Letter to Madelaine. December 15, 2016.

Hey Madel, howz tricks?

Thanks for those emails. I’ve got them collected and ready to sort for my brand spanking new memoirs.

Are you the one who sent me that green table cloth? I’m putting a photo of it on Facebook today, cuz I’m having Sarah and the little ones over for lunch. I was just in the mood for spaghetti and sausage and didn’t want to eat alone, so I called her for lunch and she was available.

Hey, my phone is working again!  Sarah fiddled with it the other day and suddenly on Monday it began to work again. Don’t ask me why.

I get my life insurance physical next Wednesday. I hope they find a lot of things wrong with me and make Adam pay through the nose for premiums. Serves him right. He could spend that money instead  paying for the medical procedures I need done, like a colonoscopy and surgery on my prostate. Then I wouldn’t have so many health problems! But as it stands, now I have to wait for Medicare when I’m 65, and that dummy Trump is probably going to trash the whole thing so it won’t be available.

Are you feeling any repercussions yet in your office from the coming Trump regime?

Adam’s been keeping me busy with paid work, so I guess I shouldn’t diss him. Kind words are nice, but they don’t butter any toast!  I’ve been able to pay off a lot of old bills cuz of the money I’ve made from him.

We really haven’t had winter here yet. The forecast keeps calling for cold temps and more snow, but it never reaches Utah Valley. I went to the store today w/o wearing a coat!

I’ve decided that I’m going to regress back to buying books and filling my apartment with them. I always dreamed of living in a room full of books. Last month I spent one fifth of my Soc Sec payment on books!  I buy them second hand, naturally . No new editions for this little boy.

I’ve been called and sustained as secretary for the High Priest group leadership. We have a meeting every Wednesday evening at my apartment and I take notes. BORING.  They tell me they are also going to be calling me as a family history consultant -- and that almost makes me want to find a job with a circus and get out of here. Almost, but not quite.

Well, I better go set up the card table and put that green tablecloth over it. The sauce is starting to smell good -- I sauteed the Italian sausage in some leftover chicken fat I had from roasting some Cornish game hens earlier in the week -- and the whole mess is beginning to set my mouth to watering. Hope it tastes as good as it smells . . . .

Love, dada

Her response:

Hi Dad,

Yes, I sent you a tablecloth for Christmas. Although you may have been using those newspapers for table coverings to make some sort of political statement, I figured you could always put the newspapers over top of the tablecloth. I’m rushing around between meetings right now, but I think I got all my Christmas shopping done, I got the presents wrapped, the tree up, and we’re having our Office Holiday party today. I was volunteered to cook the steak that Donald serves on the food truck so I’m going to get that ready in a few before I head into my meeting so all I have to do is warm it up for the luncheon. Mom took Diesel Christmas shopping yesterday. I should have known better than that, they ended up going to the thrift store and buying a bunch of old candles…so now I have to find something crafty to make with them to give as last minute gifts to church people and people who give me unexpected gifts that I feel the need to reciprocate. It’s really cold here today, 17* and the high is 23*. Diesel actually work his coat voluntarily! I’m also about to go make a cup of hot tea to try and get warm. Hope you have fun at your physical, make sure to ask them for a copy of the notes so you can remember everything that’s ailing you!

-Madel

The Obit Writer: An Elegy

Writes there a man so thwarted and wary
as he who must pen an obituary?
Daily he sits, as life's merry race
runs past his solemn and world-weary face.

His colleagues rush out for a breathtaking scoop,
while he must stay put to post "Died of the croup". 
Pulitzer prizes rain down on the head
of many, but not on the clerk for the dead. 

He only knows endings, the sunset regime
that curtails the laughter and curdles the dream.
And when his time comes and he goes out to sea,
no one's at hand to write his eulogy . . . 

En Strengen av Perler: A Fishing Childhood in Minnesota

Ah yes, the lingering aroma of mashed angleworms and the tingle of Eagle Claw fish hooks stuck in my thumb.  It just ain’t summer without that hypnotic waver of light on water as the hours float by while your line gets tangled in the cattails.

I told my kids many a rapturous finny tale, until they grew up and escaped – the Internet-addled brats – but they are having grandkids now, so soon I’ll be able to sit them down with a mug of milk and a stack of Oreos to begin the saga all over again . . .

Wayne and I were riding our bikes to Como Lake for a day of pure, unadulterated fishing.  We raced our Schwinns down Como Avenue, past the State Fairgrounds, and into Como Park, skirting the fine old mansions that circled the lake until we came to the rickety wooden dock, gray with age and worn complaisant with the sandpapering of a thousand bare feet.

The first order of business was to assemble our bamboo poles and string a line on them.  We had one spool of line between the two of us, but that’s the beauty of a bamboo pole – you don’t need much line at all, since you just dangle it over the water.  Admittedly, we were a cheese-paring couple; our allowances were held in sacred trust for drug store Cokes and comic books – anything else of a material nature had to be scrounged, begged or borrowed.  As the darning needles floated in mid-air, we tied on our rusty hooks of various sizes and clamped on some tiny lead shot.  A red and white plastic bobber, slightly cracked, was added, about three feet above the hook.

Then the bait.  We used nothing but worms, worms that we had worked hard to capture by letting the garden hose run on the front lawn for a good hour – forcing the drowning night crawlers up for a breath of fresh air;  we  harvested them like bog cranberries.  They were kept in a coffee can filled with used coffee grounds.  Come to think of it, those little devils seemed awful lively, after spending a few hours in that caffeine-loaded environment; maybe they never even noticed being impaled on our hooks.

Splash!  The line is in the water, the bobber is the center of diminishing ripples, and we settle back to await our prey.  And to discuss matters of importance to nine-year-old boys.  Why was it when we cut those darn night crawlers in half both ends didn’t stay alive and grow whole again, like they were supposed to?  Theoretically, all you needed was one earthworm to keep yourself supplied with bait the rest of your life.  I boasted that over the long summer vacation I had already forgot how to do long division.  That’s nuthin’, said Wayne; he had not only forgot how to do long division but also cursive writing!  I couldn’t top that one.  The awfulness of girls was reviewed for the umpteenth time; their unnatural obsession with combing their hair, their unfortunate tendency to scream when you put a minnow down their back, and their unaccountable regard for clean fingernails.  

And then it happened – it really did happen – I swear on a stack of Izaac Waltons it absolutely did happen.

My pole bent nearly in half, as the head of a great, honking snapping turtle emerged from Como Lake, chewing on my hook and bait.  

A snapper’s head is just about the scariest article you can raise from the depths of a Minnesota lake – it’s baleful glare is pure Bela Lugosi; prognathous jaws slaver; and it’s pink, pointed tongue darts about like a poison dart.  You don’t get to see much more of it, usually, since the rest of it stays underwater. Fortunately my pole broke – since I was hysterically determined to capture the ferocious creature and bring it back to the house for loud acclamations of hero worship on the part of my family and neighbors – “Great Caesar’s ghost, look what Timmy has caught!  It must weigh two-hundred pounds; somebody call the newspaper right away!”  

But as I say, with a toss of its warty head the behemoth snapped my pole in two, and then sank back down to the abyss from whence it came.  Wayne had to physically restrain me from jumping in and going after the creature.  

We did little enough fishing after that; people heard the commotion and came over to find out what happened.  I was only too happy to regale them, repeatedly, with my death-defying brush with the antediluvian monster that had cost me my bamboo pole.  

When we returned home that evening I rushed into the kitchen, where mom was putting mayonnaise on a gelatin salad, and breathlessly narrated my narrow escape from death-by-monster.  She absently nodded her head, and reminded me to wash all that wormy slime off my hands.  My younger sisters were no better – they just wrinkled their noses and cooed “Turtles are ucky!”  Dad did not come home for dinner that night; he was working his second job.

You know my story to be true, of course.

Dontcha?

A whipped cream shortage is looming, just in time for peak holiday pie

Reports of the shortage stretched from Middle America to New England. A Hy-Vee supermarket in Omaha displayed a sign that read, “All canned whip toppings will be in short supply this season due to a national nitrous oxide shortage,” according to the Omaha World-Herald. Near Boston, a Market Basket also warned shoppers of an “Aero Whipped Cream- Shortage.”

from the Washington Post 

A homemaker was heard to cry:
"No Reddi-Wip for pumpkin pie?"
Her anguish increased
when it was released
that eggnog was also bone dry.

Working up a sweat about perspiration

The secret's out, a real sure bet --
when you are stressed you start to sweat.
The ad guys go to any length
to market stuff with super strength;
deodorants that plug those leaks
so underarms stay dry for weeks.
I wonder, though, what we will do,
when that stuff hardens into glue,
and bonds our arms unto our sides --
how will we hail our taxi rides?
We'll look like penguins on a stroll.
(Admittedly that could be droll.)
I think I'd rather take a chance
on perspiration when I dance.

Restaurant Review: India Palace. Provo, Utah

Located on Center Street in downtown Provo, India Palace offers a nice buffet for $9.84. It's hot and fresh, My favorites are the coconut soup and the tandoori chicken. Both very tangy without being overpowering. They also feature a sweet mango rice that is to die for. I give the place 3.5 Burps.

The buffet dishes are listed with their Indian names only; there's no explanation of what's in them. So, being a pukka sahib of the old school, I will graciously explain what some of the dishes on offer are:

Aloo masala
These are potato skins wrapped in marinated shoe laces and then boiled in Portland cement.

Chole bhature
Hard boiled iguana eggs rolled in gravel, served with a sauce of granulated hummingbird tongues and melted beetle carapaces.

Kadai paneer
Poached green nettles mailed to a P.O. Box in Bombay.

Muga-muga
Wouldn't you like to know . . .

Rajmah foof
Rice and red beans cooked together until they can't stand each other. Often served with shredded butcher paper.

Zoofa
A dessert dish consisting of boiled rice, spiced walnuts, pickled lady fingers, raisins, and stilettos. Usually prepared during the Tonka Truck festival, when the entire Indian subcontinent celebrates the return of the mosquito that make the place a living hell.

How the Homeless Survive Winter in Provo, Utah

Not having a car, I either walk everywhere or take the bus. Walking provides a constant educational experience. Today as I was strolling down Center Street this curious contraption caught my attention, so I snapped a few photos. It's parked in front of the Convention Center, and I observed it stay there for several hours without the cops hassling the occupant.
I don't know if this is DIY or if somebody is giving these out now.

A journo from Kalamazoo

More journalists have been jailed this year by governments around the world than at any time in nearly three decades, according to a media rights watchdog.

from Aljazeera

A journo from Kalamazoo

broke stories that were always true.

But what do you think;

he was thrown in the clink

while his editor threatened to sue. 

 

Reversing Course, E.P.A. Says Fracking Can Contaminate Drinking Water

When drinking the water near fracking,
you may find your brain cells are cracking.
Or that old liver
may start to quiver;
I wouldn't plan on much backpacking . . . 

Malak al-Shehri

A Saudi woman tweeted a photo of herself without a hijab. Police have arrested her. Headline in the Washington Post.

There was a young woman, a Saudi,

Who broke with tradition -- so naughty!

The cops had to nab

Her without hijab;

She’s now in a cell rather draughty . . .