how a ham dinner became torture for noah and katrina

 wednesday.  dec. 27.  2022.

The old year is ready to totter offstage, and i, for one, say ‘about time.’

I expect the new year will bring more love more money more laughs and less stress sadness empty calories and chicken feet.

Amy has just chopped me up a bowl of romaine lettuce so i can make myself a caesar salad later today. I’m obsessing about caesar salads this week. The romaine the croutons the parmesan and especially the dressing all combine to give my mouth and tummy something it has lacked for many a long year. So i’m hoping to eat a caesar salad every day in 2023. 

But why would you be interested in any of the above? Truly, i must try your patience (as Groucho said: “Thanks, you must try mine some time!”) with all this aimless tittle tattle about food food food.

So i’ll change the subject – to more food.

Last sunday, xmas day, amy and I fed over 30 people in our building and in the neighborhood by going door to door with a cart and knocking on doors. 

It all started with a ham. A single solitary ham that son adam bought for us to serve shut-ins. He and his family would come over to help us do this on xmas day. (by the way, did you know Joseph Fielding Smith was dead set against using ‘Xmas’ for ‘Christmas?’ He thought it was extremely disrespectful.) 

Where was i? Oh yes, so amy and i started talking over what to offer with the ham. And we went a little nuts. We made 4 quarts of spiced applesauce. Two pans of pecan bars. Peaches & cream jello. Green bean casserole. Corn pudding. Green Bean marinated salad. Then i didn’t think we had enough ham to serve everyone, so i made 2 meatloaves. And a big bowl of chicken pasta salad for those who don’t eat ham. And then rochelle benny’s wife gave us another ham. Amy wanted to print up tracts to tape on all the valley villa doors about the free dinner. So we made up 150 of ‘em. We put ‘em under windshield wipers as well as on all the doors and in the elevators and in the laundry rooms. 

And we invited a single mother and her two boys over for xmas dinner. They didn’t go around with the cart. Amy and adam’s family did that. I stayed with nicole and her boys and we visited amiably while amy did all the hard work. Did you know that when you knock on an old person’s door it takes an average of just over one minute for them to answer? And that it takes another 30 seconds for them to comprehend that you are bringing them a free meal. And about another minute for them to rummage through their kitchen to find a clean plate or bowl for the food? Adam’s kids noah and katrina were dying of boredom by the time they got to the second floor. And then old people don’t like being given a lot of options. Do you want the ham or chicken salad? Or the meatloaf? Do you want corn pudding or greenbean casserole? Do you want some jello? 

It took them 2 and a half hours to serve everyone in the building. Everyone was exhausted afterwards. Adam’s kids now think of coming over to see grandma and grandpa torkildson as xmas punishment & torture, not as a jolly holiday tradition.

So i talked things over with adam. He insists his kids have to do this feed the shut ins thing every xmas. They can’t get out of it – not as long as they live at home.  Adam and i decided that next xmas we’ll do lasagna. It’s easy to make ahead of time and everyone likes it. We’ll have a salad. Rolls, and jello. And that’s it. People can take it or leave it. Plus we’ll dish up the lasagna on paper plates ahead of time. And knock on several doors at a time. So when the old people answer they are handed a plate and told ‘merry xmas’ and that’s all she wrote. All three floors of our building should be served in less than an hour. Hopefully this will engender a cheerful xmas spirit without giving anyone a conniption fit. 

Other than that, there is little to report here at Casa Torkildson. 

It’s been snowing off and on all day today. We went to the rec center early this morning, around 630 a.m. amy walks a mile around the track then lifts weights and does some more miles on the machines. I do ten minutes on a strider, then walk 2 times around the track, then 10 more minutes on the machine, then around the track twice again, and then get on what i call the knife grinder, some kind of arm exerciser, for ten minutes, and then walk 2 more times around the track, and then we came home, had breakfast, and  were fast asleep in our recliners by 9 a.m. we’ll be going to the Temple tomorrow, thank goodness, to mix things up a little.

And a big thanx to virginia & andy for their care package. Pasta and spices and salsa. And to madelaine for the gumball machine. And for bath soaps and creams and solvents and turpentine and gum arabic from son adam’s family. And we still have three chocolate oranges left over – i forget which grandkids are supposed to get them. Sarah, is it your kids? Huh, if they don’t come over soon, i’ll eat ‘em meself. 

May all your days be circus days,   heinie manush. 

Poem to Amy

 When it's time to kiss goodnight

I wish I could be dynamite.

To sweep you up in my strong arms

and give you loving warm alarms.

But, alas, the time is past

when my stamina was vast.

Please accept instead the prize

of all the love that's in my eyes.

Sonnet for Amy. #2

 This is all I have to offer;

a few lines cribbed from richer times.

But when in the presence of your glowing face,

the whole of antiquity will be plundered.

 

 

How can there be an audit of your virtues?

 

As well survey the stars with a glance. 

Moving through my mind's eye,

your lithe figure sweeps me up.

Sweeps me up into realms 

I thought never to visit again.

Where you and I reign past the troubles

of young love and old pain.

This cold winter night our hands touch.

And that is all I can write about love.

Sonnet for Amy #1

 

I am not handsome, except in your eyes.

Tattered as I am with age and interruptions,

you hold up a kindly mirror in your eyes

to dress me in a youthful livery long ago forfeited.

When asked how you find my ripe charm

in such a disarrayed pattern as I am,

the response is not as important or lovely

as your willingness to reply at all.

Your abundance makes of my famine a phantom.

Your green refreshing waters no mere ornament,

they rush over me like a spring shower

that is warm and exciting.

And when I lie down tonight in weary thought

your cool hand lifts my head and spirits.

 

A Child's Christmas in Minneapolis. Sunday. December 18. 2022.

 

CHILDHOOD CHRISTMAS.

I begin with smoke. Lots of smoke. During the winter holidays our house on 19th avenue southeast in Minneapolis was filled with gregarious relatives and friends. My parents kept open house during much of December. And almost every adult smoked. The only adult I ever remember who didn’t smoke was my grandma Daisy. Everyone else puffed away like a chimney. Even after the surgeon general’s report in 1964.  December in Minnesota is decidedly cold, so windows stayed shut. The pall of cigarette smoke on some days could almost be felt. My mother believed that burning a single bayberry candle on the coffee table in the living room would ‘eat up’ the smoke, clearing the atmosphere. She was wrong. My brother Bill, me, and my sisters Sue Ellen and Linda have always had weak lungs as a result of all that second hand smoke. Every winter when we were kids we came down with croup and bronchitis. Sore throats were the norm; coming home from grade school, just a block away, and rushing to one of the hot air registers to gulp down drafts of hot air to soothe my raw aching throat.

My mother was a dab hand with spritz cookies. And she kept a rack full of toppings just for these beauties. Chocolate sprinkles. Cinnamon drops. Glazed walnuts. Candied citrus peel. Chopped dates. Silver dragees (tiny balls of sugar coated with silver food coloring – i thought they were real metal and warned my gullible younger cousins not to bite into one lest they crack a tooth.) jordan almonds. Nonpareils. Dabs of fig jam. New England jimmies. Toasted coconut. Marshmallow cream.  

And on the coffee table, next to the ineffectual bayberry candle there was always a cut glass dish filled with ribbon hard candy. Very colorful. But a pretty lame sweet. I don’t think anyone ever touched them, and they gathered enough indoor grit by New Years that my mother would have to dust them off before putting them back in their wax paper bag for next Xmas.

As little nippers dad took us to see santa at the bartenders union hall. St nick smelled like a distillery and gave out chintzy colored popcorn balls. One bite and they fell to pieces like pie crust. 

But of course the highlight of the season was the loot. The presents. Swag! 

Right after Thanksgiving the Sear Roebuck Catalogue arrived. Thicker than our phone book, this glossy prospectus fed my hunger for gewgaws and trinkets like a narcotic. I’d stare at it for hours, until my bulging eyeballs threatened to fall out of my head and roll away.

But I never got a single solitary toy out of that catalogue. ‘Too expensive – it costs 2 dollars just for shipping and handling!’ mom would say.

Boy oh boy, I really truly wanted the plastic gumball machine they had in there. Just imagine if you can . . . a real gumball machine with real gumballs in it . . . and every time one of my friends wanted a gumball they had to put a penny in it . . . and I GOT TO KEEP THE PENNIES!  Or else I could just rip open the bag of gumballs, never putting them in the machine, and chew on them until doomsday.  Sweet bliss.  But despite my transparent and frequent hints, i never got one.

Instead there would be a Whammo air-blaster. Shaped like a cross between a cannon and a pistol, you pulled back the lever and pulled the trigger and whammo! A blast of air would blow Christmas cards off the table or even scatter my glass marbles around like shrapnel. The air-blaster didn’t last long. I put the muzzle up against the back of my older brother Billys head and pulled the trigger. I thought there was a real possibility this might kill him, or at least put him in a coma. But alas all it did was tear the rubber diaphragm inside the airblaster, rendering it useless. 

In my stocking there were always Slinkys, Duncan yo-yos, Bonomo’s turkish taffy, Crayola crayons, a pack of old maid cards, and a coloring book from Grandma Daisy. 

Under the tree would be a hula hoop, an etch-a-sketch, and a Tonka truck. I’d get a board game – either operation or mousetrap. One year i remember getting a set of dominoes, which I promptly dropped, one by one, down the heat register.

 

*************************************

 

A response to the above from my daughter Madelaine:

 

Dear dad,

Since you were kind enough to share your Christmas memories I though I would send you some of mine. They are less smoky, and a little more bathed in discomfort. The Christmas I will never forget happened in Midway, UT the year I was 15. The previous year uncle ben had made grand promises to mom that he would fulfil our every Christmas wish. We spent weeks scouring catalogs picking out presents and making long detailed lists of everything from bicycles to underwear. Then the week before Christmas they got into a fight and he retracted the offer, so we were left gifting each other last year’s hand-me-down sweaters. Uncle Wylie came through on Christmas Day and gave us a case of spaghetti and several huge jars of Prego spaghetti sauce, which we ate every day for a month. That was a very gloomy year, but the next year we were picked for the ward “angel tree” and notified that our presents would be dropped of on Christmas Eve! Looking back on that night, I am still filled with awe at the generosity of those ward members. Granted, they were all living on pretty ritzy estates and probably had buckets full of cash lying around, but they unloaded no less than 23 construction sized trash bags of wrapped gifts, 3 whole bags for each of us. Almost 25 years later I still remember the smell of the bath & body works bath sets. We had so many bottles of lotion, perfume, sets of stationary, craft kits, socks, coats, dresses, toys, everything you could imagine. And the candy, oh man! mom only ever let us get candy with our own money (which was also our only means of getting new clothes or cool shoes), and we didn’t often get to go inside the store with her. I got a beautiful dress that year, I believe it was the only dress I’d had before that was brand new from the store, not made by or passed down from a family or ward member. It still had the tags and came with a gift receipt. When I finally grew out of it I was quite devastated, it was the first piece of clothing I felt beautiful in.

 

OK, I have to get back to work/ Most of the above is probably not true, in the Torkildson fashion I have inserted random details to take the place of my foggy memory, but who can say what is true all these years later anyway?

 

-Madel

 

Shakespeare's Sonnet #1, as run through Quillbot.com

 That beauty's rose may thus never fade from the fairest creatures, but as the riper should wither with time, his sensitive offspring must bear his memory:

However, you made yourself your enemy by feeding your own light's flame with self-substantial fuel and creating a famine where there is abundance. You were too brutal to your sweet self.

In thine own bud, you burst your content and, tender churl, make waste in niggarding. You are now the world's new ornament and the sole one to announce the garish spring.

If you don't feel sorry for the globe, this glutton will eat the planet's due by the grave and you.

A Slow Saturday. December 17th. 2022.

 it's a slow saturday, by golly.

i slipped on the ice at the provo rec center last thursday. went down wrong on my right leg and it's been bothering me ever since. we canceled our thursday afternoon temple appointment and we skipped the rec center yesterday, friday. just stayed in, since it never got above 17 degrees. boy, did we watch a lot of movies! none of them very good. the last two nights i've gone to bed at 9:30, out of plain boredom. your mother is having her troubles, too. she's got conjunctivitis bad in her left eye. she's been treating it herself but it's not getting any better. so we'll go see the doc on Monday. we did go back to the rec center this morning. early. 5:30 a.m.  neither one of us could sleep much last night. after we got back i made fried potatoes, sausage, and cheese quesadillas for anyone who wanted to show up at 8:30 in the morning -- which turned out to be 3 people. then we sat in our recliners for a few hours. i worked on some rewrites for adam while amy snoozed away. i also wrote a poem this morning, based on Proverbs 23:23 --

The truth will forever abide.

God keeps it at his side.

Men may rage

and lies engage;

but light will override.

 

your mother suggested i unload all the leftovers in the fridge for lunch today, so we reheated week old shredded pork, four day old grits, and a can of chili beans in a pan, and called it Bargain Basement Stew. Surprisingly, enough people stopped by to eat it all gone.  We continue to work together on 30 second videos that garner about a hundred viewers each. here are two links, if you care to watch 'em:

 https://www.youtube.com/shorts/0yF5II584bY

 https://www.youtube.com/shorts/ppYKzygcs9I

i'll only inflict one more poem from this past week on you:

The Lapps keep herds of reindeer;

I think they are nomadic.

Cuz when I look for reindeer steaks

they seem to be sporadic.

I wonder if dear Santa

would actually grieve

if I asked for one of his

to roast on Xma eve?

your mother is just now (1:32 p.m. mst) hanging a xmas wreath on our door. i should get up to help but my leg is aching like someone is pounding on it with a mallet. as Dr. Smith says in the original lost in space -- 'oh, the pain, the pain!"  my mistake -- she's vacuuming, not hanging up the wreath.  since we haven't found anything to replace binge watching the blacklist we are going retro, watching lost in space and leave it to beaver and the wild wild west. pretty soon we'll be reduced to gazing at bewitched and F Troop on the big screen while drooling.  i have finally concocted a snack/meal that is inexpensive and that i can eat anytime with a great deal of relish.  what i do is take a can of black beans, rinse 'em, put 'em in a bowl, add some diced onions, a can of ro-tel diced tomatoes with jalapeno peppers, some kalamata olives, a sliced cuke, some capers, and then sprinkle it with red wine vinegar, lemon juice, and liquid smoke. add a pinch of salt and pepper, a squirt of salad oil, and mix it all up. i don't refrigerate it -- i just snack on it all day. eat it with a toasted bagel & cream cheese in the morning, have it over my salad at lunch, and snack on it again at dinner with my ramen noodles.  i've been doing this for a whole week and so far i haven't gotten tired of it. it's my new go-to food, replacing sardines and pickled herring.   we went shopping this morning at Smith's so amy could get a new pair of yellow rubber gloves to wash dishes with, and do you know a dozen eggs now costs over six dollars? Yikes! so i've decided we are going to stop using eggs. well, i'll stop using 'em. your mother will continue to get the expensive organic range free eggs she has always gotten. i'm going to have tofu instead of eggs from now on. much cheaper.  darned if i can think of very much that has happened to us this week, or anything out of the ordinary that we initiated ourselves. we got a nice xmas card from daughter virginia. and really, i think that's the highlight of the whole week. your mother starts work at H&R block in 2 weeks. she has to drive to springville to work several days a week.   Honestly, i think i could go to bed right now and sleep through the rest of the day and most of the night. i just took a big dose of aspirin.  except they're having pizza in the community room tonight at 7pm. don't want to miss that. amy is making an apple crisp for the event. or rather, she put it together and i have to put it in the oven. oh, yeah, one good movie we saw yesterday was The Seven Little Foys with bob hope. in it he gets to dance with jimmy cagney. it's a showbiz movie, and i always like those.  okay. i'm taking a drink of lemonade and then tilting the recliner back, covering my face with a bandana, and dreaming of owning a condo on the beach in hawaii.  poi, anyone?

 

1983: The Year I was Ronald McDonald in Wichita, Kansas.

 my memories fade but my emotions sharpen. as i grow older.

remembering the year i did Ronald McDonald in Wichita, Kansas, brings few concrete stories. it was 1983. adam was just a baby. 

i had to fly to milwaukee to train under a guy named aye jaye.  he had to okay my ronald mcdonald performance before i could be officially hired. two days of him teaching me the makeup and the mantra. there was an official script, which i had to follow exactly without deviation. (which i never did.) what i remember is him telling me to always use the restroom before performing, cuz i might be in public for hours on end with no break possible. and his drinking wan fu wine before each appearance. for reasons i no longer remember. he had little white ceramic bottles of it all over the van he traveled in when performing. his voice grated on me. i eventually came to despise him and called him a pissant the last time i spoke to him on the phone. 

we first lived in an apartment, then we bought a house in Wichita during my year of ronald mcdonald. the house had a particular poverty smell to it -- all slummy houses have the same sour smell. something to do with the gas meter having a loose fitting.

i was never able to put on the makeup very well. i often had to wipe it all off with baby oil and start over again because i couldn't get the big red grin or the arching eyebrows just right. luckily i only worked a few days a month. the rest of the time i stayed home with amy and the kids. i wrote a script for a tv sitcom about a wall street broker who runs away from his firm to become a circus clown. i sent a copy of the manuscript to my old clown partner Steve Smith. he wrote back thanking me; telling me it wasn't very good. 

the biggest memory i have of that period has nothing to do with ronald mcdonald. since i had so much spare time on my hands i got a part time job as a janitor at the Eisenhower National Airport. i worked 8 to midnight, emptying trash cans in the administration office into a big canvas sack on wheels and then wheeling it out to the outdoor dumpster. there was never anyone there. i had the place to myself.

one windy night most of the trash cans were full of white styrofoam chips. the office staff apparently got a lot of packages that day. when i took the big canvas sack out to the dumpster and started to tip it over the wind caught the little white chips and sent them spiraling up into the air. in enchanting circles that went up higher and higher. then came silently down like snow. i was fascinated by this. i watched this artificial blizzard for nearly an hour. until it petered out. then i ran back inside to ransack more trash cans -- any trash cans with those little styrofoam chips. i found plenty. so i repeated the procedure three more times that night. by the time midnight rolled around, the entire field behind the administration office was filled with restless white styrofoam chips, slowly circling each other; lifting up and settling down into drifts. it was a beautiful and compelling sight. 

and it was a huge mess that i was completely responsible for. i didn't realize it at the time, but i had just created my first piece of installation art. i briefly considered trying to clean it all up, then thought "Nah, the hell with it" and went home. as far as i know there was no uproar over it the next day. at least nobody ever approached me about the matter.

but that was when the was seed planted. installation art. ever after whenever i saw an empty space i would feel like i wanted to fill it with something strange and wonderful. i filled the basement of the old Arts building at the University of Minnesota with balloons. i put shaving cream into people's shoes at bowling alleys. how many blank doors have i plastered over with haiku on note cards! and of course there was my watershed moment when I stood on Capitol Hill, dressed up in my old clown rig, holding a sign that read:  "UNEMPLOYED CIRCUS CLOWN. PLEASE HELP PUT ME IN CONGRESS WHERE I BELONG." i narrowly avoided arrest and eventually became a great favorite of chinese & japanese tourists, who insisted on taking photos with me. now that i think of it, my can pyramid during come-in at Ringling Brothers was a sort of installation piece as well. it was certainly very far from any traditional clown gag ever done before or since.

as the shades of eternity lower over me i begin to regret not pursuing that errant impulse more. until i could turn it into a career. into fame. being hired and paid for my work all over the world like banksy or kurt schwitters.

if you're wondering, here's a pretty good definition of what installation art is:

Often site-specific, and occasionally occurring in public spaces, the boundaries of what constitutes installation art have been blurred since its very inception as an artistic genre. Though installation art varies widely it can best be thought of as an umbrella term for three-dimensional works that aim to transform the audience’s perception of space. Sometimes temporary, sometimes permanent, installation artworks have been constructed in spaces ranging from art galleries and museums to public squares and private homes and will often envelop the viewer in an all-encompassing environment or within the space of the work itself. Installation art developed primarily in the second half of the twentieth century (though there were clear precursors) as both minimalism and conceptual art evolved, culminating in installations in which the idea and experience was more important than the finished work itself.  

 i have one final installation piece i dearly want to put up. i want to fill the front yard of a house on a busy street with nothing but hundreds of those blow-up Bozo punching bags. like the ones i had as a kid. 

since i don't own a house and probably never will again, i am patiently waiting for a patron of the arts to intercede on my behalf. maybe buy me and amy a nice little house on a busy street. and pay for all those bozo punching bags. they cost 30 dollars apiece on amazon. plus i'll need someone to blow them all up. 

Dear Kids. Sunday. December 4. 2022

 so i woke up with the jimmy legs this morning. couldn't stand to stand still or sit down for long. i wanted to walk to church but i didn't think your mother was up to it, so we drove the old black Kia.  it needs oil or something in the gearbox, according to amy, cuz it's starting to get herky jerky. i'll remind her of it on Monday.  and don't say fat chance. my memory works as well as it ever did.  whoops. guess i better write it on the calendar.

both your mother and i bore our testimonies in fast & testimony meeting. your mother's was very sweet and loving. mine was in a big booming voice, my radio newscaster voice. i just said the basics, didn't fool around with any stories or travelogues. from the faces of some of the kids in the pews i bet i scared 'em a little bit.

back home we watched a youtube book of mormon church video for sunday school. we haven't gone to our ward sunday school in over a year. uncomfortable cold folding chairs and i'm afraid the teachers are often overwhelmed and distracted college students who don't get enough sleep and are so earnest they forget their teacher training -- do they still have that class?  i haven't taken it in twenty years. haven't taught a class in over twenty years, either.

so back home after watching the video we both tried napping but amy had to get to work on some crocheting and i was too hungry. we broke our fast with grits, sausage, rice krispies, canned diced tomatoes, and some green powder your mom mixes into the blender and drinks every morning. i try to look the other way when she swallows it.

then it was off to choir practice. only 5 people showed up, and three of them were kids.

then back home, and the jimmy legs were worse than ever. so i decided to mix up a batch of whatchagot soup and take it door to door until it was all gone.

into the pot i threw 2 cans of cream of chicken soup. a container of leftover spaghetti squash. can of green beans. can of corn. can of diced potatoes. fried up some onions  to put in the whole mess, and added two cans of Swanson's breast white meat chicken. let it simmer a half hour, the got the cart out of the community room and your mom and i went door to door. we served ten people from that one pot, and in return got a dollar bill, a big can of Crisco. 4 dozen eggs. a bag of sugar. a bag of flour. and a carton of butter. so we made out like bandits.

now it's five o'clock and the first presidency christmas message will be airing in another hour. i'm resting my tootsies in the recline and your mother is in the bedroom on the desktop working on family history files.

later tonight we'll draw the blinds, lock the door, and watch a couple more episodes of The Blacklist. we're on season 7, and the whole shebang has turned into a comic book. i think they're going to go to mars by season 9.

our health is passable. your mother eats cookies and ice cream and manages to look like Anne Margret.   Me, I'm still the pillsbury doughboy. 

we rejoice to think that daughter daisy is moving out here next week, i think it is, and will be joining ed. i hope all you kids know that you are always in our prayers and in our hearts, and can never hear your voices or see your faces without our hearts racing like mad with happiness.

guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt.

 

did you see our latest reel video on youtube?

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/Yg-miXN0Qic 

 

just 2 poems i wrote this week:

 

World, you have your secrets --

deep and guarded well.

Kept by agents fearsome;

pledged to serving hell.

But God will be revealing

iniquity and spite.

No secret or deception

but comes into the light!

 

 

bottle of mincemeat

in the back of the cupboard --

older than driftwood.  

love, heinie manush.

 

Letter to the Kids. Sunday. November 27. 2022.

 

 My Dear Kiddies;

the mottled mountains

holding up blue vaults of snow --

our cable is out.

 

the door swings both ways --

lets in cold, lets out the heat --

damp leaves stuck to boots.

 

I told the beggar "No handouts unless you chop some wood." 

He turned his wheelchair right around and left my yard for good. 

 I gave him ev'ry chance to work, 

 but some folk simply like to shirk.

 

 

Enthusiastic Biden, Democrats spur ban on military grade assault weapons

(WSJ)

 

I wanna buy an Uzi or an AK-47.

Shooting up my neighbors would most certainly be heaven.

I am not a psychopath or crudely maladjusted;

I just like to see a lot of things get shot and busted!

Does that make me liable for the things that I must do

because my brain is missing something like a little screw?

 I have the right to firearms; this cannot be denied.

The Constitution, after all, just cannot be defied!

So do not take my fingerprints or have me fill out forms.

There is a diff'rent drummer keeping me from all the norms.

Patriotic sentiment does guide my ev'ry thought;

so gats are what I think the Founding Fathers would have bought.

Soon I'l have a howitzer to train upon the masses.

I'm hoping that Joe Biden will still let me buy field glasses.

 

 And so those are a sampling of the poems I've written this week. do they give you an insight into my thoughts and heart for the past 7 days? i dunno. but despite various artistic disappointments this week I still feel compelled to write 'em. You might say it is no longer a hobby, but a vice.

 

your mother and i spent thanksgiving roasting a turkey and serving it in the community room here at valley villa, along with dressing and instant mashed potatoes, and an apple crisp. i didn't think very many people came, but your mother, who is a born bean-counter, says that we fed 13 people, so i guess we did okay. 

Today, Sunday, I dumped five cans of pinto beans and a can of diced tomatoes into the slow cooker, then added a pound of fried chorizo and some spices, and we will served chili, along with brown rice, for dinner at noon today. i have no idea how many will show up. yesterday we served leftover turkey with stuffing and gravy and had six people at our door. but today? could be two if we're lucky. doesn't matter -- i like leftover chili, and it'll last in the fridge all week, just getting better. 

we're still binge watching The Blacklist on netflix. last night we started at 5 and went until 11:30, with one break for scripture study. your mother then stayed up another hour to wash dishes and bake cookies. yet we managed to be up at 7 this morning to make church at 8:30. 

right now your mother is working on family search stuff and doing some indexing on the side. she enjoys that kind of stuff and gets real satisfaction and sense of purpose from it. me, i can't stand it. i'm at the point where i am done with paperwork of any kind. i won't take any online surveys, even if it means somekind of bonus like a free pizza coupon.  your mother also likes to clean up my old google.doc files. what enjoyment she finds in that I cannot say . . . 

here's our latest video posted on facebook. it only lasts 30 seconds.

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/uG2O4q4zcL8

 

when i finish this epistle i'll see if i can get us scheduled for some initiatory work at the temple this coming thursday.  we try to go every thursday; last week it was tuesday, and it was kind of a waste of time foryour mother, in my opinion, cuz the queue was so backed up she had to wait 30 minutes and then only got to do one name. i always get to do at least five names. 

 I wonder if i should put a can of corn in the chili to stretch it out?

the weather has been cold and mostly sunny, with a few cloudy days.  the sun is out today and I'm hoping your mother and i can take a walk this afternoon after serving lunch. there's something about walking down a quiet residential street on a Sunday afternoon that resonates with me in a very happy and calming way. the exercise helps me think back to the wonders in my life:

your mother

my health

being a circus clown

being a missionary in thailand

being a radio announcer

having eight kids

pickled herring

 

you mother just sat down next to me to crochet a yarn cap. i love to watch her hands work and see the serene concentration on her face while she works. how do i convey how much it means to me to be a part of such a small domestic scene? i guess i can't. all i can do is tell you it makes me very happy.

the dadster.

  

Enthusiastic Biden, Democrats spur ban on military grade assault weapons

 

I wanna buy an Uzi or an AK-47.

Shooting up my neighbors would most certainly be heaven.

I am not a psychopath or crudely maladjusted;

I just like to see a lot of things get shot and busted!

Does that make me liable for the things that I must do

because my brain is missing something like a little screw?

 I have the right to firearms; this cannot be denied.

The Constitution, after all, just cannot be defied!

So do not take my fingerprints or have me fill out forms.

There is a diff'rent drummer keeping me from all the norms.

Patriotic sentiment does guide my ev'ry thought;

so gats are what I think the Founding Fathers would have bought.

Soon I'l have a howitzer to train upon the masses.

I'm hoping that Joe Biden will still let me buy field glasses.

 

Allison Prang -- A Reporter Who Follows the Money.

 If you have money; if you want money; if you steal money -- you need to read Allison Prang's journalistic essays on the subject of cash, specie, legal tender, gelt. Having cut her teeth writing for Thompson's Bank Note Reporter in Manhattan, she knows her greenbacks.

While studying at the University of Missouri Ms. Prang developed a sixth sense about squeezing blood from turnips. Which she then sold to plasma centers to finance her education. When she graduated with a journalism degree she was immediately hired by the Charleston Post & Courier newspaper. Her advice column, entitled "Scrooge was a Wimp!", guided strapped consumers on stretching their dollars like taffy. Her recipe for Salt & Pepper Soup instantly became a thrift classic, and is now extensively served in public schools and federal prisons. 

At the Wall Street Journal Ms. Prang specializes in broken news. Whenever a story falls apart, she is called in with her pot of library paste to reassemble stray facts and figures back into a compelling narrative. Her expertise in this area has been recognized by the Heinie Manush Foundation, which recently presented her with a frozen turkey. Giblets included.

Her advice to nascent journalists is: "Castigat ridendo mores." 

She is a big fan of Major League Pickleball, and recently purchased a controlling interest in the Florida Smash.

She is currently reading Judge Judy's "Don't Pee on My Leg and Tell Me it's Raining!"

Art Raymond -- A Reporter's Reporter, Man's Man, and Bee's Knees.

 Nobody can say that reporter Art Raymond minces words or beats around the bush. That's because no one dares use any such flatulent cliches around him -- he is dedicated to the resuscitation of the English language, ridding it of all the stale flotsam and jetsam that have accumulated, especially in newspaper stories, over the past century. 

Don't tell him something is 'trending.' He'll beat you over the head with a spud wrench and demand you use the word 'ubiquitous.' Avoid using exclamations like 'Wow!' and 'Booyah!' within earshot of him; he insists that the only proper interjection in English is "by the great horn spoon!"

"It has a robust ring to it" he says, as he polishes his stainless steel alpenstock in preparation for the arduous ascent of Mount Pisgah. Mr. Raymond dotes on rambling about the fallen arches and swollen arroyos of Utah. He has the largest geode collection west of the Kissimmee River. 

How did such a stickler for the King's English ever get into the newspaper racket?

He was shanghaied. 

As a young boy he developed the unfortunate habit of checking out library books and never returning them. When he was brought up on charges of booknapping before the Third District Court of Appeals, the judge gave him a choice:  Either join the Merchant Marines or get a job as a newspaper reporter.

He chose the latter, and has proven to be a stellar scribbler. His recent report on the lime jello embargo won him the prestigious Heinie Manush Medallion. 

His advice to those just starting out in journalism is to heed the philosophy of Lewis Carol's Humpty Dumpty: "Words mean just what I mean them to say."

His favorite food is marshmallow soup.

Jennifer Brooks -- A Working Reporter from Ohio University.

 Jennifer Brooks always knew she wanted to be a reporter.

Even though her earliest memory of words is when she spilled a bowl of alphabet soup onto her lap as a child. Despite this traumatic incident, she was a remarkably handy child with adjectives and obscure grammatical rules. At the age of seven she invented the word "hampup" -- to indicate a pork chop that curled too much upon frying. By the time she reached puberty she was instructing her teachers at school on the difference between an en-dash and an em-dash. Her Master's thesis at Ohio University was on "I before E, except for months with an R in it."

Upon graduation Ms. Brooks was offered a position with the Laramie Boomerang -- but it was a position not sanctioned in the Twister rule book, so instead she signed on with the Detroit News. And there she began her meteoric rise to anonymity. Her co-workers remember her fondly.  Belinda Bellwether, the current whiteboard monitor at the Detroit News, recalls: "Jenny was just a ball of fire! She got more scoops than Ben & Jerry's. Of course, she wrote everything in Latvian, her native tongue, and we had to translate it into English. But considering the scope and depth of her work, it was well worth it."

Tom Sneffle, who worked with her on the Nashville Tennessean, is convinced she's twins. "No one person could do all that work, eat all those hard boiled eggs, and crochet a life-size Statue of Liberty with steel wool in a matter of months, unless there were two of them. I think the other twin has been pensioned off and is now living comfortably on a chinampa in the Xochimilco."

She was invited to work for the Minneapolis Star Tribune ten years ago, during a period of controversy and turmoil at the newspaper caused by the Canadian Pulp Wars (1994 - 2019.) Her quick intelligence and disdain for wiffle ball led to a brokered ceasefire that is still in place today. She also ended the practice of sending cub reporters out to find brass magnets. 

Her advice to new journalists includes this profound thought:  "Anyone can write a news story, but not everyone can read it."

She is very fond of Ding Ding Tongs.   

Jason Horowitz -- A Journalist Who Was Born Thinking the World is Ham on Rye.

Jason Horowitz was born with the sense that the world is ham on rye.

During a tempestuous career that has spanned everything from Chautauqua to chinquapin-collector, Mr. Horowitz remains true to his personal mantra: "Slice it thick and pile it high!"  Such a man is not to be trifled with.

He was born and raised. Of this we are certain. He went to college. This, too, has been ascertained to be true. He collects antique Horlicks containers. That is completely made up, but it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

An expat in Italy for many years, Mr. Horowitz has filed reports on the Pope's Nose; the Lean Tower of Pisa now on a keto diet; pizza bagels; and the Lucretia Borgia Cooking School for Disgruntled Spouses. His work has garnered him standing invitations to Sicilian salt mines and Venetian blinds. He is a frequent guest of the Italian Prime Minister, provided he gets to the party before a new Prime Minister is installed.

Prior to working in Italy, Mr. Horowitz wrote about politics and how to milk a cumulus cloud via blockchain. He holds the record for the number of egg creams consumed in one day at Coney Island.

His last known residence was a phone booth in the Bronx. And he never files his nails, preferring to donate them to charity instead. 

His advice to new journalists is simple and direct: "Never talk through your hat or pay through the nose."

He plays the gramophone in the Charles Ives Town Band, in Danbury, Connecticut.

   

 

Peter Coy -- To this mysterious journalist, "Everything is Economics."

 Some writers seek the limelight, craving its warming glow. Some writers are indifferent to the plaudits of the world, quietly going about their craft without any hoopla. Then there are those mysterious scribblers who actively shun center stage, living as recluses and hermits. 

Such a journalist is Peter Coy, who toils for the New York Times, writing a newsletter on economics.

And there you have all that is actually known of the man!

Where he was born; where he grew up; who his parents were; what schools he attended; what his hobbies and ambitions are; even his current city of residence -- all information on him is as a rebus, with nothing but obscure hints and clues to guide the erstwhile biographer.

In twenty-five years of journalism, his only personal revelation has been three simple words: "Everything is economics."

Some have speculated that Peter Coy is not a professional journalist at all, but merely an algorithm developed by M.I.T. to predict economic patterns. These algorithms are fleshed out by an A.I. program to read like prose.

Others speculate that Mr. Coy withdrew from society after a torrid love affair went wrong. And that when he goes out in public he veils his face with black crepe, while dolefully whispering "Excelsior!" Such a figure has been sighted at Barney Greengrass, noshing on smoked whitefish.

Still others claim the man known as Peter Coy is a Cold War spy emeritus, who has been allowed to slip into the quiet grayness of an economics maven -- impersonating a harmless drudge and pencil pusher to throw his old Iron Curtain adversaries off the scent.

But no one can say for certain just what this mystery man is all about - what moves him, scares him, delights him, or puts him to sleep.

Recently, a cult named "Discover Peter Coy" has developed in midtown Manhattan. Members wear cowls and ring cow bells in a vain attempt to summon Mr. Coy, in the belief that he will then grant them debt relief from student loans and Mastercard charges. Federal authorities believe these zealots are also involved in the recent FTX debacle, and are using Peter Coy's name as a smokescreen for their nefarious economic depredations.

 Whatever the truth may be about Peter Coy, there is no doubt his newsletter is real. And very popular. It is followed avidly by the Chief Usher and his underlings at the White House. At the Minnesota Nice Cafe in Bemidji, Minnesota, Coy's newsletter is served as a lagniappe, along with the coleslaw.

 

John Reinan -- A Reporter Who is Never off His Trolley.

 If you happen to be riding the retro Lake Harriet Trolley some beamish day, you may notice your driver has that skulking, dyspeptic look that newspaper journalists develop after 20 years of peeking through keyholes and eating too many White Castle sliders in haste.

Your driver, in fact, is that distinguished member of the Fourth Estate, John Bestertester Reinan. In his spare time he enjoys driving the trolley around scenic Lake Harriet -- clanging the bell and collecting wooden nickels. 

Reinan comes from a long line of nickel-hoppers. His maternal great-grandfather, Oscar Lumbago Orca, had a mania for collecting Buffalo nickels. His hoard grew so large that it fell through the floor of his home in Embarrass, Minnesota, destroying several prime barrels of applejack. 

Mr. Reinan was born in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, in 1955, and has never looked back. His father worked as a highbinder for Ottertail Power Company for fifty years -- before being permanently sidelined by static electricity. His mother was a homemaker and Edna May Oliver look-alike, who supplemented the family budget by appearing at movie halls throughout the area. Young John helped out by selling bibs to theater patrons who asked for too much butter on their popcorn.

Mr. Reinan excelled in penmanship and woolgathering in high school, and thus won a literary scholarship to Saint Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. While just a sophomore he was awarded a lifetime supply of Green Stamps for his constantly chanting "Fram! Fram! Krismenn, Krossmen" until all his teeth fell out.

After college Mr. Reinan went to work for the Nome Nugget in Alaska as an inkwell cleaner. He was soon promoted to dust mop wrangler. Having angered the Chilblain Cartel with a scorching expose on their manufacture of counterfeit ChapStick, Mr. Reinan was forced to flee the state and find refuge in Florida, working at the Longboat Key Observer. But the call of the eel pout and a long standing addiction to lefse finally drove the young reporter to relocate in Minnesota, where he has successfully parlayed a career as reporter for the Star Tribune into an urban legend. 

Many strange tales are told of his work in bringing to light what really happened in Nye's Polonaise Room on the night of January 15th, 1993. The wig he wore during his undercover stint is on display at the Pavek Museum.

An avid angler, Mr. Reinan is at home on any body of water -- frequently threading his way through the bayous of Lake Minnetonka in search of the elusive lutefisk. 

His advice to nascent journalists just beginning their ink-stained pilgrimage is:

"Keep your nose clean and your thoughts pure so you'll die of boredom before senility sets in."

 

turtle memories

amy is knitting a cap for mary, a lady down the hall. we're watching Colombo, waiting to go to the senior center in an hour for their thanksgiving dinner. i'm at loose ends, not wanting to write any more poetry to post on twitter until i know whether or not the whole thing is going under or not. that's the scuttlebutt right now on the media, that elon musk has murdered the company with his unrealistic demands. oh well  . . .  when we run out of columbos to watch i guess we'll start watching murder, she wrote with angela lansbury. that's a show my mom watched when i was a kid -- i thought it was for geriatric ninnyhammers. but now unfortunately i know what the appeal was -- something that requires little mental engagement, has familiar actors, isn't full of sex and swearing, and allows us to fall asleep while watching.

so today i'm reminiscing about turtles. to pass the time before dinner.

there's been a lot of turtles in my life.

when i was a kid you could go into any dime store (the same as today's dollar store) and buy a little green turtle, a red eared slider, for ten cents. the clear plastic bowl, with a green palm tree in the middle, and a bag of colored gravel, cost another fifty cents, and voila! I had myself a delightful little pet. which i usually kept for about four months before it either went belly up in its bowl, or i took it out to let it walk around on the living room carpet, and then forgot about it. it would eventually turn up, completely mummified, at the bottom of the hot air vent behind the couch.  i suppose i ran through a good dozen of them as a child. 

for some reason i no longer remember, i was once allowed to get two newts, instead of a little green turtle, which i kept in a clear plastic bowl with colored gravel. they were much more lively than the turtles. and their bowl needed to be cleaned out much more often than the turtles. i kept them on the fireplace mantel in the living room. (the fireplace didn't work. it was brick, but it had no chimney. it was just for looks.) well, one night my dad came home late from Aarone's Bar & Grill, where he tended bar, and didn't like the smell coming from my newts. so he put the bowl out on the front porch and went to bed. unfortunately, this was in the middle of january. next morning i discovered i owned a bowl of newtsicles.

one glorious summer day when i was about ten the family all went down to the Aarone farm on the Minnesota River for an employee picnic.  i brought along my bamboo pole and a can of worms, spending most of my time on the river bank angling for catfish.  imagine my delighted surprise when i snagged a snapping turtle on my wormy hook! the huge ugly creature reared its ugly head to engulf my hook and a yard or two of line.  i battled him for a good ten minutes, as a crowd gathered on the bank to cheer me on. the brute finally snapped the line and disappeared under the churning muddy water.  i was the hero of the picnic for the rest of the day. each time i retold the tale to the other kids that day the snapper got bigger and our struggle lasted longer and became more fantastic, until as the sun began to set i had convinced myself that the turtle had pulled a knife on me so I had to shoot it with my colt 45. 

pet turtles were not the only turtles i had at home.  

a mile or so from our house on 19th avenue  southeast, in minneapolis, was a swampy waste that was part of a railyard/warehouse industrial park.  the roads were unpaved, there were no sidewalks, and dirty channels of water crisscrossed the area. in which lived a passel of frogs and herds of false map turtles, about as big as dinner plates.  i tried forever to catch the frogs, with no luck, but i was able to capture a nice big turtle, which i brought home. not finding a suitable place to put it, i appropriated by dad's aluminum beer cooler and turned it into an improvised turtle pond, filled with sand, water, and little dots of speckled green duckweed -- which is what i assumed my new capture ate. when my dad finally missed his cooler (which didn't take very long, since he drank enough beer each summer to float a battleship) i was duly punished for my vandalism by being sent to bed without supper. my turtle was dropped off at Como Lake to start a new life. 

ah, como lake!  where the como zoo was, and still is, located. we went to como zoo every summer to visit the fragrant monkey house, watch Sparky the Seal perform, and ride the giant tortoise. yes, in those environmentally unfriendly days they kept big ol' land tortoises at the zoo for little boys & girls to ride upon. 

my last turtle memory was 30 years ago, when i was in the habit of taking long walks around como lake. one spring day as i was walking along the macadam path i spied up ahead a large nasty-looking snapping turtle, traveling away from the lake up into the tall grass to lay her eggs. joggers were casually passing by her, apparently unaware that a female snapping turtle about to lay her eggs is a pretty ornery critter and apt to snap off any ankle that came too close. so i got me a branch to wave in front of the snapper's nose. she bit into it with a vengeance and i was able to pull the tenacious snapper off the macadam path and into the cattails so she could lay her eggs in peach and quiet. they had to close the lake path down for a few days that spring so the mother snappers could cross over to the tall weeds to deposit their eggs in the tall weeds. 

i wonder if amy would let me have a little green turtle? i wonder if they still sell them anywhere like Petsmart?

maybe i better try for some more newts, instead.

what can i remember in a half hour

 there's a half hour before amy and i go to the temple this afternoon, so i'm challenging myself to write out a complete story from my past in 30 minutes.

about the circus maybe? my mission in thailand? growing up in mpls? my friends. family. school. what?

writing under the gun is no fun. i'm trying to think of a memory i shared with amy recently. let's see -- i told her about the time wayne matsuura and i as teenagers worked all summer to save up enough money to drive up to canada to camp on a lake and go fishing and how the day before we left wayne crushed his thumb and i put my back out, and how we still went on the trip, despite the fact that waynes thumb had a cartoon-sized bandage on it and i was bent over double,hobbling around like an old man.  no, i don't wanna tell that one again.

something pleasant and uplifting. let's see . . . 

oh sure.  the last day we were in the MTC at byu in hawaii before leaving for thailand. i don't remember much about that day except we had a lot of pep talks from the mtc president and counselors and got the last of our shots done and packing, etc. 

what i recall with a great deal of pleasure is that as we lined up to get on the bus that was to take us to the airport for the trip to bangkok, many of the mtc staff lined up to put a lei around each one of our necks.  but for me they planned something special -- instead of just one lei, each staff member put one on me, so that when i got to the door of the bus i was literally smothered with leis -- i couldn't see anything. i played it for laughs, of course, staggering around and bumping into the bus door, etc.  that is a very happy and fragrant memory that has stayed with me all these years.  i like it when people pay special attention to me.  that's part of the reason i became a clown, and something i have really missed in all the years since i've had to give up doing physical comedy.

i have nothing but happy memories of the mtc. of course, the long long hours of memorizing the discussions in thai by rote were tedious -- but when you're young you can put up with that kind of nonsense easily. at the end of the day i always felt great. i still remember that they translated the imaginary 'Mr. Brown' of the discussions as 'Khun Praphan, khrab."  i enjoyed the speakers that gave firesides each night, mostly faculty from byu-hawaii. and i relished the food at the cafeteria -- not that it was all that great, but because, number one, i could drink all the chocolate milk i wanted, and, number two, there was unlimited coconut syrup for pancakes in the morning. boy, i thought that was the greatest thing since sliced cucumbers!

i slept good back in those days, so even though we were crammed into sweaty humid rooms with bunks, i always was able to fall straight asleep and be ready to get up at 6 without a problem. boy, those were the days -- never having to get up in the middle of the night to pee!

i guess the reason they put all those leis on me is because the mtc prez asked me to do a clown show for everyone, which i was happy to do.  back then i had a large repertoire of  pantomimes I could do  -- giving the dog a bath, the sleepy man in sacrament meeting, fishing, and i even made up a special pantomime just for the mtc show -- all about me trying to memorize the discussions in thai and failing miserably. that one got huge laughs. i only ever did it that one time in the mtc, and quite frankly i've forgotten what it was all about.  anyway, everyone from the mtc, and a lot of byu students came to see my one man show.  it went over big. 

so that's why i got all the leis, i guess.

time to put on my white neck tie.   Heinie Manush.

What's in the Wall Street Journal Today. Tuesday. November 15. 2022.

 I just got off the horn with customer service at the Wall Street Journal.

I canceled my digital subscription. So the last day I can read it is December 3.

So I decided to read it thoroughly each day until December 3, and copy highlights and comment on them. Because I'm a kibbitzer and a buttinsky. 

Their lead story today is all about FTX and this Bankman-Fried guy. Never trust someone with a hyphenated last name, I always say. They have identity issues.

from the story:

--FTX filed for bankruptcy last week, but the cryptocurrency exchange’s founder still thinks that he can raise enough money to make users whole, according to people familiar with the matter.

Mr. Bankman-Fried, alongside a few remaining employees, spent the past weekend calling around in search of commitments from investors to plug a shortfall of up to $8 billion in the hopes of repaying FTX’s customers, the people said. The Wall Street Journal couldn’t determine what Mr. Bankman-Fried is offering in return for any potential cash infusion, or whether any investors have committed. --

 

Lemme ask you something -- if some apple-knocker who had just run his billion dollar company into the ground came to you asking for a loan to tide him over, what would you do? I'd throw him out on his ear. Wouldn't you? But the world of high finance is another planet, like Jupiter, so maybe B-F will be able to line up the suckers. It just makes me want to stay away from cryptocurrency all the more. 

 

--KHERSON, Ukraine—Russian forces unleashed a volley of missiles across Ukraine on Tuesday, striking the country’s already beleaguered energy infrastructure and residential buildings in Kyiv days after Moscow suffered a major battlefield setback, government officials said.

“There’s an attack on the capital,” Kyiv Mayor Vitali Klitschko said on Telegram, adding that at least one person had been killed. “Medics and rescue workers are at the scene of the strikes.”--

 Putin is responsible for this whole mess. I hope the minute he steps outside Russia he's arrested and brought up on charges of war mongering. He'd look good behind bars. 

Here is a nutty piece by Mike Kerrigan, who, the paper says, is a lawyer from Charlotte, North Carolina. I guess I shouldn't call him nutty . . . maybe a sweaty Christian:

--While my physical health has held up over five decades, some years ago I discerned a certain spiritual flabbiness. I wasn’t praying much, and when I did, my petition-to-thanksgiving ratio—forget contrition or adoration—was about 10 to 1. 

This was a spiritual problem easily diagnosed in athletic terms: My form was bad, and my repetitions insufficient. Where better to address this than during the morning exercise I already do? I determined to use running to jump-start my prayer life.

When pain introduced itself on lengthy loops with faster friends, I trained myself to stop thinking in distances. The hilltop that marked the end of a footrace wasn’t 100 meters off; it was one “Hail Mary” away. This took my mind off the burning in my lungs, and initially that was enough. Before long, though, something changed.

At some point I stopped ignoring the pain through prayer and started using it. I gave my fleeting aches to God as a small sacrifice to serve his redemptive purposes in the world. In the vernacular of my Irish-Catholic childhood, I offered it up. And then I flew.--

I know I'm supposed to be all praising this guy up and down for his spiritual take on exercise, but hey, I'm a fat old lazy man. I think he has a screw loose. And he's a lawyer. Anything a lawyer writes is subject to extreme prejudice in my jaundiced view.

 

--Yosemite National Park won’t use a reservation system in 2023 after using one the previous three summers, officials from the California destination announced on Twitter on Tuesday. 

The social-media posts said the park has been dealing with an overflow of people and cars for decades. It had previously required reservations because of the pandemic, and to facilitate repairs.

This decision represents a move away from the recent trend of the most popular U.S. national parks instituting reservation systems to combat overcrowding. Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park and Arches National Park in Utah are among the others to have adopted their own systems.--

 The great thing about the United States is all the room there is in which to ramble without appointment, reservation, or regulation. Maybe the national parks are getting the right idea.

Letter to my Children: Tuesday, November 15th. 2022.

 dear kiddies;

 

on the bright side, the chicken livers were not spoiled. i just threw them away in a fit of rage when i couldn't open the container. but i reconsidered, fished them out of the trash, pried the lid off without too much cursing, and now they are marinating in the fridge. i will serve them this afternoon, sauteed with toast points, to anyone who wants 'em. i never know how many are coming to the door for our free meals. yesterday there were just 2 people at the door, but sunday evening we had nearly a dozen come for a piece of apricot cobbler. go figure.

we've been asked to feed the sister missionaries this coming sunday, so i put out the call on social media for the makings of a spaghetti dinner, which we'll serve in the community room for everyone and anyone who wants to come 'meet the missionaries.'  donations have been good so far:  4 lbs of spaghetti pasta, six cans of sauce, 2 lbs of hamburger, and a jar of Kraft parmesan cheese. now all we need is bread and a green salad -- i'm hoping if i keep harping at it on facebook and twitter that someone will step up with those items. for the sad sad truth is that because of some large & unexpected bills, and lack of paid writing work, we are dead broke. we can pay rent and put gas in the car, and that's about all. i've canceled my subscription to the wall street journal and your mother took her horn back to the music store to save on the rental fee. i'm going to cancel my accidental death & dismemberment insurance today to save a few more kopeks. thank goodness for the free lunches we get at the senior center during the week!

i told your mother that the next time we go out i'll find a nearby temp agency to stop in at to apply for part-time customer service work. there should be plenty of that this time of year, i'm thinking.

you can stop laughing now, children. i just may actually do it! not that there's much hope of a fat old man who has to use the bathroom every hour will get any kind of outside work. but it pays 15 bucks an hour if you can get it. 

truth be told, neither your mother nor i really want to work anymore.  i believe amy would be happy if she could spend all her time doing family history and watching JAG and deana durbin movies, and i would be completely content to just cook and write poetry.

which brings us to my poetical musings this week. i've culled out the most rotten pieces, and now copy the rest for youse guys. as i've said before, I believe my poems tell more about me than anything else i can write.

this one i just wrote, while your mother was upstairs ministering to a lady who's had knee surgery and can't get around much:

When you have the Savior's bliss

it is never hit or miss.

Give your whole heart to his cause

and reject the world's applause;

joy will then be yours always --

peaceful nights and fruitful days.

 

 

 

 

(i can't get the damn italics to turn off now. the following is not a poem.)

o, did i tell you that i am doing cartoons again? not really cartoons -- i have an old book from 1899 full of so-called humorous sketches by artists from punch magazine. so i cut those out and put new captions to 'em. you can find examples on my facebook page. some of them are rather fine, i fancy. most are dreck.

o, and i'm doing a daily 30 second video with your mother -- i just sit and repeat a word or someone's name over and over again for 30 seconds. we get at least 100 views each day. maybe it'll go viral . . .? (don't hold your breath.)

okay, another poem:

There's revelation all around --

It's in the atmosphere.

And if we d not heed it well

it just might disappear.

So when the spirit speaks to you,

please act upon it quick;

otherwise the Lord may use

a large and painful stick!

 

i wrote the above during elder's quorum meeting on sunday on a piece of scratch paper, and then raised my hand to a question and recited it. i do that a lot. 

 

here's a haiku:

 

the cold morning rain

turns to snow on the bushes,

then stars in my eyes.

 

i don't know what it means either, but it got about a dozen likes on twitter from journalists. i find that if i write haiku with an upbeat ending it goes over better than if i end in ambiguity or melancholy. 

 

Who'll control the Congress isn't clear as yet to me.

The Democrats, Republicans, or Africanized bee?

All I know for certain is that when the fracas ceases

us taxpayers will be the ones who pick up all the pieces!

 

i hope you got out to vote. your mother and i get our ballots in the mail, so we fill them out and drop 'em in the mail box. 

 

just one more, i promise . . . 

 

The mighty Musk is holding sway,

and all of us must now obey!

IF he doesn't like your tweet

he'll banish you to far Papeete.

Do not try his will to baulk --

cuz next he's gonna buy TikTok!

 

i actually wrote a series of verses on musk and posted them on twitter, just to see if i could get banned.  no such luck.  it might have made a good publicity stunt.

 

well, i've got chicken enchiladas in the oven to serve for brunch at 11 this morning, so I'd best go attend to them.  

o, and your mother and i have started to binge watch the blacklist on netflix.  that james spader plays a fascinating villain. we just finished the first season. it's not for the kids, but once you get into spader's character it's like potato chips -- you can't stop wanting more!

 

 

don't take any wooden nickels,  dad.