How much is that doggie in the window?

Dearest Blog Reader.

 

I hope that this finds you doing well. The fact that it finds you at all is a cautionary tale to us all. Always give your calendar makers plenty of resources because if they ever stop their task before completion, it will provide unending speculation amongst the masses who have traded their religious opiates for modernity. I am sorry for the bah humbug but I had been counting on this apocolypse. I maxed out the cards. I made other promises about extravagant gifts being in the mail. Now, the day of reckoning has arrived. By the way, your truffles are on the way. I would stay by the mailbox on Monday.

 

Thankfully, Christmas is nearly here. Bev, the master confectioner, and I, master thermomeister, have nearly completed our annual caramel making extravaganza; 2.5 gallons whipping cream, 10 lbs of surgar, 5 lbs of butter, and one gallon of corn syrup (that's right high fructose corn syrup). I believe that makes us one of the 10 most wanted in New York City. Mayor Bloomberg, paraphrasing the words of that great American Charlton Heston, you can take my caramel when you pry it out of my cold dead hand, or you could just say please. We still have a few left that we can share.

 

The Sharritt's have some sad news this Christmas season. Lucy, our dog of 13 years has disappeared. She was last seen Thursday morning as I left for work. I woke every couple hours Thursday night checking the door hoping that she had made her way home. She had been on a sinking trajectory for the past year. Her hips hurt her. She also suffered from worsening incontinence. I had been wondering about a couple of things as I witnessed her decline.

 

First, would she last until May? We decided to clip her hair every summer three years ago. The first trip to the groomer cost $50. That was a bit much I thought. As a result, I bought a $100 pair of clippers. I know that is a bit pricey, but she had extremely fine thick Golden retriever hair. I cut her hair two years ago. Rather, I tried to cut her hair two years ago. I quit after two hours of struggle leaving her with a style my family liked to call “the mange”. I got better this past May. She looked pretty good and kept cool. Also, my do it yourself accounting broke even; $100 pair of clippers = 2 $50 haircuts. This year I would break into the clear and prove certain mange taunting naysayers wrong. In May though, I knew that she was living on borrowed time. It was unlikely that she would be able to keep her next appointment with the barber of Fortville.

 

Second, and more important, was a question that I had since I was about twelve. Do dogs really go off to die alone? That is what my dad told me when Fritzi, a collie cross from my childhood, disappeared while I was at school in the fall. As I grew older and wiser to the ways of the world, I thought that my father may have taken matters into his own hands, eliminating tears and awkward explanations. It appears that the wivestale is true. Lucy was here Thursday morning and out of our life Thursday night. Dad you are off the hook.

 

Lucy came to us the fall of 1999. George W. had just been elected and not inaugurated. She was approximately 7 months old when she was abandoned at a pond on our farm. Her family of origin must have felt some guilt as evidenced by the blanket that they left for her.

 

I came across her during the evening of a hayride. Millie, a charpei cross, made her acquaintance. She trotted in front of the tractor as we made our way through the field. It was a bit unnerving. I left the tractor lights off because the customers liked it dark and Lucy was a minimalist who only needed to be a step or two in front of the tractor. She didn't get run over, but she kept me worried. We weren't in the market for a new dog. Millie was enough for us, and our farm family budget could be stretched too far with a second vet bill. All temptation was overcome. No petting was allowed. No notice was taken. However, two nights later at the next hayride, she was still there; still trotting in front of the tractor. Dog love took over and the Sharritt's became a two dog family.

 

It is impossible to recall all of the Lucy moments from the farm. She loved to trot down the road beside the tractor when I went to the wood lot to cut firewood. This caused problems when approached by oncoming traffic on our narrow country road. By and large, the fellow travelers showed great patience and a little ammusement at a dog who thought she owned the road.

 

She was a fierce hunter who teamed up with a couple of Jack Russel Terriers to nearly rid the farm of groundhogs during her heyday. After every kill, the spoils of war were brought to the house and shared by these three amigos. One day, I watched the kill and went back to work only to witness Lucy carrying the groundhog feast with one Jack Russel hanging off each end. Their short stature inadequate for the distance between Lucy's head and the ground.

 

To those she nipped, I apologize. She would let you come to the front door if you took the moment to pay homage to her authority by letting her sniff your hand. As sure as your fear prevented that act of supplication, she would nip at your hindend as you evaded her challenge. I apologize to everyone except the FedEx guy. You are just a big wussy.

 

She was the last farm dog for the Sharritt’s. I could never confine her. She had 200 acres to roam, and if she chose to wander across the road to Ingalls, I chose not to chasten her footloose excursions. If she is replaced, that replacement will suffer the indignities of heeling to an invisible fence.

 

The thing that strikes me most about Lucy's passing is that it has triggered a flood of memories of the dogs in my life. Some were mine. Some were my parents. Some were my cousins. Some were  fictional; Fritzie, Goober, Mutley, Big Red, Charlie, Big Dan, Little Annie, Millie, Roscoe, Katie, Lucy, Hugo, Henry, and Ole Yellar.

 

I miss my dog.

 

Take care.

 

Roger

What are you going to do?

Dearest blog reader:  

I hope that this missive finds you doing well. I am fine. The cold virus is nearly all gone; the only remnants being a stray booger from time to time. I credit my quick turn around to clean living and some Thai food that I had in Bloomington with Ben, our eldest son. I am not what you would call an epicurean of international cuisine. I like my food Hoosier and hot: potatoes, pork, beef, something green. However, I am not a complete philistine. I will wander over to the pasta section of the menu and partake of the Italian delicacies offered. I am also fond of French side dishes with my good old American hamburger.

In spite of this international experience, Thai food remains a mystery. Specifically, the heat index remains a mystery. Last summer I ate Thai food in Champaign, Illinois. I took the 5 star heat. It was just too hot. I ate it all while drinking 5 gallons of water. I just wasn't comfortable sloshing around like that. Being a person who can learn from their mistakes, I took the 4 star; 20% less heat. It should be the difference between uncomfortable to having a well stimulated palate. However, in Bloomington, it appears that standards are a little different. This 4 star pork caused me pain. Of course, the Bloomington restaurant had an official certificate of authenticity for the Thai bureau of exports. Man it was hot.

I am afraid that I may have written this before. However, a quick perusal of past blogs does not reveal the following thought. At the risk of sounding redundant, I believe that I have found the explanation of the miracle of Pentecost. I believe that the apostles were hanging out after Passover. Prospects weren't good. They were bored and decided to go out to a little Thai place around the corner. The heat rating was a bit ambiguous. One thing led to another and the next thing you know, the Holy Spirit descended upon them like "tongues of fire". I just love it when everyday life makes the Bible more understandable.

I really came to write about a little dust up that has been played out in the local news media over the past week. Last week some young women apparently had their self esteem irreparably damaged in a basketball game. The final score was 107 to 2. It was a thorough domination by the women of Bloomington South apparently against the toddlers of Arlington. I first heard about it during a radio interview between the afternoon drive guy and a representative of the bastion of self esteem protection, the Indiana High School Athletic Association (ISHAA).  The radio guy was up in arms. What was the ISHAA going to do about the affrontery? Why wasn't the mercy rule activated? What there is no mercy rule? When are you going to institute a mercy rule? Since a mercy rule in the future will not provide redress now, how are you going to punish the administrators and coaches from Bloomington South?

I thought that was a little extreme; punish excellence. However, I figured my afternoon drive guy is a little soft headed, so I took it all with a grain of salt. You could imagine my surprise when the next morning my copy of the Indianapolis Star had 3 articles on the subject.; one saying that Twitter was a tweet with upset fans,  one by the political, commentating, hack suggesting that members of the Bloomington South administration should be fired for this affrontery and one that a local comedian, of national renown was going to visit the team to help rebuild their self esteem. It seems that I maybe I was the one with views outside of the mainstream on this subject.

When I first heard about the fans twitting about being upset, a very vivid memory popped into my head. I related the newspaper article to my daughter and she remembered the exact same sporting event. It was a 6th grade game against the dreaded self esteem pillaging Mt Veron Maurders. They had a staunch defense and we had weak ball handling skills. It was not pretty. The losers would bring the ball across the ten second line. The winners would steal it and run down and score. But you know what? It was not the girl's self esteem that was crushed but the parent's self esteem; parents who were living out their aspirations through their sixth grade girl's lives. I know this to be true because I had close intimate knowledge of one whose self esteem was misplaced.

Firing administrators because they did not do the right thing seems ludicrous. What was the right thing?  What would the soft headed suggest? Don't guard the not so good? Wouldn't that be a bit obvious? I am not sure that would have helped. The losers (and I use that term in the most loving way) scored their two points on free throws; one in the first half and one in the second half. So at best, the losers can hit 50% of their wide open shots. At that rate, the winners (I use that term in the most derisive way with a sneer on my lip and my voice dripping in sarcasm) would have to shoot 200 free throws and still the losers would have come up short. Maybe it we would have lowered the loser’s basket to 7 feet. That would have helped, but only if the winners would have agreed not guard the basket; because a winner would undoubtedly stand close to a lowered basket and heartlessly swat away loser shots.

It is obvious to me that the pundits thought something should be done and that something should be done by the winners not the whiners (once again said with loving admiration). Some how they should lose or at least make it close and make sure the losers don't know you are helping them out or their self esteem might be hurt.

I take great solace in this plan. An NBA career is in my immediate future. If Kobe Bryant has to make sure my self esteem is intact, he would have to play me on his knees without pads and only shoot left handed while blindfolded with a mouthful of saltines while trying to whistle the National Anthem of Latvia backwards. I'll show him.

Sadly, the funniest thing in this whole thing is our knee jerk thoughtless attempts to restore the self esteem of the injured. That comedian I mentioned early is Mike Epps; a Hoosier born and bred. He is a stand up comedian of some renown. He has been in a couple of comedies. I don't know what they were. Sorry, Mike's self esteem. But Mike was going to visit the losers and boost their spirits. Now Mike is uniquely qualified to boost young women's self esteem. He was cited in a newspaper article in March where he threatened to "f*** up" his daughter on an answering machine. Hello Mr. Baldwin? Am I the only person in journalism (I use the term loosely) who remembers this?  Why wasn't Mr. Epps called on this stunt in the media. Thankfully his daughter's self esteem was intact enough to allow her to call the police and file a report. Don't believe me? Google Mike Epps daughter.

So you see, it's a mess. The winners are losers. The losers are losers. We have mistaken celebrity for character. And I still can't trust the heat rating in a Thai restaurant.

Take care.

Roger

Completely tasteless?

Dearest blog reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am well on my road to recovery.  I had been quite sick coming off of the Thanksgiving holiday season. The dreaded cold had attacked the back of my throat and eustation tubes. During the course of this plague, I lost all sense of smell and taste.  This sensory depravation lasted a week and taught me several lessons about my relationship with food.

The only blessing in the loss was that the last thing that I had tasted was pecan pie alamode with hot fudge. What a way to go out on top. It would have been very sad if my taste buds would have gone on strike after that morning's breakfast of straight oatmeal. That morning I had even eschewed cinnamon sugar that morning. Already feeling a bit weak from the oncoming snot storm, I could not work  the sugar cinnamon grinder.  Who would have guessed that freshness counts with the sugar cinnamon combo for your breakfast toast and oatmeal entrees?

Apparently, it does. The Domino corporation has convinced the consuming public that sugar tastes fresher when you grind it's  crystals just prior to consumption. For me, hope and justification springs eternal as I grab the grinder. Hoping that the grinding caloric burn is greater than the intake I justify the application of a teaspoon of sugar to make my oatmeal yummy.

So last Sunday while I was experiencing dessert nirvana and wondering if I should use the cherry or regular flavor NyQuil, the dastardly virus was insinuating itself between my taste buds and that place in my brain that says "yum, that's good. Why yes, i would love some more."

I knew something was wrong in the middle of the night when I couldn't taste the chlorine in our city water. I had gotten used to our water filter being inactive after 6 months of the warning light announcing that it was time to bring in a replacement. I had hoped that the light would eventually burn out and stop nagging me about this mundane household chore that I obviously had no time to bother myself with. It is just so difficult to find the dedicated staff to keep a household running these days. Downton Abbey has so inflated my expectations.

Being tasteless for an entire week, or rather missing the sense of taste for a week was enlightening. I have had a life long . . . Struggle would be too cliche and too strong a word choice. It has been a lifelong dance with weight. Actually, it is food that I dance with; the weight just hangs out over around the punch bowl. I love ice-cream and candy. Cookies are a favorite too. Chocolate chip is at the top of the list. Peanut butter chocolate no bake oatmeal cookies (cat crap cookies in the vernacular of Bev's family. Look at them on a cookie sheet) are a caloric force of nature with butter, sugar, peanut butter, and chocolate, all held together by that famous cholesterol fighter; quick oats.

A hundred human reasons, the interplay between genetics and emotions, make up the Gordian knot of our relationship with food. Last week I was reminded that the main reason for my dance with food is that it tastes good and I like good things. I put a piece of chocolate in my mouth and it tastes good. I eat what tastes good to me. I don't know why I had to re-realize this truth. It was one of the earliest lessons taught to my generation. Shoot, taste was used as a behavioral modifier. "I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap, young man." How many of you had to endure that threat or it's sisterly corollary?  It worked too. I just wrote shoot instead of H. E. double hockey sticks.

Like the prodigal's father, I spent the week looking down the road looking for the lost's return. After five days, my inner Eeyore was starting to surface. What if? What if everything tasted like cardboard for the rest of my life. I was starting to despair. Thankfully, the high tide of snot started to recede. First, I could almost taste the spicy chili; then the hint of parsley snuck through the chicken soup. Gradually, like the spring thaw, I have been restored; restored with a new sense the goodness of good food, and the feeling that I should treat every meal like it could be my last. I want to take time to savor it, linger over it and end every meal with the pinnacle of good taste;  Pecan pie alamode with hot fudge.

Take care

Roger

wish you were here?

Dear blog reader;

 

I hope that this finds you doing well. Hopefully, like me, you are resurfacing from the tryptophan induced coma That you suffered as a result of the feast from Thursday. I know that after an extended weekend, I am nearly qualified for my Phd in blood chemistry manipulation; tryptophan down, pecan pie up, tryptophan down, pecan pie alamode up, tryptophan down, pecan pie alamode with hot fudge sauce up. Oh . . . Glorious day.

 

I am so thankful for this past weekend. It hit me this morning as I made my way out to a frost covered car. The glow on the eastern horizon announcing the sun's arrival for his short work day. It's orange tinge lit up my car. That was the problem. Only my car was there; lonely in its icy blanket. Just yesterday, it had been accompanied by two fellow travelers. At the weekend’s zenith, there had been ten cars parked around our tear shaped drive. It was the best festivus ever. What was going to be a small immediate family affair grew and grew into a full fledged multi-day sleep over. Cousins, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews all thrown together living large. 

 

There was the schooling that Aunt Bev gave nephew Austin at Words with Friends. Later, my esteem for Austin rose to monumental heights when he readily agreed to take out the compost. Austin, you are quickly becoming interesting.

 

There were numerous hands of demons. Demons is multi-player solitaire; which, I know, is oxymoronic. I hate being an oxymoron but there you have it. Imagine six or seven hyper competitive individuals standing around a table slapping down cards in suit order anxiously hoping that the person to their right or left will play that 7 of clubs setting them up for a three card run. A niece and daughter explosively shouting "crap" when they realize that the opportunity to play that pesky queen of diamonds just passed them by. A quick perusal of the board confirms that the next highest diamond pile is sitting on 5; meriting a triple "crap." A champion was crowned. An odds on favorite went down in ignominy. And like Peyton Manning who takes time to inspire the kids by signing autographs, Several aunts took time to play multiple games with the young cousins, sans the "crap" of course.

 

There were hoodlum nieces from IU taking mercilous ribbing in a loyal Purdue house.     Actually, the was one hoodlum niece who happens to be one of the most wholesome IU fans I know. There I go being an oxymoron again. As a gracious uncle, I gave her the joy of declaring my affinity for IU in the Bucket game. These were extenuating circumstances. A victory may have meant the retention of our head coach. A thought that would drive me to drink. You can imagine my surprise when I was able to have my pie, and my icecream, and my hot fudge sundae, with the bucket, a bowl, and a new coach.

 

The best part of the party? That was undoubtedly Mini Max discovering the joy of honey butter on warm yeast rolls. Max is one of the young cousins. He is very brave as demonstrated by his facing down 10 murderous dodgeball hooligans by his lonesome last December, also there was that incident where an over exuberant uncle used a power washer on him during power wash kickball. (Me just being a moron) All of the young cousins have reached the glorious age where they can get their own plates at feasts. In all honesty, they have probably been there for a while. It is my own  inattentive tendancies that have kept me from noticing that they have actually  a fair amount of independance.

 

Do you remember the first time you were able to fill your own plate; no oyster dressing, no cranberry salad. What dad? You didn't think that I noticed you piling up my plate so that the "goodies" would be all gone when you went through after you "got the children settled?" No, that first time was all noodles, potatoes, ham, mac and cheese, and three cookies. Don't worry I'll come back for desert. That was Thursday. I don't remember the first time either.

 

Max went though the line very level headed the first time. His eyes weren't bigger than his tummy, his grandfather's admonitions being properly channeled through the generations. Turkey, noodles, potatoes, mac and cheese and a roll with just a dollop of this runny butter stuff. He worked his way around the plate until his eyes lit up when he bit into the golden goodness of honey butter on a warm yeast roll. What was that cartoon character who when biting into his favorite food would levitate ten feet into the air and come floating gently to the ground? Yeah, that's him. It was just like that. (A hearty handshake and a pat on the back if you share your vast useless cartoon knowledge with the rest of us.)

 

Well, Max excuses himself from the table for seconds. Do you remember learning the lesson that you can't go through for seconds until everyone has gone through first? Hurry up grandma!

 

He comes back with 6 rolls and a big dollop of honey butter. He polishes off the first two quietly, when a generous host notices that the honey butter will not even out. She gets up and gets the bowl of honey butter and sets in front of him. What was a lonely solitary pursuit, has suddenly become very interesting. How many is that Max? "Three." "You got 4 more to go." "I know. They are so good and the honey butter . . ."

 

Number 4 went down. No trouble. Things slowed on number 5. Number six took cheers of "I say mini. You say Max. Mini. MAX, mini, MAX, mini, MAX." Number seven was easy, momentum being what it is. Although there was a bit of controversy while, the officials made sure there was nothing hiding in his cheeks.

 

I am left on Monday morning, in a peaceful sunrise. Thankful for all of the family that I was with and missing the family I will see soon. The best festivus ever, except for yours.

 

Take care.

 

Roger

 

 

That sounds familiar?

This is a republished blog about my favorite day when we still farmed. I still remember the Monday before Thanksgiving fondly. Thank you for allowing this small indulgence on my part.

I am often asked if I miss farming. I don't. That doesn't mean that I love my new career, or have found some new task to fill a hole that stopping farming left. I haven't. I do not miss farming because none of it was romantic for me. At least the romance was worn off very quickly by the harsh realities of scrambling to out wit the weather, the bugs, and the market.

That paragraph isn't completely true. I miss farming one day a year. I miss farming the Monday before Thanksgiving each year, which was the day we would butcher the range turkeys that we had raised since June. The following is a narrative about that day. I hope it captures the romance of that Monday before Thanksgiving because it is the one day each year that I felt awe while farming.

Frost under the moon making the 100 yards to the barn a silvered landscape. Hunting for the light switch flicking it. That light blazing against the deep 5:00 a.m. dark in the old milk parlor where his grandfather and father had held the daily ritual of harvesting what God had provided. That twice daily ritual, which he himself had participated in through high school, had taught the lesson of a long obedience in the same direction with unerring certitude to all three men. The harsh barn lights illuminating the fog of his breath as he set up the barn before the crew arrived at 8:00. The scalder had to be filled. Standing close to the scalder to stay warm while doing the final honing of knives, he would listen to the hiss from the burner underneath the scalding pot and be enveloped by its steam as its temprature crept closer to the feather loosening 145 degrees. After the knives could shave the hair on his arm, he would move on to sanitizing the knives and every square inch of equipment and counter top that he could find.

Every element of the ritual of preparation;  the hour, the cold, the breath, the hiss, the steam, the peripheral warmth, the smell of the bleach, would hone his thoughts to the task at hand. He would contemplate those sleeping birds, roosted in the barn after being herded in from the range last evening with the kids in the slanted dusk of late November.

He had learned through the years that a good turkey butcher started in early June when those 3 day old poults would come in a box to the back dock of the post office. Chicks so fragile, it takes constant attention and perfect care to only loose 25% over the 1st week. Perfect care rarely happened on this farm. There was the one summer where the intern, trying to help, shut the 4 week old turkeys up in the brooder allowing no ventilation. Remembering he could see, Jim coming to the house, ashen faced, saying "come quick something is wrong with the Turkeys." Going out on a run, opening the brooder lid and seeing what good intentions and lack of attention had caused. Jumping inside the brooder picking up the young turkeys, caring for the ones that could make it, piling up the ones that would not. Watching Jim weep from his mistake saying he was going to quit. "You can't quit now. You have to work hard enough the rest of the year to earn back what we lost this morning." was the only reply he could muster through his anger.

How could he forget the Saturday morning loading out for farmer's market, Doug coming to the barn, out of breath panting that a dog was in the turkey coop. Hopping on the 4 wheeler, racing the quarter mile to the pasture field where the mobile coops were located, finding a big old German Shepard had pried up the protective poultry wire and was just pouncing from one turkey to another. Grabbing them in its slobbery jaws and with one powerful shake; kill it, drop it, and chomp the next one. Picking up a stick swinging at the dog getting it on the run and chasing it through the town to its owner’s house. Pounding on the door bringing a bleary eyed, leopard print, boxer short clad, man to the door. Having to explain that those feathers around his dog's mouth came from his turkeys and leopard print would have to pay for them. He would be back with the tally in the afternoon; 27 dead - 5 maimed to not recover - 8 week old turkeys, half way to Thanksgiving. Him knowing from reputation that none of the $640 due in compensation would be collected.

No there were many years that the work to be done on the Monday before Thanksgiving would count less than 75 from the 100 poults that arrived in that box. Each year's setbacks were with him as he made his way to the barn; making the day that would stretch out before the crew feel like a miracle.

At 7:30, the crew would start to arrive. Bleary-eyed and not quite ready to go, they had self-selected over the years, so that they were all returners with a friend or two they had brought along so they could share where that Thanksgiving turkey really came from.  By 8:00, the preparations all made, and jobs assigned, the first cut would be made.

He knew that objectively the business at hand was messy, smelly, hard work. And on an industrial level, many argued that it was dehumanizing for those who participated. At this level and with these people, he had never felt more alive. Each person took care to do their part well and quickly, taking time to share their lives with each other, often through silence as the day wore on.  

That silence disappeared at lunch. His wife, a farmer’s daughter, would create a spread fueled by memories of hard working families coming together to put long past harvests in the barn. A practice that was lost in one generation of industrial farming that migrated a rural population of producers to an urban population of consumers, and left the farmers that remained as competitors and not community.

After a time of sharing lives, he knew the crew was coming back to the task in the barn when someone would ask, “So you think that we are half way done yet?”  He had made sure that they were. He knew from experience that it was always best to break a little past half way. It was hard work for him and for a crew that spent most of the day thinking and not doing physical work it was doubly so. He knew that it was best to push hard in the morning when you were fresh and then “coast” during the afternoon. So while 40 of the birds had been finished in the morning, four long hours of work remained during the afternoon.

So back to the barn, and back to work, they went with stomachs full. As the day wore on, the silences grew longer. The novelty wore off and it just became work. Wasn’t that what summer had become? The dog days of summer wore on through the weather changes of September, October’s Indian Summer, and November’s short days, killing freezes and low gray clouds until this day and the job was done.

The sun was down. The barn washed down. The birds were in the cooler. The parts hauled to the wood chip pile where the alchemy of composting would break everything down to a rich compost for use next year as the farm woke from its winter solace. The chill had returned to the barn, and the harsh light illuminated the clouds of breath as he turned to the door and turned the lights off.

He would turn to the house. Thankful that another long obedience in the same direction had blessed his life.

Take care,

Roger

One Trick Pony?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. 66 degrees and sunny on Veteran's Day is an indication that weather wise things are going well.

This is one of those quick little blogs that springs to mind from time to time. A thought grabs my attention. It is a fully self contained thought that doesn't need much expository composition.

Today's blog is an etymology lesson. Yes, I am going to help you learn about the origin of a word. I hope to redeem my readership's esteem with a serious educational tome after last week's diversion into potty humor. It appears that sensibilities were offended.

In the middle of last week's blog I used the word bidet. I wasn't sure about its spelling. I tried the hooked on phonics method and sounded it out. B E D A Y. Something in my mind (spell checker) said that's not right. Bidet sounds a bit French to me. B E D A E. Again that still small voice (spell checker) said that I was wrong. In fact, I was so wrong that no close suggestions were given.

I could hear Mrs. Ash, my fourth grade battle ax of a teacher, say, "look it up in the dictionary." I always wanted to point out to her that dictionaries were for looking up definitions, not spellings. In fact, the key to dictionary use is the correct spelling of the word you are trying to find. As you can see looking for bidet in the bedae section was going to be an exercise in futility. You could say that I would flush my day away with such futility.

Thankfully, google saved the day. I searched on "butt washing toilet", and viola, bidet appeared.

In our world, language is ever evolving. Once a year, Merriam Webster sends out a press release declaring that they are prepared to acknowledge 5 or 6 new words that people have been using for the past 5 years or so. It makes the morning NPR newscast and we all go about our day thinking up other words for future newscasts, hoping that some clever utterance will enter the lexicon of human history.

For example, in this political season, President is from the 14th century. It is derived from the Latin word praesidere meaning to lead or govern. That makes perfect sense.

As I looked up bidet, I found that it is a French word; as predicted. It is from the 17th century. It is not that old of a word. This is also to be expected because indoor plumbing is not very old in the annals of time and surely this iteration of public health took some time to develop. So everything was proceeding as expected. Then to my surprise, I found that bidet is the French word for pony.

Really? How in the world did the French get from pony to butt washing toilet. Then I realized that we are talking about the French. I suppose that the early French were busy throwing down their rifles and running away, and in their haste, they lost their backpacks containing the ration of toilet paper. Who knows? Maybe a small captain was riding away from battle on a small pony when the call of nature over took him. To his horror, he realized the error of his ways and could find no suitable vegetative substitute. Necessity being the mother of invention, he looked around saw his pony and viola etymological history was made.

Leave it to the French.

Take care

Roger

Flush with success?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. Bev and I have warmed up and recovered nicely from the long, beautiful ride along the shores of Lake Indiana. I am humbled by the power of words. Last blog I continued my quest to change the name of that lake to the north from Lake Michigan to Lake Indiana. Mother Nature took umbridge. The cold north wind, on its way to a date with its Carribean hottie over New York and New Jersey, poured down the length of the lake trying to gobble up our lovely shore. Waves that started on Canada's southern shore at 6 inches reached 20 feet against Indiana's cul de sac of a northern shore.

In this political season, it appears that the words Lake Indiana had the power  to make someone very angry. While some politicians would rush to the microphone and give the famous fake apology "if my words have offended any one, I truly apologize," I will not. I do not care if Michigan and Mother Nature are offended.

First off, the "if I have offended someone" apology really means "I apologize to all the namby pamby sissies out there whose feelings are so sensitive that they were hurt by my obviously innoculus words.  By any reasonable standard what I said wasn't offensive, but if your unreasonable feelings were hurt, then sure, I apologize.
As grandma Nellie used to say, "if is a mighty big word, boy."
Secondly, if some of my Hoosier forebearers had a little bit of back bone, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I never understood. I sat in Mr. Hiday's Indiana history class. I looked at the Indiana Territory map. We were sitting pretty. Our name was on land that included Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, and most of Minnesota. Ten years later, Indiana was the smallest state and our lake took the wolverine moniker. The twelve year old Roger still shakes his head in disgust at the weak leadership. I hope that Mother Nature did have her feelings hurt. We can take your huffing and puffing.

I have digressed. I started this blog with something on my mind. As I mentioned in "Take a Deep Breath" a couple of blogs back, we have moved to a new building at work. It is a very nice building. It has all of the modern energy saving conveniences. We have motion detecting light switches that saves my energy by keeping me from having to flip the switch when I enter the room. It also automatically shuts off when the switch detects no movement in the room for ten minutes. This proved very embarrassing for an office mate who was "concentrating" so hard that the lights went out on him.

Our heating system is state of the art also. Each room is zone controlled. It turns down as we leave the building and comes up so that we will be comfortable as we arrive for another hard day of work. The zones are controlled from the boss's computer. Thankfully,  she is too busy and much too serious to really mess with people's head by manipulating their room temp like a roller coaster all day long. I, on the other hand, have a more diabolical dream.

The toilets are the other modern convenience that has captured my imagination. No. . . we had toilets at the old location. It is just that these toilets have a sensor that flushes the toilet when you are done. I know this technology has been around for several years. This is a little different. The user has to signal their intent that every thing is done. The package has been delivered and is ready for transport so to speak. I am guessing that there must have been some miscommunication regarding intent in the old days, with the old proximity sensors that would flush as the body mass moved away. I am not sure of the cause of these premature flushes. Maybe the user was a squirmer; couldn't get comfortable on the throne, or maybe the package was hard to deliver and there was rocking back and forth involved. A sudden movement out of the zone, and we have a bidet moment; a little dampness on the touché, so to speak. This caused obvious misunderstandings as the victim tried to dry things off with the hand dryer and an oblivious coworker walked in.

So now as I contemplate the complexities of the business world while taking care of business, I see a small icon surrounded by chrome that encourages me to wave. It appears that when this most humble hand gesture of greeting or departure is given, a valve is opened and the package is delivered to another dimension. My troubles are flushed away with this familiar gesture of what once meant companionship.

The subtle and complex issues that arise from this mixing of distinct  yet equally important human gestures has thrown me for a loop. Not only has my upbringing been brought into question, but I may have ruined my children's lives too. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't Freud say that in order for proper fetching up, we were supposed to praise our young one's (or is that Jung one's)when they delivered the package at the appropriate time and place. Reliving this event from my own experiences, my parents promptly flushed my gift down the toilet. That is one mixed message. Good boy Johnny, lets get rid of this disgusting part of you. Let's wave good riddance to you hard work. So here I am 48 years later still adhering to societal norms, doing the things that society demands and having to wave goodbye to the fruits of my labor. Thanks a lot progress.

Take care.

Roger.

A great 37 miles?

Dearest Blog Reader:

I hope that this blog finds you doing well. I am fine. I am a bit better than fine actually. Bev and I took the advice of my last blog. We took a minute and took a breath. We have gravitated back to Beverly Shores and Lake Indiana, which is one of my favorite places to get away from most of it all. We have visited often enough that we are starting to get more and more adventurous. Yesterday, Bev and I went on a biking trek. The goal was 50 miles to Warren Woods which is a climax beech and maple forest in southern Michigan. It is truely a beautiful, majestic place; straight and true timbers reaching 100 feet into the air. It is a sight to behold; especially for a lumber jack that is in the middle of cutting six cord of wood for winter heat. Next time bring the chainsaw????

I mentioned that our goal was 50 miles. In a shout out to Doyle, Bev's dad, our eyes were bigger than out tummies. We bit off more than we could chew. The wrong socks were selected for the breathable shoes that were brought to the North country. Note to self; breathable equals colder that heck on a bike in 40 degree weather with a 18 mph head wind. Thankfully, we made it as far as Redamack's legendary burger shop before turning back. Free restaurant review alert. Redamack's has good burgers. However, "legendary" is a bit overrated. It is not legendary; unless you heard a legend that Redamack's doesn't serve coffee and you have to purchase your fries separately from your burger; then it is legendary. Haven't Michigander's heard of warm liquids or the meal deal concept?

This moment, to take a breath, to relax, to eschew our usual weekend activities, coincides with my one-hundredth blog post. That's right you can brag to your friends that you have read approximately 14,000 words of legendary prose. Go ahead take a moment to savor that accomplishment. There you go. Has the dizziness and light headed feeling passed?  Good, you'll be okay.

I want to thank you my loyal readers for your commitment to these endeavors. I can't tell you how many times each week the words "dear blog reader, I hope this finds you doing well causes me to smile as I contemplate the next installment.

Personal notes about 100 blog posts;
Most read; Beware. Really? I know. It is just a rant about how the powers that be try to keep us scared and cowering in the corner. It's success can be attributed to the fact that I used a google image of a beware sign. When people google beware that image shows on the results page, a few extra random people click on the blog and have a read.

Favorite; Girls Gone Wild.  It is my favorite because it was the first one and its  about one of my children taking a risk and jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.

Best; Turkey in the Straw. It is a blog about butchering turkeys; which for me was one of the most spiritual acts of my life. I know it sounds weird, but for me, it was true.

Most recognized recurring character; Assassin Deer. Which generated best comment on Facebook. "That was weird."

Most impact; Based on reader comments, May I Have This Dance? It was a blog that surprised me. A brief witness to two cyclists riding by our peony patch in May. She called out to him, "Do you see those flowers?" That encounter led to one of the easiest blogs that I have written.

Most impact; Based on world climatology; Man Made Climatology. This blog also took the most planning and preparation; planning that took 9 months, two continents, and three co-conspiritors to implement. The result was Issac, a category 3 hurricane that went a long way to breaking the drought. The downside is that we now have copycat hurricane seeders in the Carribean. Good luck New York as Sandy makes her way through town.

The rest are there to read and enjoy. The blogs are getting easier to write. There was a while when I would open the word processor with no idea of what to write. I would arrive with just the discipline of weekly words. Those were the hardest to write. Starting with typing random thoughts, an idea would start to emerge. Typing a few more lines, a theme, that could be forged into 1400 words, would take form. Today, the ideas brew throughout the week. They steep in the tea of my weekly life and are ready to go by the time I sit here with you.

Coming at writing with the necessary discipline to forge ideas into a theme is an important first step to be a good writer. One-hundred blogs have given me a brief glimpse of that. The second step is motivational. What is my motivation for writing this blog? I write this blog for the attention. I am like a dog who lives to have his belly rubbed. I am not a guard dog. I do not fetch or plat frisbee. I do no heard sheep. I live to have my belly rubbed. I watch the stats closely after each posting. I long for likes on Facebook. I celebrate every reposting; knowing that it will drive the stats. I pray for a viral post. Thankfully, the fever isn't as high as it was when I first started writing. I am getting closer to writing and letting it go. It will mean that I have gotten to a point where I have written what best reflects what I see. I think that then these blogs will be good for me.

It is good that I am a better bike rider than writer. The goal was 50 miles. Our best was 37. It was a beautiful 37 and not a missed 13.

Take care.

Roger

There you go. Take a deep breathe?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope this blog finds you doing well. I am pretty well. Things have definitely shifted. While we had a near frost experience on September 22, two weeks of autumnal tilt away from the sun has settled the issue for this year. Last Sunday night we had a freeze. I don’t know if my weatherman knew that he was doing this, but he mentioned that it was the coldest day of the year since April 12. That was salt in the wounds of we local apple and cider lovers. April 12 is the day that sealed our apple a day fates. The tougher plants will still do some growing. In fact, all of my greens, carrots and beets are still growing just fine. I hope to get some row cover in operation and have good greens through Thanksgiving. I still have to plant my garlic for next year. It is all over for the weaker cousins though. I say good riddance to the gypsum weeds; goodbye morning glory. A lawn mowing season that started in March is nearly over. We would have had buy replacement mowers if the middle three months had not been so dry. However, even the cheapest of mowers aren’t challenged when playing connect the buckhorn.

This turn in the weather coincides with a big change at work. We are moving a production facility with all of its attendant doodads and thingamablobs. It doesn’t really matter what they were or even how far they were moved. It was a challenge and I am glad that it is nearly over. We will spend a week or two looking for an odd misplaced doodad and that thingamablob that we can’t do with out. However, the physical part is over. That is a good thing.

They say that moving is one of the biggest stressors in one’s life. Convincing a department that a move is a good thing, that all of the work will get done on time for the move, reassuring employees that everything will turn out okay, making seating and office assignments, eliminating reserved parking, these things cause the stress to go off of the charts. I was reminded of this the other day when I couldn’t remember the last time that I just sat down and breathed deep. That recognition of lack of deep breaths has come back to me several times the last two weeks as the pressure of the move came to a head. I would be in a meeting helping 3 or 4 people identify solutions to potential problems that we had not even faced yet, and suddenly, I would noticed that I hadn’t taken a good deep breath.

I attended a wonderful wedding. It was a low key, kick back, enjoy yourself and those around you event. The families that were coming together genuinely enjoyed one another. It strikes me that the bride and groom, now husband and wife, have a sense about them that they know the wedding was not the event to succeed at but the marriage. I like those kinds of weddings. In spite of that, I had an odd sensation at the end as the families decided that a critical mass of festivants had made their way to the door and it was time to start cleaning up. I sensed that these family members started breathing again.

I don’t think that I would have noticed except that I find myself not breathing deep because of Grace and Chris’ impending nuptials next June. My shallow breathing is not out of fear or foreboding. I have the same sense of blessing for these two that I witnessed last weekend. They know that the wedding isn’t the thing. The marriage is. They are committed to leaving their biological families and knitting a new family between themselves with God’s help. I know these things and yet my breathing is still shallow. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself bussing tables, pulling table cloths, stacking chairs and suddenly realizing that I can breathe.

I have a counseling friend who tried to convince me that the greek for  the holy spirit was breath of life. God “breathed” life into Adam. He tried to convince me that deep breathing is a spiritual exercise. This move and these two weddings have gone a long way in convincing me that is the truth. I believe it because in the physical here and now, I have a tendency to forget to breath deep. The physicality of moving all of that stuff, concentrating on all of those details sucks my breath away. There is no time to breath deep. Even more telling is breathing deep causes me to forget about the physical for a moment. It takes me elsewhere for a brief period of time. It shifts my attention to the spiritual.

In the heat of the moment, shifting attention to the spiritual is the problem. It is the part that I don’t trust. The spiritual won’t get the boxes moved, won’t develop an emergency escape plan, and it certainly won’t maintain production while the movers are taking your machines when electricity isn’t quite connected in the new building. The spiritual won’t get the dress made, the cake made, the invitations addressed. No, it is the physical world that will get these things done.

The spiritual-physical dichotomy is one we are forced to deal with in this corporeal world with what I believe to be spiritual underpinnings.  Physically, I want to get things done. I get a kick out of imposing my will on a task with a pile of challenges and a calendar. I love to do that. However, I can only do it for so long and then I have to stop and breathe. That stopping used to bother me. I was being lazy. I wasn’t being productive. Things weren’t getting done because I wasn’t doing them. As I read CS Lewis, I was able to embrace the spiritual-physical dichotomy. In Screwtape Letters, he described it as the law of undulation. It is natural to undulate between the spiritual and the physical through out our lives. They are just both a phase of who we are. Both are of the kingdom of God. It is natural to have times of great physicality; times where we are stretched and pulled towards doing things. Just as it is natural for those physical things to tire us, it is natural to feel a great need to rest; a time to stop and breath.

That is what happened last week. The cold came and put a stop to much of the physical. There will be a little bit of growing to do in the weeks ahead. But the time to stop and breath is here. So take a nice deep breathe and relax.

Take care.

Roger.

Harvest Moon?

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. I am at the end of a very intense and eventful week. I officially started the wood cutting season Friday. I am three weeks late. However, with taking a day off, and piecing together a three day weekend next week as my employer sees fit to celebrate the capital of Ohio on October 8, (look it up) I hope to get two loads a weekend and get myself back on schedule.  I know that it seems incongruous worried about wood cutting on beautiful 70 degree late September days, but I need twelve loads of wood before the snow flies or next January and February will be tense as I wait for a winter thaw to sneak out and get some wood to tide me over before the next big blizzard.

I do not use the verb "sneak" lightly. Everyone knows that the assassin deer become even more terrible and fearsome during the winter months. In order to be successful, I would have to sneak out to the woods, cut down trees using very loud and not very sneaky chainsaws, split the wood and get back to the safety of the house all before I was discovered by those crafty and cranky deer. They're cold for goodness sakes. They are jealous of our building skills and secretly hate our long winter naps in our warm quilt covered beds with our non-ice covered indoor plumbing. I imagine that is what they hate most. There is nothing worse than urinating on frozen ground and having said urine splash up on your tiny cloven hooves; nothing worse except not being able to wash the urine from your little cloven hooves because the stream is frozen over.

It has been an eventful week on the assassin deer front, as you can guess since the first two paragraphs have been dominated by their sad lots in life. On Monday evening, I was ambushed by two assassins. It had been rainy. The clouds were blocking what little light we receive during the dusk moments of late September. I was on the last leg of my evening ride. As I came upon the elementary school, I heard a series of crashes coming from the corn field on my left. I turned my head quickly left and saw two assassin deer 20 feet away emerging from the cornfield with menace in their eyes. I did not hesitate and swerved my bike towards them and started up a banshee type yell. The yell and the newly purchased helmet light, which is very bright, startled them just enough that their courage waivered. They turned their white little tails and like the French ran away. I chased them 50 yards down the side of the field

With their flight, I was fortunate, because last weekend the assassin deer struck with deadly efficiency. In an article tucked in the middle of the state section in the Indianapolis Star were a few paragraphs that reported an ATV enthusiast was killed in an ATV accident near Peru, Indiana. He had been pinned between his ATV and a tree. The authorities were unsure of the sequence of events that lead to this tragic accident but the accident had occurred the evening before when the victim had told friends that he wanted to go out for one more ride. I say accident smaccident. How does a man alone get accidently pinned to a vertical surface by a vehicle that you have to be on to operate? He doesn’t, not even if alcohol was involved.

Sure you can pop a wheelie and have the vehicle come over and pin you to the ground; a horizontal surface. Sure, you can ride on too steep a grade and have the ATV tip left or right trapping the rider on the ground. Once again, that is a horizontal surface. This man was trapped between this ATV and a vertical tree. I find it incongruous that he stood against the tree, held on to the throttle, put the vehicle in gear, let out on the clutch and had enough speed to pin and subsequently kill himself against a tree. Depending on his girth and arm length the distance traveled may well have been less than 4 inches. Let’s be generous and say that he was fit and had grotesquely long arms, the machine may have traveled 10 inches. How many ATVs can go from zero to twenty in 10 inches? Zero, I tell you.

No the authorities think that we can’t read between the lines. They think that we live in the world of make believe where the rules of physics don’t apply. Well, I for one live in the real world. There are other forces at work here. I think that the byline provides the most important clue of all – Peru, Indiana. Peru, Indiana has long been known as circus city. What do circuses have? They have trained animals; smarter than your average bear types. They look all trained and docile, laying there, chewing their cud, with that thousand yard stare in their eyes.

Look Timmy, I wonder what that trained deer is thinking. I’ll tell you what he is thinking mom. He is thinking if I only had opposable cloven feet I could drive an ATV through the woods and pin unsuspecting humans to vertical surfaces. Then one day one of the smarter ones after walking through a clay pit noticed that the clay sticking to its dewclaw adhering tightly enough that with the proper manipulation and practice it could be used to operate the throttle on an ATV with an automatic transmission. Sure, it would not be able to assassinate a real man; a man that had an ATV with a manual transmission and a clutch. But a sissy, automatic transmission, ATV driving, man would work, and you had to start some where.

But the deer knew nothing but frustration. It had perfected it’s dewclaw mud packing extensions to a science, but it could not be manipulated with the dexterity needed for its awful purposes. It lacked the range of motion and fine motor skills need for its nefarious plot. Then one day as with most evolutionary jumps, outside forces came together to let the assassin deer move beyond antler goring and bicycle ambushes. One day, little Timmy grew up and had his thinking contaminated by Disney. Watching Bambi during his formative years, he was heart broken when Bambi cried over her fallen mother at the hands of the murderous hunter. This injustice must be rectified, Timmy thought.

So Timmy became an animal orthopedic surgeon. He practiced his craft, setting dog and cat legs. Always paying special attention to those cases that involved the lower legs of the cloven foot animals. He would do pro-bono work on goats, sheep, and cows, always perfecting his craft, studying how to give Bambi the tools needed for revenge.

Well, I hope that you are happy Timmy. Your dreams and Bambi’s dreams for murderous terror in the wood have been realized.

So those of you who spent one or two evenings this weekend around a fire enjoying the spectacular Harvest Moon, remember that those campfires were being watched, and in 28 days something else will enjoy the Hunter’s Moon.

Take care,

Roger

interesting transitions?

Dear blog reader;

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. "Dear blog reader" is my 4th favorite weekly salutation. Number 1 through 3? Well, number one is "hey Bevo" - pronounced Beavo. This salutation is used daily during a lunch time phone call where Bev and I catch up and support each other through whatever challenges have presented themselves during the forenoon.

Number 2 and number 3 are a tie. They are;

Dearest Ben;
Dearest Grace;
I hope this letter finds you doing well. Actually for Grace in Ghana, I shortened it to "I hope this letter finds you." These are weekly handwritten misives that I send to Ben and Grace. A practice that I started when Ben went to college; a practice that, because of its self-therapeutic benefits, appears to be established any time they aren't in my house for the foreseeable future.

The therapy is all mine. I believe that my imagination gets me much closer to their personhood than calling or texting. In my mind, the technical intermediaries, while instant, only testify to the distance that separates us. No matter how fast or clear, we are disconnected. The technology passes the disembodied self. Once delivered, it disappears, left to memories that fade. In my mind at least, part of me is transported in the paper. The paper that I scrawled over is the paper they pull out, un-crease, turn toward the light and read. In this regard, I am a Luddite.

So you are number four. Not bad. While out of the medal ceremony, my desire to communicate with you wins in hundreds and hundreds of competitions held daily for my time. Brush my teeth vs the blog? You win. The blog vs clean the toilet? You win.  The laundry vs the blog? For two weeks you win then crisis sets in and I either have to buy another package of underwear or postpone the blog for a week. You get the picture. The problem is that we have entered a time of transition; that awkward time between summer and fall. September is that time every year when there is the lawn to cut and, at our house, firewood season is starting. It’s that time of year when our hemisphere is getting serious about tilting away from the sun. Consequently, those 8:00 p.m. bike rides in July with plenty of daylight are now started at dusk and finished in the dark.

Yes, we are transitioning and I am finding it difficult to have my cake and eat it too. So writing you is number four in the salutation parade, the only real problem with that is I am experiencing several 3 1/2 salutations-per-week weeks recently.

Transitions are difficult. New things tempt you. Yet, you can't abandon the old things. Both are important. However, I have found that I am an old hand at these transitions. The wood will get cut. I will be driven inside by the cold and dark. The grass will stop growing. I will be able to spend those 6 hours crafting weekly salutations. It is all good.

I suppose that age has made it easier to handle the transitions. The advantage of age was brought home to me recently. One of our nieces has been living with us for the past month as she starts her work career. She has just moved to the area and the apartment she found is unavailable for another week. Bev and I really have enjoyed her time here.

I personally have a standing rule that no child is interesting to me until they reach their 18th birthday. Until then, they have no real opinions of their own. Their parents make all of their decisions for them. Even the rebellious children let their parents make all of their decisions. They are so hooked into being rebellious that they do the opposite no matter the advice given.

Once they are 18 they become intensely interesting to me. So our niece is living with us during her time of interestingness. She was up early for her first day of work. I was getting my breakfast and I asked her if she was looking forward to the first work day of the next fifty years of work. I think that everyone should be faced with that question when they start work. All of those pictures taken on the first day of kindergarten; wasted. Elementary graduation wasted. That valedictory address useless. No, we need to support the youth as they become interesting and start their work lives.

We, specifically the baby boomers, have skin in the game on this one. As a representative at the very tail-end of this failed generation, I need my niece to work all fifty of those years if I want to get my social security for the first 35 years of my 75 years of retirement. (See launching pad from June.) If that math is correct, I need to encourage her to have about a dozen children along with that 50 year work career. No wonder her eyes got very wide as she thought about 50 years of work. I suppose the twelve kids would make it easier for her. With six weeks of maternity leave each time she will only have a 48 1/2 year career; bargain.

Fifty is a daunting number when looking at it from the starting line. The thought of doing that so someone else (even your favorite uncle) won't have to work is even more unappealing. Work and the desire not to work is a complicated issue. Hopefully, she won't try to un-complicate things with a pillow in the middle of the night. That would be interesting.

Take care.

Roger.

man made climatology?

Dearest Blog Friend;

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am particularly fine. I start this blog after just riding 32 miles. Whew! That will get your heart rate up and open your pores. My weekend worked out a little better this week. I managed to fit in a long bike ride, a nap, and finish a blog. This one won't be posted tonight but with a good start I am hopeful that I will finish this before Isaac gets here. He is one very slow child. He is just dawdling along his curve-ball path up to the great state of Indiana. We should not be critical. He has come great distances. His consistent lack of meeting other people's expectations has worn his resolve to the point that he may not be able to meet the hopes and aspirations that I had for him.

Oh, I had aspirations for him. I am very fond of Isaac. I am fond of Isaac because I begat him. So like any failed father, I had "ass"pirations that Isaac would leave his mark on the world when I couldn't. I know what you are thinking. Roger, you have taken this blog far enough. We might put up with assassin deer. Assassin deer with their raccoon cohorts can be a little whimsical if they aren't taken too far. But begetting a hurricane is too much to accept, too much to listen to. You may be skeptical. I know that you are thinking that my delusions have over taken me. I have lost touch with reality. However, I do not make these claims of parentage lightly. I have science on my side.

It all started over a year ago. Grace was going to Ghana. In an effort, to empathize with someone who was leaving a perfectly adequate first world country for a third world country, the lovely Beverly purchased a travel guide. Said travel guide claims that over 10,000 species of butterflies thrive in Ghana and western Africa.

Suddenly, things became clear. The waters off the coast of West Africa are well known to be the cradle of hurricanes. Thank you Weather Channel. Also, my vast encyclopedic mind recalled chaos theory and its sub-heading the butterfly effect. Since I gain all knowledge in a very shallow and haphazard fashion, I will not try to teach you. After all, the purpose of this blog is entertainment not information. Suffice it to say, I have based my suppositions on the sound scientific thought of others. In this case, some nerd thought about chaos theory for a while and then wrote the following paper: "Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly’s Wings in Brazil set off a Tornado in Texas." In it, he predicts that a single butterfly flapping it's wings one time at just the right moment will set up a series of   untraceable and unpredictable atmospheric events that will lead to a tornado in Texas.

The generic butterfly thing got me thinking. We need to send our top entomologists out. They need to capture these butterflies and put little baffles on their wings so that they only create soft summer breezes not tornados. However, when I heard that there were 10,000 different species in a tiny country like Ghana, I realized that we don't have enough unemployed entomologists. This realization caused me distress. We have a hurricane problem people. The problem has been identified. Why don't we do something about it? It seems to me that we may at least want to send a few thousand cans of Raid over. Think if the lives that would be saved. Alas, it appears that it may not be environmentally friendly. To which I want to respond "well mother nature isn't winning any Miss Congenially awards throwing hurricanes our way for three months each year."

I did not let the bitterness of having a great life changing idea thrown on the ash heap of ideas stop me though. I kept pondering about hurricanes and butterflies. Suddenly, it hit me. Why do butterflies get to have all of the fun? What could produce a puff of wind that would set off a cascade unpredictable yet causal events that would send a hurricane to the coast of America? In one of those serendipitous moments, (I had eaten beans for lunch) it struck me. A fart would do it. If the flap of a butterfly's wings could have sent us Hugo or Katrina, just think of the destructive force of a well placed and well timed fart.

So, I sent Grace a frantic email last September instructing her to drop everything, run down to the beach and, like Monty Python, fart in our general direction. Initial results were promising. We got a named storm. Gert was her name. She wasn't very powerful, but I figured that Grace didn't put her heart into it. When you're trying to trigger a hurricane, you can't let propriety hold you back. As Tedd Marchebroda used to tell Jim Harbaugh, you have to "let'er rip."

The success of Gert was actually a set back though. Grace became scared. I thought that Pinky and the Brain had inculcated her to the use of diabolical power. "What we doin today Brain?" "The same thing we do everyday Pinky; try to take over the world." With a weapon of mass destruction at her control, she demurred. She stepped back from the brink. This posed a problem. I knew that I had at least the potential for a category 3 or 4 in me. However, I had no intention of going to Ghana. What to do? What to do? My farts were here and the cradle of hurricanes was on the other side of the world.

Fate smiled fondly upon me. Grace came home for Christmas. Getting up in the middle of the night, I got into Grace's luggage and removed a "gallon" of clothing. Then, I got a gallon Baggie and filled it with "hurricane starter." This posed it's own challenges. Any ballon will lose air over time. Once again serendipity struck. I used our vacuum sealer to enclose the gallon bag of compressed "hurricane starter" with two thermal seams.

Mission accomplished, my "hurricane starter" was on the same continent as the cradle of hurricanes. While you can only take 3 ounces of shampoo in a baggy on a plane, I am glad to report that you can transport at least a gallon of "hurricane starter." I feel safer already. Thanks TSA. Grace was a bit miffed about the missing clothes, but I told her that she would have to get over it. Diabolical planners often force others to make sacrifices for their cause. I told her that the hurricane starter was already in contact with the cradle of hurricanes. She couldn't release it slowly. Once opened, that "cat" would be out of the bag.  If she chickened out and tried to bring it back, I would inform the powers that be and she would be returned to Ghana.

So Grace, stuck in an untenable situation. hoped that a stale fart would not be effective. Consequently, she did not keep the baggie refrigerated as instructed. Finally, I convinced her to enlist the help of a co-conspirator, who would release the starter at the appropriate time. So on August 21st, my progeny was released into the wilds of Ghana. He lingered for a few days, and through a series of untraceable and unpredictable atmospheric events, he came home.

Bev asked me how I knew that Isaac was mine. I went out on the front porch, took in a deep breath and proclaimed; "the smeller's the feller."

Take care.

Roger

A perfect 10

Dear Blog Friend

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. It is official. I am starting a petition to the powers that be for an extra 4 to 5 hours every weekend. There is just too much fun to pack into 48 hours and get to bed early enough to function on Monday morning. Here it is 9:16 on Sunday night. There is no way that I will finish soon enough to get a good night’s sleep. Four hours would be just enough for writing and editing our time together each week. The fifth hour could productively be used napping each weekend.

Before I go much further, I want to give a shout out to the unidentified one or two faithful readers from Germany. I don't know you by name but you follow closely enough to always be one of the first to read new editions as they come hot off the press.

Wie gehts?

Ich gehts mir gut.

I hope that you are proud of me Mr. Thompson. It has been 32 years since high school German, and I did that unaided.

Last weekend at the Dunes was great. Yet, the pounding of the surf ground the topical ideas for last week’s blog into mental dust. So now, I have ideas for blogs backing up like planes on an O' Hare runway during a snowstorm in January. I have three right now. With each passing day, they grow more dated, old, and stale.

For example, the Olympics should not pass by un-noticed, escaping comment. I love the Olympics. It gives me the illusion of activity while sitting on the couch. It is almost as effective a WII fit. Also it provides me with a wonderful opportunity to ridicule people who are vastly superior to me. I think that Usane Bolt can run faster than I can ride my bike. I compensate by calling him Insane Bolt.  Gabby Douglas is so strong that she could crack walnuts with her toes. Yet, I must confess a bit of smugness when she fell from the balance beam. If you look on Wikipedia, her Olympic experience is footnoted as the first gymnast to win the all around gold but not medal in any of the individual events. That kinda knocks the shine right off that Wheaties box doesn't it?

More superiority? Let's look at water polo. Yes, water polo, a made up sport. I do believe that water polo players take the following trajectory on the road to Olympic greatness. They show up for swimming tryouts on the first night in their speedos, swim goggles hanging from their neck. They have the commitment, the dedication to be at the pool for three hours every day. They have a great human interest story that haunts them. They dream of Bob Costas interviewing them the night after their triumphant medal ceremony. "Sure the news of that devastating hang nail rocked my world, but after the shock of the news, I got back to the pool and rededicated myself to being the best Wheaties eating swimmer I could be." What they don't have is any speed.

So the coach comes along side and encourages them to become involved with the synchronized swim teams. That next evening they show up to practice with nose plugs and vaseline on their teeth "so that smile will shine" only to find that what they lack I speed they have not made up for in grace. Luckily, the water polo coach arrived a few minutes early and noticed that this person has some real talent; a fair amount of buoyancy and no respect for personal space. So after a few minutes of chatting with the water polo coach, the sync coach approaches this new Olympic star, suggests they pick up a funky swim cap with these weird ear things and hang around for practice. Here is a SAT clue for you college wannabees; water polo is to swimming as curling is to . . . .  That’s right C: ice hockey.

I am sure that you are wondering what I believe was the most incredulous moment of these Olympics. For me it was the reporting of these games. I remember vividly that one of the trending articles on Yahoo.com was “Why Doesn’t the Sand Stick Beach Volleyball Players?”. I was incredulous that more people would read that asinine article than will read my blog during the course of a 100 years. Everyone should know why sand doesn’t stick to beach volleyball players. It’s the Olympics people. It is made for TV drama. It is the world of make believe. They undoubtedly have a whole crew of people with little air compressors come out and blow the sand off of these modern day gods and goddesses. It is edited out and we see our heros sandless.

I shouldn’t be incredulous. I know that sex sells. Beach volleyball is all about the sex appeal. Come on, all of the beach volleyball players are past their prime real volleyball players who still look good in swim wear. All of them except Phil Dalhausser, he is a bit homely. (judging those who are infinitely superior to me.) Well in an effort to boost readership, I have decided to start wearing skimpy beachwear when writing each week’s blog offering. Let the blog views begin.

Best reporting of the Olympics? I am glad to say that it is the following sentence by yours truly. “Hope Solo, US Soccer goalkeeper, tweets about Olympic Village sex while keeping the ball out of the goal.” That is not a double but a triple entendre with a brutal ironic twist on the dismount and she stuck the landing. Hah. Most of my family members will say that I went too far for that obscure joke. They are correct, but it tickles my funny bone.

Worst color commentary of the Olympics happened during real volleyball. The US had a spectacular player with the unfortunate name of Destiny Hooker. She is tall, graceful, and a powerful player. After another great spike the color commentator said, and I quote “Hustling Destiny Hooker.” Really? Are you proud of yourself mister announcer guy? Did you get a round of fist bumps from the other color commentators while eating your shepherd’s pie down at the pub later that evening? Hustling Destiny Hooker – unbelievable.

Thank goodness the Olympics are over. A fortnight is enough. It is time for me to get off of the couch and do something while the world is dispersed for the next four years until the world comes together in Rio.

How will I cope? I suppose that I will bask in the knowledge that my teeth are straighter than Michael Phelps. What’s up with that?

 

Take Care.

 

Roger