the dog days of winter?

Dearest Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am doing fine. Here on the eve of MLK day, I am being warned that the weather is going to be its coldest in two years. Fearsome. Bev and I also had to keep our wits about ourselves today. We were doing some post church grocery shopping and the bagger asked us if we were ready for the big snow storm. He was quite proud in his role as the weather watcher. I hope that my sarcasm wasn’t too biting, but with 6 inch blizzards in recent weeks, winter storm warnings do not concern me; neither do temperatures in the single digits. I also confused the manager by congratulating him on his ploy to sell more eggs, bread and milk. I would have explained but what is the use. You either get Hoosier weather clichés or you don’t. Is it okay to use the word Hoosier and cliché in the same sentence?

It seems most appropriate on this the coldest day in two years to start talking about spring. Hope in the most hopeless of times. Last week you will remember that I had instructed my barber to give me the spring hair cut.  This week I scheduled a bike fitting for an old second hand bike that I bought to replace my current steed. I figure 10 year old technology is more affordable and at a higher level than I can afford new. So, I bought a new bike to me and am going to have it adjusted to fit my 50 year old physique. Mind you this was ridden by a twenty something. It appears that they could bend over much further at the waist and not have their stomach cut off the oxygen flow to their lungs. Yes accommodations must be made. Think of it as relaxed fit bicycling. I still wear a 38 inch waist but it “relaxed” just like my six pack.

All of this will be in preparation for my big spring excursion. I plan to, hope to, and anticipate to ride in Cover Indiana. It is a 360 mile bike ride over 7 days from May 5 through May 11. We will be making our way from Lafayette, through Crawfordsville, Terre Haute, Linton, Bedford, Ellettsville, Plainfield and finally Indianapolis. I am so excited. I hope to identify a variety of assassin deer gangs; find their weaknesses, discuss the possibilities of new counter measures with other riders. I will  bring what I learn back and implement it just northeast of Indianapolis. Be prepared assassin deer. You won’t know what hit you come mid May. I love the collegial conferences.

I had planned to do this last year, but my job had a vacation black out from April 10 through May 10^th. I promised the bosses that we would work harder this year and so they agreed to end the blackout May 4^th. Just in time. So I will be spending all of my free time gaining stamina and butt calluses to be able to endure 60 miles a day. Actually, I am pretty sure that I can endure the 60 miles. It is the 60 miles on the second day and beyond that has me worried. Who knows? It maybe easier than you would expect.

But wait there’s more. In order to participate in the entire week even participants have to raise $350 in support. The money goes to Habitat for Humanity. I decided to give it to the Lafayette branch if it matters. So here I am, hat in hand, asking that you open your wallets and purses for a worthy cause. You can do that at https://sna.etapestry.com/fundraiser/HabitatforHumanityLafayette_1/cover2013/aboutEvent.do . Any amount is appreciated.

But wait there’s more. That’s right. You have the opportunity to open your generosity to even greater heights. I am looking for generous donors to sponsor one of the legs of the trip. For a $60 sponsorship, I will name a leg of the tour after you. Wouldn’t it be great to have the Max Young leg of the Cover Indiana tour named prominently in the You Said What? Roger blog. That is correct if you sponsor a leg that day’s blog will be about any topic you like. You let me know what topic you would like the blog to be about and I will spend the next 60 miles contemplating, mulling and ruminating about your topic and the expound upon it weaving in that day’s events all in your name. You will be famous. People will know what a profound thinker you are by the topic you chose to be ruminated upon for 60 miles. Remember my blog has international coverage. All of that for just $60.

But wait there’s more. That’s right. I have given money to worthy causes of friends and family. They go off on their excursion and I feel no connection to the actual event. Not so with this event. For your sponsorship, you get the opportunity to bring a gallon of ice-cream of your choice and a few spoons and we will fellowship on a beautiful spring evening in a beautiful Indiana destination. That’s right. I will not be some prima donna “Lance Armstrong” and insist on Rocky Road, or cookies and cream. I will gladly share in whatever ice cream you want to bring; be it vanilla, strawberry or even Mocha. Not a fan of Mocha but it is your day and your sponsorship. I will eat it gladly. I only ask that you bring the container and spoons. No bowls. Ice-cream at the end of a 60 mile ride and among friends should be shared in the most intimate mode available.

So there you have it. I know there is more. But let's keep it simple. You donate. I bike and write. Truly, any amount you donate is appreciated. I would love to share each evening with all of you. If we have multiple sponsors, we will eat ice cream until the wee hours while I write blogs with multiple topics. Who am I kidding? If you donate a penny and show up with a gallon of ice cream, I will eat it with a smile on my face.

Take care

Roger

Saving for a rainy day?

Dearest Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I particularly hope that your sump pump is in good working order. Three inches of rain over night  on the heals of 8 inches of melting snow all with a partially frozen ground chaser and one is going to have water problems. It is especially exacerbated here in the country. One thinks of flooding in the valley down by the creek. In central Indiana farm country there is nary a hill or a low valley, yet all of our friends were sitting in church Sunday morning with dark circles under their eyes and the harried look of a couple with colicky newborns. These are homeowners in the suburbs, or a row of houses on the edge of a 200 acre field. These houses were built on plots that farmers sold in an effort continue the farming habit before the EPA’s ethanol habit "drove" corn prices to sustainable levels.

The trouble with the "build in the cornfield" plan is that on the flat lands the original farm owner picked the only “high spot” to build the farmstead. I have noticed this on my bike riding excursions. When not being chased by assassin deer, every time that I pass the mailbox of an old farmstead, it is at the crest of a hill; not much of a hill, mind you. The road may only rise a foot or so. But raise it does. I go slower before the mailbox and a little faster after the mailbox. So the farmer kept the high ground for himself, leaving the lower ground for those city slickers. Consequently, early this week the country side was covered with ponds about 4 inches deep. Acres and acres were under water. Water that was looking for places to congregate. Like Garth Brooks, the rain had friends in low places like your crawl space, basements, and sump pump pits.

In the country we are tuned to the rhythms of nature. We are able to do things on our own; DIY in the city vernacular. City slickers have stores and books for the DIY’er. Blogs exist for the person who wants to read for themselves how to DIY. I do not suggest you stray from the contents of this fine blog. So trust me, those kinds of  blogs are out there.

 

I was watching football and pondering about some self improvement DIY this past weekend.  That is correct. It was time for my once every six week hair cut. In an effort to become more efficient with my time management skills, I made a pact  with myself many years ago to never again comb my hair. First off, I have never trusted the word comb. “Hooked on phonics” let me down in this instance. It is the same reason that I am not a bomber. Who ever heard of a silent “b”?  With the philosophical reticence to hair combing, I make it a point to have a hair cut that is short every six weeks. The last week gets a little dicey; especially in the winter with sock hats and static electricity making my hair style a little wonky.

So it was time to get a hair cut again. I decided on my optimistic winter haircut style this time. The optimistic winter hair cut is when I sit down and tell my barber to put on the ¼ inch guard on the clippers. That’s right I eschewed the 3/8 guard. “Whoa,” my barber gasped. “Living life just a bit recklessly aren’t you, Roger.”  "Still plenty of cold weather left." I have a hope that spring is just around the corner. I hope that a week of a draft on my head will be rewarded by crocus’, daffodils, and skunk road kill just around the corner.

This sudden shift in style threw my barber off. I am a man of 2 hair styles; 3/8 inch buzz cut in the fall and winter, ¼ inch spring and summer. My style is practical and always fitting with the season. Plus, you don’t have to comb your hair when it is that short. My barber was shaken. We have been together for a long time. For 23 years, I have gone to the same barber. The venue has changed from time to time. As times got better, they moved up. The digs became a little better. But for 23 years, I have gotten out the clippers, sat down by the kitchen table under the big overhead light and asked Bev for a hair cut. 

This Sharritt family ritual started 23 years ago as a cost cutting measure. As cost cutting measures go it is modest but has added up. Let’s say you are going cheap. Which by definition, I am. I could get a $10 haircut plus $2.00 tip every six weeks or 8.6666666 times a year for 23 years. That’s 12*8.66666666 * 23. Take the 2, add the 86, carry the 4 and you get . . . $2391.82; not bad for a $30 clipper investment. It won’t exactly support my gambling habit, but at the time it permitted the daily paper, which was important.

When times get tight the newspapers, radio, grand parents, all have some sort of money saving advice.  I am obviously a long term adherent to some of this sage advice. My extra $2361.82 jangling around in my pocket is testament to my fortitude. In spite of that, I am somewhat skeptical of money saving measures. I mean once you start saving money cutting your own hair, how can you stop. When will times get good enough to drop in at the local shop for some comradey and a little off the top?

It strikes me that we had better figure it out pretty soon. As our representatives, that we just elected, go off to vote to allow $17,000,000,000 in debt, it makes me wonder if our sump pump is big enough to bail us out of this one.

Take care.  

Roger

Sharritt 2012 Christmas? Letter

Dear Sharritt Friends ,

The birthday is celebrated. The gifts are opened. The brunch casserole, biscuits and gravy, and best of all, sweet rolls have been eaten. The Sharritt's are resting on the couch, love seat and recliner; recovering from the carbo-load while watching Brave. Except Grace, she has broken out the pre-blizzard puzzle. We are dangerously low on milk, bread and eggs for the snowbound French toast blizzard feast. Isn't it exciting; a blizzard predicted for Boxing Day.

Our letters in the past have taken a look back; a look back at Ghana, engagement, off to college, leaving the farm, high school, turkey killings, truck burnings, leaving the school for the blind, Christmas trees from the back forty, leaving Purdue.  These letters have been crafted by the prior year’s activities and events. This year feels different. The past year was fantastic. The future brings changes. For the past four or five years our family has been stepping through the independence dance. First Ben and then Grace have been starting to make their way though the door that leads from our lives to the lives they will pursue. Two events will mark that passage with ceremonies of permanence.

In May, Ben will graduate from IU with a degree in elementary education with a special education certification. Watching Ben find his passion of working with young people, connecting with kids, knowing what makes them tick and having a knack of breaking down barriers that often exist between students and their teachers, is a thing to behold. I have seen numerous young people look at student teaching with trepidation. I watch Ben embrace it and run towards a finish line that he has strove towards for a long time.

In June, Grace will marry Chris Kozak in the wedding meadow on the farm. Much of the summer was spent cutting down and clearing a thicket of thorn trees. We would walk to the meadow on Saturday morning; a chainsaw in hand, long sleeve shirts and leather gloves. The battle would begin cutting off 10 ft tall thorn trees burgeoning with 3 and 4 inch thorns. After four hours, we would trudge back to the house looking like a hoard of cats had used our arms for scratching posts.  Grace would spend a few hours during the week dragging some of the cut off trees to piles for burning. We would spend the rest of the week removing splinters from various body parts.

Thanks to all of those who helped. It was a miserable way to spend a summer of drought. One Saturday morning was especially bad. The Sharritt’s had delusions of Tom Sawyer. We lured several friends over with the promise of Coldstone ice cream to help pick up some of the thousand of thorns that had detached from the mother trunk as they were being drug scratching and clawing to the pile of perdition. You can’t have the father of the bride wearing open toed shoes in a thorn patch. The day promised to be hot and it did not disappoint. No amount of free ice cream could keep us motivated. In the end, time and persistence paid off and the wedding meadow is nearly open toed sandal certified.  

Bev is looking forward to continuing her list of 1000 gifts. Through a book (with the same name) given to her by Nita Kozak, new friend and Grace’s future mother-in-law extraordinaire,  she started compiling a few gifts that she was grateful for each day, and sharing the list with Nita, then later, with more friends by email. She passed 1000 gifts a while back, but stopped counting, because she is saving her shrinking short-term memory space for things like remembering where she left her reading glasses. Some of her favorite list items from 2012 included these, with the early 300’s posted during her spring break adventure to visit Grace in Ghana:

#8. Roger’s arms around me on the dance floor at my niece’s wedding
#310. Chaos, disorientation, adrenaline, giddiness that I am here, and can experience this like a child, because Grace is telling ME to hydrate!
#320. Wedding brainstorming on the Kokrobite beach
#324. All flush toilets so far!
#384. Doing the first preliminary searches/calls for wedding places and food. Realizing how much I'm going to have to surrender my ego on this wedding thing so that I don't miss out on the joy. . . came up with the following strategy for modifying the sinner's prayer: "Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, the mother of the bride."
#435. Ben home for a couple of days. He used the phrases “working full time”, and “get my masters” during dinner.
#970. Sitting with my famous husband at the Boiler Gold Rush banquet where he presented the Sharritt Award
#1000 something: Talking with Ben about the ups and downs of teaching. His love for students he’s working with.

My passion continues for bike riding. Actually, it is a dual passion of bike riding and electronics. I had to ask Santa for wider handlebars so I could carry more lights and monitors. I have filled the handlebars and have lights on my helmet and on my spokes. It has gotten so out of hand that Bev has decided to stop putting Christmas lights on the porch. I just spend an hour riding around the house each evening and everyone is in the Christmas spirit. In all, I rode 3400 miles in 2012. It is a lot of fun, very relaxing and a little weird. Before this riding experience, I didn’t know that you could wear out a bike chain. I have ruined a few by letting them sit out in the rain, but have never worn one out riding until this year.

Grace:  Having arrived home safely from Ghana, I am now in a brief pause between adventures in my junior year at Ball State. In the coming semester, I will be busy with school, work, and wedding preparations, because in five months Chris and I will be getting married. That being said, this is my last year writing a paragraph for the Sharritt family Christmas letter, and you'll have to rely on my mom and dad for updates on my doings, at least until Chris and I start sending a Kozak letter. 2013 promises to be a year of great adventures and fun as Chris and I join our lives together.

Ben: Wishes he had time to write this. . . he is pretty busy with starting student teaching, finding that this includes daily covert operations and plans for world domination. Check out his blog to read about his year’s travels, and adventures in Kindergarten.  http://tedparty118.blogspot.com/

Years ago, at our wedding, Bev and I invoked the words of Joshua as he reported God’s intentions. “I know the plans that I have for you, says the Lord; plans for good and not for evil.” As a phase of those plans come to fruition, we are grateful. We rejoice in the good that the God of both Joshua and the Sharritts continues to give us, and is giving to Ben, Grace and Chris as their stories expand away from us. 

Love,

The Sharritt Family

Courage?

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope that this finds you doing well. It leaves my hands in quiet consternation. Last week, I  experienced an incident that has left a sour taste in my mouth. I usually try to exercise forebearance and let such things pass without notice or comment. I know what you are saying, "what about your endless rantings about assassin deer?" Yes, I do tend to go on about them, but I never mention various hangnails, hemorrhoids, or impolite fellow travelers on the way to and from work. On the whole, the "ranting cross" that you have to bear from "You Said What?" is less than say in the Huffington Post or on Fox News.

For those of you who live in central Indiana, congratulations for surviving the blizzard of 2012. For those who were spared nature's wrath by living elsewhere, you can make a donation with a grateful heart to the Red Cross for those who suffered from any number of tragic events from the past year, but certainly not for the little more than snow flurries that came through central Indiana last Wednesday. Blizzard smizzard!

I am used to the weather people exploiting a little bit of inclement precipitation to pump up their ratings. This is especially true since there are no election season ad monies flowing. One has to find a way to make up for the largess of campaign donations. Tight skirts and tastefully low cut tops do not ratings make. Actually, they do make ratings but not as quickly as good old fashioned blizzard warnings. I have often thought that the weather person was in cahoots with the National French Toast Association. They used to be able to drive the sale of milk, bread, and eggs with a gentle winter storm warning. But like junkies that need more and more of our medication of choice, we don't respond to winter storm warnings any longer. Bread and milk were perishing on the shelves. Something had to be done; viola a blizzard warning.

No, I expect the weather people to overreact. It is in their best interests. I am disappointed in my fellow man and woman. They showed no sense of perspective or self reliance. At my place of employment, one half of the people scheduled to work last Wednesday did not report for work in anticipation of bad weather. Of the half that did report, 80% got scared and went home at noon. One person literally came to my office and said "I just saw the Homeland Security road warning map. I am too scared to stay here for the rest of the day." How did we turn into such a herd of sissies?

In the past, I may have taken a paragraph to say if you were scared or felt nervous and needed to go home, I meant no offense. I am sorry.  Not this time though, I hope you are offended. That was a nothing snow; a snow easily overcome with a bit of level headedness and patience. We live at a time when machines, if used properly, can clean twenty inch Saturday evening snowfalls in time for a noon kickoff for a Sunday wildcard game. I have seen it done. The ironic thing is that the flight instinct actually put those people who left early in greater jeopardy. They left when the snow was still falling and near the apex of the total. Snow plows had not moved yet, and the salt had not started to melt the roadways. I pushed four nervous people out of their parking spots so they could head out and place themselves in peril. After pushing them out, I went back inside and worked until 5:00. I went out to my car and drove out of a partially plowed lot and home on mostly plowed streets. In fact, my evening commute only took an additional 10 minutes.

How did we get a place where a group of bureaucrats can herd us along into greater jeopardy with a stupid PowerPoint slide and some color coded graphics? I have pondered that question all week long. It struck me that we have not taught our populace to be courageous. I didn't think that was possible. Courage was one of the major virtues that many great civilizations were built on. Wasn't it? Wouldn’t we teach our population the major things? I remember that the school that my kids attended had a "Character Counts" curriculum. It had convocations, awards, ribbons, and handouts. Surely, they taught that most important of character traits; courage. The Wizard of Oz paid homage to this trait by embarrassing sissies with the cowardly lion. However, our schools do not.

I checked with my daughter and she rattled the important character traits off in rapid fire; trustworthiness, respect, responsibility, fairness, caring, citizenship. How could the omit courage? Can trustworthiness keep you from full-fledged panic?  Isn't citizenship just a 4 syllable word for listen to homeland security when it says stay home? Don't use the good sense God gave you to evaluate risk and make appropriate decisions for yourself. You should listen to that person who has their budgetary existence reliant on a regular diet of crisis to keep the public scared. ARGH!

Please understand one other thing. I don't think that courage is doing risky things just to be doing them. It strikes me that courage is recognizing the risk, weighing the cost and proceeding in the hope that one can recover from the consequences. The lack of belief, that recovery from failure is an important part of life, has left us in fear. The belief that we are stuck in the latest failure paralyzes our ability to act, to move forward. Courage has a resilience to it; a belief that the current hard times do not define you. The current hard times can shape a response that will move a person beyond that point of defeat.

We cannot avoid the hard times. Maybe one person in a million can be lucky enough to have all of the precautions they can take work out for them. We might surround ourselves with antimicrobial soaps, never drive on snow days, never eat yogurt past its expiration date and except for that one person, those plans will fall short. Isn't it better to have a plan to recover?

Dan Rather used to sign-off every newscast by looking somberly into the camera and saying "courage."  I think that I will sign off with "Oh come on!" And . . .

Take care.

Roger

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