Hard of hearing

Can you hear me now?

    I got an e-mail today from somebody who is concerned about whether or not I’m experiencing hearing loss. I like it when someone seems to care about me. It’s like when a friend says, “Boy, you’re putting on a few pounds aren’t you?” I always appreciate a well intentioned heads-up. 

    The hearing loss e-mail was particularly well received, because I needed something to share with both Kay and Virginia. I don’t need to share it with Freeman because he knows he can’t hear. Freeman has even given up pretending he can. I respect that.

    Kay and Virginia are a long way from accepting their hearing problems. Last week we had our usual eating-out experience. The conversation was joke book filler. In answer to a question concerning a friend of ours, Kay told Virginia that the person in question was home sick.

Virginia said, “I believe the more acceptable term is ‘gay.’” The guy was at home sick, and Virginia heard at homosexual.

In another incident, the word “cancel” sounded like “cancer” to Virginia, and she about went ballistic. I happen to know her well enough to realize the “homosexual” comment was meant as a joke, but the “cancer” mix-up was for real.

Kay’s hearing is only bad when it comes to MY voice. My voice apparently sounds too much like grass growing to her. A couple of times during our gathering with the Plilers, Kay interrupted me when I was in mid-sentence. I can only assume that she mistook my conversation for the sound of a lull in the conversation. I was a little bit surprised that I was the only one who noticed.

Anyway, I’m going to forward the hearing-loss e-mail to both girls. I’ll also share a few of the e-mail sender’s hints that may be dangerously close to being a person with only four senses. If words sound muffled, or people sound as if they’re mumbling, you may have a hearing problem. I’m sure it took a lot of grant money to figure that one out.

    I disagree with that statement. I’m always hearing mumbling and muffledness coming out of people’s mouths. Reason being, there’s a lot of mumbling going on. And, when asked to repeat themselves, these mumblers give me the same mumble. They’re part of the reason I haven’t sought a gun permit.

If you have to close caption practically every TV program you watch, you may have a hearing problem. Either that or the actors on the programs are mumbling. Evidence of that can be found in the fact that the person typing out the closed captioning can’t make sense of the line any more than I can.

I was on the set of one of the movie’s Al was in, and Armand Assante was delivering some lines. I defy anyone to know what he was saying. “Sheah polta goorum tao baka?” The director never asked him to speak up, and the scene ended up in the movie. I couldn’t understand him anymore than I did when I heard him in each of the nine takes.” It takes a super cool person to get away with stuff like that.

Do you have any idea how many words are being invented each day in this country? Lots. Texting and Facebooking and Tweeting are transforming the English language into a language of texting face-tweeters. If you add that to the onslaught of mumbling that’s going on, we’ve got a major communication problem in this country.

If after locating the Golden Record that was attached to the Voyager satellite, extraterrestrials are going to think they landed on the wrong planet. They’ll realize that our language doesn’t read a thing like what we put on the Golden Disc.

They’ll be looking for an English language Rosetta stone. – “Admiral Marzot, it appears that ‘14AA41’ translates ‘One for all, and all for one.’ Yep, they’ve way over-condensed their language. We’re going to need to exterminate.’” 

Incidentally, if by chance you are in the same boat as Kay and Virginia – specimens experiencing hearing loss – you may wish to learn how you got that way. The e-mail explains that it could be medication, scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, mumps, measles, dementia, depression, irritability, fatigue, stress, diabetes and kinfolk. By kinfolk, I mean, it may be hereditary. Nowhere does it say it has anything to do with aging.

And, no mention of constipation. Interesting. The only possible causes I’ve experienced are irritability and stress. In fact I sometimes feel as if I’m married to stress. It’s a metaphor. I’m in no way associating Kay with stress. Other than the fact that I do get a little irritable when she leaves the room while I’m in mid-sentence.

It’s good to know that she doesn’t do that on purpose. I’ve accepted that Kay suffers from hearing loss. More to the point, I’m suffering from HER hearing loss. She appears to be doing just fine with it.

In fact, she thinks I’m the one with the problem. That’s not what she said, but it’s what she meant when she said, “Hey, you’re the one who’s got the goblin.” – yes, she mistook problem for goblin. Evidence of the dementia part of her problem.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com and www.irlonestar.com

Libraries less scary now

“Flash! Library ladies are nice!"

Mark, Devery Johnson and Cindy Cochran 

From the Mark and Cindy Show irlonestar.com

   
    Libraries are pretty much unrecognizable by those of us who are, shall we say, less young. I was raised at a time when libraries were to feared. Librarians considered kids to be little more than walking noise machines.

    No more… at least not in Montgomery County, home of seven county libraries. Seven? Did you know that? Well, did you know that kids can talk and make noise on the first floor of the Central Branch Library in Conroe? No telling what they can do in the other six. I was born in the wrong decade.

I learned about the evolution of The Library from Montgomery County’s own Devery Johnson. Don’t you just love that name? Devery. She is one of the directors for the whole library system in Montgomery County… maybe even the world. I was so impressed with the girl’s knowledge that I awarded her the “world” title right there on Tuesday morning’s Mark and Cindy Show at irlonestar.com.

    Oh, the stuff I learned. Did you know that the first “r” in the word “library” is not silent? I picked up on that the third time I was corrected. The most important piece of stuff I learned from Devery was the fact that my library card had expired. You’re supposed to renew them annully. That’s almost once a year.

    For more than a few years, I’ve been carrying a superfluous piece of thick plastic in my wallet. That’s what you call dead wallet weight. I hate carrying wallet weight. I’m not crazy about carrying around the word “superfluous.”

    Devery was unflustered and less than sympathetic about the knowledge of my expired card. She told me to go the nearest library and re-up. Won’t cost me anything. I meant to ask if the new cards are any thinner than the old ones. You could pry a spike off a railroad tie with my old one.

    Devery wasn’t as interested in the tool-like applications of the library card as she was with the many services available to the bearer of one. Did you know you can check out 30 items with a library card? Not 30 books, but 30 of a combination of things. E-books, CDs, DVDs, audio books… even real books. I’m not making this up.

Do you have any idea what the late fee would be on 30 library items? For the first week it’d probably be something like a buck fifty.

    I couldn’t process all of what Devery was telling me. After awhile I quit taking notes and just started sipping my coffee and nodding. I’ve got a most intellectual-looking nod. Everybody says so.

At one point I nodded at the mention of “Hip 2 Stitch.” The library has knitting and crocheting classes and sessions. They even have yarn bombings. I’d tell you more about that if I had a clue. My nod was working wonders.

    They also do Geo Caching. It’s an outdoor treasure hunt where you use GPS to find a treasure box. I quit listening to the explanation after Devery said “caching” for the second time. I thought I misheard her the first time.

    The Library system also has a bunch of programs for the “undersevered.” Up until last Tuesday, I thought underserved is what you get when you select the fried, rectangular fish on a Luann platter. Come to find out, it’s got other meanings. It’s somehow related to an Outreach program that Devery is deeply involved with.

     The library delivers reading materials to assisted living facilities and nursing homes. I’m assuming that if you’re old enough, they’ll even keep your library card updated for you. I apparently have yet to reach that age.  

    Devery also mentioned a program called Library LITE. The LITE is a multi-worded acronym involving losing weight. If you scratch this thing you’re gonna find “exercise” in it somewhere. Not a big fan of forced movement.

Even in my stupor, Devery was impressing the daylights out of me. If you ever need a computer, the library will let you use one of theirs. You can even take computer lessons in the library. I’m pretty sure I’d need a lesson to find a book with the computer, ‘cause the one time I tried, I had to give up.

The nine-year-old sitting next to me would key something in and then jump up and go pick something off the shelf. I’d write something down and then wander. Finally, a library lady told me that I couldn’t find what I was looking for because the only available copy was at a different library. She pointed to the place on the computer screen where it said that. It was weird looking, or else I would’ve caught on to it. I’m not a complete idiot, you know?

I eventually asked Devery when it was that library ladies were instructed to not be so mean. She acted as if she never knew a time when library ladies were mean. Talk about a sheltered existence.

Had we had great libraries and kind librarians back when I was a kid, there’s no telling what I might have become. Less cynical? Maybe. More well read? Definitely. An avid participant in geo caching? -- Get real.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com and www.irlonestar.com

Back to school shopping

“A parental moment”

    Although Kay and I have no kids, I don’t mind recommending how others should raise theirs. My recommendations are never appreciated.

I can only assume it’s because of my lack of parental experience. Some people actually think you must be a parent before you can judge. To that I say, you don’t need a parachute to skydive. You need a parachute to skydive twice. I don’t know why I say that, but it just comes to mind.

Regardless, after my experience last week, I am now an expert in parenting. At least, as close to an expert as I care to be. You see, the place we attend church has a yearly program whereby 100 or more youngsters from the inner city of Houston are bused to our church building, and volunteers greet them and take ‘em on a back-to-school shopping spree followed by a meal out.

The program has been going on for a good while, and each time I’ve been blessed in my attempt to avoid being hassled into volunteering. That all changed this year. John, the coordinator, would not leave me alone. He had the weird notion that I should be thankful for the opportunity to take kids shopping, and that by the end of the day I might just have a Hallmark Moment.

After he finished his spiel, I reached for my wallet and said, “Okay, John, what’s it gonna take to make this whole thing go away?” He thought I was a joking.

I’ve got to tell you that my reluctance was due to the fear of failure. I’d never bought shoes, pants, shirts, underwear for a kid?  What do they wear nowadays? What’s in? What’s out? What’s their size? When I was through with him, the poor kid would start his first day of school looking like he’d spent his summer following the circus.

Well, I eventually caved, and Kay and I were assigned two nine-year-olds, Carlos and Gilbert. Cousins, they were. Before we headed out, they were each warned about me. They thought people were joking.

As a way of getting our two kids to remember our names, I asked ‘em to think of K-Mart. I told ‘em that our names are Kay and Mark. It sounds like K-Mart. They had never heard of K-Mart, so figured it’d be just as easy to memorize “Kay” and “Mark” as K-Mart. Sharp kids.

During the shopping spree, I learned so much. Did you know that kids don’t like to try on things? Not even shoes. I had to get Carlos in a chokehold before he’d agree to try on his size 5 tennis shoes. At that, he’d only try on one. I told him that one of his feet might be smaller than the other. He got a good laugh out of that. -- No one takes me serious. 

Speaking of underwear, kids prefer boxers to briefs. When I was their age, I didn’t even know there were underwear options. We didn’t even call briefs, “briefs.” We called ‘em “underwear.” The word “briefs” was not invented until someone came up with boxers. You ask me, briefs should’ve been called “wrestlers.” 

We shopped for belts and backpacks and socks. They both wanted black athletic socks. The ones that go midway up your calf. The kind that used to be considered dweeb-wear. Now, they’re fashionable. Who comes up with this stuff?

Kay and I went a bit over budget with Carlos and Gilbert, but neither of us had the heart to tell ‘em to put something back. After loading up, we went over to Chuck e Cheese. Kay and I had never been, and will never go again. I thought the place would have a buffet like Incredible Pizza. The only thing Chuck has that could in anyway be considered incredible is the price of their pizzas.

Fortunately, Carlos and Gilbert really enjoyed themselves. We bought ‘em each 15 game tokens and they went through them in, oh, about 20 minutes. They each won a couple of gag gifts. I could’ve bought a bag of 10 of ‘em at a dollar store. You would’ve thought those two kids had won the lottery.

Before they got back on the bus, I asked Carlos and Gilbert if they remembered our names. Gilbert didn’t have a clue. Carlos thought for a few seconds and then said, “Uh, Mark and Kelly.” I thanked him for remembering.

When the smoke cleared, Kay and I could say that we enjoyed our time with those two knot-heads. More importantly, I know they enjoyed themselves. I pick up on stuff like that.

A Hallmark Moment? Not really. But it was a good moment. I believe it was Jesus who said that we shouldn’t do good deeds for the sake of experiencing a Hallmark Moment. I may be paraphrasing here, From everything I’ve read it’s apparent to me that motive for doing a good deed is quite important to God.

That being said, I definitely owe John an apology. And, I would give him one, except I’m pretty sure he thought I was joking when I reached for my wallet asked how much it would take to make the whole thing go away. -- I already apologize to God. He took it well. He always does. 

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com 

rooftopwriter.com

100% brain usuage -- We're there already.

Keeping us smart

    Considering the amount of stuff you forget, you have to learn something new each day or else you’ll end up dumb as dirt. I don’t like it any more than you do.

    That’s why I promise that by the time you finish this article you will have received your minimum daily requirement of new stuff learned for the day. Again, “minimum” daily requirement.

    First of all, I recently read that Edgar Allan Poe published a book in 1838 entitled “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” It didn’t sell many copies because of the boring title. Regardless, in Poe’s story, a guy by the name of Richard Parker got eaten by three other sailors on a boat that was lost at sea. You shouldn’t feel too sorry for Parker ‘cause he was the one who suggested one of ‘em get eaten.

    As sad and interesting as that is, it’s not the most interesting thing about the story. In 1884 a yacht named “The Mignonette” sank, and the crew of four ended up adrift in a lifeboat in the Pacific a couple thousand miles from land. At one point, three of the marooned sailors decided that they would kill and the cabin boy. The boy’s name was Richard Parker.

    That’s what you call a coincidence, one that I have thoroughly researched and found to be true… to my satisfaction. However, there’s another account of the Mignonette disaster that I have found to be untrue. It states that the three guys who ate Parker had actually read Poe’s book, and that, although they weren’t really all that hungry, they ate the kid just ‘cause it was too much of coincidence that he was with ‘em. Four guys lost at sea and one of ‘em is named Richard Parker? They felt obligated to eat ‘em. -- That part is not true. But, if I were making this up, I would add it just ‘cause it’s cool.

    So now you’ve learned a little more about Edgar Allan Poe and his apparent skill as a prognosticator of cannibalistic occurrences. (I am so proud of that sentence.) What else can I tell you that you don’t know?

Did you know that the story about only using 10 percent of your brain is not true? You actually use all of your brain, just not at once. In fact, most of your brain is active practically all the time.

    The “10 percent” story started back in 1870 when scientist experimented with dog brains. They’d kill a part of the dog’s brain and discover that the dog could no longer use his right leg. In fact, the poor thing forgot he even had a right leg.

They’d snip another part of its brain and then observe that he didn’t do anything but stare at them. They surmised that they must’ve snipped the part that keeps canines from rudely staring at people.

They kept cutting away the brain until they got no reaction from the dog whatsoever. Having only messed with 10 percent of dog’s brain, they came to the conclusion that 90 percent of a dog’s brain is just along for the ride. And, since humans are so much like dogs, we must be the same way.

The part of this “fact” that is so hard to grasp is that it was not until 2004 that the 1870 “fact” was debunked by a guy named Barry J. Beyerstein. Barry noted in his 2004 Scientific American article that you can’t remove any portion of a person’s brain without the person suffering some loss of function. I don’t know how many people he tested his theory on, but I hope they were paid well.

Why would scientists let us go on thinking for 134 years that we don’t use all of our brain? I saw an episode of “Outer Limits” where a guy managed to tap into 40 percent of his brain and found that he could walk through walls and shoot laser beams out of his eyeballs. In the meantime, I’ve been using all of my brain and I’m only able to bump into walls, and not only am I incapable of shooting laser beams out my eyeballs, I can’t even spit well.

So, if you remember nothing else, remember this: You’re using all the brain you’ve got. There’s nothing more to tap into. You can add some stuff like the new found knowledge of two Richard Parkers getting eaten, but you will never be able to spark a part of your brain that will allow you to magically read my article in Portuguese. Not happening.

    Your last piece of new knowledge for the day involves armadillos. You probably guessed that. Twenty percent of all armadillos have leprosy. The connection between armadillos and leprosy happens to be true. It’s okay to touch the critters, just don’t eat ‘em, or inhale the ground where they relieve themselves. In fact, don’t smell the ground at all. It’s a sign of being dumb as dirt. – Next time. 

End

A toad handler

This has nothing to do with the article. The kid's impersonating me.  

Rooftop time!

    ROOFTOP – Yes, I realize I misjudged the temperature out here by about 10 degrees. I thought the sun had been down long enough for things to cool off up here. I believe we’re at the point where things don’t cool off till mid-November.

    Truth is, I don’t think it’s any hotter than it usually is at this time of year. I just used to handle the heat so much better. And, a few decades ago, I used to be able to eat canned spaghetti. Now, I have no tolerance for it. Has Boyardee altered his recipe, or has my palate become more sensitive due to an obsession with flossing.

    Speaking of which, I was looking at The Courier’s contest for the Best of Montgomery County for 2014. When I began writing down my choices, I discovered that my taste in eating establishments has changed over time. Again, I don’t know if it’s the eating places or me who has changed.

    Best Mexican food restaurant? I don’t have a clue. There are only 362 in the County. I could come much closer to picking my favorite pickle. The best breakfast place has changed for me. I’m now voting for The Toasted Yolk. And, that’s crazy, ‘cause I don’t even like my yolks toasted.

    Best burger? I don’t eat bad burgers. On the Mark and Cindy Show, our listeners voted for Whataburger as the best “fast food” burger. It won by a landslide. McDonalds won for Best Fast Food Rib Sandwich. I’ve never had one.  

    You even get to vote on Best Funeral Home. I prefer the one where the mortician doesn’t make fun of me while he’s getting me prepared. I don’t want to hear one of them say something like, “Wow, look at the size of that honker! He shoulda donated it to one of them beluga whales at Sea World.” I get enough of that kind of talk while I’m alive. I don’t need to hear it when I’m dead.

    Anyway, there are a lot of difficult decisions to be made on the “Best of Montgomery County” ballot. If I filled it all out, I’d have to make up stuff. Best Spot for Singles, Best Chiropractor, Veterinarian, Nail Salon, Boutique-- Boutique? I recognize the name. I’ve even used the name. But when I did, I wasn’t sure what I was talking about. I do that occasionally. – Beg pardon? No, you definitely said something.

    Speaking of the lawn, it’s less than half mowed. I figured I’d mention it before one of you did. Just the other side of the big oak is as far as I got yesterday before I nearly stroked. I don’t push myself as much as I used to. More to the point, I don’t push my mower as far as I used to.

I don’t know if the yard is expanding or it’s just too hot and I’m way out of shape. Something has turned an afternoon job into a two-day chore. I think you’re right. The yard is growing. If you scratch this thing, you’re going to find fracking to be the culprit.

    That’s weird. Five years ago had you mentioned fracking, I would have thought it was a new game that involved surgical gloves. -- Now we know it as a question to an answer on Jeopardy. – “Is causing earthquakes in Oklahoma.” – What is fracking, Alex? I’ll take “Things You Shouldn’t Scratch” for 500.

    Okay, let’s forget the fracking, the funeral homes and the fast food, and listen to the night sounds for a minute. Yes, some of those are cicadas we’re hearing, but some of that is toad talk. No frogs around here, but the toads are back..

    I was replacing a couple of leaky outdoor faucets last week, and when I opened the cover to the shutoff valve from the waterline, there was a big fat toad sitting in the dirt in an apparent state of deep thought. I don’t know how it got in there. I assume it squeezed through the little hole in the lid back when it was just a toadette. Now it was much more than that. It was a fat toad.

    I’ve never been much for picking up toads. Kay’s a toad handler. She’s comfortable grabbing turtles, toads and turkeys… occasionally at the same time. I’m good with ladybugs and uh… Only ladybugs. Unfortunately, Kay wasn’t home at the moment of my toad sighting, so it was up to me.

    In some instances I ask myself the tried and true question – What would Jesus do? That’s good if an old lady cuts in front of you at the checkout in the grocery store, but not for toad removal. For that, I ask myself – What would Rambo do?

    Rambo would stab the toad with his 20-inch bowie knife, the one with the saw-teeth near the hilt. I was knifeless, so I just braced myself and grabbed the toad. It didn’t feel all that bad, but I didn’t want to make a game of it, so I just set it in the grass and then tried to shut off the valve with my giant valve turning thing.

    While I was wrestling with the valve, the toad eased itself back into the hole. I’m not joking. What a toad! I grabbed the stupid thing and carried it over to the flowerbed down yonder. That was a couple of weeks ago. Something tells me that that thing is half submerged in the cool dirt next to the shut off valve.

    The thing is smarter than we are. It’s way too warm up here. I’m about ready to climb down and dig us a cool hole in the front yard. The only thing keeping me from it is the fear that Rambo might show up.

End
mark@rooftopwriter.com  and The Mark and Cindy Show

Fall go boom.

“Movie mishap”

    Last weekend I went to the Market Street Theatre in The Woodlands to see “The Rover.” I am so pleased that Market Street provides an outlet for little known Independent films.

    “The Rover” was billed as being about post-apocalyptic Australia. Kay doesn’t like post-apocalyptic movies set in Australia… or anywhere else for that matter. Oddly enough, she didn’t even enjoy any of the Mad Max movies. I have no idea how this marriage is holding together.

    While I much prefer going to the movie with Kay, going alone does have its perks. I don’t have to share my popcorn and I can get a root beer instead of a Coke Zero.  Market Street’s large popcorn comes in a bucket. I’m not sure the bucket holds as much as the medium bag, but it’s a bucket. Get it?

I entered the last theatre on the right about five minutes before previews. The theatre was one of the smaller ones. The one where if you sit on the far side you have to walk in front of the screen to go to the restroom. I hate to do that.

    Anyway, I walked in feeling as happy as if my car had just passed inspection. I had my bucket of popcorn and medium root beer and was going to see Guy Pearce playing Mad Max.

Before heading up the steps I counted five patrons -- one lady sitting on the first row, a middle-aged couple on the fourth and another on the sixth. No one appeared to be a threat. Jason Bourne taught me to always make a note when I enter a place. Bourne was never taken by surprise.  

No one noticed me casing the joint, because I’ve got panache. Loaded with panache. They noted nothing suspicious when I took my first step and then my second. But the third step? That’s when it all went crazy. My right foot never landed on the third step. It hit the surface of something, causing me to stumble a bit. No problem. I’ve got great balance. All I had to do was find it.

I was going be fine. Slightly embarrassed, but I can deal with slight embarrassment. But, I kept stumbling, so much so that I lost a bit of my popcorn. I figured maybe two bucks worth. I can do math fast.

I gave up searching for my balance, ‘cause I knew it was gone. Now all I could do was plan my fall. I figured I’d land on my right knee and spring right back up. Piece of cake. Unfortunately, my legs were uncooperative. I was going all the way on this one. This would be a big one. Oh, the humiliation.

I was about ten minutes into the stumble, when I lost all the popcorn. It went everywhere. I believe the laser-like beam from the camera showed some of it fly across  the screen.

Fortunately, the floor finally came up to meet me. Both my elbows landed on the same step. Not real sure what happened to the rest of my body. At some point during the free fall, my root beer left my hand and hit my left foot. I soon discovered that the medium cup holds a lot of liquid.  If I had let the girl talk me into the large drink, they would’ve had to re-carpet the entire theatre.

I stayed down longer than I intended, ‘cause I wanted to savor the moment. The first thing I noticed was that the place was quiet. Everyone was staring at me, but not saying a word. The entire spectacle was a little over 40 minutes, yet, no one had reacted.*

After gathering my wits I said, “All of you keep your seats! I’m okay.” Everyone continued to sit and stare. They were expressionless. Void of expression.   

The lady sitting closest to me did ask if I was okay, and then reminded me that I could get a free refill of popcorn. I felt like giving her a hug just for expressing a kind thought.

I did go out and tell a theatre employee about the mess. The kid showed up with a broom, a bucket and paper towels. While he was sweeping, I noticed that the steps had different widths. Every second or third step was wider than the one before it. That’s so you can enter the rows better. I guess. I must’ve subconsciously been expecting a longer platform ahead of me when there was really just a short one. 

When the kid finished cleaning up, I tried to give him some money, but he declined it. Told me he was only doing his job. I was about to wrestle him right there in the theatre, but figured I had already made enough of a scene.

Oh, and the movie? “The Rover.” Most forgettable. Mad Max it wasn’t. It did have a bunch of flies, filth, desert and mean people. The most memorable thing about the movie was the guy who fell on the steps.

As for me, I’ve never seen anyone trip in a theatre. In fact, the only fall I remember was at college when a guy slipped on an icy sidewalk. It took him 15 minutes to hit the ground. I got a good laugh out of that. And, last Friday at the Market Street Theatre I got my payback. Payback is a bear.

* Scientists will tell you that only three things can slow time. Gravity, an object going the speed of light, and a fall. Einstein did the math on all three.

end

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Pliler Anniversary

“The Gold One”

    Virginia and Freeman just celebrated their 50-Year Anniversary. Their son, Michael, threw them a big party over at the church, and we had barbecue and all the fixin’s. BBQ is pretty much the scriptural meal for celebrating stuff. I think it’s somewhere in Deuteronomy. 

Fifty of anything is a lot, and when you’re talking wedded years, it’s a whole lot. That’s why they call it the Golden Anniversary. Since Kay and I couldn’t afford to get ‘em anything made of gold, we decided to give them some golden memories.

 Golden memories are cheap as all get out, but they’re so valuable. I’m fairly sure our best friends would’ve rather had something in real gold, but we’re not that good of best friends. To tell the truth there hasn’t been a great deal of friend nurturing of late.

That’s what I talked about while emceeing the anniversary party. The emcee can say just about anything he wants. That’s why they call it “Emcee.” It stands for… I have no idea. Just one of those weird words.

So, I told everyone at the party how the Plilers used to be. We went everywhere and did everything together. We had birthday trips where the birthday person was given $15 to spend on something they wouldn’t ordinarily buy. Something fun.

Virginia always bought candles, ‘cause she’s a goober. Freeman would buy fishing lures or ammunition or camouflage drawers. Camouflage something. Kay usually got costume jewelry, and I usually bought something in a cashew. Roasted, chocolate covered, honey-coated, peanut-butter drenched, Cheeto-mixed… anything in a cashew.

Besides the birthday trips, the Plilers and Hayters also used to camp out a lot. We had to borrow the Jackson’s camper until Virginia and Freeman broke down and bought one of their own. Took me forever to persuade them to do that. The Jacksons were good friends, but I just hated to keep borrowing their camper.

We also used to eat supper out every Thursday. In fact, the death of that tradition is what signaled the demise of a wonderful friendship. And, do you wanna know what caused it? Grandkids. Grandkids can really mess up a friendship.

It happened all at once, too. I called over at the Plilers’ one Thursday afternoon and asked where we were gonna eat. Do you know what Virginia said? “Oh, we can’t go out tonight, ‘cause the grandkids are coming over.” That was her excuse. The Hayters were weighed in the balance and found wanting.

It went on like that for several Thursdays until I just quit pushing. You don’t hafta hit me over the head. And that’s what I told all of those gathered at the anniversary party. No one can compete with grandkids. You might as well load up your bean dip and nachos and head for the casa, ‘cause the grandkids are going to rule.

By the way, all the grandkids were at the anniversary party and heard me say all of this. If any of them felt the least bit guilty, I couldn’t tell. I shouldn’t blame them, though. Seems that most parents love their kids, but they worship their grandkids. Humans are the only creatures that are big on grandkids. Do you think chickens care for their grandkids? They couldn’t even pick ‘em out of a carton.

Kay and I never had kids, so Virginia and Freeman were like our grandkids. -- Uh, strike that. But, you get the point. – Point being, we enjoyed the moments. Do you know who got me started writing this column? Virginia. Back in ’79 The Hayters and Plilers had just returned from a tubing expedition in New Braunsfels and Virginia recommended I write a story about it and submit it to The Courier. Thirty-five years later I’m still writing for the Courier and The Villager.

By the way, Virginia became a teacher because of her best friend. One night around a campfire I asked her what she’d like to do if she could do anything. She said she’d like to be a teacher. I went way out on a limb and said, “Well, why don’t you go to college, get a degree and teach?”

She did, too. Impressed everyone she knew, and helped hundreds of students move on in life. And, I’m the one responsible. Well, I had a hand in it.

And, Freeman? Don’t get me started. I don’t want you to take advantage of him, but Freeman will do anything for you. He’s helped us move four times, taken me to the doctor a few times, fixed stuff for me all the time… He’s “Good ‘ol Free,” and always will be.

That doesn’t even touch the surface of what all that couple has meant to Kay and me. And, that’s what I told ‘em at the anniversary party. Instead of waiting to say good stuff at their funerals, I got it out of the way while they’re still alive. I’m not sure that’s scriptural, but I did it anyway.

And, yes, they’re still our best friends. We don’t rate up there with their grandkids, but who does? Makes no sense, you ask me. 

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com