Up on the housetop with good saint???

Did you ever wonder who would go up on the housetop in the cold of winter? Saint Nick or no Saint Nick? Well it is a strange tale that I have to tell but here goes.

Friday a week ago we had a bumper crop of snow—four and a half feet over three days. That is about up to most people’s chest. And with another 16 to 32 inches predicted for the night, it was time to take serious stock of the matter. Four and a half plus two and a half equals 7. Now few of us are seven feet tall so that seemed to call for drastic measures. It was not just a case of getting out the front door but a matter of worrying about all that snow on the roof. One never wants to retire for the night in a nice warm bed only to wake up in a start to find one’s self in a cold, snow-filled bed. So I decided to venture up on the roof to see what could be done. After all Ben’s advice was an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. As I carefully surveyed the situation, I came to a quick conclusion. Since there was a substantial amount of snow on the roof and since a good portion of what was there had already morphed into ice, I decided to forget the ladder and look for a safer route to our roof. Plan B was to go upstairs, open the bathroom window and check out that pathway. Well that pathway was almost up to window level. By way of explanation it should be noted that the roofline begins about sink level. So if I could simply stick a shovel through the window and push some of the snow out of the way, I could actually make it to the rooftop without being waist deep in snow. Since I would be starting in the middle of the snow bank instead of the edge of it, the job would be much harder since I would be proceeding from the inside out. From the safety factor Plan B seemed to be a far superior plan. So Plan B it was.

I carried a snow shovel and a small spading shovel upstairs and then dressed warmly for what I saw was going to be a long ordeal. I pushed open the window and then slid some of the snow away from the window. After a few minutes I had cleared a small area directly in front of the window and I eased myself onto the rooftop. There was a coat of ice on the shingles and the footing was somewhat iffy but otherwise everything seemed to be in order. If I were careful I would not go careening over the edge of my own private little ski jump sans skis. I slowly worked my way down to about two feet from the edge where I began to skid shovel after shovel of snow over the abyss. I then retreated back to the staring point where I widened the pig trail by another foot. There were several tons of snow on the roof but pushing it was going to be a lot easier than lifting it. Plan B looked like a sure winner.

My wife is a wonderful soul mate. She worries about me a lot. In fact she worries about a lot of people a lot. But she is always there to lend a helping hand. Some people even think of her as the second coming of Mother Teresa. I sometimes think of her as my own “Saint Teresa.” Moving several tons of snow is no easy task and soon my saintly spouse could contain herself no longer. I heard a noise and looked around. She was behind me on the roof with a snow shovel in hand. There we were—just the two of us--”Saint Teresa” and me. Admittedly she was not Saint Nick but that guy is only around during the Christmas season and that time had come and gone several weeks ago. Of course Nick has had a lot of experience dealing with snow. On the other hand “Saint Teresa” has had a lot of experience dealing with me.

After several hours of pushing snow around every bone in my body ached. My feet were cold and my clothes were wet and cold. The roof was basically cleared. It was well past time to step back inside our cozy house. I was ready to crawl back inside the bathroom window. However, there was a slight problem.

The last person out on the roof had accidentally pushed the window completely shut. It was shut all the way. It was really shut! It was shut so well that it was locked!!! “Saint Teresa” and I were locked outside on the roof. “There is no need to panic,” I said confidently. I confidently gripped the lip of the window and pushed. If you have watched any TV at all, you know that it only takes minimum force to force open a locked door or window. When minimum force did not work, I resorted to maximum force. The window was still locked securely. I had the impression that we need never worry about burglars. But burglars were not an issue at the time. The fact was that we were locked out on our roof. To be certain there was a short utility ladder on the roof but it was far too short to reach the deck. We were stranded.

But at least we had options. Several people were known to walk our street. Maybe one would come by. On the other had what kind of person would be out walking with a snowstorm likely to blow in any second. Maybe our neighbor across the street would come out for a smoke. She could not see us but maybe she could hear us. But only if she were on her deck and we had no way of knowing if she were there or not. She could have chosen today of all days to quit smoking. We could shout until we lost our voices and it could be all for naught. We were stranded. We could always break a window as a last resort. Assuming that it was breakable. However, where we live it can take weeks and weeks to get a replacement so that would be the last resort, assuming that it was breakable. As I peered over the front and back edges, I realized that even if I could land in the snow bank, it would probably break one or both of my legs if I tried to jump off. And I would still have to crawl back inside to call 911 to rescue my wife. The situation was becoming more dire by the moment.

There was always the Martin Luther approach. “Save me Saint Anne and I will become a priest.” Ok. I did not think we were that desperate just yet. But that did give me an idea. Surely there had to be a saint for people stranded on a roof. Now if I could just think of one. Saint Elsewhere. No! No! That is a hospital. Who else. Saint Bernard? Is he a saint or a dog or both? St. Christopher? Isn’t he the patron saint of travelers? Does getting stranded on a roof constitute travel? After a moment of thought, I remembered that the Church had defriended or desainted him some years ago? Saint Jude? Wasn’t he the saint of hopeless causes? Was our situation that hopeless?

Several years ago I remember seeing an ad about how to deal with all but impossible situations—such as how to jump from one moving train to another. There had to be an easy way to escape from a rooftop. But alas I had not bought that book! We were stranded without a cell phone or duct tape. We were really stranded.

Then it hit me. We could take the utility ladder and have “Saint Teresa” hold the top end while I grabbed the bottom rung and eased myself over the edge. If she could hold her end for five seconds, I could drop safely to the ground. I asked her, “Can you hold your end for five seconds”? She smiled and replied “sure!” If you can’t trust “Saint Teresa,” who can you trust? I grabbed the bottom rung and went off the edge. I landed with no broken bones and went upstairs to unlock that darn window.

The Day My Spindletop Blew In!

Everyone would like to have an interest in an oil well especially with oil at or exceeding a price of $100 per barrel. I happen to be one of the fortunate ones, or unfortunate depending on one’s perspective, who can make such a claim. My interest, however, is a very small part in a very small well that is on the verge of being totally pumped out. Since I inherited my portion from my father the well has not come close to producing a royalty sufficient to cover the taxes that I must pay on the producing lease. And that was before the leaseholder filed for bankruptcy. Unless a gusher suddenly erupts beneath the well site, there is no possibility that I will every have a self-sufficient oil well. I know it is hard to believe but it is true.

I spent much of my life only a little more than a dozen miles south of Stephens, Arkansas, and a little more than 30 miles west of El Dorado, both booming oil sites in their prime. But here I am stuck with my own oil-depletion tax. The only thing is that in my case the oil well is depleting my pocket book like a very slow leak in one’s toilet bowl—a minor nuisance rather than a serious matter.

But that brings us back to the topic of my spindletop. Everything began last week in routine fashion—not that anything is every routine in our household. I had decided to put a new towel rack in my bathroom to replace the old shower rod that had served as a towel rack since before we bought the house. I drilled into the sheetrock wall thinking that with the simple insertion of a couple of toggle bolts, the entire job could be finished in no more than five minutes. Wrong! In a couple of seconds I had drilled through the sheetrock but then encountered an immovable object. “No big deal,” I thought. It is probably just a nail and if I move over an inch or so I will have the needed hole. After two more holes hit immovable objects, I decided that I either needed a new drill or should explore other options before I had a neat line of quarter-inch hole across the bathroom wall. With a flashlight I quickly determined that the immovable object behind the sheetrock was nothing other than a brick wall. Now before anyone jumps to any conclusions, there was absolutely no indication that there was a brick wall beyond the sheetrock. It was all perfectly concealed just waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting homeowner, which in this case just happened to be me.

But once again I digress. Back to Spindletop. Some guests had noticed a slow leak in the toilet in the back bathroom. As noted above this would probably just qualify as a minor nuisance to most people. Unfortunately, I decided to tackle the problem head on. I removed the tank top and turned a few screws here and there and quickly determined that a new water valve was needed. I suddenly remembered that an extra valve had come with the house and was out in the garage. I went to the garage and found said object, thinking that I had saved a couple of bucks. I then shut off the water, drained the tank, disconnected the water supply and went to work. In a couple of minutes there was a nice hole in the bottom of the tank eagerly smirching and just waiting for its replacement. I fitted the new valve and tightened the retaining screw and then reconnected the water supply. A nice little stream of water poured through the water line onto the floor. I turned off the water and determined that the seal was still in the old valve. I retrieved the same and forced it into its new home. I then gently turned on the water supply. There was no leak. I congratulated myself on a job well done and then turned the water supply to full on.

Suddenly, the new valve inside the tank exploded with a vengeance in my face. Water was everywhere, or at least as far as I could determine. It is hard to see clearly when one has just received a blast of water in one’s eyes. Well the blast was not directly in my eyes since I was looking at the ceiling at the time but the ricochet was directly in my eyes. It was a gusher to rival spindletop. True it was not spewing 150 feet in the air and there was no one standing by to offer me a pot of gold to sleep in my bathtub. But when one is in a small confined area and water is literally bouncing off all the walls and it seems like you are about to be inundated with a 100,000 barrels of water. There is no time to think of royalties and no time to worry about the ensuing water bill and the drain on one’s pocketbook. There is only time to react. One must access the shut-off valve as quickly as possible before my wife’s new wallpaper floats off the wall. But that is no easy task when one cannot see. You do recall that I said that that I had tackled the project head on. Eventually, I managed to put my hand on the cut-off valve and everything was ok again.

Ok that is if one considers being in a flooded bathroom with water dripping off the walls and the newly applied wallpaper threatening to fall on you at any moment. I managed somehow to get the placed dried out and then looked to see the cause of my recent discomfort. The pink valve that controls the water supply in the tank had been turned slightly to the right and the tabs that had secured it in place had taken it upon themselves to join in a water balloon massacre upon the party of the first part which in this case just happened to be me. I tentatively repositioned everything and determined that there was no missing screw or glue to hold everything in place, nothing but a quick twist to the left. And then there was only the final test to turn the water back on. Of course, this time I was looking at the floor and my hand never left the cut-off until there was no indication of a second gusher.

And now there are only two unfinished pieces of busine: the water bill and to check with the IRS to see if there is a water depletion allowance.

Down and Dirty!

One of the first things that parents teach a young toddler is don’t eat yellow snow. “ It is not good for you.” When I was growing up before green house gases abounded, we would eagerly await the first snowfall of the winter in order to make snow ice cream. Of course we were always very careful where we got our snow. The top of a car was always a good place unless you saw cat or bird tracks there. It had to be pure white. No black or gray snow was tolerated. However, dingy snow did have its uses. It made great snowballs and sent a message to the recipient. When I became an adult after decades of snow deprivation, I decided to make some snow ice cream for my kids. I took a bite and it was awful. I have not made any since. Good thing!

The February 29 edition of Science has reported that snow is full of bacteria. When the temperature drops below the freezing mark snow can form if it has something around which to coagulate. There are millions and millions of bacteria just floating around with nothing better to do so they offer their services to Old Man Winter and presto we have snow. Experts tell us that we should not be overly alarmed. Although tomatoes and beans may be susceptible, there are no reports of children becoming ill from eating snow—at least not from eating white snow. According to Dr. Penelope Dennehy, a member of the American Academy of Pediatrics’ committee on infectious diseases, children won’t get anything from snow that they wouldn’t get from dirt.

Now I don’t know about you but I have never cared for dirt myself. However, there is a long history of people eating clay in the South, especially Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi. I first became aware of this phenomenon when I was still a university student. I encountered the contemptuous term “clay eater to describe one of the lowest social classes in the South. I simply could not imagine anyone eating clay more than once and then only on a dare. But I found out that I was wrong.

Geophagy is a medical term that refers to people eating dirt, clay and etc. The practice dates at least back to the time of the Romans. During the reign of Emperor Tiberius, Cornelius Celsus wrote “people whose colour is bad when they are not jaundiced are either sufferers from pains in the head or earth eaters.” Avicenna, the Persian physician, recommended that young boys be imprisoned if they resorted to eating dirt. Apparently he had tried it once and did not like it at all. In Siberia tribes have been known to munch on small clay balls as they march. In pre-Columbian America Indians mixed clay with acorns to make their bread more palatable.

African slaves brought the ritual of dirt eating to the South. Some slave owners took harsh measures to end the abominable practice of eating clay by fashioning mouth locks to prevent Negroes from ingesting non-approved dietary items. They did not want anyone to get sick and die. Still aficionados touted its benefits: a softer, whiter skin, a diarrhea remedy, help in conception, a morning sickness preventive, and a remedy for tired blood, i.e. anemia (Geritol had not yet been invented). It was hard to pass up such a supposed elixir. Clay eating soon spread to lower-class whites. Like Mikey, they would try anything.

Despite efforts to eradicate clay eating, the practice continues to this day. In Georgia some stores sell a product: "Down Home Georgia White Dirt. Novelty. Not Suggested for Human Consumption." Reverse psychology no doubt. In Mississippi seniors have been known to argue over which clay tastes best: Mississippi or Alabama. If I had to choose I would pick that wallpaper cleaner that almost no one would buy until it was repackaged as Play-Doh. And according to Hasbro it does contain wheat and food coloring but no peanut oil. After all one should not make a product too appetizing. Mikey, children, and southern whites will eat anything, especially if it is fried, even fried Twinkies. Although it was not fried, some people have at least tried cooking their clay.

Babe the Blue Ox

Babe the Blue Ox was the stuff from which legends were made. And it was.

There are many stories about the creation of the Grand Canyon. A few people insist that it was carved out by Noah’s flood. Capt. John Hance always claimed that he dug it out by hand and then dumped all the dirt at San Francisco Peak outside Flagstaff. But according to some very reliable sources it was none other than Paul Bunyan and his Ox Babe who plowed out the canyon. Now I am not sure which version that you believe but please take note of the following. The Kodak company reports that a statue of Babe and his sidekick Paul outside Bemidji, Minn, are the second-most-photographed statues in the United States right after Mount Rushmore. Moreover the local Rotary Club wrangled a $68,000 grant from the federal government to restore Babe to his former greatness. Now Klamath, Oregon could have used a little of that money. The 1000-pound head of their own Babe just fell off right before Christmas. To be sure they did promise to make repairs in January but in the meanwhile they just hung a wreath on the statue where the head used to be. In any event we may wonder why the feds are shelling out taxpayer dollars to restore an old deteriorating piece of sculpture.

But I digress too much. Did Babe really plow a furrow along the Colorado River? Well it turns out there really are blue oxen, the Belgian Blue Ox breed. They are a souped-up version of a beef cow bred to produce lean meat. In this case the blue steers have muscles rippling all over their bodies. The extra muscles are the result of a genetic mutation that turns off the myostatin gene that leads to the withering away of our muscle tissue when we get older. Although chicken farmers and others are trying to cultivate specimens with the genetic alteration, the Belgian breed is the only successful mutation out there thus far. And it really is blue.

This genetic change is not confined to the animal world. Over the years there have been a few humans who have been born with the myostatin-repressive gene. Most recently at the tail end of the last century The New England Journal of Medicine reported the birth of a super baby with Charles Atlas type muscles. Alas after a few articles the baby has dropped from the public view. I just hope that he doesn’t get nicknamed “Babe” during his lifetime.

But the whole point of this digression is that there is now an over-sized blue ox species. Just think of the possibilites. Think of a Yorkie with the muscles of a bulldog, or a whippet (there is a supposed picture on the WEB of a whippet with the genetic mutation). Now if this breed of oxen has come into existence in recent years, is there any reason to question that there might have been a real “Babe” way back when? Moreover if that German Super Baby grows up to be a Goliath we could have our model of old Paul himself. We have federal funding and photographic evidence of an American icon. So we can doubt old John Hance but Babe that is another story.

Chaotic Disorder!

I know that you have probably never heard of chaotic disorder, but you will know it when you see it. I least I did. I woke us this morning and did not what where I was. It turned out that I was a sleep in the kitchen in my recliner. Now I know that you are wondering what in the world was my recliner doing in the kitchen and what was I doing there? There is a simple explanation. We moved some furniture around so that the repair people could refinish our floors. The kitchen was as good a place as any other for the recliner. And besides it was closer. And what was I doing in the recliner? Well my back was bothering me last night when I got ready for bed. And the bed or at least the mattress was in the study. So I took some ibuprofen and slumped down in the recliner for a long winter nap.

Oh! I suppose you are wondering what the mattress was doing in the study? And what happened to the rest of the bed? Well, we moved some furniture around so that the repair people could refinish our floors. And we had to have some place to sleep so the study seemed as good a place as any to stow it. We leaned it against the wall-sized bookcase that we had stashed there. At night we would plop it down on the floor. So the mattress had become a pseudo Murphy bed. The only thing it was not in the wall but just reclining against the bookcase. The rest of the bed was disassembled lying here and there about the room—where ever it seem an appropriate place to store it at the time or where ever it would fit. With the bed I don’t recall whether it was “appropriate” or “fit.” There was after all a lot of furniture to be moved.

I got up had some coffee, took a shower and started to get dressed. I picked up a pair of dark socks and they were mismatched. So I went to the bathroom and climbed over the sofa cushions that were in the tub, wiggled past the john and opened my chest of drawers, which was facing against the outside wall. Now I know that you are wondering what the sofa cushions were doing in the tub and why anyone would be so foolish as to place a chest of drawers in such an awkward position. Well there is a simple explanation. The floor repair people were coming and we had to put the furniture some place, at the time that seemed as good a place as any other. And besides we each had taken an ample supply of clothes and stashed or dumped them close to the mattress in the study. She stashed. I dumped. Unfortunately, I did not double-check my socks to make sure that they had been properly matched.

So, at least I had my socks. But suddenly I began to think about my shoes. Not my everyday shoes but my dress shoes—my Sunday-go-to-meeting shoes. I could not find them anywhere. So I frantically began to search where they might be. They were not in the bathroom nor were they in the study. And then I remembered. They must be in the truck. And they were. Now, I know you are wondering why my shoes would be in my pickup. Well there is a simple explanation. The repair people were coming and we had to empty all our closets. And the furniture had by and large pre-empted most of the available room and the tent trailer was full of clothes so I chose the path of least resistance and “dumped” most of the clothes and shoes that I thought I would not need in the Sonoma.

I should mention that we had emptied four rooms of furniture and only had two rooms and a bath to store furniture that might somehow impede the people who were supposed to show up and work on our floors. The small formal dining area just off the kitchen was designated as the logical plot to hold the breakfront, the piano, the harpsichord, and the two sofas minus their cushions, of course. Everything else had to go in the study, the garage, or the kitchen. Did I mention that we have a lot of furniture?

After I got dressed I made another important discovery. I did not have any car keys! Diana had left early and had taken the SUV to make to choir practice before the regular service. I was left with the Prius but apparently without any keys. I searched through my pants pockets for the last two days and my coat pockets—all to no avail. I then remembered that I had been crawling around under the house two days earlier (that is another story), so I managed to make my way to the laundry room and found the dirt coated items that I had worn under the house. I checked the pockets. Nothing! In desperation I went out to the car and the door was unlocked which meant the keys were inside. Voila!

So there you have it, Chaotic Disorder.

Travels in Hawaii

Way back in 1866 Mark Twain visited Hawaii and recorded his observations in his book, Letters from Hawaii. Having visited Hawaii several times I thought it might be interesting to replicate some of his travels.

Last year while on the Big Island we decided to take another look at the volcano Kilauea. It would have been fun to do it by mule the way that Twain did, but it was not to be. In fact the park service had barricaded off much of the lava flow area along the coast for the safety of all concerned. So we did the next best thing, we took a perilous helicopter ride over the glowing lava. I’m sure that Twain would not have approved. After all when one is high above the scene, one misses much of the ambiance such as the sickening sulfur smell that surrounds Kilauea. But Charles Lindbergh who is buried on Maui would have approved.

Any way it was no joy ride. We booked our flight and got a very good deal. We soon found out why. Our mode of conveyance was a tiny helicopter, roughly the size of an old VW from tip to tip. I have never seen anything so small other than perhaps in a James Bond Movie. At best it could hold two people comfortably. Four of us were packed inside. Imagine four adults in the back of that VW. Comfortable? What do you think? My nose was no more than four inches from the windshield. I had to lean back much to the annoyance of my wife who was seated directly behind me to maneuver my camera so that I could try to click some pictures. The copter could turn on a dime and it often did. All I could do to frame my shots was to hold the shutter button down and hope. Click, click, click, click! Somehow I did manage to get a couple of good pictures. The pilot zigged and zagged and rolled right and left. She went through almost the full repertoire of a stunt pilots tricks. When we made it back to the Hilo airport my stomach was still in a semi-nauseous mode. We took a vow that next time around we would not hesitate to pay a premium price for a bigger chopper.

This time when we arrived at Honolulu we had pretty much forgotten about Mark Twain. However, we had decided to forgo the rental car and to see Oahu the way most Hawaiians do, by bus. We got a false impression of bus travel when we took the Number Two bus out to Diamond Head. Things moved a little slow but we did get there and back.

Our big test came when we decided to take the bus to the Punchbowl. It was going to be a bit tricky since we would need to make a transfer. Since so many of the streets have similar names, we goofed up and got off at the wrong stop. We could not determine from our little abridged map how much further we had to go. Thinking it was only a few blocks we started to walk. After about a mile we were not sure that we were even headed in the right direction. When we found our street and took a left turn, we watched a bit dismayed as Bus Number 15, our bus, roared past us. How long would we have to wait? Surely, no more than fifteen minutes. Wrong! After two brief rain showers and an hour wait, our bus finally showed back up. The driver let us out but told us that there was a fire ahead and the road was closed. He promised to pick us back up later. It would not matter on which side of the road we were. He would stop for us. With this assurance we trotted up the hill. After taking in much of the Punchbowl, it started to rain and we beat a retreat back to the bus stop. We looked both directions because we were beginning to get more than a little wet. We jumped on the bus and shelled out our bus fare. Since we now had a different driver it would have been prudent for us to ask a few questions. But we did not. About a mile from downtown he told us that we would have go get off and catch Bus Number 6 to get downtown. He told us that we had gotten on the bus headed in the wrong direction and we would have to buy another ticket to make it back to Waikiki. The funny thing about the Hawaii public transportation system is that it requires exact change. We were fresh out of exact change. We sat and waited for Bus Number 6. Before it arrived Bus Number 15 returned with the same driver but headed in the opposite direction. Knowing that it could well be perhaps an hour before the right bus made it appearance and because it was now raining again, we hopped back on our old bus. The driver now graciously let us ride for free and we made it back to our point of departure.

There were no more pitfalls with our transportation until it came time for our departure to the airport. Since our plane was not due to leave until about 10 that night we had checked out of our room and left our luggage with the bell hop. Our plan was to pick up the luggage about four and head to the airport for a leisurely dinner and then just read and relax until it was time to board our plane. About five to four I started looking for our baggage claim ticket but could not find it. My wife did not have it. I frantically picked through my pockets again but to no avail. I went back through my billfold for the fourth time and finally found it snuggled comfortably up in a small corner. I went over to the desk but the bellhop had suddenly disappeared. I looked around and finally caught the attention of the receptionist and she paged him. He would be right up. But when he did not show, she paged him again. On the third page he finally appeared and we retrieved our bags. However, we now had only about four minutes until we were to board our shuttle. As we walked out onto the sidewalk I saw our shuttle bus across the street at the pickup point. He was early and it looked as if it was going to roll out any second. I crossed the street in a dead run dragging one of our roll-ons behind me. As he closed the door on the shuttle I ran faster. He and another man were laughing. When I reached the door, he opened it and told me that it was not the airport shuttle.

We waited another ten minutes and a van arrived. It was our shuttle. We made it on board and got comfortable seats. We made several stops and the bus was filled to capacity or seemingly so. We made one final stop and picked up a couple with tons of luggage. Everyone scrunched together and luggage was placed in the front seat up to the ceiling. The van was way overloaded and it became increasingly obvious as we hit speed bump after speed bump. My shoulder throbbed with pain as we bounced along. At the first opportunity I took an ibuprofen.

There were several other annoyances once we got to the airport. There were no agri inspectors to check our bags and there was no one at our airline counter check-in. And worst of all there was no place to eat until after we had cleared security. Our only consolation was that there were about forty or fifty other people in the same pickle that we were.

We arrived back in Phoenix at 7 in the morning. So much for travels in Hawaii. Next year when we go the Grand Canyon, we will take the mules to the bottom. Mark Twain just might have been right after all. Or maybe we are just slow learners.

Johnny Come Lately!

The remodeling of our house continues apace. The kitchen, hallway and three bathrooms have all been tiled. In order to tile the bathrooms the three commodes all had to be pulled. I did the pulling, but not the tiling. After yanking the commode from the back bathroom it was placed outside on the concrete patio. My wife, for reasons unknown to me, also placed the toilet bowl brush outside with its mate. I suppose the unusual location was in case someone unexpectedly felt the urge to go. This arrangement continued for a number of weeks since the tile process took quite some time to complete. I should note also that my wife asked me not to re-install the commodes until she had wall papered behind their former residences. Less anyone should jump to a false assumption, let me observe for the record that the johns were rotated out in sequential order so that at least one was usable at all times. Luckily we did not have any guests because all the doors were removed for refinishing.

Monday I gave the wayward john on the patio a careful going over. During its weeks of unfettered freedom it had accumulated a large quantity of dirt and grim. I washed it down with the hose and carefully cleaned the underside. It proved to be all but impossible to remove all the grime inside the tank. That is not a real problem I thought. Once it was re-installed a couple of good flushes should clean out its insides. When it had dried off, I hauled it back into the bathroom. The flange was firmly anchored but when I tried to seat my throne, I discovered that the bolts that should hold it firmly to the floor were not long enough to do the job. I scampered out to the garage and returned triumphant with some longer bolts. The job should now be finished in no time.

I should tell you that during the weeks that the toilet was removed from its accustomed spot, careful measures had been employed to prevent sewer gas from escaping back into the house. A couple of rags had been stuffed down into the drain to provide a sealed environment. There was not going to be any outhouse odor in our house. I carefully lowered the pink stool into place. After struggling to replace the water connection, I suddenly remembered that I had had to replace the cutoff valve some weeks before. After I removed the superfluous compression joint everything looked just fine. I turned on the water. Voila! There was a leak. I turned the water back off and tightened all connections. I turned the water back on and then off again. I had forgotten to reattach the float. Once it was back on, I raised the seat and looked inside. There was a heck of a lot of dirt in the bowl. It will flush out I reassured myself one more time. I turned the water back on and listened for it to cut off. It did and I suddenly felt euphoric. The job was done.

Somewhere along the way I had let the seat back down. After all who wants to look at a dirty potty bowl? I flushed and listened intently for the big gurgle that always signals the grand finale. As the water approached the fill line and there was still no gurgle, I began to fill sick all over. In a panic I raised the seat and the bowl was almost running over. Happily not a single drop went on the floor. What had I done wrong? Then I remembered—the rags stuffed in the drain pile. They were still there. But now I had the tank full of water and the bowl full as well. A plunger would not work. I turned the water back off and began to bail the water from the tank with a coffee can. When I had removed a couple of quarts that way, I noticed a strange phenomenon. The water in the tank was starting to drain. The water was seeping through the rags. Hallelujah? While waiting for the water to dissipate, I felt a bit like Noah. After bailing a couple more quarts from the tank, I flushed once again and waited. This time the water went much faster. I took the Rainbow and vacuumed out the little that remained.

I then removed the retaining nuts and tilted the pink monster to one side and pulled out the rags. I lowered the unit and reattached it to the floor. I flushed and it worked. Everything was once again in harmony.

I then remembered that I had promised my wife that I would fix the leaking faucet in her bathroom. I took one step in that direction and stopped. One plumbing job a day is enough. Why tempt fate?Post Options

Pinkie Syndrome!

Since I developed this numbness in my fingers, I have had to make several adjustments to the way that I do things. Among the changes is the way that I hold the little finger on my left hand when I do certain things. When I drive I hold the pinkie in much the same way that a Southern Belle holds a teacup—the index finger through the handle and the pinkie extended at a 90-degree angle from the cup. It seems somewhat awkward but almost all Southern Belles have somehow mastered the art of drinking from the cup in what appears to be a rather cumbersome manner. Now I am certainly no Southern Belle but I have found this technique especially handy when driving a car as it prevents any undue pressure on the numb finger.

The only problem with this habit is that it can be easily misinterpreted. When the little finger is extended in the described fashion, an on-looker may confuse which finger he or she thinks that they may have seen protruding from the steering wheel. Therein lies the problem. One must not get so absorbed in one’s driving, that he forgets to turn this finger under at the sight of approaching danger. I think that you must know what I mean. But to be precise there is a real danger that an easily offended person might confuse the third digit with the little digit. After all if the other party sees a single finger extending from the steering wheel he might easily over-react. And if the other party happens to accost you, how will you convince him that he did not see what he thought he just saw.

Now to test this hypothesis try flipping off a burly sort at a street corner. When he comes barging toward you in an obvious rage, try explaining to him in 25 words or less because that is all that you are going to get that you have a nerve problem and that he was totally mistaken in what he thought he saw. Now if you manage to escape from this experiment unscathed then you can thank your lucky stars but if you find yourself counting stars in broad daylight then you can be assured that your logic failed to satisfy the easily offended party of the second part.

Meanwhile back in the relative safety of the car, the driver of the first part, which is I, must keep an ever-vigilant watch out for unreasonable travelers. There is not much danger from pedestrians as I can usually outrun them or at least put the pedal to the metal before they get close enough to take umbrage. However, the problem assumes a different dimension if the person of umbrage happens to be an officer of the law. Now I happened to meet such a distinguished individual (note the use of subtle logic here) just the other day when I was driving through Muleshoe, Texas. He pulled me over for speeding even thought I was not speeding. In fact I was driving12 to 15 miles under the speed that he said that I had been clocked by radar. I thought at first that he must have caught another car on his radar. Then I began thinking about my little pinkie. Did I have it extended Southern Belle style when he spotted me? Was that the real problem? I will never know for sure, but I did get off with just a warning.

The real problem would be if I were driving through Louisiana. Thirty-something years ago I came upon an accident. I stopped as any sane person would do and settled in for a long wait. Suddenly the local sheriff began waving his flashlight. I did not move. He then took a couple of steps toward me and began frantically waving his flashlight in the traditional mode of get that vehicle moving and I mean now. I eased down on the gas pedal and starting moving forward. He then charged the car and asked me what the @@**** I thought I was doing. I carefully explained that I thought that he had motioned me forward. He explained that he had done no such thing. Now I ask you if you had come to a dead stop and had been in such a position for five minutes and if you suddenly saw an officer of the law frantically waving a flashlight north and south instead of east and west, what you would conclude that he was trying to communicate? I guarantee that the last thing on your mind would be to think that he was thinking, “Get cracking and get up here so that I can test this unbreakable flashlight on your noggin. Now what do you think this official would have done, had he seen my little pinkie extended from the steering wheel? Travel insurance would not have come close to covering the damage that he could have inflicted. Now the only question left to be answered is just how common are community leaders of this type? The answer is fairly common. I knew one security officer who shot himself in the leg while practicing his quick-draw technique. I knew another person employed by the Secret Service who accidentally shot a hole in his wall. I also had a relative who found gainful employment as a state trooper. For several years I shuddered every time I saw the distinctive car with flashing lights on top. Had we actually reached Armageddon?

For the present I have tried to avoid any unnecessary driving. I have also entrusted most of the actual driving to me wife. But I am still keeping a vigilant eye out for our country’s finest. But whenever I do see a car with an ornament on top, I start thinking “Down boy, down!”

Dancing in Front of the Fireplace

I have developed some numbness in a couple of fingers on my left hand which makes it difficult to perform certain tasks. It is hard to clip the fingernails on my right hand which is not a problem at the present time but it could be if my hand starts to looks like that of Freddy Kruger or Edward Scissorhands. I have trouble lifting things, especially dishes. My usual m.o. is to remove them with my right hand and place them in my left hand before I place them in the cabinet. It is only a matter of time before I drop several dinner plates. I also have a problem slicing things on the cutting board. When the numbness first appeared I took a slice out of one of my fingers. But here is the real kicker. I have real trouble trying to type. My sense of touch has deserted me. I can wind up with the same characters repeated seven or eight times or else the character can be missing entirely. Lots of words wind up like Bspttttt or phfaaaaat.

I thought that I had come up with the perfect solution. I purchased a copy of Dragon Naturally Speaking. This is speech recognition software. I had owned a previous copy many years ago, but it proved to be highly unreliable. The new program had been “greatly improved” so I decided to give it a whirl. I got it up and running in “no time” and started the training segment. One must read a couple of selections and the computer is supposed to recognize your voice. I tried a few sentences of my own. “Arkansas” came out two words with absolutely no similarity in any shape or fashion to “Arkansas.” I let out a shriek and complained “Not that you dummy!” The computer came up with a fairly accurate phonetic version of my shriek and it got the “Not that you dummy!” 100% correct. I vaguely recalled that in the earlier version you could say “correct that” and the computer would backspace and erase the last word that you had typed in. I spoke very crisply into the microphone, “Correct that” and the computer typed out “correct that.” I knew then and there that this software was not exactly going to be a piece of cake.

I deleted my document and started anew. Since we are still remodeling our house I decided to write a document that did not contain “Arkansas.” I mentioned that the tile person was coming to look at our fireplace. Somehow the computer entered the words “dancing around our fireplace.” Now I had no intention of dancing around the fireplace. In fact I can’t remember a single person dancing around a fireplace unless maybe it was an ancient Druid. Perhaps a group of Indians dancing around a pole with a maiden in distress affixed thereto with the intention of starting a bonfire would qualify. On the other hand maybe it was some other group dancing around the bonfire. In any event I finally mastered the proper technique. You speak slowly and clearly and hit the backspace or delete key with a vengeance when necessary and then try, try again. Or as W.C. Fields once said, “Try, try again and then quit. There is no need to make a %@*** fool of yourself.” Whoops! It appears that the software is preprogrammed not to use certain words. The copyright must be owned by Disney.

Communication has been a problem between my wife and I for some time. We were walking along a trail in Sedona and she said, “We have to stop killing our rain deer!” I got a little worried, but I did not want to stop in my tracks and look at her strangely. She repeated, “I think that it is going to rain, dear!” And just the other day as we were riding in the car she read an article to me. After the headline I was mystified: “How to add ears to your wife.” I finally stopped her and asked her to read the article again, but this time a bit slower. She read ”How to add years to your life.” Now this is not a one-way street. She hears me utter strange things as well.

So maybe this computer program is not so strange after all. It just thinks that I need a second wife.

Uncle Remus And the Beauty Spot!

With my wife due to return in less than 48 hours, I decided I had time to do one more small project in our remodeling plan. I decided that it would be a good time to rip out the roughly 36 square feet of plywood on her bathroom floor. I had already removed two layers of carpet and one of linoleum and about a 3 by 3 foot square of plywood that had deteriorated under its overcoat. Beneath that was a layer of 8-inch square green asphalt tile. I thought that over the short interval before we refinished the floor that the asphalt tile would be much easier to walk on than the plywood. There would absolutely be no risk of splinters. The removal process took a little less than two hours as I took extra care to avoid any damage to the mint green wall tile. The previous owner had run the plywood all the way to the studs and had then placed the wall tile on top of it. So it was impossible to use a large pry bar and simply go into demolition mode. No, this was going to take a little more time than that. I had also forgotten to factor in his penchant for over-using nails throughout the house. What was essentially one full-size sheet of plywood with a few filler pieces here and there was anchored with over a hundred nails.

I sat back and surveyed my handiwork. What I saw looked like tornado wreckage. The floor was littered with hundreds of small pieces of three-ply plywood and thousands of small splinters. That would never do. After all it was my intent to provide her with a splinter free floor when she returned. I grabbed my gloves and a dustpan and went to work to sweep up all the debris. I then got on my hands and knees to feel for any nail heads sticking up from the floor. I know what you are thinking. But it was not like that at all. I ran a dustpan across the tile to locate any metal protrusions that I might have missed in my visual surveillance. And I did find four that I had somehow overlooked. The floor was nice and smooth and needed a good washing, but that could wait until tomorrow.

Then the phone rang. It was my wife and she asked me what I had done today. I told her about ripping out the plywood. She then asked what was beneath the green asphalt tile. I told her that I did not have a clue. When she hung up, I too was curious. I remembered that song from yesterday, “What’s behind the green door?’ I decided to find out. I removed a piece of tile at the doorway entrance. Naturally, the tile separated from its backing and all I saw was the ragged, gray lining of the tile. I carefully removed that and what I saw was what I had hoped for—hardwood flooring. I could not tell anything about the finish so I used a little Pine Sol and presto it cleaned right up and looked even more beautiful than before. I had to see more. I ploughed a furrow down the middle and then removed four of the eight-inch square tiles directly in the center of her vanity. That was a big mistake. The four tiles had leaked asphalt or so it seemed, unless the hardware guy had used some surplus asphalt to level out the tile. I had not intended to clean down to the hardwood, but now I had no choice. I was suddenly haunted by thoughts of Uncle Remus and the Tar Baby. And if you thought my wife was going to be upset by being glued to the kitchen floor, then you should know she was not going to be the least bit happy about having her feet tarred. Before this matter ran its course I was likely to be tarred and feathered.

But what was I to do? Luckily the tar seemed to be confined to the four tiles. If I had used my better judgment I simply would have replaced the four tiles and maybe nailed them back down. But no! I had a brilliant idea. I remembered that we had some bug and tar removal somewhere around the house. Alas, I searched in vain. I then asked myself what was most likely in the tar and bug product. For some strange reason I decided that Greased Lightning was a reasonable facsimile. I applied a little of that stuff to an inconspicuous area and presto everything came clean. I then applied a liberal amount to our magic square area and the cardboard turned to mush and came clean only the asphalt refused to cooperate. (Have you ever noticed that what works in an inconspicuous area never works the same in a conspicuous one?) I then trotted out other super duper cleaners and finally after two hours of hard labor I had cleaned down to about two thick spots of tar or asphalt or whatever it was. I looked at the floor and what I saw was not an image of Christ or the Virgin Mary, but two beauty spots. Like it or not my wife was now stuck with her own private beauty spot—32 square inches. And me? I am going to get some beauty sleep. It just might be the only good night sleep I have in a long time.

The Seventh Seal!

My wife and I have been doing some remodeling. We had not yet got around to doing something about the horrible blue carpet on the kitchen floor. It had come with the house and was badly stained. It had been professionally cleaned but the stain in front of the frig was persistent. She abandoned me this week to help her sister move. So yesterday I decided it would be a good day to rip out the blue carpet. After quite a tussle I managed to get it loose from the floor and drug it outside. This was no small task since the previous owner of our house had been in the hardware business and he seemed to have an abundance of surplus glue on hand when he decided to install the infamous blue carpet. But with a great deal of grunting and exertiveness I had managed somehow to put it free from its bed of glue. I felt pretty good about the whole affair when I retired for the night.

I was not aware of any problem until I got up the next morning for my wakeup cup of coffee. I stood patiently in front of the coffee maker waiting for it to brew. Now I am sure that you are wondering why a person would stand and do nothing while his coffee brews. Well there was a simple explanation. My feet were glued to the floor. Somehow over night all that carpet glue had softened and I was now firmly affixed to the floor. After slowly sipping my first cup and I should note that there was no need to be in any hurry since I was not going any place fast anyway, I contemplated my alternatives. I had originally thought I would do nothing else to the floor until my wife returned. However, the thought of being glued to the floor each morning for the rest of the week was not particularly appealing. So after pouring myself a second cup, I managed to pry my self loose from my anchorage and retreated a safe distance from glue land.

I decided that there was no reasonable alternative other than to remove the glue that was atop a piece of old linoleum or at the minimum a pathway to the coffee maker. I grabbed a few tools and started prying at the linoleum. After about 15 minutes of little progress I had finally mastered the appropriate technique. And soon swathes of the gooey mess began to come up relatively quickly. I had a clear path to the coffee machine and it was only 9:07. I was only slightly late for my morning coffee break. I would have made it a little sooner had I not been interrupted by the incessant ringing of the phone. I then realized that my stock of coffee mugs would be depleted before my wife returned. I then chiseled out paths to the cabinet and to the sink and to the dishwasher. I then surveyed my handiwork and realized that this would never do. The floor now resembled a patchwork quilt. I then forced myself to clear out everything except about twelve inches at the base of the cabinets. I felt exhausted but satisfied. My state of euphoria lasted ever so briefly. I realized that my wife would need to stand on the glue zone in order to reach items on the top shelves. As I imagined her glued solidly to the floor, a cold chill swept over my body. There was to be no rest for the weary. I took my tools and finished the job.

The law of inadvertent circumstances had claimed yet another victim. The next time I decide on a new project on the spur of the moment, I might as well sit down with the devil in a chess match. On the other hand that might be a bit sticky too.

Joe Btfsplk Alive and Kicking!

I knew that it was not wise to tempt fate, but I did anyway and lived to regret it. At least I am still alive as I write this. Remember that three-week camping trip I wrote about in that last blog? The trip started off with an ominous beginning. The cover for the propane tank that my wife had so diligently repaired just a few days before, blew off the storage tank shortly after we left the city limits and proceeded to self-destruct. We should have turned back then and there, but of course, our grandsons were already on the way.

The first real sign of that dark cloud hanging over our heads came as we prepared to leave Mesa Verde. The left tire on the tent trailer blew out. Now, being a far-sighted individual and having learned that Joe Btfsplk is never far behind when I travel, I had bought a second spare just to be on the safe side. Like a boy scout, I always come prepared when I suspect that Joe Btfsplk just might be lurking somewhere nearby. After stopping traffic on the narrow two-lane exit, I managed to back the trailer up and into a secure parking lot where I proceeded to try to change the tire. I had anticipated an easy procedure having changed quite a few flats in my life. To my dismay I discovered that I could not get the trailer high enough off the ground to change the tire. I took the two-by-fours that I had been using for chocks and inserted a couple under the jack. It worked and after about an hour and a half we were back on the road. However, I had wrenched my back in the exhaustive undertaking.

The second mishap occurred soon after we left Ft. Collins. We had a second blowout and now both of the original tires were shot to pieces. I maneuvered the trailer well off the interstate and into a grassy area where I proceeded to work my miracle. In less than ten minutes I had replaced the tire and eased the trailer back down. Thinking that we were about ready to go, I watched in disbelief as the spare gulped and went flat. That is not really a problem I thought. I went to the SUV and took out my trusty compressor. At least it used to be “trusty,” but not anymore. It had mysteriously died within the last 48 hours. We called AAA and after a long and arduous wait, they arrived and aired up the tire. We retreated back to Ft. Collins and after four stops at tire stores, we finally found one that had the right size in stock. We were now only six hours behind schedule.

I should also note that the computer had died a few days earlier. My back vibrator/heating pad that plugged into the cigarette lighter and had always been “trusty” had also given up the ghost. I have resolved never to put the “trusty” label on any of my acquisitions ever again.

We stopped off in Cortese, CO, to pick up a few items at the local Wal-Mart. We returned with our purchases to our vehicle and hit the road. That evening as we were setting up our tent trailer, we made a sickening discovery. Someone had sideswiped our trailer while we were in Wal-Mart. Judging by the long black mark that ran the length of the trailer on the driver’s side, it must have been a large pick-up. The next morning I washed the black mark off and discovered that there was only minor damage to the trailer.

We had camped in the Tetons and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Everyone except me that is. The pimple had evolved on my back that was becoming increasingly excruciating as I walked. My wife looked at it and thought it might be a spider bite. Another friend looked at it and thought it might be infected. We sought medical help and were directed to the emergency room in Jackson, Wyoming. It was shingles. My back is still pretty painful, but it is improving.

Now don’t go feeling sorry for me just yet. In 2002 we visited Conway, New Hampshire. In May the next year, The Old Man of the Mountain lost his cool and fell off. In 2003 we visited Lake Tahoe. As noted in the last blog, we experienced some misfortune while we were at Fallen Leaf Lake. Yeap! You guessed it. The fire that is now raging at Lake Tahoe appears to have started somewhere near Fallen Leaf Lake. And last fall we left the Big Island just two weeks before the earthquake hit Kona. I am reviewing everywhere we went for the last four years and I am now thinking that maybe I should ask government officials in those areas to go ahead and seek disaster status. It seems that Joe Btfsplk is alive and kicking and hot on my trail.

Joe Btfsplk Reincarnated!

Many of you are far too young to remember Al Capp’s Joe Btfsplk in his Li’l Abner comic strip. But during its heyday, the comic strip had more than 90 million readers and was syndicated in more than 900 newspapers. Dogpatch USA was a licensed spin-off in the Arkansas Ozarks and it thrived for many years. But alas, Dogpatch has been defunct for 14 years. And almost everyone who grew up in the forties, fifties or sixties probably is well acquainted with the Sadie Hawkins Day races, which were standard fare during that age. It was the one day of the year in which females could catch any male and drag him back across the finish line and be married in style. (This was well before the dawn of women’s lib). Joe Btfsplk was a recurring character in the comic strip. Wherever Joe went a dark cloud hung over his head and disaster was soon to follow both for Joe and whoever else happened to be at hand. Heck, as I write this my computer screen suddenly went blank and the computer had to be restarted. It was an ominous beginning to say the least. Maybe we should just let old Joe rest in peace. On the other hand why not tempt fate just one more time. Thank goodness for the recovery feature on this laptop.

Well, there are days when I do think that I must be Joe Btfsplk reincarnated. There was a time many years ago when the kids were watching TV, but were at least a safe distance from the set. When suddenly there was a loud explosion and the picture tube exploded in the middle of the living room. Shattered glass was everywhere, but the kids were safe. Many years after that my daughter was driving her car down the highway and “whoomp,” the back windshield blew out. Now these are the kind of things that just don’t happen everyday or even during one’s lifetime.

But what happens when bad things follow bad things? Do you look up for that dark cloud? Not me! I just keep trudging along seemingly at peace with the world when suddenly a bolt from that dark cloud zaps me. Here are just a few of the things that have occurred in the last few weeks. We bought a new car and drove it to El Paso. A dark cloud, naturally, appeared and then some rain so we drove back to our motel but before we could get out of the car, it started to hail. Well, with a brand new car and fewer than 500 miles on the odometer, what would you do? We drove it under the canopy and waited out the storm. The next day we learned that a tornado was almost on top of us in a most unlikely location. Two weeks later we were out on a Sunday night playing dominoes, when a storm suddenly came up. There was a lot of thunder and lightning and Marvin turned on the TV. A severe thunderstorm with hail was only a few minutes away. We looked at each other and thought, surely not. But in less than two minutes one could hear the hail hitting. It seemed to be in hot pursuit of our new vehicle. After the storm had abated and we had finished playing Mexican train, we went out to the street and could see that that there was a steady stream of water about two feet wide pouring down the street. Now, having been raised in the honor of chivalry, I leapt about three feet across the flowing water only to discover that it was four feet wide and not two. And I landed in water up to my ankles. The pristine carpet on the car was suddenly deprived of its pristineness.

The Sunday before this episode occurred we were out playing Mexican train again, what else can one do in a small town on a Sunday night? But before we went out, I had changed the washer on the shower faucet. I had turned off the water to prevent any disaster from happening. Well, when we returned home and I turned on the tap, nada! There was no water. Now being an observant person, I concluded that I must not have turned the water back on at the main. So I trudged out into the rain and got my water meter tool to turn the water back on. I removed the cover from the meter and turned the valve. I then went back into the house and tried the tap again. Nada! So I went back outside and turned the valve back to where it was before. It was obvious that the water main had broken again and the entire city was probably without water. Had I only known before I became soaked to the bone.

Somewhere along here I should note that a little over a year earlier, a water pipe had burst under the house leaking 10,000 gallons of water. I should also note that when I replaced the washer on the tub in the main bathroom and turned the water back on the water pressure blew out the entire gasket and shot a heavy stream of water at the opposite wall. Well, the good news was that it was not 10,000 gallons.

About two months ago we bought a used pop-up trailer for a long camping trip with our two grandsons. We carefully prepped the trailer, cleaning ever nook and cranny. We discovered that we had only one key to open the trailer, and decided that past circumstances dictated the need for a second key. We went to Wal-Mart to see if they could accommodate us. They made four keys, none of which would work. We then went to Ace Hardware and after finally finding someone to assist; I trotted home with a key. I tried it and it did not work. We finally drove 18 miles up the road to Clovis and stopped at an RV place, and they gave us a key for a mere $4. Now for the exciting part. As we prepared to couple the trailer to our SUV, I discovered to my dismay that the four retractable legs would not retract, at least three would not. After two hours of valiant struggling I finally got them back to where they should be. We arrived a bit weary at Mt. Taylor for our first night in the camper. Totally exhausted, I fell into a sound sleep. The next morning, I tried to retract the three recalcitrant legs. They would not budge. Now a sound’s night sleep can solve many a problem. I simply cranked up the front of the camper until the rear two legs became retractable and then I lowered the front end, until the left front leg became compliant.

Now back to the circumstantial need for a second key. When we move to Portales five years ago, my brother helped us move because my wife had broken her wrist, as we were literally getting ready to walk out the door. My brother opted to drive the U-Haul truck and I drove one of our cars. We made it to Muleshoe, Texas, where my brother was pulled over for not having a light on the back of the U-Haul. I stopped to see what was the matter and began to fumble with the change and keys in my pocket. We made it to Portales about midnight. I reached into my pocket for the house key and all I found was a hole. We checked every motel in town and there was not a room to be had. In desperation we called the realtor and woke her up at 1 in the morning and she came over in her pajamas with the second key.

And did I mention our trip to Lake Tahoe? We arrived at the Marriott with a loose battery cable. Since they frowned on anyone doing mechanical work at their entrance, and since only the valets were permitted in the parking area, I decided to tighten the cable when we were at a more convenient location. Well, we made it to Fallen Leaf Lake and for some unbeknownst reason; I decided that that was a convenient location. As I applied a little torque to the bolt, I heard a sickening sound. The cable connection had broken into two pieces. We were twenty miles from nowhere and not a soul was around and we were out of range for our cell phone.

And then there was the time when my four-year-old tied one end of a small nylon rope to the car door. Till this day I do no know what was supposed to be tied to the other end. Nor do I know where he got the rope. What I do know was that when I started the car and put it in drive, I heard a loud “whoomp!” I had no idea what had happened, but it sounded to me as if the transmission had fallen out of the car. I got out and looked under the car but saw nothing. I walked around to the passenger’s side and the door handle was practically ripped from the car and attached to it was a rope with the other end beneath the rear tire.

But I digress here. I was going to mention only the events of the last few weeks. But thinking back, just maybe they really were not worth mentioning.

Frog Pills: The Next Big Thing!

It seems like from the beginning of time, mankind has been in search of the super hero. Hercules had his seven chores. Odysseus turned down a chance for immortality and returned home to discover his wife surrounded by would-be suitors who were trying to convince Penelope that he was dead. Lacking supernatural powers and badly outnumbered, he threw a party and got his enemies dead drunk and then took their lives. Achilles was treated as a super hero only to be brought down by an arrow shot into the sky that with a little divine providence found its way into his heel. Siegfried went forth in medieval times to slay the dragon. I don’t know what powers he possessed, but dragons were soon a thing of the past.

A few super heroes emerged during Biblical times. David challenged Goliath with nothing but a slingshot, but won nevertheless. Mighty Samson struck fear into the hearts of his enemies until he suddenly was clipped of his power by, of all things, a haircut. Only when he was convinced that the source of his strength was not in his hair, did he bring down the temple.

Popeye waged an incessant struggle with Bluto, his arch nemesis. However, he prevailed only when he scarfed down his can of spinach. It makes one wonder why spinach consumption is so unpopular. And then there is everyone’s favorite hero, Superman. However, the man of steel had one significant shortcoming. He wilted whenever he came into contact with kryptonite of which Lex Luthor always had a plentiful supply. Did you ever wonder exactly if there really was something called kryptonite? Well in Superman Returns, we are provided a scientific analysis of the substance. It is sodium lithium boron silicate hydroxide. At least that is what is on the box that Luthor had stolen from the museum. Last week scientists announced that they had discovered a new mineral in Siberia—sodium lithium boron silicate hydroxide. I don’t know about all that other stuff, but lithium is the energy source of most of our laptop computer batteries. So Virginia, you see there really is kryptonite. And if there is kryptonite, then there must be a Superman to go with it.

Then there was the Incredible Hulk. He was green like the Green Giant. Maybe he had overdosed on spinach. And come to think of it. Maybe that is why there was a recent spinach recall. It would be a disaster to have a bunch of teens running around with super powers.

Now all of this brings us to a stunning conclusion—ED. You know when a guy is feeling frisky but has no frisk. So scientists came up with Viagra—a little green pill. I know what you are thinking. It is just another way to get people to eat their spinach. You think that it is just space food (in this case spinach) packed into a tiny little pill. If people knew that it really was compacted spinach, it would put the big pharmaceuticals out of business. So I won’t try to convince you that it is really spinach.

Since the Peruvians can’t afford the price of Viagra, they have their own solution. They have concocted a frog cocktail that supposedly works much like Viagra. Throw a frog, some maca root and a few other ingredients into a blender and then drink the whole shebang. It supposedly stings on the way down. Of course, it might be a little reflux on the way back up.

Now since I can’t afford Viagra and can’t stomach the idea of a frog cocktail, I have had to devise my own solution. The formula is ten cans of spinach every night right before I go to bed. I guarantee that it is fast working. Under the liability laws of our great country, I am forced to announce that spinach is a diuretic—a super diuretic. And boy does it work fast! And if you spend more than four hours in the bathroom, be sure and call your doctor. And tomorrow night cut back to only nine cans.