Church of Target

Every once in a while, I like to skip church. I lead a highschool Sunday school class that I rarely miss but some times after Sunday school, Bev and I will slip out the back and start the rest of the day. This is a story about one of those days and how I learned something in the house of Target.

We love our Target store. Although last week, we dropped in and they had no envelopes on the shelf. What's going on Fishers? Somebody better let the postman know to get a larger bag. The people of Fishers have reverted to snail-mail. I had hoped that they would. I have found that snail mail is very therapeutic both in the writing and the reading. I made this discovery while writing my wonderful children a letter a week while they are away at college. So Ben and I are entering our fourth year of correspondence; Grace and I just our second year. Welcome aboard Fishers. Sometimes the old ways are the good ways; it is good of you to join us.

Back to Target; we love our Target Store. It is the super duper sized one. Three Sundays ago Bev and I slipped out of church early and headed over to Target for a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Having just passed the electronic, (my toy store) we are heading towards the grocery area to get some essentials with a side trip planned for small kitchen appliances to look at toaster ovens. Our toaster oven had died. Actually, the timer thingy had died so the lever wouldn't stay down allowing the wires to get hot. It would, but it required placing a heavy object on the lever holding it down. This required more concentration that I was prepared to give bread toasting. So rather than have the inevitable small kitchen fire, Bev and I decided to spend a few extra bucks and move up to a toaster oven.

We were making good progress along the back row; past the automotive, the sporting goods, the toys for boys and suddenly our way was blocked by a lovely two year old girl in the middle of the aisle all crumpled down on the floor in the deepest throes of despair; hugging the Disney Princess Castle.

 And no wonder, "the Disney Princess Dollhouse is the quintessential princess castle that your little girl will love. With three stories, themed rooms and over 50 play pieces, this castle will bring her favorite fairytales to life." Their copy not mine. I know that you know that because you thought to yourself; "how would Roger know that the Disney Princess Dollhouse has over 50 play pieces?" I wouldn't. I swear, that I have never seen the quintessential princess castle in my life. Besides there's 53 pieces, but who's counting.

This little girl had seen it before though. Undoubtedly, this young family had relied on the Disney Channel to soothe the savage beast inside of this princess wannabe and Walt had taken the opportunity to show her how grand her favorite fairytales can be. There was the one where she meets her prince and he works to put her through med-school then as her practice takes off, she divorces him for a 21 year old Chip and Dale dancer with the cute cleft chin and that princely derriere. Or may be it is the fairy tale where you are blessed with ability to lip sync reasonably well, hair that bleaches blond well, and pushy parents that get you an audition. Your fairytale comes true and you get on a children's musical television show. Things go well for a while, but you get older and you figure out that you have to reach an edgier audience so you kiss Madonna on an awards show, have two kids, go nuts and have your mommy parts shown all over the internet because while your parents were fit enough to pimp you out at a young age and keep a close eye on your trust fund, they didn't have sense enough to teach you how to dress.

Don't get me wrong. I do not believe that Walt is the problem here. Walt is doing what he does; finding an audience, telling them that they have a need and then showing that he can fill it. If it weren't for Walt, 100 million Chinese prisoners wouldn't have anything to do while serving their prison sentences. Boring!

I am all for advertising to children during Saturday morning cartoons. I say wall to wall cocco puffs, lucky charms, and trix. If Life thinks that it can trick one or two future type A's into getting their parents to buy them Life cereal because it is good for them, more power to them. Kids need to see the wide variety of toys and sugary cereals available to them so they can make informed decisions in the Super Targets of America. You don't want to make the mistake to throw a tantrum for a worthless piece of crap that you will lose interest in a week later.

Stop advertising to children on Saturday morning or children's channels? No!  Take away children's advertising and what’s next; banning testosterone supplement advertising on sports talk radio? Didn't we learn our lesson when we stopped cigarette advertising?

So, I missed church that Sunday. But church snuck up on me in Target that Sunday. This little girl was not puddled down on one of the side aisles. No, this was fairytales coming to life important. She had dragged the castle box out into the main aisle. The entire congregation could see her passion play; her tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her shrill cries carrying for many aisles, and then her dad did a wonderful, beautiful thing.

He knew that it wasn't about him. His daughter's behavior wasn't a reflection of his skills. He didn't jerk her up or act out for the benefit of those who might be disapproving of his parenting skills. No he walked over to her, got down on her level and said "I'm sorry hon. We can't get that. It's just too expensive. I wish we could but we can't." As she calmed, he said, "help me put it away." And while still very sad, she did.

No matter how badly we may want it or need it, we can't always get it.

Maybe later?

Sure. Maybe later.

Take care

Roger

A little Help Here?

It has been a harrowing four days. Bev and I have been in a life and death struggle with Cujo the red eyed black lab. I don't know if his name is really Cujo. It is just my lame reliance on cliche evil dog names to describe my woes. However, he really is a black lab and he really does have red eyes, and he scares the crap out of me.

He is actually the evil half of a pair of labs that have started to visit our home during the middle of the night. These are dogs with serious boundary issues. Most importantly, they have befriended my dogs and think that it is appropriate to start playing some time after 3:00 a.m. We are just simple country folk. New York, New York may be a town that never sleeps but come 9:30 p.m. the sidewalks of Sharrittville are rolling up for the night. That includes our dogs.

So Cujo starts barking for the Sharritt dogs, Henry, Hugo and Lucy (HHL for short) our two Jack Russels and an older Golden-Sheppard (to you city folks a Goldard or a Sheppden) mutt, to come out and play last Thursday/Friday morning at 3:00 a.m. It started last Thursday night with an unauthorized doggy play date between our dogs and these two black labs. I finally decided to acquiesce to the request at 5:00 my usual waking time.

It is interesting how those living the simple life and those in the fast lane cross paths at 5:00 a.m. From time to time, we are able to give shout outs on Facebook to each other as our awake moments pass like those two sheep dogs on the Wiley Coyote cartoons on Saturday mornings. "Good morning Fred." Good night Fred."

So play they did. Yelping and frolicking around the yard. In general, they were causing such a ruckus that it was time to shut down the party and bring HHL inside.

That is when the troubles began. I went out and called my dogs and they were having troubles concentrating on my commands. I managed to break through their hyperactive lack of attention. They wouldn't come in but at least they stopped running away so I went out and picked up Henry and brought him into the house. Well, that was unacceptable to Cujo. With bared teeth, raised hackles, and a bark that changed timber from fun loving frat boy into wife beating hill jack, he chased me back into the house.  Off I ran tail between my legs and dog in my arms. Which meant that I still had a dog to go. Armed with the trusty kitchen broom I trudged back outside and rescued Hugo.

Thoroughly embarrassed and chastened, I abandoned all country boy pride and called the police. I always find it humiliating to have to dial 911 for things that need attention but aren't emergencies. I mean "trapped in house by a vicious and virulent red eyed dog" is not in the same league as my house is on fire. I have always had the philosophy that if you come upon a situation and the first words out of your mouth are "O shit!" then 911 is appropriate, but if the first words out of you mouth are "O crap" then let's develop a different number to call. Let's discuss the situation and you can send someone out in about 45 minutes or so. I can start some coffee to share when you get there. It gives me the opportunity to reflect and get my thoughts together.

That was not to be in this world of one size fits all emergency numbers. So I call and Officer Doty responds right away. I go out and explain the situation. He gets out of his car. He can see Cujo just in the periphery of his high beams; not barking, not growling just standing there, making a complete fool of me. I could hear the skepticism in his voice and tell by the way he sauntered over toward Cujo that he didn’t believe me. Walking off  towards the house, I was sure that Saturday's Anderson's Herald would have "Sissy Ingalls man calls police to deal with supposedly barking dog" in the police blotter.

Thankfully Cujo did not disappoint. He took exception to Officer Doty coming between him and his friends and commenced to growling and barking and showing those glowing red eyes. I was also pleased to see that Officer Doty felt menaced and that the police blotter would read "Ingalls man calls police to subdue menacing red eyed virulent black lab." History is written by the victors.

Well the Ingalls police department does not arm their officers with kitchen brooms to ward off attacking dogs. They arm them with guns and tazers. I am about 100 yards away when I hear this pop and Cujo just start yelping and then everything goes silent. I am not ashamed to admit that I have cried during all of the great dead dog books; Old Yeller, Sounder, Where the Red Fern Grow. So I thought while it was maybe a little sad, I was not shedding any tears for this menace.  Plus on the upside, I knew there would be no mention in the police blotter about a police action dog shooting. While relieved, I wasn't insensitive to the situation. I found a nice big empty dog food bag and took it out to the officer so Cujo would not bleed all over the back of the squad car.

I had to put on my best poker face though when I got out to officer Doty and there was no dog. "Where's the dog?"

"Oh I tazed him and he ran away."

"YOU TAZED HIM?  YOU TAZED HIM? WHAT ABOUT JUST SHOOTING THE CRAZY DAMNED DOG, I THOUGHT?" I said, "I suppose that's best. There is a lot of paperwork to fill out when you shoot them."

"Nope, there is a lot of paper work when you taze them. There's a mountain of paperwork when you shoot them."

So I gave him the vital information for said paperwork. He encouraged me to call back if they returned and they would try to get animal control out to deal with the situation.

Saturday night rolls around and Cujo comes back at 3:00 a.m. This time I am not messing around. I dial 911 and say my piece. Out comes Deputy Conrad of the Sherriff's department. Deputy Conrad was a no nonsense cop that wasn't going to mess around. I could tell by his crisp neat uniform, his brightly polished shoes, his high and tight cropped hair cut.  I could tell that he meant business by the way he shined his million candle spotlight at Cujo. I could also tell that he wasn't going to get out of the cruiser to chase any dog at 3:00 a.m. across dew covered grass in spit shined shoes.

"You know you could shoot the dog yourself, don't you?"

"Kinda, but some people get weird when a civilian discharges a weapon."

"Well good luck. Call us if you need us."

That's what I had done. I had called. I had followed the rules. I hadn't taken matters into my own hands. I had abandoned the inner tough guy in me and in the end was still left with the problem. It seems like there is a lot of that these days. Waiting for shovel ready jobs, waiting for someone to say that storm's getting close, you had better get out of here, waiting for someone to stop spending money that we don't have, and waiting for them fix problems that they can't fix. And in the end, we're just left with a long story about our own incompetence.

Take Care

Roger

Progress?

It appears that the indiana state department of education has abondoned teaching hoosier youth the ancient art of cursive. what's next, capitalization rules? lets  just do away with punctuation while were at it, people will figure out what we mean if we repeat it over  and over again and turn off auto correct,.!? :)(:():

About two weeks ago, the Indianapolis Star declared that the education department was committed to turning our children into a bunch of uneducated typists by dropping cursive from the curriculum. I know what you are thinking. "Come on Roger. We pay you for timely insightful, pithy commentary on society's trends.  Two weeks old does not timely make."

Back off! Grace has gone to Ghana for 10 months. That's right. She said "if I can't learn cursive in the states. I'll go to a perfectly good third world country and learn how to make a capital Q." Off she went just like that.  So the past two weeks have been a bit emotional for dear old dad. I was afraid that I might start ranting and lose the laser like focus you have come to enjoy and expect on the pages of this blog.

Where was I? Oh right.

With any great societal shift, winners and losers emerge; the sweat shop seamstress and the Luddite respectively so to speak.   "What's a Luddite?"  (This just in. The Indiana Department of education decides the Industrial Revolution and modern history isn't needed by glorified typists so it will be dropped from the curriculum.) Come to think of it things didn't turn out great for the seamstress either, but look at these jeans I got at Walmart for $5.

The winners:

The orthopedic surgeons, who will do all of the carpel tunnel surgeries on the stupefied typists and do thumb replacement surgeries for generation X in about 30 years. Lol

The guy who invented the typewriter keyboard. I wonder how long before we declare his victory complete by having  kindergarteners sing their a, s, d,'s to the tune of 1 little 2 little 3 little Indians.

The losers:

Our children are losing the opportunity to communicate in a form that traces its roots back to hieroglyphics. How else would you explain the capital Q? Quick! Grab a piece of paper and write "The Quakers of Quincy are Quintessentially Quaint." In cursive? You ask. Of course in cursive; now stop stalling for time and start writing. I guarantee that it looks more like that funky man dog on the wall of a pyramid than that flowing backwards above and below the line upside down S that Mrs. Ash tried to teach me. 

The United States Post Office (as if they didn't already know it) is the biggest loser. No cursive means no pens, means no paper, means no snail mail. Unless we expect future generations to write in big block letters with crayons. 

This could be the logical progression. "Here Tommy draw this picture to hang on your family's fridge. Now Tom write a letter to Santa using these big block letters." Who knows? Several years later a group of important people may get together and decide to have Thomas write a declarative document because he is good with a phrase and his big block crayon letters will add a sense of gravitas to the occasion.

WHEN, IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS, IT BECOMES NECCESARY FOR ONE PEOPLE TO WRITE SOMETHING REALLY IMPORTANT WE WILL DO SO IN BIG BLOCK LETTERS WITH A CRAYON!

This just in. The Indiana department of education has decided to drop American history and the use of satire as a rhetorical tool from it's curriculum.

Take care,

Roger

camp crumpet?

Sitting in a cabin deep in the woods, surrounded by swarms of deer flies that blot out the sun and drink deet and eat crumpets for afternoon tea, I am waiting for the youth of America to arrive at church camp. I must say that in my more devious moments that I feel a bit like the Grinch standing on Mount Crumpet waiting for all the high school Who-boys and Who-girls to come in and realize what they had gotten themselves into.

"Then the Grinch went to the ledge and put out an ear."
"Hoping that whining and moaning is what he would hear."
"Soon the boys and girls would sit down on their bed "
"And wonder where this path through the woods had led."

"Where is my phone, my text, and my tweet?"
"Why does my body stick to my sheet?"
"Ouch that stings. Ooo that smells."
"You know it really is hotter than hell."

Oh don't tell me that writing "hell" in a blog about church camp is inappropriate. It is that hot and it's in the bible. Check it out.

That's right. Bev and I decided to counsel at highschool camp during the hottest week of the year. The kids have been great. The bugs have been thick. The heat and humidity high. The bug truth proved itself the first morning. Walking from the cabin, commonly refered to as "the kiln", to the cafeteria, I took four steps out of the cabin and immediately, 30 deer flies descended upon me.

The comedy of the situation is not lost on me. Fat man running thru the early morning mist flailing his arms, looking over his shoulder while frantically spraying 40% (the highest permitted without a perscription) deet into tiny teacups. In fact, I have laughed heartily sitting on the screened-in-porch watching one of the smaller campers being carried away. Their little feet flailing in the air as they keep getting smaller and small off in the horizon. A swarm of hungry deer flies looking for their small camper crumpet recipe.

I have found a good coping strategy for the deer flies though. Any time I have to perambulate from the cabin to main camp or vice versa I send a couple of campers ahead of me down the path about forty feet in front of me. They draw the flies and I saunter along behind fly free and unmolested.

You may think that I am being a bit cavalier with the safety of my charges. Don't judge me too harshly. They are highschoolers after all. If they were a bit easier to understand, I might be inclined to take a bit better care of them. Being a firm believer Mazlov's hierarchy of self-actualization, I do not understand why 80% of the kids are here. How can a person disengage and act disaffected from 9:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. and then suddenly re-engage and come out of their walking coma to be playful, caring, and full of life. No wonder zombie and vampire movies engage high school kids. It is who they are.

Dallas Willard says that we learn to disguise our facial gestures as we get older. It allows us to listen to really boring conversations and not be slapped by the speaker for looking like an insolent teenager. Also, we learn to disguise our facial expressions so that others will look attentive as we prattle on an on about nothing.

After several days of that dead-eye look, I finally broke down and asked my small group why they came. This is what I heard. High school students like to be able to hang out for a week without stress. They find that when adult supervision is strong enough kids feel safe because there are boundaries set and adhered to so their peers aren't mean to them. They do not feel safe just hanging out or at high school.

And it turns out that feeling safe while experimenting, trying to figure out who you are is worth the risk of being carried off by a swarm of deer flies during the hottest week of the year.

Take care

Roger

A guest writer?

Let's give it up for our guest writer. The hostest with the mostest. Bev Sharritt!!!!!

Take care

Roger

“North or south?. . . north or south?” Roger moaned from the bed in the vacation rental house in an undisclosed small town on the shores of Lake Michigan.

10 hours earlier:

                “Was that your phone, Grace?” I asked, as we lay on the beach. 

She checked, and replied, “missed call from dad.” We had planned a longer excursion to the lovely Lake Michigan sands today, involving the need for someone to drive with gear: a cooler with lunch, chairs, a pirate kite, etc. . .  I volunteered to drive, and Grace and her 3 college friends who met us here decided to walk to the lighthouse then find the spot that I had staked out. Roger decided to go back to bed, and join us even later.

We had discussed geography over dinner the night before.  As an orientation and mobility instructor for the blind I have become more aware of cardinal directions than I used to be.  Growing up, I remember being amazed by my sister Patty’s ability to find her way anywhere after being there just once. She would ask my mom if we were going to be going by the pool on the way to Emma Lou’s or by Robin Hood? How did she know these things? We lived on a dairy farm on a perfectly flat, perfectly square grid for miles around.  In the summer, we would ride the 5 miles to North Manchester, and, once there, I would always let her lead, not always sure which way to turn.  In my early years, my mom remembers me saying, “Moso home,” when we would be ½ mile or so from the farm—not a huge radius of orientation, but a cute enough phrase, that it is still repeated as we approach home from anywhere.

After two  field classes of under-the-blind-fold training to prepare me to teach clients with blindness and low vision how to move about a city independently, I had been forced to engage this part of my brain. At the end of these two summers, I felt confident that I could lead even Patty across an Indianapolis street, literally, blind-folded.

So we had talked about where to meet.  South of the lighthouse.  Grace had no idea which way this was, “right or left facing the lighthouse?”

“That depends on if you are looking at the lighthouse from land or a boat,” I answered. She was not impressed with my best O&M instructor guided discovery methods.  “Lake Michigan is west of the beach. Does that help?” I said. Her eyes clouded over as she looked to her friends to see if any of them had an Aunt Patty kind of brain.  Her boyfriend, Chris, nodded confidently, and she looked relieved that she wouldn’t have to be lead bike.

After setting up camp, and only one more “left or right?” phone call from Grace, the college kids made it to our location. We had a nice cucumber sandwich and Twizzler lunch and awaited Roger’s arrival. He had been present, albeit silent in the discussion the night before, but I was confident that he knew where to look—two killer stair cases south of the lighthouse.

 Roger grew up on a dairy farm, as I did, but nestled in some rare Indiana hills of Madison County, and bordered by the reckless curves of Fall Creek, Reformatory Road, and prison escape routes. Even today, we advise folks not to use their GPS to find us, because it inevitably leads them to an unexpected tour of  the odd wilderness between Fortville and Geist or the odd wilderness of the state Reformatory.  Roger knows his cardinal directions, but the chaos of his surroundings in his formative years caused him to develop phrases like, “on up from there”, “towards the secret garden field”, and, our family favorite, “over the hill”.

So after the missed call from him to Grace’s phone I decided to pull out my phone. Dang. It was dead again, trying so hard to get a signal near the lake. I grabbed Grace’s phone and headed up the dune to the 75 steps, and on to the flow of electrons above. Three broken attempts later, I found out that he had headed south from the lighthouse, had not seen us (“were you guys over the hill?” he asked), and had given up and tried north. Given that there is a canal separating north from south, he was an hour and a half into his sandy walk and would be another 45 minutes to reverse to the lighthouse, head east to get to the bridge over the canal, then back to where we promised we’d all be vertical and visible.

This day was supposed to be a rest day for Roger, as you know, if you have been reading about his high-mileage bike treks to celebrate the first day of the rest of his summer vacation. He was smiling weakly as he approached. Thank God it was overcast and he had a shirt on, because we had hoarded the sunscreen. We gave him what we could find in the cooler:  the few last cucumber  sandwiches, a string cheese,  and some chips. Then he promptly collapsed on the sand. We went home a couple of hours later. He made it through dinner, then headed upstairs with a bottle of Tylenol. 

We called up the stairs as we were headed out to Sherman’s creamery for the 4^th time this week to  try “carmel, carmel, carmel” instead of “chocolated covered pretzel” (a fabulous mix of sweet and salty). Roger said that he wouldn’t be going.

This was more serious than I thought. I walked upstairs.

“north or south? . . . north or south?”

I went up to sit on the side of the bed,   “you o.k.?”

“Not sure. . . a little queasy. . . maybe dehydration. . . maybe just worn out.”

“Can we bring you anything?”

“A banana.” (Serious indeed, as he did not follow the word  banana with the word split.)

I headed back down to catch up with the teens and heard my phone beeping from where I had plugged it in to charge. There were 3 messages in my inbox, each of which read simply, “north or south”.

Salves of summer?

Sitting here on the porch in an undisclosed location on the first day of the rest of my summer vacation. I am sitting here at noon on this beautiful sunny day because I have overdone it. Two back to back 24 mile bike rides followed by a rousing game of kick ball will require a day of sitting on the front porch and some beach down time. Even though I promised that I would take it easy, my family performed an intervention. Ben was heading home to get to work for the rest of his week; so the family tied me down and loaded the bike and sent it back home. I guess that my need for speed will be squelched as I am forced from biking to bi-pedal mode for the rest of vacation. Which is???? Who knows? This is the first day of the rest of my summer vacation.

The kick ball game was epic last evening; nearly perfect in every way. The crushed shale diamond was in perfect condition. The outfield was perfectly rolled and had no mole runs through it. With no mole runs, there were no attendant dog excavated Grand Canyons (see my blog; lawn care?). It is true; the Sharritt diamond has fallen into disrepair from disuse and doggy excavation. It remains to be seen if this will provide the impetus for kickball rejuvenation when we get back.

The only problem was that the bases had all been destroyed. Homeplate was great, but first and second were shattered hulls of their former selves and third base was completely gone. (Run to google; type in cities on the shoreline of Lake Michigan with more than six blocks, a 4th of July parade, and Optimist Tot Lot without infield bases, and not Chicago.)  This was not an ideal situation. My gorgious wife, Bev, was playing on the other team, and I was definately planning on getting to third base with her.

It was an epic 5 inning defensive struggle. My team lost 18 - 14. Congratulations sworn enemies. For Grace's friends it was an immersion into Sharritt ball and probably answers why they find Grace sobbing in the corner clutching a playground ball from time to time. Becca got the worst of it. She was on first base when I had a particularly good kick. I am running the bases when the possession took hold and I shouted "Run Becca Run!!! I'm coming to get you." In a small peaceful Mayberry of the upper mid-west, this appears to have a very motivating effect. We both scored; making it my only home run in the evening.

I am sitting here on the porch of this undisclosed location listening to Simon and Garfunkle on the first day of the rest of my summer vacation. I am listening and suddenly "Sounds of Silence" comes on which reminds me of a blog that I have been wanting to write this summer. For some reason, every time I have heard that song this summer, my alliterative mind has taken over and I think the salves of summer.

How did we every get along without salves and ointment? It is a wonder our ancestors ever survived to get through to this over the counter mecca. It starts in April with the athlete's foot. A few warm days of my feet being kept securely in the foot cages (shoes), and my toes are burning. Out comes the Desinex. Next comes his northern cousin (how can I say this delicately) jock itch. Thankfully, the same ointment works on this condition. Since contemplaiting this blog over the past few days. It occured to me that if it wasn't for our ankles, knees, and legs the fungal cousins would become kissing cousins. Which makes me wonder, is meditation on a theme really all that beneficial?

Late May brought weed eating the side ditch out by the road. I was glad that the poison ivy had died over winter. Five days later and wrong. The juice splatter was extensive on my feet and ankles, and one spot on the forearm. Out came the cortizone ointment for a month long battle against the itching, blistering and oozing

On to June, fireflies, wild black raspberries, an evening in the garden and I get a great case of chigger bites; five of them as a matter of fact, three of them at the ankle, one at my shorts hem, and one at the waistline.

I hate chiggar bites most of all. It requires no less than three concoctions to conquer. First the cortisone ointment stops the itch. Second, the triple antibiotic is applied to make sure that the inevitable scratching does not get infected and you get the dreaded infection that our mothers used to warn us about. Phonetically I would spell it infantago. My dictionary doesn't recognize that spelling. But my readers of a certain age know what I am talking about. I suppose "infantago" has been replaced by flesh eating bacteria. Thankfully, I grew up in simpler times.

You would think that two salves would be enough to put an end to a small pest like the Chiggar but no. That irritating bite will persist for weeks if you don't complete the concoction by plastering the bite with clear nail polish. But put clear nail polish on it and I gaurentee that you will be chigger free within 14 days.

The list goes on and on; Deet, calamine, sunscreen, noxema. Our pharmacies are full. The only thing that I know no salve can heal during summer time is the bitter taste of defeat on the kickball field. Only a rematch with my sworn enemies can ease that pain.

Thank goodness today  is the first day of the rest of my summer vacation.

Take care.

Roger

from an undisclosed location?

Happy 1st day of the rest of summer vacation. I would tell you that I have already wasted several days of vacation already, but Bev and I have made a pact this summer. In an effort to combat the feeling of panic for every day that goes by before she starts a new school year or before I have to get back into work mode, we have decided to share with each other a happy first day of the rest of your summer vacation. It helps. I have been a chronic chronicaler of the passage of time. I do not think that I have ever enjoyed a Christmas or summer vacation; because I always knew how close we were to half way through. Once you were half way through it was almost all over.

So I am here on the front porch in this fabulous vacation paradise. I would love to tell you where we are located. However, it is so perfect; you would want to come here yourself that then we would be experiencing over crowding.

I am sitting on the screened in front porch of a vacation rental house. The street is lined with small American flags that the local realitor gave out at the 4th of July parade today. There is a slight breeze blowing in from Lake Michigan six blocks a way making the 82 degrees at 6:00 p.m. feel not that hot. I know your thinking that I am in jeopardy of giving away my undisclosed paradise vacation spot. You are loading up the station wagon and getting ready to head this way. "Dear; get on google. Look up Lake  Michigan towns with more than six city blocks and that had a 4th of July parade." I will help you narrow it down. It isn't Chicago. That's it no more hints.

Where was I? I am sitting on the front porch in the evening and I happen to be listening to Frank Sinatra on a record player. I do so wish that I had kept all of my Eagles albums from college. That would have just about filled the vacation time we have up here. I could have even listened to Steve Martin's "wild and Crazy" album to bridge any gaps. Speaking of the trip to half way, wasn't that what album listening was all about. Side A then side B. It is a really short trip too. The kids of today really have it easy. Not like the bad old days.  Select the entire album and just about the time you get it memorized just hit the random and you don't know when the thing is going to end. It is so much easier to live in the moment these days. 

The following are some of the best instances of vacation so far this summer. On the way up going through rural Indiana we went by the following words on a sign outside a

VFW.

     

And you crazy kids didn't think that you had to pay attention during english class. "I don't need to learnt no punctuation you said. When would I ever need to use that?" Let me tell you. One misplaced semicolon and you go from marital bliss to social faux paux of the rural Indiana summer social season.

Another funny moment? Or it could be characterized as an  awkward moment. I think that in the end it will be ruled to be entrapment. We were on the beach yesterday. I was nodding off when Bev yelled "look its popping out." I came too and started looking around to see what was popping out. She then let me know that she meant the sun was popping out. Busted. But in my defense there were more things with popping out potential on that beach than a kernal at an Orville Redenbacher convention. How was I to know?

I just realized why our teachers had us write "what I did on summer vacation essays" at the beginning of every school year. It was because they were stuck with sucky vacations each year and had not found this vacation paradise. They were in search of vacation Holy Grail. May they continue to search in vain.

Speaking  of great quests, I had one today. This place has a 32 mile bike trail. As I have mentioned in past posts, I have become a bit obsessed with biking recently. So a 32 mile bike ride sounds a bit intriguing. I haven't approached any thing like it as far as distance goes in the past. I don't think that I could do 32 miles in one sitting. Today I went 12 miles out. I figured that I could turn around there and come back. That would be 24 miles or 2/3 of a one way trip. The way out was perfect. I kept a really good pace. My seat didn't hurt and I was doing great. I decided to stick with the plan and rest for a minute and then come back. Big mistake. In the five minutes that I was out of the saddle, my legs tightened up and I never did get them loosened up the entire trip back.

What did I learn from my excursion? I learned that there is an "Optimist tot lot" between our rental and the trail head. I know run to the google screen. Type in cities along Lake Michigan, with more than six blocks, a 4th of July Parade and an Optimist tot lot.

What is an Optimist tot lot you ask? Well contrary to what its name might suggest, it is not a place to purchase young children with a positive outlook on life. No and Optimist tot lot is where Bev and I, Ben and Grace and several of their friends will play kickball tomorrow on the first day of the rest of our vacation.

Take Care

Roger