Gail and I have been on a diet since Jun the 1st. We combined that with walking 2.4 miles a day (there is a bridge 1.2 miles from our house. Needless to say, the weight loss for both of us has been dramatic. She has really taken to these morning walks. I have to huff and puff to keep up. I stay behind a few steps because the road is narrow. The epic ass she had when we met has returned, must be genetic. Not bad for an old lady.
She is almost a foot shorter than I am. For my two steps, she takes three. We go so fast, she reminds me of a Yorky on a leash. With its feet a blur.
The news is talking about the guy who attacked Paul Pelosi. They said he had a history of being a radical nudist. How can you tell? Was it the erection that gave him away?
We received six new chicks from a hatchery in Ohio today. Expensive little peepers. They lay different colored eggs. From blue through green and then on to a dark golden brown. We, poultry people, refer to them as Easter Eggers. That is what my wife says anyway. She takes her chickens seriously. They arrived this morning via USPS. They are nestled in, the perfect word for the situation, and happy. They have broken the code on food and water. We have a brooder for them. An upside-down hot plate, so to speak. They spend most of their time under the brooder but will run out to peck, peck, peck at the food, or dip their beaks into the water and lift their little heads straight up to swallow. Judging from the number of little chick poopies in the enclosure. I would say all systems are a go and they have survived their Post Office experience unscathed.
We have too many mongrel chickens now. Lots of little roosters. It has fallen to me to cull about 9 of them. Crowing, fighting, and giving the hens no rest. They have to go, no one wants the noisy guys. This is part of the animal husbandry equation I hate. When I was a kid living on a farm this was part of farm life. It also made me realize why saying Grace before a meal was so important on the farm. The price of dominion is prayer.
The last time I had to do this, we left one rooster. His name is Macho, and he’s the father of all these roosters. After culling the roosters I walked around the corner of the coop and Macho took off running from me like he was running for his life. He seemed aware of death and wanted no part of it. I won’t kill him because of that. I have resolved to do a better job of finding where these hens hide their eggs. The frying pan is the best way to prevent unwanted chickens.
To have your hand on the small of a woman’s back, to smell the perfume in her hair, and to be perfectly in sync with the music on the dance floor. Really, is staring into your cell phone better than that?
Really, it is the rush you experience in the air. Off the ground and orienting yourself to the terrain from the air. Going somewhere in a plane, you reduce the earth to a ribbon that just passes under you. To be low and adjusting to the terrain, i.e. not hitting the mountain. To notice something left or right and turning that way as a bird would. It is not something you earn, it’s onanism
The ladies are merrily planning their Italian vacation as I write. They are using Marco Polo , a video service for making notes to each other. Little Chats about the latest ideas of what to do. They are bouncing all sorts of ideas off of each other. One idea was to have matching t-shirts made for each other. I kinda liked that one. That should alert the Italian pedestrians. Old ladies on Vespas in matching Tees should trigger some sort survival instinct. At least they should be up on the balls of their feet as the women pass by.
The newest addition to the group suggested they read The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone by Tennessee Williams before going. An historical novel about Italy. The women realized they have a serious player in their midst. The idea of matching scarves to go with the tees has been suggested. Amazon is now involved. Going to Italy is becoming a statement.
I learned I am sending a large amount of money on a one-way trip to Italy next summer. Fortunately, my wife and daughter have agreed to accompany the cash to make sure it is fairly distributed amongst the local tourist attractions. They want to take a Vespa tour around Sorento. I have to find a Vespa dealer that can give scooter lessons. The tour says that if you can’t ride a scooter safely, you can’t go. Rather than chance an international incident, lessons are prudent. Scooters are the preferred transportation of the young. Young lovers out for a summer’s evening is a common sight. From Texas, I am going to unleash an old lady into the mix. I hope the pedestrians are alert and have fine reflexes
I drove out to the sailplane field today to find out how I was to get started in this glider experience. A $500 initiation fee is required for membership in the club. This has to be done before I can schedule an instructor and begin taking lessons. Kinda stiff, but they have a country club vibe. The parking lot was filled with Audis, Porsche Panameras, Land Rovers, and my lonely Nissan Altima. I have license plates that have the Distinguished Flying Cross military insignia. That was the only reason I wasn’t treated as a “Poor Little Match Girl.”
The guy who runs the club was a gracious host and he was quite informative and helpful. He was older than I and hard of hearing. I had to yell my questions from time to time to make myself understood. When going up the steps to the office, he seemed a bit wobbly. Necessitating my standing close if a hand was needed. I found it reassuring that good hearing and cat-like reflexes aren’t required. On the first of June, I went on a diet to lose weight so I could fly again. I weighed 248 pounds then and now weigh 212lbs. Gail and I started walking at the same time and are now walking 2.4 miles a day at a brisk pace. After my visit today I realized that I have seriously overtrained for this endeavor.
I am writing them a check next week and sending in the application forms. I am buying a GoPro with a baseball cap mounting bracket. Besides writing, I’ll give cinema a whirl.
P.S. The planes are tiny things with huge wingspans. Very graceful looking. Just keeping one aloft will add beauty to the skies.
I keep getting ads from 23 and Me. They want me to explore all of the possible relatives I have. It is just a matter of more money. So far I have found that I am Northern European, Scot, Irish, and English. In short, a pedigreed lily white ass. Not even a smidgen of anything else. I am kinda disappointed, I would have hoped some of my female ancestors would have shown some imagination and curiosity.
The English part of me is the oldest. A thousand years or so. Hell, I don’t even get a holiday or parade. So there I am, left to soak in my blandness. At least we invented Pubs with cool names.
My Mom and Dad spanked me when I needed it and expected a certain level of deportment. They wanted me to study in school, which I didn’t, and try to succeed at something. They cared in short. I managed to muddle through and attain a certain level of mediocrity, which puts me above 50%. The only thing I could tell Oprah with tears in my eyes is, “My Momma made me clean my room.”
So there, my wisdom came from the process of elimination. Built on a foundation of no prior planning. I discovered the enemy was me all along. I can’t be the only one. Why isn’t this the lesson we try to teach our children? If we can’t figure these things out we may be headed for a world where testosterone wills out.
It seems as if dystopia is our chosen destination.
Here I am, 21 days into my Keto Diet, AKA: Sensory Deprivation Diet. No carbs or sugar, that means absolutely none. With that, we had a meal of brisket, tomato, onion, avocado, and bell pepper, over a heaping plate of romaine lettuce. The kind of meal that lasts a lot less time than a Chinese dinner.
My darling bride, who is the marshal for this endeavor, proudly announced that she also had prepared diet orange Jell-O with Keto friendly Redi-Whip topping. Wishfully, she said this should taste like a dreamsicle. It didn’t. Sort of like, throwing that last chair into the fireplace will keep us from freezing this winter. Without hope, where would we be?
As far as Jell-O is concerned. I remember going to the hospital with a friend to visit his 5-year-old son, who had some sort of malady that I can’t remember. It wasn’t serious because he grew into a healthy man. During our visit, in came a pediatric nurse, with her best impression of “Mr. Rogers”, saying, “We have an afternoon treat for you, Strawberry Jell-O.” She said this with a huge smile on her face. I don’t know if she believed this or was trying to sell the idea. The kid and I looked at each other in a moment of understanding. I learned a 5-year-old can muster a “What kind of shit is this?” look on his face.
So, there I was last night. With a tiny dessert spoon trying to rake the last bits of Jell-O into a globule big enough to fit on my spoon. It’s going to be a long hard winter.
I was in Normandy for the 50th anniversary of D-Day. There were speeches and dignitaries as thick as fleas that day. I am being flippant. It was a solemn day. I was at the back of the overwhelmingly American crowd that was wearing American Flags and red white and blue. I noticed behind us, that there were three Frenchmen walking amongst the grave markers. They were old, one needed to use a cane to walk. The other two were on each side of him to hold his arms. They were moving slowly, stopping to read the occasional marker. They were wearing berets that seemed to make them look sadder as they bent down to look at the markers. I didn’t know their stories but I imagined that they were badasses who were probably with our boys when they gave their lives on the beaches of Normandy. They made the occasion funerial
When I was starting in aviation I had a flight instructor tell me a great story.
He was a crop-duster and trying to maximize his earnings by shortening the amount of time it took to make a turn to get back around and lined up for a new pass. If you ain’t spraying you ain’t earning. He said he started experimenting with flap settings to see if you could shorten his time to turn. It seemed to be working out great until the last turn when the bottom fell out and a stall ensued. Mushy controls and no altitude, the only thing he could do was point it down at a big tree and apply full power. Until he had enough airspeed to pull up at the last minute, barely missing the tree, and fly away. He flew for a mile or so to gather his composure. After using his fuel, he landed in the field to refuel.
The flag boy came over to help. They spend their days holding up a large flag so the pilots know which rows to spray next.
The kid asked, “What happened out there?”
Not wanting to appear anything less than the “Pilot Extraordinaire” he said, “Nothing at all, why do you ask?”
With an incredulous look on his face, the kid said, “Bullshit I heard you screaming.”
Here’s hoping that if it doesn’t work out with me in a sailplane, a whoosh is all they hear,
It was ten o’clock in the morning the day before yesterday when Wilbur (my 7-month-old puppy) and I were on the back porch chilling. I was sitting on the bench with Wilbur at my feet. We are moving into Summer, and it is starting to get warm. The blossoms of Spring are long gone, and the fruit trees have tiny peaches and pears on them. Gail joined us outside. The inertia of the moment was to do absolutely nothing. Nobody was talking. Wilbur had his mouth open and tongue out. He looked like he was smiling as he tried to stay cool by panting. Gail and I could see what our little guy would become as an adult dog. Just a proud moment parents share over the smallest of things.
Monica (our hen) came by doing an impression of Marcel Marceau walking into a very strong wind, it was painfully slow. She was quietly grumbling with each step. Wilbur turned his head to follow her as she passed by, it was so slow that there was nothing to change the doing of nothing.
Six of our Old English bantams came running by. Their running did not reflect any up and down movement of their heads. It looked like they were riding tiny motorcycles with heads held high. Their tail feathers were up like dorsal fins. Weaving left and right they gave the column the appearance of a snake moving. They arrived under a bush that had no grass underneath, just dirt. There they stopped and plopped down in the dirt to dust bathe. They went there for a reason. It is always a mystery to me how they can be content doing something and then jump up in unison and run to another part of the yard to do something else. How do they communicate?
A couple of crows started screeching. This is the universal signal that a hawk is nearby. We were awakened from our reverie. The chickens immediately scooted under the bushes and got as flat as they could. Gail grabbed a leaf rake and ran under the trees looking for the biggest opening between the tree limbs that showed the most amount of sky, to look for that hawk. I’m sure the hawk saw a crazy old lady with a rake anxiously scanning the skies and decided to go elsewhere to dine. I’m sure Heckle and Jeckle were cawing “Batter Up”. We decided to go back into the house and do nothing there, Retired you know.
I love playing with our puppy. Wilbur is 8 months old and thinks he is a badass. I like to touch his head when he tries to bite. It is all in play, but he does like to make faces at my hand. He is trying to perfect the perfect snarl. He is trying to instill fear.
Just like the Mauri Warriors, Japanese Samurai, Inca, Aztec, Chinese, or anyone who left any art depicting warlike faces. It must have been the first thing humans did when they encountered another clan they didn’t like, make faces and scream. Primates do the same thing plus beat their hands on the ground or their chests to make more noise. Just think, when someone picked up a rock and threw it, that was the first step in the arms race we pursue to this day.
I had to find a lawn mower repair shop today. My old Craftsman riding mower is getting long in the tooth. So I had to find someone to fix it and replace the blades. One or two more seasons would be great and then I’ll buy a new one.
After asking for directions I found a building standing in a nest of used mowers for sale. This place was a typical small engine shop. Old mowers are everywhere in various states of repair. A dark shop with no windows, oil and grease-stained floors, and drop lights hanging from the rafters. The owner and his employee were wearing oil and grease-stained coveralls that decades of washing couldn’t clean. Just what you would expect. This is the kind of place I was looking for.
What I wasn’t expecting, was as I was standing in line to talk to the owner. He and another man were talking about the chess openings of Paul Morphy (a Grand Master of epic mythology). They are members of a chess club that meets in town on Thursday nights. I will be there for the next meeting. The Kings’ Gambit, Zen, and the Art of Lawn Mower Maintenance will be a chapter in my book.
I love Winnsboro.
Our storage facility is a great business endeavor for our retirement and doesn’t require that much work. Yesterday I signed in a couple that is moving here from Colorado. They are retired and asked me
how I got into the storage business. My standard joke is, “It’s either this or being a greeter at Walmart.”
As I was explaining how everything worked, I had to mention that this week we will be starting two new buildings and to make sure to park away from the construction area. The wife looked at me and asked, “Why would you want to expand and create more work?”
That is when that little devil took over.
“I promised my wife that when the buildings are complete she could turn in her notice to Walmart,” I said.
“This job is hard on her and I try to do what I can. Last year I even bought her a fancy walker with wheels on the front legs and a fold-down bench seat. She said it even helps with the housework. Not having to worry about falling is a big plus for her too!”
They must have really needed a storage place, they are new renters.
Tonight was our first trip to puppy school for our dog. He is six months old and Gail has decided he is to receive an education. There were about 12 other dogs there, all the owners in hopes of trying to civilize their pets. There were two old widowers with their new companions, puppies. These old men showered those dogs with tenderness and love. A tall, stately, and well-kept woman was there with her dog for his third time in the class. He did great and I was wondering if she is looking for a level of perfection that put her husband in an early grave. Keep in mind this is all just conjecture from an inveterate wool gatherer.
Our six-month-old puppy Wilbur did a great job. The lady who ran the class loved Wilbur’s name. I was going to tell her about his best friend was our Cat named, Jerome. I didn’t because I was able to decipher the subliminal message of “Don’t You Dare” from my bride.
I was expecting to be called aside and have Trade School suggested by the staff. Didn’t happen, maybe he is the smartest dog after all.
My wife called me and wanted me to pick up some wine for her on the way home. The check-out lady assured me that this was an excellent vintage boxed wine. To hell with corks.
I took the side streets home. You have to stop at each crossing, but with less hassle than the main roads during rush hour. After crossing the railroad tracks, HWY 11 has to be crossed. The highway has a deep ditch on either side of it. The dip is deep enough that you have to cross it slowly.
After crossing the tracks I was looking ahead to see what traffic was in front of me and what their intentions were. There was a sun-faded blue Ford coming my way. Driving was a blue-haired old lady. Next to her was a blonde Yorky sitting in a dog car seat. The old lady had her hands on the wheel at 10 and 2. She was short and it looked like her hands were above her head. The dog was sitting at the same height.
As she approached the crossing you could see her busily looking left and right. This woman had no intention of stopping if she could get away with it. She went for it and hit the dip going too fast. You could hear the suspension bottom out and the cross member scraping the concrete. She and the dog bounced up out of their seats so high that the top of their heads disappeared behind the sun visors. Her sun visor flopped down. In a smooth practiced manner, she had pushed it back in place with her right hand before gravity had returned her to her seat. The same thing happened again at the dip on the other side of the highway. After they came to a rest the second time in their seats. Passing me, they had icy stares on their faces looking straight ahead. I couldn’t bring myself to watch them cross the tracks.
Let’s pray for the dog.
Austin Tx is the snow globe for the State.
The high school football coach played football for U.T. He wasn’t good enough for a scholarship, but they did let him suit up for the home games. His mother encouraged him to always effusively congratulate any player who made a great play on the field when they returned to the bench. Helmet off of course. That way his Grandmother would get to see him on TV. For panoramic shots, he was easy to pick out, the only one combing his hair. Four years of this drove him into the subconscious of Texas fans. It helped him in getting a job, but not his ability to coach football.
Wilbur, our new puppy, is spoiled and having a grand life. He has plenty of toys, dog beds, and a strap-in car seat so he can see outside while we drive. I bought a bag of small tennis balls for him to play with. He is ball-driven and loves to play fetch. A ball will get lost in the house from time to time and we will get out another ball so he can continue playing. The time arrived when after fetching the thrown ball, he stumbled across another ball under the bookcase. That is where the problems ensued. Now he is dealing with two balls. He can’t figure out how to carry both at once. Nor how can he leave one alone while protecting the other one from the cats. The cats just stare at him and could care less about his toys. He will drop the one and bark at the other, all the while using his front paw to roll them together. This is a problem that can occupy him for hours. He wants to get them back to his bed in the living room where he keeps his toys. He was fretting with the balls in the kitchen for an hour or so when the growls and barks stopped. He prances into the living room with both in his mouth. Each was hanging out of the sides of his mouth. A lucky bite I guess, it looked like he had a tiny tennis ball dumb-bell in his mouth. He stopped in front of me and stared. It looked like he was smiling, very proud of himself.
I reached into the bag and rolled another ball on the floor in front of him. Now he has three,
Pupdate:
Wilbur, our Australian Shepherd puppy, is doing well. The Holidays have come and gone and he has acquired a large audience of folks who adore him. Adulation is something he needs and longs for, the holidays didn’t disappoint. After everyone had gone I took him out to our driveway to leash train him. At first he fought the leash and was not a happy camper. I had a choker on the leash so it caused him discomfort to struggle too much. He did receive liberal amounts of “Good Boys’”, pats on the head, and back rubs when he did well. He’s a smart dog, it didn’t take long for him to get the hang of the leash, sitting, and to come when called. I know it is my imagination, but I think the working dog in him took over. He needs and wants a job, something to do. If you leave him unattended too long in the backyard, you will find all of our chickens in a small group with him laying on his stomach watching from about 25’ away. The boy wants a job, so the leash training seemed like a means to an end for him. Whenever I went to pat his head, he would pull his ears back with his muzzle extended out and up. Like he was facing into a strong wind. Eyes halfway closed and I swear a smile on his face. A liberal amount of head rubbing and then on to the next task. Life was good. The cats however were perched to the side of the driveway and watching him in a passive aggressive manner. They were smiling too. When I finally took the leash off, his first order of business was to go chase the cats. They would run a little and then stop, turn and stare, In the interest of safety he would pull up just short of the reach of claws. He trotted away like he had fulfilled his dog duties and had kept the cats in their place. Sorta like a faked orgasm. What he doesn’t know can make him feel like a man.
My neighbors’ widow is doing as well as can be expected. When I checked on her that big ole yellow dog was on task barking his ass off. No more half-hearted woofs, but strident full-throated barks to convey a sense of danger. He wasn’t going to be caught not giving it all again.
This years’ Christmas will be different.
After years of getting to pay the bills and being an emergency bank for any family woes. Looking back on all those crummy ties, socks, dust bins for my shop, never worn sweaters, and cheese and sausage samplers, has driven me to reassess gift-giving this year. No more sitting in a chair that is the furthest from the tree on Christmas Eve and oohing and ahh-Ing over the above-mentioned gifts this year. The son-in-law saying, “Jeff at work said that these are the best-smoked sausages,” Or, a daughter saying “I picked these socks because they said they are the warmest made and good for feet with bad circulation.” All the while getting the perfunctory thank-you for X-Boxes, barbeque grills, washer-dryer combinations, tuition for next semester, or whatever else the wife deems they need. This year I am in charge of gift-giving. A round of $25 gift certificates from Bed Bath and Beyond for the house and a brand new Omega Speedmaster Professional Moon-watch for me. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
I took the puppy outside this morning so he could do his business. The goal is to have a dog that wants to go outside when the urges strike. It is cold and crystal clear this morning, The ground is covered in leaves. Wilbur, being three months old, is always down for a new experience. Running through the leaves on the ground is a new and fun endeavor for him. Our cat Jerome was outside with him. Jerome was sitting on his haunches with his front legs extended and his head high. Like an Egyptian God, slowly turning his head left or right as the dog ran by. Keeping track of the dog but expending the least amount of energy in so doing. Wilbur was running esses as fast as he could through the leaves. His mouth open with his tongue hanging out, hard turns left and right like a motorcycle racer. Leaves flying in his wake. The open mouth and tongue made it look like he was smiling his ass off. I remember the cold air exploding in my lungs and the fun of running outside as a boy in the same circumstances. That made this a treasure of re-living wonderful memories for me.
To add to the fun of the experience, he would run straight at the cat and veer off at the last moment, making the cat raise a paw to strike if he misjudged the turn and got too close. When he made a mistake, you would hear a high-pitched yipe from the dog. Believe it or not, the cat likes the dog and never uses his claws when dispensing justice. Stoicism is not a puppies’ strong suit.
Then finally tired he would start sniffing the ground and walking in circles to find the perfect spot to pee. When he found that spot he would still do small circles until he was facing in the proper direction. I think alignment is important to a dog. He and the cat share one trait. When pooping they both have this “I can’t believe this is happening to me” look on their faces. To be called a “Good Boy” in this household doesn’t require much, just do it outside.
Our neighbor passed away a few days ago. He was pushing 90, it was not a shock. He lived on the farm next to us and would walk to his mailbox every day. He always had a walking stick and his big ole yellow dog with him. His house was nestled in the trees about a quarter of a mile from the front gate. His walk was understandably slow and his dog took the opportunity to trot around sniffing anything he found of interest. The dog’s yellowtail was curved and would stick up with a slight hook on the end. That tail was all you could see sometimes in the tall grass. The old man making slow progress down the lane and that yellowtail zigzagging around the field made for a peaceful sight to be enjoyed from one’s front porch.
When I was at my mailbox at the same time he was checking his, we would talk. He was a retired history teacher and an interesting chat. His dog would look at me while we talked and would always give me a half-hearted “Woof”. As if to say, “This is my old man.”
Three days after he passed, the dog was in the street by himself. The tail wasn’t sticking up but was between his legs. When he saw me he ran back to his gate and stood there looking at me. He was looking for his Master. An old man passed and is mourned.