Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

I know I’m a big person – 6 feet tall, and too many pounds – but I still get teary-eyed over a good love story…. and this is one of them.

It’s about a red-haired kid and his love for the game of baseball.

Baseball is a game for radio. You can listen to a game on the radio, and do other things while you are listening, and never miss a thing. Let’s face it, other professional sports didn’t really become popular – football, basketball, golf, etc. – until TV was invented. To appreciate those sports you have to WATCH them. No so with baseball.

Vin Scully was the master of baseball broadcasting on the radio, and he has done it for 67 years. Today, October 2^nd, 2016, he made his last broadcast before retiring.

Eighty (80) years ago to this day, when he was only eight years old, he was walking by a Chinese laundry in his New York City neighborhood, when he saw the score of the 2^nd game of the 1936 World Series displayed in the store window – New York Yankees 18, New York Giants 4.

How awful for those poor Giants, he thought, and instantly became a Giants fan.

The following year he started going to Giants’ games. They didn’t have Little League Baseball back then, but he played Police Athletic League Baseball, and a P.A.L. membership card would get him into the Giants games for free. Yeah, it was in the center field bleachers, over 400 feet from the batter’s box, but he was IN the stadium…. and he was watching BASEBALL. Night games were unheard of then, and the Giant games started at 3:15pm, after school had let out for the day. This little red-haired kid had fallen in love – with baseball.

As an adult, Vin would use his dulcet voice, and lyrical descriptive manner to keep our ears glued to whatever radio station carried his broadcasts. Each broadcast was like an entry in a diary – Vin was sharing his love affair with his listening audience.

Scully learned to broadcast while attending Fordham University, and in 1950, was hired by the Brooklyn Dodgers, as an understudy announcer to the legendary Red Barber. In 1953, Barber got into a dispute with the Gillette Razor Company about the fees for broadcasting the World Series, and Scully took over. At the age of 25, Vin became the youngest person ever to announce a World Series game – a record that still stands.

Vin kept on broadcasting, until his final game, today. What a joy it was to listen to him one last time.

He opened the way he has always opened a broadcast – “It’s time for Dodgers baseball! Hi everybody, and a very pleasant afternoon to you, wherever you may be.” That’s when the first tear appeared…. more would follow.

Today’s final broadcast was from San Francisco – technically “enemy” territory - but you’d never know it. The Frisco announcer told the crowd they had the privilege to have Vin Scully doing his final broadcast, and the entire stadium gave him a standing ovation.

His first baseball comment today was typical Vin Scully. “The starting pitcher for the Giants today is left hander Matt Moore. Matt is like that proverbial girl in the poem – when he’s good, he’s very, very good, and when he’s bad, he’s very, very bad.”

Later he would tell us….. “Brandon Belt hits a high, room service fly to Josh Riddick in right field. Josh takes one step to his left, and just like room service in a 5-star hotel, the ball is delivered to his glove.”

When the Giant pitcher, Matt Moore, a very poor hitter, came up with a runner on 3^rd base, Moore tried a sacrifice bunt to score the run. It failed. The bunt was atrocious. “Well”, said Vin, “if Major League Baseball ever decides to add a bunting contest to the All-Star break festivities, if that bunt is any indication, Matt Moore will not be participating.”

During the top of the 6^th inning, he told how the Dodgers and Giants came to be such rivals. It goes way back to 1933. The New York Giants had not only won the National League pennant, but the World Series as well, while the Brooklyn Dodgers had finished the year 29.5 games behind the Giants.

The next year, during spring training, the local newspaper people were asking the Giants manager, Bill Terry, what he thought his chances were for a repeat win in the World Series. He had every expectation they would repeat. The reports then asked how he felt his neighbors, the Brooklyn Dodgers would do, to which Terry replied, “The Dodgers? Are they still in the league?”

Well, after a summer of baseball, with only 2 games to go in the 1934 season, the Giants were tied for the lead in the National League with the “Gashouse Gang” St. Louis Cardinals. Their final two games were against the Dodgers. The Dodgers swept both games, and the Cardinals won the pennant AND the World Series. A rivalry was born.

Today, as each batter came to the plate for his last turn at bat, he turned to the broadcast booth and tipped his cap. A fitting tribute. The final accolade came when the last out was made, and the umpires put their hands to their hearts, and then pointed up to Vin.

After the game, Vin Scully signed off for the last time.

“I’ve said enough for a lifetime. It’s time for me to go. The most precious gift we can give is our time, and for 67 years you have generously given me yours. I thank you deeply, for that honor…. And so my many friends, for the last time, I hope you all have a wonderful afternoon.”

P.S. – The Giants won the game, 7 – 1. Matt Moore was very, very good.

Vanity

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee
July 5, 2016

It’s now the month of July, and as Paul Revere once said, “The tourists are coming! The tourists are coming!”

Wait – he didn’t say that. He said the British are coming. Oh well, I’m sure there are some British tourists among the lot.

Anyway, the tourists have arrived in our little corner of the universe along the coast of Maine. There seems to be a bumper crop of them this year because Acadia National Park – Maine’s ONLY National Park – is celebrating its 100^th anniversary, and folks want to come celebrate the occasion. Searsport is smack, dab on the way to Bar Harbor ME, and Acadia.

This summer I’ve had a fascination with vanity – vanity license plates, that is.

Beth once vowed she’d never have a vanity plate, but last year, she broke the vow, and got a vanity plate – VRKLMPT. I’m so glad she did. As I get older, I tend to forget things – like where the car is parked in a large parking lot. Looking for, and finding, a car with a license plate of VRKLMPT has saved me from getting into some else’s nice, newish looking, burgundy Ford Focus.

What is VRKLMPT? I’m glad you asked. It’s a shortened version of the Yiddish word, “verklempt”. That’s Yiddish for someone who is too emotional to speak… like a bride, who cannot give a speech at her wedding because she is so overcome with happiness and joy. Beth felt that way about her new car, so, voila, VRKLMPT. She had to drop the two “e’s” because Maine only lets you have 7 letters.

So this summer I have been “collecting” vanity plates as folks drive through town, or stop for a cup of coffee.

One of my first “snags” didn’t start with a glimpse at a license plate, but at the couple coming into the coffee shop. He was 6’3”, at least, maybe even 6’5” (I didn’t ask). She was 5’ nothing and my standard poodle dog probably outweighed her. They both looked in their 30’s and despite the stark difference in their statures, they were a very cute couple. When they left I noticed their car. It had a vanity plate of BAM BAM. I commented on it, and the young lady mentioned her car at home has a vanity plate of PEBBLES. A perfect set of plates for this twosome.

I’ve seen a few  “I” plates – I BIKE, I RUN, and a variation - EYE RUN. Last summer I saw I OWN IT. The car itself was nothing to write home to mother about, but I’m glad the driver takes pride in ownership. May it continue all his or her life.

I’ve also taken notice of license plate holders. Many are nondescript – names of car dealers or towns. Some have hearkened us to remember our veterans or the help the fight against cancer. There was one on a car from Tennessee, that said, “I’d Rather Be In Kansas”. I figured he’s either a displaced Kansas native, or life is really, really bad in Tennessee.

Last week, during the warmer weather,  I saw a convertible being driven by a nice looking young lady that had a plate that said, IM GOOD. In my younger, more dastardly,  teen age years, I might have shouted back, “Change it to IM HOT, sweetie”, but thankfully, I’m much older and wiser now.

The shortest vanity plate  I’ve seen was ME 2, and one of the most apropos was L8AGAIN. The car with this plate pulled up in front of the coffee shop, and a couple quickly jumped out… confirming their “assignments”. He was to dash across the street to the grocery store and get two packs of cigarettes, while she was to go inside the coffee shop and get two coffees to go – one dark roast, and one light roast, with cream only. It was obvious they were in a hurry, because, you guessed it, they were probably late again.

I also remember an intriguing plate from last summer – URMYNE. I figured there was another plate, from the same state, that probably read URMINE, and this person, having applied too late to get the original spelling, creatively replaced the “I”, with a “Y”, and went merrily driving along.

The prize this year, for the most creative vanity plate goes to the lady with ITRYMES. At first I didn’t quite get it, but someone told me it was probably a shortened version of IT RHYMES. “Correct” replied the lady driver, as she mixed cream and sugar into her coffee. I asked how she came to pick that vanity plate. She replied, “It’s about my name”, and after a pregnant pause, she continued, “my name is Jane McLain… and it rhymes”.

Very clever. So far she wins the prize….. but the summer is young.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T… just a little bit, baby, just a little bit…”

Just a little bit of respect is all that Aretha Franklin asked for in her signature song, but it seems that today that might be a lot to ask for.

The lack of respect got to me when the baseball season began in April. I love listening to baseball games on the radio and I subscribe to a service that lets me listen to any game I want, whenever and wherever it is played. I have a couple of favorite teams, but I like listening to different broadcasters from different cities.

It started while listening to a Yankees game, and after the National Anthem was played, the announcer said, “The National Anthem was brought to you by Joe’s Car Wash”… well, it wasn’t actually Joe’s Car Wash – the exact sponsor has long been forgotten - but it occurred to me that our National Anthem had just been disrespected.

Has our corporate culture grown so crass that we have to try and increase our revenue stream by sponsoring EVERYTHING. This irritation has been further compounded since the season began. I have counted 8 other teams that also have an advertiser “bring us” the National Anthem.

Too often these days, or at least it seems so to me, that we hear the word “disrespect” used to justify all sorts of anti-social behavior. Windshields are broken, houses are egged, and people are shot…. all because the perpetrator felt they had been “disrespected”. I’ve come to believe that “disrespect” is when I am ticked at you, but have no logical reason for my anger, so I just say, “you disrespected me”… as if that is justification for any deviant behavior I chose to perform.

In a recent NBA playoff basketball game, between the Toronto Raptors and the Miami Heat, we were treated to a “double-disrespect” event. The playoff game was in Miami, and as is the usual custom, both the national anthems are played before the game. During the Canadian Anthem, Dwayne Wade, a Miami player, continued practicing layups. When informed after the game that he had disrespected the Canadian Anthem, he responded that asking him to interrupt his pre-game practice routine was “disrespecting” him. Go figure.

The ultimate “disrespect” incident, in my opinion, happened last weekend during a baseball game between the Toronto Blue Jays, and the Texas Rangers. To get the full effect of this occassion, I have to take you back to October 14^th, 2015.

It was the MLB playoffs, and the Texas Rangers were playing the Toronto Blue Jays. The 5-game series was tied; 2 wins for each team. In the 5^th and deciding game, a Toronto star, Jose Bautista, hit the game winning home run, and the Texas Rangers objected to how he flipped his bat after hitting the ball.

He just tossed it aside. He didn’t throw it AT anybody… he just flipped it off to the side. Was he supposed to gently lay it down on the ground? Anyway, I remember discussing it with several folks the next day at our local coffee shop. Most of us agreed, and granted, most of us are older citizens, that the bat flip was a “so what”. … really, no big deal. The Texas Rangers, however, shouted “DISRESPECT” from the rafters. The preponderance of sports media seemed to feel the Rangers were just sore losers.

Fast forward, to Sunday, May 15^th, 2016 -  exactly 7 months and 1 day since the “bat flip”. Toronto and Texas were playing again – in Texas – in the final game of a 3-game set. The teams had split the first two games. In the top of the 8^th inning, of game #3, Jose Bautista was leading off. Matt Bush is the Texas pitcher, and with his first pitch, he deliberately hit Bautista. Viewing the pitch, there is no doubt that it was a “pay back” pitch for flipping his bat back in October. Seven months and one day, is a long time to hold a grudge, in my opinion.

Wanting to make sure he paid back the “pay back”, Bautista, made an illegal slide going into 2^nd base to break up a double-play. This year, that kind of slide is an automatic out for Bautista, and the batter.

Not satisfied with the automatic double play as proper punishment for an illegal slide, the second baseman, Roughned Odor, decided to “pay back” the pay back slide, that was used for paying back the pay back pitch, so he sucker-punched Bautista with a jab that would make a heavyweight fighter proud. Then all hell broke loose.

 It was like little kids being unable to play well together… but these aren’t little kids – they are millionaire ball players. It’s a good thing they are paid based on their ball playing prowess, because if they were paid based on their mental maturity, they would get an annual salary of about $320 and change.

All of this came about because of the PERCEPTION that someone “disrespected” someone else.

But there is hope…. at least for me.

I saw a short segment on the national news the other night, about real respect, and I did some research to find out all about it. Here’s what I found.

Between 4 and 5 million people visit the Viet Nam Memorial in the National Mall each year. Many leave with the name of a loved one etched on a piece of paper, but many folks also leave something behind. Often it’s a childhood memento… a noted keepsake… things that meant something to the deceased service man or woman, or their loved ones.  

Each night a small cadre of National Park Service employees gather up each item, using gloved hands, and lovingly place it, if possible, in an evidence bag. Crime scene investigators would be proud.  They take everything back to a warehouse where all of it is catalogued, and filed, and permanently retained. Each note is read; each memento is documented; each item preserved as best as possible. “This has great value to the person who left it, and to their deceased loved one,” said the Park Service Ranger, “so it has value to us as well.” How long will you keep these things, asked the reporter. “Hopefully, until they turn to dust”, was the reply.

That gave me a glimmer of hope. Hope, that perhaps respect….R-E-S-P-E-C-T….  is making a comeback

Post Script. – Trivia question - What is the largest item ever left at the Viet Nam Memorial?
Answer - A Harley-Davidson motorcycle, with a license plate, “HERO”.

As I said, perhaps respect IS making a comeback.

Lists - Gotta Love 'Em

Does anyone remember high school biology class? No, not the part where you tried to get a girl for a lab partner so you could make her squeamish when both of you dissected a frog… but the genetics part. The part where they talked about “dominant” and “recessive” genes.

Let me bring back some memories (maybe).

This section of high school biology generally started with a discussion of eye color. Why did some people have brown eyes and some people have blue eyes? The answer, of course, was genes. If one parent had brown eyes and the other parent had blue eyes, then their child would probably have brown eyes because the brown eye gene is “dominant”, and the blue eye gene is “recessive”.

They also talked about other genes, like hair color, and “wavy” hair vs. “straight” hair. I remember all of this because I had a disagreement with my biology teacher about the eye color genes. 

You see, I have hazel eyes, and as we were discussing “dominant” and “recessive” eye color genes, they only talked about brown eyes, green eyes, and blue eyes. Never about hazel eyes. I asked how do you get hazel eyes, and the biology teacher gave me this convoluted explanation that I barely understood.

I disagreed with him, and told him so (bad move – and a trait that took me far too many years to overcome). I resolved to prove him wrong. I figured out what I thought was the correct genetic combination to get hazel eyes. I shared this information with my teacher, and the whole class, and the teacher, naturally, said I was not correct. To compound my frustration, he even chuckled. Not good for my ego. Well, I thought, what does he know? I silently vowed to prove him incorrect the next day.

That night I went home to find out the eye color of my parents and all four of my grandparents. This would prove my genetic combination of eye color genes was correct to produce my hazel eyes. Unfortunately, when I asked my parents their eye color, and asked the eye color of my grandparents, I found out NONE of my predicted eye colors matched. NOT ONE. I had all six people wrong.

The next day, I didn’t mention it in class, being content to quietly fade away into oblivion on this issue. Near the end of class, the biology teacher asked if I had changed my mind about how hazel eyes were produced. Sheepishly, I told how I had failed, and failed miserably. He chuckled, again, but he was kind and didn’t give me detention for hassling him the day before.

Anyway, this “dominant” and “recessive” gene thing came up the other week at the coffee shop. I was mentioning that I had lost my list of something or other.

I make lots of lists – the usual stuff – To do lists, shopping lists, Christmas gift lists, weekend chore lists, etc. I mentioned that I LOVED lists because they gave me the “illusion” of control.

A friend of mine commented that I liked lists because it was in my genes.

I vehemently disagreed. I said my mother taught me how to make lists. She was very good at it, and I remember many occasions when she specifically sat me down and gave me lessons in good list-making. This is where the “dominant” and ”recessive” gene chatter began.

“I don’t remember”, I retorted, “anything in high school biology class about a gene for list-making”.

I mean, let’s think about this. If there was a gene for “list-making”, then it would have to be either “dominant” or “recessive”. What would the opposing gene be - a “forgetting things" gene? I may have struck out in biology class, but I was onto something this time.

After several rounds of “I said”, “He said”, I launched my final logical argument. I announced that if list-making was truly genetic, then I would be powerless over making them, and I was not. I confidently stated that I could easily go a full 30 days without making a single list of anything.

My friend doubted me, so a small wager was placed – a free coffee and scone.

Being the nice person that I am, I offered to let him buy my coffee and scone right then, or he could wait a full month to pay me off. Gosh, I love to rub it in… LOL

Well, I was fairly certain I was going to win. Every few days I would proudly declare how many days had passed since making my last list.  

As luck would have it, I was in my 3^rd week, and smelling the aroma of my free coffee, when Beth announced that she had to go to Bangor the next day. Would I like to go with her? “Sure”, I replied without thinking, “and going tomorrow will give me time to put together a shopping list”.

I wonder if my friend likes his coffee black, or with cream and sugar?

Dogs Rule ???

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

March 2nd, 2016

“Dogs Rule???”

There’s an old saying among dog owners, that first a dog steals your heart, and then they steal your bed. Well, not in my house (sic).

We have two wonderful dogs. Niamh (pronounced neeve), is an adopted, standard poodle who is about 13 years old, and came to us in 2009. She was very frightened, and very shy. She’s gotten over some of that, but her original fear tells her to sleep each night inside the safety of her dog cage. Nothing can harm her there. No threat of stealing my bed, either.

Owen is our other dog. He is a PBGV – Petite Bassett Grand Vendeen – a small, French hunting dog, and we adopted him from Louisiana a little over a year ago. He is much younger than Niamh, and with his arrival, she has gotten younger. The two of them LOVE to play, and horse around together.

Beth is absolutely Owen’s person. Whatever room she is in, Owen is in. He follows her everywhere, and until a few months ago, they both went on a 2-mile walk every day. When it comes to sleeping, however, he either plops down on my bed, or on the living room sofa.

When Owen chooses my bed for the night, he knows where to sleep. I have my favorite pillow – a wedge pillow – that I LOVE, and then a regular pillow beside it. I covet the wedge, and Owen either snuggles up to me, or the regular pillow. We know our places.

In December, after his 1-year checkup at the vet, we learned he was heart worm positive. It’s fatal for dogs, but it can be cured. The recovery process, however, takes 4 months, and involves a lot of pills, taken on differing days, and several shots of what I call, “doggie chemo”. He’s now in his final month of treatment, and doing well. It also means a regimen of greatly reduced activity. No more 2-mile walks each day, nor frolicking wildly in the new fallen snow.  His biggest disappointment, however, came when we had to stop all the horse-play that he and Niamh enjoy.   

Keeping the doggie-play down is no problem during the day, but at night, Niamh and Owen often have a midnight romp in the living room, while we sleep. Once, in the middle of the night, when I got up to do what older men do in the middle of the night, I heard noise coming from the living room. When I flicked on the light, there they were – frozen in mid-romp, and looking like petulant teens. They had that “busted” look in their eyes. They looked at me for a few seconds, and then Niamh slinked away to her cage, and Owen slowly snuck by me, and hopped up onto the bed.

So, how do we stop the night time frolics? Well, I’ll put Owen onto my bed and shut the bedroom door. Total control. Problem solved. This worked for a few nights. Owen respected my side of the bed, and we got along fine. Then, for who knows why, he plopped himself down on MY side of the bed when it was nighty-night time.

Not a problem. I boldly told him, “Sorry Owen, I’m the pack leader, and the pack leader rules.” I picked him up (he only weighs 45 pounds) and carried him over to his side of the bed. This worked for a few nights, and one night he hopped onto the bed, and took HIS side of the bed. SUCCESS! Mentally, I gloated. What a good pack leader I am.

That night, however, when I got up for my usual middle-of-the-night chore, when I returned, I found him nestled onto MY side of the bed. I mumbled something and went to pick him up and carry him to the other side of the bed. UGH! The combination of my sleepiness, and general desire to get back to sleep quickly, made it impossible for me to lift him. I tried a few times – no luck, and in frustration, I moved to the other side of the bed for the rest of the night.

This pattern repeated itself for several more nights.

Finally, on the morning after the 4^th day of this “midnight maneuver” strategy of Owen’s, I was making the bed and decided, what the heck. He’s suffering through shots, and pills, and other stuff related to curing his heart worm, and I swapped pillows. I switched sides. I moved my favored wedge pillow to the other side of the bed.

Owen, knew EXACTLY what this meant, He hopped onto the bed and faced me with a look on his face that said, “So, I’m the new pack leader?”

“Yes”, I told him, “when it comes to sleeping at night, and stealing my side of the bed, you’re the new pack leader.” He wagged his tail in victory.

Dogs rule!

What Winter ?

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

Feb. 1st, 2016

“What Winter?”

My snowbird friends have been emailing me lately, and they’ve been asking, “How’s your winter going?” My reply has been, “What winter?”

So far (knock on wood) we’ve haven’t had very much to “crow about”. We’ve had only 15 inches of total snowfall (we usually have 41 inches by now), and our average weekly temperatures have been 10 degrees higher than normal. We wish all our winters could be this mild.

Not so for our friends in the Mid-Atlantic states. They got hit with Winter Storm Jonas, and it was officially recorded as a blizzard. Most major cities from Washington, DC to New York City had either their highest snowfall ever, or the 2^nd highest.

I feel very badly for them, but when we get that much snow here in Maine (which we did last winter), I have to admit we have two distinct advantages over them. 1) We have LOTS of equipment to plow and remove it. 2) We have the ROOM to put it somewhere.

In big cities, you certainly can’t drive with 24-30 inches of white stuff on your street. When the plow truck comes by, where does it go? Onto the sidewalk? You don’t really want it there. In everyone’s driveway? – nope, not there either. You get the idea. 

The good news is that eventually the temperatures will soar, and the snow will melt. Unfortunately, last year, Boston had so much snow that the last pile of snow didn’t melt until June… UGH!

Meanwhile, spring will eventually come,  and then summer will arrive. Along with summer will come a whole flock of tourists – some old, some new. This year, those vacationing in our fine state from New York to Washington will be telling us their stories about the harsh winter. Usually it’s the other way around.

This summer, if we Mainers try to play a game of “Can You Top This” with them, we will surely lose. For one summer, we will have to sit back and do the “listening”, instead of the reverse.

But…. I may be able to top them.

It didn’t happen to me, but it did to a radio technician for  “TheTony Kornheiser Show”.

Mr, Tony, as he is affectionately called, is a 67-year old former sportswriter for the Washington Post. He hosts his own radio show every weekday from 10:00 am to noon. Thanks to the wonders of internet radio, I’m able to listen to him every day on ESPN-980 in Washington.

When Kevin Sheehan, the weatherman for “The Tony Kornheiser Show”, forecast 30 inches of snow, Mr. Tony nervously told his DC audience, “Oh my God, we’re all going to die. We can’t handle that much snow.” Mr. Tony, however, mellowed out when he went off the air, calmly walked across the street and checked into the Mayflower Hotel for 4 days. Good move.

His radio technician, (I think it was Nigel), didn’t fare so well. In what should have been a smart move, Nigel arranged to car pool with a friend who had a 4-wheel drive, SUV. Upon leaving the studio on the day the storm began, he felt he was in good shape with only 3-4 inches on the ground at the time.

To get to Nigel’s house, you have to go down a hill, and then up another hill. When they reached the first hill, there was a car, broadside, at the bottom of the hill. They stopped, examined the situation, and concluded they had enough room to get around the car sitting broadside. 

They inched their way down the hill. Well, things didn’t go as planned, and as many Mainers have experienced, half-way down, ice took over, and the 4-wheel drive became useless. They began skidding broadside, down the hill. The women in the car at the bottom jumped out, put both hands in front of her and shouted, “Stop your car! Stop your car!”. Nigel, ever quick to respond, rolled down his window and shouted back, “We can’t stop. We can’t stop”.

As they neared the bottom, not going very fast because it was a small hill, they bumped the woman’s car and gave it a slight dent. She went ballistic. “You’ve ruined my car. I’ll have to get a new one. You awful person. Why didn’t you stop when I told you to?”

Well, Nigel and his friend remained cool, and ascertained the young woman was a consulate member from Ecuador. She had never seen snow in her lifetime.

They calmly explained the car was not badly damaged, and despite it being a pain-in-the-butt to go to a body shop for repairs, the dent would be easily taken care of. They then inquired how she became positioned, broadside, at the bottom of the hill.

“Well,” she replied, “it’s not my fault. The car broke. I was going up the hill, and half way up the car broke. It just stopped going. The engine was running, and I even had the gas pedal pressed all the way to the floor, but the car wasn’t moving”. She continued, “After a while the transmission broke, and the car slid backwards, down the hill.”.

Nigel then asked how far away she lived. She pointed to the driveway across the street. Nigel then asked for her keys, got into the car, started it up, turned it slowly around, and drove it into her driveway. “You fixed it”, she exclaimed. “How did you do that?”

Well, Nigel, and those of us who regularly drive in winter weather, know very well the car was never “broken”. Nobody is telling the consulate from Ecuador, because we are all trying too hard to keep from laughing. 

So, this summer, when the Mid-Atlantic folks start telling me their tales of woe for this winter, this will be my “Can You Top This” story.

I think I’ll win. Every time.

An Old Dog's New Trick

Thoughts While Enjoying A 2nd Cup of Coffee

Jan. 5^th, 2016

“An Old Dog’s New Trick”

I’m not afraid of dying, or how I die – what will happen, will happen. What I do dread is coming down with Alzheimer’s Disease. I’ve been close to several people who suffered from it, and not only is it awful for the sufferer, but more so, I think, for their loved ones.

I mentioned my concerns about Alzheimer’s  to my primary care physician, and she gave me a SAGE test from Ohio State University. It is meant to measure someone’s predisposition for developing Alzheimer’s. I got a score of 17 out of 22, which she said was quite good for a “man of my age”. Ugh – I’m now old enough to be classified as a “man of my age.”

Anyway, knowing of my dread, when I saw her for my quarterly visit, she gave me a magazine article that boasted a new activity that was supposed to help fend off memory loss – adult coloring books. This was NOT my cup of tea, but in deference to her concern, I read the article. Adult coloring books, it said, can activate different neuron “thingies” in your brain, which helps mitigate memory loss.

So, with no enthusiasm at all, I figured I could “tough it out” and do this activity a couple of times a week, in the name of “mental rehabilitation”. So I went to Amazon.com and ordered some stuff. Nothing elaborate – a box of 24 Crayola crayons and the first adult coloring book on the Amazon list.

When they arrived I set my alarm, so I didn’t have to exceed 20 minutes of “torture”, and opened everything up. WOW. This was NOT the coloring book of my youth, or my children’s, or grandchildren’s youth, either. This was a book of very intricate patterns. It was immediately obvious that crayons would not work – the points were too blunt. I quickly ordered some ink pens with fine points, and postponed my date with inevitability.

Well, when I finally got around to my “punishment”, I found I loved it. I went way past the 20 minutes in my first session, and could hardly wait for the next day to do it again. I was hooked. Staying inside the lines is not required, and neither is matching your colors – which is good, because I am not good at knowing which colors look good together. That’s why all my socks are black – everything goes with them.

I now have several adult coloring books, and several types of ink pens of different “fineness”.

Is it working? I don’t know, and I don’t really care. It’s fun – lots of fun. I find it very, very restful, and it’s a lot like knitting: you can do it almost anywhere, and anytime.

Are there any unforeseen consequences? Not that that I can see – well, maybe one.

Beth and I take the 45 minute trip to Bangor about 3-4 times a year to buy stuff we can’t get around Searsport. During those trips, Beth always stops at the art supply store and asks, “Are you coming in?” I always bring a book, and reply, “No, thanks, I’ll guard the car.” Now, if someone wants to steal the car with me in it, there’s not a lot I can do to stop them, but saying “I’ll guard the car” has a nice machismo ring to it – especially for a “man of my age.”

Now, I’ll leave the book at home, and go into the store with her to check out their supply of ink pens and coloring books. I suppose, God forbid, that someday we could come out and find that our car has been stolen.  If that ever happens, I’ll be completely honest with Beth. It’s the dog’s fault.