeks.

Where I was stationed it was even worse. Horror of horrors, the cable went out. The TV showed nothing but electronic snow. There was no Netflix, and VCRs cost over $1,200, which for me was like a year’s pay. Nobody but politicians and telemarketers had one.

The next day, the 26th of January, a Thursday, I ran out of cigarettes. That’s when stuff got real. It’s weird what an addict will do to feed the addiction. I walked across the frozen, desolate base to buy smokes. It’s a good thing I knew where I was going, because I couldn’t see. It’s also a good thing that the Air Force issues arctic gear or I’d have died. The surgeon general should post a warning that smoking could cause frostbite and hypothermia.
I got the smokes and made it home. I waited.

Three days later I ran out of food, but the smokes held out so I was good.

Eventually a rescue squad used snowmobiles to deliver food. We got a chicken, milk, bread, corn flakes, and a carton of Camels. It wasthe best meal ever. We gradually dug out and life happened. The cable came back on and Barnaby Jones solved crime.

I overcame the blizzard for the noblest reason, to get smokes. Nobody would do that today. Back then, everyone did similar things because we weren’t sissies.

I think the kids did school work. I don’t specifically remember schools being open, but I bet they were. Just like I had the tenacity to brave the blizzard, parents were brave about getting the little darlings out of the house.

So here we sit, the boy not learning a thing except how to get on my nerves. Here we sit all weak and sissified because a little snow. Here we are with our Netflix from Al Gore without the gumption to go to school or walk to get smokes. What will become of us?

Suck it up and do stuff even when the lawn is coldish. Get out and live. Oh, and stop by. I have a list of things I need.
Fini.

Romance For Beginners

Some of you may know that I’m spending my geezer years eating pie and raising a Grandson, or maybe he’s raising me. I’m new to this game. I only had girls, and boys were a creature that sent flowers to the girls and ran when I caught them on the property. Now I’m responsible for one. If you believe in Karma you probably think I deserve this because of my being mean to a plethora of young men over the years. It’s true that I tortured the potential suitors of my daughters. It’s also true that if a boy hung around the house I’d put him to work. When my girls were teenagers I rarely had to mow or change my own oil.
So Boy 1.0 is officially a middle school, junior-teen adolescent cisgender male. In case you’re wondering, cisgender means his daily life reflects the gender on his birth certificate. In other words, he’s not insane. You gotta love the modern activist trendy-talk.

This life stage involves fewer toy cars and more incidents with razors and buckets of axe cologne. I’m serious, I think he’s got a mud bucket full of axe and he takes a dunk at odd times. It’s hard to breathe when that stuff is aloft. His young teen world also involves some male arrogance which makes him puff up his chest. The arrogance makes him think for a moment he can take me on. He also pays attention to a creature he calls “girls”.
Teen boy and girl relationships are exactly the same as 50 years ago. They’re the same, except for texting and Snapogram and Instachip or whatever. Come to think about it, the technology has made teen years a lot more time-consuming than half of a century ago. No teen has the chores we geezers had. No teen has to slop the hogs, get in the coal, and work in the salt mine like I used to do. They type and will end up with thumb arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome. Not the same thing.
Boy came in the living room and interrupted my episode of “Swamp Thing”. He announced that he and girl are “Going out”. I asked, “Going out where?” He rolled his eyes like I was the stupidest person on the planet. “We’re going out. We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Going out” he explained. It seems that “Going out” is the same thing as “Going steady” or “Dating Exclusively”.
I asked him where they were going, and he said “Nowhere”, which to me defies any interpretation of “going out”.
In compliance with the new normal of courting, the girl sent the boy a photo via messaging. Girl put on makeup before she took the picture. Boy’s response was one of the funniest things I’ve ever read. Boy texted back, and I quote, “What’s wrong with your eyes? Did someone beat you up?” When asked about it, he really thought she’d been hit in the eyes. He didn’t understand why she was upset.
Eventually he went to church with her. Well, he sort of went to church with her. I delivered him to the church she attends and picked him up. Even though it’s winter I kept the truck window rolled down in a failed attempt to breathe around the cologne vapors. I hope they kept the church ventilation on high because I’m sure he filled the sanctuary with his man-scent. I didn’t see any gas masks or decontamination booths when I picked him up, so it must have went well.
Boy and girl have since broken up. In his words, she “dumped” him. Other than meeting up at church, they never went out while they were “Going out”, and now never will. It’s all very confusing. The only differences I can detect are that he’s not texting as much and I can breathe better. He’s still puffing up his chest, but it does him no good. I caution him that he could end up looking like he has makeup on, but he won’t have any.
Fini.