Mark and Brad

Brad and Me

I got a call from a friend of ours last week. Remember Brad Meyer? Reporter, food critic, magician, photographer— Magician? Oh, yeah, he once made my quarter disappear. After a lot of whining on my part, he returned it. The coin was in my ear all the time. I felt like an idiot.

What’s even weirder than the coin trick is the fact that Brad had called just to see how I was doing. Brad has asked me how I was doing TWICE. Once he did it as a way to inform me I had my shirt buttoned wrong. His exact words were, “How ya doin’, Binky?”

During our phone chat, I suggested Brad do a new headshot for me? He asked what was wrong with the last one he did, and I told him that the picture didn’t look much like me anymore. He said, “Yes?”

See my photo up there? I haven’t looked that good since the day after Brad took the picture. I’ve gained some pounds, and just last week, I shaved my beard, thus unmasking more of my flawed face. You can still recognize me from the picture, but it will require a double take. Makes me feel like a tricker guy.

Brad said he’d be glad to make me look worst than my previous picture. He instructed me to get my buns to his studio Monday morning, and said that he wouldn’t charge me anything for the headshot. Seriously. (By the way, he didn’t use the word “buns.” I was just trying to make him sound nice.)

Well, when I looked in the mirror Monday morning, I immediately got out of the mood for a photo shoot. Figured I’d wait a couple of years until I looked better. I phoned Bradford. He complained that he had just spent 40 minutes readying his studio. What a storyteller!

Instead of a photo shoot, I picked Bradson up and took him for breakfast. He feigned shock. When I tagged along with Brad for his restaurant reviews, the newspaper always paid for my meals, but Brad acted as if it was coming out of his pocket. He’d take the check from the waiter and say something like, “My father, here, has forgotten where he keeps his wallet.” Not once did a waiter ever see it as a joke.

We had breakfast at the 105 Café in Conroe. When the owner, Tom, saw us come in, he said, “Are you guys here on business or just to eat?” He pointed to my review that he had pinned to his bulletin board. -- I mean, “Brad’s” review. I get things mixed up.

People still tell me how much they enjoyed “our” restaurant reviews and videos. I was responsible for the videos, but Brad wrote all the reviews for the newspaper. He just brought me along for comic relief. People complimented me so much on the articles that I tired of correcting them.  They didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Brad cared. It’s always about Brad.

In the Café we rehashed some of the not so old times. Brad and I once had a talk show on irlonestar.com. Brad never prepared anything. I’d jot down notes about different topics, and make up commercials for sponsors we didn’t have. Brad showed up and said whatever was on his mind. Most of it was pretty interesting, but would definitely not garner him a one-man act at the Crighton. Remember, he calls “buns” by a bad name?

I’ve got to admit that Bradford is so much more interesting than I am. The man has done some really cool things. Did you know that he was once a magician’s assistant? That’s where he learned to pull quarters out of people’s ears. When he was 19, he worked with a guy first and middle name of “The Amazing.”

Brad said that he once helped suspend The Amazing upside down on a plank atop a building in Chicago. The guy was wearing a straight jacket that had been strapped on way too tight by an ex-professional football player who was trying to impress. It’s a fascinating story, the end of which you’ll have to learn from Bradstone. You’ll probably have to buy him breakfast

Some of you may remember that Brad was also a referee of professional boxing matches. And, he’s managed resorts at several exotic places. He has a lot of history that man. And, his stories added much to the fine meal… which I paid for.

Weird thing, Brad e-mailed me that evening to thank me for the breakfast. I was flabbergasted. It was so unbradlike. -- The next morning he called to ask me to go with him to Kingwood to pick up an outdoor fireplace that he had found on Craig’s List. D’oh!

So, I got to spend more time with Brad than is healthy. Brad’s GPS (Angela) finally got us to a mansion in Kingwood, Bradly studied the outdoor fireplace for what seemed like a couple of days. He eventually got the owner down from $500 to $200. At one point the guy almost cried. It wasn’t that he needed the money; he just hated to be out done by Brad. Boy, could I tell him some stories.

Before leaving Brad’s house I asked him to do the disappearing quarter act for me. He told me he was a little rusty, but could probably manage to pull a nickel out of my “buns.” – I thought it an apt way to end the latest story in the saga of “Brad and Me.” – No, seriously, this is the end.

end
mark@rooftopwriter.com

Why change?

“So that’s why?”

Do you ever wonder how stuff gets started? I do. I’m not obsessed about it, you understand; just concerned. This morning I took advantage of an opportunity to voice my concern, and, boy, did I come close to getting in trouble.

The morning started similar to one I wrote about last week. Remember? I was, again, sitting at the table looking at a big Kroger ad. And, yes, that odd behavior of mine is beginning to worry me. I’m focusing entirely too much attention on the price of food.

So, I’m studying the picture of a head of lettuce while Kay is reading an article to me. Kay has started reading to me more and more. Not just a sentence or two. She’ll read an entire article. Some of the stuff is interesting, but after three paragraphs, I’m usually way past caring.

My psychiatrist, Bernie, says I have “an inordinate need for conversational significance.” I don’t know what that means, but it sounds pretty smart. Unfortunately, knowing the name of my problem has yet to rid me of it.

When Kay finished her read, I said, “Sweetpea, tell me again why we don’t buy iceberg lettuce.” -- We don’t, you know? We moved away from head lettuce about 30 years ago. Started getting Romaine. The stuff comes in packs of three to 6 stalks, and each requires a lot more maintenance than iceberg. Romaine is hard to wash, impossible to dry and it has the rotting rate of a banana on a tarred roof.

Begs the question – “Why did we quit getting head lettuce?” -- Kay was a little miffed at the question, seeing how it had nothing to do with the article she had just read me. (Bears in the city of Fairbanks. I think that was it.) Kay said, “Head lettuce has no nutritional value, and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

That’s it? I spent the best part of my life wrestling with Romaine because head lettuce is not nourishing enough and has no taste? “Kay, it’s lettuce! People eat it for the crunch! If you’re looking for taste, eat a corn dog.” I went a bit overboard with that, but that’s pretty much what I do.

Unfortunately, I didn’t stop there. I asked her to quit buying the giant plastic container of cherry tomatoes from Sam’s. I told her that I don’t like the oblong cherry tomatoes. They’re not even shaped like cherries. And, they taste… wrong. Just wrong. And, do you know how many cherry tomatoes you have to slice to put on a sandwich? Kay didn’t. Didn’t even come close.

She did apologize and asked me how long the oblong tomato purchases had been eating at me. She said she would compromise. She’d buy normal tomatoes, but continue with the Romaine lettuce. We would revisit the situation in ten years. She is such a diplomat.

I then told her that jumbo farm-raised shrimp was on sale at Kroger for five dollars a pound. We have never bought farm-raised shrimp, and I wanted to know why. What was the reasoning behind our buying habits?

Kay said that farm-raised shrimp doesn’t taste like shrimp. Of course, I wouldn’t know ‘cause we never get farm-raised shrimp. She informed me that I eat farm-raised at some of the restaurants. When I asked how she knew, she said, “Because - it - doesn’t - taste - like - shrimp. My words are coming out, but they’re apparently not landing anywhere!” I had to laugh at that, ‘cause it sounded like something I would’ve said.

“Is there anything else, O’ love of my life?” she said. – I really hated to push, but didn’t know when I’d ever get another chance. “Yes, there is one other thing, Sugar Plum. Hardly worth mentioning. The, uh, Duke’s Mayonnaise? How did that happen? Three years ago you switched us from Kraft to Hellman’s, and now you’re toying with something called Duke’s. Duke’s is too white and it tastes like Miracle Whip with a hint of raisin vinegar.”

Kay told me she bought it on impulse. Said she saw it advertised and was curious. Didn’t consult with me; just did it. I told her that we can afford to be curious about a new-flavored soft drink or a sea-salted tuna chip, but not mayonnaise. You don’t play around with mayonnaise any more than you do with toilet paper.

Kay went on to say that the Duke’s Mayonnaise tastes different because it was Duke’s Lite. -- What’s this world coming to? Do you have any idea how much Lite Mayonnaise you’d have to eat to lose one pound? It’s like five gallons.

So, you can see that this morning I learned a lot about the origin of stuff. I didn’t like any of the revelations that Kay shared with me, but I needed to know. I wanted to know. I regret coming across like I was griping, ‘cause I wasn’t, you understand? Bernie, says I need to meditate so as not to aggravate. Just makes me want to slap him.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Cow origins

“Where did that come from?”

The last thing I looked at in the newspaper this morning was the six-page Kroger insert. Usually I look at grocery store ads to see if there is a sale on Blue Bell. I don’t do that much anymore.

What attracted me to the Kroger Gazette was the picture on the front page of a grilled steak. A Nolan Ryan ribeye. A Nolan Ryan “All Natural Beef” ribeye.

All natural beef? Does that cost more than Nolan Ryan’s somewhat odd beef? The “all beef” labeling of a steak isn’t needed anymore than a four star hotel needs to advertise “No holes in towels.” I don’t even think there needs to be labeling on wieners. No one wants to know what’s in those things. All you need is a label that reads -- “Meat paste wrapped in something.” Our minds will turn it into something beautiful.

I saw a wiener label last week which read -- “Angus beef.” That’s an apparent attempt to get consumers to believe that knee joints and nostril portions of Angus are a cut above Hereford.

Speaking of meat inspectors, do you have any idea how many inspectors the FDA has? I don’t either. My small group of low-paid analysts have Googled every acronym, synonym, M&M associated with the words “beef, inspectors and FDA.” All they came up with was the starting salary of an inspector. It’s around $44,000.

The Pentagon wants to hide UFO info for fear the American public will change its buying habits. Along those lines, the FDA hides it’s number of inspectors so consumers won’t discover how near impossible it is for the FDA to find bad stuff before it reaches our stomachs. (That’s what one of my research staffers leads me to believe. My research staff is small. No. Smaller than that.)  

And, speaking of a lack of inspectors, let’s visit the soon-to-be-tossed “country-of-origin” food labeling law. It’s not the easiest thing to understand, but that’s so Congressmen can say that they had no idea what they were voting on when the proverbial waste matter hits the fan. I’ve got a fairly loose grip on the law, but that’s never stopped me from forming an opinion?

From what I’ve learned, repeal of the country-of-origin law involves beef, poultry and pork. It doesn’t cover fish, figs or fruit. For now. We still have a rough idea where most other stuff comes from. It’s the cows, pigs and chickens that Congress doesn’t think we should know about. The repeal of the know-where-your-meat-came-from-law is the “insure domestic tranquility” part of the Constitution that Congress swore to support and defend.

Supposedly, the Canadians and Mexicans are responsible for the push to rid us of knowing where meat comes from. American slaughterhouses are supposed to keep tabs on where their cows, pigs and chickens came from. That’s hard to keep up with. Most of the cows don’t even know where they came from. Theoretically, slaughterhouses must have separate pens for Canadian, Peruvian, Indonesian… cows, pigs and chickens. (CPCs) – “And, over here we have our pen for the Philippine shorthorn. Flew in from Manila just last week.”

Since it cost a lot of money to build pens and to keep the straight the birth certificates for CPCs, foreign ranchers are paid less for their livestock in the U.S. This places a stigma on out of country animals. An immigration issue. Apparently the only feasible solution Congress has come up with is to do away with the 2002 country-of-origin law as it involves cows and what all.

That’s all they can come up with? How about keeping the law, while continuing not to do inspections. Do you know how rare it would be for an FDA inspector to come by a slaughterhouse to see which cows are Canadian and which are American? A cow would have more of a chance of winning the lottery than getting its birthplace determined for real. The FDA doesn’t even have the resources to assure that you’re buying Angus beef instead of Australian plow horse. (Keep in mind about my small research staff.)

If the law is completely killed, how long do you think it will take Wal-Mart to start bringing over cheaper Chinese CPCs? I love China and all it stands for, but I don’t trust their inspection techniques any further than I can kick a Volvo. Mark my words, it won’t be long before we see Walmart marketing of a glow-in-the-dark wiener.

There are only two foods, the origin of which means nothing to me. Dried beans and popcorn. I’d prefer everything else be looked over by one of our two FDA inspectors. Those guys do one heck of a job for which they get paid handsomely.

Soon the FDA inspector workload will decrease significantly. No longer will they have to locate the birth certificates of steers, pigs and chickens slaughtered in the U.S. That should make them better able to find out what tilapia really are. My research staff tells me that commercial fishermen don’t even know what they are. Never seen one.

If you scratch this the surface of this thing you’re going to see a Chinese flag appear. And, that comes straight from my research staff. That kid is like a son to me.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Big toe and lawnmower repair

“Bless my heart”

Oh, yeah, like this is gonna work. I’ll be sawin’ on this space-aged titanium piece of -- What? You’re gonna hafta speak… I-- Oh, excuse me. Ear plugs. Let me, uh… There. A guy could go deaf in this kitchen.

No, no. I’m quitting with this. My toe is beginning to throb, so I’ll meet at the dining table. Chunk one of those coffee doohickeys into the new Keurik and brew you a cup. I’m trying to push the French Roast. Tastes like French Burnt, you ask me. But, you’ll like it, I’m sure.

One or two of you may need to get chairs  out of the study. I’d do it, but my toe’s throbbing. Remember? That’s one of the reasons we’re not climbing on the roof this morning. That and the fact that we’d sweat buckets. Maybe do the rooftop thing some night in the next couple of week. Do a lightning bug search. Firefly. Whatever.

No, we’ve got no cookies, donuts or anything good. We do have at least one can of bean dip, though. I kicked the daylights out of it earlier in the week. You wanna see? No? Just as well. I about passed out when I looked at it.

Why? Why what? Oh, why did I kick the can? Reflexes. I’ve got the reflexes of a fly on meth. I was moving stuff around in the cabinet up there looking for a jar of jam. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something jump out of the cabinet. Since I had jam on the brain, I envisioned being a jar of jam.

I was not in the mood to spend the better part of the morning cleaning glass shards of jam from the kitchen floor, so my foot shot out to slow the jar’s decent. I caught the jar with the top of my foot, but my foot didn’t instantly stop until it hit the corner of the bottom of the cabinet.

It felt like someone had blown off my big toe. Most of you know that a stumped toe is the fifth worst agony you can encounter. It’s just under stick-in-the-eye. I hobbled to the side of the refrigerator that didn’t have all the magnets on it, and I beat my head against it. It did nothing to redirect the pain.

What? The bean dip? Oh, right. Turns out it wasn’t a jar of jam that lept out of the cabinet. It was a can of bean dip. Bean dip! Kay bought two cans of bean dip and no Fritoes. Who does that? There’s no way my reflexes would’ve gone to action over a can of bean dip. I was bamboozled. Hornswaggled!

I refused to look at my toe till bedtime. Too scared at what I’d find. Kay would probably want to drag me to the emergency room. When I finally examined the stubby digit, the toenail where it was supposed to be, it just wasn’t connected to the toe. A day later I told Kay about kicking the dip and stumping my toe.

You know what she said? She said, “Well, bless your heart.” Bless my heart? That means nothing anymore. It’s the qualifier you use after gossiping about somebody. You can make up any kind of nonsense and it’s perfectly all right if you bless the guy’s heart either before or after. -- “By the way, did you know that Phil is a chronic bed-wetter? Bless his heart.”

I told Kay it was the worst pain I’ve had since sitting on the hands-in-prayer bookends. Who lays a set of bookends on the couch while dusting and forgets to pick it up? Bless her heart.

The smashed toe was the beginning of one miserable week of bad stuff. Have you ever tried to saw a drill bit in two? Well that was what was making all the noise when you came in on me. I’ve been trying to fix my self-propelled lawnmower, so it’d go back to self-propelling.

I managed to take the thing apart and find the problem. What I needed was a three quarter inch rod that was 11/32 of an inch in diameter. I couldn’t find one on-line so I went to the lawnmower parts place in tow.

I showed the guy the gear that needed the tiny rod in it, and he said, “Ah, you need a key.” I didn’t know I needed a key, but I’d play along. He said, “I don’t think I have one, but if I do, I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to find it.” .

That was the coolest thing a parts person has ever said to me. He wasn’t rude at all. He was just matter of fact. He didn’t try to bamboozle or hogswaggle me. -- I don’t think I have it, but if I do, I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to find it? That’s gold.

He went on to tell me to find a drill bit with the same diameter and cut the end off. He said it’d be almost impossible to do without the proper saw. He told me the saw I’d need, but I quit listening to him. The man obviously had no idea who he was talking to. “Almost impossible to do?”

And, yes, he was right. I’ve been using my hacksaw on that thing for thirty minutes, and have only managed to scratch it. (And those two prisoners in New York, sawed through inches of steel and concrete and what all with a hacksaw blade? I thought the story of “The Count of Monte Cristo” was far-fetched.)

Well, that’s just part of the week. I’ll have to finish the rest of the story another time. Yeah, maybe when we’re firefly gazing. – Say, before you guys head out, how about one of you taking my mug and brewing me one of those canisters of Newman’s Own. – What? There’s none left? I told you I was pushing the French Roast! Boy, you’re just adding to the misery here. –  No, I’m joking. A little.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Cemetery visit

"I get this place when I come back!" 

Mom and Dad's plot at Evergreen Cemetery

CROSBY – Mosquitoes sure took advantage of the June rains. This wet, low, flatland of black gumbo is ripe with ‘em. And, they’re big. The one I just swatted on my leg was as big as a chicken wing. Right now, one is stabbing me in the square of my back, and I can’t reach it. Not even with this garden hoe.

Kay told me to be sure to bring the can of Off with me, but that was an hour before I left. I’m supposed to remember “Off” for hour? If she’d told me bring a bag of Cheetos and a donut with me, I could’ve retained that thought for a couple of days.

By the way, I’m standing here in the Evergreen Cemetery near Crosby, because of an idea I had for the family. Our family gatherings have slacked off considerably since Mom passed away in ‘06.  We used to get together about every other weekend for one of Mom’s meals, or to eat out, or for a party or talent show or fireworks. Now, we’re lucky if we get together once every other month.

We could meet more often, but why would we? Some of us live a distance from one another. Besides, when we make the trip, who is going to cook for us? I’m not preparing a meal for that mob more than, maybe, twice a year. Mom must’ve been nuts… in a good way.

Anyway, I came up with and idea that each month one of us would make it a point to come to Crosby to visit Mom and Dad’s grave-site. We would check on things to make sure the weeds and the ants haven’t taken over. An unlikely occurrence since the cemetery has always been well maintained. No, the real reason for the monthly visit will be to give us each a moment to remember family.

June is the first month of the cemetery plan, and I’m the one who signed up for it. Standing here by the headstone, I’ve been thinking about what Jill wrote in the “My thoughts” section of her website. (www.gammajill.com) She recalled some of the rules of the house when we were kids.

Back then we didn’t have enough places in the living room for everyone to sit comfortably. It was either the couch, one of two chairs or the bare floor. If we had to get up and change channels on the TV, or leave the room for anything, the only way to save your seat was to yell, “Get this place when I come back!” By saying that, no one would steal your place. I can’t believe it worked either. You do realize that Dad didn’t have to say it? Mom said it, but just to play along.

Jill also wrote about punishments for stuff like slamming the screen door. Can you imagine a kid running out of the house and letting the screen door slam behind him; then automatically return for Mom to render punishment? Apparently, Mom made an example of the first one to ever slam a door. Wasn’t me. The law was in force before my time.

Like most of us, I didn’t treasure those moments when I was a kid. When you’re young, nothing makes sense to you, so you just go with the flow. It takes aging to make you give value to childhood stuff.

Oh, that brings me to one other special thing we’re to do at the grave-site. We’re each to bring a token that represents something of our childhood. Something small that won’t blow away and has no real value other than sentimental.

Donkey or calf? You tell me. 

If you’ll look in front of the gravestone, you’ll see a small ceramic donkey wedged between dirt and stone. Dad gave Dennis and me a dollar once to buy Mom something for Mothers Day. Back then a dollar could get a mom something really good.

Well, Dennis and I went to Ray’s Five and Dime and spent 78 cents on two small ceramic donkeys. They looked pretty alike, but we didn’t want to get her just one donkey. Who wants one donkey? Anyway, Mom loved those donkeys. She refused to take ‘em to church to show everyone, but she loved ‘em all right.

Over the years, one of the statues got broken during a chase through the house. It took Mom a little over a year to notice that the donkey was gone. She really broke down, too. No one knew what happened to it.

Flash forward several decades, and we’re sorting through Mom’s old stuff.  When I came across that ceramic donkey, I held it up and called “dibs.” Even today, you can’t question a “Dibs.” Up until now, the donkey has been on my shelf of memories in the study. I’ll tell everybody the story behind the donkey, so it will mean something when their turn comes to visit the cemetery. Dennis will say that he had nothing to do with the breakage of the other donkey. Isn’t it weird how siblings who witness the very same incident, will recall it differently?

Well, I think it’s time to have a quick prayer, and then load up and drive by Mom and Dad’s old place just a mile down the road. Dad bought the two-acre tract a couple of years before he died. It looks a lot different now. And, why wouldn’t it? The current owners are making memories of their own. It’s a nice place for good memories… and for big mosquitoes after a heavy rain in June.  – Next time.

 Used to be carved wooden sign out front that read

"Hayter's Green Acres" -- A lot of parties were had

in that double garage. 

end 

Washington Visit

AFTER THE CRUISE, IT'S A VISIT WITH SISTER SUE!

Susan and Mark

Of course, our bags had already been searched and my candy likely sampled, but they didn’t worry at all about Mark in the flesh. I was back in the US of A, and was again invisible.

We stayed two hours in Seattle, ‘cause that’s how long it took my sister Susan to find us at the port terminal. Kay had already purchased us a rent car before the trip. She got a decent deal on a mid-sized something. One reason the deal was so good was because you wouldn’t get a refund if you cancelled. So, we paid for a car that we didn’t drive. (That has nothing to do with anything, but it still bugs me.)

What happened was, my sister, Susan, called three weeks before we left and told us that she and her son-in-law, Curt, wanted to pick us up at the port terminal and drive us on the scenic route back to place in Grandview, WA. I begged her not to go to the trouble, but I was not that convincing.

The scenic trip from Seattle to Grandview is about three hours. During the first stretch of the trip we stopped at Snoqualmie Falls just east of Seattle. Snoqualmie: It’s what was heard from the first guy to go over the falls. He was from the Puyallup Tribe. The word roughly translates: “Hey, get a load of this!” I suppose.

But forget the name, what I wanted to mention was that while at the falls who should show up but Tom and Marge from the cruise. They hadn’t planned to stop, but their driver to the hotel wanted to stop. We could not get away from these people. They’re from Florida for Pete’s sake, and they keep showing up.

We finally forced ourselves away from Tom and Marge and continued the ride to Grandview. During the ride I discovered that Washington is one of the most beautiful states in the Union.  Any setting you could envision for a movie could be found in Washington. You could film Tarzan, Brave Heart II, NCIS New Orleans, Viva Zapata, Frozen III, and any zombie flick you can think of. Washington has everything.

West of the mountains it’s wet and wonderful. East is considerably less wet, but agriculture is thebiggest industry. They’ve got fruits and nuts covering the hillsides. Apples, cherries, almonds, walnuts, grapes, strawberries, Fruity Pebbles…

And all during the drive, I couldn’t help but notice how nice Curt is. In fact, Sue’s entire family is off-the-charts nice. Scary nice, you ask me. They fed us to the hilt. (Your hilt is just below your ribcage.) They seemed right at home talking about the kids and grandkids and all the family that wasn’t there. Wait a minute. That was mostly me.

At one point during the stay I learned the names of every person there. Wanna test me. Rhonda and Curt’s first son?  -- Clint. – The twin daughters? Bella and Livy. – Meagan is the precious girl who likes to milk the goats. Gracie is—Wait a minute. Back to the goats.

One of the greatest photo opportunities that I missed was that of Curt leading Meagan and Kay to the goat pen for a milking. It was early morning and they were walking in a row up a little knoll. Stick a tune to that last sentence and you’ve got a hit.

In case you're wondering, Kay is milking a goat. 

I did get photos of Kay and Meagan milking a goat. And, Kay took a picture of me milking. I did not intend to, but it seemed the proper thing. I feel relatively sure that on my death bed I will remark, “Well, Martha, at least I milked a goat. Oh, I thought you were Martha.”

Shooting sage rats is something I wanted to do, but passed up my only chance, gabbing with the girls. East Washington is loaded with ground squirrels they call “sage rats.” Their mission in life is to dig, destroy crops and defecate. And they’re good at what they do.

In Washington and Oregon, sage rat shootin’ has become a form of relieving tension. Some people actually pay farmers to take them out to shoot sage rats. I had heard the stories and expected to do some rat killing of my own. However, I spent some quality time talking with Susan and her daughters, Rhonda and Sandy, and a few grand nieces. We talked about my Dad and the rest of the family. Few in that room had ever seen Faris, and I wanted a few of the youngsters to know him through some of the stories.

The next day was Sunday, and that meant church services. Curt is the preacher for the small congregation in Grandview. But on the day we visited, he had my nephew CJ preach.

CJ started out with a reading of  Romans 5:7 – “Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die…” –The lesson was about Christ sacrificing himself for all. After the reading, CJ told about the time in Afghanistan when his friend died while raising up to warn him about incoming fire. His friend had made himself a target to save CJ. It was an excellent tie into CJ’s message, and there was not a dry eye in the house when CJ sat down.

These are just a few of the many memorable moments during our Washington visit.  I was eager to get back home, but regretted having to leave Susan and her family. Of course, we didn’t leave Curt and Susan immediately ‘cause they had to drive us to the airport in Seattle. I’m so glad we didn’t get the rental.

By the way, when Kay and I walked down the 18-inch wide aisle on our 737, I looked around to make sure Tom and Marge weren’t on the flight. Those people are so hard to lose. – Next time.

end

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

To sea, we be... we were

It's a glacier! Uh, no,  it's the thing beyond
 the two people at the table. Sheesh. 

On the remote chance that we hear seven consecutive horn blasts, Kay and I are supposed to go to section “R” on Deck five to get in line for our lifeboat. We learned that during a muster call. I thought I’d best tell you that at the get go, just in case I should end this thing in mid sentence. – What? Muster call? Uh, put it out of your mind.

This is the story of our “At Sea” part of the Alaskan Cruise. Last week I told you about our tours in Juneau, Skagway and Victoria, British Columbia. Now, I’m going to tell you about life on the boat. Go find your sea legs.

There are a lot of people on this ship. I imagine there are only a half dozen countries not represented. (That’s an exaggeration, but not a big one.) This has offered us each an excellent opportunity to learn of our fellow planet-dwellers.

One thing I’ve learned is that many of the passengers  on this boat have poor peripheral vision. Most of ‘em have put Kay in harm’s way, because she too has poor peripherals. Fortunately, I’m ever vigilant and have good peripherals. Only once did my vigilance betray me.

It was on Day 3, my friend, when we docked at Juneau just at lunchtime. Many passengers needed to get off boat by 12:15 to make it to their prepaid, pre-scheduled excursions -- Zip-lining, whale watching, gold panning… That meant each of us had to hit the buffet at the same time.

The buffet is on Deck 11 and I could hear the ruckus from Deck 9. (another exaggeration.) When we made it to the huge room that was too small to accommodate, I told Kay, “Pilgrim, leave us go amongst them.” We got separated in the first three minutes. I figured Kay had wandered off in search of a plate. Plates were as scarce as patience.

I don’t wait well, so I stood against the wall and observed. What I saw was a buffet with only one person in line. It was a little old lady waiting at the salad bar. I moved in right behind her. That’s when I reasoned why she was alone. There were no plates on the plate rack. A buffet does not work without plates. Most people know that. The lady was close to grasping the concept.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before a stack of plates appeared above the heads of the passengers. The man who belonged to the hand wove his way through the human maze and eventually reached the salad bar and deposited the dishes. The guy wasn’t even a part of the service personnel. Let’s call him Gabriel.

If it were a movie, the director would’ve filmed the next three minutes in slo-mo. In a short second, I was pushed aside like a Jehovah’s Witness on Halloween. So many women and children, each with a pair of arms attached to elbows. When the smoke cleared I was left standing alone, next to an empty plate rack. I was plateless, but alive. The experience made me question the effectiveness of our disaster drill instructions.

 It was at that moment that I realized how ridiculous it was for the captain to call for a muster drill on deck. -- “Should you hear the horn blast seven times, calmly head to your room to pick up your life jackets and then proceed to your lifeboat section.” -- I might’ve added, “Or you may wish to avoid the melee on deck, take a dive and swim to the nearest crab boat. (That was just a passing thought of mine.)

During breakfast and dinner there are alternatives to buffet. There are a couple of huge dining areas located on Decks four and five. Each person’s table assignment is posted on his or her Sea Pass. (I.D. card) Kay and I belonged to table 442 for dinner. So did two other couples. I consider it a bit awkward eating with strangers. There are some friends I don’t even want to eat with. Fortunately, Kay and I were seated with two charming couples. Actually, one charming couple and a charming lady with her husband, Tom.

Tom reminds me of Woody Allen, and I told him so. It’s his voice inflection, rapidity of speech and his mannerisms. He didn’t recognize the resemblance. He said, “The only thing Woody Allen and I have in common is we both married our daughter.” Tom’s wife, Marge, and I were the only ones who heard him. Marge hit him with an elbow to the ribs, and, uh, I laughed. I mean it was so quick. A quick quip. Just like Woody Allen.

Bert and Johnna are our other two eating companions. They’re from Worchester, Massachusetts, and they’re both into health care. Johnna is a recently promoted ER nurse who now has a supervisory role at the hospital. Bert is involved in a Lifeflight program near Boston.

Both people have seen and been involved in some grizzly episodes. That’s why I felt comfortable telling them about the kidney stone I was carrying. My urologist advised me not to cancel the cruise; that there’s a good chance the stone won’t move… unless I go zip-lining.

I’ve run out of time to tell you about the stage performances each night of the cruise. Quality shows, I must say. On night two we were entertained by Bowser from Sha Na Na. The person I considered the least talented of the group was likely the most. He and a trio of young singers danced and sang some hits from the 60s. At one point Bowser, Jon Bauman, played some classical music on a Grand Piano. I’m not making this up. He’s a talented man.

Oops. While this article is all but over, this trip is far from it. As soon as we dock in Seattle, Kay and I are going to visit my sister on the East Side of the mountains in a town called Grandview. I haven’t seen my sister in three years. And, I haven’t seen most of her grandkids ever. They’re going to love Kay. I don’t know what they’re going to do with me. I’ll let you know how it goes. – Next time.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com