Not long ago my phone and TV told me they couldn’t find my Wifi supply. I hunted and tried everything I could think of to get the connection to work, and finally decided the problem was in the wifi router itself. I shuddered to think I’d have to run out and buy a new router (I’m not sure of why it’s called that, but it appears to be so), and then it finally dawned: reset the router. I couldn’t find a “reset” button, so based on past suggestions from various people about various electronic devices, I unplugged it and waited for 10 minutes. It actually worked!
This experience got me thinking about the general chaos in the world right now. It seems to me that we should all take heart and wait for the global “reset” to happen. And it WILL! The pandemic (I call it a plague) will eventually be brought under control. I don’t know if it will be a rolling, repetitive process or an occasional battle or a permanent cure, but it’s coming. The first doses of vaccine which appears to work well are being sent out as this is written. Time will tell us if, like influenza, the vaccines will have to be adjusted periodically to accommodate mutations in the virus, or if it will mutate more slowly (or not at all) and be controllable with the same vaccine. at that time, the “reset” will have occurred.
The same thing seems to be happening with the educational systems. Remote learning isn’t as effective as in-person, classroom learning for various reasons, and parents are panicking at the thought that their child will be less prepared – less educated – because of a gap in their schooling. But they (sometimes including their teachers and future employers) seem to be forgetting that “education” is a process in which learning actually takes place. For most kids effected by the pandemic interruption the system builds-in the opportunity for “next year’s teacher” to evaluate what lapses might have happened in the progression, and will be able to adjust their curriculum to help the students “catch up” to where they should be by the close of the school year. It has always happened that way (because of illness, family emergencies or even just bad teachers the year before). Believe me, in one way or another I’ve seen examples of all of the above! The bottom line is that after the schools are “reset” the kids will be seen through their tough times. Only the graduating high school seniors may actually have uncorrected gaps in their learning, and frankly they will be brought up to snuff by the world and it’s employers’ needs rather quickly.
Next, the financial world is in turmoil with business closings, stock losses and businesses forced to close or cut back drastically. All of this is very true. But consider the nature of the financial world: It is ultimately it’s own driving engine. Stocks will rebound as soon as the forces that closed or delayed or curtailed business function are eliminated. The purpose of a stock exchange is to produce revenue for businesses to grow, and every surviving business will be straining to replace the growth it lost during the recession. Businesses will be struggling to hire enough help to produce larger quantities of profit-making products for the marketplace. Small businesses will return or be replaced by other small businesses eager to get a foothold in the newly burgeoning economy. In short, the economy will do exactly as it has done following every setback in our history: From the recovery after the 1929 crash to the rebound that followed the real estate scandall that accompanied de-regulation of the industry in 2010/2011, the need for continued capital growth and the means to fuel it will re-set the business world as soon as possible.
I’m not really qualified to comment on politics, but there must also be consideration given to the concurrent political division in our country. From Neo-nazis and radical secessionists and racial supremacists to communist and socialist theorists and unreasonable individual rights demands, the clash of ideas and ideals cannot survive the re-setting of society. At some point the need to survive will outstrip the pipe dreams of radical fringe groups and thinkers. The only two possibilities I see here are that A.) We continue as a divided people fighting constant battles over semi-meaningful ideas and never solving anything; or B.) We engage in a massive move to the moderate middle of the spectrum in an effort to save the democracy and preserve the American ideal. This latter implies that both extremes should be able to concede certain points in order to solve important issues and find a consensus. The days of the McConnell / Pelosi wars must stop; and the urgings of Pelosi, Sanders and Ocasio Cortez on the left and Giuliani , Cruz and McConnell on the right MUST be dampened down or we will surely produce a political “COVID” that will gravely endanger us all and lead us into a quarantine effort of self preservation from which there is no visible vaccine.
It’s time we all prepare for the reset button that will begin soon. Our lives will forever be touched and changed by the pandemic and its effects on education, the economy, even our day to day dealings with others in general. It will re-set the world, but not EXACTLY as it was. What heartens me most is knowing that it is within our power – within each of us – to make the re-set world a better one. PLease stay safe: Wear your masks! Stay a “social distance” from each other! Wash your hands often! And remember this: I often hear people say it infringes on their “rights” to force them to wear masks, distance, etc. Well, I’m 74, obese, have heart problems, diabetes, and smoked long enough that breathing problems are inevitable. And wearing masks can literally save my right to life, so come on: Lets talk about “rights” and whose rights are more pressing and important!
When you create a blog, you obligate yourself to provide any readers you may have acquired with at least an occassional addition to the published articles. In this I have been remiss since Sept. of 2023. I don’t seek to excuse my behavior here, only to explain it.
First, in April of last year my dear wife suffered a broken hip which, in turn, put a strain on her physical condition and led to other problems. In December, for example, she underwent a knee replacement . The knee had been aggrivated by her body compensating for the hip injury, and that led to other problems. The knee is now on the mend, but will take several more months of therapy to return to full use and function.
I mention all this only to show how it came to pass that I have been the chief cook and bottle-washer in my household since last April.
Recovery is a full time job at our age, and my wife is really working to recover her health. But the details of her therapy and medical dealings are private (according to hipaa laws) and she deserves to have her privacy respected. And that brings me to the subject of this post: I have found that with the new (temporary) situation in my life, my thoughts and efforts have been rather dictated by circumstances. As I ruminated on possible subjects for a new blog post, I invariably ran into a situation where to elaborate on a train of thought I would have to explain personal factors involved in her medical needs or my own adjustments to things that were and are private. The net result of all of this is that I repeatedly opted to avoid writing at all, rather that wrestle with the problems suggested above.
The only possible source of interest in all of this is my wife’s adjustment to being under a kind of house arrest by all of this: She won’t venture out while her hair and makeup aren’t letter perfect, and the awkwardness of trying to ballance in front of a mirror and my own hopelessness in trying to help have made “going out” a rare thing, indeed. Thus she is condemned to putting up with my cooking, slipshod efforts at keeping up with the cleaning, and annoying tendency to nap regulary. I expect to find her tearing great handfulls of her own hair out as she glares at SOMETHING I’ve managed to screw up. I really feel sorry for her, but I have to admit I’m very glad she has never had the coordination to throw solid objects with any accuracy.
I hope this explains my predicament. Friend Dudley has religiously avoided my house since all of this began because my temperment hasn’t been the most pleasant, and I know he’s afraid of being asked to stay to dinner (which means whatever I might throw together that day). But he has intimated in phone conversations that he’s just bursting with new gripes and grumbles that he wants to get off his chest. Hopefully my better half will mend soon, and I can get back to trying to calm Dud’s troubled soul!
It seems the new game, pickle ball, has develloped quite a following. Though very like tennis, the game is promoted as less strenuous and taxing, thereby appealing to older, less active people who are seeking some kind of physical activity. It has spread across the country quickly, with leagues, sponsored players and teams, and even a growing push for a professional status for some. The inclusion of tennis in virtually all sports levels and categories has somewhat lessened the effectiveness of pickle ball as a recognized sport, but it’s proponents insist it has it’s own niche in the pantheon of athletic endeavors.
Cuban cigars also appeal to a select block of cigar smokers. The Cuban tobacco smokes much smoother and milder than any other, and makes a definitely unique smoking experience, Though I have not smoked in over 15 years, I must admit that if Cubans were no longer barred from this country I would definitely be one of those who indulged – hopefully on a very limited scale – in the occassional Cuban made cigar.
But not all private temptations are as readily seen or understood as are the game or the cigar. A character in a British comedy called “As Time Goes Bye” – his name is Lionel – is obsessed with a common English confection called a custard tart. Though common in England, the goodie seems to be a constant with Lionel even to the point of threatening physical harm to any who dare to eat Lionel’s custard tarts.
Well, I mention all this to explain why I had a miserable time shopping today – miserable to the point that I had to run over to friend Dudley’s house to vent and rage. It started when I realized that the last time I bought or even thought about any kind of formal wear for myself was 12 years ago, just prior to my granddaughter’s wedding. I’d noticed and tried mightily to ignore my dear wife’s embarrassment at what I tried to pass off as “nicer clothes” – usually consisting of khaki pants and a vest sweater of some sort.
I decided to buy a jacket (sport coat) instead of a suit because it avoids facing the first of many of my private preferences in clothing.You see, any suit made these days includes a pair of slacks best described as having been stolen from the wearer’s sister’s closet. In the 1950s these were called “pegged pants” and were mercifully (and rightly) short lived in their popularity. So a lone blazer or jacket at least avoided me squeezing my ham-like haunches into skinny pants.
The jacket itself is also a bone of contention, and in fact is an impossible choice. Every coat I could find in local mens’ stores was equipped with only 2 front buttons. In my day the third button was an almost sacred fixture which rendered a rather bland item of clothing the appearance of propriety – of formal dignity which the two buttoned alternative just couldn’t match. (And STILL doesn’t.) To me the third button is a tennis match next to a pickle ball game. It’s a Cuban in a sea of Parodis. It is, to me, the perfect custard tart in a room full of vanilla wafers. It is dignity, professionalism and good taste, all of which are trodden under the mass of brown shoes being sold to accompany the tight pants and two-button coats of this world.
Tragically, because of personal need and out of respect for my wife I actually bought the two button blazer today, but I managed to find a decent pair of NORMAL sized pants to wear with it. To borrow from Mr. Vonnegut, SO IT GOES!
My annoying pal Dudley has been pestering me for a month to get “caught up” with my readers: to let them know exactly what I’ve been doing since my last posting on this site. I have resisted because I never intended to make this a running narrative of my life. I wanted it to be a place for my own musings on the world I find myself in and, how I suggest it should be dealt with. This blog was never meant to be a Facebook-type running story.
In any event, the reason I’ve avoided posting anything for a while is that my wife and I have sort of unofficially decided to make this the year we invest some time and effort into getting several physical problems and challenges taken care of before they become larger problems than they should be. There have been visits to cardiologists, dermatologists, rheumatologists, endocrinologists, ophthalmologists, and even a couple of GPs to round it all off. These even included a minor and major surgery that I’ll mention in a minute.
There has also been the arrival of our daughter in Toledo from South Carolina, and several birthdays and other celebrations thrown in. With now two of our children living in Toledo, along with two grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, we now have a fairly busy life. But the surgeries have thrown a monkey wrench into the works: First, I had a minor bit of skin cancer removed from the tip of my nose which was inconsequential except for the fact that I looked far worse than it actually was. Just as soon as that healed, my lovely wife decided she needed some attention and took a swan dive off our one-step entryway and broke her hip. This led to a hip replacement which we’re told is going to require several weeks of (first) therapy, and restricted mobility into the near future. All of this has also created scheduling problems for everything from planning our annual family golf outing to making the final burial arrangements for my son’s ashes (he passed in November).
I hope readers will understand the delay in posting this latest chapter in the blog. It’s just that for too long things have been up in the air, unfinished, or ongoing at any given time and my own musings about the world have seemed less than important. At any rate, I feel I’ve explained some things here, and that I’m now caught up – if that’s what Dud meant me to do.
(With apologies to anyone who remembers anything between the Great Depression and the mid-50s. You will know why when you begin to read.)
I popped in on my pal Dudley the other day and was greeted by a sheepish smile on his face and an oddly familiar aroma coming from his kitchen, I couldn’t place it immediately, and asked him about it.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want you to notice that. uh, it’s “Spam Light. I actually like the stuff, but I know what people think of it. Hell, they even call annoying computer stuff “spam” because nobody would be drawn to anything called spam.” He was obviously uneasy about this and I had to assure him it was OK. “Actually,” I said, “I thought Spam went the way of my grandmother’s taste for fruitcakes, bitter chicory in coffee, and sardine sandwiches. Oh, I know it’s still on the shelves, but who buys it?”
(For those younger readers who don’t know about Spam, it’s a brand of meat product that was used as a cheap source of protein in the bad old days. Its main ingredient is ham, with fillers and additives to preserve and somewhat alter its taste. Watch a few reruns of MASH and find out the general attitude of people who had no choice but to use it often.”
In any event, Dud was obviously enjoying his breakfast of fried “Spam Light” with scrambled eggs, so who am I to criticize? After all, I admitted in this blog that every few years I try to regain my grandmother’s delight in fruit cake, (though with little success so far). And when he offered, I accepted a slice of the meat to try it: It turned out to be entirely edible, and with some reservations, I would have it for my own breakfast if the circumstance arose. The light version of Spam has done away with the visible chunks of fat and the tiny pieces of gristle that dominated the 50s product. They’ve also removed about a pound of salt per can so that “salty” is not the overwhelming flavor of it.
Again, I feel obligated to apologize to anyone who found him or herself stuck eating the original Spam out of the necessity of finances or military service. Please know that I’m not promoting or advocating the renewed use of Spam to my readers, but simply offering the limited information I have about a throwback from an earlier age. (I know this is a rather short piece, but it’s lunch time and I’m looking forward to making myself some creamed chipped beef on toast, with corn toasties for dessert!)
I’ve played the game of golf nearly all my life. I have loved it, hated it, and for a time avoided it altogether, but I always came back. But the thing that bothers me most is that it no longer resembles the game I learned from my father and uncle some 61 years ago. Let me explain:
My first set of clubs, bought from a friend of my uncle, consisted of five clubs: There was the obligatory wood (in this case a “2” wood or “brassie” as they were then called – I don’t know why); and what was labeled a putter but actually looked like a shortened 2-iron; a niblick (about the equal of and 8 or 9-iron); a mashie (about a 4 or 5-iron in today’s reckoning); and what some clever business man and labeled a mashie-niblick (or roughly half way between a mashie and the more lofted niblick).
The four “irons” (they were actually made of steel) listed above all had wooden shafts (hickory, I was told), and the brassie or “woodie” had a steel shaft. I’ve described these clubs in some detail because they were part of the game I learned all those years ago. They were originally made in the 1930s, and well worn by the time I came to have them. I was especially proud to be learning on “full sized” adult clubs.
Now, back in the mid 1950s, no-one outside the country club set ever had a real lesson. I was simply told to watch what the adults did, and copy what I saw. It seemed to frustrate the heck out of my father that I in fact did just that, and rather well for a kid. That’s when I fell in love with the game. You see, I was never taught to memorize a swing pattern, or how to make clean contact with the ball. It seemed to come naturally to adjust the motion to the current shot: to swing harder or softer with a given club, depending on the position of the ball or the distance to the flag. With only 3 useable irons and a single wood it never occurred to me that one should swing exactly the same way for each shot, and adjust only the loft of the club. It would have made no sense to me.
And that’s the point of all of this: Today’s clubs include 2 thru 9 irons, a pitching wedge, a sand wedge, and most probably a “lob wedge. Also available are a complete selection metal “woods”, hybrid combinations of the iron and wood designs, metal (no wooden clubs are even made) drivers as large as your foot and bigger, and even (God help us) something called a “rescue metal”. The science behind all of this is sound, and professional s can use this array of clubs to make the ball literally dance in mid air. And with all of this, the guy whose skill lies in adjusting himself instead of his club selection is no longer viable on the course. He doesn’t match the trained golfer’s distance, so he slows play down on the busy courses. He shoots mostly “line-of-sight” and hunts for his ball on every hole that is less than arrow straight. And even though he knows what is possible with the newer equipment, something inside draws him to the unique challenge of adjusting again for every shot and in every condition the course has to offer.
Of course, I am the “he” I’ve been talking about. And I still find the joy, the wonder of my game in the challenges each shot provides, not just in the better score we all look for on the fairways.
My maternal grandmother, Mary, had a wonderful and distinctive way of seeing the world…and taking distinct pleasures from odd things. For example, she worked very hard for most of her life, including several years of helping her son Stanley in his vegetable garden (almost an acre of assorted crops, most of which required daily attention). Contrary to medical/scientific advice she would cap off an afternoon of weeding or hoeing or watering with a bottle of beer to quench her thirst. She was told, of course, that beer doesn’t really quench your thirst and in fact, makes your body require more liquid (water) to achieve some kind of balance. She relied instead on her years of working through the depression and WWII, and the folk knowledge that said a beer is the answer. She had spent years cooking and cleaning in her family’s tavern, and the depression and war experiences taught her how to cook well and cheaply, and the benefits of a beer reward for a day’s hard work.
Likewise, she developed the habit of sticking to a thing she liked for literally her entire life. Fruit cakes were one such item that she ALWAYS relished, no matter who made it or where the ingredients came from. Each Christmas season Mary would begin a search for the availability of fruitcakes at “reasonable” (read cheap) prices. She would usually end up buying her seasonal prize at Erie, Pa.’s Boston Store because they always carried several brands of the stuff and she could compare both prices and appearances of the cakes before making a choice. And she always bought several to give as gifts in addition to her own, and they usually went to people she knew would cut into them immediately and offer her a “taste”.
There is, of course, a reason for bringing this fruitcake obsession into this post: I never liked the stuff! Every few years I would get curious and ask my “busha” (grandmother) for a slice of fruitcake. And after a bite or two I was left wondering how ANYBODY could regard this thing as a special seasonal treat! I can only guess that during the depression era – and during the “BIG” war – fruit of any kind was a welcome treat. Thus the “candied” and preserved chunks in the cake had had a distinct value, even if they tasted NOTHING AT ALL like the actual fresh fruits they had once been. The fruit is so changed, so “preserved” that its taste and textures are unrecognizable. In my own mind, I can envision an archeologist in 3022 digging into an old garbage dump and finding nothing but bits of styrofoam and hundreds of intact fruitcakes from 2022. Even the cake itself – a dense, heavy, oddly tasteless concoction that varies from one maker to another – is bound by virtue of its proximity to the fruit to be preserved and changed for all time.
And yet there is that pesky wondering: Is it really possible that I just haven’t given Busha and her obsession a fair evaluation. Maybe, if I find just the right cake with just the right kind of preserved fruit, I can finally discover what the attraction was. After all, it’s November: That’s when Busha began her annual search. The old curiosity has struck me hard again, and I know I will try for a month or more to find a fruitcake that at least LOOKS delicious. I will buy the cake and maybe (hopefully) actually enjoy it or at least understand the attraction. After all, thousands of the things are sold and consumed every year throughout the world. Yes, I know my chances of a happy result are very remote. I’ll probably end up feeling I wasted the money. But I’m a weak creature at best: I HAVE to give Busha’s obsession one more try. I can’t believe that a woman who could make pierogis and polish duck soup and simple hamburgers that would all bring tears to the eyes of any true gourmet, could go gaga over something as odd as a fruitcake. For her sake, I MUST try again.
Walt Whitman assured us that “April is the cruelest month” because of its extremely damp, chilly nature as winter leaves and spring begins to assert itself. That’s all fine for most, but September is the month that stirs ambivalence in me and causes urges I can’t explain.
To begin with, I get an extreme case of wanderlust. I feel I HAVE to get out – get away from the usual and go and explore…anywhere. Only part of this is weather-related. It’s well known that Dudley and I really don’t like summer heat (if you can’t cut your grass or play nine holes without getting soaked in your own sweat, it’s too d—-d HOT! With September there is usually at least a bit of relief in the air. Temperatures, though still too warm, don’t reach the August oppressiveness and relentless humidity. But more than the weather, there is a “look” to the world in September that I probably can’t fully explain but I can actually see. The leaves on the trees – though not turned in color, just look different. The slight change in the sun’s angle in the sky casts different shadows than it did in July and August. Even the local wildlife look and act differently than they did all summer. (And yes: I do know it is technically summer until the equinox in late September.)
Of course, I can’t pretend Dud and I can claim to be uniquely perceptive in these claims. Back in the days of sanity and The Saturday Evening Post (the magazine that Norman Rockwell painted all those wonderful covers for) and Field & Stream magazine, the rush to autumn was everywhere: The Post would have an early September cover depicting smiling children going back to a small schoolhouse with red and gold leaves on the trees. Apparantly Rockwell felt the lure of autumn as much as I do. Leaves in early September have not yet changed color, and even in very small schools, kids are not quite delighted to be back in harness (at least I never was!)
I must also admit that my fellow humans contribute to my feelings of urgency and disquiet: As Dud said the other day: “They can stick that pumpkin pie spice somewhere really uncomfortable! It was still August, and sure enough, every company from Starbucks to Tim Hortons to Bob Evans was hawking pumpkin-spiced everything. There’s even a whole list of BEERS available in pumpkin-flavored brews, including Sam Adams – a company I would have expected to be above such nonsense! Even allowing for the willingness to drown in pumpkin-flavored things, pumpkin is a taste associated with Halloween. That’s the last day of October. Oh, sure, the stores have been pushing Halloween candy since August and will have Christmas trees displayed sometime this month – that’s commercial nonsense that you can’t change with rational argument. What rankles is the notion that what is delightful in a pie will also somehow improve the flavor of beer, coffee, or even vegetables! (I must apologize for this diversion: It had to be said, but it didn’t contribute to my point.)
I guess what I’m trying to say is that the coming of September always takes me from the oppressive summer heat to the crisp clear days of “fall”. Red, orange, and gold leaves delight the eyes. Sweaters are the standard in clothing and you can drive to some new adventure without having to wear sunglasses to see. And somewhere in the back of my mind I begin to recall wonderful days of my youth when my uncles took me to the fields and woods of hunting seasons, often secretly hoping not to see any “game” so I wouldn’t have to take its life and prepare it for the pot. It was just being there in the open on chilly fall days, with cousins and uncles who took the time to teach me and include me in their outdoor adventures. I think that is what most stirs in my heart from September until the snow flies in earnest. As odd as it sounds, it is a very powerful thing.
It was a real stunner to hear my pal Dudley express sympathy for ME! Dud has little sympathy for anyone, and never before for me. “You poor slob!” he said. “Your summer has been more of a rollercoaster than mine has been for me! First, you missed a visit you were looking forward to having. Then your great-grandkids melt you into a puddle with their snuggles and kisses. Then your wife goes into the hospital looking as bad as she did in 2019 when she almost died. She gets better quickly, but again with no real diagnosis. Then, this week, you get to see your grandson deliver and defend his doctoral dissertation!” he even bemoaned that this last is something he’ll never experience since he doesn’t have grandkids.
At our age, there’s something to be said for the calm, relaxing summers we always remember so fondly. But it goes deeper than nostalgia: The complications of COVID and post-COVID behavioral regulations, inflation pressures and recession worries, and bizarre weather changes and related natural departures from the familiar, the whole world seems somehow off-balance: There’s a war in Ukraine that makes no sense to ANYONE but Vladimir Putin. There have been literally hundreds of mass shootings in this country this summer and the reasoning behind them illudes everyone. Hearings targeting the actions of the previous administration in Washington seem to be providing strong evidence of misconduct, ethical violations, and even criminal activities. And the divisions in the country over this are getting deeper and more ominous almost every day.
What Dudley saw as a rollercoaster-like emotional ride for me may in fact be common to all of us. There seem to be more serious diagnoses this year than normal; more news of exceptionally surprising cures and recoveries than normal, and more harrowing situations and near disasters gotten into and/or avoided than ever before. It may well be that guys like Dud and me simply have more time to notice all of this than we once had, but I doubt it. People are either more “on edge” than normal, or seeking to help others calm down and acknowledge the good things in life. I suspect the whole country – and by extension, the world – is going through some kind of crisis of anticipation of what is to come. Like some sort of commonly heald sense of impending major change in the order or atmosphere of things. It is as if we all know a change is coming, and I, for one, am feeling the resistance to change very strongly. That is what Dudley saw in me when he spoke, and he was very right.
My life is probably no more hectic or “hassled” than anyone else’s, but I’m getting more flustered with the emotional upheaval than I used to be. Dudley is, of course, Dudley, and he will continue to be concerned about his cranky friend. I only hope the rest of the world can adjust to the dawning of new things better than I can. I’d hate to believe the whole planet was resisting the adjustments to climate, economy, and social relations that are inevitably coming. The new world changes at lightning speeds these days, and leaders and general populations will just have to keep up. Me: I just don’t want to any more! I’d rather sip coffee, watch British mysteries on TV, and play with the great-grandkids when I can. Oh, and the occasional round of golf wouldn’t go amiss, but it’s no longer as mandatory as it once was.
“THAT’S IT! I GIVE UP! I CLOSED MY TWITTER ACCOUNT!” Dud was clearly upset when he barged into my house without even a knock (I have to start locking that door). My best pal Dudley can be explosive when he’s worked up. He would soon go into the reasons for this startling news (he’s been a Twitter man for a lot of years, and dropping it seemed so out of character for him that I had to ask: “OK, OK, what’s going on here?”)
” I just got sick of the sameness in it”, he said. “My feed was full of political crap to the point that I didn’t see anything else. And more recently, I was getting messages from (presumably) women trying to con me or hook up for SEX! ME! Can you really imagine ANYBODY starting a note to me with: ‘I think your picture is very sexy! How about sending your email so we can get acquainted?’ Really!? What are the chances there’s anybody ANYWHERE who’s going to look at this (he ran his hand over his ample gut) and think ‘Boy, would I like some of THAT!’ ” (Dud stands about 5’8″ and weighs about 260lbs. He’s a ball!) “Had to be a con of some sort.”
I finally got him to calm down a little and we talked about his disgust with the whole Twitter problem. Seems there was at least a bit of resentment over the Elon Musk take-over of the media platform. He, like me, didn’t like the world’s richest guy, who sends paying rich folks into space for a lark and spends $44BILLION to control Twitter, using his name and account to make money from advertisers. In short: he didn’t want to help Musk make more money and avoid more taxes. Dud is actually proud to pay his taxes every year, feeling that he’s contributing to society and the country by paying whatever the IRS says he owes. We both never look at the amount of taxes deducted, only the net income as a yardstick of where we stand. That way we never worry about our blood pressure spiking at tax time. We just fill in the amounts on the form and sign it.
“I’m also sick of being a blue speck in a very RED state,” he said out of the blue. “It amazes me that of ten or twelve political ads in an evening’s TV, all are Republicans claiming none of the other candidates are true “Trump conservatives”. Only THIS candidate is truly devoted to the master’s philosophy. Any Democrats in their particular race are written off as Commies and subversives”. (N0THING is ever mentioned about the Jan. 6th attack, or the deliberate attempt to decertify a lawful election.) It would be welcome to at least hear that there’s another point of view being offered in the Republican ranks, but none has appeared.
Anyway, the final shock was Dud’s announcement that the had activated a Facebook account to fill in the void left by the lack of Twitter contacts. I told him he’d never escape the political “crap” he objected to, and that there were probably as many hookers and con artists trolling the Facebook world as he had left behind, but it didn’t seem to faze him. “It’s just the newness of it,” he said. “At least maybe I’ll figure out a way to avoid them on the new platform. For at least a while I won’t know how to access a lot of it (seems pretty complicated) and the rest I’ll decide about when I know what it’s all about. At least it lets me stay in touch with the world while I try to find a comfortable spot to use as a personal base. Damn computers have re-educated most of us to rely on social media for information and contact with the world. After all, if you don’t write or at least read or listen to blogs or podcasts, you’re becoming more isolated every day.” I hope he’s wrong about that, but I have to admit he seems to be right!
This year, 2022, was supposed to be a new beginning. The start of our emergence from the scourge of Covid and return to normalcy. But the look on friend Dudley’s face told me the promise of 2022 was not true, not happening for Dud.
“Damn year is going straight to hell already,” he said this morning. “Hell, my wife’s brother died on January first! Probably her closest sibling, and he kicked it on the first day of the year. Then she’s been having health problems and so have I.” He was dejected, and I know he expected me to argue him out of it, but I couldn’t. Dud is one of those guys who knows your just spouting platitudes and he resents being “handled” when he’s down.
” You know it’s Fat Tuesday today, right? Probably the most cynical date on anybody’s callendar. Mardi Gras! The day we set aside to eat too well, drink too much, toss cheap beads to women to get them to bare their breasts in public…the whole thing! And in the middle of all that there’s really nothing worth celebrating!” (I have to say here that I understand Dud’s negativity. He has fallen several times lately due to a combination os ballance and physical problems with his legs and feet. At the moment, for example, he’s medicating for an attack of celulitis – a cellular level infection of the skin that is very painful and easily irritated and can be fatal in the right circumstances. This was triggered by a fall on the ice which bruised his knee extensively and broke the skin. Prior to that, he fell into a rose bush and ended with an arm the looked like a child had taken a red marker and drawn lines at random all over it.)
“Now the damn Russians are flexing their muscles and sounding like they want to start something NO-ONE will be able to undo. I tell you, buddy, it’s not going to be nature that does the human race in, it’ll be politicians. All over the world those jackles are convinced they know better than science or philosophy or historians or religious leaders. They just get an idea in their heads and run with it, and most of them don’t even stop to be sure they agree with their own conclusions. They just forge ahead because they don’t believe they could be wrong about anything. Politicians are the most dangerous force on earth!” (No matter how much I wanted him to be wrong, I have to admit I think this is the rightest I’ve ever heard Dudley be about anything.)
The optimist in me has to say there are other signs that aren’t so bad. My grandkids and great grandkids (and Dudley’s too) are all a constant source of joy and hope for the future. There’s a new Covid pill designed to combat the virus once it’s contract. Vaccination rates are increasing, though slowly, and that “herd immunity” we used to talk about may in fact be nearer than we think. And on the world stage there seems to be a real consensus of opposition to the Russian invasion. At our age Dud and I will continue to medicate the problems that crop up (and they WILL) and shuffle along at our own paces as best we can.
So now if 2022 is already headed down the tubes and the promise it had is gone, I just hope the universe flushes twice when it’s over so the damn thing doesn’t seep back!
remnantsoflife 