Uncle Wally.

 

So I was walking back from the store

with a bag of celery, egg noodles,

and frozen meatballs.

I planned on making

Swedish meatballs for my neighbors.

It's a nice walk, about six blocks.

There's one block, public housing,

that's a little dicey.

Broken windows and beer cans

all over the place.

As I passed by the public housing

a young woman,

smoking a cigarette

and drinking something in a

brown paper bag

said to me in a cheery bright voice:

"Happy Holidays, sir!"

She had two little kids with

her on the porch;

about three or four --

they appeared to be sleeping

standing up, swaying gently.

Maybe they were sick.

I don't know.

Anyway. 

The first time she said it

I smiled at her and bobbed my head

to acknowledge her greeting,

but also to show I didn't want to

engage in any further conversation.

I was burdened, she could see,

with a heavy bag of groceries.

Plus, what she couldn't know,

my bladder was reminding me of

the cold snap we were experiencing

that week.

She called again, louder and more insistently:

"Happy Holidays, sir!"

I could tell she wanted some recognition,

some validation of her greeting.

But that just made me more determined

to get out of earshot without returning a word.

I'm like that sometimes.

Besides, I suspected if I stopped

to return her greeting she would

ask for money or something.

So I just smiled and bobbed my 

head more emphatically at her.

So emphatically that my rabbit fur

trapper hat nearly flew off my head.

I was just about to round the corner

when I heard her say, probably to her kids,

"Guess he didn't hear me."

I took one look back

to see her shaking her

kids gently until they began

to whimper.

I hurried home to unpack the groceries

and put the water on to boil for the noodles.

When I looked in the fridge

I realized I had run out of sour cream.

Damn!

Would I have to go all the way

back to the store to get some?

Couldn't I use salad dressing or something?

I could get someone to drive me, of course.

Then I wouldn't have to worry about that

idiot woman with her children, freezing

out on their front porch.

Or maybe they were homeless

with no place to live, just stopping

on that stoop to die of hypothermia.

No, that couldn't be.

I was letting my imagination run away

with me.

I often did that.

I once thought a nest of baby

rabbits under the elm tree

in my backyard were rabid baby bats,

getting ready to swoop out

and infect the entire neighborhood,

so I drowned them with the 

garden hose. 

I felt bad about that.

But I didn't want to feel anything

about that smoking drinking woman

and her kids. 

I decided to forget the Swedish meatballs

and instead book a flight to Sun Valley

for a winter vacation.

I booked an Uber ride to the airport

that night

and returned six days later

thoroughly refreshed and

with a new long-distance girlfriend.

She was a single mother with two kids;

I took to them right away.

They liked me, too --

by the time I left 

they were calling me Uncle Wally.

She and the kids are coming out

to visit me in April.

After that --

who knows?

I hear they're going to tear down

that block of public housing

by my place

to put in a parking lot.

All I can say is

it's about time;

the street parking around

my place is terrible.

Today's timericks

 

The driverless car is coming/I hear it all day long/But while I await its coming/I've time to learn mahjong/Such promises so alluring/are like the little boy/who's waiting for his dear Santa/to bring a promised toy.

William Barr says voter fraud/isn't real or act of God/It is simply in the head/of a nincompoop instead/Smart A.G. -- he's too astute/fantasies to prosecute.

Presidential pardons are good bizness, so I've heard/Some may call it cheesy, but it makes a lot of curd/Nests are being feathered and thin pockets now are lined/with filthy lucre that will soon become oh so refined . . . 

Aspiring to the honors of men

 

I have craved the honors of the world both now and then;

Set aside my conscience for the plaudits of high men.

Forgive, O Lord, my selfishness in making such a choice

and help me to obey thy sweet and cherishing small voice!

You can't go up and down at the same time.

 

The numeral six no longer works

on my laptop.

This was very inconvenient.

Because most of my PIN numbers

have the number 6 in them.

I could, of course, change

all my PIN numbers to exclude

the number 6.

But first I'd have to enter my

old PIN number in order

to change it.

Which I can't do.

Because the number 6 key

doesn't work anymore.

Got it?

And why should I 

go to the tremendous

expense (for me)

of buying a new

laptop when it's just

one lousy key that's broke?

Luckily,

or so I thought at 

the time,

there was a place 

over by the Rec Center,

where I go swimming

each morning,

that advertised itself as

"Computer Repairs and

Meditation Center."

So one morning I took

my laptop to them.

A young man with a shaved head

greeted me politely:

"What seems to be the problem?"

he asked.

"Number 6 key is stuck or broke --

anyway, I can't strike the number six."

I told him.

He looked wise and compassionate.

"Of course. The number six is 

the smallest perfect number. Many

lives have been crushed when it

was made unavailable to them."

He bowed his head --

evidently in genuine grief.

I gave him a minute or two,

then coughed. 

He looked up and beamed at me.

"We can have that fixed 

for you in a jiffy. While

you wait, please visit our

meditation room" he said.

"Uh, what do I do in the

meditation room?" I asked him.

"I'm not really the spiritual

or introspective type."

"Not a problem" he assured me.

He handed me a dirty white

index card.

It read: "You can't go up

and down at the same time."

"Just meditate on that while

we fix your keyboard" he told me.

He reached under the desk

to push a button, I guess,

and a hidden door 

slid silently open to my right.

He had started to sweat,

and would not meet my eyes.

But I figured, heck, I'm right

in the middle of Provo, Utah, 

so what could possibly go wrong?

And nothing did.

It was a pleasant paneled room

with comfortable leather chairs

and wind chimes that remained

silent. But they were nice

to look at.

I had just settled myself

and began to consider why it is

that you can't go up at the same

time you go down, and had conjured

up a pogo stick in my mind,

when the young man entered

and told me my laptop was fixed.

The charge was ten dollars.

That sounded fine to me,

so I paid it, thanked him,

and went back home.

Where I found that instead

of making a 6, the so-called

fixed key now made a 9.

I was furious.

So I went right back to 

the repair and meditation place.

But it wasn't there anymore.

Instead, there was a greenhouse

growing geraniums. 

I asked the groundskeeper,

an old man in bib overalls

sucking on toothpick,

where the repair and meditation

place had gone to.

"You been bamboozled, young feller"

he said to me with a dry chuckle.

"A seesaw can go up and down

at the same time!"

To kick against the pricks

 

To kick against the pricks

is my besetting sin.

I'd rather lose alone

than reach a guided win.

A horse may be excused

for kicking up its heel,

but God expects of me

repentance that is real!

Today's Timerick.

 

To work in shared locations

in cities big and bright

was once the dream of millions --

you might say a birthright.

But then the COVID virus

did trap us all at home

to work online forever

and nevermore to roam.

At first the workers fretted

and thought the setup vain;

they didn't get their work done --

their bosses were a pain.

Now company directors

are loath to push too hard

to place employee bases

back in their own backyard.

Infection rates are soaring;

so workers stay secure

in basement or in kitchen

until there is a cure.

And so big cities dwindle

as people move on out

to live and work in suburbs

(and maybe fish for trout!)

The eateries and taverns

are giving up the ghost,

as workers use their Crockpot

to make their own pot roast.

Nobody takes the buses;

nobody takes the trains.

So trams just sit decaying

in quiet empty lanes.

With office rentals waning

portfolios have flopped

and even active tenants

have rental payments stopped.

New York and San Francisco,

Detroit and spry Dubuque,

are turning into ghost towns --

an optimist's rebuke.

A crystal ball might show us

a future that is bleak

for burgs that once were mighty,

with commerce at its peak.

Perhaps like ancient Carthage

they'll be plowed up for spots

where cabbages will flourish

and peasants dance gavottes.

Too Much Turkey

 

I went to bed so stuffed with bird

my stomach howled, my vision blurred.

The pumpkin pie at last was gone,

the mashed potatoes had been drawn;

the cranberries were in the freezer --

the rolls were crumbs (you'd need a tweezer.)

But still the turkey meat was heaped

in quarts of gravy richly steeped.

I knew tomorrow's turkey medley

would prove loathsome, if not deadly!

I counted turkeys, and not sheep,

to try to get a bit of sleep.

At last I dreamed of turkey slices

used in pagan sacrifices.

Turkey wings were boomerangs;

dread vampires had wishbone fangs.

And then environmental chiefs

used turkey breasts for coral reefs.

The drumsticks turned to war clubs as

the peaceniks used them to play jazz.

Churches all built of turkey necks --

where dieting paid last respects.

When I awoke I had to fix

Alka Seltzer for inner bricks.

That's when I vowed that come what may

I'll be vegan next Turkey Day!

The toaster oven.

 

I'm angry at my friend

for leaving me in such a

predicament:

He told me his toaster oven

was on the fritz,

so I offered to fix it for him

free of charge.

Not that I know anything about

toaster ovens

or wiring or mechanics.

I just wanted to be a big shot.

So he brought it over in his

car and left it with me.

That was a month ago.

It's been sitting in the basement

ever since then.

I'm afraid to touch it,

cuz it might have some 

kind of residual electrical

storage thingy inside it

that will kill me if I mess with it.

I guess I'll just buy him

a new one and say I not

only fixed it but cleaned it

up as well.

Being angry at my friend

for putting me to such an expense,

I went to the park to sit by

the broken fountain.

It's cracked and full of dust

and clinkers.

The dust is silvery and moves

in strange troubling waves

even when there's no wind.

No one comes there, so I

always have the place to myself.

I sat and debated with myself about

the toaster oven. 

If I bought a new one

I'd have to put it on my 

credit card.

And Christmas is coming.

It'll mess up my budget for

gift giving.

Well, my friend's married --

so if I give him a new toaster

it's like I'm giving both him

and his wife a present, 

so I won't have to buy her

one at all. So in the long run

I'm saving money, saving face,

and maybe I'll meet a cute masked

clerk at Walmart, we'll fall in love,

I'll take her to Kankakee in the

fall to see the leaves turn,

and at our wedding we'll laugh

merrily at all the toaster ovens

we're given.

Only by persuasion

Only by persuasion that is gentle, kind, and meek,

can the soul be guided to the noble mountain peak.

Any other method grows resentment, never cheer;

Christ is not a shepherd that employs the crook of fear. 

Today's Timericks.

 

When people get a little dough/their patriotism they want to show/They go to rallies, raise the flag/and mourn how morals now do lag/They proudly claim their wealth declares/that they are Uncle Sammy's heirs/The poor, you see, don't need these gifts/they're busy working double shifts. 

Women wearing headbands at work is now a thing/Silly me -- I thought they were a kindergarten fling/Comprehending fashions, in women or in men/must take an Albert Einstein, or master of deep Zen.  

Enumerating immigrants with shaky legal standing/apparently is headed for a court reviewed crash landing/If the Census cuts them, then with demographics skewed/Congress isn't worth a bowl of carrion dog food.