Home Opener

One of the benefits of being the trophy spouse of an elected official is accompanying my Lovely Bride to various events. Typically these occasions entail fund-raisers, civic functions, or recognizing well-deserving members of the community.

The usual progression of events following our arrival soon finds LB engrossed in conversation with constituents, elected officials, or new hopefuls to the political arena. I generally become caught up in the swirling back-current and eddy of people which is observable in any such event. Eventually, I find myself in the company of the other trophy spouses.

It ain’t such a bad gig; as I am one of the few males in this select group. We commiserate with one another about the rigors of being arm-candy. Patiently, we await our cue; “I wouldn’t be here if it were not for my______.” Individually,  we set down our drink, smile and wave.  And the paparazzi…you have no idea!

However, there is one event I eagerly anticipate the entire year. I can be loud, boisterous, express my opinions, eat with my hands, and no one is appalled or offended

See, our town is home to a minor league affiliate of the Cleveland Indians. Every year, the owners of the Lake County Captains graciously invite the local city officials and others to join them in their loge for the Home Opener.

Finally, an event I can understand.

Typically, I am somewhat befuddled with usual event conversations regarding matching State grants, zoning ordinance restrictions, whom is running for what, and inter-city tax reciprocity. I listen attentively, nodding my head in assent, or frowning as if deep in thought at the appropriate times. Meanwhile, I am wondering if the clutch in my Jeep is starting to go.

I have also discovered a fun (for me, at least) interjection to these discussions. While mustering my most concerned look, I will ask “And how does that make you feel?” It is great! Most people launch into a lengthy, impassioned diatribe. Meanwhile, I am estimating how much clutch parts are going to cost me.

Opening night, however, finds me an integral part of the conversation. Batting averages, earned-run averages, strategy of the sacrifice bunt, pitching rotations, and the most recent unbelievably bone-headed, blind-as-a-bat, what-game-is-he-watching call the umpire made, I am part of them all.

Let the others find refuge in the warmth and comfort of the loge. Three of our grand-children and I came here to watch Baseball! We opt to park ourselves in the blue plastic stadium seats on the loge balcony. The back of the seat in front advises to keep your head in the game and be alert for foul balls. With a masterfully balanced plate of hot-dogs with Stadium mustard, a burger, odds and ends, and with a frosty example of the Pennsylvania brewer’s art in hand, the four of us settle in.

Being an early April evening in Northern Ohio, the weather is perfect for football. First pitch temperatures in the low 40s; augmented by 20 MPH winds whipping off Lake Erie are much more conducive to a Browns game.

Undeterred, we burrow deeper into our coats. Following the National Anthem, I was proud to pass along some time honored baseball traditions to a new generation.

They learned quaint sayings such as “Hey Batta-batta-batta! Hey Batta! Swing, Batta!” They also learned “Open yer eyes, Ump!”, and that ever popular “Hey Pitch! Try throwin’ toward the plate!”. The grands also learned “Gee, Officer…. I didn’t know dumping Cracker Jacks on the people below us was frowned upon.”

(Incidentally, did you know Baseball, and its derivatives (kickball, softball, et al) are the only sports in which the defensive team has control of the ball? Oh sure,… I know someone somewhere is proclaiming “Cricket! What about cricket?!?”  Yeah, technically, they are correct, but we are talkin’ baseball here.)

During the latter innings (as an aside, cricket also has “innings”, whether one or more, the term is plural) of the game, after the loge crowd thinned somewhat, and we could no longer feel our toes, we withdrew to the warmth. It was very fortuitous we did so.

Usually, Peter Carfagna, the owner of the team, is surrounded by friends and well-wishers; except this time. The man was alone, watching the game unfold. Seizing the opportunity, I approached to express my appreciation for thinking of us. As well as talk baseball.

More than a discussion of hits, runs, and errors; I got a rare glimpse of the heart of an owner. His face lit up when I mentioned the article highlighting the Captain’s new starting pitcher. He shrugged; “Tonight wasn’t his best outing, but that is baseball. Each new batter, each pitch can become a brand new game. Besides, we have 140 games to play yet.”

We discussed the open-endedness of baseball; there are no limitations imposed by a clock. Each play can encompass any area of the diamond; not regulated to progress toward a specific, fixed goal. The conversation wended around greats of the past, future legends starting out today. Eventually, the topic came to the topic of scouting and recruiting, the support the Indians provide, and our mutual love of the game.

Peter’s face beamed while discussing the large number of Captains who have received the call up to The Bigs.  He grew wistful looking beyond the pristine diamond and bright lights, watching games and championship victories of the past.

Peter turned toward me, a smile on his tanned face. “I am so proud of each of them. My wife and I think of these boys as family. I am proud to have been part of their development.”

Our conversation broke off as another guest came along side. We parted with a handshake.

I watched as he was steered across the room to meet another official, this time a State Representative. Peter glanced over his shoulder, to reveal the face of a man who would be perfectly content to be sitting in a stadium seat with a mustard covered dog, a cold beer, and be talkin’ baseball.

A Private Truce

Have any of you ever had seeming unrelated, random thoughts pop into your head? You know the type; while gazing at an early Spring snowfall, the memory of the grilled bologna and Swiss cheese sandwiches, with spicy brown mustard, served by the local bar back in the old college town pops up.

Where did that come from???

A similar experience took place the other day. Actually, two such experiences took place, if one counts the above bologna sandwich example. 

Many of you may be nodding your heads, thinking; “Yes...yes... this does indeed explain a lot.”

But, I digress.....

For some reason, I find myself doing some of my best thinking while in that last bastion of male-hood; the shower. I have also found this to be a wonderful time to pray, as there are no interruptions. The other day, while contemplating the immensity of God, I experienced on of those “Huh??” moments.

For some unknown reason, a completely unrelated story arose in my head. I sometimes wonder if this is not a result of being folliclely challenged. There is very little hair to serve as a filter for random thoughts bouncing around in the air.

Allow me to relate....

My Dad was a WWII veteran. He served in Europe as a tank platoon commander. (For more details about some of Dad's service, see the June 6,2013 entry “D-Day”). He was in the Third Armored Division of the First Army. He saw action from Normandy to the Netherlands to Belgium and the Battle of the Bulge.

At one point, he and his tank crew found themselves a few miles outside of Liege, Belgium. For whatever reason, there was a lull in the fighting. Having concealed their Sherman tank in a woodlot, the five crewmen were enjoying some quiet relaxation outside of their machine.

Before long, the bawling of a cow could be heard. Some of the crew advocated butchering the bovine for a supply of fresh meat. Others were noncommittal. Dad, having grown up on a farm, recognized the sound for what it was; a dairy cow in great need of milking.

Following some debate, and the fact Dad was the Commanding Officer, he and 2 others set off in search of the source of the mooing. .

Before long, the band of GIs came upon an abandoned farmstead. There, in a small barnyard, stood a lone cow, greatly engorged.

Rummaging in the small stone and beam barn, they found a bucket. Being the only farm-boy in the group, Dad crouched beside the grateful animal relieving her of her burden while the others stood guard.

That night, as darkness crept over the Belgian country-side, five American soldiers luxuriated in the heady delight of fresh milk.

Shortly after sunrise the following day, Dad sent another country boy off with the bucket for their morning treat. The man returned much sooner than he should have, with a bucketful of air. Dad asked what happened to the milk, and the man sheepishly replied; “Sir, there was a squad of Germans milkin' her.”

Incredulous to learn they had bivouacked so near the enemy, Dad and two others set off for the farm.

Creeping stealthily through the woods, weapons at the ready, the little band approached the edge of the barnyard. Through the brush and undergrowth, they saw a German infantryman crouched beside the cow, milking while two others stood watch, Mauser rifles in hand. Silently, Dad motioned for his men to withdraw. Three rather glum soldiers returned to their area. No milk with C-rations this morning.

When evening came, Dad and two of his crewmen set off once again with the bucket in hand. Seeing the barnyard vacant, the GIs approached the cow, and soon began to milk her.

For an inexplicable reason, Dad lifted his head to look across the cow's back. As he did so, a coal-scuttle helmeted head popped up above a mound of hay. Both adversaries' eyes locked upon one another. One of the tankers turned to see the German soldier. As the man was raising his M-1 carbine, Dad quietly said “No. Wait.” All the while he kept milking the cow while looking at the German.

After what seemed hours, the young German soldier raised his hand. Dad raised his hand in reply. The three Americans watched as the young man turned to walk away, empty pail swinging at his side.

The following dawn, the tankers slipped out of the tree-line to find the same German soldier and 2 friends already at work in the barnyard. Tentative, nervous waves were exchanged across the barnyard, and the Americans withdrew.

The cow, being completely unconcerned with Geo-political events, followed the twice daily course Nature had prescribed for her. When the afternoon shadows lengthened that day, once again the tankers crept toward the barnyard. The found the cow, patiently awaiting milking. The Germans had given her fresh water and feed. No where was a German soldier to be seen. Upon completion of milking, the soldiers watered and fed her, as well as rubbed her down with some old burlap sacks they had found.

The next morning found the tank crew sleeping in, allowing their recent adversaries  free access to the cow. Again, at evening, the Americans milked her in solitude.

For six days, this unspoken truce held. Then, Dad's unit was called upon to move out. The tankers would never know if they ever met their fellow dairymen upon the field of battle.

They only knew, and were eternally grateful for, a period of time when guns were silent while opposing combatants observed a private truce, built upon the daily needs of a lowly Belgian dairy cow.

I Wonder.....

The other evening, my Lovely Bride and I enjoyed an informal dinner party with four of our closest friends.  Being a more hectic Saturday than usual, LB asked if I wouldn’t mind putting away the groceries we had gotten and “make a nice salad”. She could then set off to a make-up dog-training class with Ike.

My initial response to putting away groceries was quite enthusiastic until LB clarified I was to “put away the groceries” in the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry, not my stomach.

It was while assembling the sundry components for the salad my mind began to wander.

Does anyone else get seeming random, off-the-wall thoughts? No?? Hmmmm….that doesn’t sound too good.

Regardless, I had an illuminating moment while slicing mushrooms. Maybe not a epiphany, it was more of an “I wonder….” From this germinal thought sprang others, like, well… mushrooms in the Spring. Allow me to share some with you

Who was the first person to look upon a weird shaped, speckled thing growing in a field or under a tree and thought; “Gee that looks pretty tasty. I think I will give it a whirl!”

Did they choose wisely, to go on telling the tale? Or, did they choose unwisely, to henceforth be referred to in the past tense?

Assuming that Kroog left a good-looking widow, a nice split level cave, and a fine collection of hand-crafted clubs, who in the world was the second person to try one? Was it voluntary, or was it on a foolhardy dare, egged on by peer pressure?

“Haaa…Haaa…. Rooj is a Neanderthal! He is afraid to try one of Kroog’s Thingies of Doom! Haaa”

While pondering these possibilities my mind jumped to another culinary puzzler.

Who was the first person to eat a hot pepper? What in creation ever compelled them to try it? Was it the bright shiny skin? Could it have been the enticing, subtle curves? Although, enticing subtle curves have gotten more than one guy into trouble.

A better question is:  who was the person, upon witnessing the first hot pepper being consumed, opted to try the second one?

Soon, I found myself pondering the origins of the drinking of coffee.

Sure, we have all heard the legend of a goat herder observing the effects of little red berries upon his charges. Shortly after consumption, the critters would cavort and gambol about the hillsides. Perhaps not having had a good old-fashioned gambol for some time, our anonymous hero picks a handful of berries and proceeded to munch.

Soon thereafter, while pre-occupied with tossing his pitas, the luckless fellow’s buddies asked him what he had eaten. While in mid retch, he gestures with a trembling hand toward the bushes decorated with red berries. Trying to speak, all he can emit was a gasping “Kaaa-feee!” before being overcome again. Since that time, the little red berries have been known as “coffee”.

Not to be undone by a bunch of berries, our hero takes out his wrath by tossing a copious number of the blasted, miserable things upon the family fire. He smiles inwardly while watching them take on a darkened patina.

His anger still burning, he then scrapes the little things from the coals. Placing them upon the stone hearth, he proceeds to smash and grind the crunchy remnants under a rock. Satisfied, he relaxes. Suddenly, he remembers his wife will soon be home! Oh No!! He sloshes hot water on the mess….hey! That smells pretty good!!  Tentatively, he dips a finger in the steaming liquid. While jumping around due to having stuck his finger in hot water, he sticks the injured digit in his mouth.

And….a new taste sensation was born.

Before long, he is operating a little walk-through fresh kaaa-feee business. Doing a brisk morning trade, he also caters to the evening intellectual crowd discussing such heady topics as “is the earth really flat?” and “How much further can technology go?”

Soon, he sells out to a guy in a place called See-at-all, and retires to the sunny Adriatic coast.

On and on my feverish mind went.

Did you ever wonder why anyone would consider taking something that fell out of a bird’s backside, and eat it? Does that even make sense?

Take milk for example. What would compel anyone to grab hold of one of those dangling things under a cow, give a squeeze, and drink what comes out? Had they gotten into some special mushrooms?

Similar thoughts about onions, caviar, chocolate and other foods wandered through my mind.

Later that evening, while gathered around our friend’s table, convivial conversation flowing, I glanced at LB as she took a sip of iced tea.

I wonder….who was the first person to think about soaking a bunch of dried leaves in hot water???

Lone Goose

The other night while taking our older dog Mimi (her name is Miacha, a Cheyenne word meaning “little fire”) outdoors I reveled in the softness of a late winter’s evening.

Temperatures had been mild; some observers had noted 60 degrees on their thermometers. The earth, once frozen iron hard now yielded slightly with each footstep. The eight inches of Wednesday’s snowfall silently vanished in the areas exposed to sunlight. There was little doubt; Spring is indeed in the offing.

Our home looks from a bluff upon a minor tributary river of Lake Erie. The now barren ash, walnut, and cottonwood trees permit an unimpeded view of the river and the low-lands dotted by marinas below. Much like the calendar, the river has her seasons. They are far too complex to discuss at this time; perhaps some other time.

Mimi would pause, lifting her now gray muzzle to the fresh, warm breeze. Faintly, I could detect the rich fragrance of damp earth, the unique damp freshness only the newly thawed river can emit, and grilled beef drifting from the kitchen of the restaurant on the opposite riverbank.

Perking her ears forward, Mimi looked toward the darkening sky. Then, I heard it….the plaintive, lone “ree-honk” of a solitary Canada goose winging over the river.  Apparently it was separated from the flock (for you nit-pickers out there, geese in the air are called a “flock”, while a group of geese on the ground is a “gaggle”), I could sense the anxiety the poor bird must have felt. Straining my ears, I could not detect any welcoming call in reply.

We stood in the increasing darkness, silently listening as the lonesome goose flew further up-stream, unanswered for all we knew.

I felt, more than saw Mimi turn toward me. Looking in her direction, I could make out the gray of her once black face as she gazed my way. I sensed her deep appreciation for a loving family, a cozy place to sleep, and never having known the pangs of hunger or thirst; as only a dog can express.

I don’t know the circumstances surrounding the bird’s separation. Had it been dawdling when the others left? Had it determined to venture on its own? Had it become weary, only to drop far behind the V formation? Or, had its way been lost due to wind and storm?

Bending, I stroked Mimi’s ear, our signal meaning “Okay, let’s go in.”  Slowly, she turned to dotter along beside me with her age stiffened hops. Slowing my pace to match hers, we took our time; there was no need to rush.

I bent to give her a boost up our front stoop. As I leaned close, she turned toward me, planting a light, gentle lick on my cheek.

And…..we once again heard the lonely call as the goose passed over the river.  From the darkened school yard across the road from our home came two, three, and then four answering calls. The lone goose’s call immediately changed from mournful to joyous as it flew directly overhead. I smiled and patted Mimi upon hearing the noisy welcoming chuckles upon its arrival.  Glancing at Miacha, I am certain there was a smile on her face, dimly illuminated by the post light.

Later, I lay awake, waiting for sleep to come. How many times are we like that lone goose? We tend to go our own way, relying upon our own devices. We believe we have an unerring sense of direction for our lives; usually to discover our internal compass is a bit out of whack. And, we tend to minimize the importance of family and personal relationships.

With a sigh,  I rolled over, stroking my Lovely Brides flowing hair. Mimi’s snoring provided a comforting lullaby. While offering silent thanks for all I have, a soft, contented goose call sounded in the darkness. I smiled, and drifted off to sleep.

A Momentous Day

Monday the 10^th is a momentous day.

Nothing of tremendous historical importance took place. No Cleveland team won a championship. No child or grandchild was born this date.

No, none of the above occurred.

Rather, my Lovely Bride and I began our journey through life together 41 years ago on this date.

I know, I know… I can hear you already. “How can this be? You look so youthful, so young!” The fact remains; I was a child-groom.  Actually, I was barely out of my teens, and Cindy was yet in her teen years.

Yes, we were a couple of crazy kids. Yes, all the odds were against us.  But, we deeply loved each other. We were committed to one another and to the vows we took before God.

No, it wasn’t always easy. Nothing worth having is easy. It took work, it takes minimizing of self in order to encourage the other.

Can we state we have this “Married thing” down pat? Good Heavens, no! Anyone who claims they do is either a liar, or an arrogant fool.

I think back upon the years, the ups and downs, the laughter and the tears. Would I do it all again? Without question.

Would I do some things differently? Again, without question.

Our experience is no different than any other couple.

I can picture Adam sitting in his back yard, staring at the now inaccessible Garden of Eden, trying to relax at the end of a tough day pulling weeds, lifting rocks, running from snakes. Cain and Able are racing around, making all kinds of noise, one saying farmers are better than hunters. Eve is in their little post-Paradise bungalow trying to make a dinner out of leaves, nuts and berries.  It is not difficult to imagine him thinking; “By golly, I sure wish I hadn’t eaten that lousy piece of fruit. It wasn’t that great to begin with. If I ever see that no-good snake again, I’ll smash him one with a big stick!”

It is easy to picture Eve looking out the kitchen window, muttering to herself; “Look at that goof! All he had to say was ‘Eve! Get away from that snake! Here! Let me get it with this big stick!’  No, he has to say ‘Well, I don’t know. That piece of fruit isn’t all that appealing. I can take it or leave it. It’s up to you. I don’t care; either way is fine with me. What’s for dinner?’  Of all the men in the World, I get stuck with him! Wait…. He is all the men in the world. Nuts! Why me? At least I don’t have a Mother to say ‘I told you not to get involved with that Adam person.’ “

Moving forward in time, we can picture Antony heading off to rendezvous with Cleopatra on her river barge. He is all duded up; shiny brass and gold accessories, freshly pressed little skirt thing they wore, his servant even polished his sandals. Here he is, off to meet the most beautiful, wealthy, influential woman of his time. Thoughts race through his mind; “Man, I can’t wait to see Cleo again! Talk about a hottie! WOW! But, why does she have such a thing for that stupid barge? First of all, it is kinda slow. How can you water ski behind something that is just being poled along? That leads to the issue with the crew…they are always hanging around! Come on! How is a guy supposed to..you know.. when there are all these servants and slaves hanging around? Geez, it isn’t as if we can tell them to take a walk for a couple hours.  Oh No!! I forgot my seasick pills!! Great, just great… another weekend spent leaning over the side. Man… that is a real chick turn on. Way to go, Tony ol’ boy.”

Imagine Josephine’s thoughts upon receiving Napoleon’s letter he is on his way to visit her to sooth his nerves after the debacle at Waterloo. She is primping in the mirror, listening to the latest baroque tunes being plinked away on the harpsichord downstairs…”Oh, I am so excited to see my Little Nappy again! He is such a serious little man! Heeee… all that talk about conquering Europe! How many times have I told him to stop trying to compensate for being so…ahem… little?  I don’t mind; he is my Napoleon. I just wish he would ditch that stupid hat when we are alone.”

Mark Twain is reputed to have said a young man marries hoping his bride never changes, and a young woman marries hoping her groom will change. Both parties end up being disappointed.

I look over the years, and see my Lovely Bride is as beautiful as the day we met. She has the same wonderful sense of humor. Still, I am thrilled to see the strong, wise, determined, well-respected woman she is today.  Disappointed?  Not by a long shot.

As I close, the only thing I can say is:

Happy Anniversary, Cindy!

I am looking forward to many more!

This is Romance???

A couple of weeks ago, my Lovely Bride and I attended a “Marriage for Life” conference in the heart of Ohio's Amish country.

Before you jump to any erroneous assumptions, we are not having any issues. At least none other than the fact we are both of Irish descent, which can be interesting at times. I have been know to tell people when they inquire about our family dynamics: “I am Irish. My wife is Irish. Our children are in therapy.”

Our children are not in therapy. That I know of.

But I digress

We attended last year and enjoyed ourselves, learned some new things, and decided to attend again.

Regular readers may recall the February 2013 column “The Amish Effect”

This year, we learned men are like waffles, women are like spaghetti.

Males brains are a series of little spaces; much like the surface of a waffle. The spaces are clearly divided and categorized into “Work”, “Home”, “Hobby”, “Marriage”, “Sex” and most wonderful (well, second most wonderful) of all “Nothing”. None of the spaces overlap, there is no co-habitation of the same space, and we cannot work in two spaces at the same time. Except the “Sex” space. We can jump into that happy place just about any time.

Women, on the other hand, have thought processes like a platter of spaghetti.

Visualize a plate of spaghetti. Select just one strand, and follow that strand's course upon the plate. Do this without touching or moving any of the other strands. See how it winds, curls, even doubles back upon itself; all while making contact with nearly every other strand of spaghetti on the plate?

Yet, it never loses itself!

This, dear reader, is why women are such great multi-taskers. Men, on the other hand, are more focused on the task at hand.

Which I suppose was a pretty good survival mechanism in our far distant past. While out hunting mastodons, Urg and Kah had to keep their wits about them. They couldn't be thinking about what new type of cave-paint their wives wanted to use. They couldn't be wandering off to look at little purple flowers in a field, if they did any of those things they stood a very good chance of being the entree on a saber-tooth tiger's buffet.

Perhaps the best way to illustrate this difference in thought processes is the following scenario.

I come home from a long day at the office. I have made the transition from “Work” space to “Home” space. I even spent a fair amount of time in “Nothing” space while tooling along the highway.

My Lovely Bride will say something like this:

“Hi. How is your guitar? I drove by the place where we bought it years ago. You remember, they tore the old buildings down to make room for a new neighborhood and an Urgent Care center. Speaking of doctors, did you know that elderly gentleman at church has pneumonia? We should take him a dinner. Would you check to see if we have any butter in the fridge? I saw this wonderful recipe for raspberry scones on-line today. So what do you think? Should we go ahead an paint the upstairs hallway raspberry?”

The foregoing makes perfect sense to her.

She took a trip down Memory Lane, updated me about a member of our church, announced her intention to help with a meal, stated she is going to try a new recipe, and we are going to repaint the hallway.
Me? I am left wondering “What about my guitar?”.

For an evening and a morning, we feverishly attempted to learn how to better relate to and understand our spouses.

At one point, the presenters showed a very touching, romantic video. Upon its conclusion, the announcement was made to look at your spouse, and tell them what it was that caused you to fall in love with them.

Let me tell you, I was sitting there with tears streaming down my cheeks when LB turned toward me. I looked deeply into those beautiful blue eyes, still seeing the beautiful teenaged girl I fell in love with.

I awaited her proclamation; certain it would be something worthy of a Hallmark Channel moment. Her lovely face flushed, she shut her eyes, struggling to express herself.

Gently, I took her hand; “What? You can tell me.” Taking a deep breath, she lowered her eyebrows, stared directly at me and stated:

“Your long hair.”

Whereupon, she burst forth in unrestrained peals of laughter. Her entire frame shook, tears were streaming down her reddened cheeks. People stopped their conversations to gaze upon the poor woman overcome by tears. She was overcome alright; overcome with hilarity.

What could I say? There is simply no way follow that up.

At the end of the seminar, one of the presenters asked me “What did you say to her? I have never seen anyone so touched before!”

When I left the meeting room, he was leaning against a wall barely able to breath as he chortled, guffawed, and giggled away.

I can only hope he wet his pants.

Not to be discouraged, however, I began putting some of the little nuggets I had found into practice. I even read the Song of Solomon. I was doing good!

This past Friday was Valentine's Day. Rather than purchase a card filled with an anonymous writer's sentiments, I chose to express my own feelings.

I was hoping to demonstrate just how blasé we as a whole have become about expressions of love. I opened with several refrains excerpted from well know verse. This was then followed by a very heart-felt expression of how my feelings for LB are far greater than mere sentimentality.

Friday was also the evening we hosted a small dinner party for some friends. It was very enjoyable, gathered about the table; reflecting upon the years of our friendships.

We had a wonderful dinner, followed by superb entertainment from a visiting Barbershop Quartet crooning old romantic songs.

Then, my Lovely Bride took up the carefully rolled pages of my note.

Opening the seal, she began to read

“Roses are red”...

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways”...
And so on.

Our guests sat in rapt attention, smiles upon their faces LB got to the last excerpt of verse, and sincerely reads;

“Love is patient, love is kind”

And added

"Love is prettier than a dog's be...”

Well, that pretty much derailed the rest of what I had written.

The whole atmosphere in the room changed as one couple leaned against one another to keep from sliding out of their chairs in laughter. One guest could barely catch their breath.
I merely shook my head.

Gee, I can hardly wait to see what next year's conference brings.

February on my Mind

February is here. I will try to throttle back my enthusiasm a notch or two.

It is a very good thing February is such a short month. Were it much longer, I am certain the Psychiatric Hospitals would be at capacity.

It is not that February is inherently malevolent or mean-spirited. It is just that February is the not-so-savory-surprise-in-the-punch bowl of the year. February didn’t ask to be jammed between January and March.  It didn’t desire to be plagued by monotonous, tedious, un-ending, cold, gray, lousy weather.

It just came out that way.

In a feeble attempt to validate itself, February lays claim to Valentine’s Day. There it sits, smack in the middle of a drab, boring month; a half-hearted attempt at joy and passion bedecked in red and pink hearts, festooned with white doilies, the Elmer’s glue still moist on the edges of the construction paper.

Attempting to spark the damp, smoldering fire of romance, couples don their fine apparel; bundle up in boots, scarves, overcoats, hats, and gloves to schlep through the iron hard frozen ruts passing for streets.  Upon arriving at the dining place of their choice, (preferably where one does not order a combo meal from an illustrated menu board) they enjoy a quiet, romantic, intimate dinner in the company of about 100 other couples; all yearning for a quiet evening.

The effect is somewhat nullified by the need to shout across the table in order to be heard. It just loses something when one party shouts “I love you!”, only to have the recipient shout back “Huh? I can’t hear you!”

Upon leaving Chez Fred’s our love-struck couple discover a freezing rain has begun since they went inside. The car is now encased in a fine veneer of ice. The door locks, wishing to add to the adventure, are frozen. Following several unsuccessful presses of the unlock button, the male asserts himself.

He thrusts the key in the lock.  Giving a mighty twist, he feels the key yield.  The key keeps yielding as he realizes it has snapped off in the lock

The female, thoroughly soaked, cold, and disgusted by the show of raw machismo, withdraws to the warmth of the restaurant. For his part, the man stands in the icy mist, staring hopelessly at the stub of the key.

A short time later, the woman emerges with a Styrofoam cup of hot water. Carefully, she pours this over the lock. She then removes a set of keys from her clutch, and smugly presses the button. With a click, flash of the headlights and a “bwoop” the door opens. She sidles in, seductively showing more leg than really necessary. With a smile, she starts the car, slams the door, and drives off, leaving the man to dash after her for two blocks before he slips on an icy patch on the sidewalk.

That, dear friend, is romance in February.

February also tries to share its wacky and fun side with the wild, hilarious Groundhog Day.

This droll, folksy traditional has Germanic roots. In reality, it probably has Germanic beer roots.

How else to explain the over-whelming compulsion to reach into the den of a hibernating furbearing woodland creature, grasp unto said creature, and drag him or her into the light of day?

Then, to proclaim, with all solemnity, said critter (actually a member of the rodent family), saw his shadow, became startled, and scurried back into his den. Therefore, we can expect Winter to end around March 21^st.

No joke, Sherlock?

Has it ever occurred to anyone the over-grown mouse was startled by some goon grabbing hold of him while he was in the middle of a really great dream in which he and J.Lo are vacationing on a private island in the Caribbean. Just when she is giving him a come-hither look, and loosening her bikini top-BAM- some clown is hoisting him up in the air, in broad daylight, all the while jabbering about Spring as a bunch of yahoos shout at him.

Maybe-just maybe- that is why he scurries back to his hole.

Seriously, now; does that sound like the sort of thing a sober person would do?  Well…maybe some of my friends would, but only if you dared them to.

For his sake I hope he can pick up the dream. From my own experience, I have no problem falling asleep and going right back to where I left off. Only now J.Lo has become Miss Piggy.

Not wishing to be outdone by July for patriotism, February boasts of George Washington’s and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays.  Both these men were esteemed Americans. Their respective legacies will endure for centuries yet to come.

However a slice of cherry pie just can’t compete with a day off from work, parades, bar-b-ques, ballgames, picnics, and fireworks.  Sorry, February, July has got you beat there.

Add to the above list of little quirks  February’s penchant for delusions of grandeur every four years. Suddenly, it decides to be a big-shot and add a day; February 29^th. Again, in true February style, it has to be coy about its intentions. It can’t say “Hey! I’m sick of being the shortest month! I am adding a day this year!”

No, it has to be clever and use such nonsensical subterfuge by calling it Leap Year. And the extra day, in order to be cute, is called Sadie Hawkins Day; a day when single ladies can track down the eligible bachelor of their choice, drag that sap before a preacher or justice of the peace, and get married.  Cute, really cute, February.

Well, guess what? Your gambit didn’t work. You are STILL the shortest month.

What if the other months decided all willy-nilly to add a day when ever they felt like it? What if October announced “I’m tired of the same old 31 day routine. This year, the third week of the month, I am adding a second Wednesday. I am gonna call it Double Hump Day! HAAA!! Get it? Double Hump Day? You know, Wednesday--Hump Day? Well, I thought it sounded pretty cool.”

It is no coincidence the real reason those mad-cap Caesar boys; Augie and Jules, took a couple days for themselves was to shorten a most dismal month.  That whole cock and bull story about a rivalry between them, and wanting “their” months to be equal was just a cover so February’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt.

It was the calendar equivalent of making the un-coordinated kid on the team the water boy; “Bobbie, I got a real important job for you. Those other guys get all hot and thirsty running up and down the field. You have to make sure the water bottles are full, and chilled. Okay? Can I count on you? Attaboy, Bobbie! What a team player you are!”

We are nearly a quarter of the way through February.

The good news: there are only 40 days until St. Patrick’s Day! Now, that is something to look forward to!

Oh, yeah, I think Spring is a few days after that.