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.