Money. I hate money, especially when it isn’t plentiful. Like right now, at my house. I’m so broke, I can’t afford to pay attention. My wallet has been converted from a billfold to a card library.

Wait! I found a whole dollar in there!

Mind you, when I say I’m broke, it certainly does not mean I’m poor. Not by a longshot. But since my wife’s passing, income is less; so I’ve been trying to cut corners a bit. Yesterday I made an elegant meal of Stouffer’s macaroni & cheese mixed with Swiss chard from the garden, some slided up hot dogs, onions, and green peppers. Came out OK… hey it was nourishing (I think). When I described the managerie to my son he said, “You mean like that mung you used to feed us?” “Ha ha, yeah, I guess!!” I chucked. “I forgot about mung!! Sounds like a good ‘Happy Friday!!!’ topic!!”

More about mung later…

My Mom knew how to save bucks by being creative in the kitchen, a feat I never fully appreciated until we were blessed with children. Poor Mom tried her best to make a silk casserole out of a sow’s rib cage, but my brother Eric and I would taunt her when something was less than delectable.

Take Chicken Fricassee, for example. No, really. Take it. That stuff was nasty. Chicken molecules in a creamy white sauce with carrots, celery, onions, potatoes and stuff all cooked to death and plopped in our bowls. This was the end of the road for the chicken carcass and bones essentially. It was OK I guess, but we had it once too often one month. When my bro and I learned it was on the menu AGAIN, we went outside to march to and fro while chanting:

“Chicken fricasee is blech! Chicken fricasee is BLECH! Chicken fricasee is BLaaeeCH!”

Mom would come out and sigh, “Awright youse guys…,” and go back inside and put more stuff in the pot. Seemed to work for a while, we didn’t have chicken fricasee for a few months afteward.

I have since renamed the dish Fricken Chickasee. It’s not allowed at our house.

Other days brought predictable staples: macaroni & cheese with hotdogs and spinach; potato hotdog soup; spaghetti with God Knows What (whatever meat happened to be around); and macaroni & cheese with tomato sardines and spinach. Anybody see a pattern here?

Eric and I were the older kids, and with sis and another brother we numbered four. God bless Mom, she always managed to keep our bellies full. She got her frugal kitchen skills from growing up during the Great Depression, and used her knowledge to stretch Dad’s paycheck. We always asked, “What’s for supper, Ma?” Usually cheerful even when she had to scrimp, she’d answer, “Leftover Delight!!” We’d groan and go back outside. If we asked about the menu when she was bummed by life, the universe, and everything; she would scowl at the pots and mutter, “Slum Gullion.”

When I became a Dad (and a Mom, when my lovely wife was working nights), I really appreciated this culinary legacy. Especially when our cash supply was running in phantom mode. I went a step further and became creative when naming my impromptu dishes. I stole one such name from Saturday Night Live, when Mike Meyers and Dana Carvey were doing a “Wayne’s World” skit and uttered the word, “Mung.” Garth asked Wayne what that meant, and Wayne confessed that he didn’t know, but he liked the sound of it. There are such things as mung beans, which are often found in Asian dishes in the form of sprouts; but that’s not what Wayne was talking about. Needless to say, I really liked the way mung rung.

Hee hee!

So, when asked what’s for dinner, and I had to improvise, I’d tell the kids, “We’re having mung;” and they’d reply, “Oh jeez.” Mung could be anything from Hamburger Helper with extra pasta and a vegetable, to spaghetti with GodKnowsWhat. One of my personal favorites was Chicken Cockamamie: leftover chicken (and hey Mom, I actually DEBONED it first!) heated up with a couple cans of cream of celery soup, and veggies plopped in there. Served over those crunchy Chinese noodles. If the flavor passed the test, the kids would warm my heart by saying, “Good mung, Dad!!”

Of course, I got leftover mung for lunch the next day at work. That was always wonderful. I’d plaster it with garlic powder the night before, and when I’d nuke it at work, inquisitive noses came a-sniffing:

“Hey, whatcha got there? Smells pretty good!”

“Mung. Leftover mung from last night.”

“What’s mung?”

“Well, today it’s Chicken Cockamamie.”

“Right. Oookay. What the heck is that?”

Then I’d explain. Many ran away screaming. But others listened intently, mulled the recipe about, and would often modify it out loud…

“Oooo. Maybe some peas would go nicely in there too.”

“Bet that would be good on mashed potatoes.”

“Sure,” I’d nod with a smile.

Payday would finally arrive and there’d be no need to make any mung for two, maybe three days. Then I could daydream about such delightful entrees like… oh I dunno, how about Bread Helper. Or Mashed Mung with gravy.

I knew one thing for sure… it wasn’t gonna be no Fricken Chicasee.

OK kids, pardon the slapstick, but this is still a funny one. Nor sure if they’re making mung or what…

What does it mean to be a man?  Biologically speaking, I guess a man simply means being male and past the age of puberty.  But of course, it’s much more than that.  Right??  Well, I hope you’re not going to try to pin me down on what a man is, because I’m still learning that one.  While I was growing up, movie stars like John Wayne, Glenn Ford, Gary Cooper and the like were considered male role models.  Real men! Gun toting, sports loving, woman dominating guys that made this country great!!  Right??  

I don’t think so!!  

And because I don’t think so, according to some males there must be something wrong with me.  I don’t give a rip about sports. I don’t own a gun. In regard to women, I have nothing but the highest respect for them.  Admit it guys, you really have to give a huge amount of credit to women.  They brought us into this world, and in spite of the way all too many men have mistreated and abused females over the years, we still have women who are willing to put up with us.

Is that dedication or what?? 

Well, one of the things I’ve learned along the way is that fire and water don’t mix.  Even more importantly, firewater and family life definitely don’t mix.  At least not in my case, where one serving of firewater was too many and a thousand wasn’t enough.  And that is also the case for most of the men I consider friends these days.  We all have a common bond:  firewater make man crazy, stop drinking firewater and get into recovery, recovery make man better.  We’ve embraced a rather strange concept called “surrender to win.”  There is a bunch of us, and for those in this neck of the woods who get their application turned in by the deadline there is the annual “spiritual retreat.” 

In case any of you man-boys out there are thinking of attending one of these events, here’s a little sample of what you might find, which may or may not be a completely silly joke (well OK, it’s a joke) that I’m in dire need of writing because of the horribly brain draining universe I’ve been living in these days…

Day 1:  (Friday evening)

 Check in.  I was handed a packet of welcome materials, including a schedule, from a nice man who smiled at me and said with a twinkle in his eye, “Go find a place in the dirt for sleeping.”  So, I humbly took my tent to the mosquito infested river bank and set up my “room” for the weekend. Some friends saw me fumbling with the poles and walked over to mock me and pretend to help.  They all had a good laugh as I battled the blood sucking bugs, smacking the ones on my head with my hand until I was speaking in tongues.  Then they led me to the camp fire where a very old man with three teeth and big, bulging eyes was telling a story:  

“Long ago in Grandfather’s beard, a small squid died and stunk for days. All the village Elders offered him fire to drink and hid his remote control. Little children crawled up to see him and chewed off his toes. His own family sent for the Magic Bowl. They filled it with bird runch and mixed in pork, crayon shavings and geek fat. The ceremony began with the first three episodes of “Gilligan’s Island”; and when Grandfather started lusting for Mrs. Howell they fed him the Modongo. Very soon Grandfather blortled and fipped. He asked “What kind of bird runch are you feeding me today? Anyhow?” His family laughed at the snackwonder, and said, “This is a very joyful time for us.  We must remove our Flingel shirts and dance wildly around the Popsicle stick.”  As he finished the last sentence, everyone received a Popsicle.  

After this rather strange ritual, all the guys got dressed again and “Little Louie” shouted, “Meeting Time!!  C’mon, everybody grab a stump!!”  Then we started off with a topic, “using macramé to kill cravings.”  Silly me, I thought macramé was a forgotten art, but each man was handed some twine and when it was his turn to share about some issue with which he was struggling, he was to add his twine to the weave.  The finished product resembled a large duck with a sledgehammer on its head… and it was announced that, “Some lucky person will be taking this home after the retreat is done.”

Midnight rolled around and none of us had eaten dinner.  But we were assured we wouldn’t go to bed hungry; and that we should line up and a “fine feast” would be waiting for us in the lodge kitchen.  By this time I had already made a few friends and boy, I’m telling you, that bowl of Rice Crispies was just plain awesome.  After eating I flopped into my tent and slept like a baby until reveille.

Day 2:  (Saturday)

At about 5:30 in the stinkin’ morning I hear some kakahead  near the lodge yelling, “Breakfast for Kings!!  Breakfast for Ki-i-n-ngs!”  I’m thinking manly thoughts of running over and choking this guy.  But then my serenity kicked in, and I put on an happy face and dragged my sleepy hiney over to see what this “Breakfast for Kings” was all about.  Turns out they had invented a new way to cook eggs the previous year, and “Old Herman” was dropping a dozen or two straight into the coals of the camp fire. Shells and all!  We were each given a wooden spoon that had been soaked in castor oil and told, “Just get them eggs outta there when they’re done the way you like ’em.”   I excused myself and went to my car, where I had carefully stashed a Snickers bar and a RC cola.

 After the “King’s Breakfast,” there was a long line for the port-a-john.  Once the fumes cleared, the activities coordinator jumped up on a stump and spoke loudly.  “We’re gonna have some fun today… now we know you’re here for your spirit, but we gotta play a little too.  So, we’ve arranged for golf and tree-bowling.  Just tell Arliss over here if you wanna golf, and tell Rufert over there if you wanna go tree-bowling.”  Most of the guys hooked up with Arliss, and my good friend Dick asked me if I was going to golf.  I told him that I don’t really golf, but thanks anyway.  In the spirit of the retreat, he promptly told me, “Well, I guess you’re just a stupid wuss and I won’t be talking to you anymore after today.”  So, remembering that tolerance is the key to spiritual wisdom, I prayed for him to hop into his car and run over his clubs while I walked over to Rufert to find out about this tree-bowling.  

“Hi Rufert, I’m Ken,” I announced as I shook his hand.  I looked around for any evidence of equipment and asked, “What’s this tree-bowling about, anyway?”  “Well,” he said sheepishly, “we didn’t have enough money to rent a lane at the bowling alley, and nobody had any pins at home.  So….”  I waited eagerly as he paused and looked at the ground and tightened his lips.  “So,” he continued, “we found some trees that are in a formation like bowling pins.  We’re gonna use this big beach ball over there and pretend we’re knocking them down.”  Then I responded, “Ohhh… ok…. well, ummm… how are you gonna keep score?”  “Oh FINE!! So you don’t want to play, huh??  What are you, some kind of wussy??  You better go before I lose my patience here,” Rufert snorted.

I decided to relax by the river and read my meditation books while the rest of the men played their very important games.  I don’t know about any other men out there, but one of the most helpful books for me is, “Daily Meditations for Men Who Have No Self-Esteem and Are Not Likely to Get Any.”  I believe it’s one of those Hazelnut publications.  Interesting, because in light of what was going on around me that day, the reading fit it to a tee:  “You are surrounded by dogs.  Remember that you are also a dog, and if you step in dog dirt your Higher Power will help you clean your shoes.”  How profound!

Well, when the men came back from their fun, it was time to eat again.  We were all amazed that we were eating so early… 10:47 p.m. and we were all famished.  “Old Herman” had outdone himself this time:  marshmallow pudding with peas, and deep fried salami sandwiches.  I was totally unaware that you could deep fry a whole sandwich, but “Old Herman” pulled it off.  I asked him later how he managed this feat, and he very humbly shrugged and pointed to the minnow trap in the corner.  When I turned my head to look, I saw that the wire trap glistened with oil droplets.  Then I turned my head back toward “Old Herman” and he gave me a wistful wink and nodded his head.  Then he abruptly excused himself and made a bee line for the port-a-john.

After dinner I scraped the grease off my face and slid back into my tent and enjoyed indigestion rumblings and numerous trips to the port-a-john for the entire night.  Maybe part of my inability to sleep was anticipation of the next morning, which was the wrap up session for the retreat.

Day 3:  (Sunday morning)

No “King’s Breakfast” this morning.  Ah well.  Instead, we got instructions on what wild fruits and edible plants were available in the area, and also a hand-drawn map on where to find them.  As we all set out to forage, I made a loop through the woods and got back into my car where I had some Little Debbie snack cakes tucked under the seat.  “Old Herman” spotted me and invited himself in, and the two of us shoved snack cakes into our faces until the rest of the poor souls returned with thorns on their lips and burrs in their clothing.  We were all invited to circle around the camp fire to say a last group prayer before departing.  “Old Herman” and I gleefully burped often and blew the scent of Little Debbie snack cakes into the nostrils of our famished neighbors.  Then we all did the secret handshake and called each other vile names, hopped in our cars, and gunned our engines to get the heck out of there.  Each of us abused our transmissions and kicked up globs of dirt with our tires until there was nothing visible but a huge cloud of dust over the lodge.  And I think I saw that poor macramé duck thing along the road as I drove home.

So as you call can see, this story about the men’s retreat was completely fabricated. But hey, I can hardly wait till next year!!  I’m sure I’ll be going, but I’ll make sure to tell “Old Herman” I’ll be a little late.

Gotta stop at the store on the way…

And now for something completely different.

I try to do my best to eat a healthy diet. But sometimes… just sometimes mind you, I veer far away from such self discipline and just go for the gusto.

Well guess what??  During a recent grocery store excursion, I was determined to find some low fat stuff that was fun to eat.  Like maybe liverwurst or hot dogs or something.  Don’t ask me why, but about every six months or so I get a craving for that stuff.  Yes, I know there are lips and noses and all sorts of weird stuff in hot dogs.  And God only knows what all they put in liverwurst.  Sure, they both have ingredient lists on the package, but you just can’t help but think they put something in there that they aren’t talking about.  Although both have sodium nitrite in them (not a good thing for your body), I don’t eat them often enough to get any nitrite nastiness. I hope… Anyway, I figured once in awhile won’t hurt.  Anyway, on my latest munchies mission I was looking around for some foods that wouldn’t put the lard in my booty, and guess what I found?  Low fat liverwurst (known in these parts as braunschweiger) and fat free hot dogs!  I grabbed a package of each, and very soon enjoyed the decadent pleasure of processed meat.  A liverwurst sandwich with low fat mayo and a dab of mustard for lunch, and a couple fat free hot dogs with my stir steamed veggies for dinner.  I was in hog heaven.  Pun intended (there’s really no such thing as “low fat liverwurst”).

I suffered no ill effect, and got my processed meat craving out of the way for awhile.  Well, OK, there was one effect, but I don’t really consider it a bad one.  I got a free “movie” out of the deal.  It’s like this, OK:  I don’t eat processed meat very often.  When I get that urge I mentioned earlier, I usually go in like gangbusters and have lots of yummies with chemicals that are not normally in my body.  And I’ve noticed that whenever I stuff my face with things that have sodium nitrite in them, well, I have very interesting dreams…

There I was, minding my own business, on a pontoon boat with no side rails or canopy.  I was one of several people on a fishing trip, and we had just sighted some huge bluegills when the guide started complaining aloud, “Well, we can’t fish here.  The grocery store doesn’t want us fishing in their parking lot.”  I was pretty disappointed, but when I looked over the side and saw the parking lot markers on the asphalt (about 6 feet underwater) I knew that this was just the way things had to be.  We motored off into the middle of the lake (or whatever it was) and slowed down while we passed a strange wooden dwelling that jutted out of the water.  The structure was not painted, and had obviously been there for a very long time.  Inside, people with very long noses were speaking a strange language and drawing pictographs on each other’s backs.  Then suddenly, the scene changed…

I found myself in a college lecture hall, and my sixth grade teacher was having everyone stand up and do recitals that were due that morning.  I got the sudden sense that my turn was quite awhile off, so I decided to take Bishop the Wonderdog for a walk.  We walked through a nearby neighborhood which was bordered by some woods, and stumbled upon a very large cat.  My first instinct was that we had met up with a mountain lion, but the coloring was that of a domestic feline.  However, this kitty was very large, probably in the neighborhood of eighty pounds or so.  I expected the cat to get all poofy at the sight of my doggie, but quite the opposite happened.  I heard a thrashing noise, and turned to see Bishop’s fur getting all poofed up.  He was visibly trembling and excited, and his ears were flapping about and looked like small horse tails flying every which way.  At this point I went back into the lecture hall, only to learn that my turn to recite had long since passed and everyone had gone home.

Now how does one analyze that dream?!? It was just plain fun!!  That’s my analysis.  Recreational dreaming.  Before retirement, I told stories of hot dog dreams to friends at work, and I remember a guy was envious a few days later, because he had eaten several hot dogs and had no dreams.  He thought maybe he might shoot up some hot dogs before bed time, but I am pretty sure that HOT DOGS MUST NEVER BE TAKEN INTRAVENOUSLY.  And really, with all the chemicals and whatnot; I wouldn’t even advise eating them at all, except for the fact that sometimes they just plain taste good.  So the next time I go to the store, I’ll try to help my non-dreaming friends out and see what kind of cool dream foods they have…

Probably start in the frozen camera section.  I’ve heard that deep-fried watch batteries are very delirious and full of norg oxides, which strengthen your screaming bones.  While urging the ceiling tiles to quit sniffing crayons, Clamp Store Managers often shout at squid as they have cart races through the small table mazes.  Ink-flavored baggage has been found to prevent shoe decay, so when the Amazing Puckered Jelly Mixer begins to twinkle in the closets, all the new employees will be happy to learn of their celery.  As we move now to the chain-operated video spray, thick woolen camouflage breadsticks push other bagels out of the paper fudge racks.  Now, we are sure, no foods in this whole universe are better than freeze dried pajamas.

I think I should maybe stop eating braunhotschweigerdogs for awhile now…

So… my Beautiful Girlfriend left for The Great Beyond a week ago. OK a week and one day to be precise. Lots of people figured I’d be a complete mess without her… and I admit that my heart aches terribly. Lots of people have said “I’m sorry.” Lots of people have sent their love. And one friend in particular said, “I’m so sad for you.” Well I’m pretty sad too folks, but as I told my friend, I’m immeasurably grateful for the life we built together. Yes, I’ve cried my eyes out several times. One time in particular I cried very loudly and hard. My throat is still a bit sore. And yes, I was home alone so the only people who were affected by my outburst were Ivy Anne and Luna, our two kitties.

It’s OK, they still love me.

Grief mixed with gratitude has brought me a pretty decent helping of peace that surprises even me. I’ve even been able to be a bit silly and make friends laugh. I’m convinced my Honey Pie would want this for me. I know if the situation was reversed, I would be doing everything I could from The Other Side to lift as much sadness from her as I could.

Before she left, we actually focused on gratitude somewhat regularly. It’s a tool we acquired during our recovery from addiction that enabled us to enjoy each day, and especially the last of our time together. As her mobility waned, a successful evening often meant watching our favorite TV shows while stuffing our faces with chocolate goodies. As the end approached, one of my important jobs was to ensure there was a box of Good N Plenty available at all times. And when evening came, I’d prepare a dish of miniature chocolate bars, some peanut M&Ms and maybe some whoppers or some other chocolate remarkableness. I sometimes silently scolded myself for chocolating (Not a word? I don’t care!!) along with her, knowing that my britches would probably tighten a bit. But that never stopped me. I made the mistake of getting on the scale a few times during the many weeks of chocolate holy mackerel; but it was a small price to pay for keeping My Sweet Love’s sweet tooth satisfied.

“We are blessed,” was a common refrain. Because we are.

“Can you imagine trying to do all this horrible disease stuff while being homeless?” I asked her some months ago. I’m guessing the length of suffering might have been much shorter, as our ability to get medical care would have been challenging at best. I cannot bear to think about how homeless people suffer each and every day. I mean, my Lovely Bride and I had no debt, a nice home, plenty to eat, cars that work, and an amazing collection of family and friends with whom we share the joy of living. What more can you ask for?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

What came to mind for this week’s video was the song by Barenaked Ladies. My Beautiful Girlfriend and I loved their music when it first came around, even though the members of the group are neither bare, nor naked, nor ladies.

So here ya go.

So there I was, 650 feet above sea level (I looked it up), getting ready to head off to a meeting and see some friends, and I took my phone out of my pocket because it needed to charge a bit so I was gonna plug it in to the car charger thingy and off I went but when I got a few miles down the road I didn’t see my phone but I thought I heard it ring and then I realized that HOLY COW this sentences is way too long; I better stop it right now!!

So I did.

I stopped the sentence I mean.

Because it was too long.

The sentence.

So now I’m making sentence fragments.

Oh wait, that was a sentence…

Anyway so yeah, I hear my phone ring. But I’m looking around the car and it’s nowhere. Between the seats?? Nope. Under the seats?? Nope. HEY LOOK OUT FOR THAT CAR!! OK.. quit hunting and resume driving. But what the heck?? Anyhow?? “I know,” I says to myself, “I’ll use the bluetooth to make a call to see if it’s OK.” And yes, the bluetooth worked fine, so the phone should be fine. But I’d really like to know where it is though, ya know??

“I hate computers.” That’s my refrain when anything goes awry in my universe. Why do I use this encrypted phrase for everything? Well during my many years as a technology guy, it became a kind of vocal therapy on the fly. For example: a software update is applied to some important software everybody uses. Then the system goes kerblooey, and nobody can do their job. I am the service guy. My phone rings off the hook. So I tell them, “Not to worry, we are working on it. And just so you know, I hate computers.” My friends would then tell me, “Well maybe you[‘re in the wrong job!!” And I’d reply, “It’s a good living, but the computers are not my friends; unless they play nice.” So now it’s almost automatic for me to blurt out “I hate computers,” even when I drop an egg on the floor.

So where the heck is my stinkin’ phone?? I hate computers!! It really is a computer you know. OK… I drive the 11 miles and arrive at the meeting place. I look again. On the seat… under my book maybe?? Nope. Between the seats?? Nope. Under the seats?? Nope. I see a friend in the parking lot. “Hey man, will you call my phone?? I can’t find the damn thing.” “Sure,” he says. I hear my ring tone. I follow the sound… and… HOLY CARP!! IT’S ON TOP OF THE CAR!! SHEESH!!! Let’s hear it for the old Otterbox Defender phone case with the rubber jacket that apparently likes to grab the roof of my car when it’s going 60 MPH!! Did I mention that I hate computers?? Oy yoy yoy!! But I’m glad I found my phone. I mean hey, it wasn’t the phone’s fault, so we can still be friends.

For now.

Hope all of you had a splendid Christmas, or whatever you may celebrate during this time of year. I say that because, of course, not everyone celebrates Christmas. Reminds me of a nice conversation I had a few years ago with a very good friend of mine who happens to be a Muslim. We were together during one of those Holiday Dinners our employer set up for us each year. I was fortunate to be able to sit next to him, which was great because he lives in Canada; and although we talked on the phone regularly we rarely saw each other live and in color.

“Does Santa come to your house?” I asked whimsically.

He chuckled and said, “I’ll be getting a few gifts while I’m here.”

Hey, last I checked, Santa was nondenominational! I’m grateful for the tolerance I was given when I was very young. My parents were very adamant that we treat people of all colors and creeds with respect. This attitude later brought me into contact with a beautiful, like-minded young woman when each of us were the ripe old age of 17. She allowed me to marry her two years later!! As we look back on our 50 years of wedded bliss, we find ourselves grateful that we raised “colorblind” kids who are keenly aware that we have absolutely no right to judge a person based on what color their skin is, who they choose to love, or how (or whether) they pray.

We’re grateful for a lot of things, and believe it or not we verbalize it pretty much every day. Sometimes we say it mockingly by uttering, “we are spoiled Americans.” But it’s true you know. Most of the time we’ll say “we are so fortunate,” or “thank you God for everything.” I dare say that anyone who is reading this is also spoiled to some degree. God bless those who are suffering from poverty, hunger, war, etc. Our family has been pretty much insulated from all these. We are blessed.

So here comes 2024, for cryin’ out loud!! Where did the time go?? Over the past few weeks my beautiful girlfriend and I have been reminiscing about days past…

“Honey, do you realize that this Christmas is our 50^th?” I mentioned recently. “Oh my!!” she replied. “Well, you know what frogs say… time’s fun when you’re having flies!!” I quipped. And fly it does; and the older we get the faster it seems to zip along. That’s why we’re both trying to make as many pleasant memories as we can these days. Negativity often plagued in our early years… that’s just not the case with us anymore. In spite of some rather significant health challenges, negativity rarely rears its ugly head now. And I can’t remember the last time we pissed each other off!! We pretty much literally grew up together; and we’ve learned that negativity is rather poisonous for the spirit.

We don’t like poison.

Do we get sad sometimes? Maybe even annoyed? Of course!! But we do our best not to wallow in the muck. Compared to oh so many, we are immeasurably blessed. However, it also takes conscious effort to “accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative,” as the old song goes. As we stumble along on this journey we call life; we try to replace negative thoughts with positive or at least neutral ones. We try to seek out activities that feed the spirit. We go to therapy. And we have a host of like-minded friends whom we can contact for support. All these tools give us a better chance or connecting to The Great Spirit and receiving some peace; and sometimes we even get some guidance!

So I think that’s my New Years’ resolution for 2024. For several years, I’ve stuck to the same resolution: “Try to do better.” I’ll still keep that in the mix, but I really want to ring in the new year (and subsequent new years) on a positive note. I need to do my best to keep the negative nasties out of my head. Negativity is painful, and I don’t like pain. As the famous philosopher, Henny Youngman said, “I went to the doctor, (lifts up his arm) and I said, ‘Doctor, it hurts when I do this!!’ So the doctor says, ‘Don’t do that!!’” I love using that as a funny analogy, but It really has become that simple for me. When my serenity alarm goes off, I try to quickly figure out what’s wrong and do my best to moderate my reaction so I can stay on an even keel. Didn’t happen over night, believe me.

If I can succeed at all this mood management; I’m pretty sure I’ll really have a Happy New Year. Well pretty much anyway. Friends and family who know the health challenges we face often ask us, “How are you doing?” I usually respond tersely with “Doing OK.” Lately I’ve been adding, “Well let’s put it this way: most of the time we are content.” And we are.

My hope for all of you is that you are at least as blessed as we are. And May Our Creators (whoever they may be) bless all of you, and please; have a Happy New Year.

I’m sure gonna try.

Speaking of Henny Youngman…

So… we’ll be getting visitors soon. Friends and relatives will be in town, and many will want to come visit our little piece of Heaven in Beautiful Bear Swamp. We’ve had several months to prepare for their arrival, but there are still some last minute things to do of course. Things like painting the shed. Weeding the garden. Getting the carpets cleaned. Making sentence fragments. You know, all that cool stuff that should have been done months or at least weeks ago, but we have lives and important things to do like enjoy time with grandchildren and visit with friends that live nearby oh and cooking and cleaning and all the other life stuff that, if enumerated completely and in great detail, would make for a much longer run-on sentence; so maybe I’ll just stop pretty soon but maybe not right now, oh well yes I think that’s enough.

Don’t you agree?

We’re putting on a bit of a shindig to celebrate our 50^th wedding anniversary. Fifty years!! How did that happen?? Well it happened just like they say in those recovery places: one day at a time. Sure doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. On the other hand, it really does feel like my Beautiful Girlfriend and I have been sweethearts / best friends / lovers for basically all our lives. Childhood memories are but a flash in the pan these days. Of course, we became best friends when we were children (we were both 17), so practically speaking we really have been together all our lives.

We grew up together!

Thankfully, the chores we’d like to get done before our visitors arrive will not even remotely resemble the absolute chaos that often ensued while preparing for something like our kids’ high school graduation open houses. Those were The Before Times. One of my “favorite” memories was the last minute disposal of a very large pile of lumber. Well, OK, it sat outside and exposed to the elements so long that much of it became a very large pile of rotten wood. They’d toss boards and planks into the dumpster at work, and Kenny would go pick “the nice ones” out and take them home. Into the carefully stacked lumber pile they’d go; waiting for that Kenny guy to do something with them. Surprisingly, some of it actually got used! And of course much of the pile was ignited a few days before graduation as a hefty onslaught of carbon molecules ejected into the atmosphere.

Ya, we burned it up. Holy Carbon Footprint, Batman!

Then we looked inside the garage where the food tables were to be placed. “OH HOLY CARP!!” we exclaimed in unison. “HOW ARE WE GONNA CLEAN THIS MESS UP IN TIME?!?!?!” Not sure who did it (it was me), but some noodle-headed wombat very gradually touched off a clutter bomb in my garage. Shelves somehow got (very gradually but effectively) filled with boxes of nails, tools, extension cords, drain snake thingies, air filters, spray paint… the list could go on and on. Not in any special order mind you. Well let’s hear it for my brother-in-law. He gave us a marvelous solution: “Run a rope between the studs and hang a big new tarp across!!” It’s a truly amazing way to make a mess invisible. Those were very stressful events, those graduation open houses from 1996 and 2001.

Is the mess from the aforementioned clutter bomb still there? Yes. Yes it is.

We’ll need to rent a refrigerator to house all the leftovers from the shindig. And yes, you really can rent a refrigerator!! So it’s gonna go in the garage… in front of a new tarp. There will be “restricted areas” where visitors are not welcome to tread. They won’t know it, but we sure will. Thankfully, there’s no pile of rotten lumber. The house is pretty presentable inside. The shed needs some paint, and there are other jobs to be done; but we’ll be OK. We’ve gotten better at just realizing that this is just part of who we are. We’re not slobs, we’re Americans, and we have too doggone much stuff. We are better at not shaming ourselves for any woulda – shoulda – coulda nonsense. All that does is spoil an otherwise great day. So we’ll tidy up where we can, and hide the rest (hee hee).

I’d really love to work on this procrastination disease I’ve worked so hard to acquire over the years. But that will have to wait till tomorrow or the next day.

Oh, and if any of you visitors are reading this, please erase the preceding text from your brains.

Thank you.

Maybe we could get Grampy to come help!!

I am really enjoying retirement.  I am so comfortable, I can wear my “Sunday Go To Meetin'” garden grubs to the grocery store and not give a flying mahookey who sees me running around in dirty rags.  In fact, just yesterday I had to make a quick grocery run after I got done crawling around in the garden.  While I was grabbing a few necessities, I had something of a fashion flashback that happened back in the old days when I was still working.

So there I was, in a Hard Day’s Night, working like a dog, with no barking, walking around the factory after walking between the Work Buildings and having enjoyed the cool air of West Michigan spring while in my denim jacket, when suddenly I stopped to talk to some fellow associates; but not all that suddenly because I left no skid marks on the concrete floor or nothing, and long before I wrote this run-on sentence (because I was at work, not writing like I am now) a friend walked up to me with a large grin on his face and said, “Hey Ken, don’t you know that denim jackets have been out of style for 20 years?”

Being the good natured fellow I am, I smiled while shaking his hand and quickly replied, “I really don’t give a ship (or something like that…)!!” Then one of the other associates said, “You’re one of the good guys, you can wear whatever you want and it would be just fine.”  Well being thought of as a “good guy” was nice to hear, but being the silly fellow I am, I smiled again and said, “How about I put on a pink tutu and some OSHA approved safety ballet slippers?? Would that be OK??” One of the associates eyebrows kinda came together as he looked at the ground; but the one who called me “one of the good guys” chuckled and said, “Yeah sure!!”

Again at work, I had yet another instance of fashion consciousness. A friend of mine came up to me and said, “Nice shirt!!” Took a little pointing on his part for me to notice that he and I were wearing shirts with nearly identical fabric. “Oh!!” I said, finally getting the point. “Yeah, I’m guessing mine is a thrift store special.” He gave me a puzzled look. I thought about that much later, wondering if I insulted him. But we are good friends so I’m pretty sure he didn’t take it too seriously. Besides, he found it amusing when I said, “Yeah my wife buys all my shirts at the thrift stores. This one was probably 99 cents. Well OK it’s kinda nice, maybe she paid $2 for this one.”

As you may have gathered by now, I’m not exactly in tune with GQ or whatever that hoidy toidy men’s magazine is called. I just don’t give a hoot about fashion. Some proof of that is:

1) I just had to google “GQ” to make sure it still was what I thought it was; and

R) I still like having very long hair, even though it’s only growing well on the sides of my head (I plan to till the top under and try to grow a new crop); so that’s like 40 years out of style, and finally

&) I rarely paid attention to what the work shirt looked like in the morning. My fashion combo consisted of a pair of blue jeans and a “business casual” shirt.

And yes, Virginia (or Vern), I stuffed my shirt pocket with my smell phone, my eye glasses case, a pen, and maybe a small screwdriver. Oh and not to forget that’s where my badge hung.

People see me from miles away and say, “NERD ALERT!! OLD HIPPIE NERD ALERT!!!”

Guilty as charged.

I did, however, try to make sure all the buttons were buttoned, my fly was zipped up, and my “gig line” was straight. For those who were never in the military, a “gig line” is correct when the seam of your shirt, your belt buckle, and your fly are all in a straight line from top to bottom. If you didn’t have that just so in basic training, you got gigged. Nobody likes to get gigged. Funny how old habits stick with you.

So the oldest habit of mine that sticks with me is I just don’t care about fashion. Fortunately my Beautiful Girlfriend keeps my garments acceptably coordinated when we have to play dress up for a wedding or whatever. Fun to see the new fashion stuff sometimes though, kind of like going to the carnival!!

I’m just not hip, folks. I’m an old hippie who doesn’t care about hip. Not even sure what the current expression for “hip” might be!! And I don’t give a flying mahookey!! So there!!

As the folks from the Tower of Power said so eloquently all those years ago (1973 in the video that follows), “what is hip? Tell me, tell me if you think you know.” Then later in the song is my favorite line: “What’s hip today might become passe.”

So I’m just not in style and that’s very OK with me. My Beautiful Girlfriend, on the other hand, is “Just My Style.”

So kids, two videos today. Tower of Power with “What Is Hip?” is first but isn’t displayed like other videos I’ve linked to in the past.  That’s because I usually embed them here, but this time Youtube said “embedding disabled by request.”  So just click the link to get the Tower of Power.  Nice performance by them on Soul Train.

The second one is in honor of my Beautiful Girlfriend, who will always be “Just My Style” like this song from Gary Lewis and the Playboys.

Peace!! (Now that’s ALWAYS in style!!)

Click below for “Just My Style.”

Well it happened. I just had my 69^th birthday, and I’m rather astonished that I’ll soon be the same age as old people. Maybe I already am!! This reminds me of a poem that I never wrote before, so I will attempt to plop it in front of your reading eyeballs at this time.

I Feel Fine

by Me, A Name I Call Myself

I’m sixty nine and I feel pretty fine, if I must say so myself.

I’m grateful to be alive and well and not in an urn on a shelf.

No more angries, or ickies, no orneries or pickies,

All those nasty emotions just gave me the sickies.

I’ve worked hard to grow up… not much raises my hackles.

But when trying to move, something inside me crackles.

“Oh ouchy! Oh crap!” I’ve been heard to exclaim.

But I’d rather have ouch than be totally lame.

So I’ll just keep on truckin’, as the freaks used to say.

And look forward to what comes with the following day.

Thank you.

Yes, I guess maybe someday I’ll have to face the possibility that I’m getting old. How can this be, though?? My brain still thinks I’m in my 30s… maybe younger. Oh but I’m starkly reminded of change when looking in the mirror for example. I bring my young brain around with me and then I step into the bathroom to pee (again), and I catch the image of some old fart looking back at me. “What the heck happened to you??” I think… sometimes out loud. Yeah, I’m starting to get old.

I had hair once, right on top my head and everything!! I’m convinced that there is some sort of follicle migration occurring while I sleep. I mean, I have more hair on my belly than I’ve ever had. And it grows well in my ears too!! And my chest!! Never had hair on my chest before. And as all these hair villages pop up on previously bald parts of my body, the hair on top of me head diminishes. Not sure this is fair treatment for a gentle person like me.

And remember the crackles I mentioned in the poem from earlier up there above these other words where there’s a poem that I never wrote before but I did just a few minutes ago that was not part of this run-on sentence but it is now?? Well sheesh, I can hardly move any part of my body without some sort of Snap, Crackle, or Pop Rice Crispies, part of this nutritious breakfast!! Actually I don’t know how anyone can fool themselves into thinking that Rice Crispies have ever really provided much nutrition. But the commercials were fun now weren’t they?

I can’t complain really, even though I do. That’s a privilege of getting older, right? Old people complain about everything. Jeez I don’t wanna get old like that. But seriously folks, life is very good and I’m truly grateful. You’ve probably heard the old saying, or some version of it: “Getting old is not for cowards.” Well even though I’m a wuss I’ll do my best to age gracefully. I really am lucky… I can do most anything I could do when I was younger. Just takes longer sometimes… and sometimes it hurts.

But really… I feel fine!!